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Fall, TA 3002
He should have listened to Legolas.
His latest adventure with the Prince of Mirkwood had left him feeling a little under the weather and his best friend had wanted him to stay on in Thranduil's Realm for another few nights at least, claiming that the recent turn of colder weather would only exacerbate his illness. Aragorn had of course insisted that, at the esteemed age of seventy-one and as a healer in his own right, he did not need Legolas on hand to mother him through a simple head cold. Legolas hadn't shied from voicing his rather typical reservations on that (Aragorn often felt that the elf still viewed him as the child he had once been instead of the man that he was now), but the argument that he would, for once, actually take his time along the trail and then, if needed, stay awhile to convalesce in Imladris under Lord Elrond's care finally won him out, and Legolas relented. Thus Aragorn departed the Woodland Realm on a bright, sunny day beneath a clear blue sky, and despite his sniffles, his spirits were high.
That night, it rained.
He knew he should have listened to Legolas.
The gentle spring shower had cleared in time for the next morning's frost, but the rains came back the following night, and stayed with him until he reached the western borders of the forest. (The fact that Aragorn had ridden hard and fast to try and escape the storms had helped greatly in that regard. However, it also meant that the ranger had enjoyed precious little sleep during that particular leg of his journey.) So it was a bright, clear day, if a bit cold, when Aragorn eventually crossed the Anduin at the Old Ford, and his gear had mostly dried by the time he made camp in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, just before the entrance to the High Pass.
Then, it snowed.
Pride be damned, he honestly should have listened to Legolas.
Winter always came early in the Misty Mountains, especially in the north, and the first serious snowfall of the season followed Aragorn with the same nagging consistency of Mirkwood's rains. The only positive side to the wretched weather was that it kept the goblins at bay, for not even their ilk would venture forth from their dens in such storms. Aragorn found that he cared little for such small mercies, however, as he and his mare found themselves enmeshed in an epic struggle against an even deadlier foe — the elements. By the time they at last descended into Eriador Aragorn was shivering, coughing, sneezing, and most likely (he guessed) running a fever — not that he could feel it through the aching numbness left by the pervasive mountain chill.
The first time Aragorn made camp on ground he hadn't needed to dig to find he could not for the life of him coax a fire from the wet timber. The snows on the mountains had been chilling rains down in the lower elevations and everything was cold and wet. This suited him rather well, Aragorn mused dejectedly, because by then he possessed not a scrap of dry cloth — not even lining the insides of his traveling packs, which was less of a care for his dwindling food supply but spelled disaster for his cache of herbs and bandages.
Seeing how both he and his mare were exhausted from gingerly picking their way through the ever-increasing drifts and with little rest along the way (as stopping during mountain storms often equated consent to being buried by them), Aragorn decided he didn't have the energy or the concentration to hunt for game, and so he resigned himself to a meager dinner of soggy Lembas. Then, being too exhausted to find a suitable campsite and too sick to care, he wrapped his soggy cloak about his equally soggy shoulders, and reclined against the rough, damp trunk of an ancient beech tree.
Just in time for a drizzle to set in.
As the beech did its honest (if inadequate) best to shield him from the rain, Aragorn grumbled aloud that he really ought to have listened to Legolas.
Aragorn had hoped to stay awake for at least part of the night, keeping a lonely watch, but alas, his body had other plans. Instead, he drifted into a fitful sleep; the miserable conditions kept him teetering on the brink of wakefulness when the fever would have pulled him down into the deepest depths of oblivion. In this foggy, un-restful near-slumber, Aragorn dreamed. He dreamed of a warm bed, a warm fire, and warm arms holding him close. The dream was so inviting that his heart was loath to leave it, even when his mind fought for the return to wakefulness, for it was a dream of Arwen and so was the only peace that he was apt to find along his lonely road.
Aragorn finally woke to a loud clap of thunder, and subsequently found himself sitting in a mud puddle. He swore loudly and long, cursing the weather and a random assortment of Valar in seven languages — Manwë for the storm front, Yavanna for the inadequate cover (which suddenly became a great deal more inadequate when the beech tree overheard him), and even Vána the Everyoung, just for being so damned cheerful in all her portraits. When Aragorn finally hauled himself to standing — tripped over an exposed beech root — dragged himself upright again, his very next thought was that, perhaps, calling the wife of Oromë the Huntsman a useless prattling gardener, in old Telerin, was not exactly the brightest thing he could have done.
For now, the woods had eyes.
Slowly, cautiously, Aragorn reached for his bow and quiver. The howling wind was not so much howling now as growling and Aragorn shivered — and not at all from the cold. The pack had managed to surround him while he slept. He did not know how many there were, but he counted at least three sets of sickly, yellow eyes glowing in the rain-swept gloom, and that meant wargs. Deadly foes in their own right, even without their orcish riders.
Why oh why hadn't he listened to Legolas?
When the first warg leapt Aragorn was ready, and a well-placed arrow felled the beast long before it reached him. Another warg sprung at him a heartbeat later though, and it drew close enough for Aragorn to get a nosefull of its foul breath before his second arrow pierced its heart.
The third warg he didn't even see.
One moment he was dropping his bow, abandoning the weapon in advance of drawing his sword to make ready for confronting his foes in close quarters, and the next he was lying face down in the mud. The evil beast had jumped him from behind, shoving him forward and driving him down, weight and inertia and deadly intent. Now it stood on his back, biting and tearing, searching for the sweet, tender flesh that surely lay just below the soggy coverings. Unfortunately for the warg, it chose to take a choice bite out of Aragorn's quiver. Unfortunately for Aragorn, it also snapped all that remained of his arrows in one fell crunch.
The warg howled in rage for the mouthful of splinters, and its momentary distraction was all Aragorn needed. He managed to free his trusty boot dagger from its sheath at his ankle and, with an awkward slashing arc above and behind his head, he buried the blade in some unseen part of the warg's anatomy. The beast roared and reared up, and for its pain it gave up its hard-earned ground atop Aragorn's back. Free of those massive paws, Aragorn wasted no time in swiftly (ish) shimmying (splashing) away. He rolled to his feet, sword finally in hand, and when the snarling warg leapt at him again its own forward momentum did Aragorn's work for him. It impaled itself squarely on the blade, and its last keening cry sent a spray of spittle into Aragorn's face before it tumbled to the side, its sudden dead weight wrenching the sword out of the ranger's trembling hands.
