Author's Note: The sequel to Agar Saer and one of my first Haldir-centric fics. Though not the last.

The Cost of Blood

Chapter One: Returning Home

The fading sun gifted the clouds with their golden and violet robes, burning the leaves crimson as it sank behind the shoulder of snow-capped Celebdil. Twilight was slowly falling. White stars began to peer out from above the burnished clouds, with Eärendil leading them as he sailed up out of the West to begin his journey across the night sky.

A light footstep pressed the damp green grass, the soft rattle of white-arrowed quivers breaking the silence of the evening. Golden hair fluttered in the warm breeze tossing the fair tendrils over the elf's shoulders. He dropped low into the sheltering grass, his eyes intent upon the darkening landscape around him. The two elves flanking him mimicked his movements, their eyes bright in the quickly deepening dusk.

The riders were growing closer.

As they rode within earshot, the elf rose from his hiding place and nocked an arrow to his bow but did not draw it. He had seen the golden fall of one of the riders' hair in the last flash of sunlight and knew him to be an elf at least.

"Daro! Reveal yourselves!" he called, his tenor voice ringing out with the musical brazenness of a trumpet.

The riders reined in sharply, pausing just out of bowshot of the elves.

"What kind of a greeting is that?" a voice rejoined cheekily. The rider who had spoken, dismounted and groaned, stretching stiff muscles.

"Well, you at least have not changed since I last saw you, Ancadal. Still impertinent as ever," the elf who had first accosted them laughed dryly, motioning the others of his patrol to arise to greet the travelers.

"Fedorian, what news?" Another of the riders greeted his friend warmly, clasping his forearm in a warrior's grasp as he too dismounted from his steed. The other elf returned the greeting with a smile.

"None that I know of, Haldir. The forest has long been quiet though a patrol of orcs a ten day ago nearly reached the banks of the Nimrodel before we overcame them. I have asked the Lady to send other soldiers to reinforce those already in place on the northern front." Haldir nodded absently, rubbing at his tired eyes. "We were not expecting you to return so late. What kept you?" Fedorian asked, noticing his friend's distraction.

"Snow," a dark-haired elf explained tersely, still astride his own horse as he trotted past the two elves. Their trip had been much delayed by circumstances outside their control and they had had to travel nearly around their destination because of warnings of orcs driving down from the mountains.

"Where is Commander Cálivien? I have not yet seen him among you," Fedorian asked suddenly, searching the three travelers for a sign of their leader. When Haldir did not answer, he looked sharply at him, noticing the drawn and suddenly haggard browof his friend. The other two were also silent; their gazes grim and downcast. Fedorian stopped walking, sensing something was terribly wrong.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, wondering if he really wanted to know the answer to that.

"We will speak of it later," Haldir said, softly dismissive. Fedorian fell silent, his own visage sorely troubled. But Haldir merely shook his head, watching Rameil canter past. Searching for a change of subject, he attempted a light smile at his friend.

"So, how fare your daughters?"

Fedorian's smile returned, allowing the conversation to be routed. "Ah, lovely as ever- Silivren is to be wed soon." Haldir turned to him in amazement and laughed delightedly.

"Indeed. And which lucky male is the one to take the hand of the fair Silivren?"

Fedorian chuckled. "Arenath son of Gwillith- if you can believe it. That poor boy nearly had my daughter asking him to marry her- he was so anxious."

"The both of you sound like two little wives with all your chittering," Rameil interjected with a wry grin as he returned to ride beside them. But the other two did not have time to retort for they had already reached the edges of the trees.

"Who goes there? Stand forth and be recognized!" a clarion voice challenged before they had gone less than three paces into the wood. Fedorian looked up with a mock-scowl.

"Come down from there, you little squirrel and report!"

"You are late," came the impudent reply as a shadowed figure dropped from the branches high above their heads.

The elf stepped into the starlight and grinned at the weary travelers. Déorian was rather short for an elf, only reaching up to Haldir's chest. But for all that, the elf was a fierce fighter and impossibly fast. He had received his third name "Dae" among the patrol, meaning "Shadow" in the Sindarin tongue.

And he was a constant thorn in his leader's side because of it.

"What mean you 'late?' I did not tell you when to expect us to return," Fedorian snapped, irritated, but Haldir saw a small grin tug at his lips. Déorian winked roguishly at Haldir and turned his back to his officer.

