Part II

Aragorn

Chapter 6 - Grab Him and Eat Him and Spit Out His Bones...

Aragorn hurt in so many ways and in so many places that it was a wonder, really, that he was still alive. His head, his back... and in less excruciating fashion his arms... both elbows... his legs... even his ankles ached. Was there no part of him that was not set on giving him misery, he wondered rather sourly. His right earlobe, perhaps. It offered no complaint.

He grimaced and slowly opened his eyes, carefully controlling his breathing so as not to alarm Gandalf. The wizard was a marvelous caretaker, and Aragorn was overcome with gratitude for all he had done for him. But he was also starting to worry about him, for he had a way, at Aragorn’s least movement or murmur, of instantly appearing at his side to hover in ill-concealed alarm while patting his shoulder in a somewhat hysterical staccato. The venerable wizard seemed so consumed with worry, in fact, that Aragorn feared for his well-being. Keeping absolutely still as much as possible seemed the only way to alleviate the Maia’s panic, Aragorn had decided.

But, though he was loathe to admit it, Gandalf was not the real reason he was staying as still as a mouse.

He turned his head just enough to see the Eagle. He groped through his muddied mind for the name... Durvain. Yes, that was it. Durvain. He was sitting with his feathers fluffed against the chill wind as he dozed in front of the cave entrance. Aragorn had long admired the Eagles – they were, after all, a very important part of the Valar’s watch over Middle-earth, from the ancient days of Thorondor all the way to the present. Witnesses of Manwë in the days of Númenor; messengers still in this age. Admirable, honorable, noble. Wonderful creatures, without doubt. So why, upon seeing one so close, did he feel such continuing unease? It defied every bit of logic and whatever reason he might possess. Of course, reason of late was severely compromised by a raging headache and a world that swirled nauseatingly at the slightest twitch, so perhaps that might be part of the problem. But there was something else, something deeper....

He lay quietly, watching Durvain, trying in vain to quell the feeling that if he moved in the slightest bit, the Eagle would pounce on him and tear his limbs from his body.

...grab him and eat him and spit out his bones....

He blinked, fighting off the shiver that the sudden stray phrase sent crawling down his spine. Where in the world had it come from? Some childhood memory, a song, perhaps, or some childish rhyme? He thought on it but no answer came to him.

Forgetting it, he looked again at the Eagle. Perhaps it was simply that he was just so very big. Durvain could step on him and squash him flat without even trying, and maybe without even realizing.

But Aragorn had experienced firsthand Durvain’s gentle touch, when he moved him to this bed some hours ago. So he knew that death from accidental squashing was hardly a risk, nor was there any chance at all that Durvain would have him for breakfast. Or elevenses. Or tea or whatever mealtime it might be. He had no idea what time it was. He knew he had slept for some hours, after the ordeal of being moved, but how many was anyone’s guess. The storm howling beyond the cave entrance kept the light in the cave an uninformative shade of dim, brightened only by the fire crackling cheerfully in the center of the floor. It could be midnight or midday and it looked the same to Aragorn.

Durvain let out a soft snore, real this time and not a demonstration of... how had he put it? Tucking under? The noise startled Aragorn and made his heart jump uncomfortably, which caused his skull to pound in wretched rhythm with each pulse beat. He shut his eyes, hoping to calm himself, but instead had a sudden and disturbing vision of a room, and a painting... a painting of an Eagle, as large as storm clouds and as dark as shadow, and he felt the cold grip of terror on his heart as he beheld it.

... grab him and eat him...

And suddenly he remembered all of it.

He had been five years old, he supposed. Mayhap only four, a little boy without any other playmates but already fond of adventuring on his own through the hallways of the Last Homely House. That day, he had sneaked out from under the eye of the elleth who was supposed to be watching him while his mother rested. She had wanted him to sit quietly reading books, but it was late afternoon and the shadows were stealing away the light and Estel was fairly jumping out of his skin because another day was slipping away and he hadn’t done anything near what he wanted to. There were still orcs to slay and elf maidens to rescue (although not the kind that made you sit and read books... the dragons could keep those as far as Estel was concerned, and the world would be a better place). So he had waited until her back was turned and then he had slipped out the door.

