Title: Calen Vedui Nirnaeth (Last Green Tears) Author: Liana Wanderwillow (authorlianawanderwillo@yahoo.com) Pairings: Orophin/Rúmil Rating: R/NC-17 Summary: During the last stand at Helm's Deep, Orophin muses his life, love, and his brother. But tragedy strikes twice, and steals from him more than memories. Disclaimer: Any and all references to previously mentioned characters, places, or events belong either to Tolkien Estates or New Line Cinema and Peter Jackson respectively. The poem belongs to a friend of mine, so don't steal it. Everything else (cough, cough, phrasing, cough, cough) is mine. Warning: Violence, non-canon character death, graphic sex, angst A/N: Movie-verse about the death of Haldir and Rúmil in The Two Towers. I believe that when Haldir is dying and he sees the pile of dead bodies, the Elf he sees is the actor who plays Rúmil (Jørn Benzon, who is unbelievably ethereal, AKA pretty beyond all belief.) Calen Vedui Nirnaeth (Last Green Tears) Destroy the love Destroy the name Destroy the lair From which you came The frigid breath of winter already seeks to penetrate the breezes of autumn, a chill strong enough to freeze the insufferable mists in little diamond droplets against the ever-billowing grasses of Rohan. Under the night sky-deep and dark as the bowels of Arda, and no less frightening in wake of what is to come-we wait. Anticipation runs along the line as a fire does through dead, dry kindling, and everywhere Men fidget and laugh in forced cheer. Courage is not to be found here, only death and the last desperate prayers of hopeless Men. It is almost a stink. The Elves are silent vigils against the starless night, sentries whose duty it is to repel the forces of darkness that neither Sauron nor Saruman has sent. Rúmil shudders beside me, shoulders shaking under his armor as a young boy begins to cry. There are many here whose voices have not yet changed, or whose joints will not allow them to swing a sword properly. Far too many winters-or far too few-the choice was King Théoden's alone, and he chose poorly. His women hide in the caves behind us, weeping over lost sons and husbands. The children are together here, weeping with fright. Hâlith, son of Hâma, is here, and he stands with his shoulders straight and his chin up. But tears run freely down his face, a trail of ice against the fire of his youth. "The voices of the winds are terrible," Rúmil whispers, his eyes squinting to see through the lengthening shadows. Here in the Deep, the last shrinking rays of sunlight have long since fallen out of view, though I imagine them glimmering in the silver mellyrn in far-away Lórien. It is a sight I have seen every evening for almost two millennia, familiar in my mind's eye. My brother's shaking voice continues, very close to my ear, so quiet that not even Calaglin on my right can hear him. "I fear what comes this night, nîn onóro, my heart quavers at the thought of Isengard's victory. Once Rohan has fallen, what will come of the world? Gondor will follow, and then perhaps Mirkwood and our own beloved home." "You must not think such things," I chastise, trying to lighten his spirit. "Do not fall into such despair. Saruman's triumph is not yet assured, and though he may have the greater numbers, we have the greater heart." In my breast I feel the same certainty of death building, but I will show no face of cowardice when the time comes to stand and fight once more. I was not yet born into the world in the Last Great Alliance of Men and Elves, when Sauron fell and green grew once more on barren hilltops. Haldir was young, but walked among the warriors of Lord Celeborn. He said that he wept his first tears then, scattering them thinly as he crested the rise and saw against what might they stood. Yet still, as one brave soul shone through in a momentary glory dimmed only by his later fall into shadow, the light triumphed. Amidst the burnt and ravaged carcasses, the blood-stained armor already rusting under coats of rainwater and tears, honor lay trampled in the dust. Glory was won but lost again in the shimmering flames of greed and desire, and Men were doomed for all eternity. That is how Haldir always told Rúmil and I the story, when we were but young. Now, as I stand upon this wall whose strength gives hope to those is upholds, I will see what my brother has seen, and watch another fall of men. It is terrible, yet great, for the two often go hand in hand. Might is almost never claimed by those who have good hearts. Rúmil sobs once, holding in another as one crystalline tear falls down his cheek. It lingers a moment on his chin, then