LOTR fic: Out of the Cold (part 1/2)
Jan. 24th, 2014 06:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imbecamiel In honor of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cairistiona7's birthday - LOTR fic!
Though my love for Tolkien's works certainly hasn't faded, I haven't been much involved in LOTR fanfiction circles for a number of years, and it has been so long so long since I've actually written anything for it. But the ficlet I wrote for the Great Tales DD exchange got me itching to really try my hand at LOTR fic again, and Cairistiona was gracious enough give me permission to draw upon some of the things she's established in her own stories - for instance, the names of Halbarad's wife and children. (For which I'm very grateful, because her stories have influenced my developing perspective on enough things that I'd have probably wound up drawing upon them as source material even if I didn't intend to!)
I didn't wind up getting the whole story finished in time for her birthday, but I decided to go ahead and post the first part anyway, since it stands on its own fairly well and doesn't end on a terrible cliffhanger, at least. *g*
(Not beta'd, because... I've never gotten my act together enough to find one for my fanworks. Shame on me. XP)
Out of the Cold
It was good to be heading home.
The fact that his absence had been brief did not lessen Aragorn’s happiness at turning homeward. As spring was a time when one’s thoughts stirred toward wandering, so winter was a time for hearth and home. Though duty and necessity might not often leave him a choice in such matters, he gladly welcomed such times of peace when they came.
And it was peaceful, walking alone through the snow. The heavy cloud cover seemed to cast a muffling effect across the whole day, further dimming the late afternoon light. Under the trees, the only sounds he heard were the crunch of snow under his feet and the creak of branches in the wind.
He and several others had traveled into town to fetch supplies—those less willing to venture so far in the cold sending lists of needed items along with them. Now, in the last short stretch of the journey, he had broken from the rest of the men. While they made their way direct to the center of the Dúnedain settlement en route to their homes, he had chosen to take a shorter route to his grandparents’ home on the nearer edge of the settlement. He could deliver the new sewing needles that Ivorwen had requested, and with any luck he might find fresh sticky buns awaiting him. The mere prospect was enough to chase some of the chill from his bones.
A sigh of contentment turned into a smothered cough as cold, dry air scraped the back of his throat. Aragorn grimaced.
He still held out hope that the vague suspicion that he might be coming down with something, which had been dogging him for the last several days, might yet be headed off by warmth, good food, and rest. His knowledge of healing told him that if he did have a cold there was little enough to be done for it now. But even if there was nothing for it but to suffer through, the chance to do so while he could retreat to a comfortable bed rather than a drafty blanket roll was not a luxury he would lightly dismiss.
Although the snows had not been particularly heavy, this winter was the coldest they had experienced in a number of years. With all of nature slow with cold and reluctant to move, their hunt had been a challenging one.
Even the small, spring-fed lake at the edge of the settlement, usually covered with no more than a skim of ice, was hard frozen this year. Still, he thought as he cleared the treeline and the lake came into view, he would not care to trust his weight to it. The warmer currents introduced by the springs would not make for a dependable thickness of ice.
A child, dark against the snow, bounded into sight on the path ahead. At a distance it was difficult to make out the bundled-up figure, but he could hardly fail to recognize the bouncing, skipping walk of Halbarad’s youngest daughter, Gailluin.
The path might yet be within a safe distance of the settlement, but even so she was young to be out here without even a sibling for supervision. Was she four still, or had this year’s been her fifth birthday? The time passed so quickly, he thought with a pang, and he had spent so much of it far from his kin.
He wondered if Gailluin had slipped away from whoever was minding her, or if she had been given permission to walk the short distance to her great-grandparents’ house and had been distracted along the way. It wouldn’t be the first time either had occurred.
Aragorn raised an arm to wave, intending to call her over to accompany him back to Dírhael and Ivorwen’s home.
A blast of icy wind gusted through, setting the tree branches to swaying and kicking up swirls of snow. He stumbled and hunched his shoulders as his cloak billowed around him, then looked up again swiftly as Gailluin cried out.
His mouth quirked in a smile as he saw the cause of her distress. Her hat—a particular favorite, which her mother had knitted from red-dyed yarn—had been caught by the wind. Even now it tumbled along, ever just out of reach as she raced after it.
Amusement was quickly replaced by alarm when he realized where her chase had led her. She was at the very edge of the lake. Even as he watched, the tumbling cap tempted her still farther onto the frozen expanse.
“Gailluin, no!” he shouted. “Come back from there!”
Whether she was too focused to listen, or whether the words were snatched away by the wind, she ran on, heedless. Shrugging off his pack, he left it in the snow to be reclaimed later. He broke into a run, calling out her name again as he hurried closer.
Just as he reached the edge of the lake himself, a dull boom, like distant thunder, echoed off the hills around them. He skidded to a stop, afraid to step onto the ice himself lest his weight upset a delicate balance.
Gailluin too had paused, looking down at the ice beneath her feet, confused and a little frightened by the strange noise.
“Gailluin!” he called out again.
At last she heard and turned to look at him, eyes wide.
“Gailluin, just leave the hat, we’ll take care of that later. Come back over here now.” Now that he had her attention, he was careful to keep his voice gentle and calm. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her into paralysis or tears.
At her first step, however, the resounding boom repeated itself, this time followed almost instantly by a sharp crack. She hesitated again, looking to him for guidance.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he assured her, hoping he spoke true. “Just keep coming this way, but move slowly.”
Obediently, she continued making her careful way back toward the shore. He found himself holding his breath, one hand outstretched as he watched her progress, as if he could reach out and snatch her from danger should anything go wrong. She could not have been more than ten yards away when the worst did happen.
The ice beneath her buckled. She shrieked in fear, arms windmilling as she fought to catch her balance, before the ice gave way completely and dropped her into the water below.
He was on his way before he had time to think, shedding cloak, overcoat, and sword belt as he went. The wind cut through him like icy needles—but it was nothing next to what the temperature in the water must be.
