Chapter 6

May 16th, TA 3020

"So…it was all a mistake."

Mehreen had heard him very well the first time, but wanted to be certain of what he was saying. Once – and it now seemed a very long time ago – when she was still a girl in her father's home, she'd believed shame to resemble a sunburn scorching one's cheeks; yet such a heat never failed to pass, soothed by the cool tenderness of her mother's hands. Even Laila's venom held no sway under her touch, so that the shame was quickly forgotten.

She'd been wrong.

Lalla Zahra had once explained that in the desert, water could only be found far beneath the sand, so that those who dwelt there were forced to dug deep, seemingly bottomless wells, and pray that the dowser hadn't deceived them. The water that welled up in those shafts was as cold as the world at its creation, before the One sang life into it; Mehreen imagined herself sinking deeper and deeper into the icy depths as shame settled inside her stomach, impossible to thaw. Despite the warmth of the room, and the embers that glowed in the hearth, behind the delicately woven grate of black iron, she hunched her shoulders and shivered. Was this how Lalla Zahra had felt, when her husband had thrown her out after three years of marriage, with only the clothes on her back so that she must beg her neighbors for a ride back home? Whom would Mehreen have to beg before she could face her father again, and add another burden to his grief?

"I am afraid so. Again, I offer you my deepest apologies for this grievous confusion. It is entirely my fault." He paused, and tilted his head ever so slightly, like a bird. "Is there anything else you wish to know?"

No.

Mehreen sat as still as a statue, her hands primly folded in her lap. She wished he'd stop apologizing; it was almost more than she could bear. Coming from the womenfolk of the harem, pity was something to be expected, but from a stranger, and an enemy to boot….

Still, he seemed sincere, this Lord Legolas, though his ageless face was harder to read than those of mortal men; a skill Mehreen had once attempted to master, so as to recognize a husband's displeasures and anticipate his desires. But Lord Legolas wouldn't become her husband – and neither would King Aragorn, for that matter – and for that, too, he had apologized. Mehreen would have preferred him to be deceptive. She could've understood that, chalking it off to his elven nature, and the ill will his race bore her family.

Yet, if not all men were noble – Mehreen had learnt that firsthand, all elves couldn't possibly be wicked, could they?

At first, she'd found him cold and had quivered in a swift, terrible fear, convinced she'd soon meet the same fate as her brother. Instead, he'd started to explain, in painstaking detail, like a blade twisting in a wound, what had truly happened. Mehreen had then thought that death may have been a more merciful treatment.

She wasn't wanted.

She was starting to decipher the signs: a slight twitch in the corners of his mouth, a tautness in his shoulders…he was genuinely sorry for her, of that she was sure, just as she was sure he'd be supremely embarrassed by her tears. So she sat there in silence, waiting for the ordeal to be over, just as she had waited, earlier, by the gates, under the guards' both hilarious and suspicious stares, while one of them went to fetch his master. They hadn't believed her when she'd told them she was Mehreen bint Dawoud, daughter of one of the richest merchants of Harad, and that she was there to see the King.

One of them had called her a beggar.

It was the first time Mehreen had had to walk, carrying the little that remained of her dowry. As her servants had pressed together in fear, alarmed by the men's boldness, it'd been the first time their deference had turned into doubt.

"Are you well, child? Do you wish us to leave you alone?" Queen Arwen came to sit beside her on the sofa. She could afford to be gracious, Mehreen mused as she nodded, her back as straight as a column; after all, her husband valued her enough to refuse Mehreen without a second thought. "Very well." The Queen exchanged a look with Lord Legolas. "We shall leave you to rest. Would you like me to send for your maid?"

This time Mehreen shook her head, digging her nails into her palms as her control on her own face wavered. She had no desire to see Ahlam, not now…not like this. They'd known each other since Mehreen was but a child; her devoted maid would see at once how weak and undignified she was. How could she respect her afterwards?

How could anyone, for that matter?

One year after Lalla Zahra's return to the harem, Mehreen's father had gifted her with a book. Perhaps had he wanted to show how he valued her contribution to his household, or that he'd forgiven her failure; as a man of practical mind, he'd commissioned a binder to wrap a book of children's tales with a cover of painted leather, so that the gift would be used to read to his own children. Amongst those tales, Mehreen most remembered the one about the little thief who'd been lucky enough to find a magic lamp, and the djinn who lived inside. In that story, the boy had been granted three wishes; as a little girl, Mehreen had rubbed each and every lamp she could put her hands on, going so far as burning herself with boiling oil, to find a djinn who could grant her theirs.

She'd never had, of course, but the three wishes she had so carefully collected had never left her mind. One had come true as unexpectedly as the result had been cruel; the second was unattainable and the third, and perhaps the only one Mehreen had had some hope for, was now slipping away, like sand between her fingers.

