Aragorn knew better than to try and sleep, and so he spent his time setting pots to boil, melting snow for water, and making sure the herbs were sorted and easily accessible. The other healers did not believe him when he told them that they had until dawn to prepare for incoming wounded, but they did not hinder his efforts at readiness either.

Unfortunately, Thorongil's word was proven right.

Suddenly a horn blew, and then answering calls. Then the men of the garrison started shouting, barking orders and making ready. Aragorn ignored it all, of course. He knew what was happening, and he knew what his task was. He grabbed a small pouch of herbs and bandages and went out to wait for the casualties to arrive, having assigned himself to triage duty without asking.

Soon horses came into view, picking their way swiftly but carefully down the mountain. These were the pack horses from earlier, now made to carry passengers again. The wounded were seated two and three to a horse, and in the fading moonlight as the sun made ready to rise Aragorn could make out thin dark trails behind the horses. Many of the wounds were severe.

"To the horses!" Came a shout, Aragorn supposed from the head healer. The men of the garrison helped the healers to relieve the horses of their burden, and so some nameless soldier helped Aragorn to ease an injured man from his mount. The poor soul had a black arrow protruding from high in his chest, and his eyes were bright with fever.

"Easy now, we will take care of you," Aragorn soothed him as he rummaged blindly in his pouch for herbs and bandages. Then in swift and deliberate action, he snapped the arrow shaft off not an inch above the man's flesh. The injured soldier cried out in pain, but no sooner had he done that was Aragorn packing herbs about the remainder of the shaft and securing it all with a wad of bandage.

"Take him inside!" Aragorn called out. Two garrison soldiers materialized at his side. "He needs treatment immediately!" And the poor soldier was carried away, just in time for Aragorn to move on to the next casualty lying in the snow nearby with garrison soldiers hovering beside him.

"Out of the way!" Aragorn cried as he pushed one soldier over. Aragorn ignored all protests as he began sizing up the injuries. The man had a puncture wound from an orcish blade in his abdomen, two inches above the navel. It didn't appear all that deep—his armor, that someone must have removed to examine the wound, deflected most of the blade.

"You'll be all right," Aragorn assured the man as he packed the wound with athelas and bandages. Then, to the waiting soldiers: "Take him inside! Hurry!"

Aragorn spent his time thusly, tending to the wounded when first they arrived, as the moon fell and the pre-dawn mist made everything a hazy gray, and cold. The dark stains in the snow were bright red now beneath the light of the rising sun.

Aragorn didn't have time to contemplate the scope of the carnage that surrounded him, however. After the blade wound, he found a soldier that took an orcish club to the helm, which shattered beneath the impact. Aragorn did what he could for the man and sent him inside with the rest, though analytically he doubted whether or not the man would ever awaken again.

Aragorn shoved those thoughts aside as he found the next patient, and the next, and then the next. By now they were coming in on their own two feet, stumbling, staggering, falling down, desperately trying to carry their comrades, and dropping them when their own wounds made the burden too heavy. There were shouts of pain, cries of anguish, and orders were shouted back and forth: take this one inside! I need more bandages! Quick, hold him down! No, take this one to the other side of camp. We'll bury him later.

Aragorn blocked out all these sounds, save for the ones telling him where the next triage patient was lying. And he blocked out all the smells, aside from that of healing herbs, so that he could ignore the stench of blood and bowels and death and putrescence as men's lives leeched out beneath his fingers as he tried to save them. And he refused to see how the warmth of bodily fluids melted the snow and turned it to slush and mud, stained red or sickly yellow and green, and how it all mixed together eventually, and stained his clothes beyond repair as he knelt beside his latest patient and tried in vain to put the man's small intestine back where it belonged.

When Aragorn's pack ran out he ordered someone to fetch more herbs and bandages… and again… and again… and again until the athelas ran out sometime before the sun had climbed high in the sky and the fresh bandages he was getting were soiled, boiled to sterilize them but not thoroughly washed. Just as Aragorn was forced to reach for his own dagger to amputate an unsalvageable arm and secure the stump with a tourniquet ripped from his own cloak he heard his name being called above the din.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn sat back on his heels in the muck and gore, still oblivious, and tried to figure out who was calling him.

"Ai! Thorongil!"

Eolad. It was Eolad who was running up to him from the entrance to the hospital. The apprentice was so covered in blood and other substances, even in his hair and staining his face, that Aragorn hadn't immediately recognized him.

"Eolad…"

"You're needed in the hospital now, Thorongil," Eolad informed him. "Let the apprentices handle triage!"

Aragorn nodded mutely and allowed Eolad to help him to his feet—a move that nearly sent him sprawling on his back, so slippery with blood were both their hands.

"Take this," Aragorn said as he handed his triage back to Eolad. Eolad accepted it and nodded in thanks. Then the next casualty was brought over—one soldier carrying another and screaming bloody murder for a healer to save his brother. Aragorn left Eolad to it and returned to the hospital.

The sight inside the hospital was no better than that outside. The healers were crowded around makeshift cots, barking out orders to random soldiers suddenly promoted to nurses and orderlies. Used bandages were piled waist-high, and in one corner men were boiling them—along with melting new water and cleaning surgical equipment over open flames. The wounded were put on cots along the walls of the hospital tent, and soldiers were rapidly shifting those beds around to accommodate the steadily increasing volume of wounded soldiers, and still others were bringing cots in from the garrison's barracks to add to the hospital's dwindling supply.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn was startled out of his mini-reverie by someone shouting his name. There was a wounded soldier on one of the surgical benched that he didn't remember as having been there when he walked in.

