Faramir Fiction Archive

Simulacra (NC-17)

Written by Vanwa Hravani

09 November 2011 | 30013 words | Work in Progress

Title: Simulacra
Author: VanwaHravani
Type: FPS, WIP
Rating: NC-17
Warnings:Implied and graphic non-con, incest, power games, torture, angst
Disclaimer: Glad they’re not mine, cause it’s more fun to play with someone else’s toys. In this case all the goodies belong to Tolkien and his estate. I’m the scroungy neighbor kid that keeps sneaking over at teatime. Strangely, they never do kick me out.
Summary: Faramir and Haldir reflect one another darkly.
Timeline: Those in control seem to have little consideration for linear time and are fond of revealing their story in developing glimpses that span many years. Whenever possible, I’ll tell you the general time periods and characters, but sometimes you’ll have to make the connections yourself. Depending on how you interpret, the story may play out differently.

Beta: ch 19 – Anorien. Thank you!
Feedback: Yes!

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I

The horsehair swished idly against his thickly muscled thigh as he paced the small room. The man strapped to the cross faced the wall, holding his breath to listen intently. Sweat beaded on oiled skin. Feeling a current of air whisper across his bare flesh in his Master’s wake, he almost groaned in anticipation, but caught himself in time. Total silence only. He swallowed a whimper.

Silence.

His heartbeat.

Searing pain shot across the man’s ribs. Two hundred golden hairs wrapped around his side in a hot sting. His head jerked back; he inhaled sharply. Smiled slowly. Yes.

With his face to the wall, he pictured his Master behind him. The elf looked so good, bare-chested in his black leathers. He knew he wasn’t allowed to fantasize further, but he did. Tall and chiseled, haughty and solemn, his mane thick and golden down his back… The elven Master’s skill with the whip was infamous. His psychological tortures legendary. Well worth the price. He was a lucky man indeed.

The skin of his body was alive, every follicle stretching, reaching out to sense His every move.

Pacing, the man thought, like a lion at its prey.

Pacing.

Like a beast in a cage.

He swung the whip again.

II

Several years post Ring War

‘My Lord, someone approaches.’

The young Steward’s eyes snapped up and his face conveyed that he was listening intently. He nodded.

‘Those are no Orcs,’ he replied, still listening. ‘They are elves… and they are friends. Old friends,’ he murmured under his breath as faces flashed in his mind.

Puzzled, the ranger watching him wondered yet again whether the other man could actually scent the wind himself, like an elf or a wild animal. Sometimes his abilities were just too uncanny. But then, he supposed, being raised in constant danger had its consequences. It was good to have their former captain out with them again, if only for a few days. He could see it did both his Lord and the men well.

Unconsciously Faramir brushed back a strand of his unruly golden hair and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Old friends indeed. How was this going to play out? he wondered. A muscle in his jaw flickered as his teeth began to clench.

The company of elves crested the ridge and drew rein a respectful distance from the humans. Their leader dismounted to call his greeting to the Ranger captain. Shoulders squared and chin raised, he drew a breath – and stopped short. As his eyes focused on the ranking man before him, Haldir’s arrogant face broke into a wide grin. ‘Faramir!’

The two leaders strode forward to clasp arms and eyes in a warriors’ greeting before Haldir pulled Faramir into a tight bear hug – a most un-elf-like gesture. ‘It is so good to see you!’ the elf murmured into his old friend’s leathered shoulder. Faramir unthinkingly returned the welcome embrace for a long moment before Haldir felt him stiffen and pull back. The two separated and stood, eyes searching faces for news.

‘Well met, my friend,’ the Steward said at last. ‘Well met indeed. It has been far too long.’ (A recrimination? Haldir wondered.) ‘But how is it we did not know you were coming? Is all well in Lórien?’

‘Aye, indeed. The orcs are subdued, the lands are safe, the crops are planted. In fact, things are so peaceful as to be almost boring for those of us who live by fighting. We weary our graceful Lord and Lady with our fidgeting.’ The discontent of Haldir’s drawled words was belied by the characteristic sneering half-smile slowly creeping across his features.

‘And so we have been sent abroad and come to you for a social visit, by your grace. I bring with me several scholars and bards who would spend time in Gondor’s famous archives and gracious halls, as well as lovers of plants eager to share in the wonders and rebuilding of Ithilien’s storied gardens. And also some adventurers and friends of the Court, who want merely to be here and see those they care for and enjoy company in peace and leisure for a change.’ At this Haldir gestured toward his brothers, Rúmil and Orophin, who now stood a pace behind him. They bowed their heads and clasped fists to hearts in respectful greeting. Faramir thought Orophin’s salute ended in a subtle gesture that included Haldir was of this subgroup as well.

Faramir smiled warmly and nodded to them and to the larger company in greeting.

‘Welcome. Brothers of Haldir and friends of us all. We are glad you have come. Come, let us escort you to the White City. Aragorn, Arwen and the others will be eager to see you.’

The young Steward turned toward the path with quiet thanks to the Valar that his position and training provided ready words for him to speak at times like these, when he had no words of his own.

Haldir fell into step beside Faramir as the ranger guard fanned out around the elven travelers, moving from duty and habit rather than need. He lowered his voice that they might have some privacy.

‘My friend, it has been too long. How goes it? Are you well?’ A stupid question. Could my phrasing be worse? This he can answer only with trivialities or lies.

Memories of the last time they had parted flooded Haldir’s mind. It had been a few weeks after the celebrations of Aragorn’s ascension had concluded. Although they had longed to stay, Haldir and his brothers had been called back to Lórien to continue clearing the surrounding area of remaining orc bands. Haldir had been loath to leave his young lover, who had only just begun to heal from years of torment at the hands of his father, and from darker terrors before, of which only Haldir and a few others had known. He had left once before, as the War of the Ring demanded, and now knew the suffering that decision had caused Faramir. The young man’s most recent scars had still been fresh and his smiles too haunted for the Guardian to ride away with any peace. But ride away he had.

And now several long years had passed – no time at all for an immortal, but for a human, and one with so few others to turn to?

Haldir searched his friend’s profile for signs of anger or absolution. He was not sure which he craved more. He feared Faramir’s anger or bitter withdrawal — in truth he felt he deserved it. He had known his friend needed him. Had known Faramir had no one else left to trust, no one else who had lived through what he had and who could hold him without needing an explanation. Faramir would not explain again, would not reach out again – Haldir knew this. (Or had at the time. How much could have changed?)

And yet he had chosen to fulfill his duty to his Lord and Lady instead – a sworn duty, to be sure, but one a grieving lover might have hoped he would forsake. One his Lady might have urged him to postpone, in fact, had he but asked. And he had longed to, longed to stay behind and tend the young Steward, help him learn to trust again, tell him the world was not such an ugly place, and to prove it.

Yet the immortal warrior was deeply afraid to do that. Afraid of failing. Afraid of making Faramir more vulnerable to a world he could not control.

Afraid for himself as well.

So part of him had been relieved at the Lady’s summons, and he had gone. Knowing his Lady, she had called in order to be sure his eyes were open to the paths before him and chose wisely. He had chosen the familiar path of duty, and of fear, meaning soon to return. If she had disapproved, she had never shown it, and he had never asked. He was finally here, as he had promised, though several years late.

Now Haldir also feared Faramir’s understanding, his forgiveness. Boromir had once worried to him about the ease with which his beautiful brother shrugged off or forgave the most grievous injuries, smiling at those around him while hiding yet more pain somewhere deep inside, using it to fortify a wall between himself and others. To be forgiven for leaving would mean that Haldir himself had become one more person Faramir held at a distance, one more reason for him not to trust, no more than a passing fling at a time of need. Their future time together would be no more than time spent in company, yet alone; the times before, a lie. The world would indeed be an ugly place. Haldir feared that even more.

Beside him, Faramir’s mouth twitched in a sad half smile. The muscles of his eyelids relaxed as if he were focusing on something beautiful, yet distant.

‘Am I ‘well,’ Haldir? I find the word has a new meaning now that the world is changed. I am no longer so sure what it means. Time passes, however. Time always passes. And the mountains we dream of, and that seem to loom ahead of us, we climb with such difficulty, terror and triumph. And then we journey onward until they are but a painting in the distance behind, memories of selves we used to be. In the end I find it more useful to focus upon either the stars above or my feet below, so that I may know where I am truly going and not stumble upon the way.’

Faramir’s words could have seemed either wry witticism or philosophic vagary. Haldir heard them at another level altogether, and ice slid down his chest. In the silence he swallowed at length.

‘Could you not focus instead upon those beside you on the path?’

Without turning toward his companion, Faramir raised an eyebrow.

‘And who might that be?’

III

‘Don’t! Don’t touch me. Don’t say you love me. I have nothing left to give you. I can’t do this.’ Faramir jerked his body away, turning his back on Haldir and wrapping his arms around himself.

Faramir’s words had lost their power to shock him, but the intensity with which they were uttered had not. Although Haldir had heard this so many times, the fear and anguish in the young man’s voice still made him want to cry, to hold his lover close, to whisper to him that what he had was enough; that he was loved; that he was whole. But although Haldir felt his heart was breaking whenever these dark times came again, the reasons began to change.

At first he had been horrified by all that had happened to Faramir, had cradled the broken body close and been awed and grateful that the man had allowed himself to be touched at all, had trusted Haldir enough to allow him near when he had cringed away from all others. He had brushed red-gold locks back from the ranger’s damp forehead as he twisted in agonizing dreams night after night. He had kissed silent tears from the pale cheeks when Faramir had no words to express his pain. He had whispered words of comfort into sleeping ears, promising that he would stay close, would keep his charge safe, would never hurt him.

And as protectiveness had wakened into love, Faramir’s periodic doubts had still torn at him for his lover’s sake. Haldir wanted nothing more than to comfort him, let him know he was safe and perfect, and that nothing that had happened to him was his fault.

But it had been so long. He had been loving. He had been patient. He had been understanding – far more so than almost anyone had ever been with him. And still Faramir pushed him away, proving yet again his lack of trust in Haldir, Haldir’s own unworthiness.

Haldir’s breath caught as that bitter thought crossed his mind and his mouth tasted of metal. That was it. That was what hurt so badly. In continually cowering in his shame, Faramir was holding his pain like a shield between them, telling Haldir he was not worthy of trust. He was protecting himself, yes, but he was also lashing out at the one person who had made himself available. The one person who was there, willing and waiting to help. Maybe Haldir wasn’t trustworthy. Maybe he would fail. But by refusing to even try, Faramir was judging him, controlling him, condemning him. And the reputedly proud Marchwarden was standing for it.

This position felt too familiar to Haldir. Too easy to slip back into. He felt the heavily muscled shoulders of his warrior self curling inward, folding in upon himself, beginning to hide. He did not like it.

Something snapped inside the guardian, and he did something unconscionable. As Faramir tried to pull back and turn away from him, Haldir caught him by the shoulders, keeping them face-to-face.

‘Shut Up, melanin!² You’re hiding. You can’t do that from me. Not Anymore. I Won’t Let You.’

Spoken mere inches from his lover’s gentle face, Haldir’s quiet words carried the force of a slap. Faramir cringed and recoiled, eyes widened in surprise. Then his voice took on the placating tone that made others weep, yet set Haldir’s teeth on edge.

‘Please Haldir, I love you. I do! I just… I need too much time. Sometimes it hurts so much. I don’t want you to waste any more of your time with me when…

Haldir cut him off. He was not going to hear any more heart-rending excuses. He knew the next words. They had been here before.

‘Fárea!¹ Stop. I will be the judge of whether you have anything left to give, whether you are worth my time and my love. And I will not hear any more excuses.’

How could he tell the edan the truth — that he had to save him, if only because he was alive today because of Faramir? That he had returned from the brink of death only because he knew Faramir would one day be? Would need him? Would save him again? To say Faramir did not merit his time and love meant his own life was worthless. He could not go there again. Please no.

In a sudden motion drawn from years of battle training, Haldir reached forward with one large square hand and grabbed Faramir by the throat, as one might a snake. His iron grip wrapped around the man’s neck, leaving the calloused thumb to rasp a gentle but meaningful stroke across the sensitive windpipe and skin, the promise of a threat.

Ithilien’s Captain inhaled sharply and froze, lips parted and eyes rolled back to watch his captor warily. Neither moved for a long moment. Deep in the shadows of Faramir’s mind, something stirred.

Haldir’s grip loosened slightly as he leaned forward to brush his lips across those of the trembling young man. Faramir’s eyes closed and his shoulders eased slightly with the kiss. It was okay. Familiar territory. Nothing had changed.

Haldir ended the kiss but did not pull his face away. They were close enough that fluttering eyelashes brushed one another. He now held Faramir only by fingertips and thumb hooked under his jawbone. And he noted that, although the lean body – a mere child by elven standards – shook with tension, the Ranger’s jaw held firm, muscles taut. Haldir slid the other hand down his lover’s arm to tangle their long fingers. Two archers’ hands, entwined. Strong. Calloused. Neither one shaking.

Faramir exhaled whispered words in the air between their faces.

‘I’m not worthy of your love Haldir. I don’t deserve this.’

‘Bullshit.’

Haldir’s response was no louder, but the sound vibrated the air between them like that of an unseen hunting knife drawn with deadly purpose across a sharpening stone.

‘Stop Lying Faramir. What you mean is you’re not willing to take my love, or give yours in return. You are refusing to be involved with me. That’s you making a choice. You’re not being forced anymore. They are all dead – Dead!’

‘Stop playing victim when what you’re really doing is grabbing the ultimate control in this relationship, acting the coward to hide your own power. If you mean to reject me, say it. Don’t lie to me. That is cowardly.’

Faramir jerked back as if slapped. He had opened his mouth to speak, to deny — and then froze, eyes wide. No words on his tongue could answer Haldir’s accusation. No response in his mind could be spoken aloud. His heart was gripped by ice at such complete and total exposure. Cold twisted up his spine and reached outward. It was the truth. It was not all of the truth. But it was true nonetheless.

Yet there burned a single finger of steely flame. His mind’s eye registered two images of himself, side by side, as he so often did. One crouched upon the floor, arms over his head, shaking and denying the words, protecting.

The other standing quietly beside him, silent and watching. Always watching. A tall slim Ranger, mouth grim, eyes hard, unflinching, knowing. That one had been there almost as long as the other, although few looked for him because they thought they saw through him to the cowering one. A trick of their perception. Or of his presentation. Perhaps this was the real secret.

And that self would meet the sharp eye of his elven counterpart in a deep warrior’s greeting, with a subtle nod in recognition that honest words had finally been spoken between them.

The game was up.

Silence stretched between Faramir and Haldir.

Tempest gray eyes met the hard blue of a deep and icy lake. A glare of challenge and of answer. Hard-won respect. And relief. It was finished.

‘I think at last we understand one another.’

‘One to another.’

¹ Fárea – Enough

² Melanin – My love

IV

The silver horns of Gondor sounded across the green sunlit plain as the travelers’ party approached the gates. Faramir had sent messengers ahead to announce the arrival of the envoy from Lorién. The doors to the throne room stood open and waiting, the guard prepared to let the honored guests pass unchallenged. Soon Haldir, his brothers, and their companions stood before King Elessar’s throne, flanked by Faramir and his Second.

‘What news of your patrol, Lord Faramir?’ the King asked formally.

‘Sire, I present to you a traveling party from Lorién, come in peace to pass time in Minas Tirith and Ithilien.’

Breaking protocol, as was increasingly his wont, Aragorn grinned broadly and rose to descend the steps from his throne.

‘Haldir, Rúmil and Orophin, you and your party are most welcome.’ He clasped each one’s shoulder in a warm greeting. As he came to Haldir, the gesture was coupled with a firm embrace, recognition of another time they had met under more dire circumstances, when Haldir’s unlooked for presence and selfless valor had saved many lives.

As Aragorn pulled back into a second warrior’s grasp, his eyes met Haldir’s, and held. In that moment, Haldir recognized, his measure was being taken. Aragorn knew of his past relationship with Faramir and had an idea of its import. For a brief moment the King’s thoughts became clear in his eyes. Haldir knew him to be too practiced a statesman and too fluent in elven ways to take it as an accident.

Welcome, Aragorn said. You are very welcome. I wonder if your visit has to do with Faramir? Watching Haldir intently, Aragorn gave the subtlest of smiles, a mere tightening of hidden muscles, quickly past. Ah. I see that it does. But quickly his face carried a stern warning. Do not hurt my steward. In any way. I will be watching, and I will take it personally.

Haldir allowed his own face to communicate his thoughts in return. I understand. I have not come to hurt him. I also care for him.

Aragorn’s eyes revealed his acceptance – and possibly his hope. Come then, and love him with our deepest blessing. We would see him happy.

Aye. Haldir lowered his eyes gently in recognition. I will try.

Turning to the larger party, Aragorn spread his arms wide. ‘Please, all of you, be at peace here. Our city is yours. I will welcome you all to a banquet this evening, but until then, find your rest after a long journey. My servants will show you to your rooms.’

As the group departed, he added, ‘Lord Faramir, if you would stay. I would hear the rest of your report.’

The doors closed behind the last of the elves and Aragorn led the way behind a richly woven tapestry at the back of the throne room, to the more comfortable arrangement of soft couches hidden there. He had added this less formal area to interview and entertain trusted guests and advisors in some measure of comfort and less ceremony. Now he asked the adjacent guards to step several paces off and let the thick curtain fall between them. Collapsing into a velvet couch he turned to his steward, now facing him from a deep armchair, ready to continue his report.

‘We found nothing else out of the ordinary, my Lord. There is a piece of the road near Obringen that will need regrading before next rainy season, but otherwise all is as it should be.’

‘So will you take him to your bed?’

