Hi all! Posting this new chapter a day ahead of time, as I happen to be away from my laptop for the weekend, and still wanted to be punctual.

Warning: in continuation of the previous chapter, darkess and tragedy lie ahead. Feel free to skip to the ending for a summary if you'd rather not read this kind of content. I do promise not every upcoming chapter's going to be this way, and there's still enough fluff to come to satisfy everyone :)

Chapter 39

August 17th, TA 3020

Elladan had to carry the boy, for he could no longer walk.

An arm snaked under his knees and the other beneath his shoulder blades, he had hoisted him off the bed of leaves he had slumped onto, as though taking a peaceful, well-deserved nap. Now, as the boy's head bobbed limply with his every step, his breathing shallow against Elladan's chest, he feared he may not wake up again.

"Was he alone?" he asked Ríndir who preceded him on the path while throwing worried glances over his shoulder.

"Yes, my Lord."

Even so, Elladan would order a search of the woods and the road that led to Bar-Lasbelin, in case he had been separated from his kin, be it by force or necessity; if such was the case, the rangers would find the others before any harm befell them, or someone else stumbled upon them – someone unaware of the danger of contagion they posed.

"Run ahead," he commanded. "Tell them what you have seen."

He trusted Arhel, his Chief Nurse and the leader of the first – and exclusively elven – team he had constituted in case of such emergencies, to read through the lines of Ríndir's story and have the required supplies ready for Elladan's arrival.

Water. Bandages. Maggots.

While walking, Elladan inspected the boy's hands, folded upon his stomach and covered in burns. The glossy, pink flesh that gaped from beneath charred skin still oozed liquid – a sign that the nerves had not been severed, and that the members could still be saved. The wounds rose well above his wrists and under the blackened rags of his shirt sleeves, yet Elladan had not dared inspect them further for fear of doing more damage. It was a mercy the boy had lost consciousness upon arrival, for the briskness of Elladan's pace would not have failed to elicit an agony leading to that same result.

It was as though he had stepped back in time, returning to that vast, bleak plain plowed by the wheels of war machines and littered with corpses. He and Elrohir had been searching the battlefield for human survivors of both camps while ending the suffering of the rest, when they had happened upon the remains of a collapsed tower, blackened in the wake of the wildfire it had held and which had spread to the wooden walls, killing the men still trapped inside. No sense of looking for survivors here, Elladan had mused, only to hear a muffled whimper rise from the tower depths.

It had been a boy no older than fifteen – an age where one would fancy himself a man already – mangled beyond their help. His pleading eyes had roamed wildly over Elladan's face, trapped in a body that no longer responded to his will until they, too, had stilled. And if the shadows that now fell on Elladan's shoulders were those of firs and beeches rather than the heavy mantle cast by the Rammas Echor, and the ground beneath his feet crackling of pine needles rather than of bones, he remembered that boy's face, so alike the one he was seeing now: soot-stained skin the color of dull bronze, and long lashes closed on eyes he guessed to be as dark as the night.

A boy of Haradric blood, lost far from his homeland.

Tearing a shortcut through the undergrowth that lay between them and the Houses of Healing, Elladan emerged into the sunlight only to dive into the twilight of the basement halls once more, the doors of the new ward closing in his back. "Get the shears," he instructed his healers as he lay the boy upon the closest bed, "we must get the clothes off him."

Then, forgetting his exhaustion, Elladan proceeded to do just that. Yet as soon as the metal touched the boy's skin he awoke, sucking in a breath before coughing out another bloody spray from his scorched lungs.

"Help," he rasped, his arms flaying in panic, so that Elladan feared he would hurt himself further.

"You are safe, now," he cajoled, wishing he knew his name to better reassure him. Pressing a hand on the boy's shoulder – one of the few parts untouched by fire – he maintained him against the mattress, gently yet firmly. "You have nothing to fear."

"Help…us."

The boy buckled, fighting Elladan's grasp as though it was his hand that compressed his chest. His eyes rolled inside his orbits, red and teary. "Help…." he wheezed once more, "Sickness…Mitharlan…."

He was running out of time.

Closing his eyes, Elladan dove into the boy's body, the tendrils of his conscience venturing deep beneath his palm, under the layers of thoracic muscle and the pleura. He ought to feel the movement, wide and unrestrained, of the boy's lungs; yet all there was, was a convulsive shudder. He was drowning in air, unable to take another breath.

