A Middle Earth Story

. . .

For Those With Reckless Blood

. . .

The plod of quiet footsteps was a strange comfort in the still, night air. The noise was soft enough to rival the stealth of even the elves, and though the noise was unmistakable to his ears, few others would have enough skill to discern it.

Today, the footsteps were faintly heavier than usual. Not of fatigue—they would not tire until the task was complete. Nay, the rangers were angry.

And he too with them.

Only years of carefully forged patience kept him from giving voice to his indignance. It didn't settle the lurking urge to draw his sword and cut a warpath before the company. The tension strung taut in the faces around him said that he was not alone in the sentiment.

He quickened his pace to the front of the company, keeping step with the hooded figure who had stood at their head for endless hours. The silence between them was not comfortable, but he would not be the one to break it.

It took the snap of a twig to alight grey eyes from the dirt. A soft sigh followed, accompanied by stiffened shoulders.

"What is it, Halbarad?"

"Only a question of when you plan to temper the fury that follows you."

A flitting gaze behind them. "Do I yet have reason to?"

Halbarad hummed something between agreement and contradiction.

Another sigh. "If you have aught upon your mind, you may as well speak it."

"Much weighs upon my mind. It is what is on yours that concerns me."

This time, a slight hitch to his breath was all that betrayed his true feeling. "As you know, we have already entered Rhovanion and will come upon the Northmen within the hour."

"Aye. That I know. You have not answered my question."

The chieftain laughed, but the sound was mirthless. "You know what weighs on my mind.  It is the reason we have traveled these two days with barely the thought of rest."

"As it should have been. I would expect no less."

Halbarad waited. At times, silence did far more than words would.

"I sent word ahead to Mirkwood. The Gwengilith will meet us at the Northmen's village."

Halbarad offered a nod. He should have expected as much. "Do you distrust the company for the task at hand?"

Aragorn shook his head. "It is not the company I distrust. Look at him and tell me I should let these rangers fight alongside his fury."

Halbarad did not have to look to know the object of Aragorn's attention. One half of the Peredhil walked alongside the company, and the fire in his eyes was enough to light the forest ablaze. If rage were poison, Elladan Elrondion looked to have been consumed by it.

"When the time comes, he will be impulsive. For once, the Gwengilith's recklessness may aid us."

If Halbarad didn't know better, he would say that Aragorn had gotten the Peredhel a nursemaid. "We shall see."

The border of the Northmen's village was in sight. Movement at the border's posts indicated the realization of their approach.

Light that remained from the sun's setting cast itself upon the village leader as he approached, offering a greeting across the field. Few men flanked him, and Halbarad suspected they had been roused from the comforts of their homes to greet them. The company's arrival could certainly have come at a better time.

But time had never been on their side.

The leader—Celduin, named to be strong like the river, if Halbarad remembered correctly—approached Aragorn. "What brings you here at this time of year, Dunedan? I did not think the fall had come again already."

Celduin was young, a recently ascended leader. Far younger than the leaders of the other men of Rhovanion. His smile was too bright to be anything but.

"One of our own has been taken by men we have tracked to a camp nearby."

Celduin expression fell. "I have heard nothing of them."

"I would not expect it," Halbarad said. "Their movement has been near constant until just after dawn."

"I see," Celduin said. "What is their purpose? Are they a threat?"

Halbarad felt Elladan bristle beside him and barely caught the motion of silence Aragorn cast toward him.

"They have taken an elf whom we count as a friend. We come to reclaim him."

The village leader straightened. His eyes darkened. "We have no affiliation with these men. An enemy of the elves is an enemy of the Northmen."

One of the men behind Celduin shifted forward, murmuring something just beneath his breath that stole most of the brazing fire from his leader. Reluctance pulled at his posture, barely grasping a sigh.

"A few of my men might accompany you, but I cannot leave my village unattended."

"Nor do I ask you to," Aragorn said. "If you could but let us stage ourselves upon your grounds, I would be grateful for the small protection such offers."

Celduin nodded. "By all means. Please, you are welcome in the village as ever. Make yourself comfortable."

Halbarad broke from the company then, setting out to scout the area. It was considered unneeded, the Northmen having their own watch set upon their borders. That wouldn't stop him.

He made his usual inspection of the surrounding. Every shadow was checked alongside the light. Too often had they chased only to have been pursued themselves.

The village was quiet as he walked. The touch of winter had only just left the land, but the evening breeze was enough to be reminiscent of it, and likely enough to keep children in beds and women by the fire. Occasionally, wide eyes peeked above a window sill, offering a wave that was quickly retracted before Halbarad could return it.

This place, though bordering on of the darkest lands of Middle Earth, somehow kept a grip on peace.

