The sun had fully set. Darkness blanketed the land, punctured only by a few sparse stars and a tiny sliver moon as Isil continues to wane into blackness again, much like the hope of Middle Earth.
Aragorn stood before the rock face, gazing up at the stars without seeing them. His ears were paying attention to the sounds of the night. A host of orcs was marching on his position, no doubt to finish what they started with the men in the ravine. Their armor clanked loudly, and their feet seemed to make a low groaning noise as they marched—something that Aragorn had never heard before from orcs.
Of course, these were orcs of Mordor, and he's never seen one of them either.
So this was to be his fate? To die at the hands of orcs like so many of his forefathers? He would die alone in the shadow of the mountains, hopelessly outnumbered and far from any source of aid. In the lingering dark, as his breath fogged before his eyes, Aragorn nodded to himself (or perhaps to the Valar?) that he understood and accepted his fate. So the line of Kings was to perish here, blinking into the obscurity that the rest of the world believed had claimed it long ago.
So be it.
It may have been his destiny to overthrow this shadow and lead the free peoples of Middle Earth to victory, but destiny, it seems, has not the strength to bind the hands of fate. Aragorn knew this, and accepted it anew. He would die early in the great battle of this age. The fact that his loved ones will escape this growing darkness by sailing into the Undying Lands provided some comfort in what Aragorn perceived to be his final hour.
"Im dénië, Adar. Im únolë lle iareva aiye nin. Im úlleva estel."
The sounds grew louder. The orcs were moving closer. Less than a minute and Aragorn would be out of time.
He looked to the heavens again. Gil-Estel, the star of his forefather Eärendil, seemed to burn brighter tonight than any other night Aragorn could remember. It served to galvanize him, but it did not bring him hope.
Aragorn loosened his sword at his belt and looked back to the rocks behind him. He would need to find cover from which he can let his arrows fly. Hopefully he can take out a few orcs before they came upon him. Then it would be up to his skill with the blade, but not even the greatest warriors of Arda such as Glorfindel or Celeborn would be able to fend off an entire host unaided.
Aragorn knew his situation was hopeless. That didn't mean that he intended to forfeit his life without a fight.
Aragorn's eyes were hard, his features set in grim determination as he found a suitable rock mid-way up the left side of the dam that he could use for cover. He would die this night, but as he notched an arrow on his bowstring he vowed that he would not die easily.
The crashing, rumbling, and clanking grew steadily louder. Aragorn felt his palms begin to sweat even as he held his bow notched and ready.
"I am a ranger," he stated quietly, reciting. "I fear not the darkness. I pledge my life to the service of Middle Earth." The sounds grew louder still. A few shrill chirps and whistles could be heard above the din. The very ground seemed to quake beneath the weight of the advancing orcs.
"I am a ranger. I fear not the darkness. I pledge my life to the service of Middle Earth." The first orcs came into view.
"I am a ranger." Aragorn aimed his bow.
"I fear not the darkness." His arrow flew and embedded itself in the throat of an approaching orc. Its companions howled and screamed.
"I pledge my life to the service of Middle Earth." His next arrow caught another orc high in the chest, felling him. The orcs were now shouting at each other, and Aragorn found the sounds of their voices—deeper and throatier than that of goblins, physically painful to endure. That's when he realized that they weren't speaking in a lesser Orcish tongue but were using the dread Black Speech of Mordor.
"I am a ranger!" He shouted, clinging to the words of the oath he swore the day he joined the Dúnedain not only to keep his nerves at bay but now also to drown out the sounds of that speech as another Dúnedain arrow found its way into the cheek of an orc.
"I fear not the darkness!"
The orcs had reached the base of the dam by now. They seemed to be trying to climb up to his location. He aimed another arrow and fired into their midst, shouting:
"I pledge my life to the service of Middle Earth!"
Aragorn kept up his recitation as he fired arrow after arrow into the pack of orcs at the base of the dam. Their grunts and clattering were punctuated by the high-pitched shrieks as more and more orcs fell to Aragorn's arrows, which were usually followed by horrific instances of shouted Black Speech.
Unfortunately, firing nearly straight down on the pack of orcs meant that more often than not his arrows glanced off of helms instead of piercing them. Not all of his shots counted, and his supply of arrows was rapidly dwindling.
The orcs were climbing in greater numbers than he could shoot them down, and now with greater speed as they were scaling the growing mound of their own fallen.
When Aragorn's arrows ran out he reflexively stole a glance around to see if he could spot any orcish arrows to send back to their owners. That's when he realized that he orcs weren't shooting at him. They must have spent all their arrows in the previous fight.
Thank the Valar for small miracles!
Aragorn then braced himself behind his cover stone. From its precarious perch upon the dam, Aragorn hoped that with the proper leverage he would be able to knock it loose and send it crashing down upon the orcs that were almost upon him.
The orcs were shouting again, louder. Aragorn was so close to the orcs barking out orders that he could have been able to repeat some of the phrases phonetically if he concentrated on it.
He of course forewent that idea in favor of bracing his back against the rock face behind him and pressing all of his strength through his legs into the boulder, hoping to send it tumbling. He grunted and strained and saw an orcish hand finally reach up to grab a handhold on his perch—
CRAAAAAAASH!
The boulder came loose and took the orc down like a bowling pin. The thundering descent of the boulder as it rolled down the slope of fallen orcs sent those of their companions that it didn't kill scrambling out of the way.
If anything, it bought Aragorn more time.
At this point, he would take what he could get.
Aragorn stood and drew his sword, making ready to defend his high perch from the regrouping orc horde below. He noticed that his surroundings were brighter now, thanks to the orcs dropping lit torches everywhere.
THWACK!
Aragorn suddenly stumbled backwards, awkwardly. He looked down and saw a black arrow protruding from his left shoulder. The orcs still had arrows, all right. They were just waiting for a clean shot.
More arrows zinged by him, impacting on the rocks around him. Now his high perch wasn't as safe as he originally thought it to be.
