Maedhros and the Gardener by Himring

Chapter 1

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Early in the morning, Maedhros cautiously emerges through the back door into the garden and takes a few tentative steps along the path. Almost immediately, he is stopped in his tracks by the alarming scowl of the gardener, who suddenly looms up beyond the luxuriant rhododendron. He halts, abashed.  

Surely, he should not be here. He should not be here at all. Maybe his being here will destroy the garden, make the abundant growth around him wither and fade. Is that why the gardener is warning him off?

But when he slipped out earlier, he left Fingon in the upstairs room, sprawled comfortably on the pillows, his chest rising and falling peacefully, snoring just the tiniest bit, very quietly—and he takes courage from this.

‘Good morning’, he says politely and steps off the gravel onto the grass.

Nothing sizzles. The grass stays green. Good. He lifts his left arm, then his right. He frowns. He lowers his right arm and lifts it once again.

‘Do you think you could lend me your rake for a moment?’ he asks, almost absent-mindedly.

Then he realizes how ill-considered a request this is.

***

‘The Feanorion!’ they said. ‘He’s returned from Mandos? He’s staying in your master’s house? You’ll have to mind your S’s and TH’s then. They are proud and quick to anger! Watch out!’

No fear—I thought—if he’s that high and mighty, he will hardly notice me, a humble gardener! I’ll just stay out of his line of sight. How could I do anything to provoke him?

But when I encountered him that morning, unawares, on the garden path, he did not look proud or quick to anger. That pale face, those dilated eyes—so full of grief and fear that I cried out in my heart: No! No, do not bring all this grief and fear into my garden! Was I not afraid enough of the world outside the walls already?

But the garden does not belong to me. I said nothing. He spoke and walked out onto the lawn.

He raised his arms. I saw the great wound that was his face close. He began to sway as the boughs of a tree sway with the wind.

***

‘I’m sorry, love, that I upset your gardener so much. It was very tactless of me. In fact, it is quite inappropriate for Valinor altogether, that kind of exercise. I should have thought of that, but in my mind, it is no longer something I do to make me fit for war, just something I do. There’s nothing innocent about me…’

‘Maitimo. Maitimo, listen. The gardener has not complained and I don’t think he’s going to. And all I said was: next time, wake me up. There have been too many spaces in my life that did not contain you. Wake me up, next time you go out into the garden in the morning.’

***

‘He dances without music?!’ they said. ‘You fool! He’s practicing unarmed combat moves. You’ll all be murdered in your beds before you know it!’

And I am dumb. I have no words to tell them how each dawn in my garden the Feanorion grows greener towards the sun and how the master of the garden stands watching barefoot in the dew, his hair un-braided. I had not considered whether my Lord Findekano was happy. Why should not the owner of such a garden be happy? But not until now have I seen such joy blossoming in his face, like a rare late flower, easily bruised.

***

Maedhros enters the garden at dawn and encounters the fierce scowl of the gardener. He halts, puzzled.  Over time, he has come to recognize that the gardener does not object to his presence because of who he is. He is merely cripplingly, agonizingly shy. It is something Maedhros understands, in a way, because he himself could never afford to be shy at all.

Every morning he has spoken a polite greeting, and every morning there was less of a scowl in reply until he was receiving little nods and answered in gruff monosyllables—but now the scowl is back in full force, it seems. What has he done to offend?

Fingon touches his shoulder. Maedhros looks ahead and sees: a discreet arc of hyacinths, planted along the lawn to outline the oval space in which he has become accustomed to doing his exercises. The gardener’s scowl has become positively ferocious; he is almost squinting with anxiety.

Maedhros gravely inclines his head in thanks. He steps into the oval and begins to dance.