ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating:  PG-13 for the horrors of war.

Author’s notes:

This is a Haldir story, taking place shortly before the final battle upon Dagorlad. Haldir’s background, as shown here, is not canon, just the product of my overactive imagination. For further details, see the Appendix with all the notes and background trivia.

Many Haldir-shaped hugs for Jenn, my wonderful beta reader!

Dedication: This story is for Casey, my dear and faithful friend. Happy birthday, Casey!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

All Alone In the Night

“Despite the desire of the Silvan Elves to meddle as little as might be in the affairs of the Noldor and Sindar, or of any other peoples…, Oropher had the wisdom to foresee that peace would not return unless Sauron was overcome. He therefore assembled a great army of his now numerous people, and joining with the lesser army of Malgalad of Lórien he led the host of the Silvan elves to battle.

The Silvan Elves were hardy and valiant, but ill-equipped with armour and weapons in comparison with the Eldar of the West; also they were independent, and not disposed to place themselves under the supreme command of Gil-galad. Their losses were thus more grievous than they need have been, even in that terrible war.

Malgalad and more than half of his following perished in the great battle of the Dagorlad, being cut off from the main host and driven into the Dead Marshes. Oropher was slain in the first assault upon Mordor, rushing forward at the head of his most doughty warriors before Gil-galad had given the signal for the advance. Thranduil, his son, survived, but when the war ended and Sauron was slain (as it seemed) he led back home barely a third of the army that had marched to war.”

(Unfinished Tales, pp. 270-271)

Chapter One: The Last War Council  

[The Dead Marshes, in the 3434 of the Second Age]

The massacre had been terrible. For the first time since this whole war had started, Hathaldir began to doubt whether any of them would survive it. It seemed that they had seriously underestimated Sauron’s strength. Even with the help of the Men of Westernesse, there was little hope left.

Trying to find at least some of his archers on the abandoned battlefield, now covered with corpses, the exhausted Elf tried to remember when hope finally was lost after all those years of fruitless struggling.

Was it when Oropher, King of the Greenwood, had been slain upon the northernmost slopes of the Ephel Dúath, right at the beginning of the war, together with his own grandsons and the doughtiest of his warriors? Or was it when Amdír, King of Lórinand, fell under the axes of the cave trolls, less than a year ago? Or was it when he saw the remaining troops of Lórinand, now led by his own father, being cut off from the main Silvan host (or what was still left of them) and driven into the marshes that had been creeping wider and wider with every passing year of this cursed war?

So many dead. So many of the simple, badly-armed, valiant Silvan folk, whose only wish had been to dwell under their trees in peace. They never wanted riches, never tried to build vast kingdoms, never harmed anyone. They just wanted to be left alone. By the Dark Lord and by their Noldorin kindred.

But the war between the Noldor and Sauron led to the perishing of the great forests in Eriador – they were burned to the ground, the once fertile earth laid barren and scorched and the small settlements of the Tree People gone. The Elves were forced to seek out new dwelling places in what remained from the once vast forests: Greenwood and Lórinand. And when those, too, were threatened by Mordor’s minions, the Silvan folk chose to fight.

Alas, the Elves were divided among themselves! Hathaldir was still too young to attend the war council, but from the grumblings of his father,who had been part of it in his fallen King’s stead, he could form a clear enough picture of the goings-on among their leaders.

It seemed that the Noldor had not learned from their mistakes.

Truth be told, Hathaldir actually liked their High King. Gil-galad was a decent enough Elf for a Noldorin prince, and he even had the common sense to choose counsellors like Círdan and Glorfindel –even Elrond. Having been born in Lindon where he had also spent the first hundred years of his life, Hathaldir could see with his own eyes how much that Noldorin realm blossomed under Gil-galad’s leadership.

The problem was, however, that the King of Lindon did not understand that he was just that – the King of Lindon. High King of the Noldor he was, no question about that, but he behaved as if he were the High King of all Elves in Middle-earth. And that he was not.

However, the true cause of ongoing enmity between Noldorin and Sindarin rulers was not the High King himself. ‘Twas the Lady Galadriel – the only one of the Exiles still in Middle-earth, now that Celebrimbor was gone. Galadriel, who dwelt at Lake Evendim as a queen, even though it was Celeborn whose rule the wandering Nandor companies accepted, not hers.

