Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just those I think up of in that imagination of lack thereof of mine.

Note: this story is based on the snippets of 'story' about Aragorn serving Thengel and Ecthelion under guise of Thorongil. My apologies for any discrepancies, for the title that is sorely lacking in creativity. Another thing, I'm ignoring the fact that Theoden had 3 other sisters besides Theodwyn. And I'll be using 'Aragorn' went I'm sort of delving into his thoughts, though others would call him 'Thorongil'.

–The Eagle of the Star –
Chapter 6

He heard raised voices, loud and sometimes coarse. The screams and shouts were so loud his head felt like it was about to explode. He tried to cover his pained ears, to shut out the overwhelming noise but it seemed impossible. He heard the ringing of blades, and thought he was to die. Then, the pressure on his wrists slackens, and he was falling… and hit something hard and uneven. Roughened hands clasped onto him and hoisted him up, and forcing open his eyes, he saw a glimpse of shining brown before all went dark and he felt no more…

Then light came back again. He saw blurred concerned faces looking at him, voices that seemed far away to his ears, and foreign; the occasional sting of pain making him hiss softly, and all would become dark for a while again…

He tried to open his eyes, and felt as though his eyelids were filled with lead. Light shone into his eyes, and blinded him for a while, and he instinctively closed his eyes again. When he next opened them, a stern wizened old face had blocked out the glaring light.

"Am I dead?" he asked, still trying to comprehend what happened in this sleep-fogged mind.

The wizened face relaxed and a smile appeared, followed by a hearty chuckle.

"I'm afraid not, my boy. You're very much alive, in the Healing Houses of Edoras. My name is Hildefir, the chief healer here."

Aragorn tried to sit up from his bed, but only succeeded in getting dizzy, the action making his head ache horribly. With a groan, he lay back down on the bed, deciding to abandon all attempts to get up, but instead stay in the comforting warm of the bed.

"How long have I been here?"

Hildefir cocked his head to one side, in his mind mentally counting the days that he spent nursing the young man to health. The man had just a few hours off from being admitted into the Halls of Mandos when the Riders arrived at the front step, the hooves of their horses thundering loudly in upon the stone pavement. Angry red lacerations and welts marred his torso and blood –deep red in most places –was flowing freely from the newly acquired wounds. There was a wound on his head, but it seemed more accidental than purposeful, though nothing worse than a skin graze that would heal more quickly that his other wounds. A look at his eyes showed that he was wallowing in deep unconsciousness, and it would been some time before he would wake.

Nevertheless, the healer try to mend his wounds as best as he could. The man would sometimes be conscious for a while, half-opened eyes looking into space, unfocused. His hands would sometimes move involuntarily whenever the healer tried to clean the wounds of dirt, and at times, rust and horsehair. It was a challenge, even in his long years of expertise, to stanch the blood flow that seemed to have no end. The younger healers tried their best to help when they rested for a while from attending to the other Riders, and the girl that the Riders had brought. Even with the severity of all their wounds taken into account, they were still decidedly less life-threatening than that of the young man's.

He had barred all –save his healers –from entering the man's room, and kept vigil at his bedside, not daring to give the young man's life to fate anytime soon. He had slept fitfully at night, sometimes not even knowing that he had dozed off until he heard a soft cough or moan. It had been purely good luck that the young man had not developed a fever while recovering from his wounds, though occasionally the old healer would hear the man utter Arwen! Arwen! as he tossed and turned in nightmarish sleep.

A cough broke Hildefir from his thoughts, and he turned to see the young man glancing at him expectantly. Faintly remembering that he had been asked a question, he searched his memory for even the slightest semblance of it, and was not really surprised to know that it had been forgotten in such a short time.

"What did you ask again, young man? An elderly like me has a memory that's too, growing old, and cannot remember things for long now."

The young man smiled, his smile knowing and sympathising. "How long have I been here?" the question was being repeated, yet contained no hint of irritation nor annoyance, but patience that the healer hardly saw in the younger generation these days.

"Five days or so, perhaps. It is the 24th of August, and nine in the morning. Pray tell me your name?"

Aragorn opened his mouth, and his true name was almost uttered, before he realised he was under guise. "My name is Thorongil, sir."

The healer stared at him, piercing blue eyes fixed onto the young man as images of a silver star came into his mind, and of the tales he had heard long ago as a child after dinner as his family had crowded around the fireplace. Tales of the forgotten men of Numenor, and their descendants, of the Heir of Isildur that dwelled in the house of Elrond where no mortal ever went.

Perhaps this was just a coincidence, nothing more.

Standing up abruptly, he told Aragorn that another would be along soon to serve him his breakfast and bade the young man farewell for but a while before leaving the room.

Tbc…

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All right, another chapter done. Though it's just mindless talking and not much development. Anyway, I probably would not be updating for the next week or so since I'm going to be out of the country and my mum would most likely keep me away from anything that has an internet connection. X) so namarie for a while!

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