Here I am! Back from my vacation and back with a new chapter!

Now, this is the last (for now) of the heart-breakingly-sad chapters, after this one there will be a breather of a couple of sweet chapters, I promise.

WARNING: In this chapter there is a scene that might be read in a certain way so that it may imply self-harm. If you are uncomfortable reading it, please skip the second scene in this chapter or read it only if you have the possible support of a friend / professional.

Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

31. … and sometimes cruelty is clemency

In the moments after her father had left, Lothíriel kept her eyes closed and her teeth clenched together, trying to stop the tears from spilling, trying to keep the sobs from bubbling up and breaking out – but try as she might, she could not. It was as though an old wound had been re-opened; a wound long scabbed-over that was now torn open again, and where she might have thought that it had long been healed and forgotten, she now found that it was very much fresh and oozing – oozing pus to infect the tender flesh beating inside her heart.

My, my, what have we gotten ourselves into this time?

A heartbeat. Then another. Lothíriel clenched her fists around the quilt still wrapped around her figure, fighting the urge to open her eyes. She tried to control her breathing, telling herself to calm down, that all would be alright. But the more she tried to control her breathing, the more uneven it became – shallow intakes of breath that no longer provided the air she needed to think straight and clear. That could be the only explanation for all of this.

You look terrible, you know that, right? All puffy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips – pathetic, really.

'Stop it.'

Lothíriel found herself speaking the words without really knowing it. Nor did she know whom she had said them to. There was no one there. She was sure, there was nobody here. Even if she didn't open her eyes, she knew there was no one else here. And yet, the words had echoed in her ears – or had it been in her head? – and she could not help what she had heard.

Was it a lovely funeral? I bet it was. I bet you even cried a little, didn't you?

'Shut up.', she found herself saying once again, this time much louder, much more insistent, much more of unsound mind. But even when she shook her head and clenched her teeth together, the echo of that voice still remained, burrowing itself into every thought in her head and every fibre of her being – until it was all she could hear, until it drowned out everything else, until she thought her head might be split in two by the sheer volume of it.

Tell me, did you cry for me, little swanling?

Lothíriel looked up then, opening her eyes at long last, and sure enough, there she was. A woman in the autumn of her life, standing on the threshold of the windows opening towards the balcony and the wide open sea beyond it. And in the glow of the late afternoon sun one could just think she was really there – that woman that looked so much like her father and yet was nothing like him, or, perhaps, was inexplicably even worse.

'Leave me alone.', Lothíriel snarled then, staring down the apparition standing in the window with all the energy and spite she had left, little enough as it was. But the rude nature of her dismissal only seemed to amuse the woman who was not really there, leading her to smile that half-smile her niece had seen a thousand times cross those perfect lips – that smile that was no smile at all, that smile that hid daggers and poison under a lovely visage, that smile that told her that the student had once again made a fool of herself, only for the schoolmistress to school her.

Oh, but you are alone, little swanling. You drove them all away. Well done.

'Don't call me that.', the queen pressed out through clenched teeth then, feeling very much not like a queen at all, but like the little girl she had been all these years ago, cowering in the shadow of her mentor. With closed eyes, she took deep breaths to recompose herself, all the while fighting the instinctual impulse to submit to yet another one of her aunt's harsh lessons she was undoubtedly about to impart on her.

I call you whatever I want to, little swanling. You are my creature through and through, or have you forgotten?

'You're not real. You're not even really here. You're just in my head.', Lothíriel hissed back, repeating the words over and over and over again, like a mantra almost, meant to lull her into a reality where she could ignore the woman smiling at her with a predatory glint in her eyes or the way she pointed first to her head and then towards the head of the woman that was by now almost curled up into a ball.

That's right, I'm up here. Which means, I'm a part of you, whether you like it or not. And whether you admit or not – you called me here.

By now the smile on the woman's lips had vanished, replaced by a thin, hard line and eyes that shot daggers. But the queen would not have been able to see that even if she had not pressed her eyes shut, because she had her palms pressed firmly on her ears, forcing her head down, and by now she was shaking her head so hard in an attempt to negate the spectre's statements that the tears she had not been able to shed were flying away from her.

