Elemmakil spent many sleepless nights in consideration of Celeborn's proposition, and though it displeased him to admit it, the elf lord's advice was sage. Perhaps separation would remedy the situation; a long absence between them might be enough to break the hold of this infatuation.

Infatuation. Would that it were only that, he thought grimly. But Haldir was young, he reasoned, his heart would soon mend and he would look back upon their time together as merely the folly of youth. His own heart would not be so quick to recover, though the fault lay solely with himself. I should never have allowed him so close. Through all my relentless palaver on the matter, I have failed to heed my own counsel.

Celeborn's offer had been expedient on more than one count: Haldir would benefit greatly from the knowledge and experience travel would impart. Under other circumstances, the Marchwarden had no doubt Haldir would enjoy an opportunity to see other realms, and the wisdom and confidence gained serving in the company of one as acclaimed as Gildor Inglorion would be to Haldir's decided advantage in the future. Elemmakil held fast to these notions, as they were all that kept the gnashing teeth of guilt at bay.

The Marchwarden's weary eyes restlessly traversed the talan; his quarters had become stifling. Even high in the mallorn branches he felt the air too cloying and close. A walk would peradventure clear his head and reveal to him how he might broach the subject with Haldir. The conversation would be an unhappy one, to be sure, but it was one best held soonest. He rubbed his face roughly, as if the scouring pressure of his palms might disenthrall some hidden reserve of fortitude. It did not.

A melodic flow of song emanated gaily from the grove. No doubt the sons of Guilin gathered there now with their friends, clannish and insular as the young were wont to be, trading remarks that recalled private jests and reaffirmed their affinity with one another. Taurnil's voice rang forth loudest, trolling a bawdy song learned from one of the guardians who had travelled with Celeborn from Imladris, and though many voices wove together in the responding chorus of laughter, Elemmakil trained his ears to hear Haldir's voice alone, a distinct and silvery peal. His eyes fell shut as he conjured the smile that accompanied that sound, the head tossed back in carefree mirth, flaxen hair shaking down his back. He halted just beyond their notice and made ready to turn back the way he came: he did not wish to be the cause of that laughter's end. But then he stayed his retreat, desirous now for one chance to observe unnoticed the young ones in their leisure.

Haldir had ensconced himself between the mallorn roots, back snug up against the great tree's bole with the young healer Galion tucked tight beside him. Haldir rested his arm casually on his friend's upraised knee. Orophin reclined nearby, an old log carpeted in lichens cooling his back while Rúmil's slim frame stretched out before him, his head cushioned on his brother's thigh. Other bodies, less familiar to him, arranged themselves comfortably around their friends, applauding Taurnil as he pranced and minced for his audience, his song entering its final ribald verse.

Elemmakil's eyes stalked back to Haldir and the healer, marking the way they leaned into each other, whispering secrets, with the nonchalance of brothers. Or lovers? He wondered. No, he knew better: despite the Marchwarden's admonishments, Haldir had become virtually chaste outside his company. Though while he did not take the healer to bed, it was clearly not from lack of want on the healer's part: he had noticed long ago that the young Noldo kept his eyes ever on Haldir, as much with esteem as with desire, and he knew Haldir basked brightly in his friend's unwavering regard.

And that regard was currently painful for Elemmakil to behold, the heat of jealousy flaring inexplicably in his breast. Of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than Haldir freed from the other's lovelorn stare. More… he wanted to grab the healer by his scruff and remind him that it was he who shared Haldir's bed, that it was he who made young archer writhe and whimper beneath him, and that it was he who, with a single word, could have Haldir on all fours and begging to be taken. He wanted to see the pain and humiliation those words would inflict upon the whelp.

He screwed his eyes shut, nostrils flaring, and composed himself. Stop...This is utterly unworthy of you. He knew why Galion needled him so; the lad's feelings for Haldir were writ plain on his face. He galls you because you know he would give freely all that you withhold.

