Marchwarden: Hidden Hero 8

Marchwarden: Hidden Hero

Part 8

Posted: July 14, 2006
Title: Marchwarden: Hidden Hero
Author: Kenaz

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Author's Notes: Most of the dialog in this chapter is taken directly from canon text (FOTR, "Lothlórien," "The Mirror of Galadriel," and "Farewell to Lórien"). Why try to improve on brilliance?

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Third Age 3019: 47 Rhîw

Haldir's temper was at its limit. He had kept unceasing vigil at the borders for weeks without rest, and with every passing day, a feeling of malevolence grew, as if a impenetrable gloom stole up on the marches and waited, waited for only a moment's weakness to slip past his guard and take hold like a blight on a mighty elm, poised to creep through the bark and rot it out from the core. Even the flicker of Anor's rays shimmering through the Mallorn leaves and suffusing the mossy carpet of the forest floor with warmth, or the dance of light from the sickle moon casting sinuous silhouettes against the smooth bark of beech and birch did little to diminish the foreboding that grew in his heart. When word at last reached him that the strange brotherhood was in sight of the hithermost guard, Haldir felt as though the mechanisms of fate had at last been set to spinning, and that doom would come to him, come to all of them, quickly and without mercy.

The Marchwarden had been in a state of perpetual surliness since his return to the borders. He barked his orders sharply or else brooded in silence. His men, however, were fierce in their allegiance, and if they suspected some rift in his personal affairs (for few beyond the tight circle of Haldir's brothers and his most intimate familiars knew of the sundering of his ties to Galion) they spread no tales. Had he possessed the eyes to see it, the Marchwarden might have taken note of the silent but telling looks many of his wardens cast his way, looks which said "Tell us what we might do for you, Captain…we are at your service." Though his demeanor was often unpleasant in these days, he had built up a store of devotion and respect in the minds of his men over the many long years they had served beneath him, and they gave their beloved Marchwarden much latitude.

Which was fortunate, to say the least, because when Haldir's wardens took note of a particular member of the approaching band, they knew full well the welcome their Captain would provide would be a frosty one, even by insular Lórien 's standards. They exchanged glances amongst themselves, speculating on how the Marchwarden would respond to this visitor, and if they expected to see their Captain rise to the occasion in all his haughty grandeur, to see the cold steel beneath his silky voice he reserved only for the most ignominious or unruly interlopers, they were not disappointed. Slowly, he drew himself up to his full and impressive height, his shoulders falling down and back to show off the broad musculature of his chest, and he sighted down his nose at the unwanted guests as if down the shaft of an arrow. He was in fine form this night; only a fool or a lunatic would trifle with this Elf.

Haldir's face, however, was disconsolate rather than bellicose. When he set eyes upon the Fellowship for the first time, a wave of despondence washed over him, for a sad and ragged band they were: Two filthy Men, four Halflings clearly weary to the bone, and one foul little Dwarf. Only the Elf who walked at the fore seemed none the worse for wear. Haldir knew at a glance that this was Thranduil's son, Legolas, for he looked much like the Mirkwood king as Haldir had remembered him. Not that his royal blood would spare him any of the hardships of this ill-starred journey. His voice had called to the Galadhrim across the Nimrodel, singing the song of the lost maiden of that stream, and his sweet tenor made even the clumsy Westron translation lilt as gracefully as his native tongue.

Evil steals into our home carried on the song of a kinsman. I would never have imagined it so. These are the ones who hold our fates? Elrond the Wise has entrusted our lives with this shabby band? Hope indeed has fled.

At his signal, the wardens encircled their slow-moving quarry from the trees. And though they had not yet been noticed, they took no great pains to hide themselves for they knew that none would dare fire upon them, and it was the Marchwarden's wish that their number be seen, and that they walkers be greeted by the gleaming points of a dozen Lórien arrows.

When Thranduil's son, looking almost gladdened as he eyed with reverent wonder the Mallorn in which Haldir stood, leapt to grasp its lowest branch, Haldir gave a brief nod, and twelve bows were in unison drawn.

