A/N:  This story is told from the perspective of Arandur, an O.C. whom I introduced in my previous stories “While Hope Lasts” and “Horsehair and Heritage,” though it’s not necessary to read those stories first.  It contains non-graphic depictions of the aftermath of battle and some medical gore.

The setting sun cast a red glow that washed over and through Arandur’s closed eyelids.  A cricket chirped loudly near his ear.  He inhaled deeply and smelled grasses and pollen and . . . And blood.  And dying orcs.  His eyes snapped open.  There wasn’t much to see besides broken blades of grass.  He lay mostly on his stomach, with his sword arm twisted awkwardly behind him.  The battlefield was eerily still.  It was, the Ranger knew, the brief calm that signaled the end of a skirmish, as the defeated force retreated and the wounded kept quiet—not yet sure whether the outcome would leave them free to voice their pain or lead to sudden death.

Before Arandur had a chance to puzzle that out himself, a hand grasped his shoulder and turned him carefully onto his back.  Arandur tensed, and his left hand reached for his dagger, but when his eyes adjusted he found Gilraen’s son looking down at him.

“Are you alright, Uncle?”  Aragorn asked cautiously.

“I’m fine.”  Arandur tried to push himself up, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Did you hit your head?”

Arandur rolled his shoulder and spitted the younger Man with a glare that made him quickly withdraw his hand.  He sat up, flexing his slightly sore right arm.  “I did not.”  Standing on legs that almost trembled, he yanked his sword free from the belly of an armored orc.  The cries of the wounded were just beginning to ring out.  Arandur scanned the field and saw that a good portion of his men were on their feet.  Of the orcs, he saw only limp bodies, though nearly a hundred had engaged them.  He nodded with grim satisfaction.

Still, he felt Aragorn’s concerned gaze on him.  He wiped his sword clean with a few efficient swipes and nodded at his fallen foe.  “Learn from my error, Arathorn-ion.  As the end of battle drew nigh, I sought to slay this one more quickly, but by overcommitting to the blow, I unbalanced myself.  Had another orc been nearby I would be dead now.”

One of the other men caught a bit of the exchange and grinned.  “That one was right behind you,” the veteran pointed to the decapitated body of another orc, “The little lord felled it.”

Aragorn flushed red and looked away.  There was, of course, nothing little about the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, but at twenty-one, he still acted the callow youth.  This was his first engagement of any size with the Rangers.  He had acquitted himself well, if somewhat recklessly, Arandur thought.  But then, he allowed, at the moment he was hardly one to talk.  The older Dúnadan felt a flash of shame; he was supposed to protect Aragorn in this battle, not the other way around.  The feeling only intensified when he spotted a red trickle of blood making its way down the younger Man’s wrist.

“You’re wounded.”

Aragorn looked down at his arm, rotated it experimentally, and flinched slightly.  “It is a graze only.”

“Aragorn . . .” Arandur put a note of warning into his voice.

Aragorn sighed and flipped his cloak back, revealing an ugly slash across his upper arm.  Arandur probed it with expert fingers.  It was long and bled sluggishly, but didn’t seem very deep.  The young Chieftain looked away.  “It will need to be stitched, but I am in no danger.”  He glanced back at his uncle and added, “My gwenyr* taught me the folly of hiding grave wounds.”

Satisfied, Arandur stepped back and scanned the field once more.  “We’ve seen the end of this incursion, at least.  Wrap that arm and check your gear; we make for camp as soon as we can gather the wounded.”

Aragorn nodded.  “Aye, sir.”  Though he was Chieftain by blood, eight months among his people were not enough to prepare him for command, and he knew it.  Arathorn’s son seemed content to watch and to learn as his uncle, the acting-chieftain, commanded the Men.

Two of Arandur’s lieutenants came loping up.  The elder greeted Arandur with a respectful nod and Aragorn with a mischievous wink.  “I see the cub managed to stay on his paws.”

Aragorn managed a wry smile.  The grizzled fighter behind him turned and opened his mouth, no doubt to repeat the tale of Arandur’s fall and the headless orc, but Arandur cut him off.  “You have a casualty report, Malphor?”

The Man sobered.  “Aye.  We’ll need eight graves, but we saw more injuries than deaths.  A dozen men need a healer’s care at once, and some twenty more are walking wounded.”