Yet though he could corral his jaundiced thoughts, he could not entirely conceal them. The uncomfortable burn of envy drove his desire to deal with the situation forthwith, this sudden lack of control an emphatic reminder that he had let this liaison carry on far too long. Better to speak now and be done with it. When he drew himself up to his most imposing height and strode into their midst, he could feel the healer's gaze pinning him, could sense the palpable tension radiating from his body, and he was glad of it.

"Haldir, I would speak with you at your convenience."

His voice was unusually stentorian, sounding foreign even to his own ears. Haldir looked upon him curiously and slipped his hand from the healer's leg.

"I will follow now, captain, if it please you."

The Marchwarden nodded crisply and turned from the grove. He did not need to look over his shoulder to know that Haldir followed, nor to know that young Galion's eyes were even at that moment boring holes into his back. It shamed him that this knowledge pleased him so.

The air between them was uncomfortably charged. Haldir knew something rested ill with the Marchwarden, though the elder elf was tight-lipped, and he filled the tense silence with falsely gladsome chatter, the distracted Marchwarden offering desultory nods and grunts in return. Having drawn Haldir forth from his friends, the wherewithal to begin this dreaded parley now eluded him, and all the words he sought crumbled to dust in his mouth.

Haldir glanced about the tidy room expectantly. The captain's new talan was as austere as his old quarters had been: his desk of dark wood dominated the space, its inlaid top obscured by assorted maps and scrolls and, incongruously, a book of poetry in the high tongue, of which Haldir knew little. Opposite the desk, a tall wardrobe concealed his clothes, grey woollen uniforms and casual attire as well as formal robes Haldir had never once seen him wear. A couple of sparsely populated bookshelves stood under an arched window. The only concession to comfort was the spacious bed with its gracefully curving headboard and finely woven counterpane. There were few personal touches: a tapestry depicting Vingilot on the waves adorning one wall… a small rendering in miniature of Caras Galadhon in a gilt frame, a gift from Amroth honoring some achievement or other, propped up on the desk, not yet hung… a finely carved wooden box sat alone atop one of the bookshelves.

It looked more like a barrack than a home, Haldir once noted. The Marchwarden had simply shrugged, his eyes far away. "Homes burn. I have here all I need."

Haldir paced to diffuse his nervousness, picking up a silver coin as he passed the bedside table. It was of Gondolin make. As mute as the Marchwarden kept regarding his life in Turgon's realm, Haldir was surprised to find he kept such a bauble. He rolled his fingers over the milled edge, noting the perfect details of the King's fountain on its face. It was heavy and cold in his fingers and he tossed it up in the air, his eyes following the fountain as it tumbled end over end towards his waiting palm, words learned by rote in his youth tumbling just as swiftly from his mouth.

"…And so perished the Lord of the Fountain, after fiery battle in cool waters."

The Marchwarden swiped the coin from its trajectory with a flash of his hand. Haldir flinched; he had not even seen him rise from his chair. He espied white-hot fury flickering in his captain's face as he clutched the coin tight in his fist. And then he was back on the other side of the room, standing before the bookcases with the dimming sun casting fiery trails in his hair as he interred the coin in the coffer. He kept his back turned for a long moment, fingers tracing the scrolling leafwork of the lid. Haldir blushed, his heart pounding; he knew not what he had done, but he knew he had gravely trespassed.

When at last the Marchwarden turned, he had regained his usual impassive expression, though it did not sit easily on his face. Haldir's heart thundered still . Everything about this meeting had been strained and disconcerting, every step he took disastrous. But Elemmakil, at least, seemed at last to have found the words that had earlier escaped him.

"You have great potential, Haldir. I see a leader in you, and to develop that leader is not only my duty, it is my honor. Tathalion took his position under duress, and still harbors misgivings about his abilities. I would not have another successor falter in self-doubt when it is in my power to prepare him fully, as I have endeavored with you. Certainly, you have discerned this, have you not?"

"Aye, Sir!" Haldir responded with a conviction he did not quite feel. "But I fear I will never hold myself ready to assume the Marchwarden's mantle. Elbereth forefend it ever be asked of me!"