As Aragorn stood, shaky yet victorious above the carcasses of his enemies, the growling wind slowly died away. The rest of the pack had obviously though better of attacking their chosen pray. With a weary groan, Aragorn stooped to retrieve his sword. He wiped the blade clean on the warg's mangy coat, and then did the same for his dagger. Then he retrieved his bow and paid a fond farewell to his fallen quiver. He knew that he would need to leave at once, before the wargs regrouped and decided to try again. He hoped that if he left the fell creatures would choose the flesh of their own fallen to sate their hunger this night, instead of his own still-living hide.
Which of course was when he noticed his horse had run off without him.
At that point, he couldn't even remember why he hadn't just listened to Legolas.
There was nothing else for it. Aragorn had no choice now but to walk. Imladris was at least three days away by foot, and more if the weather continued to hinder him — which Aragorn had every confidence that it would, considering the nature of his luck of late. At least, in his exhaustion, he hadn't bothered with setting up a proper camp, so with his weapons gathered there was nothing left for him to pack. Feeling more miserable than he ever remembered feeling before (an impressive statement, to be sure) Aragorn shouldered his pack, repositioned his now relatively useless bow (given that he no longer had any arrows to shoot with it), made sure his sword was secure at his hip, and set off on the long, rocky, hilly, winding road home, coughing, sniffling, sneezing, and cursing as he went.
If he'd been more in his right mind, it would have occurred to him that a company of orcs generally employed more stealth than he was currently using, but then, if he'd been more in his right mind, he would have reasoned that his mare would run straight to Imladris, which would spark a search party for her errant rider, and so otherwise he wouldn't have been interested in stealth at all because he wanted nothing more in that moment than to be found and offered a ride home in the safe company of Lord Elrond's soldiers — even the unfriendly ones.
Aragorn didn't know how much time had passed, only that it was now light out (or barely so, given the low, threatening clouds), and that he'd been walking for longer than he remembered ever having walked before — and for a man who occasionally went by the moniker of 'Strider,' that certainly was saying something.
Mostly about his deteriorating health.
As each shuffling step sent sharp spikes of pain through his shoulder and down his spine, thoughts of Legolas tormented him with every ragged breath, poking at his mind like an impatient child in tune with the staccato hammer-strikes inside his skull. Legolas had been right; he had been a fool. Legolas had offered good advice; he had been stubborn and prideful. Why had he been so insistent that he leave immediately? He missed his home and family, true, but what had made the thought of a few days' convalescence in Mirkwood so unappealing? After all Aragorn liked Mirkwood, or at least the parts where elves lived, and Legolas was a trusted friend. Why then had he been so keen to leave? Whatever his reasoning it had long since escaped him, and trying to recall it now was an aggravating pastime, but at least it kept him alert enough to put one foot in front of the other. And so Aragorn's ailing memory helped to haul his ailing body along the road. If he did not rest until he had the answer, then surely he would not falter until he reached Imladris.
To his weary, fevered mind, it was a good plan.
Fortunately for him, fate was in a forgiving mood.
It had grown dark again — and some time ago, too — but still Aragorn trudged on. He knew this stretch of road well enough to walk it in his sleep, and by now he was almost at the point of testing that presumption. Yet though his senses were dulled in the haze of pain and perpetual confusion that kept him on his feet they were not gone, and even a child would have been able to detect the sudden aroma of roasting… something… drifting on the chilly night breeze. Once the scent roused Aragorn from his ambling stupor it did not take him long to spy the faint, flickering light of a campfire some ways away from the main road, conveniently located upwind.
Aragorn saw two options. Either he could continue on his journey and pass unnoticed, or he could approach the campsite. He had no way of knowing what he'd find sitting around that campfire, and hence there was a decent measure of risk in revealing himself, especially injured, ill, and alone. The roads were decidedly unsafe these days, with more unsavory sorts traveling in greater numbers than ever before. However, the fire could also belong to simple travelers, or even other rangers (this he doubted, though still acknowledged the possibility). Men, elves, and dwarves all used this road, and his odds of an innocent encounter were equally likely.
Yet even as he purported to give equal weight to his options, Aragorn already felt hope warring with despair within his heart, for there was really only one choice that he could make. His healer's mind told him that he was ill; actually, it told him that he was seriously ill, and his encounter with the wargs had not left him unscathed. He had not felt them at the time, but there were wounds in his left shoulder and upon his back, left by either the warg's claws or by its fangs, and they needed to be cleaned and treated if he hoped to stave off infection (which was probably a foregone conclusion anyway, given his weakened state and the nasty nature of warg-inflicted injuries). There was no way he would make it another day and a half without stopping to rest, and with the fever he knew had taken hold in him a decision to rest alone just might be the last one he ever made. If continuing on his own held great probability that he would die then he was willing to chance approaching whoever had started that fire, and so Aragorn loosened the sword at his hip (even though he knew that in his current state he would be easy prey for even the most inexperienced of brigands) and turned off the road towards the campsite with a bizarre mixture of confidence and caution.
When Aragorn drew close enough to gain an unobstructed view of the campsite he stopped short, and only belatedly realized that it would be prudent to duck out of sight behind a tree. From there he observed the lone individual who'd caught his eye, currently busy with whatever was sizzling on a camp skillet that smelt divinely. At first he took the astonishingly small person for a dwarf or even a human child, but then he noticed that the camp held only gear and bedding for one, which all but ruled out the latter, and the former he dismissed as soon as he got a decent look at the individual's face, for it was beardless. Furthermore, he realized with a start, it was a face he recognized.
"Bilbo!"
Aragorn didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he saw the hobbit jump to his feet, walking stick in one hand and a short sword (or would that be a long sword, in hobbit hands?) in the other.
"Oi! Who goes there?" Bilbo Baggins, arguably the most famous hobbit in all of Arda, took a few cautious steps to the edge of his campsite, his keen eyes striving to pierce the darkness and find whoever called his name. "I know you're out there," Bilbo warned, "so you might as well come out and present yourself!"
Thus caught, Aragorn had no choice but to oblige. He stepped out from behind the tree and brought his hands up and spread his palms in the traditional posture of parley, demonstrating that he was not a threat to the hobbit. He approached slowly, not wanting to frighten his one-time childhood acquaintance, until he drew close enough at last for his features to be defined by the firelight.
"Peace, my good hobbit," Aragorn entreated.
Bilbo's eyes went wide when he caught a good look at the man who approached, but then they narrowed in skepticism and appraisal.
"I mean you no harm." Aragorn hoped that he sounded reassuring.
"You wear the star of the Dúnedain," Bilbo said at last, his voice just as shrewd as his glance.
Aragorn bowed slightly, both for the stiffness of his muscles at the task and for his reluctance to make any sudden moves, and brought one hand to cover his heart, just below the seven-pointed star pinned to his cloak that gave him away. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and yes, the Dúnedain are my kin."
