Marchwarden: Hidden Hero - Chapter 13 & Epilogue
Title: Marchwarden: Hidden Hero - Chapter 13 & Epilogue
Author: kenazfiction
E-mail: kenazfiction@gmail.com
Fic Journal: http://kenazfiction.livejournal.com/ or The Archive
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Borrowing the Good Professor's characters for my own amusement.
Archive: OEAM, Melethryn, 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 12.
A/N: Well, friends, this is it. My tale is nearly complete, but I cannot part without first thanking the inimitable lady_elina for all of her help. She has been a sterling beta, and her advice and attention to detail have helped polish this story in innumerable ways. My hat is off to you! And for those of you who have stuck with this saga-- nearly 18 months now!-- I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. For a fledgling writer, it has meant the world to me. I only hope that you find this a fitting end to Haldir's story.
Namárië!
Lothlorien, Fourth Age 21
He slipped unseen between the trees, threading through bowers and into the wilds, eschewing the orderly splendor of Galadriel's garden not merely for the pain of remembrance it brought him, but because such regimented beauty did not please so much as confound him. Deeper solace lay beneath the timeless shadows of the Golden Wood in its native form, untamed and winding. There was more of that wildness now that Galadriel was no longer here to oversee her plots, or to cajole the buds into perpetual flower.
Artanis. Nerwen. Man-maiden and Noble-woman she had been when first his gaze had lit upon her, and his heart longed for her from the first, for that strong and willful beauty. Long-legged and barefoot had she been then, as tall as he and surpassingly fair, sprinting and leaping, with her spun-gold hair bound in a heavy plait down the perfect curve of her back. She could run faster than all of them, as if Manwë's breath itself propelled her. Always in her youth a challenger waited to best her, but she merely laughed, the sound of wind in leaves, and she outran them.
Oh, how he mourned the loss of that laughter! That was what had stolen his heart: that sound like wind in leaves. Racing through the woods in Doriath, sometimes she would give him the victory, collapsing breathless to the ground, cheeks flushed with life. They would talk of lore and of love, and she would absently braid blooms or long grasses in her hair, that glimmering garland radiating the light of the Two Trees. Galadriel he had named her then in a reverent whisper, his fingers tangling in golden silk, and she met his fevered gaze boldly at first, then blushed and laughed and turned away, strangely demure, taking his heart forever in the swift simplicity of that gesture.
Her laughter had become rare as a jewel, something kept locked away behind years of strife and sorrow. The loss of Nenya had been the last in a long line of devastations, though she had foreseen that it would be thus, that when the One Ring failed, the others would follow. She had been a Ringbearer for so many years, he wondered if she would ever again feel herself without that shackling weight on her finger.
She had understood why he feared her weakness, and yet he had felt the unspoken hurt, the grievous wound of his mistrust when he told her he would rather see her perish than see her enthralled, and it saddened him still to know that he had caused her that portion of grief. And yet, had she not taken Nenya against his counsel? Perhaps ultimately it was this pain, wrought out of love on either side, that made it easier for them to part for now. Aman summoned her, promised a surcease of heartache, an end to her weariness. At last the Doom of Mandos that lay upon her and all her kin was lifted, the way to the Elvenhome opened to her, though she had long despaired it would remain shut to her forever. She had been weakened beyond bearing by time, by war, by the Ring, by the ululating call of the sea that compelled her in a voice that, in the end, was stronger than his own. This, too, was hurtful, but not beyond his bearing. He hoped when next they met, he would find her whole again, find her strong and willful and laughing.
He had roots to this land deep as any oak, and they bound him here in a way in which she had never been bound. Yet while this was the land he loved, and these were trees that he tended with as much care as if they had been the children of his body, the Golden Wood was no longer beautiful without her presence; the mallorn leaves began to fall, and the warm light of perpetual spring began to fail. For all he had desired a Lorien at peace, a Lorien free from the threat of darkness, it seemed to him now that Lorien was no longer his home. He had saved the land only to leave it.
He pressed his face to the cool bark of a mallorn, silver and smooth beneath his cheek.
Your heart has much sorrow, Silvertree. It is weary; you are weary.
Celeborn nodded, letting the slow pulse of rising sap and sinking roots succor him, the touch of the tree an armless embrace.
You will quit us soon, will you not?
Celeborn did not answer; there was no need.
The torch in Haldir's hand guttered in the gloom, casting a callow beam that reflected the slime seeping down the walls. He could hear the snarl of Yrch, but could not see them; in the labyrinthine bowels of Dol Guldur, it was easy to lose one's bearings. Distantly, swords clashed and voices both black and Elven cursed and shouted.
Narrow stairs spiraled down and the torch sputtered and went out; he could discern nothing further than his next step. Putting out a hand, he found the clammy stones of the stairwell. A draft crept stealthily around him, a vindictive finger of ice tracing his veins.
In the dungeons, there were Men and Dwarves. There were Elves as well, but none whose faces were known to him; perhaps they were taken from Mirkwood. All were dead, of course. The vulgar stench told him some had been moldering there a while, but others glistened with the fresh red blood of recent murder. Dol Guldur allowed no escape, no pardon, no reprieve.
The warhorn blared and he sought an exit. The damnable tunnels curved every which way, and with no light to see by, he was helpless. The horn blared again, a final warning. He cursed. He refused to countenance such an undignified death as being crushed by malevolent masonry.
A high-pitched tone pierced the murk and the rocks beneath his feet groaned as if in complaint against the sound. A tremor followed, which rapidly rose to a quake. He felt his insides tossed in the rapid oscillation of magic and gasped at the sudden sharp pain behind his eyes, a red-hot needle boring through his skull. Behind him, he could hear Feredir heaving, the vibrations twisting his law-brother's gut. His breathing labored against the tightness of his chest, the constriction of an invisible hand.