He was not halfway to the hole before an ominous creaking warned him of the need for greater caution. A downward glance revealed a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward through the ice.
Though everything within him cried out that speed was of the essence, he forced himself to move with deliberation. Lowering himself to the ice, he spread his weight out as much as he could as he crawled forward on his belly, moving as quickly as he dared, pulling with forearms and elbows and pushing with his toes.
Gailluin’s head was still visible above the water, as she clung to the edge of the ice, but he doubted how much longer her strength could last. He tried to catch her eye as he moved toward her, but it was hard to tell whether she was truly focused on him.
She whimpered, and he thought he could make out the syllables of his name in the plaintive sound.
“Just hold on, Gailluin,” he urged. “I’ll be there very soon. Don’t let go.”
He was very nearly within reach when her grip slipped. Her head plunged under the water’s surface.
He lunged, pushing himself forward with his toes. It was not fast enough—and the unwary movement proved too much for the already-compromised ice. For the moment he hardly cared. If Gailluin was too far under to reach, he would have to go in anyway.
The cold water drove the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping, but there was no time to struggle for a deeper breath. Ducking under the surface, he reached out blindly, searching for any part of her he could grab onto. All the while at the back of his mind were spinning calculations that were impossible to answer.
What were the chances of survival? How many minutes—seconds?—had she been in the water? How long since she had gone under? Children could be very resilient in such cases, but she was small, so small….
His fingers brushed against something soft—the sleeve of her coat! Grabbing onto her arm, he pulled her to himself and kicked upward, driving them both to the surface.
He gasped. How could the air possibly feel so much colder than the water? He hugged Gailluin to his chest and kicked toward the edge of the ice. Already his limbs felt slow and unresponsive, even the light weight of Gailluin and his own clothes threatening to drag him downward. He wished there had been time to remove his boots, at least, before going into the water.
Holding on to the ice with one arm, he pulled Gailluin away from his chest to look at her face. She was very pale, her lips touched with a hint of blue—from cold, or a lack of air? His own gasping breathing and trembling body made it so hard to tell if she was breathing, even now.
They had to get out of the water. He could do nothing like this.
His first attempt to climb back up on to the ice was an abject failure. The edge crumbled the moment he attempted to put weight on it, nearly ducking him under as he flailed, struggling to keep Gailluin’s face above the surface.
Their combined weight, with waterlogged clothes—it was no good, and he could not afford to try the same thing again and again in hopes of eventual success. Perhaps if he could get Gailluin onto the ice first… but it would have to be far enough from the hole that, if the ice broke under him again, she would not fall back into the water as well.
But how to gain the leverage needed to propel her that far? His mind lit on the little knife concealed in a sheath in his boot—a compromise between the fact that he could not always have his sword secured to his side, even in the Wilds, and the desire not to be entirely unarmed, even at those times.
It was a tricky business to get to the knife without going under in the process, but through careful maneuvering he managed to hitch Gailluin up and rest one forearm and elbow on the edge of the ice. The uncertain hold very nearly failed to support them, in the moments when he could not tread water, but he managed to keep his balance long enough for a quick grab at the knife.
For a frightening moment he thought his cold-numbed fingers would surely lose it to the depths of the lake. Forcing his hand to clench into a fist through sheer will, he swiftly drove the knife into the ice. With that grip to brace himself against, he shifted his grip on Gailluin once more before heaving her up and out.
It was no impressive toss by his usual standards, but she was safely free of the water.
Now to manage the same for himself.
Wiggling the knife back and forth to loosen it, he pulled it free of the ice and stretched to reach as far away from the hole as he could before stabbing downward again. With that handhold, he kicked his legs hard and hauled to pull himself upward.
The ice creaked and groaned alarmingly, and several small pieces broke away from the edge, but at last he managed to get enough of his upper body onto the ice to be able to roll away from the hole.
He slid cautiously toward Gailluin, listening all the while for signs that their weight was overstraining the ice. He wanted nothing more than to stop and assess her condition immediately, but he knew that must wait.
The crawl toward shore, dragging Gailluin with him, was painstaking and grew more so with each passing moment. His limbs shook violently, and his breath came in stuttering gasps, each one feeling as if knives were being driven into his lungs. His hands and feet no longer hurt, which was a relief, though a distant voice at the back of his mind told him that it should not be. But he was so very cold, and any reprieve from the pain was welcome.
The cold whiteness beneath him blurred into an unvarying expanse that seemed to stretch on forever. He did not even realize that he had reached the shore until he saw his abandoned cloak and overcoat, just inches away from his outstretched fingers. He stared blankly at the pile of dark cloth for several long seconds before his muddled brain processed its significance.
They were safe—no, safer. The cold was still a deadly enemy. But he could stop now to check on Gailluin without fear of falling through the ice.
Turning, he rested a hand on her chest. He could not see whether it was rising and falling, and his fingers were too numb to detect signs of life.
“Gailluin…? Valar, please…” he breathed.
He rubbed his knuckles hard against her sternum—her clothing would dull the sensation, but it might yet be painful enough to rouse her. After several long moments her face scrunched up and she made a little mewling sound of distress.
She did not open her eyes or speak, though he called her name several more times, but for the moment it was enough. She breathing, and she was not coughing—a good sign, he thought, that she had not breathed in too much water.
There was a good chance she would yet be alright, if he could get her to warmth in time.
Leaning over, he spread his crumpled cloak out on the ground, then the overcoat on top of it. Still kneeling, he shifted Gailluin over on top of the cloth before wrapping it around her as securely as his clumsy hands could manage.
Gathering the precious bundle in his arms, he staggered to his feet.
It should not have been so difficult, to remember how to stand, to walk, but the first step nearly sent him back to his knees. He couldn’t feel his feet at all. They might as well not have been there. If they had fallen off at some point, it would at least explain why they no longer hurt…
Aragorn shook himself out of the wandering, fanciful thoughts. He had to walk, and so he would.
