Chapter 8

June 17th, TA 3020

Mehreen hadn't slept well that night, curled up in a ball under the covers as she listened raptly to the sounds outside the window that punctuated Ahlam's steady breathing. There were things, up in the trees, that called out to each other, and things that crept through the woods, scratching and scurrying, in which Mehreen tried to discern the footsteps of a man coming to abduct her. When morning came to find the door as locked as it'd been the evening before, Meheen breathed out in relief, rubbing from her eyes the hours of wasted sleep.

To say she'd been growing accustomed to her new home! By that Mehreen meant she now found her way in and out of the dormitory – where she and Ahlam shared a room smaller than a scullery maid's in her father's palace – without having to ask for directions, and knew the path towards both the dining hall and the washery. She wasn't welcome in the latter any longer, so it was a small mercy that Ahlam had managed to retain her position there. Mehreen still struggled when it came to get to the stream, having to rely upon her hearing; now, she expected she'd have to avoid it as well.

The cut under her foot still stung, but the wound was clean and almost closed; a shallow slit, gained while trying to flee from the man who's ambushed her when she was bathing. Mehreen tried it out gingerly as she got out of bed, relieved to find it didn't hurt as much as she'd feared.

Despite the so-called Gondorian summer, the floorboards were cold. Mehreen shivered as she pulled off her shift to don a pair of pink trousers and a matching chemise. The embroidery upon the cuffs was starting to lose its shine, growing dull and soft under the touch; with no golden thread to replace it, Mehreen hid the signs of wear under a kaftan of bright blue wool that reminded her of the sea. The sun was rising over the mountains, and its rays would not reach into the room until mid-afternoon. While Mehreen still harbored the hope to grow accustomed to the climate, for the time being she only grabbed a shawl from the back of one of the two plain chairs that stood in the room, one across the other, and pulled it around her shoulders.

With the sun came the realization of her own childishness.

It may have been silly of her to flee the way she had, but Lalla Nafiyah's teachings were too deeply ingrained to be forgotten so quickly. In afterthought, the man who'd surprised her hadn't seemed all that bent on ravishing her, appearing as shocked as she was, but Mehreen's experience of Gondorian men so far was as small as it was disappointing. Deor's violence, the guide's betrayal and the scorn of the city guards…none of it had made her any less cautious, or inclined to believe in their inherent goodness.

Lord Legolas, at least, had proven a steady example of politeness, even if said politeness was delivered in the form of short, concise sentences. Not that Mehreen had hoped for anything more. After her disastrous performance over the course of the month, she was surprised he hadn't yet cast her out. Ahlam, for her part, was doing much better, and it came as a source of secret vexation to Mehreen that her maid should've found an easier way into the hearts of her new household than she.

It hadn't been for lack of trying.

Just like in Minas Tirith, Mehreen had done her best to treat the women with the same respect she would've granted the other wives, had Lord Legolas become her husband. She'd inquired about the number and names of their children, praised the wisdom of their fathers, and wished prosperity upon their husbands and brothers…until one of them had sneered that said brothers and husbands were now dead at the hands of the Haradrim.

Her reply must've been offensive, and her offer to pray together for the atonement of their errors unwelcome, for they'd chased her out, yelling and throwing pails of water until Mehreen was soaked to the bone; at least, she'd thought belatedly, under all the water, no-one could see her tears.

Ahlam was stronger than she was, more enduring, and wiser, even; for whatever she'd been doing – or not doing – had won her a form of respect amongst the local women, however precarious due to her ties to Mehreen. Perhaps she could ask for her maid's advice on the matter? The idea was a novel one, and odd to say the least. Lalla Laila, for one, would've scoffed at Mehreen's foolishness for even thinking about it, bringing it up as another example of her lack of common sense when next she'd speak to her husband regarding the respective merits of his daughters. It went without saying that Hanaa never would've come up with such a far-fetched concept, but gentle Hanaa never would've needed such advice in the first place.

For the first time in her life Mehreen envied her half-sister's simple ways. The times in their childhood when Hanna had been punished were few enough to be counted on the fingers of a single hand, and even so, Mehreen would still have a spare finger or two. Besides, it'd always been her own fault, for only sisterly love could've driven Hanaa to disobey. Lalla Laila knew this full well, and the brunt of the punishment thus fell twice as heavily upon Mehreen than her own daughter.

Or, rather, on Ahlam.