A violent belch from deep in the earth portended the falling of the first stones, but once they began to tumble, they came in a torrent, a river of rock. He was thrown backwards in the spiraling stairwell and felt himself falling, falling.
Yet even as he plummeted backward, arms blindly flailing for purchase, he felt warmth against his back, the weight of a body molded against his, cradling him as he fell.
Wake, Olórin-nin. Galion's voice stirred him. You are dreaming.
His limbs jerked violently, his eyes flashing into focus at the imagined moment of impact, anticipating agony only to find himself naked in his bed, swathed in blankets, the solid warmth of his mate's body curved behind his own. Galion's arm tightened around him, prompting him to settle, and he relaxed into the security of that clutch, blinking away the vestiges of troubled sleep. It had not been the first time dreams had taken him back to those final terrifying moments inside the black citadel before the magic of Galadriel brought it to the ground. Likely, it would not be the last.
Assured now that he was awake, Galion spoke, aloud this time, though his voice was low. "Celeborn departs today, and Taurnil with him. We promised to see them off."
Celeborn was leading a large group of Elves to Imladris, where he wished live with his grandsons for a time, and from there, many of the travelers would continue on to the Havens and take ship. Taurnil's health had but marginally improved since taking the Ungol's poison. Only in Aman, where Ungoliant had long ago fatted herself in the peaks and crags of Ered Gorgoroth, did the healers have the knowledge still to return his health, thus it was imperative that he tarry here no longer. Merilin, the healer who had so thoroughly supplanted Galion in caring for him, would travel at his side, and there was little doubt in Galion's mind that there would be betrothal bands on their fingers when he saw them again.
If he saw them again. With each season that passed in this new age, it seemed more and more likely that he would not. Orophin had already begun his own preparations to quit this land, for he could bear to be kept from Alquonís and Ethuilion no longer. Rúmil, too, desired to depart, but had spoken little of his plans, for while the sea-longing held him in its briny yoke and the promise of reunion with his parents and lost friends roused his flagging spirit, there was one among them who had not yet spoken of departing. The brothers feared, as did Galion, that Haldir would neglect the call of Aman and choose to remain in Arda. It was the only home Haldir had ever known, and the shores of Valinor must have seemed to him distant, foreign, and unwelcoming.
Galion wept when he had finished his farewells, his pangs made all the sharper at the sight of Taurnil's old, sweet smile, which he feared now he would not see again. He was not alone in his tears; the departure of Celeborn was bittersweet, and with the passing of its beloved lord, the light of Lorien was further dimmed.
Lothlorien, Fourth Age 27
"You must speak with him. You must make him understand!" Rúmil's voice was strident and tight in his throat. When Galion did not answer, Rúmil pressed further.
"Are you so easily resigned? Do you not wish to reunite with your own kin? He would follow you if you demanded it, so why do you hold your tongue?"
Galion wearily pinched the bridge of his nose and looked down. Rúmil knew as well as he that threats and ultimatums would gain him little with Haldir, just as his own quiet petitions had availed him not. Nor was there hope he could make Rúmil understand his brother's steadfast insistence on remaining in Middle-Earth, for he scarcely understood it himself. He knew that there was no choice for him, that Haldir’s choice would be his, as well. He had cast in his lot with Haldir, though it meant a severing of his dearest ties, for Haldir would not be moved. Galion was sick with it, yet he had conjured every argument he could think of, and had each time been met with the truculent wall of Haldir's imperturbable logic. Cold comfort it was, in some manner, to have the decision taken from him, to relinquish himself to fate. And Haldir was his fate. If he was certain of anything, he was certain of that. Better to fade into shadow and memory by his beloved's side than to board the ship alone to eternal regret.
It was at that moment that the Elf in question stepped into the talan, stripping off his cloak and bow with brisk efficiency. One look was enough for him to guess the reason for Rúmil's visit. His expression was grave as he turned his eyes toward his brother.
“You will not turn my mind, Rumíl. I have a duty here that I am sworn to discharge. Why must you blight our final days together with your rancor?”
“It is you alone who would make these our final days together, you alone who blights us all with your recalcitrance," Rúmil cried. "Celeborn released you from your duty! You are no longer Marchwarden of Lorien, Haldir. We are soldiers no more!”
Haldir's eyes took on a steely cast. “My duty was not to Celeborn, but to the realm. All the ages I have lived, save a scant handful of years, I have lived under Lorien's shelter. I have defended her since I was old enough to wield a bow. I have seen those I love fall here. I have lead many to their deaths that the trees may stand, and I would not see their sacrifice set so easily aside.”
“You would commit yourself to this lonely fate because you cannot give up your position? Out of guilt for the dead?" Rúmil shook his head in disbelief. “Lorien fades, Haldir. With every season, her light recedes. Her Lord and Lady have taken their leave; she is now just a simple forest like any other.”
Haldir bristled. “Simple or no, I am tied to this land. I made an oath, and I will not be forsworn."
Rúmil spun around in search of something on which to levy his rage. He struck out with a roar, the swipe of his arm sending a bowl full of apples flying off a table. The bowl shattered and Galion winced at the sound, watching impotently as the fruit scattered over the floorboards and rolled about at their feet. Haldir feigned impassivity, though his rigid posture signaled anything but. Rúmil stepped up to him, leaving only spare inches between them.
"Do you truly wish to stand guard in an empty wood, brother? To pass beyond all memory, beyond even the reach of Mandos, for a fate you cannot change? Men will take the woods, Haldir. Our time here is ended and theirs in the bloom of youth. Their empires will spread. Beyond Gondor. Beyond Rohan. They will come to your woods, Haldir, and you will not be able to stop them. All your strength and all your skill will avail you not; they will cast you out, or they will slay you."
