A heartfelt thank you goes to all my readers. Your continued interest has been heartening and encouraging. To my reviewers, words cannot express how much I value your comments. Over these past few months, your words have made me smile, made me think. Some comments even sparked some plot bunnies. Cricklewood16, leelee202, leward1992, WickedGreene13, AshleyLeigh, KathrannofQuade, durinsdaughter2469btw, Blue1258, Rogue's Queen, Hexzhana, Addicted-to-GazettE, LadyConfidential, fantasticferret, SmallLittleCagedBird, and Doria Nell. A thousand times THANK YOU! xox
CHAPTER XXXVII
PEACE AND SORROW
Annalyn rounded the room for what seemed the hundredth time, her gaze flitting about the furniture, the walls as her boots whispered over the floorboards.
Haldir had been gone for a good while, certainly longer than expected.
At length, as her feet brought her to the front entrance, her shoulder coming to rest against the threshold, Annalyn looked out in hopes of seeing him, but the footbridge was vacant. So was the the staircase beyond.
"Haldir, where are you?" she whispered after a time, and hoped all was well. What could be keeping him?
Thinking she might see for herself, Annalyn left the house, braving the high footbridge to reach the winding stairs. Good thing she was feeling better, for the walkway was unnervingly high. That being said, it did not seem so bad this time around. Before she knew it, Annalyn had reached the staircase. A few steps into her descent, she noted that someone was climbing up, an elf-woman with dark brown hair.
"Glirwen?"
As she neared, it became clear that the baker had been looking for her. Alas, the language barrier remained.
As Glirwen said something in the elven-tongue, gesturing toward the terrace then the forest beyond, Annalyn listened as best she could, but scarcely understood a word.
"Haldir?" she asked, having caught his name. As for the rest… Annalyn had to shake her head. "I am sorry, but I do not understand."
Glirwen's shoulders sagged a little. Disheartened, she looked all around, as if looking for help, until she spotted someone in a neighbouring tree. The baker perked up at once. "Taerion!" she said and waved him over.
Puzzled, the golden-haired Elf slowed to see who had called. Once he saw them, he promptly made for another footbridge—one that linked the two mallyrn together—and disappeared on a section of stair somewhere below their feet.
As he climbed the spiral staircase and came into view, Annalyn recognized him from earlier in the day—the young Elf from the market.
Upon reaching them, he listened with open curiosity as Glirwen explained, "Ú-bed edhellen." She motioned to Annalyn. "Istog peded annúnaid?"
Taerion's features brightened then. He gave a nod, and looked to Annalyn.
"Mae govannen," he said, "It would seem that Glirwen is in need of an interpreter."
"You speak the common tongue?" Annalyn did not mean to sound so surprised, only she had not expected for one so young to know the language.
He brought a hand to his chest. "Taerion at your service." His words were precise, but slightly accented, she noted. "I believe I saw you this morning. You were perusing the gallery with our Marchwarden." The glint in his eyes spoke of open fascination. It also made her think that he had never seen a mortal before this day.
"Indeed, I was. I am Annalyn. Well met."
With the introductions now out of the way, Glirwen relayed her message. Taerion explained, "The Marchwarden has been called away. It appears he was needed at once." He fell silent so that Glirwen might continue. As she went on, his golden hair stirred in the breeze.
"Since it is unclear when he might return," he continued. "Glirwen and her husband wish to welcome you at their table."
"Tolo, mado, a sogo e-mereth," the baker added, then looked at Taerion, who supplied, "'Come, eat, and drink of the feast', she says."
Annalyn was touched. Truly. But even as she smiled, saying, "Tell her I would be happy to join them," a twinge of disappointment filtered through her being. Then guilt arose.
Haldir does what he must. She knew this, and a part of her loved him for it, but her heart sank anyway.
There was just so little time left.
And so, as she followed Glirwen and Taerion—who, it seemed, had been invited as well—Annalyn cast a long and thoughtful look toward the city, one she hoped the others would not notice. To tell the truth, Haldir's absence had struck a nervous chord within her, one that was growing more insistent the longer he was away.