"Come on. We've cloaks and drinks to spare," he said over his shoulder as he climbed swiftly up the silvery hithlain ladder that descended to meet them. With a rueful shake of his head, the older officer followed after him with a sideways grin at Haldir.

Somewhat grim but often laughing, Fedorian seated himself upon the platform, stretching his long legs out with a comfortable sigh. Déorian feigned a stumble over him and made a smart remark that earned him a playful smack and a laugh from their senior officer.

"So sure-footed, our loyal tracker!" he chuckled as Haldir pulled himself nimbly up onto the ledge.

"He hasn't changed at all since I left then. Still tripping over his bootlaces," Haldir replied with a broad smile at the insulted look Déorian shot him.

"Are you making a jest at my expense, sir?" the shorter elf inquired in a deadly growl but a teasing light gleamed bright in his eyes.

In mock-horror, Haldir stepped back a pace eyes wide and hands upraised as he swept into an exaggeratedly low bow.

"Certainly not! Upon my honor, most noble and courageous warrior, none would dare cross so deadly a hunter as thyself!"

All three of them burst out laughing as the others trailed up the ladder, glancing strangely at the three for having missed the jest.

"So, how torturous was King Thranduil?" a young archer who stood with several others on the platform asked with a laugh, silenced by a reproving glare from Fedorian.

"Mind your tongue," he chastened lightly.

"We will make our report on the morrow," Rameil explained as he set down his heavy pack and quiver with a sigh of relief, lightly massaging his sore shoulders.

The archer shrugged, undaunted.

"All right then. Tell us of your travels. What is Mirkwood like? Is the Queen fairer than the Lady Galadriel?" he asked excitedly, glancing quickly at his superior in case of another castigation. But Fedorian himself was looking at the three with interest.

"Those at least were not mere parting gifts, I see," he remarked shrewdly, nodding at the three richly embroidered dark green sashes bound about their waists. An honor bestowed upon them by the King Thranduil after a battle that had very nearly cost them all their lives. "Come, tell us your tale for we have had to listen to Déorian's ceaseless prattle for far too long." He grinned mischievously, ignoring the smaller elf's indignant sniff.

Haldir smiled contentedly, glad to be back among his friends.

Tall and fair to look upon were all the guardians of the Golden Wood, soft-voiced and eager to laugh. And just as quick to lift sword and bow in defense of their homeland. They were fiercely loyal to their Lady, who had aided them during their time of need when their king was lost, and perilous in battle- the oldest had fought together for nearly ten centuries now.

Both old and young, however, had fought together during the Last Alliance a millennium ago and though few of that brave company had ever returned, including their lord and King, Amdír, those survivors of that terrible conflict continued to guard the north marches with an ever-increasing vigilance since word came of the dark shadow growing in Mirkwood and the restless unquiet in the mountains. It had not been long since their own people had retreated deeper into the safety of the Wood and the Lady who had taken up its guardianship had posted the soldiers to watch the borders fervently.

Many though were still young enough to have forgotten that long war and in the first flush of their youth. Haldir among them, for though he had fought in the Last Alliance and seen several millennia pass, he was still considered somewhat youthful among his officers who had seen far many more- their captain among them who had commanded the northern fences well for those centuries.

And it was for him they mourned now as Rameil and Ancadal sat in the middle of the talan and related their tale to the group surrounding them.

Haldir said little, preferring only to add his affirmation to the elves' story every so often as he leant back against the trunk of the tree, lost in his own thoughts. He remembered all too vividly his time in Mirkwood and would rather not speak of the details so easily. Even Rameil and Ancadal, taking turns as they did, glossed over many of the truly unpleasant and still painful details. Especially when they came to the death of Cálivien, their leader who had led them faithfully only to be treacherously slain by King Thranduil's traitorous brother. Thranduil had sworn them to secrecy regarding what had happened in his kingdom and the elves of Lothlórien would honor that confidence.

Haldir shook the image of his friend's mutilated body from his mind, an instant's regret pulling at his heart that they had not been able to bring their commander's body home for a proper burial. He was lifted from his dark thoughts by the sudden silence that had fallen like a veil over the previously merry group.