"Daro!"

The report of his words thundered back from the trees and the Elf flattened himself against the bole and bade his friends be silent and still. Looking down into the pained and weary eyes of his Mirkwood cousin, eyes silently begging a moment's reprieve from terror and enmity, Haldir was ashamed by the malicious glee he had gained from this petty torment, but did little to restrain himself.

"Your friends breathe so loudly we could have shot them in the dark."

He watched with a sneer as Legolas relayed the message to his company and the Halflings cowered, one of them clapping his hands over his mouth, eyes frightened and round.

Perhaps some other time he might have delivered his words with a hint of mirth and without unkindness, but not this night. He drawled icily and there was no warmth at all in his stare, just a shining, angry void. He could not prevent the Fellowship from entering his land, for his Lady had decreed that they would be not merely welcomed, but succored. But while he could not hinder their journey, he felt no compunction to make it an easy one, and if sharp words and cruel japes were the only weapons at his disposal this night—for though his fingers itched for the burn of a bowstring pulled taut beneath them, or the familiar grip of leather on his sword, he had been rendered by the Lady's edict as toothless against them as a suckling pup—well, then, the blade of his tongue would simply have to suffice.

"Bring me the Ringbearer," he demanded of Legolas, "for we have heard tell of him." The Elf did not flinch at the hardness of his stare, but assisted the Halfling up to the talan. Care-worn and frail-looking, with dark circles beneath his eyes that spoke as much to a weariness of the soul and the shadows of grief as to lack of sleep, Frodo Baggins squinted and blinked against the piercing glow of the lantern beam. Haldir could not see Ring and imagined it tucked away beneath his dirty vestments, hanging over the heart of this creature who should never have had to bear it. He remembered the archers of the Shire, remembered Bucca and his proud salute as he stood by with the bodies of his dead in the aftermath of Fornost. They were a hardy folk, and pure of heart. But even the most guileless could be corrupted by such base power, could they not? No, this did not sit well with him, not at all.

He felt uneasy in the presence of this tiny creature, and slightly ill. He had sworn to protect this realm, with his own life if necessary, and yet here was death and destruction come to his woods in the form of a weary Halfling and his cursed Ring. Each day of his life was spent in keeping evil in all its forms at bay, and yet here was evil arrived by his Lady's own invitation. How could he be expected to simply stand down and allow this debased creation to be delivered on the very paths, through the very dells, he was sworn to defend?

Turn them back, a vengeful voice within him raged. Send them running and let them take their poison token elsewhere! Let not this wickedness pass through the borders of the realm!

In ancient Gondolin, the warden of the Gate of Wood had looked down at Tuor and Voronwë and had thought upon his orders to capture or kill any who approached the way to the Hidden City. An old friendship had insinuated its way between Elemmakil and the law: he could follow his orders and rue the imprisonment of a familiar and the death of his mortal companion, or he could give them entry to the passageway and rue his own dereliction of duty. Neither choice sat lightly on his soul. With a sharp pang, Haldir found himself recalling Elemmakil's words, as he did so often in times when his resolution was in doubt, when the cloak of duty fell most heavily on his shoulders.

Perhaps in imagining that my actions could have altered that doom, Elemmakil had in days long past intoned, I was simply pretending I was more than just a leaf carried helplessly on fate’s currents.

As if to punctuate the phantom words, a gust of wind passed them over, the fallow gold leaves of the Mallorn dancing on their branches. I may be but a leaf carried on fate's currents, Haldir considered with heavy resignation, but I am not helpless. My part in this tale has not yet come.

"Mae govannen," he said in his own tongue; and then, "Welcome."