Haldir's nostrils flared briefly, the only outward sign that Rúmil's speech dismayed him.
"To what end would you stay? That you might fade with the land only to have all that you guarded against come to pass regardless?"
When Haldir stiffened defensively, Rúmil changed his tack one last time.
"Do you not remember another oath you made? What were those words, Haldir, those words you took from Father? I will return to you, young ones, because I do not part from you willingly. Would you have us sundered, brother? Do you part willingly from us now?"
When Haldir did not answer, Rúmil's head drooped in defeat. When he spoke again, it was in a haunted whisper.
"A plague upon your pride. Three days, Haldir. We leave in three days."
When the sun rose on the third day, Haldir was so sick with grief he could hardly speak. The three sons of Guilin parted with tears bitterer than gall, barely able to summon the words of parting from their clutching throats. Feredir stood at distance, his jaw stonily set, furious with Haldir and aching for Rúmil.
"Know that you go with my love," Haldir whispered tightly, and after laying a trembling kiss on two shuddering brows, he strode away, his back painfully straight, and vanished into the woods. Even after the trio mounted and Rúmil spurred his horse, hasty to put leagues quickly between him and his wayward brother, Galion did not venture out to find him; he would not want to be found. His heart and mind were shuttered even to the healer's compassionate touch.
Day gave way to night and still Haldir wandered racked and alone, alternately racing and stumbling through the hidden paths that only he now remembered. He sought to expiate his guilt and regret through sheer exertion, running until his lungs burned and his legs buckled beneath him. He ran till he thought he would retch, as if in purging his body he could purge his heart.
He believed so firmly that he had done what was right, what was honorable, but had not every decision he had made in the name of duty rendered him desolate? The road of righteousness was steep and cruel; why did his loyalty ever set him in opposition of what he desired?
Around him, he watched the leaves, golden now, and russet-brown, carried on unseen currents from their lofty holds down to the ground. There would be no shelter from winter's cold and snows this year; with the Lady gone, the frosts would return with a vengeance, as if to extract a penalty from the land for all the ages it had existed in suspended spring.
Even the mellyrn shed their leaves, a sight rarely seen even by him. It was as if he were privy to their death now, the inexorable decline of majesty into dust. So much of the landscape had changed, metamorphosed by fire, that it already felt less like home and more like a land lost forever. The preternatural budding had ended and leaf-fall had arrived; Lorien, which had long been an idyllic sanctuary held aloft in time, forever looking backward toward a golden past, was now but an ancient forest, just as Rúmil had threatened.
At the end of his weary sojourn, he emerged in the glade where he and his friends and brothers had of old communed, rowdy with drink and song, and where once he and Rúmil had fought bitterly, drawing steel against each other for the only time in all their years. Only in their final confrontation had Rúmil been as wroth with him as he had been on that day. Then Rúmil's ire had been stoked by the dispatching of their mother over the sea, and now it had come to broil because Haldir would not travel the straight road himself. A grim jest it seemed to him indeed. The stately mallorn here beckoned him with its mighty roots, and he sank between them, the very spot he had sought so many times before, warming himself in the embrace of an ancient friend.
I will not abandon you, he told the tree, running his hand lovingly over the roots that rose up around him.
The tree offered no answer.
Wherefore your silence, Pen-Iaur?
Still the tree said nothing.
Have I offended you, old friend? Why will you not answer me?
No response came. Haldir laid his cheek against the roots and began to weep. The mallorn's leaves drifted down from the branches and fell upon his prone body like tears.
It was there in the darkness that Galion found him, drawn to his mate by the unvoiced despair that tugged at his soul like a moon-tide pulling at a ship. He threw his arms around the prostrated Elf and held him tight, feeling Haldir's sobs rattle his own bones.
“The leaves used to fall only by the Lady’s hand,” Haldir said in a small voice.
"The Lady is gone," Galion reminded him gently, knowing the words cruel.
When Haldir raised his head, his face was stricken. The toll of all his years was visible now in his features; ancient they were and horribly weary, though his eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, glinted with all the stark misery of a lost child. His hands shook in Galion's clutches, and that tremor, more than anything else, frightened Galion.
"They no longer speak to me. They have cast me out."
He sagged against the healer as if in voicing those words the weight of his realization crushed him, bore him roughly into the only haven left to him. Galion's arms enfolded him, warming the straining back with a loving touch.
"Nay, Haldir," he whispered, his breath caressing the foliate curve of his beloved's ear. He dared not place his words in Haldir's mind lest the voice he could hear too viscerally remind him of the voices that had gone silent. "They have not cast you out. They have released you."
Haldir's eyes focused desperately on his, seeking any sort of reassurance, any grounding force, for he had suddenly been cut free from his tethers, the earth no longer solid beneath his feet.
"I have no home," he murmured.
"Your home is with me," Galion told him, his tone quiet but unyielding. His healer's hands soothed the chafing salt of tears on Haldir's cheek. "And where you are, that is my home also, wherever it may be." Galion shook him to shock him from his brutal reverie. "The choice is yours, Haldir; stay or go. Whatever you decide, I will accept, but this I must ask you: seek the answer in your heart, not in your pride." He lifted Haldir's unsteady hand and pressed it to his cheek. "You heart brought you to me. Do not tell me it does not give fair counsel."
A mild breeze swirled up around them and shuddered through the branches in affirmation, but Haldir only slumped boneless against Galion, too stunned with sorrow to respond.
