You kind of lose track of the days.

"Oi!" had cried Mistress Pansy, halting so suddenly you nearly bumped into the hobbit. She peered up at you from beneath the brim of her straw hat. "Do you mean to tell me you have that vagabond Stick at Naught Strider hid up in Mistress Thistlewool's cot?"

'Strider,' huh? Well, at least now you know tall, dark, and incoherent's name.

The healer-woman for the hobbits of Bree, you had had to stoop to remain upright in her cottage, a low-slung affair that wound its way from anteroom to workroom to kitchen and private rooms back into the hill. Master Reedy, the healer and barber-surgeon for the Men of Bree apparently wanted nothing more to do with you, nor that 'hedgeborn cur' you have been 'keeping company' with. He didn't even bother answering his door, just yelled at you through it. He may still be a little sore about the fact that you occasionally poach his customers. At least you stick to cutting and shaving off parts of them that will grow back. So up you went, past The Pony and winding your way up the road climbing Bree Hill to the line of hobbit holes near the top.

Her eyes flicked to the puffy and scraped skin above the bit of cloth you've wound about your neck that is apparently not doing a good job at hiding anything. She blinked at you for a beat, her eyes filling briefly before her look grew pinched and weary, as though she were steeling herself for your inevitable demise.

Real confidence booster, that.

"Lor', Child!" said the hobbit, patting at her cleavage and fiddling with the scarf tucked into the neckline of her stays. "Whatever were you thinking, taking in a rogue such as him? Best had you left it for those who knew better. Mark my words, naught good will come of it."

It's a long walk, near twice the distance 'as the crow flies' as they say here, given that the road doubles back on itself, and apparently Mistress Pansy had a lot on her mind. But you were willing to put up with her fussing as long as she kept moving. It may have been the coin you showed her as proof of your word that you would pay her for her pains. Though, to be honest, you're not sure who this was more painful for.

"What Mistress Thistlewool would think of it, I don't know," she muttered before turning away and leaving you to lengthen your stride to keep up after her quick trotting down the road. "Had mischance taken the rogue, he would have but his own self to blame."

That one stung.

The old woman, Mistress Thistlewool, had taken you in so she could have someone to care for her. You'd been expecting to be turned out once she died and you had had no idea what to do next. That she then left you all her worldly possessions had stunned you into silence after they told you. There may have been a bit of other big and little official-looking people patting you on the shoulder and back and various other body parts and talking to you in very small words after that, but you waited until you returned back to your new home to burst into tears.

If you hadn't been so desperate you might have told Mistress Pansy and her "live by the sword, die by the sword" mentality to go fuck herself right there and then.

For all Mistress Pansy's shaking her head and muttering that the whole situation was hopeless, the healer knew her stuff and hadn't held back on either giving what help she could or advice.

"I know there is not much for you here, Child," she had said when done. She halted by the door and, giving the frame a quick pat as if she had just made up her mind to speak, turned around to say one final thing. "But you must prepare yourself."

With a final shake of her head, the door banged shut after her, leaving you in the center of your one room wattle and daub hut with its leaky roof, rafters blackened with smoke, and simple hearth of a ring of stones in the middle of bundles of rushes that are slowly shredding and merging with the dirt floor beneath them. His face pale in the dim light, Strider lay asleep on the cot, blanket tucked about him firmly, worn out after being held down and enduring the pain of draining and packing his wounds.

Well, that's that, you suppose. You've gotten the best help that's on offer here in Bree. Now it's up to you.

And so your next days are broken into pouring sips of willow tea down Strider's throat, fighting against his confused thrashing to turn him on his side to keep his skin from breaking down and developing bed sores, wiping him down, packing his wounds with wet cloths and keeping the air moving to cool him, doing your best to get water and broth in him, sitting him on the side of the bed and offering him a jug for, well, you know what and hope he can focus enough to get what you're trying to do, preparing the poultice, checking his bandages, turning him on his back, and again, and again, and again. In between, you try to sleep a little, pick up work here and there that you can do while you wait - nothing that takes you away for too long. And all throughout, he mumbles things in a language you can't understand, startles when you touch him, and sleeps like a baby; meaning he wakes every few hours, doesn't make much sense, and only vaguely seems to understand what you say to him.

You're so sleep deprived that your eyes burn and half the time you find yourself standing in the middle of the room staring at something only to realize you can't remember what you were about to do. Luckily you usually don't have to go too far to run into something that triggers the memory of what you were doing. Around and around you go, to the bed to check to make sure he's still breathing, to the hearth to heat up some more broth, to the garden to dig up something that you can put in the broth, to the water barrel to wash the rags and sheets he's sweated through or pissed on, to Mistress Pansy's in hopes she might have a different answer -

Listen.

