Notes, Warnings etc
HUGE detour from book and movie canon. And I mean HUGE.
Haldir's and Dídauar's relationship is strictly platonic, despite how it seems.
Chapter Twenty-Nine - One Last Battle
"We won Halbarad," murmured Dídauar, taking hold of the elder man's hand. It was three days after the triumphant return to Minas Tirith and Dídauar had gathered enough courage to enter the great hall of the Citadel where the honoured dead were still being displayed. She had taken with her a small bunch of white Simblemynë and bright, yet gently tones Hibiscus blossoms and placed one of each flower on the pedestals of each of the fallen, the Simblemynë to say that they and their sacrifice would never be forgotten and the Hibiscus to wish peace and happiness on the souls of the dead. She had placed flowers at the feet of the Steward's chair in remembrance of Denethor, the once proud man now nothing but a puff of ash and dust on the wind. There would be no tomb for the 26th Steward of Gondor, just a cool marble statue that was created for each of the Stewards and Kings.
Now Dídauar stood beside the body of her cousin, friend and champion, hands empty and tears filling her eyes as pain stabbed at her heart. Outside, pyres were already being constructed to receive the fallen Dúnedain, as was their custom to cast their ashes to the prevailing east wind, their one chance of reaching the fabled Undying Lands of Valinor. Precisely where the clothing had come from, Dídauar didn't know, nor had she the desire to go hunting for the one who had bestowed the honour upon her cousin, but the late Commander of the Dúnedain Rangers was dressed in a pair of liquorice black leggings and a deep green shirt. His feet were encased in a pair of soft leather boots and his hair, which had been washed of the dust and grime of travel and battle, was lying loose about his shoulders. His eyes were closed, his face so relaxed that Dídauar was almost convinced that he was simply sleeping and his arms were crossed over his chest, his well worn sword polished and sharpened and resting in his hands. Dídauar kissed the hand she held before resting it back on his chest and leaning over to kiss the cold forehead.
"Be at peace, my friend. Long ago did you earn it," she whispered.
"And long have you earned rest but will you allow yourself to take it?" asked a gentle voice behind her. Turning, Dídauar found herself face to face with Imrahil.
"My Lord," she said, bowing to the Belfalas Prince. Imrahil saluted her in turn in the way reserved for greeting those of noble blood rather than a military Captain. "What have I done that deserves such salutation?"
"You are the heir," replied Imrahil as though that explained everything.
"I am gypsy, my Lord," rebuffed Dídauar. "The fact that the King and I share the same blood does not make me heir to his Throne."
"No, but his pronunciation upon the Fields of Cormallen does," smiled Imrahil. "Change maybe difficult my Lady, but change we must lest we be left standing as an island in the raging sea."
"Sometimes islands are more appealing," remarked Dídauar. "And I preferred it when you called me Captain and I was the one saluting in deference to your station."
"You did not answer my question," prodded Imrahil.
"Until my task is complete, I can take no rest," said Dídauar as she turned to leave the chamber.
"Task? My Lady you are no longer required to guard the Citadel, or the Steward, as you did the last time you dwelt in Gondor," protested Imrahil as he followed her.
"I do not speak of raising weapons once more," said Dídauar. "But not all are yet safe from the evil spread by this war."
"I must admit to being confused," said Imrahil. "I used to think Denethor and Mithrandir spoke in riddles but it is plain they learnt to ply their craft from you!"
"A shadow still creeps among the Elves," replied Dídauar. "And I don't know how to stop it."
"I take it, this is where I have to become the voice of reason?" enquired a musical voice from behind them. Dídauar spun around to find a tall, well-built, golden-haired Elf, who was dressed in well travelled clothes and an ornate knife hilt could be seen at his left hip, looking more like a gypsy than Dídauar yet a lot less spirited, standing before them, looking mildly amused. Dídauar would have mistaken him for Glorfindel if it were not for her long friendship with the Seneschal of Imladris. Said Elf and the Elf that stood before her know however were kin, so such mistakes would have been allowed and then politely corrected.
