And Every Single One of Us Still Left in Want of Mercy by grey_gazania

And Every Single One of Us Still Left in Want of Mercy

Read And Every Single One of Us Still Left in Want of Mercy

When Canyanis came to open the archive that morning, she found Parmacundë already there, seated at her desk, methodically transcribing an old property deed from sarati into tengwar. Her gaze didn't so much as flicker as the Head Archivist approached.

 

"Parmë? You're here early."

 

"Couldn't sleep," the younger woman said, eyes still fixed on the page in front of her. "I figured I might as well get some work done instead of staring at the ceiling."

 

Canyanis tipped her head, studying her coworker, but Parmë studiously ignored her, her attention focused on the work before her. So she gave a mental shrug and went about her business. Old property deeds weren't exactly a priority, but neither was coming into work before dawn. As long as Parmë did her assigned work once the archives opened their doors for the day, Canyanis wouldn't bother her.

 

Still, something about Parmë seemed ever-so-slightly off.

 

As she took down the keys to unlock the main door, a soft knocked sounded at the employees' entrance, and Canyanis frowned. Who would be knocking there rather than at the front? They weren't expecting any deliveries today.

 

"I'll get it," Parmë said, standing. She was closer to the door, so Canyanis nodded and turned, pretending to straighten her own desk. She caught a glimpse of a figure glad in black before Parmë obscured her view. The figure spoke, his words inaudible but his tone one of inquiry. Parmë answered, seemingly in the affirmative, and they exchanged a few low-voiced words.

 

"—already know," she could make out. That was Parmë. "But thank you."

 

Canyanis slid silently away from her desk and made for the front door, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. Whoever the visitor was, they clearly wanted to speak with Parmë, not her. And her worry for her friend didn't justify snooping. She turned the key in the lock and pushed. The door opened with a slight creak — they needed to oil that hinge — and she raised the small flag that signaled that the archive was open for business. That had been Parmë's idea, a clever one, for not everyone knew the archive's hours.

 

Returning to her desk, she saw that Parmë was still standing by the door, though it was closed and the visitor seemed to have departed. "Parmë? Who was it?"

 

"Just a message for me," she said. "Nothing to worry about." Her voice was calm, but when she turned, Canyanis saw that her face was ashen and her hands were trembling.

 

"Parmë?" Something clenched in her chest, and she walked over and took hold of Parmë's shaking hands. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. "Parmë, what happened?"

 

Parmë bit down on her lip, avoiding Canyanis' eyes. Silence stretched between them, fragile as blown glass, until she whispered, "Carnistir is dead."

 

"Oh, Parmë." Canyanis wrapped her arms around her friend, feeling the small tremors that ran through her. Parmë rested her forehead against Canyanis' shoulder, and Canyanis wondered at her dry eyes. She'd known Parmë since the woman was a mere slip of an adolescent and, whatever evils Carnistir may have done, she knew that he and Parmë had loved each other with a love deeper than the Sundering Seas.

 

She might look delicate, but the fact that Parmë had lived for so many years without her dearest friend was a testament to her hidden strength. She was supple; she would bend, to a point, but she had never, ever broken. And her eyes remained dry as Canyanis held her, stroking her hair and murmuring her name.

 

"Go home," she eventually said, pulling away to look Parmë full in the face. "Take the week. Take two. I'll rearrange the schedule."

 

"No, I can work—"

 

"Just because you can doesn't mean you should," Canyanis said firmly. "You need time. Take it. Just— don't be alone. Stay with Amarië, or visit your family. Please? For me?"

 

"All right," Parmë said. She returned to her desk and began to re-pack her bag, and Canyanis saw that she had stopped trembling, her hands returned to their usual steadiness. But as the woman left, Canyanis thought back to her conversation with Mandos' messenger and couldn't help the chill that ran down her spine. What was it Parmë had said?

I already know.

 

***********

 

Parmë packed a bag and departed from Tirion; her family lived on one of the farms outside the boundaries of the city. The trip usually took only a few hours, but she rode slowly today, lost in thought.

 

In her dreams she wandered through an unfamiliar city, ravaged by battle, snow falling slowly through the ruined roofs. It soaked through her shoes as she walked, and she shivered as she left the main hall and took her search outside. What was she looking for? She didn't know, not until she found him among the trees, bloody and blue-lipped, lifeless and limp, and she knew then that her husband was dead.

 

"Maryë?"

 

It was her mother calling her childhood name, waving from behind the gate. "What are you doing here?" she asked, opening her arms in greeting as her daughter dismounted.

 

Parmë fell into her embrace, her throat blocked with the tears she had yet to shed. "Can I stay?" she managed to choke out. "For a few days?"

 

"Always, Maryë," Elencalë said. She cupped her daughter's face in her hands and asked, "But why? What's wrong?"

 

"He's dead," she said hoarsely. "Carnistir. He died last night. I dreamt it, and then Mandos' messenger came this morning and—" She broke off, shaking in her mother's arms. "Oh, Amil. It hurts."

 

Elencalë pulled her close, pressing a kiss to Parmë's hair. "Shhh," she said. "Come inside, hinya." She ushered her daughter in and settled her by the window, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, holding her close. When her husband and parents came in from the fields, she shook her head slightly. She would tell them later.

 

Parmë didn't eat dinner, but excused herself and went to bed early, curling up beneath the quilt in her old room. Her sleep was blessedly dreamless.

 

***********

 

"Come weed with me," her grandmother said the next morning after breakfast, tying a light-colored cloth over her hair to keep the sun from burning. "It'll do you good."

 

It did. Hollow as she felt that morning, digging her hands into the dark earth between the beans and climbing tomatoes soothed some of the bruises on her soul. They worked in silence, the sun slowly warming the ground, until her grandmother spoke.

 

"My sister died, you know," she said. "When you were maybe eight or nine. I didn't know exactly what happened — I still don't know — but one of Mandos' Maiar came and told me that she was dead. It hurt terribly. It was hard, leaving my family behind, and knowing that I would likely never see any of them again… But at least, with my sister, I knew that she hadn't been taken by Moringotto." She pulled up a dandelion, careful to ease the full root out of the ground, and added, "It was easier than this, I think. No one hated my sister."

 

"I know there are people who hate him," Parmë said, her voice a little flat. She had hated him, for a time, too betrayed by his deeds to remember why she'd loved him in the first place.

 

"That's my point. You never grieved the first time you lost him, Maryë; you were too busy trying to atone for what he'd done." Cuivellë reached out and brushed a warm thumb against Parmë's cheek, her eyes soft. "Don't do that to yourself again. Mourn him. Let yourself heal. It's not a crime to love your husband."

 

"Then why did I have to see it?" she whispered, tears stinging at her eyes as she recalled him lying pale and cold on the snowy ground. She wiped them away, leaving a smear of dirt across her cheek. "Knowing what happened doesn't feel like mercy. It feels like punishment."

  

"I don't know," Cuivellë said. "But I do know this much — if he's gone to the Halls of Mandos, then he may yet come home."

 

"I hope so," she said softly. She dug her fingers into the earth, breathed in its rich scent, and let herself weep.