Whew, I wasn't sure I'd be able to publish this one on time, seeing as I was in an absolutely gorgeous place with absolutely no WiFi for the last three days...

And then I logged in to find that this story has garnered almost 50 reviews already! I count myself very lucky to have such diligent readers! Here is some more Elladan (shout out to the guest swooning over this version of him XD) to thank you all.

Lucy: a tough choice indeed! Though the events to come may help some, by putting our three aspiring healers to the test... ;)

Chapter 34

August 15th, TA 3020

"Lord Legolas, Lord Elladan, I'm proud to report that our work on the Houses of Healing is done. We've worked as swiftly as elves, and built as sturdily as dwarves. No hail nor snow shall now trouble those under your care, and they shall be warm and safe within these new walls. Long may they stand!"

Thus spoke Nordil, Master of the Stonemasons Guild from Osgiliath, as he thrust his cup towards the sculpted rafters. For most of his life, his hands had hewed stone into shape; they were square and rugged, like the man himself, as though he had been sculpted of the same granite he had so long and so forcefully subdued. A round of acclamations erupted along the table, pewter clanking against wood, and Elladan readily joined his voice – and his goblet – to the others. A small yet stubborn weight lifted from his chest at the realization that, no matter how impossible such a task had seemed but a month ago, they were ready.

"Our thanks, Master Nordil, to you, and to each and every one of your men." Legolas had risen from his seat across the table, his fingers wrapped around his own cup, which glimmered dully in the grey light of a dank, cloudy day. "For having answered our call, and having found the time to aid us so quickly." He nodded at the Guildmaster who bowed his head in turn, a hand upon his heart. There was silver combing through Nordil's once dark hair, held in place by a thin circlet marking his rank. "Swift my people may be, and enduring are the stone halls of our stout friends…but it is to the hearts of men that we owe our salvation this day. Let us drink to that, and to our future endeavors, side by side and hand in hand."

"Hear, hear!" the men of Osgiliath shouted, and the table shook under their rejoicing.

Legolas sat down to eat, inviting the others to follow his example around a farewell feast of modest proportions. To his right, Nordil tore a chunk from a loaf of rye bread, its surface scored with a wreath of leaves, and dipped it into his plate of thick fish soup that Godwyn had prepared for the occasion, honoring Osgiliath's position as a gateway to the sea.

Elladan, for his part, did his best to enjoy the meal, though his stomach twisted at the scent that rose from the tureen.

If he were to ever meet Eru Ilúvatar, he would ask of him one thing. Why he had created celery? Or, rather, why he had created people who enjoyed eating it? As far as Elladan was concerned, it could well keep on growing undisturbed in the quiet corners of the world, without ever feeling the need to see it in his plate. The scent alone was disturbing. As he watched Legolas chew on bits of stringy stalk, spearing yet another morsel with the tip of his knife before raising it to his lips, he reminded himself of his friend's many qualities that outbalanced the oddness of his tastes.

"How is our project progressing?"

Subtlety, however, was not one of them.

"If by 'our project' you mean 'restoring a crumbling ruin to a semblance of dignity', then slowly. Though Mehreen has worked wonders on the rose bushes, and wrestled them into obedience with great efficacy. My own carpentry skills pale in comparison, but surely you already suspected as much."

At the mention of carpentry, Morion pricked his ears from where he was sitting, a few chairs removed from Elladan, amongst the men from Osgiliath and his own. He darted an intrigued glance between the two of them and, while Elladan had not yet sunk as low into despair as to ask him for help, with every new splinter earned while working on the pavilion, the idea gained in appeal.

Legolas had the good sense to wait until Morion was once again engrossed in yet another debate regarding the merits of limestone from Sarn Gebir – as opposed to that from Hithaeglir – before continuing: "How are the two of you getting along?"

He must think himself very clever.

"As well as one could expect, I suppose," Elladan shrugged, feigning indifference, and set his own knife down beside the remnants of his lunch. Pale green chunks huddled sadly together by the rim, as if fearing the fate awaiting them once he brought the plate back to the kitchens.

And so they should.

