White Flowers by StarSpray

White Flowers

Read White Flowers

“Do babies always take this long to be born?” Turukáno asked Findekáno. They were perched in the tallest tree in their mother’s garden, which gave them a great view of the house and the surrounding countryside, and the walls of Tirion not far off, gleaming white under Laurelin’s radiance. Turukáno had been banished from the house early that morning when Anairë had felt her first labor pains, and Findekáno had come out to join him after a while, claiming that he recalled how lonely and worrisome it had been for him when Turukáno had been born.

“I don’t know,” said Findekáno, swinging his legs idly as he leaned against the trunk. He had a lyre in his hands and was plucking at the strings absently. “You didn’t take very long, as I recall, but I have been told that it varies.” He strummed a few chords. To all appearances he was utterly unconcerned and at ease, but Turukáno could see his eyes flick toward their mother’s windows every few seconds. Figures were moving about inside, and occasionally a faint cry reached them in the garden.

At last, the windows opened, and Turukáno heard a sharper wail as their father leaned out to call them in. Findekáno immediately leaped to the ground, and caught Turukáno when he jumped after him. “Where are you going?” he asked, when Turukáno did not immediately follow him to the door.

“Wait for me!” Turukáno said as he gathered a bunch of flowers, tiny white ones with a sweet scent that grew in clusters like little stars, and one or two pale pink dahlias that his mother loved. He ran after Findekáno, inside and upstairs, where their Aunt Ëarwen opened the door to usher them in.

Their mother lay in bed propped up on a mound of pillows, and their father was beside her, holding a small squirming bundle. “Flowers! Oh, thank you, my love,” said Anairë, taking the bouquet and kissing Turukáno on the nose. “Come, meet your sister.”

“What is her name?” Findekáno asked as he leaned over Nolofinwë’s shoulder to peer at the baby. When Nolofinwë handed her back to Anairë, Turukáno finally got a look at her, little and flushed and wrinkly, her tiny hands balled into fists. She was the loveliest thing Turukáno had ever seen.

“Irissë,” said Anairë.

Irissë opened her eyes and cooed, reaching up for the flowers. Her grip was strong and tight, and once she had hold of the stems she would not let go, and tiny white petals rained down on her face, making her sneeze and the rest of them laugh. “Hello, Irissë,” Turukáno said, reaching out to run his fingers through the soft dark hair atop her head. “Hello, baby sister.”

.

The sun shone with blinding brightness and heat down upon Gondolin. All was quiet. No bells rang in the towers, and there was no music, no singing, no flutes or drums or harps. Even the flowing fountains seemed muted. Outside the city gates, upon the green grass of Tumladen, a cairn was being prepared. In life Aredhel had rebelled against walls, and so in death she would rest outside them, where the wildflowers grew and the wind passed whispering through the grass. How bitterly Turgon wished he had kept her inside the encircling mountains in life—that he had kept her safe.

The funeral would be held late in the afternoon, as the sun began to sink and the air cooled. Until then Aredhel lay in state, and all who wished could pass by to say farewell. Turgon stayed away. He did not want to witness others’ grief, nor to have witnesses to his own outside his own household. He did not know where Maeglin was—nor what he would say when he saw him again.

The flowers that had grown in their mother’s garden outside Tirion long ago did not grow in Beleriand. There were similar blossoms, tiny white things like stars, but their scent was not as sweet. Turgon still grew them, and he gathered a small bunch before at last descending. The crowds were gone, and the room empty. Aredhel lay upon silken cushions, clad in her favorite gown of white shot with silver brought across the Helcaraxë from Valinor, with a silver girdle and a circlet of diamond and pearl resting upon her dark hair. Her favorite bow and quiver had been laid at her side. Were it not for her unnatural stillness, and the grey pallor of her skin, she might have been asleep. The only sound was the whisper of Turgon’s own robes as he crossed the floor to stand at her side. Her hands rested one over the other on her stomach, and were cool when he laid his own over them. Carefully, he tucked the flowers into her fingers. “Farewell, Irissë,” he whispered into the stillness. “Forgive me, baby sister.”