It was not long before he stumbled to a halt again, lifting his head to look around in confusion. It felt as though a winter storm had taken up residence inside his head, scattering every thought before it could finish forming and obscuring everything in a haze of cold, white blankness.
There was something… some place he needed to go. But what that place was or how he was to get there was lost to him. He was so tired. Perhaps if he slept for a while his mind would be clearer.
At the mere thought of rest every muscle in his body seemed to sag in relief. He swayed, and his hold on the bundle in his arms loosened. He tightened his grasp instinctively as it started to slide toward the ground.
Aragorn looked down in vague surprise. Why had he been carrying… Gailluin. Yes. Gailluin. He had to… had to get her inside. And he had wandered from the path.
Casting about, he caught a glimpse of it through the trees and leaf-barren underbrush off to the left. His heart sank at the thought of having taken even one unnecessary step, but there was nothing for it.
Ordering his reluctant legs back into service, he turned to meet up with the path once more. He knew he could not afford to stop again. Even those few moments of standing still had left his muscles so stiff that it felt as if they had frozen through and would break into pieces if he moved too quickly.
He trudged on, focused only on keeping to the path beneath his feet. His mind drifted with half-formed prayers his lips were too numb to voice.
A dark shape loomed in front of him. Aragorn dragged his head up to stare at the building. The end of his trek? He couldn’t dredge up recognition, much less relief.
A few more steps carried him to the doorway. Having reached it, however, he was still at a loss as to how he could draw the attention of those inside. If he shifted Gailluin to one arm to knock he would surely drop her, and if he tried to set her down he would fall on his face. He tried to call out for help, but could only produce an all-but-inaudible croak, which quickly dissolved into a rasping cough.
Utter despair threatened to pull him under like the dark waters of the lake as he struggled to convince his sluggish mind to overcome this last obstacle. Just one more…
But his body had been pushed too far, and now it was giving out on him. He swayed and caught himself, leaning one shoulder against the door. Perhaps he should bash his head against it. That, at least, might bring a quicker end to his troubles…
The wood under his shoulder shifted inward, revealing a thin sliver of a golden glow from within. The mere sight of the bright color after struggling through a seemingly endless expanse of gray and white was startling.
“—and I tell you that I heard something out there.” The voice from the other side of the door was warm and rich, and the most welcome sound he had ever heard. “If it is one of the children throwing snowballs, then—“
The door scraped and slid further inward as the speaker tugged on it, and Aragorn stood not the slightest chance of catching his balance in time.
It was pure luck—or Ilúvatar’s merciful intervention—that he fell sideways rather than flat on his face. He could no more have stopped himself from crushing Gailluin than he could have danced a celebratory jig at that moment.
“Aragorn!”
“Is that Gailluin?”
“They’re covered in ice!”
The alarmed voices seemed oddly unimportant. The fluttering movements around him were slightly more bothersome, but it hardly mattered.
He was done. He had brought Gailluin to safety, and he could finally rest in the knowledge that someone else would be there to look after her. His eyes slid shut and he allowed himself to drift off…
… only to be dragged back to the present by strong hands gripping his shoulders and an insistent voice calling his name.
With a protesting groan he dragged open his eyes to find Dírhael leaning over him.
“That’s more like it. You stay with me, Aragorn, do you hear?”
Dírhael’s voice was fierce, and his face set in a deep scowl. Aragorn hated to disobey that commanding tone, though he couldn’t imagine what he had done to so displease his grandfather.
A hand tapped roughly against his face, and his eyes fluttered open again. He didn’t remember closing them.
“Aragorn, I know you’re tired, but you cannot sleep now.” Seeing that he was awake for the moment, Dírhael laid his hand more gently against Aragorn’s cheek. “Ah, lad, your skin’s like ice…”
He felt a slight pressure at the touch, but none of the warmth of living skin. It made him want to cry. Perhaps all warmth had indeed been sucked out of the world, leaving nothing behind but deadly cold. He hardly remembered what it was like to feel anything other than icy numbness.
Dírhael looked up as Ivorwen approached. “Is she….?”
“Dry and bundled up in blankets now. Her clothes were soaked through. She’s breathing, but won’t wake yet.” Glancing down, she noted Aragorn’s open eyes and offered a wan smile. “He’s still awake, then. Good.”
“More or less,” Dírhael agreed. “Difficult to tell how aware he is. Help me move him over close to the fire and I can get him out of his wet things while you put water on to boil.”
Aragorn was distantly aware that he should be annoyed at being discussed as if he was not present, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was simply relieved that they didn’t expect him to answer any questions for himself. Just keeping his eyes open was so much work.
It seemed in the end even that simple task was beyond him. He was dragged back to awareness again as shudders began to wrack his body, and a growing sensation like dozens of tiny needles pricked at his skin. Just when he thought that he had plumbed the depths of misery that cold had to offer…
He wished guiltily that he could drift off again, though he knew that his grandfather would be little pleased with him for having failed to stay awake in the first place. It could not have been very long, though, and perhaps they had not noticed his lapse.
With that thought came the realization that a conversation was taking place across the room
“—I’ll go and ask them if they’ve any to lend us.” Dírhael was saying. He was no longer by Aragorn’s side, but Aragorn had not the energy to lift his head and see where he had gone.
“Send someone to tell Halbarad and Miriel what’s happened as well,” Ivorwen called after him.
She stood at the hearth, close by Aragorn’s head. Gailluin lay swaddled in a pile of blankets just beyond where Ivorwen stood, tucked in near the fire as he was. At sight of her a pang of true fear cut through his sluggish thoughts.
As Ivorwen turned from the fire and bent to kneel at his side, he struggled to voice his worries, but all that made it past his lips was a garbled groan.
“Easy, lad,” Ivorwen soothed, “rest easy. We’ll soon have you warmer.”
He frowned, frustration fighting to overcome the lethargy that dragged at him. He looked again toward Gailluin, trying to see if she was stirring. Ivorwen followed the direction of his gaze.
