Marchwarden: Hidden Hero - Chapter 6
Title: Marchwarden: Hidden Hero - Chapter 6
Author: kenazfiction
E-mail: kenazfiction@gmail.com
Fic Journal: http://kenazfiction.livejournal.com/ or The Archive
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Borrowing the Good Professor's characters for my own amusement.
Archive: OEAM, Melethryn, AFF; The-Archive.net, others, just ask.
Feedback: of course!
Beta: Lady E
Summary: Life is a ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
Click here for Chapter 5.
Lothlorien, 3018 Third Age: Rhîw
When the fog of sleep had cleared, at least in part, from Galion's eyes, the first thing of which he was aware was that his body hovered perilously close to the edge of the bed. The second thing he noticed was that one paltry corner of linen was all that remained to cover him against the early morning chill. The rest of the blanket, to say nothing of the rest of the bed, had been commandeered by the Marchwarden, ostensibly for the official purpose of warming his official hide.
The fact that this cursed Galadhel and his ridiculous brawn expanded in sleep to fill the space of no less than three Elves might have driven him to distraction over the intervening decades since Haldir had staked his claim on, in, and across Galion's bed, but that he looked so adorably beatific in his quietude.
Yet youthful and untroubled as he appeared, he still threatened to topple Galion from the nest as he sprawled diagonally on his stomach, one knee pulled up as if scaling some steep scarp and one arm dangling limply over the side. With a sigh, Galion took up the task of moving his cumbersome beloved and reclaiming some territory-and some bedding-for himself.
No sooner had he nudged a strapping leg aside with his foot than the heretofore exanimate mass snorted, stirred, and rolled over, pinning the healer beneath the dead weight of an arm and a leg.
"Oh, bother," the healer whispered in fond exasperation. "How you slumber thus I truly cannot fathom."
"Perhaps it is because I do not truly slumber," a rough voice grumbled as the wakening Elf fixed him with half-lidded eyes. "How can I hope for sleep when my beastly bedmate mercilessly kicks me?"
"I did not kick!" Galion protested as his rousing captor began to gnaw playfully on his chest, inching up toward his neck.
"Oh? If you did not kick, what, then?" Haldir tried his best to affect incredulity as he nipped at a fleshy lobe, grinning smugly when Galion purred and turned in his arms, his grey eyes widening slightly as his burgeoning erection met Haldir's and found no trace of sleep at all in that part of him.
Haldir rolled his hips, reveling in the sharp intake of Galion's breath before the healer replied.
"I nudged."
"Ah," the Marchwarden affirmed, reaching between them and taking them both firmly in hand, "you nudged."
Both Elves shuddered at that first touch on eager flesh, Haldir reveling in the lazy tangling of their legs and the little mewls of contentment spilling from his lover's mouth as he drew out their pleasure, rubbing and pulling at a leisurely pace to enjoy the feeling of his blood trilling in his veins, his senses enthralled, his heart poignantly served by this effortless adoration. So many mornings dawned thusly, sometimes playful, sometimes hungry, often tender, and occasionally with one or both of them lingering in half-sleep, the body dabbling in pleasure while the soul rested still. Haldir could scarcely believe that he had once greeted each new day alone; moreover, he could scarcely credit that he had thought himself contented with such an arrangement.
Deep kisses turned slow wakefulness to more urgent ardor. Mewls became growls, sighs became deliciously filthy expressions of desire, ribald promises of exquisite tortures to be exacted upon pliant bodies. Fingers toyed with nipples now standing as erect as the flesh arching up ardently further below, and a disheveled flaxen head broke the sordid serpentine of tongues to hiss a single, scorching word in his darkling beloved's leaf-like ear.
"Suck."
Oh, if any Elf had the mettle to contravene the Marchwarden's command, Galion was not he! Holding Haldir's gaze, he prowled down the bed, refusing to relinquish the captain's full attention as he parted his lips and drew his tongue across his teeth with unmistakable intent, feeling vindicated indeed when the unsubtle gesture evoked a shudder of anticipation. He absorbed every nuance of desire that flickered across the Galadhel's face when he descended upon that ardent flesh and did as he was ordered.
Haldir groaned, rewarding the exquisite draw and release with rapturous song. It was a far cry from the days of old when the Marchwarden took his pleasure in near silent detachment. Now he cooed and keened and even, on occasion, emitted the most perfectly devastating yelp when brought to climax that Galion was unsure whether his own body would respond with delighted laughter or lusty snarls.
As he deftly plied his tongue to its task, he reached up and his palm was filled with a little pot of calendula salve. Soon his fingers were delving and twisting in Haldir's core to the same quickening pace he had set upon his shaft. He settled the weight of his body across one of the Marchwarden's powerful legs to subdue the bucking of hips as Haldir spent, surges of bitter heat flooding his mouth.
Eyes agleam with salacious mischief, Galion stalked back up like a feral cat, swiping the last of Haldir's fluid from the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. His own shaft, primed and aching, swayed heavily between his legs, and he loomed briefly over his companion before swooping down to claim a kiss, letting Haldir taste the tang of his own essence on his tongue.
