Chapter Three: Hope, Literally

They dragged his unconscious form to an inn. Which only allowed them in after much cursing and banging on the wooden door. His eyes stayed eerily open but they held a look of blankness, of nothing.

The shivers had subside but his jaw was still rattling as though he had something to say but the words would not come.

"I'm not a healer. I can't treat your slave," the Innkeeper said. He was annoyed, tired and still half asleep. It was easy to see he was in no mood for taking orders from half drunk, filthy Men.

Wazurk growled deep in his throat and nodded at one of his subordinates, a small signal but nevertheless, a dangerous one.

In a movement to fast for the perturbed Innkeeper to see or even attempt to stop, a knife was pressed against his meaty throat. "You'll find me a healer, or you'll die."

The blade was pulled across the flesh and a stream of bright blood ran down his chest and pooled into his dark chest hair. Hurriedly, the Innkeeper changed his song.

"All right, all right, I know a healer staying here. C'mon."

The knife stayed at the Innkeeper's neck as he waddled to a distant room. Wazurk watched in approval as the rest of his company stalked down the hallway. He hefted the unconscious form off the dirty floor and followed after them.

~*~*~

A sharp, urgent knock shattered any peaceful rest that was to be had inside the first floor room. Aragorn was on his feet immediately, fingering a small knife in his hand as he opened the door cautiously.

He peered out into the nervous face of the Innkeeper, Butterbur still dressed in his nightclothes. The Innkeeper was obviously nervous and he kept looking to his left and licking his lips.

"I'm uh, sorry to bother you Master Strider, but uhm. There is a matter that requires your attention. Your, uh, immediate attention," he glanced over again and bit his lip anxiously.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked opening the door a bit wider but still holding on carefully to his knife. If the need arose he could have it lodged in someone's throat before they could blink.

A huge Man came behind Butterbur, who craned his neck to look up at him. For the first time, Aragorn noticed a trail of blood on the Innkeeper's throat. Aragorn's caution and readiness doubled tenfold.

The Man behind Butterbur had a mane of dark hair. Whether it was dark by nature or filth no one could say. Butterbur moved to the side and Aragorn saw a slight figure drooping in the huge Man's thick arms.

"It's dying," The Man said thrusting the still form at Aragorn. "Fix him, or you'll suffer his fate."

Aragorn glanced at the out stretched body; pale and he might have been beautiful once. Silver eyes were wide-open and thin lips quivered softly. Only a small cloth was around his waist; bones poked out of his pale skin everywhere. He might have been a child if not for his not-insignificant height.

"Bring him in," Aragorn said and Wazurk gave a coy smile. "But not because of your threat. Because I want to help this Man."

"From the goodness of your heart, I'm sure," Wazurk said and the others chuckled nervously. Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the hulking man as he slid the limp from into his arms but held his tongue.

He turned back around and entered into his room. Both Hobbits were sitting up in their beds.

"What's going on?" Frodo asked standing, Sam came to stand beside him.

"Shh," Aragorn requested softly. "Later."

The group of Men tried to enter the room, but Aragorn stopped them as he slid the body down on to his bed. "I will need space to work. You cannot wait in here."

Wazurk looked ready to beat Aragorn into a bloody pulp, but Butterbur stopped him.

"I'll get you a room. No charge! Follow me," he swallowed nervously and locked eyes with Aragorn before he scurried out of the room and down the hallway.

Aragorn turned his full attention to the creature on his bed. The breathing was shallow and uneven. And the eyes—which remained open—were lifeless pools of silver and shadow. The chattering jaw was the only sign of life at all.

"I'll need some light," Aragorn said softly and Sam hurriedly went about setting the various candles to life.

"Is he going to be alright?" Frodo asked nervously looking down at the thin body.

"I know not, Frodo. I believe he has been poisoned," Aragorn said casting a glance to the Halfling. Sam came and stood beside Frodo.

"With what?" Sam said voicing both Hobbits' thoughts.

Aragorn shook his head. "I intend to find out. Look after him for a few moments."

With that Aragorn was out the door.

~*~*~

Sam and Frodo sat on either side of the body. They looked from the still shape to each other nervously. Neither was a healer or knew much about the healing arts, but this looked bad.

Death bad.

The figure on the bed made a deep moaning noise and Sam nearly jumped off the bed. Instead he took a breath and stroked the dirty and battered forehead. To his great surprise, the hair was soft and silky even tangled and matted as it was. He stoked a few strands behind an ear and an even greater surprise greeted him.

"Frodo."

His friend looked up a bit startled. Sam could find no words; he just pointed vaguely towards the Man's head. Confused and expecting to see some gushing head wound, Frodo stood and walked around the bed.

Oh.

This was no Man at all. The ear was pointed delicately, but not obscenely, and Frodo finally noticed how fair this creature was under all his dirt.

An elf.

This would certainly complicate matters.

~*~*~

Dark. Dark and cold. Perhaps this was Death's cold embrace?

He wanted to laugh; wanted to cry; wanted to scream.

But nothing. Nothing but cold and dark.

Dark and Cold.

~*~*~

The door swung open. Aragorn didn't look happy, at all.

"Aragorn," Frodo started to say but he was quickly interrupted.

"Herbs and plants, they said. But they aren't sure what," Aragorn said coming back to the bed and looking sadly at the diminished creature.

"Aragorn. He's an elf."

Frodo had never seen Aragorn look startled but he assumed this was as close as it got. The Man's jaw loosened minutely and he blinked four times.

"An elf? You're sure?"

Frodo and Sam nodded almost in unison and pointed down at the frame. "His ears," Sam said.

Aragorn looked and blinked again. Indeed, an elf.

"Well there's one answer. He wasn't poisoned; he's dying," Aragorn said resting his palm on one slim shoulder.

"But if not from poison, from what?" Frodo asked looking worriedly at the elf.

"Grief."

~*~*~

Light broke through the darkness. First it was soft, but gradually it grew brighter until it was painful. The cold wasn't as intense but it was still vaguely there.

A voice was ringing in his ears. Soft and friendly. This was not Wazurk.

He tried to see and hear but there was only light and vague shadows that seemed impossibly far off.

"…hear me?"

Gradually, the shadow came into focus. Soft eyes in a worn face. Black stubble ringed around the pink lips and bits off grey were flecked through out his other wise perfectly dark hair.

"Can you hear me?" the Man asked again looking anxiously down.

He nodded and blinked until the room cleared. Two small figures were on either side of him and the Man was towering high above.

He sat up and his head spun and his vision blurred. After wetting his lips and looking around the odd room he spoke. It sounded no less alien then it had the day before, but perhaps he could get used to it.

"Where am I?"

"An Inn in Bree," one of the Halflings provided.

He looked between the three faces surrounding him. His eyes locked upon the tallest of them, standing just in front of him. The one with the worn face but gentle eyes.

"Who are you?"

The Man looked down at him and offered the faintest of smiles. "I have been called many things by many people, but many elves have called me Estel."

"Estel?" The elf asked, an anxious look on his sullied face.

The Man nodded. "Aye."

"Hope has come, then."

He laughed and fell backwards on to the bed. This was not what he had expected.

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