Between myself and the powers of darkness by AdmirableMonster  

“In winter here no heart could mourn for summer or for spring.” — The Lord of the Rings

Hemmoril had never visited the inner gardens of Himring.  Maglor had asked her why once, and she had given him a freezing cold look and said, “I simply do not wish to, my lord.”  As she rarely stood on ceremony with him, he wisely did not pursue the matter further, and perhaps her response told him everything he needed to know anyway.

She had never visited them, had in fact, avoided them, and yet, here she was.  Not much would have brought her here, but a direct invitation from a guarded ex-thrall who might be becoming a friend—that seemed enough.  Anniavas would not complain if she turned down the invitation, but she had the sense he would see it as a refusal of friendship offered.  Hemmoril would not refuse a friendship in favor of a memory, not even the dearest memory she had.

Although outside, the last stages of autumn were giving way to the freezing cold of winter, the air inside the inner gardens was warm and moist, kept so by a glass enclosure and some clever feats of Noldorin engineering.  Hemmoril shut the door behind her and her eyes and breathed in the scents of summer—warm earth and greenery, with a light honeyed smell of flowers.

“Welcome.  I am glad that you were able to come.”  Anniavas, who had been rescued from a monstrous hunt and brought to Himring by Fingon some months ago, wore his injuries with a kind of blunt defiance.  His red-gold hair was a mop of short curls, probably because the healers had had to shear it, and half his face an ugly mass of scar tissue, including an indented knot where his left eye should have been.  His gait was slightly odd—stooped, almost, and his back hunched in an unnatural, almost unsettling way.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Hemmoril said.  “This place is beautiful.”

Anniavas nodded awkwardly.  “I thought you might like to try the new tea I mixed with the flowers you brought me,” he said.  “This way?”

Hemmoril followed him through the gardens, looking around her with a kind of nervous wistfulness.  Every empty place was another place Lanyë could no longer be, tucked away, just out of Hemmoril’s sight (Lanyë had never set foot in Himring.  She would have loved this garden.)

On the other side of the building, they came to a small cleared space with a pallet, a blanket, a low table, and a wood-burning stove, on which a kettle was waiting.  Anniavas gestured to Hemmoril to take a seat at the table.  It was so low that there were no chairs, but four mismatched cushions, one on each side.  

“Oh, damn,” Anniavas said, as the kettle started to whistle.  “I didn’t think it would heat that quickly.”

“Don’t you want it to be hot?” Hemmoril asked, although her experience with tea was mostly choking down a scalding bitter brew before riding out for a hunt or a battle, and she suspected this was not the experience Anniavas had planned.

“Not that hot,” Anniavas said furiously, as if the water had personally offended him by boiling.  He took the kettle off the stove and muttered to himself as he gathered mugs and ingredients.  Hemmoril watched him in amusement, thinking he was much better suited to this irritation than to the odd, half-deferential way he had greeted her.

“Here, smell this,” he said after a moment, depositing one of the mugs in front of her.  Startled, Hemmoril clutched it and brought it to her nose.  Her breath caught in her throat, because the first thing she smelled was just Lanyë’s hands—no, not quite, just the velvety, fruit-like odor of her favorite flowers, underlined with an earthy bitterness that was not quite the same as the smell of her sweat.  The earthy scent grew stronger as she breathed, but she still felt wobbly, as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

“That’s—”

“Is it too strong?” Anniavas asked, his mouth an irritable line as he leaned right down to peer into her face from far too close.

“More space, please,” Hemmoril said, setting him back with a hand on his shoulder.  A complicated series of expressions ran across his face—confusion warring with a sudden, sharp fear.  “I’m not angry,” she explained calmly.  “I just don’t like people that close.”

Slowly, his face settled.  “My apologies,” he said smoothly.  “Is it too strong?”

“No,” Hemmoril replied.  “It’s just—a lot.  The flower is important to me, it—reminds me of someone.  That’s all.”

Anniavas’s tongue flicked out, and he caught it between his teeth for an instant.  “I am afraid I am not privy to the intricacies of incarnate memory,” he said stiffly, which was a very confusing sentence.

“I…what?”

“Oh.  I—didn’t say that well, did I?”  He took the mug back and set it on the cold part of the stove with a second beside it.  Lifting the kettle, he poured the water steadily in.  Hemmoril wondered if he was using a practiced action to compose a more coherent response.  “I don’t remember—anything,” he said after a moment.  He set the kettle down, stirred both mugs, and paced back and forth beside the table.  “Whatever happened in Angband, it left me with nothing, I’m afraid.  So I don’t know what it’s like to remember.”

“Ah.”  She hadn’t realized the injuries extended to his mind, though it wasn’t all that surprising.  “Yes, that happens sometimes.  Some people get them back.”

“One can hope, I suppose.”  He waved a hand, almost dismissive.  “I think I’d rather have the eye, though.”

“That’s a little harder.  Maedhros’s hand has yet to return.”

He laughed at that, bright and surprised.  It was, Hemmoril thought, a good look on him, and one he seemed unused to.  But then, if he had no unhappy memories, he must have no happy ones, either.  

For a few minutes, they chatted inconsequentially, about the puppies in the kennels and Hemmoril’s next planned expedition, about the kinds of flowers that Anniavas might like her to bring back with. (“Something new, more—more subtle,” he explained, waving his hands.  His jerky vivacity was endearing.  Hemmoril said that she would try.)

Then the tea was brewed.  To Hemmoril’s surprise, Anniavas added a few extra ingredients before stirring it and bringing it over.  He set the cup down in front of her with a series of small, intent motions and then stepped smoothly backwards, dipping his head slightly as he did so, in a motion that seemed both practiced and unconscious.  It was a motion Hemmoril had seen before in certain contexts, usually from servants trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.  “Taste it,” he said, an entreaty that was almost a command, his one eye gleaming almost gold with excitement.

Hemmoril lifted it to her lips and sipped it gently.  At first, she tasted only bright, bitter earth, cut with a hint of sweetness.  Then, as she set the cup down, the taste of the flowers arrived on her tongue, less bold now than they had been in the scent, like her face buried in the crook of Lanyë’s neck.  The cup jumped around in her hands, and she set it down hastily.  A drop splashed across the table, then another.  Oh—that wasn’t the tea.

“Hemmoril?  Are you hurt?”  For an instant, he sounded terribly young.

“No, no.”  She used the heel of her hand to wipe away the worst of the tears.  “This is very good, Anniavas. I’ve never tasted tea like this.”  A memory in a cup, served up by a man with none of his own.  “Thank you.”

Maybe Lanyë was here in this garden, after all.

Chapter End Notes

The name "Anniavas," meaning "Gift of Autumn," is from Chestnut_pod's indispensable name list.  The names "Hemmoril" and "Lanyë" (short for "Lanyariel") comes from RealElvish.net. If you're interested in reading more about my doomed wives Hemmoril and Lanyë, you may want to check out my fics i'll be waiting here till the stars fall out of the sky, In the Dragon's Wake, and i have passed my days by the sound of your name.  

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