"Thorongil! Get to it!"

Aragorn knew then that he was the healer assigned to that bench, and the soldier lying there now was waiting for him to help him.

"Ai Elbereth…" And he was at the soldier's side, dunking his soiled hands in the wash basin and preparing for the task at hand.

Aragorn worked tirelessly for countless hours. The first soldier he treated—lacerated femoral artery and a verifiable miracle he had survived this long—was stitched up and carted off only to be replaced by another. This one had an arrow protruding from his hip, which the apprentice on triage had snapped off but not fully removed. Aragorn hastily cut it free and stitched the wound closed. He added herbs to the poultice and sent the soldier away. The third casualty had taken an orcish scimitar to the chest. He drowned in his own blood even before Aragorn could fully assess the extent of the damage to his lungs. This soldier was taken away, just like the rest, and Aragorn didn't have time to dwell on the loss before another soldier was placed before him.

On through the day they worked, the healers in their hospital, and still the wounded kept trickling in. At times there were no life-threatening cases, and Aragorn found himself merely setting limbs or stitching non-fatal wounds. These poor soldiers would then mount a fresh horse as soon as they were released from care and set off at full gallop back up the mountain side, even if they had to hold a sword in their off hand or if their ability to shoot a bow would only suffice now from horseback.

These precious few lulls were never long enough, however. Always the pace would quicken and the dying would take precedence once again.

The sun climbed past its zenith, and still the wounded came.

The bandages no-longer held anything of their original color. They were permanently stained in morbid hues of reds and browns, and so overused that Aragorn could no longer tell by texture if it had been a bandage, or a shredded bit of cloak or tunic or even bit of tent, so desperate were they for bits of cloth.

Shadows lengthened into afternoon, and Aragorn had to amputate another limb. Hopefully this one would live long enough to hate him for it.

The snow around the hospital tent had receded considerably by now, as it was gathered into pots and pans and melted and boiled for water. One now had to travel ten paces in any direction in order to gather enough snow to be useful.

The air grew chilled as the sun retreated behind the western mountains, and Aragorn stitched up a gaping hole in one man's belly only to realize too late that the poor soul had stopped breathing and was growing cold.

There were no cots left, not even in the garrison, where the wounded were being moved when at some point it was decided that the hospital itself was too small. Now bedrolls were being offered up. Talk was made that soon, cloaks would be needed to rest the wounded upon. That is, if any are left after the mad rush to find scraps for bandages.

Twilight fell, and Aragorn noticed that some of the minor wounds he'd treated earlier were already up and walking around, either trying to get back to the front or trying to offer aid. Soldiers of the garrison shouted that more horses were arriving. Aragorn didn't really have time to wonder when the poor beasts' coats would ever be clean of the stain. More hoof beats then as the walking wounded remounted and returned to battle. Candles and lanterns were lit as now there was not enough daylight to see by.

Sometime after dark, long after the athelas had run out, and the wormwood and the lavender and gammer's root had run out, the hardest blow was felt:

"He's waking up!" Aragorn called out. "I need more canterweed!"

"I'm sorry, sir," said a very young apprentice healer.

Aragorn looked up from the arrow wound he was dealing with.

"There isn't any."

Aragorn thought that his knees would give out. "You mean, we don't have anything with which to anesthetize the wounded?"

"That's precisely what he means," the master healer called out from his own surgical cot. He was stitching closed a ghastly wound on one soldier's back. The soldier on Aragorn's cot moaned slightly and tried to move. Aragorn grabbed the man's shoulders and in a panicked voice cried out:

"But how can we treat their wounds when they're still awake? If this one moves as I work to remove the arrow it could be fatal!"

The master healer's voice was infuriatingly calm as he replied: "Then I suggest you recruit some soldiers to hold him down."

And so Aragorn and the other healers worked, on throughout the night, intentionally blocking out the sound of screams and gasps and moans as their patients felt the full brunt of the treatments to save them. Aragorn had enlisted the aid of five garrison soldiers at times to help restrain his patients as he struggled to save their lives.

He only hoped that, in time, he could block out the memory of their screaming.

The herb supply was dwindling, the bed supply was gone, and it was worried that the sinew would run out next. Already the soldiers were told that they would be cutting strands from horsetails as soon as they returned to camp.

At least they wouldn't run out of water. It was snowing again.

Sometime after the moon had reached zenith but before the predawn mist crept into their camp, the flow of wounded finally trickled to a stop. The last of the minor wounds that before had been told to wait were taken care of, and those that were able took the few remaining horses and returned up the mountain. The rest were shown to cots or bedrolls or cloaks—whichever had just been vacated by a dying soldier—so that they too could finally rest.

Aragorn braced himself against his surgical cot with a tired, moaning sigh. There wasn't a single spec of wood on the cot that wasn't stained with blood and gore. Aragorn had tried to keep the surface as clean as possible, but soon the rags were confiscated for bandages and the water was needed elsewhere.

A few deep, calming breaths wherein he nearly wretched from the stench of blood and death and fluids, and Aragorn pushed back on his heels and stood up straight again. He reached a tired hand back to brush his hair out of his eyes, but only wound up streaking blood onto his forehead, somehow finding a spot that wasn't previously stained in the process. At least he hadn't noticed how his hair was thick and crusty in places now from the dried… substances… that had managed to find their way there.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn startled at the sound of his name. Almost everyone had moved to the barracks where the treated casualties were being housed. He turned to see Eolad standing beside him, equally disheveled from the day's activities.

"Eolad," Aragorn nodded to him in greeting. Then it seemed as though the two healers had nothing more to say.