It had been because of her that Amdír left Lindon for Lórinand to rule over the Silvan folk there. It had been because of her intrusion to Eregion and Lórinand that Oropher moved his entire Kingdom beyond the Gladden River in dismay. And it had been because of the mistrust against Noldorin royalty, stirred first by her trespassings, that both Amdír and Oropher refused to accept Gil-galad’s leadership. They had become distrustful of the Noldor during the current Age, and their mistrust clouded their judgement.

Thus, they made a wrong decision, and the Silvan folk paid the price.

A horrible one.

Even if by some miracle the rest of them should survive this accursed war, it would take hundreds of years for the Silvan folk to recover from their losses, despite their Ages-old custom of having large families.

A recovery Hathaldir would not be part of. For though his mother had arranged a marriage for him with another Nandor family shortly after they had moved to Lórinand, Silith did notwish to have children as long as the war between Sauron and the Elves was still raging– a war in which she was slain at a rather young age. Hathaldir had grieved for a time, but as their marriage was based on mutual respect rather than on true passion, after a while he moved on. He knew that, according the laws of Valinor, he was bound to his late wife ‘til the end of Arda, but it mattered little to him. He never intended to leave Middle-earth, unless he should be slain in battle.

Which was yet another thing the Noldor seemed unable to understand. This was his home. He was a Green-Elf with his roots deep in the soil of Middle-earth. And he was needed here.

Especially now that his own fatherwas gone.

No-one could tell him what happened to Malgalad after he had taken over the leadership of Lórinand’s small remaining forces at the beginning of the recent battle, replacing their fallen King. More than half of that host had perished during the fight in the Marshes. Those who survived knew not what fate their leader had encountered. And there were just too many dead bodies lying around to permit a thorough search.

Trying half-heartedlyto cleansehis hands of the black blood of his enemies, Hathaldir sighed in defeat. There was no hope of finding his father, dead or alive, the less so because the battle was not over yet. All they had at the moment was some breathing time – no-oneknew how much. And should he survive the next wave of fighting, the care and protection of his much younger siblings would be his responsibility from now on.

Not that it would be completely new for him. Being the chief counsellor of King Amdír and the Captain of his Home Guard, Malgalad played a crucial role in the ruling and guarding of the Golden Wood, hence he had become a rather infrequent visitor in his own home. It had been Hathaldir who helped their mother to raise his brothers – first Rhimbron, then Orfin, and it would be his duty to do the same for their baby sister, Fimbrethil, born after he had left with his father for the war. He only knew of her from the messenger birds. Poor elfling, she will never know their father.

For their mother, it would be a hard blow to learn of Malgalad’s passing. Their bond was strong, regardless of the circumstances, and they loved each other dearly. But Gwenethlin, one of the Wise Women of the Silvan folk, could shoulder any burden fatelaid upon her. Still, she would miss her husband terribly and would need the support of her eldest son.

If he made it back, that is.

Someone called out his name. He turned and saw Danuin, one of his few surviving archers – an older Elf, one of the Nandorim of Ossiriand who made it to the eastern lands after the War of Wrath. He was also an old friend of Malgalad’s father and the one who taught Malgalad and his sons how to handle a bow.

“You are wanted in Gil-galad’s council,” the older Elf said; “as you are our leader now. I shall take over for you here.”

Hathaldir nodded his thanks tiredly – he knew Danuin would probably handle things much better than he could hope to himself – and followed the young, dark-haired Noldo who had been sent to look for him. He found that pale, determined face vaguely familiar, though he would not have associated it with armour and weapons.

“Have we met?” he asked tentatively. The Noldo nodded.

“I am called Erestor,” he answered simply. “I have been Lord Elrond’s fosterling and his squire for quite some time and have visited the Golden Wood with him often.”

Hathaldir nodded. Now he remembered this young Elf, aloof and solitary and such an easy target for the pranks of his brothers whenever he visited Lórinand as a part of Elrond’s escort. Rhimbron especially loved to embarrass him whenever given the chance, until their mother decided to interfere and forbade her younger sons to harass the visitor.

