Author's Note: Ack, this took way longer than I expected (duh, I never expect things to take as long as they do)! Still, hope it's a good ending, and apologies to anyone who was waiting for this fic to get a last chapter!
Rúmil was content to stay in Lothlórien, a border guard to the Elf-haven. While both his brothers marched off to Rohan, to the fort of Helm's Deep, he stood in the trees and watched. He was not afraid of the Uruk-Hai, nor was he too proud to fight alongside Men, but he belonged in the woods of Lórien, perhaps more than either of his brothers. It was the trees, he had decided, the trees that held such a fascination for him. He was closer to them than other Elves, knew their feelings more and empathized with them more than most. That was why the attack on Lothlórien had hurt him deeply.
It had been two days after Haldir, Orophin and the others left Lothlórien when they were attacked. Rúmil had been alone on one of the flets, within earshot of the first cry. A shout of alarm cut through the still air and he heard a sharp whistle as an Elvish arrow left a bowstring. A low grunt told Rúmil that the arrow had struck its target. But it was answered with the heavy creak of Orc crossbow strings and a sharp cry pierced the treetops. An Elf had died in the trees of Lórien.
Rúmil nearly leaped out of the tree, caution almost forgotten as he ran to the flet where the other Elf had been on guard. A troop of Orcs was hacking at the tree with axes while a few others kindled a fire. Rúmil did not pause to wonder why they were attacking Lórien's borders with so small a group. He swiftly drew an arrow from his quiver, silently fitted it to the string, pulled back, aimed quickly and fired. The arrow flew with a faint whisper from the string, speeding through the foliage to drop an Orc where it stood. Three answering arrows darted towards him and he dropped to the ground as they flew by overhead.
A rush of air caused him to turn in surprise and it was only then that he realized that the three Orc arrows had been tipped with fire. Autumn had drained the moisture from the foliage and the rippling tongues quickly spread over the trunk of the tree the arrows had struck. The Elf flinched away from the flames and he could almost hear the trees crying out in pain and shock.
Two more arrows thudded into the dry leaves nearby and Rúmil struggled ungracefully to his feet, remembering that there was still an enemy to be fought. He pulled another arrow from the quiver, carefully notching it to the string. The slow creak of the bowstring as he pulled it back reassured him – the deceptively languid sound a reminder of the sudden deadly power of his arrows. A second later, another Orc fell as he stooped to light an arrow's tip on fire. He could hear them shouting, could see them glancing around, trying to find him and it seemed as if one was looking straight at him. He fought the urge to flee though, trusting the trees to keep him hidden.
More arrows flew, and Rúmil felt the rush of heat on the right side of his face as a dry tree caught fire near him, flames racing suddenly over its branches. He peered out at the Orcs, trying to count their number and wondering how many he could kill before they saw him. There were close to a dozen, not including the ones that had been killed.
One of the Orcs – the one he thought had seen him – moved closer to his hiding place, peering suspiciously into the bushes. Silently, Rúmil lowered his bow and drew his long knife from the sheath at his hip. The familiar weight of the smooth wooden hilt was a comfort to him and tightened his grip on it as the Orc approached. The creature sniffed loudly, searching, and then bent forward, squinting into the trees through the billowing smoke. Rúmil was waiting for him.
Grabbing the Orc around the neck, he pulled him down and slid the knife into the creature's throat, swiftly cutting off his squeal of alarm. With a grim smile of satisfaction, he dropped the corpse disdainfully on the ground and wiped his knife on the dirt. Blinking into the smoke, he tried to count the hazy figures. A grating creak startled him and he shrank back against the earth as a tree crashed down slowly, snapping branches on nearby trees. There was a loud crash as the pale wooden flet shattered on the ground and Rúmil winced as he saw the body of the other guard, now partially buried by wood spars.
The Orcs' rough cheers were interrupted by the swish of arrows cutting through the air. Rúmil saw two of the blurred shapes spin and fall. A hand gently touched his arm and he whirled, startled. Another Elf crouched there, one hand raised to his lips, telling him to stay silent.
"Help me," he whispered, indicating the half-hidden body of the Elf sentry. Rúmil nodded and shifted aside some of the rubble, trying to ignore the panicked screeches of the Orcs behind them as Elvish arrows cut them down. The other Elf locked his hands under the arms of the dead Elf and pulled him free. Rúmil looked down at the pale face, lips still parted in an expression of surprise, streaks of dirt caught in his light gold hair, and he felt guilty for not feeling as much pain for the death of this Elf – someone he had not known well, but a fellow guard nonetheless – as he did for the burning of the aged trees of the woods.
"Rúmil," the other Elf hissed. "Is something wrong?"
He shook his head and tried to focus. "No, nothing." Even as he said this, he glanced back with worried gray eyes at the smoldering trees and the scattered Orcs and the other Elf smiled thinly.
"Go," he inclined his head in the direction Rúmil had been looking. "Help them."
"Are you sure?" Rúmil's glance flickered to the body the other Elf cradled in his arms.
"Yes. Go."
Rúmil nodded gratefully, sheathing his knife and shouldering his quiver as he stood, bow in hand. He pushed through the hazy smoke, fitting an arrow to his bowstring as an Orc stumbled into his vision. The creature looked up and his grotesque mouth opened in a mute gesture of protest before the arrow slammed into the space between his rows of teeth. Before the body had fallen, Rúmil, in a whirl of soft gray fabric, disappeared into the smoke, searching out another foe, and another, until the carcasses of the dead Orcs and the pitiful fallen tree were all that remained of the attack on Lothlórien.
"Why had they come?" Orophin asked softly.
Rúmil shook his head. "We took no prisoners, but it is thought they had gotten lost and found their way here. Perhaps they had been fighting amongst themselves and that group had chosen another path."
"Foolish," his brother replied shortly.
Rúmil made no reply, but glanced once again at Haldir's body, black cover darkened so much that shadows could not be seen in the pale moonlight. "Rest well, my brother."
Orophin reached over and took his hand comfortingly, noting how the flesh was quivering slightly. "Do not worry, Rúmil. The darkness is retreating. The shadows will be chased from the land by the sun. Haldir was that light's herald. He will survive."
"As will we," came Rúmil's soft, almost-unheard reply. "Even if we do not live."
Endnote: Thanks to those who had the patience to wait over half a year for this to be finished!