Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin 10

Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin

Part 10

Posted: August 2005
Title: Marchwarden: Son of Guilin
Author: Kenaz

*****

Rúmil's face, turned not quite in profile, caught the lantern light and its diffuse glow softened his cervine features. He still looked almost a child, though the day was nigh upon them that he would be counted a child no more. He stood at his window, feeling the caress of the night's breeze against his the back of his neck, silently regarding his eldest brother who hovered diffidently just inside the doorway.

"I am sorry, Rúmil. I had no choice in it. Please know I would rather be here with you."

He shrugged. He knew Haldir was sore aggrieved that he would miss his begetting day, the day he would at last come of age, but he could not entirely hide the fact that his brother's absence stung him, whether he had choice in it or no. It did not help matters that Feredir had sown discord between them, though Rúmil insisted-- silently, in his own mind, at least—that he had not done so by design. In any case, things had not sat easily between them since. And now Haldir was departing for who could say how long. One part of him wished to run to his brother and beg him not to leave, while another wished to keep his peace, and by doing so punish Haldir for embarrassing him in front of an elf he found desirable, as well as for setting off on this adventure without him. In truth, 'twas being once again left behind that hurt him most.

Haldir's heart sank. He could think of no worse a parting of the ways than to take leave of his brother with conflict between them, and he had endeavored in every way he could think of to make amends. But on this, his final night in Lorien, the distance twixt them seemed to reach to the frigid Forodwaith and back. In a final appeal, he brought forth the silver token from his purse. If his clumsy words of reconciliation failed, perhaps the persistent presence of a girdle 'round his finger might in time soften his brother's disdain.

"I have a gift for you. I hope you will accept it, though it comes not on the proper day of your begetting. Will you have it, Rúmil?"

He reached out to his brother, uncurling one by one his long fingers to reveal the gleaming silver ring in his palm, the incandescence thrown off by flickering flame picking out the carved leaves about the band. Rúmil turned his head to look, a riot of emotion dancing over his face like shadows. He plucked the ring from Haldir's hand and held it up, his mouth falling open as he beheld the names of the brothers winding around the inmost circle; Haldir, Orophin and Rumil side by side in an eternal remembrance of their dissoluble bond.

"Muindor...it is beautiful. You gift me with something finer than I deserve."

Pride swelled Haldir's heart almost to breaking. "Know you whence your ring was begotten, little brother?" he asked quietly, his smile tender.

The eyes of Guilin's youngest son lit with wonder and gratitude as the realization came to him, along with a pang of self-reproof for his sullenness, and his tapered fingers caressed the metal reverently. He had been overawed at the sight of it, but as full comprehension of his gift's provenance dawned, his throat tightened almost beyond ability to speak. He turned away to the window, his words falling from his
bowed head in a choked whisper as he slid the ring—a perfect fit—on his finger.

" Ada and naneth...their betrothal rings."

Haldir stepped up behind his brother, wrapping his arms tight around a frame no longer the withy-limbed figure of youth, but the tall, lean form of a soldier grown. He lay his cheek to his brother's, savoring the soft skin and the crest of sculptured bone beneath. Had Rúmil always been so winsome? Of the three, it had been Rúmil alone who carried their mother's fine-boned beauty; Haldir himself, as Orophin, had favored their father, heavier of build and with bolder features.

"They would be proud of you, Rúmil, proud of what you have become. Would you think it a condescension were I to say that I, too, am proud? That I could ask for no dearer a brother?"

With unexpected vehemence, Rúmil twisted in Haldir's arms to face him and threw his arms around the archer's broad chest, burying his face in the familiar crook of his neck, overstrung by the simultaneous rush of love for his brother, and contrition for his earlier peevishness.

"Nay, Haldir. 'Tis no condescension; I am heartened to hear you speak so. Things have not been well between us since..."

Haldir tightened his grip, cutting off his brother's words.

"Speak not of it, muindor. You are grown now, and your choices are your own. I would not have us part aggrieved."

Pulling back just far enough to behold his brother's eyes, a blue the color of tourmaline identical in shade to his own holding Faelas' gentle wisdom and Guilin's noble strength, Rúmil made no attempt to bar the tears that threatened to overspill their rims.

