We are, obviously, in movie-verse here, but I just couldn't bear to let Haldir die!
Big big thanks to Becki, who rescued this from a major case of writer's block by suggesting the event on which the story hinges. I couldn't have done it without you! And thanks, as always, to Laiqalassë for betaing.
Important note: Spookily, the beginning of this story is very similar to the beginning of Siryn's The Edge of an Uncertain World, but was written entirely independently. Siryn is aware of this, and no plagiarism is going on on either side!
Disclaimer: Speaking of plagiarism, the characters, as always, belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just telling a different story with them.
Understanding
The sun was setting behind the mountains at her back, staining the clouds deep pink and orange, still beautiful even after a night and day of such horror as she had never imagined. The air was chilly and the breeze sharp but she did not notice the cold. She was too near complete exhaustion to register anything much beyond the stone of the battlements beneath her fingers as she gripped the wall to keep from sinking to the ground. If she collapsed, she knew she must give in to her grief and weep as if her heart were broken; she was beginning to wonder if indeed it was. But she was a shield maiden, and she refused to weep. So she had spent the previous night and day with her anguish locked firmly away in her heart. She had stood prepared to defend her people; she had helped to bring the wounded in from the battlefield and down from the wreckage of the Deeping Wall. She had helped the healers tend to the wounded, too few of them though there were. Most of the defenders of Helm's Deep were dead. More than half of them had been known to her.
She would have been helping still, anything to take her mind off the keening wail in her heart, but her uncle had seen her and instantly recognised what a state she was in. She had tried to resist his order to go off for some fresh air and some time to herself, but then Aragorn and Gandalf had joined in and she had found herself barred from the keep. So she had drifted down the stone stairs, beneath the statue of Helm Hammerhand and out through the main door; down the ramp where her uncle had led his triumphant last charge, where the Elves had marched in so unexpectedly last night. Her heart had stood still in her chest as she saw them, cloaked and hooded and armed to the teeth, marching perfectly in time as if they were one being, not two hundred; and she had felt again the superstitious fear of their kind that had been instilled in her from her earliest days.
Aragorn had felt no such fear; he had stepped forward and embraced the Elven captain as if they were long-lost friends; and so they might have been, she supposed, for had not Aragorn been raised by the Elves? Their ethereal, deadly beauty had unnerved her, and she had stepped backwards, into the shadows, and made for the caves to do her duty by her king.
The Elves were tending to their own within the keep, with the help of Aragorn; their Captain had been one of the fallen, so gravely wounded that it seemed impossible that he might live. Surrounded by the deaths of her countrymen, Éowyn had still been touched by the destruction of the deathless Elves. Her people might have died before their time, but they would still die, sooner or later. Elves did not die, or so she had heard; they lived on and on, never ageing, only becoming more beautiful. What must it mean to those few survivors, to know that so many of their kin were dead? She could not begin to imagine it.
She had eventually found herself walking along the front of the Deeping Wall, so quiet now that all who fought over it were dead or gone or being taken care of inside the castle. She had picked her way over the wreckage and climbed the steps inside the wall, and now she stood upon the top of the wall, staring blankly out over the plain. The forest which had arrived so suddenly that morning had departed again, taking with it the corpses of those of Saruman's army who had thought to find refuge beneath its branches. Now there were only heaps of Uruk-Hai bodies, fodder for the crows and the rats. Tomorrow they would be burnt where they lay, but already the stench was beginning to rise from them.
Closing her eyes, she leant her forehead against the cool stone. Not to sleep, no, not when she felt sure that nightmares would descend as soon as she lost her grip upon wakefulness. Only to rest her eyes; she was tired of seeing death and destruction everywhere she looked and her eyes ached with the sight. She leant against the wall and tried to empty her mind of everything.
A soft footfall jolted her back to reality. Hurriedly she pushed herself away from the wall and straightened up, turning to inquire who was disturbing her solitude. The words died in her throat as she took in the tall figure and realised that the intruder was an Elf.