"My Lord…." Elladan heard Arhel protest.

Deeper.

His trachea burned. No, not his…the boy's, Elladan realized, grimacing at the sensation mirrored in his own throat, the taste of ash upon his tongue.

Deeper.

He found the bronchi, like so many roots stemming from the blackened trunk; they were shriveled up and leaking, coated in a mucus as black as tar. His lungs were failing. Elladan opened his mouth, gasping for a breath he could no longer take. There was a weight inside his chest, crushing him, crushing his heart….

"My Lord!"

A hand upon his shoulder, tugging, pulling him out.

"No! Hold him still!"

Shrugging it off, Elladan focused on the boy, struggling to keep their bond intact. Father would have found much to say regarding what he was about to do; by Angainor, Elladan himself would have chewed out anyone foolish enough to tap into his own energy twice in a row. Yet he had no other choice. If given the time, he could have tried to wash the boy's lungs with saline solution, so as to clear the ducts of soot and burned tissue, or to drain the inflammation into a less critical part of his body. Now, upon feeling the desperate strength of his convulsions, Elladan understood that moment was long past.

Deeper.

He was racing down a dark, winding corridor. No doors nor windows, only the stench of smoke filling the air. Shivering, Elladan willed himself to go deeper, pouring his own life into where the boy's light had once been….

"Elladan, you must stop!"

He reeled, uncomprehending, blinking at the sudden brightness. The room slowly spun into reality: the boy upon the bed, as still as stone, and the people surrounding him – Arhel, with her long face drawn in sorrow, and Redhriel, her arms crossed upon her chest as she came to stand between them.

"My Lord, I fear we have lost him."

"No. Wait!"

"There is nothing more you can do," she implored, resting a hand upon his leaden chest. "Do not spend yourself trying to undo what even Mandos would not."

Elladan side-stepped her, marching towards the bed to draw the curtains aside. The boy's ashen face appeared, peaceful at last, his singed lashes still against hollow cheeks. One arm hung from the bed in deceptive nonchalance, as though he had fallen asleep without meaning to.

"Get out."

"But, my Lord…."

"I said, get out. All of you."

His fist closed over the bedpost finial, his knuckles white with the anguish he dared not show, Elladan waited for the door to close after Redhriel before staggering away, drunk on his guilt.

Another failure to carry upon his conscience; another notch on an already long list.

Had he been stronger, or faster, he might have saved this boy. Had he been a better man, he would have found the courage to beg Elrohir for his help, and the two of them might have gathered enough power between them to ignite the spark of his life anew. Legolas would tell him there was no knowing what could have happened, had wishes been horses, and all that, but the insidious certainty sat heavy in Elladan's stomach, like a stone in a never-ending sea.

Forgive me.

In truth, he was not entirely sure whom he was addressing his plea to. The dead boy, or Elrohir, or even the Powers themselves? Elladan knew could not go on like this – the loneliness, the exhaustion, the blame. Sagging to the floor he drew a shaky breath, savoring the air that filled his lungs, as sweet as honey. If wishes were horses, he would be galloping through the woods with his hair unbound, belting out one of Lindir's lamest songs. He would be laughing with Mehreen, her green eyes as soothing as a balm, her face lifted towards him like a blooming rose. She would be wearing something absurdly bright and summery, and tease him for being late.

Yes, Elladan decided. If he ever met one of her genies, he would ask for just that.

For the moment, however, his work here was not yet done. He had been reluctant to subject anyone else to what needed to happen after, but for the sake of everyone in the settlement – Mehreen included – he needed to know.

Picking himself off the floor with newfound determination, Elladan lay a hand upon the boy's forehead, smoothing his curls away from his face like a mother would have done.

Forgive me.

Then he picked up a scalpel, and set to work.

oOoOoOo

"Are you certain?"

"Without a doubt, though having seen what I have, I wonder which is worse. A sickness, at least, we can attempt to cure, but there is none yet against the cruelty of some men." Pulling himself a chair Elladan turned its back towards the corridor and sat astride the seat, resting his chin atop his crossed arms. He was of a mind to spare Legolas the detail of his observations, namely the contusions that had formed beneath the burns, and that would have gone unnoticed without a close examination of the boy's injuries. "Though I had thought his symptoms to be that of the plague, I was mistaken. His lungs have sustained severe damaged in a fire, but there is no trace of affliction, caused by the fumes of Mordor or otherwise."

