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

Title: First Name Terms (#3349)
Author: TheLadyofLight
Chapters: 4

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings (Movieverse)
Description: Some people really do just turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, Aragorn is that person when, unwitting, he ventures into a battle-ravaged ravine on the east side of the mountains near a particular golden wood.
Published: 09 Mar 2007
Updated: 09 Mar 2007
Warnings: A little blood, less gore
Type: Drama
Characters: Aragorn, Haldir


Chapter 1 - Part One

Author’s Notes (and there’s a few so brace yourself): Well, here it is. My very first post on Haldir Lovers Yahoo Group. If you’ve been absolutely dying to read this, I’ll be…surprised. But enjoy anyway.

Fandom:

Lord of the Rings.

Disclaimer:

I have no permission from the author to use his characters or his world, but thankfully, since I am making no profit from this the chance of being sued is unlikely. I am no expert in Middle Earth and frequently get lost in its unexplored vastnesses. Any omissions, inconsistencies, bad jokes, canon errors are the fault of the writer.

Genre:

Movieverse. Angst, Drama, Hurt / Comfort. Suspense. Action-Adventure. Pick one.

Summary:

Some people really do just turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, Aragorn is that person when, unwitting, he ventures into a battle-ravaged ravine on the east side of the mountains near a particular golden wood.

Cast: (all main characters):

Haldir, Aragorn

Warnings:

Central Aragorn-angst (naturally I threw some Haldir in there too) but no explicit torture or anything else of an unseemly nature- except for orcs of course.

Rating:

PG-13. Just for violence’s sake.

Other Lord of the Rings Stories Authored by the Lady of Light:

Agar Saer (Bitter Blood)

The Cost of Blood

Previous works now removed for revision

Agarwaen (Bloodstained)

Blood and Stone

(You do NOT need to have read either Agar Saer or Cost of Blood before reading this one- much to your relief I’m sure because both are rather lengthy).

Betas:

There is no greater critic of your writing than you yourself.

Spoilers:

None for Tolkien’s works. However, if you would like to read either of my previous stories (and I hope you do) be warned that there are spoilers in this for their plots (more Cost of Blood than Agar Saer though). And both stories can currently be found in their entirety on fanfiction.net under The Lady of Light.

For this story, only note that Haldir was once imprisoned in a Gondorian encampment as a prisoner of war and was very badly mistreated by them which resulted in widespread and personal near-destruction.

Timeline:

This takes place later in the Third Age. Aragorn is at last making his debut appearance.

Additional Disclaimers:

Like many others I believe that Lord Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir are Aragorn’s adopted family and his true family. They love him and treat him as one of their own. I realize that not everyone views it this way (though I actually haven’t met anyone who doesn’t) just know this is my view and my stories will reflect that.

Also, in my stories, Haldir has achieved the rank of Captain among the Galadhrim of Lothlórien. However, this is complete conjecture since we do not know for certain if he ever had such a position among the sentinels. In all likelihood he would have had only the title “marchwarden” like the elves of Doriath. His leadership is strongly implied in the movies and not commented on in the books.

Feedback:

Comments and questions are always very much appreciated and dutifully replied to.
(Apparently I lied. That was only a page and a quarter. Enjoy!)

First Name Terms

The Lady of Light

Part One

A Beginning Venture

Chilly droplets beaded in auburn tresses. Shuddering slightly as icy beads slid down the back of his neck, the young man hiked the rain-spotted cloak further up around his shoulders. The fog had descended without warning scarce an hour ago, cold, wet and all-encompassing. The mountains at his back had vanished in its shadow. Nevertheless, he continued doggedly on keeping the autumnal chill off and hoping to find a suitable place to camp other than the uncomfortably steep gorge he stood on now. Picking a path carefully along the slope, he tensed every time a shrub or wind-whipped boulder rose like phantoms out of the murk before him. His brothers had warned him of the dangers of fog-not all of them weather.

As he stumbled and nearly fell for the umpteenth time on rocks only half-seen, he realized two things. One, it was getting darker. And two, he was quite lost. The thought of being lost didn’t bother him unduly for he was a ranger—albeit a very young one. But the fog was thickening by the minute and he could scarcely see two or three yards distant. Coupled with the fact that the height of the gorge was completely unknown to him, he did not fancy trying his luck.

Scrambling a few feet further down out of the worst of the wind, he nestled into a smooth niche that had been scooped out of the cleft side by countless seasons of harsh wind and rains.
Scarcely five feet from his little niche, the rock ledge dropped out of sight into fathomless fog-bound shadows.

Among the wind-tossed debris of dead leaves, he tucked his oversized overcoat closer around him and made a frugal meal of the last of his provisions. When the fog clears I’ll go hunt. His brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, would probably be out on the moors by now searching for rabbit in between their pursuit for orcs. Sun would be dappling into the bright valley of Rivendell, glinting off the waterfalls and rainbow-hued streams…The trees already changing to gold…
Staving off thoughts of homesickness Aragorn-for that was exactly who the young man was-began to hum softly to himself, unconscious of the sheer walls to either side that caused even the softest of sounds to reverberate in the dark chasms below. After his meal, he stretched and settled himself in the niche, determined to keep a watchful vigil until he felt rested enough to go on. He was a stranger here and on his way to Lothlórien.

Elladan and Elrohir had often regaled him around the Hall fires with tales of their far kin, the Galadhrim, who lived east of the mountains. Even more elusive than Mirkwood’s hunters were the Galadhrim. Ferocious fighters and hunters the like of which existed now only in legend lived in that great forest; hunters who had run with the marchwardens of Doriath at the height of its power, those who remembered and practiced ancient woodcraft, war and stalking as it had been taught in the Elder Days. That was why Aragorn, a burgeoning huntsman himself, had set off on his own four weeks ago to seek out that guarded realm.

But the fog had led him astray. He had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to find a way out of the gorge’s maze without having to backtrack eighteen leagues to where he had entered it but the fog had firmly stamped on those plans. Now after a long exhausting scramble in this bleak country he was sore and exhausted. His voice grew fainter and fainter and finally fell silent altogether. Before he realized it, the would-be ranger’s head sank onto his breast, the sword hilt sliding out of his listless grasp.

Low clouds dampened the rocks to an even darker shade of grey. The weak sunlight that every so often managed to break through the mist could not reach the rocky ledge and the sleeping figure on it.

Aragorn’s hands twitched. His dripping bangs spilled into his eyes, his back and shoulders already numb with cold. The discomfort wakened him despite utter exhaustion still nibbling at the edges of his mind. The first thing he saw was the fog which, far from lightening, had actually thickened-a black and heavy shroud. As his eyes slowly readjusted to the darkness he spied a thin shape creeping towards his ledge.

At first the sleepy human thought little of it: fog often played tricks on the minds of those unfortunate enough to become snared in its webs. But this figure was not inconstant like the other phantom-shapes. It walked purposefully and steadily upslope, digging in heels and elbows to propel itself upwards with surprising agility. And it was coming straight towards him. The back of Aragorn’s neck began to prickle.

A slick, putrid sound like rotten flesh peeled back from bone crawled into his ears. It took Aragorn a moment to recognize it as a voice.

“Good and quiet, my sweets,” the voice whispered. “Almost home with our treasures.”
It was an orc. And one very well-pleased with himself at that. Slaquer had just finished a tidy bit of business laid out on the rocks down around the treeline. Around his hairy neck swung several flasks of varying sizes. More than six daggers had been thrust into his broad belt and over one shoulder hung a cracked quiver filled with two arrows gleaned from a broken hand. The bow in his other hand was fashioned much more elegantly than any orcish craftsman could make and his pack fairly bulged with other unspeakable things.

Aragorn could see the luminous yellow eyes which pierced the fog much easier than his own. Moving very carefully, he reached for the hilt lying by his side. But the blade scraped against stone as he tightened his hold on the smooth leather.

The bone-picker stopped short, slitted nostrils widening as he breathed in the human’s fear-scent. “What’s this?” Black lips peeled back in a wide grin as the ranger held his sword defensively across his chest. “Didn’t expect a live one.”