Arandur winced.  Forty men.  Nearly half his force, and at least eight would never return to their ranks.  He swept his feelings aside with practiced determination and turned to the other lieutenant.  “Celecthor, put together teams of scouts from the unscathed Men—four squads of three.  We need to know whether any of the fiends remain in our lands and especially if any have regrouped.  Don’t use either of the patrol groups that first tracked this incursion; they’ll need fresh eyes and fresh legs.”  Celecthor nodded in silent acknowledgement and strode off.

Arandur turned back to Malphor.  The other Man clearly knew what was coming, because his face fell further.  “Malphor, I need you to take another half dozen Men and see about those eight graves.  It will take all the rest just to get the wounded to safety—we cannot carry the dead back to the villages.  Find a likely place, and be sure to save their gear for the families.  When it’s done, put the orcs to the torch.” 

As Malphor took his leave, Arandur swallowed against his own weariness and turned to his nephew.  “Come.  We still have much to do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

True night was falling by the time they staggered back to the relative safety of a temporary encampment.  The litter Arandur carried was beginning to rub blisters into his hands.  Aragorn carried the other end, and the Man suspended between them groaned softly at every step and bump.  Despite his obvious pain, this Man—a young Ranger named Herion—was probably one of the lucky ones; Arandur was far more worried about the Men who lay silently on their stretchers, their eyes half-lidded, their breath shallow.

He’d expected to take casualties—had known it was inevitable from the moment he read the first reports about the orc incursion—but the number and severity of injuries was staggering.  They had made preparations, but Arandur knew that the handful of healers waiting at camp might quickly be overwhelmed.

The camp, which only one night before had been the site of more than a score of tents and dozens of campfires, was now only packed earth and cool ashes arrayed in concentric rings around a single large tent.  Sentries greeted their approach with solemn nods and whistles designed to mimic the calls of local birds.  At the sound, the canvas tent flaps flew open and a Woman emerged.  She was tall and stern, with black hair threaded with gray.  When she spotted Arandur and Aragorn, her face sagged with relief, though she covered it quickly beneath an expression of brisk determination.  Tying back her sleeves, she made her way to Arandur, pausing only to clasp Aragorn warmly on the shoulder.

“Hello, Mother,” Arandur said, “Is everything prepared?”

Ivorwen nodded, “As prepared as it can be, though we’d hoped for fewer patients.”

Arandur nodded grimly.  “As did we all.”

Sympathy flashed across her face, but again she covered it quickly.  The days when she could comfort her son were long gone.  Stepping back, she twisted her hair into a knot on top of her head and gestured with her chin.  “Well, don’t just stand there.  Get that fellow inside.”

The hospital tent was well lit with oil lanterns.  Barrels of clean water stood by the door next to stacks of bandages and jars of salves and poultices.  A half-dozen more healers—Women in their middle years and two older Men—waited, their sleeves rolled up, their hair pulled back, their faces identical masks of unflappable determination.  The air smelled of herbs.  Arandur felt his chest clench.  He knew the fresh scent would last no longer than the careful organization.

He and Aragorn deposited their patient on one of the many cots that lined the walls.  The other stretcher-bearers did likewise while those with less serious injuries found space wherever they could.  Most of the uninjured Men filed out, so as not to be underfoot when the healers went to work.  Soon, the tent was quiet except for the stifled groans of the wounded and the soft voices of the healers.

Arandur hung back.  While he knew a bit more about healing than the average Ranger—enough to treat most of the common wounds that plagued them in the field—his knowledge paled in comparison to that of these life-long healers.  He knew they would not thank him for getting in their way when lives hung in the balance, but he was not yet ready to leave his Men.  Even as he watched, his mother approached a Man who lay far too still, shook her head sadly, and pulled a sheet over his limp form.  Immediately, tendrils of red from the Man’s abdominal wound were soaked up into the undyed cloth and began to spread.

Looking away, Arandur scanned the room.  Without needing to be told, the walking wounded had begun to segregate themselves.  Those with broken bones, arrow wounds, and other serious injuries lay or sat on the remaining cots, while those with minor scrapes sat on the ground around them and settled in for a long wait.  All save one.

