The Longest Day by Lyra

The Longest Day

No death happening on screen, but the deaths of several characters are being discussed.

It was the day after Midsummer, a time of celebration. The solemn silence of Austalendë* had been broken by joyful choirs; now parades and pageants, fairs and feasts would continue to hail the peak of summer for the rest of the week.

Anairë had escaped the festivities to sit in her kitchen garden, alone. It provided the best illusion of peace that she had been able to find. Separated from the topiary and the artfully arranged flowerbeds of the main garden by a hedge of ignoble dogroses, it provided a welcome sense of isolation from the turmoil of the world beyond. Out there, trumpets were braying and bells were ringing; harps were playing, and voices were raised in song and laughter. Here, the leaves rustled gently in the occasional warm breeze; small birds were chirping, and bees eagerly harvested the nectar of lavender and lemon balm, rose and goatweed. The scent of the herbs mingled with the smell of compost and the wafts of warm bread, roast meat and frying onions from the nearby kitchens. Two small sculptures of Yavanna and Vána were smiling down serenely at the orderly vegetable patches.

Yet Anairë found no serenity today. She sat in the sun-warmed garden path at the feet of Vána's sandstone effigy, absent-mindedly rubbing a branch of sage between her fingers. The characteristic smell rose to her nose, evoking old memories: Istimë the healer, advising her to drink sage tea to stop her heavy breasts from overflowing with milk when Findekáno began to prefer solid food. Little Irissë, learning about the plants and their properties, hanging up cut sprays of sage and peppermint and balm to dry. Long before that time, there had been sage in the wreath on Nolofinwë's head on their wedding day.

Anairë threw the crushed branch to the ground. She did not want these memories now. She had woken with a horrid sense of wrongness, a diffuse pain in her chest and belly as though something had violently been torn out of her body. Thinking of the family she'd once had only made it worse. She leaned back against the statue, letting her eyes drift over the calming greens, the gentle round shapes of the bushes. She closed her eyes and took in the buzzing and birdsong, the homely smells, but still no peace would come.
Soft footsteps made her turn around in alarm. She had not expected to be found here – few people would know to seek the lady Anairë in the kitchen garden, and she had asked her lady-in-waiting not to point any visitors her way - but apparently the luxury of solitude was too much to ask for.

The intruder was dressed in a simple gown of greyish green, much like the sage Anairë had toyed with earlier. It contrasted nicely with the wearer's russet hair that she wore braided back, but uncovered despite the bright sunshine. Anairë rose and forced her lips into a smile.
"Light and joy to you, dear Sister," she said, using the traditional Midsummer greeting.
Nerdanel appeared to be biting her lips. Traditionally, she should have replied in the same manner. Instead, she said "I hope so." Her voice was gentle, but it did not sound as though she believed in light and joy just now.
Anairë again felt the sharp pain in her chest. "What happened?" she asked, feeling her breath quicken.
"I am not certain... yet," Nerdanel said. "Nothing good." She seemed to study Anairë's face closely. "How are you feeling?"
"Dreadful," Anairë admitted faster than she had meant to. She had longed to share her unease with somebody, she realised, and that was why the garden had brought her no peace. "I think something awful happened. I woke up in the middle of the night with this terrible pain inside, and I cannot shake it off..."

Nerdanel nodded, still studying her anxiously. Her eyes held the same unspoken fear that Anairë felt in her own heart.
"Does it remind you of something, this pain?" she said.
"What are you getting at?"
"When Fëanáro died," Nerdanel explained, "I felt it at once. Námo sent a messenger, months later, but I already knew what had happened – I felt it in my heart, and my belly, and my mind."
"But Nolofinwë has been dead for years," Anairë said. Again her heart constricted painfully. She felt as though she was about to faint, and sat down again.
"Yes," Nerdanel explained, sitting in the path beside her, "as is Fëanáro." She was speaking calmly, as though she had come to terms with the fact, but Anairë heard the pain in her voice. Nerdanel might behave as though she had gotten over her losses, but sometimes, the carefully sculpted surface showed cracks.
"Still, I woke up in the middle of this all too short night, feeling as though somebody had struck a hammer against my chest – as if my ribs were crushing my heart."
"Something like that," Anairë nodded, "though I would not have described it that way."
Nerdanel gave another slow nod. "It is either Nelyo or Findo," she sat flatly. Anairë saw her hands, so strong and sure with hammer and chisel, uncertainly knead the fabric of her gown. It would not be fit for the evening feast now, she thought absent-mindedly; there would be creases in it as well as dust and dirt from the stones.
Then Nerdanel's words sank in.
"Findo," she said, the nameless unease suddenly turning into horrible certainty. "Findo was killed." It was impossible not to notice the blind relief that flooded Nerdanel's eyes - not mine, not mine! - even as she moved in to embrace – no, steady – Anairë.
"I am so sorry, Sister," Nerdanel whispered; but Anairë still saw that look on her face: not mine, not mine. She stiffened, and had to suppress the urge to push Nerdanel away. It was not fair to blame her sister-in-law, she told herself. Anybody would be relieved in Nerdanel's place.

