Chapter 17

June 29th, TA 3020

Tilting her head backwards, Mehreen let out a small moan as the tension in her neck, accumulated during long hours spent poring over Lord Elladan's book, slowly lessened. She rubbed her shoulders with a hand that, belatedly, she hoped ink-free and cast one last, doubtful look to the tome' contents.

For all its beauty, it was a book written by men, for men.

The author waxed poetic regarding the details of male anatomy – Mehreen had blushed crimson at some of the images, both grateful for the library's emptiness and for having learnt something new – going into detail about a men's humors and their role in a man's endurance and vigor. Of women there was no mention, save for one measly page in which he managed not only to overlook the particularities of female anatomy, but also to utterly misinterpret their workings.

Not that Mehreen blamed him.

She'd been thirteen when she'd become a woman. The shame upon seeing the silk of her undergarments stained with brown had inflamed her cheeks and twisted her stomach; Mehreen had thought she'd unwittingly soiled herself, and had hid the proof of her embarrassment under her own mattress. One of the servants must've found it and – a fact for which Mehreen would ever be grateful, though she didn't know whom to thank – had spoken of it not to Lalla Laila, but to Mehreen's older sister.

It'd been Gamila who'd explained to her what the blood meant, and warned her anew against promiscuity and vanity both. Now that she was a woman, she'd told Mehreen, the men would only desire her stronger, their willpower constantly tested by the chaos that dwelled inside each and every being. It was a woman's responsibility not to tempt them, bending her own desires to fit into the One's scheme for the world.

Thus, at thirteen, Mehreen had received her first set of underclothes for that particular time of the month, along with her very first veil.

When she'd spoken of it to Hanaa – much later, once her tears had dried and the realization of what such changes entailed had almost sunk in – her sister had consoled her, yet Mehreen had sensed, underneath the embrace, the sting of ill-hidden pity. Hanaa had known. Her own mother had forewarned her in a way Mehreen's mother could not.

With a sigh, Mehreen closed the book and, with a last caress over the smoothness of its cover, cast a glance outside.

The storm had relented sometime in the early hours of the morning, yet the dark grey clouds still hung over Bar-Lasbelin, obscuring the sun and blending morning with afternoon. It was the rumble of Mehreen's empty stomach that informed her noon was nigh, and that she must hurry lest she missed Ahlam's lunchtime.

She stood and rolled her shoulders, her back stiff and aching. After a moment's hesitation, she decided against leaving the book in the library. The roof was leaking, it seemed; what rain hadn't escaped through the gutters had been seeping inside all morning in the form of droplets that landed, somewhere in the tower depths, with a metallic 'clonk' that'd more than once made Mehreen lose track of what she was reading.

Thus doing, she glanced at her hands, which, unlike the rest of her body, didn't hurt in the slightest. Lord Elladan's salve had pulled the welts closed overnight, a pink, fresh skin replacing her wounds; and though Mehreen hadn't yet tested them out on the field, she was grateful for the relief in more ways than one. Today was her rest day. A day which she'd chosen to spend poring over a book in her mother tongue, but instead of bringing her comfort, it'd fatigued her.

Mehreen folded the pages of parchment she'd filled and slipped them inside the tome, wondering whether her translation should've pointed out the author's misgivings. Lord Elladan could hardly begrudge her for being true to the book's contents. He was a man, after all. Surely, someone of his status had no interest in the secrets of a woman's body.

And yet….

In the back of Mehreen's mind, a nagging voice wondered whether he was the kind of man who'd want to know, if only to treat his wives with a semblance of kindness according to whether the moon grew or waned.

In any case, it was unlikely he'd wish to have a woman explain it to him.

In Harad, any knowledge regarding childbearing and birth had been passed on exclusively between the women of a household, and never in writing as though it were a shameful or forbidden thing. Even Lalla Ishtar, who'd often regaled the harem with stories of her travels, had only mentioned the women medics she'd met in other lands with some degree of distrust. Such stories passed for the most exotic of her repertoire, and had often been chalked off as exaggeration. Mehreen herself had scarcely believed her. Now the stories made sense; after all, women saw blood more often than men.

