Not Alone, a lord of the rings fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own the original characters or storylines and am not making any profit with them...

Not Alone

Aragorn sat by a small fire and watched the flames which chased away the surrounding darkness. He was grateful for the warmth it provided, for the air was cold; it had started to freeze a fortnight ago.

The forest looked beautiful, covered in white ice as it was every morning, and seemed to have become utterly silent and attentive. Every sound seemed to intensify to a noise, every breath left a trace in the air.

As long as it was this extremely cold, at least it would not snow; Aragorn normally liked snow, but it was more enjoyable if one had a warm, sheltered place to return to at night.

He huddled into his cloak and stoked the fire once more, then he lay down on his bedroll. Although he was very tired, his eyelids feeling unusual heavy, he did not find any sleep. He had been alone for a long time, had wandered the wilderness and avoided any settlement deliberately, but now he suddenly felt a surge of homesickness. It might have to do with the time of year; Yule was approaching fast, and it had always been an utterly merry time in Imladris.

Although Aragorn never had been someone to sit still for a considerable amount of time, he longingly thought of the cosiness in the Hall of Fire in the evening, when it was dark outside and the room was lit by hundreds of candles, the smells of incense and mulled wine accompanying the laughter and cheerful voices of the Elves.

Subconsciously, he sighed, giving in to the feeling of loneliness. He had lost count of the number of years in which he had not seen his family, had heard their voices only in his dreams.

He wished he could go home, could seek shelter and for once forget who he was or why he had chosen exile, but he knew it was impossible. And he was not alone, after all; he would meet Mithrandir soon, maybe spend Yule together with him before their ways would part again, and was planning on paying a visit to Mirkwood.

With these thoughts in mind, Aragorn finally settled down and fell asleep.

He awoke early, the cold crawling under his cloak; he felt stiff and weary, thus it took him an usual long time to rekindle the fire and warm up.

His head felt heavy, effectively slowing down his thoughts, and his joints ached. Inwardly, he groaned, knowing full well what this meant: he was coming down with a cold. He had not been ill for years, why did it have to happen now?

He reached for his pack and looked through his supplies, only to find that he did not have much left. He took the last of his dried lime-tree blossoms and crumbled them into some hot water for a tea, that was all he had to fight an impairment of his current condition.

Meanwhile, it had become light; the sun had started to rise and cast feeble rays of gold over the otherwise pale world.

Aragorn did not heed the beauty of the morning; reprimanding himself for not being more careful, he broke up camp and set off towards Bree where he was to meet Mithrandir.

The old wizard idly puffed at his pipe while watching several children playing outside. He had arrived in Bree only a few hours before, had made himself comfortable in his room in the only inn there was, the "Prancing Pony", and had finally settled down by the window for a smoke. He did not wish to have company right now and therefore avoided to go downstairs, as he knew that Barliman Butterbur would seize the opportunity to talk to him. That man surely could talk the hindlegs off a donkey, whereas Gandalf only wished to think and follow his own musings.

Aragorn would be arriving soon, maybe even today, and he was looking forward to meet his old friend. Apart from that, the wizard had something to ask of him, and the ensuing task would not be easy to fulfill.

Much to Gandalf´s dismay and bewilderment, Aragorn did neither show up that day nor the two following days.

The wizard was not so much impatient as worried; he knew that the Ranger would only be delayed by a serious reason, and therefore his puzzlement grew with each passing hour.

Aragorn dragged himself forward; despite the tea, his state of health had deteriorated steadily, leaving him feeling dreadful. His head ached, along with nearly every other part of his body, and he had started to cough. It became increasingly difficult to walk, as he felt weary, tired and frozen to the marrow.

When he finally had reached the Greenway, he was far too exhausted to even feel relieved. All he wanted was to get to Bree and sleep. He was dimly aware that he had needed at least one additional day to get there; he had had to stop repeatedly to recover his strength, and had been sick to his stomach once, resulting in a painful bout of vomiting: painful since he had not eaten much but just could not stop retching nevertheless until he collapsed to the ground, panting heavily and feeling worse than miserable.

It was already dark when he arrived at Bree´s gate. The gatekeeper looked at him suspiciously: "What do you want?", he asked rather unfriendly, for the look of this fellow was not to his liking. The cloak was too worn off, and the stranger had pulled his hood up over his face. He pushed it back now, his movements shaky and slow, to reveal a pale face which looked not very healthy. Grey eyes bore into the gatekeeper, and even though the fellow did not seem to be well, those eyes were intense and seemed to stare directly into his soul. Involuntarily, he took a step backwards.

He was about to repeat his question when the stranger answered; he was unexpectedly soft-spoken despite his rough appearance.

"I wish to stay at the "Prancing Pony", he replied, "You have seen me before. I go by the name of Strider."

The gatekeeper narrowed his eyes: Strider indeed was not unknown to him, but he would not have recognized him right now, looking as worn out as he did.

He frowned; the Rangers were not to his liking either, and he was inclined to deny Strider entry. But then he had let him in before, had he not?

