Walking in the Gardens by Raiyana

Chapter 1

1564 words, prompt: a normal day in the life

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I wake early, long-formed habit by now; even when the Trees died and there was no difference to night and day, I woke early. Barefoot, slipping out of my little cabin I walk through the gardens. Dew wets my soles, but it is refreshingly familiar. The grass tickles slightly, and the bark of my favourite tree is rough beneath my fingers. The blanket – unnecessary, really, but I like it – slips off my shoulders and I barely catch it in time as I pull myself up through the branches. Some are sturdy and thick, wider than my thighs, but I climb all the way up where my weight makes the tree sway. This is my spot. The gardens may belong to Lady Indis – even if she has not been here ever since I accepted the post as her gardener – but this spot, in this tree, is all mine. Wrapping the blanket around me, close and comforting like Ammë’s hugs, I rest my back against the trunk, my legs dangling over the drop below.

The light comes slow, but fast at the same time, the golden head of the Sun rising above the horizon to bathe me in golden light, washing over my skin like a caress.

I love the stars, I do, the stories and memories tied to the shapes in the sky as familiar as my Atto’s voice, quiet and rumbly in the back of my head, but the Sun… I love the way she runs her fingers of light over my face; it feels like love.

Golden light, brilliant and warm, slowly reveals the colours of the view to my eyes.

It’s my favourite part of watching the dawn.

Somehow, Laurëlin and Telperion never did this, never showed me the vibrancy of the flowers I tend, while the Sun… in her light, the grass my sheep cut so carefully, making it soft and smooth for running barefoot across the lawns is verdant green, so full of life I dare to believe even Yavannah’s eyes would find it pleasing.

Caressing my face, the moment of brilliant dawn fades into fond memory.

The day is begun.

 

Swinging myself down from the lofty heights of the tallest tree for miles around, I wave at Iorthon, who grunts something unintelligible at me that is probably meant as a reproach for my recklessness. It makes me smile; that, too, is a long-held habit. Iorthon grins, but he says nothing as he continues walking towards the section where we grow vegetables for the kitchens.

“The carrots should be ripe by now,” I say, and Iorthon makes the series of sounds that passes for speech for him – I haven’t asked, and no one has told me why he cannot speak, but he is a hard worker and I like his company fine – nodding agreement.

I eave him at the shed, looking for his barrow and a shovel; cook is planning to make something with kale today, I know, and I wonder if I might be able to find some sweet fruit for dessert.

Returning to my home, I put the woollen blanket back on the chair where it usually lives, rooting through my chest for a fresh tunic. Tying the band that supports my breasts takes mere moments, slipping into a pair of breeches and my favourite blue tunic – it is large, on me, but then again it wasn’t made for me, but for Carastindo – and I am ready to begin my day.

First stop of the day is the kitchens in the main house, my daily flirtation with Cormo – he’s happily married, and I have no interest in him beyond friendship and good bread, but it’s another habit I’ve formed since coming here – and breakfast.

“Alálamë!” Cormo spots me immediately, pausing in the doorway to enjoy the scents emanating from the ovens already. “Think you could manage to get me blueberries, darling?” he asks, looking flustered. I raise an eyebrow in question, accepting a cup of tea from one of the kitchen maids. It’s strong and dark, just as I like it, with a touch of sweet honey to cut the bitterness. My eyebrow raises higher; Cormo must be very keen on his blueberries if he’s already made my tea. Usually I have to wait for it to brew when I show up.

“Blueberries?” I ask, blowing on the tea and pretending like I don’t know precisely how ripe the blueberries in the south garden are. Cormo looks… odd.

“Yes. A small basket, at least,” he adds, a note of pleading threading its way through his voice.

“Making a specialty, Cormo?” I wonder, taking a fortifying sip; warmth not unlike that of the sun earlier spreads through me. Cormo blushes. I stare. In all the time I’ve known him, Cormo has never blushed. He’s been flustered, certainly, and annoyed when things do not go as he wants them in the kitchens, but he has never blushed. Not even my most ribald jokes – the ones Carastindo’s construction friends used to tell when they thought I wasn’t listening – have ever made him blush.

“Yes,” he squeaks, and I can only stare as the glow in his cheeks spreads, turning his ears a rather fetching crimson. “Lady Indis is coming in a few days!” he blurts, and I have to laugh at the excitement on his face. Oh, it’s not for Indis, though I suppose the Lady returning to her house after so long among the Noldor is newsworthy, no, I know the reason Cormo is smiling and looking as nervous as a boy with his first crush.

“Well, my friend,” I nod, and I can see the tension leave him; he knows I’d have denied him outright by now if his request was impossible. This is just theatre between us, now, and I tap my chin thoughtfully. “I suppose I could get you some blueberries. I’ll bring them by for midday meal?”

“Thank you!” he cries, the smile threatening to overtake his face entirely as he wraps his strong hands around the tops of my arms and twirls me around, leaving a floury handprint on my sleeve. If my cup had still been full, I’d have splashed tea all over the floor, but I manage to avoid such a fate – Cormo might be happy with me, but if I make a mess in his kitchen that can change quickly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Put me down, you fool,” I grin, but I don’t really mind; Cormo reminds me of Carastindo, in a way, and joking with him makes me feel almost like my brother didn’t go off to war and get killed. Pressing his forehead against mine for a moment, Cormo releases my arms, the cheeky grin and happiness back in his eyes. “And tell your lady I’ll cut some elanori for her room; they’re nearly in full bloom.” Cormo nods, turning back to his work, bossing around the kitchenworkers like a general overseeing his troops. His wife is a handmaiden to Lady Indis, which means she is not often here; it’s been more than a year since they’ve been together, I think.