Only when the door closed and the last of the footsteps faded in the distance did she allow herself to cry, smothering her sobs with a thin, colorless cushion.

oOoOoOo

Whether it was scandal they feared, or the increasing hostility of the royal household, the King and Lord Legolas decided they should set out from Minas Tirith within the week. At first, the prospect had managed to cheer Mehreen up; the simple man she'd talked to during her journey there had been wrong and she hadn't liked Minas Tirith one bit, despite the fact that it was truly as grand and immense as Lalla Ishtar had made it to be.

The palace itself was an austere, draughty place for the most part – a far cry from the cozy luxury of the harem back in Jufayrah – the exception being Queen Arwen's chambers, which she'd skillfully turned into a welcoming haven through the addition of exquisitely woven tapestries depicting dancing maidens with stars in their hair, and woodland scenes in tones of dark green and gold. Mehreen had been both surprised and wary to receive an invitation for a refreshment in the Queen's solar; in Queen Arwen's place, she would've found it a tedious, unpleasant duty, considering that not only had Mehreen arrived uninvited, but had done so with the full intention of sharing her King's bed. Yet Queen Arwen was so sure of her position that she'd entertained her 'guest' without a second's worry, and not a small deal of grace.

Mehreen had wished that the other ladies of the court would've been half as civil, but her hopes had vanished before the dust had settled in the plain below, rising in the wake of the messenger Lord Legolas had sent back to his home to warn of their imminent departure. The whispers and stares she could deal with, for it was nothing she'd never known. But the third day of her stay had found her favorite tunic torn into shreds and, on the next, each right shoe in her wardrobe had gone missing. Mehreen had found them the same afternoon, cast into one of the courtyards and filled with what seemed to be urine.

She'd cast the remaining footwear into the fireplace, refusing to see them undergo an even worse fate and fearing what it could be.

Even Lalla Laila hadn't been as wicked.

It'd be a relief, Mehreen had thought, to leave the stifling tension of the city at last and see more of the land she'd read so much about, fondly remembering her journeys to the sea when she was younger, travelling by camelback to her father's estate in the company of a selected few of her maids. The palace stood in the dunes, surrounded by an oasis of palm trees that swayed gently in the breeze, their bright, clustered fruit a stark contrast to the greenery of their leaves. Its halls had been decorated with frescoes and mosaics in hues of turquoise and lapis, with high, vaulted arches open onto the oceanfront. There was no sea in Ithilien, and though her upcoming journey less resembled an escapade than an exile, Mehreen had wondered whether she could to make herself a life there, far from the accusing stares and the brazenness of their scorn.

It was not to be, however; not once she'd discovered how strange the Gondorian customs were.

"There are no slaves in my kingdom," King Aragorn had explained on the day preceding their departure, "nor is there indebted servitude, either. Every man and woman is born free and remains so. Free to choose whom to love, and which master to serve."

"But…surely your laws don't apply to my people," Mehreen had objected, thinking it was only a matter of negotiation – a familiar notion for a merchant's daughter. "If your Queen likes some of my servants, I'd be delighted to gift her with a few."

The King's eyes had narrowed at the proposal, and Mehreen had wondered whether she should've offered half of her suite instead of starting so low; yet when he spoke again, there was an edge to his voice that had reminded Mehreen of why he was who he was, and why her father had feared him. "My Queen's servants – or mine, for that matter – serve us because they choose to do so. Because they think it a worthy profession, and an honor to contribute to the running of their country, however small or customary their help may seem to you. To put it plainly, your servants are, from now on, free people; and whether they choose to accompany you to Ithilien is entirely up to them."

But I need them! Mehreen had wanted to wail, thinking of the many essential ways in which her servants assisted her throughout the day. The packing, for one. Was she expected to do it herself? Instead, she'd borne this new humiliation with a meekness befitting her new status. She'd still hoped, then, that if King Aragorn knew his people, so did Mehreen. He'd soon see how deep their loyalty ran.

At present, as her carriage bounced in an out of ruts left by the passage of many a cart or wagon before them, Mehreen silently thanked the dimness of its interior, still blushing at her naivety. She shouldn't have been surprised. People seemed to develop a strong tendency to leave her shortly after meeting her; the fact that she wasn't the sole occupant of the carriage was a miracle in itself.

A fine figure Mehreen made, now, wearing a dress gifted by the Queen and her very last pair of shoes, with barely enough possessions to fill a small chest. She, who had not so long ago boasted raiment of the most expensive silks and finest wool, embroidered with pearls and gold, and who'd faced the cruel choice of what to leave behind on her journey to Gondor….

At least, she still had her name; it was more than her own mother could've said in her place.

So mused Mehreen as the carriage swayed and jolted along the aptly called Harad road, feeling no more empowered or less cumbersome on her way out of Minas Tirith than when she'd got there. Considering the circumstances of their meeting, she'd not expected Lord Legolas to entertain her, but even so she was disappointed. He rode ahead of the procession, conversing with his elven companions in their tongue.

She was alone.

"Would you like me to ask for a halt, my Lady? We've been riding for hours, surely you must long for a break."

