Chapter 12

June 24th, TA 3020

Though located under the Houses of Healing, the gate room vastly differed from the basement Mehreen had inadvertently wandered into on her first day. High-vaulted and devoid of moss, the hall opened onto the woods through a gate, through which came and went a cart pulled by an ill-tempered donkey. Mehreen had learnt of this the hard way, when she'd first reached out to flatter the beast's neck, only to almost get her fingers chomped off.

From then on, Mehreen had secretly named it Elladan.

Now, as she emptied her basket into one of the barrels that stood in a line along the wall – some of them already full to the brim with dirty sheets, ready to be loaded onto the cart and driven to the washery, a red rim marking the provenance of their contents – she eyed the donkey warily, not fooled by the endearingly lopsided ears.

Someday, Mehreen vowed, she'd manage to coax the little devil into letting her run her fingers through that soft-looking coat.

"Stand still, will you! Gothmog's offspring," the pot-bellied driver mumbled as he pulled on the reins and dismounted. He cursed as the animal took off towards the open gate and the green grass that lay beyond as soon as it felt the weight disappear from its back.

Mehreen didn't linger to see who'd win. Grabbing her basket by the handle, she lifted her skirts with the other to faster clamber up the stairs, emerging onto the gallery from the south-eastern tower. The afternoon was late; the air in the corridor had grown still and warm over the course of the day, the doors of the rooms thrown open to incite a semblance of a draft. Mehreen closed her eyes as the rays caressed her skin, remembering the mornings in Jufayrah, when the city slowly woke after a stifling night, the call to prayer echoing down the empty streets. From the roofs of the palace, beyond the ochre facades of the temples and the lapis-encrusted domes and muqarnas of the city bazaar, one could then see the harbor, the horizon yet unbroken by the shimmering of heat, the scent of sea salt in the gentle breeze.

"Be careful!"

Mehreen snapped to attention in time to make way for a busy-looking maiden with a wooden board in one hand and a book in another. The pointy-eared, tawny-haired woman brushed past her with a haughty look, her full lips pursed in annoyance, leaving Mehreen bewildered and robbing her of the little peace she'd managed to regain within those few seconds of remembrance.

Elves.

Squeezing the handles of her empty basket until the wicker creaked under the pressure, Mehreen straightened her back and marched off towards the study of the elf in charge of the Women's Ward. Moments ago, the anger driving her had subsided; now it was back, possessing her body like a vengeful spirit, as it had for the last five days.

Blisters had bloomed and broken, tears had streaked Mehreen's cheeks and tunics had been sacrificed to make bandages that now adorned her hands like so many colorful ribbons, and made her glad for the coldness of the stream whenever she washed; and yet, through all of this Mehreen had toiled without respite nor complaint, stripping one bed after the other – dreaming it was Lord Elladan's pride she was peeling off, like a rotting layer from an onion – and hauling the heavy, ofttimes soaked linen sheets down to the gate room. In the evenings Mehreen would dine, wolfing down the spice-less gruel that constituted her meal and, reaching her room in a state of semi-slumber, collapse upon the bed. Sometimes, upon coming back in turn, Ahlam would pull off Mehreen's boots in a gesture of mercy, and draw the coverlet over her sprawled out form. Other nights Mehreen would wake up shivering in the darkness, and silently undress before stirring the embers in the brazier, checking the doors were locked – she still didn't put it past Lord Elladan, or some other man she'd met, to attempt something dishonorable – and crawl back under the covers, allowing Ahlam's steady breathing to lull her back into a dreamless sleep.

Mehreen's existence revolved around a single goal: make Lord Elladan swallow his bitter words.

Casting a last, baleful look to the elf's disappearing form, Mehreen took off towards her own destination, trying to mimic the purposefulness of the woman's stride while ignoring the basket that smacked her in the leg with each step. She liked to think of it as a testament to her accomplished task rather than a nuisance; even the creaks of protest sounded like cries of triumph to her ears.

The elf woman's study was located on the first story of the Houses, beside the Women's Ward, for which she was responsible; yet the doors held no plaque nor sign Mehreen could recognize it by. Thanking the One for the mildness of the day, Mehreen craned her neck as she walked to peer into the rooms that lined the gallery, trying to discern in which one the woman dwelt.

At last, a familiar, auburn-tressed head appeared through the door ajar of a study adjacent to the south-western tower, bent over a desk of golden wood. Halting in her step, Mehreen knocked upon the door and waited until she was called in.

"The beds have been stripped clean, Mistress," she announced to the sitting woman, the basket primly held in front of her, much like the apron she didn't possess and which seemed to mark those allowed to come in contact with patients.

A perfect eyebrow rose at the news. "Already? Hmm." Mehreen noticed how the woman's pale, dainty nose was upturned, as though permanently displeased with something. Perhaps was it Mehreen's efficacy, she thought with glee, hiding her satisfaction under a mask of meekness. "I had not expected you to finish so quickly."

She sighed, inconvenienced, and darted an impatient glance to the ledger before her. From where she stood, Mehreen could only make out uninterrupted lines of ink, the letters too spidery to distinguish even for someone brighter than her.

