Lothlorien, Third Age 2851
To mortal vision, the approaching figure seemed merely a weathered traveler swathed in grey. A keener eye would note, however, that the spry steps and supple limbs marking the elder's progress quite belied the appearance of age. The guardians of the northern marches made no move to hinder his advance, and as he neared the eaves of the wood, he tipped up the broad brim of his hat and called out in a strong voice, "What's this? Have the Elves of the Golden Wood no greeting for a weary old man?"
With a knowing grin, Haldir stepped out from the shadow of the treeline. "Well met, Mithrandir! You know your presence is always welcome here."
The wizened mouth of the Maia turned up in a smile, but his wiry brows remained furrowed over clever blue eyes.
"My presence may be welcome, but I fear the news I bring is not."
Grim lines of care cleaved the ageless face of the Sinda lord as he paced the chambers. No consternation marred his wife's delicate features as she sat still as stone, her hands folded quietly in her lap, but her unease was palpable to both the Maia and her mate.
"I am convinced," Mithrandir emphasized. "The time for action has come. We must strike. Our blow must be hard, and it must be swift."
Galadriel lifted her eyes from Nenya's cold sparkle and fixed them on the fiery glow of Narya on the Wizard's bony finger. The rings called to one another, the power of each jewel thrumming in the presence of a sibling band. She felt two pairs of keen eyes upon her and she spoke.
"This is no matter for Lothlorien alone. We must reconvene the Council."
The Imladris contingent made haste to Lothlorien. Behind the advance guard, Elrond and Círdan, the ancient lord of the Havens, rode in tandem, with the mighty captain of the Imladris guard at their right and Gildor Inglorion on their left. Haldir was glad to see the beaming face of Ausir in the ranks, he who had been a jolly companion in the years of his youth when Elemmakil had sent him abroad to roam with Gildor's band. The face of his erstwhile leader was also a joy to behold, for he had not seen Gildor since fighting beside him at the battle of Fornost.
Ever cognizant of protocol, the Marchwarden attended Lord Elrond and Lord Círdan before greeting his friends, welcoming the ancients to the Golden Wood and seeing to the care of their beleaguered mounts himself. The retinue would ride no further than the forest borders; already word had come that Celeborn and Galadriel had departed Caras Galadhon with Mithrandir, and would meet them there, under the eaves of the wood, so as to depart for Isengard at the rise of the sun with all due speed.
When there was time to speak, there was much to say. Ausir and Haldir huddled close over their bowls when at last the time came to sup, and even Gildor was not above offering the occasional morsel of gossip to spice the simmering stew of their chatter, though Haldir was just as eager to hear news from abroad of a more practical variety: the movements of the yrch, the paths of scurrilous bands of men who lay in wait for travelers, wolf packs in the barrens of Eriador. It was his business to know what passed outside his borders, though his duties now stayed him from the long sojourns he had once undertaken.
Ausir, of course, had many yarns to spin, and Haldir all but rolled with mirth at the ongoing saga he detailed, a campaign of pranks waged between himself and the elder of Lord Elrond's twin sons. In his latest misadventure, a relaxing soak in Imladris' renowned hot springs had ended in abject humiliation when he realized that Elladan had absconded with his clothes, forcing a long walk back to his quarters in nought but his skin. It had been repayment for Ausir exchanging the contents of Elladan's wineskin with vinegar. As he spoke, he gesticulated wildly, his hands flapping birdlike about his head, and after a long stare, Haldir trapped one of those hands within his own as he might snatch a sparrow from a limb. He paid no mind to his friend's befuddlement, but loosed his grip to heed the hand more closely and confirmed his suspicions: the first finger of Ausir's right hand was shackled with a plain silver band.
"Wonder of wonders! Ausir, whose name has been sung by countless Lorien maids in their midnight throes has been tamed at last!"
Ausir's sheepish grin soon broke to a wide smile. "Aye. Though I would not say tamed," he added forcefully. "Nellas is her name, and come harvest-time, we are to be wed. You would like her, Haldir, for she is as keen as she is lovely." The Noldo's grey eyes glittered at the very mention of his distant love. "She won me completely. And I find that I am more than willing to be defeated by her. She is the better part of me."
Hearing his boisterous and formerly bawdy companion wax poetic as a young mooncalf turned Haldir thoughtful; he could not imagine Ausir a docile husband, yet the idea of it clearly gave his friend great joy. Just as he had seen it give Orophin and Rúmil great joy. Again, he was assailed by a pang of wistfulness that he could not articulate.
He squeezed Ausir's hand tightly and then withdrew his clutch. "My heartiest congratulations, then! I wish you every joy with her, mellon-nin."
