Media: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (book)

Timeline: Book V Chapter VI: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

Genres: Brotherhood, Fantasy, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, War, Whump

Summary: The Pelennor Fields were stained with the blood of many. Some still walk while others fell, never to rise again. Aragorn, Éomer, and Prince Imrahil were unscathed, but what of the most tireless of the Fellowship, of who no one could seem to maim?

"Aragorn and Éomer and Imrahil rode back towards the Gate of the City, and they were now weary beyond joy or sorrow. These three were unscathed, for such was their fortune and the skill and might of their arms, and few indeed had dared to abide them or look on their faces in the hour of their wrath. But many others were hurt or maimed or dead upon the field." – Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.

The shapeless green mist washed over the battlefield, destroying the remaining foes. Aragorn let his sword drop, breathless and weary. Surprisingly, the Ranger discovered that he didn't have a scratch on him. The only pain he felt was soreness from his tired limbs.

He scanned the battlefield. All around him, soldiers were letting their weapons relax and slumping over in exhaustion. Black and crimson blood splattered and stained the ground and armor. Soft groans began to fill the air. If a man was not dead, he was wounded.

Aragorn straightened and, after catching his breath, searched for his companions on shaking legs.

"Gimli? Legolas? Elladan? Elrohir?" He called their names over and over, each time bringing more anxiety and desperation.

"We are here, Estel," a soft voice finally responded. Aragorn spun on his heel and was relieved to find his adopted brothers making their way towards him. Elladan was helping Elrohir limp along while favoring his left arm, hugging it to his chest.

"Tis nothing, Estel," Elrohir assured him, noting the man's concern. "Tis only a sprained ankle and wrist. After tending to them, we fully intend to offer our gifts as healers to the more seriously wounded."

Aragorn was greatly comforted to hear that his brothers' injuries were not serious and welcomed their services. "Have you seen Legolas or Gimli?"

Elladan shook his head. "I last laid eyes on the dwarf hacking at Orcs over there." He pointed with his uninjured hand to where he last saw Gimli. "And I have not seen Legolas since he magnificently took down that mûmak."

Nodding his thanks, Aragorn directed the twins to where they could find medical supplies and hurried off to where Elladan had directed. To his relief and amusement, he found the dwarf struggling to lift the heavy pile of Orcs pinning him down. Hiding a smile, Aragorn helped him up.

"Tis good to see you alive, laddie!" Gimli cried joyously.

"Likewise, Master Dwarf," Aragorn replied, allowing a friendly smile rather than an amused one. "How do you fare? Do you sport any wounds?"

After a moment of thought, Gimli answered, "I have a small gash on my shoulder where I cannot reach, but it is not too serious," he added, batting away the helping hands. But the healer took another dive at the wound, successfully outmaneuvered the resistance and peeled back the armor and torn clothing to reveal a deep, but not very long, cut that was quickly beginning to swell.

"You are correct in the sense that it is not serious, my friend," Aragorn began as Gimli sharply drew away out of his reach. "But I would recommend heading to the medical tents that are being raised as we speak. They are for more minor injuries and you would be stitched up quickly there."

Gimli grumbled in agreement before asking, "Where is the Elf?"

The Ranger's face fell. "I was hoping you knew."

The Dwarf shook his head. "The last time I saw him he had shot down that Oliphaunt." Then Gimli mumbled something under his breath that Aragorn could only fondly guess he was complaining about something being unfair.

"Then that is where I will search." The future king jogged off towards the enormous corpse, leaving Gimli to find his own way to the healers.

Aragorn was a tall man, but he suddenly felt very small standing next to the body of the fallen mûmak. The air was pungent with animal stench mixing with the coppery scent of blood. There was no sign of the Elf anywhere, not even a flash of his blond hair.

"Legolas?" Aragorn called, afraid that his friend had been crushed under the body of the huge creature.

"Ar-Aragorn?" A weak response barely caught his hearing. The voice caused the man's heart to beat faster with hope, but the shock and horror in it brought also fear and dread.