The startled mare tossed her head and broke into staccato steps at the crescendo of hoofbeats behind her. Feredir soothed her with low words and gentle petting until she quieted. By that time, the thundering gallop had shifted to an eager canter.
Feredir cast a look of practiced dispassion behind him, confident that the approaching riders would not see the veiled hope in his eyes as he sought confirmation of their identities, or the relief that glowed there when he gained it. He swiveled his head and beheld Rúmil and Orophin riding a few furlongs ahead, their heads bent toward each other in silent commiseration, two parts of a trio mourning their absent third.
When he turned back again, the riders had slowed to a trot and were pulling up behind him, breathless, their faces flushed from exertion and the wind. He tried, and failed, to school galling fondness from his features.
"I suppose I should not be surprised that even now you insist on making a grand entrance."
There were tears overspilling Haldir's eyes when he shot back a scapegrace grin, full of contrition and gratitude, and shrugged.
"I did not wish to disappoint you."
Epilogue: Aman, Fourth Age 29
Galion rolled over in his sleep, but upon finding the sheets beside him cool and smooth and bereft of the expected warmth and solidity of his mate's body he roused himself, rubbing the silt from eyes which focused now on Haldir, standing lost to contemplation across the room. Mellow rays streamed through the window carried on ribbons of mist, honeyed emissaries of a new morning. Though he had no need of rising, Haldir stood by and watched the first stirrings of the day, unaware that he himself was observed. Idly, one hand moved at his side, tentatively touching the deep bruise on his ribs, a reminder of yesterday's loss to Feredir in the practice salle. Galion had refused to heal it, deeming it a fit penalty for their rough play. He had not bothered to dress himself, and the early light danced over his skin so becomingly that Galion wondered if perhaps Haldir was a child of those golden rays, a creature born of light rather than of flesh. His gaze roved up the long, strong legs, over the deliciously muscular rump with its twinned dimples sitting astride the tailbone, to the graceful curve of his spine crowned in rumpled flax. Even the bruise, a mottled purple prize won through the restlessness of warrior blood seeking peacetime occupation, was enchanting.
Yet he could feel Haldir's pensiveness, and it concerned him. He slid his legs free from the knot of blankets, stretching as he rose, and moved to stand behind Haldir at the window. He leaned to rest his chin on Haldir's shoulders, lacing his arms around him, his bed-warm skin drawing the chill from Haldir's back. A shiver coursed through him when Galion spoke.
"Your thoughts have sent you far away this morning," he said gently, nuzzling Haldir's neck.
Haldir expelled his breath in a drawn-out sigh, taking solace from those whip-strong arms around his body. "Not so far as you might imagine." He smiled wanly and continued. "I was only thinking that when I was young, I lived in my father's shadow. I was Guilin's son. Everything I did or failed to do reflected on him, so I strove to be the best son I could be. I grew. I was known as Elemmakil's protégé and I struggled to prove my own worth, to show I had attained my rank through my own skill. At last, I became the Marchwarden of Lorien, the last to own that title. And now…"
His voice trailed off, and he turned his face back to the window.
"And now?" Galion prompted.
"And now, I have no title, no duty. I am merely Haldir."
Galion tightened his grip around Haldir's waist, and feeling himself so sublimely girded in those arms Haldir pressed back into their sustaining presence.
"Nothing of you is mere," Galion told him plainly. "You are Haldir, beloved of Galion. Is that not duty enough?"
Haldir grinned a small grin and turned in the embrace, grasping Galion's wrists and attempting to wrestle them behind the healer's back. "'Tis a terrible burden," he teased, and Galion pulled a wry face as he broke Haldir's grip and shoved him playfully against the wall, forcing the air from his lungs with an audible huff. "Indeed," Haldir laughed as he sought to regain his breath, "I verily struggle under the weight of it!"
His eyes narrowed slightly, though they still held that languid gentleness that was rare as a winter flower and thus much endeared to the healer. That gentleness spoke of his complete comfort, declared that he was no longer on his guard but open and at peace, and despite his early morning contemplations, he was happy. Happier than he ever imagined he could be. But behind that indolent expression of beryl-stone blue, something deeper lurked. Galion knew the look, that slight quirk of the lips, the smug rising of a single brow, and the passion its subtlety belied. Its effect on him was instantaneous and intense.
He disengaged from Haldir and stepped backward toward the bed, countering Haldir's enkindling gaze with his own beckoning smolder and held out his hand.
"Come back to bed, 'merely' Haldir. Your duty calls."
Postscript, Seventh Age 2006
The Elves have all passed into the West, or faded out of time and mind, but the forest remains. The trees are silent, as they have been for uncounted years, and yet there is a presence to this place, this primeval weald. From time to time, men wander here, fancifully imagining the possibilities inherent in this acreage, envisioning what they might build here if the old wood came down. From time to time men wander here, but in the end, they all depart, and quickly at that, overcome by the inexplicable feeling that they have trespassed, that this place is not for them. The trees remain untouched, save for the slow caress of years.
Mortal memory is fleeting and faulty, just as mortal lives are short and fraught. There are few who have heard of this place, fewer still who know the stories of those who lived here long ago, and none, none at all, who remember the realm of Amdir and of Amroth, of Celeborn, and of Galadriel. The Galadhrim have been relegated to legend and lore, and in the simple span of a few more mortal generations, they will be forgotten altogether.
But the memory of the trees lives still, and it reaches back, deep and fertile as roots in the soil. The trees remember their fallen kings, their lord and lady. They whisper still, in voices we cannot hear, of Guilin, and of Elemmakil, and of Tathalion. The trees remember Haldir of Lorien, the last of the Marchwardens. They sing of all those who loved and tended them, and of all those who walked the ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
The trees remember.