Her faithful maid, who was long since ready for the day, her narrow bed made and her dark hair neatly tucked beneath an improvised coif. At present, she busied herself with the examination of one of Mehreen's tunics, her eyes narrowed at the sight of a tear. How long before Ahlam decided it was she who didn't need Mehreen any longer? As Mehreen reached towards the windowsill to move one of the nine little stones that lay there from right to left, she knew she could ask, should ask Ahlam how she did it. Instead, she hunched her shoulders, shielding herself from the cold, and looked out the window, where daylight seeped through the treetops. "I don't know what to do."

"This time it will be different, my Lady," Ahlam spoke up softly as though she'd been reading her thoughts.

Another mistress would have scolded her for her boldness, but Mehreen knew what she owed her maid. "Why would it be?" she sighed, resigning herself for another frustrating day. "I'm not getting any better, am I?"

oOoOoOo

Saineth, the elven woman who came to fetch Mehreen in the Great Hall, was as blithe as Lord Legolas was distant, as dark-haired as he was pale and so heavily pregnant that her belly preceded her around every corner. Over the course of the month she'd spent in Bar-Lasbelin, Mehreen's fear of elves had subsided into lukewarm cautiousness, but the knowledge that this woman held her future in her small yet strong-looking hands was more than enough to intimidate her.

"I am told you are to work with us from now on," the elf declared as she examined Mehreen from head to toe, tactful enough not to point out the loose thread that hung from the sleeve of her kaftan, and which Mehreen hadn't noticed before stepping out that very morning. "Have you any experience in healing?"

Mehreen's heart sank. Had no-one warned her about her talents, or rather lack of? If not, the woman – Saineth, her name was Saineth, Mehreen must remember that – would soon see for herself; but burning dinner was one thing, and stitching up wounds another entirely. She looked away, only to meet the severity of Godwyn's stare, the cook's pristine apron a stark contrast to the blackened wall of the oven.

"I've not…I've never…." Mehreen bit her lip. "I'm not very skilled, I'm sorry." Her hands itched to pull on the offending thread, and remove it from sight.

It was Saineth's time to frown. "Not very skilled at what, exactly?"

"Everything."

Another appraising look, after which Mehreen expected her to march off towards wherever Lord Legolas was to pass her on to someone else like the famed hunchback of Basrah; someone who could be bothered to try and cram anything at all into that skewed mind of hers.

Back in Jufayrah there'd been the hope, at least, to find her a husband appreciative enough of her beauty to disregard a future wife's lack of intelligence. Some men even preferred it that way rather than the opposite, Lalla Laila had once mentioned – implying, of course, that she lacked neither – though it seemed imprudent to say the least to entrust the running of a household to one as Mehreen. Here, in Bar-Lasbelin, where elven fairness put any mortal woman's charms to shame, her looks imported little, casting a cruel light upon what remained.

But the elf only crossed her arms atop her bulging belly, and narrowed her dark eyes. "Are you willing to learn?"

"Oh yes!" The exclamation escaped Mehreen before she'd even thought the question over, or realized that such precipitation could only do her disservice. Who'd want to work with a woman who didn't take the time to think before she spoke?

"Good. Leave it to me to ensure that you do."

And so Mehreen followed the elf out of the Hall, trying to ignore the snickers of the kitchen help, Godwyn's relief and her own bewilderment about whether Saineth's words had been a threat or a promise.

In spite of her state, the elven woman walked briskly and with grace, unlike Lalla Raeha's pained waddling as she made her way between the harem and the gardens, the ties of her trousers digging into the swollen flesh of her ankles; her plain, brown dress covered her feet, billowing as she strode through the settlement, Mehreen on her heel. From behind, it became much harder to catch and remember a trait Mehreen could hope to associate with her name; she focused at the long, thick tresses that hung in the elf's back. Black as night, and smooth like satin…if one was to omit the 't', it sounded almost like Saineth.

Pleased with herself, Mehreen only noticed the elf had been talking again when she turned around and frowned, wondering perhaps as to why Mehreen was smiling. Wiping the grin off her face, Mehreen picked up her pace in the hopes of following both her steps and her lecture.