"I hunger to feel your heat, Haldir," he softly drawled, but immediately felt his consort go still beneath him. "I am not one of your wardens," he cajoled. "It would be no weakness to yield to me."
But Haldir's reluctance persisted, and Galion did not wish to color the sweetness of the morning's romp with misgivings, so he found his pleasure where he had many times before: held between the taut walls of the Marchwarden's sweat-slicked, muscular thighs.
Galion grudgingly accepted that there were certain things Haldir would not yet grant him; his submission, and a binding pledge. He was a patient Elf, and Haldir's constant presence in his bed for nearly a century was proof that patience was in due time rewarded. And with Haldir's head pillowed on his chest, words of love tumbling sleepily from his lips as he sank into a delectable drowse, Galion knew himself already possessed of what he most desired.
There was no mistaking that Haldir's soul-burden following the loss of his men had been lifted by Galion's care, and ever after did he seem brighter. Returned in those years at Galion’s side was the ready laugh of old, the quick humor long smothered under the portentous cloak of the Marchwarden, as welcome as greening buds after a long winter. He even found he had lost his taste for antagonizing Feredir, and while said Elf was for quite some time dubious of his captain's sincerity-- an age of mutual persecution and rivalry could not be set aside in a few decades' time-- he eventually managed to blunt his sword when it came to Haldir. And while it was often tempting to poke at an acknowledged sore spot, both Elves managed to treat each other with a degree of respectful patience, if not overt fraternity. For this, Rúmil was pleased beyond all telling, but he wisely said nothing lest bringing attention to their fragile accord bring it likewise crashing down.
Yet for all his felicity, one thing still preyed heavily on Haldir's mind: whether the deepening of his relationship with Galion was wisdom or folly. There was no doubt he loved the healer; in one way or another, he had loved Galion since childhood, and the forging of a romantic alliance merely gave their long-standing devotion a greater depth and breadth, the subtle shadings of an affinity that reached soul-deep. Some nights he woke and simply watched his partner sleep, and in those moments he was so overwhelmed by the rush of devotion and wonder that filled him that it was all he could do not to shake Galion awake and tell him over and over again: You are my home. You are my heart.
Often he thought on what sweet bliss it would be to bind himself to Galion, to know the healer forever at his side, to feel the joining of their spirits as well as their bodies. He knew, too, that this was Galion's dearest wish, though the healer never once pressed the issue, just as he refrained from questioning Haldir's reticence to receive the full measure of his ardor. Elemmakil's exhortations, however, were well ingrained and never far from Haldir's mind: I am derelict in my duties if I weigh my lover’s life more heavily than the life of another. Yet how can I not? Love is duty’s bane, Haldir. Love is treachery. And for all the love he bore for Galion, he could not set such weighty words aside.
How many times had he said that he would take no spouse, that duty alone would be his bride? How could he be assured that he would not fail in his charge, as Elemmakil believed the mighty Ecthelion had failed, if he, like the Fountain-Lord, made his lover first in his heart? Were he to take Galion as his bond-mate, he would run the risk of ruin on the field of war-for he knew war was nigh, and Mordor's shadow only growing-if he found himself torn between Galion's safety and the safety of his men. It was for this reason alone that he resisted the potent call to give himself completely, fought the ever increasing urge to know the healer's steel as fully as he had known his silk. This, too, was a remnant of Elemmakil and his lessons, for while his fallen Captain and erstwhile lover had maintained that disdain for the passive place in loving fostered the image of a leader who brooked no surrender, Haldir had eventually gleaned that the real reason Elemmakil would not engage him in intimacy had far more to do with the guarding of his heart, and he had hoped to teach Haldir to likewise guard his own.
So guard it, he did…yet he believed to his core that a life without Galion by his side would be a life half lived, an eternity of loneliness intermittently disrupted by meaningless encounters and the pale hope that his righteousness would suffice to warm his empty heart. It was an untenable idea. But so, too, was the idea of failing in his sworn duty.
His ruminations on this particular day were abruptly terminated by the arrival of a breathless runner rushing into the camp to announce that the sentries had seen riders approaching from the foothills in the West. By the time he rode to the eaves of the hither marches, they were well within sight: two figures in deep grey cloaks on shadow-shaded mounts, each horse matching the other stride for stride. There was little doubt as to the identity of these visitors even ere they drew back their hoods to reveal identical faces with handsome features dulled by fatigue.
"Mae govannen, Marchwarden," offered one of the pair with a worn smile as they reached the edge of the wood, though Haldir was not so well acquainted with them to say which.
"Well met, my lords. What errand brings you in such haste?"
"Not a pleasant one," spoke the other twin. "Forgive us if we are not forthcoming, Captain, it is a matter of great import, and meant for your Lord and Lady's ears alone unless they deem otherwise."
Haldir gave a slight bow to acknowledge his understanding. He offered them rest and refreshment, but they partook of little, exhausted though they were, and chose to press their mounts and finish their trek, though it would likely find them arriving at the gates of the city well after dark.
