What the Water Gave Me by Rocky41_7

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Chapter IV

It's time for a ~*~*time skip*~*~

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Two years more they stayed with Hild and Arnor before they agreed that Amlugnod—whom Finduilas had taken to calling Amdirlhê­, which was to say “thread of hope”—was old enough to travel.

            It was amazing how fast she grew! Already she was chirping words, mimicking what she heard the adults around her saying. She was crowned with a shock of soft black hair and had Túrin’s gray eyes, but Nienor’s darker skin. Privately, Finduilas hoped she would have Nienor’s freckles too—how cute that would be!

Now that the girl was no longer breastfeeding, Finduilas could often help Nienor by caring for the child without having to run her back when she grew hungry. While Nienor caught up on sleep or rest or sewing, Finduilas would happily sit for hours playing peek-a-boo and singing with Amdirlhê and helping her learn to walk and talk. This was met with some awe by the Men around her, who wondered at her patience, and Finduilas was not sure how to explain this was not at all unusual among Elves.

            Often she carried Amdirlhê when she and Nienor went out walking, for she never ceased trying to coax Nienor into the fresh air and the sunlight, and gradually Nienor emerged more from the close dimness of the house, though she still avoided going into town if it could be helped. Finduilas would take Amdirlhê with her, bound to her chest, so that she might see and hear and smell the things going on in the town center. On those days, Amdirlhê always slept well, and was usually dozing by the time Finduilas made it to the front step.

            If it were not for her dreams of the sack of Nargothrond and the sharp pain still brought on by the memory of those she had lost, Finduilas could almost forget she had ever lived another life outside of this one.

            While Amdirlhê played with a set of wooden blocks gifted by a neighbor on the fur before the hearth, Nienor raised the issue of their old plan.

            “Mean you still to seek out your brother?” she asked.

            “Of course,” Finduilas said, tearing her attention from Amdirlhê to Nienor.

            “Time waits not,” said Nienor. “It may be time to consider our departure.”

            “If you are of a mind and body to go,” said Finduilas cautiously. “And Amdirlhê, too.”

            “She eats solid food, she sleeps mostly through the night, she nearly walks…” Nienor shrugged. “It seems to me we might be off, if we wish.”

            Finduilas had never forgotten her desire to reunite with Gil-galad, if he still lived, but she had been lulled into the quiet pleasure of their life in Brethil. Watching Amdirlhê grow, helping Arnor and Hild around the house, and most of all, watching Nienor find joy in things again filled her with such contentment she could almost let go of the notion of leaving. If Nienor asked her to wait ten years, Finduilas knew she would. Perhaps she shouldn’t—but she would. Gil-galad would understand, she thought. Nienor needed her more!

            But once they had begun even in passing to discuss plans, she saw that Nienor grew restless, and she understood Nienor did not see a future for herself in that house. She was ready to move on.

            They began to discuss the issue of money and supplies. These would need to be acquired on their own and could not be borrowed or taken from Hild and Arnor. Finduilas determined she might offer assistance to others in town with tasks that might be easier for an Elf, and gather some coin this way, but most likely, she warned, their best option was going to be hunting and gathering on the way. It would slow their journey a fair amount, but they were already going to be traveling slowly on account of Amdirlhê, and they had not the money, nor would make it quickly, to stock up on enough to carry them even halfway to the coast.

            “Are you a hunter?” Nienor asked. Finduilas shrugged.

            “I have done it,” she said. “And if we follow the Teiglin and the Sirion, we may take advantage of the fish as well.”

            “That will necessitate we enter Doriath,” said Nienor.

            “May we not?” Finduilas asked, bouncing Amdirlhê on her hip. “You were a guest there on a time, and my grandfather was welcomed as kin by the Greycloak.” Nienor blinked and shook her head.

            “Aye…still I forget you are kin to Finrod Felagund!” She frowned at the rough map she had constructed of wood chips, twigs, and string laid out on the table. “If we may pass behind the Girdle our going would be safely assured for a time…” she murmured, following a path between the chips with a finger. “But we would need to pass through the fens of Sirion…and over the Andram…”

            “The mountains are low near the fens,” said Finduilas. “But that route will take us perilous close to Nargothrond.”

