Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: The Cost of Blood (#3348)
Author: TheLadyofLight
Chapters: 21

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings (Movieverse)
Description: A terrible encounter with men leaves Haldir physically and emotionally scarred. Goaded by his maverick commander who has his own reasons for hating men, he falls onto a dark and twisting path that threatens to break his very spirit.
Published: 09 Mar 2007
Updated: 09 Mar 2007
Warnings: Violence, a smidgeon of torture
Type: Angst
Characters: Haldir, Rumil


Chapter 1 - Chapter One:

Chapter One: Returning Home

The fading sun gifted the clouds with their golden and violet robes, burning the leaves crimson as it sank behind the shoulder of snow-capped Celebdil. Twilight was slowly falling. White stars began to peer out from above the burnished clouds, with Eärendil leading them as he sailed up out of the West to begin his journey across the night sky.

A light footstep pressed the damp green grass, the soft rattle of white-arrowed quivers breaking the silence of the evening. Golden hair fluttered in the warm breeze tossing the fair tendrils over the elf’s shoulders. He dropped low into the sheltering grass, his eyes intent upon the darkening landscape around him. The two elves flanking him mimicked his movements, their eyes bright in the quickly deepening dusk.

The riders were growing closer.

As they rode within earshot, the elf rose from his hiding place and nocked an arrow to his bow but did not draw it. He had seen the golden fall of one of the riders’ hair in the last flash of sunlight and knew him to be an elf at least.

“Daro! Reveal yourselves!” he called, his tenor voice ringing out with the musical brazenness of a trumpet.

The riders reined in sharply, pausing just out of bowshot of the elves.

“What kind of a greeting is that?” a voice rejoined cheekily. The rider who had spoken, dismounted and groaned, stretching stiff muscles.

“Well, you at least have not changed since I last saw you, Ancadal. Still impertinent as ever,” the elf who had first accosted them laughed dryly, motioning the others of his patrol to arise to greet the travelers.

“Fedorian, what news?” Another of the riders greeted his friend warmly, clasping his forearm in a warrior’s grasp as he too dismounted from his steed. The other elf returned the greeting with a smile.

“None that I know of, Haldir. The forest has long been quiet though a patrol of orcs a ten day ago nearly reached the banks of the Nimrodel before we overcame them. I have asked the Lady to send other soldiers to reinforce those already in place on the northern front.” Haldir nodded absently, rubbing at his tired eyes. “We were not expecting you to return so late. What kept you?” Fedorian asked, noticing his friend’s distraction.

“Snow,” a dark-haired elf explained tersely, still astride his own horse as he trotted past the two elves. Their trip had been much delayed by circumstances outside their control and they had had to travel nearly around their destination because of warnings of orcs driving down from the mountains.

“Where is Commander Cálivien? I have not yet seen him among you,” Fedorian asked suddenly, searching the three travelers for a sign of their leader. When Haldir did not answer, he looked sharply at him, noticing the drawn and suddenly haggard brow of his friend. The other two were also silent; their gazes grim and downcast. Fedorian stopped walking, sensing something was terribly wrong.

“What happened?” he asked quietly, wondering if he really wanted to know the answer to that.

“We will speak of it later,” Haldir said, softly dismissive. Fedorian fell silent, his own visage sorely troubled. But Haldir merely shook his head, watching Rameil canter past. Searching for a change of subject, he attempted a light smile at his friend.

“So, how fares your daughter?”

Fedorian’s smile returned, allowing the conversation to be routed. “Ah, lovely as ever- Silivren is to be wed soon.” Haldir turned to him in amazement and laughed delightedly.

“Indeed. And which lucky male is the one to take the hand of the fair Silivren?”

Fedorian chuckled. “Arenath son of Gwillith- if you can believe it. That poor boy nearly had my daughter asking him to marry her- he was so anxious.”

“The both of you sound like two little wives with all your chittering,” Rameil interjected with a wry grin as he returned to ride beside them. But the other two did not have time to retort for they had already reached the edges of the trees.

“Who goes there? Stand forth and be recognized!” a clarion voice challenged before they had gone less than three paces into the wood. Fedorian looked up with a mock-scowl.

“Come down from there, you little squirrel and report!”

“You are late,” came the impudent reply as a shadowed figure dropped from the branches high above their heads.

The elf stepped into the starlight and grinned at the weary travelers. Déorian was rather short for an elf, only reaching up to Haldir’s chest. But for all that, the elf was a fierce fighter and impossibly fast. He had received his third name “Dae” among the patrol, meaning “Shadow” in the Sindarin tongue.

And he was a constant thorn in his leader’s side because of it.

“What mean you ‘late?’ I did not tell you when to expect us to return,” Fedorian snapped, irritated, but Haldir saw a small grin tug at his lips. Déorian winked roguishly at Haldir and turned his back to his officer.

“Come on. We’ve cloaks and drinks to spare,” he said over his shoulder as he climbed swiftly up the silvery hithlain ladder that descended to meet them. With a rueful shake of his head, the older officer followed after him with a sideways grin at Haldir.

Somewhat grim but often laughing, Fedorian seated himself upon the platform, stretching his long legs out with a comfortable sigh. Déorian feigned a stumble over him and made a smart remark that earned him a playful smack and a laugh from their senior officer.

“So sure-footed, our loyal tracker!” he chuckled as Haldir pulled himself nimbly up onto the ledge.

“He hasn’t changed at all since I left then. Still tripping over his bootlaces,” Haldir replied with a broad smile at the insulted look Déorian shot him.

“Are you making a jest at my expense, sir?” the shorter elf inquired in a deadly growl but a teasing light gleamed bright in his eyes.

In mock-horror, Haldir stepped back a pace eyes wide and hands upraised as he swept into an exaggeratedly low bow.

“Certainly not! Upon my honor, most noble and courageous warrior, none would dare cross so deadly a hunter as thyself!”

All three of them burst out laughing as the others trailed up the ladder, glancing strangely at the three for having missed the jest.

“So, how torturous was King Thranduil?” a young archer who stood with several others on the platform asked with a laugh, silenced by a reproving glare from Fedorian.

“Mind your tongue,” he chastened lightly.

“We will make our report on the morrow,” Rameil explained as he set down his heavy pack and quiver with a sigh of relief, lightly massaging his sore shoulders.

The archer shrugged, undaunted.

“All right then. Tell us of your travels. What is Mirkwood like? Is the Queen fairer than the Lady Galadriel?” he asked excitedly, glancing quickly at his superior in case of another castigation. But Fedorian himself was looking at the three with interest.

“Those at least were not mere parting gifts, I see,” he remarked shrewdly, nodding at the three richly embroidered dark green sashes bound about their waists. An honor bestowed upon them by the King Thranduil after a battle that had very nearly cost them all their lives. “Come, tell us your tale for we have had to listen to Déorian’s ceaseless prattle for far too long.” He grinned mischievously, ignoring the smaller elf’s indignant sniff.

Haldir smiled contentedly, glad to be back among his friends.

Tall and fair to look upon were all the guardians of the Golden Wood, soft-voiced and eager to laugh. And just as quick to lift sword and bow in defense of their homeland. They were fiercely loyal to their Lady, who had aided them during their time of need when their king was lost, and perilous in battle- the oldest had fought together for nearly ten centuries now.

Both old and young, however, had fought together during the Last Alliance a millennium ago and though few of that brave company had ever returned, including their lord and King, Amdír, those survivors of that terrible conflict continued to guard the north marches with an ever-increasing vigilance since word came of the dark shadow growing in Mirkwood and the restless unquiet in the mountains. It had not been long since their own people had retreated deeper into the safety of the Wood and the Lady who had taken up its guardianship had posted the soldiers to watch the borders fervently.

Many though were still young enough to have forgotten that long war and in the first flush of their youth. Haldir among them, for though he had fought in the Last Alliance and seen several millennia pass, he was still considered somewhat youthful among his officers who had seen far many more- their captain among them who had commanded the northern fences well for those centuries.

And it was for him they mourned now as Rameil and Ancadal sat in the middle of the talan and related their tale to the group surrounding them.

Haldir said little, preferring only to add his affirmation to the elves’ story every so often as he leant back against the trunk of the tree, lost in his own thoughts. He remembered all too vividly his time in Mirkwood and would rather not speak of the details so easily. Even Rameil and Ancadal, taking turns as they did, glossed over many of the truly unpleasant and still painful details. Especially when they came to the death of Cálivien, their leader who had led them faithfully only to be treacherously slain by King Thranduil’s traitorous brother. Thranduil had sworn them to secrecy regarding what had happened in his kingdom and the elves of Lothlórien would honor that confidence.

Haldir shook the image of his friend’s mutilated body from his mind, an instant’s regret pulling at his heart that they had not been able to bring their commander’s body home for a proper burial. He was lifted from his dark thoughts by the sudden silence that had fallen like a veil over the previously merry group.

A great evil occurred when any Elf was slain. Those whose lives were as long as Arda itself were not meant to taste such a bitter sting. Those who had known and loved the Elf mourned that loss deeply but when a commander of the Guard was slain, it was a very sorrowful time for all. The Guardians of the Golden Wood were revered and beloved by all the elven people and their commanders in especial for without their valor and vigilance the forest might have long ago fallen into darkness.

It took many long years to mould a warrior into the kind of powerful, knowledgeable leader that Cálivien had been. He had been their captain and their friend for over five hundred years; many had grown up under his command just as their fathers had served him. Experienced and wise, he had led them time and again to victory against the foul bands of orcs that lurked at the edges of the forest and the wolves that howled on its borders. His patrol was devastated by the news of his death.

After the proper honor was given the Elf as befitted his rank and station, those who had been under his command selected another from their own ranks and would accept no other as their leader for the ancient ceremony that had bound them all together could not be repeated.

Fedorian, as the most senior officer among them, would take Cálivien’s place as leader if not as dear friend in the hearts of those elves who had known him. One by one, the soldiers silently gave their assent and laid their swords at his feet, swearing anew the oath of fealty. And Fedorian took up each one and blessed them, accepting the responsibility with the dignity and honor now bestowed upon him.

As Fedorian paused before him, Haldir immediately and apologetically unstrapped the saber that he had carried with him ever since the commander had been murdered. Usually the blade, if it remained, would be given to the elf who would be made Captain of the marchwardens but he still felt a curious sense of reluctance and regret wash over him as he gave it over. It seemed as though he were giving up the last piece of his friend that remained to him.

He buried those hard and painful feelings deep within himself, giving his superior an easy smile. He was glad Fedorian had taken command; he still felt out of place in a position of authority. The burden was too much for him. He would much rather have his old life back as a lesser officer instead of having every decision he made mean life or death to those he cared for most. No, a position of command was not for him.

Recognizing the sword, Fedorian took it reverently, his smooth forehead knit with lines of consternation and sadness. The elf commander shot a sharp look at his friend, a knowing, searching look that Haldir tried his best to meet. With a small smile, he handed it back hilt-first.

“Keep it. He would have wanted you to have it.”

Haldir immediately shook his head though a sudden hope kindled in his breast. “No, I-”

“Take it,” Fedorian said sternly, pressing the blade into the elf’s hands. “That’s an order.” His verdant eyes bored into his friend’s as he held the sword out. “And never let another take it from you. Ever.”

Slowly, Haldir’s fingers closed over the worn leather-wrapped hilt and he nodded with a growing smile to his perceptive friend who clapped him on the shoulder with a wry sidelong grin, breaking the ritual-like silence that had fallen over the group.

“Besides it’s too heavy for me. I favor smaller weapons.”

The smaller weapons Fedorian favored were throwing knives and he carried no less than six on his person at any one time. None could best him in a contest. His pride and joy were two black-handled blades, the hilts made of hand-carved lebethron with inlaid silver filigree tracing the handles all the way up the steel blades in the shape of a hunting falcon with wings and talons outspread. They were magnificent to behold and as keen as razors for he kept them meticulously well-whetted.

When each elf had received back his or her sword and had been blessed, the guardians resumed their seats at their ease again, laughing and chatting though in a more subdued manner than before.

“So did you record the number of mallorn leaves that fell today in there?” Déorian teased his new captain who had seated himself near the edge of the flet, writing with a steady hand in a little black book. The younger elf had never seen the point in keeping a journal as faithfully as Fedorian did. Nothing had occurred on the borders for weeks so his entries consisted mostly of inventories and need for supplies and now his new responsibilities as Captain.

“No. But it does help remind me which soldiers to place on midnight duty the next fortnight for insolence,” Fedorian replied coolly without looking up.

Déorian grinned uneasily and beat a hasty retreat, wandering over to Rameil, Ancadal and Haldir and regaling them with tales of what had happened while they were gone. Haldir meandered away from the group after a while, seeking the quiet that the falling twilight provided. Rameil and Ancadal noted his absence but said nothing.

A gentle late-summer breeze whispered through the branches and tossed his long, golden hair over his shoulders as he moved among the underbrush as silent and sure-footed as a cat in the dark. It was not long before he came to a gently burbling stream, a tributary of the Silverlode, chatting among the stones in its rocky bed. Even here in the stillness, he kept the memories and the grief at bay as he had for his time in Mirkwood and the long journey home.

Beside the stream Haldir seated himself on a smooth boulder still sun-warmed from the hot afternoon, trailing his long fingers in the water, enjoying the cool rush along his skin and the familiar soothing sounds of his home that eased his pain.

“All right. So what’s wrong?” a soft voice asked conversationally and Haldir looked up calmly, not surprised by Fedorian’s sudden appearance. His friend had long been watching him and the concern on his face grew as he took a seat beside the younger elf. “You have spoken least of all concerning your ventures and yet Rameil and Ancadal both extol your virtues and claim you were the one who had the greatest part in this affair.” He had noticed his friend every so often touching his side as though it pained him.

And it was true; a light bandage still wrapped around his side where Haldir had taken a deep wound from a javelin thrust just beneath his ribcage that was still healing. But how he had come by that injury, the elven lieutenant would rather have not discussed. Particularly here as it was a rather long and troubling story that he would rather avoid telling.

“Nothing,” he replied evasively. “I am just weary from the journey.”

Fedorian took this without comment as his green eyes glided over the serenity of the still river rippling like quicksilver in the dappled moonlight. He sighed quietly with another sidelong glance at his friend.

“So then why do I see such sorrow in your eyes?” he asked quietly.

Had his concern for his friend been a little less, Fedorian might have thought of a wiser tact in addressing such a potentially sensitive issue. As it was his intentions were good and his heart worried for it was unlike his friend to walk off, alone, to brood as he saw it. He just wanted to help.

But Haldir didn't think he could handle any more help for the day. Between the throbbing of the wound in his side and the pressure of the memories in his head, he would much rather have been left alone.

He stood and walked away from the river, from his friend, from the memories.

“All right. You may keep your secrets- for the present,” Fedorian added dryly as he rose to his feet, following after his friend. But the troubled spark in his green eyes revealed that he intended to get answers from his friend sooner or later.

However a swift rustling overhead spared Haldir further questioning as a soldier suddenly alighted on the flet above their heads, one of the scouts whose talan was several lengths away.

“Sir!” He spoke to Fedorian, his bow already in hand as the commander pulled himself onto the platform beside him. “We have sighted a group of orcs, sir- coming down from the hills and heading our way. They will have reached the tree line soon.” The two elves nodded their thanks and hurried back across the trees’ road to the others who waited for the news.

An outbreak of cries and whoops of delight erupted from the younger recruits at the promise of battle, many who had only heard stories of the great, heroic feints of the past from their sires.

“Just in time for supper too!”

“We’ll serve them a hot meal of cold steel!”

“We’ll send them back from the pits they came from!” the jovially ribald comment came from the lips of the young archer, drawing back the string of his bow with a cheeky grin, oblivious to his commander’s steely glare.

Fedorian’s eyes snapped green fire as he strode towards him.

“You do realize if they catch you, they will not only torment you worse than a thousand deaths but they will cut off your ears and tear your flesh from your bones to roast you slowly over a fire pit and feast upon your flesh- while you still live,” Fedorian said with a twisted grin at the bleached pallor of the archer’s face as he gazed, horror-stricken, up at him.

“Sir, you’re frightening me.”

“Good!” his commander replied curtly. “You deserve to be frightened! You believe this is a game?” His fiery gaze encompassed them all. “We wave our swords, beat off the orcs and all march home again at the end?” he barked. “I would appreciate a graver countenance, sir, while you seek death in battle.” His eyes grew dark as he exhaled deeply, returning his gaze to the young recruit. “There is a cost to everything. Remember that.”

The soldier paled a little more but obediently straightened his shoulders as the others nodded dutifully.

“Yes, sir.”

Haldir and the command he served under were just one of many patrols that held the northern fences against the attacks from the orcs of Moria or wandering bands of brigands. Mostly consisting of trackers and archers, each patrol was commanded by a chosen leader who they looked up to and followed without question, striking swift and deadly from the treetops. Fedorian was that leader now that Cálivien was dead and they would follow him ‘til death as they had sworn.

Their Captain glowered with hardened determination at the near-silent circle of suitably cowed elves. “Well, what are you gaping at me for? All up on your heels! We’ve got work to do!” he rapped out with military efficiency, knowing all too well that the lives of these elves were in his hands. He wanted them to be ready.

At once, the talan flew into motion. Weapons were seized, cooking fires doused and cloaks thrown over shoulders as the elves burst into action. They flowed over the nightscape like moonlit shadows. Only the glitter of their bright eyes could be caught in the darkness as they crept towards the furthermost borders of the forest, determined to head the orcs off before they even had a chance to enter the Golden Wood.

Soon the enemy could be glimpsed among the dark hills. Not bothering to conceal their approach, they came on, hooting and yelling in cruel delight, circling and striking at something bound in their midst. Haldir could not see what it was for the numbers pressing in from all sides hindered his vision.

The night flowed utterly dark around them for the night-eyed goblins had no need of torches and so the elves stayed well concealed in the treetops, bows strung, waiting patiently.

The first score broke through the tree line, heedlessly crashing through the undergrowth like creatures possessed. They cared not that they had entered the elven sanctuary for their bloodlust was up and nothing would stop them until they were slain.

Poised in the trees, Fedorian raised a slender hand and the bowstrings around him tightened. The hand fell. A deadly hail of white-fletched arrows hissed from the trees like a hive of angry wasps. The wicked laughter quickly became surprised yelps and screams as the group scattered into bands, flying in separate directions.

Quickly dividing their forces, the elves went after them, determined to allow them no deeper into the elven haven.

Haldir and Déorian with five others raced lightly along the slender branches as easily as on a road, harrying their quarry from above. A few of the orcs shot wildly over their shoulders as they fled but the arrows thunked into the ground or tree trunks and the elven archers shot them down before they’d gone a few paces. Eager to confront the foul creatures with cold steel, Déorian slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword, leaping upon the last of the pack with a wild yell that chilled the blood.

Haldir went after him, shaking his head at his friend’s usual audacity. His sword swept out and cleaved an orc skull as he hurtled from the trees to land at Déorien’s side.

“Glad to be back home are you?” Déorian roared over the fray.

At his back, Haldir laughed even as he swiftly gutted a scimitar-wielding orc, ignoring the warning flare in his side.

“Oh, of course! What could be better?”

“I seem to remember saving your life last time,” the smaller elf retorted, deftly slicing the sword arm from one of the filthy creatures, slitting its throat as it screamed in pain.

“You lie! That last orc nearly spit in your eye before I used my last arrow on it!”

A pike whistled over their heads as they both ducked simultaneously to avoid being beheaded. Shooting uneasy grins at one another, they rapidly pulled in their attention. White death buzzed all around them, an elven dart nearly clipping Haldir’s ear as it whipped past him to embed itself in orc hide.

Snarling and shoving aside their dead brethren, the orcs spun towards the elves, black lips pulled back from rotten fangs. Haldir could make out the yellow glow of their cat eyes in the dark and red mouths gaped in triumphant yells. The elf felt a momentary fear thrum through him as he chanced a glance over his shoulder.

A wave of darkness raced towards them over the shadowed ground, another band eager for bloodshed and slaughter. What was once a furious hailstorm of death lessened as the elves’ supplies of arrows rapidly dwindled. There were too many of the enemy to stop at arrow point. The elves had split the flanks of the first orc band but now the defenders suddenly found themselves outnumbered and in serious trouble.

Haldir found himself facing a large orc with eyes like burning coals as it clutched a fire-hardened pole with jagged blades attached to the adjacent ends in clawed hands. Parrying its first hammer-blow sent shockwaves of pain up his arms and down his shoulders as the pain in his side throbbed in time with his rapid heartbeat. He retaliated with a sideways sweep at its chest which it blocked nimbly. Muscles coiled like a spring, Haldir threw himself to one side as the pole came smashing down towards him, embedding its deadly poisoned tip deep into the soft earth.

Before the creature had a chance to wrench its weapon free, Haldir brought his sword crashing down between its shoulders, cleaving its head from its neck. Something suddenly dropped onto his back, driving him hard into the earth and knocking the breath from his lungs as he landed atop his slain foe. A bright line of pain erupted like fire along his shoulder blade and hard heels slammed into the small of his back. Gasping for air, he heard a wicked hiss close to his ear.

“Your hair’ll make good string for my bow.” The combined stench of its fetid breath on his face and the corpse under his chin half-smothered the elf as he fought to break free.

Haldir tried to roll over but a boot planted itself squarely between his shoulder blades, pressing him further into the putrid corpse; his sword lay trapped beneath him. Suddenly, the weight wrenched off him and he found himself staring into the gaping wide eyes and maw of one of the foul beasts, a bloodied knife-blade clutched in one hand. He staggered to his feet, wrapping a hand around his bruised ribs as he looked round for his savior.

Déorian grinned at him, his pale face smeared with black orc-blood and sweat. “You see? Told you I saved your life.”

The roiling reek of thick spilt blood burst upon the night air as the fight spilled out into a moonlit clearing where the grass lapped their knees and the orcs stumbled over the bodies of the unseen slain. Haldir caught sight of a battered, weary face in the silver glow. A tall creature with long hair and a complexion smeared with blood revealed in the moonlight, shackled and tightly gripped by two of the beasts. A woman.

Anger burned bright and hot in him for the creatures that had tortured their captive and he pushed his weary body on faster. The injury to his side bit and the pain made him dizzy as he wielded his saber viciously, fighting to get to her side. But her captors kept her well back out of the actual fighting, watching and waiting for the feast after the elves were all slaughtered.

And they knew it would be over soon. Slowly but surely, the orcs were gaining ground over the outnumbered elves, pushing them back and cutting them down. Soon they would be pulled under.

In an instant, the tide turned.

Fedorian, leading half a dozen elves, rammed into their flank, slicing through them with deadly skill. Orcs fell like wheat before the shearers and the rest fled in a blind panic. One small band broke away from the main melee and escaped through the trees, dragging their bound prisoner with them. She struggled fiercely against them but did not cry out.

Fedorian halted his charge as the two patrols met. Haldir lifted his head wearily as he grasped his friend’s arm.

“Sir, we should pursue. They have a captive!”

But Fedorian shook his head. They had to be careful for the orcs would swiftly slay their prisoner, preferring to carry dead sport than struggle with a live one when imminent danger threatened. And always the hunter became the hunted if he dared chase the snake into his own hole.

“We’ll pursue them in the morning.”

Fedorian watched the small band flee from the woods towards the rocky outcrops that promised the refuge of many a small cave in which to hide from the sun. He wished no one a prisoner among the orcs but his own people’s wounds needed tending to and they could not risk a full out attack on those honey-combed caves with so few numbers among them until dawn at least. Their hope would come with the sun for then the orcs of the mountains would be weak and sleepy. They could strike and rescue the prisoner with the least fear of danger.

“How many fallen?”

Déorian saluted, all traces of earlier merriment gone from his face.

“Several wounded, sir, but none slain.”

Their commander exhaled in silent relief and Haldir could guess what was going through his mind. The burden of their lives fell heavily upon his shoulders. Haldir knew that feeling too, to have the lives of others hanging upon his decisions and whatever path he took could mean success or utter disaster.

Cutting a quick glance around the clearing, Haldir caught sight of Rameil and Ancadal helping the wounded and sighed, relieved to see his friends still on their feet. Wiping the black blood from his blade on the grass, he ignored the hot agony piercing his side and shortening his breath, determined not to fall as he bent to help a soldier who had dropped early in the fight with a slash to his leg.

Sudden pain, bright and fierce, sliced through his side and he suppressed a groan, sliding to his knees.

“Haldir!”

He felt more than saw Déorian kneel beside him, his eyes shut tightly and teeth gritted against the growing urge to scream. The javelin wound had been viciously torn open again by his movements and he felt the warm gush of blood on his fingertips as he pressed a hand tightly to the wound.

Vaguely, he heard someone call out for Fedorian and a rush of elven soft footsteps. Slender fingers took his chin in hand and warm breath brushed his face.

“Haldir, look at me. Open your eyes,” a soft voice commanded, an undertone of fear lacing the sternness.

Haldir wanted to reassure them, to tell them that he was fine- it was an old wound- but his body was betraying him and the pain robbed him of the breath to form words. His injuries had been grievous in Mirkwood and he had been so eager to get home that he had pushed himself harder during their travels than he should have. Saying nothing to his friends of his discomfort, he had forced himself to near exhaustion and now the onslaught of battle had drained his remaining strength. It was a struggle simply to open his eyes.

When he did so, he found himself staring into Fedorian’s shocked green eyes. Déorian hovered anxiously behind him and those others who had not been wounded. Through his pain, Haldir felt self-conscious embarrassment flush the tips of his ears as he strained to straighten. He gave his commander a half-grin and brushed the hand off his arm.

“I’m all right,” he said weakly but Fedorian shook his head, indicating his friend’s hand still tightly clutched to his side.

“You’re hurt,” he said matter-of-factly in a tone of voice that Haldir knew all too well, a tone he knew he could not win against. He sighed deeply and suffered himself to be helped up after his wound had been hastily bound to try to staunch the worst of the bleeding.

Upon the northern marches near the very edge of the boundary, a massive golden shadow loomed: the healers’ infirmary, a great mallorn tree, its massive girth expanding nearly fourteen ells around. Its large overhanging branches were so laden with golden blossoms that they drooped to the grassy floor, forming a kind of protective canopy over the injured. High above among the thick branches, platforms had been built for the healers’ use; the soldiers had to be laid beneath it for they could not obviously climb and their comrades would take no unnecessary risks trying to carry them up. Perhaps a little too close to the borders but the healers insisted upon remaining at their post for the wounded soldiers who could not last the two-day ride back to Caras Galadhon.


In the cool grass beneath the shadowy curtain of the mallorn branches, Haldir watched the moonlight play upon the leaves, twining silver through their golden hair as he tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his side which had receded little on the journey here. He felt sick and dizzy and didn’t want to move just yet. The noiseless approach of elvish footsteps alerted him to another’s presence and he looked up into the kind smiling face above him. A tender, cool hand smoothed over his brow and a quiet voice whispered for him to lie still.

Geilrín.

She smiled and exchanged a quick relieved kiss with her husband. Kind and gentle, Fedorian’s wife tended most if not all that came under her care in one way or another. Whether it was a soft word or a quiet touch, she spread peace and ease through the battle-hardened, bloodied soldiers. She was one among the elven women who stayed at the borders and tended to the wounded and domestic chores of the soldiery on the borders.

There were not many female soldiers among the guard but certainly not for lack of skill. Elven women more favored the domestication of the home though they were as athletically skilled in the ways of weapons than any male elf. As a rule, they preferred healing to slaying though every once in a while a female would take up the sword in honor of her country. However, all were a blessing to those they served and many a life had been saved due to their swift and skilled action.

Businesslike but careful, she slit his tunic down the middle and gently peeled it back from the slash in his side. Haldir winced and clenched his teeth as the fabric stuck to the congealed blood about the wound.

“We’re going to patch you right up. You’re going to be all right,” she said reassuringly, bending closer as she swiped the remaining blood from the wound. “You broke stitches- this is an older injury,” she said with a frown. “I’ll have to replace them.”

Fedorian looked sharply at him, his face full of disapproval. “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured? I would never have sent you out if you had told me.”

“Sorry, sir. Slipped my mind,” Haldir smiled weakly at his friend’s outrage.

“Of course it did,” his commander responded disbelievingly as he slid the rest of the tunic from his friend’s shoulders to examine the slash he had incurred when the orc had leapt upon his back.

Haldir tensed as his commander inspected him, waiting for the inevitable questions that would be asked regarding the healing but still visible marks on his skin. He knew they were there still and he could feel Fedorian’s hands tense on his shoulders with a sharply indrawn breath.

He was spared by Rameil who had caught sight of them and rushed to his friend to see if he was all right. He and Ancadal alone knew what had happened in Mirkwood and just how he had gotten those injuries. Most of the bruises and scrapes from that dangerous encounter had healed but the javelin thrust was the most severe and still unhealed. But he did not relish having to explain away the uncomfortable questions that would undoubtedly be asked later when his commander got the chance.

“Are you all right? What happened?” Rameil asked, full of concern as he dropped beside his friend with Ancadal hovering anxiously behind his shoulder. The Rivendell elf’s dark hair swung before his face as he examined his friend with a steady, perceptive gaze.

“What’s wrong?”

Haldir just shook his head, willing the dark-haired warrior not to question him. He couldn’t handle any questions right now; the pain was making him light-headed and he could only lean his head back against the smooth bark of the trunk as Geilrín bustled around him, gently pressing Rameil and Ancadal aside as she squeezed past them.

“Here, drink this,” the healer said, pressing a cup into his hand, blessedly sparing him a reply. He moved to sit up but Fedorian eased a hand under his back to keep him from straining the muscles around the wound.

“Let me, mellon nin.” There was a tightness in his voice that Haldir couldn’t place and it made him even more uncomfortable and ashamed. But he did not move away.

Quietly, he submitted to their ministrations, too drained to resist much. The liquid slid cool down his throat and left a hint of honey on his tongue to hide the bitter aftertaste of the sleep-inducing drug. Soon, he began to feel himself drifting into darkness and he did not even feel it when she began to pluck out the broken stitches.

~*~

Haldir bolted awake, heart pounding and a cold sweat breaking over his brow. The lingering reflection of pleading, frightened blue eyes stayed imprinted in his thoughts as though seared there by a red hot iron. Dark shadows played about him and he rose startled to his feet only to stagger as agony jolted through his side. He groaned softly, leaning back against the massive tree trunk to steady himself.

“You all right?” a soft voice asked. Haldir snapped around to face Fedorian staring up at him from the cool grass.

Haldir levered himself up gingerly and reached a hand to touch the bandage around his ribs but the elf beside him swiftly grabbed his hand.

“Leave it be,” he advised.

With a sigh, Haldir desisted, glancing around for his repaired tunic which lay beside him. Snatching it up, he hastily yanked it over his shoulders, disregarding the sharp protest of the wound in his back as he jerked the fabric over it.

The movement was not lost on Fedorian whose eyes saw more than they let on. His sharp, green gaze locked onto his friend’s who turned his head away, uncomfortable.

“Your brothers will be happy to see you- mostly in one piece this time,” Fedorian joked lightly, sensing the unease in his friend’s posture. Haldir tried a smile but failed somewhat in the effect. Fedorian sighed deeply and decided to dispense with the pleasantries.

“Mellon nin, what happened in Mirkwood?”

Haldir would not even speak to his brothers of what had happened in Mirkwood and the only one he had dared share the terror and horror of his imprisonment with had been Legolas. And he had no intention of sharing it now. Even with his friend whom he trusted.

“If you do not mind, Fedorian, I’m tired,” he hedged desperately trying to avoid his friend’s searching gaze. Fedorian nodded slowly, giving in.

“All right. Rest easy, mellon. Regain your strength.”

Haldir nodded his head with a grimace and lay back down, struggling to fall back asleep.

After a long, torturous hour, he gave it up for lost and stood slowly, ignoring the dull ache in his back muscles and side. He brushed aside the branches of the mallorn tree and stepped out into the cool night air. A hard knot of fear lodged itself in his stomach as he stared out at the dark trees, wondering where in the mist-shrouded night the elven traitor and his followers were now. Thranduil had granted them mercy and life- two things Haldir knew they had not earned.

And they were still out there somewhere, biding their time.

“You do know that being up before dawn after a battle is a bad sign?”

He started and whirled round.

“You are truly trying to frighten me to Mandos’ Halls, aren’t you?” he said. “Do you never sleep? Does your wife not miss you?” he half-scolded, half-jested, not sure which he felt more strongly.

“Oh, she sleeps less than I do,” Fedorian laughed with a wave of his hand. “Did you rest well?” He seemed to already know that answer as he looked into his friend’s weary silver eyes. Haldir looked away with a deep sigh, knowing he was not yet ready to speak of what had happened. Some wounds were too raw just yet or too uncomfortable to speak so openly where ears might easily overhear. But, his friend did not press him and merely sat beside him in quiet companionship, seeming to understand his wish for silence.

They watched as the grey watery light of pre-dawn slowly filtered through the leafy boughs. The orange sun breasted the horizon, rising to a glorious day, tingeing the cloud layers with scarlet and gold, whitening as it rose gradually higher. Haldir stood and stretched stiff muscles, a peaceful serenity filling him as he gazed upon the beauty of the golden sun darting through the silver trunks of his homeland where delicate mists clung to the still-shadowed hollows.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said into the silence, grateful for his friend spending the lonely hours of the darkness with him. Fedorian cuffed him lightly across the head with a soft smile.

“Only on-duty, mellon nin. I am the same as ever I was.”

Haldir smiled in return but kept his gaze on the white stars glittering in the remaining vestiges of dark blue in the dawn sky until they faded beyond his sight.


Author's Notes: If you read all of that in this dark print and darker background with such imperfect formatting, bless you.

The Lady of Light


Chapter 2 - Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Danger Rising

The fully risen sun dappled through the golden eaves of the Wood as Haldir gazed through the massive silver trees. His sleeplessness of the night before did not unduly hinder him for elven bodies were resilient and had the ability to go for days without sleep, finding nourishment and rest in the beauty of the world around them.

But they could seek no such rest today.

Dawn had come at last after a long night of tending the wounded, most of which were resting peacefully now. More elves had come swiftly from the eastern border to reinforce the troops already there at Fedorian’s behest and now had gathered below or on the other flets to prepare for the battle ahead.

Beside the tall lieutenant, Déorian looked up at the bright sun, gauging the weather and the hour.

“Tis a good day to hunt,” he remarked quietly, his eyes afire as he clutched the gilt wood of his bow. He shaded his eyes with a slender hand to gaze out across the empty meadowlands spread out before them towards the rocky outcroppings where their enemy lay hid in the mists of morning that the sun had not yet managed to burn away.

The smaller elf shook his head blackly. “We cannot allow these creatures so close to our borders.”

“Don’t worry, Dae,” Haldir said encouragingly. “We’ll get them.”

“Yes, we will,” came a voice from behind them. “But you are staying here.”

Haldir spun to face Fedorian, his face a mask of outrage. “What?”

“You are too injured to fight,” his older friend reiterated, stepping up onto the platform beside the other two. Déorian kept his eyes carefully lowered, not wishing to get involved in the argument. Haldir stared at his friend in disbelief.

“That is nonsense! Your wife released me. I am fit to fight,” he protested with a flash of his steel grey eyes.

“You must make your report to the Lady anyway and Ancadal and Rameil are staying behind as well,” his commander reasoned patiently. Haldir opened his mouth again to retort but Fedorian cut him off. “You are staying, Haldir. That is an order.” The ringing note of finality in his voice brooked for no more argument and though Haldir let out a long, frustrated breath, he relented.

Déorian gave him a sympathetic smile and patted his shoulder consolingly.

“Don’t worry, mellon nin. I’ll fell a few for you.”

Haldir gave him a cool look.

In a disgruntled and indignant silence, he followed his friends down the hithlain ladder to watch the others prepare for battle.

A bustle of activity greeted them. Quivers of newly fletched arrows leaned against the mallorn trunks, bowstrings checked and strung. Others of the guard tested the keenness of their blades, glittering in the morning sunlight slanting through the leaves. Geilrín bustled among them making sure they were well-prepared for the long hot day ahead.

“I’ll have no soldiers of mine keeling over in the midst of a battle from sunstroke,” she smiled as she passed out flasks of icy water filled from the Silverlode. She paused before Haldir with the same sympathetic smile that Déorian had given him.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. He sighed exasperatedly for answer; she smiled again as Haldir leveled her with an accusatory glare.

“Your husband is refusing me my duty.”

Her bright green gaze flickered to the tall, stern form of her spouse where he was preparing to depart as she shifted an armful of rolled-up bandages. “Your duty now is to heal,” she said sternly, tapping at his shoulder in emphasis. “Your back and side have not yet mended.”

“You released me,” he countered stubbornly. She shook her head in exasperation.

“If ‘releasing you’ means that you vanished at dawn before I had the chance to look you over, then yes, I did release you,” she said with a growing grin. He smiled somewhat sheepishly and shrugged. She laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Come and see me later. I’ll check you over and then release you,” she chuckled taking up her armful of bandages again as she walked away.

Unable to watch his friends and compatriots leave without him, Haldir walked away, breathing in deeply to try to quell a burning sense of resentment. Why couldn’t his commander trust him to come to him if his injuries became a problem? Had he not shown himself more than capable of fighting under duress in the past? Though it was not Fedorian’s intention, such an order felt demeaning and insulting to Haldir. His only consolation was that his wounds no longer ached so fiercely. He could not prevent another sigh escaping his lips in frustration as the battle-ready patrol rode off through the trees, following the winding river path out onto the flatlands.

“Haldir!”

The elf in question wheeled round at the familiar voice.

“Orophin, Rúmil!” he called joyfully, mood forgotten, as his brothers flung themselves upon him in twin bone-crushing embraces.

“We’ve missed you!”

“How were your travels? Tell us everything!”

Haldir smiled and returned the embraces full force, gratitude pouring through him that he had lived to make this meeting. He had missed his brothers dearly and even more so when he feared that he would never look upon their beloved faces again. Rameil and Ancadal, standing nearby, watched the reunion happily.

“’Everything’ would take a full season or more to relate to you,” Haldir said lightly, wishing to stay away from that particular subject. “Besides you have to take Ancadal to make his report to the Lady.”

Said elf blenched at the thought of standing before the Lady of Lothlórien herself as he shot a sharp betrayed look at his friend. But Rameil smiled gently at the younger elf and wrapped an arm companionably about his shoulders.

“It is not as frightening as it sounds,” he said, his grin broadening as Ancadal gave him a pathetic look in mute appeal.

~*~

The Nimrodel rippled cool and calm on this warm summer’s day, chattering its merry path over blue stones on the bottom of the pool. The soft voice of her mistress who had once sung beside the foam-filled waters lingered here still as though tarrying from a far distant shore. The dappled green sunlight glittered upon the small wavelets like diamonds.

The reunited brothers reclined lazily upon the warm grassy sward beside the water slow-moving in its bed. The season had been unnaturally dry of late and the river had sunk far below its usual course. In the middle, where once an elf would usually have been overwhelmed up to the neck, now reached only to waist height as Rúmil waded in, clad only in his trousers to fish.

“Don’t fall in again,” Orophin chortled from the bank.

“I did not fall in!” His brother protested indignantly, hands akimbo as he leveled a glare at his cheeky sibling. “That giant of a fish pushed me!” He did not seem to realize the ludicrousness of his words and scowled darkly when they burst out laughing. He glared fiercely round at his brothers and friends but a small smile quirked his lips, ruining his black look.

Leaping lightly across the dry stones to the middle of the river, he narrowed his eyes against the sunlight’s glare off the gleaming water, spying his prey drifting near the bottom. Reacting with well-honed reflexes, he dove, his fingers flashing through the water.

Missed. He sighed in disappointment as the nimble silverfish slipped through his grasp again.

Before long the others had joined him for the day burned hot and muggy. They sported about like elflings, wading into the deeper waters and splashing one another good-naturedly, their laughter ringing through the humid air. Rameil laughed triumphantly, a glint of molten silver flashing in his hand as he held aloft the prized fish much to Rúmil’s chagrin.

Reclining on the bank, Haldir watched them fondly. He smiled though it slowly faded as he gazed through the network of interlacing trees towards the meadowlands just barely visible to his eyes. He thought he caught the faraway glint of sunlight on steel and the tiny figures of horses. A sudden wave hit him square in the face and he sputtered, wiping his eyes.

“Mind yourselves!” he chastened, smothering a chuckle.

He wanted to go swimming but reluctance held him back for he had not told his brothers of his wounds nor did he intend to. They would only worry as they usually did and that was the last thing he needed. But he could feel something else as well. Tension throbbed upon the air, gnawing at his thoughts. His gaze drifted westwards again.

“Come, Haldir!” Rúmil called leaping onto the shore beside his eldest brother who still sat upon the shore. “The water is warm! Stop your worrying!”

“Something is wrong,” Haldir shook his head, unsmiling. “They’ve been gone for too long.”

Rúmil rolled his eyes at his brother’s anxiety. “You are just cross because Fedorian made you stay behind.”

Haldir’s eyes pierced his younger brother’s gaze like steel. “Hold your tongue, muindor, until you know the truth of the matter,” he snapped.

His younger brother backed off, surprised by this stern reprimand.

Haldir sighed and turned his head away. He hadn’t meant to sound so cross but a shadow gripped his heart. He did not like keeping secrets from his brothers- even if it was necessary. That combined with his commander’s ridiculous order had made him a little more short-tempered than he normally would be.

Haldir reached out and touched his brother’s arm. “Forgive me, Rúmil. I am merely worried.” His younger brother smiled understandably as Rameil challenged him to another fishing bout.

Ancadal leapt into the water from the slightly upraised rocks on the hither shore, drenching all of those in the vicinity. A water fight swiftly ensued with much dunking and splashing and renewed laughter. Haldir despite his gloomy thoughts smiled, glad for the reprieve. He smothered a laugh as Rameil swam stealthily up behind his youngest brother who furiously tried to fend off Orophin and Ancadal’s combined onslaught. The normally stern soldier had shed his usual reserve amongst the younger elves, laughing as he lunged and dunked Rúmil’s head underwater.

Their merry laughter stilled as the rhythmic thud of horse’s hooves reached their keen ears and Rameil eased his hold to allow Rúmil to surface as a messenger clad in grey galloped to the bank, nearly staggering from the saddle in his haste to dismount. Haldir caught him swiftly by the arm to prevent him from falling.

“What news? Why come you here in such haste?” he questioned him. The messenger shook his head, struggling to regain his breath after his breakneck pace. His tunic hung in bloodied tatters about his form, his golden hair damp with sweat and clinging to his face.

“Who… is in charge here?” he panted raggedly, clutching the stitch in his side.

“I am,” Haldir answered reluctantly. The messenger turned towards him, his eyes large and fearful.

“Waiting for us… in the passes… a horde of them! Need aid!” he gasped, grasping at the collar of Haldir’s tunic.

Fending off the other’s panicked hands, Haldir felt his heart stop at those words, images of his friends lying bloodied and lifeless in the dust rushing through his mind. He nodded numbly and gently disentangled himself from the messenger who sank to his knees in exhaustion. Haldir bade Orophin to go to him as he strapped his sword to his side and turned to his other brother and friends who had already shrugged on their tunics and laced up their boots soaking wet as they were.

“Rameil, summon as many of our people as you can find. In five minutes, I want them assembled here and ready. Now! We have to help them!”

Far past the point of protesting, the dark-haired elf leapt up and vanished into the trees in the span of a heartbeat. Haldir turned back towards the messenger.

“Did they still live when you left them? Did they still live?” he demanded harshly, shaking the shock out of the soldier.

The young elf looked up, still trembling slightly though Orophin’s compassionate hand rested on his back. “They had taken shelter… behind a ridge of rock… near the ravine,” he choked out. “But I do not know what has happened since then. They got Cúlir in the chest… He-” His words trailed into unintelligible sobs muffled against Orophin’s shoulder.

“Haldir!” The elf in question turned as Geilrín hurried towards him with his horse, her troubled expression revealing that she had already heard the ill news. “Bring him home safe,” she pleaded, laying a hand on his arm as she pressed his horse’s bridle into his hand. He smiled gently at her and squeezed her hand as reassuringly as he was able.

”I will.”

Rameil appeared at his side moments later with a dozen elves on his heels, hastily strapping on their quivers and sword belts. Ancadal leapt onto a chestnut stallion that had been brought to him.

“I’m going with you,” he said stoutly. His report to the Lady would have to wait.

Haldir did not have time to argue, merely nodding his assent briefly as he mounted up.

“Noro lim! (Ride on!)”

“But Haldir, you-” Ancadal began to protest his friend’s going but Haldir ignored him and urged his horse forward at a canter, the rest of Ancadal’s words lost to the wind rushing in his ears.

~*~

The long cliffs loomed out of the dusky twilight, their serrated faces cleanly carved as though shaped by a giant’s stone axe. The coppery rays of the sinking sun set them aflame gleaming like fresh spilled blood upon the knife-edged rocks. Far above their heads tall limestone shelves climbed where the maggot holes of the orcs had been delved through the bones of the earth.

Haldir and the near score of elves behind him rode silently single file, every muscle tense. Absolute silence commanded them. Charging heedlessly into a battle was an easy way to get killed and the Elves would take no chances with their deadliest enemies. Haldir felt the cold all-too-familiar claw of fear clutch at his heart as he shifted his weight lightly in the saddle to try to ease the pressure on his aching side. Longbow in hand and an arrow already notched to the string, his silver eyes gazed up at the rocky outcrops rearing above their heads as they trotted along a steadily narrowing path that twined up the ridge.

The steep ravine dropped in an almost sheer cliff from the honeycombed hills. If he leaned to the side a little, Haldir could just make out the thin dark blue ribbon of water far below twining among the gloomy mist-shrouded poplars. Close above them, they could hear the shrieks of rage and battle, the keening cries of orcs and the buzz of arrows interspersed with the sharp ring of steel.

“There they are!” Rameil whispered for here even a small sound could carry long.

Fedorian’s group had managed to fight their way to higher ground and pick off a few of the orcs neatly one by one with their remaining arrows from the shelter of a few scattered boulders and half-dead trees. Rameil with his keen sight spotted them first, crouching behind the scant trees for cover. Their only concealment sprouted up from the gashes in the stone: tall, spindly limbs of ash trees gouging through the nooks and crannies of the gully.

Dismounting swiftly for their horses could not navigate such rough terrain, the elves leapt nimbly up the dusty rocks still warm with the day’s heat. Hither and thither, rested still bundles sodden with crusted blood and buzzing flies, the hoary boughs spreading dark mournful leaves over the dead. The fight had been grievous for friend and foe alike and no few elves lay among the slain.

Haldir stepped lightly around their lifeless forms, avoiding the slick of their blood as he crept forward, cursing his ill luck. He should have come sooner! The battle had lasted far longer than it should have. They had not counted on the small band of the night before finding their kin in the caves. Already the sun had begun to descend from its peak, falling towards the dangerous twilight. If they lingered here past sundown, they would be in serious peril of being overrun by their night-eyed enemies who grew stronger with day’s passing.

In their bloodlust and haste, the orcs sometimes shoved their own off the narrow path to tumble shrieking into the gorge below. So focused upon overtaking their battered adversary were they that they did not notice the Elves gliding stealthily towards them along the rocks, skirting the telltale pitfalls where a single misstep could easily prove fatal.

In the shelter of the sparse ash trees, Rúmil and Orophin with their group loosed their volley, drawing fire away from their beleaguered friends. Startled, many of the enemy fell before realizing they had been caught in a pincer movement. They knew their immortal enemy at once and their yellow eyes blazed with bitter hatred as they clambered up the rocks, some forming ranks to return fire. Most of the darts skipped off the stone as the Elves threw themselves down but one or two found their fatal mark and blood poured hot upon the sun-warmed stone.

Fedorian sighed in mingled relief and anxiety as he saw the orcs scatter and shoot wildly at this new devilry from the trees.

“Reckless. Every one of them,” he muttered, chancing an arrow to imbed his in the skull of a pike-bearer bearing down on top of him. The elven bolt flung the body over backwards into two of its brethren as it tumbled downslope with the elf commander’s broken arrow through its right eye.

Mowed down by their relentless pursuers, the orcs fell further back down the gorge’s side to crouch near the edge of the path, shrieking and cursing in their foul tongue that stung the ears of those elves within hearing.

“What are you doing here?” Fedorian bellowed as Haldir sprinted towards him with his command at his heels. “I told you to remain behind!” He grabbed his friend’s arm and tugged him down behind the sheltering rocks. Haldir gave him a lopsided grin.

“And what? Miss another chance at being mortally wounded?”

Déorian grinned, a battle light glittering wildly in his eyes as he leapt down from a leaning boulder he had perched himself upon. “You’ll have to work hard to catch up. I have already bested your last count,” he said, swiping blood from a cut above his eye.

“How many have we lost?” Haldir asked, ignoring the jest as he turned a grave face to his commander who watched the orcs regroup not far enough away for comfort. They blocked the Elves’ retreat and would not let them escape without a bloody fight.

“Too many,” Fedorian replied laconically.

“What of their captive?”

The older elf pointed and Haldir followed the line of his arm. A thin ash tree, uprooted by a wind storm in years past formed a narrow bridge from one edge of the ravine to the other. Lashed to its center was the orcs’ prisoner, a mere blot against the brown wood from this distance. She had been blindfolded and gagged to prevent her from calling out. Her captors had left her exactly where she would be unlikely to struggle and would offer the least chance to the Elves of rescuing her. But they knew they had to try, no matter the futility such an action seemed. They had to try; their hearts would not let them do otherwise.

“Let me go,” Haldir said, shading his eyes against the failing sun sinking red behind the cliffs. The crimson light fell across him, sparking like fire in his determined grey eyes.

“Absolutely not,” Fedorian answered brusquely. “You were not even supposed to be here- let alone do something as foolish as that. You will be killed before you stepped two paces from here.”

“I will not. Remember, mellon nin,” Haldir said with a wry smile. “You helped train me.” He spoke so calmly for the fear of death, an alien concept to the immortal elves, held no power over him.

Without waiting for a reply, he leapt out from behind the boulders, sending off a sharp volley of arrows to clear the path before him. He bounded lightly down the sharp slope, scree sliding at his heels as Fedorian’s protective arrows zipped past him.

The orcs reeled back with shrieks of rage and alarm. Thankfully, the marchwarden’s woven cloak (which all the elves carried with them even in the hottest weather) blended with the concealing silver trunks of the trees, flittering to the color of gravel as he darted from their cover. A black tipped arrow narrowly missed his skull, lifting his hair as it passed but he ducked low and kept going, skidding down nearly on his knees to the brink of the cliff.

Blood pounding in his ears, he rushed the three orcs guarding the fallen tree, putting three arrows into their hearts before they could lift their weapons against him. Leaping over their slain corpses, he sprang lightly up onto the beginning of the rotting log, his boots finding precarious purchase on the rough bark. The old wood creaked ominously under his additional weight light as it was. Balancing easily with the natural agility inherent in his people, he stepped forward carefully, wincing at every groan as he inched along the tottering log. A sharp jolt almost made him fall and the startled cry from the creature in the center of the makeshift bridge froze him in his tracks, his heart leaping into his throat.

Only a few thin roots anchored the log to this side of the cliff and nothing at all on the further side. Minutely but discernible to the eyes of the elf, it shifted, straining against its last lashings. If he did not hurry it could rip free of its roots and slide off the ravine edge entirely, careening both of them into open air.

Summoning his courage, he lunged forward ignoring the lancing pain ripping through his side as he did so. He sliced the bonds that bound the woman to the wood and scooped her up with a strength borne of desperation. But the log jerked even more alarmingly and he froze again. He had just turned about when a sharp pain exploded through his shoulder and he stumbled backwards, nearly dropping his burden. His foot caught a weak part of the tree and soft rotting wood burst, engulfing his right leg to the knee as he landed hard.

Shaking his head to rid it of the pain-hazed fog clouding it, he opened his eyes to stare at the bolt embedded deeply in his flesh. The arrow had struck him on the left side, diving deep into his shoulder.

Keeping a firm grip on the woman with his one good arm, he tried to wrench himself free by levering his other leg up. But gripping pain tore through his thigh as the stubborn log refused to release him and he dropped back, panting as the wood creaked warningly again.

A cruel chuckle floated to his ears and he looked up sharply.

The orcs had finally spotted him and stood at the edge of the cliff, arrows nocked and ready. The first archer took another bead on him, its black-tinted arrow aiming straight at the elf’s heart this time. Thinking fast, Haldir knew he had only one option. It was impossible. Suicidal. But it was the only way they would not be killed outright.

He hooked his leg tightly inside the decaying tree, preparing for the pain he knew this would cause. With a deep breath, he threw his body flat against the log, forcing aside the nearly unbearable pain as he shoved the arrow tip in deeper. He gripped the brittle tree tightly with one arm as he simultaneously wrenched himself sideways, pulling the log right over onto its side, tearing the last of the roots free.

The fatal missile buzzed harmlessly past him but his leg screamed with pain as he wrenched the muscles horribly, one arm still wrapped around the log to keep them secure, the woman crushed between his chest and the wood; her unbound hands clasped tightly about his neck.

But that movement was too sharp for the long-suffering log. It moaned and split asunder right down the middle. Haldir felt the old wood shudder and knew what was going to happen a split second before it did.

With a keening screech, the log snapped, hurtling both elf and woman into open air. A stomach-turning jolt of pure panic shot through the elf and every muscle in his body tensed reflexively as his mind registered that they were falling. The wind stung his face, whipping his hair into his streaming eyes, chunks of wood raining down around him.

Through blurred vision, he saw the hard slope dotted with small trees leaping up towards them at least fifty feet below and knew they could not hope to survive if they landed among those jagged rocks. With a sharp shove, he pushed the woman away from him so she would not be crushed under his weight when they landed though he doubted it would do much good.

They were going to die.

He knew an instant’s regret for his friends as the wind screamed in his ears.

The last sound he would ever hear.

~*~

“Haldir!” Déorian screamed when he saw his friend fall, abandoning his cover as he darted down the slope as fast as his legs could carry him. Slicing through the orcs that rushed to hinder him, he fought to the edge of the gorge, staring wild-eyed into the abyss. He cast about frantically, his breath catching around a sharp edge of panic that stabbed suddenly through his stomach. Peering over the lip of the ravine, he strained his elven sight but could see nothing through the thick gloomy darkness of the trees.

“Déorian, what is it? Where is Haldir?” Rameil questioned the smaller elf as he slid down the escarpment to his side. He dashed the sweat from his temples and wiped his hands on his leggings, narrowing his eyes against the blind night. His heart sank like a stone as he realized where the smaller elf gazed.

The orcs were flying in retreat, driven back by the fierce onslaught of the combined elven forces. But the two standing on the brink of the cleft gave no more heed to the battle, their faces frozen with shock and sorrow.

“He fell,” Déorian whispered numbly, blank astonishment etched over his fair features.

“No,” Rameil denied vehemently. “He’s not dead! Do you hear me?” He seized the smaller elf by the collar and shook him. “He’s not! He can’t be!” The dark-haired elf refused to believe even the slightest possibility that his friend might be dead. Not after what they had endured- he couldn’t be! He wouldn’t believe it!

Déorian simply shook his head, his mind whirling as he clutched the other elf’s wrists in a desperate viselike grip. He looked up numbly as Rúmil and Orophin skidded onto the shallow ledge, their faces white and pleading, begging their friend not to tell them what they already knew to be true. His heart plummeted within him at the thought of telling them of their brother’s deathly fall.

“I’m sorry, mellyn nin,” he gasped, his voice heavy, dazed, as tears started in his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

~*~

Tree branches whipped past his face; leaves turned to tiny knives, slicing thin shallow cuts in his arms and face as he tried desperately to slow his fall. He could see nothing but swirling green and feel the thin branches snapping under his weight. As he fell, the branches grew thicker and connected with his shoulders, catching him in the chest.

The force with which he hit the tree limbs knocked the breath from his lungs. And his tunic snagged and tore on smaller needle-sharp twigs. Black dots danced before his eyes as his head connected solidly with a bough and his side spiked through with pain, the stitches in his side straining as he twisted to catch a hold of anything. His fingers scrabbled vainly for a hold and suddenly he felt air open up underneath him again.

He slammed hard into the earth, tumbling painfully over the sharp stones. Finally, he came to rest on a level, feeling as though he had been caught in the stomach by a dwarf’s rock hard fist. He lay gasping there for a moment, unable to move as the world tumbled around him.

He wasn’t sure if he blacked out or not but when he next opened his eyes, the dust had settled and every ache and pain in his body cried out loudly for his attention. His legs and arms were cut and bleeding from trying to stop his rapid descent and the arrow shaft in his shoulder had snapped when he had collided with the ground. His chest felt crushed and he could not breathe for the pain pulsing between his ribs. At least one or two were cracked or broken, he wasn’t quite certain he wanted to know which.

With the pain radiating from his body came the realization that he was still alive.

His fall had been blessedly softened by the aspens growing close to the river. He had torn straight through them but the resistance had been enough to keep from killing him when he had struck the rocks. Breathless and disoriented, he listened for a full minute to the wild throb of his heart scarcely able to believe that he could still hear it. He had fallen from trees in his youth before of course but even an elf had his limits. And a fifty foot drop onto rocks was definitely one of them.

Slowly, he raised his hurting head, nearly falling back again as the world spun dizzily for a few sickening moments, purple spots momentarily obscuring his vision. Carefully testing his limbs and back to make sure nothing had been broken, he sat up gingerly, a groan escaping his lips as agony jolted through his head and side. His shoulder ached fiercely and, looking down, he saw the jagged remnant of the arrow protruding from a dark crimson stain spreading slowly over his tunic. Feeling his stomach turn over, he hastily looked away from it, working on getting his feet under him.

It took him a few long minutes but he managed to stagger up, knowing he would have many bruises ere night truly fell though darkness had already fallen beneath the trees. His right leg screamed from the sharp tension straining the tendon as he moved on it. Stumbling nearly to his knees, he picked himself up again and looked around for the woman, fear squeezing his heart as he spotted a limp shape among the scattered remnants of the ill-fated log.

The woman lay where she had fallen five yards away from him, blood seeping from a cut on her forehead where it had sharply struck the rocks. Ignoring the numerous protests of his body, he knelt beside her or rather his leg gave out beneath him dropping him beside her. With his one functional arm he felt her limbs and spine, making absolutely sure nothing was dislocated or out of place before he carefully rolled her over, relieved to find that she still breathed.

Haldir gently peeled back the gag from her mouth and the blindfold from her closed eyes as she stirred with a small groan. He leaned back in surprise as the cloth fell away to reveal a swarthy face, weatherworn and marred by the flowing of time. A human. He sat back on his heels, his head cocked to one side. What had he gotten himself into now? He knew enough of Men and their fears to be wary. He tended to shun their towns and villages for Elves and Men had become estranged in these later days since the Last Alliance.

He stood, preparing to leave. She lived at least; there was no reason that he had to stay. But his heart restrained him. She looked so young, not much past her thirtieth year, not yet out of childhood by elven standards. He could not leave her out here where more dangerous creatures than orcs lurked by the riverside. Automatically, he scanned the area, reaching for his sword. His fingers closed on empty air. Dazed, he cast about for his weapon.

His sword had been lost in the fall and it took him a few moments to find it again, half buried in the dust and splintered wood. Once the blade rested securely at his side again, Haldir breathed a little easier, knowing that at least he could defend himself if they were attacked again. Maybe. In the shape he was in, he’d be lucky if he could lift his sword much less wield it. With a sigh, he knelt beside the female again, waiting for her to awaken.

Quickly, he tucked his hair back over his shoulders and pulled up the hood of his cloak to conceal his face as her eyelids fluttered and a small whimper left her dry, cracked lips. Dried blood and dust caked her face and a large bruise crossed her cheek where she had obviously been struck. Coming to with a start, she jolted up, staring wide-eyed at her rescuer.

“Stay,” he said softly, speaking in Westron to set her at ease as he raised his hand in what he hoped was a calming manner. “I will not harm you.”

Tense and trembling, she could only stare at him with wild black eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked tersely, her eyes wary with mistrust.

“I am called-” he paused a moment. “Haldir.”

He decided to be honest; this woman would not know his name anyway and it would mean little to her though he wished he knew more of this woman and more importantly how she had come to be in the company of orcs. The nearest human settlement, to his knowledge, lay at least forty miles to the east nearer to Anduin. How she had gotten so far still in the orcs’ midst alive and mostly unharmed was a story he would like to hear. But it would have to wait for the peril of their tenuous position pressed upon him heavily.

He knew safety was not yet within reach and if he wished to return to his companions he would have to somehow climb back up the chasm walls. But he had no way of knowing when it would be safe to do so for the orcs still lingered there and Fedorian’s troop would have drawn back by now. And with his injured shoulder added to the mix of difficulties… he groaned and rubbed at the ache between his eyes, vainly wishing he could just lay down and sleep if only for a moment.

“My name is Khiris,” she answered feebly, bringing a hand to her head to smear away the blood on her temple. Her accent was thick with the inflections of Harad and her dark skin proclaimed her so.

“Can you stand?” he asked her quietly. “We cannot linger here.” He said with an anxious glance at the top of the cleft. He reached his uninjured hand down to help her up. Hesitantly, she took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

He stiffened, the hairs rising on the nape of his neck as a chilling howl rent the thick, muggy air. Looking up, he caught sight of misshapen silhouettes against the lighter night sky near the lip of the chasm.

“Come on. We’ve got to move.” Explanations would have to wait for now as the vile orcs would very likely attempt to pursue them to reclaim their prize as soon as full night fell.

As swiftly as possible, they moved off through the underbrush hurriedly ducking under the shadow of the vegetation at the edge of the water.

They kept close within the umbrage of the cliff face determined to be as invisible from the top of the gorge as possible. The woman moved gingerly, seemingly forcing aside whatever pain she felt. Every so often, he would catch her glancing at him as though taking his measure. He moved silently at her side, trying not to flinch as every movement sent wave after wave of unrelenting pain flowing through his aching, tired body.

His leg cried out mindlessly, begging him for rest. It shook so badly he knew it would not hold him up much longer. His left arm hung useless at his side, a growing pulsing agony swelling from shoulder joint to fingertips. Every breath felt as though a knife had been twisted into his lungs. He staggered and caught himself just barely against the gorge wall, trying to regain his balance and his breath. His heart was strong but his body was shutting down on him.

Suddenly, Haldir’s leg gave out completely and he fell to one knee, pain shooting up through his shoulder and rebounding in his throbbing head. He suppressed a groan as the world flickered dark around him.

Seeing him fall, Khiris crouched beside him in an instant, her dark face registering alarm as she grabbed his shoulder. He moaned and tried to push her hands away as they caused more pain to his already rapidly overloading senses. He could only shake his head over and over, desperately trying not to black out or vomit.

“Don’t touch me,” he commanded, motioning her back. She did so, watching him with curiosity and concern in her dark eyes. A sharp drawn in hiss escaped through clenched teeth as she espied the alarming stain spreading across his shirt black under the trees.

“You’re hurt.”

He shook his head- not in denial of the truth- but in impatience. Now was not the time for such questions. An uneasiness gripped his heart with icy groping fingers. Something drew near, something not entirely friendly either. They had to find shelter. Only then could they perhaps find rest.

He stiffened suddenly, his eyes widening in alarm.

She caught the look on his ashen face and immediately tensed as well. “What-?” she began. But he covered her mouth and pressed her back against the solid warmth of the cliff.

“Quiet,” he hissed in her ear, the heavy sound of iron-shod footfalls meeting his keen ears. The orcs he had feared would pursue them, had pursued them. Pressing back into the shadows of an overhang, they held their breath and waited.

Small stones rattled down the steep sides of the chasm as the creatures slid down the embankment, leaping nimbly to the ground on knotted limbs. Scenting prey nearby, the orc scouts, muttering in their foul language, examined the scuffed and bloodied ground with delight. Their luminous eyes glittered devilishly in the darkening night as they flickered towards the deep-shadowed overhang under which their quarry crouched.

Realizing they had been spotted, Haldir drew his sword with a hiss of steel on leather. The orcs screeched joyfully at the prospect of bloodshed as they wrenched their curved and pitted blades simultaneously from their filthy scabbards. The elf leapt forth to meet them, his blade kindling in the starlight that blazed forth upon it.

Dancing out of the middle of his attackers, Haldir spun about, whirling his sword in a swift double-handed stroke that swept the head from the shoulders of one of them. The movement sent an agonizing spasm through his injured shoulder and his ribs and muscles flared as he dodged the knife hurled at him from the other.

The remaining orc paused, cowardice seizing its evil corroded heart. Spinning about with a bound, it leapt away from the elf’s scything blade with a shriek of terror. It cleared the rocks with the agility of a mountain goat and disappeared into the murky twilight.

Haldir lowered his guard slowly, wiping his blade clean on the fallen orc’s filthy leathern tunic. His hood had fallen away in the short skirmish, his golden hair tumbling freely about his shoulders. His chest ached as he heaved in ragged breaths, his shoulder burning. He turned away from the corpse to meet the eyes of the woman staring at him.

She did not hide her astonishment at the almost ethereal appearance of what she had thought was a man. In Harad, elves were creatures of legend- part of the old tales which they used to frighten their children. The thought of meeting one here in the wild never crossed her mind so she merely blinked her heavy hooded eyes and kicked at the twisted corpse cooling at her feet.

“Think there are more of them?”

“More will come,” Haldir answered with a quick glance at their surroundings, somehow relieved that she did not seem to comprehend what he was.

The shadows of tall monolithic boulders loomed ahead ominously, spreading long concealing shadows across the starlit ground. His grey eyes swept the area over carefully, every sense straining. But he heard nothing. Not a whisper save the wind whistling over the crevices in the rocks. And that more than anything else made him even more uneasy.

“Let’s go,” he whispered into the silence.

A hot gust of moisture-laden air struck him full in the face like a falling stone and he looked up as a warning rumble echoed through the still air. Dark clouds had rolled in invisible in the nightfall, promising the unpredictable violence of a summer storm. Haldir groaned inwardly. Just what they needed. If it was severe enough, the floor of this entire canyon could flood without warning.

Every step jarred the arrow haft still buried within him and every step became harder than the last as they began to scramble up the steep slope. His cracked ribs ached fiercely with every labored breath and the pounding in his head only worsened as night drew on. A difficult section of the cliff found them scrambling in the deep dusk, groping vainly for a handhold.

Sweat dripping into his eyes, Haldir shook strands of clinging hair out of his face and hauled himself up another painful foot. His fingers had been scraped raw by clambering up the rocks and half-formed ledges in the dark. They would not be able to make the top of the ridge tonight. Not as they were. He felt drained already and knew he was physically incapable of pulling himself up one more time.

Pausing for breath, he glanced over his shoulder to where the woman struggled below. Despite his injuries he had gained a few feet on her for he could see more clearly in the dark than she and found hand and footholds more easily.

“Haldir!” the alarmed shout made him twist round again.

Khiris struggled upward as nimbly as she was able but she had to squint in order to see the rock face in the blackness as dark as pitch. But below her, far too fast for mortal agility, orcs swarmed upward- a remnant of the party the elves had slain those survivors who had been alerted by the scout.

With the agility of a mountain cat, he dropped from the rock he clung to and landed a few feet from her on a small ledge. Pain ricocheted up his twisted leg muscle but he ignored it as he stretched a hand down to help her.

Scrambling upward, she swiftly grabbed a hold of his shoulder for leverage, nearly jerking him off the ledge and sending a tearing pain ripping through his injured shoulder. He grasped her by the underarms and hoisted her up onto the makeshift platform bodily. Clamping his hand tight to the wound, he glanced up at the whirling clouds overhead.

“Come on,” he hissed, dragging her upwards once more as he cast desperately about for a suitable place to make their stand. She grabbed his arm and pointed.

“There!”

A narrow slice in the cliff face had been eroded by dripping water, forming a small niche in the rock several yards above their heads. As they began to climb towards it, Haldir felt the first drops of rain upon his shoulders.

“Hurry,” he encouraged though she had already gained several feet on him.

The storm had rolled in faster than he’d thought. Before they had pulled themselves up three more feet, they were both drenched to the skin and scrabbling on the slick wet stones for purchase as they finally clambered up onto another ledge.

But the strain had been too much on his injured shoulder. Expending the last of his energy to drag his failing body up over the lip of the ledge, Haldir collapsed onto the muddy ground, gasping for breath, the rock above his head blurring in and out of focus. Khiris scrambled up beside him, her dark hair clinging to her face with the rain.

Harrying screeches from below forced them exhaustedly back to their feet. The orcs had climbed more than halfway towards their hiding place. Their haste had garnered them a few precious moments only. It would not be enough, Haldir knew.

A bolt of lightning revealed the interior of the niche mouth and vanished. Fearlessly, Khiris plunged into the darkness. With a shake of his head at the recklessness of humans, Haldir squeezed in after her, his hand gripping the soaked hilt of his worn saber as they passed into a kind of open cave, damp-smelling and silent. But they dared not go far from the lighter cave entrance for fear of what lurked in the deep shadows beneath the earth.

Haldir leant his back against the cliff wall, letting his head loll back against the rock. His shoulder throbbed mercilessly now and not a bone or muscle in his body did not hurt. He tried to force the pain to the back of his mind as more severe practicalities took over. The orcs had seen them- of that he was sure. But in no way was he in a shape to fight. If Illùvatar blessed them, they might yet escape this with their lives.

The narrow walls of the cavern they had eased through provided a very defensible place to his soldier’s calculating eyes. If the orcs managed to climb so far in the wrathful storm, they would be forced to enter it single file, easily leaving themselves open to attack.

If they had to fight, this is where they would make their stand.

Opening his eyes, Haldir looked up at the sliver of night sky just barely glimpsed through the crack overhead, worn even darker by the foreboding purple-black clouds roiling overhead. A dry splitting crack broke the air right above their heads, causing both of them to jump instinctively. A flash of white purple lightning seared the sky, so close, Haldir could see the fork as it struck the earth. The rain fell harder now, spattering over the stones and leaping down the ledge from where they lay hid in the shadows.

“Here, perhaps, we may rest for a little,” Haldir breathed, his shoulders slumping with weariness as consciousness faltered against his will. The woman looked back at him, whey-faced as she slowly sat down beside him.

In the silence broken only by the soft pounding of the rain and the angry growls of thunder, they waited for the worst to come.

Author’s Note: Start counting now. Second chapter, Haldir has an arrow wound, a twisted leg and a reopened injury in his side. -grin- I love my elf, can you tell?


Chapter 3 - Chapter Three

Chapter Three: An Ill-Fated Rescue

Thunder growled discontentedly in the middle distance as Fedorian scowled at the black sky, his golden hair whirling about his face in the high wind. Brushing it out of his eyes, he leapt down the uneven blood-speckled rocks. He had pulled his men back a safe distance until he was certain the orcs were gone into the darkness and even the sounds of their dreadful cries had receded into the promise of a starless night.

With an unheard sigh of weariness, the elven commander wiped his black-handled knife clean on the hem of his cloak and sheathed it. He grimaced in disgust as he bent down and tossed aside the grinning cadaver of the felled orc at his feet. With another deep now pain-filled sigh, he carefully pressed closed the eyes of a young archer which stared through sightless eyes at the darkening heavens.

As he straightened his aching back, Fedorian turned his own gaze to the thunderous clouds roiling and boiling overhead, massive columns twisting thousands of feet into the air. He could smell the storm coming as surely as the blood upon the air and it did little to encourage him. They could not hope to make it home tonight in this weather- not with the wounded they had to carry. Scanning the trees and rocks for what remained of his command, he caught sight of Déorian walking slowly towards him. A frown furrowed his brow as he stepped forward to meet the tracker.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Where is Haldir?” He looked over Déorian’s shoulder, expecting to see his lieutenant. A sharp claw of fear seized his chest when he did not.

“He… he fell, sir,” Déorian said hoarsely, his eyes glittering strangely.

An instant’s shock registered on his commander’s implacable features before it quickly disappeared under the emotionless façade of a well-trained officer.

His remaining soldiers stood quiet and grim around him, white-faced and bloodied from the close fighting. Groans of the wounded and the mournful silence of the dead surrounded them. He had to break the stillness.

‘The orcs are still about. We must regroup,” Fedorian said, mastering himself again as he strode across the bloodied rocks. In silence, he looked down at his battle-weary command. A few half-heartedly met his eyes. Others had cast themselves upon the ground in weariness or covered their faces with sorrow, grieving for their slain companions at their sides. No few had been lost and their captain felt those losses heavily as his own failure.

Burying those harsh feelings, he looked up as Rúmil and Orophin all but bolted towards him, their faces stricken as sweat streamed down their temples. The younger of the brothers, Rúmil, ran up and laid a hand on his elder’s shoulder, panting for breath.

“Haldir… We found… We have to go look for him!” he gasped, scarcely able to string his words together, his fair features pallid with panic. Fedorian gently but firmly disentangled himself from the elf’s impulsive grasp and seized him by the shoulders.

“We must tend to our wounded first. The orcs have fled now but they will return- and in greater numbers,” he stated, his tone stern but his eyes belaying it.

Rúmil stared at him as though he had never heard of such a ridiculous order. ”Never leave a man behind. Sir, you taught us that!”

“I did. And I also cautioned you to use your heads and not your hearts in battle,” Fedorian rejoined tersely. “You are reckless and not thinking clearly!”

“We are thinking clearly!” Rúmil retorted defensively.

“He is our brother! We will not leave him behind!” Orophin said at the same time, coming up behind his younger brother. Fedorian shook his head adamantly.

“I must dissuade you from this path.” He eyed the two soldiers steadily. “Your father was brave- like his sons. But he was also reckless and that is what got him killed.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Orophin replied coolly. “Please, leave our father out of this.”

Fedorian held up his hands to pacify the younger elf. “All I ask of you is to wait. Wait until daylight- for reinforcements.” His deep eyes were concerned. He had taken the brothers into his command at a young age, after the death of their father at the hands of orcs and their mother at the hand of grief. He had trained them and taught them most if not all that he knew. They had risen quickly among the ranks. But, they were impulsive and brash when it came to the safety of their little tight-knit family.

“Daylight?” Rúmil looked nothing short of outraged. “Our brother could be dead by then!”

Fedorian straightened to his not inconsiderable height, knowing full well the reaction his next words would bring. “A worthy sacrifice if those we know are alive are given the chance to live.”

He received the full brunt of two dagger-edged glares.

“I will not let Haldir die!” Orophin interjected passionately, perspiration making his hair cling to his cheeks. Fedorian’s face grew stern and cold, his verdant eyes flashing as lightning seared overhead followed by a warning rumble.

“You would disobey a direct order?”

The older brother lifted his chin proudly and Rúmil beside him glared steadily into his commander’s face.

“If it meant my brother’s life… Yes, sir, I would.”

Their commander sighed deeply in frustration.. Then with what looked like a supreme effort forced himself to speak calmly and rationally. “There are wounded here who need help now. We do not even know if Haldir yet lives- after a fall like that…” He trailed off with a shake of his head, forcing back the emotion from his voice.

He looked up as Rameil and Ancadal appeared beside him.

“I cannot believe he is dead until I see his body,” the dark-haired elf said determinedly, addressing Fedorian. “If you cannot spare the men then I shall go myself and take Ancadal with me.” The younger elf in question stood stone-faced as he nodded his agreement. He turned to Rúmil and Orophin.

“We will go with you.”

Fedorian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Refusing a direct command could easily garner every one of them a court martial at the very least if not expulsion from the guard itself. And yet, they were wiling to risk all of that for the sake of their friend and brother.

Raking a hand agitatedly through his hair and brushing it across his face, Fedorian abruptly turned to his second in command, Arenath who stood by. “Get those wounded and dead onto our remaining horses and get them back to the borders for care. Déorian- you too.”

“I will not.” the smart-mouthed elf shot back. “Haldir is my friend too. I will help you find him.”

Fedorian threw his hands up in despair. “Will no one heed my counsel anymore?” he growled. Déorian merely crossed his arms stubbornly.

“Arenath, get the wounded back home as quick as you can!” Fedorian snapped, his patience stretched to the very brink with the insubordination of his troops.

“Sir.” Arenath saluted sharply and scurried away from his irate captain.

“Commander?” Rameil inquired hesitantly as Fedorian turned back to them, a steely glint in his eye.

“If you are resolved to this path, I am going with you.”

“You’re coming with us?” Rúmil repeated incredulously.

“Well, you’re not going to look after yourselves,” Fedorian said somewhat tartly as he tightened the strap that held his knives securely to his back. He would be needed here he knew but Arenath was a capable enough officer to handle the dead and wounded and to see them safely back to the borders. Besides, if he didn’t look after these young elves, they would get themselves killed.

“I’ve sent enough men to their deaths for one day,” he said grimly. Rúmil looked at him, his forehead creased with sadness and worry as he hustled along in his elder’s wake.

As the small group made their way towards the steep drop below, the rain began to fall.

~*~

The fury of the summer storm steadily grew. The aspens down in the shadowy cleft whipped back and forth in paroxysms of agony as the wind ripped and tore at their branches. Fifteen feet above the tree line upon a stone ledge lashed by the rain stood a lone figure, dark hair plastered flat against her head. After a moment, Khiris pulled her head back into the stone aperture.

“They’re getting closer. Rain’s not slowin’ them down,” she said, selecting a good sized chuck of rock and tossing it into the haphazard pile she had already gathered near the edge of the prominence.

Haldir took this without comment. Long minutes of silence had already passed and a cool, relieving numbness had swept through his body, chilled by the rain. His shoulder was numb; he could no longer feel the pain but he could also not move it either. In fact, he would much rather have not moved his entire body but he knew that was not an option.

They needed a plan.

“How far away are they?”

“We have only minutes.”

Haldir found the strength to slowly get to his feet, his injuries stiff. “We have to slow them down.”

She nodded determinedly and hefted a large, palm-sized rock in one hand. With deadly accuracy, she hurled it out into the storm. The stone struck one of the orcs who had nearly reached their hiding place squarely in the forehead, throwing it from the cliff ledge with an angry, pain-filled shriek. Startled, the others looked up, taken aback by the sudden resistance from their quarry. More stones rattled down in quick succession, not all of them hitting their mark but some finding their aim, cracking solidly against the elbows and knees of their predators.

One after another the rocks clattered down the cliff, knocking others loose as they thundered down the hillside. The stones bounced and crashed down the mountainside, gathering speed and momentum: a mini-avalanche unleashed upon the savage creatures below. Hurled from their perches, two of the orcs plunged over backwards, buried beneath a hail of jagged rocks as they smashed into the stricken aspens far below.

They did not stir again.

But several of the orcs had gained handholds upon the cliff ledge and Haldir forced himself to meet them, his saber striking among them like a viper, cleaving hands from wrists and heads from shoulders as he battled away at them before they had a chance to swarm the ledge.

