The Constant Gardener by Tehta

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Chapter 1

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Her dream led her true, as ever.

Orneredh spotted the refugees the moment she crested the hill. She paused then, resting after the climb, and watched the long column trudge its way towards her with a slowness that was sadly familiar. Of course, many of the survivors would be wounded, and many weakened, in body or in spirit. As it was, they were far less numerous than she had expected: a thousand, at best. And yet, they were clad in incongruously bright colours, as if for a festival.

But then, weren’t the Noldor supposed to be particularly fond of eye-catching apparel? Though she had been far too busy at the time of their arrival to pay much attention, she had heard many speak of the splendour they had displayed, in their full glory. Disappointingly, most of the ones she met nowadays looked as drab and battered as everyone else. This group, though… Now that they had drawn closer, she could see that their finery was rather bedraggled, but that startling brightness still surprised and delighted her eye, like the first sight of flowers after a dreary winter.

She kept watching them until the shadows lengthened, and the column’s halting progress slowed, then stopped altogether. Only then did she make her careful way down, towards a group on the left flank.

Her descent did not go unnoticed. Heads turned her way as people abandoned assorted menial tasks—fetching wood or water, setting up a tent-post, mending a piece of cloth—to stare. Several of those who had slumped down in exhaustion stood up again, wary of a potential threat. And yet they all held back from approach or challenge.

Orneredh held back herself, letting them examine her: a lone, unthreatening Sindarin woman, slight, plainly dressed, and unarmed—unless one counted the spade and rake she carried across her back as weapons. Which, of course, one should do, as several of the Orcs she had met on her travels could attest. Still, such honest garden tools were surely an unlikely choice for anyone bent on malice. She turned a little, letting her mute watchers get a better look.

At last, one man stepped forward, taller and broader than most, his clothes both gaudy enough and tattered enough to stand out even in this motley company. A leader, perhaps, and certainly a soldier: the colourful jewels glittering on his chest were inlaid in what looked like exceptionally well-made, if rather dented, light armour, something that might be worn by an archer or a skirmisher.

“Greetings, stranger.”

The man’s voice drew her attention to his face, and to a smile that might have been welcoming, or ironic. A half-healed scar marring the left side of his face, forehead to chin, was distracting enough to make reading his expression difficult.

“Greetings, my lord,” she replied, and stepped closer.

The scarred archer, serious now, continued his scrutiny. “You do not have the look of a scout, or an envoy. I will ask bluntly: who are you, and what are you doing here?”

”I am a humble wanderer, tasked by the lady Yavanna with commemorating the strange fates of our people.”

“A wandering historian? We have some of those among us.” The ambiguous smile reappeared. “In fact, it is the only sort of historian we seem to have, these days. And what might your name be, wanderer?”

“I am called Orneredh.”

The archer’s eyebrows shot up, stretching his scar. He winced, and rubbed at it, before replying, “Orneredh? Like the gardener in the legend?”

“The legend?”

“The legend of Orneredh of the Orchards? But I suppose it is a Noldorin story, while you are of the…”

“I was born among the Iathrim of Doriath. And…” Surely satisfying her own curiosity would not interfere with her errand? “And I would be very interested in hearing this legend.”

“Would you?” As he considered this, the archer ran a hand over his breastplate, fingers passing over jewels, and over empty sockets where jewels had once sat. Some silent accounting complete, he appeared to reach a decision. “Very well. I will trade that story for your own, Orneredh of the Iathrim. But perhaps in a slightly more comfortable setting.”

Half-turning, he gestured towards the campsite, as if to suggest that Orneredh precede him. And so she did; the silent crowd that had been watching their exchange parted at her passing, effectively herding her until she reached a freshly kindled fire-pit. Once there, she hesitated. The space around the fire was occupied by the more seriously wounded, some wrapped in ragged blankets, others covered by lengths of brocaded, vivid tapestry that only emphasized the pallor of their faces.

“Here.” The archer stepped past her and indicated an area off to her left, where a crude bow lay beside a ragged bundle. “Please, do take a seat. I can recommend that patch of grass. Hardly any sharp rocks in it at all.”

“Thank you.” Orneredh sat down in the suggested spot. “If I may ask… What is your name, my lord?”

“You may ask, but a reply is not part of our bargain. I promised you nothing more than one legend.” He lowered himself to the ground opposite her stiffly, as if something pained him. “A legend which, as it turns out, is prosaic enough. When we first arrived in this accursed land— I do hope you are not offended by this slur on your homeland, but—”

“No, no, of course not. It is a fair land, but a blighted one.”

