Tending the Lady's Garden by Raiyana

Chapter 1

She had always found curves more appealing than straight lines, even as a child – Náro had chuckled and ruffled her hair when she demanded he make her circular wall murals, but he’d done it nonetheless – and so it did not truly surprise Findis when she realised that her eyes were drawn to nissi more than neri.

And yet she also felt the Noldorin appreciation for muscles born of labour, sculpted by toil, and – aside from Nerdanel – such bodies seemed few among her acquaintances. In Vanyamar, at least, slender and willowy – and a few voluptuous, like Yavanna’s preferred shape, admittedly – seemed to be the norm.

In Tirion’s palaces, too, ladies were lovely but not quite so lovely as she imagined in her best dreams.

Elemmírë came close, with the blurring lines of gender personified, but Elemmírë’s heart did not long for companionship in such a way. The thought of more between them died unspoken as she got to know them better, and Findis dismissed her idle dreaming for more solid friendship. Elemmírë became her most steadfast companion as she navigated the harsher world of the Darkening and tried to keep herself and the remnants of her shattered people from drowning in grief.

And then Elemmírë left, too, bright smile and a promise to look after her kin on their lips, sunlight glinting off armour and catching in the loose gold hair of her brother.

It was a promise Findis had never wanted, never asked for, and in her darkest moments she wondered why Elemmírë had offered it to her, rather than the promise to stay that she had hoped would tumble from those wry lips.

Instead, she had forced to smile and wave off the armies, part of her already certain of the outcome as soon as Elemmírë had spoken their damning words. It was a promise fulfilled by the death of her dearest friend and the added weight of guilt on her heart, weighing her down until she felt like she could hardly breathe some days, every corner of the grand house in Tirion filled with ghosts and the memories of happier days.

She fled.

Findis was not proud of it, even as she was lauded for her compassion in journeying with Indis to Vanyamar and beyond, to the large sprawling house that she owned there.

At least no ghost wandered these halls, and yet the ghosts had followed her there as well, imagining the way Elemmírë would enjoy the paintings hung along the corridors, admire the well-maintained gardens that Indis did not see. She thought of the way her father would have loved dancing in the great hall or how Náro might have prowled through the house, small improvements appearing here and there just for her to find; he had always enjoyed her delighted discoveries of his work, despite the distance between him and her brothers.

Indis seemed akin to a ghost herself, and even Findis’ company was not enough to bring a smile to her face, feeling the loss of her family even more keenly than she.

In truth, Findis regretted taking up residence in this house almost as much as she enjoyed the peace of it, feeling guilty for both and wishing she could figure out how to heal her ammë, just a little, just enough so it would not feel like a betrayal to leave her alone, to seek company less stricken by grief, less marred by sorrow.

Of course, all families were marred by sorrow, now, but at least her duties in Tirion had kept her from drowning in the mire of her own emotions, had kept her from wallowing in fantasies and dreams of yéni long since passed.

Waking up in her darkened room, listening to a voice floating in through the opened window, muffled by the heavy curtains, Findis felt an acute sense of fearful desperation.

If she did not change her life here, she, too, would become a ghost.

She began by drawing the curtains away from the window, letting in one single pane of uninterrupted brightness.

The gardens stretched before her, verdant green lawns and budding flowerbeds galore, coloured brilliantly by the rising sun.

A glint of silver appeared among the green branches of the large tree at the far end of the garden, the speck of colour resolving into the shape of a head when she focused.

There was a girl in the tree.

Findis stared.

Envy filled her, for the soft smile playing across her face, tilted to soak up the sun glinting off her silvery hair. Envy for the way she almost exuded peace and contentment in that moment. Envy – and no little desire – for the nimble way she climbed down from her perch, strong muscles flexing beneath a thin shirt, her bare feet sure and swift in her descent.

The girl – not a girl, really, she looked more than old enough to have known the Trees before their destruction – almost danced across the lawn, filled with a lightness of spirit that drew the eye like a moth to a flame and Findis did not know if she wanted her or wanted to be her. The girl waved, calling to an older ner pushing a barrow, and disappeared, taking the joy of light with her.

