Half Past Ten in the Rose Garden by grey_gazania

Chapter 1

Inspired by the Silmfic Prompt Generator: ‘I would find where she keeps her mouth, meet it with mine, press my hand against her palm and see if our fingers match.’ - Amal El-Mohtar, ‘Song for an Ancient City’

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"I'll be home late," I tell my mother as I'm packing up for work. Swatting Tyelko's hands away, I add an extra helping of the dumplings I made yesterday to my lunch bag; Parmë loves them and I know she can't cook for beans. "I'm meeting a friend for dinner."

 

"Aw, don't take them all," he complains. "How much does your imaginary friend eat, anyway?"

 

I roll my eyes — that joke got old years ago — but otherwise ignore him. To think that he wonders why I've never introduced the two of them.

 

"Tyelko, don't pick on your brother," Ammë calls from her studio. "Carnistir, have a good time."

 

"I will," I say, popping my head in. She smiles and waves, and I set out, wincing when the door slams shut behind me. I keep forgetting that Atto fixed that sticky hinge, and Ammë hates slammed doors.

 

I like working afternoons better than evenings. I finish just in time for supper, so meeting up with Parmë is easy. The vendors are closed by then, but I bring some of whatever I've cooked lately, she brings bread and cheese or vegetables from her little garden, and between the two of us we have a nice meal. Today starts out no differently; Aicórë and I finish up the accounts for the law firm next door and I meet Parmë by the fountain. It's not until after we've eaten that things deviate from the usual pattern.

 

"It's so nice out," Parmë says, stretching her arms behind her. "Want to go walk in the garden for a bit?"

 

"Sure." The city gardens are gorgeous at this time of year, with the roses and lilies in full bloom, and they won't be crowded, not this late at night. I offer her my hand and pull her up, waiting while she slips her shoes back on, and then wrap my arm around her shoulders. The gardens aren't far at all, and we walk in silence as we bask in the beauty of the flowers. That's one of the things I like about Parmë; she doesn't feel the need to chatter all the time. Like me, she knows how to appreciate quiet.

 

There are plenty of little nooks with benches and ivy-covered trellises scattered throughout, and she pulls me over to sit on one, resting her head on my shoulder. "I don't feel like going home yet," she says with a little laugh. "It's too beautiful out tonight."

 

"Yeah.” I pause. Swallow. Take her hand in mine, matching our fingertips together and studying her delicate bones. I love her so much, it's sometimes hard to find words, or at least words that don't sound ridiculous. I'm no poet, and I want to sit here with you forever is so overdramatic as to be worthy of Makalaurë.

 

“Will you marry me?“ I blurt out.

 

Parmë blinks, mouth open, and her shock is like a pre-dawn plunge into the ocean. "Y-yes,” she stammers. “Yes, I would. I will.”

 

Then my arms are around her, our lips meeting in a tentative kiss. It's a little sloppy, but that maybe isn’t surprising, since I don't think either of us have much experience. I sure don't. But it's nice – her lips are soft and warm and she smells like vanilla and old parchment, sweet and familiar.

 

I pull away suddenly when I realize something. "Rings,“ I say, feeling like a fool. "I can’t believe I just proposed without rings.”

 

“Did…you even talk to your parents?” Parmë squeaks.

 

“Er…” I cough. “Um. No. I should probably do that as well.”

 

She laughs shakily. "I love you, Carnistir. Even when you don’t think things through.“

 

"I don’t think they’ll object,” I protest. “It’s not like there’s something wrong with you— No, I don’t mean it like that!” I groan and drop my head into my hands. Why did this have to be so difficult? “I mean you're—” Basically perfect in every way. No, I couldn’t say that. “You’re you. And I love you. So there’s nothing for any reasonable person to object to. My parents are reasonable people, right?”

 

“I don’t know,” Parmë says. “Seeing as I’ve never actually met them.”

 

“Oh, hell. I have to introduce you to my family. I have to introduce you to my brothers. I have to introduce you to Tyelko.” I groan again. Tyelkormo is an immature idiot about girls. Why Irissë tolerates him, I will never know.

 

Parmë pats my arm. “It’s– It’s okay. They’re your parents; I’m sure they want you to be happy.”

