Hathel had closed her eyes on the battlefield without hope of ever opening them again. She had spoken her name to one whom she loved with all the strength and passion left in her thin weary little body, because she thought it was her last chance to do so. She had not thought, as she was born up out of the dust with consciousness slipping from her grasp and blood dribbling down her skin, that she would live to see another dawn. So it was quite a shock to her when suddenly out of the blackness, there came awareness.

"Hathel," a voice called. "Hathel, awake!"

I cannot awake, she thought in desperation. I am dead.

But the voice continued to call. "Come, Hathel, awake now, it has passed. Hathel…"

I am dead, I cannot. I would, but I cannot.

She was filled with sorrow. The voice was familiar, somehow, and vaguely she thought of a stern weathered face and deep-set grey eyes, looking down at her with pity. She wished she could answer his call.

"Hathel, awake!"

A sharp fresh scent cut through the haze hanging over her mind like the sweep of a knife. She took a deep breath convulsively, and felt that sweet tingling air surge into her eager lungs.

I am not dead.

The realization was as a shock to the chest. She was alive. She felt the air passing into her body and smelled that strange energizing freshness lingering about her nose. She felt the slow thump of her heart, steadily continuing the life she had thought was ended. And joy burst like fireworks inside her skull.

But the voice was still calling, insistently, commandingly. "Hathel, return to us. You have not gone on yet. Hathel, you must awake."

The most important thing now was that she answer this man, that she not frighten him further. So the first thing she did after realizing she was not yet lost to the world, was breathe the word, "Yes."

Chuckles broke like water over her head. The voice said, "Good. There you are, my friend. She will live a while yet."

And a second voice, low and accented and somehow unearthly, answered, "I had almost lost hope, Aragorn, but the hands of the King are truly those of a healer. The poor child..."

That voice. She knew that voice. It sang out like a bell in her memory, and her heart jolted at the sound. She forced her eyes open and struggled to sit upright.

But she could not. The world spun and faded before her widened eyes, and sickness rose in her throat. She fell back onto the pillows listlessly and let her eyes fall shut against the blinding glare and swirling colors, and immediately gentle hands were soothing her brow with a damp cloth, and the scent that had brought her back to consciousness was suddenly much stronger. She opened her eyes again, and found that after a second, she could see.

The first voice, to whom her reviving memory now assigned the name Aragorn said, "Steady now, child, you must not be so hasty, it will be while yet before your body will have recovered enough for such movement." She turned her head slowly on the pillow and beheld a stern, care-worn face with clear grey eyes gazing steadily down at her.

Aragorn smiled slightly, though the expression was weary. "You took quite an injury, young lady. Your body will not be whole and hale for a very long time yet, I deem. You must rest."

A shadow moved on the corners of her vision, and then a familiar Elven face appeared beside Aragorn's, looking at her with concern and pity. Hathel felt her face move to form a smile. She felt the last tension in her muscles relax.

"My lord," she said hoarsely.

Legolas smiled at her, and her blood warmed. "Yes, I've not left this world yet. I am here."

Yes, he was there, beside her, quite alive and well. That more than anything made Hathel glad that she had survived her foolish rush into battle.

The battle... She felt questions bubble into being on the surface of her thoughts -- had the Rohirrim come in time? Surely yes, if she was safe in a bed in the City. But what of the Witch King, and the terrible men out of the East? And He, the nameless one, what of him? Was victory achieved in their valiant stand, or was there still a war to be fought? How fared her King, Theoden of the Mark? But she had not the strength to ask such questions. Already she felt tired from the exertion of waking, and her lids began to droop, though the ghost of her smile lingered on her face.

"Wait a moment, child, before you take your rest," said Aragorn gently but firmly, and took her hand. Hathel forced her weary eyes to stay open.

"Is your name, then, truly Hathel?" Aragorn asked firmly, peering keenly into her face as she struggled to stay awake.

"Yes," she sighed. "I'm sorry." Sorry for the deception, sorry I could not say so sooner, sorry but I had to. But she could not say all that yet. She was slipping into dreams.

Legolas said, laughingly, "Fitting." She wondered what he meant.

"Have you any relatives left, Hathel?" Aragorn asked.

That one was easy, just a light breath of a word. "No."

"All right then, child." Her hand was released. She closed her eyes. "You may sleep now."

She felt the air beside her stir, and knew that Aragorn had gone, but Legolas sang softly and smoothed her short curls. The mattress was so soft and her head so heavy. Waves of a deep and heavy sleep lapped upon her consciousness and her senses faded to the world around her.

She did not know whether or not she dreamed it, but she thought she felt the touch of his hand lift and his singing cease, and then she heard him say, "Goodbye. Pray that I return, my poor brave esquire."


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