Thus it was that Annalyn joined the Elves on the terrace. With a glad and humble smile, she sat at their table, blushing amid their initial surprise. But then, thanks to Taerion—the young Elf who was nearly a hundred years old—the Elves soon engaged her in conversation, timidly at first, then with growing ease.
By their eyes, Annalyn knew the Elves were highly intrigued by her presence. This, in turn, led to a rising sense of curiosity among them. With Taerion as their interpreter, some asked about Rohan. Others inquired about her travels, and the places she had seen along the way. Though she kept certain things to herself—the loss of her kin, for instance, and the harrowing nights spent near that Orc camp—Annalyn obligingly answered their queries, charmed by the gaiety in their eyes.
Out of those gathered around the table, Taerion seemed the most delighted by her company. In between bites, he peppered her with question after question, asking about the Rohirrim, the Riddermark, and what life was like over there. He was highly inquisitive, she thought, as the young tend to be. Yet it seemed unusual for an Elf, though Annalyn supposed each was unique. Perhaps Taerion was simply more curious than the others—more curious than most, she amended, for Haldir and Ithriel seemed to share the same trait, albeit in varying degrees.
Daylight began to fade. Candles were lit. As the lamps kindled one by one, Annalyn indulged her own curiosity, and turned the tables on the Elves, asking simple things like what their names were, and what they did in life. For theirs was a culture built on collaboration, where everyone seemed to have a role to play.
Of those who were gathered at the table, she learned that one was a seamstress, another a chambermaid. A bladesmith there was also, and a minstrel who, much to Annalyn's delight, offered to perform a song as their empty dinner plates were being cleared away.
Lanthir was his name, and his voice was the clearest she had ever heard, the song beautiful beyond compare. As he sang, the music seeped into her being, stirring her in ways she had not foreseen. When Annalyn closed her eyes, the Elvish words settled in the very depths of her mind. And when the song had reached its end, she was astounded to find that she had retained each and every word, as if the song itself wished to be remembered. Elves, she marveled for what seemed the thousandth time.
When the minstrel regained his seat, and conversations resumed around the table, Annalyn looked at Taerion who sat across from her. A question was swirling in her mind. "What made you decide to learn the common tongue? Have you travelled abroad?"
"Not as yet, but it is my wish to venture beyond these woods someday."
It was then that Bestedir arrived, balancing a silver platter upon his upturned palm.
"Ah, dessert," Taerion beamed in anticipation.
As Bestedir moved from guest to guest, his wife quietly rounded the table, refilling each glass with skill and grace.
Having thanked their hosts, all began to eat, their forks clinking softly as conversations kindled once again.
The cake was good, better than anything she had ever tasted. As she chewed, Annalyn speared another morsel, and realised that Taerion was watching her. With pursed lips, he sat back in his chair, and narrowed his eyes at her. "Might I presume to venture a question?"
"By all means," Annalyn said between bites.
"How long ago were you begotten?"
She nearly choked on her food at that, reached for the square section of cloth that was resting over her lap.
"Forgive me." Taerion looked genuinely mortified. "I meant no offence."
But Annalyn laughed even as she coughed, then dabbed at her mouth. "No offence taken."
Relief came over his features.
"Your query simply caught me off guard." Or rather the words he had chosen to use. Begotten. Haldir had used the same expression earlier in the day. She found it rather odd, for it implied that the Elves counted one's age not from birth, but from the moment of conception. Reaching for her glass, Annalyn took a sip of cordial—miruvor it was called—before answering. "I will be eight-and-twenty before long."
Taerion blinked then broke into joyful laughter. "At last, someone who is younger than I!"
Annalyn blushed a little, but her smile was good-natured. But then, sensing she could jest with this young and jovial Elf, she arched a brow and countered, "I may be young, but at least I am of age."
Taerion's laughter ended abruptly, though his mouth twitched a little. "What makes you believe I am not?"
Annalyn had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Because Haldir told me you weren't, she wanted to say but chose a silent challenge instead.
After trying and failing to look insulted, Taerion ceded by laughing some more, his cheerfulness undimmed.
Annalyn laughed, too, harder than she had laughed in a very long time. Honestly, it felt good. For a moment, she was reminded of Aldin, and the playful banter they'd so often enjoyed. Her heart grew heavier, her laughter tapering into a series of softening chuckles. How she missed her cousin, and her uncle, too.