Nodding my thanks at young Coimasiel, I bite into the fluffy roll she gives me with relish. Cormo has been experimenting again, I think, tasting cinnamon in the bread. Sipping my tea and eating my breakfast, I retreat to an unobtrusive corner of the kitchen – my corner, more or less – and let the warmth and chatter of the busiest place in the house fill me as I eat. Coimasiel gives me a cordof, and I happily bite into the crisp fruit. They’re still a little tart, but I don’t mind. In a few lefneir they’ll be sweetening, absorbing the golden light of the sun that kisses their cheeks red, but these ones are the ones that must be taken from the tree to allow the rest to grow; usually Cormo cooks them with sugar and a bit of vanilla, serving the stew in bowls garnished with a bit of meadowsweet.

 

Leaving the kitchen, I hum quietly, a song my Ammë liked to sing when she was working, swallowing the last bite of my roll and heading off towards the bed of helini; weeding may not be my favourite task, but it is a necessary one, and it is almost meditative in its simplicity. The bright colours, purple, yellow, white, blushing pink and even violets and blue that greet my eyes make me smile, trying to remember if the helini were this beautiful when Laurëlin filled the sky with its light. Somehow, I don’t think so, throwing my head back and smiling at the sun that shines above me.

 

Picking blueberries – eating more than a few on the way, of course – leaves me with stained fingers and the happiest Cormo I have seen in a long while. It is no surprise that he misses his love, and I can’t help but envy him just slightly.

I’d like to experience love, proper love, like the love my parents shared.

I also know the chances are slim; I’ve no attraction to neri, and nissi rarely seem to look my way, even those who share my inclinations.

I sigh, looking at the blue juices that stain my fingers; dirt under my short nails that never will be scrubbed clean, not truly.

I chuckle.

I am the gardener, and it shows.

Chapter 2

The Hero encounters an enemy who turns out to be a friend.

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The forward attendants and guards that travel with Lady Indis arrived last night. I had taken up position in one of the trees overlooking the front of the house, staring at the milling horses and stable-hands, handmaidens scurrying to order cases and chests filled with who knows what that a high-born Lady needs when travelling, stowed away tidily in the rooms that the servants have been preparing for days.

It was exhilarating, yet strange to watch; usually our lives here are quiet, removed from the capital as we are, and routines are rarely broken.

Lady Indis – along with her daughter, the Princess Findis – is supposed to arrive a few days from now, and everyone has been sent into a frenzy, trying to ensure that everything is just so for their arrival.

I smirk at the thought; my own duties have changed little, and I don’t expect them to. Lady Indis only cares that her view is nice to look at, so she is unlikely to interfere in my designs for the gardens, and I feel quite smug when I look at the flustered faces around me.

I’ve never met Herself, of course, but she is supposedly among the most beautiful Vanyarë in Aman. Judging by her attendants, she must be; such exotic beauty with their dark hair and golden-brown skin is enough to make me feel self-conscious about my plainness in passing. To willingly surround yourself with such beauty, to willingly invite comparison, Indis must be fairer than anyone I’ve seen.

I’m slightly ashamed that I mostly want to hide in the depths of the gardens, but they’re oddly intimidating, floating around he manor in their dresses, light and graceful like roses; never a spot on them or their clothes.

I imagine one of the handmaidens – I overheard her complain about her pillow being the wrong hue of blue last night, and instantly hated her – digging in the ground like I do, pulling up weeds or replanting flowers. The thought makes me laugh to myself; there is something to be said for my world over theirs, after all.

 

I had to get up early, but I managed to swing by the blueberry thicket on my way to the kitchen; carrying a half basket of plump ripe berries should be just the way to make Cormo happy – if he is at work already! – sure to win him favour with his lady-love. I smile, whistling a happy tune and ducking into the kitchen. Nodding a greeting at Coimasiel who seems more flustered today than usual, I place the basket on the counter, reaching for the pot of tea steeping.

“Oh, you!” Cormo exclaims, clapping his hands together and beaming. “You are my Queen, darling!” he continues, leaning in to peck my cheek as he accepts the offering. “What can I do to repay you?”

“Anything for my King,” I retort, giving him a cheeky wink to make him laugh. He is King of the Kitchens, after all, ruler of all he surveys. “Though I’d not say no to one of your kisseys if you’re so inclined.” The kisseys are a recent invention; they’re just small enough to pop into your mouth whole, a sort of dollop of airy merengue that has been baked to solidity but will crack with he slightest pressure. When we first tried them, we all tried not to crush them right away, and Cormo decided on the name watching four kitchen girls and myself puckering our lips to hold the small cakes in our mouths, trying to see who could go the longest before the sugary confection melted.

Cormo laughs, giving me a shrewd look. He knows I am far too fond of the kisseys, but he keeps some on hand in an air-tight tin anyway, I know, even if I’ve yet to worm its hiding place out of him.

“Very well, sweet girl,” he chuckles. “Close your eyes and I’ll give you a kissey.” Obediently – he’ll know if I peek, he always knows – I close my eyes.

The door opens, hitting the wall firmly. I jump, my head snapping towards the sound, staring at the pretty nissë standing in the doorway looking like she’d like to skewer me with her eyes. Confused, I tilt my head, looking at her. She’s vaguely familiar, dark brown locks tumbling down her shoulders. Her hand clenches at nothing by her hip, as though reaching for something usually there, her azure eyes boring into me with an intensity I don’t understand. Cormo, however, seems to forget my treat entirely, and I realise who she is when he pulls her close, kissing her lips gently. She is the one pulling him tighter, kissing him like… oh. I blush lightly, my mind spinning back through the past minutes. Cormo is rarely a quiet ner, after all, it’s likely she heard him coming down the hallway to the kitchens, and this… this is his wife. Who just heard him call me his queen and me ask him for a kissey – which she probably doesn’t know what is.

