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The battle for Helm’s Deep rages long into the night under the black sky and sheets of pouring rain. Maybe you are human, weak, and untrained—no warrior, to say the least—but you can’t just sit back and do nothing.
That isn’t to say you aren’t afraid; far from it. Fear, and a healthy sense of self preservation, has you away from the front lines where the army of elves battles the Uruk-hai threat. You do stand with your fellow man, using your strengths to keep yourself and those around you alive, fighting any enemy that gets over or through the wall. You especially find usefulness in running supplies to the top towers and along the fortifications.
You weave your way through the fight, carrying your stock of arrows and fresh swords strapped to your back, dodging falling blades and bodies, deflecting blows that come your way with a shield and a dagger. Honestly, you don’t draw much attention in the darkness and the chaos.
Planting yourself behind a half-wall behind solid Rohan defenses, you give a shout and begin tossing swords to fighters who have fallen back, weapons broken or lost. When the swords are spent, you begin dashes along the battle lines, dropping bundles of arrows with archers.
You are stepping back in retreat to restock when you spot an elf without a helmet. Normally, you’d take the moment to toss them another, an extra or one that had been discarded—by the dead or otherwise. But a second glance has you realizing it’s the commander of the elven warriors who had come to the city’s aid. He hadn’t worn a helmet to the battle from the start.
An odd choice; to stand out from his troops, to be unprotected like that. But, you suppose, he needs to be distinguishable, to be easily spotted in times of need to lead and rally his troops. A dangerous position, but brave. He is certainly an inspiring sight to behold.
He is, also, being approached from behind.
Without thinking, you throw yourself from the upper level and full body tackle the Uruk-hai soldier. It’s painful, with your shoulder plowing straight into hard metal armor, but the momentum does it’s job and you both go flying sideways and into another group of fighters.
You lay curled on the ground, dazed for several seconds. Everything is rocking, shaking, off color and off kilter, but you don’t have time to recover and you know it. Panicked, you scramble away—any way—hoping to escape the attention you know is coming from at least one of the Uruk-hai. You can hear the guttural cries of one, and you assume it’s the one looking for you.
Clamoring to your feet, you slip several times on the wet stonework, trip over something you are almost certain is a body, and feel yourself flying forward once again as you are shoved from behind. You swing around, trying to keep your feet and defend yourself both at once, expecting an attack, only to find the commander elf has placed himself between you and the oncoming soldiers.
The charging Uruk-hai locks blades with him, and after a moment of brute struggle, is pushed back. Another swinging stroke takes him down, and the elf spares a moment to peer over his shoulder at you. He’s soaking wet, covered in dirt and blood, chest heaving beneath his armor and from the exertion of battle, surrounded by death and war and hopelessness.
You feel your chest tighten, breath catch in your throat.
“Go!” He shouts. And then he’s a whirl of swords, striking back into the fray.
You go.
And you come back. Restocked, swallowing hard, doing your best to bite down the fear and adrenaline pumping through you, you return to the same area, combing the fight for that head of white-gold hair.
You do your job. You pass out weapons again, shields and helmets and more arrows, but you save back a bundle and keep searching, searching, until you see him.
You’re no elven archer, but you pick up a stray bow and loose an arrow in the Uruk-hai he’s fighting. In the short lull where his enemy is down, his attention flickers to where the arrow originated, and he does a double take at you. Dropping the bow, you hold up your last bundle. He nods, and you toss it over the fighting crowd. He makes for it, launches himself over the back of an Uruk-hai, and catches it mid air before landing on a higher level. Almost instantly, he’s whipped his bow out and started firing.
A strange feeling of accomplishment has you bouncing on your heels as your rush off again.
You can’t go back to him every time you restock. But you make a point of finding him every so often, making him a priority in your rounds. Your heart pounds with a strange anxiety when you’re away too long, but he’s always there when you come back.
And when the battle is over and you have a moment to question this, you slump back on the ground against a half destroyed wall and tap the back of your skull against the stonework.
Elves.
That has to be it. Beautiful, stinking elves.
It doesn’t matter. So you fixated on a rather stunning elf commander while striving to survive amid a horrific battle; who could blame you? Everyone needed something to fight for. You had no particular attachments to your king, or this new Gondorian upstart. Why not a pretty face in the thrill of the fight?