“You did well getting her here, and I think you were in time,” Ivorwen told him, though the look in her eyes did not seem to speak of great confidence in the outcome. “You just let us take care of her now. She’s all tucked up as warm as we can get her, at least until Dírhael returns with more bedwarmers. We’re doing everything we can, and we must leave the rest to time and prayer.”
Lifting the blankets covering him, she tucked one of the earthen bedwarmers filled with boiling water in beside him as well, safely wrapped in a towel to keep from burning his skin.
And there, there was warmth at last, but it brought with it little relief. His insides felt as if they had frozen to a solid block of ice, even while his skin was beginning to crawl with pain that seemed paradoxically cold and burning with heat at the same time.
Ivorwen was lifting his head up, placing a mug of what smelled like herbal tea to his lips. The light touch of it felt like a brand being pressed against his skin. He hissed in pain, trying to jerk his head away from the unwanted heat, but only managed a twitch.
Ivorwen clucked at him, her brows drawing together in a frown of concern. “I know it may feel very warm to you, but I have tested the temperature. It is quite safe—try to drink a little, at least. You will feel better with something warming you from within.”
Reluctantly, he took a sip and coughed at the unexpected sweetness. How much honey had she put in it? Ivorwen chuckled as his distaste was made evident in his expression, but relentlessly offered another drink nonetheless.
“Go on,” she said. “Whether it’s to your taste or not it will give you strength, and you need all of that you can get. You’re about as weak as a half-drowned kitten.”
Near enough to the truth, he thought wryly.
Sickly sweet though the drink might be, the warmth of it did indeed begin to loosen the frozen knots in his belly and clear away some of the fog in his mind.
Sadly, the greater clarity was less than welcome at that particular moment. He was growing warmer, yes, but everything felt so… strange. Cold and heat were like competing rivers of oil and water, sliding through his body, each trying to push the other away.
Warmth pooled at his core, where the tea was settling in his stomach, in his head, which was closest to the fire, his chest, where the bedwarmer was tucked against him.
His extremities seemed to be warming, cold fire continuing to burn in his hands and feet and shooting pangs up his limbs at regular intervals. A good sign, probably, but one he wished he could do without.
But the cold… that oozed slowly to settle in his upper arms, his thighs, seeping into his bones as if it would take residence there, waiting for the moment the heat retreated to crawl out again and begin devouring.
He shuddered, hardly knowing if it was the morbid thoughts or the cold itself that caused the reaction. Then the shudder came again, and again, his whole body seeming to spasm with the shivers, though he hardly knew where it found the energy to continue doing so.
He drifted for a while, dimly aware of the cold, and misery, and wishing it would all just stop, but not quite releasing the last threads of awareness.
And then, a few feet away, came a hitching breath, which soon turned into a sob.
The sound of a child’s crying would make a poor lullaby for him on any normal day, but tonight the noise thawed the cold fear that had been wrapped around his heart. Something in that sound told him that all would be well. He could rest.
(Part 2.)
Heh, this is officially the longest LOTR story I've ever written... and it's not even finished yet. I guess I've gotten long-winded in my old age?
cairistiona7's birthday - LOTR fic!Though my love for Tolkien's works certainly hasn't faded, I haven't been much involved in LOTR fanfiction circles for a number of years, and it has been so long so long since I've actually written anything for it. But the ficlet I wrote for the Great Tales DD exchange got me itching to really try my hand at LOTR fic again, and Cairistiona was gracious enough give me permission to draw upon some of the things she's established in her own stories - for instance, the names of Halbarad's wife and children. (For which I'm very grateful, because her stories have influenced my developing perspective on enough things that I'd have probably wound up drawing upon them as source material even if I didn't intend to!)
I didn't wind up getting the whole story finished in time for her birthday, but I decided to go ahead and post the first part anyway, since it stands on its own fairly well and doesn't end on a terrible cliffhanger, at least. *g*
(Not beta'd, because... I've never gotten my act together enough to find one for my fanworks. Shame on me. XP)
Out of the Cold
It was good to be heading home.
The fact that his absence had been brief did not lessen Aragorn’s happiness at turning homeward. As spring was a time when one’s thoughts stirred toward wandering, so winter was a time for hearth and home. Though duty and necessity might not often leave him a choice in such matters, he gladly welcomed such times of peace when they came.
And it was peaceful, walking alone through the snow. The heavy cloud cover seemed to cast a muffling effect across the whole day, further dimming the late afternoon light. Under the trees, the only sounds he heard were the crunch of snow under his feet and the creak of branches in the wind.
He and several others had traveled into town to fetch supplies—those less willing to venture so far in the cold sending lists of needed items along with them. Now, in the last short stretch of the journey, he had broken from the rest of the men. While they made their way direct to the center of the Dúnedain settlement en route to their homes, he had chosen to take a shorter route to his grandparents’ home on the nearer edge of the settlement. He could deliver the new sewing needles that Ivorwen had requested, and with any luck he might find fresh sticky buns awaiting him. The mere prospect was enough to chase some of the chill from his bones.
A sigh of contentment turned into a smothered cough as cold, dry air scraped the back of his throat. Aragorn grimaced.
He still held out hope that the vague suspicion that he might be coming down with something, which had been dogging him for the last several days, might yet be headed off by warmth, good food, and rest. His knowledge of healing told him that if he did have a cold there was little enough to be done for it now. But even if there was nothing for it but to suffer through, the chance to do so while he could retreat to a comfortable bed rather than a drafty blanket roll was not a luxury he would lightly dismiss.
Although the snows had not been particularly heavy, this winter was the coldest they had experienced in a number of years. With all of nature slow with cold and reluctant to move, their hunt had been a challenging one.
Even the small, spring-fed lake at the edge of the settlement, usually covered with no more than a skim of ice, was hard frozen this year. Still, he thought as he cleared the treeline and the lake came into view, he would not care to trust his weight to it. The warmer currents introduced by the springs would not make for a dependable thickness of ice.