"Lord Gildor?" asked Dídauar, canting her head in question. Gildor bowed in greeting.
"Mae govannen, hên vuin o Imladris a Lothlórien. When last I saw you, you were barely tall enough to reach my waist," smiled Gildor. (Well met, beloved child of Imladris and Lothlórien)
"And I don't yet reach your shoulder," bemoaned Dídauar returning a non-verbal Elvish greeting with consummate ease. "But what brings you to Gondor, and Minas Tirith?"
"Your victory," said Gildor. "And a little creature that I chanced upon just over six months ago."
"You're the Elf Sam twitters on about?" asked Dídauar. "He hasn't stopped waxing lyrical about the night you spent in each other's company."
"And yet he was surprisingly shy that night," remembered Gildor. "Not at all like his master."
"Frodo had Bilbo for an uncle," replied Dídauar. "But I am forgetting my manners. Gildor, may I introduce Prince Imrahil of Dol Amoroth. Imrahil, this is Gildor Inglorion, Lord of the House of Finrod."
The two lords greeted each other in the way of their respective peoples before Gildor turned back to Dídauar.
"Far be it from me to split you and your brother apart once more, but this is not your place. At least not yet," said Gildor. Imrahil protested, loudly.
"She is our Princess! If she belongs anywhere it is in Gondor and Minas Tirith until the country is at least starting to get back on its feet."
"Any wild animal fettered by the whims and desires of others dies long before it's due," said Gildor, a steely note entering his otherwise lyrical voice.
"My Lords, please!" exclaimed Dídauar. "I am not a toy which to be fought over. Gildor, if I am not needed here, where is it I should be headed?"
"A figure falling, wrapped in silver green," replied Gildor. Dídauar's breathing hitched. "A fading star that once put so many to shame."
"What do you know?" demanded Dídauar.
"That you have little time, but time you still have," replied Gildor. "Do not squander it on dallying here ere long if your heart is not yet settled."
"How long?"
"Not even the wise can tell you that. But you have time enough to change but tally but a little and it will be in vain," replied Gildor. Dídauar tried to read the expression in Gildor's eyes but other than the serious glint that emphasised what he said, there was nothing but the spark of merry-making that seemed to hold permanent residence in the wandering Elf's eye.
"Where is your horse?" asked Gildor.
"Running the fields," replied Dídauar. "Chestnut with a front left sock."
"Go and speak with your brother and trust me to get her ready," said Gildor. Dídauar nodded and after offering a brief salute to both Elf and Prince, sprinted back to the Citadel. Gildor offered his own salute to Imrahil before making his way swiftly to the stables and then the Plains, Dídauar's mare already in his sight.
Caras Galadhon, six days later
"Is there still no change?" asked Celeborn as he sat beside Haldir's bed, carefully moving the sleeping Rúmil so that the younger Elf rested against him rather than slouched in the wooden seat.
"Aside from his ramblings becoming more desperate, no," replied Elrohir, resting back on his heels. "I don't understand."
"Don't understand what?" asked Celeborn, gently carding his fingers through Rúmil's silver-blond tresses as the warden jerked restlessly.
"Why Haldir is choosing to give up," said Elrohir. "Surely he knows that is the surest way for Kalya to wind up dead."
"Haldir is not thinking anymore," said Celeborn. "No Elf chooses to fade. If it gets to the stage where they lose all will to live then their mind is no longer in control."
"Elladan said it was my connection to Kalya that Haldir needed but not even that seems to be helping!"
"How tangible is your bond?" asked Celeborn.
"To Kalya? Enough that I can grasp it willingly and keep a hold rather than have emotional upheaval dictate when and where it makes itself known," replied Elrohir.
"But is it strong enough for you to know fully whether you are showing Haldir Kalya's current state of mind or are you showing him memories of the Kalya you left behind?" prodded Celeborn. "If it is the latter, Haldir will not heal."
"But Kalya will not leave her people," said Elrohir, clearly becoming distressed.
