Author's Note - Hmmmm...a little interlude with everybody's favorite
Ranger, 'til I come up with some better ideas.
Mirage ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn awoke to the feel of something cool and wet nuzzling his face. If he had awoke to this sensation a few hours before, he would not have felt it. But as it was, he had been sluggishly regaining full, painful consciousness, like a diver swimming slowly to the surface of a deep, dark well.
He was wet all over, his clothes heavy and sticking to him uncomfortably. He laid in the semi-gloom of a ravine, which the river ran through. It was hot, so hot, even in the water. The daylight was too bright. His head hurt him, like slivers of glass in his brain. His muscles were sore, a jumble of aches and pains that melded together into a low, feverish throb. The bright light made his eyes hurt, even through his eyelids. So hot....his shoulder felt afire.
That wet nuzzling again. Aragorn moaned lowly, cracking his eyes open a little. Horse...horse muzzle?
"Ai, Hasufel. The Rohan breed loyal steeds," Aragorn whispered, running his hand up the horse's jaw, stroking gently. Hasufel whinnied appreciatively, nuzzling Aragorn's scraped, bloodied hand. Moving his arm sent up a flare of brief pain in his shoulder, bringing that part's low, fiery whimpering to a scream, but it was worth it, to praise a horse who had picked his way into a dangerous gully to find him.
At least the pain served to bring him further around. He felt that his legs were lying in the water, everything but his shoulders and up lying on the rocky sand of the riverbank.
The first coherent returning thought Aragorn had was of Arwen. Arwen...the Evenstar. The Evenstar!
He clapped his hand to his chest, feeling for the jewel of Imladris. It was not there. So far, this was the most alarming thing so far, more so than the fact that his shoulder felt as if it had been speared, and that he didn't know whether or not he had broken any bones in his fall, or even where in the world he was. The loss of the Evenstar suggested that there had been a terrible shift in fortune, and when that transition included lying broken on an unknown riverbank with the hot sun on your face, that change was not for the better.
He felt himself absurdly close to tears for a second, and then he blinked them away with a Ranger's fierce severity. He had no time for foolish tears, and tears would not help him.
Using Hasufel's free reins, he pulled himself to a sitting position, wincing. As if reading his mind, Hasufel moved in front of him, giving him a little shade. He realized with this little bit of comfort that he was starving, and he remembered his pouch at Hasufel's side.
As soon as he thought he had enough strength to stand without falling, he made an attempt. He staggered slightly, leaning on his stallion's side for support, and reached into the pack. A skin full of water, some dried venison jerky, and a few bricks of lembas bread, fragrant and wrapped in the glossy green leaves of Lorien. Just the smell of the food made him feel ravenous. How long had he been unconscious?
He sat back down, drank from the waterskin until he felt a little sick, and then attacked the rations. He reminded himself, with a Ranger's prudent inner scolding, that it wouldn't be bright to go eating half of his food, starving or not. He had no idea how far he was from Helm's Deep. He leaned up against a rock and ate jerky so heavily salted his mouth stung with it, then munched the lembas thoughtfully, feeling stronger as he went along. When Hasufel nudged insistently at his face, he brought off a piece of the elvish waybread and fed it to the horse, stroking his velvet-soft nose.
He could see himself packing the lembas bread, a gift from Lorien, back when they had been in the elvish paradise. He could see the sunlight, warm and comforting (not feverishly hot), filtering through the trees, the mottled shadows created by the canopy. He could feel the cool breeze on his face, coming off the river Anduin. He could hear Galadriel's singing, sweet and smooth like clear honey. This memory was almost visionlike in its clarity, and it brought a terrible pang of homesickness.
// Count your bloody blessings, Longshanks, // Aragorn thought to himself, sticking another piece of lembas in his mouth and taking a swallow of water. // You have food, water, and a faithful mount that knows his way home. You could be far worse off. // He tried to tell himself that he ought to be thankful for those things, but even Aragorn found it hard to be all very thankful when you were sitting in the hot sun in the middle of nowhere, cut and scraped and bruised and bloodied, and had lost your dearest treasure.
Remembering the Evenstar-and Arwen-brought a lump to his throat. He found himself having a thought not all very much different from the thoughts Bilbo had had on his adventures so many years before; he suddenly wished to be back in Rivendell, relaxing in front of a roaring fire, with elvish song in his ears, and the ravishing sight of Undomiel in his eyes.
