Chapter 55

August 27th, TA 3020

I'll see him again.

The tiny white petal fell, twirling, into the trampled grass.

I won't.

Mehreen's boots were covered in them: minuscule, tear-shaped specks of white against dusty leather, like the snow she'd been promised and that she'd likely never get to see. Or, less invitingly, like dandruff. Remains of plucked chamomile flowers lay scattered throughout the clearing – a modest patch of fescue wedged between spruce trunks, discarded after having served their childish purpose, but no less dead, nor reproachful.

I will.

Tearing yet another petal from the bulging center, Mehreen tossed it to the ground.

I won't.

In truth, another question was bubbling inside her, ready to burst from the lips she bit in her effort to separate the petals; a question she dared not voice. No matter how pointless her game, the answer could only hurt, though Mehreen couldn't help but wonder which was worse: that Elladan didn't love her…or that he could've?

I will.

"Liar," she whispered, rubbing thumb against index to send the last petal fluttering after the others.

Someone cleared his throat. "Apologies, my Lady…but we're waiting for you," a gravelly voice called from the woods behind her.

Though respectful, the tone implied they would've been off already, if not for indulging her moping. As Mehreen turned around, scattering the petals with a swish of her riding skirts, she couldn't help but notice the disapproval etched into the Lieutenant's sunburnt skin, along with something akin to pity. The flecked sunlight was unkind to him, highlighting the abundance of grey in his long, brown hair and the pinkish recess of the scar across the bridge of his flat nose. His eyes, however, were gentle, as light as the sky, crinkling at the corners with a laughter Mehreen was yet to hear.

She hung her head in penance. "Forgive me, sir. I became lost in thought."

A poor excuse it was, but the Lieutenant – as Mehreen had resorted to calling the old soldier, for lack of remembering his name – acknowledged it with a curt nod before extending an arm towards a sparser growth of trees uphill from where they stood. Though the road was hidden from sight by brambles and high grass, the distant chink of horses chewing on their bits, and the squeaking of leather straps being tightened informed Mehreen she was, indeed, awaited.

She preceded the Lieutenant, waddling on stiff, aching legs. Despite the caution and the urgency impressed upon her by Lord Legolas, she was in no hurry to climb back atop the tall beast of a warhorse she'd been assigned as a mount. The chestnut mare flicked her ears at her approach, snorting softly in what sounded like a scoff, looking down on Mehreen in more ways than one. Bara was holding her reins, stroking the mare's nose while the rest of the troop remained ensconced in a low conversation, seemingly oblivious of her lateness.

There were seven of them, including the Captain, whose brigandine of burgundy cloth stood out against the shivering greenery. Bara, whose name Mehreen had remembered thanks to his habit of closing his lips over the wooden amulet he wore around his neck whenever the grey, jagged walls of the Outer Fence were in sight, couldn't have been much older than she was. He was the youngest of the group and the stealthiest, if the Captain's habit of sending him to scout ahead was to be believed.

If Mehreen was to guess, the Sha'ir followed him closely in age. His real name Mehreen hadn't retained, which mattered little since he'd not addressed her ever since their first encounter. Of the two of them, she would've been hard-pressed to say who'd blushed a deeper red: she, for finding herself in the company of so many men, or the Sha'ir, whose pale, freckled skin had been set aflame by a mere glimpse of her. Many a woman would've envied him his thick, golden lashes, or the timid grace with which he held himself, despite the twin swords strapped to his back, right beside his lute.

Then there was Bear, and Buttercup, and another man whose name evaded her. All tall, tanned and burly warriors, with dark hair and darker eyes, loud and jestful despite the shadows lurking behind those carefree smiles.

And, last but not least, the Captain, and her trusty Lieutenant.

Bara offered Mehreen a smile of encouragement as she hopped on one foot, struggling to slide her boot into the stirrup in an awkward little dance she'd been practicing ever since the previous morning, when they'd set out of Bar-Lasbelin. Not for the first time, Mehreen became grateful for the leggings she'd been lent and which, however uncomfortable in their tightness, provided a semblance of decency to her present position. When she finally did succeed and grasped blindly for the pommel, quartered between the ground and her foot suspended somewhere at belly-level, the Lieutenant grasped her by the waist and, oblivious of her gasp of surprise, hoisted her up.

"Let's move!"

The Captain's commanding voice, deep and sonorous, boomed from the head of the column as soon as Mehreen plopped into the saddle, so imperious that the mare moved forward on her own. Not that Mehreen could've stopped it, had she even wanted to, busy as she was with holding onto the pommel with clammy hands, her head spinning from the height.

Closing her eyes was a mistake she wasn't willing to repeat.

As the group fell into formation, riding two by two upon the narrow forest road, Mehreen gingerly touched the stinging scratch across her cheek, inflicted by a branch she hadn't seen.