Elemmakil smiled bloodlessly. It was difficult to acknowledge that Haldir's elevation would be contingent upon his compatriot's death or his own, yet the uncertainties of a life at arms made it a necessary admission, however discomfiting. Better he should be uncomfortable now than safely shielded from the likelihood that I or Tathalion shall fall and not primed for his task.

"You have walked the realm with me many times over and know its every leaf and branch. You have seen war in Mordor and returned. But you know little of the land around us. You have seen no other elven realm, nor ever had dealings with other races save on the battle plain."

He perched on the edge of his desk, pushing aside the papers there, hoping Haldir would not see that he gripped it tightly to steady himself. The look of anguish on Haldir's face as he detailed Celeborn's journey shook his resolve, but did not break it.

"You cannot mean to send me away! I have duties here, and my brothers..."

"Your duty is to your Captain, is it not?" Elemmakil's tone brooked no argument, though behind the voice there was little conviction. "Your brothers are more than well-equipped to manage their own lives, and will likely thrive on their own merits once they are out from under your daunting shadow."

Haldir's head swam. To be sent on an escort was one thing- that, he thought, might have come as a welcome adventure. But the Marchwarden was not speaking of a few moons or a season. He meant Haldir to be gone for years, traveling foreign lands with elves he did not know, far from everything familiar, from his brothers and friends, from his home. From Elemmakil himself.

"I... do not wish to be so long parted from you." His voice quavered, and he cursed himself for the weakness it conferred.

With great effort, Elemmakil stayed his hand from reaching out to Haldir's cheek, stayed his lips from reassuring Haldir he did not relish their parting, either, and bitterness seized him, born of the gall of swallowing words he could not speak. "It should please you well to know your friend Galion will travel with you as far as Imladris."

Haldir caught the venom in those words, and wondered at its cause. If any party was aggrieved, was it not he?

"Celeborn wishes to depart in a fortnight."

So soon? He would miss Rumil's begetting day. His brother would never forgive him; he felt heartsick. But every argument he presented was countered by one simple word: duty. His captain had called for his service, and no matter how he loathed it, he had little choice but to do as he was ordered. He surveyed the room again, felt for the first time in a long while its impersonal chill. How many nights had he sought his lover's arms here, or simply laid himself across the wide bed in silent invitation? Words whispered to him long ago haunted him now: "Lay duty aside, pen neth… Here we serve only each other."

No, duty was never truly laid aside, and only one of them was being served here. He stood stiffly at attention and asked his captain to be dismissed.

Haldir fought the constriction in his chest, the sinking pang in his stomach that made him feel childish and weak. He knew he should be honored that Lord Celeborn had asked for him specifically, that he was being entrusted with such a journey, and that Elemmakil saw such potential in him… yet none of these things lessened the ache of finding himself so unceremoniously cast aside. Despite all his talk of duty, Haldir could not shake the feeling that at the root of it all, Elemmakil simply wanted him gone.

He took to the woods, sidestepping the paths that might lead him to any other living soul, avoiding the glade altogether. He could not bear to look speak to anyone, to see the look of concern mixed with irritation on Orophin's face- Orophin had, of course, been right to counsel Haldir to hold his heart aloof. He did not want to chance seeing Galion's pity, to suffer Taurnil's attempts to lighten his mood with rude songs and feigned laughter, or worst of all, to encounter Feredir and endure his pernicious jeering.

He allowed his feet to lead him, his heart and mind too busy with other matters to mark where he roamed. Yet when he finally stopped to get his bearings he knew exactly where he had come.

A stand of birch and alder grew here, narrow and slim and pale. Blackberry bushes grew guarded by thorn and bramble, and a stream chattered gaily just beyond the trees. The bracken had grown like a canopy, creating dense walls that hid its far side from view. But peering between the thorns, one could see a thick carpet of moss, velvety and cool…a perfect hiding place. Haldir approached it slowly, almost reverently, as if to move too quickly might spook the shades of memory lingering here.

