My Heart's Desire - Part 1. To Wait for you.

Chapter 8. Aftermath.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” Gildor’s thoughts were running in a circle as he stormed through the wood. Damn that brainless idiot for provoking him so recklessly. Damn this place where he would never be left alone. Damn its Lady, whose presence he vaguely felt on the edge of his mind even nohoughough he told her thousands of times never, just *never* to dare sneak into his head. “Damn it!”
He was abruptly brought to awareness by a sharp painful sensation. He blinked and found himself facing a solid tree trunk. He looked at his right hand and saw that his knuckles were bleeding. He must have slammed his fist into the tree without even realizing it. Damn.
When Gildor got to his talan he was grateful to find it empty. He did not feel up to explaining things to Glorfindel, definitely not at the moment. He winced remembering Haldir’s pale face. The youngster’s fair skin bruised easily and he was sure to have his face half-blue by the morning. Gildor cursed again and untied the straps of his already packed travel bag. He was rummaging through his belongings looking for the thing he needed when the door to his room suddenly flew open.
‘Great,’ he thought with grim amusement. A row with Galadriel would be an icing on the cake of this incredibly enjoyable day.
“You hurt him!” she hissed at him.
“He hurt me first.”
“Can you hear yourself? You are talking like a hundred-year-old!” Galadriel’s face was flushed with rage. “He is young and impulsive. *You* were supposed to be the wiser one of you two. You could have acted in a more sensible way.”
Gildor’s eyes narrowed in resentment. “It’s rather difficult to remain sensible, cousin, when one is about to be raped.”
“He would *never* do such a thing!” Galadriel retorted indignantly.
“He wouldn’t? How do you know?”
“I know his heart.”
“She knows his heart!” Gildor snorted but then his face became suddenly thoughtful. “Tell me, Altáriel, what is so special about this young elf that makes you so protective of him?”
“He is my ward.”
“*Your* ward?”
“Our ward,” Galadriel corrected herself. “Celeborn will not be happy either, when he learns what you have done.”
But Gildor refused to be diverted. “Isn’t he grown-up enough to do without your protection?”
“Not when he is dealing with *you*. He is still too young and inexperienced to see you for who you are. He will not be able to prevent you from breaking his heart.”
Galadriel’s insults made Gildor’s so-easily-aroused temper flare up.
“He has no heart, just an excessive libido and conceit. There is nothing to break,” he snapped back, but then he remembered Haldir’s wistful eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, and felt an immediate pang of guilt at this cruel assessment. With a silent curse, he resumed his search through his things.
“You should at least sometimes make use of the gift the Valar bestowed on you so indulgently.” Galadriel pursed her lips contemptuously, clearly showing she thought him unworthy of said gift. “You could have read him, could have seen his true nature, then you would not have done to him what you did.”
“By Manwë’s eagles, Altáriel!” Gildor exclaimed in exasperation, “I have not done anything! I have broken neither his precious heart, nor his body, nor his damned arrogant spirit.”
He found at last what he had been looking for and shoved his bag aside.
“I wonder,” Galadriel said slowly, her voice cold and vindictive, “why those who care for you always end up being hurt?”
Gildor whirled around to face her. “Don’t,” he warned her darkly. “We have been through this hundreds of times. Do not start it all over again. It is *not* my fault Ermenor died.”
“It is *entirely* your fault!” she accused him fervently. “You broke his heart and he went away and got himself killed.”
Gildor closed his eyes for a moment. No matter how long and how hard he had tried to persuade himself that he was not to blame for Ermenor’s death, he still felt guilt heavy upon his shoulders.
“All right,” he sighed wearily, “I broke his heart and he went away. But *you* went away, too. Why weren’t you there for him? Why did not you use your chance and offer him comfort as – I know - you always wished?”
Galadriel laughed bitterly. “He did not want comfort. He wanted you. As he always did... And now history repeats itself.” Her eyes flashed. “Do not dare ruin Haldir’s life as you ruined Ermenor’s! Keep away from him. I forbid you to lay hands on him again.”
Gildor gave her a narrow-eyed stare. “You forbid, really? And if *he* doet ket keep away from *me*, what would you have me do to spare him disappointment? Spread my legs for him?”
Tight-lipped, Galadriel glared at him silently.
“I heard it,” Gildor warned her dangerously.