"Legolas!" The Elf friend cried as he rushed towards the head of the animal. Behind the large trunk, Aragorn spotted his friend kneeling on the dusty ground. He vaulted over the thick trunk and landed in front of his friend, bending down and wildly examining the Elf. "Mellon nín, are you all ri-?"

Legolas moved his hands, revealing the handle of a knife sticking out of his abdomen. A red spot on his tunic around the handle was rapidly expanding. Strider gasped and leaned back, startled. Throughout their entire journey from Rivendell to here, Legolas has never been injured. He was the most tireless out of the Fellowship and one of the most skilled. The Prince of the Woodland Realm was famous among his own people for his skill with a bow; it was rare to hear that he missed.

Now Legolas, kneeling on the ground before him with his own blood staining his clothes, so weak and helpless—it was unnerving.

Legolas clumsily wrestled with the blade in his abdomen with shaking hands, snapping Aragorn out of his stupor.

"Daro, mellon nín," Aragorn commanded gently, grasping the soft, pale hands in his own. "The blade is keeping the blood in, you will bleed out if you remove it."

Legolas stopped struggling with the blade. Instead, he tentatively brushed his bloody tunic with his fingers. While he tried to slow the bleeding with his hands, Aragorn watched curiously as Legolas studied his crimson stained fingertips with morbid fascination.

"I have never seen my own blood before," Legolas confessed softly.

Steadily, Aragorn moved his arm underneath the shoulders of the dazed Elf and lowered him carefully to the ground. Then the healer quickly produced a roll of bandages from the pouch on his belt.

"It's safe to remove the blade now," he informed him. "Legolas, this will hurt."

The Elf nodded and braced himself. Muttering an apology, Aragorn skillfully pulled the knife out. Legolas groaned softly in pain and a thin sheen of sweat shimmered on his forehead. The Ranger tossed the blade away in disgust and immediately wrapped up the wound before the Elf could bleed out.

"Finished, mellon nín." Aragorn winced in sympathy as Legolas moaned again and tightened his fist around the clothing above the wound as if it would ease the pain. "Can you walk?"

"With some assistance, I can," Legolas panted, his blue eyes distant. Slowly, Aragorn helped his companion to his feet and supported him as they walked over the loose dirt.

"I take it you have never been injured before?" Aragorn remarked to break the silence.

The Elf shook his head, his eyes focused straight ahead of him. "I have had injuries–Mirkwood has not been a safe place to live since the Shadow invaded–but not ones that spilled my blood." Then after a pause, the Elf asked, "Where are the others? Gimli, Elladan, and Elrohir? How do they fare?"

"They are injured, but well. They are healing in the medical tents, which is where I am guiding you."

Legolas nodded. "What of Mithrandir and Pippin? Have you heard of them?" The Wood-Elf winced as they both stumbled over a mound of turned dirt, jarring his wound.

"I have not heard from them. But wait! There is Gandalf now."

Gandalf the White stood in front of the tents as if he was waiting for them. His tired face noticeably relaxed with relief upon their arrival.

"Mithrandir! Mithrandir!" Legolas cried like an excited child. "Tis good to see you are unharmed."

Gandalf smiled fondly at the young Elf. "I am deeply saddened that I cannot say the same about you. Come, there is an empty cot where you can rest and heal." The two youths–in Gandalf's eyes–followed the Wizard inside down a row of occupied beds until he stopped at a vacant one. Aragorn lowered his companion onto it and ordered that he rest. Legolas did not argue and expressed his gratitude before closing his eyes and slipping into a healing slumber.

Then Gandalf, his expression grim once more, instructed the Ranger to ride to the Houses of Healing where the more gravely injured resided. Aragorn reluctantly agreed, not ready to enter the City just yet and reveal himself as the future king of Gondor, but understanding that the Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir desperately needed him. So the King of Gondor returned to his City, and only a few people knew it.

"The hands of the king are the hands of a healer." – Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

Translations:
Easterling:
Mûmak - Oliphaunt

Sindarin:
Mellon nín - My friend
Daro - Stop! Halt!
Mithrandir - 'Grey Pilgrim', 'Grey Wanderer.' Gandalf's Elvish name