An Unforeseen Obstacle

"It will all be alright," Aragorn reassured her with a smile, then gave her hand a gentle squeeze before fetching the tray of healing supplies and setting it down on the nightstand.

Meren felt a sudden chill of fear run up and down her spine as she saw what had joined the jars of ointment—a bottle of alcohol, specifically scotch, and a bottle of carbonic acid. Of all the healing implements in her cupboards, she hated these the most. Cauterizing, yes it was painful, but it was, as her brother Adan called it, "a one shot deal". Once a wound was cauterized, it either healed, or you died. Alcohol and acid, though, they could be applied over and over. Cauterizing left scars, but the pain of repeated applications of alcohol or acid…she had seen a soldier, battle scarred and fearless, become catatonic after a week of the torturous treatment.

Aragorn saw her shudder and how her eyes seemed to be locked on the two new bottles on the tray. Aragorn did not like them there either, but were far better alternatives to cauterization. Cauterization was nothing short of torture on a wound that was not yet infected; on a wound that was, as Meren's was well on its way to being, well, Morgoth himself could not think of a more agonizing punishment.

There were other reasons for his preference of the alcohol and acid over a hot iron—they did not disfigure. The acid may discolor, but it did not mangle the flesh as an iron would. Aragorn knew that given a choice between the permanent disfigurement of her breast and the even more permanent loss of her newfound life, Meren would choose life. But Aragorn did not want to force her to make that choice. There were also less subjective concerns: if the iron accidentally touched her lung, it would permanently scar it, dooming Meren to a lifetime of shallow, painful breathing. She was also so weak, that the shock to her body could be too much, stopping her heart or weakening it to a dangerous point, ending her active life.

Meren said nothing, hoping against hope that no drastic measures would be necessary. Both knew that when the towels were pulled aside and the bandages cut off, it would still be infected, but humans are notoriously illogical and optimistic.

Aragorn gently pulled aside the blanket and towel, revealing the soaking wet bandages. But they were soaked, not only with bathwater, but blood and pus. Aragorn's stomach churned sickeningly as he cut the bandages and pulled them aside. There was no doubt; it was infected, and badly. The flesh around the wound was an angry red, inflamed and hot to the touch. There was a faint, putrid smell rising from the wound as the pus and blood oozed through the stitches.

Meren looked down at her chest and winced. Whereas before she had just barely been able to see a part of her wound, she could now see how grave the infection was: the inflammation and redness had spread onto her breast, her stomach, her chest. It made her sick to think that was her she was looking at, and that she was the cause.

"Cauterize. Now, or I die," she told Aragorn, who was reaching for the acid. "Damn it Aragorn! Stop thinking about the scarring!"

"Meren…" Aragorn started.

"The hands of a healer…." he heard a ghostly voice whisper in his ear.

"Meren," he said more sure of himself and drawing his hand away from the hated acid,"I would like to try something else before we resort to any drastic measures. But," he warned her, "You will have to trust me."

Meren grinned. "Gwenneth?"

Aragorn returned her smile nervously. "Aye. But can you trust me?"

"With more than my life," she replied, reassured knowing that Gwenneth had a hand in it, though still somewhat apprehensive as to what this "something else" was.

Aragorn gave her a reassuring smile and gently squeezed her hand. "It shouldn't hurt at all," he told her.

Slightly cupping his hands in front of him, Aragorn closed his eyes, focusing his whole being on drawing power from within himself as he had felt Gwenneth do. He gradually felt the heat grow in his hands, until he could see the glow through his closed eyelids.

Moving slowly, he turned his hands over and lay his hands over her wound, letting them flutter a hair's breadth above her flesh. As he did, Aragorn began to feel healing energy flow out of his hands like hot oil. He heard Meren gasp, bit it was not the raspy, choking gasp of the morning—this was clear. Not a gasp of pain, but like that of a diver coming up for air.

Aragorn began to feel cold and shiver, even as sweat beaded his face. Aragorn ignored it, dismissing it as the exertion of healing.

Then his chest began to ache, as though his ribs were broken—right where Meren's rib has been broken by the knife. Was this supposed to be happening?

There was a knife stabbing at his chest, pushing through from within—but he kept his hands over Meren's wound, willing more and more of the liquid fire through his hands and into her.

Meren had felt the fever leave her body and the pain subside. So surprised had she been that she hadn't noticed at first what was happening to her healer.

His skin was pale, except his cheek, which was flushed with fever. He trembled, and Meren watched in horror as a scarlet flower bloomed on his chest…right where her own wound was.

Meren did the first thing that came to mind—she shoved him with all her strength, which at the moment wasn't much. Nevertheless, at her touch Aragorn collapsed to the floor beside her bed with a moan.

"Oh Valar, what have you done?" she whispered as he lay gasping for breath on the floor.

Without thinking, she began to sit up, and stopped in surprise—the pain was gone. Not wholly. There was still the sharp ache of broken ribs healing, the sting of cold air on broken skin, but the pain, the molten lava pouring over her chest, the troll with a sledgehammer, they were gone. Unbelievingly, Meren looked down at her chest. The redness of infection was gone. Gently, trembling, she touched her wound. It was clean.

Another soft moan brought her attention swiftly back to Aragorn. Finding that she could now move without a great deal of difficulty, Meren wrapped the blanket around herself, leaving her arms free, and secured it so it would not fall off. She then carefully eased herself off the bed and onto the floor. There was no small amount of trouble in doing this: her ankle was still broken, as were several of her fingers. But at last she had eased herself to the floor beside Aragorn.

Sitting with her broken leg outstretched beside her, she gently helped Aragorn lean against her bedside table, which had drawers that provided a solid back for him to rest against. Meren reached up and pulled down as many pillows as she could reach, layering them behind his head, making him as comfortable as possible.

It was with a sense of guilt that she peeled away Aragorn's loose shirt and tunic from the hot, sticky flesh. Her stomach flip-flop nauseatingly when she saw the wound, which she had recently borne, which had somehow transposed itself onto her newfound brother.

"Aragorn, what did you do?" she whispered. She had expected him to have healing abilities—she had seen it in his spirit, but to her knowledge, healers were not supposed to heal by bearing the hurts themselves.

Meren pulled down the healing supplies. She glanced over the tray's contents, then at the wound. There was no way for her to get a hot iron, so she would have to do that which she abhorred, use the acid and alcohol. But first, she helped Aragorn to drink as much of the scotch as he would, to help deaden the pain.

Aragorn could not hold back a cry of agony when she began to pour liberal amounts of the burning liquids onto the wound. Meren winced sympathetically, but did not relent. Satisfied at last, she spread a thick layer of honey and herbs on the wound, and bandaged it as best she could. She then pulled down more blankets and pillows, making him as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, before curling up in a nest of her own, and drifting off to sleep, hoping to get some answers from Gwenneth.

Aragorn, too, was hoping to get answers as he drifted off to sleep, now comfortably oblivious, thanks to the scotch.

His world faded into darkness, calm and soothing, before drifting into the image of a glade near a stream.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

A/N: Thanks to all who stopped by to review. As I said before, life threw me a couple curveballs and I'm still picking up the pieces, so updates will still be sporadic for a while.

Before anyone yells at me for this first instance of healing, please, please wait for the next chapter. If you are still not satisfied, then you can yell at me.

For explanation of the presence of running hot water in the previous chapter, see chapter 5.

Thanks to KyrieofAccender for beta-ing this and several previous chapters. Hannon le!

Now, please, hit that nice little review button down at the bottom of the page. It makes my day, week, month! Please! Thank you.