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.
viggomaniac: I'm glad you are enjoying it. You're first reviews had me a bit worried I could not pull this story off, but your words are very encouraging.
QueenofFlarmphgal: I'm glad you liked the quilt-trick. Elrond should learn that trick, but somehow, I don't imagine elves making blankets quite so colorful as Tithen's grandmother.
Bill the Pony2: Happy to oblige. Is this a quick enough update?
A/N: Here's chapter 7 in all its shortness and glory. This is probably the only time I will update this quickly, so don't get used to it. This time, you can thank a writer's empathy for her characters. I seem to have caught whatever Aragorn has, and it has prompted me to write this, while waiting for inspiration for a paper. Enjoy! (Achoo! Cough, Cough. Shiver)
Pain. There was so much pain. Unbearable, searing, wrenching, agony. How long had it been? Hours? Days? Years? Ages? Eons? How long had he lain here, weak, defenseless, helpless?
Weak. That one word cut through Aragorn, hurting him more than all his other wounds. He was one of the Dunadaîn! He was the Dunadan. He was a ranger. To be a ranger was to be a protector. A protector protected the weak. How could he be a ranger if he was weak? If he could not even lift a cup to his lips to quench his thirst?
Air. He needed air. Aragorn felt that he would gladly have suffered all the pain in the world if he could only have one breath of air. He was being crushed, strangled, pounded, smothered. He could only breathe in painful gasps.
Ice. He was trapped in ice. Why hadn't Tithen found him yet? Where was the quilt her grandmother had made? He was so cold. He was shivering, his teeth chattered.
Fire. His throat was on fire. An orc had forced oil down his throat and set it ablaze. All the water in the world would not quench it. His arm, his side was burning. Was someone cauterizing it? No, it had gone on too long.
ovovovovovovo
Tithen frowned as she bathed Aragorn's face with a damp cloth. She had done all she could for him, going so far as to bath his wounds and chest with water infused with dried aethelas. They had helped, but before long, his fever and ragged breathing had returned.
Two days had passed since she had brought him to her home. Two day's of trying to make him comfortable, of coaxing him to eat, and drink, of slipping him herbs whenever she could. And still, the fever burned, his breathing became harsh, rattling, he coughed deep, dry coughs, his wounds did not heal, because they were disturbed, because he was ill.
Aragorn murmured in his sleep. When the fever rose, he was plagued with nightmares, often too brief for Tithen to enter the other realm and lead him to peace. Tithen sighed. She did not know how long he could last like this. She did not know how long she could last.
ovovovovovovo
Aragorn was cold, he shivered, and he knew he had a fever. He was sick. In the distance, far off, he could hear a woman whispering, singing gently to him, bathing his face in cool water, wrapping him in blankets. It was dark. Something was crushing him. He hurt. Why did he hurt so much? Who was the woman? The voice… the voice was so calming, so familiar…
ovovovovovovo
Tithen frowned again as Aragorn whimpered in his sleep. She shuddered to think of how much he must be suffering to let a sign of pain escape him, even in sleep. His fever had risen, and she feared that if he awoke, he would be delirious.
Suddenly, Aragorn cried out. Tithen rewet the cloth and wiped it over his face, running her fingers through his hair with her other hand and murmuring softly to him in elvish, "Shh, it's alright. You're safe. Sleep, mellon nîn…"
ovovovovovovo
"Mellon nîn?"
Aragorn looked up at Legolas as the elf gazed down on him with a smile and threw another blanket over him.
"Legolas?" he asked, confused. The elven prince sat next to his friend and worked on fletching an arrow.
"Aye?" he responded.
Aragorn blinked rapidly, and tried to sit up, but his arm and side felt burned, in sharp contrast to the bitter cold air. "What happened?"
"You rolled into the fire as you slept. The burns are not bad, but we should try to reach Rivendell soon, so Elrond can treat them," Legolas answered. "You have a very bad habit of finding trouble wherever you go, Estel. Someday, we must try to break you of it." Aragorn smiled and closed his eyes as the dream melted away.
"Aragorn, waken penneth. Dawn is long over." Aragorn opened his eyes and sighed in relief as he saw the face of Elrond watching over him.
"Ada," he whispered, his throat dry and sore. "How did I get here?"
Elrond held a cup of water to Aragorn's lips and helped him to drink. "Legolas brought you. You had a high fever, and you were delirious. Rest now, ion-nîn. Sleep, and gain strength…"
Aragorn once again felt himself floating as the vision changed and he saw the face of Arwen, his beloved, shimmering into being before his eyes.
"Meleth," he murmured and reached out to touch a braid, to assure himself that she was there.
"I am here, my love," she said with a smile. "Rest. Get well. Heal. Return to me."
All too soon, this dream also faded, and Aragorn was standing in a cold glade, snow lying in drifts up to his knees. What was he doing here?