He leaned back in his seat, remembering his last discussion with Mehreen. For an instant, he contemplated telling Legolas of his promise, so that he could enforce it, should the moment ever come…but refrained. It had been a weakness; a mistake, some would even say. Oaths had seldom done anyone any good, and history was rich with oathkeepers and oathbreakers both who now wished they had bitten their tongue before speaking.

This did not mean that all vows were harmful, and while Elladan found himself oddly prone to such weaknesses when Mehreen was involved, he had promised so little….

"Are you off to the pavilion, afterwards?" Legolas asked, his face deceptively uninterested as he pushed his own plate back and reached for the pitcher, from which he poured them both a cup.

Elladan stifled a wry smile. If Legolas meant to pry some confession from his lips, he would need something far stronger than watered-down wine. In truth, he would have welcomed a moment in Mehreen's company, but his schedule was as tight as the purse-strings of a dwarf. "Not today," he sighed. "I am awaited at the Houses, though I would stop by the stables first."

Legolas frowned. "How is Runcynn?"

"Still limping, I am told."

At his words, Nordil frowned from his seat, tearing away from his conversation with Morion to knit his bushy brows together in consternation. "Then I must renew my apologies, my Lord Elladan. I should have warned your people against Gwedal's pig-headedness, though my wife would likely deem him a fitting companion for your humble servant." He lay a callused hand upon his chest, where the crest of Osgiliath – two half-moons nested against each other, herding the seven stars – was embroidered in white thread. "Allow me, at least, compensate you for the troubles he's caused."

Elladan shook his head. "There is no need for that, Master Nordil. You can hardly be held responsible for a stallion's natural behavior. Runcynn was in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all."

Between the Guildmaster's stallion and a mare in heat, to be precise, which was the very reason Elladan had left Tallagor back in Imladris. The stables of Bar-Lasbelin were no place for such fiery tempers; not when those caring for the horses possessed sometimes but a fraction of their former strength. Runcynn – a gift from Éomer – was a dark bay gelding, even-tempered and just as even-gaited, far from the moodiness of Elladan's former chestnut, or from Asfaloth's snorting defiance whenever he knew one of the mares nearby to be inclined to frolic. Elladan still remembered the havoc the silver-coated stallion had once wrought, breaking the door of his stall to pay homage to a then-young Arwen's elegant grey, and his sister's mix of dismay and awe at the realization that her gentle Miluinis was with foal.

As for Glorfindel…he had been suitably amused, albeit in private, lest his pride in Asfaloth's prowess reached Lord Elrond's ears.

Like rider, like mount.

The repast lulled to a steady hum as the men filled their bellies with the nourishing, if simple, fare that followed the soup: skewers of lamb meat, and pies filled with carrots and peas, their crust a tantalizing golden brown. Many a promise of visit was exchanged between the craftsmen, be it to see the Dome of Stars being restored to its former glory, or to learn the ropes of talan construction in Eryn Lasgalen. When Godwyn and her women brought out the sweets – pear tarts made with the first fruit of the season, straight from the orchards of Lossarnach – Elladan grabbed himself a slice, fondly remembering Mormeril's cooking.

Yet, despite the food aplenty and the good company, Nordil and his men were growing restless in their haste to see their families again, and Elladan took it as his cue to leave before the conversation turned too maudlin for his liking.

"You must excuse me," he murmured at both Legolas' and Nordil's intention before rising. "I would visit Runcynn now, before my afternoon's duties claim me."

He grabbed a chunk of bread and pocketed it, and then another after a moment's thought – and a fleeting remembrance of Mehreen's excitement upon seeing him fish out a piece from inside his jerkin. Not that he would soon have the occasion to reiterate a gesture which had made her regard him with the same wonder as if he had spread out his arms and caused a blooming garden to sprout from the earth in place of the surly pines…but one never knew.

