Out of the Wet

The bleeding would not stop. He had done everything he was able, padding so heavily that the bandages stood out like a tumour on the hip; packing the wound with the last of his clean lint; applying pressure until his arms ached and his wrist cried out for mercy. The wound could not have been stitched, even if he had not lost his kit and most of his meagre belongings in the ignominious flight southwestward. It was too deep, and if closed too soon it would fester. Infection there, where flank met pelvis, was deadly.

Aragorn son of Arathorn wound the last scrap of his shirt over the wadding. He took up the two ends of the belt and cinched it tight over all: an added source of pressure to induce the wound to clot. The procedure was painful, and a low groan of misery escaped wan lips.

‘There,’ Aragorn said. His voice was hoarse with weariness, falling flat in the wet air. ‘That’s over with. The pain will ease a little.’

‘It had better,’ his patient rasped, voice no more healthful than his Chieftain’s. Halbarad managed a shaky smile. ‘I took you for a mighty healer.’

Aragorn tried not to flinch. Though the words were meant in jest, and he knew he had done all he could, and a man of lesser skill might have lost his charge three days ago, his failure to stem the flow of blood was driving him to madness. How much blood Halbarad had already lost and how much more he had left to lose Aragorn did not know. The implacable rain of the last thirty hours had long since soaked the bandages. As the gore seeped through, it ran in red runnels down the crest of Halbarad’s hipbone to stain his braies.

Gently, Aragorn tugged first shirt and then cote to cover Halbarad, then closed the other man’s cloak with the same careful protection with which one might tuck in a child for the night. He reached into the shadow of his kinsman’s dripping hood to feel the bony cheek. Cautious effort kept the worry from his eyes. The fever seemed to burn hotter than ever.

He comforted himself with the knowledge that this might be no more than an illusion brought on by half-frozen hands. The year was yet young and the snows but lately fled; the rain was bitterly cold. It was hard and driving, too, and had long ago soaked both men to the bone.

Aragorn tucked the aching appendages into the pits of his arms, hugging his naked chest as he lifted his eyes. The elm which sheltered them (after a fashion, at least) was tall and venerable. Its branches spread wide and its roots anchored defiantly in the spongy soil. They were on one of the tiny islets of firm ground that speckled the Midgewater Marshes, where no troll could follow even if it managed to maintain the attention span necessary to chase its prey for twenty leagues.

They had slain the goblins swiftly, considering that they were two beset by half a dozen, but the troll had proved too much. Had Halbarad not taken the wound at the tip of the beast’s great knife, they might have managed. As it was, they had rousted from their camp and into the night at speed, Aragorn supporting Halbarad when he began to stumble. Dawn had brought hope of surcease and an opportunity to tend the hurt properly, and they had lingered that day in a quiet hollow of the spring lands. That night, Aragorn had laid his ear to the earth and heard what most he dreaded: the thunder of pursuing feet, and more than just two.

On the second night he had heard nothing, but by then it was obvious that Halbarad needed shelter that could not be found in the empty lands between the marshes and the Weather Hills. Through the shifting mires lay the most direct route to Bree, where Aragorn could surely find some dry place for his friend to lie. He prayed it was so; succour for Rangers was sparse in this country, but if he did not find rest and warmth Halbarad would not long survive.

‘Are you able to go on?’ he asked as he offered his cousin the leathern bottle that held their last clean water. Plenty more was falling from the sky, but it would take time and effort to collect. Time they had not, and Aragorn’s strength was flagging. Halbarad had found deep and almost drugged slumber during their brief halts, but Aragorn had not dared. Keeping up the guard was essential, of course, but he had been driven to wakefulness more by the fear that if he succumbed to the temptation of sleep, the price would be his comrade’s life.

Halbarad sighed as he swallowed, then flinched. His face, already sallow, took on a drawn and sickly grey look that Aragorn misliked. ‘Have I a choice, sire?’ he asked, trying to sound amused.

‘No.’ The word came out in a low breath, almost inaudible.

‘Then you had best clothe yourself, for it will not do to go running about in that state.’ Halbarad nodded to Aragorn’s bare chest and managed this time an almost teasing tone. More gravely he added; ‘And I have take your shirt.’

‘That’s no great hardship in this weather,’ said Aragorn. ‘It would be soaked through anyhow.’ He took up his cote from the stone over which he had draped it. The thick wool was made heavy by the drenching rain, and as he pulled it on Aragorn grimaced beneath its guarding folds. His shoulder was bruised black where the troll had thumped him as he scrambled to defend fallen Halbarad.

