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The Ranger and the Hobbit  by Cairistiona

Chapter Three - Broken Baggage

Aragorn woke with a start. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. The sky above him was bright with mid-morning sun, and there was an unexpected but pleasant smell of bacon and... could that be eggs? He turned his head and everything fell into place as he spied Ferdinand Took busy again at his skillet.

Aragorn moved to sit up, forgetting in his half-awake state his injury, and such a fiery burst of pain exploded through him that he could not stop from crying out. He grabbed his side and fell back.

Ferdinand was immediately at his side. "Here now, my boy. You have forgotten yourself! Lay quiet and let me see. We don’t want you ripping out those nice stitches I put in yesterday."

Aragorn was too busy trying not to throw up last night’s meal to answer. The pain seemed to have made direct inroads to his belly, and his belly liked it not one bit. He felt clammy and dim and very, very ill.

Ferdinand very carefully peeled back the bandage. "It is red, but not horribly so. I don’t think it is infected. The bruising has darkened, though. I imagine it is quite painful."

"Mmm." Aragorn feared opening his mouth. He really did feel very close to retching up everything he had ever eaten. And he could not imagine the pain in his side should that happen.

Something cool draped across his forehead, a damp cloth of some sort. He opened his eyes to see Ferdinand leaning over him, concern in his great blue eyes. "You do not have fever, but I know sometimes pain can make a body feel as sick as a dog after he’s been at the dustbin."

Aragorn could not help smiling. That described exactly how he felt. He shut his eyes again and concentrated on breathing carefully and slowly and finally the pain abated somewhat and with it the extreme nausea, although his stomach was far from settled. "Could you," he started, then swallowed. "My pack... there is medicine..."

"Of course, of course! Say no more!" Ferdinand scurried over and unfastened the flap on the top of Aragorn’s pack. "Er, I said ‘say no more,’ but I fear I must ask what I am looking for."

"Ginger. It’s a root...."  Some willow bark and athelas would also be helpful, but first things first.  He knew he could not keep willow bark down at the moment, and the athelas... he didn't feel up to explaining what to do with it. 

Ferdinand dug for a moment, pulling out several folded packets, two of which spilled open, to his muttering consternation. He finally held up a light brown section of root. "Ah!  I do believe this is it.  I've not used it before... I'm not exactly well-versed in healing herbs and such, although I do know the basics, of course.  But I'm not familiar with this ginger stuff, no.  Does it help with upset stomachs?"

Aragorn nodded, wishing desperately that Ferdinand would stop talking.

"Just... scrape off a bit... make a tea." And pray make it quickly or there will be no point...

"Very well, then," Ferdinand said. "Good thing I have the kettle on already." He checked the water, then pulled out his knife again and scraped away at the root. "Is that enough, do you think?"

Aragorn winced. Ferdinand had shaved nearly half the root away. It will cost me half the Dúnedain treasury to replace that. The nausea flexed its muscles, but he swallowed and hid his dismay. "Yes, that's... plenty."

"Very well then, while this steeps, let me put the rest of this back to rights. I doubt I’ll pack it away as neatly as you did, though. And I do apologize for spilling some of it." He busied himself with carefully closing the packets, then paused as he held up two long leaves. "I say, I think I have some of this growing amongst my cucumbers." He sniffed it and then nodded. "Yes, this is the very thing. Smells wonderfully fresh but it does take over when it invades your cucumber patch."

"That is athelas. Used for..." He had to stop and shut his eyes as another wave of nausea threatened to undo him.