            “Yet Glaurung is dead, and may menace us no more from there,” said Nienor, but Finduilas still looked uneasy. “Once we pass over the Andram, the path should run smooth along the Sirion to the coast. I am trusting there we may find passage to the Isle of Balar.”

            “They must travel to and fro the coast,” Finduilas agreed. “Shocked I would be if they had no harbor on the mainland.” Amdirlhê yipped and flailed her hands, unable to get a grip on Finduilas’ hair with it bound to the back of her head.

            “Mama!” she cried. “Mama!”

            “Shh, sweet girl,” Finduilas cooed, shifting her attention from Nienor’s planning. “Your mama is busy.” She murmured to the girl, smiling, and when she looked up, Nienor was watching them. “You wish to take her?” Finduilas asked.

            “Nay, nay.” Nienor waved a hand and went back to staring at the tabletop, re-arranging her wood chips and string bits. She was nibbling at her lower lip, her brow furrowed. “Only thinking…” Finduilas studied her a moment, then went back to playing with the baby.

            The real problem was horses. Finduilas had suspected and knew from the first several weeks of their planning and gathering that they were not going to afford mounts anytime soon, which meant they would be departing on foot.

            “If we divert to Menegroth,” Finduilas proposed, “I may convince Thingol and Melian to lend us a pair. It would halve our trip to have mounts, and we would be able to carry a great deal more. We could send them back with a trading caravan.”

            “Mm…that might work,” Nienor mused. “We may also take a boat down the Sirion, which could be faster…”

            “It would keep us tied to the river though,” Finduilas warned. “If we need abandon it for any reason, we would be once more afoot.” Nienor made a displeased noise and went back to her mental calculations.

            Finduilas had begun to sleep badly. The dreams of Nargothrond’s fall—of the slaughter of her people—of the reeking terror of Glaurung—of her own captivity and the spear that nearly bled her out—which had quieted in the years since she had been in Brethil returned with a vigor and she often woke before dawn and chose to sit with Amdirlhê’s cradle or make her hands busy rather than try for more sleep.

            At last, they were decided, at least on the start of things: they would head east into the woods of Brethil, cross through the Girdle of Melian if they could (and Finduilas was reasonably confident they would be able to), follow the Teiglin to where it joined with the Sirion, and then head south towards the coast.

            With the coin she had earned from her odd jobs, Finduilas had purchased them what supplies they might carry, and the rest of the coin she kept in a small leather pouch in hopes they might find places or people to buy from on the way. They gathered Amdirlhê’s things, choosing a couple of toys to bring with, and leaving the rest to be handed down to the next newborn in the village (Which included the shift Finduilas had first made her, already too small for her rapid growth. Nienor lingered over it before finally admitting there was no reason to take it and setting it aside with the other things to remain in the village.) They made sure all the clothes and shoes were in good shape and then it seemed no time at all that they were bedding down the night before they planned to leave.

            “Certain are you that now is the right time?” Finduilas couldn’t help but ask lowly into the dark. “I should not wish you to feel rushed on my account.”

            “More than two years has it been since first you asked me to go with you,” said Nienor. “Is this ‘rush’ by the measure of the Elves?” There was a faint teasing in her voice, which was difficult to discern if one was not familiar with her general bearing. She had something of Túrin’s somber manner.

            “I should not wish to take you not wholly willingly from safety,” said Finduilas.

            “You would not,” said Nienor, “for there is no safety here. Only an absence, presently, of open war. Quiet is not safety.”

            Of course, she was right. Finduilas had only ever deluded herself that it was safe here—how could it be, when even mighty Nargothrond could not hold back the force of Morgoth? Perhaps she did ill to take Nienor so far out of her way. Perhaps they would do better to simply beg the hospitality of Menegroth and stay in Doriath. There was nothing for Finduilas in Balar—only the chance to see Gil-galad again, if indeed he lived. There was certainly nothing for Nienor or Amdirlhê.