~* f i n i s *~
* * * *
Olórin-nin = My dreamer
Pen-Iaur = Ancient one
Author: kenazfiction
E-mail: kenazfiction@gmail.com
Fic Journal: http://kenazfiction.livejournal.com/ or The Archive
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Borrowing the Good Professor's characters for my own amusement.
Archive: OEAM, Melethryn, 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 12.
A/N: Well, friends, this is it. My tale is nearly complete, but I cannot part without first thanking the inimitable lady_elina for all of her help. She has been a sterling beta, and her advice and attention to detail have helped polish this story in innumerable ways. My hat is off to you! And for those of you who have stuck with this saga-- nearly 18 months now!-- I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. For a fledgling writer, it has meant the world to me. I only hope that you find this a fitting end to Haldir's story.
Namárië!
Lothlorien, Fourth Age 21
He slipped unseen between the trees, threading through bowers and into the wilds, eschewing the orderly splendor of Galadriel's garden not merely for the pain of remembrance it brought him, but because such regimented beauty did not please so much as confound him. Deeper solace lay beneath the timeless shadows of the Golden Wood in its native form, untamed and winding. There was more of that wildness now that Galadriel was no longer here to oversee her plots, or to cajole the buds into perpetual flower.
Artanis. Nerwen. Man-maiden and Noble-woman she had been when first his gaze had lit upon her, and his heart longed for her from the first, for that strong and willful beauty. Long-legged and barefoot had she been then, as tall as he and surpassingly fair, sprinting and leaping, with her spun-gold hair bound in a heavy plait down the perfect curve of her back. She could run faster than all of them, as if Manwë's breath itself propelled her. Always in her youth a challenger waited to best her, but she merely laughed, the sound of wind in leaves, and she outran them.
Oh, how he mourned the loss of that laughter! That was what had stolen his heart: that sound like wind in leaves. Racing through the woods in Doriath, sometimes she would give him the victory, collapsing breathless to the ground, cheeks flushed with life. They would talk of lore and of love, and she would absently braid blooms or long grasses in her hair, that glimmering garland radiating the light of the Two Trees. Galadriel he had named her then in a reverent whisper, his fingers tangling in golden silk, and she met his fevered gaze boldly at first, then blushed and laughed and turned away, strangely demure, taking his heart forever in the swift simplicity of that gesture.
Her laughter had become rare as a jewel, something kept locked away behind years of strife and sorrow. The loss of Nenya had been the last in a long line of devastations, though she had foreseen that it would be thus, that when the One Ring failed, the others would follow. She had been a Ringbearer for so many years, he wondered if she would ever again feel herself without that shackling weight on her finger.
She had understood why he feared her weakness, and yet he had felt the unspoken hurt, the grievous wound of his mistrust when he told her he would rather see her perish than see her enthralled, and it saddened him still to know that he had caused her that portion of grief. And yet, had she not taken Nenya against his counsel? Perhaps ultimately it was this pain, wrought out of love on either side, that made it easier for them to part for now. Aman summoned her, promised a surcease of heartache, an end to her weariness. At last the Doom of Mandos that lay upon her and all her kin was lifted, the way to the Elvenhome opened to her, though she had long despaired it would remain shut to her forever. She had been weakened beyond bearing by time, by war, by the Ring, by the ululating call of the sea that compelled her in a voice that, in the end, was stronger than his own. This, too, was hurtful, but not beyond his bearing. He hoped when next they met, he would find her whole again, find her strong and willful and laughing.
He had roots to this land deep as any oak, and they bound him here in a way in which she had never been bound. Yet while this was the land he loved, and these were trees that he tended with as much care as if they had been the children of his body, the Golden Wood was no longer beautiful without her presence; the mallorn leaves began to fall, and the warm light of perpetual spring began to fail. For all he had desired a Lorien at peace, a Lorien free from the threat of darkness, it seemed to him now that Lorien was no longer his home. He had saved the land only to leave it.
He pressed his face to the cool bark of a mallorn, silver and smooth beneath his cheek.
Your heart has much sorrow, Silvertree. It is weary; you are weary.
Celeborn nodded, letting the slow pulse of rising sap and sinking roots succor him, the touch of the tree an armless embrace.
You will quit us soon, will you not?
Celeborn did not answer; there was no need.
The torch in Haldir's hand guttered in the gloom, casting a callow beam that reflected the slime seeping down the walls. He could hear the snarl of Yrch, but could not see them; in the labyrinthine bowels of Dol Guldur, it was easy to lose one's bearings. Distantly, swords clashed and voices both black and Elven cursed and shouted.
Narrow stairs spiraled down and the torch sputtered and went out; he could discern nothing further than his next step. Putting out a hand, he found the clammy stones of the stairwell. A draft crept stealthily around him, a vindictive finger of ice tracing his veins.
In the dungeons, there were Men and Dwarves. There were Elves as well, but none whose faces were known to him; perhaps they were taken from Mirkwood. All were dead, of course. The vulgar stench told him some had been moldering there a while, but others glistened with the fresh red blood of recent murder. Dol Guldur allowed no escape, no pardon, no reprieve.
The warhorn blared and he sought an exit. The damnable tunnels curved every which way, and with no light to see by, he was helpless. The horn blared again, a final warning. He cursed. He refused to countenance such an undignified death as being crushed by malevolent masonry.
A high-pitched tone pierced the murk and the rocks beneath his feet groaned as if in complaint against the sound. A tremor followed, which rapidly rose to a quake. He felt his insides tossed in the rapid oscillation of magic and gasped at the sudden sharp pain behind his eyes, a red-hot needle boring through his skull. Behind him, he could hear Feredir heaving, the vibrations twisting his law-brother's gut. His breathing labored against the tightness of his chest, the constriction of an invisible hand.