Seen up close, she decided, Elves were even more other-worldly than she had imagined. Tall and slender, he still wore his golden armour, although his helmet was missing. Silver-blond hair fluttered around his face and down his back, caught by the breeze. His features were delicate, finely cut, but somehow she knew that his fragile beauty was misleading; beneath the delicate, almost feminine shell was a ferocious warrior. His eyes were a soft greyish-green, luminous in the dying light, and his skin seemed to glow as if a light shone within him. It took all her self-discipline not to turn tail and flee before him.
Rúmil paused as he reached the top of the stairs, seeing the human female leaning against the wall. It just went to show how worn out he was; if he had been anywhere near his usual self he would have sensed her presence before he even approached the wall. At the moment, however, his usual self seemed so far away that he doubted he would ever be that well again. He had marched for days, fought the most gruelling battle of his life, sustained an unpleasant gash to his sword arm and watched his beloved older brother fall beneath an Uruk-Hai's blade. Once the battle had been won, he had brought Haldir into the keep, seen him into the hands of those who knew what to do, and gone back out to find any more of his companions who still lived. There were all too few. Mostly, there were bodies, each an empty shell now that its inhabitant fea had gone. Not one of them would sail West when the time came, not one would see the beauty of Valinor. Instead their bodies lay on this muddy plain, far from home.
When it had become painfully obvious that all those who lived had been taken into the keep, Rúmil had gone inside to see what he could do for them. He was no healer, but he knew enough field medicine to get by on patrol, and he was quite capable of cleansing and stitching wounds, or changing dressings. Mostly he had stayed close to where Haldir was being treated, hoping against hope that the blow would not prove fatal, that he would not have to go home to the Golden Wood bearing the news that Haldir of Lorien was no more. He did not think he could bear to face Orophin, his eldest brother, with news such as that. Orophin, who had stayed behind to defend their home from the dark forces pouring out of Dol Guldur while his two brothers marched to aid the world of Men. Rúmil could not bear to think of it.
Eventually, when Haldir's wounds had been cleansed and stitched and the Elven Captain had been settled with a healer to watch over him, Rúmil had felt his discomfort at being walled up within the stone keep growing unbearable. He had made his way outside as swiftly as he could and although the stench from the battlefield assaulted his senses, there was a cold breeze and a magnificent sunset, and the first stars beginning to wink into being overhead. The walk across to the Deeping Wall where his brother had fallen had calmed his senses a little, but he was still far from comfortable.
The woman suddenly turned as she heard his approach, and the expression of surprise and fear on her face as she beheld him almost made him laugh out loud. Simple human, you fear what you do not know; but what more should one expect of the race of Men, weak and inconstant as they are? But he was too tired to laugh, too sick at heart to move silently as he was able, or she would never have heard him, not even if he had stood right behind her.
At a loss for what to do, for he did not speak any language but his own, Rúmil found himself placing his right hand over his heart and inclining his head to the woman.
If Éowyn had been startled by the Elf's sudden appearance, she was even more surprised by his courtly greeting. It was the same greeting she had seen his Captain give Aragorn and her uncle the previous night, before Aragorn had caught the Elf seemingly off-guard with that hug. A gesture of respect, it had seemed, and though her mind was reeling at the strangeness of the situation, she found herself repaying him in kind, bobbing a curtsey and keeping her eyes decorously downcast. Then she stood for a moment, at a loss as to what to do next. Her solitude had been disturbed; she may as well return to the keep and make herself useful, she decided.
"I should be getting back," she said, and made to walk past him towards the steps. His look of utter incomprehension told her that he did not understand the Westron she had used, and common sense told her he would not speak her mother tongue. She was reluctant simply to go without properly taking her leave of him, her hard-learned courtly manners proving tenacious even now; but, seeing nothing for it, she took another few steps. She nearly jumped out of her skin when he laid a hand upon her arm and spoke a few words in a soft, musical language that to her superstitious mind sounded almost like the tongue of magic. And, like one under a spell, she found her feet refusing to carry her any further, found herself turning to look up at him. 'Don't look in his eyes!' her less rational half screamed, but it was already too late. She was looking directly at him...and saw nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that she had never seen an Elf so close before. He was certainly beautiful, and his grey-green eyes were extraordinarily lovely, but other than that there was nothing otherworldly about him.
