Title: Missing
Author: Rosalyn Angel (rose_angel_ff8_ff7@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Haldir/Legolas
Rating: PG
Summary: "My brothers, Orophin and Rúmil – will you
feel sad for me? My friends, Aragorn and countless
Elves – will you despair for me? My love . . . will
you even notice that I am gone?"
Disclaimer: *insert witty disclaimer here*
Author’s Notes: I’ve had this in my mind for a long,
long time, but I never got around to writing it. It’s
inspired by Evanescence’s song "Missing" – which is
very beautiful. I recommend it. ^_^ This story was
also written for Library of Moria’s April Challenge,
the deadline of which I’m just *barely* reaching. I
worked on it till the last minute, you could say.
School and writer’s block are annoying. Also, this
isn’t a happy story. You have been warned! ^_^
Enjoy, and feedback is greatly appreciated!
"Missing"
by: Rosalyn Angel
I wonder if someone will miss me. I wonder if
they will weep for my passing, cry bitter tears and
sing mournful requiems for the deceased Marchwarden of
Lórien. Will I be given a funeral? Will my body be
there, for all to sadly linger their gaze upon, until
it is turned to ashes from a tame fire and then
scattered across the Wood as I have requested? Or
will it be lost among my comrades’ and foul Orcs’
remains, stained by red and black blood,
unrecognizable in what will become a sea of death? My
brothers, Orophin and Rúmil – will you feel sad for
me? My friends, Aragorn and countless Elves – will
you despair for me? My love . . . will you even
notice that I am gone?
The stone feels rough and harsh against my hand as
I place it upon the parapet overlooking the plain
called the Deeping Coomb. No sooner than an hour will
the army of Isengard arrive in this very spot,
covering the tall grass and earth with their reeking
dark bodies, be they fallen and dead or alive and
fighting. I purse my lips at the thought, trying to
steady my mind for the upcoming battle.
So little time left to do what I want to do . . .
and I have had an eternity to do so. I am many
thousands of years old, but that will end tonight,
probably right where I stand: the position as an
archer on the Wall of Helm’s Deep. What have I been
doing all of these centuries? Working my way up in
rank in the army of Lothlórien – and for what? To be
sent off to fight for a country I have no ties to? To
fight alongside these Men, whom I have no empathy for?
Oh, Lady Galadriel, if there is ever a time I have
doubted you, it is now. Forgive me . . . all is dark
this night.
I fight for this world. I fight for my brothers,
for my late mother and father, for the Lord and the
Lady; and I fight for my love, but he does not know
this. He does not know that every time I loose an
arrow I hope somehow it will have helped him. Every
swing of my silver sword I pray: "Eru, deliver unto
these beasts their death, and keep this world
beautiful for him." But to this battle, I inwardly
quail. I know the outcome of it. I know what will
befall this night – my bow will be broken, my arrow
flown askew, my sword and golden armor shattered . . .
I wear this red cloak upon my shoulders and down
my back not to show my title as commander over these
Elves, but to hide my own blood.
I raise my head, looking over the stone rampart to
where he stands talking to his friend Aragorn.
I will die.
And I wonder if he will even take notice.
******
They are all assembling now. "Archers on the
front wall!" I hear Aragorn shout. I am already in my
place, a quiver laden with arrows upon my back and my
sword in its sheath at my belt. I have not moved from
this place, my hand upon the parapet of the Deeping
Wall – ai, has time passed so quickly again? Alas for
the Elves! We meander through our lives and do not
count our seconds. Immortality has driven us to take
many things for granted, thinking that we have all the
time in the world to accomplish our goals and dreams.
But life is precious and can be taken away in a blink
of an eye, and then it is over and we leave all behind
to whatever end may come for them.
What end will come for him, I wonder? I wish I
knew . . . I wish I knew what fate has in store for
him. Will he find someone? Will he continue living
age after age, and will he be happy? Will he always
sing in that sweet voice, the one that has enticed me
ever since I laid my eyes upon him? Will he dance
around the fire, entertaining the young ones with his
tales and plays of adventures and tragedies? Will he
know how beautiful he looks in the golden firelight
accenting his flaxen hair and pale skin, the night sky
and stars above seemingly mere mockery of his eyes as
he laughs and weaves his songs? Will he ever know
that I love him?