A violent belch from deep in the earth portended the falling of the first stones, but once they began to tumble, they came in a torrent, a river of rock. He was thrown backwards in the spiraling stairwell and felt himself falling, falling.
Yet even as he plummeted backward, arms blindly flailing for purchase, he felt warmth against his back, the weight of a body molded against his, cradling him as he fell.
Wake, Olórin-nin. Galion's voice stirred him. You are dreaming.
His limbs jerked violently, his eyes flashing into focus at the imagined moment of impact, anticipating agony only to find himself naked in his bed, swathed in blankets, the solid warmth of his mate's body curved behind his own. Galion's arm tightened around him, prompting him to settle, and he relaxed into the security of that clutch, blinking away the vestiges of troubled sleep. It had not been the first time dreams had taken him back to those final terrifying moments inside the black citadel before the magic of Galadriel brought it to the ground. Likely, it would not be the last.
Assured now that he was awake, Galion spoke, aloud this time, though his voice was low. "Celeborn departs today, and Taurnil with him. We promised to see them off."
Celeborn was leading a large group of Elves to Imladris, where he wished live with his grandsons for a time, and from there, many of the travelers would continue on to the Havens and take ship. Taurnil's health had but marginally improved since taking the Ungol's poison. Only in Aman, where Ungoliant had long ago fatted herself in the peaks and crags of Ered Gorgoroth, did the healers have the knowledge still to return his health, thus it was imperative that he tarry here no longer. Merilin, the healer who had so thoroughly supplanted Galion in caring for him, would travel at his side, and there was little doubt in Galion's mind that there would be betrothal bands on their fingers when he saw them again.
If he saw them again. With each season that passed in this new age, it seemed more and more likely that he would not. Orophin had already begun his own preparations to quit this land, for he could bear to be kept from Alquonís and Ethuilion no longer. Rúmil, too, desired to depart, but had spoken little of his plans, for while the sea-longing held him in its briny yoke and the promise of reunion with his parents and lost friends roused his flagging spirit, there was one among them who had not yet spoken of departing. The brothers feared, as did Galion, that Haldir would neglect the call of Aman and choose to remain in Arda. It was the only home Haldir had ever known, and the shores of Valinor must have seemed to him distant, foreign, and unwelcoming.
Galion wept when he had finished his farewells, his pangs made all the sharper at the sight of Taurnil's old, sweet smile, which he feared now he would not see again. He was not alone in his tears; the departure of Celeborn was bittersweet, and with the passing of its beloved lord, the light of Lorien was further dimmed.
Lothlorien, Fourth Age 27
"You must speak with him. You must make him understand!" Rúmil's voice was strident and tight in his throat. When Galion did not answer, Rúmil pressed further.
"Are you so easily resigned? Do you not wish to reunite with your own kin? He would follow you if you demanded it, so why do you hold your tongue?"
Galion wearily pinched the bridge of his nose and looked down. Rúmil knew as well as he that threats and ultimatums would gain him little with Haldir, just as his own quiet petitions had availed him not. Nor was there hope he could make Rúmil understand his brother's steadfast insistence on remaining in Middle-Earth, for he scarcely understood it himself. He knew that there was no choice for him, that Haldir’s choice would be his, as well. He had cast in his lot with Haldir, though it meant a severing of his dearest ties, for Haldir would not be moved. Galion was sick with it, yet he had conjured every argument he could think of, and had each time been met with the truculent wall of Haldir's imperturbable logic. Cold comfort it was, in some manner, to have the decision taken from him, to relinquish himself to fate. And Haldir was his fate. If he was certain of anything, he was certain of that. Better to fade into shadow and memory by his beloved's side than to board the ship alone to eternal regret.
It was at that moment that the Elf in question stepped into the talan, stripping off his cloak and bow with brisk efficiency. One look was enough for him to guess the reason for Rúmil's visit. His expression was grave as he turned his eyes toward his brother.
“You will not turn my mind, Rumíl. I have a duty here that I am sworn to discharge. Why must you blight our final days together with your rancor?”
“It is you alone who would make these our final days together, you alone who blights us all with your recalcitrance," Rúmil cried. "Celeborn released you from your duty! You are no longer Marchwarden of Lorien, Haldir. We are soldiers no more!”
Haldir's eyes took on a steely cast. “My duty was not to Celeborn, but to the realm. All the ages I have lived, save a scant handful of years, I have lived under Lorien's shelter. I have defended her since I was old enough to wield a bow. I have seen those I love fall here. I have lead many to their deaths that the trees may stand, and I would not see their sacrifice set so easily aside.”
“You would commit yourself to this lonely fate because you cannot give up your position? Out of guilt for the dead?" Rúmil shook his head in disbelief. “Lorien fades, Haldir. With every season, her light recedes. Her Lord and Lady have taken their leave; she is now just a simple forest like any other.”
Haldir bristled. “Simple or no, I am tied to this land. I made an oath, and I will not be forsworn."
Rúmil spun around in search of something on which to levy his rage. He struck out with a roar, the swipe of his arm sending a bowl full of apples flying off a table. The bowl shattered and Galion winced at the sound, watching impotently as the fruit scattered over the floorboards and rolled about at their feet. Haldir feigned impassivity, though his rigid posture signaled anything but. Rúmil stepped up to him, leaving only spare inches between them.
"Do you truly wish to stand guard in an empty wood, brother? To pass beyond all memory, beyond even the reach of Mandos, for a fate you cannot change? Men will take the woods, Haldir. Our time here is ended and theirs in the bloom of youth. Their empires will spread. Beyond Gondor. Beyond Rohan. They will come to your woods, Haldir, and you will not be able to stop them. All your strength and all your skill will avail you not; they will cast you out, or they will slay you."