"Hmm." Resting his back against the wall some paces away, Legolas crossed his arms. "But he did mention a sickness?"

"Indeed. And a village, Mitharlan. Have you heard of it?"

"Mitharlan," Legolas repeated under his breath. "Cannot say I have, though perhaps is it too small to appear on a map. Faramir may know, however. Shall I write him a letter?"

Elladan scoffed mirthlessly. "And hope for a reply? Eh. The boy was no ranger. His trace should not prove difficult to find and, if he managed to reach us in his state, the journey must not be a long one."

"In this case, I shall muster a party." Legolas tilted his head, studying Elladan across the distance of the corridor. "I suppose you will want to go.

Too tired to tease Legolas about such astuteness, Elladan only nodded and, turning his head, lay his cheek upon his forearm, allowing himself to close his eyes for an instant. There was no shortness of beds in the neighboring rooms, but he longed for his own, up in the loft, beneath the roof, where he could hear the scuttling of leaves over the tiles. The boy's ghost would haunt these halls for some time yet, and Elladan had no wish to encounter him in his dreams, those bloodshot eyes open in mute accusation.

"Any recommendations?" A short silence ensued, before Legolas spoke again, his voice deceptively disinterested: "Why not your Hopeful Three?"

Elladan snorted in his semi-slumber. For all three combined, he could see a good dozen reasons as to why not, but guessed that none of those would stand a chance against Legolas who, judging by his tone, was trying his best to remain diplomatic in leaving Elladan the illusion of a choice. "Very well," he drawled against the back of his hand, "but then I shall have to borrow Faineth and Amdirfel." Both were long-time healers, and Mirkwood archers to boot, which should prove a suitable compensation for the other three's inexperience. A skilled ranger, Faineth would have no trouble tracking the boy back to his village. As such, the party appeared to be complete, but there was one more addition Elladan had been meaning to make, without being quite certain of the wisdom of his decision. "I shall also take Gaerlin."

This time, the silence stretched on for longer than he had expected. Blinking his bleary eyes open, Elladan raised his head to watch Legolas pinch his lips in a grimace of concern. "I trust you know what you are doing."

"Not really," Elladan admitted, perhaps more sincerely than he ought to. "But I see no other way. As Berendir said, there is but one way to reforge a mind such as his, and though I like it no more than you do, I do not see any other option besides giving up and letting him wither away."

Judging by Legolas' unwilling expression, his friend liked the options no better than he. "I will ask him," his friend eventually conceded "though I would have preferred you told me this in a less…altered state." Uncrossing his arms, he pushed himself off the wall. "Is this truly necessary?" he asked, waving a hand at the distance separating them. "I thought you had said the boy was not contaminated."

"Non-contaminated does not equal non-contagious, my friend. However tedious it may feel to be robbed of my delightful company, you shall have to make do until Beylith's cleansing solution has had the time to produce its effect."

Even now, it was drying on his skin and in his hair, so that Elladan stank of valerian from his braids down to his toes. Toes which he wriggled upon feeling the unpleasant coldness of stone seep into his skin, numbing the balls of his feet. The clothes he had worn were being burned as they spoke, and if there was someone – beside the recently disembodied embodiment of Evil itself – who must be rubbing their hands at the prospect of benefitting from the plague, it was the Weavers' Guild of Minas Tirith.

Legolas smiled wryly. "However shall I manage, I wonder."

"You can start by doing me a favor."

"Ooh." Legolas grinned in that detestable manner of his, as if he had known something Elladan did not. Which should not even have been possible, since Legolas was younger than he by a good eight hundred years. "And which favor would that be?"

"Since I am stuck in this basement for another twelve hours at least, I would ask of you one thing." Elladan hesitated. He had been meaning to do it himself, but the boy's arrival had robbed him of the chance. With a departure looming on the horizon – hopefully along with his pillow – and involving his absence for the foreseeable future, the odds of finding the time to do so were dwindling into nothing. "I would like you to give something back to Mehreen. Stop smirking," he groused upon seeing Legolas' grin widen at his words. "It is but a book she had forgotten in the library."

