(Author's Notes: This Lorien Chronicle started as a Memorial Day tribute for Haldir but, as is often the case with me, degenerated into another humorous exercise. This refers to events detailed in The Last of My Heart. I don't own any of the characters or settings; the great Tolkien does. The final scene rather strongly alludes to Monty Python and the Holy Grail and the scene with Barty Crouch in the forest from J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.)

Some that Die Deserve Life

Celeborn sighed inwardly as the mourning in Galadriel's eyes flowed down her face. He would miss the elf too, but when he, and all the others, had left, they, as well as their Lord and Lady, knew that they were going to their deaths. It was then that all the goodbyes had been said and copious tears wept. Even he had cried a bit, the stoic elf admitted ruefully. But the lamentation, at least for those warriors, was over now. There were other preparations that needed Galadriel's attention, as all the signs pointed to a fairly imminent orc attack. Furthermore, such a strong show of emotion was unlike her. Not that his wife was unemotional (quite to the contrary, as a transcript of only their dialogue on any given night would be sufficient to demonstrate). She simply had a strong enough will to keep her emotions hidden from anyone save her immediate family. Her poker face was legendary; even after those she was playing with figured out how to guard their thoughts to keep from tipping their hands to her, she would still win almost all the time because it was absolutely impossible to tell to what degree she was bluffing. Some were still talking about the time she won the Elf Series of Poker by getting Elrond to fold with three Queens while she was sitting on a singleton Nine. Some said the long-standing and not-always-good-natured rivalry between them could be dated, not to when he married her daughter, but to that hand.

But such things were neither here nor there. At this particular moment, his wife was having what was rapidly approaching a complete emotional breakdown in front of the stunned messenger. The Rohirric boy, sent ahead of the survivors slowly bearing the bodies back to their home to alert the Galadhrim of their coming, was stunned and unsure what to do. Celeborn tried to take his wife into the comforting embrace of his arms, but she would have none of it. The look of pain and anger she shot him as she backed away was enough to convince him that the only acceptable course of action was to withdraw into his patented Non-Entity Mode, so he could stand by her side, looking like the supportive husband he usually was and equal consort he wished he were. He would utter meaningless but supportive phrases when required, but his mind would be reliving happier memories, the most recent being their other nocturnal activities after the day he had at last capitulated and worn black leather for her.

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When the messenger, a human, surprisingly enough, had arrived, his apparent sorrow only a mask over a feeling of giddy triumph, Galadriel had assumed that the tidings were mixed. Yes, Rohan had staved off the threat to its existence, but the cost, especially to the contingent of elves she had sent at her son-in-law's behest, had been severe. Galadriel mourned silently for those of her people who would not have the opportunity to return to the West, but she made no visible sign until she was told that Haldir had fallen. Her gasp was quickly followed by weeping. Haldir, her favorite, her beloved, was dead.

As the tears flowed down her cheek, a slight wisp of a smile graced her features. The memories were unbidden, but they were happy, the ones she would want to remember of him. He had been the first; attracted to his bright features, Galadriel had charmed him with all the radiance she could muster, that those features would glow at the mere thought of her. When she and Celeborn became Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood, Haldir was their trusted lieutenant, and it was largely through his efforts that the other elves came to view their new leaders with awe.

And since then, whenever she had needed him (and very often when she hadn't), he had been there. The time he saved her from the green squirrel with rabies and a death wish (and then proceeded to eradicate all examples of the species to make her a lovely fur coat). The time he took off his cloak on a cold day and laid it upon the mud puddle so she wouldn't have to get her feet dirty. The time she was ill and he brought the Mirror to her so she could stay informed. The Yule that he had gotten completely drunk and walked into her bedchamber while she and Celeborn were engaged in other nocturnal activities and proceeded to suggest something they had never tried but found exceedingly pleasurable. And, of course, the time he had leapt from her birthday cake clad in black leather.

Haldir. Sweet, faithful Haldir. In some ways, he was more loyal to her than even her husband. He never questioned her leadership or decision-making. He always managed to accomplish what she asked, even if both she and Celeborn thought it impossible (like the time he managed to obtain a can of whipped cream from Elrond's bedroom without Elrond or Celebrian noticing). Her trust in him had grown to the point that he could represent her views to Imladris, Mirkwood, or even wayward fellowships.

