“Come.” Aragorn’s voice was soft, yet it drew their remainder to him as ever the Dúnedain of the North gathered to their chieftain’s call. Dorhaur son of Daelin turned his gaze from the waiting forms of the King of Rohan and the Prince of Dol Amroth, joining his silent brethren. The carnage spread upon the Pelennor and the deaths of greater than half their own company weighed upon him—weighed upon them all—even accustomed as they were to battle and grief. The scale was not something he might ever have imagined. “There is much for us to accomplish ere nightfall. We must have tents raised, wounds treated, and some small supper prepared.” Aragorn forestalled the demurral with a raised hand. “I realize that no one is hungry, yet we cannot go without. We do not know what may be yet in store.” He squeezed the shoulder nearest him, then nodded toward King Éomer and Prince Imrahil. “I must confer with these for a while yet ere they depart to their own. We will also not leave the bodies of our kinsmen to fester upon this field. They fought with honor, and with honor will they lie in death. There is a vigil to be kneeled this night.”

Indeed. Dorhaur stepped forward to claim his place. “I will go to gather our dead.” His grandfather lay among those who would not rise again, his uncle, his cousin. Much had his family given in defense of their Chieftain this day. Much had each member of the Grey Company given, in life and in kin. Beside him, Haladan struggled to rise. Aragorn put out a staying hand.

“Nay, Haladan. Your wound needs binding ere you lose much more blood.”

“My father—”

“Yes.” Aragorn’s eyes closed briefly, the lines on his face deep with grief. “I know, but you may not see to this duty.”

The sons of Elrond joined Dorhaur, and Elrohir clasped Haladan’s arm briefly. “We will assist. It may be no easy task to find seventeen fallen among so many, though, and we should begin soon to take most advantage of the daylight.”

Aragorn nodded, glancing about their group. “Renulf, you join them. Others will come once the tents are standing, and I as well if I am able.” The young man joined them and they took their leave, moving as one through the unimaginable carnage to that site which had taken the highest toll upon their people. Not all would be found there, but it would be a start.

Little was Dorhaur able to remember of the next several hours. Little did he make the attempt. The sight and scent of blood and death, the insect hum penetrating all. The weight of the dead, so different from the weight of a living man. The ache in arms and back and legs, the stumbling even as they attempted sure footing back across the field with their burden. The sorrow and pride and love and rage and hope washing through him, strengthening his failing grip and carrying him unthinking until the last of their fallen brethren was settled into the vigil line behind the hastily-erected tents of the Dúnedain. The ashy grit of the hot stew thrust into his hands, the metal tang of the spoon. The faces of his kin in repose of death, still grim and strong as they had been in life.

They would not regret their sacrifice. Each man present had gladly given his life as bulwark between their chieftain and the blades of the enemy. Neither would he regret it … and yet he mourned. Such was Arda marred.

Their search had finished with better speed than they had anticipated. The sun had set, but the last of her light had not yet gone from the horizon. It was time. Those of their brethren who did not lie wounded or dying—they would lose yet one more ere this night had passed, despite their chieftain’s healing prowess—were gathering now at the feet of the fallen, scattering among the bodies. Too few were available to kneel a proper Western vigil. It mattered not. Their numbers, such as they were, must suffice.

Dorhaur placed himself between the boots of his uncle and cousin, crouching to settle his tired body with little grace onto his knees. For the moment his mind shied fully from the knowledge of his grandfather lying still upon his Uncle Demedhel’s other side—the man who had first borne his name, who had been beloved friend and mentor to all who called him kin. That sorrow was yet too large to contemplate. Rather, he turned his gaze upon his uncle and his cousin, offering them the honor of looking their death full in the face. It was their way, but it was not an easy one. The grief spiked, raw and terrible. He bent, resting his brow upon his uncle’s still form, gripping Derinadh’s cold hand in his own. Footsteps passed, a hand pressed his shoulder, and he straightened. The weeping would wait for another time.

