Haldir arched an eyebrow at Lord Elrond, who had just lain the unconscious Prince of Mirkwood down on the cot beside him.

"Did you warn him, at least? Surely you knew this would come as a shock to him. In fact, you mentioned that to me at least forty-seven times this week," he pointed out. Elrond looked distinctly uncomfortable, and being in somewhat of an irritated mood, this pleased Haldir.

"He is drunk," Elrond replied, and they both knew it was a sorry excuse.

"Why did you let him get so drunk?" Haldir growled, feeling the urge to be contrary.

"I had nothing to do with it, I assure you," Elrond snapped, rising to the bait. "If you care to blame someone, blame yourself. He was drinking to forget you!"

"He would not have had to do that if someone had told him I was alive three days ago," Haldir said, keeping the tone of his voice even and cold. He looked down and saw his hand was balled into a fist, something he tended to do when stressed.

"Haldir—" Elrond began with exasperation, but Haldir had a bad taste in his mouth from this argument and put his hand up to interrupt it.

"Never mind," he said, trying not to sound so rude. He softened his words, knowing that Elrond never really meant any harm, with his roundabout ways of conducting business, his dusty layers of manners, and his ill-concealed and un-acted upon desires. Haldir got up and embraced the lord, who had always been kind to him. He felt Elrond relax a bit, lifting his hand to rest on Haldir's shoulder. Before the embrace could grow to intimate, Haldir stepped away. "Thank you," he said. "If you would leave us, I will look after him."

"Who will look after you, then, Haldir?"

"I am well enough that I can look after myself. I promise you this."

"You still feel pain from your wound. I see how stiffly you hold yourself," Elrond pointed out. "This affected posture is more than your usual arrogant bearing."

Haldir smiled faintly. Elrond had him there. "There is still some pain, yes, but it grows less and less. Besides, I think we are perfectly safe here."

"Perfectly safe," Elrond echoed. "Very well, then, but I will be back in the morning to administer to the headache that the prince will surely possess."

"Thank you," Haldir said simply. Elrond looked at him for another long moment, as if he wished to say something else, but in the end he did not. He nodded and left the room, leaving Haldir alone with his thoughts and his unconscious lover.

He stared at Legolas for a long time. Haldir was barely conscious of this act, but the next time he looked out the window at the sky, the moon had risen high. He tried not to feel guilt that Legolas had gotten himself into such an incapacitated state, but he was not unaware that it was, at the root, his fault. Nevertheless, he was beautiful. Haldir only half-wished he had asked Elrond who had been kissing Legolas. He knew well the sight of the prince's mouth when it was swollen with abuse. Haldir would have suspected Elrond, but despite the lord's lust for the prince, Elrond never acted on those feelings.

Legolas' golden hair was an utter mess. Someone had half-undone his braids, and his hair ornament was clipped wrong. Worse than a dwarf, Haldir thought, and then he wondered briefly if Gimli was here as well. Haldir has seen no one except the small party of elves he had arrived with, friends of Arwen's who did not even care enough to spread the rumor that he was alive to the prince's ears. Maybe they didn't know who he was. Well, it mattered not. Now they were together.

The prince's clothing was in disarray as well, indicated that someone had been trying to get him out of it before Elrond had brought him to Haldir. Sighing to himself, Haldir set about straightening the boy up. It was not the easiest of tasks, but he had helped both of his brothers in such times, so it was nothing he could not handle, either. He let his mind wander to happier times.

Legolas had been so young when they first met, the summer when Haldir and Orophin had been sent to Mirkwood to help Thranduil prepare for the prince's coming of age party. Rúmil had been too young and had stayed at home in Lothlórien. It was so long ago, yet the prince still seemed young to Haldir. A child at heart. Yet neither then nor now had his extreme youth prevented Haldir from taking him as a lover. Legolas had been so eager for him. So passionate. That had never, ever changed.

Their affair spanned the ages, though they had never been officially bonded. Haldir had never pressed for a commitment, for many reasons, all of which seemed foolish now. In his heart, he had known Legolas was his, and vice versa, and that had been enough. They had not needed to exchange rings or declare themselves in front of their countrymen. Of course, maybe it would have been different had their been any chance of them living together in the same land. There was not, there never had been, and there probably was not now, either.

