A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Sixty Six

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The idea for the painting had come from, of all things, listening to Finrod complain about how hard it was to choose gifts for his siblings. Maedhros had stopped listening and didn’t know if Finrod had ever found anything acceptable for Aegnor. He’d gone back to Curufin’s house afterward and made a few rough sketches, and then conspired with Daeron to drag Maglor out of Curufin’s house at last to go to Tol Eressëa, where Maglor could find a bit of peace by the Sea, and Maedhros could take advantage of the great palantír of Avallónë. Maglor had used it the year before to look for Cuiviénen, and now Maedhros did the same. He had been curious ever since Maglor had told him about it, and now he had a real reason to want to see what the stars looked like on those waters, and what the Elves had been like, how they had moved and dressed and styled their hair.

Now he was at home, in his bedroom, surrounded by paints and brushes. He’d started and restarted the painting several times over the winter, and made dozens of sketches, and now was finally making real progress. It had been something to focus on and occupy his thoughts—something to chase away the doubts and nightmares that still hovered in the back of his mind, waiting for him to let his guard down. On his desk beside where he’d set up the easel—it had been far too cold in his studio, which was a repurposed storage space and had no hearth—sat a jar of the shimmering ithildin that Fëanor had sent to him. Maedhros had never really expected to use it—but now he was eager to see how it would look on the canvas.

It was still quite cool outside, but Maedhros had opened the window to let in the fresh air. Drifts of snow lingered in shady places, but snowdrops and crocuses were starting to bloom. Celegorm had arrived the week before, and Maedhros could see Huan bounding through the fields beyond Caranthir’s garden, already covered in mud and disturbing the birds that had started to return from the south. Aechen had also recently awoken from his winter’s sleep, though he had returned from his morning’s foraging and was curled up in his little basket by Maedhros’ hearth. Celegorm was not out with Huan, but that meant he was most likely with their mother in her workshop. Elsewhere Maedhros heard the gentle sound of a lute—Maglor having exaggerated just how much practice he needed to really remember how to play again—alongside the sweet notes of Daeron’s flute. Outside, besides Huan’s occasional bark, it was quiet and bright, and so very different from Tirion. Maedhros didn’t mind staying in the city nearly as much as he once had, but every time he left it still felt like he was shedding a weight from his shoulders.

A knock heralded Celegorm’s entry, and of course he didn’t wait for an answer. “Moryo says you’re being very secretive about this painting. What is it?”

“It’s not a secret exactly,” Maedhros said. He’d been keeping it hidden mostly because he knew how much it drove everyone else mad with curiosity, and it was nice to feel like he could tease his brothers again. And also— “I just don’t know if it will turn out how I want.” He lowered his brush as Celegorm stepped up behind him.

“I don’t know how you want it to turn out, but if you’re worried about it not looking like our grandparents, don’t. Where are they supposed to be? The lighting looks odd.”

“Cuiviénen. There are dozens of portraits of them together here. I wanted to do something different.”

“Oh. Oh, is that why you wanted to go look into the big palantír?”

“Yes.” Maedhros dunked his brush in the water jar. “I can understand why so many were reluctant to leave. It was beautiful.”

“What are you going to do with it when it’s finished?”

“Give it to Atya.” They’d spoken quite a lot after they’d both returned to Tirion, but never about anything truly meaningful, and never alone. Fëanor was reluctant to cause more harm, and Maedhros just didn’t know what to say—and he was more than half-afraid that that came off as him wanting to keep his distance, when he was increasingly certain that he didn’t. So he’d thought perhaps he could take a page out of Fëanor’s own book and offer a gift. “Did you come up here just to snoop or did you need something?”

“Mostly to snoop,” Celegorm said as he sat down on Maedhros’ bed, crossing his legs. “And to make sure you aren’t brooding.”

“I think I should be allowed to brood sometimes in my own bedroom,” said Maedhros.

“Not if it lasts all morning.”

“Well, if I were brooding I probably wouldn’t also be painting. I’d be sketching.” Maedhros set his brushes aside and went to join Celegorm on the bed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I heard you spoke to Atya before you left Imloth Ningloron.” Maedhros had meant to ask about it before, but there had never been a good time. “I didn’t think you ever intended to speak to him.”

