Title:- The Hands of the King are the Hands of a Healer
Author:- Elwen
Email:- Priorycubs@hotmail.com
Rating:- G
Note:- "Ada" is a familiar term for father in Elvish.
THE HANDS OF THE KING ARE THE HANDS OF A HEALER
The Misty Mountains were living up to their name that morning, as the trio stood before the house, making last minute checks to saddle bags, stirrup and girth. In the deep, water laden, valley of Rivendell early morning mist was a common occurrence, especially on summer days such as this.
From a distance you could be forgiven for thinking them three elves but, in fact, the newly revealed heir of Isildur was a mortal. All three were tall, with dark hair and piercing grey eyes, their bodies, slender and straight. But within a couple of years Aragorn’s shoulders would broaden and his beard become more obvious, as his face took on the more angular planes of manhood. At least, growing up amongst elves, he had learned to move with the catlike grace of his foster brothers and had none of the gawky awkwardness of other mortals of his age.
All were dressed in comfortable, worn and unobtrusively coloured, riding gear but none had bothered to don cloak to protect them from the dawn chill. Elladan and Elrohir needed no protection from the cold for, as elves, only the most extreme of temperatures would cause them any discomfort. The young man, Aragorn, however was very definitely feeling the cold although pride would not permit him to admit it openly before his foster brothers. Elladan smiled softly and shook his head at the folly of youth as he saw the man lean in closer to Haranvarni, adjusting the girth for at least a third time, in an attempt to share some of the horse’s body heat.
From the gate leading to the stable yard behind them the light clip of another horse was heard. The elven twins turned first but Aragorn was only a split second behind them and all three faces registered surprise at about the same time. Wearing his old soft grey riding leathers and leading Haranfaana was their lord and father, Elrond; his eyes wide, in mock dismay at their expressions. As he drew closer he reached out one gloved hand and placed a finger beneath Aragorn’s chin, pushing gently upwards until the jaw closed with a slight click of teeth. “Close your mouth, Estel. Such a look of open surprise is most unbecoming in one of noble blood.” The corners of his own mouth twitched a little.
Elladan was the first to recover his composure, nudging his
twin as he spotted the tell tale signs of his one of his father’s rare bouts of
merriment. “Good morning,
“Tis a beautiful morning and I have been closeted too many days with book and pen so, yes, I shall be travelling with you.”
Behind Aragorn, Elrohir’s hand flew to his mouth to prevent his laughter escaping, knowing that Elrond had been out riding only the previous evening.
The still innocent face of the young man before him revealed too easily the emotions roiling in his mind. Disappointment. This was to be his first expedition with the Rangers and he felt overly coddled as it was, with both Elrohir and Elladan as company. They may be foster brothers but he recognised that, on this first journey at least, they were there for his protection, not just to provide pleasant company.
Anger. His foster father obviously did not trust him to take care of himself. The elven lord had taught him to ride and fight and knew all of Aragorn’s strengths and weaknesses. Elrond had made no secret of his concerns about his foster son’s readiness to leave their fortress home.
Resignation. This Elf was the only father he had ever known and was considered one of the wisest Elven Lords in Middle Earth. If he had changed his mind and decided that Aragorn was not ready to travel without his protection the youth would have to respect that decision.
Elrond waited patiently for the expressions to run their
course and then decided he had teased enough.
“But, I do have a meeting with Rivan to discuss the accounts this
afternoon so I shall be accompanying you only as far as the ford. I trust that you will bear my company thus
far?” He addressed his final comment
directly at Aragorn and used centuries of practice to hide his amusement when
he saw relief flooding the boy’s features.
To his credit, Aragorn recovered quickly. “We would be honoured,
Elrond could not resist one final dig, however and pulled Aragorn’s cloak from where it was tied, behind the young man’s saddle. “I suggest you put this on, Estel, for you look quite cold.” Pride was a good thing, but only in its place and cold muscles were a disadvantage if one had to fight. Whilst the likelihood of any fighting within the borders of the valley was most unlikely, Elrond knew that these sorts of considerations should become second nature to a soldier. Aragorn took the garment wordlessly and fastened it about his neck, blushing when he heard Elladan and Elrohir’s suppressed laughter behind him. It seemed to Aragorn that, still, at over two and half thousand years of age, there were times when the twin’s behaviour was younger than his own.
