Laughing Water by Himring

Laughing Water

Rian stood on the bridge, gazing down into the water that swiftly ran down from the mountains and away: Nen Lalaith, namesake of her little cousin with the butter-yellow curls that was dead, had died so very quickly, before their own healer’s efforts could take hold or the healer the elves had sent from Barad Eithel could even get here, and was now buried, three days gone. Turin still lay dangerously ill and she had come away after taking her turn sitting with him, had come out of the house to breathe a few deep breaths of fresh air. It felt as if, inside, she had been creeping about murmuring, with bated breath, for days.

Hurin could be hugged and had wept on her shoulder, after he had done shouting and cursing Morgoth for the plague that had swept down on them and taken his daughter. Morwen, predictably, refused any comfort that was offered her as such, so ways had to be found to soothe her more subtly, in as much as it was possible. Not that Morwen was not spotting them anyway, she was too clever for that, even in her grief and fear, but she let the hint of lavender on her shawl pass as Rian being silly. And such things did have an effect, even if it was slight, in the face of another shattering, incomprehensible loss.

Rian leant heavily on the railing, stooped forward, her bones aching with all the weariness and the sadness of the past days. Her eyes followed the fitful light glancing off the surface of the water below, the playful ripples chasing each other downstream. Beneath her, the stream chuckled as before. It went on laughing, even though little Lalaith, who had been named for it, would never laugh or chatter or play again. 

Morwen, Rian suspected, would have been offended by that idea, even though she would have fiercely rejected such foolishness and never admitted to it. But to Rian, just then, it seemed a good thing that even though the laughter had gone out of the house it was still out here in the world. It might be flowing out and away, beyond her grasp, but it could still be perceived; she could hear her little cousin’s laughter echoing in the water.

‘I will write you a song, when I can,’ she promised the stream, her lost cousin, the laughter in the water. ‘Not now, not soon, I’m hurting far too much. But when I can.’

Chapter End Notes

B2MeM Prompt, Card and Number:
G48: Agitation- lavender (7. Apothecary Garden),
G48: Butter (32. Color Burst 3 - Yellow),
G48: Rían of Dor-lómin (133. Mortal Women),
N42: I'm writing you a poem. - Dean, Tam Lin (114. Last Lines)