Post by Admin on Jan 2, 2021 4:36:42 GMT
Author: Louise
Challenge: "Weather"
Summary: There's a certain feeling of defeat that only homesickness can cause, and the rain is certainly not helping.
Rating: K
Characters: Aragorn
No warnings.
The rain was beating down from the grey skies, a constant tittering beating amplified against his hood and stubbornly trickling into his eyes. It fell heavy over the trees and dripped down their spindly, reaching arms, the water droplets steadily morphing into one another and building up until they were big, fat, heavy drops that fell to the ground with great slopping splashes of mud and water. The ground itself resembled a muddy quagmire, although he knew for a fact that during drier months this was a sturdy pine forest with harsh and even ground, littered with low growing vegetations with thick, hard leaves, carrying sweet berries of autumn during good and fortunate years.
Now the tough and stubborn vegetation was huddled low and miserable against the mud, the proud trees standing tall and haughty and yet their branches hung low in misery due to the constant abuse of the harsh rain, swaying slowly in the wind that was quickly whispering and sneaking in between the branches and trunks.
This was winter away from the North, and Aragorn found himself missing the winters of his homeland; cold and snowy they may be, life-threatening and desperate and treacherous, the wind howling in cold rage and the snow beating down like whips on any exposed skin, but at least the ground was frozen solid beneath all the layers of snow. At least there was no mud. The forest of Eryn Vorn was a coast land, its proximity to the ocean shore giving it mild and rainy winters instead of the harsh winters he grew up with, the winds moist instead of dry, carrying rain instead of snow.
His boot slipped once more, and he couldn’t catch himself before his left knee hit the soggy ground and mud immediately sloshed into his high boots, hungrily invading whatever part of him that had yet to be soaked to the skin. He gritted his teeth and swallowed a bellow of frustration (as well as some choice words his mother would have tanned his hide for), heaving himself to his feet once more and unsuccessfully tried to ignore the dreadful feeling of cold mud slippering down the side of his leg, to finally settle cold and snug down around his ankles. There it would stiffen into a cold and hard shell enclosing the limb, like a grotesque cast or a moulded sculpture of his feet.
Forget the part about him missing the cold; he sullenly thought, apparently he didn’t need any snowstorms or falls through the ice in order to be chilled to the bone.
Vagrant strays of dark hair fell into his eyes, like a dark and greasy curtain, and he shook his head like a frustrated mutt. His hood had been a blessing at first, but by now it was soaked and heavy, and he could feel its dampness pressing against his scalp and neck and shoulders, the hood itself plastered against his brow and letting most raindrops slide right down into his eyes. His clothing no longer felt like protection, instead feeling closer to a second skin of mud weighing down his every sloshing step forward.
The familiar burst of homesickness was squashed by a firm reminder of clothing frozen stiff by snow and toes numb in their stiff and icy boots. Which was to be preferred, frozen clothing or soaked clothing? He studiously kept himself from even mentally answering.
He slid yet again, and this time both his feet went sliding in the same direction, violently disrupting his balance. His right leg folded beneath him, sending a dull jarring ache through his ankle, but his left leg remained straight, coming to a sudden stop as it fell downwards, and the ground swallowed his leg with a great slurping sound, satisfying its greedy hunger. Pain shot up his leg like a bolt of lightning on an autumn sky, and for a moment all he could do was stare at his thigh, the only part remaining above ground. Then, he determinedly choked back another curse and experimentally rotated his left foot.
It was not a sinkhole he had fallen through, which was a good thing. He could feel sharp roots digging into the muscle above his knee and the sharp bones below, an equally strong root twisting and turning behind his leg as well. Either this was a small cave-in caused by erosion during the dry months of summer, the unforgiving sun burning the soil and mercilessly dragging all moisture from it, or it was a tunnel leading to a rabbit hole beneath the safeness of the trees. Either way, it had now been filled by mud and sucking soil, thick enough to create the discomforting sense of pressure against his lower leg. If he had thought himself soaked before, it was nothing compared to how he would feel now.
He braced his hands against the earth, fingers splayed wide and slipping deep into the mud, and firmly pushed himself off the ground, pulling his leg with him. His leg did not comply – or rather, the soil appeared to be of a different mind. It guarded his leg, greedily, jealously, not willing to let go of what it had managed to capture and gobble down whole. It was stubborn – luckily, Aragorn himself possessed no small amount of stubbornness; ask most who knew him, and he was certain they’d wholeheartedly agree. Thick-headed fool was what Halbarad would prefer to call him, fond and exasperated but nonetheless very earnest about it.
Aragorn exhaled and tried pulling himself free with brute force once more, before accepting that it would get him nowhere. Carefully twisting and turning the leg gave him no progress either, and within minutes his knee felt rubbed raw against the strong roots of the trees. Perplexedly, the roots his foot had slipped in between felt tighter than before, and only then did the cold dread begin to creep upon him; he was stuck, cold, wet, and hungry, and the mud felt as cold as the ice rivers of the North, the warmth of life steadfastly seeping out of his leg, hungrily devoured by the cruel and slippery soil surrounding it. A man need not wait for snow in order to freeze to death.
A man need not freeze in order to die, either.
Dehydration wouldn’t prove a problem; it hadn’t stopped raining for days and his bottles were recently filled, and hunger is a slow working enemy, but stuck like he was he would prove a laughably easy prey for any lurking predators.
