by erobey
unbeta'd

For Lyn: With Best Wishes for a Wonderful Holiday

"They are a proud people and rightly so, for they are fiercely protective of their homeland and every living thing under the eaves of the forest. They are not so different in this from us and in the beginning we were all one people. If our fate had placed us in like circumstances, you and I would be just as they are. Remember this in all your dealings with the Wood Elves: their King is my own kinsman; we share the same blood. Honour him and all he holds dear just as you would me."

So Lord Celeborn had spoken in earnest and forthright tones, his expression grave while his cool grey eyes were alight with a gleam that only came upon them when he was engaged in narrating a tale from his youth when Doriath was the mightiest realm in Arda. It had been easy to accept the truth of his words, to hear the overtones of nostalgic appreciation for what once was, to respect the ties of blood he held in such esteem.

Haldir had never intended to do otherwise.

He noticed the golden elf right away. Who could fail to mark him? Haldir was certain there was no more compelling being in all of Eru's creation. The attraction exceeded perfection of face and form, though such quality was undeniable; there was something about the archer that drew more than his eye. Previously, the March Warden would be the first to scoff in derision at claims of instantaneous recognition of one's soul-mate, but now he could think of no other words to describe what he felt whenever Legolas was near or, indeed, whenever he was distant.

Legolas. That was his name, a tribute to the ancient tongue of his sylvan mother, Haldir had discovered, kin to the very people who had migrated to Lothlorien so long ago. That was all he'd had opportunity to learn, for the dangers of the mission precluded socialising on more than a perfunctory level. Even so, Haldir found himself reliving their one brief conversation over and over.

"Three scouts, half-league due east," whispered the woodland elf, landing lightly on the branch next to Haldir. He was himself a scout, breathing hard from a swift race through the canopy here in the gloomy environs of Mirkwood near Dol Guldur.

"Arrows or swords?" Haldir managed from a mouth gone suddenly dry. The archer had sidled down onto his belly right next to the Lorien warrior and the heat and scent of his body was having an unexpected effect. Physical allure Haldir knew how to handle and had total control over his body's reactions, but quelling the veritable geyser of exuberance erupting within his faer, an entirely new experience, was an impossible task.

"Archers on wargs," answered the Mirkwood scout. "They'll be here anon for I gave them reason to follow." He glanced at his counterpart and a small frown creased his brow; the elf seemed distracted, as though dreaming. "Make ready your bow."

"Aye, they'll not get past this point," Haldir replied, embarrassed to be caught staring and uncomfortable to realise his heart was hammering, the sound like the raucous pounding of hooves when elk herds migrated across Talath Rhosg (Brown Land). As he nocked an arrow, the golden elf moved to a lower branch, verily flowing from one to the other with the smooth and silent motion of a snake. His bow was armed in seconds following the reposition and Haldir watched in fascination as tension rippled across his shoulders and back.

The March Warden didn't even realise he was staring again, eyes tracking the motionless form and indelibly recording every detail upon his senses. Sunlight dappled the shining crown of the flaxen mane; a thick lock slid away from the rest and hung freely out into the empty air. The movement exposed a delicate ear tip, pink from the recent exertion. Shadow and sheen played over the fitted tunic and leggings of muted green and tan; a minute strip of pale apricot skin was revealed where the top had ridden up due to the extreme extension of the warrior's arms as he prepared to shoot. Below that small gap, a tight, compact, perfectly round rear joined finely muscled thighs. A sudden spasm flexed through those powerful sinews followed by the distinct zing of a bowstring's release.

A grunt preceded the demise of the Orc and its mutated mount went down next. The Greenwood scout was already firing again before Haldir even had the beasts in his sights and killed the second set as well. By then Haldir finally managed to locate the last of the three and dispatched these before the Orc could escape and report on the presence of the elves so close to the Necromancer's abode.

