Chapter 63
September 2nd, TA 3020
No sign more definitive could yet be found for the end of summer than the dreary drizzle that fell over Minas Tirith, turning the fine dust coating its cobbles into mud, and smearing the lofty facades with a dirty grey.
He will not come today.
"Lady Mehreen? Is anything amiss?"
"What?"
Tearing her gaze from the diamonds of wavy glass encased in copper mullions and streaked by rain, Mehreen turned around, only to notice the quizzical look on Lady Heleth's heart-shaped face. It dawned upon her that the woman must've been addressing her, and that she'd tuned her out, lost as she was in her contemplation of the weather.
"Please forgive me, I was…." Motioning towards the casing with a sorry wave of her hand, Mehreen forced herself to return, if only in body, to the Queen's solar, and those who occupied it. "What were you saying?"
"No apology needed, my dear. I was wondering," Lady Heleth said from her seat by the hearth, her subtly greying hair shimmering in the firelight as she inclined her head ever so slightly, "whether you'd had a similar instrument, back in Harad, and if so, should you wish to play." She motioned towards a psaltery of red wood inlayed with gold resting on a tabouret cushioned with green velvet. "Lady Úrien's usually the one indulging us, but her son's caught a cold, playing in the rain with Lord Borion's youngest."
At once, four pairs of hopeful eyes bore into Mehreen, their fingers stilled in what womanly occupations had kept them entertained during the Queen's indisposition.
"Oh." Mehreen bit her lip as the memory of Lalla Laila's snide remarks about her lack of talent chilled her, despite the warmth emanating from beyond the grate of wrought iron. "I don't. Play, that is," she added hastily, loath to sound rude – or worse, ungrateful. "We do have zithers and harps, but unlike my sister Hanaa, I fear I've little inclination for music."
"Such pity," Lady Nelloth, one of the other women bemoaned, waking from her dozing to stifle a small yawn with the back of her free hand, the other keeping the page of a small tome in her lap. "It does pass the time nicely, when one cannot promenade."
As one, they slanted a doubtful look to the gentle shimmer of rain upon the glass.
"In that case, ladies," Lady Helleth declared with the decisiveness of a general, "I fear we'll have to take matters into our own hands, and learn." She raised her chin high to survey the assembly, her elegant neck enchased in a golden carcanet which was, apparently, all the rage in Minas Tirith this season. "Winter is coming, after all, and our chances of promenading are wont to dwindle sooner or later."
"But…."
"No buts, Tawiel dear. Unless you wish to wear your hands down to the bone embroidering yet another piece for Lord Erchirion? I understand your mother's eagerness to have you present him with a handcrafted dowry, but even she must know there are only so many ways of combining the swan of Dol Amroth with the White Tree."
As though pulled by some invisible string, Mehreen turned back to the window, tuning out the sounds of their friendly teasing.
The Queen's solar had been arranged beneath the roof of a tower flanking the southeastern corner of the palace, so as to benefit from both sunrise and sunset. At present, the leaden afternoon could only shed so much light through the ornate casings, so that a fire had been built for the ladies' convenience, turning the already warm room into a stuffy one. Although the drizzle was more a nuisance than a full-blown downpour, its mists caught on the weather vane, somewhere above their heads, and fell onto the tiles with an occasional 'thump'. Beyond the dull glimmering of the muntins, the streets of Minas Tirith were deserted, save for the poor guards standing watch at the Citadel gates, as immobile as statues despite the water darkening the white plumes of their silver helms and the shafts of their halberds.
Mehreen's breath fogged the distorted glass, shielding from view the empty avenue.
He's not coming today.
When, then? When would Elladan return?
Mehreen kept the wringing of her hands out of view of the other women. She was dimly aware of the muttering in her back, diligently shushed by Lady Heleth, though not fast enough for Mehreen to miss the wildest rumors surrounding her and, while the welcome she'd received was much warmer than during her first visit to the Citadel, she couldn't help but fret against the confines of this new harem. It was as Lalla Nafiyah had feared: all this freedom had spoiled her. It was a dangerous, heady thing and, just as too much sugar was wont to make one fat, too much of freedom made one selfish. To be welcomed into Queen Arwen's closest circle was a privilege denied to many and yet, here Mehreen was, spurning the chance to consolidate her place in favor of ungrateful ruminations.