He crawled on hands and knees seeking the opening, and discovered it guarded still by a lone warden carved from a rowan branch. He still held his bow proudly, though the string had long since rotted away, and the wood was discolored from years of standing silent sentinel in all weather. He picked it up, marveling first to find it, and then to see that it was now barely larger than his palm. It had seemed much larger once. His father had carved it for Orophin, and it had been his brother's constant companion in that time when the years between their ages seemed an impassible chasm.

This place had been his place once, and Galion's. They had declared the land theirs, the trees here under their dominion, the small stream tumbling past to meet a larger current flowing only at their behest. When they outgrew it, they bequeathed it to Orophin and Taurnil. He wondered now if Orophin had ever shown it to Rúmil. No, he and his brother had been absent for much of Rúmil's youth. If Rúmil had hiding places, they were his alone, claimed in secrecy with the others who had been left behind.

He replaced the guardian at his gate. He belonged there now more than he had even when he was a living branch reaching from a tree. Peering in at the soft moss, he could almost see the two young bodies there, hear their voices. In that moment, to be alone with such specters as these was solace.

Lothlorien, Second Age 3371

"Be still! You'll frighten it!"

At twilight, by the edge of the stream, a doe nibbled delicately at the tender shoots in abundance there. Hearing the whispered admonition she craned her graceful neck, but sensed no danger. She knew a threat when she heard one, and what reached her ears now was no more than a fawn on two legs playing hunter. She turned her gentle face back to the stream, lapping at its cool bounty.

"You wouldn't know what to do with it even if you did hit it," Galion chided. "If I had not brought the oatcakes, we would have nothing but these berries to eat tonight."

"Provender. Marchwardens call their food provender."

An exasperated sigh. "Provender, then. Come eat your provender before I eat it for you."

"Plague take you should you even try!" Haldir cried, dropping his small bow, the awkwardly fletched arrow still clinging to the string. He dashed to the brush fort where Galion sat spreading out their provisions and braced to make a flying tackle, but a vicious pain shot up through his foot. He stumbled to the ground with a yelp. A hawthorn had pierced his heel, breaking off and leaving its sharp tip behind. The doe bounded away.

Galion had ferried his friend to the stream on his back, though Haldir preferred to think himself too big now for anyone other than his Ada to carry. In spite of his foot, he was happy. Since receiving permission to venture off alone and make camp overnight in the woods, Haldir and Galion took every opportunity to do so. In truth, they were not so very far from home, but well enough away that Haldir could imagine himself walking the marches like Beleg Cuthalion, keeping sharp watch over the wood with his sword-brother Túrin Turambar at his side. He took a deep breath as Galion paused to hike his weight further up on his waist. The damp of the woods mingled in Haldir's nostrils with the green scent of herbs suffusing Galion's hair after an afternoon spent rolling bandages with his Naneth in the infirmary.

Gently, but with little grace, Galion deposited his burden at the stream's edge. The water tickled Haldir's ankle. After a time, he held it up for Galion's examination, and a few failed attempts later, his friend's fingernails finally found purchase on the thorn's edge and slowly eased it out of his heel. Galion had held it out to him in the failing light, a spike of so deep a purple it was almost black, and Haldir had prized it from his fingers, examining it closely, spying his blood on its dark surface. He dropped his foot back in the water, the sting and throb already beginning to recede.

The current eddied around a rock near the shore, the water parting and slipping past it. It looked almost like a turtle's head just breaking the surface. Such a small thing, yet it bent the course of the water around it and stood firm against a force seeking ceaselessly to move it. Haldir reached for it and found it filled his whole hand. Its cool weight and grey surface worn smooth by the constant caress of the stream felt right in his grip. He lay back on the mossy bank with his new treasure clutched to his chest, leaving his foot to trail in the brook, parting its flow like the stone. Galion pulled off his boots and did the same.

A tide of inexplicable wistfulness tugged at him and he turned his head and looked into his friend's grey eyes. "Will you always stay close by me, Galion?"