Behind him, Khiris still flung her stony missiles, a wild fierce joy in her battle-dark eyes.

Unable to defend themselves from the missiles overhead, the orcs fell back a few paces, covering their faces from the stinging projectiles, yammering in helpless rage at their violent prey.

“Come on! We’ve got to get out of here before they regroup!” Khiris shouted urgently above a deafening crack of thunder.

Had he been alone or perhaps not so grievously injured, Haldir would never have retreated. But his shoulder spiked with renewed pain from the yet un-removed arrow and he decided now came the time for a wise withdrawal. They could not hope to win this battle with her swiftly dwindling supply of loose stones and only the full use of his one arm. The orcs would soon overwhelm them.

They could not go deeper into the cave for a hastened exploration had revealed far-too-narrow an aperture for them to squeeze through. Stepping back from the ledge, they determinedly clambered out into the storm, trusting the rain and darkness to hinder their enemies. Quickly the unlikely pair searched for a way to escape. They were no more than twelve feet or so from the top of the ridge but it was a difficult climb over the rain-soaked rocks in the pitch-blackness.

Pulling himself relentlessly up onto the next ridge, it seemed to Haldir as though they were climbing a giant stone staircase. He felt no pain from his shoulder anymore, the agony forced from his body by the flood of fear and adrenaline pumping through his system as he scrambled up the wet stones. Suddenly his foot slipped and he lost his hold; his injured side jarred sharply against the cliff side. A bolt of pain sharp and sudden flashed through his awareness, nearly dropping him from his perch. But a strong brown hand seized his wrist and tugged upwards, hauling him slowly up onto the lip of the cleft.

“All right there?” Khiris inquired lightly through the sweat and filth on her face as she clapped him on the shoulder. He nodded with a wince, a hand pressed tightly to his side. He hoped the stitches weren’t broken but he couldn’t tell. Too many things hurt to tell which one needed attention more but he forced himself to his feet nonetheless as they took off across the blue-misted meadowlands.

Khiris stumbled in exhaustion but regained her footing quickly, swiping water from her eyes. Rain sleeted down upon them, no longer protected by stone or tree, tearing at their faces and ragged tunics as they ran. The raging tempest lashed their weary sodden bodies mercilessly as they fled the bloodied ground, leaving behind the scent of death and cleansing rain.

~*~

A long, difficult hour later found the Lórien platoon at the bottom of the midnight black ravine in the rain, their golden hair plastered dark to their necks and cheeks. Rúmil looked around in amazement at the carven canyon walls that reared high above his head, blocking out almost all sight of the sky. His heart shuddered at the thought of his brother falling from this height and hoped they would find him soon. And that he would be all right.

A wide copse of trees stretched out in either direction. On their left, it ended abruptly with the sheer cliff face they had just climbed down while the poplars stretched away to the river edge a few yards off. Of any living thing, no sign could be seen.

“Where do we look?” Rúmil asked, his damp hair sweeping across his face in the howling wind.

Orophin’s sharp eyes had already spotted something. “There!” he pointed off through the trees. Following his indication, the others caught sight of the splintered remnants of twigs and shattered branches of a nearby tree where the limbs had broken off as though something had fallen through them. Together the small company picked their cautious way forward, searching the ground for any sign of their friend.

Rameil leapt up amidst the branches of the broken tree to gain a better perspective of the surrounding land. Squinting against the rain dripping into his eyes, he searched the banks of the river on the hither shore. Nothing. The forest of trees stretched onward as far as elven eyes could see and not a living thing stirred among them save the stream swiftly swelling to a river chattering along its stony bed. The dark-haired elf turned about, searching the cliff face absently for any of the signs that his long-honed tracking skills had taught him to search for.

The twigs had snapped haphazardly, splinters of wood hanging crazily at odd angles. Rameil moved gingerly among them, careful to evade the grasping limbs that snagged in his hair and tunic. Disentangling his cloak which had caught on a jagged branch, his keen eyes caught sight of something and he stretched a hand forward to pluck the small scrap of grey cloth cradled in a nest of small shattered branches. He examined it carefully before he dropped back to the ground in time to hear Orophin’s disheartened words.

“-rain has washed all traces away.”

“Not all,” the dark-haired elf countered softly as he held up the grey strip. Rúmil all but snatched it from his hands, his face flooding with mingled horror and relief as he cast his eyes upon the dark ground.

“If his body is not here then he must be alive,” Orophin said, trying to inject some hope into his voice. “He must be nearby, gon,” he addressed Fedorian. He turned to his commander when he did not answer. “Sir?”

Fedorian stood rigid, his keen eyes narrowed against the rain and shrill wind battering the canyon walls. Rameil noticed his look and came to his side.

“What is it?”

The commander did not answer but with a question of his own. “How long has it been raining?”

The dark-haired elf glanced disdainfully at the sky and shrugged.

“Well, that’s too long .Come on. We must get to higher ground!” Fedorian ordered, his green eyes falling to the rushing stream hurtling past at great speed. He did not allow the alarm to show on his face as he began to stride purposefully upslope.

“But-” Rúmil began to protest silenced by a look from his captain.

“If Haldir is still alive in this mess then we can only hope he had the sense to move as well.”

He had spoken none too soon. The Elves realized rapidly rising water now swirled perilously close to their location. Already it was inching up the trunks of the trees at the bottom of the valley and rising still further as the rain beat the already racing torrent into frothing foam. As one, the elves leapt briskly into the tree, moving with the swift and fluid assurance of those who have spent their entire lives in them.

Lifting his gaze above the water-logged branches Rúmil’s eyes widened in horror, a strange rushing in his ears.

A massive wall of water thundered towards them with unstoppable fury, pouring down the sides of the gorge in foaming rivers which the driving rains had created. With a suddenness that stole their breath away, the new river tore through age-old trees as though they were matchsticks, ripping chunks of rock right off the canyon walls. Below their fragile shelter, hefty branches snapped like twigs as the brown surge rolled relentlessly under them, the churning water mounting ever higher so that it brushed the undersides of the tree limbs which groaned desperately under the onslaught of the hurrying water.

Fedorian shouted something above the din but his words were lost in the bellowing of the water. Gesturing, he indicated a point through the copse, a shallow, cloven shelf safer than the unstable trees. They made towards it, groping the slippery bark frantically as they tore through the branches that slapped at their arms and faces. Their hair clung to their necks and shoulders in stringy tendrils as they climbed still higher, the muddy deluge raging beneath them.

Panting, they scrambled onto the relative safety of the ledge and huddled against the lee that provided little protection from the violence of the storm. Rúmil shrank back against his brother, unnerved by the sight of the crushing brown oblivion that threatened to sweep them from their perch.

Rúmil lay upon the slippery rocks, gasping for breath, as rivulets of water coursed along the rocks from the overhang directly above where they stood. Stretching out perilously over the tumult he paused at the edge of the brink to peer down into the roiling chaos with a mesmerized fascination.

A rushing noise thundered in his ears and he twisted around to look up. A sharp stream of water, fed by the flooded mountain streams at the top of the cleft, hit him full in the chest and swept him right off the ledge. His stomach jolted with panic before he hit the water. The raging current pulled him under instantly before he had a chance to take a breath.

Dark water filled his vision. The world tumbled formless and furious around him. He could see nothing, hear nothing save the water roaring in his flooded ears. Immediately, his lungs began to burn for lack of oxygen as he twisted about frantically uncertain which way was up. The sheer power of the water terrified him and a sharp edge of pure fear drove the last of the air from his lungs. He sucked in water and the grey-blue world flickered blurrily around him.

Suddenly, an eddy caught him up and his head broke the surface. He breathed in a short sharp gasp of air before the current tugged him under once more. His elbow knocked sharply against something he could not see, causing a spike of pain to race up to his shoulder. Then a sharp agony stabbed through his back as it collided with something solid halting his headlong rush as though he had slammed into a concrete wall. Grasping desperately at whatever it was, he clung to it for dear life.

Wooden splinters dug into his fingers but he didn’t care. Survival instincts took over as he fought to keep his head somehow above the vengeful water. It was the only thing he could think of as wave after wave breached over his head, threatening to push him under again. He winced as a branch torn loose by the torrent struck him across the face, half-stunning him. Black spots exploded in front of his eyes and he lost his precious hold on the tree, slipping ever further downstream.

In that instant before the current dragged him away, a strong hand encircled the younger elf’s arm in a pincer-grip. Pain shot through his wrist as it was yanked taut, hoisting him partially up out of the water to save him from being swept to his death. Sputtering and coughing he blinked rapidly to clear the spots from his vision as he looked up at his rescuer. Rúmil could have cried in relief.

Orophin smiled in mirrored relief as he struggled to pull his younger brother up onto the tree he had leapt into. His heart pounded in his chest at this near miss. He could not lose another brother. He would not. But a warning groan from the thin tree limb made him shift nervously and his hold on his brother’s slick wrist slipped.

Fedorian was beside them in an instant, helping Orophin tug the half-drowned elf onto the branch. Together they supported the young soldier between them as they leapt from the rickety limb onto a spare stone foothold into the arms of their companions who reached out to assist them. Behind them, the frail old tree finally bent to the will of the terrible flood, cracking at its roots as the river thrust it ruthlessly downstream.

“What did I tell you about being reckless?” Fedorian shouted at Orophin as he hauled the younger elf up. But a thankful smile broke the sternness on his face. On his hands and knees on the stone, Rúmil swept his bedraggled hair from his face, still coughing out some of the river water from his lungs.

“Are you all right?” Orophin asked, ignoring his commander, his face still white at the near-loss of his other brother. Rúmil batted his elder brother away good-naturedly though his own mien was wan.

“I’ll… be fine…” he rasped harshly between racking coughs that shook his slender frame.

Rameil, Déorian and Ancadal looked white-faced and scared as the other three rejoined them.

“Wither do we go now?” Déorian asked, his usual merriment evaporated.

“Up,” Fedorian answered shortly. “Quick as you can.” He laid a hand on Rúmil’s back, his stern expression belying his concern. But the younger elf gave him a spare smile and followed after his brother and friends as they clambered up the rocks above the horrible flood still pounding beneath them.

Dashing the rain from his vision, Rúmil squinted upwards. Fear spiked through him as he narrowed his eyes at the slope above his head. A dark shape lay slumped across the rocks, indistinct through the rain-curtain.

“What’s that?” he asked, trying to keep the tremble from his voice.

Orophin followed his brother’s line of sight, his heart beating faster as he saw what Rúmil was indicating. “It can’t be-” he gasped.

Horrible, gut-wrenching fear sliced through him. Ignoring the ache in his shoulders and legs, he sprang up the rocks with all the elven agility he possessed with Rúmil scrambling as fast as he was able behind him. The older brother reached it first and crouched beside the still form, rolling it onto its side. He recoiled immediately as the wide-eyed gaze of an orc leered up at him through the fog of death.

Black blood spattered by the rain poured from a head wound in the orc’s bashed skull, pooling underneath the smelly sodden body. It looked as though its skull had been split with a rock. He sighed in deep relief and disappointment.

“It’s not him,” he breathed in relief. Rameil, beside him, did not comment. He did not have to ask who ‘he’ was.

“Of course not,” Déorian scorned, his former humor firmly back in place. “Even Haldir’s prettier than that.”

“Orcs kill each other easily enough,” the dark-haired elf replied, an unasked question in his voice. He brushed his lank hair back from his face while the two others caught up with them.

Leaving the body, they continued their determined climb upwards, searching for any other signs. When the ground finally leveled out a little, enough for them to halt, they stopped, pushed even to the limits of their extreme endurance by the hard climb in the storm that still raged around them.

“There is blood here,” Rameil reported wonderingly as he stooped beside the rocks. A dark streak smeared the cave wall as though someone had leaned against it in painful throes. Rúmil felt a sharp pang slice through him like a rogue bolt as he recognized elven blood.

“It is not more than an hour or two old,” Fedorian added, peering over the other’s shoulder.

“Then he is alive,” Orophin said with certainty. He looked up at his commander, daring Fedorian to deny him.

The older elf merely offered a drawn smile but little more for he felt ill at ease still. The blood could be no other’s for no elves dwelt this far from the wood so it was possible Haldir had passed this way to escape the flood or as seemed more likely now enemies. He had been alive then or so it seemed. But what now…?

There was still no sign of any living creature aside from themselves in this barren ghyll. Nothing but the wind and the rock and the pouring heavens. Even the orcs that they had chased down here earlier had been swept away by the angry river. Ignoring the questioning look in his soldiers’ eyes, he spoke.

“Come on,” he encouraged them. “A little further.”

They obeyed mechanically, all on their last legs. They were bone-weary, soaked
to the skin and worn by toil and worry, a bad combination. A few more minutes of hard scrambling led them to a small cave, one of many that had been bored into the canyon by years of water pressure and orc traffic. It was an uncomfortable, hard place, stinking of stagnant water and damp stone. But any protection was acceptable to the stricken elves at this moment. They escaped into the niche, damp and hungry without the benefit of fire or comfort from their anxiety.

Their officer turned towards his dispirited command, taking in their battered haggard appearances. His keen gaze alighted on the youngest of his group.

“Sit down. Let me take a look at that head of yours.”

Rúmil shrugged indifferently as he swiped blood from his forehead, wincing at the sharp pain as his fingertips encountered a painful swelling above his brow. “It’s nothing, sir. Really, I’m fine.”

Fedorian bent his piercing green eyes sternly upon the younger elf.

“Sit.”

Rúmil sat.

Kneeling beside him, Fedorian looked over his shoulder at the rest of his disheartened group and tried to smile consolingly. “Try to get some sleep all of you. You’ll need it.”

They didn’t need telling twice. Rameil, Ancadal, Déorian and Orophin pulled off their soaked cloaks and outer tunics and wrung as much water out of them as possible before laying themselves down in as comfortable a space as they could well find on the uneven floor. Despite their cares and discomfort, sleep swiftly claimed them in its gentle embrace.

Fedorian turned back to Rúmil and swiftly shrugged off his own cloak. He drew his knife and sliced a strip or two from it without speaking, his focus concentrated on his task.

Rúmil plucked absently at the water-drenched tunic that clung to his skin, cold and clammy. His head ached horribly and blood dripped into his eyes from his impromptu collision with that tree branch. His stomach roiled from the pain so he closed his eyes and leant his head back against the damp stone wall at his back. Fedorian looked at him sharply.

“Do you feel dizzy?”

Rúmil shook his head but Fedorian tested him nevertheless, holding his index finger up and making the elf follow it with his eyes. Satisfied that at least he did not have a concussion, Fedorian folded a strip of soaked fabric.

“Well at least one good thing came of it raining,” Rúmil offered with a small smile, abruptly grimacing as his commander pressed the makeshift bandage to the open cut.

“You’re lucky this is so shallow. Many a soldier has gotten worse for swimming in that particular river,” Fedorian said with a wry smile as he sponged the blood from his subordinate’s brow. He lifted Rúmil’s hand and pressed it over the rag.

“Keep that pressure there until the bleeding stops.” So saying the elven commander quickly checked the rest of him over. Rúmil had a nasty bruise on his left forearm near his elbow where something had struck him and the younger elf hissed in pain when the older elf ran his fingers gently over it.

“Do you hurt elsewhere?”

“Aside from everywhere?” Rúmil smiled mirthlessly. His back throbbed and every muscle in his body felt battered and bruised from his impromptu swim.

Fedorian smiled gently.

“Well, you were fortunate it wasn’t worse.” He glanced over at the rest of his command who already rested deep in elven dreams. “I don’t think Orophin would have ever forgiven me if I had let him lose another brother.”

He rose abruptly and took a guarded stance before the entrance of their shelter with a deep sigh, raking an agitated hand through his hair. The elven commander did not look at his youngest soldier as Rúmil seated himself beside his commander’s legs, still clutching the bandage to his head.

“Sir…” the younger elf began uncertainly, craning his neck a little to look up at the tall figure silhouetted by flashes of lightning. “… today… it wasn’t your fault.”

Fedorian said nothing as he finished wiping the blood from his fingers.

“I should never have let him go,” he muttered to himself, eyes lowered. Rúmil looked over at him, his brow furrowed in sympathetic concern though even that movement caused a momentary sting to slice through the fog of pain in his head.

“It was not your fault,” he repeated obstinately. “My brother…” he laughed a little though that made his head hurt more. “Never knew what was good for him. Always stubborn.”

At last, a small smile edged across Fedorian’s hard features.

“Remind me to yell at him when we find him.” He clapped the younger elf gingerly on the shoulder with as cheery a grin as he could muster. “Go on! Get some rest. I don’t need you falling asleep on me. Tomorrow we’ll be hard put.”

Rúmil stifled another yawn and stretched himself out where he had been sitting.

“Good night, commander,” he mumbled, rolling himself in his damp cloak on the hard cavern floor.

Fedorian did not answer, his verdant green eyes fixed on the rumbling storm outside. Silently he prayed that his friend was all right.

It was a long time before exhaustion finally claimed him.

Author’s Note: As always, I adore reviews and professional opinion and I hope all of you are pleased with this chapter. I’m having fun exploring Rúmil and Orophin’s characters which I have never done before along with expanding the personalities of both new and old supporting characters. Let me know what you think and of course any discrepancies, typos and assorted mayhem are the entire fault of the author.


Chapter 4 - Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Chance Meetings

Grey clouds still hung in tatters in the rain-washed sky. Shreds of pearl and silver intermingled and drifted lazily, revealing a burnt horizon edge. It looked as though the edge of the earth had been lit aflame; watery clouds parted to reveal the sliver of sun slowly soaring into the majestically welcoming sky. The elves looked to it with hope, their spirits lifted somewhat after the discomfort of the night.

The night had been miserable and long but the memory faded as they watched the strengthening sun paint the dew-beaded meadow blades. The Lórien patrol had been searching in vain for more than an hour before they pulled themselves from the dark grasp of the ghyll, rain-sodden and weary after an uneasy, restless night. But at last their patience was rewarded.

The rock had refused to yield up any of its secrets even to elven eyes and save for the orc corpse near the bottom of the cleft and the blood on the rocks, they had found no other trace of a living being. Not even the sharp cloven marks of a mountain goat’s passing could be discerned among the limestone slabs.

Golden dew sparkled in the rising light, renewing their hope as they basked in the cool breeze. The fetid lairs of the orcs lay seven miles away to their left and miles beyond that lay Lothlórien, a mere golden blur on the edge of the horizon in the blue morning light. On their right in the far distance marched the last crags of the Misty Mountains and beyond that as far as elven eyes could see in the hazy air lay endless flat uplands. The darkness of the ravine receded behind them as the elves gathered upon the grassy slope.

In the mud near the ridge they found the undeniable imprint of a footstep where the long damp grass had been pressed flat and stood out like ash in fresh snow among the crisp unbroken sea of green. However, the pouring rain of the night before had all but ruined the print. Even so, the elves’ keen eyes and well-honed woodland skill managed to make out a few things.

It was unlike anything they had ever seen before. The sole had been hob-nailed in a half-moon shape and the toe curiously pointed as though with a spike that had dug deeply into the muddy ground as whoever had worn it stumbled over a rock half-submerged in the mud. A stride away lay its counterpart, same shape and size heading west towards the mountains. At the very most they were half a day old.

“These were made by no elf,” Orophin remarked, crouched on his heels beside the impressions. “But neither are they of orc-kind,” he said with a puzzled frown as he pressed his fingers lightly over the hobnailed marks.

“We saw no humans last night,” Rameil said, looking over his shoulder as he followed the footsteps onward into the high grown grass. It had been long in the memory of men since they had left their wood but there were those elves among them who had not forgotten the long scouting trips across this land. Every misty hollow and flowing stream, every deer path and rabbit den, they knew.

“There are wandering bands of men in this wilderness,” Déorian put in, crouching also to closer inspect the ground. “But there is only one set here.”

“The captive of the orcs. She must have survived the fall,” Fedorian mused.

“So, what path do we take now?” Rúmil wondered aloud, wincing as he flexed his left arm. It still felt swollen and stiff from last night.

“There are other signs you have not yet read,” Fedorian, ever the teacher, remarked from where he stood a few steps ahead of them, shading his bright eyes with a slender hand. “The land speaks. It remembers. Lasto.”

All six of them paused, hearing the hissing of the nearly nonexistent breeze in the heather. Somewhere in the middle distance, they heard water chuckling over grey stones in the dim shadows unlit by the dawn. Déorian, stretching himself full upon the ground with an ear pressed into the grass, strained every sense. And they heard.

Rain. The swift rush of thousands of tiny water droplets striking the earth a staccato beat. The quiet song broken by the thump of heavy hobnailed boots and desperate scrambling, clattering of stones. Something approached. A dark shape, bloodied and bedraggled rose over the lip of the gorge like a wraith from a grave, nearly falling over a loose stone. Another followed, grey-cloaked, just as weary and bloody but more graceful somehow… The shadowy rain curtain closed around them once more, veiling them from sight as they vanished into the mist.

Rúmil’s eyes snapped open wide.

“Haldir passed this way,” he said with such conviction that the others looked at him curiously but did not question him, knowing well the younger elf’s uncanny intuition. They made their way forward in haste, their keen eyes rapidly picking up the burgeoning trail that led onward across the meadowlands.

~*~

Haldir lay on his back, too exhausted to move from where he had fallen. With the loss of adrenaline draining from his body, the pain of his shoulder and side and all of the aches in his body returned with a vengeance but he could do nothing for them. All of his gear had been lost when he fell. Nothing left remained to him save the clothes he wore and the sword strapped to his hip which was currently digging into his ribs. With a pained grunt, he unbuckled it and laid it beside him within easy reach should he need it.

Misty rain slid down his neck to disappear under his shirt collar and gathered on his face and hands as he stared up at the dark sky, raising himself up on one elbow to look at his companion. She too remained wakeful but silent among the desolate night grasses. Neither spoke. Eventually, lulled by the rain falling on their faces and sheer weariness, they slipped into sleep.

Awaking cold, damp and supremely uncomfortable, Haldir rose in an irritable mood, achy and chilled by the rain and dew that clung to his skin. The sun fell onto his upturned face and he blinked in the pale light from which the ragged shreds of clouds drifted as he stretched cramped muscles stiff with cold.

The arrow wound, the haft of which was still buried in his shoulder, burned as though a red-hot poker had been stabbed into his flesh and mercilessly twisted. It hurt abominably and he knew that if he did not get it removed, he might not be able to use his arm again. But the sight of the sun cheered him slightly, glad for the light.

Beside him, the woman opened wide, black eyes that glittered in the coppery sunlight. She had spoken no word since she had told him her name and a few short phrases. She seemed reticent to even look at him, her gaze distinctly untrusting. She knew him for a man, nothing more. And though he had saved her life, she neither acknowledged it nor expressed gratitude for it.

With a groan, she stretched her back and rubbed the hollow pit in her stomach reflectively. He smiled mirthlessly as his own stomach ached with hunger. But the damp, hissing grasses were empty and barren of game and they had no snares or anything to catch it with. With nothing else to do, they began to walk. Their march turned long and hot as the sun rose higher into the sky and the dampness evaporated into humidity. No longer cheered by the light, Haldir felt every mile passing in uncomfortable silence, every step as he never had before.

Every hour grew more desperate, more fearful as the day dragged on. Hunger and thirst plagued him though an elf could survive without food. Water, however, was quite another matter. The most they had been able to find was a brackish puddle in the grasses, foul-tasting and dubious as to its purity. But by that time, they scarcely cared. Now they trudged mindlessly along a light deer path nearly overgrown with weeds but still visible to elven eyes. Haldir hoped it would eventually lead to a small glade where he had often hunted.

The woman followed like a grey shadow at his heels, never speaking but keeping close behind. The hot noonday sun burned upon the backs of their heads, unrelieved by tree or cloud shadow. Flat uplands receded endlessly into the grey distance. Shading his eyes with a slender hand, the elf could see for miles in every direction. To the east a golden blur loomed at the very edge of his sight- the eaves of Lothlórien misty in the blue haze of afternoon.

To the west perilously close reared the Misty Mountain range, the rose-tinged peak of Celebdil, the nearest, rose high and foreboding above their heads, its eastern-facing precipice swathed still in deep shadow. Cloudy-headed Fanuidhol the Grey sliced through the sea of deep delving clouds as the storm moved westward. Cruel Caradhras, the Redhorn, blazed bright and glowing under the high afternoon sun, snow gleaming on its upturned face.

A little ways below them lay a copse of pine trees growing close together, cut through by a small, glistening stream burbling over the sun-warmed rocks that protruded from its center. Thirst pressing them onward, they approached soundlessly, the soft needle-strewn floor carpeting their footsteps. A warm breeze hissed through the branches overhead as the revealed willows trailed long leaves through the freshet.

Haldir knelt, examining the area carefully. He knew this land well. During his travels, he and his companions had long journeyed here to hunt for game especially pheasant which flew plentiful here. As he crept nearer to the stream bank, he espied deep cloven marks in the soft mud like two delicately shaped half-moons. Deer had passed this way coming to the water to drink.

A warning tingled along his skin like static electricity as he knelt near the stream. The elf ducked back into the brush, his senses immediately wary.

Something did not feel right. The glade was too quiet. This place was often a haven for birds and yet he could hear none. It made him nervous, wondering if orcs had managed to penetrate even this peaceful place.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a narrow leather strip wrapped about the sticklike branches of an old pine. Cunningly hidden near its base a rabbit snare lay strung the noose hidden beneath a carpet of dead needles and twigs. He carefully skirted the trap and crept into the underbrush near a series of waterfalls like a flowing staircase that fell from stone lip to stone lip ending in the silver stream they followed.

Khiris lingered behind him, her dark face dappled by the fluttering shadows the wind-tossed limbs threw across her face. Twigs snapped underfoot and he grimaced at the noise of her footsteps.

Stepping as silently as only an elf can, he climbed up into the grey shadows of a lone oak tree to give him a better sight of what lay about them. Across the water, his eyes narrowed, he could have sworn he saw the glint of sunlight gleaming on bared steel. But as though sensing his gaze, the light abruptly vanished. Leaping down, he landed silently beside the woman, tense and edgy.

“Something lies hidden amongst the brush on the other side,” he whispered. She craned her neck forward to try to see better but even Haldir’s keen eyes could not pierce the deep draping shadows. A loud crack startled him and he wheeled about sharply, hand already gripping the hilt of his sword. The haft of a brown-fletched arrow quivered in the trunk of a tree not two feet away from them.

Immediately, they both threw themselves flat to keep out of sight of further missiles. Haldir twisted about nearly on hands and knees, every sense flung as wide as possible to discern their attackers. Lifting his head a little, he peered across the creek towards where he thought the arrow had come from.

Nothing.

Not a tree limb twitched which only served to heighten the elf’s agitation. Something was hunting them and irritatingly good about remaining undetected too.

Skirting large patches of revealing sunlight, the dark woman and the elf nearly bent double crept away from the stream. The pine needles muffled the sounds of their retreat but the high uplifted branches offered no shelter and the needle carpeted floor no undergrowth to conceal themselves in. They were left horribly exposed.

Several yards under the dark interlacing branches of the pine trees that somehow blocked all sight of the sun, they stopped to listen. He could feel something drawing nearer and his grip on his saber tightened until his knuckles were white. The Haradrim woman beside him had dropped low into a defensive crouch, something clutched tightly in the folds of her tunic. Her wild eyes darted about like a hunted animal seeking a gap in the ring of its enemies.

A snap of a twig.

The brush of wind flapping against cloth.

Alarm shot through him like an electric jolt. Haldir drew his saber as he caught sight of a momentary flash of silver in the sparse sunlight.

In a shorter time than it took to blink, he found himself surrounded, brown-fletched arrows trained directly at his heart.

~*~

The grass bent before them, leading the Lórien elves to a much overgrown path choked with weeds and moss-covered stones. Tracking it with their eyes, the elves followed the shallow groove to the beginnings of a narrow dirt path. They trailed it single file, every nerve tensed, eyes straining to pierce the sticky haze of the late morning.

As the sun rose higher, their damp clothes dried and the dew evaporated, adding to the heat of the already muggy afternoon. Soon, they had divested themselves of their cloaks. Still nothing broke the somnolence of the day save the twitterings of a few nesting birds cleverly concealed among the long grasses. They stopped for neither food nor rest all day until they came to a stream. The brook braided its way among maple trees and the roots of close-growing willows.

Déorian sighed in relief as he upended half of his flask over his head, shaking his head vigorously. Droplets of water flew every which way, dotting his captain’s tunic with silver beads. Fedorian brushed them off with a slightly remonstrating smile to which his subordinate flushed.

“You’ll be needing that water by the time this day is done,” he advised taking a parsimonious sip from his own flask.

They had stopped to rest a moment beside a blue freshet-one of many- that meandered across their path winding down towards the Silverlode. Rameil and Déorian had gone off to see about lunch and Ancadal was busily mending a broken strap on his pack. Orophin stood a little ways away, lost in faraway thoughts, his grey cloak twisting about his statuesque form.

Sitting beside the brook, Rúmil laved his face and neck in the cool water, removing the bandage from his head to bathe the cut and swollen lump on his brow. His forehead still ached but the deep rest last night had done him good.

“That’s quite a lump, my friend,” Ancadal said with a small smile as he hefted his pack experimentally by the newly repaired strap. “One would think you had fought with trolls instead of water.”

“I don’t think trolls hit as hard as that water,” Rúmil joked dryly.

“Do not jest so. You were nearly killed,” Orophin said, snapping out of his reflection. He looked down at his brother with protective concern which Rúmil grinned away as he tapped his forehead, flinching only a little.

“I’m all right,” he said in answer to his brother’s unasked question. “You fuss worse than our dear older brother.” Orophin merely nodded and sat beside him, his eyes still searching Rúmil’s face.

The younger brother turned aside with a sigh, inwardly irritated with his brother’s overprotective nature. As the youngest of the family, Rúmil had been constantly watched over while he had been growing up. He remembered his parents only in little flashes of memory, scents, words, touches. His father had been long away in a war that many felt was not their own and his mother pined.

Even Lothlórien had not remained untouched by the growing evil in Mordor. As a child, he remembered waking at daybreak to the sounds of his father leaving. He would scramble out of bed in the cold, damp dawn and perch in the trees he so loved to watch the brightly arrayed soldiers in gleaming golden armor pass under him setting out upon the long road with their noble King Amdir, crowned in a silver leafed coronet and glorious as he led the brave column of over ten scores of their greatest archers and swordsmen into battle.

Many never returned.

Rúmil pushed that memory away with a small sigh. Why had he been suddenly reminded of that? Perhaps it was the thought of loss. Their father had not returned from that battle and their brother only nearly so having been of age to go and fight. Now so recently to have him returned to them only to lose him again.

“Do you believe he is still alive, sir?” Orophin seemed to echo the dismal turn of his brother’s thoughts.

Their commander looked up. He had been holding himself apart from the others a little, staring at the glistening water as it laughed over green-hued stones. At Orophin’s troubled words he stepped forward a few paces. Fedorian exhaled deeply, wishing not to give his friend false hope that would lead to a bitter end.

“I do not know,” he said at last. “I pray that he is. He survived the fall; after that he should be able to survive anything…”

Rúmil smiled a little.

“I know that he is,” he said confidently. “I feel it in my heart.”

“But why would he not meet us if he lived?” Orophin wondered aloud, worry for his older brother clouding his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Fedorian answered evenly though he could think of several reasons, none of which he wished to say aloud. None of them dared voice the fact that maybe Haldir could not have waited. The slain orc on the rocks proved that they were in need of haste. The blood too that they had found on the rocks troubled them greatly. It was too much to hope that Haldir had not been injured from the fall but they were slightly cheered by the fact that he had been able to move at all- or had been moved at least.

The trail they had been following since dawn had been heading in a singular direction. Fedorian knew of a glade several leagues from here that wanderers might seek for refuge and guessed that Haldir might head there if he was able.

“If we keep our pace, we might catch them up by sundown,” Fedorian theorized, his troubled eyes raised to the noonday sun.

“Let’s go.”

~*~

The arrow tip hovered an inch from his chest. Haldir stood carefully still, his hand relaxing on his saber as he narrowed his eyes at the weapon trained on him.

They were utterly surrounded.

By men though they had approached with the silence of elves. Tall, cloaked and hooded in dark green though the day was stiflingly warm. They looked like men who were accustomed to the wild and had been traveling many months for their boots were mud-caked as well as their cloaks and packs slung at odd angles over their shoulders. Eyes as bright and keen as lances pierced the elf who keenly felt his vulnerability.

One glance at the men was all it took. The woman suddenly bolted but fell with a cry before she had gone four paces. A bolas skillfully cast by a man in the trees had tangled in her legs, bringing her to the earth with a hard thud. Her dagger flashed, slicing through the bolas’ cords and she scrambled back up, hobbling on one leg but they were already upon her, pinning her to the earth with the tips of their swords against her neck and back. Swiftly one of them bound her hands and ankles and dragged her upright by her hair, throwing her into the dirt beside Haldir who still reminded carefully guarded.

“At last! You’ve given us enough trouble already, witch,” a low voice growled. A burly, muscled man goaded, kicking out at the woman. “Led us a merry chase you did. This time you’re not-”

“That’s enough, Ramir.”

A man, taller than the rest, stepped forward, his deep brown eyes glinting underneath a dark green hood like the others. But unlike the others the banded longsword at his side and the richness of his tunic set him apart. He laid a hand easily on the hilt of his sword but did not draw it as he appraised his prisoners. His eyes alighted on Haldir and he froze, his mouth falling slightly open in shock.

Despite his bloodied and haggard appearance, the elf could be mistaken for nothing less than he was.

The man had heard many tales in his youth of the elves for Gondor’s history was rife with them. From the downfall of Númenor in which Elendil the Tall and his sons had escaped the terrible flood to come to Middle-Earth and built the northern and southern kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor to the long ago battle on the Plains of Dagorlad: the deeds of the Elves interwove with those of Men.

But to see one here and now no less was something of a surprise to the soldier. Never in his life had he encountered an elf before and a salient mixture of curiosity and wariness warred for position on his face as he looked down at that golden head. Seeking a return to a semblance of reality, he turned his piercing gaze back upon the woman who still struggled fiercely against her bonds despite the fact that they cut into her wrists harshly enough to draw deep marks in her flesh.

“Now, Khiris. Struggling only makes it worse you know that- surely we cannot be as bad as the orcs can we?” he said gently, a dry eyebrow raised.

“I’d rather be orc carrion than in your hands, Anaric,” she snarled hoarsely, spitting at his boots. Her ragged voice was heavy with the inflection of Harad and her eyes glittered with hatred as she glared at her enemy.

Undulating leaf-shadows danced across his lean, weather-beaten face and for a moment he looked as though he might strike her. Then he laughed and stepped away from her.

“I see you have not lost your sense of humor. Very good. Tergon, Peranir, take her up will you.”

Two of the men obediently stepped forward and lifted the woman to her feet. Khiris spat a string of unintelligible curses in her own language that none of them heeded as the man now named Anaric turned his full attention back to the elf still held motionless with the weapons trained on him. Many of the men stared in open curiosity though they were careful to keep their bows steady.

“Is this the welcome you give travelers?” Haldir asked dryly, shattering the awe that held them spellbound.

“When they travel in such company, yes,” Anaric answered sternly, doing a better job at concealing his shock and amazement than his men.

Haldir could not know that Gondor was currently at war with the Haradrim. This contingent had been sent out several months ago in pursuit of a dangerous band of the dark people that had escaped the execution squads in the south. Every last one of them had to be hunted down- no mercy to be shown for the vile deeds they had enacted upon the people of Gondor.

“I have no quarrel with you,” the elf said calmly, struggling to keep his feet and not topple face first onto the arrow tips as a wave of dizziness passed through him. His wounds screamed relentlessly at him.

A quick cursory glance around him revealed that there were at least a score of them in all but more than enough for him to handle should they attack him. And all of them were staring at him with a mixture of wonder, fear and mistrust on their faces.

A dangerous combination.

These men did not trust him which Haldir could well understand for he wasn’t feeling very well-disposed towards them either.

Anaric gave him a considering look from underneath his hood. “I have never met your kind before.”

“Nor are you likely to,” Haldir answered, a trace of weariness in his voice.

“Bind the elf, Anaric. He was in her company that makes him an enemy,” Ramir spat impatiently, fingering his sword darkly. “What do we know of this elf? Why does he wander so far from his own lands? I say we take him to judge him with the woman,” the man said, shooting the elf a vicious glare.

Haldir immediately disliked the man.

“Peace, Ramir.” Anaric answered calmly though the furrow between his brows revealed his rapidly growing irritation. Although the man’s words brought up a good point.

“However, Master Elf, I would like to know how you came to be in such company and what you are doing so far from your lands?”

“The company I keep is my own,” the elf answered steadily. He did not feel like explaining himself to these inquisitive men particularly when purposefully throwing himself off a cliff to escape orcs had not been one of his better ideas. “And as for your other question, my lands are not far. This country is not as empty as you seem to think.”

“Indeed.”

The leader seemed to read more into his words than he had meant. But whatever thought had crossed his mind was gone before the elf could think of examining it further. Dark whispers edged around the circle immediately silenced by a look from their captain.

“And yet you have not answered my question. Why were you in her company?” he demanded, his voice thick with suspicion.

Haldir’s frown deepened. He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the proximity of the weapons and their badgering irritated him. He had done nothing to earn their suspicion save circumstance he had no control over. He was tired. Every muscle in his body ached and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. But that fickle mistress fortune would not allow him respite.

“Whatever you think of me, you have the wrong idea,” Haldir reiterated calmly. “Orcs attacked near my homeland. She was among them. We attempted to save her as any would have,” he shook his head as though this were obvious.

The one named Ramir barked a laugh.

“She didn’t need your help. Bet she headed that little raid on your forest,” he sneered.

Anaric ignored him, more alarmed by something else the elf had said.

“’We’? There are more of you?” Anaric interrupted sharply, his gaze darting around the clearing as though he expected more elves to appear out of the trees.

“I left them some time ago,” Haldir muttered absently, a wave of fear washing over him for the fate of his brothers. He had not seen if they had escaped the battle or not…

Anaric’s lips pressed together in a thin line as he nodded slowly as though he had finally understood something. He turned to one of the men at his side. “Bind him,” He ordered curtly.

Haldir looked up in astonishment. “I told you, you have the wrong idea,” he insisted as several of the swords edged aside as a man wrenched his hands behind his back, jarring the wound in his shoulder. Haldir swiftly choked back a cry of pain as a flash of yellow light burst before his eyes.

“I cannot in good conscience let you leave until I know the truth of the matter,” Anaric reasoned, pointedly oblivious to the suspect’s pain. “You will be detained until you see fit to tell us the truth.”

But Haldir barely heard this. His body had decided to quit on him at last. He would have fallen had the two men on either side of him had not been gripping his arms. Dimly he felt his knees hit the grass as the chilling darkness he had fought for so long finally overwhelmed his senses and he surrendered to the welcoming oblivion.


Chapter 5 - Chapter Five

Chapter Five: A Little Illumination

Music of the insects sang with a riotous clamor in the brush. The cicadas chattered inanely to the breeze wafting through the trees. The poplars hissed in the stiff wind that blew from the west. The brown grasses, dried and brittle in the drought season crackled under even the softest footsteps. The heavy rains had done little good but to pound them flat. The nights were growing cooler.

Fedorian shook his long hair back over his shoulders as he looked up through the shadowy needle-strewn branches that revealed very little sunlight to his elven eyes. Darkness ruled underneath these trees- even more so with dusk approaching. They had followed the track of the two wanderers all day, their hope growing as the marks grew fresher with each hour’s passing.

“There was a struggle here,” Orophin said quietly, bent over the ploughed up earth. “Someone fought- and lost. The woman- I would guess by the small boot marks.”

“Fought against whom?” Déorian wanted to know.

“There is blood here,” Rúmil interrupted urgently, hovering over a spot near the edge of the clearing. The grass blades bore scarlet tinges and spatters.

Fedorian knelt beside his youngest soldier, his keen eyes searching the area as he reached into the long grass and plucked up a narrow wedge-shaped object.

The arrow tip glimmered dully, the serrated edge and the few inches of shattered wood below it also darkly stained. The two elves exchanged a look, fearing to confirm what they saw in the other’s eyes.

“It is elven blood,” Fedorian said at last, tossing the ugly implement from him and straightening.

Rúmil and Orophin felt their chests tighten a little more. Orophin silently clenched his fists; if someone had hurt his brother they would pay and pay dearly! Tight-lipped and white-faced, Rúmil said nothing but knelt still on his knees, staring at the arrow his commander had cast away.

“Wither does the trail lead?”

The men had covered their tracks well as though knowing they would be followed and the elves had searched long and hard before finally admitting momentary defeat with twilight coming upon them fast. The elves decided to stop here until daylight

“Come, Commander, show us some of your skill to take our mind from our weariness!” Ancadal invited with a grin, tossing a stick of dried pine into the small campfire. The small twig caught flame at the edge, burned brightly for a spare moment and crumbled slowly into ash.

Fedorian seemed hesitant but with several rousing cheers and encouragement, the commander got reluctantly to his feet.

Rameil was already up and ready, pinning a palm-sized leaf to one of the tall-trunked pines several yards away.

“Oh, come now, Rameil, surely that’s much too easy for him!” Déorian scoffed.

Fedorian smirked a little as he withdrew a slender, finely balanced knife from his belt. Gold-trimmed, the hilt was carven from a heavy wood to give the steel blade excellent balance as it glittered brightly in the flame-light. His command watched attentively, mesmerized by the golden figure of their commander standing just outside the firelight’s reach.

Slowly, Fedorian lifted the knife to eyelevel, balanced easily by the haft. His bright verdant eyes sighted on the target. Taking in a deep breath, he held it.

Ssssstt.

The blade flashed end over end and thunked solidly into the tree bark, splitting the leaf directly down the center.

“I told you it was too easy,” Déorian snorted as, with a little difficulty, he wrenched the blade from the tree trunk.

Rúmil, though he had seen the demonstration many times before, stared up at his commander in frank admiration. “You are truly skilled, sir.”

Fedorian shrugged modestly. “With practice, anyone could do it. Even you, Rúmil,” he smiled, suddenly beckoning the younger elf to his side as Déorian returned the blade to him. The elven captain handed it hilt first to Rúmil who took it carefully. It was heavier than he had previously thought but with the subtle balance of a perfectly honed weapon.

Mimicking his commander’s stance and movements, he held it up to his eye, feeling the weight, the shift of the steel in his fingers, the wild excited beat of his heart. Fedorian adjusted his posture a little, making a few corrections here and there.

Inhaling sharply, Rúmil let it fly.

The blade spun too far- missing the tree entirely- and clattered into the brush. Rúmil winced and glanced apologetically at his commander. Fedorian tried hard to conceal his smile as he jerked his head in the direction of the lost blade.

“It takes some time to adjust to the balance.” He tossed his head in the direction the blade had flown. “Well, those who cast, retrieve. Go find it.”

Enduring the gentle taunts of his friends and brother, Rúmil moved off into the pine trees away from the warmth of the fire into the cool darkness beyond their camp. Searching the needle-strewn ground for a glint of silver, he saw nothing and began to methodically rake his gaze over every pile of brush over every root, moving further from camp as he did so.

He could not have thrown it this far…

He was just about to turn back to look again when he stumbled over something in the dark. Thinking it a root, he looked down to step over it and froze.

Dark hair splayed oily tendrils over the lighter pine needles. A bright red cloak, black in the filtering moonlight, had fallen across the face, concealing features stricken with death from sight. But Rúmil knew him to be human in a glance and his heart sank through his stomach as he looked upon the dead man.

For he had found Fedorian’s knife.

Embedded in the man’s back.

Shakily, he called for the others who, hearing the distress in his voice, came to his side immediately, freezing in shock when they realized what Rúmil had found.

“I-I didn’t know he was there! I didn’t mean to kill him,” Rúmil gasped, dismayed.

Rameil frowned and bent over the body. “You didn’t. He is ice cold. He has been dead for many an hour- perhaps a day.” Indeed as the dark-haired elf lifted away the cloak that concealed the face, they saw the man’s skin was already ghost white and soot-blackened by filth and creatures that had been nosing around him. The body had already begun to swell during the midday heat of the afternoon.

Rúmil glanced back down at the man wondering how he had met his end out here in the wilderness.

Suddenly the wind changed, blowing in from the east and an acrid scent of smoke assailed his nostrils. Rúmil turned into the wind, senses fully extended, trying to catch every whiff and turn of the breeze to pinpoint what drifted on the air.

Then he saw the graves.

A trace of ash and smoke upon the air and the sight of charred bone and blackened, twisted metal upon the ground left little remaining doubt. This had been a battlefield of late. Further back stood a forest of black ash spears, embedded point-first in the ground, straight and somber. Silent sentinels standing guard over the freshly turned earth they cast deep shadows upon…

A funeral mound.

“What happened here?” Orophin wondered aloud what was running through the minds of all of them.

“A mystery I think it will remain to us,” Fedorian said softly, urgently, pointing back towards their campsite.

Fire shone in the night- far too near for comfort and growing closer as it threaded along the stream the elves had passed that very day. Torches, Rúmil realized with a jolt as they rushed back to their camp, dousing the fire and snatching up their packs. They could hear a murmur now- voices conversing in a low, rich tongue strange to the ears of the elves.

Tense, they waited in the brush where they would easily be discovered should even one of the humans look in the right direction. Nothing could conceal them in this pine forest. So they huddled near the thick overshadowing branches of a hefty old pine, trusting in their woodland skills to keep them concealed. The torches followed the exact path the elves had taken that very day no more than a few hours ago.

The strangers had entered the elven camp now, moving warily, their black eyes glittering like pitch in the torchlight, hands on the hilts of their bone-carved weapons. But the elves had carefully wiped away all traces of their ever having been there and not even the best hunters on Middle-Earth would find mark of their passing. Fedorian felt a small swell of pride in this fact as he looked over his command.

Rúmil was inquiring softly of Rameil. “Do you see Haldir among them?” he whispered urgently.

“Díno!” their commander snapped his green eyes smoldering as he watched the humans trailing past so close Rúmil- who was nearest- could have reached out and touched one of them. He moved back a little.

The men continued to file past. At least three score of them Fedorian counted if not more. The keen-sighted elves who needed no light save of the stars could clearly see their swarthy faces in the bright torchlight they carried high above their heads. Gold glinted on their clothes, around their necks, on the hoops in their ears, entwined in their long tangled black hair.

Armor seemingly woven together from fire-treated bamboo draped their chests like the scales of snakes. Before the front lines, a standard-bearer carried unfurled a scarlet banner upon which a sable snake rode rampant. And Rúmil was fairly certain that the wains pulled by odd-looking dusk colored horses carried not only food and supplies- but war gear as well. They wore rich garments for nomads: scarlet cloaks beaded with precious gems and wore wooden war frames about their shoulders to add to their fearsome appearance.

“Those are southern men or my eyes know not their sight,” Rameil whispered softly, his eyes shimmering in the blue starlight as the last group, these armed with heavy spike-tipped pikes marched past.

“What are they-?” Ancadal questioned, cut off abruptly as Fedorian clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Not here.”

Moving stealthily backwards, he slid noiselessly down the embankment and swept his pack up onto his shoulders. Silently, the others followed him.

A thousand questions raced through Rúmil’s mind on that dark trek through the shadowy featureless land. Who were those dark soldiers? What were they doing here? And most importantly. Where was Haldir? Had he escaped those men or did he lie somewhere in this foul night… injured… maybe… But Rúmil would not think the word ‘dead.’ He would never believe it.

Looking up from his dark thoughts, the younger elf realized he had fallen to the back of the small group. He could see his brother striding beside Ancadal, their heads lowered in earnest discourse. Déorian and Rameil walked silently side by side. Passing them swiftly, Rúmil walked alongside his leader.

“Sir, what’s going on? Where are we going?”

“We must not be seen by those men,” his commander answered shortly, swinging away from the stream and taking a course that climbed swiftly upward through a knot of close-growing pine trees.

“Who are they?”

“Of late, Men have been roaming over our lands like the wild dogs. And like them, they have no regard for our boundaries,” he explained as they passed the shadow of an old dead tree, crooked and blackened in the scant moonlight.

“Rameil was right. Those men are the Haradrim. Men of the South but what they are doing so far north I can only guess. They have been seeking refuge within the trees from those that pursue them. The Lady has refused us to contact them wishing to remain apart from this human conflict and to keep vigilant watch on the borders, barring their entry.”

“Who is that pursues them?” Rameil asked curiously, his brow dark with this news.

“The rangers of Ithilien in southern Gondor- we have seen the wains pass by-”

“Do you think… perhaps Haldir has fallen amongst their company?” Orophin ventured hesitantly, fearing for his brother amongst men of which he knew so little save the tales of bitter warfare long ago.

Fedorian cut a glance over his shoulder at him. “I saw him not among the dark people, Perhaps the men of Gondor will remember old alliances and deliver our friend to us should we find them.”

“If they have not forgotten in these darkening days,” Déorian added, surprisingly darkly as they passed on into the darkness.

~*~

The black waves ebbed slowly away leaving only the sharp edges of consciousness in its wake. Haldir squeezed his eyes closed tighter, ignoring the bewildering fact that his eyes were closed at all and concentrating on attempting to drift back into the painless darkness.

Then clarity returned and his eyes snapped open. He closed them again immediately as a brighter light than he had been accustomed to, stabbed at his vision. Cautiously this time, he opened his eyes to mere slits, waiting while they adjusted to this new illumination.

The light was actually quite dim for it trickled only through a thin slice against a darker something that his focusing eyes could not quite make out yet. It looked silvery- moonlight. He knew its familiar shimmer well. He shifted gingerly, still feeling groggy and only half-aware despite his best intentions to remain alert. His head felt heavy and foggy- as though he’d been drugged.

Fear grew like a poisonous flower in his heart and his chest tightened until he could scarcely breathe. With a jolt, he forced his protesting body to move stiffened muscles in a sudden spasm of panic.

A twinge of not-quite pain shot upward from his shoulder. He glanced at it in surprise and realized that it had been tightly bound, the bandages stained lightly with a tinge of scarlet. A thick pad held a poultice against the wound to prevent infection. That increased his confusion and the amount of questions streaming through his shaky consciousness. His last memories were of the forest clearing.

What had happened?

He tried to shakily piece together what he knew. His wounds had been bound. Canvas flapped noisily over his head in a strong breeze. A tent. A strand of hair that had worked loose of its braids tickled his cheek.

Leather cords lashed his wrists together, stapled to a long strip that lay deeply embedded in the earth to hold him securely on his knees, tight enough to prevent movement but not so tight that his circulation was cut off. But it was enough. His hands were bound.

Trapped.

For a moment, fear surged a more powerful wave through him. He was a captive. Again. And that familiar feeling of the unknown and horrible premonition that this was certainly not good gripped his heart tightly. Disconcerted and dazed, he furiously sought to separate memory from reality… the fearful past from the uncertain present. Panicking darkness pressed upon his eyelids.

No, no, that was grass beneath his knees- not hard stone. Leather straps bound his wrists not the icy pinch of manacles. Men. He latched onto that thought desperately. I am among men. Though it gave him no comfort, the thought gave him stability. Desperately, he cast about for something, anything to free him of his constraints: a file, a knife- anything!

Nothing but the grassy floor beneath his knees.

Welling up from the deep depths of his mind came recollections unwarranted. Such helplessness he had felt before and the familiar darkness encroached upon his senses, sending him to places he would rather not have ventured into again under any circumstances. Memories pressed against his mind insistently. He had to keep reminding himself, this was no stone floor. No binding chains or blood. He would just explain who he was… and he could leave. It would be that simple.

If only he truly believed that.

The elf’s head snapped up at the soft fall of footsteps. He thought he saw an orangish unsteady light wavering about the lip of the tent mouth. An instinct to cover his back forced his hurting body to move, pressing himself against the tent wall furthermost from the entrance flap.

“I’ll be waiting just outside,” a low, unfamiliar voice muttered just shy of sight.

Haldir tensed slightly as the flap lifted and a small, lanky form stepped in. A young boy entered, a steaming bowl cradled gingerly in one hand.

He paused upon entering, his thin face pale and nervous-looking.

“I-I was told to bring this to you,” he stammered a little, slowly edging nearer.

A torch clutched in his opposite hand cast a wavering light through the shadowy tent. The smoky sweet stench of burning pine branches clung to the lad’s tunic as though he had been near many campfires. He was a boy- a child to Haldir’s eyes- and stared at the elf for a moment in mingled fascination and fear.

The boy held a bowl of what looked like broth- a watery substance at the very least mixed with those roots and edible greens found nearby. He set the bowl down and immediately jumped away as though he expected the elf to try to bite him.

“I’m supposed to wait until you’re finished and then bring the bowl back,” he said as though that explained the matter entirely.

The elf waited expectantly for the boy to untie his bonds but when he merely retreated toward a corner Haldir began to wonder. He raised an eyebrow, prompting him that he had forgotten something.

The lad missed the point entirely after several wordless seconds of staring between them. “You will not eat?” he asked, his brow furrowed worriedly.

Haldir looked keenly at the boy. “If you intend to loose my bonds then yes, I will.”

The sandy-haired boy shifted from foot to foot anxiously, his youthful face clouding. “Well… uh… you see… I-I was ordered not to,” he said finally with regret, tugging nervously at his forelock.

“I see,” Haldir said with little regret as the unappetizing steam wafted across his face. “You must obey your superior officer’s orders of course.”

But he would be damned if he would eat like a dog. He had his pride after all. And at the moment he valued dignity above hunger so he turned his face away from the offered meal and leant back against the tent wall, keeping his eyes trained on the entrance and doing his best to ignore the child’s avid stare.

The boy shifted anxiously from foot to foot, fiddling with the hem of his tunic a bit as he looked nervously away from the elf. “You sure you’re not going to eat?” he asked almost desperately after several, long, spiraling minutes had passed.

The elf merely continued to stare wordlessly at him.

With a sigh, the boy moved forward to take the bowl away. Before he’d even lifted it, the tent flap burst open sending him startling backward, nearly stepping on the elf in his haste.

A figure suddenly tumbled into the tent, closely followed by the odious dark-haired man Haldir recognized as Ramir. He shoved the dark woman roughly, sprawling her upon the grass on the floor of the tent.

Catching a full look at her face Haldir’s eyes widened in indignation and anger at the blood marks across her cheeks and lip. But Khiris quickly spun about on her knees away from him to spit at the man who had pushed her. Her arms and legs were both bound tightly- unlike Haldir she had been shackled.

A low growl erupted from his throat and he sprang forward, backhanding the woman across the face and splitting her lip again.

The message-runner stumbled away from the irate man, his young eyes wide. He had never seen anyone hit a woman like that and it stirred something painful in him.

“Get out, boy,” Ramir snarled and the lad shot off, only too glad to leave the man’s presence.

Haldir stared up at him, anger tightening his jaw. He hated this kind of thing. Fighting for honor was the only way he knew. What honor was there in this? Hurting a fellow human- and a woman- who could not fight back?

Ramir caught his angry stare and glared right back, his beady dark eyes narrowed menacingly. “You’ll get your turn soon enough, elfy,” he gritted out. “The captain’s going to question you first,” he growled as though he thought the captain’s opinion mattered very little to him. “Wasted good herbs on the likes of you.” His small eyes passed over the tight bandages about the elf’s shoulder.

A voice hailed him from without and he turned with a last vicious glance at the pair of them and stumbled over the bowl still lying where the boy had abandoned it. Cursing, he kicked it. The bowl shot across the tent, spilling its contents. Khiris wriggled away from the boot like a cat, scuttling up onto her hands and knees before the man had taken another step.

“Ramir!” a harsh voice barked and the man stepped immediately back, the displeasure clear on his face as Anaric stalked into the tent, throwing the man a withering glare.

“Leave us. I would speak with the prisoners.”

~*~

Haldir sighed deeply in irritation as he leaned his head back against the slack canvas that made up one of the tent’s four sides.

The man’s endless questions had been met with frustration. What he thought to be the elf’s blatant uncooperative attitude aggravated him as time pressed upon his shoulders with a heavy hand. Even his threats had done no good. The elf had remained stubbornly, wretchedly, cursedly silent. However, protocol and a distinct respect for the elven race along with the rules of his country regarding prisoners of war prevented the human commander from using more stringent methods to force the elf’s hand.

For the moment.

Haldir for his part knew that nothing he said they would believe- they had already made up their minds that he was somehow in league with this apparently dangerous woman and the belligerent people she represented. He could not make them see reason and in the end he had fallen silent, tired of speaking when they would not listen. Anaric had left him in disgust several hours ago and he had tried to sleep but it eluded him. The troubled thoughts of his situation and his uncertain future prevented him from seeking the rest his weary body desperately needed.

In the darkness that blanketed them in the silent tent, he could see Khiris who lay on her side a little ways from him. She had not spoken in a long time.

“They call you an ‘elf,’ yes?” she inquired lightly with a curious glance at him, her voice hoarse and thick. He started a little at the sound of her voice after empty silence for so long.

“That is so,” he answered calmly, warily. She nodded, mulling this over for several silent minutes.

“They say you magic. Free us with your magic, elf?”

“No.”

She shrugged- as though she had expected as much. A deep silence fell between them once more, neither speaking nor sleeping.

“Have family do you, elf?” Khiris asked, quite suddenly. Her question so startled Haldir that he answered without thinking.

“Two brothers.”

She rolled over onto her back and smiled, staring up at the ceiling. The dried blood had crusted black on her dark face. “I hope you live to see them once more.”

“So do I.”

“My people not bad. They simply want what is theirs and are willing to go to any lengths to get it,” she said after a moment, following a subject of her own choosing.

Why she justified herself to him he didn’t know. But he listened anyway, having nothing better to do and intrigued despite himself. But she said nothing more- as though she feared she had already said too much. Taking no further notice of the elf, she rolled over onto her side again and lay with her back to him as though to sleep though how she had learned to sleep in comfort in chains, Haldir neither knew nor wanted to know.

He was uneasy at heart and restless. He did not like the close quarters of the small tent he had been enclosed in and a growing threat troubled his mind. Something was coming- his senses screamed it! Near holding his breath, he leaned back against the tent wall and waited- he wasn’t sure for what- but he waited, listening, watching though he could see nothing but the light canvas shrouding the outside world from sight.

Khiris remained silent as well but Haldir knew she did not sleep.

Suddenly her eyes flashed open, glittering sharply in the moonlight slanting through the tent flap and she struggled to sit up.

Haldir heard it too.

New sounds had taken place of the silence that had fallen like a blanket over the camp: frantic shouts, boots thumping upon the soft, still-muddy ground. He even thought he heard a scream.

Suddenly bright light was everywhere as torches sparked to life. The violent clash of steel rang in his ears. Haldir frowned and sat up a little, trying to get his stiff chilled limbs to move as he inched towards the entrance flap. He started as the man that had been standing guard over the watch tent fell half-through it, his wide, brown eyes glazed and blood running in a thin rivulet from under his helmet.

A dark shape that seemed to fill the entire tent leapt over the slain guard. A man, easily as tall and broad as an oak trunk stood there, a long bloody pike wielded in a strong brown hand. His fierce gaze took in both elf and human but he paid Haldir no heed and immediately knelt beside the woman, freeing her from her chains with the keys he had obviously taken from the dead Gondorian.

Freed from her constraints, Khiris staggered up, rubbing stiff, cold limbs back into life. She spoke briefly to the man in her own language and clapped him on the shoulder though she could scarcely reach it. Then she relieved him of a short dagger, turning to face the bound elf.

Haldir tensed instinctively as she approached him with a bared blade. His bonds fell away with one swipe and he rubbed his chafed wrists in amazement. Blood surged back into his limbs and dark purple spots flashed briefly before his eyes as he stood straight for the first time in hours.

Outside the tent, pure chaos reigned.

The campfires had been kicked out leaving stinging ash spraying everywhere and a heavy scent of smothered smoke on the cool air. Dark, rapid shapes darted to and fro; swords clashed in darkness as black as pitch, but whether they were friend or foe, Haldir knew not and he longed for the reassuring feel of a sword in his hand.

In the spark of dying firelight, he caught a glimpse here and there of a black, swarthy face… a bloody sword raised high… They fought like wolves, proud and fierce with bloodlust shining in their dark faces.

He had seen their likeness before- a millennium ago before the Black Gate on the plains of Dagorlad. And the sight of their blood-painted faces and fierce gleaming eyes sent a wild surge of fear and fury singing through his veins.

A hand tightly grasped his arm, startling him. Automatically, he twisted away and seized his assailant by the throat. A bright flare struck up as a dead branch caught fire somewhere beyond them in the trees and in the spare flash of light, Haldir discerned Khiris’ dark face grinning wildly up at him.

“Come! You save my life. I save yours,” she near-shouted over the cacophony, tugging urgently on his arm, unperturbed in the least by his slackening grip on her neck. “Come. We go.”

Haldir hesitated an instant. Here was his chance. He could escape his unjust imprisonment and find a way to his brothers. And yet… something made him linger. The men would believe him a liar and a traitor if he went forth now- as a thief in the night. Somehow it was important that they believe him… Haldir did not want the dishonorable name of ‘traitor’ lingering over him.

“You are a fool,” she snapped impatiently at his diffidence with a frantic glance around. “They will kill you.”

Haldir opened his mouth to reply but a shrill scream split the air- a cry that belonged to no soldier. With his elven sight, Haldir stared across the battlefield and caught sight of the message-runner’s white face in the moonlight. Gripped tightly between two tall knife-wielding Haradrim, he slumped between his captors.

Something deep within the elf stirred to life. Despite his pain, his weariness and the fact that he held no weapon, he immediately raced towards the boy.

Khiris disappeared.

Dodging several side-swiping blows of blade and other implements that had been seized where weapons had been out of reach, Haldir ran with single-minded purpose towards the edge of the clearing where he could just see the white form of the child silhouetted in the starlight on the blood-slick grass. Dead soldiers lay around him and still-fighting dark masses lay between the elf and his intended goal.

An arrow, blindly shot, grazed his arm and he flinched back instinctively but kept going. Something hard- perhaps the gauntlet of a warrior- smashed into his face and nearly sent him sprawling to the ground but he was up and moving again with the quickness of a cat, driven by one purpose: he had to get there!

His jaw throbbed and he tasted blood in his mouth but he was almost there. The two dark men had pulled the struggling boy back close to the trees, nearly invisible in the darkness. Had he been human, Haldir never would have seen them. But the sudden careening clamor of the fiercely battling men swept between them and Haldir lost sight of the boy and his captors.

On the very fringes of his keen night sight, he caught a glimpse of a low-slung hairy body, shaggy and glistening like fresh blood in the sorrowing moonlight. He stopped dead. No… not here… A chilling, familiar, high-pitched whine assailed his ears like the screams of the dying and a cold finger stroked his spine.

Snatching up a smouldering pine branch from a scattered campfire, he thrust it into the midst of a few dying embers. In a moment, the dried, dead wood sparked to life. Holding it above his head, all the light the elf eyes needed spilled over the battlefield. Instantly it made him a target, but now he had a weapon and that considerably evened the odds. Dodging several arrows sent his way, the elf moved with the swiftness of chain lightning. He ducked under the sword swing of a tall, dark man with matted, wild hair. Dealing him a quelling blow with the makeshift torch against the back of his neck, the elf felled him immediately.

Furious fighting raged about him, dark and light-haired men engaged in deadly combat. Several limp forms lay scattered unmoving on the bloody field already and others were quickly joining them, the attackers becoming the attacked. Now, in the light he could see clearly, the dark mud-colored and tawny hides of wargs.

The havoc they wrought upon the battlefield- falling upon wounded and dead, friend and foe, slaying and maiming with a single swipe of their raking claws or snap of powerful jowls. But their thick shaggy hair caught alight almost instantaneously.

Catching the breath of the wind, a warg turned its head, ears flattening back against its broad skull as it recognized the hostile smell of the Firstborn, a scent it had been bred to despise above all others. The creature’s evil eyes glittered with the hunger of bloodlust as it bared its razor teeth, crimson smearing its heavy-jawed mouth.

Darting forward, Haldir thrust the burning branch at the beast’s nosetip, forcing the creature back, snarling in deadly anger. But wargs had long feared their deadliest enemy other than their masters- fire. The stench of singed hair permeated the air, a thick sickening smoke. The warg shook sparks from its coat and glared at the elf, recognizing him for what he was and hate gleamed in those cruel eyes as the animal began to circle.

Knowing the danger of turning his back on the creature, Haldir followed it, his grey eyes hard and even, meeting the animal’s cruel bestiality. The wooden spar tightened within his grasp until his knuckles blanched.

It lunged.

Haldir dropped to one knee, forcing aside the spark of pain the movement caused his twisted muscles as he shoved the torch full into the creature’s yawning maw; the animal howled in agony before the elf lifted a blackened knife from the ground and plunged it into the thick hide just behind the ear, slaying it with a single blow.

The elf leapt lithely back to his feet, breathing hard, fighting the steadily increasing agony throbbing through his battered body- especially his shoulder and side where the deepest wounds had not yet had the chance to heal. His eyes searched the ranks of embattled soldiers, searching desperately for his original quarry.

Nothing.

A shrill waspish hiss whistled in his ears but he had no time to react before a blinding pain connected unexpectedly with his shins and knocked him violently off his feet, striking the earth with such force the breath left his lungs. It took him a moment to realize a bolas lay tangled about his ankles. He began to struggle up but a heavy boot between his shoulder blades crushed him back to the earth, forcing the remaining air from his already-winded lungs.

“You’re not escaping us too,” a familiar deriding voice grated on his ears.

Had he had any breath left, Haldir would have protested this. But the chilling bite of steel against his throat proved that silence would help him more at this point. Ramir prodded him purposefully in his injured shoulder, making the elf hiss in renewed pain and he shifted under the man’s boot, forcing him to use even more pressure to keep him on the ground.

“Ramir, what have you?” Haldir dimly heard Anaric’s hoarse voice call.

The Haradrim had broken off the attack, leaving the stench of blood and death in their wake as they vanished into the shadow-lit forest. The Gondorian commander silently cursed his ill luck. Ambushed! Their camp had remained a closely guarded secret for weeks as they hunted down the last remnants of the Haradrim fighting force that continued to elude them. And now, they were utterly crippled: half of their force dead or injured, their provisions ransacked and looted, several tents had burned.

The captain’s eyes narrowed as he stared menacingly down at his only remaining captive, his weather beaten face haggard and wan; he held a naked sword in one hand, the steel red-streaked. This elf would have a lot to answer for.

“I caught him trying to escape,” Ramir said, twitching his blade purposefully so that it cut a little into the elf’s neck.

Anaric looked down at the prone elf and shook his head.

Haldir stared back up at him as best he could from his position. No fear shone in his eyes. He was no fool- he knew what these men believed him to be. As a warrior during battle fierce and bloody, he was prepared to die at every moment and his heart was calm now as he anticipated the death blow.

But it was not delivered, despite the eager tremble in Ramir’s hands.

“Get him on his feet,” Anaric ordered sharply.

Strong unyielding hands yanked him up. Haldir did not resist. It would be death to do so.

He knew his situation had just considerably worsened.