Faramir stopped, mouth open, his prepared response suddenly not fitting the question.

‘Sire?’

‘Oh come on, Faramir! How long has it been since you stopped calling me ‘sire’ in private? You heard the question. An honest one between friends. Will you answer?’

Faramir’s eyes took on an uncomfortable cornered look, like an animal suddenly finding itself trapped, and trying to back away.

‘It has been a long time,’ he shrugged non-committally, deliberately keeping his voice casual. ‘I don’t even know if there’s anything left of that. An adolescent fling in the flurry of celebration. Perhaps no more.’

Aragorn was silent for a long moment, his eyes studying his Steward, his friend. ‘We both know that it was more than that. And so does he. He is here to love you Faramir. And to see if you will love him. He has come back for you. I shouldn’t wonder that this whole entourage is here as an excuse to deliver Haldir into your arms. It is Galadriel’s style.’

At this Faramir’s face reddened as his mind reeled. Why must the King tease him so? Not about this, please.

‘Faramir, how long will you wait like this? How long until you allow yourself to be happy? It is no secret that many strapping young cadets offer themselves freely to you. Yet you mentor them only, always the honorable Captain. And of all the distinguished warriors and counselors of your own age whose eyes follow your every motion, not one has seen the inside of your chambers. Do you deny it? In truth, I pressed you to keep company with me not so long ago, and was turned down ever so sweetly – but firmly. Because, you said, your heart was elsewhere.

‘So I ask you then, Faramir, where is it? Who holds your heart so long that none has touched you since Haldir left? The implication is obvious.’

‘Sire, I…’

‘Aragorn! Can you deny that you are trying to shut me out when you can’t even call me by my name when we talk about this?’ The sharp note left Aragorn’s voice as quickly as it had arisen, and he began to chuckle. ‘Honestly Faramir, if you mean to tell me to mind my own damn business, you have leave to say it. You know you do. Just call me by my name, as your friend.’

Faramir half-smiled, as was his habit. ‘Fine then, Aragorn. Mind your own damn business.’

Aragorn smiled warmly. ‘Ah. That’s more like it. In that case… No.’

With that, the king rose to leave. Faramir let out his held breath with an audible huff, rolled his eyes in annoyance, and made to follow.

‘I have one final word for you my friend,’ the King began again.

‘And what is that?’

‘Take Him. To Your Bed.’

Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, the King stepped forward to grasp his friend’s shoulder. ‘Yes.’

With that, Aragorn caressed Faramir’s face once with the loving touch of a parent or an old lover. And with his curled index finger he chucked Faramir under the chin, closing his mouth with a click.

Faramir’S POV:

What on Arda is he talking about? Why must he mock my fondest daydreams? To have Haldir back would be like getting back my heart. Though perhaps even then it was gone.

No, Haldir doesn’t hold my heart. He may have tossed aside what was left of it, but it was already a waste when he found me. I didn’t have a chance. Haldir was a brief moment of sun in a dark time, but I am a burden he rightly chose not to bear.

No! I have done so well these past few years. Turning all this off. I won’t get swallowed by it again. I am Steward now. An adult. A respected leader. I have no time for all this wasted emotion, mooning and simpering like a sixteen year old.

As if I did this at sixteen. No, by sixteen I had the jaded heart of an aging prostitute. No, maybe at eighteen. At sixteen I was still just scared. Every day. Every time.

I won’t start all this again. I am turning this off. I have no heart left to give.

Aragorn’s POV:

Oh my Steward, if only you knew how many people love you! Both men and women, humans and elves. Your quiet beauty and gentle composure have ensnared us all. Your absolute selflessness is a wonder to behold.

Yet I know there is a fierce warrior in there as well, and a leader ruthless in protecting his men and his country. I have always wondered if that same warrior might be protecting you? If the selfless scholar cannot keep you safe, does the warrior step in? And is it he – the Ranger schooled in subterfuge and concealment and constant observation – is it he who protects you now?

Faramir walked slowly back to his rooms, lost in thought, hoping to find peace and solace for a few hours before dinner. Instead, he rounded a corner of the corridor to confront a waterfall of palest gold. Two elves with their backs to him, with matching cascades of shimmering silk. One of them had to be Haldir. It was his hair. Faramir knew it well.

And they were holding hands, heads leaned together, talking confidentially.

Faramir’s heart had leapt unexpectedly at the sight of the hair (a sensation he thought he could no longer experience). Now it began to choke him. The beginnings of tears prickled the corners of his eyes.

Damn! What was this emotional reaction?

At the slight noise, the two elves turned. So like Haldir.

But not.

Rúmil and Orophin smiled broadly and moved to embrace their old friend again. As usual, it was Rúmil who spoke first.

‘Faramir! I see we’ve surprised you. I’m afraid we’ve come to disturb the quiet of your corridor. We’ve all been placed here to keep you company and cause you trouble, I’m afraid. Hope you can learn to bear us.’

Faramir returned their smiles, if somewhat shakily. But his pleasure at seeing them was genuine. Their easy affection for him could aptly be described as ‘brotherly,’ and he realized now how keenly he had missed it. It might be nice to be part of a family again.

Aragorn washed his hands at the basin inside the door of the Houses of Healing. He had been serving one shift every fortnight to keep up his skills and to be in service to his people. He and the Gondorian healers still had techniques and remedies to teach one another, and occasionally he was the only one who could help with a severe or unusual case.

But today there were no such cases. A broken arm, a minor burn, some soldiers with the inevitable training wounds. Aragorn found himself caring for a young boy with an unfortunate allergic reaction to an herbal bath he’d been given. The resulting rash was barely visible to the eye, but it itched him terribly. To avoid secondary infection from scratching, the healers had prescribed a soothing medicinal oil, which Aragorn was obliged to smooth on the boy’s skin.

Starting on the boy’s arms, Aragorn had quickly reassessed his initial assumption that the boy was ten or eleven. For he had the well-shaped muscles of a young warrior, although his torso was still slim like a girl’s. He was firm as well, Aragorn thought, as his calloused hands spread warm oil across the biceps and shoulders, squeezing slightly to help relax the muscles and avoid tickling. He knew this was embarrassing and awkward for the child, and wanted to avoid making him any more skittish with light touches. His attempt at small talk quickly fizzled, and instead he lapsed into the silence of competent efficiency.

Moving to the boy’s legs, Aragorn was again surprised to see the sculpted thighs of a burgeoning horseman as he stroked the oil upward from hard calves. The boy must be around 13 or 14 to be this strongly developed. And yet he was shy and looked small beneath his clothing.

‘There. Have I gotten it all?’ the quiet King asked as he finished the second leg.

The boy’s eyes lowered in charming embarrassment. ‘Um, no sir… There is more.’

The boy dropped the cloth he had been holding wrapped around his torso and blushed. Then he turned his back to his King.

Aragorn narrowly avoided drawing in his breath as he was confronted with two perfectly rounded muscular buttocks, freckled with rash. He could see without touching how they would feel beneath his hand. Firm and warm. Ready to be cupped by his large strong hands. Squeezed and lifted. Spread.

He shook his head slightly to clear the thought. This child was thirteen!

Thirteen. The age Faramir was when his father first came to him in desire.

Pouring the medicine into one hand, Aragorn rubbed his palms to warm it. He turned his face away and began to smooth the oil over the firm mounds of flesh. Much as he tried to feel detached from what he was doing, he found his hands moving by necessity in the same practiced motions he had used so many times with his lovers, his thumbs sliding into the crease and lifting upwards as his fingers rotated outward over the surrounding skin. Swallowing a groan, Aragorn saw that the rash continued down the crack of the boy’s buttocks and along his inner thighs. From the scratch marks there, it must be bothering him and had to be treated.

Aragorn poured out more oil. As he trailed an oily finger down the crevice between the boy’s cheeks, Aragorn felt his sex stirring and again steeled himself back in the present. This was no willing young lover, but a mere child, and in pain at that. He took a slow breath and prayed that the boy couldn’t sense his discomfort.

Rubbing his palms again, he directed his ministrations to the muscled inner thighs. He could feel cords of resistance as his two hands slid between and pressed outward, sliding between and inside the warm flesh, surrounding each thigh and stroking first upward, taking care to avoid the (tightening?) sac, then downward. Please gods, let the child not have rash there!

Feeling like a dirty old man, Aragorn began to turn the boy around – only to meet resistance and have him frantically grasp for his cloth. But not before Aragorn saw a small but fully erect member bobbing before him. The boy was as aroused as he was!

Clearing his throat to banish the huskiness he feared, Aragorn asked again, ‘Have I gotten it all?’

Again the charming blush as the boy looked down, now fumbling to tie the cloth about his waist.

‘Yes Sire. Th… That is all of it. Thank you.’

Aragorn corked the oil and excused himself to wash his hands, wishing the boy a speedy recovery. He walked from the room as quickly as royal dignity would allow, thankful he had worn a loose robe this day. He was ashamed of his reaction and kept repeating to himself that the boy was only thirteen.

And yet so well formed. So firm. So ripe. And responsive.

His thoughts turned back to Faramir, so fair of face and yet also strong and lithe. Even in adulthood, his blush was still disarming and his shy silence alluring. What had he been like at thirteen? Had he, like this boy, been aroused by another’s touch? Had he perhaps not been only the innocent victim of his father’s advances but perhaps also a participant, however unwilling? Aragorn hated to think it, but could it be? And if so, what would his experience of sexuality be, especially now, with those who knew what had happened and expected him to be traumatized?

Faramir would have to feel guilt, he thought, and perform it as well. What if his performance of false shame masked a deeper guilt for having – if only at times — enjoyed the intimacy? He would have learned to perform victimhood to hide the fear that he might be complicit in his own abuse. How could he later enjoy sex at all, if the very sensations were tied not only to fear and pain, but also to immense guilt both for enjoying and for accepting solace when he also felt to blame?

While his heart went out to his dear friend, Aragorn fleetingly thought he might be glad Faramir had refused his advances a few months ago. The whole situation was far too complicated. He would have no idea how to help the younger man through it.

And yet help he must. Faramir was his friend as well as his Steward, and Aragorn desperately wanted to see him happy – either with him or with Haldir. But how? He hoped Haldir had found a way through this. Or did he even know? Faramir was good at hiding things, perhaps even by revealing others. How involved was it permissible for him to get in this? Could he talk to Haldir?

Not yet, that was for sure. Aragorn sighed as his steps turned back toward the Citadel. Perhaps he could understand why Faramir thought it best to leave sex well enough alone.

Dinner that evening was a joyous affair, resplendent with laughter and smiles, songs and stories. Though not as ribald as when Legolas and the twins were in attendance, there was still plenty of news and mischief to share. Queen Arwen had known many of the guests since she was an elfling, and they felt free sharing stories of their lives together. Aragorn couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sadness, knowing that Arwen’s tales were now limited as these elves’ were not. Because of him, her past was now longer than her future.

But tonight was no time for such thoughts. Rúmil and Orophin were reminiscing about an angry young elf princess who had run away (again) after being told too many times to sit still and finish her dinner. After two days, their own patrol had found her, clothed only in vines, wild hair decorated with flowers. She appeared to have set up her own ‘household’ with a family of rabbits, whom she had arranged around a bark table with leaf dishes of grass and acorns – which, as they approached, she was pointedly scolding the squirming small ones to finish.

Faramir was seated across from the two brothers, and so got the full benefit of their facial expressions as they told the tale, and the familiar way they interrupted one another and seamlessly finished one another’s sentences, as if so bursting with the story that they couldn’t possibly wait for the other to finish. The whole style added immensely to the performance, and Faramir found himself laughing heartily with the rest of the company as they shared more episodes of Young Arwen, Wild Elf Queen of the Jungle.

At a pause in the telling, Faramir reached for his water goblet – only to have his hand brush that of his neighbor, who had had the same thought.

Haldir.

Whether Aragorn had left instructions that they be seated together, or the servants had vaguely remembered their friendship, he didn’t know. But in whichever case, they found themselves now side by side, deliberately not touching, and yet painfully aware of one another’s proximity. Their shoulders, straight against carved high back chairs, were only inches apart. Their thighs almost touched under the table’s cloth. Faramir could feel the hairs on his leg standing up, as if bristling with electricity, reaching toward his old lover. He wondered how Haldir’s smooth and hairless thigh registered his own presence. He remembered its texture on his palm, his tongue.

Their predicament was made all the more painful by the easy way Rúmil and Orophin leaned against one another’s shoulders, batted each other’s hands during their tale, or rocked against each other in laughter.

And then his hand brushed Haldir’s at the water goblets.

Faramir felt like lightning had shot through him in a sudden jolt. And with it came a flash – of memory? of the future? of Haldir’s present thoughts?

As if from a distance, he saw their two bodies, naked and glistening in candlelight, moving against one another on a bed. He was on top, as he had so seldom been before, his body grinding, sliding, gyrating upon Haldir. His hair falling in an amber curtain to frame his lover’s face, which he now saw close-up, a look of raw desire and deep love in his dilated eyes. Lips round and soft, loose and swollen from kisses, hungry for more. Faramir jerked his hand back, startled, and the vision ended. But his sudden movement jostled Haldir’s elbow and the Steward was forced to turn to him in apology. And saw that same look in Haldir’s deep blue eyes. Naked desire and aching love.

Faramir quickly looked at the table, but not quickly enough to stop a precious blush from spreading to his cheeks, ears and forehead. And neck, noticed Haldir. How he loved those blushes. How he longed to lift the soft waves of hair to trace the red flush across Faramir’s slender neck, behind his ears. Down his spine and chest.

Rúmil grinned ever so subtly at Orophin. They knew their brother was in love, and they were glad of it. In silent unison, both silently offered up the same prayer to the Valar: Please let Lord Faramir accept him.

V

‘My love? Where are you? Your thoughts are so far from us. Can you come back to me? Can you tell me where you are, meleth? what you want?’

Haldir’s voice was gentle in his ear. Understanding, concerned. Perhaps a little disappointed.

They had crawled into the large bed in Haldir’s guest quarters an hour ago, ostensibly to sleep, and Faramir had dropped off quickly in exhaustion, but Haldir had been ready for loving. He nuzzled against Faramir’s warm body, luxuriating in the salty scent of the damp skin beneath the younger man’s hair. Ageless lips brushed the soft golden baby hairs at the nape of his lover’s neck. His battle-hardened fingers traced a line down smoothly muscled ribs to the sensuous curve of a hipbone. Haldir liked the way his three fingers fit perfectly in the dip in front of that bone, as if they completed a whole. That the tips just brushed the beginnings of the enticing red-blonde curls below made him shiver. Half a tender smile slowly drew up one side of his noble mouth.

Faramir was again amazed that the elf’s ancient calloused hands could feel so soft, touch so gently, that he could lose track of the skin boundary between them. Could forget that they were two people in separate bodies. Sometimes they dissolved into one, and he treasured that. Sometimes.

But tonight he was disappearing and needed to feel his edges. He needed to feel real.

He tried to relax into the whispering touches anyway. He wanted to do this for Haldir, to let himself be loved and let Haldir see his pleasure. He meant to. He knew the Silvan warrior hungered for intimacy and release tonight, and that he hated to feel pleasure without bringing his lover along. Even more so Haldir hated it when Faramir pretended. But sometimes there was no other way.

Loving the elf was easy. How often had Faramir been stunned to silence by the fragile beauty of sunlight glinting in his loved one’s hair? Or marveled at how every movement of the archer’s long limbs became a perfect dance of strength and grace? Or reveled in his entrancing scent of honeysuckle, cedar and rain? Yes, the love part was easy.

But lying to him was hard. They saw and felt too much, these ancient creatures. When they understood the language of the rocks and trees, how much more so that of ordinary mortals? The Steward’s youngest was so used to being more fey, more attuned than those around him, able to read and predict other’s thoughts and to respond beforehand. Yet now he had met his match.

Lying to Haldir meant going deep inside himself and shutting something down, closing a door, so that when he came back out, even he could believe the feelings he performed for his lover. Only by believing it himself could he convince Haldir — and even then he sensed the older one knew better. And learning to believe his own lie meant denying what was really real. He feared sometimes he would forget the path to the closed door. Or lose the key forever and forget the door even existed.

Faramir had practice at this, but he hated it. He hated being locked inside, small inside himself. He felt like he was cheating, cheated. He wanted this to be over. But to please Haldir meant everything. Faramir owed him his life, his sanity. The least he could do was not deny him pleasure when he wanted it.

If Haldir knew what his human lover did to be there during those times, the elf would have held back his own passion in sad resignation, dampening his own sensations despite a desperate need to explore them to the fullest. Faramir knew the Marchwarden would abandon his own desire without hesitation, to care for him gently, like an injured child. And they would both be left bitter with disappointment and self-blame. Alone. He had enough pain and guilt already without adding that. And was he not also allowed to do something for the one he loved?

Haldir gazed at the side of his golden ranger’s face where the candles’ amber glow kissed cheekbone and jaw, and purple gray shadows pooled in the hollow of his cheeks, under his brows. They had started out well enough tonight, exploring one another, fingertips and tongues lingering, savoring. As always, Haldir made sure to express his passion quietly and slowly, to keep all memories of what had happened before in the past.

In the very beginning, just after Haldir found him, the broken ranger had not yet known he could refuse — or how to — and he given in as a matter of course. They had had plenty of sex back then – intense and adventurous sex, for which Haldir still faulted himself even as its memory stirred his blood. But when Faramir had finally begun to understand that he was free and trust that his golden saviour wouldn’t hurt him, the true horror of his life became clear. He had withdrawn suddenly and violently from any contact at all. After that, it had taken many months before Faramir had been able to share even the most innocent of touches, and longer still before he had let Haldir begin teaching him what loving was supposed to feel like, the difference in the experience when one’s spirit and mind occupied the same space as one’s body. Even still, Faramir sometimes slipped into what seemed to be shock, when he shut down and went deep into himself or far away, to places Haldir could only guess at and could seldom retrieve him from. Like now.

