Tarkil awoke to blackness as something pulled upon his arm causing a wave of agony; he heard a voice seemingly from a distance mutter in another language that sounded vaguely familiar and felt his arm gently placed back upon the ground. Whoever stood near him wrapped their arms about his chest and attempted to lift, grunting at the effort as the sonorous voice called to another in what the Ranger of the North could only assume to be a call for help.
Leave me alone, you maggot; I would rather die than be sport of Sauron's forces, he wanted to cry out but only a grunt of pain made it past his throat.
Another voice joined the first as they apparently discussed him and he felt a different pair of arms wrap around his middle as they attempted once more to lift him. 'Is that Rohirric?' He wondered as he thought he recognized a favourite curse of his brother's wife. I stood before the Black Gate, why would the Rohirrim be helping Sauron's forces? Are they being used as their slaves?
He heard the voice speak once more, this time in a heavily accented common-tongue. "We do not mean to hurt you, but we must move you from this area, soldier, it is not safe even though Sauron has fallen, his cursed forces still inhabit this land."
Sauron fell? That is not what I remember … but then they lifted once more and he fell into a blessed oblivion as his brain shut down when the pain overwhelmed him.
Distant voices murmured once more as he floated back to a state of semi-consciousness. Tarkil realized he lay face down upon a litter being carried over what must have been rough ground from the jarring motions that jolted him, sending waves of pain through him and he heard harsh curses from those who carried him. He soon felt himself being laid upon the ground and water poured over him.
"He's filthy, this one, where did you find him?" Was that a Gondor accent?
"Half-submerged in the cesspit down by the Gates. We were doing one last sweep of the area when a movement caught my eye and I spied him." The Rohirrim spoke once more, his resonant voice muted.
Tarkil felt a gentle touch at his shoulder and moaned at the pain that rippled through him; the movement stopped and more water cascaded over his back.
"I need more water, this muck is clinging to him and we must clean him else the infection will take him before his wounds do. At least he is bleeding still and that is helping to wash some of the filth away. Do we know who he is, or even what force he fought with? Did he fight for us or the Dark Lord?" A Gondor healer perhaps?
"I think I recognize him," the Rohirrim announced as he leaned over, holding the torch closer, its bright light penetrating the Ranger's closed eyes causing his head to ache. "He does not wear the cloak any longer, but I believe this is a member of the Grey Company that accompanied Elessar from Rohan."
"The rest of his company left with the vanguard protecting the periannath, they will be hours ahead by now. I know there was one who protested and did not wish to leave the land – he said his brother had not been found – he was granted leave to stay and is wandering around here somewhere. Nevertheless, we must move him away from here, but we cannot chance putting him upon your horse, Jorund. He must be carried upon this litter for there is an injury to his back; I would not disturb any further else he may not walk again." The healer continued to pour cool water over him, moving the stream to sluice over his face and head, and a rough cloth wiped away whatever coated his face that made his skin crawl.
The Ranger of the North slowly forced open his eyes to see himself further back from the Black Gates, though night had now fallen but he took heart to see the thick clouds that had blanketed the land had finally dissipated and stars sparkled brilliantly above. Torches moved in haphazard patterns across the bleak land and he realized soldiers scoured the land for the signs of survivors. The flickering flame of another fell upon him, lighting the two men who worked over him. One man wore the garb of a Gondor healer, the other wore the Rohan green and gold as he had suspected he might. Did we win? Is it over? Or is this some cruel joke of my imagination?
"He's waking," the Rohan soldier noted, and he squatted at the injured man's side. "What is your name, soldier, and with what company do you serve."
"Tarkil son …" the Ranger paused as he gasped for breath, "of Beleg … of Arnor. I am a Ranger … with Elessar."
"I thought you might be, though I could not tell if it was you or your brother, Haldon." He moved away as the healer started binding the injured man's wounds causing him to lapse once more into unconsciousness.
-
"He's waking again, my friend." Jorund grunted to the man who helped him carry the litter.
The two men pulled to the side and put their burden carefully down. The man who had carried the front of the litter knelt at his side and wiped the sweat from Tarkil's brow softly speaking to him. Tarkil recognized the face that swam in front of him as Haldon when he spoke though it took him a moment for the words to penetrate his dizziness. "You have to fight this, 'Kil. You have been unconscious for quite a few hours now. We have a long way yet to go."