“I thought you *never* eavesdrop on people’s private thoughts,” she said acidly.
“Not until you *shout* them at me. Enough, Altáriel! I’ve got my fill of you and your accusations. Leave me alone! Or I swear I’ll go and *break his heart* just to give grounds to your absurd allegations.”
With that, Gildor stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. He slid down a support cable and almost collided with Glorfindel. The Elda instantly took in Gildor’s deranged look and a purple bruise on his neck and cursed silently. He was about to speak but Gildor was quicker.
“Don’t. Say. Anything.” There was a dangerous rumble in his voice but his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil. He thrust into Glorfindel’s palm the object he had been holding in his hand, and as he did so Glorfindel noticed his bloody knuckles. Then he was gone, leaving behind a distinct residue of anger and frustration.
As if by intuition, Glorfindel raised his head and was just in time to catch a sight of Galadriel’s shimmering dress. It was easy to put two and two together. He cursed again. Then he looked at the thing he was grasping in his hand. It was a blue jar with salve. Glorfindel recognized it and cursed for the third time. He turned around and made his way to the part of the city lying farther away from the royal and the guest mellyrn.


After Gildor had left, Haldir remained in his kneeling position a little longer recovering himself and trying to collect his scattered wits. Then he rose to his feet and pulled up his leggings, being siely ely grateful they had not been ruined along with his tunic. He would look odd enough walking the city half-naked if someone happened to see him. It would be double difficult to do so, being dressed only in his own skin. He somehow managed to tie up the cut laces and looked up at his belt that was still hanging from the dagger, wedged through its buckle. The Vanya must really have walked away in white-hot rage to leave his weapon behind. It cost Haldir some considerable effort to pull it out. Obviously, Gildor’s strength had been fuelled by his rage to drive the dagger into the wood so forcefully. Haldir picked up the remnants of his shirt and tunic and made for his home.
He was lucky and cautious enough not to run into anyone on his way to his house but his good fortune did not last further then up to his mallorn, for when he was climbing the stairs he heard Rúmil’s voice calling after him. He did not stop to answer as he knew Rúmil would follow him anyway, and he needed a couple of moments to brace himself for the inquiry that was sure to follow. It turned out to be even worse than he had expected: he had to deal with his both brothers at once because Rúmil came in with Orophin. Haldir knew he would not be able to conceal his misadventure for long so he decided he could as well face his brothers right away. He lit some candles and turned to look at them. They both gasped. Haldir was even grimly amused by the shock written plainly on their faces.
“In Eru’s name, Haldir, what happened to you?” As always, Rúmil was the first to recover his voice. He looked his younger brother up and down, and then his eyes fell on the heap of silk shreds lying on the floor. “And what is *that*?”
“I’m afraid, Rúmil, you will not get your prize after all, though you have won our bet.” Haldir tried to sound nonchalant.
“Our bet?” Rúmil looked at him, puzzled. “We did not make any…” He stopped abruptly. “Haldir, you do not mean to say you...?” At a nod from Haldir he exhaled sharply, his breath whistling through his teeth.
“Haldir,” Orophin spoke at last, his voice quiet and cautious, “did…did he…”
“Did he do what?” Haldir sounded weary all of a sudden. “Did he take me unwilling? No. He did not bother to. Though I was willing enough…”
Orophin thought he could detect bitterness in his brother’s voice.
“So if you want to know whether I’m going to fade, the answer is no. There is no reason for it,” Haldir went on. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“I wonder what Glorfindel will do when he learns about your escapade,” Rúmil murmured anxiously.
Haldir shrugged. “Nothing, I think. Firstly, he is not his…”
There was a sharp knock on the door and the next moment the Elda in question walked into the room. Instinctively, both Rúmil and Orophin moved forward and stood in front of him, shoulder to shoulder, shielding Haldir with their bodies.
Glorfindel raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Peace! I am not here to avenge my lover’s honour.”
Haldir walked around his brothers. “He is not your lover.”
“No, he is not,” Glorfindel confirmed. “And he is capable of avenging his honour himself, as you certainly know by now.”
The Elda gave Haldir a quick inspection, his sharp eyes making out his bruised face and distinct finger-marks on his jaw, red lines marring his wrists and a purple bruise on his neck, matching the one he had seen on Gildor’s. Ah, Naindë’ndë’s best wildcat mode. “What did you do to make him *that* wild?”