Faramir stirred vaguely at the gentle words and Haldir began to sigh in relief. Not so long this time. The young man’s eyes were still distant, but his soft hands reached for Haldir’s own.

Haldir’s exhale stopped abruptly in surprise. Faramir had spread the elven thumb and fingers wide and now pressed the larger hand against his own throat. Hard.

The guardian’s body tensed with resistance as he tried to pull away, but Faramir would not release his hold. Instead the lithe ranger used his motion to turn his own body so they faced each other. Haldir still struggled to pull back. He would not help his lover relive the pain. He would not do this. The memory of that same throat so recently covered in bruises was too near. The memory of the man-child weeping and vulnerable in his arms. His own inability to protect the flaxen beauty. His unrequited need to avenge. Something dark stirred within the elf; he felt himself begin to stiffen.

Faramir’s hand pressed harder, forcing the flat of Haldir’s palm against his own windpipe, the pads of the fingers into his flesh, wrapping around, seeking bruises. Storm gray eyes caught blue ones for the merest second and Haldir saw not the blank empty gaze he had expected, but a flash of recognition — and of clear will.

Faramir refused to yield his hold and kept the elf’s grip locked around his own throat.

Breaking the gaze, the young man’s eyes rolled back beneath his lowered lids and he began to alternately catch his breath and gasp – as if fear and pain battled pleasure for control of his body.

And indeed they did, exquisitely so. His body felt like a bowstring stretched beyond taut, poised between its breaking point and the delicate tension that would loose an arrow on its most glorious, most powerful flight. Awaiting only the intention of the archer.

Faramir’s hands remained tight on Haldir’s hand and wrist in a show of both insistence and resistance, and he arched back before his lover, writhing as if overcome, nearly thrusting his arousal into the empty air between them.

Confused, Haldir tried again to pull away. Was Faramir having a flashback? Was he doing what had been expected by those who had trained him so well? Surely Haldir should rouse him from this, hold him and keep him safe until the memories let go. Surely? Until he felt his lover straining and saw how hard he had indeed become. And hadn’t his eyes been dark with desire? Had Haldir imagined it? Did he just want it to be so?

Faramir ached for his lover’s touch. He ached to be roughly taken in hand, fondled, plundered, hurt. To feel the boundary of his own skin, to know where he was, where he ended. And then to be used by one who took his pleasure by strength, who demanded and would not be denied. To be controlled and forced into abandon, so that his own release would be inevitable, beyond his power to refuse. He wanted to be free so desperately! But he couldn’t. There was too much guilt. He craved absolution. He needed to be given permission to feel, commanded to do so. Made free by another’s control.

Faramir was ashamed of his need. Knew it was probably one of those sick things he had learned from other teachers. But he couldn’t deny it. No soft loving gentle sweetness was going to give him peace tonight. Tonight he needed force. He needed to walk the razor’s edge of his body’s memory to find the high stakes pleasure. He couldn’t do this alone. Could Haldir do this for him? Would he?

The sound of Faramir’s gasping breath made Haldir’s blood tingle and surge. He could feel his sex twitching, stiffening as a familiar tight ache spread across his lower belly and down. He mustn’t respond to this! It was wrong. He should treat Faramir well, especially with something he knew for a fact was a repetition of abuse. He should teach him another way to be, help him learn to have pleasure without pain. He knew this.

But his rapidly stiffening cock thought otherwise. The dampness of his lower back and the new earth smell of his own body told him his morals ran only so far. The tip of his tongue pressed the sharpness of canine teeth. The Marchwarden inhaled deeply, breathing in Faramir’s scent of hay and honeysuckle, clove and dark fear.

Faramir stiffened at the sound of breath hard against his ear and Haldir felt a growl rising from his chest. His grip on Faramir’s throat tightened and no longer needed encouragement from the young one. He pulled Faramir toward him by the neck and turned the golden Ranger back around until the man’s back met hot Silvan skin and his body was pinned to the Marchwarden’s chest by the arm that stopped his breath. The arm that commanded him. Their faces were side by side as Haldir slid his hand up to force Faramir’s head fully back against his shoulder. The man’s throat was now totally exposed, his chin held in a crushing grip that brooked no protest. The pulse of mortal lifeblood fluttered beneath bow-strengthened fingers and Haldir felt the rush of absolute power. He traced a fingertip from the young one’s temple to his jawbone, a whispered warning.

Faramir held his breath.

The elf’s growl may have been no louder than a sigh, but with his full lips pressed against Faramir’s ear the sound was a physical thing, not heard, but felt through vibrating bones and skin, reaching into the depth of Faramir’s being. Unnerving and inescapable and deeply satisfying.

‘Now listen, Faramir. I will say this once. I love you and I don’t want to hurt you. But I am going to make you feel. Through both pleasure and pain. I am going to make you feel more than you ever have before.

‘Because I am going to forbid you to escape inside your mind. I forbid it. I will take you to incredible heights of pleasure and of love, and all I ask is that you stay with me. Stay. Here.

‘You will have to trust me. I will never do anything to you against your will. But if your will says you want to hurt, I will give you that. As much as you can take. As much as you desire.

‘You can tell me when to stop and I will. But to get me to hurt you, you will have to trust me and not hide, so I can trust you. I have to know what you really want if I am to give it to you. And I have to know that you will stop me when we reach your limits, so I can be free up until then. And then I promise you, you are going to enjoy what I do to you.

‘Will you trust me like that? Will you stay here with me?’

Something melted. Deep deep inside. Something began to break free. This was beyond his dreams, more than he dared hope for.

Faramir felt a surge of both fear and pure exuberant pleasure rising up, carrying him on its crest, threatening to overwhelm him. He moved as if to nod, but found he couldn’t manage it. The elf would not release his head even so much.

‘Say it out loud.’ came the hot breath in his ear, so threatening, so enticing.

‘Yes!’ The shaking man let out a breath only to quickly gasp in another. ‘Yes. I trust you. I am here.’

In truth he was now so aroused he might have agreed to anything to get Haldir to touch him. He was no stranger to lies under duress. He even knew how to believe them himself. He agreed without thinking.

Haldir’s heart sank at the young man’s quick reply, for he knew it could not be honest. Knew it for the response of lust and the moment’s intention. He felt a twisting pain in his chest, a crucial bit of himself dying.

How to make this elusive young thing commit? This one he ached to hold close, to confide in? To get him to trust, so that Haldir himself could trust in return? Could open up and reveal who he was, what had happened to him, how he lived through it and with it? He wanted desperately to go there with Faramir, where his own soul felt free. Where every touch spoke of honesty, where every moment required and practiced absolute trust. To the dark places where every glimmer of light became more visible, more achingly beautiful. To the place where love and pain met, and they could be whole.

‘Yes. I trust you. I am here.’ As the words left Faramir’s cracked and trembling lips, the fear hit him. The Ranger realized with dread that the elf would hold him to this. He was promising not to lie. Promising no more hiding. Promising to be there, inside his own eyes, not behind them. Always.

As if watching from a distance, he also realized that he meant it this time. Just as his body ached to be gripped and filled, his heart ached to relax, to open up and trust, to set down his blame and control and be held in every way. He didn’t know how, and he was terrified. But he wanted. This time he knew what he wanted.

He knew Haldir had heard the lie in his words. Now he let his body melt further back into Haldir’s to show his real decision. His eyes closed as he reached his mind toward the face alongside his own.

Please believe me.

Haldir felt his lover’s body soften into his, silently giving way, meaning it.

Thank the Valar.

The trace of a hesitant smile flickered the elf’s lips. He was still scared, but he would try.

VI

‘I told you, you can’t drink in here. You’re not welcome. We doesn’t serve no addicts in here.’

The beefy barman spoke gruffly to the figure slumped at the corner table, yet kept his distance.

A grating voice came from under the tangled mass of greasy gray-black hair. ‘Dint like us, shouldn’ hav brewed th stuff. Whaddyou care? Not hurting ‘nybody.’ A dirty long- fingered hand waved the tavern keeper away rudely.

‘Aye, mebbe fer now yer not, but it’s only a matter of time with you, in’t? Now shoo!’

The head jerked up sharply and the tavern went silent. The barman froze where he was collecting glasses. His eyes calculated the distance between them. Three paces. Not enough. He contemplated backing up slowly, knowing it was a bad idea.

‘You should count yourself lucky, friend.’ The voice was now less slurred and took on a quiet threatening tone, one that chilled every heart in the room, like rattler stilling before the strike. The barman found himself staring directly into the frighteningly bottomless blue pits of the elf’s eyes. They were the eyes of one with nothing left to lose.

‘Now I said, give me kaihf.’

Sweat beaded the brow of the barman as the blood drained from his doughy face. He took a trembling step backward, then another. Then turned and headed for the bar, muttering under his breath.

‘Who’s that then?’ the stranger asked, gesturing with his chin at the mass in the corner.

‘Goes by the name of Halda. Been in town for years.’

‘Halda, huh? Unusual name for an elf. Means ‘Shadowed,’ if my school days serve me right.’

‘Used to be quite the thing, a few years back. Made a good living among the nobles, scratching itches.’

‘A courtesan?’

‘No, better than that. Wouldn’t be taken or held by any of them. But they all scrambled over themselves for a few moments of his time just the same. To taste the sharper pleasures of which he was a connoisseur, so they say. Had the whole of the duchy in his hand for some time there.’

‘What happened?’

‘Don’ rightly know. Not sure which came first, the fall or the kaihf. Never can say that. The two go hand in hand. No one as tries it avoids the fall, and no one as has something to live for tries it. They say it’s especially bad for elves, oddly. Something about that light they carry inside ‘em. Don’t know if it dulls their senses or dulls the light, but keeps ‘em from being able to know what they are, or such like. And keeps their kind from being able to find ‘em again.

Weird things, is elves. Reckon we’d all be safer without ‘im around, now that he’s not so high on the hog, so to speak. Gets dangerous sometimes, when he remembers his strength. Mean. An’ wicked fast.’

‘But how does he live?’

‘An’ what do you think an addicted elf’d be doing in these parts to earn a living?’

The stranger grunted into his ale and drank deeply.

‘Still, seems a waste. Might not be bad looking, if he were clean. And they say elves have magic and all.’

The other grunted. ‘Him? No, he doesn’t even know what being an elf is anymore. Used to be beautiful though. Hair the color of dawn. Made you sigh just to look. Now look at ‘im. That’un’s got no magic left. He’s just a kaihf shell. Can’t live or die.’

His lined face resting on the sticky table in front of him, Haldir’s still keen hearing registered every word. Many years ago he would have corrected them on his name. No longer.

Halda, he thought dimly. They got it right.

Haldir woke in a sweat, feeling dirty. He glanced down at the weight on his arm. Red-gold curls.

Too dirty to touch.

Taking care not to disturb his sleeping lover, he slid his arm out and replaced it with a pillow as Faramir stirred and murmured. A reassuring hand on his shoulder and quiet again.

Snatching up a robe, Haldir walked on swift silent feet to the bathing chamber. He must get clean. Now.

There was not enough soap to make the memory go away. There never was. He scrubbed harder. Washed his hair again.

Staring into the looking glass afterward, the elf searched his pale reflection for traces of the lines he knew had been around his mouth, for the dirty streaks under from his eyes, the gray in his hair. He saw none, but still he searched. In his eyes, he saw them. In the seriousness of his gaze, the grim hold of his jaw, the distance and coldness. He knew others did too. They could not see the dirt, but still they saw… something.

Halda, he thought. Still.

VII

The bards and musicians of Lórien and Gondor exchanged many turns that night, and the banquet and entertainment ended late in the evening. Faramir found himself returning to his rooms in the wine-merry company of the Lórien elves. As they walked, Orophin threw a fraternal arm around his shoulders.

‘So, my friend, when will we be welcoming you in Lórien?’

Faramir winced invisibly. The question was worded ambiguously enough that he couldn’t tell if he was being invited to visit or asked if he was moving in. He had no answer and dodged diplomatically.

‘I should very much like to come see its beauty.’

‘Ah, but there’s no need — we’ve brought him to you!’ Rúmil jubilantly came up behind them with his arm around Haldir’s neck.

Both Haldir and Faramir flushed as Rúmil chuckled at his own joke. Before Haldir could either voice his apology or offer to throttle his brother, Rúmil continued.

‘But now, dear Orophin, you’d best unhand Faramir and come away with me before I become jealous.’

‘Of which one of us, my love?’ Orophin replied with a grin.

‘Both!’

At that, Orophin released Faramir, kissing him lightly on the cheek. ‘Oho! That sounds like trouble all around. Best to say good night, sweet prince. Pleasant dreams.’ And both brothers slipped through their door, fingers entwined.

Faramir’s and Haldir’s rooms were the next doors down, across from one another – again by someone’s meddlesome design, no doubt. The silence between them bristled. They stopped awkwardly in front of their closed doors. Haldir fought the urge to step forward until his chest met the Ranger’s, driving him back against the stone wall. To take the man’s startled face in his hands and crush his lips to his own, to press his aching groin against his old lover, grind into his heat. Press one knee between his creamy thighs until Faramir rode upon his own thickly muscled leg. Writhing. Gasping in need. Feel Faramir’s breath panting hot against his ear as his lips and tongue caressed and their bodies strove at one another through leather and cloth. To –

‘Good night Haldir.’ Faramir had backed against his door, fumbling for the handle, and was gone.

VIII

Mid Third Age

Three riders crested the hill and paused to look down on the human city of Iolinde.

‘Can you feel anything? Can you see him?’

Grim came the answer. ‘No. I see only darkness.’

‘But this is the last place she saw him…’

‘Patience. We will inquire. And then we will keep searching.’

‘Ada…’

‘No, Elrohir. I have no intention of giving up. We will find him.’ Elrond’s mouth was a thin line as he spurred his horse down the slope toward the town.

‘An elf, you say? A blonde one? Seem to recall there was one a while back. Haven’t seen one around here in years. My apologies, my lord.’

The gatesman shook his head in emphasis, sorry to disappoint the three cloaked foreigners.

‘But there was one here? How long ago?’ Elladan leaned forward eagerly, only to encounter Elrond’s restraining hand.

Kindly do not show our cards ‘Dan.

The grizzled man startled at the warrior’s sudden intensity. ‘Oh, a good while back. You’d want to ask some of the grander folk about that. That’s the company he kept. Lord Seneval, perhaps…’ The man’s eyes narrowed with a hint of suspicion. ‘If he’ll speak to you…’

‘Our thanks sir.’ Elrond handed the man a coin and turned away.

To Elladan he said, ‘Don’t let that happen again.’

‘I knew him. He’s no longer here.’

Lord Seneval had graciously granted them an audience in his well-appointed sitting room, perhaps because his servant had told him three foreign lords in fine but subtle cloth awaited him. Perhaps because some small part of him had always expected this. Had always hoped another elf would come his way again. Maybe give him another chance.

The elder Peredhel accepted the crystal snifter he was offered and sat back with steely dignity. Eyes shrewd and veiled, he regarded the man across from him.

‘How long has it been?’

‘I don’t know. Five years. Maybe more.’ Well manicured fingers worried the seam of his robe. The palm not holding a glass rubbed on burgundy velvet leggings. Twice, three times.

From their deceivingly nonchalant positions against a rear wall, the twins watched with masked intensity as their father worked.

‘Where has he gone?’

‘He didn’t say! He only said he was leaving, and he did. I was not his keeper, nor even his only… associate.’ The noble’s voice trailed off lamely as he sought to amend his initial outburst, knowing he couldn’t. He rose from the sofa to take a position by the large window, gazing out over the well-tended walled garden where rare birds strutted through exotic hothouse flowers.

Elrond’s eyebrow…

‘You loved him.’

Non-elven eyes might have thought it the effect of a passing cloud. The three present saw Lord Seneval’s face drain of color. Eyes closed in resignation as he exhaled.

Silence stretched as the Lord swallowed painfully.

Elves are patient.

In a whisper, Lord Seneval addressed the ghost of his own reflection in the windowglass.

‘Yes.’

‘Then you will understand our need to locate him now.’ Calm counterpoint to the turmoil played out before him, Elrond’s demeanor remained even. Hypnotically so.

The man struggled not to see his own thoughts. Not to speak them. But lost.

‘Go to… the laborer’s quarter… to the Bleeding Heart. You… you won’t… like… what you find.’

As the three reached the door, his quavering voice stopped them.

‘Lord Elrond —’

‘Yes Lord Seneval?’

‘Remember me to him?’

As the carven door clicked shut at their backs, the man’s forehead found its rest on the cool glass.

IX

He didn’t look up as a shadow fell across his bar. ‘What’ll it be sirs?’

‘We’re looking for an elf.’

Rolling his eyes as he continued wiping glasses, the man replied sourly, ‘Yeh can’t go comin’ in here treatin’ my place like it’s some kinda brothel. ‘Sides, he ain’t working just now. Come back later.’

‘We will see him now.’

‘Give ‘im a little peace, why don’cha? Quit yer demanding. Let ‘im sleep a bit.’

‘Now.’

Mumbling something rude about foreigners, the counterman finally raised his eyes to the insistent stranger with the odd accent, and caught his breath. The one before him had thrown back the hood of his cloak. Tall and stern, with a regal bearing and… something else. He knew an Elf Lord when he saw one. And two more flanking him besides, hooded and cloaked, and ready. He’d warrant they had swords under there, and those wicked curved knives he knew so well. Breathtaking workmanship. Deadly blades.

