Epilogue
March 22nd, TA 3021
"Oh, Legolas, this is lovely." Éowyn nodded approvingly, stopping short of touching the piece snuggled inside a bed of crimson velvet. "Lothíriel shall be content."
"Content?" Faramir snorted, reclining in his chair to better admire his wife's profile in the bright light pouring through the windows. "Judging by the sparkle in your eyes, she'll adore it." He peered into his cup of mead, feigning disconsolation. "Legolas, I do believe you've set a new standard I now feel obliged to uphold."
"That was never my intention, my friend," Legolas grinned from his own seat. "Perhaps I should apologize by commissioning a similar gift for Éowyn's upcoming birthday?"
"As long as you let me pretend I'm the one offering."
"As if I could be fooled," Éowyn declared and, with a last, discerning look at the diadem, closed the lid of the ornate wooden box it had come in. She came to settle into one of the chairs beside her husband, her gown of green silk flowing in her wake like a mantle of vine. Gracefully accepting the cup Legolas proffered, she sipped at the mead with a small sigh of enjoyment before licking her lips – a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Faramir, whose pupils widened in appreciation.
"Anyhow," he ground out in a somewhat huskier voice than before, "this is a beautiful gesture. My cousin will be most appreciative, though perhaps I should warn you she might not show it. Lothíriel is adorable, but she is shy."
"Such an endearing flaw cannot be held against her. In any case, Gimli will be glad to know our gift has earned your approval."
Speaking of which…. Remembering Aragorn's warning regarding his attire for the upcoming nuptials, Legolas hoped that the brand-new tunic of holly-green damask embroidered in silver thread that now slept inside a chest would earn the King's endorsement. At least, he would not be looking like a wildling – not that Legolas cared – and his father, if the word ever reached him, would be satisfied to learn his son had inherited if only a sliver of his good taste.
All in all, Legolas was rather proud of how his shortcomings were turning out.
"Faramir and I will be lending Lothíriel a shawl," Éowyn mentioned as she set the goblet back upon the desk. "The wool is white and so very soft. I wore it when carrying Elboron," – she touched a hand to her slightly rounded stomach, under the adjusted fabric of her dress "– and seeing how easy my pregnancy was, I wish her the same when the time comes."
Faramir captured his wife's hand and, if there had been regret in Éowyn voice at the undeniable changes motherhood had imposed upon her body, he kissed it away with a tenderness that bordered on devotion.
"How is Elboron?" Legolas inquired as he leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers over his stomach, deeming it prudent to change the subject.
Faramir snorted into his cup. "Blissfully oblivious of his parents' absence, I'm afraid. And, did I forget to mention, being spoiled rotten by an entire household?" He shook his head in mock woe. "Raising children is an ungrateful task, my friend." Yet, Legolas knew he meant nothing by it.
"Hmm." Éowyn narrowed her eyes. "Since we are on the subject…how is Mehreen?"
Legolas burst out laughing. "Do not ask Elladan that. They have vastly different opinions on the matter."
Éowyn nodded knowingly. "Fathers tend to be overly fussy, when their firstborn is involved. As Faramir dove into his cup with a look of intense concentration, Éowyn glanced at him fondly, before adding: "I'm looking forward to seeing her again. I do hope she's forgiven our absence at the wedding…? The timing was bad – or good, I suppose, depending on how one looks at it."
"I assure you, Mehreen understands. In any case, it was a very small affair, as you well know."
Which, by all rights, it should have been. Though neither Éowyn nor Faramir realized it, an elven wedding was as brief as human ceremonies could be drawn out, for they required no approval other than that of immediate kin – and even that could be forgone – nor any witnesses but the Valar. Despite the urgency of the event, aimed at protecting Mehreen from Anwar by giving Elladan a rightful claim to her 'possession' – if only in the eyes of her people – Elladan had indulged Mehreen by inviting his closest family for the occasion; there was little, nowadays, he could refuse her. Legolas remembered how Mehreen had glowed, standing as bright under the gold-and-scarlet canopies as an exotic flower, lively in a kaftan sewn by Leoflith, her hands adorned with henna and a coif of beads jingling over her forehead. It had been Ahlam who had led her former mistress to her betrothed, teary-eyed with pride, and Elladan had made an eager, if fretful, groom.
