Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin 17

Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin

Part 17

Posted: December 9, 2005
Title: Marchwarden: Son of Guilin
Author: Kenaz
Author's Notes: Many thanks to Larian and Elina for their help and patience in helping me work through this chapter. Their input was invaluable, and Elina has truly gone above and beyond the call of duty in helping me realize this chapter.

Many thanks, also, to the readers who have followed Haldir's tale thus far and whose kind feedback has truly warmed my heart and made this endeavor even more enjoyable than I imagined it would be. I am profoundly touched by the time and thought you have given my little offering, and hope you will continue to enjoy Haldir's story as it unfolds. Namarië.

*****

Near Lake Evendim, formerly the Kingdom of Arthedain, Third Age 1975

Haldir cinched the scroll tight to the hawk's leg, released the jess, and the bird took wing. He watched it climb and ride the swift current of the southward wind until it became a distant shadow in his sight.

When he had ridden out from Lorien this time, he had been prepared for violence, but he could not have imagined the brutality that lay ahead. Elemmakil had dispatched him with increasing regularity as the Necromancer's presence in Dol Guldur threatened their cloistered enclave. Now more than ever, the traffic of information was vital to the defense of all the realms, and so it was that Haldir sought news of their enemy's activities in Gondor, in Eriador and the Havens, and in Eryn Galen, which now bore the grim moniker Mirkwood. By the time he reached Imladris by the Old Forest Road bearing ill tidings of giant spiders in the southern reaches of the blighted wood, the northern kingdom of Arthedain had fallen to the forces of Angmar. When Lord Elrond dispatched regiments of swordsmen and cavalry under the legendary captain Glorfindel to avenge the fallen kingdom, Haldir felt honor-bound to offer his sword and ride with them.

The hordes of Angmar had been taken easily enough. They were, after all, merely men, and in the face the well-trained Gondorian forces and the well-tried spears of Lindon they swiftly faltered. When the host of Imladris arrived to add its might, victory on the field had been assured, though bought at dear cost. The plains between the North Downs and Lake Evendim were littered with the shattered bodies of Men, Elves, and Halflings.

Halflings were novel creatures to Haldir. When he had first espied the diminutive band marching from the west he had thought them children, and expressed furious astonishment that the armies of men had become so desperate that they would send babes to the battlefield.

Gildor had smiled at his ignorance. "Nay, friend. Their size deceives you. They are Periannath. Archers from the Shire. They may be little, but they are stout of heart and a stalwart folk." His mien grew grim as he watched the Halflings order their ranks. "Though as peaceful and merry as is their nature, it is nigh as cruel to see them muster here as it would be to see a band of children."

True to Gildor's word, the little archers had valiantly held their lines, their bolts flying true time and again, but they were no match for swords and maces, and as Angmar's armies had drawn closer, they had been forced to withdraw. Unfortunately, even their retreat did not spare them casualties. Haldir watched them now, in the aftermath, tending their wounded and shrouding the bodies of their dead to return them to The Shire. The one called Bucca saw him watching and touched his hand to his brow in an informal salute. Haldir returned the gesture and looked away, uncomfortable at his trespass on another's grief.

Long years had flown since Haldir had last faced a campaign on an open field, but what awaited them on the plains between the North Downs and Lake Evendim he could never have conjured even in the basest depths of his nightmares. Days later, he still shuddered to recall it.

Haldir's destrier, no timid or untried beast, had shied nervously under his weight, resisting Haldir's attempts to urge him forward. Eyes rolling fearfully, he had tossed his head and screeched, backing up on haunches tensed to bolt. On either side, Gildor and Ausir had tried to coerce their own mounts to no avail. When Haldir had raised his head to see what caused the animals to balk so, a deathly chill surged down his spine.

No creature could face this menace without terror: black was the raiment of the Witch-king, and black was his grotesque helm; a fetid miasma issuing from his form had oozed toward them on an ill wind. His mount, more corpse than beast, pulled back its decayed lips to reveal a bit sharp as a blade in a mouth bearing teeth that looked more fit for rending flesh than grinding grains; flanks heaved against its rider's steel-plated greaves, the flayed hide revealing the shining viscera pulsing darkly beneath.

Only Glorfindel, a beacon in incandescent armor, and Eärnur, the captain of Gondor with mortal features twisted in fury, had been able to master their mounts in the face of the Witch-king. Haldir and the others had watched transfixed as Eärnur sounded a battle cry and charged the wraith alone, Glorfindel's voice carrying on the wind as he unleashed a litany of curses regarding the impetuous foolishness of men and followed the Prince toward his folly.