"Aragorn?" Bilbo blinked, head cocking slightly as he studied the ranger. "Aragorn…" His face scrunched up as he repeated the word, as though he was tasting it on his tongue to try and parse its composite flavors. Then suddenly his eyes widened, alit with recognition at last. "Aragorn! Not only a ranger but the captain of the rangers! Oh I do beg your pardon, but a lone hobbit can't be too careful when roaming about in the wilderness, but the capt — er, ah — chieftain! Yes, that's it. The chieftain of the rangers is certainly to be counted as a friend. Well then, what can I do for you, Aragorn son of Arathorn?"
By the time Bilbo finished speaking Aragorn was biting back a grin, but he sobered some when called to task. "The night is cold and long for travelers upon a lonely road. If you would have me, I seek only permission to warm my tired bones beside your fire."
At this the hobbit laughed; a hearty, delighted sound. "What? Is that all? Of course you can share my fire! I know all about what you rangers do, and all; how your kin takes the trouble to guard mine, keeping our Shire nice and safe from the evils of the world. I'd be happy to welcome you — here or anywhere else. Count it towards a debt that can never be repaid."
Bilbo spoke so emphatically, and with such a great wealth of sincerity bubbling beneath the good humor in his voice, that Aragorn could not help but smile, genuinely touched by the hobbit's words. It was so very rare that his people received any recognition at all for their labors in Middle-earth. "Le hannon," he said, his hand still fixed above his heart as he inclined his head in Elven fashion.
"You're quite welcome, my good man," Bilbo replied around a pleased grin. "Oh, ah, what's the phrase for 'you're welcome' again? Oh, fiddlesticks, there must be something… Ah!" He punctuated the sudden thought with his index finger. "Elen síla lumenn' omentielvo! That should serve. Er, did I say it right? I doubt it was perfect — my accent is truly atrocious these days. I'll need to work on that, once I get back to Rivendell that is."
"You're bound for Rivendell?" Aragorn asked, completely forgetting Bilbo's question in favor of this new revelation.
"That I am. Wonderful place, Rivendell, and Lord Elrond has been gracious enough to allow me to — well, retire isn't quite the word I would choose. I should say I'm hardly ready for retirement! But the peace of Rivendell calls to me, and I should like to stay there for a while. Perhaps for the remainder of my days."
"I know what you mean about peace. The House of Elrond calls to me also; it has been too long since I have been home."
Bilbo blinked. "Home?" Then suddenly his bewildered look warmed into realization. "Aragorn! Oh dear me, where's my head gone to, these days? Here I am going on and on about Rivendell and who am I babbling to? Why none other than Lord Elrond's youngest! Estel my boy, how have you been? It's wonderful to see you again!" It was here that Bilbo finally decided to close the polite distance between them. He started towards Aragorn, only to notice that his sword and staff still hung forgotten in his idle hands. These he cast hastily aside with an inarticulate mutter before continuing on his way.
"Though hardly a boy anymore, are you," he concluded as he clasped Aragorn's hand in both of his, which hung roughly at eye level for the hobbit. He had to tilt his head back considerably in order to peer up into the ranger's face. "Why I do believe you've surpassed your father now in height, but come! Come, come to my fire and sit a spell." He tugged eagerly on Aragorn's hand, and the ranger allowed himself to be led to the fallen log that Bilbo had been using as a bench.
"Come on, sit! Rest! Take a load off! Let the fire warm your bones — it's been dreadfully chilly these past few days, hasn't it? Just dreadful, and damp too. Not pleasant weather at all. I'd much rather enjoy it from indoors with a nice cup of tea, myself. Do you like tea? I do believe I have some…" Bilbo's voice drifted as he began rifling through one of his packs. "Ah! Here we go, then." He pulled out a small pouch, which he then unbound and allowed a small handful of assorted leaves to tumble into his palm. He smiled at the collection for a moment, but then he shrugged and slid them back into the pouch. Then he busied himself readying a small kettle, but in the way of hobbits he kept up his running chatter as he did so.
"Well, it's not real tea, of course. I ran out a while back, but I've gathered some herbs in the course of my travels — just stuff I found growing here and there, along the road or where I camped. I recognized their look from old Hamfast's garden. That would be Hamfast Gamgee, of course, best gardener in all of Hobbiton if you ask me. His wife Bell was something of an herbalist — took all kinds of plants and barks and things and made the most delectable infusions you've ever tasted. Can't compare to real honest to goodness tea, of course, but then, not everyone can afford real honest to goodness tea around these parts, can they? Ha!"
Aragorn, from where he sat (or rather, squatted) atop the log, tried his best to follow Bilbo's movements and to pay attention to what the hobbit added to the kettle, but he soon found that his muzzy head couldn't follow both Bilbo's hand and Bilbo's words at the same time and so, for the sake of politeness, he decided to focus solely on the conversation and simply trust that the hobbit wasn't about to poison him. This wasn't so hard to accomplish however, given the Shire-folk's reputation as excellent cooks.
"There now," said Bilbo as he set the kettle by the fire, filled with water from his waterskin and laced with whatever herbal concoction he had formulated from his cache. "We'll have a lovely brew for dinner — ah! Dinner!" Bilbo scrambled to his skillet, which had been smoking quite a bit the last minute or so. He jounced the skillet in his hand to slide the contents around before poking at them with a wooden spoon. "Oh, well, not as bad as I feared," he admitted, both sheepish and relieved. "Our mushrooms will be a bit crisp, but I've got just the solution for that." He reached into some hidden pocket and produced a small silver flask. He uncorked it, took a whiff, and shot a conspiring glance at Aragorn.
"Dorwinion cognac; I traded my spare broach for it in Dale. Now I'm glad I've rationed it!" Bilbo poured a generous amount of the liquor onto the skillet, which caused a brief flash-fire that soon shrank into a pleasant sizzle. He stirred everything with the wooden spoon and then brought the skillet away from the heat of the fire. "There, that should do it. Put a bit of moisture back in these things. If you grab your plate — you do have a plate in that pack of yours, yes? If you grab your plate I'll serve you a nice helping of Baggins' famous grilled mushrooms — now just a little extra famous, wouldn't you say?" Bilbo put a finger to his nose and winked.
It took Aragorn a moment to realize that Bilbo was waiting for him to hand over his plate, and then it took a moment longer for him to remember that he did in fact have one with him. It was stowed somewhere in the bottom of his pack, which was still strapped to his back. He'd forgotten all about it, in the surprise of meeting Bilbo and then in the commotion of being welcomed to the fireside. Now he shrugged the pack off his shoulders, entirely unable to suppress the wince as it passed over his injuries, but fortunately Bilbo was too busy with their dinner to notice it. Aragorn swung the pack down in front of him and spent a minute digging through his damp belongings until he found the appropriate bundle. This he pulled out and unraveled, revealing a simple tin dinner plate, mug, two-pronged fork, and a wooden spoon.
