Chapter 13

June 25th, TA 3020

The last little stone lay sparkling on the windowsill.

Mehreen hadn't done it on purpose. It was a simple pebble from the stream, irregular in shape and vaguely rounded; it had appeared to be of the same drab grey as the stones of the manor and had, at that moment, resembled each and every one of the other eight stones she'd gathered. Now, as she picked it up for closer examination, the incrustations appeared clearly to her eyes, shimmering in the morning sun.

"Today is Al-Siyaam," she told Ahlam, who was winding a length of saffron-colored cotton around her head so as to cover her hair, in the fashion of her homeland of Near Harad.

"Is it?" Ahlam came to inspect the pebbles aligned along the window, her fingers still busy with the tying of her turban, as though animated by a will of their own. "Oh." She looked at Mehreen. "I don't suppose Lord Legolas might allow us this day off."

Mehreen needn't answer – not only because it hadn't been a question, but because they both knew it was unlikely for the elves to cater to an enemy's beliefs. After all, the true name of Harad was Al-Aadili, which meant 'land of the just'. The most fervent of the Aadilim believed that the One itself had inspired them to go to war, bidding them to become his armed hand and punish those who'd perverted the world he'd created and robbed the Aadilim of their once-promised lands: the elves and men of the North. She remembered a stuffy room where she'd sat, pressed against Hanaa, while Lalla Nafiyah's voice rose in exaltation as she'd read to the women of the harem from the sacred book, instructing them in the ways of the One. Unfortunately for Lalla Nafiyah, the Friday lectures hadn't taken root in Mehreen's mind, for not even the noblest of trees can grow in a desert. Even now, Mehreen struggled to remember the true reason behind the One's anger. All that was left was the habit of fasting, and the memory of moments with her best friend.

Hanaa. Where was she now? The war was over; many men must've returned, including, perhaps, prince Anwar himself, and no woman could dream of a better match. Had Mehreen stayed in Jufayrah, she would've been next in line for marriage…until Lalla Laila had intervened, ensuring the brightness of her daughter's future at the expense of Mehreen's own.

Throughout their childhood, they'd been as close in heart as they were dissimilar in appearance. And when everyone had praised Mehreen's beauty before complimenting Hanaa's diligence, Mehreen would weep with her half-sister, for each possessed what the other one desired.

Raising her eyes from the stone in her palm, Mehreen looked outside. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her: dark hair that framed an angular face, and pale, green eyes filled with doubt. Empty eyes, as Lalla Laila used to sneer, and a proof that Mehreen's head was as hollow as a jar.

Her mother's eyes.

In that, too, Mehreen had envied Hanaa. Her mother had risen to rule over the harem, while Mehreen's own had been sent away, never to be seen again. The memory of golden hair and the scent of her mother's skin squeezed her throat with an unseen hand.

Was she even alive?

"My Lady?"

"What?"

Ahlam was touching her arm and, when she lowered her eyes, Mehreen noticed how her knuckles had whitened over the pebble. Forcing her hand to relax, she set the stone back at the end of the row. "Today is Al-Siyaam," she repeated. "Remember to say your prayers, if you can."

As for Mehreen herself, she already knew what – or, rather, whom – she would be praying for.

oOoOoOo

Leaving the Great Hall and the joyful noises of breakfast being served on her right, Mehreen made her way towards the Houses of Healing, thankful for the quietude of the settlement at this early hour. Dew glistened upon the grass, as though the One himself had sprinkled the earth with diamonds in celebration of His day, and the distant waters of the Anduin streamed lazily under the rising sun. The island off the coast of Bar-Lasbelin was swathed in mist, slivers of cloud clinging to the low-hanging branches of birches and willows that grew by the shore.

Ignoring her stomach's protests, Mehreen picked up her skirts so as not to disturb the spiders' tapestries, woven overnight between the grass stems that lined the path, and entered the Houses by the main gate, ready for her day. Not that it should be different from any other: stripping the beds of their soiled linens, and making them all over again.

Mehreen pushed up her sleeves and set to work.

Half-an-hour later, her basket full of bundled sheets, she passed in front of the room she'd readied last the day before; the room of the grieving woman, and her missing, nameless child. Mehreen slowed down, willing her footsteps to blend in with the noises of the manor.

Let her sleep.

A moment of hesitation as she tried to recall which one of the many closed doors led to the staircase; thus walking, Mehreen noticed a light streaming from one of the rooms by the Women's Ward into an otherwise empty corridor. Intrigued, she hoisted the basket higher on her hip and came closer, in time to see Saineth emerge from her study, her belly preceding her under the apron.