He girded himself, somehow colder now than he had been half-clad. Aragorn reached for his cloak, and from the corner of his eye he caught Halbarad’s spasmodic shudder. The wound was taking its toll. He was slipping back into shock.

‘Here.’ Aragorn beckoned for his kinsman to sit forward, that he might drape his own cloak over Halbarad’s. ‘If you can bear the weight of it, it will give you some warmth at least.’

Halbarad looked as if he wanted to argue, but his lips were tinted blue and Aragorn could almost feel the ache in the other man’s joints. The younger Ranger inclined his head and accepted the poor gift. Then he took a firm hold on Aragorn’s shoulder, and Aragorn about Halbarad’s chest, and somehow they managed to get the wounded man to his feet.

lar

The Midgewater Marshes were a shifting quagmire of treacherous bogland and stands of last year’s dead rushes that concealed sometimes solid ground, sometimes sucking pools. It was difficult terrain to navigate under the best of circumstances, and even a seasoned Ranger was bound to struggle. For the two of them, Aragorn almost numb for want of sleep and Halbarad stumbling through a hazy dream of pain, progress was slow. Their boots slipped and skidded, and more than once it was only the fact that they were tented against each other, Aragorn bracing up his cousin as best he could, that kept one or the other from a nasty fall.

Even on the unchanging ground, the mud was terrible. It clung to their boots and seemed to creep upward of its own volition. Fighting it used more strength than Aragorn had expected, and more strength than Halbarad had to spare.

It was inevitable, even if it came sooner than Aragorn had hoped. On one particularly slippery incline over a hillock of muck and mulch, Halbarad’s feet slid out from under him. He splashed down upon his knees, dragging Aragorn with him, and moaned as he struck the earth. He was white and shaking, and he could not rise again.

‘It’s no use,’ he wheezed after their third fruitless attempt. ‘My legs… they just won’t stay under me.’

Aragorn planted a cold hand upon Halbarad’s brow. The brewing fever was now troublingly high. Beneath their cloaks, Halbarad’s tunic bore a spreading dark mark where the blood had seeped through. Aragorn shook his head. ‘We cannot rest here,’ he said. ‘We need to get you in out of the wet. We are not so far from the edge of the Marshes. From there it is only a few miles to Bree.’

Halbarad’s bleary eyes seemed to search the air before finding Aragorn’s face. ‘I have not even a few miles in me,’ he confessed. ‘My head…’

Aragorn understood. He was dizzy, giddy from loss of blood and beginning to feel the dreadful headache that came from being pushed past one’s strength. Aragorn cast his gaze upward, as if there were any hope of gauging the hour by the hidden Sun. He judged they still had several hours until sunset, though. Time enough to reach The Prancing Pony if they pressed on relentlessly.

Relentlessly. With a captain’s resolve, Aragorn his shoulder slid free of Halbarad’s arm and scrabbled to his feet. ‘Up, now,’ he said bracingly, pushing the sodden cloaks out of the way to get a good hold under Halbarad’s arms. ‘Lean on me.’

Halbarad was beyond his strength, but still he managed to help the effort. With Aragorn hauling, he got his feet under him. His legs trembled and would not have borne his weight without the other man to hold him. Aragorn wrapped both arms snugly about Halbarad’s chest, affording them both a moment’s respite to catch their breath. The cold of the day was deepening: in the grey of the driving rain they each let out a puff of condensation.

‘I wish there were some gentler way,’ Aragorn said softly. ‘With the distance yet to cover, I fear it must be done.’

‘Your shoulder,’ Halbarad protested, but there was no force to his words.

‘My shoulder will bear up. Your wound might not, unless we can staunch the bleeding. It’s useless to try while the dressings remain soaked; the last day’s efforts have proven that.’ Aragorn dropped to one knee and tucked his head under Halbarad’s right arm. Perhaps the pressure against his body would stem the flow at last. It was worth the attempt, though he knew it would be painful.

‘On my count,’ he said as he snaked his right arm behind Halbarad’s knee and gripped his friend’s wrist. ‘One, two, three.’

The last word came out in a deep grunt of effort as he got the other Ranger up across his back and heaved himself to his feet. Halbarad swallowed the expected cry of anguish as his weight shifted onto his wounded flank. As Aragorn gathered both legs into the hold of his left arm, freeing his right, he felt Halbarad go limp in a sudden swoon.

‘Fear not, kinsman,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll get us to solid ground, and we’ll find somewhere for you to rest.’

