The Raveled Sleave of Care.

A/N: For anyone noticing the strange spelling, it's because it's based upon a quotation from Macbeth about sleep: "That knits up the raveled sleave of care…" You can just start expecting my titles to include Shakespeare. Also, I went sort of description crazy in this chapter. So, I hope you enjoy it, but I will try to cut back a little. I know too much description gets boring. : )

viggomaniac: Even a hurried review gives me great joy and spurs my muse to great attempts! By all means, write hurried reviews!

QueenofFlarmphagal: It fills me with hope and happiness to know that I continue to please. I'm glad you liked Aragorn's reaction to her query, and her response. It was designed to add a little light-heartedness to this rather dark tale. Enjoy Chapter 6!

Tithen bit her lip until it bled, bright red drops appearing on her dry lips like the dew appears on the morning grass. She had to get Aragorn to stop coughing. He had been coughing too long now. He needed to breathe, needed to breathe in new air, to fill his lungs slowly. He needed to lie still, preferably flat, his chest wound would not take much more. Tithen was afraid that his ribs might have already fractured under the strain and pressure.

ovovovovovo

Aragorn desperately tried to control his breathing, to stop the spasms that had him coughing so terribly that he felt he was coughing the very life out of himself. He would take a hurried breath, the rush of air over his raw throat sending pain everywhere, like the fire that spreads when an oil lamp is broken. As soon as he had partially filled his lungs with air, with life, the oliphaunt that had sat on his chest all night began its frantic dance again, forcing his chest to contract in quick, painful, rapid jerks. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aragorn could hear Tithen whispering, and feel her rubbing his back in soothing circles. If only that simple motion, so like the motion of his father's hands, could smooth away his coughs, as Elrond had done the time he had had a terrible chest cold after straying into the northern mountains in winter, and had coughed endlessly for days. However, then, he hadn't had a nearly broken rib.

ovovovovovo

Tithen tried to decide what to do. The first thing to do was to get him to stop coughing, but now that the spasm had him in its grip, there was little she could do beyond what she was already doing. And after he stopped coughing? she asked herself. What would she do then? Should she give him something to suppress his cough? That would, unfortunately, only stop him from breaking his ribs, if, indeed, he hadn't already done so.

She shuddered, even as she drew Aragorn's head into her chest, to give him some stability, something to lean on while they waited for the choking cough to pass. She hated with a passion the herbal tea that suppressed coughing, hated it almost as she hated orcs. It was useful of course, and it was indispensable when it came to treating some illnesses, or if one had broken ribs and a cough, but she still loathed it. It did not so much as ease the cough as it made it impossible to cough. You didn't suffocate, didn't wretch as the coughs strangled you, but instead you felt as though you were being crushed, as though a cave troll were squeezing the life from you, like an inexperienced healer had wrapped your chest in bands of cloth so tight, you couldn't breathe.

ovovovovovo

Slowly, slowly, after what seemed to be an eternity to Aragorn, the oliphaunt tired, and after a few harsh, rattling gasps for air, he stopped coughing. He was exhausted, dark spots swam before his eyes and shadows crept around the edge of his vision. The pain in his side and arm was growing unbearable, like white-hot knives being cruelly twisted in his flesh. The cave troll in his head had resumed its pounding; it felt as though his head were going to burst.

ovovovovovo

Tithen let Aragorn continue to rest his head on her shoulder and lean on her for support as she continued to gently rub his back in soothing circles, carefully avoiding the area near to the wound in his side, which was undoubtedly sore.

She wanted so badly to reach out to him, to take his pain, his weariness, to carry some of his burden on her shoulders. She felt helpless, watching him gasp for air and pain, his face contorted in agony. She could give him rest, some strength, she could help to ease fear, but she could not take his pain. She had only her skill with herbs to help ease the torture he was going through.

It was happening again. She had more now…she had had more than anyone else then…but it was not enough…not then…not now…she was helpless…she could but watch…

"STOP!" her mind screamed. "DON'T DO THAT! NOT NOW!"

Tithen took a deep breath. She could not think about that now. Aragorn needed her, just like…no, stop… later…Aragorn needed her, and that was enough. For now.

She wrapped her arms around him, one hand supporting his head, so as not to jolt him as she carefully eased him down on to the pillows once more, and pulled more blankets up about him. She lay her fingertips across his forehead…the fever was burning hotter. She would have to give him something for it. Fevers, low fevers, were good, they helped to kill the sickness, like cauterizing a wound, but too high a fever, and it could damage the heart.

Tithen rose in a fluid motion, so as to not shake the bed, and set a small pan of honeyed milk on the hearth to warm. Aragorn could see her out of the corner of his eye. He was so cold; he was shivering, sending shockwaves of pain everywhere. His throat was on fire, his stomach churned. He felt as though he were being crushed under a boulder with glass shards all around, as though he were frozen in ice, yet there was a fire in his flesh.

Warmth. Aragorn could feel the warmth enfolding him as Tithen lay several more blankets on top of him, firmly tucking them about him, but not near his wounds. He watched as she unfolded one with almost reverence, and lay it over him with loving care, smoothing out the wrinkles and tucking the edges into the bed. She smiled a soft smile. It was a nice smile, Aragorn thought. Yet, there was something…

"My grandmother made this," she said, as she folded the bottom corner under the mattress. "When my mother was a girl. See the design?" she traced her finger over the many triangles and squares of fabric. Aragorn looked at it, it was fascinating, colorful, and distracting. At first it appeared to be what he had heard Arwen called a "crazy quilt", a quilt made from left over scraps from dresses, robes, other quilts, and sewn together with no particular pattern or theme into a colorful fruit salad of a blanket. But as he looked at it, Aragorn thought he could see a subtle pattern woven through the oddly matched scraps.

