Tending the Lady's Garden by Raiyana

---

Chapter 1

---

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.