When she could breathe normally again, she picked up the discarded branch of sage. "How did you know that it was one of them?" she asked, greedily breathing in the strong scent.
"I dreamed of Nelyo," Nerdanel said. "It was unlike any dream I have had before – unlike anything. He was devastated; indeed, he did not even seem to be alive. I knew that something terrible must have happened – out there."
Anairë nodded again, gasping against the crushing pressure on her heart. She could no longer fight the tears; she bent forward and sobbed. Nerdanel stroked her back, gently, quietly.
"We might be wrong," she said in an attempt to console Anairë. "Maybe Findo is fine."
But Anairë shook her head, violently. "No. I was unsure before you came, but now that you have spelled it out, it is so clear in my mind. Findo is dead."
Nerdanel bowed her head. "I am sorry to have come with such dreadful tidings, then."
"Don't be. I already knew that something was wrong – I just didn't know what. If you hadn't come, I might have wondered and worried for weeks – until Námo finally deigned to send a message." She bit her lips at once, looking around worriedly as if afraid that somebody had overheard her words. Nerdanel sniffed; Anairë was not certain whether it was sympathy or disapproval. But Nerdanel made herself clear soon enough. "So he keeps you waiting, too?" she asked.
"I learned of Arakáno, and of Nolofinwë, long after it had happened," Anairë said. Speaking their names stung. Even the fondest memories were painful; remembering the manner in which she had learned of their death was almost too much to bear. "I wonder why it takes so long."
"So do I," said Nerdanel, and more softly added, "I thought it was just me."
The sage-sprig had turned into fragrant dust in Anairë's restless fingers. "What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.
Nerdanel bit her lips, her eyes gliding over the little sculptures of Vána and Yavanna as if sizing them up. "I thought it was a kind of punishment," she explained. "Because I did not hold Fëanáro back."
Anairë snorted. "That is nonsense. You tried, didn't you?"
"Of course. By that time, I was no longer in a position to change his mind. But that was due to my own choices, so perhaps I am being held responsible."
Anairë grimaced. "It was not your fault, Nerdanel, and surely Námo knows that."
"Oh," Nerdanel said in a cold voice that cut through the daze of grief that had begun to settle on Anairë. "I would not presume to guess what Námo knows or thinks."
Anairë shivered, and Nerdanel put an arm around her shoulders. "I am sorry. I wanted to help you – not to complain about my own lot to you of all people. Forget what I said, and tell me: Is there anything I can do for you?"

Anairë looked around at the peaceful garden, still as lush and verdant as it had been when she had arrived an hour earlier. Vána and Yavanna were still smiling kindly down at the plants and at the two women as if there were no grief in the world – or nothing, at any rate, that was beyond healing. She heaved a sigh, rubbing her eyes. "Yes, sister, there is. I think I need to be alone now."
Very briefly, something like hurt was visible in Nerdanel's eyes before it was replaced by her usual calm expression. Anairë forced another smile. "Could you let my household know that we are not to receive any visitors – save messengers from the Valar, I suppose? Tell them that I will not attend any feasts. And if you meet anyone who might want to see me, please discourage them."
"In the week of Midsummer?" Nerdanel protested, although her eyes were kind. "How am I to keep them away from you at this time of celebration?"

Anairë snorted grimly. "Let them know the truth," she said. "Tell them that my son has died. For me, it is bleakest winter."

Chapter End Notes

* Austalendë is an obscure holiday listed in the Qenya dictionary as "Midsummer's Day". The custom of silence until dawn has been stolen from another obscure holiday described in The Book of Lost Tales, the "Gates of Summer" or Tarnin Austa celebrated in Gondolin.