Chapter 18 – The Road You Choose

Lórien


... You bleed just to know you’re alive...
~ Goo Goo Dolls: ‘Iris’


Galadriel smiled softly when Haldir entered the great hall. He had been summoned by Celeborn and herself and he had come swiftly, as was to be expected from him.

Galadriel had known Haldir for a long time, even from before she and Celeborn took up permanent residence in Lórien, and she easily counted him her most loyal and trusted servant. His devotion to the Golden Wood was only one of the traits that made him such; Galadriel and Celeborn had had far more reasons to appoint him as Marchwarden and captain of the patrol. To name a few more, Haldir was level-headed and discreet, sensible, and very intelligent. And while his brothers possessed those qualities to a certain extent, as well, Galadriel and Celeborn had been unanimous in their choice. Orophin was a good Elf, but he would not make a good captain; his men would love him, but he would have no authority over them. Orophin was a merry-maker, a pup; not hard and decisive enough to issue orders and make demands as the leader of a military unit. Orophin himself was the first to acknowledge this, and he did not desire a high rank.

Rúmil was more like his youngest brother. He could compel authority and had both the mental strength and the will to carry responsibility, and he had earned his position of second lieutenant of the patrol; but he, too, was surpassed by Haldir in devotion and level-headedness. No, Haldir had been the Lord and Lady’s first choice, without doubt. With his qualities, he would also have made a fine politician, Galadriel thought sometimes; but he had never considered that path. Haldir’s heart lay in the field, his hand on the sword he wielded so well.

And it was no secret that Galadriel had a soft spot for Haldir. She liked him. He was one of those few Elves whose company would never bore her, for the Marchwarden had a way of being pleasant without being talkative. And when he spoke, he did it well and naturally. His manner was anything but affected. He was gallant and attentive – traits that females always appreciated in a man –, and although he was humble, he possessed a certain self-confidence that spoke from his appearance and ensured he never went anywhere unnoticed.

Added to that the fact that he was of an extraordinary physical beauty – was it surprising that so many Elves in Caras Galadhon, male and female, ached to be near him? To catch his eye, receive a word or a smile from those full, sensual lips; to stand close to him and feel the quiet, but powerful masculine energy he radiated; to be admitted in his house and his being and to see sides of him that only few had ever seen; sides he guarded strictly. As always, the most desired was also the most unattainable; Haldir did not take lovers into his bed. Only few really understood, but it was Haldir’s choice. Haldir’s bed.

Even Galadriel, ancient lady and devoted wife to Celeborn, was appreciative of, though not seriously tempted by, Haldir’s physical appearance. She did not think it something to be ashamed of. Elves loved beauty in its many forms, and beauty could manifest itself in a male’s body as well as in a field of flowers or a formation of clouds – and Galadriel, although ancient and wise, was still just a woman after all.

As he now came walking towards her and Celeborn, Galadriel realized again that they were blessed to have such in Elf in their service; he had the straight, proud stance of a warrior, and the walk to match; his steps were long and sure, but not hasty or rushed. He radiated what he was: unfaltering and strong. And yet Galadriel remembered a time, long ago, when Lórien had been preparing itself to see this light go out. It was nothing short of a miracle that it still burned this day, be it somewhat less brightly.

And still... there was something new in Haldir’s demeanor of late. It was subtle, but it was there and it had not gone unnoticed in Caras Galadhon.

And all wondered: how could it be possible? How could it be, that the newborn glow in Haldir’s eyes, the peace upon his brow, the new tunes he hummed to himself as he walked, that all those things were the doing of a fresh young Elf from that northern realm called Mirkwood? An Elf barely past his majority, and come to Lórien only recently! Where had he found that precious key; the key so many had searched for in vain? It was incomprehensible.

Galadriel found it a great joy. After all, she’d closely witnessed Haldir’s long and difficult climb out of that pit he had been in, and he’d been stuck right under the rim for many years, apparently determined to stay there. And now, after all those years, a young Silvan prince stepped forward and reached out a hand.

Would Haldir accept it and climb those last meters up? It looked like he was considering it, even though he could not know what would be waiting for him under the Sun.

Yes, it was an interesting development. But something else was happening of late. A dark thing. Galadriel sensed a shadow, something that affected Haldir’s patrol, and for that reason she had called Haldir to her today. She had waited a while before taking action, hoping that the matter would be resolved without her interference, but it could now wait no longer. Haldir could confirm her suspicions and elucidate them, and that was what she and Celeborn had called him for.

“You sent for me?” he now said, inclining his head for his Lord and Lady as he respectfully took position in front of them, hands joined behind his back.

