Marchwarden: Hidden Hero - Chapter 1
Feb. 28th, 2006 10:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kenazTitle: Marchwarden: Hidden Hero - Chapter 1
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kenazfiction
E-mail: kenazfiction@gmail.com
Fic Journal: http://kenazfiction.livejournal.com/ or The Archive
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Borrowing the Good Professor's characters for my own amusement.
Archive: OEAM, Melethryn, AFF; The-Archive.net, others, just ask.
Feedback: of course!
Beta: Lady E
Summary: Life is a ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
Click here for the story's prologue.
Still, in dreams, he heard the cry to cut the ropes, saw his hands move to his dagger, and each night, again and again, he watched the Marchwarden fall.
The time for mourning is over.
He could even now hear the warm shadow of that voice in his mind; the words once spoken by Elemmakil to comfort him at loss of his father Haldir now heard as ghostly admonishment for his rigid sorrow and trenchant guilt.
Despite that chiding echo, he did mourn: for the dutiful friend, for the great soldier and for the lover of yore. That he had made his peace with Elemmakil and regained the cherished companion and advisor of old was some comfort, and he shuddered to contemplate the raucous misery he might now be enduring had he ungraciously maintained their alienation. Their last years serving side by side had offered closure to their tempestuous relations and had allowed Haldir once again to absorb the wisdom of a brilliant tactician, the skill of a master swordsman, and the brotherhood of a kindred soul.
And yet, regardless of all of Elemmakil's guidance, he wondered still if he were prepared for the task that lay before him.
Haldir’s world had changed swiftly and irrevocably: a Balrog of Morgoth had brought Khazad-dûm low, and the Golden Wood had come under siege on every front. Elemmakil had fallen, his death delivered by Haldir’s own hand even if the order had come from Elemmakil himself and without any other recourse; Tathalion had resigned his post, and the King had abandoned his realm and his people. A son of Doriath and a daughter of Valinor stood now in his stead. The changes of an entire age had come to pass in one year’s time, and along with them, Haldir considered as he checked and rechecked the buckles of his pauldrons and the alignment of his vambraces, the inexorable approach of what felt very much like destiny.
Orophin paused in the doorway and watched Haldir tug a comb roughly through his hair, saw the unsettled look weighing down his brother’s features. He stepped between Haldir and the mirror, forcing an end to those nervous occupations and gestured to a nearby chair.
"Sit."
He took the comb and picked carefully through silvery locks still damp from the bath. Haldir gave himself over to his brother's ministrations, and with adroit fingers, Orophin wove the warrior plaits in Haldir’s hair. Never before had he braided Haldir's hair; in their youth, it was always Rumil's locks he managed, the youngest brother having neither interest nor inclination to do much more than pull it out of his eyes in a thick tail. Now if he appeared with a more decorative arrangement, it bore the hallmarks of Feredir’s neat hand.
"I remember watching Naneth do this for Ada. I believed she must have used some sort of enchantment to make her fingers dance so quickly through his hair, so perfectly she worked it.”
Orophin smiled mildly remembering his early attempts to mimic her, how she would open her hands to show him how she held the strands, how to cross them over and pick them up again, but his braids had come out crooked and misshapen. Under his mother’s hands, his father would close his eyes, a look of serene contentment softening his chiseled face. Watching their ritual, he saw how much his father loved his mother's touch, even in that simple way.
Looking up from his work, Orophin saw Haldir's face in the mirror and was taken aback by the distress painted there. Their eyes met in the glass.
"Does he see us, do you think? Does he know?"
There was no need to ask who; his memory was ever-present here, the tread of his footsteps held in the very grain of the floorboards, his handiwork evident in every room, his strong features greeting them even now in the mirror. Orophin squeezed Haldir’s shoulder and smiled.
"He knows, and he is proud."
Rúmil’s footsteps echoed on the landing, and a moment later, the archer ducked into Haldir’s chamber. He looked Haldir up and down and a smile blossomed across his face.
“You cut a fine figure, muindor…like Menelmacar come down from the firmament! Oh, and your nephew bade you accept this." He handed Haldir a beautifully etched bottle—a rare prize in itself, but when filled with the choicest wine of a master vintner, 'twas a kingly gift, indeed.
"And now I have come to fetch you," the youngest declared. "The procession is ready to begin.”
If Haldir blanched slightly, his brothers conspired not to notice. Rúmil bounded back down the stairs and Haldir would have followed if Orophin had not waylaid him a moment more.
“Might I wear your sword tonight, muindor? You will receive another this eve, and you would do me an honor to let me carry yours.”
Haldir’s eyes glittered brightly at the request. As they stepped out of the talan, Orophin spoke softly in his ear.
"I, too, am proud."
The song of a drum, a proud rhythm of an ancient heartbeat, preceded a sadly foreshortened line of Galadhrim warriors. At their head, Haldir walked alone. He held his breath as he ascended the massive spiraling staircase of Caras Galadhon in regulated steps, the look of restrained pride on his face masking the discordance of grief, guilt and uncertainty within.
Lanterns cast the stairs in a hazy blue glow and Haldir’s armor fairly glittered even in the low light. Strange it was to don armor but to keep an empty sheath, to be girded in plate yet wear neither cape nor helm. Despite the defense of metal, mail and leather, he felt uncomfortably exposed. How long had he known he was fated for this office? It seemed as if he had held that knowledge since his very begetting. His father’s blood ran in his veins, even now singing to him of honor and duty. Elemmakil’s voice echoed in the dark cavern of his heart, his song much the same. Yet now that the moment was upon him, his conviction faltered.
The hall radiated an ethereal aura, but from whence it came he could not discern. Celeborn stood flanked by his sentinels and Galadriel stood silently behind them. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied his brothers beaming at him, their backs straight and tall and their eyes bright with shared joy.
A soldier rather than a king, Celeborn eschewed the pageantry of Amdir and Amroth for austere martial ritual. But if Celeborn’s ceremony lacked pomp and grandeur, it more than compensated with solemn dignity. He spoke of Haldir’s skill and courage, and of the sacrifices made by those who had gone before with such pride and reverence that the heart of every warrior lightened to hear him speak.
At Celeborn’s signal the first sentinel stepped forward, presenting Celeborn with that item Haldir both dreaded and desired: the red cloak. It is heavy, this mantle, Haldir thought as Celeborn fastened it around his shoulders. The foliate motif of the fibula was the same design as his father's. How many mornings had he climbed upon a stool, or stretched to his toes, to fasten the Mallorn leaf at his father’s shoulder, seen him lift his chin and observe his son out of the corner of his eye, a warm smile tipping up the corners of his mouth? His father had held faith in him, knew what his fate held, even then. His heart swelled in his chest with gratefulness and great love. He sank silently to one knee as much from the overwhelming feeling of awe as from the necessity of the ritual.
