Chapter 3

May 13th, TA 3020

The litter tilted and rocked with every step taken by the man who carried it, and Mehreen clung to the frame with white-knuckled fingers, willing herself to trust them not to drop her. Ahlam huddled in the opposite corner, her knees drawn to her chest, fighting off nausea after having endured the sea journey without a word of complaint. Mehreen would've reached out to comfort her maid, had she not feared that the gesture may well tip her off the edge of sickness as well.

How she envied her servants! They were lucky to travel in a cart that trundled behind the litter, and whose donkey seemed much more capable than Mehreen's own retinue. Or even more so Tareq, who rode beside her on a pure-bred stallion he'd insisted on bringing all the way from Harad.

The men hired by Captain Naeem weren't experienced carriers. Besides, they were so mismatched in size that Mehreen suspected he'd simply ventured onto the quays and hired the first four idle men willing to take Haradric gold, both traits that had led her to question his judgement, however not aloud. The men neither walked in rhythm, nor did they seem to get along; ofttimes, the shrillness of their quarreling would reach Mehreen's ears, adding to her anguish and homesickness. Trying to appear brave for Ahlam's sake, she tried to tune them out by reading and peeking out between the curtains of the palanquin in turn. The former had turned out to be a disastrous idea in the current situation, Mehreen's stomach churning within minutes of her concentrating on the book in her lap; she then had no choice but to resort to the latter, marveling at the colors that had blossomed all around as soon as they'd left Pelargir.

So this is what Gondor looked like!

Orchards lined the road, well-tended and prosperous, covering the gently sloping hills watered by the Anduin to the East and the Sirith to the West; apple trees, peaches and pears, which Mehreen recognized from her father's gardens, back in Jufayrah. The wind that swept in from the sea sprayed delicate petals in shades of pink and white upon the earth, hard-packed over decades by thousands of wheels and feet. Amongst the orchards stood the owners' houses, their stones darkened by recent fires, brand new roofs shining in the sun.

Remnants of the war, Mehreen mused, remembering one of the earlier chapters in her book about Gondor, before the swaying of the litter had worsened the letters' usual loopy dance. She marveled at the resilience of its people, who'd returned to their homes without even knowing whether they still stood, ready to rebuild them from scratch if need be. For many of them, it would've been easier to start a life elsewhere, so they must be a hard and determined folk; everything Mehreen was not. Would they uproot her like a weed if they didn't like what they saw?

The litter lurched and came to an abrupt halt, before shouting erupted between the two men that walked ahead and Tareq's guards.

"The water's high," a man was saying, his voice muffled by the velvet, "we'd better wait for it to decline."

"But that could take days!" her brother objected at once.

Mehreen clenched her teeth as the palanquin was lowered to the ground in a less-than-gentle manner, her stomach contracting ominously.

"We were told the crossing was practicable at this time of the year. If you and your men are too cowardly to try…." The deep voice belonged to Omar, the Chief of Tareq's Personal Guard.

Cue more yelling from both parties. "If you don't want to wait, you'll have to pay us double!"

"Yeah, especially if you don't want your precious sister to get wet."

Reclining against the cushions, Mehreen forced herself to breathe in, through her nose and as steadily as she could, the stuffy air of the palanquin. The book thudded to the ground but Mehreen ignored it. Cold sweat broke on her forehead, trickling down her back; despite the mildness of the Gondorian climate, she shivered.

"Are you well, Mistress?" Ahlam murmured, her voice almost indistinct for all the yelling…unless it were Mehreen's ears that failed her, the pounding of her own heartbeat muffling the words. "You're very pale."

"I…I'm fine," Mehreen croaked before her stomach twisted once more, her chest growing tight with nausea. "I just need…."

It was all she could manage before she knew she must out, lest she poisoned the air even further with the stench of her sickness. Throwing the curtains aside, she lunged from the palanquin and towards the grassy banks where a stream rolled and gurgled merrily, oblivious of her misery. She fumbled with the veil with shaking hands right as a spasm bent her in half, emptying her stomach onto the grass.

And then once more, much to her humiliation and relief.

"Oh dear. Are you unwell?"

A man's voice.

