Chapter 21

July 5th, TA 3020

Mehreen was aching.

Certainly something of an irony, when surrounded by healers, yet she endured her pain in silence, clenching her jaw at every impulse of blood under her temples and the dull, cramping pain at the back of her neck. Her eyes, gritty for lack of sleep, teared at the dust that rose with her every step as she explored a section of the library she'd not yet been to, less and less hopeful of finding what she'd come looking for considering the state of the place.

Her mother's storybook clutched against her chest, she slowly progressed amongst shelves sunken under the weight of books, crushing those below as the lowest part vomited the tomes onto the floor.

A sad sight, if there ever was one.

Under different circumstances, Mehreen would've taken the time to pick them up, and find them another cozy place to rest in; yet time was precisely what she lacked. The Houses' rules allotted an hour's lunch to anyone working there, and Mehreen was willing to wager there was an hourglass, stashed somewhere in Redhriel's office, which the stern-faced Steward wouldn't hesitate to wield against the trespassers. Between the trek uphill to the Great Hall and the time needed to return, Mehreen's hour was almost up already, and she grappled at what minutes remained to try and find, amidst the library's many treasures, something to repair her mother's book with.

The torn-out pages rustled softly in her embrace, right against her heart, as though trying to comfort her. It doesn't matter, they seemed to whisper, you've tried. That's all that counts.

It mattered to Mehreen.

She could, and should, do better.

Despite what Ahlam had said, her guilt in her former maid's fate had faded but slightly, alleviated by the knowledge that, at the very least, Mehreen's downfall had led to Ahlam's rise. Yet other faults came to weigh upon the scale. Her inability to avenge her brother's death, for one, only worsened by her unwillingness to do so. The bittersweet attachment she harbored towards Ahlam felt like a betrayal of the love she'd had for her own mother who, for all Mehreen knew, had since died in poverty and disgrace.

There was little she could do, but pay her homage in the only way she knew.

Mehreen lay a hand upon the railing of dark wood, head spinning as she glanced to the story below, where the table and chair she'd spend countless hours upon seemed as small as a child's. The book Lord Elladan had lent her lay upon the table, the golden scriptures upon the cover shimmering in the twilight, weighing down the thick stack of pages Mehreen had painstakingly filled with her uneven handwriting.

And, beside it, a red-haired boy, hand outstretched to seize it.

"No!" Mehreen exclaimed, starting the child. "No, no, no." Her feet drummed on the floorboards in rhythm with her words as she raced down the staircase. "Don't touch it!" She breathed in relief at seeing him obey, though his lower lip quivered, freckled nose crinkling with the imminence of tears. "No, don't cry!"

Remembering too well what'd happened during their last encounter, Mehreen searched the library for a sign of his mother, but the hall was empty save for the two of them. The gallery beyond the door was deserted as well, filled with a shimmering green light cast by oaken leaves. The boy sniffled, demanding her attention and Mehreen knelt before him, resisting the impulse to tuck one of the copper curls behind his ear.

"Where is your mother? She must be worried!"

He blinked, tilting his head sideways as he studied her face, before his eyes fell upon the book she held against her chest. Chubby fingers caressed the cover, the boy's eyes widening in wonder. He grinned, and spoke to her in a tongue she'd not heard before, hashed and guttural.

"I don't understand." His grin was contagious and Mehreen found herself smiling in turn. "This is a book," she said slowly, much like the women who taught Ahlam words of Westron. And added, on a whim: "Kita."

"Kita?"

"Yes!"

She could see how fascinated he was. And who wouldn't be? Mehreen herself had been enamored with the storybook ever since she'd received it, more than she'd ever been with any other, Lalla Zahra's included. Perhaps was it because it'd been her mother's voice that had brought the stories to life instead of Lalla Zahra's droning tone…or perhaps was it because of the story itself – that of halflings and dwarves, and fierce dragons hoarding a treasure. The hero of the book, an archer who ended up slaying the dragon, had long retained a young Mehreen's imagination and now that she thought of it, the long dark hair and the sharp features did remind her of someone she knew.