Arandur’s gaze was drawn to Aragorn, who hovered near the entrance.  As he watched, the young Chieftain drew a pitcher of water and tucked it awkwardly under his wounded arm.  He rifled carefully through the other supplies for a moment, before selecting two cloths and a coil of bandage material and retreating to sit in an unused corner.

Arandur frowned.  The healers followed a triage system that was blind to both rank and lineage.  If the boy thought to distract them from their work tending the gravely wounded, he had another thing coming.  Mentally scripting a stern lecture to that effect, Arandur stalked towards him.

By the time he reached him, Aragorn had drawn his belt knife and was carefully cutting away his ruined sleeve.  Dried blood crusted over and through the linen, and as he tugged on it, the wound broke open and bled anew.  It was deeper than Arandur had first thought—a chip of white bone peeked through at the elbow—and longer as well.  Aragorn tugged at the torn cloth and hissed as the motion irritated the wound still further.  He looked up at Arandur with eyes full of poorly-masked pain.

“Help me, Uncle?”

Arandur’s planned reprimand died on his lips.  For a moment, Aragorn seemed so young.  He couldn’t help but be reminded of Gilraen at six, trying to pretend her skinned knees didn’t hurt.  Slowly, he knelt beside his nephew.  No one could argue that Aragorn hadn’t done a Man’s work today, first in the battle and then carrying a stretcher, uncomplaining, for almost two hours.  There was little harm, Arandur decided, in treating his wound today and teaching him the proper stoicism next time.  It wasn’t as if he was wasting the true healers’ time, after all.

Taking hold of the cut end of the sleeve, Arandur pulled it back as quickly and gently as he could.  Aragorn flinched but did not cry out.  The scab tore away and blood gushed out—enough to momentarily concern the older Ranger—but as quickly as it had started, the torrent slowed to a sluggish trickle.  Wetting one of the cloths, he sponged gently at the torn skin.  Blood quickly mingled with the cold water and ran in a steady stream over Arandur’s fingers and down Aragorn’s arm.  To Arandur’s mild surprise, his nephew had the presence of mind to hold his arm out, such that the bloody fluid dripped to the dirt floor rather than onto his clothes.  After a moment, Arandur re-wetted the cloth and began the more painful task of scrubbing at the dried blood and grime.

He cleared his throat.  “You did well today,” he said, trying for a brusque tone.

“Thank you.”  Aragorn’s voice was light and courteous, carrying only a hint of the pain he was undoubtedly feeling.

“Not so well at the beginning, though.  You focus too much on individual opponents.  Clever parries against one foe may come to naught if they allow another to flank you.”

“I will try to remember.”

Arandur merely grunted.  He worked in silence for a few minutes.  Aragorn seemed to take little note of him; his gaze followed the healers as they swept back and forth between the cots.  The longer he watched, the more a troubled cloud seemed to come over his face.

“We paid a high price, today.”

Aragorn’s voice surprised Arandur, not so much for the words as for how closely they mirrored his own dark thoughts.  He merely nodded.  “It was a necessary price.  If that horde had come upon a village, they could reduce it to ash and bones in a matter of hours.”

“Still, there must be something more we could have done.”

Aragorn’s tone held no accusation and Arandur took no offense; he encouraged the Chieftain-in-training to discuss tactics and strategy whenever possible—how else would he learn?  This time, though, he shook his head.  “We brought all the Men we could gather on such short notice, and they acquitted themselves admirably.  Not all skirmishes will go so well, especially when we are outnumbered.”

“What if we’d placed archers on the heights?”

“Even our best archers don’t have the accuracy to shoot into a melee without endangering our own Men.  They would have had only moments to fire, and diverting them would thin our lines still further.”

A Man on the other side of the tent cried out as a healer set his broken leg.  Aragorn sighed heavily.

“Sometimes all you can do still is not enough,” Arandur told him in a gentle tone that did not come naturally, “But, we must fight nonetheless.”  Aragorn’s wound had finally stopped bleeding and was as clean as it was likely to get.  Arandur blotted it dry and let a note of sternness creep back into his voice.  “This will need to be stitched,” he told him, “But, you will have to wait until the healers are free.”

Aragorn nodded absently.  “That’s alright.  A bandage will be enough.”

