Chapter 11

June 19th, TA 3020

Mehreen hadn't expected Saineth to come fetch her after the morning meal that day. Though little words were exchanged while the elf waited for her to gather her cups and carry them back to the kitchens, the gaze she slid along Mehreen's bundled form proved more lenient than during their first encounter.

It occurred to Mehreen that she'd never gotten to inquire about Saineth's husband, as was the custom in Harad, where the quality of a woman's marriage imported more than that of the woman herself. One would then move to the topic of the children's health – preferably while sipping mint tea and feasting on the succulent sweets that Ghizlan, the cook, used to prepare for the occasion – but to ask the elf about her pregnancy now would've been odd, not to mention insincere.

After all, Mehreen had just accused of murder someone who, for all she knew, could well be the father of Saineth's child.

Perhaps had the elf understood what kind of ghoul she'd been married to; a good wife would never speak up against her husband, but such a discovery could explain the softening of her demeanor towards Mehreen. That, or something far worse…. The coldness of the morning air had little to do with Mehreen's shudder as she searched the woman's porcelain skin for any trace of violence, praying to the One that, at the very least, Lord Elladan would treat his son or daughter with kindness. The thought of one so little being hurt by her fault pushed at Mehreen's ribs and turned her throat sour.

Bhajat.

Better not to think about it. Saineth's satin-like hair had today been pinned up into an elaborate bun, and Mehreen kept her watering eyes trained on the bobbing tresses as she followed the elf out of the hall.

When the time had come for her to bid her goodbyes to the household, her little sister had been sleeping in Lalla Tasnim's arms, shadowed by the triumphant gaze of the older woman, who thus denied Mehreen one last kiss on the downy forehead, and the sound of the girl's contagious giggle – the very giggle that had kept her on her toes ever since Bhajat's birth.

She would never hold her own child.

No matter how much Mehreen would pray, intoning the words with each touch of her forehead to the cold floorboards of her cramped little room, no genie could grant her something that the men of her life had decided to deny.

Oblivious of Mehreen's plight, Saineth led her through the maze of pathways and nameless thickets without a word – of reproach or otherwise – allowing her to try and memorize the way: straight ahead towards the Anduin upon the middle path – the one which allowed a glimpse of the mill and, in the distance, an island Mehreen was yet to learn the name of. A right turn at the empty flowerbed, and then a left at the triangle-shaped herb patch. Where did the right pathway lead? Mehreen wondered without asking, yet as soon as the question came, she banished it, afraid to lose track of her thoughts.

In the distance, loomed the Houses of Healing, their towers and turrets bathed in the rising sun. Mehreen swallowed, her throat as dry as the stone they had been built from.

"Do your best," Saineth called out over her shoulder, offering Mehreen a glimpse of a sharp profile that seemed to read her thoughts. "Ask questions whenever needed, and help out however you can."

Know your place, she seemed to convey without saying. That, at least, was a familiar terrain.

Much like Lalla Zahra, when she'd passed under the gates of the harem with a neck as rigid and heavy as lead, clutching her meagre possessions while the household watched her walk of shame from the galleries, Mehreen stepped into the darkness of the corridor. There she took a single deep breath, allowing her composure to falter but for an instant before she clenched her jaw and lifted her chin high again.

Let Lord Elladan feel ashamed, instead.

oOoOoOo

Mehreen wrinkled her nose at the unmistakable odor that wafted from the bed, and eyed her task with both distaste and defeat, fighting back tears of rage. Her back burned from bending over and over again to pull at the sheets, bed after bed, one room after the other, her hands rubbed red in places by the roughness of the linens. Lord Elladan, wherever he was, must be laughing at her predicament, too glad to announce to Lord Legolas how utterly she'd failed at seizing this new chance, and demand it be her last.

When the elven woman in charge of the Women's Ward, whose name Mehreen had – quite predictably – forgotten, had given her the assignment of cleaning out the empty beds in this wing of the Houses, she'd made it seem like a simple task, fit for a novice and Mehreen, for once, had believed that her luck may just have taken a turn for the better.

A last, desperate tug and the sheet came undone. Mehreen tossed it into the basket she'd been issued for this purpose before bending backwards with a grunt. She winced at the throbbing in her lower back before examining her palms which, in turn, led her to the conclusion that blisters were well under way, the skin between index and thumb swollen and tender. Mehreen grimaced.

A novice's task indeed.