"You rangers are prepared for everything, aren't you," Bilbo appraised dryly. "Give me your plate then." He snatched the item in question from Aragorn's lax hands while the man was still thinking of a response to his previous statement, rendering it moot. "There you go. I do hope you don't mind, I've nothing else to go with it. I've been living a simple life out here, I'm afraid. And all my bread got ruined in last night's rains. Alas, this is all there is." Just then the kettle whistled. "Oh! And tea."
Bilbo passed Aragorn's plate back to him loaded with mushrooms lately sautéed in the Dorwinion cognac. Its tantalizing aroma reached him even through his stuffed nose, and he inhaled deeply. Indeed, Aragorn was so focused on the impending meal that he didn't even notice when Bilbo swiped his mug and filled it with the piping hot brew from his kettle.
"Tea?"
Bilbo startled him, and Aragorn nearly dropped his plate. He accepted the mug with a sheepish grin and then set it aside, its contents still too hot to drink.
"Well then, I think we're all set here, at least with dinner anyhow. I do hope you like it. Very simple fixings, I know, but it should do for camp food, at any rate."
"My thanks," Aragorn said sincerely. "Without your hospitality — and your ingenuity — I fear that I would have gone hungry tonight."
Bilbo balked at that. "What? A ranger go hungry? You don't need to go exaggerating things on my account. My food and my fire are small recompense for all the trouble you've gone through for my ever-so-ignorant fellow hobbits. And besides, after over a week on the road alone I am quite glad for your company."
"In that case I regret that I was not exaggerating, for now your honorable intentions have been reduced to humble charity. You may blame the snows in the High Pass for the sorry state in which you found me, for they provided enough of a delay for my food supply to dwindle to naught."
"There's snow in the High Pass now?" Bilbo's voice showed incredulous disbelief, even though he took Aragorn's word without question. "And early this year, too."
Aragorn nodded. "Be thankful that you weren't caught out in it."
"Oh I am, laddie. I'm am, at that. We Bagginses love the snow, but only on our own terms."
"So too do we rangers," Aragorn agreed with due chagrin, and Bilbo laughed.
"Well, don't let me talk your ear off all night — go on and eat your supper!"
Aragorn grinned his thanks, but didn't need to be told twice. After not eating anything in nearly twenty-four hours he was famished, and he tore into the mushrooms with enthusiasm enough to make Bilbo laugh in appreciation.
"If I knew you liked my cooking so much I would have invited you out to Bag End long ago. Perhaps then you could have talked some sense into Frodo. He kept insisting that I don't know how to properly sauté. I swear, the only time the lad and I ever had a scrap of a disagreement was when one of us was cooking."
Aragorn forced himself to swallow. "Frodo?" he asked, his mouth still full enough to test the boundaries of propriety. Thankfully Bilbo didn't seem to mind.
"My nephew. I adopted him after his parents died — well, a short while after his parents died, at any rate. He lived with his mother's family in Brandy Hall for a bit first — his mother having been Primula Brandybuck. I'm related to him through his father Drogo, who was a grandson of old Largo Baggins, a great-uncle of mine. So he's not really my nephew after all, but that's a lot easier to reckon than 'paternal second cousin once removed.'" Bilbo sighed fondly, shaking his head. "I named him my heir. He's the Baggins of Bag End, now. I left everything to him." At that Bilbo sighed, a touch of longing in his voice. Missing his nephew, Aragorn mused.
"It was good of you to take him in." Aragorn said knowingly.
Bilbo nodded, wistful for a moment before smiling at Aragorn. "That's something the two of you would have in common then, isn't it. Though I must admit I never quite saw myself as the parental sort, but then there was Frodo, and he was enough. Actually, he was more than enough, quite a bit of the time. But then children should be expected to be a handful — shows they have character! In fact, I seem to recall a certain, strapping young lad who ran afoul of his tutor by being far more interested in memorizing a Dwarven marching song than his multiplication tables."
A decidedly pink flush blossomed on Aragorn's cheeks and drifted up to his ears. "Erestor was not pleased with me."
"I daresay he wasn't!" Bilbo agreed. "The same could be said of your mother, I'm sure, when she learned the translation. I do hope you grew out of that rebellious streak, Aragorn. I'd hate to think that you spent the better part of your adolescence writing lines and dusting the tomes in that — quite frankly — massive library."
Aragorn had the good graces to laugh. "Trust me, that was one lesson I did not soon forget." Now Aragorn finally set aside his empty dinner plate, having all but licked it clean. "My thanks again for this feast. Is there a stream nearby? When the pots are cool I should like to wash our gear."
Bilbo frowned. "Now what kind of host would I be if I left the guest to do the dishes?" His tone held a familiar note of impatience, and one that proved his claim to parenthood. "No, no; you sit tight and drink your tea. I'll take care of it."
Aragorn gave a thought to protesting, but then he decided that as adamant as Bilbo was, to protest would be akin to insulting his host, which he certainly did not wish to do. Instead he dutifully reached for his mug, its contents now cool enough to drink. He sniffed it once, but to his chagrin his illness had once again reduced his nose to mere decoration for his face. He took a test sip, but without his sense of smell any nuances of flavor were lost to him. It was strong and bitter and reminded him a bit of the brews Lord Elrond would force him to take whenever he was ill. Seeing that he was, in fact, ill at this very moment, Aragorn forced himself to drain the mug, hoping that it would do him some measure of good. At the very least it should help to keep him hydrated.
"Did you like it?" Bilbo asked, his tone hopeful. "There's more where it came from."
"What of your cup?"
"Oh, don't worry about me. I over-steeped it I'm afraid — shouldn't have put the herbs in until the water boiled. Anyway it's a bit too strong for my tastes. I'd rather settle in with my pipe instead."
With Bilbo's permission Aragorn poured the remainder of the kettle into his cup. He drank it quickly as it was already going tepid, making its bitterness more pronounced. He'd finished the mug by the time Bilbo had fumbled through the right series of pockets to unearth both his pipe and his pipeweed, and by the time the hobbit was blowing idle smoke rings Aragorn was pleased to discover that something in the tea must have loosened his nasal passages because he could actually smell the musky, earthy scent of the burning leaf.
"I don't suppose you smoke," Bilbo said around the stem of his pipe.
"I've sampled some on Gandalf's pipe, but he was always keen to not allow me to make a habit out of it, out of respect for the elves who must 'endure my company.'"