“Indeed, Haldir,” Celeborn said, smiling at the Marchwarden. “Be at ease. Please, sit.” He gestured at a chair facing him and Galadriel.

The three of them sat down. Galadriel could tell that Haldir was fuzzy about what the subject of this interview would be, although he hid it well. He was well-trained in diplomacy, the Marchwarden.

“A drink, Haldir?” Celeborn said pleasantly, lifting a crystal decanter with wine that stood on the table between them. He and Galadriel were already supplied.

“No, thank you, my Lord,” Haldir said politely.

“Very well.” Celeborn folded his hands on the table. “Then please share with us, how has the patrol been over the past months?”

Haldir’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Did you not receive my reports?”

“We have received them; and they were very satisfactory, as always. The reports in itself, I mean to say, not their contents.”

Haldir nodded gravely. There had been more violent encounters recently, and his reports had been of an overall depressing nature.

“But you need additional information?” Haldir offered.

“Indeed... but information of a personal nature, not a military one.”

“I see.”

“Your unit, Haldir...” Galadriel now said. “Is everyone still functioning?”

“To my very satisfaction, yes my Lady,” Haldir replied.

“Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No...” Haldir was becoming more and more puzzled.

“You see, Haldir,” Galadriel started to explain, “I promised Thranduil we would look after his son’s welfare as long as he is guest in Caras Galadhon, and I sense a shadow every time my thoughts linger on the Mirkwood Prince. I was hoping you could enlighten me, perhaps set my mind at ease, for concern has slipped into my heart.”

“Oh, I see,” Haldir said, “Legolas...” His face had fallen slightly.

That first battle at Râd Nestad was now about fifteen months ago, and after that night Legolas had never truly been the same. It was as if that event had shattered a window in his heart, allowing a cold wind to enter – and it had changed him.

Legolas was no longer a recruit. No indeed, an outsider would never have guessed that this Elf had never touched a sword until three years ago. There had been many more encounters since that first one, and Legolas had practically welcomed them. He had not been injured again, but he had already taken more lives than was worth counting. He still fought with the same passion he had displayed that first time, but he had learned to control his rage, even though his contempt still showed in his face. And every time Haldir saw him after battle, covered in blood, his usually fair hair dull and dirty, his expression somewhere between sadness and satisfaction, it became harder to recall the innocent, rather shy elfling Haldir had met in Mirkwood five years ago.

The cruelty of it stung Haldir. Why, in the name of everything sacred, did they live in a world where a thoroughly sweet and gentle creature like Legolas had to become a killing machine in order to live? For that *was* what Legolas had become, under Haldir’s supervision – and the Marchwarden was not proud of that fact.

Legolas had grimly dedicated himself fully to his training. When free from border duty, he spent most of his spare time practising and training. Blades, archery, stamina, it didn’t matter; as long as it helped improving his battle skills. Lately he even rode out alone to practise shooting arrows from horseback in full gallop, and he declined offered company. Haldir did not like this; the knowledge that Legolas was an excellent rider was a reassurance, but what if he did fall off and was trampled, with no one around? Haldir was always greatly relieved when Legolas returned without bruises.

As a result of all his training, Legolas improved by the day. He had already been an archer of great skill when he came to Lórien, but thanks to hard training and a natural talent, he was now already known as one of the best marksmen in Lórien. He was swift and certain, his bow and arrows seemed extensions of his body and he wielded them with both skill and creativity. Also, he emerged on top almost every time Haldir let his warriors pair up and practise hand-to-hand or sword fight. Only Haldir and Ôlnathron still had a fair chance of beating him. He even beat Elves much heavier than he quite easily; he still had his slender appearance, but he was quick as water and deceptively strong. He’d already possessed the body of a male when he came to Lórien, but the past five years had added a bit more muscle in the right places, broadened his shoulders somewhat and hardened the sleek muscles in his body to steel. He had even grown an inch or two. Legolas’s body was shedding the last traces of adolescence.

Indeed, as a warrior, Legolas was one of the best Haldir had ever had. But this did not bring the Marchwarden joy or contentment, for Legolas was now practically nothing *but* a warrior. He did not smile as often as he used to. He’d never been an Elf for meaningless banter, but now he spoke even less, and he sang only when requested to. Haldir saw it happen and did not know how to stop it: Legolas was slowly shutting the world out, and everything that was in it.

Legolas had become an Elf who lived for the kill only, and one word occupied his mind always when he hurled himself into battle, slaughtering Orcs and goblins left and right: revenge. The pilgrim had left the cross-roads, chosen himself a path; but it was dark and blood-stained and immensely difficult to walk. But it was his choice and he would not retrace his steps, Haldir knew that.