Brave words notwithstanding, his progress was slow. The added weight made light stepping impossible, and the gummy ground sucked and seized at his boots. He could not quite reach around Halbarad’s thighs to brush the rain from his eyes, and there were times when the Marshes blurred before him. The chill of the day was deepening, but Aragorn felt it only on his exposed skin and the backs of his legs: as it turned out, having a body slung across your shoulders was warmer than any cloak.

Halbarad came back to himself after only a few minutes, mumbling a disjointed apology as he rested his head against Aragorn’s bruised shoulder. Aragorn did not spare the breath to dismiss it, only gave Halbarad’s legs a reassuring squeeze and plodded on.

The going grew ever more miserable. Aragorn’s weariness was rapidly gaining on him, sleepless nights and the effort of walking for days with Halbarad leaning upon him taking their toll at last. His empty stomach clenched and his head felt very light as he toiled on under his precious burden. He was determined not to slip, but his boots would not obey him.

There was a terrible moment when Aragorn’s boot slid off the edge of a tussock, plunging almost boot-high into one of the murky pools. His other leg collapsed, shin still upon dry land, and a jolt of bright pain tore up into his hip socket. Halbarad cried out feebly, badly jolted by the fall. In that instant, Aragorn’s one lucid thought was that he had broken his leg. They were doomed.

But no, he realized gradually. The limb was not broken and he was able to ease it out from under him and down into the water. Scrambling up to firm ground again was difficult and painful, but he managed that, too. Not much farther along, the patches of navigable land grew more frequent and the bog less deadly. They were indeed coming to the edge of the Marshes.

Twilight was gathering when he found a deliberate path. Weary legs quaked beneath him as Aragorn halted to catch his breath. ‘Here we are: didn’t I tell you?’ he huffed. ‘Only a few miles more.’

He did not expect an answer, but Halbarad stirred. ‘Water?’ he asked.

Aragorn managed a bitter chuckle. ‘Haven’t we had enough water to last us ‘til autumn?’ he asked. Repentant, he added; ‘If I put you down now, I fear I’ll not get you up again. Can you bear the thirst a little longer?’

He knew Halbarad’s reply before it was made, but his own heart protested. After such a loss of blood, Halbarad had great need of water. It had been many hours since their halt beneath the tree. He could not be expected to wait much longer, and at their present pace it would be midnight before they reached Bree. Midnight, and the gates long closed, and the surly gatekeeper reluctant to be roused from his comfortable fire just to deal with a pair of Rangers.

Trying to fight back the first tendrils of despair, Aragorn set out along the path. It was ill-worn and uneven, likely someone’s habitual trail to the edge of the marshes. The reeds and rushes were gathered for basket-making, and some of the poorer folk of the region were known to hunt frogs. Whatever the reason this path had been trodden, Aragorn was grateful. After the shifting ways of Midgewater, even this coarse road was welcome.

He was staggering now under Halbarad’s weight, struggling not to jar him too badly. The mass of his friend’s head was painful on his battered flesh, and his shoulders ached as if they might at any moment be torn from the sinews of his neck to settle somewhere near his waist. Aragorn closed his eyes against the rain, driving hard against him now, and walked on a few yards by feel. His feet were near frozen, but not numb yet. He followed the path as it climbed up towards the Road.

It was there, squarely in the middle of the broad and ancient way, that Aragorn fell. He did not quite understand what was happening until he came crashing to his knees, right palm outthrust to catch himself. Halbarad’s legs dragged on the hard earthen surface, and he moaned faintly as the impact shuddered up into his battered body. Stunned, Aragorn crouched there and blinked the rain from his eyes.

Regaining his feet, it seemed, took every shred of strength he had left to him. His legs quivered and his back strained. His right palm was scraped raw, and it stung as he pushed himself up. Aragorn leaned his weight far forward, trying to keep from overbalancing under his burden. Halbarad was once more limp, dead weight upon his shoulders. His joints seemed to grind and lock as he hoisted them both, and Aragorn stood breathless in the midst of the empty Road.

He could not see the lights of Bree: the gloom and the rain were too thick for that. Fog was gathering as the Sun vanished, and soon all the land would be shrouded. Where had they come out? How many miles more? Aragorn wondered if he could hope to make it. The uncertain welcome did little to bolster his faith.

A glint caught in the corner of his eye, and he looked away to the South. There, faint but steady, was an orb of golden light. It took Aragorn’s weary eyes a moment to focus, but when they did he saw another orb farther on, and another and another. Not so far away, the lights of Staddle stood out in the gathering night.