When he roused himself, his homesickness was not so intense. He knew that Gimli and Legolas would have missed him by now, no matter how many hours- could it possibly be days, how long *had* he been lost?-he had been gone. They'd have called out for him, traced his steps, maybe found where he had dropped the Evenstar. Legolas, especially, Aragorn knew, would be worried for him. The thought of frightening either Legolas or Gimli made Aragorn feel a twinge of deep guilt.
Letting out a soft grunt of pain, he pulled himself to his feet again. Hasufel stood patiently, waiting for him. He felt as if his wounds were festering under the hot sun. The air around him shimmered with the heat like a mirage in itself.
With a terrible heaviness in his limbs, he resecured the saddlebags and dragged himself onto Hasufel's back. He held on only tight enough to keep himself from slipping off; Hasufel, while not as light and restive as an elvish horse, was broadbacked and diligent, and would not let him fall. He waited until Aragorn was settled, arms lying on either side of the horse's wide neck, before he began to make his way back up to the top of the gully.
Aragorn slept, or fainted again for a few moments, resting his cheek against the soft hair of Hasufel's mane, his arms wrapped around the horse's neck even as he leaned forward and closed his eyes, lulled by the swinging rhythm of Hasufel's long, gentle stride.
The horse picked his way delicately back up out of the ravine, and Aragorn could feel the heat of the sun intensify as they reached the grasslands again, standing at the ridge, a little more than a half-hour later.
"Noro lim, Hasufel. Noro lim..." Aragorn whispered, then let out a croaking laugh as he remembered; Hasufel was not a steed of the Eldar, and wouldn't know the words.
Nevertheless, Hasufel seemed almost to read his mind. He gathered himself, his stride lengthening and lengthening until the stallion was in a full gallop. Aragorn tightened his arms, but he had no need for it. The horse's gait was smooth as silk.
Aragorn let himself drift, barely feeling the pace of the steed beneath him, turning his mind into the dark, comforting pool of half-consciousness.
~~~~~~~~ Anyone got any good ideas for Legolas, drop me an email, or leave somethin' in a review. I'm more than willing to draw out his angsty torture, but right now I'm runnin' on empty. Also, I may extend this fic beyond where Aragorn returns and into the battle of Helm's Deep (I got some ideas about the two kids, and I've been dying to address the death of Haldir).
Mirage ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn awoke to the feel of something cool and wet nuzzling his face. If he had awoke to this sensation a few hours before, he would not have felt it. But as it was, he had been sluggishly regaining full, painful consciousness, like a diver swimming slowly to the surface of a deep, dark well.
He was wet all over, his clothes heavy and sticking to him uncomfortably. He laid in the semi-gloom of a ravine, which the river ran through. It was hot, so hot, even in the water. The daylight was too bright. His head hurt him, like slivers of glass in his brain. His muscles were sore, a jumble of aches and pains that melded together into a low, feverish throb. The bright light made his eyes hurt, even through his eyelids. So hot....his shoulder felt afire.
That wet nuzzling again. Aragorn moaned lowly, cracking his eyes open a little. Horse...horse muzzle?
"Ai, Hasufel. The Rohan breed loyal steeds," Aragorn whispered, running his hand up the horse's jaw, stroking gently. Hasufel whinnied appreciatively, nuzzling Aragorn's scraped, bloodied hand. Moving his arm sent up a flare of brief pain in his shoulder, bringing that part's low, fiery whimpering to a scream, but it was worth it, to praise a horse who had picked his way into a dangerous gully to find him.
At least the pain served to bring him further around. He felt that his legs were lying in the water, everything but his shoulders and up lying on the rocky sand of the riverbank.
The first coherent returning thought Aragorn had was of Arwen. Arwen...the Evenstar. The Evenstar!
He clapped his hand to his chest, feeling for the jewel of Imladris. It was not there. So far, this was the most alarming thing so far, more so than the fact that his shoulder felt as if it had been speared, and that he didn't know whether or not he had broken any bones in his fall, or even where in the world he was. The loss of the Evenstar suggested that there had been a terrible shift in fortune, and when that transition included lying broken on an unknown riverbank with the hot sun on your face, that change was not for the better.
He felt himself absurdly close to tears for a second, and then he blinked them away with a Ranger's fierce severity. He had no time for foolish tears, and tears would not help him.
Using Hasufel's free reins, he pulled himself to a sitting position, wincing. As if reading his mind, Hasufel moved in front of him, giving him a little shade. He realized with this little bit of comfort that he was starving, and he remembered his pouch at Hasufel's side.