When the remainder of the party had retired to the telain to rest for the long ride ahead, Haldir made his nightly rounds. Venturing a ways into the woods, he espied Glorfindel standing alone, looking up through the trees and into the night sky. The mighty Captain of Gondolin and Imladris radiated a subtle incandescence, his very skin marking him as one apart, one of greatness. Though he had fought under Glorfindel's sword at Fornost, he had met the warrior only in passing, and doubted his name had even been known to the Elf. Haldir was in awe of him; his presence and magnitude rendered him intimidating even at a distance. Haldir wondered if Ecthelion had been so powerful to behold. He quickly turned aside, not wishing to disturb the Elf Lord's thoughts, but stealthy as he was, the Elda had an almost preternatural awareness of his environment and turned to face him.
"How fare the borders this eve, Haldir of Lorien?"
Haldir respectfully inclined his head before answering. "Quiet, my Lord."
Glorfindel watched him, sizing him up with his vitreous blue eyes as if there were some knowledge he would glean from the planes and slopes of Haldir's face. Of a sudden, Haldir felt the disquietude of his novice days; only one other's look had held him with such knowingness, with a gaze that had stolen past raiment and flesh to see into the very heart of him, and centuries had passed since even that first set of perspicacious eyes could hold him rapt in such a manner. The last time Haldir had believed that the weight of a stare could buckle him at the knees was the very last time Elemmakil had looked at him before the siege that took his life.
"You fought bravely at Fornost."
The silence of the night was buffeted by the deep, accented speech of the Balrog-slayer. "You were under no obligation to ride out with us, yet you did, and acquitted yourself well. Gildor oft speaks of your mettle. He is fond of you, my wandering friend is."
Haldir felt a rush of gratitude for Gildor's praise, and pride that Glorfindel had taken notice of him at all during the chaotic days of the long-passed campaign. Yet he could not help but to feel uneasy in this Elf's presence. In truth, it seemed as if Glorfindel were strangely wary of him; there was a coolness in his demeanor which did not sit well with Haldir. He could think of no words to fill the awkward silence, and he had begun to assemble some excuse he might utter to take his leave when Glorfindel spoke again.
"You were Elemmakil's lover for some time, were you not?"
The question put Haldir on the defensive. While their relation had long since ceased to be a secret, grief at the loss of his friend and former lover impelled him to move all thoughts of their time together to a guarded place. Cherished memories had been carefully enshrined deep within him, and he did not lightly dredge them up for the scrutiny of a stranger.
"After a fashion," Haldir conceded, hoping Glorfindel would take the discussion no further down this precarious path.
"That is no small thing, you know," Glorfindel continued, either incognizant of or indifferent to Haldir's choler. "No small thing at all, for him to have loved you."
Bristling at the persistent invasion of his privacy, his tone grew sharp. "We were indeed lovers, my Lord, but I was not his beloved. I hope that is clarification enough."
Glorfindel smiled with his lips tight together, and Haldir could not decipher the expression, whether it was wry or rueful.
"Perhaps he did not voice the words, but I have little doubt he loved you as well as he was able."
As well as he was able. Aye, and therein lay the rub, for he was not able to love Haldir with his full heart; the greater portion of that organ had been given to another, and what remained was an arid landscape scored with the memory of ancient hurts, no fertile soil remaining to nurture their ill-starred romance. Only the bramble of discipline and duty could thrive there, and thus he had cultivated those particular weeds until there was no longer Elemmakil but only the Marchwarden. The thought of it distressed Haldir, even after all this time. Even understanding, as he did, that Elemmakil had sought to save them both from folly. Even after he accepted that his own fate would likewise blossom, fruits of love strangled by the encroaching vines of necessity and responsibility.
But if Glorfindel, who was no friend, for all his great deeds and fabled glory, could so blithely pick the locks to his private store of memories, Haldir thought the least he could do would be to see the gallant's own recollections burgled. He favored Glorfindel with a inquiring look of his own before speaking.
"Why is it, my Lord, that Elemmakil never sought you out? He spoke little of you, and only ever of your feats in Imladris, never of your heroics in Gondolin, though it was my understanding he escaped with you."
"I imagine that to see me would have recalled to him horrors he sought to forget," Glorfindel evenly intoned. But Haldir, his focus now keen, had espied the slight twitch which gave away the Golden Flower, and Glorfindel himself knew that the Marchwarden was not gulled.
"It was always I who was dispatched to Imladris, even when he would have been better suited to the task." While no question had been posed, insinuation resonated in the words. Glorfindel dipped his head, acknowledging his imminent concession.
"In Gondolin, Elemmakil bore little love for me, and I had little for him."