            But she did not argue, only closed her eyes and hoped to sleep. She doubted Nienor would yield to any effort to persuade her of this, and Finduilas’ own selfish heart rebelled against the notion of parting before they had to do it. She would keep her hold on Nienor’s hand until she had no choice but to let go.

 In the morning, they bid goodbye to Hild and Arnor and shouldered their supplies and set off. Still deep in her ruminations about the morality of this road trip, Finduilas was surprised to glance over and see that Nienor was smiling, wrinkling the freckles on her nose and cheeks.

            “Are you envisioning success for our trip?” she asked. “Or has something else cheered you up?”

            “Aren’t you cheered?” Nienor asked. “’tis your brother we go to find.” When Finduilas did not answer quickly, Nienor took a deep breath through her nose and tilted her head back, carefully not to bonk Amdirlhê, strapped to her back. “Is it not cheering, to be at the start of something new?” she asked.

            Finduilas regarded Nienor a long moment, taking in the sight of hope in her face, brightness in her eyes, walking with purpose, driving them towards something. Without thinking, a reciprocal smile started to spread across her face.

            “Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

***

            Finduilas had been right about Doriath: they passed the Girdle without issue and needed not even make it as far as Menegroth to obtain mounts. The first marchwarden they countered recognized both their names and willingly handed over a pair of horses. Nienor inquired about Morwen, her mother, but the sober marchwarden informed them she had not returned with Mablung and his company after their ill-fated quest to Nargothrond, though Mablung had ventured forth on several occasions in search of her. Briefly, the marchwarden implored Nienor to return to Menegroth where she would be welcomed with open arms, but Nienor declined, citing her intention to travel to Balar with Finduilas. Instead, she bade them send word to Thingol and Melian that she was in good hands.

            On horseback, things proceeded the quicker, though long hours riding left them both sore and in some instances, blistered. Finduilas did what she could for them, but field medicine had never been her specialty.

            Moreover, the coming heat of summer occasionally peeked its head through the spring chill, and the two Men bore it less ably than Finduilas. During the first heat spell, she learned that it was best for them to stop and rest a few hours during the peak of day, else they were liable to be in a bad temper if nothing more serious. She used this time to hunt or gather while Nienor tended to Amdirlhê or took stock of their supplies or refilled their waterskins.  

            But before Finduilas had determined they would do well to avoid traveling during certain times of day, Nienor cut her hair.

            It had been late afternoon, a sweltering day during that first hot streak, when Finduilas had returned from catching a pair of rabbits to see Nienor hacking at her loose hair with a knife.

            “Nienor! What are you doing?” she exclaimed as Amdirlhê laughed to see her mother in such a state.

            “I cannot bear it!” Nienor exclaimed. “It is sticking to my face!” Even as she said it she seemed to realize this did not make her reaction look terribly proportional. Sweaty and red-faced, she looked at Finduilas with such a frazzled expression that Finduilas set down the rabbits, briefly mourned and accepted the loss of Nienor’s beautiful curls, and took the knife from her to do a neater, more careful job of shearing it.

            Regrettably, Nienor had already done quite a bit of damage in her haste, which required Finduilas to cut it quite short trying to repair.

            “Ah…” When she finally sat back to look, she was grateful Nienor didn’t have a mirror.

            But Nienor only sighed in relief and reached back to run her hands over her bare (only slightly bloody) neck and new, short hair.

            “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I felt I was being suffocated!”

            “’tis…a bit shorter than I meant…” Finduilas admitted, gnawing at her lower lip.

            “’tis perfect,” Nienor insisted. “I can feel a breeze!” She turned to look at Finduilas with something near a smile. “I wore my hair so short when I was young in Doriath as well. It is much better for the summer I think! And requires a great deal less care.” Finduilas tried to picture teenage Nienor with her hair cut to her ears; such a thing would have made any adolescent Elf weep.