"Two for me!" announced the golden elf with obvious glee, righting himself and flashing Haldir a radiant grin. He leaped back to the higher branch and crouched beside the Lorien elf, appraising him with curious but friendly interest. "I am Legolas, one of Ernil Gildin's archers."

"Mae govannen, Legolas. That is an ancient name seldom heard for the language has died out, or so I was told."

Legolas shrugged. "It has not vanished from Greenwood; it is the speech I learned at my Nana's breast."

"Then that explains your melodic accent," Haldir smiled and placed his hand over his heart. "Haldir o Lothlorien, March Warden to the Lord and Lady. My herth is located two leagues back, due north toward Thranduil's stronghold." Haldir was pleased to have such an impressive title to announce, though prestige had never been an issue for him before, and felt a warm glow surround his heart as the ellon's expression registered due appreciation for encountering so esteemed a warrior.

Before more could be said, the brusque caw of a raven distracted Legolas and he rose. "My brother calls; I must go and make my report. Farewell, Haldir o Lorien."

And just like that, he was gone, slipping into the high canopy where cunning, stealth, and the shielding multitude of green leaves rendered him invisible.

For two days the combined forces of Mirkwood's prince and Lothlorien's March Warden had been inching ever closer to the vile obstruction marring the once peaceful and bountiful woods sprawling over the rolling hillocks on the edge of the valley of Anduin. In Ages past, the region had been a thriving colony of Greenwood, Amon Lanc, until the advent of the dark sorcerer's arrival. His army of Orcs had swept into the forest and invoked such bitter and bloody warfare that the elves had at last fled, crossing the narrow strip of open land, plunging through the icy waters of Nimrodel, stopping only when the heart of Lothlorien was reached. Now the Necromancer kept both forest realms under his constant surveillance, though Galadriel's Ring prevented his eye from piercing the boundaries of the Mallyrn, and his ever increasing legions preyed upon the Wood Elves freely. The way was no longer safe between the divided country; distance and danger had isolated the once united people.

That was not a condition preferred by either Celeborn the Wise nor his distant kinsman, Thranduil the Bold; though, kings Amdir and Oropher had not seen fit to bridge the widening gap between them. The Sindarin ruler had presented to the White Council his intention to cast down the Black Tower, only to have the plan rejected by Saruman and his cohorts, notably Elrond of Imladris, Galadriel of Doriath, and Círdan of Mithlond. Those three were considered Noldorin folk and Thranduil had made certain to be plain in his criticism, linking their dissent to their heritage and history of abusing the Telerin elves. The slighted King withdrew to his cavernous fortress and broke off what little contact he had maintained with the rest of elvendom after the Last Alliance.

The meeting ended bitterly but Lord Celeborn had not sided with Saruman. In secret he communicated to his cousin the desire to see the endeavour succeed and Thranduil had responded enthusiastically, requesting whatever aid the Lord of the Golden Wood could spare. To that end, Haldir had been dispatched to Greenwood with a large contingent of warriors: three full troops of archers and spear-bearers, each 120 strong. They had evaded the Necromancer's detection by travelling over Hithaeglir and back, crossing west through Caradras and returning east through the High Pass and the ford at Carrock.

Haldir and Gildin had met at the forest gate and the prince had led the Lorien soldiers deep into the heart of Greenwood. Though the March Warden had seen and met many Wood Elves, including the Sindarin King, not until the assault was launched had he observed the golden elf who so quickly and completely took up residence within his heart and soul.

What to do about it was a quandary that had occupied Haldir's mind unceasingly since that moment.

There was Legolas, not more than a tree's width distant, perched on a narrow talan beside a second woodland warrior. Haldir could easily leap the gap and initiate a conversation, yet he hesitated. What if the golden elf had no wish to expand their brief acquaintance? Perhaps the sensation in his surging soul was not reciprocated. No sooner had the thought occurred than Legolas glanced over at him, met his eyes, and smiled, a soft blush racing to his ears as he looked away.