The second sentinel advanced bearing a long, curved sword. His father’s blade made new! It was the self-same weapon Orophin had carried since Guilin had fallen on the Dagorlad; to Haldir, it was a treasure beyond reckoning, imbued with all the strength and honor of his kin. The scars of battle had been smoothed and polished till the blade seemed almost a light unto itself. He saw the tengwar engraved down the face: Gurth a chyth-in-Lorien! He turned his head just enough to find Orophin and meet the vitreous gleam of his brother's gaze with his own. Lorien’s lord held the sword aloft in his hands, and all eyes in the room rose to it. He brought it down in front of Haldir, who laid his hands reverently upon the blade.
“By root and by star, by the blood in my veins, in the presence of Iluvatar, I, Haldir, Son of Guilin, take this sword for Lothlorien, that I might safeguard all that lies within her borders with all that I possess, even unto the sacrifice of my immortal life. Let that life be forfeit should I ever forsake this oath."
"Haldir, son of Guilin, is your oath freely given?"
"My oath is freely given, my Lord."
He kissed the blade, and Celeborn placed the sword in his hands. He marveled at its beauty in the strange light of the hall, brandishing it once before guiding it into its scabbard. Once the tip found its home in the throat of the casing, he released his grip and listened to the appealing ring it made as it slid home.
“Rise, Haldir, Marchwarden of Lorien. See the faces of those who serve at your side.”
He turned to gaze into the sea of blue cloaks, watched with a pounding heart the wake that rippled through it as each head incline and every Elf brought his hand to his heart in a gesture of respect. It was a gesture he readily returned.
“Guardians of Lorien, take heart!" Celeborn exhorted. "Let the strength and courage of your Marchwarden remind you of your own oaths in these dark times. Let the memory of those who have gone before reside in your hearts and minds. Go forth now and revel in this new beginning. From the ashes has risen the mighty Galadhrim army!"
A cheer went up from the guardians and a flute joined the drum to lead the ranks out of the hall and down to the garrison where much wine, and much-needed merriment, awaited them.
The sentinels stepped forth and ushered the last lingering observers out, leaving the Marchwarden alone in the room with his Lord and Lady. Celeborn laid a paternal hand on his back.
“You have sworn fealty, Haldir, and offered your sword to your realm. But I would have you know all of what you protect. Come.”
He followed down a narrow stairway, a passage clearly intended for the Lord and Lady alone, and walked with them to a secluded glade sheltered at the foot of the enormous mallorn. Haldir had heard tales of the Lady’s mirror which allowed her visions of that which might come to pass, but his mind had conjured images of some grand and ornate object, not the simple silver basin supported by slender stone caryatids. The air in the grove seemed suffused with enchantment, and Haldir knew that the little bower could only be discovered by one whose presence was demanded by the Lady or her mirror.
Galadriel stood, the embodiment of ethereal grace, and inclined her head to him, greeting him with her beatific smile. He felt her presence sweeping his mind, incorporeal fingers caressing his thoughts.
Suilad, Haldir, Marchwarden of Lorien.
He was unnerved, even nettled, by the sudden intrusion, but he submitted, sensing some crucial reason lay behind her display of prowess. Her dulcet voice chimed in his head though her lips remained inscrutably poised.
Fear not, Haldir. I will not touch what you do not wish to share, nor will I trespass unbidden, but you must understand what else it is you safeguard here.
Extending one fair hand, Haldir saw the cold glitter of a star-shaped adamant stone set in mithril. The band itself was intricately woven and scrolled, swirling around the facets of the stone like vines, and the jewel sparkled with unearthly light. His eyes widened at this unexpected revelation. Though he had never seen one, nor even heard them described, he knew with absolute certainty that Galadriel bore one of Celebrimbor’s storied Elven rings.
This is Nenya, the Ring of Water.
“She protects this realm as you do, yet she requires your protection as well. Will you guard her with your own blood?"
The sound of Celeborn’s voice, earthy and deep and most decidedly issuing from the strapping figure behind him and not from the recesses of his mind, startled Haldir. He was uncertain if the ‘she’ he spoke of referenced Galadriel or her ring. Likely it was both. He presented his hand to Celeborn, who swiftly opened the flesh of his palm with the edge of his dagger. Haldir’s blood flowed crimson to the ground at Galadriel’s feet and was swallowed up by the earth. He shivered; his charge felt now even more solemn: he had been drawn into a sacred trust he had not expected, and the burn and throb of the wound would remind him persistently throughout the night of the profundity of his oath.
Her presence here is known only to those who must know, and to all others it appears as nothing more than a fine bauble. You are one of those who must know. Guard her well, Marchwarden, and she will guard us all.
Galadriel withdrew her whispering touch but held his eyes for a long while and he did his best to set aside his discomfiture under her appraising gaze. When at last she nodded to him, signaling the affirmation of his vow, he took her long, tapering fingers in his hand, finding that as delicate as they were, they were also warm and strong. He kissed the pale hand, silently vowing to keep its secret.
Haldir arrived at his own revels belated and subdued. He felt well and truly overwhelmed, and the disclosure of his Lord and Lady inspired many questions. Would the presence of a Ring of Power in these woods provide them with a greater measure of security, or would it call to evil as the flame beckons the moth? Who besides the Ringbearers knew of the rings and their whereabouts? He had little time to contemplate these mysteries before others took notice of his arrival, and Rúmil launched himself indecorously at him in welcome, Taurnil following close behind with a brimming mazer of wine.
It was a blessing to have cause for celebration. The prior seasons had been spent mourning the dead and repairing the ravages wrought on the Wood. Wine blunted the hard edge of grief and familiar songs sung with brothers-in-arms brought succoring levity to the wardens of Lorien. One by one, they approached Haldir and made their oaths to him in their own private and personal ways. Feredir, unsurprisingly, kept his distance, but his face had lost the callow sneer that often sharpened his otherwise handsome features. He still limped from the injury he had received on the banks of the Anduin.
Haldir was plied with much wine and merrily feted as was the tradition of the guards. A young archer with whom Haldir had a passing acquaintance made himself conspicuous, keeping himself in Haldir's line of vision constantly throughout the night without ever coming too near. With the poignant chagrin of hindsight, Haldir recalled his own similarly brash overtures to Elemmakil. The thought of it made him smile, as did the persistent archer. Another night, perhaps, he would have given the Elf a certain look, a subtle signal, and they would have slipped off together, but tonight the thought held no appeal. Though the wine warmed his belly and the laughter of his comrades lightened his spirit, the significance of the evening’s events had made him thoughtful and he wished for quieter company. There was also one whose encouragement he desired to hear. After a time, he bade goodnight to his brothers and a select few of his closer companions and edged away to the trails beyond the garrison. The archer did not see him go.
