As if the thought had just occurred to him, Strider clutches at the empty space at his chest. He looks absolutely gutted at not finding something there. He then glares at you.
"What do you want of me?" he demands as you untangle yourself from your blanket.
"You must be starving," is what you say and he turns a guarded look on you.
He doesn't deny it, or the very full bladder that you take him out to the garden to empty. You get his shirt on him; the bad arm, the good arm, and then over the head so we're not abusing body parts that should be healing. The tail of his shirt is long enough he can preserve his dignity for the journey. You can always get his braies on him when you get back. He's super wobbly, leans on you heavily, and sucks in a sharp breath whenever he moves too quickly, but at least he's up on his feet and moving around.
You make it back in one piece and help cover him with his braies, carefully averting your face as you wrap, pull, tuck, and tie the cloth in place to at least offer him the illusion of privacy. He's gray about his face and sinks to the cot while holding his breath, patting at the air above it and easing himself down slowly while you steady him. When you offer to help him lay back down he shakes his head, sweat beading on his upper lip, and breathes sharply through his nose. He pulls away his shirt to ease the bandages wrapped about his shoulder and over his hip aside to check beneath them. He interrupts himself to watch you warily when you bring his pack to him.
When he takes it from you, you say, "I wrapped it up in a cloth. It should still be laying on top of everything else."
Yeah, you didn't steal from the dying man, go figure.
You'd taken that heavy silver chain off of him he was probably freaking out about before Mistress Pansy's visit. You figured that if he'd wanted to keep it hidden it probably wasn't best to leave it on him. You confess you may have spent some time with it. It had puzzled you, the sturdy silver chain, the graceful swoop of flowers and snakes about the ring that dangled from it, and the green gem that seemed to gather whatever light was about it; so completely at odds with the dirty, unkempt, worn man lying unconscious on your bed.
After rifling through his pack, he closes his eyes and sits very still upon the cot while you build up the fire. You need to refresh the compresses bound to him, but it will probably go better if he's got some food in him and is as comfortable as you can make him.
It takes some time to bring the last of the goat's milk to simmering and cook a porridge of oats. His eyes are half-closed as if he were spent and hoarding his energy, but if the glitter beneath his eyelids is any indication, he spends the time watching you. He's not obvious about it, but he's definitely very aware of everything around him.
"Sorry there isn't anything to sweeten it with." You hold the bowl out to him. There's only the one. "I can help you eat it," you offer when his hand holding the bowl tremors as he shifts cautiously about upon the edge of the bed, but he shakes his head. He props the bowl between his thighs. You hand him the spoon and that's pretty much it for the conversation, scintillating as it was.
You settle in in front of the fire. You're going to be eating out of the pot and it hasn't cooled enough to pick it up. And yep, he definitely waits for you to take a bite before he turns his attention to his bowl.
So the paranoia wasn't just the fever talking, then. Okay. Good to know.
The wooden spoons scrape against the pottery. One bite. Two bites. Chew and swallow.
Oh, this is fun. Isn't it.
Nope. Not awkward at all.
He scrapes out the bowl with his finger with the air of a man who knows what hunger is and doesn't care what you think of his manners or the lack thereof.
Once you're finished, you dip a cup into the small barrel of water you keep by the door and offer it to him. "You should have something to drink, too." You make a show of taking a sip before holding it out to him.
This brings a slight smile to his face, sour though it may be. He offers the empty bowl in exchange. It couldn't be cleaner if he had licked it. "So you are not intending to poison me, then."
"As much work as I put into keeping you alive, it's not the first thing on my list to do today, no," you say. "Though you may want to keep that in mind when it's time to take care of those wounds of yours."
He grunts in response, his eyes flicking to his shoulder before he takes a drink. Yep, that one is the deepest and had been giving you all kinds of extra trouble.
He's already set down the cup and eased his shirt over his arms and head little by little by the time you've cleaned the bowl and spoons and thrown the dirty water out the door. Might as well get it over with, then.
