Chapter Two - Better at Blazes Than Bandages

"You are far too heavy for me to be hauling about like this," Gandalf gasped as he tugged Aragorn towards the back of the cave. He had removed Aragorn’s heavy pack straightaway, to retrieve after getting him to shelter, but the simple fact of the matter was that Aragorn was a very large man, tall and thickly muscled for all that he seemed lean compared to shorter men. Gandalf had occasionally carried him for very short distances, usually under such duress that he found him no great burden, but the addition of multiple layers of wet clothing driven through with snow made him nearly too heavy to move. By the time he dragged him up the short slope, into the cave and settled him beside the fire, Gandalf was huffing and puffing as though he had run three leagues without stopping. But there was no time for rest; lurking enemies notwithstanding, Aragorn desperately needed the warmth of the blazing fire Gandalf had denied himself. A mere hatful would not do, Gandalf thought; the man was nearly frozen.

"Snow... have to... run...." Aragorn mumbled. His legs moved restlessly.

Gandalf did not stop constructing his fire, but as he touched flame to tinder with a sudden blue flash, he called softly, "Shhh, shhh. There is no need to run, Aragorn. You are quite safe now." He continued a soothing stream of such prattle as he piled wood atop the burning tinder, and Aragorn’s fretful movements quieted. Indeed, by the time the fire was eating away at the new wood, his eyes had opened a bit, although his gaze seemed unfocused and wandering beneath fluttering lids.

Gandalf bent over him. He laid a hand on Aragorn’s arm and gently squeezed it. "Aragorn? Can you hear me?"

The grey eyes fixed on his, and his lips moved as if to speak Gandalf’s name, but his awareness seemed as fleeting as the snow melting before the fire. His eyes drifted shut as his head sagged to the side. Gandalf felt his forehead; it was far warmer than it should be, given the waves of frigidity that rolled from his clothing. "What have you done to get yourself in such a state," he murmured, then brushed the dark hair back, noting a small swelling above his left ear and a matting of dried blood stiffening the hair on that side. Rusted stains of dried blood marred his neck and darkened his cloak and tunic collars. "You would do better to have Elrond with you instead of Gandalf, who is far better at blazes than bandages. But I will do what I can. And to begin with, we must get you undressed so the fire’s warmth can reach you. Your clothes are so packed with snow you’ll never thaw otherwise."

Aragorn did not seem to hear his chatter, but Gandalf felt that perhaps on some level it might be a comfort to hear a friendly voice, so he kept at it, forcing a cheer and a nonchalance he certainly did not feel. "That bump on your head looks nasty enough, but I think it relatively minor. The bone seems intact, at any rate. You might be concussed, though; we will have to keep an eye on that, won’t we. Now to get you out of these clothes." He released the star-shaped pin holding shut Aragorn’s cloak, then pushed it back off his shoulders, leaving it beneath him for the moment. He then unbuckled his sword belt and tugged it out from under his body. He put it aside and then unhooked the fastenings of Aragorn’s fur-lined coat, noticing with a start a tear that stretched across the left side, near his ribs. Gandalf fingered the slit, but the stains on it were old; the clothes beneath were intact, and he found no obvious wound. "That’s good, then. Though I wonder what clawed you there, animal or orc. You do walk a hard road, don’t you. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you without some scrape or cut or bump and bruise."

He tugged off the fur-lined gloves; his hands seemed in good shape. No broken or dislocated fingers, no frostbite. Gandalf rubbed them briskly between his own hands and before many moments passed, Aragorn stirred. His eyes opened a slit and he pulled his hands away to bat vaguely at his side. "Sword... where..."

"I have your sword, Aragorn. It’s in your pack, where you were carrying it. I’ve put them safely by the wall for when you’ve recovered."

But he would not be calmed. "Where... I have to... my sword... need my...."

With a weary sigh, Gandalf retrieved it and laid it by Aragorn’s side. As soon as his fingers brushed the hilt, he quieted.

"A king always finds his strength in his sword, it seems," Gandalf murmured. "May your dreams be more peaceful now. And if I hurt you, pray do not draw it and run me through!"

He continued his work. A few tugs and the coat was off, and Aragorn lay shivering atop both cloak and coat in naught but his vest, tunic, leggings and boots. Gandalf clucked his tongue. "You need a bit closer to the fire, I think." He tugged on the cloak, pulling the entire affair and Aragorn with it, until he was laying well within the circle of warmth put out by the flames. "That’s better."