            But Nienor seemed pleased and cast off the hair clippings without the slightest hint of regret, so Finduilas shrugged it off as well and handed over the rabbits to be skinned. As Nienor worked, she couldn’t resist leaning over to run her fingers over the fresh-cut ends of Nienor’s hair.

            “’tis very soft now,” she remarked, twisting her fingers through Nienor’s short, thick locks by her ear.

            “Is it?” Nienor reached up to feel also, remembered she had rabbit blood on her hands, and stopped herself before touching.

            “It is,” Finduilas said with a little smile. “Maybe it will grow out all this soft.”

            “Perhaps I will simply keep it short!” Nienor countered. Finduilas moved around to look directly at her and have a look at it from another angle. It was very short. She had seen some Men wear their hair so short and she had never liked the look of it before, but perhaps on Nienor, it was tolerable. It made her happy—didn’t that make it the best option automatically?

            They were after all, always looking to carry less weight! Nienor joked.

***

            Amdirlhê sometimes grew fussy on their long rides; they stopped intermittently to let her move and stretch her legs, but both women were keenly aware how exposed and alone they were in the wilds of Beleriand. Once, traveling there at the edge of Nargothrond’s territory might have given some comfort, to think they had King Orodreth’s warriors on one side, but now, danger seemed to glare at them from every angle, and sometimes, with no apparent trigger, Nienor would stop Amdirlhê’s play and scoop her up protectively.

            Finduilas had found a cherry tree while out searching and had gathered as many as she could, intending to return and bring Nienor and Amdirlhê to the tree that they could all pick more and have some to snack on for a few days. As she approached where they had settled for the night, she heard the sound of Nienor’s voice and she paused with a smile to listen.

            “…but Princess Faelivrin was keen of eye and mind, and she saw how the viceroy deceived her father. Yet when she tried to speak with him, he would not hear it! So Faelivrin knew this problem she must solve on her own.” Nienor paused, perhaps determining where to go next. “An ally she had, in the captain of her mother’s guard—a woman called…um…Himil. To Himil she explained her plan and together they decided how to expose the plot of the viceroy.

            “But! There was another, a man among her father’s councilors called…uh…Gram, whose eye had been fixed on Faelivrin for some time, and who often turned up at the most inopportune times. Faelivrin and Himil would need to keep their works secret from him as well if they wished the king not to learn of them before the right time.”

            “It sounds that Faelivrin is in rather a tight spot,” said Finduilas as she emerged from the evening shadows with her bounty of cherries.

            “Amlugnod was telling me how she wishes to ‘go home’,” said Nienor, in a tone that suggested the story had been a desperate effort to calm the child down.

            “Well, let me not interrupt the story,” said Finduilas. “Go on!” She peeled the meat of a few cherries away from the pit, discarding those off to the side and handing the de-pitted cherry flesh to Amdirlhê to gnaw on while she listened to the rest of her mother’s story. Nienor was clearly more reticent with an audience of more than two years, and the story was wrapped up quickly.  “So short!” said Finduilas. “Here I thought it would take them a great deal longer to expose the viceroy.”

            “Well, perhaps you wish to share a story instead,” said Nienor.

            “Hm…” Finduilas thought about this as Nienor began to arrange their kindling for a fire. “No, I prefer yours,” she said at last with a shrug.

            “Oh, I see!” Nienor exclaimed, her mouth falling open. “It must be I alone offering entertainment on this journey!”

            “Precisely,” said Finduilas, grinning.

            “Some stepmother you are!” said Nienor, which made Finduilas laugh.

            “Am I Amdirlhê’s stepmother now?” she teased.

            “I daresay you shan’t be, with that attitude,” Nienor said, digging around for their flint rocks.

            “Well, if I must give a story for the privilege, I will see what I can recall from mother’s tales…”

***

            Finduilas’ nightmares continued to plague her as they traveled down the Sirion. She wished they could have taken the long way around Nargothrond’s territory, but it could have easily added a month or more to their journey and would not necessarily have guaranteed they were any safer. She hung onto Nienor’s words about Glaurung’s death and tried to let that soothe her, but her stomach felt in knots the moment she noticed the ground starting to soften as they entered the fens, where they would need to travel especially slow and careful, and the anxiety that had been whispering in the back of her mind since they left the safety of Doriath’s eaves made itself known.