Aragorn had difficulty to stay upright; he wished that the gatekeeper would make up his mind more quickly, as he could feel himself shaking with exhaustion and fever and would have to sit down soon.

When the man had at last decided that he could just as well let the Ranger in, Aragorn barely thanked him and staggered inside. The lights from the townhouses floated by; his senses did not seem to function properly, but finally he saw the sign of the "Pony".

Gandalf was pacing up and down his room. If Aragorn would not arrive the following day, he would go and look for him. He could feel now that something was not right, but did not have an idea what to make of it. He had just stopped in front of the fire, staring into the flames as if able to find an answer in the embers, when a knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts.

"What is it?", he asked grumpily, dreading to be disturbed by the nosy inn-keeper.

It was indeed the nosy inn-keeper who answered: "Er... there seems to be a problem downstairs."

Gandalf shook his head unwillingly: "And why do you need me to solve it?" he growled.

A momentary silence followed. The wizard had already turned away from the door, when Butterbur started to speak again:"Er... a wild-looking fellow has arrived, er... my lord... and I believe he asked for you."

Gandalf breathed a loud sigh of relief and pulled open the door: "Finally! Why did you not lead him here?"

Butterbur blushed: "Beg pardon, my lord, but...he does not seem well and I thought-" Gandalf did not wait to hear what the innkeeper had thought. "Where is he?", he urged, cursing himself for his naivety. He should have known something was not right when Aragorn had not come to his room himself in the first place.

Butterbur lead him downstairs to the entrance of the taproom; there was a small vestibule in which Gandalf now found his friend. He was sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall and looking ill.

Gandalf knelt down next to him: "Strider", he said, well aware that Butterbur was still there, "Strider, can you hear me?"

With a visible effort, Aragorn lifted his head. His gaze was dull, but after a moment he recognized the old wizard, who could see his relief. "Well met", the man whispered, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Gandalf smiled in sympathy: "Judging from the looks of you, I would not call this well, my friend. Can you get up? I think we need to get you to bed."

Aragorn nodded; with Gandalf´s and Butterbur´s help, he somehow got to his feet. Gandalf then put the Ranger´s arm around his own shoulders and supported him; he could feel how the man was shaking.

He helped him upstairs and into his own room.

Gratefully, Aragorn sank down on the bed. He was barely aware that Gandalf ordered Butterbur to bring water and various other things and then started to remove Aragorn´s clothes.

The man´s skin was clammy, his temples hot to the touch, and he looked more haggard than usual.

Worriedly, Gandalf bent over the man: "Aragorn, are you still awake?"

Aragorn moaned softly.

Gandalf laid one hand against his face: "You can sleep soon, my friend, just tell me if you are injured."

Slowly, Aragorn opened his eyes once more: "No..." he whispered. "Just...cold."

He could see the concern in Gandalf´s face and wanted to reassure him that he would be fine after a good night´s sleep, but consciousness had left him before he could even start.

There were sudden moments where he was aware that he was floating helplessly through an impenetrable darkness, but those moments were scarce and too short to hold on to them.

He did not know how much time passed, though everytime he shortly surfaced, everything hurt.

A hand gently touched his forehead, but he could not react, he was merely watching from a distance. And then he forgot the hand again, as the darkness even seemed to increase.

Sometimes he heard his name but did not recognize the voice. Something was trying to hold him back, keep him from drifting off into the darkness again; gradually, the unconsciousness was replaced by a deep sleep, and the darkness started to fill with images. Those were dreams which he did not remember later on. Once he woke up and saw a familiar face in front of him, but was too weak to stay awake.

Only when he awoke the next time did he return to life.

Gandalf could have wept at the sight of Aragorn finally coming to. He had been very ill for days, had hovered between life and death because of a fever too high and fierce for his weakened body to fight alone. The wizard had not dared to leave his side and felt quite weary now, but was overjoyed with relief to see that the fever finally had broken.

Gently, he squeezed Aragorn´s hand to let him know he was there. The Ranger needed some time to focus on his surroundings. His eyes lay deeply in his sockets, emphasizing his illness.

"Gandalf", he whispered, barely audible, for his throat hurt.

Gandalf smiled warmly: "Yes, my dear friend, I am here."

He supported Aragorn´s shoulders to help him drink some tea and could feel every single bone. He subdued a sigh and helped the man to lie back down.

Aragorn looked at him questioningly: "For how long..."

Gandalf´s smile even deepened: "Long.", he just said. "´Tis the day before Yule."

Aragorn´s eyes widened: "Cannot be..."

Gandalf nodded, a bit more seriously this time: "I am not lying to you", he said. "You have given me quite a scare, laddie."

Aragorn momentarily closed his eyes before looking at the old wizard again: "I am sorry..."

"Do not be", Gandalf replied calmly, reaching out to stroke Aragorn´s face. "You are still here, after all. And now that you have come back to me, I believe you will be better quite soon."

A small smile lit Aragorn´s thin face: "Thank you", he whispered, while his eyes were closing again. "Good...you are here..."

Gandalf stroked his face once more: "Yes", he murmured. "I agree."

The End