Another drabble meme ficlet...
Mar. 3rd, 2010 08:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cairistionaYes, I'm still working my way through them! This one is for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shirebound , who wanted a story about one of the Hobbits thanking Strider for getting them safely to Rivendell.
Blisters, Bruises and Healing Balm
Rating: G
Thanks to Inzilbeth for the beta!
A helping hand and kind words go a long way toward easing weariness...
Alone in his room, Aragorn struggled to pull his boot off, finally wrenching it from his foot with the help of the bootjack. It fell to the floor with a dull, wet slap. He kicked the wooden bootjack a bit to the left so he could work the other off. He braced his heel against the notch in the wood but before resuming the struggle he slumped, hanging his head for a moment as he gave in to his great weariness. It had been such a hard journey...
“Strider?” a timid voice called.
Aragorn shook his hair back away from his eyes and straightened. Peregrin Took stood uncertainly in the doorway. He looked to have already bathed and changed, something that Aragorn looked forward to for himself, as soon as he wrestled his recalcitrant boot off. “Come, Pippin,” he called, forcing his cheeks into something he hoped resembled a smile.
The young hobbit tentatively came into the room. That the Shireling was a bit overawed by Rivendell’s splendor was obvious even to Aragorn’s exhausted eyes. “It is merely a room, Master Took. It will not swallow you whole.”
“After all we’ve been through, I wouldn’t really be surprised if it did.” But the strain left his face and he managed a small grin.
“Master Elrond would hardly tolerate his house attacking its guests, so put your fears aside.”
Pippin watched as Aragorn contended with his remaining boot, and finally hurried over. “Let me help, Strider.” Before Aragorn could protest, Pippin had the boot in his hands and, with a yank that had Aragorn grabbing wildly for the chair’s arms to keep himself from sliding off to the floor, had the boot off and lying in a heap next to the other.
“Thank you.”
Pippin waved off the thanks. Instead, he helped Aragorn shrug out of his coat. “You look...” he started, then stopped.
“Like something a warg dragged in?”
“I was going to say tired,” Pippin said.
Aragorn sighed. “I am weary,” he admitted. “But grateful to be home.”
“This... this is your home?”
“I was raised here, for most of my childhood.”
Pippin’s mouth formed a small ‘o’. “I thought...”
“That I was born under a rock and raised by wolves?”
Pippin rewarded his attempt at humor with a laugh. “No, nothing like that. I never really thought about where you might have grown up. I can’t really imagine you being anything but you, if that makes sense. As you are now, I mean. I can’t picture you as a small boy at all.”
“I was, once. And Rivendell still bears the scars.”
Another merry laugh as Pippin helped him pull off his hauberks. “When you say things like that, I can imagine it a lot more easily. But most of the time you’re too grim and dour.”
“Back to that ‘look fairer and feel fouler’ bit, are we?” But Aragorn smiled.
“No. I know better, now. And I... I want to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For getting us here in one piece.”
Aragorn grimaced. “If only I had.”
“You did the best you could.”
Aragorn looked down at his feet, saying nothing as he took off his socks. What did it matter, really, that Pippin thought his failure forgivable? While kind of him, it did not change the facts: Frodo had been grievously injured, and Aragorn had been unable to stop it. Such losses were often unavoidable in any battle, he realized, but it did not make the sting of failure, especially this failure, bite any less.
Pippin said nothing, merely watched quietly with his hands thrust into his pockets as Aragorn folded his socks and set them on the floor by his boots, but he suddenly let out a cry as he saw a bruise across Aragorn’s left instep, and a blister that had gone bloody on his right heel. “You’re hurt!”
Aragorn blinked, then wiggled his feet as he examined them. He knew his feet had been banged about but getting to safety had driven all thought toward checking them out of his head until now. He was too tired to remember where the bruise came from, although he vaguely remembered feeling the blister burst as they made the last mad dash from the Bruinen to the Last Homely House. Likely he had picked up a stone in his boot crossing the river, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe it had happened while fending off the Nazgûl before the river took them. “It is nothing; merely a blister.”
“Still, it needs cared for!” Pippin hurried over to the pitcher and bowl in the corner. Stretching on tiptoe to reach, he used both hands to carefully pour some water into the bowl. He dipped the cloth he found lying beside it into the water and came back to Aragorn. “Hold out your right foot.”