They made their way in silence to the large tent that served as the High King’s temporary home and his council chamber among the dead. There was naught else they could have said, and Erestor was never the chatty one anyway. And right now, neither were any of the other Elves. The only sounds that could be heard over the battlefield were the short, sharp instructions of the healers and the slow, barely audible mourning songs of the survivors.

But even those were subdued. There was no time for a proper mourning – that would come after this interrupted battle had reached its end. If there was anyone left to mourn for the dead. Right now, it was but an expression of personal grief.

The great, grey tent of Gil-galad had stood upon that same naked hill ever since the hosts of Elves and Men crossed the Morannon and besieged Barad-dûr. Once it had been beautiful, with its silver-embroidered flaps and the King’s emblem above the entrance, silver stars upon a deep blue lozenge. Now it was covered with dust and ash and the gore of all the recent fights, the silver adornments of its poles blackened long ago. But it was large enough to offer room for at least a dozen people around the long council table in the front  and for the King’s bedchamber, separated by a heavy curtain only. A long bench for the guards on duty run along both long sides of the tent, and around the table a dozen or so light field chairs stood for the other leaders. Several large leather caskets of excellent craftsmanship stood near the bedchamber entrance, containing the King’s weapons, spare clothes, dishes and other necessary items.

When Hathaldir and Erestor arrived, the remaining leaders of the Elven host were already there. Thranduil, now King of the Greenwood, sat leaning wearily with his elbows on the chair closest to the entrance, as if he tried to keep free a path of escape. Unlike the Noldor, he wore  flexible torso armour with small plates of mithril riveted inside a covering of strong leather, which allowed greater freedom of movementthan a mail shirt yet still gave him sufficient protection – save for his arms. His helmet was fashioned in the same manner, and – unlike the Noldor again – he wore his golden hair, now nearly black from Orc blood and battle gore, in one tight braid at the back of his head, to keep it out of his face. His only son who accompanied him to battle and survived – a young, auburn-haired Elf named Enadar – sat on the bench with the guards, barely able to keep upright from sheer exhaustion.

Glorfindel, though as dirty as everyone else, seemed to bear the trials of battle the best of all. Of course, for a living legend of the First Age this war might not be as trying as for the rest of them. Another golden-haired Elf, his golden armour glittering even under the crust of gore, sat next to him, his cold and beautiful face reflecting grim determination: Gildor Inglorion, the Lord of Edhellond, who had sailed up the Anduin with his small, but fierce army to join the war. ‘Twas said that he had some long grudge against both the King and Elrond, yet it did not prevent him fromfighting like a dragon against their common enemy.

The High King himself was sitting on a chair before his bedchamber, naked from the waist up, dishevelled and dirty, while a stern-looking, dark-haired Noldorin woman tended to his injuries. Hathaldir remembered meeting her in the King’s tent many times during the war. She was called Fíriel, and people held her in high esteem, for she was the best healer in the whole camp, right after Elrond himself. But then no amount of knowledge and experience could equal the Peredhel’s natural healing ability. ‘Twas a gift Elrond had been born with, not something one could learn.

Fíriel was finishing her task  when Hathaldir entered the tent. She gave the newcomer a measuring look that vaguely reminded him of his mother’s manner when he had managed to break something with his too-vigorous childhood play.

“Are you wounded? Can I do something for you?”

“I am not certain.” Hathaldir tried to remember if indeed he had been wounded during the battle, but found he could not.

“'Twould be best if I took a look myself”, declared Fíriel, and without waiting for an answer, she opened the fastenings of the archer’s simple leather jerkin to pull it off his shoulders. His rough linen tunic followed, and finally his soft grey undershirt. Fíriel looked him over with a critical eye.

“Hmmm….” Oddly enough, she sounded just like his mother in similar situations; though mayhap he should not been so surprised, as Fíriel was older than most others present, being one of the few who had escaped the sack of Tol Sirion. “No open wounds that I can see… but you are badly bruised. Any pain when breathing?”

Hathaldir shook his head mutely.

“That is good,” she said. “No broken ribs, then. But you need better armour. This… thing of yours is no good against swords or spears.”

“It has to suffice.” Hathaldir waited patiently ‘til the healing salve was applied to his bruises, then put on his clothes again. “’Tis all I have.”