"…Where…?" Tarkil rasped as he shivered, causing ripples of pain to surge through him.
"King Elessar ordered that we must clear away from the Morannon; we journey to the fields of Cormallen – it is still many hours away." Jorund signalled to the healer who hurried over to briefly lay a hand on Tarkil's brow then force him to drink a vile brew.
"That should help with the pain, and hopefully the fever also. Pick him up again, soldier, and keep walking, the sooner we can get him to the healing tents the sooner we can properly treat him. It is a pity we did not find him before the last of the wagons moved off." The healer hurried on to the next of what Tarkil realized was a long line of soldiers carrying kith and kin from the battlegrounds.
The medicine soon did its work and the voices of those around him faded into the background as he fell into a deep slumber.
-
"Tarkil?" A voice called from the distance and a cool hand lay upon his brow. Every muscle in his body ached, his back felt as if a fiery brand lay against his spine. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him and only a croak issued forth.
"Breathe deeply, Tarkil." The voice came closer and he thought he recognized it but could not place a face to it as the memories of the battle flooded his mind and a grey mist swirled about him.
Trolls strode through the cesspits and quagmires that the Easterlings and Southrons had to skirt; he held Nálo firm but he saw from the corner of his eye that his brother's horse panicked and bore Haldon away. Keep running, Feinnail, take him far from here; guide him to safety that he might live. A huge Orc stabbed his mighty pike and stuck Gethron's horse, shoving it deep as his friend jumped from his mount when the steed fell.
Tarkil ducked when an Orc swung a blade in a wild arc towards him, and shoved his own blade in a quick thrust when he saw the opening he needed. Orc, and Easterling, Southron then Haradrim faced him, his arm aching already though the foes around him thickened. Tarkil whipped his sword into the throat of an Easterling, dropping him, quickly turning to defend his left side as Orcs attacked. Nálo charged through them, Tarkil hacking and slashing at the Mordor filth, attempting to fend off the numerous blades as his horse suffered from their attempts to take him from beneath the young Ranger till finally a troll swung his mighty cudgel catching Nálo, and the horse squealed in torment as it fell from beneath him. Tarkil leaped from his horse, watching his mount twitch and scream, and with a cry, lifted his blade to end his friend's misery. I am sorry, boy, but I would not have you suffer further. He blocked an attack from the left then the right, turning away from the carcass of his horse as Orcs ripped into it.
Tarkil saw Aragorn standing beneath the King's standard, and Gandalf the White shone as a finger of sunlight broke through the clouds illuminating the hill where they stood. He realized an Orc stood poised; a great arrow strung in his bow, aimed directly at his Captain, so the Ranger quickly strung his own bow and taking careful aim, loosed his arrow felling the Orc, the enemy's arrow glancing harmlessly off the slagheap a distance away from Aragorn.
The Dúnedain who lost their horses gathered together and formed their own line against the Black Lord's forces and Tarkil fought to join them. But suddenly he felt a great force hit his back, driving the breath from him as he heard his bones crack; waves of pain flooded him and he felt himself lifted above the fighting. A strange detachment gripped Tarkil as he heard the sound of cloth ripping and watched shreds of his grey cloak flutter into the morass below then the grip on him released and the ground rushed to meet him. His vision clouded over, his last sight the sullen red haze reflecting off the fetid pool where he lay.
-
"Tarkil." A quiet voice called across a great distance.
-
He screamed in pain as talons raked across his back, tearing into his flesh; he heard the sound of wool ripping, and watched his grey cloak flutter into the morass below, then felt a burning lance skewer him as the beast tightened its grip.
"Tarkil. Breathe deeply and come back to us." Tarkil heard the voice in the distance again and finally recognized it as his captain's; he fought against the claws that held him close bound until the voice encouraged him to breath again, and trusting his captain, he took a deep, shaky breath. His breathing grew even once he no longer heard the roars of battle, nor the screech of the wraith. He no longer smelled the stench of death, nor the putrid reek of the cesspit. Images of home sprang into his mind pushing the hideous blackness away; the majestic red and green maple trees canopied the small woods behind his family's farm from his childhood, brilliant in their autumn colours contrasted by the deep greens of the occasional spruce or pine tree that fought for sunlight, the smell of the loam covered with dry leaves that rustled in the breezes filled him and a hint of cherry blossom wafted through his mind as well.