Chapter 6 - Chapter Six

Chapter Six: Casus Belli
Twisting tendrils of grey-blue smoke drifted upon the night air: thick and heavy with the acrid scent of charred wood, burnt canvas and flesh.
Three soldiers stood vigilant, watching over their prisoner: one shouldered a large spear. Another held a loosely strung bow in hand, his dark gaze distinctly wary and full of suspicion. The last fingered his sword hilt, staring idly across the camp. The men would take no more chances of escape.
The tent that had imprisoned him had burnt in the attack. In consequence, the elf’s legs had been hobbled and his wrists tightly tied behind his back with cords. A leather strip threaded between his bound wrists, passing through a loop in the collar around his neck, and shortened akin to a bearing rein on a horse.
The strap pulled his head back, narrowing his field of vision until he could see only the waving trees and a glimmer of white far above his head. But even the sight of the stars was denied him as the guards fastened a blindfold tightly about his eyes.
He closed his eyes against the rough fabric and exhaled slowly to try to calm his taut nerves. Effectively restrained and blind he could only attempt to force his thoughts away from his predicament. But that did little good. Over and over again the events of the battle played behind his eyes. He had not seen what had become of the boy during the battle but from what he had seen, many experienced veterans and soldiers had fallen in that fight.
A mere boy held no chance.
Sorrow and guilt for the young life pierced the elf’s heart beating heavily in his chest. He would have bowed his head had his neck been able to move. Even among men, the boy had been but a child scarce out of babyhood…
Being bound again brought up more troubling memories he would rather have avoided as well. Instead of thinking, he tried to concentrate on the sounds of the camp: men speaking in low voices as they passed from time to time, the crackle and pop of renewed fires, the hiss of the wind in the trees, sorrowing over the death that clung to the air.
He did not know how long he had been sitting there in the darkness. But muscles tensed automatically as his keen ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps. The blindfold jerked away from his eyes, leaving him blinking in a near-blinding light thrust in his face.
Anaric bent over him, a lantern in one hand, and undid the leather strap that held the prisoner’s neck immobile with the other. Haldir rotated his neck gingerly, flexing shoulders long gone stiff with a wince. The ropes binding him creaked in response. Nervously one of the guards checked them as their commander knelt beside the prisoner.
“You should eat,” Anaric told him quietly, setting a bowl of what looked like boiled roots before him. “Taurdeth told me you ate nothing when offered. I assure you it is not poisoned in any way.”
“I refuse to eat like an animal from your hand,” Haldir replied, his grey eyes hard and flinty as he regarded his captor’s face.
Anaric shook his head with a hint of resignation. “Such pride will not avail you here, elf. I am being generous to one who more than deserves death by my hand.” His voice hardened.
“How?” Haldir retorted angrily. “How have I earned such treatment?”
“You sided with those mongrels, spy of the elf-sorceress!” Ramir spat out, scarcely able to keep back his rage. To think this creature thought he deserved anything better! “Do you know how many good men are dead because of you!”
Haldir’s dark silver gaze met the man’s steadily. Ramir flinched back, feeling threatened by those calm, piercing eyes that seemed to weigh every inch of him. Forgetting the lore of Gondor and the kinship shared by the elves, he remembered suspicions whispered on a dark patrol; the ghost stories passed down through the water-down years when knowledge and wisdom waned and fear took its place.
Ramir turned his gaze away from those eyes, knowing well the legend of them. Elves, it was said, could look into your thoughts- turn even your memories against you. Drive a man mad. The thought that this creature had any kind of control over him made the man furious. Without thinking, he lunged forward and cuffed the elf furiously across the face. “Filthy scum.”
“Enough!” Anaric snapped, seizing his subordinate’s wrist, glaring at him with a pointed look. He, too, knew the ancient stories- and before- for he had been educated in the manner of Gondor’s ruling class.
“I apologize on behalf of those under my command,” he said, glancing grimly over his shoulder at the errant soldier who quickly retreated from under his captain’s ire. “Do not judge all of us on his account.”
“I do not,” Haldir said quietly, tasting blood on his lips.
“That is good. There are laws in Gondor concerning the treatment of prisoners of war and I intend to follow them,” Anaric promised quietly. “However I seek answers to many questions.”
Haldir shook his head resignedly. “I can tell you nothing. I am innocent and no spy.”
“Why did you run then if you are as innocent as you claim?” Anaric returned.
Would the man believe he had been trying to save the boy? Probably not…
“The child… I saw him among your enemies on the other side of the camp. I tried to get to him… before circumstances changed,” Haldir explained.
“Taurdeth is his name. Taurdeth was his name. Unfortunately, ‘the child’ is dead and cannot give us his account,’” Anaric said coolly, his eyes betraying the hurt and sadness such a loss inflicted on him.
Half of his men had been slaughtered in that fight, not the least of which had been the young message-runner. Grief and anger at himself fueled him on; he wanted some answers and he wanted them now. “You knew they would attack.”
Haldir denied it.
“They freed you of your bonds and allowed you to live. You must have meant something to them alive,” the man insisted.
Again, the elf shook his head. He couldn’t even explain to himself why the Haradrim had not just killed him. They were not a people known for mercy.
“I know nothing of them.”
“Do not waste my time with lies, elf.”
Haldir sighed softly, irritated with the human’s stubborn resolve to ignore reason. “I can offer you no more than my word that I speak the truth.”
“And yet your word I cannot trust.” Anaric murmured. “How then may I judge if you speak truth or lies?”
“As a man judges all deeds on this earth.”
Anaric smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “It is said that elves speak in riddles. At least this I know now to be true. Very well then. It is late. We will speak more tomorrow. Perhaps hunger will bend your hard heart if words will not. Let the prisoner stretch his legs. We’re departing at first light.” This last was directed towards the two guards who flanked him as the human commander turned away.
The two guards pulled the prisoner to his feet, attaching a long rope to the collar around his neck like a leash so they could be assured of no escape. Haldir found his once light long strides horribly hampered by the hobble about his ankles. Nevertheless he was grateful for the chance to move; his muscles had coiled themselves into knots. At least he could look up through the trees and glimpse the stars as they walked, the guards mere silent sentinels at his sides.
The younger of the two looked scarcely into manhood and peered at the elf out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to stare while staring: his gaze the same one of mingled curiosity and fear all men turned to elves in this Age. Underneath a mop of shoulder length dark hair, a light bandage passed across his brow- a relic of the fierce battle the night before. The merest shadow of dark stubble brushed his jaw and he scratched it idly after he shifted the grip on his spear, clearly unused to holding the weapon for such a long period of time or in such circumstances.
The other, a stout man of middle age, held the lead rope and moved grimly a few paces ahead, never looking at the prisoner but keeping his eyes intent upon the path. A torch glimmered in his opposite hand, lighting their way over the uneven ground black as pitch in the dark night.
They passed many bedrolls of restlessly tossing soldiers, guttering campfires and half-constructed tents put up haphazardly in the dark. On the furthest edge of the camp, a silent mound of freshly turned earth lay bared, a silver spear rising there ghostlike-glinting in the moonlight. Haldir looked at it with sorrow, knowing the young message-runner lay cold under that mound. Beside one of the embedded spears, a man stood with head bowed, his hands wrapped about the haft.
Coming in the opposite direction marched a pair of grim guards, sentinels set to patrol the perimeter.
They passed in silence.
Haldir tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his aching legs and how numb his hands had become from the tight binds. Breathing deeply of the fresh night air, he closed his eyes a moment, trying to block out the near, menacing presence of his armed escort and the sorrow of the graves.
Reopening them, he stared up through the interlacing tree branches, his eyes seeking the light of the star of High Hope- Eärendil. Even in his present state, Haldir felt his heart lift a little at the sight of the beautiful white star which shone even in the deepest darkness, granting him much needed strength and even more desperately needed hope. He needed that more than ever now.
The clouds were moving in once more and slowly the light of Eärendil dwindled, and went out as ragged shreds of night smothered it.
Then without warning, something struck him hard between the shoulder blades.
Caught off balance by the suddenness of the attack, Haldir lost his footing, his twisted leg buckling under him. Reacting on instinct, he rolled quickly to get his feet under him. He heard a heavy thud and his bound hands knocked against something hard and cold. The hilt of a sword. He followed the path of the blade to its owner and froze.
Blood trickled from the old guard’s open mouth, his wide, staring eyes glazed in death; his gnarled scarred hand still curled limply around the rope. Shocked and alarmed, Haldir pushed himself away from the corpse and started violently as two hands closed about his shoulders, jerking him to his feet.
Wrenching free desperately, Haldir twisted about in the hands of his captor and froze. He stared at the apparition in confusion. A deep hood concealed the figure’s features from even elven sight and even as Haldir stood there, the shadow vanished into the trees as quickly as it had come.
“Gotcha!”
A thick arm wrapped about Haldir’s neck and wrenched him backwards, throwing him to the ground again. On instinct, the elf reacted. Kicking out sharply, his hard-soled boots connected solidly with the shins of his attacker, sending him sprawling with a curse.
Haldir scrambled nimbly to his feet even with his arms tied, coughing from the hard grip around his windpipe.
The younger guard lay upon the grass, knocked senseless by a hard blow to the back of his neck, the corpse of the slain guard beside him. Ramir was staggering to his feet, rubbing his shin. His eyes lit with an angry fire as they passed over the slain sentry. He swept his sword out with a hiss and advanced on the elf.
“You killed him, you bloodthirsty beast!”
Without giving the elf a chance to even open his mouth, the sword scythed towards him. Haldir ducked under it and danced backwards out of reach of the weapon.
Brash and over-powerful in his fury, Ramir wildly swung his sword. Haldir dodged each but each movement caused a thrum of pain to echo through his weakened body.
The other guard awoke with a dazed groan, rubbing the back of his neck. He froze at the odd sight of his superior swiping furiously at the prisoner with a naked sword. Getting gingerly to his feet, he could do nothing but stare as though riveted, a look of stunned surprise on his face.
Nearly out of sight of the Gondorian campfires, Ramir set his foot upon the rope still attached to the elf’s collar, jerking it taut and half-choking him again. Furiously, the man lashed out with his other hand, catching the elf in the jaw. Blood began to stream from Haldir’s nose and mouth as the curled fingers of the man’s gauntleted arm fell hard across his face again and again.
“I won’t let you get away with it, elf,” he spat the word as though it were a curse, punctuating every word with a blow. “Anaric… thinks he has to play nice…Hides his cowardice behind foolish talk of laws… Out here there are no laws… no rules save those we make… ourselves.”
Once, the younger guard opened his mouth as though to speak but abruptly closed it and looked away uneasily, shifting his spear again and touching a hand to his head. His blue eyes scanned the campfires below them as though hoping someone might avert this. But he dared not interfere and hung back. His friend had been hacked to pieces by vengeful scimitars- in that fight the men said the elf had caused. And as the older man laid into the elf, he forced himself to look away, to feel no guilt for this.
Ramir drove his fist hard into the elf’s stomach, doubling him over. Haldir’s knees hit the damp, cool grass. Winded, he knelt there, closing his eyes against the pounding ache in his jaw and nose. His chest heaved as he gulped ragged gasps of air through bleeding lips.
Steel touched his throat, icy cold and trembling with the anger of its owner. Haldir kept carefully still as the blade pricked sharply against his collarbone with enough force to break the skin. He looked up into Ramir’s face which was bright red with fury and grief.
“My brother was killed last night- did you know that, elf? I bet you didn’t. You don’t even care. A heart as black as yours can’t feel anything.”
The sword dug in a little deeper.
“What is this!”
Ramir spun about, his face whitening with anger and fear as he took in the sight of Anaric striding furiously towards them. The human commander looked rather harried, his dark hair unkempt. He seemed to have been preparing to bed down for the night: his boots were gone with his outer tunic. But his sword gleamed righteously in his hand as he stopped before them.
“Ramir?” he snapped the name into a command, demanding his subordinate to tell him all.
The man blustered but did not lower his sword. “The elf killed Lochren! Put a blade right in his back!”
A stunned silence fell as the commander leaned around the other man to look at his prisoner. “Astounding that he did so with his hands tied,” Anaric said dryly, straightening.
“He would have escaped had I not shown up,” The other man continued defensively. “He would have gotten Tergon too.” He jerked his head at the younger guard.
“You know that punishment for trying to escape is usually thirty lashes,” Anaric said quietly. Haldir swore he saw Ramir’s face light up with an emotion very close to glee. “However,” the commander continued. “I think we’ll have to forgo formal punishment for now. You seem to have taken care of it quite… thoroughly, Ramir,” he said, the merest trace of a reprimand behind his sternly controlled tone as he caught a glimpse of the elf’s bleeding face.
“Besides, we have more important things to deal with now.”
He did not explain but his dark, grave eyes spoke of worry and deep care. Something had happened, Haldir knew.
“Get him back to camp, Tergon, and clean him up,” he ordered curtly. “Not you, Ramir.” He added as the grizzled man bent quickly for the dropped rope. “You will have the luxury of seeing the horses saddled and ready to depart.”
The younger soldier hesitatingly took the elf by the shoulder but Haldir pulled away and stood under his own power. Salty blood filled his mouth, dripped down his chin and his shoulder and side hurt viciously, overstrained by this treatment. But he stood.
Tergon led him quietly back into the midst of the camp. Several of the soldiers looked up in amazement, wondering what on earth had happened. A few of them called out questions to the guard but he did not answer their queries as he paused at an unoccupied fire.
Making sure the elf’s bonds were still tied tight, the man set about filling a small earthen bowl with water and finding a suitable rag within one of his comrades’ packs. Gingerly, he sponged at the dried blood on the elf’s lips and nose. At first, Haldir shied away from this uncomfortable contact but the man persisted and eventually the elf stopped.
“I have never seen an elf before,” his guard said suddenly as he wrung the cloth over the bowl, the water tinged red.
Haldir smiled a little through the darkening bruises on his cheek and slightly swollen lip. “Nor are you likely to.”
The man said nothing to that and leaned forward again with the rag. He could not have been more than twenty five at the very most but it was difficult to tell with humans and Haldir had never been a good judge of them as far as age went.
“You know, I didn’t see you kill that man,” he said in a hushed whisper as though he feared being overheard.
“I didn’t. I do not know what I did,” Haldir answered honestly, looking down at his hands. The cords, strained by the one-sided brawl, had tightened considerably and already he could see the marks cutting impressions into his skin. The man followed his gaze.
“You could be lying,” Tergon put in. But he didn’t sound as though he believed his own words. From his mother, he had first heard stories of elves in his childhood. As a result, the man held a deep-seated respect for the Firstborn. And even though one sat bound before him, faulted for a great crime, he felt an inexplicable stirring in his heart of mingled joy and pity for this fair creature.
“The men say you’re an ally of the Haradrim,” he said, almost accusingly, testingly.
“That is what they say,” Haldir said softly. “I have done no wrong though they think I have. They merely want someone to blame.” Bitterness edged his voice as he leaned his head back, seeking the stars once more.
The guard thought about that for a quiet moment, wiping the last of the blood away from the elf’s face. Regarding the prisoner silently, he sat back on his heels, hands on knees, staring. The elf looked so quiet, so noble even with his swelling lip and darkened cheek. It was hard indeed to believe that this fair being was a cold ruthless killer.
“How do I know if you are telling the truth?”
“That is for you to decide. I do not expect you to believe me,” Haldir said tonelessly, still not opening his eyes.
Taking no more notice of the human, Haldir began to sing softly to himself. Tergon cocked his head, listening. It was a beautiful melody. Sad and piercing though the man did not understand why. The elf’s voice was deep, soothing almost like the sea, a strong timber though a little rough as though he had not had occasion to sing in a long time.
“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” he said solemnly when the elf had fallen silent. The guard glanced over his shoulder to make sure none watched. “I am only a soldier, master elf. But if indeed you are innocent, I will do all I can- to help you,” he offered.
As though the elf were a guest instead of a prisoner, he placed a hand on his chest and bowed his head with a small smile. “I am Tergon son of Mathron. My people are of Dol Amroth.”
Such respect Haldir had not known since he was first taken captive and warmth blossomed in his heart lifting a smile to his lips as he inclined his head in return. “Well met, Tergon son of Mathron. I am Haldir.”
The man smiled and nodded. “Can you tell me aught of your own people?” He asked curiously, sitting down crosslegged across from the elf. “I have never seen an Elf before- it is said that-”
“You guard the prisoner, Tergon, not make friends with him,” Ramir growled as he paused over them, making the soldier jump sheepishly.
“I was just seeing if he had anything to tell us, sir,” the soldier lied quickly, only then remembering to stand and salute his superior.
The older man grinned a little lopsidedly as his dark eyes passed flittingly over the bound form at his feet.
“We’ll get it out of him one way or the other, lad. Don’t you worry.”
~*~
Rúmil‘s long legs carried him up the fir-covered slope as he shaded his bright eyes against the sun glare slanting through the spiked branches. Reaching the road, the elven scout scanned the trail ahead of him with a keen gaze, following it into the woodland and on until the bend took it from sight.
Easily noticeable to the untrained eye, two deep ruts gouged the ground running parallel to one another- the markings of a heavily laden cart. Alongside and trampling the ruts marched the lighter tread of many spike-toed boots. The Haradrim traveled swiftly for such a great company, stopping never for rest as though being pursued by a terrible and dangerous enemy- or pursuing one.
Those that became too weak to march were abandoned to die in the manner of their countrymen, in the manner of their choosing. Death before dishonor. Loyalty to countrymen and comrades at arms than surrender to mercy. The elves had already found several dead beside the road or in it where they had simply dropped and been left behind.
Beside the sprawling roots of a great conifer lay another- one not yet passed. A spear had pierced his chest. Blood dried dark crimson, scarcely visible against his scarlet shirt. Like a wild bear caught in a pitfall, his wild dark-eyed gaze darted over the strangers as though they could do him more harm than had already been done.
Fedorian eyed him dispassionately, scarcely pausing in his stride. “Leave him.”
“What?” Rúmil looked sharply at his commanding officer in disbelief.
“He is bleeding heavily. He won’t last much longer.”
“We… we can’t just leave him like that.” Fedorian’s bold-faced practicality- on the verge of coldness- startled the younger elf.
Despite the dark man’s fierce appearance and the fact that he obviously didn’t want the elves’ help, Rúmil was not willing to leave a wounded man to suffer such a horrible death alone.
“Then kill him if it makes you feel better.”
“What?”
“Can you not hear me?” Fedorian turned round sharply, speaking loudly as though he thought Rúmil had gone suddenly deaf. “I said ‘kill him if it makes you feel better.’”
The young soldier was silent for a full minute, looking pleadingly to his other companions for aide. Orophin studied the ground, judiciously avoiding his eyes. Rameil and Ancadal too did not look at him. Déorian met his eyes briefly and shrugged, at a loss.
“I think…” Rúmil began with a sideways glare at his traitorous friends. “I think you’re prejudiced… sir,” he added belatedly. “You fought these men on the plains of the Dagorlad did you not? Perhaps you wish this one to die so- as enemies of old.”
“My feelings are of no consequence in this matter,” their commander said softly but angered reproach laced his tones. “He wishes to die- see it in his face- he neither wants, needs nor will accept your help. These people are willing to kill themselves if necessary- to die for their country is an honor and you would have known that, Rúmil, had you listened to the history lessons I tried to drill into you. Obviously, it didn’t take.”
His commander’s biting sarcasm struck deep and Rúmil dropped his eyes, shamed and thoroughly abashed.
Something of a maverick among the other officers of the Lothlórien Guard, Fedorian was rather unpredictable at times. He had fought in many a battle and many a war among his people. He had met many enemies. But his orders were usually to be obeyed. Even if they sometimes (often) clashed with those laid down by their rulers- or the moral qualms of those he led.
“If they wish to destroy themselves, let it be so. It is no affair of ours. Ours is a more pressing concern. Or have you forgotten your brother?”
Rúmil bristled but said nothing.
His head suddenly snapped about, his hand automatically tightening about the wooden stave of his bow as a noise met his ears. He knew that sound.
The sound of nightmares, a sound whose very timber oozed evil and wickedness.
“Wargs.”
Fedorian turned slowly towards the north-east where the cry had come from, far too close and piercing. “They hunt.”
“I did not know they had grown so bold as to come so close to our borders,” Orophin put in, drawing a white-feathered arrow steadily to his bow.
The Haradrim soldier seemed to recognize the cry too for his dark eyes widened and he struggled to his feet, leaning heavily upon the tree trunk as blood dripped down his front. Anything that lay defenseless was an easy kill for the evil wolves east of the mountains.
“Get away from the trees.” Instantly Fedorian’s hands dropped about his black-handled knives as the elves stood in tight formation, each with their backs to one another, lessening the target area. They knew this enemy though packs had not been commonly seen until last winter.
Presently beneath the forest trees, the elves could discern feral eyes, deep-set in large square faces, hairy low-slung bodies crouched to the ground. They encircled the patch of road, intent upon their prized prey. Rúmil’s hands tightened about his sword’s hilt, his eyes flickering between the yellow eyes floating just within the dense darkness of the trees and the injured man leaning against a pine trunk just outside it.
He didn’t know what he was doing. There was no time to think.
Only to act.
Rúmil darted forward, breaking formation, and grabbed the wounded man by his scarlet cloak.
“Rúmil! Return!”
Deaf to his commander’s sharp order, the young elf hauled the dark man to his feet and started to drag him towards the center of the road. He was heavy and staggering against the elf’s shoulder. Rúmil cradled his sword carefully in one hand while struggling to support the Harad soldier with the other.
Then they attacked.
The wargs rushed out of the trees, howling their challenge to the sun and steel of their enemies. Rúmil met the gaze of one and his blue eyes widened in terror. The dark soldier dragged on his arm, preventing him from bringing his blade up in time. The weight of the creature slammed into them, sending both careening into the earth. The dark soldier went down with a shrill scream that rent the air and rang in Rúmil’s ears as the warg sank its teeth into his face.
Rúmil brought his blade up blindly, cleaving through fur and sinking deep into flesh even as the warg feasted upon its kill, and fell dead atop it. Staggering from underneath the fetid beast’s corpse, his chest aching where it had been crushed to the earth, the Lórien soldier readied his blade for another attack.
White arrows zipped past his head as Ancadal and Déorian shot bolt after bolt unerringly into warg fur but their arrows numbered few since the battle on the cliffs. A knife spun- a mere blur- as it whistled past Rúmil’s head, striking a lunging wolf in the shoulder and turning it aside with a sharp yelp.
Rúmil spun his sword in a flashing arc, senses fully expanded to catch every sound, every yip and cry, every whistle of bowstring and song of sword. His blade seemed to quicken in his hand, slicing flesh and bone apart as easily as through water.
The warg’s claws lacked the reach of an elven sword but their speed and size enabled them to power past the swift-moving tip of the blade. A bulky animal bowled into the much lighter elf sending him spinning to the ground again. Gasping for breath, Rúmil tried to twist over onto his back to get to his feet. But sharp claws hooked his belt and Rúmil felt heavy paws press his lower back, grinding him further into the earth.
Fumbling with shaking hands, he strained to pull the knife trapped under his weight. Hot fetid breath brushed his cheek and the elf struggled harder than ever, knowing he was dead. Suddenly, the weight lifted gaspingly and the wolf retreated, screaming with a near-human voice as it thrashed upon the ground for a minute with a small knife embedded in its mouth before it flopped over and lay still.
A strong arm grabbed the young elf by the collar and hauled him up, gasping and rubbing his bruised chest. Rúmil swung around and smiled thankfully at Rameil who pressed the scout’s sword back into his hand.
“What is a warrior without his sword?” the dark-haired elf jested, spinning the younger one around to face the wolf barreling down on him.
A swift upward thrust and the warg fell, bleeding from the mouth. Taking the small lull to breathe, Rúmil looked for the rest of his friends. They had retained their tight formation but all of the arrows were spent and the wargs had slipped around them and forcibly wedged them apart.
“Rúmil-!”
The younger elf spun about in time to see Rameil tumble to the ground with a pained cry as one of the animals leapt upon his back, tearing ruthlessly at him with rending envenomed claws. Rúmil lunged forward.
A flicker of white flashed and the warg crashed backwards on its haunches, only white feathers and an inch of wood protruding from where one last salvaged arrow had found its mark in the beast’s neck.
Rúmil ran to his friend who moaned softly. The warg had set his teeth into Rameil’s leg, tearing the muscle of his calf. Vicious scores shredded his tunic, spreading crimson over the linen.
“Sorry,” he muttered distractedly, gripping his leg above the knee. “I didn’t see it until-”
“Shh,” Rúmil soothed. One hand gripping his sword tightly, the other resting on his friend’s shoulder, Rúmil crouched tense and ready, his face taut with fury.
But the remaining wolves backed off, snarling vicious challenges but they did not attack again. The creatures had halted as though stricken by the ice of the Helcaraxë. Or called to the heel of some dark master. Their leader, a powerful female, sat back near the trees, paws folded almost primly before her as she watched the battle with a flat gaze, her black lips slightly pulled back from yellowed fangs. She had called the halt.
Between them, Rúmil and Déorian managed to get Rameil to his feet. He leaned heavily upon them, unable to put weight on his left leg. His face had gone ashen pale and he heaved in labored, shallow breaths as though even that simple process hurt. Ancadal and Fedorian stood to either side, protecting their open flanks, their scarlet-streaked weapons raised warily. The wargs circled menacingly but did not attack.
In silence, they waited, each group unmoving, each waiting for the other to make one last move.


Chapter 7 - Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven: Eternity in an Hour
Rúmil shifted his grip on his sword’s leathern hilt, his palm slick with sweat as he tried to keep his eyes on the number of enemies ringing them tightly. They had killed more than half a score of the wargs but still more had answered the high-pitched cries the female had sent ringing into the air, reeling with delight at the heady scent of fresh spilt blood. Several of the demon wolves had already set teeth into the lifeless Haradrim.
The sun was sinking from its apex and still the wargs patiently guarded their quarry, never offering further attack nor intent upon releasing them. Fedorian had laid his knives within easy reach at his side and seated himself cross-legged on the ground. Rúmil had thought him mad with the wargs prowling so close. But as the muscles in his legs and arms began to seize up, he considered echoing him.
He cut a glance to his brother who stood protectively a few feet away, his brow also furrowed in puzzlement. Beside him, Déorian held one last rumple-feathered arrow scavenged from the dead on his bowstring. Ancadal had managed to stop Rameil from bleeding out by wrapping his cloak tightly around the injured leg.
None of them dared move.
A horn rang out in the distance: a strange otherworldly noise that filled all the woods with a hot trumpeting blast. Thrice it blew… a pause… and thrice more. The wargs’ ears pricked up and they turned as one towards the sound. Without another glance at the elves, the pack trotted off into the trees as obediently as dogs called to heel.
Rúmil lowered his sword in astonishment; never before had he seen anything like it. In moments the wolves had vanished completely with no trace of their passing save the trampled ground and few dead. With an odd sense of detachment, he swiped his sword clean on his cloak.
Orophin came to his side and placed a worried hand on his shoulder; Rúmil scarcely heard his brother’s inquiry to his well-being and answered only vaguely as he looked over at his friends, his eyes falling on the mauled dusty form near the edge of the road. He shrugged away his brother’s touch and went to it as though drawn.
“So doth violence take and violence mar.” Fedorian shook his head at the Harad corpse as he sheathed his knives.
“Rúmil, come away!” Orophin commanded.
The younger elf remained listless, staring. “Why, Orophin? Why did he die?”
“Rameil is injured- we must go!”
“What if he was a villager- see, his hands are not rough from a sword’s caress!- Was he truly villainous? Or was he simply obeying the orders of a master he dare not cast aside?” He had seen the man’s eyes. Had seen his frightened, blenched face. And he did not like this heavy weight that had settled on him with the man’s death.
“They are all villainous,” Fedorian said with quiet finality.
What if they were like us? What if they thought they were doing right- maybe he was looking for someone too. Family… friends… He no longer voiced his thoughts but quietly he petitioned to whomever god the man had served, that this soldier would find peace in a gentler place than this bloody road.
Orophin tugged on his arm. “Tolo.”
Numbly, Rúmil stood and followed.
Limping off the road, they passed into the trees just out of sight of it. The path behind them glimmered faintly in the rising moonlight as they bivouacked under a thin grove of firs.
Rúmil, sitting beside his brother, watched worriedly as their captain bent over the wounded elf, slitting the blood-soaked back of his tunic from hem to collar with a thin knife. Watching the cloth peel back, Rúmil cringed at the horrendous wounds lacerating the dark-haired warrior’s flesh.
The warg had torn his back to bloody shreds and already his skin looked flushed, felt hot to the touch; the venom worked quickly.
Unable to watch his friend writhe and moan anymore, Orophin rose and disappeared for several hours, later returning with three hares slung over one shoulder.
Busying their hands, Ancadal, Orophin and Rúmil skinned and cleaned them whilst Déorian built a fire of gathered tamarack which would burn clean with little smoke. Fedorian kept watch beside Rameil.
Grateful for a hot meal, the elves gathered close to the fire. They ate in silence, never moving save when Déorian tossed another billet of pine on the fire to keep it burning, there were no stories or knife-throwing contests now. A sombre mood had overtaken them.
Rúmil ate mechanically; his body realizing that he needed food, his mind not quite caught up yet. He kept stealing glances into the darkness around him, his eyes unfocused and distant. Hearing a soft moan, he shook himself from his thoughts and let his eyes alight on the twisting form of Rameil, feeling his heart clench.
Their supplies had dwindled steadily and in the way of medicines, were terribly meager- much had been ruined or lost by the rain and their dash near the cliffs. Fedorian sat gravely back on his heels, his eyes dark and troubled as he rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. If the dark-haired soldier did not improve by morning, they would not be able to go on.
“Rúmil, what is the matter?” Ancadal asked of his friend who had been motionlessly bent over his makeshift bed of larch needles for longer than seemed necessary.
“I-I don’t know,” the younger elf said, his brow wrinkled. “Something’s wrong.”
“I feel it as well,” Orophin said grimly, his voice sounding oddly strained as they let the fire burn out.
“Get some sleep,” they heard Fedorian’s disembodied voice say softly.
Slowly, they settled down in the darkness, one by one drifting off. Rúmil rolled over on his pine-needle bed, his heart troubled. Whatever he had felt remained like a lingering shadow at the corner of his vision. Turning over on his side, he watched the smouldering embers of their fire dimly illuminate the commander’s hard-edged face. He sat next to Rameil’s ashen form, touching his cheek and soaking a rag with water from his dwindling flask to press over the fevered brow. With this last vision in his sight, Rúmil slipped into sleep…
A hand suddenly closed about his shoulder and jerked him upwards. Still half-asleep, Rúmil fought weakly against the almost painful grip but whatever held him had a grasp of steel which the scout could not break. His assailant dragged him by the tunic neck into the deep darkness out of sight of the others.
Thrown roughly up against a tree trunk, Rúmil scarcely had time to gasp for breath before he found himself looking- and dropping his eyes away from- his commander’s burning glare.
“Disregard my orders again and I will kill you myself,” he snarled in a low, furious tone. “Your foolishness today did not save him and you could have gotten yourself killed!”
“Sir, I-” Rúmil tried to defend himself.
“Silence!” Fedorian snapped, drowning the other’s words out. “You are a fool, youngling, if you think you can save everyone! You are under my command and follow my orders as I give them. That is what you have been trained to do.”
Defensive in the face of this unfair diatribe, Rúmil did not hold back his anger. “You would have left a man to die! I did what I thought needed to be done- what I thought was right! You cannot fault me for that!”
“Were it not for your error, Rameil might not have been hurt!” Fedorian’s fury overrode his and Rúmil lapsed into stricken silence.
Slowly Fedorian stepped back, inhaling deeply. “Think on that.”
Without another word, he walked away, leaving the younger elf thoroughly dismissed with a sick feeling of shame in the pit of his stomach. He questioned himself bitterly now. How could he have been so foolish to think he could have saved the Haradrim soldier? Why had he felt the need to try? Looking back on his actions, he realized how stupid he had been. And what it had cost… Even though he had finished with Fedorian’s tutelage years ago, any sign of disapproval from his former mentor stung horribly.
With heavy tread and a heavier heart, he walked back to camp. He hesitatingly looked across the clearing where Ancadal kept watch at Rameil’s side, his eyes flickering briefly over the captain’s empty sleeping place before he sat down in the cool grass and leaned his back against a tree, resting his forehead against the rough bark.
Sleep eluded him.
Restless, he rose and slipped quietly from camp, unmarked by any eyes. He had no tools with which to do the deed but he would see it done.
With a little careful searching, he found it: the Haradrim lay where he had fallen, still and lifeless. With toil, the Lórien soldier managed to build a small pile of sweet-smelling pine branches, dead and dry. Setting the man’s cloven helm at his feet and wrapping his stiff brown fingers about the hilt of his pitted weapon, Rúmil laid the man upon the branches.
Covering over the body with the last bits of pine, he prayed the wolves would leave it as he stepped back to return to his fellows.
“Why do you care so?” The voice startled the younger elf who had worked long in silence.
“Orophin.”
His brother stepped into the moonlight, his brow furrowed in puzzlement and perhaps a little irritation. “Why care you for a slain enemy?”
Rúmil looked away from his brother’s piercing stare and across the road dappled in moon shadows. “You remember, my brother, when we were children- you were my playfellow. You and I and Haldir would race about the trees, waving our stick swords as though we were the greatest warriors who had ever lived! All the vermin of Morgoth fled before our faces!” He laughed as he spoke and yet his eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
His clear eyes fell to the grave at his feet. “His play-brother will grieve tonight.”
Orophin said nothing, following his younger brother’s gaze. Wordlessly, he placed a hand on Rúmil’s shoulder.
Dark eyes marked them as the elves passed away into the stillness, leaving the moon-shrouded tomb to the night.
~*~

A stout coil of rope wound about his chest, keeping him effectively immobile against the tree girth. Another shorter coil bound his wrists together. They creaked as he shifted uncomfortably. His back felt as though it had molded itself to the bark contours. A dank-smelling hood fastened over his face hid the stars from his sight as well. Despite his blindness, it still felt like night to him for he could see nothing but the inner blackness of the hood and the grass felt damp under his fingertips.
Tergon had left him some hours ago to return to his duties, and the elf missed his presence. The young guard had been relieved by two silent sentinels that would guard him until dawn. He could see them blearily: indistinct dark shapes through the cloth. He could sense their gazes upon him every once in a while and they spoke in low whispers to one another to pass the time.
For hours, he had sat in the dark and damp. His face still hurt from where Ramir had struck him and blood had dried over his split lip. The tight bonds pinched his wrists and endless questions raced through his mind, snatching sleep away from him though his body cried out for it.
Who had killed the other guard? One of the Haradrim? Somehow, he didn’t think so. The dark men of Harad were not known for risking their lives for others than themselves… But, he knew whoever had would not have the courage to reveal themselves. The tenuousness of his position was not lost on him. As a suspected enemy, now prisoner of war, he could hope for little mercy as Ramir had darkly hinted.
Even on such a cool night the hood stifled him and the bark dug into his back as he stirred restlessly again.
“You’d do better to try and sleep,” one of the guards grumbled down at him, irritated by the elf’s ceaseless movements. He was tired and dawn was yet long off.
“Anaric’s talking about moving out soon,” his companion muttered, leaning on his javelin. “Soon as the scouts come back with the reports.”
“‘Bout time,” the first man growled, his eyes darting over the trees hissing overhead. “I’m sick of this wood. Everywhere I look I see the darkies watching us from those trees.”
“Bah! You’re tired and seeing things.”
“Mebbe and mebbe not. I tell you the longer we stay here, the worse it gets. It just keeps getting worse- that’s all it is. The ambush last night- uncanny I call it. Not natural. It’s as though they were waiting for us… knew we were there…”
“Cease that kind of talk! You’re raising the hair on my arms.”
Haldir listened for a while but slowly, he drifted away, his thoughts meandering into a dark river of rushing waters where silver leaves whirled in eddies and rushed away into shadow…
The hood jerked away from his face and Haldir woke with a start, half-blinded by a torch suddenly thrust in his face.
“Get him up. Hurry- we don’t want to be seen,” a voice hissed. Haldir felt the ropes around his chest shift a bit then loosen. As he blinked the popping purple lights from his vision, Haldir was able to see who stood over him. Chagrin bristled through him at letting them catch him unaware.
Ramir leaned over him, a torch in his hand. Five others scattered about him, indistinct faces in the dark. Haldir turned to his right where a man knelt, loosening the ropes. By the look on his face, Haldir could tell they weren’t here to free him. Then his face darkened as he realized that the man carried Cálivien’s saber strapped to his side.
The one untying him shot him a sharp look and smiled at the elf’s dangerous glare. “This is a fine blade- I’ve never seen the like before. And will be proud to own it,” the man patted the deep polished hilt, grinning.
The ropes loose enough, Haldir lunged and caught the man’s jaw sharply with his head. The man’s mouth snapped shut like a window slamming and he fell over backwards, cursing and spitting blood from a bitten tongue.
One of his companions laughed at him. “That’ll teach you, Baranir. Keep your lip buttoned.”
Haldir shot a look at the speaker. These were not men of Gondor. Mercenaries, more than likely with Gondorian forces wearing thin throughout the war. They dressed in green and brown tunics and carried worn, sharp blades. Way-hardened men who had traveled the wilds most of their lives, accustomed to sleeping on the ground and doing as their will wished it. They had been hit hardest last night by the attackers.
Ramir stared down at the elf, his face white, dark eyes glittering with pinpricks of amber as the torchlight shadowed his rough-edged face. “You know where they hide.”
Haldir hated looking up into the man’s eyes. Tall himself, he was not accustomed to looking up into the eyes of others. And having to reminded him far too much of his former imprisonment. But he did not look away from the man’s pale gaze, reticent to grant the submission such an act would require.
“I know nothing. You conjure my faults so you do have to feel neither the guilty burden of the dead nor the blame for failure,” Haldir snapped, his toleration for this treatment utterly broken.
Haldir tensed for the blow; the force when it smote his cheek snapped his head viciously to one side.
“Don’t try your tricks on me, elf. You lie!” Ramir snarled, his fist drawn back again. The elf’s words stung. Stung badly. For they were, in part, true. The second in command hated the guilt and blame his own lack of attention had granted him. His friends’ and brother’s deaths lay heavily on his shoulders and he longed to purge that guilt and finally be able to act.
“I don’t have time for mind games. Anaric might not be willing to bend the rules a bit. But I am.” A sinister smile passed across his face. “Let’s continue our little chat in private, shall we?” The smile fell from his face, replaced by a look of ice.
“Get him up.”
Baranir and another seized the elf under the arms and pulled him up, quickly fastening his arms in front of him with cord that cut into the elf’s flesh like wire.
They dragged him hurriedly out of the light of any fire though Ramir kept his torch close to handA path of crushed undergrowth wound through the trees for fifty yards or so- just out of sight of camp. The near-invisible trail had obviously been walked a time or two before this hour.
A sick cold dread dropped into Haldir’s stomach as his eyes adjusted almost instantly to the deep darkness. Where were they taking him?
Leaves rustled overhead, the trees clamoring warnings and fears to the elf’s ears, prickling the hairs on the nape of his neck. The trail ended abruptly in a little clearing. Empty- save for the dead tree trunk hewn that afternoon; white splinters gleamed like shards of bone in the moonlight.
One of the men shoved him forward roughly. Haldir stumbled but quickly regained his balance, half-turning but Ramir’s sheathed sword cracked against the back of the elf’s legs, dropping him beside the old trunk. Haldir gasped at the sharp pain that rocketed up his side and shoulder, ignoring the dull throb in his knees.
Two of the men grabbed his shoulders while a third stood over him with a drawn knife glinting. Moving swiftly, Baranir seized the cord that bound the prisoner’s wrists and stapled it deeply into the wood of the sawn trunk, driving the u-shaped piece of metal home with a small mallet, forcing the elf to remain on his knees.
Ramir gave him a sideways smirk from where he stood watching.
“Now, we’ll get some proper answers,” he growled, his lips close to the elf’s ear. He flicked something lazily against his thigh- which Haldir realized with a sinking feeling was a long switch newly cut from a rosebush.
He inhaled sharply to ready himself. He held no illusions. He knew exactly what kind of interrogation this was going to be.
But that knowledge did not prevent his hands from shaking.
He had tasted the lash before if not one quite like this. And the memory of it still lay heavily on him. Turning his face from the men, he took a deep breath to try to calm himself, to force his thoughts away from what he knew would happen. But he was so tired. Chafing helplessness and fear battered against his weariness. Already, maintaining his stony indifference had become difficult- even before the implement touched him.
Ramir swallowed tightly as he circled around the other side of the elf. His pale eyes narrowed slightly as he carefully watched the prisoner, making sure the staple was embedded deeply enough. He paused a moment, reflecting, wondering if he could do this. As much as he knew the elf deserved it, he wasn’t accustomed to torturing prisoners- such methods were not condoned in Gondor; and Ramir in all his years of service had witnessed only a handful of times when such measures had to be used.
But Gondor was far and Ramir had been pushed far beyond his tolerance in the past few days. The thought of his brother’s broken, blood-matted body he had buried that morning. And the memory of what had happened at Calen still burned behind his eyes. Those memories strengthened his resolve as he forced himself to calmness.
“You sided with those filthy darkies,” he accused. “We all know it, don’t we gentlemen?”
The mercenaries nodded their grim agreement. They had formed a tight semi-circle around the prisoner, fingering knives and sword hilts. Flat and hard, their eyes bored into the elf. He could feel their gazes on him and anger and fear both seized his chest in a constrictor’s crushing grip.
“Our commander would rather you starve to death before he gets blood on his hands. So, we’re going to do him a bit of a favor. And, it’s that simple,” Ramir laughed forcedly, wrapping a strip of cloth around the switch’s thicker end so he wouldn’t cut himself on the long thorns, gleaming dead and wicked in the sparse moonlight.
He knelt next to the prisoner’s head. “I’m going to ask you questions and you’re going to answer them, all right? This could be really easy or it can be really hard, elf. That choice I leave in your hands. The repercussions of silence, I think you know.” He dangled the lash in his prisoner’s face to accent his point. He almost hoped the elf would be stubborn and not answer. To his mind, it was long since time someone took the initiative and taught this one a lesson. His brother and every other good soldier that had died last night would finally be avenged.
And he would see it done.
He leaned forward and took a knife to the elf’s tunic, slitting the fabric up the front. He pulled the slashed garment over the elf’s head, leaving his trapped arms looped through the sleeves to avoid having to unbind him. The man’s eyes lingered a moment on the bandages that covered the ragged hole in the elf’s still-healing shoulder. His grip on the cloth handle tightened in anticipation.
Haldir closed his eyes.
“Hey, what’s this?” a voice asked suddenly. A cold finger traced an unsteady path along one shoulder blade; Haldir flinched away from the contact, stopped sharply by his bonds.
He made no answer.
He knew perfectly well what the man was referring to. Knew without seeing that the weals still stood out against his flesh as though he had received them hours ago instead of weeks. He bet there were a few splinters he had missed too…
Ramir frowned, noticing how the elf refused to raise his head and meet their eyes.
“So this happened before,” he said softly, realizing. His keen gaze caught sight of a meticulously placed line of stitches along one side of the smooth elven skin. Slowly, he knelt again, looking upwards to try to catch a glimpse of the elf’s eyes.
Haldir said nothing, his silver gaze staring dead ahead, schooling his countenance to utter impassivity.
Ramir stared at him a long moment, his eyes darting down to the elf’s bound hands which shook uncontrollably. Noticing his gaze, but still without looking at the man, Haldir clenched his fingers into fists to try to still their trembling, the ropes creaking.
“You’ve been hurt before.” Standing, Ramir leaned again over the elf’s back, examining the lash marks. “By a proper whip too by the looks of it. You don’t learn too well do you, elf? What‘d you do?”
Ghosts of the past taunted him with resounding words he still heard in his nightmares. How does it feel to be completely at my mercy? Helpless? Vulnerable? Tell me... Haldir shook his head, keeping his eyes still facing the trees. “I have done nothing other than give help where perhaps it was not needed.”
Ramir’s jaw tightened and the lash snapped suddenly forward.
A line of fire erupted from his left shoulder blade to the middle of his back; Haldir hissed between his teeth but managed to keep his silence.
“Now, I know you’re lying. I don’t even know why you insist you’re telling the truth- we held the Haradrim witch you traveled with. You tried to run and we caught you and now you’re in a tight spot. Telling the truth will get you farther by now, elf. Maybe if you give us the answers we want, Anaric might even set you free.”
Haldir knew this game well. And he also knew that nothing he could say at this point would ever free him. Ramir knew that. “I know nothing of what you seek and cannot answer your questions. So then what can I tell you? You fear your enemy and yet you waste your efforts on me when you could be searching for them,” he gritted out, knowing how well his bold words would be taken.
Predictably, another sharp strike gouged three thin lines from right shoulder to spine, the thorns slicing in deep. Inhaling sharply, Haldir swallowed the pain, forcing it back. He felt the familiar fear gnawing at his insides.
“Don’t presume to speak so boldly to me of what I must and must not do, elf.”
Haldir did not cringe. He would not give them that power over him. Straightening his shoulders as much as his bonds would allow, he raised his head and met his captor’s eyes squarely.
Ramir glared right back at him, staring him down. They locked eyes, both unblinking. Suddenly, the man flinched and looked away, striking sharply out with the switch, catching the elf across the face. “Your demon eyes won’t work on me, elf!” His voice cracked.
He didn’t understand how this creature could make him so… afraid but there was something in those eyes… a hidden power he couldn’t comprehend, a deep weight of memory and sorrow that made him feel as though the elf could see through his skin. Through muscle and bone. Heart and emotion, reading him as easily as the cover of a book. And that sense of vulnerability made him furious.
The sharp strike that followed cut a little too close to the stitches in his side and Haldir instinctively jerked away from it.
He clenched his fingers tightly, keenly aware of the eyes that watched him as his body tensed. He lowered his head until the strands that had worked loose of their braids fell forward over his shoulders, providing a flaxen curtain for him to hide behind. He would not let these men see his pain; he had let that happen once… the shame of it had not yet left him and he determined that it would not happen again.
Ramir watched the elf intently, searching for a chink in that formidable armor. What had this creature done that he seemed so… accustomed to pain? What could possibly make him so damn well-guarded? He waited patiently for the pain to wear away a little of that defensive guard as he worked the lashes he’d already inflicted on the elf’s back, feeling immense satisfaction that this animal was finally getting what he deserved.
Haldir squeezed his eyes shut as the lash plied his shoulders, trying in vain to steady his breathing. He did not like losing control like this. He could not afford to lose control like this. But he knew he was losing the battle. Every muscle in his body tightened as the human swung the bloody thorn-switch before his eyes.
“This can all be over, elf, if you only tell us what we want to know,” Ramir said soothingly. “Where are they? What direction did they head in?” he plied him with questions now, hoping the pain had been sufficient enough to erode a little of that daunting stone wall thrown up over the elf’s implacable features.
But the men had not even brushed the surface of what the elf could endure. He had known far worse than this and Haldir remained silent, concentrating on steadying his ragged breathing, head still lowered beneath the protection of his hair.
Ramir cocked his head. A beat of silence passed. “Who hurt you?”
The abrupt switching of tactics threw the elf off-guard and he opened his eyes before the vivid image of a haunting dark gaze could pierce his, before he heard that wicked, hissing voice in his mind again that he still could not forget in his dreams.
Being bound as a prisoner among the Gondorians was not the only reason Haldir did not sleep at night.
That time in Mirkwood was over now, he knew that. But he could not forget…
You will learn that a thing does not have to be sharp in order to hurt.
He did not allow himself an answer, keeping that pain locked deep inside him where none could see it. None would ever see it; he could not allow it. Pain rippled across his back again and cut deep; this time he could not keep back a soft moan, shifting more violently in his bonds. The ropes groaned, almost apologetically, as though asking forgiveness from the fair creature they held ensnared.
Slowly, the human reached forward and brushed the golden hair away from that no-longer-expressionless face, knowing very well what the elf was doing. “You can’t hide, Haldir.”
Haldir stiffened at the sound of his name.
His heart sank like a stone in his chest. As long as he had remained unknown, he could pretend he was somewhere else, that the elf this was happening to was not he. Another… unimportant… while he drifted away, walking under the soft shade of his mellyrn. But that false reality crashed around him like shattered glass.
They knew him now.
At last! A reaction. Ramir smiled privately in triumph, silently thanking Tergon for telling him the prisoner’s name. “Yes, Haldir. I know who you are.”
He circled around the elf again, pausing at his shoulder. “So, men hurt you before. Now, you think by siding with our enemies you can get your revenge, is that it? You feel you can kill as many innocent as you like just so you don’t have to face pain anymore, right?” The whip raked another bloody line across his back.
“No…” Haldir ground out, a gasp catching in the back of his throat.
One of the hooked barbs caught and tore at his side, ripping the stitches mercilessly. Haldir bit his tongue to keep back a scream as blood slowly rolled down his side in a deepening crimson stream. He shuddered deeply, rocking slowly in his bonds as the lash jarred him forward again, licking at the back of his neck.
“Is your pain so great you’d rather see innocent men- men like my brother- die? Do you matter more than they? You’re not worth a single one of the men that died last night.” The lash fell harder and harder, digging deep, bloody scores in the elf’s back, the man’s anger beginning to master him.
Haldir shut his eyes tight and kept himself bent over his bound hands as the pain began to draw more and more of a reaction out of his weary, protesting body.
“And you’re scared. I know it. I can see it.”
The pain was quickly becoming unbearable under the weight of the man’s words. He did not like this. Ramir was delving into things he had no right to dig through, bringing up painful experiences Haldir had no desire to relive. Haldir shut his eyes against the pain and the memories, one blending with the other until Ramir grasped him under the chin, forcing his eyes up.
“You’re frightened of us.”
Haldir jerked his head out of the loathsome man’s grasp, fighting desperately to keep his control. “I know creatures worth true fear, human, do not flatter yourself.”
Another cut drew blood along his spine.
Despite his proud words, Haldir was afraid. Not of the men precisely though he himself could not have differentiated between the pain and the ones administering it. They would hurt him as surely as his own kind had.
Another searing stroke was dealt to his back, slow, deliberately painful. Ramir would have his vengeance and he would enjoy it too. But already it was growing too much. Haldir felt awareness waver in his grasp.
“Hey, careful, mate. You’re going to kill him,” a man carrying a crossbow jauntily in the crook of his arm spoke up, his face white in the moonlight.
“Elves are hard to kill, Garen,” Ramir answered gruffly. “This one’s got a lot to pay for.”
Unexpectedly, Baranir spoke up. “Come on, Ramir. Let up now. You’ve made your point- and it’ll be light soon. The last thing we want is your commander looking for us. He was already asking too many questions.”
With a frustrated growl, Ramir flicked the switch at his prisoner one last time, and slowly lowered his arm, breathing raggedly. “All right. Get him back to camp.”
Too full of pain to feel relief, Haldir let his head sink slowly between his shoulders to rest on his bound, bloodied hands.
~*~

The young soldier of Lórien exhaled softly. Morning had come, predicated by a gradual lightening of the pall of dark clouds overhead. The low cover rolling in from the east threatened a renewal of the rain a few nights ago. As though the sky echoed his thoughts, or his thoughts the sky, Rúmil walked with his head cast down, his heart heavy.
His commander had not even glanced at him since last night. Not a word, a look of… anything. By now, Rúmil would have gladly welcomed his ridicule, his disdain- anything other than this cold, disappointed silence. But it wasn’t just that that bothered the elven soldier.
A darkness shadowed his heart.
He himself could not explain it but he felt it nevertheless. Something lurked at the edges of his inner vision, a premonition of something… Catching a concerned look from his brother, Rúmil lifted his head and tried a smile that felt very forced on his lips. He looked quickly away from Orophin and dropped back to walk with Ancadal and Déorian who carried Rameil between them.
The dark-haired elf had been thankfully stable enough to carry by morning but he could not walk so the elves took it in pairs to carry him on a makeshift litter of their cloaks lashed to pine branches. Rúmil felt a renewed sense of guilt looking down at his friend’s pale face. He could find no peace of mind today and he shook his head with a sigh.
“What troubles you?” Déorian’s voice broke his brooding and Rúmil gave him the same false-cheery smile he had given his brother.
“Nothing.”
“And dragons breathe clouds of dandelions. Your face will bring on the rain, my friend,” Déorian’s attempted lightness brought a small reluctant smile to Rúmil’s lips. He wondered if any others had marked what had happened last night and his shameful castigation. If they did, they gave no sign. Hastily turning his eyes elsewhere, Rúmil stared ahead at his brother’s back.
But Déorian would not be deterred. “Well?”
“It is nothing, mellon nin. Please.”
Ancadal shifted the litter gingerly to ease the ache in his arm while trying not to jostle its occupant overmuch. “I give it an hour,” he muttered, changing the subject for Rúmil’s sake.
“What?” Rúmil asked blankly, snapping out of his thoughts.
“So soon? We’re wagering on how long it will take your brother to drive Fedorian to madness,” Déorian grinned with a wink at the younger elf as he jerked his head towards the argument that was quickly growing heated between the two.
They all laughed heartily, the first in what felt like a long time.
Towards mid-afternoon, the threatening rain finally fell, a light spittle only that served to make everything damp and uncomfortable. Orophin and Déorian set Rameil’s litter under the shadow of an old ragged pine whose thin spines dripped and gleamed with misty droplets. The tracks they had been following were already a day old and the rain would fade them considerably. A fleet runner, Déorian had gone on ahead to scout the terrain before them.
The track they had been following had split asunder and petered off into the woodlands; the Haradrim had split their forces though for what purpose, the elves did not know.
Rúmil knelt worriedly beside his wounded friend. “How do you feel, mellon nin?” he asked, his voice soft with concern, brushing a gentle hand over the clammy brow.
Rameil smiled weakly, his eyes glassy, unfocused, wandering. “Fit as ever. If only my legs would move…”
“He’s delirious,” Ancadal put in solemnly, crouched at his friend’s other side. “He drifts.”
They had scavenged what little they could find in the ways of herbs among the brush of the dry needle floor. It was not enough. Rameil’s condition continued to worsen, his skin an ashy grey. The wounds on his back had become terribly inflamed. He needed help and soon.
Rúmil sat beside Rameil’s litter tiredly, leaning his back against the damp trunk of the pine. With every passing day, their hope waned. With every passing day, it seemed less likely that Haldir still lived. Even now in the lengthening dusk, he could be lying lifeless in the dust, grey mist shrouds sweeping over him.
Rúmil shook the image from his mind firmly. They would find him. They had to. He looked up as Déorian raced into camp, speaking in a low urgent tone to their commander who nodded and stood.
“On your heels, troop. Save you, Rúmil, stay with Rameil.”
Disappointed curiosity burning in him, Rúmil sullenly sat under the tree and awaited his friends’ return.
They were not gone long.
A fleet runner, Déorian had come back with news of a party of men traveling close at hand who had halted for the rain deepening dusk.
“Scores of little tents and flickering torches- must be close to an hundred of them! Many men move among them- they bear winged helms and shields of silver-pointed stars.”


Chapter 8 - Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight: Walking Through the Fire

The ragged shreds of his tunic hid the violence of last night, dried blood concealed by dark cloth. Haldir’s head sagged against his breast, neck stiff, but he dared not move to get comfortable. The javelin pierced his side anew every time he tried, a sharp, biting pain that refused to abate. He couldn’t move his left arm, the arrow wound having swollen through care given too late.

Heavy footsteps reached his ears, pounding through his already aching head. With difficulty, he managed to raise it, tensing instinctively as a figure leaned over him.

Ramir crouched beside the elf and began unlooping the cords that kept him bound to the tree. Haldir closed his eyes. The man was not someone the elf wanted to see just now.

Ramir glared at the elf as he jerked him to his feet. “C’mon. The captain wants to see you.”

Anaric stood within a small tent, bent over a map spread over a tree stump. When the soldier entered with his prisoner, his dark eyes turned towards them and stared down at his captive’s bruised face. He said nothing for a long moment. This his eyes turned on Ramir who stood behind the elf. “Leave us.”

Ramir didn’t move. “If it’s all the same, sir, he gave some trouble. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“As you will, Ramir. But just outside if you please.” Anaric’s gaze was cool as he stared unwaveringly at his subordinate.

Silence passed a moment as the soldier stepped through the tent flap.

"If you are going to question me, I shall save you time for you are wasting your breath,” Haldir said. “I cannot give you any answers." The effort of speaking hurt too much.

"I am not going to question you."

Haldir looked up. "Do not play games with me. Why would you speak to me if not to question me?"

Anaric sighed deeply and bent down, taking his flask from his belt. “Clear water, taken this morning from the stream. Drink.” He set it down at the elf’s side and actually untied the bonds behind the elf. Gradually, Haldir loosened the stiff muscles in his back and shoulders, trying not to flinch as the fresh lashes chafed against his tunic. He was glad for the reprieve.

Haldir flexed his fingers gingerly. "What do you want then?"

“You should drink that. It would do you good.” The man nodded at the decanter sitting on the ground. Haldir ignored it. He had neither eaten nor drunk anything in more than three days but he would accept nothing from these men. He didn’t trust them enough for that.

Anaric sighed and slowly paced back to the tree stump where the map lay, a frown deepening the creases in his weather worn brow. Haldir, following the man’s gaze, noticed little red figures carven of wood upon the map, scattered along the range of hills near the Anduin.

“Valar, this war!” the man sighed deeply after a silence. “I hate it, Haldir. Does that surprise you?” He glanced down at the elf. “We have been fighting for so long, I don’t think anyone remembers what we’re fighting against anymore. And in the brief moments of respite, we kiss our wives, embrace our children, and find ourselves scarred and covered in the blood of our enemies.”

He shook his head and set the map aside, taking a seat on the stump, rubbing his temples. “I am so tired of it.”

Haldir straightened his shoulders a little, trying not to wince as pain flared in his back. Why was the man telling him this? He remained suspicious, seeking deception in the man’s face.

“Such death among my men has not been seen in some time. And I know we were betrayed.” His eyes glinted. He didn’t seem to notice his prisoner anymore. “None of our enemies could have slipped past our perimeter like that without aid.”

His gaze drifted towards the entrance flap where he could just see men rising in the damp morning light, starting up cooking fires for an early breakfast, tacking horses or oiling weapons. “Day by day my men lose hope. Lose courage. This endless war saps their strength more than any enemy’s poison. Fear is high. Distrust more so. It turns friend against friend, brother against brother.”

A man suddenly ducked under the tent flap, removing the hood of his cloak as he saluted his captain, taking no notice of the prisoner nearly at his feet. He was red-faced and breathing heavily. “Sir, I traveled along the river for two days. A day’s ride on I found fresh water and high wooded hills—a ridge cuts through them on the east side. There is good game there. And the fresh tracks of the enemy.”

“Good.” Anaric nodded his approval. “Have you heard aught of Belrager and Cather?”

“No, sir.”

Anaric pursed his lips. “We can’t wait for them. If we delay any longer, we may find ourselves on the brunt of another assault,” Anaric said, his eyes flickering to his elven prisoner briefly. “To horse.”

The scout bowed and quickly exited. Ramir entered when his captain called to him. “Get the men ready. We depart in an hour.”

~*~

Fire embers flickered upwards, winking amber in the dusky light. The sky above deepened in hue to a dark cerulean as the sun sank below the ridge line. It was dim in the narrow cleft save where campfires dotted the landscape. The Gondorians had halted between two climbing wooded slopes, finding a clean watercourse that cut downwards from the hills rising above them and plenty of game birds and waterfowl.

The memory of the sun burnt his sweat-lathered back. It was not the sweat of exertion either. It might not even have been sweat. Haldir closed his eyes and let his shoulders slump in exhaustion. Wearily, he gazed around the camp, watching soldiers move back and forth past him.

The men were troubled. They had found two scouts on the path that day, throats cut. Now in the gathering dark, they milled restlessly, unquiet and anxious.

Tergon glanced at the figure, bound and hobbled. A stake driven into the ground kept the elf on his knees—as one would picket a horse. Haldir had not moved in some time and the man wondered if he slept yet or had simply passed out. Lank tendrils of golden hair framed his face from sight. They had ridden long and the elf had been forced to run every step of the way. Even after he fell and the horse dragged him, he managed to fight to his feet. The soldier of Gondor could not help admiring the strength of the elf; and his conscience ached that he had done little yet to help him.

“What keeps you in such deep thought tonight, soldier?”

Tergon started, not realizing his commander had stolen up on him. He looked up into Anaric’s dark eyes and shrugged, glancing at the fire. “Nothing really, sir.”

Anaric looked over at the elf where he noticed his soldier’s eyes had lingered. “He is an inconvenience at best. Should we find our quarry, perhaps we will be able to return him.”

The other soldier pondered the several layers of meaning behind those words then found himself unable to keep from voicing his doubts aloud. Long he had trusted and confided in his captain. “Sir… what—what if he were telling the truth? What if he was innocent?”

Anaric sighed, as though he had expected such questions. “That would take a great leap of faith. Evidence is heavy against him.”

“Just, for the sake of argument, then.”

“Even if he were, he knows too much now. He knows the strength of our numbers, the location of our camp. We could not risk letting him fall into enemy hands.”

“And yet we needn’t keep him tied so like a criminal.” Tergon chose his words carefully. “This… treatment is…is cruel, sir.”

Anaric stared at his subordinate and Tergon, meeting his eyes, wondered if he had suddenly overstepped his bounds. Then the commander looked towards the figure again. “Don’t you think cruelty can be warranted at times? To preserve what we hold dear—men have to die—that’s the way of war. And you know that. But, perhaps, a few may be saved if we are a little cruel.”

“But we don’t even know if he’s guilty or not.”

“It is better to be wary and live than to be wrong and die. What is cruel, Tergon, is the senseless slaughter of the babes and women at Calen. What is cruel is that I must return to Gondor with the names of more dead husbands, fathers and brothers to give women already grieving their sons.” Anaric responded. “You have a good heart, boy. But you have to harden yourself.”

Tergon opened his mouth to reply but Anaric cut him short.

“Take the next watch near the trees. Notify me if any pursuit is seen—even a flicker that might indicate a torch.”

Dismissed, Tergon dutifully saluted and walked away from the fire’s light, casting one last glance at the pale figure dim in the darkening night.

~*~

Dark oaks marched downslope towards a narrow defile as the wind whipped the leafy tops back and forth. A cold stream on the right dwindled into the shadows where it eventually joined the Silverlode leaping from the mountains. Déorian followed its path idly with his eyes. They were close to Lothlórien now, having swept wide past the cliffs where they had battled the orcs. Not many leagues lay between them and the northernmost borders. He could feel it in his bones.

Below in the shadowy defile, flames sprang up.

“Well, they’re making our job a lot easier,” Déorian remarked to himself narrowing his eyes against the wind at the small forms of the men silhouetted against the fires. The elf watched a moment longer before slipping silently back to his fellows.

As he stepped into the dark clearing, he heard Rúmil speak. “Sir, permission to scout ahead.”

Fedorian half-shrugged as he rubbed bee wax over his bowstring. “Do as you please, my orders aren’t enough to keep you here.”

Rúmil muffled an exasperated sigh and looked up as Déorian walked towards him. “What did you see?”

“Fire,” the elven tracker responded evasively.

Bounding out of the small depression they rested in, Rúmil could see the fire lights for himself and his keen vision swiftly picked out the small figures moving before them but he was too far away to make out faces. Moving lightly and quickly downhill, the elven soldier crept almost to their perimeter, dropping to a crouch in a bed of high-growing ferns.

He twisted his head around to scan his surroundings, listening intently. No one was nearby and he hadn’t been seen. Shouldering his bow, he stalked forward, slipping silently through the long grass as all of his training had drilled into him long ago. Men’s faces stood clearly out in the darkness now, eating and drinking over roasting meat, others pulled off their boots gratefully preparing to bed down.

Sudden voices met his ears and the elf dropped quickly out of sight, flattening himself to the ground, grasping the short handle of the knife in his belt. Raising his head cautiously, he peered over the rustling grasses. Two sentinels were moving slowly towards him, their voices drifting to his ears. He could not understand what they were saying but he marked them well.

The man furthest from him carried a crossbow loosely against one shoulder, a bolt ready but undrawn. The other was a lithe man with greasy shoulder-length hair. As Rúmil examined his weapons, his eyes widened and every muscle in his body coiled.

The man wore Haldir’s sword.

But he dared not move. Even though they were only two and he had the element of surprise, he remembered his rashness of the day before and willed himself to stillness. They passed nearly above him, the greasy-haired man stopped only a pace away from the elf who could have reached out and swiftly taken back his brother’s sword.

But he waited until they dwindled into the shadows.

Filled with worry and anger, he wriggled quickly out of sight and raced back to where his companions awaited him.

“I’ve found him!”

Orophin rose to his feet, heedless of the newly-made arrow tumbling from his lap. “What? Where?”

Rúmil faltered. “Well, I didn’t exactly see him. But one of the men carries his sword—I would recognize it anywhere.”

“Let’s go.” Orophin was already at his brother’s side when Fedorian’s voice stopped them.

“No. We are all weary tonight. We cannot risk an attack unless we’ve rested first. If Haldir is still alive down there, we can only hope they will keep him alive a little longer.” Fedorian raised his eyes to Rúmil’s face. “What are their numbers?”

Rúmil shrugged. “I’m not sure. Many. I saw many fires.”

Fedorian shook his head. “That’s not good enough. We can’t just saunter in there without knowing their numbers and have at least some basis of a plan. Eat and sleep on it.” His statement brooked no argument and Rúmil sat down defeatedly as Déorian handed him his rationed meal and took up watch at the edge of camp.

“We will get him back.” Rúmil didn’t look up as his brother sat next to him.

A small smile flitted across his face. “And then I’ll kill him—I ruined my good boots chasing him through that cursed ravine.”

Orophin laughed and Rúmil’s smile widened a little though he could not shake the worry that clouded his mind.

Fedorian caught the younger elf’s eye and jerked his head towards the trees, indicating he wished to speak to him alone.

Puzzled and wondering if he was going to be reprimanded again, Rúmil laid his finished meal aside and followed after his commander.

“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” he asked cautiously after they had walked for several minutes in silence.

Fedorian slowed his pace and stared ahead into the trees. “I need to know that I can count on you to follow my orders.”

Rúmil stopped dead in disbelief. “What? Of course you can, sir. I—”

Fedorian raised a hand. “That’s all I need to know.”

Rúmil did not speak, staring at his mentor. How could Fedorian believe he couldn’t be trusted in the field? One mistake and his ability to follow orders was called into question?

Fedorian must have seen something of his thoughts in his subordinate’s face for he sighed. “I do not reprimand you to humiliate you. And I do not do it because I see you as incompetent. And I certainly don’t do it for sadistic pleasure.”

Rúmil did not smile.

“Despite what you might think, I do actually care for my men—even Déorian,” a brief shadow of a smile crooked the commander’s lips. But his expression quickly sobered. “And too many of them have died already—my failure on the ridge proved that.”

He leveled a very serious gaze on the younger elf. “I want you to understand that. I don’t want to send another brooch and folded cloak to your eldest brother when we get him back.”

Rúmil bowed his head until his commander unexpectedly clasped his shoulder; and he looked up into Fedorian’s green eyes.

“I trust you, Rúmil. Implicitly. But if this doesn’t work… if we should be overwhelmed…” Fedorian stared into his face. “I need to know.”

Rúmil straightened his shoulders and fixed his eyes at a point over his commander’s shoulder, responding in precise military fashion. “You can count on me, sir.”

“Good.” Fedorian released him. “Get some sleep.”

Rúmil avoided his brother’s questioning eyes when he returned and wrapped himself in his cloak. Surprisingly, sleep quickly claimed him.

It seemed he had slept only moments before he was woken most irritatingly with a nudge in his side. Darkness shrouded the land deeply and the sliver of moon lay hidden by a wrack of thick clouds.

Rúmil stretched stiff, cold limbs and clasped his damp cloak about his neck with a shiver.

“No fire,” Fedorian ordered, strapping his long black-handled blades to his back.

Rúmil nodded, stifling a yawn as he pulled a packet of lembas, still fresh in their leaf wrappings out of his dwindling pack. They would have to hunt soon.

He stared around at his companions, most of whom still slept. Orophin alone stood watch beside Rameil’s resting form. Rúmil was glad to see that the dark-haired warrior’s breathing had eased and he seemed to be resting quietly though his face looked still too pale.

“Where are we going?” he questioned his commander, seeing that he had let the others sleep.

“Come on.” The older elf ordered and the younger soldier followed him out of the small sleeping dell and down the steep ridge-side.

They slipped in and out of dancing shadows like wraiths, taking advantage of the abundant tree cover until they reached the bottom of the slope. Rúmil’s heart began to beat faster as he realized they were heading towards the Gondorian camp.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rúmil watched his commander. Fedorian had not spoken again of what they had talked about. Rúmil could not help feeling a slight sense of unease. As though this were another test he had to pass. Forcing such thoughts from his mind, he bent his will to the task, making sure his sword lay sheathed and ready at his side, arrows at his back. His bow trembled excitedly in his palm.

Skirting the few sentries standing near a campfire at the edge of the trees, the elves plunged into a small ditch and out of sight.

~*~

The soldier rubbed his eyes tiredly. He’d been circling the perimeter for three hours now with no sign of their enemies. For a moment, Tergon allowed himself to think longingly of home—his soft bed and a hot meal—then abruptly shook it out of his mind, scowling at his weakness.

Keeping his feet moving to stave off sleepiness, he peered dully into the trees, sword ever ready at his side. He circled the camp again, slowing as he passed the place where the prisoner sat tied and staked down. Haldir was awake, clearly unable to sleep for discomfort.

Tergon told the two guards flanking the prisoner that he was their relief. When they had gone, he knelt next to the elf and loosened the cords cutting into his wrists. He was worried about the elf, his condition seemed to be worsening throughout the night; and the soldier was eager to do anything he could to help him.

“Here.” He offered him his flask. “Rations are spread thin but I’ll share what I’ve got. You look as though you could use it.”

Haldir thanked him gratefully and accepted the decanter with stiff, throbbing fingers. Had it been anyone else, the elf would have refused. But he could no longer ignore his body’s complaints and thirst tormented him worse than his wounds. But he did refuse the bread the man offered him, realizing he really didn’t feel all that hungry.

“You need to eat,” the man insisted.

Haldir merely shook his head in reply. Deprived of regular nutrients, his body was turning on itself for fuel. He blinked a few times to try to clear his head, to little avail. Everything in his body hurt and it took all the energy he had left to keep his silence.

“You need help.” Tergon looked into his glassy eyes, watching a bead of sweat trail down into the elf’s golden hair. It was far too chill a night for sweating.

“Haldir?” He leaned down a little when the elf did not lift his head.

“I’m just… tired.’ The elf put off the young soldier’s concern in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. He decided not to tell the young man about Ramir’s treatment of him. Shame and sheer exhaustion kept him silent.

“Hope you’re telling the prisoner, he’s lucky to get food,” Ramir’s grating voice startled the younger soldier who whirled round to face him guiltily. “Even if it’s against orders.”

“It’s just so he can keep up,” Tergon lied smoothly. “We need to find the darkies’ patrols quickly tomorrow.”

Ramir grunted a reply, his steely eyes staring hard at the top of the elf’s head as though he could bore a hole through it with his gaze.

Haldir raised his eyes, refusing to be intimidated or frightened by this man.

Fearlessness shone in those eyes. Not from bravery. But resignation. Resignation and anger. Something had hardened in the elf during his captivity. He no longer felt fear for his person. Only rage—a hard smouldering hatred built of helplessness and longing for freedom.

Ramir’s scowl darkened as he stalked away in silence. When he had gone, Haldir sighed and lowered his head wearily. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I know. You owe me one.” Tergon smiled and downed the rest of his meal. “Get some sleep.” He left the ropes looped loosely around Haldir’s wrists as he rose with a muffled groan and resumed his patrol.

~*~

Rúmil’s eyes widened and he would have leapt out of the ditch had Fedorian not tripped him up with the haft of his bow, sending him sprawling into the leaves.

“Act now and Haldir is lost. Patience,” Fedorian muttered into the younger elf’s ear, a hand digging into his shoulder as he helped him back up. Though he hid it better than Rúmil, Fedorian was truly grieved to see his lieutenant in such a shape. This was going to take careful planning.

“We can’t just leave him there!” Rúmil protested.

“Wait!” Fedorian hissed without looking at him. His eyes swept back and forth, checking for the approach of soldiers. But there were none. A lone sentinel stood some ways off but it was dark near the trees and the prisoner stood momentarily unguarded. The fires had burned low. The camp was still and lightless save for the ashes of a few moldering flames.

“We cannot linger but it would do to let him know we’re here.”

They waited for the right moment as a pair of guards wandered past them and at an unspoken signal, both leapt up and darted from cover.

One of the men looked up and the elves slipped into the bracken near where Haldir lay. They waited breathlessly as the guard stepped nearer to their hiding place. But he seemed to doubt his sight for he shook his head and rubbed his face, returning to his nonplussed companion.

Rúmil stared. Now that he was closer, he could see just how thin and worn his eldest brother looked and it made his heart wrench. Slipping from the trees, he knelt at his brother’s side, smoothing a hand over the pale, sweat-drenched brow. “Haldir, what’s happened to you?”

Dried blood crusted Haldir’s lip and a wondrous black-purple bruise stained his lower jaw as though he had been struck. More than once.

With an anxious glance over his shoulder, Rúmil shook his brother gently, easy of any other wounds he couldn’t see. “Haldir?”

A frown furrowed Haldir’s brow as he blinked heavy lids. Someone was near him but he couldn’t seem to get his muscles to move. The voice that called him seemed unbelievably far away. Slowly, he raised weary eyes and froze. “I dream.”

“Nay, muindor. I am here,” Rúmil said, relieved that his brother could speak, and squeezed his shoulder.

Haldir shook his head, unable to believe it. “You were dead.”

“Not I!” Rúmil frowned, not understanding. He touched a hand to his brother’s forehead again, hissing at the burning heat under his fingertips. They had to get him out of here.

“Rúmil.” Fedorian’s urgent voice reached his ears.

Rúmil reluctantly stepped back from his brother though it wrenched his heart to do so. “I will return. Don’t worry. We’re here now. We’ll get you out of this.”

“Rúmil—” Haldir’s soft call almost made the younger elf turn back but Fedorian darted from the trees and seized his arm.

“We must leave soon. This is getting too dangerous. The last thing we want is be
caught between them.”

“Them?” Rúmil frowned, wrenching his thoughts away from his brother.

“Those tracks we were following—they were those of the Haradrim. And yet, by chance, we seem to have stumbled on the Gondorian encampment. What does that mean to you?”

Rúmil’s face whitened in the moonlight and his eyes darted frantically around the silent tree trunks. “They—”

“Get down.” Fedorian ordered sharply.

Rúmil flung himself into the small ditch as another pair of soldiers passed by. They waited in tense silence a moment until they were sure the humans had passed them by.

Fedorian turned to Rúmil. “All right. I’ll try to wait for the right moment to get him out of there—you carry word back to your brother and the others. Get them ready—we might have to fight our way out of this yet. Go, and for Valar’s sake, be careful.”

The younger soldier nodded dutifully. Once he knew he was out of eyesight of the humans, he rose to his full height and bounded upslope.

Something moved not a deer’s leap from him and he checked his headlong race sharply, crouching into the ferns.

“Orophin?” he whispered uncertainly, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. He knew his brother’s footsteps as he knew his own—and these were not his. He took another hesitant step forward and drew his sword with a rattle and a whisper. “Show yourself!” he challenged the shadow he could just see in the moonlight darting between two trunks.

Whatever it was froze as though startled by the elf’s voice then took off through the trees like a startled fawn. Rúmil did not give chase but stood tense and waited until the sound of its flight had faded utterly away.

Orophin rose as the stealthy shadow of his brother slipped into the firelight. “What news?”

“I left Fedorian with them. We have found Haldir—the captain says we have to be ready to fight,” Rúmil said.

“At last,” Déorian murmured, already scrambling from underneath his cloak.

Rúmil cast his eyes over Rameil’s quiet form. “How is he?”

“His color improves slowly. I think I managed to get the poison out—made a poultice from feverfew and gave him lavender a little while ago,” Ancadal yawned and patted his injured friend’s shoulder fondly.

“Don’t coddle me, Ancadal. You know I hate that,” the dark-haired warrior spoke up suddenly, his voice hoarse and edged with pain.

Rúmil grinned. “It’s good to hear you again, mellon. We feared for you.”

Rameil gave him a slightly lopsided smile, his eyes still rather hazy. “Wish I could go with you.” He frowned slightly. “And Haldir? Is he all right?”

Rúmil shifted uneasily, remembering the glazed look in his brother’s eyes, and shook his head. “I fear for him. We have to get him out of there.”

“Fear not. We will see it done,” his brother assured him. The blade of his long knife rasped against the whetstone.

~*~

Rúmil, Orophin and Déorian joined their captain in the ditch, armed and tense. The camp was dark—the last of the fires having dwindled to grey ash. Not even the usual insects filled the air with their chatter. The wind alone whistled among the rocks. On one side stretched the wide, gentler slope of oak trees the elves had climbed down. On the other, pale boulders and cliff ledges climbed steeply towards the sky.

Fedorian beckoned them cautiously forward, skirting the rocks, as he paused at the edge of the tree line.

Then chaos erupted.

Everywhere, dark red-painted faces sprang into view, charging down the rocky slope. Torches burst into flame like a forest fire, adding to the blindness and confusion. Beyond the fire a horn blew, wild and braying, cutting the air with its clarion call.

The Haradrim had not waited. Their wild leader, a dark woman, rode into the camp wielding a bone-tipped pike with devastating force. Taken by surprise, the Gondorians scarcely had time to scramble from their bedrolls before their enemies were upon them.

Fedorian’s fears had been realized; they’d been caught right in the middle of this deadly engagement. They had to find Haldir now and get out of there—it was their only chance. Keeping low and as much out of the thick of the melee as they could, they darted to the place where the prisoner lay bound.

Tergon ran to Haldir. He wouldn’t leave him to fend alone against these cruel men. The young man faced a red-painted warrior that charged at him with a spear. The Gondorian soldier dispatched him swiftly and whirled round as he sensed something behind him.

Cold steel slid under his chin and the man felt his heart stop, knowing he was dead. When no pain came, he slowly reopened his eyes and nearly started to find himself surrounded by elves. Two of them looked so alike to Haldir, he knew they must be kin.

He looked from one to the other. “You’re here for him, aren’t you? Haldir?”

Rúmil froze at the sound of his brother’s name on this human’s lips.

Fedorian stared at the young man. “If you aid us, you will live. Know that if you cry for help, I will kill you.” His knife pressed meaningfully against the man’s neck.

Tergon held carefully still lest he cut his own throat. “I promised to help. I will do all I can—if you will not to harm my brothers in arms.”

“We kill none who do not deserve to die.”

Tergon didn’t know whether to be reassured by that or not but turned hastily at a gesture from the fierce, green-eyed elf.

“We need horses.” Fedorian ordered. The man nodded once and shot off. The captain jerked his head over his shoulder at Rúmil. “Go with him. See that he does not alert anyone.”

Remembering his vow to his commander, Rúmil nodded once.

There was no time for further speech.

As the horn called out again, Orophin tensed as he caught the sound of snarling. The wargs! They charged into the camp, wreaking devastation on the beleaguered Gondorian troops. Suddenly, one turned towards them.

The low-slung female breathed deeply of their scent, recognizing it. Her eyes glittered with hatred and the ragged scar of an elf blade rippled along her coat as she lunged, backed up by several of her warriors. Orophin dodged aside nimbly, avoiding the snap of steel like jaws. He remembered Rameil’s injuries all too well.

The female spun around to face him, mouth open in a vicious snarl. She circled him warily, beady eyes intent upon the hooking claw in the elf’s hands. Shifting her bowed hind legs under her, her supple body gathered itself for a leap that carried her straight at the elf like a coil springing.

Orophin brought his blade up just in time.

The sword pierced a full hands-length into the beast’s shoulder but the female only struggled, snapping at the elf’s face as they fell over backwards together. Orophin screamed as her fangs sank into his shoulder and the powerful cords of muscle in her tawny neck strained as she lifted him right off the ground and flung him away from her, wrenching the sword from her shoulder.

Orophin fell hard, rolling over his injured shoulder. Gasping for breath and pain, he staggered to his feet. None had noticed his plight. Déorian and Fedorian had their hands full fighting off the warg leader’s bodyguards. Hot stickiness accompanied the burning pain on his skin.

The female, tasting elf blood, pulled her black lips back in a villainous smile as she paced slowly forward, large paws pressing the grass dead. Suddenly something flashed between the two combatants and the warg received a stinging swipe on her backside which sent her howling into the brush.

Khiris grinned wildly and laid about with the flat of her pike, knocking her wolves away. The elves stared as she dipped her head to them in a gesture of unmistakable courtesy. “Warned him he would get dead if he stay here. You too. You take him. My debt repaid.” Without another word, she raced off, rejoining the battle.

Wasting no time, Fedorian drew a thin blade from his sleeve and knelt beside his lieutenant, cutting the bonds in one swipe. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

“Fedorian?” Haldir murmured, his eyes blinking open to focus blearily on his friend. He thought he had recognized his voice earlier. “My brothers…?”

“I am here, Haldir.” Orophin knelt and put a hand on Haldir’s shoulder. Haldir hissed between his teeth and Orophin pulled away, his brow furrowed with concern as he noted the pained look in his eldest brother’s eyes.

“All right. Come on—get him up.” Fedorian ordered, springing to his feet to guard their retreat. Orophin pulled Haldir up, leaning heavily on his uninjured shoulder.

“Go! Go!”

Ramir rammed his sword into the belly of a dark warrior, dropping him in agony. Spinning around, he stared at his men. Many were wounded, many more dead—Anaric had been pulled under only moments ago by half a score. But they still outnumbered the Haradrim and their steel weapons made short work of the darkies’ crude bone-made ones. Then he remembered the elf and the last time the Haradrim had attacked their camp. He cursed and rushed toward where the prisoner had been bound.

And ran straight into Fedorian.

Ramir froze at the sight of the elf. “Wh—?”

Fedorian sprang forward; and the hilt of his knife snapped out like a trap springing. The hard, fire-treated wood smashed into the man’s face, breaking his nose with a snap. The elf bowled him over as he raced after his companions.

Catching sight of them, Tergon and Rúmil leapt forward, the reins of a chestnut horse in their hands. The human handed one to Orophin who leapt into the saddle, easing Haldir up after him. Déorian mounted the other. Rúmil and Fedorian raced on ahead as the steeds leapt over fallen bodies, scattering embers of campfires as they plunged towards the safety of the trees.

Staggering up and swearing thickly through the blood dripping down his chin, Ramir snatched a short crossbow from one of his men and quickly notched an arrow. Eyes watering with pain, half-blinded by smoke and ash, he searched the night.

Suddenly, a flash of gold caught his eye in the flicker of torchlight near the tree edge. He smirked in triumph as he adjusted his aim a little, the arrow drawn tight under his jaw. That elf would not escape.

He fired.

They had reached the tree edge, above them the steep slope reared. The elves bounded gamely up but Haldir began to slip from Orophin’s grasp and Fedorian raced up behind to help.

The commander was suddenly thrown forwards as though stricken by a lightning bolt. As Orophin steadied his brother in his arms, Rúmil dashed up to help his leader but froze at the sight of his captain’s leg, transfixed with a brown-feathered shaft.

Fedorian struggled to his feet, his face white with pain. Twisting his head around, he could just see a ways into the trees—Ancadal already mounted on the second horse with Rameil in front of him.

Rúmil grasped his arm urgently. “Come on, sir. We can still make it!”

Without waiting for a reply, the younger elf slung his commander’s arm over his shoulder and helped him painfully up the ridge, halting when they came to the shallow depression where they had spent the night.

Fedorian shook his head, shrugging off the younger elf’s hand, finding a tree to lean against. The sounds of their pursuers were growing closer and they could see the glint of firelight moving amongst the brush. Ramir had not been idle.

“I’m only slowing you down. There aren’t enough horses for all of us. You must go on without me.”

Stunned by the order, Rúmil didn’t move. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he looked helplessly at the others, waiting for him. Déorian shot him a wide, frantic look.

Torchlight burst over the lip of the dell. With every minute, the men grew closer as they scrambled up the steep hillside after their quarry, their yells filling all the woods.

Fedorian calmly selected an arrow from his quiver, glancing almost nonchalantly at it to make sure the fletching was straight. “You told me I could count on you, Rúmil,” he said grimly, notching the arrow to his chin. “Tell my lady wife and my daughter, I brought you home safe.”

The bolt struck Baranir through his middle like a bolt of thunder, hurling his lifeless body down the slope. The body rolled and came to a slow halt nearly at the elves’ feet. Fedorian cut the sword belt and straightened with a grimace, thrusting the saber into Rúmil’s hands. “Get that back to your brother.”

A quick archer in their ranks let fly a return arrow. Skillfully cast, it thudded into the oak trunk, inches from the captain’s head. Fedorian didn’t flinch, coolly choosing another arrow. “Now, go, you are wasting my time.”

The torchlight from the men’s fires flickered across Rúmil’s pallid face and fear seized him in an iron grip. They had delayed too long.

“Go,” the whispered order grated on his ears, a horrible knell.

Rúmil stood rooted to the spot, unable to stay but unwilling to leave. He fought Déorian off as the smaller elf tried to drag him away from the injured commander. “We cannot leave him! He cannot stand alone!”

“You do what your commanding officer says!” Déorian grabbed him firmly by the arm. The elf tracker glanced once at Fedorian and gave him a tight nod. “Give them blood, Captain.”

“Go.”

His quiver was almost empty as he listened to the thunder of hooves fade away into the distance. The men were only feet away now.

Drawing his black-handled blades from their sheaths, he laughed in their faces, a wild smile upon his lips. Without waiting for them to meet him, a jubilant battle cry upon his lips, the elven commander leapt upon the men rushing to meet him, his knives a whirlwind of death in his hands—dealing devastating wounds and slaying all whom he struck.

Hurrying to keep up with the fleet horses, Rúmil stumbled after his friends, Déorian’s hand still closed about his upper arm. They raced away under the trees, climbing upwards until the land leveled out. Until the sounds of battle had faded long away replaced by the frantic pounding of blood in their ears.

Shadows lengthened in the misty twilight.

They rode until they could no longer see any sign of rift or fire. Weary and trembling, they stopped, all of them staring back the way they had come. With the last vestiges of night to shield him, Rúmil collapsed to his knees and covered his face.


Chapter 9 - Chapter Nine

An acknowledgment to seeing-spots for the idea that elves unbraid their hair in mourning. If she is bothered that I borrowed this idea, please let me know and I will correct it.

Cheers!

~The Lady of Light~

Chapter Nine: Memories of the Dead

A tempest approaches, he thought bleakly, watching the roaring heights whipping back and forth in fury. The elven soldier scaled the mallorn with an alacrity hampered by the gusting winds trying to wrench him from his tenuous position. Crouched on a thick bough, he gazed around at the forest, keen eyes automatically seeking out other familiar figures hidden amongst the leafy branches. He spotted one gesturing towards him and with an agile leap, landed on the platform beside the figure who hailed him.

“Ho, Thillas! What news?”

“Nothing. Save the furious wind and soon-to-be rain,” the scout answered back, taking a seat beside his friend.

Arenath offered him a chunk of waybread and a flask. Chewing his frugal supper thoughtfully, Thillas stared out at the black plains stretched below them, featureless, shrouded in shadow and deep mists.

“Beautiful night, is it not? Makes you appreciate the finer things in life.” He lunged for the flask before the wind sent it tumbling over the edge of the flet.

“Ha! Like a soft bed and a flask of warm Dorwinion you mean?” Arenath laughed. “I wish for it too. But such are our orders.”

The scout rolled his eyes without his friend seeing. “Indeed.” His eyes narrowed puzzlingly as he looked up at his friend. “Who is in command now?”

Arenath did not answer for a moment as though he himself were unsure. “Fedorian—when he returns. I, until then, I suppose.”

“Oh.”

“You sound so disappointed.” Arenath turned a gentle smile on the scout who looked away to conceal his smile.

“Disappointed? No. Dismayed—maybe. I hate to think of you in charge of anything save the sweet cakes.”

Arenath barely heard him, his eyes suddenly intent upon the outer fringes. He slapped his companion’s shoulder. “Look there!”

Horses approached. Indistinguishable with hoods thrown up to conceal their faces, the riders cantered full pelt into the trees.

Already elves had swiftly descended to meet them, arrows notched uneasily. But the riders were elves, of that Arenath was sure and he gave the signal for the men to stand down. Panting and blowing froth, their sides lathered in sweat, the horses slid to a stop as he walked briskly up to them.

Someone struck a lantern. The blue-white glow glimmered on the wet grass as Arenath peered up at the riders, the cool wind whipping his hair over his face.

“We have injured,” Orophin croaked, his voice torn from him by wind and grief. He clasped his elder brother tightly against his chest seeming afraid to release him though his hands shook with exhaustion. Dried blood caked one shoulder.

“We will get them aid speedily.” Arenath nodded to one of the scouts who immediately sprang away into the darkness.

A small elf stepped into the soft blue light and Arenath recognized Déorian. He looked about done in and bent over his knees in weariness.

“You have been gone long.” Disconcerted to see them so battered, Arenath reached up to help slide Rameil carefully from the trembling steed.

“He needs help—he was badly hurt.” Ancadal looked concernedly after his friend.

Orophin shakily dismounted as several others stepped forward helpfully and eased Haldir down from the horse. His eldest brother was scarcely conscious, his face very pale though. Tendrils of loose hair clung to his face and neck with sweat. It had been a trying ride. But Orophin felt at least a little calmer now that they were home.

Rúmil hung back, silent and whey-faced, scarcely looking up as two women, clothed in grey appeared behind the returning scout. One was Geilrín.

Arenath looked from one haggard face to another and his own fell as he realized for the first time that one was not among them.

“Where is the captain?”

~*~

A half-finished glass sat within reach as Rúmil raked a hand through his unbound hair, not caring that it swung back before his eyes again. His reflection looked as tired as he felt. Night had fallen long ago and he was drained in every way imaginable, physically, emotionally, mentally. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head in his arms and howl out the misery that threatened to break free of his chest.