Aragorn exchanged no words with the creature as his hands tightened convulsively on the cold leathern hilt. But he knew his only hope was to move fast—his sword was useless against a bow.

The orc knew this too and his twisted lips contorted in a grin of triumph as he pulled the loaded string against his jaw. “Like shooting a little bird.”

But instead of leaping away as his enemy had expected, Aragorn dove straight at the arrow, swinging out in a wide arc. Any other, more experienced warrior would never have dared such a bravely foolish stunt but the orc was so surprised by the human’s impulsive attack that he staggered back as the sword swung at him, smacking the bow right out of his hands.

Swearing, Slaquer dug his claws into the human’s shoulder as the stroke carried him past and swung him around hard, hurling the youthful body away with all his wiry strength. The momentum of the orc and his own body slammed Aragorn with awesome force into the unrelenting cliff wall, leaving him partially stunned and breathless.

The bow’s haft had been scarred and nearly severed by the blade but it still worked. Snatching it up, the orc pulled the second arrow to his jaw.

Still half-dazed with blood trickling down his chin, Aragorn hauled himself to his feet. The rocks were slick from the mist and his boots skidded as he fought to keep his balance.
The stumble spoiled the orc’s aim. But not well enough.

Aragorn, though having a few perilous close shaves to his name, had never actually been struck with an arrow before, his brothers being far too overprotective to allow such a thing to happen. But they were not here now.

The shock of the bolt piercing his lower left shoulder momentarily stunned him and for a precious second or two he didn’t even feel the pain. Then his legs gave out. He could only stare in horror at the wooden shaft protruding grotesquely from his tunic and the steadily growing patch that turned it an even darker green.

A quiet laugh like bugs crawling over dead flesh made him snap his head up though it hurt his chest to do so. Slaquer, was still standing over him, fingering his bow. Thinking his quarry finished, the orc ignored him and began rifling through the man’s pack for anything of value.
”That is not yours.” His vision flickered so severely, all Aragorn could see was the weird reverse-image outline of the orc standing a yard away from him. But he had found some unused reserve of strength in him. With a supreme effort he forced the pain back and blinked his vision clear.

“Still stubborn, gangrel?” With cruelty typical of his race, Slaquer backhanded the defiant human roughly, splitting his cheek and knocking him to the ground dangerously close to the precipice.

The shaft jolted on the stone hard enough to bend the wood and force it deeper into yielding flesh. Aragorn cried out in a voice choked by dirt and his head dropped onto the rocks as he abruptly lost consciousness.

Bending over, Slaquer briefly resumed pawing through the man’s pack, finding nothing but a packet of smelly herbs, a spare tunic, trousers and a wooden pipe. But there was a sword strapped to the young man’s belt. Aragorn groaned as the orc roughly turned him over and snapped his belt buckle off, flinging it aside for the blade.

“This’ll do.” He twirled the blade once before sheathing it and hitching it over his shoulder by the strap. “Nothing else worth having.”

With a savage grunt the orc tipped the limp body over the edge, smiling widely in dark satisfaction when he heard the thud of impact far below.


Chapter 2 - Part Two

Part Two

Vigilance

The tempestuous sky that had threatened all afternoon finally broke at twilight and sent down a heavy drizzle that washed the grey stones clean. A cold wind chilled the shuddering pines. But the soldier crouched within them did not feel it. He perched on one of the ancient branches perilously. He held as still as the rocks beneath him, the only part of him that moved were his eyes which roved ceaselessly over the grey rock, searching.

“Captain?”

The addressed did not turn as his branch trembled a little under another’s weight.

The newcomer waited a moment for acknowledgement. He looked younger than his counterpart though they had the same colored hair and grey tunics which did not differentiate officers from subordinates for obvious safety reasons. At the moment the elf’s usually merry eyes were troubled though he tried to hide it under a mask of playfulness.

“If you’ve fallen asleep on me, I’m going to steal your bread ration. All this climbing is hungry work,” though he rubbed his hollow stomach wistfully.

When still no acknowledgement came, he half-leaned out to one side, trying to catch a glimpse of his companion’s face. “Did you hear me? I said I’m going to steal your bread ration.”

“You can have it all if you have good news to report.”

The younger elf let out a long, disappointed sigh. “Well, then I’m afraid it’s another lean supper tonight.”

A sympathetic smile curled the officer’s lips as he licked a venturesome raindrop rolling down his upper lip. “Are you going to make that report any time soon, Ancadal, or are you waiting until I waste away?”

Ancadal swept several drenched tendrils out of his face before resting his weight against the tree trunk and pretending to examine his mud-crusted boots as he spoke. “Thillas’ wounds are mending well, thankfully. But our supplies are low. Orcs have robbed the land of whatever fertility and beauty it once had and the foraging party came back with almost nothing.” It was the orcs that had brought them there in the first place after a raid on the borders had left six good warriors slain. “We won’t be able to hold out much longer at this rate.”

His captain straightened up and stretched, his legs having cramped after kneeling motionless for so long. “What of Gilas?” He asked as blood tingled back into his extremities. They had sent a runner through the lines when the fighting had finally lulled in hopes of reaching Lothlórien and reinforcements. That was eight days ago now and the elves dispatched to the ravine had only carried light supplies when going into battle.

“No word.” Ancadal stared up through the dripping old pines which, for sheer age, had nearly lost all their needles. “What are we going to do if he doesn’t return in time, Haldir? We don’t even know if he made it. Orcs were crawling all over that rift passage…”

“We must hope-and keep up our strength,” Haldir, the captain of the northern fences, had been rummaging in a satchel looped over a branch as he spoke and extracted a crumbling leaf-wrapped package which he tossed to his friend. “How long do we have?”

Ancadal caught it against his chest and snapped off a small piece of the precious golden wafer within. Chewing slowly to savor it, he sat down, letting his legs dangle. “Enough for tonight. The next day maybe. In all likelihood the wolves will get us before we starve to death.”

“That’s reassuring, Ancadal, thank you.”

Ancadal smiled slightly. “I try. But Annondil is going to drive me to distraction before either wolves or hunger get us. He has all his father’s arrogance and talent for underestimating the enemy. He still doesn’t see why we don’t just charge the orcs-as if we had the numbers!”

“Is there any chance at all, do you think, that they might finish each other off?”

“I wish.” Ancadal snorted. He didn’t like Annondil, one of the younger officers in their small group. The Colonel of the Guard, a hard-nosed former soldier, had shipped his eldest off to the borders as soon as tempers got hot at home to visit suffering on the northern fences, whose commanding officer he often locked horns with.

“A stripe or two would not go amiss with that young hot-head,” Haldir murmured, returning his gaze to the silent trees. “Pity they let that tradition die out.”

“Good thing too or there wouldn’t be much of you left,” Ancadal grinned.

Haldir threw a sour look over his shoulder. “What mean you? I was a good little soldier.”
Ancadal burst into cynical laughter as he picked crumbs off his tunic. “Oh, yes! Never will I forget your dedicated duty to sleeping through the watch until Fedorian came round to snap you up on your heels.”

“The dawn watch!” Haldir protested mildly. “Who can stay awake through that? The boredom alone saps you of all will. Fortunately-” he continued as he leapt lightly to the ground. “I have subordinates to do that for me now.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” Ancadal followed his companion, landing catlike beside him.

The two warriors fell silent as they made their careful way along the tree edge, keeping to cover as much as they could. The near naked pine trees and lack of undergrowth left them terribly exposed but they led charmed lives or were watched over by something higher than themselves or their enemies for they met nothing.

Suddenly Haldir reached out and grasped his friend’s sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. “Do you hear that?”

The younger elf stilled and listened. “Sounds like…”

As one, they concealed themselves quickly within the shadow of an overhang as another chuckle of dark laughter trickled down from the rocks. They scarcely repressed a shudder at the horrible voice, straining to catch the words.

“Still stubborn, gangrel?”

A soft cry of pain jolted the keen ears of the elves but it was lost in the rattle of things they couldn’t see and presently the voice spoke again.