There was no sleep for the Marchwarden or his men that night. A company of a hundred Yrch or more had breached the borders, coming far too close to where the Fellowship had encamped, and with them came a strange and bent-backed creature Haldir could not identify but dared not shoot. He would not risk battle. Not with so few wardens; not with the Ring so close. He and his brothers had gone deeper into the woods and begun to banter loudly with one another, the sound of their voices luring their foes off the road and into the dark heart of the woods. Orophin had flown on to spread a warning, and Haldir felt certain that no enemy would remain ere long to leave Lórien alive.

At daybreak, Haldir and Rúmil led the walkers through the woods, though it pleased Haldir little to keep so long in the company of a Dwarf, and less to keep so long in the company of the Ring. He could feel the steady thrum of Nenya's magic and it seemed increased, as if the Ring of Water struggled against the poison that walked at his side. At the Celebrant, he whistled a signal and Taurnil stepped out from the cover of the brush to catch the coils of hithlain rope he threw across the river. Slowly and with great difficulty did the Halflings and the Dwarf make their way across, and as Frodo of the Shire moved cautiously over the lines, the Marchwarden did not breathe. Should the Halfling lose his footing on the slender ropes, should a sweaty hand slip from its hold, he would fall into the Celebrant and be pulled away down to the Anduin, and from thence out to the mighty sea, the Ring passing with him. Haldir's fingers curled into fists as he willed himself to perfect stillness lest his baser instinct to see the Hobbit and his burden washed far and fast from Lórien prevail. He felt the eyes of Legolas and Rúmil on him, both watching him with misgivings: Legolas because he knew little of Haldir, and Rúmil because he knew much. When the Ringbearer had set foot on the far bank, Legolas released the Marchwarden from his gaze and darted nimbly across. Rúmil continued to observe him, however, and Haldir shot him a bearish look before he, too, passed over, leaving his brother behind him to gather the ropes.

On the bank, he reminded Legolas of the compromise struck the night before wherein the Dwarf would gain entrance to the Naith only with his eyes bound shut. The Dwarf, upon hearing of the accord made without his knowledge or consent, grew obstinate, as did the Marchwarden, who twisted the blindfold in his hands, silently pondering what excuse he might offer the Lady when his hands accidentally slipped while binding the cloth 'round the stunted one's eyes and garroted him. Even at the Dúnedan's behest the affronted Dwarf would not relent, but announced he would abandon his purpose and make for his own lands.

"You cannot go back," Haldir told him, the menace plain in the precise and even delivery of his words. "You cannot cross the rivers again, and behind you now there are secret sentinels that you cannot pass." At this, the Dwarf straightened his stance and curled his lip as if imagining Haldir's words to be challenge. Haldir merely turned his head to stare down the Dwarf as if he were sighting prey.

"You would be slain before you saw them."

The Dwarf growled and pulled his axe from his belt. In unison, Haldir and Taurnil drew back their bows.

"A plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks," Legolas muttered, though he did not intervene.

Aragorn cursed loudly and stepped between them, looking at them both in appeal as he announced that the matter would be settled by the whole of the Fellowship walking blind. It was now Legolas's turn to cry foul, the only time that the Mirkwood Prince had demonstrated even the smallest portion of princely pique.

"I am an Elf and a kinsman here!"

Aragorn whipped his head around and snapped at Legolas sharply and with great exasperation, "Then let us cry: 'a plague on the stiff necks of Elves' and have done with it!"

Both Legolas and the Dwarf looked suitably repentant when Haldir and Taurnil bound their eyes, and they walked until nightfall and again the next morn without incident. Near Cerin Amroth, Haldir saw Feredir's patrol moving quickly toward them. Feredir brought news: his company had taken down most of the Yrch Haldir had seen two nights prior, but a few escaped and fled to Moria. He was taking a portion of his men to the North lest they returned from Moria in greater number.

"I have word from the Lord and Lady as well," he told Haldir, and Haldir found he did not like the smirking look in his law-brother's eyes. "They await you in Caras Galadhon and it would seem your wards are to walk freely now, even the Dwarf." His lips turned up archly, unable to resist a delicious jab. "She bids the Marchwarden apologize and play nicely with his new friend."

