To those who've reviewed this story so far: can you see my replies to your comments? I hope you do.
I always make a point to answer everyone, but I know has been acting up lately, and I haven't been receiving notifications about new reviews, so... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Chapter 27
July 20th, TA 3020
Mehreen squinted at her own handwriting, raising the piece of parchment toward the orbs that hung over the table.
'Fill with alcohol two fingers before rim."
Folding her hand to place the required number of fingers against the neck of the jar, she poured the liquid in with the other, tilting her head so as to survey the level. The elderberries, which she'd previously filled the jar half full with, floated upwards, their shiny dark skin erupting with tiny bubbles. Setting the bottle back onto the marble surface of the table, Mehreen glanced at the recipe once more.
'Cover with lid. Shake.'
That was easy enough, yet she checked that the stopper was firmly lodged in; it wouldn't do to douse her surroundings with what was meant to become an elderberry tincture, but that for the moment resembled a poor man's version of the fruit-infused liquor that Lalla Nafiyah used to favor. And then a second time, just to be sure. Seizing the jar with both hands, Mehreen gave it a tentative jerk, wincing as the bruised muscles of her upper arms protested against the effort. The contents sloshed merrily, echoing under the high vaults, berries tumbling up and down with each shake. Mehreen's table neighbors, a fair-haired elf wearing dark green robes and a woman chopping what looked like a root on the other side of the long expanse of marble, raised their eyes from their work, gracing Mehreen with odd glances and one quirked eyebrow.
"Sorry," she muttered, blushing.
Their stares might've cowed her into silence altogether, had Redhriel not been so adamant, when she'd given her the instructions about how to prepare the tincture, about the need for a powerful, decisive shake. Mehreen couldn't remember a time in her life when she'd been either powerful or decisive, but the fear-tinged respect the Steward inspired her far exceeded her unwillingness to disturb the quietude of the pharmacy on this dreary afternoon. Rain trickled along the windows of stained glass and, in their moving light, the plants' leaves seemed to shiver. Its pitter-patter upon the roof, high above, filled the hall with a soft whisper that seemed to dissuade everyone but Mehreen from any additional noise.
A sad summer indeed.
The sunshine that had followed the June storms had been both bright and short-lived – less than a fortnight of warmth, before the rains returned with a vengeance, drowning the flowers that had bloomed in the meantime, and forcing the inhabitants of Bar-Lasbelin to dwell under awnings and arches. Much to Mehreen's relief, however, the desert rose she'd planted has so far survived, thriving unchallenged in its own little flowerbed, though she ought to check on it later than evening.
Once she was certain she'd given this specific jar her all, Mehreen unrolled a length of twine from a roll that lay upon the table and, wrapping it around the jar neck, attached it to a piece of thick parchment bearing the date and the contents' name.
Two months.
It'd seemed an eternity and an eyeblink both since Mehreen and Ahlam had arrived to Ithilien. Homesick and confused is what Mehreen had been, unsure of ever finding her place in a world as strange and different from Harad as this one. And yet here she was, preparing potions for the elves, her days filled with a purpose so different from what she'd imagined upon leaving Jufayrah. Her arms had grown wiry and strong over the last weeks, and her hands had lost the softness she'd once so carefully maintained. The oddest thing about it was that Mehreen no longer cared; two months ago, she wouldn't have been able to achieve a third of what she'd done today.
If Lalla Nafiyah could see her now, she who so detested idleness and sloth, would she have approved? Somehow, Mehreen doubted it.
Clutching the elderberry-filled jar against her chest so as to spare her aching arms, Mehreen lifted it off the table and strode towards one of the cabinets located on the North side of the hall. Yet now that she stood in front of its closed doors, she realized she had no means of opening them without setting the jar back down.
"Allow me to help."
The softness of Bruiven's voice barely disturbed the ambient hum, so that no-one looked at in reproach as he reached to open one of the wooden doors for her.
"Thank you." Hoisting the jar upon an empty shelf, Mehreen hastily retreated against the opposite cabinet so as to let Bruiven pass. "Sorry," she apologized for the second time that day as he closed the door and turned to face her. Perhaps had she come to stand precisely in front of the shelves he was looking for…?
"It is quite alright," he smiled, "in fact, it is you that I have come to see, if you would be willing to spare me some of your time."
"Me?" Mehreen gaped. "Yes, of course!"
Her mind raced with questions, each one more drastic than the one before. Had she unwillingly offended him? Had she done something wrong without even knowing? Only then did it dawn upon her that Bruiven's intentions may be of another nature entirely, causing Mehreen's stomach to drop in dismay.
