Chapter 7

June 16th, TA 3020

"She has managed to set fire to the oven. The oven, by Elbereth!" Legolas raised his hands towards the ceiling, calling the Lady as his witness as he lamented over his newest ward. "And shrunk half of our winter tunics. I shall have to order more from Ialeth."

"I have heard that Dommiel has threatened to return to Minas Tirith," remarked Elladan. "Is it true?"

Legolas groaned, and lay his head upon his forearms that rested on the desk, his shadow quelling the shimmers that ran through the stone. A gift from Gimli – a desktop sliced out of a gigantic geode, of profound green veined with silver and gold. A magnificent piece, and one that the Elvenking himself would not have disdained, had he felt inclined to accept dwarven gifts in the first place.

"Dommiel is a reasonable woman, but even she has her limits." Legolas looked up at Elladan. "Truly, Elladan, I am at a loss of words when it comes to qualify our new protégée."

Elladan smirked – not to mock his friend's disillusion, but rather at the disgruntled expression upon his face, so uncharacteristic for one as composed as Legolas. Ever since his friend had invited Elladan to join him in his study after lunch, they had drunk but a cup or two; perhaps had he underestimated the strength of that mead of his…. He reached out to grab the stout, clay bottle that bore the sigil of Bar-Lasbelin. True enough, beneath it was the rune of Aglarond, marking it as one of the first collaborations with Gimli's people.

Elladan whistled in surprise; Legolas' dismay must be grave indeed if he chose to drown it in his oldest, strongest vintage.

"I think 'catastrophe' may be the word you are looking for."

Closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, Legolas pinched the bridge of his nose before looking out the open window of his study, where the pines and the beeches swayed in the afternoon breeze. His cup of mead, freshly refilled, stood untouched in front of him; a persevering wasp buzzed around it, its wings brushing the golden surface as if, sensing the danger, it didn't quite dare to land. Elladan took another sip from his own goblet before setting it back upon the desk, spooking the insect away.

"It has been less than a month, yet already she is treated with contempt, and even animosity. The other women shun her, Elladan, and I would not have this, not here…."

"It is only understandable, I suppose." Prompted by the rising of a dark eyebrow, he elaborated: "She does hail from a land which caused a great deal of harm to the families of those dwelling here, and some of the women themselves. I have seen how they treat their prisoners. How they mark them…."

Elladan let the sentence die, unwilling to recall the wounds he had seen with his own eyes.

"I had warned Aragorn this was a bad idea." Legolas heaved a sigh and threw himself back in his chair. "And yet…it is not only the color of her skin that sets her apart from the others. She is incompetent, worse: she does not learn. Even Godwyn – and you know how tolerant Godwyn is – has banned her from the kitchens, telling me that if I wanted it razed, it would be quicker if she did so herself."

Leaning back in his seat, Elladan mirrored his friend's slouched position. Despite the breeze, and the clemency of the Ithilien weather in comparison to the heatwave that had engulfed Minas Tirith since the end of spring, the air in the study was stifling, as though heated up by Legolas' frantic thinking. Or perhaps it was the mead; still, Elladan felt too warm and a little light-headed. "If you were to ask for my opinion, I would say you are giving these women too much free rein."

Legolas frowned. "Which ones?"

Elladan waved his hand. "All of them."

Was that really him speaking? Suddenly uneasy at the clumsiness of his advice, he swallowed the contents of his cup and poured himself another, busying his mouth with the drink lest it spewed another inanity. Too late did he realize this was precisely the kind of pitfall he should have been wise enough to know to avoid, and vowed to leave his cup untouched from now on.

"Easy for you to say," his friend was saying, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Your staff are all seasoned healers, and the majority of them are of my people. They have trained under Lhaewen, and served my father for decades. To say they are difficult to antagonize would be an understatement."

Elladan opened his arms in apology. "I am certainly not complaining. All I am saying is…."

The wasp had returned but this time, it was looping around Elladan's cup, enticed by the droplets of mead his lips had left upon the rim. Since it would have been a pity to waste such a rare drink on an undeserving pest, Elladan pulled his cup back towards him before noticing that Legolas' attention had retreated within once more; his eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to discern a solution to what was, from Elladan's point of view, a spoiled little girl in need of a stern talking to.

He, too, had heard about this Mehreen, spoken in low tones between those of the healers who worked closest with the women of the washery and the kitchens. At first, he had believed the woman was simply unused to working, as was the case of many a noble lady before the war; before the loss of a husband, a father, or a protector had forced them to push back their sleeves and earn a few calluses on hands that had never touched a bat or a rolling pin. One mistake was forgivable, and even two, but Legolas had spoken of incompetence so great that even the most patient of teachers had given up on her.

Anyone with the slightest bit of common sense would have, by now, adapted to her new environment and made peace with the fact that she would have to earn her stay.

Anyone but Mehreen.