The knock on the door from her maid startled Findis away from the window and her gazing over the greenery that did not reveal the silver-haired nissë to her eyes.

She had wandered into the garden on a whim, wondering if she dared climb the tree as the unknown nissë had done, to let the wind and the sun caress her hair.

Soft humming broke her gaze away from the large tree, made her turn her head to see… her.

Kneeling by a bed of small but colourful flowers was the silver-haired nissë, the long braid hanging down her back revealing strong shoulders and a slender neck, lightly browned by the sun where her tunic did not cover her skin, her fingers darkened by the earth she was tending and her clothes dirtier at the knees than Findis had been used to ever since Irissë left with Ñolo.

She was beautiful, lost in tending the bright spots of colour against green leaves, her low voice pleasing to the ear. Findis wanted to paint her, the urge to uncover her easel and discover where her box of paints had been stored when they arrived tingling in the tips of her fingers. She had not painted since the armies had left for the shores of Endorë, had almost left the box behind when they left the oppressive silences of the palace that had once been a home to all her family – the silences of those who were no longer.

Findis felt frozen, wondering if she ought to speak, wanting to step closer, to break the silence, maybe just to learn the name of her sudden inspiration.

In the end, she did not, fleeing back to the dark embrace of the house and cursing her own cowardice; the girl was clearly a servant of the household in some capacity and Findis should have no compunctions about speaking to her whatsoever.

Of course, she should not want to unravel the tight weave of that braid and run her fingers through the silver strands, either.

Her paintbrushes felt like old friends, welcoming her back into a soft embrace of creativity as she stood by the large southern windows, the object of her fascination still unaware – as were others; Findis had made sure the rest of the household knew that her painting room was off-limits to anyone else – that each stroke of colour brought her to life upon the canvas.

Looking out of the windows, Findis would catch glimpses, here and there, of the nissë at work, usually smiling or humming to herself and her plants.

Beneath her hands, that soft smile of the first morning took shape in pigments, still so sweet it took her breath away to remember that serene face in the tree.

Findis had not quite dared to return to the garden, feeling content to keep the nissë as her secret inspiration, and absolutely certain that if the girl knew she wanted to paint her, or she asked her to sit for it, she would be met with stiff awkwardness and unspoken thoughts that might become rumours of her impropriety.

It didn’t make the desire to speak to her smaller – some topics should be safe; surely she was accomplished enough to avoid giving away any undue interest? – just to get a taste of her voice, to note the true colour of her eyes which were still disappointingly blank on the painting before her. The nissë rarely looked up from her work, and if she did, she was too far to see clearly, her eyes never drawn towards the house that hid Findis’ fascination within its darkened rooms.

Drawn back to the light of the gardens, Findis wandered among the flowers, her feet leading her unerringly to the bed where she had last seen the silver-haired nissë.

Disappointingly, she was nowhere in sight, but the small flowers, a riot of purples and yellows and whites, with a medley of reds and blues scattered among them, managed to make Findis smile nonetheless. They seemed so happy – so bright – compared to the gloomy darkness of her ammë’s sitting room, cheering her soul just for a moment as she gazed on the colourful petals.

“Would you like to learn, my lady?”

Findis startled, whirling about with far less than her usual grace as the voice pulled her from her thoughts. She stared. It was her.

She should speak, her mouth opening to form words, to introduce herself, to… something.

“Learn…?” she wondered, the question making little sense to her mind, lost in gazing into deep green eyes and wondering just how she could recreate the hue on her canvas.

“I am Alálamë,” the silver-hair- no, Alálamë, said, and Findis couldn’t help but smile at her for the gift of her name. Alálamë nodded towards the flowerbed, one hand fluttering in the direction of the colourful blooms. “I tend the gardens, my Lady.”

“Yes…” Findis murmurs, “I-” She trailed off, feeling uncommonly tongue-tied in a way that had never really happened to her before, ever the poised Lady of her Atar’s court, the trained diplomat who’d managed to stop her brothers feuding – for a time, at least.