He gave his Lord and Lady a short version of his musings, and they nodded with serious faces.

“It was to be expected, perhaps,” Celeborn sighed, “this reaction... Is he reckless in battle, Haldir?”

“No, my Lord,” Haldir replied. “His fighting is balanced. My fear is not losing him on the battle field; my fear is seeing him fade in this fruitless quest for revenge.”

“Fruitless?”

“Yes... he cannot slay all evil in Arda; not single-handledly and not with the help of an entire elven army. And even if he could, it would not bring his mother back. It would not undo the grief her death brought upon him and the Lord Thranduil; that can never be undone.”

All were silent for a moment. Celeborn then said, “What is the best course of action, Haldir? Do you have an idea? You know him best.”

Haldir sighed. He had often asked himself the same question, but the truth was that he did not really know an answer to it. He feared he might do even more damage in his efforts to help Legolas, and he wished he knew what to do. He was certain that Thranduil would find the right words to say. He had sat at his desk several times, an empty parchment in front of him, a quill between his fingers. But what should he write the King? That his son was slowly losing that what defined him: his lust for life? Thranduil would come immediately, Haldir knew that for a certainty; but was it fair to send a father an upsetting letter and rip a king away from his obligations, while he had placed Legolas in Haldir’s care? And Haldir had promised him he would do more than just be a combat teacher to Legolas.

Legolas needed help. The Lord and Lady were right; this was not solving itself.

After returning from the battle, fifteen months ago, the patrol had had two weeks off, as always. Legolas had retired to his talan early, but later that evening he’d showed up at Haldir’s doorstep.

“Are you all right?” Haldir had asked, concerned. Legolas had been so quiet after that battle.

“I can’t sleep,” he said softly. “Can you keep me company for a little while?”

“Come on in,” Haldir said, stepping aside. He’d prepared Legolas the tea he liked so much, talked about meaningless things while Legolas was content listening and nodding thankfully. At one point, Haldir noticed that Legolas was drinking his tea very slowly, taking tiny sips with long intervals, even though the drink had to be cold already.

“Legolas,” Haldir said then, and the younger Elf looked up. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

Legolas smiled hesitantly. “Do you mean that? Is it not a problem?”

“No, it’s an offer,” Haldir smiled.

Legolas had accepted, and once comfortably under the sheets of Haldir’s spare bed, he’d fallen asleep soon enough. After that, Legolas stayed over more often. Haldir’s presence seemed to be a comfort to him, something he preferred over the solitude of his own talan, and Haldir was glad he could provide that comfort. These days, Legolas slept in Haldir’s talan practically every night. Haldir knew it was a subject of discussion in Caras Galadhon – he could almost hear the humming in the city –, but he didn’t care.

Legolas was sleeping restlessly of late. Tossing and turning in the middle of the night, a shivering body and the sheets kicked off of him. Haldir had discovered that a hand on his head usually soothed him a little, so he often sat by him until his sleep grew somewhat peaceful again.

It was a recurring dream, Legolas had told him, and it was vague and repetitive. He was standing in the darkness completely alone; it was pitch-black all around him, and he dared not move. Would he fall in a bottomless ravine? Would he bump into a wall? And then he would hear chanting; soft, at first, but it grew louder and louder, until at last it was everywhere around him, filling his ears, his fibres, his entire being; the ominous sound of a dark, invisible choir, chanting without stop in Quenya. He’d had this dream so often now, he could repeat the words: “Tira nottolya, tulta tuolya, an mauya mahtie ter oiomornie. Metanna. Nurunna!”

Haldir suppressed a shiver and sighed again. “I shall talk to him,” he said.

“Do so,” Galadriel nodded.

“I’m not sure if it will make a difference,” Haldir said.

“Oh, but I am,” Galadriel smiled. “A small difference at least. Don’t worry, Haldir. The words will come.”

Haldir smiled faintly. He hoped it was true.

***

The forest of Lothlórien lay under the August Sun in all its glory, but Legolas was too busy to notice at the moment. He was in an open space not far from Caras Galadhon. He came there more often lately to practise horseback archery, and it was also what he had come for today. It was a skill that he had neglected terribly so far. It was difficult to shoot properly from horseback with a bow as tall as his; archers of the cavalry usually shot with smaller, lighter bows; but he was determined to master this. It could come in handy in the future.

And it was excellent training; it demanded a great amount of concentration, riding with only the grip of his legs while aiming his bow at the same time. He let his horse run wide eights while he shot at the provisory targets he’d set up; first at a slow gallop, then gradually faster. Only when his quiver was empty would he stop and dismount to inspect his shots and retrieve the arrows for the next round.