Having thus slunk away, Elladan followed the path to the stables. The sedges growing along the trail brushed against his thighs, feathery spikes of bunch grass tickling his fingertips as he trailed them over the soft, shivering waves. The recent rains had bolstered their growth after the haying, so that it seemed it had never happened, much to the delight of all things small and buzzing. On the other side of the Anduin, the pastures shone a bright yellow with untamed hawkbits and buttercups, overgrown with fescue so tall that this season's lambs could well get lost from their mothers while overhead, between the vein-like beechen boughs rimmed with emerald, the skies hung low and grey over Ithilien, promising if not another downpour, then certainly a miserable drizzle in the days to come.

Runcynn welcomed Elladan with a soft whicker, and a snort of warm air into the palm that held a piece of bread. As the gelding picked it up cautiously, well-mannered as he was, Elladan ran his hand along the shiny coat of his neck, patting it gently in greeting. He unlatched the door and stepped into the stall, fresh straw crunching under his boots. Keeping the gelding from escaping by feeding him yet another morsel, Elladan ran his hand further down his front leg, feeling for swelling or heat beneath the delicate skin of the cannon. He was relieved to find none, the tendons as hale and strong as before. Runcynn neither moved nor flinched under his touch; a sure sign there was no lingering tenderness. Only a thin laceration remained where Gwedal's hooves had found their mark, and it had been properly stitched up and anointed. The faint scent of calendula still lingered in the stall, along with the warm, earthy fragrance of hay.

"I've walked him this very morning, my Lord," came a soft voice from outside the stall and Elladan looked up to meet Gárdred's anxious stare. "He's no longer lame, if that's what you were wanting to know, though it's best you didn't spur him too sharply as of yet."

"Understood." With a last pat on the gelding's neck Elladan checked that his manger was full and exited the stall, drawing the latch closed in his wake. "I have been meaning to thank you, for taking such good care of him."

"Oh, it's nothing, my Lord. I like being around horses," Gárdred shrugged. He was standing in the small paved courtyard, the thumb of his right hand looped through his belt, his other arm cradling the handle of a pitchfork against his chest, along with the leather cap where his left hand had once been. "They don't mind my own lameness, and they're grateful for whatever I bring them."

There was no trace of bitterness in his voice, and a resignation such that Elladan felt compelled to rebel in his stead. He imagined him, painstakingly gathering flowers for Saehild with his only hand, hoping to buy her affection – and the world's leniency for his involuntary clumsiness – through meekness and discretion. By not bothering anyone, making himself small and gentle, and reining in what urge he may harbor to scream and rage against the unfairness of it all.

"Surely, the value of a man cannot be measured by the number of his hands, or Lúthien the Fair would not have deemed Beren to be worthy of her love." The fact that Beren had lost his hand after he had won the hair maiden's heart over was a technicality Elladan saw fit to omit.

"But Beren did great deeds," Gárdred pointed out, the apple of his throat bobbing nervously, "and I've done nothing to deserve Saehild's affection." The pitchfork screeched against the cobblestones as he turned to follow Elladan to the fountain that had been built in the middle of the courtyard by the previous owners of the manor. A small, winged wyvern coiled around the copper pipe, and lent its maw to the trickle of water that fell, gurgling, into the shallow pool. "I mean, I can't offer her a good life, or any other life than this…." he swept his hand to encompass their surroundings, "and I'd rather see her happy elsewhere, than miserable by my side."

Sweet Elbereth.

If there was one thing Elladan found more awkward than partings, it was any form of sentimental advice. If the boy had any sense, he would seek such counsel elsewhere; from Fengel, or Caelben, or even Legolas who, at least, had some experience in the matter. That Gárdred poured his heart out to Elladan, of all people – who had mended Saehild's arm after their foiled and utterly foolish attempt to romp in pitch blackness – was a sign of desperation if there ever was one.

The boy swallowed and ran his hand through his hair. He must have attempted to cut it himself, for the flaxen strands now stuck out in all directions, tousled and uneven in length.

Elladan took pity on him.

"Saehild's happiness is not yours to make." He grabbed a bucket which he held under the stream, and cast the boy a stern glance while it filled. "If there is anything I have learnt about her, is that she is her own woman. If she has chosen you, then all you have to do is to decide whether you want her as well…and treat her with the respect she deserves."