"You're lucky," Bara commented from her left, his almond-shaped eyes twinkling with mirth. Of half-a-mind to tell him she was feeling everything but, Mehreen scowled. "Not everyone can boast to have visited Henneth Annûn in their lifetime," the young ranger insisted good-naturedly, "and seen the sun set behind its glimmering curtain. It's a sight to behold, isn't it?"

Under different circumstances, Mehreen might've appreciated the spectacle. Though the road through Osgiliath was a shorter and more travelled one, the Captain had decided to loop through the old ranger outpost, so as to throw any pursuit off their trail; such a route required a light-footedness incompatible with a carriage and Mehreen, who'd once wished to learn to ride, was now regretting having ever thought such a thing.

"It is," she admitted, shamed by her sourness. It was hardly Bara's fault she was here, forlorn and homesick and aching all over, or that she'd spared but a glimpse to the sight of liquid sunlight pouring down the cliff.

Home.

Three months ago, when she'd watched the quays of Pelargir from her cabin aboard the Maryam, squinting to make out the details of the lackluster alleys through the film of salt coating the windowpane, Mehreen never would've believed that someday, she'd call Gondor her home. Though, in all fairness, it wasn't all of Gondor she missed; it was a small, green corner of it, tucked against the slopes of the Mountains of Shadow and, in its heart, an old stone manor ruled by an elf whom she'd once believed to be an enemy.

It seemed to Mehreen it'd been mere minutes since she'd stood before the Great Hall, in front of the small, mismatched assembly that'd come to bid her farewell. Ahlam, tear-stricken and red-eyed, the neatness of her turban contrasting with the rumpled shawl she'd thrown around her shoulders in her determination to accompany Mehreen as far as she could, despite the early hour. Beylith, gauche and sullen, thrusting back the book Mehreen had tried to return. "Just send it back when you're done," she'd mumbled, biting on a red lip until it all but bled. And, at a comfortable distance from the others, had stood Dúnwen with her son. The boy had cheerfully waved Mehreen goodbye, oblivious of the ambient gloom, so that she'd had no choice but to wave back, laughing through her tears.

Oddly enough, the straw that'd broken the camel's back wasn't Déordred's blitheness, nor the fact that anyone at all had come to see her off. It'd been Redhriel, of all people, bashful and contrite instead of angry and disappointed. "Lord Legolas has told me, of course, of your imminent departure," she'd admitted in a pained voice. "It is a pity, to lose one as diligent and eager as you, and…." She'd hesitated, wringing her perfect hands from behind the rampart of her desk – for lack of finding them a better use, no doubt, lest she fell victim to a sudden and unseemly need to embrace Mehreen. "…I wish we had had more time to learn from one another."

Someone had tied the reins over the mare's withers, and Mehreen picked at the knot with a heavy heart.

It must've been pure vanity on her part to believe she'd made herself a place in Bar-Lasbelin – a place of her own – and that she needn't fear being forsaken any longer. Oh, how Lalla Laila would've laughed at her naivety! Or perhaps was it only a matter of time before Mehreen made some grievous mistake, and brought shame upon her father's name. She ought to be grateful Anwar still wanted her at all, with her rough hands and her questionable wholeness, after having lived what Lalla Nafiyah would've deemed to be a life of utter dissolution and immorality, cavorting unchaperoned and unveiled with men who spurned the Aadilim ways.

By the time they'd reached the Anduin, Mehreen had almost managed to convince herself it was better this way.

Ever since their departure from the cavern behind the waterfall, and the clear, inviting waters of its shallow pool, the sun had rolled overhead, at times lagging behind the small troop, at others showing the way. Now it had come to hang above the prow of an island off the shore, so long Mehreen saw no end to its tall, white walls rising high over the roiling current, connected to the mainland by a long, many-spanned arch bridge with ripped-out parapets and chipped buttresses, like a piece of delicate lacework now torn by a careless hand.

Though she was no ranger, she guessed it to be sometime after noon, if the growling of her stomach was to be believed.

"Curse this heat," Bear rumbled as soon as the Captain had called them to a halt, and wiped his brow with the back of his calloused hand before tugging the ties of his collar loose. Under the grime and the sweat, his crow's feet appeared strikingly pale in contrast.

"Almost enough to make me miss the Morannon," the unnamed ranger concurred as he swiped the reins from Mehreen's numb hands and led her mare towards the line of trees that bordered the riverbank. Undoing the knot with deft fingers, he tied the mare to the bole of a sturdy hazel tree, much to the horse's delight. As it proceeded to chomp on the abundance of serrated leaves, he reached out to pluck Mehreen from the saddle with the same practiced ease.

"Can you walk, my Lady?" His hands had lingered on her waist a fraction longer than necessary.