This was another of Legolas' mistakes that had reached an unexpectedly joyful conclusion but, while his heart had swelled with happiness for Mehreen and Elladan, it had also ached in equal measure. As the rust and butter-colored leaves had twirled from above, dancing in a whimsical autumn wind, he could only think of Naima and of how, by all rights, it should have been the two of them standing there, holding hands with their breaths entwined in rapture.
"How far along is she, now?"
"Five months, if I am not mistaken."
"Already!" Éowyn hummed with approval. "Is she resting? Might we see her?"
"To answer your first question, yes, if Elladan has his way," Legolas chuckled, "though I doubt Mehreen will be easily swayed from visiting all of Imladris and its gardens while she is there. They have left a month ago," he clarified upon noticing Éowyn's disappointment, "as Elladan was most reluctant to have her travel in a condition more advanced. As reluctant as he was to miss Elrohir's wedding, which is why they have opted for leaving so early."
Had Elladan had the last word, he would have gone alone, no matter how torn he had been at the prospect of leaving his expecting wife behind. But Mehreen had stood her ground, wearing down his defenses through a perseverance as relentless as it was tender, until he had surrendered, grumping half-heartedly, though Legolas knew him to be utterly smitten.
"Will you be going as well?" Faramir inquired, and Legolas nodded.
"As soon as my work here is done, I shall set out for Eriador."
Though the Balrog of Moria had been slain, the mines remained a perilous passage through the Hithaeglir, however speedy. Legolas' journey through the Gap of Rohan would last almost an entire month, until he set foot onto the bridge across the Bruinen once more – all the reason not to dally. He would be glad to see his friends again, and converse with Lord Elrond, whose wise counsel had never failed to lift his spirits in times of sadness. But most of all, Legolas longed to see the sea; to walk the wild coasts of Harlindon and, for once, think of his own future.
"Speaking of work, I would very much like to see what you have made of this place since we last came," Faramir declared, his grey eyes twinkling with curiosity. "The scouts you had sent with the prisoner were most praiseful about the achievements one could reach, when different races worked together towards a single goal."
The noble blood of Elros ran strong inside his veins, Legolas mused, reminded of Elladan's quicksilver gaze. "It would be my pleasure," he replied as he rose, inviting his guests to follow him out of the study.
oOoOoOo
"Good day, Saehild," Legolas smiled, nodding as the young woman passed them by, a basket of laundry perched atop her head. She was humming a tune, her lips curled in a small, knowing smile, and Legolas frowned.
Not this wretched song again!
"An elven method, I suppose?" Éowyn quirked an eyebrow once Saehild was out of earshot.
He sighed. "Hardly. A Haradric one, if you must know. Mehreen claims the woman of the South only carry weights in such a manner, and that one can do it across great distances without faltering, if one is properly trained."
Too late. The song now danced around his head – a sorrowful ballad, lamenting the death of a hero of the commonfolk, intent on defending his homeland despite knowing his name would not be remembered. The bard had managed to capture the worries and afflictions of an ageing warrior, from the pains in his joints to the sentiment of being invisible; when Merilinel had first performed it, a few days past, there had nary been a dry eye in the Great Hall.
"How clever! Although," Éowyn touched an unconscious hand to her long neck, "Though I fear to think of the aches she must endure."
"No worse than those of any other training, my love," Faramir surmised as he lay his hand on hers, where it rested on the crook of his arm. "This young woman seems perfectly happy."
Legolas kept a straight face. If only he knew the true reason of her bliss!
Yet, not even Elladan had an inkling of how sweet the two of them looked: Gárdred and his Saehild, standing under the pavilion roof, surrounded by blooming roses, yet with eyes only for one another. Not that Legolas would tattle; Saehild seldom needed her dwarven ring, nowadays, her anxiety replaced with newfound hope, and that alone was a progress worth bending propriety a little.
He caught himself humming under his breath.
To think that such a childish idea, borne from the spur of a moment to force Elladan and Mehreen to put their differences aside, had blossomed into something so pure! At the time, Legolas would not have wagered a farthing on the success of such a mission; today, as he was yet to come up with a suitable gift for their wedding, the thought of the pavilion brought a smile to his lips.
A balancelle, perhaps, for them to cradle their newborn in the safe quietude of the orchard?