A child, dark against the snow, bounded into sight on the path ahead. At a distance it was difficult to make out the bundled-up figure, but he could hardly fail to recognize the bouncing, skipping walk of Halbarad’s youngest daughter, Gailluin.
The path might yet be within a safe distance of the settlement, but even so she was young to be out here without even a sibling for supervision. Was she four still, or had this year’s been her fifth birthday? The time passed so quickly, he thought with a pang, and he had spent so much of it far from his kin.
He wondered if Gailluin had slipped away from whoever was minding her, or if she had been given permission to walk the short distance to her great-grandparents’ house and had been distracted along the way. It wouldn’t be the first time either had occurred.
Aragorn raised an arm to wave, intending to call her over to accompany him back to Dírhael and Ivorwen’s home.
A blast of icy wind gusted through, setting the tree branches to swaying and kicking up swirls of snow. He stumbled and hunched his shoulders as his cloak billowed around him, then looked up again swiftly as Gailluin cried out.
His mouth quirked in a smile as he saw the cause of her distress. Her hat—a particular favorite, which her mother had knitted from red-dyed yarn—had been caught by the wind. Even now it tumbled along, ever just out of reach as she raced after it.
Amusement was quickly replaced by alarm when he realized where her chase had led her. She was at the very edge of the lake. Even as he watched, the tumbling cap tempted her still farther onto the frozen expanse.
“Gailluin, no!” he shouted. “Come back from there!”
Whether she was too focused to listen, or whether the words were snatched away by the wind, she ran on, heedless. Shrugging off his pack, he left it in the snow to be reclaimed later. He broke into a run, calling out her name again as he hurried closer.
Just as he reached the edge of the lake himself, a dull boom, like distant thunder, echoed off the hills around them. He skidded to a stop, afraid to step onto the ice himself lest his weight upset a delicate balance.
Gailluin too had paused, looking down at the ice beneath her feet, confused and a little frightened by the strange noise.
“Gailluin!” he called out again.
At last she heard and turned to look at him, eyes wide.
“Gailluin, just leave the hat, we’ll take care of that later. Come back over here now.” Now that he had her attention, he was careful to keep his voice gentle and calm. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her into paralysis or tears.
At her first step, however, the resounding boom repeated itself, this time followed almost instantly by a sharp crack. She hesitated again, looking to him for guidance.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he assured her, hoping he spoke true. “Just keep coming this way, but move slowly.”
Obediently, she continued making her careful way back toward the shore. He found himself holding his breath, one hand outstretched as he watched her progress, as if he could reach out and snatch her from danger should anything go wrong. She could not have been more than ten yards away when the worst did happen.
The ice beneath her buckled. She shrieked in fear, arms windmilling as she fought to catch her balance, before the ice gave way completely and dropped her into the water below.
He was on his way before he had time to think, shedding cloak, overcoat, and sword belt as he went. The wind cut through him like icy needles—but it was nothing next to what the temperature in the water must be.
He was not halfway to the hole before an ominous creaking warned him of the need for greater caution. A downward glance revealed a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward through the ice.
Though everything within him cried out that speed was of the essence, he forced himself to move with deliberation. Lowering himself to the ice, he spread his weight out as much as he could as he crawled forward on his belly, moving as quickly as he dared, pulling with forearms and elbows and pushing with his toes.
Gailluin’s head was still visible above the water, as she clung to the edge of the ice, but he doubted how much longer her strength could last. He tried to catch her eye as he moved toward her, but it was hard to tell whether she was truly focused on him.
She whimpered, and he thought he could make out the syllables of his name in the plaintive sound.
“Just hold on, Gailluin,” he urged. “I’ll be there very soon. Don’t let go.”
He was very nearly within reach when her grip slipped. Her head plunged under the water’s surface.
He lunged, pushing himself forward with his toes. It was not fast enough—and the unwary movement proved too much for the already-compromised ice. For the moment he hardly cared. If Gailluin was too far under to reach, he would have to go in anyway.
The cold water drove the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping, but there was no time to struggle for a deeper breath. Ducking under the surface, he reached out blindly, searching for any part of her he could grab onto. All the while at the back of his mind were spinning calculations that were impossible to answer.
What were the chances of survival? How many minutes—seconds?—had she been in the water? How long since she had gone under? Children could be very resilient in such cases, but she was small, so small….
His fingers brushed against something soft—the sleeve of her coat! Grabbing onto her arm, he pulled her to himself and kicked upward, driving them both to the surface.
He gasped. How could the air possibly feel so much colder than the water? He hugged Gailluin to his chest and kicked toward the edge of the ice. Already his limbs felt slow and unresponsive, even the light weight of Gailluin and his own clothes threatening to drag him downward. He wished there had been time to remove his boots, at least, before going into the water.
Holding on to the ice with one arm, he pulled Gailluin away from his chest to look at her face. She was very pale, her lips touched with a hint of blue—from cold, or a lack of air? His own gasping breathing and trembling body made it so hard to tell if she was breathing, even now.
They had to get out of the water. He could do nothing like this.
His first attempt to climb back up on to the ice was an abject failure. The edge crumbled the moment he attempted to put weight on it, nearly ducking him under as he flailed, struggling to keep Gailluin’s face above the surface.
Their combined weight, with waterlogged clothes—it was no good, and he could not afford to try the same thing again and again in hopes of eventual success. Perhaps if he could get Gailluin onto the ice first… but it would have to be far enough from the hole that, if the ice broke under him again, she would not fall back into the water as well.
But how to gain the leverage needed to propel her that far? His mind lit on the little knife concealed in a sheath in his boot—a compromise between the fact that he could not always have his sword secured to his side, even in the Wilds, and the desire not to be entirely unarmed, even at those times.