"Good morning, Mehreen," the elf greeted her. "You have started early, today."

"Yes, Mistress Saineth," Mehreen sheepishly replied, caught red-handed while snooping. "Today is Al-Siyaam…a day of fasting and prayer."

"And you are done praying, I see." The slightest of smiles touched Saineth's lips. "I am pleased to see you have adjusted to your new assignment. How long has it been? A week?"

"Six days today."

Saineth's gaze slid towards the contents of her basket. "Eight patients have been released yesterday. How many rooms have you finished yet?"

Mehreen's heart skipped a beat as she shuffled on her feet, the weight of the linens pressing uncomfortably against her hip bone. "Four, Mistress." Perhaps had Saineth expected her to be done already?

"Good. Then come see me here when you are done with the remaining four…and leave your basket. I shall have another task for you."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Now go." Closing the door of her study behind her, Saineth side-stepped her, jingling softly as the small bell that hung from her neck bounced off her stomach. "Oh, and Mehreen?" She smiled in earnest this time. "I congratulate you on your persistence. Lord Elladan may appear daunting to some, but do not let his demeanor discourage you. In Bar-Lasbelin, hard work will always be rewarded."

oOoOoOo

On any other day, Mehreen would've spent her lunch in the Great Hall, with or without Ahlam – depending on the maid's own schedule – or, on fairer days, by the Anduin, enjoying the sun while nibbling on bread and cheese, and sometimes an apple if fresh fruit was available on the many tables laden with food under the wide, sculpted arches that opened onto the forest.

Today, she'd forwent the usual trip uphill in favor of an excursion of a different nature. A piece of cloth had caught upon the iron strapping of one of the barrels, tearing from the sheet it had belonged to. Mehreen had managed to take it, feeling both guilty and proud of herself. Back in Jufayrah, thieves saw their hands chopped off – a sentence they shared with those who'd lain a hand on someone above their station – which is why Mehreen preferred to think of it as borrowing, for the use she destined it for would make her work in the Houses much easier. Thus it was with pockets full of fabric that she made her way back to Saineth's office, hoping the elf wouldn't notice the bulge in her skirts.

"Come in," the woman called out upon hearing Mehreen knock, and rose from her seat. "Still fasting, I see?"

"Yes, Mistress," said Mehreen, her hands shoved in her pockets as a diversion.

Saineth's study was not dissimilar from Redhriel's; the same new furniture in shades of yellow, and many a book lining the walls. The main difference being a crib of magnificently sculpted silvery wood, the kind of which Mehreen had never seen before. The headboard, as well as the slats, had been made to resemble tree branches, and seemed to sway under the quavering flames of the lamps.

The work of the child's father, perhaps. Mehreen briefly wondered whether Lord Elladan's hands were able of producing something of the sort – a work of peace rather than war. Then she remembered the last she'd seen of him, and the sorrow upon his face.

Killer or no, he too was no stranger to grief.

Saineth, in the meantime, had been studying her intently, as though reading Mehreen's mind. Mehreen all but quivered under the elf's narrowed stare, biting the inside of her cheek to refrain from confessing until, at last, the elf relented, breaking the spell with a nod of her head.

"Come, then. I shall show you what else needs to be done."

oOoOoOo

Mehreen had never been to the Houses' pharmacy before, mostly because it was located in the northern wing, by the Men's Ward, which she had avoided whenever possible. Oblivious of her discomfort, Saineth led her through the corridors at a pace that brooked no argument, before pushing a set of doors engraved with plants and flowers, bearing the face of yet another nameless woman.

If Mehreen has been impressed upon seeing the laundry, and the height of its well-stocked shelves, here she froze at the entrance, gaping openly at the sight.

The hall – for it would've been unfair to call the pharmacy a mere room – occupied two entire stories of one of the Houses' towers, the walls covered in glass-paned cabinets and shelves made of dark red wood and carefully labeled, connected by brass railings upon which rested half-a-dozen sliding ladders. This was not to say that the pharmacy was a rigid, lifeless, place; within the shelves and inside the drawers nested plants fresh and dried alike, reaching down in vines or hanging in bouquets. Cabinets as high as several men standing on the shoulders of one other occupied the center of the hall; Mehreen noticed they'd been bolted to the hardwood floor, with orbs of colored glass hanging from their frames, each one enshrining a flame. These lamps poured light upon the high tables that'd been installed between the cabinets and the walls, their tops replaced with slabs of marble, laden with glass instruments and pots of every shape and form.