Mehreen jerked away out of instinct, regretting the brusqueness at once as her legs, wobbly and weak, gave in under her weight. Before she knew it she was kneeling, her fingers buried in the coolness of the soil beneath the grass.

"Careful, now. You wouldn't want to stick your hands in."

Mehreen willed her bleary eyes to open so as to see their guide – and cart driver, all in one – staring at her with what seemed to be, at first, genuine concern.

He was a tall man, so thin he was almost gaunt, with dark curly hair cropped short and the hint of a similarly dark stubble along his jaw. The men here didn't seem to favor the beard, and their ill-shaved faces appeared both child-like and unkempt. His clothes were simple and poorly mended; Mehreen guessed he'd never met a lady of her rank, and that his own harem – if he even had one – held no more than two wives, who would spend their time quarreling over the poor state of his household, and ruing the day their fathers had granted him their hand.

Surely, he wouldn't attempt to steal her now, in front of her brother?

Mehreen chanced a look towards the litter where the Gondorians had stepped forward, their hands balled into fists, empty yet no less threatening; Omar's men had grasped their sword hilts and dismounted while Tareq gnawed at his lip, in turns pale and crimson with anger.

Doubt engulfed her. They did seem too caught in their own quarrel to notice that one of the women under their guard was missing; perhaps if she screamed…?

The reedy man tilted his head. "Shall I fetch one of your maids to help you?"

If only Mehreen had listened more closely to Lalla Ishtar! She would've known if such unbidden concern was customary…and how to respond without offending.

Her other aunt – a widow, whose return to her brother's house had brought her no shame, though she'd refused to remarry – had often accompanied her husband, a travelling merchant, far from the walls of Jufayrah, sometimes as far as Zarghat in the East, and ofttimes deep into the lands of the North, to Umbar and even beyond. Mehreen's father had never failed to call him out on his folly, yet perhaps had it been the reason precisely why Lalla Ishtar had loved her husband so. In any case, she'd returned a woman well-versed in the customs of the neighboring lands, something that not even her brother could claim about himself and, as a wise and practical man, he'd put that knowledge to good use.

Needless to say, Mehreen hadn't listened well and Lalla Ishtar's efforts, much like Lalla Zahra's, had been wasted on her. She'd have to improvise, and hope for the best.

"I am honored by your attention, but there's no need for that. I am well," Mehreen rasped, surprised by the sound of her own voice; yet her aching throat was but a minor inconvenience in comparison to the foul taste in her mouth. She rose to her feet.

The sickness had left her as quickly as it'd come, blood rushing to her face once more as the world around her regained its brightness, blinding her with colors and sounds that grew to an intensity almost unbearable after hours of confinement inside the palanquin. Flowers thrived by the water, their cloying scent lemony-fresh while up in the pines that grew on the other side, the birds quarreled with one another, their chirping echoing down the riverbank.

The Erui, Mehreen remembered. The river Erui.

She waited.

In Harad, it would've been customary for the man to offer to guide her back to her under the protection of her guardian, yet he merely looped his thumbs through his belt, watching her with undisguised – and properly offending – interest. If Tareq saw him gawking at her so, he would flog him mercilessly with the whip he carried on his belt. It was a long, iron-tipped rope made of camel leather, deceptively soft to the touch – and Mehreen remembered, since Harun had forced her to touch it once; her fingers had come off slick with blood – only to better wind around the victim's ribcage.

Even Mehreen feared it, though she knew Tareq would never dare use it on her. Perhaps was the man too simple to understand what risks he was taking, and thus deserved some clemency for his mistake?

"Have you been to Minas Tirith before?" The guide was studying her with a squinty gaze.

"It is my regret to say that I haven't." Her throat burned; a problem she'd have to solve on her own.

Walking away on legs as stiff as branches, Mehreen wobbled towards the waterside and knelt once more, cupping her hands to drink from the Erui, her gums tingling under the bite.

As bitter as a widow, as Lalla Nafiyah had liked to say.

"You've chosen a fine season for a visit," the guide enthused, shifting from one foot to another beside her. "King Elessar's planted the White Tree anew, and it flourished beautifully last June, or so I heard…perhaps you'll be staying long enough to see it bloom?"