Another, however, did. An unexpected figure stepped out from the darkness, a bold stride made awkward by a wound not yet healed. The moon cast a wary glow on his vulpine features. Chin held high, he regarded the Marchwarden before him. No words crossed his lips; speech was, perhaps, too high a price for pride to extract, but the inclination of his head and the touch of hand to heart conveyed his message, and his salute was returned in kind. Clasping forearms, their silent accord was marked by the night birds and the trees alone.
The scuff of footfalls on the winding staircase and the familiar cadence of stiff leather soles on worn wood taking two steps at a time alerted Galion to his imminent visitor. He grinned as the quiet of the night was gently breached by the hum of a jaunty martial tune.
Haldir did not stop to knock, but pushed open the door far enough to spy his friend in a most familiar pose-- stretched out on his couch in his nightclothes with a book in hand-- nor did he wait for Galion’s invitation before crossing the threshold.
The healer's eyes lingered for a beat on his reading, and when at last he looked up, his heart seized: arrayed in polished plate and glowing mail, new crimson cloak gracing broad, proud shoulders, Haldir was as glorious and imposing as Galion had ever seen him even if his face evinced some indefinable restlessness.
He comes in the guise of Beleg Cuthalion, Galion thought in wonder. Yet in truth, it is Túrin he plays. He is the hero and I the one who seeks him faithfully, the one who follows him, as Beleg followed Túrin, even to his doom.
Moonlight coursed over his magnificent form and burnished the graceful curves of his armor before he closed the door behind him. He carried a bottle of what Galion recognized as Ethuilion’s finest vintage in his hand, a gift, no doubt, to his uncle on this most momentous day.
"Would you deny them their guest of honor, then?" he teased.
"They are all deep in their cups."
“And you are not?”
A noncommittal shrug rolled upward into a sly smile, the look of abstraction dispersing with the lift of his shoulders. He swept through the talan, scarlet cape snapping at his heels, and the healer heard him in the kitchen, rooting in the cabinets. He returned with goblets in hand and breezily slapped Galion’s legs off the sofa, settling himself in their stead while Galion snorted at the easy way he commandeered the better part of the cushion, sprawling magnificently, as if he were a king on his throne.
“By all means, make yourself comfortable, híren,” Galion laughed.
Haldir grinned over the goblets and handed one to his friend, who lifted it in a silent toast. With a series of rhythmic clicks, Haldir disassembled his armor and pulled his heavy hauberk over his head, letting it slump noisily to the floor, stopping once to refill his already empty mazer.
"So why have you come to steal my cushions and disrupt my reading? Was your armor too heavy for your delicate limbs to withstand? Too many stripling soldiers vying for your attention?" Galion's jests aimed to draw the true tale of Haldir's thoughts this night. "Perhaps you are simply too grand now to fraternize with the masses?"
Haldir laughed. "It is all of these things and more beside."
His bright look faded then, and the pensiveness returned. The goblet was set aside for a moment while he stretched and curled his fingers, eyes set on the angry slash across his palm. Galion eyed it with curious concern; he had not known bloodletting to be part of the wardens’ ceremony, but then there was much of soldiering that remained unfathomable to him.
“Tell me, Galion. Have I truly the makings of a Marchwarden, or am I a mere pretender in a bright cloak?”
The healer sipped his wine, enjoying the swirl of black currant and oak notes across his tongue, and considered his friend’s strange loss of confidence.
“This path has ever been at your feet, has it not? Elemmakil groomed you for this post from the first. Wherefore this maudlin turn?” He took up Haldir's hand as he spoke and ran his fingers over the red seam, soothing the flesh and closing the wound with his touch.
“This is all I have ever wanted, yet I still feel unequal to the task,” Haldir admitted with some reluctance. “Elemmakil and my father cast long shadows; I fear I will never emerge from them in my own light."
“You will. I have faith. Your men have faith. It is you alone who doubts.” Hoping to dispel the mists of sorrow and return some gaiety to his friend’s face he stretched out his leg and nudged Haldir with his foot. "Perhaps you merely fish for praise. Have you not been exalted enough this eve that you need pretty words from me to bolster you?" He leaned in to swipe the bottle, but Haldir was quicker and held it out of reach.
“Nay, rank before beauty!" he crowed before topping off his own goblet.
Galion kicked out again in mock umbrage and Haldir relinquished the bottle, lapping spilled wine from his wrist and the back of his hand.
"Let us pretend, then, I am merely fishing: do I have the markings of a leader?”
“You most certainly have the arrogance!”
“Knave! I should have you lashed for insubordination.”
Galion cocked an eyebrow smugly. “Ah, but I am no warden. You hold no sway over me.”
“Nay?” Haldir’s grin became a leer. “So if I were to order you on your knees before me…”
Galion's smile faltered for the barest of moments before he replied. “Then you send me where I would go of my own volition.”
Haldir drew breath and shifted. "Is that so?"
With the feline grace of a courtesan, Galion slipped from the couch and maneuvered between Haldir’s legs, resting his arms along Haldir's thighs.
"It is so."
His eyes dropped pointedly to the apex of Haldir's thighs, Haldir’s awakened interest showing in the strain of his breeches, before looking up coyly.
“And how would you have me serve you, here on my knees?”
Haldir’s eyes fluttered closed, and when he spoke, his voice was ragged from more than just wine. “I would see that tormenting mouth of yours put to better service than taunting me.”
“Would you?”
Galion’s hands moved to the lacing on Haldir’s breeches, loosening the knots with merciless leisure, stroking heat and hardness as they moved. Haldir’s eyes fixed on those fingers as the ties unraveled, and simply watching those long, fine digits do their lazy work quickened his breath. Behind his arousal and the pleasant flush of wine, he was still poignantly aware of the complicated nature of their friendship, its ill-defined and mutable boundaries. But oh! To indulge himself in a moment of pleasure with a true familiar on this of all nights… did he not deserve at least that much? Was he not owed some immoderation on such an occasion?
Galion was not an unseasoned pup, incognizant of the temptation he presented, yet Haldir recalled with a guilty pang his last and thwarted encounter with his healer friend, which had ended in bitterness and a wound to Galion's trust which had been slow to heal. But that night, Haldir reasoned, he had tried to take that which had not been offered, and now what he desired was presented unbidden.
Need and drink warring with reason, he reached down and brushed back the dark locks that had slipped, fine and satiny, from Galion’s braid and cupped a hand under the healer’s chin.
“Perhaps the night’s festivities have made me too bold…I do not wish you to think…”
He was silenced when Galion slipped his hands beneath his tunic and slid them slowly up the warm skin of his torso, heat blossoming beneath the parallel trails of his thumbs as he drew them down over his stomach. The healer's robe had slipped from his shoulders and shadows danced across the musculature of his chest. “Do you wish me to stop?’
“No, yet…”
“It is a congratulatory gesture, nothing more.”