Then he set to work removing Aragorn’s boots. And work it was; they fit tightly, and Gandalf nearly dragged him across the cave before he got them off. "Good heavens, how do you ever get these off when you’re by yourself?" he muttered. He saw then the reason for the tight fit: Aragorn had on at least three pairs of woollen hose. He smiled with fond pride at a man so dedicated to the hunt that he would go forth in weather that required three such layers. Most men would stay inside, huddled at the hearth of home or inn as they waited for the weather to break the next spring. "You do have a great heart, Aragorn," he said, "even if it is temporarily frozen. Now to get these socks off you and check your feet."

He tried to pull off the first layer, but the hose seemed to cover the entire length of his legs, under his heavy woollen trousers, and was evidently tied at the very top of Aragorn’s thighs. So he untied the trousers’ drawstring, tugged them off, and then finally untied and peeled away the hose, of which there were indeed three pair. Livid bruises marched down the entire length of Aragorn’s left leg, all the way down the ankle. "Now that looks most painful. Whatever have you done to yourself?"

Still, the legs seemed sound enough when he ran his hands along both. Both knees bent and straightened as they should, and there were no deformities, save for a very slight swelling around the left ankle. "You were getting along without any walking stick that I could see, so I imagine that’s just a bit of a bad bruise. You’ve certainly got enough of them everywhere." Aragorn remained silent and Gandalf patted his leg. "I do wish you’d wake up and assure me you’re all right. I’m not the best at all this checking for injuries and what not, though I have in my time repaired the odd wound on man and beast...." His voice trailed off as he examined Aragorn’s feet. They felt like ice but there were none of the telltale white patches that signaled frostbite. Three socks had apparently been sufficient.

Gandalf tossed the hose and trousers aside. They, and indeed all of Aragorn’s clothes, were soaked, either from without by snow or from within from sweat. He clucked a bit under his tongue. Dire indeed must have been his straits, else Aragorn surely would never have pushed himself so that he would break into a sweat. Perspiring in such freezing conditions could kill a man.

"You found my little cave just in time, I deem. Legs, head, feet and hands are well enough, though perhaps not head. Now to check the rest of you and assure that nothing else ails you besides bruises and a desperate need to thaw out."

Off came the damp vest; like the cloak and coat, Gandalf threaded Aragorn’s arms out of the arm holes and left the garment beneath him for the moment. He then pushed up the sleeves of his tunic and carefully checked each arm. Fresh bruises mottled the flesh of both, but neither seemed otherwise injured. He then pulled up the shirttail and ran a hand across Aragorn’s stomach and chest. He felt no lacerations, but as he pushed the front of the shirt all the way up, he found more bruises, dark and sullen, along the ribs and stomach. Like the ones on his legs, these were a bit worse on the left side than the right. He gently pressed here and there, frowning at the heat radiating from Aragorn’s skin, but he could not tell if any ribs were broken.

He continued on, hurrying, for Aragorn’s shivering tremors were growing ever more violent. "You look as though you’ve been tossed about by stone giants. But as bad as these bruises are, they should not be causing such fever." Gandalf was missing something, he felt sure of it. "Perhaps your back will tell the tale." He carefully guided his arms from the tunic sleeves, then lifted him so he could tug the shirt over his head. But it seemed to catch on something, and Aragorn, who had been silent since grasping his sword, suddenly groaned.

Filled with trepidation, Gandalf lowered him back down. He then rolled him onto his right side, pushing gently against his hip and shoulder, and it was there, on his lower back, that he found the source of fever. It seemed an arrow, broken off at the skin, was embedded in the muscle just above his left hip. The outer clothing had tugged loose from it, but the shirt itself was still pinned to Aragorn like a bit of paper through a spindle. "What foul luck, to have run into orcs in such weather," Gandalf said softly. "Most are in their caves by now. I suppose your passing disturbed them somehow."

Gandalf carefully tugged at the fabric, and when it failed to come free, pulled out his knife and cut through the cloth in a circle all the way around the arrow. He pulled the shirt away. As gentle as he tried to be, Aragorn still flinched and groaned from the jostling. "Shh, dear boy, I know it hurts and I’m terribly sorry," Gandalf said. "But there, I’m finished now." He pulled the shirt off, then examined the wound. The skin around it was red and angry, and little wonder. The arrow would have been very difficult for Aragorn to have removed himself, short of contorting himself like the acrobats that entertained the kingly courts in the far East.