Haldir's nostrils flared briefly, the only outward sign that Rúmil's speech dismayed him.
"To what end would you stay? That you might fade with the land only to have all that you guarded against come to pass regardless?"
When Haldir stiffened defensively, Rúmil changed his tack one last time.
"Do you not remember another oath you made? What were those words, Haldir, those words you took from Father? I will return to you, young ones, because I do not part from you willingly. Would you have us sundered, brother? Do you part willingly from us now?"
When Haldir did not answer, Rúmil's head drooped in defeat. When he spoke again, it was in a haunted whisper.
"A plague upon your pride. Three days, Haldir. We leave in three days."
When the sun rose on the third day, Haldir was so sick with grief he could hardly speak. The three sons of Guilin parted with tears bitterer than gall, barely able to summon the words of parting from their clutching throats. Feredir stood at distance, his jaw stonily set, furious with Haldir and aching for Rúmil.
"Know that you go with my love," Haldir whispered tightly, and after laying a trembling kiss on two shuddering brows, he strode away, his back painfully straight, and vanished into the woods. Even after the trio mounted and Rúmil spurred his horse, hasty to put leagues quickly between him and his wayward brother, Galion did not venture out to find him; he would not want to be found. His heart and mind were shuttered even to the healer's compassionate touch.
Day gave way to night and still Haldir wandered racked and alone, alternately racing and stumbling through the hidden paths that only he now remembered. He sought to expiate his guilt and regret through sheer exertion, running until his lungs burned and his legs buckled beneath him. He ran till he thought he would retch, as if in purging his body he could purge his heart.
He believed so firmly that he had done what was right, what was honorable, but had not every decision he had made in the name of duty rendered him desolate? The road of righteousness was steep and cruel; why did his loyalty ever set him in opposition of what he desired?
Around him, he watched the leaves, golden now, and russet-brown, carried on unseen currents from their lofty holds down to the ground. There would be no shelter from winter's cold and snows this year; with the Lady gone, the frosts would return with a vengeance, as if to extract a penalty from the land for all the ages it had existed in suspended spring.
Even the mellyrn shed their leaves, a sight rarely seen even by him. It was as if he were privy to their death now, the inexorable decline of majesty into dust. So much of the landscape had changed, metamorphosed by fire, that it already felt less like home and more like a land lost forever. The preternatural budding had ended and leaf-fall had arrived; Lorien, which had long been an idyllic sanctuary held aloft in time, forever looking backward toward a golden past, was now but an ancient forest, just as Rúmil had threatened.
At the end of his weary sojourn, he emerged in the glade where he and his friends and brothers had of old communed, rowdy with drink and song, and where once he and Rúmil had fought bitterly, drawing steel against each other for the only time in all their years. Only in their final confrontation had Rúmil been as wroth with him as he had been on that day. Then Rúmil's ire had been stoked by the dispatching of their mother over the sea, and now it had come to broil because Haldir would not travel the straight road himself. A grim jest it seemed to him indeed. The stately mallorn here beckoned him with its mighty roots, and he sank between them, the very spot he had sought so many times before, warming himself in the embrace of an ancient friend.
I will not abandon you, he told the tree, running his hand lovingly over the roots that rose up around him.
The tree offered no answer.
Wherefore your silence, Pen-Iaur?
Still the tree said nothing.
Have I offended you, old friend? Why will you not answer me?
No response came. Haldir laid his cheek against the roots and began to weep. The mallorn's leaves drifted down from the branches and fell upon his prone body like tears.
It was there in the darkness that Galion found him, drawn to his mate by the unvoiced despair that tugged at his soul like a moon-tide pulling at a ship. He threw his arms around the prostrated Elf and held him tight, feeling Haldir's sobs rattle his own bones.
“The leaves used to fall only by the Lady’s hand,” Haldir said in a small voice.
"The Lady is gone," Galion reminded him gently, knowing the words cruel.
When Haldir raised his head, his face was stricken. The toll of all his years was visible now in his features; ancient they were and horribly weary, though his eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, glinted with all the stark misery of a lost child. His hands shook in Galion's clutches, and that tremor, more than anything else, frightened Galion.
"They no longer speak to me. They have cast me out."
He sagged against the healer as if in voicing those words the weight of his realization crushed him, bore him roughly into the only haven left to him. Galion's arms enfolded him, warming the straining back with a loving touch.
"Nay, Haldir," he whispered, his breath caressing the foliate curve of his beloved's ear. He dared not place his words in Haldir's mind lest the voice he could hear too viscerally remind him of the voices that had gone silent. "They have not cast you out. They have released you."
Haldir's eyes focused desperately on his, seeking any sort of reassurance, any grounding force, for he had suddenly been cut free from his tethers, the earth no longer solid beneath his feet.
"I have no home," he murmured.
"Your home is with me," Galion told him, his tone quiet but unyielding. His healer's hands soothed the chafing salt of tears on Haldir's cheek. "And where you are, that is my home also, wherever it may be." Galion shook him to shock him from his brutal reverie. "The choice is yours, Haldir; stay or go. Whatever you decide, I will accept, but this I must ask you: seek the answer in your heart, not in your pride." He lifted Haldir's unsteady hand and pressed it to his cheek. "You heart brought you to me. Do not tell me it does not give fair counsel."
A mild breeze swirled up around them and shuddered through the branches in affirmation, but Haldir only slumped boneless against Galion, too stunned with sorrow to respond.
The startled mare tossed her head and broke into staccato steps at the crescendo of hoofbeats behind her. Feredir soothed her with low words and gentle petting until she quieted. By that time, the thundering gallop had shifted to an eager canter.