“Hello,” I smile, trying to be friendly, “I am Alálamë, the head gardener.”

“Ah, yes,” Cormo says, his cheeks flushed with something I can only call passion as he stares at his wife, blind to the way her eyes are still drilling spears into me. She’s pretty, even when she’s angry, flashes through my mind, making me flush slightly. “Alálamë, meet Ecetindë, my beloved wife.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I say, breezily ignoring the glare she’s still sending my way. “Thanks for breakfast Cormo, I’ll be by later with your beets!”

I’m not proud to admit that I practically flee the kitchen, but I am no warrior; bravery is not my trait, it’s just the thing that left me without family in this world, and I am better off being a complete coward, I’m sure.

 

 

Chapter 3

In Victorian England, the pansy flower was used for secret courting. The pansy flower was used to convey messages such as I’m feeling amorous towards you, I am thinking of you or I have thoughts of you or I’m missing you, but always it was about one person thinking of another.

helin = pansy

indil = lily

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Ecetindë does not seem to be mollified by time and distance. She continues to appear whenever I head for the kitchens, spending her time watching me closely; I don’t think Cormo has noticed, he’s too happy to have her close to see it, and his jovial chats have continued unabated.

I should speak to her, I know, but I really don’t have the courage.

Every morning, I tell myself to speak to her, be friendly, clear up any misunderstandings that may have arisen due what she may or may not have overheard – honestly, should she not know how her husband thinks? Cormo would never even look at another nissë, he’s far too honourable for such things – and every morning I find myself skulking out of the kitchens, cringing away from her gaze once Coimasiel has handed me my breakfast and tea.

I try to avoid the kitchens, these days.

I still deliver produce to Cormo, of course, but it’s amazing how easy it is to catch Coimasiel running to or from and passing my vegetables onto her if I put my mind to it.

Huffing at myself, I flick my long braid onto my back once more – the pins that keep it in its coil at the back of my head broke this morning and we have no one here with the skills to repair it, so I’ll have to wait a few months before the merchant from Tirion returns; he can sell me a replacement, or maybe fix the broken pieces.

I’d like to keep it, even if it’s only simple tooled leather and metal. It reminds me of Carastindo. He bought it for me, from a Noldorin merchant when I went to Alqualondë with the troops to see off the Host of Finwë Arafinwë.

Thinking about Carastindo makes the helini before my eyes blur slightly, the bright yellow not enough to wash away the image of his green eyes – a mirror to my own, Ammë always said – or the way he smiled at me when he promised to come back. Ammë made no such promise; she and Atto probably knew better, but Carastindo was so excited to be going with his King. He’s always been far more Noldo than I, even if we both inherited Atto’s moonlight hair and jade eyes rather than Ammë’s storm-cloud gaze.

When the helini become sharp once more, the Sun is setting. I do not have a tree for this time of day, but I lift my face to let the warmth caress it as it sinks beyond the horizon.

 

Lady Indis’ arrival – along with more than the number of people who were here before – has changed little, for me, at least. The orders from Cormo, still delivered in his usual friendly flirtatious manner, though he looks at me with slight concern when I don’t respond like I usually do, have increased, but no more than our harvest can handle.

She likes cordof compote, apparently; I find myself quietly pleased that I planted another tree a few years back. It is almost ready to bear proper fruit now, even though the yield is still small, but the orchard’s bounties are plentiful nonetheless.

I have seen the Lady Findis, too, her hair the colour of rich honey from the bees that we keep in the hills where the heather blooms but streaked with her ammë’s golden locks. Her eyes are blue, like Lady Indis’, and, even though she is weighed by grief, she is not so diminished as her ammë, who appears almost asleep though she walks and talks, quiet like a whisper.

Lady Indis does not leave the house, and the one time I did see her – when they arrived – I found myself suddenly thankful Atto and Ammë died together. At least, they might find comfort with one another in Mandos; Lady Indis has no such comfort from her husband, and her children have scattered across the world.

 

Lady Findis looks more sad now than when they arrived here – I catch glimpses of her standing in the windows, staring out at my gardens as though they are miles away instead of right at her feet. Somehow, she seems wistful, as though she wants to escape, wants to run through the orchards, feel the wind and the sun on her face, her feet caressed by the soft grass.

It makes me sad, to look at her.

 

I’m nearly startled out of my wits – certainly out of any eloquence – when I find her staring at my carefully tended bed of helini one morning. They’ve been living here for months, and I think this is the closest I’ve been to her.

“Would you like to learn, my lady?” I ask, obviously startling her. I feel a stab of guilt when she jumps up, whirling to stare at me with the perplexed kind of recognition that means she knows she ought to recognise me, but she really doesn’t know who I am. I almost smile. She looks like a rabbit caught by the hunter’s eyes, almost ready to bolt. I smile at her, trying to warm her with it; knowing I shouldn’t think so, I still want to make her look at me with happiness softening the stark lines of her face.

 “Learn…?” she asks, frowning as though she’s trying to place my face in the gallery of people who ensure that the house keeps running smoothly, even if Lady Indis is a most undemanding mistress compared to some.

“I am Alálamë,” I reply, taking pity on her. The obvious relief in her face when I save her from having to admit that she doesn’t know me makes my smile widen; I feel something curiously like satisfaction light my soul at the thought that I made her life a touch easier. Keeping my eyes from roaming her face – she’s much prettier up close, even if the lines around her mouth seem almost etched into her face; I want to smooth them away with my fingers – I nod towards the flowers beside her. “I tend the gardens, my Lady.”

“Yes…” she says, looking like her words surprise her as much as they do me; I’d expected a dismissal of some sort. “I-” I don’t know what she wanted to say, but no more seemed to be coming, so I simply smile at her, trying to remember to keep my eyes lowered – she is the daughter of a King, after all – as I step past her, kneeling by the riot of colourful flowers.