Exiting the library with the tome under her arm, Mehreen made her way back to the dormitory where she left it, before retracing her steps to the Great Hall. The gurgles of her belly grew louder as the noise of cutlery grew closer, the smells of food wafting down the path.

Out of the entire settlement, the Hall was a place where Mehreen trod with the most caution. The large trestle tables that'd stood in place ever since her arrival were perpetually full of squirming, laughing people that moved unpredictably and which Mehreen feared to offend, if only by her mere presence. The men's stares, in particular, had ever made her uneasy, and though not one had ever attempted anything, winding through the hall with her eyes lowered while searching for Ahlam's familiar form was a talent Mehreen was beginning to master.

As if on cue, her maid's laughter rose above the hubbub of lunching folk, startling Mehreen who'd only ever heard the sound once or twice, and never in public.

Clutching her hands before her lest she hit someone without meaning to, she dared a look around.

It was Ahlam's turban that drew her attention, bright yellow amidst the blond and red tresses of the women sitting beside her. The maid sat at one of the tables to her right, her back half-turned towards Mehreen, surrounded by the washerwomen with whom she spent her days. Even Maerwena, the stern-faced matron who'd onboarded Mehreen on Lord Legolas' request before chasing her out just as efficiently, was there.

She was smiling.

One of the younger women raised a spoon for Ahlam to see before saying something Mehreen didn't overhear. Ahlam nodded; this time, Mehreen made out the words.

"Spoon."

The washerwomen cheered, their faces open and good-natured, unlike the vindictive joy that'd followed Mehreen out of the washery. "And this? This is a pitcher."

"A…pitcher."

She'd spent too long in the library, Mehreen thought in panic. She'd let Ahlam down, leaving her to fend for herself in a tongue she knew so little of.

Another woman elbowed the first. "Start with simpler things, I've told you. She's still getting used to the sounds."

"But you're doing great!" A third, freckle-cheeked woman interjected, laying a hand on Ahlam's shoulder. "You'll be talking our ears off in no time."

Ahlam lowered her head; yet there was pride in the smile that blossomed on her lips – a pride that even Mehreen had seldom witnessed. She stumbled backwards in confusion, stammering an apology as her back collided with that of a man seated behind her, before fleeing the Hall hungry.

She'd let Ahlam down, that much was true.

Only not in the way she'd thought.

oOoOoOo

"Oh, go away."

The bird tilted its head, its beady eyes boring into Mehreen. It sauntered along the path, bright red breast against the green of grass, chasing the gravel she'd kicked up in frustration.

"Stupid bird," she murmured upon seeing it tap the stones with its beak before flitting off, disappointed. "And stupid, stupid me."

She shivered, yet did nothing to cover her shoulders, as though the suffering could somehow make up for what she'd done. Or not done, depending on how one looked at it. Not that there was a more flattering angle to her behavior. Depriving Ahlam of a means of communication, albeit unwillingly, so that she'd have at least one friend.

Lalla Laila would've shaken her head at the thought. A woman of Mehreen's status, wanting to be friends with a maid…. A lion should not concern itself over the opinion of sheep, Lalla Nafiyah used to say, yet herein lay the irony: where status was concerned, Ahlam had made herself a much better life in Bar-Lasbelin than she.

It then struck Mehreen that, should Lord Legolas change his mind and send her back to Jufayrah, Ahlam could well choose to stay.

Not that Mehreen would blame her.

Seeing her maid happy and carefree only highlighted the precarious life Ahlam had led before coming to Ithilien. In Harad, she was someone's possession, lower even in value than Mehreen herself, whose only purpose was to love and raise the children of a man of her father's choosing. A concubine could have Ahlam whipped raw without anyone lifting a finger in protest. Here, she possessed the same rights as anyone else. An aberration, according to Haradric law.

And, for Ahlam, a liberation.

All that remained was for Mehreen to accept it.

