Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot.
Rating: PG 13 for scenes of battle violence and adolescent angst.
Summary: To all, the prince of Mirkwood was Beloved. But to the lone Warden of Lorien, he was a nightmare incarnate.
Author's Note: Finally, a story of Legolas and Haldir – a standalone, yes, but a backdrop to my ongoing Road to Redemption series. Thank you in advance for reviews. Wink.
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By Kasmi Kassim
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Golden Sun, Silver Moon
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Chapter 2: Sensual Ice
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The squadron was on its way back to the city on account of its injured member when it was met with a messenger.
"Patrol at the inner circle of the forest," read Orophin, peering over Haldir's shoulder. "Why the frown, brother? It's safer, isn't it?"
The inner circle, between the city itself and the outer borders, was never Haldir's duty. It was more resources, less danger, and all shades of gray. A position of permanent restlessness, a relaxed vigilance. Such patrols were usually assigned to the older elves, more knowledgeable in dealings with civilian disputes and the higher circles while keeping in touch with the more militant patrols of the borders.
Haldir glanced toward the fire. Legolas was chatting with the injured elf while tending to his wounds. His hands were gentle; his quick mind, though useful in battle, would also serve well in the healing ward. He deserved more than the bloodbath of war, a battle which a healer was always destined to lose. But a prince of the woodland realm would never be given a chance to walk the path of a healer.
He sighed as he rolled up the scroll. This new assignment was suspiciously well-timed in alignment with the addition of a certain prince to his guard, but he could not dispute the Lord and Lady through a messenger. He would go see them himself when they arrived at the city.
He turned to see that Rumil had joined them as well. "New assignment?"
Haldir nodded. Rumil's gaze wandered toward the prince. "It has nothing to do with Legolas," Haldir said curtly.
"No one said anything," said Orophin. "Quick to defend, are we, brother?"
Haldir looked down at Orophin with the full weight of his gaze. Orophin held up his hands. "I just wondered," he shrugged, "you avoid him like poison but you defend him so. Are you just trying to be fair, as they say?" he glanced at Legolas. "I know you're fair and all, but you know... we get mixed messages."
Rumil cuffed the back of Orophin's head. "Don't be a menace, Orophin," he chastised, and cast a comforting glance Haldir's way. "Don't listen to him, Haldir. You are fair to us all."
"The fairest of the Galadhrim," Orophin sang, gliding away toward the trees. "I keep telling you, you have no idea why the maidens call you that."
Haldir fought the urge to throw the scroll at his brother's retreating head.
With a chuckle, Rumil took Haldir's arm and led him to join the guards. Haldir turned to the fire to see Legolas watching; but it was too late to turn back. Legolas rose and came to meet them.
"Is something amiss?" Legolas looked from Haldir to Rumil. "Orophin just passed by, muttering something about princes corrupting the fairest." He peered apprehensively. "What did I do?"
Haldir fought the urge to run after his orc of a brother. "You did nothing at all." Thank the Valar he could be honest on this one.
Rumil chuckled. "Don't mind Orophin's perpetual mutiny, Legolas. He amuses himself by poking at Haldir's upright ways."
Warm eyes moved to Haldir, and Haldir shifted, uncomfortable. "I like our captain's upright ways," Legolas said plainly.
Haldir almost flinched. Harboring malice toward the young one was disgraceful enough, but to stand there while he beamed at him with nothing but the purest admiration – it was too much. His desperate eyes caught a guard walking by.
"Salmas! I need to talk to him." He pried Rumil's fingers loose. "You two return to the fire."
Rumil tugged Legolas away with a whisper, and Legolas glanced back. "Come, Haldir, join us!" he cried happily. "Rumil says we're going to share stories of the undead tonight."
Undead indeed. He could only smile at the irony.
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The orcs were distant, circling wide of the forest. They never give up, Haldir thought wearily. They will never give up until one of us is wiped from the face of Middle Earth.