‘We may have no warmer welcome there,’ Aragorn murmured, though he knew Halbarad was beyond hearing; ‘but it is nearer. Surely there will be some manner of shelter.’

He was trying to convince himself, and wasting time doing it. He shuffled down off the Road and started out across a fallow field. The ground was matted with last year’s renewing weeds, and his boots did not sink far. Aragorn was grateful. He did not know if he could have fought more mud. His pace had picked up, driven by the hope of finding shelter. But before he could reach the first of the lighted windows, it winked out.

Hope faltered with the candlelight, though it was not snuffed completely. Staddle was hobbit-country, and the Little Folk were unlikely to want their nice, dry holes invaded by a pair of great, sopping men. They might not come to the door at all, in fact. This close to the road, they were bound to be wary of strange travellers. Nor did Aragorn like the idea of imposing his wounded comrade upon the quiet folk of the little village, whether small or large. It was too terrible an illustration of the dangers that lurked far too near. He still did not know what had possessed the troll to wander so far south, but he knew that no answer would bring comfort to the people of Bree-land. The mere existence of such a creature would be terrifying enough.

But he had to get Halbarad in out of the weather. His lifeless hand was now cold as old stone, and every now and then a shudder ripped through him. Beneath it, slow, steady shivering persisted. If they could not ask for shelter, they would have to find another way.

On Aragorn pressed, until he reached the outskirts of the village. The chief street ran through the heart of Staddle, with the low hills on one side and the flatter ground on the other. To his left stood stone cottages with low wooden outbuildings. To his right, the bank was dotted with the welcoming round windows of hobbit-holes. From somewhere near at hand came the smell of roasted meat, strong enough that even the rain could not dampen it entirely. Aragorn’s stomach lurched and he closed his nose to it. He could spare no thought of food.

He turned from the main way and approached the first lit cottage. He tried to hitch Halbarad higher on his back, as if by doing so he might relieve the pressure on his shoulders. Aragorn raised his unsteady right hand, hesitated, and knocked.

There was a sound of shuffling and questioning voices within, and the door creaked open a crack. One brown eye and half of a suspicious frown peered out from the sliver of enticing firelight.

‘Who’s there?’ the householder demanded. ‘Who’s fool enough to be out on a night like this?’

‘I am called Strider,’ said Aragorn. ‘I have come out of the wilds, and my friend is unwell. We have need of shelter from the rain.’

‘Shelter?’ The Man stepped back to let the door swing in a little further. His expression changed from puzzled to wary as he caught sight of Aragorn. His eyes raked over the contorted pair, and then narrowed in suspicion. ‘Here, now. Aren’t you that Ranger?’

Aragorn restrained a sigh. The odds were that he was indeed that Ranger, as he had been in and out of this country with fair regularity since returning to the North. ‘I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘My friend is ill. Can you spare us a place by your hearth tonight?’

The Man’s frown deepened. He did seem to be weighing the matter, and for a moment Aragorn was hopeful. Then the frown hardened and the householder shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t know you from the next dirty vagabond, and I can’t have you in where my family sleeps. How do I know you won’t rob us blind or knife us in our sleep?’ His eyes rested on the sheath that hung from Aragorn’s hip. Halbarad’s sword hung awkwardly behind his bearer’s shoulder.

‘I give you my word that I will not,’ said Aragorn. ‘I have no other assurance to offer.’

The man snorted, but he had not yet closed the door. Aragorn dared to try again. ‘Perhaps we could take shelter in your stable?’

This time the snort was one of disbelief. ‘Don’t have a stable,’ he said scornfully. ‘Does this look like a prosperous place? We’ve a privy; you’re welcome to bed down there if you please.’

Before Aragorn could think how to respond to such a dismissal, the door was shut in his face. He heard the grinding of wood on iron as it was barred against him.

‘It is only the first house,’ he whispered, as if Halbarad might be in any state to hear. ‘We’ll try again.’

At the next house, he was met only with silence. At the next, a hurried rustle of curtains and a flurry of whispers – then nothing. Standing still beneath Halbarad’s weight was proving harder than walking with it, and Aragorn could feel his strength flagging. If he did not get them out of the weather quickly, they would wind up lying in a heap in an alleyway, both too far gone to care much for their fate.

The idea of a stable kept gnawing at him. Such places were by necessity dry and sheltered, and the animals warmed them almost as much as a fire could. With darkness long settled over the village, the night chores would be complete – or nearly. Folk would not check on their livestock again until dawn. Two Rangers might bed down unnoticed, at least for a few hours.