"That was almost a fortnight ago," said Dídauar as she arrived at the talen. The two conscious Elves whipped round while both Rúmil murmured and Haldir jerked. "Estel has returned to Minas Tirith and the injured are all but recovered. I do need not worry about them for the moment."
"You better not be a dream," muttered Rúmil waking up.
"No dream Rúmil," smiled Dídauar gently as she knelt beside Haldir. "How far gone is he?"
"Almost to the point of no return," said Elrohir. Dídauar reached up and fingered a limp strand of Haldir's silver hair that had once rivalled the Mithril chains that were twisted within her own raven braids.
"What am I to do with you Haldir?" she whispered. "You knew I was mortal when you agreed to be my Guardian."
"That will not help him!" protested Rúmil angrily. Elrohir glared at him.
"Direct your anger at a target or an Orc but don't you dare raise it against Kalya," warned the half-Elf, bristling.
"Leave us," murmured Dídauar, most of her attention fixed on Haldir but enough was focused on her surroundings to know that additional bickering between the two Elf warriors was not going to be beneficial. Grumbling, mostly at each other, Elrohir and Rúmil moved out of the talen, while Celeborn lingered.
"Do you need anything?" he asked.
"Stay," was the simple reply. Celeborn retook his seat while Dídauar striped off her weapons and riding leathers before curling herself around Haldir's icy body.
"Lasto beth nin, Haldir," whispered Dídauar, burying her face in Haldir's shoulder. "The War is won. Come away from the shadows, they offer you no peace. Tolo dan, mellon-nîn. Tolo dan nan galad. (Hear my voice, Haldir) (Come back, my friend. Come back to the light)
For two nights and three days Dídauar lay curled around her failing Guardian. She refused to sleep but spoke softly to the unconscious Elf, murmuring in Sindarin, Westron and Rohirric, the same way she had done while tending Nemír on the Fields of Cormallen. She told of her childhood, of her delight at having the brave March Warden chosen to be her Guardian, of her first Yuletide in Lothlórien which wasn't supposed to happen but the winter snows had come sooner than planned and both sets of twins had been caught in the Golden Wood for the festival, of playing practical jokes on the Imladris household staff, mainly with Glorfindel there to scoop her out of trouble if she was caught. Of learning to shoot and fight with knife and sword, of learning to ride and her fear that Asfaloth was just a little to big for her to ride at ten so Erestor had offered to teach her on Daeroch, the pitch stallion being slightly smaller and gentler in temperament than Glorfindel's grey war horse. About how happy she felt when she remembered Haldir's proud smile when she showed him all her Imladrian tutors had taught her in the six years they had been separated. She spoke of her travels in Rohan, though Haldir had more than likely heard them all before, on more than one occasion, told of Eadwig and Cempa, the two Rohirric guards that had seemed to foster and champion her from the moment she had arrived in the realm of the Horse-lords, of Théoden, recalling fond memories of the child Prince and the adult King, of Théodred, the motherless boy who never wanted for a mother's love. She told of Gondor, and of the late Stewards. Of how Ecthelion actually pushed her towards Denethor rather than forcing her to back off, only to realise his mistake a few months later. About the antics Boromir got up to around the entire city, not at all fussed that his fancy clothing wasn't really suited for roughhousing in the dirt of the lower levels – all the child had wanted was playmates. She told of Faramir, the small babe who was so sickly during his first year that the family was preparing to bury him before he reached his first Birth Day. She recalled proudly how Faramir continued to prove his parents wrong every day that he lived and remembered the pride in their eyes as they watched him do it, the light shining no more brighter than in Boromir's eyes, and how that small of life was now the Steward of Gondor. She told of her own kin, the Dúnedain of the North, of Halbarad, who refused to turn his back on her, regardless of the stupid, and somewhat selfish, actions she carried out over the years, of how he stubbornly refused to lose sight of the spark of innocence that marked Dídauar's soul, regardless of the blood, deaths and darkness that she was convinced had wiped it clean out of existence. She told of Tarcil and Arahael, how they had been born long after everyone believed Halbarad past the age of fathering a child, of Nemír and Culas, the infants of her people. She detailed the mishaps that each had had as children, including the rather frightening experience where Arahael had become lost in the countryside surrounding the Stronghold when he was a toddler. Arahael of course had felt this a huge adventure and was grinning like a cat who had swallowed the canary Elrohir and Elladan had returned him, along with the half dozen boar they had killed while out on patrol. She spoke of the Hobbits, both the ones that had been left behind in the Shire, most of whom were completely oblivious to the battles that were being fought to keep them safe, to the four that was ensconced in Minas Tirith, one on duty, two healing and the fourth grieving for his King.