            While Finduilas could sleep through Nienor’s nightmares even in the tiny tent shared by three of them, Nienor did not sleep so heavily that she could always overlook Finduilas’ nighttime distress. On one particular occasion, when Finduilas jolted awake, heart pounding against her chest, from visions of Nargothrond bloody and burning, which had warped into Doriath set upon by faceless soldiers bearing blank banners, and the suffocating thought that there was no safe place in Beleriand, she felt Nienor’s fingers touch her hand.

            “Finduilas,” she whispered over Amdirlhê. “Are you awake?” Finduilas was breathing steadily, trying to calm her racing heart, and took a moment to reply.

            “Yes.” Her voice came out shakier than she wished.

            “Were you dreaming?”

            “Yes.”

            There was rustling in the dark as Nienor carefully shifted Amdirlhê from where she lay between them over to Nienor’s other side, allowing Nienor to scoot closer to Finduilas.

            “Was it about Nargothrond?” she asked.

            Finduilas did not want to say. Her idea it had been to travel to Balar, and Nienor had held up so admirably, even towing her toddler along with her, that it seemed rather selfish and childish for Finduilas to throw a fit about traveling in the vicinity of her old home, particularly when Nienor’s own brother and husband had died killing the same beast which had terrorized Finduilas and her people.

            In Finduilas’ silence, Nienor gathered the answer anyway, and she touched Finduilas’ hair and then her shoulder and then her hand, seemingly at a loss for what precisely she ought to do to remedy this situation.

            “It will pass,” Finduilas whispered.

            “But it has not yet,” said Nienor. Finduilas did not reply. “Perhaps if you spoke of it…” Nienor suggested tentatively.

            “No one wishes to hear of such a thing,” said Finduilas.

            “I would hear, if it would set your mind at ease,” said Nienor. For a moment they were quiet, but for their breathing, and Amdirlhê off to the side, and then Nienor added: “You have heard the details of my sorry tale.”

            And so, haltingly, Finduilas explained the dream, and how it pertained to what she had seen at the sack of Nargothrond, and in a sense, it did feel like purging a bit of poison from her mind, though the anxiety and fear lingered.

            “I saw my mother and father cut down by the beast Glaurung,” she said. “I saw the lifeless body of my one-time fiancé on the bridge built by the man for whom I left him. I saw the remains of my people clapped in irons by Orcs, and then slain when the first chance for freedom came near. ‘tis nothing new. Grief and fear have ways of treading very familiar routes in the mind.”

            “Indeed,” Nienor murmured, almost to herself. She shifted again and gathered Finduilas against her, so the Elf’s forehead was against her chest. Nienor’s hand rubbed her back and the other was against her hair, as if she were a child being reassured. Perhaps she ought to have protested, particularly being so much older than Nienor in truth, but she didn’t. She pressed close to Nienor and closed her eyes, focused on the warmth of Nienor’s body and the firm touch of her hands, which were growing calloused again with all their work.

            “It is not your burden alone,” Nienor murmured very quietly. “We shall carry it together, and then it will not seem so heavy.”

            Finduilas’ throat felt tight all of a sudden, hearing her old words to Nienor, and she fisted one hand in Nienor’s shift.

            “Nay,” she whispered. “It seems not so heavy now.” A burden it was still, and would remain for some years—perhaps forever—but with Nienor there, it seemed infinitely more bearable, an obstacle that could be overcome or managed, and not one that would destroy her.

            Finduilas did not know when Nienor let go of her and rolled over, for she fell asleep still with Nienor’s arms around her.

***

            Finduilas and Nienor had done their best to calculate the lowest route through the Andram, but it still required a great deal of uphill walking and some navigation to avoid the more dangerous routes. Some, Finduilas would have been willing to take herself, but was not willing to risk Nienor and Amdirlhê, so she insisted on more secure routes for her Mannish companions, and Nienor did not argue. If anything, she seemed relieved to not have to be the one to make the insistence.