Alálamë apparently did not need further permission, stepping lithely past her and kneeling by the flowers, those long fingers reaching out to caress a petal. Findis glared at the innocent flower, feeling ridiculous for the envy that rose in her soul, and distracted herself by following the strong lines of Alálamë’s arm back up to her shoulder, the braided hair charmingly tangled with small twigs and leaves.

“This is a helin,” she began, babbling on about the flower’s properties; Findis had never had much interest in Yavanna’s realm – or were helini the work of Vána? – but Alálamë’s passion shone through her voice, and the joy that suffused her entire being as she spoke of her work was breathtaking.

“Would you give me some?” Findis heard herself asking, wondering at the way Alálamë blushed at her words. The flush in her cheeks was endearing, her babbling voice even more so, and Findis felt more charmed by her than she remembered being by anyone else.

“If – if you wish me to, my Lady.” Alalamë seemed suddenly awkward, staring at the grass between them, as though the request of a flower was unexpected.

Findis wanted to keep some sort of physical memento of this meeting, and one of the small blooms seemed to her a perfectly good choice. To distract her – and, admittedly, to try to return that voice to its former passionate joy – she pointed at a different plant, a long tendril of green winding its way through the flowers. “What is that one?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, swooping down on the thing and pulling it vigorously from the ground, “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.”

“No, don’t!” Findis cried, unhappy at the promise of such destruction. Her hand was already gripping Alálamë’s tense shoulder when she realised she had reached for it, the wash of emotion flooding over her leaving her less in control of herself than she would normally be. Her own fëa brushing lightly against Alálamë’s where her fingers met sun-darkened skin, curiously playful yet earthy and grounded, made her grip tighten.

Alálamë dropped the vine.

Findis let go of her, the last fleeting caress not nearly enough when she wanted much more, but the skittish babble that spilled from Alálamë’s lips was a clear indication that Findis had crossed the line, the urge to apologise rising in her spirit. She opened her mouth to offer one, but Alálamë was already saying her goodbyes, a hurried babble of “As you wish, my Lady,” escaping her before she fled through the gardens, disappearing from view before Findis could call to her.

Bungling her words and manners so greatly – how Írimë would have laughed at her! – was unlike Findis, and the embarrassment of those final moments in the gardens lingered in her thoughts well into the night, disturbing her dreams with its sting.

Findis woke in a terrible mood, later than she had intended; wanting to steal another glimpse of Alálamë in the great tree, she had decided to wake early, but the first fingers of the sun had already reached her bed when her eyes opened, much later than when she had first spied the silvery hair against the green foliage.

Cursing her own foolishness – was she not a grown nissë, a princess, even, the consummate diplomat of Finwë’s house? – Findis dressed hurriedly, the arrival of her breakfast in the hands of a maid who curtsied and fled in the face of his displeased expression interrupting her as she reached for her hairbrush.

There was a flower on the tray.

It sat there, innocently cheerful with its sun-colour petals, in a small vase like the ones Náro had once given her, smashed in a later regretted moment of incandescent fury, and the joy that filled her stole the air from her lungs for long minutes.

She forgives me.

Findis felt like singing, like dancing through the gloomiest parts of the house and unshuttering all the windows.

She settled for her own, drawing the curtains back with a flourish and placing the small vase on the sill, retrieving her discarded brush and letting the joyous melody of her heart flow from her lips in an old song of spring and love.

There was a new flower next morning, and Alálamë half-hidden in a bush that did not conceal the slow motions of her hands, as though dragging out her task to make it last the full length of Findis’ song.

When the last note faded, her dark honey hair shone with the same joy that she felt, lasting all the way to Indis’ sitting room where the small thing died in the face of overwhelming grief.

But the flowers kept coming.

