Chapter Twenty - The Hands A Ranger
The Houses of Healing were in chaos, with physicians and medicine women running back and forth between patients and each other. Faramir, the now Steward of Gondor, lay ravaged by fever that no amount of herbs and ice compresses could break. Éowyn, Shield-maiden of Rohan, was rapidly succumbing to the Black Breath and whatever heat Faramir gained, she lost. Éomer sat beside her, trying his best not to cave to his emotions. The potential loss of his little sister, combined with the loss of Théoden, just weeks after he had received the news that his beloved cousin had been slain, and mere days after he watched Háma ruthlessly cut down and his corpse despoiled by the foul Uruk-Hai of Saruman, only added to his distress. Merry occupied yet another bed, his skin taking on an ash-grey colour as he too began to succumb to the poison of Mordor. Pippin danced between Faramir and Merry, wearing a sombre look that was glaringly out of place on the raven-Hobbit's face.
Dídauar was placed in a bed beside Arahael, there simply not being enough space for her to be afforded a separate room. Nemír ditching his weapons in a corner and stripped off his leather armour until he was clothed in a linen shirt and leggings before grabbing a copper basin, jug of water and bundle of cloths.
"Right, what do we have here?" demanded an elderly physician as he came bustling into the room and seeming completely unfazed to have two female warriors in his care, both injured on the front line rather than as collateral damage. Nemír did not stop as he addressed the man.
"Chest wound caused by an Orc blade," he said, carefully cutting the stitches of Dídauar's armour before cautiously peeling it away.
"Ah yes," said the physician bending forward to examine the gouge in Dídauar's shoulder. "I will have a medicine woman treat her."
"They can't be spared," replied Nemír as he rung out the cloth and wiped away the sweat and grime from the wound site. "I have sent for the Lord Elrohir."
"He cannot be spared either!" protested the physician.
"Trust me. When he learns his foster-sister is here, he will come," replied Nemír. "And my nephew is here as well. We will tend her."
"It is not done in Gondor that the women are treated by men!"
"We are not Gondorian," stated Nemír with what could easily be described as pride, as he dissolved a packet of salt into the heated water and seeped another cloth. "Shadow I'm sorry, this is going to hurt."
TTEOARTTEOAR
Aragorn sat huddled beside a slowly dying fire, running the pad of his thumb over the smooth surface of the Star of the Dúnedain and staring unseeingly into the flames. Others had tried to persuade him to enter the City, including Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. He had refused them all, but had at least allowed someone to treat the arrow wound to his back. It wasn't nearly as bad as first feared, the bone of his shoulder blade protecting all but the covering muscle sheet and was easily treated. Now Aragorn sat lost in his memories of days gone by. He recalled each of Halbarad's tri-annual visits to Imladris during his childhood, the final visit being to return both Lord and Lady to their rightful places within their clan. He remembered the day that Halbarad proudly presented the twins to their people, before pinning the symbol of their heritage to Aragorn's cloak and stringing a token about Dídauar's neck. With a weak smile, Aragorn recalled the love and devotion that shone from his cousin's pewter eyes as he declared his undying loyalty to the twins, painfully rehearing the line If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. He remembered Halbarad proudly presenting his own twins the pair long after anyone, including Halbarad himself, had thought he would become a father. He also remembered the vow that he and Dídauar had made; that they would watch over the pair with the same love and devotion that Halbarad had shown them. Despite what he had said to Dídauar, Aragorn couldn't help but agree that they too numbered among the oath breakers, both twins now being ensconced within the Houses of Healing, the younger near death, the other emotional and mental collapse.
"What are you doing sitting out here?" demanded Gandalf as he arrived in the camp. "The people within the Walls need your help, especially those within the Houses of Healing!"
"The healers and physicians know their trade better than I do," replied Aragorn, not raising his gaze to meet that of the Istari. "I will be more of a hindrance than a help."
"The healers have tried," blustered Gandalf. "But not even Elladan and Elrohir know how to help those who are deepest hurt."