Well, perhaps if I didn't voluntarily give up my cover…
Aragorn violently snapped off the shaft of the arrow—howling in pain as he did so, while he scrambled down the steep slope of the right side of the damn. Arrows bounced off the rocks around him as he dove for cover behind a slightly smaller rock quite a bit closer to the foot of the dam. From here he inspected his wound, noting that he had managed to break the shaft to leave very little left protruding from his flesh. He felt the back of his shoulder too, and didn't feel any part of the arrow head poking through. That meant the entirety of the head was still inside his shoulder.
Aragorn tightened his grip on his sword in his right hand. There was nothing he could do about that now. If he fought with only his right arm during this battle then perhaps he would spare himself permanent injury and disability from having the arrowhead constantly scraping against his scapula.
As more arrows missed Aragorn by inches, he suddenly devised a new strategy. He reached quickly out from behind cover and grabbed a few orcish arrows. He grinned when his suspicions were confirmed: they were much heavier than edain or Elvin arrows, thicker shafts with larger heads, engineered for maximum damage.
Aragorn shifted to his knees and leaned out over the top of the rock.
PHWISH!
He threw an arrow like a dagger straight down at the nearest orc, striking its hand and causing it to yelp and stumble in its climb, taking a few companions with it. He repeated the process for each arrow he found.
PH-PH-PWISH! PHWISH! PHWISH!
More orcs were hit, in the face, hands, exposed throats, wherever Aragorn saw flesh instead of metal armor. Enraged that one measly human was so hard to kill even though he seemed to be having no trouble with killing them,the orcs shrieked and cried and fired more arrows. Aragorn felt the fletching of one close call part his hair in an interesting place.
The ones Aragorn could reach without too much exposure he sent flying back. Finally they either ran out of arrows (for real this time), or they decided that it was in their best interests not to give the human any more ammunition.
Either way, the arrows stopped coming. Aragorn sat back, knowing that he shouldn't feel relieved that he had managed to survive this long but unable to help it. He began to notice how cold his left shoulder was starting to feel.
Aragorn knew that the orcs were climbing to his position again, and this time they didn't have nearly as far to go. That didn't matter to him though. He didn't have nearly as hard to push in order to send his cover boulder crashing down upon them again. He braced his back against the wall behind him and pushed off against the boulder with his legs.
CREE—EE—ASHHH!
Fewer Orcs were flattened and scattered by the descending boulder this time, for it was smaller than the last and they had been expecting the tactic. That didn't matter though. It had bought him more time.
Mercifully, no arrows flew at the now uncovered ranger. Instead, snarling, barking, biting, enraged orcs renewed their climb up the latter of bodies to reach his position.
As the orcs threatened to reach his perch, Aragorn gripped his sword hilt in both hands. Forget permanent damage, he was more concerned with killing as many orcs as possible before succumbing to the poison on the arrowhead.
Aragorn's face was grim as he surveyed the orcs. Thankfully they were poor climbers, but even still, they were almost within range of his sword. Those on the ground were hollering and chanting one word over and over again in that dreaded speech of theirs. Aragorn tried to block it out of his mind, silently mouthing his oath again.
Suddenly a loud groaning rumble broke through the din of battle. Aragorn looked up sharply at the source of the noise and his eyes widened in surprise.
Suddenly he became very much aware of what gharksh meant in Black Speech.
The orcs have a ballista?
Aragorn couldn't help but be caught staring as a what looked like a battering ram three paces long with a sharpened tip was loaded onto an overgrown slingshot with delusions of grandeur. The projectile was drawn back like a crossbow bolt as two orcs pivoted the head of the siege weapon, sluggishly taking aim…
The orcs have a ballista!
Reality suddenly set in and surprise turned into alarm. Aragorn dove out of the way just in time as the projectile was launched at the spot he was just standing in. The impact caused a mini-rockslide as the pointed tip of the projectile parted lesser stones and embedded itself in the crumbling mosaic of the dam.
"Elbereth…"
Aragorn scrambled to his feet, belatedly remembering to pick up his sword. As the last of the rockslide found its way to the bottom of the dam Aragorn's face broke out in a large grin.
THE ORCS HAVE A BALLISTA!
Suddenly his hopeless situation didn't seem so hopeless anymore. He had found away to free the soldiers trapped inside the ravine! All he had to do was get the orcs to fire on him a few more times and the entire dam would give way, allowing Folca and his men the chance to escape and join the battle. With any luck, the army behind the dam would be capable of overrunning the orcs.
As the orcs shouted more commands in their speech and Aragorn noticed that the climbers backed off in favor of letting the ballista finish of the stubborn human the grin faded back into determination once more. He would be in the dead center of the rockslide he intended to cause.
If it works… better to die a hero than a fool.
Another projectile was loaded onto the ballista. Aragorn stood defiantly, sword in hand, while the orcs hastily took aim.
"Valar ve astaldor…"
PHWOOOOOSH!
The projectile sang through the air straight at Aragorn. He dove to the opposite side this time, back towards the landing spot of the first projectile.
SMACK!
Unlike the first projectile though, this one bounced off the rock face. The boulder that it hit was knocked in nearly half a foot by the force of the impact, and the rocks balanced above it teetered nervously.
Aragorn smiled when he felt the ground beneath his feet shift as he stood up. The two projectiles had hit in parallel spots with about eight feet between them. As he quickly surveyed the dam structure again while the orcs loaded yet another projectile onto the ballista Aragorn hoped that one more well-placed blast should send the dam collapsing in on itself. Hopefully the soldiers on the other side heard the sounds of battle and are making to rush through the opening that's about to be created.
Aragorn deemed the perfect spot for the next projectile as being a brief tier below the ledge he was currently standing on. He slid down the four feet to the next ledge, which was barely large enough for him to stand on. Once there, Aragorn steadied himself with his now mostly useless left arm as he waved his sword defiantly in his right.
