Walking in the Gardens by Raiyana

Chapter 1

1564 words, prompt: a normal day in the life

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.