Haldir snorted derisively and Feredir laughed, clapping him on the back before he walked on with his men. He turned to look at the Dwarf, who sat beneath a tree in lively discussion with Legolas. Though it pleased him not to allow these strangers to look upon the secrets of his land, even he had to admit the sight of Elf and Dwarf in easy amity almost gave him hope.

Almost.

Third Age 3019: 6 Echuir

"Marchwarden, walk with me."

Turning away from the pavilion where the Fellowship had been housed these past weeks, Haldir flicked his gaze up briefly into the tree where Orophin returned an imperceptible nod. Since the company's arrival in City of Trees, they had been housed in comfortable quarters with ample amenities that they might shore up their hearts and bodies for the rigors that awaited them outside Lórien's borders. But though they had been accorded every courtesy, the Elf-Lord and his Marchwarden took no chances, and while Haldir served as an ever-present and highly visible reminder to the walkers that the Galadhrim would brook no evil action in their woods, his brother was one of many who watched in secret, bows in hand, prepared to act should the Ring exert its baleful influence. Neither the Halflings nor the Dwarf took notice, nor did the man of Gondor, though he remained diffident, suspicious of the Elves and their hospitality. Legolas and Aragorn, however were quite conscious of the surveillance; of that he was certain, though neither the Elf nor the Dúnedan spoke of it.

Celeborn had not waited for him, but walked steadily into the woods where no path lay, just the roll and twine of green brush on which his footfalls were eiderdown-light. Haldir rushed to catch up to him, but once at his shoulder the Elf-Lord did not acknowledge his presence for some time.

They stood in a dense copse, the shade interrupted here and there by the dappling of sunlight that pushed irrepressibly through the leaves, revealing myriad shades of green and gold and brown. Celeborn turned to regard the concerned soldier, his eyes searching Haldir's face intently. His own face was drawn; thrawn deeds were afoot.

"Do you remember, Marchwarden, the oath you made when you took your office? Do you recall the words you freely spoke to me on that night?"

Haldir nodded solemnly. "Aye, my Lord. They are the words I live by. I named my sword for Lórien, and swore to protect this land, even unto my own death."

"And in my Lady's grove, you spilled your blood to seal that oath. You recall the penalty should you foreswear it."

"The penalty is death."

Celeborn turned away and reached out for the withy branch of a young ash, caressing it like a father touches his child, gauging its strength and praising its growth. He did not look at Haldir when he spoke again.

"Are you fully prepared to make good on your oath? For what I would ask of you will test you to the utmost of its bounds."

A sudden and strange frisson raced down his spine, setting every hair on his body on edge, but he did not hesitate with his answer. "Whatever you ask of me, my Lord, it will be done."

Celeborn rounded on him then with singular vehemence. "Would you become a kinslayer, Haldir? Would you destroy one of your own if it was demanded? Answer truthfully, Haldir. I must know."

He looked down at the Marchwarden from his imposing height, and Haldir felt himself in the presence of a fearsome force. A luminous aura radiated from deep within him, bringing Haldir in mind of the mighty Glorfindel. Unlike the Elf-Lord of Gondolin or the Lady of Lórien, Celeborn had not looked upon the light of the Two Trees, but rather seemed to have absorbed the light and life of all green things on the Hither Shores and their energy swirled and swelled within him as vitally as any mythic leaf or root of Aman. Though his face was forever ageless and fair, a glimpse of him now would leave no doubt in the mind of any who saw him that he was a creature both ancient and powerful, fell and majestic, and one who expected no less of his subordinates than he himself would give.

Yet all the same, at the very sound of that word, kinslayer, as sharp-edged and hideous as any syllable in the Black Tongue, Haldir's mind reeled. What did his Lord foresee that would require him to test his oath in this way? And more to the point, if this was, indeed, what he was called upon to do, to doom himself to ostracism from all his kin and the wrath of the Valar, could he do it? Given the choice between the ultimate crime and the ultimate failure, how would he choose?