Biblo's nodded. "Doesn't want to get you in trouble with your father, eh?" Then that conspiring smile returned. "Or perhaps he doesn't want to get himself in trouble with your father."
Aragorn laughed but didn't comment, and Bilbo shook his head. They drifted into companionable silence for a while, Bilbo smoking his pipe and Aragorn staring languidly into the fire, his thoughts just as elusive as the smoke that swirled and faded before his eyes. Though there was a chill in his hands and in his feet he felt uncomfortably warm and knew that the fever was putting down deeper roots within him. His head felt heavy with sleep, though the pounding had lessened some for the tea, as the brew had cleared his sinuses somewhat as well as eased his breathing.
"Oi! Aragorn!"
Startled, the ranger looked up sharply. Bilbo had obviously been trying to get his attention for a while now.
"You still here, lad?" Undercurrents of concern swirled inside the hobbit's tone.
"Not entirely, I'm afraid," Aragorn confessed on the heels of a sigh. "My apologies."
"Had a long day, did you?"
Aragorn nodded, repressing a grimace. "Many of them."
"Well, why don't you turn in then," Bilbo suggested. "Actually, I should be trotting off to sleep myself soon. I want an early start tomorrow, which I'm sure goes for you, too."
"That would be well," Aragorn agreed, the mere thought of sleep already causing his limbs to grow heavy. His arms felt like wet sandbags when he reached up to unfasten his broach, but when he tried to shrug out of his cloak he was reminded painfully of his injuries, as the damp fabric had stuck to the healing tears in his flesh, and by pulling the cloak away he had reopened them.
"What's the matter there?" he heard Bilbo ask. Obviously the hobbit had heard his hiss of pain, and seen the sharp wince that accompanied it.
"Oh, it's nothing," Aragorn dismissed, embarrassed to have his weakness discovered by the infamously resilient Bilbo Baggins.
And the hobbit didn't believe him.
"Nothing, eh? I think I'll be the judge of that." Bilbo crossed the campsite and came to stand beside where Aragorn sat, though with the log and his considerable height the ranger was still head and shoulders taller than the hobbit. Therefore it was quite remarkable that Bilbo was able to effectually stare down at Aragorn while staring up at him. Seeing a spirited lad through his teens and tweens had obviously given Bilbo a keen handle on obstinate youth. "All right then, let me see it."
Aragorn had no choice but to submit to the hobbit's ministrations, though he was grateful that by having to show Bilbo his back he was able to avoid meeting his eyes. If he thought it peculiar that he should show such diffidence to Bilbo he would have chalked it up to having clear memories of an adult hobbit's patient indulgence of a small boy who'd never seen his like before. Yet Aragorn didn't have time for such thoughts; he was too busy biting down on his cry of pain when Bilbo lifted the back of his tunic.
"This is one nasty bit of nothing," Bilbo admonished sternly. "What have you been into, lad?"
"A pack of wargs wanted to make a meal of me last night," Aragorn explained. "I talked them out of it."
"Not easily," Bilbo huffed. "These'll need to be cleaned. Some of them look infected."
"That's apt to happen with wargs," Aragorn admitted while Bilbo bustled around, looking for a water skin. He found one soon enough, and then brought out a handkerchief from yet another pocket. The initials 'BB' were embroidered on one corner, and Aragorn was ashamed that they would soon be mired with his blood.
"I can—"
"No you can't. Not unless you've got eyes in the back of your skull."
Just then the sting of the damp rag meeting the tears in his flesh stifled any future protests. He submitted to the hobbit's well-meaning torture, bearing the pain by counting prime numbers in Quenya — the fruit of another of Erestor's 'punishments.'
"Well, I think I've done the best I can, though I wish I had something to bind them with. Your tunic will just stick to the wounds again, and I'm afraid they'll tear while you sleep."
"I suppose I must sleep on my stomach then," Aragorn concluded, though by that point he was honestly too tired to care.
"That would probably be best," Bilbo agreed. "Well, you go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I'm going to see to our dishes — and to our supply of firewood."
Aragorn was barely able to summon the energy to nod as he spread his damp bedroll on the ground next to the fire. Then he positioned his pack to serve as an equally damp pillow and pulled his cloak up so that it rested across his lower back, just below the garish claw marks. He was asleep before Bilbo had even finished gathering their dinnerware.
Aragorn blinked in the dappled sunlight that fell through the treetops and splashed his face. The brightness hurt his eyes and he groaned, half rolling over in attempts to shield them until his wounds protested the movement. The resulting pain woke him in earnest.
"Good, you're up." Bilbo was already flitting about the camp, stoking the fire and setting a new kettle to boil. His bedroll was already stowed away. "I'm afraid I don't have much to offer in the way of breakfast. Just more tea."
Aragorn stifled another groan. He had slept fitfully, his rest troubled by dreams that lingered behind his eyelids upon waking, just beyond his grasp. His eyes still hurt from the assault of sunlight, though by now that acute ache had dulled some and spread to the rest of his head. He was thirsty though and so his tongue welcomed the thought of tea, even though his stomach seemed mildly pessimistic at the prospect.
"Vinyárë mae govannen," he muttered as he sat up, though his attempt at stretching was stifled by the sudden spikes of pain that shot through his shoulder and back. The muscles had stiffened during the night, and worse, the skin felt tight and hot. The wounds were definitely infected.
"Your back again?" Bilbo asked as he gave the ranger a critical eye. That sharp gaze likely missed nothing of how Aragorn was feeling.
"I—" Aragorn bit back a gasp as he tried once more to achieve a more vertical position. "I just may require your help again, my friend."
"Of course," Bilbo agreed, his voice warm and friendly and striving perhaps a bit too boldly for nonchalance. The hobbit was worried, then; likely by Aragorn's rather swift admission that he needed aid in contrast to the night before.
For his part, Aragorn forced his muscles to obey his bidding, and he managed to sit up straight in order to allow Bilbo to clean his wounds again. He bit back a familiar cry as the hobbit lifted his tunic, but this time he couldn't quite halt the high-pitched yip that rose in the back of his throat, nor the sudden tremor caused by the fresh onslaught of pain.
However, Bilbo was at first far too busy with his own half-strangled gasp to comment on the ranger's plight, though when at last he did manage it the words were quiet, and heavy with their own pain. "Oh, Estel…"
The use of his childhood name snagged in Aragorn's foggy mind as the pain receded to more tolerable levels. "It's bad, isn't it," he hedged, though he couldn't quite unclench his jaw.
"The infection's reached your blood," Bilbo gravely told him. "You need your father's skills now, and nothing short of it."