“I didn’t. He came to me,” Celegorm said, “up on the roof.”

“The roof?”

“Yes, I know. I think that’s—that feels like it means more than anything he said. And what he said means…a lot. And now it feels like I need to take the next step, but I don’t know what that is.”

“That’s where I am, too.” Maedhros leaned against the wall and turned his head to look out of the window. Huan leaped out of the grass after a flock of birds, and landed with a splash in the river.

“Míriel still hasn’t come to see the new babies. Did you know?”

“No.”

“Curvo told me she came within a week of both Calissë and Náriel’s births. He said Atya hasn’t heard from her in some time either. I don’t think anyone’s worried, and I guess she never actually promised to come, but Curvo’s hurt even if he won’t admit it.”

Maedhros wished he knew Míriel better, if only so that he might be able to say something reassuring. “Whatever is keeping her away, I suppose he’ll find out this summer at the latest.”

“I suppose. There’s also going to be an enormous hunt before the feast. Irissë wants me to go.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Is it that you really don’t enjoy it anymore, or that you feel like you shouldn’t?”

“I love most of it. It’s making the kill that I can’t—I just can’t. Or—well, I can, and I won’t hesitate if I’m out in the wild and need to eat or something, but it’s—I don’t know. I don’t get sick at the sight of blood in exactly the same way Tyelpë does, but I don’t not feel sick.” Celegorm slumped over against Maedhros. “I’ve been trying to figure out why, and I think it’s because I still remember too well what it feels like.”

Maedhros usually tried very hard not to think about how all his brothers had died, and Celegorm least of all. None of them ever spoke of it. The others had been felled quickly—dead before they hit the ground or almost before they knew what was happening. Celegorm had not. Now he just said, “Then don’t go on the hunt. There will be other chances to use those same skills at the feast itself—games and tournaments and races, and you won’t have to deal with any of the messy parts of it.”

“I suppose. I do miss it. Just…not enough to try to get over myself.”

“There’s nothing to get over,” Maedhros said quietly. Then, “How’s the search for something new going?”

“I like sculpting but I don’t know if stone is quite right, though I like watching Ammë do it. I like clay, but I don’t really like the wheel. Spinning is the worst, and knitting’s all right in the evening when I want to do something with my hands that’s not messy. So. I don’t know.”

“Does it have to be a craft? You could find something else.”

“I do do other things. I danced all winter—I still like that—and I honestly can’t wait for the races and games this summer, but I also like making things. Or having made them. Even if none of it is all that good.”

“It doesn’t have to be good.”

“I know. But I also like being good at things.”

“You can still take any of my paints if you want to try that. Just ask before you take any brushes because I don’t want to lend my favorites.”

“I’ll think about it. Where’d you get the ithildin?”

“Atya sent it to me. Years ago.”

“Oh, that.”

“Mm. What did he send you?”

“A brooch for my cloak. It’s somewhere in my pack.”

“You didn’t get rid of it?”

“I tried, but Amrod found it and gave it back to me later.” Celegorm sighed. “And I hate to admit that I’m glad he did.”

“They usually know what they’re doing.”

“I know. It’s just annoying to have little brothers who are so much wiser than you are.”

Maedhros finished the painting after another week. He was nervous, opening the jar of ithildin, not quite sure how much would be too much—but it was easier to work with than he had expected, and when he added the last bit of glimmering silver to the canvas he realized that he liked the effect quite a lot. The scene was Finwë and Míriel dancing under the stars by the water, which stretched out behind them reflecting the sky. This particular scene wasn’t something Maedhros had seen in the palantír—the dance was one from Valinor that he knew well enough to recreate in paint—but he had seen both of his grandparents in the stone when they were young, and imagining the scene had been easy. He’d looked into the past to see the stars and the water, too, so he could recreate the constellations and the patterns in the sky and on the water correctly.

Maglor poked his head into the room as Maedhros finished cleaning up. “We’re going to Grandmother and Grandfather’s for lunch,” he said. “Oh—is that what you’ve been working on? It’s beautiful, Nelyo.”

“It’s for Atya.”

Maglor looked again at the painting, and at the jar of ithildin, still almost entirely full, sitting on the desk. A little went a long way. “I think he’ll love it,” he said. “When will you give it to him?”