 

My heart gives a funny sort of lurch. Stunned and nervous and wrong-footed as Parmë is, not even having met my oddball family yet, and she's still trying to comfort me.

 

“I love you,” I say, a little softer. “Let me walk you home? Just– don’t say anything to Amarië. Not yet.”

 

“I’m not saying a word to anyone, Carnistir. Not till you’ve talked to your parents. I won't be fodder for anybody's gossip unless I absolutely have to be.” She presses her lips together and crosses her arms, taut like a bowstring. "I won't be the woman who got rejected by the royal family for not being good enough."

 

She's scared, I realize, scared of what being engaged to me might mean. Scared of what people will say. "That won't happen," I insist. "I'm going to marry you, and I don't care what anybody else says about it. Except you, obviously."

 

This is turning out to be about as romantic as filing taxes. I feel like such an idiot.

 

"Look," I say, holding her close once more. "Let me walk you home. I'll talk to my parents in the morning, and then tomorrow I'll tell you what they say." I kiss her hair and feel her relax a little in my arms. "It'll be okay. I promise."

 

"I hope so," she murmurs. "I do love you."

 

"I know." I've known for years; I've just been waiting until we're both of age to say anything about it. But it turns out this romance thing is a lot harder than it looks. "And I love you. But let's get you home, okay?"

 

***********

 

After I walk her to the rooms she shares with Amarië, I find myself back in the city gardens, wandering, lost in thought. It's well past the mingling of the lights when I finally make it home. I ease the back door shut, hoping that everyone is asleep, and turn to find Ammë and Atto standing in the hall doorway waiting for me.

 

Damn.

 

“A bit late, isn’t it, Moryo?” Atto says, his arms crossed over his chest. Ammë's hands are on her hips, her head cocked to one side, both of them looking very unhappy. I must have worried them badly, and I feel a sudden rush of guilt.

 

Time to make it worse. I wet my lips and hesitate before croaking out, “I need rings. I’m engaged. I think.”

 

Stunned silence. Then they both speak at once.

 

“What do you mean, you think?”

 

“To whom?”

 

“I don't have rings,” I say, answering Atto’s question first. “But she said yes, so we’re still engaged, right? Even without the rings?”

 

“Of course you are,” Ammë says, suddenly soothing, and I can tell that she sees my worry plain. Atto's eyebrows rise to his hairline as she speaks. "But to whom, Carnistir?"

 

"Parmë. My friend from the archives. I met her for dinner and then we went for a walk in the gardens and I wasn't planning to ask her today but it just sort of slipped out and—" I'm babbling, and I force myself to stop and take a few deep breaths. "I really did mean to talk to you first."

 

They're both shocked, I can tell, though they're trying their best to hide it. Ammë rallies first. "I think we need to meet this young woman," she says. "Not that I doubt she's as wonderful as you say she is, but we can't sit by and watch our son marry a stranger, can we?"

 

Atto shakes his head. "Invite her to dinner sometime next week. We'll meet her, I can make rings—"

 

"You mean I can make rings," I interject. "I'm the one getting married." I can feel him bristle a little, and I know what he'll say — don't I want them to be perfect? — but Ammë silences him with a look.

 

"Rings will be made," she says firmly. "We can work out the details tomorrow. It's late. Right now we all need sleep." But she smiles wide and holds out her arms to me, hugging me close. "I'm happy for you, Carnistir. We both are."

 

And they really are. I can tell.

 

Chapter 2

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We meet for lunch in a more secluded area the next day, off the main square a bit. We both want this conversation to go unheard.

 

"My parents would like to invite you to dinner next week," I say. "I was thinking in four days? That'll give you some time. You can talk to your parents, do whatever else you need to do…" Doubtless I'll be going on a similar visit to her family soon, but I met her parents a few years ago, briefly, and they seemed to like me fine. They also were obviously keen on Parmë making her own decisions, not acting to please them.

 

She nods, but doesn't speak. I take her hands, and I can feel her pulse fluttering like a bird under the fingers that rest on her wrist. "Parmë," I ask gently, "what are you afraid of?"