Before she could react to this realisation, he had stepped away from her, taking his hand from her arm and performing that greeting again, speaking again in that lyrical tongue and turning to go. With a nervous laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation, Éowyn found herself speaking again, even though she knew he wouldn't understand.
"No, stay. I don't mind. I should think you need the fresh air as much as I do." She gestured at the wall, the battlefield, trying to make her meaning clear, and the Elf smiled. Nodding, he came to lean upon the wall; she returned to her place, leaning beside him and gazing out over the enclosure to the rise of the mountain that protected the back of the fortress.
They stood in companionable silence for some time, watching as more and more stars appeared above the mountain. The last of the sun's light was long gone, but the moon was nearly full, and its silver light lent the carnage below the wall an almost unreal quality.
A movement near the base of the keep caught Éowyn's eye, and she glanced over to see two or three men beginning to sort the bodies of the dead, placing the Men and Elves in rows and dumping the Uruk-hai in a heap for burning as soon as possible. Everything that could be done for the wounded must have been done, and now the long, miserable task of burying the dead must begin. She felt the tears rise in her throat again but forced them back; she had not wept so far, and she would not weep now, not in front of this perfect creature. She was damned if she would give him anything to feel superior about. She glanced at him, and her eyes widened at the sight; the moonlight made him look almost ghostly, and even more beautiful, achingly so. It silvered his hair almost white, and it glinted off the tears that were coursing down his face. He made no sound as he wept, but Éowyn could see the sobs shaking his shoulders, could hear his breathing deepen and quicken as he sought to control himself. The sight of his sorrow was just enough to break her already fragile resolve, and though she thought that she should try to comfort him, she found herself sliding down the wall as her knees gave way, utterly consumed by the sobs that would be forced down no longer. She rested her head on her knees, covering her face with her hands, and gave herself over to her grief at last. Dimly she registered that her companion had sat down beside her, and that he had placed an arm around her, but she knew no more. Blindly, made a child again by her distress, she turned towards this possible source of comfort, curling into the curve of his arm and crying as though her heart would break.
Rúmil watched the men of Rohan as they began to move the dead, and his heart contracted in pain that things had come to this, that his brothers in arms must be laid out for burial by Men. The men were gentle and respectful, but they were not Elves and it did not seem right that they should be performing this task. Rúmil thought that he should go and take it over, but he was not sure that his legs would carry him that far. The peace and quiet on the wall, the chance to rest a little, had brought home to him just how exhausted he was. When he had rested properly, he would make sure that the bodies of his companions were properly prepared for their last journey, but for now he was far too tired to carry it out properly. It would not do for him to make mistakes. There were a few others of his people within the keep; he would find them later and they would take care of everything together.
He swallowed, feeling helpless before the grief that now overwhelmed him. So many of his people, robbed of their immortal lives by the white hand of evil. He did not think his soul would ever truly recover. Tears welled up in his eyes and he blinked, making them spill over and stream down his cheeks. He made no effort to wipe them away, letting them flow in the hope that they would take some of his pain with them. He breathed deeply, trying to regain a little calm, but was distracted by a little noise from his companion. Turning, he saw her sink to the floor, burying her face in her hands and sobbing brokenly. From the brittle self-control she had displayed, he guessed that this was something she had been trying to avoid, and that she was probably hating herself for breaking down in front of him. And yet he could not just ignore her, pretend that nothing was wrong to salve her pride. Lowering himself to the ground, he sat beside her, feeling more than a little helpless. Crying women were definitely outside his experience. Tentatively he placed an arm around her, and was surprised when she turned to him; settling himself a little more comfortably, he pulled her closer and held her as she sobbed. A moment passed, and he felt his own sorrow rise again; he no longer saw any point in swallowing it down, instead resting his head upon her soft hair and giving in to the overwhelming urge to weep like the Elfling he had not been for a very long time.