"Come," Eolad said softly after a time. "They've gathered more water. The Master Healer has decided that we can clean ourselves up now."

Aragorn nodded dumbly, completely lost for words. He allowed Eolad to lead him from the hospital tent and over behind the barracks tent. Several large bowls were set there, along with what could be had of clean rags, for the healers to clean themselves with.

Aragorn claimed a bowl and slowly dunked his hands in it. It was still warm from having recently been melted, and as he watched the stains gradually leave his hands and take residence in the water suddenly his fingers were no longer fingers but the insides of young blond-haired boys, their insides drowning in their own juices. Aragorn withdrew his hands quickly as if burned, but didn't have time to think more on because he doubled over and wretched, taking out the small stand that held his washbowl in the process.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn was on his hands and knees in the frozen mud, grasping at it weekly as his stomach went through dry heave after dry heave. He closed his eyes and smelt the death around them, tasted it on his tongue and nearly wretched again. Fortunately he hadn't eaten anything in nearly a day, so there wasn't much in his stomach to expel.

Finally the tremors ceased. Aragorn wiped the edge of his mouth with the back of his hand and didn't even taste the blood that transferred there. Eolad was kneeling beside him, and now he met the apprentice's concerned gaze.

"I'm all right," he answered tiredly, his cheeks remaining flushed due to embarrassment.

"Of course," Eolad agreed neutrally, placing a hand soothingly on Aragorn's back. "Come on, let's try that again."

Eolad stood without even noticing how his leggings were newly stained by Aragorn's vomit, so stained they were with the fluids of everyone else he had come across that day. Wordlessly he offered Aragorn a hand up, though this time the grip remained sure. A garrison soldier was already bringing over another bowl of water, and Eolad thanked him.

Aragorn tried again, this time succeeding in washing his hands. He accepted a fresh rag from Eolad and scrubbed his arms, face, and neck. His hair he didn't care about and he had a spare tunic in his pack back in the barracks.

No he didn't. It was used for bandages hours ago.

Aragorn sighed tiredly. By Eru, he was exhausted, and he couldn't care less about what he looked like right now.

"Thorongil! Eolad!"

The two healers turned around and saw a garrison soldier jogging towards them.

"Yes, Ceorl?" Apparently Eolad knew him. Aragorn felt badly that he did not.

"They'll be burning the dead soon," the soldier told them.

Eolad nodded. "We'll be there presently."

The soldier nodded once and jogged back to where he came from. Aragorn tried really hard to formulate the words to voice his question, but all he succeeded in doing was wagging his jaw several times, emitting no sound. Eolad took pity on him though, and anticipated what he was trying to ask.

"It's too cold to bury the dead," he informed. "There are too many of them to carry back with us at this far a ride, so we burn them instead. The fires will help keep the living from freezing to death."

Aragorn nodded in belated understanding. "I take it there is ceremony involved?"

Eolad smiled sadly. "Yes, and we are expected to attend."

Aragorn and Eolad made their way over to where the deceased were stacked. It was an odd sight, seeing three piles of human bodies stacked chest-high like bricks waiting for the kiln. The stench was unbarable, and Aragorn couldn't help but search the visible faces for signs of recognition. Everyone in the garrison was present, including all the healers and those of the wounded that were still relatively mobile. Many had tearstained faces, recognizing kin amongst the bodies. Aragorn felt sorry for their loss, and even worse that he didn't take the time to get to know these poor souls when he had the chance.

The captain in charge of the garrison was speaking now, in the language of the Rohirrim. Aragorn understood most of what was said at first, but they the words melted into song, and it seemed as though everyone else began singing along, though with different words here and there from their compatriots, and in different keys with different tempos. Aragorn soon became lost in the dirge, this cacophony of sorrow that swirled around them and swallowed them whole. He closed his eyes and offered his own softly spoken prayer for the souls of the dead as the towers of bodies were set ablaze.

"Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath."

Sometime after the lighting of the pyres and before dawn broke in the eastern sky, the denizens of the base camp were allowed to find rest. Much of the garrison was sleeping now, on their cloaks and huddled together for warmth in their own makeshift shelters. The healers were resting in shifts so that they could still tend to the wounded in the barracks and the hospital.

Aragorn had volunteered for first watch, and he spent his time checking pulses, monitoring breathing, and changing bandages. One soldier died while on his watch, and Aragorn had to wake two soldiers from the garrison to carry the body over to a pyre. He couldn't leave his charges unattended.

After the soldiers had gone, Aragorn took the used bandages removed from the soldier and put them in a pot to boil. Had he thought of it then, he would have ordered the soldier stripped so that his very clothes could be used for bandages. As the scent of burning flesh wafted through the hospital again, Aragorn was very glad he hadn't thought of it then.

Another healer relieved him of his watch just before dawn. Now it was Aragorn's turn to try and find rest. He left the barracks tent and wandered back towards the hospital. His feet dragged heavily through the freshly fallen snow, no longer reminding anyone of elves.

Aragorn made his way into the hospital tent and over to his surgery. The wood had dried now, but was still irrevocably stained. The smell was putrid, but not as bad as the air outside. This tent was downwind of the pyres. Aragorn hoisted himself up onto the cot and curled into a ball on his side, hugging himself for warmth in the remains of his torn cloak. He was asleep before the sun fully rose as red ball of flame in the east.


Aragorn didn't get to sleep for long. Sometime before the sun had reached its zenith the sounds of voices woke him.

"Quickly! Bring him in here!"