"Oh, dear boy, don’t try to talk right now. I know what this is... kingsfoil, we call it. Grand name for all that it’s naught but a weed. As I said, it got in amongst my cucumbers and I really feel I will have to simply move my cucumbers next year, for once this stuff gets established, just try to get rid of it. I have an idea where it came from: it was Drusilla Bracegirdle’s doing, I’m sure of it. Not that she meant to infest my garden with such a menace, you understand. Drusilla is a fine lass, absolutely top notch, and her garden is spoken of with the highest regard by all from Michel Delving to Buckland and Greenfields to Sackville; yes, praised highly even by those stingy-mouthed Sackville-Bagginses.  Just try to catch the Sackville-Bagginses praising anything; they're as stingy with good words as they are with everything else.  But she... Drusilla, that is, not Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, gave me some flowers, wildflowers you see–beautiful asters, all purple with yellow centers. Quite lovely, asters are, in the autumn when the goldenrod has set its candle flame along the woodsy edges. Lovely. And these were fine ones indeed, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. But they weren’t from her gardens, as it happened. No, she bought them from a merchant in Bree and gave them to me on her birthday, and I can bet you my last cask of Old Toby that the merchant dug them up from out in the wilds, because that’s the only place kingsfoil grows–you know, here and there in wild places where no one’s lived in recent memory. I’ve seen it, on my travels. I don’t doubt that those scattered patches mark the home places of folk long gone. Leaves me a bit wistful it does. At any rate, I should never have planted those flowers so close to my cucumbers. The seeds of the kingsfoil must have been all through those flowers’ roots. And kingsfoil has such deep roots! Frost won’t get them, not by a long chance. They come back, no matter how bitter the winter, you see."

Aragorn did see but he felt too dazed by the onslaught of gardening lore to say so.

Ferdinand seemed not to mind that his conversation was one-sided, nor that his listener had his eyes closed and his jaw clenched and was in all likelihood turning as green as the kingsfoil. He prattled on cheerfully, "Still, I do like the smell of it. So fresh and clean. Makes me think of the world as it should be and not the wretched mess it is now. I’ve always thought it a shame that it was a weed and not something useful, and here you tell me there is a use for it after all! Fancy that! I do wonder what good it does, but no, don’t speak. You can tell me later. Ah, the ginger tea looks to be ready."

Aragorn heard the sound of tea pouring into a cup, then opened his eyes as Ferdinand drew near. Ferdinand held the cup to his lips. The tea was far too strong, but it tasted good, if not a bit harsh on his tongue and throat. After several swallows, the beast stirring his stomach resignedly went back to sleep. Aragorn sighed with relief. "Thank you."

Ferdinand sat back on his heels and studied him, the lines of concern wreathing his face melting away. "Oh, I’m that glad it’s working, I need not tell you. I was so worried. But there, you don’t look so green now at all, although you look hardly ready for a hobbit-sized breakfast, even if it is gone on second breakfast now."

Aragorn’s face twisted. "No." The very idea of eggs... the very idea of anything, actually. He felt unutterably weary and ill and sore, and childish though it may be, he suddenly wanted more than anything for Lord Elrond to walk into their camp to take care of him. Ferdinand Took’s prowess at healing was astounding but, well, there was simply no greater healer than Lord Elrond. He shut his eyes as a great lump set itself up in his throat, and no matter how sternly he told himself to grow up, stop being ridiculous, it refused to budge.

"There now, Mr. Strider, you look downright piteous, and I feel for you, I do." There was a small noise of splashing water, then Aragorn felt a cool cloth being applied to his face. Ferdinand stroked the cloth gently across his cheeks and forehead. "I imagine feeling as you do you would rather have your mother here. Seems all wounded soldiers cry for their mothers, bless them."

"You know many soldiers?" Aragorn murmured, eager to change the subject from his ludicrous bout of homesickness.

"No, not many. None, if the truth be told, wounded or otherwise. But still... I’ve told you that I am more observant than most hobbits, and I sit at the table at the Prancing Pony–do you know the place? In Bree? It’s a fine inn, and one I go to when I travel that way, which is not as frequent as I would wish but nonetheless, I do try to make it a point at least twice each season to wander that way. Barliman has fine ale, he does. And he has rooms set up for the ‘Little Folk’ as he likes to call us. Fine man, Butterbur, although he does get a bit testy at times. But I don’t think he is overly fond of Rangers, which I used to think was quite justified, but as I get to know you and see that you’re far from the rascal your kind makes yourselves out to be, I wonder if his suspicion of you is a bit misplaced. You see, I have seen Rangers in there a time or two, but only from a distance mind you; I’ve never spoken to a single one. They’re all so dour and silent, not anyone you’d just sidle up to with a slap on the back and a how’s the morn. And I’m quite sure I have never seen you there. At any rate, if you do chance to take a meal there, see that you behave and you’ll have little trouble, for Barliman doesn’t seem to mind a Ranger being there, as long as he behaves. And it’s a fine place for a meal. A very fine place."