“Nothing else worth having.”

Without warning, a loud clattering, grating noise reached their ears and a few stones slipped down from above, suddenly followed by something dark and heavy which fell over the hanging spur the elves crouched under and landed almost at their feet.

The orc and his quarry had been more than six meters above his head and Aragorn was just regaining consciousness when he felt the orc’s steel-tipped boot prod him towards the ledge. He didn’t even have time to grasp vainly at the stone before he felt air open up beneath him. He free fell eighteen feet before the slope leveled and he slammed into an uneven angle of stony ground, landing on his injured shoulder. Brilliant bursts of purple and yellow exploded in front of his eyes as a rock split open his temple at the same time his arm gave a nauseating crack. A wave of pain washed blackness before his eyes and he surrendered gladly into it.

As the dust settled, the elves ventured slowly out of their concealment. Haldir glanced up at the overhang. There were no more voices. The orc was not coming for his prey.

“It is no orc,” Ancadal said, moving cautiously towards the limp figure sprawled not two feet from them.

“It is a man,” his companion’s voice was very quiet.

The younger elf glanced over his shoulder at his officer then back at the pitiful figure slumped on the rocks. “What on earth is a human doing out here?”

“Should I have an answer to that question?”

“Oh, he’s young, Haldir.” Ancadal knelt beside the still form and gently turned him over onto his back.

Aragorn moaned but did not regain consciousness.

Only slowly did Haldir convince himself to approach though he remained standing, staring down at his friend’s head and the darker one beneath him. “Are not all humans young to us?”

“He’s barely more than a child.”

Haldir rapped his blade on the rocky ground impatiently, blunting the tip. All traces of his former good humor had deserted him. “What does that matter? Come. Before others do. Who knows how many he was unfortunate to come across before they slew him…” He was already walking away.

“He’s not dead.”

The captain froze. Turning slowly, he regarded his friend with something akin to disappointment. “What?”

Ancadal was bent close to the young man, listening to his breath intently. “He lives. His chest rises and falls still. I don’t know for how long though…he took a bad-”

“By rights he should be dead…after a fall like that…” Despite himself, Haldir knelt next to his fellow soldier, eyeing the unforeseen difficulty that had so suddenly dropped into their already overly-complicated lives.

Long years of fighting seemingly insurmountable and often hopeless wars, recovering broken bodies of young recruits from the battlefront, and watching his world change ever more speedily around him had worn threadbare the precious compassion left in the elf captain, leaving behind only the roughened edges. Haldir eyed the human with immediate distrust.

Ancadal’s voice prompted him out of his thoughts. “Haldir? What are we going to do with him?”

“We do not need any more injured to deal with. Nor another mouth to feed.”

“But he will die if he’s left here on his own,” Ancadal said, slightly shocked. “You would not leave him here alone to face whatever jackal might come across him.”

“Go back to camp. I’ll be there shortly.”

Ancadal balked at the order, clearly uncertain. “What are you going to do with him?”

Haldir looked at him sharply and Ancadal knew he had come dangerously close to those invisible lines all who personally knew the commander could not cross, that impassable barrier between friend and captain. The strength of authority in the other’s face unbent the other’s knees.

Ancadal glanced uneasily down at him. Even his friend’s prestigious rank could not completely prevent him from issuing at least one caution. “His death is not certain.”

“What is in this world?”

When he was sure the younger elf had gone, Haldir returned to his contemplation of the human.

A thickening crimson line ran under his jaw from a long gash on his temple. If he didn’t have a concussion it would be a miracle. Carefully leaning over him without touching him, Haldir caught sight of jagged white splinters plunging out of the leather. An arrow. The fall must have ripped the haft off. The arm too was hanging at an awkward angle which almost certainly meant a dislocated if not broken shoulder.

Dark brown hair hung in draggled tangles over the high forehead, pale skin showing beneath the grime of hard travel. The un-chiseled face and unlined cheeks made Haldir wonder just how young the boy was. He was no great guesser at human ages but he did know it had been a very, very long time since he had been accosted by one this young.

“What on earth were you doing out here, child?” Haldir muttered to the unconscious ranger.
His first, instinctive response was ‘nothing good.’ He knew enough of the race of Men to know he never wanted dealings with any of them again. His last encounter with them, many years ago now, had been particularly painful and one he did not care to dwell on overmuch anymore. But this young human was bringing those hard-fought memories back with an uncomfortable rush. His very presence was nauseating.

A low whimper pushed past the young man’s pale lips and distracted the elf from his whirling thoughts. His unexpected charge was beginning to wake. Realizing he had to act fast, Haldir took a firmer grip on the arm, careful of the shattered wooden splinters, and, with a last quick, searching glance around, tugged down sharply at the same time pushing inwards.

Aragorn cried out and tried to curl over his arm as the bone snapped back into its socket with a painful crunch. But the elf held him firmly down until the tremors subsided. Abruptly, Haldir stood and walked a few paces away, his back turned firmly towards the figure whose heavy, pained gasps were so audible to his ears.

“Adar.”

Haldir started. He hadn’t realized the boy was still conscious. By rights, the pain alone should have been sufficient to pass him out again. But, incredibly, grey-green eyes, glazed and constricted with agony, were staring up at the sky and he was murmuring soft words with pale lips.

“Adar? Adar…help me, please…I-I can’t move…”

Haldir didn’t know what to do. So he stood there, staring down as the young human tried to raise his head but the effort cost too much and he sank back against the rocks with a wince. His eyes were unfocused as though he saw something or someone other than the elf in front of him. “Adar…please. I do need you. I’m sorry…I had to leave-”

Hearing the boy, in his pain, call out instinctively for his father jarred something deep inside the elf. Many times he had heard dying soldiers, no few of them a hundred times this young man’s age, crying out for their parents in the last throes. And he had used the elven tongue too-albeit with a distinctly western accent. When a pale, blood-smeared hand reached upwards, he hesitantly moved forward and grasped the cold fingers, speaking in soft Sindarin as it seemed the boy understood it.

“Your Adar’s not here. But someone is. Go to sleep.”

The cloudy eyes seemed to light with reassurance before they closed in darkness once more.

Haldir heaved a sigh and with a much gentler gesture than he had used previously, laid the hand on its owner’s chest. If left here, he would die for certain. Perhaps he would wait to see what the boy had to say for himself. If he could live out the night…Rubbing a hand hard over his face, Haldir glanced up at the sky barely glimpsed against the dark outline of rock and the still-lingering fog. Ancadal would be missing him by now.

Mindful of the newly repositioned arm Haldir settled the majority of the young man’s weight across his shoulders and bodily lifted him leaving the arm and the human’s head dangling against his back. Shifting the dead weight and taking a firmer grip on the grey-green overcoat’s battered sleeve to balance himself a little better, the elf began to pick his way carefully into the growing twilight with his new burden.

-----------

“Where has he got to?”

“Ancadal, you saw him last. Did he say when he would return?”

“‘Shortly,’” the warrior replied, curled up in his cloak between the roots of a great dark pine which spread like a vast shadow over the entire encampment. “He will return when he returns and not before, Déorian.”

Déorian, the elf who had first spoken, chafed his hands together restlessly. “Wish he’d hurry up. It’s getting dark early now. Things creep out of their holes-if we haven’t put them in one already.”

“A fire would be nice.” Another piped up wistfully from where he lay with his injured leg propped up under the shadows of a low-hanging pine.

Déorian snorted. “Yes, it would be. For us and for every yrch archer in this thrice-damned rift.”

“Don’t fret, chaps, we’ve got them bagged,” came a chipper voice from above their heads. A lissome shadow dropped soundlessly onto the thick carpet of pine needles and settled itself cross-legged between Déorian and Ancadal.

The two soldiers turned eagerly on her. “What’s going on out there, Linwen? Anything?”

“Silent as a mouse’s whiskers,” said the female soldier, unstringing her bow tiredly. “Nothing to be heard, seen, yawned at or eaten for miles and miles and miles. Where’s the captain?”
“Silence does not always mean a welcome respite,” Ancadal said prophetically, ignoring the question he had already answered once, then turned to the elf under the low pine tree. “How is your leg, Thillas?”

