Chapter 57

August 28th, TA 3020

It was as though nothing had changed. The study's disarray remained untouched, unaltered; even dust had not yet had the time to settle on the open pages of Bumblechook's masterpiece nor the vials gathered upon one corner of the table, where Elladan had begun to compose a new potion – hoping to combine the properties of the wooly lamb's ear to those of arsenic – before being interrupted by Ferwen's premature labor. Under the bulbous surface of brown glass, his reflection moved, distorted, as though trapped in the liquid, and if Elladan had expected to discern a difference, however small, in the face that stared back at him, he found none.

Like an underwater current, his emotions were both too deep to disturb the surface…and too powerful to be ignored without suffering the consequences. In truth, what was there even to see? He had nothing more than when he had left.

Elladan halted in the middle of the room, the satchel hanging from one hand and his cloak from the other, bereft for an instant before the force of habit kicked in, overcoming his confusion. He dropped the silvery weight over the back of a chair and, closing the 'Pain in the Ash', set the bag atop its cover to unpack. The stench of smoke and burnt linen assailed his nostrils as soon as he opened the leather flap. He ought to have burnt the clothes, but it had seemed a wasteful thing to do at the time. Now Elladan almost regretted his decision, anticipating Maerwena's displeasure at the sight of the sorry state of his rags.

Elladan remembered the works of a dwarven scholar claiming that the world's overall state of chaos went increasing with time, no matter how one strived to prevent it. Smiling at the thought of Legolas' face when confronted with such a theory, Elladan contributed in his own modest way by tossing the foul-smelling bundle into a corner. Then he walked to the hearth and crouched to dip his hands into the basin that stood before the grate, rubbing the journey's grime off his skin before he pulled his hair over his shoulder and splashed a handful upon his neck. The coolness of water brought a short-lived relief to his turmoil, but Elladan was determined to enjoy it for as long as he could. The cold, as he had learnt of over his years of wandering, was an undeniable sensation, as obsessive as the longing that tugged at his heartstrings; perhaps he ought to follow that line of thought to its end, and bathe before he went to grab something to eat in the Great Hall, where the midday meal was still being served?

Now that seemed like a sound idea.

And after lunch, he would rid his study of all trace of Mehreen. The sketches that littered his desk must disappear, both for Bruiven's peace of mind and his own. Yet no matter how Elladan tried to convince himself of his ability to rid the room of her presence, a snide voice not unlike Siggun's sniggered into his ear that, if he had truly harbored such an intention, he would have begun already. Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone, Erestor liked to say. Not a drop of procrastination in his veins, Elladan mused bitterly as he strode back to the table to pick up a drawing of Mehreen's profile.

The fireplace was so close…and so very convenient. No embers smoldered behind the grate, but surely that could be arranged?

The parchment crackled in protest as Elladan tightened his grasp, crumpling his work. The lines fractured, lofty curves turning into sharp angles, bristling under the cruelty of such a treatment. A sudden, staggering emptiness engulfed Elladan upon seeing them disappear, as though the joy he had felt upon summoning Mehreen's presence had been taken back just as abruptly.

Lord Lórien, you who reign over our dreams and desires…please. Let me keep this, at least, if it is woven that I cannot have her.

Robbed of willpower, his hand opened, allowing the parchment to bloom in his open palm and, in the solitude of his study, Elladan let out a mirthless bark of laughter as he smoothed out the sketch once more, running his fingers along a delicate jaw.

At least he had tried….

"Um…my Lord?" Ríndir cleared his throat as he peered in through the doorway.

The young ranger must have overheard him, his – insufficiently – guarded expression betraying of what he made of Elladan's sanity. Elladan was tempted to quip that, at the very least, he was in the right place but refrained, deeming it in bad taste.

"What is it?"

"Lord Legolas requires your presence, my Lord."

"Ah." Lowering his eyes to his days-old garb and mud-splattered boots, Elladan pinched his lips in consternation. "Tell Legolas I shall meet him as soon as I can make myself presentable." The stream would have to wait, but at the very least could he wipe the sweat and dust off his face and neck, and comb out the fir needles lodged in his hair.

"Lord Legolas bid it be as soon as possible, my Lord." Ríndir shifted his weight from one foot to another. "He has invited you to join him in his study for lunch."

"That urgent?" Elladan frowned. It was unlike Legolas to forego a moment in the company of his people in favor of a more…intimate meal, which could only mean one of two things. Either he was displeased with Elladan – unlikely, since he had been unusually compliant of late – or someone else was. If Elladan was to guess, he was being charged with familial neglect, an offense which both his father and his sister would no doubt find much to say about. "Very well. I shall be along soon."

