Signs of Life

Summary: In the aftermath of Helm’s Deep, Aragorn struggles to hold on to hope. Sequel to Green No Longer.

The three disheveled figures worked methodically, separating the clustered corpses and checking each body one-by-one for signs of life.

“No pulse here,” whispered Legolas, his fingers pressed against the bloody neck of a fallen soldier.

“Nor here,” Gimli grunted, pushing aside a body to move to yet another.

“Keep looking.” Aragorn’s words were both encouragement and command.

For hours, the three had carried out this ghastly business, enlisting whatever help they could from whomever was able: a small group of women fortunate enough not to have lost sons or husbands; soldiers with injuries minor enough to allow them to treat their fallen brothers; boys too young for such work but who had been recruited out of necessity, nonetheless. The work was gruesome and tedious, and only a precious few lives had they saved, for most of the warriors at Helm’s Deep lay already dead, not dying.

Aragorn wondered just how many consecutive bodies he had checked, failing each time to receive that most precious signal: a pulse. How many since the last meager sign of hope? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? He paused to survey the grisly scene, finding it far too silent, eerily so. There should have been screams of horror and pain, for as unwelcome as those sounds would have been, they would have been preferable to the overwhelming stillness of death.

The Man shifted his gaze from the fortress’s rubble to the surrounding land. Although the rain had lifted and the sun now shone, a cloud of gloom still shrouded the valley and her adjoining mountains. The land itself seemed oppressed by Sauron’s evil, and it occurred to Aragorn that Middle Earth herself lay dying. Healer though he was, how could he possibly resurrect a dying land?

Aragorn closed his eyes and shook his head, clearing desolation from his mind. He could ill afford to lose hope now! Sauron had poisoned Middle Earth and killed far too many of her inhabitants, but Aragorn would not allow the Dark Lord to warp his spirits as well.

When the Man reopened his eyes, the same horrific scene welcomed him. What had he expected? That the corpses had sprung to life and were now patting each other on the back, congratulating one another on wiping all traces of evil from Middle Earth?

He turned to face the pile of bodies, and as he moved closer, his eyes beheld a most appreciated sight. It was commonplace really, something he had witnessed time and time again, though never had he welcomed it as he did now: a single flower had pushed through the tiniest crack in the fortress’s stone, growing rebelliously in the midst of this most inhospitable environment.

The Man grinned.

Just then, a voice roused him: “Aragorn, come!” Legolas voice carried a current of hope. “This one here, he lives.”

The Man moved quickly to the injured warrior. There was work to be done—not the dreadful work of counting corpses but the blessed working of healing. Aragorn welcomed the change.