Title: That Which is to Come
Author: Xehra ( xehra1@hotmail.com )
Rating: PG for violence and death
Setting: The Battle of Helm's Deep - PJ's universe, not Tolkien's
Summary: Haldir angst... that's about it.
Spoilers: For the TTT movie - please note this fic contains major character death!
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor claim to, the characters of Middle Earth. They belong to the Professor. I'm just borrowing, and promise to return them mostly unharmed...
Feedback: Please! Always appreciated
Archive: FF.net and The Wood's Library
Thanks: To Bridget for the beta - you're a lifesaver, girl :)
Warning: Please note the *MASSIVE SPOILER WARNING* for The Two Towers attached to this fic. It's about Haldir and it's set at Helm's Deep - use your brain and exercise some care. This fic was written with the hope it would make people cry, don't say I didn't warn you!
Author's note: This is what happens when I write when it's raining... Please note this is all just my speculation about what happens. We'll see how close I was on Dec. 18, eh?
~~~~~
We came, because we did not forget.
"Go," was all that our Lady said in farewell, her voice conveying the sadness in the hearts of those few who stayed behind. Her calm acceptance of duty, and of the inevitability of what had to happen, helped us all, I think. It reminded us of the reasons we were doing this. Old promises and ancient alliances were what set our feet on this path.
And so we marched. Forth we went, savouring the sight of the leaves of the Golden Wood and the peace we had found under its boughs. In our hearts, we guessed it would be the last time we saw our fair home.
For myself, I do not dwell on the pain I suffered leaving Lothlorien, nor the hardships of the journey here. It is enough that we marched, swiftly crossing the distance between the hidden land of the Elves and the plains of the horse-men. It was a hard march, but not one word of complaint passed the lips of my archers. They knew the importance of what we did.
And so we reached Rohan, and presented ourselves to their leader. The ancient ties between the Numenoreans of Gondor and the First-Born were re-built, and we offered the help of our bows to the heir of Elendil in this desperate fight. The message I bore from the Lord and Lady of the Wood seemed to re-ignite their hope, and more than one Rohirric soldier cheered us when they learned why we had come.
This is how I come to be standing here, in this chaos men call war; the greatest pitched battle since the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. From my vantagepoint on the battlements of the fortress called Helm's Deep I see the full threat of the enemy we face, and yet strangely I fear not their battle cries. The rain falls heavily, and tendrils of hair cling to my cheek.
The cries of dying orcs and men reach my ears from below, but I stand firm, allowing my archers to rest between volleys. Then they restring their longbows and draw, awaiting my order. The calm way they fight, and their deadly precision, unnerves those we fight alongside, I think. As I shout 'Fire!' over the din, I see another assault begin on our walls, and more ladders appear from within our enemies' ranks.
Many die as the arrows of my archers fly through the rain and dark. Some fall from their ladders, their throats sprouting Lorien-fletched shafts. An answering hail of arrows comes, and we duck reflexively. Even this is not enough to save some of us, and more of my unit cry out as enemy bolts, by either skill or chance, find their target.
I sit with my brother Rumil's head in my lap, watching the blood flow from a deep chest wound, his armour pierced by the cruel head of an orc-arrow. Our eyes meet, and an understanding passes between us before he joins Orophin and our other lost kindred on their journey to the Halls of Mandos.
I reach out and close his eyelids, brushing the hair from his forehead. An immortal has perished, but the rain and the battle continue without pause.
Allowing myself one moment of grief, I bow my head and try to find within myself the courage to face that which is to come.
Standing, I nod to those of my archers who still draw breath, and see mirrored in their eyes my own new-found strength of will. They reach for the last of their arrows, and once again we rain death on the servants of the Dark Lord.
I do not see the arrow that finds its mark in my heart. As I lie on the cold stone of the battlements, the rain washes away most of the blood, and I take comfort in the knowledge I will see my brothers again soon.
END
Author: Xehra ( xehra1@hotmail.com )
Rating: PG for violence and death
Setting: The Battle of Helm's Deep - PJ's universe, not Tolkien's
Summary: Haldir angst... that's about it.
Spoilers: For the TTT movie - please note this fic contains major character death!
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor claim to, the characters of Middle Earth. They belong to the Professor. I'm just borrowing, and promise to return them mostly unharmed...
Feedback: Please! Always appreciated
Archive: FF.net and The Wood's Library
Thanks: To Bridget for the beta - you're a lifesaver, girl :)
Warning: Please note the *MASSIVE SPOILER WARNING* for The Two Towers attached to this fic. It's about Haldir and it's set at Helm's Deep - use your brain and exercise some care. This fic was written with the hope it would make people cry, don't say I didn't warn you!
Author's note: This is what happens when I write when it's raining... Please note this is all just my speculation about what happens. We'll see how close I was on Dec. 18, eh?
~~~~~
We came, because we did not forget.
"Go," was all that our Lady said in farewell, her voice conveying the sadness in the hearts of those few who stayed behind. Her calm acceptance of duty, and of the inevitability of what had to happen, helped us all, I think. It reminded us of the reasons we were doing this. Old promises and ancient alliances were what set our feet on this path.
And so we marched. Forth we went, savouring the sight of the leaves of the Golden Wood and the peace we had found under its boughs. In our hearts, we guessed it would be the last time we saw our fair home.
For myself, I do not dwell on the pain I suffered leaving Lothlorien, nor the hardships of the journey here. It is enough that we marched, swiftly crossing the distance between the hidden land of the Elves and the plains of the horse-men. It was a hard march, but not one word of complaint passed the lips of my archers. They knew the importance of what we did.
And so we reached Rohan, and presented ourselves to their leader. The ancient ties between the Numenoreans of Gondor and the First-Born were re-built, and we offered the help of our bows to the heir of Elendil in this desperate fight. The message I bore from the Lord and Lady of the Wood seemed to re-ignite their hope, and more than one Rohirric soldier cheered us when they learned why we had come.
This is how I come to be standing here, in this chaos men call war; the greatest pitched battle since the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. From my vantagepoint on the battlements of the fortress called Helm's Deep I see the full threat of the enemy we face, and yet strangely I fear not their battle cries. The rain falls heavily, and tendrils of hair cling to my cheek.
The cries of dying orcs and men reach my ears from below, but I stand firm, allowing my archers to rest between volleys. Then they restring their longbows and draw, awaiting my order. The calm way they fight, and their deadly precision, unnerves those we fight alongside, I think. As I shout 'Fire!' over the din, I see another assault begin on our walls, and more ladders appear from within our enemies' ranks.
Many die as the arrows of my archers fly through the rain and dark. Some fall from their ladders, their throats sprouting Lorien-fletched shafts. An answering hail of arrows comes, and we duck reflexively. Even this is not enough to save some of us, and more of my unit cry out as enemy bolts, by either skill or chance, find their target.
I sit with my brother Rumil's head in my lap, watching the blood flow from a deep chest wound, his armour pierced by the cruel head of an orc-arrow. Our eyes meet, and an understanding passes between us before he joins Orophin and our other lost kindred on their journey to the Halls of Mandos.
I reach out and close his eyelids, brushing the hair from his forehead. An immortal has perished, but the rain and the battle continue without pause.
Allowing myself one moment of grief, I bow my head and try to find within myself the courage to face that which is to come.
Standing, I nod to those of my archers who still draw breath, and see mirrored in their eyes my own new-found strength of will. They reach for the last of their arrows, and once again we rain death on the servants of the Dark Lord.
I do not see the arrow that finds its mark in my heart. As I lie on the cold stone of the battlements, the rain washes away most of the blood, and I take comfort in the knowledge I will see my brothers again soon.
END