Privately, his mind raced with curiosity as he tried to deduce what message the grey riders carried that required such secrecy. His interest, as it happened, would soon be satisfied: as darkness settled over the borders, a swift came gliding through the wood on her swept-back wings and delivered to him an urgent message from the Lord of the Lorien. Come dawn, he was to make with all due speed to Caras Galadhon.
In the great hall high in the mightiest of the mellyrn, his Lord and Lady awaited him, as did the sons of Elrond, looking far more rested but no less solemn than he had last found them. Lord Celeborn bade him sit and then began to speak.
In all of Haldir's long years he had never heard such a tale.
The Ruling Ring of Sauron, thought for millennia to be lost and beyond the reach even of its dark master, had been found, and by no less than a wandering Halfling who knew not of its provenance, though he discerned that it held some strange power. He had kept it for some sixty years before bequeathing it to a young kinsman. But the Ring ever sought to be reunited with its maker, and as Sauron's power grew, so did his awareness of the Ring. The Dark Lord had traced it to the Shire, and the young Halfling, at Mithrandir's behest, had set off with three companions in tow, and with Aragorn Dúnedain, last of the line of Elendil, they had arrived in Imladris with Úlairi in close pursuit.
"And now," Celeborn told him, "the Ring comes to us."
Haldir could not disguise his horror. "My Lord, wherefore does it come to our realm?"
"Peace, Haldir," the first twin counseled. "Our father called a council to determine its fate and 'twas decided that the Halfling in whose possession it came shall deliver it to the fires of Orodruin. Our errand was to forewarn your Lord and Lady of their arrival."
"They?" He looked questioningly to Celeborn, but it was the Lady who spoke, her voice as serene as the first light of dawn.
"The Ringbearer will not be alone on his journey. Elrond's council devised a Fellowship to aid the Periannath in his quest. They will take sanctuary here that we might grant them what aid and strength we may."
Haldir met his Lady's firm yet placid decree with a suant breath that did little to dispel his unease. "When will this 'fellowship' arrive?"
"A fortnight, we believe," the other twin-Elladan? -offered, and Haldir gave him a hard look.
"Evil will follow in their wake." Celeborn crossed the room to stand before him. "You must be prepared for it, but in what guise it will arrive I cannot yet say. Speak not of the Ring to your men, but impress upon them the necessity of extreme vigilance."
"Whatever the Dark Lord sends us, your wardens will be prepared." Haldir rose to his feet and lifted his fist to his heart. Celeborn nodded, one corner of his mouth pulling up almost imperceptibly as he regarded his Marchwarden with restrained pride. The Galadhel was not pleased by the news; this much was patent despite the diplomatic attempt the young one had made to school his dismay. No, Haldir was no more pleased than he himself had been, Celeborn acknowledged, yet there was none he trusted more with the task of safeguarding the woods than Guilin's son, who had, as Elemmakil long ago predicted, surpassed even that great guardian.
The Golden Wood has a stalwart champion in its Marchwarden.
He dismissed Haldir and watched with empathy in his heart as the warrior departed the room as swiftly as decorum allowed, awash with silent but palpable anger, unable to do aught but nod and promise preparedness for he knew not what.
Haldir traversed the bridges and walkways that spanned the high places with a heavy step that resounded in the otherwise tranquil air. When he heard a voice behind him calling to him to wait, he spun around irritably, his eyes narrowed and flashing. The sons of Elrond had followed him out of the hall.
"You see now why we could not speak of our mission at the borders."
Haldir could barely restrain his resentment. He jerked his head in either direction to see who was about before he hissed in an impassioned whisper. "I like it not that such a malicious token should come into my woods. Sauron has long beset us with savagery; not even a century has turned since the Wise drove him from Dol Guldur, and already you would have his eye fall on us again!"
The first twin stiffened at the rebuke, his patience chafed. "And we like it not that the Ring has been harbored in our own halls since nigh the dawn of Firith!" He checked the rising tone of his voice. "This doom was not of our making, Marchwarden. We are merely messengers here. But if my people can shelter this thing for a season, so can yours! You vent your spleen on us only because you dare not controvert your Lord and Lady's wisdom in this, which is far greater than your own."
"Enough!" cried his brother, stepping between them ere they came to blows, and from this Haldir assumed the arbitrator was Elrohir, who was said to be more moderate in his bearing than the elder son. He appealed to Haldir with an earnest face. "We are none of us eager to have such infamy in our midst, but we have little choice. The Ring must go to Mordor, and a humble Periannath has been charged with the task. One Halfling holds the fate of us all. Surely we must all do everything we can to ensure his success."
Haldir looked from one fair face to the other with a querulous frown. Though he had disliked the sharp tone of his confronter, the words Elladan Peredhel had spoken were true: He was vexed by the thought of the Ring coming to Lorien, but was powerless to speak against its approach. "I am sworn to do my Lord and Lady's bidding," he simply replied, ashamed by his outburst and anxious to end the contentious discussion. He paused to collect himself. "Let us speak of friendlier things. How does Gildor's band? What mischief has my friend Ausir found of late?"