Perhaps one day, more of the world could feel it.

His circuit was nearing an end when a voice pierced the air beside him.

"Seem rather contemplative for this time of night, ranger."

His eyes met the speaker before his hand could grip his hilt.

Probably for the better.

A man stood to the left, leant against a stray tree. His beard was peppered grey, lines dug into his face indistinguishable from what might have been scars. He had been one of them who had come out with Ceduin.

"Can be the best time for it," Halbarad said. "And your name?"

"Cannae deny that. Name's Déor. 've seen you around here the past years, thought this time I'd say hello."

Halbarad dipped his head in greeting, placing a hand on his chest. "I am Halbarad."

"Thought so," Déor said. "Thought I remembered you leading these men once."

"Guiding them, perhaps."

"I understand. Done much the same, really. Ceduin almost knows what he's doing, was raised well enough too. Still, leader needs help sometimes."

Halbarad walked closer. "True. And every people need hope."

"Something that seems in short supply of late." Déor grunted a laugh—fake, fleeting—and rubbed a hand along his beard. "You say you are to rescue an elf?"

"Yes. I imagine the party will be leaving imminently."

"Will you not be apart of it?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." He smiled. "I offer council where I may, but it is Aragorn's time to lead. I'm sure you're familiar with the feeling."

"Too well. Does he command the role?"

Halbarad would never speak ill of Aragorn. Beyond a chieftain, he was a friend, and more than that—the man would be his kind. But to a kindred spirit? Perhaps he could afford to be honest.

"He is young, still, though he speaks as if he has wandered these lands twice as long as either of us. He will learn."

Halbarad had heard the whispers among the rangers. That their chieftain was an apt leader, but spoke with the air of an elf. They did not begrudge him his years spent in the Valley but wondered if such had impaired his ability to simply be a man. Halbarad had once wondered much the same, until he had seen the strength that had already grown within him.

"The elf who was taken. He is known to your chieftain?"

"Few elves are not," Halbarad said. "But this one is to all of us. He and his brother have aided our people more times than years I have lived. Without them, I imagine our people would have met a much crueler fate long ago."

His attention was drawn to the left.  Elladan had wandered toward the eastern edge of the village, where settlement met forest. The elf moved as one with the shadows, as two figures stepped out from amid the branches.

Déor's head turned toward them and he stiffened.

Torchlight caught upon the figures and Halbarad almost smiled as Déor hummed a noise of surprise. One head dark, the other gold in the first touches of moonlight. The Gwengilith had arrived.

"The prince?" he said. "Why has he come?"

"As I said, few elves are unknown to Aragorn."

Déor's eyes narrowed. "But that is both the prince and his second. If the legends we hear hold any truth, it takes a tie greater than acquaintance for both warriors to come this far to fight."

And if only Déorknew. The rising darkness had brought with it friendships fiercer than those in the centuries before.

The prince stepped forward first, clasping Elladan's hand as their foreheads touched in greeting. The second soon followed, and for the first time in days, life entered Elladan's gaze.

The prince stepped back. "Aragorn's message was short. What has happened?"

"Elrohir has been taken."

The lieutenant nearly spat upon the ground. "Yrch?"

"Nay. Mercenaries. The yrch have a bounty upon our heads. I imagine these men seek to claim it."

"Half of it," the lieutenant said.

"They won't," the prince said. "Where is Aragorn now?"

Halbarad looked around them. Where indeed had the chieftain gone?

"Here." Just as those before him, Aragorn stepped from the shadows. Any weariness that had attempted to take him abandoned for the task at hand. "Preparations have been made. We depart within the hour."

Déor raised a brow and Halbarad felt the man's gaze upon him, question left unspoken. The elves would fight, yet he would not?

Halbarad nearly spoke as the elves and man began their journey away from the forest's edge, until Aragorn came to a halt.

"Legolas. Your left side. You are injured."

Halbarad rarely heard such exasperation from his chieftain.

The lieutenant—Forven—snorted a laugh, even as Legolas cast a cool glare toward him. "A small skirmish, and a careless move. I can fight. For this, I will."

Aragorn's gaze turned from the prince to his lieutenant. "Can he?"

"I will watch him," Forven said.

Aragorn's thoughts could almost be heard. He muttered a curse beneath his breath. Halbarad couldn't hear the words of it, but the tone was indicative enough.

"Fine," he said.

They continued walking, shape fading from sight, and voices drifting from hearing.

"Strange," Déorsaid. "How very strange."

"The elves?"

"Nay. How history never stops turning in circles." His gaze lingered on where their shapes faded from sight.

Halbarad contemplated a response—considered the consequence of what he was to say next.

