Chapter 44

August 19th, TA 3020

A promise is a cloud, fulfillment is rain, said the scriptures, and Mehreen felt the former gather over her head as she perused the wax tablet a third time, still hoping she'd somehow misread it. Unfortunately, Redhriel's penmanship was as impeccable as it was concise. Herb garden, it said and, gathering her courage as one shoulders a cloak in expectation of a storm, to the herb garden Mehreen went.

It was a universal truth that, whatever their wish, mortals weren't happy until it'd been fulfilled, so that they could grouse about having wanted the exact opposite. Before even Mehreen had made it to the entrance, irritated mutters ruing the settlement's waterlogged paths had reached her, when but two days ago those same tongues had prayed for a splatter of raindrops thrumming along the wooden railings and crepitating off oaken leaves. Fighting to stave off an onset of worry, Mehreen wrapped her shawl around her shoulders to ward off a chill keeping company to the hallway shadows, as well as the thought of facing Beylith again. Yet, to the herb garden she must go. Redhriel said so, and even if Mehreen had been inclined to disobey – which she wasn't, the seeds of revolt long since plucked out of her by more patient hands than hers – Elladan stood above Redhriel, and him she couldn't disappoint a second time.

Beylith was already waiting for her, her auburn hair a flaming patch in the woods, garish against the muted blue of her plain dress. She stood, studying the ever-growing extent of the creeping disaster that were the wooden casings overflowing with herbs gone wild, her bent head and hunched shoulders like a question mark. As Mehreen's boots screeched upon gravel, she turned around, her expression going from thoughtful to sheepish to closed in a matter of seconds.

"I didn't think you'd come."

"I promised I would," Mehreen said prudently.

A word cajoled out of her by Elladan, and Mehreen now shivered to think of the soft words he'd used. The mere fact that he'd bothered to coax rather than command her had mellowed Mehreen enough to forget her fears…if only for a time.

"One should hope I am old enough to learn from the past," he had grinned, undeterred by her hesitation, his boyish aplomb drawing a small smile to her lips. "Would you try again, then, if I told you that this time, things will be different?"

Things will be different.

There'd been a time Mehreen still believed it, whenever people told her they would be. When her mother had been sent away, and Mehreen woke night after night crying, her father had summoned her into his study, smoothing her hair with his large, bejeweled hand, and promised that someday, she'd understand his reasons, and then things would be different. When Harun had drowned Lilith, and left her small, soaked body in Mehreen's bed for her to find, he'd bid Mehreen to make allowance for boys' slower maturing, and that someday, Harun would come into a leader's ways. And when the war had started, they'd all been gathered inside the prayer room, and been promised it would change everything.

Things had changed, albeit not in the way her father had intended, and Mehreen had understood that different didn't necessarily mean better.

"People promise things all the time," Beylith shrugged sullenly. "Doesn't mean they'll follow up."

Mehreen straightened her spine. "I've been taught not to lie." She tugged at her shawl, the thick wool scratchy against the nape of her neck.

The midday sun baked the forest floor through the sparse green crowning, the air hot and damp in the wake of the rains, fragrant with fresh-tilled soil and cardamom. Puddles welled up inside her footsteps, shivering with crawling things, their shimmering swarms reminding Mehreen of the way the desert air fractured and swam in the thankless heat of the South. Bees and flies buzzed over the shallow cups of fleabane and trumpets of rosy bindweed, whose delicate stems yearned upwards along the nearby boles.

"Never?" Beylith gaped, turning to face her. Only then did Mehreen notice the book she held against her chest: a thick, leather-bound tome with a plain cover, artlessly sewn with string over a ribbed spine. Her other hand bunched her apron against her stomach, the oddly distorted shapes poking through the fabric an invitation to guess what it contained.

"Never."

"Oh." Red lips twisted into a derisive grimace. "So, how's honesty been serving you, then?"

Mehreen flushed. "Not very well," she admitted begrudgingly.

The scriptures taught that honesty was a rare virtue, to be valued above all else. After all, it was the One's persistent honesty that had finally opened the Nine's eyes to the deceit of the men of the West, and brought them to herald His greatness under His benevolent rule as trusted lieutenants. Yet, as Mehreen had watched Lalla Nafiyah turn up her nose at the beggars who sometimes came to the palace doors, their stumps and feet covered in sores, confessing their sins in hopes of a meal, she'd wondered why honesty wasn't common tender for a slice of bread.

All of a sudden, Beylith pushed out a weary sigh, her shoulders slumping anew. "Eh. Don't mind me. I'm hardly an example in that prospect. My grandmother used to tell me my bluntness was an excellent quality…if I wished to be disliked." She balanced the book upon the corner of a box, and Mehreen took an involuntary step forward, yearning to decipher what it was about. "Lord Elladan told me you had trouble remembering herb names," she added, patting the worn-out cover. "For this, too, Grandmaeg Guthrid had a solution."