"I shall miss you terribly. Please promise your sojourns will not keep you too long away."

And as he had done long ago for Orophin, and as his father had done ever before for him, Haldir pressed a kiss to the tender skin of Rúmil's brow.

"I will come back to you," he said, "for I do not willingly part from you."

He harkened to Orophin's counsel and spoke naught else of Feredir. The silence between them was no longer fraught, but a consoling blanket, a shroud of love and forgiveness, binding them together.

*****

The mist hung low, a fine net stretched tree to tree to cradle cool morning air. The wan luminescence of dawn's early hours gave way incrementally to the golden light of true morning and all manner of creatures were astir in the woods, waking from their slumbers or foraging the day's first meal. Early risers performed their ablutions and met the day while their long-sleeping counterparts burrowed into their pillows, clinging to their slumber.

The sorrel destrier grunted indignantly and tossed her head as Haldir tightened the surcingle, tugging each of his packs to make sure they held tight. He mollified her with a gentle rub of her velvety muzzle. "Petulance does not become so lovely a lady," he teased. She whickered and half-heartedly nipped at his back when he turned aside.

The healers arrived together, trekking as a group from the houses of healing down to the stable. It was strange to see Galion strapped with a blade, as healers did not take up arms but under most dire need. Even on the Dagorlad, they had walked unarmed, for had the Alliance been repelled far enough for Mordor's armies to reach their tents, it would have signaled their fates sealed beyond hope of salvation by any sword or arrow. That their party could not go forth unarmed this day was a baleful reminder that the sacrifices made on that field had secured only ephemeral victory.

The Imladris guards had already mounted, their faces turned toward the pathway leading to the outer borders of the wood, and a dark horse stamped impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot, mirroring his rider's readiness to begin the homeward journey.

"Haldir..."

Pivoting at the whisper of his name, Haldir spied Elemmakil standing at the fringes of the group. His heart dropped into his stomach; he had been distraught by the possibility that the Marchwarden would let him depart without so much as a farewell, yet now that he had arrived to do just that, Haldir still felt a roiling in his gut. He swallowed hard and tried as best he could to present a face shuttered of any emotion.

Elemmakil's gaze faltered; he, too, had debated the wisdom of seeing the archer off, but in the end his strength faltered, and now he stood before his companion heart-sore and tongue-tied. Haldir was still wroth with him for sending him away, believing it an expedient means to put him aside, and he did not blame the warden for feeling thus, as he was not entirely mistaken. What Haldir failed to ken was that this decision grieved Elemmakil in equal measure.

He clasped Haldir's shoulder, gripping fast, as if to draw a sustaining memory from that final touch. Blue eyes met grey and thoughts unvoiced passed tentatively between them. It was all the Marchwarden could do not to throw decorum aside and pull Haldir into a crushing embrace. But he knew that would not be meet for more reasons than mere soldierly deportment.

"You will learn much... All these experiences will serve you well."

Haldir nodded tightly, but could not bring himself to speak.

"Travel safely, my friend."

My friend. Haldir's jaw twitched at the casual appellation and he choked back the misery strangling his chest as they parted. His face gave nothing away, but then, neither did the Marchwarden's. He roughly swung himself up on his horse's back, eager now to put as many leagues between him and the source of this hollow, twisting pain as he could, and soonest. Lost to his own umbrage, he did not see the stiffening of the Marchwarden's limbs, every muscle engaged in its fight not to jerk Haldir from his mount and countermand his mission.

Yet in the end, the Marchwarden stood down, and the company wheeled their horses 'round, the Imladris guards at their head, making their way out of the woods. As the hollered farewell of the wardens rang out to them from the marches, they turned away from Lothlorien and began their trek.

*****

The first leg of their journey was the most grueling by far, into Hithaeglir and up the Dimril Stair. Even with warm weather sparing them the brunt of Caradhras' foul temper, the climb was steep and treacherous, the tight, uneven paths through the mountain at times barely navigable. Nights were passed uncomfortably, with neither fire nor much sleep, and all the riders breathed a sigh of relief when the narrow Redhorn Pass finally gave way to the flat land below.