 

She bites her lip and looks down, pulling her hands away. "People are going to talk," she says softly. "And I don't want to be talked about."

 

"Why will they talk?"

 

She laughs, but there's no real humor in it. "Carnistir," she says, "you're a prince. I'm not exactly a princess."

 

"So? I don't have to marry a princess. Atto didn't," I point out. "Neither did Uncle Nolofinwë."

 

"But they both still married someone important. Your mother is a renowned artist, your aunt is politically connected…" She pauses, twisting her fingers together in her lap. "I'm nobody special," she says, very softly.

 

"That's bollocks," I say. "'Nobody special'? Canyanis told me the Head Archivist was so excited after he interviewed you that he just about fainted. And you didn't even have a teacher! Everything you knew then, you'd taught yourself on your own. You're smart, Parmë. And you do your job so well that your coworkers gave you an epessë for it before you were even out of your apprenticeship!" I cross my arms, tipping my head up the way Maitimo does when he knows he's won an argument. "'Nobody special,' my left buttock."

 

That gets a laugh, a real one, and some of the worry clears from her face. "You have such a way with words," she says. "All right; four days from now it is. I'll talk to my parents."

 

***********

 

The conversation sticks in my head the entire way home. I'd like to talk to Ammë, to ask her if she felt any similar apprehension about marrying Atto, but I don't think Parmë would want her vulnerabilities revealed to my family before she's even met them. So I seek out Atto instead.

 

He's in his office with the door open, and he beckons me in before I can knock on the doorframe, using his foot to nudge out one of the chairs near his desk for me. "How did it go?" he asks.

 

I drop down beside him and rest my elbows on my knees. "It went well," I say. "I suggested dinner on Arë Fanturion; I figured that would give everybody a little time to prepare. She agreed."

 

"Excellent," he says. "We're looking forward to meeting her. But this brings us back to the issue of rings."

 

"I know. And I really do appreciate you offering to craft them, Atto; I know they'd be beautiful. But I'd like to make them myself. I think who makes them will matter more to Parmë than whether or not they're technically perfect," I say honestly. "I mean, if she expected perfection in all things, she wouldn't be marrying me, would she?"

 

"Moryo…" Atto says, using my childhood nickname, his voice chiding but also a little sad.

 

"It's true," I say. "I have flaws. I'm not always very good at mitigating them, but I do know they're there."

 

He surprises me by pulling me into a sudden embrace. "You give yourself too little credit," he says. "You're a good boy — a good man. Your mother and I are very proud of you."

 

I rest my head against his shoulder for a moment, feeling his love like a warm blanket around my heart. My parents have never hesitated to tell me that they love me, but hearing that they're proud of me is much rarer. Though I try not to be, I'm usually the one who causes them the most embarrassment.

 

"I mean, if you wanted to help, I wouldn't mind— I mean, I'd like it," I say. "I know I never went much beyond basic proficiency." Neither I nor my brothers have ever had much interest in forge-work, and I think it makes Atto sad sometimes. If my parents choose to have another child, I hope he or she shares Atto's love of crafting.

 

"Of course," he says, squeezing my shoulder before letting me go. "I'd be happy to advise you."

 

***********

 

The dinner seems to come both too quickly and too slowly. I make the rings with Atto's help, succeeding on my fourth try. Ammë frets about what to serve for dinner, Maitimo does his best to assist her, Makalaurë offers to help me compose a romantic ode — I decline — and Tyelko teases me relentlessly before taking off to the woods to escape the bustle.

 

We settle on a rich potato soup, lobster — a favorite of everyone in the family — mixed greens, some of Ammë's corn-and-mango salad, and peach sherbet. The next few days are a whirlwind of cleaning, until Arë Fanturion finally arrives.

 

I meet Parmë at the halfway point, to walk with her from there to my home, and I can't help but be stunned by what I see. She's in a dress of cream and deep burgundy, the colors bringing out her dark eyes, and her hair, usually pinned up and hidden by a serviceable kerchief, tumbles loosely from her veil in a black sheet.

 

I've always thought she was pretty, but tonight she looks truly beautiful.

 

"Ready?" I ask, taking her hand and pressing a light kiss to her cheek.

