Chapter 1. Diagnosis

Aragorn likes to go off and hunt Orcs. He loves it; in fact, he does it almost constantly. He has a mental problem, I think; for whenever he goes without killing an Orc for over a week he gets angsty and upset. He stops eating. He goes about with a general air of doom and dismality, which casts a shadow over the bright and pleasant atmosphere of Rivendell.

Despite Aragorn's protestations, Orc hunting is very dangerous. Orcs have all kinds of germs, and viruses, and who knows what else in their blood. It is especially dangerous for Aragorn, because he has this strange idea that hacking Orcs is more manly than shooting them with a bow, and hence he gets more Orc parts touching him than most of us.

That's why I was not surprised when one day he returned home with a glassy look in his eyes.

I immediately ran for my book. I just love my book; it's called, 'Diagnostics: How to Diagnose and Treat All the Known Illnesses of Middle Earth'. It's very full of thousands of diseases, and I have marked each one I've treated, and labelled it with the name of the person who had it. I still have yet to treat most of the mental illnesses; they are not my forte, as can be seen just by glancing around Imladris. We have had an epidemic of insanity for several thousands of years.
Anyway, I rushed for the book, which I found at last buried underneath Galdor's weapons (he likes weapons). Then I hurried back to Aragorn.

Now, there's something you must know about Aragorn: he hates being treated. He does not seem to see the connection between being treated and getting better. I have such trouble getting him to cooperate; he generally insists that he is 'not in the least ill;' that he 'doesn't need any confounded Athelas,' and that he'd 'rather die of not having a liver transplant than of having one.' He's so confident in my talent as a doctor, as you can see.

So I was not surprised when he acted the same way this time. (I'm actually rarely surprised at anything, really, but that is beside the point.) He was very angry, because he hadn't gotten a chance to speak to Arwen yet. And it's a good thing, because I didn't want her catching anything from him. Despite his protests and usage of language (the things he said would have gotten him his mouth washed out with soap if he was a few years younger), I dragged him into the infirmary and tied him to the hospital bed. Unfortunately, I was out of my tranquilizing herb at the moment, having used it all up when Glorfindel had come the day before.

'Now,' I said, 'let's get down to business.' I opened my monstrous tome. Aragorn cringed.

Just then, a voice interrupted us.

'My Lord Elrond,' he said, 'if I might make an observation...'

It was Lindir, of course. He likes to make observations.

'Well?' I asked, frowning. I don't like minstrels meddling in medical affairs.

'I think Elessar's condition is perhaps simpler than you think.'

I was annoyed. Lindir was usually my staunchest supporter when it came to Aragorn's illnesses, and here he was declaring that it was simple! Aragorn must have bribed him; I would have to talk to him about that later.

'How do you mean?' I asked skeptically.

'Glassy eyes can often mean that the patient is simply suffering from slight emotional trauma,' he said. Aragorn nodded vigorously. 'Perhaps,' said Lindir, continuing, 'he just saw an Orc head go flying in a particularly gruesome manner.'

'Or perhaps he is going blind!' I said, shaking my scalpel at him. He backed away. 'We cannot take the risk of dismissing his symptoms as nothing when it could very well be deadly.'

Lindir precipitously retired to the back of the room farthest away from the scalpel and let me proceed in peace.

'Now,' I said again, and began searching the index for 'glassy eyes'. Aragorn continued his moaning.

It took me a while to find what I wanted, but at last I had a nice long list.

'All right,' I said, straightening up and adjusting my glasses, 'these are the diseases you're in danger of having: schizophrenia, common cold, heart failure, hypothermia, allergic to toads, masochism, infection of the toe, low sodium, brain fever...'

'Stop!' roared my patient. He seemed upset.

'I could narrow it down,' I said helpfully, 'if you'll tell me more of your symptoms.'

'I don't have any symptoms,' he cried.

'Then I'll just have to treat you for all of these,' I said.

I smiled; it's so much fun to treat my patients.

Oohoohoo, what tortures will Lord Elrond conjure up for our hapless hero? *evil grin of anticipation*

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