Bouquet, for Femslash Bingo 2016 by Urloth

16th July - I12 Witch Hazel: A Magic Spell. Nimrodel/Mithrellas.

Of Mithrellas side ficlet.

Nimrodel had ordered Hamamelis to be planted in a new grove of her own design. It was not a White Grotto, nor a duelling circle. It was for an entirely unrelated reason and she would not say what. The Lady of the Green Weld was threatening Nimloth’s rule over the River of Sighs, and yet Nimloth had time enough to plot out the grove, and oversee the planting herself.

Then she summonsed her Housekeeper.

Mithrellas was to attend it. No one else was to enter it.

There was a strict list of requirements Mithrellas had to fulfil and fulfil them she did. Though she made her displeasure at this extra work known till Nimrodel kissed her and kissed her and promised her silks and pearls and silver bangles, and when that did not erase her frown, promised her a new quilt, an extra rest day when the grove was deemed ready for whatever Nimloth wanted, and to take her when Nimloth went to pay maternal respects to the Lady of the Silver Ferns. 

And so the tiring tasks began. Mithrellas rose every day from beside Nimrodel, and reluctantly left the warmth her Lady’s body provided.  She descended from the House in bare feet and nothing but a belt of deer hide before the sun could pierce the canopy. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, and the air was always cold as she walked to the River of Sighs to draw water for the grove. Even in the height of summer it was cold and in the winter her skin began to crack and bleed.

Each step towards the new grove would get heavier than the last. It felt like dead hands were gripping her legs.

The River laughed in her ears.

When she reached the grove she knelt. She weeded the base of each swiftly growing shrub, and then ladled the water out, making sure each plant got an equal amount. She could not see at first how such plain plant could be of any use to her Lady. She had no memory of ever being told of rites that needed the plant. It was good for nothing but making an astringent but she wasn’t to pluck any of the leaves that were beginning to broaden as the plants matured over a year. Nor was she allowed to collect any of the twigs that fell and burn them. They had to be gathered in the centre of the grove and allowed to moulder.

Each wide leaf filled with fresh colour, and the first flowers bloomed red and yellow and orange.

They were beautiful.

It made the walk every morning easier.

The Lady of the Green Weld was sending messengers with every crescent moon. They presented and reiterated her claim over the River of Sighs. Nimrodel sent each one of them away red faced from her laughter.

A tiredness began to take over Mithrellas as she continued to dutifully rise before the rest of the servants, and tend to Nimloth’s new grove. It became just a bit harder to get out of bed, the stairs became a little too steep beneath her feet, and the bucket of water became heavier and heavier.

There was frost on the ground as she stared over the grove and realised every one of the hamamelis were flowering. It was so cold. And Nimloth had not asked about the grove she had added to Mithrellas’ duties even once, and that was a different coldness in itself.

Even news of the first flowering of the Hamamelis did not stir her interest.

“Keep watering it,” Nimrodel turned away, her hair braided with long cylindrical weights of green jade, brought from miles away where in cold mountain streams it was harvested by the short men born of the stone faced god.

The journey that morning had been hard. Mithrellas had tripped, fallen down the stairs and wrenched her shoulder. She had fallen on the way to the River. She had fallen on her way to the grove. Her legs, beneath her warm dress, were still bleeding. She could feel the creep of little droplets but they were not warm. They were ice cold.

She dropped her head but left her Lady to go tend to the rest of the day.

That night she crawled into her bed, closed her eyes, and the cold crept up her legs and between her thighs, delving straight inside her till it reached her heart and squeezed.

She screamed and there was a frustrated cry from quite a distance. It was Nimrodel. But where was she? She was stuck in her bed, muscles locked in place by surging waves of cold and anger that wasn’t hers.

“Lady?” she called out, “Nimrodel?”

But there was silence.

The house sounded less than silent. It sounded empty. There was chanting rising in the distance from where the new grove had been planted. Had she missed some message that she was meant to go there?

The chanting came closer. Even her eyelids felt stiff; resisting her need to blink them.

Warm hands lifted her from the sheets. Carried her from the house. There was the flash of torch light but faces were blurring together into the hungry mask of the Lady of the Green Weld’s face. The River of Sighs was laughing at her, even louder than it had in the mornings. She went into its water without a scream, felt her heart thud to a halt from the shock of its icey embrace, and she woke with frost coating her sheets and her eyelashes till they could barely lift them.

She groped at the cloth under her hands, sure she had been sinking into the winter slurry of the River.

“Wonderful! More than wonderful!!!” Nimloth caught her face between her hands. Mithrellas’ cheeks burned from the warmth of the skin and each of Nimrodel’s kisses on her mouth was like being slapped across the lips with a fire poker.

She made a noise of protest but Nimloth did not stop, hungry and eager, apparently.

“What did you do?” she asked, too familiar with how Nimrodel worked, and how the magic of all the Lords and Ladies worked, not to know that she had been the recipient of a spell.

“Diverted the Lady of the Green Weld’s attention, just for a while,” Nimrodel pulled away her nightdress and kissed her shoulders, “I did not expect you to be so very attentive in your duties my love, so absolutely devoted to every instruction I gave you would force the witch-hazel to bear fruit before its time. Though I suppose feeding them with your blood helped.”

 “Witch-hazel fruits?” Mithrellas pushed away Nimrodel’s face. Blood? Oh her scrapes. It would have been nice to be told this. Not that she could have prevented her injuries from her fall. Not with only a belt on.

“You cannot eat it, my ever attentive Housekeeper, do not think of adding it to our menus,” Nimloth was not being discouraged from Mithrellas’ skin, even though the frost had melted and it was uncomfortable to be sitting on wet cold sheets.

“You could have warned me,” Mithrellas gave up, perhaps a little pleased when Nimloth spread the warmth of her skin down over her stomach and thighs.

“You would have worried,” Nimrodel mumbled against her knee, nipping the underside till Mithrellas squeaked and smacked her with her foot, “and you will worry enough when we host the duelling for the next Lady of the Green Weld.”