‘My apologies, my lord. Please forgive my rudeness. You’ve come for ‘im, eh? Upstairs, last door. Be… careful.’

Elrond replaced his hood and the three turned silently toward the stairs.

Like the Common Room, the hallway smelt of greasy smoke, rancid ale and too much humanity. The end of the hall smelt worse. Their knock was greeted by a fierce curse from inside and a vibration as something hit the door. Elrond strode in and threw back his cloak. A second string of Common Tongue obscenities erupted – and stopped short. On a grimy cot in the corner, Haldir’s eyes widened, then squinted in the blazing white light. His knees hit the warped wooden floor hard.

‘Forgive me, my lord. I did not know you.’ And he slid into unconsciousness.

Stifling his shock and trying not to breathe, Elladan quickly rifled the three drawers of the wooden chest. ‘Nothing here worth taking, Ada. Human rags, nothing else.’

‘Fine. Elrohir, carry him. Elladan, behind us.’

When they returned to the Common Room, the barman stood waiting, a small wooden trunk next to him on the bar.

‘He’ll be wantin’ this, my lord. Asked me to keep it safe from him… ah, for him… His special stuff. I put a couple bottles of kaihf in as well. He’ll… ah… need it. Every few hours. You’ll… know.’

He opened the lid of the box to reveal the deep red of the Marchwarden’s cloak. Nestled in its folds were two ivory handled knives and a jeweled hair clip in the shape of mallorn leaf.

At a nod from his father, Elladan lifted the box, keeping one hand free for his sword.

Elrond stood a moment before the barman, who swallowed nervously. The ancient one cleared his throat.

‘Thank you. For taking care of him.’

In a swirl of dark cloth, he was gone, leaving behind a large gold coin.

The barman closed his eyes, and sighed.

X

‘Ada…’

‘Yes my son?’

‘What about his hair? Did the drug do that? And his skin? Ada, Haldir looks like an old man – no longer like an elf at all!’

Elrond sighed deeply. He too felt the desperation that saturated his son’s voice.

‘I know Elrohir, I know. The drug alone didn’t cause this, but it is related. No, Haldir is in the advanced stages of fading. He has given up the will to live. He has lost his light almost completely. I do not know if the drug caused this.

‘Perhaps instead he was already fading and turned to the drug to dull the pain. Or because of his turmoil, the drug no longer mattered. It is also possible that he sought out the destruction he knew this tincture would bring. I cannot say.’

Ro stared at his father, allowing his words to sink in, waiting for the apparent meaning to be disproved, taken back. When no further comment came, he spoke, still disbelieving.

‘Father…’ he began in a shocked undertone, ‘do you mean to say that Haldir was trying to kill himself? That would make him… a kinslayer…’

Elrond was quiet a long moment, his face set in grim lines. ‘Do not judge him too harshly my child. We have no idea what he has been through.’

‘But Ada, this is Haldir we are speaking of – not some unknown elf from afar! What could we not know? He is our friend!’ The silence stretched heavy for a moment before Elrohir spoke again in a whisper. ‘Is he mad?’

Elrond gazed at his son sadly and wondered how much he should say. Haldir was now their patient after all. But to Ro he was still a friend first, so Elrond held his silence.

Instead he said, ‘I know of few cases in which an elf this far faded has recovered his light. Let us just pray we can give Haldir a reason to live again. And please, remember the vow you and Elladan took before joining me on this task. Utmost discretion is needed – more so because Haldir is your friend, and there will be more opportunities to slip and reveal something you as a healer should keep silent.

‘With Haldir also, you must be a healer when he needs a healer, friend only when he is ready for a friend. My guess is at first he will feel unworthy of friendship, and reject it because he rejects himself. Take care you do not take it personally and grow angry. It is not you he turns away from, but himself. Out of respect for you he will try not to burden you with his pain or his needs. It is a compliment – if a misplaced one.’

Elrohir swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. He would try.

Elrohir looked up as his brother came into the glade. He glanced quickly at Haldir to see that he was still sitting quietly, staring at his hands, and had not stirred. Elrohir stood and walked toward Elladan.

‘What news?’

‘Father has asked that we go ahead and bathe Haldir in the pool. We will camp here tonight and then move on toward Rivendell. But there’s no sense in our traveling on with a man-smelling elf. Who knows? The water might refresh him some, help him come back.’

‘It’s almost time for his next dose of kaihf. Let’s wait until after that. He’ll be easier to handle. And I think he’ll be more comfortable if we give it to him first. He’s already starting to stir and moan.’

‘Elrohir! Listen to yourself! Don’t you want to get Haldir off this stuff? The longer we wait between doses, the sooner he’ll be free. Besides, the water may revive him a little. He might enjoy feeling it for a change.’

With a sigh, Elrohir reluctantly gave in to his older brother and turned to approach Haldir. He knew Haldir was no longer in conscious control of his own sharp reflexes, and even in his reduced state could be unpredictable. Moreover, he did not want to create a situation in which he would have to subdue his old friend by force, for fear of hurting him further.

Slowly the young Peredhel approached and quietly told Haldir it was time to bathe. Grasping the crouching elf by the elbow, he tugged him to his feet and led him toward the sun-warmed pool. Haldir could have been sleepwalking for all the response he gave.

But as the twins began to remove his clothing, the gray elf began to cackle. The sinister sound began low in his throat and rose until it spilled out with a darkly lascivious sneer.

‘So now we get down to business, I see. Men, elves – it’s all the same. Have to pay the toll.’ The hollow voice caught, twisting into a choked sob, before Haldir’s ravaged face went blank again.

The twins exchanged grim looks over the bowed gray head, and Elrohir began speaking soothingly into his ear, trying to keep his own voice even.

‘No Haldir, we are just going to help you bathe. Unless you’d prefer to do it yourself. I fear it’s been some time since you had a proper bath with elven oils. The soap of men can be harsh for our fair skin. Wouldn’t you like to use some of our own? To smell like the woods again? Maybe comb out your hair and let us braid it for you?’

Haldir snorted, quiet and bitter. ‘Braids… I no longer have the right to wear braids. I am no warrior. And what house would claim me? Best to cut it off. I am a disgrace.’

Elladan stepped forward now, grasping his old friend’s shoulder, his voice soft yet fiercely intense. ‘You are Haldir of the House of Celeborn, Marchwarden of Lórien, brother to Rúmil and Orophin and friend to us all. You are no disgrace.’

In response Haldir turned his face away, but not before they saw the shine of tears on his cheeks. He finally stirred to remove the rest of his clothing and allowed Elladan to lead him toward the pool.

Elrohir gathered up the filthy man’s garments with the intention of burning them. Haldir could wear some of their robes for now, although they would hang loosely on his diminished frame. Perhaps –

‘Aaaaaaaaaah!’

The agonized scream from the pool snapped Ro’s head up and brought Elrond crashing into the glade. Haldir crouched at the bank of the pool, his arms wrapped around his legs and head down, rocking and keening. He was wet. Elladan stood beside him, open-mouthed and helpless.

‘What have you done?’ demanded Elrond sharply, striding toward Haldir, yet stopping short of touching him. ‘What happened?’

‘Ada, nothing. That is… I don’t know. We were going to bathe him, and everything seemed fine. He was talking and agreed – and then he touched the water and began screaming and pulled away from me and fell… I… I don’t know why.’ he finished in a small voice.

Elrond looked keenly at his elder son’s distraught face and sighed. ‘How long has it been since his last does of kaihf?’

Elrohir stepped forward and bowed his head. ‘We were going to give it to him after his bath. It is time now.’

‘Go and fetch it then. Bring it to him.’

‘Yes Ada.’

Elrohir returned to where he had been sitting earlier and retrieved the flask of kaihf. He reached for the strengthening mead with which to mix it, but stayed his hand. In his present state, Haldir might like to taste the kaihf he was receiving. Elrohir reached instead for a plain spirit and added the tincture. The liquid instantly turned a tarry deep brown. Ro’s stomach heaved as he gazed at it. Such power and danger in this cup. He hurriedly brought it back to Haldir.

Crouching low and murmuring, the younger twin put a hand first on Haldir’s shaking shoulder as he would to quiet a frightened horse. ‘I have brought you kaihf, Haldir. Here it is. Are you ready?’

Ro placed the cup in Haldir’s hands and continued to hold it as he guided it to dry lips – although in truth, Haldir could have performed this gesture in his sleep. However he was shaking so hard Elrohir feared he would spill it all.

As the liquor touched his lips, Haldir began to relax, knowing what was coming. Rather than sip it slowly as was usual, he took the cup in one long desperate draught, as if afraid to let it leave his lips before finishing. When he had drained it all, he allowed Ro to take it from him and set it aside. He closed his eyes and exhaled as if exhausted.

Ro watched in fascinated horror as even the muscles of his patient’s scalp went slack and his head began to loll sideways. From the fluttering beneath Haldir’s eyelids, he could tell his eyes had turned upward and in, no longer seeing.

Finally Elrond broke the silence.

‘Now you have both seen what happens to the senses once they have become accustomed to not feeling. Someone too long given painkillers will become unfamiliar with any sensation – be it pain, pleasure or otherwise. Any feeling, no matter how normal and inconsequential, becomes interpreted as unbearable pain and overwhelms the patient. Without his usual dose of kaihf, a kiss upon Haldir’s cheek might feel like a blow. The pleasurable sensation of cool water enveloping his naked skin became instead akin to searing torture. To be immune, to survive daily life without agony, he must have sufficient kaihf in his body.’

The twins listened to their father in silence. Then Elladan spoke.

‘Ada, if Haldir is unable to feel anything, do you really mean he can feel no pleasure either? No joy, no love… no matter how strong?’

‘Indeed. With kaihf in him, he is shut off from all contact. But without his drug, such feelings as ecstasy or even love would seem both terrifying and excruciating. And knowing this, he would avoid sensations at all costs, just as we would avoid unnecessary pain.’

Ro spoke quietly, ‘Does that also mean Haldir can withstand what we would normally avoid, and without fear? Would he have any sense of what not to do?’

‘Whether he feels fear, I cannot say. But enough to refuse? No. He would be able to endure all manner of pain and humiliation without flinching. And I fear he has… He has.’

Elrond lapsed again in to brooding silence; his sons waited, watching their elder’s unreadable face intently. The healer’s next words came out a mere murmur.

‘Beyond a certain point, I doubt he could even tell the difference.’

‘And the kaihf could dull pain of the mind as well as the body? And of the heart?’

Elrond was quiet again for a moment, considering his younger son.

‘Yes, my son. And here I think you have hit on Haldir’s reason for choosing his present fate. Unless he suffered some unknown injury of which we are yet unaware, I believe Haldir sought in this cup relief from an old injury. One suffered in his adolescence, which could have driven an adult elf mad or to fading.

‘At that time he endured for his brothers’ sakes, but as the years went on and he became aware of how greatly he had been injured and how he still suffered, the wound proved too much. But ever the warrior, he departed from his kind to meet this fate alone, rather than subject any other to his misery.’

‘But Ada,’ Elladan began softly, ‘what was this injury he suffers from? I know of no such one. He has ever been strong and stout and among the best of us all in battle.’

Although it was Elladan who spoke, Elrond turned his face to his younger son as he answered.

‘That, my son, I will wait until Haldir tells you himself. It is his pain, and he alone must choose when it is to be revealed and — gods willing — healed.’

Elrohir held his father’s eyes long before bowing his dark head.

‘I understand, sir. As you say.’

XI

Gray.

Surrounded by gray.

The very air seemed both to press about him and to be empty, so that he was unsure whether he was surrounded by dense fog or had stepped into a void of nothingness. He was aware that the pain in his limbs had faded and been replaced by a dull ache, as if longing for something he couldn’t name, or as one feels at the beginning of a fever.

As he stood, he became aware of a sound neither close nor far, seemingly just beyond his sight in front of him. A hollow and echoing pulse. Like deep breathing or a heartbeat.

The surf.

It was the rhythmic breaking of gentle waves on the strand. He had never heard it before, yet he knew it as a babe knows its mother’s voice even in the deepest sleep. And with that realization, he knew too where he was, and it became clear. He stood upon the shore of the Western Sea, at the utmost edge of Middle Earth, gazing toward the White Shores of the Undying Lands.

And he knew too that he was left behind.

Off in the misty distance lay his only hope of eternity, of release. Yet no ship would bear him hence. The sorrow he carried was too heavy, his sins too hard. The way forward was not open to him. As he walked toward the waves, they seemed ever to be retreating, so that step by step, he came no closer to touching the foam.

Gazing across the water, Haldir thought he heard the remembered sound of his mother’s voice — and that of his father! — though he knew them to be in the Halls of Mandos and not on the White Shores. Too he heard the happy chatter of those on the last ship, just a vague shape in the mist.

Come back! he cried. Wait for me!

But his voice came out hoarse and quavering, immediately swallowed by the fog as if it had never been.

The silence of the windswept strand took hold again, broken only by the slow pulse of untouchable waves, curling and retreating into themselves, only to be thrown back against the sand again and again.

With a choked sob that he alone could hear, Haldir sank to the wet sand at the edge of a vast cold sea. He had nowhere else to go.

Elrond awoke in the small dark hours before dawn, aware that something needed tending. Sitting up on his elbow, he gazed at his patient, lying still in a bedroll beside him. No sound came from the battered elf, and he appeared to be deep in reverie.

Only as the tree boughs outside the tent shifted did the master healer see what had wakened him. In a brief moment of brighter moonlight, Elrond made out silvering streaks left on Haldir’s face by the tears sliding silently from beneath his closed purple eyelids. In the honesty of sleep, Haldir was crying.

Watching over him, Elrond’s sorrow wet his own cheeks. Please, he prayed silently, please let this not be like last time. But even as he put the thought into words and sent them toward his father, Elrond knew that Celebrian had not been nearly this far gone, and still he had been unable to bring her back. What hope did he have for Haldir, who had no mate, no children or parents to call out to him? No one save his brothers to live for? Could he live for himself?

The dream came with the kaihf, as it always did. Again Haldir found himself standing bereft and abandoned in the damp fog. He lived here now.

He turned away from the pulsing sea and began to walk the silent strand. The empty landscape held no distance, though he trudged for miles. For years. No assurance that anything existed in this land apart from dark water, endless sand and silent fog.

And him.

They broke camp in the morning to ride on toward Imladris. Once inside safe borders they would halt at a hunting cabin and rest there until Haldir was shaken from his darkness. Elrond wished to spare the once renowned warrior the additional humiliation of being seen by others in this state. No one needed to know how bad things had been. The cabin would be close enough to the main House that Elrond could be available to his advisors if needed, and his herbs and supplies could be fetched and prepared.

Haldir’s tinctures were coming less frequently now, though they had to be carefully timed so he could tolerate the arduous impacts of riding. Held in front of Elrohir, he could doze and wake in turns, and at the same time begin to get reacquainted with the sensations of touching another of his kind. His stupor was less profound and his companions caught occasional glimpses of awareness in the blankness of his eyes.

Riding together as they did, Elrohir soon learned the cycles of Haldir’s body, to tell when he lolled nonsensical, woke, or ached with craving. Through their closefitting leathers, he could feel the muscles in Haldir’s thighs and arms that began to jump and twitch as he need came on. Against his own chest he felt the shuddering sighs that racked the Galadrim as his thirst grew in intensity. His neck grew wet with cold sweat from Haldir’s ashen face, and from the bitter tears that leaked unendingly from beneath his lashes. More than once they mingled with his own.

XII

Haldir stood again alone on the beach, but there was a difference, a stirring.

A change in the wind.

A sound

Or just a breath from a different quarter?

There again.

A sound.

As if something else were alive in this vast gray emptiness.

Someone else.

Haldir turned toward whence the sound had come and began to walk, his back to the sea.

Farther from the sound of the waves the fog too seemed to lessen, breaking into patterns, until forms rose from it. Vague shapes of trees. Buildings looming.

He entered.

A large hall. Dark and foreboding. Cold marble. Smooth and lifeless. Grand and majestic like the courts of the highest kings. Yet where footfalls should fill the vaulted space with echoes, there were none. Even as it was made, the sound of Haldir’s feet was swallowed. Breathless silence.

Yet there was something…

someone there.

Someone alive

and breathing.

Walking.

But where?

If Haldir knew what they were doing to him, for him, he gave no sign. After his bitter words and cry by the lake, he had lapsed into silence, resigned perhaps to what they would do next. Resigned to losing his hard sought peace. To coming back to pain, to misery. Elrond worried that, if anything, this showed even more so that he had given up. He was beyond fighting even to avoid his own pain. Even to beg for relief. When he needed, when he ached, he said not a word, but only sat, head bowed, as the shudders grew more pronounced and his gray hair hung in sweaty clumps about his face.

Then Elrohir would prepare his tincture from their dwindling supply and approach him with slow caution, speaking softly, asking gentle questions in hope of one day getting an answer.

‘Are you hurting, Haldir? Are you ready for this? I’m bringing it now. Can you hold it? Is that better? Can you hear me?’

But no answer came.

The dream always came again, yet now it was interspersed with moments of pale sunlight, of acute pain. Voices he might recognize, if he listened harder. But he was listening elsewhere.

He no longer crouched by the waves, but turned from them toward the trees. And the dark hall, where someone waited. Each time he came it seemed the breathing was closer. Whoever was here was nearby, but always just out of sight. Or perhaps it was a trick of the acoustics – one set of breaths in this immense and empty fortress echoing through the space – and across time?

If Haldir had been able to think, he would have realized that he was in the Halls of Waiting, that he was looking for a human. But such thought was beyond his state. He knew only that he was lonely, and that he searched.