Celeborn did not yet demand his answer, but spoke in low tones. "Tonight, my Lady will take the Halfling to the Mirror. I fear that once he sees the full measure of the enemy aligned against him, he will lose heart. He will offer Galadriel the Ring."

Haldir felt suddenly cold. "The Lady is powerful and wise. Surely she would not claim it! Has her strength waned in some way, that you fear her vulnerable to it?"

The Elf-Lord knelt and the frond of a new fern unfurled itself against his palm, stretching lovingly against the heat of his hand.

"I believe your mother had kin in Doriath, yes? Her brothers—your uncles—were slain there, as were many of my own kinsmen, and my King. I fought the Naugrim who brought down Elwë Singollo, just as I fought the Sons of Fëanor when they, too, came to wreak havoc upon our realm. All for the lust inspired by a fair gem wrought by Elven hands. If the work of one Elf, who had no designs on evil when he forged his stones, could inspire so many deaths, imagine, Haldir, what that Ring might do, that was forged by the purest force of Evil for the singular task of domination."

His wise blue eyes slowly closed against the vibrant, violent memories of Doriath, and against the visions of his worst fears.

"It will test her, this Ring. I have faith she will resist its call." He gave the fern a parting caress and rose again to his feet, looking Haldir hard in the eye. "Yet sometimes faith is not enough. I will leave no room for failure in this."

Slowly, sickeningly, comprehension dawned on the Marchwarden. "You would have me bring down the Lady."

"If she must fall, I want it to be by my hand. But if I falter… if I cannot… all is lost."

When Haldir remained silent, Celeborn grasped him by the shoulders and held him tight, fingers digging into his flesh to the point of pain. "Think you that she would prefer perpetual thralldom to darkness over a swift death? If this must come to pass, it will be a kindness." His eyes shone bright with tears that only lingered in his pellucid orbs, but would not fall. "It would be the last act of love I could perform for her."

Suddenly, his own sacrifice, his own loss of the one he loved, seemed a pale and hollow thing. For though two hearts had been shattered in their sundering, the mercy blow Haldir had delivered to Galion had not taken his life. He looked at his Liege-Lord with eyes evincing great sorrow and even greater respect.

"If you ask this of me, My Lord, I will see it done."

Brethil knocked gently at Galion’s door and greeted him with an apologetic look. The healer returned a dismissive wave before sinking to the couch with a morose sigh, his long fingers kneading his temples.

“I am sorry, Galion.”

Galion shook his head and pursed his lips. “Let us not speak of it. The pain is sharp enough without my pride being piqued with each retelling.”

“I have no wish to pique your pride,” Brethil consoled in his buttery tones, “and I came not to discuss such matters in any case, but rather to speak of more pressing concerns. The Lord and Lady fear for the safety of Lórien. They are asking those who live outside the great city remove with their families to Caras Galadhon that they might be safe behind the walls, though they will not force the unwilling to abandon their dwellings without. Soon the gates to the city will be closed, the bridges over the fosse dismantled, and the city will become a citadel.

"This does not bode well, friend. If the Lord and Lady fear the oncoming darkness, surely we are beyond hope. Some have talked of leaving these shores, for we know the ages of our kind draw to a close and the sea will soon call us home. I have listened to their talk and I agree—my time here is finished. I will be leaving with the others who plan to venture to the Havens and sail to the West."

"And you would have me join you."

"Only if you wish it. I come merely to apprise you that should you wish to leave, you need not travel alone."

Galion dragged his fingers roughly through his hair and surveyed his quarters dispassionately. Comfort was no longer found here, nor joy, nor even much sleep. Decades of Haldir's presence here had left their mark far more indelibly than centuries of his absence; for as briefly as it had been their home, knowledge that it had been their home rendered it impossible for it to ever again feel like his alone.

What reason was there, really, to stay?

