Lora hit something so hard that it knocked tears from her eyes. The breath driven out of her whole body, she clung to the wide, rough surface she had landed on, and stared at the endless green sky above her, or perhaps below. Her head spun painfully, but she dared not shut her eyes, in case she lost her balance and let go. She sobbed for oxygen, and the cold air felt raw in her throat. Gradually the sky returned to its proper place, and the dizziness faded, replaced by a heavy ache in her head and back, and stinging pain in her hands. Eventually she managed to focus her eyes, and found she was lying on a branch, wide enough for two of her and stretching out as far as her eyes could see in the pale light, ending in a blur of green. She did not dare to look up or down again, but shut her eyes tightly.
Ok. I'm in a tree. I've been in worse places, I'm sure, even if I can't remember them all. At least it's light, and I can breathe. I got up here somehow, I can get down again. Heights aren't so bad, as long as you can get down from them…
There was a light touch on her shoulder, and she jumped; Aragorn pulled her back from the edge as she swayed, hit by sickening dizziness.
When Lora opened her eyes again, she was lying flat on her back on the branch, with leaves and sky above her; considerably more sky than she had been able to see from the ground on the previous day (or could it have been longer?). Aragorn sat easily next to her, looking perfectly comfortable on the high tree-branch. She slowly, painfully, pulled herself upright, as he watched her solicitously. "Are you alright? You fell a long way."
Lora looked up. The only branch directly above them must have been over twenty feet away. However bad she felt, she knew she could not have survived that fall. However, about halfway up the before the branch, there was a wide, sticky gash in the bark of the trunk. In a flash of realisation she remembered the stifling small darkness, the life-song of the tree. "We - we were - inside there?"
"Yes. It let you out, and me, eventually." He held out his knife, still in his hand, to show her. It was covered in glutinous sap, all over the blade and hilt, and staining his fingertips yellow. He smelt strongly of pine. Aragorn suddenly reached for her hand, and she flinched as he took her bruised wrists. "Your hands are bleeding". She looked at them. They seemed to belong to somebody else, and she grinned stupidly at the look of concern on his face. He did not smile back, but looked at her gravely, and suddenly she felt cold and sick, and her headache redoubled.
Aragorn caught her before her head hit the branch, and gently pulled her to rest upright against the solid treetrunk. He pressed his cool palm against her hot damp forehead, and she opened her eyes, making him catch his breath. Dark eyes. The ranger found himself staring into them, amazed that he had not noticed before. The girl's eyes were almost black in the dim morning light, so different from the sea-grey of the men of Rohan and Gondor, and the jewel-like blue of the elves, but as bright, and as beautiful. As the word entered his mind, Aragorn backed away from her in panic, and stared straight at the rising sun to burn it from his head, but as he looked back at her, after-image dancing in his vision, he realised suddenly that Lora could not see him. Perhaps she was dreaming again, seeing only sand. Relieved, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, and stood up on the high branch, and she blinked sleepily.
"I'm going to find some water", he whispered, finding a foothold easily in the cracked bark below him. "Sleep - you'll feel better. I'll be back soon. Don't have any bad dreams…".
Many leagues away, the wizard Gandalf awoke with a start. He leapt up and was standing, staff in hand, before he had fully remembered where he was. He sighed, and slowly sat back down on the bed, which although in the human-size quarters of the Prancing Pony, was slightly too low for his aching limbs. The ride into Bree had not been easy on his old bones, and the early morning cold made him shiver under his worn grey robes. The wizard thought yearningly about more sleep, but decided regretfully that it was too light now to bother, and too cold anyway - time for breakfast. He remained sitting, though, a frown on his weathered face.
Aragorn. Why had his old companion been so much in his mind, these past few days? Perhaps it was the familiar surroundings where he had last seen his friend, and where Gandalf now returned alone. Aragorn had always had a fondness for the Shire and its homely people, just as he had. Yet Gandalf shook his head, smiling in remembrance of the suspicion the Breefolk held 'Strider' in, especially Barliman.
"You oughtn't be mixing with them northern folk, Mr Gandalf sir", he had said disapprovingly, his fourth pint and the late hour giving him courage to tell off the usually formidable wizard. Gandalf had merely laughed into his pipe, not having the heart to rebuke the plump innkeeper. Still, he frowned now. Even laughter could not displace the vague feeling of unease the wizard had deep in his heart, which he found he could no longer ignore. Recent events, and the beginnings of a lurking suspicion that pierced him with fear whenever he thought of it, no doubt were not helping. And yet there was something else, something unconnected with all that, in which Aragorn was unmistakably involved…
A ray of early sunlight lanced through a gap in the dusty curtains, and fell across Gandalf's knees and papery hands, brightening the grey of his robes almost to blue. Aragorn can look after himself, he reflected grimly. And besides, he may soon be needed here anyway.
He shook himself, and stood up decisively. It was time for breakfast. After all, he had another old friend to visit, and a birthday to celebrate.