A great evil occurred when any Elf was slain. Those whose lives were as long as Arda itself were not meant to taste such a bitter sting. Those who had known and loved the Elf mourned that loss deeply but when a commander of the Guard was slain, it was a very sorrowful time for all. The Guardians of the Golden Wood were revered and beloved by all the elven people and their commanders in especial for without their valor and vigilance the forest might have long ago fallen into darkness.

It took many long years to mould a warrior into the kind of powerful, knowledgeable leader that Cálivien had been. He had been their captain and their friend for over five hundred years; many had grown up under his command just as their fathers had served him. Experienced and wise, he had led them time and again to victory against the foul bands of orcs that lurked at the edges of the forest and the wolves that howled on its borders. His patrol was devastated by the news of his death.

After the proper honor was given the Elf as befitted his rank and station, those who had been under his command selected another from their own ranks and would accept no other as their leader for the ancient ceremony that had bound them all together could not be repeated.

Fedorian, as the most senior officer among them, would take Cálivien's place as leader if not as dear friend in the hearts of those elves who had known him. One by one, the soldiers silently gave their assent and laid their swords at his feet, swearing anew the oath of fealty. And Fedorian took up each one and blessed them, accepting the responsibility with the dignity and honor now bestowed upon him.

As Fedorian paused before him, Haldir immediately and apologetically unstrapped the saber that he had carried with him ever since the commander had been murdered. Usually the blade, if it remained, would be given to the elf who would be made Captain of the marchwardens but he still felt a curious sense of reluctance and regret wash over him as he gave it over. It seemed as though he were giving up the last piece of his friend that remained to him.

He buried those hard and painful feelings deep within himself, giving his superior an easy smile. He was glad Fedorian had taken command; he still felt out of place in a position of authority. The burden was too much for him. He would much rather have his old life back as a lesser officer instead of having every decision he made mean life or death to those he cared for most. No, a position of command was not for him.

Recognizing the sword, Fedorian took it reverently, his smooth forehead knit with lines of consternation and sadness. The elf commander shot a sharp look at his friend, a knowing, searching look that Haldir tried his best to meet. With a small smile, he handed it back hilt-first.

"Keep it. He would have wanted you to have it."

Haldir immediately shook his head though a sudden hope kindled in his breast. "No, I-"

"Take it," Fedorian said sternly, pressing the blade into the elf's hands. "That's an order." His verdant eyes bored into his friend's as he held the sword out. "And never let another take it from you. Ever."

Slowly, Haldir's fingers closed over the worn leather-wrapped hilt and he nodded with a growing smile to his perceptive friend who clapped him on the shoulder with a wry sidelong grin, breaking the ritual-like silence that had fallen over the group.

"Besides it's too heavy for me. I favor smaller weapons."

The smaller weapons Fedorian favored were throwing knives and he carried no less than six on his person at any one time. None could best him in a contest. His pride and joy were two black-handled blades, the hilts made of hand-carved lebethron with inlaid silver filigree tracing the handles all the way up the steel blades in the shape of a hunting falcon with wings and talons outspread. They were magnificent to behold and as keen as razors for he kept them meticulously well-whetted.

When each elf had received back his or her sword and had been blessed, the guardians resumed their seats at their ease again, laughing and chatting though in a more subdued manner than before.

"So did you record the number of mallorn leaves that fell today in there?" Déorian teased his new captain who had seated himself near the edge of the flet, writing with a steady hand in a little black book. The younger elf had never seen the point in keeping a journal as faithfully as Fedorian did. Nothing had occurred on the borders for weeks so his entries consisted mostly of inventories and need for supplies and now his new responsibilities as Captain.

"No. But it does help remind me which soldiers to place on midnight duty the next fortnight for insolence," Fedorian replied coolly without looking up.

Déorian grinned uneasily and beat a hasty retreat, wandering over to Rameil, Ancadal and Haldir and regaling them with tales of what had happened while they were gone. Haldir meandered away from the group after a while, seeking the quiet that the falling twilight provided. Rameil and Ancadal noted his absence but said nothing.

A gentle late-summer breeze whispered through the branches and tossed his long, golden hair over his shoulders as he moved among the underbrush as silent and sure-footed as a cat in the dark. It was not long before he came to a gently burbling stream, a tributary of the Silverlode, chatting among the stones in its rocky bed. Even here in the stillness, he kept the memories and the grief at bay as he had for his time in Mirkwood and the long journey home.