"Perhaps," Mehreen quietly agreed as she stood and wiped one hand on her trousers. Without the roof of the litter above her head, she was starting to feel naked and vulnerable; the guide's attention, too intense for her liking, was making her uncomfortable, like the midday sun pounding down on her forehead.

Yet here was an occasion too opportune to be discarded, one that her father wouldn't have let pass. Had she not vowed to learn more about her future home? To make him proud?

Wagging one of her feet in the grass, Mehreen stared at the way her slippers slid between the delicate green stems. She'd often tried to imagine what would happen, once she was taken before the King. Her father had said he'd accepted to take her as a ransom for his own life, and the purpose of such a bargain was plain. By now, Mehreen knew what kind of duties she'd be expected to perform, only it was one thing to know, and another entirely to know how.

"Is he kind, your King?" She dared to look the man in the eye, so as to better judge the honesty of his answer. "Is he a good man?"

The guide beamed. "He's the greatest man there ever was, my Lady, brave and noble-hearted, caring for his people as though we were all his children."

"His children?" Now he'd piqued her interest. "How many does he have?"

"None yet, alas." The man shook his head, as if the disappointment had been his own. "But his love for his wife the Queen is great, and no doubt we'll be blessed with news about a prince or a princess 'fore the year is done."

Mehreen frowned. "His wife? Does he only have one?" From the corner of her eye, she saw that the tumult by the litter had quieted down, as the men seemed to reach an agreement; the time of her promenade was up.

"Of course!" The guide guffawed, gawking at her as if she'd turned into a roc. "How many do you think he needs?" Mehreen's suspicions were confirmed; he was a simple man, unable to see the crudeness of his ways.

"Mehreen!"

Tareq's voice cracked like his whip, echoing off the steepening riverbanks upstream. Mehreen slipped past the guide without another word, lowering her eyes as she passed Omar and his men. "You needn't be cross with him, brother," she said, wincing at the forcefulness of his grip around her arm, "he was kind enough to tell me of Minas Tirith, after I asked him about it."

One last squeeze of warning and he let her go, but the whip remained mercifully to rest; Mehreen dove into the palanquin, sinking back against the cushions under Ahlam's anxious stare.

So, it's true.

Mehreen was only half-surprised. Lalla Ishtar had told them, of course, that the Northerners contented themselves with but one wife; such tales were repeated in low voices in the harem, the tinkle of laughter often following suit, and in the women's baths, when men's pride was out of reach of their tongues. A savages' custom, Mehreen's father had often insisted whenever such talk reached his ears, for what true man could be expected to desire only one woman throughout his lifetime?

Half-surprised, but utterly confused.

What kind of purpose had King Elessar had in mind, when he'd shaken hands with her father?

Mehreen's oldest brother, their father's favorite, had fallen in this strange land, his Mûmak taken down before Harun himself was mercilessly slaughtered. Their father had barely returned from the war, grown grey with sorrow for being unable to offer his firstborn a burial within the soil of his homeland; and though it hadn't been the Gondorians who'd killed Harun, but elves, no mountain chain seemed tall and forbidding enough to keep them away from Minas Tirith, should they decide to return.

Could it be that this earth still thirsted for the blood of her family?

The scorched stones of the Lossarnach settlements came back to Mehreen's memory. If not to a wedding, was it a sacrifice she was being led to, meant to appease the shadows still that lingered in those homes that had never been rebuilt?

"It seems like a beautiful place," Ahlam softly said from her corner, her eyes trained upon the vivid greenery that lay beyond the litter; but the appeal of the lush, sheltered valleys that lay on the other bank of the Anduin, nested between the pale ridges of the Emyn Arnen, was lost on Mehreen.

Had her father known what end he was sending Mehreen to?

She yearned to believe otherwise, but with two sons who could succeed him, and one daughter who couldn't, what true man would've chosen her life over theirs?

oOoOoOo

"We're almost there, my Lady," Ahlam smiled encouragingly, twisting atop her mound of cushions so as to better see the foreboding white walls that towered before them, putting an end to the plain in a manner both abrupt and impressive. "You must be impatient to see your future husband…?"