Chapter 2

Perhaps the small joy of the flower would last if she brought it with her, Findis thought one morning, turning back to her suite of rooms and picking the bloom from its delicate vase, choosing a different hair clip from her box than she had at first picked. Curufinwë’s clever mind might not have been exactly like Náro’s, but his works was just as exact and his marriage to the sweet Telperína had given him cause to invent far more fripperies and baubles than Náro’s love for his wife. Findis smiled to look at the small piece of gold, momentarily saddened by the final fate of the hands that had made it. It had been crafted to conceal the damp pieces of fluffy cotton that kept blooms from dying yet display their colours and vibrancy perfectly framed by her favourite metal. Against her dark hair, the effect had always been lovely, Findis thought, and if she chose to adorn her hair with a small flower none would question that right.

Perhaps even Ammë’s spirit might be lifted by the sight of such a thing, just for a moment.

Smiling to herself, Findis set off once more, her feet making no sound as she walked to familiar hallways, her thin silk slippers ghosting across the cool stone.

She nearly ran into someone hiding behind a large vat of greenery, peapods in danger of tumbling down at the first movement.

“Alálamë,” she breathed softly, unable to stop her smile from growing too fond at the startled way the gardener’s face popped out from behind the peas, a small squeak of surprise escaping her before she hastily ducked away towards the kitchen. “Alálamë!” Findis repeated, a little louder, bending to pick up the few pods that had fallen to the floor.

Her enchanting gardener had disappeared entirely by the time she straightened, holding the small green pods in offering.

Findis sighed.

Opening one, she enjoyed the burst of flavour when she popped a pea into her mouth, continuing towards Indis’ rooms and wondering if the taste of such freshness might not stir her ammë to move from her bed for the first time in nearly a moon’s turning.

The next morning, her small vase held two helini, and Findis’ song was brighter than usual as she twisted the hairpiece into her long locks, the leftover helin brightening her room and her heart until its replacement arrived.

Alálamë didn’t spend much time in the house – and Findis was shrewd enough to realise that she feels less than comfortable in the corridors where Findis might stumble upon her – and so she had ventured into the garden again in search of that fluttery feeling in her stomach that Alálamë’s rare bright smiles gave her.

She found her near some large vegetable plants, bright yellow-orange flowers over large green leaves that she’s lifting to check on… squash, that’s what they’re called, even if the ones growing on the plant were smaller than those Findis had seen on her plate.

“They are coming along nicely, Alálamë,” she said, mostly for the pleasure of saying her name. As expected, her interest sparked a flurry of  words about the vegetable, those green eyes lit up when their owner dared to catch her own in ways that made Findis’ heart beat faster. She smiled, nodding in places, and enjoyed Alálamë’s voice – the topic may not be her greatest interest but Alálamë had a way of talking about her plant projects that made Findis wish she had green fingers herself.

The next day, she found her around midday by a pond full of indili – the same kind that Írimë had always loved, enough so that Náro had made her a small garden pond for one of her begetting days once – and Findis couldn’t help but chuckle as she told the story of her sister pushing a too-ardent suitor into the pond. She wondered if Irimë ever told her husband in Endorë that tale, or whether it died with her, her smile dying with the thought of her sister’s final fate: dying with the sword Náro – or perhaps Curufinwë, if it had been replaced later? – had made for her in the final days of his arming. Findis had not understood then why Írimë wished to follow their brother into the unknown, had not felt that same trapped sense of being stifled in her home that Írimë had hidden so well, but she had always believed that Írimë, at least, would return to her. Instead, Arafinwë had come back, twice, the second time bringing her word of all they had truly lost to the fire for which Fëanáro had been named.

If Alálamë noticed her sudden despair, she did not mention it, drawing Findis away from her dark thoughts with a silly story of her own brother falling from a cordof tree that managed to return a small glimmer of joy to her heavy heart.

Findis returned to the house when she felt she had imposed enough – she wanted to stay, watch Alálamë work or talk, or sketch her in an unguarded moment – returning to her self-imposed exile and the mother who barely registered her presence.

Findis thought she might finally understand Írimë’s choice.

She did not go looking for Alálamë every day, aware that she must keep a distance of propriety between them, but when she did, Findis found herself sharing memories she had not considered in years, found herself focusing on happier times than seemed possible to recall when she sat with Indis.

