What the Water Gave Me by Rocky41_7

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Chapter V

Final stretch here we go! I made a playlist for them too (Youtube | Spotify)

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It had been past the midpoint of spring when they left; it was nearing the end of summer when they stood at the edge of the coast of Beleriand, looking out into the Bay of Balar. The horses obtained in Doriath had made things much faster, but between Amdirlhê and the need to gather food along the way and the standard delays of such journeys—weather, predators, small injuries—it had still been over a two month trip. Nienor had darkened from all the sun and Amdirlhê was walking, though still unsteady on her little toddler legs.

            “Can you see the isle there?” Finduilas asked, shading her eyes with one hand and pointing into the bay with the other.

            “Yes, I think so,” said Nienor, tilting her head. “It isn’t so far, is it?”

            “Not now!” Finduilas said with irrepressible cheer. To be so near to their goal after all this time made her nearly lightheaded; she felt giddy. She turned to grin at Nienor. “Now all we  need is a boat!” Nienor glanced back at Amdirlhê, who was crawling and toddling about the grass chasing flying things, before allowing Finduilas to take her hands and pull her into an impromptu dance.  She twirled them around until Nienor was laughing too and then she fell into the grass.

            “Findas!” Amdirlhê shouted, trying to run to her and falling several times on the way. Each time, Finduilas encouraged her and she jumped to her feet and kept trying until at last she had reached the two women near the cliffside. “Findas! Look at this!”

            “Look, sweet thing, can you see? Our destination is just there.” Finduilas scooped her up and tried to turn her attention to the bay, but Amdirlhê was more interested in showing Finduilas a fistful of clovers she’d pulled up.

            They remained there for a snack and to pass around a waterskin before making their way down to the beach. They had guessed right, and there was a small dock at the mouth of the Sirion, though it took a bit of hunting through the reeds before she uncovered a boat where the Elves of Balar had hidden them.

            “Perhaps someone else will need it,” she said, “but we can return it once we’ve made use of it. No one will be troubled too long.” They loaded their supplies and themselves into the small boat and Finduilas took up the oars. Nienor insisted on taking turns, although Finduilas assured her she could do the whole journey, so they traded off with making sure Amdirlhê stayed in the boat, for she was deeply fascinated with the dull glitter of the water passing by them under the gray sky and kept insisting she had seen fish near the surface.

            Naturally, they were seen on the approach, and by the time they drew up with the docks of the island, there was a committee waiting for them there. Finduilas left Amdirlhê with Nienor and stepped onto the dock, throwing back the hood she had drawn as they crossed the bay.

            “My name is Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth, last king of Nargothrond,” she said. “And I have come to see Lord Círdan the Shipwright, and my brother Ereinion Gil-galad, if he be still among you.”

            This was an effective method for gaining welcome to the city.

            The Elves from the dock led Finduilas and Nienor up to the city center where Círdan designed and dwelt, and he received them at the door of his blue-capped house, having been alerted by a runner just ahead of them.

            “It is you, Finduilas,” he said in awe. “When last I saw you, you were but half the height!” He came to her and they clasped hands, his calloused brown palms gripping her tightly. “When we heard the news of Nargothrond…” he said lowly.

            “The news is grievous indeed,” she said. “My parents are lost, Lord Círdan, and the city too, though I may at least share that the beast responsible—Glaurung, foul worm of Morgoth’s make—is dead as well.”

            “Now that must be a story!” said Círdan.

            “Indeed, he was slain by the brother of my companion,” said Finduilas, turning to draw Círdan’s attention to Nienor.

            “Indeed! Mighty is the company in which you return,” he said. “By what name should we call you?” he asked.

            “My name is Nienor, daughter of Lord Húrin and Lady Morwen of Dor-lómin,” said Nienor.

            “Lord Círdan,” said Finduilas with some urgency. “We have come seeking Gil-galad, or at least news of him, if you have it. Tell me—does my brother live, or am I the last of the line of Angrod and Edhellos in Middle-earth?”