But something seemed odd about that arrow... Gandalf leaned even closer, wishing the light were better. He scooted to the side, to move his shadow out of the way. He felt the stub of the shaft, which was rough under his fingertips. He gently spread the skin back a bit from it, eliciting another long groan from Aragorn, but he had to see what...

He suddenly straightened up, then bent down again for another look. It was not an arrow at all, but a small tree branch, the bark still intact, driven in like a horrendously oversized splinter. Horrified, Gandalf tried to see how deeply it had penetrated. He grasped it as best he could, digging in with his nails, and then he gently pulled on it. Aragorn immediately cried out and his entire body stiffened.

Gandalf stopped. He reached up and stroked Aragorn’s hair, over and over. "Easy, easy. I will not do that again. Shhh."

Aragorn never truly woke, but the cries faded and he slowly relaxed. Indeed, he became so limp and lifeless that Gandalf immediately thrust his hand under his nose. He felt faint but steady puffs of warm breath and sighed deeply. "Dear boy, do not frighten an old man so," he murmured, sitting back and rubbing Aragorn’s arm as he contemplated what must be done. He found himself reluctant to even look at the wound. Arrow wounds he had seen aplenty, but there was something sickeningly unnatural about having a tree branch driven into one’s body like that. "Dear, dear boy..."

Still, this was no time for squeamishness. Girding himself a bit, Gandalf set about tugging all the wet things from beneath Aragorn. It took some doing, and elicited more pitiful cries from the ranger. "There now, I know, I know. But I must move you to warm and dry bedding or you’ll catch an even worse chill than you already have." Logical it might be, but Aragorn seemed little impressed, for the soft moans continued until Gandalf finally had him lying on his belly atop the blanket on which Gandalf had been sleeping earlier.

Gandalf shook out another blanket, this from Aragorn’s pack, and carefully covered him with it. "There you are, that must surely feel warmer." He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, then set about gathering what he needed for the hard task before him. First, he must have clean water. He pulled out the small pot he carried in his pack always when on long journeys and hurried outside and scooped it full of snow, then placed it in the fire to melt and then boil until it was pure.

Next, he held his knife in the flames until the blade was thoroughly cleansed by the fire. He propped it carefully against a rock, hilt down, the blade elevated so it did not come in contact with anything that might dirty it as it cooled. He then pulled from his pack a small flask of spirits and an even smaller bottle of miruvor, both given to him by Elrond. "The miruvor, because even a Maia might enjoy something to warm his belly and restore his spirit on a cold night. But do not drink it if you’ve bumped your head," Elrond had said, and then his eyes had twinkled as he pressed a second flask into his hand. "And some strong spirits. Not for drinking, but should you suffer a paper cut." They had chuckled together. A paper cut indeed; well they both knew that this would be no hunt through libraries. "I pray you will not need it, but you can pour it on a wound. It will keep infection at bay, but do not use too much, for it can damage the healthy flesh as well as the diseased."

Gandalf took a tiny sip of miruvor and as its warmth spread throughout him, spared a moment to speed a thankful thought Rivendell’s way, not only for the libation but also for Elrond’s allowing him through the years to watch occasionally as the great healer stitched together far too many victims wounded in every way imaginable. Gandalf had learned in his observations that not every ill could be cured by song or spell or sheer strength of fëa; sometimes healing was a more prosaic matter of cleaning and stitching and bandaging and warmth. Indeed, he remembered, as vividly as if it had happened yesterday, one poor Dúnedain Ranger who had been impaled when a rotted branch fell at the very moment he walked under a tree. The branch had pierced the unfortunate man’s chest, but Elrond had successfully removed it. But then Gandalf remembered with no little dismay that the man had subsequently died of infection, despite Elrond’s every effort to save him.

He cleared his throat. Perhaps it was best not to dwell too much on the past.

He uncovered Aragorn, then pulled out the cork stopper of the flask of spirits. He hesitated, remembering Elrond’s additional wry admonishment. "The liquid stings like the bite of a thousand vipers, so be prepared for the patient to jump, at the least, and perhaps even attack you." That he had been referring obliquely to Aragorn went without saying; they both knew that if Gandalf perforce had to care for anyone on this quest, it would be the Ranger. He had wondered, at the time, just how often Aragorn had attacked his own father in just such a way. The droll tilt of Elrond’s smile certainly hinted at painful experience.

