Lucy: thank you, and thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the last few chapters. Mehreen is getting to know some new people, expanding her friends' circle as it were ;)

Thanks again for taking the time to review!

Chapter 42

August 18th, TA 3020

Mitharlan owed its name to the tall, grey stone that stood in the middle of the village, within a paved square overgrown with crabgrass. In this part of the woods, the Dogstail curved to dig a narrow vale into the sloping land wedged between the Ephel Dúath and the Anduin, surrounded on both sides by shaggy pines and spruces. The village had sprung up like a mushroom on each side of the river, its houses – mostly low cottages – perched atop the banks and belting the square, their stone steps licked by the frothing water.

Elladan's impression of emptiness was confirmed by the shuttered windows, reminding him of his own forest hut. He led the group onto the square, and stopped.

Elves had lived here, once.

Avari, mayhap, their lingering presence almost erased by the stoutness of the houses and the odd sign of human presence here and there; the pillar was all that remained of the former elven settlement. Upon its surface, Elladan distinguished carvings in the shape of figures. Fourteen, he counted as he circled the stone, touching his fingers to the grooves; a representation of the Valar, before Fëanor had invented the Tengwar and permitted their names to be written. Once, the stone may have served as a place of worship. Now, it lent the vines that spurted between the stones a way up towards the sun, and provided shade for a couple of chickens that had escaped their pen. It was not to say that the villagers disdained the old ways; any trace of moss had been removed by a diligent hand, the scrapes of a brush visible on the stone. Of the villagers themselves, there was no sign. So far, Elladan had his companions had not encountered a living soul other than the wandering poultry.

From up close, the scent of cold smoke permeated the air….

Elladan grimaced, resisting the urge to cover his nose.

…Along with the stench of burnt flesh. One of the houses further upriver had been burned to the ground, the façade of the neighboring house bearing traces of fire where the flames had begun to lick it. Pale volutes still seeping from what remained of the rafters, their blackened husks rising towards the sky. Elladan need not search the debris to know at least one body lay buried beneath the cinders.

The boy's family, in all likeness.

The apprentices' faces decomposed, their dismay betraying how young, how terribly young they still were; yet it was Gaerlin's voice that broke the leaden silence that ensued. "By the seeds of Nimloth, what happened here?"

He, better than anyone, could relate to the tragedy that had taken place in Mitharlan. A year past, he had come to Bar-Lasbelin as a last resort, seeking shelter rather than help, having been shunned out of his village in Lossarnach after the death of his wife and child. A world at peace had deprived the soldier Gaerlin had been of another option and, if the man he was today was a far cry from who he had been then, the change had not been for the better.

Now, an unspoken question remained. Had the fire had been an accident following the inhabitants' demise, or had it caused it? Elladan alone knew of the boy's hidden injuries, which had wrapped around his wrists like shackles the size of a man's hand. Still, he hoped for the former – that the boy had escaped the fire rather than having been shoved into it. Elladan took a step, intending to take a closer look despite his revulsion, and met the narrowed stare of a big, grey cat lounging in the shadow of a bluebeard bush. It yawned, unimpressed, whipping its tail lazily and showing off its tiny fangs.

Cats everywhere, it seemed, cared little about the plights of men.

"Far from desperate, are you?" Elladan murmured.

The cat rose and stretched its hind legs unhurriedly, granting him a jaded look. Far from feral, it had a master, somewhere…or had had, not far enough in time for the animal to forget its fondness for being petted. Elladan cast another glance towards the closed shutters. He could have sworn someone had moved, in the darkness of the nearest cottage, but his attention had been drawn to the blinds themselves, where the image of a flaming eye had been scratched into the wood.

Sauron.

Elladan rose so quickly that the cat, spooked, snarled in protest from behind the bush where it had darted to. A dog barked in the distance: the nervous baying of a mutt chained down for too long and unable to understand why, in all likelihood forgotten by masters who had bigger worries than him.

"What desperation has driven these people to abandon their own," Amdirfel mused aloud, "and bow their heads before the Enemy?"

Elladan did not respond, for he held little hope regarding the power of such a gesture. Even if Sauron had heard such a prayer beyond the void he had been banished to, it was not in his nature to hearken, let alone stay the disease. It was now clear how direly the people of Mitharlan needed his help – if anybody still lived to be helped, that is.

"We have come too late," Bruiven murmured, his features twisted with a guilt that had little to do with the present, and Elladan bit his tongue for all reply.

The sun moved overhead, releasing the shadows that daylight had kept pent up beneath the village. The figures on the lonely stone seemed to twist, as though dancing in circles; the dog quieted down and, after a short, plaintive whine, lay back down in a rattling of chains that reverberated from beyond the line of houses facing the stone.