The elf in question shifted the injured limb with a small grimace. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Wasn’t Eremae going to come with us this time?” Ancadal squatted beside the injured elf to check the dressings.

Cynical Déorian laughed at the idea of their stringent healer being dragged from her infirmary. “Captain wouldn’t have her. Though, so rumor says, he’d have her anywhere else.”

Ancadal cast him a disapproving look. “Who on earth told you such lies? You ought not to repeat every sordid speculation you hear, Déorian.”

“Oh, come on, Ancadal. No wife, no children, no woman to speak of…It does make one curious does it not? All those nights spent in the healer’s ward with nothing but a burning candle and bandages…” He sniggered.

“I said that’s-”

“Gossiping in the dark like little elf women. For shame.”

The troop looked round as their captain entered the makeshift camp, bearing a large lumpy thing like a sack across his shoulders.

“What did you find, Captain?” Linwen bounded up eagerly and laid a charming smile on her older officer. Sprightly by nature, she could never resist a curiosity.

“It’s about time,” Déorian muttered, not at all abashed at being overheard.

Haldir ignored their queries and comments as he settled his unconscious bundle on the pine needled ground at the far side of the camp, closest the stream. “One of you, give me your herb pack. Déorian, stop speculating about my bed and light a fire.”

The elves exchanged looks with each other in the dark. Something had happened. The normal good humor had evaporated entirely from their commander’s voice, replaced by tension even…fear?

“Is he badly hurt?” Ancadal asked, kneeling on the human’s other side and easing a pack beneath his head.

“What do you mean ‘light a fire?’ It’ll be a beacon…”

“Do as your captain says,” Ancadal cut him off with uncharacteristic brusqueness as he caught sight of the ashen young face.

A spark of flame lit the underside of the human jaw as Déorian set alight a small pile of pine needles and larch branches. “What is that?”

Haldir was already unfastening the human’s tunic to examine the arrow wound better by the light of the fire. “My new pet. Give me one of your packs. Now!”

“There’s nothing left to give,” Déorian said. “Ancadal used the last of the bandages for Thillas’ dressings. How exactly did a human manage to get so far out here? Was he alone?”

“He looks like a vagabond.”

Haldir glanced up at the scornful, disapproving tone and met the gaze of a fierce-eyed young elf who stood with his arms crossed near the fire. “You can question my judgement when I’m wrong, Annondil. He is not going anywhere tonight. Start boiling water.” He tore a strip from his cloak and wrapped it around the broken arrow shaft to stem the worst of the bleeding then turned to Déorian again.

“Where did you pile them?”

It took Déorian a minute to figure out what his captain was talking about then with blenched face, he pointed towards the stream bank where the dirt had not yet completely frozen.

Haldir returned less than a quarter of an hour later, his hands and knees soiled with mud but grim triumph burning in his eyes. Over one shoulder hung a mud- and blood-spattered satchel.

“Hopefully some treatment will be better than none,” he answered their appalled, questioning stares.

Ancadal shook his head as Haldir upended the contents of the foul sack. “You can’t give him that, Haldir. That’s orc stuff. It’ll poison him.”

Haldir sorted through several ugly assorted vials and crude wraps. “If we do nothing, it’ll still kill him. Either way, he might die but at least this way, he has a slim chance. I thought you were all for helping the stray human, Ancadal. You balk now?”

The kind elf slowly shook his head. “I will do what I can.”

“Hold his head.”

Bruises in varying impressive shades of black and purple were already sprawling across the bare skin of the man’s chest and side. Haldir explored the largest one on the lower right side experimentally, looking up when the young man’s face contorted with pain. Fractured rib too. His fingers and palms had been lacerated by sharp stones as well. From ineffectually trying to stop his fall. But the worst by far was the arrow wound…

The shoulder joint was swollen and red where the shaft had broken, leaving only an inch or so of bloody, splintered wood protruding grotesquely from the flesh. The gleaming tip had been twisted viciously, forced in and up. The keen-eyed elf could just see barely it poking out near his collarbone- too near his neck for comfort.

Haldir knew firsthand just how badly an untreated arrow wound could hurt. He would not wish that pain on anyone though his feelings towards men were mixed. Picking up one of the vials, he smeared his fingers with some vile gunk and spread it liberally over the worst of the bruising and cuts. Ancadal tightened his grip on the young human’s arms as he began to squirm restlessly.

Déorian set down a bowl of water at his commander’s knee and drew back, exchanging a wary glance with Annondil who only scowled. Neither had had much experience with men and weren’t altogether willing to improve on that.

Haldir cleaned and bound the wounds he could see, doing anything and everything he could think of before tackling the problem of the arrow. If he could even manage to remove it cleanly there was little chance of the human not contracting an infection that might kill him. Or even if no infection presented, he could simply die of blood loss. Humans were fragile that way. So easy to kill…

“This is madness!” Annondil hissed out of the side of his mouth to Déorian who only shook his head in response. “As if we did not have enough to deal with already-now we have this as well. My father would never have suffered such foolishness…”

“Then it is well your father is not with us,” Ancadal said in a tone just loud enough for the younger elf to hear.

Haldir did not have time for their reticence. “If you’re not going to be helpful then you can take the watch.” He raised his voice a little so they all could hear him. “You’re all dismissed. Report to me if anything stirs.” He stole another quick glance at the man’s face. “Give me your cloaks first.”

“Sir?” Ancadal raised an eyebrow though he was already shrugging the cloak off his shoulders.

“Your cloaks. Give them to me.”

“Why?” Déorian demanded. He liked his cloak very much and didn’t quite have as much faith in his captain as Ancadal did.

“Humans are susceptible to cold and this fire isn’t going to last another hour. I need something to keep him warm.”

Reluctantly and with some muttering, the soldiers did as they were bid and pulled off their warm cloaks or spare blankets and passed them to their commanding officer.

Ancadal lingered for a moment or two longer as the others drew for the watch and drifted off. “This is good of you.”

“I do not need validation from you for the generosity of my actions.” Haldir did not spare his friend a backward glance as he drew the gathered cloaks over the trembling young man. Humans as he had known them had caused him nothing but pain, nothing but bad memories.

Ancadal fiddled with his bowstring, looking a little uncomfortable. “I-I just know how hard it is for you to-”

“Go join the watch, Ancadal.”

Déorian and Annondil had been the other two chosen for the nightlong vigil. But the remaining did not leave whether for curiosity or a sense of loyalty Haldir neither knew nor cared. While their captain tended the stranger they shared a cold meal in quiet speculation and settled in for another long night.


Chapter 3 - Part Three

Part Three

Holding Out the Night

The temperature plunged as the night deepened.

But Aragorn didn’t feel it. Caught in the grip of a raging fever, dark locks drenched in sweat, he alternately shivered and choked on the ashes in his mouth. His heart was thrumming so hard and so fast it sounded more like a hum and a heavy weight was pressing on his shoulders and chest, stealing the breath from his already oxygen-deprived body. He tried to throw it off, squandering what little strength remained to him but the thing wouldn’t budge. The wound to his head was not pleased with his movements and rebelled sickeningly. His strength spent, he stopped struggling and lay limp.

A sharp tug at his shoulder made the world jolt crazily again and he almost screamed in pain. He would have but a strap of what tasted like salt and leather strangled the noise. They were going to kill him! He had no idea who his enemies were or why they wanted to hurt him so narrow object glittered above his vacantly staring eyes and without warning dove towards his shoulder.

Aragorn made a last ditch effort to fight but his limbs felt like lead, his head swinging between light and dark, noise one moment and silence the next. It was almost a mercy when the black figure above him tugged the strip from his mouth and pressed something over his nose instead. Before Aragorn could stop he’d breathed in and sweet oblivion poured over his consciousness like a wave of water dousing a bright flame.

