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b2memB2MeM Challenge:Ficlet from I-18 prompts: healer, hawk, market day, stomach flu, old age, rope making, and arrow wound from the following BINGO cards: Aspects of Aragorn, Beast, Economy, Injuries and Other Illnesses, Life Events, Talents & Skills, and Hurt/Comfort
Format:Short Story
Genre:Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG for squeamish moments
Warnings: Not especially detailed, but, er, it is about stomach flu
Characters:Aragorn, Halbarad, OC
Pairings:None
Summary:Halbarad is under the weather.
To Market, To Market... But Perhaps Not Today
~~~
“Do we need to stop?” Aragorn asked. Halbarad's face had turned an alarming shade of greyish green.
“No.” The reply was more a negating grunt than an actual word.
“Halbarad, there is no hurry. It's market day all day. Even if we take a short rest, the rope maker is hardly likely to run out of rope before we arrive. You’re only just recovering from that stomach flu.”
“I do not need to stop.” He resolutely quickened his pace, then suddenly dove into the bushes. Aragorn sighed as he heard the sound of miserable retching, but he did not move to assist, much as the healer in him wanted to. He knew his cousin too well; any offer of a calming hand on his shoulder would likely result in broken fingers. So instead he waited. And fretted. And idly watched the sky where a hawk sailed. Its cry rang across the valley as it soared effortlessly far above the trees. He looked back toward the bushes and sighed. “Halbarad? Are you all right?”
More retching. And a poorly muffled plea to Eru to simply end his life instead of letting him endure such agony.
Aragorn winced in sympathy. He had suffered the same thing nearly a fortnight ago, having caught it from Denlad, who had caught it from a child in Archet as he and Aragorn helped an entire family who had come down with it. The ailment then proceeded to mow down the Rangers camped in the Chetwood like a farmer scythes hay. Eledh, then Galadh, followed by Turgil and Borongyl and all the others, until finally even Halbarad’s boasts over his successfully avoiding it were finally silenced by the heavings of his outraged stomach. To add further insult, he had suffered the most of any of them. The poor man had managed to keep down only one egg and sips of water over the course of three days before the sickness finally relented and loosed its hold on him. He had slowly progressed to tea and toast and finally some small meals of stew, and had declared himself recovered enough to travel to Bree for market day.
Another groan from the bushes. Apparently he wasn’t as recovered as he had reckoned himself.
A rustle and Halbarad emerged, looking wan and exceedingly sorry for himself. He stopped for a moment, holding a hand against his stomach, then slumped to a seat on the side of the road, where he sat with head hanging. Aragorn knelt beside him and felt his forehead. It was clammy and slick with sweat. “Not so well as you thought, I take it."
Halbarad raised his head high enough to glare weakly at him from behind a curtain of hair. He shut his eyes and shivered, then stretched out in the dirt. “Leave me,” he rasped. “Let my death at least feed the carrion birds, so as not to be in vain.”
Aragorn snorted even as he squeezed Halbarad's shoulder. “You’re not going to be feeding any carrion birds. The only bird around is a hawk, and I doubt he would savour the taste of your sour flesh.”
That earned him another glare. "Your jests are cruel in the extreme. Do you not see I am a dying man?" Halbarad laid his forearm across his eyes. “But I do not fear death. Nay, what I fear is living with this misery. It is my doom to never recover, I know it.”
Aragorn rolled his eyes. “It is no more your doom to die here in the dirt than it is mine to marry an orc. Now come on, up with you. I will help you get back to camp where you can rest properly until you are truly well. We will go to Bree next market day instead.”
“But I need rope.”
“I have some you can have. But pray tell me, why such a pressing need for rope?”
“Tarlanc’s hobbles are nearly worn through.”
“Ah.” Halbarad’s horse was such a fractious beast that strong hobbles were a necessity, or he would head for the hills and be gone at first opportunity. “Tarlanc is stubborn and willful and as likely to snap your head off as not. I do not know why you put up with him.”
Halbarad lifted his arm and gave Aragorn the eye. “He reminds me of someone.”
“You surely aren’t referring to me.”
A grunt.
Aragorn shook his head in fond exasperation, then patted Halbarad’s shoulder. “Come, cousin. I cannot let you lie here until old age claims you. Lean on me and we will return to camp. At least we haven’t far to go.”
Halbarad groaned loudly but he let Aragorn all but haul him bodily to his feet. Aragorn put his arm around Halbarad's waist and Halbarad's arm across his own shoulders, and they slowly started walking the half mile back to camp. Halbarad had to stop again for another bout in the bushes, but they finally made it. Denlad hurried over as soon as he saw them. Without comment, he threw Halbarad’s other arm over his shoulder, and together, he and Aragorn guided him to Aragorn’s own bed in his tent.
“I take it he wasn’t as well as he thought,” Denlad remarked after they’d tucked him under a pile of warm blankets, put an empty bucket beside him and quietly ducked out.
“I’m afraid not. And thus we will have to wait another week before partaking of the wonders of Barliman’s hearth and table.” Aragorn patted his stomach and let out a wistful sigh. Then he gave Denlad a wicked smile and raised his voice. “And I was really looking forward to some of his kidney pie and asparagus tart.”
Not to be outdone, Denlad added, “And I hear that he has a new calf liver and onion recipe that is especially mouth-watering!”
A loud groan issued forth from the tent. “If you’re going to talk about food, do so beyond the range of my hearing! I am not too weak to draw my bow!”
Aragorn lifted the tent flap. “Puncture me with an arrow wound, would you, after I hauled you all the way back and gave you my bed! For shame, Halbarad.”
There was a piteous moan, then silence.
Denlad chuckled. “You know, Aragorn, for a healer, you have a cruel streak.”
