Agarwaen

Part Twenty-One
~Of Blades and Blooded Honor~

Haldir felt his heart still as Fedorian’s grip on the knife in his side tightened. The knife ripped brutally free, not out through the original wound but sideways, drenching Haldir’s tunic in instant scarlet. The coppery tang of blood filled the air. The stench made Haldir dizzy and nauseous even as he dimly realized it was his own. Blackness not from the night around them threatened the periphery of his vision and he shook his head rapidly to clear it.

Fedorian didn’t give him time to recover. Haldir barely brought his saber up in time to block another scything sweep aimed at his throat. The movement pulled the torn muscle in his side. The resultant pain doubled him up and Haldir fell forward onto his knees and uninjured forearm. A ruthless kick tumbled him onto his back as his injuries screamed helpless panic at him. He squinted through blurred, double vision trying to determine which of the two blade-wielding elves the real one was.

Circling around him, Fedorian dropped down onto his heels next to his former friend’s head. “Do you feel it, Haldir? The cold creeps up on you quite fast or so I’ve been told. There will be no numbness before death. It is painful to the end. But I can make it quick.” A lethal iciness scraped up along the wounded elf’s throat, pressing ever-so-lightly against his throbbing jugular and Haldir closed his eyes as the grating voice continued to hiss its deadly promises.

“I have already taken Arenath to where he can no longer hurt. I will save you from your nightmares. And give you the last honor of dying like a soldier. As you would have given me.”

Haldir’s head rolled to one side, away from the knife and his glazed eyes caught Aragorn’s wide, terrified ones. He had never seen the ranger so frightened, so helpless. He was clutching his leg and staring at Haldir with blank shock in his eyes. He had never wanted to disappoint Aragorn. Never wanted to hurt him as much as he had. He would have been safer had they never met…would have been better… His disorganized thoughts tangled and petered out into silence. He couldn’t fight anymore.

Someone breathed his name and he opened his eyes. Aragorn. Estel. But the human was not speaking to him. Slowly words filtered through the pain-haze of his senses.

“—not Haldir. Please. Take me. You want me. Take me. Kill me instead.”

It wasn’t fear he heard in the man’s strangled voice. It was pleading. Aragorn was pleading. Gone was the defiance, the great courage, the pride. If his friend’s life was the high stake, Aragorn would not play the game.

Startling, cold clarity returned with a prick that even pain, blood loss and near-unconsciousness could not erase. Why was he lying here? Was he so willing to give up what he’d worked so hard to fix? If he fell, if he stopped, Fedorian would win. He would win and it would not only mean the end of his life, and Estel’s but of more men for he knew Fedorian would not stop. He would not stop.

I will not stop.

“Do you hear that, Haldir?” Fedorian sneered, throwing an evil glance at the ranger. “The pathetic human pleads for your life. How shall I answer him since he brought this upon you?”

A blooming energy burst in Haldir’s chest as a flicker of starlight glanced off the steel Fedorian was leveling at his throat, preparing to thrust it down for a quick, clean kill.

“No!” Aragorn screamed, struggling wildly against the bonds around his wrists. His leg, unhappy with this startling movement, burst with an agony that left him gasping and reeling against the trunk. He could only watch helplessly as the knife came down.

Haldir’s hand shot up and grasped the other elf’s wrist in a vice-like grip. Fedorian leaned down, using the weight and strength of his arm to slowly force the knife downwards. Haldir’s head swam, his enemy’s face kept blurring in and out of focus as darkness gathered at the edges of his vision. He was losing consciousness fast. If he had to finish the fight, it would have to be soon.

“I told you, Haldir…” The knife dropped an inch lower. “I do not tolerate… betrayal.”

Another inch. It nicked Haldir’s throat; a thin stream of blood ran down his neck and disappeared into his hair. Haldir’s eyes flashed like storm clouds. With a supreme effort, he twisted the wrist in his grasp viciously at the same time bringing his fist up and landing a bare-knuckled punch to Fedorian’s jaw. The second knocked the stunned elf off him. Holding his gaping side gingerly, Haldir lurched upright. His fingers, clumsy and disconcertingly numb, fumbled with one of the dark Galadhel’s dropped knives. He didn’t see Aragorn close his eyes in silent relief. In the thick darkness, the ranger couldn’t see the large, wet patches steadily spreading over his friend’s tunic.

Fedorian was already back on his feet but he was not looking at Haldir anymore. Instead he was staring off into the trees to the right of their glade.

Wary of an attempted diversion and his own wavering concentration, Haldir did not take his eyes of his former commander but the strange way he was starting to frown and the unconscious tremble running through his limbs made him blink and glance in the direction the other elf’s eyes indicated.

Shadowy forms were moving off in the woods a hundred or so yards away. Even from this distance, Haldir blearily recognized the glint of a javelin and caught Carlóme’s dark hair whirling over her shoulders. Somehow they had extricated themselves from the tunnel’s remains and were racing towards the sound of clashing steel, having caught sight of their murderous quarry.

