As the World Was Young by StarSpray

1

"My sweet," you sang, and, "Sweet," I sang,
And sweet we sang together,
Glad to be young as the world was young…
- "Spring Reminiscence" by Countee Cullen

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Beneath a cloudless sky the River-daughter sat on the grassy bank and sang a wordless song, swinging her feet in the water and kicking up occasionally to send silver droplets flying out over the river to land in a cascade of sound, and watching the current carry away the ripples. In the forest on the other side of the water an owl took flight on silent wings, a dark shadow passing across the stars over the River-daughter's head. She ceased her song to call a greeting, and received a single hoot in reply.

As silence fell over the woods again, broken only by the soft flowing of the river, the River-daughter heard other voices in the distance, singing songs of their own with sweet voices. With a smile she leapt to her feet and ran lightly down along the river bank, passing like a glimmer of starlight beneath the trees. She soon came to the place where the Quendi had made their camp. Fires danced in the center, around which children played and meals were cooked and tales were told.

These were the Minyar, most of them tall and with hair that gleamed bright golden-yellow in the firelight, like the River-daughter's own. They were hunters and dancers and word-makers. This was one of several encampments they had made along the river banks. They were making their way, their leader Ingwë had told the River-daughter, to the Sea and beyond, where the Powers of the World had made a land beautiful and safe, where no dark things crept in the shadows, and they would not need to fear.

The River-daughter had never known fear. But she had never strayed very far from her river, either, and perhaps there were strange and fell things in the hills to the east or to the north that did not come down to the water.

"River-daughter!" Indis appeared from between some tents. She was dressed for hunting, with her hair coiled around her head in thick braids, and with a spear on her shoulder. Usually her hair and clothes were adorned with beads of wood and clay that clicked together in rhythm with her steps, but now she moved silently, quiet as the owl that the River-daughter had greeted earlier.

Indis was, however, much lovelier than any owl. "Are you leaving?" the River-daughter asked her.

"No, I'm returning," Indis replied. "I was not successful, alas, so I must go out again after a rest."

"Do you not have enough food?" the River-daughter asked. "Can I help?"

"We have enough," said Indis, "but we are gathering our stores for the journey ahead. Ingwë says we must not linger much longer."

"Oh, must you go?" the River-daughter said, though she knew the answer. They had had this same conversation before—it was as familiar as the chorus of a song. "No, don't answer. I know you must."

"Yes, and very soon indeed. When I return from the next hunt I will find, I think, all of our tents packed up and our people already singing a walking song." Indis shifted the spear on her shoulder and looked to the River-daughter. "Could you not come with us? At least a little way. Or perhaps all the way to the Sea?"

"No," said the River-daughter. "Or—I suppose I could, but it would not be right. It would pain me to leave this place for too long." She reached out and seized Indis' hand. "Leave you spears and arrows, O Huntress, and come take your rest with me! If we are to part soon I would have us treasure the time still given to us!"

Indis laughed, and tossed her spear away before letting the River-daughter pull her into the trees and down to the river bank. There was a place where the river had carved out a rounded place in the bank and where the water slowed and calmed to create a quiet pool, covered in lily pads. Sometimes they opened into pale flowers, when the River-daughter sang the right songs, but never for long, until they returned to the slumber that blanketed all of the growing things of the world. But the air was warm and the water was cool, and Indis and the River-daughter cast aside their clothes and plunged into the pool. The River-daughter sank to the dark bottom where tiny silver fish darted through her hair; she laughed and rose to the surface where Indis floated on her back.

"Tell me about this land you are going to," said the River-daughter.

"I have never seen it," said Indis.

"But you must know something of it. Or else why go?"

Indis laughed. "Because I know so little! It is—it is lit, my brother says, by two great Trees, Laurelin and Telperion. One is golden and the other silver, and they wax and wane in turn. He says there are mountains to guard it, higher than any mountains, even the great peaks we crossed to get here. There are forests and fields, and everything is awake there, he says, growing and putting forth flower and fruit, and there are creatures of all kinds except for the monsters that hunt us in the dark. I wish to walk every inch of it, even to the farthest shores in the west where Ingwë did not go, to see the Outer Seas." She shifted her weight and dropped her legs down to the muddy bottom of the pool, so that she and the River-daughter faced one another. In the starlight Indis' wet skin shimmered.

"Will you miss these lands?" the River-daughter asked.

Indis smiled. Her eyes were dark. "Yes," she said. "I think I may miss this pool most of all."

The River-daughter laughed, and kissed her. They had spent many hours in this pool and on its banks, exploring one another and singing and laughing and talking together, of Indis' journeys and of the river and the hills around, and the secrets of the land that the River-daughter knew. But this would be their last time, and the River-daughter intended to make the most of it.

In the end they dozed off on the bank, tangled up together from their ankles to their hair, and roused only when someone came calling for Indis. "I must go!" she laughed, when the River-daughter wouldn't let her up. "I must! But you must come to say farewell when we leave. Won't you?"

"Of course I will!"

"And you must," Indis said a moment later, pausing in the midst of getting dressed, "you must watch for the rest—for the Tatyar and the Nelyar coming behind us. Finwë leads the Tatyar, and my friend Therindë."

"I will meet them, if they come by my river," said the River-daughter. "And I will remember you when I sit by my lilies and sing them open."

"And I shall remember you whenever I come to willow trees on a riverbank," said Indis. And then she was gone, slipping silently away into the woods to take up her spears and her arrows again.

The River-daughter did see off the Minyar when they departed. Ingwë bowed to her and thanked her for her friendship, and Indis spared one last kiss and one last star-bright smile, before the Quendi departed, crossing the water and passing away into the dark trees, leaving hardly a trace of their passing but for a few dropped beads and the echo of their fair voices on the water.