A/N: This is an older one. It was written in late 2002, which would make me 14 at the time, so it may not be quite as good as some of my latest work. It is, however, one of my favourites. Feedback is appreciated as always, and I hope you'll enjoy this story!

The Song of the Sea

Finduilas was three years my senior, though the age gap was never apparent to me. I was the youngest of three siblings, and Finduilas was my idol. My brother was eight years older than I, and a man, so Finduilas was the one I turned to for advice, entertainment, and love.

When we were younger we would venture down to the seashore, and wade in the shallows, or race through the sand. We searched for colourful rocks and shells, or curved pieces of driftwood. Once in a great while, our brother would come down with us, and pursuade us to explore the caves that dotted the cliffside. Finduilas, however, never enjoyed these ventures. She said that the walls of the cave pressed down on her, and that the darkness threatened to consume her.

Finduilas was very keen on being in the open. It was rare to find her indoors for more than a few hours. I would see her, sometimes, when I was sitting in my chamber studying, or reading for my own amusement. She would tear down the lawns and out to the seashore, barefoot as always, and spin, or dance, or just be, to her heart's content, until a servant came looking for her, and scolded her for forgetting her shoes again, dragging her back indoors.

My sister had always had a passion for reading and learning, and as she grew older, this became more apparent. She would disappear for hours at a time, down to the coast with a book or two, and emerge as the sun was setting, to fascinate us with some new detail she had discovered about distant lands or times. One day she told me of Ithilien.

A great storm had blown up from the west that afternoon, and continued well into the evening. As thunder rattled the windows, and lightening illuminated the room, Finduilas took me to the library and presented me with a large, leather bound book. She instructed me to flip it open to the fourty-sixth page.

"Look," she said, pointing enthusiastically at the description before me. "It tells of Ithilien, east of Minas Tirith. It is the most beautiful land in all of Middle-earth - besides Dol Amroth, of course," she added with a smile. "Oh Ivriniel, just read of it! The trees, the rivers and streams, the hills and the forests..." she sighed dreamily. "One day I will go there and see it for myself."

"And how will you get there?" I asked.

"Well I don't know!" she exclaimed. "I suppose I'll think of something. Perhaps I'll marry someone from Ithilien."

"Why on earth would you want to get married?" I asked incredulously.

"Because being married is wonderful!"

"Why?"

"You have a companion for life. And you get to be in love."

"Yes, but some people marry though they're not in love, do they not?"

"That won't happen to me," she replied.

The years slipped by, pleasant as the cool sea breeze that blew off the ocean every summer. The sun rose and fell, a glory of crimsons and golds. Soft voices sang of the fair gardens and groves in our sheltered land, and the immeasurable sea stretching out beyond, waves crashing on the shore, lamenting something too enchanting and distant to comprehend. Finduilas often said that the sea sang to her, and she to it; I called Finduilas a romantic.

One day, returning from a visit with my brother's wife, I happened upon my father and Finduilas, speaking in hushed voices within his study. The door was open a crack, and I guiltily admit that I stopped to spy on them.

"...Minas Tirith," my father was saying. "I'm sure you will grow to love it."

"But, Father-"

"Ah, Finduilas..." he sighed. "I know that you love Dol Amroth, and your family. Think of the good you will be doing, for all of us."

"I still fail to see-"

"Come, child, argument is fruitless. Go now to your chamber, rest, and think about what I have said. You will, at the very least, make peace with it soon enough."

Finduilas exited the study, and swept down the corridor without so much as a glance in my direction. This worried me, so I ran after her.

"Finduilas!" I cried, as we reached her chamber and went inside. "What is the matter? Why must you go to Minas Tirith?"

My sister's face was very pale, and her fists were balled at her side. She sat, very still, on the edge of her bed. "I have spent my life," she said quietly, and her voice lacked the comforting tone it had always held, "here, in Dol Amroth. I know a great deal of other realms, and the troubles there, though - " here she paused, and drew a shaky breath. "Though I never dreamed that I would venture there myself."

"What about Ithilien?" I inquired.

"That was a foolish dream, a child's dream," she lowered her head. "I am a child no longer, as I have been rudely awakened to this afternoon," she said bitterly.

"Finduilas, for your own sake and mine, tell me what is troubling you!"

"I am to be married," she whispered.

"Well then, that's good!" I exclaimed. "Is it not? You've always wanted to be married, haven't you?"

Her laughter was hollow. "I wished for a perfect marriage, a marriage out of a dream, or a romance. That is what the matter is, Ivriniel. I was always dreaming, never living. And now I am paying the price."

I chose to ignore this, as I could not think of a response befitting to this sort of comment. "Who are you to be wed with?"

"Denethor II, son of Ecthelion II, Steward of Gondor," she said flatly.

"But Finduilas, that's marvelous!" I reasoned. I simply could not understand why this would displease my sister. "You'll rule Gondor!"