“After I find a frame for it.”

“Do you want me to make one?”

Maedhros thought for a moment. “Would you?”

“Of course. We’ll talk more about it after lunch.”

That afternoon they went to Mahtan’s wood shop. Choosing wood was easy enough, and Maglor set to work immediately. Maedhros sat across the workbench to watch. After a little while he asked, because it still worried him even though months had passed, “Did you ever speak to Ammë about…?”

“Yes.” Maglor didn’t look up.

“What was it that—”

“Isn’t it enough that I told her?”

“Cáno.”

“He tried to trick me into letting my guard down, and it didn’t work—but it didn’t matter. I had lost the moment I opened my mouth in his throne room, and both he and I knew it.”

“But you never—”

Maglor stilled his hands and looked up at Maedhros. “Don’t,” he said, uncharacteristically sharp. “You weren’t there, Maedhros. You don’t know—”

“I know you. I know how strong you—”

“You know me now. Not then. If the White Council had delayed just a few years longer, I wouldn’t be here. I would have—I probably would have just given up and died, and then he would have ensnared me that way, turned me into something like the Nazgûl, and I don’t know what would’ve happened to me after—everything else. Nothing I did brought me out of that place, or put me back together again afterward. Don’t try to tell me how strong I was. I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t give up and die, though,” Maedhros said softly. “You didn’t want to—you told me that yourself.”

“Don’t mistake fear for strength.” Maglor picked up his tools again, dropping his gaze. He had that stubborn set to his jaw that made him look very much like Fëanor. Nothing Maedhros said would convince him to change his mind. It was that same stubbornness that he wanted to deny—the thing that had gotten him through six thousand years of solitude and then decades of imprisonment both alive and with his mind intact. “I won’t speak of it again—to you or to anyone.”

Maedhros got up from his stool; Maglor wouldn’t be wanting to talk about anything now. “Can I just say one more thing?”

“If you must.”

“I’ve known you since the day you were born. I know what it looks like when you’re afraid, and I know also that you have never, ever let the fear win. That is strength, and if we were speaking of anyone else you would see it too.”

Maedhros left the workshop and went to help Ennalótë prepare her vegetable garden for the spring planting. When he saw Maglor later, it was as though they’d never spoken of the past at all, except for how Maglor didn’t quite meet his gaze for a little while. He seemed back to his usual self otherwise, laughing with Celegorm and speculating with Daeron about when they’d be summoned by Elemmírë.

In the end it did not take long for Maglor to finish the frame. It was simple but elegant. He helped Maedhros set the painting into it, and then to wrap it up to take back to Tirion. “When are you going?” he asked as he tied the last knot.

“Tomorrow, maybe the next day. Depends on the weather. And then I think I’ll stay with Curvo until it’s time to head west this summer. Will you come to Tirion at all beforehand?”

“Yes, we’ll come see you before we go to meet Elemmírë,” said Maglor. “After that, I don’t think we’ll see any of you until the feast—we’ll probably head out there while everything is still being set up.” He fiddled with the end of the string for a moment. Then he admitted quietly, “I’m still not sure I’ll be able to do it.”

“Don’t force yourself. I know going before the Valar was important, but this isn’t.”

“Well—it is, but I know what you mean. I might ask Finrod to sing the song about Finwë for me. That’s the one—that’s closer to my heart than anything else I’ve ever written, and if I can’t do it properly I don’t want to do it at all.”

“Could you sing it together?”

“I didn't write it for that, but I suppose it wouldn’t be hard to figure it out.”

“What if you asked Fingon to join you as well?” Maedhros asked. “You’ve said it’s easier if you aren’t alone—and wouldn’t it be fitting for all three of our Houses to sing it rather than just two?”

Maglor looked up. “Would Fingon agree, do you think?”

“I can’t imagine he wouldn’t. If you write to him I can take the letter with me.”

“I will. Thanks, Nelyo.” Maglor got to his feet and kissed the top of Maedhros’ head. “I’m sorry I snapped at you before.”

“I’m sorry I pushed.”

“Is there anything I should be pushing you about?”

“I don’t think so, but you can always ask Finrod or Fingon.”

“Maybe I will.”