In the garden, with Alálamë, she could breathe again.

Alálamë reminded her that life moved on, her mere presence a balm to a wound Findis had lived with so long she had forgotten its existence.

And Findis loved her.

Chapter 3

The flower in her hair seemed to have been noticed, Findis thought, though none of her or ammë’s ladies had guessed at the sentiment behind the small bloom, several ladies suddenly wearing flowers of their own. None of them had been given helini, though, and Findis tucked away the warmth she felt at the thought that Alálamë kept those flowers for her alone.

When she found time by her easel, she added more flowers, surrounding Alálamë with a sea of happy bright colours and wished that she dared paint herself lying in the flower meadow with her, even if that should never be more than a distant dream fuelled by the sweet smiles Alálamë kept giving her when they met in the garden.

Her morning tray now sported more options, as though inviting her to join in with the rest of the ladies of the house, but Findis was quite content with her single golden helin – some of the ladies seemed to wish to outdo each other with the size of their decorations, but excessive finery had never been her style, preferring clean lines and simple designs accentuating her natural grace to the sometimes-gaudy displays of her Vanyarin cousins.

Alálamë continued to hide less than successfully near her windows in the morning, tending to tasks that even to Findis’ eyes did not need tending quite so often, and the thought that she showed up just to listen to her singing was heady with promise.

And then one morning she was nowhere to be seen, and the song died on Findis’ lips halfway through the second verse.

When she finally saw Alálamë through on of the windows, the quiet fear that she had fallen ill died unspoken. Instead, she is escorting some ner around the garden, looking at him with a loving smile on her face as she gestures to this plant and that.

Findis gasped, leaning hard against the windowsill as she watched them.

The ner was handsome, she thought, objectively, and the way he smiled back indicative of great fondness – love – for her Alálamë. No, not her Alálamë… his.

She had never before believed in the saying that a heart could be broken, but Findis could claim this pain to be nothing else, one hand pressing against her sternum as she stared out the window until the closely entwined couple had wandered out of sight.

In the morning, the flowers on her tray felt like a mockery, as theough their brightness had only ever been a ruse; a lie she told herself because she longed for something – anything – to combat the gloominess of her current existence.

Findis did not smash the vase, even though she felt a moment of temptation to watch.

She did not open her window, she did not sing, and she only rand her brush perfunctorily through her hair, making her way to Indis’ chambers without gazing out of even a single window.

Findis did not think she could stand living in this house if she did not have those small glimpses of Alálamë’s light to warm her.

And still she heard gossips speaking of Alálamë’s lover – Altorno, even their names matched! – heard talk that he had asked her to come away with him to Alqualondë.

She knew she did not want to watch her leave, watch her unspoken dreams perish in the arms of someone else.

Findis fled.

Calling upon Ingwë’s hospitality towards his kin, she took up residence in Vinyamar and tried to shake off the gloomy darkness of her ammë’s house with the joys to be found there, dancing with different partners at every ball and tried to banish her longing for green eyes and silver hair to Endorë or beyond.

Lasselanta’s drizzles did not lighten her mood, even as the younger elves of Ingwë’s house danced through the wetness, the many shades of golden hair only making her longing for silver-blonde sharper.

“You pretend at happiness here, Findis,” her uncle said, coming to a halt beside her where she stood, storing out at the sheets of falling water without seeing, wondering what Alalamë would be doing on such a day and trying not to imagine Altorno taking her place in the fantasy of how she’d be content to stay inside for once, to let Findis paint her in her rooms. “Not poorly,” he added, and Findis’ shoulders relaxed slightly, “I think I am the only one to see that your heart is far from the delights to be found beneath these roofs.”

“What would you have me do?” she whispered, her breath fogging the chilled pane of glass. “There is no peace to be found for this… wilful heart of mine.” She couldn’t not love Alálamë, after all.

Ingwë’s chuckle was warm, his hand on her shoulder steady as it had ever been, whenever she let herself give in to the comfort offered, the knowledge that she could be simply Findis, here, in safety, and not need worry about keeping up the appearance of the consummate Lady Findis.