            Thus, passing through the mountains slowed them considerably, but they had timed the journey such that there was very little risk of bad weather, and not a hint of snow, which was something for which to be grateful. Snow made any journey trickier, but it was downright deadly in quantity, particularly where footing was already treacherous. Finduilas’ grandparents had rarely spoken of their long journey across the Helcaraxë, even to their own son, but whispers still went around the family about the terror of the cold and the danger of the ice. As a child, Finduilas (and, as she understood, Gil-galad also) had wanted stories of this great feat their grandparents had accomplished, but such tales were not forthcoming. She hadn’t thought of it in years by then, but picturing the ground she and Nienor now traversed blanketed in snow with a howling wind blowing overhead made her think of the few tales her father had been able to pass on of the Helcaraxë. She chose not to share those with Nienor presently.

            However, for all the delay and the shadow of danger presented by the mountains, there was great beauty. In fact, some small part of their delay was surely due to Finduilas frequently stopping simply to observe the scenery until Nienor called her name as if to ensure she was still among the living and the sane.

            When they stopped for Amdirlhê to rest and play, Finduilas wove flowers into crowns for Nienor and named the birdcalls she recognized and reclined in the grass to watch great, puffy clouds pass by, seeming so near she felt she could almost reach out and touch one. Sometimes, when Amdirlhê was calm, Nienor might lie near to Finduilas’ side and they would watch the clouds pass together. The rest of the world—the bloody graves of her family, brooded over by Glaurung; the question of Gil-galad’s survival; the shadow of Morgoth with his hands gripped around the throat of Middle-earth—seemed so far off as to belong to some other world, one of which Finduilas and Nienor were not a part. Once, Finduilas put her head on Nienor’s shoulder, and Nienor did not move her off.

            Nienor, as often, kept her thoughts to herself, but it seemed to Finduilas that even she breathed a little easier up in the hills, away from everything else. One night she told another story about Princess Faelivrin and another she taught Finduilas and Amdirlhê one of the traveling songs of the Men of Dor-lómin and insisted they both performed it equally well. After, when Finduilas thought they needed a pick-me-up as they walked, she would raise the song and even when Nienor did not join, she would often look over with a smile softening her hazel eyes.

            It was at or near the highest elevation they passed over when they stopped for camp perhaps a few hundred yards from a cliff’s edge that looked out over the flat lands towards the southwest. Finduilas had Amdirlhê strapped to her back while Nienor was back at the campsite stoking a fire; she had meant to give Nienor a break from company and childcare, but when she saw how the sinking sun set fire to the darkening sky, turning it such a rich, dark orange she wanted to plunge her hands into it, how it threw its shade across all the land she could see, she had to bring Nienor over.

            “Nienor, come and see this,” she said.

            “I cannot now; the fire must be lit before dark,” answered Nienor without looking up.

            “I will light it; come and see,” Finduilas insisted.

            “Come see, Mama!” said Amdirlhê. Outvoted, Nienor sighed and pushed herself up off her knees, allowing Finduilas to lead her over to the cliffside where she gestured at the sun setting over the west of Middle-earth.

            “See?” she whispered after a moment. “Is it not breathtaking?”

            Wordlessly, without looking from the setting sun, Nienor slipped her hand into Finduilas’ and they stood there without speaking until the sky had gone purple and the distant treetops had melted into the inky darkness overtaking the continent. A pair of birds of prey winged out from the trees along the mountainside and sailed over the flatter land below, joyfully twisting and swooping. When Finduilas glanced over, she saw there were tear-tracks on Nienor’s face, and she almost said something, but then held her tongue. Instead, she just squeezed Nienor’s hand and, moments later, yelped when Amdirlhê yanked on her hair, which made Nienor look over and laugh at the disgruntled look on the Elf’s face.