It rained the next two days, so Maedhros delayed his return to Tirion, and left early on the next morning that dawned sunny and cloudless. It was still cool, but spring had arrived in earnest, and the rain had brought forth a sudden burst of new growth—pale green buds on the trees, and grass growing up thick and lush by the roadside alongside tulips and daffodils. The city was emptier than it had been for the better part of a year, with many already having gone west to start building and preparing.

When Maedhros arrived at Curufin’s house he found him looking tired. “The babies have decided they hate sleeping,” he said as Maedhros hugged him hello. “I apologize in advance for when Arimeldë or I snap at you.”

“That’s all right. I can stay somewhere else if you want.”

“No, you don’t have to.” Curufin yawned. “The girls are with Arimeldë’s parents today.”

“Where’s Tyelpë?”

“Out somewhere with Lómion, I think. He’ll be back by dinnertime.”

“Exhaustion aside, how are you all?”

“Fine! More than fine, really—and Náriel did the same thing, so we’re hoping this phase is as short as hers was. What’s that?” Curufin nodded at the painting.

“Something I made for Atya. Do you know where I’m likely to find him?”

Curufin’s eyebrows had shot up in surprise, but he just said, “He’s probably at the old house with Ambarussa. He wants to knock it down before we leave, and they’re making sure everything of value is out of it. If you want to speak to him alone you’d best go to the palace and wait in his rooms.”

“Thanks.”

“But what is it?”

“A portrait, and I used some of the ithildin he made me.” Maedhros was tempted to call it a peace offering, but that wasn’t really right. There was already peace—it just felt fragile, still, and there was still too much yet unsaid. “Have you heard anything yet from Míriel?”

Curufin’s expression flickered. “No,” he said, “but I suppose we’ll see her this summer.”

“I don’t think anything would keep her away if it wasn’t important, Curvo.”

“More important than her great-grandchildren?” Curufin shook his head once, sharply. “Sorry. I know. I just—she was here to see each of the girls, and I thought—it doesn’t matter. All our other grandparents have come to see them, and it isn’t as though they’ll remember.”

They wouldn’t, but Curufin would. Maedhros hoped that whatever was keeping Míriel away was very important indeed. “I’m sorry, Curvo.”

“It’s—it’ll be fine. All of you were here, and that’s what I wanted most of all.”

Maedhros tried not to dwell on it, but when he did stop to think about it he felt deep, sharp regret for having closed himself off the way he had—in Mandos and out of it. It should not have taken so many years for him to relent and go to Lórien. If he had bothered to pay attention he would have seen how much his little brothers needed him—and Curufin not the least. It was easy to overlook that sometimes, because he had long been married and had been quicker than any of the rest of them to start really living again, once he had come back. Upstairs, someone started crying, and then the other two joined them. Curufin sighed. “I can see Atya any time,” said Maedhros. “How can I help with the babies?”

“They hate not being held,” said Curufin, something in his shoulders relaxing. “Come on. Arimeldë will be glad to see you too.”

Rundamírë was glad to see Maedhros; she had her sister Lerinië with her, and everyone was happy for another set of arms to hold a fussy baby. Maedhros ended up with Nasartinco, though it sounded as though he would be going by Meneltir, because he already loved to stare up at the stars painted on the ceiling of the nursery, or the ones made of mithril and diamond that Fëanor and Celebrimbor had made to hang over the cradle, glittering gently like the real things. When Maedhros picked him up he blinked and cooed, reaching for the strand of hair Maedhros hadn’t managed to get out of the way. He extracted it carefully from tiny fingers, and then kissed each of those fingers, humming a lullaby he’d heard Maglor singing before but didn’t really know the words to. Meneltir made more happy baby noises, now gripping Maedhros’ finger with both of his hands.

The babies were old enough now to start showing signs of personality, and to squirm around and giggle at peekaboo or other silly games. Maedhros delayed going to seek his father for several days, so Curufin and Rundamírë could take some time to themselves. When he wasn’t helping with the babies he spent time with Calissë and Náriel, who seemed to be adjusting well to the new routines, and who adored their baby siblings.

Celebrimbor adored them, too. “Though I really can’t wait for them all to start growing up,” he admitted to Maedhros with a crooked grin, “so I can start feeling a little more like a brother and less like an uncle.”