Aragorn was instantly alert. He sat bolt upright on the cot and saw one of the healers directing a soldier of the garrison, who was carrying a wounded man. Aragorn swung his feet over the cot and stood up as the healer directed the patient to be placed on a vacant cot.

"Please…" The man rasped, wincing in pain even as he did so. He had an orc's arrow in his back, the tip coming partially through his left shoulder. The healer and the soldier had eased the man into a reclining position.

"Just relax," the healer instructed as he used a knife to cut away the straps of the man's shirt. "We'll take care of you."

"No…" The man groaned. "Need… I need to speak to… captain…"

"I'm sure you do," the healer placated without really listening. He pulled the man's shirt away from the wound and the man gasped. "But it can wait until I remove this arrow."

The man shook his head in jerky, exaggerated movements. Aragorn recognized that a fever was already setting in. No doubt the arrow was poisoned.

"Can't wait…"

Suddenly something clicked in Aragorn's brain. He strode purposely forward declaring, "He's a scout!"

The garrison soldier took notice but the healer was too bust getting a firm grip on the arrow shaft. The man turned fever-bright eyes to Aragorn, trying desperately to convey his message in the instant before the healer snapped off the shaft and the man cried out in pain. Aragorn then shifted his gaze to the garrison soldier, and their eyes met in a knowing look.

"I'll fetch the captain!" The soldier announced, and then he quickly fled. The healer gave Aragorn an annoyed glance before he began to push the severed arrow shaft the rest of the way through. The man groaned through the pain, seemingly no longer capable of crying out. Aragorn moved forward and grabbed a handful of herbs and sprinkled them onto a fresh bandage.

"Will you stitch the entry point first, or the exit?" He asked the healer. The scout was fading, his eyes blinking rapidly as he fought to remain conscious. Aragorn noted with admiration how he tried to use the pain to focus his addled brain. He hoped that the captain would arrive soon so that the scout could make his report.

"Entry," the healer informed him. Then with one final push the arrow came free. Aragorn clamped the bandage over the exit point to staunch the blood flow while the other healer concentrated on the entry point. The healer nodded to Aragorn in appreciation.

"What is it?" A new voice suddenly called out. Aragorn's head snapped around and he saw the captain of the garrison entering the hospital tent. He swiftly made his way to the semi-conscious scout. "What news of the front?"

The scout blinked and shook his head, fighting desperately against the poisons coursing through his system. "The battle, sir…" he ground out through grit teeth. "Going well."

Aragorn nearly balked at that. If all these casualties were from a battle gone well, then what in Eru's name happens when one goes poorly? The scout coughed once and blood formed on his lips. Aragorn closed his eyes in agonizing defeat. The arrow must have nicked a lung.

"And?" The captain prompted impatiently.

The scout shook his head again, fighting the lure of unconsciousness. "Many orcs… dead… Rest… fleeing." Both Aragorn and the captain smiled.

"This is wonderful news!" The captain was fairly young. He couldn't contain his joy. The scout shook his head again, more violently this time. He coughed and struggled and the healer looked to Aragorn to hold him down. Aragorn did so.

"Many men… avalanche… trapped in… the high pass. Orcs caused a r-rockslide. Will w-w-wait for… dark…" The scout's eyes began rolling back into his head but he bit his own tongue at the last second to return from the brink. More blood dribbled over his lips as his fevered eyes desperately looked from the captain to Aragorn.

"They'll be slaughtered…" Aragorn spoke after a moment, finally realizing what the scout was trying to convey that was so important. Aragorn looked fearfully to the captain. "The orcs will attack from the safety of high ground as soon as the sun sets. Without cover our men won't stand a chance!"

The scout nodded in relief, signaling that he was correct in that assessment. The captain's eyes widened in realization and horror just as the scout succumbed at last. Aragorn, the captain, and the healer remained in stunned silence.

"I'm done with the entry point." Well, the captain and Aragorn were the ones stunned to silence. The healer might as well have been ignoring the entire conversation, so intently was he focusing on the task at hand. Aragorn shifted his position and the healer came around to take his place.

"When he awakens, find his name," the captain directed. "He should be commended."

Aragorn nodded absently, his mind still reeling from present revelations.

"How did you know he was a scout?" The captain then asked, bringing Aragorn's mind to attention.

"He wasn't brought in wearing the usual armor of a Rider of the Mark," Aragorn explained. "Only long-range scouts have the need to travel so lightly."

The captain nodded, accepting the validity of the deduction. "Very good, master healer… healers. Continue your fine work. I have urgent business now to attend to." With that the captain turned and quickly took his leave.

Aragorn then returned his attentions to the scout. He felt the man's forehead and winced at the heat of the fever. He checked his pulse—feint but fast, and his breathing—shallow and raspy. His lungs were gradually filling with fluid. Aragorn checked the man's eyes next, not to gauge their reaction to light but rather to test a hunch.

Then he silently cursed that his hunch was correct.

The blood vessels in the man's eyes were visible, but instead of red they were colored dark yellow: the telltale sign of a typical orcish poison. The remedy was a simple one: mix periola root with the oils from mustard seeds and boil the liquid down into a paste to be applied to the wound. Boil athelas in water to produce healing vapors to ease the lungs after the puncture wound and of the effects of the poison, and the patient should make a full recovery.

They had run out of athelas many hours ago.

Periola root wasn't even counted amongst the herbs.

"I have finished," the healer announced. Aragorn left his own musings to see that the scout's shoulder was fully bandaged. The man seemed to be in a troubled sleep, but at least he did not stir.

"Do we have something to ease his suffering?" Aragorn asked in a pained voice.