As soon as he thought he had enough strength to stand without falling, he made an attempt. He staggered slightly, leaning on his stallion's side for support, and reached into the pack. A skin full of water, some dried venison jerky, and a few bricks of lembas bread, fragrant and wrapped in the glossy green leaves of Lorien. Just the smell of the food made him feel ravenous. How long had he been unconscious?
He sat back down, drank from the waterskin until he felt a little sick, and then attacked the rations. He reminded himself, with a Ranger's prudent inner scolding, that it wouldn't be bright to go eating half of his food, starving or not. He had no idea how far he was from Helm's Deep. He leaned up against a rock and ate jerky so heavily salted his mouth stung with it, then munched the lembas thoughtfully, feeling stronger as he went along. When Hasufel nudged insistently at his face, he brought off a piece of the elvish waybread and fed it to the horse, stroking his velvet-soft nose.
He could see himself packing the lembas bread, a gift from Lorien, back when they had been in the elvish paradise. He could see the sunlight, warm and comforting (not feverishly hot), filtering through the trees, the mottled shadows created by the canopy. He could feel the cool breeze on his face, coming off the river Anduin. He could hear Galadriel's singing, sweet and smooth like clear honey. This memory was almost visionlike in its clarity, and it brought a terrible pang of homesickness.
// Count your bloody blessings, Longshanks, // Aragorn thought to himself, sticking another piece of lembas in his mouth and taking a swallow of water. // You have food, water, and a faithful mount that knows his way home. You could be far worse off. // He tried to tell himself that he ought to be thankful for those things, but even Aragorn found it hard to be all very thankful when you were sitting in the hot sun in the middle of nowhere, cut and scraped and bruised and bloodied, and had lost your dearest treasure.
Remembering the Evenstar-and Arwen-brought a lump to his throat. He found himself having a thought not all very much different from the thoughts Bilbo had had on his adventures so many years before; he suddenly wished to be back in Rivendell, relaxing in front of a roaring fire, with elvish song in his ears, and the ravishing sight of Undomiel in his eyes.
When he roused himself, his homesickness was not so intense. He knew that Gimli and Legolas would have missed him by now, no matter how many hours- could it possibly be days, how long *had* he been lost?-he had been gone. They'd have called out for him, traced his steps, maybe found where he had dropped the Evenstar. Legolas, especially, Aragorn knew, would be worried for him. The thought of frightening either Legolas or Gimli made Aragorn feel a twinge of deep guilt.
Letting out a soft grunt of pain, he pulled himself to his feet again. Hasufel stood patiently, waiting for him. He felt as if his wounds were festering under the hot sun. The air around him shimmered with the heat like a mirage in itself.
With a terrible heaviness in his limbs, he resecured the saddlebags and dragged himself onto Hasufel's back. He held on only tight enough to keep himself from slipping off; Hasufel, while not as light and restive as an elvish horse, was broadbacked and diligent, and would not let him fall. He waited until Aragorn was settled, arms lying on either side of the horse's wide neck, before he began to make his way back up to the top of the gully.
Aragorn slept, or fainted again for a few moments, resting his cheek against the soft hair of Hasufel's mane, his arms wrapped around the horse's neck even as he leaned forward and closed his eyes, lulled by the swinging rhythm of Hasufel's long, gentle stride.
The horse picked his way delicately back up out of the ravine, and Aragorn could feel the heat of the sun intensify as they reached the grasslands again, standing at the ridge, a little more than a half-hour later.
"Noro lim, Hasufel. Noro lim..." Aragorn whispered, then let out a croaking laugh as he remembered; Hasufel was not a steed of the Eldar, and wouldn't know the words.
Nevertheless, Hasufel seemed almost to read his mind. He gathered himself, his stride lengthening and lengthening until the stallion was in a full gallop. Aragorn tightened his arms, but he had no need for it. The horse's gait was smooth as silk.
Aragorn let himself drift, barely feeling the pace of the steed beneath him, turning his mind into the dark, comforting pool of half-consciousness.
~~~~~~~~ Anyone got any good ideas for Legolas, drop me an email, or leave somethin' in a review. I'm more than willing to draw out his angsty torture, but right now I'm runnin' on empty. Also, I may extend this fic beyond where Aragorn returns and into the battle of Helm's Deep (I got some ideas about the two kids, and I've been dying to address the death of Haldir).