Chapter 14
June 27th, TA 3020
In appearance, the ring was a simple band of steel, flat and dull; hardly a bauble to flaunt, and a far cry from what those who had made it could produce.
It would be perfect for Saehild.
"This is admirable work." Elladan brought the ring to light, nodding in approval at the deceptive simplicity of the jewel, and the long hours of forging it must have required. From up close, the miniature gears appeared clearly, nested within a frame that allowed their smooth rotation along the surface with the touch of a finger. "Please convey my gratitude to Gimli and his craftsmen."
"I shall." Lounging in his chair behind his desk, Legolas was engrossed in the lecture of the letter that had accompanied the ring – a prototype that, should it prove efficient in relieving anxiety in patients such as Saehild, would be manufactured in numbers. "He suggests we write regarding any improvements we may need, should there be any. It seems that some of his masters have taken a keen interest in this project of yours."
Elladan smiled. Trust Gimli son of Glóin to provide impeccable service before, during and after each commission. Who had said that dwarves had no inclination towards healing?
"How is he?"
"Hmm?" Tearing his gaze from the missive, Legolas grinned with pride at his friend's accomplishments. "Quite well, apparently. Éomer King has become his most loyal customer, intending to not only rebuild Rohan, but restore what Saruman's armies have destroyed to a state better even than before the war."
"The defenders of tradition better beware, then. Between the two of them, they will have rendered horses obsolete before this age is over."
Legolas scoffed at the idea. "I doubt it, but it is not to say Gimli shall not try. He has never been fond of riding." He watched Elladan slide the ring inside the front pocket of his doublet. "When are you planning on testing it out?"
A quick glance out the window informed Elladan it may already be too late to disturb Saehild in her afternoon rest, no matter how great his impatience to see her spare what remained of her nails, and the skins that surrounded them. Sleeplessness did no good to an already anxious soul; Elladan's research had led him to the works of a group of medics, in Harad, who recommended the use of so-called sand gardens – simple boxes filled with sand, for the patient to draw on – so as to direct such energy into a safer direction than the harming of the body.
The thought of Harad invariably brought back the previous day's episode in the library, and Elladan stifled a wince of frustration. "Tomorrow morning, most likely. If she has not yet run away with whoever it is she is besotted with, that is."
"Oh, really?" Legolas leaned forward, the letter momentarily forgotten. "And who would that be?"
"This is what I intend to find out," Elladan somberly vowed. He would not have a girl hurting again due to some boy's carelessness; not on his watch. Which tended to happen more than he would have liked, of late. First Saehild, and then Mehreen….
"Oh, lighten up," Legolas chuckled as he reached out to break the seal of yet another letter, his eyes scanning the contents while he continued: "Surely some besotting can do her some good?"
"Not if it has her jumping out windows," Elladan grunted, before noticing that his friend's face had darkened in turn, as though his own mood had been contagious, like one of Lahtaro's 'Infectious Diseases'. If given the chance to repeat yesterday's events, Elladan would have let Mehreen keep the book, for the utter rubbish it contained. "What is it?"
"A report from the South." Legolas' lips moved as he read the letter once more, before pushing it towards Elladan across the expanse of the desk. "Týril writes about yet another infected village, two days from here."
The ring and the incident both forgotten, Elladan reached out to grab the parchment and study its contents. "It is getting closer," he observed, an uneasy feeling settling into the pit of his stomach as he sank into a seat across from Legolas. Pinehollow, and its unfortunate inhabitants, were still too close to his heart. Elladan perused the letter once more, yet found little consolation in the rest of Týril's words.
No survivors.
"Who bore the letter?" he frowned, remembering Naeriel's slumped shoulders, and the lifeless look in her eyes.
"A crow." Legolas watched him in expectation. "Should we…?" He did not finish the sentence, leaving Elladan to say what must be.
"It would be best indeed. And, should Týril return soon, keep her isolated from the rest of the settlement until she has cleansed her skin of any trace of contagion." He tossed the letter back upon the desk, where it curled back up like a rotting leaf.
Sauron's plague was spreading.