"What of Arahael?" asked Aragorn, gripping the Star.
"Is clinging to life. But he has something to fight for. The others are fighting despair as well as their physical injuries."
"Despair?" echoed Aragorn. "Why?"
"Faramir has lost what remained of his family, the Lady Éowyn also believes so, Merry is sure that his friends have died and your sister is preparing to give up," said Gandalf. Aragorn's head jerked up.
"What?"
"She is exhausted, grieving and fighting the venom of a desert scorpion. All are a poison to her soul and are enough to pull her under unless she is given a strong enough reason to fight through it. The phrase 'all is not lost' is not the answer since she believes it is. Not even Elrohir can get a reaction from her."
Aragorn choked as his emotions rose very quickly to the surface once more. Elrohir had always managed to get some form of reaction from Dídauar, even when everyone else had failed. Their bond had been so close that Aragorn had spent at least two years of his youth jealous of his foster-brother because of it. Now it let the uncrowned King realise exactly how desperate their situation was, not only for himself but for the Dúnedain and their family back in Imladris and Lothlórien.
"Only love can call her back from the darkness. Can call them all back from the edge," continued Gandalf.
"Why are you telling me this?" asked Aragorn in a choked and helpless whisper, the points of the star digging into his hand as he increased the grip. "I have no right to enter the lowest level of Minas Tirith, let alone the Houses of Healing!"
"You are King, that alone gives you that right," said Gandalf. Aragorn shook his head.
"That negates my right," said Aragorn. "I know what you would say Gandalf. That now is the time that Isildur's heir should enter the City of his forefather's and unite the people. But how does a stranger inspire hope into a bereft people?"
Gandalf decided against going into a dramatic speech and stopped looking for the King of Men. Instead he appealed to the grieving friend and brother who desperately needed to be told that he could do something about the situation.
"Forget the people," he said, causing Aragorn to stare at him with wide-eyes. "You can concern yourself with them tomorrow. For now, think of your sister. Think of Tarcil and Arahael, of Merry. Éowyn. Faramir. They need your help now and you have the power to draw them away from the darkness."
"I will go," murmured Aragorn. "But for their sakes alone. Afterwards, I will return here and remain outside the walls until this battle is over, lost or won." Gandalf nodded and helped his younger companion to his feet, reigning in the desire to have him claim the Kingship then and there.
TTEOARTTEOAR
Aragorn spent most of night in the Houses of Healing, refusing to claim any title but that of Ranger Captain of the North, though one of the elderly medicine women twittered to anyone and everyone – regardless of whether they were listening or not – that the King had returned. He tended to each of those in dire need, paying particular attention to Faramir, Éowyn and Merry, all of whom were succumbing to the Black Breath. By the time the Moon was halfway through her journey across the sky, a faint smell of Athelas permeate the air of the Houses, giving the healers the strength to carry on to just one more patient and the casualties themselves seemed to calm so that moans and cries of pain no longer rent the air.
Finally, around the second hour after midnight, Aragorn knelt at the bedsides of his kin. Their physical wounds had been well tended, Nemír, Culas and Elrohir plying their skill as only they knew how, and Arahael was now in a deep, drug/pain induced sleep while Dídauar was unconscious, the reason why remaining elusive. Tarcil however refused to be sedated, however mildly. He sat beside Arahael, one of the younger man's hands grasped tightly between his. While none of the Dúnedain were particularly pious, the names of the Valar and Ilúvatar being raised in curse as often as they were in praise and blessing, Tarcil now found himself praying to any and all of the Gods who governed the fate of their world, begging them to return Arahael and protect Dídauar.
"Who will pray for you?" asked Aragorn, gently cupping Tarcil's cheek and wiping the tears away with his thumb. "Arahael and Kalya are not strong enough to fight for themselves and you. If you succumb, they will fail and your words and tears will have been in vain."
Tarcil looked helplessly at his Chief. "I don't want to lose them," he whispered.