            Once Nienor started laughing, it was difficult for her to stop, and any annoyance of Finduilas’ dissipated in the face of Nienor’s lightening mood. It was too rare to hear her laugh to be sour about the source. A smile spread over Finduilas’ face and she waited patiently for Nienor to catch her breath.

            “Another benefit to my new cut!” Nienor declared when she could speak again. “Less material with which this one may cause trouble.”

            Finduilas took Nienor’s hand again to return to the campsite, and with Nienor somewhat useless in the dark, Finduilas lit the fire and then left the setting up of the tent then to her companion while she put their dinner over the fire.

            It was such a small thing, the sunset, in light of all else—yet Finduilas felt lighter for it, and for having been able to share it with Nienor. If I had never left Brethil, she thought, if I had delayed Nienor, or let her depart without me, I would never have seen this. Other things like it perhaps, but not this one.

            At moments like this, she felt sure that nothing in her and Nienor’s encounter had been a coincidence. But perhaps that’s how it was with things of great personal import—that it felt so earthshaking to her it must be the result of some grander force or plan. Whether it was or not—she was glad, and hoped that Nienor was glad also.

***

            On their way down the far side of the Andram, the rains struck hard and heavy. Sheets poured down the sides of the worn mountains, turning the sky to slate and reducing visibility to scarcely more than a few feet ahead. Even Finduilas’ keen Elf eyes squinted in the downpour and she was raw with frustration at not being able to see clearly where they were going.

            When they found a copse of trees, it seemed best to stop for the day—Amdirlhê had been crying for hours about being cold and wet, and progress was so slow in the rain it hardly seemed a waste to give the day up for lost.

            All their kindling was soaked, so they agreed to split into the trees in search of any that might have escaped the deluge of rain. Nienor took Amdirlhê and went off one direction, and Finduilas another, and so intent was she on her search for any useful bits of wood that had been somehow sheltered from the storm that by the time she heard Nienor’s voice, the woman had descended into hysterical screaming of her name.

            “Nienor!” Abandoning the search at once, Finduilas took off in the direction it sounded like Nienor’s voice was coming from. The fear in Nienor’s voice made Finduilas’ heart come near to stopping. “Nienor!”

            “Finduilas!”

            The rain made a mess of their hearing and Finduilas halted, whipping around, trying desperately to determine which direction Nienor was calling from. She had been sure it was from the south, but now it sounded more northeast! She strained her eyes in the darkness of the trees and the clamor of the rain, but she couldn’t see Nienor.

            “Nienor! Where are you? I can hear you!” she cried.

            “Finduilas!”

            “Nienor! Where are you?” In her panic, she overlooked that staying put was likely her best option, and started to run again, only to collide sharply with her quarry as she came around a stack of boulders. Nienor screamed in surprise and seized Finduilas’ shirt.

            “Finduilas! Where have you been?” she shouted, her eyes glassy. “I’ve been calling for you!” She gripped Finduilas’ shirt so tightly her knuckles went white and Finduilas, around their nerves, became aware that Amdirlhê was crying.

            “I heard you not with all this rain!” Finduilas said, having to raise her voice just to be heard. “And then I could not tell which direction you were…” Nienor gave her a shake.

            “You must pay more attention!” she said, an angry flush in her cheeks, nearly giving Finduilas a shake. “There is danger out here!”

            “Did you see something?” Finduilas asked.

            “We cannot stay here,” said Nienor. “I have seen evidence of goblins over yonder. There must be an entrance to a goblin tunnel somewhere nearby.” Her message had been delivered, but Finduilas could see that Nienor was not finished being upset.

            “Then we will go,” said Finduilas, putting her cold, wet hands over Nienor’s cold, wet hands to pry them gently off her shirt. “Come. Perhaps we may yet find somewhere drier to spend the night.”

            They did not, and spent the night huddled in their dripping tent, Amdirlhê’s wailing ensuring they got not more than a few hours’ rest, and spent several hours of the next morning laying everything out to dry, lest their things mildew before the next camp.

