37 – AFTERMATH


Aragorn's army cut through their enemies like a knife through butter.

He led the charge, the crew of the Haedannen on his heels, and behind them, the army from the Paths of the Dead. They were a fearsome sight, and he felt a trickle of remorse for the tens of orcs and Southrons that were falling under the sweep of their swords. But it was soon lost in the red haze that battle brought.

He drew further and further away from the bank of the river and deeper and deeper into the chaos that was the battle. He saw black armour everywhere he turned, the brown of the mud, the red of spilled blood.

And it was growing lighter. The dark clouds in the sky were breaking up, and slivers of silver light were beginning to tentatively show themselves. Aragorn only allowed himself a fraction of a second to look, but it lifted his heart immediately.

He'd made it, with the army he'd promised. The battle wasn't over, the city wasn't burning. And they were winning.

Nothing could kill the savage euphoria he felt as he slashed and stabbed – nothing, until he heard a familiar voice.

"Tíniel, no!"

He whirled, and saw what must have been Éowyn, dressed as a Rider of Rohan, standing before none other than the Witch-King of Angmar. She sprinted forward and threw her shield up to meet the arc of his mace. It split the shield in two, and her scream of pain was piercing.

But Aragorn was frozen in place, his mouth trying to make sounds that didn't come out. His eyes combed the ground around the Nazgul, looking for one thing. Then he saw her, pushing herself up agonisingly from the ground, drawing a knife from the sheath on her back, grinning fiercely at the Nazgul before her. It was Tíniel.

She looked tattered, exhausted. She swayed out of the way of the mace, so late that it looked like a fluke, a trick of the light. But it caught her arm, ripping through her skin, and she screamed in pain and staggered backwards.

"No," Aragorn whispered, and the shock jolted him into action. He began to run towards her, desperate to do something to stop what was about to happen. She was so close, but he wasn't going to be there soon enough, wouldn't be able to save her – he'd never, never been able to save her…

But she was stepping forward again, brandishing the dagger, challenging the Nazgul, the fool, trying to provoke him into one final attack, and he had to stop her, had to stop it from happening –

"Tíniel!" he bellowed, coming to a standstill, and immediately she turned. Her lips moved, making the shape of his name, but he was too far away to hear. Somehow there was a shadow of a smile on her lips.

And then it happened, so easily, so quickly and without ceremony that for a split second he didn't believe it. But it had happened. The Witch-King's mace crunched into her side and flung her away. Her body crumpled mid-air, and she landed heavily and finally, face down.

Nothing mattered anymore except for his heart breaking inside him, and the fighting disappeared around him as he ran to her. The battle could fight itself, for all he cared; he knew, without knowing how, that this was the most important thing. He fell to his knees beside her.

She was bleeding heavily, and one of her arms was bent horribly the wrong way. Her spine seemed somehow twisted, and her skin was freezing to the touch. He turned her over as gently as he could, cradling her, wincing at the horrendous pain he knew he must be causing her, but she didn't seem to feel it.

"Tíniel," he breathed. Her eyes fluttered halfway shut, and he touched her cheek. "Tíniel! Tíniel, please!"

There was not response. Her breathing grew faint, and the part of her face that he was touching grew colder still. He began to cry.

"Tíniel!" he shouted, shaking her, pressing his cheek to her forehead, her blood soaking steadily into his tunic. "Tíniel, wake up! Wake up for Valar's sake!"

He was pathetic, he knew it, but he so desperately wanted for this not to be the end, so desperately wanted to see her and talk to her just one more time. His body shook with sobs. Her arm was so slippery from her blood that his hand kept slipping off.

He cupped her cheek again and tried to look into her eyes, to see some spark of recognition in their darkness. One of his tears dropped onto her face.

"Tíniel, come back to me," he pleaded. There was nothing, no answering flicker, no puff of breath. "Tíniel… Tchakhura, please…"

Nothing.

Grief crashed over him like a wave, and a strangled, animal-like sound escaped his mouth. It wasn't until he heard someone calling him that he looked up.