Tarkil opened his eyes to see Aragorn and the peredhil staring down at him, Haldon and Herudil at the end of his bed.
"Welcome back," Aragorn smiled. He and the peredhil spoke quietly to a healer who hovered nearby as Haldon sat down beside him.
"Hurts, Hal!" Tarkil rasped to his brother. He wondered at the dark circles under his brother's eyes, and the worry that filled his face, so unusual to see upon Haldon who generally had a joke to meet any occasion.
"I know, little brother," Haldon tried to smile but failed. "You should get some sleep now, you still have a fever and need to recover. Just lie back and relax."
"Am I dead? Is this where we go? Are Mother and Father here too?" Tarkil slowly asked, his voice still rasping.
"No, 'Kil, you are not dead and neither am I. We are alive and we won!" Haldon took a damp cloth and wiped his brother's face once more as beads of sweat dripped down, matting his hair. "The little hobbit destroyed the ring and Sauron is defeated!"
"But I saw …" Haldon watched confusion flicker across his brother's drawn face. "I saw you die, and Gethron and … everyone … "
Haldon shook his head, "Nay, it must have been a nightmare you had for Gethron lives – he is just over there, though he sleeps at this hour. And everyone else of the company lives, too."
"Halbarad? Was that part of my nightmare too?" Tarkil took time forming his words it pained his brother to note.
"That part is real, I'm afraid. Halbarad fell on the Pelennor." Haldon unstoppered a water skin and let Tarkil slowly sip. "You have to drink, 'Kil, you need to regain your strength."
"Hurts. Every time I breathe … feels like I am on fire." Tarkil fumbled to grab Haldon's shirt as he leaned near so he could hear, "Hal … promise me … promise me you will look after Poppi for me. Go back and make sure she is safe. Take her for yourself if she will have you but treat her right and love her. Oh, Eru, I hurt!"
"I know, little brother, but you are going to go back and see Poppi yourself." Haldon grabbed his brother's hand as he summoned a healer with the other. "Just hang on. Do not give up on me!"
"Promise. Please." A sweat broke out on Tarkil's forehead and Haldon worried to see his eyes start to roll as the healer hurried over with a vessel and held it its fumes in front of his brother's face.
"I promise, but it is not one I will need to keep. You are going to get better. Fight this."
"It is best if you try not to breathe any of this smoke in," the healer's assistant, Miriel, whispered to Haldon. "But it should take his pain away for a while."
Haldon watched as Tarkil closed his eyes, only relaxing once his brother's breathing fell into a regular pattern. "Is there no more that can be done for him?" Haldon slumped heavily beside his brother's still form.
"Nay, we have done all we can." Elladan straightened from binding the last of Tarkil's wounds as Elrohir washed his hands, holding out the bowl for his twin to do the same. "The infection has a strong hold upon him; all we can do is attempt to keep his fever down." Elladan wiped his hands on a towel as he looked at Haldon. "Get some rest yourself, mellon. You do him no good fretting here at his side. The healers shall care for him." They watched until Haldon settled himself beside his brother, then hurried after Aragorn to help tend to the wounded.
"Haldon?" the Ranger looked up vacantly to see Herudil standing beside him, holding out a steaming mug. "How goes it with your brother?"
Haldon shook his head, "He has massive injuries to his back and his ribs are all fractured down one side. He fights an infection from that cesspit where that Rohan soldiers says they found him that his fever soars so high, he goes into seizures."
"He is young yet and as long as he breathes there is hope." Herudil's words did little to lift Haldon's spirits. "Take this, my friend, I brought you some broth; you must keep your own strength up." Haldon reluctantly took the broth, holding his hands around the earthenware as if to gather strength from its warmth. "It was not so long ago he sat beside you at Minas Tirith, the same look of fear on his face as is on yours now. Do not give up hope, Haldon."
"Hope is all I have left." He murmured, not noticing as Herudil placed a hand briefly on his shoulder then left to check on the rest of the Dúnedain.
&-&-&
"Praise them with great praise," the shout went up. The tent shook with the fervour of the soldiers taking part in the joyous celebrations. Aragorn honoured the periannath with a great feast; yet Haldon could not bear to take part in the festivities as much as the others tried to cajole him, keeping instead a silent vigil at his brother's side.
