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For the first time in many years, she makes her way to the riverside, treading softly upon smooth, cool stones and dreams left behind. The crisp air sears her senses, and she feels, momentarily, that she has not been alive for a long time.

There are ducks tonight, not the boats of the fishermen nor the ships that bring hopes and aspirations and sorrow and hatred. They are white, like the moon in its waxing imperfection, too innocent to be a recipient of misery and regret, and so she pushes those thoughts aside and recalls, instead, fireflies and raccoons and withered leaves.

She wonders how he fares now, the woodland dweller she left behind when she sailed, as her kind do, in pursuit of honour, power and immortality. She knows that the regrets she possesses now compare with his, that if not for the memories of owls and meteor showers she would have regressed to being a child grasping for the newest toy. She has made many mistakes, she knows, and she wonders if—no, she knows that (and she is ashamed of herself)—he would accept an old friend, flawed and scarred and world-weary.

A duck waddles towards her with an elegance she has never had. Fleetingly, the part of her that swam with the dolphins and tasted happiness where now there is only the bitter taste of salt encourages her to reach out for its wintry plumage, but she shrinks back, aware that there is no redemption. She kneels, grasps a damp leaf and slides it into the water, allowing the slightest hint of a smile to grace her lips when the duck nibbles at it. Carry my regards over the ocean, she thinks, not quite sure if her instructions are meant for the duck or for the leaf.

She lies down on the moist grass and gazes at the stars, brilliant and luminous where there are no fireflies. Nobody taught her to identify the constellations, so she admires the stars individually and contemplates which one represents Eärendil the Mariner, symbolic of the glory which later generations have sought for.

A twig snaps just as she is about to be lulled asleep by the gentle pulse of the waves upon the shore and the steady twinkle of the stars. She knows, without needing to look, that it is the one true friend she has on this side of the world, and a pang of guilt stabs her, that he must share the consequences of her folly.

She is grateful, extremely so, that he is present in her moments of despair and abandon. It is with this in mind that she allows him to guide her back to their shelter, and resolves to live a full life, if only for his sake.

But he is not, and will never be, her woodland friend.

Copyright © Charmaine Sia