Within an hour the summer sun had driven away the mist and Aragorn shrugged off his cloak, retying it across the back of his saddle with his blanket. For the most part they travelled in silence. Elrond was not noted for his garrulous nature and all three of his sons had acquired the same trait of quiet thoughtfulness from him. As they did not have to reach their rendezvous point with the other rangers until the following morning Elrohir suggested that they take the longer, steeper and less travelled route through the valley. Not an easy path, it was infrequently used by either walker or rider and meant that they would probably be undisturbed; besides, the deeper shade of the trees was a welcome relief on such a warm day.
His father hesitated, pointing out that Haranmorne was still inexperienced and would be wary of the steep track but Elrohir had insisted that the young horse was ready. Elrond acknowledged his son’s experience with animals and let him have his way. From an early age the twin had lived up to his name and had an easy way with the training of horses that made his father quite proud. Elrond’s own horse, Haranfaana, was an elder sibling of Haranmorne; a gift from his son only five years earlier and the Lord of Imladris could not remember ever owning a more spirited yet biddable mount.
After a while the track narrowed as it switched back and forth up the valley side with a rock face to their right and a sheer drop to the lower switchback on their left. It was a credit to the aura of the valley and the elves that tended it that even here trees had managed to find a purchase, forming a green tunnel through which the four rode, single file, and dappling the path with cool shade. As they rode Elrond made mental note of trees that needed tending and his brow creased as he saw the crumbling edges of the trail. In places the horses had to pick their way through uncleared screes washed down by the spring rains. The stewards had apparently not been this way for some time and he intended to have a few strong words with them when he returned to the house. There would just be time before his meeting with Rivan.
Elrohir’s shout pulled him back to the present with a jolt. Elrond was travelling at the rear of the party and, for a moment, he could not see what was happening; his view blocked by Aragorn and Elladan. There was the alarmed shriek of a horse and then, to his left and ahead, the Lord of Imladris watched in helpless horror as the night black shape of a horse tumbled off the track and disappeared down the mountainside, followed by the flailing, dark haired form of his son.
For a few minutes confusion reigned as the three remaining horses took fright and tried to turn and run back down the narrow path, only to find that there was no space in which to do so. As he fought to bring his own skittering mount under control Elrond saw, out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn’s horse sidestepping towards the crumbling edge. Finally regaining control the elf edged his own mount forward, using Haranfaana’s nose to crowd Haranvarni’s rump back against the cliff wall. Elrond tore off his glove and, stretching forward, managed to place his hand upon Haranvarni’s back, sending thoughts of calm into the snorting animal. Up ahead he was aware that Elladan had regained control of Haranwinde, although the horse’s eyes still rolled alarmingly. With the combined work of Elrond and Aragorn, Haranvarni finally stilled, pushed hard against the cliff wall and still shivering, as Aragorn patted his neck and murmured words of reassurance.
With a pat of Haranfaana’s neck Elrond leapt down and ran to the edge of the track, wary of its fraying borders. Through a gap in the canopy of trees below he could see the dark shapes of horse and Elf. Even with his keen elven sight he could not tell whether Elrohir was breathing but one arm lay at an unnatural angle and he was making no attempt to rise. It was very clear, from the position of the unfortunate horse’s head, that Haranmorne was dead. Elladan and Aragorn joined their father and stood surveying the scene in horror. Elrond gathered his wits, pushing aside his feelings as a father and drawing upon his resources as a warrior and healer. He pulled on his glove and smoothed the leather over his knuckles.
“Elladan?” The twin did not move or acknowledge him. Elladan had seen his share of death but Elrond noted that he was pale and shaking and worried that he may be feeling some of his twins’ distress through the strange link that the two shared. To Elrond’s surprise, it was the inexperienced Aragorn who recovered first and caught his foster brother’s shoulder.
Elrond tried to push through to his son’s shock once more, setting a deliberate edge of command to his voice. “Elladan?”
The younger elf’s anguish filled eyes focussed dimly on his sire. “Yes,
“If I remember this trail aright, there is a place just beyond the turning, there,” his father pointed to where the trail disappeared around a rocky outcrop, “where there is sufficient room to turn the horses around. Do so and then bring them back to join Aragorn and me. We will go down to tend Elrohir.”
Elladan looked as though he was about to argue but his father cut him off. “Use the time to compose yourself. Elrohir will need us all to have our wits about us.” Elladan swallowed and nodded but his father did not wait for any acknowledgement. He had already turned and now set off down the trail with a fleetness that only an elf could have managed. With a sympathetic slap on his foster brother’s back Aragorn ran after Elrond, who was, even now, disappearing from view.
