Chapter Twenty-Four: In Living or Dying

"Isilden…"

The hoarse whisper came from behind me. I turned around and saw Denethor struggling to stand, his whole body shaking with the effort.

I dropped my sword and hurried to his side, kneeling on the blood-soaked stone of the courtyard as I placed a tender hand on the Steward's trembling shoulder.

"Easy, sire," I murmured. "I'm right here. Don't try to get up. Merry and Pippin went to get help; Lord Elrond will be here in no time. You'll be all right, you'll see…"

"Isilden?" Denethor whispered again, in a voice dredged from the very depths of his being.

"Yes?" I said softly. "I'm here." Gazing into the man's frightened face, I saw that his skin was deathly white; even his lips were pale. Every faint word, every shallow breath, seemed to cost him a little more energy.

Denethor spoke faintly and fearfully. "Are… are you going… to bury me?"

Not knowing why, I felt tears fill my eyes. I had seen death before, had dealt it out, but nothing could have prepared me for this. This was beyond anything I had ever experienced. What could I say?

"No," I replied, trying to smile, and feeling tears run down my cheeks. "I'm going to look after you. You'll be all right, sire…"

"You don't… have to lie," Denethor whispered. "If I'm… going to die, just… say so."

His hand found mine, as did his eyes. He was weeping as well, ever so softly. "I'm… sorry," he gasped.

"For what?" I asked, gently brushing the tears from his face with the back of my hand.

"Everything," the man replied with great difficulty. "For trying to… kill you when we… met, and… for all the… things I couldn't… teach you. I should… have been more… like a… father to you… when you needed it… most."

He stopped to recover his breath, and his gaze shifted to someone behind me. "Lord… Elrond?"

I turned my head and saw the elf hurrying toward us, with Boromir, Faramir, Merry and Pippin in his wake. Elrond knelt next to me, speaking softly to the Steward. "My lord, you're badly wounded. Let me see what they did to you."

Denethor nodded, uncurling his body and lying on his back. His eyes followed the elf's hands as they moved carefully over his torso, examining the steadily bleeding gash across the man's stomach. I heard Elrond draw a slow breath, and wondered how serious it was.

"How… bad is it?" Denethor asked. "Can you… heal it?"

Elrond's voice trembled audibly. "I'll do my best, sire. Just relax…"

Rolling up his sleeves, the elf placed his hands gently on the gaping wound and began murmuring inaudibly in Sindarin. Denethor's eyes flickered shut, and Boromir gasped in alarm.

Elrond didn't appear to be concerned, however, and kept up his task. The Steward's blood appeared to seep back into his body as the elf muttered under his breath. Faramir's eyes were wide, almost unblinking, glistening with tears yet unshed.

Finally Elrond lifted his hands and drew a deep breath. I saw that his body was shaking now, and so was his voice. "Th- there… that should do it."

"Is he alive?" Boromir whispered fearfully.

Elrond nodded. "Yes, but unconscious. He lost a lot of blood, and not all of it was replenished. Only time will tell whether he will make it now."

Faramir drew a tremulous breath that poorly concealed a sob. Boromir placed a kindly hand on his shoulder. Merry stared up at the elf and asked, "What do we do now?"

"We take him to the House of Healing," Elrond answered without looking at him. "Once he's out of danger, we'll keep fighting. He will not perish in vain, if it comes to that."

He carefully lifted the Steward's limp body, and Denethor's two sons moved forward automatically to assist him. As the three companions bore Denethor away, I sighed in sorrow.

I pulled my tunic from under my chainmail and put it on again, retrieved my sword from where it lay next to Krân's carcass, and addressed the hobbits.

"Come on," I said. "We shouldn't stay here."

Merry and Pippin nodded, and followed me as I turned to leave the courtyard. But a moment later I halted in surprise, for the sound of a horn was ringing clearly through the air.

"What is that?" Pippin asked.

"I don't know," I replied. Moving toward the edge of the courtyard, I stared down and gasped in amazement at what I beheld.

Moving in a perfect, unbroken line, advancing toward the orcs on the Pelennor Fields, was a great army on horses. It halted after a moment, and then one rider broke free and rode before all the others. I tried to hear what he was yelling, but I couldn't quite make it out.