 

She nods, though I can feel her nervousness prickling under my skin. She's clutching a basket in her other hand, and I peek in to see several fat flower bulbs.

 

"Grape hyacinths," she says before I can ask. "A gift for your parents. I wasn't going to inflict my cooking on any of you."

 

"It'd be a memorable first impression, though," I joke, trying to lighten the mood, but I receive only a half-hearted smile in return. I've never thought of my family as being particularly intimidating, but I suppose we are, at least for someone of Parmë's background. "Look," I say, squeezing her fingers. "Everything will be fine, I promise. My family is really looking forward to meeting you."

 

"I hope so," she says softly. But she walks with me down the road with determination, squaring her shoulders as we near the house.

 

Ammë greets us at the door, enveloping Parmë in a welcoming hug. "It's so wonderful to finally meet you, Parmacundë," she gushes, ushering us inside.

 

"Thank you, my lady," Parmë says, a little pink in the cheeks. Holding out the basket, she says, "I brought— These are for you."

 

"Please, call me Nerdanel," Ammë says. "Are those hyacinths? How lovely — I adore hyacinths!" She places the basket on the hexagonal side-table that sits in the hall and gestures for me to take Parmë into the sitting room for introductions. Those go smoothly enough — Atto, Maitimo, and Makalaurë are as warm as Ammë was, and even Tyelko manages to put on a welcoming face.

 

It isn't until we're seated at the table, soup finished and waiting for the main course, that a thought occurs to me: I'm not certain Parmë's ever eaten a lobster before.

 

That hunch is confirmed by the barely-visible furrow between her eyebrows as one is set down in front of her. It's a subtle tell, one I doubt the rest of my family picks up on, but I know exactly what it means. I can see her watching me out of the corner of her eye, so I go slowly as I crack the claw in two, giving her a chance to see how it's done. She places her own claw between the nutcracker and squeezes, and the tip soars across the table, striking Makalaurë squarely on the chin.

 

Silence falls, and her face flushes to the approximate shade of a grapefruit. "I’m sorry!” she squeaks, just as Tyelko bursts into laughter.

 

"It’s all right,” Makalaurë says, wiping his face with a napkin. He smiles gently, but I can tell he's just kicked Tyelko under the table. “No harm done.”

 

“Do you remember that dinner, Makalaurë, just after Uncle Arafinwë and Aunt Eärwen were engaged? And we were at Haru Finwë’s and he served snails?” asks Maitimo, and right then I'd swear he was sent straight from the One. "You tried to eat the shells.”

 

Makalaurë laughs. "Of course I remember. I lost a tooth.”

 

“And spat it out into Arafinwë’s wine,” Ammë says, picking up the story. "All in front of King Olwë!”

 

"Did you really?" Parmë asks, looking shocked, and when Makalaurë nods, grinning, she answers with a small smile of her own.

 

Sometimes I think my oldest brothers are true gifts.

 

Apart from that little hiccough — which I suspect isn't little at all from Parmë's perspective — things go smoothly enough, though the conversation comes in spurts and stops, and by the time we reach dessert Tyelko has withdrawn completely, only looking up once from his sherbet to shoot me a dark look that I can't interpret. But I don't think Parmë notices; she's deep in discussion with Atto over the virtues and drawbacks of various calligraphy styles, both of them gesturing animatedly as they speak.

 

She receives embraces from both Atto and Ammë at the end of the evening, and as I leave to walk her home, I think that, all in all, this was a good first meeting.

 

Parmë disagrees. We're around the corner, finally out of sight of the house, when she breaks down. “Oh, I made such a fool of myself,” she says, burying her face in her hands.

 

“Shh, no,” I said, pausing to hold her. "Most of it’s my fault; I didn’t think how you might not have eaten lobster before. I’m sorry.“

 

"Still,” she protests, her voice muffled as she leans her head against my shoulder. “That was a fiasco; don’t deny it.”

 

“It wasn't," I say. "Ammë likes you a lot. And she was thrilled about the bulbs. She really does love hyacinths.”

