I wish all of you a wonderful start of the new year soon to come!

Chapter 28

July 24th, TA 3020

"I am sorry, my Lord. I wish I had better news."

Ríndir hunched his shoulders as he spoke, so that Elladan ached to see his enthusiasm, so vivid and contagious but a week ago, quelled by his present failure. Failure which, in truth, did not fall upon him but on Elladan himself, since it had been he who had decided to assign Ríndir a task exceeding his capacities – or anyone else's, for that matter. Gaerlin was a difficult patient, as the utter lack of difficulty he posed to his healers had become a challenge in itself. Never before had Elladan met anyone so uninterested in one's fate and, though he had nourished some hope that one younger and less weary than himself could lull Gaerlin out of his apathy, he now had little choice but to admit his defeat.

That, and try to console Ríndir to the best of his abilities.

"I believe that in this case, the absence of regression should be counted as a progress." He smiled warmly at the young healer who, a few millennia and many worries removed, could have reminded him of himself. "Besides, Redhriel has commended your efficacy at your previous assignment," he added, sharing a glance with the Steward.

Redhriel remained as impassive as ever – another good sign for lack of a bad one – though Elladan had half-expected her to protest about having said nothing of the sort. Her report had, however, included a lukewarm admission of the young healer's competence, so Elladan had taken but a small liberty in translating Redhriel's formality into something more cordial.

His initiative was rewarded by Ríndir's beaming gratitude. "I am glad I could be of use."

Glancing at his ledger, Elladan was struck by an idea. "Your past experience as a ranger has brought a considerable value to this post. Since Toreth has requested a leave to visit her kin in Eryn Galen, would you be willing to help us at the borders once more? If only for a while?"

In truth, Toreth could be replaced with any other young healer, but Elladan remembered Ríndir's pride at having been entrusted with the responsibility of triage, a task of utmost importance when it came to jugulating the plague. He would be far more useful out there than in the Houses of Healing, growing dejected at the sight of Gaerlin's listlessness.

"Of course, my Lord. I have spent most of my life outside and, forgive me for saying this, Bar-Lasbelin is a much more cheerful place than Mirkw…Eryn Lasgalen used to be."

He flushed at his blunder, yet Elladan made no notice of the mistake. The renaming of Legolas' homeland was recent even by human standards; to some elves, it would take centuries to begrudgingly admit that the realm had deserved its new name.

"So be it."

Dipping a quill into the inkwell, Elladan inscribed Ríndir's name next to the corresponding post, scanning the roster for any obvious mistakes. Redhriel would not fail to find them and point them out anyway, so he lost no time in handing it over into her diligent hands and dismissing them both…only to find himself surrounded by silence.

For an instant, Elladan remained standing idly behind his desk, the inkwell still opened in the event of its use, the space he had cleared for the meeting staring expectedly back at him. As Chief Healer of Bar-Lasbelin, there was never a lack of work to be had, with letters to be read and patients to be seen. In between, someone more assiduous than himself would also find the time to clear said desk, and throw away the old, sentimental things that encumbered it.

Elladan was feeling rebellious, and slightly mawkish. Was it because of the letter he had penned that very afternoon, destined to Saineth and informing her of his choice? Or the one had received from his father, dripping with unworded disappointment hidden under precious advice?

Whatever it was, Elladan pulled on the corner of a sheet that jutted from under the mess, only to extract the very sketch Saineth had once picked up for examination. It was unfinished, and would remain so for lack of time and inspiration. The contours of the woman's hands were uncertain, drawn from memory in overlapping lines as Elladan had struggled to remember what the scene had looked like before giving up. Determined to prove wrong to the snide voice inside his head that accused him of procrastination, he pushed the books aside to produce yet another piece – this time a man's profile, strong nose and a fall of hair obscuring his eyes as he bent over his anvil. Elladan had meant to imbue the lines with all of Fengel's dignity and might, but they had turned out thick and ungainly, doing the man no justice.

Another inspiring moment that had resulted in nothing but frustration.

The parchment had dislodged the very piece of charcoal Elladan had used to create it; propelled towards the edge, it dropped to the floor before he could catch it. Perhaps was it the immanent laziness of the first warm, sunlit afternoon that graced Ithilien after a fortnight of rain, or the fatigue induced by a morning of incessant work; still, Elladan bent to pick it up and, instead of resuming his work, took the time to relish the familiar dryness that dusted his fingers black.