"How does she have any voice left?" whispered Elladan to Celeborn on the third evening. The Elf-Lord was the only one Dídauar would permit to stay in the room for longer than a few minutes, the Lord of the Golden Wood knowing not to direct or do anything other than offer silent support and comfort. Dídauar knew it would be pointless to bar everyone from the room, Haldir maybe be a firm task master and a difficult Elf to please, but he was loved and greatly missed throughout the Wood, not least by his men, it was only natural that people be worried and that they would wish to see their ailing leader, especially if it was to say goodbye. The twins and Rúmil were the only ones who dared speak when in the room, all others acting as though the death knell was sounding over Haldir's head.
"Sheer determination of will," replied Celeborn. "I only hope it will not be in vain."
"No," whispered Haldir so quietly and with a voice so scratchy that everyone thought they had imagined it. Dídauar immediately propped herself up on her elbow and rested her other hand on the bed so she was partially covering Haldir's chest. The Elf still lay with his eyes closed and if she was perfectly honest, Dídauar was convinced that she was hearing things.
"Haldir? Haldir please, open your eyes if you can hear me," begged Dídauar. A small smile tugged at the corners of Haldir's lips.
"I said that……to you when……you fell into……the Nimrodel," he breathed. "You were thirty……and had slipped in……where the current was……strongest."
"If I'm going to do something, I might as well do it properly," grinned Dídauar, sounding more than a little hoarse. "You taught me that, now open your eyes!"
"Not dream?" whispered Haldir sounding like a hopeful child as he cracked open his eyes before immediately screwing them shut as the dying sunlight hit them.
"Do I feel like a dream?" asked Dídauar, running the back of her fingers across Haldir's sallow cheek. "Does this feel like a dream?" as she pressed a kiss to Haldir's forehead.
"No," murmured Haldir, risking opening his eyes once more.
Pulling back Dídauar considered her Guardian who was still looking very ill. His skin was clammy and overly pale while his eyes were sunken and his hair limp and dull. Small shivers had begun to wrack his system as his body became alive to sensation of temperature once more and realised that he was dangerously cold. What she needed to do was make Haldir feel and a simple massage was not going to be the answer, regardless of how much Cayenne salve she applied to his skin. Not bothering about the social faux pas she was about to commit, in front of her brother and Grandfather, Dídauar blew gently across the tip of Haldir's ears. Haldir gasped at the sudden invasion of sensation to his system and arched beneath his charge. He was to ill and his body to tired to react properly to the caress – the tips of Elven ears were so sensitive that stimulation normally led to arousal and were therefore left to the ministration of a lover – but the heat that shot through his system was enough that Haldir was left breathless.
"What……" he managed to gasp.
"You need to warm up. This is the fastest way," replied Dídauar. "Unless you would rather someone else do this?"
"No," gasped Haldir. "But you know that……"
"I know what I'm doing Haldir," smiled Dídauar before blowing across the second ear-tip. Again Haldir arched beneath her and fell back to the bed panting and staring at his charge with the look more commonly associated with a fish out of water. Satisfied, Dídauar pulled back and settled on her side, wrapping both arms around Haldir's frighteningly diminished waist and held him close. Haldir, while his body refused to acknowledge most commands to move, twisted his head until it was resting against Dídauar's shoulder and fell asleep once more.
"Find Rúmil," Dídauar said to Elladan before finally joining Haldir in his rest.