“Which might be one of the reasons for your grave losses,” commented Gil-galad softly, while Elrond helped him back into his shining armour. “Among other things.”

Hathaldir looked at the High King of the Noldor tiredly. Gil-galad had tried to handle the many different factions that participated in this war properly, he really did. ‘Twas not his fault that he was a Noldo and – despite having been fostered by Círdan, whom Hathaldir thought the wisest Elf on Middle-earth – shared a certain amount of the narrow-mindedness of his kin. Like all Noldor, he tended to think his plans and ideas better than those of other Elven rulers and expected the other Elves to follow his rule.

The fact that, though born in the First Age, Gil-galad was fairly young for the heavy burden of kingship he was forced to bear, only added to the tension between him and the other Elven Kings. While close in age, he was very different from the fallen King of Lórinand – and definitely no match for the ancient, short-tempered, war-hardened Oropher, born before the rising of Anor and Ithil in the First City of Elves.

Hathaldir gave Gil-galad another good, long look. There was an ever-present sadness lingering upon the King’s fair face, caused not by the slightly too-long nose alone. He seemed weary of the war and its consequences, and Hathaldir thought him to be brooding and pensive – though there were tales of his quickly flaring tempers as well. ‘Twas said that Elrond always acted as some sort of mediator between the High King and his court, using his considerable diplomatic skills to smooth the waves whenever Gil-galad’s tempers got the better of him, whether in his dealings with his own court or in his encounters with other leaders.

Apparently, this was one of those times, or else Elrond felt that antagonising the Silvan leaders would be a bad idea, for he spoke quietly.

“There is no use assigning blame, my King. We should see first how we can finally end this war, ere no one remains of us to fight.”

Thranduil raised an elegant eyebrow. Despite his personal losses, no outward sign marred his beautiful face – only in his eyes could one see the dim shadow of forcibly suppressed grief. He emanated a power few could equal, even among Elves.

“What do you suggest, Peredhel?” he asked in a calm voice that belied his legendary, volatile temper. Hathaldir, who had witnessed the tantrums of the then-Prince of the Greenwood, could not resist an approving nod. The son of Oropher had grown considerably under the added burden of kingship during the short time since his father's death.

“We should gather whatever strength we still have left,” replied Elrond, “and launch a final attack against Barad-dûr at once – before Sauron has time to regroup. It is our only chance. We cannot continue the siege any longer. We simply have not warriors enough to do so.”

“We would need the war machines of the Númenórean army,” Gil-galad objected tiredly. “Do you believe Elendil would be able to bring them into position on time?”

“Men can perform amazing deeds if the need arises,” answered Elrond, “and I am certain that Elendil wishes to end this war as much as we do – or even more so. He does not have infinite time as we do, after all.”

“Thranduil?” Gil-galad turned to the King of the Greenwood. “What do you think? Have you enough warriors left to support our flank?”

The son of Oropher nodded with grim determination, his eyes cold as ice.

“We came here to protect our homes. We shall not leave ere this war ends – one way or another.”

“What about the archers of Lórinand?” asked Glorfindel. “How many of your people are left?”

“Half of the army that followed our King to war,” answered Hathaldir grimly, “mayhap even less. But we shall do all that we can. Elrond is right. This war has to end, here and now. We do not have the strength to drag it out any longer.”

“Agreed,” said Gil-galad wearily. “It has gone on much too long. Even if none of us comes out of it alive, ‘tis time to end it. I only hope the Men agree, too.”

“Leave them to me,” said Elrond simply. “Elendil is kin. I shall talk to him.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

TBC

ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT

by Soledad

Disclaimer and rating: see Chapter One

Chapter 2: The Aftermath of Battle 

Less than a day later, everything was over. Sauron had been defeated, and the disintegration of his corporeal form swept over the plain of Dagorlad like a hot wind, knocking Elves, Men and horses off their feet (assuming they could still stand) and tearing down the very walls of his own dark fortress. The long war that had begun nearly two thousand years ago and found its terrible climax in that last, devastating battle, was finally over.

But the price was a very high one, thought Hathaldir, staring unblinkingly into the biting smoke of the funeral pyres that burned all around the battle plain. Though Elven bodies decomposed fairly quickly, no-one wanted to leave a fallen comrade to the carrion-eaters, not even for that short time. ‘Twas bad enough to know how many of them lay under the muddy waters of the Dead Marshes. Thus, they followed the custom of Men and gave their dead to the fire.

