Aragorn rose early the next morning in order to complete Tithen's chores before she woke. If she woke, and there were still things left to be done, she would be up and about trying to do them, regardless of her ankle.
It took him about two hours to complete the morning tasks, but they were done before the clock chimed seven. Aragorn fixed a tray of breakfast for himself and Tithen of rolls, ham and tea, and was carrying it upstairs to her bedroom when he heard a muffled thump. He ran up the stairs, paused long enough to put the tray down and ran into her chamber to find her kneeling on the floor next to her bed. Aragorn shook his head and went to her side to help her back into bed.
"Did I not tell you to stay off your ankle for at least a week?" he asked exasperatedly as he pulled the blankets over her. Tithen crossed her arms petulantly and scowled at him.
"You said I should stay off it, but you did not specify for how long. And it does not matter, planting time is only a few weeks away, there are chores to be done, thi-" Aragorn held up his hand and cut her off mid-sentence.
"Today's chores are already done, and, as you said, planting is weeks away, which means that you have weeks to let your ankle heal," he reasoned with her before fetching the tray from the landing.
"But you wont be here all that time," she pointed out. "You will be gone as soon as the pass thaws, and that is not more than a week or two from now."
Aragorn laughed and set the tray of food between them. "Forgive me if I do not believe you, my lady. It has done little but snow since I arrived and another storm brews as we speak."
Tithen grinned and took a roll. "I think you would be surprised at the rapidity with which spring comes to my valley, my friend. This storm will most likely be the worst and the last. After this one, there is little chance there will be another, and warm weather will soon follow it."
"Be that as it may," Aragorn said, sipping his tea and grinning, "I will stay until I deem your ankle healed, or can find someone capable of keeping you in bed."
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"Tithen, for the sake of the Valar, stay in bed!"
Aragorn picked up Tithen from the floor where she had fallen after once again attempting to get out of bed. He was getting rather frustrated with her refusal to heed his warnings, but he could see that she was even more frustrated than he. Clearly, she did not like to be bed-bound.
"Aragorn, I must do something! I cannot lie here idle!" she said and sighed. There were few things she hated more than orcs, but being idle in bed was one of them. Having someone around who could actually force her too was worse. Good for her, but worse.
Aragorn sighed. "Tithen, if you don't stay in bed as you're told, I will have to drug you and tie you to it!"
Tithen stared at her hands like a scolded child. "Give me something to do," she pleaded. "Knitting, mending, anything! I'll stay in bed, I swear, just give me something to do!"
Aragorn nodded and fetched her knitting bag and sewing box from the other side of the room. To his surprise, they did the trick. Occupied with these chores, Tithen remained almost quietly in her bed for the rest of the day.
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Aragorn flopped into his bed and pulled the blankets over his head. It had been a long, amusing, frustrating, and allover tiring day
Aragorn chuckled to himself. She was a healer's worst nightmare of a patient, but he found it rather amusing to see their positions reversed and discover she was worse at being injured than he was. He would have to tell Elrond when he returned to Rivendell; Elrond firmly believed that there was no human in Middle Earth more difficult to heal than his foster son.
With the comforting thoughts that he had gotten Tithen to sleep again this night and that hopefully whatever it was that troubled her was either past or she would confide in him soon, Aragorn drifted to sleep.
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Aragorn could not have been wrong—Tithen was neither sleeping, nor was she untroubled. She was tossing and turning her bed, muttering to herself, wrestling with feelings of guilt, grief, and hopelessness.
It was about midnight before these thoughts ceased to trouble her; not because she had come to terms with her past, but because she had reached a decision—it was easier to deal with the future than the past.
Tithen rummaged under her bed and found a pair of boots. She pulled them on and laced it tightly around her injured ankle, to hold it in place and allow her to walk. She pulled a surcoat over her nightdress, to keep the loose folds of cloth out of her way—she did not want to be hampered.
She put on her belt, and assured herself that Aragorn had not removed anything from it. Nothing was missing, and so she started downstairs, moving stiffly, stoically, and silently, so as not to wake Aragorn. He would not understand why she must do this.
I'm coming Gwenneth, she thought to herself. At last, I'm coming.
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Aragorn woke with a start, and listened to the sounds of the night. At first he heard nothing over the sounds of the storm, but slowly he discerned a separate moan from that of the weather. The sound of despair.
Realization hit him with painful force, and he jumped out of bed, pulled on his boots and ran downstairs, pausing only to grab a cloak, a lantern and his healer's bag. If he knew anything, it was that he would need it.
He ran outside, and began following the footprints in the snow, hoping he could find her before the storm obliterated her tracks.
Why hadn't he seen it before? Why had he not recognized the signs? Why had he not pressed her to share her troubles more? Aragorn silently cursed himself for failing to listen to his healer's instincts.
He should have recognized it the moment she refused to take care of her sickness and began to have nightmares. How many times had he seen young rangers and soldiers do the same thing, after their first encounter with the death of innocents and friends? How many times had he helped old soldiers, old battle-weary rangers deal with this, as with nothing to do they remembered every death they felt responsible for, every mistake they ever made?
He could only hope he found her in time.
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Tithen stood frozen in the snow, staring at the mounds in front of her, around her. The ones behind her were of ancestors, long dead—she knew only their names, and perhaps their face from a painting, maybe a humorous anecdote or what part of her house they built. But that was all. They were some how unreal, she had never known their touch, their smile, never seen them suffer.
But the mounds in front of her, the people buried there were different—they were her family: her father, her mother, Adan, Bargon…Gwenneth. They lay in these mounds, cold, still, in the darkness where no light ever shone. They were real—she had known them, touched them, felt their love, seen them dead, or dying.