Probing his unfulfilled longing as one probes the hole left by a missing tooth – cautiously yet with irresistible compulsion – Elladan waited for the ranger to leave before he folded the drawing and stuck it between the pages of the most harmless book he would find, deeming both the 'Pain' and 'Infectious Diseases" unfitting of Mehreen.

There ought to be, somewhere in the library, a book of children's tales, one that involved an obligatory happy ending; while for now he must do with what he had underhand – namely Vahtarion's 'Memoirs', which recounted his survival of the First and Second Ages amongst the Nolder in a suspiciously uneventful manner – in the future, only such a story would do.

oOoOoOo

"I had not been made aware there was a dragon in North Ithilien." Legolas wrinkled his nose as soon as he saw Elladan step into his study. "Or, seeing how you are still here, that there had been a dragon in North Ithilien. Congratulations. Last time, it took thirteen dwarves to achieve the same result."

"Very funny," Elladan groused in return as he made his way towards him. "You cannot expect me to hurry and then complain about the smell."

Though he had bathed in the Dogstail before they had left Mitharlan, and scrubbed his skin thoroughly to rid it of the stench of smoke and burnt pig, it still clung to his hair and to his lashes where the flames had singed him. And while Elladan's own nose had gotten used to the odor, he suspected that it heralded his arrival to anyone less accustomed.

"A balrog, then?" Legolas wondered, rising from his seat, his own green-grey tunic impeccable and smelling of parchment and pine. "Or a fire-breathing, fir needle-hurling skunk?" He tilted his head to study Elladan, his worry evident beneath the jest as he clasped a hand to Elladan's arm in greeting.

Covering his friend's hand with his, Elladan gave it a slight squeezed to signal his own genuine gladness to be back. "Naught but a banal case of pox-induced, prejudice-driven arson rampage."

Legolas' eyes widened in surprise. "And you have cured the…suffering party, I presume?"

"In a way." Elladan shrugged, watching as his friend stepped over to one of the cabinets that stood by the wall. "Let us say he may be experiencing a loss of his manhandling capacities for the foreseeable future."

"Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"I am a healer. Trust me, I know what I am doing."

"Hmm." Legolas slanted him a suspicious look, unconvinced but finding nothing to oppose to Elladan's logic. "Mead?"

Elladan, who had taken a seat opposite of Legolas' across the expanse of shimmering green stone that was his impeccable desk, winced at the proposal, remembering the last time he had overindulged and what had come of it. "I would rather not."

"As you wish." After an examination of the clay bottles at his disposal as diligent as that of a general inspecting his troops, Legolas picked one and brought it back to the desk. "First things first, I suppose," he declared as he uncorked it and poured himself a cup. "Your sister sends her love."

Pausing in the process of crossing his legs, Elladan quirked an eyebrow. "You have been to Minas Tirith? Or has her love arrived by way of crow?"

"The former." Legolas waited to be comfortably installed in his chair with a cup in his hand to continue. "Aragorn sent a messenger summoning me to court, a week past. It appears that the crown prince of Harad is not dead, contrary to what was presumed, but very much alive." He took a sip from his goblet and made an appreciative face. "So alive and well, in fact, that he has decided to prolong the line of Sultans by taking a wife."

Before Elladan could comment, a knock on the door announced the arrival of the meal he had been promised. One of Godwyn's girls came in carrying a platter, upon which a roasted partridge was snuggly nested inside a circle of mushrooms, bits of rosemary-sprinkled potato and – by Angainor, Elladan should have expected as much – celery. He tried not to grimace as a boy brought in a pitcher of water and plates with cutlery. Elladan smiled at the girl to thank her for her service, only to have her eyes to widen and her round, freckled cheeks infuse with a deep blush.

Perhaps was she, too, not overly fond of his new grilled pork perfume.

Once both had exited and the door had clicked shut in their wake, Elladan let his friend divide the partridge into four parts before spearing a leg and scooping both mushrooms and potato onto his plate while resorting to a drastic ostracization of the celery.

"Unless we are invited to the marriage, why tell me this?" he then inquired as he filled his cup from the pitcher, and took a gulp.

"Because, it so happens that Anwar has chosen Mehreen for the role."

Elladan choked. Then he wheezed, coughing out the water he had inhaled into the crook of his elbow until, at last, he had regained enough breath to speak. "What?!"

"According to Aragorn's spies, his wish to wed her has more to do with her father's fortune and influence than Mehreen herself."

And is that supposed to reassure me?

If this prince had caught even a glimpse of Mehreen throughout his miserable lifetime, he must not have been able to forget her, the dowry a silver lining to a shapely little cloud. "He can wish all he wants," Elladan rasped, his windpipe smarting, "it will not make it true."