At once, Legolas knew whom he would consult: the very woman who was approaching in her usual brisk pace, her dark hair gathered into a neat bun behind her head.
"You write to them, then," she hissed, jabbing a finger into her own thigh with undeniable furor. "Mayhap they shall listen to you, if they will not hear a woman's opinion on the matter." As Bruiven nodded with the same cautious wisdom that had been Faramir's not long ago, Saineth threw her hands into the air. "Had I been one of the poor mothers-to-be they will have pestered into madness, I would have mur…cy on their souls." She snapped her mouth shut upon seeing the bewildered expression on Faramir's face, her eyes travelling up Éowyn's gown and to the circlet resting between her flaxen tresses. "Legolas!" she exclaimed, all ire forgotten. "Any news from Imladris?"
Legolas stifled a chuckle, noticing how Éowyn's shoulders shook with the same repressed mirth. He ought to tell Saineth that Éowyn was not a lady to be easily offended; in fact, he suspected the two of them would get along swimmingly on certain matters.
"None yet," he said instead, "but I expect Elladan had had them travelling at a sensible pace."
As Saineth huffed, expressing just what she made of Elladan's sensibility, Legolas felt it best to steer the conversation towards a less dissensual topic. "Faramir, Éowyn," he announced, "please meet Saineth. She is our Chief Healer in Elladan's absence. And this is Bruiven," he gestured to the mild-mannered healer who bowed in return, "Steward of the Men's Ward, and Elladan's apprentice."
"A woman Chief Healer?" Éowyn beamed. "How refreshing."
Faramir's face, however, had lit up upon hearing the second name. "Bruiven? The same Bruiven who helped rescue Mitharlan from that madman's clutches?" He extended an eager hand. "Amdirfel and Faineth spoke very highly of you."
"I am glad to hear it, my Lord," Bruiven smiled, "though indeed by involvement was no greater than that of others."
"You know Haradic, is it not so?" Éowyn remembered, exchanging a look of confirmation with Legolas. "You spoke with the boy…?"
"Halim." Bruiven's face had remained as amiable as ever, and only his voice had faltered, betraying the true horrors of what had transpired in the village.
"Halim." Éowyn seemed to try the name out for taste. "If not for you, no-one would've known what Baeron had done."
Faramir acquiesced gravely, his fingers seeking his wife's upon his arm once more, as though imagining a similar tragedy occurring in Emyn Arnen. "It might reassure you to know he will not be released from the sentence he is serving in Pelargir before a very long time."
Bruiven barely bat an eyelid. "I trust your decision on the matter."
However controversial the imprisonment of an ailing - if guilty - man, Baeron's absence had had a notable effect on Mitharlan and its inhabitants. Gaerlin, who had returned to Bar-Lasbelin twice since the events, Halim following like a shadow, had recounted in his own plain words the long process of healing, which involved making amends amongst estranged neighbors as much as repairing the damage the fire had inflicted. And if Gaerlin's own demons had survived that fateful night, he had told Legolas nothing about it.
"Now you must excuse us," Saineth declared with a calculating look towards the courtyard, where the shadows of the oak were shrinking in the midday sun. "Bruiven and I are expected for our staff meeting."
"Of course," Éowyn said at once, "though I'd very much like to speak with you again before we live, if you'd allow it."
After having been assured by Saineth that she would indeed be delighted to do just that, they moved along the hallway, admiring both the windows of colored glass and the small, everyday miracles being accomplished behind the closed doors of the patients' rooms. Once again, Legolas was filled with a sense of rightness regarding what he had built, if not with his own hands, then with his heart and his vision. The time of the Elves was coming to a close; he could feel it, from the fading murmur of the trees to the waning numbers of his people. Under different circumstances, a long-limbed child with Naima's eyes could have inherited the title of Lord of Bar-Lasbelin, to remember them by once they were gone. A child Legolas would have loved with all his might, as much as he still loved its would-be mother.
Yet, though such a future would never come to pass, this was not to say that his legacy would be forgotten.
As they stepped into the sunlight beyond the Houses' entrance, Legolas strived to banish those regrets. Wishful thinking was a fool's form of torture, his father had once told him; either things were, or they were not. Yet, the joyful shrieks of a child captured his attention as soon as they stepped onto the path towards the crossroads.