Tithen smiled wider as she saw Aragorn's attention caught by the color and intricate pattern. This was good, and precisely what she had wanted when she had pulled the quilt out of the closet. The fact that all quilts had a story behind them was a bonus.

"My mother broke her leg one winter when she about ten, and my grandmother made this quilt to keep her occupied. My mother liked to watch her sew," Tithen explained as she set about mixing up herbs to ease Aragorn's cough and fever. "My grandmother didn't like to use set patterns. She always said that anyone could make a checkerboard quilt, or sew a grandmother pattern, but no one could copy a pattern she made herself." Tithen took the milk from the hearth and poured it into a bowl. People were less likely to gulp from a bowl, for some reason. "Every quilt she made, was different, because each time, so my grandmother said, she was different. She had had another child, she had seen another winter, helped with another harvest."

Aragorn listened to Tithen weave the tale, her voice lulling him. He didn't even resist as she held a bowl of sweetened milk to his lips and told him to drink. The mixture soothed his throat, coating it, protecting it from the harsh air. It warmed his chest, easing the ache. She withdrew the bowl, and when he drank again it tasted different, and he knew she had added herbs.

"Do you think you could stay awake a bit longer?" she asked, placing the bowl on the table. Aragorn nodded, slightly. He knew that speaking would most likely set off a fresh fit of coughing.

"Good," she said rising. She stared off into the distance for a moment, and then looked at him with a questioning glance. "Do you like music?"

Aragorn was puzzled, but nodded. It was impossible to grow up in Rivendell and not enjoy music.

"Good," she repeated, and left the room. When she returned, he could see that she carried a small wooden flute or pipe. From behind the bed, he could hear soft scraping noises, and eventually she came into his peripheral vision, positioning a rocking chair in front of the fire and settling herself in it. Aragorn turned his head on the pillow so that he could see her better. She put one end of the instrument to her lips and began to play. At first, Aragorn was surprised to hear the pleasant sound emanating from the flute—after growing up among elves, and elvish instruments, most man-made instruments sounded harsh in comparison. But either this flute had been made by a master, or Tithen's skill with it was so great as to overcome its failings.

The first tune she played was fast, and upbeat, possibly a jig. He listened with pleasure as she trilled low in the register and then shot up suddenly to play rapidly in the upper range, and watched as her foot moved in rhythm, barely keeping pace with the song and all the emotions and thoughts that go through a musician's mind as he plays ran across her face. Aragorn half-closed his eyes and pictured in his mind bright spring days, sunlight playing across babbling brooks. Then, though he could not tell where one song ended and the next began, the music was slower, but not much, and it was still joyful and happy.

After a while, the music stopped abruptly. Aragorn was startled, having fallen into reverie, and began to cough a little. Tithen was immediately at his side, with a cup of water at his lips. Aragorn sipped it, and lay back on the pillows. As he did, he caught a glimpse of a fleeting look in Tithen's eyes. He wasn't sure what it was, but something told him to remember that look, that it was somehow important, but he was too tired to take any real notice of it for the moment.

"I'm sorry, mellon nîn," Tithen apologized. "You want to sleep, no doubt. Here," she held a cup to Aragorn's lips and he drank. It was the milk again, but with different herbs. "It's a painkiller, and it will help you sleep. Not put you to sleep, understand, just help you relax," she smiled. "If it doesn't, let me know. I am gifted in that way."

Aragorn gave her a wan smile and closed his eyes. He could feel the herbs beginning to work, dulling the aches, taking the edge off the pain. Tithen had begun to play again. He listened to the sound of her flute as it wove slow, gentle melodies, lullabies, quiet songs of eventide, let the music flow around him, cradle him, rock him to sleep on its waves of song.

ovovovovovo

Tithen continued to play long after she had seen Aragorn's eyes flutter close and his breathing slow, becoming shallow and even. She continued to play lullabies for a time, pulling old tunes up from the depths of her memory, other times improvising, and painting pictures of stars and rest with the flute, as a painter does with a brush. Gradually though, almost imperceptibly, the song changed, the melodies becoming plaintive, then sorrowful, and then, mournful.

oxoxoxoxoxo

It was late that night, as Aragorn began to drift to sleep again, seeking the respite that unconsciousness gave him from suffering, that he realized what it was that he had seen in Tithen's eyes as she had seen him begin to cough again.

Terror. Horror. Guilt.

They had all been there, lurking in the depths of her eyes. The kind of terror he had seen in the eyes of those who had been tortured and see a sight that reminds them of their pain. Horror, like that he had seen in the eyes of children who watch their parents die. And guilt…he had never seen such anguish, such self-blame in the eyes of any mortal.

But he thought all this as he drifted to the land of peace and rest. He did not recall his revelation when he awoke, and would not for some time yet to come. They settled at the back of his mind, where a mournful melody wove itself around them.

TBC

A/N I know this chapter is a little short, but it was such a great place to end, and my last chapter was kinda long. I am typing Chapter 7 as quickly as may be!