Little Healer

Emily: Thank you for reviewing! Kudos to you, the first reviewer of this story.

Gaia: Thank you! Your review prompted me to finish chapter two, I'm glad you are enjoying it!

Author's note: I am switching between perspectives, partly because I just like to do that and partly because Aragorn still isn't able to talk. Aragorn lovers, do not fear, our beloved ranger will bless us with his voice once again and soon! Ahem, in order to make it clearer when I am switching point of views, I am putting this sign between paragraphs and if I am jumping through time, I'll put just . I hope that these come through. I have had some trouble with the document manager not uploading all the symbols. Thank you for reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however.

Medical Disclaimer: no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

It was nearly sundown by the time Tithen guided the horses and Aragorn to her farmhouse. She could feel the man's weary horse panting beneath her; she had driven him hard. But time was running out for this man, and no matter how much her heart ached for the exhausted horse, no matter how much she wanted to put the man on her horse and ride him for a time, she knew that she would never have been able to get the man safely onto Arod. Her throat was painful and had hours ago become raspy, but she had kept up a one sided conversation with the man, encouraging him, threatening him, telling him stories and singing, trying to keep him on her side of the darkness.

"Where do you come from, stranger? You are not from around here, you are not from the south of Middle Earth, no, you come from the north, the land of trolls, and ice. If you had wanted warm weather you needed to go further south, Lebbennon. You had better be alive when we get home. I will be very upset if I have driven this horse for a dead man. I wonder what you like to eat," she rambled, hoping against hope that he could hear her and would keep listening in the hope that she said something that made sense.

Aragorn could hear her, but just barely. He heard a girl's voice, no, not a girl's voice, it was too melodious, too soothing, too maternal to be a girl's voice, a woman's voice. He had caught only bits, phrases of what she said, mostly when she spoke in Elvish was when he understood her. He understood, dimly, as though in a dream, that she was taking him home, wherever that was. He had heard her say over and over again "Tithen", little, and he wondered what she meant. But thoughts about his rescuer's words came second to his thoughts about her strength, and his pain. He realized that she was holding him onto his horse, which seemed to be going very fast.

As time wore on, Aragorn grew colder, despite the woman's warming embrace and the layers of blankets around him. The world grew darker, though whether it was from the sun going down or the darkness was only in his mind, he could not tell. After what seemed to be an eternity, Aragorn felt the woman pull on the reins and Arthad came panting to a halt. The woman placed her right hand across his forehead, whispered words he could not hear, but his head grew clearer and the darkness receded, relinquishing it's hold on his conscious mind. He raised his head slowly, trying to ignore the dizziness that swept over him, around him, and open his eyes, but the dark world tilted out of focus and he closed his eyes as quickly as he could.

"Shh, don't do that yet. Stay still, I shall return," the voice he had heard weaving in and out of his waking dreams murmured to him before the little warmth he had felt behind him slid away and he was left shivering in the dark, violently swirling night.

Tithen tried to be as gentle as she could as she got of the horse and ran to her door, unlocking the normal lock and quickly giving it the password to release the enchantment. She rushed in and began lighting lamps, candles, and rekindling the fire in the large hearth, remembering to turn down the blankets of the bed on the first floor, before rushing out again. She untied the ropes about the man's waist and gently eased him off his horse, using all of her considerable strength and thanking the Valar for her height. When he was on the ground, she considered simply picking him up and carrying him into the house, but remembered that all his clothes were sopping wet and realizing he would be difficult to carry, even for a farm girl. She placed his arm across her shoulder and slid her arm around him, half carrying and half supporting him to the house.

"That's it," she said softly, "One foot at a time. Don't open your eyes, don't worry about falling. I have you, I wont let you fall."

Aragorn wished the ground would stay in one place. He cursed the unbearable vertigo that had taken his head prisoner, and wished that his legs would support his weight. He felt the woman place his arm over her shoulder and her strong arm support him as she led the way to the house. He found that his feet did not seem to want to obey him. He tried to open his eyes and see where he was going, but it only intensified the dizziness, seeing the ground sliding about as it did. Aragorn closed them again and let the woman lead him, guiding him over doorsill and into the warm house.