Unlike the subdued silence of the rest of the Houses, the pharmacy hummed with activity. Healers both elven and human worked at the tables or clambered up ladders – so high that Mehreen's head spun at the mere thought – to fetch this or that vial, or snip off a stalk needed for their recipe. The scent of herbs floated in the air, of smoke and alcohol; all of this in a cacophony of bubbling, muttering and the occasional sound of breaking glass.

An elf looked up from the mortar that stood before him, pestle suspended in his hand at Saineth's entrance; his black hair had been pulled into a simple braid in his back, and his apron stained green and brown. Mehreen averted her eyes from the faded scar that barred his cheek, loath to stare yet wondering about this healer who, at some point in his life, must've needed healing himself.

"Good morning, Annahad," Saineth greeted him. "Working on your assignment again? Have you come early, or have you not gone to sleep at all?"

"What time is it? Oh." The elf grimaced in affliction at the sight of daylight blushing in the sky. "The latter, I fear. Lord Elladan has tasked me with reproducing his sleeping draught," he explained, "but without the recipe, I confess it seems an impossible task."

"Come, now. Lord Elladan may be demanding, but he would never ask something he thought you could not achieve." Circling the table, Saineth peered into the mortar before wrinkling her nose. "Have you added henbane already?"

Annahad frowned. "Why…yes, I have." He, too, squinted into the mortar's contents, as though willing to read them like coffee grounds. His shoulders sagged as Saineth lay a hand upon his arm.

"Leave it," she advised, gently but firmly, "for there is nothing more to be done about this batch. You shall try again later."

"But Lord Elladan…"

"…Shall have to wait."

"But the apprenticeship…?" A note of panic had crept into Annahad's voice, so similar to Tareq's that Mehreen couldn't help but pity him.

Saineth, however, was having none of it. She crossed her arms upon her chest, her chin raised in assertiveness. "Annahad, we all have work aplenty, including patients who must be taken care of. No apprenticeship in the world – not even with Lord Elladan – should have you neglecting either."

"Of course."

His head hung low, Annahad went to pick up his utensils, but not before sending a strange glance in Mehreen's direction – half curious half something else; irritated, perhaps, that she'd had to witness his failure. Mehreen, for her part, was trembling, panic drumming its way up her throat. Was this the kind of work Saineth had had in mind for her? To reproduce some obscure elven philter…? The enormity of the task all but crushed her spirits; she dared not count the number of vials per shelf, the number of shelves per cabinet, and thus the number of combinations to be tested…before another thought, even more terrifying, made her weak in the knees.

Did Saineth expect her to climb upon one of those ladders?

"Here."

Mehreen spun around to see the elf emerge from behind a set of shelves, carrying an armful of clay pots sealed with wax. "This is a simple preparation, and thus I expect you should be done before evening."

She set the pots onto the marble, leaving Mehreen to squint at the handwritten labels attached to their necks, her relief short-lived. The writing, though both in elvish and Westron, danced before her eyes, Saineth's expectations sending her pulse into a gallop. Wringing her hands in her pockets, Mehreen summoned what willpower she had in one last, desperate attempt to master both her nervousness and Saineth's ongoing explanation.

"…Into fine powder. Add two measures of honey and olive oil, and stir until homogenous."

Mehreen nodded, head bobbing up and down, fingers painfully clenched as she struggled to breathe past the foul knot of shame burning the back of her tongue. This time, there was making up for her lack of cleverness by being pretty, or eager to please and Saineth, being no fool, would be noticing Mehreen's utter inadequacy for this task any moment now.

Lalla Laila's words echoed in Mehreen's mind.

Empty eyes. An empty head.

The labels swam before her eyes, drowning in tears of shame. Saineth would've been better off asking Pumpkin to make the potion for her.

"You can read, can you not?"

"I…I can." The words came out in a pitiful croak as Mehreen kept her stare trained upon the table, willing herself to remember what Saineth had said. Three measures of honey and oil, or was it four? Oh, and if only she could recall what came before…!

"Child, look at me."

A gentle hand pushed her chin towards the lamps that sparkled above their heads. The movement drew a hot, wet trail upon her cheeks and Mehreen froze, fearing what the elf's reaction may be. Lalla Nafiyah, for one, had despised displays of weakness, punishing them harsher even than whatever had caused the girls to cry in the first place. "As a woman, your place in the world is lesser than a man's already," she used to repeat while dealing out the sentence. "Bawling will only lower it even further." Mehreen's fingertips had stung for days afterwards and even now, she dug her nails into her palms in anticipation.