The twins exchanged a look and Haldir's heart flew to his throat. He knew the manner of news such a glance betided. The first twin turned away and pressed his knuckles to his mouth, and Haldir knew in that instant that he was indeed Elladan, for Ausir had often spoken with fondness and mirth of the tricks they played upon each other. He beseeched Elrohir for an answer, though he knew already what the younger twin would tell him.
"Mischief has found him, indeed, Haldir. He is dead."
Elladan abruptly turned and walked ahead some distance from them, looking away, up into the canopy of the trees.
"The wandering company ran afoul of the Black Riders in the North at the end of Iavas. The Wraiths were hunting the Halfling, whom Gildor had by chance or by fate met upon the road the night before. They waylaid the Riders, but not before Ausir fell to a Morgul blade."
Haldir stood in solemn silence for some time before his anger percolated once again. "Why did no one tell me? Nigh two seasons he has been gone and I did not ken the loss." Already he could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes. "He was my friend! Did I not deserve knowledge of this?"
Elrohir reached out and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You were not forgotten, Haldir. Gildor wished to bring the news himself. But the advent of the Ring has thrown the whole of Imladris into a tumult. Father could not spare him to come to you, and Gildor was adamant that you not simply hear of it by rumor, or by a terse note tied to a falcon's leg.
"He knows your pain, friend. It is his own, for he loved Ausir as he loves you: as a son he was not granted."
"And what of Ausir's wife? How does she fare?"
Elrohir looked down, shaking his head mournfully. "Her grief was beyond her bearing. She was delivered to her kin in Mithlond, but she was consumed by the loss."
Elladan returned then, his eyes rimmed in red, and offered Haldir his arm that they might put behind them the harsh words earlier spoken. "Break your fast with us, Haldir, if your men can spare you. Ausir tormented me with many pranks he had not the chance to recount to you. I think he would rather have us think on his roguery than on his end."
Haldir nodded; he knew it was so.
It is coming. It has begun.
Events had been foretold in his Lady's Mirror, but he needed no otherworldly prescience to tell him that what had long been restrained was set now into motion: darkness was coming. He could smell it in the air, the slow stench of decay carried on an ill wind. He could feel it seething in the soil, as if the bones of every creature buried beneath the earth would rise up for a reckoning. The waters wept, and the trees sang despair through the nodding of their boughs that he could answer but not assuage.
Soon.
The appearance of that wretched, misshapen creature Aragorn had dragged through the eaves of these pristine lands had announced that the final chapter of the age would be written anon. Appropriate, the Elf-Lord mused sardonically, that the Ranger would arrive with his vulgar quarry at the Stirring-time, for as the new growth of Echuir was waking, he was waking his own destiny, and with it, the fate of them all. Would the Ranger take up his part? Could that lean and wiry, half-feral looking boy take the name that was long foretold and succeed where all others of his line had failed? Or would the hope of the Dúnedain fail as well?
And now the gwanûn had come with news that the Fellowship and its corrupt burden had taken the first steps of their desperate journey.
The leaves on the trees still showed gilded and green, the magic of Nenya preserving them in everlasting summer, but in his blood, the Lord of the land knew that the fallow desolation of winter was on them, and to him it seemed a fell and fatal time even as the leaves clung brightly to their branches.
Even she cannot shunt fate forever. In this false season a shadow looms before us colder and bleaker than any season of Ilúvatar's design.
In the grey tunic of the wardens he became invisible, free to slip unseen from the confining walls of Caras Galadhon and into the woods without escort. What is it, he wondered with no little bitterness, which makes them believe a soldier is rendered impotent when he is named a lord? He had long ago found that courtiers, advisors, and seneschals alike all labored under the misapprehension that in doffing armor for robes of state, one doffed all strength as well. I can barely pass water without some sycophant asking if he can assist me.
His mood was surly and dark. He felt fettered.
This night he sought solitude without explanation, some uninterrupted contemplation of the fell deeds to come. Was it not his right as Lord of this place to tour it unimpeded? His only conceit was in knowing he walked with greater stealth than any other, for the ground-fall and tree limbs kept his presence secret, and not a leaf nor a blade of grass would ever betray him. Haldir alone sensed him, but the Marchwarden knew his mind and would not intercept him. The loyal Marchwarden would ever be taciturn where his Lord's business was concerned.
He climbed up to a talan secreted in the furthest heights of a Mallorn near the place where in days long past Amroth's towering lair had overlooked the realm. He eschewed the long ladder to scale the mighty tree branch by branch just to feel its bark against his palms, to feel blood and bone and muscle working in perfect concert. Tonight he needed to remember his strength, for he would need all of it very soon. Evil was coming, and it came not only in the shape of a Ring. He scanned the horizon, scenting the air, hoping that perhaps another of his senses could bring him knowledge of the threat that even his far-sighted eyes could not yet discern. Yes, evil was coming, but Celeborn of Lorien knew not in what form. And he knew not when.
Next chapter...
***
Rhîw = The Sindarin name for winter between December and February.
Periannath = Halflings; Hobbits
Úlairi = Ringwraiths, Nazgûl
Echuir = "Stirring-time;" The Sindarin name for spring between February and April.