 

“But the rest of your family? Tyelkormo looked like he wanted to gut me and serve me to his dog! And I hit your brother with a lobster claw! I hit Kanafinwë Makalaurë! The musician! With a lobster claw! In the face!”

 

“Tyelko's just being stupid,” I said dismissively. "And the lobster thing could have happened to anyone; Makalaurë wasn't angry, I promise. He and Maitimo and Atto like you, too. It's—" I pause. "It wasn't that bad, really," I say, trying to be reassuring. "I know what my family looks like when they're displeased, and I know what they look like when they've accepted someone. They really liked you!"

 

She makes a noncommittal noise, still leaning against my shoulder, and I rub circles over her back until I can feel her returning to a more even state. "Let's get you home," I say. "It won't seem so bad in the morning."

 

***********

 

I don't see Parmë for another two days, but when we do meet for lunch again she seems much calmer, and she invites me to dinner with her family next week. But back at home Tyelko keeps up his sulking, and things build up between us until, predictably, they finally explode in a knock-down, drag-out fight, the biggest we've had in years, one that leaves both of us bruised and Ammë's favorite lamp broken.

 

It's Maitimo who finds me afterward, of course, up on the roof over Ammë's workshop. He's forever smoothing things over between the lot of us. I don't know how he does it, honestly; if I were my own brother I'd never have the patience to deal with me.

 

He hauls himself up from the window one handed, cradling something in his other arm. Once he's seated himself beside me, I see what it is — a towel full of ice. Taking it, I press it to my swelling eye, and we sit in silence for several long moments.

 

"You do know what the trouble is, don't you?" Maitimo eventually says.

 

"No," I say. "I really don't."

 

"You've grown up," he says simply.

 

"Well, that's not news," I say, feeling a rush of irritation. "My begetting day was back in the fall! That was months ago!"

 

"So it was," he says with a nod. "But it's one thing to turn fifty, and quite another to get married. It's not the fact that you're legally grown, Moryo; it's that you're doing grown-up things. I think Tyelko's having a hard time reconciling his memories of his baby brother with the young man you've become."

 

"And you, you aren't?"

 

He shakes his head and gives me a fond smile. "You're my third little brother, remember? I've had plenty of practice. Besides, she seems like a very sweet girl, and you clearly love each other. I'm happy for you, Moryo. We all are."

 

"Tyelko isn't," I mutter.

 

"Tyelko'll come around," Maitimo says, reaching over to ruffle my hair. "Just give him a little time — and try not to punch him again, all right?"

 

I swat his hand away with my free arm, but I nod and say, "I'll try."

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Pandë for the lobster!

Chapter 3

Read Chapter 3

When I arrive at work the next morning, my coworkers see my black eye and, predictably, start to tease me. It doesn't bother me as much as it used to; I know there's no real malice behind the words and the laughter. They're just trying to be friendly, and I'm well aware that I'm not an easy person to befriend.

"Another tiff with one of your cousins?" Sartano asks, grinning at me. It's a reasonable guess -- my bruises are courtesy of one of Arafinwë's sons at least three times in five -- but today it's incorrect, so I shake my head as I silently make my way over to my desk.

"One of your brothers, then," Istimë says. "Tyelkormo?"

I'm betrayed by my face; I can feel my cheeks heating, which means I've surely turned even redder than I usually am.

"Ha!" Istimë says triumphantly. "I knew it!"

Curulambo asks the same question he asks every time. "Was it over a girl?"

I groan and drop my head into my hands, and silence suddenly falls.

"...Stars above," Curulambo says, shock audible in his voice. "He's wearing an engagement ring."

"He's been wearing an engagement ring for five days," Aicórë calls from her office, finally stepping in to get us back in line. "I can't believe I hired you three. No attention to detail, any of you."

"He is right here, and he has a name," I say, raising my head and glowering at the room at large. But I'm nearly knocked out of my chair by Istimë, who envelopes me in a not-entirely-welcome hug and cries, "Congratulations! Who is it? Is it that girl you meet for lunch?"

"Yeah," I say, fighting back a grimace as I carefully extricate myself from her embrace.

"That's wonderful! We should do something," Sartano says. The mischief has gone out of his face, but he's still smiling.