Beside the stream Haldir seated himself on a smooth boulder still sun-warmed from the hot afternoon, trailing his long fingers in the water, enjoying the cool rush along his skin and the familiar soothing sounds of his home that eased his pain.

"All right. So what's wrong?" a soft voice asked conversationally and Haldir looked up calmly, not surprised by Fedorian's sudden appearance. His friend had long been watching him and the concern on his face grew as he took a seat beside the younger elf. "You have spoken least of all concerning your ventures and yet Rameil and Ancadal both extol your virtues and claim you were the one who had the greatest part in this affair." He had noticed his friend every so often touching his side as though it pained him.

And it was true; a light bandage still wrapped around his side where Haldir had taken a deep wound from a javelin thrust just beneath his ribcage that was still healing. But how he had come by that injury, the elven lieutenant would rather have not discussed. Particularly here as it was a rather long and troubling story that he would rather avoid telling.

"Nothing," he replied evasively. "I am just weary from the journey."

Fedorian took this without comment as his green eyes glided over the serenity of the still river rippling like quicksilver in the dappled moonlight. He sighed quietly with another sidelong glance at his friend.

"So then why do I see such sorrow in your eyes?" he asked quietly.

Had his concern for his friend been a little less, Fedorian might have thought of a wiser tact in addressing such a potentially sensitive issue. As it was his intentions were good and his heart worried for it was unlike his friend to walk off, alone, to brood as he saw it. He just wanted to help.

But Haldir didn't think he could handle any more help for the day. Between the throbbing of the wound in his side and the pressure of the memories in his head, he would much rather have been left alone.

He stood and walked away from the river, from his friend, from the memories.

"All right. You may keep your secrets- for the present," Fedorian added dryly as he rose to his feet, following after his friend. But the troubled spark in his green eyes revealed that he intended to get answers from his friend sooner or later.

However a swift rustling overhead spared Haldir further questioning as a soldier suddenly alighted on the flet above their heads, one of the scouts whose talan was several lengths away.

"Sir!" He spoke to Fedorian, his bow already in hand as the commander pulled himself onto the platform beside him. "We have sighted a group of orcs, sir- coming down from the hills and heading our way. They will have reached the tree line soon." The two elves nodded their thanks and hurried back across the trees' road to the others who waited for the news.

An outbreak of cries and whoops of delight erupted from the younger recruits at the promise of battle, many who had only heard stories of the great, heroic feints of the past from their sires.

"Just in time for supper too!"

"We'll serve them a hot meal of cold steel!"

"We'll send them back from the pits they came from!" the jovially ribald comment came from the lips of the young archer, drawing back the string of his bow with a cheeky grin, oblivious to his commander's steely glare.

Fedorian's eyes snapped green fire as he strode towards him.

"You do realize if they catch you, they will not only torment you worse than a thousand deaths but they will cut off your ears and tear your flesh from your bones to roast you slowly over a fire pit and feast upon your flesh- while you still live," Fedorian said with a twisted grin at the bleached pallor of the archer's face as he gazed, horror-stricken, up at him.

"Sir, you're frightening me."

"Good!" his commander replied curtly. "You deserve to be frightened! You believe this is a game?" His fiery gaze encompassed them all. "We wave our swords, beat off the orcs and all march home again at the end?" he barked. "I would appreciate a graver countenance, sir, while you seek death in battle." His eyes grew dark as he exhaled deeply, returning his gaze to the young recruit. "There is a cost to everything. Remember that."

The soldier paled a little more but obediently straightened his shoulders as the others nodded dutifully.

"Yes, sir."

Haldir and the command he served under were just one of many patrols that held the northern fences against the attacks from the orcs of Moria or wandering bands of brigands. Mostly consisting of trackers and archers, each patrol was commanded by a chosen leader who they looked up to and followed without question, striking swift and deadly from the treetops. Fedorian was that leader now that Cálivien was dead and they would follow him 'til death as they had sworn that very night.

Their Captain glowered with hardened determination at the near-silent circle of suitably cowed elves. "Well, what are you gaping at me for? All up on your heels! We've got work to do!" he rapped out with military efficiency, knowing all too well that the lives of these elves were in his hands. He wanted them to be ready.