Mehreen hadn't yet had the heart to tell her the truth. She mirrored Ahlam's movement to look behind them, where the dust from Tareq's suite rose over the backdrop greenery, carried off by the wind as though her brother had never been there at all. He'd bid her goodbye with ill-disguised impatience – perhaps loath to further weaken his image in front of his men – before turning his rein back towards Pelargir, where the Maryam awaited to carry him back home.

Her eyes fell upon the cart, where her servants huddled together, covered from head to toe and still quivering under the gaze of the Gondorian men upon whom they now relied for their safety. Mehreen herself could not help but tremble, but there was naught she could do but hope, and trust in Tareq's decision.

So distracted, she'd missed the alarm on Ahlam's face; there must've been some kind of signal before the litter dropped to the ground with a resounding crack, and an arm reached through the folds of velvet to yank her outside. Mehreen shrieked and flailed, first in pain as the bracelets on her wrist dug into her skin under his grasp, and then in fear as he dragged her away from the litter.

"Let go of me! Let go, I forbid you to touch me!"

Mehreen clawed at the earth, skinning her palms in the process, dimly aware of the shrieks of terror that came from her maids. The youngest, Aisha, was but ten springs old…. By the One, what were they doing to her?

The dust she roused burned her eyes and parched her throat, but it also made her skin too slippery for her aggressor to hold. Seeing there her chance, Mehreen pulled her knees to her chest and kicked with all her might; one foot collided with a shin, drawing a howl of pain from her attacker.

"You filth!"

He let her go.

Mehreen crawled to her knees and coughed, the taste of dirt in her mouth. Her palms and wrist throbbed and stung, her eyes tearing up from both shock and grime.

"You'll pay for this!"

She turned her head towards the voice. The man towered over her, casting his shadow upon her, and Mehreen realized she'd never taken a second look at him before; now she could see every pockmark upon his sunburnt skin, his shaggy yellow hair turning white at the temples. A plain face, when it wasn't twisted into a grimace of hatred.

"Deor, come, quick! Before the guards see us!"

The man named Deor didn't seem to hear them, though Mehreen fervently wished he would. Instead he drew his right foot backwards with a savage, distant look in his eyes, as though what kindness and mercy had once inhabited his shell had retreated too deep to reach. He swung his leg, aiming for her stomach; Mehreen recoiled with a whimper, contracting her muscles in anticipation of the pain…that never came. She squinted at Deor to see him sneer back at her, relishing the fear he'd provoked, before stalking off towards the now empty palanquin.

Through the dust that clouded her vision, Mehreen watched the men hired to protect her pillage her dowry, emptying chest after chest into the dirt, rummaging through her clothing and whooping in triumph when they came upon the engraved box that held her jewels.

Not that Mehreen cared. The gold and ivory mattered little as long as her maids were all safe, weeping but unharmed; especially Ahlam, who'd found refuge amongst them, the sleeve of her tunic torn but otherwise whole. Yet, as the men upturned yet another trunk and a very familiar shape tumbled out, Mehreen lunged forward.

"Not the book!" she beseeched them, forgetting about her own safety.

Deor stopped in his plunder long enough to pick up the tome and examine it, taunting Mehreen as she nervously edged forward, willing herself to seize it from his grubby, undeserving hands. "What, this book?" he drawled, "Is it precious to you, princess?"

And tore it clean in half.

Mehreen watched in horror as the pages fluttered downward, released from the discipline of their binding, and fell under vengeful boots.

"The guards!" one of them shouted, pointing towards the city gates that had opened in the shimmering distance, and whence a procession of silver and white hurried towards them. "They'll soon be upon us…unless we make for the hills. Let's go!"

And scarper off they did, with only the simple cart driver lingering behind as he bent to pick up the halves of Mehreen's most precious belonging. "I'm truly sorry about that, my Lady," he assured her as he thrust the pieces into her hands, a golden torque sticking from under his jerkin. His words of parting, as he wedged a bejeweled chalice he'd wrapped into a scarf under his arm, then took off running towards the nearest foothills, were: "I do hope you'll find Minas Tirith to your liking."