Still, her mood remained mostly joyful.
"How ill-mannered of us." His glass halfway to his lips, Taerion nudged his head toward the other guests. "I had nearly forgotten about the others." Unable to follow their conversation, some of the Elves were openly staring at them, while the rest exchanged slightly puzzled but amused glances.
Taerion tipped his glass toward Annalyn. "If you wish to widen your circles of conversation, I suppose you will have to learn Elvish."
"I am," Annalyn asserted before admitting, "Or at least I am trying to learn." She knew some words, a few expressions. She hoped to improve. Though realistically, how much could she truly learn in a fortnight?
"A toast to your endeavours, then! May they bear fruit." Taerion raised his glass, the crystal winking in the evening light.
Inspired by his eagerness, Annalyn thought she might put her limited knowledge to use. To everyone's surprise, she engaged the Elves in Sindarin that night, haltingly and with much effort. Thankfully, Taerion helped her with her sentences, his delight bolstering her confidence. As for the Elves, they appeared to understand her. As she spoke, merriment shone in their eyes.
But eventually, as they always did, her thoughts turned to Haldir. The stars were out. He had yet to return. Disquiet grew in her being.
It was then that a newcomer came into view, an Elf she did not know. As he stepped up onto the terrace, none could miss his troubled expression.
Silence soon blanketed the open space, the collective mood changing to concern as he started for the table, walking like one that bears ill-news. Of those assembled, Glirwen and Bestedir were the first to rise. As they went to speak with the newcomer, Annalyn discerned their whispers, but nothing more.
Looking to the other Elves, she noted their distress. Of course, their sense of hearing far surpassed hers. Doubtless, they could hear all that was being said.
More of them rose, and moved to form a loose circle about the newly-arrived Elf. As he continued to speak, Annalyn's fears intensified. No longer able to stand it, she looked to Taerion. "What's happened? Do you know?"
He turned to meet her eyes, a stricken look upon his youthful face.
Then he told her.
Haldir had never gotten used to it. Nor should he.
Three of his soldiers had been wounded, casualties of an assault late last night, when Orcs had descended from the mountains, in greater numbers than usual.
Upon receiving the report, Haldir had hastened to the city gates, where a small crowd had begun to assemble following the news. There, in the gathering dusk, most had waited in silence, their fretful faces stained by the light of the setting sun.
Wearing the stoic mask required of his station, Haldir remembered the moment he had first beheld the wounded, at the visible end of the stone road surrounding the city. The healers, who had left posthaste in order to join them, had been following dutifully at their sides, Ithriel among them.
Though the wounded had been shielded from his view, Haldir had known who they were, thanks to the report he had been given beforehand. When he had first perused the missive, his heart had seized, first for his brothers—who, thankfully, were not among the wounded—then for three whose names had been scrawled on the parchment.
Stern Agoron, swift Celegon, and his brother Celondir.
Having served with them for many a long year, Haldir knew them well. Dutiful warriors they were, with good and valiant hearts.
At present, they were lying upon their litters, which had been set beneath the trees, not far from the gates—closed now. For time was of the essence, their wounds so grave, the healers had chosen not to carry them any further, at least for the time being.
As the healers laboured, the gathering crowd stood in collective silence, their expressions wavering between hope, worry, and sorrow. Among them were were Rúmil and Orophin, for the two had carried one of the litters, and now stood next to Haldir, their presence a balm to his turmoil.
"Celegon bore the worst of it," Orophin reported as he stared at his wounded friend. With clenched fists, he gritted his teeth, but somehow managed to swallow his rage. "If he succumbs in this manner..."
Haldir understood his brother's fury, for a morgul blade was a vile and evil weapon, designed to break into pieces the moment it pierced the skin. Without Elvish medicine, the evil shards would reach Celegon's heart before long, and his doom would be sealed. Not death in the usual sense—when one's spirit took to the winds, journeying westward over the foaming waves, to the silent Halls of Mandos—but something else altogether. Something far worse.
When one fell to a Morgul blade, he or she would not perish in the conventional sense. Rather, they would descend into the Shadow World, and become a Wraith. No peace. No life. Not even the mercy of death. But thraldom to evil, and the loss of one's very being.