Haldir's heart was pounding again and he forced his features into a stern mask lest anyone discover his secret desire. As luck would have it, Legolas chose that instant to take another furtive peek, eyes widening in surprise ere he quickly turned from the forbiddingly haughty expression. Silently, Haldir cursed every Vala he could think of for this misfortune. Now he would have to work doubly hard to convince the archer to consider him. The prospects of winning this glorious creature seemed bleak, judging by the interaction between Legolas and the other woodland archer.

The warrior was obviously much older and addressed the golden elf in a distinctly proprietary manner. Haldir watched as he insistently queried Legolas as to the reason for his inattention and sudden black mood. The charges were vehemently denied and the two argued over some minor point regarding the fletching of Legolas' arrows. While the older one's tone was critical and insistent, his posture and demeanour were familiar and openly possessive. In return, Legolas was rather flippant and dismissive while simultaneously following every suggestion his comrade made.

The March Warden was unclear if this unknown person was a brother, a father, or, worst of all, a lover. He hadn't thought far enough into his new status, that of determined suitor, to imagine he might have a rival for his heart's fulfilment. The realisation was both a profound shock and a source of intense jealousy.

Abruptly, the older elf turned and fixed his gaze upon Haldir, glanced back at Legolas, then resumed his study of the March Warden, his stare narrowing into an expression of open menace. He positioned himself so to prevent his companion from catching sight of Haldir, missing the swift dip to the side Legolas made to snatch another glimpse of the Lorien elf, and then announced they were required to report to their captain. To this Legolas objected half-heartedly before relenting, and the pair left the area.

Haldir didn't care; well, not overly much. Legolas had sent him a mischievous smirk and an impossibly fast wink in those few seconds that the older warrior's back was turned. The March Warden was unaware of the star-shot quality of his giddy grin or the number of his comrades who noted it.

"Muindor, are you walking in Dreams?"

This query was accompanied by a sharp nudge in the side that finally gained Haldir's attention. His assailant was Rumil, his youngest brother, and so the March Warden graced him with an equally forceful shove and an irritated frown.

"No, I am thinking on a matter of great importance. I realise that is not an activity you engage in frequently, Rumil, yet you should know better than to accuse me of idle wool-gathering."

"I did not say it was an idle dream, Haldir," defended Rumil. "I only wish to help. What is it, or should I ask 'who' is it, that has you so distracted?"

"Thank you for your magnanimous offer, but this is something I must handle on my own."

Silence fell between them and Haldir fell once more to pondering how to approach Legolas while Rumil kept watch over his brother, concerned over this complete alteration of personality. Never had the duty-driven March Warden expressed anything but indifference at best and contempt at worst for the softer sections of the heart and soul. Love, he often scoffed, was nothing but an instinct required for preservation of the species. A soul-mate was but a glorified bed-mate, nothing more nor less.

As to bed-mates, Haldir had enjoyed many; this Rumil knew well, yet none had come near to the March Warden's soul. Had this elf been about to become only the latest to fall prey to his brother's legendary libido, Haldir would have acted at once, minding not at all if the stern-looking sylvan warrior was already involved with the slender blonde archer. No, what worried Rumil was the notion of Haldir falling for this particular elf.

"Haldir, I have no doubt you can manage your own affairs, but that elf you're drooling over can never be more than a passing fancy. He will remain in Mirkwood and we will go home to Lothlorien. Besides, I've heard some talk. Subtle disfavour clings to him but no one will elaborate. Bed him and be done with it for there can never be more."

The March Warden turned to stare at his brother, completely taken aback by such a statement. "I was not drooling, Rumil, and I am stunned to hear you suggest so base a course of action. I want that elf and not for just a night. Would you begrudge me the chance to find happiness as you have done?"

"No, but that is not the elf to give you lasting happiness."

Before Haldir could demand an explanation, the warbling song of a wood thrush alerted them to the arrival of the Wood Elves upon whom they'd all been waiting and the March Warden signalled his troops to make ready. He moved cautiously forward, bow drawn and armed, Rumil shadowing him.