Galion knew well this reflective mood, how it overtook his friend from time to time, and the corners of his mouth turned up just a little. "When you are Marchwarden, you will stay at the borders as Beleg did in Doriath. As your Ada does here. Perhaps you will go off to battle with him. I will be in the healing houses. We cannot be near each other all of the time."

Haldir considered this thoughtfully, but his face soon took on a determined set, brow furrowing as it did when he imparted something of great weight. "Then you must come with me if I go to battle. I will need you to heal me if I am injured."

Eventide cast ever-lengthening shadows across two young faces, and Galion's growing grin was half obscured in the gaining darkness. "I will go with you if you go to battle, then." Haldir gave a firm nod; the matter, it seemed, had been settled.

"Come," Galion sighed, rising and bending his withy body back in a deep stretch. "I am tired."

He pulled Haldir up by the hand, watching him balance gingerly on his sore foot. They stayed joined for a long moment, some wordless message passing between them like shared blood. Haldir impulsively pushed the river stone into Galion's hand. Galion said nothing, but smiled, his fingers curling around its girth.

They made their way slowly, Haldir slightly limping, back to their brush fort, and laid out their bedrolls. Haldir covered them both with a fur purloined from his father's oak chest and the night sky passed overhead, flecks of adamant winking in its black folds.

"I found Wilwarin," Haldir whispered.

Galion giggled. "Even an elfling can find Wilwarin. If you fancy yourself Beleg Cuthalion, you ought to know Menelmacar at least."

"'Twould be better named for Beleg than for Menelmacar," Haldir pouted. "The most valiant of all Marchwardens and we cannot see him in the sky!"

"Perhaps the friends of Marchwardens are fated for their own deeds," Galion sniffed. "Elbereth made Menelmacar to remind us of Túrin Turambar, for it is Túrin who will face Melkor at the Last Battle, at the end of days. Though he was not a Marchwarden, he was no less worthy than Beleg."

"Vainglory," Haldir harrumphed under his breath. "Oh, show me Menelmacar, then, you who know so much!"

Galion ignored the jibe and pointed his arm, slim and graceful, skyward, while Haldir moved nearer still, laying his head close at his friend's side that his eyes sight down that arm like the shaft of an arrow and follow his fingertip to the firmament.

"That star marks his head, and that one..." he brought his hand slightly down, "...Borgil, the ever-star, on his shoulder." Galion traced the arc of his girdle. "...Three stars for his shining belt, and three for his mighty sword."

Haldir softened. "I only see him when you show him to me."

A bashful smile played across Galion's lips. He was pleased to be needed, if only to guide Haldir's eyes across the stars. His arm fell to rest between them, the backs of their hands just touching, and they drifted off with no other words.

Sometime in the night, a marten darted out from his hollow, skittering up a nearby tree. The scrabbling of claws on bark woke Haldir with a start. He looked around wide-eyed, his heart fluttering like a sparrow's wing behind his ribs. Color flooded his cheeks; a poor Marchwarden he would be, spooking at noises in the dark. But then he felt Galion's hand slipping into his. Galion never teased, just offered his hand, his fingers never grasping or clutching, but resting there softly, and Haldir's fear left him, replaced with relief, and something else he could not quite name. It did not take long for sleep to find him again.

Notes: Wilwarin ("The Butterfly") is a W-shaped constellation placed in the sky by Varda (Elbereth) before the First Age. It likely corresponds to our constellation of Cassiopeia. Menelmacar is the elven constellation known to us as Orion. Borgil, "the ever-star," is Betelgeuse. Galion's description of why Elbereth created Menelmacar is paraphrased from The Silmarillion, 3, "Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor." In a completely unplanned and wonderfully fortuitous coincidence, I must point out that the translation for Menelmacar is roughly given as "Swordsman of the Sky," (Menel + Makil), while the translation for Elemmakil is roughly given as "Star-Sword" (Elen + Makil)... A bit of serendipitous foreshadowing for Haldir?! Extra-special thanks goes out to my Beta, Lady E, for all of her help on the astronomical portion of this chapter. I never would have discovered these connections without her research and input! Elina, you are a Shield-Maiden among Betas!