Listen!

You need to stop for a second. Just, listen, okay?

You need to be honest with yourself.

Strider's eyes glint in the moonlight where he's blinking and trying to focus on you despite the fact that his body really, really wants him to sleep. The moon rose late and is close to full, and so the room is lit in stark shades of light and dark. His fever is spiking again and you're not really sure he's aware of what's going on. Fuck. He's been so restless, his arms and legs knocking into the wall or the bench, once even falling off the cot to crash atop you where you lay below him on the rushes. You are really desperate for sleep. He really needs sleep and a lot of it. And you really just wish he could finally ditch the paranoia and close his eyes. If you don't do something, it is going to be a bad, bad night.

You sink to the edge of the cot, just looking at him. The air is cool, but sweat clings to his skin and he's mumbling something you can't understand and tugging at the blanket like he can't figure out what it is and how it works. Damn it. He still stinks like a cesspit from marinating in the ditch. You've given him a sponge bath or two and his clothes are clean and dry and in a neat pile in the big basket at the end of the cot, but you've not had a chance to do much about his hair.

Fuck. You really need to be honest with yourself, here. He's not a pet. He didn't follow you home. He's not a substitute for the people you never got a chance to say goodbye to. He didn't ask for any of your shit. He's a real human being with his own hopes and dreams that he may never get the chance to realize.

Okay. Okay. You can't turn your back on this or half-ass it.

And so you start singing.

Yeah, man, I know, but it worked.

Look, you don't know many lullabies. Well, actually, you don't know any, but you figure pretty much any song would work as long as you slow it down enough. And it does. You're halfway through Hozier's Take Me to Church and wondering if you should just give up, take your blanket and go curl up on the bundles of rushes at his feet and try again later, when he quiets. When you stop, he makes a pained noise and before you can move away, his fingers come on your arm. He's not holding you, he just lays them there.

He says something that sounds suspiciously like something a child would say when calling to his mother. "Forgive me…" he begs, trailing off and then making a low, frustrated sound.

And, as pitiful as it is, that's the nicest thing anyone's asked of you in a while, even if it's not meant for you.

Yeah. He's still hot to the touch and completely out of his head. He's weaker than ever, if you are honest with yourself. And, yeah, you really need to be honest with yourself, here.

If these are this man's last moments, this Strider, whoever he is, he's far from anyone who knows or loves him, who could bring him comfort or would wish to know that he's not coming home again. It doesn't cost you anything to pretend, right?

And so you grab a cup, the soap, the ragged sheet you use for bathing, and the bucket, and fill it from the water barrel outside. It's the least you can do. At least he can die with some dignity.

When you return, you start singing again, holding his head over the bucket so you can wash his hair. His eyes latch onto your face through the whole process as though he's afraid you will disappear if he blinks. It's not you he's seeing. You don't know who it is, but whoever it is, the grief on his face is so raw and vulnerable it makes your heart hurt like someone punched you in the chest.

And so you just take your time, keeping your movements slow, pouring water over his hair, wiping at the tears that he doesn't even seem to realize are pooling and then trickling down his temples, and in between singing telling him that he's safe, it's all right, there is nothing that needs forgiving, and you are grateful that he is there. Which, you know, is a little closer to the truth than you're comfortable admitting. Once through a few garbled verses of Hozier's Cherry Wine, you then launch into Pynk, and then something older that your mother loves, and then something stupid like Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Your repertoire may be a little thin.

Luckily you've squeezed his hair reasonably dry and he's asleep by that point.

And then, the next morning, when the sun streaming in the open window climbs across the floor until it's laying on you like an over-warm blanket, you wake. When you open your eyes your first thought is how well rested you feel.

Shit.

Fuck. No, no, no.

But when you jerk up from the floor it is to find Strider looking back.

Whoa.

His eyes are clear and just as astonishing as when you saw him at The Pony. He looks like he actually knows what is going on around him. He's got the blanket clutched around his middle covering himself and has turned a "WTF!" look on you even if he doesn't say it out loud. He's clearly been studying you for some time while you slept, which is all kinds of creepy, but you can't really blame him. I mean, if you woke up naked in a strange hut with someone sleeping on the floor next to you - and remember anything at all of the night before - you might keep it to yourself and take some time to get your bearings, too. His eyes narrow, his lips a flat line.

He attempts to speak, but then has to clear his throat and swallow to wet his mouth and start again.

"Who are you?"

Well. Shit.