At once, the talan flew into motion. Weapons were seized, cooking fires doused and cloaks thrown over shoulders as the elves burst into action. They flowed over the nightscape like moonlit shadows. Only the glitter of their bright eyes could be caught in the darkness as they crept towards the furthermost borders of the forest, determined to head the orcs off before they even had a chance to enter the Golden Wood.

Soon the enemy could be glimpsed among the dark hills. Not bothering to conceal their approach, they came on, hooting and yelling in cruel delight, circling and striking at something bound in their midst. Haldir could not see what it was for the numbers pressing in from all sides hindered his vision.

The night flowed utterly dark around them for the night-eyed goblins had no need of torches and so the elves stayed well concealed in the treetops, bows strung, waiting patiently.

The first score broke through the tree line, heedlessly crashing through the undergrowth like creatures possessed. They cared not that they had entered the elven sanctuary for their bloodlust was up and nothing would stop them until they were slain.

Poised in the trees, Fedorian raised a slender hand and the bowstrings around him tightened. The hand fell. A deadly hail of white-fletched arrows hissed from the trees like a hive of angry wasps. The wicked laughter quickly became surprised yelps and screams as the group scattered into bands, flying in separate directions.

Quickly dividing their forces, the elves went after them, determined to allow them no deeper into the elven haven.

Haldir and Déorian with five others raced lightly along the slender branches as easily as on a road, harrying their quarry from above. A few of the orcs shot wildly over their shoulders as they fled but the arrows thunked into the ground or tree trunks and the elven archers shot them down before they'd gone a few paces. Eager to confront the foul creatures with cold steel, Déorian slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword, leaping upon the last of the pack with a wild yell that chilled the blood.

Haldir went after him, shaking his head at his friend's usual audacity. His sword swept out and cleaved an orc skull as he hurtled from the trees to land at Déorien's side.

"Glad to be back home are you?" Déorian roared over the fray.

At his back, Haldir laughed even as he swiftly gutted a scimitar-wielding orc, ignoring the warning flare in his side.

"Oh, of course! What could be better?"

"I seem to remember saving your life last time," the smaller elf retorted, deftly slicing the sword arm from one of the filthy creatures, slitting its throat as it screamed in pain.

"You lie! That last orc nearly spit in your eye before I used my last arrow on it!"

A pike whistled over their heads as they both ducked simultaneously to avoid being beheaded. Shooting uneasy grins at one another, they rapidly pulled in their attention. White death buzzed all around them, an elven dart nearly clipping Haldir's ear as it whipped past him to embed itself in orc hide.

Snarling and shoving aside their dead brethren, the orcs spun towards the elves, black lips pulled back from rotten fangs. Haldir could make out the yellow glow of their cat eyes in the dark and red mouths gaped in triumphant yells. The elf felt a momentary fear thrum through him as he chanced a glance over his shoulder.

A wave of darkness raced towards them over the shadowed ground, another band eager for bloodshed and slaughter. What was once a furious hailstorm of death lessened as the elves' supplies of arrows rapidly dwindled. There were too many of the enemy to stop at arrow point. The elves had split the flanks of the first orc band but now the defenders suddenly found themselves outnumbered and in serious trouble.

Haldir found himself facing a large orc with eyes like burning coals as it clutched a fire-hardened pole with jagged blades attached to the adjacent ends in clawed hands. Parrying its first hammer-blow sent shockwaves of pain up his arms and down his shoulders as the pain in his side throbbed in time with his rapid heartbeat. He retaliated with a sideways sweep at its chest which it blocked nimbly. Muscles coiled like a spring, Haldir threw himself to one side as the pole came smashing down towards him, embedding its deadly poisoned tip deep into the soft earth.

Before the creature had a chance to wrench its weapon free, Haldir brought his sword crashing down between its shoulders, cleaving its head from its neck. Something suddenly dropped onto his back, driving him hard into the earth and knocking the breath from his lungs as he landed atop his slain foe. A bright line of pain erupted like fire along his shoulder blade and hard heels slammed into the small of his back. Gasping for air, he heard a wicked hiss close to his ear.

"Your hair'll make good string for my bow." The combined stench of its fetid breath on his face and the corpse under his chin half-smothered the elf as he fought to break free.