The twist of shame inside her belly forgotten at once, Mehreen's breath caught in her throat. "Is this…for me?"

"Who else here needs to remember how to care for this mess?" Beylith grinned, only to roll her eyes at her own joke moments later. "Oh, wait. I do. Only I'm better off staying well away from all things living. Go on, take it," she urged Mehreen, who didn't need to be told twice to grasp the tome with shaking hands, almost dropping her shawl in the process.

The cover was dry and powdery, flakes of leather peeling off under her touch and dusting her palms like nutmeg. The pages crackled as she tried to pry the book open, the string grown rigid from years of unuse. Inside, the parchment had been lovingly painted with pictures of herbs and plants, spidery annotations spreading like petals around each sketch.

"I don't even know how to thank you," Mehreen croaked. The churning knot of unease in her chest had loosened its grip, unspooling into tendrils of warmth and belonging.

"Oh, don't thank me," Beylith blithered. "Thank Grandmaeg – only she died two years past – or, better yet, save your thanks for Lord Elladan himself. He's told me just how much of an insensitive fool I've been…but kindly. So, here I am, trying to make amends." Her round face fell into seriousness, blotches of red erupting over her neck as she scratched at it with her free hand. "I meant no harm, you know. You've done me no wrong and here I was, jumping at conclusions quicker than you can say dweorh."

Clutching her newfound treasure against her heart, Mehreen blushed. "I suppose I could've tried harder to explain, instead of running away."

"You run fast, though. I couldn't have caught up with you, had I even wanted to."

They faced each other in a silence that was no longer awkward, under the gently swaying boughs, heavy with bloated, sun-drenched leaves. As if Mehreen's curious stare had added a weight to her burden, Beylith lowered her eyes to her bunched apron, and laughed.

"And to say I almost forgot to give you your other present." She'd uttered the word without a trace of contempt, genuine in her anticipation of Mehreen's delight, before opening her arms to let the contents spill out into the warm grass.

Sticks. They were simple sticks, smooth and golden, fresh from the heart of some majestic tree no doubt destined for a higher purpose than being hacked into such puny, useless pieces.

"Oh," said Mehreen, confused. She bent to pick one up for examination, rolling it between fingers sticky with sap until sunlight hit it at the right angle. "Oh," she then repeated before a swift endearment robbed her of her voice.

Different doesn't mean better.

For the first time since she was old enough to remember, Mehreen felt that certainty waver as she stared at the pile at her feet, each one engraved with the name of an herb in that now-familiar, stern writing. Fanciful. Wasteful. Useless for anyone, save for her.

"Lord Elladan's commissioned them from Master Morion," Beylith pontified from her side, her voice infused with reluctant approval, and Mehreen wondered what led her to wonder the most: that Elladan had taken the time to do so, or that Morion had wasted his in humoring him. Tears of gratitude welled inside her eyes, much to Beylith's distress. "I've done it again, haven't I?" she worried with a self-deprecating pout, slumping her shoulders. "Upset you. Lord Elladan will be displeased."

Shaking her head wordlessly, Mehreen engulfed her into her grateful gaze, forced to wait until the tender swelling inside her throat had subsided before breathing out: "You've both done more than enough to accommodate me. I'd be thankless, if I as much as dreamed of more."

But she hadn't thanked Elladan yet. This very afternoon, Mehreen would find him in his study, and tell him how much this meant to her. He'd be poring over some heavy tome while frowning, as was his wont, though the wrinkles never marred his skin, except in places that mattered. Long, hard hands would be splayed over the pages – though they couldn't have learnt their gentleness from a book – shimmering like salt, and Mehreen would say….

…Nothing. She'd say nothing at all, since Elladan had left for that unfortunate village the previous morning. Mehreen's heart gave an odd little lurch at the realization, but she refused for her joy to be dampened. Elladan would come back. He said he would, just as he'd said that things would be different, this time. And they had. He hadn't even had to promise, and Mehreen allowed herself to hope, remembering the one word he truly ever gave her.

How could she forget?

They'd stood so close one to another, that day, under the moldy rafters of the pavilion, his raven hair sprinkled with wooden shavings from his clumsy attempts at helping her out – a rare and all the more endearing deviation from his usually impeccable appearance. His pale skin had seemed almost translucent in the shadows, his eyes shimmering beneath dark lashes, striking with the intensity of his vow. He'd smelled of lavender and of parchment, both scents enriched by the fragrance emanating from his own skin.