"Aragorn!" Halbarad cried, and crouched opposite him. His eyes flicked down to Tíniel, limp in his arms, and his face filled with pity. He reached down and gently pushed her eyes closed.

"Valar, I am sorry my friend," he said. "But you must come with me. We need to go, but we'll come back for her."

Aragorn tried to speak, but he couldn't say anything.

"Let her go now," Halbarad said, helping him ease her out of his arms and onto the ground. "We will come back for her. I promise you."


Hours later, the battle had finally ended.

Aragorn was numb. He'd stepped back into his role as a captain, but he was barely going through the motions. The ghost army had disappeared when he dismissed them, their oath fulfilled. The wounded were being gathered, and the leaders were meeting in a tent at the gates of the city to discuss their next move.

Aragorn stepped into the tent. Everything seemed to move slowly about him, like he was underwater.

"So we have won, for now," Gandalf said. "The battle was ours, but I fear we saw but a fraction of Sauron's troops. What next?"

"We rest, just for a little," Imrahil said tiredly. "We are no use in this state. We can plan later, when our minds are clearer and our thoughts sharper. Gandalf, you look exhausted. I feel I have not slept in days. The Rohirrim are grieving the death of their king. And Aragorn, you are covered in blood."

"It is not mine," Aragorn said mechanically.

"Where is the lady Tíniel?" asked a man – some lord of Minas Tirith whose name he didn't know. "It was she who led us to victory today."

There was a long silence while everyone glanced about and Aragorn stared at the table.

"Dead," he said at last, his voice an affront to the silence. "She died today."

"Valar, no," Imrahil exclaimed.

"It cannot be," Gandalf muttered. "It cannot be! There is more yet for her to do!"

Aragorn looked up at him. The wizard looked tired, old, and sad.

"I held her," he said hollowly. "It is true."

"Then let our counsel be held later," Gandalf said. "We are weary, and grieving. The war is far from over, yes, but the battle is won."

They all rose from their seats, but as they did, slow footsteps were heard outside. There was muttering from the guard at the tent's door, and then the flap was pushed back. Éomer and Tcharum entered, each carrying a body and each with a face of stone.

"Clear the table," Éomer said. There was no expression in his voice, and two of the men that Aragorn didn't know did so. Éomer and Tcharum advanced and laid their sisters side by side. Aragorn could barely look at Tíniel. She didn't look like herself at all; she looked bruised and cut and savaged and still. She looked like a corpse.

"It only makes the burden heavier, to see it before our eyes," Gandalf said, leaning on his staff.

"Indeed," Imrahil agreed, looking down at Tíniel sadly. "I knew her too short a time. This is a severe loss."

"Too much has been lost today," Éomer said roughly.

"This war was never going to be light for casualties," Halbarad said gravely.

"Who shut eyes of my sister?" Tcharum spoke up suddenly. There was a silence, and everyone stared at him. He stood unmoving, his strong jaw clenched, staring down at Tíniel. Aragorn saw that he was wearing a silver medallion around his neck – the same that Tíniel had worn.

"Who killed her, you mean?" one of the lords tried.

"Who shut her eyes?" Tcharum repeated.

"I did," Halbarad said hesitantly. "I am sorry, she was dead and I…"

A tear slipped from Tcharum's unmoving eyes, and he muttered something in Khandi. There was another long silence. Aragorn bowed his head and rubbed his hands together. A sickly coldness seemed to emanate from the two bodies.

"Let us go," Gandalf said at last. "These two will be honoured in time." Men began filing out, but Aragorn felt he could not move.

"How wrong," Imrahil murmured, moving to stand over Éowyn, "that something so beautiful should be still and dead."

"And yet it is so," Aragorn added quietly.

Suddenly, Imrahil's brows creased, and he drew his dagger. He rubbed it with his tunic so that it shone, and then he held it underneath Éowyn's nose.

"What do you think you are doing?" Éomer asked, a note of warning filling his empty voice.

"Do you not think it odd that they are so cold, when they are dead?" Imrahil said. "It is unnatural…"

Aragorn slowly got to his feet. He didn't want to let himself hope, not now. But…

Imrahil lifted the dagger to his eyes, and they widened. He showed it to the others in the tent, and each of them saw the faint fog fade from the blade.