Aragorn leaned forward, curling over his leg and shaking the water out of his eyes, and sunk nimble fingers into the mud encompassing his leg, feeling along the edges and experimentally digging into the soil closest to the thigh. Watery mud slowly but relentlessly filled out the empty space he’d just created. The soil was too thick to escape, but too watery to dig away. Had it only been mud, however, he would have had a better chance of pulling himself free; it was the roots of the trees that held him in their firm grip. And these strong and haughty trees were not ones to listen to his prodding or pleading or lulling elvish words.
Knees deep into the cold mud and fingers splayed out in front of him, he bowed his head towards his chest and allowed himself a short moment of defeat. Ai Valar, but he wished he was home instead of in this muddy wasteland.
Yule was over since months back, spent in his lonely wanderings across the lands, looking for a creature that may or may not already be dead. Yule itself was spent tracking down a few stray goblins and narrowly escaping being used as a pincushion for their nasty little arrows; yet another day that brought him no closer to finding Gollum. Already it had passed years since he and Gandalf had started their search for the strange creature, and so far, they had naught to show for it.
Had he been in the North, he might have spent Yule in Rivendell, in clean clothes and a warm home, with good company and plentiful food, content in the house of his childhood and safe for a few days from the harshness of the world.
Or maybe he would have spent the holidays in one of the settlements of the Angle, in a small but homely house, surrounded by his kin and the few moments of peace, giving his help in turn and perhaps doing some good work on one of their farms.
Or, more certainly, he would have spent Yule on the road; but a well-known road travelled by his feet many times, in the company of a friend and kinsman among a fellow ranger, not perhaps a celebration equal to the splendour of Rivendell but certainly equal to the joy of companionship. Oh, how he longed for the luxury of being amongst his own. How he longed for the simple pleasure of a friendly face.
The sun had been hidden behind the clouds for days, but he didn’t need to see the sun’s position in order to know that the day was growing old – the shadows were steadily closing in on the forest, the evening settling in with a cloak of brimming darkness. He would have to search for shelter in the dark, for he would not free himself any time soon. It’s perfectly alright, he told himself, teeth gritted and mouth pressed into a thin line. He had spent nights in worse places.
The creeping sensation of being watched itched at his neck (not very helpful, a part of him snidely thought, every part of his body was itching in the sodden clothes). He raised his head again and squared his shoulders, a vain attempt at looking casually threatening with one of his long legs stuck in the ground. After a brief pause he put his hand on the rain-slicked sword hilt as well.
See now, he wanted to cry, I am not yet defenceless. I am not yet defeated.
Not yet.
There was only so much one could do with a sword if one happened to be stuck in the ground; his range was limited, he couldn’t turn around, and although he certainly could twist his sword arm behind him he could not bear a blow aimed at his back. He could swish his sword in an incomplete circle around him and hope that would be enough to scare off whatever chose to approach him.
The rain continued to fall around him, and he could feel a tickle in the back of his throat; small enough to be a mere annoyance at the moment, but he was sure it would grow into an impressive cough given time. As well as a spectacularly hoarse voice.
Rotating his foot didn’t send bolts of pain up his leg; instead he only felt the dull ache of a numb limb drowsily murmuring in protest. It was no use. His leg had already been chilled too long, become too numb, for him to critically analyse the injury. If the ankle was swelling up, it would certainly explain why the roots seemed tighter than before, but both the cold and the sturdy boot should have kept the swelling to a minimum. A healer’s eye is not very useful if the eye cannot see anything, either. Pain or no pain, at risk of worsening the injury or not, he couldn’t dwell much longer. There was no help for him to wait upon in these foreign lands, and waiting for it would be the same as a rabbit patiently lying down in its trap and waiting for its capturer to release it.
With one eye on the leg and the other carefully watching the trees around him, listening intently to every movement of bushes or branches, he dug his fingers into the mud yet again, prepared to dig himself out as much as possible. The mud that sloshed back into the newly dug holes was watery and thin, and much less heavy than the soil he dug away. It was heavy work, since he could not dig straight downwards without the ground inevitably giving away and crumbling back over the trapped leg. Instead he dug a wide circle around the limb and hoped against hope that it would prove to be helpful.
He had become accustomed to a certain lack of cleanliness out in the wild, with grimy clothes and hair and skin, but now he was sure the dirt would be permanently stuck deep beneath his fingernails and etched into every tiny pore and wrinkle upon his hands until they looked cracked and spotted by age.
A pair of feet entered his peripheral vision, and his sword was out of its sheath before his mind had comprehended the action. He was breathing heavily, his limbs were numb, and his mind felt dulled, but the sword in his hand remained steady and unwavering.
The cause of alarm was an old woman, wrapped in a shawl and wearing a belt tightly clenched around her narrow middle, holding ragged clothing in place. A long, hooded cloak stretched down all the way to her feet, shod in ill-fitted boots that reached her ankles but nothing more. Her old and wind-bitten hands clutched a walking stick in front of her, which she leaned heavily upon, and sticking out from beneath the hood was frizzled grey hair seemingly unbothered by the heavy downpour. The hood and the darkening sky left her face in shadows, but her eyes were still visible.
How she had sneaked up on him, he could not say. The rain was strong enough to drown out all other sounds, but the sloshing steps of feet dragged through mud and water should by all means be heard by anyone, even more so by a ranger.
She appeared remarkably unfaced by the sword still warningly held up in her direction, but her eyes were intently tracking his every movement. Assessing him, carefully, warily. Still, she did not move.
Aragorn cleared his throat, slowly lowering his sword and after a brief moment of hesitation sheathing it once more. He of all people knew appearances were deceiving, and knew better than to believe this old woman to be harmless – the lack of a sword was more of a show of goodwill than anything else.