Shaking her head so as to chase away the image of Lord Elladan brandishing a bow – her pulse quickening at the thought – and ruing Saehild's influence, Mehreen pulled the chair close and lay the book upon the topstitched leather of the seat. "It's pretty, isn't it? It's called The King's return." Sitting back on her heels, all sense of time forgotten, she cracked the tome open with utmost precaution, meaning to start at the very first page; but it opened where Deor had torn it in two, on the painting of a mountain that took up the entire page. The foot of the mountain was swarmed with tiny figures – brave men on horseback, fighting an army of orcs.

"Eoh!" the boy exclaimed at once, pressing a finger to blot out one of the steeds.

"Horse," Mehreen guessed. "Hisan."

"Déordred!"

The cry had come from the doorway, hoarse and filled with anguish. Mehreen jumped, all but falling back in her haste to rise as the boy's mother barreled into the library and grasped him by the arm. Under the collar of a dress that hung too wide on her tall form, her collarbones jutted out under a taut skin; her forearms, thin and wiry, tensed as the boy tried to evade her grip.

"How many times do I have to tell you? You mustn't run away." She yanked on his arm, sidling away from Mehreen "Come. You can't bother strangers like that."

"Oh, we're hardly strangers now," Mehreen forced herself to smile, heart rending at the sight of the boy's plight, "and it's no bother…."

"Don't." The warning came as a low hiss, spat out through clenched teeth as the woman pulled the squirming boy behind her. "Don't try to befriend him. You've no business making him believe you care."

Before Mehreen could reply, she turned on her heels and dragged her unwilling son out, deaf to his whimpers of pain, blind to the finger he kept pointing at the book, trying to explain. Her tugs grew more impatient with each step until, at last, the boy fought back.

"Na!" he yelled out, and broke free at the expense of his sleeve. It ripped, resounding through the empty hall. Heaving an exasperated sigh, the mother pinched her lips, raising an arm as if to strike.

"No!" Mehreen shrieked, reaching out, unable to stop her.

The boy recoiled, his eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless cry at such a betrayal. His mother faltered, sobered by the fear she saw on her child's face. Her arm fell limply to her side; she staggered, either drunk or spent, and watched in a moment of horrified apathy as the boy dashed down the corridor.

"Déordred! No…!" Her sallow face contorted in dismay. "Come back!"

Suddenly afraid of what awaited the boy for his disobedience, Mehreen chased after her, hoping for once to happen upon Redhriel who, for all her severity, could not condone a child being so manhandled.

"Wait!" she implored the woman. "Wait!"

The boy, and then his mother, disappeared around a corner. Mehreen followed…

…Only to narrowly avoid a collision with Bruiven, who caught her by the shoulders before she could hurtle into him. "Mehreen? Are you well?"

Avoiding his searching gaze, Mehreen craned her neck to see, over his shoulder, the woman's retreating form. "Please stop her," she begged him, grasping the lapels of his tunic so as to make him turn around, "she's going to hurt him!"

"Who is?"

Mehreen frantically pointed. "Hurry!" Releasing Bruiven's tunic, she moved to sidestep him, only to find herself held back by a hand wrapped around her biceps.

"Arhel, ten daro!"

The order came from beside her, in a voice both calm and commanding, belonging to none other than Lord Elladan. Mehreen felt its imperiousness in her very bones, compelled to attention by those few words. On the other side of the gallery, an elven healer moved in front of the woman, forbidding and familiar at once; the mother flung herself into the embrace like one of Lalla Naifiyah's birds against the bars of its cage.

"Déordred!" she screamed upon realizing she was trapped, "Déordred!"

In her state of frailty and exhaustion, she was no match for the elven woman who now attempted to cajole her into submission while barring the passage. No matter how she paced and craned her neck, the boy had long since vanished from her sight. Understanding she'd lost him, the mother whirled around. "You!" she screeched, pointing an accusing finger towards Mehreen, her flashing eyes a reminder of the strength she'd once possessed. "Trying to turn my son against me, are you?" She wrung her hands, tears running down her face. "Is everything I've lost already not enough?"