            “Indeed he lives, my lady,” said Círdan, “though he is not here.” Finduilas must have deflated some, for Círdan spoke lightly and added: “He is away on the mainland with a party, where he will be for some months. There is trade and hunt to be made there, and he sometimes grows restless on the island. But he is due to return. He departed not quite ten days ago. You are welcome to await him here if you wish.”

            “Ah, we missed him by so little!” Finduilas exclaimed in lament, yet she brightened to hear that he was alive and well.

            Amdirlhê, troubled with the journey across the bay and unsettled at so many new faces and voices, began to fuss, and the attention of the Elves was at once drawn to her even as Nienor tried to quiet her. Poor Nienor was flustered, but Finduilas would have told her it was not displeasure with the babe’s noise, but fascinating with anything of her age that drew the Elves. Babies were few and far between among the Elves; they couldn’t help but dote whenever they had the chance.

            “Let us find you a place to stay until then,” said Círdan, motioning for them to enter. “There is plenty of room, come, come.”

            Finduilas reached for Nienor’s free hand, clasping it loosely in her own as they followed Círdan into the house. She glanced at her companion with a smile and Nienor offered a nervous return, squeezing at Finduilas’ hand in the way she did when she sought to receive or give reassurance. Finduilas squeezed her back, to let her know all was well, and Círdan introduced them to a wing of the house they might make use of while they awaited Gil-galad’s return.

***

            “Your sleep has been less restless of late,” Nienor remarked with blatantly intentional nonchalance as they readied for bed. Amdirlhê was down already, so they spoke quietly. Finduilas paused where she was undressing. They had bathed and eaten and Finduilas had caught Círdan up on the unhappy news of the continent, and being so ready for rest in a bed for the first time in quite a while, she was unprepared for Nienor to feel like talking.

            Finduilas looked at her a moment, then shrugged and went back to changing for bed. The room Círdan had given them felt nearly as large as Hild and Arnor’s entire house and included not only the bedroom but a parlor for privately hosting guests. There was a vanity, in front of which Nienor sat, and a broad four-poster bed dressed in white linens, with gauzy curtains tied to each post, which were less for keeping in heat so far south, and more for keeping out bugs or for simple aesthetic. They had been provided a crib for Amdirlhê and there was a solid teak dresser for their things—and between their arrival and their returning to the rooms after dinner, someone had installed a mobile over the crib which danced with colorfully-painted crabs and gulls and whales.

            “I believe it was worst passing through the fens,” commented Nienor in that same tone of feigned casualness, turning her attention back to the mirror in which she examined her hair. It was the first mirror she had been able to look in since they had cut it, which had made Finduilas slightly nervous, but the cut had also had time to soften and grow out since then. In any case, Nienor did not seem displeased, and kept running her fingers through it to fluff it out.

            “Mm…” Finduilas made a noncommittal noise and began to let her hair down.

            Nienor twisted on the seat to face her, abandoning her efforts at seeming merely conversational.

            “Do you still dream of Nargothrond?” she asked bluntly. It was a fair question, as she had lain beside Finduilas through many of them.

            “Not so much, now that it is behind us,” Finduilas murmured, taking her time on her hair. Nienor fidgeted on the seat.

            “If you wish to speak more of it…” she said. Finduilas looked at her, some of that old grief showing through her eyes. It was a kind offer, for often it felt there was little they could do for one another but listen. Still, sometimes that was enough. This time, though, Finduilas shook her head.

            “’tis nothing new and I hope that here, it shall feel more distant…”

            Nienor hesitated a moment more, then rose and came near.

“Allow me,” she said, reaching for Finduilas’ hair, and the Elf took the vacated seat so Nienor would not have to reach up to brush her hair out. Nienor worked slowly and carefully, and when Finduilas glanced up at the mirror, she saw Nienor’s eyes looking back at her, though she hastily turned her gaze back to her task. “Still, I would hear again, if it would ease your heart,” she said quietly, running the brush through Finduilas’ hair.

            “I should rather hear one of those tales you tell Amdirlhê,” Finduilas said. “I believe you grow more skilled in the weaving of tales on a whim.” Nienor laughed a little.