“Good evening, my good woman,” he said, inclining his head.
She did not answer, and for a moment he feared they shared no common tongue; well-versed in languages he may be, but no mortal may learn every language and variety there was to be spoken in the vast landscaped of Middle Earth. He was in Eriador, but the people of Eryn Vorn were a secretive folk, nomads and huntsmen, a suspicious folk not fond of strangers from distant lands. He did not even know which language they called their own.
“My name is Strider,” he tried when it was clear no reply was forthcoming. “I am a traveller heading homewards, moving through these woods only in passing.”
The woman clucked her tongue, a noise of universal disapproval. “Greetings,” she said, in a voice low and cracked by long years of struggle and hardships. “I will give you no name in turn, for the offer of a false name does not result in an offering of a true one.”
Aragorn bowed his head again, this time in chagrined acknowledgment. “Aye,” he admitted, “It may not be my true name, but it is one of them. You must forgive me, kind stranger, for my reluctance to share my name in unknown lands.”
“That I do not fault you for,” she sniffed, “Withholding a name is a wise call; you know never who may be listening, and these trees are ever watchful. A name is a powerful thing, a name is part of you, a name is what could be one’s downfall. There are many a creature who prey upon those foolish enough to let their names be known to everyone they meet. No, I do not fault you for being cautious; I fault you for letting your first words to a well-met stranger be a boldfaced lie.”
He could feel a smile tugging at his lips, the motion feeling unfamiliar after days out in the unforgiving pouring rain, and it was with an echo of mischief that he replied. “I thank you for your wise words, and I shall remember to greet strangers in a different way in the future. I do, however, believe that Strider is as true a name as any other – a name is to be given to one, and this is one of many names that have been given to me.”
“Given to you, aye, but it is your choice if you choose to give it to others as your own. Better to give no name than to give a false one. Names are dangerous things, here in our woods.”
She finally fixed her sharp eyes at something else than his face (he found himself blinking repeatedly to lessen the residue of her gaze), and instead looked at the leg-shaped elephant in the room.
“I seem to be in a bit of a situation,” he explained.
“Indeed you do,” she agreed, and then hobbled over to the strange man she’d just found stuck in the mud who had already proven himself to be happy to wave around weapons. “The land does not want you here – was not the weather a clear enough sign for you? Must the very soil and trees of the land step in for you to take notice of their displeasure?”
“My apologies,” he said slowly, deciding not to argue coast climate with one who lived at said coast. “I assure you – and the land – that I aim to leave these woods alone as soon as I manage to make it out of them.”
“By all means, I ought to leave you be and let the land decide for itself what to do with you,” the old woman grumbled, before knocking her walking stick against his stuck leg, then dipping it into the watery mud to test how far down he had dug. “Can you feel what’s trapping your foot, or is it only the mud?”
“Tree roots; my foot appears to have slipped in between two of them. It would most certainly be no problem if it was not for the unfortunate combination of both roots and mud.”
The old woman harrumphed, and, to his surprise, gave him a half-hearted slap over the back of his head. “’twas as I said; now the soil and trees have decided to gang up on you. You had other roads to take, that did not involve trespassing.”
“I hope to learn from my mistakes,” he said, studiously keeping himself from rubbing his disgraced head.
“Bah,” she scoffed, “Keep your silvery words of meek chagrin to someone who cares for them. I ought to leave you here, I really should, but I don’t want to step over your body every time I pass through here. This is my home, and we cannot leave a dead body here – it would bring bad luck down upon us. Not to mention a ghastly sight and an even worse smell.”
“That would be most unfortunate,” he agreed, and uncomfortably tried to wiggle his trapped foot. The woman stood still for a moment, intently staring at the stubborn ground, before she shuffled away to a tree to his right. It was an old and gnarled pine tree, thick enough that Aragorn would have had trouble linking his long arms around the trunk, looming over them with its branches high up above their heads. The old woman placed a hand against its bark, both cracked and scarred by age, and slowly walked around the old tree, keeping her hand on its bark and murmuring softly. He tried straining his ears, interest piqued by what she was saying, but the rain seemed to grow even louder and heavier in the face of his attempt at eavesdropping.
“Well don’t just sit there,” she suddenly barked at him, making him flinch, “You won’t get out without making an effort – do I look like I’m able to pull ruffians out of the ground? Get to it and start digging.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied under his breath, digging his stiff fingers into the mud once more and tried to free his leg.
Digging a hole around his trapped leg felt rather useless, since the rain gleefully filled it up with even more water and beat against the muddy walls to make them crumble even faster, but he kept at it. He also made sure to force his foot to move around and rotate, lest it lose all feeling and cut off the blood circulation. Still, although he kept his head down to look at what he was doing, he kept one eye trained on the strange old woman claiming to be helping him get loose. She was still circling the old tree, kindly patting its trunk and apparently talking to it. Or arguing.
Dusk had since long crept over the forest and settled down nice and snug by the time the old woman finally left the tree alone and strolled back to where Aragorn was hunched over his numb leg. Now he was cold, soaked, sore, and sweaty, which would result in even more coldness and general grouchiness. His body was since long overcome by shivers; all except for the buried leg and his fingers, that were now lacking all feeling.
“Move your hands,” she said briskly, impatiently waving her stick at him. She crouched down, ever so slowly, her old body silently protesting against the movement, but she stubbornly continued until her thin hands managed to touch the ground. She then settled both her hands on his leg, “When I say pull, pull as hard as you can.”