Finduilas said nothing, but stared intently at her bare feet. "Father says I must wear shoes now."

"Why? You never have."

"A lady of Gondor musn't have calloused feet."

"Oh."

'Ivriniel? Please... I need to be alone now."

"I understand," I nodded, but I didn't really. I left Finduilas and went to my own chamber, to think my own thoughts - mostly concerning what my elder sister was thinking at the moment.

The months following this event were dull and lifeless, or that is how I remember them to be. Finduilas became increasingly withdrawn until finally, she would barely step foot out of her chamber, or the library. She never went down to the seaside now. Often I would walk there, and hope that she might appear, running towards me, laughing, kicking up soft, white sand as she went. But she never did.

Finally, after a year had passed, the time came. Finduilas was to leave for Minas Tirith the following day. Her things were packed, and I went to say farewell to her, knowing that she would be gone in the morning, long before I awoke, but she was not in her chamber. Then I caught sight of her from the window, sitting by the sea, figure sillouetted by the setting sun. She, too, was saying farewell.

I sat down beside her, and we were silent for a while. Then she spoke. "See," she said to me, motioning to the waves, "how the sun melts into the ocean. How the waves roll, and crash against the rocks, and how the foam is white, but the sand is whiter. See that lone piece of drift wood - the tide is carrying it far, far away. The last gull is perching on it, hear him cry! The day is ending."

"I see," I replied. "I see this every evening."

"Now feel," she said to me, waving her hand. "The sand is soft under your feet. Your toes sink into it, it is rough, yet gentle at the same time. Feel the waves lapping at your ankles, washing the sand away now. Feel the ocean breeze, it cools you on a hot summer's day. Feel the air. This is what the sea feels like."

"I can feel it," I answered. "I have always felt it."

"Now hear," she said softly. "The wind sighs, lamenting the coming of the night. The trees whisper to each other as they settle down. The waves are singing. Can you hear them, Ivriniel? They are singing for me, one last time."

"Finduilas-"

"You must always remember this, Ivriniel," she looked me in the eye. "You must never forget how blessed you are to be here, you must never take the sea for granted, as I have."

"I won't," I assured her. "You must visit often."

"If time allows me, I will," she said. "Though I dare say it won't be often. Perhaps you will come to visit me in Minas Tirith as well."

"As soon as I can," I promised.

"Take this, Ivriniel," she pressed a small bundle into my hand.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A gift," she replied. "Don't open it until I am gone."

I nodded. "It's getting late," I said, "are you coming inside?"

"I'm going to stay here a while longer," she replied. "You go on, though. When you awake, I will be gone. So this is goodbye," she said this smoothly, firmly, but I was certain I caught a glimpse of a tear on her cheek in the last rays of the setting sun.

That was the last time I saw my sister as I knew her.

I trudged slowly back to my chamber and sat by the window, watching, waiting, until at last I succumbed to slumber. When I awoke late the next morning, Finduilas was indeed gone. Although she would write me often, it would never be the same as having her with me, and the tower felt vacant and empty without my sister.

As time passed, these feelings relented a great deal, but they still remained, lingering with me for a good part of my life. It simply wasn't the same at home without my beloved sister to keep me company. I spent more and more time with my sister-in-law, and this is how I met her cousin, Aethodar, who I subsequently fell in love with.

I became so distracted with my own life, my own 'problems', that I failed to notice the changing tone of Finduilas' letters home to me.

I remember clearly the first letter I received, written with the quick, neat strokes that were akin to my sister. She spoke of her new husband, and how he would perhaps take some getting used to. She said that same thing about Minas Tirith. It was a fair city, she said. But it would take some getting used to. Then at the bottom, in a post script, her perfectly shaped letters faltering, as if she were reluctant to share it with me, she wrote of riding through South Ithilien to reach Minas Tirith, and she wrote of the Mountains of Shadow, and the flames, and the dark skies. I knew that her perfect image of Ithilien had now been tainted by the fowl land beyond. This terrified me, and I slept fitfully night after night, hoping for my sister's safety.

After that her letters were much the same. 'I am fairing well,' she would write. 'But I miss the sea.'

A little over two years after she had departed, she wrote to me with wonderful, or at least what I thought to be wonderful, news. She was with child. I was delighted for my sister, as it had become apparent to me through her letters that she was rarely happy in Minas Tirith, and quite lonely most of the time. 'If it is a girl,' she wrote, 'I shall name her, with my lord's leave, of course, Maiwe. It is the Elvish word for gull.'

As it turned out, Finduilas brought forth a boy by the name of Boromir. I thought nothing of this. A child is a child, and it eased my mind to think of my sister with a companion, even if it was a small babe.

And so the years began to slip by again, almost as they had when Finduilas was still with us. In 2982, I married Aethodar, and a year later Finduilas produced another child - her last child - Faramir. I wrote to her, wishing her the best, and sending my regards, but the truth was that our correspondance had dwindled over the years, something I now sorely regret. I was so caught up in my new life, that I scarce had time to think about my sister's. Then, by chance, three years after the birth of her last son, I was able to pay her a visit in Minas Tirith for a fortnight.