Feredir cast a look of practiced dispassion behind him, confident that the approaching riders would not see the veiled hope in his eyes as he sought confirmation of their identities, or the relief that glowed there when he gained it. He swiveled his head and beheld Rúmil and Orophin riding a few furlongs ahead, their heads bent toward each other in silent commiseration, two parts of a trio mourning their absent third.
When he turned back again, the riders had slowed to a trot and were pulling up behind him, breathless, their faces flushed from exertion and the wind. He tried, and failed, to school galling fondness from his features.
"I suppose I should not be surprised that even now you insist on making a grand entrance."
There were tears overspilling Haldir's eyes when he shot back a scapegrace grin, full of contrition and gratitude, and shrugged.
"I did not wish to disappoint you."
Epilogue: Aman, Fourth Age 29
Galion rolled over in his sleep, but upon finding the sheets beside him cool and smooth and bereft of the expected warmth and solidity of his mate's body he roused himself, rubbing the silt from eyes which focused now on Haldir, standing lost to contemplation across the room. Mellow rays streamed through the window carried on ribbons of mist, honeyed emissaries of a new morning. Though he had no need of rising, Haldir stood by and watched the first stirrings of the day, unaware that he himself was observed. Idly, one hand moved at his side, tentatively touching the deep bruise on his ribs, a reminder of yesterday's loss to Feredir in the practice salle. Galion had refused to heal it, deeming it a fit penalty for their rough play. He had not bothered to dress himself, and the early light danced over his skin so becomingly that Galion wondered if perhaps Haldir was a child of those golden rays, a creature born of light rather than of flesh. His gaze roved up the long, strong legs, over the deliciously muscular rump with its twinned dimples sitting astride the tailbone, to the graceful curve of his spine crowned in rumpled flax. Even the bruise, a mottled purple prize won through the restlessness of warrior blood seeking peacetime occupation, was enchanting.
Yet he could feel Haldir's pensiveness, and it concerned him. He slid his legs free from the knot of blankets, stretching as he rose, and moved to stand behind Haldir at the window. He leaned to rest his chin on Haldir's shoulders, lacing his arms around him, his bed-warm skin drawing the chill from Haldir's back. A shiver coursed through him when Galion spoke.
"Your thoughts have sent you far away this morning," he said gently, nuzzling Haldir's neck.
Haldir expelled his breath in a drawn-out sigh, taking solace from those whip-strong arms around his body. "Not so far as you might imagine." He smiled wanly and continued. "I was only thinking that when I was young, I lived in my father's shadow. I was Guilin's son. Everything I did or failed to do reflected on him, so I strove to be the best son I could be. I grew. I was known as Elemmakil's protégé and I struggled to prove my own worth, to show I had attained my rank through my own skill. At last, I became the Marchwarden of Lorien, the last to own that title. And now…"
His voice trailed off, and he turned his face back to the window.
"And now?" Galion prompted.
"And now, I have no title, no duty. I am merely Haldir."
Galion tightened his grip around Haldir's waist, and feeling himself so sublimely girded in those arms Haldir pressed back into their sustaining presence.
"Nothing of you is mere," Galion told him plainly. "You are Haldir, beloved of Galion. Is that not duty enough?"
Haldir grinned a small grin and turned in the embrace, grasping Galion's wrists and attempting to wrestle them behind the healer's back. "'Tis a terrible burden," he teased, and Galion pulled a wry face as he broke Haldir's grip and shoved him playfully against the wall, forcing the air from his lungs with an audible huff. "Indeed," Haldir laughed as he sought to regain his breath, "I verily struggle under the weight of it!"
His eyes narrowed slightly, though they still held that languid gentleness that was rare as a winter flower and thus much endeared to the healer. That gentleness spoke of his complete comfort, declared that he was no longer on his guard but open and at peace, and despite his early morning contemplations, he was happy. Happier than he ever imagined he could be. But behind that indolent expression of beryl-stone blue, something deeper lurked. Galion knew the look, that slight quirk of the lips, the smug rising of a single brow, and the passion its subtlety belied. Its effect on him was instantaneous and intense.
He disengaged from Haldir and stepped backward toward the bed, countering Haldir's enkindling gaze with his own beckoning smolder and held out his hand.
"Come back to bed, 'merely' Haldir. Your duty calls."
Postscript, Seventh Age 2006
The Elves have all passed into the West, or faded out of time and mind, but the forest remains. The trees are silent, as they have been for uncounted years, and yet there is a presence to this place, this primeval weald. From time to time, men wander here, fancifully imagining the possibilities inherent in this acreage, envisioning what they might build here if the old wood came down. From time to time men wander here, but in the end, they all depart, and quickly at that, overcome by the inexplicable feeling that they have trespassed, that this place is not for them. The trees remain untouched, save for the slow caress of years.
Mortal memory is fleeting and faulty, just as mortal lives are short and fraught. There are few who have heard of this place, fewer still who know the stories of those who lived here long ago, and none, none at all, who remember the realm of Amdir and of Amroth, of Celeborn, and of Galadriel. The Galadhrim have been relegated to legend and lore, and in the simple span of a few more mortal generations, they will be forgotten altogether.
But the memory of the trees lives still, and it reaches back, deep and fertile as roots in the soil. The trees remember their fallen kings, their lord and lady. They whisper still, in voices we cannot hear, of Guilin, and of Elemmakil, and of Tathalion. The trees remember Haldir of Lorien, the last of the Marchwardens. They sing of all those who loved and tended them, and of all those who walked the ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
The trees remember.
~* f i n i s *~
* * * *
Olórin-nin = My dreamer
Pen-Iaur = Ancient one