cascades in a tumbling globe to shatter into a thousand pale slivers on the grey stone. He is ashamed, I can see it in his burning cheeks, but he is afraid and he is deeply saddened, for he loves peace as much as our Lord Celeborn, and was not made for a warrior's life. Guilt and grief stabs briefly into me; his love for us forced him down this path, when otherwise he might have been a scholar or a healer, for he had such skills. Ai, how I long to put an arm about my youngest brother, whom I watched grow into a boy, then into a man; whose head my shoulder has cradled; whose knees my lips have kissed; whose tears my shirt has taken; an whose eyes have trapped my soul inside their swimming violet depths. I cannot, this armor which shields my heart from stray arrows shall destroy it as well, blocking that which is most desires until it shrivels in the shadows of anguished helplessness. "Aiya, Rúmil, meleth nîn, weep not, for should we be parted I shall find you once again before you pass through the Gates of Mandos!" "It is not for myself that I weep, Orophin," he replies, grip tightening on his bow. In the deadly silence, it seems inappropriate to speak, but I must say all the things that I have to say, and he must speak just as much as I. Should I be banished from this Middle-earth by the sword, I shall not do so without crying from the hilltops that this is the one whom I love, and whose heart is my own. He is my One. "I cannot bear to see such young blood spilled." "Then do not watch, Rúmil." "I am no coward." "That you are not, a'maelarain." It should be the last thing I say to him. From fire of hell To wind of heaven Right to my cold earth And the places I have been Cleaving the sky with raven-like claws of white fire, the thunder-dance was frightening in its intensity. Even I trembled, though I was 200 years past my majority and through climbing into Haldir's bed. Yet there was comfort for me, for a tiny figure was shadowed against the glow of the flashing storm. Rúmil trembled, thumb in his mouth, blanket drawn over his soft white-gold locks. I had not seen him with that decrepit thing in decades, for as long as he had been trying to prove that he was not the baby. "Orophin," he whimpered to me, stepping closer. I opened my arms to him without a conscious decision to do so. I can see the tears glimmering in his eyes, and underneath them the gratitude as he throws himself into me. I found myself cradling an armful of shivering Elfling. For a while he just sobbed into my shoulder as I cradled his body close to mine, lying back again. The night was long; the minutes passed in the length of a Man's life, each breath draw as deep as the ageless waves of the Sea, and then his eyes fluttered open and every lash that framed those orbs was a dagger to me. I burned when he kissed me, the chaste brotherly touch too much to bear. From cold of arctic To heat of beaches Onto my soft heartbeat Your song reaches "Orophin, it is done!" cried Haldir, tossing long locks out of his face. He had earned his braids just recently, and so the even tousled as he had been with sleep, he wore them. Excitement overruled his desire to show maturity, though, as he grabbed onto my wrist and pulled me after him. I was sleepy, too much so to understand what he meant until I came to where my mother had died. Grief struck me hard enough that I collapsed to the ground, without just reason. She ahd never been there, and as her belly swelled she grew ever more distant. The babe in her belly had earned somehow the reward of the sweetness of her song. She had never sung to me. I hated that child. Yet I was distracted from the blood soaking her sheets, and the pain in her eyes by the wail that broke my heart. A tall elf-maid with a fair stride knelt so that Haldir and I could see the fussing bundle in her arms. The little Elf-child who was Rúmil was beautiful even as an infant, soft and fragile as the ice crystals on the boughs of the mellyrn. I yearned to hold that terrified, needy thing in my arms, but I was not allowed, and had to content with stroking his bunched fists whilst Haldir carried him to where the wet nurse awaited. After he was fed and cleaned and dried, he slumbered, and only then did my eldest brother allow me to hold my precious Rúmil. In the beginning, he was so quiet I though he was as dead as my mother, but the gentle warmth in his body told me otherwise. Haldir braided my hair then, as I rocked him, then took him from me. I cried that night, but Rúmil did not. He was silent as the moon in the weeping sky, just as lovely, just as pale, and the stars were envious I