As the young man’s eyes glazed over in drugged sleep,Haldir rested on his heels and wiped his face exhaustedly with a sleeve rolled up past the elbows. He was sweating and shaking almost as much as the human. It was not the first time he had removed a festering arrow but the last time a man had cried so under his touch, he had been choking on his own blood.

Not trusting his unsteady hands to continue just yet, he fingered the human’s belt, marked with deep indentations. The young man had almost bitten through the leather. Suddenly conscious of the silent footsteps coming up beside him, Haldir tossed the strap into the grass near the bloody arrowhead.

Ancadal, his face filled with earnest concern, glanced between the almost identically blenched faces of his friend and the sick human. “How is he?”

Haldir did not look up. “He’s dying.”

Ancadal sighed and stared into the sinister, black gaps left by the pine trees. “If we had been anywhere else…in Lórien he might have had a chance…Honestly I didn’t think he would last as long as he did. You’ve done what you could, Haldir, and more than most would have,” the warrior, despairing for the imminent loss of the young man, tried to console him. “Humans are fragile and this one more than most if his age is any-”

”I said ‘he’s dying,’ not ‘he’s dead.’But at this rate, he will be if we can’t bring the pain down. The arrow was poisoned and I don’t know what toxin it is. His heart’s beating far too fast though. If we can slow it down, the poison pouring through his veins will too and it will give me more time,” Haldir thought aloud. Abruptly turning towards Ancadal he nodded to a bag slung among the pine needles. “I have a vial of poppy extract in my satchel-a little glass wrapped in green cloth- get it.”

Ancadal didn’t ask why his captain would be carrying such a potent sedative around with him but fetched it swiftly.

Ripping aside the cloth, Haldir dug out the vial’s stopper and, asking Ancadal to hold the human’s mouth open, carefully tipped the contents between his lips. It was a sharply concentrated measure and even an ounce too much could cause a fatal overdose.

Aragorn’s eyes flickered back and forth under closed eyelids as though he was being hunted in his dreams and he suddenly twitched violently, struggling against some invisible force. It took all the elf captain and Ancadal’s combined strength to restrain him until the poppy kicked in and the man’s movements grew sluggish and finally stopped.

Haldir quickly checked the ranger’s pulse, sighing in quiet relief as a much easier rhythm answered his seeking fingers.

“You know,” Ancadal said with a sideways glance at his friend and decided to tread very carefully. “I thought, at first, that you were going to…going to leave him there,” he opted for the less abhorrent of what he had thought. “What happened after I left that you are now so determined to save the life of a human?”

“This from the elf who champions the rights of all cute things: puppies, kitties and stray humans? I thought you wanted me to try and help him,” Haldir bit off the smarter end of that comment. He knew Ancadal was concerned about him. “I can manage from here. He’s breathing better now.”

Ancadal thought rightly that it would be better to drop his curiosity for now. “All right. If you’re sure. I’ll still be nearby-if you need a reprieve.”

Haldir nodded shortly. “Fine.” Absently readjusting the cloaks over the injured ranger’s shoulders, he regarded the pale, strained face beneath him. “You had better be worth all this trouble, young man.”

----------

Dawn’s fiery light had already touched the glades and valleys of the Misty Mountains long before the first tentative fingers slipped under the ravine’s rim. Beneath the trees, the pine needles were just beginning to grey when Aragorn opened his eyes. He squinted and turned his face away from the strong light. But a reddish glow still shone behind his eyelids.

His head felt like cotton, light and billowy, his thoughts flitting from nothing to nothing. At first he tried to move his arms and legs if only to see if they were still attached to his body, but the drowsy numbness felt too good a replacement from the pain to want to try very hard. Squinting quizzically at the stiff branches creaking overhead, he tried to piece his thoughts together. He remembered the pain, oh yes, he could never easily forget that but the cause of it was all a mass of grey and black. The left side of his neck and shoulder were the only parts that felt particularly painful and Aragorn could feel the thick tug of bandages as he twitched the limb experimentally.

“So, you’ve returned at last.”

The young man started a little at the unprompted voice, too surprised to note that the words were elvish. Turning towards where he had heard the sound, he strained his eyes at the shadows still thick under the pine trees. Blurry, half-seen images swirled briefly to the forefront of the ranger’s consciousness before retreating again into the recesses. He remembered a hand grasping his, only just pulling him back from the abyss. Your Adar’s not here. But someone is. Someone is.

“How did I get here?”

A golden glint sparked as the owner of the voice shifted position and drew closer to the ranger.

Aragorn found himself looking into a pair of the brightest green eyes he had ever seen; the unmistakable depth of them proclaimed the elf for what he was but he had a kind, unhardened smile.

Ancadal, grateful Haldir had had the staunch determination to teach him a little Westron, answered but he had to wrestle for the words. “My commander brought you here with an arrow in your shoulder and a very nasty crack on the skull.”

“I can feel that.” Aragorn tried to push off the covers and sit up but his muscles refused to cooperate fully and he only managed to half-slide, half-roll the coverings off him. His breathing quickened. “Why can’t I move?”

“You were delirious so we had to give you a…remedy. It is the pain the poison on the arrow causes that kills. So you must drink this for a while until it flushes out of your system.”

Ancadal produced a small cup filled mostly with water and a few drops of the precious extract
which he had been preparing while waiting for the human to wake. Haldir had said it might be sometime today.

Aragorn took the cup with slightly trembling fingers and experimentally dipped a fingertip into it to test it. “Poppy?” he guessed. The bitterness, unsweetened by honey, was unmistakable-his foster father often brewed a special tea from its seeds for the few injured who passed the healing doors of Rivendell.

“And water. Worry not. Your movement will return.”

“You are alone out here?” Aragorn sipped at the draught, slightly surprised that an elf would be traveling alone in such dismal, dangerous country- though of course he could have said the same about himself.

“There are others here though you may not see them.” Ancadal glanced over his shoulder towards the dark copse where Haldir had stationed himself an hour or so ago to catch up on the sleep he’d lost the night before. For a moment, he considered waking him then thought better to wait.

Aragorn blinked tiredly; the medicine was already making him drowsy. “I walked here nigh on two days and found no game.”

“It is not game that we seek.” The elf smiled and retrieved the wooden cup from the human’s slackening grasp. “My name is Ancadal of the Galadhrim of Lothlórien by the way.”

“I’m sorry,” Aragorn sat up a little straighter, mentally berating himself for not introducing himself; the poison must still have been acting on him more than he thought for he still spoke in Common, a language that he had automatically become accustomed to in his weeks of wandering in unfamiliar territory. The elf must think him a no-account vagabond. “Im Estel.”

He felt a slight twinge of guilt-induced grief. That was the name his foster father had given him years ago. It was no longer his true name but among elves, he had always been named so and had instinctively given the name his elven father had granted him so long ago.

Ancadal nodded with another friendly smile and settled down to keep their impromptu guest company. “I am glad that you are mending, Estel.”

Fingering the bandages trapping his arm against his chest, Aragorn grimaced a little with a tiny half-smile playing about his face. “Me too.”

-----------

Aragorn’s eyelids fluttered open again to be greeted by the sight of a copper tinge just barely visible on the larch tips above his head. Sunset. He had dozed the afternoon away after Ancadal had left to take up his post a little outside the copse and felt much better for the long rest. Other elves had flitted in and out all day, speaking in low tones and waxing bowstrings or putting a final edge to sword blades as though preparing for a battle. Mostly, they just ignored him which Aragorn was grateful for. He could only think what a sight he looked and what his brothers would have said if they ever found out about this mess.

“What on earth did you do to yourself this time, Estel?”

“He looks like a warg dragged him through a troll camp…”

He smiled and unconsciously rolled his eyes. Despite their unending teasing, he wished
Elladan and Elrohir were here with him. Amongst a group of strangers, their presence would have been a welcome comfort. Actually, the “group” had become singular. Only one elf remained in the small glade, rewinding a bow string with such sharp concentration as to be a deliberate attempt to ignore the human.