Yet the bodies of many of those missing could not be found – theyhad simply vanished without a trace in the chaos of that last attack. Enadar Thranduilion was one of those, and Hathaldir could not help but admire the inner strength of the woodland King. After losing his father, the three sons who had accompanied him to war and two-thirds of his people, Thranduil’s composure was almost frightening. His only concern seemed to be his remaining people, shaken and shattered and in dire need of a strong, guiding hand. And their King gave them exactly what they needed.

The fall of Gil-galad and Elendil was a hard blow for both the Noldor and the mortals. Elrond, despite his own grief, mustered the strength to collect what was left of the army of Lindon and Imladris, and the Noldor prepared to return home. Círdan and his people had left already, and the Elves of the Greenwood were packing, too.

Hathaldir turned away from the pyres with a sigh and approached the heartbreakingly small group of his surviving archers. The unbeatable Danuin, having gone through yet another murderous battle relatively unharmed, left the group to meet him halfway. The older Elf looked grim, but unbroken, as always.

“What are your orders?” he asked, clearly signalling that from now on Hathaldir’s would be the deciding word – ‘til they reached Lórinand again, where the true decisions would be made.

“I wish to leave,” replied Hathaldir. “I wish to leave and bring home those who remain. There is much grieving and healing that needs to be done. There are important decisions to be made. The sooner we begin, the better.”

Danuin nodded in agreement.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly. The fair face of Hathaldir shifted into a pained grimace.

“Empty. Drained. I have no father anymore. And no King. Once again, our people are orphaned. All alone in the night.”

“True,” admitted Danuin. “But that, too, will pass. Our King does have an heir. And the Lord Galdaran will not withhold his guidance from his young kinsman. After all, Prince Amroth is the only family remaining to him from his brother.”

“If we leave Elrond out of consideration,” replied Hathaldir. “Yet my true concern in this matter is not Galdaran himself. He is one of us, if not by blood, then by his love to the trees.”

“I know,” Danuin nodded. “His wife. She is a power to be reckoned with. But we need this power, Hathaldir. Lórinand cannot stand on its own any longer. You know that.”

“I know,” Hathaldir agreed bitterly. “That is the end of all our struggles: to give up our freedom for mere survival. Prince Amroth will not like it. Neither do I.”

“Nevertheless, you know that it has to be done,” answered Danuin gravely. “At least until Prince Amroth reaches full maturity, we shall need a regent. And Lord Galdaran is his next kin. ‘Tis up to you to see that the young Prince understands what needs to be done.”

“Up to me?” asked Hathaldir in mild shock. Danuin nodded.

“What Malgalad used to be for King Amdír, you will have to be for the Prince: his advisor, his protector, his mentor, his weapons master – his strong right arm and his shield. ‘Tis a heavy burden, but you are strong enough to shoulder it.”

“But my own family will need me,” objected Hathaldir. “I shall have to take over the leading of our clan from Father…”

“Nay, ‘tis not true,” answered Danuin calmly. “That is your mother’s right – and her burden – to lead the clan. You keep forgetting that she is one of the wise women of the Silvan folk. She is born to guide the others and accustomed to doing so.”

“She will have to master her own grief first, ere she can offer comfort to others,” murmured Hathaldir.

“Like everyone else,” nodded Danuin. “Worry not for her. She is strong, stronger than you can imagine. She will shoulder her burden just fine. The question is: are you willing to shoulder yours?”

“Do I have any other choice?” Hathaldir sighed. Then he cast a glance at the older Elf. “Will you remain at my side to help me and guide me?”

“Have I not always?” Danuin gave him one of his rare, wry little smiles. “We may not be related by blood, but all your fathers have considered me family.”

“And so do I,” said Hathaldir softly. Danian nodded again.

“I know. And I shall keep faith with you as I have kept it with your fathers. Go now and say your farewells. I will prepare our people for departure.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hathaldir thanked his old friend and mentor and did as Danuin had advised. He had a short, but heartfelt parting with Thranduil. The King of the Greenwood offered him a place in his court whenever he might need it.