A good thing that the partridge was dead, otherwise it would have suffered an intense, if short, agony as he proceeded to tear it apart with his knife. That was, until Elladan realized that only the scraping and stabbing of his own cutlery on ceramic broke the silence of Legolas' study. Though famished, he raised his eyes from his plate to see the pained expression on his friend's face.

His stomach lurched in hunger and dread both. "Unless there is something else you are not telling me…?"

"Anwar has offered Mehreen's weight in rubies in exchange for her return."

The showing-off bastard.

Where was the time when a man's – or a woman's – weight in gold was considered a fair exchange? In Mehreen's case, such an amount would not have filled more than a little coffer, and Anwar must have known as much, if he had opted for a more…gaudy approach.

"I thought that Harad was supposed to have been impoverished by the war."

Legolas skewered a mushroom with the tip of his knife, and brought it to his lips. "Perhaps a woman's worth of rubies is their concept of poverty," he stated after swallowing the mouthful, "but be as it may, it is still a sum bound to elicit covetousness amongst the crown's advisors."

"They can covet all they want. Estel will never allow it."

Oh, Elladan could all too well imagine Imrahil's eyes sparkling with interest at the prospect of replenishing his fleet, oft scattered and considerably weakened by the Corsairs' incursions along the coasts of Belfalas, or Éomer his herds, pillaged by Sauron's minions for his dark purposes. Not to mention the Stewards, whose lands still lay in waste in the aftermath of the war, and the mayors of major cities such as Pelargir, and even Tharbad…. Though a loan had been agreed upon between the crown of Gondor and Arnor and the dwarven kingdom of Erebor, a handful of rubies would greatly help in repaying it. The implacable truth was that Elladan ought to have rejoiced at the news. Many a mouth would be fed with the help of Anwar's riches, and many a child would be provided shelter and clothing, instead of the orphanages that had been slapped together in haste throughout the realm, relying on people like Mistress Meldis and the kindness of the ordinary – and just as famished – folk to stay afloat.

All that it took was the sacrifice of one woman, whose name would be lost to history. Instead, the people would rejoice of their good fortune, and of the wisdom of those in charge – which Elladan was supposed to be a part of.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed his knife onto his plate, where the greasy juices of the partridge seeped from its rosy flesh akin to a weeping wound, soaking the scattered vegetables. His appetite had flown out the open window, and the loud chirrups of thrushes that bounced off the glass to fill the study now grated on his nerves.

Across the desk, Legolas imitated him, albeit in a more civilized manner. "Of course not," he said softly, "but I wish that was the worst of it." He leaned back in his seat and entwined his fingers over his stomach, encompassing Elladan in a look of gravity. "Elladan, there is a spy at Aragorn's court. A spy who has already informed Anwar of Mehreen's current location – a piece of knowledge the new Sultan has flaunted in his letter, as a means to forewarn us against any attempt at trickery."

The conniving wretch.

The chair legs rattled against stone tiles as Elladan sprang to his feet. "Then we must keep her safe." There was bile in his throat, and a wild hammering beneath his ribs at the thought of something happening to Mehreen…something too remindful of his mother's aborted agony. His blood raced faster as he all but skimmed the thought of her spirit being broken in behind the walls of a harem, reined in through force or guilt, the doors she had started to open for herself closing while she only had had the chance to brush her fingers against their surface.

And she would go there willingly, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Elladan would not allow it. He would….

"We must keep them all safe," Legolas pointed out as he strode towards the door. "Elladan," he called after him, "you will not find her here."

Elladan froze. "Where is she?" The question had come out as a low growl; indeed, he quite felt like baring his teeth.

"Aragorn thought it best she remained in Minas Tirith for a while, until a suitable reply could be composed, so as to dissuade Anwar from attempting anything of the sort you were just imagining." Legolas was watching him across the expanse of his desk, unruffled and unimpressed. "Mehreen will keep your sister company at all times, so as to benefit from Arwen's clairvoyance, and the protection of her personal guard."

"Her personal guard. Hah!" Elladan spat out in a huff, of a mind to tell Legolas what exactly he made of swordsmen younger than his favorite pair of boots. But the outburst had drained him, all will to act seeping out of him like rainwater down the gutter.

How was this his business, anyway? If anyone had a right to go running after Mehreen, it was Bruiven; Elladan, for his part, was long past the years of lovestruck cat-and-mouse. Even if he had not been as old and weary – and filthy, who was to say Mehreen would welcome the sight of him, after his spectacular failure to keep the word he had given her?

A small, devious part of him whispered he ought to at least make certain Mehreen had made it safely to the Citadel before stepping aside, but Elladan stomped that voice down with all the resolve he still possessed, sinking back into his seat with the sudden urge to kick it across the room instead.

