Delusional

Jessylane318

"Did you find him Elrohir?"

"I did." answered the elf, sealing his fate. The tall ranger stomped in, his black hair wild and untamed, his eyes just as unruly. The hellish blue swiveled before landing on Harry, calculating and precise.

"Thank the Valar! Harry—What's wrong with you Harry?" asked Aragorn as he approached near, only to stop abruptly. Harry flinched and pulled back, tears swimming in his eyes while he tried to get away, to leave, to run. Only Elrohir held him firmly. "Harry..."

"No!" He shouted, only to lower his voice at the rough and broken texture, like sandpaper against marble, it burned his throat. "No more lies... No more..."

"He's hysterical," replied Elrohir while Harry tried to think straight. The young wizard glared at the traitorous elf, how dare he betray him in so many manners? How could he! "I found him in the kitchen cupboard, he'd been hiding amongst the flour and refused to answer any of our calls."

The blue eyes widened perceptibly, obviously realizing just how many times he'd run down that very hall. Harry knew though, he'd heard and counted every treacherous footstep—all thirty seven thundering times.

"Harry, what's wrong..." whispered the ranger, his voice taking a cruelly kind temperament. Harry refused to be swayed. He knew. He had heard! "Harry, please..."

He glared at Aragorn, unable to take the deception. Unable to breathe and to think and to function. His instincts screamed to run. Hadn't he heard them? Hadn't they said they would kill the fire-wizard that the elves so often ignored? The menace...

"Harry-"

"Stop!" He cried at last, cradling his arm carefully. "I already know, I heard you! I heard what you said. Why won't you just kill me and get it over?" The tears began to fall as the words crashed around him. The blurry world shook in a dizzying array as he swayed.

"What..." Aragorn started.

Harry ignored the man, already well aware that the end had come. Voldemort would be disappointed. Riddle as well, he though as Aragorn approached. And the Dursleys too; who would weed the garden, paint the fence, and cook the breakfast now? But then again, Harry doubted they'd care too much. Certainly none of his friends would, they were all dead anyways, and if not now, then they would be soon.

The Ranger was upon him now, Harry could even smell him. He could smell death approaching, the slight scent of pine and sweat and that musk that belonged only to Aragorn. He shut his eyes and waited. Would they behead him? Hang him? Maybe they'd make it fast...

The warm, calloused hands stretched around his neck. Strangling then? It seemed a horrible way to die. He tightened his fist and waited—resigned.

And waited, with trembling tremors.

And felt a warm body wash over him.

In confusion, he opened his eyes to find, instead of death, Aragorn leaning over him; dragging him into an embrace that curled his toes. His breath left him in a sudden rush.

"I was worried," whispered the man in his ear. The words calmed him slightly, soothed his aching head and cooled the inferno within. "When you refused to answer... We thought... I thought..." They separated, the coarse fingers holding his pale and clammy face. Starry blue eyes swimming in his own emerald green

He almost succumbed, then, to the supposed truth of the words. He almost believed the Ranger. But then images raced back to him. The knife pressed against his throat. The glaring, distrustful eyes. The fingers around his neck that swept him into darkness. The scolding anger. The disregard. The dismissal.

He remembered. He pulled away with new-found vigor.

"You liar!" he shouted, drawing against the bed. Using the uninjured hand, Harry reach out, groping for a weapon. His hand settled on some long and sharp object. He pulled it towards him, ignoring the pain, Elrohir's gasp, and Aragorn's muffled cry.

Looking down, he beheld a dagger covered in his own blood. He faced it towards the stupefied Ranger.

"Harry- What- What are you-"

"Don't come any closer!" the young wizard shouted, clenching the hilt of the dagger tightly despite the pain. The cold surface slipped slightly beneath his warm blood. He tried to back up more, but the bed prevented it. "I heard you. I heard what you said!"

"Harry we-"

"No!" Harry shouted again. Tears began to leak from his eyes. "I trusted you! I trusted you all—liars..." A sob broke through his angry facade, but he never lowered the weapon. Aragorn made no move to approach.

"You don't understand Harry..."

"What's there to understand?" he replied bitterly, remembering his only living family. Aunt Petunia smiled politely in his mind's eye, the action false and unrealistic. He recalled Uncle Vernon, his puce face scrunched in vehemence. He thought of his cousin Dudley, laughing wildly while pushing him cruelly to the ground. "You made your opinion pretty clear."

"But-"

"The wizard using fire," Harry spat. "The menace that all the elves ignore."

"I have not ignored you," whispered Elrohir, almost soothingly. The sound was serpentine and dolorous. "And neither does Elladan or ada—Lord Elrond. Little wizard, no one shall harm you here!"

Aragorn took this time to finally speak in length. "Please, Harry, listen to Elrohir. Listen, please. I was discussing Sarumon the White with Lord Elrond's advisors. The elves refuse to take part in the war, claiming it a war of men!"

Harry swallowed heavily. Could it be true? Had they indeed—No! No, he'd heard them! It couldn't have been a mistake! He'd heard them. Aragorn hated him! A trick! It had to be a trick...

"Harry, you have to believe-" started the elf. Harry ignored him.

"No! You hate me!A trick, you just want to lure me... Your just like Riddle... Just like Tom... No! I won't be tricked again!" Ginny came to mind at once, her red hair spread about her face. He tried to ignore it, the cold sickly face, the clammy hands. He tried to forget the huge serpent that had towered above him, blind and deadly. He tried...