Gwanûn = Twins
Firith = "Leaf-fall," the Sindarin name for autumn between October and November
Iavas = The Sindarin name for late summer between August and October
Author: kenazfiction
E-mail: kenazfiction@gmail.com
Fic Journal: http://kenazfiction.livejournal.com/ or The Archive
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Borrowing the Good Professor's characters for my own amusement.
Archive: OEAM, Melethryn, AFF; The-Archive.net, others, just ask.
Feedback: of course!
Beta: Lady E
Summary: Life is a ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
Click here for Chapter 5.
Lothlorien, 3018 Third Age: Rhîw
When the fog of sleep had cleared, at least in part, from Galion's eyes, the first thing of which he was aware was that his body hovered perilously close to the edge of the bed. The second thing he noticed was that one paltry corner of linen was all that remained to cover him against the early morning chill. The rest of the blanket, to say nothing of the rest of the bed, had been commandeered by the Marchwarden, ostensibly for the official purpose of warming his official hide.
The fact that this cursed Galadhel and his ridiculous brawn expanded in sleep to fill the space of no less than three Elves might have driven him to distraction over the intervening decades since Haldir had staked his claim on, in, and across Galion's bed, but that he looked so adorably beatific in his quietude.
Yet youthful and untroubled as he appeared, he still threatened to topple Galion from the nest as he sprawled diagonally on his stomach, one knee pulled up as if scaling some steep scarp and one arm dangling limply over the side. With a sigh, Galion took up the task of moving his cumbersome beloved and reclaiming some territory-and some bedding-for himself.
No sooner had he nudged a strapping leg aside with his foot than the heretofore exanimate mass snorted, stirred, and rolled over, pinning the healer beneath the dead weight of an arm and a leg.
"Oh, bother," the healer whispered in fond exasperation. "How you slumber thus I truly cannot fathom."
"Perhaps it is because I do not truly slumber," a rough voice grumbled as the wakening Elf fixed him with half-lidded eyes. "How can I hope for sleep when my beastly bedmate mercilessly kicks me?"
"I did not kick!" Galion protested as his rousing captor began to gnaw playfully on his chest, inching up toward his neck.
"Oh? If you did not kick, what, then?" Haldir tried his best to affect incredulity as he nipped at a fleshy lobe, grinning smugly when Galion purred and turned in his arms, his grey eyes widening slightly as his burgeoning erection met Haldir's and found no trace of sleep at all in that part of him.
Haldir rolled his hips, reveling in the sharp intake of Galion's breath before the healer replied.
"I nudged."
"Ah," the Marchwarden affirmed, reaching between them and taking them both firmly in hand, "you nudged."
Both Elves shuddered at that first touch on eager flesh, Haldir reveling in the lazy tangling of their legs and the little mewls of contentment spilling from his lover's mouth as he drew out their pleasure, rubbing and pulling at a leisurely pace to enjoy the feeling of his blood trilling in his veins, his senses enthralled, his heart poignantly served by this effortless adoration. So many mornings dawned thusly, sometimes playful, sometimes hungry, often tender, and occasionally with one or both of them lingering in half-sleep, the body dabbling in pleasure while the soul rested still. Haldir could scarcely believe that he had once greeted each new day alone; moreover, he could scarcely credit that he had thought himself contented with such an arrangement.
Deep kisses turned slow wakefulness to more urgent ardor. Mewls became growls, sighs became deliciously filthy expressions of desire, ribald promises of exquisite tortures to be exacted upon pliant bodies. Fingers toyed with nipples now standing as erect as the flesh arching up ardently further below, and a disheveled flaxen head broke the sordid serpentine of tongues to hiss a single, scorching word in his darkling beloved's leaf-like ear.
"Suck."
Oh, if any Elf had the mettle to contravene the Marchwarden's command, Galion was not he! Holding Haldir's gaze, he prowled down the bed, refusing to relinquish the captain's full attention as he parted his lips and drew his tongue across his teeth with unmistakable intent, feeling vindicated indeed when the unsubtle gesture evoked a shudder of anticipation. He absorbed every nuance of desire that flickered across the Galadhel's face when he descended upon that ardent flesh and did as he was ordered.
Haldir groaned, rewarding the exquisite draw and release with rapturous song. It was a far cry from the days of old when the Marchwarden took his pleasure in near silent detachment. Now he cooed and keened and even, on occasion, emitted the most perfectly devastating yelp when brought to climax that Galion was unsure whether his own body would respond with delighted laughter or lusty snarls.
As he deftly plied his tongue to its task, he reached up and his palm was filled with a little pot of calendula salve. Soon his fingers were delving and twisting in Haldir's core to the same quickening pace he had set upon his shaft. He settled the weight of his body across one of the Marchwarden's powerful legs to subdue the bucking of hips as Haldir spent, surges of bitter heat flooding his mouth.
Eyes agleam with salacious mischief, Galion stalked back up like a feral cat, swiping the last of Haldir's fluid from the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. His own shaft, primed and aching, swayed heavily between his legs, and he loomed briefly over his companion before swooping down to claim a kiss, letting Haldir taste the tang of his own essence on his tongue.
