His sanity hung like a spider’s thread as he surveyed the death and destruction that had become the landscape. The battle had been won but at a great cost. The countless dead lay where they had fallen, and it was hard to distinguish one race from the other, so covered were they in the grime and gore of the battlefield. No outward emotion did Orophin show as he helped the survivors sift through the slain. Men of the Riddermark and his Elven brethren were laid aside, with honor so each race might lay their dead as was custom. The foul servants of treasonous Isengard were simply being tossed over the wall or dragged outside to await whatever afterlife there might be in store for them.

The archer paused in his grim task and wearily ran a filthy hand through his golden tresses. Orophin tilted his face towards the mid-afternoon sun, but there was no comfort to be found in the weak rays that shone down upon the gruesome scene. High upon the Deeping-wall, his purpose was two-fold; Orophin was not helping the Rohirrim out of a sense of duty.

He had seen Haldir fall. 

Haldir o Lórien.

The March Warden.

His brother.

Even for one as long lived as Orophin, it seemed that he had lived an eternity before being brought word that Haldir yet still dwelt among the living, and that he must return to the citadel without delay. Or so Haleth, son of Háma, had informed him.

Orophin reached the inner courtyard as the remaining Galadhrim came forth with their precious burden. Facedown upon one of the Rohirrim shields, long pale hair dragging through the muck, and wrapped in the tattered cloak that was a symbol of his status, Haldir looked as if his spirit had already flown. He followed them into the chamber that was being used for the wounded. The small chamber was filled to capacity and already the stench of sickness and death hovered in the air along with the heady scent of the healers’ herbs and medicines.

“Tis only a matter of time for your brother, I fear there is nothing that can be done for him. I am sorry.”

Orophin listened to the words of the healer; she had only confirmed what he had known. He watched as she moved off to the next patient, and ran a damp cloth across Haldir’s feverish forehead. The Orc blade that had caused so much damage had also been poisoned, almost as if to add insult to injury. The poison ran unchecked through Haldir’s system-slowly destroying cells, and paralyzing vital systems until they eventually shutdown, and there was not a thing that could be done to stop what was to come.

Haldir was going to die. Orophin knew that and accepted it. He just wished there was time to return his brother to the woods that he loved so much. Haldir had given much of his life over to protecting Lothlorien and the surrounding borders, and now to be so far from home…

~~**~~

Orophin paused in his futile attempt to bring down the raging fever that Haldir was burning from to stare out one of the few windows in the room. On the ledge, a small spider was spinning its web, unaffected by the chaos and activity that was still present in the sickroom hours after the battle was over. Back and forth it spun its web, all in the hope of catching a tasty morsel for its evening meal. So intent he was on watching the small insect that he almost missed the first words that came from Haldir.

“Where…brother?”

“You are safe Haldir. We are still at the Burg.”

“No…”

“Aye,” he answered as he knelt beside the bed.

“No, listen…”

Orophin closed his eyes as Haldir’s breathing came in rattling gasps. For a time he could smell death hovering over his brother-it was only biding its time.

“Orophin, look …at …me.”

He did as he was bid. Orophin could feel a tear trail down his cheek as he looked to his older brother. Haldir’s skin had taken on a gray, ashy pallor, and his eyes had an unnatural glassy sheen.

“What is it, my brother?”

“Where...is…Rumil?”

The bile rose in his throat as Orophin thought of his youngest brother for the first time in hours. Time slowed to a stand still as he tried to remember when he had last seen him. Images flashed through his mind: The fast and furious march to reach the Hornburg before the Orcs; Haldir being greeted by Estel and the stunned countenance of King Théoden and his retainers as the force from the Golden Wood marched through the gates of the fortress. Standing along the wall with his brethren, waiting for the first volley. His sword moving so rapidly, slicing through flesh and bone with ease. Rumil playfully insulting him before charging into the fray before the wall had been breached. The sound of deafening silence after the explosion had torn a hole in the ancient battlement. The flood of Saruman's forces pouring through that hole, each intent on killing whomever came against them. Haldir. Haldir being struck down. The face of the last Orc he killed.

Haldir struggled for breath.

“Look…for…look for…. look for Rumil. Don’t…leave…him…out…there…alone…”

The light faded from his eyes and his spirit flew after he had given his brother that one final order. Haldir o Lórien, the March Warden, his brother, was gone.

“Go in peace, my brother,” Orophin whispered as he closed Haldir’s eyes.

The archer bounded to his feet and strode from the room, unaware he had disturbed the small spider weaving its web.

~~**~~

Orophin once again found himself on the wall, amid the gruesome scene that had become the landscape. There was only one thought that crossed his mind.

Rumil.

He had to find Rumil.

He could not leave his youngest brother to carrion crows.

Orophin held his breath as he reached another pale-haired body. He carefully turned the broken body over to face him. He let out the breath he was holding in; it was not Rumil. He said a small prayer for the departed spirit of the unknown soldier. Orophin covered the Rider with his cloak and continued his search. He repeated his actions throughout the night. Come morning, yet still, one brother searched for the other in vain and all the while the thread of the spider stretched thinner and thinner.