On the count of three, they both heaved with all their might, but Aragorn was sure they managed to do nothing more than scrape another layer of skin off his poor leg. Then, to his amazement, he felt the soil give away just a little bit, allowing at least half an inch to pull free. This small achievement was enough to make him wish to whoop with joy like a young child.
“Oh, for gods’ sake,” the woman snapped, already breathing in mighty heaves, “That is quite enough! Let go immediately, so I can chase this buffoon out of the woods – he can’t very well leave in his current situation, now can he?”
By all means, nothing should have happened – except that the tightened roots around his leg reluctantly loosened their grip, and Aragorn pulled his leg free and toppled backwards all in the same breath. For a short moment he did nothing but lay on his back, staring up at the dark sky and letting the rain smatter directly against his face, hitting his nose and his eyes and sliding down towards his ears and neck.
“How,” he finally started, pushing himself up on his elbows, “How did you do that, if I may ask?”
“The woods are dangerous, not unreasonable,” she replied tersely, pushing herself to her feet in a slow and careful movement, joints angrily cracking among themselves. “They don’t want you here any more than I do. Now, up you go.”
Aragorn sat up, carefully moving his leg and rotating his foot, letting expert hands roam over the limb and, upon finding nothing broken or anything promising a permanent mark, begun massaging the leg, trying to rub at least some warmth and feeling back into it.
“Up,” the woman repeated with a longsuffering sigh, poking at his boot with her staff.
“I think you know as well as I do,” he replied mildly, wincing at the pain beginning to throb through the leg, “that if I were to stand right now, I would fall right back down and you would have to pull me up once more.”
“Next time I would strangle you myself,” the old woman muttered, but nonetheless leaned upon her staff and waited for him to get to his feet. Cramps threatened to overpower him, and his entire leg seemed to consist of nothing but pins and needles, but he managed to climb to his feet with mere grimaces and no further falls. There; unsteady and wobbly and not entirely in perfect health, but he was standing once more.
Then they stood in silence for a brief moment, the rain the only sound to be heard for miles.
“Thank you,” he finally decided to say.
She hummed noncommittally and, after a moment of contemplation, hobbled closer to him to peer at him with those peculiarly sharp eyes of hers.
“You seek something foul,” she stated sharply, and although she stood at a height two heads below him, he felt inferior. “The woods know it, and so do I. The rain is trying to drive you out of here, rinsing the land with as much water as possible. We want no part of your business, or the world’s – we have suffered enough. Leave us be, and in turn we’ll let you leave.”
“I will leave,” he replied, and inclined his head once more in not quite a bow but a clear sign of respect, “And for what it is worth, I do apologize for intruding on your lands. I pray the rain will leave with me, and that the winter months will be kind to you.”
“Aye, let us hope for that,” the woman said gruffly, and took a few shuffling steps away from him, “And good travels to you, nameless one.”
Then, she disappeared in between the trees, sheltered from his sight by the branches and the heavy downpour from the skies.
He did not waste any more time than had already been wasted, and instead shook the dripping hair and soaked hood from his face, shook out his heavy, muddy legs, and begun walking northwards once more. At first he walked slowly, limping forwards, allowing the stiff and tender leg to adjust to suddenly being in movement once more, but gradually the tempo sped up and he was again walking beneath the trees with surefooted and long strides. He could not walk as fast as he would have wanted, since he held no wish of falling into a hole yet again; but maybe the woods really did want him out of there, for the ground was much more even and less treacherous than before. The rain relentlessly poured down upon him, but he did not stop for the night – by his unsure estimates, he ought to be not far from the borders of Eryn Vorn.
And perhaps it was nothing more than his mind playing tricks upon him, but he imagined he could feel eyes tracking his every movement, assessing him, following the intruder until said eyes could be sure he indeed went away from their lands.
He walked until the dark had swallowed the forest whole, the rumbling clouds mercilessly choking the twinkling light from the stars and the moon, and with no snow to light up the ground he felt like he was walking blindly. A heedless risk to take, since he had gotten far too familiar with the treacherous ground already, but the unseen eyes following him bid him no rest. He knew he was not welcome here, and although he knew that every teacher he had ever had, be it Man or elf or anything else, would sink to the ground in despair at the sight of him travelling through unknown lands in the dark, he did not stop.
There was no rest to be found for him in these lands, no tree or cave to offer him shelter from the rain, no dry place to build a fire and warm his weary body. If he were to stop now, and sleep in his soaked through clothing out in the cold winter night, there was no telling in what state he would then wake up in.
In the company of these sullen thoughts he walked seemingly so long that he did not notice when the trees of Eryn Vorn begun to thin, and the restless feeling of being watched ever so slowly trickled away. Only when the rain begun to tamper down did he suddenly become aware of his surroundings, and in his embarrassment, he was glad that there was no one of his kin around to see his slip-up.
He was almost out of the woods.
The oppressing dark hesitantly retreated, step by step, to give away to a soothing grey tone, and eventually, the very rain itself stopped. He was yet in Minhiriath, and many days away from the Angle or Rivendell, or even the Shire, but he was closer to home.
And, peculiarly enough, the sky was clearing in front of him; the grey and looming clouds that had tormented him for so long were now making way for a clear night sky, the happily twinkling stars shining down upon him and the kind moon lighting up his path. The rain had stopped, the sky was clearing, and with it came the promise of a brilliant blue sky and welcoming sunlight.
His clothing may be soaked, his body tired, and toes and fingers all but numb, but suddenly his strides felt lighter than ever, and it was with a rare smile that he now continued his journey northwards, in the company of the stars and the moon above him.