He came to one not far beyond the next house; a low-lying structure of sawn logs. Hope stirred in his breast only to be dashed. The door bore a heavy lock, no doubt a precaution against horse-thieves. Aragorn knew that he could pick it, but that would mean lying Halbarad down on the muddy earth – and somehow getting him up again. He walked on.

The lights of the hobbit-holes grew ever more enticing. Aragorn had never been inside one himself, but he had heard tales aplenty of the comfort and cosiness of the neat little homes. If only he dared, he might have his chance to see for himself. But he feared another rejection. He stumbled onward.

Then he saw it: a square door cut into the hill where there ought to be a round one. There were windows, too, but they were covered in skins instead of glass. If that was not a hobbit-stable, he did not know what it might be. Turning took a concerted effort, and crossing the narrow street was a wearisome labour. There was a moment when Aragorn’s boot slipped and he feared he might fall again, but he kept his feet and reached the door. There was no lock: only a latch-string. He tugged it, half expecting to find the door somehow barred from within. The latch lifted and Aragorn crouched low to clear the doorway.

The smells of clean hay and cattle greeted him, and a wave of warmth that sent him shivering. He pushed closed the door and stood hunched low in the darkness, his head and Halbarad’s hip scarcely clearing the low roof. Aragorn moved in the darkness, sweeping with his lead foot and navigating by sound and smell. There was a pony who nickered as he passed, and a slumbering foal. The next stall held a cow, patiently ruminating. The next was empty.

More grateful than he could have found words to express, Aragorn sank to his knees. Straw was piled high before him, and he eased Halbarad down into its soft cocoon. Almost at once, the muscles of Aragorn’s arms and shoulders seized in agonized spasms. For a little while he surrendered to the pain and his exhaustion, riding out the cramps. But he had to rise and to tend to his companion. He struggled to his feet and began to grope along the braced ceiling.

He found what he sought hanging from the beam nearest the door: a small tin lantern. His flint and steel were in his pouch, and had thus survived the despoiling by the troll. Aragorn tried several times before he struck a light, so unsteady were his hands, but at last the stable was bathed in an inviting glow.

Halbarad lay limp and grey-hued in the straw. Aragorn felt for his pulse and gauged the mounting fever. Then he set about the difficult work of peeling off the layers of wet clothing. He stripped Halbarad to his linen, but it was as wet as the rest of his garb. There was a horse-blanket draped over the side of the next stall. Aragorn took it and, once Halbarad was down to his skin and the bandages, swathed him in it before settling him in the straw. Halbarad murmured something, and Aragorn soothed him. They were safely out of the rain, and Halbarad would begin to warm soon. There was other work for Aragorn.

He spread the soaked garments over the rails and stall doors. Then he shucked his own bedraggled travel-weeds. He kept his braies on, lacking the luxury of a dry blanket for himself. Then he found the leather bottle and looked around.

As he had hoped, the water trough was freshly filled. He dipped the bottle and waited until the last of the bubbles emerged. Greedily Aragorn drank, the sickly feeling of inanition retreating a little. On bare, unsteady feet he went to Halbarad’s side. He crooked an arm beneath head and shoulders and sat him up a little.

‘Where…’ muttered Halbarad, eyelids fluttering low.

‘Somewhere safe,’ promised Aragorn. He held the bottle to his friend’s lips. ‘Drink.’

Halbarad was unresponsive at first, but when the water lapped against his lips he gulped at it. His tongue quested after the life-giving fluid, and Aragorn was stricken with guilt. He should have halted to give Halbarad the last of the water. He could have hoisted him up again somehow. He let him drink readily now, withdrawing the skin only when Halbarad’s efforts slowed.

‘Thank you,’ he sighed, sinking back into the straw. He was weakened by his wound and teetering on the edge of sleep. Still Halbarad asked; ‘Is there aught to eat?’

There was not; not so much as a crust of sopping waybread. But Aragorn wrapped the horse-blanket more snugly about Halbarad’s shoulders. ‘I’ll see,’ he promised.

He did not dare to venture out into the rain to beg. Not only would it mean abandoning Halbarad to the mercies of anyone who might chance by, but by drawing attention to their plight Aragorn would run the very real risk of being driven off from their simple shelter. He searched the stable instead, looking for turnips or parsnips used to supplement the animals’ diet. He found nothing; not so much as a wilted carrot-top. Spring was young and unforgiving: the winter stores were depleted, and it would be some time before the first harvests came in.