"There will be no need of scribes when history has ceased to be written," Brethil continued, his usually melodious voice sounding flat and tight as he gave utterance to the hopelessness so many of their people shared in these uncertain hours. "There will be no need for healers when all are dead or lost to darkness. A life free of war and death awaits us in the Undying Lands; I, for one, relish the thought of it."

"Perhaps we have no need of scribes, but there will be great need for healers in the days to come!" The rebuke rang sharply from the doorway where Taurnil stood, looking distraught. He eyed Brethil in irritation and strode further into the room.

"You cannot mean to abandon us! The wardens of Lórien will fight to the death for this land, and make no mistake: many will fall. Will you leave us to bleed out our immortality onto the soil when your hands could hold us fast to life?"

"I am but one!" Galion returned angrily, his hands still raking through his disheveled locks. "I have no more skill than any of my compatriots, and less strength than many of them."

"His presence will no more guarantee your life than his absence will doom it," Brethil added cautiously.

Taurnil turned on the scribe. "Have you no faith in the Lord and Lady, then? Think you that those who guard the realm are utterly without power in this? Think you that darkness has grown so strong and we so weak?"

Brethil shifted uncomfortably. "I intended no controversy, Taurnil, and I do not disparage either our stewards or our wardens. I meant to bring news, not dissent. But you know even better than I the peril that looms before us, and you are too clever to believe this battle will be won without exacting a devastating toll." He looked again to Galion. "We will depart in a fortnight if you wish to join us." He nodded respectfully to Taurnil and hurriedly took his leave.

Taurnil's eyes were still fixed on Galion's in dismay. "Would you truly desert us?"

"I am no warden, Taurnil." His voice was spiritless. "I swore no oath; I am not bound to stay."

"And you would ever regret it if you left." He sank down beside Galion on the couch and the healer leaned in close, resting his dark head on the Galadhel's muscular arm. "You may not have sworn an oath, but you have a calling and a gift, and if you turn away you would have all the days of your undying life safe in Elvenhome for your conscience to grieve you for it. You know this."

Galion sagged even further against the supportive frame. "I no longer know anything."

Taurnil knew not what to say, and thus said nothing. He took Galion's hand in his and held it tight.

"I know not what I will do. But in any case, please say nothing of this to Haldir. This decision must be mine alone."

When Taurnil did not release his hand, Galion swallowed hard. "I ache, Taurnil. I tire of loneliness." His thumb brushed gently over the warden's knuckles. "I am weary of always being the one who heals and never the one who is succored. Stay."

Taurnil turned slowly to face him and lifted his chin, watching Galion's tongue dart across his lips in anticipation. When he spoke, his voice was sad but infinitely kind.

"You offer me what you know I have long desired, but I cannot claim it. It is my greatest wish that I could be the one who made your heart whole, but I am not. I know I am not." He tried, but failed, to school the hurt from his expression. "Would you have me suffer as you have, by giving me only a part of you? I could not bear to wake with your lovely body in my arms knowing your heart, which to me is lovelier still, lies elsewhere. I want more than that. Do I not deserve it?"

Galion shut his eyes tight against the welling tears of shame that pricked hotly in their corners.

"Ah, Taurnil… forgive my selfishness. I meant no harm."

"I know. Would that I could be the tonic for your pain." There was a slight stridence to his voice hinting at bitterness the warden was loath to own, but even in the long silence that followed, he did not relinquish the gentle grip he held on the healer's chin.

"Look at me," he whispered, and Galion opened his eyes. Taurnil's eyes were blue and guileless.

"Perhaps a single kiss will suffice to temper your loneliness and balm my pride."

Still cupping Galion's jaw, the warden brought their faces together and laid upon the healer's lips a lingering kiss that almost shattered him with its simplicity and sweetness. It was a kiss that asked nothing and expected nothing. Quietly, with no other words, Taurnil stood and left him, and Galion could not stem the tears that followed his departure. He wept for loneliness and loss and the breaking of his heart; he wept for the only home he had ever known which he knew now he must leave; and he wept for love freely given by a beautiful and deserving soul that he could not, no matter how much he wished it, return.

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