“This one is called helin,” I say, reaching out to touch the dark purple petal, shading to white in the centre of the flower. “The kitchenmaids add them to teas; they claim it freshens the skin, but I grow these for the colours, mainly – I experiment a little with the patterns; see this flower?” I continue, forgetting that people don’t usually care to listen when I go on about my crossbreeding and pollination rate experiments. Looking up quickly – silence has meant my audience had wandered off in the past, and talking to myself is a step farther towards odd than I’m careful taking – Lady Findis’ attention remains on me, something soft in her eyes like a smile she’s not quite familiar with smiling. “They can achieve so many combinations of colours and hues; I must have given away thousands over the years in pots as presents.”

“Would you give me some?” Findis asks, and for a moment I can feel brilliant fire in my cheeks; he’s awfully bold to ask such a thing in a first meeting. And then I realise that I am her mother’s gardener and I should remember that before I go falling for the shy smile that crosses her face.

“If… if you wished me to, my Lady,” I manage, swallowing nervously, glancing up, it’s clear that Findis meant nothing by the request other than a liking for my flowers – which are pretty – and I have to tell myself that I don’t feel a sting of disappointment at the thought. Looking back down at our shoes – scuffed leather boots, splattered with mud, next to thin shoes of deep blue silk that would fare better in a ballroom than wandering through orchards and fields – only makes the difference between us starker.

“What’s that one?” Findis asks, graciously ignoring my awkwardness. Her hand, more golden in hue than my own sunbrowned skin, appears in my view, pointing between the flowers.

“Oh!” I cry, annoyed, swooping down and starting to pull at the plant, “it’s a pumpkin vine, my Lady, a vegetable. It’s not supposed to be over here, it must have crept along that garden wall.” I’ll have to have a word with Iorthon; the pumpkins are in his section of the vegetable gardens, and this vine should never have been able to grow this long.

“No, don’t!” The protest makes me tense, though less so than the hand suddenly landing on my shoulder, the length of her smallest finger lying against the skin of my neck, her knuckle pressing against my pulse. Her hand is soft, though her hold would be strong if she let it, I think wildly, a flicker of something uniquely – Findis – bright appearing where her fëa touches mine. I freeze, instinct to flee warring with the sudden desire to remain beneath her hand for as long as she’d let me. Dropping the vine, I relax my tense shoulders; Findis lets go almost immediately.

“As you wish, my Lady,” I babble, trying not to babble apologies at her – why do I feel like apologising? – and rising to my feet in a single move. I don’t look at her, dropping into a swift curtsey. Cursing my stupid heart, I don’t dare look back when I flee, running away from that touch – I will dream of it, later, I know – as fast as my long legs will carry me. Hiding in my tree, I try to calm myself, try to make my fëa stop longing for a repeat of that light brush against Findis’ that promises to be far too dangerous for my poor heart.

It does not work.

 

 

I repeat my admonishments to myself, even as I greet the sun, feeling too agitated to let the warm light calm me as it usually does.

Passing the bed of helini on the way to the kitchen, I stop almost despite myself, bending to pick one before I can stop myself.

Coimasiel doesn’t offer protests when I tell her that Lady Findis requested a flower accompany the tray with her breakfast that is delivered to her bedside every morning. She just nods, putting the small helin in a vase of finely blown glass. I’m thankful for her, I really am; Cormo would have asked questions I can’t – or won’t – answer, not even to myself.

The yellow petals mock me as I gulp down my tea, clutching the mug and warring with my desire to steal it back and pretend that I never did this.

Instead, I flee the warm kitchen, carefully ignoring the vibrant colours of the helini for the rest of the day. There are other flowers to tend, in the gardens after all; the bed of indili by the south terrace needs weeding.

I try to tell myself the fact that they’re on the other side of the house to my helini has nothing to do with my decision to attack this task with far more vigour than I usually would have.

I wonder what Findis will think of the flower – of its promise.

I curse myself for a fool.

Someone is singing, a pleasant tune in a strong voice that keeps breaking through the waves of self-recriminations that run through my head. Looking up, I intend to glare at whomever is interrupting my whirling thoughts, only to see Findis standing in the upstairs window, singing softly as she brushes her hair.

The sun catches in the gold, throwing the shadow of the tree beside the window across her face, the play of light over the planes of her face making my mind grind to a halt.

I don’t know how long I stare, remaining on my knees in the flowerbed, but I don’t think she sees me.

Pushing myself up as the song – it is familiar, but foreign; perhaps my ammë sung it once? – comes to a close, I catch sight of the small helin, golden against the green of her dress, in its vase on the windowsill.

She kept it.

Pushing my way between the tall hedges that mark the beginning of the small maze, I curse my long plait, feeling a few hairs snagging on the branches, but it was the first hiding spot I could think of.

I don’t want Findis to think I was spying on her, trying to see what she thought of my small gift.

 

I pick another helin for her the next morning, even as I tell myself it’s a silly thing to do.

 

Chapter 4

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It’s been a full turn of the moon, and I haven’t missed a day yet, my small gift doing its best to brighten her day.

It doesn’t matter if she knows what they mean. Yellow is for friendship; she may be a princess, but surely friendly fondness is allowed?

I think she knows I listen when she sings in the morning – Findis rises from bed considerably later than I, there’s plenty of time for me to have breakfast and find a task to complete in the vicinity of her window, even as I tell myself that I am being pathetic and pining, pretending that she sings for me alone.

It’s not like she knows I exist, not really; I am but a gardener, and someone she has met only once.

It doesn’t matter what I tell myself, my feet bring me that way around the house nonetheless.

I like the way she smiles, it looks like a moment of freedom. Her songs change every day: some I have heard before, her accent noticeably softer than Ammë’s Noldorin, but not quite the same as my own Vanyarin lilt. Some are strange to me, and I wonder where she has learned them, words not quite familiar enough for me to understand the meaning.