The elven woman had examined Mehreen as impassively as Saineth's stare had been dissecting, accepting Saineth's explanation in elvish with the placidity of one used to obey and confirming Saineth's status as the Mother of the Houses, for lack of a better term in the lilting, albeit somewhat bland, Gondorian tongue. Though her voice had remained as even as her expression when she'd bid Mehreen to follow her into yet another maze of corridors and passages, Mehreen couldn't help but turn around and glance at Saineth's quickly retreating form, surprised at missing her imposing presence already.

Now, in the solitude of one of the unnumbered rooms that lined the corridor, she regretted Saineth's bluntness all the while chastising herself for her naivety. This was but another harem, the politics and power plays an undercurrent of the Houses' righteous purpose. Mehreen, more than anyone, should've expected no less.

In Jufayrah, at least, she'd had Hanaa to share her chagrins with.

Now that the mattress lay uncovered before her, Mehreen sighed at the sight of the stains that covered it. She held her breath as she wrestled the last spread of linen free, rolling it into a tight ball before burying it, away from scent and sight, into the depths of her basket. Then she hoisted her load onto her hip, hissing as the handles pressed against the sorest parts of her anatomy, and cursing the Northern way of carrying things as she headed to the door.

It wasn't uncommon, when strolling down a busy street in Jufayrah, to spot a basket – or ten – bobbing above the crowd, their carriers to be later identified as women who conversed as they walked, their loads gracefully perched atop their heads. But when Mehreen had asked for a daira, the elven woman had looked at her as though she'd grown a pair of horns.

Outside, the corridor looked nothing like the haunt of shadows it'd been when Mehreen had first set foot onto the gallery. At this hour of the morning, the hallways were filled with life and purpose, elves in pristine aprons darting in and out of the rooms Mehreen had cleaned with armloads of scrubbing brushes, fresh linens and bouquets of lavender. The light of the morning sun filtered through the canopy above, painting green the white of the tiles under their feet. Lowering her head, Mehreen dove into the stream, mindless of the direction. The Houses, the elven woman had explained, were a square, so one only had to follow the main corridor to eventually get to one's destination. Easy for her to say, Mehreen complained under her breath. Besides the corridor, the Houses counted no less than seven towers – four small and three large, flanking the north, south and eastern facades – each with their own staircases, storage rooms and hidden closets.

Mehreen, of course, had forgotten which one held the so-called gate room.

Waddling along the wooden railing that lined the gallery, the hairs of her neck rising in the draft that played with her skirts, she surveyed the doors open ajar here and there, hoping to spot a familiar-looking staircase while gaping at her surroundings.

The windows, in particular, fascinated her.

"It will be good to have another pair of hands to help us," the elven woman had commented as she had led Mehreen down the corridor at a leisurely pace, allowing her to admire the stained-glass windows that pierced the walls here and there, depicting what seemed to be scenes of elven domesticity, much like the tapestries in Queen Arwen's quarters, back in Minas Tirith. The fineness of the characters' traits and their elongated limbs marked the craftsmanship as elven as well, in hues of green and blue that soothed the eye. "Lord Elrond of Imladris was kind enough to send his masters to Ithilien to help restore the manor," the woman added upon noticing Mehreen's interest. "One could say that this place is, above any other, the last joint effort on the part of all elven realms to leave a mark on this world before our time comes to an end."

There'd been a sadness in her voice that had found an echo in Mehreen's own homesickness; she'd thought the woman to be an ally, then, before understanding how mistaken she'd been.

Meow.

Mehreen halted, her gaze darting along the wall at foot level.

Meow.

There it was. A ginger-coated tabby wound between the feet of a group of healers stationed in front of a wide, sculpted pair of doors before trotting down the corridor, its fur it turn teal, jade or indigo as it pranced in and out of pools of colored light.

"Here, kitty!"

Mehreen hissed, clicking her tongue as Gamila had once taught her, in a manner supposed to catch a cat's attention. Indeed, the tabby stopped and turned its head, long enough to give Mehreen an appraising stare before lifting its tail in disdain.

"Come here!"

The cat blinked and bolted off.

Despite the weight of her basket, Mehreen gave chase.

"Oh, you clever thing, you," she muttered when she saw it dart into an open door in the corner of the corridor, beside a statue of a weeping woman, and down a flight of spiral stairs.

Was this the staircase the elven woman had shown her? For all Mehreen knew, it was just as ancient-looking and dusty looking.

"Wait!" she called out breathlessly as she pushed the door open with a shoulder to peek inside the room. "Where are you?" And clicked her tongue again.

