Whumptober 2022

Prompt 9: Sleeping in Shifts | Tossing and Turning | Caught in a Storm


On many a nasty winter night, when temperatures plummeted to freeze the water-buckets rock solid, when the wind shrieked through the eaves and rattled in the shutters, when snow, fine and particulate like chips of ice, drove through exposed flaps of cloaks and hoods and stung on wind-burned skin, Breeland would batten down the hatches, congregate in warm tavern common rooms, and bemoan the state of the weather. Gaffers would smoke pipes sagely, compare stories, and make dire predictions of another Fell Winter. Tonight was no different, except that every so often a regular would cast a suspicious eye over the pair of Rangers in the corner booth, dripping cloaks flung back from their shoulders, hunched over warm mugs of ale.

"Something's kept him." The voice was low and gruff, and the ranger did not look at his companion as he spoke. A wicked-looking scar ran down his right cheek from just under the eye to hinge of his jaw; Lefty he was called by the villagers—he wore his sword on his right hip—except when they muttered that ugly cur in his wake.

The other, a younger man, tapped his foot for a moment then stilled it, an anxious habit nearly broken. "I suppose we can hope it's only the storm that keeps him."

A grunt was the only reply.

Time ticked by; one by one, patrons retired to their homes or their rooms. The Rangers did not move. The bartender side-eyed them, too nervous to approach.

The older Ranger stood, and his companion followed. They made their way to the room they had purchased for the night.

"Eristan," the younger said, softly, once the door had closed behind them. "Should we go seek him? This is no night to stay out in."

"For us, neither," Eristan replied. He crossed his arms, staring out the window at the driving snow.

The other sighed.

"Peace, Erenthad. You know we should be poor help, even should we find him tonight. And," he added more gently, "he is no stranger to storms such as this. Come, let us sleep."


Aragorn was, in fact, no stranger to storms such as this. No Ranger was. That did not preclude a wish for an inn's common-room followed by a bed next to a fireplace, especially when such amenities had been the plan for the night's rest.

There was no hope of reaching them now, though.

A Ranger's duty was, first and foremost, to keep his land free of danger, as far as he could; only secondary were obligations to his fellow Rangers. Personal comforts were, at best, a distant third. So when Aragorn had come across the fell creature's tracks in the midday before his meeting with his men, he had regretfully turned to follow. When the storm he had felt on the wind roared in with the ominous creak of evergreens and a biting chill that drove through layers of wool and leather as though they were parchment, the regret solidified in his stomach. Roheryn shook his head and let out a huff of frosted air. Aragorn stroked his neck gently; the horses of the Northern Dúnedain were hearty and well-bred to the bitter cold, but this would be trying for any beast.

"Easy, lad," he breathed.

By the time the creature's tracks were unmistakably heading back away from the villages, the storm had well and truly set in. Aragorn pulled his hood as low over his face as it would go, relying on Roheryn and his other senses than eyesight to warn him in case of danger. The horse's eyes and muzzle were limned with ice.

The light was fading fast. Aragorn rode Roheryn behind a grove that shielded some of the wind and dismounted; the horse dropped his head almost to the ground. Aragorn patted his flank, then moved off, scouting into the thicket.

Eventually he returned and coaxed Roheryn through the brush into a bit of hollow, overhung by branches, where the ice had hardly yet been driven.

"Come on, lad, down," Aragorn soothed, until the horse, trusting his master, lay down. Aragorn dropped his own pack to the ground and looked regretfully at the horse's saddle; but to remove it in such weather would be dangerous. Rejecting the possibility of a fire—this particular fell creature was attracted to it, and Aragorn could not stay awake all night to watch—he curled into the horse's side, under his cloak and the blankets he'd tossed over them both, and tried to find sleep.


The storm grew worse. The wind howled more than ever and driving snow found its way into their meager shelter. Roheryn shivered at his back; Aragorn's hands and feet felt like blocks of ice. His mind hovered on the edge between dazed wakefulness and shallow sleep; shadows of ancient evil mixed with the forest's groanings; the sting of the northern winter became the interminable teeth of the Helcaraxë, the spare warmth at his back a comrade on that hideous journey. Cold despair swirled in his heart.

The ice was never-ending, piercing skin and flesh to clasp chilled fingers around his bones. Every breath was pain, sword-sharp and Silmaril-bright through his frozen lungs. His belly was nothing but a clenched knot of want.

"Finrod," a voice gritted out.

He peeled open his eyes, hardly wincing anymore at the scrape of frost. His cousin crouched before him, her penetrating eyes dull. She held out a piece of something; he shifted from his side, nudging Fingon awake in the process, and she dropped it into his hand. She moved on without a word.

Greedily, he tore a chunk out of the half-frozen, uncooked blubber. Hunting was scarce; they had all learned to eat what they must. Aredhel had long since stopped apologizing for the poor kills. There was a loud crack, as of breaking ice, and—

—Aragorn jerked awake, as a branch crashed down. The half-waking dream faded in the bitter night; bone-deep shivers wracked his chest. Unwilling to leave the poor protection of the blankets, he burrowed through the saddlebags blindly with numb hands until he withdrew some dried meat for himself and a small measure of oats for Roheryn. He fed the horse from his mittened hands. Aragorn himself chewed painfully, face numb. His stomach churned dully.

Again they dozed. The clouds grew tattered; the wind died; the temperature dropped as chilled air settled onto the world in an icy embrace.

Man and beast lay still under the astringent dawn.


The villagers once more filtered into the common room for breakfast. Talk was jovial, the clear cold of the bright morning more heartening than last night's wind. The drink was hot, the company good, and winter in Breeland was once more someone's favorite season, even if his friends ribbed him for it.

"A good night not to be out in!" a patron commented, slapping his friend on the shoulder.

And no one marked that the Rangers' corner, though laid for breakfast, lay untouched.