Aragorn and Haladan appeared to his right. Their chieftain eased the younger man down at his father’s feet, then stayed a moment to rest a long-fingered hand upon Halbarad’s brow in affection and benediction. Elrohir moved to a gap at the far end of the line, Elladan folded with a half-hearted grimace before Baradhald, lips already moving in the traditional Elvish song to Elbereth over his long-time adversary. Taking that cue, though in truth he should not have needed it, Dorhaur reached for the threads of their own death rite in the gray hazes of his mind. The words and ritual, the knelt vigil from the moment the light left the western horizon until the first glimmer of light touched it again, had come through the centuries from Aranarth himself—a form of mourning, indeed, but also a reminder to the Lords of the West (though the Dúnedain would little say such a thing aloud) that Men yet existed who gave their lives in honorable cause and sacrifice.

Not all the scions of Elros Tar-Minyatur and Elendil the Tall had fallen to evil.

Aragorn settled beside Haladan, gazing upon Dorhaur’s grandfather with infinite sorrow. “He was my first friend among the Dúnedain.” The chieftain gripped Dorhaur’s elbow for a brief moment in shared grief. “The first to show me the honor that is yet in Men.” Grey eyes flickered along the two lines, the living and the dead, and he bowed his shaggy head. “The first, but not the last.” Aragorn rested a brief hand upon the still ankle, lips moving in blessing, then settled himself onto his heels, hands upon his thighs, eyes raised to the golden thread of light disappearing even at that moment from the western horizon.

The last glimmer faded. Darkness encased them, pierced by a thousand bright stars. Each Man settled into the silence, the night, their low-toned chant undergirding the lighter strains of the sons of Elrond. His breathing eased, his grief settled.

“Aragorn.”

The word was a blow against their fragile peace, and the entire line stirred to seek its source. Gandalf’s white hair and cloak shone even in the dark as he approached, beckoning the chieftain. Aragorn hesitated, grasped the ankle before him in silent apology, then rose swiftly.

“Gandalf. What need have you?”

“I truly apologize for this intrusion, my friend.” The wizard’s voice held real remorse, even as it continued. “You are needed within the Houses of Healing.”

Aragorn’s reply was wary. “It is not my time to enter the White City.”

“There are those within who may be lost without your aid.”

The chieftain shifted, glancing back to his men before drawing Gandalf further away. Even so, they could hear his low reply. Voices carried far in the still air upon the battlefield.

“Surely the Houses of Healing have healers aplenty.” Aragorn’s sigh was soft, a weary breath. “It is not that I do not wish to offer my aid, Gandalf. You know this. Yet I have told Imrahil that I would not enter the City tonight—I do not think it wise to add to public debate over the command of Gondor’s people and armies while our final Doom is yet undecided.”

“I do not ask you to ride in with banner unfurled!” Gandalf snorted. “That would indeed be foolish at such a time. But the Steward of Gondor—Boromir’s brother—and the White Lady of Rohan lie within under the black breath of the Nazgûl, which no healer of the City can banish.”

“The black breath?” Aragorn drew a quick breath of his own.

“Aye, and along with them Meriadoc Brandybuck also suffers this fate, and many others.”

“Merry! How came this to be?”

“I will tell you upon our way, Aragorn, but we must go or more may be lost.” The wizard gripped Aragorn’s arm. “I think that this foray into the City will not cause the damage you fear. Indeed, it may aid your cause, as a wise woman among the healers has remembered an old saying here—The hands of the king are the hands of a healer.” He shook gently the arm within his grasp. “Those hands would not go amiss now, my friend.”

He must go, Dorhaur realized, even while his heart cried objection to their chieftain’s absence from this solemn night of mourning. He must go—and not just from them tonight. Ever had they understood, he and his brethren who lived under command of Aragorn son of Arathorn, that they would be required eventually to release him. Their time was not one of Watchful Peace, or of growing threat. Theirs was the time of decision, when the world would rise to new heights or fall utterly beneath Sauron’s hammer, and Aragorn was either the King who was to come or the end of the line of Elendil. Once the final Doom was decided, he would not remain among a failing people in a bitterly hard land. He was meant for more.