It had been long since he had drawn anything new, or had even been inspired to do so. The walls of his old room, back in Imladris, had been covered in sketches – of his brother, his mother and father and his comrades-in-arms, drawn from memory more often than not without a moment's hesitation. To an onlooker, it had been an illustration of Elladan's childhood and growth…up until the year of their mother's torment. Since that moment time had stood still, imprisoned on parchment as if she had never left; for all Elladan could summon, whenever he tried to draw her familiar face, was the pain etched upon those beloved features.

Rolling the piece of charcoal between his fingers, he strode towards the open window, if only to enjoy a brief, sunny respite before returning to his duties. It was not as if he was going to draw anything now…anything palatable, anyway.

He may as well throw it out.

The craggy peaks of Ered Nimrais stood out against the deep blue sky, their snows untouched by summer, barred by the gently swaying boughs of the beeches growing along the path that led to the Great Hall. Captured in the ever-shifting mosaic of their leaves glimmered the Anduin, its silver blending with the bright copper of the workshop rooves. The splashes of children playing upon the bank reached Elladan's ears and, much closer, almost drowned by the murmurs of the passers-by, a familiar voice was humming an unfamiliar tune.

Elladan paused, his arm lifted in mid-throw.

Mehreen was kneeling in the mud that slowly dried in the wake of the recent rains, facing the crossroads. Her head bent in concentration, she was plumping up the soil around her desert rose, singing absent-mindedly as she did so, oblivious of being watched. The rolled-up sleeves of her dark brown dress revealed willowy forearms, their delicate curve enhanced by the tensing of her muscles as she reached into the flowerbed to rip out a weed, muttering an apology as she did so.

Elladan grinned. Following a sudden impulse, he seized Fengel's discarded sketch and flipped it over before leaning against the window to better capture the scene. Tossing light strokes of charcoal upon the page in swift, unrestrained movements of his wrist, he discovered Mehreen to be easy to draw. There was a lightness in the barely outlined shadows that suited her volatility; a freedom in the trailing-off lines that complimented her slenderness and, when he pressed the sketch against the glass to measure its likeness, Elladan found he need not add a single stroke.

The drawing was complete. From the bump of her nose to the camber of her spine – all soft, womanly lines – Mehreen was suspended upon the page, a breath away from coming alive.

Torn between satisfaction and surprise, Elladan lowered the sheet upon the cushions of the window seat and stole another look of his unlikely model. An amused fondness rose inside his chest as Mehreen kept busying herself with the tending of her bloom, unaware of having been captured onto parchment…and of a danger greater still. From his vantage point, Elladan watched as Eredhwen made her way along the path leading from the Houses, her lips preemptively pinched in disapproval. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the very bloom she had prophesized the death of as soon as she was close enough to recognize it.

Though prone to rambling, she was no real threat to anything or anyone, however, save for Mehreen's current good mood. Feeling magnanimous, if only for the inspiration Mehreen had – albeit unwittingly – offered, Elladan decided to rescue her. Moments later, he was striding that same path in Eredhwen's wake, snippets of their conversation floating his way on the whim of the breeze.

"You shouldn't waste your time, dear," Eredhwen was saying, more jubilant than solicitous. "It won't last, surely you know that."

Mehreen hung her head, so that the lustrous waves of her hair obscured her face from Elladan's sight. "Of course," she admitted in a small voice, shoulders slumping, "but I thought…."

"There must be a more useful occupation for a woman your age than so futile a pursuit."

"As a matter of fact, gardening is known to have a beneficial effect on one's immune system," Elladan found himself saying so that both women turned to look at him in surprise. He could not resist from adding: "But you certainly know it already, Mistress Eredhwen, having spent many a year in studying the art of healing and many, many more practicing it. Though I would not be surprised if a woman of your age and wisdom had found another way to ward off the undesirable effects of time. You do look radiant today."

"Oh, Lord Elladan. I didn't hear you approaching." Eredhwen shifted her weight from one foot to the other, unsettled by such a sudden riposte; she lifted a hand to smooth back her hair before stopping mid-stroke, seized by doubt regarding his meaning. "I was merely saying," she sniffled, "she ought to know better than kneeling in the middle of a draft."

"And you are very right about that. Fortunately, I hear that the wind is abating, and we may yet enjoy a warm evening…." Elladan made a show of tilting an ear towards the woods, before smiling at Mehreen, "…Unless, of course, your knowledge of the weather begs to differ. You have, after all, predicted the recent rains most accurately."

