Set in Stone - Haldir's Story -

Chapter 25 - Fits of Rage

*Sorry guys for the long wait!! Hope you'll enjoy this chapter!! Jazzlin xxx*

It was night time, yet like most of the elves the Lady Galadriel didn't sleep. She stood on her high flet and was watching her beloved forest. There was nothing to be heard except the rustling of elves down below and the breathing of her husband behind her and Orophin outside the door. Celeborn was still wearing his armour – it was looking strange on him, it had been such a long time since he'd worn it last. Galadriel was tired – controlling a ring of power was always a tightrope walk between holding back its powers too much so it would be ineffective, and giving in to it – which may very likely end in total destruction. Galadriel after 3,000 years had by now gotten used to the ring, she had been worried for Daëra rather than herself. The young woman though had done remarkably well. The Lady knew the trance-like state of mind only too well: when she seemed to grow larger than life, a terrible expression of beauty and power on her face. It seemed the comparable state with Daëra and Náre was the bearer being aflame. The moment of absolute power, just about not losing control.

Celeborn started to undo his armour's buckles to take off his corselet. He sighed. "I believe Sauron will want revenge for this defeat. Yet next time he might try and hurt Thranduil's kingdom – and it will fall." – Galadriel turned to face him. "We will have to assist our kin in the North." – Celeborn nodded. "Yet we cannot leave our own home at our enemies' mercy." – "We will not have to, if we strike first. Dol Guldur needs to be destroyed while it is still recovering from this blow." – Celeborn took off the last items of his armour. "I had the same thought. It might do to take Daëra and Elrond with you. Haldir and I could see to Lórien." He turned to look north with a frown. "I fear only rings of power will be able to break this one of Sauron's strongholds." – Celeborn eyed his wife up. "You gown is torn," he remarked. – "I never noticed," was her only answer, in an absent-minded tone. Her eyes were already lingering on the view from the window again. It couldn't be long now... Celeborn continued watching her, knowing exactly what was going on in her mind and why she was behaving as she was... almost restless, waiting for something. And there – all of a sudden – it came: Galadriel took in a deep breath, her every muscle tensioning, her expression growing fierce. Her skin seemed to start glowing as if she were using her ring when it was lying on the window sill in front of her. She was fighting something in her mind, and no one was able to help her. She was fighting down Sauron's anger: it had been clear from the beginning his finding out about this defeat would only be a matter of hours. Celeborn stood close to his wife, supporting her with his presence. It seemed Sauron had taken it not well. Not well indeed.

Afterwards, Haldir had to confess he had forgotten that Daëra would have to stand up to Sauron's wrath once the battle was won. He had foolishly supposed the fighting would be over when the last orc was killed or had fled beyond their reach. She wasn't hurt, she was well, and so were his brother, the Lord and Lady, the Golden Wood, and himself. So obviously, the main priorities were seen to and he had allowed himself to relax a little. The fighting hadn't done his back and arm much good and due to his still somewhat limited range of movement, he'd had to take more blows than he was used to. He actually felt pretty much as if he had received a sound beating. Daëra looked well though, although tired. She must have known that their victory would have consequences for her, but most likely she'd pushed the knowledge far from her mind, ignoring it, pretending it wasn't even there. Her eyes were fixed on Haldir, who had flung his armour carelessly into one corner of the flet. It wasn't shiny anymore, but scratched and bloody – just like the tunic he was wearing underneath, which was stained by sweat and blood, torn at the edges and hardly recognisable as a costly Lórien garment. Daëra went over to him and laid her hands on his chest. Her touch was still warmer than the average temperature of elves; her eyes were wide when she stared up at him, waiting for him to return her glance. When he did, the hot trace skin left on his wandered down his chest and she helped him taking off the tunic. She sucked in her breath when she saw his chest that was slowly heaving with his every breath and was spotted with black and blue marks. She reached out, but he caught her hand. "They are merely bruises. Do not heal me – save your energy." He turned the ring on her forefinger; she had put it back on to heal a few more elves. He let her hand glide through his grasp when she reached up to circle his neck and pulled him down. The warmth of her body, her closeness made him struggle for control, all his tiredness had gone, even though he knew they should both be resting. He overcame the last bit of distance by bending down and pressing his lips on hers. The movement of their mouths was gentle at first but soon became heated. One of his hands was at her neck, the other holding her waist, both pressing her closer to him. And for a while he could even forget the wars that had been and the wars that were yet to come. For a while, there just was no time at all.