A cry of pain pierced the air, and was soon joined by another. For Agoron and Celondir had been hit by morgul shafts—one in the arm, the other in the leg. Unlike Celegon, they were in no danger of becoming Wraiths, but their pain was excrutiating, the poison so potent, their lives were threatened all the same.
And so the healers laboured, while a silent crowd continued to gather, some near, some a little farther away. As Haldir stood to the side, watching in grim silence, Celegon gasped and seized. A darkness lay upon him. The more he descended into the Shadow World, the more his eyes lightened to a dreadful milky blue.
But hope yet remained, for he had been brought to the very heart of Lothlórien, where the light was fairest—even at night—and where shadows feared to tread. And then there were the healers.
"Hear my voice," Ithriel was saying as she bathed Celegon's wound. While the poisonous shards had been removed, shadows yet clung to the wounded soldier. By Ithriel's knees sat a bowl of steaming water, from which issued the fresh and healing scent of athelas. Faint at first, but stronger now, the vapours were comforting, even at a distance. "Come back to the light."
For a moment, Haldir thought the shadow might recede. Alas, it soon tightened its hold, and Celegon seized once more, his blind stare directed at the trees above. Agoron and Celondir, for their part, were screaming, writhing in pain.
Their friends and kin stood near, their grief and fretfulness palpable in the gathering twilight. While he was not free to fully show it, Haldir secretly shared their fears and their doubts. He felt their pain, carried it upon his shoulders. Had I been there… But he stopped himself.
He might not have been on the marches, but both of his brothers had been, with Orophin acting as warden in his stead. Long had his brother served on the fences, with honour and skill and a natural ability to lead. To lay blame on him would have been most unfair, for the Orcs alone were responsible. Orcs who now lay dead.
Indeed, the Galadhrim's vengeance had been swift and devastating. Let it be a lesson, Haldir thought with dark satisfaction. Filthy creatures. More would come eventually, he knew. They always did. But the valley, he had been told, was now quiet. And with Ninael now in command, the watch of the Elves continued.
The scent of athelas slowly drifted upon the air. As the healers maintained their efforts, something drew Haldir's attention—and the attention of all those who stood in vigil.
A light. Soft and pure.
Looking to its source, Haldir saw the Lady Galadriel, her gentle gaze sweeping over the forms of the three soldiers who lay nearby. Lord Celeborn had come also, his footsteps falling in tandem with hers.
As the rulers drew near, they spoke no words, but their eyes were brimming with care and compassion. For Galadriel and Celeborn cherished each and every life in Caras Galadhon. Not only that, but they greatly valued the Galadhrim, the elite soldiers who willingly risked their lives for the good of the realm.
Rounding the soldier that was nearest to her, Galadriel knelt and reached for his pale hand. Then, closing her eyes, she leaned forth to bestow a single kiss upon his brow.
The sensation was powerful and immediate. Haldir felt it. As did all the Elves who stood nearby.
For the Lady's gesture had been one of healing. As her grace descended onto him, Celegon relaxed at last. Colour returned to his eyes. The shadow was leaving, cast out by the benevolent power that now permeated the air.
Rising, Galadriel wordlessly approached the second soldier, healing him in the same manner before moving on to the third. It was a most remarkable sight, for the Lady was not in the habit of taking over for Lothlórien's healers. But given the malevolent nature of the soldiers' injuries, Haldir understood and was grateful for her healing gesture.
As he bore witness to this, Haldir felt a calm, a stillness come over him. At long last, the shadows had gone. Moved beyond words, he bowed his head, his fingers touching his brow in a gesture of absolute love and reverence. All around him, he felt the others do the same.
The terrace was all but deserted.
Following the news, most of the Elves had departed, some to their homes, while the rest had descended to the green paths below.
When Taerion had explained that three of Lothlórien's soldiers had been gravely wounded, Annalyn had discerned the sadness in his eyes, the same sadness that had blanketed those who had left the terrace. Clearly, the Elves were deeply affected by the news. Her thoughts turning to the wounded, her heart had gone out to them, and to Haldir. As a warden, she knew how much he loved and valued his soldiers. He felt responsible for them, fretted for them all. He had even admitted as much to her today.