"I-I think so." Under her split skirts, the leggings clung to the inside of her thighs, unpleasantly hot and muggy.

The man grinned in sympathy, the thin scar along his jaw stretching under a short, salt-and-pepper beard. "It'll only get worse tomorrow, I'm afraid, but once we reach Minas Tirith, it'd be my pleasure to show you to a fine establishment, where they can rub those pains away." He moved to capture Mehreen's hand. "You have such lovely skin…."

"Tharn." The Captain's voice cracked like a whip, full of warning.

"Duty calls." The ranger named Tharn winked at Mehreen, relinquishing her hand before she'd even felt his warmth. "Allow me to tell you, you're doing stunningly, for one who's never ridden before."

"Tharn!"

He strode off, chuckling to himself, more amused than aroused by Mehreen's involuntary flushing.

"Don't mind him, my Lady" Buttercup threw her way as he passed her by. He switched his grasp on an armful of deadwood, breathing heavily in the midday heat. "It's become more of a habit, like making water, but he means no harm." He took a step towards her, and Mehreen caught a whiff of the acid sweat imbuing the collar of his bright yellow shirt, beneath a close-fitting leather jerkin. "Rumor has it, Tharn's got a wife in every city, from Dol Amroth to Osgiliath."

"Legend," Tharn called out from behind the Captain's blood bay steed in a falsely offended tone. He'd unsaddled the horse, and was now rubbing its damp coat with a handful of dried grass. "Legend has it, you ignoramus. If you're to slander me, please be precise."

It soon appeared to Mehreen that everyone, save her, had a hand in the setting up of their camp. While Tharn – she'd now heard his name often enough to remember it – took care of the horses and their watering, Buttercup had had a small fire going, in time for Bara to emerge from the woods holding what looked, much to Mehreen's dismay, like the gory carcasses of four freshly skinned rabbits in one hand and an asymmetrical longbow in the other. Bear and the carrot-haired Sha'ir had been tasked with watch duty, while the Captain and the Lieutenant sat cross-legged in the shade of a nearby oak, sharpening mean longswords with movements rendered sluggish by the swelter.

She shivered in the draft that swooped from the river, soughing through the canopies, and wrapped her arms around her, feeling guilty about her own idleness. Though, perhaps, was idleness preferable to incompetence; upon this comforting thought, Mehreen resolved to make herself busy in some little way, at least. She walked over to where her giantess of a mare grazed on clumps of moor grass growing under the hazel – a rich, rhythmic crunching punctuated with exhales of content.

She'd managed to tame Elladan, hadn't she? A well-trained war steed should pose no challenge, no matter how tall nor intimidating.

Still, Mehreen's hand trembled as she reached out and, holding her breath, splayed her fingers over the soft, sun-heated coat of the beast's neck. The mare didn't budge, save for a shiver rippling down her sides. She swished her tail, as if Mehreen had been some pest bothering her.

"We should be kind to one another," Mehreen entreated. "After all, we're to travel together for a little longer yet. If you're nice to me, I'll be nice to you."

To demonstrate her good intentions, she bent to rip out a clump of clover, and offered it to the mare. It did take some prodding to make her notice the pink clusters being thrust towards her muzzle, but Mehreen's perseverance was rewarded when the horse pulled back her lips and took an eager bite of the bouquet.

"See?" Mehreen enthused. "We'll be friends yet."

"If you're to befriend her, you might start by calling her by her name."

Mehreen startled upon hearing Bear's voice in her back. However had a man his size – and heavily armored to boot – managed to approach her so stealthily? Her heart leapt to her throat as he took a brisk step towards her, trapping her between the mare and his bulk, and casting his shadow over her face.

"Her name is Hidhúniel," Bear grunted, side-stepping Mehreen to flatter the mare's side with surprising tenderness. His thick fingers didn't seem out of place as he ran them along a powerful neck and through her dark mane, combing the coarse, tousled hairs. "The steadfast maiden." His smile was lopsided, as if torn off and plastered back with that same rough hand. "Go on, say it. She's as deserving of respect as any of us."

"Hidhúniel," Mehreen repeated, intimidated. The name was foreign on her lips; the shiver accompanying such obedience was not.

The mare pricked her ears and turned her racy head towards them, her liquid eyes following their every move. It seemed to Mehreen she'd understood every word Bear had said, and agreed.

"You take good care of her."