There was warmth and light all around him. He could feel it lap about him and see the glow of fire as it filtered through his eyelids. She led him down a short corridor, and into a room on the right. This room was cooler than the hall, but still warm. Aragorn was guided to a soft, large chair and settled against its many soft pillows.

Tithen breathed a sigh of relief as she helped the man sink into the chair. He was in the room he needed to be in, and his color, pale and sickly though it was, was nowhere near as bad as she had feared it would be. She placed her fingers against the pulse point in his neck—it was weak, but there, and steady. She gently tucked a blanket around him to keep him warm while she got her healer's things and heated water. She knew she would need a lot. The man's injuries were serious, and he was caked in blood, sweat and mud. Tithen could only hope that he had brought spare clothes with him. She could of course… but no, she could not think about that, it wasn't good to think about such things.

She hastened to the kitchen and, throwing off her cloak and coat, grabbed as many pots as she could carry under one arm. She slung her healer's bad over her shoulder and tucked the small chest that held extra bandages and ointments under her other arm. As she hurried past the row of pegs by the door, she deftly knocked a large white apron off one of them and over her shoulder. If twenty years of being a healer had taught Tithen anything, it was that one should always wear an apron when healing dirty Rangers.

She dropped the pans on the hearthrug, and despite her attempts to do so quietly, they clattered and the man jumped.

"Shhh," she told the pans. "Be quiet." She placed her healer's things on a small, low table between the chair Aragorn sat in and the bed. Tithen checked his pulse and breathing again, and then placed her hands on his forehead and hands. His hands were icy and clammy. She walked to on of the cabinets that were built on either side of the fireplace and retrieved several woolen blankets and quilts, which had been warmed through by the heat radiating off of the chimney. She wrapped them around Aragorn's shivering form, and set others on the foot of the bed. After placing more pillows beside and behind the man's head, satisfied that he was at least stable, and getting warm, Tithen left the room to bring in more wood for the fire and water. She made several trips, one hand holding her outer skirt in a hammock shape, which carried several logs, and the other hand carrying a large bucket full of water, which in turn was poured into one of the small kettles resting near the embers or the large pot hanging over the fire.

When she was content with the amount of wood she had piled on the fire or in the wood bin, and one of the smaller, cast-iron pots was steaming, she returned her attention to the man, which it had never really left. She knew that once she started to patch him up, she would not be able to stop and she needed to have everything she would need on hand. Also, the first priority for the man was to get him warm—he had been injured for hours, and his wounds had stopped bleeding seriously. If he had not bled to death yet, he wouldn't within the half hour or so it took her to heat the water and fetch her bandages.

Tithen took off her sweaters, rolled up her sleeves and tied on her apron. She grabbed several towels out of the warming cupboards, throwing most of them over her shoulder and using one to pick up the pot of hot water, which she placed on a stand she coaxed out from behind the chair with her foot. She then threw the towels onto the bed, where she could easily reach them.

Tithen reached out and swept an errant strand of hair away from the man's face. He stirred and his eyes fluttered open. They were glazed and tired, but seemed to see her. She looked at him kindly, the tips of her fingers resting on his temple, paused in the act of sweeping the dark, shoulder length hair from his eyes.

"You are awake, my friend," she said in common. "Le estel…" She stopped as he looked sharply at her as she spoke the Elvish word for 'hope'. "Estel?" he continued to look pointedly at her. "You recognize that word?" Perhaps, she thought, it sounds similar to his name. "I shall call you 'Estel' then, since that is the only thing I have said that has caught your attention. I am called Tithen, by some, although," she mused, "Others call me, Meren, or Adaneth. Why don't you call me Tithen." Estel blinked tiredly at her before he closed his eyes again. She gently stoked his cheek, "Hey, I need you stay awake awhile longer, my friend. Estel, I need you to stay awake. I know you want to go to sleep, but you have to wait just a little while, alright?" He nodded imperceptibly. "Good. Here, try to take a sip of this water."

She held a mug with cold water to his lips and helped him to take a sip. Immediately he started to gag and wretch, the water trickling out of his mouth as he coughed violently.

Aragorn felt sick, and knew that if there were anything left in his stomach, he would be vomiting. But there was nothing, because what was happening now had happened hours ago when he had tried to quench his thirst with water from his water bottle. He had ridded himself of what little there had been in his stomach from lunch almost as soon as he had started riding.

