Chapter 19

July 2nd, TA 3020

Elladan had always detested partings. Few people enjoyed them, no matter how great the chances of seeing their loved ones anew; but for Elladan, such moments had ever held a particular place in his heart. His mother had always reproached him his expeditious ways in the matter and, after the goodbye that had led to her abduction, he had often regretted not having taken the time to bid her a farewell befitting his love for her.

This was not to say that he enjoyed reunions, either.

If given the chance, Elladan would have dwelt in the in-between, without the bitterness of the former nor the disappointments of the latter. No doubt his elven blood speaking, though it would have been unjust to invoke it as an excuse. Had Saineth been there, she would have called him an old grump once more; but Saineth was not there, and neither did Elladan see her in the small welcome party that had gathered by the 'gates'.

He knew what that meant.

He rode in between the high, moss-carpeted walls that marked the entrance to the valley, crowned by stumpy firs clinging to ridges of stone, their knobby roots jutting out from curtains of vine. Much to his satisfaction, the entrance was no longer unguarded, though Glorfindel would have heaved a sigh as deep as the mines of Moria at the sight of those appointed to keep watch. Two young healers stepped out from between the pines that grew clustered by the mouth of the valley, their aprons switched out for tunics of green and brown.

"Welcome back, my Lord!" Ríndir called out, his young voice ringing clear and true.

Elladan returned the greeting in the form of a nod, nudging his steed forward. Dry needles crackled under Runcynn's hooves, the scent of resin mingling with that of honey; the distant buzz of the hives rose to Elladan's left and, ahead, the sculpted columns of the Great Hall. In front of the steps the Lord of Bar-Lasbelin awaited, hands held in his back in his usual manner.

"Welcome back, my friend," Legolas exclaimed, echoing the healers' greeting, before clasping a hand to Elladan's shoulder as soon as he dismounted. "How was your journey? How fare the newlyweds?"

"They are hardly newlyweds, Legolas," Elladan grunted, relinquishing Runcynn's reins into the hands of a stableboy. "Though I must admit they do behave as though the sweetness of wedding mead has not yet faded upon their tongues. One can only suppose a child will change that…though such would not be my wish."

"A child?" Legolas quirked an eyebrow. "Am I to understand that…?"

"Indeed. Éowyn is due in the first months of winter, if my estimations are correct."

Legolas beamed. "I shall send my congratulations at once. Speaking of children…."

"How is she?"

"Tired. Proud. And in good hands." He squeezed Elladan's shoulder, as though sensing his worry, and pulled him onto the path that led towards the Houses of Healing.

Elladan bit the inside of his cheek. Despite Legolas' good humor, and his attempts at eluding the obvious, he could not forgo the fact that the moment had come earlier than expected. "And the child?" he quietly inquired as he fell into step with Legolas, remembering Saineth's exhaustion in the weeks that had preceded the birth. Had he tried harder, or had he complied with her demands, he might have managed to talk her into taking some rest….

"A babe in good health, equipped with every appendage an infant should possess." Legolas repressed a grin at the sight of Elladan's reluctant relief. "Elladan, you have trained our people well. Saineth has had the best help one could hope for. She and Caelben both extend their gratitude."

"I see."

"Judging from the sourness of your face, I highly doubt it."

"You are starting to sound like Saineth."

Legolas shrugged. "She is the only one who has ever managed to talk some sense into you…especially when you get it into your head that the weight of the world only has your shoulders to rest on."

Elladan scowled. "How are the preparations progressing?" he asked, changing the subject.

They had reached a crossroads. Here the path towards the Houses and that to the Anduin parted, their divergence marked by one small flowerbed, unremarkable in its emptiness, like many a space in a place as young as Bar-Lasbelin. Had he been tasked with recounting the number of times he had walked past, Elladan would have been hard-pressed to answer, and harder even to remember when, exactly, he had stopped noticing the circle of stones altogether.

Someone, it seemed, had noticed, and taken the matter into their own hands.

"Very well. Redhriel shall tell you so, herself." Legolas slowed down, nodding towards the approaching Steward, who was walking up the path that led to the Houses in a steady, if somewhat stiff, gait. "She has taken over the supervision for the repurposing of the basement, along with most of Saineth's tasks, and is thus better suited to brief you on the matter." Redhriel sketched a tense bow, acknowledging the credit she had been given. "As for me, I shall leave you to it. Oh, and Elladan…."