Aragorn turned back to Halbarad, defeated. The cow lowed her sympathies. Aragorn’s gaze turned sharply to her, and she regarded him with drowsy brown eyes. She was a milch cow, calm and patient. Eyes, half-hopeful, slid down to her udder. It hung limp and empty. She had been freshly milked.

But not too freshly, Aragorn thought. It was now long after dark. Surely the night milking had been carried out at dusk, affording the cow a little time to replenish her bounty. He hurried to Halbarad’s pouch and fished out a wooden mug that he always carried. Cautiously he approached the stall door and slid it open.

‘Easy, patient one,’ he said, his voice low and soothing. He touched the cow’s jaw where she could see his hand, then slid down to her neck, then her shoulder and her flank. There was a hobbit-sized milking stool hanging on a peg, but it was worse than useless to a man of Aragorn’s height. He squatted instead, tucking his head low so that he could see what he was doing. He could milk a cow by feel, but he was less confident about the ability of his shivering hands to aim at the little cup.

There was little milk; almost nothing. Still he stripped away all that there was, teat by teat. In the end, the cow was dry and Aragorn was left with a little less than half a cupful of warm, frothing milk. The rich smell of it was so enticing that he nearly forgot himself. But he padded back to Halbarad and knelt again in the straw. The wounded man stirred and drank the milk in small, wavering sips. When the last of it was gone, he sighed. The strength went out of his neck, and his head lolled in the crook of Aragorn’s arm.

‘Sleep, now,’ Aragorn murmured. He was tempted to prod at the wound but thought better of it. He was too weary to be an effective healer tonight, and it would only cause Halbarad more pain. He drew a covering of straw over the horse-blanket and sat back against the wall of the stall.

There was a little milk clinging to the wall of the cup. Aragorn swept his finger to gather it, and sucked hungrily at the errant drops. The taste was sumptuous and sweet, but there was not enough of it even to satisfy his tongue, much less ease his stomach. He closed his eyes, shivering in his wet body linen. Beside him, Halbarad was already deep in slumber. Perhaps Aragorn could find a little tonight. He was sorely in need of it, and in the warmth of the small stable Halbarad would surely not slip away. He was a hardy man, and he had taken worse hurts than this in his life.

Yet Aragorn could not sleep. His head swam and his body ached, and his hunger clawed ceaselessly at him. Almost he was tempted to hobble over to the manger to partake of the hay that the animals were eating. If only he could have digested it, he would have tried.

Restless he rose again, half-hoping that he had missed something in his search of the stable. He did go to the manger, sifting through lest some edible root lie hidden in the hay. There was nothing. Then Aragorn’s eyes drifted to the earthen floor just inside the pony’s stall. Foal and dam were sleeping now, pressed close to one another. But they had been given a nose-bag at some point today: a sprinkling of oats lay in the dust.

Aragorn knelt and scraped the grain together, gathering it in the palm of his hand. He tipped it back and forth, trying to sift away the worst of the dirt. It was not a handful. It was scarcely a mouthful. Yet he chewed it gratefully, ignoring the grit between his teeth and nursing his meagre supper as long as he could.

The pony had awakened, and she was staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. Aragorn offered her the thinnest of smiles and got painfully to his feet. He had done heavy labour today, and his whole body felt it. He doused the lantern.

His linen was now only damp, and when he returned to Halbarad’s side he lay down at the slumbering man’s back. Huddled close so that they might share their warmth, Aragorn cast a careless covering of straw over his legs and body, and surrendered to sleep at last.

lar 

Once during the night, Halbarad stirred. Aragorn gave him water and took the opportunity to check the bandages. They had dried, and the carmine stains were no larger. After that he slept more deeply, body and mind hungry for that which they found so seldom. In the warm and quiet gloom of the hobbit-stable he drifted, only vaguely aware that somewhere far away the Sun had risen.

Then the cow let out an eager bellow and the pony nickered in greeting, and he knew too late that the Rangers were no longer alone.

Crusted eyes opened reluctantly, but focused at once upon the round, wide-eyed face of a child. She was nine or ten years old, with a crop of riotous brown ringlets on her head and downy brown curls on her toes. A broad apron covered her neat pink frock, and she held a small milking pail in one hand. A shawl had slipped from her head, its nap glistening with raindrops. She was staring at Aragorn in speechless astonishment.

He raised his hand and opened his mouth, trying to muster some sign to reassure her. But what reassurance could there be? She had come out to dispatch her morning chores, and had found two Men, well over twice her height and many times her strength, lying in the straw with their belongings strewn all about. Aragorn found himself just as dumbstruck as the hobbit girl.

