AN: This is my first attempt at writing for the Lord of the Rings fandom, and as such any and all feedback, especially on my characterisation and written style, will be much appreciated. Please enjoy. Cap ;)
Disclaimer – I don't own The Lord of the Rings. It is owned by the Tolkien estate. This was written for entertainment.
'The realm of Sauron is ended!' said Gandalf. 'The Ringbearer has fulfilled his quest.' And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightening-crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell. (Extract from the Return of the King: The Field of Cormallen)
The battle was over, but Aragorn, cold and weary, could not yet find rest, not when injured souls still lingered, and corpses rotted in the field, untended. He felt a tired sigh struggle to escape, but conscious of the watchful eyes he did not let it loose. Instead he straightened his back, and approached a campfire where sat a group of men, taking their evening meal in silence, as yet too tired to properly celebrate. That would come once the dead were buried and there weren't so many constant reminders.
"Where have the healers placed their tents?" he asked, startling them enough that one dropped his meal.
They jumped to their feet, having realised who he was but Aragorn waved them down and repeated his question. He did need to know. He ought to have known already, but first he was seeing to the aftermath of the battle and then he was tending to the Ringbearers and that was done in his personal tent. But he'd done all he could for them for a time, and left them under the watchful eye of Legolas who knew enough to fetch him if he was needed. Now, his skill needed to be turned to other wounded.
The one who dropped his meal said, "I will lead you to them, My Lord K..." He stopped before saying King, not knowing if it was safe to call him that. Aragorn smiled wryly.
"There is no need to disturb your meal. I am sure I can find my way if you direct me."
The man looked ruefully down at his bowl. "I am afraid, my meal is quite over."
Aragorn suppressed a grin, finding his ruined dinner far funnier than he should have. But then, everything seemed funnier, lighter, now that the Dark Lord was gone.
The man led him in a straight path, passed rows of men sitting around camp fires; some with tents and standards behind them, some with only a bedroll, but all silent except for quite whisperings or muted snores. When dawn came, their spirits would be renewed and they would sing.
Then there came a break in the line of men, and before them was open grass, and then a great pavilion, tall and vibrant in colour, with a magnificent standard of blue and gold, with the healers' device sewn upon it. But inside could be heard the sounds of moaning and grief, and the stench could not be held at bay.
Aragorn dismissed his guide and with a grim countenance went inside.
The sight that greeted him was not atypical. Everyone rushed about in ordered chaos, rolling bandages, sewing up wounds, washing away blood, cutting away armour, amputating limbs, easing a dying's passing. Aragorn took only a second to take that in before noticing something off.
One area of the room was separated and there were the rows of the dead, but opposite to them was another group. They were equally untended, but from them emitted moans and sounds of grief and agony equal to that emitting from the rest of the wounded.
Aragorn frowned and approached a nearby man, who was washing blood off his hands.
"Why are they separated from the others and not aided," he gestured and the healer looked to where he was pointing and grimaced.
"They are Southrons and Haradrim who were amongst those who surrendered, My Lord. But we have no one to spare in aiding them, not when our own have such need."
Aragorn's frown deepened. Surely they were not so overwhelmed that they could not spare one? But perhaps they did not wish to and when there was an excuse in hand they used it.
The other man continued, "There is also, that none of us speak their language and that makes things difficult."
Aragorn clapped his shoulder, "There at least, I can be of aid. I speak their language and so I will be their healer."
The man began to protest, "But my Lord..."
But Aragorn ignored him, walking passed his own people to the nearest Haradrim. He lifted himself from unconsciousness when Aragorn placed his hands on his forehead and stared, glassy-eyed at him.
In broken speech he said, "You came. Thought, none would help."
Aragorn smiled reassuringly at him and spoke in the others native language, "I could not stand by and not give aid, when it is within my power to do so."
The haradrim laughed a wheezing laugh and then fell asleep. Aragorn tended him as best as he could, and then moved on to the next who was not so fortunate and all Aragorn could do was give him herbs to take away the pain and breathe Athelas which rejuvenated them all, so some survived when otherwise they would not have had the strength.
So he passed the night, moving from patient to patient, man to man and slowly the noise from the rest of the tent began to decrease, and more healers joined him or else left to gain what sleep they could, till at last dawn came and all that could be done, was.
Then Aragorn left the pavilion where he had laboured for so long and walked to a nearby stream to wash his hands and face. Then, as the camp was beginning to stir, he found an empty bedroll and at long last, red-eyed, he went to lie in it. And before falling into the deepest of sleeps, he looked up at the clear sky and he saw the sun.