Legolas rubbed the bridge of his nose in a gesture that Elladan had come to recognize as defeat. "Your father needs to know." As he reached for a quill Legolas paused, his hand suspended inches from the inkwell. "Unless you wish to tell him yourself?"
Elladan pondered the question, hoping his expression had not betrayed the turmoil within. He turned his face towards the window, hoping for a breeze to carry in the scent of summer and remind him that the situation was not as desperate as the letter made it out to be; yet the air remained heavy and still. Flowers wilted in the oppressive heat, clouds gathering in a leaden sky in a threat of rain. Elladan all but swore.
Sweet Elbereth, not now….
A drought would have been preferable to a downpour. Water from sickened villages would stream into rivers which, in turn, would irrigate the crops of lands yet untouched by evil, and quench the thirst of many an unsuspecting innocent.
"I will write to Imladris," Elladan murmured, the block of ice inside his stomach growing heavier by the minute. There was quicker way, but he would not barge into Elrohir's mind for the first time in months with the news of a plague. "And send word to Aragorn as well, should we have need of help from Minas Tirith."
Legolas froze. "Do you think we might…?" and then, shaking his head, "Of course." He pulled a parchment close, and proceeded to darken it with his usual, unadorned penmanship. "I shall have a messenger ready within the hour."
"Faramir must also be warned." Though the House of the Stewards in Emyn Arnen had been rebuilt, it was little else but a household run by Éowyn's capable hands. If the sickness reached them…. "I will tell him myself."
"Are you certain?" Legolas' eyebrows rose in surprise as he paused in his writing. "Why not send Redhriel?"
"I shall need her here sooner than you think. Saineth is almost due, and I would spare her the trouble of dealing with this new plague, should it ever reach Bar-Lasbelin."
Legolas lay down the quill to rest his chin upon his entwined fingers, elbows propped against the desk as he watched Elladan with narrowed eyes. "What else do you need?"
Springing to his feet lest the weight of dread pinned him down to his chair, Elladan began to pace, mind racing. "First, we must establish a ward for the quarantined in the Houses' basement." Out of its own volition, his hand found the ring inside his doublet, and slid it upon his thumb. "I will require help with the clearing of the rubble and the setting up of the ward in my absence. Either Saineth or Redhriel can supervise this task."
He cursed his own carelessness. Such measures should have been taken long ago, instead of now, when the sword of doom already hung over the heads of those he had been entrusted to safekeep.
A few steps, and Elladan reached a wall, his imagination seeing beyond the confines of the settlement, Saehild's ring keeping his hand busy in a semblance of usefulness. Should the plague spread with the rain, as he feared it would, the sick would soon come trickling in. "We can repurpose the south-west staircase and adjacent storerooms…and enforce an inspection of those coming in."
Legolas nodded. "Consider it done." Gone was the doubt in his voice; his friend had found familiar terrain: that of a realm at war, besieged by an unseen enemy. "When would you like us to begin?"
"Tomorrow." Elladan halted, closing his hand into a fist over Gimli's creation; outside, the thunder rumbled in the distance as the first, fat droplets of rain patted against the windowsill. "The sooner the better, for the sake of everyone in Bar-Lasbelin."
oOoOoOo
The storm glowered over the settlement, pounding on the rooves and splattering the paths with mud, when Elladan finally found Saineth in one of the storage rooms of the second floor. She and Eredhwen, one of the older healers from Gondor, were absorbed in an inventory of the Houses' glassware as part of Eredhwen's training. Wídwine, a young help from Rohan, was perched atop a stool while Saineth sat on what seemed to be an upturned bucket, supervising the progress while Eredhwen wrote down the numbers Wídwine called out over the pitter-patter of the rain.
"Are you certain?" Saineth surveyed the numbers aligned upon a sheet of parchment Eredhwen presented with a doubtful eye. "Either you have counted it wrong, or we are almost out of beakers."
"I'm certain, Mistress."
The women curtsied upon seeing Elladan enter while Saineth sighed, loath to rise from her position. "Well, count again." She turned towards Elladan with a tired smile, which vanished upon reading his expression and – judging from the knitting of her eyebrows – not liking what she saw. "Leave us."