"What you should do is take care of the accounts for Rainë and Alasso's carpentry business," Aicórë says, poking her head into the room this time. "I want them done before you leave today."

I could kiss her. She had noticed the ring the first day I'd worn it and had congratulated me, but she hadn't raised a fuss. She knew I wouldn't want her to, and I'm grateful that she's quashed my coworkers' nonsense.

Sartano, Istimë, and Curulambo all grumble, but they obey Aicórë and return to their desks and their work. I do the same, but in my head I count the hours until lunch.

***********

"My coworkers are being ridiculous," I say to Parmë as we eat. "Istimë hugged me."

She laughs. "They're just happy for you," she says. "I got hugs all around when I told my coworkers."

"Yeah, but you're closer to yours than I am to mine," I point out. The other archivists are Parmë's friends, not just her colleagues. I can't really say the same for the people I work with, not even for Aicórë. We get along fine, but we’re not close by any means, and I certainly don’t seek out their company outside of work.

"That reminds me -- Canyanis and the others want to take us out to dinner in two weeks," she says. "Them and Amarië. Does that sound good?"

I nod. I like Parmë's friends, because she's fond of them and they're fond of her, and spending time with them makes her happy. And Amarië, Parmë's roommate, has a wicked sense of humor that never fails to make me laugh.

Parmë beams and kisses me on the cheek, and her happiness warms me to the tips of my toes.

"I love you," I tell her. I don't think I'll ever get tired of saying it.

"I love you, too," she says. She takes her folded kerchief from her pocket and ties it back over her hair, and I realize that it's nearly time to return to work.

"Try not to collect any more bruises before we go to see my family," she says, her tone gently teasing.

I smile at her as I pack up my lunch dishes. "It's only four days," I say. "I think Tyelko and I can last that long. And the black eye should be gone by then."

The bell tower starts to chime the hour. I know I'll irk Aicórë if I'm late, but I still pause to kiss Parmë before I go.

***********

Four days later, on the weekly day of rest, I meet Parmë at the city gates at midmorning for the trip to her grandparents' and parents' home. Their farm is a two-hour ride outside the city, one of many nestled in the fertile valley that lies below Túna. They mainly grow vegetables, though Parmë has mentioned that her grandfather recently took up beekeeping.

I've tucked that away in the back of my head; it's a topic I know a little bit about, because my grandmother Ercassë, Ammë's mother, is an apiarist. It makes me feel a little less nervous to know that if the conversation falters, I can bring up bees.

"I remember your parents' names, but what's your grandfather's name, again?" I ask. When Parmë has spoken of her grandparents in the past, she's always simply called them Haru and Haruni.

"Nasseldo," Parmë says. "And my grandmother is Cuivellë."

I fix the names in my mind. "And your father's parents -- will they be there as well?"

She shakes her head. "They don't come much, because they don't get on well with Haruni." Shrugging, she adds, "I don't really understand it. Haruni is the most easygoing person I know. I can't fathom what there is not to like about her."

This is new information, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

She shrugs again. "Your family isn't the only one where people don't get along."

"That's true enough," I concede. My father's feelings toward Indis may be an unusually prominent example of familial friction, but that doesn't mean the House of Finwë has a monopoly on these things.
 

We set an easy pace, enjoying the fine weather; it’s warm enough to be pleasant, but not so warm as to be uncomfortable, and there’s a light breeze that carries the subtle scent of damp earth from yesterday’s rain. As we ride by a field dotted with poppies, Parmë starts to sing.

 

“You know the poppy flower grows up tall and slim and straight,

But you are not a tall flower. You are still a small flower.

You know the poppy flower grows up tall and slim and straight.

To grow as tall as they do, you’re going to have to wait!”

 

She laughs softly and says, “My father used to sing that to me when I was a kid, every time we passed this stretch of road on our way to the city,” she says. “I used to think I would never be as tall as a poppy, but I grew eventually. I’m at least a poppy-and-a-half now.”

 

A poppy-and-a-half is about right; Parmë is bird-boned and unusually tiny, not even five feet tall. At six-foot seven, I feel short compared to Maitimo, but next to Parmë I feel like a giant.