Her lips closed with a soft pop, and she hurriedly set the bucket by her feet. Before Aragorn could muster his wits, she was gone: fleeing out into the droning patter of the rain.

With a huff of breath that was not quite an oath, Aragorn scrambled up into a seated position. He twisted to tug the corner of the horse-blanket from his kinsman’s face.

‘Halbarad,’ he said softly, running his fingers over the other man’s cheekbone and feeling the persistent fever. He could not bear to drive a wounded man out into a storm, but it was about to happen anyhow. ‘Halbarad, awake. We must go.’

Halbarad moaned like a youth reluctant to wake after a night’s merriment. His lips were cracked and parched. Aragorn fumbled for the water bottle and held it for his friend.

‘Go?’ Halbarad croaked when he had drunk his fill. ‘Go where? Where are we?’ He looked down at his body, swathed in coarse and unfamiliar wool. ‘I thought… you said… we were safe.’

Aragorn cast his eyes away. Hurriedly he brushed the straw from his skin and raked a hand through his hair. It had dried in the night, stiff waves crusted with the salt of his sweat. ‘We were, for a few short hours,’ he said. ‘Even now there is no danger, but… but we must go.’

He got to his feet too quickly and swayed where he stood, flinging out an arm to brace himself against the nearest beam. He fought the urge to sink to his knees, and a moment later he was gathering half-dried garments with great haste.

‘Your linen is dry. I wish it were clean,’ he said, handing shirt and braies to Halbarad. ‘Don’t strain. I’ll be there to help in a moment.’ He did not fancy being caught by an angry villager in his present state, and he shrugged stiffly into his cote. He was snatching up hose and breeches when the child came running back into the stable, pointing.

‘You see?’ she said urgently, looking back towards the door. ‘I told you they’re giants!’

A plump hobbit woman came around the first stall, hands on her hips and a wooden spoon in her fist. She looked Aragorn over from head to toe, utterly unafraid. ‘Nonsense, Honeysuckle, they’re not giants; only Men.’ She glanced past Aragorn at Halbarad, who lay bewildered and glassy-eyed in the straw. ‘Untidy men at that.’

Honeysuckle shook her head. ‘They’re giants. They’re too tall for Men.’

‘Men they are, and no mistake,’ said the woman. ‘Well? Aren’t you?’

‘Yes, mistress,’ said Aragorn, trying to keep his voice soft instead of hoarse. ‘I am Strider, and this is my companion.’

‘Rangers, from the look of you?’ the woman asked. Aragorn nodded. ‘And what do you think you’re doing in my stable?’

‘We sought refuge from the rain,’ Aragorn confessed. ‘My friend is injured, and I feared to let him pass the night without shelter.’ He feared to drag him out into the cold and the wet again, but he did not say that. They would be lucky to be allowed to dress themselves properly before being turfed out.

‘So you just helped yourself to our straw, then?’ the woman said.

She was not in the least bit frightened, though even in their present state the two Men could have overrun her home and helped themselves to anything they wished. She knew they would not, Aragorn saw. Somehow, despite all appearances, she knew they meant her no harm. It was a startling revelation, and it put an ache in his chest.

‘I beg your pardon, mistress: yes,’ said Aragorn. ‘Our need was great.’ He said no more. There was no more that he could say.

‘Hmph.’ The hobbit woman looked him over again, from matted crown to bare feet. She jerked her chin at Halbarad. ‘What of him? Broken leg?’

‘A hurt to his side,’ said Aragorn. ‘I beg you, let me have half an hour that I might tend it.’

Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head. ‘The cow wants milking. She won’t wait.’

‘I will gladly milk her,’ Aragorn offered, wondering how he would find the resolve to do so yet again without taking any for himself.

‘She don’t let men-folk touch her,’ the hobbit said. ‘She’s not happy unless it’s Honeysuckle doing the milking. Don’t hardly let me do it these days, and I raised her up from a calf.’

The little girl bridled a little, proud of her skill.

‘We will not harry her,’ promised Aragorn. ‘Please. Half an hour.’

She looked him over again, thoughtful. Then she nodded her head curtly. ‘Half an hour,’ she said. ‘Get on with your work, lamb, and never mind these two. Give a good shout if you’re in need of anything.’

Then to Aragorn’s amazement she turned and left the stable, shaking her spoon as she went.

‘I’m to milk the cow,’ Honeysuckle said primly, collecting her bucket. She slipped into the stall, and moments later the beast was lowing in contented relief.

Scarcely able to believe this reprieve, Aragorn hastened to Halbarad’s side. He had managed to get his nether linen up around his hips, and Aragorn settled the points before turning his attention to the wound.