"The lady Éowyn is alive," Imrahil announced.

Immediately, there was a flurry of movement.

"We need to get her to a healer!" Éomer shouted, his face suddenly alive with fear.

"Take her into the City, to the Houses," Aragorn ordered. "I will see to her, as soon as I – I just need to know…"

"Aragorn," Tcharum said, taking him by the shoulders. "Tchakhura, she is dead? I do not understand. Tell me."

"Let me see," Aragorn breathed, and drew his dagger. He leaned down and gently pressed the blade against Tíniel's lips. Her skin was cold, freezing cold to the touch, and as he waited, he grew more and more sure: she could not be dead.

His heart thundering, he removed his dagger, and stared at it. Then he looked up at Tcharum and swallowed thickly.

"She is alive," he said.


The Halls of Healing were packed and bustling. There were screams of pain, the shouting of the Healers, the sobbing of those who had just lost someone they'd known. Aragorn, and Tcharum behind him, heard none of it.

A guard went to stop them, but when he saw who Aragorn carried in his arms, he paled and showed them to a separate room in the Houses. It was small, but when the door shut behind them, it was quiet.

Aragorn laid Tíniel on the bed and once more, just to be sure, pressed his dagger to her lips. There was a faint fog on it, and he exhaled quickly. She was alive, yes, but she'd been dying for hours. He didn't know how long she had left.

"Tcharum, do you know what kingsfoil is?' he asked urgently.

Tcharum frowned. "What?"

Legolas and Gimli burst into the room.

"Aragorn! All the men are saying that… Mahal be good," Gimli choked out, his eyes falling on Tíniel. Legolas said nothing, but a shadow fell over his eyes.

"Needles, thread," Aragorn said unsteadily. "Bring them here. Water too, cold and warm. Cloth, and bandages – lots of bandages. Poppyseed, for if she wakes. And athelas. As much as you can find."

"It is done," Legolas said quietly, and left.

Aragorn began to strip Tíniel of her armour, unstrapping the leather pieces from her torso as gently and as quickly as he could. Once it was done, he drew his knife and began to cut her tunic and peel it off her. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, and he wanted to throw up.

Tíniel's arms and torso were covered in cuts and wide gashes that still bled slowly. Black bruises bloomed across her body. It was clear that many of her ribs were broken, and her lower spine twisted in a strange way that made Aragorn afraid.

It was an appalling sight. Aragorn heard Gimli gasp and Tcharum inhale shakily. Legolas burst into the room, panting, but he stopped short when he saw Tíniel, half-naked and unconscious.

"I have what you asked for," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on her. "Can you… can you heal her?"

"I don't know," Aragorn muttered, taking the items quickly and preparing them.

"Another thing," Legolas said. "Harûk the pirate is outside, with Mahaya. Also, a woman named Petakh and three Khandi soldiers. And a Healer named Anita, her son Bergil, and two soldiers of Gondor whom I do not know. And also Merry and Pippin."

"Tell them they must wait," Aragorn said, throwing a cloth into the warm water to soak. "There is nothing for them to see yet."

"Very well," Legolas said, and touched Aragorn's shoulder gently. Then he turned away. "Gimli. Let us go."

Aragorn began to break the athelas leaves up and scatter them into the hot water as the two friends left. Tcharum sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and touched a finger to Tíniel's face.

"Brother," he said, his voice trembling. "She will live?"

Aragorn looked up at him. He was clenching the silver medallion that hung around his neck so tightly that his hand was shaking.

"There is always hope," he replied. He only wished he could believe it.


The first thing Tíniel knew was a haze of emptiness. There were words she could hear, but not understand, in voices that brought visions of misty faces from her past. But they slipped away before she could grasp them, and the emptiness reigned again.

The next thing that came was the cold. It crept through her body first insidiously, and then swiftly. It brought with it memories of terror, of the knowledge of death and the pain it had brought. The shivers wracked her body with violent spasms, and she could feel hands on her, trying to hold her down, keep her still. But there was a clean scent in the air that calmed the shaking, so she forced herself to breathe deeply, and at length, it subsided.