Now when Taerion had first relayed the news, a troubling thought had suddenly come to her. "What of Haldir's brothers?" she had asked. "Orophin and Rúmil. Do you know if they are amongst the wounded?"
When Taerion had answered that they were unharmed, relief had flooded her being at once—for though she barely knew them, Rúmil and Orophin were Haldir's closest kin. Should something befall them, it would eviscerate him. She would know, being no stranger to such pain.
Once the long table had been cleared away, Taerion had departed as well, saying he would go to the vigil. If she was honest, a part of her had wished to accompany him, to see Haldir and lend whatever strength she could. Yet Annalyn sensed it would be a mistake. This grief, she felt, belonged to the Elves. To intrude upon it seemed wrong somehow.
Thus, she lingered on the terrace, watching and waiting as the stars shone overhead. Some time later, as Annalyn sat on the topmost step on the side of the hill, Glirwen arrived bearing a cup of herbal tea. Touched by the gesture, Annalyn thanked her, then sat by herself for a while more.
When it was clear Haldir would not return, she thought she might return to the pavilion. But then she remembered that Taerion had said the vigil was being held near the gates—a stone's throw from where she was staying.
Left with no other choice, Annalyn looked all around, and considered sleeping somewhere out here. At the foot of a tree perhaps. After all, she was used to sleeping out in the wilds. And compared to the mountains, Caras Galadhon was a veritable refuge under stars. Even the air was mild this night.
But even as she entertained the idea, Annalyn discerned movement on the path below. An elf-woman, with a satchel hanging from her shoulder.
"Wait…" Annalyn squinted and set her cup down. Is that my satchel?
Turns out it was.
Alas, the elf-woman—whom Annalyn now recognized from tonight's dinner—did not speak the common tongue. As the maid climbed the steps, Annalyn tried to recall her name. Tellil or Telliel, she couldn't quite remember. When she first approached, issuing a Sindarin greeting, the Elf walked on ahead, in a wordless invitation for Annalyn to follow.
Puzzled, she did just that, leaving her tea cup upon a cart by the kitchens as she hurried after her. Only when they had reached the very top of the spiral staircase did the maid speak, uttering the words slowly and haltingly, as one who had simply memorised the sounds. "Haldir regrets… the inconvenience, but feels it would be best if you… remained hither for the night." Now she paused, as one who has forgotten the words. "Many Elves. You… no sleep."
As the maid continued forth, making straight for Haldir's home, Annalyn faltered mid-step and blinked. "Hither? What here?" Trying not to look so stunned, she promptly followed, her eyes widening even more when the Elf fetched a fresh set of sheets from a cleverly concealed cupboard against the wall. With the bed linens in hand, she then started up the staircase leading up to his room, presumably to re-make the bed.
Annalyn's mouth fell open. She had to snap it shut again.
When the room upstairs was in readiness, the maid descended once more, but as she went to leave, wishing her a good night, Annalyn caught the wonder in her eyes. But then, Lothlórien's Marchwarden had just invited a woman—an outsider—to reside in his home for the night. That he was not actually staying with her might be a small detail in the maid's eyes.
Indeed, Haldir had once explained that it was long since a mortal had walked freely in Caras Galadhon, and even longer since one had been invited to an elven home. Such was the way in Lothlórien. Inns did not exist here, for the Elves were insular, the Naith off limits to travellers. But that being said, his people were not discourteous either. If an outsider did gain entry, and was deemed worthy of welcome, the Elves would provide all that was needed—things such as food, blankets, and a pavilion to sleep in—at least for a time. But generally speaking, their hospitality went no further than this, for the people of Lórien had grown wary of the outside world and those who were not of their kindred.
The woman departed much as she had arrived, quietly and unobtrusively. As Annalyn tried to absorb this sudden turn of events, she gazed after the Elf, and briefly wondered about the rumours that might arise. But then she remembered that Haldir was well-regarded in the realm, respected. No, if he had asked this woman to see her to his home, he must have trusted her discretion. Annalyn would do the same.
Not quite knowing what to do with herself, she turned and pondered the inside of the house.
Save for the rustle of swaying curtains and the gentle sounds of the night, all was quiet and still.
"Well then," Annalyn said then wondered what she should do now.