And then, rounding a corner, he came to a courtyard of arched porticos surrounding a central fountain. Water filled the fountain’s pool, but none sprayed or danced. All was still.

On the edge of the fountain, staring into it, sat a young man. He gazed down at the unmoving water with a look beyond sadness. One of bland resignation, as if he had been here forever, did not expect to leave. And yet Haldir had heard him walking. At least, he thought he had.

The youth’s quietude was so tangible that even after being alone so long, searching for so long, Haldir refrained from speaking. Instead he stood unmoving in the doorway, and watched the man as the man watched the water.

Haldir returned many times to the silent courtyard where the sad young man waited. He was drawn. The youth’s beauty mirrored the stillness of the fountain — unmarked by ripples, untouched by air. Caught between moments. Waiting. He found he was loath to disturb the fragile eternity of the space and of the man.

With time, he realized he was afraid.

Afraid of what might happen, afraid the man would mind. Or would turn away from him. Or, worse still, of speaking and finding the man could not hear him. That he truly was invisible, alone. As long as he did not speak, the possibility remained that he could. But what if he spoke only to find he was mute, discarded? He would be destroyed.

No, his hope would be destroyed. He would still be here, alone.

Better to stay silent and dream.

His hair might be gold. Or maybe red. In this place, he could not tell; all color had been washed away. But it looked soft, touchable. His face too – lips always slightly parted, as if thinking of speaking a thought – but never yet. Never yet.

The lashes were long, framed against a high cheekbone, lids almost closed as he gazed downward. Haldir noticed his shoulders as well. Not slumped in the manner of one who had given up. Instead his shoulders were square and spoke of strength, perhaps not felt, but rather learned. As if the young man had been trained to sit straight and did so more as a matter of habit than of intention.

And yet, one day, it seemed as if an invisible cord had given way, and he was no longer able to sit up unaided. The habitual dignity that had held him erect seemed to have deserted him, leaving a tired and fading shell. As Haldir watched, a single tear slid slowly down the man’s cheek, hung in silent suspense, and dropped into the fountain’s pool. After so long in this unmoving hall, Haldir was momentarily entranced to see the tear actually move, and fall. He expected that, like his own footsteps in these empty rooms, the droplet would be swallowed without a trace, without a ripple.

So he was again surprised to see the tiny circle made by the tear begin to spread, engendering more ripples, until concentric circles spread to the furthest edges of the pool, before doubling back on themselves to again cancel out the motion, as if it had never happened.

But it had. Haldir had seen it if the young man had not. In that moment, he knew that things could still change.

Startled, he reached out, a word of concern rising from his long unused throat. Though the word never formed, enough strangled sound emerged that the young man turned. Raising his eyes, he gazed at Haldir in surprise.

His eyes were gray.

XIII

In the end they cut his hair. It had been too long uncombed, uncared for. Though no longer greasy, the snarls had grown thick and solid, painful to sever. Elrohir tried for days to untangle them, a comb in one hand, a knife in the other. But even in his fading haze, Haldir flinched and pulled away.

And the color — Not a color any had seen before on an elf. Not one they would be able to explain easily.

They had been in the cottage for three weeks now. Elrond had journeyed back to Rivendell several times, and Elladan had done so once. Elrohir refused to leave his friend. In truth he was afraid of leaving him with Elladan. Although his older brother meant well, he had always preferred the strength and simplicity of physical action to the subtleties of empathic healing. And he was especially impatient with the near invisibility of Haldir’s progress. Elrohir knew it came from his own concern, from feeling desperate to end his friend’s suffering, yet impotent to do so. It frustrated him to see the former Marchwarden who had so often bested him in training now passively slumped by the fire, limbs wasted, eyes empty, hands still except when the tremors set in. The longer Haldir sat immovable wherever they put him, the more restless ‘Dan became.

He especially grew angry at mealtime. Left to himself, Haldir did not seem to notice his own hunger or thirst, or perhaps did not make the connection between the physical sensation and what would alleviate it. Or that it mattered.

‘For Valar’s sake, Haldir, pick up the damn spoon!’

Elrohir bristled at his brother’s outburst, more for ‘Dan’s sake than Haldir’s. He wasn’t convinced Haldir could even hear them. But he knew his twin would be full of self-recrimination afterwards, ashamed at himself for his lack of patience, yet unable to keep it from happening again.

Moving swiftly around the table to his brother’s side, Elrohir placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

‘Let me do it, ‘Dan. Why don’t you take your food outside? I’ll be out in a minute.’

‘Dan flushed red, not for the first time. ‘I’m sorry ‘Ro. I just… I can’t stand to see him this way. I want him to snap out of it. Just come back to us. Stop being weak. I just can’t take that any more. If this can happen to Haldir, of all people, Haldir, the best of us… What if it was one of us? What if it was you?’

His voice broke and he turned into his brother’s arms, seeking the solace they both needed.

‘What did he ever do to deserve this, ‘Ro? And what if we can’t get him back? What if he can’t come back? What if – what if he doesn’t want to?’

The twins stood that way a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, breathing in tandem, taking comfort in the silky cocoon of each other’s dark hair, their shared scent clinging heavily on the skin underneath. Each tentatively touched the sickening thought of having the other so close, yet slipping further away.

Elladan pulled away first, an apology on his lips. Clearing his throat he gestured toward the door. ‘I’ll be outside.’

Elrohir nodded once and watched his brother leave, a bowl in one hand, head bowed.

It was true. Watching Haldir like this was excruciating, especially when it seemed he was becoming less active now than he had been when they first found him. The ellon who now would not dress himself had been able to not only keep himself alive before, but earn a living…

His thoughts hit a wall at that. He refused to continue thinking about what else Haldir had been able to do. He was weak now, hurt. Needed to be taught again how to care for himself, as would someone recovering from a head wound. Just like a head wound. He would heal in time. He placed the time-smoothed wooden spoon in Haldir’s limp hand and wrapped his own around it, squeezing a little to remind the muscles what was needed. Together they scooped up some broth.

The sun was beginning to set when Ro joined his twin in the clearing. The slanting light kissed his hair with crimson and threw chiseled cheekbones into stark golden relief. He was staring over the trees, watching the smoke from their fire drift toward the horizon.

‘I will go in the morning.’

Ro said nothing.

‘I – I need some time away from him. – I’m sorry.’

A warm hand on his shoulder. ‘I know.’

Elladan turned slowly to face his brother’s sad eyes, knowing he would find only understanding. ‘I don’t want to leave you here. With all the burden. Will you be – okay?’

Several answers flashed across the younger Peredhel’s mind like so many deer on the run. He settled on the only one he could say.

‘Yes.’

After Elladan left, the cottage was very quiet. Elrohir, wanted to talk to Haldir, wanted to continue his gentle murmurings, as he had done for so long. But he found they didn’t come. Instead, without anyone else speaking to him, he felt only silent. As if he and Haldir occupied a place beyond words, beyond time. The birds outside sang. The leaves rustled. Occasionally a larger animal cried in the dark. But they were untouched, separate, waiting.

And in time, even the waiting faded, until they just were. As if life had always been this way. Waking with the gentle light, preparing porridge for them both. Helping Haldir from the bed and setting him in motion to relieve himself, splash water on his face, and eat. Bathing them in the stream once the sun had warmed it, taking Haldir’s hands in his to soap them and push them though the motions of washing. Leaving for a time in the afternoon to check the snares and gather plants for dinner. Chopping firewood. Tending the fire. Feeding them again.

His actions followed Haldir’s needs, and the rhythms of their days cycled around what he felt of his friend, so continually now that Elrohir was no longer always sure what was his own thought and what he was picking up. And always on the schedule of the khaif.

The hair was the only obstacle. The only thing he did that could not be done in peace, could not be completed.

To cut an elf’s hair was almost unforgivable. Humiliating, to be certain. Even those who worked as spies and posed as men never cut their hair above their shoulders, and then only with great regret. And Haldir’s had been his crowning glory – a cloud of gossamer flax, envied and admired by all. Too well he remembered. To look upon it had been to desire it, to want to touch, to kiss.

Even more reason to cut it off.

In the silence it was easy to have this conversation with the Haldir in his head.

But it is your hair. You love your hair.

It is no longer something I can love.

It will change back as you heal.

Change back? Hardly Things don’t ‘change back.’

We could cut it off and let the new grow in, smooth and new, start over, gold again –

Just cut it off. I wear enough shame already.

Perhaps just a little. Just the parts that can’t be set right. We’ll leave what we can.

Elrohir tried to take only the worst of the tangles, perhaps the lower few inches, thinking that would free the other sections to be combed through. That he might find hidden pockets of gold beneath the cracking gray. But there were none. Each bit he cut through left only more havoc, until finally he whispered an apology to Haldir and began to saw at the roots. letting thick solidified chunks fall to the grass below.

He felt driven to eradicate all the coarse damning stubble from his friend, as if it was the external manifestation of the dirt within, pushing out from Haldir’s brain, becoming visible. If he could have drawn out the roots, he would have. Instead, using the edge of his hunting knife, Elrohir scraped Haldir’s scalp clean, leaving the pale skin exposed and reddened.

Finally Elrohir sat back, broken from his consuming haze, and saw the results of his handiwork. He began to weep. What have I done?

A breath. Stirring. Something – something different. Air above me – my neck – a different light – I –

A breeze rustled through the surrounding trees, caressing the naked skin of Haldir’s head.

My thoughts — there is air – less darkness – I hear… The waves again – no – rustling? Leaves! I hear leaves. The woods. I am in the woods! And birdsong. The young man is crying. I can hear him. Why is he in the woods? No – it is someone else. Me? No – a person. And air around me – moving – my head is lighter – free –

As if opening suddenly, Haldir’s eyes widened and he took in his surroundings. There was indeed air moving around him, and trees swaying gently nearby. Tentatively he reached out with his mind – and felt one reach back. Its swaying became a dance, its leaves’ motion, a laugh. Home.

Haldir smiled.

By the time Elrohir looked up, it had faded again and his need was coming on.

XIV

A.N.: Contains some rather heretical language. But at times ‘son of an orc’ doesn’t really convey the same force as ‘fucking asshole’ for today’s audience. Bear with me.
Italics indicate unspoken thoughts.

---

‘Please don’t call me beautiful. I don’t want to hear that.’ It’s too close. Get away.

‘But you are beautiful. Can’t you see it? Why can’t I tell you how much you matter to me? I want you to see what I see. I love you.’

Don’t touch me. Please get away. ‘Please don’t say that.’

‘I do love you.’

This again. I expected better of you. ‘I am not worthy of your love.’

That’s not just self-loathing I see in your eyes. It’s pity. You fuck. ‘Be honest, why don’t you? Why can’t I love you?’

Silence.

‘Say it.’

‘I’m not capable of love anymore. I’m too broken. I’m not worth it.’

‘No more lines.’

‘Find somebody better. You deserve to be happy and I can’t do that.’

‘Fuck you. You’re lying.’

‘Fine. I refuse to be responsible for you.’

‘More.’

‘I will NOT be trapped by you.

‘And?’

‘I can’t fucking do this! I will let you down. I will hurt you when I pull away. And I will pull away. It’s what I do. I can’t give you what you want. I – I don’t have anything to give. What you see is just an illusion. Just a shell that you’re looking at. There’s nothing behind it. Nothing in here that you’re going to break through to. No special gold in here that you can find and bring to light. —- And I resent you wanting it. Stop taking things from me! Stop expecting more! There’s a limit to what I will give, damn it. I won’t be controlled anymore! ‘Love’ is just another word for control. You want to own me. You want to keep me. I can’t stand any more of that. Being told how to act, how to speak, how to love. All I want is to be left alone. I want to keep me for a change. Stop being in my space, in my head, in my body. Get out! Get out of here!’

Reeling at your honesty. I understand. I could have said the same words myself, if I were brave enough. Instead I say low,-

‘You fucking asshole. Do you think I want to be this way? That I want to be stuck? That I don’t want my freedom too? Do you think you’re the only one who feels this way and can’t stand to have someone else invading his head, insinuating himself into his very soul? I’m so tired of feeling someone else inside me, in here with me. It’s too much like being invaded. —— Yes, I do know what that feels like. Don’t look at me that way. You don’t own pain. You thought you were the only one? Wake up sunshine. You’re not alone. You’re not the most damaged person on Arda. You’re not even that original. Everyone hurts. Everyone has a past. So stop your fucking wallowing and grow up.’

Silence.

What more could possibly be said? It’s over.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Forget it.’

‘No…’

‘I need to go.’

‘Fine.’

The door closes.

His fist slams the wall. Dammit! What have I done?

As breaths still and sweat cools to a clammy chill, both are relieved. Emptiness is familiar and so much easier.

XV

A.N. Again, don’t be deceived by the timeline. It’s not linear. It’s not non-linear. Alinear, perhaps?

---

‘Can I spend some time with you tomorrow?’

Haldir caught up with him as he returned to his rooms after the evening meal the third day.

‘I have a council meeting in the morning.’

‘What about in the afternoon?’

‘I’ll be training the new recruits.’

‘In what?’

‘Hand to hand combat. Knife fighting.’

Could it not have been anything else?

Haldir cocked an eyebrow, causing Faramir to fidget inwardly, though he showed no sign.

‘It’s come in very handy in the woods. The Rangers are indebted to you for teaching me the techniques. I have made it a standard part of their training.’

‘Perhaps I could be of some assistance, an extra pair of hands and blades in the practice ring…?’

Mentally, Faramir heaved a sigh. Out loud he said, ‘Your presence and advice would be welcome and beneficial, as always. Our thanks.’

Haldir winced at the formality of Faramir’s reply, but chalked one up to actually arranging time together. At least that was successful. It was a start.

XVI

Ro woke to the sound of heavy breathing. He was immediately alert to deal with whatever crisis Haldir was having now. Almost.

For some days they had been sharing the cottage’s only real bed. After Elladan had left, there seemed little reason for Ro to sleep alone on the floor, leaving the whole double bed to Haldir. Haldir could use the added warmth of another body, and he had grown accustomed to the feel of Elrohir next to him. It also helped Elrohir to know when Haldir was having nightmares or needed something in the night.

But this was no nightmare. Haldir was not in pain. The breath of the elf spooned against Elrohir’s chest was not laboring in fear. Ro felt Haldir draw their arms more closely about his torso, grasping Ro’s wrist to pull a hand toward his groin. Before Elrohir thought to snatch it back, he was aware of Haldir hard against his palm, felt the former guardian pressing himself forward, seeking contact, trying to rub Elrohir’s hand against his straining length. He arched his back and flexed his buttocks against the Peredhel’s warmth.

‘Nnnh… hnh…’

‘Haldir, no! Wake up. You don’t want this.’ Elrohir tried to pull his hand back, and at the same time tried with the other hand to push Haldir away from him and shake him awake.

But though Haldir’s eyes remained closed, his grip tightened; he refused to be put off. ‘Please… please. I want this. It’s okay. I can make you feel so good. Oh Valar, fuck me.’ His voice was husky with disuse and sleep; the coarse Common Tongue words were the first he had spoken in weeks.

‘No! This is not right. Wake up Haldir! You’re back with us now. This is Elrohir. You don’t have to…’

Haldir pushed himself back, forcing Ro’s wrist between his legs until he rode upon it. With guilty horror Elrohir realized his own cock was responding to the pressure of Haldir’s ass as it nudged his shaft teasingly, begging.

‘I know, Ro. I know it’s you. I want you. You feel so good against me. You want it; I know you do. Please fuck me. Fuck me hard. Take me however you want. Just do it. I’m aching to be filled. Oh gods…’

Elrohir struggled to draw back from his friend, even while his own pulse quickened and a small voice inside him tried to suggest that they were both consenting adults, and no one need ever know… It wasn’t as if either of them were virgins… But this was not right.

‘Please Ro.’ Haldir’s voice rose from a sleepy murmur to a more incessant whine. ‘Please. By the Valar, don’t leave me hurting! I need… Amin nwalya. Amin anta sarigr! Si!’³

The young healer was as struck by Haldir’s sudden switch to Elvish as he was by the words themselves. On some level, the former warrior did know who he was, what he was asking. But did that make it okay? Elrohir could feel the clamminess of the skin pressing against his chest as the other writhed against him. Not a healthy sweat. Without question Haldir was still sick. Yet his pain too was real. Offering him more kaihf was not an answer, especially if he was asking for something else. Where was Elrond?

Elrohir came to a decision and prayed he would not come to regret it.

‘Haldir, I cannot take you. It is not right, the way things are. I don’t know that you are able to consent right now.’ At this Haldir howled in anguish and scrabbled more desperately against him.

‘But I know you need something now. I can feel you aching, your pain. If it will help, I will let you ease your hunger in me. Take me.’

There was a moment’s breath of silence as the words hung between them — and then sunk into Haldir’s fevered brain. Elrohir briefly imagined he could reach out and snatch them back. Were they a mistake? As a healer, could he do this? As a friend? What were his father and brother going to say? Elladan…

But in that moment, Haldir was upon him, grabbing, groping, pulling at the sheets, his clothes, his hair in a single-minded effort to fulfill base need. He had rolled over, pinning Elrohir beneath him with sudden strength, and began sliding his body, his length, rhythmically on the other elf, head down, eyes unseeing, masturbating himself upon his friend.