The healer seemed to give the matter serious thought. "Mint and lavender perhaps. If we wiped him down constantly with wet rags of that solution it should ease his sleep and sooth the fever until his lungs finally succumb."

Aragorn nodded gravely. "We should still have those in our supplies."

"Good. Shall I wake one of our apprentices?"

Aragorn's features darkened, his eyes turned to pools of quicksilver already betraying how the proverbial gears were turning.

"No," he directed. "I shall do that myself. Then I have a few things that I would like to discuss with our captain."

"Very well then," the healer agreed.

Aragorn nodded once, then turned and left the hospital tent with deliberate strides.

In the crushing silence that followed Aragorn's departure, the healer returned his attention to the patient. He felt the man's forehead and winced, just as Aragorn had.

"Rest easy now," he commanded to the unconscious scout. "You have done well this day. Hopefully someone will be found who knows your name, so that others may hear of it."


Aragorn marched over to the makeshift tent where the captain of the garrison had his office of sorts. He didn't bother to announce himself before entering but rather he threw back the tent flap and marched over to the rickety table that served as a desk. The captain stood in surprise when he entered, as did the soldier—probably the garrison lieutenant, with whom the captain was currently speaking.

Aragorn didn't have time for military protocol or formality. It was nearly noontide, and the winter sun sets early. After dark, countless lives would be lost.

"You need to send a party into the mountains," he told the soldiers before they had recovered their wits enough to ask him why he had just barged in.

"Excuse me?" The captain was slightly annoyed and slightly confused.

"You need to send a party into the mountains," he directed again. "Our men have only until sunset to live without aid."

"I am quite well aware of that, master healer," the captain assured him dismissively. "However, even if I were to completely abandon my post, I don't have enough soldiers to at my command to make a difference on the mountain."

"You don't know that," Aragorn protested.

"I know that the battle is won and the orcs are fleeing, but that our men have become ensnared by the cruelty of the mountain. Now we have no choice but to wait and see if return to us."

Aragorn's eyes bugged. "You mean wait and see if the orcs have truly fled or if they'll remain just long enough to slaughter our people like sheep!"

"Mind your tongue!" The lieutenant snapped, breaking his silence. "The orcs have nowhere to go. Even if they do… kill our men on the mountain, Third Marshal Folca had his force divided. There is no where the orcs can escape to. The battle is won."

"You can't just sit back and do nothing!" Aragorn practically shouted.

"Do you think that I want to?" The captain shouted back. "But if I lead my men into the mountains it will only result in more death. And there'll be no one left to guard the wounded and you non-combatant healers."

"But we can't just leave them there to die…" Aragorn argued, his righteous indignation faltering.

"We have no other alternative," the captain said, his eyes hard with resolve even though his voice was pained. "Now I suggest you go back to treating wounded soldiers," he added dismissively.

Aragorn's eyes narrowed but he thought better of being defiant. Instead, he turned on his heels and fled without another word.


"This is ludicrous!" Aragorn exclaimed, forcibly digging his hands through the driven snow, not noticing as his fingers went numb. He was searching for more herbs. Eolad was beside him, content to let him rant. "How can they do this? How can they be content to let their comrades die!"

"It's not an easy situation," Eolad offered. "The captain doesn't want to see more good men dead."

Aragorn shuffled over a few feet to continue his search through the snow.

"Even the sons of Fëanor did not so lightly abandon their warriors to the enemy!" He bemoaned, sitting back on his heals and crunching snowballs in his hands.

Eolad blinked in confusion. Aragorn sighed tiredly, not caring that he was freezing, ranting, and behaving like a spoiled child. His eyes darkened again.

"Círdan left none behind in Beleriand. Celeborn stayed in Eregion at great peril until the last of his people could be evacuated. Even the damn overly pragmatic warriors of Thranduil's people aren't so heartless when it comes to their own kin! How… How beneath the blessed stars of Varda can the men of Rohan be so cold?" His anger seemed to flee as quickly as it came. He sagged into himself then, and bowed his head.

"What am I supposed to say to Lindewyn…"

"We men of the Mark have seen much death," Eolad said finally, his voice gentle. "I can assure you that those men in the mountain aren't waiting for a rescue. They merely await the dawn."

"But how has it come to pass that no one has any hope?" Aragorn sounded lost and very young as he searched his friend's face for answers.

"You have a gentle spirit, Thorongil," Eolad told him sadly. "I fear too gentle, perhaps, for a life of war. But that is why you became a healer, is it not?" He laughed then, though not unkindly. "You have lost much, I fear, in your mad dash from the north. That is the secret you will not reveal, the name of the burden you carry. My own family was shattered when I wasn't even old enough to shave, and I would bet the sun that you won't find a single man of the Mark that hasn't lost as much or more than I. Those men on the mountains have hope, Thorongil. It is the hope that when they next see the sun rise, everyone who they have lost will be rushing forth to greet them."

"You hope for death but not for victory?"

"We hope to survive this war well enough to face the next, and that when we fall, it is with honor. There is victory enough in that."

Aragorn snorted. "Death does not make heroes. Only life does that."

Eolad laughed again, softly and sad. "We have entered the twilight of our age. All of our heroes are dead."

"And by daybreak scores more will be joining them," Aragorn concluded sarcastically.

"The battle is a victory," Eolad reminded him. "The bravery of Folca and his men will be immortalized in song that all of the deceased will hear resonating in the halls of their fathers."

Aragorn's eyes darkened again, this time with determination. Eolad sensed a change in him and fixed his friend with a questioning look.

"No heroes will be made this night," he vowed, though Eolad wondered briefly to whom he was speaking before realization sunk in.

