Will you remember who kissed you by Himring

Chapter 1

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In the month of Cermie, when the sultry heat hung heavily over the marshes and midges danced over pool and puddle, the old fisherwoman who lived alone fell sick. The healer of the village was not surprised. Old people in the marshes often died in summer or in winter, when the heat set in after the solstice or when the chill had begun to bite. The old fisherwoman had been looking frail of late. If she had the strength to pull through now, she might yet survive the autumn, but the healer had her doubts.

The fisherwoman herself, it seemed, had no doubt at all about the outcome. Gossip in the village reported that she had called one of her many nieces to her and sent her post-haste to the great city. Despite everything, that seemed to many an extraordinary step to take. One or two people said unkind things. The healer frowned at these. But it made her uneasy, too. She concluded, however, that her duty was to cure what she could, alleviate what she could not, and the rest was none of her business.

Thus she concentrated on combating the recurring bouts of fever and easing her patient’s struggle for breath during the heat of the day. She asked no questions about the missing niece or about Armenelos. And the fisherwoman volunteered no comment.

But beside the fisherwoman’s pillow lay a piece of reed that received a notch each day, counting the days since the niece had left. It was not such a very long way from Nindamos to Armenelos, perhaps, but for a woman travelling alone, who had never left the village and had to walk all the way on foot, the first stage, through the marshes, might not be the most difficult part.

The fevers came and went. The fisherwoman grew weaker, despite the healer’s best efforts. The fisherwoman’s nieces—those who remained in the village—took turns dropping by to help with household tasks and with offers of company. At first, they were sometimes waved irritably away, but increasingly more and more help was accepted. Then the fisherwoman took to her bed entirely.

‘I am not ready yet,’ she said to the healer, however, finally breaking her silence.

In her hand, she was clutching her bit of notched reed.

‘The princess may not be able to come, you know,’ said the healer cautiously.

‘She’s coming all right,’ said the fisherwoman. ‘But she moves about; she’s a traveller, still. Zimrahin may not have found her in Armenelos. Maybe she needed to go on elsewhere to find her or somebody had to send a message...’

She paused. She was looked very tired, but also very determined.

‘I need to be still here when she comes. Help me.’

‘Are you really sure?’ the healer wanted to ask.

Ordinarily, at this stage, all she would have still been trying to do was to make her patient as comfortable as possible. The fierceness with which those old weakened fingers clutched the reed worried her. But she nodded and did the best she could.

For good measure, she turned all the fisherwoman’s clothes inside out, rearranged all her shoes so that they pointed away from the door and turned the cooking-pot upside down. Perhaps it was mere superstition, that old belief that the departing soul would be confused and delayed by such things, but it could do no harm.

‘Thank you,’ said the fisherwoman.

The nieces, when they came in, gave the new arrangement sidelong looks, but said nothing and let it be.

 

Zimrahin had left the village on foot, but returned on a horse. She was sitting astride in front of the princess and the cob that carried the two was muddied up to its withers. Half the village seemed to have assembled to watch Lady Yavien alight and lift Zimrahin off the horse.

Zimrahin stood stiffly, as if she was travel-sore and felt it, but asked at once: ‘My aunt?’

‘She’s waiting for you both,’ said the healer, who happened to be close enough when they arrived and was very relieved to see them.

‘You,’ said Yavien imperiously to one of the more well-to-do villagers, ‘see to this horse!’

She handed over the reins and strode off quickly in the direction of the river arm, towards the fisherwoman’s cottage.

Lady Yavien was still strong and lithe, her movements vigorous, as was to be expected in a descendant of Elros who had inherited his longer life span. But, following behind, the healer noticed hints of silver in her golden hair. She wondered whether she should fall back and give them all a bit of privacy. On the other hand, there was the risk that strong emotions might precipitate a medical crisis…

She followed them in.

‘Yavien,’ said the old fisherwoman, with deep satisfaction, ‘I knew you would come.’

‘Of course I came!’ exclaimed the princess. ‘You could have sent for me at any time you wanted me, my love! Did you not know?’

She was kneeling by the bedside, holding the fisherwoman’s hand.

The fisherwoman laughed a little, wept a little, tried to catch her breath.