Only then did she allow the healer to seize her shoulders, guiding her gently through the doors of the Women's Ward, her body wracked with sobs.

Mehreen stood, frozen in place, shaking with shock and indignation before she, too, became aware she was retained against her will. "Let me go," she huffed, jerking her arm backwards, loath to pry Lord Elladan's fingers off her since that would require touching his skin. "I must…."

"…Return to your duties. Is that what you were going to say?"

Not quite, but Mehreen wasn't about to confess.

In Harad, a man brave enough to touch her in such a manner would've faced her father's wrath, and suffered the consequences in the form of either losing the offending hand, or receiving hers in marriage. Such bravery thus bordered on foolishness, separated by a line of gold. Lord Elladan couldn't have known that, but he must've sensed her reluctance, for the barely-there pressure against her upper arm disappeared, leaving a coldness in its wake.

"Annon len, Bruiven. Múthad polil." Another command. Bruiven bowed, a hand placed lightly over his heart and, with a worried smile directed at Mehreen, took his leave. Once he'd disappeared behind the corner opposite of Redhriel's study, Lord Elladan turned to face Mehreen. "What was that about?"

"I've done nothing wrong."

"Really? He crossed his arms upon his chest. "Dúnwen seems to think otherwise."

"I've only…." Throwing her hands up in frustration, Mehreen raked her fingers through her hair. "It was just a few words," she said plaintively, his disbelief cutting deeper than any of the woman's accusations, "a few simple words. A grievous crime indeed, trying to teach someone my mother tongue."

Lord Elladan's face darkened. "I see." He sighed, abandoning his foreboding stance to take a step down the gallery, away from the ward. "Walk with me, Mehreen."

While still displeased, at least he didn't appear furious with her; if anything, Mehreen could've sworn that the same sorrow had altered his features as the one she'd witnessed a few days past, by the river, when he'd told her about his brother. She prudently followed, wishing to clear her name of any blame, only catching up with him in front of the staircase as he'd slowed down his pace, else his long legs took him far away before she could reach him.

"It may help if you understood," Lord Elladan said after they'd made it down and took a few steps side by side in silence beneath the arches, "that Dúnwen's husband fell before the gates of Minas Tirith only a year past."

Mehreen's stomach twisted with realization. "And she hates me for it," she stated, a numbness descending upon her as she spoke. The weariness, the aching, the worry even – all faded, sinking into the hollow that opened beneath her sternum. Nothing she could do would ever transcend the simple fact that she'd been born on the wrong side of the Harnen, or erase the color of her skin.

Lord Elladan pinched his lips. "Stop behaving like a child. Dúnwen does not hate you. But she is mourning, and struggling about what to say to her son, in which she sees the image of his father every single day."

"And what am I to do about it?" Mehreen scoffed, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "Apologize for his death?"

An elderly woman startled at her outburst. She grasped the young girl walking beside her by the hand and led her past, forcing Mehreen off the stone path and onto the grass.

"It is not for me to say whether an apology would do Dúnwen good." Lord Elladan paused, clasping his hands in his back as he tilted his head, pensive. "It could, however, prove a good start…."

"But," Mehreen choked, "I'm not the one who killed him, am I?" The numbness was gone, replaced by the fires of anger that coursed through her veins, scorching everything they touched.

"So it may be. Yet either you condone what has happened, or you do not, and that is what an apology means."

"Such noble words from one so faultless. When, then, should I expect one for Harun's death?"

His jaw clenched, muscles twitching under eyes as dark as a storm. "There are many ways to atone for one's actions, which I have vowed to spend the rest of my life doing. But…." Lord Elladan shook his head and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse with the same contained ire as she. "No. You shall not hear me regret him. Your brother came to that battlefield willingly, intending to sow what he ended up reaping."