"Rohirrim! Eorlingas! Elf-kind! Young and old,
able and weak – to the Wall! Gather yourselves
together now; the enemy will soon approach us!"
More voices bark instructions. The Wall is slowly
populated by my kindred, and of Men of all shapes and
sizes. The Elves will be led by Aragorn son of
Arathorn: I gave him a stern order to do so. I cannot
leave my people leaderless when I die . . . They are
in good hands. They will prevail, but still many will
be lost, including me.
My brothers would be here had I not demanded them
to stay in the Golden Wood and protect its borders. I
am glad they will not fall in this forsaken place, or
see me fall. Our parting was a somber one. I will
miss them . . . but will they miss me? I have always
been aloof and distant, even arrogant. We do not have
much of a brotherly relationship; usually I am intent
on becoming stronger and better. They try to keep up
with me, try to get me to acknowledge them as close
family . . . but I have always been rather
self-centered. Ever since my mother and father died,
I have closed in on myself and acted above others,
looking down on them from my tall height and governing
them coldly. I have distanced myself from my own
brothers. I may as well be dead to them for years
now.
Even with my friends I have done this. I wonder
how they can stand my aloof attitude? But
nevertheless, I thank them all for doing so. They
have kept me in touch with myself, before I floated
too far away from my own body. My brothers, my
friends . . . ah, and the Lady Galadriel! She whom I
usually focus so much of my energy on, using her image
in my mind as a drive to become stronger, using her
image in my mind as a mere illusion to cover what I
really strive after.
Do I become stronger to bring honor to my deceased
parents? Do I become better so to protect the Lady’s
realm with dignity? Nay . . . I do none of this for
them; for though I respect them as they should be and
revel in the Lady as many do, my thoughts are based on
him. I wield my sword for him, I loose my arrows for
him, I run through the trees in search of him; and yet
I can never seem to find him, for he is far too high
and out of my reach. I am only a guardian of the
Wood, and he is a prince.
I used to deliver messages to his realm and
father, while he was off learning his history and
royal duties. I saw him for the briefest of glances
in the Mirkwood Palace when I visited; he was a young
Elfling. And he grew every time I journeyed there,
and he blossomed every time I turned my head when I
heard his bout of joyous laughter. And each time I
was hopelessly enraptured, but I always forced myself
to keep going; for I had my own duties to tend to. I
kept my face emotionless and straight; that was what I
was used to, and still am.
Though I was distant before, from the death of my
parents (I dare not speak of how they passed; it hurts
to do so), for some reason he made me drift even
further away. I know not why. Perhaps I
unconsciously feared I was falling prey to gaining
another loved one, and losing another loved one. I
tried to push him out of my mind, but he consumed my
very being like wildfire; and I began to move,
breathe, fight, *live* solely for him. And yet I have
never walked up to him in my entire immortal life; and
I do not think he has ever even glanced my way. I
fear rejection. I fear losing him before I even have
a hold on him. Again I have distanced myself, and I
think perhaps I have stabbed myself upon a blade by
doing so.
He gazed upon me for the first time when the
Fellowship wandered into Lothlórien. Doubtless I
appeared haughty to him: I was trying so hard to
retain my cool composure that I concentrated on
demeaning the Dwarf. I could not bear to look my
love’s way, so I occupied myself with other things: my
patrol, orders, and the rules of my land. I greeted
him as one should greet royalty, and then went on my
way.
Upon my arrival here, at Helm’s Deep, I announced
my message from the Elf-lords with an aura of pride;
for I took such in the bravery of my kin. And then
there he was, upon the stairs before me, gazing down
at the stiff Elven army, and hope lit his eyes. It
made me inwardly beam even more, and perhaps I seemed
to glow. I thought that just maybe this would make
him remember me, in some corner of his mind, as the
Elf who led this army to assist the people of Rohan
and the Three Hunters in their battle. But I could
only grab his arms when he grabbed mine, as a sign of
mutual respect; for that is what he gave me then and
no more. There was hope, yes, but no real recognition
towards me. So thus again we went our separate ways.
Stay at a safe distance, I told myself. You have
gone so far like this, you can keep going; he will
most likely die on this quest. Do not grow closer to
him than you already are, as unaware as he is of it,
for it will only end with your suffering . . .
