The Littlest Warrior

The southern border party accompanied by Hedrían and Malrin rode slowly into Lórien. The relief team had arrived during the wee hours of the night bringing horses and new orders. A considerable amount of time had passed since the Rohan troop crossed the Lothlórien border, and even though they were now safe, neither Malrin nor Hedrían could find a way to rest. Exhausted, their spirits downtrodden, Malrin became more and more anxious as they approached the edge of the city. How could he possibly explain this to Daenir? The boy’s father had placed his most precious gift in his hands, and he had failed to protect it. What would his Lord Celeborn say? And Haldir? Surely there would be grave consequences to pay. He would undoubtedly lose his position as a Captain on the borders. Lord Celeborn would never entrust the lives and safety of others to him again. And then there was Daenir, there could be no punishment severe enough to make up for what he must tell Andras’ father.

Entering the city, Malrin despaired of the reception he would receive, he was glad it was late for most in the residents had long ago gone to their homes for the night. But even now he could see that there was at least one who had not, for the March Warden waited for them at the city gate. As they pulled the horses to a stop Rúmil dismounted and approached his brother.

“Haldir, there is much to tell…we,” but Haldir cut him off. “I will hear your report in a moment Rúmil, there is something I must attend to first…”

“But Haldir…”

“In a moment Rúmil.” The March Warden’s tone left no room for argument or appeal and Rúmil, though he feared what his brother would say to Malrin, immediately quieted. Malrin slowly alit, strode towards Haldir, and stood before him face to face. Standing stiffly he looked Haldir in the eye and awaited his fate. The March Warden was never an easy elf to read, centuries of practice had taught him how to school his features, today was no different, and Malrin knew not what to expect, but he knew whatever it was it would not be good. However, even he could not have predicted what happened next; Haldir stepped forward and enveloped him in a warm embrace saying,

“The last few days have been trying ones for you my gwador…welcome home.”

Malrin could not believe his ears, and all the anger, frustration, fear, and anxiety that he had been desperately holding at bay came flooding out. He collapsed into Haldir’s arms his body shaking, wracked in the throes of misery and sorrow. He grasped blindly at Haldir’s tunic holding on tightly as his knees gave out. Haldir’s strong arms held him tightly and kept him upright as the tears began to flow unabated.

“It will be all right my brother,” he continued, “there was nothing you could do…”

But Malrin was inconsolable, his anguished cries rent the night air and the assembled elves felt his pain as keenly as if it had been their own. Rúmil and Orophin stood grim faced, angered by what this foul deed had done to one so strong. By what it had done to one who had kept them safe from harm for centuries untold.

“But I failed him,” Malrin said in a voice just above a whisper, “what will tell his father?” the tormented elf wailed. “What can I possibly say to his father?”

The March Warden thought carefully…then spoke again as he tenderly held the distraught warrior…

“You will tell him the truth…you will tell him that there is an enemy amongst us. You will tell him that none of the Galadhrim will rest until that enemy is found and destroyed. You will tell him that our Lord Celeborn has decreed it, and you will tell him that I and my brothers will make it so. That is what you will tell Daenir, for there are no words that will bring him comfort…but time will bring him justice, and time is something we elves have in abundance. We will find the guilty one, and retribution will come on a catlike whisper, he will not see it coming, he will not hear it, but an Elven blade will be the last thing he feels.”