Chapter 9 - Safe

"Will this Eledh of yours bring horses?" The voice cut through the smothering mist of Aragorn’s uneasy slumber.

Horses... why would Eledh bring horses...

"He will bring horses, yes," Halbarad’s low voice rumbled. He sounded irked, but then he so often sounded irked that it told Aragorn nothing.

Why were they so concerned about Eledh and whether he would bring horses?

He tried to open his eyes. Did not succeed. One felt swollen shut and the other simply could not be bothered to respond. It mattered not, he supposed, if he could not open his eyes. Halbarad was nearby... he would see to keeping him safe...

Safe.

A vague whisper of alarm edged against his mind. He was safe, surely...

What if he were not?

His hand jerked of its own accord, moving toward the hilt of his sword. His left eye finally deigned to open, taking even longer to focus. And then he saw only a canopy of green leaves over his head. Blue sky beyond. Such a light breeze that only one leaf was stirring, fluttering madly as though it were trying to get all the other leaves to join in and was frustrated that none would.

He could not find his sword. His hand moved restlessly against his side. The hilt should be there, right there... had he dropped it? Had there been a battle?

There must have been. That, or he had been trampled by a herd of oliphaunts. It was a throw of the dice.

A footfall beside him and Denlad’s face blocked Aragorn’s view of the leaves. "Rest easy, Aragorn," he said quietly. He was smiling but his eyes were worried. "You are safe."

That word again. Aragorn blinked his one good eye. He worried a bit about why Denlad felt he needed to tell him he was safe. Have I not been safe? But then he realized he was worried more about the worry in Denlad’s eyes. "What has happened?" he asked, or tried to. What actually came out was a strangled, moaning, "Wha’?" He shut his mouth in embarrassment.

"Shh. Do not try to talk yet." Denlad eased his hand behind Aragorn’s head and lifted it. Aragorn let out another scratchy, garbled cry as pain pounded through his skull. He winced and more pain assaulted him. Valar, what has happened...have wargs been gnawing on my face?

A cool cup pressed against his lips and despite the pain he drank greedily. The cup was pulled away long before he was satisfied. The hand lowered his head back and again all he could see were leaves, that single one still flapping about like a deranged butterfly. He concentrated fiercely, and then very carefully whispered, "What happened?"

"Do you remember the Southron spies?" Denlad asked.

Southrons...

Aragorn groaned as dim bits of memory returned.  Stabbed, beaten, nearly blinded. Maybe he was blind. He swallowed hard. "How bad?"

"Probably not quite as bad as it must feel. You have lost a lot of blood, and are bruised and I would not be surprised if you have a bit of a concussion."

"My eye..."

"It’s swollen shut, but you were seeing out of it, earlier. I think it will recover."

That was something, at any rate. He reached up to touch it, but Denlad caught his hand. "Best not."

"Can’t open it."

"I know. It has become more swollen in the last two hours, but now that we’ve got you settled, I’ve been holding a cold cloth against it. It seems to be holding back the swelling."

"Two hours?"

"Yes. We found you a bit over two hours ago. You spoke then; do you remember?"

Aragorn nodded, his eye drifting shut again because it was simply too much trouble to keep it open. His thoughts increasingly disappeared into foggy corners, hiding just beyond reach. "You... and Halbr’d...."

He heard a footstep, a crunching of ground and gravel, and then a hand touched his. Aragorn knew without looking it was Halbarad. Never far away, his kinsman. He opened his good eye again, with effort, to see Halbarad’s stricken gaze. Aragorn tried to smile reassuringly but that hurt far too much so instead he gave Halbarad’s hand an encouraging squeeze. "Worry not," he whispered, knowing he would do better to tell the wind to stop blowing. Worrying was Halbarad’s favorite way to pass the time.

And indeed, Halbarad’s words confirmed it. "I will stop worrying when you are back on your feet, with two good eyes keen and bright and looking to the far horizons once more."

"Not too... keen right now."

"No, but you will be again, soon enough," Denlad said briskly. Aragorn had the impression Denlad’s words were aimed more at Halbarad than himself. So like those two, one always fussing at the other... there were two hobbits he knew, in Bree, who fussed like that...

He frowned. Hobbits...

Aragorn started. Ferdinand! Had he heard his voice or was it only in his dream? He looked... yes! There was Ferdinand, stamping around getting pots and pans organized. "Ferdinand," he called, or tried to. He frowned when his call was little more than a gasp.

But the little hobbit heard him and scurried over, a bright smile lighting his face. "Strider! Oh, you don’t know how happy I am to see you awake and alive."

"Are you... did he hurt you?"

"No, no. Just a few bumps, nothing more. Nothing like what you’ve gone through, my poor boy. You look in need of a cold compress. Two or three of them, more like. There is nothing like a cold cloth when you’ve banged into something. I crashed my head against a cupboard door once and didn’t it just hurt. Made me see stars, it did. But a cold cloth was just the ticket for it. Absolutely the best thing–"

"And that is just what I want you to do, Ferdinand," Denlad interrupted. He handed him a handful of cloths–Aragorn thought they looked like the remains of Denlad’s brown shirt–and pointed toward a spring bubbling out of the rocks. "Keep these cloths cool and wet and hold them gently, very gently, against Ara– against Strider’s face."

"Oh yes, capital! I will do that straight off. You just rest easy, young Strider. Let us take care of you. No need to worry at–"

"Ferdinand," Denlad interrupted again. He took the hobbit gently by the shoulders and turned him around and gave him the slightest push. "The spring."

Ferdinand took the cloths... and the not so subtle hint... and scuttled over to the spring. Had Aragorn felt better he might have laughed. Denlad seemed well able to manage the irrepressible little Shireling.