“Pippin, you don’t need–”
“Yes, I do,” Pippin insisted. “You got this blister hurrying us to safety so it’s the least I can do to help you deal with it.”
Aragorn stared at Pippin, unaccountably touched. “Thank you, then,” he said softly.
Pippin glanced up and smiled, an uncomplicated gesture of friendliness. “No, Strider. Any thanks go to you. Now be still, this might sting.”
And it did. Pippin was gentle but Aragorn couldn’t keep from hissing as the water touched the blistered skin. But he set his jaw and remained silent thereafter until Pippin was finished. “Have you any salve?”
Bemused, Aragorn nodded toward the washstand. “In the cabinet below.”
Pippin opened the door and stared at the contents. He picked up one pot, sniffed at the contents, then put it back before selecting another and doing the same. He opened jar after jar as he worked his way deeper into the cabinet. Then, to Aragorn's astonishment, he crawled completely inside the cabinet. Soon all Aragorn could see was the hobbit’s backside and feet sticking out beyond the door. “My, you’ve a powerful lot of pots in here!”
Aragorn opened and shut his mouth several times before finding his voice. “Master Elrond claims I so often arrive battered and bashed about that he dare not empty the...” Aragorn’s words trailed off as he leaned forward, wondering if Pippin would need help getting back out. “Are you all right in there, Master Took?”
“Never better!” Pippin cried as he wiggled out from the very back of the cabinet. He raised high a small jar, as if it were spoils of war. “Here’s the one! At least, I think it is. It smells like the stuff my mother used to smear on me when I got cut and bruised.”
Aragorn checked it... it smelled of lemon balm, bergamot and honey. “Yes, that will do.”
Pippin scooped out a small amount and dabbed it against the broken blister. “Do you have anything to wrap it? Although I suppose if you’re about to take a bath, you won’t need it yet.”
“I’ll keep my foot out of the water. There’s bandages in my pack.” Aragorn pointed to the bundle beside his bed.
Instead of digging through it himself, Pippin dragged the pack to Aragorn. “Whew! That’s heavy!”
Aragorn smiled as he dug out a strip of clean linen and bound up his heel. “Not to me.”
“Is your other foot sore?”
Aragorn flexed it back and forth and up and down. “No. I think I must have gotten that bruise on Weathertop. I remember it being sore for a day or so after, but it's better. It looks terrible, but see how it's fading around the edges?”
“Just so long as it’s not broken.”
“No, nothing like that. Just a bruise, nasty enough but not serious.” He sat back and stretched his legs out in front of him. “What of you, Pippin? Any hurts that need tending?”
“Not a one.” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “We Tooks don’t injure easily.”
Aragorn smiled, remembering another Took he had met, once, out in the wilds. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Well then, since you are so hale and hearty, you will have to excuse me for asking you to leave me for a time. I believe I am overdue a much needed nap.”
“Of course! I’m sorry... I don’t mean to keep you from your rest.” Pippin glanced at the massive, to him, bed and then hurried over to it. “Let me help you pull the covers back.”
Again, Aragorn merely watched in bemused silence as the hobbit dragged back the coverlet and the blankets beneath and then jumped into the bed and crawled about on his hands and knees, fluffing the pillows and smoothing the sheets, readying it for Aragorn.
“There you go! Fit for a king!”
Aragorn nearly choked as he stifled a laugh. He wondered just what Pippin would do if Aragorn told him he had indeed just prepared a bed for a king. Hiding his mirth as well as he could, he merely bowed his head. “Thank you, Pippin. I don’t think it has ever looked more welcoming.”
Pippin beamed at him, then slid down from the bed. He started for the door, then suddenly turned and wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s legs in a brief, hard hug. “Thank you again,” he said.
Aragorn reached down and laid a gentle hand on Pippin’s back. “You’re welcome.”
Pippin craned his neck to look at Aragorn’s great height. He wrinkled his nose. “You might want to take that bath before you get into bed,” he whispered, then ran out of the room.
Aragorn chuckled as he shut the door behind Pippin. A bath and a nap would go long toward improving the lot of his tired body, but he found that his spirit was already much restored.