"It may be for the best, after all," he muttered, seeking to convince himself that idleness was, all things considered, the best course of action.

Yet, if it was indeed so, why did the cushioning beneath him burn like coals?

"Now, this is unexpected." Legolas studied him with his head tilted to the side, his expression that of mild curiosity.

Elladan bristled. "What is?"

"For one, I entirely expected you to break that chair."

Noticing at last the suspicious smoothness of the armrests, worn by time, and the slightly mouldy scent of the leather padding the backrest, Elladan scowled. "Why would I do that?"

"Why indeed," Legolas nodded knowingly, in that insufferable manner of his that reminded Elladan of his own grandmother, and her gift for reading one's thoughts. "An interesting question, and one that leads me to my second observation."

"Which is?"

"That you are still here, instead of mid-way to the stables, hollering for Runcynn to be saddled loud enough for Morgoth to overhear."

Grasping the armrests of his rotting chair, Elladan hunched his shoulders against the accusation. "You asked to see me, and I came. I am yet to hear you dismiss me, am I not?"

"And when did you last need my permission to do as you pleased?"

The wood creaked under Elladan's pull and he sought to control his fury, if only to prove Legolas wrong. "And when did you become so nosey?"

"I have always been nosey, when my friends are concerned, and you would do well to remember the times where such…snooping saved your lofty Ñoldo bottom from getting speared and roasted." Though Legolas' voice was as cool as the slab of green stone between them, there was an edge to it, as sharp as the daggers hanging from the ear of his own high-back chair, a slit of steel glinting between quillon and scabbard like a watchful eye. "Which is why I shall say it again, but plainly: such apathy does not resemble you, my friend."

"You call it apathy," Elladan muttered, feeling utterly miserable now that his anger had died, quenched by shame, "I call it common sense. And, before you deem it out of my reach as well, tell me. What would passion solve, when its object is not mine to pursue?" As Legolas opened his mouth to protest, Elladan shook his head. "No. I shall not go where I am not wanted. Best leave the endeavor to Bruiven. He is a much more likely candidate for the role of the knight-in-shining-armor than I will ever be."

His tongue was dry, a sourness lingering upon it; one he suddenly longed to wash down with the very cup of mead Legolas had offered. Or ten. Yet, as soon as the wish had formed inside Elladan's mind, the thought of another's hands branding – however gently – Mehreen's soft skin caused his stomach to roil.

No cheating, then. Elladan would have to endure such a torment stone-cold sober. He was truly starting to believe he must have angered the Valar somehow, and that somewhere in the Halls of Mandos, his tapestry hung as knotty and jumbled as a novice's work.

"You are mistaken."

Elladan leaned forward to grasp his cup of water, ignoring the chair's creak of protest. He downed it in a single gulp before letting out a mirthless chuckle. "Hardly." Resisted the urge to slam it back upon the desk. "Taniel could not have been clearer on the subject, and never before have I been both so glad, and so sorry, for having eavesdropped."

The chair groaned ominously, but this time, Elladan was not to blame. Legolas' eyes widened….

…And disappeared from sight as Elladan crashed to the floor amidst a scatter of splinters and ripped wood; the empty cup clinked against the tiles. As he stared, bewildered, at the star-painted beams of the ceiling, his hipbones throbbing under the impact, a calloused hand appeared in his line of vision.

"I must apologize," said Legolas as he hauled him back to his feet, his face oddly contrite. "I had sawed the legs partway, but I must have miscalculated the moment they would give out."

"You did what?!" Choking with fury, Elladan drew back in an attempt to wrench himself free from Legolas' steely grasp.

"Oh, enough with the snarling and the snapping, unless you wish me to name our next stray wildcat in your honor." Legolas did not let go, locking them in a game of tug-of-war in the middle of his study. "I had thought it may alleviate your ire some, if you broke it. And, then, perhaps, you would have been inclined to listen."

A muscle twitched under Elladan's eye as he stared back in disbelief. "Listen? What is there left to say? Which part of 'she loves another' do you not understand?"

"If Mehreen truly did love Bruiven, as you say," Legolas shot back, "why were her last thoughts for you, and you alone? Why did she wrestle out of me a promise to tell you it was her own choice to leave?"

Elladan gaped. "She did what?"

"Ah, now you are listening." Legolas made to let go, and flinched as Elladan's fingers dug into the flesh of his forearm.

"What did she say?"

"Sit," Legolas sighed, nodding towards a chair that stood against the wall, its upholstery of green velvet and virgin armrests shining gaily, "and let us have that cup of mead. I shall tell you just how much Mehreen cares about you, and you shall tell me what you intend to do about it."

A.N.: the quote regarding putting off things until tomorrow belongs to Pablo Picasso.