Findis does not return to the gardens – gossip in this place is rampant, and word is Lady Indis’ grief takes up all of her time – and even though she smiles when she sings, brushing her hair, her smile carries strain around the edges.

I catch myself wanting to take the strain away, somehow.

 

The peas are ripe, the pods crisp and green between my fingers as I pull them from the trailing vines. I have bound them up on the thin trellises, making a cage almost as tall as Carastindo and picking them is a lot like standing in a green tunnel. Outside, the sound of a bird’s trill fills the air, but in here, as I slowly fill the large tub at my feet with green pods, I am reminded of the way Carastindo would lift me when I was young, convinced as I was that the best peas were the ones at the ceiling of the trellises he built. Ammë would laugh at me, but Carastindo solemnly agreed, carrying me on his back so I could reach while he held the tub.

Ecetindë is less angry, these days, it seems, even though I still haven’t spoken more than a few words to her; it makes Cormo’s kitchen a much nicer place to be. Humming to myself, I place the last pods carefully on the pile that wants to spill over the edge of the tub.

 

Making my way towards the kitchen, I keep my eyes on the pea pods, trying not to upset the tower; my bare feet are already streaked with soil, which won’t make Cormo pleased, but having to chase down wayward pods won’t make the kitchen maids pleased with me.

I’m too preoccupied to notice Findis – Lady Findis, I mean, the honorific hard to remember in my own mind – standing in my way until I’ve nearly tripped over her. A few pods tumble from their precarious perch.

I pay them no mind. Twined into the gold-and-gems clasp that holds her hair is a single bright yellow helin – my helin, my gift – and the sight makes me smile wide enough to hurt my cheeks until I remember that Findis doesn’t think of me, no matter what the flower claims.

Curtseying stiffly, I flee, ignoring her hesitant call of my name.

I don’t look back, ignoring the three pods that fall from my tub as I hurry away, my heart beating far too swiftly in my chest.

I want her to mean it.

I shouldn’t want her to mean it.

But I do.

 

Delivering my burden to Coimasiel, I retreat quickly, not even hearing the words she sends in my direction, my mind stuck on the image of the yellow flower shining so brightly against Findis’ dark hair.

She wears my gift; it’s like she’s mine, just a little, and I know how foolish that thought makes me, but knowing that doesn’t stop my foolish heart from longing for things I shouldn’t want.

 

In the morning, I pick her two flowers, resolutely not examining the motives behind my actions.

 

The indili near Findis’ window have never looked better, I know, struggling to find more tasks to justify showing up every morning – besides listening to her sing, that is.

It vexes me that I am unable to stop, even though I should know better than this.

 

Another thing that vexes me is the silly pumpkin.

I don’t even know why I didn’t go back and tear the vine out of the flowerbed – yes, I do – but it has taken root, now, growing slowly.

I’ve sent for Altorno; after Atto, he taught me all that I know about plants and their tending. He’ll know how to make sure it thrives while keeping it from killing my prized helini project, even if Findis has probably forgotten all about her protest by now. I’ve come to call it the Findis pumpkin in my head, and I’ve found that I like watching it grow among my flowers, even though I had to replant a lot of them to make space for it.

The first time I see Findis again after the incident with the peas, she is wearing another helin in her hair – the sight makes me blush, though I keep my face lowered so she won’t notice – and she asks me how the squashes are coming along. It’s an innocuous topic, but I like talking about my plants, and she seems genuinely interested, her eyes remaining on me, her attention unwavering even beyond the point where anyone who isn’t Altorno would have eyes that glazed over and feet that tripped over themselves to leave my presence.

Next day, it is a question about the water-indili in the small pond east of the house, and a story about her sister’s fondness for them.

I end up telling her a rambling story about the time Carastindo broke his arm climbing Ammë’s cordof tree and falling from the branches; she chuckles, and the sound is like a sip of tea on a cold morning, warm and soothing as it spreads through me.

Slowly – I don’t see her every day – I get to know small parts of Findis, not the Lady Findis, and I hoard every speck of knowledge like it is a treasure. I don’t even remember all the things I tell her in return, even if I mostly talk about the gardens and my work – I am helping Iorthon build a new beehive, for example – but she never seems to get bored.

She’s too nice. Too nice, by far, and I know I’m only falling harder with every conversation.

Chapter 5

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5

The helini in Findis’ hairpieces have sparked a fashion among the ladies of the house, and I find myself pestered endlessly with requests for this colour or that; it makes me even more certain that none of these ladies – a few are clearly Vanyarin and should know – are aware of the meanings attributed to certain flowers.

I’m quite sure Indis’ First Handmaiden is not secretly married, for example, though the sprig of myrtle in her hair is usually an emblem of marriage and wedded love.

Those of us among the servants who do know, have made a sport of it; it is slightly funny to manage getting these ignorant Noldor to wear flowers with the most outrageous meanings simply because they find the combinations pretty.

Cormo laughs when I tell him, but humbly asks me not to play such tricks on Ecetindë. I don’t tell him that I’d never dare; she is only now beginning to warm to my presence, almost four months after arriving at the house. I have, however, made him swear her to secrecy; it wouldn’t do to ruin our fun by giving away the game. Instead Ecetindë is the recipient of carefully chosen white hyacinths because she is quite lovely, even though she still scares me a little.

She doesn’t seem to believe that I have designs on her husband anymore, though, and we’ve even managed a few tentative chats when I come to the kitchens for meals. She is quietly funny, I’ve found, possessing a scathing wit that fits well with the rest of us and her willingness to take a joke, even at her own expense, has made her much more well-liked than most of the people who arrived from Tirion with Lady Indis. Of course, being a more than capable swordswoman who has a tendency to do drills in view of the kitchens – she knows Cormo likes to watch her train, and we all like to tease him about it – made us more leery of her in the beginning, but she is slowly becoming one of the household.