He ran, as quickly and as quietly as any four-year-old boy ever could, which of course was quick enough but not quiet at all, until he found himself in a hallway he had never been in before. It was spooky and filled with shadows that reached across the floors and hid the high ceilings. It was like being in a cave, and so he pretended it was a cave, a cave filled with orcs and bats and dragons and maybe even an evil oliphaunt or two, never mind that oliphaunts didn’t live in caves... and then something went scritch-scritch, way down the hallway behind him, and his heart jumped into his throat because he was certain, absolutely certain, that it was an orc!

And then he was running wildly, his heart pounding and his lungs burning, and he didn’t know the way and every door he tried was locked and he knew the orc would grab him and eat him and spit out his bones, until finally he found an unlocked door and ducked in and slammed it quick so the orcs couldn’t grab him and eat him and spit out his bones. Then he had turned and in the dying light of day he had seen it: an eagle flying across the sunset sky. It was so big it took up the entire horizon and Estel, in his terror, had dropped to the floor and curled up in a ball and screamed, certain that the Eagle was swooping down on him to grab him and eat him and spit out his bones because he had been naughty. It wasn’t until after Glorfindel found him and cuddled him and lit lamps all over the room that Estel realized that it had been Glorfindel’s soft step in the corridor behind him, not an orc’s, and that he had stumbled into Glorfindel’s quarters and most important of all, that the Eagle was only a painting. A huge painting that took up the whole of an entire wall, but just one of many paintings, some not scary at all, that decorated the walls of Glorfindel’s apartments.

Glorfindel had carried him close to it and told him the story of Manwë’s Eagles flying over the Meneltarma, and of the Eagles helping the remnants of Gondolin, including Eärendil himself who had been not much older than little Estel was now, so could he see that Eagles were nothing to be frightened of? Estel could see, but what he really wanted to know then was what a remnant was. But Glorfindel wouldn’t tell him what remnant meant, and he wouldn’t tell him how the Eagles helped. He just said it was a story for when he was older, and Estel hated it when Nana or Ada or Erestor told him that. But Estel had at least learned then that Eagles were Good, not Scary....

Aragorn sighed quietly. How long ago that had been! But it was still one of his most vivid early childhood memories. Despite Glorfindel’s wise teaching, he had suffered occasional nightmares of Eagles swooping down at him for years after, nightmares that made a mockery of his love for their soaring grace and his knowledge of their noble deeds for Men and Elves through the Ages. Hadn’t he named himself after an Eagle, when he went on his travels far beyond these lands? But childhood terrors are not easily put aside, he supposed, and he had to admit, as much as he admired the Eagles and loved them for their staunch friendship, he was surprised to find he preferred to watch them from a safe distance.

And twenty feet away was not what he considered a safe distance.

He couldn’t help shivering as he looked away from the Eagle sitting so close, but he beat back childhood fears as best as anyone can beat back childhood fears, and forced himself to quit shutting away the sight like a frightened four year old and for Valar’s sake, look.

Seeing the bird at such close quarters, Aragorn was struck by his sheer beauty, by the lay of the glossy feathers and the colors that seemed to flicker and shimmer across them with an almost iridescent golden glow. From a distance, Eagles looked... well, they looked like a vague sort of brown with perhaps a bit of gold if the sun hit them just so. Beautiful in their own way, but sheer size and flying grace aside, not very eye catching or flashy, certainly nothing like the brilliant blue and purple peacocks Aragorn had seen in his travels to the south and east. But up close, Aragorn saw that he had given the birds’ beauty short shrift, for indeed, there was every shade of brown imaginable, plus black and streaks of cream and even a bit of red, and laid over all that a sort of golden shimmer that defied definition. Stunningly beautiful, this bird.

