CHAPTER 22:   THE KING AND THE HEALER

The afternoon wore on as Aragorn worked wearily with the wounded on the plain and everyone waited for the litters to be made ready. Someone had ridden back to the caves and brought pots for boiling water, as well as bowls and a spoon for Aragorn.

The Ranger’s attention was focused on the elf, thankfully without objection. After applying a clean bandage to Legolas’ wound, closing it as best as he could without proper equipment at hand, he treated all the other small cuts he had received, then dressed his friend in a fresh shirt retrieved from the elf’s own pack found on the dead horse.

While waiting for water to boil, he questioned Närum about the kind of poison that had been used to bring the elf down, and was given the answer he had expected: the same ipo poison that had gone into Eldarion. The substance, according to the healers in the City, was not usually used to kill, only to incapacitate, Aragorn told himself. Not usually used to kill. Yet, there was one concern he could not ignore. He was almost afraid to ask the question, but he had to know:

“How much did you use?”

Several men who had heard the query grimaced, and Närum set his lips in a grim line, sending a fresh ripple of fear through Aragorn.  When no one spoke, Aragorn pressed the question again, his tone louder and more insistent this time. “How much?”

“One dart would have been enough,” Närum stated hesitantly. At Aragorn’s quizzical look, he continued: “Enough to make him go numb, knock him out.”

Aragorn waited, for the man obviously had more to say.

“Aaah, just tell him we doubled it!” Pöras interrupted abruptly, stepping up to them. “Have you no mettle to face the truth, you cowards? We shot two into him, healer – two. And if that is too much for the elf’s body – not much substance on him anyway – that is just too bad.”

Aragorn entertained the pleasurable thought of obliterating the scowl from his face, and perhaps even the face itself, but Närum, turning on his countryman and shoving him in the shoulder, was quicker.

“I told you once to shut up, Pöras! Don’t make me show you how!” he growled.

Pöras snarled and looked ready to retaliate, but at the glares from all the other men, he changed his mind and retreated. “Gah! All this worry about the elf,” he muttered and stalked off in a huff.

Aragorn was now both furious and anxious. He had seen what the small amount of poison from just the tip of a dart had done to Eldarion, but from the looks of the puncture wounds on Legolas, he must have had about eight to ten times that quantity from two fully embedded darts enter his blood. Even though he was a full-grown elf, it was hard to foretell the harm that much ipo would wreak on his body. This was not a substance Aragorn was familiar with; he did not know how it would affect elves, and the ignorance only caused his worry to mount. 

“Is there something he can take to quell the poison?” he demanded.

“Not that we know of,” Närum replied gruffly, frustrated at his companion’s behavior and the whole predicament they were in.

Aragorn blew out a breath of frustration himself, and he felt lost, for he had never seen Legolas so helpless. He feared whether the elf’s body could deal with a strange poison as well as the threat from a wound that could fester. Perhaps an elf would be more resistant to the poison, perhaps not. Regardless of the effect, he had to control his fear, for Legolas would need him to be strong. Suppressing a feeling of helplessness, he calmly performed all the tasks he thought might help the elf battle the poison. 

When water had been boiled, he steeped fever-reducing herbs to make tea. While waiting for the tea to be ready, he crushed athelas in hot water, letting the therapeutic aroma of the herb soothe and refresh both his patient’s and his own tired body. The Adhûnians nearby were pleasantly surprised by a clean scent that permeated the air, and which seemed to them as pure and unsullied as a new-born babe or a fresh fall of snow. The Ranger let the vapor waft around Legolas’ face, sure that the elf would be breathing it in. Legolas still did not wake, and the fever did not break, but his breathing became easier.

Perhaps this is enough for now, Aragorn thought sadly. It is enough that he is still breathing.