Some of the healers had started to hint she was doing it on purpose, to sabotage what he and Legolas were attempting to build, here in Ithilien. Yet Elladan did not believe in inherent evil. Perhaps did she think they would give up, and let her enjoy a life of leisure without ever having to lift a finger. That she would have her way, without having to change her life, as if the world around her had not been uprooted. Whatever it was, he had been forced to admit her incompetence could only be intentional, and it angered Elladan beyond words that the weight of repairing her 'errors' fell upon his friend.

If anyone deserved some peace, it was Legolas.

The shadows of Mordor were retreating, but they still lay dark and dense upon his friend's heart. Elladan was one of the very few who knew Naima's name. He was one of an even smaller number to know whence she had come, and how suddenly she had disappeared. The loss was still fresh in Legolas' heart, as proven by the very place they were in; a place that had been meant to make her happy, had she stayed by his side.

Elladan knew how it felt, to be helpless at saving a loved one.

"All I am saying," he resumed, "is that should you need my assistance with the Southron princess, you need but ask." He took another swig from his cup as Legolas' gaze, as sharp as a scalpel, came to rest upon him once more.

"Not a bad idea," his friend muttered to himself.

"Why, thank you," Elladan shot back, wondering whether he should be irked by the insinuation. He started to unfasten a button on his collar before realizing he had forgotten his promise.

Legolas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he looked Elladan in the eye. "I mean it. I had not considered it before, but your proposal is sound."

Elladan chortled into his cup. "Reassuring, is it not? That your Chief Healer can still produce a sound idea from time to time?"

"Very."

A shriek erupted from under the window. Both he and Legolas turned to watch little Déordred race through the grass, unminding of the paths that had been lain between the buildings for the sake and comfort of the grown-ups. They both relaxed when they saw the boy's mother, Dúnwen, chase after him with a tired smile upon her face.

"She is healing," Legolas commented, and Elladan merely nodded, keeping his reservations regarding Dúnwen to himself. There was no need to bother his friend with the lingering sadness she sometimes confided in him about, one that clung to her shoulders like a heavy, sodden cloak. Only her love for her son kept her going, she had said, and the worry of what would happen to him should she surrender.

He toyed with his empty cup, watching, fascinated, as the remains of the golden liquid swirled in its bottom. Fatherhood had never been a goal of his; his own father would have said there was still time to find out whether such a desire ever came to him, but if Elladan had never envisioned his life alone, it had been because of Elrohir's unfaltering presence by his side. He and his twin: an unbreakable item, never apart. Lucky never have to fear the vast unknown of loneliness.

Was this why they had so seldom spoken about it, Elrohir and he? Because he had assumed that his brother shared his vision of their future? Had Elladan known the truth, perhaps would he have taken the time to make peace with an alternative, and taken a look at the world beyond his brother's side. Now he was too old for such things.

"I suppose I should thank Gimli," Legolas mused aloud as he finally reached out to drink from his own cup, just as the wasp had finally gathered the courage to taste it. It whizzed away in disappointment, missing the open window by a hair's width. Elladan watched as it collided with the glass with an audible ponk, shook off its wings and finally soared into the woods. "This recipe of his brings good counsel, even if I suspect the price shall be high on the morrow."

"I'll drink to that," Elladan snickered and swallowed the remains of the mead in a gulp before setting the cup back onto the desk. "Now, please excuse me. You asked me to supervise the Houses of Healing and…." He steadied himself upon the back of his chair as the study swayed under his feet, "…and it is a poor example I would set indeed if I were to show up drunk."

Saineth, for one, would certainly find it amusing.

The river! It still ran cold and deep at this time of the year. Elladan contemplated dunking himself somewhere downstream of the washery, somewhere where his swearing would not scare some unsuspecting woman.

"I take it we are in agreement, then?" Legolas called out in his back, his voice more cheerful than it had been at the beginning of their exchange. Either the mead had done wonders for his mood, or it had been Elladan himself who had caused such a reversal – the latter, Elladan hoped, for unlike his unwavering support, mirth induced by liquor was unlikely to last.

"Of course," he nodded, wincing as the contents of his skull seemed to move out of rhythm with his chin.

The river. Right.

"Very well. I shall send her directly to you, then, or rather to Saineth? Is tomorrow morning too soon?"

Elladan paused, his hand hovering above one of the two handles the door of Legolas' study seemed to possess. A shiver ran up his spine, a foreboding of sorts, signaling to his addled brain that something was amiss. "Too soon for what…?"

"For you to welcome a new ward, of course." Springing from his chair with the grace of one fully sober, Legolas walked up to the window, where the distant clamor of the river mingled with the hushed voices of the passers-by. "I had never thought about it, but you were right, as always. The healers will not judge her for her origins, and neither will they begrudge her her lack of skill." He ran a hand through his hair. "Simple tasks, perhaps something to do with cleaning…?"

He sounded so hopeful, so relieved, that Elladan's tongue remained stuck to his palate.

How could he refuse?

He opened his mouth, but no words came out as Legolas watched him with trust in his eyes. The sun that shone through the casing lent color to his skin, of which it had been robbed by worry; a touch of pink upon cheeks too pale and hollow for Elladan's liking. Even in his altered state he could not have missed it: for the first time in days, his friend held himself with renewed confidence, as though his shoulders had been released of a weight he had been carrying.