Haldir tried to roll over but a boot planted itself squarely between his shoulder blades, pressing him further into the putrid corpse; his sword lay trapped beneath him. Suddenly, the weight wrenched off him and he found himself staring into the gaping wide eyes and maw of one of the foul beasts, a bloodied knife-blade clutched in one hand. He staggered to his feet, wrapping a hand around his bruised ribs as he looked round for his savior.

Déorian grinned at him, his pale face smeared with black orc-blood and sweat. "You see? Told you I saved your life."

The roiling reek of thick spilt blood burst upon the night air as the fight spilled out into a moonlit clearing where the grass lapped their knees and the orcs stumbled over the bodies of the unseen slain. Haldir caught sight of a battered, weary face in the silver glow. A tall creature with long hair and a complexion smeared with blood revealed in the moonlight, shackled and tightly gripped by two of the beasts. A woman.

Anger burned bright and hot in him for the creatures that had tortured their captive and he pushed his weary body on faster. The injury to his side bit and the pain made him dizzy as he wielded his saber viciously, fighting to get to her side. But her captors kept her well back out of the actual fighting, watching and waiting for the feast after the elves were all slaughtered.

And they knew it would be over soon. Slowly but surely, the orcs were gaining ground over the outnumbered elves, pushing them back and cutting them down. Soon they would be pulled under.

In an instant, the tide turned.

Fedorian, leading half a dozen elves, rammed into their flank, slicing through them with deadly skill. Orcs fell like wheat before the shearers and the rest fled in a blind panic. One small band broke away from the main melee and escaped through the trees, dragging their bound prisoner with them. She struggled fiercely against them but did not cry out.

Fedorian halted his charge as the two patrols met. Haldir lifted his head wearily as he grasped his friend's arm.

"Sir, we should pursue. They have a captive!"

But Fedorian shook his head. They had to be careful for the orcs would swiftly slay their prisoner, preferring to carry dead sport than struggle with a live one when imminent danger threatened. And always the hunter became the hunted if he dared chase the snake into his own hole.

"We'll pursue them in the morning."

Fedorian watched the small band flee from the woods towards the rocky outcrops that promised the refuge of many a small cave in which to hide from the sun. He wished no one a prisoner among the orcs but his own people's wounds needed tending to and they could not risk a full out attack on those honey-combed caves with so few numbers among them until dawn at least. Their hope would come with the sun for then the orcs of the mountains would be weak and sleepy. They could strike and rescue the prisoner with the least fear of danger.

"How many fallen?"

Déorian saluted, all traces of earlier merriment gone from his face.

"Several badly wounded, sir, but none slain."

Their commander exhaled in silent relief and Haldir could guess what was going through his mind. The burden of their lives fell heavily upon his shoulders. Haldir knew that feeling too, to have the lives of others hanging upon his decisions and whatever path he took could mean success or utter disaster.

Cutting a quick glance around the clearing, Haldir caught sight of Rameil and Ancadal helping the wounded and sighed, relieved to see his friends still on their feet. Wiping the black blood from his blade on the grass, he ignored the hot agony piercing his side and shortening his breath, determined not to fall as he bent to help a soldier who had dropped early in the fight with a slash to his leg.

Sudden pain, bright and fierce, sliced through his side and he suppressed a groan, sliding to his knees.

"Haldir!"

He felt more than saw Déorian kneel beside him, his eyes shut tightly and teeth gritted against the growing urge to scream. The javelin wound had been viciously torn open again by his movements and he felt the warm gush of blood on his fingertips as he pressed a hand tightly to the wound.

Vaguely, he heard someone call out for Fedorian and a rush of elven soft footsteps. Slender fingers took his chin in hand and warm breath brushed his face.

"Haldir, look at me. Open your eyes," a soft voice commanded, an undertone of fear lacing the sternness.

Haldir wanted to reassure them, to tell them that he was fine- it was an old wound- but his body was betraying him and the pain robbed him of the breath to form words. His injuries had been grievous in Mirkwood and he had been so eager to get home that he had pushed himself harder during their travels than he should have. Saying nothing to his friends of his discomfort, he had forced himself to near exhaustion and now the onslaught of battle had drained his remaining strength. It was a struggle simply to open his eyes.