"But I'm not done counting!" the girl protested, wobbling upon her stool as she peered onto the highest shelf.
"You heard the Mistress!" Eredhwen hissed, widening her eyes for emphasis as she ushered the child out, closing the door on an apologetic curtsy.
"I am already seated, so out with it," Saineth commanded as soon as they were gone.
If given the choice, Elladan would not have told her about the plague, nor burdened the last days of her pregnancy with the responsibility of ensuring the Houses' and Redhriel's readiness in case of an epidemic. But Saineth was his second-in-command; she, more than anyone, deserved to know.
"The sickness has reached South Ithilien."
"So close." Lowering her eyes, she seized her pendant and rubbed her thumb along the edge. "What shall we do?"
"Prepare for the worst."
A wry smile graced Saineth's features. "As always, then."
He lifted an eyebrow. "How so?"
"Elladan, you are a friend, and a dear one. So I say onto you: seldom I have met one as ready to take on what this world has to offer of hardship and wickedness. So much, in fact, that it seems you have forgotten how to see there is good as well."
He crossed his arms, affronted. "I do see it."
"Really? Such as the potential in one of your hopeful apprentices?" Elladan groaned, yet Saineth insisted: "It has been a week, Elladan. She has done everything she was asked, and more."
A week. It seemed but yesterday that Mehreen had stood before him, her chest heaving with outrage. Elladan leaned against the wall, staring out the narrow window where the rain curtained the glass, and tried to summon the image of her indignation; it was preferable than to remember her fear. How she had quivered, her spirit broken by a gesture so innocent it had left Elladan staring at his outstretched hand, wondering how it had come to this. Even now he refused to imagine a similar shape on the delicate skin of her neck.
The very thought filled him with disgust. No soul should ever have to live in terror.
"A week." He squared his jaw, banishing the memory of Mehreen's stricken face. "Seven days is nothing; let her accomplish the work for a month. Then we can talk about her tenacity."
Saineth made to rise from her seat, accepting Elladan's arm with a grateful nod. "You took the wager," she reminded him as she pushed the bucket out of the way with the tip of her boot. "Oh, fine! You can keep your office, you sore loser, I am used to mine after all." Before Elladan could retort, she shoved the parchment into his hands. "Since you are here, how many beakers do we have left?"
"Thirteen." He squinted at her suspiciously, and then at the ledger. "It seems we need to order more." Another dwarven contract that Fróin, Lord of Ered Luin, would be happy to honor.
"I thought so."
Saineth grabbed the parchment from his hand and rolled it up with a sigh. Elladan felt her brush against his shoulder as she came to stand by the window, her black eyes reflecting in the glass. Together they listened as the storm raged above the Houses, trying in vain to pry the tiles off the newly repaired roof.
"The library is leaking," she muttered. "Arhel has put a pot underneath; I shall ask Caelben to send someone in the morrow."
Elladan nodded, his index caressing the ring until Saineth noticed his distraction. As she made a move to seize his hand, Elladan hastily pocketed the jewel, earning himself one of Saineth's sternest glares, the likes of which she usually saved for her most mulish patients. "For the love of Elbereth, Elladan, make a choice," she pleaded, resting a light hand upon his arm before pulling it back just as quickly.
Her touch left a cold spot in its wake; Elladan shivered. Would someone notice, once he was gone? Would someone hunch their shoulders at the sudden absence, thinking they were warmer by his side?
Saineth was right, but not in the way she believed. It was not that Elladan enjoyed wallowing in misery, nor that he wished to spare anyone the truth of their trade. What he feared was their pity.
Had Saineth grasped his hand, she would have known and, in knowing, would have suffered, while Elladan was not ready to tell her the truth. Not yet. Not when the merciful choice would be to let her focus on the happiness to come, instead of death. There was still enough time.
In the meanwhile, Elladan would do his duty, as he had always done. He may even hearken to her plea to choose one of the three aspiring healers as his apprentice, if that was what it took to reassure her. Perhaps would he find amongst them one capable of pleasantly surprising this old, bitter soul who had lost all memory of what it felt like to be pleasantly surprised…
…If only for a time. No-one yet needed to know that Elladan's apprentice would most likely outlive him.