And stunningly huge. Aragorn felt like a tiny mouse in comparison, and that thought left the door wide open to all those long-buried fears. His breathing quickened, quite without his permission, and even though he sternly told himself to stop being such a ninny, he nonetheless pulled the blanket closer to his chin, as if by doing so he could hide himself should the sleeping bird’s sharp eyes open and look his way. Ridiculous, really, because the northern Eagles had long been known for their willingness to lend succor when needed, which Durvain more than exemplified in his gentle handling of him; it had hurt, yes, but that was no fault of the bird’s. But when those giant talons came at him, it had been all he could do not to shrink back in fear that was both contemptible and wholly unjustified.

But so very real nonetheless...

He gave up and shut his eyes, blocking out the sight as he snuggled deeper in the soft down of his bed. That was a revelation as well, and one far easier on which to quite literally dwell. Never had he felt so... so cosseted. Not even in his own bed in Rivendell had he experienced the sheer warmth and softness of this pile of eagle down. It felt how he imagined sleeping on a cloud on a warm summer day might feel, and it almost made him forget his injuries and how he had come by them.

Almost.

He couldn’t remember much of the avalanche itself. He remembered stepping out of a cave, frustrated yet again at finding absolutely no sign of Gollum and wondering if he should abandon the heights for the lower reaches. Surely Gollum would not have climbed upward... he was from all indications a creature of the dark places, seeking sanctuary ever deeper and lower, in places like the subterranean lake and island Aragorn had explored earlier in the summer. No, Gollum would not risk the open heights, so close to the sun where he could be found and chased or even eaten by Eagles.

...who would grab him and eat him and spit out his bones....

"Stop it," Aragorn murmured to himself, and sternly marshaled his thoughts back to the calamity that had brought him to this wretched pass.

Aragorn had been a bit lost in such thoughts of Gollum, he admitted, and that had been his very literal downfall. He had placed a foot wrong, missing the rocky floor of the ledge on which he was walking and falling hard as his entire right leg sank into a snowdrift which crumbled beneath him and made him slide further still. He had floundered with heart-pounding fear, grabbing for the ledge, but the snow beneath him continued to fall away and before he could quite grasp what had happened, it seemed as though the entire mountainside had broken off in a great falling slab, taking him with it as it rocketed toward the valley far below. There had been roaring and shaking and clouds of blinding, choking snow and he had hit rocks and trees and been battered and pummeled and punctured... and by the time the earth finally grew still he was no longer sure what was up and what was down nor what had happened. He remembered staring at the sky and feeling a vague thankfulness that he had not been buried when the snow finally quit its terrifying rush down the mountain, but then for a long time he did not have any thoughts at all.

He had drifted. Unconsciousness ruled him for a time, then consciousness returned but was chased quickly away by oblivion the moment he raised his head. He was unsure how long he had lain in the snow, slowly freezing to death, before enough of his scattered wits returned to urge him to move. And so he had, painfully, feeling the bite of something in his back but too dazed and injured to know what it was. All he knew was that his head hurt dreadfully, and his back... something seemed to be stabbing him there. He finally decided an orc had shot him, for what else could feel so like an arrow’s stabbing burn?

But it had been no arrow. Gandalf had shown him the branch, and told him how he had pulled it from him and cleaned the wound and stitched it partly closed. It had been good work, he was sure, but now Aragorn felt the sickness in him. Infection. He shivered, despite the warm fire and warm bed, and he knew that no matter how careful Gandalf had been, he could not possibly have cleaned the wound completely, under the circumstances. A puncture wound such as that... no, even Elrond himself, with the best equipment at hand, would be hard pressed to clean it enough to evade infection’s evil hand. He frowned as a wave of nausea swept him, followed by his skin prickling as if a thousand spiders crawled along his limbs.

There was a noise beside him, and a hand touched his brow. "Strider?"

He did his best to keep his face composed, to hide his misery. "Gandalf. I have not thanked you... for what you’ve done."