When he did so, he found himself staring into Fedorian's shocked green eyes. Déorian hovered anxiously behind him and those others who had not been wounded. Through his pain, Haldir felt self-conscious embarrassment flush the tips of his ears as he strained to straighten. He gave his commander a half-grin and brushed the hand off his arm.

"I'm all right," he said weakly but Fedorian shook his head, indicating his friend's hand still tightly clutched to his side.

"You're hurt," he said matter-of-factly in a tone of voice that Haldir knew all too well, a tone he knew he could not win against. He sighed deeply and suffered himself to be helped up after his wound had been hastily bound to try to staunch the worst of the bleeding.

Upon the northern marches near the very edge of the boundary, a massive golden shadow loomed: the healers' infirmary, a great mallorn tree, its massive girth expanding nearly fourteen ells around. Its large overhanging branches were so laden with golden blossoms that they drooped to the grassy floor, forming a kind of protective canopy over the injured. High above among the thick branches, platforms had been built for the healers' use; the soldiers had to be laid beneath it for they could not obviously climb and their comrades would take no unnecessary risks trying to carry them up. Perhaps a little too close to the borders but the healers insisted upon remaining at their post for the wounded soldiers who could not last the two-day ride back to Caras Galadhon.

In the cool grass beneath the shadowy curtain of the mallorn branches, Haldir watched the moonlight play upon the leaves, twining silver through their golden hair as he tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his side which had receded little on the journey here. He felt sick and dizzy and didn't want to move just yet. The noiseless approach of elvish footsteps alerted him to another's presence and he looked up into the kind smiling face above him. A tender, cool hand smoothed over his brow and a quiet voice whispered for him to lie still.

Geilrín.

She smiled and exchanged a quick relieved kiss with her husband. Kind and gentle, Fedorian's wife tended most if not all that came under her care in one way or another. Whether it was a soft word or a quiet touch, she spread peace and ease through the battle-hardened, bloodied soldiers. She was one among the elven women who stayed at the borders and tended to the wounded and domestic chores of the soldiery on the borders.

There were not many female soldiers among the guard but certainly not for lack of skill. Elven women more favored the domestication of the home though they were as athletically skilled in the ways of weapons than any male elf. As a rule, they preferred healing to slaying though every once in a while a female would take up the sword in honor of her country. However, all were a blessing to those they served and many a life had been saved due to their swift and skilled action.

Businesslike but careful, she slit his tunic down the middle and gently peeled it back from the slash in his side. Haldir winced and clenched his teeth as the fabric stuck to the congealed blood about the wound.

"We're going to patch you right up. You're going to be all right," she said reassuringly, bending closer as she swiped the remaining blood from the wound. "You broke stitches- this is an older injury," she said with a frown. "I'll have to replace them."

Fedorian looked sharply at him, his face full of disapproval.

"Why didn't you tell me you were injured? I would never have sent you out if you had told me."

"Sorry, sir. Slipped my mind," Haldir smiled weakly at his friend's outrage.

"Of course it did," his commander responded disbelievingly as he slid the rest of the tunic from his friend's shoulders to examine the slash he had incurred when the orc had leapt upon his back. Haldir tensed as his commander inspected him, waiting for the inevitable questions that would be asked regarding the healing but still visible marks on his skin. He knew they were there still and he could feel Fedorian's hands tense on his shoulders with a sharply indrawn breath.

He was spared by Rameil who had caught sight of them and rushed to his friend to see if he was all right. He and Ancadal alone knew what had happened in Mirkwood and just how he had gotten those injuries. Most of the bruises and scrapes from that dangerous encounter had healed but the javelin thrust was the most severe and still unhealed. But he did not relish having to explain away the uncomfortable questions that would undoubtedly be asked later when his commander got the chance.

"Are you all right? What happened?" Rameil asked, full of concern as he dropped beside his friend with Ancadal hovering anxiously behind his shoulder. The Rivendell elf's dark hair swung before his face as he examined his friend with a steady, perceptive gaze.

"What's wrong?"

Haldir just shook his head, willing the dark-haired warrior not to question him. He couldn't handle any questions right now; the pain was making him light-headed and he could only lean his head back against the smooth bark of the trunk as Geilrín bustled around him, gently pressing Rameil and Ancadal aside as she squeezed past them.