But then it was replaced by the pain. Like the cold, it crept in steadily, but then hit her like a mumak at full speed. It was unbearable, and it came from everywhere. She could hear herself moaning, but she couldn't stop it. It hurt too much, and she wished for death.

Something cool and hard touched her lips, and soon afterwards a substance was tipped down her throat. She swallowed by force of habit. For a while nothing changed, but soon a delicious numbness swept through her, and the alertness brought by the pain faded back into a haze.

It took hours, perhaps even days, before enough of her conscience gathered together in her head for her to properly wake. She'd been given a dose of the magic liquid not long ago, but the pain was just beginning to return.

She drew in a deep breath, and the pain in her torso exploded. She waited for the lights to fade from the back of her eyelids. Shallow breathing it was, then.

It was an effort to even open her eyes. At last she managed it, and blinked a few times. It was dark, but silver moonlight streamed in through the window. She was in a room with walls of white stone, walls she recognised – the Houses of Healing in Gondor.

In a turbulent rush, the memories of the battle returned to her, and she retched. The spasm caused a surge of blinding pain from her torso and she cried out. Someone in the chair beside her bed jerked to life.

"Tíniel!" exclaimed a voice, and he turned and quickly lit a candle.

"Aragorn," she breathed, her voice cracked and hoarse. The candlelight illuminated a face that was more lined than she remembered, eyes that had dark, bruise-like shadows beneath them, and brows that seemed permanently creased with worry.

"You are finally showing your age," she whispered with an effort, and in an instant the worry was replaced with relief.

"I know no one but you who would come back from the very door to the hall of the dead and make a joke," he said, lifting a cup of water to her lips and helping her tilt her head to drink some. "You're really alright?"

She grunted in pain from the movement. "Everything hurts."

"It's bound to if you challenge a Nazgul to a duel."

She grimaced, and found that her face hurt too. "I wasn't planning on surviving it."

Aragorn's face softened and he took one of her hands in both of his. They were warm, rough, familiar. "You very nearly didn't," he said softly.

"You saved me, didn't you?" she asked. "I could hear you speaking to me. I don't know what you said, but I knew it was you."

Conflict flashed across his face, and he shrugged. "Yes, I saved you. I didn't really have a choice."

She frowned and waited for him to elaborate. He sighed and looked down.

"After the battle, you were cold as ice," he said. "You and Éowyn both. I felt for your heartbeat and could find none. I listened for your breath and heard nothing." He swallowed thickly. "You do not know the despair that gripped me, Tíniel. I thought you were dead."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He gave a half laugh.

"I was so empty. I have lost my father, my mother, brothers in arms, friends, family… none compare to what I felt when I thought I had lost you."

She didn't know why, but tears came to her eyes. Her arms felt too weak to reach up and brush them away. Aragorn looked back up and smiled at her.

"Yes, I saved you," he said. "And thereby I saved myself. There was no life for me without you. When you were gone, it was simply what had to be done. But when I realised that I had a chance at healing you… there was light again. There was hope."

A tear trickled from the corner of one of her eyes. "When I was on the battlefield, fighting him, and I heard you call my name," she rasped. "When I knew you had come back, I…"

It was all growing too much, and she shut her eyes and breathed unsteadily. She felt him squeeze her hand.

"Did you mean what you said in that doom dream?" she whispered.

"I did," he replied gently. "I really, truly did."

"Will you say it again?"

He pressed a kiss to her palm, and it warmed her whole arm. "I love you, Tíniel. I love you endlessly."


Well, they're reunited at last. I have no apology to offer for the death scare last week – but you didn't really think the story was over, did you? Even in the book they truly thought that Éowyn was dead until Imrahil decided to check if she was breathing (not sure why this wasn't the first step, but okay).

My love and thanks to those who have followed, favourited and especially reviewed. Since its inception, fiction has been a way for people to escape reality. So especially in a time like this, I hope you enjoy.

My tips for staying healthy during the virus: read, wash your hands, and review.

S