“I will not be taken by them,” Fedorian murmured feverishly almost to himself. His desperate eyes locked onto Haldir’s. “I will not surrender, Haldir. I will not let them take me again!”

He dove suddenly, teeth bared. His hand latched onto Haldir’s wrist which held the knife and tugged sharply. Stunned by the unexpected movement, Haldir felt the brief resistance of flesh meeting steel and instinctively tried to pull back but the damage was already done.

Aragorn missed it as Carlóme’s band broke through the trees on the other side of the glade. The dark woman paused momentarily, before catching sight of the ranger. She crouched beside him and started to saw at his bonds while he desperately craned his neck over her shoulder for a glimpse of the two still-grappling elves. The combatants had fallen against a pine with Haldir pinned between the trunk and Fedorian. The ranger felt his heart stop as he watched Haldir’s face drain of any remaining color, his expression frighteningly slack and frozen.

“No…”

Then he noticed the growing pool of crimson seeping through Fedorian’s shirt as the older soldier pulled back enough for Aragorn to glimpse the lame of the long knife buried deep in his chest. The former captain of the Galadhrim touched the bloodstained steel and sank heavily to his knees, his legs buckling as though cut out from under him. He slumped over onto his back.

Haldir let the blade drop with him, his eyes wide and horrified. Crimson blossomed like an ugly flower over his own tunic and rolled sluggishly from the ends of his fingers but he hardly seemed to notice either of these as he stared down at the dying elf.

“Fedorian.”

Pain swept his feet out from under him for a second time and he collapsed at Fedorian’s side. The knife had gone straight into his heart and he was losing blood fast. Fedorian did not do anything to prevent the flow. His eyelids flickered as a rill of scarlet trickled from a cut on his cheek.

Haldir wiped it away with his knuckles. Dimly he could sense the others standing around them, feel Carlóme’s penetrating gaze and Aragorn’s but he had no thought for them now. “I did not want this.”

Fedorian drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “You have…helped me…more than y—you know, tithenion. Fight your own battles from now on, soldier,” his breath sounds had sunk even lower and shallower, rattling deep in his chest. “I am finished with mine.”

His breath hitched and then stopped altogether. No soft cloud frosted the air between his lips. He went silent and entirely limp on the icy ground. The tortured spirit left his eyes and the hateful glitter in them finally dulled though they remained half-open, staring up through the high branches towards the stars.

Haldir reached numbly forward and closed Fedorian’s eyes. Averting his own, he removed the knife, folding already cooling hands around the hilt. Getting to his feet was more difficult than he thought it would be and he didn’t stay up long. His head whirled as though he’d stood up too fast and he stumbled back from Fedorian’s body, an immovable trunk sparing him from falling. As the adrenaline rush faded, pain and exhaustion were freed to pounce. He glanced down at his tunic which was now more crimson than grey. He frowned. Surely that wasn’t right? Brown flickers danced round the edges of his vision.

Aragorn realized what was about to happen a split second before it did and he barely heaved his weight up on his screaming leg in time to catch his friend’s shoulders as he collapsed. But the added weight was too much for his injured leg and they both tumbled to the ground. The ranger heaved himself up on his knees and rolled his friend onto his back. Shaking fingers frantically swept aside the elf’s limp, sweat and blood-matted hair.

“He’s hurt,” he yelled to Carlóme and the others who were still standing about the glade, frozen with shock. Aragorn leaned anxiously over his friend. Now that he was this close and could see the full extent of the damage Fedorian’s knives had wrought, he felt sick. “Haldir?”

The elf captain stirred at the sound of his name and frowned up at him through hazy eyes. “I think I used to be taller than you.”

Aragorn was worried by the confusion in the elf’s gaze and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. “You fell, mellon nin. Just lie quiet for now. We’ll get you help.”

The elf murmured something incomprehensible as his eyelids slipped lower; a pale sheen lay on his hair. Aragorn fingered the bright gold and glanced up towards the sky. He hadn’t realized it was morning.

Dawn’s light brightened around them from midnight blue to pearly opalescent. Soft pale blue shot through early clouds and trickled into the middle of the glade, illuminating the wan faces of the two friends.

“I’m sorry, Estel,” Haldir gasped, catching the fingers resting on his shoulder. “I know I told you I would take you home…”

“Don’t talk like that, Haldir, you’ll be fine… you—” He raised his eyes helplessly to Saeryn who had knelt beside him. Her face was grim.

“It is better this way…I couldn’t let him die…like that…” The elf shook his head and cleared his throat roughly. “I thought if you knew what I had done… You would turn from me. And I could not blame you. But I could not have borne it either.”

The ranger firmly cut across his friend’s rambling. “I have already told you, you are my friend. Nothing will change that.”

“And you mine. I knew… I knew somehow what he would do. I knew it then. And I did nothing. I have been a warrior all my life… But never a murderer… until…” he whispered, softer now.