Gandalf moved Aragorn’s sword out of reach; Aragorn fortunately didn’t seem to have need of it at the moment. "You will not like this, Aragorn, but try not to flinch." He then poured the liquid carefully around the wound and the branch, thoroughly soaking the entire area. Thankfully, Aragorn was too far into his swoon to lunge for his sword, or for Gandalf’s throat, but he did let out a weak groan.

"Rest easy, rest easy," Gandalf murmured, and again rubbed Aragorn’s upper back. He sang lightly until Aragorn’s soft cries ceased.

Gandalf then shook out his own spare blanket, still clean and unused. He carefully laid it across the ground near the fire where it would warm. Then he pulled out several pairs of his own clean hose and laid them carefully atop the blanket. He wished he had more, but one hardly carried one’s entire wardrobe on a hunt; that he had decided at the last moment to toss in several extra pairs of hose and an extra blanket was looking in hindsight like blessed prescience. He supposed he might find some more hose in Aragorn’s pack, but he could not be certain any he found there would be clean. He did, however, dig through the pack to see what healing herbs the man might have. "Athelas would be helpful. Or poppy." But he found neither. He did find a small pot of some sort of salve, however. Gandalf opened it and took a sniff and the odor nearly blew the top of his skull off. He let out a disgusted cry that was halfway to a cough and hurriedly replaced the stopper. "I never knew you for carrying orc repellent!" he groused and shoved Aragorn’s pack, and the offensive jar, out of the way.

As he swiped his sleeve across his watering eyes, he was alarmed afresh as Aragorn let out another pain-filled cry. Gandalf hurriedly laid his hand across Aragorn’s forehead. He did not have Elrond nor Aragorn’s gift of healing via such methods, but he could enter a Man’s mind, if allowed, to ascertain what he could. Aragorn had always kept his mind open to Gandalf, and so Gandalf concentrated, hoping that even unconscious, Aragorn would still welcome the touch of his old friend. And indeed, soon Gandalf felt pain, confusion and fear churning through Aragorn’s fëa. But even as he felt the weakness wrought by wound and fever, he came up against a core of resolve as of hardened steel. He could almost see Aragorn’s eyes blazing with outrage as his body battled its injuries. Gandalf smiled, then withdrew. Strong indeed was the Heir of Elendil. Far stronger, Gandalf was now certain, than any avalanche or piddling small splinter in his back.

But what exactly to do with said splinter. He had been avoiding mulling over the problem as he gathered his supplies, but now it must be faced that he was unsure how to proceed. It must be removed, of course, the splinter; what to do with the hole it left behind was the question. It would need stitching, surely, but there was bound to be dirt, shreds of fabric, bark and who knew what other nasty bits embedded within, and no matter how careful Gandalf cleaned it, some debris would be left behind. Stitching it would trap what was left and allow it to fester. Indeed, from the looks of the inflamed skin, infection had already set in.

So the wound must be left open, somehow, to allow for continual cleaning and the draining away of any dirty bits Gandalf missed. He knew he could pack it with what clean bandages he could contrive from materials at hand, but he could hear Elrond’s voice in his head reminding him that dressings on an open wound would need to be changed twice a day, for at least a week if not longer, depending on the depth and breadth of the wound and how quickly new tissue formed. Gandalf did not have enough spare hose for a week’s worth of twice daily bandage changes, even if they did have food and fuel enough to subsist for that long in this barren cave.

It appeared that no matter which course of action Gandalf took, stitching it up or leaving it open, infection and even death were far too likely. For a moment, the hopelessness of their situation enraged him, and he felt very much like beating his clenched fists against the stone floor of the cave.

Then he took a deep breath and collected himself. "Surely there must be a way," he murmured. He stepped around Aragorn so he could look into his face, as if in the unconscious man’s quiet countenance he could read the answer, somehow. "Tell me what to do, Aragorn," Gandalf whispered. "Tell me what I should do."

Aragorn remained silent and still, but for shallow, pained breaths. Gandalf laid a hand against Aragorn’s cheek for a moment, then straightened. He sat for a long moment, staring at the flames, counting up his supplies, thinking about bandages. He finally nodded, his decision made. "I shall do both, Aragorn, and hope it not an ill choice. I will stitch it up but leave a bit open, just enough to allow it to drain, and yet small enough to be covered with only the smallest bit of fabric. And you, Aragorn, will have to ply that Númenórean strength of yours and heal more quickly than any man ever has from such a wound, because we cannot stay in this cave for long."