Eärnur's horse, more sage than his rider if not as courageous, veered and fled, and neither crop nor spur could bring him in hand. The Witch-king's laughter had been the dissonant thunder of death and decay; a malevolent roar so cruel in its timbre that Haldir would remember its bleak echo ever after. Asfaloth had stayed the course, and Glorfindel had finished the charge Eärnur failed to complete. Faced with the wrath of the Balrog Slayer, The Black Captain fled, and Glorfindel had refused pursuit, foretelling that his doom was as yet far off, and not by the hand of man would he fall.

With the Witch-king's fate declared, the forces had assayed their losses. Haldir tilted his face again toward the darkening sky, his gaze lingering in the direction of home, and prayed Lothlorien fared better than this kingdom of men.

*****

Lothlorien, Third Age 1975

Elemmakil scanned Haldir's latest missive and cursed. Each new note brought grimmer news than the last.

The following morning found him in the Royal chambers with Tathalion, watching Amroth, flanked by his advisors, steeple his fingers against his tightly drawn lips. The Dúnedain strongholds in the North lay in ruins, grotesque creatures ravaged Thranduil's realm, and evil emanations from the Necromancer's lair encroached more dangerously on the Golden Wood with every passing day.

"Our greatest concern is Dol Guldur," Elemmakil stated. "We have seen the Greenwood fall to dark magic, and the Necromancer will not limit his malevolence to that forest's borders. Thranduil cannot contain the evil in his realm, and Haldir's words show that the situation elsewhere has become equally dire."

The King looked to his Marchwardens. "What do you advise?"

"Fortify the Anduin. Double the watch along the western borders," Tathalion replied.

Elemmakil seconded his words with a nod. "Can we not ask Durin and his kin to lend the strength of their axe-men to our cause as well? There was once a great friendship between the folk of Khazad-dûm and the Elves of Eregion. Our peoples are not yet so estranged that we would fail to aid one another against a force which threatens all our people."

Amroth's face twisted in disgust. "We have no allies in the Naugrim. I have gone already to Khazad-dûm and they have no care for anything that passes outside their sequestered caverns." The screech of wood on stone echoed in the chamber as Amroth shoved his chair away from the table and angrily paced the length of the hall. "They care not for the safety of their neighbors, nor for aught than the raping of the rock and the glutting of their troves."

He turned sharply, and the council saw fiery resolve tempering the handsome features of their King.

"Whatever evil approaches, the Golden Wood must meet it unassisted."

*****

Khazad-dûm, Third Age, 1980

The rhythm of the mines was the beat of the dwarven heart, each blow of a hammer falling in time with its wielder's pulse. Deep and deeper they delved, day in and day out, for who could mark the passing of day into night in the adumbral caverns of the earth's womb? They followed the course of the shining rivers in the rock, the true-silver ore that flowed more abundantly with every new layer they excavated.

One dwarf stilled his tool to wipe a begrimed hand across his brow. When had it grown so accursedly warm in these depths? He wondered if they neared a hot spring, or perhaps some rent in the rock that opened deep into the swirling, melted core of the earth.

And whence this light? They had few torches so deep, for their smoke choked the air and dwarves had little need for them in any case, so well-suited were they for their shadowy labors. Yet the rocks ahead seemed to glow as if illumined. He set down his hammer and walked beyond where his fellows toiled, toward the source of the light the others either had not noticed or chose to ignore.

He could not scream when met with two sulphurous eyes and the flashing breath of fire; he had not the time to draw breath. He heard the crack of a lash and then it was around him, an encircling tongue of flame crushing his ribs and burning his skin. The immense whip-hand jerked once and sent him flying into the unforgiving wall of stone.

Brimstone breath and limbs of living shadow, immured for years beyond memory in a smoldering half-life, had been roused at last by the interminable vibrations of hammer on stone and the tendrils of nefarious magic wafting insidiously from the Necromancer's distant lair. Soon, too soon, veins of mithril bled down the face of the rock, melted by preternatural heat, to mingle with the growing rivers of dwarven blood.

Far above the earthen sepulcher, the ruined realm of Aulë's children, a warden of the northern marches moved silently over familiar paths in the foothills. Quiet, she thought. Too quiet. She closed her eyes and inclined her head toward the slopes for a long moment, then looked up sharply. Her skin prickled with foreboding when she realized what she heard.

Or, rather, what she did not hear: the hammers of Khazad-dûm, which had for thousands of years marked the passing of the time with their harsh cadence, had gone silent.

On fleet feet, she raced back to the woods to alert the Marchwardens.