            “Soon she will be old enough to know my stories are no good,” she said. She set the brush aside to braid Finduilas’ hair, though she took her time with the parting. Finduilas felt the trailing touch of Nienor’s fingers over her shoulders and the skin exposed by her sleeping gown more than could be coincidental. “Perhaps you will have some better tales about Princess Faelivrin.”

            Finduilas made a kind of bittersweet noise, with an accompanying smile.

            “I’m afraid Princess Faelivrin’s adventures were never quite as triumphant and romantic as the ones you tell,” she said. Nienor paused and looked up again.

            “She was real?” she asked.

            “Of course,” said Finduilas. “She was me. Faelivrin was an epithet given to me by Gwindor when we were still very much in love. It is a reference to the glimmer of sunlight off the pools of Ivrin.”

            “You never told me!” Nienor said.

            “I did not wish to interrupt your stories,” said Finduilas. “And in your tales, Faelivrin always gets a happy ending.” Well, nearly always. Sometimes things didn’t work out so well, particularly if Nienor was in a poor mood. Finduilas would not meet Nienor’s eyes then and wondered if she should have said nothing.

            “Well, then,” Nienor said, resuming her braiding, moving slowly down the long fall of Finduilas’ wheat-colored hair. “Have you heard the tale of Princess Faelivrin’s journey across the sea?”

            “I have not,” said Finduilas, a smile budding on her face. “Does she meet another beautiful princess there?” Nienor’s hands slowed, but only for a moment.

            “She may,” she said. “Perhaps you will have to listen to find out.”

***

The big bed Círdan had provided, heavy with quilts even in the warmth of summer, meant there was no need to sleep pressed together the way they had in the tent, nor even so close as they were in the loft in Brethil, but they stayed close anyway and Finduilas would not have had it another way. She had grown accustomed to the comfort of Nienor’s steady breathing beside her, and the smell of her hair, and being able to reach out and touch her in the night.

            With Círdan there was food and company and space—they walked together and apart through the bright streets of Balar, and took Amdirlhê down to the beach, and Nienor slept, and Finduilas mended the tears in their clothes. Every journey was wearying, no matter how well it passed, and both of them—and Amdirlhê too, Finduilas imagined—were grateful for the rest. (Amdirlhê certainly seemed grateful for the many Elves willing to sit for hours and entertain her and sneak her treats and make her toys—there was never a shortage of someone willing to play with her.)

            “All this time, I thought you had a particular patience for children,” Nienor remarked. Finduilas snickered.

            “I tried to tell you, dear one,” she said. “We all tend to get rather excited when it comes to babies.”

             There was a near specious quality to the peace; Finduilas could tell neither she nor Nienor was willing to wholly trust it. Nienor tensed up whenever someone unfamiliar entered the scene; she kept Amdirlhê close to her; she often seemed restive in spite of the chance to relax. Círdan introduced her to many of the Elves who frequented his home, in hopes of putting her more at ease by making her acquainted with them, but she did not seek them out nor spend much time with them. In fact, even Finduilas saw less of her as time went by. It seemed to Finduilas that Nienor once more grew restive and after a brief period of recovery, became easily agitated again. She pushed Finduilas away when she went to brush her hair or got too close to her in bed, and got snappish when Finduilas tried to make plans more than a day or two out. She even suggested they return to the mainland and seek out Gil-galad themselves, though Finduilas insisted that was unnecessary.

            “What shall you do when Gil-galad returns?” When they stood one early afternoon on a stone balcony overlooking the beach, with Amdirlhê having her nap watched over by any one of the Elves of Balar who were ever so solicitous of the chance to assist with her, Nienor posed this question.

            Finduilas considered, looking out at the glittering horizon.

            “I am not yet certain,” she said at last.

            “Do you mean to remain here?” Nienor pressed. “Or will you go to Doriath?” Finduilas leaned back against the white stone wall around the edge of the balcony, facing Nienor rather than the sea. Rather than the clothes she had been given there, Nienor wore the gown in which she had been dressed when Finduilas first encountered her, now a riot of color about the breast where Finduilas had embroidered it after its repair. Finduilas had opted herself for one of the breezy tunics given to her by Círdan, which were cool in the warmth of the southern sun and rippled fetchingly in the wind.