Cold sweat slicked Aragorn’s palms as he touched the elf’s even colder cheek. His friend was slipping away, his thoughts growing more and more incoherent as he struggled to keep conscious.

Haldir’s head rolled against the man’s shoulder, his cloudy, barely open eyes finding the still form lying a few feet away.

“I—I think he wanted it, Estel. He could have stopped… but he didn’t. He—”

“Shh, don’t talk about that now. In fact, you shouldn’t be talking at all,” Aragorn quieted him. His friend was trembling in his arms and his lips were turning a desperate blue, the first signs of shock. It was a miracle it had taken as long to set in as it had. “Those aren’t scratches, my friend.”

Aragorn tried to smile reassuringly but his lips felt paralyzed. Crimson soaked his sleeves and leaked between his fingers from the terrible wounds Fedorian had inflicted in Haldir’s arm and side. It was like watching Arenath die all over again except this time it was Haldir...This time it was someone he could not lose. Not when Haldir had risked his life for him.

Half-delirious with pain, Haldir did not heed him. “He died how he wished. In battle…with hon—”

“Stop talking!”

Haldir did but not because of the ranger’s words. His overbright eyes searched over the ranger’s shoulder and locked onto Carlóme’s who had appeared just behind them. His eyelids fluttered, his words slurring as darkness began to drag him down. “You are revenged. He is dead.”

The elf captain’s head lolled into the crook between Aragorn’s collarbone and neck. Faint voices still trickled through his stumbling consciousness but they sounded far away and he could not answer.

“Is he dead?”

“No, no, he’s breathing. We need to move him carefully.”

A clamor broke out as the others crowded around. He could only separate a few words as he battled waves of pain and darkness. Heady pain and lingering pressure did not allow him to keep his eyelids open and pulled him inexorably downwards. Someone touched his side and he moaned.

“…so white.”

“He fought that…”

“That’s a lot of blood.”

“Haldir. Haldir!” Aragorn’s voice briefly thrust aside the haze. He sounded shrill and frightened though Haldir couldn’t remember why he should be. The danger was over wasn’t it? Why couldn’t they let him sleep…Someone was urgently tapping his face. He barely felt it.

“Stay with me, mellon nin. Come on. I just need you to—”

But what Estel needed him to do he would never find out. Black specks swamped the last of his sight. The invisible, hard ground rocked beneath his body though he knew Aragorn held him fast. But even the desperate, tightening grip of his friend could not stay him and he sank, finally surrendering into oblivion’s comforting embrace.

----------

Light snow was falling, blue in the dim twilight. Frost slicked the stones like a lace web across the yard. Aragorn leaned against the wooden doorjamb, staring out into the night. The stone keep behind him was almost as cold as outside and less than welcome at the moment. Soft snowflakes whirled down and alighted on his shoulders, melting and seeping into his clothes but he didn’t step out of the wind.

They came slowly with their burden. Carlóme led with a torch in her hand which flared and sizzled as snowflakes whirled into it. Then Zaren, Petrin and Brenn came next. They bore a stretcher between them. A long dark sheet of sacking dusted with white covered the face of the occupant, protecting it from the wet. Oddly, he felt nothing upon seeing it as though all of his energies these last few days had gone wholly into setting one foot in front of the other.

He should be down there helping them but Saeryn had already snapped at him more than once for not resting his leg and when Carlóme, finally sick of listening to Saeryn’s scolding, added her own, the ranger relented. But he did not go inside nor did he sit down though his leg was screaming at him to do both by now. He had to stay. He had to watch even if he could not help.

A pale hand protruded from underneath the sacking. It swung lightly in the motion of its carriers, looking almost alive but for the fact that it was far too limp and rigid to be living. The long fingers were half-curled as though in supplication towards the healer who stood in the doorway, the healer that had no power to mend the wounds hidden under that shroud. Aragorn shivered.

He couldn’t watch anymore. With limping, difficult steps, he turned his back on the snowy courtyard and painstakingly pushed himself along the corridor, holding onto the wall for support. The hallway had never seemed so long in his life. Scuffling noises behind him and a heavy thud told him the stretcher bearers had reached the hall. He started to tremble more violently. A light flickered at the far end, drawing him closer and closer with the promise of life and warmth.

The soft-lit room was small, containing only one bed and a rickety chair. He pushed the latter over to the glowing brazier in one corner and sat down, rubbing his hands and aching leg.

After the feeling started to tingle back into his fingers, he raised his head a few inches and peered over at the figure on the bed. It was more of a cot really; he rued the fact they hadn’t been able to find anything better. He deserved more than this… A lump choked off in his throat and he had to swallow hard to force it down. Struggling to his feet, he crouched awkwardly by the bed and smoothed strands of long, golden hair off Haldir’s face.