Aragorn opened his mouth to say that he did indeed frequent the Pony and he did know Barliman Butterbur–and that yes, he had been on the receiving end of Barliman’s dislike of Rangers, despite always, or nearly always, behaving. But had no chance to utter even a single word as Ferdinand chattered on without seeming to ever take a breath.

"At any rate, I like to sit quietly and just listen to all the conversations. Amazing what you hear when you keep your mouth shut and your ears open. So I listen to the Big Folk talk of battle and war. Fascinating stuff, that. And I have spoken with Bilbo Baggins, who has told me of hearing the Elves speak of their terrible troubles through the ages, and one or another of them mentioning something about a fallen comrade calling for his mother. ‘Tis a horrid thing, war. I wish we might never have another, but I fear the greatest one of all is coming."

When it seemed Ferdinand had truly run out of words, Aragorn dared speak. "You seem to know much."

"For a hobbit?"

"For a hobbit, man or Elf."

Ferdinand smiled, but there was no boasting in it. "Yes, I suppose I do, although I think there is far more of the world’s knowledge about which I am ignorant, maybe blissfully so. But I do try to find out what I can, when I can. Most of my kin keep themselves to themselves, you might say, but I like finding out about the world beyond our borders–it helps me, you see, in teaching my many nephews and nieces, although their parents think I’m a bit of a crackpot," he said, then laughed merrily. "But someone in the community must be the crackpot and it seems the role suits me. It is all so fascinating, you see. I cannot help but want to know more and more and more, and that, well, that puts me in company with that awful Bilbo Baggins, who went forth on an adventure, how dare he!" He laughed again. "Ah, what tales my cousin Bilbo has told me when I was a young hobbit, in and out of his house all day long! Take you, for instance. You are Númenórean, and thanks to Bilbo, I have some knowledge of that ill-fated isle. For me to meet a descendent of the Faithful that escaped the destruction, to meet one of that line of great men that most think are gone forever... oh, what a thrill to quite literally have tripped over the fact that the rumors of that people’s demise have been rather exaggerated! Indeed, an honor it is and a memory I will treasure always."

Momentarily at a loss at hearing such rare kind words, Aragorn slowly smiled. "Thank you. Few think of us so highly, if they remember us at all."

"Bah. Ignorance, that’s all, and too much easy belief in the convenience of myth, where no one needs think about darker things that are still yet lurking in this world and must at some point be dealt with. Far easier to assign such things to legend and ignore them. But perhaps I am being a bit harsh, because there is surely an element of fear involved. We hobbits like to stick with what we know, and for most of us, that is farming and family, food and ale. And for most of us, that is enough to keep us quite content. Thinking of anything that would destroy that–well, it simply doesn’t bear thinking about, and I suppose I can’t blame them."

"But still you think of it, and deeply, it seems."

Ferdinand grinned. "Of course I do, young man. I am a descendent of the great Bullroarer Took, after all! The Fallohide strain runs strong in my veins! And if I were tall and rugged like you, I would be striding around the world, sticking my nose into all kinds of trouble and driving to apoplexy every good hobbit who knows that proper hobbit behavior is to stay safely within your own hedgerow and not go poking around to see if any legends are still out there ready to spring to life under one’s feet."

"There is plenty of trouble out there for you to stick your nose into, that is certain." Aragorn sighed quietly... and carefully... and studied the clouds. "Arda is marred, Ferdinand. And a great Evil dwells to the East and South. You are right when you say a great war is coming, although when and where is yet to be decided. But it is coming. I do not see how it can be avoided."