But, Haldir slept uneasily in the bed behind him and he dared not wake him with his grief. Orophin had found comfort reuniting with his little daughter and lovely wife. Rúmil had no such comfort and his eldest brother had yet to wake. Oh, for dawn!

But dawn was a long way off and sleep offered him no solace. Each time he dozed he dreamt again of the fires, of the clamor of battle and Fedorian’s fearless countenance smeared with blood. He would awake gasping and covered in sweat as though he had raced those unbearable miles home again.

Finishing the wine in a single quaff, he laid his head in his arms and shut his eyes, tightly trying to ground out the images that floated before them. Against the darkness of his eyelids, he still saw the flickering afterimages of candlelight. Hundreds of candles trickled down into the dark, a river of light streaming into the deep fosse outside the city gates.

Guardians came from all corners of the borders to give their farewells to their fallen comrade in arms. No body to burn, of course. Somehow, it made the loss even harder to bear, thinking of Fedorian’s body lying cold and unburied in the starlight, dishonored by scavengers. Or worse, the Haradrim’s wolves. But they mourned him nevertheless as a proper warrior should be.

Rúmil did not know many of those present and could never remember their faces afterwards. He listened to the heartbreaking lamentations sung by the upturned faces lit from beneath by the amber candle flames. He watched while they lit an empty pyre to free their friend’s spirit—wherever it be so that it would speed quickly across the vast waters.

It felt so empty.

The elf sighed and let the memory slip away like water through his cupped hands. Why would this night not end? He feared to lift his head lest he see those remonstrating green eyes staring at him out of the glass. Such a pang of guilt and loss pierced him like a razor that he could not help the muffled noises that escaped his lips.

A soft sound intruded on his grief, made him start and lift his head.

It was not who he expected.

Silivren shaded a candle with the palm of her hand, her beautiful face glowed with the flame’s reflection in her eyes. “I took the chance that you were still awake. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You never do,” he said. “What do you need?” Numb dread dully squeezed his stomach.

Over and over during and after the ceremony he and the other survivors of that ill-fated mission had been asked to recount their tale. Rúmil, drained from the memories, had excused himself quickly after that, wanting to escape all eyes. All night he had feared she would come and now she had.

“I would speak with you privately, Rúmil, please.”

The elf glanced back at his brother’s sleeping form. Haldir rested quietly for now and Rúmil knew he would not be missed for a few moments at least. He stood a little unsteadily from the chair and followed after her.

Fedorian’s daughter held the candle steady in one hand as she descended through the door onto the spiraling stairs underneath, Rúmil close after her. Not far from the borders, several such telain had been built for the injured on the perimeter. Easily defended in case of attack, any who tried to mount the steep stairs would be forced to enter the small door from underneath one at a time. Rúmil tried to think of these distractions instead of the horror of what Silivren wanted to speak to him about in the middle of the night.

“Your mother is she all right?” he asked, noting the dull grief in her eyes when they stopped on a landing.

“She…She’s sleeping. She asked me to check in on you and Haldir before.”

“Rúmil…” She scarcely managed his name before she closed her eyes as though in intolerable pain.

Desperately, Rúmil cast about for something, anything to latch onto. “You are to be wed soon. You must try to…forget this grief—if only for a time.”

“How can I forget?” she cried. “Rúmil, you have been a brother to me all these years—you know.”

He knew.

The silence hung heavy between them as he stared expectantly at her, dread’s coil cutting sharply into his chest.

Silivren seemed to be gathering herself, her fingers twisting together nervously over the candle stem. “You… you were with him to the end were you not?”

Rúmil only nodded which did not seem to encourage her at all.

For a moment, she looked up into his face and then away, and back again as though trying to decide what to actually ask him. “I want to know… What did he say?”

Rúmil froze and hesitatingly spoke. “He thought… of… you at the last.” Rúmil swallowed hard. “He—he told me to tell you how much he loved you and your mother.”

The greater solace to her. Silivren nodded and looked away, her green eyes filled with generous tears. “I was certain. I knew!”

She was certain. She knew.

Taking his shaking hands in hers, she clasped them tightly. “Thank you.” She laid a sisterly kiss on his cheek.

He closed his eyes. Whatever disagreements he had had with his commander seemed paltry and unimportant now. “His end was in every way worthy of his life.”

“He was very brave.”

She left him there with a greater emptiness inside him than before she had come.

~*~

They were coming for him again. Cruel hands dug into his shoulder like splinters of glass and he cried out, trying to wrench away from them but his body moved so slowly to his frantic commands. They hauled him by his shoulder which screamed mindless agony at him. And he could see their leering faces all about him, dark and cruel as they plied the whips, stripping away flesh. A sharp pain bit suddenly as though wooden splinters were being jammed into the flesh of his leg and twisted.

“Leave me… stop it! I cannot tell you what you want!” he wanted to scream at them, to make them understand. But his vocal chords seemed paralyzed.

But they gave him no heed…

The soft cries snapped Rúmil out of a heavy sleep; and he sat up abruptly, wondering what had awoken him. Hearing movement in the room, he snapped around to face the bed behind him.

Twisting and thrashing in the sheets, Haldir fought against the phantom shadows of his feverish mind.

Disregarding the back aches from sleeping upright, Rúmil threw off his cloak and knelt at his brother’s side, gently pressing back the arm trapped stiffly in a sling to keep the injured shoulder still. But that seemed to frighten him all the more and Haldir struggled fiercely, nearly catching his brother across the face with his free hand, lost somewhere between sleeping and waking.

Rúmil captured the wrist and coaxed it slowly back onto the bed, wondering what he should do. He had never been good at this and he panicked, half-rising to see if he could find Geilrín. But he could not leave his brother like this.

Freeing one of his hands, he gingerly tugged Haldir’s uninjured shoulder. “Haldir, wake up,” he whispered, smoothing a hand over the trembling fingers. “Shh, Haldir, shh, it’s all right. You’re all right. Wake up.” He shook him a little harder.

As Haldir shifted, a frown furrowing his brow as he stirred towards consciousness, Rúmil drew back, a hand still hovering over his brother uncertainly.

Suddenly, wide, silver eyes snapped open and fixed on his face. Rúmil flinched away from the unbearable terror he saw in them as Haldir woke fully, drenched in his own sweat, panting as though he had been nearly smothered.

For a moment, his younger brother could only stare, thinking fleetingly of how strange this felt. His brother had always been the one to care for him when he had been injured on the perimeter. And now to see him in need of comfort… it felt somehow wrong.

Rúmil recovered first. “You are feverish, muindor. Just breathe deeply, all right? You’re safe. You’re home now,” he assured him, stroking the damp hair back from his brother’s pale face.

“Rúmil?” Haldir blinked to steady his blurred vision, his voice thick and slurred. “Where… where am I?”

“Home, Haldir. We’re home.”

“Oh.”

For some reason Rúmil didn’t understand, Haldir did not look relieved. Instead his eyes were fixed elsewhere as though he hadn’t even heard his younger brother. Rúmil found himself staring into haunted eyes that did not look back at him, gazing far away into something he couldn’t see.

“Do—do you wish to speak of it?” Rúmil asked, shifting uncomfortably. He had never been very good with these kinds of talks; they made him uneasy.

Haldir only shook his head with a grimace as he glanced down at his shoulder, seemingly surprised to find it splinted and bound tightly to his chest. He touched it with his other hand, the wrist of which had a light bandage wound around it. Looking at it, Haldir couldn’t recall what had happened but he ached all over and already his mind had began to drift back towards sleep, nightmare, though not forgotten, put aside in favor of healing rest. Then he noticed his brother watching him still with deep concern.

Haldir tried to smile at him to ease the worry in his brother’s eyes but he didn’t succeed. “Go get some sleep, muindor. You may return when you no longer look as though you’re going to fall over.”

Rúmil nodded reluctantly, stifling a yawn as he touched his brother’s forehead gently. “I will not argue with you.” He grabbed a spare pillow from the chair he had been sleeping in and tossed it on the ground, stretching himself beside the bed.

Haldir sighed in exasperation. “I did mean for you to go home and sleep.”

“Yes, well, until you’re better and able to ride, this is my home.”

Too tired to argue, Haldir hid a grateful smile as he tipped a blanket over the edge of the bed in mock-temper at his youngest brother. “Goodnight then!”

Rúmil draped the blanket over himself. “Goodnight.”


Chapter 10 - Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten: A Gathering of Warriors
The sword spun once in a glittering arc splinters of sunlight playing across its razor edge. Pulling in a deep breath, Haldir pivoted on his left heel sweeping the blade around in a half-circular stroke to finish an imaginary fallen enemy. He exhaled and continued the sweep, bringing the sword whistling to cleave the air at eyes’ height.

His sword dropped so sharply the tip plunged into the earth. Haldir dropped his stance and clutched his shoulder with a grimace until the pain eased. Retrieving his fallen weapon, he glared at the offending sling in annoyance—even after a near-week had passed, Geilrín refused to allow him to remove it even during training. Which, upon reflection, he wasn’t supposed to be doing either.

‘If that hole in your shoulder doesn’t mend properly, you’ll be lucky to wield a sword again.’ he mumbled her constantly remonstrating words under his breath as he lifted the blade again, awkward with one hand.

Green shadows rippled across the ground like wind over a still pond, the bright sunlight warm on his back as he moved through a complex series of movements, hampered by the imbalance of his injured shoulder. Stopping to relax for a little under the shade of the golden leaves, he watched the small spring, a tributary of the Celebrant, flow lazily past, its clear waters sparkling with diamond edges of sunlight.

Catching sight of a stealthy shape flittering at the fringe of the clearing, Haldir called out a greeting. “Care for a match, Thillas?”

The young scout looked around at the sound of his name and caught sight of the older elf. Flattered by the offer, he made his way forward eagerly. “Yes, sir! If it please you, sir.” Then he saw the lieutenant’s bound arm and stopped.

Haldir saw the look on his face and shrugged the injury away lightly. “If I don’t get any shape back into this arm, it’s going to wither away.”

Slipping the strap over his head, he shifted his arm carefully. The muscles were stiff from being so long bound. Nonetheless, he slowly eased the arm down to his side, hearing the bone of his elbow pop with an audible crack.

“Sir, I don’t think—”

“Shut up, Thillas and draw your blade. I haven’t had a good match in days.” Lifting his saber, Haldir beckoned the warrior forward with the tip. “Come.”

Uncertainly, the scout raised his blade with an apprehensive expression on his young face. He offered a less-than-energetic thrust which Haldir easily knocked aside and struck out sharply. The younger elf staggered backwards, ears ringing from the painful blow the hilt of his officer’s sword had inflicted on his head.

“Come now! Surely you can do better than that.” Frustrated by the younger one’s lack of verve, Haldir goaded him as Thillas lunged again, this time with a little more energy. Haldir thrust this aside too and cracked the flat of his weapon against the scout’s ankles. Thillas sprawled ungracefully in the dirt with his blade under him.

“Had this been a real battle I would have killed you already. Do you think orcs will allow you such mistakes on the field?”

Stung into retaliation, the younger elf leapt to his feet and swung out sharply which Haldir met just in time. Steel clashed on steel and shockwaves raced up both opponents’ arms.

Ignoring the remonstrating twinge in his arm, Haldir smiled in satisfaction as sweat plastered his hair to the back of his neck. Breath coming faster, he swept his blade in low and Thillas leapt backwards to avoid his kneecaps being severed. The scout riposted with a quick strike, feigning for the side and striking towards the chest.

“If that hole in your shoulder doesn’t mend properly you’ll be lucky to wield a sword again!”

Distracted, Haldir barely managed to catch the feint to avoid another injury. But strained his uninjured shoulder a little too much in the process. A flash of pain ripped across his injured tendons. Bent almost double, he dropped his sword and pressed a hand to the throbbing point with a soft groan.

“What?” He snapped bad-temperedly as he glared over his shoulder at the voice.

Geilrín looked disappointed in him but the small elf woman beside her looked nothing less than furious. Abandoning the small basket she’d been gathering feverfew in, she snatched the discarded sling from the ground and thrust it in his face. “What is this? What did Geilrín tell you would happen to that shoulder of yours if you didn’t keep it bound?”

The healer’s thin companion took her job very seriously and seeing this warrior flaunting authority was more than she could bear.

“Now, Eremae, don’t be too harsh on him,” Geilrín, trying not to laugh, coaxed the fire in her friend’s eyes down to a smolder. “Haldir does know better. He just needs a little reminding once in a while.”

“He needs a little crack on the head.”

“I’ve already got that, thank you,” Thillas rubbed his forehead with a small grimace.

Haldir threw a wry glance at him and addressed the still-fuming elf woman. “Fair fortune to me—I will never leave your lovely company.”

“Hush, vile flatterer!” Geilrín shoved him playfully. “I would that you leave my company!” Her smooth brow furrowed a little as she listened to his still-ragged breathing. “Not still feverish are you?”

“No!” Haldir stepped back as though scalded and hastily accepted the saber which Thillas handed to him. The woman had been hovering over him like a hawk since he had returned, diving upon every minor discomfort or strain during his convalescence. As though tending to him would make Fedorian come back.

Eremae briskly handed the odious sling back to him. Then turned her ire on the soldier beside him. “And you, Thillas! You should know better. What were you thinking, allowing your office to exert himself like that?”

Haldir almost rolled his eyes as Thillas sputtered incoherently until Geilrín blessedly interrupted him. “Haldir, I want to make sure that shoulder is healing up all right. Either come by later and I’ll do it myself or have Rúmil aid you—I’ve given him everything he needs.”

“I will. I will,” he said impatiently, having no such intention.

Geilrín fought a smile as Haldir grabbed the scout’s arm and steered him away.

“That one will be the death of you yet,” her friend remarked with a shake of her head.

~*~

The two escapees slowed only when they spotted a small group sitting among the silver roots.

Arenath sat beneath the trees under the guard flets, instructing the newest recruits in the traditions of the Guard which stretched all the way back to lost Doriath and the ancient rituals of the marchwardens of Mablung, chief captain of King Thingol, and the great huntsman, Beleg Cúthalion.1 Arenath’s animated face glowed for the first time in days that Haldir had seen. Even granted time off-duty, the young commander had thrown himself into anything and everything he could.

Rúmil stood near, listening. By the wistful look on his face, Haldir thought he must remember his own training days under Cálivien and Fedorian.

The new commander caught sight of them and nodded in greeting. Dismissing the guard, he strode past those gathering their weapons together. “You’re looking much better.”

“Thanks to your betrothed and her mother, I am doing much better, thank you,” Haldir clasped the other’s hand lightly.

Unsmiling, Arenath regarded Rúmil, who remained at his post. Haldir’s brother kept his eyes on the ground. Glancing uneasily between the two, Thillas caught sight of a friend and quickly went to join him.

Haldir glanced at his brother and opened his mouth to speak but Arenath cut in. “Haldir, I would speak with you—alone if you please.”

Rúmil heard, took the hint and walked away without once looking up as Arenath began to walk slowly around the fringe of the training field.

“What is it you wished to speak to me about?” Haldir asked after a few moments of silence, glancing back after his retreating brother.

“The Lord Celeborn has summoned the Gelydhrim2 tonight. I want you to come with me,” the young commander said bluntly.

Haldir stopped in surprise and stared at him. “Why?”

Arenath feigned carelessness and shrugged. “You are the next highest-ranking officer… You served Cálivien and Fedorian well. I would like you to be there with me,” he said, his youthful eyes grave. “A council of war begins tonight.”

~*~

“I have no wish to endure this suffering again.”

“You have no choice.”

“I have every choice.”

“Geilrín told me I had to or that infection would return.’”

Haldir glared at his youngest brother murderously then abruptly turned his back on him and slipped the bandage over his head. “Help me with this, will you?”

Fumbling one-handed with the fastenings and with Rúmil’s aid he managed to divest himself of his upper garments.

Rúmil smiled with supremely false cheer and patted the wooden table edge invitingly.

Haldir stared at his younger brother until Rúmil wilted under his gaze. “I do not enjoy this. I do not see why you have to so much.” He hated what had become the daily ritualistic cleansing and redressing of his shoulder which Geilrín insisted had to be checked every day until the stitches could be removed.

“You are such a crabby dwarf,” Rúmil muttered under his breath which, being at such close range, Haldir clearly heard as he eased onto the high table normally used for setting the plates at supper.

“Oh, just finish up quickly will you?” Haldir held his head to one side as his brother dabbed at his shoulder with a warm wet cloth. The wound was still angry and tender to the touch; and he tried not to wince as his brother cleaned it. When the sting had passed and Rúmil had turned to rummage among the salves Geilrín had left with them, he glanced at the deep puncture. “It should have healed by now.”

“It was an orc arrow, muindor. Give it time.” Rúmil, who had heard this particular complaint several times over the last few days, tried to reassure his brother again. “I’d say you were lucky you weren’t poisoned for as long as it wasn’t treated.”

Sensing the unspoken aggravation behind Rúmil’s words, Haldir smiled slightly. “You’re right.”

Unscrewing a white porcelain jar, Rúmil glanced inside and sniffed the contents experimentally. “I am always right.” Carefully, he worked the white salve around the wound, easy of the stitches knitting together the red and swollen-looking skin.

Haldir flinched a little. No one less than his brothers or Geilrín would he trust to do this. To see him like this. They had tended one another’s hurts before. Haldir smiled at his brother. “I hadn’t realized you had become such a healer.”

“With you it seems I have to be.”

“Oh, yes? And I suppose it was not you who fell from the bridge during training last yén3 and broke his arm?”

“You will never let me forget that will you?” The tips of Rúmil’s ears flushed slightly. “That was an accident! I didn’t even—”

“Careful.”

Rúmil pulled back a little when he realized his brother’s knuckles had gone white on the table edge. “Sorry. This should numb it—give it a moment.”

The sweet scent of the balm filled the fresh air. Haldir slowly relaxed as the pain lessened. Letting his arm rest free of its harness for a bit, he cocked an eye at his healer who had moved around him to glance at the healed slashes on his back. “You’ve been awful quiet of late.”

A hand brushed his shoulder blade. “I am tired. It has been a long few days.”

Haldir nodded his agreement but knew Rúmil enough to press matters. “What is wrong?”

“It’s all healed up. The worst looks like your shoulder.”

“Answer me, Rúmil.”

Without looking up, Rúmil only shook his head. “It is nothing…” He sighed. “And everything.” He could never hide anything from his older brother even if he wanted to.

“Nothing and everything?” Haldir raised an eyebrow, voicing something that had been bothering him since mid-afternoon. “Arenath looked less than happy to see you today.”

“Would you?” Rúmil suddenly retorted, snapping his eyes challengingly to his older brother’s face as he rounded the other side of the table. “Fedorian is dead because we left him, Haldir.” He shook his head and abandoned his attempt at straightening the healing jars as he braced his arms against the table surface. “And Arenath thinks me a coward because of it.”

“If he thinks that then he is a fool,” Haldir said, pushing himself off the table and casting a stern eye on his youngest brother. “And if you think he’s right then you are a bigger fool.”

Rúmil sat down in his brother’s place with a frustrated thump. “I should have stayed with him. As was my duty.”

“Then you would have been killed too. And you and I would not be having this conversation.” Haldir told him, ever practical. “And I would not have to suffer this.” He grimaced, cradling his arm with the opposite hand.

“It is good for you,” Rúmil said offhandedly, clearly not satisfied with his brother’s answer. “We left him behind, Haldir!” The younger elf began to pace in his agitation, Haldir following his progress from one wall to another. “Maybe, maybe he isn’t even dead. Maybe he’s lying hurt somewhere and we just—”

“Rúmil—” Haldir intercepted him and gripped his shoulder steadyingly.

Rúmil thrust the hand away. “Iston! I know it’s madness! But I cannot—” He broke off and cleared his throat roughly. “I miss him terribly, Haldir.” He turned his face half away, ashamed to find his eyes burning. “I wish he were here.”

“I know,” Haldir said in a low voice. “So do I.” Hesitantly, he laid a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, a little surprised when Rúmil turned to him and buried his face in his uninjured shoulder. Haldir was unable to remember the last time Rúmil had cried. Even when he had broken his arm, he had put on a brave face.

Now, Haldir just held him and let his little brother pour out his grief as he had not since the captain’s fall. After several long moments when his arm, trapped against his brother’s chest began to complain in earnest, Haldir gently put his brother away from him. “Come now. Self-pity becomes no one, brother. Least of all you. What would Fedorian say now if he could see you thus?”

Rúmil swiped his eyes with a sleeve, disgusted with himself. “He would tell me that we had no choice… I cannot save everyone.” The younger elf dipped his head. “He might give me extra sentinel duty.”

Haldir smiled. “There, you see? And I will give you extra sentinel duty too if I have to—”

“You cannot do that!” Rúmil protested, a glint of humor returning to his white face. “You are not even—”

Arenath knocked lightly and poked his head discretely through the door, silencing Rúmil immediately. “Haldir, we must go; the stars have newly risen.”

A little self-consciously, Haldir shrugged his tunic back on. Turning to his brother, he leaned forward. “We will discuss this later,” he promised, slipping the sling over his neck.

Rúmil only nodded.

With a last squeeze of his shoulder, Haldir released his brother and followed the young commander into the night.

The Gil-Estel shone brightly, dappling moon shadows across the ground as the elves made their way down a silver-lit path. Late summer was slowly fading away into early fall. But the golden blooms clung stubbornly to their branches while the wind buffeted them as the two soldiers crossed the Bridge of Nimrodel a little further down from the waterfall, the beautifully carved wooden planks shimmering underfoot. Beneath them dark, hurrying waters eddied, swirling shaded leaves in their playful current.

The hour grew later. Arenath and Haldir did not speak as they climbed towards the high hill encircled by a double crown of trees. Ice-white trunks towered towards the sky, clothed in the deep leafy green of summer, and surpassed only by the mellyrn in the center rearing their golden heads high towards the starlit night. Clusters of white and pale green stalks and golden flowers nodded to the breeze as the elves stepped soundlessly onto the grassy sward.

Haldir breathed deeply of the fragrant air, his nerves calming a little, the trip-hammer beat of his heart slowing to a steadier rhythm. He slowed his pace, lingering behind Arenath as he gazed upwards towards the tall white flet he could just see peeking through the green bower. Slanting moon beams made the clearing as bright as daylight and shone upon the golden heads of those already gathered.

Every yén the high commanders of all of the fences with a few of their chosen warriors gathered here to meet, exchange news and needs. None save those who attended knew where the meeting took place and could never speak of what they heard there to anyone.

Arenath broke away to greet several officers he recognized while Haldir stood to one side, taking in the proud and noble faces around him. These were not the rank and file soldiers on the borders nor the green recruits of the training grounds. These were the elite, truly perilous warriors, veterans of countless skirmishes. Many had fought in the great battles of the Second Age and proven their mettle a hundred times over in battle.

Haldir felt honored to be amongst their company.

“I feel so complimented just watching your awed face, good sir.”

So lost in thought had he been, Haldir hadn’t even realized an elf had come up beside him until addressed. At first he was not sure he even had been addressed as he looked about and saw nothing but the night shadows in the leaves.

The strange figure must have sensed his confusion for a wry chuckle greeted his ears. “Sorry, sir. Comes with the job.”

Haldir thought the other might have bowed but he couldn’t quite be sure. The officer wore dark garb but was it green? Or silver? Or the deepest of midnight hues?—he couldn’t tell, it seemed to be all three. And it was difficult to keep the elf in sight when he remained so absolutely still.

Bemused, Haldir strained his eyes in the direction he thought the voice had come from. “I’m sorry but who are you?”

Quite suddenly there was an elf beside him. “Oh, of course! I beg your pardon. Alfirin— espionage expert at your service if I may make so bold a claim.”

Haldir smiled. “I do believe it…” He caught sight of the embroidered sigil on the other’s sleeve and nodded respectfully. “Captain Alfirin.”

The other elf grimaced as though Haldir had said something vulgar. “’Alfirin,’ if you please, Lieutenant Whatever-your-name-is. Why call a soldier by a puffed-up name if you don’t even answer to him, eh? Bad form, you see.”

Haldir nodded sagely, taking a liking to the odd campaigner. “Alfirin, then. I am Haldir.”

“I will remember that.” Only by keeping sight of the playfully smiling eyes could Haldir still see him. “So, what’s a strapping young warrior like yourself with an honorable war wound to show off doing at this hall full of doddering old relics, eh?”

Haldir didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “I’m not quite sure myself, actually. Escort, I suppose.”

“You’ll be Arenath’s second lieutenant then? Good show.” The odd elf chaffed his hands together impatiently. “I do hope his Lordship will be swift tonight. I’m not keen on letting those so-called excuses for recruits take charge. Mad as hares, you know.”

Uncertain of what to say to that, Haldir nodded. Alfirin’s pale eyes suddenly darted over his new acquaintance’s shoulder. “Oh, trouble.”

Haldir twisted his head around to look but all he could see was Arenath walking towards them with another at his shoulder. A regal-looking elf with carefully plaited golden hair and calculating blue eyes that missed nothing. Haldir recognized him as Laer, another lieutenant on the upper northern fences; they had trained briefly together as trackers. He caught only a fragment of their conversation and realized with a sinking feeling that they spoke of all too recent events.

“—a shame to lose such a fine officer like that.” Though the story had been told countless times, Déorian, Haldir, his brothers, Rameil and Ancadal had been carefully instructed to watch what they said. Fedorian was slain in battle. That is all any knew.

“And yet that is two officers within two seasons, is it not?” The blue-eyed elf continued as they drew closer. “I was grieved to hear of Cálivien’s fall.”

“We all were.” Arenath answered laconically, clearing uncomfortable.

“And yet I never was told how his death came to pass. Those here seem very much close-mouthed about the matter.” He looked pointedly at Haldir, obviously expecting a polite response but Haldir gave nothing and looked quickly away. He did not wish to speak of that matter here.

Laer’s gaze narrowed slightly as he examined the other elf more closely, taking no notice of Alfirin. “Why do you wear a high commander’s sword? You do not come here as a captain. Indeed, you seem to scarcely come here as a warrior with your recent injuries as Arenath tells me.”

“His recent injuries are due to wielding that honored blade against many foes this last fortnight, Lieutenant Laer,” Arenath put in, a little shortly.

Haldir did not have time to defend himself as a soft trumpet blew, calling for silence.

All eyes looked up as the Lord of Lothlórien himself took his place before the assembly to address them, the white-cloaked elves of the Guard flanking him. Haldir noticed that Laer watched them with admiration in his eyes.

Celeborn stood on the highest point of the hill beneath the crowning mallorn where in the days of old Amroth had built his high house. His long hair shining silver as the breeze played it across his face.

“Greetings, my captains and wardens. It has been many moons since I saw you last—too short a time.” Possessed of a seldom-displayed, dry sense of humor, Lord Celeborn remained stern-faced though his eyes sparkled. “As you know, no matter is of greater importance at this gathering.” His eyes rested briefly on Arenath. “Though others must speak of affairs more perilous. Here we will give voice to all.”

Then a few elves stood and spoke of need for supplies or of sightings of foes near the Great River. This was no great news to Haldir nor indeed to any of the officers. Long had they known of the shadows growing in a darkening world. A world that Lothlórien increasingly drew away from.

Then Arenath addressed the dozen officers looking expectantly at him. He looked pale but straightened determinedly under his Lord’s gaze. “Sir, I regret to say that I bring troubling news: Men have camped within our borders a mile west of the Nimrodel near the ridge rocks.”

Murmurs broke out as the soldiers looked at one another and at Arenath.

“Have you engaged them?” The Lord’s soft question silenced the whispers.

Arenath shook his head. “No, Lord. They seem unaware of our presence. We keep a close watch on them to make certain they do not cross the Celebrant.”

“Why are they here?”

“What do they want?”

“Shelter, it seems. They are pursued by others of their kind—the tall men of Gondor. The dark-skinned ones seem more content on seeking out and killing their hunters than us,” Arenath nearly had to shout to make himself heard above the thick-flying questions.

“Then let them!” A voice rose above the others. “If they do not engage our troops than of what concern are they to us?”

Arenath stared levelly at the speaker, a chestnut-haired warrior with a bow held lax in his hands. “The dark-skinned men have brought wargs with them.”

A stern silence fell.

“But what of the Gondorians?” Laer challenged, breaking it. “Not so long ago we fought beside them. Now if they enter our home are we supposed to kill them as well?”

“Yes,” Arenath said, his voice and bitter eyes burning. Haldir said nothing.

“No.”

Arenath stared at his lord incredulously. “You would let them ravage this land?”

“You misunderstand me, Arenath,” Celeborn corrected him gently but his eyes were stern; he would tolerate no disrespect from his captains. “The danger will be dealt with but I plead for patience—especially now. We can ill afford to lose more officers.” A mild rebuke but a rebuke nonetheless.

“I agree, my lord,” Laer supported him, looking at Arenath quizzically. “What have the Gondorians done to spur such hatred in our northern garrison?”

Arenath lowered his eyes and did not speak.

Realization dawned in Laer’s eyes as he stared at the young commander. “This is about Fedorian is it not?”

Still Arenath, staring at his lord, said nothing and Lord Celeborn did not break the tense silence.

Laer took a pace nearer, not trying to mask his words nor his contempt. “You would kill them simply for vengeance.”

Now Haldir grew angry in his turn and his blazing eyes pierced the older elf’s boldly. “It is not vengeance; it is doing our duty by protecting our homeland!”

“Enough. Now I will give you my decision.”

Silence fell in an instant as the assembly faced their lord.

Celeborn’s deep voice resonated with the low wind on the hill, his wise starlit eyes settling on Arenath. “You will head the emissary to the Gondorian commander. Negotiate for a peaceful resolution.”

Head snapping up, Arenath burst out. “Sir, I must protest this! What good would a peace negotiation do? These are not the men we fought with of old. Their Númenorean blood is long since diluted! They have become cruel and savage—they killed Fedorian!”

“I understand your feelings, Arenath. But at all costs this must remain as bloodless as possible. We do not wish open war with Gondor.” Celeborn met the younger elf’s eyes steadily. “It is a thin line that we tread.”

“We could strike hard and fast to both sides with enough warriors behind us. We could end the conflict now.” Arenath sounded nearly desperate.

“Our people are still recovering from the disaster of the Battle of Dagorlad, would you have them fight with Gondor now?” their Lord questioned. Not angry. His voice was soft, it silenced any further protestations.

Arenath stared at the ground. Their lord seldom spoke of the past but when he did it was wise to listen.

“But,” he continued. “our home will not be their battleground and if they will not leave by entreaty then…” A nod to Arenath. “…we may have no choice but to fight. If such is necessary, we will defend our land.”

“We are spread thinly.” Arenath mumbled, his eyes downcast as though ashamed to admit their recent losses on the northern fence.

“Do the officers gathered here have warriors to spare?” their Lord asked, gazing around without acknowledging Arenath’s discomfort.

Alfirin put in. “I will send several of my mad hares with you if you are willing, Arenath.”

Celeborn nodded his approval. “Good. Send an emissary to the Gondorians on the morrow. Set a close watch on the dark men with the warriors you are given,” he instructed Arenath.

A cloud passed over the moon and the Lord of the Galadhrim looked up as the silver light faded. “That is all for tonight. You are all dismissed.”

“Hmm… bad luck about the borders,” a voice said beside Haldir who had lost sight of Alfirin but the military voice of the odd elf came close at his right shoulder. “Good luck to you, Haldir. I will certainly see you about—or perhaps not. Espionage you know. Not meant to be seen, really.”

Haldir couldn’t help a small smile breaking his stern features as the other officers silently trailed out of the hollow. Discontent and grim, Arenath was already far ahead by the time Haldir caught up with him.

They sped through the trees and darkened paths. Haldir did not speak as his arm began to ache and Arenath showed no signs of speech. Indeed, his eyes stared intently at the road before them, unseeingly. Haldir was glad when they came to the Bridge of Nimrodel once more.

Arenath suddenly stopped and Haldir checked his pace as well. “I want you to come with the escort to the Gondorian encampment tomorrow.”

“Arenath… I cannot…”

The elf would not let him protest. “Haldir, I need you there—you are the only one who speaks their tongue since Cúlir was killed on the ridge.”

Haldir eyed the other elf keenly. “You do not know what you ask.”

“I know more than you think,” the other replied evenly. “—and believe me I would not ask this of you unless I needed to.”

Haldir stared at him a long moment. He knew the warrior knew or guessed much of what had happened to him in the men’s camp—he had seen the injuries well enough. But, Haldir knew the younger elf didn’t really understand what confronting those men again would mean.

At last, he agreed with a sinking heart. “I will come.”

“Good.” Arenath clapped his shoulder thankfully and kept going. “We leave tomorrow by mid-afternoon.”

A white shape glided out of the darkness as they came within the borders of the elven garrison once more.

“Silivren!” Haldir hailed the young elf-woman as she greeted her soon-to-be husband. She excused herself from Arenath and stopped before her friend.

“Haldir? What is it? Are you all right? Your shoulder—?”

“Is fine and would be better save for this accursed contrivance.” He reassured her, tugging irritably at the sling. He sighed softly. “Your family has always been good to mine. When our father died, your mother helped ours through… everything until the end. And your father gave us purpose and direction. In fact,” He smiled, touching his bound shoulder, “you are still helping my family. We can never repay you but… if you ever need anything, you have but to ask. I wanted you to know that.”

Gratitude filled her eyes as she offered a small smile. “Oh, Haldir, I would embrace you but I would afraid I’d hurt you.”

He chuckled.

She glanced over her shoulder at her betrothed who waited for her. “Arenath does not blame Rúmil for—for what happened. He hides his grief in anger,” she said, laying a hand on his uninjured arm. “Let him know that, will you?”

He assured her that he would.

And then they were gone into the twilight and he was alone with the dawn breaking pale out of the east.

~*~
The crimson sun tipped the edges of the trees, turning the fountain’s silver waters to gold as it trickled down the hillside. His silver robes blazed white in the sun darting down on him, glancing off his silver hair. But the beauty of an early morning in Lothlórien was lost on its Lord. Deep in thought, he idly caressed the pale petals of a fallen niphredil cupped in the palm of one hand.

“What troubles my lord at this fair morning?”

Celeborn did not turn, knowing that voice could bring him only peace of mind which was what he did not want right now. Tranquility was easy to take for granted in the well-guarded city-citadel of Caras Galadhon. Out there was where the fight was… would be.

Galadriel’s white hand rested on his shoulder and he gently slipped the flower stem through her fingers. “Oh, lady, I fear only more blood will be shed in this forest before this is over.”

Author’s Note: Welcome. My copious author’s notes. That worked nicer than I thought. I simply had to give Lord Celeborn his dues—he is so overshadowed by his Lady and under-shadowed in fanfiction.
Ah, the footnotes. Hopefully helpful. Thanks to my roommate as well as seeing-spots for sorting out my hopeless luddite-ness and telling me how to do these.

1 So it says in the Silmarillion, the HarperCollins edition p. 130, “Galadriel…went not… to Nargothrond for in Doriath dwelt Celeborn, kinsman of Thingol… Therefore she remained in the Hidden Kingdom, and abode with Melian, and of her learned great lore and wisdom concerning Middle-Earth.”
I have taken this to mean that while Galadriel learned wisdom from the King of Doriath’s wife, Celeborn may have fought alongside the marchwardens of Doriath, among whom Mablung and Beleg were the two greatest, and learned from them their rituals: ways of training, lore etc… that eventually formed the basis for the Guard of Lothlórien.
However that is only speculation and should not be construed as fact.

2 Gelydhrim or “wisdom host” is of my own creation. Let me tell you, a bunch of regimental buffers all gathered in one room wanting their say gives you a headache.

3 Yén—the Elves’ measurement of a year which is one hundred and forty four years according to the human calendar.

Upon reflection, I feel as though I may be throwing one too many other characters at you. I believe I read somewhere that, as a fanfiction writer, one must be careful not to let the other characters take over a story.

What is your opinion on this? Do I have too many other characters running about muddling things up? Or rather do they enhance the story and make it more believable as they’re supposed to?

It is a little late to be asking this but I really do need an honest opinion on this: don’t be polite and twaddle upon those who wish to spare my feelings.

Cheers! I can’t wait to get to the next chapter!

~The Lady of Light~


Chapter 11 - Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven: Burning Embers
As though to curse their errand, it rained.
The scent of wet grass rose from their boots as they trod lightly over the thigh length blades bending under the weight of water. Despite the uncomfortable dampness, he kept alert, searching for startled game. Everything had gone to ground to get away from the rain.
Admitting defeat, he ran his fingers through the nodding grasses, beading rain drops on his fingers, cold and sharp. He tried not to roll his eyes for the thousandth time as his compatriot cursed the miserable wet that clung to the back of his neck and soaked his leggings through
“This wretched country and its foul weather,” the man grumbled, hiking his hood up further over his head. But it did little as he was already chilled through. “I would that we had turned back south by now.”
“Oh, stop your grumbling; it doesn’t help matters,” his companion snorted water scornfully off his upper lip. “Captain Ramir says we will be going into the forest soon—that will help slacken the rain a little.”
“And make us prime targets for the darkies. I wonder what Ramir thinks he’s doing; captain for a week and already he’s too big for his boots.” The older man shook his head. “We don’t even know if it’s a trap—they could be lying in ambush for us and he’s willing to walk right into it.” He turned his eyes to the murky grey meadow and the mass of darker grey rising out of the earth like a bank of clouds. He lowered his voice. “Ramir’s gone a bit funny if you ask—”
“I don’t. Speak not of your commander in such a way.” the other who would have liked to have agreed with his friend glanced over his shoulder uneasily. “He has been of a strange temper of late.”
“That elf missed his throat and clipped his head, you think?”
The younger guard shook his head, unsmiling. “I’m not sure. But he is in no mood to run afoul of.”
“I always spoke of you as having an old head on young shoulders, boy.” He sighed and resumed his complaints. “At this rate, the harvest will be upon us before we see Ithilien again.”
His friend was no longer listening to him, eyes fixed with sudden intensity on the dark bank wreathed in silver mist far below them.
“What are you looking at?”
Shading his eyes to narrow his field of vision, the younger soldier didn’t answer as he peered steadily at the swirling mist-shapes across the moor. After a tense few minutes, he sighed and dropped his hand. “Hm. I thought I saw something amongst those trees a minute ago.”
“It’s this cursed rain curtain.”
“No… not that… It wasn’t rain, I’m sure of it.” The man shielded his eyes again and squinted as hard as he could in the direction he thought he had seen the shape. “There is nothing now.”
“I think you got knocked on the head one too many times in that last skirmish, Tergon, my friend.”
Tergon smiled and shook his head at the older man. “I? Look at you—sporting a warrior wound your wife can be proud of.”
The man touched the bandage around his head and winked slyly at the other ranger. “Aye, that she will!”
The shrill whinny of a horse startled both of them and they drew their swords, wheeling towards the fog-shrouded forest.

~*~

The banners of the silver tree flapped in a damp wind over the heads of their miserable soldiers encamped below. Huddled under any kind of shelter they could find: tarps of burnt cloth, under the wagons that carried their supplies, crouched miserably beneath simple homespun cloaks, the soldiers waited out the foul weather.

One large tent that had somehow managed to survive the Haradrim attacks had been set up in the center of camp. Beneath the awning, many men took refuge including Ramir, now commander of the Gondorian forces. Slouching in a makeshift chair, he idly toyed with the handle of a black and silver knife in his lap, listening to the rain drumming in his temples. Had that knife spun any closer he would have lost his head. As it was, he was lucky. He still couldn’t believe it had taken nearly a score and a half to bring the blasted elf down. And not a one of that number had escaped unscathed either.

Breath wheezed through a badly healed nose as he turned his eyes bad-temperedly to the two rain-washed soldiers rushing up to him. “Well? What do you have to report?”

“Sir, Tergon and I were keeping watch as you ordered and… well, sir, with the mist and everything it was difficult to see…Not that we weren’t watching! But then, we—or rather—Tergon saw something and he—”

“Get on with it, Garen! I don’t have all day,” Ramir snapped, cutting short the man’s ramblings.

“Sir, we have… strange visitors.” The older one blurted, his eyes wide with awe and fear. Ramir noticed his face looked whiter than parchment and felt the first stirrings of unease.

“Well? Who are they?”

“They did not give their names but one is a captain and said he would speak of his errand only to you… sir,” Tergon added hastily also rather wide-eyed but less afraid.

“‘Captain?’” Ramir said blankly. “Captain of what?”

“Sir, I think you should see them.”

As Tergon spoke a murmur arose from near the front of the tent. Six figures stood at the entrance, garbed in long grey cloaks against the rain. Even squinting, Ramir could scarcely make them out against the rainy backdrop. “Bring light in here!” he snapped.

Immediately a sentinel set steel to flint and managed a small spark on scavenged tinder with which he lit the braziers set in the four corners of the tent.

Without pausing for the light, the visitors paced soundlessly forward. Fully two ranks of tall, green-cloaked men stood to either side of them, swords and bows nearly as tall as they resting close to hand. They stared in astonishment at the company that now walked among them and a few whispered fearfully among themselves. The faint brasier-glow made the men—if men they be—seem almost insubstantial, the firelight flickering over their cloaks causing them to disappear and reappear eerily, like wraiths.

Watching them, the older guard leaned towards his superior and whispered his fear unwisely aloud. “Sir, I think they’re elves.”

Ramir froze then abruptly his face blackened with terrible wrath. “You fools! Letting elves into our camp!” he thundered, hurling a beaker at the hapless guard. “Why didn’t you kill them!”

“Sir, they sued for peace; they did not come heavily armed,” the guard pleaded, hands raised to protect his face. Since the escape of the prisoner, the commander’s tempers had taken an unpredictable turn.

“Peace, my foot! You know who they are in league with! You know what they can do to us! Not while Meneldil is king 1 will I parley with elves!” He raged.

“With all due respect, we did not come here to fight with you.” Haldir spoke, forcing his voice to remain level. Fortunately, the deep hood shielded his face from the man’s seeking eyes and he kept back to the shadows, taking care that his voluminous cloak hid the brace on his arm.

“Oh? Then why have you come, elf.” the man spat with forced calmness, staring down at his faceless visitors.

“I am Captain Arenath of the Golden Wood. We have come to speak to you regarding your pursuit of the dark men past our boundaries.” Haldir wisely did not add the end of Arenath’s sentence which might have ended this peace treaty very quickly.

“I have nothing to say to the Elves,” Ramir replied, his hands clenching the arms of his chair. “Nor to those who keep their true faces concealed.” He eyed Haldir balefully, unknowingly. “Face me as men—perhaps then we will talk.”

Hearing the words spoken through Haldir, Arenath stepped forward and threw back his cowl, scarcely able to conceal his hatred. Behind him, Déorian, Ancadal, Rameil, now fully recovered, and Rúmil who had refused to let his brother go without him, also lowered their hoods. Haldir did not.

Ramir pointed at him. “You, interpreter, why do you cover your face? Surely you are not frightened of us that you must hide like a rabbit in his hole?” He laughed at his own jibe.

Haldir shook his head, forcing his anger under a layer of cool detachment. “I am merely a translator; my place is small in these proceedings.”

“Indeed.” Ramir’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you do not want us to hunt in your trees for your friends, eh, elf?” He addressed Arenath who bristled at this lack of respect but Rameil’s subtle hand on his back warned him that any angry outburst would be taken very ill.

Arenath spoke rapidly which Haldir translated just as quickly. “It is better to sue for peace and pardon than risk the spilling of blood.”

“I need neither! Darkies skulk behind your trees!” Ramir snarled in return. “You harbor them and we will take them from you by force if we have to!”

“This is not our conflict,” Arenath said, his eyes refracting the firelight. “We do not deal in the affairs of Men and to needlessly shed the blood of your people is foolishness.”

“Are you calling me a fool?” Ramir’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl though a strange smile flickered around his lips as though daring the elven leader to provoke him further.

Tension thickened in the air. Only the long low plaintive sound of the wind rolling over the canvas broke the silence of the tent.

Rúmil stared around at the hard-faced men. An anxious dread began to gnaw at his stomach as he realized they were outnumbered by more than six to one. He gripped the long dagger hidden under his cloak. If they had to fight, he would be ready. Though they had been issued with strict orders by their Lord to keep this bloodless, Rúmil did not see how they could manage that if the rangers decided to attack.

The elf’s keen eyes settled on the grizzled leader’s face—he had killed Fedorian. If it came to battle, Rúmil had found his first target.

“We do not wish to fight—but if you threaten us, we will have no choice.”

“You ‘do not wish to fight?’” Ramir echoed as he rose from his chair. With a wry chuckle, he shook his head and stopped three paces from the emissaries, eyes full of malice. “Your friend squealed for death. You will too.”

“No! You lie!” Rúmil roared one of the few phrases of Westron he knew as he lunged rashly at the man with dagger drawn.

The blow of a spear butt drove him hard to the floor, groaning.

A hard-soled boot pinned him firmly to the ground by the back of his neck. “I could quash the life out of you right now, elf-brat,” Ramir snarled, leaning his weight heavily on Rúmil’s throat until the younger elf choked.

“Know that you will die if you do,” another voice snarled; Ramir’s eyes widened as he recognized that dangerous, defiant timbre at the same time as a razor-sharp edge scraped across his jaw.

Ramir glanced out of the corner of his eye at his assailant, keeping his head carefully still lest he cut his own throat. “You!”

Haldir had boldly bared his face with the firelight behind him. “I.”

Rúmil slid out from under the man’s boot, coughing and rubbing his bruised esophagus as Ramir stepped slowly back. None of the Gondorian soldiers had moved yet.

Haldir withdrew his knife from under Ramir’s chin, adrenaline pounding through his veins like fire. “We will not shed blood here. We came for peace. You do not desire it.” The elf’s eyes hardened. “But know now, human, you have brought death upon your people. I promise you, on the field of battle, I will find you in honorable combat.” He stepped away.

Outnumbered and outflanked, the elves still possessed a hidden power that even the skillfully trained men of Gondor dared not engage. They did not move as the elves swept through their ranks.

Tergon darted out of the shadowy entrance where he had concealed himself and intercepted Haldir on his way out. “You must come with me,” the young man said, pretending to escort the elves hurriedly away as he gripped the elf’s upper arm lightly. “We do not have much time and he doesn’t have long.”

Haldir regarded him in confusion. “‘He?’”

“Please, you must come.”

Asking Arenath to keep going, he followed after the young man, slightly annoyed when Rúmil broke off after him. They both cast their hoods up once more against the rain as Tergon led them to a secluded part of camp.

Blowing rainwater from his lips, he stopped next to a muddy depression, half-filled with twisted brambles and ditchwater. “Ramir was… not merciful,” he said, damp dark curls clinging to his forehead.

Haldir looked down and froze in shock.

Below them, half-submerged in filthy water lay a still figure, face concealed by a matted tangle of hair, hard to tell what color through all the mud.

“Who—?”

Rúmil’s face blenched. “Impossible.”

--

Burning with shame and humiliation, Ramir shoved two of his soldiers aside as he stumbled out of the tent. “Stupid fools! Never mind those elves’ damn fox-tricks! After them!” Swiping rainwater from his eyes, the man stared around wildly, chest heaving as he seized his bow.

You won’t escape this time.
--

Rúmil scrambled into the ditch beside the pitiful figure that had neither spoken nor stirred. Indeed, it hardly seemed to breathe. With shaking hands, Rúmil gripped the bony shoulders and gently turned it over onto its back, smoothing away the now visible, pale-gold hair from a battered face.

Rúmil gave a small wordless cry of relief and distress. Head spinning, he could not think clearly enough to form words, his fingers fluttering at Fedorian’s neck for a pulse.

“Haldir,” Rúmil’s cracked voice broke his brother from his shock. “He’s alive!”

In an instant, Haldir was beside him, kneeling in the mud to affirm what Rúmil had already insisted was true.

A muffled groan escaped his lips when Haldir saw the blood matting his old friend’s pale visage. A long gouge slashed the elf commander’s face from hairline across his cheek, passing through his eye. His leg had been twisted in an abominably wrong way and his skin looked pallid beneath all the mud.

Fedorian’s wrists had been tightly bound with cord. Rúmil fingered it angrily, noticing the red marks cut into the tender flesh beneath. With a few furious swipes his dagger slashed the ropes to strands.

Fedorian lay limp and still with the rain rolling down his face.

“We have to get him back to Caras Galadhon.” He weighed so little, Rúmil could lift him easily. Grasping the right arm carefully and the left uninjured leg with the other, Rúmil hoisted his former commander onto his shoulders gingerly and began trudging back upslope.

“We can never thank you.” Haldir turned to Tergon, gratitude shining in his face. “You know there will be battle between our kinds.”

“I know,” the young man affirmed quietly. “And I know I cannot expect you to protect me from your own soldiers in it. Take care of your friend; he needs it.”

Haldir undid the clasp on his cloak and pressed it into the man’s hand. “Wear this when battle breaks. I will make sure every single one of my soldiers know its meaning. You will have nothing to fear from the Elves, Tergon, you have more than earned our respect and gratitude.”

Tergon clasped the brooch tightly in his palm and bowed low with a hand to his heart. “Go and live well, Haldir. You have my honor and loyalty for as long as you live in Middle Earth.”

An arrow bedded in the dirt next to Haldir’s boot and the elf whirled round to see a line of Gondorian archers facing them, bows drawn tightly.

“Go! Get out of here! Get back to your woods!” Tergon urged, shoving him back down towards the ditch. Rúmil with Fedorian on his shoulders slid awkwardly back down the muddy slope with Haldir right behind him. Arenath and the others were already far ahead, hidden amongst the long grasses.

Haldir turned as Rúmil raced away, following the line of the ditch, ducking low to sure the earth trenches covered his head from enemy shafts. “Thank you, Tergon.”

“Haldir, go on.” Tergon urged him fearfully, leaping back as one or two arrows nearly struck him. One hit his leathern shield and bounced off.

The elf nodded once and vanished.

“Halt your fire! Can’t you see they’ve gone!” Ramir raged. He stalked up to the ditch edge and peered down. Not even a trace of the elves had been left behind despite the thick mud. Striding furiously up to the young ranger crouched near him, he swung out open-handed.

Tergon took the blow and fell hard, his head cracking against the rain-soaked ground.

Ramir glared murderously down at the soldier sprawled at his feet blood from his lip mingling with the rain.

“I’ll see you burn for this.”

~*~

Quarrels and lethal arguments broke out daily in the encampment. Even more when it rained. Two wargs, six feet at the back, wrestled and snarled, setting their teeth into one another’s shoulders for the the scrap of venison lying helpless between them. Their furious barks and growls thundered over the wet trees.

An orc leapt up, laying about with his thorn cane. “Hie! Hie! Gerroff o’ that piece or I’ll whip yer mangy hides to dollrags!” The warg driver broke his switch over the back of one of the wildly fighting animals and threw the haft down bad-temperedly, dancing on the spot with rage.

“Ah, give your whining tongue a rest, Dagluf!” an umber-shaded human woman lounged beside a large female wolf. “They stop when they not hungry any more.” She flashed a white-toothed smile and ruffled her compatriot’s coarse ears.

The orc was beyond furious. “Order yer damned bitch to tell ‘em to quit—the racket they’re makin’ll have every cursed pointy-ear in the forest coming round!”

As though resenting not being directly addressed, the warg leader flattened her ears and pulled her black lips back in a semblance of a gruesome smile, barking a short series of commands.

Instantly, the two battlers broke apart, sides lathered with froth and blood, and simultaneously pounced. One launched its teeth into the orc’s chest, the other his leg. Dagluf screamed once and serene silence fell on the camp once again.

High above, elven eyes narrowed in silent speculation of the grisly spectacle. The owner of the eyes snorted in aristocratic disgust. “Tchach! No manners among the lot of them. Bad form, the bounders.”

“Well, in all defense, Captain, they are orcs,” a young archer, one of many in the trees, remarked blithely. She perched on a slender branch with one of her legs dangling lazily over the side.

Alfirin reached up and tugged it sharply. “Defense? Pish tush! Not the sort of thing one would expect from a pretty first officer like yourself.”

The archer regained her balance with a grin, testing the icy edge of a knife on a rosy apple she’d pulled from her pack. “When’s the fighting going to start, sir? My fingers are twitching for lack of something to do.”

“I know, my girl. I know. But we can’t get into the old tussle ‘til the boss wallah gets back.”

“I thought you were the ‘boss wallah.’”

“I bend to the whims of the higher-ups, you know.” He adopted a dignified, noble air. “Modesty is the best policy.”

She nudged his shoulder playfully with her boot, lacking the decorum usually afforded to a superior officer. “Yes, right. Regimental stiff upper lip.”

“That’s a girl!”

Up one branch higher, Orophin shook his head in frank bewilderment. He had taken up with Alfirin’s group to hunt out the Haradrim and keep an eye on them until his brothers returned. Stationed around them and across from them, ringing the entire grove were at least a score of elves. They had been there since early morning.

The rain finally stopped when the sun passed his zenith and the elf peered up through the latticed branches blinking away the white popping lights as a sun ray caught his eye.

The archer smiled up at him. “I don’t know, warrior. You might not reach your wife with your sanity intact—you’re with the ‘mad hares’ now, you know.”

“The what?” Orophin didn’t know whether to laugh or not. He had been up here the better part of the morning, listening to the two banter back and forth and trying to stifle his laughter which would surely give them away. But the orcs and humans gathered below seemed horrendously deaf to all but their own petty squabbles.

“It’s what he,” she motioned down-branch. “—calls us when he thinks we can’t hear. Takes too long really to explain what it means and what we do but you’ll see.”

“Yes, well, I’ve got about sixty blinkin’ nicknames I can’t manage to keep track of thanks to you lot,” Alfirin murmured under his breath without looking up.

Orophin shot him a quizzical look which the female archer caught. “He may talk funny but don’t let that fool you. Dead perilous in battle.” She winked conspiratorially. “You’ll be glad to have him on your side when push comes to shove.”

“Linwen, my dear, you blather on more than a bunch of hens at a pecking party.”

She glared down at his head. “I do not ‘blather’” she retorted. The very picture of injured dignity. “Whatever that means,” she muttered out of the corner of her lips to Orophin who tried to muffle his laughter. He started in the next second as his brother landed lightly beside him, his sword nearly clipping him in the jaw.

“Haldir. Where’ve you been? What happened?” Orophin questioned him fiercely. His brother’s face looked wan, his hands smeared with dirt.

“Orophin… something urgent has come up that cannot wait. I need you to stay here for a few hours and keep an eye on our friends down there.”

His younger brother was instantly concerned. “Was someone hurt? Rúmil?”

“No, Rúmil is all right.” He lowered his voice further and pulled his brother away from the trunk where the archer below stared with exaggerated care at the quieted enemy.

“We found Fedorian.”

Orophin stared blankly at him.

“He is alive.”

“What?” Orophin’s sharp, hissed exclamation made Alfirin looked around and one of the wargs sniffing around looked up, ears twisting.

“I need to tell Geilrín and Silivren—Arenath has gone on ahead with him and Rúmil for aid.” Haldir told him, careful to keep his voice low.

Orophin nodded, his mind whirling. “All right.”

“Well, what in stars’ name are you waiting for then?” Alfirin stood on a branch above them now. Neither Haldir nor Orophin had even seen him move. “Shift yourself. Quick’s the word and sharp’s the action!”

“Let me know what happens,” Orophin made his brother swear to it as he leapt off into the branches the next tree over, following a sure path only elves knew.

Orophin shifted restlessly, scarcely watching the human and orc hunting parties returning with fish filched from the Nimrodel. Fedorian… alive? It didn’t seem possible. Would they make it with time enough? What would happen if they didn’t?

“You aren’t doing a whit of good out here with a face on you like a rain-cloud at a picnic.” Alfirin’s voice broke through his chaotic thoughts as the old warrior tossed his head in the direction Haldir had taken. “Go on. I’ll hold down the old fort here.”

Orophin did not argue. “Thanks, sir.” He made to jump down from the branch when Alfirin grabbed his tunic and hauled him back.

“Wait a tick. That bounder over there has his beadies on us.” He gestured with the haft of his bow towards a warg circling near the foot of the tree.

Orophin reached for his bow. “Not for long.”

Alfirin stayed his hand. “Don’t want the entire camp roused up after us, do we?—blow the old wheeze to bits. Leave me to it.” Alfirin glanced over his shoulder. “You ready yet, my girl?”

Linwen finished coiling a long length of silvery rope and fashioning a loop from the end. “Ready when you are, sir.” She passed the length to him with a mutinous mutter. “Why do you get to have all the fun?”

He chucked her under the chin in a businesslike manner as he slung the rope over his shoulder. “Because I’m the jolly old superior officer and risking life and limb is my fun.”

Nimbly leaping from his current perch to the beech across the way, he lowered the rope carefully until it hovered tantalizingly above the warg’s had. “Come on, slobberchops. Sink your greedy ugly fangs into this lot,” the elf muttered as he swung the silvery loop nearer the beast’s head.

The warg snapped at the annoying noose, trying to bite through the cord but Alfirin jerked it just out of reach and with a sharp movement, dropped it over the beast’s neck. Tying the other end off swiftly, he lashed the creature to the tree like a hound on a leash.

Orophin had lost sight of Alfirin so he kept his eyes fixed below.

The dark woman had heard the wolf’s yammerings and risen to investigate, kicking out at the creature. “What’re you barking at?”

Suddenly, an elf appeared beside her as though he had materialized out of the tree itself. “This abominable thing of your breeding?” He nodded distastefully at the warg still twisting against its makeshift halter.

The dark woman did nothing more than stare shocked speechless by the boldness of the elf.

Alfirin leaned forward a bit, scrutinizing the woman critically. “Look at the shape of your uniform, miss. That’s not regulation. All the tears and scuffs and what-have-you’s. Deplorable, marm.”

The woman found her voice. “Get him! Get the elf!” She lunged for her pike but Alfirn danced away, flitting like a shadow past two astonished orcs, dropping one with a knife in his gut.

“I say, old thing, Valar forbid you reproduce. Nasty tempers are hereditary.”

Enraged, the woman chased after him but the elf was gone again like smoke.

“Have to move faster that that, eh. Get the old blood flowing.”

--

Orophin nearly stumbled as the archer shoved his shoulder. “Go on! What are you waiting for?”

“But—he—”

“Go! That’s what he did that for!” She slapped his back heartily. “Wish I could too. Go on! You’ll have to tell us later how the captain’s doing.”

Orophin slipped to the ground as the orcs, wargs and dark men fruitlessly pursued fleet-footed Alfirin who continued to lead them a merry chase through the woodlands.

“Come now! Come now! Forward the buffs, you sloppy lot!”

~*~

“How is he?” Orophin asked breathlessly, leaping up the last of the ladder rungs. He had made the trip in less than an hour and though his legs trembled with exhaustion, he could not rest.

Not even looking up, Geilrín remained where she was, arms folded, eyes dark with terrible fear. “I do not know.”

Startled and discomforted, Orophin did nothing more than stare for a moment, still breathing heavily. “Will they not let you see him?”

“It’s too soon.” Haldir spoke up from his vigil near the door.

There was no healer’s ward for the injured so close to the perimeter. The great mallorn where the healers stayed had been too far away and they had dared not try to take Fedorian that far in his condition. Instead, a space had been cleared on one of the screened flets near the borders. Eremae had volunteered to care for the severely injured captain whose wife was her good friend. Neither knew if he would live.

Rúmil joined them a short time later and took a seat beside his brother on the stairs without a word. Orophin did not know how long they waited but he had nearly dozed off when the door creaked open behind him.

Geilrín was on her feet already as Eremae, looking haggard and wiping her hands, swept aside the leafed branches they had hung to create a screen over part of the flet.

“May we see him?” Haldir asked, rising to his feet.

Eremae ignored him and addressed Geilrín. “I’ve got him settled now. I will be honest, my friend, it looks to go ill. I removed the haft of a broad-headed arrow from his calf… there are numerous contusions… broken ribs and fingers… They badly fractured his skull. And none of it has been treated in days. If—by,” she hastily corrected herself. “the time he does recover, he… may not be the same again”

Geilrín took it calmly, her healer’s mask concealing her emotions.

Eremae looked less composed. “I managed to save one of his eyes. The other… will be blind—if and when he heals.”

“When.” Geilrín said, her face taut with determination. “I already buried my husband once. I will not do so again. I will take him home again, Eremae, and do not dare tell me different.”

Her friend bowed her head in acknowledgement.

“May we see him?” Haldir persisted.

Eremae looked at him dispassionately. “Family first.”

“They are family,” Geilrín put in shortly, brushing past the younger healer.

Haldir, Rúmil and Orophin filed in after her, apprehension beating hard beneath their ribs.

The overhanging boughs of the mallorn leant a deep shade to the makeshift chamber. In the center on a pallet lay a small bundle draped in white sheets. Geilrín went immediately to it and took her husband’s hand, lacing her fingers through his cold ones.

Seeing their reluctance to approach, she beckoned them forward. “It’s all right. He should sleep for a long while yet.”

Swallowing hard against the lump rising in his throat, Rúmil approached the bed soundlessly, looking down at his commander. Even though he had been there when they found him, he still could not believe that was his mentor lying so pale and wasted beneath the light sheets.

Bandages wrapped across the visible parts of his body, his wrists, his face. The cheeks were sunken, yellow-black bruises painting the cleaned alabaster skin beneath; his entire face held a gaunt, tormented look. But what scared the younger elf most of all was his captain’s eyes.

They were closed.

Slowly, he sank beside the paillasse. His back still throbbed from the spear blow but the silence was more difficult to bear.

None spoke. What could they say?

“Naneth? What’s happened?”

Rúmil looked up as Silivren rushed through the branches. Geilrín leapt up and embraced her fiercely, telling her quickly in a rushed whisper. Face white, Silivren knelt at her father’s side, taking his other hand as though scarce able to believe he was there. She smiled weakly at Rúmil who could not muster the strength to smile back.

He had no idea how long he knelt there but he had ceased to feel his legs and his feet tingled. Quite suddenly, he started, realizing that he had nearly fallen asleep and found himself staring into a single green eye.

Fedorian was awake.

Geilrín had noticed too and squeezed her husband’s hand with a soft smile, tears shimmering in her eyes. Leaning over her shoulder, Haldir smiled through tears of relief pricking his own eyes. “We thought we had lost you, my friend.”

Rúmil nodded, his voice choked. “Your mourning rites were a ten-day ago.”

A weak smile flitted across the tired, grey countenance. He couldn’t draw up the strength to speak yet. But seeing his visible eye open was enough to break the horrible tension in the room.

“Go…home.”

Rúmil looked at him, frowning. “You want us to leave?”

Fedorian weakly shook his head, his eyes heavily glazed from the poppy extract Eremae had given him to kill his pain. “No. Me… home.”

Geilrín knew instantly what he meant. “He wants to go home.”

Eremae heard as she entered. “Well, he will simply have to wait. His injuries are far too grievous to let him move yet.”

“I can take care of him.”

Eremae gave her friend a conciliating look. “You cannot look after him day after day—at least not until he is a little stronger. Please, Geilrín. He needs rest now. And so do you.”

If Fedorian heard, he gave no sign. Despite his will, his eyes kept fluttering closed.

“Let him rest,” Eremae repeated, laying a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I will call you if anything changes.”

“I will stay with him,” Geilrín said, firmly putting aside her friend’s hands.

Rúmil looked around as Haldir touched his shoulder. “Come,” his brother told him. “We should go.” Rúmil rose shakily, realizing he felt uncommonly exhausted

“Yes, you all get them some sleep,” Geilrín embraced each one of them as they left.

Haldir led the way, none of the three brothers saying a word. He did not know if Rúmil and Orophin were too shocked or thoughtful to say anything but Haldir’s mind was awhirl with too much. In the Gondorian camp that afternoon, his concern had outweighed his anger. But now, a fury deeper than anything Haldir had ever known cut him to the veins. He knew exactly who had done this. Now, he would see them brought to justice. Peace be damned!

~*~

Rúmil brushed past nodding ferns towards the guard flet; he had taken to checking on Geilrín and her family in his spare hours. He was surprised to find them near the bole of the tree with their arms around one another. Since his return, they had had trouble letting go of Fedorian’s hand. A chill seized the younger elf as he hesitantly stopped beside them.

“Is he all right?” his voice was not as strong as he wanted it to be, little more than a hoarse whisper.

Geilrín held her daughter close, stroking her hair lightly. The younger woman seemed very upset. Her mother looked up at Rúmil’s anxious face. “We do not know. He is… not well. He is not well, Rúmil. Perhaps you should come back…” She didn’t get a chance to finish as Rúmil rushed past her. Eremae leant busily over some task or other and Rúmil did not think it wise to interrupt her as he rushed up the soft, grey ladder. .

Reaching the platform, he stepped light-footed across the floor, hearing a soft, rough voice and wondering at it. Easing the screen aside with suddenly damp hands, he glanced into the room. Lit only by a single dying candle, the chamber lay in near-darkness with shadows whirling in the corners, the mangled arms of trees thrown up against the floor, raking one another in the wind.

Fedorian lay flat upon his back, staring upwards his single eye never blinking. But he did not sleep. The sheets lay tangled about his waist and a pillow lay slumped and abandoned on the floor. He whispered low under his breath, audible enough for only Rúmil to hear as he apprehensively approached the bedside.

“No, no. no. They never said that. They couldn’t have said that. Who have you been talking with? Laer doesn’t like rabbits… doesn’t like me much either to tell you the truth. Where did they all go? My head hurts… Why—why did they leave?”

The younger elf swallowed hard against a dry mouth. “Captain? Fedorian, sir? T-they didn’t leave. I’m here.” Rúmil’s voice sounded small in the stillness.

Fedorian did not even look at him. There was no recognition in his face. “Not that way. The river takes two days to overflow. The trees flood quicker. Rope braiding is a silly thing; why she took it up—who knows how females’ brains work? There’s blankness behind your eyes.” His eye suddenly and unexpectedly snapped to Rúmil’s face, making the other elf jump. “There’s nothing. You’re nothing! Where’s your face? Nothing where your face would matter… They get you in the flames… flames and ash… to dust… dust. Stop asking me that! I don’t know how females’ brains work!”

Rúmil could not stand it anymore. Backing away from the bed, he forced himself to stride calmly onto the platform and not bolt as he wished. As the branches swung back into place behind him, muffling Fedorian’s ravings, his legs began to tremble violently and he leaned his head back against the solid trunk protruding from floor’s center, fighting the sobs that threatened to burst out of him.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked when he had managed to pull himself together and rejoin Geilrín and Silivren on the ground.

Disapproving, Eremae looked up from where she rolled bandages. “I told you the wound to his head was serious. He has no knowledge of what he is saying. I’m hoping it will pass.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

Rúmil glanced back up into the dark branches, his heart still hammering with horror and fear. But he could not help the sympathy that radiated through him. “I—I think someone should stay with him… just in case,” Rúmil offered uneasily, having no desire to revisit that horrible room.

“Will you stay with him, Rúmil?” Geilrín spoke up, her face suffused with relief and thankfulness. “Then I can take Silivren home then and get in an hour or so of sleep.” They had been here all day and looked haggard and drawn.

Rúmil stared at her; he could not say no and see the gratitude die in her eyes. “I will.” His voice was stronger than he felt, his knees still trembling faintly.

“If he is lucid, I left a cup of tea he ought to drink. I will be here if you need anything,” Eremae offered, her eyes understanding and silently praising his bravery.

Rúmil felt their gazes heavy on his shoulders as he turned his steps back towards the platform. But Fedorian lay mercifully quiet now, seeming to sleep for which Rúmil was incredibly grateful as he settled himself for a long vigil. The room lay swathed in shadow and Rúmil could not help his mind drifting as he leaned his head back.

The pain-roughened voice startled him awake as he sat up.

A soft rustling told him Fedorian tossed restlessly; Rúmil could see a sheen of perspiration gleaming on his forehead, dampening the sheets.

“Go.”

Rúmil blinked, thinking for a moment that his commander was talking to him. He nearly-started when he realized this was indeed the case. Fedorian’s eye had focused on him.

“Fedorian… sir… do you know me?” Rúmil asked, scooting closer.

“Rúmil, youngest brother of Orophin, wed, and Haldir, the most nuisance of a lieutenant I’ve ever had. You are a young tracker, have been for years, and broke your arm last yèn falling off a bridge during training.”

“That was an accident.” Rúmil smiled.

Fedorian said nothing and brushed a hand over his face, lingering over his eyes.

The younger elf was immediately on the alert. “Are you in pain?”

“My head aches. Terribly,” Fedorian admitted. “I’ve been…” he trailed off as though unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Trying to rest,” Rúmil put in helpfully.

“Yes.” Fedorian blinked heavily, still shielding his eyes. “Rúmil… turn down the light would you?”

Rúmil glanced at the dim, guttering candle beside the bed and immediately snuffed it; the only light in the room now came from the blue-white moonlight filtering through the branches.

Slowly, Fedorian lowered his hand from his eyes. “Better. How long have I been—?” He dwindled into silence again.

“Hours. Most of the day, I think.”

“What’s the time now?”

Rúmil glanced upwards. “The stars are turning westward.”

Fedorian thought about that a moment. “My lady went home, I hope?”

“She’ll be back soon.” Rúmil said, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

But Fedorian shook his head, turning over on his side fitfully and cradling his face in his arm. “No… no,” his voice muffled against the mattress. “It’s better…” He raised his head a little and Rúmil caught the glint of moonlight reflected in his commander’s pain-stricken eye. “I want you to go. No, listen to me,” he grabbed the younger elf’s hand when Rúmil looked about to protest. “I want you to go. And until I’m out of this wretched bed, I don’t want to see you.”

“Oh,” Rúmil said, dropping his eyes, wondering if his commander was angry with him.

Fedorian must have realized he had said something hurtful for he corrected himself quickly, his eyes closing tightly against some pain. “I… I don’t want you to see me like this. I’ve been… saying things… rather out of it…”

Rúmil tried to placate him without hurting his dignity. “No… you’ve been hurt—you just need time to—” The grip on his hand tightened, painfully. Rúmil grimaced and tried to pull away but that steely clasp was too desperate.

“Stop! Stop, stop! Stop looking at me like that! Not like that. I hate that! Why do you stare? I will close my eyes and you will go away. Away, away. Away like dust. Go!”

The hand released him abruptly as Fedorian turned again to his nightmare world. Rúmil staggered backward, through the screen and fell with a thud.

Alert to every noise, Eremae rushed up. “All right?” she threw at Rúmil who could only nod shakily.

The healer slipped to the bedside and threaded strips of cloth through loops attached to the wooden supports of the cot. With difficulty and much wrestling, she managed to lock them around Fedorian’s wrists, fastening him down tightly.

“He does not need to injure himself further,” she said over her shoulder to Rúmil’s shocked look.

Fedorian struggled furiously against the bonds, wrenching at the knots that held him as Eremae tried to keep him still. Rúmil left, closing his eyes and wishing he could close his ears against the small mewling sounds of distress that broke past his commander’s lips. They wrenched the younger elf’s heart as he fought down to the ground, gasping in the cool night air as though he had been drowning.

Geilrín nearly ran into him on her way up. One glance at his white face told her all and she took his cold hand in hers, gazing solemnly up into his face. “Tell no one of this please, Rúmil. He does not know what he’s doing and if he ever wishes to regain his command, I—I would rather—“

“I understand, Geilrín. I won’t say a word,” Rúmil promised.

“He will get better,” she said, smiling assuredly.

Rúmil hoped so as he fled from the one thing, despite all his prowess, that he couldn't face. .

Author’s Notes: As always any deviating from Tolkien, breaking canon, inconsistencies are the fault of the author entirely. I like to pretend to be an expert. Criticism and praise are welcomed with equally wide-open arms.

Only one footnote this time:

1 At this time, the King of Gondor is Meneldil son of Anarion son of Elendil. Third Age

Cheers!

~The Lady of Light~


Chapter 12 - Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve: Feeding the Flames

Patches of shadow and sunlight danced across his face comfortlessly in the blue haze of the afternoon. Rúmil’s tunic stuck to his back as he plucked it away from his skin idly.

Though Lórien looked as lush as ever, a stifling heat hung on the air, oppressive and breathless. The grass on the borders had wilted, its dry brittle fragrance permeating the lifeless air, and even the mallorn, though beautiful, seemed to fade to a dull grey without rain to nourish them. Even the birds and animals were silenced, husbanding their energy away from the affliction of the sun. Lethargy affected the Galadrim as well who attempted to remain ever-vigilant in the abrasive heat, bearing up against it by scouting out what shade they could. At mid-noon when it grew warmest, the grateful group was relieved.

The young scout Thillas lay sprawled on his back in the great shadow of a massive trunk. “You know they will not move until forced to. Why worry?”

“We don’t know that and we can’t take chances,” Orophin argued, caught in the sunlight. “They are hunted and fearful. The sun will only hold them back for so long.”

On the other side of Thillas, Rúmil listened idly and closed his eyes against the afternoon sun that pinpricked through the leaves. In this bright heat, he couldn’t care much for the movements of orcs and their human allies.

“Alfirin sent out Linwen and a few to get bearings on them.”

Opening his eyes a fraction, Rúmil glanced up at his oldest brother who perched high above him. “Anything?” They were still close to the borders, ergo wariness was a must.

Haldir shook his head. “Nothing. But Silivren’s coming. And bearing life-saving refreshments thank heaven.” He landed neatly beside his brother.

Rúmil stood up, dusting dried grass from his leggings, and glanced towards the lowered river. “Should—should I get him then?”

Haldir glanced at him uneasily. “If he will come. You know he’s still—”

“I know.”

Rúmil made his way to the river edge, approaching cautiously as though a hunted animal lay crouched on the bank.

Fedorian sat cross-legged near the lapping waters of the Nimrodel, bent busily over a length of wood in his hands, a curved piece of deep rich brown. Rúmil watched several lighter shavings fall into his lap then slowly knelt next to him.

This close he could see the faded bruises, the skin still faintly tinged around the ears with jaundice-yellow, the lingering traces of battle’s sign.

“Silivren’s coming. Do you want something to drink?” He hated this. He really did. Talking to his teacher as though he were a child. Geilrín said they had to try to ease him back from wherever he had locked himself but Rúmil knew, or guessed rather, that Fedorian could understand him perfectly and simply chose not to react or acknowledge the presence of others.

For days.

Glancing downwards at the wood between his friend’s hands, Rúmil tried to smile when he felt as though his face might crack with effort. “That looks really pretty. What’s it for?”

Fedorian didn’t even look up, so intent on his task.

Rúmil, giving in, sighed and stood up as the young elf woman started passing out flagons that had been kept cool by being weighted in the Celebrant with silver ropes. “If you need… anything… we’ll…” He walked away and accepted the flask Silivren handed him with a grateful smile. Seating himself beside his brother, he lowered his voice so she would not overhear. “I don’t understand why he’s like this.”

“Give him time, Rúmil. He just needs time,” Haldir said, sipping from his own flask.

Rúmil remained unconvinced, cradling the cool flagon between his hands. “You weren’t like this.”

Haldir suddenly found the grass very fixating. “I was not there as long… nor as-as badly damaged.” He had not told his brothers about the Gondorian camp and they had not asked. As though it would shatter their peace of mind and would never be able to look at him the same if they did.

“What did she say afflicted him so?” Thillas asked, more from curiosity than any sense of tact. “I mean, I know, he was always rather… taciturn—this seems a little excessive I think.”

“It’s his head, Thillas, and try to be a bit more respectful,” Orophin said, cutting a stern glance at the younger elf. “Don’t talk about it when Silivren’s here. You know it upsets her.”

The elf woman had approached her father last. “Adar, you should eat something.” She tugged at his listless arm. “Come on. We brought nice, cool water and a few of those pastry cakes you like so much. Naneth made them.” Getting no response, she knelt and took his face in her slender hands while the other soldiers ate mechanically, trying not to stare.

“Please, eat something.”

It was painful to see her like this, trying and trying to get through to him. And getting nowhere. She kissed his forehead, blinking in the bright sunshine.

Rúmil sighed in the silence and put his flagon aside.

Raising his head for the first time, Fedorian broke from his daughter’s touch, standing rigid and tense, staring away from the river. Silivren and the others got to their feet too, wondering what had so acutely captured his attention.

A rush of hooves, a flash of grey sweat-streaked flanks. A rider galloped by, obviously bound for the city and too hurried to stop and relay his message.

Fedorian followed rider and horse keenly until he vanished between two trunks. Then sat down again and picked up his carving once more.

The air grew hotter.

~*~

Even night brought no relief from the scorching heat. No soothing wind stirred the curling branches and the air massed thick and stale under heavy boughs. Haldir trod wearily through it, hoping only for sleep after a long, rigorous day of instructing the lethargic recruits. Motivating them had been quite the challenge and Haldir had found himself almost wishing for a horde of attackers rather than the loud complaints he had had to suffer under the relentless sun.

Shoulder aching faintly, he climbed the silvery ladder let down for him. Emerging through the center of the platform, he pulled himself up and set his pack off to one side. He nodded a brief greeting to Thillas who had come in only moments before he and walked across the lightly swaying bridge to his own bunk.

A series of telain spread out over a vast part of the forest, following a curve southward parallel to the forest borders. Light, sturdy rope bridges enabled the soldiers to move quickly and easily from one flet to another. These were the elven barracks. Lined with two cots per flet, many were already occupied with weary soldiers who had been relieved on the perimeter. Carefully hidden by thick leafy branches, neither far from the city nor the borders, the soldiers were ready at a moment’s notice to come to arms.

Rameil who slept in the cot across from him had not returned yet and Haldir doubted he would until close to dawn.

Only the creak of wooden boards, the briefest of stirs in the trees above his head met his ears; the insects must have felt the heat as well for they were quieter than usual.

Perching on his bed, he un-girded his sword and knife and tucked them away under the bed. Removing his boots, he smiled at being able to use both hands again. But it quickly faded to dissatisfaction.

Scouts had been dispatched to keep an eye on the Gondorians’ movements the day after the disastrous attempt at peace negotiating. They had found nothing. The remnants of cooking fires, forgotten items and a fallen tent were all that remained. The rangers of the White City had completely vanished. But Haldir knew they had not gone.

Ramir would not give up, he knew that from experience. Simply thinking about the man, about Rúmil suffocating under him, made his hands clench so tightly his fingernails left deep crescent marks in his palms. Letting out a deep breath, Haldir willed himself to relax. He had to get some sleep tonight. Pushing aside all troubling thoughts as the aches in his muscles asserted themselves more strongly, he attended to the night’s ablutions.

Cleaned and dressed as lightly as possible without immodesty, he lay uncovered upon his bed, staring up at the still ceiling. No boughs to dance him to sleep tonight. Indeed a hush had settled down over the world around him. Few stirred and none of the soldiers had energy enough to speak.

Haldir looked up through the branches under the warm night, the dark shadows skittering over his face.

“Haldir.”