You're doing it again, little swanling, you're running away again. Remember – you can run, but you can't hide? There is no place you can hide, where I wouldn't find you; there is no place you can run to, where your past wouldn't catch up to –

'More lectures? Is that why you're here?', Lothíriel shouted then, snapping at long last. And now, she was no longer keeping her eyes shut or her ears covered with the palms of her hand, now she was no longer trying everything and anything to ignore the voice mocking her in her head. Her hands were balled to fists and her eyes were wide open, and there was enough fire in them to evaporate what little water was still left. It was the final straw that had broken the camel's back at long last. Now, now she would stand and fight, now she would stand her ground – no more running, no more hiding, no more catering to the hand that had moulded her with so little thought to her natural form, 'More fucking lectures?!'

Is that the way to speak to your Lady Aunt? I like to think I taught you better.

'You taught me best.', the queen laughed bitterly then, just like she had done before with her father, and just like before, there was no actual humour in that laugh, only a manic glee – the one that drove you to hysterical fits of laughter when spilling tears were just not enough anymore and shouts of rage were simply too exhausting. Ulmo save her, she was losing her mind – she was actually having a discussion with a dead woman, and even though that dead lady's heart was never actually a really living, beating, functioning heart to begin with, that heart was still dead now, just like its owner, who was not even really here, so –

I should think not, if this is the way you intend to deal with your issues.

'What would you have me do then, madam?', Lothíriel shot back then, suddenly all serious again, her mood swings matching a ship rocking in the ocean amidst a raging storm. Perhaps in a few minutes she would punch a hole in the wall or crack her finger bones against one of the wooden beams. Or perhaps she would simply break down and cry again. Or perhaps she would simply pass out in an act of cosmic mercy. Anything to keep her dead aunt from haunting her with her harsh lessons even in death.

I would have you act like the lady I know you are. A true lady would get off her ass and salvage what little she can from the mess you've made … by whatever means necessary.

'By whatever means necessary?', she repeated dryly as she rolled her eyes, all the while searching with her gaze for another bottle of wine – because even though her foggy head was already starting to kill her with the onsets of a terrible headache, there was no way in hell she would be able to suffer through this without at least a drop of alcohol, or at least to use it to wash down the bitter truths her dead aunt would undoubtedly force her to swallow, 'Do you expect me to spread my legs for my lord husband and to cut out what little remains of my broken heart? Do you expect me to pretend that everything is fine? That I didn't betray him? That he could ever understand me?'

How melodramatic we are again today, aren't we? But that's how you've always been, I guess? A cry-baby through and through.

'Don't patronise me. I'm not in the mood for your little mind games.', Lothíriel intercut slowly but no less angrily, the unusual growling in her voice emphasising the fury she felt boiling within and that she could hardly keep contained at the sound of her aunt's mocking derision. There was a clear warning in her eyes and in her voice as she spoke, and had her aunt been a different person – if her aunt had been there with her at all – she would surely have been more careful. But perhaps her aunt would not have cared at all either. Or perhaps she would have even used it as a stepping stone to infuriate her further and to get her to make a mistake. Strangely enough, though, her aunt didn't go her typical way, and when she demanded her honest help, her aunt complied – even if she, perhaps, worded it less than ideally or sensitively.

'Just tell me how to fix this!'

You want the truth, plain and simple? Fine. If you have to break your heart, and his, to get the job done, then that's what you have to do. This is bigger than some lovers' quarrel, bigger even than my dear hard-hearted brother's lofty plans. You are a queen now and that means you have to be ready to sacrifice everyone and everything for the greater good.

'You don't even know what you're talking about.', the queen spat quietly then as she turned away, and her voice and motion spoke volumes of the disgust she felt for the things her aunt had asked her to do, expected her to do. But perhaps it was only the cold, hard truth behind that expectation that had offended her so; the knowledge that even while the words had been crude and insensitive, they had been true nonetheless, and even more so, something she had known to be true for a while, even if she had been too unwilling and too hurt to admit it to herself. But right now it was still too uncomfortable to acknowledge that all this hurt and pain could be an acceptable outcome in the face of the greater good, accepting that the act of betrayal had been justified despite the bonds of trust it had broken, and that indeed virtues great and small may be sacrificed to sin, if it meant survival and prosperity for the people in your care – right now, there was still too much anger and bitterness in her to even consider this truth to be true, 'If you actually understood what you're asking of me, you wouldn't ask it.'