“I shall move our people even farther to the North,” said Thranduil grimly. “The woods are not safe around the Emyn Duir, and they shall remain thus for a long time yet. And as much as I loved my father’s tree city, I cannot live there anymore now that he is gone, and my sonswith him. I am only grateful that at least I was able to keep Legolas home. I could not bear to lose my youngest son, too.”

“Is he still under-age?” asked Hathaldir. Thranduil shook his golden head.

“Nay, he had reached maturity shortly before this alliance was formed. But I judged him too young and inexperienced to go to war… and now I am glad beyond measure about it.”

“’Twas a wise decision,” said Hathaldir, “though I doubt that he was happy about it.”

“Oh, he was furious, of course,” replied Thranduil with a mirthless grin; then a new sadness clouded his eyes. “And he will be devastated to learn that we shall move to the North. He was born in Emyn Duir, and I regret making him leave his home – but it has to be done. The safety of our remaining people outweighs any other considerations.”

“How far northward?” asked Hathaldir. Thranduil shrugged.

“I know not. Not yet. We shall send winged messengers to Lórinand, once we have found the right place.”

“See that you do,” said Hathaldir, clasping forearms with the woodland King in warrior fashion, “and if I can, I shall come and visit your new home.”

With that, they parted, and Hathaldir went to look for Elrond, who was considered the Lord of the remaining Noldorin forces. He found the Half-Elf in the abandoned tent of Gil-galad. Fíriel was there, too, tending the wounds of Erestor. The young Noldo had been literally torn open by werewolves, and only Gildor’s bravery had saved him from certain death. Still, they could not be sure that he would pull through. Therefore, Elrond had to wait, even though he had sent forth the majority of his surviving people to Lindon or Imladris.

“What will happen now?” asked Hathaldir. “Who will step into Gil-galad’s place? You or Gildor?” He knew of the rivalry between the two Elf-Lords for the position of the High King’s heir, though it was said to be initiated by Gildor alone.

“No one,” replied Elrond gravely. “The time when the Noldorstill performed great deeds in Middle-earth has come to an end, and even Gildor sees it. Most of our people wish to leave for the West, and those who remain are not numerous enough to hold Eriador any longer. We shall keep refuges, of course, Mithlond and Imladris among them, but there will be no Noldorin kingdoms anymore. We have kept evil at bay long enough. ‘Tis up to Men to take over guardianship now, as has long been foreseen.”

Following his gaze Hathaldir cast an uneasy look at Isildur, the new High King of the Men of Westernesse, barely out of earshot, who was also preparing to depart. The bearded face of the Man was as pale and noble as those of the Noldor themselves, his raven hair carefully braided for travelling, his keen, grey eyes full of grief and sorrow. Many stories swirled about his person among both Men and Elves – that he was a great warrior and a scholar, too, the rescuer of the White Tree, an excellent mariner and a strong King. And yet Hathaldir could not chase awaythe shadow of dark foreboding that seemed to descend upon his heart whenever he looked at Elendil’s proud son.

There was a fine gold chain around the neck of the mortal King. What he wore on this chain was hidden under his mail, but Hathaldir knew what it was. All surviving Elven leaders knew. And this knowledge filed their hearts with dread.

“I shall not be able to rest peacefully, while that thing still exists,” Hathaldir murmured in a voice so soft and low that only Elrond and Fíriel could hear. “It should have been destroyed right after the battle.”

Elrond nodded, his exotic features darkened with anguish. “It should have, indeed. But I could not force him to give it up. Oh, certainly, I could find the means to lay my hands upon it, but we both know that no good has ever come from a wrong deed. I can only hope that the blood of my brother runs deeply enough in him to keep him safe.”

“That,” said Hathaldir, “is a slim hope, my friend.”

“It is,” agreed Elrond sadly, “yet I must hold to it. I have no other choice than to trust fate.”

To that, Hathaldir had no reply. They embraced like the friends they had been for centuries, then Hathaldir left the King’s tent to join his own people again.

It was time to go home.

~ The End ~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

For notes, explanations and background trivia go to the Appendix.

ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT

by Soledad

Author's notes and background trivia 

(Please ignore the whole thing if you are not interested.)