Then several thousand voices rose in a roar that would have woken (or perhaps broken) a stone troll. They yelled one word, and charged.

"DEEEEEAAAAAAATH!"

The orcs seemed to have been caught unprepared; they fell swiftly before the storm of horsemen. But I saw some riders fall to the weapons of the orcs as well.

"Come on!" I cried again, waving my sword. "Don't just stand there! Let's get back to the battle!"

Nodding, Merry and Pippin hurried to keep up with me as I lunged back into the fray, slaying orcs two and three at a time. Together my friends and I beat our foes back, and we moved further and further into the heart of the citadel.

"Look!" shouted Merry, pointing suddenly. "What's that?"

I followed the hobbit's outstretched finger, and stared in disbelief at what it indicated. From the south came what looked like a tidal wave of eerie green, led by three figures that ran before them.

The green wave surged and flowed around them and past them, and straight toward the astonished-looking orcs. When the flood passed, the orcs it had overwhelmed lay dead on the field.

"What are they?" I wondered aloud.

"Who knows?" Pippin replied, shrugging. "Whatever they are, they look like they're on our side!"

Heartened by this knowledge, I brandished my blade with renewed vigor, remarking nonchalantly, "It's nice to have friends, isn't it?"

We fought on, as did the green whatever-they-were and the horsemen below on the field. Merry and Pippin had been swept away by the throng of Gondorian soldiers, and I prayed they were all right.

I should have been more careful to watch where I was going, because suddenly I ran straight into someone who was very inconveniently standing just in front of me.

"Aragorn!" I gasped, staring up from my newly-established spread-eagled position on the ground.

The man nodded, pulling me carefully upright. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I replied breathlessly.

"I just saw Lord Denethor in the House of Healing," said Aragorn. "What happened?"

"So much has happened," I whispered. "Too much… Are you sure you want to know it all?"

"Yes," the man nodded. "Tell me everything."

I did. As I finished my tale, Aragorn was silent. He turned, gazing out to where the green army was gathered on the Pelennor Fields. A lone figure standing before them was waving to Aragorn.

"I'll be right back," he told me, starting to walk away and speaking over his shoulder. "Wait here."

I did, watching as the distant figure of Aragorn approached the green horde outside the city. I couldn't make out any words, but I assumed that there was some conversation going on.

After a moment, the multitude of green figures softly faded, blown away like smoke on the breeze.

----

A few minutes later Aragorn and Legolas returned. I was still waiting patiently. I was amazed that Legolas didn't balk when he saw my crimson eyes. Aragorn had obviously explained my situation to h the elf, for he gazed sympathetically at me.

"Come," said Aragorn. "We have much to do."

"What?" I asked, hurrying along in my friend's wake.

"We must see to Lord Denethor," the man replied solemnly. "Hurry!"

I already was, but I didn't reply. I saved my breath for running.

A moment later I stopped in my tracks. A horrible feeling had come over me that I couldn't explain, and I swayed unsteadily for a moment. In that instant, something became suddenly all too clear.

Legolas frowned at me. "Isilden? Isilden… are you all right?"

I didn't answer as I carefully wiped orc blood off the sword I still held. Then, slowly and deliberately, I drew the keen edge of the blade across my left palm. A thin gash appeared in my green skin, and liquid welled from beneath the slit tissue. I held my breath as its color was confirmed…

…bright, ruby-red.

I breathed again, and cleaned my sword a second time before I replaced it in its sheath. All was well, it seemed. Well, not exactly all, but at least my fears hadn't been true.

But Aragorn frowned at me, his eyebrows knitting. Taking my wrist, he gazed fixedly at the gash in my palm, not saying a word.

Blood was dripping down my wrist now. He let it slide onto his fingertip; then, holding his hand so his palm faced downward, he watched as the crimson bead formed a drop, which quivered for a brief moment before it fell.

When the drop hit the ground a second later, it no longer looked red.

Shaking, I held my hand out as Aragorn had. The blood that seeped from the cut, having nowhere else to go, dripped steadily down to mingle with the drop on the ground.

I watched in mute horror as the black pool of my blood on the white stone slowly grew.