In the Second Age, the proud realm of Eregion had risen at the foot of the Misty Mountains where they now turned out their mounts to graze. This had been the realm Celeborn and his mate had settled, a land that had seen the rise of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain in whose forges were birthed the Rings of Power. Gone now were even the crumbling ruins of Ost-en-Edhel, every stone laid to waste by Sauron's dark forces long ago. Grass and low scrub reclaimed the earth where once a city fair as Tirion stood; only a crescent of great elms remained to show the careful work of elven hands.

"It is as if they had never been here," said Haldir, his voice pitched low in respect.

Celeborn straightened his spine, his face inscrutable and still as a statue.

"The trees remember," he returned.

Keen eyes and steady hands had brought down game enough to feed the lot. After the meal, as Celeborn and the healers lingered about the fire, the guard gathered together, and after a moment, a loud groan arose from their number. Haldir soon returned, tossing a twig into the flames.

"Ausir and I pulled short sticks; we take second watch tonight."

Haldir preferred the first watch, finding it far easier to stay awake the long night through to his shift than to force sleep at an early hour only to be roughly woken after succumbing to its charms for what felt like mere moments. Galion offered to send him to sleep but Haldir shook his head. "After such arduous travels, it cannot be too far off for me."

Inside their tent, two bedrolls lay abreast under the peaked canvas roof. Haldir sank to his side, propping his head on his hand as Galion crawled in beside him. "I came upon our old hiding place by the stream a few days past. I thought back to the time you pulled a thorn from my foot. You were a healer even then."

Galion smiled, settling himself under the cloak now pressed into service as a blanket, the glow of recollected happiness alight in his face. Haldir looked at him thoughtfully now, cocking his head in his palm.

"When did you first realize that you had the healing gift? Do you remember?"

Galion remembered quite clearly. The memory alone was potent enough to change the fust of dry earth beneath his back to the verdancy of herbs and the tang of antiseptic which had seemed right and familiar to him from the first time he knew them.

"Naneth brought me to the healing houses from the day I was old enough to keep out from underfoot. I did little but toddle after her, tidying up and rolling bandages, occasionally measuring herbs and root powders under her watchful eye."

Haldir grinned. "You told me they had named you 'Chief Bandage Roller.' You were quite proud of that." His grin became a chuckle. "I remember being quite put out that I had no such title of my own!"

"Had I known, I would have made you my assistant," Galion teased. "It would have made the time pass more quickly." As he pulled forth his recollections, his eyes took a far-away cast, narrowing as if to sharpen the focus of soft-edged visions.

"Then came the day of the elf with the broken leg, or so it was ever after dubbed in my mind. Little else I recall of that day, not the elf's identity nor the circumstances of his injury, only that his leg was broken and he was in great pain."

"He had been given a draught that he might sleep while my mother set the bone. She left me alone in the surgery for a time, and I could not take my eyes from him, from his leg. I was overwhelmed by the need to touch it. It was as if my hands acted of their own volition, drawn by his pain, while I could do naught but watch. When I touched him, a languid warmth settled over me... my entire body began to tingle."

Haldir's grin became a full-blown leer and Galion cuffed his head playfully. "Not in that manner, knave! I can describe it only as something that felt...right. And it intensified the longer I touched, pulling me down and deep. It was as though I had become part of that leg, had seeped into the marrow of the bone, flowing like blood..."

"Incredible," Haldir said softly, jests put aside. He noted the line crossing his friend's brow. It appeared only when he was distraught or deeply focused.

"After a time, however, it became too much; the warmth eddied out of me and left a painful chill in its wake. I could see nothing...all was dark. I felt I was being torn out of myself, my very fea coming unmoored from my body. In an irrevocable moment, that singular bliss became absolute terror."

"I knew I had gone too far and needed to pull back, but my hands would not obey. They held fast as if bound to the leg by shackles of steel. I remember feeling utter dread coupled with a coldness the likes of which I hope I shall never again know... and then nothing. I slept for many days. My mother feared that I might not awaken, that I had drained myself too deeply."

Haldir squeezed his arm. "Did she ever tell you I came to sit with you each day? I did. I held your hand and begged you to wake. I even promised to give you the little knife my father had given me for my begetting day that year if you would open your eyes."

