"Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me."
~Matthew 25:40

"With the world so set on tearing itself apart, doesn't seem like such bad thing for me to want to put a little bit of it back together."
~Desmond Doss, Hacksaw Ridge

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
~Edmund Burke

Every Life

He emerged into a world of smoking hell.

The fields of the Pelennor lay shattered, crawling with the vermin of Mordor. Black shapes swirled like waves agains the wall of the White City, broke against the stones, swirled back and forward and broke again. Twisted bodies, contorted in impossible positions, sprawled among the wreck; under the great stones hurled by the trebuchets and piled in the trenches. Ash and oily, choking smoke billowed from splintered wood and burning bodies.

In all that ruin lay Rohan and Minas Tirith's finest, and the pride of Belfalas, and the bravest of the hardy mountain folk. They had sallied forth to fall and die to defend the West, and fall and die they had.

The young man gripped the strap of his satchel tight in shaking fingers, his other hand curled over his mouth to ward off the smoke. Somewhere out there among the carnage and the dead lay, helpless, ones who had been left behind. Brave men, stricken on the field. By the one hand of mighty Beren, the boy vowed, they should not die! Such was his errand.

His eyes darted over the scarred ground, the trenches, dirt piled high, burning wagons, massive rocks standing up like broken teeth . . .

Out in the smoke something moved and he heard the clank of metal. Diving, he crawled behind a boulder and pressed his back against it, both hands shaking freely now as he clutched the strap across his chest, seeking to steady himself. Iron-shod feet tramped past, guttural voices, gradually the sounds faded. Swallowing his fear, he broke from the cover of the rock and took off in a shambling run, bent low to the ground.

Slipping and sliding in the debris he ran deeper into the smoke. The ground shook under his feet as a trebuchet sent a rock crashing down nearby. He tripped once, pitching forward into the dirt, and when he stood his hands were wet and black with orc blood. Rats skittered and chattered just beyond his vision. Still no gleam of silver armor or fair skin broke the endless wasteland of mud and the foul corpses of the orcs.

Were none, then, left alive?

At that very moment something brushed against his leg, plucking at his boot.

He leapt away, biting back a cry of terror. No knife or arrow followed him. Breathless, he wondered if his mind was already giving way to fear, feeling and seeing things that were not there.

And he saw him. Coated with dirt, face gashed and swollen, bright armor dinted, lay a soldier of Gondor. His helmet was missing, and his bearded face was slack and pitiful with pain. One hand hovered across his chest, clenching and unclenching, the other stretched limp in the dirt where it had fallen after brushing the boy's ankle. The stricken face cracked in a smile.

"By my life, boy, you're more welcome than the morning star!" the man gasped.

Weak with relief, the youth dropped to his knees, fingers fumbling at his belt. He untied a flask of water, lifted the man's head to his knees and held up his head as he drank eagerly.

When the soldier had finished and fallen back with a grateful sigh, the boy brushed the dirt from his body, fingers digging into the mud and dashing it away, probing and searching for the wound. Finding a thigh torn and gashed by an axe or mace, he pulled a roll of linen from his bag and with fingers swift and sure covered the ruined flesh and knotted the bandage tightly to stem the bleeding. The soldier lay quiet as he worked, occasionally twitching away from his hands, for even the gentlest touch was harsh.

The boy helped him to his feet and stood as a crutch as they limped back to the city. Once his charge was safe inside the walls, he returned to the smoke.

A weak cry led him to the next; a rider pinned beneath his agonized horse, his leg crushed and arm pierced by an arrow. His throat was ragged with screams. Snapping the arrow-shaft off short above and below the wound, the lad swung the fallen rider to his shoulders and again returned to the wall.

The trips began to blur. A boy younger than he, seemingly dead but alive by pulse, his head battered and hair matted with blood. He was the heaviest, lolling slack and deadweight as his rescuer struggled over the broken ground. Lift, carry, give over to the care of the healers. Return. Find a body. Check the pulse. An older man this time, hand half severed. Lift. Carry. Return. Some screaming, some silent, many unconscious. Stop the bleeding. Water if they wanted it. Lift. Carry. Return. Some already gone. Some only recognizable by their armor. No pulse. Leave them. Move on. He was tired beyond tired. The water-skin was empty, he tossed it away. The satchel was empty. He picked up a dagger and a cloak and slashed it into ribbons; crude bandages. His shoulders burned. His fingers ached. The heat of the burning ground radiated into his feet. All of them too heavy now. Drag them. Orcs coming. Flop over. Play dead. They'll never question it, I'm covered in blood — not mine. Keep on, keep on.

The sun began to come up. He had little cover left. The dark was burning away . . .

He heard voices, dove behind a wagon half overturned in a trench, lay on his side, mouth open and eyes staring. Dead men were always staring, holding on to a last sight of the sun or a friendly face.