“Blighted—I like that. Makes a change from marred, or tainted. I must remember— But never mind my sadly limited vocabulary.” He adjusted his cloak, trying to wrap it around himself; a hopeless task, as it was far too small, the edges badly charred. “At any rate, when we reached our first true camp, at Lake Mithrim, we saw no evidence of any blight or curse, only of beauty and abundance. For one, we found the area rich in groves of fruit trees. There were cherries by the water, apples in the hills, plums in a little valley… We thought little of this at first, of course, since we were used to Yavanna’s eternal orchards. But these trees proved different: not only were they bound to the cycle of the seasons, as everything is, in this accursed— Anyway, apart from being useless in winter, they seemed to… deteriorate over time. Until most of their fruit were a bit too sour for pleasant eating.”

“Oh, I am sorry! They would have needed pruning, of course.”

“Yes, that is what some of the Sindar later told us. They also said that such groves were… not natural. That someone must have planted them, for some purpose. And then, we seemed to find them in every uninhabited region we explored. So somebody—I think it was one of Galdor’s people—made up this legend of Orneredh, the Planter of Orchards, who strode across the continent, always one step ahead of us, making sure we had plenty of fruit.”

“From what you have said, she would have done better to backtrack occasionally, and attend to the pruning. But it sounds like you did, in the end, figure it out yourselves?”

“I believe so, although even the sour fruit had its uses. By which I, naturally, mean liquor, a substance we ended up needing every bit as much as the fruit. Both for medical reasons, and because, you know—” He shrugged.

Orneredh knew all too well. “Here.” She unslung her flask, and passed it to him. He took it a bit gingerly, but when he uncorked it and smelled the contents, his suspicious face relaxed.

“Ai, but that scent brings back memories. Sitting by the water, glass in hand, beside—” He compressed his lips briefly, passed a hand over his eyes, and took a deep swig from the flask. He then returned it before saying, “Thank you. That was most welcome, and now I feel churlish for having— I am Egalmoth. Of… of Idril’s people.”

“Well met, Egalmoth.” Orneredh raised the container to her own lips, but took only the smallest sip before passing it back.

Egalmoth held it in both hands, gazing at it wistfully. Then, he straightened. “So tell me, Orneredh, what do you think of my story? And what is your own?”

“Actually, I believe one answer might serve for both questions.” She took a deep breath. “Your legend is nothing less than the truth. I am that Orneredh, and the orchards were the first task Yavanna set me, as part of her preparations for the Second Spring. And for your arrival.”

Though Egalmoth’s eyes widened, any stronger reaction seemed slow in coming. Perhaps he did not want to risk his scar by raising his eyebrows again? Still, somewhere beyond him, near the fire, someone made a disbelieving sound; from further on came several suppressed whispers. Orneredh had almost forgotten that they had an audience.

“I was one of Yavanna’s handmaidens, once,” she said, slowly and clearly. “The Ivonwim—I think you have them too? I used to enjoy tending the corn. After one particularly vigorous weeding session, I fell asleep right by the field… and my Lady came to me in my dream.”

She looked to Egalmoth, again; he slowly nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I have heard of such Valar-sent dreams, and the commands they bring. Commands that are ignored at one’s peril.” His grip on the flask tightened. “But surely the orchards can do nothing for— no, you said they were only your first task.”

It was Orneredh’s turn to nod. “My lady's priorities have changed, it is true. Just as the world has changed.”

“Then what is your current errand?”

“She came to me last month, and told me to seek you out. And to learn the location of your city.”

It happened instantly: Egalmoth’s face shut down, losing all expression—all the traces of pain, of sympathy, of wry humour—until he resembled a rather formal Noldorin statue. A lordly and fair one, and a bit fearsome, with that scar.

“So,” he said. “You wish to discover our secret realm. You are not the first to do so, of course, but the previous group was particularly successful, and as a result—“

“No.”

“No what? You just said—“

“I do not actually wish to discover your secret. I have had my fill of ruined homes. But—“

“You have? I see.” Cold anger burned in Egalmoth’s eyes. “What are you, then? A looter? A robber of the dead? Is that how…” He lifted the flask. “What fallen warrior did you take this from, I wonder?”

Sudden rages were not uncommon among the dispossessed. Not unjustified, either, even if this archer had aimed his at the wrong target. Orneredh tried to look as calm as possible as she said, “I am no looter. I visit such dismal places only to honour the dead, at Yavanna’s bidding.”

“Really. And exactly how might you go about that worthy task?”

“I—“ But no, if described plainly, her actions would sound so feeble. She would have to explain them in context. “It all started after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. You host would have been there, of course?”

Egalmoth stared at her for a long moment before saying, “Yes. Go on.”