He tore his eyes away from the fragile green stems that had punctured the earth in the center of the flowerbed. "Yes?"

"Before you ask, there have been no ill news since your departure, nor new patients with the symptoms you have described." Legolas opened his arms and smiled. "Get some rest, my friend. Listen to the river, talk to the trees…sit in their shade and wait for them to answer. If there is something to be learned from these past days, it is that there should be a time in this world for enjoying life." He took a step back, turned around and walked a few steps before turning around once more. "You and I both know Saineth would want you to."

oOoOoOo

While Saineth's appointment had been Elladan's decision, Redhriel owed her place as Steward of the Women's Ward solely to Saineth. And while Elladan had never questioned her choice, he had often found himself wondering why, of all the competent healers that would have been honored to assume the position, she had chosen the less demonstrative of them all.

One might call Saineth blunt. One might even go as far as to call her intrusive – though never to her face – confusing her well-meaning heart with meddling due to the sharpness of her tongue. Yet her gentleness inevitably surfaced, sooner or later, in the form of a kind word or a smile. In the year or so since the foundation of Bar-Lasbelin, Elladan was yet to see such a display grace Redhriel's lips, so unwilling was she to let down a guard that more often than not passed for sternness.

"Our adherence to plan has been satisfactory so far."

Be it because of her natural penchant for concision, or despite of it, Redhriel was not prone to exaggeration. As soon as Elladan stepped into the shadowy coolness of the Houses' basement, the truth of her words unraveled before his eyes: the renovations were well under way. At first, he had feared what he would find there, following Redhriel down the staircase that had been walled off on the ground floor and about to be on the first, so as to restrict any movement between the quarantine ward and the storerooms.

"We have encountered some challenges," Redhriel kept reporting, her hands held demurely in front of her as they made their way beneath the arches, "namely in the fields of linen supply, as well as wall integrity. The first is now resolved," she sniffled in disdain, as though deeming the issue unworthy of his attention, "as for the second, Caelben has warned us against using the outer rooms until they have been rebuilt."

"I see."

In truth, Elladan was impressed by the tremendous work that their people had managed to accomplish in so short a time. The halls, which had been dug into the slopes of Ephel Dúath so as to expand the manor downwards without compromising on daylight, had stood empty ever since his arrival, encumbered with heaps of spare tiles and old furniture. Now his boots trod on stone that had been scrubbed clean of moss, eyes resting on freshly washed walls where hung tapestries moved from elsewhere in the Houses by some compassionate hand.

Amongst them, that of his own ancestor Eärendil, the light at Vingilótë's prow soon to become a beacon of hope for those seeking help against the plague.

"I shall contact Nordil – the Stonemasons' Guildmaster currently stationed in Osgiliath – to petition him for help." As he turned to inspect the ranks of beds that had been installed under the vaults, the footboards of golden pine barely dry, Elladan noticed the slight crinkling of Redhriel's nose, and the way she followed his gaze wherever it came to rest, as though trying to discern a fault before he did. "You have done well." He almost lay a hand upon her arm…almost. This was not Saineth, with her open ways and easy friendship; he had no wish to cause her any discomfort. "This is better than I could have hoped for."

"Thank you, my Lord." Elladan could have sworn he had just seen Redhriel blush with pride, though he held little doubt she would deny it fiercely. "Is there anything else you need?"

How quickly her demeanor had slipped back into place!

"You can go," Elladan dismissed her, watching as her taut shoulders disappeared into the basement depths.

Left alone, he listened for a while to the life of the Houses that hummed all around him: the scraping of a ladder on stone in one of the adjacent rooms, and the good-natured bickering of women regarding the position of the curtains to be hung. The muffled footsteps that echoed from the story above, and the whistling of the wind in the crevices Redhriel had spoken about.

Elladan decided to investigate.

The next hall stood empty, separated from its neighbor by a scaffold no doubt built by Caelben and his men, as evidenced by the rope of mallorn bark that held it together. Elladan dove between the beams, emerging on the other side only to squint at the sunlight that poured into the room.

The south-western corner had crumbled at its base, the rafters now supported by thick pillars deeply planted into the earth on each side of the wall. Strong hands had cleared the rubble away, but could not prevent the larkspur from creeping back into the room, the blue clusters swaying gently in the summer breeze. While the other rooms now smelled of lavender and citrus, much like its sister wards above, the chamber remained a wild place in comparison. Fragrances of fresh grass and warm earth wafted in through the crack, along with joyful chirrups that seemed to echo all the louder inside the empty hall.

