The Price of Mercy
Halfway up the path to Amon Hen, Legolas stopped in his tracks, and Gimli almost ran into him.
'Why do you stop, Legolas?' the dwarf growled impatiently.
'I see Aragorn and Sam on the path a little ahead of us. They are walking towards us,' Legolas told him.
'But is Frodo with them?' Gimli asked. Mutely, Legolas shook his head. Gimli frowned. 'That is ill news,' he said.
'Yes,' was Legolas' terse reply. He hesitated a moment, and then called out Aragorn's name, his voice echoing out across the hill. There was a long silence. Gimli tapped the foot of his axe-shaft anxiously against the leafy ground.
Then, faint on the still air, Legolas heard the reply.
'I am coming, friend.' Aragorn spoke Elvish, but even so, the rough edge to his voice worried Legolas.
'What is it?' Gimli asked.
'Nothing,' Legolas said, and then: 'In truth, I do not know. A dark cloud passes over my heart, though I know not why. Aragorn is weary, he stumbles as he walks; and Sam... I do not know. But I feel that some great sorrow has come to pass.'
Gimli frowned harder.
'You elves and your feelings,' he said with an exasperated shrug, but there was both affection and worry in his voice.
At that moment, loud on the still air, came a sound that made both elf and dwarf start. The horn of Gondor called, clear, but faint and desperate. Without looking at each other, without looking back, Legolas and Gimli turned tail and sprinted back down the path, Gimli tightening his grip on his axe, Legolas nocking an arrow to his bow. A little way down the path, Aragorn caught up with them, his sword already drawn. As he overtook them, feet pounding on the rocky ground, Legolas noticed the cut on his face, still trickling blood. He said nothing, but his face creased into a frown and he quickened his pace. Gimli looked grim.
The three companions broke into the clearing in time to see Merry lifted up and slung across the shoulders of a fearsome looking orc. The shards of Boromir's horn lay nearby, and Merry's face bore a bloody gash across the mouth and chin. He did not cry out, but struggled violent against his captor, all the while clutching something against his chest.
Aragorn sprang forward. Anduril came crashing down upon the orc's neck, and it fell instantly, trapping Merry beneath a lifeless arm. Aragorn struggled to pull the orc aside, while Legolas and Gimli swept through the clearing driving the remaining orcs before them. The great bow sang and the heavy axe fell again and again until not one living orc remained upon the hillside. Then Gimli would have set out in pursuit of those which had fled, but Legolas bade him return to their injured comrades to see if there was aught that could be done and to take counsel with Aragorn as to what their course of action should be.
Merry was sitting with his back to a tree and his eyes closed, while Aragorn bent over Boromir's motionless body. When Legolas and Gimli approached, Merry started and looked around with wary eyes, but Aragorn did not immediately look up. Legolas flung the Man an anxious glance and then went to kneel by Merry's side.
'Are you much hurt, master hobbit?' he asked gently. Merry answered slowly and with great difficulty, for the injury to his face made speech painful.
'Aragorn says that if I can speak at all, then it cannot be as bad as it looks,' he said grimly, and then spat blood. 'But I am heartsick and mortally weary,' he managed in a very small voice, and closed his eyes.
'Rest now, then,' Gimli said kindly. 'You are safe.' Merry shook his head, but could not speak. Legolas brushed his curly hair back from his face and rested a cool hand on his forehead.
'Much evil has come to pass, this I know,' he said softly. 'But for now, you are safe, Merry. This I know also. You can rest now. We will protect you.' His voice was soothing and calm, though Gimli thought he heard the strain of anxiety in it. But Merry was reassured and comforted, and finally lapsed into sleep.
'Aragorn?' Legolas said after a long moment. And finally Aragorn looked up. He looked pale and drawn and deathly tired, and he shook his head.
'Frodo is dead,' he said, and his voice was breaking. 'Frodo is dead, and Boromir is injured perhaps unto death, and Pippin has been taken, and Merry is hurt, and the Ring... the Ring...' He buried his face in his hands and could not continue.
'Not taken?' Gimli asked, aghast. Legolas shook his head.
'No. It is here. Can you not feel it?' His eyes narrowed. 'Do you have it, Aragorn? Or does Boromir?' Aragorn shook his head.
'Boromir had it, and it betrayed him. But Merry took it before the Enemy could.'
'Durin's beard,' Gimli swore. Legolas buried his face in his hands.
'What will we do now, Aragorn?' Gimli asked after a long moment. Aragorn shook his head.
'I know not,' he said with a small shrug, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He drew a deep breath. 'But if I am to do aught for Boromir, I must work quickly,' he added decisively.
'It was at his hand that Frodo died,' Legolas said suddenly. Gimli frowned, and his fists clenched.