Today would make the third attempt to breach the defences of the Necromancer's Tower. The previous attacks had been repulsed before the elves came within sight of the broad black base of the stony spire and while no immortal lives were spent, injuries were extensive. The Orcs were well armed and well trained and now the element of surprise, which Haldir doubted had ever existed despite the stealthy woodcraft of the sylvan fighters, was lost. Gildin had called for replacements and reinforcements, positioning a full third of Greenwood's forces at key points around the perimeter of Dol Guldur. All were predicting vigourous resistance and casualties were expected to be high. Most of the Mirkwood elves had spent the hours before hand in ritual soul cleansing, the soft, sombre song of their prayers filling the air, preparing themselves to bargain with Námo, Lord of the Dead.

If this sortie failed, the prince would call an ordered retreat and the elves would regroup to consider other options, but Haldir was uncertain if he would be willing to place his warriors in danger again. The Necromancer's citadel seemed invincible and the sorcerer himself never needed to come forth, having an unending supply of expendable Orcish soldiers to send into battle. Some fifty Lorien archers and even more among Greenwood's warriors had already been wounded, some seriously. The March Warden was loathe to have that number increase and determined to preserve his people from death. While that was foremost on his mind, running beneath was a growing fear that Legolas could be among the losses tallied at the end of the day.

Then the signal came and Haldir deployed his forces, moving in an oblique feint to decoy the Orcs from Gildin's warriors and the main attack. It seemed to be working and the din of battle included much foul profanity in Black Speech as the demons met their ends at the hands of the gifted elven archers. Then just as quickly a commotion erupted on the March Warden's left flank and his troops were split as a small group of woodland warriors sped amid the branches, briskly pursued by lance-throwing warg riders. The Wood Elves were not in rout and periodically paused to fire upon the enemy, but they were not able to remain in fixed positions as the Orcs filled the air with their black bolts.

Haldir quickly reorganised, calling orders and absorbing the fleeing elves into his herth, establishing a counter attack that gained the Greenwood soldiers some breathing room. Yet even their combined efforts failed to halt the advancing glamhoth and the Lorien commander soon found himself being pushed toward the Dark Tower. This deflection would leave Gildin's forces vulnerable and he whistled a message of warning which was taken up and passed amid the canopy until it vanished; the battle was lost. With no hope of reaching the prince and the main body of the combined army, Haldir made a bold decision and ordered all his archers to turn and fight, for they must either break through or be taken prisoner in Dol Guldur.

The struggle was desperate and Thranduil's elves fought with such ferocity that Haldir hoped for a few moments that they would turn the tide. He clearly heard one of the sylvans exhort his fellows to defend the prince and felt a strong surge of approbation for such loyalty. Dearly he wished to give aid to the King's son, but it was not to be. In small groups the warriors ascended to the heights of the canopy and melted into the forest, and Haldir did what he could to hold back the unending swarm of Orcs pouring from the Necromancer's lair. At last it was over; every warrior was beyond the reach of danger and the sounds of war diminished. Haldir arrived at the meeting place, an outpost surrounding a small village of humans, to hear a familiar voice raised in strident argument.

"Nay, you must let me go to my brother! I cannot abandon him to Dol Guldur!"

Haldir caught his breath and Rumil, who had not left his side during battle, clearly heard. He watched in displeasure as the austere and solitary March Warden, known for his taciturn nature and brusque manner, forced his way through the crowd of Mirkwood warriors. Following him, Rumil perceived two Wood Elves physically restraining a third, who was injured but not so badly that he was unable to give them a good fight. Into this conflict Haldir inserted his formidable presence.

"What is happening here?" he demanded, eyes flickering over the elf and taking in a bleeding gash on the archer's thigh with alarm, for the restrained warrior was Legolas. "Unhand him; surely you can see he needs aid for that wound."

"Aye, we see and are attempting to do just that. Attend to your own and leave us to do the same. This is not your concern, March Warden. Ai!" The elf who answered, the very same warrior at Legolas' side earlier, received a solid kick in the shins for his insolent words.