am sure, for they attempted to compensate by shining all the brighter the evening of my brother's birth. Destroy the love Destroy the name Destroy the lair From which you came One spring, just after the buds of new green leaves had opened on the trees, Rúmil began to train for a guardian. Every morning when the dew was still fresh on the ground, he would descend from the complex of talan and stand beneath our own to await my coming. Thusly together we would run for the outskirts of our home-woods, and stay away until the sun disappeared in the West. The bow's every grain creaked in protest as Rúmil drew back the string, body tensing. With a determined glare, he aimed the silver point of the arrow at the white circle on the bole of a tree some yards away. Muttering to himself, licking his lips in an unconscious gesture, he loosed. A soft cry of disappointment escaped his throat as the bark splintered a bare inch away from the edge of the circle. He drew a white-fletched arrow from the quiver at his hip, to try again. "Here," I stepped forward, putting my hands over his and drawing with him. He pressed against me, soft hair tickling my chin. "Keep both your eyes open." "Help me," he asked gently. I could not deny him. Graced by more experience, the second arrow flew true and white chips scattered over the bracken-covered floor of Lórien. He turned and smiled at me, face alighting with joy unseen before the first War of the Ring. I was sure the famed Silmarils were beset in his eyes at that moment, a victory I had witnessed, a triumph in a time of failures. "Thank you, Orophin," he said, embracing me lightly. "Run and show Haldir," I suggesting, stroking his hair back from his face. By the time the snows came and the mountains were all but impassable, he had learned to aim and shoot with as much accuracy as Haldir and I. From life to death From heaven to hell I now know of the world From which I fell "Take me, I'm yours!" The teasing caress of hot air in the shell of my ear made me shudder, as Rúmil straddled my lap. He was fire against my already heated skin, eating away at the inhibitions. Long fingers ran over my back, traced my spine, touched my shoulders. "Please, Orophin," he said, so close, leaning his chin on my shoulder. He rolled his hips against mine, and I groaned. I was almost incoherent with the pleasure that simple gesture brought to me, drowning in the feeling of his arousal. His next words came out strangled, words I could not resist even had I tried. "Touch me." My hands were shaking, I could not move. Only the tearful pleading in his eyes-gods, his eyes-could have budged me then. But he stood and stepped back, standing straight before me. "I shall give you what none other has had," he said. Aiya, Rúmil! Then, he unbuttoned his shirt. Every clasp slipped free independently, his patience making him maddeningly slow. Every scant breadth of skin I caught sight of made my pleasure more intense, until at last he cast aside the garment. He put his hand over his breeches, tangling slender white fingers in the laces, pulling slowly, undoing the knot. A scream built in my throat, for he did not remove them, merely pressed his hand flat against his stomach, sliding it into the soft cloth. He sat back on the floor, spreading his legs as he gripped himself. I could only stare as his eyes fluttered half shut, crescent slits of glittering wet under ashen lashes. As his breath quickened, blood rose into his ivory cheeks, flushing him. His slim chest heaved as he slid helplessly to lie flat on the floor, reaching the other hand into his haven when his arousal rested just beyond my view. I gaped, ignorant to my own throbbing erection, as his hands moved over himself, slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster. "Ah-ah-ah-," he moaning, soft, steady keens deep in his throat and his hips pulsed up. He writhed on the floor, silken sunlight locks spilling over the floor under his tossing head, rolling his hips, thrusting into his own fumbling touch. "Oh- gods-Orophin-." His sweet voice, moaning my name as rivulets of sweat coursed down his face, catching the light in a thousand shimmering splinters of moonlight. One hand moved down, past where the other worked, and he chewed his lower lip and he thrust one finger into himself. It makes me want to weep. His little whimpering cries hitch, but he pulls his hands out of his pants. An unnatural, feral grin spread over his face, and he rises gracefully from the floor. He slides onto my bed, crawling over me with liquid ease. "Orophin," he begged, taking one of my hands in his. I did nothing as