"Thorongil…?" His voice held equal parts question and warning.

"Folca will not find his honor on the mountain." Aragorn stood from the ground, and it seemed to Eolad that he stood taller than before. "Auta i lómë. Aurë entuluva." And Aragorn took off at a run back into the heart of camp.

Eolad stood transfixed, staring after him, at a loss to do much else.


Aragorn found his way back to the hospital tent. His personal belongings had been moved there when his cot in the barracks tent was commandeered for the wounded. Fortunately no one was in; the other healers were either tending to the wounded or occupying their time with some other distraction at the moment. Aragorn wasted no time in securing his sword to his belt and slinging his bow and quiver over his back. The necessary equipment gathered, Aragorn quickly fled the tent in search of his horse.

"I thought you might try something stupid."

Aragorn stopped in his tracks. There stood Eolad, holding the reins of Frelaf. Aragorn was frozen, caught in the act.

"Something in the way you sharpened that sword, Thorongil," Eolad continued. "I've known too many soldiers to not recognize the signs."

"What signs?" Aragorn was more confused than anything, though trying to feign innocence never hurts.

Eolad laughed. "That you're positively daft, for one thing! You warrior types are all alike. You think you can all save the world. My brother was just like that, before he died."

Aragorn took a few deep, calming breaths, collecting himself. "Unhand my horse," he directed.

Eolad leveled him with a chilling stare. "And let you ride off up the mountain alone to face a host of orcs on a fool's errand?" He asked incredulously.

"I have friends up there," Aragorn said, his voice quietly passionate as he tried to remain calm.

"As do I," Eolad replied. "But there is nothing I can do to save them. However, I can do something about a friend down here who seems rather intent on committing suicide."

"You can save our friends by unhanding that horse," Aragorn told him evenly.

Eolad only laughed again. "So arrogant," he chided sadly, shaking his head. "And pray tell, what can one man do against an army?"

Aragorn's voice was deadpan as he replied: "What he must."

Eolad's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his friend. "I understand your helplessness," he said at length, trying a different tactic. "And better than you think. Do you believe it is easy for me, to sit behind the lines as a healer while all my childhood friends—my very kin—ride forth to battle? I know quite well what it is like to not be able to help those we care about; to bury friends instead of saving them. You aren't supposed to like it and the Black Land keep your soul if ever you get used to it, but your death on the mountain would serve no purpose, Thorongil. How would your Lindewyn react when she hears that you perished needlessly alongside her brother?"

Aragorn bowed his head, ashamed to have been shamed by Eolad. But something stirred within him then, a thought formerly kept in shadow now at last given light. He looked up slowly, and when he did, he seemed to grow in height so that he was standing tall and proud, and regarding Eolad with hard, determined eyes; eyes that held hope.

"Do you have hope, Eolad? If yours will not be death glorified in battle, then what have you to hope for?"

Eolad's eyes were sad. "For my friends," he answered. "That they might live another day."

"Cling to that hope, Eolad. Feed it; don't mourn it. Let me try and save them."

Eolad met Aragorn's even gaze. They held that stare together for many moments, and during that time Aragorn laid bare his soul. Eolad saw the raw honesty of Aragorn's intentions, and the sincerest belief that he could actually do it. That he believed he could save those soldiers. It wasn't confidence. It wasn't arrogance. It was certainty; pure, emotionless, fact-based certainty. He found his hand releasing Frelaf's reins almost of their own accord.

"Who are you?" He asked, breathless, as Aragorn approached him. Aragorn grabbed the reins in one hand and stroked Frelaf's neck with the other. The stallion nickered in seeming approval.

Aragorn's reply was simply stated, but it was the only lie thus far that Eolad was able to detect.

"My name is Thorongil."

Aragorn effortlessly swung up onto Frelaf's back, surprising Eolad again. Rohan's horses in the field are kept bridled for practicality's sake, but they are not saddled. However this Thorongil seemed not to mind if even he noticed. Instead he mounted straight away, and gathering the reins together he urged the stallion into an immediate gallop. Eolad watched as Aragorn found the tracks in the snow that led up the mountain where the wounded had returned to battle, his eyes bright with worry and maybe, just maybe, with hope.

Others also spotted Thorongil's quick departure from camp. Soon the captain came running over to where Eolad stood, for he followed the tracks of the horse back to their origins.

"What in the name of Béma does he think he's doing?" The captain asked incredulously.

"I have no idea," Eolad confessed in honesty. "But I hope he succeeds."


Aragorn rode up the mountain as fast as it was safe for his horse to travel. All too soon, however, he reached the point where horses could no longer tread. Aragorn dismounted, his boots sinking into nearly a foot of snow. He inwardly groaned as he watched his breath mist before his eyes—these were horrible conditions for a battle. As he sent Frelaf away, however, he adamantly refused to waste time wishing that he was an elf. He was an adan ranger, who had fought in the mountains before. That's what he had to work with and that's how he would achieve victory.

Aragorn continued up the mountain on foot, following the tracks of the wounded soldiers. Every so often there would be traces of blood, from where stitches were pulled and wounds bled anew. Halfway towards his destination he began finding bodies, either those that couldn't make it down the mountain to aide, or those that succumbed to the cold and their battered bodies during the return trip. Aragorn knew from the color of their skin that they had bled to death, or perhaps frozen to death. He tried not to spare them a second thought as he continued on. He had a job to do.

Finally the steep ascent leveled off into a wide, gently downward-sloping plain. Aragorn's breath caught in his throat.

This was the field of battle.