His eyes met another pair, and they flickered down and away from his gaze. A dark, swarthy face with a hawklike nose. Soldier of Harad; the South. The voices came closer. Not orcs, though their language was strange enough, their voices were human. Despair knifed through him. He lay paralyzed with fear. The enemy soldier stared steadily into his eyes. The footsteps and voices came nearer.

He dared not move. Dared not shut his eyes. Hard, booted feet caught at his back, one crushed down on his hand. It's all over, he thought. Any moment the Southron would call out to his countrymen and they would kill him, rescue the other. He thought of all the faces he had seen as he searched through the piled dead. So young and similar in the grey camaraderie of death. He thought: it is only fair.

The seconds stretched and dragged. The boy lay in an agony of fear, acutely aware of the pounding of his heart and the roaring blood in his ears. Why does he not call out? He wanted to scream himself, and finish the awful waiting. And then the last boot scraped the top of his head, and the soldiers were gone.

Still the soldier of Harad stared into his face, unblinking, eyes shifting up and down a little. Measuring him.

Fear gave way to wonder. Shaking, eyes wide, the boy pushed himself to his hands and knees. One word and the man could have killed him. He had seen the Haradrim before. They were willing to die in a heartbeat if an enemy would fall with them. So why had this man spared him, eschewing rescue to let an enemy live?

He pushed the thoughts away. He would not question this gift. He rose stiffly to his feet and turned to go.

He could not.

The youth looked back at the Southron. His dark face was as impassive as ever, showing nothing. He had not spoken, had not moved. And yet the boy sensed a call.

Here was no monster but a man. Flesh and bone and sinew like himself, and now torn and bleeding. Red oozed in slow rivulets beneath the shredded surcoat and coursed among the links of armor on his chest. A man. A casualty. Like all the others.

He took a half step toward the wagon. Hesitated. Stopped.

They sided with the orcs. They fought beside those vermin. It is they who have killed our men and left Minas Tirith desolate; a house of widows and orphans!

The soldier lay still as the battle raged back and forth in the soul of the boy. At last he relaxed and stepped forward. His eyes watched the man like a hawk, but his hands held no uncertainty and moved steady and sure. He unclasped the red cloak about the warrior's shoulders, drew the man's jeweled dagger and slashed the scarlet fabric into strips. As gently as he could, he pulled the battered body from beneath the wagon and propped him against his knees, unlacing the surcoat and scaly armor underneath. Laying the warrior on his back, he drew the metal coat carefully away from the torn flesh.

It was a crushing wound, delivered by the point of a rider's lance that had driven the links of armor into the flesh, penetrated, and snapped off.

With only the thin shirt worn underneath armor left, the boy could see the rapid rise and fall of the Haradrim's chest, and the way the blood oozed — faster, slower, faster, slower — with the beats of the man's heart.

He took the shreds of scarlet fabric cut from the cloak and laid them in around the spearhead, careful not to touch or jar it. Then he wound others around the man's chest to hold the packing in place. There was little he could do, with the spearhead there, but neither could he draw it out on the battlefield with nothing but torn clothing to staunch the bleeding.

Finished as best he could, he surveyed the wounded man. The warrior had endured his ministrations silently. Only his eyes and the tight line of his jaw betrayed his pain. Even with help, the man would never reach the city under his own power. The boy steeled himself. I'll just have to summon the strength to carry one more.

He knelt down beside the body, took up the man's right arm and draped it over his neck. Sensing his intent, the injured man struggled to get to his feet. The boy squatted, gathered himself underneath the man's torso, and stood, pulling his legs forward over his shoulder. He swayed a little, the fresh weight making his tired body protest. Gathering his energy, he started for the walls.

He sensed the danger before he saw it.

The man on his back tensed suddenly and raised his head. The movement threw the boy off balance; he staggered and nearly fell. From the corner of his eye, he saw dark figures running toward them through the haze, cruel cutting swords raised. At the same moment, his burden gave a cry. The tone of fear was unmistakeable, and even in his thickly accented voice the boy understood the fearful words: "Uruk! Uruk-hai!"

Throwing caution to the wind he broke into a lurching run, heart leaping into his throat each time his feet slipped in the loose earth. One stumble, one small misstep, and the uruks would be on him before he could rise. He focused every ounce of his ebbing energy and will on speed.

Behind him the pursuit sounded terrifyingly close. He could hear the iron-shod feet of the orcs clattering on the stones and fallen weapons littering the field. Their uncouth gear clashed and rang and their guttural voices egged each other on. The noise served to spur the lad to greater speed. He staggered and swayed, feet miring down deep at every step, made awkward and clumsy by his exhaustion and heavy burden. His shoulders were knots of writhing fire, his legs one searing ache. His lungs gasped and sucked at the foul, stifling air.

The gate was in sight, a man-made web of steel backed with heavy wood. He heard his voice, hoarse and ragged, screaming for the guards to open it.