Maybe we’ll be friends one day. I’d like that.

 

I’ve added random flowers to the usual helin I bring for Findis’ trays, but she only seems to want to wear the helin – I tell myself to feel less pleased than I do about that fact – though she will wear other colours, too. I give her yellow ones, though some have different centres – I used to give her only white-and-yellows, but as I get to know her better, I feel more confident in adding colours to the mix even if I keep from giving away anything more than fondness belonging to friendship; with the house-wide game, the other Vanyar are watching everyone’s hair carefully, trying to spot the combinations that change the meaning of a single flower, and Findis is not exempt from scrutiny.

She still sings for me every morning, though, or I tell myself she does it at least partially because I like it; my own secret gift. I know she has seen me tending the indili, pruning the tree, cutting the hedge maze, weeding, and any number of tasks that leave me within earshot of her window. If she didn’t like me listening, she would close it, wouldn’t she?

 

Altorno finally arrives, greeting me with a peck to my forehead as usual. I loop my arm through his, taking him on an extended tour of my efforts; I am proud of my work here, the things I have managed in the short time these gardens have been mine to keep. Altorno laughs, looking at me like the daughter he never had – his lover went off with Ñolofinwë and never returned – and lets me babble about plants and flowers, adding advice here and there.

I end up telling him about Findis.

We’re standing by the bed of helini, and he looks at me like I am silly – I am – for wanting to keep the pumpkin where it is; it is larger, now, though not yet too large to be moved. It might survive replanting, though it would end up smaller than the other pumpkins by harvest time if I moved it now.

Altorno smiles at me, and I appreciate that he doesn’t chide me for my fanciful notions more than I can say. Instead, he chuckles, shakes his head, and sets his mind to the task at hand.

I want Findis’ pumpkin to thrive, to look the best it possibly can. It will be a gift for her, some day, I think, a half-formed idea in my mind as we work with fertilizer and irrigation.

I spend several days working with Altorno – I am showing off, because it feels good to have my work appreciated by someone who knows how much effort it actually takes to make such a beautiful garden – feeling transported back yeni to the time when he was my Master. He still has things to teach me; a gardener’s work never ends, and I don’t realise that I’ve been missing Findis’ singing until more than a week has passed by. I have been bringing the flowers to the kitchens dutifully – I keep Findis’ flowers separate from the basket I use to cut the ones the ladies of the house order – but I haven’t seen her at all.

Altorno smiles at me, reaching out to squeeze my hand gently, his encouragement silent as it so often is, when I abandon him around the time Findis usually brushes her hair to pretend that my indili need tending.

The windows never open.

They don’t open the next day either.

Gossip being what it is, I learn that Findis is staying in her room, or sitting with Indis, neither of them speaking. The though hurts me more than I expected, feeling guilty for taking away the small moment of brightness from her day; somehow I feel at fault, as though she needed my half-hidden presence to keep singing.

I miss her singing.

 

I haven’t seen Findis for more than week when I finally bump into her on my way from the kitchen – I was made to abandon my muddied boots – carrying an armful of raindrop-dotted flowers destined for Lady Lavarë’s room.

“Good morning,” I say, giving her my best smile, but Findis does not respond, turning down a side corridor without even acknowledging my presence.

That, too, hurts more than I thought it would.

I’m not even cheered by the thought that Lady Lavarë’s room will be telling any Vanyar who enters that she is expecting. Coimasiel had laughed hard enough to make Ecetindë ask what the bouquet meant, joining in our mirth at the thought of the unwedded maiden’s unintended announcement.

Looking after Findis, her soft steps making no sound on the carpet of the corridor, her dark hair carefully plaited into her hairpiece, I feel my mood sink further.

She’s not wearing the helin anymore.

 

Altorno tries to cheer me up, but my mood is as dark as the heavy rainclouds above our heads – I am hurt, and angry, and angry that I feel hurt, feel slighted, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve done something wrong, something to make Findis sad. Her face has returned to that strained grief she wore so familiarly when she arrived here, not even a glimmer of a smile, of sunlight, in those lines, as though the absence of the yellow flower has a meaning too.

I bring the flowers faithfully, still, even though I know she doesn’t wear them; even Cormo remarks that the vases used to have only one flower when the tray was removed from Findis’ room.

 

I try to catch her, apologies lining up behind my teeth, but – even though I didn’t see her that often before – Findis seems to have vanished from any place likely to contain my presence. My heart still clings to that stubborn longing for her real smile, even as I try not to remember it, try to tell myself I knew this would happen; why would she care for me, after all?

I miss her.

 

 

Of course, then she does vanish from the house. Gone to visit Ingwe, so they say.

 

The rains continue, matching my bleak mood.

 

Chapter 6

Read Chapter 6

6

The pumpkin, at least, enjoys the rain; even though there are tasks to be done, I take less joy in them than usual, and the rain keeps me from feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. Lasselanta will soon be here; they say it is harsher in Endorë, but we see our share of chill winds and darkening days, even though the storms near Alqualondë are worse than anything I have experienced in Vanyamar.

I almost want to go see one, though I don’t quite dare. Altorno is going to winter in Alqualondë with a friend, and he has offered me an invitation to come along.

I want to go; perhaps I shall forget about honey-hair and blue eyes.

I don’t want to go; perhaps Findis will return, and I can give her the pumpkin I have so carefully tended.

Stupid pumpkin. I scowl at it, sitting there, bright and orange in the middle of my helini – many still bloom, though not so many as before – taunting me with its mere existence.

I should know better, I know, I’m not so young and naïve as I once was.

And still…

 

I do not go to Alqualondë.