Déordred raced across the meadow, some tool or another grasped in his pudgy little hand, his copper mop bouncing with every step. He tottered to a halt in front of a kneeling Morion, who laughed upon inspecting Déordred's finding, and sent him back to fetch another. The rhythmic thumping of a hammer echoed down the clearing as Morion drew nail after nail into what was finally starting to look like a treehouse; that, and Dúnwen's throaty laughter, as she abandoned the mending of her son's shirt to help him fish the correct tool from the box standing by her feet. Gone were the shadows haunting her, driven deep beneath her skin by Déordred's affection, and her own dogged determination to hew a future worth living for from the compact sorrow inside her chest.
"Did I ever mention," Faramir began wistfully, "how Imrahil used to teach Boromir and I to build our own boat?"
"I don't believe you did." Éowyn tilted her head in curiosity. "How old were you?"
"Not much older than this boy." Faramir shook his head, the ghost of some ancient grief passing across his face before he looked at his wife, basking in her tenderness. "We'd spent the summer in Dol Amroth, after…well. Our cousins were all accomplished sailors already, but Imrahil had found the time to spare for us, and teach us how to swim, and to wrestle a piece of wood into the shape we willed it to take." He pressed the hand Éowyn had lain upon his shoulder with a small, sad smile. "That summer, and our uncle's kindness, has taught me more about endurance than any other lesson ever did. One day, I'll teach Elboron to build his own boat and take him sailing down the Anduin, into the open sea, so that he may know nothing is impossible."
The day was warm for this early in spring, heralding a benevolent summer – or so Legolas chose to believe, dismissing Eredhwen's foretellings of droughts and forest fires. Birch boughs swayed gently in the wind, shaking their scaly catkins like so many tassels, while the breeze carried the scent of elder flowers and blooming hawthorn. Clusters of coltsfoot and pansies sprinkled the grass; the air was ripe with the odors of damp earth and of bread being baked. The snipping of steel reached Legolas' ears where Caelben's men were fast at work, pruning apple and peach trees and, beyond the Anduin, the merry shouts of the men ploughing the fields of Anórien.
"Truly, Legolas," Éowyn marveled, inhaling deeply, "this place sings of peace, if one were only to close one's eyes and listen." And listen she did, her honey-colored lashes fluttering, her cheeks flushed with a healthy pink so unlike the deathly paleness Legolas remembered her wearing after the battle of the Pelennor.
"Of all the wonders of the elves," Faramir concurred, "this one lies closest to my heart. And the wonders never cease!" he exclaimed, while leading his wife towards the crossroads. "A desert rose! Here?" He knelt to touch a reverent hand to the brightly-hemmed petals unfolding coyly under the sun. "They used to bloom in my mother's garden. However did this one survive the winter?"
But Éowyn inclined her head in silence, studying the flower with something akin to longing in her eyes.
"Perhaps," she said at length, "some mysteries are better left unsolved, allowing us to believe that no matter how unlikely the circumstances, we all have a chance to thrive."
Neither Legolas nor Faramir found fault with the wisdom of her proposal. The three of them wandered up the path, enticed by the scents of roasted meat and clove that wafted from the Great Hall and, all too soon, the desert rose was forgotten. Yet still it bloomed quietly in its little corner of the world, safekeeping a simple secret – that all living things yearned for love and thrived beneath it…be it a prickly nettle, or a dainty rose.
The End
A.N.: this chapter is the conclusion of over two years' worth of hard work: one of writing this tale, and one of editing and publishing it. I dare say, I've poured more of myself into this piece than I ever have, and spent many an hour (a day? a week?) agonizing over the details, the characterization, and the continuity... Despite the apparent lightness of the topic, this is a very personal piece, one that has left me emotionally drained for quite some time.
Please treat it kindly in your thoughts, as you might a desert rose...and if you did enjoy it, please let me know. I'm also very open to criticism, as long as it's done in a constructive and benevolent manner.
Also, none of my aforementioned efforts would've yielded as satisfactory a result without the precious input of my beta-reader, Alfirineth, whom I'd like to thank once more for the huge work she's put in reading, re-reading, re-re-reading...this story, and putting up with my many existential crises on the subject.
As a final note: for those of you wondering what actually happened to Harun, and whether there is truth or not to Mehreen's initial accusations, I shall soon publish a short companion piece to this one. See you soon!