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.

A Most Important Task

Summary: Legolas enlists Gimli’s aid in a rather messy situation. Pure fluff!

“Ah, Master Gimli! How good to see you!”

“Hmph! Do not try your annoying charm with me, Master Elf! I assume you want something?”

“Alas, Gimli, as you can see, Aragorn has left me quite alone to tend to a most important task. But I fear that since his departure, a rather messy situation has developed.”

“Don’t involve me in your dealings, Elf! ’Tis no concern of mine that you are left with this matter on your hands. Besides, there are those who are accustomed to handling affairs such as these; call for one of them!”

“Yes, Gimli, there is certainly that option; however, would you have Aragorn think that we were unable to cope on our own with such a commonplace, though urgent, matter? If you would simply be so kind as to assist me, you would spare us both needless humiliation.”

“I see your point, Elf—and I don’t mean your ears!”

“Clever, Master Dwarf. Now, will you kindly assist me?

“Oh, very well then. Hand it over”

“Eldarion is not an it, Master Gimli. Eldarion is a he.”

“I am afraid you are quite mistaken as usual, Elf. Anyone with some level of intelligence knows that a babe is still it until it can walk and talk.”

“Then that would make you an it.”

“What did you say, you blasted Elf?”

“Walking you do well enough, though slowly and clumsily. Your speech, however, has yet to evolve beyond grunts. It is only my superior elven hearing that allows me to detect the words behind your assorted noises.”

”Elf! Do you want my help or not?”

“Very well, Master Gimli. I apologize for jesting at your expense.”

“Hmph! . . . Legolas, do you have any idea how I might go about accomplishing this task?”

“Certainly not, Master Dwarf. Why did you think I delegated the task of changing Eldarion’s diapers to you?”

Cry of Life

Summary: When silence signifies only death, cries become a welcome sign of hope. Not truly a sequel to Signs of Life, but it does allude to that vignette.

Bloodied hands labored skillfully, unflustered by the task. Gently, diligently they worked, aiding the one in crisis.

The prone body let out a piercing scream, then fell silent. For now.

In a neighboring room, the Man waited, the cries tearing his heart, the intermittent silence more harrowing still. Unbidden memories stirred; the aftermath of the Battle at Helm’s Deep, when silence bespoke only death, woke again in his mind’s eye. How he would have welcomed screams of pain, both then and now, for they were the signs of life.

Another scream; the Man grimaced. Nothing could he do to ease the suffering. His only recourse was to wait.

Now came forth a softer cry issued by a new voice, truly the cry of life!

The skilled hands wiped themselves clean, their work complete. Their owner exited the room, for though the task of the hands lay finished, the happy duty of the mouth had yet to begin.

“My Lord King,” the woman exclaimed, bursting through the doors and falling at once into a deep curtsy.

“What news?” asked Elessar anxiously.

The disheveled woman looked up, beaming. “It is well, my Lord. You have a son.”

A smile dawned unhindered to adorn the royal face, and tears announced his heartfelt joy, echoing the cry of life.

The King's Prayer

Summary: In the moments before his coronation, Elessar takes few moments for private preparation

Author's Note: This vignette has been revised thanks to most helpful comments from Larner, who was good enough to remind me that a man doesn't wear his crown before his coronation! Thanks, Larner.

“King Elessar,” murmured the man, studying his own weathered face in the mirror. His hand reached out to touch the reflection, assuring himself that it was truly his own image—both familiar and strange—that he saw. He was alone, having dismissed his servants so that he might find a rare moment of solitude. They had been happy to oblige, for they understood their liege’s need for a moment of privacy; it wasn’t everyday that a man became a king.

Although he was unaccustomed to rattled nerves, he felt them now, for his coronation was only moments away. It was not the idea of negotiating trade or rebuilding the White City that overwhelmed him; it was the vast need of the people themselves. With a sudden surge of nausea, Aragorn realized that their plaintive faces would continue to look to him for answers.

Whether his supplication was truly meant for the Valar or for his own ears alone mattered little; Aragorn bowed his head, whispering into the silence the secrets of his heart:

“In the healing of injury and illness am I well versed—Lord Elrond taught me well—but it is not only broken bodies to which I must now tend. No, my people require healing of a different sort: the mending of heart and mind. For such a task, I am woefully unprepared. Am I truly to be a light unto these people? It is laughable! Armies of Men I can lead, but how do I comfort my subjects? The joyous bride now grieves in her widowhood; the carefree child now frets over the smallest matter; the peaceful man now attacks with little warning. How do I learn to look past this desolation and cling to a vision of what this land will be once more?”

An answer flew so quickly and silently through his mind, that had he not been still, he would have missed it: Let it begin with you, Elessar. Let it begin with you. It is your own wounded heart that you must first mend.