No, what don't I understand here? Love? The mysteries of it? The ache of its bittersweet fruits?

'You've never loved anyone.', the queen spat out then, and the disgust she felt in that moment was more than just palpable in her voice, but even as she turned away, she could not help her heart breaking at the accusation in that statement – because those were the exact same words her own father had hurled at her not so long ago, and because she could not help but feel the truth of that statement bearing down on her now. And if that statement were true of her aunt, then wouldn't that mean that it was true of her too? And wasn't that what she feared the most? That she had never been capable of love, and, perhaps, never would be? Or, perhaps, she feared that it meant that she wasn't worthy of love, and would only end up hurting the people who tried and failed to love her?

That's not true. I loved you.

'That wasn't love and you know it.', the queen hissed then, feeling very much not like a queen at all, but like the angry child-princess she had once been The girl who had shouted at the top of her lungs for her mother, sulkily ignoring in her entitlement that her mother had been long gone, who had smashed vases and plates to give her critique to the chef regarding the food of the day, who had dismissed servants for the pettiest of reasons, so she could hide that she had no friends, even though she had always pretended in front of her aunt that it was for safeguarding her secrets and intrigues. She had been an insolent girl once, whose whole being had rebelled in anger at the loss of her mother and the abandonment of her father – and this right here, this moment, this reaction, was no different. With closed eyes and her hands pressed over her ears, she tried to ignore the truth in front of her, objecting just for the sake of objection – but just like when she had been a child, her aunt sorted her out: that smile enough to make your blood curdle and your cheeks burn with shame.

Hmm, suit yourself then, if that helps you.

'You know what I meant. You never loved any of your husbands, so how could you understand the pain of betrayal?', Lothíriel added then, after she had overcome her own sulking enough for her to look up with disgust written all over her face and dripping from her tongue. There was accusation in her voice, a heartless statement escaping her soft lips, and even though the niece knew that in a way she was no better, she still could not help that she judged her aunt for the way she had been in her life. But far from being offended, the spectre only smiled with a sense of mild nostalgia, as though the memories she thought of were scenes of idyllic peace and quiet, and not the rose-tinted evidence of deceased husbands (in whose deaths her own aunt had not been entirely innocent of, if one were to believe the rumours).

It's true, I never loved them … except one, except that first one. He was a good man, too, and when he died, he took what little was left of my broken heart with him.

'And now you expect me to be like you? To end up like you? Put on a smile and pretend that nothing ever touches me? Drive the blade into his heart and act like it's not murder? Push away everyone and everything that could make me human?', she countered then, and there was disgust palpable in her words as she snapped, but there was also despair, because, in a way, that's exactly what she had been doing, hadn't it? Breaking his heart to keep him at arm's length, to keep him from seeing her, knowing her, and in the process she had ended up breaking her own heart instead. Tears of exhaustion and frustration were starting to take over again, and one could just hear that as she finished her plea for mercy, her appeal to the spectre's last wretched shreds of humanity, to spare her any further heartbreak and unhappiness, 'If this is the lesson, you have come to grace me with, then please, spare me. I have had enough of your lessons to haunt me for a lifetime and more. Please, aunt, I can take no – '

Look at you, little swanling, serenading your song as though it were your last. Do not expect any pity from me, and no mercy either. Remember, I was only ever cruel to be kind. I taught you as I have been taught by my mother and she by hers before that and so on and so forth. I was taught just like any woman of our family was taught. And so I have taught you, to prepare you for –

'No, not every woman.', Lothíriel objected then, her head snapping up to stare down the spectre that still tried her old wiles on her, attempting to slowly but surely wear her down with her seemingly endless words of nagging and bleating, to make her feel guilty about ever doubting the apparently pure and good intentions of her aunt. Oh yes, the queen remembered that; that had always been her aunt's greatest ace up her sleeve: no matter who it was, she could make everyone cave in to her demands by making them feel bad about questioning her ulterior motives or resisting her wishes. Of course, everyone knew she had ulterior motives, everyone knew her intentions were rarely good or pure, and everyone knew she was merely guilt-tripping to further her own agenda, and yet … and yet, they all fell for it. Even the lady's niece had not been exempt from that – but not now, she swore to herself, she would never again fall for that, 'Aunt Finduilas was kind and loving and – '

Oh yes, some lessons just don't stick with some people, I guess? And see where it got my poor sister Finduilas? Parted from the sea, she dried up and withered and died … long before her time.