"You won't lose them," replied Aragorn, trying to convince himself as well as his younger Commander. "Sleep beside Arahael if you must but please, I beg you, take some rest."
"Save them," begged Tarcil as he allowed Aragorn to force him into laying down.
"That is why I am here," replied Aragorn as he covered Tarcil with a blanket and kissed his temple before turning his attention to Arahael and his twin.
TTEOARTTEOAR
Culas leant against one of the walls of the Houses and, closing his eyes, gently slid to the floor. He had been running on adrenaline since the end of the battle as he dashed between kin and then patients but finally exhaustion had caught up with him. He barely reacted when Nemír sat beside him, pulling him too.
"How are you doing?" asked the elder man. Culas turned his head up to face his uncle and Nemír cooed in sympathy at the pain that shone in the youth's eyes. Culas' hand migrated to the ties of Nemír's tunic and tangled with the strings.
"I still hear their voices," murmured the youth. "Begging me to stop the pain. Pleading with me to help them. I held……he was only a child……wasn't even my age and he'd been sent out. There was an arrow……it stuck in his back……went straight through, pierced his lung, ripped his heart……I tried, tried so hard but he went quiet……he screamed for so long and then……there was nothing, he just went quiet……too quiet."
"Shush," murmured Nemír increasing his grip. "You can't save everyone, and at least he had someone to hold his hand as he died. There are some who didn't even have that."
"How are Arahael and Shadow?" asked Culas in a small voice as he began to choke up.
"Holding on," replied Nemír. "They are fighting."
Culas choked again and Nemír pulled him, if possible, closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, cupping his cheek and holding Culas' head to his shoulder, gently rocked the younger man as sobs of grief and shock overcame him.
TTEOARTTEOAR
'You should have stayed in the North,' whispered Aragorn, switching to Sindarin as he finally allowed himself to devote his whole attention to his twin for the first time in eleven years. Sweeping Dídauar's fringe from her forehead, he leant forward and kissed the bared skin before moving to examine the wounds that marred her body. The puncture to her chest, which was deep and had narrowly missed nicking the top of her lung, had been cleaned, cauterised and sewn closed, before her arm had been carefully secured within a sling. The numerous nicks and slashes had been cleaned and if needed sewn. Her chest was beginning to show evidence of the beating she had taken from the Haradrim, cracked ribs looking the most likely damage. They wouldn't find out the extent of the damage to her organs until she was awake and could physically tell them . After examining her, Aragorn's confusion and terror rose. Dídauar was sturdy and should be more than capable of coping with her injuries, be they poisoned or not.
'What is wrong with you, little one?' asked Aragorn, taking a cold compress and pressing it to Dídauar's forehead, running the backs of his fingers gently over her cheek. Dídauar moaned in response and seemed to regain some level of consciousness.
'So much pain……' she whispered.
'I know little one,' replied Aragorn, delighted that he was getting the response which Elrohir had been denied. 'Let me take it away.'
'No…' murmured Dídauar. 'Let me go.'
Tarcil, who had not yet fallen asleep, inhaled sharply. The Dúnedain had lost enough warriors without one of their leaders heeding the call of the fallen as well.
'Kalya?' asked Aragorn, his voice catching.
'I have failed.'
'No Kalya, you have won,' reassured Aragorn, returning to caress Dídauar's forehead. 'The battle is won.'
'I failed,' said Dídauar with a whimper.
'No Kalya,' muttered Aragorn, continuing to gently trace her forehead. 'You achieved a great victory and now your King calls you home.'
'A King does not need an oath breaker,' said Dídauar before her head fell limp to one side.
'Dídauar, please. Come back!' Aragorn begged, the tears beginning to flow down his face. When signs of life began to flee Dídauar at an increased rate, Aragorn's last resolve not to breakdown left him. He collapsed his head onto Dídauar's chest and sobbed into the linen sheet that covered her feverish body, all the while gripping Dídauar's hand.
'You are no oath-breaker!' he pressed. 'And I would need you even if you were. Please come back. Please come back!' he whispered.