"I hunger to feel your heat, Haldir," he softly drawled, but immediately felt his consort go still beneath him. "I am not one of your wardens," he cajoled. "It would be no weakness to yield to me."
But Haldir's reluctance persisted, and Galion did not wish to color the sweetness of the morning's romp with misgivings, so he found his pleasure where he had many times before: held between the taut walls of the Marchwarden's sweat-slicked, muscular thighs.
Galion grudgingly accepted that there were certain things Haldir would not yet grant him; his submission, and a binding pledge. He was a patient Elf, and Haldir's constant presence in his bed for nearly a century was proof that patience was in due time rewarded. And with Haldir's head pillowed on his chest, words of love tumbling sleepily from his lips as he sank into a delectable drowse, Galion knew himself already possessed of what he most desired.
There was no mistaking that Haldir's soul-burden following the loss of his men had been lifted by Galion's care, and ever after did he seem brighter. Returned in those years at Galion’s side was the ready laugh of old, the quick humor long smothered under the portentous cloak of the Marchwarden, as welcome as greening buds after a long winter. He even found he had lost his taste for antagonizing Feredir, and while said Elf was for quite some time dubious of his captain's sincerity-- an age of mutual persecution and rivalry could not be set aside in a few decades' time-- he eventually managed to blunt his sword when it came to Haldir. And while it was often tempting to poke at an acknowledged sore spot, both Elves managed to treat each other with a degree of respectful patience, if not overt fraternity. For this, Rúmil was pleased beyond all telling, but he wisely said nothing lest bringing attention to their fragile accord bring it likewise crashing down.
Yet for all his felicity, one thing still preyed heavily on Haldir's mind: whether the deepening of his relationship with Galion was wisdom or folly. There was no doubt he loved the healer; in one way or another, he had loved Galion since childhood, and the forging of a romantic alliance merely gave their long-standing devotion a greater depth and breadth, the subtle shadings of an affinity that reached soul-deep. Some nights he woke and simply watched his partner sleep, and in those moments he was so overwhelmed by the rush of devotion and wonder that filled him that it was all he could do not to shake Galion awake and tell him over and over again: You are my home. You are my heart.
Often he thought on what sweet bliss it would be to bind himself to Galion, to know the healer forever at his side, to feel the joining of their spirits as well as their bodies. He knew, too, that this was Galion's dearest wish, though the healer never once pressed the issue, just as he refrained from questioning Haldir's reticence to receive the full measure of his ardor. Elemmakil's exhortations, however, were well ingrained and never far from Haldir's mind: I am derelict in my duties if I weigh my lover’s life more heavily than the life of another. Yet how can I not? Love is duty’s bane, Haldir. Love is treachery. And for all the love he bore for Galion, he could not set such weighty words aside.
How many times had he said that he would take no spouse, that duty alone would be his bride? How could he be assured that he would not fail in his charge, as Elemmakil believed the mighty Ecthelion had failed, if he, like the Fountain-Lord, made his lover first in his heart? Were he to take Galion as his bond-mate, he would run the risk of ruin on the field of war-for he knew war was nigh, and Mordor's shadow only growing-if he found himself torn between Galion's safety and the safety of his men. It was for this reason alone that he resisted the potent call to give himself completely, fought the ever increasing urge to know the healer's steel as fully as he had known his silk. This, too, was a remnant of Elemmakil and his lessons, for while his fallen Captain and erstwhile lover had maintained that disdain for the passive place in loving fostered the image of a leader who brooked no surrender, Haldir had eventually gleaned that the real reason Elemmakil would not engage him in intimacy had far more to do with the guarding of his heart, and he had hoped to teach Haldir to likewise guard his own.
So guard it, he did…yet he believed to his core that a life without Galion by his side would be a life half lived, an eternity of loneliness intermittently disrupted by meaningless encounters and the pale hope that his righteousness would suffice to warm his empty heart. It was an untenable idea. But so, too, was the idea of failing in his sworn duty.
His ruminations on this particular day were abruptly terminated by the arrival of a breathless runner rushing into the camp to announce that the sentries had seen riders approaching from the foothills in the West. By the time he rode to the eaves of the hither marches, they were well within sight: two figures in deep grey cloaks on shadow-shaded mounts, each horse matching the other stride for stride. There was little doubt as to the identity of these visitors even ere they drew back their hoods to reveal identical faces with handsome features dulled by fatigue.
"Mae govannen, Marchwarden," offered one of the pair with a worn smile as they reached the edge of the wood, though Haldir was not so well acquainted with them to say which.
"Well met, my lords. What errand brings you in such haste?"
"Not a pleasant one," spoke the other twin. "Forgive us if we are not forthcoming, Captain, it is a matter of great import, and meant for your Lord and Lady's ears alone unless they deem otherwise."
Haldir gave a slight bow to acknowledge his understanding. He offered them rest and refreshment, but they partook of little, exhausted though they were, and chose to press their mounts and finish their trek, though it would likely find them arriving at the gates of the city well after dark.
Privately, his mind raced with curiosity as he tried to deduce what message the grey riders carried that required such secrecy. His interest, as it happened, would soon be satisfied: as darkness settled over the borders, a swift came gliding through the wood on her swept-back wings and delivered to him an urgent message from the Lord of the Lorien. Come dawn, he was to make with all due speed to Caras Galadhon.