The padding came away in clumps, layers soldered together with blood. When the folded strips were laid aside, Aragorn could inspect the packing. It was dry and crusted, and the first signs of healing showed at the edges of the wound.

‘How bad is it?’ Halbarad wheezed, grey with pain but still lucid.

‘Far better than yesterday,’ said Aragorn. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Dreadful.’ Halbarad forced a shaky grin, but there was no true jest in the word. Softly, he added; ‘I can manage.’

Aragorn was not so certain. The wound was clotting, and that was all to the good, but the exertions of walking would soon open it afresh. Even if they made straight for The Prancing Pony, Halbarad would have several hours of slow bleeding that he could ill afford – if he could walk at all. With his fever still burning, it would be folly to lie out in the wet. What, then, was their choice?

‘You need rest,’ he said. ‘And hot food and dry clothes and a bed out of the rain.’

‘I’ve a dry shirt,’ said Halbarad optimistically. Then he grimaced. ‘I suppose the rest is still a bit damp.’

More than a bit, if Aragorn’s tunic was anything to measure by. It was no longer wet enough to be wrung out, but it felt cold and slimy against his skin. The places where it had chafed him without a shirt to buffer it already itched rawly. ‘I’m afraid it is,’ he said.

Halbarad had expected no other answer, but they had to make the best of their situation. At least they had the night’s rest behind them.

In the cow’s stall, Honeysuckle was moving around. No doubt she was switching out a full pail for a fresh one. The scent of milk mixed with the homey smells of the stable. Aragorn felt a hot brand of frustration smite him between the shoulder blades. Why could they not have even one day’s succour? He cared less for his own sake, but Halbarad had need of rest. There was no time to bemoan their fate, however. Their half hour’s grace was running swiftly away.

As best he could he dressed the wound again, tearing a strip from the hem of Halbarad’s shirt to make the first pad. Soon they would both be without that most basic of garments. There was nothing to do but to pin his hopes on Bree. What money they had carried was back with their packs, lying among orc-carcasses on a troll’s doorstep. But Aragorn could trade labour for shelter at The Pony, even if only in the stables, and sooner or later more of his folk would pass through. Life would find a way, if will did not falter.

He was just easing Halbarad into his shirt when there came a padding of sturdy feet. The hobbit woman was back, and with her two boys of about six or seven. Aragorn got to his feet, head bowed to evade the roof-beams.

‘Thank you, mistress,’ he said. ‘If I may beg your indulgence a little longer…’

Then he paused. He had thought she had brought the children as rear guard, to bolster her authority as she drove off the strangers. But no. One boy held two folded blankets, and another a basket of clean linen rags. The woman herself had a tray.

‘There’s no room for folk your size in our hole,’ she said, bustling forward and depositing her burden on an upturned crate. ‘But my old mam taught me that you don’t never turn away folk in need, for you can never know when it’s you who’ll be knocking. You’re welcome to stay here ‘til the rain passes and your friend’s strong enough to go on. Tuck in, now. You’re too thin even for Big Folk.’

She relieved one boy of the blankets, and marched past Aragorn to spread it over Halbarad. ‘Does this great tall fellow know what he’s about with those hurts?’ she asked conspiratorially.

‘Oh, more or less,’ said Halbarad gravely.  ‘I think I shall survive his efforts.’

‘Very well, then.’ The hobbit turned to her other son and beckoned for the basket. ‘Here’s fresh dressings if you need them, and if you’re wanting any liniment I can send that out as well. Don’t mind the animals: you’ll not trouble them. And do be sure to eat.’

Then she turned, took one of the brimming milk-pails, and was gone. The children followed, Honeysuckle similarly burdened.

Aragorn let out a long breath he had not realized he had been holding. He looked back at Halbarad, hope blossoming anew in his breast. If they could tarry a day or two more, they would be able to carry on in good form. There was still a troll to chase down, after all.

‘Are you going to obey our gracious hostess, or not?’ asked Halbarad, nodding his chin at the tray.

Aragorn, who had half forgotten the coveted meal, bent to recover it. There were two bowls of porridge, eggs, sausage, toast and fried mushroom preserves, two rashers of bacon, a little dish of honey and a pitcher of milk. He settled next to Halbarad with the tray balanced on his lap. His kinsman let out a small laugh and reached for his share of the porridge, flinching a little as his wounded side shifted. After a moment’s pause to make certain that he had done himself no harm, Aragorn bowed his head over the food and tucked in eagerly.

metta