Challenge: "Weather"
Summary: There's a certain feeling of defeat that only homesickness can cause, and the rain is certainly not helping.
Rating: K
Characters: Aragorn
No warnings.
The rain was beating down from the grey skies, a constant tittering beating amplified against his hood and stubbornly trickling into his eyes. It fell heavy over the trees and dripped down their spindly, reaching arms, the water droplets steadily morphing into one another and building up until they were big, fat, heavy drops that fell to the ground with great slopping splashes of mud and water. The ground itself resembled a muddy quagmire, although he knew for a fact that during drier months this was a sturdy pine forest with harsh and even ground, littered with low growing vegetations with thick, hard leaves, carrying sweet berries of autumn during good and fortunate years.
Now the tough and stubborn vegetation was huddled low and miserable against the mud, the proud trees standing tall and haughty and yet their branches hung low in misery due to the constant abuse of the harsh rain, swaying slowly in the wind that was quickly whispering and sneaking in between the branches and trunks.
This was winter away from the North, and Aragorn found himself missing the winters of his homeland; cold and snowy they may be, life-threatening and desperate and treacherous, the wind howling in cold rage and the snow beating down like whips on any exposed skin, but at least the ground was frozen solid beneath all the layers of snow. At least there was no mud. The forest of Eryn Vorn was a coast land, its proximity to the ocean shore giving it mild and rainy winters instead of the harsh winters he grew up with, the winds moist instead of dry, carrying rain instead of snow.
His boot slipped once more, and he couldn’t catch himself before his left knee hit the soggy ground and mud immediately sloshed into his high boots, hungrily invading whatever part of him that had yet to be soaked to the skin. He gritted his teeth and swallowed a bellow of frustration (as well as some choice words his mother would have tanned his hide for), heaving himself to his feet once more and unsuccessfully tried to ignore the dreadful feeling of cold mud slippering down the side of his leg, to finally settle cold and snug down around his ankles. There it would stiffen into a cold and hard shell enclosing the limb, like a grotesque cast or a moulded sculpture of his feet.
Forget the part about him missing the cold; he sullenly thought, apparently he didn’t need any snowstorms or falls through the ice in order to be chilled to the bone.
Vagrant strays of dark hair fell into his eyes, like a dark and greasy curtain, and he shook his head like a frustrated mutt. His hood had been a blessing at first, but by now it was soaked and heavy, and he could feel its dampness pressing against his scalp and neck and shoulders, the hood itself plastered against his brow and letting most raindrops slide right down into his eyes. His clothing no longer felt like protection, instead feeling closer to a second skin of mud weighing down his every sloshing step forward.
The familiar burst of homesickness was squashed by a firm reminder of clothing frozen stiff by snow and toes numb in their stiff and icy boots. Which was to be preferred, frozen clothing or soaked clothing? He studiously kept himself from even mentally answering.
He slid yet again, and this time both his feet went sliding in the same direction, violently disrupting his balance. His right leg folded beneath him, sending a dull jarring ache through his ankle, but his left leg remained straight, coming to a sudden stop as it fell downwards, and the ground swallowed his leg with a great slurping sound, satisfying its greedy hunger. Pain shot up his leg like a bolt of lightning on an autumn sky, and for a moment all he could do was stare at his thigh, the only part remaining above ground. Then, he determinedly choked back another curse and experimentally rotated his left foot.
It was not a sinkhole he had fallen through, which was a good thing. He could feel sharp roots digging into the muscle above his knee and the sharp bones below, an equally strong root twisting and turning behind his leg as well. Either this was a small cave-in caused by erosion during the dry months of summer, the unforgiving sun burning the soil and mercilessly dragging all moisture from it, or it was a tunnel leading to a rabbit hole beneath the safeness of the trees. Either way, it had now been filled by mud and sucking soil, thick enough to create the discomforting sense of pressure against his lower leg. If he had thought himself soaked before, it was nothing compared to how he would feel now.
He braced his hands against the earth, fingers splayed wide and slipping deep into the mud, and firmly pushed himself off the ground, pulling his leg with him. His leg did not comply – or rather, the soil appeared to be of a different mind. It guarded his leg, greedily, jealously, not willing to let go of what it had managed to capture and gobble down whole. It was stubborn – luckily, Aragorn himself possessed no small amount of stubbornness; ask most who knew him, and he was certain they’d wholeheartedly agree. Thick-headed fool was what Halbarad would prefer to call him, fond and exasperated but nonetheless very earnest about it.
Aragorn exhaled and tried pulling himself free with brute force once more, before accepting that it would get him nowhere. Carefully twisting and turning the leg gave him no progress either, and within minutes his knee felt rubbed raw against the strong roots of the trees. Perplexedly, the roots his foot had slipped in between felt tighter than before, and only then did the cold dread begin to creep upon him; he was stuck, cold, wet, and hungry, and the mud felt as cold as the ice rivers of the North, the warmth of life steadfastly seeping out of his leg, hungrily devoured by the cruel and slippery soil surrounding it. A man need not wait for snow in order to freeze to death.
A man need not freeze in order to die, either.
Dehydration wouldn’t prove a problem; it hadn’t stopped raining for days and his bottles were recently filled, and hunger is a slow working enemy, but stuck like he was he would prove a laughably easy prey for any lurking predators.