"I thought as much," Aragorn admitted. "I'll need to treat it here somewhat, before I can travel." Though his teeth still didn't unclench — all the better to keep them from chattering — a flush wholly separate from the fever crept up his cheeks and sat atop his ears: embarrassment at his landing in such a sorry state, and for having been brought so low before someone he truly admired.
But then suddenly Bilbo startled him right out of his self-pity by cursing, vehemently, in modern Dwarfish. Aragorn blinked, for once thoroughly distracted from his own plight.
"I don't believe I've heard that one."
"That's because you've never asked a dwarf for his opinion of the Woodland King," Bilbo grumbled, distracted. "Of all the stupid, ninnyhammered, ill-fortuned…" and the hobbit's voice trailed again, this time into an old Dwarfish insult Aragorn recognized. He even managed to arch an eyebrow, which promptly set Bilbo's face reddening in turn.
"I used the last of the water for this morning's tea," Bilbo explained in a voice laced with frustration. "There's not one sorry drop left!"
Aragorn, however, was still confused. "Where did you fill the kettle?"
"From out water skins. There was a nice, deep puddle of rainwater I found amidst some stones nearby, but I used it to rinse our dishes and now the water's spoilt." Bilbo was nearly to the point of wringing his hands in agitation.
Aragorn frowned. "Surely there must be other puddles…"
"Not a one. It's all gone to mud now, dried up during the night. Of all the rotten times for the weather to take a good turn!"
Aragorn sighed, though he did his best to stifle it before the effort of it set his muscles to twitching again. "You'll just have to use the tea then."
"Are you sure?"
"You boiled the water, didn't you?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Then that's the best it's going to get."
Despite Bilbo's rather understandable reluctance Aragorn knew he was right. There was nothing else for it. He watched as Bilbo retrieved the kettle from the fireside with a defeated sigh. Then the hobbit pulled a clean yellow handkerchief from a trouser pocket, this one devoid of monograms. He dribbled some of the brew against his forearm, checking for temperature, and seeming satisfied, he poured quite a bit of it onto the handkerchief. Then he disappeared behind Aragorn's back.
"This is probably going to sting a bit."
Aragorn tensed, barely restraining the flinch he wasn't even aware he had the energy for. His hands wound into the fabric of his bedroll and his face, safely out of Bilbo's view, scrunched up in pain. It was slow going, cleaning off the hardened crust of infection from the numerous claw marks, both large and small, but Bilbo's hands were gentle, even if they shook just slightly, and he hesitated at every wince and whimper Aragorn could not contain. Then suddenly he stopped.
"You know, this would probably go a lot faster if I poured the tea onto your back directly." From his tone Aragorn, knew the hobbit was well aware of how much that was bound to hurt.
By that point Aragorn was having trouble deciding if the pain was keeping him lucid through his fever, or if the fever was dulling the pain enough so that he wouldn't pass out, and he quailed at the very thought of lukewarm tea sluicing over his wounds. But then, the whole ordeal would be over a lot quicker than the current pace allowed, and Bilbo obviously knew that too, or else he wouldn't have offered, so he gave Bilbo the go ahead, and though his voice was husky it didn't waver.
Bilbo held the kettle above Aragorn's shoulder, where the worst of the gashes lie. Aragorn tried to brace himself as best he could, but then suddenly Bilbo lowered the kettle again, and spoke.
"There's no call to impress here, you know. I've seen the hardiest dwarves cry over hangnails, and have you ever heard Gandalf when he accidentally burns himself with the ash from his pipe? I wonder if even Lord Elrond would recognize half the languages he curses in!"
Of course Aragorn recognized what Bilbo was trying to do, and if he himself wasn't on the receiving end of it he would have applauded the hobbit's ingenuity. As it was his pride was already smarting, but then again it wasn't like it had stood him in good stead lately anyway, so rather than gritting his teeth and enduring in still and stoic silence Aragorn merely took a bracing breath, and nodded once, choosing instead to take the hobbit at his word, just as he had that long-ago evening when Bilbo assured him that of course Hobbit mothers didn't mind their children running off without their shoes on. When the tea finally hit he gasped, the sudden pain too overwhelming in that moment to allow for any real sound, but as the handkerchief began its passes anew, shredding dead, infected skin and letting the wounds drain, Aragorn didn't try to muffle his cries, though his parched throat reduced them to keening moans and gasping whines, and tears of pain pricked at his eyes.
"That should do it," Bilbo said softly when he was finished. However, he was still holding the back of Aragorn's tunic away from the wounds. "We should probably take this off," he said, giving the tunic a slight tug to convey his meaning.
For his part, Aragorn was still crawling out from under the haze of pain, and Bilbo's words took a moment to register. When they did he nodded jerkily, and then it was an easy thing for Bilbo to tear the tunic open down the back, as it was already more torn than whole anyway.
"Think we should leave the rest to keep your front warm?"
Aragorn shook his head. "It would only get in the way," he rasped, his voice a hoarse whisper. He was still trying to marshal his breathing into something more under his control.
"Here." Bilbo poured the last drops from the kettle into his own tin cup. "You need water, but this'll have to do."
Aragorn downed it swiftly, not caring for the tepidness or the bitter taste, only that it was liquid and as such would ease his throat. Thankfully his hand was mostly steady when he passed the cup back over to Bilbo.
"All right then. Let's see about breaking camp, shall we? We've a long way to travel yet, and the sooner the better."
Bilbo used his sturdy hobbit feet to snuff their campfire while Aragorn struggled to his hands and knees and forced his arms to cooperate long enough to roll his bedroll and to shove it back into the bottom of his pack. His clean dinnerware followed suit. When he was done he found Bilbo stood with his pack shouldered, sword secured at his hip, and walking stick in hand. Aragorn was able to manage his own sword well enough, but he gazed forlornly at his bow and pack, neither of which he knew he'd be able to carry all the way to Imladris.
"Oh dear," said Bilbo, clearly picking up on Aragorn's thoughts. "We'll have to stash your pack somewhere. You'll be lucky if you can carry yourself all the way to Rivendell, and you sure don't need its extra weight dragging you down. I could hold on to your bow though, if you're not too terribly keen on parting with it."
Grateful, Aragorn handed his bow to the hobbit, which sat comically large against his short frame, and after dividing what few useful items remained in his pack among Bilbo's own bags they set off down the road.
"Well Estel, do you still remember that Dwarven marching song?"
As a matter of fact, he did.
They sang it all morning as they walked, or rather, Bilbo sang it after he memorized the verses he didn't already know. Aragorn merely focused on putting one foot in front of the other, grateful that Bilbo's short legs set a pace his body could handle. All the while they kept a look out for sources of fresh water. Unfortunately in this nice, bright, sunshiny day all the puddles had dried. They were on the hunt for a stream then, and they didn't find one until the sun had nearly reached her zenith.