But now it is I who will die, and he will not even
remember me.
Lady Galadriel! Why did you have to tell me this?
Though you spoke no words, I saw it in your
star-filled eyes as my company began our march south.
You stood among the mellryn, their golden canopies
paling in comparison to your hair and their white bark
shamed by the glitter of your dress, and you raised
your hand as a final farewell. You directed it to me,
I know, for your eyes were piercing. And I understood
then that I would be among the count of the dead, but
I could not turn back and leave my followers alone to
their doom.
How I have tried to distance myself from all . . .
"Archers and blade-wielders, gather on the Wall!
The night is here! Fight to protect those you love,
and for the coming of the dawn!"
. . . and now I wonder, will they miss me when I
am gone?
******
They are here. The army of Isengard is here.
They are a loud, boisterous, foul-smelling crew.
Their black skin looks slimy with the pouring rain
around us, and I can smell their reeking breath on the
air from where I stand high above them. Their armor
is harsh and crude and dark; though it serves the
purpose for them, it holds no artistry as ours does.
I can see weak points in it as well, which could have
been easily patched up, were they not so intent on
only killing and nothing else. They care not for
their own safety, only to charge and murder whatever
they lay their slitted eyes on. They are fell beasts,
these Orcs and Uruk-hai; and I scan my eyes over them,
perhaps to guess which one of their ten thousand will
be my end.
They create an endless sea! Surely there are more
than ten thousand? As I and my comrades stand upon
this wall of stone, our adversaries pounding the blunt
of their spears against the sploshing mud, we ready
our weapons. Hundreds of bow strings of Elf-hair are
drawn back by fine pale hands, their stretching an
actual sound in our pointed ears, along with the less
refined bows of the Rohirrim held by young children
and old men. In this moment I despair – will he
perish just as I will? There are so many of the
Enemy, and so few of us. Ai, Elbereth, lend me
strength . . . lend *him* strength . . .
Aragorn’s voice carries and weaves through the
pelting rain, which appears like a sheet before my
eyes. Even through the dark starless night, the
splashing of raindrops against the stone and mud and
the clinking of it against armor, his voice is a
strong command; I am positive it gives these Men their
motivation. I am relieved to have my army under his
control. He is trustworthy, and will make a grand
king. I only wish I could see his crowning.
I want to search for my love. I know he is on the
Wall with the other archers, probably with his friend
the Dwarf by him. Alas that I am not to his other
side! That would make me able to slay a thousand
beasts before I succumb to death.
My arm is tense and feels to be straining. I
await the order to shoot, my arrow aimed down at a
vulnerable Orc-neck in the front of their line. My
eyes are set on their target, and only that.
Concentrate on this, I think, and not him. You will
die soon enough, and then you will no longer have to
bear this burden. But I would carry such a burden, if
just to live a little longer, if just to make him see
me here for who I am.
I am Haldir of the Galadrim, Marchwarden of
Lothlórien; and I love Legolas son of Thranduil, the
Prince of the Mirkwood–
An arrow is fired. An Orc shrieks and numbly
falls to the wet earth.
–yet he will never know.
******
I thought about telling him before the battle.
But I am only another Elf in his eyes, just another
one of his kin. Why should I walk up to him and say
such things as love, make his worries heavier than
they already are, give him my own troubles just to
alleviate mine – right before my death, even! There
is naught in doing that. So I decided to be aloof as
always, and I feel regret in being so all of my
wretched life. Orophin, Rúmil, would you laugh at me
now? Your older brother, so stern and proud,
concerned with thoughts of love in the midst of a
brawl!
The black creatures have overrun us. The Wall has
been breached, creating a jagged gap in the stone
walkway I and others stand upon where an explosive had
been thrown in. It had been a blinding flash of
light; chunks of the Wall and bodies of Elves and Men
poured like the rain. Dust billowed up and blanketed
the air, making me feel as though I was breathing
chalk, if only for a moment. My thoughts race to my
love as the chaos passes; the Orcs flow in like
cockroaches through the broken Wall, scrambling over
rocks, corpses, and each other. I hope he does not
take the guilt for this . . . it is not his. Both of
his shots at the advancing Orc-warrior, the one who
bore the explosive torch, were true in their flight.