'Her death had nothing to do with – ', Lothíriel protested then, confusion thickening her voice as she tried to wrap her head around what the spectre in front of her was trying to insinuate, making it difficult for her to get the words out without stumbling over them.

Of course, she herself had never known her aunt, as the lady Finduilas had died before she had even been born, but her death had hung like a shadow over everybody for as long as she could remember: Boromir had sought oblivion in his existence as a soldier, Faramir had suffered in silence under his father, and Denethor? Well, it hadn't been long after his wife's death that the infamous madness had started to overtake the steward.

Now, she had never given much thought to the reason for her aunt's death, and after her passing few enough people were even willing to mention her, the mighty widower on his steward's throne repaying even the smallest word of it with cruel vengeance – well, grief had many faces. It was only after her own mother's death that Lothíriel had considered the fate of her poor aunt, and she had wondered what depressing thoughts must have weighed her down, up there behind the mighty walls of the White City, and what shadows must have darkened her days in the sight of the dreadful land to the East? The songs and poems lamented that she was missing the sea, ever yearning for it, but even though Lothíriel had always scoffed at the fancy tongues and twisting words of the bards, the queen had found – after she herself had been made to leave her home and the sea behind – that perhaps there had been some truth in the poetry after all.

Her aunt, however, seemed to care little for the sayings of bards, as she had found herself her own truths, and in telling them she was as unforgiving as ever. Apparently, even in death she seemed to have lost nothing of her streak for cruel honesty, striking without mercy like a snake in the desert or like a thunderbolt in a storm.

She was weak, little swanling. Kind and loving and soft and weak. We women of the sea don't do so well in the lands of men, and my sister … she too put her trust in the man she loved, leaving it to him to make the decisions for them, leaving it to him to know what's best. And where did it lead her? It got her killed in the end, and it nearly killed everything our family worked so hard to build. So, don't be like her, little swanling, do not make her mistake.

'So, what? You say I can never trust anyone? Are you telling me I can never trust the man I – ', the queen tried to throw in then, the last desperate gasp of her resistance, the horse crazed with fear and horror attempting to free itself from its bond by prancing on the spot, kicking up its legs, the caught fish struggling in vain against the trap of the swallowed fishing hook. But it was all in vain in the end. The spectre would not even let her finish her hopeless ramblings, and instead cut her off with an answer that was as precise and eloquent as it was logical and heartless.

I'm saying if you know a better path to the future, then do not be afraid to tread it, even if it means betraying his trust … or his love. And isn't that what you've always been preaching to your little barbarian king? Ruling is in the sacrifices you make and your willingness to make them. So, then. Make the sacrifice. Return to your husband and be his wife – but do not forget: you are his queen first, and only then can you be his wife.

The moon stood high and full in the sky as she resolutely walked across the white sands of the beach. Behind her the contours of the palace she had once called home were slowly but surely swallowed by the blackness of night, making it no more but a faint shadow of a far away childhood memory. Before her the sea opened up, lapping up the shore like a lover, hungry to devour the dry lands bit by loving bit; and far behind that, the vast ocean stretched on and on, towards that distant point at the horizon where heaven and waters met and mated, to create a place no mortal had ever seen and returned to speak of. But that had never stopped her from wondering before, and it had never stopped her from dreaming before. It was an old dream that beat inside her, always the same dream that had haunted her all her life, and kept on doing so even now.

What things waited there, beyond the horizon?

