[Lasbelinion]

Lithmîrë had not heard her; either because she had come on such silent feet or because his senses were dulled from the infusion he had taken to allay his pain. He looked down at her, from the shadows of his hood, his eyes narrowing, and made to step away. But she ignored his movement and continued to talk to him.

Before he could push her away with some barbed remark, the scent of the thyme assailed him. It was sharp. And clean. Inviting a deeper exploration. He took another deep whiff of it, the refreshing smell seeming to clear his mind a bit. There were other sorts of the same plant planted near each other. She spoke of them in a knowing manner, a tinge of pride edging her voice as she spoke of the nurturing of each. Lavender thyme with its rich sweet-clean smell. Caraway thyme, its dark green leaves dotted with small black spots. Another heady inviting scent greeted him as he held a few crushed leaves to his nose. Wandering about the garden’s rockery there were many others she plucked and spoke of, handing a sample of each to him.

They paused at the end of the herb's plantings. The woman was watching him. Her bright brown eyes, her stance, telling him a response was expected. As if she had spoken to a fellow gardener. Memories of long years in the fields of Lithlad sent a tremor through him.

Gardener! And what had he grown save food for the Master’s creatures? And what had he planted save for the bodies of his ragged companions from which grew bitter memories in dark abundance.

Smaller memories crept in softly from the dark edges of his thoughts. Of plants he had hidden among the long rows of those the armies needed for their sustenance. Simple herbs for easing the hard days of captivity. Tinctures to quell the pain of the lash; unguents to douse the flames that licked along the furrowed flesh.

The words falling from his twisted lips were a surprise to him. Gently spoken and ending with an expectation of further conversation.

‘Where last I put trowel to earth, Mistress, we . . . I . . . had no knowledge of thyme. It seems a hardy plant. One that would be well suited to a land of sun and thin soil. A subtle plant, too. It adds to the flavor of one’s food, I expect. Making it savory and pleasing to the tongue . . . yes?’

In the shadow of his hood, he smiled as a rare, pleasant thought assailed him. Those sun wracked, rocky fields . . . how it would please him to see them covered in thyme. All signs of their foul crops and savage harvests cleansed. The land renewed.