When the tea was ready, the Ranger sat, carefully raised his friend and rested the head on his own shoulder, holding the elf’s chin with one hand so that he could slowly feed him the tea, painstakingly cooling each spoonful and waiting for each small amount to slide down the throat and be reflexively swallowed before inserting the next mouthful. After each cup of tea, he bathed the hot brow and body with the water in which athelas had been crushed, now cooled. More than once that afternoon, he breathed silent thanks to the elves of Ithilien for the herbs and clean lint they had had the great foresight to supply.

For the sake of appearances, he called aloud to the elf in a neutral tone, trying to wake him. But whenever the golden head was resting on him and a delicately shaped ear close enough to his lips, he whispered soft pleas as well as words of comfort and assurance, hoping that they would reach the elven mind in some way.

In between bouts of feeding Legolas the tea, Aragorn had to keep up his charade by tending to the others as well, although he quietly kept hidden some of the herbs and clean lint Legolas would need later, using only what he thought he could spare for the others. A few of the uninjured men assisted in applying the poultices he had prepared, but he still had to check on their efforts, and he abhorred each moment away from the one he should be looking after. The further away he was from his friend, the more hurried was his examination of each Adhûnian, and the more anxious he was to finish with all of them. Reluctantly treating wound after wound, his mind and eyes were ever on the golden-haired figure, watching for the first stirrings of recovery.

The Ranger hated each act of pretence, and yet, even as he pondered the irony of having to administer healing to the very men who had brought the elf down, the healer in him and the elvish blood in his own veins would not let the helpless wounded die in cold blood. Even after defeating Sauron’s forces before the Black Gates, he had felt compelled to give his conquered foes another chance to redeem themselves. Such was the nobility of the Númenórean line that had pleased Eru before pride and greed destroyed its splendour, but in Aragorn, that heritage lived and thrived again.

Närum had kept a close eye on Aragorn’s movements at first, but relaxed a little after he observed the gentle healer’s hands at work, silently noting how the stranger ignored his own tiredness to care for those who needed him. Silently, too, he realized how Sarambaq could not be any more different from this healer in his treatment of the men. All this Närum saw and kept in his warrior’s heart.

Brûyn had returned to the plain at some point, and was pleased to learn of the opportune arrival of a healer, although he simply could not understand what pot Aragorn carried, no matter how hard the two men who had first met Aragorn tried to explain. His companions quickly fashioned some litters and began the first of several trips to bear the wounded who had been treated back to the caves. Since Aragorn had to continue tending to the others, Närum readily agreed that the elf should also remain with the healer till his work was finished.

Aragorn noticed immediately that Brûyn was as loose with his tongue as Närum was cautious. Discreetly, he listened to the man’s prattle, and learnt that Sarambaq was none too pleased at Legolas’ condition but was too occupied with tending to his beast to ride here. An occasional screech from the direction of the woods provided evidence of Sarambaq’s labor. The men’s discussion of the day’s earlier events painted a picture of what had happened to his friend before he arrived. Aragorn had quickly spotted the body of Aérodel earlier, but he learnt now how the horse had met its demise, and he sighed in sorrow for the elf, knowing how keenly the Firstborn would lament that loss.

The clouds that had blocked out the sun for much of the day were now gathering as a low heavy mass in the sky, threatening them with a downpour. Aragorn had treated the last of some twenty survivors of Legolas’ knives and was hurrying his weary feet in the direction of the elf. Preoccupied with reminding himself, not for the first time, just how dangerous a cornered and skilled Firstborn could be, he almost walked into Närum, who abruptly stepped into his path to halt him.

“What is your name?” the man asked him gruffly.

Aragorn was genuinely taken aback, too tired to fully register the query at first. Thankfully, he managed to blurt out the first Rohan name, other than the well-known ones, that crossed his mind: “Hama.” As Aragorn uttered the name, he paid his silent respects to the captain of Rohan who had been killed defending the realm’s stronghold against Saruman’s attack during the Quest.

“Hama,” Närum repeated the name softly, studying the Ranger’s weary face. “Thank you.” 