That day, more than any other, Mehreen had wanted to believe in anything he told her, but not until now did she allow herself to truly give in to that wish.

oOoOoOo

It only seemed logical that they ended up sitting one across the other in the Great Hall, after, stiff and not a little bereft of topics to converse about. Both must eat at some point, so that Mehreen tried to remember how Lalla Laila used to entertain the wives of visiting friends of her father. Once they'd concurred that the weather was warm indeed, and that the harvest was promising to be good – despite Mehreen knowing pitifully little about it – they'd fallen into a relieved silence over their plates.

"You really don't know who my father is?" Beylith then said, lifting an awed gaze from her slice of meat pie. Mehreen shook her head. "Gríma Wormtongue." Beylith had spat out that last name with an unhealthy yearning, like picking on a scab. "Never heard of him?"

In the awkward silence that ensued, Mehreen chewed on her mouthful while trying to come up with a tactful way to remind Beylith that even if she had, she must've forgotten it right after. "My father is Sheikh Dawoud Al Iqbal," she offered eventually.

Not that she'd expected Beylith to know who he was, either, so that the utter lack of reaction didn't sting her pride as much as it ought to have. In Jufayrah, even the lowliest, most wretched amongst the masses knew his name, building their rickety shelters against the walls of his palace day after day, even after the gatemaster chased them away. She had, however, braced herself for the inevitable recoil at the mention of such an unmistakably Haradric name, but the least she could do, was to behave herself with the same honesty Beylith had shown her.

"A fine pair we make," Beylith snorted suddenly, shaking her fiery hair. "Two apples far from their tree."

They shared another look, this time of understanding. No doubt their respective kinsfolk would deem them rotten, ungrateful fruit; but for the first time since her arrival to Bar-Lasbelin, Mehreen had found someone who knew how it felt to be distrusted and despised for her blood alone. She didn't dare call it friendship…not yet. But perhaps was there a seedling, in their shared endurance of such scorn and the will to blossom despite it, of something that came close enough for Mehreen to be fooled.

"I really must get going, or Redhriel will pitch one of her fits." Pocketing a pale, puny peach so unlike the fruit Mehreen used to savor in the palace gardens, Beylith rose from the bench to gather her plate and cutlery. "And by that," she muttered, "I mean she'll stare at me in silent disapproval until I want to gouge my eyes out."

Mehreen watched her leave in her usual, brisk pace, cleaving through the crowd like a keel through the waves. Then she stood up in turn to head towards the end of the hall, where a stone sink as wide as five people standing side by side had been installed, and where the youngest of Godwyn's boys and girls were presently scrubbing the dishes, up to their skinny elbows in dirty water. Now, that was a chore she was grateful of having been spared, as the odor food mixed together with that of soap was enough to make her gag. Holding her breath as inconspicuously as she could while she set her plate onto the bench, Mehreen was relieved when she could inhale anew, some good ten steps away in the opposite direction as she made her way back to the herb garden.

Ever since her arrival, the Great Hall, and the adjacent kitchens – the realm over which Godwyn reigned supreme – had reminded Mehreen of a mechanism her older sister Gamila had received for her coming of age, shortly before her marriage, and which chimed a tune when one turned a delicate handle of brass hidden in the back. The work of dwarves, her father had proudly announced, and as costly befitting a Sheikh's oldest daughter. The mechanism itself was shaped like a large egg, enameled in shades of scarlet and gold and inlaid with rubies. Its upper half opened to reveal a miniature lake of lapis upon which moved a white bird, its life-like wings of pearl opened as if ready to take flight, while the dome was painted a blue as dark as midnight and embedded with star-shaped diamonds. Gamila had been generous enough to allow each one of her younger sisters to make the egg chime in turn and, in her entire life, Mehreen had never seen anything as intricate.

Though its walls were of pine rather than gold, and though no gems adorned its sculpted rafters, Mehreen had discovered the Great Hall to be just as well-oiled a machine. As soon as the last of the occupants would have deserted their benches, a flurry of women of all ages would spring into motion to sweep and wash and wipe, and who now bid their time gossiping in the kitchens or lounging in the sun, upon the grass hillock that rose in a gentle slope before jutting upward into a wall of granite, into which had been carved the storerooms to keep the food from spoiling. As though some unseen handle had been turned after each meal, the hall reverted from a dismaying state to that of cleanliness, leaving Mehreen to marvel at how quickly and efficiently this had been accomplished whenever she next visited.

Now, as the Great Hall slowly emptied, the time for the unseen workers to come alive was nigh. A few tables still made their presence known through the scraping of knives and the clanking of cups, while a solitary figure sat perched upon a bench by the very end of the row.

From afar Mehreen recognized Dúnwen, her flaming hair shining in the slanting rays of the early afternoon sun, her bony hands ever-moving as she attempted to master two feats at the same time: swallow her lunch, and keep her son from running away into the woods. As Dúnwen pinched her lips in exhaustion after being forced to drop her spoon once more and dash after Déordred to bring him back, squirming and giggling, under the shade of the roof, Mehreen stepped in.