You had left your iron pot on the fire and the rags you pulled from the large basket at the foot of the cot have been boiling in the salt water long enough, right? Probably, yeah, no, long enough. He glances at you when you sing the ABC song under your breath as you suds up your hands and scrub at your knife. You may do the next repetition silently to yourself. You don't really need the knife too much. You've kept the compresses damp enough that they don't stick to his wound, but the edge of the knife does come in handy here and there, particularly grabbing a hold of the soft, loosely woven linen packed in his deeper wounds.
Strider is silent throughout the whole ordeal. You'll take it. Believe me, you much prefer stoic silence and gritted teeth to having to sit on him to do this. You're as gentle as you can be, but, still, he's lined in sweat and every muscle is either clamped down hard or trembling by the time you've cleaned out his wounds.
You fish a rag out of the hot water using a couple spoons like tongs and kind of wave it around a bit to cool it off, the steam roiling off of it and catching the light.
"There is an herb that would speed the healing, should you be able to find it," he offers thinly from where he is lying on the cot scratching at newly healed skin from a shallow scrape over his ribs and waiting for you. Seems he knows a bit about such things. Though, given the number of scars on him you probably shouldn't be surprised.
"Yeah?"
You've folded the rag, holding it with the tips of your fingers and juggling it from one hand to the other until it cools a little more. He hisses between his clenched teeth when you lay it on his shoulder, but that's really the only sound he makes.
He sucks in a breath, moaning softly between his teeth, but presses the wet rag closer to his skin. "Aye, kingsfoil it is called here, by the Men of Bree." He goes on as you get the next cloth ready, "It has long leaves of dark green and a sweet smell, even more when crushed."
Huh. That… kinda describes a lot of things.
"Most like found in the brush about the Barrow-downs," he says but you can only give him a blank look.
You've heard of the Barrow-downs but not been there. No one from Bree goes there. You're not sure what to believe, but Bree-folk get awfully quiet when someone mentions it.
"Mistress Pansy may know of it," he says. The next cloth is ready and he offers his arm. "It has properties she could use, even should it not be at its greatest powers in her hands."
Well, file that under 'Interesting.' Hmm, for all kinds of reasons.
"I'll ask," you say and he does nothing more than nod and brace himself. Defensive wounds, probably. It's a nasty slice across his forearm. Suddenly, you kind of hope he gave as good as he got.
All told, it takes you much of the morning cleaning out his wounds, letting the wet heat seep into them, washing him down, and replacing the packing in the deepest cuts before laying new compresses on them. He doesn't speak much, just once, when he directs you to wring the water out of the rag a little more for the wounds that look like they're healing the fastest. It's not nearly as bad as you thought it was going to be. Some of the swelling has gone down and the worst wounds look, well, more meaty and less gross.
For as long as you've gone not talking to anyone, you thought you'd be busting at the seams, but you're not. He's, well, he's a bit distracting, overwhelming even. I mean, you hadn't really given it much thought before, but now that there is a real live personality looking out from his eyes, and a fairly commanding one at that, you're kinda noticing a bit more about him, this Strider guy. Like, you know, how broad his shoulders are, and, maybe how well filled out and nicely furred his chest is, and, uhm, maybe those huge hands of his with their tapered fingers that look really super competent at whatever he might want to do with them, and, yeah, those, uhm, those little rolls over his hipbones, the ones that look like they'd have a really sweet amount of give to them if you happened to gnaw on - Okay!
Time to maybe pack those thoughts away some place and not look at them for a while.
"How did you know you were still in Bree?"
He looks up, startled by the question from where he is wrapping a strip of linen from one of Mistress Thistlewool's old dresses about his forearm, fastening the last of the clean compresses in place. You're kneeling by the cot at his hip, gathering up the used rags.
He shrugs, considering you carefully for a moment before going on with his work. His hand shakes and it's taking some effort. "The Great East Road is naught but twenty feet from your door," he says, glancing in the correct direction and then nodding to the rushes on the floor, "those grow in the canal along the Greenway, and the air smells of Bree in the spring."
