A Happy New Year to everyone!

And a huge thank you to all those who reviewed this story so far, including:

Lucy: so glad you're enjoying this! Indeed the characters are all meant to be flawed (except for Legolas - he's perfect XD), and I'm happy that came across the way I wanted!

Joho1994: thank you! Elladan is one loveable curmudgeon :)

Chapter 29

August 1st, TA 3020

The desert gave no harvest. What could be grown was to be wrestled out of the hard, dry soil, placated by water offerings ofttimes carried over long miles by the strength of one's back and constantly watched, like an ailing infant. Mehreen had seen the men and women toil in the ochre fields, once, as she'd returned from her father's estate by the sea. The plough bouncing off the buried stones and raising clouds of dust; their crooked spines, bent by years of hardship, and eyes so hungry they ate at their leathery faces. Their stares had followed the caravan avidly, cowing Mehreen into hiding behind the curtains of her palanquin, certain that should they stop, they'd be devoured in that same resigned silence.

The desert gave no harvest; they took it by force, and saw no need to celebrate their constant battle against the advancing sands.

In Ithilien, however, amidst the pines whose roots bathed in underground water, its mists rising from the unnumbered brooks, streams and rivers to gloss its moist boughs, the earth dispensed its bounty freely, with a generosity that bordered on unfair. No wonder the men of Harad had gone to war over such an injustice, Mehreen raptly wondered as she nibbled on an owl's wing – one made of dough rather than flesh and bones, its feathers sweet with poppy seeds and honey. Lalla Nafiyah would've pulled her ear for such an impious, and even traitorous, thought, yet the truth was plain for anyone to see. August was upon them: the warmest month of the year and, while in Jufayrah shadowy corridors were being washed with yesterday's waters, shutters latched shut to keep the heat at bay, in Bar-Lasbelin the women washed their feet in buckets of clear water, uncaring for the contents they then splashed out the window and which dried, wasted, on pickerelweed leaves.

All around Mehreen, the Hlāfmæsse was in full swing. From the festooned pillars of the Great Hall, its vault filled with a fiddle's sighs and soars, cleared free of tables to allow space for dancing, to the ribbons that hung from the branches of the sparse trees between the hall and the river, all in Bar-Lasbelin celebrated the first fruits of harvest in the rambunctious Rohirric fashion. Even Mehreen's duties at the Houses had been amended for the day – an unexpected gesture of benevolence on Redhriel's part.

She carefully wound her way through the crowd, searching for the familiar brightness of Ahlam's turban, wincing at the booming laughter that erupted here and there, so remindful of Harun's misleading cheer. Ahlam had promised to meet her after a morning spent with the women of the washery, but the more she craned her neck to try and find her former maid amidst the gathering, the more she came to the conclusion that either Ahlam was late or it was she, Mehreen, who was too early.

She sighed with discouragement. Why must she always end up alone?

That was unfair. Ahlam didn't abandon you.

Abashed, Mehreen squared her shoulders against the onsetting dismay. Now that she was here, and with little else to do, she may as well enjoy the feast, with or without Ahlam…though Mehreen would have preferred for her to be here, or anyone else to keep her company.

The day before, she'd overheard some woman in the Houses promise one of her friends there's be plenty to see, from an archery contest, open to both men and women – something Mehreen was dying to witness, if only to someday have a story of her own to tell about the wonders of the North – to an embroidery competition amongst the most skilled women of the settlement. The thought of completing a pattern in but one turn of the sandglass appeared a nigh-impossible task to one as clumsy with a needle as she was, but the woman had gushed about the beauty of the designs thus created, and the prizes awaiting the victor: a bunch of fine silken threads from Rhûn, and the chance to embroider a gown for the Queen of Gondor herself for the upcoming Yule.

Such wonderful things were best enjoyed with someone by one's side. Had Hanaa been here, they would've gorged on sweets and pastries – like the one she was munching at now – while wandering from one stand to another, giggling like five-year-olds.

"It's about to start!" one of the men called out, his arm wound around a pillar as he cupped the other around his mouth. "Down to the river, you people! Let's encourage our friends and our good lords."

An excited murmur rolled through the crowd at his words and, before she knew it, Mehreen found herself carried off downhill, as though swept by an imperious tide. She dared not resist, her feet following the movement of their own volition, fingers stuck to the warm softness of the pastry. Fair and red and brown-haired tresses bobbed around her, leaning together two by two to exchange thrilled whispers about the upcoming spectacle, and Mehreen strained her ears to discover what it was all about.

She needn't wait long.

