Warning: The rating (T) is because of this chapter

September 25th, 2986 T. A.

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I do not know how the time passed until Arien’s ship returned to its haven and it was time to sail again. I did not want to… I almost refused. But, at the end, I sailed – just as I sailed the day when Númenor fell. Just as I sailed the day when Isildur’s body sank to the bottom of Anduin, and in the day when Eärnur rode to the Dark Tower. It is my lot and my duty, and my restless spirit cannot stay here, even if it means seeing that fateful place again, with all the images that it will bring… even if it means to see the lifeless body at the bottom of the valley, and realize the consequences again and again, with freezing certainty. I must sail…

I don’t want to look when I pass above the place, but it draws my attention, and I feel like a butterfly drawn to the light of fire. I know that the look will burn into my mind – but I cannot avert my eyes. It is quiet below me – almost peaceful. Nothing speaks about the drama that took place here yesterday. With heavy heart I seek the body of my descendant.

…And that heart almost stops. It is not there! What… What happened? What does it mean? Did the orcs find it? Or wild animals? Nothing, just the stones loosened by his fall… Oh, Heir of Isildur, you did not deserve such a fate… You should have been buried with honor in a mound on the North, at the side of your father… or even on a bed of stone in the silent street of Rath Dînen. Why is the fate so cruel? Why does it not afford the dead their rest? I sigh bitterly. I could have known how cruel it is… for thousands of years I watch it. I above everyone else should have known how unfair life is. And still it pains me… and it always will, I fear.

I already want to avert my eyes, and… no, not forget. Such a moment I cannot forget, not until the Moon itself will be extinguished and my lot will end. I can try to dull the pain of the memory by concentrating on other things. The rudder will need some repair again, and the planks in the lower deck are…

There! What is the dark shape below? No… that is not possible… is it? I have seen his fall, I have seen him dead! But… what if what I thought for death was a mere unconsciousness? Oh Valar…

Suddenly, I do not want to pass above the place as quickly as possible. I slow my ship, and look carefully at the dark shape of a man in the valley below. Bloody traces lead to the place of his fall. Does he live still? I do not know… I still do not dare to hope, I fear that the disappointment would break my heart. He does not move. His eyes are closed, and pain is visible in his pale face. A blood-stained piece of cloth is wrapped around his head – there was a deep gash after the fall.

My mind works quickly as I try to fill in the blank spaces. He must have regained consciousness, and shredded his cloak to bandages to stop the bleeding. He used his own sword as a splint, I realize when I see his leg, and remember the odd angle that it was at yesterday. For a moment I shiver when I realize what he did. He set the broken leg with his own hands… I try to imagine the resolution that it must have taken… Every touch of the injured bone must have been extremely painful… I remember the short glimpse that I had yesterday. I thought him dead. After such a fall… he was lucky to end with just a broken leg and several gashes… and concussion, most probably. Still, the injuries are serious.

It is even more painful to imagine how he set the broken leg. I was a healer, when I still stayed in Middle-earth. I don’t even want to think about it, but I cannot get the images out of my mind. I have seen too many injuries to supply me with them. Now I see him in my mind, positioning his hands carefully on both sides of the break - despite the pain – breathing deeply to prepare for more pain that will come, concentrating on the move that has to be done quickly, at once – nobody would have the strength of will to do it for the second time… and then, he did it. Ai! The sharp cry of pain never reached my ears, but nevertheless I can hear it in my mind. Then he passed out again – who wouldn’t? Oh my son…

Oh wait… no, he did not cry…. There are deep traces of teeth etched into the handle of his knife. He bit into during the unbearable pain. Such a small, easily overlooked thing… traces on a knife-handle… I was gifted with the sight of Manwë’s eagles when given this endless task, yet I would not notice it normally. But now, for some reason, it drills into my mind, and fills my whole sight for a moment, like a symbol of pain...

I wonder how he managed to cross the distance from the place of his fall. Slowly, painfully… one inch after another. He fought… He must know that Rivendell is near. I can see it from above, the hidden place of hospitability in the harsh and wild country. The valley that he is in is one of the mazes of similar valleys on this side of the mountains, beginning wide and shallow at their feet, rising and narrowing to their crest until blocked by one of the majestic peaks. There are many paths that lead up into those mountains, and many passes over them. But most of the paths are cheats and deceptions and lead nowhere or to bad ends; and most of the passes are infested by evil things and dreadful dangers. This one is blocked from the eastern side, but on the west it leads to the lowlands, and to the woods that surround the Last Homely House. It is not far – not far from above… Fifty miles. Infinity… Did he think that he can reach it? In his state, he cannot… or is it, could not? Is he still alive, or did Death finally creep to him on the black wings of mist, after the last effort to move forwards?

I watch the pale face under a blood-stained bandage, and wonder if his heart still beats. Then… he stirs! A moan… he opens his eyes… and looks into mine, seeking the light of Silmaril, and his own hope and determination in it. He lives… I wish I could give him more than just a glimmer of light. I wish I could let my ship land in that valley and treat his wounds, give him the water of healing from the wells of Valinor, and take him to Rivendell or to the West even, to Elwing’s tower where the soothing hands of my sweet gull would care for his wounds.

Oh, cruel fate! I can only watch, and bring the hope that is deep in his heart to surface with the light that I bear. The hope that may be false… Without water and food, alone and injured in the mountains, he cannot make it so far. He would need a miracle… but the time of miracles is over. I have spent the last one…

Instead of a lifeless body I have found life where I did not hope to see it. Yet I have the feeling that the Valar punish me for my daringness by these sights. Or is it the fate that is mocking me by replacing a scene of quick death by long suffering and slow dying…?

As the valley leaves of my sight, I see him prop himself up on his trembling, bleeding hands, and crawl forwards: slowly and painfully, with clenched teeth. Determinedly. He cannot make it, and yet he fights, and bears the pain that every movement must cause instead of lying and waiting for death. Stubborn… like Elros, I smile bitterly. Oh my son…

There were many paths… : J. R. R. Tolkien: The Hobbit, Chapter 4: Over Hill and Under Hill