The thought both stunned and comforted him, yet he knew the words to be true; he had done little to tend to his own pain, so occupied had he been during the war’s aftermath. In fact, he had been so busy that he had not even been aware of how much his heart grieved. Now it threatened to overwhelm him at this most inconvenient time.

A knock on the door alerted him. “King Elessar,” came Gandalf’s voice, “it is time.”

“I will be right there.” Aragorn hoped the wizard had not noticed the quake in his voice.

Nodding to his reflection, he echoed Gandalf: “It is time.” His public awaited him; his private pain would, for now, have to wait. But tonight, yes, tonight he would carve out time to mourn so that he could then begin to heal. He must, he knew; the future of his kingdom depended on it.

The Rabid Midwife

Summary: On the day that Eldarion was born, ’twas not all joy and glee. A parody of Cry of Life

Warning: Some innuendo

A/N: This vignette is a parody of Cry of Life and is in no way intended to be serious. Please do not tell me that this would never happen; I am well aware of that. It was inspired by a Yahoo Group discussion in which the question arose, "Would King Elessar really have stayed out of the birthing chamber?" During this conversation, I jokingly justified my having kept him out of the birthing chamber in Cry of Life by stating that he was confronted by a rabid midwife; hence, this vignette. It is dedicated to Estelcontar's image of a meat cleaver and NiRi's warg.

In the woman’s eyes gleamed the lust for blood. Her prey: the King of Gondor. It was for no trifling matter that she held the man in enmity; he had invaded her most sacred realm.

The King looked to his wife, reclined helplessly upon the bed. She was certain to defend him by whatever means she could. Though the pains of birth racked her form, she still possessed a most capable tongue and could certainly reason with the shrew coming at him, meat cleaver in hand.

The King’s eyes begged his beloved, “Please, my love, assist me.”

But from his wife received the Man naught but a snarl and a glare, for in her pain she was unable to forget that he was the cause of her current misery. She glanced toward the midwife, who had the cleaver yet in hand, and hesitated not a moment ’ere shrieking her assessment of the Man: “It was he who brought this upon me, the one who promised to love and protect. Go after him, I beseech you. Go with skill and swiftness so that I shall never know pain such as this again!” Her eyes darted between the blade and the Man’s most private regions, her intentions grim but clear.

What? thought the King, dumbfounded. My love, my life, my bride? Her mouth no longer drips her honeyed words? No “Beloved,” “Dearest,” “Darling”? No “Snookums” or “Snugglebear?”

But no longer could he ruminate; the cleaver approached with haste. The King fled the room and slammed the door, hanging his head in disgrace.

A New Appreciation

Summary: Legolas gives Gimli a gardening lesson of sorts

Warning: Pure silliness

A/N: No one is more surprised than I by the requests I have received to write a sequel to A Most Important Task. Although this vignette is not actually a sequel, it is written in the same style

“Garden, you say? Elf, why would I want to waste my time strolling among flowers?”

“I thought it the wisest place to begin, Master Dwarf.”

“To begin what, Legolas?”

“To begin to cultivate a more thorough appreciation of nature, of course.”

“I appreciate nature just fine without any help from you. I have no need to learn to sleep in trees or talk to trees or whatever other nonsense you wish to instill in me.”

“Gimli, even I am not a skilled enough teacher to turn a Dwarf into an Elf. I simply think you would find that your life would be a bit more enjoyable were you able to gaze upon the beech with wonder, or feel the life in a blade of grass, or—”

“Enough of your foolishness, Elf!”

“Perhaps I would do well to take another approach. Hmmm . . . yes, something a bit more relevant to you might help you along.”

“I need no help, Legolas! What I need is for you to cease with your rambling.”

“As I was saying, perhaps drawing comparisons between all that grows in a garden to people familiar to you would enhance your appreciation.”

“How like an Elf! Wanting to compare gardens and people now, are you? I have already heard quite enough of your prattle on the life of the grass and such. Now I suppose you will have me considering the—er—what?—the lovely eyes of the tree or the golden hair of the—”

“Gimli, if you would allow me just a moment to speak, you will find that I have no such thing in mind.”

“Very well. Let us hurry this foolishness along then.”

“A wise decision. Now, let us begin with vegetables. They are quite practical, like warriors.”

“You say that we are vegetables?”

“Not exactly. No, let us forget vegetables for a moment and move on to weeds. I think this comparison will be understandable even to you.”

“Elf!”

“My apologies, Gimli. Now, weeds can be useful, but more often than not, they are simply pesky.”

“Occasionally useful, generally pesky? I see! Weeds are just like you! Ah, yes, Legolas. Now this little lesson of yours is making sense.”

“Forget the weeds. Let us progress directly to flowers. A flower is like—er—like—like Lady Galadriel!”

