Little Feet With Miles Ahead by Isilme_among_the_stars  

In the wide, water-bound delta lands of the Sirion river grow reeds taller than any man. Here, among the long-necked turtles and egrets, we have made our home. How fitting that it is so fecund, this place where we rebirth a nation from the remnants of many. Our people are like the yucca fibres the Drúedain use to make twine, leaves retted, cleaned and woven together to form something new and strong. It is not an entirely pleasant process, nor an expedient one, but it is effective, and what is made is good. Life here among the reeds is not always easy, but it is good, and we are tough people. In their short lives my sons have known nothing of the sorrows that breed in the world outside this sanctuary. They grow strong and healthy, amid an indomitable people who refuse to let old griefs mar what we have built. What I am, and what my sons will be, are shepherds of renewal endowed with strength. Just like the wetlands, my children thrum with life. Huddled together at the side of the punt they trail their tiny hands through the water, causing ever spreading v's to stretch behind, carving furrows in the tea-stained waters. We glide steadily downstream, and it is peaceful, the dip and sway of the pole in my hand almost silent amid the murmur of the reeds. In the quiet, unwanted thoughts tumble into my mind. I grip the pole tighter, press its smooth grain beneath the pads of my fingers and try to push them away with each stroke.

Following the estuary to its end one finds the waterways open onto great white-sanded beaches, stretching as far South as half-elven eyes can behold. To the North rise great limestone cliffs, towering over the jewel-green sea in their majesty. I know the signs that the ocean draws near: a thinning out of the thicket, a pelican flying overhead, its gullet glutted with fish, and the smell of salt in the air. Elrond and Elros though, at four turnings of the sun and as innocent as may be, still seem to inflate with delight, crying their wonder in piping voices as the first peek of glitter-limned marine comes through a gap in the low dunes.

"Nana! The ocean," they call, rocking the faithful, sturdy-bottomed vessel as they scramble to the fore, the very definition of delight in two small boy-shaped packages. I laugh to see their glee and do not chide them for their incaution. Elros leans forward, elbows locked, hands holding fast to the huff, his dark hair shining in the sun. Elrond, at his shoulder, grips his twin's shirt in one hand, the other pointed at the horizon.

"So it is!" I call in response.

I have been longing to bring them since the days began to lengthen and the air to warm. Alas, with Eärendil gone much falls to me, and I have been tied to duty, far too busy to escape for the day. But, at last, there are no disputes to settle, no threats to ward against and no plans to make so urgent that they cannot be put off for a day or two. My own heart is as light as a feather as I watch their joy overflow, like the tides spilling their brine into fresh waters of the river at its many outlets. It pushes all else out, this lightness of heart. Even the stubborn undercurrent of heaviness that has dogged me since fleeing Doriath many years ago is not impervious to its charm. I cannot help but be glad.

I am a child of the forest. Its cool, canopied shade, hidden brooks and tall, amber-barked trees will always call to me. Much as I consider this wetland home, and love it with all my heart, I am a foreigner still in this place. But my boys? They belong to the ocean. Their hearts beat in time with the rush of waves against the shore, coming alive at the touch of a salt-tinged breeze, much like their father, though he himself was born in the mountains. I love to watch them unfold at the shoreline, as daisies touched by the first rays of morning sun. My Eärendil never seems more grounded and whole than when his feet are set on the deck, the wind pulling at his golden hair as he turns his bright eyes to the blue yonder. And my boys are never so vibrant as when they have their toes dug into the sand and seafoam nestled between curled palms.

This is why, as I tie up the punt, staking it firmly to the sandy bank, I do not begrudge them their sprint through the dunes. I can see well enough over the low rise, as their chubby legs propel them, giggling, toward the waves. And I follow, not far behind, as they dance at the threshold, jumping and tensing their small arms at the chill of the water caressing their feet. For a moment I am torn, my heart desiring both to race toward them, scoop one child in each arm, bearing them with me into the frothing waves, and to watch and marvel from afar. But then Elrond turns and fixes me with the most enchanting smile and the spell breaks. I do neither in the end, instead joining them as we, all three, let the playful sea tease and catch our toes.

There is something magical about the wonder of a small child, the way they can stare with such wide-eyed intensity at a periwinkle, as if it contained the entire world. Thanks to my sons I have rediscovered this too. Wonder awakens in me, unlooked for and joyous, when they scrunch their noses at the feeling of broken shells underfoot, or press an orange-blushed scallop into my hand. We ramble up and down the tideline, collecting a little treasury of curiosities that Elrond lays out in neat lines, a miniature exhibit in the sand. Elros is more interested in weeds tossed carelessly about the shore by a recent storm. For these can become all manner of things; mermaid hair, grass for the structurally dubious castle he is constructing, or an implement with which to tease his brother. Within one scraggly, faded red bunch he finds a prize, the empty shell of a blue swimmer crab with one front pincer still attached. It is given pride of place in Elrond's display.

By the time their legs begin to tire the sun has warmed the shallows. The tide pool that we find to bathe in has a rainbow of shells and stones shining up at us from its base. They brush lightly against my calves as I shift my legs, ripples and whorls strangely pleasant against my skin. As Elrond swirls fingers lazily through the still water, watching the patterns they make on the surface, Elros reaches out to take my hands. The growing strength of his pull captures me, and I begin to sing. Not of the past and its glory, as those of fallen Gondolin are so fond, nor of Elbereth and the stars, as those of lost Doriath are wont to do, but of the future. The shore goes on for miles, the ocean is fathom deep and infinitely wide, and my songs reach further than they could ever hope to, for I sing in harmony with Arda herself. And as I weave for him the picture of a day when Eärendil will return, and countless bright moments that lie beyond, Elros cocks his head and listens. He meets my gaze with very bright eyes, smiles and begins to hum in concord. Beside us, Elrond’s swirling fingers have found the same beat, making circles and loops in counter rhythm. I could stay here for hours soaking in the small wonders of these moments. Alas, four-year-old legs are restless things, and are soon leaping and rushing once more, sending glittering sprays of sand up behind feet that dance and run.

They do not nap anymore, not usually, but today in the languid balm of the afternoon sun both boys doze, contentedly worn from hours of play. Elrond's soft, even breaths tickle my skin where they brush against my hand, his small body curled cat-like against my side. And Elros, his fearlessness relaxed to near torpor as he sprawls in a cozy nest of his own making, loses the battle with sleep, his blinking eyes closing for longer and longer each time. I will have to rouse them before long, bundle my boys into the punt and bear them homewards before the sun sinks too low on the horizon. But not yet. For now, I can live in this moment, drinking in the sight of their rounded cheeks and fluttering lashes. They are so innocent, so happy, untouched by the griefs that already misted my eyes and pinched my cheeks at the same age. The future stretches out before them, as vast and as unknowable as the ocean. And I think, as we rest there together, held gently by the warm sun, that it is full of hope.

Chapter End Notes

For the curious this is the process described for making cordage or twine. Blue swimmer crabs sometimes wash up on the beach near where I live. They are really quite beautiful, and look like this. So you can see why Elros would be thrilled with this prize!

The Drúedain are the wild men from Lord of the Rings that lead the Rohirrim safely to their forest to the battle of Pelennor Fields. They aren't actually mentioned in the Silmarillion as far as I know, but from Unfinished Tales we know that they lived alongside the people of Haleth, and were present within the community of refugees at the mouths of Sirion. The brief chapter on them is quite fascinating and well worth a read!

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