"Hmm." Slanting a suspicious look at his earnest face, Eredhwen smoothed her skirts in the place of the apron she had left at the Houses. "Yes, well. Such knowledge is easily lost, nowadays…."

"Alas! It is so true. We are thus fortunate to count yourself amongst us. And Mistress Meldis, of course. Have you, perchance, seen her?"

Another disdainful sniffle. "I have not."

Elladan stifled a smile, while Mehreen's eyes widened at his theatrics. The enmity between the two women was a common, if seldom mentioned, knowledge amongst the inhabitants of Bar-Lasbelin. Where Mistress Meldis, in her own terms, reproached Eredhwen her heartlessness, the healer, in return, despised Meldis for her overly affectionate ways. The words 'simpering fool' had been uttered at some point, setting aflame the bridge of tentative respect that both Legolas and himself had until then attempted to encourage.

"Oh. I had assumed you two would have wanted to discuss the theme of tomorrow's lecture to our youngest wards together…I must have been mistaken, then, and she will have made do without your added discernment."

"What?" Catching herself in time before she showed any interest in her rival's plans, Eredhwen raised her chin. "She's free do to whatever she pleases. I care not. Of course, it would be best if I ensured that the contents of the lecture are suitable…."

"She may have gone to the library."

"Good for her." Casting a glance over her shoulder Eredhwen appeared to hesitate, torn between spite and disdain. "Now, you must forgive me. I've…forgotten something in the Women's Ward." And turned on her heels to retrace her steps in an increasingly brisk pace.

"That wasn't very kind."

Mehreen had pushed herself up from her knees, and was wiping her soil-stained palms upon the front of her dress, striving to remove the earth from under her small, dainty nails. Her lips were curving into a smile she was fighting to repress, as though fearing Eredhwen's return. "You've just unleashed her upon some poor, hapless woman…."

Elladan shrugged, unrepentant. "Mistress Meldis is not in the library. She is currently enjoying a moment by the river with the children under her care."

"Oh."

Mehreen turned her head towards the lower ground, as though listening for a proof of the veracity of his words, biting at the tiny mole that adorned her upper lip. Now that she was 'saved', Elladan knew he should return to his duties; and yet, in a residual surge of rebellion fueled by the joyful shrieks that carried from the riverbank, he argued that Redhriel had the Houses under control, and could well spare his presence for an hour or two. After all, did his duties not include carrying out the mission Legolas had tasked them both with? Now that was a pointless pastime; had Eredhwen known, she would have nagged him as harshly as she had Mehreen.

Not that Elladan blamed his friend. His own behavior regarding Mehreen had warranted nothing less than an exemplary punishment and Legolas, in his kindness, had decided to inflict as gentle a sentence as he could, so that at least Mehreen would be spared.

If anything, Elladan was grateful she would no longer suffer by his fault.

"Come," he said, nodding towards the path that led to the Houses of Healing and beyond, towards the old pavilion Legolas had spoken of. "If you have no other flowers to tend to, I would show you the place we are expected to repair."

oOoOoOo

"Do not let Eredhwen bully you into submission. This place belongs to everyone, and what you do with your free time is none of her concern."

As they walked side by side, Elladan seized the opportunity to study Mehreen from up close; it only seemed fair, after all, to examine his latest subject more in depth, now that he had grasped her outlines.

One of the peoples Elrohir and he had encountered over their long years of hunting, dwelling in the secluded woods of Eryn Vorn, believed that to draw someone was to capture their soul. Himself had not hoped for as much – and not only because the thought of baring her in such a manner sent a shiver along his nerves that had only little to do with unease. Elladan could not help but admit that everything about Mehreen pleased the eye, from the striking green of her pupils, complimented by her dark almond skin, to the grace that imbued her gestures whenever she was unguarded – as she was now, watching a flock of sparrows bicker noisily for some worm upon a nearby patch of earth. Mehreen patted the pockets of her skirts in a gesture both distracted and sheepish when she realized she had nothing to offer them, her eyes flicking hopefully towards Elladan before remembering not everyone carried a piece of crust on themselves just in case.

