Half Past Ten in the Rose Garden by grey_gazania

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Chapter 3

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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.

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Chapter End Notes

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