In the great hall high in the mightiest of the mellyrn, his Lord and Lady awaited him, as did the sons of Elrond, looking far more rested but no less solemn than he had last found them. Lord Celeborn bade him sit and then began to speak.
In all of Haldir's long years he had never heard such a tale.
The Ruling Ring of Sauron, thought for millennia to be lost and beyond the reach even of its dark master, had been found, and by no less than a wandering Halfling who knew not of its provenance, though he discerned that it held some strange power. He had kept it for some sixty years before bequeathing it to a young kinsman. But the Ring ever sought to be reunited with its maker, and as Sauron's power grew, so did his awareness of the Ring. The Dark Lord had traced it to the Shire, and the young Halfling, at Mithrandir's behest, had set off with three companions in tow, and with Aragorn Dúnedain, last of the line of Elendil, they had arrived in Imladris with Úlairi in close pursuit.
"And now," Celeborn told him, "the Ring comes to us."
Haldir could not disguise his horror. "My Lord, wherefore does it come to our realm?"
"Peace, Haldir," the first twin counseled. "Our father called a council to determine its fate and 'twas decided that the Halfling in whose possession it came shall deliver it to the fires of Orodruin. Our errand was to forewarn your Lord and Lady of their arrival."
"They?" He looked questioningly to Celeborn, but it was the Lady who spoke, her voice as serene as the first light of dawn.
"The Ringbearer will not be alone on his journey. Elrond's council devised a Fellowship to aid the Periannath in his quest. They will take sanctuary here that we might grant them what aid and strength we may."
Haldir met his Lady's firm yet placid decree with a suant breath that did little to dispel his unease. "When will this 'fellowship' arrive?"
"A fortnight, we believe," the other twin-Elladan? -offered, and Haldir gave him a hard look.
"Evil will follow in their wake." Celeborn crossed the room to stand before him. "You must be prepared for it, but in what guise it will arrive I cannot yet say. Speak not of the Ring to your men, but impress upon them the necessity of extreme vigilance."
"Whatever the Dark Lord sends us, your wardens will be prepared." Haldir rose to his feet and lifted his fist to his heart. Celeborn nodded, one corner of his mouth pulling up almost imperceptibly as he regarded his Marchwarden with restrained pride. The Galadhel was not pleased by the news; this much was patent despite the diplomatic attempt the young one had made to school his dismay. No, Haldir was no more pleased than he himself had been, Celeborn acknowledged, yet there was none he trusted more with the task of safeguarding the woods than Guilin's son, who had, as Elemmakil long ago predicted, surpassed even that great guardian.
The Golden Wood has a stalwart champion in its Marchwarden.
He dismissed Haldir and watched with empathy in his heart as the warrior departed the room as swiftly as decorum allowed, awash with silent but palpable anger, unable to do aught but nod and promise preparedness for he knew not what.
Haldir traversed the bridges and walkways that spanned the high places with a heavy step that resounded in the otherwise tranquil air. When he heard a voice behind him calling to him to wait, he spun around irritably, his eyes narrowed and flashing. The sons of Elrond had followed him out of the hall.
"You see now why we could not speak of our mission at the borders."
Haldir could barely restrain his resentment. He jerked his head in either direction to see who was about before he hissed in an impassioned whisper. "I like it not that such a malicious token should come into my woods. Sauron has long beset us with savagery; not even a century has turned since the Wise drove him from Dol Guldur, and already you would have his eye fall on us again!"
The first twin stiffened at the rebuke, his patience chafed. "And we like it not that the Ring has been harbored in our own halls since nigh the dawn of Firith!" He checked the rising tone of his voice. "This doom was not of our making, Marchwarden. We are merely messengers here. But if my people can shelter this thing for a season, so can yours! You vent your spleen on us only because you dare not controvert your Lord and Lady's wisdom in this, which is far greater than your own."
"Enough!" cried his brother, stepping between them ere they came to blows, and from this Haldir assumed the arbitrator was Elrohir, who was said to be more moderate in his bearing than the elder son. He appealed to Haldir with an earnest face. "We are none of us eager to have such infamy in our midst, but we have little choice. The Ring must go to Mordor, and a humble Periannath has been charged with the task. One Halfling holds the fate of us all. Surely we must all do everything we can to ensure his success."
Haldir looked from one fair face to the other with a querulous frown. Though he had disliked the sharp tone of his confronter, the words Elladan Peredhel had spoken were true: He was vexed by the thought of the Ring coming to Lorien, but was powerless to speak against its approach. "I am sworn to do my Lord and Lady's bidding," he simply replied, ashamed by his outburst and anxious to end the contentious discussion. He paused to collect himself. "Let us speak of friendlier things. How does Gildor's band? What mischief has my friend Ausir found of late?"
The twins exchanged a look and Haldir's heart flew to his throat. He knew the manner of news such a glance betided. The first twin turned away and pressed his knuckles to his mouth, and Haldir knew in that instant that he was indeed Elladan, for Ausir had often spoken with fondness and mirth of the tricks they played upon each other. He beseeched Elrohir for an answer, though he knew already what the younger twin would tell him.