It was a tricky business to get to the knife without going under in the process, but through careful maneuvering he managed to hitch Gailluin up and rest one forearm and elbow on the edge of the ice. The uncertain hold very nearly failed to support them, in the moments when he could not tread water, but he managed to keep his balance long enough for a quick grab at the knife.
For a frightening moment he thought his cold-numbed fingers would surely lose it to the depths of the lake. Forcing his hand to clench into a fist through sheer will, he swiftly drove the knife into the ice. With that grip to brace himself against, he shifted his grip on Gailluin once more before heaving her up and out.
It was no impressive toss by his usual standards, but she was safely free of the water.
Now to manage the same for himself.
Wiggling the knife back and forth to loosen it, he pulled it free of the ice and stretched to reach as far away from the hole as he could before stabbing downward again. With that handhold, he kicked his legs hard and hauled to pull himself upward.
The ice creaked and groaned alarmingly, and several small pieces broke away from the edge, but at last he managed to get enough of his upper body onto the ice to be able to roll away from the hole.
He slid cautiously toward Gailluin, listening all the while for signs that their weight was overstraining the ice. He wanted nothing more than to stop and assess her condition immediately, but he knew that must wait.
The crawl toward shore, dragging Gailluin with him, was painstaking and grew more so with each passing moment. His limbs shook violently, and his breath came in stuttering gasps, each one feeling as if knives were being driven into his lungs. His hands and feet no longer hurt, which was a relief, though a distant voice at the back of his mind told him that it should not be. But he was so very cold, and any reprieve from the pain was welcome.
The cold whiteness beneath him blurred into an unvarying expanse that seemed to stretch on forever. He did not even realize that he had reached the shore until he saw his abandoned cloak and overcoat, just inches away from his outstretched fingers. He stared blankly at the pile of dark cloth for several long seconds before his muddled brain processed its significance.
They were safe—no, safer. The cold was still a deadly enemy. But he could stop now to check on Gailluin without fear of falling through the ice.
Turning, he rested a hand on her chest. He could not see whether it was rising and falling, and his fingers were too numb to detect signs of life.
“Gailluin…? Valar, please…” he breathed.
He rubbed his knuckles hard against her sternum—her clothing would dull the sensation, but it might yet be painful enough to rouse her. After several long moments her face scrunched up and she made a little mewling sound of distress.
She did not open her eyes or speak, though he called her name several more times, but for the moment it was enough. She breathing, and she was not coughing—a good sign, he thought, that she had not breathed in too much water.
There was a good chance she would yet be alright, if he could get her to warmth in time.
Leaning over, he spread his crumpled cloak out on the ground, then the overcoat on top of it. Still kneeling, he shifted Gailluin over on top of the cloth before wrapping it around her as securely as his clumsy hands could manage.
Gathering the precious bundle in his arms, he staggered to his feet.
It should not have been so difficult, to remember how to stand, to walk, but the first step nearly sent him back to his knees. He couldn’t feel his feet at all. They might as well not have been there. If they had fallen off at some point, it would at least explain why they no longer hurt…
Aragorn shook himself out of the wandering, fanciful thoughts. He had to walk, and so he would.
It was not long before he stumbled to a halt again, lifting his head to look around in confusion. It felt as though a winter storm had taken up residence inside his head, scattering every thought before it could finish forming and obscuring everything in a haze of cold, white blankness.
There was something… some place he needed to go. But what that place was or how he was to get there was lost to him. He was so tired. Perhaps if he slept for a while his mind would be clearer.
At the mere thought of rest every muscle in his body seemed to sag in relief. He swayed, and his hold on the bundle in his arms loosened. He tightened his grasp instinctively as it started to slide toward the ground.
Aragorn looked down in vague surprise. Why had he been carrying… Gailluin. Yes. Gailluin. He had to… had to get her inside. And he had wandered from the path.
Casting about, he caught a glimpse of it through the trees and leaf-barren underbrush off to the left. His heart sank at the thought of having taken even one unnecessary step, but there was nothing for it.
Ordering his reluctant legs back into service, he turned to meet up with the path once more. He knew he could not afford to stop again. Even those few moments of standing still had left his muscles so stiff that it felt as if they had frozen through and would break into pieces if he moved too quickly.
He trudged on, focused only on keeping to the path beneath his feet. His mind drifted with half-formed prayers his lips were too numb to voice.
A dark shape loomed in front of him. Aragorn dragged his head up to stare at the building. The end of his trek? He couldn’t dredge up recognition, much less relief.
A few more steps carried him to the doorway. Having reached it, however, he was still at a loss as to how he could draw the attention of those inside. If he shifted Gailluin to one arm to knock he would surely drop her, and if he tried to set her down he would fall on his face. He tried to call out for help, but could only produce an all-but-inaudible croak, which quickly dissolved into a rasping cough.
Utter despair threatened to pull him under like the dark waters of the lake as he struggled to convince his sluggish mind to overcome this last obstacle. Just one more…
But his body had been pushed too far, and now it was giving out on him. He swayed and caught himself, leaning one shoulder against the door. Perhaps he should bash his head against it. That, at least, might bring a quicker end to his troubles…
The wood under his shoulder shifted inward, revealing a thin sliver of a golden glow from within. The mere sight of the bright color after struggling through a seemingly endless expanse of gray and white was startling.
“—and I tell you that I heard something out there.” The voice from the other side of the door was warm and rich, and the most welcome sound he had ever heard. “If it is one of the children throwing snowballs, then—“
The door scraped and slid further inward as the speaker tugged on it, and Aragorn stood not the slightest chance of catching his balance in time.
It was pure luck—or Ilúvatar’s merciful intervention—that he fell sideways rather than flat on his face. He could no more have stopped himself from crushing Gailluin than he could have danced a celebratory jig at that moment.
“Aragorn!”
“Is that Gailluin?”
“They’re covered in ice!”
The alarmed voices seemed oddly unimportant. The fluttering movements around him were slightly more bothersome, but it hardly mattered.