Color rose in Galion's cheeks, and Haldir was taken aback by the gratefulness and joy in his smile. The quiet that fell between them then seemed pregnant with some unspeakable import; a moment suspended with words balancing on the tips of tongues. Galion turned his face away and lightly coughed.

"You never gave me your knife."

A breath released, followed by a familiar, rakish waggling of eyebrows. "You had no recollection of my presence, let alone my promise. I didn't think you would miss it. Now finish your tale."

Galion sighed. "As you can see, my condition was not so grave as all that. All the same, I was bedfast and weak for some time. When I recovered, mother began to teach me the ways of healing with my hands, as I had clearly come into my gift with no ability to wield it properly. For years she allowed me only to assist her, and then only on the mildest of hurts, but I knew as surely as I would ever know anything that healing was my life's purpose." He paused for the space of a heartbeat, grey eyes finding blue, "And that knowledge had ever brought me joy."

Haldir brushed back a lock of dark hair that had shaken free of Galion's braid and skimmed along his jaw. "Your gift is a blessing."

"Aye, and a curse," Galion chuckled sadly, sinking to his back with his arm folded behind his head. "I also remember the day I learned that my skills were limited, indeed. You were there."

"Was I?"

The healer nodded, fixing his eye on a dirty smudge on the tent's sloping panels. "Orophin had found a fallen nestling. Its feathers had barely begun to come in..."

"...Ah, yes... now I recall. He was distraught. He wanted me to help it, which I could not, and we brought it to you."

The healer's smile was melancholy, recalling Orophin's shaking hands delivering the unfledged bird to his own, how he had felt its life leaving with each weak heart-flutter. "I tried... I did what my mother had taught me, what I had done with success before... but it was beyond my abilities. He was simply too young and too fragile. It devastated me, this realization that I could not mend all hurts no matter how deeply I wished it or how hard I tried." He turned his head and let his gaze fall pensively over Haldir's face, searching it, brow furrowed in recollected concern. "But worse by far was the feeling that I had failed you. I was so afraid I would see disappointment in your eyes."

"You have never failed me, gwador," Haldir reassured, surprised by his friend's candid admission. "Nor have you ever given me even barest cause for disappointment."

No, thought Galion bitterly, your need for me has never been so great that I could cause you disappointment, has it? I have been there even when I was not bidden, and come running every time you called.

Haldir rolled close to press a kiss to Galion's cheek, bid him good night and slipped easily into reverie. Galion watched him for some time before he, too, drifted to sleep.

*****

The days that followed were blessedly uneventful, save for one nightfall when a small pack of wolves set upon them, slinking down from the Hollin Ridge under the dim light of Ithil's crescent. Though the season was mild, the creatures were hollow-eyed and hungry, bones pressing up in sharp relief through their ragged coats. Their ravenous countenances in the midst of Lairë's bounty proved that beasts more fell than mere wolves lurked near, preying on the creatures that would ordinarily have sated this pack. Starvation made them desperate, and their desperation made them dangerous, though their small numbers were no match for the bows and blades of the elven company.

When they first appeared, a blur of fang and fur falling upon them as if by sorcery, the Imladris guards had circled tight around Lord Celeborn while Haldir turned to the healers and ordered them make haste into the woods and to stay until they were summoned. When the pack was put down and the healers retrieved, he feared Lord Celeborn would think him impertinent for shouting directives when it was the elf lord who not only held rank, but owned more experience in conflict than the rest of the company combined. But Celeborn would brook no apologies, praising Haldir's instinct to send his charges to safety. The archer's cheeks had burned crimson at Celeborn's praise.

That had been many days past, and though they maintained vigilance in both their journeying and their nightly camps, no other sign of malfeasance did they find. When the light began to fail on this most recent day, the Imladris guards chatted eagerly amongst themselves; they had made it far into the kingdom of Rhudaur, and by nightfall of the following day, they would be returned to their beloved vale.

Haldir, too, found himself growing keen to see the famed realm. His mood had steadily improved as leagues opened between him and his reticent lover. During the long days he scanned the horizon curiously. The only time he had ever left the encircling boughs of Lothlorien had been to fight at his father's side, and his fear had cast a bleary pall over his vision. Returning from that abysmal journey, his thoughts had been overshadowed by grief at his father's loss, his burgeoning relationship with Elemmakil, and concern for Orophin; he had taken in little scenery, save the warming memory of a dark copse in Rohan's wilds where his battle-lust had been extinguished while his heart had been set alight. Once the initial sting of the Marchwarden's dismissal faded to a more tolerable ache, he allowed himself to let his senses be fully engaged by the journey, the pleasant scenery enhanced by the gaiety of the homeward-bound elves of the vale, and the camaraderie of his oldest friend.

