Hello everyone, here is the next chapter, almost on time ;)
Having spent quite some time in airports this last week, I'd also like to use this as an opportunity to humbly recommend a few books to those of you who enjoy romance outside of fanfiction (and/or stories involving elves/faeries). Namely Olivia Atwater's excellent "Half a Soul", and Margaret Rogerson's "Enchantment of Ravens". "A Sorcery of Thorns" by M. Rogerson is another masterpiece that I enjoyed immensely, and perhaps so will you.
Mind you, I'm getting no sponsoring from either author, but their works are just that good!
Now, on to my own stuff ;)
Chapter 33
August 14th, TA 3020
"No, no. Qara is a verb, not a noun. If you're trying to say 'book', then kita is the word you're searching for."
"Kita," Bruiven repeated obediently. "Qaratu kita."
He dragged the last syllable out so that the entire word changed its meaning from something harmless to a term best uttered amongst very close friends. Female friends, in this instance, though they would have been quite puzzled as to why Bruiven, in appearance a healthy male, would even have need of such an item. Mehreen burst into laughter, covering her mouth with a hand so that her mirth would go unnoticed by others. At first, she'd feared to offend Bruiven as well, but had found him to be as amiable and even-tempered as he was open-minded.
The Great Hall was almost empty at this hour, the lamps only just lit and even so, the evening was young enough to distinguish the banners that hung from the joists. Silver stags on a field of green brushed their fringing against that of golden suns upon cerulean silk, swaying alongside jagged gonfanons of cobalt adorned with stars. Mehreen and Bruiven had agreed to combine their lessons of Haradric with a more useful occupation but, so as not to subject anyone to the discomfort of listening to a tongue they would rather not hear ever again, they had opted to dine as early as Godwyn allowed.
Lowering his knife, Bruiven shook his head; a rueful smile spread upon his lips. "I knew there was something wrong with my grammar. Should I have said naqaru kita?"
Waving a hand in form of apology, Mehreen dabbed her eyes with a napkin. "Oh Bruiven, I'm sorry. Your grammar is impeccable. It's just that…." Stifling one last hiccup, she took a deep breath. "You must stress the beginning of the word, for Kitah does exist, but its meaning is…quite different of what you're intending to say."
"Ah. And I can only suppose, judging from your reaction, that it is just my luck this other word happens to be an amusing one. Let me try again, and do feel free to laugh, should I mangle it once more. Qaratu kita?"
"Good!"
Resisting the urge to clap her hands as if he'd been a kitten she was training for cleanliness, Mehreen realized she was ravenous. She'd done most of the talking so far while Bruiven had listened – and eaten, grasping the basics of Haradric syntax as quickly as he wolfed down his meal. Mehreen had little doubt that had it been her learning elvish, she wouldn't have remembered beyond the first word.
And even so, she'd have to write it down.
"What's the elvish word for 'book?" Mehreen asked before sampling her dinner – grilled fish from the river and roasted vegetables. Yet another thing she was getting used to, though still missing the spices of her homeland and the sunshine they seemed to infuse into every meal. No-one in Bar-Lasbelin managed to prepare anything half as tasty as Ghizlan's chickpea tajine. The thought alone made her mouth water despite the full plate in front of her.
It was Bruiven's turn to grin. "Which elvish?"
All but forgetting to swallow her mouthful, Mehreen gaped. "There's more than one?"
"Of course. There are Quenya and Sindarin, not to mention Nandorin and other dialects."
Nandorin – that rang a bell. Elladan had mentioned the Nandor that very afternoon, though Mehreen struggled to remember in which context, no matter how raptly she'd listened. To be honest, Elladan's deep voice had captivated her as much as the words he'd been saying; not that Mehreen would ever admit to having enjoyed their conversation because of that particular trait.
"And what's the language spoken amongst the elves here?"
Bruiven smirked. "Sindarin."
"So, what's the Sindarin word for 'book?"
"Parf."
A word best not pronounced with her mouth full, Mehreen had the sense to realize, gulping down a morsel of trout before making an attempt. Much to her pleasure, Bruiven nodded in approval as soon as the word left her lips. "Your pronunciation is impeccable. Unlike mine," he added with a hint of chagrin in his voice.
"Oh, but you've only started less than a month ago, and this very afternoon we've already had one full conversation! Trust me, you'll be speaking fluent Haradric before I know how to ask what the parf is about."
"You are too kind."
He turned towards her left and, following his gaze, Mehreen watched as Lord Legolas and Elladan made their entrance, taking their seats at one of the tables nearby, accompanied by a group of burly, dark-haired men: builders from a city standing downriver, if the rumors were to be believed. Though it'd been a fortnight since he'd asked her to call him by his name only, it still felt as queer as the first time. Inappropriate would've been the correct term, Mehreen heard Lalla Nafiyah's leathery voice say, laced with disapproval as was her habit when it came to Mehreen; yet therein lie the strangeness of it. Elladan's name upon her lips didn't feel as obscene as it ought to be, the soft, lilting syllables trickling from her lips like a counting rhyme if only she'd let them.