He was done. He had brought Gailluin to safety, and he could finally rest in the knowledge that someone else would be there to look after her. His eyes slid shut and he allowed himself to drift off…
… only to be dragged back to the present by strong hands gripping his shoulders and an insistent voice calling his name.
With a protesting groan he dragged open his eyes to find Dírhael leaning over him.
“That’s more like it. You stay with me, Aragorn, do you hear?”
Dírhael’s voice was fierce, and his face set in a deep scowl. Aragorn hated to disobey that commanding tone, though he couldn’t imagine what he had done to so displease his grandfather.
A hand tapped roughly against his face, and his eyes fluttered open again. He didn’t remember closing them.
“Aragorn, I know you’re tired, but you cannot sleep now.” Seeing that he was awake for the moment, Dírhael laid his hand more gently against Aragorn’s cheek. “Ah, lad, your skin’s like ice…”
He felt a slight pressure at the touch, but none of the warmth of living skin. It made him want to cry. Perhaps all warmth had indeed been sucked out of the world, leaving nothing behind but deadly cold. He hardly remembered what it was like to feel anything other than icy numbness.
Dírhael looked up as Ivorwen approached. “Is she….?”
“Dry and bundled up in blankets now. Her clothes were soaked through. She’s breathing, but won’t wake yet.” Glancing down, she noted Aragorn’s open eyes and offered a wan smile. “He’s still awake, then. Good.”
“More or less,” Dírhael agreed. “Difficult to tell how aware he is. Help me move him over close to the fire and I can get him out of his wet things while you put water on to boil.”
Aragorn was distantly aware that he should be annoyed at being discussed as if he was not present, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was simply relieved that they didn’t expect him to answer any questions for himself. Just keeping his eyes open was so much work.
It seemed in the end even that simple task was beyond him. He was dragged back to awareness again as shudders began to wrack his body, and a growing sensation like dozens of tiny needles pricked at his skin. Just when he thought that he had plumbed the depths of misery that cold had to offer…
He wished guiltily that he could drift off again, though he knew that his grandfather would be little pleased with him for having failed to stay awake in the first place. It could not have been very long, though, and perhaps they had not noticed his lapse.
With that thought came the realization that a conversation was taking place across the room
“—I’ll go and ask them if they’ve any to lend us.” Dírhael was saying. He was no longer by Aragorn’s side, but Aragorn had not the energy to lift his head and see where he had gone.
“Send someone to tell Halbarad and Miriel what’s happened as well,” Ivorwen called after him.
She stood at the hearth, close by Aragorn’s head. Gailluin lay swaddled in a pile of blankets just beyond where Ivorwen stood, tucked in near the fire as he was. At sight of her a pang of true fear cut through his sluggish thoughts.
As Ivorwen turned from the fire and bent to kneel at his side, he struggled to voice his worries, but all that made it past his lips was a garbled groan.
“Easy, lad,” Ivorwen soothed, “rest easy. We’ll soon have you warmer.”
He frowned, frustration fighting to overcome the lethargy that dragged at him. He looked again toward Gailluin, trying to see if she was stirring. Ivorwen followed the direction of his gaze.
“You did well getting her here, and I think you were in time,” Ivorwen told him, though the look in her eyes did not seem to speak of great confidence in the outcome. “You just let us take care of her now. She’s all tucked up as warm as we can get her, at least until Dírhael returns with more bedwarmers. We’re doing everything we can, and we must leave the rest to time and prayer.”
Lifting the blankets covering him, she tucked one of the earthen bedwarmers filled with boiling water in beside him as well, safely wrapped in a towel to keep from burning his skin.
And there, there was warmth at last, but it brought with it little relief. His insides felt as if they had frozen to a solid block of ice, even while his skin was beginning to crawl with pain that seemed paradoxically cold and burning with heat at the same time.
Ivorwen was lifting his head up, placing a mug of what smelled like herbal tea to his lips. The light touch of it felt like a brand being pressed against his skin. He hissed in pain, trying to jerk his head away from the unwanted heat, but only managed a twitch.
Ivorwen clucked at him, her brows drawing together in a frown of concern. “I know it may feel very warm to you, but I have tested the temperature. It is quite safe—try to drink a little, at least. You will feel better with something warming you from within.”
Reluctantly, he took a sip and coughed at the unexpected sweetness. How much honey had she put in it? Ivorwen chuckled as his distaste was made evident in his expression, but relentlessly offered another drink nonetheless.
“Go on,” she said. “Whether it’s to your taste or not it will give you strength, and you need all of that you can get. You’re about as weak as a half-drowned kitten.”
Near enough to the truth, he thought wryly.
Sickly sweet though the drink might be, the warmth of it did indeed begin to loosen the frozen knots in his belly and clear away some of the fog in his mind.
Sadly, the greater clarity was less than welcome at that particular moment. He was growing warmer, yes, but everything felt so… strange. Cold and heat were like competing rivers of oil and water, sliding through his body, each trying to push the other away.
Warmth pooled at his core, where the tea was settling in his stomach, in his head, which was closest to the fire, his chest, where the bedwarmer was tucked against him.
His extremities seemed to be warming, cold fire continuing to burn in his hands and feet and shooting pangs up his limbs at regular intervals. A good sign, probably, but one he wished he could do without.
But the cold… that oozed slowly to settle in his upper arms, his thighs, seeping into his bones as if it would take residence there, waiting for the moment the heat retreated to crawl out again and begin devouring.
He shuddered, hardly knowing if it was the morbid thoughts or the cold itself that caused the reaction. Then the shudder came again, and again, his whole body seeming to spasm with the shivers, though he hardly knew where it found the energy to continue doing so.
He drifted for a while, dimly aware of the cold, and misery, and wishing it would all just stop, but not quite releasing the last threads of awareness.
And then, a few feet away, came a hitching breath, which soon turned into a sob.