CHAPTER 2
The Man was bent double, hands on thighs and chest heaving, as he tried to catch his breath. Not for the first time in his life Aragorn envied Elves. His foster father was already kneeling at Elrohir’s side, his chest rising and falling in its usual steady rhythm, the only sign of his flight the slight disarray of his long dark hair. Before Aragorn had even reached them Elrond had stripped off his riding gloves, performed an initial examination and determined that his son was, at least, alive. Aragorn suspected that if Elrohir had been a Man, like himself, the fall would have proved fatal.
Having mastered his lungs again, the young man knelt at the other side of his foster brother. The Healer placed steady hands at his son’s temples, his fingers smeared from the blood of a large gash on Elrohir’s high brow. Recognising his father’s glassy stare, Aragorn waited silently until he came out of healing trance. Elrond drew a long breath and deep grey eyes focussed on the youth. At the same time he withdrew his hands; absently wiping them on a large white kerchief, and sat back on his heals.
“How is he?” asked Aragorn, quietly.
“He has a concussion – nothing too serious. Scalp wounds always bleed freely so it looks worse than it is. The left shoulder is dislocated and the wrist is sprained. A couple of ribs on the left side have been broken, one is cracked, but the lung is undamaged, and one of the lower bones in his right leg is broken. Not too bad, considering how far he fell.”
With each injury listed the youth’s stomach rolled uneasily and Aragorn marvelled at the calm way that Elrond listed his own son’s injuries. What was really going on behind his father’s cool exterior? Elrond was not without emotion but at times of hurt he closed steel shutters that forbade anyone entrance to his soul. When Aragorn had mentioned it to Gandalf once the wizard had simply shaken his head, muttered something about Elrond having had a difficult life and hastily changed the subject. The young man had intended to make further enquiry at a later date but never seemed to be able to find the opportunity.
Feeling a little useless, Aragorn smoothed his brother’s hair back from his face. “Can I do anything to help?”
He was worried that Elrohir’s eyes were closed, the thick lashes pressed, unmoving, against alarmingly pale skin. Elves normally slept with eyes open, only closing them when they were exhausted or gravely injured.
Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Not yet. We must wait for Elladan. I will need one of your medical kits and I assume that you have put them in your packs.”
Aragorn swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. He did not remember having packed any medical supplies. Elrohir and Elladan had checked and double checked his packing and they had made no mention of medical supplies. He now hoped that this was because one of the twins had taken care of that detail. Elrond touched fingers to his Elrohir’s wrist and then lifted a slack eyelid as the sound of horses’ hooves alerted them to Elladan’s arrival. The twin had the reigns of Haranvarni in his hands and Haranwinde and Haranfaana followed close behind. Both elf and horses seemed much calmer and Aragorn sent his brother a tight smile.
Elrond turned to call over his shoulder. “Bring your medical kit and any bandages you have.” He turned back quickly at a moan from Elrohir, so he did not see Elladan’s stricken look, but Aragorn did and his worst fears were confirmed. Elladan’s desperate eyes met his foster brother’s silver grey ones in query and Aragorn shook his head.
At that moment, Elrohir’s eyes fluttered open and he tried to sit up, screaming as his body made its various injuries known. Aragorn winced as he watched the other twin grimace in sympathetic pain. Again, Elrond took his son’s head between his hands, easing the agony as best he could and trying to calm him. This could not go on. There was only so much he could do to ease Elrohir and he could not work to repair the shattered body and still be able to soften the pain. They needed medications. When Elrohir laid quiet, eyes closed once more, Elrond called distractedly, over his shoulder once again.
“Elladan. The kit. Now, please.” When there was no response he turned in confusion. The twin’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “There is no medical kit, father.”
Elrond closed his eyes and dropped his chin on his chest; the closest Aragorn had ever seen him come to expressing despair. When his father’s head lifted and his eyes opened, however, Aragorn actually found himself trying to lean out of his reach, for it was not despair that he saw in their depths. Only once or twice in nearly twenty years had Aragorn seen his step father lose his temper and never had he been the focus of his ire. Now he quailed beneath the mighty elf’s gaze. A pulse throbbed at Elrond’s temple and the lips were set so tightly that they were white. Grey eyes which, only moments before had been blank, now held a storm of thunder; lightening flickering deep within their clouded depths. The voice was terrifying in its lack of volume and yet every syllable landed clear and hard, like shards of ice, in Aragorn’s ear.
“You had intended to go into the wilds with no means of healing any injuries you sustained?”