Well, now that the battle is over, you can just get over that.
Sighing, you nod to yourself and open your eyes lazily.
He’s standing over you.
At what is most undoubtedly your shocked expression, his face softens into a small smile.
“I do believe … I owe you my life, firen.”
He places a fist over his heart and gives you a short bow. You remain rather stunned, seated in the filth around you.
“Nonsense.” You finally manage. “You are the warrior who helped defend my people … even though you did not have to. You fought for us. I could barely do anything … the least I could do was support you. And the others.”
You tack on that last bit so smoothly you almost think he might not have noticed the slip. Except he obviously did. You don’t know how you know, but he just looks like he knows, curse him.
After the long night this has been, you find you hardly care. So when he reaches out his hand to help you up, you take it.
“And yet,” he continues as you dust yourself. “You threw yourself into a foe in the midst of battle when I was approached unaware. There is no denying I am alive because of your actions.”
“You would not have been in danger at all if you had not risked your lives to protect us.” You reply. Rubbing your sore shoulder, you smile and shrug. “Suppose we call it as even as we like? I am Y/N.”
“Haldir, marchwarden of Lorien.”
Day has broken, the rains have ended, the battle is finally over, and you shake hands with an elf whom, in the days to come, you gladly call friend. The repairs of Helm’s Deep begin, and the remaining elves split into two parties—one to transport their dead home and return with provisions, another to stay and help with the rebuilding of the city. It is a generous thing they do, and widely acknowledged as such.
You aren’t exactly sure how it has happened, but, despite being a regular commoner of no great standing among your people, you find that, one way or the other, you and Haldir are together most days at one point or another. It doesn’t matter what mediocre or stressful or impossible or embarrassing duty you’ve been assigned—the Marchwarden finds you. Whether he is there to simply assist you for no reason, or if he’s come to ask you to assist him in some purpose, you become quickly known as Haldir’s assistant or some such, and people start coming to you when they need something from him, or from someone of influence in general.
And, you grudgingly admit, on days where Haldir doesn’t find you, you usually slip off to find him. Just in case something was keeping him that he might have need of help with.
So when the elves return with supplies and talk begins of their departure back to Lothlorien to leave the humans to their work, you find yourself face with an odd feeling in your heart.
Haldir, too, as good natured and professional as he always is, seems subdued in the following days.
Shirking your duties, you take off from rebuilding to simply tail Haldir for an afternoon. No one seems to notice, used to your presence as they are—even the other elves. Haldir doesn’t comment on it, or speak to you for the most part, preparing his kin to take their leave on the morrow. You watch in silence, his shadow, and worry for the traces of sadness you glimpse upon his features.
It has been little over a month now, and it pains you to think of life with the elves gone. With your new friend gone.
But by the time you awaken the next day, the elves are just that: gone.
Over the next few months, Haldir visits many times, much to your initial surprise. He comes under various guises, delivering supplies, such as food and building material, to visit the new king, sometimes just passing through. Each time, he comes to you last, spends a few hours in your company, and departs. Always, he goes with the words, “I will return.”
Slowly, his visits are spread farther apart. His excuses become more transparent. Soon enough, it becomes obvious a Marchwarden of Lorien cannot continue taking leave of his domain.
It becomes fairly obvious that this is his last visit. He is going to great lengths to please you. There is no pretense in his arrival; he is here for you alone. He spends the day with you, helps you finish your work as quickly as possible so the two of your can instead be off together. He proposes activities you enjoy, whether he shares the sentiment or not. And he is always wearing that small, sad smile.
You do your best not to comment on any of this, but to simply be with your … friend.
That does not seem like the right word at all to describe what Haldir is to you.
When night falls, he settles beside a small fire out in the open fields where you have ventured on your ride, off from where the horses are tied. You sit in silence with him, unsure what else to do. The dawn is heavy on your heart, and you can’t begin to express it.
“How do your people say their partings?” Haldir’s voice suddenly asks, low and calm.
You swallow and stare into the fire. “In this moment of need, I cannot for the life of me recall.”
“Neither can I my own.”
“Then shall we go on as though we will simply meet again in the morning, and say no parting?”
“With a life as short as Men’s is, I would not risk such a thing with you, for I know not when I could come again.”