Nothing that a few of Nardil's men could not repair.

Elladan all but turned on his heels, intending to keep his word about penning a letter to Osgiliath, before giving in to the urge that had been nagging him ever since he had set foot into the room. He slipped through the opening, and rose again outside before closing his eyes, his face offered to the benevolence of the afternoon sun. The wind rippled through his hair, like the combing of tender, invisible fingers, while the murmur of the river swelled inside his chest.

A lover's touch.

Biting back a sigh, Elladan opened his eyes once more. He was standing amidst half-buried rubble, overrun by bindweed that wound between clumps of grass, tying the islands of stone together into a trap meant to ensnare some distracted walker. Remembering Legolas' counsel, he stepped over the fragile, pink-and-white blooms that quivered upon his passage and made a beeline for the trail that led towards the quay.

Fattened by the confluents of the Glanhír and the Mouths of Entwash, the Anduin flowed wide and sluggish, its belly a deep blue while the shallow waters glimmered under the sun, the rattling of pebbles rolling down the banks. Downstream the bed narrowed, strangling the current so that it gained in both strength and speed. There Legolas had ordered a sawmill to be installed; the paddle wheel groaned as the river, trapped in a body of iron and wood, drove forward the blades while breathing life into the forges that stood nearby.

The quay itself – a simple embankment raised on pillars, downriver of the sawmill – served once a month for the shipping of lumber, as well as custom orders, down to Osgiliath, from where it was then dispatched to wherever else it was needed. The gold thus earned kept Bar-Lasbelin afloat, along with a grant from the crown of Gondor.

Elladan strolled down the trail that meandered between the willows and birches, listening to the martins' calls down in the sandy nooks sheltered by their roots and regretting not having taken the time to fetch his sketchbook beforehand. As the heart of the settlement grew more distant with each step, the voice of nature seemed to swell in comparison, growing bolder and more boisterous. Only the distant creaking of the wheel remained, an odd reminder that he had not wandered out of space and time.

That, and the splashing of pebbles being thrown into the river.

Both irked and curious as to who else favored his spot, Elladan wound his way through the brambles and down the eroded hillock that overhung the shore. Annoyance triumphed upon seeing the lone figure standing by the water edge, a bronzed arm raised with the intention to hurl yet another rock into the uncaring current.

Mehreen.

Unwilling to start yet another verbal joust, Elladan was about to resign to finding another spot when she hissed under her breath; the healer within raised his head, worried she may have hurt herself on such unsteady ground. Mehreen danced backwards, curling her toes in discomfort as the waves of the Anduin made another attempt to lick them. Then she picked up a pebble by her feet and, after what seemed to be a careful examination of its qualities, flung it into the river at a lower angle than before.

Plop.

Mehreen sighed, narrow shoulders slumping in defeat, and it dawned upon Elladan just what it was she was trying to accomplish.

"Bend your knees," he called out before even thinking his words through.

He who had once vowed not to make it a habit of startling her, saw Mehreen jump and whirl around, her skirts still held up at knee level. Her calves, as smooth and slender as he remembered, erupted in goosebumps as she unwittingly backed off into the water before yelping and leaping forward once more.

"Oh, it's you," she breathed and lay a hand upon her chest. Much to Elladan's relief, the fear had vanished from her almond-shaped eyes, the green of her irises strangely diluted in contrast to the long, dark lashes that fluttered downwards. "Lord Elladan, I mean." Her hand unclenched and the skirts fell, curtaining her feet once more.

"It was not my intention to frighten you," he belatedly announced, "but I could not help but notice…."

In the uncomfortable silence that settled in, Elladan thought that as foolish as it may sound, he may as well give it a try. He nodded towards the Anduin. "Would you like me to show you?" Not waiting for an answer, he strode towards the shore, pebbles crunching under his boots. "You must choose a stone as flat as you can find," he explained to no-one in particular, as though speaking to the martins in their nests, "and then you bend your knees…like so."

The stone ricocheted once, twice, three times before it sunk under the surface.

"Not my best throw," Elladan conceded aloud. "I must have lost my touch. My brother and I used to compete, when we were young, and believe me when I tell you the waters of the Bruinen are a far more merciless playground than the Anduin."