The last of her steps brought her right to the end of the beach, where the waves kept rolling in and out, and the rhythmic pattern of its sounds was almost enough to lull her back to sleep. But no, she had come here for a reason, there would be no going back now. The bundle she had hold until now was dropped to the floor; her thin nightgown fell down right after, leaving her cold and naked, shivering in the wind coming down from the North. And for a moment then, as she stood there at the open palm of the sea, eyes closed, the sound of the waves fading into the background, she was reminded of the great Northern winds rushing down onto vast fields of green, having it sway gently from side to side, creating the vision of an ocean of grass.

Home, she thought then, with a vague sense of surprise, she wanted to go back home again.

With a deep breath and her eyes still closed, holding on to the image in her mind, she stepped into the waters then; first one step, and then another. The familiar coldness of the water made her skin resist for a moment, as goosebumps spread across her flesh, but then she simply yielded to it and the unpleasant sensation passed. As she waded further into the black masses of the sea, she believed to hear the flapping sound of fabric being tossed around, then the sound of cloth hitting water. Her nightgown must have been blown into the waters, she thought dispassionately.

It didn't matter, she would have no need for it anymore.

Further and further she went, until the cool waves crashed against the peaks of her breasts, stiffened in revulsion of the harsh cold, and until the force of the current made her sway on her feet. She knew if she only wanted to, she could simply allow her body to be swept up by the current and to surrender to its might, leaving her to float back towards the beach – but no, that's not what she had come here for. There was no going back now. Opening her eyes, Lothíriel stared ahead into the darkness of night that was only illuminated by the silver light of the moon, creating the shaky illusion of a fleeting gate to another world, one that could be simply swept away by the next wave.

Time to go home again.

Taking a deep breath, Lothíriel dove head-first into the water. The force of the push of her feet gave her enough momentum to glide through the dark-blue depths for a moment as though she were truly a creature of the sea. Over her head the waves rolled away towards the beach but her destination lay further out, and she had to keep going, if she ever wanted to reach it.

Home is where the heart is.

Breaking through the surface to catch her breath, she didn't miss a beat before she plunged right back into the waters, using her arms and legs in a perfectly synchronised rhythm to propel herself ever forward. The waves pushed against her in an endless motion of nature but she fought on relentlessly. Push and pull, as though she were a wave of her own, and like a wayward fish she swam against the current.

The sea shall take the sinner; it's where she truly belonged.

In her breast her heart clenched at the thought but she simply dove back underwater. If the bright grimace of the moon couldn't shine down on her, none of her sins would be illuminated, right? So, she dove down and she dove deep, pushing herself on with her strong legs, pulling herself forward with her delicate arms, so she could hide from the sins that clung to her back.

To be reborn is to die first, the poets said.

As she broke through the surface then once more, she was slightly confused as to where she was exactly, and so she took pause for a moment to orientate herself. And as she turned back around towards the direction where the beach and the palace behind it lay, she noted dispassionately just how far away it all already seemed to her – the beach a mere stretch of white dirt, the palace no more than a cold and remote structure full of people with nothing to say to each other.

Was it true that the dead would haunt the living if there was business unfinished and tasks undone?

Shaking her head to get rid of these increasingly morbid thoughts cluttering her mind, Lothíriel turned back around and dove back underwater again. Perhaps the sound of the sea was enough to drown out the sound of her own worries? But all the black depths managed to do was to close in on her, making her feel as trapped as she had ever been, and so she resurfaced, even quicker now than the last time, and this time she felt even more out of breath than she had been before.

Ulmo, father of the sea and all its children that belong to it, help me, do not let me become a spectre to haunt the people that I love …

Her prayer had been a heartfelt cry for help but it was a silent one as she had already dove back into the deep, resuming her relentless swimming towards a destination that seemed further and further away the closer she got to it. Against her the waves rolled tirelessly, attempting to push her back, as though there was a voice trying to call her back, hoping to make her turn back. But no, there was no going back from here.

Ulmo, father, take me away from here to a place far, far away … where I will be free of all this pain.

A rumbling sound made her take pause then, and for a moment she was too shocked to process its meaning. In the back of her mind there was the manic thought that, perhaps, it was the answer of the Lord of Waters himself, calling to her from the deep, to welcome her … or to cast her out for good? But no, as she came up again for air, she realised that the sound had been a mere harbinger of a thunderstorm slowly but surely rolling down from the horizon towards the beach and the palace beyond it. And as surely as she saw the night sky momentarily illuminated by a lightening bolt far, far out, the wind all of the sudden seemed to pick up, causing the already challenging waves to become even more menacing. Another crack of thunder and another flash of lightening, and sure enough, the first drops of rain started to patter down on her already.