A pair of golden eyes flashed in the darkness below, reflecting the light of the solitary oil lamp that'd been lit inside the antechamber. Mehreen smiled and, shifting the position of her basket on her hip, began to descend. A scent of wet earth rose to meet her, of smoke and forest and, as she stepped lower still, the coolness of the railing of forged iron a relief to her burning skin, the light grew brighter as well. Mehreen emerged into another chamber, and startled as something brushed against her knees.

The room was overgrown with fern. It sprouted from between the broken tiles, and wound its feathers with the delicately wrought balustrade, fighting for dominion with a bed of soft, green moss. Cobwebs breathed in the corners, between walls and ceiling, and hung like a curtain from a tall, stone arch that opened onto another chamber.

A basement.

The light was stronger there and the breeze fresher, chasing away the scent of mold. Mehreen ventured further, calling out to the tabby, hoping to spot a striped tail with every turn she took. Her eyes were drawn to the broken windows, their frames spotted with rust, and the moldings that lined the walls, the carved-out faces weeping with humidity. Piles of slate that had been stocked here and there had tumbled into shapeless heaps with the passing of time, as their foundations had crumbled under the weight; an old chair stood in the corner, facing an empty fireplace that'd not seen a spark for longer than Mehreen had been alive.

There had been life here, once. Another existence than that of suffering and mending, which surged as strongly above as the stillness reigned below. Who knew what'd become of the previous occupants of this place?

Mehreen shivered in the dank twilight and took a step back, suddenly fearing to encounter, with the tip of her boot, the ivory paleness of a bone. Another step and she turned, certain to see the arch with the spider webs and, beyond it, the opportune shape of the spiral staircase.

She gasped as her eyes met another pair; a pale, severe stare that made her quiver with unease.

A painting.

The woman's ebony hair was drawn back, pulling at the skin of her cheeks, exposing sharp cheekbones. Her eyes, so clear the artist had been forced to use more white paint than blue, watched Mehreen from an angle as the painting hung askew, thin lips pursed in disapproval over a ruffled collar of lace. So commanding was the otherworldly stare that another shiver crept up Mehreen's spine, along with the imperious need to apologize.

"Kitty," she called out in a small voice, shaking off the spell.

The cat deigned not respond and Mehreen trampled on the spot, forced to admit a truth she wanted to face no more than the ghastly painting.

She was lost.

No longer did the fern rustle in the wind; no draft moved between the archways to show Mehreen the way. The light grew dim and cold as the sun moved over the manor; the empty halls took on a cold, eerie glow.

"There you are."

Mehreen spun around, biting back a cry of pain as a broken twig that jutted out from the basket poked into the tender flesh of her palm, but saw no-one who could've uttered those words.

"You little rascal."

Mehreen frowned as she rubbed her aching hand against her thigh. Surely, no-one here would address her with such familiarity? Lord Legolas himself would certainly bite off his tongue rather than deviate from his usual, formal ways, and Saineth….

"Let me finish with this basin. Then we'll go get something to fill our bellies."

The voice, muffled by the moss that covered the floor, seemed to come from the adjacent room. Mehreen tiptoed closer, both hopeful and afraid of who she'd meet. What if it were someone who'd tattle to Lord Elladan about how she managed to get lost on her very first day in the Houses? Or worse, a young man who'd steal her away, as Lalla Nafiyah had warned her about more often than not?

As it turned out, the voice belonged to a girl much younger than Mehreen herself, her bright red hair gathered into a loose braid tied with a discolored ribbon – an unlikely spy indeed. Bent over a stone well in the middle of what appeared to be a domed courtyard, the girl was holding out something whose contents splashed noisily into the water below. Standing on the stone rim was the cat, who punctuated the girl's movements with a quiver of its whiskers.

Mehreen drew closer.

"You, at least, don't care about the smell," the girl sighed as she reached out a hand to flatter the tabby's head, before setting down what looked like a basin made of polished copper onto a mossy hillock nearby.

Just as Mehreen called out a tentative "Hello?" she grabbed another, identical recipient from behind a clump of fern and emptied it – just as noisily – into the hole.

"Hello?"

"Béma!" The girl jumped and all but overturned the remains of the basin onto her dress. The cat hissed and dashed into the greenery, leaving a wake of rustling boughs. "You scared me!"

Mehreen all but gagged as the stench reached her nostrils. And to say she'd been complaining about her own assignment!

The girl watched her with wide eyes, the dripping basin in one hand, and wiped her forehead with the other. In the twilight of the basement, her fair skin had grown even paler with fright, her freckles standing out like specks of blood. "No-one ever comes here," she supplied eventually with a shrug, conscious of Mehreen's disgust.