*****

Lothlorien, Third Age 1981

Orophin leaned down to receive Alquonís's farewell kiss. He had been unusually reluctant to part from her this time. In the last year, the borders had been plagued by violent incursions with astonishing regularity. Though his family resided safely in the shadow of Lothlorien's citadel, Orophin still felt keen disquietude.

Ethuilion sensed his father's unease and sought to lighten his heart. He stepped up grinning and slung his arm around his mother's waist. "Fret not, she will have me to watch over her. Yet I cannot help but wonder that your patrol conveniently coincides with the peak of the harvest. One less admiring of his sire might suggest you simply seek to avoid laboring in the in the rows!"

Orophin chuckled and returned a teasing clout. In truth, he was sorry to miss the reaping. Most years, he joined his family in the vineyard, sometimes even coercing Haldir and Rumíl to lend their brawn, as harvest time brought song and camaraderie as much as it brought long hours of labor.

His gaze roamed the figure of his son. It was only in the pale blue eyes that he saw himself and his line expressed; otherwise, he was the reflection of his mother from the quirk of his smile to the tawny gold of his hair to his long, slim-fingered hands. As a youngling, he had announced with surety that he would follow his father in arms, and under the tutelage of his uncles he had become able with a bow early in his youth. But as training progressed to swordplay and strategy, Ethuilion found that both his aptitude and interest declined, and it was among the flourishing rows of grapes and wild grasses that Orophin's son found his true calling. By the end of his first century, Ethuilion had become well-versed in most every aspect of the vintner's art, and now approaching his millennial year, he was acknowledged as a master.

"I trust you will reserve some of your bounty for your doting father?" Orophin wheedled, presenting a playful moue.

"Aye, as always. I think you are fonder of the fruit than you are of the wine."

He squeezed his son's shoulder. "They are different pleasures equally savored." He glanced outside and saw the changing tenor of the light. "But now I must away."

With a final kiss for his beloveds, he departed for his muster.

*****

Twilight descended, and with it came the fog, a spectre of grim fortune. It was not the same ephemeral mist that commonly hung low along the Anduin's green vales, but something fell and false, a thick shroud concealing unknown malice.

The vanguard marched over the pontoon bridge, boot leather scuffing softly on the wooden planks, and in their wake the warhorses bore over their armed and armored riders, the echoing clop of colossal hooves reverberating from the jackleg crossing that bobbed and lurched in the press of the current. At the rear, a line of swordsmen felt the heft and balance of their weapons as their fingers warily adjusted and readjusted their hold on worn leather grips. Back across the river, the remaining archers of Lorien took to the trees, invisible assassins, and inside the wood, the last of the swordsmen patrolled, cautiously navigating terrain between well-camouflaged spike pits.

Haldir walked the lines briskly at Elemmakil's heels, a tocsin ringing in his head. Something wicked was on the move, some promise of fatal action hanging as heavily in the air as the peculiar haze. The Necromancer pressed the wood mercilessly, and Durin's greed had unleashed an unspeakable evil that brought yet more violence into their midst. Yrch grew bolder by the day, their incursions ever more destructive, and wargs prowled the surrounding land under the sickle moon. A palpable sense of foreboding waxed in the hearts of Lothlorien's elves, and many spoke of abandoning the realm entirely. Some already had. With disaster impending, the Marchwardens mobilized for a counterattack.

As Haldir stepped forward to take his place before his fellow swordsmen, Elemmakil stalled him, his grip tight on Haldir's shoulder.

"A long night awaits. We will find ourselves hard-pressed, and we know not the number of our adversary. The left flank is yours, Haldir. You must be my eyes and my ears. I will not be able to stray far from the vanguard."

While his face remained dispassionate and alert, Haldir was inwardly bolstered by the responsibility bestowed on him and he lowered his head respectfully.

"I am proud to be your second, Captain. I pray my actions tonight prove me worthy of the honor."

Elemmakil chuckled softly, a wry smile curling up beneath ancient, tired eyes, and his hand slid up to cup the back of Haldir's neck.

"It has been long years since I have heard words of humility fall from your lips, my friend. I am not certain modesty suits you any longer."

Haldir colored a bit in spite of himself and he opened his mouth to protest his sincerety, but Elemmakil silenced him with a simple quirk of his brow, something he had been able to do since the earliest days of Haldir's training, and he wondered if he would ever be equal to Elemmakil's wisdom and mastery.

"It is no honor I give you, Haldir. It is your rightful position. You are a leader in your own right, now. There is nothing more I can teach you."

Grey eyes held blue ones in a gaze as strong and clear as adamant, but something fey in Elemmakil's face took Haldir aback. Discomfited, he squinted into the distance, his sharp eyes surveying the dismal landscape. Even as he scanned the Mirkwood tree line, the Marchwarden's hand burned like a brand against his skin.