Arandur mused on the choice of words—“enough”—as he wrapped the arm and tied off the bandage with quick, efficient fingers.  Aragorn flexed his arm experimentally and nodded in satisfaction.  “Thank you, Uncle,” he pulled a basin of water towards him and began to scrub his hands from fingertip to elbow, “I couldn’t work with that graze hanging open—too great a risk for infection.”  And with that, he stood and reached for one of the heavy aprons that the healers wore.

For a moment, Arandur could only stare, certain that he’d misunderstood.  Only when Aragorn picked up another roll of linen and stepped towards a groaning man did he realize what he intended.  Standing quickly, he caught the younger man’s arm.  “I know you want to help,” he said, again utilizing an uncharacteristically gentle tone of voice, “But the healers have a system.  They don’t welcome aid from the likes of us—it might do more harm than good.”

Aragorn pulled away.  “I studied healing in the House of Elrond,” he pointed out, unperturbed.

“And that is all well and good, but these healers have been treating out people for almost their whole lives.  If you want to help, look to them to give you tasks.”

“Uncle, if Herion is not treated soon, he could lose the use of his leg.”

Arandur looked past him.  Sure enough, the bed he’d been approaching belonged to Herion, the Man whose stretcher they had borne all the way from the battlefield.  He opened his mouth to argue further, but Ivorwen caught his eye from across the room and shook her head.  Instead, Arandur sighed.  “No, heroics, you understand me?” He cautioned the other Man, “If you see a wound you don’t know how to treat, you call a healer straight away.”

Aragorn nodded solemnly.  “I will, Uncle.”

But, he seemed competent enough as he approached Herion and spoke to him softly, making him wiggle his toes and flex his calf.  He touched the Man’s leg, feeling for pulses first at the foot and then at the knee.  It quickly became clear that Herion’s hip was out of socket, so after a moment, Aragorn slipped away to where the healing herbs were stored and returned with a tincture of poppy.  A quiet word of reassurance was enough to make Herion lift his head and drain the cup.  As the Man’s eyelids began to flutter and his breathing slowed, Aragorn probed his hip more carefully.  After a moment, he nodded in satisfaction and stood on the cot at Herion’s feet, lifting the other Man’s injured leg and letting it bend at the knee.  He looked at Arandur.  “Will you brace him for me?”

Swallowing his own reluctance, Arandur stepped close and steadied Herion with a hand just above his hip.  The wounded Ranger’s eyes had fallen all the way shut.  Aragorn drew a steadying breath.  Arandur tried not to think about a healer he’d known in his youth who had crushed an injured Man’s nerves while trying to right a dislocated joint.  Aragorn pulled up, his muscles straining from the effort.  Bone scraped against bone under Arandur’s hand, setting his teeth on edge.  And then with an almost audible pop, the hip slipped back into its socket.  Herion stirred but did not wake.

Arandur had assumed—perhaps foolishly, he conceded—that Aragorn would stop and rest awhile with the other wounded.  Instead, he gave his uncle a respectful nod, stepped to the next bed and set about removing an arrow from a Man’s back.  Nor did he rest after that Man was seen to, nor after the next nor the next.  As the night stretched on, Arandur made himself useful by fetching water, mixing herbs, and talking with the Men, while his nephew flew from bed to bed, seeing almost as many of the critically wounded as Ivorwen.  The other healers were skeptical at first, but they quickly warmed to him after Aragorn somehow saved a Man whose lungs had begun to seize.  Before long, they were approaching him with especially complicated cases.  Arandur frequently caught Ivorwen watching out of the corner of her eye, her expression suggesting that she was impressed, but not altogether surprised.

As the dawn approached, even Arandur let go of his misgivings.  Aragorn seemed so perfectly composed and self-assured, even when he was wrist-deep in gore.  Perhaps, Arandur mused later, that was why no one noticed when he first began to falter.  In the flickering lamplight, it wasn’t immediately apparent when his face began to drain of blood.  When his hands began to tremble slightly, it seemed only natural.  When he stood after stitching a knife wound and staggered slightly, Arandur frowned and moved to intervene, but Ivorwen stopped him with a firm shake of her head. 