And now, because of that fellowship, he was dead. If only those Halflings… no, don't blame the Halflings. Time enough to do that should they fail in their mission. Blame Elrond for commanding Haldir and his company to go to Helm's Deep… no, he did that at her suggestion. Easier to blame him for something that was clearly his fault. Galadriel shook her head and backed away from her husband. She didn't want his company now; she wanted Haldir to still be alive. Her husband's comfort, no matter how well intentioned, always made her feel weak and reminded her that if she needed his reassurance, she was not the extremely powerful Noldor Lady she imagined herself as. Haldir's mere presence, on the other hand, always made her believe she could rule the world.

Galadriel would not allow herself to forget him. She would build a monument to his memory, one that would make his visage as memorable as those of the Argonath and proclaim her own greatness as long as it stood. She would not allow herself to rest until it was finished. Her Haldir must not go unhonored. "Celeborn, I'm going to carve a gaudy memorial for Haldir in that huge mallorn on the southern border. Will you come help me?"

"For your loss, I am inexpressibly sorry."

"Stupid Non-Entity Mode," she muttered. Galadriel told him to follow her, which he did, and swept out of Caras Galadhon, leaving the poor messenger to find his own way out of her tree.

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A few days later, having carved without pause and recklessly used Nenya to hasten her efforts, the trunk of the mallorn in question was now almost a perfect likeness of Haldir, except for the significantly larger scale. Celeborn, still in Non-Entity Mode, had remained with her but did not raise a finger to help her and, when addressed, only uttered condolences that might have been comforting had they uttered with some inflection. The only time he had left was two nights prior, when he had exchanged his more casual garb for full military regalia. She merely assumed that it was his way of paying tribute to the fallen soldier.

She was disrupted from her work by the sound of something crashing through the bushes. "Orcs," her husband remarked, smoothly drawing his sword and assuming a defensive stance.

"How did they get here?"

"They are attacking the eastern border. Orophin has taken charge of the defense and is doing a fairly solid job, though I suspect that these probably broke through the lines and have orders to pursue you. Is Nenya warmed up? I suspect I could take them all out on my own and leave you to continue your crafting, but I would rather not tax my strength."

Galadriel was about to respond in the affirmative when about thirty orcs emerged in front of them. She shifted Nenya on her finger, activating the magic jet that would create and shoot water at such high pressure that it killed Horde Minions with Low Pain Tolerance on contact. Before she could use the weapon, however, she watched her husband. It had been centuries since he had been in close melee combat like this, but somehow he still had his touch. With two smooth strokes and a thrust, he slew no less than eight orcs and then shifted to interpose himself between his wife and their assailants.

Said assailants, however, were quicker learners than the average Horde Minion. Weaving around Celeborn, who could not stab them all and could not turn his back to them to retreat toward his wife, who stood with her back against Haldir's larger-than-life (and gorgeously detailed) calves, they advanced toward the memorial tree. Galadriel's water jet was working at top speed, but the ring of orcs around her was getting steadily closer. One by one they fell, but they were now within sword's length, so she was forced to dodge their blows. Each orc miss put a nick in her work that would be horribly difficult to repair. She groaned but managed to avoid taking any damage to her person (unless one were to consider the way her sweat was causing her makeup to run as damage).

Soon she was down to one last orc, this one wielding a particular nasty-looking axe instead of a sword. She shot it just as Celeborn slashed it from behind. The axe left the dead orc's hand and, taking a flight path that would have defied the laws of physics had either elf been aware of them, struck the carving between the shoulder blades. Galadriel muttered a curse, but it was drowned out by a painful gasp coming from the other side of the tree.

An elf who looked very much like Haldir lay face down, his feet next to the tree trunk. He was bruised and bloody but, based on the painful gasps of his breathing, very much alive. Celeborn regarded him with only a little surprise. "Haldir? You're dead."

The figure moaned. "No, not dead, just… Peter! He's coming for me. You must help me," he implored, before gasping and falling silent, as though he had fainted from the pain. Galadriel's motherly instincts immediately kicked in and, with the aid of Nenya, she began working on him.

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Some time later, Galadriel left to wash the blood off her hands. The patient, whoever he was and however he had gotten to Lothlorien, was resting comfortably, his wounds cleaned and patched up to her satisfaction. Walking would be painful for some days, and it would take time to recover from the blood loss, but he was out of immediate danger.