I miss you, little brother, I miss the bright grins you give and your quiet sighs when you think of that girl you love back home, and the gentle gibes at my expense. You remind me of father at times, and at others, of mother. His grin, her eyes and laugh. So many have we lost, we two. I cannot lose you as well.
"Still no change?" Gethron hoarsely called over to the quiet Ranger.
"No, his fever still rages." Haldon shook his head. "How you doing, old man? How is your hip?"
"Well, I am lying here, missing the celebrations, so how do you think I am doing?" Gethron tried to chuckle, "It could have been worse, lad, I am alive at least, and will be able to go home to my children. Once I can move, that is." Gethron grew quiet for a minute, "His breathing sounds better than it did. Even better than yesterday. He will pull through, Haldon. He is too stubborn to die, he would not leave that girl of his."
"He asked her father to marry her the night we saved their farm, did you know that? The old man turned him down -- said he was not good enough for her, wanted him to quit ranging and be a farmer if he was to seriously ask again. Can you imagine that?" Haldon scorned, "Tarkil spent his whole life protecting that land, fighting Orcs and dark creatures, even ran into a burning house and got badly burned last summer to save one of their little girls to be told him he was not good enough for a Bree girl."
"Was he thinking of quitting so they could marry, do you know?"
"No. Well, I do not think so. But the orders to leave Bree came right after and he volunteered to come south. I have been wondering these past days if he did it not expecting to return. He never said anything to Poppi about marriage, simply asked if she would wait for him to return." Haldon finally allowed.
"Nay, lad, I do not think he had a death wish if that is what you are thinking. The boy has a strong sense of duty; you both do." Gethron reasoned. "We all swore to protect Aragorn. That is all he was doing when he volunteered to come south with us. Besides he told me about asking her father, but he also told me that Henry forbid him to ask Poppi to marry him."
You should be back home protecting the forests you love. Yet here you lie, near lifeless save for the slight movement of your chest as it struggles up and down in your body's fight for breath. Haldon put his head in his hands, exhausted, listening to the minstrel sing the praises of the halflings who triumphed over the dark lord, listening to the laboured breathing of his brother till both faded out as he gave in to his fatigue, remembering his arguments encouraging Tarkil to stay in Arnor.
-
"Why?" He scowled at Tarkil as they raced down the Greenway towards Tharbad where they would join up with the other Rangers heading to Rohan. "Why did you have to volunteer to come south? Have you thought at all of Poppi? You finally find someone whom you love and loves you in return and you leave her?"
"I have thought of Poppi," came his brother's muted answer making Haldon even angrier for he could rather rage against his brother if he yelled back. "But my oath as a Ranger comes first. You know that. We swore to protect our land and our king." Tarkil fingered the rayed star on his cloak. "And word has come that Aragorn needs our help – that now is the time for him to claim his crown in defence of Gondor. I will not put aside my oath anymore than you would."
"It is very noble of you but you forget that our people need protection as well. Thirty of us head south - do you realize how thin that leaves our defences – how few there are to protect the villages? Do you not notice no elves accompany us on this quest? Do you think they will be protecting the women and children of our Dúnedain villages or their own sanctuary?"
"Halbarad sent messengers through the villages telling them the defences were weakened and told them to journey to Rivendell as Lord Elrond offered sanctuary to them. You yourself told me many of them decided to heed the warnings – you said the roads from the villages were clogged when you went home to change your gear. Those that do stay in the villages," Tarkil pushed his hair from his eyes as a gust of wind caught it, "it is their choice. Halbarad said I may join you, brother. I am here. Make your peace with it."
-
"My lord? They are serving a great feast and you have not eaten since yesterday." Haldon woke to find Miriel standing over him. "Go join your friends, I will sit with your brother."
He tried to protest but the healer would not listen as she gently shooed him from the tent, watching till he entered the great pavilions.
Haldon stood in the opening, searching for his company, finally spying them in a corner, their grey garb blending in with the shadows, their quiet manner a distinct difference to the boisterousness of the Rohan warriors, and the raucous calls from some of the Gondorian tables.
"Haldon, sit down." Herudil moved to make room as Haldon sunk onto the bench beside the commander. "I am glad you decided to join us. Tarkil would be angry to hear you missed such a feast."