Éowyn recovered herself first, bitterly reproaching herself for breaking down in front of the Elf, until she realised that he was clinging to her now, and weeping as desolately as she had done. Awkwardly she shifted, raising a hand to pat his armoured shoulder; realising that would do very little good, she moved her hand down to the part of his arm that was not encased in armour, between the vambraces and shoulderplates, marvelling at the softness of the shirt he wore as she began to stroke his arm gently and reassuringly. The touch seemed to soothe him, for his sobs slowly subsided and he moved to sit up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Their eyes met, and both glanced away, ashamed of their weakness, but they found themselves looking back and smiling, faint, sad smiles, but enough to make the shame and tension subside. Shifting, Rúmil settled himself back against the wall and drew Éowyn back to lean against him, pulling his cloak about her shoulders against the chill night air. Inwardly marvelling at herself and at the strangeness of the situation she complied, making herself comfortable and leaning against him, resting her head upon his shoulder. His armour was cold and hard, but not uncomfortable, and she found herself tracing her fingers over his breastplate, investigating the unfamiliar design of the leaf-like metal plates, the leather tunic and shirt of tiny leather scales, painstakingly stitched together. The armour of her own people was nothing like this, nowhere near as graceful or delicate in its design, though the Rohirrim armour had its own beauty, the carefully-worked horse-heads and knotwork testament to the craftsmanship for which her people were justly famed. All these separate pieces and layers...the Elves must truly feel they had all the time in the world, if even their armour was an intricate work of art. At the base of his breastplate was a small round badge bearing the symbol of a silver tree, carefully inlaid on a base of forest green; his house, she wondered, or his own emblem? Resigning herself to the mystery, at least for now, she made a mental note to ask Gandalf some time, if she ever had the chance. Suddenly drowsy, she found her eyes slipping shut and before she had finished the thought, she was asleep.
Rúmil smiled at her obvious fascination with his armour. He loved it himself, loved the flowing lines and curves inspired by the leaves and trees of his home. It had saved his life more than once, yet was still light and comfortable to wear. He wondered if this brave maiden had armour of her own, if she too might fight for her people, given the chance. He had seen her during the day, moving from one bedside to another, tending to the wounded, never resting, and had wondered what the women of Rohan were doing here. Surely they should be safe in their homes, away from the attacking forces of Saruman? Yet their quiet determination had impressed him as he had kept vigil by his brother's side. No outbreaks of weeping from any of the women in the keep, no screaming or wailing, just quiet, tireless labour to ease the pain of their menfolk. Rúmil was beginning to think that perhaps he and his people had misjudged the race of Men, condemning them all for the actions of one. All of them worked, from the King downwards; he had expected it of Estel, but Legolas, helping his fallen brethren, had pointed out the two bearded men lifting warriors onto beds as the King and his nephew, and the golden-haired, stern-faced maiden who now sat curled in his arms as the niece of the King. It explained her self-control, he supposed. It would not do for a princess to give in to her own sorrow when her people needed her to be strong.
Her fingers left the badge of his Lord Celeborn and her head slid forwards, almost slipping off his shoulder as she fell asleep, but he caught her in time and settled her again, drawing the cloak closer around her. He would not disturb her; hopefully when she had been able to rest, she would have regained her strength. Her breakdown would not matter, witnessed as it had been by one Elf who could not speak of it to her people even if he had wished to. Turning his gaze to the sky, he lost himself in the calming light of the moon and stars, finally drifting off into reverie with the Princess of Rohan still held safely in his arms.
Somewhere near the middle of the night, the postern gate to the keep opened and a white-haired figure slipped out, closing the door behind him. Making his way down the steps, Gandalf packed his pipe and caused it to light, drawing the comforting smoke into his lungs. The healers had refused to tolerate it around their patients, and eventually he had brought himself outside to smoke in peace. Looking around him, his sharp-eyed gaze lit upon two figures upon the Deeping Wall, huddled together fast asleep, and he smiled. The Princess had been close to the end of her endurance earlier, and would never have forgiven herself if she had broken down in front of her people; the Captain's younger brother, too, had been perilously close to collapse. To see them together was something the Istar had not expected, but they had obviously found the peace they needed. He would not interfere; they were doing each other a world of good.