in memories cast into melodies by kimaracretak

one.

Read one.

Winter comes much more slowly after Goldberry moves to the forest. Anywhere and everywhere, her waters promise, but in the forest something as old as her tugs at the space where her heart would be had she ever grown into one. So she settles, as far as one like her can, into the unending autumn, and she waits.

Time is old in the forest, and weary, but it is not yet winter when Goldberry sees her first. She has braved the Withywindle even this late in the year, barefoot in the water, and her feet are tinged with blue nearly to match the brooch that rests at her throat.

A flick of her wrists, and Goldberry arcs through the water to surface next to her. "You'll catch your death like this," she says. "Come, sit with me."

The woman does not run. They have always run, in the past, and Goldberry has let them go, sorrowful things unwilling to see her world. She follows Goldberry up the banks, and waits patiently while Goldberry gathers fallen wood and strikes the fire.

"Where are you running?" she asks, as daylight fades.

"Who said I'm running?" Her voice is too sharp for Goldberry to have found anything but the truth.

Goldberry smiles, and does not show her teeth. "Because I am Goldberry River-Daughter, and I have seen many come to my waters. I always know the ones who run." The woman just watches her. "I offer them the chance to stay with me, for as long as they will."

And the woman, too, smiles then, radiant like the changing leaves. "I am Nînazîr. And I accept, for as long as I will."

*

I will be eternal.

Swiftly spins the ring around her finger, a blur of gold soft and cold with the bones of the years it holds.

I will endure.

Light sparks from her ring, light red and gold and coloured deep enough to drown the world.

(You will endure, for me.)

There is another voice with her but it is still so far, a quiet whisper so easily ignored, so rarely present when Goldberry's laughter rings in every drop of rain against the wood of their shelter.

Goldberry stirs awake as Nînazîr returns to bed, her ever-damp hair tangled in the sheets. "Come back, sweet one," she says, pulling Nînazîr close and pressing a kiss to her temple. "Have you gone out without me? You know I promised you flowers, promised you..."

She trails off, eyes fluttering shut again. Autumn is turning so slowly, but winter is still rising, and Goldberry grows tired and heavy with the coming of the snow and winter's sleep.

I will be eternal.

It does not matter, Nînazîr thinks, pressing herself closer still. She will be there when Goldberry wakes, from this slumber and from the winter's. She will ever wait.

I will endure.

*

So thin, these humans, like if Goldberry dragged her down through the cracks in the world she would come easily, and willingly.

Nînazîr is sleepy in her arms, pale in the watery autumn light that tumbles through the branches. Goldberry does not well know time, but sometimes when she stops, she thinks that she has kept Nînazîr for a lifetime and more.

The distance flickers with a lightning storm that has yet to make its way towards them. Goldberry could halt it first, if she cared, but Nînazîr, rain-drenched and free, is a sight Goldberry has yet to tire of.

"You're staring," Nînazîr murmurs, though her eyes are still shut. "I can feel it."

"Of course," Goldberry agrees, tracing the outline of her lips, "Never underestimate how possessive the water can be."

Nînazîr opens her eyes, sleepiness gone. "Oh?" She tugs at Goldberry's belt, the gold of her ring flashing against the green of the cloth. "Perhaps you should show me just how possessive."

Nînazîr's hands are cold, so much colder than they ought to be this early. Yet autumn stretches before them, all sweet and all for ever. Goldberry kisses her like the cold matters not, and under these stars, it is true.

*

Autumn, and Nînazîr is not waiting. She did not come in summer, which was unusual yet not unknown, but autumn was ever theirs.

She has passed on, Golberry realises. Sweet, fleeting mortal, now beyond her reach. She will hold a funeral for her, she decides.

She fell, the waters whisper, rushing over and around Goldberry where she lies prone among them, restless with their news.

The river is different this close to the hobbits, younger and more eager and certainly less clever. Surely there is nowhere for Nînazîr to fall.

No, the water pulls her down and down again. Fallen through the veil of the world. Unless you are to claim her again.

Goldberry thinks of Nînazîr's gold ring and her cold hands, of deserts where her water sinks to earth and is lost. She thinks of lightning in the distance.

Passed on, yes, but to something entirely other than death, and so for the first time in an age Goldberry wishes she had paid more heed to the doings of any other than her favourite.

It does not matter, she thinks, head pillowed on the mud of the riverbed that streaks her skin like armour. Nînazîr will have her immortality, but not on the fallen trickster's terms. Goldberry can do better.

*

Autumn, and elves and men will march.

Autumn, and nine riders will be scattered to the nine winds.

Autumn, and Goldberry's rivers will climb their banks, scream to the sky for the loss of what was theirs.

Autumn, and a blue brooch will float down tangled river paths its old bearer once swam in, swathed safe in murmured enchantments.

Autumn will come, and Goldberry will once again hold Nînazîr in her arms, and they will endure.