The fallen bodies of orcs and men littered the ground. The snow had melted around them only to have fresh snow congregate in its place. They were mostly covered now, reddish-black lumps in the pristine white that leeched tendrils and splatters in pinwheel shapes around them.

"Elbereth…"

Aragorn didn't want to enter here. It felt wrong to do so, sacrilegious even. Like violating the graves of the dead. He, a living, breathing soul who did not fight here, did not belong here. He felt himself start to shiver from how long he stood there in the numbing cold, yet his feet stayed rooted to the spot. He had to go on though; no matter how dirty it made him feel.

Slowly, carefully, Aragorn picked his way across the plateau. His intent was to move as silently as possible, to disturb no less than an elf would if he were to make this crossing. Yet alas, Aragorn was edain. His feet fell heavily in the snow, kicking fallen swords and shields, stepping on spears and… squishier… things that Aragorn forced himself not to notice fore what they were.

Slowly, carefully, as the sun crept dangerously lower in the western sky, Aragorn wove his way around the bodies, deliberately ignoring shapes and faces lest he see someone he'd recognize. Now was not the time to mourn. He had a job to do.

After what seemed like a silent eternity, Aragorn found his way to where the plateau sloped steeply downwards and to the right until it stopped abruptly at what appeared to be a less-than-sturdy ledge. Aragorn picked his way carefully around to the left side of the sudden ledge, staying on the firmer ground by the cliff wall. He had a strong hunch that, at the bottom, he would find the remainder of Folca's army. In what condition, however…

Aragorn held his breath and slowly peered over the side of the cliff. Sure enough, the failing sunlight glinted off of what had to have easily been a hundred Rohan helms! No, more like two hundred! Aragorn could have leapt for joy as his heart danced happily against his ribcage. They were alive! A good portion of the army was still alive!

Aragorn quickly sobered himself. He had a job to do.

As though he were flipping through an old tome, Aragorn allowed his mind to drift back a few years to his training days, when Bowen, Glorfindel, and the twins had taken him into the Misty Mountains to learn how to be a ranger in the most inhospitable climes. He recalled what Bowen had said about how the edain must shift and place their weight, having to be more mindful than their Elven comrades. He remembered what Glorfindel had showed him, how each rock face and snow pack told a story, if one simply knew how to listen. He remembered the snowball fight he had with the twins, but that thought was quickly shoved away.

Aragorn studied the cliff and the snow drifts. He accounted for the latest snowfall and the current temperature. He took in all variables one by one, and in his head came up with a fairly accurate synopsis of what had happened. The fight had gradually been drawn over towards the ledge, which was a bit gentler than it is now. However, either by force of the weight of the combatants or by some fell craft of the orcs, the ledge broke away, no doubt crushing many unfortunate souls on the ground below. In this fashion, a large portion of Folca's army was cut off from the main battle. The orcs had greater numbers on the plateau than in the ravine and when the forces were sundered the men on the plateau had little chance. The men in the ravine, cut off from their compatriots as they were, still managed to finish off their share of the orcs but were powerless to escape their rocky prison and help the battle above. Now the men of the plateau were dead, and the men of the ravine had no course but to wait, either for a solution of escape to be devised or for the orcs to return under cover of darkness and finish them off.

Aragorn grit his teeth and steeled his resolve. He would ensure that the former would come to pass. Those soldiers would make it out alive!

Aragorn assessed the situation anew. He realized that there was no chance the soldiers could climb out of the ravine on this side without the aide of ropes, which he didn't have. However, the ravine sloped a bit more gently downward in the other direction, so it stands to reason that the other side would not be as steep. Of course, Aragorn realized that if there was an easy way out of the situation then the men down there would have already found it, but Aragorn pushed that thought out of his mind. Perhaps the situation looks different on the other side of the rocks?

Slowly and carefully—and ever-mindful of the retreating sun, Aragorn picked his way around the top of the ravine. Finally and much too slowly for his liking, Aragorn reached a high point where he could easily survey the entirety of the ravine. He counted two hundred and seventeen helms glittering below. From this substantial height he couldn't quite tell what they were doing down there. Most likely they were taking rest in the relative safety of the daylight hours. With some chagrin he doubted that they had posted a watch, for surely he would have been spotted if they had, standing as openly as he was. However, he decided at length against attracting their attention. He wanted to have good news to tell them, and as of right now he had none.

Aragorn nodded his head slowly, his agile mind breaking down the monumental task before him into smaller, simpler steps. Already he had verified what the scout had informed them. Already he knew that there were two hundred and seventeen good men trapped in this ravine, awaiting either some rescue of his design (which they did not know at the time) or the return of the orcs at sunset (which was the most likely).

Aragorn tore his gaze from the soldiers below, chastising himself for trying to pick out Folca's armor in the throng instead of focusing on the task at hand. His eyes swept over the walls of the ravine and came to rest on the far side, opposite from where he first surveyed. It appeared, at least from this vantage point, that the orcs had sealed the other entrance to the ravine as well, taking advantage of the warm spell and resulting loose pack ice to create an avalanche. The falling snow had ripped free many loose boulders and an effective dam had been created, keeping the soldiers from escaping. However, it was both the shortest wall and the weakest. Aragorn knew that any hope of getting those men out alive rested within the structure of that wall, and so in that direction he picked the swiftest, surest path.

By the time Aragorn found his way to the other side of the ravine the sun was no longer visible in the mountain range. Long shadows fell out of the west, blanketing the rocky landscape in semi-darkness. Aragorn discovered in the failing sunlight that he was in fact correct in his assessment: this wall was the least sturdy and the most likely spot to try and mount a rescue.

