Spirits
"No, please, Gwenneth, come back. Please, Gwenneth, please…please," Tithen sobbed in her fevered sleep, shaking her head from side to side and grasping weakly, seeking for her lost sister.
Aragorn sighed and clasped her hand gently before sitting on the bed beside her and carefully pulling her to him, letting her head rest on his chest, her hand grasping his shirt.
"Ada?" she whimpered, staring up at him with fever-glazed eyes that did not truly see.
"Yes, tithen mîn," he murmured quietly as he gently rocked her in his arms, humming softly and stroking her hair soothingly. Slowly, her sobs subsided and she grew quiet; gradually, she relaxed and settled against Aragorn, her hand lessening it's death-grip on his tunic.
Moving slowly and cautiously, so as not to jerk Tithen, Aragorn reached behind him and fetched a small flask off of the nightstand. He uncorked it with his free hand and lightly touched it to her lips.
"Drink, little one," he said softly. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, childlike trust in her eyes.
"Ada?" she whispered again. The face above her was familiar, though blurred, the deep, soothing voice, the rumble in his chest as he spoke, the strength of his arms as he held her through the nightmares, they all spoke to her of her father.
"Yes, aerr," Aragorn said and lightly touched her lips with the flask again. "Drink, saes, it will help with the pain, I promise."
Tithen closed her eyes and drank from the flask slowly. When he thought she had taken enough, Aragorn took it from her lips and replaced it on the nightstand.
"Ada?"
"Yes?"
"Sing. Please. My song," she murmured sleepily as the sedatives in the water began to take effect.
Aragorn nodded and resumed stroking her hair and rocking gently. "Certainly, tithen mîn," he whispered.
Lullay,
my little tiny child,
By
by lullee, lullay
Lullay,
my little tiny child,
By
by lullee, lullay.
Estë
watches over thy sleep
By
by lullee, lullay
Sleep
without fear, sleep without dread
By
by lullee, lullay.
Lullay,
my little tiny child,
By
by lullee, lullay
Lullay,
my little tiny child,
By
by lullee, lullay.
Dawn
will come, darkness swiftly fade
By
by lullee, lullay
Anor's
light will shine over thee
By
by lullee, lullay.
Lullay,
my little tiny child,
By
by lullee, lullay
Lullay,
my little tiny child,
By
by lullee, lullay…
Tithen listened to the sound of the ancient lullaby, letting it sooth her aching head and rock her to sleep. She pressed her ear close to Aragorn's chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart and the deep rumble in his chest as he sang, thinking him to be her father, and herself a child again. A ten-year-old girl, already broken and bruised with the weight she had taken on her shoulders. A weight far too great for anyone to carry, let alone a child. This last thought was not her thought, but it was the truth, and it was what her father had told her, 14 years ago.
Aragorn let his voice gradually fade to nothingness as he felt Tithen's breathing ease and her body grow limp against him. He continued to hold her however, and slowly shifted his position so that he could lean against the headboard as he held his former hostess and now patient. Moving carefully, he pulled the blankets around her and another around his shoulders.
Aragorn rested his head on the headboard and sighed, exhausted after two sleepless days and nights of caring for Tithen. As much as he did not want to admit it, even he, with elvish blood and considerable gifts in healing, was truly not yet completely healed from his battle with the orcs. Stab wounds took many months to heal, he reminded himself bitterly as he shifted his burden so as to avoid touching Tithen's own wound.
Sleepily, he glanced down at the foot of the bed, where at least a dozen cats and kittens had congregated over the past two days, a purring, mewing, warm mass. He had welcomed their company, and they seemed to have a calming effect on Tithen. The only thing that bothered him was where all the cats had come from?
Aragorn jerked his head up. I must have dozed off, he thought. Shaking sleep from his eyes, he cast a glance over the foot of the bed to see whether the cat population had grown.
To his shock, sitting cross-legged amongst the cats was a young girl. The same young girl he had seen on the other side of the veil. The one who had told Tithen to return home. She smiled sweetly at him.
"Hail, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Elendil," she said. Aragorn was too shocked for the moment to respond.
"Do not be afraid," she said. "You have not died, and neither has my sister. This is a dream. I am called Gwenneth."
Aragorn found his voice again.
"Gwenneth?" he asked, not believing his senses. He had experienced many strange things in his sixty years of life, but he had never yet talked to a dead person.