Elladan's heart went to the poor beast. If indeed it had been left to guard an empty home, they might as well release it.

"Stay here," he bid his companions. "There is one, at least, we can save."

Walking swiftly, his hands clenching and unclenching under the impression of being watched, Elladan crossed an arched bridge and rounded a corner to come onto a small courtyard, separated from the back of the neighboring house by a narrow, chickweed-sprouting street. The wattle fence struggled to contain the growth of honeysuckle shrubs, buckling here and there under the weight of the blossoms, whose fragrance mixed with the tang of Dogstail's silt. Beyond the fence, between a picket and an empty bowl lay the dog, its muzzle resting on its front paws. Upon seeing Elladan it raised its head to growl a feeble warning, tail wagging slowly in the dust.

"I come in peace," Elladan called out in his mother tongue in a low, sing-song voice, hands open to show he was no threat. The dog's ears flicked at the sound, dark eyes watching the approach with both wariness and hope. "I wish to free you. Will you allow me to do that?" Suppressing a wry smile at how often he used the same tone to speak to many of his patients, Elladan crouched beside it and ran a hand along a panting brown flank, moving upwards until his fingers found the leather of a collar. "A moment's patience, my friend."

He unbuckled the strap, tossing it aside as the animal rose on stiff, unsteady legs to search his hand with a nose too dry for Elladan's liking. Once the bowl filled with water from the river, and the dog lapping it up in noisy gratefulness, Elladan flattered its neck one last time before turning his attention to the house. Its low-hanging roof, built out of reeds, cast a shadow over the doorstep that must have been comforting on a hot day like this one in times of peace and plenty. On a whim, Elladan tried the door.

It was locked.

"Where are your masters, I wonder?"

He hesitated. It would have been more prudent to rejoin the rest of the group, yet the longer he stood there, the stronger the uncanny impression of surveillance grew.

Just a quick look, he decided, and then he would leave.

The back of the cottage boasted another courtyard, smaller than the front, and encumbered with a cooper's tools: a side axe planted into a block of wood, as though its owner had thought to take a short break, but had never returned. A hoop driver lay nearby, exposed to the elements, inches away from an unfinished barrel whose staves opened outward like the petals of a flower. Had Elladan not had more pressing matters to attend, he would have lain them to rest in a proper manner, loath as he was to leave the tools that had sustained someone's living out to rot.

Just as he had guessed, the house had a backdoor – one he hoped had been left open in the owners' hurry to leave. While the village, in its barrenness, had taught him little about what had happened to its inhabitants, the inside of a cottage might.

The door opened with a crack onto the blackness of its interior. While Elladan's eyes adjusted to the lack of light – the only source being what sunset filtered through the shuttered panes – he stepped inside…

…Only to feel the edge of a blade against his throat.

"You better back off," a gruff voice said to his right, "nice and slow. Your hands where I can see'em."

"I have come to help."

"Help yourself to our belongings, more like," the voice sniggered. "No sudden movements, now, or you'll end up somewhat shorter than you arrived."

Despite the racing of his pulse and the dagger under his chin – for the warmth that radiated from the owner's hand, not far from his skin, betrayed its shortness – Elladan managed to keep his voice even. "I am a healer from Bar-Lasbelin, the elven settlement in North Ithilien. We have been warned that a sickness had reached your village." He turned his head to face the woman holding him at knifepoint. "That you needed our help."

The woman's eyes narrowed; golden-brown, half-hidden under wispy grey curls chopped short. "Bar-Lasbelin, you say?"

"Indeed." Sensing the woman's hesitation, Elladan slowly raised his hand to tip the blade away from his carotid. "Unfortunately, I would be hard-pressed to do anything for you without my head still attached to my shoulders."

"Hmph." Another doubtful glance; Elladan thought she might resist, but the woman slid the dagger into a sheath that hung from her belt, and crossed her arms. From the way the muscles moved, revealed by the rolled-up sleeves, Elladan guessed it was her own tools that lay scattered in the courtyard. "Well, I'd invite you in," she quipped, "but you've already taken that liberty. So close the door, will you? It's the least you can do."

Much to his astonishment Elladan found himself obeying. Not only did the woman's tone brook no argument, he had no desire to see her pull out the dagger again. She seemed perfectly capable of doing just that, should he displease her.

Yet as soon as the latch fell into place, her features softened. "It's alright, you can come out now. This one's not going to hurt you."

A scuttling of little hands and feet sounded somewhere at knee level. 'This one' watched as two children crawled out from under the table that stood to Elladan's right, the boy holding the tablecloth up for the girl to emerge, dragging a tattered stuffed doll by the arm. They could not be older than five, and appeared as dissimilar as a brother and a sister of different fathers could be. While the girl's skin was as fair as milk, the boy resembled the one who had died in Elladan's arms two days past.