“I know what you mean,” said Maedhros. He had been an adult, or nearly so, when Curufin and the twins had been born—though of course that gap was nothing to the one between Celebrimbor and his own siblings. “And then when they do grow up to start acting like proper siblings to you, you’ll wish for the times they were young and small and looked up to you too much to cause such trouble.” Celebrimbor laughed. “How are those experiments going—the ones with Maeglin?”

“We’ve put them on hold until we come back from the feast,” said Celebrimbor. “You don’t even remember what they are, do you?”

“Your father forgets not all of us spend all our time around people always trying to invent new…whatever-you’re-making. I understood maybe one word in three.”

“We were talking one afternoon last year when a thunderstorm rolled up, and realized that of all the things that have been caught in gems—sunlight, starlight, firelight, Treelight—no one’s ever tried lightning.”

Maedhros blinked. “That sounds…dangerous.”

“It is. We’re trying to make something that will catch and hold it; the first attempt shattered instantly. It’s not at all practical, but when it works it will look incredible.”

“And—are you all right, Tyelpë?”

Celebrimbor shrugged, and shifted Alassië from one shoulder to the other. “Atya and Maeglin have been doing all the crafting. I just make notes and suggest spells and things—but it’s closer than I’ve gotten to this kind of work in years. I do miss it. But don’t start worrying about me. I can recognize when I need to step back.”

“I know. I’m not worried—aside from any reasonable person’s response to the idea of someone getting too close to exploding crystals.”

“Only one exploded,” Celebrimbor laughed. “The rest have just been blackened and melted. We’ll get there. Grandfather’s been helping, but what worked for Treelight does not seem to be working for lightning. How have you been, though?”

“I’m all right.”

“Grandfather’s still worried for you.”

“We haven’t really gotten to speak since…well, since. I’m hoping to change that soon.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

“I used the ithildin you and he made.”

Celebrimbor’s face lit up. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“Did you use it in a painting? Can I see it?”

“Yes, of course—but I want to give it to my father first.”

Maedhros took the painting to the palace the next morning, early—Fëanor still walked most mornings in the cherry grove, and Maedhros hoped to see him when he returned. He found Fëanor’s rooms easily, and set the still-wrapped-up painting on the sofa in the sitting room before looking around. It was a richly decorated space, with comfortable furniture and a wall lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, nearly filled. Other books were stacked on the desk alongside a few pieces of paper. Maedhros wandered along the bookshelves, looking at the various titles. Many were in Sindarin or Adûnaic, and some in other languages Maedhros did not recognize.

He turned when the door opened and Fëanor stepped into the room. He stopped abruptly, blinking at Maedhros. “Good morning, Atya,” Maedhros said.

“Good morning,” Fëanor said. “I didn’t know you had returned to Tirion.”

“I’ve been at Curvo’s.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course. I just—wanted to see you.” Maedhros glanced away from Fëanor, whose face was doing something complicated. “I made something for you.”

Fëanor followed his gaze to the sofa, and then went over to unwrap the painting. Maedhros remained where he was, fighting the second thoughts that had arisen now that the painting was actually in his father’s hands. Fëanor lifted it out of the wrappings and stared at it for a long time. When he finally spoke his voice was rough. “This is beautiful.” He traced his fingers lightly over Finwë’s face. “Thank you.”

“I used the ithildin you sent me.”

“I didn’t think you would keep it,” Fëanor admitted. He set the painting down carefully, as though it were something very fragile and precious, and turned to face Maedhros.

Most of the room stood between them, but it felt farther, and Maedhros wasn’t sure how to close the distance. All he was sure of was that he wanted to. He folded his arms and kept his gaze on the carpet. “Maglor made the frame,” he said.

“That’s beautiful, too.” Fëanor also seemed unsure what to say. Maedhros had hoped the painting would help, but now he feared it had just made things worse. After a moment Fëanor said, “Maedhros, if I speak now will you listen?”

“Yes, of course.”

Fëanor took another moment, apparently to collect his thoughts. Maedhros lifted his gaze from the carpet to find his father standing with his own arms crossed, and an expression of such grief on his face that Maedhros didn’t think he had seen on anyone else except, at times, Maglor. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “It still doesn’t feel like enough, but I am so sorry—and I love you. More than anything, I love you and all your brothers. I wish that I could explain what lay behind all the decisions I made, but I can’t. Even after watching myself in the palantír I hardly remember—it’s like it happened to someone else, or like I had gone mad—”

“I think you did,” Maedhros said quietly.