She began to scream and sob, throwing herself to her knees before the graves of her family. Her cries were echoed on the wind, which sang its own dirge, mourning for all the lives that had been lost throughout the ages, for those that would not see another sunrise. It mourned for the lives touched by evil, for those who toiled on the dusty plains of Gorgoroth, for whom the wind only stirred the dust, and brought no relief from the heat. But the moans of wind and woman were heeded only by the mountains, which stood watch over the valley. The mountains had known all those buried in the mounds, and respected them. They were good for Men, not as good as elves at tending the earth, but they had known that the earth allowed them to till it, and that nature was more powerful than they. The mountains had watched them for the thousands of years that they had lived under their shadow, and the mountains hoped that the man with the blood of Melian in his veins would find the woman before her dwelling was a mound—they did not want new men in their valley. The mountains did not like change, and at least with Tithen, they knew what to expect.
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Aragorn's wishes were very much the same as the mountains—that he found Tithen before it was too late. He struggled through the snow, amazed that she had gotten so far with her injured ankle, and wondering why she would travel so far to complete a fairly simple task...
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Tithen beat her fists against the stone doors that guarded the bones of her mother and father, Adan and Bargon, and of Gwenneth. She knew that she was acting childish, throwing a tantrum because she wanted her family, but she didn't care. There was no one to see her, and she wanted to scream her anger and pain to the skies before she saw her family again.
Saline tears streamed down her face, blood trickled from cuts on her hands, the icy air tore at her raw throat. At last, she dropped to her knees again before the grave of her sister.
"Gwenneth, oh, muinthel nin, forgive me, please, I did all I could!" she wept, as her fingers sought the handle of her dagger. "I tried, baby, I tried! I couldn't find you, I couldn't find you, and she sent me back, they wouldn't let me follow, Gwenneth! Please, forgive me!"
Tears continued to flow from her eyes as she drew her knife and wrapped her fingers around the hilt, the tip of the blade hovering a few inches from her heart.
"I'm coming now, though, little sister. They can't stop me this time. I promised I would protect you, now I can fulfill that promise," she sobbed as she readied herself and thrust the blade towards her chest.
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Aragorn stumbled through the snow, slightly bewildered as to what direction to travel. The snow and wind had wiped clean Tithen's tracks, and the wind blowing the snow in all directions made it hard to see.
He tried to listen and hear her cries, and let them lead him to her, but it was impossible to distinguish human cries from the moan of the wind.
Aragorn stood in the snow, about to gamble which way to go, when something told him to continue on straight ahead. He did not know whether it was instinct, or a spirit on the wind guiding him, but Aragorn heeded the advice and raced ahead once again, praying to any Valar that would listen that he would be in time.
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She had failed.
Again.
Some will other than her own had guided the dagger blade. Instead of breaking her sternum and piercing her heart, it had entered her body several inches down and an inch or so over, breaking ribs, and grazing her lung. The blade had not pierced it, but with every breath, the soft flesh scraped against hard steel.
She had failed.
No, she hadn't failed. Yet.
All she had to do was wait.
Eventually, she would lose too much body heat, become hypothermic, lose consciousness, and freeze to death.
Or she would bleed to death.
Or both.
All she had to do was wait.
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Aragorn at last caught sight of her, kneeling in the snow near…now he understood why she had left the house to die. She had come to the barrows, to be near the graves of her family.
This thought spurred Aragorn to put on greater speed—it showed that she had thought about her decision, which meant that she would be determined to die, and there would be very little reasoning with her.
After what seemed to be an eternity to Aragorn, he reached her side and crouched in the snow.
"Tithen," he asked and lay a hand on her shoulder. As he spoke, he felt her tense, and he leaned forward to look her in the face. "Tithen, are you alright?"
She turned her head to look at him, tears running down her cheeks. She looked like a lost, frightened child.
"I couldn't save her, Estel," she whispered. "I tried, but she was gone, and they wouldn't let me follow," she began to sob. "She was all alone, and they wouldn't let me go to her!"
"Tithen-" Aragorn started, but she jerked away.
"I won't let them this time. I won't let you stop me!" she shouted, and then, once again, she broke into sobs. "Please don't stop me. Let me die."
Aragorn said nothing, but slowly looked to see what she was clutching to her chest, and was horrified, but not surprised to see the hilt of a dagger glinting in the light of his lantern.
"You will not stop me Estel! You won't! You won't! I won't let you!" she screamed hysterically, leaning warily away from him.
Aragorn made a split second decision. He had never hit a woman before, but there was a first time for everything, and there was nothing else he could think to do.
Before Tithen could move any more and do irreparable damage to herself, Aragorn hit her over the head with his fist, and caught her as she crumpled. Positioning his lantern so that he could see, he carefully leaned her inert body against his knee and examined the position of the stab wound. He listened to her breathing, and was relieved not to hear the sounds of fluid, of blood in her lungs.
He took a soft pad from his sack, and with his left hand withdrew the dagger when she exhaled and clamped the pad to the wound with his right. He held it there very tightly for a moment before binding it as tightly as he could.
Knowing that he could not carry both Tithen and the lantern, he extinguished the flame and left the lantern in the shadow of the mound. He unwrapped the cloak from about his shoulders and wrapped Tithen in it. He did not want to have her become hypothermic, because hypothermia combined with shock and blood loss was as deadly as a Morgul blade.
Silently, Aragorn stumbled through the night back towards the house, carrying the woman who had rescued him from another snowstorm. In the darkness, it was difficult for him to know where he was going, and so he listened to the small voice on the wind that told him to go straight ahead, towards the dim light and shadowy hulk in the distance.
He could only hope he hadn't arrived too late.
A/N: A surcoat is like a jumper, or a dress without sleeves, not a jacket. Hope you like this chapter, I hope to have the next one up soon.