And then, all of the sudden, there was another sound quietly working its way through the rumbling from above and the gushing from below. She was laughing. Mind you, it was not the laughter of a girl in spring nor the laughter of a winner of a great victory; it was the laughter of a person realising the foolishness of their own actions, and yet, not minding that foolishness, as she was way past the point of caring anymore. Honestly, what kind of fool would willingly take a swim in the middle of a thunderstorm? The kind of fool that grew up with three older brothers. But there would be no brother saving her now. There was no shelter from this storm.

In that moment any sane person would have fought their hardest to try and get back to dry land, and to safety, but by the time such a logical thought could have crossed her mind, Lothíriel had already dove back into the depths. As she had done before, she tried to swim against the current coming her way, but now, as the storm started to pick up, the waves came in even stronger, pushing against her with even more force. Already she started to feel weary, but she pushed on regardlessly.

Ulmo, father of us all, take this sinner, and wash her clean, clean as the foam on the waves …

Another crack of thunder gave her such a start that she scrambled for the surface once more but in her confusion she mistimed the rhythm of the sea, and the moment her head broke free of the waters to gasp for air, another wave came crushing down on her, pushing her back down into the deep. And for a split second – even though she had lived her whole life with the comfort of the sea, drawing her strength and her wiles and her cunning from it – yes, for a split second she was actually afraid.

Ulmo, save me, save me, save me!

All around her was darkness and cold, as she had long lost her proper bearing of what was up and down, being thrown around like a piece of driftwood, helpless in the face of the wrath of the sea. For a moment her arms started to flail around then, her legs started to kick in every direction, her instincts overriding any other thought and feeling she might have had, leaving her to scramble towards the surface for dear life. But try as she might, she could not reach the surface, as she couldn't even remember where the surface used to be.

To be forgiven is to forgive first.

Her lungs burned from the effort to keep in the air she had left, little enough as it was. Her muscles went into a spasm in her desperate struggle for life, leaving her to tread water in vain. And in her despair and blind fear she did what every helpless creature would do: she screamed for help. She screamed and shouted and cried out for help, calling for the only real father she had ever known, but the father she called out to was master of this realm and he cared not whether the creatures of his creation came to him breathing or not. And as the bubbles along with the rest of her air floated towards the surface, she felt the struggle at last leave her body, and then she was calm and quiet as she sank down, ever down, towards the deep of forgetting, towards that place where nothing could hurt her ever again.

I can't lose you.

You won't lose me.

With a jolt she came back to life and her eyes snapped open. Through the dark grey-blue haze of the water above her she managed to make out the white-hot flash of a lightening strike. It was faint and no more than a glimmer of hope at best, but in the end, it was all she needed. And even though her arms and legs felt like bricks of lead, too tired to move, she moved them anyway, again and again, pushing and pulling herself forward, doing everything and anything, just so she wouldn't give in, just so she wouldn't give up.

She had made a promise to someone and she intended to keep that promise.

On and on she fought, her arms and legs trying to resist her insistence, but she ignored their resistance and pushed on. Her lungs screamed in pain, fighting to keep on working, fighting to keep out the water, simply fighting. She had no way of knowing if she was going to make it; the closer she got towards the surface, the harder the waves seemed to try and push her back down. But it didn't matter; it didn't matter any longer if she succeeded – the only thing that mattered to her now was that would try, that she would fight with tooth and nail to stay alive. Not for herself. For the man she loved. For the man she had promised herself to. For the man who had tried to love her with all the darkness and imperfections she had. For the man who had seen the worst of her and had decided to love her still. For him, she would fight to the last moment. That much, at least, she owed him.