Those most ahead of the procession stopped and the crowd spilled out, lining along a wooden barrier that'd been erected for only one purpose: to keep some careless soul from tumbling headfirst into a long but shallow ditch that'd been dug out near the banks of the Anduin, and filled with enough water to turn the soil into a muddy slush. The most coveted places, in the middle of the barrier, were taken before Mehreen could even blink. Men and women pressed against one another, squirming and hollering to let the children pass to the front where they were either saddled onto the beam while clutched against their mother's chest, or sat upon the edge of the moat, their feet dangling over the glistening dirt.

Mehreen, who'd milled by the outskirts of the gathering by the Great Hall and was thus fortunate enough to find herself amongst the first-comers, darted towards the right, claiming a free spot by the very end of the barrier. She stuffed the last piece of dough into her mouth and, licking her fingers free of the icing, leaned forward to better see the contestants.

For it was a contest of an odd sort, the likes of which she'd never seen before. Two teams stood in line, facing each over the length of the pit, each man holding onto a thick rope stretched across the expanse of mud. As the men rolled their shoulders backwards, wiping their sweaty palms on their leggings or tightening their grip on the rope under the encouragements that rained from the crowd, Mehreen understood what was about to happen, torn between disgust and delight.

Her suspicions were confirmed by the resigned look on one of the team captains' faces – none other than Elladan himself, who'd clearly chosen his side between the two sentiments. From where she stood on the opposite side of the pit, Mehreen watched him push up the sleeves of his blue-colored shirt and cast a sullen glance towards the deceptively smooth surface before him, which swarmed with water-striders. Though his face told a tale of reluctance, his stance was that of determination, feet planted firmly into the ground, his sharp chin raised as he nodded at the dark-haired elf facing him – the same elf who'd clambered up the tree to save Déordred.

"Begin!" Someone barked out.

At once, the distant sobs of the violin were drowned in a roar such that Mehreen winced and covered her ears, jostled from every side by the shoulders and elbows of her very committed neighbors. The contestants grit their teeth and strained their arms, hauling from each side in a joint yet contradictory effort. The rope creaked as it tightened and, for an instant, it seemed to Mehreen that the world had stopped its course…until the dark-haired elf's foot slipped forward on the grass, inch by inch, and over the edge of the ditch, forcing him and his whole team to leap into the mud.

Uncaring for her hearing, Mehreen grasped the barrier and whooped, jumping up and down as a pure, violent joy filled her. She searched out Elladan's face amidst the victors. There he was, the expression of intense concentration melting into a victorious grin as suddenly as the sun rends the clouds after a summer rain.

"Next year," the dark-haired elf vowed in a breath, his own grin unfaltering under the filth, his yellow tunic turned a grubby brown that would've driven any washerwoman to despair. "You cannot always win."

"Next year, Morion," Elladan conceded, laughing. Welcoming the hands clasped over his shoulders and forearms by his teammates with a boyish toss of his head, he flashed his eyes at his mud-covered opponent. "You may indeed try again next year, if your pride is not too bruised from losing twice in a row."

"You know how the saying goes," Morion chuckled as he accepted Elladan's outstretched hand, and clambered out of the pit. "Three being the magic number, and all that."

"Keep believing magic will help you win, my friend, and my triumph will be complete."

They strolled away, Elladan's tall silhouette lost in the crowd as two new teams took their place, capturing Mehreen's attention once more. This time, it was Lord Legolas who headed the one closest to her, dressed in forest hues like the rest of his team. He was facing an elf she'd never seen before and, her side readily picked, Mehreen joined her voice to those surrounding her, yelling for the greens to win.

Which they did, promptly, the poor defeated flying into the dirt at such speed that Mehreen feared they'd break their necks.

Before she knew it, the morning neared its end. The sun warmed the back of her head gentler than it pounded on the fair skin of those around her; the air smelled of silt and sweat, filled with the shouting of the onlookers and the squelching of mud. With every new match, Mehreen cheered and slapped the tottering wooden balustrade with her hands, her palms growing steadily number and her voice, hoarser. And if she acclaimed those wearing blue the loudest – the greens coming close seconds in terms of enthusiasm – she convinced herself it was simply because she knew too few of the others.

She faced a dilemma when, at last, the two teams that'd remained unsoiled so far stepped forth: Elladan in front of her, against Lord Legolas to her far left. They traded half-smiles as they sized one another up in feigned rivalry, glancing to the men that stood in each other's back.

"Thia lom i gwaith gîn," Lord Legolas called out, his youthful voice carrying over the clearing.

"Not as tired as yours," Elladan smirked in reply, his fingers twitching over the grey rope. He bent his knees, advancing his left foot as he leaned backwards until his weight balanced out that of his opponent on the other side.

"Tíro i sí," Lord Legolas taunted him once more.