The marchwarden was very, very pale, as white as the gauze wrapped thickly around his abdomen and forearm, concealing the worst of his injuries from view. A yellowing bruise darkened his jaw and the small cuts above his eye and on his cheek were already closing. Aragorn placed a cool palm against his friend’s forehead, easing slowly down to brush his cheek which was clammy and cold. But for the slight rise and fall of his chest, he perfectly matched the corpse on the stretcher.

An unobtrusive footstep behind him did not startle him and he didn’t take his eyes from his friend’s motionless form as Brenn sidled into the room. He was almost in here as much as Aragorn was, his eyes automatically lighting on the figure in the bed.

Aragorn looked up at last when the boy crouched beside him. “There’s no change.”

“Can—can I just sit with him…for a while?” the boy requested nervously as though he feared the older man would send him away. Aragorn only smiled sadly and nodded.

They had done all they could. It was up to Haldir now. But he wandered far from them and could not know the concern of those keeping vigil at his bedside.

----------

The light nearly blinded him. He stood at ease, blinking in bright sunshine. It was so silent he started when he discovered he was not alone. Early summer leaves rippled across the straight-backed forms of the arrayed company in front of him; a brilliant light haloed them and fell about their feet. No ghastly specters these covered in blood-soaked wounds. They stood in long ranks and files, rigid to attention, garmented in sparkling silver and black. Weapons, much in evidence, had been polished to a high sheen and leaned proudly against hips and shoulders.

And at their head, arms folded in the small of his back, golden hair unbound and spilling down his shoulders stood Fedorian. He turned to look on Haldir as the younger elf approached. The once-dark Galadhel bore no bloody wounds from their final encounter. His skin was smooth and whole. No rips or tears marred his raiment. He wore the deep blue tunic and gold epaulettes of an officer and his green eyes shone when he smiled. There no trace of bitterness or hatred left in his face, only pride as he surveyed the troops.

“Good turnout.”

Haldir scanned the faces, a few—those in front—he recognized. Cálivien, captain of the north fences before Fedorian, Tirien of Mirkwood, Telas counselor to Thranduil—names and faces flashed before him and were gone. Arenath.

Those further back he did not know, elves fallen before his time. “What are they all doing here?” he asked, caught between awe and heartbreak. They were faces he still missed.

“They have come to see me home. All of them.”

Then he saw them. Standing to one side of the column farthest right, Geilrín and Silivren, Fedorian’s wife and daughter, stood in their healer’s white. They smiled brightly when his eyes fell on them. Arenath broke rank long enough to wrap an arm around Silivren’s waist and smile. He looked happier than Haldir had ever seen him.

They were all there: his teachers, his friends, soldiers and comrades he had known during the war…his father. He took an impulsive step forward but Fedorian held out a hand to halt him.

“Not yet, Haldir,” his voice was at once adamant and understanding. “You have a captaincy of your own to look out for. They’ll need to stretch their swords a bit more before they join the ranks here.”

Haldir’s chest ached with longing and against his friend’s words he took another step forward. “Captain, my life—”

“—is not over,” Fedorian finished firmly, gripping his shoulders firmly to stop him from going any further. “And it is perilous for one not dead to join our ranks. We will wait for you, Haldir, when your time comes. We will all be there to welcome you home. But not yet. You have too much yet to do.” He released him as a scout in bright green marched up to his officer and threw an elegant salute.

“All present and accounted for, sir.”

“Good.” With one last squeeze and smile, Fedorian took his place at the head of the line. “All right, you brass-necked, bold bravura! About face! And…march!”

Haldir watched them, an ache he didn’t want to look too closely at throbbing deep in his chest as they strode in perfect unison into the green forest, their steps silent and perfectly even. With them, went the light and as the last of their singing voices faded in an echo of an old marching song, he was left alone in the dark.

He couldn’t see the ground though he could feel it, quite solid under the soles of his boots. It echoed strangely as though made of marble. Suddenly something unmoving connected with his waist and he lurched over it, automatically splaying his hands on the cold, hard surface to keep his balance. Then he realized what it was and pulled back sharply.

A shrouded figure lay on a slab of stone, barely visible in the faint grey light that infused this strange limbo-world. A gauzy cloud of some material covered an undeniably human-shaped form; he could see the contours of high cheekbones and a glint of gold hair beneath the translucent fabric. On impulse, he snagged the edge of it and ripped it back.

He stared down into his own face, white and still. The pall fluttered from his hands.

Somewhere in the dark a guttural voice asked. “How much are we going to get for it?”

----------

A drab, olive blanket had been pulled up around his chest and his hand rested on top of it. His limbs felt unimaginably heavy and stiff as though he hadn’t moved in a long time. Muddled, bleary thoughts and half-recalled pictures chased through his memory and Haldir sucked in a sharp breath, fearing to find himself on the cold slab.

A wooden frame met his searching fingertips and he paused, not sure what to make of this development as it matched neither his last recollections nor his nightmare. The chamber was better lighted than the darkness he had expected: the soft pallid light seared across his face. His uninjured forearm crept up and shielded his eyes so he could look around the room.