“Thank you, Peregrin Took,” he whispered, and started to undress for his bath.
shirebound , who wanted a story about one of the Hobbits thanking Strider for getting them safely to Rivendell. Blisters, Bruises and Healing Balm
Rating: G
Thanks to Inzilbeth for the beta!
A helping hand and kind words go a long way toward easing weariness...
~~~
Alone in his room, Aragorn struggled to pull his boot off, finally wrenching it from his foot with the help of the bootjack. It fell to the floor with a dull, wet slap. He kicked the wooden bootjack a bit to the left so he could work the other off. He braced his heel against the notch in the wood but before resuming the struggle he slumped, hanging his head for a moment as he gave in to his great weariness. It had been such a hard journey...
“Strider?” a timid voice called.
Aragorn shook his hair back away from his eyes and straightened. Peregrin Took stood uncertainly in the doorway. He looked to have already bathed and changed, something that Aragorn looked forward to for himself, as soon as he wrestled his recalcitrant boot off. “Come, Pippin,” he called, forcing his cheeks into something he hoped resembled a smile.
The young hobbit tentatively came into the room. That the Shireling was a bit overawed by Rivendell’s splendor was obvious even to Aragorn’s exhausted eyes. “It is merely a room, Master Took. It will not swallow you whole.”
“After all we’ve been through, I wouldn’t really be surprised if it did.” But the strain left his face and he managed a small grin.
“Master Elrond would hardly tolerate his house attacking its guests, so put your fears aside.”
Pippin watched as Aragorn contended with his remaining boot, and finally hurried over. “Let me help, Strider.” Before Aragorn could protest, Pippin had the boot in his hands and, with a yank that had Aragorn grabbing wildly for the chair’s arms to keep himself from sliding off to the floor, had the boot off and lying in a heap next to the other.
“Thank you.”
Pippin waved off the thanks. Instead, he helped Aragorn shrug out of his coat. “You look...” he started, then stopped.
“Like something a warg dragged in?”
“I was going to say tired,” Pippin said.
Aragorn sighed. “I am weary,” he admitted. “But grateful to be home.”
“This... this is your home?”
“I was raised here, for most of my childhood.”
Pippin’s mouth formed a small ‘o’. “I thought...”
“That I was born under a rock and raised by wolves?”
Pippin rewarded his attempt at humor with a laugh. “No, nothing like that. I never really thought about where you might have grown up. I can’t really imagine you being anything but you, if that makes sense. As you are now, I mean. I can’t picture you as a small boy at all.”
“I was, once. And Rivendell still bears the scars.”
Another merry laugh as Pippin helped him pull off his hauberks. “When you say things like that, I can imagine it a lot more easily. But most of the time you’re too grim and dour.”
“Back to that ‘look fairer and feel fouler’ bit, are we?” But Aragorn smiled.
“No. I know better, now. And I... I want to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For getting us here in one piece.”
Aragorn grimaced. “If only I had.”
“You did the best you could.”
Aragorn looked down at his feet, saying nothing as he took off his socks. What did it matter, really, that Pippin thought his failure forgivable? While kind of him, it did not change the facts: Frodo had been grievously injured, and Aragorn had been unable to stop it. Such losses were often unavoidable in any battle, he realized, but it did not make the sting of failure, especially this failure, bite any less.
Pippin said nothing, merely watched quietly with his hands thrust into his pockets as Aragorn folded his socks and set them on the floor by his boots, but he suddenly let out a cry as he saw a bruise across Aragorn’s left instep, and a blister that had gone bloody on his right heel. “You’re hurt!”
Aragorn blinked, then wiggled his feet as he examined them. He knew his feet had been banged about but getting to safety had driven all thought toward checking them out of his head until now. He was too tired to remember where the bruise came from, although he vaguely remembered feeling the blister burst as they made the last mad dash from the Bruinen to the Last Homely House. Likely he had picked up a stone in his boot crossing the river, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe it had happened while fending off the Nazgûl before the river took them. “It is nothing; merely a blister.”
“Still, it needs cared for!” Pippin hurried over to the pitcher and bowl in the corner. Stretching on tiptoe to reach, he used both hands to carefully pour some water into the bowl. He dipped the cloth he found lying beside it into the water and came back to Aragorn. “Hold out your right foot.”