Shame overcame Mehreen, draining her cheeks anew. Of all her servants, only one had chosen to remain by her side, a faithful companion of Mehreen's imposed journey. Of all her servants, it was perhaps the one who would've gained the most not to; not unless she'd forgotten the scars that her back still bore by Mehreen's fault.

In a moment of painful clarity about her new place in the world, she amended her initial statement: at least, she still had Ahlam.

oOoOoOo

It wasn't the cold, Mehreen decided within the first hour of her stay in Bar-Lasbelin, nor the number of elves she'd met throughout the hamlet that unsettled her most. Lord Legolas' people seemed to be a busy folk, quiet and utterly uninterested in the newest addition to his household, so that her initial dismay had subsided, and soon enough she'd stopped flinching at the sight of a pointy-eared face.

It wasn't the faces – unveiled, allowing anyone a right to stare without fearing being called out for it.

It was the trees.

Her father's palace in Jufayrah has possessed, in its heart, the most magnificent of gardens that a man could sustain with his wealth. Stretching on for the entire length of the palace, surrounded by colonnades that opened onto the many salons and studies for her father's sons, clerks and advisors – each column a work of art lauding the One in the carver's own fashion, it thrived despite the heat of the desert, watered by three blue-tiled fountains and an army of slaves to irrigate it. For all the splendor of the palace, it was the gardens that Mehreen had loved – and missed – the most.

But even the plants that grew in the harem gardens knew order, subjected to the unspoken yet absolute rule of the household where everything and everyone had a place and a purpose, from the oldest son to the most modest of blossoms. The gardens had been fitted into the space allowed by men and kept within its confines, much like the women of the harem. In Bar-Lasbelin, it was the settlement that had been built amongst the vegetation, scattered over small clearings as if begging for forgiveness for its existence.

In Jufayrah, the limits had been clear; here, they were non-existent, as Lord Legolas had confirmed when he'd showed her around the place, sweeping widely towards this or that wooden construction in the distance as he explained its purpose.

"Where am I allowed to go?" had Mehreen asked, prompting a frown to appear on his weary, ageless face.

"Anywhere you wish," he'd answered, unaware of the unhelpfulness of such a reply.

A world without limits was a door open towards chaos, had Lalla Nafiyah once told her; one had to learn one's boundaries and enforce them, lest the actions of the few led to the downfall of all. What kind of a world would it be, she'd once asked Mehreen, if the camels attempted to ride their masters, and the fish came out of the sea to fly? The comparison hadn't found its mark as the girl she'd been had burst in giggles at the image; it had taken a harsher approach to teach her to obey.

Since Lord Legolas was unwilling to clarify the limits for her, hoping perhaps she would transgress them so that he could send her back to Jufayrah, Mehreen resolved not to give him any grounds to do so, even if it meant keeping to her room.

She soon discovered it may prove harder than anticipated; Lord Legolas expected her to do her share in his household, as he led her down winding paths and under wooden arches, Ahlam following suit, until the sound of rushing water Mehreen had heard upon arrival filled her ears. He pushed a set of doors that swung into a tall, vaulted hall that'd been built over the stream, where a group of women busied themselves along a stone bench in the form of a wide gutter. The mist that rose from the foaming brook hung high above their heads, kept at bay by the heat that poured from the mouth of a nearby furnace. Several of the women carried pails of water back from the gutter, where the others rinsed what appeared to be sheets and clothing directly in the stream. All of this happened in a joyful cacophony as the women laughed and called to each other over the rush of the stream. One of them had been dancing with her dress hunched up, cheered on by her companions; as the silence fell over the room so did her skirts, the drenched hem slapping her bare calves.

Mehreen became gradually aware of their looks of surprise, suspicion and then hostility.

"The washery," Lord Legolas announced needlessly. His voice carried over the ambient noise, having miscalculated the need to make himself heard over a gaggle of feminine voices. He paused, as though the sudden volume of his own voice had scared even him. "Maerwena shall tell you what to do."

Before Mehreen could see who Maerwena was, or the woman could manifest herself, another elf appeared in the doorway. "My Lord," he said, "Lord Elladan wishes to know whether you shall join him on his tour, today." The elf hesitated as he took in the washerwomen's stony faces. "If you are busy, he shall report to you at a later time…."

"Tell Elladan I am coming." Lord Legolas turned towards her and once again, the shadow of pity passed across his face.

Had Mehreen been married to a man of her father's choosing, she would've been the one giving out the instructions. Even as one of the lesser concubines, she would've had the charge of a part of the household, be it the kitchens, the maidservants or the finances of the harem. Yet she bore the insult without a word of complaint, just like Lalla Zahra in her time, and the many others before them, and those yet to come.

The injustice of her fate stung deeper than the stares of the women around her ever could, but no more than a fish had a place amongst the birds did Mehreen have a right to complain.

A.N.: Mehreen's name 'bint Dawoud' means 'daughter of Dawoud'.