Grey walls presented for his hazy inspection. Haldir frowned. He didn’t remember them. A hard, cold knot settled somewhere in his stomach region as he gingerly levered himself up on one elbow, ignoring the prickle of dulled pain at the back of his mind. He froze as he saw them. Three of the walls of his room were blank stone but the fourth, easily the most terrifying had eight, straight posts of iron forming an impassable barrier to the outside world. Bars. His breath started coming faster.

Leaning against the wall for support, he pulled his body upright. It took him two or three tries as his legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate. He limped over to the bars. This couldn’t be happening…it was a bad dream…His fingers touched the iron coldness and his stomach plummeted like a dead weight. It was real. He gripped the bars desperately with both hands and heaved.

They clanked open.

The movement so startled him he nearly lost his balance as the wide grille swung outward.

He pushed again. The door swung open wider with only a slight creak. It finally dawned on his numbed mind: he wasn’t locked in. He plunged through the thin opening, fearing someone would come along and realize their mistake. But he didn’t get far. The trembling weakness in his legs abruptly stole any thought of further flight right out of him and he collapsed at the top of a downward leading staircase, breathing heavily. Dizziness assailed him until he felt nauseous. He probably shouldn’t have moved so soon. He didn’t realize he was sitting against the wall until someone called his name.

“Haldir,” Aragorn said his name again, his face creased with concern as he hurried as quickly as he could down the corridor, flanked by Brenn and Petrin, the young prison guard. The ranger was limping on his left leg and it took a few seconds before Haldir remembered why.

The man knelt painfully next to him and grasped his shoulder, unbelievable relief evident in the wide grin nearly splitting his face in two even as he mentally berated himself. The one time he decided to let Saeryn drag him away from his friend’s side to get the dressings on his wound changed, he had to wake up. “You’re awake.”

“They’re going to hang me.”

“What?” the ranger frowned then noticed the elf’s wide gaze focused on the prison cells opposite them. He could tell Haldir wasn’t quite all the way there. He looked very confused and he wasn’t making any sense. Realization hit him like a bucketful of icewater.

“Oh, no. No. No, mellon nin. Not at all. We just didn’t want anybody to disturb you that’s the only reason we closed the door.”

The elf’s gaze found his wrapped forearm which had just sought to remind him of its presence with a fierce twinge. Memory was trickling back slowly. The pealing bells… a collapsing tunnel… the fight in the glade… “Ah.”

“Are you in pain?” Aragorn questioned, worried the elf’s movements might have pulled at his injuries.

“Is he all right?” Petrin inquired anxiously. Brenn was hanging back but craned his neck over the guard’s shoulder to see.

“Give us a little space please,” Aragorn motioned them back without taking his eyes off his friend. “Haldir?”

Haldir regarded the thick bandages wrapped around his midsection and forearm. They didn’t hurt exactly although if he moved too suddenly he could feel the pull of stitches and supposed Aragorn must have drugged him to dull his senses. More than a little embarrassed by his reaction, he muttered at the floor rather than raise his head.

“No… I—I don’t feel anything. Thank you.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling too tired to even pick himself off the floor just yet. He settled for glancing down the long corridor. His last memory didn’t match up with being in the prison. “How did I get here?”

Aragorn stretched his leg out in front of him with a soft grimace. He was still watching the elf with deep concern. “Carlóme and the others showed up just in time with Varnic’s men who managed to dig them out of the tunnel. After…after you passed out, we made up a stretcher and carried you back here. We were afraid to move you any farther so we put you up here once we slowed the bleeding enough. I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

“It’s all right. I’m just… It makes better sense now. I’m…I’m still a little tired.”

“That’s not surprising,” the man said. Something in his tone caught Haldir’s curiosity and he glanced at him until he explained. “Well, it’s going to take some time to recover your strength. You’ve been lying there nearly a week.”

“What?”

Aragorn’s face was very grave and no hint of jest flickered in his eyes. “We were really worried for you for quite a while. It was only last night that I was sure you’d pull through. I’ve had Brenn and Petrin running back and forth to Merdon to fetch supplies. They’ve both proved extremely helpful,” the ranger allowed and Petrin and Brenn beamed. “Until now. I told you I wanted someone to be with him at all times in case he woke up.”

Both Brenn and Petrin looked appalled with themselves. Brenn protested. “But we only left for a minute. Car was getting the…” he trailed off with a sideways glance at the elven warrior watching him closely. “the… you know ready.” He gave Aragorn a significant look. “She wanted us to open the door.”

“All right. Then I forgive you,” the man said. “Why don’t you two see what you can scrounge up for food and drink around here. Some of the soup from last night will do and tea. You,” he turned back to his friend. “need to eat and rest.”

“What a week’s worth wasn’t enough?” the elf teased but when the man frowned at him he relented. He still felt too drained to start a debate anyway so he opted instead for settling his curiosity. “What is the woman ‘getting ready?’ ”

Aragorn froze in the act of getting heavily to his feet. “I’ll tell you later. You don’t need to worry about it right now.”