He prayed that such inane advice would be sufficient to have the boy thinking for a while – and put him off of sneaking away to do Eru-knew-what in the middle of the night.

"I do want her," Gárdred declared hotly, switching his pitchfork to his right hand and speared a bale of hay with unexpected vigor. Using the leather-covered stump to help hoist it up, he threw it over the door of a nearby stall, raising a cloud of fine dust. "It's just that…." He sighed, shrugged, and stomped over to pierce yet another hapless bundle before his hands fell to his sides as the fight left him. He turned to look at Elladan with wide, despairing eyes. "I fear she'll no longer want me, once she knows who I truly am."

Elladan opened his mouth…and closed it. The bucket overflowed, spilling cold water onto his feet and he swore, jumping backwards in time to avoid being further soaked. "I think," he began, buying himself time as he hauled the water towards Runcynn's stall, "it is a risk one must take, if one is willing to chance being loved at all."

I don't mind…you not always being cheerful, I mean.

He set the bucket into the straw, hiding his face from the boy's view as Mehreen's husky voice murmured those troubling words close to his ear. She knew nothing of what he, Elladan, had done. And if, or when, she did….

"You think I should tell her?"

Gárdred's voice quivered in his back, filled with such hope that Elladan did not have the heart to tell him what he made of such candidness. It was unfair, to begin with. Truth was a bitter potion, shoved down someone else's throat, leaving them with little choice but to swallow it. A burden, thrust into the hands of those one cared for with the hope they would carry it with you, rather than use it to strike back.

But to cradle one's darkness inside their palms…was there ever a greater proof of love than that?

"I think you should follow your conscience."

Another platitude, but Gárdred gulped it down with undue gratefulness, beaming as though Elladan had just handed him the answer to all life's questions. He all but skipped off in elation, dragging the pitchfork along, and abandoning Elladan to probe the depths of his own hypocrisy.

The boy really ought to have asked someone else. Someone who had had the chance to test out the wisdom Elladan had dealt out so lightly, instead of passing it on like some shameful disease. Yet, it was the only sensible thing to do, Glorfindel used to jest, for good advice was seldom of use to oneself.

A sudden pain shot through his left shoulder. Elladan hissed and leapt away from the stall he had leaned against, cursing, only to see a shaggy grey muzzle disappear beyond the wooden door, its lips pulled back on a set of blunt yellow teeth.

Of course.

He heaved a weary sigh as he peered into the twilight of the stall. A pair of dark, soulful eyes met his; Elladan the donkey played innocent, as though it had not just attempted to bite a chunk of his arm off.

"You hardly deserve a treat," Elladan grunted, rubbing his aching muscles. "Not after what you just did. Or would you dare to disagree?"

The beast flopped its oversized ears, chasing away the flies that pestered it in the heavy warmth of the stall, watching him with the same beseeching gaze as Gárdred moments ago. Elladan could almost have suspected the two of having conspired against him.

"You have the gall! Mehreen has spoiled you."

His namesake tilted its head, as if to agree she had, indeed, spoilt him rotten, just like any other wretched creature she laid her striking eyes on. The last piece of crust weighed down his pocket like a slab of granite, and Elladan could well imagine Mehreen pleading him for forgiveness of the beast's foul temper.

He had little doubt she would have succeeded again, just like for the malkin in the tree.

Elladan scowled. "Fine," he growled, and proffered the bread towards the greedy muzzle, all the while checking there was no-one around to witness his weakness. Gárdred was nowhere to be seen, and the stables stood silent, save for the occasional scraping of horseshoe on stone and the bickering of magpies around the puddle by the fountain. "I will let your abject behavior slide, but only this once. Do not go boasting about my kindness, either, and remember to whom you owe it."

Only Mehreen could see the good in such a lost cause, Elladan mused as he made his way back across the courtyard. As he caught his own, distorted reflection in the murmuring water of the fountain, he wondered what that made him. Beneath the raised hackles and the snapping teeth, he and his namesake were of the same ilk, and once again, she had been the first to notice.

A.N.: I've taken the liberty of borrowing the quote regarding good advice from none other than Oscar Wilde.