"If we must pull back, you will head the retreat. They will follow your lead." The Marchwarden's voice was low and steady. "These borders are yours to defend until I cross the river. Is that understood?"

"Aye, Captain."

Elemmakil blinked suddenly and withdrew his hand. "Take your position. We will be ready for them."

He turned crisply on his heel and addressed the other warriors, his voice carrying with ease through the ranks. "We must drive them back. They must not cross the Anduin. We will retreat to the hither banks only at greatest need. Left wing, look to Haldir for your signals. Let the archers do their work first."

He turned one last time to Haldir. "The borders are yours until I am on the banks."

Haldir said nothing, only nodded.

*****

On the northern marches, Tathalion stalked between the trees with ill-suppressed frustration. He had positioned his wardens as best he could, but halving his company to double the western line had left him with a skeletal defense, and no clever strategy could compensate for decreased numbers. The worst of the attacks of late had come from Dol Guldur, and his only hope was that this trend would continue.

When he heard the shrill whistle of his scouts, he knew hope had failed.

*****

"Pull back the archers!"

The Marchwarden's voice barely carried over the din, and turning his head toward the sound Haldir could see only the flapping of his red cloak and moonlight glinting distantly off his blade.

Haldir dashed down the line of the left flank echoing the Marchwarden's order and the archers moved without hesitation, the mounted men shielding their withdrawal over the floating bridge. Nearly all their arrows had been spent and the yrch were too near, packs of wargs bounding and snarling behind them. Ranged weapons would do little good now. Better to pull back to the woods, replenish their ammunition and join the others in cover of the boughs.

In the thick of the melee, the swordsmen held the field, if only barely, striking with lightning speed and lethal precision, fending wild blows from their enraged but disordered assailants. Elemmakil dispatched a marauding goblin with a thrust that took his blade clear through the hideous body and quickly turned to shear the head from another with one clean stroke, but the wind was knocked from his lungs as another elf slammed hard into him. Still moving from the momentum of his last stroke, the weight of the other elf forced him off balance and he fell. He tried to roll out of the way but was not quick enough to keep the elf from tripping over his legs as his attacker forced him backward, and he landed with a grunt beside Elemmakil on the ground. Neither he nor the Marchwarden could deflect the blade that went straight through the his heart.

Elemmakil cursed and leaped to his feet, stumbling back to his knees once before regaining his battle stance. With a vicious swipe, he took the murdering troll's sword arm off at the shoulder and the creature fell shrieking. A rumbling roar rose behind him and he barely had time to turn and lash out against the beast that bound toward him. The warg faltered but did not stay down for long. It circled back to charge again, snarling as it bounded on thick-muscled legs, its mouth wide and ropes of saliva hanging from its teeth. He could smell the rank fester of its breath as it charged and aimed his next thrust down the open throat. The creature did not rise again.

At the other end of the line, Haldir's blade was also in constant motion. His movements were efficient and fleet, his assaults as well choreographed as any festival dance. He was aware of what surrounded him on all sides: Algamir behind him; Lithôniel, a young elleth of surpassing agility, off his left shoulder, and Feredir a few paces away on his right.

Out of the corner of his eye, Haldir saw Feredir swinging wildly. He knew the swordsman was exhausted and his form suffered for it. He wished he could tell him to still his mind, to focus on each maneuver and conserve his remaining strength, but he could not let his own focus waver even for an instant, and he doubted any advice he offered would be well received, especially now. Algamir and Lithôniel were holding their own; all he could do was wait for an opening and step closer, offering assistance Feredir was in no position to refuse.

Feredir shot Haldir a quick, questioning look as he came within striking distance of a larger goblin and sent it flying. For once, he found he was indeed grateful to have Haldir at his side, fighting as if he were impervious to physical strain. The goblin rolled back to his feet and advanced again, arcing its sword low. Feredir pivoted just in time to miss a stroke that would have taken his leg off at the knee. Instead, the end of the blade bit deeply into the back of his thigh, and he dropped with a roar of pain. A guttural croak of laughter clamored above him and he saw the orc raise its blade for the homeward thrust through his heart. He silently cursed and closed his eyes, unwilling to watch his deathblow. But the anticipated stroke failed to land. What fell instead was a hot rain of corruption, followed by a masterless sword rattling against his cuirass. He opened his eyes to see his would-be killer topple face first into the muddy ground beside him as Haldir wrenched free his sword, which had gone in through the creature's belly and out through its back. Feredir closed his eyes again, this time in grateful relief.