"Is that the best you can do?" He called out to them in the Common Tongue. "How is it that an entire host of orcs cannot kill one singular adan?"
The orcs screeched and cried at the taunt, even more so for the use of Elven at the end. Aragorn mock-saluted him with his sword as the orcs manning the ballista cranked back the spring to launch the projectile though all the while his eyes were glued to the release lever…
An orc's hand reached for the lever.
Aragorn watched.
The orc had the lever in hand.
Aragorn watched.
When the orc grunted in effort to pull back the lever, Aragorn stopped watching. He jumped out to the left as high and as far as he could just ahead of—
PHWOOOOOSH!
The projectile embedded itself amongst the smaller but tightly packed stones right behind the spot where Aragorn's head had been.
Aragorn sailed through the air, gaining considerable distance before he felt his feet reconnect with the ground. His knees immediately gave way and he tucked into a roll. Aragorn somersaulted forward awkwardly several times before friction overpowered inertia and he came to a skidding stop on his back. He then immediately curled into a tight little ball and covered his head with his arms as best he could.
The orcs quickly grabbed their scimitars, ready to finish off the bothersome human now that he was down. One of them began to bark an order in their evil tongue when—
RUMBLE!
The orcs looked back to the dam in surprise and confusion.
RUMBLE—RUMBLE CREEEEEK—GROAN CRAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!
It happened in less than a heartbeat.
The dam could no longer support its own weight. The entire structure collapsed down on itself, starting around the lowest projectile and spreading outwards and upwards like a shock wave. The unstable rocks shifted and tumbled out, bowling down the lower rock face and threatening to crush the orcs in their wake. The rocks above the fault line lost their basis of support and came crashing down upon the rocks below, jarring them and careening down towards the orcs after their predecessors. The bottommost rocks shifted and split from the repetitious impact and separated from the nearly hermetic seal they had created.
When the dust settled, Aragorn found himself miraculously unscathed by the landslide he had engineered. He uncurled slowly; stiff, sore, and dusty from the event. He had innumerable cuts and abrasions from his mad tumble down the cliff side, and he was pretty sure he twisted an ankle. He was unsure if the nausea and fogginess was caused by the poison or a blow to the head, but he really didn't have time to ponder that.The orcs, having scattered rather quickly to evade the landslide, were now regrouping, picking up discarded weapons, snarling things in their cursed tongue, and advancing on his position.
Aragorn rolled himself onto his hands and knees, allowing his right hand to close around the hilt of his sword, which he somehow managed to both keep with him and protect from breaking. He panted heavily, sweating from exertion and fever, and forced himself to look up into the mass of approaching orcs.
They were almost upon him.
Aragorn rocked back into a kneeling position and gripped his sword in both hands.
The lead orc came within sword range, scimitar held high in preparation for the killing blow—
CLANG!
Aragorn managed to raise his sword just in time to avoid decapitation. The orc pressed his weight into the follow-through though, and Aragorn was shoved back, their blades grating against each other. This orc was tall—at least man-high, broad shouldered, and held incredible posture for standing upright. He was nothing like his smaller, ganglier, and awkward-gaited cousins in the north that Aragorn was familiar with. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aragorn now knew what Elrond had meant when he told his adoptive son that despite his prowess at killing goblins, Aragorn had never faced a real orc.
Right now, as the orc's beady yellow eyes were boring into his, as he felt the acrid breath in his face and smelt the putrescence and decay that lingers in Mordor Aragorn couldn't help but wish that fact was still true.
THWACK!
Aragorn's eyes widened in surprise as the first 'real' orc to cross blades with him was struck in the eye by a red-fletched arrow.
An archer of Rohan!
Aragorn found the strength to push the dead orc off of him and stand up. He wobbled slightly on unsteady legs, grinning like an idiot as he saw many more orcs meet the same fate as their companion. He looked over to the crumbled dam and saw at least twenty men standing on various rocks and high perches firing the last of their arrows into the horde of orcs that had tried to advance upon Aragorn.
Time seemed to slow for Aragorn, who suddenly found himself sanding aloof in the very center of a battle. Folca's men came rushing out of the ravine to join the fight; those with arrows left took positions and fired while those without drew their swords and twirled their spears, mowing down the orcs that the archers missed.
Time resumed with a loud, jarring clash of blades.
"So help me, Thorongil, you had better live long enough to explain how in fires of Mordor you managed this!"
Aragorn turned around to see Arlath standing behind him. The lieutenant had just blocked a scimitar swing meant to skewer Aragorn through the back, and the dazed ranger hadn't even known he—or the orc, was there.
Aragorn blinked through the fog.
Arlath was ALIVE!
He flashed a wicked grin and raised his sword, finally ready to rejoin the fray. Arlath simply shook his head as he watched Thorongil throw himself in front of a charging orc and separate its head from its shoulders before it knew what hit him.
Aragorn stepped back as viscous black blood sprung from the neck of the creature, and having instinctively sensed another orc coming up behind him he swung his sword in an overexerted, sweeping arc. He managed to slash the orc across the midsection, cutting through armor and flesh alike with his Elven blade. What he could only assume to be orcish entrails spilled out as the orc fell back. Aragorn grunted in pain and annoyance that his twisted ankle had caused such an ungraceful maneuver on his part.
Another orc found him though, and brought a scimitar slashing towards his right side. Aragorn skirted left and parried the blow before taking the hilt of his sword in both hands and shoving violently upwards and to the left. He managed to unbalance the orc just enough to give him the opportunity to run his sword through the creature's chest. The orc gurgled slightly when Aragorn removed his blade.
In his increasingly blurry peripheral vision Aragorn became aware that there were more men than orcs still standing and fighting now. He had lost track of Arlath and had yet to see Folca, but he hoped they were fairing well.
Another orc came at him from the left. Aragorn sidestepped easily and the orc's momentum carried him past. Aragorn then drove his sword through the orc's back all the way to the hilt. He removed it forcibly, disliking how slippery the black Orcish blood made his grip. It was thicker than goblin blood. Stickier too, but slimy. He doubted the stains would come clean from his sword and thought with chagrin on how many times he would need to wash his hands.