The Houses of Healing, the elf was explaining as they passed a crossing between two narrow paths that looped around a wooden bench, which stood empty at this time of the morning, were the heart of Bar-Lasbelin; the cornerstone of what Lord Legolas had been trying to accomplish by founding a settlement in Ithilien, far from the tumult of the cities that had survived the war, and the ruins of those that didn't. The mending of the body relied on the patient's spirit, she added as Mehreen struggled to both keep up and listen, all the while trying to remember the way and despairing she wouldn't. Some patients had seen the wounds of their body close and fade, while their mind refused to relinquish the agony, oblivious that the reason for the pain was no longer. And where the infirmaries of human cities lacked the place or the time to keep them, the elves had plenty of both.

"Here they can rest," the elf was saying, "and heal, and find both purpose and fellowship before they are ready to return to their homes."

Mehreen couldn't deny that the women here seemed more independent than those she'd known in Jufayrah. Even Lalla Ishtar, for all her experience, had had little choice but to rely on her brother's goodwill. Mehreen's father and brothers wouldn't have failed to frown upon such unchecked autonomy, and yet….

Had Lalla Zahra been offered a choice, would she have gone back to her brother's house, where the other women mocked her for her barrenness?

"Do they?" Mehreen wondered timidly, "return, I mean?"

"Some may yet find that courage," the woman's voice dropped as though she both hoped for and doubted that outcome, "while others may never feel ready to face what they lost." She glanced over her shoulder, as if gauging the mettle Mehreen was made of. "And what about you?"

Mehreen's fingers stilled in their worrying of the loose thread, a task she'd been hoping to finish before they arrived. "What about me?"

"The war has affected us all, some in greater ways than others. Had it not been your case, I doubt we would be speaking, here and now." It took a few more steps before the elf acknowledged her silence and stopped, turning around with her hands on her hips, her belly pointing accusingly towards Mehreen. "I care little for your history, child. But the place we are about to reach is, and shall remain, a haven of safety for those who still suffer from their wounds. Lord Legolas has told me you have had some…troubles at your previous positions, and I am willing to disregard them, as long as you promise to work hard – for it will be difficult, make no mistake about it." The clearing was empty around them, the distant facades deaf and blind to their exchange with their shuttered windows and the shadows filling the arches. The elf crossed her arms on her chest. "What I am concerned with, however, is whether your former allegiance may lead you to endanger my patients."

The thread snapped as Mehreen tugged on it resolutely, chastising herself for failing to see the trap. "I wish no-one here any ill."

"And I shall take your word on that." She quelled Mehreen's indignation with one sharp look and uncrossed her arms, considering the matter closed. "For as long as you work in the Houses, you will leave your personal grudges at the door."

For a moment, Mehreen's joy at having found a place willing to forgive her ineptitude deflated, as if she'd seen in the elf something that had proven disappointing after all, like a gift that, once unwrapped, proved to be something far less exciting than expected. Yet she trudged after her, sulking in silence, trying to swallow the bitter certainty that everyone, in this remote hamlet, knew of her misfortune.

The sun warmed her back, having risen high enough to encompass the settlement in its entirety, from the upper-located buildings such as the dormitories, woven into the woods that grew upon the foothills, down to the lower shops that stood by the river: the smithy and the sawmill, whose rooves glistened in the sun. Their ridge pieces, sculpted in the shape of curled-up leaves, stood out against the purple sky. Upon reaching another crossing the woman turned right; Mehreen noted the empty flowerbed in its center, so small it was merely a pot that had been interred and lined with stones; the flowers which had been planted there had long since lost their bloom, and only the wilted, lonely stems now remained.

A sad omen, if there ever was one.

"Well-met, Fengel," the elf called out to a man hobbling towards them, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealing muscular forearms criss-crossed with scars. He looked up from his foot, which he cautiously stepped in between the crutches supporting him; his other leg ended at the knee, the trousers pinned up underneath.

"Well met, Mistress," Fengel bowed his straw-colored head in return, and his smile faltered upon spotting Mehreen. He didn't extend his greeting and, remembering the women's accusations regarding the role of Harad in the war, Mehreen guessed that hers wouldn't be welcome either.

"Do not let Berendir work you into exhaustion," the elf cautioned him with a smile that belied the severity of her warning, oblivious of the tension, "and if he does try, tell him he and I shall trade words he will long remember."

"He lost his leg on Pelennor," she clarified as they came out of earshot, "crushed by his own horse. The wounds are closed, but he can neither ride nor fight any longer, though I have hope that in the years to come he shall have need for neither. It is a bitter truth to swallow for one of the Rohirrim, and Lord Legolas is doing his best to provide him with another purpose than war."

So this was the kind of patient that Mehreen would have to take care of. Broken men, angry men, men robbed of a chance to take their revenge on the enemy. The women's wrath may be preferable.