He woke abruptly to a lamp burning brightly in his eyes and shut them instantly with a soft noise of protest. A touch on his hand drew him to open them again towards the dark edge of the bed where Rameil bent over him worriedly.

The dark-haired warrior watched him with concern, obviously having just returned. One boot lay carelessly tossed on the floor. “Are you all right? You were…tossing…” Rameil trailed off, looking decidedly uneasy.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Haldir shook his head, self-conscious. “A dream only I think.” He lay there a moment, watching his friend unpack his supplies and ready himself for sleep. He tried to turn over away from the light but his thoughts would not stay idle. After a moment, he rose, tossed a tunic over his shoulders and to Rameil’s questioning look only said, “I cannot sleep anymore.”

“A walk always helps settle my thoughts,” Rameil nodded agreeably, perching on his bed and beginning to unravel his braids with stiff, tired fingers.

Haldir’s mind never registered his feet moving until the damp predawn grass touched his bare skin. Darkness grew thicker here than in the lantern-lit city. There greens, golds and silvers shed their luminous decadence across smooth pathways. Here there was nothing but the hidden moon and the nodding grasses far below her.

Shadows and moonlight chased across his hair, Haldir kept going, unsure of where his steps led him but allowing them to take him where they would. Losing all track of time, he had left the telain of the border guards far beyond him when he halted a moment, looking around. Was he lost? All of the trees looked the same in the deceptive moonlight. Perspiration trickled down his temples and he plucked at the collar of his tunic as he tried to get his bearings.

He stopped quite suddenly on the very fringe of a clearing. Long grass stood silent and motionless like rank upon rank of soldiers standing to attention. On either side like ever-vigilant sentinels towering trunks marched away into the darkness. Stark and revealing in their grimness. Water rustled somewhere in the deeper shadows. Unfamiliar to him in the dark.

Growing increasingly edgy, he skirted the vulnerable openness of the clearing, the grasses sweeping his thighs. Dew beaded on his hands and soaked the low cuffs of his leggings. A sharp contrast to the heat dampening his brow. Valar, he could still feel it! Shivering, he plunged swifter into the grasses, their sibilant rustling reminiscent of the hissing of his dreams, images of yellow and red flicking over his vision. The scent of burnt wood filling his nostrils.

He stopped dead.

He breathed deeply again. Only the scent of wet grass and sweet niphredil permeated the night air. No smoke or burning wood. No ash or grey dust or screams. No harsh bloody light that revealed a scorched field and glittering blades. Only smooth quiet darkness.

And yet, he could almost hear the cries… the shouts and clang of steel, the banner of the silver tree burning… He tightened his hand around the hilt of a saber that was not there, his muscles subconsciously tensing. For Elves, memory was sometimes more powerful than waking life. He started from his reverie only as the soft press of near-silent footsteps found his ears, breaking the troubling silence. Dropping low in the brush, he waited, sure some enemy was near...

The footsteps halted near his hiding place. “Haldir?”

He sighed silently in relief, automatically relaxing. Silivren. He grimaced, a little embarrassed, and stood upright. “I went for a walk and… got a little turned around somewhere.”

She smiled. “You passed our talan twice.” Her head cocked a little to one side as she examined him closely. “You do not sleep?” She had never seen him so troubled before, save long ago. “Dreams of the past perhaps?”

Haldir shook his head, his gaze faraway. “Not tonight.” A frown deepened across his face as though the night-shapes recounted his visions again. Distracted, he could still feel the vivid reality of blistering heat on his skin, papery black flakes whirling through the air, a shameful mockery of the beautiful golden leaves they had been. He walked unblinking through the smoke, a heavy weight settled on his chest. Flaming branches crackling overhead, none yet falling.

“Nightmares then.”

Haldir kept his silence, his face taut with resistance. He hadn’t wanted to talk about this. Searching for peace of mind, he had found more turmoil. “You do not sleep either?”

“Not well.” She was always honest with him. He had always been as an elder brother to her just as her parents had been theirs.

“What troubles you?” He longed for a respite from his own thoughts, even if hers offered him no comfort.

Not caring that the dew drenched her nightdress, she sat on the grass with a quiet sigh. “Many things, Haldir. Too many things and I don’t know if I want to bother you with the lot of it.”

Indulgent, he smiled and took a seat beside her, nudging her playfully with an elbow. “I’ll just have to beat it out of you then.”

She shoved him back. “You’re too big to do that anymore! I’d tell Adar…” Her smile fell away like a mirror shattering. “Or at least I used to.”

“How is he?” Haldir’s expression sobered abruptly, knowing he was already treading painful ground.

She shook her head, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “He pushes us away. Still. We’ve tried everything we can think of. He won’t even speak.”

“You do not speak to Arenath of this?” he wondered aloud.

She dismissed his suggestion brusquely. “He fears it upsets me and doesn’t wish to talk about it.” Her golden hair curtained her face as she lowered it, staring at her pale hands. The hands that felt utterly useless to help the one person she loved most in the world. “What if he doesn’t get better?”

“He will.”

“What if he doesn’t?” she insisted, her large green eyes meeting his desperately, needing assurance more than anything.

But he could find none.

“You’re all tense,” she said to cover his silence. Moving so that his back was to her, her instinctual wish to heal and opportunity for distraction set her to work. Starting near his collarbone and shifting out and downward, she concentrated on her task with thoroughness as she chided him.

“You soldiers!” she half-laughed, half-wept. “You think you have to be brave all the time.”

He said, wincing a little as her hands worked slowly at a stubborn knot in his back. “There is a reason.”

“What is it? You think you must always be the invincible warrior, to complain of neither hurt nor hardship though it may kill you to do so. Despite what you think, we see it. And yet you never speak of it to us though it might ease your suffering. Why? Because it is too unseemly for women’s ears?”

“No. That is not why.”

“Then it is too—”

“Painful.”

Her hands stilled.

“There is your reason.” As had become unconscious habit, he rubbed the fading scar in his shoulder, pressing harder until the first twinges of pain came. “We do not want to bring that world home, when the company of family and friends are the things that drive those shadows away.”

A sharper complaint gritted his teeth and Haldir dropped his hand abruptly, concentrating on pulling the folds of his open tunic closed to hide his grimace.

The crickets had gone still and Haldir heard the silence. The forest about them did not only sound quiet. Haldir could not remember when it had ever felt so quiet save before a great rending storm.

Silivren sat silent as well, thinking on his words.

“You are brave.”

He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumped as though her words had torn down the last of his walls. “Not always.” Turning around, his eyes flickered to hers briefly and darted away into the shadows again. “I am sorry, Silivren.”

“Apologies will not change what happened, Haldir.”

“No. It won’t.” He took her chilled hands in his, staring intently up at her. “I will find them, Silivren. And I will kill them for what they have done.”

She sighed, stood. “I don’t want you to kill anyone, Haldir.” Her voice quavered, hair shadowed her face. “I want my father back.”

She guided him back towards his own talan, departing at hers. He watched her walk slowly up the spiraling stairs, her shoulders bowed as though weighted heavily, then turned his steps back.

Rameil was already fast asleep, an arm hanging over the edge of the bed, the lantern long since extinguished as Haldir slipped up onto the platform, a silent shadow. He lay on his cool blankets.

Sleep did not return.

~*~

Mid-morning sunlight slanted green-shafted through the leafy boughs. Still and warm, the oppressive air held the land locked in its relentless blistering sway. Above in the cool-shaded canopies, a small group of elves numbering half a score sat tense and watchful, blending with the bark of the trees they lay concealed in.

“Orders came, old scout,” Alfirin explained in an undertone to Haldir and Rameil. “The villainous vermin of the yonder blue mountains have decided to kick up a bit of mischief so we have to jolly well set in and kick them back.”

“Ah.”

“Good old mother sun should give them a funny turn,” Alfirin looked up into the bright sunlight dappling through the trees. “Shouldn’t be too hard to route them.”

“What are we waiting for then?” Rameil questioned, twanging his bowstring experimentally.

“For your boss wallah.” Alfirin stood complacently, hands crossed over the haft of his longbow which was taller than he. Smartly dressed in dark green and black, mottled cloak thrown about his shoulders, he stood facing the wind, his hair majestically sweeping over his shoulders as he struck a noble pose. “Good day for it, eh?”

Haldir nodded tiredly, casting his eyes to the bright sky and across the green shaded woodlands that stretched on for miles. For away a sharp glint of silver hinted at the Nimrodel under the morning sun. Movement below directed his attention to the ground.

Arenath had appeared under the tree and waved a signal, another half score of elves at his side.

“Good turnout.” Alfirin straightened his dress tunic with a flourish, the myriad medals from hundreds of campaigns flashing and jingling merrily. “No sense in looking sloppy, I always say.”

“He calls it ‘meeting death with a bit of deference, eh?’” Linwen who had dropped from a higher perch smiled at Rameil’s baffled look.

Alfirin rose and beckoned his soldiers to him. “All rise, troop!”

A sharp wind rustled the tips of the trees as the elves vanished into the woodland.

~*~

Khiris scowled at the orc chieftain, her dark eyes narrowed in deep dislike as she stroked the coarse broad head of the female warg at her side. Silently, she cursed the fates that had brought them to this, skulking in a forest with these foul creatures. And she didn’t just mean the orcs.

Thick branches of a close growing copse crisscrossed over their heads, only faint rays of sunlight reached the forest floor here. Where were they all hiding? The orcs hated the elves with a passion and even now stared darkly at the trees, uneasy and grumbling but too afraid to venture further than the outer edges of the grove in search of game birds.

Khiris sneered under her breath. But even she couldn’t help the skitter of unease that leapt up her spine.

Her men lay about in the scant sun, relishing in the heat that reminded them of the homes they had left behind. The chieftain’s orcs watched them from the shadows, groggy and blinking. They were all famished and tired of running. The orcs especially watched them night and day with hungry, baleful eyes, waiting for the chance to sate their hunger on the dead of their enemies—or allies—whichever came first.

“Don’t see why we gotta wait ‘round here in these accursed trees. Feel their eyes crawlin’ all over the back o’ me neck,” the orc scraped grimy claws across his scalp, yellow eyes darting around uneasily.

Khiris snorted at his fear. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

“Not our fault ye botched up the attack,” the creature complained, testing the tip of his rusty axe against a mallorn trunk bad-temperedly, slicing a deep cruel scar into the tree’s flesh. “We gutted their leader—what more d’yer want?”

“I’ll gut you myself if you turn those men on our trail again,” she snarled back, withdrawing a long knife from her boot. She had been waiting for this confrontation for a long time.

So had he. The orc sneered at her, pulling his axe free and brandishing it. “Try it, maggot.”

Khiris leapt to her feet and kicked him, sending him sprawling into the dust. “Sack of slag! I ought to!” The warg female disappeared from her side with a low rumble and the men around her had gone still, watching the altercation with shifting eyes.

Spitting earth, the orc leapt to his feet, yellow fangs bared in a grimace of a smile as he snatched his pitted axeblade up. “I’ll enjoy your sweetmeats, girly. Cutcha up and feed ye to yer pretty pet!”

A white bolt silenced his threats forever. At the same moment, a long howl rose from the throat of the female, cut off by an abrupt silence.

Khiris stared in shock at the dead orc at her feet. Adrenaline suddenly jolted through her, her muscles reacting before her brain caught up to that unmistakable creak. She threw herself to one side, hearing two arrows thud into the turf where she had been standing a moment before. She could not see anything but death as she gingerly raised her head.

Arrows flew thick and fast, cutting down the orcs even as they wheeled, searching in vain for their invisible enemies.

“Who are they? What is it!” Khiris screeched, nabbing one of her own men by the throat. “How many are they? Who the devil are they?” She screamed into his face, shaking him.

The man croaked, trying to speak around the choking clutch of his leader but abruptly broke off with a shocked gurgle. He slid limply out of her grasp into the dust, a white-fletched arrow sticking out of the back of his collar.

The Haradrim and orcish forces were taken completely by surprise as the elves mercilessly cut them down. Bitter hatred of the goblins of the mountains leant speed and surety of death to the targets of elven arrows.

Without their leader, the orcs scattered, fleeing into the woodlands only to be pursued and slain one by one by their invisible attackers.

Khiris managed to hold her men together, but with nowhere else to run. Her eyes narrowed as she flourished her pike fearlessly. She and her countrymen were not afraid to die. They had set out on this mission to escape to their freedom or to die trying and if it ended so… they were ready.

Suddenly, they were surrounded on all sides by arrowheads, Khiris stared, finally meeting the faces of her attackers. The elves had closed surely and solidly around them. There would be no escape from this. Then she saw a familiar face among them and nearly laughed aloud.

“You still killing men, Haldir?”

“You are trespassing here,” Haldir told her flatly without breaking rank.

“We leave.”

“You allied yourselves with our enemies,” he said, casting a contemptuous glance over the lifeless orcs. “Why should we let you go?”

Khiris shot a venomous glare at the dark-haired warrior who had circled behind her. “We not come here to fight elves,” she said, spreading her hands. “You let us go, we not come here anymore. You killed the orcs. Good. We not like them. Not by choice we did follow them.”

Alfirin turned swiftly to Rameil whose group had just returned from chasing down the last of the fleeing orcs. “Escort them to the borders, old lad.”

The dark-haired elf saluted and with remarkable swiftness, had surrounded the Haradrim survivors and began to march them briskly away.

“No!” Khiris cried, fighting against Rameil’s soldiers. “The filthy tarks * entered these woods to track us!”

“You will not be harmed,” Haldir told her calmly. “They will only take you from our land and release you.”

“Our people’s blood has been spilled! We are owed a blood price!”

He cast his eyes over the lean, hungry group of Haradrim soldiers. “Your people are weary enough of war.”

Seeing an end to the protests, Rameil himself took the arm of the dark woman who still fought against him.

“We will burn these later,” Arenath said, turning over the carcass of an orc and kicking the axe from its frozen claws to retrieve his arrow. “Are any of ours hurt?”

Geilrín shook her head. “No. Not a scratch.”

“Good.” Arenath took once more to the trees, following a path through the branches, Haldir right behind him.

Dark clouds enveloped the sun, plunging the forest into ever-darker green shadows. The heaviness of thunder lingered on the air, a cold wind sweeping through the hot air. Here and there even a flicker of lightning could be spotted through the intertwined branches forking down from the pillared clouds. Haldir wrenched his attention from the sky to the path ahead. This had been but a skirmish.

The real reckoning was yet to come.

~*~

The smoky fire of the sun fell into the arms of the hazy mountains, a battle-hued red, and still they had not returned. Ramir growled under his breath and paced restlessly across the night-swept grass. What was taking them so blasted long?

Blue twilight bled from the sky, an early sunset arriving with the onset of deep ominous-looking clouds. Another dry, dusty day lost. Another day he couldn’t afford to lose. Time pressed. And with every day passing without sign of their quarry, his men’s determination and hope wavered.

Soft shapes moved in the formless dusk. A rush of footsteps.

“At last,” Ramir strode forward impatiently. “Where the devil have you two been?”

Looking dusty and exhausted, the two scouts stood panting heavily from the long run back to camp and sanctuary, bent over their knees a moment to gain breath enough to report. “There’s nothing ahead, sir. We…we went all the way to the edge of the wood—not a sign.”

Garen, the crossbowman, snorted under his breath and muttered to Tergon out of the side of his mouth. “This is madness chasing around the woods like dogs without a hart to scent.”

“‘Madness?’” Ramir had heard him. “Madness?”

The crossbowman acted as spokesperson. “You heard me, Ramir. This is madness, I tell you! We’ve had not a sign in weeks! The heat’s getting worse and our supplies are dwindling.”

Anger colored their commander’s face but he tamped it down quickly. This was no time to lose his temper. Others were glaring at him too or nodding their heads in agreement. They had had enough of this—the terrible heat and without sight of hide or hair of their enemies had drawn tempers and patience nerve-frayingly taut.

Taking a deep breath, Ramir calmed himself. “My friends,” he spread his hands wide. “Why should we fight amongst ourselves? You want to go home. Well, I do too! I would pack up my gear in an instant, hell or high water, if I had a choice. But I don’t.” He sighed as though aggrieved. Eyeing the insubordinate, he took a step forward. “Garen, why do you think we’re out here in the first place?”

The man looked surprised. “Because of the war, of course.”

“Exactly, my friend. Exactly.” Ramir nodded confidingly. “Our orders were to exterminate the traitors who sold out our defenses to the Easterlings, right? That’s why we came out here. On that crucial mission—that dark bitch and her band are the last of them.”

“We can’t take the chance that they might come back to the City—with more arms, with more men. They would ravage Minas Tirith given half the chance; you all know that. We cannot let that happen. We will not let that happen. No matter the heat, or thirst or death. We have to protect our city and our king. It is our duty.”

“What about the elves, sir?” A voice asked.

Ramir glanced at the speaker. “The elves won’t stop us either, Peranir! They sided with the darkies! Against us who fought with them when no one else would! And for that, they have to die too! If it comes to it, we’ll give them a battle they won’t forget. What do you say?”

A cheer greeted his ears, a little less than enthusiastic but at least no more complaints were voiced.

“Douse the fires! Pack up!” Ramir snapped, watching as fires hissed, wraiths of steam wreathed his head. “Wait for the right moment—keep the flint close to hand but don’t light it yet.” Striding across the slowly darkening camp, he stopped beside a broad soldier with a scar along his neck bent over a row of what looked like fist-sized balls bound with lengths of rope.

“Adarnon, those rags properly oil-soaked like I told you?” He questioned.

“Yes, sir. They’re all ready.”

“What are you going to do?” Tergon dared ask, fettered by hands and ankles.

Ramir whirled on him and cuffed him roughly across the face. “Never you mind, boy! You’ll find out soon enough. Now, you two,” He gestured to two soldiers. “Cut his bonds and get him in line.”

He smiled nastily as the young soldier got slowly to his feet, rubbing circulation back into his limbs. “I want you in the front rank in case we run into any surprises.” He grinned and drew his sword, the last crimson sunlight glinting off the newly sharpened steel.

“It won’t be long now.”

~*~

The quiet stillness was broken only by steel grating harshly. Lantern light splintered into a myriad of fiery colors as he raised the icy blade to his eyes. Good. Sharp. Perfect. Already fit into their new-made hilts, the black-stained wood still gleaming and wet, he set his knives carefully aside, within easy reach.

Staring into the glass, one green eye looked back at him. The other… a sightless blue orb milky-grey in the thin light. A white mark traced the path a blade had taken across his face, already fading and indistinct.

“They will come.” Fedorian turned his head and watched early night fall through the window.


Chapter 13 - Chapter Thirteen

Author’s Notes: Most of my information on weapons and the layout of Lothlórien itself comes from the Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter VI: Lothlórien by J.R.R. Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings: Weapons and Warfare by Chris Smith. Very helpful livres the pair of them.

Okay, just so you aren’t confused: the long bar across the page separating text means TIME has changed. Skipped ahead usually. Three little dashes --- mean something is happening at the same time in a different PLACE than the scene before it.

* LONG CHAPTER WARNING *
This is twenty-six Microsoft Word pages typed.
Please, do not attempt unless you are able to give your full attention to do so.
Or at least half of your attention.

Chapter Thirteen: Death on the Wind

Grey clouds flowed in from the east, boiling and building, massive columns of flat slate, invisible under cover of darkness. Heat lightning flickered, tore the twilight apart, filling the air with sickly white flashes, illuminating every stark grass blade. A low rumble of thunder echoed from over the mountains and a ghostly chorus took up amongst the trees far below.

In the breaks between the lightning when the world plunged into blindness, dark figures darted three or four at a time across the pale ribbon of road and into a shallow depression that paralleled the wood.

Ramir pulled his cloak closer about his rangy form as he pressed his men onward. “Come on. Come on. We haven’t all night! Move yourselves!” He ushered another group over, cutting glances at every turn over his shoulder at the thrashing trees beyond. They seemed to be warning him in their hissing voices: come no further.

He shuddered despite himself. Turning sharply away from the forest, he hurried across the road and threw himself into the ditch on the other side as thunder crackled in the distance.

Swathed in green and brown, the men of Gondor lay flat in a long line against the dry grass, their glittering eyes the only visible part of them. Many were casting uneasy glances at the sky. They thought the storm a bad omen.

“Come now, men. A bit of ill weather will not stop us. You are soldiers of Gondor. You fear nothing!” Ramir assured them, his own courage weakening as the thunder snarled low, nearly drowning his words. “Do this right—for your friends, for your families. And I promise you, we’ll go home again.”

Heartened but still grim, the men clung all the closer to their weapons, staring at the wood with blatant apprehension stamped clear on their faces in the pale flashes. Ramir bellied forward until he lay near the center of the line. They had the element of surprise on their hands; they couldn’t lose.

Raising his head, Ramir opened his mouth to give the order and froze, eyes narrowing. What was that? Head and shoulders low, he crawled forward almost on hands and knees across the ditch. Pressing flat into the grass, he stayed absolutely still like a lion that scents the antelope near.

Dim and indistinct shadows bounded towards them from the trees, long grasping shadows. Ramir held his breath, narrowing his eyes. As the lightning ricocheted again off the mountains, he caught the faces and nearly laughed in triumph blinking away the shimmering after-images. They wouldn’t even have to hound their quarry from the woods; their quarry had come to them!

Heedless of peril so close at hand, Rameil pressed the Haradrim onward, eyes shifting constantly, dark hair streaming over his shoulders like a banner in a high wind. Ancadal and Orophin flanked the group on either side and made sure none attempted escape as they passed between thinning tree trunks, cutting parallel to the wide moorland that dipped down into a shallow depression fifty or so yards away. Two other elves near the rear of the procession slowed to aid a man who had fallen from a gash in his leg sustained during the fighting earlier.

The first arrows dropped them without a sound.

Scanning the dry whispering lands ahead of them, Rameil shook his head uneasily; he did not like this open ground. “Orophin, get Belegorn up here, will you? He knows this terrain better than I.”

Orophin turned his head, scanning each elven face. Then he saw them. A few yards back, pale shapes in the dusk, he saw the two elves shot through their throats and whirled on the woman. “What have you done?”

“Not us!” She protested, dark eyes flashing.

Rameil opened his mouth to inquire what was going on when he suddenly stumbled forward with a shocked cry, a grey and blue-fletched arrow growing out of the back of his shoulder.

“There! The ditch!” Ancadal cried out, having seen the arrow fly. “Get down!”

Orophin saw what the other elf was pointing at in the next flash of blinding light. Spears forested from it like a copse of dead trees.

At the sight of their enemies, the Haradrim panicked, breaking formation, shoving aside their elven guards and racing madly onto the open plain.

There was nowhere for them to run.

A deadly rain of arrows dropped upon them like avenging hawks, cutting them down as they, realizing their error, tried to flee back into the protective trees. Rameil pulled Orophin, who was closest to him, down onto the ground, falling on top of him as barbed shafts thudded into the turf inches from where they lay.

“Come! Come! We’ve got them!” Ramir strode among the ranks, head and shoulders high, fearless in his ecstasy. He hadn’t expected the plan to go this well. But, the elven line was broken, the Haradrim dead or fleeing. Elves lay strewn upon the ground, transfixed and lifeless.

From his place at the bottom of the ditch, Tergon stared at the destruction. He felt sick seeing the fair folk stretched upon the brittle grass among the dark-skinned bodies of their enemies.

“Form up, lads! Give them a last good battering!” Ramir drew his sword and rushed at the remaining enemy.

Garen threw a small knife skillfully into the dwindling fray. “Did you see that dark-haired one go down? Never knew what hit him!”

Rameil put his lips close to Orophin’s ear. “There are too many for us to fight.” He turned his head as slowly and carefully as he could, eyes half-closed, as though he were dead. He saw Ancadal’s eyes glittering back at him from a few paces away.

Wait, Rameil mouthed to him. An imperceptive nod and Ancadal wrapped his fingers around the hilt of a sword lying close to hand.

The men were almost upon them, whirling their blades aloft to cut down those few who remained standing.

“Now!” Rameil leapt up from Orophin and gutted a tall man who had nearly trodden on him.

Orophin was right beside him, brandishing his long blade fearlessly. He saw the glint of green and recognized it in time to keep from killing the man they owed the most.

Tergon’s eyes were wide with fear as the elven blade hovered close to his throat.

Orophin turned abruptly from him and slew a man swinging wildly at his head. There were too many but those nearest them were dead. “Come on! Fall back!” He tugged Rameil’s uninjured shoulder in passing. “Fall back!”

Breaking away, they raced headlong into the trees, neither Rameil, Orophin or Ancadal looking back. So they did not see the form of a small dark woman rise from among the dead, shoving aside two bodies of her comrades, wrapped in an enemy’s cloak. Skirting the lines of Gondorians sending arrows after their fleeing enemies, she broke off westward and fled into the heavy air, away from that place of nightmares and death.

Jubilant with victory, the Gondorians pursued the retreating elves into the trees, hurling battle cries heedlessly into the night air, driven on by the shouts of their captain.

---

Rúmil smiled, high-spirited in the face of their success. Even the coming storm could not dampen his spirits and he answered the thunder back loudly, anticipating the rain that would renew the forest.

“Not half bad for a decent day’s work, eh, lad?” Alfirin clapped him on the back.

“Scarcely had to loose a shaft, sir!”

Haldir said nothing. He knew better. The Haradrim had been the least of their worries; this victory did not change what the Gondorians would do. But he allowed his brother and the troops their moment.

Alfirin’s and Arenath’s soldiers regathered just outside the barracks at the bottom of a small hill. The swirling clouds overhead darkening the trees to a deep shade of silver.

Alfirin smiled and bowed elegantly at the waist to the ladies who came out to meet them. “Your beauty steals the gold from the very trees, my fairest and gentlest ladies.”

“You are a terrible tease, Captain,” Silivren shook a remonstrating finger at him but was unable to keep from smiling at the dashing officer.

He sniffed, a smile hovering about his handsome features. “But of course! I am the worst of villains. However, such loveliness is due the highest of reverences,” he insisted, taking her hand lightly.

“You need a wife to curb that rakish tongue of yours, Alfirin,” Geilrín said, glancing at her furiously blushing daughter with amusement.

“Confirmed bachelor, I’m afraid, madam,” he winked.

“Unfortunately,” Linwen added with a sigh and an admiring glance.

Alfirin nudged her. “I say, girl, steady on with the sheep-eyes, eh? Old enough to be your Adar, aren’t I?”

She only grinned winningly to his playful disgust.

“I dare say, you brave warriors are probably famished,” Geilrín put in, completely redirecting Alfirin’s attention.

“I say, do we get a jolly old warrior hero’s supper, hmm?” His face looked so hopeful that Geilrín hadn’t the heart to refuse him.

“Of course, Captain. I’ll see what my ladies and I can do.”

“Top marks, my girl!” He threw a companionable arm about her shoulder. “Did I ever tell you, you were the most beautiful, wisest and most talented of ladies?”

“To my unending jealousy.”

A figure appeared at the top of the shallow dip. Not as one dead or in a dream, but one pulsing and voraciously alive. He bounded down with an energy that shocked them all speechless. Even Alfirin remained quiet, staring, his arm slipping from Geilrín’s shoulders as she stepped forward.

Fedorian ignored the incredulous gazes of his command, brushing past them and went immediately to a stack of white-feathered shafts bundled together against the smooth bulk of a tree.

“Sorry, old chap, you missed out on the odd scuffle.” Alfirin offered apologetically with an easy smile, reverting to his usual loquacious self once more.

“They have come.”

True to his word, Rúmil had said nothing of his commander’s former affliction. But he could not help but stare in wonderment when his teacher spoke. Gone the delusions, the catatonia. As though nothing had ever happened. His eyes were bright, purposeful as Rúmil stepped in front of him.

“What has caused such a change in you?”

“A dream,” Fedorian explained softly, his concentration bent on filling his quiver. All strained forward to listen.

“Seven stars hung in the western sky. They eclipsed all others in the heavens and Eärendil did not shine. Others moved about them and they shone down on a river, black and cold and empty…”

“And?” someone prompted for he seemed to have fallen into reflection.

“Save for the bodies floating in its shadows.”

Stillness fell again, the storm’s tension crackling between the gathered soldiers.

Fedorian said nothing more, his quiver full. Hooking it up underneath his knife sheathes; the fletchings adjusted carefully over his right shoulder. He looked up only as voices broke into surprised and alarmed murmurs around him.

Orophin and Ancadal came staggering through the trees, supporting an ashen looking Rameil between them. A feathered shaft protruded from the dark-haired elf’s shoulder, a light red stain tingeing his grey tunic. Of those thirty that had gone with the Haradrim escort, they three were the only ones to return.

Haldir went to his brother and friend anxiously, helping him sit on the grass. “You’re hurt.”

The dark-haired elf grimaced but managed a brave smile as Geilrín knelt next to him. “Not really. Caught more leather than flesh thankfully. I don’t think I could put up with a sling.”

Orophin was white and trembling, dazed. “It was a massacre, Haldir.” He shook his head. “I—we didn’t even see them!”

“Orophin, what happened?”

Orophin stared open-mouthed a moment at his commander than shut it and glanced between he and Arenath as he spoke. “They took us unawares at the borders—the men of Gondor.”

“And the dark men?”

“Slaughtered.”

“And the Gondorians now?”

“Following the Nimrodel...north, I think, we lost them there,” Orophin said numbly, his face still a mask of agony. He closed his eyes and sank to the ground beside Rameil, shaking his head over and over. “There were thirty of us,” he said over and over. “Thirty!”

Compassionate Geilrín turned to him, chafing his hands gently and touching his face. “We cannot let them do this to our people.” She looked over her shoulder. “Alfirin, you will—?”

“I will command them.”

Rising, Geilrín seemed to grimace as though she had been expecting that. Speaking in a low voice, she peered keenly at her husband. “You are not well enough.” Her eyes held more than worry for her husband’s safety.

“I have strength enough for this,” he told her firmly, his eyes staring into hers, daring her to refuse him this.

“I am sorry, sir, I must agree with her,” Laer, another lieutenant, offered awkwardly when the commander turned his sharp eyes on him. “Your… vulnerability puts you at risk.”

“Would you like to draw your sword and test how ‘vulnerable’ I am?” Fedorian raised an eyebrow in challenge. The expression on his face rendered Laer speechless and he lowered his eyes with a shake of his head.

“Good. Form up, troop!”

~*~


Silver pillars arched high overhead, lost in green-shadowed terraces. Early night leaked from under brush and hollow. Near-silently, the army slipped through the dark afternoon, camouflage and skills in stealth they had learned from the Elves long ago served them well now. Nevertheless, they knew they lay exposed to all eyes above. Picking their way through the pathless woodlands, the river on their right hand, every sense strained for sign of their enemies. But all was still, silent though the very air crackled with intensity.

“Why do we stay here?” Tergon’s voice was strained with pain and anger.

Ramir didn’t answer him.

“We’re heading south after this, men,” Ramir knelt in the dry grass. Muttering low to himself, “Just one more matter of business first.”

Twice the little spark went out in the gusting storm winds as he battered his knife against the sliver of flint in his palm. The third time, he burnt his fingers but, sheltering the fragile flicker with his body, he fed it with handfuls of dry grass and soon had a strong enough blaze going.

“All right, Adarnon. Bring those rags here.”

The broad-faced man knelt next to his captain, hanging over his shoulders were long lengths of rope tied to large round river rocks. They clacked together as the man set them down. Ramir grinned, examining one and testing the length of cord fastened around the oil-rags.

“They will come. They know we are here. Why do we linger?” Tergon’s voice held real fear despite the protection of the elven brooch pinned to his cloak; none had thought enough of it to take it from him.

Ramir glanced at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. A pale-bluish glare cut across the younger man’s face, reflecting in his dulled eyes. Like a drowned thing’s, the commander thought suddenly, wildly.

Far above their heads, the thunder rumbled closer.

---

A cool wind buffeted the trees, each individual leaf starkly outlined. Swift as rippling shadows, they moved. Battle-lightened eyes gleamed in the darkness of the forest storm as the elves slipped fluidly through the gale. Silver branches flashed past fading into the darkness behind them as they followed a road only elves could tread. Imbued in black, they were all but invisible.

Haldir gazed around at the silent company, every sense attuned for the sound of intruders. Rameil raced gamely beside him; the dark-haired elf had adamantly refused to remain behind and Orophin, following his example, regained his color and joined them. The healers in their white tunics—conspicuous and unanimously respected on the battlefield—Geilrín, Silivren and Eremae stood among them.

Fedorian halted their group a hundred yards from a silver strip of river just within sight, dull with thunder.

“Where did you see them?” he questioned brusquely.

Orophin scanned the riverside, pointing west and slightly southward. “They rose from the ditch on that side. I don’t know where they went after that.”

“Split up into groups of five. Find them.”

It was not long before one of the groups returned, cleaving eagerly through the trees. They had found many footsteps in the dust along the riverbank, heading north beside the river but without crossing it.

Haldir could see the rigidity in his captain’s shoulders even in the dark as he conversed in a low tone with Alfirin. He himself felt the thrum of anticipation singing in his veins, the saber hilt hot under his hand as though it too hungered for human blood. These men had troubled them for far too long and he would finally settle the score between them.

“I see them.” Orophin said, tense, a few paces ahead of him.

Haldir was beside him in an instant. “Where?”

His younger brother indicated. “There. The farther shore. You can see the lightning glance from their spear-tips.”

“I see them.” I swear I will find you.

Fedorian was speaking and with difficulty Haldir pulled his attention back to hear what he said.

“Take your company across the river. Encircle them from behind. We will drive at them from in front.”

“Hither and yon, thither and yon.” Alfirin waved a hand airily. “See you in a tick and tock.” He turned his head briefly as most of his group vanished from sight, melding with the shadows. “Prisoners, old scout?”

Fedorian’s dead eye gleamed. “No.”

Not a hundred yards to the left of where they stood a spark of red leapt up among the shadows.

---

The river flowed black and peaceful at their backs; the thunder suddenly hushed as though it too anticipated that first strike.

Tergon felt sweat slide under his collar as he looked up into the shadowed branches crisscrossing overhead. The others had fallen silent as well, their eyes flickering and cheeks ruddy in the light of the kindled fire. They looked mere boys, softer somehow in the mild light.

Ramir held one of his strange weapons over the fire by a thin twine dangling from his fingers. The moment the oil-soaked rags touched the small brand, they flared up, bright and immediate, blazing in the men’s eyes as their captain began to whirl it through the air.

Ramir let the flaming missile soar into the shadows, a beautiful arc of red light against the black lace of the trees. A tongue of flame burst the night apart as it landed, leaving sparking after-images in its wake.

“Everyone take one! Sling them hard and fast!” Ramir’s booming call shattered the silence, galvanized the men into action who bent eagerly to the flames.

Silhouetted against the fire pit they proved ideal targets.

A man spinning one of the flame-throwers overhead suddenly let out a tired gasp and slumped to the ground, the burning oil-rag slipping from his hand and igniting the grass at his feet. His companion next to him quickly muffled the fire as he fell on it.

Those who knew better guarded their vulnerable comrades’ backs, sending arrows raining into the trees, aided a little by the dim flashes of lightning which caught in golden hair and deadly eyes. But the arrows seemed to be coming from all different directions as though the trees themselves had joined the battle to revenge their burning kin.

Men falling all around him, Ramir seized an unfortunate man by the collar, bellowing into his face. “Get out there! Find out which direction those arrows are coming from! See if we can circle round them!”

The man stumbled back as his commander shoved him away. Slipping down the bank, he retreated towards the river, flat on his stomach, every nerve straining for the twang of bowstrings. He lay pressed to the sandy earth as though dead, not even daring to breathe, heart crashing against his ribs. Slowly, after long stiff moments, he dared raise his head.

Nothing stirred in his direction.

Gathering a bit of courage to him, the intrepid scout bellied towards the river, glancing back once towards the comrades he’d left behind. Without the danger of death threatening now, he could clearly see the arrows pouring from across the river. He laughed at his friends. How foolish they looked! Standing in the middle of the light like that. Idiots.

As though having taken offense, the fire pit in the midst of the men suddenly went out with a whoosh of smoke, kicked into sparks. Light now only graced the angry sky, and the burgeoning pockets of flame in the night, beautiful to eyes that did not know their danger.

But fear of fire was the least concern in the scout’s mind as he contemplated the water stretching wide dark and iron grey before him. It was ill luck to tempt fate. He sighed and with an anxious look at the thrashing trees across the glassy expanse, he slid in, shattering the smooth current flow into a thousand ripples that seemed to scream of his presence. The water was icy cold and the muddy bottom sucked at his heavy boots, instantly filled with ice. Wading across as soundlessly as he could, the soldier pushed in up to his chest, feeling the strong current tug at his body and fear tug at his heart.

He held his breath until his temples throbbed with blood, breathing in again only once before he reached the other side several yards downstream. Fingers and knees frozen, he dragged his waterlogged body up onto the bank and lay there a moment, panting, relieved.

“I say there, old chap, you lost?”

The scout looked up sharply, something of a strangled cry breaking past his lips as a tall, ominous-looking figure stood on the hither bank above him, a spare pole casually grasped in one hand. It glinted at the top.

“Bad time of night for a swim, eh? Rather cold even at this season,” the figure whose face remained in shadow bent down, and patted the man’s soaked shoulder in a hail-fellow fashion. “Never fear, lad, we’ll set you right.”

A short time later Linwen came bounding through the trees, her face streaked with soot from the fires that had sprung up on their side of the river. “We’re almost out of arrows, sir. They’re taking heavy losses but something’s up if I know anything about old stratagems.”

“Top marks, my girl. We’ll get another swing of arrows when Déorian drops by again—shouldn’t be too long.” Alfirin, alone, surveyed the river with an air of tranquility.

“Anything about?” she asked, joining him at the dark riverside.

Alfirin smiled. “Sent one back to his camp—poor bodger was confounded lost would you believe?”

---

Haldir glanced at the elf beside him who was trembling with palpable excitement as he tested his recently restrung bow. He smiled. The younger ones were always twitchy. They hadn’t yet learned the patience of their elder kind.

“First battle, soldier?”

The recruit looked up, surprised at being directly addressed by the superior officer, and nodded with a grin as he loosed another shaft, rewarded by a sharp cry from below. “Yes, sir!”

“How long have you been training for this?”

The archer blew out his breath in what seemed a long-suffering sigh. “Quite a while now I should think, sir.”

Haldir laughed, his eyes tinged with the all-too painful knowledge of battle-joy he saw lighting the younger elf’s face.

Directing activity below, Fedorian stood calmly on open ground near their position, unflinching as missiles from both sides whistled overhead. An arrow ruffled his hair as it passed close to his cheek.

“Batty commander’s going to get himself killed,” the recruit muttered to his friend beside him. Then saw who could hear and bit the inside of his cheek. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Haldir merely nocked another arrow. “What is your name?”

The elf swallowed nervously while his friend snickered. “Caladaer, sir, son of Belegorn.” He gave his friend an annoyed look and cuffed his shoulder, hissing: “Shut it, Mithron!”

“Good archer, your father,” Haldir nodded in recognition. “If you have half his skill you should do just fine. You’ve already proven you’ve got enough of his cheek.” But the lieutenant was grinning.

Blushing, the elf nevertheless swelled with confidence at his officer’s praise. “Thank you, sir. My father always said I was the cheekiest of his children.”

“You and you,” Fedorian suddenly appeared in front of them. “Pick several others—put out those fires! Now! Haldir, you come with me.”

The selected recruits and their officer saluted smartly and withdrew into the smoke.

Haldir followed his commander down from the hazy tree branches. The fire was spreading quickly.

Fedorian seemed unconcerned as he watched the human warriors battling for their lives. “Alfirin’s on the other side by now. We’ll take them between us.”

“Or they will take us between the fire,” Haldir murmured grimly, glancing backward.

Here and there soldiers hurried back and forth, stripped to the waist, their gleaming shoulders pulsing to repel the terrible conflagration that threatened to consume everything in its direct path.

Fedorian seemed oblivious to the peril around him though smoke tangled in his golden hair, drifting across his eyes.

“Captain, we cannot stop it. It’s too hot,” Caladaer ran up, swiping sweat from his eyes, his face blackened with ash. His words were calm but his eyes were full of silent terror borderline panic.

Fedorian shook his head, eyes never leaving the other shore. “A little longer… just a little longer…”

~*~

Ramir knew he had lost his element. Like most generals of war, he had underestimated the power he had unleashed. His fire ripped through the bracken, smothering several of his own soldiers in smoke, stray embers catching more.

“Get back! Get into the river, you fools, before you burn too!” He shouted. The men were only too glad to obey. Abandoning their dead, they fled for sanctuary.

With a grim, satisfied smile, their commander plunged after them. And nearly tripped over something in the dark. Putting out his hands, he felt the cold moist thing give like weed…give like flesh. Understanding gave way to horror and he recoiled fast, the thing bobbing in the current, slowly rotating.

Tangled in the weeds, was the body of a scout, drifting in the shallows. An outflung hand sought purchase in the green vegetation as though searching out an anchor. An expression of fear was frozen on the blenched face.

A tremendous pulsing sound cracked the air and Ramir turned just in time to see a massive tree begin to topple.

~*~

Small fires had sprung up and merged with one another, forming a raging conflagration that consumed everything in its immediate path. One of these victims was a massive mallorn, well over three centuries old which had stood leaning over the river time unremembered. The esurient flames had quickly devoured the dry silver bark, peeling it away to reveal a blackened inside and unsteady root which in turn smoked to ash, relieving the ancient monarch of his pedestal.

With a rending of shrieking wood and a resounding crack that echoed the thunder, an aged mallorn, venerable giant, agonized and torn by the weight of the flames, fell from his lofty throne.

Haldir had his hated enemy in sight, vulnerable in the center of the stream. An arrow was in his hand in an instant, against the bow, his eye sighted down the shaft. A crushing intolerable heat knocked him to the ground and he remembered nothing more.

He opened his eyes slowly, unsure of when he had closed them. One side of his face seared and his shoulder, twisted under him, ached fiercely, his fingers tingling. As he tried to move, a suffocating feeling enveloped his chest; he couldn’t breathe. All around him was an interlocked mesh of smouldering branches. The tree had fallen almost on top of him, its largest branches missing him by inches only. Twisting choking tendrils obscured the branches and even the grass as smoke billowed heavily down on him. Struggling and wincing as sharp twigs dragged and raked at his back, embers falling on the back of his neck, he gradually managed to pull his body out from underneath the fallen ruin.

Coughing raggedly, he held his chest as he staggered vaguely towards the direction of the river and recoiled with a cry.

Caladaer hung, half-propped up by the spear-like splinter that had slain him; his body tossed gently from side to side as the branches settled, crackling.

Blood dripping into his eyes, Haldir stumbled back from the horrible stench of burning flesh and wood. He coughed violently, his sight wavering with the throbbing pain in his head. He half-fell against a tree for support and leapt away with a pained cry, his fingers burnt.

“I say, sizzled elf doesn’t taste very good at all,” a friendly voice hailed him through the nest of branches.

Alfirin had arrived with his troop.

The older officer clapped the dazed elf on the shoulder and steered him away from the tree and Caladaer’s body. “Come on, Haldir. To the river, there’s a chap. Get out of all this foul-smelling murk, eh?”

Fedorian had wrenched himself free of the clinging branches and staggered to the edge of the river, eyes raking the shadows. He glanced back at the wreckage of the great tree beneath whose thrashing branches healers and soldiers yet scuffled among, trying to rescue those who yet could be.

A third of the force had been injured or killed and the old tree had partially dammed the Nimrodel, its clear cold waters overrunning, soothing the blackened branches.

“Where did they go?” Haldir asked, his voice rough as he met his commander at the river’s edge, straining to see through his blurred, stinging vision.

“They did not flee,” Fedorian answered back, his eyes still trained across the river. “And they will not wait for us to regroup.”

Seeing their enemies beleaguered by their own forest, the men had halted their retreat, weapons at the ready. Now it was the elves on the low ground. The elves who were vulnerable.

“Those who can, to me! To me!”

Those who could raced to form the line, their weapons yet unbloodied as the elven warriors rushed to obey orders.

“Draw your swords!”

“What?” Haldir swiped the irritation from his eyes as he stared incredulously at his commander.

“We will take the fight to them. Prepare to charge!”

“Captain, it would be death to try!” Haldir twisted his neck over his shoulder. The great tree still burned and beyond it the forest was a bright blaze. Wounded and dead littered the ground, Geilrín, Silivren and Eremae rushing between one and another as the cries of the injured rent the air.

A flicker of flame glinted as Fedorian drew his black knives. His limp, sweat-soaked hair whirled round his face as he paced his line of warriors, teeth bared. The amber glow accentuated his high, wasted cheekbones, upturned lips, the glittering, ghostly eyes.

“Then die! Die, to protect your wounded kin, your homeland. Die as you swore you would for me.”

Haldir slowly drew his saber.

Across the river, Tergon, his face ash-streaked and sweat-soaked, stared in horror at this deathly stand. Something burned his eyes and he blinked away smoke as he pushed through the ranks of his comrades, ignoring his friend who tried to arrest him.

“You must stop this madness! They are defeated—you see that! You have won then!” he cried out in bitterness, in fury and sorrow at Ramir. “They are finished; their home is destroyed. You can do them no more harm.”

“Then it is well that I release them from their misery,” Ramir said, raising his blade so that it caught and reflected the light of the fires beyond. “Stand fast, men!”

His friend, the older soldier Garen, managed to grab Tergon’s shoulder and spun him about. “Pay attention to the commander now, son, and you might get through this alive,” he muttered, squeezing the young man.

Fedorian’s wild call rose even above the screeching flames. “Herio!”

In a tidal wave of spray and flashing steel, the elves rushed across the river. They did not gain the other shore before the Gondorians surged forth to meet them, slicing into the elven line with heavy, powerful blows that rent flesh like tissue paper. Though elven speed and agility outmatched the strength of Gondor, their numbers were thinned. Three to one, the elves were outflanked.

Déorian went down, wounded with a spear in the side. Thillas, the young elven scout, lost the tip of his ear to a lucky blade and Rameil and Ancadal fought side by side viciously against the overwhelming press, their faces taut with exhaustion and despair. Despite the awful numbers against them, the redoubtable Galadrim managed to throw back their enemies time and again, just barely keeping from being overwhelmed.

Alfirin stood under siege with the remnant of his patrol. In the midst of the river, the tough-looking campaigner wielded a double-bladed spear more than twice his height crafted of yew, the curving blades at either end glinted as the elf flourished it with casual grace.

Ramir lingered on the shore, directing his men from the side in a booming voice that carried over the clangor.

In the center of the madness, Fedorian wrought destruction with his twin blades, bloodied spray and the bodies of men collapsing around him like autumn leaves in a gale. He had been wounded, his cheek split by the corner of a soldier’s vambrace.

Haldir stared at the destruction, his heart thrumming fast in his ears, echoing with the screams and battle cries of the joined fray. His body automatically obeyed instincts honed with over five hundred years of combat training, his saber moving as if with a mind of its own, flickering and emptying a gout of crimson into the roiling stream.

His eyes would never lose the horror of that night. The brave warriors lying facedown upon the blackened earth, the remains of their gold hair spread in the crimson ash and bloody water.

Alfirin was down with a pike in the leg. Wounded twice elsewhere, he fought madly to keep from being pulled down as Haldir forced his way towards him. Reaching his side, he helped the injured elf to the shore and drew the pike out carefully.

The older elf grimaced and forced a light chuckle. “Ahhh, easy old chap. Phew. Bit of a handsome old war wound, there, eh?”

“It will be a bit more than that if you don’t stop this,” Haldir ripped his cloak into strips, already sopping with water from the Nimrodel, pressed it over the deep gash in the other officer’s leg.

“Pish tush! Old warriors never say die! Stiff upper lip and all that!” Alfirin gamely steadied himself without Haldir’s support, his eyes flaring in the light of the fires. He stuck the broken haft of his spear into the earth as a prop. “Better stop this lot, hadn’t we?”

“We cannot do it here. We need to fall back.”

Alfirin shook his head. “Your commander’s the jolly old officer in charge.”

The lieutenant searched for Fedorian, already knowing where he would find him, in the thick of the melee, fearless and furious, and completely willing to sacrifice every one of their immortal lives. Thinking quickly, Haldir spun abruptly on his heel and snagged Rameil in passing. “Rameil, you heard the captain give the order to retreat, didn’t you?”

“What?”

Haldir bent his eyes on his friend pointedly.

Rameil looked from the smoke-shrouded figure of his captain to the grim face of his friend. “Yes, sir, I heard him.”

Haldir released him. “Good. Do it—help the wounded.”

Alfirin looked away, a slight smile hovering over his pain-creased features. “Good show, lad,” he murmured, stooping to help an injured elf to his feet.

Haldir shouted, praying he’d be heard. “Tolo! Nan duin! Hain edraith! (Come! Upriver! Help [the wounded!])

Accustomed to obeying orders in the thick of battle, the elves ceased their attack and broke away from the ranks of their enemies, hastening to his call.

“What did he say?”

“Upriver! Come on! Hurry!’

They escaped upriver where the tree damming it had backed up the water, the clear, shocking-cold flow nearly overrunning its banks. They took the wounded as far back as they could into yet-undamaged trees and laid them beneath the bower of a few that yet retained their leaves. The fire that had been their curse became their blessing as it protected them from a southward attack and the swollen river cut off all attempts at fording it.

Blinking away smoke-stung tears from his eyes, he stared around him, trying to get his bearings enough to see who was still with him. Eremae ran up to him, eyes hard and determined, brow bloody, her hands even more so.

“Are you hurt? Are you hurt?” Eremae shook him when he didn’t respond. He merely stared at her and when she found no tears or blood gouts upon him, she left.

It seemed so cold so far from the searing heat of the fire. Moving as though in a dream, he staggered towards the silver glint of water, his saber dragging a furrow in the dirt. Reaching it, he sank down into the water.

The Nimrodel wept bitterly as it rushed past him, her tears soaking his leggings to the knees as she mourned the trees that trembled alongside her. She cradled her wounded countrymen as one by one they came to her cool embrace, to soothe their burns and strengthen their tearing hearts.

He plunged his blade, steaming, into the cold water, cleansing away the corrosive blood from the blade. It looked so clean. As the water mounted to his knees and splashed over his face, he found his pain and weariness eased. A hot wind ghosted his cheek.

“That was well thought of,” Rameil gasped, sinking down beside him, his legs trembling visibly. “I thought we’d all had it.”

“Where is your commanding officer?” Haldir asked a soldier who seemed to be wandering about in a sort of daze, his eyes wide.

The young elf shook his head over and over as though he had forgotten how to stop it. “I—I don’t know…. I—I think he’s dead. Ai, Valar…”

“Ai, Valar,” Rameil repeated, glancing back over his shoulder; the groans of the wounded and burnt shivered on the air.

Without remembering how he’d gotten it, Haldir licked his bleeding lip and swallowed, trying to get rid of the metallic tang in his mouth. His mind was empty of anything. He started when Rameil touched his shoulder and looked at him.

“Rúmil and Orophin, I do not see them.”

Every muscle in Haldir’s aching body tensed and he stood, water cascading from his arms and legs as he leapt back to shore, his muscles protesting volubly. Passing through the makeshift ranks of injured, shaken and dead soldiers lay everywhere, some with their faces covered, in no order of rank or patrol. Alfirin’s combined with Fedorian’s until neither was recognizable from the other. He searched every single face.

“Where are they?”

~*~

Ash rained from the blistering, screaming trees. His kin lay stretched out on the dead earth, heads hanging limply, eyes glassy, limbs outstretched, graceful and terribly beautiful even in their unnatural stillness. Stillness as he had never seen, even when they had brought his father home from the war. This desecration… this carnage… He had seen no few skirmishes in his years on the guard but nothing like this. Nothing like this.

Lips blistered from the heat, nostrils filled with ash, eyes parched as the dust that rose around his thudding boots, Rúmil raced headlong into the trees, away from that feeling of utter fear that seized his entire being in an iron grip. Dimly, he heard someone shout after him but he didn’t hear what they said over the screaming of his mind.

Sweat rolled down his face and disappeared into his soaked collar but he kept going, changing direction randomly when the heat became too much.

Blinded by sweat and smoke, he tripped over a thick tree root and sprawled. Twisting round, he scrambled up again. But exhaustion kept his legs from picking himself up. Instead, he stared at the root he had stumbled over, his chest heaving unevenly in the hazy air.

Two veins flanked the thicker shaft attached to the trunk ending in branching spindly tips that seemed to disappear into the ground. He stared, frozen, fascinated before his blurry eyes adjusted and he realized what he was seeing.

Those veins were arms. Those spindly tips, fingers.

A small scrap of cloth, twisted and blackened though it was, lay clenched tightly in a fist. Long strands of hair draggled, wispy and dry, like the late blooms of the mellyrn. Those eyes…. By Valar, those eyes looked at him! Small, mewling sounds escaped invisibly from some part of that wracked frame, nothing Rúmil recognized as a mouth. Moans, weak, painful whimpers slowly dwindling and rising again.

“Healer!” He whispered—he shouted—he screamed it until his voice grew hoarse and died. No one was coming.

And it was dying. So slowly.

He did not touch it whether from some instinctive primal fear of the unknown or for fear of worsening the situation… He did not recognize that face. That face made of blackened stone, clay, brick. Anything but flesh.

Tearing his eyes away from the sight, he stared at the ground beside it. Wound between the brittle twig-like fingers, he saw the little shred of cloth again, more closely. It was stained and dirty but once it had been white. The tunic had been white before it had burned away. A healer indeed was here. He laughed bitterly. But stopped himself together before it became hysterical.

For he knew those eyes now. Knew them as he knew his own. “Oh, Silivren.”

Articulate speech was beyond her. But those eyes were full of pleading. She needed help to reach beyond the circles of this world; and he was the only one to give it to her. Rúmil firmed his lips, choking back the screams that threatened to rip him apart on the inside. As he had eased her pain on the night of her father’s death, so must he end it now at the advent of her own.

He still had his bloody sword limply grasped. But to take the life of another immortal… A Kinslayer’s deed and a cursed one. Even to help one who was suffering. He wished he were anywhere else but here… here, responsible for the life and death of one whom he loved.

How could he make this choice?

---

Orophin caught sight of his brother as he fled from the field. “Rúmil, what are you doing! Stop! The fire’s worse there!” Parrying a sharp lunge intent on taking his head, Orophin reposted with a stroke that left his man bleeding in the dust. Without thinking of the fight more, he shot off after his wayward sibling.

Orange smoke-light swept past his legs. Leaves and bark had burned off the trees, stripped and stark and black. He fought through the miasma, blinking his streaming eyes and trying to keep as low as he could.

“Rúmil!” He shouted as loudly as he could, and inhaled a breath of smoke that set him to coughing. Blindly, he groped his way forward, his eyes shut against the stinging smoke, thinking perhaps he had a voice calling out.

He passed the great fallen tree, smouldering in a wrack of smoke. Suddenly his keen ears picked up a soft sound, almost indiscernible from the sharp crackling sparks of a few fast-burning branches. “Rúmil?” He rounded the further side of the ash-flaked ruin and stopped.

Rúmil knelt there. Arms blistering, sleeves smouldering, he knelt there, shaking, sobbing against the tree trunk. Orophin knelt beside him, every sense straining for sound of discovery by their enemies. Nothing save the roaring of the fire that overwhelmed even the thunder met his ears.

Orophin looked at the black, withered thing at his little brother’s feet. It looked like a pile of leaves and twigs. He tugged Rúmil’s shoulder, drawing him to his feet. “Rúmil, come on. Haldir’s probably worried sick.”

Moving as a sleepwalker, Rúmil allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, leaning heavily on his older brother as they staggered away from the nightmare that this battle had become. The river’s edge was quiescent. The men and elven rearguard were both gone, leaving behind a wreck of dead in the water, on the river shore.

As they skirted the bank, the storm took pity on the ragged brothers, the keening earth.

It began to rain.

~*~

“Geilrín, help me hold his head up,” Eremae said over her shoulder, tendrils of golden hair clinging to her neck. She turned when her friend didn’t answer. “Geilrín?”

The other healer’s face was deathly white, hands in the act of reaching for another vial from their dwindling supply. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Geilrín!”

The woman’s face cleared and she moved, vial in hand, to support the moaning warrior’s head. A deep cough shook her suddenly, wracking her slender frame.

“You all right?” Eremae asked sharply. They had long been working under the smoke. Her own head was swimming, her eyes scraped raw by the dry wind.

Geilrín nodded, still coughing. Rain slid down her face and into the collar of her blood-spattered tunic, grey now instead of white.

Eremae turned away to administer to the now-senseless soldier and tended his hurts with methodical quickness. “I need a bandage for this cut—it just won’t stop b—Geilrín?”

She had stopped coughing. She had stopped everything. Geilrín lay slumped against a little hillock, her head thrown back, one arm draped limply across her chest, the other at her side.

Eremae touched her friend’s face, her neck, moving aside the limp, stinking strands of hair.

She was dead.

Numb to grief and practical, Eremae laid her friend’s arms at her sides and covered her face with a coarse blanket. One of far too many.

“Eremae…” a hoarse voice gasped and the woman turned to see Orophin supporting an ashen Rúmil whose face was lowered in pain.

She bid Orophin lay his burden down. “Go find your brother—he was searching for you. I will take care of Rúmil.”

Glass ground into his fingertips. Searing, spreading pain that only intensified though he no longer held anything between his hands. Rúmil had to clamp his lips together to keep back screams. His skin felt stripped away, leaving nerves raw and bare. A strained whimper broke his lips.

She heard him and pressed a hand to his chest. “Lie back.”

He did so with the obedience of exhaustion. The ground was hard and unsuitable but he cared not. Sound seemed to drift away from him. Dimly, he felt the touch of something wet and soft on his face, soothing his blistered lips, moving to his burned arms. A hand touched his shoulder.

Wearily, he opened his eyes without realizing he’d closed them, looking up into a blurred face, dim and indistinct as though ash still stung his eyes. The rim of something hard pressed against his lips and a cool liquid dribbled down his chin.

“Drink.”

He took in a mouthful and instantly spat it out. It tasted like ash. After a few more experimental sips, it began to taste like water again. Eremae drew it away before his thirst was slaked.

“I’m going to put you to sleep all right. It’s best for you right now with those burns,” Eremae readied a damp, rank-smelling cloth and laid it lightly but firmly over his mouth and nose. “Just breathe deep and count to ten.”

Cool rain tearing on his face, he got to three before the world flickered and, like a wilting candle flame, went out.

Mist began to rise, a combination of smoking ash and extinguished flame. It drifted through the hollows of split trunks. Entwined with the dead limbs of those quiescent on the river shore. Clung to the damp faces of those yet living.

Those soldiers unable to sleep stared as a figure moved slowly out of the fog, its features gradually drifting into view like a ghost whose form takes shape from the forgotten.

Tunic hem soaked, sleeves in tatters, an unfamiliar sword dangled limply at his side. Along the inside curve of his neck a dark spatter of scarlet, the match of those on his uniform. Dried streaks of sweat mingled with the rain streams plastering his lank hair against his smoke-grazed jaw. Eyes empty stared at nothingness.

The soldiers gazed at their commander, some dumbfounded, others dropping their eyes before his heroism.

Fedorian walked as one stricken but he held himself uncommonly straight, with rigid exactness, every step precise, measured, but pained as though something inside him had broken. He walked past the lines of weary, ragged elves, the wounded and the dying, without once turning his head, the rain pattering on his shoulders.

He did not look at any of them, his voice so low the rain almost drowned it out.

“You all shame me.”

Silence.

“Call muster. See who’s left.”

Eremae moved slowly up to him. Without touching him she spoke in a low voice words only he could hear. But they saw his face grow even more ashen underneath the grime. He followed her quickly.

Haldir caught his brother hailing him and moved towards him as quickly as his sore, exhausted muscles would allow, dimly hearing Rameil counting off names. “Are you all right? Where is Rúmil?”

His younger brother looked exhausted, his eyes hollow and skin begrimed with battle. “He suffered a few minor burns—Eremae is with him…” He trailed off and raked a hand through his tangled hair, swaying a little. “What happened, Haldir?”

“I know, Orophin, I know,” Haldir started to touch his brother’s shoulder when something shifted in his chest and he began to cough spasmodically. He doubled-up and gasped for breath, his lungs feeling as though they had shriveled within his husk of a rib cage.

Orophin drew him up slowly. “Are you all right?”

Haldir nodded, still coughing. “Fine…” he rasped. “Too much smoke… I’ll be fine. I just need… need to breathe.” They sat together for a while, not speaking, not sure of what to say and without the energy to try. The camp was quiet.

Orophin shut his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. Haldir’s face was stony but tight. They could all hear.

The dry, wracking sobs of a man completely exhausted in every way imaginable. They looked on his pain with regret and appropriate sorrow but also gratitude that they, at least, had been spared such horror.

Haldir dared turn his head, a silent witness to his commander’s grief. Seeing Fedorian’s pale form lying so still beside his wife’s covered body, beneath the blackened lace branches, eyes open and clouded, he looked one of the lifeless. Eremae—her bloody, soot-blackened hand reaching out in vain—the only mourner.

Haldir looked away.

Arenath wandered past, his eyes wide. His tunic had been torn in several places. There was blood on his cheeks. “Where is Silivren?” He asked to no one in particular. “I don’t see Silivren.”

No one answered.

Those who were without hurt or conscious with only mild injuries, and there were few, sat or stood idly, unsure of what to do with none to give them orders. Many sat expressionless, too tired even to grieve, eyes fixed at some distance point. Mithron, Caladaer’s snickering friend, had his face in his hands.

It was Alfirin who finally struggled to his feet and got them organized.

“All right, chaps and chapesses, something terrible has happened this night—you all know it. But we can’t think of that right now. All the ones we’ve saved, including ourselves need looking after. So why don’t you settle down—set a watch for tonight— and take care of all manner of titivation and suchlike as you can. Good old rain’ll wash this lot away.”

Slowly, the group complied and staggered off towards the river to wash the blood from their hands, others settled down to sleep on the hard damp earth for as much sleep as they could find. Ancadal leaned over Linwen’s shoulder. “What does your captain mean by ‘titivation?’”

Linwen frowned hard as she thought. “Well, I think it means something akin to ‘Clean yourselves up.’”

“Why doesn’t he just say ‘clean up?’”

Linwen shrugged and peeled her cloak from her shoulders. “Why should he when he knows words like ‘titivation.’ I can’t even spell it!”

“Is the captain dead?” a recruit inquired, breaking the weary quiet. His expression devoid of interest in either outcome.

"No," Haldir tried to explain as tactfully as he could.

The sharp and bitter vapor of disappointment, of burden, of loss stung him as he followed Orophin to where Rúmil lay, sleeping peacefully—one of the few.

Haldir almost knelt next to him when noises met his ears, hushed as though the one who made them was trying not to.

He peered blearily past the shadows, searching for that soft noise. And found it leaning under an old tree with drooping leaves.

Linwen sat in the darkness, sobbing, her face in her hands. He exhaled softly. He couldn’t deal with much more grief this night. But he had taken a step forward to go to her anyway when a hand on his shoulder halted him.

Alfirin smiled sadly. “Let me, old lad.” Limping forward, the militaristic elf bent towards his subordinate. “Now, now, missie, what’s all this, eh?”

Linwen hastily wiped away her tears, sniffing a little. “Nothing, sir.”

He smiled gently and disbelievingly at her. Slowly easing himself down, he nearly sprawled as his injured leg threatened to buckle. She automatically put out a steadying hand to him.

“Ah, that’s the ticket. Now then, what’s all the boo-hooing about?” He solicitously tugged a handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to her.

Haldir didn’t listen as he sat on the other side of the tree beside his brothers. He was exhausted beyond all measure and yet restless.

“Lost half the old force, chap,” Alfirin said at length, his light tone belaying the terrible sadness shadowing his eyes as he met Haldir’s. “Too few accounted for...We’ll have to put up the jolly bivouac here. Can’t move the wounded for a few hours yet at least. Try to get some sleep.”

Haldir laughed bitterly as he swiped at his own eyes. “Not after this.”

“Then good show, lad, you and I can take first watch,” Alfirin said, sweeping his cloak over the form of Linwen who had fallen asleep at his side.

Haldir nodded and took a seat beside the old campaigner, waiting for dawn and wanting nothing more than a sight of the sun.

In the small, quiet hours before dawn, he wrote two letters in careful ink by the pale watery light breaking through the clouds. When he returned home he would tuck them neatly away in a corner of his trunk and pray he would never have to send them.

---

The Gondorian camp too lay silent; many in slumber, their broken sword hilts still clutched in their hands, shields pierced by white arrows. Those living remnants lay among the sleepers, wondering and weary. Theirs had been a restless night, expecting retaliation. None had slept well if at all.

Tergon sat slumped among them, shoulders bowed in weariness. Through the grave of a greater power, he was unhurt. Soft, beautiful sounds distracted him from his half-slumber.

“What’re they doin’, son?” Garen asked, his words slurred and pain-wrought.

Tergon cradled his friend’s head in his lap as he peered across the river. “They’re—they’re singing.” He imagined he could see shimmering figures through the fading rain curtain, moving gracefully in and around the mist, every so often stopping and bending near the riverside.

“’S very pretty… for being… so sad,” Garen whispered with a last smile. He sighed once.

The younger ranger glanced down at his dead friend and slowly closed the older man’s eyes, covering over his head with his cloak. “Rest well, my friend, in honor and glory. Until we meet again on the hither shore.”

He stood, the silver sunlight glinting in his keen grey eyes. After what he had seen, there was no life for him among the Gondorian rangers anymore. He had seen all he had ever cared to see of war and its consequences.

As the gentle, rain-sprayed sun began to gleam on the brittle trees, it looked down upon the dark, bowed head and straight shoulders of a young man, his long, steady strides carrying him swiftly alongside the water, following the river course towards the sea.

Author’s Note: Information on smoke inhalation is from: http:// www. emedicinehealth.com /articles/ 6413-4.asp—a very helpful site instigated by over 100,000 doctors, nurses, medical-types around the world. Neat, eh?

Any errors, inconsistencies etc… C’est ma faute.

I do believe this is both the longest chapter and the longest battle I have ever written.

So, laughter? Tears? Death threats for killing off my two main female characters? Let me know, I would like to hear it all!

~The Lady of Light~


Chapter 14 - Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen: Aftermath

Dewed morning brushed light blue haze over the broken, black-scarred branches, a few droplets rolling off those who yet clung to their blistered leaves. Grey mist shrouded the riverbanks, winding through leaning trunks that turned their burnt bodies to its cold touch for comfort. The entire earth lay wrapped in silence mourning the chaos of the night before, with a few forlorn birds breaking the quiet underneath the dripping leaves.

They had buried their lost comrades near the borders of the river where the trees were yet green and bright. Gatherers had littered the small mounds with niphredil, the sad little flowers glimmering in the soft light. Haldir sighed and let one slip through his fingers onto a green mound. The fallen would forever guard the shores they had died to defend.

Blinking rainwater from his eyes, Haldir watched the far bank intently. He was drenched through, water droplets clinging to his face and hands. Visible skin had been cleaned at last though his tunic was stiff with redampened dried blood. Little of it his—a small mercy. The rain soothed his seared face and hands but the rest of him was uncomfortable in damp, soiled clothes.

“Sir?”

Haldir turned to meet the unsure eyes of an elf, younger than himself with blood streaked cheeks, his eyes dark with horror. “Soldier?”

“I—I don’t know what to do.”

Haldir recognized the battle-shock on the other’s face and knew what was needed. “Make yourself useful. Go help the healer with the wounded. She’ll need it.” He pointed out Eremae who was unswervingly making her rounds with those that yet needed tending.

Nodding dazedly, the soldier did as he was bid.

Haldir caught Eremae’s eyes and gave her an imperceptible nod. Understanding, she took the soldier by the arm and began showing him how to wrap a proper bandage.

Sighing, Haldir stiffly knelt and dipped his hands in the cool running water, washing them with bank sand and rubbing a palmful over his face. They had been up since dawn tending the sad business of laying the dead to rest. That work was slow and difficult and the wounded still needed to be transported… reorganization patrols sent out… they had to eat at some point today since their last meal had been early the morning before. There was still so much work to be done… so much to take care of…

Haldir comforted himself with that thought: the duty he owed to the people who had given their lives last night.

Alfirin lay cradled within the embrace of two roots, sleeping off the pain of his wound. Haldir glanced at him gratefully as he slipped past. Most of the camp already stirred, awake if not completely alert, and milled about as Arenath instructed them to begin clearing the damaged forest and gather the dead soldiers of Gondor to separate them from the elves.

Haldir left them to it. The only thing he really craved at that moment was some dry clothes and a soft bed. But neither was soon forthcoming. Instead, the pounding of hooves on the soft, rain-soaked earth made him look up sharply as two scouts rode towards him, their hair unpinned and flying loose.

“We saw the smoke last night. What has happened?” one of the scouts wanted to know as he dismounted gracefully, his uniform neat and pressed, his eyes alert and bright.

“If you have not come to help, I suggest you leave,” Haldir said coldly, not feeling as though he should explain himself to this callow child who could not possibly understand what had occurred here last night.

The other scout was not put off as he looked the elf up and down, a crease furrowing his smooth brow. “Our lieutenant’s come, sir. He’ll want to speak to you.”

Haldir stared up at the speaker who took a step back under his elder’s hard, jaded gaze. “Then let him come himself and not send errand boys. Take a glance around you’ll see what happened.”

He walked away from the speechless elves, infuriated and exhausted. Searching among the sleepless injured for Rúmil, he found Orophin watching over him, his head resting against a yet-silver trunk.

Orophin gazed up blearily, his face haggard and pale. He and Haldir had taken it upon themselves to watch over their youngest brother’s sleep in case he woke in the night.

A glaze of smoke shimmered on Rúmil’s face and he looked sweaty and pale but peaceful. Haldir knelt next to him and, unable to touch his arms, laid a palm on his brother’s blanketed knee. A weak, hoarse voice made him lift his head to his youngest brother’s face.

“Where are we?” Rúmil tried to turn his head to look around but Haldir gently pressed his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Still here.”

“Oh.” Rúmil didn’t ask and kept his face carefully averted, looking towards his brother instead of the shrouded figure he knew to lie on the other side of him.

“Can we go home?”

Haldir felt the word tear his heart but he nodded. “Yes, muindor. We’ll go home today. Or, you will go home today at least.”

“You will too,” Rúmil insisted. The young elf fidgeted a little with the frayed hem of his blanket. “You haven’t seen--?” he trailed off.

Haldir knew what he meant to ask and shook his head. “No. I think Eremae will look after him. Do not worry about that now, you just get some rest.”

“He should never have had to see them like that,” Rúmil murmured as his brother turned over his uncovered arms gently. Haldir inspected the burns with sorrow and anger. They would scar.

“Go back to sleep,” Haldir pressed his brother back against the ground, spreading his damp cloak over him.

Rúmil threw it aside. “I have had enough of sleep. I cannot sleep.” He didn’t dare tell his brother about his nightmares… his cowardice…

“Well, if you don’t mind, I got very little sleep last night waiting for you to wake up, little brother. So,” Without further ado, Orophin snatched his brother’s abandoned blanket from him, draped it over himself and appeared to go straight off to sleep.

Rúmil shook his head in wonderment. “He always could sleep best on a battlefield.”

Haldir smiled a little. “That he could.”

Rúmil laid his arms, palms up, across his knees, staring at the bandages unseeingly. He was silent for a long time and Haldir did not speak, watching the mist curl over the river.

“Are you in charge of this unit?” a smooth clipped tone asked accompanied by a strange, light jingling sound.

Haldir turned his head to the left and up to meet the questioning gaze of Laer, the lieutenant of another patrol, who stared evenly down at him, the medals on his tunic tinkling softly, highly polished and gleaming.

“I recognize you from the Gathering. Haldir, is it not?”

Haldir nodded as he stood. “Our captain is… indisposed at the moment. Our second is somewhere about here,” he peered about for Arenath and supposed he would be yet tending the dead. “I will take you to him.”

Laer looked around at the destruction and shook his head slowly. “By the Valar, all of this in a single night? By humans?”

“By fire,” Haldir corrected, leaving Rúmil to watch over Orophin.

Laer fell into step beside him, clasping his hands behind his back. “Of all the creatures of this earth, I have only known humans and orcs to use fire in warfare. I believed it was because they were ignorant of its horrible danger, living outside the woodlands as they do. Now I believe that they are merely cruel and evil as their kind is wont to be.”

Haldir pushed a hand through his ragged hair, his eyes downcast to the wet earth underneath his boots. “I cannot relate to you what I saw last night. It is altogether too horrible.”

“I dissented from the first,” Laer shot a sideways glance at him. “My concern was not heeded.” He stared pointedly at the burnt carnage of the trees, the open graves.

“Our Captain is not responsible for this,” Haldir protested, defensive on his friend’s behalf.

“No,” Laer agreed. “Had he his rathers, you all would have charged straight into it and burnt to cinders I wager.”

That hit too near the mark.

Rameil who had been working near them clearing brush had heard that last comment and come to stand beside his friend angrily but Haldir intercepted him. “Rameil, go find Arenath and ask him if we can gather a reconnaissance across the river—we need to know their movements.”

The dark-haired elf looked at him questioningly but Haldir gave a sharp nod and he left.

Laer pursed his lips. “I apologize if I have spoken out of place—I know you two were comrades in the war.”

“We were, yes.”

"We should never have been there."

"We did what was necessary,” Haldir did not like the way this conversation was going.

“How many did we lose in those seven years? How many of our people were slain or driven from these shores then to have all of their sacrifice been for naught?"

"How do you know such history, Laer? I was under the impression you did not fight for such foolish causes?" Haldir's voice was harder than his eyes.

"And what are you doing now if not the same thing? How many did we lose last night? Half our force? More?"

Haldir forced himself to answer levelly with gritted teeth. “Many of those deaths could have been prevented, lieutenant, had you been attentive to your duties.”

“I had no knowledge of this attack. Only this dawn did tidings reach me,” Laer interjected, the slightest trace of offense creeping into his voice.

Haldir remained tight-lipped.

“This isn’t the war anymore, lieutenant,” the other elf insisted.

“I never said it was,” Haldir answered just as coolly. This elf was getting on his very last nerve.

“Ties with Gondor are important—especially in this changing age. Making enemies of them would be most… unwise.”

“They have made their enemy in us. I cannot change that.”

Laer shook his head as though to banish the quickly heating argument. “I did not come here to argue with you, Haldir. I did come to help. But I need to speak to your Captain or his officer if he cannot meet with me.”

At that moment, Rameil appeared with Arenath at his side and four or five elves behind them. The second-in-command looked haggard and dark-eyed as he stopped beside the other two. He nodded as Laer saluted respectively and gestured to the elves behind him. “Here is your reconnaissance, Haldir.” Arenath glanced at Laer and drew Haldir to one side. “Haldir, I—I have no orders. Fedorian is…” He shook his head, a strange glazed look in his eyes. “And I—I have to find—”

“I know, my friend, I know,” Haldir tried to reassure the distraught elf. “Just do what you can. Get Laer to help. Make sure we have something to eat—I’ll take these here,” Haldir said, clasping the elf’s shoulder in a brief gesture of condolence.

“All right, all of you come with me.”

Skirting the burnt tree fringe where the rain had halted the fire’s advance, they bounded across the Bridge of Nimrodel, wooden planks scorched and half-buckling under their boots. Haldir halted them on the further side. “I want two of you to stay here. Make sure none but we cross over,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Cautiously, the remaining elves edged forward again, bows and blades close to hand, ears straining for sounds of movement in the undergrowth. But nothing stirred, not even the wind. There was no birdsong.

The foliage had been disintegrated as far as the bank of the river on this side. All that remained were skeletal branches and a carpet of ash underneath. They inched cautiously into an open clearing, a clearing that had not been there before the fire came. Splintered and discarded weapons littered the area, some alongside their former owners.

“Those survivors have gone…” Rameil remarked, tracing the path of a considerably diminished group through the ash and dust. His brow furrowed. “Deeper into the forest.”

“There are others here,” another remarked, crouching on the tips of his boots. “No more than a few hours old at least.”

Haldir joined him. “And yet only one set. One soldier?”

“Why only one?”

Haldir shook his head. “I will follow it; the rest of you find which path the others took,” he instructed Rameil and the others. “Stay alert. Be careful.”

“And you.”

The river rolled serenely past, freed of its tree warden that had imprisoned it until early that morning. The sun had decided to show his face and melt away the mist. It dappled onto golden hair as Haldir followed the trail imprinted in the mud. The footsteps were narrow but heavy, undoubtedly those of Gondor. And dragging by the looks of it.

Haldir stopped near the falls of Nimrodel which even now shimmered sweetly under golden shadows, forgetful of hardship and weariness. The elf closed his eyes a moment, listening to the sweet, melodious song of the water falling over the steps of cool blue stones, feeling its peace ease some of the sadness and anger in his heart.

A man lay on his face near the cascading water. But Haldir could see the rise and fall of his shoulders that indicated he yet breathed. His grey-green cloak hung in tatters, his face, what little the elf could see of it, was covered in damp, smoke-smelling curls. His right hand clasped a bright swordblade.

Alert to the possibility of a trap, Haldir took a wide sweep east into the trees where he had the benefit of ample cover. Stalking forward in a low crouch much as a cat preys after a grounded bird, the elf inched stealthily forward, his boots making no sound on the soft earth. He drew his blade with a whisper.

Standing almost above the man, he saw the shoulders still. An instant before the sword pierced him, he knocked it aside with his own and held it against the man’s jugular. Staring down into frightened blue eyes, Haldir realized he recognized the young man at the end of his blade.

“Tergon.”

The man blinked at the sound of his name, the sun in his eyes silhouetting the face of his attacker. “Who are you? How is it that you know me?” He brought up a hand as the saber shifted.

Haldir crouched lightly, his sword dangling casually in hand. “You do not know me?”

“Haldir--?” Tergon sat up straight. “How—how did you find… Why were you looking for me?”

“I was not. I was searching out your compatriots.” His eyes were clouded with concern. “Are you hurt?”

“No… thankfully.” The man sat up, plucking leaves out of his hair and brushing loam from his shoulders self-consciously.

“You are far from your kin.”

The man looked up sharply, eyes wide with fear. “I had nothing to do with last night, I swear. I harmed no one!”

Realizing the man had thought he was threatening him, “I know you did not.” Haldir reached out a hand and pulled the young man to his feet. “Why did you not go with the others?”

The man cast his eyes to the leaf strewn ground as though finding his answer there as he picked up his weapon. “I—Ramir was wrong. There was nothing there for me anymore.”

“Were you frightened?”