Elrohir’s surprise gave way to shock as he felt himself, his pleasure, his very identity, erased by Haldir’s consumed rutting. He had expected his own body to respond with matching lust at least, but it did not. Instead he struggled to avoid fighting Haldir off, to allow what he had consented to. This is what it’s like –

He fought down the sob of panic that threatened to engulf him. He chose this. He was in control. He was helping his friend, his patient. This was a healing. Healing is not always pretty. Deep breath. Healing hurts. Just wait it out. Oh gods…

Haldir couldn’t be distracted long enough to get any oil, and going slowly was not within his means. Beyond satisfying instinctual survival need, all thought had fled him. Elrohir bit back a cry at the sudden pain, the burning, tearing as his core was rent in two. Grinding his teeth he waited as Haldir frantically drove into him, scratching at an itch he couldn’t seem to reach. Haldir became ever more desperate, unmindful of the way his animalistic motion banged his partner’s head against the wall beam with every thrust. Wincing, Ro braced one arm against the wood to cushion the blows. With the other hand he gripped Haldir’s shoulder in a futile effort to communicate some restraint to his old comrade.

Luckily it didn’t take long. Overwhelmed by the waning of the drug, Haldir’s physical senses exploded within him in a spastic simulation of orgasm. He cried out and went rigid, eyes rolled back and closed, chin raised like a wolf howling at the moon.

And it was done.

Elrohir shoved the lank body off and curled into himself, shaking. He pressed his tongue to the back of his palate and focused on deep calming breaths as he had been taught. Just a healing. Not me. I am not my body. I can give a gift without being diminished. It was his sickness and I am helping to heal it, to draw it out. Into me, then let it go. I do not keep it. Breathe it out. Let it go. Let it go.

In the early morning silence, Haldir grunted in his sleep.

³ Translation: ‘I ache. I need to have sex. Now.’

XVII

“Was it bad?”

They sat next to the fire, wrapped in blankets, more for the comfort of security than warmth. Elrohir leaned against the armchair behind him, legs stretched in front, one knee bent, careful not to touch his friend. They gazed toward the fire avoiding eye contact.

Haldir’s every muscle seemed locked yet poised for flight, as a cornered rabbit freezes before the hunter’s nocked arrow. He sat stiffly, holding the earthenware tea mug in two hands, protectively hiding it from view, shielding. His body language screamed.

A drop of his chin and eyelids, head bowed.

Barely audible. “Yes.”

Steely, thought Elrohir. Resentful.

He waited patiently for more. Nothing came.

Quietly, “Can you talk about it?”

The silence was so charged with tension that Elrohir felt rather than heard Haldir’s teeth press together, his lips tighten to a thin line. Whether he saw the barest shake of the head, he didn’t know. But he understood.

No.

After an eternity the crackling fire filled in the spaces.

XVIII

The afternoon was a fine one. From the balustrade, the world stretched out golden and blue, as if the Citadel really was a ship sailing through the sky to forever beyond the Pelennor Fields. A glorious day for beginnings.

When Haldir arrived at the training grounds, Faramir was already in the ring, coaching some new recruits who had come early for extra practice of yesterday’s drills. He glanced up at the strongly built elf, standing unobtrusively to the side of the gate, and nodded greeting. Haldir watched in admiration as Faramir patiently worked with his charges, managing to make his corrections seem mere suggestions, while at the same time pushing each toward better and better skill.

He saw, too, the open awe and thinly veiled desire in many of the soldiers’ eyes as they gazed upon their respected leader. He knew it for a product both of Faramir’s renowned ability with his weapons and words, and of his fey beauty and graceful familiarity as he handled them. He was singularly disarming and none seemed unaware of his charms – except perhaps the gentle Captain himself. There was no question that his men loved him. As a soldier, Haldir knew this to be the highest compliment awarded a leader. As a man, he felt a twist of jealousy.

When the group was complete, the young Captain called them to attention and introduced the day’s drill.

‘And we are honored to have among us one of Middle Earth’s greatest masters of this elven martial art, the very elf who taught it to me. Please show your respects to Haldir of Lothlorien, who will be working with you today.’

The soldiers’ eyes lingered long on the comely elf warrior, his features haughty and masculine, yet indescribably beautiful. A few lips twitched in thought.

Quickly Faramir returned them to attention, called out pairings and set them to work. He and Haldir moved among them, observing, praising where deserved, correcting stances and grips as necessary.

After half a dozen fight sequences had been taught and drilled for several hours, Faramir thought to call the day. One of the bolder recruits asked permission to speak.

‘Yes, Thirion? What is it?’

‘Sir, I was wondering if we might see our completed goal. Could we see how the sequences look in action?’ Murmured agreement from the group, fascinated, eager. It was clear that they loved this new skill already, and that they had begun to sense the beauty of its dance.

Turning toward Haldir, Faramir glanced questioningly. With a courteous smile, Haldir bowed to him.

‘It would be my pleasure, Captain.’

The recruits cleared the practice ring to lean over its fences; their instructors took up their blades. Moving to the center, they bowed to one another again. Haldir felt the first snake of energy reach out from him to caress his opponent’s hair. He smiled again and Faramir caught his eye. Returned the briefest smile.

They began circling.

As they prowled the edges of the circle, facing one another, gauging strengths, openings, Haldir could almost see the ropes of energy, golden and live, crossing the circle between them, binding them within its centrifugal force. They were two planets orbiting one another, held fast by a celestial energy they could not escape, circling, ever circling.

Who made the first move, no one would remember. A feint, meant only to close the circle, break the pattern, pull them inwards to engagement, and they both followed. The match began in earnest, a spinning mandala of fluid strikes and blocks, sweeping thrusts and lightning dodges. To those watching it was less a battle than an exquisitely choreographed dance, as if each anticipated the other’s moves and stepped, not to counter them, but to encourage and advance while at the same time evading contact. As if they were not opponents, but in this together, creating a whirling display of deadly precision and glittering beauty. Breathtaking and erotic in its speed and grace.

Silence fell over the yard.

The muscles of the onlookers cramped with tension as they watched, enrapt. Still the battle continued. Haldir could sense Faramir was tiring, but they were both still locked in the joy of the dance, the power of their muscles, the grace of movement. He would not best the Captain before his own men. He would end this with dignity. But not yet. Their sweat slicked one another’s skin. This is the closest I’ve been to him in years. Faramir breathed the scent of his old lover, remembering it on other days, in other places. He fought on.

Haldir was upon him, a flurry of flashing blades and whipping hair. Faramir spun, swiftly ducking inside the plane of engagement to meet Haldir chest-to-chest. A sharp clang as their crossed knives caught and locked above their heads. They stood a long moment, panting against one another, arms outstretched, each maintaining the perfect block. Blue eyes met gray, held. The merest nod. They stepped away. Turned to face the others.

The watching soldiers remained silent, the hush of awe, respect for what they had seen heavy upon them. The electric sexuality a shame to dispel. As one, their instructors bowed slightly, and the gathering released itself in applause, whistling its satisfaction.

IX

Beta: the fabulous Anorien – Thank you!
Warning: getting darker

---

“He’ll just die if he doesn’t want it.”

“That’s why we have to make him want it.” The leader, the one with the weasel-like face and sharp teeth, looked meaningfully at his companion over the knife in his hand.

Scoffing. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” The round-faced one whose greasy hair hung longer than the others’.

Slow smile from Weasel as he toyed with his blade, idly tracing the young elf’s jawline, firelight dancing off steel and black eyes alike. A quick flash and a hunk of golden hair fell to the ground. A long moment before the blood fell upon it. Wicked smile.

“You haven’t been with my crew long enough.”

The problem wasn’t finding a sturdy tree branch; it was measuring the rope properly. Weasel had something very particular in mind, something he really liked.

Bound and kneeling in the circle of firelight, the battered elf had time. Time to listen to their conversation. To question. Time for fear to set in and turn his heart hollow. It was curious, this hollowness. He might have cried out to his parents, his brothers, his gods. He never thought of it. That would come later.

Instead, empty waiting, beyond time. A sharp stone beneath his left knee hurt more than the welts, the wounds. His mind knew his body was sorely broken. He had fought them as long as he could to give his brothers time to escape. But now he felt only the exquisite pain of that stone piercing under his kneecap, and the emptiness.

In time he toppled sideways to lay senseless against the earth.

Searing pain. His head — his head was on fire.

Roundface had entwined a fist in his hair and was dragging him across the rocky ground to their chosen tree. Roughly he threw the elfling to the ground at its base. Unable to catch himself without his arms, Haldir fell forward, his head impacting the trunk hard. He tasted blood, focused on it. My blood. Mine. I’m alive. Please let me die. Let me die.

A hand stroking his cheek brought him awake. Gentle, cool. His mother? No, she was dead, surely. Please let her be dead.

The voice began. Almost singing. Twisting its way up his spine.

“Hi Beautiful. Welcome back my sweet. Ah, you’re so young. I wonder, have you ever had a man before? No? Oh Beautiful, we have something special planned for you. Something very special. Designed to make you want us. Beg for us. Do you know what it’s like to beg to be fucked? ‘Cause you will, Beautiful. You will beg for your very soul before this is over.”

His own sob, loosed before he could bite it back. Please let the others be safe.

A movement in the corner of his eye and a sickening sound of rope sithering over wood; the first tug on the end knotted around his neck. He feels the tree reach out to him in concern, questioning. Fear he’s never before known slices through his core. Heart racing, mouth of ashes. The very beginnings of pressure, constricting. He struggles wild-eyed, already sure he cannot breathe. He does not yet know. Weasel begins to laugh again, that sick slippery sound.

“Panicking are we Beautiful? You haven’t even begun to feel…”

Two haul him to his feet and hold him briefly as others yank the loose end of the rope downward. He struggles to keep his chin up, stretching himself taller to ease the pressure until it no longer works. If only he were bigger.

“Look at ‘im boys. He looks so proud with his head held high, don’ ‘e? Won’t last long, elf. You will beg. Everyone breaks in time.”

His feet leave the ground, desperately kick empty air. Swallow — I must swallow! I could bear it a little longer if – sweet Valar I’m –

Men laughing harshly as he dances in midair, reaching with weakening legs, spastic. Someone begins to sing a raucous accompaniment.

The strangely slanted weasel face alongside his own, breath hot and stinking in his nostrils. He wonders vaguely how he can smell when he can’t breathe.

“Ah, my Beautiful. How tempting you look, hanging there for me. Like poetry. You want air, don’cha? You’re desperate for it, would cry for it. Tongue getting big in there, is it? Brain feel like it’s exploding with darkness?

Well here’s how this works: I’m going to let you hang. Except if I’m holding you. You want me to hold you? You want me to keep you up, save you from the rope? Of course you do. But I’ll only hold you up in one position – on my cock. That’s right, Beautiful, as long as I’m fucking you, you can breathe. As long as I’m fucking you, you won’t die.

And you don’t want to die, do you? So young? Your whole life yet to live? No, you think you do, but some little part of you, some part that you can’t silence, is begging for air. For survival. Begging me to slide my cock inside that tight virginal hole and fuck you til I’m dry. And let my men do the same. Because every time we go up in you, you’re not hanging from the rope. Sounds good, don’t it? I’m going to let you think about it for a moment. Feel your options. So you can get it straight in there that you want me to do this. You’re begging me to do this.”

With each word he drives a dirty fingertip into Haldir’s chest. The vibration echoes through his pounding head, dully finding his heart so far away. Below the rope. Another world.

Oh gods I love this. He is so tight, so soft. Never done this to an elf before, nor to one so young. However the fuck elves count time, if it were human, this one would be barely a teenager. Just budding. And so ripe. So luscious to cover my face – thick ropes of hair, run my fingers through it – force elfboy’s head back farther. His blood sweet on my tongue – like mead. Intoxicating. Fear so sharp in him, the scent so strong. Hard to hold back – make it last. But we have time, all the time we need. At least a couple days. Then we can let him go. Let him live with it. Yes.

“Yes, Beautiful, that’s it. Don’t stop struggling. Writhe. Writhe for me. You’re choking. But you won’t fight me. I’m keeping you alive. And you want to live so badly you’ll do this. You think you want to die, but if you really did, this wouldn’t be happening, would it? You’d rather have this. Give up your soul, my beautiful elven whore. You do this so well.”

So good. But it wasn’t enough. His hunger still burned. Insatiable. More blood. More sex. More.

Til now the pressure on Haldir’s neck had eased with each thrust, allowing him a tiny gasp of air. Never enough. But now Weasel’s arms wrapped around his torso, pulling their chests together and grasping the thinly muscled shoulders of his captive. Haldir winced as broken ribs ground against one another. Saw the triangular face at the end of a tunnel.

“Now my lovely, I will truly fuck you.” Weasel began driving upward into Haldir ferociously. Each time, he yanked down on Haldir’s shoulders, brutally pulling the elf against the noose, tightening inexorably. His panicking body spasmed violently as he strangled. This was Weasel’s favorite part. The throes of death they called it.

“Did you know –“ he grunted between thrusts – “that you get hard – uh — when you’re dying this way? – Can’t – nnnh – help it —-“

Thought had fled. Nothing beyond his head, exploding. Eyes burning. So much pressure. Nothing below the rope existed. Until it hurt. Even that became lost in the darkness that would not take hold, only smothered him. Wet velvet and needles. Please, I will let my body go. Just let my head live. My head, where I am.

“Yes! Oh gods yes! You have no idea how tight you get when I do that. And that sound you make – Your terror is so hot. Again! Yes, again! Oh my sweet, I am going to keep you and do this to you every day. So sweet, so –“

With a guttural cry Weasel finally came, all stink and fluid.

He stilled for a long moment, buried deep, before stroking Haldir’s cheek. “Just think, love, from now on whenever you think about sex, it will be Men.” Cruel smile.

Stepping back, he motioned for two others to hold the boy up, then ran the calloused hand down the elfling’s body to grab Haldir’s arousal. “Hey look boys! Our baby elf liked his treatment. Look how hard he is!” He planted a kiss on Haldir’s sweat-sheened forehead. “Cut him down.”

“Told you you’d be wanting us. And best of all, my dear, now you can’t just die. We can keep you for as long as we want. Even when we let you go, you’ll never be free. We’ll be with you forever. You’ll always know I’m out there somewhere, touching myself and remembering the feel of you tight around me, the look on your bloodied face, that sound you made. I will always have you. And long after I’m gone, I’ll still be with you, master of your body and soul. I guess that makes us all immortal.”

As the noose loosened and cool air touched his throat, Haldir gulped so greedily he vomited. He reached out to the tree on whose roots he lay. I’m sorry.

Then slipped, panting, in the welcoming arms of darkness.

XX

Haldir did not wake the next morning. Elrohir tried to rouse him, but only reluctantly so. When there was no response, he checked that his patient still lived and then grabbed clothes and left him there.

Outside Elrohir walked quickly to the stream, still chilly from the dark night. Without pause he shed his robe and entered, submerging himself, taking intentional pleasure in the sharp sting of cold, the ache of his scalp tightening, the catch of his breath. Scrubbing at his hair, his body, he washed twice, then again, trying not to notice places that felt tender. Just washing. Rinsed his hair yet one more time, certain there was perhaps still some oil, some soap in there. Best to be sure. One more time. His hands again. Face.

Sighing, he finally emerged from the water to face the day. He sat in a patch of sun to dry, waited for his numb mind to wake. Let it stall. Not just yet.

Walk back to the clearing. One foot in front of the other, feel the supportive earth, the breeze idly playing with the soft baby hair near his face. Look for berries, kindling, anything.

Porridge, salt. A bowl for Haldir, still sleeping, foul with sweat. Taking his own outside. Knowing as it congealed he could not eat it. Cool water to wash down the bile. Just one mouthful. Breathe.

Two more days he did not rise. Elrohir was glad of the silence. Perhaps it was done. Guilt over that. Breathe.

The sound of horse’s hooves at a distance, coming up the hill. Closing his eyes a moment, reaching out –

Elrond! Wave of relief. Ada.

Elrohir was waiting in the clearing when his father dismounted, enveloped in a warm embrace, held long in the folds of velvet that smelled as they did when he was small. Ada. I am so glad you have come.

‘How is he doing, ionnin?’

‘He sleeps. He is fine.’

‘And you?’

‘Ada…I am glad you are here.’

Searching his son’s face, Elrond noted the tension, the pull around his mouth, eyes, scalp. He took Elrohir’s hand and led him to sit in the warming sweetgrass.

This hand, no longer small in his. Strong, yet still so much smoother. Fingers long, speaking of art, sensitivity. A father’s desire to protect.

‘It has been much for you, has it not?’ Searching the once eager face of his youngest son, now worn, yet fearing to disappoint. ‘I see it has. I was sad to see Elladan come back to the House. I understood, yet I was sad for you. I am sorry I did not come sooner.’

Give him time to speak if he will.

It seems he will not.

‘Has he woken?’

‘Once Ada. He – We –‘

Ah. I begin to see.

‘Elrohir, you must understand something. As the drug gets out of Haldir’s system, his senses will come back one by one. His thoughts and awareness as well. But they do not always come in company with one another. There will be a time in his withdrawal when he is consumed with the need for physical stimulation. Sexual stimulation. And it will be all the more fierce for having been so long smothered. When this happens, it is his body alone, nothing more. Do not fear it because of your own morality. You must treat it as another symptom, not as its own disease.’

The younger Peredhel looked at his hands as they toyed with a fallen leaf. When he spoke, his voice was small, contained.

‘It has already happened, Ada. He awoke two days ago, speaking even — though he has done neither since.’

‘Oh? And what happened?’

‘At first I thought he was still trapped in his dreams. He – he begged me to – to – take him. But I thought he was still sick, that it would make it worse.’ Turning pleading dark eyes to his elder, his teacher. ‘But he was hurting, Ada! He was in such pain, frantic with it.’

‘So what did you do, my son?’ You do not need absolution, though I will give it.

‘I – I offered myself to him. That he might find some release. I thought it was better that way. I thought I could handle it, Ada. I thought it would just be sex –‘

Elrond searched his child’s distraught face, noting his struggle to appear calm, to face away. Gently stroked only the surface of his mind, his emotions, careful not to intrude as he laid a hand on dark hair, calming the colt.