Aragorn leaned forward, curling over his leg and shaking the water out of his eyes, and sunk nimble fingers into the mud encompassing his leg, feeling along the edges and experimentally digging into the soil closest to the thigh. Watery mud slowly but relentlessly filled out the empty space he’d just created. The soil was too thick to escape, but too watery to dig away. Had it only been mud, however, he would have had a better chance of pulling himself free; it was the roots of the trees that held him in their firm grip. And these strong and haughty trees were not ones to listen to his prodding or pleading or lulling elvish words.
Knees deep into the cold mud and fingers splayed out in front of him, he bowed his head towards his chest and allowed himself a short moment of defeat. Ai Valar, but he wished he was home instead of in this muddy wasteland.
Yule was over since months back, spent in his lonely wanderings across the lands, looking for a creature that may or may not already be dead. Yule itself was spent tracking down a few stray goblins and narrowly escaping being used as a pincushion for their nasty little arrows; yet another day that brought him no closer to finding Gollum. Already it had passed years since he and Gandalf had started their search for the strange creature, and so far, they had naught to show for it.
Had he been in the North, he might have spent Yule in Rivendell, in clean clothes and a warm home, with good company and plentiful food, content in the house of his childhood and safe for a few days from the harshness of the world.
Or maybe he would have spent the holidays in one of the settlements of the Angle, in a small but homely house, surrounded by his kin and the few moments of peace, giving his help in turn and perhaps doing some good work on one of their farms.
Or, more certainly, he would have spent Yule on the road; but a well-known road travelled by his feet many times, in the company of a friend and kinsman among a fellow ranger, not perhaps a celebration equal to the splendour of Rivendell but certainly equal to the joy of companionship. Oh, how he longed for the luxury of being amongst his own. How he longed for the simple pleasure of a friendly face.
The sun had been hidden behind the clouds for days, but he didn’t need to see the sun’s position in order to know that the day was growing old – the shadows were steadily closing in on the forest, the evening settling in with a cloak of brimming darkness. He would have to search for shelter in the dark, for he would not free himself any time soon. It’s perfectly alright, he told himself, teeth gritted and mouth pressed into a thin line. He had spent nights in worse places.
The creeping sensation of being watched itched at his neck (not very helpful, a part of him snidely thought, every part of his body was itching in the sodden clothes). He raised his head again and squared his shoulders, a vain attempt at looking casually threatening with one of his long legs stuck in the ground. After a brief pause he put his hand on the rain-slicked sword hilt as well.
See now, he wanted to cry, I am not yet defenceless. I am not yet defeated.
Not yet.
There was only so much one could do with a sword if one happened to be stuck in the ground; his range was limited, he couldn’t turn around, and although he certainly could twist his sword arm behind him he could not bear a blow aimed at his back. He could swish his sword in an incomplete circle around him and hope that would be enough to scare off whatever chose to approach him.
The rain continued to fall around him, and he could feel a tickle in the back of his throat; small enough to be a mere annoyance at the moment, but he was sure it would grow into an impressive cough given time. As well as a spectacularly hoarse voice.
Rotating his foot didn’t send bolts of pain up his leg; instead he only felt the dull ache of a numb limb drowsily murmuring in protest. It was no use. His leg had already been chilled too long, become too numb, for him to critically analyse the injury. If the ankle was swelling up, it would certainly explain why the roots seemed tighter than before, but both the cold and the sturdy boot should have kept the swelling to a minimum. A healer’s eye is not very useful if the eye cannot see anything, either. Pain or no pain, at risk of worsening the injury or not, he couldn’t dwell much longer. There was no help for him to wait upon in these foreign lands, and waiting for it would be the same as a rabbit patiently lying down in its trap and waiting for its capturer to release it.
With one eye on the leg and the other carefully watching the trees around him, listening intently to every movement of bushes or branches, he dug his fingers into the mud yet again, prepared to dig himself out as much as possible. The mud that sloshed back into the newly dug holes was watery and thin, and much less heavy than the soil he dug away. It was heavy work, since he could not dig straight downwards without the ground inevitably giving away and crumbling back over the trapped leg. Instead he dug a wide circle around the limb and hoped against hope that it would prove to be helpful.
He had become accustomed to a certain lack of cleanliness out in the wild, with grimy clothes and hair and skin, but now he was sure the dirt would be permanently stuck deep beneath his fingernails and etched into every tiny pore and wrinkle upon his hands until they looked cracked and spotted by age.
A pair of feet entered his peripheral vision, and his sword was out of its sheath before his mind had comprehended the action. He was breathing heavily, his limbs were numb, and his mind felt dulled, but the sword in his hand remained steady and unwavering.
The cause of alarm was an old woman, wrapped in a shawl and wearing a belt tightly clenched around her narrow middle, holding ragged clothing in place. A long, hooded cloak stretched down all the way to her feet, shod in ill-fitted boots that reached her ankles but nothing more. Her old and wind-bitten hands clutched a walking stick in front of her, which she leaned heavily upon, and sticking out from beneath the hood was frizzled grey hair seemingly unbothered by the heavy downpour. The hood and the darkening sky left her face in shadows, but her eyes were still visible.
How she had sneaked up on him, he could not say. The rain was strong enough to drown out all other sounds, but the sloshing steps of feet dragged through mud and water should by all means be heard by anyone, even more so by a ranger.
She appeared remarkably unfaced by the sword still warningly held up in her direction, but her eyes were intently tracking his every movement. Assessing him, carefully, warily. Still, she did not move.
Aragorn cleared his throat, slowly lowering his sword and after a brief moment of hesitation sheathing it once more. He of all people knew appearances were deceiving, and knew better than to believe this old woman to be harmless – the lack of a sword was more of a show of goodwill than anything else.