He failed...

He always failed...

"Harry, please, I... I don't hate you—Harry..." Aragorn stopped, took a breath and stepped forward, ignoring the shaking dagger pressed in his direction. Harry made a sound, a groan as he tried to steady his hands, tried to remain upright. "Harry, I do not know of this Riddle, or this Tom, but I have never hated you. Never!"

"But the river- the dagger-" whispered the young wizard, his breathing laborious.

"You were a half-starved wild-child following us in the woods. I was hardly going to trust you, especially not with The Ring of power in our grasps. But we took you in, don't you remember? We brought you with us, despite my better judgment, on Frodo's recommendation."

"Frodo never-" Aragorn broke him off with a crude and sharp laugh. The sound broke against him like a frozen gust of wind. Elrohir easily slipped from the room unseen.

"You would know not, little wizard, of our talks while you slept. Did you not wonder why you dreamed so little during our travels? Your soup was laced with herbs that left you unconscious for many hours. Frodo had recognized you from the Prancing Pony as one of the few that spoke in his defense. I must admit, I had not connected the gaunt rebellious child in our company with the heartening servant that Butterbur so loved."

Harry swallowed the guilt and lowered the Ranger's weapon. Had Butterbur truly loved him? And all he'd left was a pitiful note and a small amount of coins, Bob's cold corpse staring in the dark. But no! He couldn't let the words get to him! It didn't make sense, none of it made any sense!

"If you didn't trust me, why'd you give me my sword?"

"I had not wanted too," replied the gruff man, his blue eyes dark and shadowed as he took another step forward; only two paces from the young wizard. "But with the arrival of the Nazgul, I had little choice. You have yet to be truly honest with me, little wizard. You have kept secrets since we began refusing to share them unless absolutely necessary-"

"You had secrets too!" interrupted Harry. "You didn't tell me about the ring, or where we were going, you only just commanded me to do everything. No one ever tells me anything..." They hadn't even told him about their meeting, the one where they even talked about him! Him, Harry!

"Of course not," scoffed the ranger, lessening the width between them, Harry could almost feel his breath. Could taste the irritation and the worry. The large, worn hand took hold of the dagger's blade gently; carefully. It did not slice through his tough skin as it had Harry's. "You are a child. A wizard, yes, but a child still. It is not your place to worry over the affairs of adults—especially not matters so foul as the Dark Lord's ring."

"But I can help!"

"But you won't," answered Aragorn stiffly, jerking the dagger from Harry's limp fingers. "I have told you this before."

"But why-"

"Enough!" said the tall man, his eyes flashing with rage. A dark shadow crept across his face before it faded. "The fellowship is a serious journey that requires a maturity you obviously have not achieved. You may stay with the elves. However, we are far from our original discussion. Why were you standing outside my door to begin with?"

Harry ducked his head, a warmth spreading across his cheeks that felt all to different from the dizzying one in his chest.

"Harry?" He did not answer and simply pushed out his hand, showing the swollen red tissue and slightly frothing wounds. Aragorn gasped, obviously stunned. "What happened?"

"I... I cut myself with a knife," he murmured, slightly ashamed of the disgusting appearance. It made him gag to just stare at the putrid looking appendage—reminding him of Bob the hobbit.

"Indeed," agreed the Ranger, obviously sickened by the disgusting extremity. "It has been infected and is likely beyond my help. Why have you not seen to this earlier? It looks to have been open for weeks."

"I... I thought it'd just go away, like all the others-"

"Others?" echoed Aragorn, eyes narrowing. "You have been hurt like this before?"

"Well, not this bad, no, but I'm not some kind of sissy that can't do anything! I don't need mollycoddling!"

Aragorn rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the sleeve, dragging him to his feet and begun towards the door. The movement caught Harry unaware and he could do little more than sputter as the Ranger hauled him from the room.

"Wha- Where are we going?"

"To see Lord Elrond and then to send you to bed," replied the man without hesitation. "No wonder your burning with fever. We will discuss your punishment for your behavior after your health is seen to. Are there any other wounds that you are waiting to 'just go away'?"

"No- But-!" Harry squawked indignantly before Aragorn cut him off.

"Enough. Be silent and walk, we shall be there shortly."

Harry Potter laid sullenly in bed, his arm, throbbing and wrapped tightly, roughly tucked beside him. Lord Elrond had not been pleased at Harry's wounds or his emotional collapse. The great elf had poured what seemed an infinity of potions down his throat, almost drowning him in the noxious taste and horrible aroma. The elf had said the taste was to prevent him from attempting the action again.

Hermione would never have been so unkind.

But of course, Hermione was probably dead. As was Ron and Ginny and the annoying little Colin and so many others. All dead like Bob the hobbit. All because of him...

Harry shut his eyes, ignoring the dull ache. It had been months since that day and, while his heart still ached and his mind still burned with horrific scenes from the chamber and his frozen friends... The pain had lessened to a bearable burden. He found the things he'd held so tightly to had all but faded.

He could barely recall his aunt's shrill voice or the conversations he'd had with Ron over Quidditch just a few days before his departure. Even Malfoy, with all of his pale aristocracy and biased views was fading, like a long worn picture crinkles at the edges and bends in the middle.

Sighing, he released his breath and let sleep wash over him.