Oh, the Watermaiden that belonged to the sea and the man that belonged to the land, always longing for each other, always sacrificing for each other, and yet never to be happy together, she found herself inexplicably thinking, remembering, to her surprise, of all things, of all times, the story of Eaulis Nenniel, how tragic their love had been, how tragic their tale had ended. And even though the memory of it would have usually inspired sadness and understanding in her, in now inspired defiance. Because this right here was not a tale, she thought to herself with an iron-clad clarity that managed to cut through her despair like the sharpest knife cutting through thin air, this story was not over yet.

My story is not over yet.

Our story is not over yet.

Above her the thunder rolled angrily and with another lightening strike illuminating the night sky she broke through the surface of the water at last, and with a gasp that was as much clamouring for air as it was a shout of victory, she closed her eyes at the sheer overwhelming feeling of simply being alive. As she breathed her lungs were filled with the delicious taste of air. The wind pulled at her hair, making her shiver. The drops of rain pattered down on her, as if to bless her with the water of life itself.

Yes, she was alive.

As exhaustion claimed her, she allowed herself to fall flat on her back, and with all her limbs stretched out like a starfish, she gave herself over to the might of the sea, leaving it to the power of the current to carry her home. And with every wave pushing against her, she was slowly but surely moved towards the land. Above her the thunder kept rolling and the lightening kept striking across the night sky, giving off an almost violent spectacle of nature, but within her there was only calm. The calm of a sinner knowing forgiveness had been bestowed at last. The calm of the dead man knowing he had been reborn.

Lothíriel didn't know how long she floated in the waters of the sea; time seemed to have lost all meaning as the waves slowly but surely carried her home, and the only thing to keep her company were the rhythmic sounds of the sea and the chaos up in the sky. It might have been only minutes or it might have been hours, she could not say, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that she was alive and that she was going home. The sea had spared her for a reason and she had every intention on making good on the grace she had been giving.

When her back then scraped across the fine sands underwater, she knew she was home at last and that at last she had returned to the beach and to the land of the living. Turning around, she used her arms and legs to slowly but surely crawl out of the waters, not yet trusting her legs to carry her weight. And when her fists grabbed the first handfuls of dry beach sand, she could no longer help the laughter of joy bubbling out of her, and with a hunger for life she had not felt in ages, she rolled around in the sands as though she were a little girl again, as though life was still new and full of possibilities – and, indeed, her life was all new now and full of possibilities again.

Yes, she was alive.

When she got up then on feet and on legs shaking under her weight and the exhaustion of having barely escaped death itself, she didn't mind the weakness of her body and simply staggered on towards the spot where she had entered the sea earlier this night. And true enough, the bundle she had left there before was still there, still dry and untouched by the sea, and with fingers shaking from the cold and the overwhelming sensations of it all, she unpacked the bundle and pulled out the dress of simple white linen she had brought with her. She didn't much mind the fact that she had already dirtied the fabric from her touch alone or that she was only going to soil it further by slipping into it. But it didn't matter; she was reborn; she was a new woman.

Above the sea the thunder rolled down with anger and the night sky was lit up by the lightening bolts striking across it and the waves crashed into each other with almost violent intent, as though the sea god truly lamented her escape with divine wrath. But there she stood, a barefooted figure jumping and dancing around the beach in joy and laughter, but not out of defiance for the god she had spurned. No, the figure was not a mere slip of a girl, nor a princess or a lady either. She was a queen and she was alive, and even though the rumbling of thunder and cracking of lightening drowned out her words, she shouted out her thanks to her god regardless of it, appeasing him with words of gratitude and words of worship, telling him that her time for passing had not yet come.

The time had finally come for living.

FUN FACT #1: I have grown really fucking fond of Ivriniel as a character with all its complexity and dark depth. I dunno, can you tell? *laughs megalomanically*

FUN FACT #2: I wrote the second scene while listening to London Grammar's cover of "Nightcall" (Live version at Lowlands 2017). It just had my imagination flowing like a river. I wrote that scene in a matter of an hour. I cried at the end.

FUN FACT #3: Like Lothíriel I had to work myself through tough time in my life, and even though my turning point wasn't nearly as life-shattering as hers, it was still a moment of catharsis for me that shook me to the core. I tried to show you some of that feeling in the last passage.

FUN FACT #4: So, Lothíriel has found herself again - now, what she is going to do about Éomer? *laughs in cliffhanger*