Ai Elbereth he was tired!
Aragorn noticed as the world tipped slowly from left to right, as though he was trying to fight on the deck of a ship in rough seas. Not only that, but he was having a difficult time staying focused.
The poison from the forgotten arrow wound was slowly claiming him.
Another orc came charging. Aragorn lazily brought his sword up to block. The orc gave a shove, and Aragorn was sent tumbling. He landed on his back and the impact winded him (or was that the poison?). The orc raised the scimitar for the death blow when suddenly—
TH—TH—THWACK!
Three red-fletched arrows hit its chest. The orc stumbled backwards a bit from the impact before its knees buckled and it toppled forwards, landing sprawled across Aragorn's legs.
Aragorn couldn't help the moan of pain and exhaustion that escaped his lips as he tried to shove the orc off of him. The effort proved too much, however. Effectively trapped, Aragorn's mind lost the will to control his body. His vision swam and his muscles relaxed, ending his reclining position and sending his lead crashing back to the rocky ground. The crack of his head striking a rock resounded rather loudly in his ears in the split second before his mind let go at last and sent him plummeting into the welcomed arms of oblivion.
He was warm. That was the first thing he noticed, since it was a welcomed change from the bitter cold he could have sworn he was feeling earlier.
The second thing he noticed was the softness. Since when is the ground soft? No… not the ground then. The ground was hard, rocky, uncomfortable. This was… soft. It couldn't be the ground.
Where am I?
Confused, Aragorn tried shifting his weight. He felt the softness give slightly for his efforts, and somewhere the dark recesses of his mind were smiling.
A bed then. I must be in a bed.
He heard voices next. Several of them. They were voices he recognized, though he couldn't quite place from where. However, since he couldn't make out what they were saying, the point was rather moot.
Aragorn shifted again involuntarily as his mind tried to make sense of it all. He felt a dull ache in his right ankle, but since he was almost positive he was able to wiggle a toe—the great pain it caused notwithstanding, he counted that as a good thing.
His left leg felt fine, an even greater thing.
He tried wiggling his fingers next and was certain that he had succeeded there, too. The oddly familiar voices seemed to get louder for a moment, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why; just like how for the life of him he couldn't figure out why his left hand felt so… odd.
Aragorn stilled his movements then and calmed himself a bit—not that he was agitated in the first place. He stretched out with a warrior's spatial sense and somehow knew that no other body parts were gravely injured.
Why did he suddenly get the strangest sense of irony?
Satisfied that he was more or less in one piece, Aragorn decided to focus on the mystery of where he was and who those familiar voices belonged to. He wanted to ask them to speak Elvish—either language would do, or perhaps Westron, Adunaic, Khuzdul—anything he was familiar with. Even the native tongue of Rohan, which he was just starting to learn, would have been better than whatever gibberish the sources of those disembodied voices were using.
Unfortunately he wasn't quite able to form the question on his tongue. His inquiry came out as a disjointed series of moans.
As though they were mocking him, the gibberish voices grew louder and more animated.
Aragorn tensed, rather irritated, and shifted again in trying to sit up. If he could only see those evil little—
Ah ha!
That was the missing link. Aragorn had never bothered to open his eyes.
Slowly his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked half-lidded several times as bright lights stabbed into his eyes like daggers. He squinted and blinked and finally his eyes adjusted to the light. Blurry images began to take shape and slowly, slowly, slowly solidify.
Finally Aragorn found himself staring up into the concerned face of someone he recognized.
"Eoh… lad," he slurred, smiling slightly at the fact that he had recognized his friend and remembered his name.
The apprentice healer smiled brightly, relief shining in his eyes.
"Awake at last, I see," he said softly yet cheerfully. Aragorn marveled at how the simple act of opening his eyes seemed to simultaneously unscramble his hearing. "You gave us quite a fright, you know."
"… Us?" Aragorn managed to mumble. That's when his peripheral vision finally faded back in. Aragorn picked out Folca and Arlath standing amongst the other healers from the base camp and he smiled in relief and gratitude.
Well, that answers the 'where' question.
"Thorongil, I thought I told you that you weren't allowed to die until you explained to me how you pulled off that brilliantly hair-brained stunt." Arlath stepped forward, false anger and tongue-and-cheek demeanor making Aragorn chuckle once, breathily. "You very nearly disobeyed an order, and didn't even have the good graces to stick around to face your punishment!"
The others laughed. Aragorn merely smirked.
"Lord Folca s-said… th-that I di-n't… have to take… orders… from any… one… except the… master… h-healer."
"Would you believe it?" Folca spoke up, false incredulousness to match Arlath's false anger. "As he lies recovering in sickbed he still has the presence of mind to give me a title!"
Aragorn tried to smirk, but unconsciousness was stretching forth its tendrils again, threatening to drag him back into peaceful oblivion.
"S-saw-sorr… eee," Aragorn slurred. "Know you w-w-wan…ted me to… wo… uh…work… on th-tha-aa…t."
"Sleep now, Thorongil," Eolad directed, even though Aragorn had beaten him to the punch. "Sleep, my friend," he repeated as he tucked the blankets closer in around Aragorn. "You have earned it."
The next time Aragorn awoke he was of much sounder mind. When his eyes fluttered open the pain was only minimal this time, however he did notice from the position of his head on the pillow that he had a lovely goose egg on the back of his head that started to ache the minute he discovered it. He groaned in frustration at that, and his stirring alerted the healer nearly napping in a chair by his bedside that he was in fact awake.
"Thorongil!"
Aragorn turned his head slightly and saw Eolad, who appeared very pleased to see him awake again.
"Eolad." His voice was surer this time, no longer slurring.
"How do you feel this morning?"
"That depends. How long have I been out?"