he pressed my hand under the cloth, pressed it into his hardness. I felt the burning-hot silk skin, the baby-fine hairs at my fingertips. "Orophin, do this thing for me." I found my voice, hoarse though it was, and replied, "I would do anything you ask of me." Needles prickled my joints as I closed my hand over him. He was so very close, and involuntarily his hips jerked forward into my grasp, his head falling back. I could have stroked him two hard times and been done with it, but I did no such thing. Arching sensually against me, he ran his hands down his sides, taking with them his breeches. "Rúmil, by the gods, you're beautiful." I raked my greedy eyes over his quivering frame, resting on the rise of his erection, the creamy thighs parted just for me. "I desire no touch but yours, brother. Do it, and do it now, lest I die 'fore my release." I traced a finger over the tip, dipping it into the slit and stealing from him the pearly droplets and spreading them down below him. He watched me caress him, silent but for the rustling of the sheets clenching in his fists. "Will you have me?" "Take me as you will, and find your pleasure. I have saved myself for this, and should this night prove ill I shall remain celibate the rest of my days!" I laughed through my haze of arousal, pulling off my own hindering clothing much less gracefully than my sweet lover did. Almost immediately I returned to him, for now that I had touched him I could not stop. A hand grasped my wrist, drawing me gently away. My whimper of protest was drowned out and he pressed me back and trailed his tongue down my chest. It dipped into my navel as a balancing hand crept up my thigh. Soon I felt his mouth on me, clumsy, unpracticed, but wet and hot nonetheless, and with a lithe tongue to dance away his inexperience. "Aiya! Rúmil! What you do to me! Love-you, so much-aiya!" He grasped my sac lightly, then rougher, squeezing. I come hard, and he gags, choking. He sits up, my seed trickling from the corner of his mouth. Embarrassedly, he looks up at me, wiping his mouth. "I am sorry," he coughed, as I rubbed his back. Kissing him softly, I comforted him. I could taste myself in his mouth as I bore down on him, drinking him, loving him, and touching him. He moaned into my mouth, the sounds reverberating through me in tantalizing waves of half-arousal. He was pressed to very close to me, slicked skin sliding smoothly over my chest, sweat coursing down his jaw. I rubbed his back, took the sweat and reach under his arched hips to push one finger into him. Crying out, he pushed down on me, as I added another, reaching far into his body to that place no one but he and I now knew. And when he came it was like ice. Destroy the love It is almost gone Destroy the name That you will eternally bare Destroy the lair From which you came Their hated feet march upon the sundered ground, the horrid pounding shaking the earth for miles and miles. I can feel the answered tremor in the stone sunder our feet as they come into view, our numberless enemies. It is a surge of desperation, these roiling lines that continue to storm into the valley. All is still, no birds sing, no insect dares to chirp as the orcs march. A bristling wood of spears rises above the glistening metal of their iron helms, wavering in the downpour. Lightening flashes, blue light skitters over every surface before shadow claims them again. They stop. No one moves. Between two forces stands a mire of air, the last exhalations of thousands. I feel no fear, only a great sadness that weighs in my chest like the stones of this very Deep. Every tear that Rúmil sheds is another pound to choke my breath. Then the charge. Aragorn, he is there, and he is calling out orders that Haldir follows without a qualm. There are no questions of power here; the only question to each and every soul is how long he will live. As the first wave of enemies falls under a volley of our white arrows, more run to take their place as waters breaking on the sands rush to fill the space left by the previous wave. More fall, and yet another line. Should we have enough arrows, we could feel them all, I think, even as I reach back to find my quiver empty. Far too many of my fellows share my predicament, it seems. Less and less fall, and then they are come. In a whirlwind of screams, some of agony, some of despair, the whispering of swords sliding from sheaths is a palpable stake driven into the heart of the enemy. They are fearless, these Uruk-Hai, who will fall before they will run. A faceless mask is easier to battle than an identity. Cold steel has no use in the hands