Gandalf favored him with a peeved look, though his eyes twinkled. "Thank me! Good gracious, there is no need for thanks. What would have had me do, leave you to lie out in the snow until spring?"

Aragorn smiled, more a matter of his eyes than anything else, for he was desperately tired. Moving his lips to speak seemed hard enough. Smiling with all the muscles of his face? Impossible.

"Your fever does not seem any worse, but it stubbornly refuses to abate," Gandalf said. "Let me check the wound." He leaned across Aragorn, and Aragorn felt the wizard’s grey robes brush his face. Gandalf smelled of wood smoke and Old Toby and something indefinably wizardly that brought to mind ancient lands and infinite kindness.

That benign impression vanished in an instant, however, as Gandalf pulled back the blanket and tugged at the bandages. No matter that he was gentle; it still felt as though he’d stabbed Aragorn with a sword still glowing crimson from the forge. He grunted, a rather loud and shamefully ill-tempered explosion of pained outrage that made the Eagle stir in his sleep.

"Sorry, sorry... but I must change this bandage. The wound is draining, which I think is good, actually, but it has soaked through the bandage completely."

Aragorn wished he might have a mirror to see how bad the wound was, but he settled for asking, between more grunts and hisses and one exceedingly piteous moan that he would give his last draw of Old Toby to have held back, "How red is it?"

"A bit more than it was yesterday, I’m afraid. But still only around the very edges."

"No streaks?"

"No, nothing like that. Looks a bit inflamed, one might say. Oozing a bit, though I will say no more lest I put us all off our feed."

Aragorn shut his eyes. That was reassuring, at least. As bad as he felt, the infection did not seem to be spreading into his blood. That would be dire, for once in his blood, it would spread through his entire body and start shutting down vital things like kidneys and liver and eventually his heart. Had he not stumbled upon Gandalf, such might have been his fate and he might even now be sailing the Dark Seas. But found him he had, and he would get better, with time. Lots of time, from the feel of things. He grew weary just thinking about all those weeks of recuperation ahead.

How had the eagle put it? Keep his head tucked under? Now that Gandalf was done with his infernal poking about, it sounded like excellent advice to follow...

"Strider."

He opened his eyes, reluctantly, and saw Gandalf had a cup in his hand. "I’m sorry, I know you desire nothing more than to sleep until you are fully healed, but you must drink."

Aragorn dutifully sipped until the cup was drained, then he endured another cup, this time of broth. Gandalf then brought forth a packet of leaves. He unfolded them to reveal a thin cake. "Athelas have we none, and I dare not give you miruvor, but I do have this," he said. He broke off a tiny corner. "Lembas, or Elven waybread, made by the women of Lórien. I’m sure you’ve at least heard of it, if not tasted its sustaining sweetness yourself on your journeys hither and yon. I’m going to give you a tiny bit, and if you can keep it down, I think it will lend you strength." He placed it in Aragorn’s mouth, and he chewed slowly. It tasted sweet and wholesome, and he washed it down with a bit more water.

"Does it rest easily on your stomach?"

It didn’t, unfortunately, but he doubted he would be ill. He was too exhausted to bother with vomiting. "Easily enough. Thank you," he whispered, then wished with all his might that Gandalf would leave him be.

But such was not to be the case. Gandalf pressed a hand against Aragorn’s forehead and soon Aragorn felt the cautious approach of Gandalf’s thoughts into his. He frowned, thinking for a moment, quite crossly, of closing his mind and denying him access, but he realized that would be rude. Gandalf was doing his best, after all, to care for Aragorn and doing the job of healer was not something to which the wizard was accustomed. Aragorn resigned himself to Gandalf’s gentle check, and then the wizard took both his thoughts and his hand away from Aragorn’s head. Aragorn forced his eyes all the way open and even managed a smile. "Have I any wits left at all, then?" he quipped.

"Oh, a few, scattered here and there. Quite untidily, I might add."

"Hmm. I’ll try to get them in order, as soon as my skull quits pounding."

"Does it hurt very much?"

