Part Two. The Aftermath

As the men and boys of Rohan fought the soldiers of the Dark Lord with fierce determination and courage, those they were seeking to protect were not idle. Despite their fear and concern for their menfolk, the women of Rohan were busy preparing for the aftermath of the battle they were all certain that King Théoden and his army would win. The elderly and some of the younger women had taken on the task of caring for the children as well as preparing many pots of broth with which to feed the refugees. The other women, many well used to dealing with battle injuries, and death were either busily tearing any suitable cloth on hand into bandages or grinding medicinal herbs into salves with which to treat the many wounded men and boys. The makeshift healing hall was already crowded with a large number of wounded and dying, but many more were expected before the day was done.

Each time an injured man was brought in and identified, one of the women would breathe a sigh of relief with the knowledge that her husband, father brother or son was still alive. The others would briefly share in the joy of the reunion although waiting to learn of the fate of their own loved ones was agony. In a display of inner strength, all knew that sadness and despair would have to wait until the battle was over. The injured and the living needed their full attention.

“Mama, is that Dwarf not the friend of Legolas?” whispered Dareth softly. Both he and his mother were at the bedside of his older brother, one of the first wounded to be brought from the Deep. He had been badly injured by a single arrow that had pierced his ill-fitting armour, barely missing his heart. Although he remained unconscious, they were both thankful that he was at least still alive.

“I believe that is he,” she replied, sparing Gimli a brief glance before turning her attention back to her wounded son.

“May I go and speak with him, perhaps he knows something about Legolas?” asked the boy, his concern for the Elf he had recently befriended very apparent to his mother.

“Yes, you may, but before you ask after Legolas, I think you should help Gimli, as he is called, to treat his wound. Take him this bandage, a cloth and a dish of water,” she instructed, handing the boy a roll of white cloth and a wooden dish that Dareth filled from a water pitcher. He walked slowly, so as not to spill any, over to where Gimli was sitting,

In the heat of the battle, Gimli, Éomer, Gamling the Old, and many others had been separated from the main battle but had managed to fight their way to the relative safety of the caves. Once he had made certain that the entrance was secure as possible, Gimli had allowed himself a few moments to rest. His head ached from where he had been hit by some flying debris when the last explosion occurred, and not that he would ever admit it to anyone, he was far too weary to even raise his hand to stem the small but constant trickle of blood running down the side of his face. He watched with some curiosity as the boy approached.  He could not recall where he had seen him before, but he was certain he knew the child.

“Greetings Master Dwarf.  I have come to help you tend your wound, if you will allow me?” Dareth asked respectfully.

“It is naught but a scratch, but I thank you for your concern,” replied Gimli as he allowed the boy to quickly wash the blood from his face and then bind the wound. It was a job surprisingly well done for one so young and Gimli wondered how many times the boy had been called upon to bandage other’s wounds. ‘Too many,’ he answered himself.

 “Ah, that feels much better,” he said when the task was complete. “Tell me lad, do I know you?”

“My name is Dareth. I am a friend of the Elf, Legolas,” declared the boy grandly.

“As am I, I am proud to say,” said Gimli, drawing a smile from the child.

“Do you know if he is well?” asked Dareth, his smile quickly replaced by tears welling in his eyes, as he feared the answer he might be given.

“The last time I saw him, he was fighting with the fierce skill of the warrior he is, with nary a scratch marring his fair features,” added Gimli reassuringly, and taking no little comfort from his own words. ‘The Elf would survive if only to gloat should his tally of orc heads be greater than mine,’ he thought with some amusement.

Dareth looked relieved and continued his questioning.

“He promised to tell me more about the Elves after the battle. I do not think an Elf would break his promise, would he?” Gimli could not help but smile. The boy was certainly as filled with curiosity as Legolas had said he was when he had told Gimli of his new friend.

 “Have no fear, child, Legolas will not break his promise!” declared the dwarf confidently.

“Do you know much about Elves?” asked Dareth, in his innocence of the past history of the two races.

“More than many people, but not near enough to satisfy your inquisitive mind,” answered Gimli, looking around as his nostrils detected the aroma of warm food from the cooking area. He was suddenly very hungry. “However, if you would bring me a bowl of that broth that smells so delicious, I will tell you something that you may use to surprise the Elf when next you speak.”

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Legolas stood alone staring with delight at the almost magical forest that now bordered the battlefield, and lamented the fact that soon he would be leaving with the others bound for Isengard. Greatly did he desire to walk amongst the trees that had come to the aid of the Rohirrim, to know more about them, to learn their language. He breathed a sigh of regret, knowing that such a delightful pursuit would have to wait until the war was over. He silently thanked the Valar that Aragorn, and especially Gimli, had survived the battle, and he hoped the same was true of those he loved in Mirkwood.

“Legolas!” he heard a small voice calling to him, and turned around in time to easily catch the young child who threw himself into his arms.

“Dareth!” The feeling of happiness emanating from the boy as he found his friend alive and well warmed the Elf’s heart and his eyes brightened with pleasure. Legolas hugged the child briefly before releasing him. “I see that you are well, but Gimli told me of your brother’s injury. How does he fare?”

“He is awake now, and Mama says in time he will recover his full strength,” Dareth answered happily.

“That is very good news, but I trust you sought her permission to seek me out this time?” asked Legolas, remembering that the child had not previously informed his mother of his whereabouts, causing her some distress as she searched for him.

“Aye, I told Mama where I was going, and that I would not be long,” he responded, sounding slightly affronted that such a question need be raised. “She sends you greeting, by the way,” he added remembering his manners.

“And I offer mine in return, and my thanks to you both for seeing to Gimli’s wound,” replied Legolas as he placed his hand on his heart as was the way of his people.

“I like Gimli very much,” commented Dareth sincerely.

“As do I,” agreed Legolas in a voice softened by affection for the Dwarf.

“He was right about you too. You do not have even a scratch from the fighting,” said Dareth as he candidly studied the Elf’s face.

“I did have one or two scratches, but elves heal very quickly and the marks have already vanished,” explained Legolas. The child’s eyes widened with astonishment at that statement, but then darkened with sorrow.

“I wish my brother could heal that quickly,” he said morosely.

“But he is a Man, and a very brave man at that, not an Elf,” said Legolas gently.

“Yes, he is!” declared Dareth proudly, with a mercurial change of mood that was very elf like. “Will you tell me more about Elves?”

“Ah, young master Dareth, I am afraid such tales will have to wait.  Aragorn has sent me to inform Legolas that we leave for Isengard shortly,” Gimli explained as he joined his friends.

“I will hold to my promise when I return from whatever lies ahead. For now I bid you farewell, my young friend,” said Legolas as he knelt down and held his arms out to embrace the child. Dareth could not hide his disappointment, but managed to smile bravely. He looked over Legolas’s shoulder and winked conspiratorially to Gimli before returning the hug.

It was Legolas’s turn to look astonished when the childish voice whispered in his ear,

“Namarie, mellon nin.”