He turned to face his guards. "There are two tracks," he announced, "and two scouts will track the southern path and diverge. I will take the eastern route. Who else will-"
"I will." Legolas was already rising. "I will take the western route."
Haldir's heart stilled; he felt Orophin's intense gaze, and Rumil's knowing eyes, as he scanned the guard. "On second thought," he said stiffly, "it would be better for someone with nimbler feet to be the scout."
Rumil stepped forward. "I am lighter than you, captain. I will be the other scout."
The scouts were dismissed immediately. Haldir turned to instruct his troops, attempting to outrun the guilt he knew was coming.
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Legolas and Rumil dropped down to the clearing, greeting each other with reports of what they saw. Haldir's unit was further down the trail. They began to walk side by side.
Rumil glanced sideways; Legolas was unusually quiet.
"So," Rumil said brightly, "tell me about Mirkwood. We tell you stories about Lothlorien, but we know nothing of your home."
The prince turned his gaze toward Rumil. Rumil held his breath; those distant eyes held none of their usual mirth. "Nothing?" he echoed. "Did Haldir never share his tales with you?"
Rumil's blood chilled. Legolas stopped and turned fully. "Rumil, your brother is avoiding me. Tell me why."
Rumil's heart dropped, and he slowed to a stop. For the first time, he took a long, unabashed look at Legolas. He was neither his father nor mother, but an overlapping mirage of both. Rumil was young, but he remembered – a smiling elleth who pulled orphans into her bosom as she hid in the caves, and a bright-eyed prince who held up his head when he came marching, fatherless and kingless – how could Haldir stand his ground against both the living and the dead? Rumil was a warrior, and he knew when he was outmatched. He closed his eyes.
When Rumil slowly resumed his gait, Legolas walked alongside him, patient.
"Haldir was never a warrior, Legolas."
Legolas blinked. Rumil's gaze was distant. "He is a musician and artist. His songs, his carvings and etchings – he put those away after the war." He stared at the falling leaves, his voice heavier with each word. "He vowed to never lose another."
And oh, how he lived for that vow.
Rumil was too young to remember much – the fog of memory was only penetrated by screams. The look on Haldir's face was what punctuated the start of the memories, when he stumbled into the talan to gather up his brothers and flee their home. He said Nana and Ada would catch up with them soon. Soon.
Those were days of perpetual gray. Long treks through a broken forest, picking through mangled bodies, clutching the hand of an older brother who drove them surely and relentlessly. The fevered nights huddled in caves in which Orophin cried and screamed, little babe, and Haldir rocked him back and forth, back and forth, whispering fiercely to a whimpering Rumil that it was all right. It would be all right. Nana and Ada would catch up with them soon. Perhaps tomorrow – they would meet up with them tomorrow.
Rumil came to learn that little Haldir had known all along that the promised tomorrow would never come. That little Haldir, hardly tall enough to ride a horse, had been just as uncertain and lost, had wanted to stop in his tracks in the wasteland and wail with his brothers. Yes, those memories were gray – but they cleared in the end to reveal the starlight of the Lady's pavilion, the sanctuary to which Haldir had guided them. There were other refugees there, and Sister. Sister took care of them – she sang them to sleep, she held them close when enemies encroached, and told them stories of Greenwood. Of warriors bejeweled in emeralds and rubies, of valiant kings and noble princes, keeping their fears at bay in the darkest nights.
But then Sister was gone – gone, and the clash of battle died down, Haldir fell quiet, and began to practice the sword – and as the Golden Woods slowly came back to life, Haldir glistening with sweat as he talked breathlessly of joining the guard, he would grow to become the youngest to be named a Warden of a squadron, and would mount a horse bound for Greenwood to visit Sister and her new family. He had laughed then, tall and lean and radiant in his new Warden garb, his voice alternating between a soft tenor and jagged bass. And then, far away, news came that Sister died.