‘But his emptiness was bigger than you could fill, and when you looked into that darkness, you feared it would consume you too,’ he finished quietly.

With a stifled sob Elrohir threw himself into his father’s arms and let the pain wash over him. Healing is so hard.

Chunks of the frozen wall he had been building washed away in his father’s overwhelming light. Giving in to the healing.

As always when he was confronted with his ada’s unshielded power, Elrohir was struck by its immensity. Like facing a breaking dam or standing in an avalanche of sunlight. He felt his darkness blazingly dispelled, and as the torrent died down, warmth seeping into the gaps of his soul, filling them, smoothing the raw edges, to leave only the memory of wisdom that would serve him in the future.

They sat a moment in gentling peace, cradling one another.

‘Thank you Ada. I could not –‘

‘I know, hinya. You should not have had to. I am sorry.’

By my soul, how many more times will I say that before this darkness ends?

XI

‘Down here! I’ve found him!’

The silent Marchwardens came swiftly down the ravine below the clearing. His body was lodged against the blackened trunk of a gnarled yew tree. The hairy ones pushed him over from above, the yew whispered. The Earth and I caught him. We could not let him go.

With a bow-toughened thumb the captain gently, so gently, raised one bruised eyelid. He swallowed grimly. What should have been white, blood red.

The guard at his side blinked. ‘Possessed?’

He brushed aside matted hair to expose the neck.

‘Strangled.’ Cradling the limp body in his arms, he gazed sadly at the swollen gray face. ‘And how much else, child? How much else?’

XXII

Elrond followed the curving path behind the cottage until it joined a small stream, tripping down from the hills above. In a patch of sunlit moss Haldir rested against a fallen log where they had led him, an otherworldly interloper in an idyllic scene. His bald head was jarring. Disturbing and unnaturally naked, like a plucked bird, exposing what should never be seen. Noiselessly Elrond lowered himself to the ground beside him.

For a few moments only the birds and trees sang, endlessly reminding them to be gentle, be at peace. Elrond cleared his throat.

‘Haldir, it is time we talk.’

The Sylvan showed no sign of having heard.

‘I know you can hear me Haldir. Do not forget I could see into your mind if I chose. Do you want me to do that, or would you prefer to meet me out here in the world?’

The slightest stir, like dust lifting in an unused room.

‘My apologies, hir nin. I meant no disrespect. I find I am –‘ his gravelly voice trailed off to a mumble. ‘My apologies.’

Elrond sighed deeply, brows furrowed. He stared off into the canopy as if searching for his next words. One dark eye twitched.

‘Perhaps it is I who should apologize to you, Haldir. I have caused you great pain these last few months, wresting your painkillers from you without providing an alternative. Tearing you from the reclusive womb you created for yourself, dragging you back into our world against your will. I know it has hurt.’

Haldir felt a ball of grief rising in his chest, pressing roundly inside his throat. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard to keep it down, not let it show. Not til this moment had he felt this new loss so keenly, so consciously. What had been an ache became a spear.

‘What’s more, I know you had good reasons for leaving, good reasons for doing what you did. And those hurts have gone unhealed. For that I am to blame. You were a child, then a young man. You should never have grown to majority without a full healing. And your elders should never have allowed you to carry this weight so far. We were fools to think you were coping well, allowed ourselves to be falsely reassured by your strength, your accomplishments, your reserve. I think we did not want to see it was a mask, consider our own impotence. We were beyond remiss in our duty to you.’

Do not make me responsible for your feelings old man.

Voice tight. So tired. ‘No apology is needed my lord. It is nothing.’

‘No Haldir, it is not ‘nothing.’ It is your life, your fea, and they are precious. We put them at risk, and I am truly, truly sorry for your suffering.’ Elrond’s voice began to break and he paused to collect himself. Took a shaky breath, swallowed before continuing.

Be at peace, whispered the leaves.

‘At each step we did what we thought was best, trusting in time to soothe what we could not. Thinking the slow accretion of better memories would dilute the past. But I have long doubted the wisdom of our course. I am assured there was a good reason for each action along the way, but I am not at ease with the price you have paid for whatever end. You…You did not deserve this.’

Flatly, ‘We all get what we deserve.’

More sharply than he intended, ‘Oh Haldir, I so wish that were true! If it were, your life would have been very different.’

Elrond saw Haldir flinch and tamped his anger as quickly as he had let it flare. Saw Haldir’s disbelief in the set of his jaw as he turned away.

He sat, looking at his hands as they rested in his lap. Wounded birds.

When at length he spoke, his voice was small. Not that of a warrior, but of someone much younger.

‘Are there sins so bad the Valar will never forgive them?’

Elrond gazed long at the elf before him, considering his answer.

‘The Valar take intention into consideration. Even among the Feanorians there were those who found redemption and were reborn.’

‘And those who were not.’

‘There are few things as grave as denouncing the Valar, kinslaying.’

‘But there are some.’

‘Yes, there are some.’

‘Rape, for instance.’

‘Yes. Rape is a grave sin, a slow and torturous form of kinslaying. For all our peace, I would hope a rapist would not be allowed in Valinor.’

‘I raped your son, Elrond.’

The elf lord exhaled loudly, his shoulders dropping visibly.

‘Is that what you believe Haldir? It is not true. Elrohir told me about that night. He was not sure you were even aware, so lost were you. Be assured, he consented. In fact, he told me he offered himself to you.’

‘ No. I hurt him.’

‘You may have been rough with him, but it is not the same thing. You were out of your mind with pain.’

Nostrils flaring, Haldir suddenly turned and met Elrond’s eyes with his own flashing fury.

‘How long, Elrond? How long will all my actions, what I am, be excused because of what happened to me? Does nothing I have ever done, nothing else I have learned or become matter compared to That? When will I be a full person, living my own life, accountable for my own sins? Or will I ever be less because of Them?’

The glade around them fell silent, perhaps stunned like Elrond at the destructiveness of understanding.

Carefully, ‘Again, it is my belief that the Valar look at intention, the actions of our hearts, not only of our bodies. And in that you are always accountable, yet they see all in the accounting.’

Still maintaining eye contact – the first of many long months – Haldir narrowed his eyes, becoming an unsettling vision of cruelty.

‘I intended to rape him, Elrond. I wanted to force him. Make him hurt.’

Stiffening sharply, the elder sat back, trying not to react. He is baiting me, trying to make me hate him. Keep me out.

A long moment. Waiting for renunciation. None came.

‘Why?’

Again the barely reigned fury, bristling. ‘So he would know how it feels…’

With an almost audible snap, Haldir yanked his glare from Elrond’s and turned away. His shoulders gave.

‘…So I wouldn’t be alone anymore.’

Elrond let his eyes fall shut to better to feel his own heart breaking.

XXIII

Aragorn leaned back in the time-worn leather armchair, stretching his feet out toward the grate. The fire was warm, his book was interesting, dinner would be served in less than an hour – today it was good to be King. With a chuckle, the former ranger realized that not one of these deeply appreciated comforts had anything to do with being the High King. Instead they were things that any ordinary citizen could – and should – enjoy. How much more satisfying than feasts or jewels. Indeed a fine day to be alive.

He looked round the high-ceilinged room with unconcealed satisfaction. This room was another of his innovations since ascending the throne. He had modeled it on Elrond’s many public sitting rooms and Hall of Fire – gathering places where all members and guests of the household might relax and interact at their leisure without concern for rank or invitation. Under Denethor, guests in the Citadel might go days without greeting their hosts unless scheduled by appointment or invited to preplanned festivities. But no longer. Instead the ranger-king remembered fondly the many hours he’d spent as a youth in Elrond’s house, watching Glorfindel’s warriors and Erestor’s scribes bumping up against Gildor’s Wandering Company and other honored visitors. Some of the most fascinating tales and most scintillating romances had come to light because of Elrond’s willingness to set circumstance aside in favor of affinity. And so it would be in Gondor. In this room the King and Steward might relax on equal footing and in equal luxury with traveling bards, political advisors, residents and guests. Certainly it had great political advantages in terms of both information gathering and cementing loyalties. Not to mention that it was so much more his style than hiding away in his own quarters, feeling isolated and bored, waiting for someone to call.

Thus Aragorn came to be lounging by the fire in this welcoming sitting room, watching shafts of late afternoon sun slant through the tall windows to kiss the books on the far wall. Perhaps they would light up the One Magic Book that contained All the Answers, just as Master Bilbo’s sunset had lit up the keyhole of the Lonely Mountain so many years ago. Or perhaps he had better watch himself before he slipped off to doze by the fire. Loosening of rank was one thing; finding the dotard king snoring in his beard was another.

And thus it was that Rúmil and Orophin chanced upon the Dunedain Chief as they wandered through the halls seeking a musician friend of theirs.

‘A, Aragorn! Mae govannen! We had been wondering where you might spend your free time. Now that we see, we ought to send Haldir your way. He’d like nothing better than to laze a few hours away in the shadow of these bookshelves.’

‘Indeed? I should enjoy spending time with your brother. And these books are always at his disposal. And yours.’

‘No, thank you,’ replied Rúmil. ‘I’ll leave the page turning to you and to him. My passions lie with my bow, my music….’ He gave his brother’s waist an affectionate squeeze, ‘…and my relations.’

Aragorn grinned. ‘So I had heard. I must say it is a pleasant change from the old days to see those who love one another not hiding in the shadows. Tell me, did my own brothers’ openness with their hearts precede or precipitate your own?’

‘A, perhaps their openness with their hearts did not, but certainly their openness with their bodies. Their visits to Lórien have always been, shall we say, enlightening? And not only for those directly involved.’

Orophin scoffed. ‘Those many directly involved. Also for anyone who happened to chance anywhere within range of seeing, hearing, rumor…’

The king held up a hand to stop the recitation. ‘Enough information, my friends. I get the picture I believe. I can only say that I shared both house and campsite with them for many years. I do both empathize and apologize for their, ah, exuberance.’

‘House and campsite, eh, Estel? And mayhap bed and bedroll?’ Rúmil’s eyebrow rose, questioningly, though somehow the gesture on the Guardian’s fair face conveyed far more mischief and less criticism than on Elrond’s.

Aragorn had thought himself too old to blush, yet nonetheless found his cheeks suddenly warm at the mention of sharing with his brothers. He shifted his chair slightly back from the fire’s heat. The brothers, however, were not fooled.

Winking, Rúmil suggested they move on to other topics.

‘Yes,’ agreed Orophin, ‘Actually, speaking of, um, dalliances, we have been wondering what it might take for our dear eldest brother to seduce your Steward into his bed once again. Have you any ideas?’

Mildly surprised at the forwardness of the usually soft-spoken youngest sibling, Aragorn chose to continue their ribald banter. ‘Getting tired of waiting them out, are you? Haldir’s unmet desires causing you to lose sleep?’

Rúmil flashed an appreciative smile at the comment, yet Orophin continued in a more serious tone. ‘Our brother has been alone too long. We had great hopes for his romance with Faramir. He became…different. He seemed happy for the first time since we could remember.’

Aragorn glanced inquisitively at Rúmil, wondering at the level of confidence Orophin was allowing him. But Rúmil merely nodded, sighing as he lowered himself into the armchair across from the King.

‘We would not share this with everyone Estel. We trust that you feel for Faramir as we feel for Haldir, and that we can discuss this with you. What my brother says is true, Haldir has always been everything to us, but until Faramir came into his life, he never knew love. We would gladly offer ourselves to him if what we have could soothe him, but it will not. Ever has he been distant from others, self-contained – strong and valiant, yes, but alone. We had thought it would always be thus, and our hearts have always ached for him, especially since we have found our own happiness.’

Orophin’s hand came to rest on his brother’s shoulder, and Rúmil reached up to hold it as he spoke, seemingly gathering strength from the contact.

‘His time with Faramir changed that. We would have that for him again. We would have him happy.’

Looking into the Galadhrim brothers’ eyes, Aragorn wondered how much they knew, how much he could say. What had Haldir shared with them about Faramir’s life? For that matter, Aragorn wondered, how much did any of them know?

Orophin had been observing Aragorn closely, watching his thoughts flitting across careworn eyes. ‘We do not mean to pry, my friend. We only want what is best for them both. And we wonder if you know the paths of Faramir’s heart. Will he accept our brother again?’

Aragorn took in a deep breath and let his dark head fall back against the chair. Another breath taken, released. He replayed the conversation with Faramir again in his mind. Was there any hint in that exchange? Or in his behavior since? Oh would that he could read others as well as his foster father could!

‘In truth, my friends, I have no idea.’

The elven brothers exchanged a sorrowful look and sighed as one.

‘That is not to say he will not, but…Faramir has had a…complicated life. And he does not open himself easily to others. I am afraid your brother’s last departure closed a door within him, one he has been unwilling to approach since, though I have tried.’

From the grim set of Orophin’s jaw, Aragorn knew they both understood.

‘We counseled Haldir not to come then, to ask Our Lady to postpone his service. He would not.’

‘Counseled, brother? Nay, we begged him not to come. We pleaded and threatened. We all knew it was a mistake for him to leave here, and methinks Our Lady knew it too. Yet she suggested it. It was a test. One that he failed, to everyone’s pain.’

‘He was afraid.’

Orophin shot Rúmil a warning look.

‘Brother, if there is a chance of saving our brother’s heart, would you have us keep old secrets to his doom?’

Aragorn broke in as gently as he could manage. ‘Please, now it is I who will be prying, but I would know what the mighty Haldir had to fear in Minas Tirith.’

Another long look between the golden siblings. This time it was Orophin who broke the silence, again speaking for them both, just above a whisper.

‘Our brother has also had a ‘complicated’ life, Estel, and he was lost to us for many years. Perhaps he and Faramir have more in common than they have ever shared. And that which makes Faramir hide behind locked doors sent Haldir fleeing for the familiar loneliness of our Northern Fences.’

‘He has finally found the strength to return to your city, and we have ridden beside him. Perhaps with your help, Faramir can find the key to reopen the door and meet him halfway?’

Aragorn gazed long at the two Guardians before him, whose worried eyes contrasted so sharply with their ethereal presence. He swallowed and rubbed his soft lips with a calloused thumb.

‘I will try,’ he said at last. ‘For all our sakes, I will try.’

Long after the golden brothers took their leave of him, Estel remained motionless, staring into the fire.

XXIV

‘Tell me of the Doctrine of Similars, Elrohir.’

‘Ada?’

They were sitting out front of the cottage watching the sunset. Or Elrohir was watching the sunset. Elrond had been sitting in silent contemplation for hours, at times taking on the distant look he wore when farspeaking. His younger son had joined him several times over the afternoon, then left again as Haldir’s needs arose. Haldir had also been sitting immovable much of the day, with that familiar expression that indicated he was far lost in his own shadows.

Apparently their talk had not gone well. Elrond had left the fading elf in the woods afterwards and had not spoken aloud since. Haldir had later returned to the darkness inside. All was now quiet, but it seemed an odd time to review the fundamentals of healing.

His dark sire turned to regard him sharply. The eyebrow.

‘Sorry, Ada. The Doctrine of Similars tells us that a disease may be cured by those remedies that produce effects resembling the disease itself in healthy persons. A tincture that causes head pain for a healthy person may thus be used to treat head pain in a diseased one. Just as the herbal source of a cure may resemble the body part affected, sometimes the vehicle of a cure will also resemble the injury.’

‘And why does it work?’

‘Ada, it assumes that such a cure will share of the essential nature of the disease, and thus be the best course of treatment. It allows our knowledge of the disease’s origin to guide our treatment. Some say that such cures remind the body what is wrong, where it departed from normal, thus taking it back to that moment and harnessing its own healing powers for the treatment process. Like breaking and resetting a bone that it may heal straight.’

The Master Healer nodded. His pupil had learned well.

‘And regarding such a bone, Elrohir, one that has set wrongly, what happens?’

Elrohir sighed inwardly. He was hardly in the mood to be treated as a trainee healer, quizzed on basics while his patient lapsed further into lassitude indoors.

‘If a bone had set wrongly, it might reknit with new bone growth, but it would never be the same. The location of the break itself might become tougher with scar tissue, but overall the bone would be ever weaker because the balance of the limb would be disturbed, so that it might not function as Eru intended. The surrounding muscles and connecting tissue would become deformed to make allowances for the new shape, and in so doing might also lose strength, function or flexibility of motion. Other muscles, particularly of the parallel limb, would compensate for this loss by taking over some functions. For instance a right-handed swordsman might learn to fight left-handed. The uninjured leg of one with a limp will grow stronger with additional use.’

‘And to amend the situation?’

‘Ada, depending on the length of time since the break and the severity of the deformation, some healers might choose to let the wrongly set bone be. But if the new formation causes continued pain or difficulty in function, rebreaking the bone becomes the only option. Then it must be reset properly and the muscles taught to adopt the original shape as correct, that they may keep the bone in place rather than force it back astray out of long habit. Due to the body’s ability to adapt to injury, the longer a bone has been mis-healed, the harder it will be to encourage surrounding tissues and limbs to accept the correction. And in these cases, the stronger the muscles surrounding the bone and the better their compensation, the more difficult retraining and recovering health will be.’

Elrond was again staring out over the woods, yet nodded at his protégé’s recitation.

‘Tell me, hinya, what was the original cause of Haldir’s injury?’

‘Ada, I don’t know exactly, but…’ I don’t feel right saying these words.

‘Yes?’ Not facing it will not help Haldir now. Believe me, I have tried that.

Lowering his eyes, Elrohir continued very quietly, his face grim.

‘I believe he was raped. Brutally. Tortured…’

He swallowed painfully, breathing through his nose to keep his stomach calm.