"I will think of something," Elladan croaked out at last.

By Elbereth, what had he gotten himself into?

oOoOoOo

Whatever had he been thinking, drinking mead with Thranduil's son?

Thus mused Elladan as he stalked through the settlement, responding to the greetings of the people with grunts and monosyllables. He would apologize for such incivility in the morning, but for now, his main concern was to clear his mind, and to find a way out of the trap he had so eagerly stepped into.

In his place Elrohir would have laughed, before drinking some more, while he was at it. Things could not possibly get any worse, now, could they? Elladan imagined the heart-warming sound of his brother's chuckle in the nearing murmur of the stream, but the image inevitably merged into his father's face, so similar yet so different, wearing a frown of disapproval. A fine example of Imladris' upbringing indeed. Would his new people imagine this is how they dealt with their problems, back in Eriador?

For a moment, the pain of betrayal overcame the ache of his pounding head.

Had Legolas done it on purpose? Had he chosen the bottle with care, withholding his own inebriation but not his troubles so as to get Elladan in the right state of mind to drink and listen? He had been raised by Thranduil, after all, the greatest schemer in Middle-Earth aside from Mithrandir.

But the memory of his friend's face was almost enough to sober him up. Such a contrast it had offered, first dejected then hopeful, with only Elladan's drunken blunder between the two….

Shame on you!

His cheeks burned from more than liquor, having been taught better than to cast his fault into another's hands.

Elladan crossed a courtyard, divided into parcels of equal size and planted with herbs and medicinal plants, presently tended to by two women who startled as he swept down the gravel path without so much as a greeting. The river ran close now, beyond the hillock of willows whose limbs dragged in the water, like the fingers of some pensive maiden rooted into the bank.

Shame on you.

No doubt that Legolas' somewhat more…coherent state was merely due to an exceptional – and probably inherited – resistance to alcohol. And who had it been that had offered his help, if not Elladan himself? No one had threatened him, no more than the proposal had been coaxed from his lips. No, Elladan had walked into it willingly, if unwittingly.

Whatever it was, this was the last time he drank that mead of his – and this time, he intended to keep his promise.

The riverbank was empty at this time of the day; the dwellers of Bar-Lasbelin tended to favor either morning or evening for their bath, depending on how used they were to a mountain river's chill, and it was yet too early for the latter. Here, the slopes of the Ephel Dúath formed a shallow vale, forcing the stream to meander between grassy outcrops overgrown with bushes and pines, whose generous boughs hung low above the water, screening the banks from sight. Two swaths of canvas had been stretched across the water to further protect the modesty of those bathing in the stream, both at different angles so as to avoid any shadows too revealing to either party – the women upstream and the men, below.

Both were deserted, granting Elladan the modest privilege of choosing his place. Without a second thought for propriety, he kicked off his boots, tugged at the laces of his jerkin, then tore the tunic off his back before diving headfirst into the water.

He emerged with a scream a heartbeat later, skin burning, heart pounding…only to meet a pair of frightened green eyes.

Up to her knees in the water a few paces upstream, the woman had picked up her tunic with one hand, the yellow fabric bunched in her fist as she had started to rub the skin of her calves free from the day's grime with the other; a grimace of suffering still clung to her features as goosebumps had erupted upon the bronze-hued skin. Elladan held his breath, only half-aware of doing so as his gaze slid down a slender neck, along the embroidery that rimmed her tunic, following one graceful collarbone towards the hollow in her throat, and….

Stop it!

A doe before a hunter; such was the look on the woman's face, her fern-green eyes wide as she trembled in the current, her grip on the tunic tightening until the sinews of her hand swelled under the skin. Her eyes trailed away from Elladan's face, from his hair that had come undone from its braid and stuck to his cheeks, fleeing from whatever she saw there; Elladan himself dared not think of what it could be. She took in his bare chest, and his now-soaked leggings before she dropped her gaze, but not before realizing where exactly his had been.

"Wait!"

No. Why had he said that?

Elladan would have smacked himself, had he not feared to frighten her even further – if such a thing was even possible, that is.

The woman gasped in cold and alarm as she blushed a deeper crimson that the brightest of sunsets, before dashing clumsily towards the bank, slipping on the stones of the riverbed in her haste to escape. Out of instinct Elladan moved to help her and she whimpered, fumbling with a tunic that now clung to the wet skin of her legs, hindering her flight. Once upon the other bank the woman turned to make sure he was not following her, silently pleading him not to; she bent to pick up a pair of trousers lying in the grass and bolted into the woods, her muddy little feet disappearing into the greenery. She must have taken him for a madman, Elladan mused, before clarity dawned upon him and he recognized her.

It seemed he had been wrong at least once, today. Things could still get worse.

This was the Mehreen he would have to supervise first thing in the morning, the Haradric noblewoman whose pride he would have to tame. Was it too late to tell Legolas he had spectacularly failed at making a good first impression, and beg him to find someone else to take her in?

With a groan, Elladan let himself sink back underwater, until the merciful coldness of the stream relieved this newfound heat upon skin.