'Yes,' was all that Aragorn could reply. 'And yet still I would save him, Legolas,' he added fiercely. 'The Ring was too powerful for him. But he is not an evil man. Any of us might have succumbed so.'
'But we did not,' Gimli said simply. Aragorn sighed.
'Boromir fought the Ring! Even under its influence, he still sought to protect Merry and Pippin. Does that mean nothing to you?'
'Something, perhaps,' Gimli growled. 'But if he murdered Frodo, Aragorn... surely that condemns him?' Aragorn shook his head fiercely.
'Frodo died because of the Ring,' he insisted.
'At Boromir's hand,' Legolas said gently.
'Yes. I do not seek to deny that,' Aragorn said desperately. 'And still I would save him if I could. I would see him redeem himself, if he is able. I would give him that chance. For mercy is one of the things that sets us apart from those we fight, and pity is another, and so too is the potential for redemption. Do you not see that?'
'I see it,' Legolas said softly. 'I do see it. But hope your trust in him is not misplaced.'
'So do I,' Aragorn muttered wryly. 'Gimli, can you get a fire going? Legolas, my friend, keep your bow-stRing taut and be alert.'
'Aye, Aragorn,' said Gimli. Legolas gave no reply, but his hand went to his bow. Aragorn squared his shoulders and bent once more over Boromir.
The Man had retreated into a deep unconsciousness. His breathing was strong and steady, and he gave no indication of being able to feel pain, for which Aragorn was truly thankful. Gently, he re-examined the injured arm. It was not the clean wound of a sharp blade. The remaining bone was shattered, the flesh ripped and torn. Left like this, Aragorn knew it would never heal. Though he had already bound Boromir's arm fast, it was not enough to staunch the blood flow. And if the blood was not checked, Boromir would surely die. Already, he had lost too much, and his face was pale, his pulse fast and uneven.
Aragorn touched his shoulder. Boromir did not stir.
'The fire, Gimli!' Aragorn growled without looking up.
'It's alight, friend,' Gimli said softly.
'Get it hot, very hot, and smokeless,' Aragorn said. 'Then take Anduril and place her blade in the flames.'
Gimli drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. Legolas looked up.
'Take my knife instead, Aragorn,' he said. 'It is sharper and less unwieldy, and your hand will be steadier. Also, it would be ill luck indeed if Anduril were damaged in the flames.'
'If I had need of a knife I could use my own,' Aragorn said. 'But the hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and the sword of kings will do this job best.' Legolas frowned, but nodded. They both knew that neither sword nor knife would do this task easily, but they had no other choice. Gimli took the sword and plunged it into the fire.
'Where is Merry? I would that he did not have to see this,' Aragorn said, and his face was pale.
'He sleeps,' Gimli said. 'With luck, he also will not wake,' he said grimly, and Aragorn closed his eyes. Should Boromir wake, the task would become nigh on impossible.
'Legolas, Gimli, you must help me hold him down,' Aragorn said. 'Legolas, take his shoulders. Gimli, hold his arm out, thus.' Boromir whimpered as they moved him, and Aragorn gritted his teeth.
'Have you aught that will deaden pain?' Gimli asked.
'Precious little, and I would save it,' Aragorn said.
'The shock will kill him.' Aragorn shook his head.
'If he cannot withstand this, then he will die whether I deaden the pain or no. I would save what healing herbs I have.'
'You have done this before, friend?' Legolas asked suddenly in quiet Elvish. Despite himself, Aragorn smiled grimly.
'Aye, of course. And under worse circumstances too.'
'And did the patient survive?' Legolas could not help but ask. Aragorn's eyes darkened.
'Though by Elvish standards, I could not be considered an experienced healer, I have tended many casualties over the years. Some survived. Some did not.' He looked away, and laid a hand on Boromir's forehead. 'Legolas, I would borrow one of your knives after all,' he added in Common Speech. 'I may need its heat to stem the blood flow when I have done.' Wordlessly, Legolas thrust a slender blade into the fire.
'Hold him fast,' Aragorn muttered. 'Try not to let him move.' He reached for Anduril's hilt, took the sword in both hands, raised it high. Legolas and Gimli braced themselves.
Boromir screamed, his eyes flashing open but unseeing. Legolas and Gimli struggled to hold him steady. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Aragorn worked fast. Anduril was sharp enough to cleave bone with a single blow, but now he turned to Legolas' knife, severing skin and tendons, burning the wounds sealed. Boromir's voice gave out and the screams faded into silence, but still he struggled against Legolas' and Gimli's hands.
'Hold him steady!' Aragorn growled through gritted teeth.
'...trying!' Gimli growled in reply.
Suddenly another pair of hands was holding Boromir's head. Merry's strength was not enough to hold Boromir down, but somehow his small, gentle hands seemed to calm the Man. Merry's eyes darted with fear, and his voice shook, but he whispered small words of comfort. Whether Boromir could hear them none could tell, because soon after that he passed back into unconsciousness.