 

Findis is not coming back, and the pumpkin keeps growing. Its bright colour mocks me when I walk by; a promise unfulfilled.

I don’t like it, feeling this way, angry at a vegetable of all things. Carastindo would have laughed, and ruffled my hair, and told me to stop moping, but Carastindo isn’t here and somehow the thought of him only make me angrier.

And yet… I can’t make myself hack it to pieces, destroy the pumpkin and tear out the vine. Standing over it with a shovel, the anger that felt like a fiery coil in my gut fails me and I let the cursed plant live another day, haranguing myself for my foolishness as I walk through my day. It’s not like Findis will care whether it’s still here if she returns. When she returns… She will return… right?

I miss her, her songs and her odd questions, the way she would smile at my rambling.

Lasselanta is busy; there are plenty of things to harvest and store for winter, and more than enough work to keep me from spending every waking minute thinking about Findis – or there should be, and still she creeps into my thoughts whenever she pleases, just like her pumpkin invaded my helini.

Iorthon and I spend an entire day digging up these things that Finwë Arafinwë’s Host brought back – the Edain apparently call them po-ta-to, which is peculiar and amusing to say – carting them to the root cellar by the barrowful. I don’t know what to make of this food; it doesn’t look particularly tasty, but apparently they are edible, and Ecetindë claims they can be tasty.

In the kitchens, Cormo runs a tight schedule, trying to get everything pickled and stored – Lady Indis’ handmaidens offered help at first, but truthfully most of them were more of a hindrance – and poor Coimasiel looks increasingly frazzled; sometimes, she will even forget to point out that my boots are tracking mud in from the gardens. Ecetindë is a blessing, however, happy to help with the harvest and more than capable of bossing around idle workers.

I wish I had her confidence.

 

“Are you always mopey this time of year?” Ecetindë asks one foggy morning, nearly startling me into spilling my tea. I scowl at her over the rim of the ceramic, but my blackest glare really isn’t very discouraging, it seems. She doesn’t even flinch.

“I like Lassalanta just fine,” I snap back, feeling guilty as soon as the words leave my mouth. I really am out of sorts, it’s not like me to snap at people.

“So you’re sad because you miss your love?” Ecetindë says, breezing past my small display of temper as though it means nothing. Perhaps it doesn’t. I gape at her. How did she know?

“It doesn’t matter,” I mumble, staring into my cup to hide my blush, “she doesn’t love me – even though I hoped – and then there’s the stupid pumpkin!” I babble, and I know it, but somehow I can’t stop the words tumbling past the guard of my teeth. “And why would she? I’m just the nissë who looks after her mother’s gardens, I’m nothing special! Just a… silly girl.”

“What… she?” Ecetindë asks, grabbing my elbow to stop me fleeing into the drizzle to cool my flaming cheeks. “Oh, Varda’s Stars!” she breathes, “You’re in love with Findis!” She stares at me, her eyes wide in her face. I shake myself loose.

“It doesn’t matter.” I want to slink away, but I force myself to stand straight while Ecetindë continues to stare at me. I seek refuge in my tea. Findis is gone, and she didn’t speak to me at all for the moon’s turn beforehand – clearly, I was seeing things that weren’t really there, fooling myself that she felt it too, that fluttery flip in my heart, my fëa reaching for hers.

“But… everyone thinks Altorno is your lover; Coimassiel heard him ask you to go away to Alqualondë with him!” Ecetindë exclaims.

“No!!” I splutter, the sip of tea I’d just taken dripping down my chin with my surprise. “What…?”

“Your face!” Ecetindë laughs, and I know my cheeks resemble Findis’ blasted pumpkin as I try to wipe tea off my shirt. Not hat it matters much, I think, glumly looking out at the rain falling in sheets; the shirt will be soaked through in minutes once I leave the warmth of the kitchen, but we need to get the last of the beets sorted today.

“Altorno was my Master,” I inform her, trying for haughty and falling short. “Now he’s a good friend – almost like an extra atto, maybe, but,” I falter, blushing wildly. “How would you even – why?” I am flabbergasted, to say the least, and Ecetindë blushes lightly – harder to see with her golden skin, but still visible.

“Well, he looks at you like you’re precious to him,” she says, defensive now, “everyone saw it.” I try not to laugh. I fail at that too.

“I am the child he will not have,” I reply, a sudden wave of sadness killing my incredulous laughter before it gets going. “Altorno’s lover perished in Beleriand. With my family.” Ecetindë makes that face so common to those who came back from Endorë: equal parts relief, sorrow, and guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I believe her. I try to smile, but I know my face gives away my grief. Carastindo’s smile flashes before my eyes, bright and excited like it was the last time I saw him, boarding the ship in Alqualondë.

Handing her my empty cup to take back to the kitchen, I move into the light drizzle, feeling the water settle on my hair like pearls, wetting my clothes as I turn all my attention to the day’s work, trying not to think about Findis’ smile.

Ecetindë does not mention my revelation, for which I am grateful – I tell myself this crush will dissipate, even though I know it won’t, but ignoring it means I can continue with my life.

Lassalanta moves inexorably towards Hrivë, and Findis does not return.

Chapter 7

Read Chapter 7

7

I don’t hear of her return until she is actually here, a stablehand darting into the kitchen with the news that Lady Findis has returned, and Lady Indis is actually smiling.

My heart seems to beat faster in my chest.

Ecetindë looks at me, raising her head from the bowl of dough she is mixing for Cormo, and for a brief moment I feel her voice in my head.

Go to her… if we believed Altorno was your lover, do you not think Lady Finds heard the rumour?

Everyone is too busy staring at the stablehand to notice me sidling out of the warm kitchen, the chill in the air nipping at my flaming cheeks. Ecetindë has not spoken of my infatuation since that day, but not in a way that made me think she disapproved, simply leaving the topic as a private moment between us.