"Let me go! I command it!" Legolas shrilled. "Gildin needs me!"

"Nay, Ernilen, you cannot command me thus for I am acting on previous orders given by your father," answered the other elf still busy trying to subdue Legolas' writhing body. "Be still and let me have a look at the injury for it is likely to be poisoned."

"It is not poisoned; I would know," retorted Legolas. "Galion, you must let me go to Gildin now!"

"I must do nothing save obey the commands of my King, who also happens to be my dearest friend. You know he has placed you under our authority. Would you have me betray such a trust? Have faith in Gildin's skill, Legolas; he will return to you."

"Aye, and I'm willing to bet he'll return unscathed, for he is not reckless and foolhardy," the kicked one admonished.

"I am neither of those," seethed Legolas, finally tired out as blood loss drained his energy. He became still and leaned upon Galion. "Someone had to distract those Orcs from Carnil else he would have perished."

"And was there no other elf in the vicinity that you had to risk yourself?"

"Enough," scolded Galion, sending his cohort an admonishing glare. "There is no need to berate his good heart, Sirion. Legolas is young; he cannot help his desire to aid his friends even at his own expense."

"Then may I never grow old if doing so means I will lose that desire," growled Legolas, though he knew that wasn't what Galion meant.

Now through all this Haldir had remained quiet, staring as one struck senseless as the scene unfolded, stuck on that reference to his golden elf as 'Ernilen'. For that he was unprepared, having taken Legolas for a common soldier of the Woodland Realm. Before he could move beyond the implications of this information, Legolas suddenly shook free of his captor, who had loosened his grip in response to the prince's docile attitude, and bolted into the canopy.

"Ai! You let him get away!" shouted Sirion, taking off after Legolas while having no doubt he would never catch him. It would be upon his head should the King's youngest fall into enemy hands and, besides, the worthy elf loved his young charge like a son, for Sirion had been Legolas' personal guard since the prince's birth. He called behind him as he moved, urging Galion's aid to surround the headstrong archer, and the Mirkwood elves climbed into the upper branches in pursuit.

Haldir and Rumil soon found themselves standing alone and now the younger Lorien elf decided to speak, for here was the perfect means to end this ill-fated obsession before it could prove detrimental. Before he could even begin, Haldir spoke.

"What am I to do now, Rumil? My golden elf is a prince of the realm and far beyond me."

"Valar, Haldir! 'Your golden elf' is King Thranduil's youngest; how could you not know?"

"Do you mean you did know?" Haldir was flabbergasted. "When did you meet him and why didn't you mention it to me?"

"I was assigned to Gildin's scouts, remember? Legolas was among them. I did mention it to you only it seems you were not listening very well."

"You said you were impressed by the prince. How was I to know there was more than one? Gildin did not reveal to me that he had a brother among the forces assembled, nor did Legolas mention that the brother he serves with is Thranduil's heir."

"It is as well you realise this now," Rumil counselled, "Legolas is not the one for you, muindor. Even if he felt anything for you, which is unlikely, his father would gainsay any permanent bond. And I say again, some pall hangs over him which none will explain."

"How can you say this?" demanded the March Warden. "You know nothing of Legolas; how can you demean his character so?"

"The folk of Greenwood are proud," insisted Rumil, "otherwise this lesser prince's failings would not be hidden. Even so, enough bad feelings exist to make it plain even to strangers. Whatever he has done is not condoned by his people and his father set two watchers to oversee him on this mission."

Haldir opened his mouth to object but a slight rustle above them precluded further debate. As the brothers turned their eyes upwards they beheld the very elf under discussion climbing awkwardly down to their level. Legolas was panting for breath and soaked in sweat and kept all weight from the injured leg. He nearly fell into Haldir's arms and groaned as he clutched the March Warden for support.

"I think it may be poisoned after all," he mumbled and promptly lost consciousness.

TBC