The sound of a child’s crying would make a poor lullaby for him on any normal day, but tonight the noise thawed the cold fear that had been wrapped around his heart. Something in that sound told him that all would be well. He could rest.
(Part 2.)
Heh, this is officially the longest LOTR story I've ever written... and it's not even finished yet. I guess I've gotten long-winded in my old age?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2014-01-25 02:11 am (UTC)But this was wonderful! I'm happy to see my favorite parts of the Cairistiona verse incorporated here, and you do Dirhael and Ivorwen so well. Eager to find out what happens next!
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Date: 2014-01-26 11:18 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you're enjoying it so far! Thank you! :D Hopefully it won't be too much longer before I get it finished... Fortunately, it seems like years' worth of desire to write LOTR fic has been bottled up waiting for this story, because it's been moving along much more easily than my writing usually does.
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Date: 2014-01-25 02:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-26 11:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-02-14 01:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-02-14 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-25 02:23 pm (UTC)THANK YOU!!!!!!
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Date: 2014-01-25 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-26 06:53 am (UTC)if you ever want anyone to read through your LOTR stories, feel free to ask me.My e mail is gingerleo(at)gmail(dot)come
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Date: 2014-01-26 11:23 pm (UTC)And I really appreciate the offer of a read through! If you've got the time, I think I may ask you to have a look at the second half of this once I get it finished. :)
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Date: 2014-01-26 03:57 pm (UTC)First off... no problem whatsoever feeding into my own universe. The more the merrier. :) And you used little Galluin! I've been so immersed in Bowen's story that I haven't given much thought to Halbarad's family since I wrote about her birth. It's neat to see her as a 4 y/o. :)
Okay, but mostly know I LOVED THIS ENTIRE THING! You hit all the right buttons. The description of the cold is so very real--I can tell you live in a region that gets COLD (gee, like -60 below wind chills in the forecast? Srsly. Enough winter!) It probably seems odd to focus on one little detail amongst all the others, but the "creak of the branches" really set the tone and mood. Winter woods are so *silent*, but if there's a breeze you do hear that slow creaking noise that somehow makes it feel that much colder. *shivers*
And of course, the fall through the ice... if I had a phobia, it would be falling through ice. I can't. I just... aklsdjklfsdklaklfj. I felt soooo awful for both of them. And then the ccccccccccccccccccccccccc after the h.... *happy sigh*
I can't wait to read more of this... feel free to expand on the hhhhhhhhhhhhh as much as you want. Chapters and chapters of it. Long winded is *good*.
Thank you for the gift, and I hope this is just the first of many more tales from you! (And always feel free, too, to ask me for beta help... especially if you're wanting to dabble more in my 'verse. Which I hope you are. *g*)
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Date: 2014-01-28 03:59 am (UTC)Heheh, and I'm very glad to hear you wouldn't mind chapters and chapters of long-windedness, because I've been having an Internal Debate the last couple of days. Y'see, as far as theme and simple plot arc are concerned, it would really make sense to end this at an earlier point... but there are still things that I want to write. So I think I'm gonna have to just stick my tongue out at the idea of being a True Artist, write rambling indulgent fun stuff as far as the ideas take me, and then hope I can turn it into half-decent structure at the end. XD
(Seriously, you have no idea how much I want to keep writing stories in your 'verse right now. I think I'm gonna have to write LOTR stories as a reward for myself when I finish difficult sections of my novel. If I can find enough good short ideas, that is... or get some prompts. *g*)
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Date: 2014-01-28 02:49 pm (UTC)This is a completely self-serving piece of advice but... go for it! :D Seriously, the fun of fanfic is that you don't *always* have to follow the often rigid constraints of story-telling "rules".
And you have no idea how much this makes me grin like a crazy person! *g* What a wonderful compliment, that you like my version of gapfilling so well that you want to expand on it. Wow. I'm a little gobsmacked, to be honest. *g*
Hmm, prompts. Goodness, there's so many little scenarios that I like to think about when it comes to the Dunedain and life in the days when Aragorn was chieftain. Did he and Halbarad go fishing? Did Aragorn ever watch Halbarad and Miriel's babies and little ones so they could have a moment of peace (which, knowing Halbarad and Miriel, probably led to more children...)? Did Aragorn ever accidentally walk in on Halbarad and Miriel arguing? And then of course there's all kinds of stuff with Dirhael, Ivorwen and Gilraen and the other Rangers and of course the folks in Bree and.... *flails*
Yes, definitely go for writing whatever your heart tells you! *g*
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Date: 2014-01-30 03:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-30 02:12 pm (UTC)You especially have a wide pool of experience upon which to draw for that particular idea! *g*
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Date: 2014-01-28 06:48 am (UTC)I've been craving a fic with Aragorn's grandparents caring for him for years and have seen only a handful---and not too detailed, at that. So this is wonderful, especially your descriptions of Aragorn's pain and his struggle to get home, his heroic rescue of Gailluin, and especially the reception he received on arriving at his grandparents' house---all concern and comfort and some stern order-giving, too. What can I say... I love stern healers.
I see above that you are thinking of being rambling and self-indulgent---oh PLEASE do that! Write as much comfort and Aragorn TLC as possible... there's so little detailed stuff nowadays. I could read chapters and chapters.
I see in the beginning that Aragorn has a cough developing... here's hoping the cold weakened him enough for it to take a dangerous and uncomfortable hold. :D
I know Cairistiona loved this, but wanted you to know you have plenty of readers that do, too!
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Date: 2014-01-30 03:53 am (UTC)And I'm very happy that you're looking forward to the rest! I, ahem, may or may not plan for that cough to play a further role - *g* - but there's certainly more of Dirhael and Ivorwen, as well as Halbarad. I'm having so much fun writing this. Mostly the problem's just a matter of figuring out how much I want to try to fit in and still be able to finish it within a reasonable timeframe. I hate to leave people hanging once I've posted the first part. XD
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Date: 2014-02-14 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-02-17 03:29 pm (UTC)