            “Truthfully, I have not much considered it,” she said. She had simply been enjoying the chance to rest with Nienor and Amdirlhê, knowing they were not the only ones keeping an eye on potential threats. The rhythm of Balar was drawing her in and she began at last to relax. “Why?”

            “I must know whether Amlugnod and I will travel alone when we leave here, or if we will have company,” said Nienor, with a stubborn set to her jaw as if she were braced for a fight and already determined to win.

            “You mean to go, then?” Finduilas said, frowning, her posture stiffening slightly.

            “No business have we here,” said Nienor. “And I would not impose on the hospitality of Lord Círdan.”

            “’tis not an imposition,” said Finduilas. “You are my guest and if we remained here long, we might busy ourselves such that we contributed to the household and thus cause no imposition.”

            “I cannot live as your guest, Finduilas.” Nienor delivered this in the blunt way that she usually conferred information about herself, which left no room for disagreement.

            “Then do not,” said Finduilas. “Lord Círdan I told you were my companion; I hold that the truer. I would not have come so far without you. I may not have left Brethil at all.”

            “That I doubt; likely you would have come much sooner to the coast.”

            “Or I would have accepted the invitation of the marchwarden and remained in Doriath,” she said. “You underestimate your effect in fortifying my resolve,” she added with a smile.

            “If you would not be parted, then come with me,” Nienor said, and there was a desperate edge to her voice, as if grasping at something falling through her fingers. “We may journey again, just the three of us…” She trailed off.

            “And go where?” said Finduilas. “If you have some quest in mind, my ears are yours.”

            “A considerable property to own,” Nienor joked hopelessly. She fidgeted with her hands and Finduilas saw in her an aimless drive to motion.

            “Nienor,” said Finduilas gently. “If you wish to return to Doriath I would not stop you, and I would go with you, but I would ask you first consider why it is you wish to be gone from here.”

            “Why so? Is there some reason I might have you consider insufficient to justify my departure?” Nienor demanded.

            “None could be so,” said Finduilas. “Only that I fear for you to lose a chance for happiness with haste.”

            “And what chance is that?” Nienor asked.

            “To stay here,” said Finduilas, feeling her heart beat sharply against her ribs. “At least for a time.”

            “Stay and do what?” Nienor pressed.

            “Do?” Finduilas echoed. “Live. Be safe, for a time. Raise Amdirlhê.” She took a slow breath. “Be with me.”

            “Oh, ask me not that!” Nienor burst out, all at once in a fit, throwing her hands up and then curling her hands into fists at her sides. She took several rapid paces back and forth in front of Finduilas and then turned sharply to look at her again. “You know it cannot be! Be not so cruel as to ask!”

            “What cannot be?” Finduilas straightened up off the wall.

            “You know very well!” Nienor said, flushing furiously, her mouth trembling.

            “Nay, explain it to me,” said Finduilas. “For there is nothing I see that may not be, if we wish it.”

            “I am mortal; you are Elfkind!” Nienor’s cry broke from her throat; she waved a hand vigorously at Finduilas. “Do not paint some vision of a future for you as my companion, as my—it could be nothing but a dream, and I cannot bear another fool’s dream turned to ash in my hands!” She clutched her arms against her, digging her fingers into her elbows. “I cannot pretend with you forever,” she said quietly. “It may be a diverting game for you for a time, but sometime I must return to reality.”

            “If you think I have done all this for a diversion, perhaps we have less to say to one another than I thought,” Finduilas said, her voice quivering. She did not truly believe Nienor thought of it that way, but even the idea cut. Nienor’s eyes were glassy, and she bit her lip and clenched her jaw and looked away.

            “Whether diversion or no, it has put blinders on us, which cannot remain forever,” Nienor insisted.

            “And why is that? You object to being in such company with an Elf?” demanded Finduilas. Neither did she believe Nienor thought this.

            “Clearly I do not!” said Nienor. “Have I not been with you all this time?”