Somehow, I think we’re friends, now.

It’s raining, again, and this time I do bring my spade to bear against the Pumpkin.

 

Stepping away from the fruits of my labour, I feel momentarily idiotic. The Pumpkin is there, washed and shiny with its orange skin, sitting like a king in the middle of a silver platter, surrounded by a court of white-and-violet helini. I placed it on the chest at the foot of her bed – I snuck in through the window some chambermaid left open, my bare feet leaving damp footprints on the carpeted runner – and now it sits there, fat and massive, still taunting me with its mere presence.

I mean to leave, to leave this gift for her to find, but indecision stalls my steps. Should I leave it here? Will she understand the meaning of the flowers? Does Findis even remember the pumpkin that started this whole thing? The last question makes my breath catch; there is no going back from this declaration, and I’m not at all sure I’m brave enough to make it.

I’ll just take is away – she’ll never know it was here.

The door opens behind me as I reach to pick up the pumpkin, intending to throw it out the open window; I won’t even care if it breaks when it hits the ground. I startle, turning around and there she is, Findis, looking at me… and the pumpkin beside me.

“What… what is this?” she asks, a line appearing between golden brows as she gestures towards the platter with its colourful display. My heart falls, even as blood rushes into my cheeks.

“Well, I uhm…” I hesitate, biting my lip and wishing that I knew her heart with certainty, the eels in my stomach churning, “It’s… it’s finished,” I say, lamely, mentally berating myself for my ineptitude as I wave at the pumpkin on its bed of helini.

“I don’t…” Findis stares at me, and I knew it, knew it was all in my head, but still, her rejection hurts more than I thought it would.

 “I apologise, my Lady,” I whisper, lowering my eyes to hide the stupid tears I can feel forming. “I- I will go.” I can’t stay in this room, can’t bear to hear her actually say the words. Findis just stands there, but I can squeeze past her to reach the doorway.

Her grip is strong around my arm, stopping me dead – I wonder if she will scold me for my inappropriate feelings, but no, Findis wouldn’t do that, I know her better than that. Every muscle tense, I wait for the condemnation to fall from her lips.

“I don’t understand the meaning of this gift, Alálamë,” she whispers, a gust of breath against my ear when she turns her head. I had thought my heart broken before, but this… of all the things she could have said, this might be worse.

“Helini carry meanings, my Lady,” I tell her, still staring at my bare toes. I want to tear myself away from her, but I can’t make my feet move.

“Tell me, Alálamë,” Findis whispers, and I really wish she wouldn’t ask me to, would let me keep just this piece of my dignity.

Still I can’t deny her request, words falling from my lips without thought, “Helini always involve one person thinking of another, though the colour changes their meaning.”

“These are white with violet edging,” Findis replies, and I can picture the wrinkles on her forehead as she thinks out loud. “Take a chance…on my…” she pauses, and I know she knows, now. The toneless chuckle that escapes me is a surprise, because I am not sure I’ve ever been further from laughter.

“You have no need to continue, my lady,” I tell her, pulling my arm from her grip. “I have apologised; you need never see me again.” Ducking out of the doorway, I do my best not to run, knowing that the people of the house will notice me if I do. The tears that fall down my cheeks blur my sight, making it impossible to flee with any sort of speed and I really wish it had been spring, I want to sit in my tree and feel the warmth of the Sun on my face.

I’m halfway down the corridor when soft fingers catch mine, a strong grip making me turn around. Soft lips kiss away my tears, leaving me reeling from the sensations bombarding my hröa and my fëa together. Findis.

“I accept,” she whispers, her lips moving against my skin, stealing the saltiness of my tears. Her free hand runs along my jaw, angling my head slightly as those lips find mine.

Her kisses are like sunlight.

“I accept,” she says again, and I feel the words shaped against my lips as she repeats them over and over, breathing them into my mouth.

“You… you do?” I ask, confused. Pulling away slightly – I don’t want to, I want to kiss her, but I have to know, to see – I study her closely. Findis groans, a sound that makes me feel odd, like it moves through my bones, turning me liquid. I look down, I can’t meet those blue eyes, hardly daring to believe what I glimpse in her face.

“Stop doing that, melmenya,” Findis whispers, and I realise that she hasn’t let go of my jaw, her fingers pleasantly cool against my skin, the tips of her longest brushing against the lobe of my ear. Findis lifts my face, and I can’t look away from her blue eyes, slightly tearful, too, but shining with such happiness it takes me breath away. Then the word registers, melmenya, and I know my cheeks have flushed brightly. “I much prefer to see these beautiful eyes of yours,” Findis murmurs, her golden skin flushing slightly, her eyes lowering slightly as her tongue swipes across her lower lip. I want to taste it. “I love you,” she murmurs, leaning in slowly. I meet her lips for the first time, returning the featherlight pressure. One of my hands lifts, tangling in those honey locks without my command, but Findis leans into the touch, making me let out a slight gasp as she willingly kisses me back. “Be mine,” she asks between kisses that set my fëa alight – her light, so soft, so lively. “My love, my Alálamë,” she murmurs into my mouth, and my other arm wraps around her, pulling her close. Findis smiles against my mouth, pressing herself closer and making me realise that she is actually slightly shorter than me, something I had never noticed before. “Be my wife?”

I stiffen – I hadn’t thought beyond offering her my heart, hadn’t dared dream – but I feel myself relax into her hold almost immediately; belonging to Findis in that manner feels right. I smile, a tiny tendril of my fëa moving to tangle with hers as I speak the words.

“I love you… Findis. Yes.”

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Chapter End Notes

If you've enjoyed this, I'd love to hear from you (and if you didn't!) as I am less-than-confident in writing romances (and I haven't written femslash before at all :o)