At that, Galion pulled the placket of Haldir’s breeches away and wrapped those long, limber fingers around his erection, his grey eyes still watching Haldir as he began to stroke it. A shudder wracked Haldir’s body and he let his head fall back, widening the sprawl of his legs further to accommodate the healer. Oh, yes… he had earned these attentions, and relaxed into them fully.
Sublime suction and a knowing hand advanced and retreated in a rhythm that made his bollocks ache. One hand scrabbled and clawed at the damask fabric of the couch, the other traveled to the back of Galion’s head, riding its delicious course up and down his singing flesh. As Haldir undulated more feverishly under the lash of tongue and the tease of teeth, the healer quickened his pace, his hand working in concert with his mouth to bring forth that delicious spike of pleasure that was suddenly, deliriously upon him.
Breathing harshly his dénouement, Haldir caught Galion by his tunic and pulled him off the floor and in close for a winded kiss. “It is most fortunate for you that you are not under my command, gwador, because my wardens will have little opportunity to see me in this position.”
He rolled to lay Galion in his place and snaked down the couch, the friction of the damask on his sensitized flesh sending a frisson through his limbs. He plied the healer with his own show of ardent attention until Galion’s body jerked and spilled beneath him.
They fell asleep half-dressed on the couch, arms and legs casually twined. Galion woke some time later, his skin prickling in the night’s breeze. He regarded briefly the floor now littered with the legacy of ceremony-- an empty bottle, relinquished armor and discarded clothing-- heedful that, come morning, the spell woven in darkness and drink would be broken and Haldir would flee, retreating to the safety of unencumbered friendship, excusing this night as an aberration, the fault of too much wine and fraught emotion. But that would come later. He wandered into his bedroom and dragged the counterpane from his bed to cover them and settled back into the couch.
Well before dawn, he woke again as Haldir disentangled himself and moved cautiously from their nest. With stealth, he gathered his armor while Galion feigned sleep. He knew better than to ask Haldir to stay, and he did not wish to taint pleasant memories of the hours before with awkward conversation. Haldir cast no look behind him as he crept out the door, and this pained Galion a little, but there was nothing for it. Once alone, he thought briefly of moving to his bed, but in the end stayed curled on the sofa, where Haldir’s scent still lingered. Haldir had come to him in both joy and desire, to share with him his most important night. It was more than he had expected, and where Haldir was concerned, he had long ago learned to expect very little.
Next Chapter...
* * * * *
Suilad = Greetings
Iôn-nin = My son
Pen-neth = Young one
Pen-iaur =Ancient one
Muindor = Brother
Gurth a chyth-in-Lorien! = Death to the foes of Lothlorien!
Híren = My lord
Gwador = Sworn brother
A/N: Menelmacar is the constellation of Orion, and in Tolkien’s mythos, Menelmacar was put in the sky by Iluvatar to remind the elves of the courage of Túrin Turambar. Readers may also remember it as the constellation Galion taught Haldir to find when they were very young.
The inscription on Haldir’s blade is modified (hopefully correctly) from an Elvish battle cry found on councilofelrond.com.
Beleg Cuthalion was a Marchwarden of Doriath and boon companion to Túrin Turimbar. When Túrin fled from Doriath, Beleg tried unsuccessfully to convince him to return. Over the ensuing years, Beleg beseeched him repeatedly to return to Doriath, but fought valiantly at his side even when he refused. When Túrin was captured by orcs, Beleg rescued him while he was chained and unconscious. He woke up dazed and disoriented while Beleg was cutting his bonds and he mistook Beleg for one of his captors. After a struggle, Túrin killed him: "Thus ended Beleg Strongbow, truest of friends, greatest in skill of all that harboured in the woods of Beleriand in the Elder Days, at the hand of him who he most loved." (The Silmarillion, Ch. 21, "Of Turin Turambar)
Author:
kenazfictionE-mail: kenazfiction@gmail.com
Fic Journal: http://kenazfiction.livejournal.com/ or The Archive
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Borrowing the Good Professor's characters for my own amusement.
Archive: OEAM, Melethryn, AFF; The-Archive.net, others, just ask.
Feedback: of course!
Beta: Lady E
Summary: Life is a ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
Click here for the story's prologue.
Still, in dreams, he heard the cry to cut the ropes, saw his hands move to his dagger, and each night, again and again, he watched the Marchwarden fall.
The time for mourning is over.
He could even now hear the warm shadow of that voice in his mind; the words once spoken by Elemmakil to comfort him at loss of his father Haldir now heard as ghostly admonishment for his rigid sorrow and trenchant guilt.
Despite that chiding echo, he did mourn: for the dutiful friend, for the great soldier and for the lover of yore. That he had made his peace with Elemmakil and regained the cherished companion and advisor of old was some comfort, and he shuddered to contemplate the raucous misery he might now be enduring had he ungraciously maintained their alienation. Their last years serving side by side had offered closure to their tempestuous relations and had allowed Haldir once again to absorb the wisdom of a brilliant tactician, the skill of a master swordsman, and the brotherhood of a kindred soul.
And yet, regardless of all of Elemmakil's guidance, he wondered still if he were prepared for the task that lay before him.
Haldir’s world had changed swiftly and irrevocably: a Balrog of Morgoth had brought Khazad-dûm low, and the Golden Wood had come under siege on every front. Elemmakil had fallen, his death delivered by Haldir’s own hand even if the order had come from Elemmakil himself and without any other recourse; Tathalion had resigned his post, and the King had abandoned his realm and his people. A son of Doriath and a daughter of Valinor stood now in his stead. The changes of an entire age had come to pass in one year’s time, and along with them, Haldir considered as he checked and rechecked the buckles of his pauldrons and the alignment of his vambraces, the inexorable approach of what felt very much like destiny.
Orophin paused in the doorway and watched Haldir tug a comb roughly through his hair, saw the unsettled look weighing down his brother’s features. He stepped between Haldir and the mirror, forcing an end to those nervous occupations and gestured to a nearby chair.
"Sit."
He took the comb and picked carefully through silvery locks still damp from the bath. Haldir gave himself over to his brother's ministrations, and with adroit fingers, Orophin wove the warrior plaits in Haldir’s hair. Never before had he braided Haldir's hair; in their youth, it was always Rumil's locks he managed, the youngest brother having neither interest nor inclination to do much more than pull it out of his eyes in a thick tail. Now if he appeared with a more decorative arrangement, it bore the hallmarks of Feredir’s neat hand.
"I remember watching Naneth do this for Ada. I believed she must have used some sort of enchantment to make her fingers dance so quickly through his hair, so perfectly she worked it.”
Orophin smiled mildly remembering his early attempts to mimic her, how she would open her hands to show him how she held the strands, how to cross them over and pick them up again, but his braids had come out crooked and misshapen. Under his mother’s hands, his father would close his eyes, a look of serene contentment softening his chiseled face. Watching their ritual, he saw how much his father loved his mother's touch, even in that simple way.