"Well, I expect you are free, then." Another sigh; this time, the woman looked out the open window, where the green boughs of the nearby woods rustled under the flitting of small, playful birds. Her gaze turned wistful as she waved a dismissive hand. "You may go and enjoy the rest of the day."

Oh, how tempting! To abandon the basket, which seemed to have been welded into her hand, of late, then find a secluded spot to bask in the sun, close her eyes and listen to the river's murmur, the paddles of the sawmill a distant heartbeat, as the shadows of shivering leaves moved behind her eyelids…. The woman herself would've gladly accepted such a plan, Mehreen was ready to wager, had the weight of her duty not kept her chained to the ward.

And when Mehreen left, skipping like a child on the stones that paved the path towards the Anduin, would she run to tell on her laziness? And what would that young, red-haired girl think, should she see Mehreen running from chores far less unpleasant than hers? Mehreen hadn't seen her again, and neither had she managed to find the entrance of that particular staircase, still grappling as she was with the layout of the premises. She hoped a day would come they could meet again as friends, just as she hoped to someday tame Elladan into a more amiable disposition.

"If I may, Mistress," Mehreen piped up, startling the woman who'd already hung her head over the ledger once more, "if there is anything more I can do to help, I am at your disposal."

Take that, Lord Elladan.

"Oh." The upturned nose scrunched in surprise. "Well, there is certainly work to do, if you are willing."

From up close, in the bright lighting of the study, with the afternoon sun that glanced off the shiny, new furniture, Mehreen could distinguish a scatter of freckles across her cheeks. She would've sworn that behind the formal demeanor, the woman was torn between approval and irritation, and suppressed a smile of victory as she rose from behind her desk.

"Come. I will show you," the woman bid her, stifling an elf-unlike grunt as she unfolded to her full height.

Down the corridor they went, Mehreen following the elf – as was now her habit – and around the corner where stood a statue of a woman with arms wide open, juggling what resembled stars between her palms. The elf woman led Mehreen down the stairs, to the ground floor, into a chamber adjacent to the gate room where Mehreen hadn't been before, through an unlocked door she hadn't yet noticed.

"The laundry," the woman announced as she stepped aside to let Mehreen in.

Located on the southern side of the manor, the laundry was smaller than its neighbor, and boasted two large, square windows that allowed both sunlight and fresh air into the room. The walls were lined with shelves – newly made, their veins still crying beads of sap – stocked to the brim with more linens than Mehreen had ever seen in her life. Her father's harem must've contained at least one room for a similar purpose, to ensure that each and every one of the members of the household could sleep on clean, orange blossom-scented sheets at least once a week; but as the daughter of the Sheikh, Mehreen had never had to wonder where her bedding came from.

She stared open-mouthed at the piles of pristine cloth, the basket's weight increasing ominously in anticipation.

"Now that the beds are bare," the woman enunciated, "you shall make them anew. Take one of these," she lay a hand upon one of the piles, "two sheets and a pillowcase." More pointing ensued, while Mehreen almost bit through her tongue in concentration, trying to remember what lay where. "Have you done this before?"

The question had been asked in a tone that implied the elf already knew the answer. She didn't wait for Mehreen to reply, acknowledging her helpless blush with a curt nod, and a note of reprobation crept into her voice when she declared: "Wait here. I shall send Bruiven to show you how to make a bed properly."

"Thank you, Mistress," Mehreen managed, her mind still reeling from the instructions. It'd taken her three full days to memorize the way to the gate room. How in Middle-Earth was she going to remember all this?

"No 'Mistress' needed," the woman said before she exited the room. "You can address me as Redhriel."

With that, she directed her freckled nose towards the door, leaving Mehreen to dwell on the new pits of her misfortune, which she owed solely to her own stupidity and pride. The shelves stared down at her in silence, looming over her head, threatening to bury her under the linens as her wounded hands throbbed under their bandages. Only one thought kept Mehreen from weeping in despair.

The freckles were red, as was the shade of the woman's dark hair. Redhriel…her name was Redhriel. From now on, Mehreen would remember it.

oOoOoOo

Bruiven turned out to be a tall, fair-haired elf whose age could well have been twice or two times less that of Lord Elladan, for all Mehreen knew. His downturned blue eyes seemed to sparkle with kindness rather than contempt, yet Mehreen did not trust him, no more than she trusted any other elf – Lord Legolas and Saineth being the two sole exceptions to this rule. Not because she believed they wouldn't deceive her; simply because they hadn't yet seized their chance to do so.

"Redhriel told me you needed some assistance," he announced upon coming upon Mehreen in the laundry room, just when she was beginning to believe they'd forgotten about her. "My name is Bruiven. And what should I call you?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice – not because he'd startled her, but because he was a man. A man who'd cornered her in a deserted room, far from the other women of the Houses. Redhriel hadn't thought of forewarning her, or perhaps had she meant for this to happen…. After all, a despoiled woman was all the easier to send back to her father on grounds of looseness, regardless of whether the spoiling had happened with or without her consent.

Mehreen's stomach twisted in fear.