Haldir refused to answer.
“Fool,” Glorfindel sighed. “Young impetuous fool. Even if you had any chance with him, you have managed to ruin it completely. I do not think he will suffer you willingly around him now, not after he had quite a heated argument with your Lady over you.”
“They quarreled over me?” Haldir grew apprehensive. “Why?”
“Lady Galadriel feels very protective of you. I believe she is noppy ppy about the way Gildor treated you in this… little misunderstanding of yours.”
Haldir looked genuinely worried. “It was not his fault! I am the only one to blame. I was too…insistent and he had to defend himself.”
Glorfindel nodded in understanding. “You can always say that to your Lady if you wish, though I doubt it will help much. Well, they both will have time to cool down, though; he is leaving for Mirkwood tomorrow morning.”
‘For Mirkwood, and for the partner he is used to perform duets with.’ Haldir felt…Valar, he did not know what he felt.
“Here, take it.” Glorfindel said in the meantime and handed the jar with salve to Haldir. “This is something to help treat your bruises. Surely, you would not like to show up before your patrol looking as blue as you do now. Though,” his tone suddenly turned mischievous, “I must admit the colour becomes you, compliments your eyes, you know.”
He winked at him and walked out of the room.
“He took it…well, lightly,” Rúmil commented.
“Why are you surprised?” Orophin responded. “He is Gildor’s best friend so he would know what it takes to maltreat him. Besides, as far as I understand, it was not Gildor who suffered most in this encounter, was it, Haldir? Haldir?”
He turned to find his younger brother rummaging through his clothes feverishly. “What are you doing?”
“I must speak with the Lady.”
“For Valar’s saHaldHaldir, do not be ridiculous! It is the middle of the night and you are in no way presentable. Your pleading his case looking the way you are now will not do him any good.”
The last argument seemed to do the trick. Haldir stopped and with a sigh dropped down the robe he was holding.
“You can talk to her in the morning, before we leave for the border,” Rúmil offered helpfully.
“Where is the jar Glorfindel brought you? Give it to me, let me help you,” Orophin said.
He rubbed the salve gently into the bruises on Haldir’s face, but when he touched the one on his neck Haldir caught his hand. “Leave it. It’s below the collar, anyway.”
Orophin and Rúmil exchanged quick glances but neither of them made any comment. Soon after, they left their brother’s talan giving him a chance to catch some sleep. Though, they doubted he would be able to do it.


Gildor returned to his house an hour later, looking gloomy and pale with exhaustion. Glorfindel decided not to press him with inquiries and just let him be. Without saying a word, Gildor went to bed and almost at once fell into heavy sleep.
The early morning found him awake and preparing to leave Lórien. Glorfindel watched him braid his hair, then Gildor looked into the mirror and spat like an infuriated cat. He touched the purple bruise on his neck gingerly, his mouth twisting with disgust.
Glorfindel chuckled. “I still say you were the one to get off lightly. He looked much more battered. Did you try to knock trees down with his head or what?”
Gildor ignored Glorfindel’s tentative probing. “I cannot come to Mirkwood wearing *this*!” he murmured and then turned abruptly to his friend. “Cure it!”
Glorfindel, who had miserably failed to master even the basics of the healing art, was taken aback. “I cannot! I am not a healer!”
“Surely, even warriors can cure minor injuries. Elrond taught us that. I cannot do it to myself, so you’ll have to do it for me.”
“Are you afraid Thranduil will be jealous?” Glorfindel teased him. “You can always say I did it.”
“I can always say you did it. Thranduil won’t be jealous. But Legolas might.” Obviously, Gildor was in no mood for humour. “Come on, Glorfindel, even you can do it. It’s just a bruise.”
“It is not *just* a bruise, otherwise you wouldn’t be so miffed about it.”
Gildor’s feline eyes narrowed dangerously. “If I were you, I would not like to fall out with me right before I go to Mirkwood. Shall I tell you why or can you guess it yourself?”
“It is nothing short of blackmail,” Glorfindel complained but rose nevertheless and walked up to his friend. He covered the angry mark on Gildor’s neck with his hand and tried very hard, as Elrond had taught him, to concentrate and direct healing energy through his fingers and into the sore spot. He knew his attempt would not be a success so he was not surprised to see the result – or rather the absenceit. it. Truly, the bruise was a little paler but it still looked very much the love-mark it was. Gildor turned to the mirror and hissed in disappointment; at this point Glorfindel thought it wise to retreat.