‘In the early days, I used to wonder whether you’d come back every time you left. But you did, every time. So yes, I knew.’

She paused, glimpsing her niece who hovered by the foot of the bed.

‘Thank you for fetching her, Zimrahin! You’ll take Zimrahin with you, love, when you leave again, won’t you? She wants to travel, like you.’

‘I’ve only just arrived, my dear,’ said Yavien, ‘and you’re already talking about my leaving.’

‘Promise me you will!’

‘Zimrahin and I have talked about it already, don’t worry. But I would prefer not to set all your family in an uproar again, if I can avoid it, so there might yet have to be a few negotiations…’

‘That’s good,’ said the fisherwoman, a little thickly, ‘very good’.

‘This damned heat,’ she grumbled. ‘I can’t breathe…’

Yavien saw the bowl of water by the bed and, guessing its purpose, dipped her handkerchief in it, wrung it out and gently spread it on the fisherwoman’s forehead.

‘Yes, better. Thank you. I’ve been trying to think of cooling things as I lie around uselessly, sweltering. I was remembering that song you used to sing about the rain…’

‘About the rains of spring?’

Yavien straightened a little and sang, her voice soft but steady, her enunciation clear:

 

May the rain kiss you,

may the rain wash your face with cool silver drops,

may the rain sing you a lullaby

playing a song of sleep on your roof at night,

even when I cannot.

 

‘Yes, good,’ said the fisherwoman. ‘I can almost feel the raindrops...’

She squeezed Yavien's hand weakly.

The healer saw her patient was as well as could be and withdrew for a while.

In the hut, Lady Yavien went on singing to her love.

Zimrahin spotted her aunt’s rearranged shoes, then the upside-down cooking-pot.

She caught her aunt’s eye, who only smiled wearily.

Very slowly, taking as much time about it as she could, Zimrahin began setting things in order again.

 

In the hours before dawn, as the fisherwoman’s breath faltered more and more, Yavien picked her up in her arms and carried her outside.

Where the Siril flowed, she knelt down, carefully lowering her beloved onto the river bank.

‘Easier…,’ whispered the fisherwoman, gazing up. ‘The star…’

‘Earendil,’ said Yavien. ‘May my ancestor, who guided us here to the Land of Gift, guide you onwards on the first steps of the way.’

‘Rothinzil,’ breathed the fisherwoman.

She spoke no more. Her life left her, as the day began to break.

 

‘Did you see? The princess came when she called,’ said the villagers. ‘Of course she did! I always knew she would.’

Their mood had changed and they were almost happy for Zimrahin to leave with Lady Yavien, because how else could they be sure their princess would be looked after properly in her grief?

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Chapter End Notes

The text of  Langston Hughes' April Rain Song is here.

I based the song Yavien sings on it.

The title is taken from the text of a song that is an earlier part of the series about Yavien.

Zimrahin's name is borrowed from a Hadorian ancestor in HoME.
Rothinzil is the Adunaic name for Earendil's ship Vingilot.

Cermie is the month that goes from late June to late July, according to the Kings' Reckoning.

Yavien's invocation of Earendil is inspired by a fic I read, but apparently not the one I thought it was from...

Extra drabble: Classy Footwear

The great-granddaughter of Elros who travelled and explored Numenor and the love she found in a fisher village during one of her journeys--talking about shoes.

A drabble featuring the same protagonists that I had written some time ago and discovered I had not cross-posted, when I posted this story, so I've now added it here.

Chronologically earlier, obviously!

No warnings.

Read Extra drabble: Classy Footwear

She stubbornly avoided Yavien's gaze and looked down at their feet. Inevitably, she began to compare those, too.

Yavien's shoes  were made for walking, her stockings plain, travel wear, not for show. But still--how they stood out beside the rush sandals she had fashioned for herself!

'See?'  she burst out. 'You surely paid that royal cobbler of yours more for those shoes than I earn in a month! We just don't match!'

'And I thought it was something I had done!' said Yavien. She took her shoes and stockings off.

'Slip out of those sandals and we'll match again.'

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Chapter End Notes

Originally written for the Footwear Challenge at Tolkien Weekly on LiveJournal.