But his relief did not last. He could feel the blood rushing from the wound on his leg, and he no longer had the strength to move. His heart raced and the sky above him seemed to swirl in dizzying circles. He could not even try to stand. He saw Haldir extend his arm to him and weakly shook his head.

"Leave me. I cannot walk."

Haldir mouth twisted in fury. "Plague take your mulishness! Give me your hand!"

"Be aware! Behind you!" Feredir could not force a sound louder than a reedy whisper, but it was enough. Haldir reeled around and brought his blade down hard on one orc that flew at him, Lithôniel swiftly gutting the next. He turned back to Feredir with narrowed eyes.

"Your hand, Feredir! That is an order!" When his hand came down again, Feredir reluctantly reached for it. He did not even have the strength to offer a decent retort.

Haldir pulled him to his feet and he swayed, horribly nauseated, beads of clammy sweat erupting across his forehead. He looked at Haldir imploringly but could not unclench a jaw clinched in pain to either plead or apologize. When his good knee buckled under him Haldir caught him and slung his limp arm around his shoulders. "I will not have Rumíl suffer for your obstinance," he growled, and gripping him tightly around the waist, he half carried, half dragged, Feredir over the bridge and into the woods. Galion saw their approach and called to them, stepping out of the shadowy eaves to meet them. Once Haldir handed Feredir off to the healer, he vanished back into the fray.

Rumil had only enough time to spare the briefest glance from his perch down at his beloved as he was carried bleeding from the field before forcing his eyes back to the line of his drawn shaft.

Do not let him be taken from me, he silently petitioned, though he did not know who might hear his plea.

He released another arrow and watched with grim satisfaction as it flew straight through his enemy's heart.

*****

"Nimrodel!"

Amroth raced from Caras Galadhon when the first news of the attack reached him. His advisors had tried bodily to stop him, but he would not be stayed. He flew through the woods, thin red weals rising across his cheeks as branches snapped against his face. He followed the stream but no longer heard his lover's song in the trickling waters and his chest grew tight with fear.

He found her at last, beyond the borders of the forests, crouched under the eaves of Fangorn where the mighty guardian Ents swayed ominously. Her eyes wide and terrified, her hair snarled with twigs and dirt. She flinched when he touched her and cried out, so great was her fear. He took her hands gently and soothed her with the songs she loved, and after a time she hearkened to him and stood, although her hands still trembled within his grasp.

"The trees will not let me pass. They are full of rage because their brethren are dying. Death has come to the woods. We knew peace here once, but the Noldor and Sindar make war, and evil follows them. You have brought war to my home, my King."

Beneath the avian treble of her voice was a core of anger, and Amroth's heart seized, so distraught was he to hear her anguish voiced.

Father, what would you have me do? I should never have been King...that was your path, not mine. I cannot keep the evil from our realm. I cannot even protect the one I love. Forgive my weakness, sire. Forgive me.

He could hear the noise of the battle through the trees and he knew it would only grow louder. He tightened his grip around her hand and captured her watery blue eyes in the steel of his gaze.

"Come with me. We will leave this place. I will take you to the Undying Lands and you shall know no more of strife."

Nimrodel looked around her. The trees were shedding their leaves like tears and they gathered around her feet though it was nowhere near their season to fall. She wept softly to see them. She looked up at Amroth and nodded.

Leading his love by the hand, the last King of Lorien fled from the Golden Wood, and did not look back.

*****

There was no end to the flood of foulness streaming from Dol Guldur. Elemmakil imagined some virulent spawning ground in the blackened forest where yrch crawled fully-formed from some fetid primordial lake. He would have called them an army had they any sense of order or strategy. But they did not; they simply had numbers and an unquenchable lust for violence. The Galadhrim cut down wave after wave but more emerged from the blighted trees, and as he looked around, the bodies of his fallen men cried out silently for him to end the slaughter.

Their numbers had been decimated. They could no longer hold the field. Their only chance for survival was to pull back across the Anduin, close their ranks as tightly as they could around the woods, and pray that Dol Guldur had not provided its throngs with a means to cross the river. The Marchwarden could do little more than order those who still lived to disengage and let the ashen taste of defeat sour in his mouth.

"Fall back, Haldir!" he bellowed, "We cannot hold!"

Haldir nodded and began rounding up what remained of the left flank for the slow and difficult retreat.

"To the trees!"