Her mouth opened to form a perfect 'o' when he slid a hand into one of his own pockets to proffer a hardened slice of bread – one he had taken from the Great Hall some days past, in the event of being too busy for lunch or dinner. At least it would serve, Elladan mused as he watched her tear it apart, grinning in delight as the sparrows chirped and sauntered around her, instead of growing ever staler until he forgot about it, only to endure Maerwena's hinted displeasure at finding such 'gifts' inside various items of his clothing.

"Do you also enjoy gardening, my Lord?"

Rubbing her hands together to rid her palms of crumbs, Mehreen gingerly stepped over the mass of her fluffy, winged wards to rejoin him on the path.

"Alas, I fear I have little talent for it." Though his mother had enjoyed planting things and watching them grow, Elladan had inherited a less peaceful nature.

"Does one need to have a talent for something to enjoy it?" Mehreen inquired, her eyes filled with mirth, grasping her chest in mock woe. "If so, what a terribly dreary life I have ahead of me!"

Elladan chuckled, earning a shy yet genuine smile in return, along with the soft blushing of her cheeks. No doubt that conversing with a man who was not her husband went against the customs of her people; aiming to disguise her discomfort, Mehreen raised a hand to tuck a stand of hair behind her ear, wincing as she did so.

Elladan's laughter faded. She was still suffering from bruises where his fingers had branded her skin. Hoping to alleviate his guilt, Elladan tried to remember how forcefully he had grabbed her and failed, unable to recall anything beyond those large, fern-colored eyes, and his own need to make her see….

It dawned upon him that beyond her upbringing, it must have taken her a great deal of courage to face him again, and even more so to speak in his favor. "Why did you take my defense?" Elladan found himself asking, the yearning to be understood turning into that to understand in return.

Mehreen, too, had sobered at his question. She worried her lip for a good ten steps, to the point where Elladan believed she would not answer. "Why did you save me? Back in the forest, I mean."

"I was in a position to help you. It would have been wrong not to do it."

A short nod. "And so was I, my Lord."

Elladan grimaced. "You do not have to call me my Lord," he waved an impatient hand, irked by her stalling. "Elladan will suffice. But you are avoiding my question. You could have demanded any punishment and yet, instead of avenging your brother, you spoke in my favor. Why?"

By the time Mehreen answered, they were out of sight of the Houses' entrance, beyond the northwestern tower, where path meandered between junipers and firs. The blush of pleasure was long gone from her face, replaced by a paleness Elladan had but seldom seen on her save for that one, detestable moment in the library, when she had recoiled from his touch.

"Have you ever feared someone you also admired, my Lord…Elladan?" she asked in a small, quivering voice, her eyes downcast as she studied the dirt beneath her fingernails.

"It was a long time ago."

About two thousand and eight hundred years, in fact.

He and Elrohir had been but boys when Glorfindel had stepped out of the mists that haunted the shores of Forochel before making his way to Imladris, where dwelt the descendants of those he had once died protecting. Having grown in a house where walls were adorned with frescoes of high deeds, including Glorfindel's last stand, Elladan and his brother had taken an instant admiration to the balrog slayer. From that moment on their games, until then revolving around a vague, harmless notion of protecting their home from the enemy, had turned into an everyday squabble about who would play the role of the beast of shadow and flame, and invariably fall under 'Glorfindel''s glorious assault.

That was, until Erestor had happened by. "It is no game," he had scolded them, "nor something to be treated lightly, and I pray to Eru neither of you ever has to experience what such a 'glorious fate' truly feels like."

His words had stuck with Elladan. Erestor was right; he did not know what it was that Glorfindel had gone through and, if only for science's sake, it was his duty to find out. That very night, once they had been bathed and clothed, a fire lit beyond the grate of the fireplace, he had evaded the attention of his mother and, snaking his arm between iron and stone, stuck his fingers into the flames.

No-one but Elrohir had understood why he had done it and no one, including poor Glorfindel, could fathom why, all of a sudden, Elladan was bawling whenever the balrog slayer was in sight.

"His name is Glorfindel," Elladan told Mehreen, who had been waiting for his reply just as he had been for hers, moments ago. "He was my childhood hero, but the extent of his sacrifice had daunted me, as soon as I was old enough to grasp it."

He rubbed the fingers of his right hand together, feeling the nearly faded scars. To say that the pain had been beyond his expectations would be an understatement; even now, almost three thousand years after the event, what Elladan remembered most was not the burn itself, but the shock upon trying to imagine hurting this way all over one's body.

What he had not understood, back then, was that Glorfindel's courage lay not in enduring the pain, but in returning to risk another agonizing death instead of an eternity of peace.