"I apologize. I followed a cat," Mehreen said, aware of how silly it sounded and fighting the urge to pinch her nose. The basket weighed heavily against upon her hip, her tired back protesting against all this excessive walking.

"Oh, Pumpkin." The girl smiled. "He likes coming down here. I think there's mice in the ruins," – she swept a hand to indicate the rubble in the corner of the courtyard, overrun with vines and larkspur – "though it doesn't stop him from begging for scraps."

"Is he yours?"

"Nah. He belongs to anyone who's willing to feed him." The girl tilted her head to the side, her red locks falling into her eyes. "You speak funny. Where are you from?"

Mehreen hesitated. "I come from Harad." It sounded better than 'I'm a Southron', which was what the other women had called her, some even going as far as adding a crude, unflattering epithet at the end that'd had her gasping in outrage.

The girl's face fell. "Oh." She shifted from one foot to another, eyes searching for another place to rest – anywhere but Mehreen. "I should be going." And busied herself with picking up the basins, seemingly unfazed by their former contents. Mehreen watched her leave with a mix of resignation and dismay.

If I did kill your brother, it was only because I chose to let others live. Others who would otherwise have perished under his sword.

Whom had the girl lost, and by whose hand?

It would've been a cruel thing to ask, and crueler still to expect the girl to stay; on the other hand, she'd been the first amicable soul Mehreen had encountered in Bar-Lasbelin so far – Pumpkin excluded – yet it seemed that their tentative friendship was doomed before it even began.

Then it struck her. She was still lost.

"Wait! Please!"

The girl turned around with reluctance, eyeing Mehreen with distrust. "Would you be so kind as to tell me how to get back up into the Houses?" Mehreen bit her lip, overcome by a sudden guilt. Because of her unfinished chore, she told herself firmly, and nothing else. Harun had been her brother; she owed him her respect. "Please…I don't know the way."

"The doorway behind you." Begrudgingly, the girl nodded towards the crumbling arch. "Straight ahead through the first three rooms, then make one left turn after another."

"Thank you."

Mehreen watched her leave with a heart full of emotions, in which relief took little space. The girl was still but a child; it was a cruel world indeed that'd left her alone, without a father or a husband to provide her with a life softer than one such as this. Turning on her heels, she made her way through the fern kingdom, eyeing the painting as she passed; its reproachful stare seemed to pierce Mehreen's skull, pulling into light memories she'd rather remained hidden.

Harun had been her brother. A man. Who was she to question his actions?

No, she shook her head as she crossed the next room, counting them out under her breath. One-two-three. Tareq, too, was a man; yet he'd always needed his mother to tell him what to do, and Mehreen knew what kind of honor Lalla Laila's council could hold.

No. There were men in the girl's life who should've seen to it that the girl was properly taken care of, rather than forced to empty the patients' basins for a living. Lord Elladan, for one. Where was he, when the women under his protection were toiling so heavily?

Mehreen turned left, crossing the room in a few angry strides.

Where was he? Why hadn't he assigned this task, albeit necessary, to someone older? A stranger, for instance, just like the worst of the chores, back in her father's harem, had always fallen upon slaves from Umbar or Near Harad.

Another turn; Mehreen breathed in relief at the sight of the spiraling silhouette.

Someone like….

She halted, frowning, struck by a thought so sudden as though it'd tumbled down the stairs to hit her in the face.

Someone like her.

Lord Elladan hadn't plotted to task her with the hardest chore of all. In truth, it was the opposite: Mehreen had it easy. Women younger than herself were scrubbing basins full of waste, up to their elbows in excrement while she complained about a blister or two. Even Ahlam, who worked from dusk till dawn in the washery, and served Mehreen in between, hadn't uttered a word of complaint.

Will you live off the hard work of those here who would earn their living?

Mehreen was being unquestionably, insufferably, cosseted.

Gritting her teeth against the pain and the anger, she clenched her fists around the handles of her basket as she switched it from one hip to the other, pushing her sleeves up in the process. There was still much work to do, and many beds to clean.

If this was all Lord Elladan thought her capable of, Mehreen would do everything in her power to prove him wrong.

A.N.: some words explained:

- In Arab mythology, a ghoul is a creature that dwells in graveyards and feasts on human flesh.

- A 'daira' is a made-up word for the circle-shaped length of cloth used by women to carry weights such as bricks, baskets, etc. atop their heads.