She wandered aimlessly downhill, her boots digging grooves into the muddy earth, scattering gravel beyond the impeccably traced path. The sky hung low over her head, the copper ridges of the smithy that stood by the river a dull shade of red. Even the gnarly junipers, whose boughs were starting to sag under the weight of their berries, seemed weary and dispirited. Mehreen dragged her feet forward, heart heavy with loneliness and guilt. Yet to get rid of the latter she must embrace the former, accepting that unlike Ahlam, she'd never find her place amongst the hardened people of the North.

Eggs have no business dancing with stones.

Another fitting saying. It was painfully clear which of the two was Mehreen, breaking her shell day after day against the cold demeanor of the healers, the patients, the women and anyone else she'd met so far. Her skin? Too fragile for hard work. Her mind? Too narrow to retain even the simplest of recipes. Even her good intentions had gone awry, so that the only people to tolerate her presence were the very ones supposed to hate her in the first place.

Lord Elladan, for instance.

Though, mayhap, it was only natural for him to protect his new property – a property he could've claimed at any given time, between the moment he'd found her alone and the moment she'd left his study. For a moment, Mehreen thought he would.

For a moment, even, she'd ceased to fear it as much.

He could've been harsh. Or curt. Or even uncaring, and perhaps it would've helped Mehreen to come to terms with her own place inside his Houses. Yet, he'd chosen to treat her with a gentleness she'd not thought to receive from the very hands that'd slain her brother – something she'd been needing to remind herself of, of late. Harun was her blood, after all, and such ties were thicker than the water of Lord Elladan's eyes.

You have more worth than that.

The thought alone made him weak. Any true Haradrim would've laughed, Mehreen's own father included. Even gentle Tarek, whose mother harbored ambitions that far exceeded her son's abilities, would never have voiced such a strange opinion.

Side-stepping a puddle that'd formed in the middle of the path, Mehreen met her own gaze in the reflection before a loud chirping drew her attention away from her somber face. A flock of sparrows had perched atop a branch that'd fallen from a nearby tree, and feasted upon the worms it had unearthed. The tree itself, a solid oak stouter and shorter than the one that grew in the Houses' courtyard, had lost more than just one of its many boughs; its leaves lay scattered around like a crown, torn to shreds by the night's storm.

Mehreen paused, noticing for the first time the damage it had inflicted upon the settlement.

The nearby copse of poplars stood closely planted and somewhat plucked, as though complaining amongst themselves. A small group of elves were walking up the path ahead, carrying ladders, their knees padded with leather – heading to repair the library roof, no doubt. All that lived bore traces of nature's wrath.

All but the grass.

Therein lay its strength – the softness, rather than the unyielding rigidity of trees much older than the settlement itself. Perhaps was it the same for people. A gust of wind raced up the trail, yet this time Mehreen wrapped her arms around her body, contemplating what to do. If softness was a strength, and even an eggshell could grow thicker with time, then it was up to Mehreen to nourish it, just like rain had nourished the fragile, green stems by her feet.

In front of her, the empty flowerbed stood, the husks of whatever had once grown within flattened by the downpour.

Had Mehreen been in Jufayrah, she knew exactly what she would've planted inside. An oleander shrub, for it to bloom into clusters of pink and tender-yellow stars that would gladden the hearts of the people who needed it the most. Her hands plunged into the soil and the heat of sunlight on her back…aside from Hanaa's friendship, those were amongst Mehreen's fondest memories.

But she wasn't in Jufayrah anymore, and this wasn't her garden to tend to. Hers were the beds to be made, and the dirty linens to be carried to and fro. And the wary looks of the patients, their injuries now impossible to overlook. Mehreen saw them everywhere she turned: the women, scarred within and without in ways that had nothing to do with battle, and everything to do with war.

You have more worth than that.

If even one of them found a moment's peace in Mehreen's flowers, wouldn't that be worth it?

Turning on her heels, Mehreen raced uphill, back to the dormitory. Though they didn't know it, Deor and his men hadn't found the second most precious of her belongings: seeds from her homeland, which she'd brought with her in the misinformed hope of adorning the gardens of Minas Tirith. Bar-Lasbelin, with its barely tamed woods, was no palace, but with a little work and a lot of patience it could well become a place of her own.