The Untold Want
THE untold want, by life and land ne'er granted,
Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
Walt Whitman (1819–1892)
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And it seems to me if I could know those men,
I should become attached to them, as I do to men in my own lands;
O I know we should be brethren and lovers,
I know I should be happy with them.
Walt Whitman (1819–1892)
Dampness, incessant drip of water, chill caverns of Helm's Deep. Morning of victory bought with blood, courage stretched uttermost, weariness in warriors taking their rest, having hurts tended or last hours assuaged. What healers the Rohirrim had, and goodwives with small knowledge, moved through the ranks of men tending what they could, comforting what they could not.
Aragorn lent help though the weight of battle past yoked him with exhaustion. He was soon relegated to sitting and advising, and then knew he could do no more. Battle took too much. He bethought to walk the parapets but knew visions of death would nowise ease his mind. Even at the entrance to the caverns he could smell the faint stench of the fires burnt the carcasses of the enemy dead.
Caught between the already dead and the dying. Caught in the respite between Rohan and where his journey led.
"Lord Aragorn!" The words snapped his head around.
"Captain Erkenbrand, is it not?"
"Aye"
"Your coming could not have been more timely this day."
"You're looking for food then?"
"I meant your arrival to the field," Aragorn chuckled, a grim edge on his voice still.
"Aye, that. Only duty, Lord Aragorn. I came to say there be food prepared, and curtained pallets for our nobles, need you to eat or rest. Down the hall are the quarters." The captain motioned, before taking his leave and departing the fortress.
Silence descending as Aragorn walked away from the doors. A large room with curtained pallets to one side of the hall, few within, most still tending the field and noting the fallen. A sound from further down the hall, scrape of whetstone against steel, beckoned him. A room with warm lamp-glow spilling forth. Perhaps company in the calming meditative work of tending weapons; to put the mind at rest to sleep.
Eomer, sister-son of Theoden King, tending his sword, the lamplight burnishing his hair to old gold, his shoulders slumped as if with age as well. Too young for the burden now upon him, Aragorn thought, and moved into the room, laying a hand upon the younger man's shoulder.
A sword immediately at his neck, he stepped back. "Peace, Lord Eomer." Aragorn held up his hands. "This is not the unguarded plain."
"Make more noise the next time," Eomer said brusquely, lowering his weapon. He resumed his seat and his work.
"The fortress is well guarded."
Eomer only grunted in reply, bent over his sword blade, carefully sharpening. "There's ale if you want some." He gestured with his shoulder. "On the far table."
"And yourself?"
"Yes"
"Are you well?" Aragorn asked, setting down the tankards and placing a hand on Eomer's arm.
Eomer looked down at the hand on his arm, and when he looked up his eyes were glittering shards of pale ice. "I am well. Whetstone oil and rags are here if you've forgotten your own."
"And you refuse consolation when offered?"
"What I need I take. Had I need, I'd find it." Eomer returned to his blade, concentrating on the fine end. Slow precise strokes, commanding sharpness, honing perfect control.
Aragorn took his own whetstone from his small pack. And in the silence the men sat. Unison in the rasp of steel and stone. Tenuous consolation in shared silence.