He heard a cry and saw Lithôniel fall beside him, an arrow protruding from her back. Her arms and legs swam futilely against the ground and then went still. Haldir screamed his fury at her loss to the dark sky, but there was no time to tarry after the dead. He flagged the last of the swordsmen and horses across the bridge before he followed, Elemmakil close behind. By the time they reached Lothlorien's banks most of the swordsmen had already traded their blades for their bows and had faded into the tall trees. When a high-pitched whine met their ears, Haldir and Elemmakil turned as one and saw Lithôniel--still alive, though barely-- struggling to raise herself from where she had fallen. The Marchwarden flew back across the bobbing span and heaved his wounded warden over his shoulder like a sack of grain. It would take but a few moments more to return with his burden safely to the other side.

Too late Haldir saw them, a large band materializing from the shrouded darkness farther afield than his own phalanx had stood, rushing headlong toward the banks of the river.

"Captain, behind you!"

He cursed himself for having missed them, but with black skin and drabbed armor they had been sheltered by the night. Now, however, they cast long, misshapen shadows under flaring torches. The flames glowed a cold, sickly green, not ordinary fire but a weapon of the Necromancer's device that would not be extinguished by water alone, for dark magic gave it strength beyond its element. There were far too many yrch for Elemmakil to take alone, but if the torches crossed the river, the threat to the woods was incalculable.

"Cut the ropes!" Elemmakil cried, letting Lithôniel's body slip from his grasp to drop the beast that assailed him from behind.

Haldir dashed for the bridge, sword drawn, unwilling to leave the Marchwarden and Lithôniel behind, but the yrch had already begun their crossing. Those who could not fit across the deck jumped into the water and pulled themselves across using the edges of the planks. A salvo of arrows rained from the trees but for each creature that fell, another stepped up and took its place. They lobbed their own bolts into the canopy and Haldir heard screams behind him as two of the Lorien archers plummeted to the forest floor.

"Cut the ropes!" Elemmakil's furious roar returned.

Haldir felt his stomach clench and tasted hot bile at the back of his throat. He watched another orc fall to Elemmakil's blade and Lithôniel crawling with excruciating effort toward the foot of the bridge, then he pulled his dagger from its sheath, closed his eyes, and cut the ropes.

*****

Golden sunlight and a cloudless sky could do little to alter horrors that met the surviving wardens of the north marches as they surveyed the destruction of their realm. Larks and sparrows quavered mournful songs that drifted through the trees. Yrch had infiltrated their lines and wreaked havoc on their sanctum—little wonder, considering the thinness of their ranks. Even the keenest archers could not overcome a horde outnumbering them three trolls to every elf.

Tathalion nudged a black carcass with his boot. This one, at least, had not lived to do its worst. Further down the path, he heard weeping and watched a husband enfold his wife in his arms as the pair looked grimly up at the burned-out shell of their talan. He feared for his own wife and his child, and his sole comfort was in knowing he had armed her well, and that she had long ago learned at his hand how to employ a sword.

Such waste... such mindless cruelty. Does wickedness know no bounds?

The Marchwarden was too weary to keep his emotions shuttered behind the staid mask of an officer. His distress and frustration were plainly written in the narrowing of his eyes, the rucking of his brow, the tight, down-turned line of his mouth. His men had been routed, half of them lost, and the rampaging creatures had slaughtered, maimed and torched all that fell in their path. Idyllic bowers had become battlefields and stately gardens abattoirs. The woods reeked of blood and smoke.

Circling back from the paths ahead, Taurnil and Orophin ran to meet Tathalion, eyes bulging and overbright, faces blanched. Just beyond, almost out of sight, the frame of another talan smoldered, the terminal end of its curving staircase wrenched free from the mallorn's trunk and dangling like a broken limb.

The blood drained from Tathalion's face in sickening recognition and he lurched forward. "My wife... my daughter..."

Taurnil and Orophin flew toward him with their arms braced in front of them, Taurnil shaking his head wildly.

"Nay, Captain... go no further... there is nothing for you there."

Tathalion squawked and threw his weight against them, trying to break through their ranks as the others pulled him back.

" I must go to them!"

Tears flooded down Taurnil's cheeks, leaving filthy streaks behind. "Nay, Tathalion... please, friend... You can do nothing for them now... Please, Tathalion. Their spirits have fled, you need not see them to know this."

It was the sound of his name, foundering so awkwardly on the lips of the soldier who had never before addressed him by anything other than his rank that stopped him cold, that penetrated the veil of panic that had settled over him and cleared his eyes of their fog. He stopped struggling and straightened, seemed to collect himself even as all color drained from his face. Feeling his resistance diminish, those that held him lessened their grip. The moment they slackened, he bolted, flew with all speed toward the wreckage, and the sight that met him brought him to his knees.

