Song and Smoke by Zdenka

Chapter 1

Written for the femslashficlets Language of Flowers prompt table challenge: bleeding heart, meaning "a connection that goes beyond life and death."

Lacho calad – According to The Children of Húrin, “the battle-cry of the Edain of the North,” which Húrin’s men shouted before leaving for Nirnaeth Arnoediad, was Lacho calad! Drego morn! (translated as “Flame Light! Flee Night!”). It doesn’t say they had a war-song, but I thought that they should.

At first, Aerin wonders if she is going mad. She sees, or thinks she sees, a figure out of the corner of her eye, that vanishes when she turns to look. At first it is only for a moment, but then it stays long enough to make out details. Long dark hair, braided in an Elvish style, pushed back with an impatient gesture. The hem of a green dress, fluttering around the corner—And she knows that embroidery of golden flowers around the hem; she was there when it was sewn, watching the deft hands holding the needle so she would not betray herself by gazing too long at a beloved face. Her heart beats wildly with sudden impossible hope.

And one day she turns, and she clearly sees the woman standing before her. Her lips form a name, but no sound comes out. Rían.

Rían smiles at her sadly. She is still a little transparent; Aerin can see the far wall behind her, the pattern of cracks in the wood. She reaches out to touch Aerin’s face with insubstantial fingers. Aerin wishes with all her heart that she could feel Rían’s touch, but there is nothing; not even the hint of a breeze.

There is so much she wants to say. You are dead, then? I feared it was so. Where does your body lie, my dearest? Did you find news of Huor? What became of your child? Her heart is too full; she does not speak.

And Rían sings. Her voice is sweet and rich and full; Aerin has missed it like fire’s warmth or a drink of clear water. If this is madness, she welcomes it. Rían walks beside her, and she is not alone.

The next time Brodda’s anger leaves bruises, when she is sitting on the bed trying not to weep, Rían sits down beside her and folds her in an ghostly embrace. Then Rían’s hand gently brushes over her bruised skin. Aerin cannot feel the touch, but nevertheless it soothes the pain.

Rían stays until Aerin’s breathing evens out, until her fingers release their tight grip on the coverlet. And then she vanishes. Left behind on the bed is a small purple flower, a kind that Rían loved. Aerin half expects it to be as insubstantial as Rían’s touch, but when she picks up the flower, it is solid and real in her hand. The petals are alive and fresh as if new-picked, though it is midwinter and no flowers are to be found anywhere. Aerin presses the flower to her lips, and then to her cheek. Its scent is sweet, and the petals are soft against her face.

Túrin comes to Dor-lómin in winter. Aerin can see Morwen and Húrin in him: his eyes, his hair, the way he holds his head. But neither Morwen nor Húrin would have done this.

When he goes, Túrin takes all those still alive who can run swiftly and grasp a sword. She is left with a pitiful band: the old, the very young, the halt or maimed or ill. “Lady,” one old man says diffidently, “what should we do?”

Aerin looks around at the scene of carnage. What is there left to do? She feels the urge to burst out laughing, or to dissolve in tears. “Fetch me oil,” she says instead.

While she waits, Aerin kneels beside each body and straightens their limbs, Edain and Easterlings alike. Brodda is still lying sprawled across the table where Túrin flung him, his neck at a strange angle. Aerin stares blankly at him for a few moments, but she can’t bear to touch him. She turns away.

Her last commands are obeyed, and they bring her what she needs: oil and kindling and a torch lit from Brodda’s hearth. “Go,” she says quietly. “Go—wherever you can find safety.” She has nothing left to give them now. She sets her torch to the tinder and watches the fire blaze up. Then she walks around the hall, setting fire in every place, until the building is burning nicely.

“Lacho calad! Drego morn!” Someone is singing the war-song of Dor-lómin. Húrin sang it when he rode away; her father and all the warriors of Dor-lómin sang it with him, chanting in a chorus of deep male voices. Now it sounds fierce and high and clear, sung by a single woman’s voice.

“Rían?” she whispers.

Rían’s dark hair is unbound, streaming back from her shoulders as she advances, and she is crowned with a wreath of flowers. She holds a burning torch in her hand. Aerin goes forward to meet her.

Rían flings her torch high; the thatched roof catches fire. She turns away and disappears. From inside the house, the war-song is raised again. Aerin steps over the threshold without hesitation.

“My lady!” someone calls behind her in alarm. She does not stop, but follows the sound of Rían’s voice deeper into the house.  The smoke is thicker now; she coughs and peers around her.

“Rían?” She steps into the great hall.

A fire is still burning in the hearth, and Aerin almost laughs. There is fire licking at the rafters; showers of sparks tumble downward like falling stars. Aerin gasps for air, but she cannot seem to catch her breath. She slumps against a wall, and then slides downward to the floor.

When she turns her head, Rían is kneeling beside her. She gathers Aerin into her arms, laying Aerin’s head against her bosom. Aerin goes to her gladly. She has been cold for so long, and Rían is so very warm. She can feel Rían’s arms around her, the tickle of Rían’s hair against her face.

Softly, intimately, Rían sings close to her ear: not a war-song now, but a simple, gentle song of sun on the flowers. I like this song best, Aerin tries to tell her, but she cannot make her tongue speak. Rían’s lips press softly against her forehead, and Aerin lets her eyes close.