Borgil poured a glass of wine and pressed it into Haldon's hand as the others chatted of the events of the day while the ranger looked around to see Elessar sitting by Éomer and Imrahil and all the great captains. He briefly bowed his head in silent prayer to the loss of Halbarad who deserved to be at that table beside Aragorn - Elessar now, he reminded himself. His gaze ranged over the two halflings that sat in the midst of it all, still amazed that the little ones had managed such a great feat.
They looked bewildered to be sitting not just amongst big folk, for Haldon knew hobbits rarely interacted without outsiders, but amongst Kings, though Frodo seemed more comfortable than Samwise whose eyes grew as large as saucers as he stared at his tablemates.
When the eagles had returned with Mithrandir, and they realized that two small figures came with them, the Rangers quickly formed ranks around their King who knelt beside their still forms, for the battle still raged as Easterlings and Southrons fiercely fought the Swan Knights and Gondorian soldiers. Aragorn gently cradled the small ringbearer in his arms as he spoke to him, while Elladan and Elrohir hurriedly prepared hot water and handed Aragorn some leaves to crush into it. The brothers held the bowl so the fumes could be breathed by the periannath while Aragorn continued talking quietly to Frodo, then Sam. The athelas fragrance wafted through their ranks, giving them all a lift after the battles they had just fought. Yet the ringbearer and his friend Sam did not stir until Aragorn had laboured long and finally Frodo roused briefly before lapsing back into a deep slumber, the same for his friend. The Dúnedain breathed out heavily realizing they had all held their collective breath waiting for the tiny hobbits to be saved by their Captain, only to once again have to face concern when the hobbit they had travelled with had been found crushed beneath a troll.
But for them, we would all be dead so great was the host Sauron threw against us.
"Come, Haldon, enough with the long face, it is not like you – eat - drink. Relax for tonight." Vardamir encouraged. "The venison is excellent – it is said that it was caught by the elf himself."
"No, 'Mir, that is not true, I heard the Ithilien Rangers killed it. The elf is an excellent warrior and good singer, though I heard some of his lyrics – I think I could do as good." Meglin countered, trying to get their dispirited friend out of his melancholy. "I heard him sing something about the sea. Terrible rhymes and for an elf yet!"
Eventually their cajoling and forced frivolity worked as they briefly managed to distract Haldon from his despondency. The night had grown late before he returned to his seat in the healing tent to find Miriel talking with his brother.
"He is awake? Why did you not summon me?" Haldon sat on the opposite side, watching as she dribbled water into Tarkil's mouth.
She shook her head, "He would not know if you were here. He still does not know where he is, Haldon, the poppy seed he's been given affects him though his fever has broken. He thinks I am either his mother or someone named Poppi."
"I am sorry, Naneth, it is not Val's fault. I climbed the tree on my own. Please do not punish Val!"
Haldon closed his eyes when he heard his brother's rasping plea. "He was only about nine when he broke his arm in a fall from a tree he had been climbing – that must be what he is remembering. Mother suspected Valandur dared him to climb this huge spruce in the woods behind our house but Tarkil always denied it."
"Who is Valandur? A friend?" Miriel quietly asked.
"One of our brothers – he was a year older than 'Kil. They were inseparable until the Nazgûl attacked his patrol last year." He did not need to say the obvious result as she nodded her head and reached across to briefly lay her hand on his, "Val confessed to me years later that he had dared Tarkil – said he was terrified that Mother would punish him but Tarkil promised he would not tell and he never did." Haldon watched Tarkil's pain-filled eyes turn to him.
Haldon watched his brother fade in and out of consciousness, finally losing the battle as his eyes closed once more.
"I am sorry, Haldon. His fever has broken; just give him time." Miriel walked around the bed to place a hand on Haldon's shoulder. "There is not much more you can do for him. Why do you not get some rest yourself?"
Haldon rolled out his bedroll beside Tarkil, determined not to leave him again, worried by his brother's confusion. He lay listening to his brother sleep, hearing the snores and moans of the wounded around them as a clear-voiced singer passed by …
"The voices of my people that have gone before me?
I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;
for our days are ending and our years are failing
I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing …."
Haldon snorted, "Meglin is right, that is a terrible rhyme!" He rolled over seeking his own rest.
Mellon friend
Naneth mother