Aragorn frowned. He let go of Halbarad’s hand to reach for Denlad’s. Touched the bandage and looked questioningly.

"It’s nothing. I slipped, fell on the rocks. Clumsy of me."

"Your neck..."

"Hmm?" Denlad reached up, as though he had forgotten. "Oh. That is from a battle of our own we had with a few of the Southrons. One of them got me by the throat, but he did not like the results."

Aragorn vaguely remembered Ferdinand’s spotty report. "You... killed him..."

"He’s likely dead by now, yes," Halbarad said. "Denlad stabbed him in the gut."

Aragorn closed his eyes again. "May he... be truly dead.  I grow weary of Southrons."

"I’m sure he’s dead. Wounds like that... yes, he’s bound to be," Halbarad assured him.

Aragorn would have felt better had they known for certain, but surely Halbarad was right. A man rarely came back from such wounds, even under the hand of the most skilled healer.

He drifted a bit, his thoughts murky. His own battle with the Southron seemed something very recent and yet at the same time so far back that he could barely remember it. But as Denlad checked his bandages, he touched Aragorn’s neck and the pain from the bruises put him back there, on that grassy plain, the hands closing on his throat, and darkness falling.... Before he knew what he was doing, he reached up and shoved Denlad’s hand away. "No!"

"I’m sorry!" Denlad cried.

Aragorn came to himself again, his breathing heavy and painful. "No... no, I’m sorry... I thought..."

"Shh," Denlad said. He laid a calming hand on Aragorn’s forehead. "I should have told you I needed to check the bruises on your throat."

"I just... it brought it back." He tried to reach for his throat, to reassure himself, but Denlad gently restrained him.

"Best leave it be."

Aragorn nodded. He felt Denlad brush his hair away from his neck. "I’m just looking. I won’t touch you, I promise."

"You can... now that.. I know."

And he did, feather light, for just a moment. Gentle as he was, Denlad’s touch brought the fell memories back... the rough fingers on his throat, closing down until life itself seemed forfeit beyond all hope. But then Aragorn's breath caught as he remembered what else happened.  He looked wonderingly at Denlad. "You shouted..."

Denlad blushed. "Aye. I was too far away to help, and I fear my frustration got the better of me."

"No... your shout..." He stopped, swallowed, then reached up and grabbed Denlad’s arm. It pulled at the wound in his side, hurting him, but he had to do it. "Your shout saved me."

Denlad glanced quickly at Halbarad, then back to Aragorn.

"He was choking me... but he heard you... looked up." Aragorn paused again. He was lightheaded, not getting enough air, but he needed Denlad to know. "You distracted him. I... was able to grab his dagger..."

Tears glimmered in Denlad’s eyes. He seemed unable to speak.

Aragorn wanted to say more, but his strength failed him, and his arm fell back to his side. His thoughts again threatened to fade into shadow.

He heard Denlad clear his throat, then his voice came softly but with a bit of urgency. "Aragorn, before you drift off, can you tell me if you hurt anywhere other than your arm, your ribs and your face?" Denlad asked.

It seemed to take every last remnant of his strength, but he smiled as he murmured, "Is that not enough?"

"More than enough," Denlad answered, amused. "But I don’t want to miss any other wounds."

"Those are... are... only ones," Aragorn whispered. He was starting to feel beyond terrible.

Denlad laid the back of his hand on Aragorn’s forehead. "You grow a bit warm."

Aragorn wanted to assure Denlad that fever was not setting in, but he knew the lie for what it was. Sunlight was fast growing too bright. He shut his eye against the stabbing rays. Denlad said something to him but his words seemed to splinter into meaningless babble. Thought again drifted, not toward restful slumber but toward that bedimmed realm that is neither sleeping nor waking. Sounds too loud and too sharp lanced like steel shards through his skull. His own cry of protest shredded to nothing more than a feeble whimper against the cacophonic blades.

"Aragorn?"

Denlad’s voice cut too deeply. Aragon needed to cover his ears, block out the sounds and the fear and the capturing dreams that even now clutched at his consciousness... dreams he remembered from last time... a black river... hopelessness...

"He burns with fever." That was Halbarad. "Have you the willow bark?"

"Aye, and a very small bit of poppy. His head might be injured, but I think it worth the risk, to give him some respite from the pain. The fever I am not too worried about– his wound shows no sign of infection, so I think it is merely the overall hurt that’s been done to him that’s causing him fever. The pain is a bigger worry to me, for I have seen pain so tear at a body that a man cannot keep fighting. But the good news is that the medicine that helps fever also helps pain. Give it to him just a sip at a time."

Movement. A hand on the back of his head. A cup to his bruised lips. Halbarad’s gentle voice telling him to drink. Water caustic with the taste of willow bark sloshed into his mouth. If there was poppy in it, he could not tell.

He swallowed.

"A bit more now, just a bit. I know it tastes like something brewed by Sauron himself, but you must drink it. There you go."

He grimaced but swallowed more of the bitter stuff and Halbarad’s hand lowered his head back to the ground.

A cold dampness suddenly touched his bruised eye and he flinched.

"Oh dear, I am sorry. I should have warned you."

"Fer’nand." His own voice. Faded like cloth left too long in the sun.

"Shhh. Don’t speak, Mr. Strider. I am afraid for the moment your wounds have gotten the better of you, but we will take care of you. Yes, my dear boy, your two strapping friends and I will take good care of you. Shhh."

The coolness and the voices and a hand touching his calmed him, soothed him. Maybe the dreams would not be evil... would not... trap him...

He sighed and let go of the waking world.