Last he had seen of him, it was here.
He wandered the lifeless waste, from fallen to fallen, hoping yet fearing to find his face. From the corner of his eyes light drew his attention, and he hurried, casting aside shield and sword. There he knelt, by Tarmacil’s figure, his chest covered in blood and his skin in as sickening of a color as the very sand beneath them. Aikaráto brought his face closer to Tarmacil’s, and for his shock there was still life. Hope. With a swift movement he unwrapped his cloak and cut it with a dagger, taken from his belt. Swiftly too he tried to bandage the wound on Tarmacil’s stomach, but he was hindered by gentleness. It was a deep wound, he knew, and every precaution was necessary. He wrapped the bandage with as much strength as he dared apply and pressed his right hand over the wound. Aikaráto was vaguely aware of bidding someone to seek a healer, for his mind was a fogged, seeking every piece of knowledge on healing he knew. His left hand he lay gently over his brother-in-arms’ cheek, and rested his forehead against his. Slowly and hesitantly at first he started repeating words in the Ancient Tongue of the West, passed onto him by his father. He closed his eyes and repeated them. Soon, there was silence. Nothing happened. He could feel Tarmacil’s heart beats slowing down, and his breathing becoming more infrequent and weak.
“For Elbereth, you are not allowed to die, Tarmacil, not now, not after everything we have endured” whispered Aikaráto, his voice overcome with despair.
“I see someone has become full of himself after his field promotion”, replied a faint and weak voice.
Aikaráto was startled, lifting his head to glance at Tarmacil. Immediately he added more pressure to the wound but his friend’s hand stopped him.
“Save your strength, it is over”, said Tarmacil, his lips stretching painfully in a sad smile.
“You ask me the impossible, I cannot give up on you”, insisted AIkarato, eyes narrowing in anger. “And shut that big mouth of yours, you cannot speak.”
Tarmacil laughed slightly, but his expression was twisted by pain, and soon he started coughing, blood dripping from his mouth. Aikaráto folded what was left of his cloak and used it to pillow Tarmacil’s head, resignedly listening as his friend went on.
“I-it is not your choice to make, Turco. I desired not to part ways with you, or to abandon my kin in Endor, but I can feel my strength fading, brother”, said Tarmacil, and last he gazed at Aikaráto, his grey eyes no less strong and adamant as he had been in full health. “However…”
“Then do not! A healer is on the way, Tarmacil, if you only resist a little longer”, tried Aikarato again.
“However,” continued Tarmacil, ignoring Aikarato’s plea, “with the eyes of death I ask this of you: protect the kingdom, our people, be the shield of the Eldar, for I can no longer. Please, Turco, promise me…”
Aikaráto’s vision became blurry and his eyes burned as he shook his head.
“The enemy is no more, Tarmacil. There is nothing to protect our people from, and the king…”, he stopped, words dying in his throat.
“So thought our kindred when the accursed one was chained, and yet a new enemy rose to threaten us. Nay, I believe conflict is inevitable”, said Tarmacil. He lifted his hand and light again caught Aikaráto’s eyes. It was Tarmacil’s sword. “This I leave under your care.”
He could not understand. Why of all things did Tarmacil request him to do what he loathed the most? Aikaráto gritted his teeth, as thoughts rushed through his mind. He was not a warrior, that was Tarmacil, how could he possibly fulfill what was asked of him? Yet, he could not deny his wish, he owed him that much.
“I…”, he stared, hesitation clear in every word. “I will do my utmost to see that your will is fulfilled. I swear I shall remain steadfast and aid our people in their time of need”, said Aikaráto, folding his hand around the grip of Tarmacil’s sword and hand.
He smiled softly in response, his free hand brushing against Aikaráto’s forehead.
“I could ask of you no more. I bid you farewell, Turco, for the last time.”
Aikaráto did not wish to see the light leaving Tarmacil’s eyes, or to feel the strength in his hands fading, but he forced himself to, for there perished a noble warrior of the Eldalië. There also he wept, covered in blood and dust, gripping the hilt of the sword until his hands ached. And those hands he cursed, for what healing could from them spring when so much blood had been spilt by them? Healing he could no longer, so the sword was all which was left for him. No love did he bore for it or for the life of a soldier, however. The sword was a tool, to be feared and respected, wielded only in great need. It was now a burden, one which had come to him with a great price, and a great price too he had paid to aid his people in achieving victory and peace; what a bitter victory it was.
He was not a warrior, never had been, but fighting was all which was left for him.