Looking up from his work, Orophin saw Haldir's face in the mirror and was taken aback by the distress painted there. Their eyes met in the glass.
"Does he see us, do you think? Does he know?"
There was no need to ask who; his memory was ever-present here, the tread of his footsteps held in the very grain of the floorboards, his handiwork evident in every room, his strong features greeting them even now in the mirror. Orophin squeezed Haldir’s shoulder and smiled.
"He knows, and he is proud."
Rúmil’s footsteps echoed on the landing, and a moment later, the archer ducked into Haldir’s chamber. He looked Haldir up and down and a smile blossomed across his face.
“You cut a fine figure, muindor…like Menelmacar come down from the firmament! Oh, and your nephew bade you accept this." He handed Haldir a beautifully etched bottle—a rare prize in itself, but when filled with the choicest wine of a master vintner, 'twas a kingly gift, indeed.
"And now I have come to fetch you," the youngest declared. "The procession is ready to begin.”
If Haldir blanched slightly, his brothers conspired not to notice. Rúmil bounded back down the stairs and Haldir would have followed if Orophin had not waylaid him a moment more.
“Might I wear your sword tonight, muindor? You will receive another this eve, and you would do me an honor to let me carry yours.”
Haldir’s eyes glittered brightly at the request. As they stepped out of the talan, Orophin spoke softly in his ear.
"I, too, am proud."
The song of a drum, a proud rhythm of an ancient heartbeat, preceded a sadly foreshortened line of Galadhrim warriors. At their head, Haldir walked alone. He held his breath as he ascended the massive spiraling staircase of Caras Galadhon in regulated steps, the look of restrained pride on his face masking the discordance of grief, guilt and uncertainty within.
Lanterns cast the stairs in a hazy blue glow and Haldir’s armor fairly glittered even in the low light. Strange it was to don armor but to keep an empty sheath, to be girded in plate yet wear neither cape nor helm. Despite the defense of metal, mail and leather, he felt uncomfortably exposed. How long had he known he was fated for this office? It seemed as if he had held that knowledge since his very begetting. His father’s blood ran in his veins, even now singing to him of honor and duty. Elemmakil’s voice echoed in the dark cavern of his heart, his song much the same. Yet now that the moment was upon him, his conviction faltered.
The hall radiated an ethereal aura, but from whence it came he could not discern. Celeborn stood flanked by his sentinels and Galadriel stood silently behind them. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied his brothers beaming at him, their backs straight and tall and their eyes bright with shared joy.
A soldier rather than a king, Celeborn eschewed the pageantry of Amdir and Amroth for austere martial ritual. But if Celeborn’s ceremony lacked pomp and grandeur, it more than compensated with solemn dignity. He spoke of Haldir’s skill and courage, and of the sacrifices made by those who had gone before with such pride and reverence that the heart of every warrior lightened to hear him speak.
At Celeborn’s signal the first sentinel stepped forward, presenting Celeborn with that item Haldir both dreaded and desired: the red cloak. It is heavy, this mantle, Haldir thought as Celeborn fastened it around his shoulders. The foliate motif of the fibula was the same design as his father's. How many mornings had he climbed upon a stool, or stretched to his toes, to fasten the Mallorn leaf at his father’s shoulder, seen him lift his chin and observe his son out of the corner of his eye, a warm smile tipping up the corners of his mouth? His father had held faith in him, knew what his fate held, even then. His heart swelled in his chest with gratefulness and great love. He sank silently to one knee as much from the overwhelming feeling of awe as from the necessity of the ritual.
The second sentinel advanced bearing a long, curved sword. His father’s blade made new! It was the self-same weapon Orophin had carried since Guilin had fallen on the Dagorlad; to Haldir, it was a treasure beyond reckoning, imbued with all the strength and honor of his kin. The scars of battle had been smoothed and polished till the blade seemed almost a light unto itself. He saw the tengwar engraved down the face: Gurth a chyth-in-Lorien! He turned his head just enough to find Orophin and meet the vitreous gleam of his brother's gaze with his own. Lorien’s lord held the sword aloft in his hands, and all eyes in the room rose to it. He brought it down in front of Haldir, who laid his hands reverently upon the blade.
“By root and by star, by the blood in my veins, in the presence of Iluvatar, I, Haldir, Son of Guilin, take this sword for Lothlorien, that I might safeguard all that lies within her borders with all that I possess, even unto the sacrifice of my immortal life. Let that life be forfeit should I ever forsake this oath."
"Haldir, son of Guilin, is your oath freely given?"
"My oath is freely given, my Lord."
He kissed the blade, and Celeborn placed the sword in his hands. He marveled at its beauty in the strange light of the hall, brandishing it once before guiding it into its scabbard. Once the tip found its home in the throat of the casing, he released his grip and listened to the appealing ring it made as it slid home.
“Rise, Haldir, Marchwarden of Lorien. See the faces of those who serve at your side.”
He turned to gaze into the sea of blue cloaks, watched with a pounding heart the wake that rippled through it as each head incline and every Elf brought his hand to his heart in a gesture of respect. It was a gesture he readily returned.
“Guardians of Lorien, take heart!" Celeborn exhorted. "Let the strength and courage of your Marchwarden remind you of your own oaths in these dark times. Let the memory of those who have gone before reside in your hearts and minds. Go forth now and revel in this new beginning. From the ashes has risen the mighty Galadhrim army!"
A cheer went up from the guardians and a flute joined the drum to lead the ranks out of the hall and down to the garrison where much wine, and much-needed merriment, awaited them.
The sentinels stepped forth and ushered the last lingering observers out, leaving the Marchwarden alone in the room with his Lord and Lady. Celeborn laid a paternal hand on his back.
“You have sworn fealty, Haldir, and offered your sword to your realm. But I would have you know all of what you protect. Come.”
He followed down a narrow stairway, a passage clearly intended for the Lord and Lady alone, and walked with them to a secluded glade sheltered at the foot of the enormous mallorn. Haldir had heard tales of the Lady’s mirror which allowed her visions of that which might come to pass, but his mind had conjured images of some grand and ornate object, not the simple silver basin supported by slender stone caryatids. The air in the grove seemed suffused with enchantment, and Haldir knew that the little bower could only be discovered by one whose presence was demanded by the Lady or her mirror.
Galadriel stood, the embodiment of ethereal grace, and inclined her head to him, greeting him with her beatific smile. He felt her presence sweeping his mind, incorporeal fingers caressing his thoughts.
Suilad, Haldir, Marchwarden of Lorien.
He was unnerved, even nettled, by the sudden intrusion, but he submitted, sensing some crucial reason lay behind her display of prowess. Her dulcet voice chimed in his head though her lips remained inscrutably poised.
Fear not, Haldir. I will not touch what you do not wish to share, nor will I trespass unbidden, but you must understand what else it is you safeguard here.
