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Loss	By : Miriel Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > General Views: 998 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings book series and movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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- 1
Loss
Disclaimer: Haldir does not, nor ever will, belong to me. (Unfortunately. Ok,
repressing fangirl tendencies.) He, along with Rohan, Aragorn, and Legolas, are
the sole property of the Tolkien Estate. And, as he has joined Aragorn and
Legolas at Helm's Deep courtesy of Peter Jackson, I guess I might as well add
New Line Cinema owning him too. Don't ask. I don't know why, but his being
there inspired this little piece of fiction.
_____________________

And you will weep
when you face the end alone
You are lost! You
can never go home�

___________________________
Haldir of L�rien
moved swiftly through the ever-increasing number of orcs and uruk-hai,
his face a mask which did not deny hatred to pass through. Once kinsman, now
long mutilated, tortured, and twisted to serve a far more evil master, the orcs
garnered in him only the greatest of disgust, and it surprised him. He had not
felt such hatred since he was a young elfling, barely old enough to pass the
trials necessary to be decreed an Elf of the March, one of the protectors of
the L�rien borders.
< so young
haldir is made an elf of the march>
Perhaps it had
something to do with the smell of these creatures. All that was unholy was
behind their breeding, and thus their scent was not clean and pure like the
Elves, nor warm and vitally alive like the Edain, nor even earthy-sweet like
the animals and plants of the forest. They were nothing but foul, and the
stench of their blood as it spilled blackly into the night ahead of him was
nauseating.
Maybe, if he
delved deeper, he would find that the reason for his hatred of these creatures
was an unconscious one, bred into him by long years of fighting and killing
their kind, just as theirs had slain his for many y�n.
The filigreed
blades that made up his secondary weaponry were in his hands; now came the
combat too close and too quickly for bow usage; even if he had been able to spare
the knives and pick up his bow, there would be no white-tipped arrows to make it
sing its deadly song.
<my gift to
you legolas is a bow of the galadhrim worthy of the skill of our woodland
kin>
The filigree was
now stained black, and his once pristine armor was coated with the grime of
battle. But he forced himself to ignore it, just as he was ignoring the shrieks
of his enemies and the screams of his allies. All that he could afford to
concentrate on was the moment: on where he was, on what he was doing.
It did not occur
to him then that his main focus was not survival, but to kill as many of these
creatures as he could.
Had the March
Warden delved even deeper still into the passages of mind and memory, he might
have discovered a reason for this that was not as biological as learned skills
or the passage of time; nor was it as instinctive as predator and prey. It was
more primal than that, a desire for revenge that pulsated through his veins,
heating his cold blood and making the attack a force upon the uruks that
they had clearly not expected.
Surrounded by
enemies and rapidly falling friends, he could not afford to remember his
parents, the day his life had splintered into a thousand pieces.
He could not
afford to remember his father, the comfort and the protection promised in his
father's embrace.
<someday we
will fight together how proud will i be to have you with me>
Faster now came
the blades, so impossibly fast. Eyes, darting in the darkness, calculated the
positions of his men and the dangers they were in. If there was more time in
Arda for this, if he was ten thousand instead of one, he could have defended
them all.
He could not
afford to remember his mother's wail of agony when his father's body had been
brought before them, battered and bruised beyond recognition, the loss of blood
forcing his father's face ashen gray, a mockery of the uniform he had been so
proud to wear.
He was a
glimmering point of light on a battlefield already cold with so much death, and
even as he fought, he was aware that his own light was gradually being
overtaken with darkness.
<you cannot
falter now the path to darkness lies ahead the men of rohan need your aid>
Galadriel's voice
filtered away the memory of his brothers burrowing beside him in bed, nightly
terrors robbing them of what precious sleep remained unto them. He did not want
to remember Orophin's hot denials of what had happened or R�mil's hot tears
against his skin as the younger Elf wept for what he did not understand.
<where is ada haldir why hasn't he come home i want to see him make him
come back>
There were too
many for him to go on fighting alone. Deep in his heart he knew it, and yet he
could not stop. Desperation, determination, loyalty to the ideal that had
brought him here -
<long ago
we fought and died together>
- whatever one
wanted to call it, it kept him together, kept him sane, as battle raged on
below him, beside him, around him. Just upwards of him he heard the faint cry
of an Elvish voice in distress, knew more than just the sound, but the pitch
and tone, for it was one of the many warriors who had sung a lament for
Mithrandir, Galadhon by name, a friend of y�n beyond the lifespan of
mortal men.
He looked
helplessly for Galadhon, knowing that in the sea of black and armor, the shape
of his friend would be nearly impossible to find. But to his horror he found
Galadhon mere footsteps away, brown eyes wide with shocked dismay, fingers
still clenched to a wound in his side.
The victor of the
contest, an orc whose conquering screech grated on Haldir's ears, stood just
beyond the fallen warrior. So close, a footstep away, and the enemy's victory
would be shattered by another death.
His mother's eyes
floated down from the rafters of memory; the shock made him pause. Had he truly
forgotten how her eyes had deadened in the aftermath of his father's death, how
they had pleaded with him so eloquently to take care of his brothers when she
too was gone?
<i cannot do
what you ask of me naneth please do not make me do
this alone>
Haldir never
cried out in battle lest it was to warn his men to retreat; 'twas not the Elven
way to give forth with unnecessary sound, at least not the way his father had
taught him. Earlier, he had seen Legolas fighting, and it seemed Thranduil's
son followed his own heart on these matters. Yet now the sound of rage filled
his ears as he uttered it, and with a step and thrust the offending enemy's
head was severed from its shoulders.