Aragorn watched him for a few minutes which clearly made the other uncomfortable because abruptly he shoved his bit of wax back into his bag and picked up his bow. The look on his face was distinctly unfriendly and Aragorn, not understanding how he had come to deserve such disdain, looked back in confusion. But the elf turned away from him and disappeared upslope into the darkening trees.

The injured ranger suddenly realized that he was completely alone. Shadows lengthened under the trees as the sun sank early behind the shoulder of the ravine edge. Unseen tree branches rattled together skeletally like bony groping fingers against the backdrop of a twilit sky. A shudder gripped the young man’s body.

He had hated the dark since he was small. It was in the dark that they had first come and taken his parents away. It was in the dark he had run from the sharp claws and hot fetid breath that wanted to swallow him whole. Only in the bright light of an open door had he found solace in the arms of his elven family. Now they were not here with him.

No one is.

Weaponless and weak, Aragorn staggered to his feet, shivering as the cold smacked him in the chest like an iron bar. Cradling his bound up arm he tottered a few unsteady steps across the clearing with no clear idea of where he was going. White plumes accompanied his nervous exhalations as he stared wide-eyed through the night hoping his eyes would adjust a little better with no moon to aid him. He stared hard into the thickness of interlacing branches low to the ground, still retaining their glossy needles.

Golden eyes glinted back at him in recognition, the ghost of a harsh terribly familiar chuckle almost unheard on the chilled air.

“Is-is someone there?” The words were scarcely above a breath.

A hand dropped on his shoulder.

Aragorn nearly choked on his heart as it rocketed into his throat. He spun around and with a violence fueled by terror smacked the arm away from him but the force of the blow also jolted him off balance. He stumbled, striking his injured shoulder against a branch. Pain radiated up and burst in his head. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Calm down.”

Still panting and struggling desperately to do as the voice instructed him, Aragorn gulped in several ragged breaths, regarding the thicket now flooded with moonlight.

The eyes had vanished.

Slowly, the young man pulled his eyes back to the apparition that had so badly startled him in the first place even as he grasped a low branch to heave himself back to his feet.

“Whoareyou?” The mangled sentence came out a breathless rush.

“Not quite the gratitude I was looking for,” said a low, amused voice. "But you are human after all. I suppose allowances must be made.”

Now that the fear-fueled adrenaline was draining out of his system, the ranger scowled, stung. He shakily straightened, taking in the stranger’s grey tunic-ed appearance and long golden hair only partially revealed in the twisting moonlight. “You are one of the Galadhrim also?”

“Aptly guessed.” The sarcasm was too thick to be ignored.

“What gratitude do I owe you?”

“That fall should have killed you. You have been fortunate so far but I would not press your luck if I were you standing like that.” The slightly rough voice somehow managed to sound authoritative, mildly concerned and disdainful all at once.

Shame burned up his neck and cheeks as Aragorn realized he had just offended the elf who had saved his life. “You startled me…” he began, half-apologetically.

Silence greeted this.

The young man began to shift nervously as the quiet lengthened and his embarrassment deepened into mortification. “You are the commander of these elves then,” Aragorn said into the hard stillness, his words dropping like stones into a murky pool.

“Keep your voice down, you fool.” The elf captain snapped at him, eyes flaring in a shaft of moonlight dappled revealingly into the clearing.

Aragorn immediately dropped his voice. “Why?”

Haldir drew closer, his eyes darting into the dark as he motioned the man out of the too-brightly-lit clearing and into a thicker growth of pines which provided a little more shelter.

“Orcs are near. Where did you think you were going?”

Momentarily thrown by the idea of orcs lurking nearby, Aragorn shrugged, the by-now-familiar feeling of embarrassment prickling between his shoulder blades. “I-I don’t know.”

“Had you gone any further my sentinels would have shot you without making much of it,” the elf remarked, almost offhandedly as he enveloped himself in his voluminous cloak and pressed his back against the trunk of a stalwart age-cracked tree.

He vanished. Aragorn blinked in stunned surprise. He stared at the tree, then stared harder. Crouching awkwardly with his bad arm, a concentrated frown between his brows, he ventured a question at the bare outline he could just scarcely see, the cloak making him all but invisible against the shadows.

“Shouldn’t we be...somewhere more defensible than this? If orcs are near?” The warnings of his brothers rang all too uncomfortably in the forefront of his mind. His combined weaponlessness and the horror of his own youth stained with caution whatever heroic ideas he had of fighting.

“We are waiting.”

“Ah.” Aragorn gingerly took a seat beside the elf, still cradling his arm which had begun to throb again. “What for?”

“Company.”

Aragorn could see this was going to be a long night if he continued this only slightly better than monosyllabic conversation. So he fell quiet and settled for observation. He had seen a few of the elves when he had been drifting in and out of consciousness that afternoon and overheard a few of their names. But as he tried to match those names to faces, he figured this elf was not one he had seen in those brief moments.

Standing he would have been quite tall and though his raiment in no way differentiated him from any of the other elves Aragorn had met, there was a stern air about him, an air of authority. In his lap beneath his cloak he held a long saber, partially unsheathed. He sensed the human’s eyes on him but did not meet them.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” Aragorn reminded his rescuer when the silence grew too oppressive and the throb in his arm stepped up a notch.

It was a harmless enough question which any stranger would have asked another but Aragorn was surprised when the elf turned his head and sharply joined the ranger’s gaze. Dark silver eyes measured and Aragorn uncertainly caught his breath at the strange intensity in them.
Then, surprisingly, an answer. “Haldir.”

The name rang a familiar bell in Aragorn’s mind. “‘Haldir?’ Not Captain Haldir then of Lothlórien’s northern marches?”

A little disconcerted that the human had heard of him, the elf nodded shortly.

Despite his embarrassment a moment before, a bubble of excitement welled up in the young human as he really saw his rescuer for the first time. “My brothers speak often to me of you. Your name is mentioned around the fires of-” He trailed off abruptly. He had been going to say ‘of Rivendell” but, as he had not told the elf who he was, he knew that answer would lead to awkward questions. Even thinking of his home now made a wistful ache blossom in his chest. But enthusiasm and curiosity won over his homesickness.

As a child he had been enamored of the tales spun about the elusive and dangerous Galadhrim and to meet one, especially a hero whose legendary exploits preceded the bounds of his own country, was very exciting for him.

The ranger smiled brightly despite his injuries and the strange situation he found himself in and held out his right hand in offering. “It’s an honor and a privilege to meet you, Captain. I am Estel.”

The elf didn’t take it. “I know.” When Aragorn frowned in puzzlement, he clarified. “You spoke often in your dreams.”

Aragorn retreated into silence again, wondering what else he might have said in his fevered nightmares. So lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t hear the unexpected question leveled at him.

“What were you doing so far from any human settlement, little one?”

Aragorn bristled a little at this puerile sobriquet. He hated being called ‘little.’ A consequence of growing up among beings millennia older than himself. The elves of Rivendell, well-meaning but condescending, often spoke of him like that. Even his brothers who should know better still treated him like a boy. “I am not a child. By the stretch of human lives, I am already growing old.”

Haldir laughed softly, amused by the human’s chagrin. “Humans are so very sensitive about their age.”

The ranger blinked in bafflement, his irritation slowly draining away, only now realizing the elf had been intentionally teasing him. Then he grinned mischievously. “Oh, yes? And how old are you then?” He leaned back on his one good elbow and pretended to closely scrutinize the elf as though searching for signs of his long, long life behind the smooth, handsome face.

“Hmmm…Nirnaeth Arnoediad?” he guessed naming a great battle during the First Age in which the Dark Lord himself had been but a lieutenant to a far more deadly power.

Haldir snorted, masking his laughter with contempt.

“All right. Not that far back.” Cocking his head, Aragorn considered aloud. “Less than six-thousand…more than three I’d guess.” His friend Legolas, the prince of Mirkwood, was little more than two thousand, somehow he sensed this elf was older, grimmer. “Last Alliance then?”

The elf smiled indulgently but kept his eyes directed on shadows. “Close enough.” 1

Aragorn grinned, satisfied that he had won the game. “You don’t trust very many people do you?” he asked suddenly, displaying that uncanny intuition that his father said would serve him so well and which his brothers found annoying.