Eolad frowned slightly, thinking back. "You were unconscious when Folca carried you in here. You stirred some but didn't wake when we had to tend to your injuries without anesthetic." A shadow passed over Eolad's face for a moment, clearly still affected by the memory of Aragorn's weak struggles and pathetic cries while he and the master healer worked to save his life.
"After your hurts were looked to, the poison in your veins kept you delirious with fever. You thrashed about and called out in your sleep such that we thought we might have to restrain you, and this kept up at intervals for three long nights. Then it seemed as though your body was finally able to overcome the poison and you found your rest at last. You slept for another day and a half after that, before the first time you awakened with actual coherency. That was yesterday afternoon."
Aragorn merely lay on his cot, absorbing the information slowly with a healer's eye for detail. He remembered now the arrow wound he sustained at the beginning of the fight.
"In that case, Eolad, I feel exhausted."
The apprentice healer couldn't help but laugh in response to that.
"I know of the arrow wound," Aragorn continued when the laughter subsided. "And I'm pretty sure I twisted my right ankle, as well as taking a blow to the back of the head. Did I miss anything else that my body has endured?"
"Well your ankle may have been twisted at first, but in the course of the battle you injured it further. You have a lovely sprain, Thorongil, and we have immobilized your lower leg and foot to provide support. Also, that blow to the head you took didn't cause any concussion that we could find, even though it broke the skin and bled considerably. Your eyes react as they should, however, and the bleeding was easy to control. Do not concern yourself with it."
Aragorn nodded, accepting this. Then he looked straight into Eolad's eyes with such intensity that the apprentice nearly turned away.
"And my shoulder?"
Eolad sighed and gazed at the floor.
"The arrowhead embedded itself in your shoulder blade. However, throughout the course of your actions, you managed to dislodge it. The arrowhead was not stationary, and scraped against your scapula and caused considerable muscle and tissue damage. We were afraid that your nerves had been damaged as well, but you are able to wiggle your fingers and this was a welcomed sight for us." Eolad paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "We do not know for certain if it caused any permanent damage. Only you can tell that, as you try to use your shoulder and arm. The master healer would not be surprised if you didn't regain full use of the limb, especially since we do not know the extent of the damage the poison caused while the arrow was in there."
Aragorn sat still for many moments, processing what was said and digesting the facts. Then slowly he brought his left arm up and bent his elbow to bring his hand before his face. The movements were sluggish and the strain on his shoulder pained him. He was determined, however. His facial expression alone showed this. Aragorn was not a man to take defeat lightly!
Slowly he brought each finger in to touch his thumb. His digits obeyed him, but it felt as though they were someone else's he was commanding to move. His fingertips tingled dully and that was the only sensation he registered. When he tried to clench his fist, he discovered that he couldn't make it close all the way, as though he was squeezing down on an invisible stone held in his palm. He tried several times, each earning the same results. Finally relaxed his arm back down to the bed, sighing tiredly from the effort.
Eolad had watched the entire thing with hopeful anticipation.
"Do not despair, Thorongil," he directed. "Already you have much greater range of motion than the master healer feared. I am told that you know much of physical therapy. Perhaps in time, with the right amount of the correct exercises…
"You need not cheer me," Aragorn said dully. "I have fared worse."
Once again Eolad's features darkened.
"From the scars we saw upon your body I do not doubt it," he said gravely. Then he seemed to banish his dark thoughts with a forcefully cheerful expression. "But enough chatter from me! You should be resting, and already I have exhausted you. Rest now, Thorongil. Tomorrow we pack up the tents and begin our journey home."
"Wait," Aragorn directed, even as he felt himself drifting to sleep. His inspection of his arm had completely sapped his strength. "Tell me of the battle," he directed, fighting off unconsciousness for as long as he could.
"Worry not about the battle, Thorongil," Eolad answered. "You only need know that we have won, and no living men are being left behind tomorrow." Aragorn relaxed fully at that, sighing in relief.
"Thanks be to the Valar…" His voice trailed off at the end as he fell asleep at last. Eolad smiled down at him almost fraternally before tucking the covers in once more and returning to his other duties as a healer.
The next morning Aragorn awoke when a few soldiers came in to help the healers disassemble the tent and pack everything away. Feeling a bit better, Aragorn forced himself up onto his elbows and surveyed the scene. It appeared as thought they were going to deconstruct the tent out from over him.
"Are you planning on just leaving me here?" He called out, amused. Several of the soldiers turned from their tasks at the sound of his voice but were quickly redirected by their taskmasters.
"Perish the thought."
Aragorn's head snapped around at the sound of Folca's voice. The sudden movement made the lump on the back of his head smart a little, but it didn't make him dizzy or nauseous, he noted with relief.
"You're looking a bit better than the last time I saw you."
"I feel better."
"So the healers have told me." Folca's eyes held something, the something that his tongue held back, as he stood in the far corner of the tent and watched Aragorn reline on his cot.
"When do we break camp?" Aragorn asked, growing uncomfortable in the silence that had crept in.
"Much of the camp has already broken," Folca answered. "More than half of the men have left already, in the company of half the healers. The seriously wounded have already been moved out."
"What of the satellite companies?"
"Their captains have reported that no orcs have escaped their notice. Scouts are still afoot in the mountains, but we believe that the entire infestation has been eradicated."
"Do we know why the orcs were roosting in the mountains to begin with?" "Some of the satellite captains reported what appeared to be quarry activity in some of the smaller orc camps they destroyed."
Aragorn blinked. "Cutting stones for siege equipment?"
Folca nodded. "That was our guess as well. Not to worry though, our soldiers have eliminated the orcs and destroyed their quarries. I have sent word ahead to King Thengal advising him to assign a watch garrison to the foothills of the mountains, just in case they decide to return."
Aragorn nodded that he understood, but still he was confused by something. "Why would orcs come all the way out here to cut their stone when Mordor itself is encircled by mountains?"