But what good
would it do? Would it bring Galadhon back?
hissed a voice in his ear, a voice that was no more real than this battle was a
game. He tried to dismiss it, but the starless pools of his friend's eyes
deflected the stratagem.
<you must
haldir i need you to be strong for me ion n�n >
The step of the
March Warden faltered a moment, and then regained its speed, the swing of his
blade its confidence. To be anything but would be to deny the last wish that
echoed in the dimmest recesses of a child's broken heart.
A sudden shout of
his name broke through the crimson haze that had clouded his vision and he
turned instinctively toward it, finding the Ranger through the crowd equally on
instinct. The two leaders' eyes met, and for an instant it was as if they
shared one thought. The men of Rohan and the Elves of L�rien and Imladris could
not press too much further.
"Nan barad,
Haldir! Nan barad!"
<mae govannen haldir you are most welcome we are proud to fight
alongside men once more>
The D�nadan was
right. The retreat must come, and must come swiftly. Too few remained to
continue this fight for too long; and those who did remain could barely stand,
exhaustion amply evident in their slowing movements. He saw this from where he
stood and nodded down to Aragorn, beginning to order his men to flee to the
safety of the keep. Those who could not walk on their own were aided by those
who could, and Haldir checked them as they passed, the names echoing in his
head.
<too few are
they who will return from this i would have given my life to spare them>
The desire for
revenge, the knowledge of the weakness of both forces and position, juxtaposed,
ready to do battle in his mind for the control of the March Warden. But he knew
his duty first lay to his men.
"Nan
barad," was the order that was repeated, and it was what filled his ears
as he turned to aid still others past him and safely to the staircase just
beyond him.
He would not
leave until all that could be moved into the keep were moved.
<he would not
leave them there to die does that make ada a hero
haldir>
Filigreed blades,
flashing in darkness, flailing to uphold the light -
<yes ada was a hero just like the ones naneth used to tell you
about don't you remember>
- the spin of a
dance so delicate and yet so timelessly full of anger, the dancers suspended
between life and death. Each one a composite of yin and yang, for what were the
orcs but darkly twisted elves and what were the elves but light-embracing orcs?
A seed of both dark and light had once existed in each race, now worn away in
one. Would the other wear away in Elves, too? Could that bring them back into
balance?
Orophin's knowing
eyes, feverish with anger as R�mil was given the consoling lies one tells a
child when numbness and youth void all else from being said, filled his mind
suddenly. Those bitter eyes flashed defiantly before him then and he did not
pause as the sarcasm of his brother's words filtered through his memory.
<if it makes
him a hero to die then can he just be normal and alive like the rest of us>
There was no
moonlight to guide his eyes as he fought his way free of a knot of uruks,
allowing four Elves to pass him, dragging a wounded comrade. His gaze swept beyond
them, and there were still more fighting their way towards him. So he remained
where he was, even as the cry came unto him again, more desperate-sounding this
time. "Nan barad, Haldir!"
The retreat was
finalizing, then. Most of Aragorn's men were pulling desperately away from the
battle. But what about those who were still embroiled in their life-and-death
struggle? Should they be abandoned?
Starless skies
above, hear thou my prayer! Look'st thou on me with kindness, o holy Elent�ri, thee who art the Star-kindler, in my hour of need;
guide my hand so I might give aid to all those within my reach�do not let me
fail now, I beseech thee, Elbereth�
Retreat was
promised below him, and safety. The stairs were close; but memory and the
sickly sweet stench of death was at hand, and ready to strike down upon those
nearby. He found his voice and uttered the cry.
<remember ion n�n think not of yourself but of your men else no better
are you than the yrch>
Plunging back
into the warriors, he pushed as many as he could towards the stairs. Towards
safety. Towards the dawning of the fifth day and the coming of Gandalf. Towards
anything but what was about to befall him.
He grasped the
hands of an injured warrior, shouldering another's burden until the staircase
was reached and the wounded safely brought away.
<you always
had to play the hero haldir your luck cannot hold forever>
Turning to
receive another he was embraced only by the swift fall of cold steel piercing
flesh. There was little enough time for him to know that he was dying before
the second stroke fell.
"Haldir!"
All around him
lay the fruits of war; the bodies of the dead with their eyes like empty pools,
absorbing darkness and barring the light.
<why can't i draw
breath i must be dying this is not happening i am of elf-kind i cannot die>
Yet how
poignantly sad, to realize only now that the danger which had surrounded him,
the danger which had enveloped his life in grief, the danger which had robbed
him of a father, was now the very same danger which threatened him.
Was this dying,
then? The slow loss of feeling in one's nerves, a numbing of the soul, a
spreading shock seeping from a well of rage that something so undignified
should happen to one not meant for death?
<ada n�n tell me is this what i should be feeling>
He felt the world
tilt beneath him, and the freezing stones of the wall were rushing toward him
when there came hands to catch him, the embrace of someone who had done this
before, someone whose shoulders shook involuntarily with grief.
<at last i
understand death ada n�n at last i know what it was
for you to sacrifice it all>
Aragorn tried in
those moments to keep him alive, Haldir could dimly feel the touch still
through his body, though numbness had pervaded most of it. But at last the
D�nadan had to give up, and allow Haldir's body to join his companions in their
sightless observation of the night sky.
<i can no
longer see him from afar>
Isildur's Heir
did not have time to pause further; retreat was all that was on his mind now.
The dawning of a new day would not come fast enough for him and all living
beings that fought in that corner of Rohan known as Helm's Deep.
But for the dead,
their still bodies would keep the night long company, and whatever halls they
went to after their departures, be it Mandos, heaven, or some unnamed Valhalla,
were filled that night. Some of these souls had been born seeking death; others
had been born for immortal lives and decreed themselves worthy of sacrifice.
Haldir of L�rien
was one of the latter.
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