“Then you might know— You will certainly know that many died. And you might have heard that the Orcs gathered all the dead and piled them into a gruesome mound—a hill, really, for they built it so tall that it loomed over that flat, dusty wasteland, visible from afar, and draining hope from the hearts of all who saw it. Well, my lady Yavanna heard of this horror asked me to… help her redress it. Under her guidance, I crossed the burnt land, and—” She had to pause. Her mouth felt dry, as it did whenever she tried to describe how it had felt to climb that shifting hill of bones. But there was no need to speak of that here, surely? “And there, on that mound, I sowed seeds of the sweet, low grass that had once covered the lush plain of Ard-Galen. It is a green hill now, a monument to the slain. And I have heard, from Yavanna herself, that no Dark creature will dare step on it.”

Egalmoth’s stony expression had wavered. “Yes, I have heard of that mound. But I doubt that reaching it is as easy as you imply.”

“The plain is not inhabited, and I can avoid the occasional Orc patrol easily enough, through my own stealth and Yavanna’s protection.” Mostly stealth, though, of course.

“The way to Gondolin, should you ever discover it, would be harder.”

Orneredh shrugged. “And yet, I must attempt it.”

“When we built the city, we made sure that all approaches were clearly visible from its walls, and that all had stretches so devoid of cover that nothing bigger than a mouse could be missed by our guards. If any of the enemy remain therein—as they might well do—they will see you coming.”

“That does sound like a problem, but it would not be the first obstacle I have ever encountered. In Nargothrond, for example, I was never able to enter the fortress at all. A fearsome dragon had moved in.”

“A dragon.” Egalmoth fingered the edge of his burnt cloak. “So your Nargothrond mission ended in failure?”

“My Lady did not think so. After all, unlike a looter,” Orneredh could not help saying, “I do not need to enter a fallen city to accomplish my goals. In that case, most of the battle had taken place outside, so I was able to find several sites that had borne witness to the courage of its citizens. Soldiers and civilians both.” With the latter, of course, being by far the most affecting. Orneredh felt cold, in spite of her proximity to the fire. “Green grass covers them all, now.”

Egalmoth’s face remained calm as he heard her out, but his hand had risen to run over his dilapidated breastplate again. “I want to believe you, Orneredh. I truly do. It is always amusing to see legends come to life, and the ones you claim for your own are particularly comforting, with the implication that Yavanna has not forsaken us rebels. But the inconsistencies… I cannot see why a mighty Vala would need your help to locate Gondolin.”

“Did you not, yourself, name it a secret city?”

“It was hidden from most, but not from all, and certainly not from the Valar. Ulmo helped us found it; Manwë has long protected it.”

“Yes, I know. My Lady did say she might ask the Lord of Waters, but... I got the impression that the Valar are reluctant to discuss their actions in Middle-earth with each other since, by public agreement, they should not be doing anything here at all. I believe Manwë denies giving his Eagles any instructions.”

The impiety seemed to do the job, as it often did with Noldor: Egalmoth’s odd smile reappeared. “I wish I could claim to find that implausible,” he said.

Orneredh decided to press her advantage. “Then you will direct me to the city? Or, if not the city, then perhaps some other site that—“

“Glorfindel!”

The hoarse whisper had come from one of the injured by the fire, but before she could question the speaker, or even examine him further, Egalmoth leaned forward. The glint of firelight on his battered breastplate, and on the crystals sewn into his ruined cloak, made him difficult to ignore.

“Of course!” he said. “That is not a bad idea. You would not even have to enter the valley, let alone the city.”

“I would not—“ An alternative sounded appealing, given Egalmoth’s earlier description of Gondolin’s defences. Still… “But that seems— Would it be enough? Was there no fighting closer to the city -- in the valley you mention, perhaps? Surely your fallen defenders deserve the honour of—“

“Look,” said Egalmoth. “Nothing anyone can do will adequately honour all the fallen. Not even an agent of the Valar, or the Valar themselves. But Glorfindel… Let me tell you another story. As an apology for earlier accusations. Or perhaps as payment for the rest of your liquor.” He held up the flask.

Orneredh nodded. “Please, do go on.”

“It will not be a tale of the fall of the city—this,” he said, shaking the flask to produce a hollow sloshing sound, “is nowhere near full enough for that. Nor will it be a tale of the treacherous tunnel that led us out into the valley, after which the Halls of Mandos can hold no fears. No, this is a story of the last hours of our escape, when we crossed the ever-cold mountain pass of the Eagle’s Cleft.”

He paused there, to take a deep draught of the shaken liquid.

“The path was narrow, bordered by steep rocks to one side, and a deadly drop on the other. Thankfully, we could not see much of either: it was dark, before moonrise, and we dared not risk lighting a torch or a lantern. In places, we had to walk single file, and so our column stretched out quite far, though we always kept the weakest in the middle, with warriors to lead and to follow. Which is fortunate, for the attack, when it came, struck at the front and the rear.”

He drank again. The fire crackled, sending up sparks. Beside it, the wounded lay still, listening.