"Mehreen," she murmured at the intention of her feet, ruing the habit she'd taken of leaving her veil in her room. In the kitchens or the washery, amongst the unveiled, unabashed women of the North, it'd made her stand out like a sore thumb. Here, she quivered at the slightest gust of air against her cheeks, certain she felt his stare on her bare skin.

"Very well, Mehreen. Shall we?"

When he moved towards her Mehreen recoiled with a gasp, shuffling out of his way and certain that, should he decide to have his way with her, there was nothing she could do. The shadow of his arm stretched across the stone floor, his fingers as crooked as talons…

…Sinking into a pile of linen before he pulled it out.

"Let us see. One, two…."

Mehreen lifted her eyes from the tips of her slippers to see him counting out the sheets, the entire pile balanced on one arm, utterly uninterested in touching her. The knot in her belly loosened.

"Here. If you would help me hold this?"

In a matter of seconds, the elf had managed to build a tower of folded linens in his arms, which he promptly divided into two – one taller and one shorter, proffering the latter towards Mehreen.

Surely, it would be hard for him to ravage her with an armful of sheets…?

With a deep, steadying breath, Mehreen set down her basket and took a step towards the elf to receive a stack into her open arms. The rough, lavender-scented weight was warm against her skin, drenched in sunlight, and Mehreen fought the urge to lay her cheek again the fabric, wanting nothing more than to soak some of their warmth into her body.

"Let us begin with the rooms in the Women's Ward," he suggested, unaware of the relief his proposal elicited in Mehreen. "I believe you are more used to it, and I, for one, find learning easier when building on something familiar." He smiled again over the pile of sheets, this time in a manner Mehreen believed to be genuine.

Except for the elf's explanations regarding the best way to tuck the sheets under the mattress so that they wouldn't wrinkle – gained, as he explained it, during his years as an apprentice in the Healing Rooms of Mirkwood, under a healer named Lhaewen whose abruptness put Saineth to shame – they worked in silence until Mehreen managed to make her first bed, and her 'teacher' declared her fit to work alone. When he bowed before her as he bid her farewell, her initial fright was long forgotten.

Before Mehreen knew it, the sun had set over the mountains; the shadows of the trees slithered into the room, preceding an elf who came, bearing a flame, to light a single lamp next to every bed.

The time had come for Mehreen to leave.

She grimaced, stretching her aching back, and wiped the sweat off her face with her sleeve, surveying her work with a critical eye. In the unforgiving light of the lamp, the pillow seemed lumpy, the sheets beneath barred by a crease Mehreen could've sworn wasn't there moments before.

She sighed and moved to plump up the pillow, lest Redhriel admonished her about it in the morrow.

"…Gave birth on the road, the poor soul."

The door was opened by a determined hand, making Mehreen jump for the second time that day. She turned around, only to come face to face with none other than Lord Elladan himself. His expression darkened, narrowed eyes sliding from Mehreen to the bed she'd just finished.

Elves. No mistake escaped their notice, nor went unpunished.

Mehreen's heart sank. She opened her mouth to explain.

"Bring her in," Lord Elladan called out, stepping aside to allow a woman to enter the room, supported by two healers. Her emaciated form was grief incarnate, from her red-rimmed eyes to the way her bony hands clutched her swollen belly. Mehreen watched as the healers gently ushered her into the bed, where the mattress barely sank under her weight.

"My child," the woman muttered in a thick voice, "my baby…?"

One of the healers looked up at Lord Elladan, who shook his head in a way that went unnoticed by the woman. Mehreen was struck by the suffering upon his face, the visiting ghost of an emotion he had long sought to forget. He must've succeeded – almost – but it had surfaced again, raw and ferocious, clawing its way out from under his skin.

"Sleep," Lord Elladan said softly, his own voice so very different from the sharpness Mehreen remembered. "You need to rest." And went to tuck the woman in with unexpected tenderness, his long, elegant hands pushing away strands of matted hair to check the strength of her pulse.

"What about the child, my Lord?" one of the healers asked as she set a goblet of water upon the nightstand, the other pushing a familiar-looking copper basin under the bed.

Lord Elladan's reply remained a mystery, for it was spoken in elvish. Mehreen's gaze, however, was drawn to the woman's face, and the way her gaunt features had mellowed upon touching the pillow, a look of bliss replacing that of sorrow. To the shiver that ran through her before she reached out to pull the lavender-scented covers up to her chin.

Whatever had happened to her and her child on their way to Bar-Lasbelin, in that single moment, she was happy.

Mehreen took it as her cue to leave, slipping out of the room unnoticed, like a mouse in the hollow darkness of the corridors. As she made her way through the main gate her stomach rumbled in hunger, reminding her of the many hours since her last meal. Ahlam must be waiting for her, worrying perhaps as to why she hadn't yet returned. This evening again she may have to wrestle the boots off Mehreen's heavy limbs, or change the bandages covering her hands. This evening, however, she wouldn't hear Mehreen complaining about her day. For the first time since her arrival to Ithilien, she'd witnessed the good that those hands could bring.

For the very first time, the price she'd paid hadn't been in vain.

A.N.: A 'muqarna' is a is a form of ornamented vaulting in oriental architecture.