“Sometimes,” he offered, drawing her into his side, protected like she was still a young nissë of four yéni, “you remind me so very much of your ammë.”

Findis stiffened. Was she, too, then, doomed to ammë’s fate, wasting away without care for the world around her?

Bristling, she turned her head, her angry tirade failing at the knowing look in his eyes, the fondness of his familiar smile.

“And yet you are stubborn like Finwë, fiery of spirit when riled, and your love cannot be hidden from view.” When she gasped, feeling unduly surprised by his knowledge, Ingwë’s smile widened. “You are in love, sweet Findis, practically glowing with it… and whoever holds your heart will never return such a gift, no matter how aware they are of receiving it.” He paused, eyeing her shrewdly “And I should bet all the gems your Atar bestowed upon me over the years that you have not spoken of this love in you.”

Findis shook her head slowly, closing her eyes. “She would not be for me, Uncle,” she whispered, the words stabbing knives into her bleeding heart, “Alálamë is… she is… I am the Princess, Uncle!” It came out like a cry of despair, the weight of her title never before seeming so heavy, even when it had been High Queen in all but name.

“Princess, yes,” he agreed, “but while you were always – because you were the first of your parents’ children, I fear, and had to be proof that their union would not create cursed offspring – held to such impossible standards…” He looked angry, and Findis felt a glimmer of hope she could not quite squash before it bloomed in her soul. “Did not your brother marry a brewer, did not Fëanáro marry a sculptor?” Ingwë sighed. “Long I have wondered if your heart was meant for one in Endorë, as your ammë has feared also, losing all of her children to those shores…”

“Ara came back,” Findis pointed out bleakly, but Ingwë dismissed her protest with a wave of his hand.

“So he did, and yet he did not, for he was not the same as the ner who left to follow his brothers…” Ingwë turned, those ancient eyes looking at her with all the love he held for her. “If you love this Alálamë, Findis, your path is clear.”

“No,” she whispered, her spirits plummeting once more, “for she loves another, Uncle, her heart is not free to seek mine.”

“Almost what your ammë once said,” he muttered, the warmth of his arm never leaving her, “but there is yet the possibility of joy for you, if your heart is set.” Sighing, he gestured out across the grounds that surrounded his home. “Uncommon, indeed, but there are those who live in… couples,” he said thoughtfully, as though not quite sure what to call it himself. Findis felt her heart beat faster, “of more than two fëar.”

“But… how?” Findis whispered, even as her soul wept at the thought of sharing Alálamë with anyone – she was possessive of the loved ones remaining to her, and shrewd enough to know such a constellation would bring almost as much pain as her current heartbreak.

“I do not know,” Ingwë admitted, “but perhaps you might speak to this nissë you love, discover if she would be amenable to such a thing?”

Chapter 4

Ingwë was right, of course, Findis knew, in at least two areas.

She had always worried too much about how others saw her, but she had not considered that her stringent adherence to propriety stemmed from the reactions to her parents’ union and for the first time she resented both of them equally for the pressure they’d put on her to be Lady Findis.

She also knew that she had to confess her heart to Alálamë, if only for her own peace of mind; the last few moon-turning had showed her that as romantic as she had found her ammë’s steady waiting in love as a story, the reality of pining for someone you could not have was much harsher. Part of her hoped that she might be able to put it behind her, at least a little, if Alálamë told her no outright. Perhaps her stubborn heart would listen, then?

And yet Findis was acutely aware that this feeling bore only superficial resemblance to the small tendre she had once nursed for Elemmírë, and quietly feared that she had been forever altered by the seeds Alálamë’s kind smile and gentle hands had sown in her heart, blooming into something much fuller and more painful than Findis had ever expected.

She did not think it would pass.

Coming back to Indis’ house on a drearily rainy day, Findis still felt ambivalent about her path; letting go of so many yéni of expectations was daunting in itself, and yet it paled in comparison to the fear that gripped her when she considered what she would say to Alálamë… and how she might respond.