"Harun was my oldest brother. He was supposed to protect me when my father would no longer be there to do so." Mehreen hesitated, before raising her eyes to meet his. "He was our hope, and I could've forgiven his cruelty towards me…until he killed Lilith. That was when I'd known he deserved to be punished."

Elladan's heart jolted in sympathy with Mehreen's loss as he amended his earlier statement. Facing him may not be the bravest thing she had ever done.

He ought to have said something, if only to reassure her that her words would have none of the consequences Mehreen now seemed to be preparing to face, standing ramrod straight before him, her chin raised high in needless defiance. He ought to tell her that wishing something did not make it true – he knew it too well – and that she had no part in her brother's death.

Had he? Elladan could not remember.

That battlefield had been a chaos beyond anything that he or Elrohir had ever encountered, leagues away from skirmishes against orcs upon narrow mountain paths and high passes, when victory depended more on one's knowledge of terrain rather than one's skill with a sword. Out there, upon the greatest vastness Elladan had ever seen, he had felt both small and vulnerable, like never before. The Dark Host had pressed from every side – orcs, goblins, Haradrim upon Mûmakil that made no distinction between friend or foe as long as they progressed towards the city….

Instead of the sureness of stone under his feet had been rubbery, shifting layers of corpses, some of which he would have recognized, had he dared pay attention; yet every second was another chance for an enemy sword to gut him. Every blink had offered an opening for a panicked ally's blows to lop his head off. And they had been many, those young, terrified men roused to defend their land by heartfelt words and promises of glory…!

Still, whether it had been his own hand that had ended Harun's life or another's, at the very least he would never torment a woman again.

"She was so young…." Mehreen wrung her hands, as if to justify her thirst for vengeance. "So small and affectionate. I hadn't yet taught her not to chew on people's shoes…."

What?

Elladan blinked. Had he heard her correctly?

Noticing his confusion, Mehreen slumped her shoulders. "Lilith was only a kitten," she explained in a murmur. "A gift from my father after my mother's exile." She hung her head, abated by his bewildered stare. "Harun drowned her in a fountain after she clawed at his favorite boots. See, this is why I spoke to Lord Legolas for you. I was the one who'd wanted him gone in the first place."

"Yes, erm."

"I told my grandmother what he'd done," Mehreen continued in a mumble, resuming their walk and no doubt expecting Elladan to follow, "but nothing came out of it. Instead, Lalla Laila punished me for accusing her son. Would you like to know the sentence for that?"

"If you…."

"Ten lashes."

Elladan startled. Having seen firsthand the damage a leather whip could inflict upon one's skin, his anger at Harun flared anew, his gaze drawn to the hem of her dress collar as he tried to discern, under the fabric, the all-too-familiar and yet ever-changing pattern.

"Oh, they didn't punish me." Noticing his scrutiny Mehreen stopped once more and clenched her fists, eyes wide with guilt. "It was Ahlam who's been whipped in my stead, so that next time I'd remember my place."

"I am sorry."

"It's not your fault. But I didn't want to risk a similar sentence for yourself. Not for something so insignificant."

Opening his mouth with the intention of protesting, Elladan closed it again upon seeing her expression. "We do not do this here," he pointed out instead, outraged on Legolas' behalf.

Mehreen nodded demurely, hiding a sad smile under the curtain of her umber hair. "So I've learnt. In a way, this place is both harsher and kinder than where I come from."

Deeming the discussion closed, she wrapped her arms around her waist and took off along the path once more, leaving Elladan to gape after her. Not so long ago, he had thought her haughty and spoiled. Unfeeling, even, having heard the rumors about the beliefs she harbored about the role of Harad in the war. Now, one could be tempted to call her a victim, but Elladan knew better. The woman slowly walking away, oblivious of her direction, was a survivor; strong despite her apparent frailty. Proud and stubborn, but also caring and just. A woman deserving of respect.

Only later would Elladan realize, upon returning to his study and seeing the drawing that lay by the window, that for the very first time in months, he had not felt so alone.

A.N.: in this chapter, I've taken a liberty with the timelines of Middle-Earth. From what I've found, Glorfindel must've returned sometime around SA 1600, when Elladan and Elrohir were already approx. 1470 years old (having been born in SA 130), so fully grown adults. For the sake of the story, I've advanced his arrival to sometime around SA 200.