“I did not….” Aragorn halted as his youthful voice betrayed him, cracking under the stress. He had to swallow in a constricted throat and start again, “I did not think, Father.”
“You did not think? And yet you expected me to trust you to think.” The words felt like a slap and the youth’s face grew almost as pale as his injured brother’s.
Elladan came to Aragorn’s defence, standing behind his foster brother and dropping a hand on his shoulder. “It is not his fault, Father. Elrohir and I supervised his packing. We had forgotten that Aragorn would not heal as an elf does.”
Aragorn had not thought that his father’s eyes could grow any stormier but he was wrong. They slid upward, to lock with Elladan’s and Aragorn winced as his foster brother’s grip on his shoulder became vicelike.
“Do you mean to tell me that you and Elrohir travel without any medical supplies, as a matter of course?”
Elladan tried to withstand Elrond’s glare. “We are elves, Father. We heal much faster than mortals. With rest we can deal with most injuries.” His voice trailed off as his eyes were drawn to his brother, lying, semi conscious and whimpering in pain, between them.
By force of will, Elrond recaptured and held Elladan’s gaze. “Aye. Your brother will heal. Without bandages and splints, however, he will never be able to lift any heavy weight with the weakened shoulder joint; and he will always walk with a stick because his leg has not been properly set; but yes, if you call that healing, he will heal. In the meantime, he will be in a great deal of pain, which could be soothed by a simple infusion of herbs that most travellers would carry without thinking.” It was frightening to hear that even Elrond’s iron control was slipping and Aragorn felt very small as his foster father’s voice rose until he was almost shouting.
Aragorn felt tears spill down his face but he dare not move
to wipe them away. “
Suddenly the shutters slammed down on his anger and Elrond regarded his foster son dispassionately again. Aragorn did not find the change comfortable but it was preferable to the storm.
“Aragorn, come with me. Elladan, start a fire and set water to boil.” Sniffing and dashing the tears from his face with his sleeve, Aragorn followed his foster father down the track to a tiny glade. Once within its borders Elrond stopped.
“Do you remember me showing you the athelas plant?” he snapped.
“Yes, Father.”
“See if you can find some. It will be growing in the shade so search diligently.” With that the elf began poking under a nearby bush and Aragorn began his own search at the base of a chestnut sapling. It was Elrond who found the herb, a few minutes later, his sharper eyes spying the long, telltale leaves peeping from beneath a hawthorn bush.
By the time they returned to the horses Elladan had a small fire burning strongly and was just setting a pot of water to boil. He had tucked all their blankets around Elrohir who seemed to become a little more coherent; as his body warmed. He still had trouble focusing his thoughts, however, and the trembling of his body and perspiration on his brow spoke of a great deal of pain. Elrond issued more instructions. While Elladan tore one of their blankets into strips to use as bandages Aragorn helped his father to divest Elrohir of his tunic; finally cutting it when it became apparent they were not going to be able to remove it without causing a great deal more pain.
Aragorn would hear his brother’s shrieks of agonised pain in his nightmares for as long as he lived. He fought to hold down the contents of his stomach as he helped Elrond pop the shoulder back into place and set and splint the leg. When the last of the ties were fastened around the leg, however, he could take it no more and ran to one side of the trail, where he threw up until there was nothing left to expel.
Leaning shakily against a tree he tried to master his dry
heaving. An arm came around his waist,
drawing him against a strong shoulder and a cup of water was pressed into his
hand. Turning in gratitude, he was
surprised to find that it was Elrond, and not Elladan, supporting him. The storms and the shutters had gone and
Aragorn found himself looking, once more, into
Signalling for Elladan to watch his twin, Elrond sat his foster son down by the fire and then he ladled some of the hot water into a bowl set on the floor in front of them. From a pouch at his waist he drew out three of the long athelas leaves. “Do you remember all of its names?”
Aragorn thought back to his father’s lessons in herb law. “Asea aranion, in quenya. It is called Athelas in Sindarin, which means beneficial leaf. Then there is Westmansweed, Kingsfoil and Galenas…..” Elrond held up a hand to stop him.
“That lesson, at least, you have remembered well.” He took Aragorn’s hand and placed the leaves in his palm.
“Bruise the leaves and breathe upon them, then cast them in to the warm water.”
When Aragorn made to question, his father stopped him with the raising of one eyebrow. The youth closed the leaves within his fist, crushing them and then held them before his face and breathed upon them. When he dropped them into the bowl before him, the air was filled with a fragrance of dewy mornings and warm sunshine, heather and orchards. Aragorn inhaled and felt his mind clear and settle.
