Songs of the Sea by Raiyana

Lacrimosa

The singer does not leave; continuing his cycle for many seasons, throwing the pouch away and diving back in to reclaim it. Uinen remains watching, and finds that she does pity him, even if she does not think she should. Ossë certainly does not pity him, but that does not make her change her mind whenever she looks to the shore that had once been green lands and mountain foothills and sees the broken spirit wandering along the tideline, his feet making the gravel move beneath him. Sharp edges cut him, when he goes into the water – he removes some of his clothes each time – leaving droplets of coppery red in the surf. And always, there is singing - those mournful tunes she finds it difficult to ignore entirely.

She returns often – well, she turns her attention towards the waters that hear his songs – and watches him grow haggard and thin. She sends him fish, fat herring in large shoals, and even a few cod once, but in truth he is a terrible fisherman. It confuses her, at first, this dedication to slow starvation – whatever else could be said of his kindred, they had been skilled and it seems odd that the last son of mighty Fëanáro should not try to improve his tools, if nothing else. Hunting food is one of the pillars of life as she knows it, noting the way her favourite creatures devour others, only to be devoured in turn. From the mighty whales that sing so beautifully to the smallest silverfish that hide in her hair: everything in the sea has a place, and eventually that place is the belly of another.

She keeps watching, intrigued despite herself, and tries to entice him with delicious things that go unnoticed more often than not. Sometimes, she wonders if she should tell him of his mother’s tears, listening to the songs that are clearly meant as apologies for leaving her behind. He does not sing of his father, and only rarely about any of his brothers, the eldest not at all.

She doesn’t speak, remaining silently watchful, though she no longer feels tempted to squeeze the life from his body when he dives into her domain to find his precious jewel once more.

Uinen watches, sitting deep beneath the waves and floating atop the foam at once, considering what she should do – if anything.

“You want to help him,” Ulmo rumbles, seeing the thought that floats in the water before her, suspended like a clear crystal yet fragile like a bubble and gone in a moment as her focus shifts.

“I should not,” Uinen replies, though she means ‘yes’.

“Perhaps you should,” Ulmo disagrees, “perhaps we all should have helped them…” They had raged, after Alqualondë, but they had also understood, more than the rest of the Valar, Uinen thinks, what the beleaguered Elves of Beleriand faced, what awaited the Exiles. They had seen the darkness that was so easy to miss from Aman’s cosy light, for water connected all places, and carried their voices to all corners of the world. “The choice is yours,” Ulmo continues, “I commend this Child into your keeping.”

That is new; usually the souls in her keeping do not stay so, those unlucky Children who perish at sea, their final breaths caught in the seams of her skirts. Usually, her duty of care ends when the soul leaves the water, journeying to Mandos or beyond as is its fate. A token few may linger, but the Sea is vast and those who do not heed the call become her companions in other shapes. The crab resting on her shoulder clacks its claws, fishing something nutritious from the water around her; Uinen pets it slowly, thinking.

She does not know what to do with a soul that is still in possession of a house, except teach it the ways of the sea, but her singer doesn’t wish to be taught, has no great love for her songs. Her Teleri friends had been altogether easier, though they, too, were not hers entirely, their lives spent elsewhere as well.

Studying the singer, Uinen wonders how to help him; she has heard enough of his curses to know he doesn’t consider her kind – wrathful, is one of the nicer epithets he had named her – and so she does not think he would accept an outright offer of aid. The food does not count, she tells herself, is not enough to truly help his spirit heal.

First, she tries to give him comfort, turning her considerable forces to the task of making fine sand from the sharp-edged gravel that comprises the rocky shoreline, each wave pounding just a touch harder than it probably meant to, until Singer’s Cove has been churned smooth. She carries driftwood to him, knowing that the Children like fire, and though she enjoys the pretty flames from afar, her singer does not seem to improve; this one, his mother had once said, was a force of creation, and she has heard all his songs before, in one voice or another.

Ulmo does not understand her fascination with this last Fëanorian, though she can feel his silent approval still. Ossë is too angry to see what she sees, refusing to join her silent vigils and so Uinen is always alone when she visits the Singer’s Cove as she has come to name it.

Laments.

When she finally hears him make up something she doesn’t recognise, it is a lament. One of his brothers, not one she remembers well, though she believes he had been well liked by one of the rivers that ran through the mountains and so she thought kindly of him. The words come slowly; the melody seemed easier, somehow, but Uinen stays until the piece is done, watching tears make their way down his cheeks as he sings.

The singer does not hear her approval in the voices of the gulls calling overhead, but it doesn’t matter. She sends him a few spiny lobsters that evening, feeling something like pride in him, and ignoring the frown on Ossë’s face when she catches sight of him further out, watching her as intently as she watched her singer.

She thinks she might understand the sister they had named Melian, at least a little, understand her fascination with these beings who were so foreign to her mind and yet so strangely familiar. Captivating.

“I have seen your son,” she says, appearing from the waves and startling the two ladies walking along the shore. Eärwen smiles, nodding in welcome – always polite, that one, her whole family among Uinen’s favourites – but Nerdanel stands frozen, staring and silent. Uinen waits, pretending not to see the way Eärwen nudges her friend.

“My son?” Nerdanel says at last, grip tight around Eärwen’s fingers. “Maka- Maglor? He lives?”

Uinen feels curiously guilty for ignoring her prayers now, surprised by the question; she would have expected the Host to bring back word of the last Fëanorian.

“He lives in Singer’s Cove, where once lay Beleriand,” she says, twisting her focus slightly to throw the image into the waters before them. “He fights the spell of the Silmaril he threw into my waters,” she admits, though the picture they see is what she had seen when he composed the first of his brothers’ laments. “It burns him, still.” She does not enjoy the screams, never did, but less so now that she allows herself to care for him.

“Why have you come to tell me this?” Nerdanel asks quietly, her eyes never leaving the slowly moving image, each wave passing through and obscuring it a little more unless Uinen keeps her attention firmly anchored on the showing. “I was told… there should be no pity for them, I should expect to hear nothing after… after.”

“Pity, no, and yet pity and compassion have never cared much for permission,” Uinen replies, though it does not feel like the full truth. “I have watched him for some time, now,” she continues, “and as your son has been commended to my care, I think that I do have compassion for his plight.” The Oath hurts him, she knows, remembering the screams, and she pities the way he seems unable to leave it be nonetheless. “I have no fondness for many of his deeds,” she admits, “but does that mean I should not grant him a small measure of mercy?” Perhaps, in truth, her mercy is for Nerdanel – she does not speak to her singer, after all – but the red-haired elleth nods, something like relief in her features. Eärwen looks pleased, hugging her good-sister.

“Will you…” Uinen tilts her head, noting the thread of desperation in Nerdanel’s voice, “tell him, tell my son… I love him. Still, I love them all.” Biting her lip, she holds back the please that Uinen can feel lingering behind her teeth.

Uinen nods slowly, watching, while her assumed shape collapsed back into the waves of the sea, salt tears trailing down Nerdanel’s cheeks.