Folca shrugged half-heartedly. "Your guess is as good as mine, friend Thorongil. Perhaps the volcanic rock of Mordor is not ideal for catapulting?"
Aragorn pursed his lips in thought. "Perhaps…"
Folca dismissed the seriousness of the conversation with a bright and cheerful laugh. "Think no more of it," he directed. "The battle is won, the orcs are destroyed and their operations have been shut down; and thanks to you, nearly two hundred riders of the Mark that might have perished otherwise will be going home! You must rest for these final minutes while you can, because as soon as Eolad returns from fashioning a crutch for you, I shall help you hobble over to your horse and you shall depart with the next wave of returnees. Arlath will command it, and the rest of the healers and the walking wounded will be escorted home under ample guard."
Aragorn couldn't help but smile wide at the prospect.
"Will I make for Edoras or Strathcomb?"
Folca laughed again. Thorongil's greenness was oddly refreshing.
"The entire company makes for Edoras," he explained. "The wounded are tended there in the Wards of Healing. Reports must be made of the battle, the names of the dead, wounded, and missing must be counted and formal letters must be written to their kin. Promotions are handed out as earned or at need to replace those that have been lost and on very rare occasion, medals are awarded, too."
"It all sounds so involved…" Aragorn was slightly awed. Let no man claim the people of Rohan are primitive horse farmers!
Folca barked another laugh. "You have no idea until you find yourself as one in charge of the paperwork!" He explained with dejected amusement.
Aragorn snickered. "I believe you." Then he frowned. "What of you?"
Folca sighed tiredly. "I've assigned a small detachment to stay with me. We are going to finish breaking camp: scatter the ashes of the dead and make sure that no hard traces of our presence are left behind. I also need to take council with my scouts and satellite contingents so that the final report to the King can be made. Fear not though, friend Thorongil. You shall once again have the pleasure of my company before the moon is full."
Aragorn grinned. "Perish the thought."
Arlath's company was underway well before nightfall. Just as promised, Eolad had fashioned a crutch for Thorongil. It was now strapped to his saddle off-weighted by his sword. Unfortunately his bow and quiver were casualties of war. Aragorn did not mind so much, however. He was disappointed, but thankfully they were simply standard Dúnedain issue, and though he was quite comfortable with their use, they didn't hold high sentimental value.
Thankfully the arrows he had taken from the twins back in Imladris did not make the trip with him. He had left them at the bottom of his trunk in Strathcomb, buried under spare cloaks and extra tunics. They had become too painful a reminder for him to keep staring at them all the time, especially since he was genuinely trying to forget his past life in the North and all that he had run from.
Now that he was on the road home to Strathcomb, Aragorn was grateful that the arrows didn't make the trip with him, for then they would have been claimed along with his quiver by the rockslide he had created. It was an odd juxtaposition that he should be so grateful for the preservation of such ghosts from his former life at the same time he was looking forward to going home to Strathcomb where such trinkets were stored out of sight and mind.
If he thought about it, Aragorn would have been torn between on the one hand being happy that his heart was beginning to distance himself from his memories of home and family in the North, for this distance would make this life, in exile from his exile, much easier to endure, and on the other feeling like such sentiments were the cruelest form of betrayal of those who had once loved him dearly. To try and take the Evenstar from her family and her people was insult enough, but to then go around and deliberately try to forget everything the elves had ever done for him? That was twisting the knife further indeed!
Thankfully Aragorn chose not to dwell on such things, for in his heart of hearts he already knew them to be true. No, instead he decided to focus on the miracle of the Valar that spared him on that mountainside and how Folca had assured him that no living man was being left behind. He had just emerged from his first war as a citizen of Rohan, and that war had been a decisive victory. Now was time for happiness and celebration, of victory songs and joyous reunions with loved ones, and when he arrived back in Strathcomb and assured Lindewyn that he had brought Folca home safe, Aragorn intended to do just that.
He had all night for his dreams to subject him to the horrors of war and of the men he had not the skill to save. He could afford to fill his waking hours with a little bit of merriment.
"How do you fare, Thorongil?"
Arlath had ridden up beside him and effectively disturbed him from his musings.
"Well enough to wish this journey were over," Aragorn answered truthfully. "My knees do not like compensating for my immobilized ankle as I ride."
Arlath laughed. "I know exactly of what you speak," he said. "I too have had the misfortune of having to ride back to town sporting a leg injury."
"It is not an occurrence that I should like to repeat."
"You and me both, Thorongil. You and me both." They laughed some but then fell into silence again. They rode side by side without speaking again for nearly a mile, seemingly contented to let unspoken words lie hidden.
"Thorongil?" Well, Aragorn was content to let it lie. Apparently Arlath was not.
"Yes?"
"You know, a good portion of the company owes you their lives—myself included."
Aragorn shrugged off the attention. "I only did what I felt was my duty, sir."
"Nonsense," Arlath dismissed. "Healing the wounded was your duty. Running off into the ravine and getting the orcs to use their own equipment to orchestrate a rescue? That's going above and beyond the call, Thorongil. By far."
Aragorn felt his cheeks begin to flush at the sudden praise. "I am merely grateful to not have to carry two hundred additional deaths on my conscience."
"But it was not your responsibility to save us. Had you not come and we had perished, you conscience still would have been clear."
"Only until I returned to Strathcomb, where I would have had the burden of telling Lindewyn that just like Bretta, I was unable to bring Folca home to her alive, and more importantly, that I did not even try."
"And had you died on that mountain she would have lost the both of you," Arlath said seriously.
Aragorn smiled sadly. "Yes, but I would not have had to live with the guilt of it."
Arlath shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words.
"Your demons must be dark indeed, Thorongil of the North, in order for you to almost willfully shroud yourself in guilt the way you do. The world is not your concern, Thorongil, do not carry it on your back or its weight will bury you young."
The conversation ended there. Arlath galloped to the head of the column, his peace spoken. Aragorn watched him go and then his gaze flickered briefly to the left, off north. When his eyes returned ahead he was staring east, farther east than their destination. East to Gondor, and Mordor beyond.