The memories had tumbled from his lips, unbidden. The thought of Elrohir pinched his heartstrings in a bittersweet melody where the tumult of a mountain stream mixed with their laughter. How many times had they snuck away from under their mother's nose to seek adventures in the valley, exploring caves and feasting on berries with a carelessness that horrified her? Even the time when Elrohir had fallen off a cliff, breaking his arm, now appeared as a fond moment; though uninjured, it had been Elladan who had bawled the loudest in sympathy for his twin – something that neither Elrohir himself nor Glorfindel, who had brought them back, had ever allowed him to forget.

"Good times, long past," Elladan mumbled, suddenly weary. Still no sign of acknowledgement from Mehreen; he had wasted his time, and hers.

Elladan turned to leave, the willow boughs ahead like welcoming arms, their shadows a refuge.

"I'd like to…I'll try."

Just like he had refused to look at her, did Mehreen march towards the river, her skirts soaking up water as she followed his advice. "Lower," Elladan could not help but cheer, endeared by the awkwardness of her movements and the genuine, child-like whoop of joy that escaped her as the pebble bounced off the surface.

"It worked!" Mehreen exclaimed, her cheeks aflush with pleasure. She turned to look at him at last, lips parted slightly, before a frown of surprise creased her forehead.

As if she was seeing him for the first time.

Something tugged inside Elladan's chest, like a bowstring being released. A sudden, dangerous thing, like the dry firing Glorfindel had often cautioned him against lest the bow snapped. But Elladan did not feel broken; if anything, the tension that had knotted his shoulders had drained away.

What danger could possibly lie in something as inconsequential, as freely given as teaching her how to skip stones?

"It worked," Mehreen repeated, searching out his eyes in timid disbelief. "I used to watch my brothers throw stones as far as you just did. It seemed so easy, so I thought I could do it…but I couldn't, and they'd laugh at me for even trying."

"I have a sister." Few people knew that before she had grown into her present grace and wisdom, Arwen had been a willful child, bent on following her brothers in their adventures, much to their mother's despair and Elladan's own rancor. "Children can be cruel…even elven ones."

Mehreen seemed to ponder his confession. She took a step along the shore and Elladan found himself following, his eyes drawn despite himself to the triangle of skin upon her neck where the dark waves of her hair had parted.

"When I was younger," she was saying, her voice growing huskier and more accented as she dove deeper into her memories, "I used to think that if I ever came upon a genie, I'd wish I could do everything my brothers could…" she lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, "…but that's a silly thing to wish for, I know it now." She turned towards him and smiled, pushing a lock behind her ear as she did so. "I'm glad you showed me how to do it, so that I won't waste a wish, if such a moment ever comes."

Elladan chuckled. "In this case, I am glad to have happened by."

Mehreen stopped and bent to pick up her boots where she had left them, laying on buckthorn leaves under the grassy overhanging, along with her shawl. She hesitated, as though unwilling to offend him by bidding him turn away; Elladan almost told him she need not bother, as her charms held little sway over his instincts, but pretended to watch the river instead. From the corner of his eye, he saw her push up her skirts and, setting one delicate foot onto a clump of weed, slip the boot up her calf. Her hands did a swift work of the lacings, slipping under the leather to smooth some uncomfortable crease in a caress that no doubt would have driven any Southron man over the edge of desire.

Elladan was no Southron, and he was only half a man, yet the gesture was so tender, so intimate, that he turned away in haste.

"I see your hands have mended," he observed at the intention of the willows that swayed on the opposite bank, clearing his throat as the statement came out hoarser than anticipated.

"Yes. Thank you again for what you've done. And said," she added after a moment's silence. "Things are very different, where I come from."

A pang of guilt spurred his conscience at the memory of that night. "I should have worded it differently," Elladan muttered, clasping his hands in his back as he walked her back towards the trail.

"But you meant it."

His temper flared at her words. If she was hoping for an apology, she was sorely mistaken. Steeling his resolve, Elladan plunged his eyes into the green of hers lest she thought him a coward. "I did."

A small, uncertain nod. Mehreen clambered up the hillock, struggling with her skirts and stopping to untangle her shawl from the blackberry shrubs before Elladan could help her, still shaken as he was by the intensity of his annoyance. His blood coursed hot through his veins at the thought of her impudence. She had named a donkey after him, for Eru's sake! Legolas had laughed when he had told him.

If Saineth's irreverence tested his patience – an undeniably elven quality – then Mehreen possessed the dubious talent of bringing out the impulsivity of the man within.

A trait he must now learn to harness.

A.N.: the name of Elladan's horse, Runcynn, is Rohirric, a combination of two Old English words: 'run-kind'.