 

“Sing it again?” I ask. She obliges, and now that I have a handle on the words, I join in. My voice is no treasure – Makalaurë always says I croak like a raven – but Parmë never seems to mind. I don’t know how I got so lucky as to find someone who cherishes me so much, flaws and all, but I’m forever grateful that I offered Parmë a seat beside me on the edge of the fountain at lunchtime on the first day we met.

 

She’s been my best friend for years. I know I’d be awfully lonely without her in my life.

 

The farm, when we reach it, is homey, almost quaint. The house is small, but looks cozy, and the fields surrounding it are lush and abundant. I see squash, pumpkin, cabbages, lettuce, peppers, beans, peas, and potatoes. Bees are circling the beehives. A few chickens are pecking and scratching in the dirt, and a cow is lazily chewing its cud in the grass outside the barn.

 

Parmë is, by her own admission, a dreadful cook. But one thing she can do – and that I can’t – is make cheese. In all likelihood, I realize, she learned how to make it with milk from one of this very cow’s bovine ancestors.

 

I’ve met Parmë’s parents, Poldasámo and Elencalë, before, but this is my first time meeting Nasseldo and Cuivellë, her grandparents. One look at Cuivellë tells me where Parmë’s striking dark eyes come from, along with her petite stature; the woman is even shorter than her granddaughter. I remember Parmë once mentioning that her grandmother’s people were among the Unwilling, and that Cuivellë had left her family behind to travel with Nasseldo to Valinor; now I find myself wondering if all among the Avari were of such small size. I know that Cuivellë is the one who taught Parmë to cultivate mushrooms, a gastronomic habit that I find odd beyond belief, but that I’ve come to accept as part and parcel of my dearest friend.

 

Hopefully we’ll have no fungi at lunch today.

 

I’m greeted with warm words of welcome, but there’s a prickling in my stomach and an itching under my skin that tells me that Parmë’s family is nervous around me. I wonder, do they worry that I’ll look down on them, being neither scholars nor great craftsmen? Because I don’t. Farming may be a humble life, but it’s a vital job; food is a necessity, not a luxury.

 

The Eldar could survive without art. We’d be bored as all hell, but we’d continue to exist. But without food, we would all fade away, going to the Halls of Mandos like my grandmother. As Ammë always says, sometimes the simplest tasks are the most important. Small cogs have to turn so that big wheels can spin.

 

Besides, Poldasámo and Elencalë, Nasseldo and Cuivellë – they produced my favorite person in all of Aman. How could I ever look at them with disdain?

 

Lunch here is far simpler than what my parents prepared, but that’s no surprise, and I’m aware enough to realize that, for Parmë’s family, brisket braised in red wine is probably closer to what they would cook on a holiday then what they would normally eat for lunch. But the meat is tender and flavorful, the carrots and onions are sweet, and the potatoes are cooked to perfection.

 

“This is delicious,” I say, after Parmë’s father has said the blessing and we’ve begun to eat.

 

“Haruni prepared something special to go with it,” Parmë says, lifting the cover off one of the side dishes. I catch the scent of butter, accompanied by an earthy aroma I can’t place, and when she holds the dish out to me, I see something wrinkled and brown that – horror of horrors – can only be a mushroom.

 

Help me, is what I’m thinking when I meet her gaze, but I can see in her eyes this is a challenge – an affectionate challenge, but a challenge nonetheless. And for better or for worse, it’s never been said that any son of Fëanáro and Nerdanel has ever backed away from a challenge. Gamely, I take a few and add them to the side of my plate.

 

It turns out that they have a certain nutty flavor brought out by the butter, but I find the texture unpleasantly chewy. Still, I eat all that I took before saying, “Well, I can’t say they’re to my taste, but then, I’m not to everyone’s taste either, so who am I to judge?”

 

That gets a laugh from Parmë, and her grandmother smiles at me and says, “Parmë was right; you’re a good sport. Well done.”

 

Beside me, Parmë leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. “You’re to my taste,” she says, “and that’s what matters.”

 

I blush all the way to the tips of my toes.

---

Chapter End Notes

Parmë's poppy song is Tom Chapin's translation of the Italian song "Papaveri e Papere".