Huh. Well, well, well. That's very interesting, too. Damn. Tall, dark, and recently fully awake has some skills… and knows an awful lot about Bree for someone who is here so infrequently that you hadn't seen him before this.
"Let me get that," you say, leaning over him. He's secured the compress nice and snug on his arm, but he's struggling to tie off the end, what with only having the use of one hand.
You loop the strip of linen back on itself and tie the loop and tail together in a knot at his elbow. It's not as flat as Mistress Pansy could do it, but you try to center it on top so it doesn't get in his way.
You're leaning over him and squashing the knot when you notice that Strider is giving you a very curious look, like he's putting two and two together. Which particular sets of things he's computing you're not exactly sure, but his jaw is rigid and there's an air of discomfort around him. It's a subtle thing, but it's like every nerve is lit up and aware of how close you are to him. When you glance up he's holding his face rigidly, a little like he's holding himself back from snapping at you.
Shit.
You back away and turn to the loose pile of rags on the floor. Shit. Last time you were that close and leaning over him, you were singing to him. You busy yourself with collecting and rolling up the used rags in a bundle. You'll give them a good soak before you scrub them and lay them out on the hedge where the sun can get to them.
Strider sits up and rubs at his face in an abrupt motion and then runs his fingers over the linen on his arm, as if testing how much he can bear.
"Your manner of speaking is strange," he says. It comes out pretty rough sounding. He clears his throat. "I have not heard the like afore, and my path has taken me through many lands. From whither are you come? You are not from Bree, nor any of these parts."
You stand up and toss the bundle onto the bench. Shit, yeah, okay.
"Neither are you," you say and he stares at you in response, like that wasn't at all what he was expecting you to say and he's kinda at a loss. You can't really blame him for not chattering on and telling you all about himself, but that doesn't mean you have to be the only open book here. It's not like he'd believe you anyway.
He sighs and his shoulders fall. He then lifts his hand in a helpless gesture. "At the least, will you not tell me your name?"
You sigh. You love your mother, but you weren't particularly fond of the name she gave you. Honestly, it hadn't really been her idea, but she'd been fifteen and had been faced with some hard choices you wouldn't wish on anyone. It hadn't really helped, in the end. And so you were left the legacy of that. Not like the name people call you here was any better. But, at least, you had earned it all on your own, no matter it was because of your fumbling attempts at survival.
"I must call you somewhat," he urges.
"Yeah, okay," you say. You suppose you should be the one to start. You do have him at a disadvantage. I mean, he is dependent on you right now and if you make him feel unsafe that's on you.
"They call me Fish," you finally say.
"Fish?" he echoes and stares at you.
Yeah? See? This is exactly why -
"What manner of name is that?" he asks.
You would really like to roll your eyes. But it's not like he would truly, fully, wholly, and with all his being, feel the burn of the derision you would like for it to convey. You go to the basket and toss his rolled up shirt at him. You may have put a little more force behind it than you should have, but he catches it easily with his good hand.
"That is not a name a mother or father would give a child, surely," he goes on as he fumbles with his shirt, shaking it out, seemingly encouraged by your reaction.
"It might have something to do with…" you start and then halt, plucking his tunic from the pile of his clothes. God, this is so going to suck. "…with being, a fish, out of -
"You know what, never mind," you say, trailing off far too late. He is already laughing, his eyes crinkling. He's clutching at his side where he is barely healed. You kinda liked him better when he was unconscious.
"You're one to talk, 'Longshanks,'" you say, but it doesn't dampen his amusement.
"Aye, well, Fish," he says, dropping the shirt into his lap so he can wipe at his eyes. "It would not sound so ill in the high tongue."
"Exactly what language would we be speaking that would make it any better?"
"One you do not know, it seems." And with this, he flashes you a wicked smile.
Fucker.
"I am going to help you get dressed now," you say in no uncertain terms.
"Aye, should you so wish," he says.