But as I said before, they are a murderous race; and
they stop for nothing.
My arrows are spent. My white bow has been flung
aside, so instead my sword hilt rests tightly in both
of my hands. It is heavy with a double-edge, and it
glints menacingly at all who approach me. All around
me there is movement and the singing of blades, the
slicing of flesh and the sickening stench of black and
red blood. I can hear bellowing roars and shrill
screams, and my own ragged breathing as I tear my
sword through one Orc-hide after the next. My chest
heaves with the horrible rush of violence and my eyes
are wide, surveying carefully each motion of my
enemies. My silver hair is plastered to my face and
red swaying cloak; I try to ignore it. It is such a
trifle thing right now . . . I just kill, not think,
do not think; for I know my thoughts will betray me
and lead to memories of him.
But I cannot distant myself from my own heart
anymore, and he fills my every being. I know that I
am to die very soon, and I cannot make myself ignore
him any longer. I am tired. I wish for . . . rest.
If only he could be in my arms when I close my eyes
for the final time . . .
I hear a faraway yell: "To the Keep!" It is
Aragorn, I presume, calling everyone back. Does he
think we are fighting a losing battle? I know we are.
I have fought one all of my life, fought against
falling in love; I now recognize a losing battle when
I see one.
"Haldir! To the Keep!"
I relay the message to the other Elves around me;
my voice echoes through the interminable rain and
clutter of fighting and dead bodies. Several of my
people hew their victims and begin to flee; some draw
their last breaths as they are brought to their knees
under the blow of an Orc’s blade–
Suddenly a dark blur out of the corner of my eye
looms over me, and there is a sting on my wrist. I
hear my sword clatter noisily to the stone, but I
cannot remember dropping it . . . so many around me
have fallen! So many immortal lives have vanished! I
can smell a horrid scent and hot breath is on the back
of my neck and on my face; it fogs around me like
steam. Lady Galadriel! So soon? My hand – it hurts,
I cannot hold my sword any longer . . . Oh, Elbereth,
look at all of them – all of my kin lying wide-eyed
and bloodied on the cold ground – will I be one of
them? So soon! Too soon, I am not ready – I have
prepared and guarded myself for this very moment, and
now it is here, and I do not want to go!
Where is he? I cry. Where is he? I want to see
him one last time, just one last time! Grant me this,
please, one final sight of him, wielding his shining
daggers in the heat of battle, his beautiful face
twisted into a determined scowl . . .
I hear my name being called, and then something
hot tears through my back.
Not now! Lady Galadriel, are you so cruel? I
would rather not have known at all . . . at least my
last hours would have been more peaceful, if only a
little.
I feel my blood leaving me. Is my cloak hiding it
well? Or is it merely stained redder?
Oh, Valar, I cannot *think*; but my mind is going
so fast: I see my parents’ funeral, I see my brothers
sparring, I see the Lady Galadriel smiling, I see my
own hands letting an arrow fly, then I see him, and
then him only; laughing, singing, fighting, climbing,
running, *away* . . .
Where is he? Come back . . . I am sorry, for
being so detached, but I will make it up to you . . .
I will greet you warmly with a faint smile, and treat
you to some fine food and wine, and I will show you
all the light of Lothlórien and watch as your eyes are
dazzled, and I will allow you closer, and maybe then
you will remember me and know who I am; and when I
pass, you will miss me . . . Legolas, come back – it
is dark and it pains me so much. Know my name, will
you not? It is Haldir; you have heard it before.
Will you recall it later, after all of this is over
and you are yet alive? Ai, Elbereth, where is my
strength? I cannot stand; my body is jarred as I fall
to my knees like so many others . . .
Not like this, not with him so far out of my reach
– but it is my fault, my folly; I am nothing to him,
he may not even know of my death! Will he even care?
I am faceless among the hundreds lying here . . . just
another slain Elf at Helm’s Deep . . .
Legolas . . .
My world is fading. I cling to my only hope: that
maybe some day later, some day far later, he will wake
from a dreamless slumber and look around; and as I
watch him from some distant unreachable place, perhaps
he will whisper:
"Isn’t something missing?"
~fin~
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