I rode through South Ithilien with my father, as Finduilas had done years before. I saw the skies of Mordor, consumed in darkness and flame. This horrified me, and I wondered how Finduilas could possibly stand it, living under the shadow of these mountains day and night.

During this visit, it became apparent to me that Finduilas was not, indeed, fairing well. She was much paler, thinner, and withdrawn than I had ever remembered her being. She went about her tasks with great strain, and her deep grey eyes, once lively, had lost their spark and cheer. Surely this withered woman was not the girl I remembered so fondly. Surely this was not the same sister I had ran with on the beach, and played with, and laughed with, and learned with. Where had my sister gone?

Finduilas spent most her time in her sitting room, locked away from everything else. Her window there faced west, toward our home in Dol Amroth, and she would sit there, staring forlornly, as if willing the sea to come to her. For she knew she could not go to it.

Supper was a tedious affair. Finduilas stared at her plate, barely touching her utensils to her food. Boromir chattered about his day in the city, while his father listened, nodding solemnly. Faramir sat very still, either staring off at a wall, or out a window, seemingly consumed in thought.

It was the second last day of my visit, and I was with Finduilas in her sitting room, wondering how to approach her on a subject which had been plaguing me with worry for the past few days.

"It pains me to see you unhappy, sister," I said slowly.

"I am fine," she replied in the same flat voice she always used now.

"No, you are not," I said firmly. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter."

"Your marriage?"

"My lord is a very noble man," she answered automatically.

I bit my lip. "Your health?"

"I feel perfectly healthy," she replied defiantly, lifting her chin a little.

"The city?"

"The city is... the city is fine," she cast her eyes down again.

I leaned back in my chair. "It is really too bad that you could never come visit us in Dol Amroth," I sighed. "We miss you terribly."

"Well, you are married now, so you must have a lot to think of," she said. "You are expecting a child, are you not?"

"Yes, I am," I smiled. "What about you? Aren't you planning to have more children?"

She turned her gaze to the window. "I do not want another child. I will not have another child."

I was taken slightly aback by this comment, and stared at my sister intensely. "Finduilas..." I began. "You must come back to Dol Amroth to see us," I said. "You must. Promise me." She closed her eyes.

I left the next day, and rode back through South Ithilien, past the shadow lands, past the dark mountains, back to my home by the sea. Back to my family and my husband. And Finduilas remained with her family, and her husband, but she was not at home.

I received only one letter from her after that. It was short and hurried, the writing shaky, vague, as if a ghost of her former self had taken a pen and composed it. There was nothing inside the envelope but a hastily scribbled poem. I could not remember Finduilas before writing poetry, but there it was:

I often dream

Of silver ocean shores

Where wind blows free

And laughter still lives on.

Where skies of blue

And trees of green await;

I go there in my dreams.

The sea, it sings to me

My love, my life

Forever lost.

So long ago, a distant land

A distant dream

Of days that once were real.

And through these thick stone walls

Not wave, nor cry of gull

Can be heard in passing.

She died two weeks later. So untimely, so shocking was her death, that a great wave of sorrow swept over our family, threatening to drown us with despair. That night the sea sang a different song, and the waves crashed against the rocks in mournful ballad, lamenting the life of Finduilas.

I went to her chamber and wept without thought or care. I don't know how long I remained there, but I slept, and cried, and stared up at the canopy, searching for answers. I found none, so instead I looked for them elsewhere. I went to my childhood chamber, and there I found the gift that Finduilas had given to me, the night we said farewell. It was lying forgotten beneath stacks of old parchment and heavy books. I had stuffed it away in my drawer the day she left, and hadn't remember it until now. I recalled the comment she made to me that night: "Don't open it until I am gone." Her words were being taken far too literally now. Had she known that she would not live to grow old?

I opened the box, and in it found a blue and white shell. The bottom of the box was coated with the white sand I knew so well from the seashore. I could picture her now, sifting it through her fingers, smiling. There was also a note, which read, 'To my sister, Ivriniel. Put your ear to this shell, and you will hear the sea sing. Think of me. I will return.'

Shortly afterwards, I gave birth to my first daughter. My husband suggested naming her Finduilas, after my late sister, but I declined. My daughter was named Earlindele. I thought Finduilas would have liked that.

It has been many years now since her passing, yet I think of her often, especially whilst near the sea she loved so dearly. She was imprisoned in a fortress of stone and regulation, when she should have been free to fly, to return to her home. I like to think that she has. When the waves crash, and the gull cries, I like to think it is her, singing to me, singing through the sea.

Fin.

A/N: Earlindele roughly translated is 'Sea Song'. Of course, I got this from an English to Elvish dictionary, so I'm not very confident of its accuracy.