A brother, perhaps? Elladan would have asked, had the woman not seemed so unconcerned by the missing of a son.

"Go wash your hands," she scolded them as the girl began to wipe hers on her dress, her chubby cheeks streaked with grime. "And don't stare," she snapped at the boy, who stood gaping at Elladan, "it's rude. Don't you know that?"

As the children scattered throughout the house she sighed, uncrossing her arms to push a stubborn curl out of her eyes and behind her ear, from whence it slipped out at once. Though it had not worked out too well for Elladan, of late, he could have wagered that she had been forced to cut her hair short but a short while ago. The habit still clung to her fingers; a memory from a time when her hair was longer and her life, easier.

The woman's hard gaze turned back to Elladan. "Don't expect me to feed you."

"Madam, I would not dare to."

The woman graced him with a last withering look before pushing her sleeves up further and marching towards the stove that stood in a corner, where she stirred the coals until the fire blazed anew. Then she set to banging about pots and pans, conveying to perfection how gladdened she was by his visit. As for Elladan, he squinted out the window, where the night was blending the trees into a shivering, black veil. He could only imagine her reaction, should he bring in the rest of his group.

"I have overstayed my welcome as it is," he added while backing off towards the door. "I shall leave you to your…cooking."

Which, incidentally, smelled as unsavory as it sounded, though it did trigger some fond memories. In his earlier years, when he and Elrohir ate, slept and hunted with the Dúnedain, it was customary for the men to take turns in hunting and preparing that day's bounty. All had soon learnt that not everyone had a talent for cooking and, after a few evenings of sharing a charred dinner, Brannor had been unanimously exempted of that particular task.

Elladan turned on his heels, the door handle at arm's reach.

"Mama says we mustn't go out after sunset."

The little girl was watching him, her doll clutched against her chest, the front of her dress splotched with what must be water. Her large brown eyes studied him from below, lingering on what shiny parts they found in his garb. The belt buckle in particular must have caught her fancy for she stared, fascinated, its golden reflection playing in her flaxen hair.

"Your mother knows what is best for you," Elladan agreed, earning himself a huff from beside the stove, "and you should listen to her. But I must bid you goodnight. My friends are waiting for me." He had been absent long enough for the others to worry, and had no desire to see Amdirfel or Faineth receive the same welcome that he had, should either come looking for him.

"Sofie is right, you know. I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

The woman had barely glanced up from her work, toiling over whatever it was that filled the room with the acrid tang of burnt crust. Her naked elbows glistened in the light radiating from the stove, shoulders hunched as she wrestled the dinner onto the plates.

"I thought you wanted me gone."

"I wanted you gone, elf, not dead. Else I would've done it myself." The knocking of a knife on wood ceased as she tilted her head sideways. "Spared you a lot of pain, too."

"And why is that?" Elladan demanded, now wary despite the comforting weight of his bow in his back, his concern for his companions doubling by the minute. "Speak, woman! You have either said too much, or not enough."

And regretted his outburst as Sofie flinched and dashed to hide behind her mother, much like the village cat before. If the woman had harbored any guilt about throwing him out, those doubts vanished as she whirled around, a blade in her hand and fury in her eyes. "Get out, then," she growled, her strong arms wrapped around her child. "Get out of my house!"

The door slammed open; the floorboards creaked under Amdirfel's weight, the shadow of a drawn bow painted on the wall as he stepped in. "Lord Elladan! Are you unhurt?"

"Get out!" the woman hissed again, her face contorted in anger and fear; but it was not the notched arrow she was looking at, Elladan realized as he turned to follow her gaze. She was staring over Amdirfel's shoulder, over Gaerlin and the rest of the group that milled beyond the doorstep.

The woman was looking straight into the night.

"Da'iha washa nuha!" a small, quivering voice called out. The boy had returned, his swarthy figure drawn in resolution; Elladan's heart sank when he saw the axe he was dragging with all the might of his little hands, struggling to raise it to defend her.

"Lower your bow!" he commanded, leaping forward to stand between the scout and the woman protecting her child. "It is I who am to blame. I…."

"Get out!"

The woman's voice rose, shrill with terror, her eyes wide and mouth deformed in a grimace. This time it was no order, it was a plea; Sofie squirmed and whimpered, scared more by her mother's tone than what fright she still harbored of Elladan. "Mama, you're hurting me!"

The woman ignored her, clutching her child with unwitting strength, fingers digging into Sofie's gentle flesh. "Get out, or get in but for the love of Eru, close that door!"

A.N.: the boy's words 'da'iha washa nuha' are inspired from Arabic. Their meaning in Haradic would be 'leave her alone'.