As she headed back to wake him and help him into a flet where he could be monitored, Galadriel wondered who he was. Visually, he could have been Haldir's twin; even the way the muscles of his gluteus were shaped was identical. That was extremely odd. She would have to ask Rumil or Orophin why neither of them had mentioned their brother's twin until after Haldir's death.

When she attained the memorial tree, however, the patient was gone. There was no evidence of the direction of his departure, nor indeed any evidence that he had ever been there at all. Was it possible that the individual was Haldir, that her favorite was alive, in fact, had never gone to Rohan at all? The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Why would she send valuable troops to aid men when she knew her own borders would soon be assaulted? Why would Elrond, who made a point of trying not to infringe on her authority, give orders to her warriors? The small hope in her chest began to increase dramatically. How could she send two hundred elves to a fortress she did not know would be occupied such that they arrived only minutes before Saruman's horde? If elven aid would be needed, why had Mithrandir said nothing after he was brought here? Haldir must still be alive, somewhere in Lothlorien. It was the only answer that made sense.

Something pricked the back of her consciousness, and her hope deflated instantaneously. Haldir was dead, had been dead for several days. The time for mourning was over. She quickly reached a decision. She needed to go to the Mirror and monitor the progress of the Ringbearer, so she could help him if his strength should fail. Haldir was irrevocably dead, and she needed to let go.

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The next day, Orophin and Rumil were walking outside of Caras Galadhon. No elf kills gladly, and both understood that a quiet walk together, through the land they were defending, would bring peace and closure following the bloody battle. Their quiet sojourn was broken by an elf, bloodied and wild-eyed as though he had wandered long through the wilderness, bursting out of the bushes beside them. "Please, brothers. Help me!" His voice cracked as he entreated them. "I'm not dead yet!"

Orophin's eyes got wider. The elf, despite his strange appearance and obvious exhaustion, strongly resembled his brother… but Haldir had been sent off with a contingent of archers to aid King Théoden of Rohan and died at the hands of Uruk berserkers. Even had he only been wounded, he could not have made it back to Lorien in this state. Could he?

The wounded elf had turned to a tree and, with gestures that might have been indicating a map had the powers that be elected to so endow the shrubbery toward which gesticulated, emphatically told the oblivious mallorn that "half of my elves can easily man the wall, but I cannot spare the other half for your keep. I need reserves and will hold my elves back to repopulate the wall…" The elf suddenly spun back toward the brothers. Before Orophin could react, he had reached out and seized the startled elf by the collar. "Galadriel!" he gasped. "I must… see… Galadriel!"

Rumil had backed out of the obviously mad elf's reach but, having recently lost one brother, he was not about to abandon the other to a potentially very dangerous elf. Behind the insane creature, something else was moving quietly through the woods. Its efforts to move stealthily would have hidden it from all but the sharpest-eyed elven scouts, of which Rumil was one. It looked to be another one of those hobbits, but perhaps of a slightly taller variety.

Letting go of Orophin, the crazy elf turned back to the tree. "…submit to your authority, Lord Aragorn, because I thus increase your credible power as a leader." Suddenly he whirled on the hobbit, who had stepped out into the open. "I'm not dead yet! It's… just a flesh… wound!"

The hobbit attempted to speak in comforting tones. "Now calm down, you're being delusional. Of course you're dead."

The elf who might have been Haldir struggled to respond and singularly failed to produce anything even resembling a coherent sentence. "No… Hama not… emotional loss… needed… hot elf… dead… implausible… why not… Arwen… blast… Peter…" His anguished voice trailed off and came back, stronger but more distant. "We come to honor that allegiance." He turned his head back toward the elves, but jerkily, as though fighting a chain around his neck. "Warn… Galadriel… my… fate…" His eyes rolled in their sockets, and his gaze swept back in a circle until he and the hobbit had met each other's eyes. "We are proud to fight alongside men once more." The hobbit nodded slowly and then stepped out of the way as the elf began walking purposefully back the way he came. Turning back to the brothers, the hobbit bowed to them and then followed the elf.

Rumil and Orophin watched them as they left. Finally the latter broke the silence. "Did you see anything?"

"Nah."