“Good evening, my good woman,” he said, inclining his head.
She did not answer, and for a moment he feared they shared no common tongue; well-versed in languages he may be, but no mortal may learn every language and variety there was to be spoken in the vast landscaped of Middle Earth. He was in Eriador, but the people of Eryn Vorn were a secretive folk, nomads and huntsmen, a suspicious folk not fond of strangers from distant lands. He did not even know which language they called their own.
“My name is Strider,” he tried when it was clear no reply was forthcoming. “I am a traveller heading homewards, moving through these woods only in passing.”
The woman clucked her tongue, a noise of universal disapproval. “Greetings,” she said, in a voice low and cracked by long years of struggle and hardships. “I will give you no name in turn, for the offer of a false name does not result in an offering of a true one.”
Aragorn bowed his head again, this time in chagrined acknowledgment. “Aye,” he admitted, “It may not be my true name, but it is one of them. You must forgive me, kind stranger, for my reluctance to share my name in unknown lands.”
“That I do not fault you for,” she sniffed, “Withholding a name is a wise call; you know never who may be listening, and these trees are ever watchful. A name is a powerful thing, a name is part of you, a name is what could be one’s downfall. There are many a creature who prey upon those foolish enough to let their names be known to everyone they meet. No, I do not fault you for being cautious; I fault you for letting your first words to a well-met stranger be a boldfaced lie.”
He could feel a smile tugging at his lips, the motion feeling unfamiliar after days out in the unforgiving pouring rain, and it was with an echo of mischief that he replied. “I thank you for your wise words, and I shall remember to greet strangers in a different way in the future. I do, however, believe that Strider is as true a name as any other – a name is to be given to one, and this is one of many names that have been given to me.”
“Given to you, aye, but it is your choice if you choose to give it to others as your own. Better to give no name than to give a false one. Names are dangerous things, here in our woods.”
She finally fixed her sharp eyes at something else than his face (he found himself blinking repeatedly to lessen the residue of her gaze), and instead looked at the leg-shaped elephant in the room.
“I seem to be in a bit of a situation,” he explained.
“Indeed you do,” she agreed, and then hobbled over to the strange man she’d just found stuck in the mud who had already proven himself to be happy to wave around weapons. “The land does not want you here – was not the weather a clear enough sign for you? Must the very soil and trees of the land step in for you to take notice of their displeasure?”
“My apologies,” he said slowly, deciding not to argue coast climate with one who lived at said coast. “I assure you – and the land – that I aim to leave these woods alone as soon as I manage to make it out of them.”
“By all means, I ought to leave you be and let the land decide for itself what to do with you,” the old woman grumbled, before knocking her walking stick against his stuck leg, then dipping it into the watery mud to test how far down he had dug. “Can you feel what’s trapping your foot, or is it only the mud?”
“Tree roots; my foot appears to have slipped in between two of them. It would most certainly be no problem if it was not for the unfortunate combination of both roots and mud.”
The old woman harrumphed, and, to his surprise, gave him a half-hearted slap over the back of his head. “’twas as I said; now the soil and trees have decided to gang up on you. You had other roads to take, that did not involve trespassing.”
“I hope to learn from my mistakes,” he said, studiously keeping himself from rubbing his disgraced head.
“Bah,” she scoffed, “Keep your silvery words of meek chagrin to someone who cares for them. I ought to leave you here, I really should, but I don’t want to step over your body every time I pass through here. This is my home, and we cannot leave a dead body here – it would bring bad luck down upon us. Not to mention a ghastly sight and an even worse smell.”
“That would be most unfortunate,” he agreed, and uncomfortably tried to wiggle his trapped foot. The woman stood still for a moment, intently staring at the stubborn ground, before she shuffled away to a tree to his right. It was an old and gnarled pine tree, thick enough that Aragorn would have had trouble linking his long arms around the trunk, looming over them with its branches high up above their heads. The old woman placed a hand against its bark, both cracked and scarred by age, and slowly walked around the old tree, keeping her hand on its bark and murmuring softly. He tried straining his ears, interest piqued by what she was saying, but the rain seemed to grow even louder and heavier in the face of his attempt at eavesdropping.
“Well don’t just sit there,” she suddenly barked at him, making him flinch, “You won’t get out without making an effort – do I look like I’m able to pull ruffians out of the ground? Get to it and start digging.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied under his breath, digging his stiff fingers into the mud once more and tried to free his leg.
Digging a hole around his trapped leg felt rather useless, since the rain gleefully filled it up with even more water and beat against the muddy walls to make them crumble even faster, but he kept at it. He also made sure to force his foot to move around and rotate, lest it lose all feeling and cut off the blood circulation. Still, although he kept his head down to look at what he was doing, he kept one eye trained on the strange old woman claiming to be helping him get loose. She was still circling the old tree, kindly patting its trunk and apparently talking to it. Or arguing.
Dusk had since long crept over the forest and settled down nice and snug by the time the old woman finally left the tree alone and strolled back to where Aragorn was hunched over his numb leg. Now he was cold, soaked, sore, and sweaty, which would result in even more coldness and general grouchiness. His body was since long overcome by shivers; all except for the buried leg and his fingers, that were now lacking all feeling.
“Move your hands,” she said briskly, impatiently waving her stick at him. She crouched down, ever so slowly, her old body silently protesting against the movement, but she stubbornly continued until her thin hands managed to touch the ground. She then settled both her hands on his leg, “When I say pull, pull as hard as you can.”