Extending one fair hand, Haldir saw the cold glitter of a star-shaped adamant stone set in mithril. The band itself was intricately woven and scrolled, swirling around the facets of the stone like vines, and the jewel sparkled with unearthly light. His eyes widened at this unexpected revelation. Though he had never seen one, nor even heard them described, he knew with absolute certainty that Galadriel bore one of Celebrimbor’s storied Elven rings.
This is Nenya, the Ring of Water.
“She protects this realm as you do, yet she requires your protection as well. Will you guard her with your own blood?"
The sound of Celeborn’s voice, earthy and deep and most decidedly issuing from the strapping figure behind him and not from the recesses of his mind, startled Haldir. He was uncertain if the ‘she’ he spoke of referenced Galadriel or her ring. Likely it was both. He presented his hand to Celeborn, who swiftly opened the flesh of his palm with the edge of his dagger. Haldir’s blood flowed crimson to the ground at Galadriel’s feet and was swallowed up by the earth. He shivered; his charge felt now even more solemn: he had been drawn into a sacred trust he had not expected, and the burn and throb of the wound would remind him persistently throughout the night of the profundity of his oath.
Her presence here is known only to those who must know, and to all others it appears as nothing more than a fine bauble. You are one of those who must know. Guard her well, Marchwarden, and she will guard us all.
Galadriel withdrew her whispering touch but held his eyes for a long while and he did his best to set aside his discomfiture under her appraising gaze. When at last she nodded to him, signaling the affirmation of his vow, he took her long, tapering fingers in his hand, finding that as delicate as they were, they were also warm and strong. He kissed the pale hand, silently vowing to keep its secret.
Haldir arrived at his own revels belated and subdued. He felt well and truly overwhelmed, and the disclosure of his Lord and Lady inspired many questions. Would the presence of a Ring of Power in these woods provide them with a greater measure of security, or would it call to evil as the flame beckons the moth? Who besides the Ringbearers knew of the rings and their whereabouts? He had little time to contemplate these mysteries before others took notice of his arrival, and Rúmil launched himself indecorously at him in welcome, Taurnil following close behind with a brimming mazer of wine.
It was a blessing to have cause for celebration. The prior seasons had been spent mourning the dead and repairing the ravages wrought on the Wood. Wine blunted the hard edge of grief and familiar songs sung with brothers-in-arms brought succoring levity to the wardens of Lorien. One by one, they approached Haldir and made their oaths to him in their own private and personal ways. Feredir, unsurprisingly, kept his distance, but his face had lost the callow sneer that often sharpened his otherwise handsome features. He still limped from the injury he had received on the banks of the Anduin.
Haldir was plied with much wine and merrily feted as was the tradition of the guards. A young archer with whom Haldir had a passing acquaintance made himself conspicuous, keeping himself in Haldir's line of vision constantly throughout the night without ever coming too near. With the poignant chagrin of hindsight, Haldir recalled his own similarly brash overtures to Elemmakil. The thought of it made him smile, as did the persistent archer. Another night, perhaps, he would have given the Elf a certain look, a subtle signal, and they would have slipped off together, but tonight the thought held no appeal. Though the wine warmed his belly and the laughter of his comrades lightened his spirit, the significance of the evening’s events had made him thoughtful and he wished for quieter company. There was also one whose encouragement he desired to hear. After a time, he bade goodnight to his brothers and a select few of his closer companions and edged away to the trails beyond the garrison. The archer did not see him go.
Another, however, did. An unexpected figure stepped out from the darkness, a bold stride made awkward by a wound not yet healed. The moon cast a wary glow on his vulpine features. Chin held high, he regarded the Marchwarden before him. No words crossed his lips; speech was, perhaps, too high a price for pride to extract, but the inclination of his head and the touch of hand to heart conveyed his message, and his salute was returned in kind. Clasping forearms, their silent accord was marked by the night birds and the trees alone.
The scuff of footfalls on the winding staircase and the familiar cadence of stiff leather soles on worn wood taking two steps at a time alerted Galion to his imminent visitor. He grinned as the quiet of the night was gently breached by the hum of a jaunty martial tune.
Haldir did not stop to knock, but pushed open the door far enough to spy his friend in a most familiar pose-- stretched out on his couch in his nightclothes with a book in hand-- nor did he wait for Galion’s invitation before crossing the threshold.
The healer's eyes lingered for a beat on his reading, and when at last he looked up, his heart seized: arrayed in polished plate and glowing mail, new crimson cloak gracing broad, proud shoulders, Haldir was as glorious and imposing as Galion had ever seen him even if his face evinced some indefinable restlessness.
He comes in the guise of Beleg Cuthalion, Galion thought in wonder. Yet in truth, it is Túrin he plays. He is the hero and I the one who seeks him faithfully, the one who follows him, as Beleg followed Túrin, even to his doom.
Moonlight coursed over his magnificent form and burnished the graceful curves of his armor before he closed the door behind him. He carried a bottle of what Galion recognized as Ethuilion’s finest vintage in his hand, a gift, no doubt, to his uncle on this most momentous day.
"Would you deny them their guest of honor, then?" he teased.
"They are all deep in their cups."
“And you are not?”
A noncommittal shrug rolled upward into a sly smile, the look of abstraction dispersing with the lift of his shoulders. He swept through the talan, scarlet cape snapping at his heels, and the healer heard him in the kitchen, rooting in the cabinets. He returned with goblets in hand and breezily slapped Galion’s legs off the sofa, settling himself in their stead while Galion snorted at the easy way he commandeered the better part of the cushion, sprawling magnificently, as if he were a king on his throne.
“By all means, make yourself comfortable, híren,” Galion laughed.
Haldir grinned over the goblets and handed one to his friend, who lifted it in a silent toast. With a series of rhythmic clicks, Haldir disassembled his armor and pulled his heavy hauberk over his head, letting it slump noisily to the floor, stopping once to refill his already empty mazer.
"So why have you come to steal my cushions and disrupt my reading? Was your armor too heavy for your delicate limbs to withstand? Too many stripling soldiers vying for your attention?" Galion's jests aimed to draw the true tale of Haldir's thoughts this night. "Perhaps you are simply too grand now to fraternize with the masses?"
Haldir laughed. "It is all of these things and more beside."
His bright look faded then, and the pensiveness returned. The goblet was set aside for a moment while he stretched and curled his fingers, eyes set on the angry slash across his palm. Galion eyed it with curious concern; he had not known bloodletting to be part of the wardens’ ceremony, but then there was much of soldiering that remained unfathomable to him.
“Tell me, Galion. Have I truly the makings of a Marchwarden, or am I a mere pretender in a bright cloak?”
The healer sipped his wine, enjoying the swirl of black currant and oak notes across his tongue, and considered his friend’s strange loss of confidence.