“Yes,” the man’s eyes were wide, shimmering with emotion. “I saw…” He closed them. “I still see… Ai, Valar,” he rubbed his hands over his tired face, the corners of his eyes. “I just wish for home. I have been gone for nearly a year now. It will be the year gone before I return.” As though just remembering, Tergon fumbled with the pin before he took the brooch still clinging stubbornly to his cloak and pressed it into the elf’s hand. “This saved my life last night. I would have been a dead man, I know it.”

Haldir laid the glittering clasp back into the man’s palm and pressed his fingers closed around it. “Keep it, then. And go in peace.” He turned.

“Haldir? What will you do now?”

The elf turned over his shoulder, his voice tight, grim. “Hunt the rest of them down. None will leave this forest save you.”

Tergon blanched a little at that. “Haldir, you cannot fight them. It will never end.”

“We must try. We lost too many good soldiers last night to let this rest,” Haldir’s eyes were hard and implacable and Tergon could not meet them.

“You will finish it, then,” he murmured to the ground.

The elf remained silent.

The young man nodded as though deciding something, his hand clenched around the hilt of his weapon. “I wish to stay then—help you if I may.”

“No.” Haldir shook his head. “I would not ask that of you. Besides, I have lost too many friends. I will not lose another.”

Tergon blinked, surprised then grateful. “I am your friend?”

Haldir tilted his head to one side with a slight smile but his eyes were clouded with concern. “I owe you my life. Surely friendship is not so small a thing to offer in return?”

“The friend of an elf!” Tergon laughed suddenly and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “What my brother would say to that! If he yet lives…” His eyes solemned. “Nevertheless, I would like to be of service.”

“You can be,” Haldir reassured him, an idea suddenly flashing through his mind. “But not here. One must survive this to take word back to Gondor. Go back to your country. Tell them what you can.”

Tergon looked about to protest then thought about the elf’s words. He was being given the chance to live. To see his land again. His home. He swallowed and nodded. “My people must be told the truth.”

Satisfied with that, Haldir returned the nod and walked away.

“Wait!” Tergon hurried after him. “Will I see you again?” Sudden sadness enveloped him at never seeing the fair creature that he owed so much to.

Haldir kept his eyes averted. “If not in this place, perhaps beyond the Seas.”

Then Tergon stood alone beside the river, staring into the empty, sun-dappled woodlands.

~*~

The morning passed slowly into early afternoon. Elves came from nearby patrols to help. The wounded were moved to a more secure place to be tended and the weary, restless soldiers broke their fast for the first time since the morning before.

Few were left to feed. There was little talking as the soldiers ate, a subdued hush hung over everything.

With Orophin gone to reassure his wife of his continued existence and Haldir not yet returned from reconnaissance, Rúmil felt alone and comfortless. Without appetite, he ignored the proffered bread someone tried to hand him and instead chose to wander.

He avoided the carnage-field, shame spearing his heart at the sight of the green barrows underneath the trees. He had no desire for company but he did not wish to be alone either: his own condemning words tore at him, whispering, cursing. Coward. You ran. Coward. You could not help her… Coward!

His chest hurt and he stopped, realizing he had been running wildly. His hands were scratched from swiping aside raking branches and sweat clung to his brow, his wounded arms seared. He closed his eyes momentarily against the pain, forcing himself not to touch them, knowing it would be worse if he did. His heart thrummed beneath his ribs like a caged hummingbird.

“Rúmil?”

The elf in question jumped, not realizing someone was near. “Eremae.”

The healer sat underneath the shadow of a mallorn, her face wan and her grey-white tunic torn and bloodied and tear-stained. Forgetting his own pain and glad for the reprieve, he sat down beside her.

Her hair was ill-kempt, her face bearing the now-familiar marks of sleeplessness.

“How is he?” Rúmil asked after a moment of silence, staring at his bent knees and wondering why he had asked.

Eremae just shook her head. “He is alone.”

Glancing up at the hidden platform above his head, Rúmil took a deep breath and rose but Eremae grabbed at his sleeve.

“Rúmil, I feel I should warn you…” She visibly swallowed and her voice, when she spoke, was drawn taut. “She—she’s in there.”

“’She?’” Rúmil frowned.

Eremae nodded and closed her eyes momentarily. “Geilrín. He wou—he wouldn’t let us bury her.”

Rúmil merely stared at her.

Eremae sniffed and encouragingly rubbed his arm. “Go to him.”

The younger elf stepped past her. She murmured so quietly, his keen ears scarcely picked up the words:

Be brave.

He stepped up onto the talan which was much more spacious and inviting than the rude flets on the borders. Fedorian and Geilrín and Silivren lived here. With the thick overhanging branches serving as a ceiling and cleverly woven walls the large platform had been divided into four respective rooms. But Rúmil was concerned with only one as he entered. He eased past the scrubbed dark-wood dining table.

Off to his left, he glimpsed a door, half-shut, a sliver of light gleaming inside upon an empty bed. No one there. He paused before the other door, swathed in shadow and closed off. Gathering his waning courage, he gripped the intricate handle and slowly eased the door open.

He froze on the threshold.

The room was darkened, the screens up and long draping curtains drawn over them. Not even a candle brightened the interior. Even with his keen sight, he had to squint to make out the silhouette of a tall figure standing beside a low bed.

Memories of his mother suddenly washed over him. Watching her fade had been the hardest thing he had ever had to witness. And he shied from those memories even now, too painful yet to drudge up again. It was not his eldest brother standing in lonely vigil over the bed, but his Captain.

The young elf took a hesitating step into the chamber, afraid to break the funereal quiet.

Fedorian had not changed. His clothes wrapped around him, deranged and spattered; smoke-stained unbound hair clung to his face, unwashed blood smeared one side of his neck.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Rúmil broke the quiet, relieved when he found his voice steady. “Eremae was worried. She thought I should—”

“No. I sent her away long ago. She was tired,” Fedorian answered, his slender hands spread over the pale quilt.

The younger elf, on shaking legs, drew up to the bedside, refusing to look at the occupant resting there, afraid that if he did, he would shatter into a thousand pieces and never be able to gather himself again.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Rúmil looked down at the floor, thinking of what must have been a long night-vigil to keep alone. “Someone should have been here with you—we should have.”

“I am glad none were.” His eyes were oddly fixed on the wall across the room. Rúmil followed his gaze to the mirror which he just now noticed.

It hung above a chest of drawers and would have reflected the beautiful waving branches outside the round window. Would have reflected. Splinters of glass littered the fine-woven carpet, the dark wood of the dresser.

Rúmil looked down at his Captain’s hands lying on the bedspread. They were bloody, unbound, uncleaned, bold and screaming up at him. “Your hands…”

A rain-kissed breeze wafted through the branches and stirred a few tendrils of her golden hair.

Fedorian brushed them back and stroked her cheek softly; Rúmil couldn’t stop staring at his slender fingers which bore the marks of his rage. He didn’t even seem to notice the shards of glass still imbedded in his knuckles. Rúmil cringed just glancing at them.

“Sir… your hand…We should—”

“I feel nothing now.”

But Rúmil couldn’t leave it. He felt an overwhelming urge to be doing something so he found a rag and filled a wooden bowl from the dining area.

Returning, he found Fedorian had not moved. Businesslike, he took his hand gingerly and began to pull the small shards out, dropping them on the night table, sponging the blood away.

“Leave it, Rúmil,” Fedorian said dully, tugging out of the other’s grip. “My blood deserves to flow… flow away into the river of it. The river of it,” he half-sung the words, an eerie cadence.

Rúmil was overtaken by horror. He wanted so badly to turn away but dared not.

“I failed them. I failed her.”

“No!” Rúmil immediately denied it.

For the first time, Fedorian raised his eyes, glazed and beyond exhaustion. With a small twitch of the lips, he turned abruptly away from his student and paced to a small desk that sat in one corner.

A wide volume lay on the glossy table, the newly-penned ink still wet and gleaming. Fedorian tapped it. “Forty-three good and perilous soldiers lost, not including those who died of their wounds last night. And there are… a few yet unaccounted for.”

One of those few was Silivren, Rúmil avoided his commander’s seemingly-searching eyes as the lump threatened to choke him.

“What are you doing here, Rúmil?”

Rúmil looked up. “I—I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I am alone. Your company does not change that.”

“You are not alone,” the younger elf retorted, frustration flaring. “We loved her too. We loved them both too.” He forced himself to look on her.

She had been tended with a sister’s care and lay composed in a fresh, beautiful robe, hands folded upon her breast. Her pale skin washed free of gore, her hair brushed until it shone. She was as beautiful as she had been in life. But empty. Her face expressionless with her eyes closed.

Her spirit had fled.

His airway closed off, suffocated by the close room, Rúmil turned away. Without knowing what else to do, he went to the dining area again and decided to make tea. His mother had always done that when any of her children had been upset. It had always made him feel better. After a bit of searching, he found the materials he needed and soon had water boiling.

“I cannot remember if I ever told you how we met.” Fedorian had followed him.

Rúmil shook his head without turning.

“The seven-year toll had called many home,” Fedorian said. “I do not remember the wound but I remember the pain. As though my heart had been squeezed out of my chest…I remember the death tent. The moans of those doomed to die in darkness. Without even a spare light or sight of trees to aid their passing. I was put there. I remember one night looking up through a black haze… and seeing an angel.

“Now my angel lies in the black haze. And I cannot reach her.” He bowed his head. “She took the death meant for me.” His skin was as white and rigid as marble, as translucent as parchment.

“You will see them again… in Valinor,” the younger elf offered, remembering what had blunted his own grief when his parents had departed this life.

Fedorian stared hard at him. “Here, in Arda, that is no comfort. My grief is too fresh for you to try to heal, Rúmil.”

Unsure of what else to do, Rúmil laid a hand on his shoulder. It felt as though he had touched marble, cold and lifeless.

Fedorian shrugged it off. “I should have died in the camp. It would have been better than… this.” He said in a flat tone that belied the horror of the statement. “I do not know what I was telling them by the end of the eighth day… but apparently I was of no more use by then. And Ramir left me in the ditch to die. Two days… trying to move while the flies settled…A venturesome crow or two tried me, and found me living yet.”

Rúmil stood frozen.

Fedorian ignored the mug in front of him, his eyes staring at the far wall. “I have been a soldier all my life. Cheated of death. My ‘noble’ sacrifice is nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

"Empty words, Rúmil! Empty! Save perhaps from you... Yes." There was a calculating gleam in his commander's eyes as he raised them. "You would have gone with me, wouldn't you? You would not have left me—I remember now. You would have stayed with me--unlike those other cowards...”

Rúmil suddenly felt as though this conversation were spiraling horribly out of control. "Perhaps, sir, you should drink your--"

The younger elf tried not to jump as Fedorian snatched the cup from the tabletop and flung it against the wall, sending bits of shattered glass flying. Rúmil closed his eyes as he felt little chips graze his cheeks. A red-black smear trickled slowly down the wall.

“They shamed me! All of them! All recreant! All cowed! I gave no order to retreat, Rúmil, I am not so far gone that I do not remember that. They ran. They ran! Like dogs. Like men.”

“That’s not fair, sir,” Rúmil protested, stung. “They did all that they could.”

Fedorian snorted bitterly. “Indeed. Then why were they not willing to die? Why did they not die as I did?” He gestured sharply towards the bedroom. “As she did!”

Horror filled his voice as the younger elf realized. “You…you meant to kill yourself.”

“How can one kill oneself if he’s already dead?” Fedorian’s answering smile was cold and sardonic, entirely devoid of humor. “For in truth, my mourning rites have already been sung. My body simply must follow.”

“You cannot think that!” Rúmil was furious now. Furious at Geilrín and Silivren for dying, furious at his mentor for wanting to.

And furious with himself for wishing he would.

Before he realized what he was doing, Rúmil grabbed Fedorian’s shoulders and shook him. “There are still those who love you! Who would weep for your passing—as they weep for hers!” The tears long held in check flowed unrestrained now.

Seeing his tears, the iron grip on his shoulders, all strength seemed to leave the commander’s body. Like watching the mellyrn burn again, he sank to the floor, back pressed against the table edge. He merely sat, silent, with his elbows braced upon his knees, bowed head in his hands. He did not weep. His grief was beyond tears.

Rúmil crouched slowly beside him, his anger evaporated, his face still twisted with sorrow. When he was sure his voice would not tremble he spoke. “Let her be buried, sir. She…she needs to rest in peace,” he entreated in a whisper, his throat too tight for anything louder. “You will be needed—we—we need your presence.”

After a time, when Rúmil believed he would never receive an answer, Fedorian raised his head. His eyes were bright, his voice rough. “So be it.”

He never looked into a mirror again

~*~

The last planks of the Bridge of Nimrodel had been broken down. Deep blue twilight fell over the earth; the silver river, shadowed by wavering branches, murmured past, its glittering stones flashing blue and white on the stony bed, the beautifully carved planks bobbing in its current.

Elven warriors slipped past the green eastern bank. Flower-bearing women mourned at the gravesides of their husbands and sons. The soldiers passed them in silence, some casting their eyes over the widowed forms with sorrow as they turned their steps towards the barracks and a late meal.

A cheerful surprise greeted them when they arrived. Those troops who had family nearby or from the city had ridden out to meet them. In a circle of silver trees long trestle tables had been set up loaded with fine, steaming dishes: fresh loaves of wheat bread, smoked venison, baskets of sweet-smelling fruit and countless bottles of aged crystal-colored wines, bubbling cordials and strengthening miruvor.

The soldiers recently relieved from the borders and ready for a little relaxation sat on long benches, conversing, boasting and telling tall tales to the accompaniment of soft singing and a few stringed instruments wives of the warriors had brought with them.

“I pinned one of them to a tree—no, it was two! Got the fellow behind him as well and with only one arrow!” Mithron said with a grim smile.

“Wait, hold on, we were fighting in the middle of a river! There wasn’t a tree within twenty yards, you nit!”

“Nit yourself! I saw you not throughout the entire battle!”

“That’s because I was killing six others on the other bank!”

“Did I tell you I slew fourteen and carried four wounded across the river?” Rameil teased with a sly glint in his eyes.

“Let them have their fun, my friend,” Haldir said, filling his glass with cordial. “Do you not remember when you used to boast of your exploits on patrol?”

Rameil swung his leg over the bench. “Ha! Goodness, it’s a miracle my head ever shrank back to its regular size.”

“Did it?”

The dark-haired warrior cuffed him.

Alfirin rose to speak. “Ah, if I may, a moment of silence, my good chaps and chapesses!” he called above the chatter which instantly died down. “A moment of silence for those of us who cannot be here this evening.”

Threading under the respectful quiet, a soft voice rose in beautiful song, spearing in a rhythmic cadence.

“Spring buds have faded from the branch
The summer greens have passed away
Autumn leaves sink deep-entrench’d
But your memory will never fade.”

Alfirin cleared his throat and raised his glass. “Now then, chaps! To feast!”

A full-throated roar of approval shattered the silence, soon-followed by the clatter of plates and silverware. The tables groaned under the weight of the food that the hungry soldiers passed freely back and forth. A friendly buzz of chatter rose echoed by the sprightly tune of lyres strummed by several of the musically inclined.

Haldir stopped beside his youngest brother who sat perched at the end of the table alone, cradling a glass between his fingers. He stared emptily into it without seeing.

“Do not let them see you so distressed.”

Rúmil looked up as his brother rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Tonight we should celebrate our lost ones. Not mourn.” Haldir’s voice was tight as though he did not quite believe his words.

Rúmil shook his head. “I hate them, Haldir, I hate those men for what they did.”

“Come,” Haldir pulled him to his feet. “Join us.”

Underneath one of the canopies set up around the glade, Orophin sat with Rameil and Ancadal and a few others of their patrol. Sharing a meal and comradeship at the end of the day offset the troubles of it. They needed that companionship now more than ever.

Orophin’s pretty wife, Nínael, passed around a small basket containing rolls sprinkled with fresh butter and finely sliced chives. Orophin smiled. “I made these you know.”

“No, you didn’t.” Haldir lifted one from among its brethren, juggling the still-hot roll between his fingers.

“Alas, you have caught me in a lie,” he laughed. “Am I not fortunate to have found a beautiful, glorious, maiden who outshines the very sun. And makes delicious rolls too.”

“Cease, Orophin,” Ninael laughed, stuffing one in his mouth.

Rúmil plucked the roll neatly from his oldest brother’s fingers and bit into it with relish, wincing as he burnt his tongue. “Mmm… I can tell—you cannot cook like this.”

Orophin feigned offense while trying not to choke as Haldir shook his head in despair. “You’ve been far too long away from the city, muindor, your table manners are astonishing.” as he abducted the roll Orophin had just set on his own plate.

“Hey!”

“These are good,” Haldir grinned at his other brother’s indignation expression.

“Now, now, children, behave,” Nínael admonished, setting down a rhubarb crumble and slapping Haldir’s hand away. “Away, rogue! Not yet. Honestly, Haloth’s better than the pair of you.”

The little elf-child giggled and swung her legs under her chair, one thunking against the underside of the low table a little too enthusiastically. Ancadal and Rameil smiled. The soldiers loved the children. Far too few remained to them in this late age. Their winter.

Haldir hid a grin as he surreptitiously rubbed the back of his hand. “She’s a fierce one, Orophin.”

“Indeed,” his brother agreed heartedly, ducking a teasing swipe from his wife who sat down beside him and made up a plate for herself.

The festivities lasted long into the night. But Haldir slipped away early, tired of the false smile on his face, the cheery mood he had attempted to uphold all night. He just wanted to get to his bunk and sleep. He pulled himself up the ladder and crossed towards his own bed.

“Good night, lieutenant,” a quiet voice called to him.

“Good night, Linwen,” he called back softly. Alfirin’s troop had decided to remain a while longer on the northern border and their help had proved invaluable in getting the northern garrison back on its feet. Especially Linwen, so cheerful and eager. Despite the heavy pall on his shoulders, he smiled a little at this small mercy.

Author’s Note: Thank you everyone for reading and for reviewing—I thrive upon your patronage!

Best,

~The Lady of Light~


Chapter 15 - Chapter Fifteen

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;
But there where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark if anything

--Edwin Arlington Robinson “Luke Havergal”



Chapter Fifteen: Crimson Leaves
Rúmil awoke, his face and chest glistening with sweat in the spare moonlight that glittered on the white sheets. Bent over his knees, he pulled a hand through his snarled hair to try to calm his racing heart. That dream again… He should have known it would return even after he had tried to drown it. He glanced across the small talan where his bunkmate’s—Thillas’—empty bed lay. Healer’s flet still. Shivering, though he did not feel cold, Rúmil threw back the covers and dressed quickly.
It was early morning yet and light had not yet reached its searching fingers through the foliage. The smooth, rhythmic pulse of his strides and heartbeat calmed him as he ran along a slender deer path cutting through the western woodlands. The sun was just brushing the treetops and pushing long, blue shadows west, threading the thin mist with beads of silver and copper. With the return of steady and familiar routine, and the comforting sun warming his back, Rúmil could breathe again, his nightmares receding into the darker shadows, shying from the sun.
He took a wide loop eastward, avoiding the stretch of burnt lands low and withered to the banks of the Nimrodel. He had gone nowhere near the place since that horrific night. He had tried to remove himself as much as possible from the horror, the frenetic activity, needing the calm to orient his thoughts and restore some manner of balance to his life.
As the sun began its slow ascent, he knelt at a stream to splash his hot face. Raising his head, he caught sight of a small form he had startled out of the ferns. For a moment, the fawn’s large liquid eyes stared into his, then, with a flick of a long, velvety ear and a flash of white, it was gone into the safety of the thick woodlands.
Running away, little one? The furious energy that had spurred him on thus far, drained from Rúmil’s limbs and he felt unbearably weary all of a sudden. Getting to his feet, he trudged slowly back to barracks.
His eldest brother spared him a brief nod of greeting when he appeared on the parade ground; Haldir had had little time of late. Since the battle, the patrols had dissolved into all but chaos. Many dead soldiers had to be replaced with living ones and the family members of those they had been unable to find clamored for news and restitution. It did not help that their Captain treated them with increasing distance, retreating ever to his darkened talan, giving way to darker thoughts.
Rúmil stood on the corner of the parade ground, a wide clearing in the midst of the forest where the soldiers drilled. And sometimes ate and slept as the recruits well knew. For a long while, he watched them spar.
The sergeant-at-arms had been slain and the Captain had yet to name his replacement. The lieutenant attempting to fill in was encouraging the soldiers into ragged lines. Rúmil shook his head in disapproval at their sloppy attempt. Fedorian, when he had been the officer he once was, would have stripped the commanding officer of rank for allowing his soldiers’ dressings to look like that. But the poor lieutenant looked flustered enough without knowing what he was doing. This was not his job, his panicked gaze said.
Rúmil watched as Arenath, passing across the parade ground, snapped at the hapless soldier who flushed dully and quickly redirected the orders his officer barked.
Glancing towards a group of warriors, lounging in the shade after a morning’s hard march, Rúmil recognized his brother, Orophin, among them and their friend Ancadal. Wandering over, he caught the last snatches of their conversation.
“—at the very least he should take leave,” a regal-looking elf, a lieutenant by the marks on his tunic, pursed his lips in seeming deep disapproval. “He has been so strange lately—it is a wonder he still commands this post.”
“Now, Laer,” Orophin put in mildly. “that is a bit much, do you not think?”
“Why?” the other retorted. “Have you seen aught of him of late? He did not even come to the services.”
Rúmil knew of whom they spoke and almost walked away. He hated hearing his commander being discussed in such a manner. But the arrogant lieutenant’s next words gave him pause, his hands clenching unconsciously.
“He ought to be replaced. A more… capable… officer would serve much better.” The gleam in his eye showed all too clearly who he thought that better officer could be.
Rúmil snorted derisively, drawing the attention of the one who had spoken.
“You have something to say, pup?” Laer put in quietly, a supercilious eyebrow raised.
Rúmil’s eyes narrowed, his voice low and harsh. “You are not fit to speak so. You do not know what we suffered—what he suffered. You cannot imagine and you would not have done a better job.”
Without waiting for a response, he walked away, ignoring Orophin’s call for him to return.
~*~

Sparing his youngest brother a short glance, Haldir left the parade grounds behind him, heading deeper into the forest, away from the ruin that he could just see over his shoulder, angled, dead trees poking forlornly from behind the leafy sheltered ones that had escaped the inferno.
Geilrín and Silivren are dead. How many more would fall before this was over? He couldn’t let his brothers be among them. He would miss them terribly but at least he would know they were alive elsewhere. Rúmil and Orophin would almost certainly object to his sudden decision regarding their lives but he could deal with their anger. He could not deal with their deaths.
Eremae stood within the fern draped doorway, raising her eyes to his face briefly. Fedorian did not look up as he appeared on the platform, intent on his gazing, and cradling a glass against his leg.
Waiting a moment longer for acknowledgement, Haldir wasted no words when none came for the commander did not suffer others wasting his time. "Sir, I ask that my brothers be transferred to another command on the southern border."
Fedorian did not seem surprised by his words. He had seen others of late who had requested the same removal of close family from all harm. And he put to Haldir the same questions he had asked them. "For what reason? Is this not a decision they should make themselves?"
"Yes, I would agree in most cases. But..." His brothers would be furious with him. "I fear that they are too proud to admit that they would compromise the battlefield." He allowed a fleeting smile to pass across his face for the sake of effect. "They have a penchant for heroics. I fear the command would be in unnecessary jeopardy should an opportunity to avenge our lost ones arise."
“Is that so?”
This was the right thing to do. He reassured himself. I have to keep them safe. This had nothing to do with compromising the command.

Fedorian sipped thoughtfully from his glass and set it on the floor near his feet as he stood. “And what think you of an opportunity ‘to avenge our lost ones?’”
Haldir met his eyes evenly. “I would welcome it gladly.”
Fedorian watched Haldir long under his strange gaze. Then smiled and gave him the same answer he had given the others.
"I will look into what you have said,” He glanced over his shoulder at the watchful healer. “—if my nurse allows me the time and peace of mind to do so." He turned his gaze away and walked to the edge of the platform.
"Thank you, sir." Thinking himself dismissed, Haldir half-bowed and began to descend from the talan.
Fedorian’s voice stopped him. “They have left the woods. The trees allowed them to go.”
Haldir looked at his captain staring out over the sun-dappled woodlands, the leaves rustling in their green shadows. “They were frightened. It is understandable—long has it been since the mellyrn have felt the ungentle touch of fire.”
“If I have my will, they need never fear it again.”
~*~
A wide, overgrown lane ran down, curving away to join the road further southward. In this late summer, the sides of the path bloomed with honeysuckle and wild hemlock, its white flowers swaying in the warm breeze. But the beauty was lost in the formless dark.
Away near the looming cleft of rock, an ancient remnant of the mountain’s foothills, a burst of orange illuminated the white hemlock stems, casting wavering, dancing shadows across the ash-grey grass.
A cloud of soft grey smoke swirled into the air as Ramir sat with his back flat against a smooth rock, a glowing coal between his knees. He hadn’t tasted such leaf since leaving the fertile fields of the Westenmet. It was about the only comfort he had left. Half their forces were simply gone. When they had left Gondor with Anaric they had numbered nearly one hundred strong—a full company—of elite rangers. Now they were a little over a score. If that. Ramir’s brow darkened.
Rumors of desertion had reached his wary ears.
Sitting before his dwindling campfire, he was suddenly aware of a figure hovering at the fringes of the shadows. “Sir,” a voice spoke softly. “The men favor Calenon. He is the one.
Calenon, that upstart! “This I know. You did well, lad,” Ramir said.
Calenon. The chief dissenter. A ranger of Ithilien, no doubt. One of those kind who believed they were beyond the rules of their city and the command of their leaders in the wild. Primitive, savage. Fools all of them! He needed to be dealt with. And soon. The only way this contingent would keep from falling apart would be their unity.
His lurid eyes lit up and he smiled suddenly. “Good work. Do well by me, lad, and I will see to a promotion personally when we return to Gondor,” he said, smiling.
His loyal servant nodded his head obediently and vanished.
On the other side of the camp, a lean, sandy-haired man stood boldly before a group of five or six who were listening to him speak.
Calenon idly wielded his favored weapon—a thick-corded bolas—whose heavy stones clacked together at the ends as he twitched them. “We could have ended it then—we could be at the Anduin tonight, feasting on the river shore. No, friends, we’re sitting out on these desolate plains with nothing to eat but six-day old meat and nothing but brackish puddles to drink from.” He shook his head with a sly glance towards the soft grey smoke drifting in the wind.
A few grumbling words of agreement encouraged him further.
He carried on, softer now, luring them in as he sat casually beside them. “It was a massacre, men.” He shook his head darkly. “We watched our own burn in those woods. What kind of a leader would let that happen to his own I ask you? And now, he’s letting us starve! You have all seen him! The best smoke… the best meat… I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a few bottles hidden in his sacks.”
The voice behind him stiffened the hairs on the back of his head. “I would, gentlemen, that we celebrate tonight.” Ramir smiled at his friends and companions who were suddenly looking nervously away from him. “Let us face to the West then, Númenor that was, and remember our fallen. May they find their peace in the honored halls of their fathers.”
They stood and the last radiant light of the setting sun gleamed on their battered armor, their worn and scarred blades.
Ramir stirred after a moment. “Now, let us honor our victory properly!” he roared. “Organize a hunting party—there’s enough meat to be found in this rich land for a few hungry soldiers! Break out the last wineskins! Tonight, we feast!”
The men cheered, their spirits considerably lifted at this news. As disgruntled as they were, many hadn’t tasted wine since they crossed the Anduin.
Calenon watched their faces and the face of his commander, surprised when Ramir beckoned him to his side. Cautiously, the younger man approached his leader, wariness and curiosity glittering in his dark eyes.
“In this rich land we will regain our strength—enough to skirt the wood and cross the Anduin. We will be home within the month, men, you have my word.” He wrapped a companionable arm around Calenon’s shoulders. “All of you showed true courage throughout this campaign and have brought the highest of honor to your Houses. But one, I believe, deserves our praise above the others.” Ramir lifted his flask with a wide, fallacious grin. “A toast to my good man, Calenon—now, my second, after Garen was slain. Should I fall in this forsaken place I would that he lead you home once more!”
The other man appeared quite flummoxed by this praise but grinned all the same and, pulling away from the embrace, toasted his leader back with high good humor. “My Lord Captain! It is my highest honor to accept this position and to serve our men well!”
“Well, now.” Ramir smiled and turned to his new second. “To the hunt! I’ll take half of them out onto that meadow there where we found the spring water earlier today, you can take your half and search the woods—should be plenty of deer to snare.”
Calenon grinned right back, inwardly seething at how he’d been deceived. He bowed lightly to his commander and draped his bolas about his shoulders. “So shall it be. We’ll be bringing home the feast, boys!”
In their haste to ready themselves and set out with enough light left before darkness fell completely, none of the men noticed the bright, wary eyes that watched them just beyond the light of the fire.
~*~
The grief had numbed a little but it still was difficult when he crossed the parade ground and expected Silivren to greet him with a smile and early supper. Or Geilrín out near the starlit plains gathering lapfuls of strange-smelling plants with stranger names. Haldir sighed and shook the useless images from his mind; he could not think of them now. Find the Gondorians responsible first.
But right now all he wished for was the cold comfort and oblivion of sleep.
Someone was already standing at his bedside when he reached it.
“Fedorian summoned me to him this afternoon,” Rúmil began without preamble, seating himself cross-legged on his brother’s bed. “Orophin as well. He wishes to remove us from the borders.”
Haldir feigned surprise. “Why should he have reason to do that?”
“I know not.” Privately, Rúmil thought his earlier behavior might have had something to do with it. But why Orophin too? He idly watched his brother as Haldir bent to unbuckle his sword belt and unlace his boots. “Has he spoken to you of anything of the sort?”
“No.” In truth, Fedorian had not, he told himself. His brother had not asked if it had been the other way around.
Rúmil sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Truthfully, I am utterly perplexed. He said nothing to me, nor gave any indication that I was lacking… I cannot understand it. I do not want to be sent away.”
Haldir felt a stab of shame but kept his attention intent on unfastening his tunic, saying nothing.
“Brother, I need your counsel.”
Haldir sighed and took a seat beside his youngest brother. “Perhaps it is not because you are lacking…” he began without looking up.
“What else could it be?” Rúmil threw his hands up in distress and rose, pacing restlessly. “Then I have irked him. Intruded where I should not have! Done something to offend him…” He thought he had been comforting, reassuring, but, no, just a nuisance underfoot. A nag. A stripling. Maybe he should have just left him to his misery. Indignation swept over him. “I have defended him against all of them! Laer and—”
Fidgeting with his blanket hem, Haldir finally looked up and let out a tight sigh. “Brother, be not angry with Fedorian. It was I who offered him my counsel to—”
“‘Your counsel,’” Rúmil turned on him. “You? What did you tell him?”
Haldir averted his eyes. “I thought it would be in your best interest to be elsewhere… far from here…”
“What? Why?” Realization dawned. “You sneak!”
Haldir stood. “Rúmil, I cannot take this right now.”
His brother seized his arm firmly. “You will, Haldir, for I have not had my say.” To cower behind the fences like a child! The shame would kill him—if it weren’t already. “Always—you wished me not to join the guard. It was only until Fedorian interceded on my behalf that you would even allow me to train!”
“It would not be forever,” Haldir explained. Why could he not understand this? “It is only temporary until this matter resolves itself.”
“So we are to hide behind your skirts until the bad edain go away?” Rúmil dared the closest thing to a sneer as he could muster.
Haldir sighed.
“Even now when I am fully grown, you still see fit to treat me like a child!”
“That is not difficult, you are acting like one, Rúmil,” Haldir said, his expression suddenly hard.
”How could you go over my head like that? Without even speaking to me about it!”
“I wanted you to be safe. I knew you would be too st—”
“Safe? Safe! Where was this sentiment when Lórien burned!” Rúmil laughed—it was not a pleasant sound. “When humans burned our home?” He rolled back his sleeves to expose the bandages on his forearms, his voice taut. “When I received these! Was I safe?”
“That is the very reason why I--”
Rúmil overrode him again, too angry to care who overheard. “You do not wish me to be kept safe! You want me out of the way. So you no longer have to think of me! So I am not underfoot!”
“Rúmil, I thought you had long set aside such childish outbursts,” Orophin chided lightly as he stepped onto the platform.
Invective interrupted, Rúmil turned to his elder brother and pointed an accusing finger at Haldir. “He wishes to confine us to the Anduin borders! To rot in recreantise!” He turned back to his brother who sat still on his bed, refusing to get angry which only infuriated the younger elf more. "What gives you the right to make that decision for us?" he demanded. "You are not our father!"
"No. I am your eldest brother. And I do what I think is best for you." Stung finally into retaliation, Haldir retorted sharper than his self-control had intended him to.
"We are old enough to make our own decisions. And long have been,” Orophin reminded him calmly, not angry but disappointed.
“I know that!” Haldir sighed again and massaged the corners of his eyelids as he forced himself not to lose control with his brothers. He was too tired to start this now. “It is the Captain’s decision to move you if he sees fit. Even I cannot gainsay him.”
Rúmil and Orophin could not refute that and subsided into sullen silence.
A creak of wood announced Rameil’s arrival. The warrior stopped, ill at ease with the uncomfortable silence that swept in at his coming. “I am intruding. My apologies, I will return later.”
Haldir stood up. “No need of that, Rameil. This is your space as well as mine—my brothers were leaving. We will discuss this tomorrow when we are not so vexed,” he added in an undertone.
Orophin nodded gravely and slipped away.
“Rúmil—” Haldir reached for his younger brother’s arm, reticent to let him leave so angry.
Rúmil jerked violently away and, without word or glance, followed after his other brother.
Haldir let out a deep sigh when they had gone and stretched out upon his bed.
Rameil smiled sympathetically. It was moments like these when he realized how fortunate he was not to have siblings. “Trouble?”
“Oh, I’m sure they are plotting my demise at this very moment.”
Rameil nodded sagely as he unfastened the mess of straps and buckles that held his quiver up. Dropping it to the floor, he flexed stiff shoulders and stretched his back, yawning expansively. “What did you do?”
Haldir waved a hand in plea for ignorance and Rameil understood. “All right. I’m too tired for long night discussions at any rate.”
“Is it so wrong to wish to protect those you love?” Haldir protested after a moment, unable to keep his thoughts to himself.
His friend made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat that sounded like agreement, wisely not getting involved with a family quarrel.
The dark-haired warrior fell asleep before Haldir did. For a while, he listened to his friend’s light steady breathing as the night deepened around him. A cool, soothing breeze ghosted across his cheek, teasing a strand of hair over his jaw. The lantern on the table dwindled to a shadow.
A strong hand clamped over his mouth, startling him awake.
A whisper close to his ear. “Silently now. Do not wake Rameil.”
The hand shifted and he sat up, blinking dazedly at the figure standing beside his bed. “Fedorian? What has happened?” he whispered groggily with a quick glance across the talan where Rameil slept on obliviously.
Fedorian ignored the question, his eyes glittering in the starlight. He indicated only for the other to meet him on the ground before he was gone.
Puzzled and wondering if he was ever to get any sleep tonight, Haldir threw his black undertunic on and retrieved his blade from under his bed. Slipping silently past sleeping soldiers, he was on the ground in seconds where Fedorian and, to his surprise, Arenath awaited him.
“What is happening?” he repeated as soon as he touched the ground.
“An opportunity has arisen.” Fedorian set off on a swift lope a few paces ahead of them, leading swiftly past the barracks and across the deserted training ground.
“A track has been spotted—less than a score of them in the silt of the riverbank,” Arenath explained, his eyes on his commander’s back. “We are to intercept them.”
“We three?”
Arenath nodded. “We three.”
Lórien lay open before them, the jagged mark of fire carving a deep treeless scar, exposing the plainsland and the far-off crags of the Misty Mountains invisible under shadow. The warm smell of aging summer drifted on a damp wind. Skipping shadows of darkening clouds wheeling in the sky overhead, blotted out the stars.
Blood snapped like wire thrumming taut against a chilling wind. It combed through their hair as the trees began to dwindle, growing further apart, the wood thinning gradually as they broke out onto the plain-edges. Brittle treeless lands extended to the brink of sight, scrubs and water befouled with the dead still occasionally fished from the river. But these concerns for the land and anxieties with his brothers dropped away as Haldir ran, his hair flowing behind him, a pale almost white curtain catching the rays of the moon, Arenath and Fedorian silent loping shadows beside him.
Haldir realized for the first time that they were following a path, faint and meticulously concealed but still visible under the moon, receding into the wood. Further out on the plain, however, not further than fifty yards away, a little to the northwest, a pale red flicker pierced the darkness.
But Fedorian turned aside from the light and plunged deeper into the wood, following the unmistakable track of boot prints left in the soft earth. Finally, he stopped. He did not whisper for fear the sibilance would carry even to mortal ears. Instead, he drew them close and spoke in a low, quiet tone.
“They are not far. Carefully now. Ware their sentinels.”
~*~
Calenon mentally cursed his luck as the trees loomed ahead, dark and foreboding. Cold shadows stretched out to meet him creeping shivers racing up and down his spine. For reassurance, he tightened on the sweat-slick leather strap riding in his hand. Long blue shadows veiled them as they slipped beyond sight of their camp.
Intricate lattices of brittle branches swayed overhead, growing thicker, darker as they moved onward, ears strained for any sound—of deer or elf. They passed a thick grove of yew trees, leaning close together like black-robed conspirators, the wind whispering confidentially in their leafy ears. The thick verge hid all from sight.
Swishing through thigh-length ferns, one of the men startled a wood thrush from her nest and she fluttered up, squawking with alarm.
Calenon whirled round, heart leaping into his throat as he upbraided the hapless soldier furiously. “You blundering ass! Do you want to bring the whole forest down upon us!” His words sounded unbearably loud. The wind had stilled, listening, a heavy silence growing between the branches of the leaning mellyrn. The second in command looked around uneasily.
Was it his imagination or had the trees grown larger? They loomed far above the heads of those beneath them, their tops lost in shadow. Black warriors that closed ranks behind them or confounded their way ahead. The men crept ever closer behind him, no single soldier wishing to be left behind as the expendable rear-guard. They held their weapons close staring up into the ominous trees. Even the moonlight hid her face behind a purple cloud.
If possible, the quiet had grown even deeper, a winter’s chill seeming to spread from branch to branch through the normally warm summer air. Calenon shivered and unconsciously buttoned the throat fastenings of his tunic though sweat made it stick to his back and underarms. Every snap of a twig under one of their boots, every too-harsh breath or quiet murmur thundered in his ears, a cacophony of sound that seemed to shriek their presence to the entire, watchful wood.
It was then that he realized he could go no further. The trees grew so close together he could not pass through and neither was there a path through them. The men turned round to go back the way they had come only to find that the hissing and ever-shifting boughs intertwined behind them, blocking their way back.
Every part of him trembling, Calenon stared wildly about, his human eyes utterly bewildered in the sudden, impenetrable darkness that had fallen with the cowardice of the moon. His bolas dangled ready from his hand before he consciously thought about it.
“Devils! They are trying to frighten us!” he laughed, his eyes darting wildly about their cage. “They wish to break us!” His chuckle turned shrill and swiftly died. “You will not win do you hear me!” He shouted suddenly, past the point of caring for noise.
His voice echoed and reechoed, unanswered.
A relentless crushing grip caught at his shoulder. Wrenching himself free with a cry, he spun around, whirling his bolas which collided solidly with his attacker’s body. The creature gasped through a broken throat, a strangled groan, a sharp jerk torqued his wrist as it tried to pull itself free.
“Die, fey creature!” He tore away his weapon, the jagged stones crimson. What had he felled? He crouched and touched the blood-matted clothes, felt the seven-tiered pommel of the sword in his adversary’s lax hand, saw the glimmer of the silver tree he’d missed in the dark.
Sweat trickled down his face. He could hear sudden fighting in other parts of the clearing. The clash of steel ringing in his ears with his invisible men’s shocked cries. Cries for aid.
Of pain.
Panting with a combination of fear and exertion, Calenon turned this way and that, like a wounded wolf searching for a gap in the ring of his enemies. Eyes seemed to gleam at him from all around, flickering a few yards away and then suddenly at his shoulder. He screamed aloud and staggered backwards, shaking from head to foot as the eyes moved closer, the only part of his assailant he could see. The bloodied bolas in his hand hung numb and heavy, utterly useless in his lifeless fingers. Cowering, he forsook it completely and covered his face with his hands.
But even that could not entirely block out the relentless, sobbing cries in the dark.
~*~
Wild exhilaration poured through him as his elegant blade opened another throat, gaping and crimson-filled, the pale form slumping. Haldir bared his teeth in a grim, reckless smile, his sight impaired not at all by the sudden blackness that came with falling night. Burning heat poured through his veins, scalding away fear and uncertainty, only the reek of blood and the pounding of it in his temples filled his senses, his heart leaping at a triple rhythm between his ribs. He didn’t remember how many he had felled but the cries around him were growing slowly weaker.
How many had watched Silivren burn? Had they set the fires that had killed Geilrín? How many of these men had witnessed his torment?
Something seized his arm.
His sword fell from slippery fingers as he grasped his attacker by the throat, squeezing mercilessly, ruthlessly, his grasp on his adversary’s windpipe exquisitely and inexorably tightening. He felt flesh soften, then bone crack; rigid fingers scraped at his bloody wrist, clawing at him and he only further tightened his grasp, his breath harsh and ragged through the smoke-induced pain scorching his lungs.
Silver flashed before Haldir’s eyes and sharp, biting pain erupted on the right side of his chest. He gasped and let go. But a knife lay at his belt, swiftly unsheathed. Snarling he struck out brutally with all his strength, the keen knife easily parting cloth and leather. Once! Twice! The figure stumbled back against a tree, fell, brown-black leaves swirling around its shadowy form. Haldir seized the prostrate shadow, wholly prepared to strike again, to finish it as his own blood slid towards his ribs.
Only when something snicked his hand, drawing blood from his fingertips, did he recognize the unpinned brooch, its green enamel spoiled by a crimson smear.
“Tergon,” the name escaped a low moan as the knife slipped as Haldir with shaking fingers rolled the bloodied man over onto his back. “Tergon, why are you here?”
But the dead cannot answer the questions of the living. He could not tell his friend that he had sent his brother in his place to be messenger to his people in Gondor. Tergon remained to see the end through—on the side of the elves. Meeting in secret, he had just blessed his brother on his way when he spotted the hunting party. Trailing them, he had caught sight of a flash of gold while kneeling in the brush and witnessed the carnage that followed as the men panicked, slaying themselves in their wild fear. He had rushed to the elves’ aid and, throwing all caution to the side, had lunged to grasp a familiar shoulder in warning and had found the knife of his friend in his heart.
The young man’s dimmed eyes upturned towards the trees saw nothing. A scarlet stain had begun to seep horribly through the green cloth, dulling the glimmer of the green brooch pinned there.
“Are you all right?” Ancadal came to his side, looking down at his companion’s bowed head and the pale body sprawled before his knees.
“What have I done?”
Reaching them, Fedorian stared at him dispassionately, busy cleaning his own weapon in the grass. “You saved his life and you took it away. You owed him nothing.” He sheathed his blade securely and seized his lieutenant by the shoulders, pulling him to his feet.
His eyes flared. “Now you have nothing to hold you back. Compassion is a weakness and cannot be tolerated. He was human. He was meant from birth to die. Do not think anymore on it.”
“It is not that simple!” Haldir shook his head, still in shock, staring at the young man who had saved him from Ramir’s brutality on more than one occasion. “I had no right to take his life—he did nothing to me.”
Fedorian raised an eyebrow. “Not even to protect those you love?”
Haldir looked up.
“I will not remove either Orophin or Rúmil from our borders—there are too many dead to sacrifice the living. It was either this life—” he shot a cursory glance at the dead boy. “—or leave one more Gondorian to take those of your brothers. Which would you have?” He turned away, leaving Haldir kneeling in the dirt numb with shock.
His eyes found his crimsoned knife which had fallen into the torn-up grass. Its stains mirrored the ones on his fingers, the ones his black tunic hid. The tendons in his hands flexed under the skin, red-gored ivory like spider webs in the lurid, shameless moonlight that pushed through the tree umbrage. He did not heed the fiery pain in his chest, his mind too awash with shock and disbelief and the growing gnawings of guilt.
Tergon was long cold when he managed to struggle to his feet, his legs chilled stiff and damp with dew. He bent and retrieved his knife, wiping it carefully clean on the grass before sheathing it at his waist. Without looking back, he turned and walked away into the ghostly mists.
~*~
Linwen, the young female guard, rolled over onto her back, oddly restless. Her youthful blood pumped still though night had long since fallen and she was dead tired. Something kept her awake. And she could not figure out what it was. A small crease furrowed her smooth brow. What was it?
Thinking about it would not help her remember so she put it out of her mind and rolled over onto her stomach. The days seemed to blur together so much now, she mused. Had it really only been days since the memorial? Her gentle heart sorrowed for them—and all of the northern fences. She did not know any of them very well but she was moved by their grief and had resolved more than ever to help wherever she could, to be useful.
Then she remembered.
The lieutenant hadn’t come back yet. Usually, she said good night to him before she turned in; it had become something of a ritual between them while she’d been here. And he hadn’t come back yet.
“I will just have to wait then,” she sighed to herself, glancing quickly across the way at Eremae who lay sleeping lightly on her pallet. The healer stayed close to the soldiers as well, and Linwen was glad she was here. She was the only other female… now.
Sighing, Linwen rolled onto her side and stared out through the swaying, dancing, reeling boughs. The trees are restless too. She blinked and blinked again. The silver leaves bowed; a soft wind caressed the glittering leaves, dappling silver… moon rays chased by… playful shadows…
The familiar, light step on the platform above brought her up instantly. “Good night, lieutenant,” she called softly upwards into the dark.
There came no reply.


Chapter 16 - Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen: Addiction

Ramir slept badly. The Gondorian Chieftain’s dreams were troubled with visions of fire and shadows. Smoking leaves rained through the dusty air… brittle branches snowing ash on his shoulders…an incongruous stream slipped past his feet, steel grey and cold. Across, in dark shadows, gleaming pale eyes peered at him. Pinpoints of flame locked and a sharp pain erupted in his stomach.

A strangled cry tore from his lips as he woke himself up. He winced and reached under his body, tossing the hunting knife he had rolled over aside. His cloak slid from his shoulders; and he shivered, the night air cold on his damp skin.

“Sir?” A sentinel— clearly hesitant at disturbing his commander—peered under the tattered tent flap.

“What is it?”

“Something has come from the forest.” He ducked his head and disappeared from the opening.

The remnants of roast pig crackled over the fire pit’s embers a few yards from his tent. Ramir threw his cloak about him and staggered out to find most of his men gathered close to the dusty road they had crossed last night. The forest stretched elusive and wild beyond their sight, nearly invisible in the dim greyness of dawn. He stared out at the shrouded branches, mist draping the trees like gossamer.

The remnants of his dream clung to the edges of memory and he shivered again, pulling his cloak closer about his shoulders, approaching a rarely fair-haired scout who stood upon a tall, smooth rock, staring into the distance.

“Your eyes are better than mine, lad. What do you see?”

“A dark shape, sir,” the scout answered, staring even harder at the dim figure. “I can’t really see in all this mist but it came from the forest.”

“Calenon’s group?”

“There’s only one, sir. I fear no good can come from those woods.”

A soldier standing near raised a creaking bow drawing an arrow tight as a distance-dimmed figure came staggering up towards them. It meandered around the rocks, crossed the road, staggering drunkenly in their direction.

Ramir narrowed his eyes through the blue hazes of morning watching the creature wander closer; a dark hood shadowed his face, a long cloak concealing any revealing signs.

“It is within our range, sir,” one of the archers told him, his bowstring drawn tight against his jaw.

Their commander nodded grimly. No good could come from that wood. “Bring it down.”

Four bowstrings twanged. Two missed wide the mark but one took the shape in the calf, the other in the chest and it tumbled out of sight without a sound.

Gliding forward cautiously, the rangers of Gondor slipped down the rocky slope, rustling through the high grass until they came upon a flattened space and looked down at the crumpled body lying in the heather.

It was Calenon.

The man lay supine on the ground, seeming not to see the men around him, nor did he take any notice of the arrows in his flesh. He stared into the sky, his mouth working soundlessly, his wide eyes staring.

“You!” he suddenly screamed, pointing upwards, accusing, at Ramir who had begun to move towards him. “You! Geilrín, Silivren—you killed them. You, you, you, you, you, you, you…” The madman’s eyes rolled wildly. The arrow stuck fast in his breast. “The trees… the trees…” Shuddering, he rolled over on his face, snapping the shaft and moved no more.

Ramir stepped back, appalled. “Take this thing away and bury it,” he snapped as his men started murmuring fearfully among themselves, glancing towards the woods.

“Now!”

---

Flaming Borgil, the red Star, sank slowly below the shoulder of the eastern horizon. Haldir blinked and raised his head, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Guilt burned like a live coal in his chest. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Tergon’s muddy face staring up at him, accusing.

A stream ran thankfully close. Haldir all but fell at its edge. Kneeling at the bank side, he all but clawed aside the fastening of his tunic, exposing the raw, angry wound Tergon’s knife had carved in his flesh. For a moment, he relished in the cool caress of the water through his fingers before splashing it liberally over his right shoulder. The water soothed the burning pain a little.

He sighed and swiped the cool sweat from his brow with a sleeve, leaning back against the tree trunk and resting his head against its smooth skin, waiting for the trembling to subside.

“That needs to be stitched.”

He opened his eyes.

Fedorian crouched beside him, his sleeves rolled-up and the knees of his leggings caked with dirt. “I thought I might find you here.” He had a small bundle under his arm; Arenath stood a little ways away, looking out over the water. Fedorian sorted through the gauze and held up a long thin needle. “Your brothers would worry if they saw you like this.”

“You will not remove them?”

“I cannot bring the dead back to life.” Fedorian’s eyes glinted as he threaded the needle with catgut.

“Nor can I,” Haldir closed his eyes briefly as the needle pricked. “I cannot do this.”

Arenath remained silent, his arms folded over his chest, head lowered.

Fedorian narrowed his eyes, intent on his task. “There is a cost to everything, my friend. If nothing else, this is your duty.”

Arenath stirred. “I believe I will excuse myself for the night if I have your leave?” he asked of Fedorian.

“Go then.”

Fedorian folded a patch of cloth into a square and pressed it to the new stitches. “We must finish this, Haldir. You and I. Or their shadows will never leave us peace.” He drew his friend to his feet.

Haldir looked up. “I have never shirked my duty.”

He sat in the cool shadows, watching the sun glint in his youngest brother’s hair, the golden light shining through the leaves whirled across the faces of his friends. He kept to himself, choosing to answer only briefly when questioned. None had noticed his absence last night. Rameil had not returned until dawn himself though Linwen was uncharacteristically quiet. Rúmil did not look or speak to him at all.

But Ancadal watched his friend closely, worry clouding his blue eyes. Escaping momentarily from Rúmil, he made his way into the shade and sat beside his friend. Close enough now to see, Ancadal felt his heart sink faster.

Haldir looked like a pale shadow of himself.

“You look tired.”

Haldir rubbed his fingertips over the corners of his eyes and smiled a little. “I fell asleep by the river. Not the greatest of places to bed.”

“I know.” Ancadal shifted, uneasily it seemed to Haldir and a growing anxiety gnawed familiarly at his stomach.

“What is it, Ancadal?”

The younger elf inhaled. “I know what happened last night.”

Haldir felt his blood freeze in his veins, colder than the shadows. What exactly had he seen? What had he heard? Involuntarily, his hand tightened on the blade at his side, what he thought he was going to do with it…

“Rúmil told me.”

“Rúmil?”

“It wasn’t right of him to leave like that—but I know you,” Ancadal smiled a little. “You have an irritating habit of protecting those you care for.”

Haldir relaxed, his white-knuckled grip loosening with shock and relief. Rúmil had told Ancadal about their fight last night which he had completely forgotten.

“But I also think you should let him stay. Let him prove his mettle. He fought alongside the best of us during the fire.” Ancadal could speak easily of it; he had suffered no great loss or injury. For that, Haldir was thankful.

He sighed shortly, glancing at his brother deep in conversation with Rameil. “It is out of my hands. If I had my will, Orophin and Rúmil both would be gone. I would not have them see this—either of them. It is not that I distrust their skill. I distrust my own ability to keep them safe.”

“You cannot spare them the pain of this world forever, Haldir,” Ancadal reminded him gently, shaking his head at his friend’s stubbornness.

Haldir remained silent. A short silence passed between them. Away on their right, the clacking of practice blades rang together. Finally, Haldir clapped his friend on the shoulder and rose.

Rúmil glanced at his brother as he walked past, snapping his gaze away before his older brother could catch him.

Rameil turned to Ancadal who came up beside him, his youthful face somewhat darker than usual. “What did you speak of?” the dark-haired elf asked his friend, noting the crease between his brows.

“He has been uncharacteristically quiet today.”

Rameil shrugged. “It’s been hard for all of us.”

Ancadal nodded but did not seem convinced. “When did he come in last night?”

Rameil shook his head, trying a smile. “I did not return until dawn myself. He returned shortly thereafter.” He smirked. “Mayhap there is finally a maiden who has captured our stalwart friend’s heart?” Though he did not seem to believe his words.

Ancadal shook his head, still more troubled. “He would have told me. Or you, for that matter. What is he hiding?” He did not even seem to be talking to the other elf now.

“I do not know.” Rameil said, frowning at Haldir’s back as he disappeared from their sight.

~*~

Over the Redhorn, purple heat-lightning flickered beneath twilight-shaded thunderheads. But no rain would reach them this night. Haldir held his breath until the rolling echoes of thunder reached his keen ears from miles and miles away. The honeysuckle and hemlock bent their wavy stalks in deference to the eastern wind as it rushed through the whistling grasses lining the pale road.

Lightning lit the hollows with a lurid flash leaving popping afterimages of grey-purple grass in its wake. With a voiceless signal the three elves ghosted onto the open ground, skirting the road and gliding through the tall hemlock like ripples of wind-tossed stalks. The air sweetened with electricity racing through the heather.

Flanking Fedorian on the left side, Arenath on the Captain’s right, Haldir brushed aside the tall grass, careful to keep his breathing even. Fifty yards beyond them, an orange light glowed through the dry rustling stalks and, when the wind swung westward, the sharp tang of smoke reached their nostrils.

“Quietly now,” Fedorian cautioned them as they neared. “They startle easily when they know the hunter is near.”

Haldir acknowledged his words with a nod and loosened the saber in its sheath concealed under his cloak. With the swift silence of moon-tossed shadows they soon faded into the high grasses.

The sentinel on night watch knew nothing in the instant before Fedorian plunged a knife in his throat. He lowered the dead sentry noiselessly to the ground and sheathed his knife. It had taken less than three seconds.

Like Jackals, eyes glowing, the hunters passed among the sleeping soldiers sprawled in the dusk like the dead on a battlefield. They paced around the perimeter, unseen and unheard. The camp was quiet; the men worn from a long hot day of scrounging enough food to support them, the last of their supplies eaten or spoiled.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a blaze of blue lightning sweeping across the plains.

Black as a night-shadow, Haldir slipped past the smouldering embers of a fire throwing light on rough, weathered faces smoothed in sleep. Haldir forced his thoughts away from Tergon as a soldier’s face, supple with youth, stirred near him. He had his duty to do and the quicker the better.

Eyes gleaming like two stones under clear water, he shifted almost to a half-crouch, moving through the bedewed grass without bruising a blade. He searched the glowing, slumbering faces for one especial among them and did not find him. He dared not penetrate farther into the camp. He was cautious. They were to take only one or two if they could, small numbers to not cause overt alarm or wake the sleeping soldiers. He paused at the edge beside an old grizzled man resting with his pack under his head. How many elven soldiers had he killed at the Nimrodel?

Taking a deep breath, Haldir quieted his thoughts, forced all of himself into the back of his mind, made himself hard and cold as the steel blade in his hand. There was nothing but this. Silence pressed on his ears save for small, shifting movements and snuffling breaths.

The tip of his blade pressed into the hollow of the man’s throat. The grizzled officer inhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering open, widening. Haldir threw his whole weight behind the hilt, almost falling on his work and the lame sank deep into the earth. His hands clenched so hard around the leather-wrapped hilt, his knuckles whitened. His eyes shut tight, he dared not look, wondering why it felt as though he were the one stabbed. The blade wrenched back and forth with the man’s death struggles, his heels beating the earth, a hand clasping the blade as though trying to wrench it out of his throat.

When the death throes finally stilled, Haldir, without looking down, pulled his blade free. He breathed shakily and swiped a hand over his face, glancing around to make sure none had woken. Justice was served… His people had to be avenged… Geilrín and Silivren were avenged. Hardness overtook his horror and he straightened his shoulders.

He nearly jumped when Fedorian’s voice murmured nearly in his ear. “Telo (Finish up),” he said in a low tone, fearing to whisper lest the sibilance carry to mortal ears. Arenath met them on the other side and they vanished into the purple-shadowed hills, leaving the stench of death behind them.

Later, as he walked back to barracks, Haldir raked a hand through his hair, pressing the memories to the back of his mind, far from what he really longed for—the peace of his woods, the comfort of good friends, the love of his family—not this blood-soaked night under a clouded moon, this endless nightmare.

But he was a soldier. To protect his home and his family was his duty. He would slay men on their knees or in their sleep if it meant keeping them safe. And he could not entirely forget nor forgive the injury done to him in that camp. Simply seeing their faces again had reminded him of the days of dehydration, blindness and blood. The humiliation and helpless rage. Now he was finally managing to correct that…

Then why did he feel so empty?

His chest throbbed, a single acute point under his tunic. The stitches felt ready to burst and sweat had gathered on his brow though his hands were clean.

“Haldir.”

The elf addressed started as if electrically jolted from his jumbled thoughts. He spun around and exhaled slowly as a familiar, troubled gaze met his. “Rúmil, what are you doing out here at this hour?” He rubbed a hand over his face to conceal the trembling in his muscles.

“I did not mean to startle you,” his youngest brother seemed hesitant as though he himself did not know the reason for his appearance. “I—I looked for you earlier today—you said you wanted to talk before…”

“I did, yes.” Haldir ran a hand through his hair, again slowly calming. He had completely forgotten the quarrel with his brothers.

Rúmil took a deep breath, seeming not to notice his brother’s disarray or the continued hunted look in his eyes, keeping his own lowered. “I am not saying what you did was right… I still do not think that you had a right to do what you did… But I understand why…”

“He’s not going to transfer you. You are staying here,” Haldir said, already beginning to walk away.

“What?” Rúmil caught up with him. “Why not?”

“He needs the bodies.”

His younger brother stopped. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Haldir sighed. “I’m fine, Rúmil… I’m rather tired.”

“I should not have come so late,” Rúmil shrugged apologetically. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Rúmil, I am glad you came.” Haldir smiled, touching his brother’s shoulder. “I do not like it when you are angry with me—and neither do my command, I get cranky.”

Rúmil laughed and slapped his brother’s shoulder. “Valar forbid I should make you cranky!”

“Only you and Orophin it seems have that ability.”

He watched his brother climb up to the flet he shared with Thillas and waited, casting his eyes away when a lantern glowed palely from the platform. I will keep them safe… no matter what the cost.

It was harder to get to the camp the next night. Upon missing their companions, the remaining men of Gnodor grew warier and ever more fearful, sleeping closer to the center of the camp, closer together so it became more difficult to single out one. Difficult but not impossible.

It was easier when he did not look into their faces. Did not see the dark eyes and darker hair that reminded him so much of the young man whose body even now rotted deep in the woods. Something deeply buried inside him twinged, warning him not to go any further with this, that he could be lost, drowned in the blood he shed. Haldir plunged his blade in swiftly, Tergon’s wide eyes and Geilrín’s lifeless body flashing before his vision as he drew it back. Another dead. His chest continued to plague him.

A cool blade of pain slipped through his temple and he closed his eyes against it as he slipped back into the woods again with his companions several hours before dawn.

Fedorian tore a loose thread from the black, silver-embroidered tunic he had never removed since his wife and daughter’s deaths. A solemn peace seemed to have settled over him in the last few days such as had not been seen since Geilrín's death. He knelt and rinsed his hands and steel in the Nimrodel’s clear water, straightening his back in satisfaction.

“Our dead will rest well knowing their murders are avenged.”

Haldir mirrored him, bending quickly to wash the stain from his hands, wincing at the spatter-marks on his grey sleeves. “And if they know nothing of our deeds?”

“Then I shall sleep the better for it.”

Haldir lowered his eyes to the pulsing stream slipping through his fingers, following the river’s current, the night-depths overarched by skeletal branches. Briefly, he met Arenath’s stony eyes then his commander’s.

The wound grew worse.

By the following day, he had grown concerned. The swelling had not receded, indeed, it seemed to have flourished in the oppressive humidity, absorbing moisture from the very air to torment him. The Gondorians found a certain ironic justice in using the enemies’ own poisoned weapons to kill them. He had refused to see the healer.

But by the next nightfall, he could scarcely stand, cold sweat poured down his face. Rameil said he looked like a ghost and pestered him until he promised to do something about it.

Wearily, he trudged to Fedorian’s flet where he knew Eremae to be staying, close to the borders to be on call for those injured who yet needed her care, and the one who she knew needed her most. She came to the door swiftly. For a moment, she stared at the gaunt, hollow-eyed figure on her doorstep. Then she beckoned him in. “What ails you?”

He told her as he followed her through the dark dining area into the small room that she had allotted to herself. The room looked as though it had once been a study: shelves of books lined the walls, a desk in one corner which was currently cluttered with assorted vials and leaves, a cot had been pushed into one corner under a window. The only lantern in the house sat on her bedside table beside carefully sorted piles of dried herbs that filled the air with a sweet, cloying scent.

Eremae shifted aside several sheaves of parchment (which contained neatly and cleanly written instructions for some mixture or other) so he could sit down.

“Your tunic.” Blunt and business-like at this time of night, she wasted no words and pressed the wound under her fingertips, watching his face, the tensing of his shoulders. He felt nervous being here, as though by bending to the whims of his body he was betraying an unspoken law, showing a forbidden weakness. But the sharp pain stabbing through his chest made him inhale sharply and push aside the dissenting voice.

The healer’s cool fingertips pressed his skin, burning. Haldir could not meet her eyes and she did not ask how he had come by the wound. He struggled to hold himself still despite his restlessness, concentrating on watching the swaying leaves outside the window.

“The stitches kept the poison in—that’s why it has bothered you so,” she snipped through them and wiped away the clear fluid that seeped out. “You should have come to see me right away.”

He made a small noise in the back of his throat.

She turned her back a moment and crushed a few herbs into a shallow bowl of water which she then warmed over the lantern’s open flame. Plastering the sticky, warm paste over his skin, she folded a clean square and tied it off with a few strips of linen to keep the pad snug against his chest.

“Make sure to let it air, wear looser clothes. It should heal up.”

“Hannon le.” Haldir shrugged his tunic back on, looked up. And into his Commander’s eyes. Fedorian stood on the threshold, staring at the healer and her patient. Haldir’s heart lurched though he didn’t know why.

Eremae turned briefly over her shoulder to glance at the elf in the threshold. “You are early. It’s not yet dawn.”

Fedorian ignored her, his eyes never leaving Haldir’s face. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

~*~

Ramir rolled onto his side and shut his eyes tight to try to block out the voices beyond the fire embers. Too many had gone missing in the last few days. None of them found. Enchantment, his men whispered, huddling close to the light and warmth that seeped into the darkness. We are doomed to die here from entering that cursed wood. With these thoughts troubling his sleep, Ramir slipped deeper into his nightmares of fire and bright eyes.

Another soldier slept near the dying embers of his own campfire, little more peacefully than his commander. He shifted and turned over on his back. A sharp pain spiked into his it and he groaned. Cursing the inhospitable ground, he reached underneath and tossed the stick away. Still he could not get comfortable again, the previously soft earth turned to stone on him. Blearily his eyes fluttered open and he looked up into blazing eyes like cold stars that stared down at him from the heavens.

The soldier sucked in a sharp breath and held it as the eyes did not look at him. As the man’s gaze traveled down the near invisible-figure’s arms, he saw the crimson-streaked knife. “Valar,” his involuntary gasp snapped the elf’s head around to face him. He managed one cry before the knife found him.

But the damage was done.

As the cry echoed around the camp chaos erupted. The soldiers scrambled for their weapons. Confused shouts and curses rent the air as they tried to ascertain the nature of the threat upon them. The fires went up in broiling smoke as something kicked them out.

Haldir blinked through stinging smoke, seeing only hazy figures and hearing screams ringing painfully in his ears. Something seized his shoulder and pulled him backwards. Twisting out of his captor’s grip, he spun to face Fedorian.

“Come on!”

The Gondorians were quickly recovering from their surprise and, the elven faces and forms finally revealed, their weapons leapt to hand.

Among them, Ramir staggered to his feet, cursing and whirling towards the fleeing elves. “Kill them!” he screeched, fumbling for his sword blade.

Fedorian viciously slashed out in a wide arc as he forced his way back to the perimeter. A Gondorian soldier fell back with a scream, writhing in the dirt.

“Kelo! Kelo!” The elven captain yelled above the cacophony.

Arenath sprinted to their sides, his torn tunic spattered with blood, a soldier reeling from him. Then they were away, melting into the long grass.

Ramir raced to the edge of the perimeter, sword dangling under his arm, a dagger in his other hand. But he did not pursue. “What happened?” he snapped at another soldier who stood close by, tunic unfastened and hanging off one shoulder, eyes wide.

“Elves, sir! They were elves! I saw them! Fire-eyed, cursed elves!” the soldier spat, kicking at the charred ash and sticks that had been their fire. “It’s them that has been taking us!”

Ramir stared towards the wide grey patch against the lighter sky, heard the rustling of thousands of dry leaves like a malevolent grating whisper. “Rise and arm yourselves. Leave everything you can spare behind—we travel unhindered.”

He was tired of this cat-and-mouse game. It was time to end this.

---

Matching pace with Fedorian and Arenath, he did not look back. Blood warmed his hands and he grimaced, attempting to clean it off on his tunic, wanting the feel to go away, the horror and disgust—not only for the men who did this to him. Hanging back, he breathed deeply, his heart only now beginning to slow. The touch of the blood on his hands cooled.

Fedorian did not speak when they crossed the Nimrodel once more. Arenath glanced at Haldir, his face unfathomable and followed after his Captain into the darkness.

Haldir closed his eyes and glanced once towards the river which gleamed almost out of sight as the moon began to set over it. All was still. He could neither see nor hear any sign of pursuit.

Rameil looked up from a book as he stepped up onto the platform in his bloody clothes. “What happened to you?”

“I was helping Fedorian with a late hunt—venison for the troops tomorrow.” He would have to go hunting in the morning. Crossing the talan, Haldir pulled his tunic off and flung it under his cot.

“How is he?”

Haldir stared out over the woodlands unseeingly. “He…” Russet stains rinsed from black-handled blades…Compassion cannot be tolerated. “You know he has not been well since the fire.”

“You saved our lives that night,” Rameil said, staring keenly at his friend from across the platform.

“I did only what needed to be done,” Haldir said without looking up. An unsettling feeling like dread gnawed at his stomach.

“Nevertheless that is more than some.” His name hung like a ghost between them.

“He is grieved.” While speaking, Haldir reached for the stoppered bottle on his bedside table and quaffed the contents, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste left in his mouth.

“He nearly got us all killed,” Rameil replied, even quieter. He paused a long moment, considering his next words before he spoke again. “You alone gave the order to retreat… You have been working harder than any to bring the borders back to what they were… And not only I have noticed it. If it comes to it, we will follow you. You are our Captain if not by official ceremony then by will.”

“Not mine!” Haldir sat bolt upright. “Not my will!”

Rameil did not react to the anger in his voice, hearing the underlying fear in it. “You saved our lives in Mirkwood too.”

“You were nearly slain because of my error.” Haldir shook his head. He didn’t want to have this conversation now. Not when guilt already ate at him so much.

“You did not fail us. You did all that you could and none could ask more.” He gave his friend a half-exasperated, half-admiring look. “You always give of yourself to ensure the safety of others. Without heed to danger or death. I think you would make a fine commander.”

The dark-haired elf’s lips quirked in a slight smile. “Though whether you live so long will be another matter.” His face grew suddenly hard as he closed his book and set it on the trunk at the end of his bed. “I saw his face during that battle. Fedorian seeks vengeance. And in so doing he will bring Death down upon all our heads.”

Haldir felt a shiver deep in his heart at the foreboding in those words and rolled over with his back to his friend. Staring into the dark summer night, he wondered what Rameil would say if he knew the real truth.

Rameil let the silence stretch a little longer before changing the subject. “We’ll have to rotate the Nimrodel’s patrol in a two hours—they’ve been out there for I don’t know how—that injury still troubling you?” he asked with a creasing frown as he noticed his friend’s hand lingering over it.

“A little,” Haldir replied neutrally.

“Did you speak to Eremae about it?”

“Yes.”

“Let me have a look.” He eased the loose bandage aside and probed the swollen, tender area gingerly, looking up at his friend’s hiss. “How old did you say it was?”

“Days, only,” Haldir said through gritted teeth. “It is worth little concern. Eremae looked at it.”

“But it still hurts,” the dark-haired warrior put in mildly, his face still concerned. “Let me at least ease it a little.”

Haldir did not refuse. His chest truly hurt and he longed for as much sleep as he could manage to achieve this night. The draught he had drunk would aid that but he would relish a dreamless, painless night.

Rameil leaned over his friend and placed his hand over the wound. A soft coolness flowed from his hand into his friend’s body. Haldir sighed and relaxed his tense muscles, the pain lines easing from his brow. He did not need to thank him, Rameil understood. Such was their friendship. It was the easiest feeling in the world.

Drawing back, Rameil sat on his bed, elbows resting lightly on his knees as he watched his friend sleep for a time. Realizing it was time to relieve the Nimrodel patrol, he rose and near-started in surprise.

Fedorian stood on the edge of the platform, an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes were not on Rameil but the dark-haired warrior felt an odd shudder pass through him as he looked into his Captain’s face.

“He’s had a bad night, sir,” Rameil explained, half-rising.

Fedorian ignored him and bent over the sleeping elf, shaking his arm lightly. “Haldir.”

Rameil persisted. “You’ll not wake him, sir. Eremae gave him something to help him sleep. He will not rise until morning.”

“I must speak with him.”

“At this time of night?” the dark-haired warrior queried with a frown.

“He is a soldier in my command. He is to come whensoever I call.”

“If you have need of something, perhaps I can be of service,” Rameil said reasonably, slipping his tunic over his shoulders. “I am also a soldier under your command.”

The Captain made no answer but to shake Haldir more forcefully, fingers digging into his shoulder.

A sudden irrational anger burst inside the dark-haired warrior and before he could fathom what he was doing, Rameil pulled the other elf off his friend. Then realization struck and he released his Commander’s arm as though dropping a snake.

Fedorian stared straight through him, eyes burning with an unfathomable rage. Rameil quickly dropped his gaze and stepped back, his tongue cloven to the roof of his mouth but the Captain said nothing and after a long, interminable moment longer, pulled his eyes away. He gazed down one moment more at Haldir’s sleeping form.

Then without a word, he left.

Rameil stared after him for a full minute before slowly sinking onto his bed and raking both hands through his hair. What on earth had come over him? Assaulting an officer like that could easily have earned him at least a demotion… maybe even lashes! Though that hadn’t happened in a while…

“Has he gone?”

Rameil looked down at his friend whose eyes had cleared of sleep. “I’m sorry he woke you.”

Haldir sighed and rolled onto his side with his back to the dark-haired warrior. Concerned now, Rameil rose and rounded the bedside, looking down at his friend.

There was a deadness in Haldir’s gaze that had never been there before, a hardness behind those gentle eyes. In the waxy moonlight, his face looked paler, thinner, colder—like steel. His eyes, always dark, revealed a reddish tinge within the irises.

“What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

You’re lying. Rameil shook his head, disappointment wrenching at his heart. When did I lose your trust, mellon nin? “I have not seen you for more than a few spare moments in over a week… You come in at all hours. You never sleep anymore—whether Fedorian allows you or not. And worst yet, you will not tell me what is going on.”

Haldir sighed, forcing his frustration and rising annoyance down before it became too great for him to control. No, my friend, you do not know. With a mental shake, he rolled away from under his friend’s scrutinizing eyes.

“How did you come by that wound?” Rameil watched his friend’s spine stiffen at the question he had evaded for so long.

“I’m very tired, Rameil.”

“Haldir… please. As your friend, I want to know—so I can help you.”

“It is not for you to know; I do not need help.”

“Why was Fedorian looking for you?”

“Why are you questioning me so?” Haldir sat up, eyes suddenly fierce and blazing. “It is not for you to know, soldier. Leave it be.”

The dark-haired elf’s jaw tightened. “My apologies, sir.” His face was calm, composed, but his eyes had darkened with alarm. Rameil dropped his eyes. In all their years, he had never seen his friend like this. And it frightened him.

Haldir threw back the sheets on his cot and rose without a word.

Rameil, passing an agitated hand through his dark tresses, closed his eyes, and sank onto the empty bed.

---

Ramir paused, staring up at the rustling leaves their golden edges tipped crimson. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. The Gondorians had woken earlier. A shadowed dell dropped suddenly away from them like the trough of a sea swell, the branches spirited over it like birds skimming crested waves of a foaming ocean. The far-reaching sunlight sheened the wet leaves with crimson beads rolling softly to the tips, glittering on every keen grass blade.

Beautiful. Deadly.

Ramir felt eyes watching him from all sides in that golden foliage.

Sunlight was both their ally and enemy. They could see their enemies and, if the elves were not watching this part of the forest too closely, they might make it inside without being immediately shot and killed. He sent them in two at a time, waiting for them to conceal themselves and give the all clear before sending two more in. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right and bring the rest of his men home.

The nagging thought of the poor dead bastards who would not be clung like ghosts in his mind. Those soldiers should be here now. His brother should be here now. He would be here if not for… His hand tightened until his knuckles whitened on the leathern hilt of the sword at his hip.

A stream close murmured on their right, falling across their path until it disappeared into the vague haziness at sight’s end. Once across, there would be no going back. A strange feeling pricked at his spine—a feeling as though the trees were closing in behind them. A solid, impenetrable wall of green and gold.

Beautiful, deadly.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged forward.

~*~

His booted foot pressed the dew-wet earth as Rameil descended from the empty flet. Pale, watery sunlight brushed dimly the shifting leaves. Rameil—always an early riser—relished this time of morning when the entire forest glittered and sparkled, clean and new.

Shadows hung deep purple beneath the foliage. Further away over a crest of heavily-wooded hill he could make out the skeletal limbs of the burnt river edge. Looking away, he slipped his bow over his shoulder, his quiver bouncing gently against his back as he walked towards barracks and the paths beyond, considering a hunt for rabbit that morning. The usual provender of waybread on long patrols had begun to stick in his throat.

The sun began to burn away the hollow shadows as Rameil sat in the grass, back against a tree trunk, scatterings of fur and bone around him. His hunt had been successful and smoked over the coals he had carefully kindled at his feet.

Movement at the edge of the grounds made him look up from testing his catch on knifepoint. Haldir avoided the dark-haired warrior’s eyes as he crossed the clearing, a deer slung heavily over one shoulder for dressing, the toes of his boots and knees damp with dew.

Few soldiers lingered about at this time of day. One or two sparred at the edge of the clearing, warming up for the day’s long patrols searching for an enemy they doubted even now that they wanted to find. Others, just returning from an hours-long night sweep of the forest, looked haggard and dark-eyed as they straggled in in pairs and small groups.

On the heels of one of them was Fedorian.

It was the first time Rameil had seen the Commander on the parade ground since the fire. He looked thinner, harder. His face, white and cold as marble, never once averted itself from Haldir’s as he paused before the younger elf, ignoring the others who stared at his approach. They spoke briefly but Rameil could not hear what was said from where he was. Though he did see Haldir’s face darken, grow rigid as bone. He nodded once.

Fedorian looked across the clearing. Rameil turned away his eyes, busying himself with crushing the lingering coals of his fire with a boot heel. He looked up only once under half-hooded lids and watched as both Haldir and Fedorian left together, heading east towards the river.

In the busy activities of the day’s labors, the morning’s event dropped from the dark-haired elf’s mind. It was only upon twilight when, finally relieved of his post near mid-night, Rameil entered the talan, saw the empty cot across from his own, and remembered.

The long sleepless hours passed. Still, Rameil waited, listening, praying that he was right and fighting sleep that dragged at his weary body.

His patience was rewarded. Soft bootsteps, barely distinguishable from rustling leaves, sounded on the platform… the scrap of something hard slid from underneath the opposite bed… light steps going away again, down the rope ladder…

The dark-haired warrior waited two breaths longer then threw back the sheet, fully dressed, and, seizing the dagger from under his pillow, slipped down the ladder. It took him a moment to find his friend, a form of pale silver and black in the watery moonlight, passing the lighter spaces between two trees

All weariness fell away as he bounded silently into the undergrowth after his friend. Employing all his warrior skill, he grew doubly cautious when Haldir met Fedorian and then Arenath in the midst of a small clearing. Rameil concealed himself in the brush, straining to listen to their words but the night wind carried them away; and they were soon moving again, deeper into the woods.

The Sickle of the Valar swung over the western horizon. Those ancient guardians of the West who had always radiated comfort in times of darkness seemed menacing now. Curving overhead, they glittered cold, hard and distant. The Blessed Earendil hid swathed in cloud. Only Borgil, the red Star, glimmered in the pieces of sky glimpsed through the net of black branches.

Heart thumping with apprehension and excitement, he followed, cat-footed and silent. He did not know how long they journeyed under the dark branches but it seemed long to him. He took advantage of every bush and tall tuft of grass, every glimmering tree bole for cover as he silently trailed the three warriors. The shadows fell thicker here. They were in a part of the forest seldom visited by the elves, a place where the canopy grew thick and moonlight scarcely reached. The trees whispered to one another, warningly, Rameil thought. But not to him. He slowed as his quarry did. They seemed to be listening.

Rameil held his breath.

He heard… voices. Garbled and indistinct from distance but they were low, rough, fearful voices. Men’s voices. Far away he thought he saw a glimmer as though of light, of fire. But that quickly extinguished if had even been there at all. Faintly, the creaking of bowstrings met his ears, the hiss of drawn steel. He had lost sight of Haldir and the others so he concentrated on this new sound as he slipped forward, darting from tree trunk to tree trunk.

The noises grew louder.

Like a bird’s winged shadow, he leapt into the air, caught onto a branch above his head and pulled himself easily into the treetops for a better look at what was happening below.