Unfortunately, he was only one man, with barely half a turn of the hourglass left until the orcs would reappear.

Once (finally) on solid ground, Aragon surveyed the wall properly with a discerning eye. The boulders near the bottom were large and sturdy, and caked with mud and fallen snow. They got smaller and less sturdy the farther up one went, but Aragorn could find no footing there, nor leverage, if he was to try and knock the wall down. It might work, but the boulders and debris on top would fall and crush him instantly.

It was now that Aragorn, after having come all this way, so sure of himself and of his ability to save his friends, finally began to give in to despair at last. It would take a veritable army to move those rocks, and he was but one man with time rapidly working against him. Sure if he had Vilya, or mayhap a few of Gandalf's fireworks… But no, he had a sword, a bow, a quiver of twenty-five arrows, and in a few minutes time, a serious orc problem.

"Stupid, miserable, foolish adan," he lamented. "Eolad was right."

The shadows melted together into one.

Darkness overcame the pale wisps of light lingering in the ravine.

The first few stars of twilight began to peak through the firmament.

Aragorn stood at the base of the rock pile that separated him from his companions. The orcs would come, take positions from on high, and finish them off with a rain of poisoned arrows… or a rockslide… or a siege…

The temperature was already dropping.

The star of Eärendil began its trek across the sky, mocking almost in its promise of hope.

"All of our heroes are dead," Aragorn called out to that star, echoing Eolad's words but meaning something far different. Then he snorted. "Or they're about to be."

Aragorn stood alone, at the base of a wall of rocks and debris, feeling incredibly small and insignificant; one singular adan in the middle of the wilderness, after dark, having his momentary delusions of grandeur crushed by the agonizing weight of the rocks behind him. He could not move them. No mortal could. Oh how foolish he felt for daring to believe that he could make a difference in this war!

He slammed his palm into a rock in agonized defeat. It didn't budge; it's still silence taunted him.

The Rohan army—his friends!—were trapped on the other side of this divide. He could not help them. After protesting so fiercely to the captain, who had been right to not want to lose more lives upon the mountain! And convincing Eolad to believe in hope, who had been right in his fatalism concerning death, heroics, and war. After making this journey up the mountain, alone and probably reprimanded in his absence for abandoning his post at the hospital and laughed at or bemoaned for his gross stupidity when he wasn't there to defend his choice of action. After finding the courage to hope once more, and the will to act on that hope. After all of it

All of them were right.

At every step, every decision, he had ignored wisdom and went with his own foolhardy ideas. Had this been the Misty Mountains, and it was a host of elves or rangers that was trapped in a ravine by orcs, he would have fashioned something to save the day. Legolas would have arrived with a contingent of Mirkwood soldiers, or Glorfindel would have come with a host from Imladris at the last second to defeat the orcs. Or his ada would have used Vilya to save the trapped soldiers, or Gandalf would have launched fireworks at the rocks and crumbled the weakest wall. Something would have happened to remind him that he was Estel, the hope of men and elves, for wherever he went, hope was sure to follow, even in the darkest of times and at the precipice of certain doom, there was always cause for hope.

This was a ravine in the White Mountains. Those were soldiers of Rohan. Mirkwood and Imladris are leagues upon leagues away. Gandalf and his fireworks are just impossible to reach as Lord Elrond and his ring of power.

And Estel is dead. He died when Strider turned off from the Redhorn Pass and journeyed on to Rohan.

Thorongil of Strathcomb stood beside the rock face—the monument to his shortsightedness and failure, and wept for the realization that he was powerless to help his friends, just as he was powerless to save Bretta's life, or the life of that scout, or the countless others that died on his table because he had not the skills needed to aid them. So many dead whom he could claim responsibility for, and now two hundred and seventeen more would be added to that list as the sky truly darkened and night set in. Oh whatever was he thinking, coming up here alone?

Then, as night took hold and pitying despair shrouded his soul like a cloak, the sickening moment came when he realized the two-way street: the army also could not help him.

Crashing and clanking sounds in the distance now. The orcs were coming. It was now that the severity of Aragorn's folly inevitably made itself clear, and all too late.

The orcs were coming, and Aragorn stood alone.


Translations:

Adan/edain: human/humans or human race

Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath: (Sindarin) May they find peace after death.

Auta i lómë. Aurë entuluva: (Quenya) The night is passing. Day shall come again.

Béma: The name in Rohan for the Vala Oromé, huntsman and horseman of the Valar. The people of Rohan claimed that that their great horses the mearas had ancestors brought out of the West by the Vala himself.

Vilya: Elrond's ring of power, greatest of the 3 given to the elves, controls the air.

Notes on canonical vs. fanonical conventions:

-On Aragorn's ramblings: When Aragorn says that Círdan left none behind in Beleriand, he is referring to how that section of land sank at the end of the War of Wrath. Círdan had ships enough for all, and when Beleriand was being broken asunder he made sure that every elf and edain ally still there had a means of escape. Also, when he says that Celeborn stayed in Eregion, he is referring to the great evacuation of Ost-in-Edhil, where he and Galadriel ruled during the second age until Sauron spoiled things. The survivors of that city were evacuated, and the refugees eventually met up with Elrond's host out of Lindon. This is the group that first settled Rivendell. Aragorn was referring to how Celeborn remained behind in Eregion long enough to oversee the evacuation of the refugees. He also makes the claim that even the sons of Fëanor weren't so heartless in regards to their own troops, and to be referred to as worse than the sons of Fëanor (as Aragorn claims the men of Rohan are behaving) is a heavy statement indeed.