“Lady Galadriel you say? Forgive me Legolas. It seems I was wrong to doubt you. I do indeed have a new appreciation for nature. Ah, the beauty of Galadriel! Shall we, Legolas?”

“Shall we what, Gimli?”

“Stroll in the garden, of course! I wish to be surrounded by reminders of the Lady's beauty.”

“Very well. After you, Vegetable.”

“No, no, Weed. Please, after you. I insist.”

Come the Morn

~*~

Summary: In the moments leading up to the Battle of Helm’s Deep, Aragorn struggles to assuage his doubts

0o0o0o

Night fell with little warning on the stronghold and her surrounding mountains, bringing an unnatural darkness enhanced by accumulating clouds and growing dread. Evil itself sucked light from the air, taking with it what little hope the men still held.

As the outnumbered ranks filed onto the solid stone wall, Aragorn felt the fear in the air as sure as he sensed the coming rain. He tried in vain to catch the eyes of the huddle of men nearest him, hoping to infuse some bit of confidence into their waning spirits, but the unholy blackness enveloping Helm’s Deep left him unable to make out more than armored outlines.

The Dúnadan knew the moments leading up to combat to be the deadliest part of battle. If he let his anxieties get the best of him now, his life was forfeit. To appease his inner turmoil, he had, throughout the years, sought odd rituals to occupy his mind during these final moments of assembling the troops. Tonight, the lightning, refusing to be extinguished by the night’s dreadful darkness, cooperated with him by searing into his mind an image that became the point of distraction he craved: face upon face—some weathered, some fresh—ready to meet whatever terrors this black night held.

When the moment of light receded, leaving only its ghostly after-image, Aragorn struggled to keep the memory of each face alive, haunted by the thought that if he allowed their images to fade from his mind, he sealed their fate. The belief was irrational, he knew, but it served its purpose of occupying his restless mind when he could do naught but wait.

One by one, he visited each face in his mind’s eye, recounting its details. First, the boy with the golden hair and splash of freckles; next, the old man with a droopy left eye and bony, hooked nose. On and on, he went down the line, until another flash of lightning broke his concentration, branding his brain with a different image: the forces of Sauron, an odd and evil blend of Men, Orcs, and other fell creatures, marching with ill-intent toward the fortress.

Aragorn dared not dwell on wickedness now, so he willed his mind to return to the faces of his comrades. But a question, freshly fed by the evil image he had just witnessed, grew from niggling thought to brash intrusion, until it could no longer be ignored: “Who,” dared ask the doubter in his mind, “will yet stand come the morn?”

Timing

~*~

Summary: Strider works to save a fallen comrade, knowing that time is not on his side.

Flames flew from Strider’s fingertips as the healer staunched the flow of blood, sacrificing no skill in his haste. He’d not seen the arrow that pierced his friend, not even heard the attacker’s approach. They had fired only this lone arrow and fled.

He had no idea why the attackers had set their sights on the younger man but suspected that they might have mistaken younger Ranger for elder; as Chieftain of the Dúnadan, he was a more valuable target than this fallen man-child of sixteen.

His questions multiplied when the scent of smoke snaked into his nostrils. He had too much experience not to realize straightaway that the fire danced nearby, and sparing a priceless moment to glance over his left shoulder, he saw that he was correct—the tips of angry flames already peaked over the top of a cluster of dry brush. He dared not move the boy until he’d flushed poison from the wound, yet he knew that in such dry conditions, flames would soon lick them. Though he hadn’t thought it possible, his fingertips accelerated as if fueled by the fire’s wrath.

Strider had irrigated the wound and made preparations to dress it when he felt the first heat at his side. A crackling sound from his right turned his head, and he was sickened to find that a second set of flames—no, a third!—threatened to join those from his left. For a moment that seemed to last hours, the scene made no sense, until a flash of understanding ignited his brain: the attackers had started a fire to encircle them in a scorching death. They’d had no need to shoot him, only to slow him down long enough to light a series of well-placed brush fires, and in shooting the novice Ranger, they had simply chosen the clearest target. This enemy was proving to be the sort that Strider dreaded most—those possessing as much shrewdness as skill.

With no time to spare, he shoved a clean bandage against the boy’s wound and half-dragged, half-carried the semi-conscious lump toward one of the few remaining gaps in the flames’ snare. Reaching the narrow passageway that led to safety, Strider lurched the young Ranger’s body forward, falling on top of him as he did. He rolled himself and the boy away from the flames and, when he thought it was safe, glanced to the pale face pressed against his chest. Whether from pain or fear—likely both, Strider guessed—the youth shed a single  tear.

Strider grinned, reasonably certain that they had a moment to spare. “Ah, Alindo. Now you bring water? We shall have to work on your timing, I fear.”