She was, after all, lucky to be alive, though Mehreen still harbored her doubts as to whether she'd deserved it. Inside the pocket of her dress, beneath the downy folds of boysenberry satin, the letter from Bara's mother weighed as heavily as an anchor. Mehreen needn't read it again to remember how her grief had transpired from the page, rendered a hundredfold more poignant by the artless penmanship, and the kind words she'd paid someone else to write, thanking Mehreen for having tried to save her son. It had been Arthagar's eldest who'd borne it, his resemblance to his father so striking that Mehreen had gaped, her chest seized by an implacable ache at the memory of the Lieutenant's noble mien.
"If there ever was a debt between us," he'd said stiffly upon meeting her, "I consider it paid."
Of course, he'd only meant to erase her brother's deeds, and those of men like him, from her conscience, as one released a falcon from its jesses upon its master's death. But afterwards, as she'd lain in bed, listening to Lady Tawiel's even breathing, Mehreen had started to wonder.
If the One's ways were unfathomable – and, as a woman, Mehreen couldn't begin to try and guess them – why had He decided to claim Bara, whose family needed him so, instead of her? Was it because of Elladan? Had he been the one to pull her soul to safety, just as he'd carried her body into the light? Such was the work of gods, or villains from Lalla Nafiyah's teachings, who'd defied the One and only succeed as a caution against such folly. The mere thought of having been the cause of such a rebellion made Mehreen quiver, without daring to name the sentiment that churned inside her belly.
Fear…or something even darker?
She knew she ought to be appalled at how quickly she'd turned against the scriptures…but a small, ugly part of her triumphed. She remembered how Elladan's thumb had lingered in the hollow of her throat, back in the fortress, as though she'd been shaped to welcome his hand. She recalled the chaste kiss he'd pressed to her knuckles with cold lips upon their last parting – the very one that'd earned him a sigh of approval from the Queen's ladies gathered in the courtyard – while Mehreen had wanted to scream, cheated of something she wasn't even certain of being due.
"What dreadful weather," came Lady Nelloth's dismayed voice as a gust of wind drummed against the windowpane. "Every time I feel like complaining, I think of the poor souls who cannot take shelter from the rain, and remember how fortunate I am."
Mehreen startled, shivering despite the ambient warmth, suddenly frightened of her own thoughts. Fortunate indeed.
She was lucky to be here at all.
Elladan was a man who could have his pick of any woman, noble or no; Mehreen was a woman of dubious reputation, whose presence in a household could only bring shame upon its mistress, and whose father's fortune may well be the only reason for any man to ever consider marrying her. A woman in her situation – or any woman at all! – would've been humbled to have earned the protection of one so powerful, and would've happily waited for when, or even if, he deemed fit to claim her – especially when said waiting involved being surrounded by the comforts of a royal palace. Mehreen needn't be reminded of the precarity of her own situation, nor of the importance of Elladan's duties. Of the lives he must save, and of the patience that was due in the face of such a mission. She couldn't begrudge his time to those he was healing – the men and the woman who'd volunteered to help her, and whom she couldn't.
"You must excuse me," she whispered, a hand pressed against her tightening stomach, "I must've caught something bad as well."
A case of acute lewdness, by the looks of it.
Avoiding Lady Nelloth's solicitous gaze and Lady Helleth's understanding one, Mehreen fled the room, unimpeded from doing so by the guards that stood by the door – kind, grizzled men who reminded her of Bear and Buttercup…except that Bear and Buttercup hadn't been missing any fingers, nor an entire forearm. She made her way down the hallway tiled with black and white – the dominant colors inside the Citadel – and down the double winder staircase at the end of the corridor, to emerge, panting, in a narrow hall that gave onto the Courtyard of the Fountain.
Such breathlessness had little to do with her recovering from the ague, however, and everything to do with the maddening urge to snap her thoughts into a semblance of order, and away from Elladan's smarting absence. Mehreen strived to forget, if only for an hour, how he'd smiled at her through his tears, instead of dwelling endlessly on what they'd meant, as one picks on a scab, drawing blood despite all good sense. To banish the hope there was in them that which she desired the most: to be loved with a love as insatiable as the desert, and just as vast and relentless. Of a yearning as restless as a nomad, intent on finding her amidst the shifting sands, and whose thirst could be quenched by no other lips than her own. Truth was, Mehreen longed for Elladan's return as much as she feared it. She was desperate to be touched again, yet terrified of being ruined.