There was a deeper shadow in this elf’s grey eyes which intrigued the ranger.

Haldir unfolded his long legs and picked up his saber. “Trust is earned.”

Aragorn mirrored him. “And not many have earned it?”

A gale-like whisper as though of thousands of leaves suddenly hissed through the air, sending branches lashing overhead. But there was no breeze. A voice neither Aragorn’s nor Haldir’s spoke whisperingly from the umbrage above. “They’re close, Captain.”

Black shapes dropped soundlessly to the ground and half-surrounded Aragorn and his companion.

“Your belongings,” one said as it rose from a crouch, tossing a battered satchel at his feet. “What was left of them anyway.”

Aragorn nodded his thanks then noticed Ancadal among the group. The elf gave him an encouraging smile.

Meanwhile the thin, blue-eyed elf Aragorn had received a less-than friendly welcome from earlier that afternoon was giving a rapid report to his superior officer about the movements of the enemy. “They are closing the gap, sir. The stream is hounded and choked with them. There are more in the woods. Linwen and I counted at least a score and a half.”

“Then we need to relocate.”

The elf who had given the report stiffened slightly as his eyes traveled over the human’s face.

“Sir…”

“Annondil?”

“What are we to do with-?” Speaking in Sindarin, Annondil discretely nodded his head at the Dúnedain who, knowing he was being discussed, stiffened and listened carefully.
Haldir followed the younger elf’s gaze and spoke in Common. “He is coming with us.”

“We know nothing of him! Of his people, where he comes from…”

“I am no spy,” Aragorn, speaking for the first time in the elves’ native language, answered the arrogant elf directly. “Or a danger to you. I am traveling in this country and will not be a burden on you much longer if I can help it…I had thought the Galadhrim were renowned more for their courtesy and fearlessness in battle rather than their inconsideration in speaking of a person while still in their presence.”

Touché. Haldir struggled and failed to hide a slight, approving smile at the man’s pluck. Without doubt, this ranger has fire in him.

A bright flush almost visible in the dark suffused Annondil’s face but he made no reply.

Not surprisingly Ancadal was the one who spoke up in defense of his friend. His voice though quiet instantly silenced any more comments from the dissenter. “I suggest you leave it, Annondil. Your captain knows what he’s doing.” He cast Haldir a sideways look that plainly-though silently-added “I hope.”

“Good,” Haldir nodded shortly, his dark eyes never leaving Annondil’s challenging ones. “Let’s move.”

The younger soldier stared at his captain in aggravated astonishment then abruptly turned his back. “You would think if you were tortured by men you would not let them dangle at your tail.”

The words though very quietly muttered were very audible even to Aragorn’s untrained ears.
A sudden, very uncomfortable silence descended so sharply that even Aragorn who did not quite understand the significance of what had just been said stiffened anxiously.

Déorian’s hand snapped out and snatched Annondil to within a hairsbreadth of his face.
“Annondil, for the sake of your position and your life, shut up.” He gave the younger elf a push away from him.

“Come on, enough! Move!” Haldir didn’t seem to take any notice of the strain. He still stared out at the moon-shimmered rocks, scanning for even a glimpse of an orc head. His eyes fell on Aragorn as the ranger hung near him uncertainly. “You too. Now that you’re conscious, you’ll walk.”

“Thanks.” Despite himself, Aragorn found it hard to suppress a wry grin as the Galadhrim around him swiftly folded up their cloaks, slipped them into packs and tightened the straps around their shoulders. His smile slipped into seriousness. “I want to help.”

Guessing what was going through the ranger’s mind, Haldir felt obligated to point out the human’s fatal flaw. “You have no weapon.”

“I have my knife,” the ranger pulled the long hunting knife from a deep pocket hidden in his pack which, thankfully, Slaquer had not found. “This will be enough.”

Haldir barely glanced at the blade. “I spent all last night tending your fevered, poison-ridden body. You will stay to the back of the group with Thillas. Your only job is to keep up. And that is an order.”

“Your pardon, Captain,” Aragorn said politely but firmly as he pulled the knife one-handed from its sheath. “You are not my commanding officer.”

Their soft but rapidly heating argument was beginning to attract stares but Haldir didn’t seem to notice as he surveyed the ranger through narrowed eyes. “Why are you so ready to slay yourself? The orc didn’t come close enough?”

Aragorn remained stubborn though the pain in his arm was pleading for him to listen to the elf. “He took my sword. It was a present from my father and I want it back.”

A pregnant pause filled the frustrated space of a moment before. For the first time, Aragorn noticed the unabashed stares of the other warriors and his face began to burn. Clearly they would never have questioned their commanding officer as this young cheek had.

“All right.”

The young man blinked and quickly returned his gaze to the elf captain. “‘All right?’”

There was an odd, distant expression on Haldir’s face as he thoughtfully fingered the cool pommel of his own saber. “You can help.”

“Captain, we’re ready.”

Ancadal’s voice jolted Haldir out of his abstraction. Straightening, he nodded for his team to go on ahead with one last, stern glare at the ranger.

“I am placing my trust in you, Estel. Do not make me regret it.”

Aragorn saluted sharply with the hilt of his knife pressed to his forehead. “Yes, sir.”

A/N: 1. According to my own calculations and for the purposes of my stories, Haldir was born sometime in the middle / late part of the Second Age which would make him old enough to participate in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men.


Chapter 4 - Part Four

Part Four

Learning Something New the Hard Way

It was a brilliant night, full of stars. Unfortunately, this did not help the hunted warriors as they paused at the boundary where tree met rock. The craggy ground stretching before them sparkled until it receded under the cliff’s iron shadow. Already evidence of battle lay in the drag-marked dust and dark splotches bleached by the moon.

Aragorn sighed shakily, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all. The barren floor stretched ahead of them, craggy and uneven for at least thirty yards before it began a steepened ascent into the infamous climbing cliffs. Just staring at the height of them made him feel queasy.

The elves beside him were tense too, fingering their bowstrings and blades nervously, glinting eyes staring at their previous battleground with residual horror.
Haldir did not speak but with a slight, sharp gesture hurried them forward. As silently as only elves could, they broke cover and raced for the far cliff-side where concealing shadows dropped their heavy loads.

A sharp pain stabbed between Aragorn’s sore ribs with every jolting step he took but he kept dogged pace with the elves, feeling terribly exposed as the moonlight radiated across the back of his neck, casting his dim, rushing shadow on the rocky ground. Icy water spiked up to his knees in a shocking torrent as he plunged straight through it, sliding on unseen rocks.
Suddenly the elf in front of him tripped in the shallows.

Aragorn was already at the fallen elf’s side, assisting him to his feet with his good shoulder. Quickly, Déorian got on his other side, bolstering his weight and nodding a short gratitude. Together they bolted the last few yards of broken ground and scooted under the cliff line beside the rest of their comrades.

Haldir eyed them over as they staggered panting into the shadows, his eyes resting briefly on the ranger. “Good work.”

Aragorn smiled at the praise but his pleasure was short-lived as Annondil, brushing past him, purposefully slammed his shoulder into the man’s arm. The ranger flinched but refused to give the vindictive elf the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. The rest of the Galadhrim had already pulled ahead, keeping carefully within the safe darkness of the overhanging cliff.

Fighting back a wave of nauseating pain, Aragorn briefly closed his eyes, stumbling in the rear as they came upon a ragged inset in the stone. Some ancient movement of the earth had shifted the flat plates of the gorge creating a natural, crumbling stairway later shaped and evened by unknown hands in years long lost.

They had barely started up this zigzagging path when an ear-splitting howl shrilled the air as tense and jarring as an alarm. Dark shapes suddenly swarmed everywhere, creeping from darkness, yellow eyes flaring from unseen crevices both above and below the narrow stairs on which the elves now stood.

There was nowhere to run. They were trapped.

The thought trickled dully through Aragorn’s stricken mind as he fumbled for the knife sheathed at his waist. Gripping it tightly in his fist, he faced the attackers racing up the stairs towards him.