Ferdinand for once stilled his tongue and merely nodded. They fell quiet, each keeping to their own thoughts. Aragorn’s strayed to Halbarad. He must be frantic with worry by now, for it was three days ago, or perhaps longer – he was hopelessly muddled on his days – that Aragorn was supposed to have returned to the camp at Chetwood. No doubt he has set out to comb the countryside for me. The thought warmed him, but he also felt a squirm of embarrassment at having to be found, like broken baggage that had fallen off the back of some farmer’s wain. But such was life at times. He had learned a hard and painful lesson about hiding illness and denying weakness with that business with the Wraith. Never again would he push aside help nor sound advice when offered. He glanced at Ferdinand. Even when that help was offered by a hand much smaller than his own.

"I don’t like the looks of that, now," Ferdinand suddenly said. He stood to his feet and peered off down the hillside, and it was only then that Aragorn realized that they weren’t where he had fallen when Ferdinand first found him, but apparently atop one of the bluff-faced hills that marked the start of the Weather Hills. He had a vague recollection of leaning on the hobbit’s shoulder, of falling and stumbling endlessly, and he supposed that was how Ferdinand contrived to drag him so far from where he first fell. But finding out for certain would have to wait, for Aragorn did not like the look of worry on the hobbit's face.

"What do you see?"

"Two men, traveling fast, right in this direction."

"It could be my men. What do they look like?"

"Fierce, both of them, and tall. One is dark, hair falling well past his shoulders–he looks almost like an Elf, very fair of face he seems even from here, but I am quite sure he must be a man. Hair’s too wavy to be an Elf’s, from what I’ve heard of what Elves must look like, and he has a beard. Bilbo’s seen them, of course... Elves, that is, not beards... but I haven’t." He turned and looked back at Aragorn. "Did you know Bilbo’s at Rivendell now? Fancy him leaving the Shire to live out his days there. I miss him. And envy him. I would like to do such a thing, if–"

"Ferdinand. The approaching men?"

"Oh my, yes! I do go on, don’t I!" He turned his gaze back down the hill. "No, he’s definitely a man, not an Elf. The more I think on it, the more positive I am that Elves don’t have beards. Or at least not unless they’re very, very old. I think there’s an Elf at the Grey Havens with a big silver beard, but that’s just a rumor. I’ve never been off in that direction, nor seen the sea, although I would rather like to. Have you seen the sea? I’ve heard it’s a lovely but fearfully big thing, full of–"

"Ferdinand!"

"Oh, I’m sorry, very sorry. The men... yes, I do need to pay more attention. Let’s see... yes, the other is definitely a man. Hair is not as long as all that but oh, how it shines! Golden as the noon-day sun. He doesn’t seem so Elf-like, but there’s a nobility in his bearing. I must say, both those men are quite striking. I’ve not seen many of their likes."

Aragorn smiled at such poetic descriptions. Halbarad the Elven, Fierce and Fair of Face, and Noble Denlad of the Golden Hair. Either man would be mortified at hearing themselves described so. "That sounds like Halbarad and Denlad. If it is them, have no fear. They are friends."

"Oh good, then. I would hate for two such as those to be enemies." Ferdinand watched for a moment longer. "They each wear cloaks. Grayish green ones, very much like yours, and there seems to be something shiny at the neck."

Aragorn relaxed. It was sure to be Halbarad and Denlad. "You have sharp eyes, my friend. Those are the pins of the Dúnedain."

"Like yours?" Ferdinand gestured to the star-shaped pin on Aragorn’s cloak, which was still doing double duty as a blanket.

Aragorn nodded.

Ferdinand turned his attention back to the approaching men. "Shall I wave or something?"

"No. They will find us without your beckoning."

Ferdinand suddenly gasped and stood on tiptoe. "Oh dear! Oh dear!"

"What?"

"Oh my ... they have been waylaid! Three men, with flashing swords, charging right at them! Oh dear!





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