All but pushing himself off Hidhúniel's tall shoulder, Bear trudged off towards the fire, leaving Mehreen to wonder whom exactly had the plea been addressed to. Only later did it dawn upon her she hadn't asked him whom the mare used to belong to, but since he hadn't offered, perhaps was it another one of those double-edged questions Mehreen may be better off not knowing the answer to.

oOoOoOo

No-one had much insisted for Mehreen to share their fare; not after she'd told them it was Al-Siyaam, the news a secret relief, or so Mehreen suspected. The men ate the rabbits in a weary silence sometimes punctuated by a jest, and seldom even by conversation. While Mehreen suffered little from the weather, used as she was to the boiling heat that rose from the cobbled streets of Jufayrah in the wake of a summer day, the Captain and her men appeared to be abated by it, to the point where the Sha'ir's fingers grew clumsy on the strings of his lute and his companions' complaints, unfriendly. Back in the woods, both Bear and Buttercup had taken harmless pleasure in belting out sobby ballads in a gruff, off-key duet, driving him to cover his ears with a grimace before the Captain commanded them into silence, a hint of laughter at the corners of her thin mouth. Now, even they sat with hunched shoulders, sweating under their hauberks and brigandines, the felt padding their helmets dark with perspiration.

"Are we out of spices?" Tharn complained while eyeing his part woefully. "This tastes like my old, rancid braies, sprinkled with Bear's disappointment in his private life."

Buttercup shrugged as he picked at his teeth with the tip of his skewer. "Not my fault you Northerners can't take a decent seasoning. You should be flattered, though. I made it as bland as your come-ons."

"You little…."

"Shut it! All of you." The Captain had half-pushed herself off the oak bole, leaning on the sheathed sword she'd planted into the grass. Her blue eyes glimmered with a fire so fierce it reduced the men to a surly muttering. "We have a lady amongst us. I'll not have her subjected to your buffoonery just because you're taking the Redhorn Pass." Her voice was breathy and hoarse from overuse; her sword arm trembled with anger.

Tharn hung his head, looking very much like a chastised boy. "Apologies, Captain."

"It's not me you should be apologizing to."

"I'm sorry, Ereg. My Lady. Don't know what's gotten into me."

Such a contrition marred his handsome face that Mehreen readily granted him her forgiveness. After all, it was her own fault they were all here, simmering under their armor.

The Captain leaned back against the trunk, a sheen of sweat glistening beneath the wisps of dark hair that'd escaped from her braid. She had a wide, kindly face and, given the chance, could've grown into one of the plump, mellow women whose love for sweets only rivalled with that for her many children and grandchildren. Whatever the trials the Captain had had to face, however, they'd robbed her of that softness, whetting fleshy cheekbones and hardening the jaw so that the muscles that clenched there couldn't have been weaker than those of her brawny arms.

"We're all in this together," she rasped as her Lieutenant hurried to fetch her a waterskin, "as we've been for the last year, in good times and bad." She encompassed each and every one of her men in a keen gaze, causing their shoulders to straighten in pride and their eyes, to clear of what lassitude had plagued them.

"And Tulkas knows we've been through some rotten stuff," Bear acquiesced with a rumbling chuckle.

"Like the time you wooed that lass from Linhir," Bara piped up, "only to find out it was a strapping lad."

He was quickly hushed by a chorus of solemn voices; all listened raptly to their Captain as she continued: "You, Tharn, were ready to give your life for Inwion, when the orcs had us cornered, back in Cirith Gwaeros." The swarthy warrior nodded, smiling pensively at the Sha'ir, who touched a hand to his heart in remembrance. "And you, Ereg. You almost lost an arm pulling Arthagar back, when Osgiliath fell."

Buttercup clenched and unclenched his right hand, as if banishing a tingle from a sleeping limb. The silence settled in once more, this time heavy with memory rather than resentment. From her place beyond the circle, Mehreen watched them exchange glances and anecdotes, grinning at one another as this or that incident had them chuckling into their beards.

"For most of us, this is our last mission for our noble King Elessar. Our last duty before a well-deserved retirement. Let us not spoil the solemn vows we've taken with lowly bickering. Let us not forget how lucky we are to be alive." She pushed herself to her feet with a grunt. "Let us remember each other fondly. As friends –" she grasped the waterskin her Lieutenant proffered, and took a generous swig before rising the flask towards the canopy. "Nay. As brothers!"

A round of cheers erupted throughout the group, all weariness forgotten. The weight that'd settled upon Mehreen's chest lifted as well. She, too, had people to remember, and prayers of gratitude to address. Ahlam was safe. Elladan was alive. Both had yet a chance to be happy.

It was all that mattered.

A.N.: a few notes regarding this chapter:

- In Haradric (which is inspired from Arabic in this story), the name Bara closely resembles the word 'barr', which means 'pious' or 'righteous'. 'Sha'ir' means 'troubadour'.

- The asymmetrical bow used by Bara is a type of yumi bow.

- Hidhúniel is a Sindarin name, formed using the words 'hûn' = heart, and 'him' = steadfast.

- Cirith Gwaeros means 'Whisperwind Pass' in Sindarin (from 'cirith' = pass, cleft, 'gwae' = wind' and 'lhoss/rhoss' = whisper).