“Well, that’s cryptic.”

“You must be wearing off on me,” the man said dryly. He stretched out a hand to the elf when Haldir showed no signs of rising. “Can you get up all right? Do you need—?”

“I’m fine.” Haldir ignored the proffered hand and used the very obliging wall to get to his feet.

Aragorn grasped his shoulder when he swayed. Ignoring the elf’s pride, the man wrapped an arm firmly around his waist, easy of his wound, and helped him back into his cell-room.

In his haste to escape, he hadn’t noticed the high window streaming bright sunlight into the chamber. It looked as comfortable as a cell could possibly be made. His and Aragorn’s packs sat side by side against one wall and a hard-backed chair had been dragged into one corner near a lit brazier, the flames dull in the daylight.

“Can you leave the door open please?” he requested, a little ashamed of how weak that made him sound.

Aragorn only nodded and sat down on the chair.

Wrapped in the drab blanket, Haldir rested his shoulders against the wall above the cot and closed his eyes. He didn’t say anything.

“You look horrible you know,” Aragorn offered.

“Thank you,” the elf felt the beginnings of a smile twitch the corner of his lips but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Do you want to sleep? I can leave if you want…” The man started to stand but Haldir’s eyes opened.

“No.” That was all but Aragorn understood. Instead of settling back in the chair though, he glanced at the elf as though for permission and when Haldir scooted over, he joined him with his back braced against the wall and his bad leg dangling over the edge of the mattress. The elf captain glanced at it then quickly away again as Brenn came bustling through the door with a tray laden with two bowls covered in cloths; he whipped them off the steaming soup with a flourish.

“It’s the best I could come up with,” he said, setting it on the chair.

“That’s fine, Brenn, thanks,” Aragorn told him with a smile.

The elf’s eyes scanned the backs of the chairs, the foot of the cot and the cloaks piled on the floor. Aragorn glanced at him curiously as he got up and went over to their packs. “What are you looking for?”

“Where is my tunic?”

“What do you want that ratty thing for?” Brenn asked, pouring tea into two cups.

Aragorn was a little more tactful. “One of mine won’t serve?”

“You still need to grow a few more inches, little one, before I can wear your clothes,” the tall elf said, poking through their supplies while the ranger spluttered with outrage.

“I am grown! I cannot believe you just said that,” the man said, the wide grin belaying his disgruntled tone.

Haldir didn’t laugh, the contents of his pack now thoroughly scattered over the room. “Where is it?”

The ranger shared a sidelong look with Brenn before answering. “It—it was ruined, Haldir. You don’t want it surely? You shouldn’t be up anyway…”

“Did you burn it?” The elf captain’s eyes snapped up to the ranger’s, searching.

“No.” Aragorn had at least made sure of that.

“Should have seen the washerwoman when he told her to save it,” Brenn added, wrinkling his nose in imitation of the hooklike beak of the matron who took care of the guards’, prisoners’—and the occasional wounded elf’s—clothing. “‘Lan’ sakes! That thing’ll bring in all kinds of disease! But if you want it, your deaths on your own head be it!’”

Haldir still didn’t smile, his eyes locked on Aragorn’s. “Where is it?”

The young man sighed and brushed the elf aside so he could get to their satchels. After a few uncertain moments of rummaging around in his, he took out a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. He passed it to the elf who unwrapped it and shook out his long, grey tunic.

The garment was torn, filthy and wrinkled despite someone’s thoughtful but ineffective attempt to get some of the stains out. It was stiff all along one side with dried blood. Haldir let the blanket fall from his shoulders and gingerly shrugged it on, waiting for his injuries to protest.

Aragorn was watching him with something like concern as though the sight of the bloodstained fabric might evoke some fresh horror in him but Haldir didn’t care to notice his discomfort. He had seen his own blood before and liked his uniform, no matter its condition. He felt less than himself without it.

“My black undertunic?” He had to ask though he suspected.

“That one,” Aragorn said, still watching the elf’s face. “Couldn’t be salvaged.”

“They had to cut it off you,” Brenn said, his eyes like saucers as he dragged his eyes away from the crimson stain up to the elf’s face. “I’ve never seen that much blood in my whole life.”

Wincing, Haldir nodded. He had expected as much. “Ah, well. I think I have a spare somewhere.” He glanced at Brenn then pointedly at Aragorn.

The ranger took the hint and with a smile, wrapped an arm around the inquisitive boy. “Hey, Brenn, why don’t you go on downstairs see what Carlóme needs help with all right? Let him rest.”

The boy nodded reluctantly and with one last look at his hero, let himself be escorted out. Aragorn watched him go with a fond smile. “He was very worried about you.”

Haldir said nothing, partially leaning against the wall, lost in thought.

Aragorn’s semi-anxious smile appeared again as he pretended to not look his friend over while doing so. “You really shouldn’t be up you know.”