"It's easier, where I come from," she offered with a smile, sitting upon the bench close enough for Dúnwen to hear her yet far enough so as not to invade her space. "The children are gathered like a flock of geese and herded to and fro by women whose sole task is to ensure the numbers match between morning and evening. You've only got the one, but I see he's got the energy of an entire battalion."

As if on cue, taking advantage of the distraction provided by Mehreen's arrival, Déordred slipped out of his mother's sight and tottered down the stairs, halting to squint back at her from a blotch of sunlight, expecting her to follow. He didn't understand the game had stopped being amusing long ago to his tired and hungry mother, who still put up a brave front as she caught up with him once more.

"If you won't eat now, don't go complaining your belly hurts in the afternoon," Dúnwen gently chided him, pushing Déordred's unfinished plate under his nose before adjusting her dress, which had slipped to hang askew over her collarbones. To Mehreen's intention she added, almost defiantly: "It's good to see him so carefree."

The walls between them still stood, but at least she'd not outright asked Mehreen to leave.

The boy shoved the plate away with a grimace, his lower lip curling into a pout as his mother uttered something in their tongue. "At this rate, we're still here for dinner," Dúnwen then muttered and, raising her eyes towards the kitchens, scrunched her brow in worry. "Do you think they'll soon tell us to leave?" she asked no-one in particular, and Mehreen's heart twisted upon thinking that such a thing may have happened in the past.

How often Dúnwen had gone hungry because no-one had been there to help her out? Or rather because, as Mehreen suspected, she'd been too proud to ask?

"I'll watch him for you, if you want." She beamed at Déordred who readily grinned back, his copper curls bobbing along.

"He's my son. It's my duty to watch over him."

Though Dúnwen looked less gaunt than last Mehreen had seen her in the Houses, on that fateful night, such a progress must be nurtured, else it wouldn't last.

"It's also your duty to stay in good health for his sake. Eat," Mehreen enjoined her as confidently as she could, hoping to mimic some of Beylith's assurance. "You look like you need a break, and I can certainly use the exercise. We won't go far. Right beyond the hall where you can see us."

Dúnwen appeared to hesitate, torn between her beloved, if overenthusiastic, son, and the contents of her plate, which had all but lost their warmth, the fat slowly congealing around pieces of turnip. "No further than the steps," she finally conceded, her expression that of relief mingling with remorse.

"No further than the steps," Mehreen agreed and, extending a hand towards Déordred, felt her heart flutter with delight upon feeling his small fingers squeeze hers with the utter trust that only a child could give. He babbled something unintelligible, turning his round face to peer into hers, and Mehreen laughed. When in doubt…. "I wholeheartedly agree," she nodded, caring little what it was she was saying yes to, as long as it kept the boy entertained.

"I won't be long," Dúnwen called after them, her mouth already full, and Mehreen half-turned to reply, in time to catch the ghost of gratitude in her eyes.

Here was a woman in need of help, and a child in need of attention. Mehreen had both time and affection aplenty, and a willingness to share both in the same manner as she'd been helped and loved throughout her life: first by her mother, then by Ahlam, and by Saineth. Even Beylith counted amongst those Mehreen was now indebted to, in however small, insignificant ways. And though she may never have the chance to hold her own son or daughter, Mehreen could still have this, and perhaps had it been the One's plan for her all along.

Small moments were better than nothing, and Mehreen was determined to enjoy whatever He would grant her.

For an instant, her chest constricted with the wild, senseless hope that all of it could be His test for her, and that something awaited her, something more, at the end of the path. Lalla Nafiyah's lectures had been rich with such stories – tales of great sacrifice demanded from men and women alike, of strife and sorrow, of loss and of resignation. Yet each story ended in the same manner: those who'd endured without complaint were rewarded by a bliss beyond the words of Men. The Blessed, they were called, though in their trials none of them would've guessed to have been thus chosen.

Through Lord Legolas, the One had cast Mehreen into the unknown, and she would've lied, if she'd said she hadn't suffered, all the while knowing that her trial was nothing in comparison to those undergone by others. Through Saineth, he had shown her a way and, through Elladan, the courage to follow it. Mehreen was now part of something bigger than herself, an effort to heal the people who'd been hurt in a war waged in the One's name – wrongly, as she now suspected. What importance did her own desires have in comparison to the greater good?

A loving husband. Children. Perhaps had it never even been meant to be, just like Lalla Zahra's unfortunate barrenness and Elladan, with his ashen eyes and his addictive thoughtfulness, would forever remain a temptation right beyond her reach.

And if, indeed, the One was testing the depths of her faith, He would send her another sign.

A.N.: Rohirric terms in this chapter (inspired by Old English):

- 'grandmaeg' = grandma,

- 'dweorh' = a simpleton.