Arrows hissed and whined over his head as someone took the initiative and tried to cover him. He heard a choked cry, cut off, but he dared not look back and see how many had fallen. Not all of them; of that he was certain.

He would not make it! Nay, but he must!

The youth flung himself against the postern door just as it creaked open, lunging through the opening and staggering forward to lean panting against the wall. He collapsed, hands going slack, the wounded man half sliding from his shoulders. Half conscious, he rested his head against the cold stones, utterly spent and shaking to the bone.

Strong hands grasped the Southron warrior, lifting him from the back of his rescuer. The boy struggled to open his eyes, to see, but each time his ears and head pounded and he had no choice but to shut them again. Gentle fingers pulled his locked arms away from their place hugging his chest, prodding him for injuries. Frightened and exhausted, he fought against their touch.

"Hush," a voice said. "You're safe now. Be still."

Further away, he could hear a confused murmur. "A Southron? He was clearly exhausted. The orcs nearly had them! Poor boy. But a man of Harad . . ."

He could almost see them shaking their heads in confusion, sorry that he was so tired as to not know he had wasted his energy saving the life of an enemy. The words goaded him to sudden anger.

Pushing away the searching hands, he struggled to his feet and faced the group defensively, red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears that cut channels in the ash and dirt coating his face. "I know what he is!" he shouted. "I knew he was Southron. Should I have left him lying? To die? Is that the way of Gondor? Is that the way we treat the dead?" His voice rose higher and higher. "Faugh! Then the men of Minas Tirith are no better than orcs!"

The lad's face crumbled and he slid to the ground, shivering and weeping against the hard rock of the wall.

They had not been! They had not seen! They did not know, they could not know! He'd had to save that man.

Sobs tore his chest and he buried his face in his hands. His legs trembled uncontrollably and ghostly lights flashed before his eyes.

Rough wool brushed his cheek. Blearily as he raised his head he saw Ioreth, the old healer, wrapping her cloak over his trembling, burning shoulders. He sank into the folds, utterly spent in every way. He tried to grasp a corner of the cloth, but his hand shook and lurched and would not hold it. Gently, Ioreth took the fold and wiped the tears and grime from his face. He gave a great, shuddering sigh.

"Why is it so inconceivable to them that I brought in a Southron?" he asked her, forgetting that not so long ago he himself would have recoiled. As he spoke, the choked rasp of his own voice startled him. "Isn't every life worth saving?"

The old woman smiled. "Yes." she said firmly. "Every life is precious. It does not matter what land one hails from, only that one lives and breathes and feels like any other. In a war, that clear-sightedness is lost and all becomes a murky swamp as men strive to kill or be killed. That, I think, is the greatest tragedy of the thing."

Her eyes turned toward the gate, and the boy imagined her gaze melting away the rocks and revealing the seething inferno and melee outside. No doubt that was what lay in her mind's eye. In that moment he hated the fighting. The glory, the honor, the courage, they all seemed to strip away and leave an ugly, shriveled thing. He did not want orcs to walk the streets of Minas Tirith, but he wished that there were some other way. Why did those maggots have to crawl out from their mountains and descend upon the White City? Most of all he wished they had never existed.

He looked over at the other healers, clustered around the fallen man of Harad. "Will they take him?" he asked. "The Southron?" He could not bear to think that his desperate charge across the plain had been for naught.

Ioreth's eyes flashed. "They will," she said. "Or they will have me to reckon with."

The boy smiled a little at that. "I am glad," he said, "that I helped him. I am glad."

The old woman smiled back. "What you did was right." she said. "You are a brave young lad. It is one thing to stand upon the wall with a weapon and face the darkness, it is quite another to charge out into it alone. You have done well by saving this man's life."

He nodded slowly, acknowledging her words. The old woman rose, and, dimly, he heard her directing the others to load the wounded man onto a stretcher. He watched as the little group moved off up the street, and just before they turned a corner and were lost to his sight, he thought he saw the Southron catch his eye, and for the first time, the dark, expressionless face move into what looked like a smile.

With a tired sigh, the boy settled down deep into the cloak, pulling it around him tightly. His hands were steadier now and his heart had slowed to normal. A deep, deathly exhaustion flowed over him. Already waves of sleep were dragging his sore body under, ready to sooth his stiff muscles and battered emotions. But before he surrendered completely, he allowed himself a single thought: that though the war still raged outside the city, though the air still carried the stench of death, there was one who lay above in the Houses of Healing who without him would have had no hope. No on else would have saved a Southron. The man had spared is life, and now something lay between them that was not friendship, but something deeper: the connection of those who together had confronted death, and risen victorious.

~No matter a person's allegiances, skin color, or choices, they are human, and humans help one another. In the face of pain, violence, and despair, we have only the friends we earn. All that is required for the triumph of evil (and hatred, and fear) is for good men (and women) to do nothing.