Oily smoke plumed from the crumbling walls of his home, blackening the bole of the great tree that held it. The roof had long since burned away, the curving staircase that spiraled up the trunk had been hacked into splinters, the topmost steps still clinging impotently to the landing before dropping off into empty space, rendering the once-cozy home inescapable. A tomb. Tathalion whimpered once before pitching forward and emptying his stomach onto the ground. The contortions of retching rolled across his back as he shakily stood, throwing off the hands that sought to steady him, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His gait slowed to a timid shuffle as he circled the great tree's trunk, in utter terror of what he might see. What he did see.

A misshapen mound lay between the mallorn's thick roots, clothes burned away revealing charred limbs and blistered flesh. Tathalion crumpled, his howl the most abject and feral sound of mourning Orophin had ever heard. Birds took flight in the wake of sorrow even they could not sing.

The wardens rallied around their Captain, grasped his arms as he endeavored to claw his own eyes out, leaving bloody rents down his cheeks. It took three to restrain the violent strength wrought by grief and anger.

A cry arose from the copse beyond, and Orophin cocked his head to see Taurnil scaling a nearby tree with all the speed he could muster.

"Sweet Eru, the child!"

On the ground, Tathalion froze. "My daughter?"

In a last futile gesture, Tathalion's wife had placed her daughter's fate in the hands of the forest. She had tossed the child away from her, toward the canopy of nearby trees, and as her most precious babe left her hands for the last time, she abjured the mighty wood to shelter that which she most loved. She knew that even if the child fell to her death, a broken neck would be quicker mercy than she herself could hope for.

But the trees had heard her plea. Though battered and bruised and frozen by fright, Tathalion's daughter lived, sheltered in a cradle of leaves and branches.

A small mercy it was. The wardens conveyed their Captain to the healing houses keening unintelligibly and shaking too violently even to hold his child. The ancient healer who pried him from their protective hands saw that the light in his eyes had dimmed. While his body lingered, his soul was already halfway to the Halls of Waiting, and even if his skills could draw him back, the healer wondered if keeping him bound to his grief was only greater cruelty. One of the midwives deftly plucked the babe from Taurnil's arms. Before she swept away down the hall, Orophin stroked the warm velvet cheek.

"You are all that holds him here, laes estel. You must be his strength." No sooner had he lifted his fingers the midwife rushed the child away. He shook his head sorrowfully; it was a great burden for such a tiny creature to bear.

Cold fingers of dread clenched then around Orophin's heart, for it was only now that he had been given a moment to consider his own family. Their dwelling was much closer to Caras Galadhon, and thereby much closer to safety, but the harvest was upon them, and Alquonís and Ethuilion would be in the vineyards, in the shadow of Hithaeglir, utterly exposed. Without a word to his fellows, he tore away, his crescendoing consternation adding wings to his flight.

There was no one to be seen in the vineyard, and many of the blocks lay in ruins, trellises trampled and torched, the acrid scorch of fire mingling with the cloying perfume of ripe fruit. He cried out his wife's name and his son's, weaving through the savaged rows. Remains of several yrch lay scattered in his view. With each cry, his voice took on harsher tones of fear and desperation.

A noise from the winery turned his head and he approached the building with sword drawn. Alquonís staggered unsteadily from behind the barrel room door, her dress fouled with black offal and one arm bloodied from a deep cut. In her right hand, she clutched a sword so tightly her knuckles whitened. It was a training blade gifted to Ethuilion during the time he had considered soldiering. The gore running thick to the hilt told Orophin that his wife had wielded it well.

Alquonís barked out a high, tight laugh when she saw him, a sound that bordered on hysteria. "We killed them," she trembled. "They came for us, and we killed them."

Orophin pulled her close, holding as tightly as he could, burying his hands in her hair and swearing that he would never let her go, would never allow her to stray from the berth of his arms. Safe in his enveloping clutch, her cramped hand at last released the sword and it clattered to the ground.

"We live...we all live."

Another shaking voice broke from the winery doors.

"I said I would watch over her...so help me, father, I did."

Orophin turned, not willing to relinquish his beloved, and saw Ethuilion standing tall before him in spite of his terror and exhaustion. He, too, was bloodied and begrimed. He held no sword; his weapon had been the tool of his own mastery: a keenly honed billhook now blackened with death. At his shoulder stood four of the young apprentices, their faces blanched, pitchforks and scythes still firmly clenched in their hands. The vintners of Lothlorien had proved as hardy as their vintage. Mingled tears of grief and joy trailed from his eyes and he whispered quiet words of thanks to Iluvatar who had spared his family when so many others had perished.