Settling in for their last night of bivouacking, Haldir watched as Galion tidily laid out their pallets and tied down the tent-flaps with his neat-handed knots.

"I am glad for your company, Galion. I have been graced with it but little of late."

A wave of irritation swept over the healer. He quickly bade it pass as he shrugged with feigned nonchalance. It was his voice that betrayed him. "You have been otherwise engaged," he answered, more acid than he had intended.

Haldir was abashed. He knew Galion had misgivings about Elemmakil, though heretofore he sagely left it to Orophin to voice them rather than initiate strife between them: some words only a brother's tongue could deliver with impunity, and even so, bitterness had oftentimes sprung up between the brothers over this very issue. Yes, he was grateful for Galion's circumspection on the matter, but he was not so foolish to think his boon companion indifferent to it. The edge in his tone recalled a similar sharpness in Elemmakil's words the night he made known his plan to send Haldir abroad, the slight sneer that had colored the Marchwarden's usually warm baritone when he mentioned Galion would be numbered among the company. Was there some friction twixt his friend and his erstwhile lover of which he was unaware?

At the moment, he was most certainly heedful Galion felt neglected, but this terse remark was likely as close to a true reproof as his loyal would put forth.

"My brothers oft remind me that I have become all but a passing shadow in our house. Beguilement is a paltry excuse, I know, but it is all I can offer."

Galion stopped fussing with the tethers and snapped his head around to regard him with a look so exacting, his spine reflexively straightened in attention.

"Do you love him, Haldir?"

Haldir could not meet his eyes, discomfited by their adamantine intensity, nor could he summon an answer quickly, and Galion's heart battered itself against the cage of his chest in the excruciating silence before the archer spoke.

"After a fashion, yes. As much as he will allow it."

"And is your love returned?"

Haldir swallowed hard, the painful truth of the matter sticking like half-chewed meat in his throat. Even Orophin had not dared so bold a question. Perhaps he had remained silent because he knew the answer already. And perhaps Galion knew as well, just as he knew that making Haldir speak the answer aloud would make it impossible for him to deny the hopelessness of his situation.

"He says soldiers should not put stock in love. The cost is too dear when a life of war craft oft leads the undying to death. He believes we should content ourselves with comradeship."

"Comradeship?" Galion sputtered. "Is that how he names it, when he leaves your heart to wither like fruit on the vine with no equitable return? Does his comradeship content you, Haldir? Do you find yourself fulfilled? For to me it seems a rather disappointing prospect."

Haldir flinched, shocked by the unexpected vehemence of Galion's retort. He was torn between agreeing with the healer's assessment and defending his lover's honor... though truth be told, such was his injury at being cast aside so readily that Haldir felt little compunction to second the Marchwarden, or to explain away the patent inequity of their relations. Even thinking of Elemmakil brought back the familiar and despised ache in his breast, the tight misery that made him feel childish and needy.

"Nay," Haldir sighed heavily. "It pains me fiercely, Galion." He rolled supine, head cradled by one of his packs, and blinked angrily. "It pains me that he cares so little for my company that he would put me from him for some unknown time without even allowing me a say in it."

Hearing the pain in his friend's voice was to feel a knifepoint pricking his own skin, and he silently excoriated himself for adding to his friend's unhappiness. How could the Marchwarden fail to return the ardor of such a true heart? Though a warrior of superlative valor, he was undeserving of Haldir's steadfast devotion. Emboldened by Haldir's confession, and noting that the days of distance from the Golden Wood had weakened the previously inexorable pull of the Marchwarden, Galion broke his long silence and told him as much. He rolled close and twined his finger around Haldir's loose forelock and tugged it gently.

"You know I seek not to pain you with my words. I would only have you consider that there are... others... who would hold your heart, and treasure it fully."