"If you would walk with me…?"
"Um." She raked her mind for an excuse to delay the discussion. "I should clean up my workplace."
"Then allow me to assist you. After all, it is I who have come unannounced, interrupting your work." Another gentle smile. "The least I can do is make sure you are disposed to listen."
Wiping her sweaty palms upon her skirts, Mehreen walked back on wooden legs, gathering the bottle and the rope with hands that quivered. If Bruiven noticed her unease he gave no sign of it, nodding amiably at the other elves as he picked up the bulk of what remained of her things to store them away. Soon, too soon, her corner of the marble had been cleared, and no further obstacle stood between Mehreen and the dreaded moment of their walk.
She followed Bruiven out the door, falling slightly behind as he strolled along the gallery where the rain dripped from the carved arches, splattering onto the railings and pooling on the tiles. The air smelled of earth, with a faint scent of pine carried in from the southern part of the woods; just like the night, a little over a week ago, when Lord Elladan had found her on that path.
Her heart lurched at the memory. Or was it the nerves?
"I am glad to see you have adjusted to your life here," Bruiven began, slowing down so that Mehreen had no other choice but to join him. His gaze slid towards the scar above her eyebrow, gained while trying to slink away from the scene of Déordred's rescue. Once again, the elven salve had worked its magic, and what remained of the gash was now but a closed, if itchy, line.
"Thank you, my Lord. I do my best to be worthy of Lord Legolas' trust."
Is this not what you wanted?
A husband. Children. Just when she'd lost all hope of ever seeing her role as a woman fulfilled, the One was sending her a sign.
"Oh, I am certain of it. I, too, know how high the bar may sometimes seem, which is why there is no need to address me otherwise as Bruiven. I am no Lord…nor even yet a healer."
From what Mehreen knew, what Bruiven was, was a kind man, if only because he was willing to forego her lack of intelligence and the utter absence of a dowry. He wasn't unpleasant to look at, either, with his cleft chin and his golden hair. So what if he wasn't as high-ranking as Lord Legolas, or even Lord Elladan? Mehreen less than anyone had a right to be choosy in the matter, she who now cleaned the beds for a living. Her pride had long been silenced by her downfall.
Where, then, was the satisfaction of finally doing her duty?
"I could not help but overhear the discussion between yourself and Lord Elladan, before Déordred sent us all on such a merry chase."
Startled, Mehreen turned to look at him. What exactly had Bruiven heard? Did he think that Lord Elladan had approached her with the very same intentions? If so, it was Mehreen's duty to disabuse him, though she did so with a reluctance that surprised even herself.
"Nothing of consequence has been said, that day," Mehreen murmured, but the rest of the sentence remained stuck to her palate. She could almost hear Lalla Laila snickering at her foolishness. Here was a man offering her a way out of a life of toil and hardship; all she had to do was tell him she was willing to accept his proposal.
Whatever was wrong with her?
Hanaa wouldn't have hesitated another second.
This time, it was Bruiven's turn to look at her in surprise. "Forgive me, but I must disagree. I found your idea of teaching your mother tongue a most interesting one, and would be honored if you accepted to share your knowledge with me."
"Oh. I see." Mehreen fiddled with the hem of her sleeve as a treacherous relief washed over her. Two months spent in a foreign land, and already she'd forsaken the devotion she owed to her family and to the One! Vowing to pray twice as long and hard for His forgiveness, she bit her lip before cautioning: "I'm not certain Lord Elladan would approve."
"If such is indeed the case, then I am prepared to face his displeasure, and bear the consequences of my decision, should it ever come to it."
Mehreen frowned. "But why? I mean…my land is of no import to you." She didn't dare tell him that even should he someday master the complexities of the Haradric language, he would never be welcomed in their midst.
Bruiven nodded slowly, as though lost in thought. A shriek of laughter echoed in the courtyard below; something swift and orange darted across the green, followed closely by another blazing mop as Déordred chased after Pumpkin around the imposing trunk of the oak, unminding of the rain.
"It is fortunate, is it not?" Bruiven asked unexpectedly, "that the boy knows some Westron. Otherwise, you would never have managed to coax him out of that tree. He would have died, that day, not knowing that you wanted to help him."
Having forbidden herself to imagine that very outcome, Mehreen startled, tearing her gaze from the cat and the boy to look at Bruiven once more.
