Orophin had been there, at the battle at Helm's Deep. He had not begrudged Haldir his position as commander of the Elvish force, knowing that Haldir was picked not only for his fighting ability but also because he spoke the language of the Men as well as Elvish. He had stood near his brother when the battle began. Together, they had drawn their first arrows from their quivers, and with the rest of the Elves, they had fired their first shots, sending white-feathered arrows whipping into the charging ranks of the Uruk-Hai. When the ladders had started to slam against the top of the wall, flinging Uruk-Hai down from the top rungs, he had drawn his blade with Haldir and the others.
Then he had been separated from his brother, lost in the whirl of steel and the madness of battle. For him, it was oddly exhilarating. It was a deadly dance of blades and blood, where one wrong step or one second of lost concentration could bring death. And yet, it was so different from the wars of Men. In battle, Men's minds were irrational, taking bold risks that more often than not, ended in their deaths. Men came out of battle dirtier, more bloodied, sore and aching from wielding their swords too much. Elves were graceful, stepping lightly through the chaos, ending a battle either unscathed or dead.
Theses musings ran in the back of his mind as he almost automatically fought off the Uruk-Hai. A black blade swept towards him and he parried with his own sword before driving the weapon into the creature's chest. The next Uruk-Hai came and fell and so it went. Men often found the Elves to be cold and arrogant, unfeeling creatures. In truth they felt pain and sorrow more keenly than humans, knowing that they would have to live for eternity with the memories of a lost friend. But, they were expertly trained and did not allow their emotions to show when they had to fight. This coldness aided the Elves at Helm's Deep, their efficiency greater than that of the Rohan peoples'.
He moved along the wall, hardly noticing the bodies and debris that littered the ground, his feet avoiding such obstacles. Then he saw the Uruk-Hai with the sparking torch, running towards the tunnel. He saw the two arrows strike the creature, saw the creature reel but not fall, saw it dive clumsily into the alcove. The wall shuddered and then the section above the small tunnel blew out, sending large chunks of stone flying as well soldiers from both sides of the battle that were standing there. He flinched as shards of rock flew by him, one striking his forehead, cutting a thin line. A body flew by him, and he saw it to be that of a soldier of Rohan, bloody and limp. He noticed that the soldier was only a child, probably the son of a farmer or farrier, a boy barely old enough to mount a horse without help. It was then that he realized why Elves were there, at Helm's Deep, dying instead of leaving with their kin to the Havens. If the race of Men was to survive, their children would have to be given a chance to live and grow. If the Elves were not there, Rohan, the horse-masters, would have already fallen to Isengard.
Orophin tried to push such thoughts to the depths of his mind, trying to focus completely on the battle at hand instead of its possible outcomes. The Uruk-Hai were pushing through, swamping the soldiers desperately trying to guard the gates. One of Saruman's soldiers jumped up in front of him, snarling, and Orophin blocked the strong blow of the Uruk-Hai's hooked black blade with his own silver sword and slipped to the side, throwing the creature off-balance. As the Uruk-Hai stumbled forward, he plunged the blade backwards as he passed it, stabbing deep into the creature's back.
His feet stepped lightly, dancing through the battleground, over rock and stone and armor, away from the sweep of weapons, away from the faint whistling that signaled the arrival of a crossbow bolt. He heard the creak and thump of the ladders, the screams of the wounded and dying, the harsh shouts of the Uruk-Hai and the roar of the battle that pounded in his ears. It had become automatic, almost choreographed; his movements were sure and smooth, dodging and cutting, focusing not on the bodies around him that were alive and fighting, nor on those that lay on the wet stone ground. Instead, he let the song of War carry him through the night, tirelessly pounding through him.
Only when the battle was over the following morning did he realize what had happened. Only then did he realize how many lives had been lost and also how many had been saved. It was when Mithrandir and the Riders arrived that he was able to allow himself to slow his pace of fighting.
After that, Aragorn came to him, a sudden sadness dropping into his eyes. "Orophin," he said slowly. "Please, follow me."
The Elf did so, sheathing his dirtied sword and shouldering his weary bow. Aragorn led him to his brother's body, lying when Aragorn had left him the night before, surprisingly untouched by the Uruk-Hai that had swept along the wall. Haldir's eyes were open, unblinkingly fixed on the brightening sky above, sudden pain still hidden in their depths. Orophin knelt at his side, lifting his left arm, seeing the first wound that had distracted Haldir so much.
"He didn't have a chance," Aragorn spoke quietly. "He was struck from behind."
Orophin gently turned his brother on his side and winced at the sight of the short, deep slash in Haldir's back. It was a well-placed blow, he had to admit, and Haldir would've died fairly quickly, but painfully. Then the reality of what was before his eyes hit him suddenly, shockingly. He had already seen many deaths of Orcs, of Men and of Elves, but never so closely. The sharp pang of sorrow had never been so stabbing as it was now, holding one of his own blood in his arms.
"He…he is…so…cold," the Elf said haltingly, his hands starting to shiver.
Aragorn crouched across from Orophin, carefully locking eyes with the Lórien Elf, pulling Orophin's gaze away from his dead brother's open stare. "Orophin," he said gently, "You must go home to Lothlórien. Where will Haldir journey to?"
"I will take him back to Lothlórien," Orophin said brokenly. "And he will rest in the fair woods."
Aragorn did not reply vocally, only nodded and placed a comforting hand briefly on Orophin's shoulder before rising and leaving the Elf to his grief. The small force of Elves that remained alive left Helm's Deep a few days later, and Orophin was grieving then. He would bear Haldir's body back to the Woods, letting every step he took become an echoing memory of the Elf's life and of the lives of those many others who fell. Grief came easily to him then, drained as he was from the fervor of the battle. The War-song was gone and had faded to mourning. When they had first set foot in Lórien, the trees had seemed to weep with the Elves, shedding golden and brown leaves from their reaching branches. And this had brought some comfort to their hearts; knowing that those wounded would soon be cared for and those dead would soon be resting.
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