Disclaimer: I do not own any of this. I am making no money from this story. All recognizable events, places, scenarios, concepts, items, and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and possibly New Line Cinema.

A/N: I haven't given up on "Never Let Go", but I'm having some difficulty with multiple paragraphs in the beginning of the next chapter. In the meantime, the inspiration for this little vignette-thing grabbed hold and wouldn't let go until I had written it. It has certainly departed from the original inspiration, but I think it's done so for the better.

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The man's hands shook as he wiped his blade clean upon the wet grass, staining the bright green a dark scarlet. But the man's attention was not on the grass. Instead his eyes were fixed upon a figure lying prone beyond the bodies of his deformed attackers. His eyes narrowed, trying to see clearly through the hazy rainfall. He watched for signs of life, a breath, a movement. His own breath hitched within his chest, for he saw neither of those.

He stepped over the twisted carnage that littered the open field, not heeding the mud that soaked through his boots, intent only on reaching his friend before it was too late. If it was not already too late. The man shook his head vehemently. He would not think such things until he had seen clearly that no breath escaped the elf's lips, that no rhythm beat within in his breast.

The man kneeled carefully at his fallen friend's side, and forced his hands to stop trembling. He held his left palm over pale lips, willing warm, living breath to chase away the chill of the air. One second passed. Then two. His hand began to resume its shivering, now brought by grief, not gelidity. He bowed his head slightly. Ah! Slight warmth greeted his numbing fingers, forcing some of the cold from them for a brief second. There! It happened a second time.

Assured that his friend was at least still alive, the man lifted him into his arms, looking around for some form of shelter from the freezing rain. He found none.

And it rained throughout the morning.

Blood. Dark stains soiled the elf's once fine shirt, now torn and defiled beyond repair. But that suited the man just fine, for he could not treat his friend's wounds while the shirt remained, and the tears simply made a part of his job easier. Clumsy fingers sought the largest slash in the fabric, and tore it further, exposing the knife wound that rent white skin. Unfortunately, the man realized, it also exposed his injured friend to the wet and the cold. He leaned farther over the thin body, hoping to shield him from the worst of the rain.

The gash on his chest was deep, but straight, and it would be fairly simple to treat, as the blade that caused the wound had not been poisoned. A large drop of rain slid from his hair and mingled with the blood that seeped from the wound. A wry smile crossed the man's hooded face briefly, and he noted that at least he would not want for water, because he was nearly drowning in it.

And it rained throughout the afternoon.

The man checked the elf's bandaged chest for the hundredth time, hoping that the cloth had not grown too soaked with rain to do any good. To his relief the bandages were wet with neither rain nor blood, and he sighed softly. Although the bleeding had stopped some time ago, his friend still had not woken. Fervent worry wrinkled his brow. He knew the elf was strong, he should have regained consciousness long ago. Perhaps there was some hidden head wound that he had missed in the initial examination? The man took the elf's head gently in his hands, feeling the scalp for bumps or scrapes. There were none. A frown crossed his face. Surely, he would have been aware at least two or three hours past, if there was no head injury.

The problem must be the cold. The man knew that elves were not susceptible to low temperatures while in good health, but his friend was most certainly not in good health at present. He leaned even farther over his friend, cursing the weather silently. He reached across the elf's chest carefully, and pulled his pack closer. Unfastening the clasp took several tries with his own numb and shivering fingers, but he finally managed it. He uncovered a spare dark green cloak. It was not exactly clean, but it was warm, thick, and well-made, factors that were most important at the moment. He spread it over his friend with care, trying to cover every inch of his body possible and still keep the fabric under his own shadow. The cloak would not help anyone if it grew damp.

And it rained throughout the evening.

The elf's bandages had not shown any traces of fresh blood, which the man knew was a good sign. But it was the only good sign. His pallor had not improved significantly, and he still showed no signs of waking. And now, after so many hours in the cold and the rain, the man could feel his own health deteriorating. A headache pounded behind his eyes, and his throat was so sore it hurt to swallow. He drew his cloak closer about his body, but it had long since been soaked beyond usefulness.

The man looked down at the elf again, watching his chest rise and fall. He took comfort in the fact that, at long last, a bit of color tinged his friend's cheeks. Perhaps he would soon wake, and they could begin the trek toward safer - and drier - ground. The thought of warmth cheered the man, and a small smile graced his trembling lips. Warmth. Fire. Light. Love. Perhaps soon they could find shelter beneath the trees that were surely only a few miles away, or maybe under a rocky outcropping. They would find shelter soon.

And the clouds cleared in the dark night.

The man tilted his head up in relief as the droplets of rain that fell upon his head grew scarce, few and far between. The rain was finally, finally, letting up. Grey eyes scanned the sky, looking for a certain star among millions. But the remaining clouds obscured it, and he lowered his eyes, disappointed.

"Ah, Eärendil."

The man's deep sigh appeared to rouse the elf beside him, for he released an answering sigh of his own. Clearly surprised, the man straightened and grasped the elf's hand. He watched his friend's face intently, the first true vestiges of hope creeping into his heart. He smiled as the elf lifted heavy eyelids to reveal blue irises, returning fully to the land of the living.

The elf smiled weakly at the man, who could not help but turn his own smile into a grin that would put even the brightest star to shame that night.

And the stars shone back in gleeful response, twinkling and merry.

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A/N: I didn't realize until I finished this that the lack of names and abundance of description gives the ficlet a sort of "The Road"/Cormac McCarthy feel, but oh well. It works for the book, and I think it works here, too.

I hope that if you read this, you enjoyed it.

If you want to make me as happy as Aragorn is, please read and review! ;)