‘Somehow he was made to feel responsible for what happened to him, to feel that he betrayed not only himself, but his race. He feels he no longer belongs to Elfkind. He cannot recover because he cannot find forgiveness, no matter how valiantly he serves his people or how he abuses Men or himself. And also he fears that to recover is to make light of the pain he endured, which is at the core of who he is. It is the most real thing he knows. Without it he is nothing, which he also fears. He fears our judgment so keenly he cannot speak of what happened even to reach out for help. Fears we will turn from him. And he will be even more alone.’

Elrohir’s voice dropped to a mere whisper.

‘I think if he could, he would die. But for some reason he is unable to do so. And I think that hurts him even more, proves to him the Valar have closed their ears to his cries.’

Elrond contemplated his son for several long moments. Elrohir suspected his own words were being channeled through his father to Galadriel as well. The thought both disturbed and comforted him. He felt exposed to scrutiny, and yet was glad they were connected to something outside this clearing. Finally Elrond spoke again.

‘You see much Elrohir. You see much. Valar forgive me, you feel much as well. For that, I am both proud and sorry. Sometimes I would that it were not so. It is our curse, and yet also the wellspring of our healing power. Your brother has it too, though he channels his into the movement of his sword, perhaps healing our world on a different scale.

‘Many years ago, Galadriel and I agonized over how to help Haldir. Beyond tending his body, we were at a loss. What he had suffered far surpassed our experience; others subjected to far less always faded quickly or died. He did not, though we never learned why. Perhaps to care for his orphaned brothers. Perhaps another reason, yet unknown.

‘We believed that the best we could do was to show him unconditional love, to reassure him of his worth, and to train him to be as powerful as possible, that he might never again feel a victim. That he might be aware of his own strength and have the confidence to face his life anew. He drove himself hard and excelled in every way. We thought it a sign of success. Until he disappeared.

‘We now see the extent of our failure. Haldir’s healing has been like that of an unset bone. He has grown strong, learned to compensate, to hide his weakness, his pain. Yet no matter his accomplishments, never has he been able to return to normal. And over time he has grown more aware of his own loss, of the things he could never do. For this I cannot forgive myself.’

Silence gathered around them like the shadows creeping from darkening woods. Elrond’s eyes turned inward once more, his brows knit in recrimination.

At length, Elrohir spoke. ‘How then do we help him, Ada?’

The elder sighed deeply, and swallowed.

‘To help Haldir, we must appeal to the Doctrine of Similars. We must return him to the position of being overpowered, of having his own control wrested from him, and fearing for his survival, when his ability to trust even himself was destroyed. But this time we will be there for him, and we will give him the forgiveness he craves. Force him to accept our absolution by taking away his control, teaching him to trust only us, and making only our word matter. Giving him no choice. And then giving him permission to live again.

‘In the end, we will set him free. But we must break him again so that we can remake him properly, whole. It will be harsh, and it will hurt – for us, as well as for him. But I do not know another way. The question becomes, do you feel able to do this?’

Listening to his father, Elrohir felt fear pale his face. He watched his elder’s mouth and eyes closely with growing unease, stared at the dark intensity he saw there. For a moment he was afraid.

He forced himself to remember the immensity of Elrond’s golden power as it surged through him days before, the millennia of wisdom both within his brow and within his ring. He recognized the enormity of control and compassion Elrond possessed to wield that power without destroying or being destroyed, and was awed.

By what grace did I come to serve one such as this?

With a start, Elrohir realized his father was looking at him expectantly.

‘Can you do this thing?’

‘Ada, I do not know.’

‘Think on it my son. You do not have to do this. I will do it if you cannot. But I will be here with you — for you — if you do.’

Dark Peredhel eyes met and held, weighted with the blessings of their line.

In a far away grotto, the Golden Lady bowed her head.

XXV

Dusty velvet and rose petals. His mother’s wardrobe always smelled this way. Smiling, he pressed his face into the softness of long abandoned gowns that hung, shoulder seams straining under years of unrelieved weight, waiting for a familiar body to come again.

Running his hand along the dark wood he imagined he could feel the vibrations there of voices long silent — her melodic laughter as she gathered him to her skin, the songs they lifted up together, joined on a good day by Boromir, whose singing voice had later raised only bawdy soldier ballads, but had once been as sweet and joyful as his own had been innocent. Another harsher voice, ever an intruder in these chambers, and their gentle whisperings as they comforted one another afterward, he and Findulas.

He had taken refuge in her rooms because he knew no one would look for him here. It was quiet and sunny, and with the air so long unstirred by opening doors, he knew warmth would be waiting for him there. It was always waiting there, peaceful and untouched as a refuge should be. Sometimes he wondered whether he even remembered her anymore, or whether the comforting presence he felt had more to do with the room itself.

With its door open the wardrobe provided him a low seat, recreating the vantage point from which he had so often seen this room through the crack of the hinges. How many times had he hidden amongst his mother’s things, either to escape from others, or simply to be near her without interrupting adult activities? It had been their secret. She had called it his ‘nest’, and sewed him an extra quilt made from her discarded gowns to pad his favorite corner and to nap in when sleep overtook him. He remembered rubbing small fingers on his favorite squares – one of crimson satin, another forest green and soft, one made from a royal blue velvet he could still picture on her. It had seemed to him as a child that the squares had somehow captured magical moments of her life, days when she was beautiful and happy, the transcendent center of all their lives. His earliest images of her were in those dresses now preserved in the quilt. Did he remember those moments for themselves, or because he had the dress scraps to make them real? Or had he simply overlaid these fabrics on his imagination’s own nostalgic echoes? He was never sure if it even mattered what was real and what was projection. In their own ways they were both true.

Although her ladies’ maid knew of his hidden presence, few others did, assuming him to be in the nursery as was appropriate. But from his hidden squirrel’s nest, he had watched his mother sewing, entertaining, pressing courtiers’ suits to Lord Denethor, and managing those aspects of court and city affairs that she could negotiate without the Steward’s interference. He had also seen other things he wished he had never seen. But unlike the images of his mother in her jewel-tone velvet dresses, he could not pretend those pictures in his head were imagined, no matter how hard he tried.

Today he came to talk to her. He needed his mother. His friend. He needed to know whether it was okay to go on. Not to forget, but to let go. She was, of course, the wrong person to ask. She had not gone on. She had quit. She had cried, and asked his forgiveness, but still she had quit. Though he begged her, pleaded, wanted to pummel her with his tiny fists for leaving him, he could not make her stay. Whether he had failed her or she him, he did not know. But he had hidden the half empty packet away in his secret quilt because it was hers, and curled into her arms, giving her what comfort his small body could as she stroked his hair, and held her as she slipped away. In fact, he had held her many hours after that, long after his own sobs had turned to shudders, then silence.

The maids had thought them to be sleeping, and left them undisturbed. Finally one grew concerned at their long slumber and shook her lady’s shoulder to waken her. To her horror, the body to which the tiny boy clung had grown stiff, warm only where he pressed himself against it, seeking perhaps to follow where she went. When the maid pulled him from the bed, his eerie silence erupted into anguished screams that rent the night and brought the Palace Guard and the Steward running. After the bustle, silence descended again. The room had been quiet since.

‘Mother,’ he began in a shaking voice, addressing the place on the daybed where she had so often been, where he had last seen her ethereal face. Somehow speaking aloud always seemed right here. As if it called forth her presence as a real thing. Not inside his head.

‘Mother, I need your help. I do not know what to do. I…I do not know how to live. So confused Mother. I want to love this man. This elf. Haldir…I know I am not supposed to.’

He swallowed as a fist squeezed at his heart.

‘But I want to love him. I do love him. I am scared. I am so scared that I will end up hurting, worse…’

He leaned his head against the side of the solid wardrobe and contemplated the sunbeams made visible by the long unwashed window. Through his damp lashes they seemed to glisten, to waver in recognition. An unseen breeze stirred the room, making him freshly aware of the cooling streaks on his face.

‘…And I do not want to leave you. I… I have wanted to all my life to join you. I have tried. But I cannot…I am sorry Mother. I did not mean to abandon you. I know I have failed you, left you alone there. I was…am afraid. I should have. I should have come right away. I…’

His hand strayed to stroke again the soft squares of the hidden quilt. He knew them by feel. The forest green one, so soft. The blue velvet that had tied at her waist and fallen like a heavy waterfall about slim hips. Hips like his own. He felt for the paper, as he always did, folded over to keep its contents safe.

He could not say he did not know how. He could only say he was afraid. She had left him enough, and he had failed her. Who was he to say he loved, when he had so clearly failed his first love, the one he should have followed without question? How could he make promises to another when his every day was proof he could not be trusted?

He withdrew the packet from its hiding place as he had so many times before. Slipped his finger under the fold, and inside. He told himself he was just checking the contents, though he knew it was untrue. He pulled out a finger dusted with gray powder and considered it a long moment. The powder had once been dark green, he remembered. Now it had aged to sick slate gray, the shade of graphite without the sheen. More like a looming cloud, portent of a storm vicious yet not cleansing, swallowing light and air and life within it, without the amber afterglow that made summer squalls forgiving.

Without thought he brought the fingertip to his lips, where his tongue darted out to meet it. To touch and taste. To keep. As he had done so many times before.

He always expected it to be sweet. To taste of memory — pungent, cloying, yet enticing. Yet always it burned more than he could remember, the bitterness sharp against his skin, quickly spreading through his mouth, urging him to spit, though he swallowed. The trace of it down his throat made him gag and he struggled not to vomit as his body tried to expel what was foul. He clenched his teeth to keep it down, to take his fair share of what his mother had swallowed with so much grace, beauty even. She had never grimaced, he remembered, never flinched. So much braver had she been. So much more ready. And so he waited still.

He folded the packet and tucked it back in its place, smoothing the quilt, her quilt, down over it, safe.

He rested his head against the wooden doorframe again, closed his eyes.

After long moments, with a deep breath, he stood. He turned his back to the bed and closed the wardrobe door, watching as its contents were folded again in the darkness, secret again.

Forgive me.

XXVI

XVI

The surf. Again. Insistent. Subtle. The pulse of blood in his veins. Hushed. Regretful. He sat on the wet sand, numb, unmoving in the empty grey. The fog hid things, he knew, but he had no desire to see them. No desire now to see the stone halls, the young man, waiting. It was too far to walk. Too little hope, for no reason. The young man was trapped as he was trapped.
No hope.

And yet his eyes…Grey eyes, reticent yet needy, afraid to reach out, yet turned toward him – had they given up? He would say yes, for they were nearly empty, not even touched by bitterness, only regret. Sorrow. And yet they had turned toward him. those devoid of hope do not turn, he thought. Or was it mere instinct? Would he turn?

Sitting.

The unseen waves beat upon his mind, shaping his pulse to their rhythm. A breeze unfelt reminded him to breathe, if barely.

Yet he continued.

‘Haldir.’

No. No more interruptions. He was tired. Wanted to be left alone. and yet not alone…

‘Haldir my friend, where are you?’

Please do not…

Far away, perhaps not even real, something touched a body. His body? No matter. That can be ignored. Best ignored. So far away.

‘Haldir, I will not make you open your eyes. Merely tell me where you are. Describe for me what you see when you go there.’

Stillness. keep still. become stillness.

‘Haldir, listen to me.’

…maybe the voice will stay away…no more than a voice on the wind, never a person in…this place. when did…stop wishing to find company? it will try to make…go back. do not want to go back no way back. stay here. tired. so tired.

‘Melonamin –‘

‘Haldir, hear me.’ A different voice. Edges.

‘By the power of Vilya I call to you. You must answer.’

A sharpening in the air. Suction. Pulling —

no —

‘yes’

‘Haldir, I command you to respond to me and to my sons. You may continue to hide from others, for now, but you must hear us and respond.’

please no…

‘…here…do not come closer…will speak.’

hurts. always forcing, grasping…does it never end?

On the wet sand, Haldir wrapped arms around his lowered head, rocking where he crouched. no…!

‘Good. That is good. You spoke. Can you tell me, my friend, where you are? Speak again.’

‘…grey…all grey. do not come…no way back. empty……beyond…not…enough…not for you.’

please!

Elrond removed his hands from Haldir’s head and murmured to his son, ‘Use his name as often as you can, my son. It will help pull him back toward his identity, toward this world. Where he is, he may already have let it go. We must remind him, tether him.’

‘Haldir, what do you hear?’

stop calling! leave…alone. quiet.

In the clearing, Haldir’s body shuddered under Elrohir’s hands. Elrohir looked to his father, who nodded, and added his hands over his son’s once more.

‘Haldir, my friend. It is Elrohir. You can keep your eyes closed. Just describe for me what you hear.’

this….all that is left. do not take it away! leave (me) something…please leave…alone.

‘Haldir! Elrond calls to you. You must respond.’

Thin shoulders curved inward, protecting.

‘…grey. quiet. waves…cannot touch them…Valar will not have…always. too far away…’

‘Haldir, why do you think the Valar will not have you?’

‘dirty. finished.’

Elrohir struggled to steady his voice. Took a deep breath.

‘What is your name?’

No answer.

The sea wind picked up.

‘Haldir. Give me your name.’

Silence.

The wind pulling, sucking, toward the land. Toward pain, cold, memory.

‘Your name, Galadhel.’

‘halda.’

‘Hal- dir ’

Silence.

Roaring wind.

On the beach, Haldir pulled his arms more tightly around himself, gave in to sobs.

In the clearing, Elrohir did the same.

XXVII

‘Spare me your apologies. You were my big brother! You were supposed to protect me for Valar’s sake! You were supposed to keep me safe from that kind of thing! Or at the very least, help me cope.’

‘I didn’t know! Dammit, ‘Mir, I didn’t know! I had no idea he was….Dammit, I was a just a stupid kid.’

‘Forgive me if I have no sympathy for you. You were five years older. How do you think I felt? Why don’t you fucking leave me alone? Just go away!’

‘Look Faramir, I’m sorry for the stuff that happened to you. I am so so sorry. But that doesn’t mean you have to live like this now. You can still change this. You don’t have to let him win, keep winning. Let me help you…’

‘What would you know about it? Just get out.’

‘Listen, little brother, please. I care what happens to you. You know that. If I could undo all this…’

‘Don’t go over it anymore, Boromir. It’s done. We all did what we did, and this is who I am now. I’ll leave for the Rangers soon anyway. Let it be.’

‘Mir…’

‘Just let it be.’

Boromir’s eyes flashed with one last hard look at his brother, fists clenched. When he got no response, he turned abruptly away from his frustration and strode away.

Alone in the courtyard garden, Faramir slumped against a carved pillar, his forehead leaning hard into the living rock. Just let it be. Everything had already happened; no point in changing things now. Too complicated. Just let it be. It would all end eventually anyway. Just wait him out. Wait.

‘Haldir — Haldir, come back to us. Come back to your friends, the people who love you. We’re here and we miss you. Please Haldir – come back. We want to help you.’

A thin hand waved vaguely, dismissing.

No. Go ‘way. Can’t help me. Who I am now. Leave me here. Leave me.

‘Haldir, I’m sitting with you. I’m holding you close. I’m not letting you go.’

Get off! Leave me be. Just sitting here. Waiting. Til it’s over.

‘I had the dream again.’

Interested silence.

‘He was there again. By the fountain. He’s real. Somewhere. Maybe sometime. I know he’s real.’

Hope.

A start.

XXVIII

“Faramir! Faramir, wait! Please wait for me!”

Haldir scarcely resisted running to catch up with the rapidly fleeing redhead ahead of him. “Dammit Faramir, come back here!” he muttered under his breath. He did not appreciate being forced to chase the man through the streets and halls like this. No – not forced. He was choosing to behave like a desperate lover, and in public no less. He only hoped no one they knew would see.

“Faramir! I must talk to you!” his voice bounced off the stone halls as he trailed Faramir into the Citadel. It had been two weeks since their electric engagement in the fighting arena, since the intensity of their desire had been made apparent not only between them but to all those observing. And yet still they had scarcely spoken beyond what polite protocol required. Several times Aragorn and others had arranged evening entertainments, but always Faramir found crucial tasks to attend to and sent his regrets. When required by his king to be in attendance, the Steward treated Haldir with the same familiarity and respect he showed his brothers, but neither sought him out nor allowed himself to be engaged in one-on-one conversation. Outside of these official functions, Faramir was far too skilled at evasion to be caught off-guard, even with their rooms adjacent as they were. Haldir had begun to suspect Faramir of using the Citadel’s hidden corridors to avoid confrontation.

But this day, he had come upon Faramir quite by chance in the market of the Fourth Level. He had been wandering aimlessly, enjoying the bustle of sunlight and people, when a familiar smile flashed in his peripheral vision. He had turned to see Faramir laughing with an old soldier, clasping his shoulder. As he watched, Faramir stilled briefly to listen to another man, grinned wickedly, and replied. A roar of amusement erupted from those around. An older woman swatted playfully at him with her cloth. Faramir bowed to her, saluted the others casually, and turned gracefully to go. Haldir was struck by the easy set of his shoulders, the relaxed rhythm of his step. This was a Faramir he had not seen before. A peaceful and confident man, one who loved people at a glance, was loved in return, and knew it. Haldir wondered at the dramatic change. Momentarily it struck him that this might be the man most people always saw, and that he only saw someone else because Faramir acted differently with him — or perhaps because his own eyes were filmed with other knowledge. The man he stood watching in this market square was one anyone would be proud to call friend, would thrill to have as a familiar visitor, and would rest easy to be flanked by in battle. Even admiring from a distance, Haldir felt his body begin to awaken to the idea of standing by Faramir. The solidity, the respectfulness, the smooth creamy firmness of him…

‘Faramir, Wait!’ he shouted again.

To Be Continued

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