“This path has ever been at your feet, has it not? Elemmakil groomed you for this post from the first. Wherefore this maudlin turn?” He took up Haldir's hand as he spoke and ran his fingers over the red seam, soothing the flesh and closing the wound with his touch.
“This is all I have ever wanted, yet I still feel unequal to the task,” Haldir admitted with some reluctance. “Elemmakil and my father cast long shadows; I fear I will never emerge from them in my own light."
“You will. I have faith. Your men have faith. It is you alone who doubts.” Hoping to dispel the mists of sorrow and return some gaiety to his friend’s face he stretched out his leg and nudged Haldir with his foot. "Perhaps you merely fish for praise. Have you not been exalted enough this eve that you need pretty words from me to bolster you?" He leaned in to swipe the bottle, but Haldir was quicker and held it out of reach.
“Nay, rank before beauty!" he crowed before topping off his own goblet.
Galion kicked out again in mock umbrage and Haldir relinquished the bottle, lapping spilled wine from his wrist and the back of his hand.
"Let us pretend, then, I am merely fishing: do I have the markings of a leader?”
“You most certainly have the arrogance!”
“Knave! I should have you lashed for insubordination.”
Galion cocked an eyebrow smugly. “Ah, but I am no warden. You hold no sway over me.”
“Nay?” Haldir’s grin became a leer. “So if I were to order you on your knees before me…”
Galion's smile faltered for the barest of moments before he replied. “Then you send me where I would go of my own volition.”
Haldir drew breath and shifted. "Is that so?"
With the feline grace of a courtesan, Galion slipped from the couch and maneuvered between Haldir’s legs, resting his arms along Haldir's thighs.
"It is so."
His eyes dropped pointedly to the apex of Haldir's thighs, Haldir’s awakened interest showing in the strain of his breeches, before looking up coyly.
“And how would you have me serve you, here on my knees?”
Haldir’s eyes fluttered closed, and when he spoke, his voice was ragged from more than just wine. “I would see that tormenting mouth of yours put to better service than taunting me.”
“Would you?”
Galion’s hands moved to the lacing on Haldir’s breeches, loosening the knots with merciless leisure, stroking heat and hardness as they moved. Haldir’s eyes fixed on those fingers as the ties unraveled, and simply watching those long, fine digits do their lazy work quickened his breath. Behind his arousal and the pleasant flush of wine, he was still poignantly aware of the complicated nature of their friendship, its ill-defined and mutable boundaries. But oh! To indulge himself in a moment of pleasure with a true familiar on this of all nights… did he not deserve at least that much? Was he not owed some immoderation on such an occasion?
Galion was not an unseasoned pup, incognizant of the temptation he presented, yet Haldir recalled with a guilty pang his last and thwarted encounter with his healer friend, which had ended in bitterness and a wound to Galion's trust which had been slow to heal. But that night, Haldir reasoned, he had tried to take that which had not been offered, and now what he desired was presented unbidden.
Need and drink warring with reason, he reached down and brushed back the dark locks that had slipped, fine and satiny, from Galion’s braid and cupped a hand under the healer’s chin.
“Perhaps the night’s festivities have made me too bold…I do not wish you to think…”
He was silenced when Galion slipped his hands beneath his tunic and slid them slowly up the warm skin of his torso, heat blossoming beneath the parallel trails of his thumbs as he drew them down over his stomach. The healer's robe had slipped from his shoulders and shadows danced across the musculature of his chest. “Do you wish me to stop?’
“No, yet…”
“It is a congratulatory gesture, nothing more.”
At that, Galion pulled the placket of Haldir’s breeches away and wrapped those long, limber fingers around his erection, his grey eyes still watching Haldir as he began to stroke it. A shudder wracked Haldir’s body and he let his head fall back, widening the sprawl of his legs further to accommodate the healer. Oh, yes… he had earned these attentions, and relaxed into them fully.
Sublime suction and a knowing hand advanced and retreated in a rhythm that made his bollocks ache. One hand scrabbled and clawed at the damask fabric of the couch, the other traveled to the back of Galion’s head, riding its delicious course up and down his singing flesh. As Haldir undulated more feverishly under the lash of tongue and the tease of teeth, the healer quickened his pace, his hand working in concert with his mouth to bring forth that delicious spike of pleasure that was suddenly, deliriously upon him.
Breathing harshly his dénouement, Haldir caught Galion by his tunic and pulled him off the floor and in close for a winded kiss. “It is most fortunate for you that you are not under my command, gwador, because my wardens will have little opportunity to see me in this position.”
He rolled to lay Galion in his place and snaked down the couch, the friction of the damask on his sensitized flesh sending a frisson through his limbs. He plied the healer with his own show of ardent attention until Galion’s body jerked and spilled beneath him.
They fell asleep half-dressed on the couch, arms and legs casually twined. Galion woke some time later, his skin prickling in the night’s breeze. He regarded briefly the floor now littered with the legacy of ceremony-- an empty bottle, relinquished armor and discarded clothing-- heedful that, come morning, the spell woven in darkness and drink would be broken and Haldir would flee, retreating to the safety of unencumbered friendship, excusing this night as an aberration, the fault of too much wine and fraught emotion. But that would come later. He wandered into his bedroom and dragged the counterpane from his bed to cover them and settled back into the couch.
Well before dawn, he woke again as Haldir disentangled himself and moved cautiously from their nest. With stealth, he gathered his armor while Galion feigned sleep. He knew better than to ask Haldir to stay, and he did not wish to taint pleasant memories of the hours before with awkward conversation. Haldir cast no look behind him as he crept out the door, and this pained Galion a little, but there was nothing for it. Once alone, he thought briefly of moving to his bed, but in the end stayed curled on the sofa, where Haldir’s scent still lingered. Haldir had come to him in both joy and desire, to share with him his most important night. It was more than he had expected, and where Haldir was concerned, he had long ago learned to expect very little.
Next Chapter...
* * * * *
Suilad = Greetings
Iôn-nin = My son
Pen-neth = Young one
Pen-iaur =Ancient one
Muindor = Brother
Gurth a chyth-in-Lorien! = Death to the foes of Lothlorien!
Híren = My lord
Gwador = Sworn brother
A/N: Menelmacar is the constellation of Orion, and in Tolkien’s mythos, Menelmacar was put in the sky by Iluvatar to remind the elves of the courage of Túrin Turambar. Readers may also remember it as the constellation Galion taught Haldir to find when they were very young.
The inscription on Haldir’s blade is modified (hopefully correctly) from an Elvish battle cry found on councilofelrond.com.