"Mischief has found him, indeed, Haldir. He is dead."
Elladan abruptly turned and walked ahead some distance from them, looking away, up into the canopy of the trees.
"The wandering company ran afoul of the Black Riders in the North at the end of Iavas. The Wraiths were hunting the Halfling, whom Gildor had by chance or by fate met upon the road the night before. They waylaid the Riders, but not before Ausir fell to a Morgul blade."
Haldir stood in solemn silence for some time before his anger percolated once again. "Why did no one tell me? Nigh two seasons he has been gone and I did not ken the loss." Already he could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes. "He was my friend! Did I not deserve knowledge of this?"
Elrohir reached out and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You were not forgotten, Haldir. Gildor wished to bring the news himself. But the advent of the Ring has thrown the whole of Imladris into a tumult. Father could not spare him to come to you, and Gildor was adamant that you not simply hear of it by rumor, or by a terse note tied to a falcon's leg.
"He knows your pain, friend. It is his own, for he loved Ausir as he loves you: as a son he was not granted."
"And what of Ausir's wife? How does she fare?"
Elrohir looked down, shaking his head mournfully. "Her grief was beyond her bearing. She was delivered to her kin in Mithlond, but she was consumed by the loss."
Elladan returned then, his eyes rimmed in red, and offered Haldir his arm that they might put behind them the harsh words earlier spoken. "Break your fast with us, Haldir, if your men can spare you. Ausir tormented me with many pranks he had not the chance to recount to you. I think he would rather have us think on his roguery than on his end."
Haldir nodded; he knew it was so.
It is coming. It has begun.
Events had been foretold in his Lady's Mirror, but he needed no otherworldly prescience to tell him that what had long been restrained was set now into motion: darkness was coming. He could smell it in the air, the slow stench of decay carried on an ill wind. He could feel it seething in the soil, as if the bones of every creature buried beneath the earth would rise up for a reckoning. The waters wept, and the trees sang despair through the nodding of their boughs that he could answer but not assuage.
Soon.
The appearance of that wretched, misshapen creature Aragorn had dragged through the eaves of these pristine lands had announced that the final chapter of the age would be written anon. Appropriate, the Elf-Lord mused sardonically, that the Ranger would arrive with his vulgar quarry at the Stirring-time, for as the new growth of Echuir was waking, he was waking his own destiny, and with it, the fate of them all. Would the Ranger take up his part? Could that lean and wiry, half-feral looking boy take the name that was long foretold and succeed where all others of his line had failed? Or would the hope of the Dúnedain fail as well?
And now the gwanûn had come with news that the Fellowship and its corrupt burden had taken the first steps of their desperate journey.
The leaves on the trees still showed gilded and green, the magic of Nenya preserving them in everlasting summer, but in his blood, the Lord of the land knew that the fallow desolation of winter was on them, and to him it seemed a fell and fatal time even as the leaves clung brightly to their branches.
Even she cannot shunt fate forever. In this false season a shadow looms before us colder and bleaker than any season of Ilúvatar's design.
In the grey tunic of the wardens he became invisible, free to slip unseen from the confining walls of Caras Galadhon and into the woods without escort. What is it, he wondered with no little bitterness, which makes them believe a soldier is rendered impotent when he is named a lord? He had long ago found that courtiers, advisors, and seneschals alike all labored under the misapprehension that in doffing armor for robes of state, one doffed all strength as well. I can barely pass water without some sycophant asking if he can assist me.
His mood was surly and dark. He felt fettered.
This night he sought solitude without explanation, some uninterrupted contemplation of the fell deeds to come. Was it not his right as Lord of this place to tour it unimpeded? His only conceit was in knowing he walked with greater stealth than any other, for the ground-fall and tree limbs kept his presence secret, and not a leaf nor a blade of grass would ever betray him. Haldir alone sensed him, but the Marchwarden knew his mind and would not intercept him. The loyal Marchwarden would ever be taciturn where his Lord's business was concerned.
He climbed up to a talan secreted in the furthest heights of a Mallorn near the place where in days long past Amroth's towering lair had overlooked the realm. He eschewed the long ladder to scale the mighty tree branch by branch just to feel its bark against his palms, to feel blood and bone and muscle working in perfect concert. Tonight he needed to remember his strength, for he would need all of it very soon. Evil was coming, and it came not only in the shape of a Ring. He scanned the horizon, scenting the air, hoping that perhaps another of his senses could bring him knowledge of the threat that even his far-sighted eyes could not yet discern. Yes, evil was coming, but Celeborn of Lorien knew not in what form. And he knew not when.
Next chapter...
***
Rhîw = The Sindarin name for winter between December and February.
Periannath = Halflings; Hobbits
Úlairi = Ringwraiths, Nazgûl
Echuir = "Stirring-time;" The Sindarin name for spring between February and April.
Gwanûn = Twins
Firith = "Leaf-fall," the Sindarin name for autumn between October and November
Iavas = The Sindarin name for late summer between August and October