On the count of three, they both heaved with all their might, but Aragorn was sure they managed to do nothing more than scrape another layer of skin off his poor leg. Then, to his amazement, he felt the soil give away just a little bit, allowing at least half an inch to pull free. This small achievement was enough to make him wish to whoop with joy like a young child.
“Oh, for gods’ sake,” the woman snapped, already breathing in mighty heaves, “That is quite enough! Let go immediately, so I can chase this buffoon out of the woods – he can’t very well leave in his current situation, now can he?”
By all means, nothing should have happened – except that the tightened roots around his leg reluctantly loosened their grip, and Aragorn pulled his leg free and toppled backwards all in the same breath. For a short moment he did nothing but lay on his back, staring up at the dark sky and letting the rain smatter directly against his face, hitting his nose and his eyes and sliding down towards his ears and neck.
“How,” he finally started, pushing himself up on his elbows, “How did you do that, if I may ask?”
“The woods are dangerous, not unreasonable,” she replied tersely, pushing herself to her feet in a slow and careful movement, joints angrily cracking among themselves. “They don’t want you here any more than I do. Now, up you go.”
Aragorn sat up, carefully moving his leg and rotating his foot, letting expert hands roam over the limb and, upon finding nothing broken or anything promising a permanent mark, begun massaging the leg, trying to rub at least some warmth and feeling back into it.
“Up,” the woman repeated with a longsuffering sigh, poking at his boot with her staff.
“I think you know as well as I do,” he replied mildly, wincing at the pain beginning to throb through the leg, “that if I were to stand right now, I would fall right back down and you would have to pull me up once more.”
“Next time I would strangle you myself,” the old woman muttered, but nonetheless leaned upon her staff and waited for him to get to his feet. Cramps threatened to overpower him, and his entire leg seemed to consist of nothing but pins and needles, but he managed to climb to his feet with mere grimaces and no further falls. There; unsteady and wobbly and not entirely in perfect health, but he was standing once more.
Then they stood in silence for a brief moment, the rain the only sound to be heard for miles.
“Thank you,” he finally decided to say.
She hummed noncommittally and, after a moment of contemplation, hobbled closer to him to peer at him with those peculiarly sharp eyes of hers.
“You seek something foul,” she stated sharply, and although she stood at a height two heads below him, he felt inferior. “The woods know it, and so do I. The rain is trying to drive you out of here, rinsing the land with as much water as possible. We want no part of your business, or the world’s – we have suffered enough. Leave us be, and in turn we’ll let you leave.”
“I will leave,” he replied, and inclined his head once more in not quite a bow but a clear sign of respect, “And for what it is worth, I do apologize for intruding on your lands. I pray the rain will leave with me, and that the winter months will be kind to you.”
“Aye, let us hope for that,” the woman said gruffly, and took a few shuffling steps away from him, “And good travels to you, nameless one.”
Then, she disappeared in between the trees, sheltered from his sight by the branches and the heavy downpour from the skies.
He did not waste any more time than had already been wasted, and instead shook the dripping hair and soaked hood from his face, shook out his heavy, muddy legs, and begun walking northwards once more. At first he walked slowly, limping forwards, allowing the stiff and tender leg to adjust to suddenly being in movement once more, but gradually the tempo sped up and he was again walking beneath the trees with surefooted and long strides. He could not walk as fast as he would have wanted, since he held no wish of falling into a hole yet again; but maybe the woods really did want him out of there, for the ground was much more even and less treacherous than before. The rain relentlessly poured down upon him, but he did not stop for the night – by his unsure estimates, he ought to be not far from the borders of Eryn Vorn.
And perhaps it was nothing more than his mind playing tricks upon him, but he imagined he could feel eyes tracking his every movement, assessing him, following the intruder until said eyes could be sure he indeed went away from their lands.
He walked until the dark had swallowed the forest whole, the rumbling clouds mercilessly choking the twinkling light from the stars and the moon, and with no snow to light up the ground he felt like he was walking blindly. A heedless risk to take, since he had gotten far too familiar with the treacherous ground already, but the unseen eyes following him bid him no rest. He knew he was not welcome here, and although he knew that every teacher he had ever had, be it Man or elf or anything else, would sink to the ground in despair at the sight of him travelling through unknown lands in the dark, he did not stop.
There was no rest to be found for him in these lands, no tree or cave to offer him shelter from the rain, no dry place to build a fire and warm his weary body. If he were to stop now, and sleep in his soaked through clothing out in the cold winter night, there was no telling in what state he would then wake up in.
In the company of these sullen thoughts he walked seemingly so long that he did not notice when the trees of Eryn Vorn begun to thin, and the restless feeling of being watched ever so slowly trickled away. Only when the rain begun to tamper down did he suddenly become aware of his surroundings, and in his embarrassment, he was glad that there was no one of his kin around to see his slip-up.
He was almost out of the woods.
The oppressing dark hesitantly retreated, step by step, to give away to a soothing grey tone, and eventually, the very rain itself stopped. He was yet in Minhiriath, and many days away from the Angle or Rivendell, or even the Shire, but he was closer to home.
And, peculiarly enough, the sky was clearing in front of him; the grey and looming clouds that had tormented him for so long were now making way for a clear night sky, the happily twinkling stars shining down upon him and the kind moon lighting up his path. The rain had stopped, the sky was clearing, and with it came the promise of a brilliant blue sky and welcoming sunlight.
His clothing may be soaked, his body tired, and toes and fingers all but numb, but suddenly his strides felt lighter than ever, and it was with a rare smile that he now continued his journey northwards, in the company of the stars and the moon above him.