Beleg Cuthalion was a Marchwarden of Doriath and boon companion to Túrin Turimbar. When Túrin fled from Doriath, Beleg tried unsuccessfully to convince him to return. Over the ensuing years, Beleg beseeched him repeatedly to return to Doriath, but fought valiantly at his side even when he refused. When Túrin was captured by orcs, Beleg rescued him while he was chained and unconscious. He woke up dazed and disoriented while Beleg was cutting his bonds and he mistook Beleg for one of his captors. After a struggle, Túrin killed him: "Thus ended Beleg Strongbow, truest of friends, greatest in skill of all that harboured in the woods of Beleriand in the Elder Days, at the hand of him who he most loved." (The Silmarillion, Ch. 21, "Of Turin Turambar)
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Date: 2006-02-28 05:37 pm (UTC)What a great chapter! As always, the rhythm is perfect, the dialogue is brilliant and the details are captivating. I especially loved the bit about Orophin braiding his brother's hair... the significance, the emotion -lovely!
A most beautiful ceremony, simple yet worthy of one such as Lothlorien's newest Marchwarden. Also, I truly appreciated your inclusion of Nenya's existence... it adds so much to the meaning behind Haldir's role as protector of the Golden Wood's borders. You depicted the revelation in a thoughtful, serious, respective and humble manner. Well done!
As for Galion... well... my heart aches for him, yet I cannot pity him for he holds his own in such an admiring way. I didn't think I could appreciate a character more than the star of this tale, yet I find myself loving the healer as much as I've come to hold your Haldir close to my heart. This fic abounds with incredible characterization.
Absolutely wonderful writing Kenaz. I salute you.
Hugs,
Anoriell
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Date: 2006-03-03 02:10 am (UTC)This has been one of my favorite chapters to write, mainly because it's such a pivotal point in Haldir's life... up there with the day his father died, the day Elemmakil died, and the day he himself almost died. I wanted to make sure he was given the pomp and circumstance he was due as he strides forth in his red cloak towards destiny, but at the same time I wanted to make it a sober and stately affair.
And yes, Galion is a dear. I want a Galion for my very own! :) I'm glad you're enjoying him!
As always, your support thrills and humbles me... Thank you.
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Date: 2006-02-28 06:45 pm (UTC)The interaction between the brothers is always lovely... little touches like Orophin braiding Haldir's hair, or Rúmil not bothering with his, are what bring the story to life.
Haldir's ceremony was very powerful and I really liked hearing his thoughts.
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Date: 2006-03-03 01:59 am (UTC)I think you may rather like the next chapter... :)
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Date: 2006-02-28 11:47 pm (UTC)I am anxiously looking forward to more...and hoping for a little less heartbreak, this time! **grin**
**hugs**
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Date: 2006-03-03 02:00 am (UTC)I will try to balance the heartbreak with a little happiness this time around. ;)
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Date: 2006-03-01 06:13 am (UTC)Just lovely, Kenaz. A beautifully written tie-in to the previous part, tying and ending knot in some threads and weaving in the start of new ones. I love how you write Haldir as such a complex character, now with even more facets. You did an excellent job of introducing Celeborn and Galadriel too, and I loved how they took Haldir into their confidence regarding Nenya.
Keep writing hon, I look forward to every chapter.
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Date: 2006-03-03 02:03 am (UTC)More to come!
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Date: 2006-03-01 08:56 am (UTC)And of course the details, the rhythm, the characterization - everything is perfect as ever. You manage to weave an intricate and colourful tapestry of a story. Kudos to you!
*hugs*
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Date: 2006-03-03 02:05 am (UTC)I will definitely try to give everyone a side-dish of cheer with their angst this time around! :)
Thanks, Ryo!
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Date: 2006-03-01 02:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-03 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 05:30 pm (UTC)I am very glad that Ferdir and Haldir finally resolved all their differences and very happy for Rumil who is loved and cherished by his partner (sounds modern, doesn't it? lol)!
Just one question, I've read I can't recall where that Lady's mirror was previously not her actually. Is it correct? I am just wondering, because I am not so familiar with Silmarillion...
Thank you Kenaz for a wonderful and very interesting story!
P.S. I still am worried for relationship between Haldir and Galion.
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Date: 2006-03-03 02:23 am (UTC)I agree-- I'm glad Feredir is so good to Rumil, even if it drives Haldir crazy.
I had a hard time coming up with information on Galadriel's mirror and its history, and after some thought I decided it didn't matter: most people think of the Mirror as Galadriel's, regardless of where it originated, and for the purposes of this story, I thought it would just be too much information to discuss it. I try to keep things as canon as possible, but sometimes you just have to shrug and let it go or you'll go crazy! :)
I'm sorry to tell you that you will *continue* to worry about Haldir and Galion...
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Date: 2006-03-03 02:31 am (UTC)I'm sorry to tell you that you will *continue* to worry about Haldir and Galion...
Oh dear, you didn't ease my worries at all:) But I am gonna stick with you till the end of Haldir's new adventure!:)
Thanks again for so very interesting fiction!
P.S. I am very sorry I misspelled Feredir's name I hope he will forgive me:)
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Date: 2006-03-01 09:41 pm (UTC)I love the fact that you showed Haldir's preparation for the ceremony. The bonding between the brothers was beautifully presented, and is an apt but subtle reminder of the father that they had lost. I think that, despite all the talk about putting duty in front of love and desire, family is still a very important influence in Haldir's character. That is, in a way, one of the deciding differences between him and Elemmakil, for which I hold out hope that Haldir will find it within himself to feel love for another, in the fullness of time.
The ceremony is appropriately solemn and meaningful, with wonderful attention to detail, and I definitely agree with Nenya being revealed to him. I really liked the repetition of events with the hopeful archer, as it gives the sense of things having come full circle.
The scene with Galion made me smile, as it showed them as being friends again, albeit with a few issues that neither seems keen on looking at closely. Very hot, erm, mutual pleasuring *nods* and it's nice that Haldir at leasr tries to insert some reason into his muddled thoughts. My heart aches for poor Galion, though. That is a very touching last line there ("It was more than he had expected, and where Haldir was concerned, he had long ago learned to expect very little."); it is sad, that he has so little hope for any future love between them, yet it also shows that he knows Haldir very well.
Brilliant work. Please update soon, sweets!
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Date: 2006-03-03 02:29 am (UTC)As I said to Tux, I like to think about how the brothers interacted with each other. As an only child, it's easy to idealize what it must be like to have brothers. I think you're right-- Haldir's love for his brothers strengthens him in ways he isn't even aware of, and Elemmakil didn't have that. Definitely has an impact on how they approach love and relationships.
I really enjoyed writing the ceremony because Ithink it was a pivital point in Haldir's life-- probably one of the most important days he will ever have. I wanted it to carry that kind of weight without being too bogged down by frippery, and I imagine that Celeborn is really a no-frills kind of Elf. I hope I'll get to play with him some more in the tale- I think he is vastly underappreciated.
I also had a lot of fun writing that smut, but you probably guessed that. ;) But given the choice between reason and sex, Haldir is always going to choose the latter. *sigh*
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Date: 2006-03-09 10:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-13 02:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-02 10:26 am (UTC)