He held his peace, but it was now clear to him that Aragorn was losing strength, and fast.  The young Man’s jaw was set in a hard line.  He no longer murmured reassurances to his patients, but bent over his work with single-minded determination.  The other Men began to notice.  They watched the young Chieftain, their eyes frank and evaluative, and whispered to one another whenever he was out of earshot.

It happened just after he finished changing a bloodied bandage; Aragorn pulled himself to his feet, stumbled, swayed, and came crashing back to the ground, splashing himself with an entire basin of grimy water in the process.

A Man on the other side of the tent grinned wickedly.  Several more stifled groans, as if their prize horse had just lost a race.  Coin purses emerged like magic, and within seconds, handfuls of copper and silver were making their way towards the smiling Man.  Arandur noted all these details out of the corner of his eye and made a mental note to find appropriate punishments for the gamblers.  As soon as he was sure that Aragorn was alright.

He reached his side just as Gilraen’s son was beginning to stir.

“Don’t get up yet.”  Arandur lifted his nephew’s head and raised a cup to his lips.  “You overcommitted.”

Aragorn sipped the water and managed a smile that was as sheepish as it was weak.  “And unbalanced myself.”

Ivorwen knelt on his other side and lifted a hand to his face, first checking his forehead and then taking his pulse, all while tutting disapprovingly.  “Hmm, you’re weak as a newborn kitten, but I doubt there’s anything seriously wrong with you.  Next time, Grandson, try to lie down before your body makes the decision for you.”

“Good advice.  Yes, I’ll do that.  I think . . .”

Ivorwen turned to Arandur, relief and amusement putting a sparkle in her eyes.  “He needs rest only . . . well, rest and privacy after that display, don’t you think?”

Arandur kept his face carefully humorless.  “My tent is just outside.  He can rest there.”

As they half-guided, half-carried Aragorn out to the smaller tent, Arandur shot glares at a few of his Men, letting them know that their days of inappropriate wagers were numbered.  It helped; thinking of reprimands and punishment details took his mind off of what he had just seen.  He could almost forget the cold clench in his heart that he’d felt when Aragorn fell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stood outside his tent in the pre-dawn light.  Behind him, the sentries kept their silent vigil.  All else was still, save for the earliest chirps of the morning songbirds.  His mother and his nephew were visible as shadows against the side of the tent—silhouetted by the lamp behind them.  Aragorn sat, his shoulders hunched wearily, his hands cradling a basin in his lap.  Ivorwen knelt at his side and stitched his arm, no doubt murmuring nonsense to him as she always did while practicing her craft.  Aragorn nodded from time to time, his head bent over the bowl as he breathed slowly and deeply.

A stray tendril of wind carried a puff of air out under the canvas.  Arandur breathed deep and felt a hard lump settle in his throat.  He hadn’t truly smelled athelas since Arathorn had died.

As Ivorwen stood and prepared to leave, Arandur banished all emotion from his face.  As she emerged, Aragorn finally, heavily, laid himself down to sleep.  “You knew,” Arandur said as his mother turned to face him.  His voice was hard, but quiet.  “You knew he was reaching the limits of his strength and you would not let me intervene.”

“Of course I knew,” she responded brusquely, “Any healer can reach their limits, even without losing a pint of their own blood along the way.”

“So, why let him collapse?”

“Because I wanted him to encounter those limits and see them for what they are.”  She untied her sleeves with fingers that almost shook, and for the first time Arandur noticed the weariness that lined her face.  “Tell me, Arandur, when he comes upon a battlefield with a thousand dying Men or rides into a village stricken by plague, will I be there to be his nursemaid?  Will you?  He has to learn for himself what is and isn’t within his own strength if he is to have any chance.”

Arandur sighed.  “I suppose you’re right.  I only thought . . . If I could just get him through the battle . . .”

“That he would be safe?”  Ivorwen’s face softened.  “Our Chieftains fight on two fronts.  And this war will still be here, long after the last orcs are gone.”

She walked away, returning to her fellows and their endless battle, but, Arandur couldn’t help but linger.  He kept watch beside the tent, his gaze on the sleeping figure, until the first rays of morning light caught his eyes and hid the Chieftain from his view.

Fin

*Gwenyr:  Sindarin for “sworn brothers,” in this case referring to Elladan and Elrohir

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