Lyric by Idle Leaves

Lyric

It is mid-afternoon before Írissë manages to quietly slip out the front door of her great aunt's home and follow the winding path down the hill. Elenwë's home is set back from the main thoroughfare, with well-planned gardens enclosed by pale stone walls. Rather than presenting herself at the front gate like a proper guest, Írissë leaves the walkway and follows the walls until they start to curve around the furthest ends of the garden.

The leaf-and-scrollwork carved into the stone offers ample footholds, especially for one used to climbing trees, and in a matter of moments she quietly lands on the grass inside, beside a wide stretch of closely-planted tulips. She picks one – red edged with gold – and steps onto the garden paths that weave into a maze between the trees and amongst the flowers.

Elenwë is just where Írissë hopes: at the northernmost corner, in the shade of her favourite beech tree. She sits beneath the branches, a book in her hand and several others before her. Írissë makes hardly a sound as she approaches; it is only when her feet leave stone and rustle audibly through grass that Elenwë raises her head. Her surprise quickly transforms into a smile.

Írissë tumbles to the ground beside her. "Not who you were expecting?"

"Mother usually calls me to the house for guests," Elenwë says.

"She'd have to know I was here, for that," Írissë responds, and presents Elenwë with the tulip in her hand. "Your garden walls aren't difficult to climb."

There's not a sliver of surprise in Elenwë's eyes. "I wouldn't know," she says with near-convincing innocence, but the corners of her lips quirk upward behind the tulip as she brings it to her nose.

Írissë picks up the books at Elenwë's feet. History, history, and more history. She wrinkles her nose. Elenwë raises an eyebrow, then motions to the one in her lap. "Poetry," she says.

"Vanyarin poetry?" Rather too pious for Írissë's liking, though she won't say so out loud.

"Telerin," says Elenwë. "Lyrics, more precisely – from a cousin who spent a summer near Alqualondë. They're usually sung from memory, but not all of us have such a gift for music."

"You sing better than I do," Írissë says, and gathers up her skirts. She repositions herself at Elenwë's back and slides her hands into Elenwë's hair, loosening the ties that bind her braids and shaking them out.

"Trying to make me look a mess?" Elenwë asks, mildly.

"Quite the opposite," is Írissë's reply.

Elenwë begins to read, then, aloud in the musical, flowing dialect of the Lindar, and Írissë reaches to pluck daisies from the ring of small blossoms at the base of their tree. Her nimble fingers braid them into Elenwë's hair as she listens to lilting words she doesn't quite understand.

When Elenwë pauses, for a moment, Írissë says, "They're supposed to be sung, yes?"

"Yes, they are."

"Well?"

Elenwë obliges; her voice is clear and sweet, like one of the shallow streams in the fields around Írissë's home. Írissë cannot resist reaching out, her hands first finding Elenwë's shoulders, then her ears, neck, collarbone. Elenwë finishes her song and turns her head: an invitation. Írissë leans forward and kisses her, then pulls away to see a broad smile gracing Elenwë's face. She is sure it is mirrored on her own.

The moment is broken with an inquisitive call: Elenwë's name. Her mother can only just be heard in their corner of the gardens, but it is enough.

"Perhaps I should go," says Írissë. She moves to stand; Elenwë catches her wrist before she can depart.

"Mother and father will be out tonight," she says, releasing Írissë. "It's lovely, right here, under stars. And there won't be anyone to interrupt our... singing." She gathers her books in her arms and takes a step, then another, backward. "Say you'll come."

"Yes," Írissë says. "Yes."

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