“I shall go and pack your horse,” he offered, and picking up Gildor’s travel bag, bow and quiver, made off.
Gildor sighed in frustration as he put on his tunic. Thranduil was sure to get curious about this cursed bruise. And Thranduil had a disturbing habit to get to the very root of any matter. Gildor did not feel like answering his ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’, not this time.
The Vanya strapped on his sword and only then remembered that he had left his dagger stuck in the old oak. Flames of Mordor! No time to fetch it now. He would have to ask Glorfindel to go and see if it was still there. And if it was not, then it would mean Haldir had taken it. Gildor winced. He would not want to see the youngster any time soon. Perhaps, Glorfindel could talk to him. Gildor looked around the room one final time, checking if he had forgotten anything, and then marched out.


Haldir was leaning against the trunk of a mallorn, the gray of his uniform merging with the colour of the bark. He watched the gates, sure that Gildor would want to leave as early as possible. He proved to be right. Hardly had he taken his position when he saw Glorfindel head for the stables, carrying Gildor’s bag, bow and quiver. Soon after, he reappeared with his friend’s white stallion saddled and packed. Then Haldir’s heart missed a beat as he noticed a golden figure walking briskly to the gates. With something akin to light shock he saw that the Vanya’s mane was plaited, and into a single braid, at that. The hair style had changed him. He looked…not exactly older, but less youthful; serious, composed, and, well, like he meant business. Haldir could see the hilt of Gildor’s sword above his shoulder. ‘I braid it before a battle,’ Haldir remembered.
He left his observation spot and started walking to intercept the elf. When Gildor saw him, his steps did not falter. He only squared his shoulders just a little more and his chin rose just a little higher. Haldir stopped, blocking his way. Neither of them spoke as they stood facing each other, barely an arm’s length between them. As the blue of the midnight sky locked with the green of a murky forest, the tension between them grew almost palpable.
“I’m sorry,” Haldir said at last, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He did not expect an answer but he got one.
“So am I.” Gildor sounded the same way as he looked – composed and earnest. Haldir thought he rather preferred the wildfire of yesterday to this immaculate politeness of an accomplished diplomat.
Gildor was looking at Haldir’s face gloomily, taking in the damage he had done to it. He was disappointed to see that Elrond’s salve had not helped much. The young elf did look battered as Glorfindel had phrased it. Gildor was extremely reluctant to touch him. Actually, he hardly suppressed the ridiculous urge to hide his hands behind his back. He sighed and resigned himself to doing it, nevertheless.
Haldir held his breath as the Vanya raised his hand and touched his face with the tips of his fingers. But then he felt the light tingling sensation and understood what Gildor was doing. Haldir closed his eyes: Gildor’s touch felt almost like a caress. Only too soon for Haldir’s liking it was gone. He opened his eyes again. No, nothing had changed in the Vanya’s face. His touch had been warmer than his look was. From the folds of his clothes Haldir produced Gildor’s dagger and held it out to him, handle first. Then he stepped aside, letting him pass. Gildor nodded in thanks, slid the dagger into the empty sheath on his belt and walked past Haldir; his back rigid and proud, the tip of his thick braid sweeping the small of his back.
When Gildor’s horse saw him, it jerked the rein out of Glorfindel’s hand and trotted to meet its master. It pushed playfully at the Vanya’s shoulder with its nose; he kissed the stallion’s forehead and talked to it softly while stroking its bent neck. Then Gildor resumed walking and the animal followed him, now and again touching his ear with its lips affectionately. Gildor talked torfiorfindel shortly, gave him a quick kiss, mounted and left. Glorfindel watched him ride out of the gates.
“You let him go alone?” he heard Haldir’s voice beside him.
“He can take care of himself,” he answered. When Haldir did not respond to that he turned to look at the Galadhel.
“It is more dangerous out there nowadays than it used to be,” the guardian said.
Glorfindel nodded. “Thranduil will send an escort to meet him. You need not worry. He will be fine… And you?”
Effortlessly, Haldir slipped on his well-honed look of arrogant self-confidence. “So shall I.”
Bowing slightly, he left. The Elda followed him with his eyes and sighed. Perhaps, Galadriel was right after all, and Nairalindë should have stayed away from Lórien...