            “What is it, then? It troubles you that to your eyes, I shall not age, and you will?”

            “In part!” said Nienor. “Tell me this: Is it not so the Eldar may perish of grief?”

            Finduilas hesitated.

            “Indeed it may be so,” she answered slowly. “A brutal enough wound to the spirit may kill as much as one to the body.”

            “Then how do you not see?” Nienor asked in despair. “Even the happiest of endings for us will be a tragedy! Should we remain here all the rest of our days and live in love and peace and Amulgnod grow strong and wise, still I shall be parted from you, and I will see you no more beyond the end of days, and after, my miserable mortality may cost your life as well! What goodness is there in me, if I should allow such a thing to happen? How selfish, how greedy must I be? How,” she implored, her voice cracking, “could I live knowing I would take such a beautiful thing from the world?”

            “Nienor,” said Finduilas, pulling away from the wall.

“It will happen!” Nienor cried. “Do not tell me it won’t! I am cursed, Finduilas, and to ill turn all things for me which begin well! I warned you before: I will be the end of you!” Finduilas came to stand in front of her.

“Nienor, you misunderstand; I have chosen. What remains now is only your decision. You speak as if we may now part ways and feign as though nothing happened; is that not another kind of pretend game? Do you not see?” She reached out and took Nienor’s hands, feeling the faint callouses on her palms from the work of their trip. “I have chosen you, Nienor,” she said softly. “If you make another choice, I shall hold it not against you, for you as much as anyone I have known deserves such freedom to make her own choices, regardless of the motivation, but think not you will divert my love elsewhere by refusing me now. Thrice now have I loved; I will not take another. It will be you, or it will be none.”

            Nienor swallowed and tried to stiffen her shoulders and choke back her tears, but they spilled over her lashes anyway.

            “Then I have done it already,” she said, her voice breaking again.

            “You have done naught but bring me joy,” said Finduilas. “Nienor! Do you not see? My life ought to have been lost upon that hill. It very nearly was. But I lived, I lived so that I might find you. If you leave this world and I depart soon after, then it is not a shortening of my life; my life ought to have ended already! Every day I spent in Brethil waiting for I knew not what; every day I have spent with you is an extra day that I have been granted. I will not mourn that my life may not extend so far as others of my kind; I ought only be grateful it does not end as it might have. I will be grateful I was given the chance to know you.”

            “How can you let it go so easily!” Nienor cried, tears dripping down her cheeks.

            “For love,” said Finduilas simply. Nienor made an aggrieved noise and wept and then put her arms around Finduilas, and Finduilas held her tightly around the shoulders, surprised to feel tears wet on her own cheeks. They stood there a while in the ocean breeze until someone came out to let them know that Amdirlhê had woken and wished for her mother, so they left the conversation on the overlook and went inside to tend to the child.

***

            The brilliant morning sun over Balar beamed through the windows of the room Finduilas and Nienor had been given and Finduilas had decided she enjoyed the gentle waking of the light slowly brightening the room, though it often made Nienor groan and cover her face with a pillow. Some mornings, Nienor rose to collect Amdirlhê from her crib and laid her in the bed between them to play or doze a while more while they woke and readied themselves for the day.

            That morning, Finduilas woke first, she thought, for Amdirlhê was not there, yet Nienor was still present, but when she looked, Nienor was awake, and watching her.

            “What are you thinking?” Finduilas said, her voice croaking in the way of one who has just woken.

            “I am thinking of how I love you,” Nienor said simply. It was not meant to flatter or woo; it was just the truth. Just honest.

            “Tell me,” said Finduilas.

            “I cannot,” said Nienor. “How does one put such a thing into words? Poets may do it, I suppose, but no poet am I.”

            “Then you must find another way,” Finduilas said. Nienor reached out and brushed a bit of hair away from Finduilas’ cheek, her fingers lingering there. Her touch moved along Finduilas’ jaw to her chin, but there was a downturn to her mouth, so Finduilas said: “What troubles you?”

            “I am dying,” said Nienor. Finduilas’ shock must have shown clearly on her face, for Nienor quickly added: “Not presently. But I shall.”