He leaned in then, drawing his fingertips softly over Haldir's cheek, and laid a fraternal kiss on his lips. But he did not withdraw. He kissed the archer again, and this time he lingered. When he came away, he watched Haldir's tongue skate quickly over his parting lips, wetting them. The sound of breathing seemed deafening in the tent's close confines, and he dared not move. Haldir's mouth was poised just slightly open. Was it an invitation? Could he know how beautiful he looked then, eyes closed, cornsilk hair slipping over his shoulders, slowly breathing in and out?

Galion returned one last time, daring his own tongue to follow the path Haldir's had taken, feeling the fullness and warmth of the archer's lips, the rough patch at one side where they had chapped in the rough wind of the mountain pass, and the pull of air as Haldir drew a breath and held it. After a suspended moment, Haldir's mouth opened further to allow his friend's tentative and tender exploration, the gentle curling of one tongue around another.

As Galion ended the kiss and retreated, his lips continued to move in a low litany of Quenyan words. Haldir started to speak but Galion's hand passed over his eyes and he was blanketed in darkness, tumbling headlong into the chasm of sleep.

Later, when Ausir shook him awake for his watch, he rubbed his eyes harshly, shuffling off the weighty cloak of charmed slumber. He wondered for a moment if he had only dreamed the kiss, and he looked to Galion, turned away on his side with his face half obscured by the cloak pulled up high around him.

He knew had dreamed nothing.

*****

When Anor crested in the sky, the Lorien travelers and their Imladrin guides drew near to the Last Homely House, following the roar of the fleet-flowing Bruinen, across which lie a steep bank threaded with a winding path. Beyond, tall mountains climbed, shoulder above shoulder, and peak beyond peak, into the fading sky.

The bird-calls floating down from the rocky crags of the winding path were no mere warbles, but a call-and-response sung between the travelers and the hidden guardians of the valley realm, the former announcing their presence, and the latter acknowledging their arrival and granting safe passage. Haldir noted that the deeply cut valley, with its steep walls and swift rivers, was more easily defensible than Lothlorien. He wondered how heavily these tight-turning pathways were guarded.

Ausir grinned from ear to ear. Though he had enjoyed his stay in Lothlorien, Imladris was the home of his heart, and he was happy to return. He twisted on his mount to look back at Haldir.

"Look ahead. The bridge beyond is the only path across the water, and it is narrow enough that only one can cross at a time. Best to go on foot and lead the horses."

He was dismounting even as he spoke, eager to make his way over the narrow stone walkway. Celeborn grinned indulgently at his gleeful guardian and allowed him to pass over first. One by one, the Lorien party crossed over the bridge and walked with light steps toward the House of Elrond.

***** Author's Notes *****

Vingilot was the ship of Eärendil.

Beleg Cuthalion was the Marchwarden of Doriath, accidentally slain by his dearest friend Túrin Turambar.

Wilwarin ("The Butterfly") is a W-shaped constellation placed in the sky by Varda (Elbereth) before the First Age. It likely corresponds to our constellation of Cassiopeia.

Menelmacar is the elven constellation known to us as Orion. Borgil, "the ever-star," is Betelgeuse. Galion's description of why Elbereth created Menelmacar is paraphrased from The Silmarillion, 3, "Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor."

In a completely unplanned and wonderfully fortuitous coincidence, I must point out that the translation for Menelmacar is roughly given as "Swordsman of the Sky," (Menel + Makil), while the translation for Elemmakil is roughly given as "Star-Sword" (Elen + Makil)... A bit of serendipitous foreshadowing for Haldir?!

Extra-special thanks goes out to my Beta, Lady E, for all of her help on the astronomical portion of this chapter. I never would have discovered these connections without her research and input! Elina, you are a Shield-Maiden among Betas!

* * *

Author's Notes: for the purposes of this story, I am subscribing to the theory laid out in Unfinished Tales that Eregion was founded by Celeborn and Galadriel in the year 750 of the Second Age.

Some of my description of the arrival of the Lorien company in Rivendell is paraphrased from FotR, Book I, Ch 12, Flight to the Ford; and The Hobbit, Ch 3, A Short Rest.

Muindor = Brother (blood relative)
Fëa = Spirit, soul
Lairë = Summer
Gwador= Sworn brother (not a blood relation)

*****

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