Ever had they known. Their chieftain loved them and would give his life for them—of this they held no doubt. Yet, his home was not among them. It was in the beauty and grandeur of Rivendell. He did not remain among them for any length of time. Ever had he ventured forth into the wider world, learning the ways of West and East, increasing his knowledge and performing great deeds. He would not marry from among them. His bride would be of the Elder race, the makings of a tale such as that of Beren One-Hand and Lúthien Tinúviel of old. And he would not stay with them. He was destined for the White City of Gondor, for a land worthy of his legacy.

Ever had they known, and each Man and Woman of the Dúnedain felt joy that they had been chosen see these times—to follow and succor this Man in his long journey. Yet … Dorhaur blew out a long, silent breath, forcing back a surge of unworthy petulance. Yet he had not considered that they would have not even a night with him to kneel vigil over their dead, when the time finally came.

Aragorn’s eyes rested upon them, and they did not need the light of day to know the reluctance written upon his countenance. Haladan spoke for them all.

“Go, Aragorn. You must not sacrifice the living for the dead. The numbers we have here will suffice.”

“My Lord?” An unfamiliar voice spoke from behind Gandalf, and the silhouettes of two young soldiers appeared. Whether they had accompanied the wizard from the City—perhaps guided him to the tents of the Northern Rangers—or had been merely passing was impossible to say. Gandalf did not seem surprised, but then, wizards never were. “I apologize for the intrusion, my Lord Aragorn, but is there aught we might do for you here? We do not know what task you leave unfinished, but if we may be of use to you we are yours to command.”

It was not their way to invite others into their vigils—yet, this was more from lack of opportunity than from any stronger objection. Aragorn’s voice betrayed naught. “How long have you?”

“As long as you need, my Lord.”

Their chieftain gestured toward the vigil line. “It is the custom of our people to kneel vigil over our dead until morning. We have not enough to kneel for each man, and my absence will leave us shorter still.”

A quick glance passed between the two. “It would be our honor, Lord, to keep vigil over men who traveled so far to succor us, but we do not know your rites…”

“Your own will suffice.”

“Then we will remain until the sun rises, and gladly.”

It was generous, all the more as the two young soldiers of Gondor—one of the City, Dorhaur saw as they drew nearer, and one a knight of Dol Amroth—were no doubt soiled and exhausted and grieving their own losses. Dorhaur allowed their consideration to soothe the ragged edges of his disappointment, taking solace in a hospitality which extended even to an uncomfortable night upon a man’s knees at the feet of a dead stranger. He returned his gaze to the West as Aragorn settled the knight down their line, murmuring softly, then brought the soldier of Gondor to his own place between Dorhaur and Haladan.

“This man is Dorhaur, son of Dedhalin.” The young man nodded, settling to his knees. “His grandson kneels beside you, at the feet of his uncle and cousin.”

The dark head came quickly around, and Dorhaur felt the weight of his sympathy. “Your loss is great, my Lord. I offer my deepest condolence.”

“I am no lord, but I thank you.” There was little more to say.

“I am Valgil, son of Veregil, and I vow to you that your kin will be as my own this night.”

The simple declaration hit Dorhaur hard. He closed his eyes and bowed his chin to his breast, laying a hand upon the Gondorian shoulder at his side.

Aragon’s hand pressed briefly upon Dorhaur’s head and then the chieftain was gone, pulling the hood of his gray cloak over his head as he followed Gandalf across the field toward the City. The sons of Elrond took up their song again, and the Dúnedain their chant. Beside him, Valgil began his own recitation—not, Dorhaur was surprise to note, so different from their own. The three funeral rites rose into the night, overlapping and swirling and flickering like sparks into the heavens, and they waited upon the coming of the dawn.