El-LA-dan.
It wasn't just the name. Mehreen was getting oddly – and much too quickly – used to their growing familiarity, all the while knowing that nothing would ever come of it…which was certainly best for all involved. But how could she not hope, when he told her the things he did, so troubling in their sincerity, and listened so intently to what she had to say?
Bruiven's sigh pulled her out of her reverie. Her 'pupil' was finishing what remained of his dinner, his brow furrowed with unexpected worry. "Is something amiss?" she inquired in a murmur, fearing that she may have offended him after all.
"What?" He raised his eyes from his empty plate in confusion, before taking in her own concerned expression. "Oh, forgive me. It is nothing, truly, and I must apologize for turning out to be such a sour companion tonight."
"Don't be sil…sorry." Twisting her tongue right in time to avoid what could well be taken as a slight, Mehreen leaned forward. "If you'd rather we stopped…."
"Oh no, please. I would very much like to keep learning from you. It is just that…." Setting down his spoon, Bruiven pushed the plate away and crossed his arms upon the table in a decidedly un-Bruiven-like manner. "You must have heard that Lord Elladan has decided to take an apprentice." Before Mehreen could acquiesce, Bruiven stole another glance to the table where Elladan sat, his back turned towards them, ensconced in a discussion with Lord Legolas and the neighboring diners. "He has already approached the other two apprentices vying for the position; I am the last on the list. Perhaps I am reading too much into it," Bruiven shook his head, "but I cannot help but feel that my fate has been sealed before I could even plead my cause."
I know how that feels.
"Look at them," Bruiven continued, despairing. "Brilliant, the both of them, and their story is far more interesting than mine. Next to Taniel and Annahad, I am no-one." Mehreen opened her mouth to protest, but he raised the fingers resting atop his biceps, motioning her into silence. "I know how fortunate I am to have led a happy, sheltered life, without grief nor loss that would, if only in appearance, justify my desire to help others. My father is a carpenter, my mother a seamstress…and even they wonder what I am doing here."
The hall was filling up, the hum of voices rising over the clatter of plates and cutlery. A group of men came to occupy the table beside them, conversing animatedly in what sounded like the same guttural tongue Déordred had used. They smelled of iron and sweat, their sleeves pushed back and coal-stained shirts unbuttoned at the collars gaping on sunburnt, ofttimes scarred skin, so that Mehreen was forced to focus on Bruiven on front of her, fascinated with the ease with which the smooth mask of courtesy slipped back onto his face. He greeted them in their tongue, exchanging pleasantries as their gaze ghosted over Mehreen herself, ripe with interest, prompting her to hunch her shoulders against the unwanted attention.
"Have you ever wanted something with no other reason than you simply did?"
"Hmm?" She bit her lip, fighting the urge to steal a glimpse of the other table over the blacksmiths' shoulders. "Haven't we all?"
He gazed off into the distance. "I would not know."
Mimicking Bruiven's gesture, Mehreen set her knife and spoon onto the plate and pushed it away with the tips of her fingers before resting her hands upon the rough wooden surface. She itched to ask him what would happen should Elladan decide to choose someone else but refrained, loath to sully his mood even further.
Splaying her fingers, Mehreen stared at the wooden veins that appeared between them, like so many lifelines. "On the bright side, that would give you plenty of time to polish your Haradric," she quipped, chafing against her own helplessness. Only Elladan's insistance that no-one got sent away from Bar-Lasbelin, even for an incompetence as evident as hers, reassured her regarding Bruiven's future. "You might need it sooner than you think…. When I was a little girl, Hanaa and I used to insult the girls we disliked in Westron while smiling, so that they'd believe the opposite."
A silly story, and one which must seem funny to her alone, despite being the embodiment of the harem itself – sharp words hidden behind sweet smiles.
Against all expectations Bruiven chuckled. "Now this I can imagine. Children can be cruel." He didn't notice her startle, as his words reminded her of something Elladan had once told her. "I once tricked my younger sister, Avariel, into believing into magic. Not real magic, mind you, but a simple trick consisting in her closing her eyes upon my bidding and me stealing her doll from out of her sight. When she opened her eyes once more, she was so awed by my supposed powers – and so devastated by the thought of Nórui having been sent into the Void – that I felt guilty and confessed to everything. Of course, Avariel ran to my mother crying, and I was made to give her my favorite wooden horse for an entire month."
"Please tell me she's since become the most suspicious maiden in all Middle Earth."