"I should probably wash your back again," Bilbo ventured after they'd both drunk their fill and replenished their water skins.
Aragorn didn't bother to halt the dejected sigh. His back and shoulder had taken half the morning to calm down from the trauma they received at the last cleaning, and now that the agony had receded some his wounds actually felt much better: the heat and stiffness had lessened considerably. Bilbo took the sigh and the following silence as acquiescence on the ranger's part — which admittedly it was, even if he didn't have the heart to admit so aloud; the healer in him knew that regular treatments were key, even as he dreaded them — and when the hobbit removed yet another handkerchief from yet another pocket, this one blue and trimmed in green embroidery, Aragorn actually laughed.
"I'd love to know what's so funny," Bilbo said, eying him with keen-eyed caution. He must've thought the fever had gone straight to Aragorn's brain.
"Just how many handkerchiefs do you conceal on your person at one time?" Aragorn asked in return, grateful for the distraction.
"You can never have too many handkerchiefs," Bilbo explained quite seriously. "Never know when one might come in handy."
Aragorn could only smile and shake his head, his body already bracing against what was to come.
"Well now, these don't look quite so bad as last time," Bilbo mused as he studied Aragorn's back. "I think the walking must have drained them some."
Aragorn knew better than to shrug. "It's possible." He also knew better than to admit how the wounds actually felt.
He watched the hobbit drench and wring the handkerchief above the stream with a kind of wary resignation, yet when Bilbo took the handkerchief to his flesh this time, the frigidity of the water stole Aragorn's breath away and then numbed everything it touched. Not only that, but going on the brevity of the treatment this time his wounds didn't require nearly as much attention. All in all it went much better than he'd feared it would when they'd first approached the stream.
"There now," Bilbo said, bright with false cheer. Well, admittedly he probably didn't know his cheer had registered false to Aragorn's ears; for a famous sneak-thief Bilbo was entirely too honest a hobbit to get away with such misdirection, especially against one so practiced at it. "All done."
Because what Bilbo failed to mention were the reddish-purple lines, bruises like branches of angry lightning that arced across Aragorn's back and attested to the infection in his blood that he could very much feel, even if he couldn't exactly see. Infection that, if left untreated, would mean a swift death sentence.
Infection that they couldn't treat here.
Aragorn had been on the lookout, as much as he was able, for any herbs or flowers growing wild along the road that would help his cause, but there were none. This was the wrong season for foraging, and the wrong location for much of what he needed, anyway. His only hope lay ahead of them in Imladris, and in his own rather uncertain ability to stay on his feet long enough to get there. And Bilbo, the crafty hobbit, was shrewd enough to know that.
"Thank you," Aragorn said sincerely, for Bilbo's care. For the honest worry that inspired it. For the assurance that, even if the worst should happen, that at least there was someone with him, that he would not die alone.
Instead of answering, Bilbo brought a small hand up to alight on Aragorn's forehead. It was blessedly cool against his fevered skin, and he couldn't help but lean into the touch, just slightly, before he caught himself and pulled away. Bilbo dropped the hand with a weary sigh.
"You're burning up, lad. You know that, don't you." It wasn't a question.
"There's nothing for it," Aragorn admitted, resigned. "I've seen naught of any herbs that would help along our path."
"Life never gets to be easy, does it?"
Aragorn shook his head. "Not in Arda Marred."
Bilbo sighed again, bobbing his head in a tired nod. "What was it you said this morning?"
Aragorn blinked at the non-sequitur . "Hmm?"
"When you woke up, you said something Elvish. I didn't catch all of it. Govannen something-or-other."
"Vinyárë mae govannen?"
"That's it! What does it mean?"
Aragorn snorted a laugh. "It means 'good morning.'"
Bilbo frowned. "You're joking."
"No joke. It's a greeting to the new sunrise. Glorfindel would say it every morning, back when I was young enough to have sword practice at dawn."
Now it was Bilbo's turn to laugh. "That sounds like something he would say." He shook his head dismissively, the laughter fading to a sigh. "Come on then. We've still got a ways to go, yet."
They walked until dusk.
Or rather, Bilbo walked until dusk. Aragorn walked, and then stumbled, and finally was mostly dragging his feet in long scuffing motions, bracing his hands against random tree trunks as he passed to keep from falling over. He finished his own water skin hours ago and was now more than halfway through Bilbo's, though with his fever he wasn't aware that the crafty hobbit kept switching skins on him. Even still, their water was dwindling, and the sun had long since dipped below the tree line in the west, and it was past time to call a halt. Aragorn's fever had only gotten worse as the day wore on, and the streaks of blood poisoning, which had almost seemed to have stopped at lunchtime, had resumed their deadly, inching spread across his back. Still by unspoken agreement they pressed on, not daring to stop until they reached a serviceable water source, which they found in the form of another cold, swift mountain stream, just as the Mariner began his nightly voyage across the darkening sky.
Aragorn dropped to his knees and drank greedily from his cupped hands, relishing the icy chill as it cooled his fevered skin and soothed his parched throat. Bilbo though kept himself back, and when Aragorn dared a glance his way he caught the hobbit looking at him strangely. Bilbo's fear for him was palpable, not a hint of pretense in that assessing gaze, and Aragorn realized with sudden and absolute certainty (and a kind of incredulous fascination) that the hobbit was gearing up to pitch him in the drink, probably because he doubted that Aragorn would have at all gone willingly. As far as fever remedies went, icy submersion was a dangerous last resort, not to be undertaken lightly — and generally not when the fevered party was still lucid enough to object — but before Aragorn could even begin to broach the topic an equally chilling sound tore through the twilit glade. Somewhere nearby, a warg was howling.
And it wasn't alone.
"What's that?" Bilbo whispered, eyes darting fearfully.
Aragorn's voice was remarkably steady when he answered. "The wargs."
"I thought you said you talked them out of trying to eat you."
"That was then," the ranger mused as he forced himself up to unsteady feet, sword already in hand. Bilbo swiftly followed suit, though he seemed to study the blade for a minute in puzzlement before abandoning whatever thought he might have had.
"Just wargs," Bilbo said, with a puzzling certainty that Aragorn didn't have time or energy to dwell on. "Dare I ask where their masters have gone to?"
"Dead, probably," Aragorn said, and just as well. The howling, growling twilight seemed to close in on them as the shadows came alive. "Wargs are not known for their loyalty."
"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," Bilbo said, but then he shrugged the tangent off. "Right. So. What's the plan?"