Some memories gave her hope, making her heart soar like one of Taniquetil’s Eagles, and in the next moment she would recall the way Altorno’s arm had been wrapped around Alálamë’s shoulder and feel it plummet faster than a rock thrown from the Mindon Eldaliéva.

Ammë smiled at her.

For a few moments, Findis was thrown, but accepts her quiet embrace, frightened to feel how thin she had truly become, so different from the Indis she remembered sitting next to Atar.

“I missed you,” she murmured, so softly that Indis could pretend not to have heard her at all.

“As I missed you, daughter,” Indis replied, and it’s another glimmer of hope that perhaps Ammë will return to them – not as she once was, perhaps, but more than the sad spectre of herself she had become since Atar was murdered.

Drawing her along to her sitting room, Indis kept up a steady stream of words, filling her ears with the gossip of the house, and a wry amusement at the thought of Indis’ handmaiden’s statement of pregnancy as evidenced by the flowers she wore.

“I do not think ladies of Tirion are taught the language of Flowers,” Indis confided in her, and for  moment Findis was transported back in time to her childhood, sitting by her ammë’s feet, embroidery hoop in hand, as she spoke of the customs of the Vanyar and the giving of flowers as messages.

“Perhaps not,” Findis smiled, keeping her expression carefully controlled even as her mind spun with fragments of plans. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage, even if she would have to send to Ingwë to ask what flowers to present to her Alálamë; surely a gardener would be aware she was being wooed with a gift of flowers?

The sun, barely discernible behind the grey clouds and the falling waters, had moved most of the way across the sky when Findis managed to escape ammë’s questions to return to her room, intending to wash and dress for dinner. She felt light as she walked through the house; Indis seemed to have been buoyed by her return, as though she had expected Findis to be gone forever. The thought was at once sad, bringing with it more grief for her siblings who were in the Halls of Mandos, and hopeful. Perhaps Indis would find a way to go on – she had spoken of visiting Estë’s lake, and Findis supported the idea; Indis needed more healing than she knew how to provide, solace that she might find easier in the company of the Valie. Her agreement seemed to have surprised her ammë, Findis thought, moving towards her familiar door and wondering if Indis had expected her derision.

Pushing the door open, Findis was struck dumb, staring at the spectacle before her. At the foot of her bed, perched on the large trunk that Arafinwe had carved for her many yéni ago, a silver platter peeked from beneath a riot of white and purple helini that Alálamë – Alálamë was in her rooms? – must have grown in the warm glass houses for them to have survived the chill of hrivë. What truly stole her attention, however, was the absolutely giant garishly bright orange pumpkin set in the middle of the arrangement.

“What… what is this?” she asked, frowning quizzically, her eyes darting from Alálamë’ downcast expression to the pumpkin and back, ruthlessly stopping herself from imagining more feeling in those green eyes than warranted. Gesturing at the display, her mind raced, wondering how she had decided upon such a welcome home gift.

“Well, I uhm…” Alálamë hesitated, biting her lip. She motioned towards the pumpkin. “It’s… it’s finished,” she muttered, looking down at her bare feet before glancing back up at Findis.

“I don’t…” Findis began, staring at Alálamë whose face fell before she could hide it, sparking a wild hope in her breast. Clearly there was meaning in this gift, and Findis struggled to remember long-ago lessons at her ammë’s feet.

“I apologise, my Lady,” Alálamë whispered to her feet. “I- I will go.” Her feet moved, intending to take her past Findis and out the door, and Findis found her hand wrapped around Alálamë’s strong arm, feeling the muscles flex under her touch, before she knew she had decided to stop her. Alálamë said nothing, but Findis could feel the minute trembles racing over her skin, hear the slight gasp she could not quite stifle in time.

“I don’t understand the meaning of this gift, Alálamë,” she whispered, turning her head to look at her love. Alálamë is slightly taller, the silvery hair coiling in its familiar braid hanging over one shoulder. She shivered at the soft words but did not raise her head.

“Helini carry meanings, my Lady,” she told her toes, every muscle tense like a hart who has caught sight of a hunter – poised to flee at the first sign of movement.