“I know.” He was staring at his right hand, flexing the fingers as though he’d forgotten it belonged to him. Someone had mercifully washed the blood off his hands and even from underneath his fingernails. He didn’t want to think what a sight he must have looked when Aragorn had carried in his limp body. An odd shiver passed across his face as his last moments of awareness caught up with him.

“You slept a long time,” Aragorn said to cover the silence, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“And how much did you rest?” Haldir asked with a glint in his eye that suggested he knew far too well the answer.

Condemning himself Aragorn fumbled to hide a yawn. “I slept enough.”

With great difficulty Haldir refrained from rolling his eyes. Any excess movement of late made him nauseous. The guilt-induced sickness, held back by the dam of unconsciousness for so long, washed over him again as his thoughts returned to the glade, Aragorn’s white face with blood spilling between his fingers, Fedorian breathing his last. Haldir had no false illusions about himself. He knew what he had done had been necessary. Once more he played the role of executioner all too well.

The lack of a pithy remark about his nursemaid tendencies must have alerted Aragorn.

“Haldir? What’s wrong?”

The elf shook his head in a familiar “it’s nothing” motion, immediately regretting it as the world rocked and the floor decided to jerk under his feet.

“Are you feeling all right? Dizzy?” Aragorn immediately jumped on any sign of discomfort and gripped his arm to steady him as he wavered.

The elf captain didn’t answer and kept his eyes closed until the room settled again. He opened them, realizing he’d fallen against the wall and Aragorn’s worried face was scarce inches from his. Haldir smiled apologetically, pushed away from the wall and brushed off the man’s helping hand, cursing himself for putting that dark anxiety back in his young friend’s eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t know how you can be.”

The elf stared at him, stunned by the frankness. Apparently the ranger knew or guessed all too well what was going on behind his friend’s weak façade of indifference. Aragorn chewed briefly on his lip, looking as though he were struggling with something as Haldir dropped onto a corner of the mattress.

“You were thinking of him weren’t you?”

“That obvious?” Haldir looked up at him as Aragorn took the place he had just vacated against the wall.

“Look, Haldir, the things he said—” Aragorn began. “They weren’t—”

“He was right—to an extent,” Haldir refuted him lightly as the ranger opened his mouth to argue. “I let darkness consume me for a very long time, Estel. It was a choice I made and it was a bad one. I never…I did not want it to go as far as it did and I have carried it around inside me for too long a time. In a way, I am indebted to Fedorian. He unearthed shadows I had buried deep within. Shadows I had…feared,” he had not spoken of this before to anyone—not even to his brothers or Rameil, that secret deep within him that what had happened all those years ago could happen again if prodded enough, if disturbed enough. He had almost left Aragorn to his death the first time he had met him. The thought still haunted him a little—how much he would have missed if he had.

“It took confronting him…and a few other things—” the elf said for the first time looking up from the floor to glance at his human friend. “—for me to realize I have no need for fear.”

The young man sat down next to him again and leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his thighs, easy of his still-tender injury. He didn’t quite know what to say. He would never dared ask or expect such a confession, if confession it could be called, from his close-mouthed friend. It was a moment before he could find his voice.

“I always knew it,” he said softly. Haldir smiled.

The ranger touched his friend’s shoulder carefully. “If you…if you want…I had Carlóme and the others…I had them bring him back from the glade. That’s what she was getting ready. If you wanted to…say goodbye. Properly.”

Haldir stared at his lap for a long time before he finally nodded. “He deserves that much from me at least.” He would pay his last respects and see his friend down to the Sea where he would finally have peace at last. He rubbed his aching eyes and smiled ruefully with his chin in his hand as he examined his friend. “If I look horrible, you should look in the mirror, mellon nin. When did you last bathe?” He fingered a lock of the ranger’s greasy hair.

Aragorn sputtered indignantly, secretly glad for the lightening mood. “I’ll have you know, I washed in a freezing stream this morning so I’d be clean and smelling of rose petals just for you.”

The elf made a noise of amused disbelief as the man got up and brought the now-cold tray of soup and tea over to the bed. He winced as his movement sent a spasm up his leg. Haldir took the tray from him gingerly as he rubbed it before catching the marchwarden’s concerned gaze. He offered a smile.

“It doesn’t hurt much.”

“You’re still limping.”

“And you’re not?”

Haldir decided to concede the point and took his bowl off the tray. He laughed hoarsely as he sipped at the broth. “Oh, I shudder to think of the lecture I’m going to get from your father: dragging you through seedy towns, off cliffs, into battles with mad elves…”

“He’ll get over it. What?” Aragorn said when the elf’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

His tunic had slipped slightly off his shoulders. Haldir let his spoon fall and ran his fingers over his collarbone again, tracing his shoulder. “There was a scar here…It’s…it’s almost gone.”

“Some scars fade over time,” Aragorn shrugged, not sure why this held any particular significance.