“It’s not an excuse—”

“Maybe not, but it’s a reason.”

“I wish that I could say that I would do it all differently, if I could go back and do it again, but I don’t think I can. I’m not sure there is a world in which my father is slain and I do not lose myself along with him. Cáno spoke of fearing that I would lie down and follow my father to Mandos there in Formenos if you let me see his body, but I think—that’s still what happened. It just took longer. I let grief and resentment rule me my whole life, even when I thought I had let those things go, and in the end they just—consumed me. And because of it all of you are still suffering, and—I don’t know how to fix it. I’m sorry.”

“We don’t know how to fix it either,” Maedhros said. He did not allow himself to look back down at his feet, though he understood just then why Maglor often found it comforting to duck his head and hide behind his hair. “We didn’t know how to fix us either, though—but we figured it out. The problem was never that we didn’t love each other, and it’s not that we don’t love you—it’s that we do love you. We always loved you. But you changed, even before Grandfather died, and—and it might be a long time before any of us can fully rid ourselves of the fear that you’ll change again.” He paused, and then amended, “Before I can fully rid myself of that fear. Please don’t apologize again,” he said when Fëanor opened his mouth. “I forgive you, Atya. For all of it—I do. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I miss you.”

“What do you need from me, Nelyo?”

“To just—keep doing what you’ve been doing, I suppose. Except you don’t have to keep acting like something will break if you try to talk to me. That already happened and I’m—I’m all right now.”

“Are you?” Fëanor asked.

“Yes,” Maedhros said firmly. He still found his mind going in circles when he was alone, but if he was doing something it wasn’t so bad, and if he still had nightmares most nights they didn’t always have him waking with a scream trying to choke him. It wasn’t bad enough that he felt he needed to return to Lórien—and the thought of asking the Valar for help made his skin go cold and clammy—and so he just needed to keep moving forward. None of the dread or fear that kept coiling in his stomach like snakes was directed at his father anymore.

There was a short pause. Then Fëanor said, “I was going to breakfast with Nolofinwë and Findis, and then go spend the day at Curvo’s. Will you join me?”

“Yes, I’d like that. But—do they know—?”

“They know something happened,” Fëanor said, “but I haven’t spoken of the details to either of them, and they stopped asking after your brother’s song overshadowed everything else. I don’t know what Findekáno might have told his father.”

Fingon would not have said anything, not without Maedhros’ leave, which he hadn’t given. But Fëanor’s new-found friendship with his siblings wasn’t something Maedhros wanted to damage, even without meaning to. “You don’t have to keep secrets from them for me. I spoke to Arafinwë of it.”

“Well, I suppose Arafinwë can’t think much worse of me than he already does,” Fëanor said, looking away. He picked up the wrappings from the painting, but left the painting itself on the sofa when he turned toward the bedroom. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Fingolfin and Findis were both surprised enough that they couldn’t quite hide it when they saw Maedhros step into the dining room just behind his father. He smiled at them and tried to act as though his presence was the most natural thing in the world, and to his relief Fingolfin recovered and followed his lead, and Findis followed his. Instead of focusing on Maedhros they asked about Maglor, and then naturally about Curufin and the children.

Maedhros had seen his father with his siblings before, at Midwinter when Fingon had dragged him to the banquet and celebration. That had been at a distance, but even then Maedhros had been surprised at how relaxed they had all seemed. Now he could see up close how they laughed with one another and spoke without any worry at all that something might be taken the wrong way or trigger a fight. It wasn’t exactly the same as Maedhros was with his own brothers—it was still too new, there wasn’t that same bone-deep familiarity—but that would come in time.

He caught himself thinking that Finwë would be so pleased to see this when he came back. Maedhros didn’t know when he had started to think of it as a when and not an if. He knew better than to speak such thoughts aloud, but as they left the palace he glanced south and west, toward the road he couldn’t see that led toward Lórien—and Mandos beyond it. As he did a gust of wind blew through the square from that direction, carrying the scent of flowers.