Elrond added a little cold water to the bowl, testing its temperature with a finger before he carried it back to where Elrohir lay, unconscious once more. Elrond handed Aragorn a square of cloth, pausing to squeeze Elladan’s shoulder as the twin moved out of the way. “You bathe his hurts and then I will bind them.” As they worked Aragorn watched in amazement as the lines of pain faded from his brother’s face. The skin beneath their hands lost its clammy coldness and Elrohir’s breathing grew less ragged. Under his father’s instruction Aragorn helped him pad and bind Elrohir’s ribs and then secured the arm that had been dislocated across his chest. When all was ordered Elrond tucked the blankets around Elrohir again and sent him into a deep healing sleep.
Aragorn sat back on his heals and decided it was now safe to
ask his father a question. “
Elrond smiled.
“When the black breath blows
and death’s shadow grows
and all lights pass,
come athelas! Come athelas!
Life to the dying
In the king’s hand lying!”
“The black breath?” queried Aragorn.
Elrond sighed. “Have you forgotten your lessons so soon? The black breath…..the evil essence given off by the Nazgul, the ringwraiths. In the hands of the rightful king, athelas can heal even those affected by the black breath but it can also be used for lesser ailments. It will bring relief from pain and speed the healing process.” He paused for a moment, so that his next words would sink in. “But it will only work for you, Aragorn……the rightful king. I believe they still have a saying in Gondor, “The hands of the King are the hands of a healer.””
Aragorn frowned. “Why did you say nothing of this when you told me of my lineage?”
It was a sign that Elrond was no longer as concerned for Elrohir’s safety that the twinkle reappeared in his eyes. “I could not tell you everything, all at once. I was working up to this one. We had, at least, reached lesson two but I was having difficulty working out how to demonstrate lesson three. It would appear that Elrohir has found a way to solve my problem.” He dropped his gaze to his son’s sleeping face. “Although I would rather he had chosen a less dramatic method.” Elrond took up Elrohir’s bandaged hand and stroked it gently and when he spoke again his voice was distant.
“It seems you will have to postpone your journey for a little while, my son. Perhaps it is just as well for you were not properly provisioned, were you?”
CHAPTER 3
Aragorn rummaged through the contents of his pack once more, searching for the small bag of herbs and bandages that he had prepared for the journey. It was very definitely not there. Perhaps he had just imagined he had packed it and it was still in his clothes press. He had begun sorting through his shirts again when there was a knock at the door. Recognising his step father’s distinctive rap he called out, “Come in,” whilst he still distractedly felt among the linens on the top shelf.
Elrond’s amused voice drifted across the room. “I believe you may find this useful.” Aragorn turned, still with half his mind trying to remember where he had last seen the elusive bag. Elrond was standing by his bed, offering to his foster son a small, wooden, brass bound box. Covering the distance between them in three long strides, Aragorn reached out to accept the gift and turned with it to perch on the edge of his bed.
“Thank you, Father,” he smiled.
Elrond joined him on the bed. The box Aragorn now held was perhaps ten inches by six, its corners and edges bound in brass, with a brass haft and bar to hold it closed. The lid was inlaid with a simple design of three long Athelas leaves. The young man ran his fingers over the satin surface, marvelling that he could trace no seems or changes in texture between the different coloured woods.
“Well, open it,” Elrond prompted.
Aragorn lifted the lid and gasped in pleased surprise when he saw the contents. Every inch of the interior was filled. There were small earthenware bottles, bags of dried herbs, tins of salve and carefully rolled linen bandages. Each bottle, tin or bag bore a label, in Elrond’s flowing script, listing its contents and usage.
“I see you’re making sure that I am properly provisioned, this time,” Aragorn said, ruefully.
Elrond’s eyes focussed on something beyond the window. “Just in case you decide to leap off any cliffs.” The comment was not as funny as it would have been two weeks ago. Elrohir was now walking but he would need the aid of a stick for another three days at least but Elladan and Aragorn could postpone their journey no longer. “I have supplied your brothers with similar boxes. I trust that you will all ensure that they are packed on future journeys.”
Rising to leave, Elrond surprised his foster son, by hugging him lightly. When he reached the door he turned and looked deep into Aragorn’s eyes. In public he made a point of calling Isildur’s heir by his birth name, but in his heart the boy that he had raised would always be Estel.
“Safe journey, Estel.”
“Thank you,