Small, dark shapes below had formed a ring around a gleaming monolith that jutted out of the turf; they had found one of the ancient rock formations erosions of earth from rain and wind had wrested from the land. It was a good defensive position. Bare of trees for at least a hundred yards in every direction, the enemy would be forced to race across open ground and expose themselves to the defenders’ arrows while the overhanging formation gave some protection from returning missiles. But not all. Several of the dark shapes had already broken the circle and lay on the ground, motionless.

The wind blowing towards him, Rameil heard a man’s voice shout. “Don’t waste your arrows, fools!” They were too far away and trying to hit too few enemies to afford to waste their precious shafts.

Something shifted beneath him. Rameil looked down and spotted a lean shape moving slowly below, twigs crackling under the weight of a heavy careful boot. Apparently not all of the man-shapes had retreated to that spar of rock.

Ignorant of the enemy perched almost above his head, the man tightened his grip on his blade, trying to still his shaking hands. He saw his companions out there, waiting to be picked off like apples on a fence. He had no desire to share that fate and hung back in the deep comforting shadows.

Fear thrummed just under his tunic though, his mind spiraling for though the shadows promised concealment, he knew wraiths waited there, shifting and whirling in vague patterns. He screwed his eyes up against them and tried not to think of what those shadows might conceal. Heart slamming against his ribs, he swallowed convulsively, sweat pouring down his temples in the humid night.

A glint of gold flashed in a patch of moonlight.

Rameil heard someone crash through the underbrush, stealth abandoned, breath sobbing loudly surprisingly close… A sharp scrabble in the leaves… A soft, pitiful moan slowly forming audible words…

“No… no, please…”

Rounding the corner, Rameil could see a figure in the moonlight near the edge of the clearing, on his knees, his face raised to the shadowy apparition that held his throat at blade point. Sweat glazed his face. Rameil could read fear in the man’s wide-stretched eyes. He did not want to die. Breathless, the dark-haired elf strained to see through the shadows but the glaring moonlight and thick branches hindered his sight.

“No…Please, a boon… Mercy, pl—”

Rameil flinched in the spiraling silence.

Sharp bark edges stabbed into his lower back and shoulders but Rameil did not feel it, a cold hand of dread squeezing around his heart. One part of Rameil’s mind tried to rationalize that this was normal—they were soldiers after all and accustomed to the brutalities that that particular occupation warranted. These men were their enemies.

Stomach muscles aching with tension, he slid down from the tree, his blade slippery in his grasp. Not far from his tree lay the form of a man, revealed in the moonlight, young and brown-haired, his green hood thrown back over the leaves. His eyes, glassy and vacant, stared up at the moon, a glinting blackness pooling just beneath his gaping throat. Another shape stood over the corpse.

Rameil knew what and who it was before he approached. His blood ran ice-cold as his gaze flicked from the bloody saber in one hand to the deep-shadowed face and gleaming eyes that seemed to glow almost vermillion in the dark, flecks of moonlight splintering in them like keen-tipped knives.

“Haldir.” The word was a hiss of numb disbelief.

The crimson-tinted eyes shifted, the shadows falling away as his friend stepped into the white moonlight. “Rameil.”


Chapter 17 - Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen: Intervention

A pale strip of daybreak, appearing above a bank of blue-grey clouds, filtered through the leaves and the soft waking chirps and stirrings of larks breasted the air. A light early morning wind fluttered strands of dark hair over a pale, haggard visage knelt over a flowing stream. Water glistening in intermittent stabs of sunlight, trickled among the deep roots of mellyrn that wound down to drink.

Last night, however, these roots had not been dappled in sunlight but shadow-dark and had not drunk clear blue water but hot crimson splashed over their seeking mouths.

In the revealing moonlight, Rameil stared hard at his friend: a strange red glaze shaded Haldir’s empty eyes. And it frightened the other elf. “Haldir… what have you done?” His own eyes fell to the limp form between them, sprawled on the reddened leaves.

“I may do as I please, Rameil, you are not my keeper,” Haldir snarled, defensive because he knew his friend was right. He had gone too far. He had gone too far the instant Tergon had fallen by his hand. The second the dagger had spilled his lifeblood.

But he could not stop now. A tidal wave rushed darkly through him, pushing him farther and farther away from shore and he was powerless to swim against it.

“I am taking you home,” Rameil said, reaching for his friend’s arm.

“You are not my keeper, Rameil!” Haldir repeated, angry now as he tugged his arm out of reach, nearly stepping on the body of the young man he had so recently slain. “You should not have come here!”

“No, I should not have for this sight terrifies me more than anything I have ever seen.” The dark-haired elf’s throat tightened with a mixture of disgust and sorrow as he stared at his friend’s hands, painted black in the moonlight.

“These are not worthy of your concern.”

“Such coldness…You speak of them as though they were not living, breathing creatures beneath your blade. You have pushed it away because you do not wish to face it. You blame others—maybe the Gondorians—for bringing him there under your blade. That does not change what you did. You killed him, Haldir, and that will haunt you forever whether you accept it or not.”

They were harsh words but Haldir did not flinch from the bite of them. He knew they were true. Suddenly, he thought of Tergon and something deep inside him twinged guiltily.

Rameil stared at the dead Gondorian, still trying to wrap his mind around what he had just seen. “Have you forgotten our law: ‘All prisoners who surrender themselves willingly are to be given full quarter?’”

“I know the law,” Haldir’s voice had sunk to a low growl, his eyes flickering away from his friend to pierce the forest, the moonlight lay like a pale shroud over the jagged rock in the midst of the clearing. “But such is beyond my power to obey. I cannot bring him back to life.”

“No! You cannot… but you can still make this right,” Rameil gripped his friend’s shoulders feverishly. “Do not kill the remaining Gondorians. Take them prisoner only, treat them under the law. End this senseless bloodshed—it has gone on far too long.”

Haldir shook away his friend’s grasping hands. “It is too late for that.”

“No! I will not believe it!”

“How can you plead for their lives?” Haldir frowned. “What cause have they ever given you for you to beg a boon for them? Have you so easily forgotten what they did to me? To our home?”

“I beg a boon for no one, be he Man or Elf,” Rameil said, drawing back stiffly. “But I fear for you, mellon nin. I fear you to be lost in this madness. If you take this path it will only lead to your destruction.”

“Any path can turn to good or ill. Had I asked for counsel, I might heed your words,” Haldir snapped. “In the War, Rameil, it was kill or die—you know that as well as I! Such is this.”

“This is not a just war, Haldir. It is not war that you speak of! You speak of vengeance and this is nothing more than dishonorable blood-letting! It is orc-work and you know it!”

Haldir’s eyes narrowed but Rameil was too distraught to care.

“Only an orc would murder a man on his knees, a man begging for mercy.”

“Compassion is a weakness they will not share. So why should we spare them what they would not give us?”

Rameil dropped his arms slowly to his sides. “I do not know you.”

“I must go.”

Once more, the dark-haired warrior tried and seized his arm. “No.”

A flashing white pain erupting behind his eyes, the dark-haired warrior staggered back, his grip loosened. When his vision cleared from his head somewhat, he managed to look up. Haldir was still looking at him, a torn expression on his face, the heavy hilt of his saber still clasped in one hand.

A long silence passed between them.

Rameil could not speak, too stunned to move, his head aching too badly to think properly as he blinked the purple yellow spots from his vision.

Haldir turned away slowly as though reluctant or in some pain. “I must go,” he repeated.

“Do not ask me to lie for you.”

“I ask nothing of you,” Haldir refuted with a shake of his head. “But it is not your place to speak to my brothers on this matter.”

Rameil did not follow him.

His eyes burned and he swiped irritably at them, his other hand rubbing at the knot swiftly forming on the back of his head. Turning from the deathly clearing, he thought he caught a glimpse of eyes: one verdant green in the shadows, the other pallid with the color of the moon.

Rameil had wandered far until the moon drifted westwards and the stars glittered brightly overhead but he could find no solace in their cold distance. He had returned once to their talan and immediately left again upon discovering it empty. His head spun almost as much as it hurt, divided in heart and aching in spirit he could not decide what to do. As far as he could remember, he had never fought with Haldir before on anything either great or small. The change that had come over his friend frightened him badly and as the sun breasted the trees at last and sparked on the small stream, he resolved to do whatever he could—whatever he had to—to make it right between them again.

---

The arrows had ceased some time ago but no man dared lean out to see if the enemy had departed. A few yards away lay the bodies of three men, those who had been taken unawares by the first onslaught. They were lucky to have lost so few. But the rocky overhang proved ideal shelter and the remaining soldiers of Gondor huddled under it fearfully casting dark looks at the fluttering leaves, innocent and edged with pale gold as the sun crept gradually over the trees.

A haggard face pierced with fear gazed out into the thin mist hovering like a veil between them and the deceptively bright trees. Beneath the overhang, the shadows had not yet been cast away by the sun and the remaining fifteen men clung to the ragged shreds of their dignity and spirits.

“Fallen are the valiant of Gondor if they have come to this,” a voice, cracked and cold with resignation and weariness, said from the shadows.

“Calenon was right.”

“Yes, and look where he is now! In a hole covered in dirt!” another spat, anger flaring from frustration. “This mission was cursed from the very beginning. We are not getting out of this alive,” one said, throwing aside a tuft of grass he had torn with his grubby fingers.

Ramir listened to them for awhile then tuned their discordant voices out, rubbing a thick hand over his grim-crusted face. It had been far too long and far too sleepless a night. He could not win the Wood with fifteen men. He sighed.

“All right, men. You have taken your piece.” He looked from one face to another then stood silent for a while, looking out at the slowly-lightening trees. “We’ll get out of this yet. You see--” he pointed, “the river curves away west there and a little stream splits off and flows out of the forest on the Wold north of Rohan’s Eastern emnet. If we can get that far we’ll be all right.”

“If.”

“Aye, ‘if.’ And it will be ‘when’ if you put your trust in me.” He looked around at them all, fingering his sword as he met each pair of eyes then looked into the ever-watchful woodlands. “We will pass in darkness when the moon is shaded.”

“But Elves can see in the dark if the legends of our sires are true,” a voice muttered darkly.

The day passed long and wearingly. They dared not move from their concealment, not knowing if they were indeed being watched. Those who could, slept. Hunger, thirst and heat plagued the others especially the wounded: two men had taken small throwing knives in their flesh. The merciless sun fell onto their clearing, searing away the cooling shadows, pushing them westward. But as the deeper gloaming crept out of the earth and curled around the silver boles, the moon but a far off sliver in the vastness of the sky, they crept forth from their rocky protection, edging around the dead and taking a southern turn into the forest which would lead them closest to Anduin.

“Like thieves in the night,” one muttered, keeping hand to blade. Ramir cast him a warning glance.

They passed into silence and darkness, their bootsteps scarcely stirring a mouse in her nest as they skirted her like a breath of wind. Almost with the stealth of Elves they glided over the silver-dewed grass sweeping their knees, fear mounting to terror as the towering golden roof closed over them again. The eyes of the phantoms of the woods gazed down at them, they felt. Ever-watchful. Silent shadows hounding their footsteps.

Onwards they glided over flat cool rocks, slipping soundlessly into the narrow path of a creek, losing their footprints in the water as they passed on into the gathering river mist.

~*~

Haldir turned over. Shafts of light sent searching fingers over the windowsill to disturb his already troubled sleep. He shifted restlessly again, searching for a cool place on his pillow. Darkness pressed over his eyelids as he buried his face in the pillowcase. A bloody, crying face snapped before his closed eyelids. He shot up onto his elbows. Taking a moment to orient himself, he realized he was breathing far too fast and felt suddenly light-headed. He lay back down with his forearm pressed over his eyes until the dizziness passed. It had been a bad night.

He opened his eyes after a few minutes. This room was strange to him, not the talan he usually shared with Rameil. But the thought of his friend opened a rawness of heart he wasn’t yet ready to confront. A light headache pressed behind his eyes from sleeping too long. Haldir rolled over and pushed aside the stifling covers; the nightmares had become more and more frequent as the days passed and he gained less and less rest even when he did not remember them.

To distract his thoughts he watched the idling sunlight dapple green shadows on the smooth grey walls. By the angle, he had slept late, far later than he should and rose feeling no more rested.

His bed last night had been little more than the hard floor and a few blankets but his back and shoulders relished the stiffness which took his mind from other things as he stretched loosely. He dressed and crossed the wooden floor soundlessly easing out into a passage filled with dim sunlight from the thick leafy boughs trembling above. Passing a half-open door on his left, he glanced in to see the bed made up neatly and its occupant already out and about this morning. A mirror hung on the wall facing the door but the glass had been removed from it. A wooden surface reflected back at Haldir as he continued on towards the kitchen.

The healer, Eremae, looked up at him from across the room and set a plate of toasted bread spread with honey on the scrubbed wooden table. “We feared you to sleep idle all day!”

“I was weary!” he protested with a smile. “Surely you cannot hold a soldier in contempt for the sake of sleep!”

She laughed. “No, indeed. I cannot! When they sleep, they eat less!”

He chuckled and broke his fast with a will, doing full justice to the fare she had set before him. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was and wondered when his last meal had been. Eremae bustled around the flet in and out of doors, returning laden with armfuls of wash or water from the stream for later. He watched her for a while then, finished with his meal, washed his plate and stepped outside to take the free air.

It was a calm fair morning, a light breeze stirring in the boughs. With the bright light shining about him, the beauty of the woodlands stretching far beyond even his keen sight, he wondered how dark thoughts could ever enter to his mind. He felt so splintered. In one way, it was good that Rameil knew what he had done. He no longer had to carry the burden of his slayings alone. On the other hand—a cold hand twisted his chest at this thought—would this shatter the friendship he had long held dear to his heart? What would happen when his brothers found out?

Fedorian sat cross-legged on the edge of the porch, running a file along one of his blades to rid it of rust and corrosives. He looked up as his lieutenant took a seat beside him. The captain had asked no questions when Haldir had requested lodging and for that Haldir was grateful. He didn’t think he could explain quite yet.

The captain broke the light silence first. “I have been asked to return to the City for debriefing.” There was something more in his words and Haldir waited him out patiently. “We are so close to finishing this, Haldir. And I will see it through. I dare not leave until this is ended.”

Haldir felt he owed his captain for his understanding and hospitality. “What do you wish me to do?”

“Go to the City in my place. Give your audience with my Lord Celeborn and return as soon as may be. It is but a simple charge.”

Eremae, passing with wet laundry to hang, frowned a little upon hearing these words. But neither of the two men noticed her and she did not speak.

However, it was not unusual for a higher-ranking officer to send a lesser to the city on an errand. Albeit perhaps not to the Lord of Lothlórien himself. “And yet it would pull me away from the fences for at least two days.”

Fedorian smiled. “Rest assured, I will not act until your return.” His eyes fell over the state of his subordinate’s clothes which he had not changed last night.
“But you cannot go like that.”

Haldir looked down at his tunic and for the first time noticed the spattering of dark stains on hem and sleeves. “I have nothing else.”

“I have something that may suit you. Follow me.”

The midnight blue tunic hung down to his knees. Swallow-tailed sleeves tapered on either side of his wrists, the black sleeves of his undertunic visible beneath. Wonderingly, he brushed his fingertips over the fine velvet, admiring the entwining gold broidery that traced collar and hem. A fine supple leather belt of dark green tooled with leaves and vines cinched about his waist with a silver buckle shaped like a mallorn leaf.

“I have never worn anything so fine,” he plucked at a delicate gold-embroidered sleeve. “I feel strange wearing it.”

“It is the tunic I wore when I rose to the Captain’s rank.” Fedorian smoothed a crease from the shoulders and nodded in satisfaction. “It fits you well.”

“Thank you.”

“If you can return it without tears or stains I would be grateful,” he continued dryly, fitting together a small packet of lembas. He pressed the packet into his hands and clapped him on the shoulder. “Go now. The sooner you depart, the sooner shall be your return—and victory.”

~*~

Rúmil wandered alongside the riverbank. The day was warm and he had just been relieved from a six-hour night patrol that had scoured the section of woods from the meeting of the Celebrant to the Eregloa, a small glade crowded with still-green thorn brakes halfway upstream to their relief post and found nothing amiss.

The parade grounds were empty. It seemed every available soldier had been sent out on patrols or hunting errands to restock food supplies or to help with the still-ongoing redressing of the forest’s fire wounds.

He followed a worn track across the glade and nearly ran into Arenath. Rúmil stepped quickly back to avoid a collision but Arenath only muttered an apology and kept going, his head bent low. Rúmil glanced after him a moment in confusion. Then caught sight of Rameil, two or three other elves with him skirting the edge of the glade. He hailed the dark-haired warrior who checked his path and went to meet him, motioning his companions on ahead.

“Rúmil! How fare you this fine morning!”

“Well and exhausted! And you?”

“We are on our way to sweep East as far as the falls,” Rameil told him.

“I’m just coming from there.”

Rameil shrugged, a hint of frustration in his eyes. “Orders. What brings you here after a long night-shift? I would expect you to be long abed.”

“I’ve only been just relieved.”

“We all will be run ragged before long. A night-long vigil is tiring work without respite. Tell me, have you seen your eldest brother about?” The question was asked casually but Rúmil thought he saw something else flicker in the dark-haired warrior’s eyes. Something like pain.

“You did not see him this morning?” Rúmil asked, suspicion gnawing slowly at the back of his mind. Something was wrong. Rameil would not meet his eyes. “Rameil?”

“No, I have not.”

“Rameil, what troubles you?”

“Nothing, Rúmil.” The dark-haired warrior’s eyes darted up to his briefly, his head bowed even lower and now Rúmil noticed something of concern.

“You have quite a troll lump on your head. What happened?” Rúmil asked.

Rameil fingered the injury gingerly and winced. “Oh, nothing more than a foolish mistake.”

“Why do you seek Haldir?”

Rameil seemed definitely uneasy, shifting his weight and staring anywhere but at Rúmil’s face. “I… I would speak with him. We had words…”

Rúmil frowned. It was very unlike his brother to fight with his old friend. To his knowledge, Haldir and Rameil had never had an altercation of any sort. But now, Rameil was injured and Haldir had apparently vanished? “What about?”

Rameil locked up. A dark veil drew over his eyes and he would not speak.

Suspicion turned to cold fear in Rúmil’s heart.

“Seek out your brother if you wish to know. I—I fear to say too much.”

“Will you not tell me more plainly? The truth cannot be worse than all of your dark hints and unsettling warnings.”

Rameil only shook his head. “I am commanded to scout the river.”

“Rameil—”

“Seek out your brother, Rúmil. Mayhap he will give you answers I dare not.” Then he was away like a fleet-footed deer with the hounds pursuing, leaving Rúmil baffled and troubled behind him.

At the moment, Haldir was far away and thinking nothing of his brother or friends. As always when he returned to the green City, he felt an odd closeness fall around him, a quiet peacefulness that jangled discordantly with his far-too-recent memories of the chaos and bloodshed on the borders. None of the inhabitants knew, did they? None of them even guessed what had happened. He doubted they’d even heard of the fire save perhaps in dark rumor. He could see them moving in the treetops, dim and indistinct within the bright circles of green and gold lamps hanging from the branches.

An elf in brown came to take his horse from him as he dismounted before the great tree that housed the Lord and Lady’s flet. For a while, he stood, regaining his breath and firmness of limbs after the tiring ride. It was late and he knew the Lord of Lothlórien would not speak to him until the morrow.

A sweet, clean rain had fallen during the late afternoon and every leaf glistened under the opening stars. Nearly at his feet, a small stream flowed from the white fountain beneath the great flet and sang softly into the dusk. He crossed the white-plank bridge and into the ankle deep grass on the other side, wandering without any real purpose. He was surprised when he found himself at the entrance to the Lady’s garden, a long treeless glade beneath whose clear midnight sky, countless flowers of pale blue, green and white shimmered and danced, their fragrance drifting up like a velvet cloud.

Summer still hung in the garden, despite the cool dawns and cooler evenings beginning on the borders. Weariness fell from him as he gazed at beauty that made his heart ache: it had been long since he had seen anything gentle and innocent. He walked for some time in the garden, staring at the stars or the bright grass which seemed to glow in the bright rays of Eärendil. Ascending a short flight of broad steps, he came to a wide hedge beyond which hung green-shadowed boughs bearing ripe golden fruit.

He paused at an opening. Beneath him stretched a deep dell overhung with shapely trees, strong in the fullness of their summer growth. The woman stood silent among them, a soft form clothed in white against the darkness of the dell. Fair beyond measure, he thought her. Beautiful and remote in the starlight as those of the West that had looked upon the brightness of the Trees. And yet, watching her in the fading dusk, the stars clouding slowly, she seemed little more than a slender elf-woman clothed in white, gazing at the stars and enjoying the sweet scents that lingered in her orchard. A glint of silver shone in her golden hair.

“Peace is often sought here by the weary.”

Haldir turned, startled.

The elf stood back a ways against a carven statue. So still had he been standing in the shadows, Haldir hadn’t noticed him until he spoke. And he was surprised to realize that he recognized him.

“I did not know you had applied for a post here in the City,” Haldir’s smile was as genuine as he could make it: for ages uncounted a rivalry had existed between the Royal Guards who kept the City and those who kept the borders. “Allow me to congratulate you.”

“Thank you.” Indeed, Laer, the former lieutenant on the northern borders, looked well-pleased with his new position and swept imaginary dust from his white cloak. “It is an honor.” He nodded towards the white-clad elf woman. “I am fortunate to serve such a lady and no madman.”

Haldir’s polite smile froze.

Laer did not know he had struck a nerve but he had warmed quickly to the rivalry between the border and city guards. “Now, there are competent officers, enough removed from the field of battle that they may think consciously and impartially.”

Haldir’s brow darkened, perturbed by the other’s dark insinuations / intimations about his Commander. “Is it so indeed. I suppose the absence of battle would indeed give them impartiality.” If nothing else. The unspoken words hung between them like a balanced blade.

Laer’s half-shadowed features hardened ever so slightly and he gestured to the other’s travel-stained clothes. “Doubtless, you are excused your attire in this sacred place,” the guard smiled, brushing his immaculate white cloak again. “You have come in haste from the borders, I see. It is wise—I fear our fences are no longer safe—even for the bold.”

Haldir smiled, his contempt masked carefully behind his eyes. “I stay but to attend a report.”

Laer was not given the chance to retort for a voice interrupted them.

“Sir? Are you planning to sleep in the gardens?” an attendant had come to collect him and looked a little put-out that he had had to search for the wayward messenger.

So seldom did he stay in the city that when he did return, Haldir was treated more like a guest than anything else. He left the peaceful garden behind him and followed the servant up several flights of winding stairs and a long white ladder where rested the great hall of the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim.

At this time of evening, the chamber was empty and silent though not unlit—soft white light fell about their feet from above as they crossed the wide chamber.

“You’ll want to rest well, I imagine, before your audience with Lord Celeborn tomorrow. I will come to you in the morning and take you to him.”

The attendant led him off the main hallway and up a short flight of beautifully constructed wooden stairs, leaf patterns dancing over them. “Here we are.” Opening a door on the left of a narrow hall, the attendant stepped dutifully back to let him through. “My lord has asked that you be given every convenience during your stay. If you have need of anything, there is a small hand bell on the table there. If nothing happens, give a shout—I’ll be sleeping.”

Haldir smiled and nodded. “Thank you and your lord for your generous hospitality though I fear I will not be staying long in these halls.”

The servant bowed low. “I shall do so readily, sir.”

As the door closed with a soft click, Haldir looked around the guest room. Clean clothes had even been provided for him, folded neatly over a chair back. Steam was wafting under the door of a side chamber and, opening it, Haldir found a silver tub beside a copper of boiling water. Haldir sighed. He had not had a hot bath in months. And though it was late, he was not tired enough to resist.

“Praise Ulmo,” he whispered as he shut the door behind him.

The dust of travel washed away, he sat upon his bed and brushed out his damp hair. A soft breeze wafted through the rounded window, bringing with it the clean sweet scent of fresh earth and perfume from the Lady’s garden. It was comfortably warm without being overly so. A curious peace that he had not known for a long time fell across his heart as he extinguished the single lantern, plunging the room into blue shadow. For the first time in many nights, he knew peaceful, dreamless rest.

The sun sifting gently through wind-tossed branches woke him. Green shadows danced across his wall. Hair freshly combed and braided, dressed in borrowed, clean leggings and Fedorian’s tunic, Haldir felt presentable if not prepared for an audience with his Lord. Despite his apparent casualness the night before, the servant was prompt to knock on his door before the early morning passed. Nervousness crept into Haldir’s stomach as he followed the elf across the main hall.

Bright light streamed down through the thick leaves onto fair elven forms occupying the great audience chamber. Many curious eyes flickered towards the visitor and away again as he passed. The sweet clear voice of a harp rose behind him as he followed his attendant up a longer flight of stairs, across the main hall again and into an open antechamber with a large balcony at one end.

“My lord?” the servant prompted the figure standing at the railing. “The garrison commander has arrived.”

The silver-haired elf-lord turned, his eyes deep as starry wells under the open sky and beckoned the elven soldier forward. “Lieutenant, welcome.”

Haldir had winced at the servant’s err but stepped forward and bowed low. He had never in fact spoken to his lord face to face though he had seen him many a time. “I come, my lord, in place of Captain Fedorian who sends his apologies at being unable to attend your summons.”

Celeborn did not react but his eyes seemed to darken and he looked away. “I thought we might speak in comfort therefore I did not summon you to the open hall. I assume you have not yet broken your fast?” There was a gentle smile in his voice. “Mársael’s usual over-exuberance for being punctual preventing all else.”

His lord’s rich laughter put the other elf at ease and Haldir smiled and took a seat beside a small table carved vines entwining up its single supporting pedestal. Upon it sat a flask of clear crystal and goblets of the same filled with a clear golden drink. Celeborn handed one to Haldir who took it with thanks and sipped its fragrant liquid appreciatively. It filled him with the comfort of both food and drink, refreshing as water yet slightly heady like wine.

After a few ordinary comments about the weather and the beauty of the Lady’s garden (which could be glimpsed far below them near the silver ribbon stream that ran beneath the talan), Celeborn spoke: “How goes the campaign?”

“Well, my lord,” Haldir answered slowly, setting his goblet on the edge of the table. “They will not long outrun us. Their numbers are much lessened: they are not the force they once were.”

“And our own soldiers? How fare they?” Celeborn asked around the rim of his own goblet.

Haldir’s fingertips fidgeted uneasily with the stem of his glass. “They desire justice for their slain comrades.”

“That is understandable.” Celeborn sorrowed for the hauntedness he saw in the younger elf’s eyes. It was upon his suggestion that Haldir and his chosen few had journeyed to Mirkwood and Celeborn felt unaccustomed guilt well up in him at the thought.

None of this showed on his face however.

“Those who took their friends and brothers from them deserve death for what they’ve done.” Haldir looked away from those piercing eyes that lifted to his far too knowingly. “They would have their revenge.”

“Perhaps,” Celeborn said gently. “But such are many who merit it in this darkening world. How can they decide who deserves it, who does not and the manner they receive it in? It is not their place to deal death and judgement,” he cautioned. “Only Ilùvatar knows the true fates of all.”

“But perhaps it is our place to pass judgement—as Ilùvatar would see it. Mayhap it is His will that our soldiers take judgement into their own hands to execute what is necessary to achieve peace in this world.”

Celeborn grimly smiled. He turned and rested his elbows casually on the balcony railing. “There is a fine line between judgement… and vengeance—a line that often blurs. The Gondorians were once our allies, we fought at their side in the Great War, and have supported them in need since then though our numbers dwindle and grow further estranged from the Second Kindred. Long has it been our task to keep the world beautiful and pure, to watch over Men who will afterwards be the stewards of the earth when the last Elf is gone over the Sea.

“Our history is a long, and bloody one. Of Doriath long ago.” Celeborn’s eyes glimmered with memories that stretched back even to those days. “I remember the splendor and valor… the gleaming armor… the silver flags unfurled… Such a proud people! Perilous warriors! They, too, had a strict code of judgement and death.” His face darkened. “Sometimes too strict.”

“What does this have to do with us if it was so long ago?”

“It is this code and those teachings passed down that have shaped the Galadhrim into what they are,” Celeborn said gravely. “After the disappearance of Amroth, we rebuilt the forest’s forces carefully on the model of my former home—such as I could remember.”

Haldir nodded; he remembered that time.

“Doriath was destroyed by vengeance. It had not yet wholly fallen but its Doom came nigh at hand because of it.” Celeborn exhaled softly. “A Silmaril had come to King Thingol by the hand of Beren and he set it in a great necklace with the aid of the Dwarves. But, in their pride and desire, they slew him and, taking the necklace, they fled.” Here he paused and sighed, his eyes distant and dark with memory. “I will never forget the grief in Melian’s eyes. She departed that land soon after.

“Immediately, Mablung, then chief captain, pursued the fleeing dwarves to the death. Save two alone. They returned to their kindred in the East with tidings of the slaughter. A great host came and, with the departure of Melian, all our safeguards were gone… our leaders were gone… The Dwarves were merciless and left the scattered bodies of many of our kindred lying on the bloodied marble floors of Menegroth. Not the least sorrowful was the one of Mablung.

“You see, Haldir, vengeance makes you feel better perhaps. Less helpless. Less powerless to aid those you loved and feel you let down. But it can destroy you if you let it.”

Haldir remained silent a long time, pondering on his lord’s words and staring out at the fluttering leaves and the stream in their shadows.

Celeborn turned his eyes to the gardens below which were flowering beautifully in the late summer. Drops of snow-white and butter-yellow blossoms bent their long stalks, mingled with the sharper red of roses and chrysanthemums. Those memories, now so long ago, had no more power over him.

“How do you prevent this destruction?” Haldir asked without taking his eyes from the gardens below.

“Know when to stop. To check the rein and be content with what you have wrought.”

“What then would you have me do?”

“I? It is not my decision to have you do anything,” Celeborn said, his heavy gaze resting once more on the younger elf. “I have not entered this conflict and as long as my people are safe—” he gestured towards the silver pathways and glittering lanterns. “—and protected, I trust you to follow your own judgement.”

Haldir lowered his head, the onus of duty even heavier on his shoulders. He bowed and turned as if to dismiss himself.

Celeborn spoke behind him. “But remember, Haldir, Mercy and Compassion can be as powerful agents as Vengeance. Perhaps even more so. And may rule the fate of many as this world darkens.”

Those words echoed through him and replayed over and over in his mind as he saddled his horse once more and took his leave of the city in the late afternoon. As he passed through the tall wooden gates with their silver lantern light falling across his shoulders as though in farewell, the peace and well-being dropped from his heart, swallowed up in the shadows that reached out from the trees.

He went forward slowly as the dark deepened. He did not stop for sleep nevertheless, he did not again reach the borders until the dead night hours hung over the tops of the swaying trees. Aching and bone-weary he dismounted, staggering slightly as his legs once more accustomed themselves to firm ground, his stomach still rocking with the pace of the horse. He rubbed his tired brow and wished for bed and cleaner clothes.

A safe distance from the Nimrodel, he feared no thing and crossed a still-starlit path glowing silver grey. A light wind rustled the grasses and a grey form rose up. “You might have said ‘farewell’ before tearing off into the blue,” Rúmil said.

Haldir stared at him in surprise. “I expected you to be long abed.”

Rúmil waved him off. “I had little thought for rest.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to speak with you.”

Something in his younger brother’s tone made Haldir suddenly wary and he glanced up at the dark flet where he knew Rameil rested. “Now?”

“It should not take long.” He only wanted to assuage his fears. Thus it was that he had not yet told Orophin of this—it would be wiser to wait before letting his fears overwhelm him and unnecessarily worrying his other brother.

Haldir was too curious and anxious for what his brother had to say to him to long for sleep now. They walked a little ways down towards a small copse through which a light freshet fell down a stone lip and chattered away into the gold-edged shadows. They seated themselves comfortably in the long grass, Haldir leaning back against a silver bole, Rúmil cross-legged beside him with his elbows draped about his knees.

Haldir waited while Rúmil stared at his hands then when his brother continued to remain silent, rubbed his hands over his eyes and asked with a bit of impatience. “Now, Rúmil, what could not wait ‘til morning?”

Rúmil hesitated, still trying to find the right words which seemed to have jammed in his mind somewhere. “I saw Rameil this morning.”

At the mention of his friend, Haldir stiffened a little but only shrugged. “To what importance should I place this? You see him every morning.”

“He asked that I speak with you.”

Haldir kept his face carefully schooled, inwardly cursing his friend’s meddling. He should have known Rameil would have said something to his brothers—if not the entire truth then enough of it to put them on edge. For a moment, a twinge of guilt pinched his heart but he pushed it away. “Of what?”

Rúmil watched his elder brother’s face carefully. He knew something was wrong—Rameil had hinted at as much—and Haldir’s strange behavior of late had been little more than troubling. But how could he put it into words? Thinking frantically for words that still wouldn’t come, he caught sight of something white glimmering just beneath his brother’s throat.

His brows drew together. “How were you hurt?”

Too late Haldir realized he had unbuttoned his tunic to relieve the heat of riding for long hours and the bandage around his chest lay fully exposed to his brother’s eyes. He pulled the clasps closed quickly, his fingers slipping on the fastenings. “What did Rameil say?”

“You are not brushing me aside so easily! How did you come by that hurt?” Rúmil, concerned, reached and touched the place he had seen the now-covered bandage. It burned like a brand and Haldir hissed, jerking away.

“It is fresh enough still to sting. What happened?”

Clasping his chest, Haldir looked away from his brother, his breathing harsh and irregular as he tried to form some semblance of control over the situation.

“Haldir!” Rúmil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His own brother was hiding something from him.

“What has Rameil told you?”

“Rameil has said nothing save for dark hints and worried looks!” Rúmil said. He was dismayed by the hard coldness behind his brother’s normally warm grey eyes. It frightened him. Haldir and he had always been close: one could always come to the other with anything that troubled them. Now, the younger elf didn’t know how to reach his brother nor how this wide gulf had so suddenly sprung between them.

“This change… How did I not see?” Rúmil mourned aloud.

“What change? I am the same as ever I was.”

“No. The Haldir I used to know would never hide something from me. Especially something that so clearly hurts.” He did not speak only of the wound. A darkness lay in his brother’s eyes that the steel of no Elf, Orc or Man could have put there.

Haldir grimaced, hearing the pain in his youngest sibling’s voice. He would never hurt his brother willfully: he loved Rúmil, and Orophin. But they did not understand. And he almost prayed that they never would.

Rúmil continued quietly. “You used to confide in me—trust me with secrets that I would keep closer than even you yourself.”

“Well, clearly. Orophin has the bigger mouth.”

Rúmil was not amused. “Ever since you returned from Mirkwood, you’ve kept yourself close. Your mind and heart from us. Rameil and Ancadal said there was trouble but little more.”

Haldir suddenly longed for sleep. His chest hurt, his heart ached and he could not meet his brother’s eyes without feeling his own sting. His spirit couldn’t take the strain anymore. “Let it remain so.” He so badly wanted to pretend that this was no more than an ill dream. That he could wake up and none of it would have happened.

Rúmil stared piercingly at his brother, searching his face until Haldir looked uncomfortably away. Trapped between the tree bole and his brother’s stare he had no escape.

“Peace, Rúmil! It is past! We need not speak of it.”

“You need to,” he refuted, his voice a scarce whisper, hardly to be heard under the rustling leaves. “You need to speak of it or I would not see such pain in your eyes as I do now.”

Haldir grimaced and looked at his hands, trying to deny the twisting of his stomach and the ache in his heart. “At first I was not permitted to speak of it and we had little enough time to do so anyway. When Men came even that was shortened. I suppose it was not right until this moment that I could tell you. Some anyway.”

“You need not shelter me,” Rúmil said, a trifle defensively though still wondering if he really wanted to hear this.

“Nay! I do not shelter you! I… cannot yet easily speak of what… happened. Even with Rameil and Ancadal,” he said, looking away.

Rúmil reached encouragingly for the hand resting on a bent knee. Haldir clasped it instantly. “I am very selfish, Rúmil. I am,” he said, interrupting his brother’s protest. “Fedorian at least can fight for his wife and child… in order to protect Lothlórien. I. I do it for myself. So that I will not be hounded by fear and shame within the bounds of my own home!”

Rúmil wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about but he listened intently.

“So I can regain some measure of myself…” He inhaled shallowly. “I was hurt… badly… in Mirkwood,” he began haltingly, fighting back the press of memories that threatened him. It was worse here where the trees suddenly loomed like an unbroken roof of stone, the whisper of the leaves a rattle of phantom chains, the soft trunk at his back damp and smelling of blood. He shook his head firmly. “It was beyond my control then… it is not so now. I can correct the wrongs Men have made against me… I no longer have to feel helpless.” Celeborn had been right. He had warped the helplessness and anger into something more powerful, something that helped him rise above the shame and fear.

Revenge.

He inhaled deeply. “I fear it’s not working, Rúmil, I am lost. I do not know myself anymore. I slew a man on his knees. He begged me to—” he stopped suddenly, unsettled by how much he had just admitted. This had been building up for some time like a mountain stream bursts its banks with the melting of the snow.

“And Rameil?” Rúmil ventured when his brother spoke no more. His hands were chilled with horror but he kept a firm grip on the even colder one in his as though to release his brother would be to lose him.

“He… tried to help me. I refused to listen.”

“He will forgive you,” Rúmil assured him, remembering only concern in the dark-haired elf’s eyes that morning when he had asked if Rúmil had seen Haldir.

Haldir said nothing. Rameil might forgive him: it was a remoter chance that he could forgive himself for what he’d done. He felt no less angry for what had been done to him but this shameful killing of defenseless men had long sat uneasy in him. And now, he had begun to hurt those he loved.

“Do you think me wicked, Rúmil?” His elder brother’s eyes begged him for reassurance that all hope was not lost in him: that he himself was not lost to this darkness that had begun to consume his soul.

Rúmil’s reply was instant and firm. “No.” He added, more softly. “But I do think your actions were unjust. But they are not who you truly are.”

Haldir frowned. “Then who am I truly if I may not be judged by my actions?”

“Through your willingness to correct them. To allow some good to come of this.”

Haldir let the words sink in a moment then shook his head in despair. “I do not see how good could come of this.”

“It may. Only you can decide if it can.”

Haldir thought about that and squeezed his brother’s hand. “Thank you, Rúmil.”

Rúmil squeezed back with a sad smile, anguish and guilt wrenching his heart for what he had never known. “You can always talk to me. I will listen. We will help you.”

Haldir smiled and surreptitiously swiped at his eyes. “I know that. But I would not always burden you so… You are still my youngest brother—and I would have you stay that way as long as you can.” Rúmil looked older than his years and it saddened his eldest brother.

Rúmil said nothing but leaned forward wordlessly and pressed his head to his brother’s shoulder as he had when yet a young boy. With his father’s death, Haldir had, in some ways at least, taken his place. Haldir drew in a deep breath and slid an arm around his brother’s shoulders, resting his chin on top of his brother’s golden hair. For a long time, they stayed like that. The dead night hour passed, the cold one before dawn.

Rúmil smiled softly into his brother’s tunic. “It has been a long time since we have slept out under the stars.”

Haldir laughed. His head had come up above the water now; he had strength to fight the wave now. As though a heavy burden had been lifted, he could breathe again. He felt lighter of heart somehow. Freer. The horrid knot in his stomach loosened a little and his heart did not ache so fiercely. His soul still felt torn but he no longer felt as though he were so terribly alone. His brother was with him. And for now, that was enough.

~*~

Looking out over the golden sea, the myriad fluttering leaves in the slanting light, Haldir reckoned back, remembering: returning home after long and fell deeds in the forest of Mirkwood, the battle with the orcs, his captivity among the Gondorians, the rescue by his brothers and the fatal fire that had nearly destroyed them.

The day had passed without event. Color gradually faded from the golden roof, the world slowly changing to grey and brown, formless as the fast sinking sun perched on the shoulder of the mountains, gleaming silvery red, lighting briefly on golden hair. A score of the Galadhrim stood gathered in a light and airy glade, jesting good-naturedly with one another as they readied their weapons. Several of Alfirin’s scouts had been sent out along the breadth of the river Nimrodel at sunset to search for the enemy.

They returned as the first stars sparked into life. Entering the camp, Linwen came to Haldir’s side. “Sir, the Gondorians are following the Nimrodel west towards the meeting the Celebrant. They have wounded and move slowly: it shouldn’t be too hard to catch them up.”

Haldir touched her shoulder. “Good.”

He turned to the Captain of the Eastern Guard who clasped a new-gleaming spear shaft. “Are your troops ready, Alfirin?”

“Ready and willing, buck! We’re with you.”

Linwen glanced at him.

Haldir looked proudly over the score of elves gathered there, the starlight falling across their neat, ordered lines. Each held a bow and quiver of white-feathered arrows, their shadowy forms nearly invisible against the silver-grey trunks. Giving them one last once-over, adjusting a clasp or buckle there, he nodded his satisfaction and walked towards the edge of a ridge that fell steeply down into a low defile, passing Arenath who stood on the clearing’s outskirts.

“They are ready.”

Fedorian’s eyes remained fixed on the dark ribbon of the Nimrodel gleaming a mile away under the stars. “Are you?”

Haldir nodded.

“Are you sleeping all right?”

The other elf frowned, unsure of how to answer that strange question at a time like this. “I slept well enough last night.”

Fedorian met his eyes and Haldir suddenly remembered the man-shaped silhouette he had thought he had seen standing in the lantern-lit doorway when he had stayed the night in his commander’s talan. He had thought it a mere phantom of his dreams.

Further conversation was interrupted as the pounding of hooves reached their ears and they both turned. Two elves were crossing the clearing towards them. They looked to be riders who had come hard and fast, the white cloaks flowing from their shoulders discolored with dust.

“Captain Fedorian?” the taller one inquired.

“I am he.” The elven commander did not turn, tightening his black-handled knives across his shoulders.

“You are to come with us to the City, sir.”

“I sent my representative to the City yestereve—he has only just arrived back.”

The two elves exchanged glances. “The missive was sent for you, sir. The Lord
Celeborn has requested your presence in the City.”

“Requested or ordered?”

“As you will.”

“I have duties here that cannot wait.”

“Suspend them to a lesser officer—this summons will not wait.”

“How long am I to be there?”

“We cannot say, sir.”

For the first time Fedorian looked up, his eyes moving from one to the other, his brow creasing. “Am I being relieved of my command?”

“You are only to come with us, sir. That is all we are permitted to say here.”

The captain stood stunned a moment. Then his face hardened and he snapped around to Haldir who kept his eyes fastened to the floor, wondering if he had said or done something ill. What came next was completely unexpected.

“Lead them.”

“What?” Haldir stared blankly at him.

“Lead them, Haldir,” Fedorian repeated urgently. “Take the contingent against the Gondorians, cut them off before they reach the Naith.”

Haldir glanced at Arenath, feeling suddenly immensely uncomfortable. “I—I have not the authority for such a—”

“You are my second-in-command as of now,” Fedorian said without a glance at Arenath who had come up behind them. “You are to neither question these orders nor promotion. This is my charge to you. This is your duty. See that it is done.” Without another word, he strode off between the two officers, his head held high and proud, disdaining the arm one guard held to him as he mounted.

Haldir watched him go then looked at Arenath who had remained wordless, eyes downcast, head bowed. “I do not know why he did that.”

Arenath lifted his head and hurt glimmered in their shaded depths as though he thought his friend had betrayed him. “Never mind. Do your duty… sir.” He smiled painfully.

Haldir inwardly flinched but his countenance smoothed as he turned to the score of elven warriors assembled before him, running a practiced eye over them who were looking at him and one another uneasily.

“Keep your lines straight,” he ordered to distract them from the unexpected departure of their superior officer. “Double-check your bowstrings and blades.”

A sharp protestation made him turn swiftly towards the source of the disturbance.

“Outrageous! Completely out of the question!”

Haldir had never seen Alfirin get angry with any under his command especially Linwen. He came between them quickly. “What’s this all about?”

“This young filly has the gall to tell me I can’t join the jolly old fracas!” The more agitated he became the less understandable.

“It’s his leg, sir,” Linwen pleaded her case. “It’s gotten worse and Eremae said if he didn’t stay off it, she’d remove it.”

“Of all the brass-necked cheek!”

“Calm down, sir,” Haldir laid a consolingly hand on the older elf’s arm, noticing the pain lines creasing his brow.

Alfirin sniffed in high dudgeon but said nothing.

“I need to leave a capable officer to stay here and keep at camp, prepare for our return, care for the wounded, see to general order.”

Alfirin brightened immediately. “Say no more, chap! You’re ‘capable officer’ stands ready and awaiting before you.” He made an elegant bow without moving his legs.

“I knew I could depend on you.” Haldir smiled as Linwen cast him a grateful glance. Half-turning over his shoulder but without really looking, he spoke: “Rameil, you will stay here with Alfirin.”

The dark-haired elf looked up, his face darkening with discontent. “With all due respect, sir, I did not ready my blade for it to remain idle here.”

“We need soldiers to remain behind and ready the camp in case of wounded.”

“I must protest—”

Haldir interrupted firmly. “You may not.” His silver eyes held a challenge though his heart squeezed with guilt. “Or would you disobey a direct order?”

Rameil stood beside him instantly, his voice low, scarcely breaking a hard whisper. “I did once—and brought you home because of it. Ask me to stay behind and I will follow. To bring you home again.”

Haldir held still as though stricken. He said nothing. Their eyes remained locked, striving one with the other. Haldir broke first, barking at the soldiers standing stiffly to attention.

“Are my warriors ready?”

“Yes, sir.” They did not question their new second though their eyes remained doubtful and troubled.

“Good. Let’s move out.”

Grey shadows, they spread out and faded into the dusk without a sound.


Chapter 18 - Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen: Bonds Broken

A warm and muggy evening rose up out of the earth. Mist swathing the damp silver trees with curling tatters of grey silk curled up from the river bank and filled the hollows with scentless smoke. Branches scraped and creaked though no wind could be felt under the heavy humid oppression. Tall sweeps of reeds gleamed grey with dew. Ramir loosened the cloak about his shoulder pushing back his dark limp and sweat-soaked hair.

A breathlessness had melted into the air, leaving the trees dripping with it. Ramir with his men grouped a tight formation in the water behind him followed the track of the creek. They waded through its clear running water and tried to avoid the slick rocks shifting treacherously underfoot. Ahead of them could only be glimpsed the sharp silver trunks upholding vast roofs of green and gold, dwindling into pale distance, the glint of their creek running on into a steep dell. To left and right like frowning sentinels silver trunks flanked either side of the narrow stream as the mist closed in behind them.

It helped shield them from sight but Ramir could not help uneasiness skittering up his spine as the cold water groped about his knees. What did that white veil hide? Silence hung like the mist over everything, their wading footsteps, the creaking and jingling of sword and harness unbearably loud and echoing.

Leaving the water as twilight grew too thick, their pacing slowing as they picked their careful way through the dark into the dell as the fading stream scrambled down the roots on their left. The collar of his tunic clutched about Ramir’s neck like an undrawn noose. His forehead beading, he wiped dry, cracked hands across his lips. The way was growing steadily perilous as evening drew on but fearing to halt they crossed the bottom of the dell and began to ascend the other side on a steep overgrown path.

His long strides carrying him upwards swiftly, Ramir had nearly reached the summit of the hill. Quite suddenly, he checked his pace.

Above on the shadowy ridge, a figure loomed taller than the heads of his tallest men. It looked like a vast ancient stone jutting up out of the earth, immovable and solid as the bones of the mountains. Reining in his courage if not his fear, Ramir stepped boldly forward, right hand lingering on his sword hilt, the metal pommel icy and wet under his fingers. As he drew nearer, the figure seemed to shrink, taking shape out of the shadows. Mist curled about the supple leather boots. Pale hands like ivory lightly clasped the leathern sword hilt resting at an easy angle. Of the face, there was no sign.

On either side of him, a grey flash out of the corner of his eye hinted at movement—gone before he could turn fully. The trees were full of watching eyes, the branches bowing under an unseen weight. The Gondorians drew closer together, facing outward, drawing their blades.

A neat line of arrows whizzed out of the darkness and thudded into the earth between Ramir and his men. The chieftain spun, startled.

“Daro.”

The hooded figure at the top of the ridge had spoken a single sharp command. The grey cowl lowered slowly, scattering silver dew drops. “I told you I would find you.”

Ramir scowled at the glittering eyes, the only part of his adversary he could clearly see. “I weary of your face.”

Haldir smiled. “And you will be much wearier ere this ends.” A clear note rang as he withdrew his curved blade, a light flashing from it like lightning. “There is a score to settle between us. A matter of honor.”

“You have no honor,” the man snarled, his longsword clutched tightly as his eyes darted about, uselessly searching for the Galadhrim he knew lay concealed in the dusk. “Your warriors will kill us before we can draw our weapons.” He sneered. “A cowards’ work indeed!”

“Haughty words will kill you quicker, human, and you have already drawn your weapons.” Hard disdain edged Haldir’s words. The last time he had spoken to this man was with Rúmil’s throat half-crushed under his boot. “You have done more harm than I believe even you realize. My people are not cowards and will fight fairly.” His eyes raked the trees. “All of you, listen to me,” His eyes rested briefly on his brothers, and his friends. “this is an affair between he and I. None are to interfere.” His eyes caught and held those of the man before him.

The Gondorians were still looking at the trees uneasily, their swords unsheathed. They knew the end had come: they could run no longer. Their lives rode on the outcome of this battle. The elven warriors watched them, their own faces strained with the knowledge that everything would change after this moment.

Tension tautened as a short silence fell, each side watching the other, weapons raised but unmoving.

Haldir let his long cloak fall.

Ramir lunged.

The two blades, elven saber and Gondorian longsword—long ago joined in friendship—now screeched as they met, jarring the opponents’ arms. Ramir swung with short, powerful blows, trying to wear his adversary down. He knew the legendary speed and strength of the Elves: he would have to fight with all of his wits to overcome this one. Desperation burned away the tiredness of long leagues.

At first, Haldir could only defend, turning aside the heavy blows or dodging them as the man hacked at him like a young sapling he had a mind to fell for firewood. Gondorian soldiers fell back from them as the two fighters battled through their ranks.

A sixth sense tingled in the back of Haldir’s mind and he swung his blade in a long offensive sweep, giving him enough space to dance back from the steep drop of the ridge the man had been intentionally driving him towards.

The man bared his teeth in an angry snarl, his wrist flicked up, the tip of his sword flashing. Haldir turned aside at the last second, enough to miss slicing his throat but too slowly to miss the blade entirely. The winter-keen tip skimmed across his cheekbone, opening a fiery red line from ear to nose. It had narrowly missed his eye.

Haldir flinched and brushed the shallow, stinging cut, his fingertips coming away smeared with blood. Is that what you did to Fedorian?

Linwen pushed through her comrades but Rameil’s hand on her arm restrained her. “This is his battle,” the dark-haired warrior whispered, his eyes fixed on his friend.

Haldir spun underneath a high overhead strike and caught the man a glancing blow in the ribs, sending Ramir scrambling aside with a thin razor cut across his stomach, just shallow enough not to spill his entrails. Ramir grimaced in pain, feeling the hot wetness gathering on the front of his tunic. His men grouped closer together, dismayed.

Haldir pressed the advantage, feeling the familiar anger rise behind his eyes, a surging heat pulsing in his chest that swept away all thought of pain or consequence. Haldir’s grip tightened around the slippery hilt, his teeth clenched so tightly, his jaw ached.

Awareness of his companions dropped away. Haldir focused only on his enemy before him. There was nothing else but him, and this moment. Their blades met again, blades sparked and nicked against one another, hilt locked against hilt, each trying to unbalance the other with a sharp twist or feint. They were still poised only feet from the incline into the dell.

Lashing out, Ramir tangled his free hand in the elf’s long hair and wrenched his head sharply to one side, exposing his neck. A flash of pain ripped through the elf’s skull as Haldir tore himself away, leaving golden strands dangling in the man’s fingers. To stop him using his long blade, Haldir lunged in close and slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest. Ramir staggered backwards and his boot hit empty air. Feeling himself start to fall, his arms flailed blindly to grasp hold of anything to keep himself upright. His hand found Haldir’s belt.

Unable to compensate for the human’s weight, Haldir jerked forward. They tumbled downhill, scabbards clanking and rebounding off the hard ground. The elf’s head impacted hard with the ground and he lost his grip on his saber. Ramir had lost his weapon as well. He wriggled over the elven warrior, crushing his back hard into the stones and roots until sheer momentum carried him over again. The elf had one hand fastened in the man’s collar, the other like a vise around his throat. Ramir, his breaths panting in ragged gulps, forced his forearm against the elf’s windpipe, his other hand striking out viciously at his head.

The breath left their lungs as they rolled over a short drop carved at the bottom and landed hard, gasping, knocked apart by the impact. Haldir, his face and throat aching, struggled to his knees. His vision hazed and the ground lurched, still feeling the roll downslope. He didn’t even see Ramir’s foot swing until it caught him in the stomach. He fell onto his forearms curled up in pain. A second, brutal kick to his ribs flipped him onto his back where he lay gasping, blinking away the purple-blue spots from his vision.

Rubbing his own bruised throat, Ramir backed off a few paces, panting, thinking his enemy downed at last. He chuckled breathlessly. “Now, we finish this, elf.” He groped down his calf and pulled a small knife twisted nearly out of his boot.

Haldir saw the glint of steel and rolled over, a hand about his aching side, his other empty. He cast about wildly for his weapon and saw it, caught only a few feet overheard in a tussock. Above against the sky and trees, he saw the shadowy forms of his fellow soldiers and the Gondorians stumbling and scrambling downhill after the fighters.

Ramir dove at him. Haldir dodged aside and pulled himself up the small incline. His stinging, bloody cheek scraped against the rough ferns as he scrambled upslope, trying to reach his blade resting at an angle in the grass. He was only inches away. Haldir’s back arched in pain as the small knife bit high on his back, gouging through cloth and flesh, stopped only by his left shoulder blade. But his saber leapt to his hand.

Swinging around and tearing the knife from his back in the process, Haldir, higher than his enemy, spun around and swung out in a long arc. His blade cleaved deep into the man’s forearm as Ramir raised it to protect his vulnerable neck. He yelped and staggered back, weaponless, clutching his injured limb. Had the strike been aimed for anything other than a play for space, he would have lost the arm.

The elf seemed to grow with every step, an unstoppable creature of sinew and steel, eyes swirled crimson, crimson as the blood flowing from the gash in his arm. Terror overtook the Gondorian commander and he fell backwards, his retreat halted only by the sharp vengeful bark of a tree whose branches seemed to suddenly clutch at him like arms even as the trunk propped him up. He sagged against it, terrified and trembling. His eyes glazed over in the acceptance of death as the saber tip hovered against his bobbing throat.

Bruised and a hot slow pressure pain against his ribs, tasting blood on his lips, Haldir dug the tip of his blade even deeper into the man’s neck, forcing his head back against the silver trunk until he nearly lay against it in an effort not to slice his own throat open. A thin rivulet of crimson trailed from under the blade into the man’s collar.

“No! Captain!” The Gondorians had reached them a hairsbreadth before the elves. One of them pushed his way through the undergrowth, checked only by the threat of elven arrows pointed menacingly at his chest. His youthful face shone with distress as he tried to get to his leader. “Are you all cowards?” he roared at his friends behind him who remained motionless, their faces glazed with acceptance. “He needs help!”

Rúmil, watching, felt something stir in him as he looked on the warrior who could not have been more than seventeen.

The young soldier glared challengingly into the faces of the grim elves who held him back their bows tautening ever-so-slightly as they waited for him to move.

“Malin, don’t be a fool!” Ramir snarled. “Get back!”

“Keep him back. No one is to interfere!” Haldir ordered. “This is nor your fight, youngling.”

“My lord captain has been disarmed,” the boy said, resisting the elves’ hands that were trying to restrain him. “Unless you would kill a man on his knees, honorable combat decrees that he must die with a blade in his hand!”

Haldir stared at the young man and suddenly beckoned to him. “Let him come.”

His archers looked over their shoulders at him in surprise, then, slowly and with great reluctance, moved aside. Watching the elf commander with distrust, Malin made his way to his captain’s side, youthful hands clasping the hilt of his commander’s weapon. But Haldir did not allow the boy to give it to him.

“It would grieve you then, little one, if I were to cut off his head,” he said. His saber had not moved a fraction from Ramir’s throat.

The boy looked at him with dark eyes, his long hands tightening around his captain’s blade. “It would indeed.”

“You know what he has done.”

“What he has done, we have all done. Why should he alone pay the price for what all of us have shared a part in?”

Haldir looked long on the young man with no word, his own and Ramir’s soldiers waiting tense and breathless behind him. A few of the Gondorians were calling for the boy to return, to let the fight finish.

“Would you die for him?”

Malin straightened his shoulders. “I have sworn to lay down my life for king, captain and country if I must,” he grasped the blade hilt now with pride. “Yes, I would do that. If I had to.”

Haldir tilted his head. “You are stout in courage, little one. None can begrudge you that. But you are foolish.”

“Maybe. But I have sworn… If you would turn aside the blow for him and bestow it on me…” the young man stared steadily into the elf’s eyes. “So be it.” He was shaking and pale but obviously determined.

“Malin!” Ramir, still on his knees, hissed.

“Would you kill me to save him?”

The young man took a moment, sizing up the elf warrior, the blade quivered in his grasp. “If I thought I could succeed.”

Haldir laughed suddenly. Reaching forward, he pried the captain’s blade from the boy’s grasp and jammed it deep into the earth. “It is the duty of a leader to pay for his men’s mistakes.”

“But each one of us must take responsibility for our own actions.”

Haldir fell silent.

The soldiers waited.

Clang!

All present flinched at the sound. Haldir had set the tip of Ramir’s blade hard into the earth, propped against the tree trunk and thrown his weight behind his own sword. The more fragile Gondorian weapon had snapped clean in two, shorn off a finger’s breadth from the hilt.

The crimson tint faded from the elf’s eyes and he looked suddenly grey and tried. He glanced at his men mixed among the Gondorian soldiers. “There is enough evil and bloodshed done by the cowardly of this world. To kill one of courage is a terrible shame. And to kill one of true heart for showing love for his captain a grave evil.” He tossed the broken hilt into Ramir’s lap without looking at him.

“King. Captain. Country.” He smiled in admiration at the boy. “So, too, do we swear.” He exhaled slowly, lowering his blade. He looked at it briefly as his archers stepped out of the shadows. He lifted his eyes and gestured with his bloody blade to the white-faced men. “Take them.”

As Ramir was hoisted up and bound, Rameil, half in awe, half-concerned, came to his side and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re trembling.”

Haldir lowered his head as he busily cleaned the edge of his weapon with the hem of his tunic.

Two elven warriors pulled Ramir to his feet, his face ashen, and bound his hands before him. The broken hilt of his sword fell to the grass. His followers surrendered quickly after and flanked on all sides by elven warriors the entire party set off following the humans’ swath out of the dell and back along the creek.

As they fell into line, Haldir leapt on ahead to the vanguard and tried not to think about what he had on his hands now, tried not to remember the good intentions that had veiled his curtain of rage. Why was he doing this? The young’s man plea had not changed his attitude towards the humans. Was it that he truly did not want to kill the Men of Gondor? Or was some part of him looking for absolution? The sooner they left, the better would it be. But he had no authority as far as prisoners of war were concerned. He had them but he had to keep them. He couldn’t drop them anywhere without the approval of a superior officer. His back hurt.

It seemed Arenath was thinking along the same lines because he caught up with Haldir several yards ahead of the column. “What are you going to do with them now?”

“Take them away from here,” replied Haldir.

“Should we not wait for the captain to decide what to do with prisoners of war?”

“We do not know when he will return nor, indeed, if he will,” Haldir said, carefully toneless. “We will do what we can and at least settle them until they are collected or we are asked to escort them elsewhere.”

“Or until they are executed.”

Haldir increased his pace, unwilling to voice the insecurities in his own mind.

Arenath did not take his silence as assent. “Haldir? They are to be charged with war crimes are they not?—unlawful imprisonment of persons not engaged in the conflict, interrogation without benefit of trial, destruction of neutral ground, casualties of noninvolved persons... Those charges are worth execution.”

“If that is how the law is written.”

They turned aside onto a narrow path that wound back towards their hidden camp scarcely to be seen amongst the thick foliage.

Alfirin was waiting for them with Eremae when they returned. They arranged the prisoners to sit in rank, five wide and three abreast, more than an armslength from one another. Several elves perched in the trees with drawn bows in case of an uprising.

“Keep your hands on your heads where I can see them, you louse-ridden lot,” Alfirin commanded sternly, stalking up and down their lines.

“Do you think they have lice?” Linwen, ever beside him, asked cheerfully bending over one of them with keen interest.

The prisoners did as ordered in silence. With the exception of Ramir, they seemed grateful to still be alive though nervous for the creaking bowstrings.

Haldir meanwhile was buffeted with question after question as the others of his group converged on him.

“Why did we bring them here?”

“What are we going to do with them now?”

“Why do we not just kill them and have done?”

Haldir looked towards the one who had spoken: a fiery-eyed soldier who still clutched his bow fiercely. “They are bound. Take Thillas and Mithron, strip them of every weapon. And make sure the hithlain ropes are tight.”

“But these men cannot stay here, Haldir!” Déorian, who had lost one of his friends in battle against the Gondorians, said. “This is endangering us and I’m sure completely against our law to bring strangers this far into our land—especially enemies!”

“You may question my actions when they prove useless or harmful, Déorian not before,” Haldir snapped at the smaller elf. “Go to barracks. Find provender for our soldiers—and our prisoners. All of the rest of you may take up watch if you have such concerns! I myself am hungry.”

Haldir pushed through them towards the hollowed out tree that served as their mess hall, needing time to think, to be away from the discomfort of all eyes on him. He passed the Gondorian line, keeping his face averted.

He chewed the lembas without tasting, praying no one would speak to him as his men trickled slowly in, their hunger getting the better of their anger and distrust. He excused himself shortly and walked towards the river. He took his time and washed the crusted blood from his cheek. His injuries were stiffening.

“I am proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he replied automatically.

Rameil folded his long legs under him and waited his friend out. He knew how conflicted Haldir must feel though he wasn’t sure if he had the right to interfere anymore.

“I thought I would feel better. Our enemies are under our guard, the threat to the forest is ended. Why do I still feel so torn?” he spoke his words mostly to himself and only Rameil happened to hear.

The dark-haired warrior spoke slowly, wondering if Haldir really wanted his advice and vividly remembering the last time he had offered his counsel. “You didn’t kill the man you thought deserved death more than any. You’re confused because you don’t know why.”

“Do you know why?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know your heart better than you.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Rameil changed the subject. “It is strange is it not that our captain is not here to see the fruition of his labors?”

Haldir suspected there was more behind his friend’s query than he was letting on. “Perhaps there was something more important for him to deal with.”

Rameil shot a keen glance at him from under his eyelids. “That may be.” His eyes flickered over his friend’s tunic, filthy and torn from the fight. Haldir flinched as Rameil peeled back his cloak, exposing the red stain seeping through the cloth. “That needs to be looked at—”

“There you are!” Alfirin limped towards them. “Messenger came for you, chap, while you were out.”

Haldir stood to greet him. “From whom?”

“Apparently the Lady has gotten word of our victory,” the elven guard shook his head in astonishment. “News travels swift as the Celebrant, they say! Anyway, she says to defer to your judgement on what to do with them.”

Rameil stood as well. “What are you going to do now?”

Haldir shook his head. “I have to make a decision I suppose.” He didn’t know what to do. “It would be easiest to kill our guests.”

Rameil shot a warning glance at him. “Haldir.”

“But… apparently some of my men could have moral qualms in that regard. So… the only other venue I may propose would be to take them to the borders.”

Rameil raised an eyebrow.

Haldir considered a little longer, thinking aloud. “Let them return to Gondor, but refuse them paths through the forest to the Anduin. That might be best.”

“They may see it as charity.”

Haldir looked at him. “It is.”

Arenath, wanting to see what his commander had decided, had caught the last of their conversation. “Charity for whom?”

“We are going to escort our prisoners to the borders—get them out of our land as quickly as possible.”

Arenath frowned. “What? Why?”

“The Lady has left their judgement in my hands,” Haldir explained. “I think we should take them beyond our borders where they can cause no more harm.”

“And release them?” Arenath’s voice cracked with incredulity.

“What other way would you have?”

Arenath’s earnestness was edged with bitterness. “You have a choice, Haldir: you can take them to the borders and let them depart free—which is ludicrous! After burning and slaying our people—how you can even consider that!”

“What other way would you have?” Haldir repeated, containing his rising annoyance which Arenath was clearly not even trying to mask.

“There is another way,” Arenath said, his fair face grim and set.

Haldir understood and his stomach tightened. “You would rather I kill them here.”

Arenath said nothing. Rameil looked uneasily at him.

Haldir walked away, turning his steps to the line of prisoners. “Men of Gondor, hearken to me,” he addressed them in the language common to all peoples on this side of the river. “You are guilty of crimes against the elven people: among them the wrongful slaying of our soldiers in undeclared warfare. For that alone, you have warranted death.” He took a deep breath, glancing at Arenath. “However, I believe enough blood has been shed already. Therefore, we will escort you to the borders. You will leave. You will not return. Should you try, you shall find steel barring your way.”

“Why should we trust your words?” Ramir snarled. “Deceitful devils that you are! I would not be at all surprised if we were shot in the back before we had gone six paces from your trees!” Eremae had seen to his wounds but evidently he was not at all grateful.

“Look into my eyes, human, if I had wanted you dead, you would have been so by now,” Haldir growled, his eyes flaring. “You are unworthy of any mercy I have shown you thus far and it is only for the sake of my own soul that you are being given this chance! If not grateful, at least be silent! And keep your sardonic tongue behind your teeth! I have had my fill of you!”

“What are you doing?” Arenath hissed at him as he turned his back on the man. “They are to be tried and executed! You know that! They cannot be allowed to go unpunished!”

“Carthalye sen? Kelo! Dago hain! Orthalye cú lin. Unoraen.” Haldir challenged, not bothering to lower his voice as the rest of the command warily watched from their scattered places. “Will you do it? Go on! Kill them! Take up your bow! They won’t run.”

Arenath paused, fingering his bow uncertainly.

“Would it ease your conscience if they stood?”

Arenath gritted his teeth. “I cannot gainsay you. But I would implore you to reconsider.”

“Who has the strength and the will to kill these unarmed men?”

“You did it often enough,” Arenath whispered, so low none could hear but Haldir who stiffened and looked away.

“No longer. I will not do it.” He had bought his revenge at a terrible price. He would not willingly pay it again.

Arenath remained silent, staring at his friend’s back, his expression hard and furious. He stopped before the rangers aligned before him, his eyes running over them, their crouching, haggard forms. A few lifted their eyes to his but most kept them fastened on the ground in defeat.

Abruptly he faced his back to them. “Haldir…”

The elf looked up at the sound of his name.

“Take them to the edge of the border. Make sure they do not return.”

Haldir nodded. “We will leave tomorrow.”

~*~

Dark blue clouds scurried overhead. They thickened after midnight and melted together into an unbroken roof. The stars veiled. In the hour before dawn, a chill drizzle fell, soaking everything thoroughly. Drenched, the prisoners shifted and cursed, sleeping uneasily in the uncomfortable damp as they tried to shelter under the leaves.

Irritated with their grumbling, Rúmil huddled under the wide dripping leaves of a low-hanging mallorn, his cloak pulled over his head. He watched the clear drops slide off the branch tips in a steady stream. Haldir had disappeared some time ago: not that Rúmil could blame him. He knew how uncomfortable being around these men made his brother. The men deserved to die. But Rúmil saw reason in his brother’s decision. If they were now harmless, what was the point of killing them? It wouldn’t bring back the dead from across the sundering seas or heal the deep, timeless wounds of the forest.

The wind swung round to the east and the rain fell even faster, thunder rumbling in the distance. The branches trembled, dislodging great splattering drops onto his shoulders and hands.

Over the pattering of the rain, soft voices reached his ears. Rúmil looked up rubbing a hand over his face to stave off sleep. For a while, he listened but could not make out the inaudible words though by tone, one seemed questioning and anxious, the other sharper, more authoritative. Giving up, he tuned the words out and lowered his head again.

Two mud-spattered boots appeared beneath the awning of his hood. Rúmil, feigning sleep, did not look up. He was tired of being questioned and hearing his brother bad-mouthed because of his decision to spare the repulsive humans.

“You are not sleeping.”

Rúmil’s head jerked up, squinting into the rain. “Captain!” he gaped, caught between surprise and delight. “How did you know I wasn’t sleeping?”

“Son, you’d have to be Orophin to be able to sleep in this blasted damp,” Fedorian quipped as he ducked under the rude shelter, his lank hair dripping against the back of his neck.

“Have you just returned from the city? We didn’t expect you.”

“So says my saddle-aching backside.” Fedorian grimaced. He glanced towards the huddled group of miserable figures. “I had heard that you had taken prisoners.”

Rúmil smiled, his concern for his brother relieved by the presence of his mentor. “You should have seen the fight.”

“I would that I had,” his mentor’s voice was tinged with bitterness. It vanished with a shake of his head. “Tell me of it then!”

Rúmil did so with relishing detail, really getting into the tale as he recounted the blow-by-blow battle between his brother and the Gondorian leader, and their enemy’s ultimate surrender.

“You would have been proud…Not one of them escaped…”

Fedorian listened, but his eyes kept lingering on the lumped shadows only slowly gaining form as individual men in the rising light. He seemed agitated and his hands twitched in an anxious rhythm on his knees.

Rúmil had no inkling of how involved his captain was with his brother’s troubles and therefore trusted his commander still. He fell quiet after his tale ended, listening to the rain dripping off the leaf edges. “So, are you returning to command then?”

“…in a manner of speaking.”

Rúmil looked at him but Fedorian kept his eyes on the glistening droplets plinking into growing puddles. “What does that mean?”

Fedorian did not answer as two grey-cloaked figures scooting out of the rain, huddled under their shelter of overhanging boughs. The two waterlogged elves stamped the mud and rainwater off their boots and flung back their hoods, revealing the damp faces and draggled hair of Rameil, and Rúmil’s eldest brother.

Rameil shook water droplets off his cloak. “I always said Rúmil was the smart one, he knew better to come out of the ra—” he froze as he noticed his friend’s companion. “Sir.” He nodded a curt greeting: he had not forgotten the look on his commander’s face bending over Haldir that night on their talan.

“Rameil.”

Haldir shifted and Rúmil shot a glance up at him, wondering where the sudden tension had come from.

“We took the Gondorians prisoner, sir,” Haldir put in.

Fedorian reverted his gaze back to him. “And the command hasn’t fallen into shambles while I was gone.”

Rameil gave him a dark look from under his eyelids.

Unfortunately, Fedorian caught it. “Why do you give that look, Rameil?” He unfolded his long legs slowly, staring at the dark-haired warrior who moved away from his gaze. “You don’t think I should be here.”

“I—” Rameil shut his mouth with a snap, thinking better of his words.

“Well?”

Rúmil frowned between the two and opened his mouth but Haldir shook his head minutely, warning him to silence. Rameil glanced helplessly at his friend, Fedorian’s eyes still leveled steadily on him.

“What’s going on?” Rúmil couldn’t stand it anymore.

Fedorian grunted, a flash of what seemed to be annoyance passing across his face when Rameil remained silent. “Ah, worry not, Rúmil. I am not leaving again.” He jerked his head in the direction of the ragged prisoners. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Take them southwest as soon as it is fully light,” Haldir reported; his eyes were troubled. “We feared you wouldn’t make it.”

“New orders have come from the city and here I am,” Fedorian smiled and clapped his second-in-command on the shoulder. “You have done well.”

Haldir accepted his praise with a nod, his eyes roving restlessly over the huddled captives. “I have set a watch for the night in case of trouble.”

“It won’t come to that I hope,” Rúmil’s smile fell however as his brother walked away into the rain, shrugging his hood again up over his head, Rameil on his heels. He sighed and murmured to himself. “Now he avoids me.”

Fedorian glanced down at the crown of the younger elf’s head. “He looks tired.”

Rúmil ripped up a handful of grass with his fingers and frowned. “Did you know he was injured in the chest—before the battle with the Gondorian Captain, I mean?”

“No.”

“He and Rameil fought too—I’ve never heard them do that before.”

Fedorian permitted himself an unseen sneer, his eyes following the trail the others had taken. “Rameil is nosier than he should be. That, at least, is understandable.”

Rúmil wondered at that tone but said nothing more about it. “Well, I finally got Haldir to speak to me: he finally opened up a little.”

For the first time Fedorian’s eyes flickered with interest and he looked sharply at the younger elf. “Oh? What about?”

Rúmil shrugged. He had tried to talk to his brother about what they had discussed last past, to give the help he had promised. Upon reflection, that was probably the very reason why Haldir was avoiding him: he didn’t want it brought up again. “He talked a little about what happened in Mirkwood… it shook him… I can’t believe what he—” he bit his lower lip. He was going to say “what he went through.” But Fedorian seemed to take a different meaning from his words and his jaw tightened a little, unnoticed by Rúmil who was still searching the rain curtain. “He’s changed.”

Fedorian shook his mood and shrugged one shoulder, tucking his arms into his sleeves and leaning back against the trunk. “The flowing of time and events changes even Elves, Rúmil,” Fedorian said, returning his gaze to the humans lying a few yards from them. “It changes even us.”

Rúmil twisted his hands in his lap. “He said he was selfish because he fought for himself. You at least fight for Geilrín and Silivren.” Their names sounded strange on his lips and he realized with an inward start it was because he had not spoken them since the funeral.

Fedorian’s twitching hands stilled at the names of his wife and daughter.

Rúmil leaned his head back against the smooth silver bole. “Seeing him in that camp was one of the most horrible things I have ever seen… and I will not soon forget it. Then the fire…” He flinched away from the mere memory. “I’m so… tired of this. I want everything to go back to the way it was…”

“It can’t.”

“I know!” Rúmil ran a hand over his eyes. “I know… Everything changes too fast out here. There’s too much… death. I can’t do this for the rest of my life. I don’t know if I was meant to be a warrior.” He wasn’t capable of the cool dispassion with which his brothers and Fedorian handled their jobs. He felt too deeply and too keenly. Too badly.

“It is hard yet when you are yet so young,” Fedorian said, his voice surprisingly soft. He drew a little closer to the younger elf. “It’s part of being soldier, though. Just like duty and honor, death is part of what makes a soldier a soldier. Sometimes, yes, it’s an ugly business. You get used to it. The blood of a warrior runs in your veins, Rúmil. You cannot deny that,” Fedorian dismissed his concern.

Rúmil lowered his eyes to his lap as he wrapped the cloak edges closer about his damp body, thinking he didn’t want to get used to watching his friends die before his eyes, seeing his brothers in constant danger. He feared losing more than his life or the pain of wounds. He feared losing a part of himself—as Haldir nearly had—becoming cold and hard as the stone-like faces of so many wardens he knew. Turning over restlessly, he lay down.

~*~

The long wet night gave way to a cool grey dawn of torn and flying clouds. Streaks of sky tinged pale rose by the rising morning floated above the trees. Stripes of milky cream and yellow filled the sky as the rain flowed out eastward to empty itself over the seas.

Haldir stretched his shoulders, stiff and uncomfortable from an endless night lying in the wet branches. He was sure he looked as tired as he felt and his injuries ached. With his former tormentors so near—even bound—the memory of his interrogation was still too close to the surface. He figured as long as he stayed away from them, and they him, he could last the journey to the boundaries.

As he passed the watchmen on his way to breakfast, he saw that some of his command were handing out strips of dried venison and canteens of rainwater to the captives. Though angry and none-too-kindly disposed towards the men of Gondor, they would not starve them. The prisoners too seemed to take this with surprise and debated quietly among themselves.

“At least we’re being fed.”

“Food’s probably poisoned.”

“Well, it’s good and there are worse ways to die.”

“Had our positions been switched, I think our captain would have killed them by now.”

Tucking his sodden cloak under one arm, Haldir strode up to them, determined to make this short. “Listen up,” he ordered. “We march hard and fast today. You will keep up.”

They walked south and west all day beside the Nimrodel. The prisoners shuffled along in a ragged file. One cord looped through the ropes around their wrists. The binds on their ankles had been cut during the day so they could walk. By mid-afternoon, they had reached the place where the smaller river poured into the swift-flowing Celebrant under interlacing green branches. Even in the days of summer, the Celebrant was icy and the summer months had already begun to wane.

At the river crossing, the humans’ bonds were cut then under guard of arrow, they edged down the steep sides taking hold of the grey length that stretched from bank to bank. Grunting and straining, the fifteen prisoners pulled themselves across hand-over-hand, shivering as the icy water crested against their sides. Hauling aching bodies up the further bank, they flopped down, soaked to the armpits, unable to resist as their guards secured their hands again.

Haldir had been scouting up ahead considering the next leg of their route. A slender path curved off from the joined streams and sped over a golden carpet; it swung a little further west through a wide glade flanked by thinning trees and left the forest beside a long ditch seventeen miles north of the Anduin as the horse runs. The end of their road still lay several days’ journey on. Haldir sighed. Momentarily closing his eyes, he wondered if he could last that long.

An alarmed shout jerked him from his thoughts and sent him charging back towards the group. He pushed past hurrying elves herding frantic prisoners to the head of the road a few yards from where it left the river. He leapt down the steep bank, sharp stones rattled around his boots as he reached the shore. “What happened?”

The small tracker, Déorian, was bent over a rope twisted and slack like a lifeless silver snake. He shot a stunned look at his superior officer over his shoulder. “He fell.”

“What?”

Rameil came running up. “I didn’t even see it! The last one was nearly over. The rope… snapped…”

“And the prisoner?”

“He’s gone.”

Haldir looked downstream as though trying to discern a dark-haired head or flash of cloth. There was nothing but green shafts of sunlight and hurrying clear water.

“Not that you care,” a voice muttered. Ramir, his dark hair curling and damp around his shoulders, shot a baleful glare at Haldir.

“No,” the elf answered. “I do not. But I am sorry.”

“You didn’t even try to help him,” one of the younger men spoke up with wide, haunted eyes. He shook his head. “Didn’t even help.”

Haldir tried to tell himself guilt was not what he felt in his gut as he looked away from those bright green eyes. These men were his responsibility now. They were prisoners, yes. They were enemies, yes. But, still they were his captives and his responsibility. Any more deaths would be on his heart. More deaths he could not afford to carry.

Fedorian returned slowly where he had been searching downstream. When Haldir looked to him, he only shook his head.

Alfirin, his face darkly sober, limped up. “Bad luck, lad. Still, we ought to push on while we can until dark.”

“You’re right.” Haldir looked over his troops who were standing uneasily about the prisoners. “Form them up.”