"What is the matter?"

It was too late now. Mehreen was weeping already, she may as well answer; but the reply came out garbled, choked by the tears that wouldn't stop falling, now that they'd been given a way out. Mehreen hiccuped, and tried again. "I…forgot the recipe."

"Is that all?" Saineth frowned, and crossed her arms upon her chest once more. "And how will crying solve the problem?"

"It…it won't."

Mehreen was aware that wiping her face with the fabric she'd taken wasn't the manner in which Saineth had expected her to regain control of her emotions, but at least it allowed her to see the elf clearly again, and the way her expression softened despite her forbidding stance.

"Now, shall I repeat it for you?"

Sheepishly, Mehreen stuffed the cloth back into her skirts. "Is…is there no book I can read it from?"

"Not unless you understand Sindarin." Saineth's eyes narrowed as she tilted her head. "But if reading is what is required for you to do the work, there is but one solution."

oOoOoOo

Somewhere in the process of crying and confessing her incompetence to Saineth, Mehreen must've died and reached the heaven Lalla Nafiyah had promised to all those worthy of the One. Except that Mehreen certainly wasn't, and thus there either had been a grievous mistake during the sorting of her unfortunate soul, or she was still alive, and happier than she'd ever been.

The Houses of Healing held a library and, by the grace of Saineth, Mehreen had been left to wander inside.

Wiping away the ink from her fingertips after consigning the elf's recipe onto paper, Mehreen stuffed it into her pocket – the one that didn't hold a tear-soaked cloth – and rose from her seat to explore the room.

Where the pharmacy was alive, the library was sleeping; unnumbered rows of ancient books slumbered on the shelves, snuggled against one another, dreaming dreams of when they had last been browsed by a respectful hand. Even the air hung still, golden particles suspended between the bookcases, as though the authors themselves held their breath in waiting for someone to break the silence by cracking open a tome. Mehreen ran her hand along the frame, fingers collecting dust, as she filled her nose with the scent of old parchment and cold wax, until her gaze rested upon a tall, leather-bound volume with the image of a human silhouette upon the spine.

Had Lalla Zahra seen her, then, she would've laughed at the irony. A girl too ungifted to learn her lessons, fascinated with books whose contents she could never remember.

But Lalla Zahra wasn't here.

Mehreen reached out to caress the smooth leather, tracing the title with the tips of her ink-stained fingers. What was the book about? she wondered and, giving in to temptation, pulled it from its place.

"Even if you knew how to read Quenya, Lahtaro's 'Infectious Diseases of Inferior Races' is not a lecture I would recommend."

Mehreen gasped; the book escaped her hand and thudded to the floor, raising a cloud of dust. She knew that voice.

"How do you know I can't read Quenya?" she snapped back, bending to pick up the tome she'd just manhandled, only to inhale the dust. Through a bout of cough, she watched Lord Elladan descend the staircase that ran along the walls, a stack of books in his arms, and cock a dark eyebrow at her retort.

"Can you?"

Another coughing fit; the tome was certainly avenged by now. At least Mehreen had managed to inconvenience Lord Elladan by leaving him waiting on her reply. There is much she wanted to throw at him…but this time, she was alone. The elf who'd trained her the day before had possessed enough restraint not to give in to his inner evil at the sight of her naked face; Lord Elladan might not. Mehreen shuddered, refusing to imagine what Harun's murderer could do to her.

Pressing the book against her chest like a bulwark, she took a step towards the door. "What I can and cannot do is none of your concern."

"Indeed." He prowled down the stairs, grey eyes shining like silver in the twilight, sharp cheekbones casting eerie shadows upon his pale skin. "My concern does, however, lie within the safekeeping of my people's knowledge. And the risk of your clueless fingers leaving inky prints all over a tome of great historical – if not academic – value."

He reached out a hand in expectation.

Mehreen considered throwing it into that smug face of his, while at the back of her mind, Lalla Zahra wailed in horror. That alone would double the book's value in her eyes; but then, she would've called upon whatever fate Lord Elladan had had in mind for her, and had not yet found a reason to inflict.

Would she dare…?

Know your place, you piss-blooded filth.

Harun's eyes flashing with anger. His raised fist, and the burning in her lungs as she fought for air….

Don't ever defy me again.

Mehreen recoiled, head bent in submission as though the memory had been her brother's hand, forcing it down by the nape of her neck. "I'm sorry!" Her arm trembled as she lay the book into Lord Elladan's waiting palm and fled the room, Harun's ghost howling with laughter in her wake.