Haldir was silent, waiting.
"I, too, loved Ecthelion, you see. But he broke with me. He had found another that he held more dear. A runtish lad of unexceptional birth who I, myself, taught to hold a sword." He laughed bitterly. "You can imagine how galling it was for the Lord of the House of the Flower to be defeated by a mere and untitled stripling he himself had trained up!
"But the stripling grew strong, and even I could not fault his skill, or his dedication to Ecthelion. And as he grew, their love seemed likewise to grow until even I with my jaundiced eye could do nought but wish them happiness, though it ever pained me to see them together. Ecthelion and I remained boon companions, but my heart did not forget the love it held for him.
"Ecthelion wished to bind himself to Elemmakil. He had commissioned betrothal bands, and planned to make his proposal during the celebrations of Tarnin Austa, but it was not to be. On that last day, amidst the fire and slaughter, I saw Ecthelion fall with the balrog, and I believed that had he not concerned himself with Elemmakil's welfare, he would have escaped the square to the safety of the tunnel. I believed he died so Elemmakil might live, and when we met at last on the Echoriath, Elemmakil saw my face, and he knew full well what I believed, for he believed it himself."
Glorfindel turned his piercing eyes away and focused them somewhere in the middle distance. Haldir stood silently beside him, recalling Elemmakil's implacable guilt and grief. What possible response was expected of him after such revelations? The moments dragged on as he considered his words.
"And now? Do you still blame him for Ecthelion's death?"
Pain and fondness flickered unbidden across Glorfindel's comely face.
"Nay, I do not. In Mandos' care I had ample time to acknowledge that Ecthelion was fated to die that day. Had he survived the balrog, he would have stayed in the square to fight to the last. He was the most beautiful and most valiant creature I have ever known, and he died bravely, just as he lived.
"I returned to Arda with memories of my first life intact, but the emotions that accompanied them had been muted, blunted by contemplation in the Halls of Waiting. I remembered my jealousy of Elemmakil, remembered our rivalry, but I no longer felt the burn of it. I weep for Ecthelion even still, but grief does not drive me, nor did the faint taste of old resentment. I even came to regret that Ecthelion did not take Elemmakil to wed sooner; perhaps the strength of a blood-bond would have twinned their fortitude and brought them both out of the fray alive."
"More likely it would have seen them both dead," Haldir grumbled. "Elemmakil himself owned that Ecthelion's love for him became his ultimate weakness."
Glorfindel gave him a look of curiosity mingled with concern. "Where love is given and returned, there is no weakness, pen-neth."
"If you had forgiven Elemmakil, why then did you not seek him out?" Haldir queried, refusing to acknowledge the Elda's last remark. "Perhaps you might have grieved your loss together had he known he was no longer your enemy."
Now Glorfindel gave Haldir a grin that was shrewd and ironical. "That we were no longer enemies would not have been enough to make us friends. Why court pain, his or mine, by reexamining another time and another life? Elemmakil never stopped blaming himself for Ecthelion's death. Nothing I could have said would have freed him from his guilt, nor was it ever my place to absolve him."
The smile slipped then, and the balrog-slayer's face turned sober and earnest. "When I heard that Elemmakil had taken a new lover, one with whom he shared his heart and not simply his bed, I wanted only to know that he who had once been worthy of Ecthelion would uphold Ecthelion's memory by himself choosing one who was worthy."
He offered Haldir his arm to clasp and met his eyes straight on. "I know now that you were."
While Haldir was being accorded merit by an ancient hero, Galion was being garlanded with laurels of his own of a more intimate variety, and these from his well-lettered friend, only of late returned from a protracted sojourn in Imladris.
The scribe brought with him tales of the great library of Elrond; of the stately loremaster, Erestor, who spoke and read all the tongues of Arda with effortless facility, and who could, with almost unworldly precision, locate any one of the thousands of ancient and priceless books and scrolls seemingly in less time than it took for an eye to blink. A massive tome detailing the destruction of Eregion had even been penned in his own hand, as he had been spectator to both the realm's founding and its fall.
The scribe also bore back his playful demeanor and a hunger for less cerebral pursuits Galion was more than willing to sate. Their camaraderie was effortless, and many were the moments that Galion found himself wishing that their relations sprang from a deeper well than mere physical attraction and the conviviality of friends. But all in all, the scribe was a generous lover who made few demands on his time and none on his heart.
Moreover, his attentions never left Galion feeling bereft.
