It Seems You Do by Himring

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Summer Rain

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Hurrying through the downpour, cursing under my breath, as wet gravel slithers under my feet. Within minutes, the heavy cloak I’m wearing is beginning to soak and the dry cloak I’m carrying folded over my arm won’t stay dry much longer. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? If this place hadn’t got the nosiest domestic staff in the whole of Beleriand, I wouldn’t even have considered it.

 

It’s long after midnight, the darkest hour, even if a shower of rain drops weren’t driving right into my face and blinding me. In the rose garden, it is all I can do to stick to the paths and avoid blundering across the flower beds. It is so difficult to see anything between the looming hedges that there could be a score of orcs encamped right in the middle and I wouldn’t spot them, let alone a single elf, however he might stick out anywhere under normal circumstances. (‘A red-haired beanpole—and one-handed, too’, he commented once, ‘it’s a good thing I never considered a career as a spy.’)

 

It is quite difficult to hear any movement either, above the whoosh and gurgle of rushing water and the sound of the wind whipping through leaves.  But, of course, he isn’t here in any case, not any more, I think with equal proportions of relief and dismay. He would surely never be such a fool...  Just then a piece of shadow detaches itself from the black mass of the hedge, and my feelings of dismay and relief invert themselves. I speed towards him—of course it’s him, who else would be waiting here at this hour and getting himself soaking wet in the process—and, grabbing his arm, drag him quickly around two rose beds and through a gap in the hedge.

 

We get drenched some more, waiting in front of the small garden shed, while I’m groping for the key in my pouch and trying to insert it into the lock on the door;  then, blessedly, the key turns, the door opens, and I pull him inside. At once, it’s quieter, with the howl of the rain storm no longer right about our ears, but if it was dark outside, there’s no light at all in here. Candles, idiot—I should have brought candles.

 

I’m still grimly clutching his arm.

 

‘What’s the matter?’, he asks me.

 

‘What’s the matter?! I made you wait almost four hours for me, in the rain!’

 

‘Actually, most of the time, it wasn’t raining’, he says. ‘In fact, the beginning of the evening was almost too romantic—the dusk warm and overpoweringly scented with roses and a slender sickle moon overhead. The only thing that seemed to be slightly out of place was me. I kept having to dodge behind hedges to avoid being seen by trysting couples...’

 

‘You actually prefer to wait for me in the driving rain. I suppose you think it suits your fey image better.’

 

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. Although there is something very Hithlum about driving rain...  But I must admit it is in some ways quite reassuring to find that you weren’t thinking of roses so much as the garden shed next to the compost heap.’

 

He laughs a little. To my own surprise, abruptly I boil over.

 

‘Roses! I was thinking of roses! And I’ll have the gardener cut them one and all and send them to your room by the bucketful—and then let’s see you come up with an explanation for that, Prince Maedhros!’

 

There’s a startled silence. I can almost hear him thinking: Whoa, there! Then I feel his finger tips tentative on my face in the dark, encountering my chin, moving up to my cheek.

 

Almost simultaneously, I hear us both saying: ‘Sorry.’

 

I ease my grip on his arm.

 

‘And what’, I ask him, ‘might you be apologizing for? You haven’t even asked what kept me.’

 

‘After a while, I got worried’, he says. ‘I decided to risk quitting the spot for a while and went and had a chat with the captain of the guards. He told me his watch had been completely uneventful, not even a single messenger. So I decided that if there was a national crisis or an orc raid going on, you were managing to keep it remarkably quiet, and it was more likely to be some kind of urgent domestic issue...’

 

‘Domestic is right’, I say dryly. ‘It started with a venison pie that had vanished from the pantry and turned out to have been eaten by the butler’s cats and sort of spiralled from there... No, don’t ask me now. I’ll tell you the sordid details over breakfast tomorrow.’

 

‘Ah. Well, I concluded there was nothing further I could do to find out what was going on or assist you, so I decided to view it as an exercise in equanimity. If I went back to the garden, either you would still turn up or you would not. I didn’t think about it from your point of view, though. It’s your home, you’re supposed to be in control here—and you couldn’t even send me a simple message. It must have been galling.’

 

‘It was. And if I had had the foresight to have the key to the shed on me when I asked you to meet me out here earlier, I would have told you about it and given you the key then.’

 

I grope for him with my other hand.

 

‘I brought a dry cloak. I guess I’d better use it as a towel. You’re dripping. The gardener will be complaining tomorrow that the shed roof leaks.’

 

‘It does. Listen!’

 

I do, for a moment. There’s a distinct plink-plink-plink, as a series of drops hits metal, perhaps a bucket or tub.

 

‘You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you? I’m going to dry you off now. And I think you should let me wring out your hair.’

 

He permits me to fuss over him without a murmur of protest.  Clumsy in the dark, I work off the rest of my pent-up frustration by vigorously towelling him. As I finally calm down, I find myself rather at a loss, wishing I could see the expression on his face. I drop the sheet of heavy velvet, now very wet, at our feet and uncertainly put my hand between his shoulder blades. He reacts to my change of mood immediately, turning to me, and, however quietly he’s been biding his time, what follows next is, I’m relieved to note, not by any stretch an exercise in equanimity.

 

Once again, it has been far too long and, inevitably, it’s over too quickly now. We continue to hold on tightly to each other. The emotion still surging within spills out over my lips as words. When I realize that I’m whispering the same two or three incoherent phrases in his ear over and over again, I shut up and grip him even more tightly. I feel the muscles in his throat move as he swallows.

 

‘Findekano’, he says, his voice strained. ‘I’m not..., not...’

 

He falls silent.

 

‘Not what?’

 

He gives a derisive snort.

 

‘Just not, I guess.’

 

Ah—Feanorian eloquence.

 

 ‘Well, I guess I disagree.’

 

He presses his cheek briefly against my temple.

 

‘It seems you do. Maybe then, I won’t quite believe it either.’

 

***

 

In the grey light before dawn, we silently walk in the garden together.  Nobody is awake yet, except for a few birds tentatively embarking on the first notes of their dawn chorus. The rose garden looks as if it had been under water and the flood had only just receded, drops of water clustering on leaves and petals thicker than dew. As we reach the gate, my step falters. He gives me a quick look and then heads right on past it, back into the depths of the garden. I follow him and our steps fall into rhyme again, although we are not touching each other.

 

In the corner farthest from the house, he stoops, carefully seizing the stem of a rose between index finger and thumb and shaking off the excess moisture. He twists off a single bud and stands twirling it indecisively between his fingers, avoiding my eyes. As we move on, his hand for a moment discreetly covers mine, holding it very gently, and as he releases me again, he leaves the rose bud on my palm. My fingers close over it. He looks straight ahead all the while, as if the trees and hedges were full of watchers.

 

However convoluted our path, it takes us to the gate again, and this time we walk through it without stopping and are within sight of the house. He straightens his shoulders infinitesimally and begins: ‘Now, the situation in Dorthonion, as I see it...’ His words gather speed as he goes. My fingers still enfold my precious bit of rose.