Tithen held him until the spasm passed and he leaned back into the chair. She bit her lip, and considered her possibilities. He needed to drink water, but if he was nauseated, then it would do him no good to pour water down his throat. She opened her healers bag and selected several dried herbs, which she ground into a fine powder with her mortar and pestle. She added enough water to make a paste and stirred it till it was thick and there were no recognizable bits of plant. She sat on the broad arm of the chair.

"Here," she said. "It's something to calm your stomach." She spread a small amount of the paste on Aragorn's lip. "Don't try to eat it. Just lick it off your lip, that way it wont upset your stomach before it has a chance to work." Aragorn did as he was bidden, and before long there was no longer any of the medicine left within the mortar. Tithen put it down on the floor and gave him a small smile. "Good, that should start to work soon. In the mean time, I'm going to clean and patch you up a bit. I've been trained as a healer," She saw his eyelids begin to droop. "Please, stay awake. I can't let you fall asleep yet. Believe me, when I can let you sleep, I will." Aragorn managed a weak smile at those words that he himself had so often said.

Tithen knelt at the foot of the chair and brought the basin of water over to her. She pulled the many blankets back to reveal Aragorn's boots, muddy and wet, their laces swollen so that the knots were no longer discernable. She took a small knife from its sheath at her waist and cut through the laces with little trouble. Her fingers deftly began to work the laces out of their holes and soon she was able to slide the boot off without too much trouble. Without looking, she deftly tossed the boot over her shoulder, where it landed near the door. Tithen had to allow herself a chuckle at the sight of the man's socks—they were dirty, wet, covered in multishaded patches, and holes were wearing through. She slid the wet woolen knitting off Aragorn's foot and threw it near the boot. Laying a towel across her lap, she dipped a rag into the basin, rubbed in a bar of soap she had tucked into her pocket, rang it out until it was cool enough, and began to gently wash Aragorn's feet.

Aragorn was at first shocked, and then comforted by Tithen's action. He could not remember the last time someone had been kind to him. In the south, he received either angry stares because the people thought he should be in the Gondor army, or, if they recognized that he was a Ranger from the north, they sneered at him with distrust and distaste. To have someone not only take him in, not out of financial necessity or a withering sense of compassion, but to treat him with kindness, not to recoil from his touch, to care for him…it warmed his heart, in the same way that the warm water was heating his toes (when was the last time he could feel his toes, let alone have them warm?), and lightened the burden on his spirit, much as the fresh, clean smell of the soap was easing the pounding in his head. As he mused over these things, he was aware that Tithen was singing songs, and reciting children's poems and nonsense rhymes.

"I do not love thee, Healer Fell.

The reason why, I cannot tell.

But this I know, and know full well,

I do not love thee, Healer Fell," she recited as she wrung out the cloth. "Whoever wrote that must have been a very bad mood," she paused. "And very possibly suffering from a blow to the head." Aragorn smiled weakly. She was using what he had heard to be called the "Big sister trick"—telling stories, singing, or rattling off poems to distract someone from pain or discomfort. He had to give this to her, she had mastered the trick very well.

"Good morning merry sunshine,

How did you wake so soon?

You scared the little stars away

And shined away the moon.

I saw you go to sleep last night,

Before I ceased my playing.

Where do you go at night,

And where have you been staying?" She laughed. "I seemed to have forgotten the rest of the rhyme. I suppose it doesn't really matter, seeing as it's nighttime."

Tithen glanced quickly up at her patient. A fleeting smile crossed his lips as she rambled on with her half remembered childhood rhymes and finished washing his feet. She quickly dried them with a towel and wrapped them in small lap blankets before moving on. She looked up at Estel. "Estel, I need to see if you have injured your legs. There is so much blood on your clothes, I cannot tell from where it is coming. I will try to be gentle," she flashed him a mischievous, yet reassuring smile. "Though I cannot guarantee that your clothes will survive unscathed. On the other side of the leaf, it looks like you could use new socks, so perhaps the rest of your clothes could use repairs." She was rewarded by a soft snort of laughter and a crooked grin.

TBC

Further note: The poems here are my variations on ones I remember from Childhood. They are not mine; they belong to whatever poet wrote them. I simply don't know their names.