"Thorongil carries nothing," he said to no one, and no one heard. "Responsibility for Arda rests on Aragorn's shoulders, but he died long ago."
Nearly two cycles of the moon after Aragorn had first ridden out of Edoras to war, he found himself staring across the plains of Rohan at the capital once more. Horns were blown and answered, and bells were rung within the city. The city gates were opened wide, and it seemed as though all of Edoras had turned out to greet them. The streets were lined with people—mostly women, children, and the old, and they were throwing wreaths of sage and symbelmynë to honor the riders. Cheers rang through every corner of the city as the soldiers passed, making their way outside again, to their main encampment.
Aragorn led his horse over to a small clearing near the rear of the encampment. He eased himself off of Frelaf's back, landing squarely on his good foot. He slid the crutch out from its stowed position and used it to brace himself as he then removed his sword and fastened it to his belt.
That was the last of his worldly possessions now. Everything else had been taken in the rockslide or shredded for bandages.
Aragorn held his crutch off the ground and used the gelding to support his weight as he hobbled over to the office tent where he had signed on the dotted line that he was responsible for Frelaf.
"Excuse me?" He called out. "I have a horse to return."
Shuffling heard from within the tent. Then the man whom Aragorn recognized as the chief stable hand emerged, carrying a ledger. He noticed that the gelding was still fully tacked and nearly leveled Aragorn with an incredulously disproving look, but by then Aragorn had gone back to leaning on the crutch and had slipped his arm back into the sling he never wore to immobilize his injured arm.
"Of course," the stable hand said softly, almost in apology for the words he nearly spoke. "I'll take him."
"Don't I have to sign for him?" Aragorn asked pleasantly.
The stable hand shook his head. "I'll take care of it." He grabbed the reins from Aragorn.
"Thank you." Aragorn stroked Frelaf's neck a few times while whispering something Elvish that the stable hand didn't quite hear or comprehend. A smile and another stroke and Aragorn shifted his weight on his crutches and turned to go. The stable hand led the gelding away.
Aragorn slowly made his way over to the barracks tents. He vaguely remembered which one he had used before, but they all looked dreadfully similar. He decided that in the end it did not matter, so he chose a random tent and then in that tent, a random cot. He unbuckled his sword and put it on the ground next to his crutch. He hated to admit it, but the ride took a lot more out of him that it should have on account of having to balance in the saddle with his knees. He groaned to think how out of shape that made him and vowed to practice his riding more as soon as his injuries allow it.
But for now, a nice, long nap. He can worry about the rest later.
"Here you are, Thorongil!"
Aragorn moaned and rolled over. His eyes fluttered open and he saw Eolad kneeling beside his cot.
"Go away…" He muttered and tried to roll back over. Eolad's hand on his arm stopped him.
"I don't think so," the apprentice said through an amused grin. "I've been looking all over for you. You turned your horse in but didn't report to the healer's tent." A hand went to Aragorn's forehead to check for fever.
"I don't need to be healed. I need to sleep."
"And sleep you shall," Eolad agreed, the hand drifting down from the forehead to check Aragorn's pulse at his neck. "In the healer's tent, where I can keep a proper eye on you."
"I can assure you that watching me sleep is a very boring pastime," Aragorn informed Eolad irritably as the apprentice healer began manipulating the fingers attached to Aragorn's injured arm. Aragorn winced and pulled his hand away.
"Well then I pity your girlfriend in the North," Eolad responded as he began drawing back Aragorn's tunic from the neckline, trying to inspect the arrow wound. Then suddenly Aragorn's hand encircled Eolad's wrist in a vice-like grip.
"I am fine," he said with frost in his voice. "My wounds are healing nicely. Remember that I too am a healer. I know what my body is doing at current. Now go and see to those who really need the attentions of a healer and leave me here to dream about my girlfriend from the North in peace from your irksome inferences." Aragorn then shoved Eolad's hand away.
"Fault me not for doing my duty, Thorongil," Eolad said evenly, the lines of his face set in grim determination as he backed away and stood up. "If my bedside manner has provoked you then I am sorry. I meant no offense. But you will be moved into the healer's tent, Thorongil. Even if I need to summon half the guards to carry you there and then strap you down."
Aragorn's response was to petulantly roll over and show Eolad his back.
"On your honor I am giving you the time to relocate yourself without the embarrassment of being slung over someone's shoulder like an errant child. When I return, I had better not find you still in this bed."
Eolad left the tent without further preamble.
Aragorn remained still, silent, listening to see if he would return. After a minute slipped by, and then two, Aragorn sighed in tired relief and rolled back around. He already felt guilty for the way he had treated his friend, but then Eolad had to mention Arwen and then all bets were off.
Aragorn forced himself into a sitting position and rand a tired hand across his face. He seriously considered finding Eolad and apologizing for his behavior, but that would involve admitting that it truly was Eolad's bedside manner that had upset him, and that meant confessing to the fact that it was being reminded of Arwen that upset him, so he decided against it. He would apologize later, he reasoned. Right now he needed some fresh air to clear his head of all his thoughts of Arwen.
Aragorn left the barracks tent, sword strapped to his belt and hobbling on his crutch. He hated the thing, truly. He hated how it limited his movements and made him feel like a cripple. However, he would be off the crutch before Folca returns to camp, which is a lot better than the pour souls whose legs he had to remove to stave off the gangrene who probably wouldn't survive the rest of winter anyway.
With a snort Aragorn conceded that the only way to sleep and not dream of the horrors he had just lived through was to think of Arwen as he falls asleep. Peaceful dreams of his beloved then ensue, and their pain is a refreshing change from the pains of war.
Aragorn's heart was heavy as he left the barracks tent, for he was unable to dwell on a single thought that didn't pain him. When living and moving hurts so badly, thinking shouldn't bring pain as well.