A storybook, to be precise, the most ridiculous one Elladan had ever had the misfortune to read. Though well-acquainted with the story of Thorin Oakenshield's excursion into the North to slay Smaug and reclaim the throne of Erebor, for having heard it from Bilbo himself – who had grown increasingly fond of sharing as the years went by – Elladan was yet to see it told from another's perspective…though he would never have wagered that anyone, anywhere, would have believed the mayor of Laketown to be a credible hero.

Yet there was no denying that for all its inanity, Mehreen must have been very fond of that particular book, and thus Elladan decided not to disclose he had taken the time to repair it, upon seeing how well-loved and worn it was. Not that it had cost him much of an effort; he had been meaning to bind Mehreen's translation into a book of its own, anyway, and a little more string and leather was nothing he could not spare. The inside hinges were in dire need of mending as well, and Elladan had spent an evening rummaging through the old tomes of the library – the ones beyond hope of repair – to find paper matching that of Mehreen's book. Then he had noticed the hardness of the cover, and had ordered some neatsfoot oil from a shop in Pelargir to coat it with.

All in all, no effort whatsoever.

"It is in my study, somewhere on my desk."

"Hmm." Using the tip of his boot to move some invisible pebble out of the way, his head bent in concentration, Legolas ended up sighing. "Have you seen the state of your study, of late?" As Elladan opened his mouth to protest, his friend shook his head in consternation. "Your desk alone is a quest for an entire afternoon, and even so, I may need a map from you to locate it beforehand. No, it is best I refrain from intruding into your den, but rest assured that I shall see to it that you have ample time for goodbyes. In the meantime…."

He reached into his pourpoint to retrieve a thin tome, in which Elladan recognized one of his latest lectures: 'A Pain in the Ash', by a hobbit healer named Bosco Bumblechook, who claimed to have devised a novel approach to the use of ash seeds in the treatment of chronic aches.

A book that Elladan distinctly remembered having left upon his desk.

"Interesting bookmarks you have," Legolas commented slyly as he tossed the book at Elladan, who caught it by leaping to his feet, thus distracted from providing a suitable retort. As on cue, the tome opened on one of the first pages, marked by a sheet of parchment representing none other than Mehreen herself. "Here I was, worried you might feel lonely in your confinement…now I am reassured."

And with that, Legolas turned on his heels and took off down the dimly lit corridor towards the staircase in the distance, while Elladan stood speechless astride his chair, the book still clutched in one hand and the drawing in the other.

Summary:

Once arrived to the borders of the settlement, Elladan finds an unconscious and injured boy bearing heavy burns over his hands and forearms. The boy, who seems of Southron descent, reminds him of a young warrior Elladan and Elrohir had been unable to save, on the Pelennor fields, and Elladan vows to save this new patient. However, as he starts to treat the boy, the latter begs him for help, mentioning a sickness in a village named Mitharlan, before his body fails him. While trying to save the boy, Elladan finds his own strength utterly depleted, and is unable to do so. The boy succumbs to his burns, and Elladan sends everyone out of the room before performing an autopsy to determine the cause of death.

In a second scene, Elladan informs Legolas that the boy didn't die of the plague; instead, he's sustained heavy internal damage from what must be a fire. Elladan decides to go to the village, and see if the villagers are indeed sick of the plague. Legolas advises him not to go alone, and Elladan accepts to bring along his three vying apprentices, as well as two experienced scouts, and Gaerlin (though Legolas is doubtful regarding the wisdom of this choice).

However, before he can leave, Elladan must wait out a quarantine period and, since he's stuck in the Houses' basement, he asks a favor of Legolas: that he bring something from his office to Mehreen. This something happens to be her mother's book, which Elladan has found and gone to great pains in restoring to its former beauty. Legolas refuses, telling his friend such a mission can only be accomplished by Elladan himself. To help him while away the time, he tosses a book his way, which he picked up from Elladan's desk. Inside is one of Elladan's sketches of Mehreen, and Legolas comments on his friend's choice of bookmarks before leaving him alone.

A.N.: Mitharlan is a made-up village name of Ithilien, meaning 'grey stone in a clearing' in Sindarin:

- Mith: grey,

- Sarn: stone,

- Lant: clearing in a forest.