“It was a trap, no question,” Egalmoth continued. “We must have been spotted, for all our care. There were many Orcs, of all sizes and all degrees of ugliness, led by a hideous Balrog. I ignored the demon; some of the Orcs up above had started raining missiles down upon us—rocks, mostly—and I was trying to return the compliment, with my arrows. But it was not easy, since the Cleft was wind-swept, and I had lost my fine bow during the fight in the Square—and I was wounded, besides.” He paused to run a hand over his side, and glance towards the shabby weapon lying nearby. “So, my aim was far from true. I… I could not summon up much hope.

“But then… But then, suddenly, the Moon rose, lighting the rocks above, presenting me a perfect view of my targets—and of the Eagles, who swept in, swifter than arrows, and threw many of those Orcs down, into the deep, deadly valley. There were shouts of triumph all the way down the line. I heard them, but I could not join in, for the Balrog had finally caught my attention. Maddened by the reversal, it had leapt up onto the rocks, and now ran past our guard until it stood right above our weak and wounded, its flaming whip raised high.”

Someone in the audience made a small sound, halfway between a sob and a moan, as Egalmoth raised the flask to his lips once more, and drank deeply.

“I froze,” he continued. “Most of us did. We knew, from bitter experience, that arrows are of little use against such demons. And we could see that no warrior could make it along the narrow, crowded path in time to protect the people. That whip could destroy them all.

“Only Glorfindel, who had fought beside me in the rear, saw the one thing that could be done: he leapt up after the beast, and followed it along the faint trail above, to engage it in single combat.”

Egalmoth’s eyes, which had grown hazy with memory, suddenly sharpened to meet Orneredh’s.

“That fight! I will see in my dreams until the end of Arda. Glorfindel’s armour gleamed silver-gold and strange, reflecting moonlight and flames both as he struck and dodged, evading the blows of a fearsome creature double his size. Something fiery fell into the abyss—the demon’s arm, I think—and the two met in a grapple. I held my breath; I reached for an arrow; I blinked. When I opened my eyes, they were gone, and many were screaming.”

“They had fallen,” said Orneredh. “Together.”

“Yes. They had fallen.” Egalmoth looked away. “And thus, our people were saved, while the leaderless Orcs lost heart and were easily slaughtered. We gained a moment of respite, which we used to build a cairn. Over Glorfindel’s body—the eagles brought it up for us, you see. It delayed us, of course, which might seem foolish to some… But surely not to you, whose task it is to honour the fallen.”

“Not at all. He was clearly a… a symbol.”

“He was my friend!” Egalmoth’s eyes glistened. “Certainly, a true hero, and a great warrior. Also, a respected astronomer, a reluctant bureaucrat, and a decent painter. A bit of a gardener—he would have enjoyed speaking with you. You would likely have enjoyed it too: he was known for his easy charm. But, yes,” he continued, looking down, “he became a symbol. Some say he knew no fear, that he ran heedless at death, that he embraced it, even. Which angers me, and diminishes him. He was afraid; he loved life, until the end; and surely he knew his chances. I know this because we spoke. He was my friend.”

Without glancing up, he lifted the flask and tilted it, letting some of the clear liquid splash onto the ground. Then, slowly and deliberately, he drank the rest.

There was something one could say here, Orneredh knew. Something about symbols, and the value of true courage: not cold, heroic perfection, but something more vulnerable, more uncertain, pushing on in spite of fear and long odds. Something about hope. She thought of grass growing on a burnt plain.

While she was trying to put her thoughts into words, Egalmoth laughed.

“Oh, forgive me,” he said with a wry smile. “And do not think me mad—or do, perhaps I am. I just had a thought. You would cover Glorfindel with grass! You cannot imagine how fitting that seems. You see, there was this cloak... his favourite, I think. Embroidered to resemble a field in spring, pale green, and covered in yellow flowers. Because of his name: Glorfindel, of the Golden Flower.”

Orneredh remembered her first sight of the column of refugees, battered, but bright like a vision of Spring.

“You know,” she said, “I could do flowers. Golden ones, even.”

 

—-

 

The Eagles inhabiting the pass were a bit suspicious of Orneredh at first, but, in time, they proved worthy colleagues, with plenty to say about the joys and disappointments of working directly for a Vala. The occasional rabbits they brought her brightened her lembas-based diet considerably. In the end, she stayed in the mountains until her dreams started up again, by which point the yellow flowers were well-established. She liked looking at them: they truly did remind her of the Gondolindrim.

Looking at the fallen city was far less pleasant. Even at a distance, its utter ruin was indisputable: she could barely guess at the original forms of the scorched buildings. And then, it had a tendency to smoulder by day, and give off faint orange glow by night. Clearly, some of the Enemies had remained within, looting and wrecking.

But that would stop some day, she comforted herself. The destructive ones would leave when they ran out of things to burn: that was their way. But her flowers, fed by the sunlight, would remain.