“Only with those I love most. And those who keep me from Barliman’s kidney pie.” He winked and then ducked inside the tent.
He had an ill man to look after.
Format:Short Story
Genre:Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG for squeamish moments
Warnings: Not especially detailed, but, er, it is about stomach flu
Characters:Aragorn, Halbarad, OC
Pairings:None
Summary:Halbarad is under the weather.
To Market, To Market... But Perhaps Not Today
~~~
“Do we need to stop?” Aragorn asked. Halbarad's face had turned an alarming shade of greyish green.
“No.” The reply was more a negating grunt than an actual word.
“Halbarad, there is no hurry. It's market day all day. Even if we take a short rest, the rope maker is hardly likely to run out of rope before we arrive. You’re only just recovering from that stomach flu.”
“I do not need to stop.” He resolutely quickened his pace, then suddenly dove into the bushes. Aragorn sighed as he heard the sound of miserable retching, but he did not move to assist, much as the healer in him wanted to. He knew his cousin too well; any offer of a calming hand on his shoulder would likely result in broken fingers. So instead he waited. And fretted. And idly watched the sky where a hawk sailed. Its cry rang across the valley as it soared effortlessly far above the trees. He looked back toward the bushes and sighed. “Halbarad? Are you all right?”
More retching. And a poorly muffled plea to Eru to simply end his life instead of letting him endure such agony.
Aragorn winced in sympathy. He had suffered the same thing nearly a fortnight ago, having caught it from Denlad, who had caught it from a child in Archet as he and Aragorn helped an entire family who had come down with it. The ailment then proceeded to mow down the Rangers camped in the Chetwood like a farmer scythes hay. Eledh, then Galadh, followed by Turgil and Borongyl and all the others, until finally even Halbarad’s boasts over his successfully avoiding it were finally silenced by the heavings of his outraged stomach. To add further insult, he had suffered the most of any of them. The poor man had managed to keep down only one egg and sips of water over the course of three days before the sickness finally relented and loosed its hold on him. He had slowly progressed to tea and toast and finally some small meals of stew, and had declared himself recovered enough to travel to Bree for market day.
Another groan from the bushes. Apparently he wasn’t as recovered as he had reckoned himself.
A rustle and Halbarad emerged, looking wan and exceedingly sorry for himself. He stopped for a moment, holding a hand against his stomach, then slumped to a seat on the side of the road, where he sat with head hanging. Aragorn knelt beside him and felt his forehead. It was clammy and slick with sweat. “Not so well as you thought, I take it."
Halbarad raised his head high enough to glare weakly at him from behind a curtain of hair. He shut his eyes and shivered, then stretched out in the dirt. “Leave me,” he rasped. “Let my death at least feed the carrion birds, so as not to be in vain.”
Aragorn snorted even as he squeezed Halbarad's shoulder. “You’re not going to be feeding any carrion birds. The only bird around is a hawk, and I doubt he would savour the taste of your sour flesh.”
That earned him another glare. "Your jests are cruel in the extreme. Do you not see I am a dying man?" Halbarad laid his forearm across his eyes. “But I do not fear death. Nay, what I fear is living with this misery. It is my doom to never recover, I know it.”
Aragorn rolled his eyes. “It is no more your doom to die here in the dirt than it is mine to marry an orc. Now come on, up with you. I will help you get back to camp where you can rest properly until you are truly well. We will go to Bree next market day instead.”
“But I need rope.”
“I have some you can have. But pray tell me, why such a pressing need for rope?”
“Tarlanc’s hobbles are nearly worn through.”
“Ah.” Halbarad’s horse was such a fractious beast that strong hobbles were a necessity, or he would head for the hills and be gone at first opportunity. “Tarlanc is stubborn and willful and as likely to snap your head off as not. I do not know why you put up with him.”
Halbarad lifted his arm and gave Aragorn the eye. “He reminds me of someone.”
“You surely aren’t referring to me.”
A grunt.
Aragorn shook his head in fond exasperation, then patted Halbarad’s shoulder. “Come, cousin. I cannot let you lie here until old age claims you. Lean on me and we will return to camp. At least we haven’t far to go.”
Halbarad groaned loudly but he let Aragorn all but haul him bodily to his feet. Aragorn put his arm around Halbarad's waist and Halbarad's arm across his own shoulders, and they slowly started walking the half mile back to camp. Halbarad had to stop again for another bout in the bushes, but they finally made it. Denlad hurried over as soon as he saw them. Without comment, he threw Halbarad’s other arm over his shoulder, and together, he and Aragorn guided him to Aragorn’s own bed in his tent.
“I take it he wasn’t as well as he thought,” Denlad remarked after they’d tucked him under a pile of warm blankets, put an empty bucket beside him and quietly ducked out.
“I’m afraid not. And thus we will have to wait another week before partaking of the wonders of Barliman’s hearth and table.” Aragorn patted his stomach and let out a wistful sigh. Then he gave Denlad a wicked smile and raised his voice. “And I was really looking forward to some of his kidney pie and asparagus tart.”
Not to be outdone, Denlad added, “And I hear that he has a new calf liver and onion recipe that is especially mouth-watering!”
A loud groan issued forth from the tent. “If you’re going to talk about food, do so beyond the range of my hearing! I am not too weak to draw my bow!”
Aragorn lifted the tent flap. “Puncture me with an arrow wound, would you, after I hauled you all the way back and gave you my bed! For shame, Halbarad.”
There was a piteous moan, then silence.
Denlad chuckled. “You know, Aragorn, for a healer, you have a cruel streak.”
“Only with those I love most. And those who keep me from Barliman’s kidney pie.” He winked and then ducked inside the tent.
He had an ill man to look after.
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