The muted company straggled on until dark, halting only twice to rest or hunt. By then the men were only half-dry and too bone-weary to complain. Two hours before dawn, they halted and turned aside from the path, walking straight west for twenty yards until they came upon a copse of close-growing trunks. Trees wrapped in white skins like birches but softer, loftier, their long supple limbs held up many-tiered roofs of long, narrow leaf filets. Leaf patterns shimmered over the ground like silk under water. The moon rode full in the sky.

Man and elf alike slumped where they sat, too tired to think of anything but food and rest. Haldir waited until the prisoners were settled then sat and took a late meal with the others.

Fedorian sat a little apart, wrapped in his cloak, only Arenath sitting near. He had spoken no word to any aside from Rúmil, Haldir and Rameil last night. And the rest of the command seemed content to leave it that way. He had been absent from the borders in mind even before his body left. He was still their captain and they were bound by oath to obey him, but they no longer welcomed him beside the fire or asked for demonstrations of his knife skill to entertain them. And he asked nothing of them in return.

“Something has been bothering me since this morning,” Rameil said, raking together charring wood chips from their small cook fire. They sat a little removed from the rest who were talking quietly in hushed voices. “That rope could never have loosened or unraveled of its own accord.”

“Hithlain can be mischievous depending on how it was woven,” Haldir said, sliding his empty plate idly between his fingers.

“Thillas is one of the better rope-weavers I know,” the dark-haired elf insisted. “He wouldn’t let something like that happen.”

They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing.

“Ah, blast! The coney!” Rameil leapt up and kicked at their fire, scattering it into sparks as the now-charbroiled strips of meat fell into the ashes.

Haldir laughed and coughed as smoke wafted around his face and stung his eyes. “Well, at least I like it well done.”

“Wondrous, Haldir,” Rameil groused, poking gingerly among the ashes for their catch. “Here.”

Haldir revolved the stick-spitted meat in his hands. “How is your head?” he asked in a quiet voice, a current of shame and guilt undercutting his tone.

“Smells like charred coney at the moment,” the dark-haired elf quipped, grimacing and waving the smoke away from his face. His smile slipped and he sighed as his friend looked at him. “I told you, it’s fine. You can’t even see the lump anymore.”

“I am sorry.”

“So you told me, and I have already told you that you are forgiven,” Rameil said, taking an experimental bite of the blackened meat and chewing experimentally.

“I am stubborn,” Haldir shrugged. “And, I don’t believe you.” He smiled to soften the jibe but kept his eyes on the growing spark of flame Rameil was rekindling.

Still chewing, Rameil swallowed hard and half-grinned. “This really is bad.”

Haldir tried to smile but it slipped away from him as dark thoughts crowded to the forefront of his mind, clamoring and ringing. “I just…I hurt you,” his voice dropped, no more than a whisper. “I do not see how you can disregard that so easily.”

Rameil set down his meal and leaned his elbows on his knees, catching his friend’s eyes. “I did not say I ‘disregarded’ it. But I do forgive it. You should take it and thank me. And then say no more.”

“‘Only an orc would murder a man on his knees’…That is what you said.”

“We’ve been through this: I was scared and angry! And not unreasonable I don’t think!” Annoyance passed across the dark-haired elf’s fair face. He couldn’t understand why Haldir was bringing this up again when they finally had a little peace. “What you did wasn’t right but I won’t shun you because you made a mistake! I—” Abruptly, he stopped and held up his hands. “I don’t want to argue about this anymore, Haldir.”

“Why not?” Haldir demanded. “Why? Had you done what I have, I do not think I could have so easily forgiven you.”

“You are not me.”

“All of you are so easily swayed! So easy to forgive and forget what I’ve done! Rúmil does not hold me accountable either.”

“What would you have us do?” Normally the dark-haired elf was never easy to provoke but, as only friends can sometimes do, Haldir had roused his ire. “What would you have us do, Haldir? Condemn you for a few mistakes? Fine. You are a bloodthirsty, ruthless killer who does not deserve mercy for showing none.”

“Anything would be better than your pity,” Haldir snarled.

Their heated debate was quickly drawing attention and a few of the command had begun to half-rise wondering if they ought to break the pair up before they came to blows.

Again, Rameil backed off and took a deep breath, leaning away from the fire. He worried his lower lip thoughtfully as Haldir stared at the white trees which gleamed like ghosts in the gloaming.

Rameil raised his head, his dark hair framing his keen, knowing eyes. “This isn’t about Rúmil or I is it?”

Haldir looked away, the fire too hot on his face.

His friend read the truth in his averted eyes. “You do not want to be forgiven. You think you should be punished.”

“Had any other done what I have, he would have been confined and stripped from rank. Not promoted.”

“Yes, well,” Rameil glanced over his shoulder. Fedorian’s eyes bored into his. “You are given some grace.”

“But my opinions have not changed,” Haldir’s eyes shifted to the dusky figures huddled in shoddy ranks and environed by vigilant watchers. “I wanted them to die. I still do.”

“Then why did you not follow Arenath’s counsel?” Rameil probed. “Why not kill them? Some part of you, Haldir, feels guilty dealing merciless death—even to those who warrant it—”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“What?”

“I do not suffer guilt.”

Rameil stared hard at his friend: he knew Haldir was lying even if he didn’t realize it himself. “Yes, you do.”

It wasn’t what Haldir wanted to hear and he remained stone-faced, staring into the fire that cast rippling shadows over the new-worn lines in his face.

“If it is true, you do not suffer guilt—then why aren’t you sleeping?”

“You’re keeping me awake with your talking!”

“All right, then.” Rameil pushed himself to his feet. “I shall say no more. My lips are sealed. In fact, I will give you complete peace.” The dark-haired elf walked away before his friend could come up with a suitable reply.

Haldir felt the eyes of the command on him. Without meeting any, he smothered the remnants of his now-lonely fire.

He looked tired the next morning. But it was bright and fair and warm and the elves broke their fast early. They had made good time yesterday and were unwilling to linger when the boundaries and the end of their journey was so close. The prisoners, however, were agitated.

“Where’s Adarnon?” one asked as Haldir strode up. The man who had been tied next to him last night was gone. Two elves brought him to his feet; they did not know the language of men so his concern did not register to them. “Adarnon—he’s gone!”

Haldir called Arenath over. “He says one of them is missing.”

Arenath ran his eyes over the humans, mentally totaling them up. He was right. There were only thirteen. “How is that possible? They were all tied up!” he said, his eyes looking his second-in-command up and down as though he thought the other elf might be concealing the missing man under his cloak. “What happened to the watch?”

“They were set,” Haldir called the two nearest elves to his side. “Ancadal, Déorian, search around the campsite. He can’t have gone far.”

The two guards saluted with less than enthusiasm. It wasn’t their job to hunt up missing humans though the danger of one man escaping and lingering to free his friends did leap to their minds. But there were few prints to find. Several heavy, stumbling bootsteps led from the prisoner’s area some yards into the white trees then abruptly vanished.

“Maybe he sprouted wings and flew away,” Déorian muttered, casting his eyes over the ground.

Fedorian folded his arms. He was staring curiously at the heads of the men. Most did not look at him, clearly remembering him. “I think you were the one who broke my fingers,” he casually said, gazing down at the man who had first alerted them to the disappearance. The man addressed tore his gaze away and shrank back ever-so-slightly.

Arenath shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know how this could have happened.”

Haldir chafed at the delay. He wanted to move on and he had a bad feeling they wouldn’t find anything.

Déorian and Ancadal returned swiftly shaking their heads. “We could find nothing more, sir.”

Those two were his best trackers, if they found nothing… Haldir sighed. Sometimes he hated being right. “Well, there’s nothing we can do now. We have to keep going.”

They returned to the elf path. Tributaries of the Celebrant from the mountain streams pulled away on their left, the land falling as they set as quick a pace as they could. Ahead, the far-seeing eyes of the elves could glimpse the gradual thinning of the trees but the pace they set was too much for the weary, bound humans and they had to slow to accommodate the human soldiers said nothing, solemn with the death and disappearance of two of their own.

They camped under a grove of golden-flowering bushes like small trees, their thick stems sprouting straight up from the ground. Haldir sat at a solitary fire. He had not spoken to Rameil all day; he knew the dark-haired elf was right and he resented it. Rúmil kept shooting him concerned glances across the clearing and Haldir knew he knew.

Driven by sheer emotional and mental weariness, Haldir turned in early and cast his cloak over him, a tussock for his pillow. He slept lightly, sleeping but not resting.

It was cool when he woke. His cloak had slipped from his shoulders and his back hurt, the knife injury stiff from laying on it. He thought the pain might have been what had woken him, for it was still dead night. The world rested in black shadows. Leaning up on one elbow, he could see the sleeping lumps of his friends and enemies scattered about. The guards he had posted could not be seen. They must have been further back towards the path or concealed in the branches above, invisible with their hoods drawn up.

Haldir pulled his cloak back up and rolled over, grimacing at the stiffness in his back. He had nearly fallen back asleep when he felt it.

Something moved past him in the dark, a soundless whisper of movement stirred the air near his face. Feigning sleep, Haldir kept very still, his hand going numb and tingly beneath his left side. The air around him seemed still and tense. Even the sleepy silence had changed: suddenly alert and watchful.

Someone gave a gasp, loud and sharp as an alarum in the stillness.

Haldir sat bolt upright, throwing aside his cloak. He did not feel the chill of the dew on his bare feet as he squeezed silently around his sleeping companions who had surprisingly not woken at the noise. The sound did not come again and Haldir began to wonder if indeed his overworked mind had imagined it, a wisp of his nightmares. He paused beside Déorian’s bedroll, pricking his ears up again to try to catch anything again.

Crossing over to the prisoners’ area, he looked them over. They did not rouse at his approach and seemed asleep. He still did not see the sentries and made a mental note to move them closer to the prisoners on the morrow.

Before reaching his bedroll, Haldir passed his eyes once more over every human face. All twelve remained still, oblivious to his presence and the external world. Half-awake, he gave it no further thought and lay down in his sleeping place again. The significance of the number did not occur to him until early day broke into the sky.

Near the roots of a golden bush, scarcely to be seen in the pale light, a single drop of dried blood clung to the tips of a grass blade.

Haldir rose from his knees slowly and turned to face his soldiers who were watching him with wan faces. Several of them were still guarding the humans who looked even more paranoid, pale with the knowledge that they were going to die: doomed to vanish one by one into a darkness from which there was no returning. That the so-called “mercy” of the elves did not exist. They had no hope that any of theirs had really escaped and horrible visions chased around and around their minds as they tried to rationalize this.

“You all know your responsibility,” Haldir said, meeting the eyes of every one of his soldiers as he paced their line. “You all know that prisoners are protected under our law. I will not belittle you by reminding you that when you break that law, you betray what you stand for. And you betray me.” He didn’t want to say this. He knew what had happened. But he also knew if he said nothing, they would grow too curious and ask too many questions that he didn’t have the strength to answer.

Several pairs of eyes looked away from his though he knew they were not the guilty ones. He inhaled shallowly. “Who was on watch last night?”

No one answered.

Haldir’s face hardened, his chest aching. “If you do not speak up, every one of you will be punished for negligence. Speak! Who was on watch last night?”

“I was, sir.”

“Thillas.”

The elf with a v-shaped nick in his ear from a sword blow looked abashed but his shoulders straightened as he stepped out of line. “I stood watch with Déorian from the time our camp bedded down to mid-night.”

Haldir suddenly remembered vividly the soft brush of air, the garbled gasp in the night. He crooked two fingers at the subordinates, beckoning them. “All right. Déorian, Thillas, step forward. The rest of you—go about your duties.”

They dispersed as the two soldiers stood awkwardly before their second.

“Speak, Thillas. You stood watch until mid-night.”

“I—I fell asleep, sir,” the elf cast his head down ashamedly, his eyes heartbreakingly guilty. “I am sorry, I have failed in your trust.”

Haldir didn’t have the heart to rebuke him. “No. It is my fault.”

Thillas looked up at him, startled.

“I will see to it that the watches are rotated more frequently. I know you all have been run rather ragged recently. Go on. I’ll not report this but don’t let it happen again.”

“I won’t. Thank you, sir!” Thillas bobbed a quick bow and shot off.

Déorian turned to follow him but Haldir stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Déorian, a moment. Tell me what you did.”

The tracker looked a little confused but reported. “It was very quiet, sir. I checked the prisoners before mid-night and they were all there; they were all fine. I went back to my post and stayed there ’til dawn. I didn’t know Thillas had fallen asleep—he was on the other side of the ridge.”

“Did you hear anything strange?” Haldir asked.

“Aside from a few crickets and an inquisitive fox? No, sir,” said Déorian, looking puzzled at the odd question. “I circled the perimeter and kept not a few yards from the prisoners. I heard and saw nothing.”

Déorian watched his officer stare into the distance, his thought obviously elsewhere. But he knew better than to pry; it wasn’t his place.

Finally seeming to notice him still standing there, Haldir shook off his thoughts and shooed the tracker away. “Thank you, Déorian. You’re dismissed.”

Meanwhile a small commotion had broken out around the prisoners. They were refusing to go further. “I will not,” Ramir buckled his knees, refusing to take his own weight even when his guard tried to drag him up. “If you are going to kill us, do so now! But this slow death march is nothing more than a delay.”

Another followed his lead. “You are marching us all to our deaths. You’re not going to free us!”

The Gondorian leader’s eyes shone with rage and humiliation as they glared up at the elves. “You killed us in the dark before,” his voice grated on Haldir’s ears. The man laughed, an ugly sound. “What’s to stop you from doing it now? Now, that we are all trussed like pheasants for the plucking.”

Thankful that his soldiers could not understand common, Haldir tried to restrain his anger and turned his back on the human. They didn’t know he was trying to save their lives by getting them to move. They were in more danger here than if they chose to move on. The borders were less than a few hours’ hard march away. And then he would be free.

Ramir snarled, his face twisted with hate. “You don’t even have the courage to kill us with our hands unbound!”

“Oh? And you did?” Fedorian’s cool voice as slick and sharp as a knife blade slid into Ramir’s ears. The man visibly stiffened as the elf crouched beside him, his half-blind eyes boring into the Gondorian leader, his voice lowered to a hoarse whisper that only he could hear.

“I understand, you are very brave, ohtar. You are very brave. You beat women who kneel before you. You strike a man with whips while bound to a tree. You wait until you are backed by a score of men before taking down a single elven warrior. Very courageous of you,” the elf mocked, his eyes flaming with a still more fervent fire. “And yet you cannot take it when someone decides to visit just punishment on you for what you have done.”

Ramir remained voiceless, glaring at the other with hatred beyond words.

Fedorian absorbed it painlessly. “You will march. And then, yes, you will die. Such is the fate of the mortal children. But it is better to live a few hours longer is it not? Than to die shamefully, sobbing at the end of a rope? At least while the noose tightens there is still a chance of wriggling free.” Fedorian smiled and rose, clapping Haldir on the shoulder as he passed. “They’re all yours, adjutant.”

Haldir glanced at his friend whose smile only widened. “Form up.”

The prisoners staggered reluctantly to their feet and shuffled into a semblance of a line.

“Sir,” Déorian stepped up to his superior, fidgeting uncomfortably. He stopped as Ancadal interrupted him with a rather harried look.

“Haldir, we found the—”

Haldir held up a hand to forestall him, frowning at the tracker who looked rather troubled. “Déorian? Speak.”

“I—I fear I have done some harm, sir.” The small tracker said. His eyes fastened to the ground.

Nodding for Rameil to take the captives on ahead, Haldir led his tracker a little aside. “Why would you think that?”

“Sir,” the tracker winced. “I was wrong, sir, when—when I said that I heard nothing last night.” He licked dry lips as his officer’s frown deepened.

“Explain.”

Déorian straightened his shoulders and reported in official, military manner. “Sir. I was sitting up by the path an hour before dawn. And I heard footsteps. Something heavy. Stumbling as though they were tired—or tied. They stopped after a little while.”

“You are sure it was not one of ours?”

“Yes, sir,” Déorian adamantly shook his head. “No elf is that… loud. I crept down into the underbrush to check it out thinking it might bet the first prisoner who escaped. There were two people as I could make out. It was very dark but I saw the man—he was still tied by the wrists though his legs were free. I was going to make myself known and stop him when—something else got him. I didn’t see what. But he jerked away.” the tracker’s face grew a little paler but his eyes remained fixed at a point above his superior’s left shoulder. “He made this horrible, choking noise and then he fell and he didn’t move again. I didn’t dare go closer to see who stood over him. And they disappeared.”

“Why do you come to me now?” Haldir waved off the elf’s beginning explanation to the rhetorical question. He closed his eyes. “All right. Well, what’s done is done.” He leveled a stern glance on his subordinate. “You should have told me this immediately.”

Déorian relaxed his stance a little in his distress. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think—I didn’t think it mattered really. It’s just one less for us to worry about, isn’t it?”

“Be that as it may that is no excuse for lying.” Haldir looked the tracker up and down. “Say nothing of this to the others. Dismissed.”

Déorian nodded again but did not move away, seeming hesitant.

Haldir raised his eyebrows. “Was there something more, Déorian?”

The tracker still looked confused. “Sir…who is in charge: you or Fedorian?”

Haldir wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Do nothing unless you hear from me… understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, Haldir turned to Ancadal who waited near his shoulder, looking away as though he had not heard a thing. “What is it?”

“We found the body.”

“Show me.” With a sinking dread clenching his stomach, he followed after his friend as Ancadal led him on a winding way in the opposite direction their contingent had taken. They crossed back through their campsite and took a course north. Haldir noticed the deep, springy undergrowth had been pressed down. By a thick boot too, of the make of no elf. He knelt suddenly and fished around in the undergrowth, plucking free a severed grey rope that had lain half-hid under a tree ten yards from where they had slept.

They found him sprawled facedown, his throat gaping wide in the dust. An irregular circle of crimson had spread underneath his chin and shoulders. Haldir stared down at the sad, crumpled figure, fighting back the press of memories, all too easily provoked by the sight.

“Go fetch the captain.”

When Ancadal had gone, he allowed himself to close his eyes and turn away, his face falling into his hands. He had thought this had ended. With the Gondorians under guard and leaving their forest, he thought this nightmare was over and he could begin to forget the trail of bodies he had left behind him. He just wanted to be able to live with himself again. At the moment, he was compromising himself and lying to those he cared for in order to protect another he should be loyal to.

“You asked for me?”

Haldir raised his head but did not turn at the recognizable footsteps. He did not need to. “There were no orders from the City were there?” he asked.

Fedorian came slowly to his side, staring down at the body as though it were a piece of trash stuck to the underside of his boot.

“You were relieved of command.”

Fedorian whirled on him, his face taut with anger. “I am still a captain here and I expect my orders to be obeyed!” His eyes burned hollowly like two flames within a cave.

Haldir faced him, calmly at last, for his mind was made up. “You cut the rope at the river. You killed the two missing prisoners.”

“I did.”

“Why did you have to do this?” Haldir gestured fiercely at the slain man. “They are bound, they are disarmed. They can harm us no longer.”

Fedorian tilted his head to one side as though confused. “Why did I do what? For days now, you have slain them beside me. When has this changed?”

“I don’t…I don’t feel right about this.” Rameil was right. He had denied it but now, faced with his commander, he couldn’t any longer. He felt guilty. Incredibly so. And it was eating away at him inside. He was just digging himself a deeper hole by going along with Fedorian. He had revenged himself on the men. He forced those memories to the back of his mind as he tried to think of a reply to his commander who was still measuring him.

“Right?” the captain echoed. “You do not think ridding our forest of enemies right?”

“Not that,” Haldir shook his head, trying to find the words to explain himself. “It is not what is being done… it is the manner in which it is done.”

“Killing them you mean?”

“They are no longer a threat.”

Fedorian’s frown darkened. “Why do you feel so guilty about this, Haldir? When did this change come on you?”

There was that word again: change. But this time, he felt it was for the better. “I cannot do this anymore,” he rubbed a hand over his face.

“You cannot? I don’t understand.”

Haldir hated to see the disappointment on his friend’s face.

“I expected better from you.”

Haldir tried to gather his reasons. “You mistake me. I have seen them punished. Justly so. I have protected my people. I have done my duty.” His voice rose sharply, unable to control it anymore as hurt and anger warred in his chest. “I think I have a right to decide how to live my life now.”

“You too easily forgive,” Fedorian sneered. The light behind his eyes flared with a white fire.

“I have not forgiven anything,” said Haldir, resenting the naked disapproval in his commander’s eyes. “But there is no longer any reason to do this! They are prisoners! We will escort them to the edge of our territory and that will be the end of it!”

“You think this will end with them?”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

Fedorian shook his head as though to dismiss the question. “So you think me incapable of restraint?” he raised an eyebrow. His eyes bored into his friend’s face.

The silence stretched uncomfortably.

Fedorian took him by the shoulders. “You are letting your guilt get the better of you, my friend.”

Haldir put aside his hands.

“It is not your good sense that revolts—it is fear!” His captain pressed forward until Haldir nearly backed over the body. “Fear of judgement! Of repercussion! Fear and guilt are very powerful emotions, Haldir, but we cannot let them rule our actions. It would be foolishness.” Fedorian’s face glowed as though behind his eyes a dark lantern burned through translucent shutters. There was something desperate in them. “Would you throw aside our long friendship? What, for them?” He gestured to the dead man, his voice thick with contempt, masking the hurt.

Haldir felt as though the other was circling him, examining him from every angle without ever moving. “I treasure our friendship more than anything. But, you have changed, my friend.”

“Of course I’ve changed, Haldir! My life is shattered! My wife is dead! My daughter! And the ones who are responsible you are letting go! That would change a creature made of stone! And I regret that I am not!” Fedorian was trembling, his eyes glittering and hands knotted.

Haldir felt horrible. He had not meant to bring up reminders of that painful time. Stammering he tried to save the situation. “I—I’m sorry, I just—”

Fedorian turned away, breathing deeply to master his composure. He looked over his shoulder at the other elf. “I have not forgotten what they did to you. And I never will,” he said. “If you will not see this through to the end I, at least, will.” He walked away, leaving Haldir to watch his retreating back.

When he had gone, Haldir sighed painfully. “I will see it to the end. But mayhap it will not be the one you desire.”

~*~

The silver trees thinned and fell away. Before them stretched a wide brown land disappearing into hazy distance. On their right, mere dark blots against the sky reared the mountains. To the left, the rolling dusty road swung left out of the forest and on towards the far-distant glimmer of the Anduin.

The twelve remaining Gondorians stood grouped before a long furrow in the dry earth. The elves stood back a little closer to the trees, their bows strung warily as their companions sliced the humans’ cords and passed back their weapons with the blades broken.

Fedorian’s hard green eyes passed over the ragged lines of men, his expression uncompromising. The captain turned into the wind and walked slowly along his ranks, halting beside his second. “Now, it has come to it,” he said. “They are armed and prisoners no longer under our law. Now, you must kill them.”

Haldir stared at him, distressed. How could he ask that, knowing what he did? “What?”

“They provoked us. You are blameless in this.” His eyes brightened. “You must be free of your fear and your guilt, Haldir,” Fedorian said. “They are not worth it. Remember the fire. Remember Geilrín. Remember Silivren. Remember the torment you suffered by their hands.”

Haldir closed his eyes. “I can’t.”

Fedorian glared sternly at him. “I am taking the choice out of your hands,” he said. “As your captain and your senior commander, it is an order.”

Haldir stood rooted to the earth. The practical, cold soldier’s mind rationalized that he had no choice. But his heart moaned. If he gave in, if he obeyed and killed them, what would he forfeit? What was worth the higher price? A friendship he had treasured beyond Ages. His cracking spirit. He had a choice he didn’t want to make.

He had no choice.

Fedorian’s command rang like a funeral knell. “Kill them.”

Author’s Note: This is officially the longest chapter I have ever written—if you actually read all that, bless you. I thrive on reviews—flattery is well and good. Criticism, gently given, is better.  Thank you with all my heart to all my readers and reviewers out there! Let me know what you think. Soon, alas, the tale will end.

Cheers!

~The Lady of Light~


Chapter 19 - Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen: Veiling the Ghosts

Choking dust swirled into his nostrils, his mouth swallowing dry with the taste of it. Not two paces behind him the ditch opened up like a gaping mouth. Ramir fought the urge to sneeze as sweat trickled down his temples and stung the corners of his eyes. The wound in his belly itched but he did not move. The elves still stood twenty yards from them, arrow tips pointed at the ground for now. It was said an elf’s aim could hit a bird’s eye in the dark. At sixty paces. Broad sunlight. A human even running was a dismayingly easy mark.

The Gondorian leader lowered his eyes from the heated glares and instead stared at his sword which lay at his feet snapped in half a fingerbreadth from the hilt. A grey film had already started to cover the leathern grip, the green jewel in its pommel dulled by dust. He remembered when he had first taken it up in this campaign. The war that had brought them hither, that had started with the Haradrim seemed a lifetime ago in another, less alien world. In a world he had controlled: he had known his target and defeated his target.

When had it all snapped out of his control? How had it come to this? At first, it had been a matter of law and war: allies of their enemies were to be dealt with little mercy. His brother’s death had helped him forget some of the finer points of dealing with prisoners of war and he regretted his grief-blinded actions now. What had started as a matter of duty twisted into something darker after their first captain’s death, deadlier. Personal retribution had led his hand and blindly he had followed onto a stumbling and doomed path.

Now, he had reached the end of his dark road with he and his men facing an execution squad of elven soldiers—to die when home stared longingly at them from across the dusty, barren ground, the glint of the River distant.

He was sorry he would never get to see it. And sorry he had dragged the others into it--especially young Malin. He swept the row and saw him two places from the end. His youthful cheeks appeared pallid under the freckles, his hair bleached by the sun. He was a good kid. He didn’t deserve to die like this.

The fire, he decided, that’s where it had all gone to pieces. He had been so taken with the idea of vengeance, all his actions had seemed justified at the time. He wondered if he could still justify them now. But it didn’t look like he was going to get the chance because the elf captain was pacing along the line of his soldiers to the lieutenant’s side, speaking words that sent dread piercing right to Ramir’s heart.

“Kill them.”

Haldir was unable to move, unable to unfreeze his mind where it had jammed around those two words. Given orders he had to obey. It wouldn’t be his fault, just orders. He could say they had provoked the elves into slaying them. It would be his word against their silence. It would so easy. So easy. And yet what was easy was not always right. Light pressure throbbed behind his eyes.

Fedorian was getting impatient with his lack of response. “Or if you are disinclined,” he waved at the elves assembled behind them. “Command them. They are more than eager.” His confidence belied the expressions on the faces of his men; the elven soldiers shifted restlessly, shooting uncertain sideways glances at one another. If the men attacked, certainly, they would kill them without question. But somehow the thought of Gondorians charging arrows with nothing more than broken swords seemed unlikely. Shooting them before a trench like targets in a field was disturbing and insulting.

Haldir looked at them, reading their faces. He could not ask something of them he would not do himself. “No, that will not be necessary.”

“Your captain has given you an order. It is your duty to obey.” His commander’s displeasure sliced through him like a knife.

“If we have brought them this far only to kill them what was the point?” Haldir argued. “It is folly.”

The Gondorian captain stared at the elf in astonishment. Was the elf he had tortured actually pleading to spare their lives? Ramir shook his head, he knew he would never have done so had he been in the elf’s place. A grudging respect stirred in him.

Fedorian dropped his voice so the elf before him was the only one who could hear his words. “You are making a very grave mistake, Haldir. I will see you demoted for this.”

“If that is your will.”

“Sir—” Rúmil had pushed his way to his brother’s side, his face white but determined. “—we have taken them this far maybe it is just better if we—”

“Stand down, youngling. It is not your place to question orders,” Fedorian snarled without taking his eyes from Haldir. Haldir gave his brother a look, warning to silence.

“I will accept whatever punishment you see fit to bestow. But I will not kill them.”

The other elven soldiers were looking at him strangely; they could not fathom that one of their own would openly defy their commanding officer like that. Mingled fury and hurt shone in Fedorian’s eyes. “I thought you treasured our friendship. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

Caught between a stone wall and a sword, his captain and his conscience, Haldir flinched. But he said no more. He had made up his mind.

“Haldir is right.”

Fedorian’s head snapped around and Haldir looked up, surprised, when Rameil stepped out of rank, shoving an arrow back into his quiver.

“He is right,” the dark-haired warrior repeated. “We have done enough. We have fought enough. I for one am tired of bloodshed and grief. I would see this end today without either.”

“I agree,” Ancadal said, stepping up beside Rameil, looking at Haldir with a small smile. Haldir smiled back gratefully.

Fedorian looked from one to the others. “This is insubordination.”

“We are obeying our second-in-command, sir,” Ancadal pointed out.

“Will none obey the orders their captain gives? Are you all recreant?” Fedorian shouted at them. “Kill them!”

“No!” Haldir raised his hands and stepped out as several soldiers raised nocked arrows. “Lower your bows,” he pleaded, ignoring the furious look Fedorian threw him.

The elven soldiers paused, dismayed, not knowing which officer to obey; and not liking being forced to choose. Fedorian was higher-ranking but some of the warriors were looking uncertain: they did not feel right shooting point-blank at men who were already unable to resist them.

Tension hung on a fraying thread.

An elf near the end of the ranked warriors suddenly dropped the sight of his bow and sighed. “I cannot, Captain,” he said, glancing apologetically to Fedorian. “If it is insubordination so be it. I would do many things for you. I would give my life for you and for Lórien. But this…”

His brave words snapped the strain in the air. One by one, the rest of the elven soldiers copied him. Arenath looked from his commander to them and slowly relaxed his bowstring with a deep sigh. The humans too, seeing that they were not going to be killed immediately, breathed a collective sigh of relief.

His pounding heart gradually easing to a more natural rhythm, Haldir faced his commander. “Please, my friend, release your hate. You have the power to end this peacefully.”

The captain stood looking at his men, at his friends who had abandoned him at the last. Even Rúmil would not meet his eyes. Disappointment weighed with rage on his stone-hard face, his hands worked, his body quivering slightly.

“You’re right, Haldir. I will end it.” The knife he had held concealed leapt from his hand before any could move to stop him.

Ramir knew it was meant for him and closed his eyes, preferring his last sight to be of darkness rather than the darkling gledes of his enemy’s eyes. But the sharp pain he expected did not come. Instead a softer, heavier impact knocked him back a pace, nearly toppling him into the ditch. He opened his eyes.

One alone had seen the knife before any. Malin had broken his place in line and flung himself before the blade. It had struck the boy deep in the chest, throwing him into his commander. Ramir grabbed the boy before he slipped into the dirt and slowly lowered him to the ground, his face white with shock as he stared numbly at the crimson covering his fingers.

The Gondorians gathered around him, the elves at the forest border stared in horror, astonished and sickened at how quickly it all had just happened. Rúmil leapt to his brother’s side. “Why did he do that?”

“Get back!” Haldir snapped at his younger brother, grabbing Fedorian’s wrist, Rameil his shoulder to keep him from lunging at the Gondorian captain who still stood, dazed, looking down at the dead boy. “Go! All of you! Be gone from here!” Haldir yelled at them, straining to hold onto his enraged commander.

“Let me go, Haldir! You know they do not deserve to live!” Fedorian elbowed Rameil savagely loosening his hold.

The human soldiers shot one glance at the grim-faced elves and drew off. One of them grabbed Ramir’s arm and tugged him up. Some scrambled into the ditch, others took to the road fleeing far from the enchanted wood, the Dwimordene, and its perilous warriors.

When the last of them had faded into the brown distance and even the keen-eyed had lost sight of anything more than small dots, Fedorian shrugged off their slackening grips. Rameil clutching his side glared daggers into the back of his head. All that remained of the men of Gondor was a crumpled, dusty form and a few shattered weapons. Haldir felt sick though his heart felt surprisingly lighter as he watched the last specks dwindle and vanish.

Rúmil’s eyes were not on the fleeing Gondorians. He regarded his captain with terrified pity. There were tears of fury glimmering in Fedorian’s eyes.

Before they could move however the noise of thundering hooves swept over them. As one, they turned towards the woods as four horsemen cantered into view, three held lances whose points flashed as the soldiers rode out onto the plain. Their faces were flushed with the sharp wind, their clothing deranged. Haldir recognized the blue-eyed leader and his shoulders tightened.

Laer dismounted, his stare raking the soldiers who stood frozen, watching their approach. The three guards with him fanned out to either side of the elven line and one rode towards the ditch, his far-seeing eyes straining for a long time. “Lieutenant!” he called, motioning with one hand.

The addressed elf’s blue gaze fell on the speaker who leaned over a motionless limp figure sprawled half-in half-out of the ditch. He crouched beside it. “This was one of the Gondorian prisoners?”

“Yes sir,” one of Fedorian’s soldiers who had drawn a little closer answered.

Laer did not lift his eyes. “Did he resist or try to attack with his… broken sword?”

The answer came quieter this time. “No sir.”

Laer rose, pressing Fedorian’s black knife into his hand with a stern disapproving glare. The other took it and sheathed it without a word.

The northern march commander looked up with dark, angry eyes. They seemed to freeze the younger officer in place so hot the fierceness held. But when he spoke, his voice remained coldly neutral. “If you will, I beg leave—for one worn in service,” he bowed his head a fraction and stepped aside.

Laer seemed half-ready to restrain him and looked towards one of his guards who immediately broke off and followed. When they had gone, the Royal Guard lieutenant glanced back at the body, addressing his remaining guards. “Get a detail to bury that. The rest of you, return to barracks. Wait there until further orders.”

Pushing through the others, Haldir arrested Laer with a hand on his arm. “What will happen to him?”

Mingled disgust and sympathy warred on Laer’s hard visage. “He has broken the law.” He pulled away.

~*~

The fragrance of sweet woodsmoke filled his lungs as Haldir breathed in the night air. Outside barracks, the returning soldiers had kindled a small fire and sat about it as was their custom at the end of a hard labor to boast and talk and drink until the stars dimmed at first light. Orophin who had been left behind to man the barracks was being informed of the exciting last few days.

Haldir listened with a quiet smile to the outrageous exaggerations some of the soldiers were regaling his brother with—he would have to set his brother straight later, right now he felt too tired to attempt to shout down the voices. They didn’t talk about the fear that had stolen over them those terrible days, the uncertainty and leaderless mess that had made them question even their duty to each other. Instead they made a boast of the whole thing as though what had happened was just strange and amusing, a thing to be proud of instead of mortified.

Haldir let his thoughts wander from the thread of conversation after a while. There was a lot of speculation flying fast through the company: not all of them had been present or at the battle when the Gondorians had been subdued or on the plain when it had all come down to the thinnest wire. Tongues wagged more than they should, freed by finally the first opportunity for relaxation in long weeks and a little wine. Though he was more than happy to be able to sit amongst his friends without fear or anger plaguing him,
he still felt oddly separated from them.

A cold, hard knot had settled heavily in the pit of his stomach, withdrawing him from taking part in the ease and laughter of the others. Guilt still plagued him. Those sitting around him did not know the part he had played in this grisly affair. And he would not enlighten them. Instead he kept back and tried to wrench his thoughts away from the dark and press of bloody memories…

Aimed skillfully, something soft and round struck him right in the center of his forehead and bounced off. He frowned in annoyance but still did not open his eyes. A light, mischievous snicker drifted to his ears. The next one hit a bulls’ eye inside his shirt collar.

Haldir opened his eyes a fraction. “Your weregild will be a poor price. I have not coin to spare for it.”

Just to push his buttons one last time, one last one struck him right in the ear. Recoiling from the uncomfortable feeling, Haldir rubbed the offended spot and scooped a few of the missiles from the ground, firing them back with deadly accuracy at his grinning adversary.

“You looked far too melancholy, mellon nin,” Rameil protested, laughing helplessly, as he ducked behind hapless Linwen to avoid the missiles.

“I am not involved in this!” resenting being used as a shield, the female guard smacked the dark-haired elf away and scuttled out of the line of fire. “Waste of good grapes!”

“All right! All right! I yield!” Rameil gasped, throwing his hands up before his face. “I have yet to pay your back for that honey seed incident you know!” he grinned, sitting cautiously beside his friend again now the threat of death by grape was no longer imminent. “I couldn’t get that sticky mess out of my hair for days!”

Haldir smiled. “That was Ancadal’s fault entirely.”

“Hey!” the elf blamed protested from across the fire. “Was not! Legolas started it.”

“Oh, of course, blame a child smaller than you!”

The good-natured ribbing went back and forth for a while after which someone struck up a tale encouraging the others to a few songs to pass the night watches.

Rúmil sat beside Orophin, watching the happy group, the firelight glow upon their faces. He smiled: it was good to hear his eldest brother laugh again; he had sorely missed it these last few weeks. It lightened his heart greatly to know everything was resolved now. There were no more messy secrets, no more hiding. A sense of normalcy had returned to their lives. Among such company, he almost didn’t notice the absence of one. None had seen the commander since they had arrived back.

Quarrel forgotten, Rameil, Ancadal and Haldir had removed themselves a little from the group, the evening wind cool on their fire-warmed skin. Resting his head in a deep tussock, Haldir folded his hands across his stomach and gazed up through the leafy boughs whirling pale silver above their heads.

“What are you thinking of?”

Haldir tried to come up with something and in the end just shook his head. “Nothing in particular really. Just, I haven’t seen stars like that in a long time.”

Rameil looked up with a smile and a nod. “They are beautiful tonight—it’s much clearer than it has been in a long while.”

“Ah, the light of Elbereth,” Ancadal sighed. “Well… I’m hungry.”

The other two laughed at their incorrigible friend.

“We just ate, you glutton!” Rameil smacked the other elf’s leg as he passed. “Honestly.”

The merriment in the little glade changed as Laer stepped into the circle of firelight, a few murmured words were spoken in greeting but the atmosphere had fallen suddenly hushed and expectant. Word had circled round that he had gone to speak to the captain and they were waiting on him to tell them what would happen now. But it seemed that at this point Laer would not speak and gradually talk rose again to a dull roar.

Looking tired and troubled Laer took a seat beside a soldier who had saved him a spot near the fire.

After a few minutes, his friend pressed him quietly, eager to be the first to pass on sought-after news. “What did he say?”

“Well, I have no doubt he’s completely mad,” Laer muttered, accepting a steaming clay mug with a shake of his head.

Sitting near, Rúmil felt his chest tighten as he leaned closer, trying not to look as though he were eavesdropping.

“He will be gone by fall, I have been assured of that,” the lieutenant continued. “At last someone competent will command the north marches.”

His friend smiled ingratiatingly. “You, perhaps?”

“No, I think not… I am content to—”

“Rúmil, where are you going?” Orophin’s voice called after him as Rúmil rose from his place by the fire.

“I’m just going to take a walk.”

The night was fine and cloudless. The russet tinges of fall had barely begun to frost the air and the breeze could scarcely be felt. But Rúmil found he could not enjoy the evening after what he’d heard. He needed to get away from the talk and gossip and reconcile his own troubled heart before he could face it again. He had seen the disappointment and betrayal in his mentor’s eyes, it had cut him to the very quick. Letting his feet draw him where they would, he wandered a while until he came to the foot of a flet. Bright against the sky, he could see the glimmer of a blue lantern high above.

On the threshold he hesitated like a stranger, uncertain and nervous—he wasn’t supposed to be here by order but he couldn’t stay away. Not after what had happened. Two armed guards flanked the door as though for a prisoner, their expressions veiled by deep white hoods. They crossed their spears across the entryway to bar his path.

“None are to see him, soldier. Stand back.”

“Since when have the Royal Guard stretched their authority beyond Caras Galadhon?” Rúmil demanded, struggling to retain a polite but insistent dignity over his worry. “What has the captain done that he be trammeled in his own home?”

“That is not for us to say,” the guard carrying the foremost spear answered, willfully avoiding his eyes by staring at a point over his right shoulder. He shifted when Rúmil continued to stare hard at him. “I am sorry. By order of the lieutenant, there can be no visitors, the captain is to be kept isolated,” he repeated, trying to affect an implacable expression but succeeding only in looking more uncomfortable. “Those are our orders.”

“It is an urgent matter that I speak with him.”

“Perhaps if you tell us what it is, we may ascertain for ourselves whether or not it is urgent.”

“It is a private matter. I will bear full responsibility for the ‘prisoner’s’ detainment,” Rúmil tried a different tact appealing to their sense of duty. “You have my word.”

The sentinel glanced at his taller companion who answered. “I will remain to make certain of it.” The smaller guard saluted and stepped back and down the stairs to take up a post at the foot of the ladder. Rúmil glanced at the taller hooded guard; something resonated in him, familiar but distant. Dismissing it, he hurried into the dark chamber.

As his eyes adjusted a sour taste rose in Rúmil’s mouth: the familiar one of guilt. He had not set foot in these rooms since Geilrín’s burial and perhaps that’s what brought to mind the dark images of a funeral, the dim, stark emptiness of an unoccupied home.

It was so dark and quiet in the flet compared to the warm camaraderie he’d left behind, Rúmil found himself tiptoeing and dimming the natural glow of his skin to a glimmer. Peeking through a half-closed door, he saw Eremae sitting on the edge of her bed, her face turned the darkened window. The healer looked up as her door creaked. He retreated a little as she rose and opened it wider.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped, her lantern swinging before her, momentarily blinding her view of the intruder. “Why can you all not leave him alone? Has he not been interrogated enough to satisfy you!”

Rúmil stepped back, surprised and abashed. “I have not come to interrogate him! I—” Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember why he had come.

“Rúmil?” Eremae shifted her lantern to the table, a faint tinge to her cheeks as his face became clear to her. “I’m sorry I thought you were…What can I do for you?”

“A light would be welcome,” he smiled a little.

The soft circle of candlelight fell about his feet as he paced down a short passage halting before a door. It was open only a crack. Rúmil put his face to the partition then barely pressed on the door so it swung inward a few inches, enough for him to squeeze through.

A green-paned window was first to meet his eyes. Silver moonlight shone through the glass transforming it into a shimmering curtain of falling water, dark as the bottom of a river. It spilled a rippling shadow over the bedspread on which a still figure lay. Arrayed all in black and silver, Fedorian rested on his wife’s side of the bed. Looking on his face, Rúmil might have thought him sleeping endlessly, a captain nobly fallen in the line of duty now only awaiting his pyre.

The sight made Rúmil’s stomach turn and he crossed the room quickly, the light of his candle pushing long shadows against the walls and melting a softer, warmer pallor over the white face turned towards the wall. Looking down, Rúmil for a moment felt an icy chill move over him, stirring the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. Cold melted down his spine like ice. But he could see Fedorian was not asleep and the folded hands on his breast rose and fell shallowly.

The quiet pressed ever more stiflingly on him as he struggled for words, wanting but fearful to break the silence. “Sir?” The word no more than a whisper.

The blinded eye flickered orange as the candle flame spilled over his face, hollowing his thin cheeks with shadows. “Rúmil.”

Rúmil moved the candle to the night table where it cast a weak, unsteady glow save where the light did not reach the darker corners.

“I am glad you have come,” Fedorian said, rising slowly, “I have something for you… I thought I would have to send it with Laer, though he would likely steal it and melt it down.” As he spoke, he walked to the dresser and, opening a small drawer, withdrew a folded kerchief.

Rúmil took it curiously and unwound it. The white folds fell away revealing in the center of his hand, a small silver circle, unadorned and unmarked crafted of flawless mithril. Rúmil stared at the small fortune in his hand, incredulous. He looked up questioningly at his mentor who smiled fondly nodding to the small thing.

“It is my wedding band.”

A cold crushing band of grief and guilt cinched around the younger elf’s chest as he looked with renewed horror at the ring. “I cannot take this,” he whispered, mortified. The emotional heaviness of the band weighted down his fingers until he feared he might actually drop it.

“Hers… could not be…I thought, perhaps, that if you were to have it… some part of us would not be forgotten here.”

Rúmil shook his head slowly, unable to fathom this small thing he held in the palm of his hand. His commander’s words slowly sank in and something he had not known had been tight and hurting in him relaxed. He would remember them as they once were, not this bitter end. Geilrín’s compassion. Silivren’s gentleness. Fedorian’s strength.

He closed his fingers over the small circlet. “Garathon ha. Garathon rîn. I will take it then. I will remember.”

The ring began to dig into Rúmil’s palm through the cloth, he clutched it so tightly. “What Laer said is true then… they—”

“They have taken from me that which I last treasured,” Fedorian did not face the younger elf, bent over something lying in one of the dark corners. “Perhaps, in time, I could be forgiven my mistakes… but not soon enough in the memory of the Eldar… never again would it be the same as it once was…” He sighed. “But I can never find peace here now.”

Rúmil felt pity well in his breast, mingling with the guilt and confusion he had carried in him for so long. “I… I would have you here… still.”

Now, Fedorian looked at him, his eyes glittering in the dim candlelight reaching across the dark recess. “Nay. You would not.” He was brutally forthright and read the true answer in the elf’s eyes. “Do not pity me, Rúmil. To most I do not deserve it. Your brothers are enough for you now. You will take care of each other. You always have,” Fedorian spared him a weak, half-smile. “If there is one thing I can be grateful of, it is that I have been blessed with being able to watch you grow. You have been a bright star in my life when the path before my feet was black. I will cherish that for my road will be dark and no blessing of starlight will shine on it—save perhaps at its end.”

Rúmil smiled sadly: in those words he could almost hear the mentor he remembered, catch a glimpse of him behind the ravaged face and empty eyes. Almost.

“I do not have much time,” the captain continued, glancing out the green windowpane. “It will be moonset soon. I wanted to leave before dawn.”

“Where will you go?”

“I cannot stay here, Rúmil,” he said in a firm but soft voice. “At least this time
we have time for a proper farewell,” he half-smiled again that same sad strange smile. “You have learned enough hard lessons.”

Rúmil didn’t know what to say though he thought that he should have known somehow this was going to happen, had been destined to happen for a while.

“Captain.”

Rúmil jumped at the new voice, not even having heard the footfalls of the elf now standing in the doorway: it was the taller guard he had accosted in the doorway.

Fedorian, having been expecting him, rose and Rúmil could finally see he had been bending over a sizeable haversack, which he slung over his shoulder. “I am ready.”

“I thought I would be the only one to farewell you tonight. It gladdens my heart to see it is not so,” stepping into the room, the guard presented the elf captain’s two black-handled knives to him wrapped in a dark cloth.

Rúmil looked at the elf again, the stirring in his memory even stronger than before. The guard caught his look and under the hood, smiled but his gaze had already reverted back to the captain. “I took it upon myself to speak to Arenath, he will accompany you withersoever you wish to go,” he said. “I think it would be wise to leave soon if you wish to escape the wrath of Lieutenant Laer.” There was a hint of humor in his sorrow-darkened eyes.

“I leave before dawn, my lord. I will not burden you by lingering.”

At the address, Rúmil’s eyes widened and he looked quickly at the other elf and finally recognition dawned on him.

“Lord Celeborn?” he whispered in astonishment.

The Lord of the Galadhrim lowered his cowl with a soft chuckle, his silver hair spilling from his cloak. “Indeed, yes, Rúmil. I rode in early several nights’ ago with Laer’s officers. I thought my presence might be needed. But even my presence will not be enough if we are discovered here, let us go quickly.”

With a terse nod, Fedorian swept out into the passage.

Eremae met them before they left. She dropped a low reverence to the lord as his face became known to her. “My lord.” She turned to her friend. “All arrangements are made.” There was no quaver in her voice but a deep sadness and pity and hope lay in her eyes as she looked up at him. “I hope you find what you seek. May the Valar always go with you, my dear friend,” she kissed him very lightly on the cheek as he clasped her hands in his but said nothing, only nodded and moved past.

Celeborn had gone on ahead to dismiss the guard at the foot of the stairs so all was clear when he and Rúmil reached the bottom. They did not have to wait long before they heard the light thud of horses’ hooves as Arenath rode up to them. He nodded to Rúmil and bowed to Lord Celeborn from the saddle. “It is time for us to take our leave.”

Celeborn gravely clasped his and then Fedorian’s hand. “We are losing fine officers.”

“And gaining peace,” Fedorian smiled wryly. “Though I fear the Lady will not be pleased that you have superseded her will in this. Thank you.”

“She will pardon me.” Celeborn smiled. “And I you for your long and faithful service: that debt I can never repay.”

“I daresay others will manage it,” the once-commander of the north marches strapped his pack securely to his mount and lastly looked to Rúmil who fumbled for words, his heart heavy. “I left something for Haldir in my room will you see that he gets it?”

Rúmil nodded, unsticking his throat. “Noro na ind maer a galu le am a erin men bain, gon nin, saelon nin, mellon nin muin. Go with good will and blessing upon you and a fair road ahead, my captain, my teacher, my dear friend.” He spoke formally to mask the ache in his chest but it became too great for him and, overcome with loss, Rúmil flung his arms around his captain, shutting his eyes tightly against the betraying burn in the corners of his eyes. He pressed his face into his mentor’s shoulder, the old scent of blood and death clung still under the verbena.

Fedorian rested the side of his face against the younger elf’s temple and clasped the back of his head in a last, rare gesture of affection. “Ú-eveditham, tinu. We will not meet again, bright star.”

“Garathon rîn. I will remember.”

They remained so a moment only then Fedorian mounted. He looked down at them but his eyes were already distant on the road ahead. “Cuio vae. Live well.”

Rúmil watched with dry eyes as the two figures, silver-painted in flashes of moonlight and leaf-shadow, sped on to the borders’ fringe, through the thinning trees and finally broke from the Golden Wood and passed on into a pale dawn


Chapter 20 - Chapter Twenty

Author’s Note: Little technical note, though the capital city was Osgiliath in this early Third Age, the king had a summer house in Minas Anor.

Chapter Twenty: A Small Measure of Peace

The land of Gondor lay serene under a pale blue sky. Summer had already begun to fade into early autumn though blue and purple flowers still filled the king’s gardens with fragrance. A fountain on whose white rim a stately figure sat flashed and spouted foam into the shimmering basin.

Minas Ithil, not yet conquered and envenomed by the evil of Mordor, shone like a spark of white fire on a shoulder of the Mountains of Shadow, guarding ever the entryway into that dark land. Its vile lord was overthrown, but not yet utterly defeated. It would rise again. Enjoying the warm afternoon, Melendil, a far-seeing man, knew it to be so and thither his concentration lay for a little until a herald’s voice brazen as the trumpets broke it.

“Forty-second company of the Calenardhon Division reporting, Sire!”

Meneldil, son of Anárion son of Elendil, and third King of Gondor was surprised but did not look away from the beautiful shapely branches spreading green boughs and cool shadows over his uncrowned head. The flowering White Tree gleamed, planted by his uncle in memory of his father.

“Bring them out here so we may talk in peace.”

The herald bowed.

Ten ragged, travel-weary soldiers walked onto the porch and bowed before him.

Meneldil after the fashion of his father and uncle rose to greet the homecomers. “Welcome home, warriors. I will ask you to speak only briefly so you might soon give your families joy at your return.”

Their leader stepped forward and again bowed low, returning the greeting graciously. “Our thanks, Sire. Had it not been for the generosity of Eorl and the Men of Éothéod there would have been neither joy nor homecoming for us I fear.”

Meneldil smiled and gestured them to cushion seats. “I would have you tell me the full tale of your journey. Long have you passed beyond our sight into unknown lands.” In truth, he had stopped expecting tidings of the forty-second company of the Calenardhon Division. It was with mingled joy and sorrow he listened as they began relating their endless journey south from the forest borders to the Anduin. He knew a little of the tale for an instrument of far-seeing had fallen into his possession with the deaths of his grandsire and uncle. But all was golden mist over the wood and only of late had he glimpsed the hunched, bent figures trudging on the southward road.

“It is a long, weary tale, Sire. I would be excused from the full length of it if I may,” Ramir replied with head bowed. “My men will speak if they have the will—they have traveled long leagues without relief.”

The King smiled again, chiding himself. “I am a poor general who keeps his men weak on their legs.” Meneldil clapped his hands, summoning food and drink for them. They sat on the lawn and ate while the returning men told all but carefully reserved judgement of their commander’s actions in the north of the world, many leagues from their home. Ramir stayed silent, his heart black and heavy with thought. His king’s face lightened at the slaughter of the Haradrim and darkened at the Elves.

Meneldil guessed or knew most of what had been left unsaid for he was shrewd and wise in such matters. “It is grievous news you bring, Captain. I asked for no war with the Dwimordene,” he rebuked quietly, using their name for the illusory wooded realm in the north. “Against that power I have never been tested—nor wish to be. You are indeed all fortunate to escape so unscathed.”

“Nay, lord! Not even unscathed are we!” mourned Ramir. “Not one of us is unmarked.” He shook his head. “Not one though we bear few wounds and only scars to tell of it!”

Stars glittered far overhead as Ramir plodded back to his home on the fifth level. He had informed his brother’s family of his loss and Malin’s of his. With heart heavy, he went to his dark, untended home. The grass was overgrown and no lantern greeted him in the window. He did not light one but fumbled blindly through the dusty-smelling recesses and fell into bed.

Tall silver trees invaded his dreams, grey figures prowling through the mists of his memory and stirring the embers of his fear until he awoke sweating in the cool nights. In the shadowed corners of his room, he saw vengeful green and pale eyes or the flick of a knife that vanished as soon as he turned up a lamp.

In the city, he ever looked over his shoulder as though expecting to be confronted by the tip of an arrow. He knew it was impossible: Elves could not pass unremarked in Minas Anor anymore. But even that knowledge was no comfort. The eyes of his fellow man bored into him from behind, blaming and cursing him for their loss and his cowardice. He stopped going out, refusing to trust the insecurity of open roads and dark alleys, and endure what he deemed jeering stares.

But the dark enclosure of his home did not set him at ease. The green and pale eyes crossed the floors when shadows of evening lengthened. He lit every candle and lantern he owned to chase back the grasping dark though with such light, sleep would not come. He huddled in a chair, facing the door, his sword resting close to hand. He nearly flew from his seat, panting in terror, when his second knocked, concerned for his captain had not reported for duty in over a week. None answered his calls. Ramir waited with sword drawn until he was sure the enemy had withdrawn. They would not get what they wanted. He would make sure of that. Ill with fever and wariness, a fey mood took him.

“You will not get me,” he hissed as shadows began to crawl out of the corners, the tapers on table and bedside guttering down to waxy puddles. “You will never have me!” he leapt up, screeching, his voice broken and sobbing. “I have escaped you! I have won! I have won!” He laughed wildly, capering and swinging his blade at the shadows. “You will never have me!”

A wild chop bedded the sharp tip of his blade deep in one of the wooden bedposts. He tugged it free with a wrench and knocked over something he couldn’t see. With a great noise, it tipped and shattered on the floor. Wetness soaked his sleeve to the elbow as he threw out an arm to save his fall. He groped blindly across the floor for his sword which the fall had knocked from his grasp. Something sharp and hard snicked his hand. He yelped and drew his finger to his lips, a metallic taste flooding his mouth.

Something shifted in the corner of his eye. Craning his neck over his shoulder, he lunged grasping his sword heedlessly by the blade, the keen edges slicing into his palms. Terrible fear scattered his thoughts as he discerned the flash of deadly eyes near the window. He tripped, stumbling forward, and slammed heavily into the wall, hilt first, casting himself on the point.

The quiet moonlight, half-shrouded in cloud, glimmered innocently on a green basin of clear water lying beneath the window.

~*~

Dawn’s scarce light had begun to shade the walls when Haldir let himself in to Rúmil’s talan in the city (Orophin slept a few platforms away with his wife and daughter.) Moving silently and carefully through the sleeping rooms, he skirted a small round table and passed a silhouetted shelf of books along one wall—Rúmil was an avid reader of old tales when he could find the time.

Haldir almost tripped over a muddy boot flopping in the bedroom doorway. Nudging it aside, he checked for its partner and found it hanging off the ankle of the elf sprawled on the bed within. It looked like Rúmil had scarcely bothered to remove his weapon before falling face first onto the covers. He had just returned from a difficult patrol an hour or so ago.

His elder brother shook his head, a faint smile playing over his lips as he plucked the wavering boot from its precarious position and laid it beside its counterpart. Pausing in the doorway, he remembered in their youth, after a long day of playing warrior or training, they would all but collapse exhausted into their beds. That at least hadn’t changed with their ages.

Haldir smiled. He loved his brothers dearly and he would die to protect them.

And he would kill to protect them too. Had killed to protect them.

Wanting to go no further along that road, he eased Rúmil’s half-hanging arm back to his side. The younger elf, half-waking, rolled over and curled his arm against his head.

Haldir waited until he settled before delicately trying to remove the brass clasped belt. Deftly with an air of expert practice he slid it out from under his brother’s prone form.

“Come on, Haldir. Go away and let me sleep—even Mother hasn’t taken my boots off in ages.”

Haldir didn’t split the hair that their mother had passed over the sea millennia ago. “She would have a fit if she saw you sleeping in your clothes again.”

Rúmil grinned against his pillow, half-heartedly kicking out at his brother. Nevertheless, he squirmed out of his tunic and flung it to the floor, a fine chain clinking gently on the small silver band hanging against his chest as he shoved himself under the blankets. “There. Good night.”

Haldir, picking up the tunic, smothered an exasperated chuckle as he tossed it over the back of Rúmil’s desk chair and slipped from the room.

Too wound to sleep but too tired to seek his own quarters, Haldir wandered into the dining room. Rúmil wouldn’t mind if he spent the morning here. Neither were expected to report to the parade grounds until early afternoon.

He knew these rooms as well as he knew his own. He and his brothers had spent many evenings in this kitchenette while on leave exchanging news and stories and occasionally coin. Heating water, he rifled through the cupboards, trying to remember where his notoriously disorganized brother kept the tea leaves. Grinning triumphantly, he lifted a small tin from the top corner of a cabinet where it had been wedged between a can of sword oil and a polishing rag and from it withdrew a few brittle, sweet-smelling leaves.

As he waited for water to boil, he mulled over the events of yesterday afternoon.

The summons he had long dreaded had finally come. And Laer had been waiting to escort him personally up to the lord’s chambers.

“It has not been so long since last I came this way,” Haldir said, delicately but with a pointed look at the other man.

“The evenings are growing darker earlier now though the borders are flourishing I am told,” Laer said, pretending he hadn’t heard the strong hint in Haldir’s words.

Haldir, resigning himself to the disagreeable elf’s company, made an incoherent noise in the back of his throat.

In official rank, they were equal but Laer clearly didn’t think so in regards to their moral superiority. He swung several paces behind Haldir, his voice a pedantic, menacing drone. “The Lord Celeborn has become very interested of late in the workings of the northern fences. Particularly recent battles. You are aware of our law I presume, Lieutenant. Where possible we take prisoners rather than lives?”

“Yes,” Haldir said quietly but not without frustration. Laer wanted to dress him down and put him in his place which Haldir had resented immensely. He knew what he had done, he would pay for the price for it—and had. But he would not stand here and be condemned by this soldier who was far too filled with a sense of his own importance.

“I know what you have done, Haldir. And Lord Celeborn knows too,” Laer said, a dark insinuation sliding beneath the satisfaction.

To keep his mind off the pricking nettles of anger at the not-so-gentle prods, Haldir focused on the beautiful relief traceries on the stairs, all the while wondering if he would be able to reach the top without adding assault to his list of transgressions. He clenched his fists to restrain himself and took a few deep breaths.

Laer, oblivious of his peril, pressed on. “You drank this business to the dregs, didn’t you? You were close in Fedorian’s counsels. You know he took the blame upon his own shoulders,” his barely constrained leer indicated what his words didn’t and just how much he believed anything Fedorian had to say in defense of the younger officer.

“It’s a miracle you haven’t been rank-stripped yourself. Given your…experiences in the past, one wonders if you can continue with the strenuous responsibilities of a lieutenant though I have heard the lord grants leniency to the pitiable.” The barb had been inaccurately aimed and meant to rile. Laer had only heard surface rumors of what had happened in Mirkwood and on the borders. Had he known a tenth of the truth he might not have said something so callously foolish.

Spine stiffening, Haldir pushed back his own apprehension with difficulty. He had a hard enough time trying to come to grips with what he had done without needing Laer’s reminder and the upcoming lecture from his liege. He knew his behavior warranted immediate dismissal. But the guard had become an integral part of him since his father’s passing; it was all he had. Unlike Rúmil, Haldir did not have doubts about his place on the perimeter. If he were dismissed from it… what would he do? What was he if not a soldier? He couldn’t, daren’t, think that far ahead for his stomach already heaved with nervousness and anxiety. But with every step he took, the burden and nausea grew thicker and heavier.

“I understand he also grants requested transferences—a wondrously timed method for evading any uncomfortable peril.”

Stung, Laer stopped dead on the stairs and pinkened visibly at the ear tips. “Are you calling me a coward?”

Haldir glanced over his shoulder at the clench-fisted elf standing several stairs below him. “It seems I am.”

Satisfied that he had suitably offended the pompous lieutenant and would not be asked his opinion for some time, Haldir strode up the remainder of the stairs in blessed if tense silence laden with loathing. That animosity between them would last well on into a few thousand years.

Celeborn must have seen something of his irritation in his face for he smiled when Haldir stood before him, Laer having left him at the door still retaining a sullen silence. “I see you received my missive. Thank you for your promptness.”

Haldir bowed as was custom. “My lord, of course.”

The silver-haired lord gracefully stood from his decorative chair and beckoned the young officer closer. “I thought we would keep this private between you and I, therefore I emptied the hall for today.”

Indeed the hall was almost obscenely quiet. Haldir could hear the rushing stream far below them at the foot of the great mallorn. This was not altogether reassuring.

Celeborn led him aside into the same, comfortable antechamber as before. The gracefully carved wooden chairs were a little too well-cushioned for Haldir’s unsettled state and he preferred to stand while Celeborn settled himself, a goblet in one hand, the other nudging another glass across the table for his guest.

“The seasons were kind to us this year—we have most excellent vintage.” Celeborn smiled gently over the rim of his cup. It did nothing to reassure the younger officer who continued to remain edgily standing.

Celeborn gave up on light conversation and set his goblet with a light chink on the pale-wooded table. “Fedorian has been gone some weeks; and the borders are coming, if slowly, back together. But there are still certain issues that need to be addressed—as I’m sure you understand.”

Conceding this with a small jerk of his head, Haldir scooped up the proffered glass and drained it, ignoring his lord’s upraised eyebrow.

Celeborn leaned forward and refilled their glasses. “You know of course, that the northern marches now need a new captain.”

Again, Haldir could only nod. But he failed to see what this had to do with him and rather wished his lord would get on with his dismissal. The quicker, he rationalized, the less painful. He didn’t want to prolong this meeting any longer than he had to.

But Celeborn seemed of a different mind and remained quiet for a little, examining the straight-backed officer in front of him over the fringe of his cup. Haldir had come through the worst. But the elder elf was concerned about the quiet seclusion the elf seemed to be gathering to himself: as though, after what he had done, he did not consider himself worthy of any company. Even now, his eyes remained on the floor between his boots.

“I have something important to address to you, Haldir, and I hope you will hear met.”

Haldir frowned impatiently, scratching the herbal pad that covered his shoulder blade injury. “Sir?”

Celeborn sighed. “This has been a terrible business. Never before has the like of it happened, and I pray it won’t happen again. I do not think we need fear retaliation from Gondor, however—Meneldil is a wise king.”

At this point, Haldir really wished Celeborn would stop being gentle and just let the hammer-stroke fall. He wanted to get out of there, and his glass was empty again.

“I have seen the world outside these borders, Haldir, and I know the evil that exists there. But I also know of that which can be found even within these borders. There is the obvious kind: wargs, orcs, the foul things that creep from darkness and decay. But there is also the kind of evil that can be found even within the heart of the truest warrior: anger, hurt, grief, jealousy. Vengeance. These things are not inherently evil in themselves of course but they can be if steps are not taken to prevent it.”

Haldir fingered the stem of his glass. Celeborn knew more than he had thought.

The silver-haired elf lord stopped seeking the other’s eyes when Haldir remained staring into his glass. “You know there is a regulation three-day confinement for disobeying a superior’s order—no matter the nature of the command, that is our law,”

Haldir nodded; he had expected that, and worse.

“Afterwards, I would like you to take up a new post on the northern fences—”

Here it was, the demotion he’d expected and feared.

“—as Captain.”

Haldir’s head snapped up. For a moment, he gaped at his lord, speechless. Celeborn only smiled politely, waiting for the elf to master his shock.

“…why?” As soon as the word slipped out, Haldir mentally berated himself for such an insolent remark. Engaging in undeclared warfare alone was enough to have him charged and arrested and here he was questioning a promotion!

Celeborn seemed to have expected the question however for he looked neither angry nor annoyed, indeed, he looked almost amused. “I have it on more than one officer’s good faith that you showed extraordinary judgement and courage throughout this trouble with Gondor and have the makings of a fine superior officer.”

“My lord… you are more than generous,” Haldir, completely taken aback, managed to at last stammer a polite response. “But I… I cannot accept it. I would not feel…right…to accept it,” he admitted.

“May I ask why?”

Haldir‘s throat squeezing tight with humiliation, choking his voice.

“You do not feel worthy,” Celeborn shrewdly guessed, tilting his head slightly to look up into the younger elf’s face.

Haldir remained silent, shame and embarrassment flushing hot across his neck. Working around the lump in his throat, “May I be free to speak, my lord?”

“Certainly, Haldir. Always.”

“Why do you choose me? Surely, someone else who is not so—Rameil, for instance, was a lieutenant alongside me. He has shown far better sense than I. Or—”

“Haldir,” Celeborn cut off his ramblings gently. “I chose you because of the way you are. The humility and good judgement you have shown I—”

“Good judgement?” Haldir interrupted, knowing he should not have done so but unable to help himself. He laughed bitterly. “When have I ever shown good judgement throughout any of this? I let my desire for vengeance control me and burn away any grain of sense! I will not make excuses for my actions, Lord, but I fail to see how this is indicative of anything but folly. The things I’ve done…There’s no sense in that.” His eyes, which for once had been raised and intense, dropped again and he sighed shakily, pushing a hand through his unbound hair.

Celeborn grew solemn. So, already the struggle had begun—one which would take many years to end, if it ever would: the silent, hidden struggle of guilt which if left to dwell on drained you and abandoned you. Completely empty of anything but soul-stealing despair. “All you said is true. Your desire for vengeance, perhaps, and also your loyalty to a friend you trusted. But, think, Haldir, you have come through this with little ill effect. You have kept yourself and you are whole still. Your desire for revenge did not turn to complete evil. You have already taken the first steps back along a hard road to prevent such evil from taking over your life. Such experiences harden soldiers and I do see that in your eyes.”

Haldir looked up slowly, waiting.

“But because of it, because of what you have endured, you know better than anyone else the mistakes a leader, a soldier, can make—and you know how to keep from making that same err in judgment again. Do you feel remorse for the lives you have taken?”

Haldir paused and brushed a hand over his eyes, overwhelmed. “Some. One. I—” He chose his words carefully. “I cannot regret doing the duty I am foresworn to do: protecting this land and people. However, matters… grew out of hand which, if I could, I would redress.”

“That very willingness is why,” Celeborn stood and folded his hands behind his back in a rather characteristic gesture. “Somehow, I perceived sparing the eleven lives of defeated enemy soldiers a noble and sensible act. An act worthy of a captain in my service.”

The whistling kettle drew him from reflection. Haldir grabbed a glazed clay mug from an upper cabinet in Rúmil’s kitchen. Celeborn had told him to take as much time as he needed to decide but he also knew that the borders could not remain forever under the control of lesser officers whose authority was not always heeded when a higher-ranking officer was not present.

Purloining one of the leather-bound volumes from his brother’s bookshelf, steaming mug in his other hand Haldir made his way outside and spent a quiet morning comfortably on the porch.

Rúmil shuffled out as the sun slanted onto Haldir’s eyes, stirring him from an impromptu doze. The book had slid off his lap and now rested on its edges against the chair leg. Scooping it up, he smiled at his still bleary-eyed brother who sat down beside him and gazed over the golden roof and fading lanterns of Caras Galadhon.

“It’s going to be warm today,” he remarked.

Haldir stood and stretched the lingering dawn chill from his limbs. “Good.”

Rúmil stared at his hands for a few minutes, seeming to want to say something but oddly hesitant. “I would ask your opinion of something if I may,” he said, unusually solemn.

Haldir looked at his brother, fingering his empty tea cup. Rúmil’s jaw was set and a strange glimmer shone in his eyes. The soft lines of adolescence had completely faded from his cheeks and mouth. He looked older and Haldir could not fathom when that had happened.

“Ever have you been both father and brother to Orophin and I,” Rúmil said, adjusting the hem of his tunic, his thoughts leaping ahead of themselves as he contemplated what he would say.

Dropping his gaze, Haldir sighed and stared at the brown dregs. “And there are days where I feel less than adequate to be either.”

“Still, I feel I should ask your permission for this.”

Haldir looked up at his brother who had stood. When had he grown so tall? “That’s certainly a change.”

Rúmil caught his frown and frowned as well. “Well, I have—that is to say I wanted to tell you but with all that’s been going on and you leaving yesterday, I felt maybe now we could…”

Haldir shook his head and stood, his brother unshrinking. “How have you gotten so tall?”

Rúmil gave him a baffled look then laughed. The words came easier. “I will not pick up a sword again. I have seen too much death of late,” as he spoke he fingered the silver chain around his neck.

Haldir tilted his head; he understood his brother’s feelings but he also knew all soldiers experienced a kind of uncertainty at some point in their lives. But what he saw in Rúmil’s eyes was not uncertainty, but longing for a change, a difference. “What do you wish to do then?”

Rúmil raised his head, eyes shining. “Teach. I have watched enough young elves die. I would fight if it was needed but I would rather remain a noncommissioned officer, a sergeant maybe if I can get the promotion.”

Grey eyes, so like his father’s, examined Rúmil carefully, held him, weighing. “Well, they are searching for a replacement sergeant-at-arms,” Haldir said, leaning back in his chair.

“You are not disappointed?” Rúmil’s quiet tone showed fear of recrimination more than his face. “I will not be fighting beside you and Orophin on the lines anymore.”

Haldir smiled slightly. “You are old enough to make your own choices, Rúmil. I know that now. At this rate, I shan’t have to worry over you on the borders. Or shall I?” The smile widened to a full-fledged grin at the thought of his brother taking on the role of instructor to their rather… enthusiastic recruits. “Teaching isn’t easy. I wish you the best, Rúmil. You will be more hard-pressed than on any battlefield.”

“I know,” Rúmil clasped Haldir’s wrist, elated. “And I welcome it. I go today to speak with the conscription officer.”

“And I,” Haldir said, standing reluctantly. “Have to report to the guardhouse.”

~*~

Now that the north marches had finally gotten back on its feet, the members of the eastern guard who had remained behind to help could return to their neglected, peaceful boundaries. Haldir, newly released from his confinement, stood beside the last of Alfirin’s patrol, the captain himself among them.

“It was an honor to fight alongside you, Lieutenant,” Linwen said with a gentle smile, grasping Haldir’s hand with a strength that belied her small stature. “I would like to again.”

“Perhaps when she’s sick of the eastern chestnuts, she’ll come, and jolly well join your ranks. And good riddance too,” Alfirin grinned teasingly as Linwen gave him a mock-hurt look.

Haldir smiled. He would miss these two. “You are both welcome anytime.”

The older elf gripped his shoulder. “I’d like a word, chap, if you can spare me.”

“What can I do for you, Captain?”

Alfirin drew him to one side with all the air of a conspirator. “A little sparrow told me that mayhap I will be addressing you as such sooner rather than later.” He winked. “Congratulations, old scout.”

“It is not official yet,” said Haldir, a little embarrassed. Suddenly, he knew who had recommended his name to Lord Celeborn.

Alfirin only chuckled as he released the younger elf. With a silent order and last wave, the “mad hares” of the eastern border completely melted into the woodland with a flash of green and gold.

~*~

White starlight glittered overhead, pricking the entire sky with light brighter than the new moon which hung dark in the west. A cool, close-to-autumn breeze rippled the grass and stirred the pale gold hair of the assembled elves. Many were there: Alfirin, Linwen, Déorian, Thillas and others of both the northern fences and the eastern guard. Rameil, Ancadal and Haldir’s brothers stood near a white wooden dais built for the occasion, their faces alight with pride and wonderment.

Apart from the others and nearest the dais stood a single figure. On the platform above sat the Lord and Lady clothed in shining white and silver, their hair unbound and falling about their fair shoulders. Stars shone in her eyes and sunlight glittered in her hair as the Lady held forth a white hand. At her beckoning, Haldir slowly stepped forward, his heart beating hard in his chest. His gold broidered sleeves glinted.

The white lady of the Galadhrim spoke, her voice high and clear in the still air. “Haldir of the Northern Fences, you have served the borders well for many years—as a tracker, as a scout. A lieutenant. An adjutant. Are you prepared to accept the voice of command?

“It will be to you that your soldiers look in times of despair and hopelessness, when violence and terror repel love and courage. Are you prepared to stand forth when darkness shadows our lands? Can you find it within you to fight even when you deem your strength is gone?”

Celeborn stepped up beside her. “Death is often the price paid for those who so vigilantly protect our borders. Are you willing to accept that burden? And will you obey your lord’s command even at the risk of your own immortal life? Are you prepared to make that sacrifice? Answer if you so swear.”

Something stirred in Haldir’s heart then and lit a fire in his spirit. All the anger, grief, guilt burned away as his lord and lady’s words washed over him. It seemed everything that had happened to him the last few months had all led up to this single moment. He would not forget what had been done to him by the men of Gondor nor what he had done in return but he could change it, mold his pain into something better, something stronger than vengeance and anger. Something worthwhile.

It would take many years to rebuild the soldiers’ trust that had been so ruthlessly shattered in the wake of this tragedy. But he found that he was ready for the challenge. Haldir felt his legs trembling and his mouth dry but he squared his shoulders and answered in a surprisingly strong, steady tone.

“I so swear.”

Slowly, he raised his head, meeting their clear eyes. Alight with the wisdom and deep wells of both sorrow and joy those eyes had seen two full Ages of this world. Something flickered in those fathomless depths: foresight? Perhaps. Not even Galadriel, the greatest of Elves, could read the future in its completeness but a sense of greatness hung about this one, she could feel it for he kept her gaze long and did not shrink.

Yes, he would do great things.

He descended to one knee before the regal pair, his head bowed and intoned the ritual words of offering. “I swear duty, love and life to my lord and my people until Mandos’ Halls accept me or the world ends.”

Celeborn clasped Haldir’s folded hands in the ritual gesture of acceptance. “So do I accept this: duty, love and life to your lord and people until Mandos’ Halls accept you or the world ends.”

Celeborn released him as Galadriel leaned forward, uplifting his chin, and kissed his brow.

“Arise,” she smiled, lifting a translucent hand. “Haldir, Captain of Lothlórien.”

~The End~


Chapter 21 - Epilogue

~*~Epilogue~*~

~~~Many Years Later ~~~

“They’re going to have your skin for this.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe you did that! You know you are a cruel old slavedriver. A stone-hearted tyrant! A soul-sucking martinet!”

“Are you finished?”

“… yes.”

A door opened. “Goodnight, Linwen.”

“Goodnight, Captain.”

With a jaw-cracking yawn, Haldir shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over the chair sitting beside the entryway for just such a purpose. “I am not a soul-sucking martinet,” he said to the closed door as he kicked off his boots and set them beside his cloak. The recruits would just have to buck up and bear it if they wanted to join the Guard— he only took the best. He paced down a short corridor combing tangles out of his hair as he went.

More work was still waiting for him when he entered his study with a steaming cup in hand. Leaflets of parchment lay scattered all over his darkly stained desk in messily organized piles: supply requisitions, applications for transferals, post lists… It made his eyes ache with tiredness and boredom. Paperwork was definitely not his strongpoint. Setting his cup near to hand, Haldir, staring reflectively at the ceiling, rocked his chair back against the wall, Maybe he’d bully his adjutant into finishing those requisitions tomorrow—or else the Nimrodel post would have to hunt for their lunch.

Rameil, yet a bachelor as Haldir was, slept on the floor above: the captain had had room to spare after Lord Celeborn’s generous grant some years ago. It had worked well thus far as a mutually beneficial if a little odd arrangement. But his friend would most likely not be bullied or prevailed upon to take on extra paperwork when he had his own. Haldir heaved an exasperated sigh and resigned himself to several hours’ torment.

Grumbling, he sifted through a pile on his left and glanced at a few sheets. A list of applicants—more recruits for the replacement guard. Haldir smiled a little. His youngest brother had a job ahead of him. Yet, Haldir’s smile quickly faded to dismay: it would take him some hours to sort through all the formal requests and weed out the chaff which meant replying to every single one of them. Looking for distraction—any distraction—to put off that ugly business a moment longer, he noticed his quiver had been slung somewhat haphazardly underneath a hand-drawn map of the borders.

Haldir frowned. How had that happened? He was never so careless with his gear. He spent the next few minutes trying to figure out the problem when he remembered the skinny lad who had volunteered to clean and put away the officers’ weapons: the boy liked to watch the guardians compete and, though a little young, was probably one of the applicants in Haldir’s massive paper pile.

Leaping up, the captain scooped up his quiver and bow laid them carefully to one side in a wardrobe in his bedroom. He had almost closed the wardrobe door again when something shifted and fell with a soft flump within: his quiver had knocked one of his tunics off its hook. It slumped in a dark pile on the cedar floor. Haldir pulled it out, fingering the midnight blue fabric absently, the velvet whispered under the strokes of his fingers. He had not worn this in a long, long time though he took care to keep it meticulously cleaned and brushed. It smelled like cedar after so many years in the back of the closet.

Carrying the material back to his desk, Haldir frowned thoughtfully. He draped the elegant taper-sleeved shirt over the back of his chair. If he cocked his head just right and narrowed his eyes, in the dim candlelight he could almost imagine another sitting there. He smiled with distant memories and sad. He still thought of his friend from time to time.

Fedorian had been gone for long years and no tidings had ever come back to Lórien. Haldir hoped that he had found peace—perhaps across the Sea, reunited with his wife and daughter at last. Adjusting a gold-embroidered sleeve, a faint, true smile touched his lips: the bitterness that had lingered between them even with Fedorian gone had transformed even as the seasons into regret.

“Le adtirathon, mellon nin. I will see you again, my friend,” he whispered to the half-seen shadow of memory.

He had no inkling just how true his words were—or how soon his half-velleity would be granted (but that is another story entirely.)

The elf captain folded the tunic carefully and replaced it in the wardrobe even as he set the memories on a shelf in his mind. He still had work to do before he caught a few hours’ sleep before the dawn patrol. And he had to tell his brother about the new recruits. They had a busy summer ahead and Haldir welcomed it with all his heart.
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