Haldir stayed home. He did not attend the rites, did not ever go back to Greenwood. Thranduil sent letters, gifts. Haldir put them in a chest like treasures untouched.
Rumil came to watch in silent grief as Haldir grew taller, stronger, smiled little, and wept not at all after that day. Had come to recognize that air of finality with which Haldir shut and locked his chest of flutes and carving knives, and raised a great white sword.
"The war lives in him, Legolas," he said, as if to himself. "He lives to protect."
Protect whom from what, he no longer knew.
The kaleidoscope of light shifted around him, and yet Rumil felt cold. The golden lights died down into muted gray, Haldir's voice settled into a deep, rich melody, and Orophin learned to watch from afar as Haldir crouched by a lake and stared into the waters. And soon, silence breathed in the whispering woods, haunted with distant cries of the past.
"Rumil?"
Rumil blinked. Heaving a deep breath, he once again stood grown and strong amid a peaceful drizzle of falling leaves, the shifting of sunlight between the trees. Legolas was watching, wide-eyed, and Rumil wanted to pull that small head against his breast.
"I heard much about him," Legolas almost whispered. "The youngest Warden of Lorien gives love to none, and loyalty to all."
Rumil smiled to himself. "Ah, the loveless captain of the fourth southeastern unit." Sensual ice, they called him. Not that Haldir gave an orc's arse what he was called. "You must understand, Legolas," he said, suddenly wanting to pray. "My brother is distant, but not because he does not love." Wanting to pray, to whatever spirit was out there – Sister, the Valar, Nana, Ada. Dear, stupid Haldir. "He loves too much, Legolas. He has always loved too much."
Legolas frowned, staring hard into the mesh of sunlight. Rumil watched the young pre-adolescent boy, wanting to hold him and cry, pray for something he could not grasp.
At last, Legolas nodded. "I think I understand." His voice hushed into a whisper. "I think I understand."
Rumil smiled a little. They walked on in silence.
"He does not hate me, then?" Legolas suddenly said.
Rumil wanted to laugh. Instead he smiled fondly. "Oh, little prince." He clasped the younger elf's shoulder. "Why would Haldir – oh, Haldir."
Legolas looked up to see Haldir standing in the path before them, tall and solitary in the drizzling leaves. "Any news?" His eyes flickered like ice.
Legolas was the first to recover. "The orcs are scattered to the west," he said, "and have no formation at all. They seem unaware of our presence, or at least unwilling to move in."
Haldir's gaze shifted to Rumil, who shook his head. "No sighting of orcs from my direction."
"Interesting." Haldir turned to Legolas. "Tell me more about the pattern of the orcs." Rumil took the moment to excuse himself.
"They are in no pattern at all." Legolas looked up at the tall elf.
"But they are together."
"Orcs move together. They are not aware of us."
Haldir looked grave. "Do not be so quick to judge, Legolas. A single orc can be our downfall."
Legolas moved forward. Haldir stiffened; he had never stood closer than necessary, and only in battle. Legolas came to stand before him, and dropped his gaze. Haldir stood as still as stone.
The younger elf's eyes were thoughtfully downcast as he reached out to finger the guardian's gray garb. "What is it that you fear?" he whispered.
As if broken from a trance, Haldir jerked away. "We should return to camp."
"The war is over." Haldir paused. The voice was soft. "The war is over, Haldir."
Haldir's face darkened as he turned to the prince. "We merely keep it in bay." He pinned the young elf with the full force of his gaze. "You, prince of Mirkwood, should know this."
"It is not that war that rages in you, Haldir of Lorien."
Silence sizzled in the rain of golden leaves.
Legolas' bright eyes trembled with uncertainty as he looked up at the older elf.
"I am not," he said, lilting voice soft with sorrow, "I am not my mother, Haldir."
And he was gone, leaving the guardian standing alone in the dance of falling leaves.
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To Be Continued