“Pippin, you don’t need–”
“Yes, I do,” Pippin insisted. “You got this blister hurrying us to safety so it’s the least I can do to help you deal with it.”
Aragorn stared at Pippin, unaccountably touched. “Thank you, then,” he said softly.
Pippin glanced up and smiled, an uncomplicated gesture of friendliness. “No, Strider. Any thanks go to you. Now be still, this might sting.”
And it did. Pippin was gentle but Aragorn couldn’t keep from hissing as the water touched the blistered skin. But he set his jaw and remained silent thereafter until Pippin was finished. “Have you any salve?”
Bemused, Aragorn nodded toward the washstand. “In the cabinet below.”
Pippin opened the door and stared at the contents. He picked up one pot, sniffed at the contents, then put it back before selecting another and doing the same. He opened jar after jar as he worked his way deeper into the cabinet. Then, to Aragorn's astonishment, he crawled completely inside the cabinet. Soon all Aragorn could see was the hobbit’s backside and feet sticking out beyond the door. “My, you’ve a powerful lot of pots in here!”
Aragorn opened and shut his mouth several times before finding his voice. “Master Elrond claims I so often arrive battered and bashed about that he dare not empty the...” Aragorn’s words trailed off as he leaned forward, wondering if Pippin would need help getting back out. “Are you all right in there, Master Took?”
“Never better!” Pippin cried as he wiggled out from the very back of the cabinet. He raised high a small jar, as if it were spoils of war. “Here’s the one! At least, I think it is. It smells like the stuff my mother used to smear on me when I got cut and bruised.”
Aragorn checked it... it smelled of lemon balm, bergamot and honey. “Yes, that will do.”
Pippin scooped out a small amount and dabbed it against the broken blister. “Do you have anything to wrap it? Although I suppose if you’re about to take a bath, you won’t need it yet.”
“I’ll keep my foot out of the water. There’s bandages in my pack.” Aragorn pointed to the bundle beside his bed.
Instead of digging through it himself, Pippin dragged the pack to Aragorn. “Whew! That’s heavy!”
Aragorn smiled as he dug out a strip of clean linen and bound up his heel. “Not to me.”
“Is your other foot sore?”
Aragorn flexed it back and forth and up and down. “No. I think I must have gotten that bruise on Weathertop. I remember it being sore for a day or so after, but it's better. It looks terrible, but see how it's fading around the edges?”
“Just so long as it’s not broken.”
“No, nothing like that. Just a bruise, nasty enough but not serious.” He sat back and stretched his legs out in front of him. “What of you, Pippin? Any hurts that need tending?”
“Not a one.” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “We Tooks don’t injure easily.”
Aragorn smiled, remembering another Took he had met, once, out in the wilds. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Well then, since you are so hale and hearty, you will have to excuse me for asking you to leave me for a time. I believe I am overdue a much needed nap.”
“Of course! I’m sorry... I don’t mean to keep you from your rest.” Pippin glanced at the massive, to him, bed and then hurried over to it. “Let me help you pull the covers back.”
Again, Aragorn merely watched in bemused silence as the hobbit dragged back the coverlet and the blankets beneath and then jumped into the bed and crawled about on his hands and knees, fluffing the pillows and smoothing the sheets, readying it for Aragorn.
“There you go! Fit for a king!”
Aragorn nearly choked as he stifled a laugh. He wondered just what Pippin would do if Aragorn told him he had indeed just prepared a bed for a king. Hiding his mirth as well as he could, he merely bowed his head. “Thank you, Pippin. I don’t think it has ever looked more welcoming.”
Pippin beamed at him, then slid down from the bed. He started for the door, then suddenly turned and wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s legs in a brief, hard hug. “Thank you again,” he said.
Aragorn reached down and laid a gentle hand on Pippin’s back. “You’re welcome.”
Pippin craned his neck to look at Aragorn’s great height. He wrinkled his nose. “You might want to take that bath before you get into bed,” he whispered, then ran out of the room.
Aragorn chuckled as he shut the door behind Pippin. A bath and a nap would go long toward improving the lot of his tired body, but he found that his spirit was already much restored.
“Thank you, Peregrin Took,” he whispered, and started to undress for his bath.