Aragorn found his way to the edge of the encampment. He didn't want to report to the healer's tent just yet. Instead he found a small outcropping of rock and slowly made his way on top of it. Then he sat down heavily and crossed his legs. His gaze was fixed northwest, off towards Lothlórien and Arwen, and farther than that, towards what used to be his home. He sat here for what felt like an eternity as the images he didn't want to see flashed through his mind like those slung from a broken projector.
He saw men, young men, goodly and strong, reduced to crying children screaming out for their mothers as he tried in vain to put their pieces back together. He saw piles of dirty bandages mingling with the piles of clean ones to the point where no one knew which was which. He heard screams, wails, the cries of the dying choked back by their own blood. He saw their eyes as the light slowly left them and they glazed over, living orbs replaced by dull slips of glass. He smelt the lingering odor of death and decay, as blood and tears dried alongside other fluids that no one took any notice of as they stained their skin and clothes and hair. He smelt the putrid odor of burning flesh as they laid the dead to rest the only way they could.
He saw the desperation in the scout's eyes as he relayed his story. He saw the gratitude there as he embraced death once his deed was done. He saw the helplessness on everyone's face, and the sad resignation that mingled with acceptance, when no one thought that the men on the mountain could be saved.
He wished he could have seen his own face when he realized that they were right.
He saw the battlefield, with its horrors peacefully blanketed in freshly fallen snow, concealing the truth that now lay hidden. He saw the men in the ravine, calmly awaiting their end, and he saw that dam that trapped them there, standing still and silent in the wintry air as a towering monument to the crumbling hopes of men.
He saw orcs. Not the smaller goblins of the north, but true vile out-of-Mordor orcs. They were tall and black with scraggly hair and burning yellow eyes. They stank of death and sulfur and ash and easily towered above an ordinary man in the heat of battle. These were the creatures immortalized as villains in Elven song. These were the creatures that the elves had fought against in the Last Alliance, and the creatures that the men of Rohan, Gondor, and Dol Amroth fight against in their daily struggles against the ever-increasing shadows.
What right did he, ranger of the north, ever have to claim that he has fought against orcs before?
Yet the battle was won. By some miracle of the Valar, he had managed to manipulate the orcs into using their own siege weaponry to break down the dam. On top of that, he had managed to survive the ordeal with only a sprained ankle and minor arrow wound to show for it. By the end of the week he'll be walking right again, and by the end of winter hopefully he will be able to make a fist again.
How was he so lucky? How, when he was so brash, foolhardy, and naïve? How did it come to pass that his actions were rewarded with victory and not punished by grave injury or death? Why was he spared, when so many much more deserving souls were not?
Through the horror, the death, the decay, the putrid odors men willfully ignore so as to not allow their minds to touch upon the cause… through the cries of pain, the moans of agony, the wails of those in mourning for lost kin… through the numbing fatigue and crushing despair… through the orcs and the ravine and the battle plain and the field hospital and the funeral pyres and the rockslide… Through all these things that Aragorn has endured in what was to be the first of many wars that he would fight in his time here in the south of Middle Earth… his vision faded to a misty gray, the kind that lingers on a pale spring morning before the sun breaks swiftly across the sky, highlighting the dreary landscape in stunning reds and purples and golds as the sky rolls over to blue and the colors shrink into puffy white clouds. Here on the brink of dawn, Arwen seemed to float across the dreary landscape before his eyes. Regal and sad, hair billowing in the chilling pre-dawn breeze. He could almost reach her, almost touch the softness of her gown as it swished by him. He could smell the airy fragrance of the rainwater as it hovered between refreshing cool and stinking damp.
Then her vision seemed drawn away by something. She turned her head away from him, and Aragorn could not speak. Then suddenly the dawn broke across the sky, streaming out of the west and crushing all shadows in its path. Aragorn, standing east, was blinded by the brilliance and brought up a quick hand to shield his eyes. The distance between them seemed to stretch as she was pulled away from him by the light that never quite killed the shadows around his feet.
He reached out for her, but she didn't see. She didn't even notice him as she retreated behind curtains of light and shrank further and further from view until in a flash of brilliance she was gone. Aragorn found himself standing alone in the field where Arwen just vacated. He glanced down at his feet, and the shadows that lingered there snaked out like living things, twisting forward and writing, draping themselves over the planescape and turning all the light to lifeless shadow.
The shadows stretched heavenward, and when it reached the clouds they heaved in the deafening silence, turning over to gray and black and releasing their contents unmercifully cold upon the man still standing where whence his love had gone.
The rain wet Aragorn's face and chilled him. He shivered once but didn't move. Instead he sat down, and then lied down. He curled into the fetal position there on the wet grass and let the cold and shadow and rain consume him. It burned like acid and stank of brimstone and ash but he paid it no heed as he lie there, eyes open yet unseeing in the slowly drowning shadows. His only thoughts were that Arwen did not have to see the damning darkness left in her wake as she departed, and that was counted as a good thing.
Meanwhile, back in the real world, Aragorn lie curled in the fetal position upon the rock that he had been sitting on, fast asleep now in the growing twilight. His face was wet with the tracks of the tears he didn't notice he had shed. Above him, Gil-Estel shone brighter than all others until it drifted behind a wisp of cloud and disappeared.
Translations:
"Im dénië, Adar. Im únolë lle iareva aiye nin. Im úlleva estel.": Q: I am sorry (lit: I lament), Father. I (have) not (the) wisdom you once (lit: of old) beheld in me. I am not your (lit: of you) hope.
Arda: the world
Adan/edain: human (individual)/humans or human race
"Valar ve astaldor…": Q: The Valar favor (lit: like) the brave (lit: valiant (pleural)).
Westron: the common tongue
Adunaic: the language of Númenór, a derivative of Elvin
Khuzdul: the language of the dwarves
Notes:
-On ballistas: think "giant crossbow." They are built to throw either large projectile bolts or even stones, but send them on a (more or less) straight path (as opposed to the sweeping arcs of catapults and trebuchets).