"Ever since I have come to Bar-Lasbelin, I have treated men and women from Gondor and Rohan, from Rhovanion, and even from Rhûn. All were in dire need of our help…yet only half of them could understand us. What struck me is that for all our good intentions, they were afraid of us. In pain, yet unable to comprehend that what we were about to attempt was in their best interest." He nodded in greeting at a passing woman, interrupting his confession until she disappeared behind the corner. "Would it not be more merciful, then, to offer reassurance in the patient's own tongue, rather than coerce him into docility through the use of some philter?"
"I suppose so, yes."
"As you have said, your land is of no import, in the sense that when it comes to helping others, borders should not matter. People should. And if such an opinion must cost me my place as an apprentice, then so be it." As soft-spoken, even-tempered Bruiven who sometimes reminded her of Hanaa lifted his chin in a gesture of defiance so resembling Mehreen herself, she couldn't help but smile, realizing that by elven standards, he couldn't be much older than she was. That was, until he added: "Considering what happened last time, however, I would understand it if you refused."
"Last time?"
They'd reached the entrance of the library – the very place where Mehreen's last lesson of Haradric had taken place, albeit having yielded mixed results. The door had been shut to keep humidity out of the hall so that when Bruiven stepped inside, inviting Mehreen to follow with a nod and closing it after them once more, a hushed, rain-filled silence engulfed them.
"Indeed." Despite their isolation, Bruiven lowered his voice. "With all due respect, I do not condone Lord Elladan's behavior, and I would understand if you preferred not to risk his wrath once more."
"Oh no, it wasn't like that," Mehreen said hurriedly, loath to think back to the infamous courtyard scene in which she'd played the easy role of a victim and Lord Elladan, that of her tormentor. "Well, not entirely. I mean, he did scare me, but…" Bruiven was watching her with an expression of polite interest. "I'm not making much sense, am I?"
"If it is of any reassurance, Lord Elladan is indeed known for producing that effect."
"That's hardly reassuring."
"You misunderstand me. Lord Elladan is a competent healer," Bruiven protested at once with an adamant shake of his blond hair. "I have ever known him to be demanding but just – an exigence which those who have not seen what he has can only seldom understand, myself included." He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. "I cannot presume of what has driven him, that day, but even the strongest of hearts will end up faltering when subjected to what he has been through."
Thus speaking, Bruiven looked around him in the manner of one who'd been too busy of late to spend much time in the library, and was starting to regret it. Striding towards one of the shelves, he ran his fingers along the leather bindings before picking one of the newer tomes to open it, leaving Mehreen to process his words.
Lord Elladan had suffered; this much she'd already surmised, but perhaps had she underestimated the depth of his loss.
If there was one thing Mehreen had learnt since her arrival, it was that elves had raised composure to the rank of art, just like some of her father's wives with scheming and slander. Lord Legolas, Saineth, even Bruiven…ever polite, ever poised and unruffled, from their appearance to the careful guard they stood over their emotions. Yet under the surface, the currents ran deep and dangerous – at least where Lord Elladan was concerned. Once again, the realization of her own shortcomings crept up Mehreen's cheeks in the form of a blush of shame. She'd thrown her brother's death into his face without ever thinking that he, too, could have lost a loved one upon that same battlefield.
What else didn't she know?
"I accept," she mumbled.
"Really? I am glad for it and I give you my word, you shall not regret it." Tearing away from the perusing of his book, Bruiven touched a hand to his chest in what Mehreen now recognized as both a salute and a gesture of gratitude. He frowned as she raised a finger to signify she wasn't done.
"My teaching comes with a condition. That you teach me about your people – these people – in return."
"It seems like a fair bargain," Bruiven chuckled, shoving the book under his arm and extending one of his hands towards her, in a gesture that Mehreen couldn't help but eyeball with an eagerness tainted with worry.
She'd often seen her father shake hands with other men, sealing promises of marriage and trade agreements alike in the matter of seconds before the deal was celebrated with feast, regardless of the importance of what had been promised. Yet when she and Hanaa had tried to emulate their elders, clasping their little hands together over a plate of 'borrowed' pastries, they'd been scolded for their presumption by Lalla Nafiyah, who'd happened by and had seized the occasion to lecture them once more on their place in the world.
Men shook hands to give their word and their possessions. The women counted amongst the latter and had, therefore, no more freedom to commit to a promise than a carpet to decide it would rather lie elsewhere.
Sticking out her hand, Mehreen seized Bruiven's, moved beyond words by the warmth of his palm and the confidence with which he expected her to act honorably simply because she, Mehreen, had decided to do so.