He then looked at the supplies he had laid out. "But what to stitch you with?" Though Gandalf carried thread and needle in a small repair kit in his pack, that thread was thick and rough, meant for stitching up rent garments, not for patching up punctured companions. And he had carried it in the bottom of his pack for decades. It was not clean enough for this job. But his hose was another matter. They were Elven-make, never worn, and more importantly, woven of fine silken thread which should be eminently suitable for such a task. So, grasping a clean sock, he worked at the hem until he had loosened a thread, which he then grasped and unraveled until he deemed the length sufficient to stitch the wound shut. Then he fished his needle out. A pass through the flames, a loop of the clean thread through its eye, and it joined the knife, sitting on the cloak at the ready.

He checked the snow-water; the snow had long melted and was boiling merrily. There was room in the pot for more, so another quick trip outside for more snow, which hit the boiling water with a small explosion of steam. He moved the pot back into the hottest part of the fire so the water would come back to boiling. Oh how he wished then for some athelas to cast in the water, for he could use a burst of that refreshing fragrance. And it went without saying that Aragorn would benefit greatly. But athelas they had none, so soldier on without it they would.

Finally, Gandalf selected a small but sturdy stick from his meager stack of firewood, broke off a short length and pried Aragorn’s teeth apart and wedged it in. "Plucking that bit of splinter from your side will pain you greatly, Aragorn. I hope you are lost enough to the world that you will not feel it, but if you do, may this keep you from breaking your teeth or biting off your tongue."

One last chore of moving the water away from the fire to cool, and then he took a steadying breath. He splashed his hands liberally with the spirits, shook them dry, and then picked up the knife. He touched the blade’s edge to the skin of Aragorn’s back. Aragorn did not react, so, leaning on Aragorn with his left forearm, to hopefully stop him bucking from the pain, Gandalf swiftly plied the blade against the skin. Aragorn let out another deep groan, muffled by the stick he ground down upon, but he was too weak to otherwise struggle, and thankfully it took only a relatively small slice to free the branch. Though it had been long enough to wreak considerable damage to the back muscles, it had not penetrated any further, and Aragorn’s inner organs were untouched. "Thank the Valar for such mercies as we can find," Gandalf breathed.

Much relieved and working quickly, Gandalf tossed aside the branch and flushed the wound clean as best as he could, first with water, and then with the spirits, picking out the larger bits of debris with the tip of his knife and sponging away smaller bits with a bit of folded hose. He let it bleed freely a bit, for good measure, before finally holding a pad of folded hose against the wound to soak up the welling blood. He then reached for the needle and deftly stitched the wound closed, moving from the inside of the wound out, stopping and dabbing away blood as he went until he finally reached the outer skin. He made those stitches very tiny indeed, to keep scarring to a minimum. He left it open at the very bottom of the wound, to allow, he hoped, for the drainage of any foul vapors. Surely he had enough bandages to contrive the twice daily changes on such a small opening.

With the bleeding stopped and another folded bit of hose covering the wound, Gandalf sat back on his haunches and wiped his brow. Throughout the ordeal, Aragorn had groaned steadily but had not moved, until finally at the end he had fallen into exhausted silence.

Gandalf cast again into his pack and pulled out his very last pair of hose. With much grunting and gasping, he rolled Aragorn over and lifted him carefully to a seated position, leaning him against his chest, and wrapped the hose around Aragorn’s waist to hold the dressing in place. Aragorn’s slim build held him in good stead; there was just enough to go around completely and tie securely, but no extra.

With that done, Gandalf laid him gently back down on his belly. He then turned his attention to the wound above Aragorn’s ear. He tore a strip from the tail of one of Aragorn’s shirts and dipped it into the water. He dabbed gently at the crusted blood on Aragorn’s neck and in his hair. It took many rinses but he finally managed to clean it all up. The wound itself had scabbed over nicely, so Gandalf elected to leave it be. Aragorn had lost enough blood as it was, and there seemed to be no infection. Gandalf finally covered him with the blanket warmed by the fire. "Rest now, Aragorn," he murmured, and then, satisfied that his patient was breathing deeply and evenly, he busied himself with laying out all of the wet clothes to dry.

Finished at last, he eased himself sighing to the floor beside Aragorn and leaned back against the wall. He might have traded his staff for a cushion should someone have offered him one at that moment, but the wall at least gave his aching muscles a bit of support. "Elbereth, have mercy on us both," he breathed, and, resting a comforting hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, settled in to keep watch over his charge.