After all, it was a kind of despair she could relate to.

oOoOoOo

The Houses of Healing of Bar-Lasbelin had been built atop the ruins of an old manor – one fallen under the effect of time, rather than destruction wrought by war. The ruins stood inside a dimple in the side of the hill, surrounded by firs and ashes, the stones of its foundations overgrown with vine that crept up the large, square towers which flanked the façade on each side. Where the stones ended, the elves had kept the walls rising with wood, so that not one façade resembled another, the jagged line of granite blending smoothly into the red-gold of cedar. In the front, where the Houses faced the Anduin, most of the façade still remained, so that the high windows of a once proud home now opened onto luminous halls, embroidered white curtains billowing in the morning breeze, too fresh to predate the repurposing of the manor.

"A gift from Queen Arwen," the elf declared upon seeing Mehreen's amazement. "Now come on in, let us not dally any longer."

The place was unfamiliar, yet Mehreen was filled with a sense of belonging. Beyond the main gate a dark, narrow hallway was pierced with a second door, which opened onto a square courtyard. In its center stood a venerable oak, so tall that the lower canopy brushed against the roof ridges, growing as high as the towers from what Mehreen could see, shielding the courtyard from the sun. A gallery ran along the walls, slender arches supporting the story built over the ruins; beneath its sloped roof, countless doors opened onto the rooms of those who dwelt here, reminding Mehreen of her father's palace.

A house for healing indeed.

"Here we are," the woman concluded as she opened her arms, glowing with pride despite her clipped tone. "Your new assignment. I trust you to carry out your tasks with the utmost commitment, now that you know how important this place is."

Mehreen did remember, but panicked at the realization that just as she'd feared, the elf's name had slipped her mind over the course of their – albeit short – journey. She bit her lip, trying to recall it by the sheer force of her will, as though conjuring some ancient creature, using its name to bind it lest it devoured her. A beautiful face, as comely as it remained unfamiliar, and green eyes narrowed in expectation; the woman did seem puzzled at Mehreen's lack of response, though nowhere as ferocious as the qutrub from her childhood's tales.

The elf tossed her braid back with an impatient hand. "Well?"

The hair! Like satin, without a 't'.

"Of course, mistress Saineth," Mehreen murmured, allowing herself a sigh of relief as the elf nodded in approval.

"Now I shall take you to the Chief Healer of Bar-Lasbelin. Lord Elladan does not train the newcomers himself, but it is fitting that you meet him…if only this once."

Mehreen blanched. "Lord Elladan?" she stammered, suddenly as heavy as though all the knowledge she'd swallowed had turned to stones inside her stomach.

"Lord Elladan of Imladris is indeed Chief Healer here. Do you know him?"

It had been a trap, after all, and Saineth perhaps no more than an unsuspecting accomplice…unless she'd brought Mehreen here on purpose? Mehreen's gaze darted to the door; she knew she must flee, but her feet remained rooted into place, a cold sweat trickling down the small of her back.

"What is the matter with you, child? Are you unwell?"

The once comforting walls of the courtyard closed in on Mehreen, the jagged line of granite moving ominously in the swaying shadows cast by the oak, like gnashing teeth ready to tear her apart. She flinched away from the hand Saineth extended towards her, the once-graceful fingers bent like claws…

…Much like Deor's had been.

"Don't touch me! I have to…." Mehreen gasped for air. "I have to leave…."

"What is going on, here? Saineth?"

The sharpness of this new voice cut through the cloying mists of her panic; Mehreen spun around. "You," she choked upon facing its owner.

"Elladan, I am sorry," Saineth interjected, her hands upon her belly in a gesture of protectiveness – and so she should, unless she ignored the true nature of this so-called Lord. "All was going well, but she became distressed upon hearing your name…."

"You!" Mehreen snarled again with renewed indignation.

He could well wear the mask of dignity, deceiving even those closest to him, but she knew what he was capable of; at least, this time he was fully clothed, and so she sprang upon the greatest offence of the two she now held against him.

"You killed my brother!"

A.N.: A few clarifications regarding the contents of this chapter:

- A qutrub is, in Arabian folklore, a werewolf-like monster who is a type of demon (or jinn).

- The tale of the hunchback from Basrah is one of the stories from 1001 Nights, supposedly told by Scheherazade to her husband, King Shahryar, so as to avoid being killed in the morning.