She nodded. "Yes, I am Gwenneth. I would speak to you concerning my sister," the girl gazed sadly at the woman in Aragorn's arms. "Poor Meren. She has not lived up to her name yet. But," she said brightly, "Hopefully, we can change that. Umm, perhaps you would follow me? We may find it easier to talk outside. Don't worry about Meren," she reached out and yanked Aragorn forward, so that he stumbled onto the floor. "See?" she pointed to the bed, where a sleeping Aragorn was cradling a sleeping Tithen.
Gwenneth hopped off the bed and motioned for Aragorn to follow her through the door. As she touched the door handle, she turned around and, looking up at Aragorn, said, "Please, do not question how this is possible. Please, just accept that it is and send a prayer of thanks to Lord Irmo, Lord Lorien and Ladies Este and Nienna. An explanation involves numerous rules, regulations, loopholes, special cases, and other things even I don't understand," she paused and turned to open the door. "And one understands an awful lot when one is dead."
Though Aragorn did not see how he could possibly be more shocked than he was at having a conversation with a dead six-year-old, clearly it was, as he was even more shocked to discover that the door in Tithen's room, which normally led to the hall, had opened onto a sunlit spring field.
Gwenneth took Aragorn's large, rough hand in her own. She was surprised at how solid it felt. It had been a long time, or so it felt, since she had touched anything living.
Aragorn was also surprised at how solid her hand felt. She was a spirit, and he half expected her hand to pass right through his own. He looked down at her in wonderment.
Gwenneth flashed a smile that only six-year-olds are capable of producing, and began to run, pulling him behind her. She knew who he was. She knew he was the future king of Gondor, she knew everyone in his lineage. She had, in fact, met most of them. However, it mattered little to her. For now, he was Aragorn, or Estel, the man who could help her sister, be her hands and voice, now that she had none. It mattered not, for the moment, to her that Aragorn was of such a high lineage, or that what she was helping him do would help many other of her kin in the future—these facts were irrelevant to Gwenneth, though not to those who had given her permission she needed. All she cared about was her sister, and helping her to heal.
Aragorn ran behind her, still too bewildered to ask the thousands of questions burning in his mind. How was this possible? Why had she come? Why was she talking to him? Could she answer the question of why Tithen had tried to commit suicide?
Gwenneth stopped running and plopped down into the grass, clearly wishing Aragorn to sit as well, and so he did. Though he did not think that she could actually do him any harm in a dream, he thought it best to follow her lead.
"You have many questions, I am sure," she said, absent-mindedly weaving the meadow flowers into a wreath, "But for the moment, I ask that you would humor me, and answer my questions. In answering, you may find the answers you seek."
Aragorn nodded. "Of course, my Lady," he replied. "Though, I am sure that anything I could know you already possess the knowledge of."
She laughed. Once again, it struck Aragorn how like bells in the distance this child's voice and laugh were.
"Please, call me Gwenneth. And there is no need to be so formal. I merely speak like this because there is little call for verbal communication in the house I live in now. As we speak, language will flow more easily for me. You are correct, I do possess a great deal of the knowledge I will ask of you, but I would have it from you anyway. Perspective is…different, where I am now. And yes, my brothers always said my voice was like bells; they sound distant because, not to be blunt, I am dead."
Once again, Aragorn nodded, slightly disburbed by the fact that was seemingly capable of reading his mind. "Very well, Gwenneth. What do you wish to know?"
"Firstly, how does my sister fair?"
Aragorn elegantly raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, I do know how she fairs, but I would hear it from you. It will tell me how I may help you, and her, best."
"Very well," Aragorn repeated and then sighed, his shoulders sagging as he turned his mind to his patient.
"She does not fair well. Physically, she is near to death. The knife broke two ribs, and sliced her lung, not deeply, but deep enough that should she struggle greatly, she would tear it badly. I have had to give her a heavy cough suppressant and sedate her constantly. The first morning, after she woke and began her story, she fell asleep, and was trapped in a nightmare. She fought violently, and tore open her wound before I could calm her. It does not help matters that she has a fever," Gwenneth nodded, and waited for him to continue. "Emotionally, she is badly wounded and scarred, but since she will not tell me by what, I am of little power to help her," Aragorn looked sadly at the young girl, silently hoping that his prayer would be answered in this girl, that she would help him to heal Tithen's wounded soul. "The only thing I know for sure is that it has something to do with your death."
As always, thank you to my wonderful readers, and especially to my loyal reviewers, as well as my new ones. Please, please review, it makes my day.
the lullaby is my variation of the coventry carol.
aerr-daughter
tithen min-little one