He winked at Mehreen, earning a bewildered glance from Elladan, who turned his head, his gaze fleeting towards her…

…Just as the start of the joust was being called.

He snapped back to the contest a blink too late. Already the greens were gaining terrain, Elladan's boots slipping on a grass trampled by many a foot before him, ground into the same slush that stretched out between them, warm and inviting. He clenched his jaw and glowered at Lord Legolas who, uncaring for the retaliation his friend's stare promised, hauled together with his men, his golden hair shining under the midday sun.

"Eärendil!" Elladan bellowed as he threw his weight backwards, the sinews of his wrists bulging with the effort. "Eärendil!" he beseeched anew, rocking in rhythm with his call.

Lord Legolas' eyes widened as Elladan's men echoed the battle cry, their voices rising towards the cloudless sky, rolling down the riverbanks to crowd's delight. The call swelled as a hundred new voices shouted out as one, drowning out those who vied for the greens. Drowning down to Mehreen's heartbeat, even, and the quickening pulse inside her fingertips.

"Eärendil!" she yelled out, compelled in turn, clutching the barrier with white-knuckled fingers, leaning forward with all her weight as if to add it to the balance.

"Eärendil! Eärendil!"

The railing rocked against her stomach, dozens of bodies pushing it forward as the two camps rallied on each side of the ditch and Lord Legolas and his men, so confident but moments before, suddenly found themselves on the losing side. Another few pulls, another few steps and they'd meet the same fate as those they'd cast down that very morning, condemned to wipe the earth off their faces and hope for a helpful hand out of the drying mire.

It was good…no, wonderful, to be part of something once more. Just another face in the crowd, rather than the one everybody stared at in the hallways.

"Eärendil! Eärendil!"

Mehreen's eyes were on Elladan's face, already drunk on his victory.

A loud creak filled her ears. At first, Mehreen thought the rope had burst under the strain. She grappled for the wooden beam, craning her neck to see what'd happened, but it was no longer within her reach. Her foot slipped over the edge of the pit, so that Mehreen had to flay her arms to maintain her balance. Gasps erupted to her left as the mothers hastily pulled their children from the collapsing barrier. One such woman hauled her stunned son backwards beside her. Deprived of the spectacle the boy wailed and kicked; one of his feet collided with Mehreen's stomach, knocking the air from her lungs.

Her arms flew to her aching midsection. She bent forward, hoping to regain her breath.

Someone shoved her from behind.

Mehreen shrieked as she fell, squeezing her eyes against the inevitable. Her entire body tensed, anticipating the fall, dreading to suck in a breath of mud, dreading to be trampled and drowned before someone realized she was there, at the bottom of the avidly awaiting morass….

A splash, an impact against something rough, and…hard?

A cool, wet substance slithered into her boots and crept up her thighs, soaking her dress up to her waist, so that she felt the pressure of the sodden fabric against her belly; but her upper chest remained strangely warm, her arms entangled in nothing akin to what she'd imagined mud to feel like. Mehreen dared to breathe in and, when that brought relief rather than agony, opened her eyes.

Elladan was watching her with his lips pressed into a thin line, his arms wrapped around her as he stood, half-buried in mud and sinking deeper with every heartbeat, holding her above the surface. His skin appeared all the paler for the dirt splattered across his forehead, matting the tips of his braids and smearing his cheeks where she must've swatted him across the face in her panic.

Yet it wasn't the heat of his hands against her ribs that lead Mehreen to freeze in shock, but the scene that was happening behind him.

Tearing her eyes from Elladan's pallid face Mehreen watched, over his shoulder, as his men struggled to oppose the momentum imprinted by Lord Legolas' team, their cheeks crimson with effort, even though the rope now hung limp in the elf's hands. Deprived of their leader they'd been yanked mercilessly forward; those at the back managed to let go and fall on their buttocks in the slippery grass, but those in front weren't so lucky.

One by one, they tried to stop, and failed.

One by one, they tumbled headfirst into the mud.

A clamor rose in Mehreen's back – a hint of alarm beneath a howl of disappointment. The blues had lost, and it was no-one's fault but her own.

A.N.: some notes regarding this chapter:

- The 'hlāfmæsse' is an Old English word for Lammas (short for 'Loaf Mass Day'), which is a holiday celebrated on August the 1st. It is a festival to mark the blessing of the first fruits of harvest, with a loaf of bread being made for this specific purpose.

- Sindarin phrases: 'thia lom i gwaith gîn' means 'your people look tired' (from 'thia-' = look/seem, 'lom' = tired and 'gwaith' = people). 'Tíro i sí' would mean 'look who's here' (from 'tíra-' = look, and 'sí' = here).