“Tell me, Alálamë,” Findis whispered, breathing out the words and fearing that the sound of her voice would spark the flight she saw in Alálamë’s tense posture. If possible, the request made her tenser, and Findis felt a stab of guilt for putting her on the spot like that.

Alálamë took a shuddering breath, exhaling the words as though she was damning herself by speaking rather than making Findis’ heart beat a rapid tattoo in her chest.

“Helini always involve one person thinking of another,” she said, “though the colour changes their meaning.”

“These are white with violet edging,” Findis replied thoughtfully as old knowledge marshalled itself in her mind, falling from her lips without as she thinks out loud. “Take a chance…on my…” she paused, her cheeks flashing a brilliant scarlet as a small gasp escaped her, turning her head to stare at the flowers. Take a chance on my love for you, they begged, and Findis thought she had never felt more elated.

Alálamë’s toneless chuckle surprised her, but not as much as her words.

“You have no need to continue, my lady,” she said steadily, pulling her arm from her grip. “I have apologised; you need never see me again.” Ducking out of the doorway, Alálamë was gone before Findis could voice her protest.

Instead, she ran, catching up with Alálamë’s hunched figure halfway down the corridor and tossing all care for propriety to the wind, one hand wrapping around Alálamë’s calloused fingers and the other tugging on her shoulder to make her turn around.

“I accept,” she whispered softly, though she wasn’t sure Alálamë even heard the words, those beautiful green eyes welling with water. Kissing away the tears that dotted her cheeks seemed natural, every part of Findis needing to soothe her distress. Findis was not as aware of herself as she normally would have been, wrapping Alálamë in small tendrils of her own joyful fëa that seemed to flare brighter behind her eyelids every time her lips met the softly freckled skin of her love.

When she found Alálamë’s lips beneath her own she dared steal a small taste. Alálamë is like cool green shade on a hot day and the heady feeling of her fëa brushing against Findis in such an intimate caress nearly swept the words out of her mind again.

“I accept,” she murmured, pressing the words against Alálamë’s mouth with every kiss, breathing them into her mouth.

“You… you do?” Alálamë asked, pulling away slightly, frowning at her in confusion. Findis noticed for the first time the soft grip on her hips that she had missed, opening her eyes to see the love in those eyes darken with a sudden burst of sheer hunger.

Findis groaned, wanting nothing more than to claim those lips again, but fully aware that she needed to make absolutely sure this was what Alálamë wanted. Those green eyes hid again, turned downwards and Findis lifted one hand to tilt her face back up. “Stop doing that, melmenya,” she whispered softly, caressing soft pale skin, the golden tan of summer faded against the gold of her own skin. Alálamë blushed brightly, her eyes widening at the term of endearment, her mouth opening as though she wanted to protest it being applied to her. “I much prefer to see these beautiful eyes of yours,” Findis murmured, feeling her cheeks heat at the look in those eyes, her own darting down to Alálamë’s mouth as she licked her lip, wanting to steal another kiss – and another and one more until Alálamë told her no. “I love you,” she said, leaning in to press a featherlight kiss against the corner of Alálamë’s soft mouth, surprised but pleased by the way she returned the pressure. One of Alálamë’s hands ran up her back to tangle in her hair and Findis gasped; a strange needful sound that made it tighten in her hair, made Alálamë press closer against her with a small gasp. “Be mine,” Findis asked: she would beg if she had to, but Alálamë’s arms just tighten around her, flowing into each kiss with a fervour she had not expected when she dreamt of this moment. “My love, my Alálamë.” Leaning into those arms, holding her firmly against Alálamë’s rain-wet tunic, Findis smiled. “Be my wife?”

Alálamë stiffened, though she did not pull away, and Findis felt a horrid moment of crushing self-doubt before her soft voice responded, the look in her eyes enough to make Findis’ cheeks heat along with her blood. Alálamë smiled, small fingers of her fëa already reaching for Findis’ own, flickers of silver-green happiness.

“Findis…” she said, and her name had never sounded quite so lovely before, “I love you… my Findis. Yes.”