of mercy, just as mercy has no place in the heart of Saruman, any longer. Surrender is impossible, death the only alternative. Carry me softly, oh Mandos, I think. There is not enough room on this wall to fight, not with more cresting the merlons every second. For every beat of my heart, for every comrade that topples helplessly from the press upon the top of the wall to their death in the seething mass below, another orc appears. Strength unnumbered far outweighs strength of heart, of such I am sure. I weary quickly, only defending myself, dodging blows that would hurtle me from this high perch to break upon the grounds below. Calaglin cries out in pain; bloods soaks his hair. He crumples, just under my feet. Haldir and Rúmil are lost to me, the faces all about indistinct and unfamiliar. As the battle wears on, my movements grow frantic. Fear makes itself known as a tainted blossom in my breast, hindering the swing of my sword, slowing the thoughts of my mind. Everything stops, then, as all atop the wall fall to the ground. Blocks of crumbled stone fly into the air, ash and dust spread over the crowds as a veil over the faces of the dead. It is impossible to breathe in, impossible to see anything beyond the grey tears. Then the shrill cries, the rumbling growls that build in a frantic pitch. All is lost, I see, trampled under iron shod feet. The people of Rohan are doomed to fall as Isildur before in Gondor fell. The might of evil is not to be undone by a few proud warriors. Retreat is a welcome word in my mind, but the bodies sprawled over my path are too difficult to ignore. One face catches my view. Poised in shocked agony, crystalline eyes wide and glazed, Haldir is laid upon the ground as if he were prepared for burial. His arms are crossed over his shattered mail, his fingernails stained with the blood of his enemies and of his heart. No. I keen, long and loud, sobbing a terrible scream that rips my dry throat. But I do not weep, for there are no tears left for me to shed for my courageous brother. He knew that he would fall; I saw it in his eyes before the march began, yet still he came and at the head of the line. Vicious was his end. Vicious was his life, yet always tenderly did he care for my youngest brother and I. Affection, love, they have abandoned me as I gaze upon his visage. Only sickening guilt and hatred course through my veins, vengeance bitter on my tongue. "Retreat! Retreat!" I should not run inside the Keep, and leave Haldir lying here. My brother's body means nothing to me. This is the end, The end. And abandonment too strong No one will be left alive, these men who help me hoist the remnants of a King's mighty hall will choke on their own blood and the blood of lovers, brother, fathers. I shall choke of the air I swallow. Give me not death, give me life enough to wreak upon these foul creatures what they have dealt Middle-earth. Let their souls be cast forever into blinding light and left to sear in miserable guilt. "Orophin," someone says. In hope, I turn, but I know even before I see his face that it is not my precious younger brother who speaks to me. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, saviour of Rohan, is serious. "Orophin, Haldir is dead." I must not laugh. "Yes, this I know. Speak not to me of pity, Son of Elrond, for I shall have none of it." I return to my work, relishing the bruises forming in my knuckles. "Orophin?" "Aragorn." "Rúmil, he-." Aragorn pauses, waiting for me to face him. Brushing sore and chafed hands against the stained metal of my armor, I wait. He does not wish to speak. "Where is he?" "He is dead." I look at him, waiting for him to say that in fact my lover awaits me in the back room. I prepare to hear that he is wounded, and he needs me. I prepare to hear of his grief. Aragorn says nothing else. He does not touch me. If he does, I will kill him. He knows this. "He is dead, Orophin." "I heard you." "You did not. Look at me. Do it now." In the depths of his storm gray eyes there is an anguish that is not his own, a writhing flame of bitter self-hatred that stems not from Arwen, nor Gimli nor Legolas, not from Elrond or Boromir or Haldir. "Rúmil your youngest brother died in my arms not a half an hour ago. He said, he said to tell you that he never knew such a love. He said that he regrets he never called you a'maelarain." "Aragorn?" "Orophin." I cannot speak the words. I cannot breathe the breaths. Vomit rises, tears fall, and my trembling, exhausted muscles give way. There is no time to scream, to sob, to moan, there is nothing but the trembling encasement of Why? And so I weep.