He was getting better. But he still needed lots of practice. A pity that he did not have the time to do this every day. But he still had his other classes, too, and he could not miss them either.

Rúmil had seen him leave today. He was clearly not pleased to see Legolas leave for another one of those dangerous practices alone. All that concern. Just like his brother, Legolas thought, amused. He was almost constantly under supervision; didn’t they understand that it was nice to make his own training schedule for once? He’d been riding for as long as he could remember, and he and his horse were like one. Patrols were far more dangerous than this; and they let him participate in those, didn’t they?

Then again... it *had* occurred to him that both Rúmil and Orophin were suspiciously often in Legolas’s vicinity during battles and the moments preceding them. Their bows were always ready to save him from an approaching foe. They were clearly keeping an eye on him, protecting him. He wondered why; hadn’t he proven himself by now? Had Haldir told them to do it? Legolas knew they meant well, but he wished they would stop watching over him. He could look after himself.

Well, he smiled to himself, he had to admit that their assistance had been very welcome a couple of times. Once he’d turned his back on a wounded goblin. That had not been very smart; luckily, Orophin had been there to prevent the creature from doing any harm.

Legolas practised until he realized that the Sun was setting. Time to get back, or Haldir might be worried. He had already stayed here longer than he had intended. And Haldir was so worried about him already. Legolas knew he was. It made him feel guilty; Haldir had so much to carry already, and now also this concern over him?

Perhaps it would be wise if he started spending the nights in his own talan again. How many times had he had that thought over the months? He’d stopped counting. At least then Haldir wouldn’t have to witness his nightmares anymore.

But it was so *good*, not having to go back to his empty and silent talan at night. It was good falling asleep with the familiar sounds of Haldir softly moving around in the room. It was good waking up with the same familiar sounds. And it was good, although this had happened only once or twice so far, to wake up from a nightmare with Haldir sitting by his side. There was such comfort in it.

It had occurred to him the other day that he had never seen Haldir in bed. The Marchwarden was up when Legolas went to sleep and he was up when Legolas woke in the morning. Frankly, Legolas had no idea what kind of garment Haldir slept in at night.

One night, Haldir had been sitting at his desk when Legolas went to bed, writing. The following morning, he was sitting there... still? Again? As if he’d never left his chair.

“Honestly, Haldir,” Legolas had said, “do you ever sleep?”

Haldir had smiled. “I’ve never heard of an Elf who could live without it,” he said. And that was the only answer Legolas had gotten.

Legolas had often considered proposing to put an end to this arrangement. But he could not. And Haldir was a generous host; he’d lent him clothes from his own wardrobe when Legolas had nothing to sleep in; he prepared baths for Legolas and made sure to always have eucalyptus soap available, Legolas’s favorite, plus one of those wonderful, enormous towels; he served wine and tea and prepared meals and made Legolas feel terribly guilty because he could do nothing in return. No indeed, Legolas found himself an abominable guest.

This feeling only worsened when he found Haldir by the city gates, where he was in conversation with the guards. The relief on his face when he perceived Legolas sent a surge of guilt through the Prince.

“It’s past sunset,” Haldir said pointedly.

“I am sorry, Haldir,” Legolas said earnestly. “I lost track of time.” He dismounted and gave his horse in the care of the stableboy.

Haldir was not really angry. Legolas was usually very punctual... which was exactly why this late return had unsettled him. He knew he was probably being over-concerned; after all, Legolas had returned in one piece, as always.

“I’m sorry,” Legolas said again. “Did you see my note?”

“Note?”

“I left it on your desk.”

“I haven’t been home yet,” Haldir said. “I was with Celeborn and Galadriel.”

“Oh.”

“And it wasn’t your whereabouts that concerned me,” Haldir continued, one eyebrow slightly lifted, “it was the lateness of the hour.”

“I’m s-”

“Sorry, yes I know.” Haldir smiled. “Those words will lose their worth if you speak them too often. Just pay more attention next time.”

“I promise.”

“Did it go well?”

“Not bad,” Legolas shrugged. “And your meeting? Was it important?”

“On a personal level, it was.” Haldir started to turn. “Come.”

“Where are we going?” Legolas asked, falling in step beside him.

“Home,” Haldir replied. “We must talk, you and I.”


***

A/N: The phrase I chose as the title of this chapter comes from the song that started this entire series, ‘Pilgrim’ by Enya. It applies to both Legolas and Haldir, when you think of it.
A/N 2: The Quenya text has been taken directly from the Two Towers soundtrack. It comes from The Fight, featured in Foundations of Stone (words P. Boyens, transl. D. Salo), and they mean: “Face your foe, summon forth your strength, for you must fight through endless dark. To the end. To the death!”

***