He could not think about that now. It was a miracle that he was alive now, sitting with the elf he had known so long and so intimately. Legolas was a hero now, Haldir thought with some amusement. His father must be very proud. But then again, Thranduil had always been proud of his child, no matter what Legolas did. Many times had Haldir envied the affection they shared. He could barely remember his own father, having been raised as an orphan by Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Elrond had told Haldir that Legolas had not been home yet, and Haldir wondered if this was where he intended to go next, after the celebration was over. He ought to go home himself, he thought. He missed his brothers, and he harbored a secret fear that Galadriel would take them to sail west with her before he could join them.

He should have gone straight home from Imladris. He had hoped to travel with his brothers, but he had still been recovering when they returned to Lothlórien. He had not even been conscious. They had rescued him. They had taken him to Elrond from Helm's Deep, knowing that the healer was the only one who stood any chance of saving him. They were right, and now he was in Elrond's debt, but he still wished he could have seen them before they had gone. He understood they had not had a choice, but he still found it unfair.

He did not wish to think about Helm's Deep, but he could not avoid it. Faces of the elves he had known for thousands of years, all of whom had perished in that battle, rose before him. Less than two dozen of their company of three hundred had survived. He only thanked the Valar that his brothers had been among them. Oro had taken a small wound, but Rúmil had been unscathed. Elrond had given Haldir a matter-of-fact report on their physical well-being, but it galled Haldir not to be there to comfort them emotionally. He had trouble understanding why Galadriel had called them back and why Elrond had let them go before he had even awakened. Maybe one day they would explain it to him, but somehow he doubted that.

He buried his face in his hands, suddenly overwhelmed. What could he have done to have kept his troops alive? Why had he slipped up and taken a near-fatal wound that had put him so far out of commission? His head ached as he remembered the blow, and the raw, almost-healed slash to his belly throbbed suddenly with unbearable pain. Frantically he lifted his head, looking around for the medicine Elrond had left for him. It sat in plain sight on the bedside table – a glass of water and a small vial of drops. Two to be mixed with water for light pain, four for severe. Haldir used six, mixing it into the glass with shaking hands, draining it down desperately.

His breath came in shallow pants as he fought off the panic attack that came with the searing pain of his wound. It was all right, he told himself. There was nothing else he could have done. He could not have saved any of the others. It had to be enough that he had saved Aragorn, and Theoden, and the people of Edoras. They counted him a hero, Elrond told him. Lady Eowyn wished his presence at her wedding to Lord Faramir in the spring.

He did not feel much like a hero. He felt old, and tired, and he feared that his wound would never truly heal until he sailed to Valinor. He glanced at a mirror on the far wall and his lips twisted in a bitter smile. At least he still looked good, he thought. No signs of age or pain on his face. He looked thinner. His healthy appetite, the source of no end of teasing from his brothers, had been another casualty of Helm's Deep. He was not quite gaunt, but his cheekbones and jaw formed far sharper lines than they ever had. His lips were still full and red, his eyes icy and cold, but still sparkling with arrogance. His silvery hair was as carefully braided as ever.

Anyone would have found him beautiful, he supposed. There was no satisfaction in this knowledge at the moment.
Legolas shifted on the cot and Haldir damned himself for taking his attention away even for a self-indulgent second to stare at his own reflection. He smoothed the tangled gold hair away from the prince's face, wishing he could smooth the wrinkle in his brow that was present even now.

"Legolas," he said softly, trying to keep emotion from his tone. "It is all right. I am here."

Responding to his voice, the prince's eyelashes fluttered on his cheek. Haldir held his breath, hoping Legolas would awaken. His swollen lips parted, but he did not speak. Maybe it was best to let him sleep off the effects of the drink and the shock, Haldir thought.

No. He had not the patience for that. He had waited too long as it was. Haldir got up and went to the cupboards housing the woefully inadequate medical supplies. He looked through the selection of herbs. Elrond had taught him some when he was younger, and Haldir knew more about what he was doing than he ever would have admitted. Luck was with him. He found what he needed.

Taking the potent leaves back to the cot upon which Legolas lay, Haldir waved the herbs under the prince's nose.