You both fall back into silence. It drifts and stretches as the stars moved slowly across the sky, but you refuse to move, refuse to let sleep take you.
At length, Haldir speaks again.
“ … If the Lady Galadriel would humor me a place amongst our people for a human companion, would you leave your people to come stay with us?”
Impossible. And the highest of honors. You cannot believe such a thing would be done—not for you. You finally look up. “ … that is not an easy request to make to the Lady of Light.”
“No, it is not.”
“Of course, it would not be easy to ask you to give up the Golden Wood for the stone halls of men, either. You seem to be getting the hardest choice no matter the path in this. I, however, seem to be given a great blessing either way.”
You smirk a little there, trying to shift away the gravity of what you feel, and you see Haldir meet your eyes and smile in the firelight.
“Giving up the life one has known and one’s family is never an easy thing to ask, no matter the presumed rewards.”
You raise both your brows. “Have you not gazed upon your own face recently, friend?”
The smile that breaks across his face now is full and bright, and he looks away as he chuckles.
“You pay me a compliment too high.”
“I pay you no compliment. I only count myself lucky to have a friend as fair as he is loyal.”
Your gazes lock, something more intense in the air than the soft smiles you both share reveal. It continues to sizzle around you, heavy. You are still painfully aware of your continued use of the word “friend.”
“If the prince of the woodland realm can find companionship in a dwarf, then surely Lorien could welcome one human. When I return to Lorien, I will make my request to the Lady Galadriel.” Haldir stands. “If my request is granted, I shall come back for you one final time.”
You can’t take your eyes off of him. You can barely breathe.
“If it is not … then when I return, it will be to stay.”
You force the air out of your lungs slowly, biting your bottom lip as you stare ahead, refusing to blink. You want to say you could never ask that of him, can’t believe he is even considering asking for you to have a place in Lorien among the fair folk, let alone that he would give up the Golden Wood for whatever lay in store for you among your people. “I hope, in either case, you or your Lady might take small comfort in the short lifespan of the race of men.”
“That is not something I shall ever take comfort in.”
He says this as calmly and coolly as he ever speaks, but you feel more than hear the harshness in it, and you look down at the ground, rebuked.
Haldir moves towards his bedroll, hesitates, then lays across the top of it and closes his eyes. Cringing, you rise and make way to your own bedroll, collapsing on it with no real intention to sleep.
In the dark, you find your courage. “I would not have you parted from the glory of your home just for me. And I hardly feel worthy of going with you. The elves will never have me.”
His voice holds no anger or any of it’s earlier coldness. It sounds like a sad whisper.
“I will have you. One way or the other. If you will have me.”
You close your eyes tightly, fighting back the burning behind your lids. “Had I only been born an elf, I would have you for an immortal lifetime.”
“And had I been but born of men, I would have you for all the short, precious years of mortality.”
You can no longer fight it. The tears run free down your cheeks, and it is all you can do not to make a sound.
When you trust yourself to speak, you ask quietly, “Then what of us, as we are now?”
“I believe,” Haldir replies slowly, “that your king has made an excellent example for situations such as ours.”
King Aragorn’s coronation, and subsequent wedding, flashes in your mind, and you smile. Laughing, you choke on a sob.
You feel the feather light touch of fingers brushing your tears away, and you open your eyes to find Haldir kneeling at your side, leaning over you with one hand. His face is calm, tranquil, and his eyes shine bright in the dark. His skin against yours sends tickles of pleasure through you and he continues to stroke your face.
“For as long as you have, meleth nin. I would be with you.”
A part of you wants to fight that. Wants to plead with him. You would not leave him with that pain once you are gone. You know of the depths to which elves love.
But it’s too late, and you know it. For either of you.
So, instead, you reach up, slowly, and touch Haldir’s face as gently as he has touched yours. Then you let your hand fall to his collar, where you fist it in his shirt and pull him down as your raise yourself up. Your faces meet roughly in the middle. You’re kissing. You hardly care how harsh it is.
It feels so good.
You can’t think. You don’t even know when this happened; when this had become love. But you feel it, so strong, and he’s kissing you back, hand cupping your cheek, holding you to him, and you’re half tempted to roll him on his back right there in the dirt.
Very, very tempted.
Dawn only knows if you’ll give in.