Song of Lake Linaewen by Zdenka

The River Finds the Sea

An unexpected meeting at the Havens of Sirion.

Surprise, I remembered this fic exists! :) It will end happily, but not yet. This is a sad and angry chapter.

Written for the femslashficlets Language of Flowers prompt table challenge: lilac, meaning “one’s first love, reminders of an old flame.” And the following prompts from B2MeM 2019 Bingo:

Color Burst 3 - Yellow: Coward (O66)
Emotions: Pain (B14)
Of The Sea: Fishing-net (G57)
The Late, Great Mary Oliver: “Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are headed home again” (B12)

Aewelir lay on her back among the rushes with eyes half-closed. She could try to pretend that it was her own rushes, but it was no good. The crashing of ocean waves where Sirion met the Sea was not the same as the lapping of the water in Lake Linaewen; there was the smell of salt and fish instead of fragrant pines and damp earth, and even the songs of the birds were different. The lands around Lake Linaewen were no longer safe, but still she missed her home fiercely. Her reed flute was clutched in her hand, but today she had no heart to play it.

She heard the honking of geese and opened her eyes to look up at the blue sky. A flock of geese was passing overhead, flying in perfect formation. They were going north. With a sudden surge of envy, she wondered if they would pass by the lakeshore where she once wandered. Perhaps the lands under Morgoth’s sway were still safe for creatures with wings.

The geese were gone into the blue distance, and Aewelir reluctantly sat up. She walked listlessly past the piles of dried kelp and bits of driftwood, back towards the town. She nodded politely as she passed a group of Elvish fisherwomen, gossiping with their heads bent together as they mended their nets.

“Did you hear?” one fisherwoman was saying to another in the dialect of the Falathrim, while her hands skillfully twisted and tied the net’s cords. “Another group of Noldor refugees—”

Aewelir quickened her pace so that she would not hear more. When she first came to the Havens of Sirion, the town that was a refuge and gathering-place for so many lost and scattered people, she had nursed a secret, foolish hope that perhaps Maicáne would drift here too. She had kept her ears open for rumors, eagerly scanned the faces of the newcomers. But Maicáne was never there. At last it became too painful, and Aewelir resolutely closed her ears to any news. Maicáne would not come here, and most likely she had forgotten Aewelir centuries ago.

She entered the town and walked listlessly through the marketplace. It stank of fish. Suddenly she missed her home so much she couldn’t bear it. Aewelir lifted her flute to her lips and played softly, half-closing her eyes. She let herself walk in a memory of her lakeshore, the swaying reflections of the pines in the clear water.

Suddenly, Aewelir heard her name called. She looked up, slowly coming out of her reverie. Maicáne stood before her. Maicáne’s armor was battered and scorched, blackened as if by smoke. The badge of a leaping fountain shone clear, picked out in tiny diamonds; but some of the diamonds were missing and others grimy with dried blood. She had never seen Maicáne’s armor less than immaculate. What could possibly have happened—?  

Aewelir felt a sudden rush of emotions, too many things at once. Longing and grief and anger and relief and fear and betrayal, and she still ached to fling her arms around Maicáne and hold her. How dare Maicáne, how dare she still make Aewelir feel those things?

Maicáne slowly reached out for her. Aewelir frowned at her and stepped back, holding her flute between them like a barrier. “You left,” she accused.

Maicáne looked down. “I—” she began. “Aewelir, I—”

Aewelir had never seen her be hesitant, stumbling over her words. She did not know what to think. Before she could form an answer, someone else was pushing his way through the crowd to Maicáne’s side. A strange man, a Noldo she didn’t know, in the same armor as Maicáne and with the same badge.

“Maicáne!” he greeted her, laughing. Aewelir didn’t like the way he clapped his hand on Maicáne’s shoulder. He spoke in Quenya, too fast for her to follow. Aewelir only caught the word “run.”

Maicáne shook her head distractedly, her eyes fixed on Aewelir, and did not answer.

“Ah,” the Noldo said in sudden realization. “This is your Sinda, the girl from—”

Aewelir stopped trying to follow their Quenya, not hearing what else he said or what Maicáne said in response. Anger and shame were rising in her heart. ‘Your Sinda’? Was that what Maicáne had told them? She turned away abruptly.

Maicáne’s hand grasped her wrist. “Wait,” she said in a shaking voice. “Little bird—”

“Don’t call me that,” Aewelir bit out. She tried vainly to tug her wrist free. Maicáne was stronger than her, and once she had liked that. With a flash of anger, she demanded, “Let go of me!”

Maicáne released her. Aewelir slowly turned around. Maicáne’s Noldo friend was gone, Aewelir did not care where. Maicáne had taken a step back, though she was still looking at Aewelir in that soft, intense way that had once melted her heart. Aewelir did not want to remember; her heart was stinging with anger and pain.

“I’m sorry,” Maicáne said softly. “I was a coward.” She swallowed. “I was afraid to tell you we were leaving. The King forbade it—””

“Then why aren’t you with your king? If you care so much for his commands that you would leave me without a word.”

Something flashed in Maicáne’s eyes. “King Turgon is dead.”

“But there’s some other lord,” Aewelir pressed. She had heard enough in her visits to Vinyamar. “Someone else you follow.”

Maicáne hesitated. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Lady Idril.”

Aewelir blinked hot tears from her eyes. “Then go follow your Lady Idril! I don’t want you to speak to me or come near me.” She whirled around and ran, wanting only to get away. Maicáne called her name, but this time she would not listen.