Aragorn was again taken aback at this unexpected expression of gratitude from the Adhûnian, but he knew at once what he was being thanked for. Fleetingly, he recalled his conversation with Faramir in the White City, about how men in a battle, whichever side they fought on, had people for whom they cared. The Ranger still seethed with fury over the hurts Legolas had received, but a small voice in him said that these men were perhaps no better than pawns in Sarambaq’s game, and Aragorn was sure that the elf himself would have held the same belief. Had they actually killed his friend, his reaction might have been very different, but now he merely nodded his acceptance of Närum’s thanks.

Any other words they might have exchanged were left unsaid when they heard the man who had been watching Legolas call out suddenly: “He wakes!” 

This time, Aragorn could not stop himself from covering the distance in long, running strides to drop to the ground on his knees, his eyes never leaving the prone figure he had placed on a clean blanket. The elf had indeed stirred, causing Aragorn’s heart to give a small leap of joy, but the elven eyes were still closed, and the flushed face grimaced with pain and great discomfort as a soft moan escaped his lips and his hands moved to clutch at whatever they could reach. Aragorn held them still by gripping them gently. Anxiety dampened his relief, for this waking was not yet one of recovery, and the fever, while it raged no longer, still held the elf in its hot grasp.

Legolas’ lips moved, mumbling incoherently, and Aragorn called to him, aware of the Adhûnians around him: “Awake, Prince Legolas.”

But all he could hear from the elf’s lips were three sounds that he kept repeating. Aragorn listened carefully, placing his ears close to the warm lips, his brow furrowed. Then his eyes glazed with moisture and his heart filled with sorrow as he finally recognized the words Legolas were trying to articulate:

Stay. Away. Estel.

The Ranger swallowed and blinked back a tear. Even in this state, all the elf could think about was the safety of his human friend. Aragorn tightened his grasp on the warm, pale hands, hiding his true emotions as best as he could as he called the elven name over and over. To his disappointment, the elf lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Eldarion took a day to wake, and the amount of poison in him was far less, even for a child, the Ranger remembered in an effort to quell his own apprehension. Give him time. 

“What did he say?” Brûyn demanded.

“It was difficult to determine,” Aragorn replied vaguely.

He was saved from further questioning by the arrival of a horseman who rode up to Närum and spoke to him. From the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw a look of annoyance cross Närum’s face. Then the man barked out: “Orders from Sarambaq: we have to move everyone back to the caves now!”

Just in time, Aragorn thought, feeling the increase in wind strength and sighing in relief that his patient would be sheltered from what promised to be a storm.

All the wounded were quickly placed on the litters or on horseback if they could sit. Legolas was also borne on a litter, and Aragorn did not encounter objection when he insisted on walking beside him, still playing on the men’s fear over the consequences if the elf did not survive. The men were, in addition, too exhausted to care about where he walked. Aragorn cast a last look back at the body of Legolas’ horse in the distance, not knowing what its fate would be, and said a silent farewell before they set off. Rallias walked obediently beside him, bearing his and Legolas’ few belongings.

As they made their way towards the woods, Aragorn studied their surroundings. Escape was out of the question for the moment, but he had no doubt they would have to attempt something once Legolas was able to walk or ride. Unless – and this was Aragorn’s hope – help from Ithilien and Gondor came first. The Ranger could plan no further than getting Legolas back on his feet, for he had no knowledge of Sarambaq’s plans.

The walk to the caves was uneventful, save for someone losing their grip on one of the handles of the other litters and almost dropping the injured man on it, at which point Aragorn’s ears were introduced to a decidedly colorful Adhûnian curse that involved more than one body part. The retort, which identified the first speaker’s body parts and ancestors in turn, was no less passionate, drawing guffaws from the speakers’ companions and a small chuckle from Aragorn, who wished Legolas had been able to hear the exchange as well. Looking down at his silent friend, his hand gently moved stray strands of blonde hair away from the flushed face and adjusted the wet cloth on the hot brow, noting the warmth that still clung to the elf and parched his lips.

Please, my friend, awake soon. Let your body be healed, let my heart be eased, he pleaded silently.

But silence was all he received in response.