where ebb and flow meet by kimaracretak

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Chapter 1

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this is my light of life

Míriel swims almost before she walks, floating in the seafoam under her father's sure hands. She remembers it well, remembers it til the end: the lessons, the few times she saw fondness crease her father's face. Remembers the feelings: buoyant, weightless, alive, long before she knew what the words meant, long before she ever imagined there would be a time she wouldn't have them.

She thinks sometimes that she would spend all her time in the sea, if she could.

"You would challenge Lady Uinen for the seas?" her father asks kindly, when she first tells him of her plans.

Míriel frowns. She is five summers old, but she is old enough to know that such a challenge is not one to be undertaken lightly, if at all. "Of course not, Father," she says. "I love her."

"Well," he says, and it is only much later that Míriel will understand the true weight of her declaration. "How will you show your lady that?"

Míriel ponders that for nearly a fortnight, whenever she has the moments to spare. She thinks of her father, a king in his own right, and the ways in which she loves him. Yet none of those feel right to answer the ocean's call.

It is only when she is at the shore, letting the summer-warm waves wash over her toes, giggling as she prods the bright bits of shells and corals revealed under the turquoise waters, that she realises what is lacking, and what she can give.

Seaweed blooms under the water; called Uinen's hair by those who still speak of such things, and Miriel has surfaced with it tangled in her own enough times to learn to love the salt-smooth feel of it through her fingers as she combs it out. But the seaweed has always bloomed alone.

"My ... queen?" she says hesitantly, plucking the flower from the end of her braid and twirling it gently through the water, watching as the tide eddies around it. "I wanted to give you something. Would you like this?"

The tide tugs at the trailing blossom, a mind of its own as the waves further away continue to crash uninterrupted by the girl and her whirlpool.

Let go, it seems to say, in words and more. Let go, and know that your gift is loved.

Míriel does. I am loved, she thinks, I have done well. The thought will carry her through many years ahead, and it is right, and it is enough.

 

 

for the morning that comes

The waves and sky are both grey when Míriel brings her offering to the shore; grey as the cowl she wears to cover her raiment; grey as the dull gleam of Aranrúth in her arms. Even the morning sun can't tease out the lighter threads, send spring-summer silver spilling over the shore.

Míriel misses the clear waters, the less-complicated sands of her youth. There is so little she can do now, but this: this is hers, and will always be.

Seabirds cry above her as she walks, an echo of her sorrow, she fancies, or perhaps a mark of their indifference on harder days. Even the sands feel different: rougher, sharper edges of stubborn-clung rocks digging into the soles of her feet as she searches for the spaces where the crashing waves met the land and left behind their treasures.

Miriel knows every inch of her island, every crevice where she's dug her nails in and held her claim. She is no Pharazôn, she is not even her father: she knows she needs no throne to stake her claim.

Still it is with some regret that she plants Aranrúth point-down in the rocky tidepools of her youth, careful not to spear any of the creatures that dart and splash with a curious sort of terror she wishes she did not have to give them.

"My queen," she says, and she watches her reflection's lips move in a mockery of the title her husband has ensured none will use for her. "My queen, I have realised that there are ... there are things I can no longer hold."

Failure curls salt-bitter on Míriel's tongue as she speaks, saltwater soaking through her gown as she kneels over the pool. But she is not powerless. "The one who calls himself my husband has no right to bear this blade, and while I lack my throne it is not right that I should carry it. I ask that you keep it safe for the moment, for Númenor. For ... me."

She hesitates over the last words. A queen ought not be selfish, and yet ... and yet. The sea has always called to her, as she has always spoken to it, and while she would not quite call it a conversation there is ... an understanding there, that her personal devotions are just as present as the ones she brings on behalf of her people.

This is for them all, she thinks, her fingers tightening around Aranrúth's hilt as the water starts to rise. Swallows the blade, inch by inch, kisses cool and sweet at her fingers.

Let go, it says to her, in words and more, let go, and I will keep your watch.

Míriel does. Aranrúth will be loved at the bottom of the sea, she thinks, just as she herself is loved by the sea at its edge. It is not quite the symmetry they were supposed to have, but it is right, and it is enough.

 

 

i climbed mountains so high i discovered the deep

When the last wave comes Míriel drifts to the Meneltarma, unsure exactly what she is seeking. Salvation, perhaps, though the word pulls uneasy at the empty spaces inside of her.

She has never run from the sea before. Perhaps she simply seeks a new way to view the end, and welcome it home.

"My queen," she says, rocks under her hands and the wind in her mouth.

There is nothing else she can say that the rising waters don't already know.

Let go, they say to her, in words and more.

Let go, the water says, and it still feels like a kiss against her fingers, against her lips, cool and sweet with promise.

Míriel does. Perhaps she will be loved at the bottom of the sea just as she was loved at its shores. It is not what she expected when she reached the mountain's slopes, but it is right, and it is enough.

 

 

this labyrinth of life takes me to your home shores

Míriel wakes on a seaweed bed with flowers in her hair and a sword at her side, and unfamiliar warm pressure wrapped around her hands. When she looks down, she sees them cradled in another woman's palm.

"I feared you would never wake," the woman murmurs. "I feared I was too late to save you who had proven yourself over and over." She bows her head, presses soft lips to Míriel's temple, and Míriel knows for the first time in years who she had spoken to every time she whispered to the wild waters.

"Why?" Míriel asks, and for once her voice is welcomed, not stolen.

Uinen reaches up through the water, traces softly down the line of her jaw, and Míriel's breath would catch in her throat if she thought she needed to breathe here. "Because you're worthy," she says simply. "All these years, I have always thought of you."

Míriel's gaze drifts to the side, to where Aranrúth still rests. Elwë's blade was only meant to be inherited by rulers, and its presence here, a gift returned, seems to speak of something more. What would it mean, for her, for Númenor, if she were to lift it now?

"My seas are lonely." Uinen says, though Míriel had not spoken her doubts aloud. "And I would offer you the chance to rule here, anew, should you wish. If not…"

She trails off, and in the silence Míriel hears an endless possibility of choices more terrifying than the tide. But there is only one that matters: she has loved the sea longer than she has known love, though she does not yet reach for Aranrúth.

"Don't let go," Míriel whispers, in words and more.

Uinen doesn't. And Míriel knows once again that she is loved, and it is right, and it is enough.

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Chapter End Notes

section titles
(i) Leaves' Eyes; "Norwegian Lovesong"
(ii) Leaves' Eyes, "Into Your Light"
(iii) Leaves' Eyes, "Norwegian Lovesong"
(iv) Leaves' Eyes, "Tale of the Sea Maid"