The door to the courtyard had been thrown open, no doubt in the hopes of cooling the overheated, draftless halls of the palace after a fortnight of swelter. Mehreen paused upon the threshold to breathe in the petrichor that rose from the earth, welcoming the chill upon her burning cheeks. The drizzle had turned into a downpour after all; it spluttered on boxwood hedges rimming the lawn, their tiny, lustrous leaves shivering under the gentle onslaught. Some invisible hand had drawn a silver curtain over the yard, its fraying fringes shattering the puddles and beating down the lilac boughs, their clusters ripe with blooms burdened with rainwater.
The branch of one such shrub hung low and crooked, threatening to break. The gardener ought to have either culled or propped it, and the pitiful swaying was a sorrow to watch.
"Are you headed for the Hall of Feasts, my Lady?" one of the sentries by the door addressed her upon seeing her hesitate in the doorway. "It's best you were patient and sit this bout out, lest you wish to get as wet as soup before you even get there."
"Thank you, sir," Mehreen said softly, "but I've been patient enough for a lifetime."
She stepped into the rain, hissing as it drenched the fabric of her gown and plastered her hair to her skull. With a small shriek of discomfort that sounded oddly loud in the deserted alleys, Mehreen hurried over to the hapless bush, all the while searching her surroundings for a stick to support it.
"There," she crowed upon finding a forked twig under a nearby hedge, and kneeling to stab it into the lawn beneath the thankful bough with somewhat more vigor than necessary.
Her mission accomplished, Mehreen pushed with her hands against her knees and rose, bereft upon finding that her anger had abandoned her. Water trickled down her neck and along her legs; there was a wantonness about it, a freedom such that Mehreen embraced the storm raging around her, closing her eyes to better tame the one within.
"By Angainor, what are you thinking?!"
Mehreen flinched, startled by the noise as well as the impatient edge to that all-too-familiar voice. Her eyes flew open to see Elladan standing before her; beneath the silvery hood of his cloak, his expression was that of displeasure and disbelief.
"I…." she began meekly, before her irritation flared anew. "What are you doing here?"
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Refusing to indulge your deathwish," he huffed, "by allowing you to freeze…."
"Allowing me?" Mehreen repeated shrilly, her hands balling into fists before she even knew it. "You've no claim to me. Not that I know of."
Elladan clenched his jaw, and took a step towards her. "Mehreen. Get out of the rain. Please."
"No. I'm tired of being told what to…what are you doing?" Mehreen demanded, her heart aflutter with a strange trepidation as he unbuckled the clasp of his cloak.
"Making certain you live long enough for me to claim you, as you have put it."
"Oh."
She squirmed like a toddler as the heavy wool settled upon her shoulders, meaning to swat away the unbidden hand that drew the hood over her sodden hair. Yet, as the warmth of him seeped unchecked through her dress, the scent of lavender and parchment engulfing her senses, Mehreen found herself melting into the comfort of Elladan's lingering presence, and only stirring up enough resolve to cast him a suspicious look from beneath the rim of his own cloak.
He was getting drenched from head to toe, the leather of his jerkin turning black within instants, dark tendrils clinging to a skin as pale as bread. He looked cold and miserable, but his eyes remained unchanged; as dark and tormented as the skies above, and just as unyielding.
"Is that what you've come to do?" Mehreen asked in a small voice, not daring to succumb to hope.
He let out an incredulous laugh, and combed his fingers through his raven hair, wringing out a torrent. Mehreen thought she'd seen them shake, but she couldn't be sure. "Why else do you think I came?" She dropped her eyes to their feet, swallowing. Surely, he didn't expect her to say it out loud. Warm, wet fingers pushed against her chin, tilting her head up with gentle exigency. "Look at me." Not that Mehreen could've resisted, anyway. Elladan's voice beckoned to her, tugging at her heartstrings, plucking obedience right out of her like a seed. She trembled to meet his gaze, counting instead the droplets that clung to his lashes, inches from her lips. "What do you want, Mehreen?" Elladan's voice dropped, growing hoarse and urgent. "What is it that you wish me to do? Tell me, and I shall comply."