            “Yes,” Finduilas agreed cautiously.

            “What will you do then?” Nienor asked.

            “I will care for Amdirlhê.”

            “She too, will grow old and die. What will you do then?”

            “I will care for any children she may have.”

            “And if she has none?”

            “Then I will sing songs of the women of Dor-lómin that I knew, and how bold and how brave were they, and I will weave fishing nets and baskets for Balar, and if we march once more against Morgoth I will go, and I expect I will not return.” Nienor was still looking at her as if waiting for more. Finduilas smiled and touched her cheek. “An Elf may not plan for every day of her life, Himil,” she said. “Even we may not see so far. If you wish to hear I have a schedule for between now and the end of the Music, I must disappoint you.”

            Nienor studied her face, then took Finduilas’ hand from her cheek and pressed her lips against Finduilas’ palm, making Finduilas’ cheeks warm, thrilling something deep in her chest.

            “I love you,” Nienor said. “I can offer you nothing else.”

            “I have asked for nothing else,” said Finduilas, slightly breathless. “I desire nothing else.”

            “I cannot be with you forever,” said Nienor.

            “I know,” said Finduilas. “And yet neither will we part forever.”

            “The breaking of the world and the Second Music may seem very similar,” said Nienor.

            “Similar, but not the same.”

            “Do you love me?” Nienor asked. Finduilas’ smile grew.

            “Of course I love you.” Nienor nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and then leaned down and pressed her mouth to Finduilas’. Finduilas’ eyes fluttered shut and her hand moved back into Nienor’s hair, the softness of Nienor’s lips seeming to transport her to some realm of light and weightless air, some place where Orcs and dragons and dark lords had never been. One of Nienor’s hands was braced on either side of her and the feeling of safety and comfort that came from being so bracketed in Nienor’s arms felt like something Finduilas had sought for years. She reached her arms up around Nienor’s shoulders to pull her closer and as her mouth parted against Nienor’s, they heard shouting from the side of the room: Amdirlhê was up and wanted out of her crib.

            Drawing back with an annoyed furrow of her brow, Nienor turned towards Amdirlhê, and Finduilas laughed.

            “We will have to work on our scheduling, I think,” said Finduilas with amusement, reaching up to smooth a bit of Nienor’s hair back from her face. She had trimmed it anew since their arrival (whomever had done it had done a neater job than Finduilas had the first time). She had decided it was a flattering look on Nienor.

            “Tsk! Everything with a baby must be scheduled!” Nienor griped. “I know not how my mother managed two at once! At least with you, I shall never have such worries.” Finduilas laughed again.

            “Nay, that is one task you may set aside,” she said with a playful look. Shifting, she moved out from under Nienor and nudged her back down onto the mattress. “Let me.” She swung her feet out of bed and fetched Amdirlhê from the crib. Cooing and bouncing the girl in her arms, she carried her over to the bed and set her between Finduilas and Nienor.

            “Beach today?” Amdirlhê asked, looking between them. “Go beach today?”

            “Mm…I suppose we could make today a beach day,” said Nienor, reaching out to let Amdirlhê grab at her fingers. At least as many days as not were beach days in Balar. She tipped her head to look around the child to Finduilas, curled up against the headboard. “What say you, princess?”

            Finduilas flushed and scoffed quietly at this address and the look in Nienor’s eyes as she said it, but she smiled anyway.

            “I think ‘tis a perfect day for the beach,” she said.

            “Well,” said Nienor. “That’s decided then.”

            And so it was.

FIN

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Chapter End Notes

I want to give a HUGE thank you to everyone who's supported this story, especially my friends from the Tolkien Writer's Union who have been SO supportive <3 I have loved hearing your guys' thoughts throughout the story and I am SO grateful to have you all around!

On tumblr | On Pillowfort | Story promo

Fanart recs:
- Orodreth and Finduilas by Kanafnwe
- Finduilas/Nienor Lady Porn by nisiedrawsstuff (Yeah it's NSFW)
- Glauring Mesmerizing Nienor by Egobarri
- Flower Crown Kisses by alackofghosts