"That she is," Bruiven nodded with pride. "She is assigned to the protection of the Lady of the Golden Wood herself."
"She's a warrior?" Mehreen exclaimed at once, remembering Lalla Ishtar's stories in which she'd described women riding horses with their legs parted like a man and wearing mail…and wielding a weapon in battle. Having glimpsed the thick muscles rolling under Marussia's white skin – as well as the saddle she kept inside her room, and which would've been impossible to straddle otherwise than in the very manner that Lalla Ishtar had described – Mehreen had been inclined to believe her, despite Lalla Laila's jeering incredulity; yet to hear a tale through the fragrant smoke of a hookah was one thing, and to listen to someone mention his own sister risking her life was another entirely. Even the prospect of shooting a bow like a man appeared less unlikely than that, despite Elladan's assurance to the contrary. "Isn't it dangerous? For a woman, I mean?"
"Ah, but Avariel is a dangerous woman herself," Bruiven argued with a grin, "having earned her braids in the defense of the realm against the forces of Dol Guldur."
"Her braids?" Mehreen's gaze slid to the simple, thin tresses surrounding Bruiven's rectangular face, comparing them in her mind to Elladan's. The latter came a victor out of the comparison, not only because his braids were much thicker and more complex than Bruiven's, but also because Mehreen suddenly found she preferred a raven's wing to that of a goldfinch. "Do they have a meaning?"
According to Lalla Ishtar, some tribes in Near Harad wore their hair in a similar fashion, going as far as rubbing turmeric-tainted mud into their locks so as to indicate their status, be it social or marital. Seeing there her means of avoiding any future blunders, Mehreen could not let such an opportunity pass her by.
"Ah. The gwirbennes." Nodding knowingly, he reached into one of the baskets sitting upon the table for an apple. "Why the interest, if I may ask?"
"No reason." Mehreen had grasped her napkin and was now wringing it in her lap, much in the way she wished to wring the knowledge from Bruiven. "But you've promised to teach me something in return," she pointed out, "and do not think that a simple word of Singa…?"
"Sindarin?"
"Yes!" She raised her chin in defiance. "That a simple word of Sindarin shall suffice."
"Very well." At the very least, the question seemed to have taken Bruiven's mind off his fears to stir him back into the familiar waters of academic wisdom. "I have to warn you it is a complex – some may even say delicate – subject, and that differences may arise depending on the region. A pattern with a given meaning in Lothlórien may mean a different thing in Mirkwood or, say, Imladris."
Oblivious of Mehreen's twitch of interest, he rubbed the apple against his sleeve, bringing its skin to a mirror-like shine before biting into the fruit while Mehreen had no other choice but to wait until he was done chewing, her patience sorely tested as her own hunger had long since sated…unlike her curiosity.
Lalla Zahra would've despaired at seeing her energy and her brainpower directed at something so futile. Why hadn't she asked Bruiven for something useful instead?
Because Elladan had avoided her question, that's why, and the answer could therefore only prove intriguing, or – Mehreen repressed a thrill of excitement at the thought – forbidden. Not that she harbored any interest towards Elladan himself, of course; a thought that she wasted no time in squishing under a mental heel. He was a high lord of the realm, and an elf to boot – albeit a mortal one by choice – with many a better option for a wife than Mehreen.
If he even wanted a wife, that is.
And who would offer him your hand, I wonder? You, perhaps, flinging yourself at his feet like a whore?
Mehreen winced as the questions pierced her, as sharp as Lalla Laila's tongue. What was she thinking?
She ought to stir the conversation towards a more harmless topic, if only for the sake of her own peace of mind. The people she cared for tended to abandon her sooner or later, be it her own mother, Lalla Nafiyah…or even Hanaa. Her tender, frail little heart was better off without another crack, yet no more than an egg rolling downhill towards a bed of stones could she refrain from hoping.
The men to her left rose, gathering their cups with the apparent intention of taking them to the other side of the hall, where an elf woman with long hair the color of wheat was plucking the strings of a tall harp. Mehreen flinched as an elbow brushed against her shoulder; the man apologized, his broken Westron slurred by fatigue and watered-down wine, but at least it provided her with an excuse. She turned her head towards the lords' table, expecting to glimpse a high knot of black hair, speared by a silver pin…and was disappointed. Elladan's chair stood empty, the expanse of table in front of it long since cleared.
When another elf took it, setting his plate in front of Lord Legolas, it was as though he'd never even existed, save in Mehreen's imagination.
A.N.: the words used inside this chapter are of course made-up, just like before. 'Qara' would mean 'to read' in Haradric, and the Sindarin word 'gwirbennes' comes from the verb 'gwir-', which means to weave, and 'pennas' which means story (made plural since Bruiven is referring to braids in general).