Since his installation as Marchwarden, Haldir had shared his favors with Galion now and again, though their tumblings involved pleasures only of a superficial bent: a furious stroke; a hot grind; a languorous suck. Always did Haldir hurriedly and guiltily slink off before dawn like a faithless spouse, and always Galion feigned sleep and watched him leave through unfocused eyes, knowing their trysts to be a thing that would not be acknowledged until the next time Haldir appeared at his door wearing a hungry and acquisitive expression. Galion had not the strength of will to turn him away, though he paid the price each time in the currency of a cold bed and an impinging sense of foolishness.
It took him aback, then, to wake and find a tall, fair-haired galadhel lingering outside his door that morning. His heart leapt in his breast at the discovery. But when the figure turned, he saw that he had mistaken the identity of his visitor. 'Twas not Haldir at all, but Taurnil who stood before him, and he hoped for his faithful friend's sake that his face had not betrayed his disappointment, and he called out a greeting with all the merriness he could muster.
"Well met, my friend! What brings you to my door at so early an hour?" He noticed that Taurnil's eyes went immediately to the scribe, who was now departing from Galion's quarters. Taurnil nodded officiously to the departing Elf, but that was all he offered in the way of greeting, and Galion's question went unanswered. Taurnil's demeanor was preoccupied, his usual ebullience muted.
"I would have thought your leave would find you sleeping well into the morning," Galion teased as they walked toward the healing houses, hoping to see a return of the customary trickster grin.
Taurnil merely shrugged. "I keep a soldier's hours; 'tis habit now, duty or no."
They trudged along in silence until Galion could stand it no longer and begged Taurnil reveal the source of his distemper.
Taurnil studied Galion's face thoroughly before answering, his blue eyes wide and overbright with emotion. Each word was birthed from his lips with careful consideration and conscious intent.
"I suppose it was but a foolish hope, but I had thought that if your heart had turned from Haldir it might turn to me. But I see now that another has usurped even that secondary place."
Galion's stomach clenched; he knew what pride this admission cost his friend. Long had this truth been known to Galion, though Taurnil did not speak directly of the depth of his feelings. Ever had Galion pretended not to notice the sidelong wistful glances, endeavored to ignore the subtle insinuations and to misconstrue Taurnil's disproportionate anger at Haldir when Haldir and the healer had fallen out with each other long ago. But now it had been spoken plain, and Galion was seized with a desperate pain that he could not return Taurnil's affection in kind. But neither could he bring himself to speak words of indifference to one who had granted him more devotion and far more constancy than he could ever wish of Haldir.
"My friend and I share our bodies alone," he gently explained, not daring to add that his heart had not turned, nor likely ever would.
The distant vision of clustered riders thundering overland from the South announced the imminent arrival of the returning company. In little more than a fortnight's time, the band had ventured forth to Isengard, convened their Council, and departed; now Haldir was met with grim faces, the grimmest of all belonging to his lord, who sought him out in a cold burn of temper once their honored guests from Imladris and beyond had continued onward to the comfort of Caras Galadhon.
"Mithrandir has proof that the Necromancer is no less than Sauron in disguise, and he advised the Council to mount an attack before the villain has time to rally his forces again."
The identity of the Necromancer revealed! Haldir was both astonished and horrified. "Will the attack come from Lorien alone? What, think you, is the best strategy? I speak for all of your men when I say we are ready to rid our borders of his taint," Haldir assured him, the mere mention of battle coalescing his blood. "Say the word and we shall suit up for battle."
Celeborn snorted. "Saruman would have us wait. He counsels patience. He feels Morgoth's minion represents little threat." At Haldir's look of patent disbelief, he smiled mirthlessly, his mouth tight and bloodless as a scar. "He is the leader of our Council, and thus the wisest of the Wise. We must stay our swords until such day as we can convince him that to let this malice linger at our door is folly."
The argent-haired Elf Lord paced to disperse the tension of an arduous ride laid atop his growing frustration at Saruman's blithe dismissal of a menace which loomed like a storm cloud over their lands. More and more, he distrusted Saruman's judgment, though he did not speak his misgivings aloud. Both he and Galadriel had both rallied behind Mithrandir to lead the Council, but the Grey Pilgrim demurred; Celeborn wondered if the White Wizard was avenging this insult now through his inaction.
"Speak nothing of this. It would cause unnecessary panic."
"Of course, my Lord," Haldir agreed.
The Lord of Lorien and his Marchwarden stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the vast wastes across the Anduin and the blackened treeline of Mirkwood in the distance, one remembering the remote slaughter of his childhood realm, the other, bloodshed of a more recent vintage. Haldir's eyes knew the very spot where his once-lover and erstwhile mentor had fallen, his sword flashing to the last, and long they lingered there.
The plangent voice of the Sinda echoed the words in his heart.
"Let us pray we do not wait for long. I would see blood repaid with blood, and I would see it soonest."