Before he could find an answer, they attacked. Orcs. They jumped on him and pounded him, slashed at him with their swords, bit him with their foul teeth. They held him down in the snow and brought a flaming log near his heart. He struggled and cried out.
ovovovovvovovo
Tithen placed her hand on Estel's shoulders and leaned on him with as much weight as she dared, trying to hold him down as he thrashed about, trapped in the throws of a nightmare.
"Estel! Awake! It's Tithen! No one is hurting you! It is but a dream! Wake! Estel!" she told him loudly, trying to curb the fear that rose in her heart. If he continued to thrash, he could tear the stitches in his side, begin to bleed, break the cracked ribs, pierce a lung…the list went on with all the horrible possible consequences if she did not get him to stop thrashing.
Why did he have to have a nightmare now? He had slept so peacefully for a time, Tithen had hoped that the worst was over, that his fever would soon break. Only when his fever broke, would she allow herself to sleep.
Tithen leaned on his right shoulder with all her weight and lay her right hand on his fevered brow, sending herself after his tormented spirit
oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Suddenly her mind was assailed by unbearable pain and heat. She realized that the fever and the pain Estel was experiencing and the intensity of the nightmare were acting like a barrier, keeping her from reaching him, and helping him.
She shut herself to the heat and pain and pressed onward, forcing herself through the wall of fire that separated her from Estel. The small part of herself that lingered in her body told her that the metaphysical pain and burning was hurting her physical body. She ignored it. Pain was something she was well acquainted with…it did not deter her. Estel needed her…just as…NO! NOT NOW!…
With a final effort, she burst through the fire and gasped, gathering her strength, fighting the pain. She saw Estel, troubled, fighting with something she could not see. She reached out to touch him, but he shrank back. She hovered a short distance away and slowly reached out to him again, calling his name and whispering words of comfort.
ovovovovovovovo
As Aragorn struggled, the orcs faded, and his vision dimmed. Slowly, he calmed, realized they were gone. He heard a woman's voice calling him.
"Estel, it's alright. You are safe. Nothing can hurt you here. You are safe, Estel," the voice whispered to him soothingly. Aragorn could see the hazy face of his mother appear in his dream, stroking his hair away from his face.
ovovovovovovovo
Tithen nearly collapse as she was pulled back to reality. Her body could no longer stand the pain and the sensation of burning, and had yanked her back. The pain lingered and she could feel that her strength had been sapped, but she was relieved to see a peaceful expression on Estel's face, and to see that he was still. She eased herself onto the edge of the bed and leaned on one arm as she gently ran her fingers through Estel's hair, damp with sweat.
"Naneth?" he whisper, his voice hoarse and his eyes just barely open, though not truly seeing. Tithen realized that he was dreaming of his mother, hallucinating that she was…
"Yes, Estel," she murmured, playing along. If the thought of his mother brought Estel peace, she would not disillusion him. He was fevered; the simple fact that he was no longer trapped in the nightmare was a relief. "I am here. Try to sleep. Nothing more can harm you here."
"So cold," he mumbled. "Hurts…chest…arm…fire…"
"Shh, shh," Tithen whispered. "I know. You have a fever. You are hurt. But you are safe now. Try to sleep. You will wake feeling better."
"Mmm," Aragorn sighed and settled back against the pillows. "Please, naneth…sing…"
"Yes, penneth," she murmured, continuing to stroke his hair as she racked her brains for a lullaby that his mother might sing to him…it would be an old one, one that all descendents of Numenor knew…that was it. Perfect.
"On
the wings of the wind, o'er the dark rolling deep
Belov'd
Elbereth watches over thy sleep
Blessed
Elbereth watches over thee
So
list' to the wind blowing over the sea
Hear
the wind blow
Hear
the wind blow
Lean
your head over
Hear
the wind blow
O
Winds of the night may your fury be crossed
May
no one that's dear to our island be lost
Blow
the wind gently, calm be the foam
Shine
the light brightly to guide them back home…"
She sang the old song softly, running her fingertips through Aragorn's hair and smoothing away from his face until she was certain that he was asleep. She sat on the edge of the bed a few moments longer, simply gazing at him sleeping peacefully, wishing that she could meet his mother someday. She had raised an amazing man. Tithen had seen men older than he, more weathered and battle-scarred, suffer through lesser wounds and fevers with less dignity than he.
She rose and pulled back the edge of the curtain to gaze out into the night, hoping to see the comforting light of the stars. What she saw made her hurry to build up the fire and place more blankets on Aragorn.
Outside, snow was blowing drifts, the wind freezing everything that had not sought shelter. The trees were coated in ice, the ground covering in a thick blanket of tiny ice crystals. A blizzard had come to Tithen's valley.
TBC
A/N: The song is an altered version of a lullaby called the Connemara Cradle Song. I don't own it, I don't know who does, but a friend of mine sent it to me, having read this story and realizing that it would work well, with a few changes. Thanks sis!