"You don't know him!" He blinked as Mehreen balled her hands into fists and took a step back, unable to bear his arrogance a moment longer. Old wounds that she'd thought on the mend had been torn open, oozing venom into her blood, pounding in her ears with the outrage of her kin. Oh, how she longed for silence! "Harun was a noble man, he was my father's firstborn…."

"A father who sent his daughter to face the consequences of his own choice?"

"How dare you!"

Breathless, Mehreen shook and shivered, hot and cold in turn, her wrists aching with the tension inside her balled hands. The sensation was oddly familiar; it dawned upon her she'd been standing in that same spot a month ago, her fury as fresh as it was then.

Only now she wasn't afraid.

"I wish," Mehreen began, heart pounding so fast she thought she might choke on it, "I wish that Harun…." And doubled over, horrified at what she'd been about to say.

"Is that what you want?"

Lord Elladan had crossed the green in few powerful strides and, before Mehreen could evade him, had seized her by the arms, his fingers digging into her flesh as he hoisted her back up. "Say it. Is that really your wish?" he hissed, his hot breath tickling the skin of her neck, the low growl of his voice sending shivers down her spine. "That Harun had triumphed, that day?" His eyes searched hers, and Mehreen found herself clinging to him in return, lest she fell to his feet.

"I…."

"If it is of any consolation, my life shall not be very long." His mouth contorted into a ghost of a smile – a twisted, false thing, so unlike the boyish grin he kept surprising her with. "One of the privileges of my ancestry. You may even survive me, yet. Would that satisfy you?"

"Stop." Mehreen gasped for air, buckling under the weight of duty yet utterly unable to complete her wish. "Please, stop." Her entire being revolted at the thought of his death, the taste of bile rising to her lips.

"Elladan. Enough." Strong hands pried her from his grasp and caught her as she crumbled. "Redhriel, take her back to her room. See that she is taken good care of."

In a haze, Mehreen allowed herself to be guided her from under the shadow of the oak and out the gate, the arms that supported her surprisingly gentle. Upon the threshold, she found the strength to twist in Redhriel's hold to glance back into the courtyard where Lord Legolas stood, facing down his Chief Healer, pale with anger.

"What will happen to him?"

"Hush, child. Come," Redhriel sighed, her nose wrinkling in her effort not to admonish Mehreen for her imprudence.

It may have taken them all afternoon to reach the dormitory, or it may have been mere minutes; Mehreen could not remember. Someone must've fetched Ahlam for she was waiting for them in the doorway, face drawn in concern. She received Mehreen into her arms, leading her towards the bed, cooing sweet nonsense in Haradric that Mehreen paid no attention to. She searched out Redhriel, remembering her warning, yearning to ask her what she'd meant as she should've done back then. But the Steward was already slipping out of the room, her duty to Lord Legolas apparently complete.

"You should sleep," she advised in her usual clipped tone, barely softened by the pity in her eyes.

"What will happen to him?" Mehreen demanded once more, her limbs heavy with shock, muscles aching where Lord Elladan had gripped her. She fought against the torpor that slowly claimed control of her body, staring down Redhriel until she got an answer.

Saehild's influence, it seemed, wasn't all that bad.

"He will die. Eventually. Such is the fate of the Half-Elven who choose mortality like Queen Arwen, his sister, did."

"Oh. And…what about Lord Legolas?"

"He will deal the sentence he sees fit." Redhriel was not prone to fidgeting, but even in her diminished state, Mehreen could see she was getting impatient. "Do not blame yourself about it, child. About any of it. Perhaps it would be best if you forgot what happened altogether." She nodded at Ahlam, as though calling her as witness regarding the soundness of her advice. "For your sake, as much as his."

A.N.: 'Kita' is a made-up word that means 'book' in Haradric. 'Hisan' is another, meaning 'horse'.

As for the Sindarin in this chapter: 'ten daro!' translates to 'stop her!'. 'Annon len' means thank you' and, unless I've botched up Sindarin grammar terribly (for which I apologize), 'múthad polil' should translate to 'you may leave'.