"I…I want…." she heaved, balancing on the balls of her feet, unable to stop herself from leaning into his touch…nor to bring herself to voice the need that possessed her.
She was a mere woman, after all. She didn't even know where to begin.
"If you are not ready, I shall wait until you are."
"And what if it took a month?" Mehreen squeaked in alarm, "Or even an entire year?"
Elladan chuckled. "Laegilig nîn, I am close to three thousand years old. Not even a decade could deter me."
The touch of his fingers vanished, leaving Mehreen quivering but resolute. "Well, go on, then," she nodded, squaring her shoulders under the cloak, whose lining she grasped in anticipation. And, as Elladan lifted an eyebrow, she added, very softly: "Claim me."
His stormy eyes widened, as though he'd challenged her to say it without ever expecting her to rise up. Mehreen never had the time to ponder whether the surprise had been a pleasant one as Elladan leaned forward with unbearable slowness, his breath blowing hot and cold upon the bared skin of her throat. Mehreen closed her eyes, as still as a statue. Her breath fumbled in her chest as Elladan delicately brushed his nose against hers; his arm snaked under the cloak to rest across her back, his hand barely brushing her ribs.
Never had she expected love to be so very proper.
Mehreen whimpered with frustration, eliciting a low rumble of laughter from Elladan, right against her breastbone.
He was teasing her!
Beside herself with annoyance and longing, Mehreen stuck a hand from under the cloak, grappling with the lapels of his jerkin, yanking him closer, pulling herself up, or Elladan, down….
She gasped as his mouth pressed against hers, searing hot, the taste of rain upon his parted lips, and honey on his tongue. She tried to pay attention to the droplets that sizzled atop her hood, cold at first and then warming as they streamed from Elladan's skin to hers; to the slick smoothness of leather against her palms and, beneath it, the frantic kicking of his heartbeat. And then, over this all, her body burst into bloom as he coaxed her open. Something that'd been coiled painfully tight inside her unfurled like a rosebud, stretching, expanding, leaving her feeling very light and very heavy at once. Mehreen sank and soared in rhythm with the moans that Elladan bestowed against her mouth. As a tremendous rightness swelled like a tide inside her chest, she knew she was kissing him back.
She reeled as he withdrew with a shuddering sigh, inching forward to catch the last drop of sweet saffron from his lips, and only opening her eyes when it became clear Elladan wouldn't give in. He was watching her from beneath lowered lashes, his breath ragged and his pale cheeks flushed in the very image of barely restrained abandon.
"We should…are you…?" He grasped for words, perhaps unable to come up with one strong enough to describe what'd happened. Water dripped from his chin, gathering at the ends of his rain-gorged – and now somewhat tousled – braids, and likewise did it drench Mehreen, where her hood had fallen back in her willingness to surrender her mouth to his kisses. Elladan blinked upon taking in the extent of the disaster. "I should get you to warmth."
"You'd promised to tell me what they meant," Mehreen blurted out as she caught one such braid between her fingers, uncaring for the downpour and desperate to delay the moment they'd have to rend the tender weave their bodies had come to form. She noted with satisfaction the way his fingers had molded to the curve of her waist, wondering dimly what else she could do to get him to part with his composure.
Elladan's lips curled into a grin. "Are you trying to distract me?"
"Perhaps," she murmured, blushing. "Is it working?"
"Alas." He linked her fingers with hers and pulled her closer, if such a thing was even possible, sheltering her with his body. "You," he murmured into her ear, "are being unreasonable."
"And you," Mehreen bemoaned, the urge to forfeit nigh irresistible under his ministrations, "are avoiding my question." She tugged weakly at his jerkin, earning a chuckle in reply.
"So I am," Elladan confessed while nuzzling the tip of her ear, "since I fear to bore you with such a lecture. My gwirbennes mean," he breathed into her neck as she squirmed with impatience, "that I am yours, my love. They proclaim it for all to see."
"Do they? Hmm. Perhaps you could elaborate on that," Mehreen said shakily and, as Elladan leaned in to kiss her again, the shiver that ran through her had little to do with cold.