"Here, drink this," the healer said, pressing a cup into his hand, blessedly sparing him a reply. He moved to sit up but Fedorian eased a hand under his back to keep him from straining the muscles around the wound.

"Let me, mellon nin." There was a tightness in his voice that Haldir couldn't place and it made him even more uncomfortable and ashamed. But he did not move away.

Quietly, he submitted to their ministrations, too drained to resist much. The liquid slid cool down his throat and left a hint of honey on his tongue to hide the bitter aftertaste of the sleep-inducing drug. Soon, he began to feel himself drifting into darkness and he did not even feel it when she began to pluck out the broken stitches.

Haldir bolted awake, heart pounding and a cold sweat breaking over his brow. The lingering reflection of pleading, frightened blue eyes stayed imprinted in his thoughts as though seared there by a red hot iron. Dark shadows played about him and he rose startled to his feet only to stagger as agony jolted through his side. He groaned softly, leaning back against the massive tree trunk to steady himself.

"You all right?" a soft voice asked. Haldir snapped around to face Fedorian staring up at him from the cool grass.

Haldir levered himself up gingerly and reached a hand to touch the bandage around his ribs but the elf beside him swiftly grabbed his hand.

"Leave it be," he advised.

With a sigh, Haldir desisted, glancing around for his repaired tunic which lay beside him. Snatching it up, he hastily yanked it over his shoulders, disregarding the sharp protest of the wound in his back as he jerked the fabric over it.

The movement was not lost on Fedorian whose eyes saw more than they let on. His sharp, green gaze locked onto his friend's who turned his head away, uncomfortable.

"Your brothers will be happy to see you- mostly in one piece this time," Fedorian joked lightly, sensing the unease in his friend's posture. Haldir tried a smile but failed somewhat in the effect. Fedorian sighed deeply and decided to dispense with the pleasantries.

"Mellon nin, what happened in Mirkwood?"

Haldir would not even speak to his brothers of what had happened in Mirkwood and the only one he had dared share the terror and horror of his imprisonment with had been Legolas. And he had no intention of sharing it now. Even with his friend whom he trusted.

"If you do not mind, Fedorian, I'm tired," he hedged desperately trying to avoid his friend's searching gaze. Fedorian nodded slowly, giving in.

"All right. Rest easy, mellon. Regain your strength."

Haldir nodded his head with a grimace and lay back down, struggling to fall back asleep.

After a long, torturous hour, he gave it up for lost and stood slowly, ignoring the dull ache in his back muscles and side. He brushed aside the branches of the mallorn tree and stepped out into the cool night air. A hard knot of fear lodged itself in his stomach as he stared out at the dark trees, wondering where in the mist-shrouded night the elven traitor and his followers were now. Thranduil had granted them mercy and life- two things Haldir knew they had not earned.

And they were still out there somewhere, biding their time.

"You do know that being up before dawn after a battle is a bad sign?"

He started and whirled round.

"You are truly trying to frighten me to Mandos' Halls, aren't you?" he said. "Do you never sleep? Does your wife not miss you?" he half-scolded, half-jested, not sure which he felt more strongly.

"Oh, she sleeps less than I do," Fedorian laughed with a wave of his hand. "Did you rest well?" He seemed to already know that answer as he looked into his friend's weary silver eyes. Haldir looked away with a deep sigh, knowing he was not yet ready to speak of what had happened. Some wounds were too raw just yet or too uncomfortable to speak so openly where ears might easily overhear. But, his friend did not press him and merely sat beside him in quiet companionship, seeming to understand his wish for silence.

They watched as the grey watery light of pre-dawn slowly filtered through the leafy boughs. The orange sun breasted the horizon, rising to a glorious day, tingeing the cloud layers with scarlet and gold, whitening as it rose gradually higher. Haldir stood and stretched stiff muscles, a peaceful serenity filling him as he gazed upon the beauty of the golden sun darting through the silver trunks of his homeland where delicate mists clung to the still-shadowed hollows.

"Thank you, Captain," he said into the silence, grateful for his friend spending the lonely hours of the darkness with him. Fedorian cuffed him lightly across the head with a soft smile.

"Only on-duty, mellon nin. I am the same as ever I was."

Haldir smiled in return but kept his gaze on the white stars glittering in the remaining vestiges of dark blue in the dawn sky until they faded beyond his sight.