A wolf bared long teeth at him as it bounded eagerly ahead of its masters. Thankfully these were not the dreaded wargs of the lower plains. But they were wolves, five feet at the shoulder, beaten and half-starved in orc-cages. Wide maws producing lolling red tongues and glinting teeth, they lunged from above and below.

As the wolf bunched its hindquarters for a spring, Aragorn tightened. Suddenly a saber blade flashed between them and took the wolf through the chest, cleaving it through the heart and hurling it back towards its furious masters.

The young man glanced at Haldir and felt a shiver run up his spine that had little to do with the whistling wind stabbing his back. The elf captain’s face was white and livid with fury. Haldir jerked his head to one side as an arrow zipped past, so close it ruffled his hair in its slipstream. Another rebounded sharply off the stone inches from Aragorn’s boot and Haldir’s hand snapped forward, closing around his uninjured shoulder to keep the man from falling headfirst down the steep stairs.

Regaining firmer footing, Aragorn gave him a spare nod of thanks but the elf was already taking the stairs two at a time to pursue the battle elsewhere.

He turned as if to follow him when a dark shape reared out of the shadows on his left and slashed out with a curved blade. Aragorn deflected the blow, barely, the shockwaves sending piercing prickles of pain up his wrist. Sweat broke over his brow again as the fierce-eyed creature thrust forward again, trying to rip open his thigh. The tip of the blade missed his leg by inches but the flat side jarred his wrist. A bolt of pain sliced upwards from his wrist and before he had time to do more than gasp, his unseen enemy kicked his sword out of his weakened hand.

A slick, raspy voice like blood-spattered rock slid over the young man’s ears as he knelt on the hard stone. “Thought I had finished with you, gangrel.”

Staring up the deadly blade hovering before his throat, Aragorn narrowed his eyes. He recognized that voice, and that blade.

His sword.

Slacquer grinned down at him, pressing a little harder until the ranger’s sword dug into the soft throat, a thin rivulet of blood snaking from under the lame. “Well, now I’ll make sure I do it good and proper.”

Blood trickled down his chest, hot and wet inside his tunic and the pain made him dizzy but, with difficulty, Aragorn managed to fight it back and focus. His knife lay against the uneven black wall, three stairs above him. It was his only chance.

Acting fast, he threw himself backwards from the blade, crawling the precious few inches and just closing his hand around the smooth wooden handle before a cruel, clawed hand dug into his ankle and dragged him painfully back down the stairs. The orc straddled him with a tight rictus stretching deformed lips as he brought the long sword up towards the man’s chest.

Slacquer’s triumphant grin turned into a grimace as one of the battling wolves tumbled into his heels and sent him stumbling forward. Tripping over the ranger’s legs, he fell heavily. Straight onto Aragorn’s knife. Both orc and human stared at one another for a shocked second. Then Aragorn grabbed his sword from the orc’s failing grasp and tugged his knife free as the body tumbled limply down the stairs, coming to rest at the base.

“Estel!”

Aragorn twisted around at Haldir’s shout.

The Galadhrim had cleaved though. The way ahead was clear.

Aching and bleeding, Aragorn dragged himself up the stairs past black shapes impaled by white arrows, emerging onto a windswept plain empty but for the night grasses and the group of elves, some of whom were mounted and carried bows.

“We came as soon as we could, Captain,” one said as he dismounted. He was flushed with excitement and the wind.

“Better speed could not have been made by the west wind, Gilas,” Haldir said, granting his scout with a smile that somehow contained both relief and bitterness. “The colonel didn’t trouble you overmuch?”

Gilas gave a slight abashed grin. “He doesn’t know, sir.”

“Good.”

At that moment, Aragorn’s shaking legs gave out on him and he slumped against a chip of rock at the head of the stairs, his bloody sword sliding uselessly out of his hands. He almost didn’t feel the pain radiating from his arm and shoulder so great was his relief. They were alive.

For the moment disregarded, he just sat there, regaining his breath and letting the adrenaline wash out of his system. He was exhausted. The last few days had been torment for him and his body, still healing, craved rest. Without realizing it, he let his head fall against the rocks and closed his eyes.

A soft prod roused him slightly.

“You do not know us yet you were willing to die for us,” Haldir said, very quietly as the ranger raised weary eyes to his face. “Why?”

A gentle, slightly lopsided smile lifted Aragorn’s lips. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“That is no answer.”

“That, Captain, is all the answer I’m afraid you will get from me right now,” Aragorn muttered, losing the battle to keep his eyelids open.

Dissatisfied but seeing the exhaustion in the young man’s face, the elf nodded reticently. “I will have an answer from you, ranger. But not tonight.” A teasing smile shone in his eyes.

“You fight well-for a human.”

“Hey,” the barb brought Aragorn’s head up again until he realized Haldir was smiling. “I guess humans aren’t all bad after all?”

Haldir’s silver eyes lowered, the smile sliding off his face. “Maybe one is not,” he allowed.

Aragorn sat up a little more and, hesitatingly, touched the elf’s sleeve as he started to rise. When Haldir looked down at him questioningly, he fumbled for a moment, not sure if it was his place to pry but plunged on anyway when the silence grew protracted. “I’m sorry.”

“You did nothing.”

“No,” Aragorn conceded. “But my race did…someone…hurt you…I can see the shadows in your eyes. And I’m sorry. It is men like that who ruin it for the rest of us.”

Haldir stared, disconcerted and amazed. Am I really that easy to read? He thought he had put the events of almost two millennia ago far behind him. He was no longer a prisoner to his memories but something about this ranger had woken them, twisted them all out of their long hiding.

But now was not the time to dwell on it. They had a roughly four hour journey still ahead of them before they reached Lothlórien and the company was exhausted. But it was too dangerous to stay here any longer.

“Come,” Haldir jerked his head in the direction of the waiting troops. “I am not carrying you to Lothlórien.”

Aragorn nodded vaguely but as he tried to stand up his head spun and the warrior had to grab his arm to keep him from falling.

“You will ride with me.”

Aragorn didn’t know how he got there but suddenly found himself sitting on a chestnut horse behind the captain. As best he could, he balanced himself in the saddle, wondering where he could place his hand without making his riding companion uncomfortable. Haldir settled that for him and, seizing the cuff of his overcoat, clapped the man’s uninjured arm firmly around his waist.

“Hold on, you idiot. I am not picking you up off the ground again.”

Aragorn grinned.

They set off up the ravine, locating a zigzagging path that the horses could negotiate. When the path had widened enough, Ancadal slipped up beside his friend and gazed down at the human riding behind him. Aragorn had fallen asleep again, dark tendrils of hair half-sliding over his youthful face as his bowed forehead bumped gently between Haldir’s shoulder blades.

Ancadal smiled at the brave young man’s peacefully sleeping face. “They look so innocent when they sleep.”

Haldir shifted slightly, trying to shift into a more comfortable position without waking the human. “His chin’s digging into my shoulder blade.”

Ancadal laughed at his friend’s grimace of discomfort. “That will teach you to take in strays.”

“I blame you.”

The laughter of the other elf quickly muffled as Aragorn stirred a little but he only turned his head the other way before settling. “What on earth have you brought down on us?”

Haldir, one hand clasping the human’s arm to keep him from sliding off, glanced over his shoulder. “He has proven himself a worthy soldier. Who knows? Perhaps something will come of it.”

Ancadal could not discount his captain’s intuition; he had been right too many times in the past. But he couldn’t help feeling that a change would be wrought on them all, for better or worse and this young human would have a part in it.

“Perhaps something will.”

The End

End Notes: It’s a relief to finally get this posted! My first foray on the ‘net since July…I don’t quite know what to make of it. I hope you do. I’m actually rather nervous- I haven’t written Aragorn for a very long time, I think I’m a bit rusty. Any helpful suggestions, comments, criticisms are very much welcome.

(If you actually managed to get through this--I rather disapprove of the formatting, you are a truly a reader of readers)

Cheers!

The Lady of Light
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