Haldir nodded slowly. Aragorn could not know that the mark Tergon had made in his flesh had showed no signs of fading for more than two millennia. It had been a mark of his shame and hatred carried within him all these years. But it was fading, nothing more than the shadow of a white line anymore. A sudden, inexplicable peace flooded through his entire being such as he had not known in years. He was forgiven.

“I suppose so.”

----------

Another week passed before Saeryn deemed both the ranger and the elf well enough to travel—at a leisurely pace so as not to stress their injuries. Fedorian was laid to rest in a borrowed boat and sent down the River Isen towards the Sea with only Haldir and Aragorn in attendance. Before they knew it their bags were packed, bolstered by extra rations Carlóme and the others had bought. Even Fabor, the innkeeper of the Goat, had grudgingly parted with a bottle or two of his unaged blackthorn brandy in farewell. The Haradrim woman’s band rode with them as far as the hedge-flanked gate that opened onto the north road.

“If you’re waiting for a tearful farewell, you’re not getting one,” Carlóme said, slinging the postern gate open wide from the back of her horse. “If you’re ever in Rhûn, look us up.”

A few weeks ago, the rough, dismissive tone would have made him bristle but now Aragorn just shook his head with a smile. It was odd how some people just began to grow on you. It seemed strange and a little sad to be saying goodbye. He had become oddly fond of this band of miscreants in the short time they had ridden together.

Ignoring her leader’s typical brusqueness, Saeryn clasped first Aragorn’s hands and then Haldir’s in both her own and squeezed them tightly. “Take care of yourself, warrior. And you too, Strider.”

Zaren also shook hands with both of them, wishing them well and a safe journey. Aragorn smiled when he saw Brenn hesitatingly approach Haldir and speak to him. The elf captain, looking much refreshed after a peaceful night’s sleep, smiled and rummaged in his saddlebag for a minute or two before pulling out the small, elvish knife. Brenn’s pleased grin almost split his face as he unabashedly embraced the elf who looked surprised but gratified. He caught Aragorn’s eye over the boy’s shoulder and rolled his eyes as if to say “Humans. What can you do?” Aragorn shook his head. “Absolutely nothing.”

As Brenn finally let go, Haldir noticed Narturi staring at him from near her own horse. He crooked a finger at her, shooting a sly look in Carlóme’s direction. Nonplussed but looking excited, the youngest of Carlóme’s band dropped her bag in the dust to meet him.

Narturi stared up at him with wide, doe eyes, as he tilted her chin up towards him and placed a very chaste kiss on her forehead. As he pulled away, her head shot up and daring lips caught the corner of his mouth. He grasped her wrists to hold her off, laughing loudly.

“Eldest here and I still get the prettiest kiss!”

Kari snatched Narturi’s wrist and dragged her back towards her horse.

“Shame on you, Haldir, tempting an innocent young maid like that,” Aragorn scolded his friend from horseback, a wide, uncontrollable grin stretching across his own face when Haldir winked rakishly at him.

He stroked Lintedal’s velvet neck with a smile as the horse nudged his shoulder impatiently. “Are you ready then, hiril nin?”

Carlóme jerked her chin impatiently towards the road. Clearly, she wasn’t one for long goodbyes. “Off you go then.”

Zaren cleared his throat and gave her a pointed look.

“Thanks,” she added curtly.

“And?” the scarred thief prompted.

Carlóme gave him a look that could have burned ice. “Good luck.” For the briefest of instances, her dark eyes met the elf’s. He gave her the slightest nod and could have sworn he received one in return. But then…

“Take care of your friend, Strider,” she said, her dark eyes flickering over to the ranger. “If he gets in as much trouble as he’s been in these last few weeks, he’s going to need all the help he can get.”

Haldir smirked at her as he nudged Lintedal through the gates. “How comforting it is that some things never change.”

Aragorn could not quite conceal his smile as they rode up the curving road, the leaning ramshackle buildings of Merdon falling farther and farther behind. “You know, I think she might almost miss you.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m serious! Did you see that last look she gave you?” Aragorn laughed helplessly and ducked as the elf swatted at him.

In the middle distance on their right reared the huge, cloudy smudges of the Misty Mountains, their peaks crowned with white clouds that promised more snow before the afternoon was yet far along.

Haldir shaded his far-seeing eyes with a hand. “Think you can put up with me until we reach Rivendell?”

“I suppose I will have to,” Aragorn sighed, feigned reluctance softened by the teasing sparkle in his eyes.

The elf captain pulled a long face which made him start chuckling. “Well, I don’t have to take this all afternoon, you ungrateful wretch.”

“Oh no indeed?” The ranger grinned challengingly, already knowing what the elf was going to do and tightening his grip on the reins.

“Lintedal is far better company than you. And faster than that old nag you ride can match.” The mischievous glint in those silver eyes was unmistakable now.

He barely had to touch Lintedal with his heels to send her flying down the road; Aragorn’s deep laughter following him as the ranger spurred on his own steed. Dust flew from under their hooves as they galloped into the wind on towards Rivendell and home.

~The End~