At last, it was all over. Aragorn did not bind the wound, but strapped Boromir's arm to his chest so that he would not be able to move it. No one spoke. Legolas took his knife out of Aragorn's hand, cleaned it, and sheathed it. Then, seeing as Aragorn still had not moved, he went through the same process with Anduril. Gimli stood and headed towards the river, and after a moment, Legolas followed him.
Fighting bitter exhaustion, Aragorn turned and began to hunt through his pack. His store of healing herbs he had scarcely used since setting off from Rivendell. His stock of Athelas was somewhat diminished and none too fresh, and there was little hope of finding more, but he hoped what he had would do. Other herbs he had in far greater quantities; he sorted through the familiar little scented packets, setting aside gentle herbs of cleansing and the promotion of healing. Also, separately, he took the darker herbs of sleep and forgetfulness; bitter, dangerous herbs that would numb pain, slow blood and dull the mind. Legolas returned with water, placed it over the fire to boil. Aragorn acknowledged the unasked for help with a silent nod, and continued his work. Some of the herbs he set to steep in the boiling water, others he made into a thick ointment. Finally, knowing that it might wake Boromir but secretly longing for the relief it would also bring to himself and his other companions, he breathed on a little of the Athelas, and crushed it between his hands.
All day, Aragorn had felt as though the kings of Numenor had been watching over his shoulders, protecting him perhaps, but mostly just intimidating him. They had not lent him the strength he had needed to save Frodo, but now, with the sword of kings at his belt and the kingsfoil between his hands, Aragorn breathed deeply and felt their blood stir in his veins. He knelt once more and touched Boromir's forehead, reaching deep within himself, reaching back to those wonderful, powerful, elusive, intimidating ancestors, reaching out to Boromir. The Man stirred, groaned, and then quieted under Aragorn's hands. Without letting him wake, Aragorn led him from the dark and fear of unconsciousness to the quiet calm of a deep, healing sleep. They breathed together, strong and slow and steady, as Aragon worked the healing herbs gently over injured flesh. Boromir did not even flinch. The pain-draught Aragorn set aside. As yet, Boromir did not need it. Athelas and the strength of Aragorn's will were enough to let him sleep calm.
'The hands of a healer indeed,' Gimli said.
Aragorn looked up, forced a smile.
'I said that I would save him if I could,' he whispered. He made as if to stand, but a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he slumped forwards, burying his face in his hands, shaking with exhaustion.
In two strides, Legolas was by his side.
'You are a fool,' the Elf said, his hands steadying on Aragorn's shoulders, his voice showing neither anxiety nor concern, his eyes betraying both. Aragorn shook his head.
'I do only what must be done,' he said. Legolas shook his head.
'Aragorn, you must think to the task in hand. Gondor needs her King. And the Ring must be destroyed. Or else all our struggles have been in vain.'
Something in the words made Aragorn's breath catch in his throat.
'... where is Sam?' he said slowly. The elf and the dwarf stared back at him blankly, but Merry looked up in concern.
'He was with you, Strider,' he said, and his voice was hoarse with weeping.
Aragorn sprang to his feet, his exhaustion replaced by cold fear. He paced the clearing, searching the earth for signs. Small footprints matched his to very edge of the battle-marred earth... and then disappeared.
'Ah, I am a thrice cursed fool!' Aragorn cried. 'He was with, he came here at my side. But I paid him no mind, and now he is gone.' He buried his face in his hands, and for a moment, the others feared that he would weep. Gimli hefted his axe viciously into the corpse of a nearby orc, the closest thing to a legitimate target on which to vent his rage and sorrow.
'Dead, then,' Legolas said dully. 'Or taken.' The calmness of his tone and plainness of his words belied an expression in his eyes that Aragorn might almost have taken for despair, if it wasn't for the fact that he had always thought Legolas incapable of it. Always, where others had found despair, the elf had managed to find cause for hope, for laughter, for smiles and for song.
'Not dead,' Aragorn said thickly. 'We would have seen a body.' He could not look up. 'They must have wanted him alive.' Legolas and Gimli both looked sickened, but Merry looked up in hope.
'Pippin,' he said, in a very small voice. 'Is he... I mean...'
'I have seen no evidence that he is dead,' Aragorn said gently. Merry closed his eyes in relief. The other three exchanged glances, knowing full well that suffering of the Enemy's devising went far beyond death on a battlefield. They feared that Merry's relief was misplaced, and that death might have been the kinder alternative. Aragorn remembered his brother's tales of the cruelty of orcs, remembered the fate of Celebrian, and gritted his teeth.
'What are we to do?' Gimli asked. But none knew the answer.