As this particular story needs more background info than my other one-shots, I decided not to add them as an additional chapter. Instead of the usual footnotes, I gathered them under different headers.

Time:

The year of the Battle upon Dagorlad is given in canon. The only thing I have changed was making a short break between the death of Amdír (and/or Malgalad) and the last assault against Barad-dûr in which both Gil-galad and Elendil were slain and Sauron destroyed (at least temporarily). A really short break of a few hours, assuming that the Elven armies needed to regroup after the army of Lórien had been reduced to a half.

Malgalad (the canonical one):

“Malgalad of Lórien occurs nowhere else, and is not said here to be the father of Amroth. On the other hand, Amdír father of Amroth is twice (UT, pp. 252 and 255) said to have been slain in the Battle of Dagorlad, and it seems therefore that Malgalad can be simply equated with Amdír.” (UT, p. 271.)

So says Christopher Tolkien. When I was looking for a father for Haldir, I wanted someone important enough, yet still not royalty, so I simply separated Malgalad from Amdír, made him a different person, and had the King of Lórien slain in an earlier encounter with the enemy.

Haldir’s family background:

Parts of it have already appeared in my ongoing serial “Innocence”, but here now are the details. Please keep in mind that nothing that follows is canon, save the names of Haldir’s brothers.

Malgalad, Haldir’s father, was a Nandorin fugitive of Doriath, where he had some modest status as a nephew of Saeros. After the Fall of Doriath, he fled to Lindon with Amdír, the son of Celeborn’s brother, Galathil. This particular kinship isn’t a canon fact. I made Amdír the brother of Nimloth to make his position as the King of Lórinand more plausible. Malgalad married a Silvan woman named Gwenethlin – not a canon character, either.

Haldir was born in 629 Second Age, while his parents still dwelt in Lindon, for Malgalad was chosen to be the tutor and personal guardian of Amdír. It was common opinion that Haldir became more worldly than his brothers because he did not spend his entire life in Lothlórien. In this particular fic (and some of my other earlier stories),  I use an older, discarded name for him – Hathaldir – to distinguish between older stories and LOTR-based ones.

His parents moved to Lórinand when Prince Amdír reached maturity (in 756 Second Age, 6 years after the foundation of Eregion). Amdír, born and raised in Doriath, had a strong dislike towards the Noldor and did not want to live in Gil-galad’s court. So, just like his kinsman Oropher, he decided to dwell with the Silvan folk. Oropher went to the Greenwood and Amdír to Lórinand. And just like Oropher, he disliked Galadriel and Celeborn’s rule over the Wandering Companies of the Nandor Elves and their intrusion into Eregion.

In Lórinand as in the Greenwood, the Silvan Elves had no Kings or chieftains, though they willingly followed the counsel of their wise women who ruled them to their best abilities. Amdír married one of these greatly honoured women, establishing his rule over the Silvan folk through marriage. Amroth was their only child.

Rúmil, here called Rhimbron as in some of the HoME-books in earlier stories, was born in 1285 Second Age, in Lórinand. Orophin, or Orfin, was a relatively late child, born in 1732 Second Age, after Sauron had been driven out of Eriador (1701 S.A.). Their baby sister, Fimbrethil was born shortly before their father perished in war. She later married a Nandor Elf from near Edhellond and moved to the South.

Haldir’s first wife was killed not long after their wedding. During the Last Alliance, he met Fíriel, Elrond’s chief healer – a widowed Noldorin woman considerably older than him. They fell in love, eventually, and married in the early Third Age. As the Laws and Customs of the Eldar in Valinor do not allow remarriage, they both chose to remain in Middle-earth and eventually fade from this world, and Haldir’s brothers followed suit.

There were rumours that Malgalad did not actually die in the Battle upon Dagorlad,  but was captured and turned into some hideous monster by Sauron’s remaining minions. Though Gwenethlin adamantly denied this possibility, these rumours led to the decline of their authority in Lórinand, and after Amroth’s death Hathaldir had no other choice than to accept the post of the Marchwarden of the Golden Wood, while under Amroth’s rule he had been the young King’s chief advisor and the Captain of his Guard.

Since Haldir supported Amdír’s claim to Lórinand’s throne, he was not particularly beloved by Galadriel, though Celeborn appreciated his loyalty and bravery.