"As long as I don’t suddenly lunge to my feet, it’s tolerable." A lie, that, as even blinking caused ripples of white-hot pain to shudder through his head, but no matter....

There was a stirring across the cave and Durvain let out a whistle. "Ooh, that’s cold on my tail feathers!" he cried, then he shifted a bit and fluffed himself up further, then tucked his head back under his wing. His breathing deepened.

To Aragorn’s surprise, he found Durvain amusing this time, rather than fearsome. Maybe there was hope yet that he might overcome his silly fears. He chuckled. "I don’t believe he ever actually woke up."

"I don’t think he did. The Eagles are blessings from Ilúvatar himself, to be sure. Their assistance has been invaluable to me over the years, and now as much as ever."

"I want from here forward to sleep only on eagle down," Aragorn mumbled, snuggling deeper into his bedding.

"Perhaps when you are King, you can arrange to do just that," Gandalf said quietly.

Aragorn opened his eyes again, for rare it was that Gandalf ever sounded so wistful. "Are you all right?"

"Of course," Gandalf snapped, suddenly cross. "Why ever wouldn’t I be? After all, there’s only the small matter of my traveling companion having been gravely wounded and struck with fever, not to mention a blizzard trapping us in a cave far from proper care. But no matter! I should imagine I will break into song and dance a jig any moment now."

"There’s no need for sarcasm."

"There’s every need for sarcasm, and had you lived as long as I have, you would see that immediately instead of chiding me like I was your infant son speaking out of turn."

Aragorn chuckled. "If you were my son, I would send you to bed without any supper for using that tone of voice with me."

"There you have it, then; it’s well and good I am not your son. At any rate, I would expect my father to have better sense than to go tumbling down mountains."

"I must be getting better."

"I beg your pardon?"

"For you to grouse so. I must not be on death’s doorstep."

Gandalf snorted, then clamped his unlit pipe between his teeth. "No, you are not on death’s doorstep. The footpath leading to it perhaps."

Aragorn fell quiet. He wasn’t really up to chivvying Gandalf out of his dark mood; bantering with him was always great fun, but today it simply worsened the throbbing in his head. He watched the fire instead, indulging himself in staring at the dancing flames, watching them flicker and waver and admiring their beauty as he never could when he was alone on patrol and had to preserve his night vision. Eventually even they seemed to stab him with spiky shards of pain, so he closed his eyes, determined to lose himself in sleep.

"I’m sorry," Gandalf sighed.

Aragorn opened his eyes again. He regarded Gandalf for a moment. "You have every right to be angry with me. I should have taken more care."

"No, no. Do not turn my apology into one of your own, though you are by far the world’s expert at that," Gandalf grumbled. "But I will have my turn and you will hear me out: these mountains hold hazards that cannot always be avoided. Had it not been an avalanche, it might have been a wolf, or a bear, or an Orc. I am just very thankful you are still alive, and even more determined to see that you stay that way, for I fear your survival is hardly certain by any means. And that worries me, which makes me cross, which makes me snap at you. And for that, I apologize. One as old as I am should have better control over his temper."

"I will be well enough, in a day or two, to walk."

Gandalf snorted. "Think you so! Well enough to stroll down the mountain? No, that is not the plan, young Strider."

Aragorn felt anything but young, but he let it pass. "What exactly is the plan, then?" he asked, not sure he wanted to know.

"Durvain will carry you to Beorn’s Hall."

Aragorn swallowed. "Flying?"

"Of course flying. He would hardly walk, now, would he."

Aragorn said nothing.

"It is the only way. Don’t worry; I’ve done it before. You’ll be perfectly safe."

But what of you, Aragorn wondered, aren’t you coming... but his head was pounding so hard that he couldn’t be bothered to ask. He clutched the blankets and resisted the urge to curl into a ball as he had on that long-ago day in Glorfindel’s room, and he looked at the Eagle sleeping across the cave, and then at his talons, and then he simply closed his eyes and hoped to wake up in the morning to discover it had all been nothing but a bad dream.