He nodded toward the now empty distance. "Have you watched them fight?"

"At times, their battle brings them near to us. I have caught glimpses."

Halbarad straightened, tightening his belt about his waist and making sure his sword hung straight. He hadn't planned to accompany Aragorn tonight—he hadn't been asked to either. But this was not something he would be denied.

"I plan to watch the mission tonight. Not quite oversee it—just observe. Watch. Care to join?

Déorbarked a laugh. "As I were going to stay in my bed tonight when there was a fight to be witnessed."

Aragorn had been generous when saying their departure would come within the hour. Barely twenty minutes passed, and the elves and men had departed.

Halbarad followed, Déor beside him, just far enough behind that they wouldn't be thought a threat. He did not risk conversation, allowing the night to provide enough engagement.

By the time they caught up to the company, the battle had begun. At a glance Halbarad knew the heart of it had not yet come. But three mercenaries—likely the watchmen—lay dead upon the ground, their blood spilling from slit throats that could never connive with yrch again.

Rangers lurked in the camp, while the elves crept alongside Aragorn. It took long moments of searching, but finally Halbarad saw it. The Peredhel's dwelling, bound to a post in the middle of the camp, another set of watchman lined about him.

These men were lazy. Uncaring.

It took short seconds. A separation of the elves, a motion from Aragorn, arrows and knives flying soundless through the air.

And the mercenaries were dead.

Elladan fell to his knees beside Elrohir just as an alarm was raised in the camp.

Someone had awoken—and blew his horn loud enough to alert the entire forest.

Men came pouring from their tents. Elladan had told them there were as many, but seeing them together illuminated the situation the Peredhil would have found themselves in. Alone in the forest, abruptly surrounded. Fleeing toward a point of rendezvous, only to have one never arrive.

These mercenaries deserved their death. Most were outlaws—the murderous kind. The kind that would do it a thousand times more if left to walk the land.

Elladan paid them no mind, Legolas and Forven forming ranks around him as Aragorn broke away to lead his rangers. His voice was loud, his commands clear, and Halbarad knew that no amount of exhaustion would break the determination set upon each ranger's sword. Their chieftain led them, and no one would question him. Loyalty would not let them.

The elves were a sight that Halbarad suspected he would never be used to. He had seen them enough—had heard that their strength in Middle Earth was fading—but could not imagine a sight filled with greater righteous fury. As one ducked, the other shot—and when the prince fumbled, his second was immediately beside him.

Elladan had drawn a sword—likely to cut his brother's bonds, and now to defend him. Elrohir's arm was draped across his shoulders as the elf fought to stand. He shouted something to the prince, who jerked a nod and drew his bow. With arrows flying from a bow, a path cleared before the Peredhil, letting them escape to the battle's fringe.

A flurry of metal clanging, and shouts ascending to the unhearing treetops, and it was over.

Every mercenary on the ground, and every ranger still standing.

Déor had been silent through the battle. Almost peaceful.

"Now," Halbarad said, "you have seen elves fight."

"Aye. And they nearly do my grandfather's stories justice."

The rangers wandered across the camp as ghosts haunting death. They no longer fought—now they protected. A small shield to keep the Peredhil from the harm their own kind had brought down upon them.

The prince's shirt had spots of red on the side that no amount of careful arm positioning could hide. Aragorn would be displeased once his attention moved past the battle at hand.

Finally, Déor spoke of his own accord. "There are those who say your cheiftain will unite the lands of men again."

Halbarad would not betray his feelings unduly. "They do. And do you?"

"There have been those who have tried."

"Aye. And they have failed." Halbarad had seen it time and time again. Had done the best he could, even just among the Dunedain.

Deor's gaze was distant, like glass reflecting the past. "He's different, isn't he? He knows that he cannot do it alone. That even men need help."

Watching Aragorn speak to each of the rangers—seeing his approach to the elves—now, Halbarad's smile was genuine, if soft. "And if he remembers it, we might even see the light after this darkness."

"These eyes won't," Déor said, a melancholy lilt touching his voice. "But someone's will."

Looking down upon the field, even in the dark hour hanging over them, Halbarad couldn't disagree.

Some would see the end of this. That was more than he had once dared to believe. 

His gaze caught upon Déor'. That hope would be enough.

. . .

Good? Terrible? Painful at best? Would love to hear your thoughts!

I've always wanted to write something from Halbarad's perspective and this seemed like a decent opportunity. And now I am dying to write more with the Peredhil...

for GerithorDunedain and Silvan_Elleth 's contest

*Gwengilith is a term from a currently unpublished work of mine, that Legolas and Forven are known as outside of Mirkwood. It vaguely translates to "warriors in starlight"