You work the sleeve of his shirt over his injured arm. It's a tightly woven linen affair, softened by a lot of wear, but really sturdily made with these lovely details stitched into the neck and around the bottom, but worn and patched, like he's from old money that has fallen on hard times. There's a wool tunic with equally carefully crafted detailing, a long leather vest he was wearing, and a dark green coat and cloak that were lashed to his pack as well. You did your best with repairing and cleaning them and they're hanging on a peg by the door next to your cloak and soft woven basket, along with his tall boots with well-worn and patched soles, his knife, a short bow and quiver, pack that you have for the most part left unopened, the long hunting knife you saw at The Pony, and a long scabbard of finely worked leather and accents of what looks like silver, but, curiously, no sword. He officially has more clothes and accessories than you.
Other arm in and over the head. It's a loose fit and you get it settled over his shoulders and down to his waist without much fuss. He's compliant through the whole thing, moving himself as little as possible and letting you do the work. He's still pretty worn out and shaky afterward, though, and you think better of attempting to get him into his tunic and breeches. It's warm enough he shouldn't need them and he's probably going to be doing a lot of sleeping, anyway.
"And you?" you ask when done. "I can't imagine Strider is the name your mother gave you."
"No," he says and, squirming cautiously about, screws up his face into one big wince and lays back on the bed. Once he's settled into a comfortable position every part of his body goes lax with relief. It takes him some time of breathing shallowly with his eyes closed before he opens them again and answers. "When I was a child, she called me Estel."
"Estel?"
He makes a small sound of acknowledgment and beats at the pillow.
"Does it mean something?"
He stops and gives you a strange, wary look before he huffs a sharp laugh and lays back.
"It means 'hope,'" he says with a mocking lift of his lip.
It is a strangely disconcerting look for him. You do not like it. Nope, not at all. Fuck that shit.
"Don't do that!" you say, though he is not the only one startled by your vehemence.
"Do what?" He seems genuinely surprised.
"That!" you say, gesturing at him. You stand there awkwardly, and all of a sudden you're not so sure what to do with your hands. They hang at the end of your arms and you use them to pluck at the hem of your tunic for want of something better to do with them. All you can think of is his face the night before. There was somebody out there that he loved, that he felt like he let down and cared enough about to long for their forgiveness. That doesn't come out of nowhere, that kind of need to lay yourself at someone's feet and beg. You have a pretty good idea that the person on the receiving end of it would hate to see him do that to himself.
"Just. Don't. Okay? You don't deserve that. Nobody does."
Jesus, you are not going to start crying.
Fuck, he's staring at you, completely floored by your reaction. Great. Just great. Stop being such an asshole to the injured guy, you tell yourself as you squeeze your eyes shut. Quit forcing him to manage his way through your bullshit so that he can feel some reasonable degree of safety.
When you open your eyes, he is looking upon you with some concern.
"Sorry," you say. "I may not have been around people very often lately."
"I may know somewhat of that," he says and gives you a small, wry smile.
"Perhaps neither of us are what we first seem to be," he goes on.
Well, now there's an understatement.
You lean over and grab up the bundle of rags from the bench. Guess this part is over and it's time to get on with your day.
"What would it be in the high tongue?" you ask before it occurs to you that you haven't given him much context. He doesn't seem to need it, though, and after a pause in which he considers you, he speaks.
"Hala," he says, giving it a gentle, almost liquid quality.
"Hala." You roll the sound about your mouth. Surprisingly, yes, it is an improvement.
You haven't said anything, but he has been watching your face closely. "Then I shall call you Hala, should you permit it."
You nod. You would like that.
"Do you think you can sleep?" you ask and he nods. He probably could. He'd be making up for lost time. You tuck the rags under your arm so you can take up the end of the blanket and pull it over him.
You help him hold his injured arm out of the way and, once you've tucked the blanket up around his chest, he props his injured arm across his hip. You grab up the bucket.
"I'll just be, you know, out here," you say, jabbing your thumb through the wall at the neglected garden you should probably spend the morning weeding, well, after you heat up the water in the basin and put the linens in for their soak. "Just call if you need anything."
"Aye, I shall," he says, "Hala."
Yeah, that's… that's actually kind of nice. You like that. Much better.