"Than plan is you are going to run, and not stop until all you hear are crickets."
"And what about you?" Bilbo asked, quite seriously. For all his grand adventures, he'd never quite lost the innocence of the Shire.
"I'll be doing the best I can to buy you time."
"But—"
"Make for Rivendell. Hopefully my horse made it home and a patrol has already been sent to find me."
"Now wait just a minute! You can't really expect me to leave you here. And what would you have me say to your father when I saw him — greetings Lord Elrond, you'll be pleased to know that Erebor is doing well, Beorn says hello, and oh by the way I left your youngest son to die by the river?"
As if to punctuate that thought a rumbling growl interrupted their conversation. Aragorn looked the hobbit dead on, with all the authority he could muster as Chieftain of the Dúnedain, as a leader of men and commander or armies all over Middle-earth, through Rohan and Gondor and back again, he gave what he truly thought would be his final order.
"Go now, before they catch your scent."
Bilbo opened his mouth to protest, because of course he did, because that was Bilbo Baggins for you. In another time and place Aragorn might have laughed.
"I expect Bilbo Dragonbane to know when it's more prudent to save the fighting for another day."
Bilbo's hands snapped to his hips and he huffed an angry, exasperated breath. Once again he managed to stare the ranger down while actually staring up to meet his eye. "And I expect Estel Elrondion to know when to listen to his elders."
Aragorn could have argued — and damnation, he wanted to; he couldn't bear the thought of Bilbo dying with him — but the wargs were almost upon them, and he didn't have time. Instead he sighed, though the sound was swallowed by the growling night air, and bitterly regretted any gratitude he once felt for the surety that he would not die alone. "Get behind me then," he directed tiredly, resigned.
"I won't hide behind you!"
"I don't want you to hide," Aragorn retorted, darkly amused. "If you insist on staying then you're going to guard my back."
At that Bilbo flushed, sheepish. "Oh. Right. Yes, well, I can do that too." By now there were definite shapes to the menacing shadows, and every so often a set of yellow eyes shone through the gloom.
"Are you ready?" Aragorn asked him.
But Bilbo didn't have time to answer because in that moment the wargs attacked. Aragorn raised his sword, and saw out of the corner of his eye as Bilbo brought Sting to bear, its silver blade gleaming wickedly in the dusky twilight. Aragorn batted his own foe aside with a mighty (though not nearly mighty enough) swing of his sword even as Bilbo slashed wildly at the air in front of him, with an inarticulate shout that may have been a hasty prayer to Elbereth. The warg that had been trying to pounce him had to jerk desperately aside to avoid impaling itself completely, but it did not escape completely unscathed. It had a long, shallow cut tracing almost the full length of its side, and hobbit-murder in its eyes.
Aragorn feared for him, but he had his hands full with his own foes. He own sword-work had taken a meaty bite out of one warg's shoulder, and while it was down he'd been able to drive the blade into the back of the fell beast's neck, severing the bone and ending the creature's miserable life, but now he was being circled by two more, and despite the adrenaline his sword was far too heavy in his hand, and his eyes were having terrible difficulty focusing in the too-dim light. Was he facing two wargs? Three?
Well. No matter. Not as long as he kept the bulk of them away from Bilbo.
And speaking of Bilbo, the scrappy hobbit was not nearly so unskilled as Aragorn first thought. He felled his warg with a move he guessed was one part pure instinct, for a fighter so small, and three parts Elladan dirty knife trick. But that was only two out of Valar knew how many, and with grim certainty Aragorn knew that his strength would not last the fight. Nor too, he suspected, would Bilbo's luck, but there was nothing for it. The wargs that had been sizing him up these last few moments suddenly attacked as one. Aragorn brought his sword up, slashed one warg's throat with a well placed thrust even as he spun on his heel, aiming clumsily to bring himself around to face the second warg even as he knew he would never complete the move in time.
Except all of a sudden, he did.
One graceless pivot on his left foot and he was face to face with his next foe, only the warg fell ungainly onto his sword and the both of them tumbled to the ground. Supine and with a warg sprawled across his legs Aragorn reached desperately for where he dropped his sword. He couldn't reach it, and with both hands he shoved himself back sharply, hoping to wrench his leg free of the warg. He succeeded, and reached his sword, and only when he had it in hand again did he realize that the scrape he felt along his calf was not warg's teeth at all, but rather an errant river rock that he had scrambled over in his haste to get away. The warg, he realized then, was already dead, and in fact it had been when it first crashed into him, it's bloodthirsty lunge permanently aborted by the arrow that pierced its eye and skewered its brain. Stunned, Aragorn looked up.
All the wargs were dead, their evil carcasses littering the ground in numbers far greater than he and Bilbo could ever have hope to defeat on their own. All but three had fallen to the cavalry archers that had them surrounded. He caught sight of Bilbo then, still on his feet against all odds, and scrambling over and around dead wargs to get back to where Aragorn still sat on his backside. Doubtless the hobbit was worried for him.
Aragorn wasn't, though, because he heard the tinkling of silver bells, and knew these were his father's archers. Indeed, Glorfindel had already dismounted, and was making his own deliberate way towards where his one-time student sat, worry in his eyes and a smile on his lips even as he pretended to berate Aragorn for his carelessness in losing his horse.
"Vinyárë mae govannen," he greeted the elf as the last of his strength left him, and twin shouts of 'Estel!' followed him into blessed darkness.
"So, he'll be all right then?"
The Lord of Imladris smiled tiredly and nodded at the hobbit. Bilbo had been sat outside the door to Aragorn's sickroom all night, waiting for word.
"The infection was severe, but your treatments helped to stall its progress long enough for aid to reach him."
Bilbo shook his head slightly, a blank expression on his tired face. "My treatments?"
"The tea you gave him," Lord Elrond clarified. "And the solution you used to cleanse his wounds. I did not know that your people knew of Athelas."
If anything, Bilbo was even more confused. "Athelas?"
"'King's foil' in the common tongue. It has great healing properties."
Bilbo's eyes widened. "King's foil? The weed?"
Now it was Elrond's turn for confusion. "Aragorn told me that his own herbs did not survive the rains. If you did not give it to him…"
"Oh no, I gave it to him all right," Bilbo admitted, chagrined. "My former gardener — or I should say, my former gardener's wife — used to add it to infusions all the time, a cheap substitute for mint." Then Bilbo frowned. "That wasn't the only plant I added, though."
"But it was the only one that mattered. It saved Aragorn's life, and for that I am grateful. My house owes you a great debt, Bilbo Baggins."
Quite thoroughly stunned, Bilbo could only shake his head. "The unwitting hero again. Well, imagine that."
-fin-