            All three of them were testy and talk was scarce; Finduilas heard Nienor bickering with Amdirlhê about eating, for the girl was still angry about being made to ride through the rain the day before and then to sleep in such conditions, and would not take the mashed carrot Nienor was trying to feed her.

            “Well fine, then!” Nienor said harshly. “Be hungry and add that to the list of your miseries I have inflicted upon you!” Amdirlhê started crying again and Finduilas glared at Nienor from across the camp where she was spreading out the tent to dry.

            “Leave her alone, why don’t you!” she said. “Are we not all unhappy enough already?”

            “Oh, are you her mother?” Nienor demanded. “Foolish of me not to realize!”

            “Stop being so unpleasant!” Finduilas snapped. “You have been as a bear woken from sleep since yesterday!”

            “Forgive me for my concern for your safety!” Nienor snarled back. “I shall have less of it in the future!” Amdirlhê wailed louder at the sound of her mother’s raised voice.

            Finduilas opened her mouth to respond in kind, then took a moment to breathe and reconsider. The weak sun shining overhead would take hours to dry their things appreciably; they could not row the whole time, and it was small wonder they were all so cranky after the last forty-eight hours.

            “Give me your things to lay out,” was all she said, more curtly than she meant to do. “We ought to dry as much as we can, while we are delayed.” Nienor’s hackles went down and she stripped first her own clothes, and then Amdirlhê’s, and Finduilas found a place to hang them. Being permitted to run about in the nude improved the toddler’s mood for reasons unknown, and Nienor was able to coax her into eating at least a few bites. Finduilas’ hands moved slowly at work; she found herself watching Nienor and how the sun almost seemed to make her golden skin glow. Pregnancy had softened the curves of her body in a way that had never disappeared despite their limited diet, a very comely look on her. Finduilas knew also that she had grown stronger on their journey; she carried more now than she could at the start, and she swung the axe with confidence in gathering their firewood. Small wonder Túrin had felt so for her! Finduilas thought. She was remarkable. (It was not the first time Finduilas had thought this.)

            Nienor was doing her best to wring out their cloaks when she cast a furtive glance at Finduilas, who had not moved in many minutes, and said:

            “Forgive my temper. I should not have shouted.”

            “’tis forgiven,” said Finduilas. “I shall apologize as well…I did not realize how upset you were.” Nienor looked down at the by then minimal amounts of water she was able to squeeze out of the cloth.

            “It was wet and dark and there is danger about and I called for you and you came not,” she said, almost sullenly. “What was I to think?”

            Nibbling her lower lip, Finduilas came and sat beside Nienor on the rock they had left free of wet fabric.

            “I truly came as soon as I heard you,” she said softly. “I would not have left you to wonder.”

            “I know.” Nienor was getting nothing out of the cloak, but she went on squeezing. Finduilas reached out and put a hand on one of Nienor’s, feeling her heart beat quite emphatically in her chest.

            “Even had the goblins trussed me up to feast on, you would have stopped them,” she said with a teasing smile. “Of this I am certain.” Nienor looked at her a moment and then snorted, red in the cheek.

            “I do not fancy to test my strength against a horde of goblins,” she said.

            “Yet you stood unflinching before a dragon,” said Finduilas.

            “And look what that got me,” Nienor muttered.

            “I feel most secure in your guardianship,” Finduilas said, bending to lay her head on Nienor’s bare shoulder.

            “And here I thought ‘twas you the guardian!”

            Finduilas gave her another smile, and coaxed Nienor to put the cloak aside, and they played a game of tag with Amdirlhê instead, which had the bonus effect of warming them up. Nienor made lunch after that, and when their things were damp only, and not dripping gray rainwater, they dressed and packed and mounted up again to carry onwards.

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Chapter End Notes

Do NOT ask me how to pronounce that nickname. Fantasy novel names aren't about being pronounceable, they're about looking cool.

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Fanart recs:
- Nienor by alackofghosts
- Sketch for Finduilas and Nienor Body Types by crocstuff (nonsexual full-frontal nudity)
- Finduilas and Uncle Finrod by Adanedhel
- A Kiss on the Forehead by alackofghosts