*****

Epilogues

Tathalion's red cloak burned on the majestic pyre with the bodies of his fallen men; he had resigned his post. No more would he wield the sword. Heavy was his heart, the weight of guilt a millstone cordoned around his spirit. He felt he had brought his wife's death, the deaths of the wardens of the north marches, and the deaths of other innocent elves, when his failing lines could not stem the tide of evil into the woods he was sworn to protect. That his crippled patrol had never stood a chance against the onslaught did little to assuage his conscience.

He swaddled his daughter on his back and fell into step with the others who could no longer bear the sight of the violated forest. Tathalion and his child departed the Golden Wood, never again to return.

*****

The silver coin was a comfort in his hand. Its cool weight and milled edge soothed him as he rolled it between his fingers, passed the fleshy pad of his thumb over the protruding image of the fountain, like stroking familiar flesh. If he pressed hard enough against the metal, the twinge it produced took his mind away for just a moment's span from the grief welling within him.

so many of Lorien's leaves have fallen.

Dead foliage, burned to fuscous filigree at the edges and brittle as parchment, crackled beneath slow footfalls. Someone approached and stood by in silence, but he did not acknowledge them nor move from where he knelt, weariness suffusing the very marrow of his bones. He wished to be alone, to simmer with his sorrow and wrap his mind his loss, but that, he knew, was an indulgence. The men who remained needed him.

You will steel yourself because you have obligations greater than your own pain.

To lead was to risk, and often, it was to lose. He knew that well, perhaps better than any who still stood today. Had the retreat been called sooner, perhaps more would have been saved. Had they poached fewer men from Tathalion's patrol, perhaps the yrch would not have broken through the northern marches. Had his decisions been the right ones, or would another choice have spared lives? Wisdom and experience did not make one infallible. One could have both of these things and still fail.

The smell of violence and decay lingered in the woods, despite the elves' efforts to succor both the trees and their kin. There was much to rebuild, and more yet that was beyond rebuilding. The healers tended to wounded flesh, but how to salve the wounds that lie beneath the skin? How to give hope to the paltry band of forest-dwellers who remained that Lorien would again flourish, would again be made inviolable?

These borders are yours until I return.

But you did not return, he thought bitterly.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, a touch that remained reserved, perhaps even formal, while striving to give comfort. Looking over his shoulder, the healer's face regarded him carefully, benign and sympathetic. After a moment, the dark-haired elf said simply, "It is time."

Slowly, as if he could now feel all the many years of his life burdening his body, he brought himself to standing and took a few careful breaths in and out, the pang of comprehension spearing him as inexorably as an arrow through the heart.

These borders now are mine.

With slow and measured steps, his back straight, his expression muted, Haldir approached the unlit pyre.

He pressed the silver coin into Elemmakil's palm and closed the Marchwarden's cold fingers around it.

*****

When the blade had fallen, there had been pain, indescribable, soul-searing pain, as if every nerve in his body had been set alight. He screamed, but his voice only evaporated in the impenetrable silence.

Fire receded as his blood spilled and ebbed, supplanted by creeping cold, his flesh and bones becoming as the blank, frozen floes of the Helcaraxë, and with the cold came light, pure and white and blinding. He tried to cover his eyes, but he had no sense of his body, as if his limbs had simply dissolved, had become both leaden and weightless all at once. The glare surrounded him. Engulfed him. Brighter and brighter it blazed, an incandescence beyond all earthly intensity, until it began to consume itself, an umbra impenetrable and profound spreading slowly and inexorably from a pinpoint of shadow until even the glimmering edges of his vision were eclipsed.

Time passed in its own immeasurable fashion. Perhaps hours, perhaps years, he could not say. Time had no meaning in this realm. He knew only that the blackness receded by degree, shapes and figures gradually pronouncing themselves from the shadows in muted tones. He tried to stand, but still his body was beyond him. Only the memory of muscle and movement remained, although he felt at certain moments a strange sense of warm hands restraining him, soothing him.

A voice came, not the resonant hum of words formed with teeth and tongue, but a remembrance of sound, a living echo, the presence of another's thoughts in his mind.

Sleep now, seron vell.

He ceased his struggles then, lulled by that familiar voice that seeped like mist and glinted like refracted light. Comforted, he surrendered to the nothingness, the disembodiment. He could no longer recall pain or torment, no longer minded the strange absence of form and weight. He was blanketed in quietude and strange peace. He felt it then, just barely... at the periphery of his mind...the warm press of lips, almost like the memory of a kiss, distant yet real.

When, in time, more of the strange fog lifted and more ephemeral sight returned to him, Elemmakil saw that he was not alone, had never been alone, and he reached with insubstantial arms to the one who had long kept vigil at his side.

My heart...my love...at last you are returned to me.

****

Periannath = Hobbits

Laes estel = literally, "babe of hope"

Seron vell = Beloved

*****

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