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Chapter Text

Day brought with it victory, and in victory’s spectacle the stars slept.

And so, Aragorn had no more strength to draw upon, save for the silver star upon his heart.

His strength came from the stars. Even timid, hidden behind cursed storm-clouds and the stain of reckless death, their ever-present light was a well of vigor, a sweet liquor of hope and ancient memory, constant in the Evenstar’s hymn.

His strength was waning, but he wore the light of a silver star upon his heart, and that faithful star guided him through the dark and weariness, just as older stars in a more ancient dream than this one had led Eärendil upon the sea.  

The others cheered as they watched the forest come alive and quash the last of Saruman’s army. Aragorn could not muster the same cries of victory as they turned back into the keep, bowing forward on Brego and shivering in the day’s chill. The stars, in their leaving, had left him weak as a mariner who has suddenly returned to land after months at sea.

He dismounted once they were within the walls, mumbling soothing words of thanks to Brego. Théoden and Éomer were already making plans and giving orders for post-battle cleanup, but Aragorn heard very little of it through the day’s noise, oblivious in its joy to the grief of dreaming stars, and the weariness of their charges. The pain in his arm was starting to become uncomfortable again, now that all the adrenaline of battle had worn away.

“Aragorn,” said Gandalf, his voice no more than a whisper.

Aragorn looked up from Brego’s side to meet his scrutinizing stare.

Gandalf’s eyes were pale with the last vestiges of starlight upon deep water in the dawn.

“Go. Sleep.”

 Aragorn felt his shoulders deflate under some gentle power in the wizard’s voice.

 He nodded and reached up with his left hand to touch the Evenstar, as if its cool light could somehow give him the strength to walk upright through rest of this day without stars.

 He let Gandalf lead Brego away and turned on shaky legs to walk up toward the caves.

 Éowyn was waiting for him at the top of the steps, joy in her eyes, bright like the sun, bright like the day.

 She embraced him, deep and warm and full of laughter.

 Aragorn leaned on her for that brief moment, believing for a moment that perhaps the sun could revive him. But the sun was too loud and too bright, its bountiful warmth seeping quickly from his body like a bleeding wound that he could not see. Not even Éowyn’s sun could thaw the cold emptiness that the grief of dreaming stars had left him with. He broke away from her embrace still shivering.

Éowyn left both her warm, worried hands on his shoulders. “My lord, are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “I am weary.”

“Then you must sleep,” she let go of his shoulders and held both his trembling hands in her own, strong and warm. “Come, I will bring you hot water.”

He allowed her to lead him back into one of the rooms in the keep. It was less crowded than the street had been, not yet occupied by the throngs of wounded and weary men who would soon be trickling in. There were some women building a fire in the hearth, some others coming to and fro bringing water from the caves.

Éowyn led him to a corner near enough to the hearth that he could feel the warmth of the fire, but far enough away that he was out of direct view of anyone entering the door.

“Thank you, my lady,” he whispered weakly as he sank down onto the pallet.

His vision was starting to blur at the edges, he was that tired. But a painful twinge in his left arm reminded him he could not sleep yet. He had originally thought it was only bruised, but he was starting to suspect that he may have a small fracture from his fall into the river.

 Éowyn returned with a basin of water and some folded garments. In his daze, he hadn’t even noticed she’d gone.

 She placed the water next to the pallet and unfolded the shirt for him.

“This one is my uncle’s,” she explained, looking between the overlarge cloth and Aragorn’s stooped form, cheeks rosy in the dim firelight. “It may be a bit large on you, but I figured you might like something clean.”

 “Your kindness is appreciated, Lady Éowyn,” Aragorn responded, mustering the most grateful smile he could, despite his fatigue.

 Blushing, she nodded and stood as if to leave, but she lingered. Her eyes shone with sheepish concern.

“I will be alright,” Aragorn said, unsure if it was the thing she wished to hear. “I just need to rest for awhile.”

A shadow flare from the fire crossed her face for a second, eyes like the last piece of day’s pale blue before it is darkened by the dusk.

 She looked away quickly, her eyes now guarded, and the flush in her cheeks hidden by the hearth’s shadow. “Sleep well, Lord Aragorn.”

Keeping her eyes downcast, she turned and walked away, leaving him alone.

Once her footsteps had faded away, he began to strip off his mail.  

The cut had stopped bleeding at least, he noticed as he removed his under-shirt to check the wound. It was not deep enough to warrant stitching and had already started to scab over. Based on the red swelling in his forearm though, his suspicions about a fracture were looking more and more well-founded. If he had more energy, he could have gone into Legolas’ medical kit, where he knew there were herbs that would offer some relief from the pain.

But now he could feel his head nodding with exhaustion, and his hands shook with even the small effort it took to wring out a cloth with the warm water that Éowyn had brought and wash his sore limbs from days-worth of dirt, blood, and sweat. By the time the water was dark with grime, and he had managed, with some effort, to pull the clean, too-big shirt shirt that smelled of Éowyn's kindness over his head, his eyelids were growing heavy and his hands were shaking as badly as a dead tree branch on a windy mountain slope.

He fell into an uneasy sleep, laden with the burdens of day and destiny, and cold with the sorrowful flight of stars.

Chapter Text

Aragorn dreamed that the Stars were weeping, consumed by their sorrow and melting into the sea, their tears all that was left now, so great was the might and fear of Mordor’s fires. As their silver light dimmed into the sea, he watched, frozen by the shore, the last of his strength drawn away by the force of their grief. The sun fled away as he drowned, for dark clouds of smoke had hidden him from her sight, and she had begun to lose all hope, so she sank, beaming and crying into the West, while the sea filled with the grief of dreaming Stars.

He twitched awake, shivering violently, feeling cold tears sticky on his face, as if he had come up from a plunge into winter-seawater. Blinking the tears away, he wrapped his sweat-damp blanket more tightly around himself and turned toward the hearthlight.

Legolas and Gimli were sitting nearby, smoking and talking softly.

“Ah look who’s awake!” Gimli said cheerfully upon hearing Aragorn stir.

“What time is it?” Aragorn mumbled weakly, not bothering to sit up.

“Three hours past midday,” Legolas answered, rising and filling a bowl with something that was cooking in the pot above the fire. He came to kneel by the pallet where Aragorn lay. “How do you feel?” He narrowed his eyes, too sharp, too shrewd, knowing too much of Aragorn’s thoughts that were unsaid.  

Aragorn forced himself into a sitting position, still shivering despite the warmth from the nearby fire. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, head aching and dizzy.

“You should eat,” Legolas held the bowl out towards him. “Gandalf says we are to ride to Isengard before nightfall.”

He took it in shaky hands, bringing it to his lips to drink a little of the broth, if only to warm himself from the inside. He could not seem to get warm, and since sitting up he was beginning to feel even more achy and dizzy. But just those few sips of broth left him feeling slightly sick, so he put the bowl down on the ground, blinking away the nausea and wrapping his arms around himself in an effort to warm himself.

Legolas immediately noticed that something was wrong and reached his hand out to lay the back of his palm on Aragorn’s forehead.

“You have a fever,” he stated in a whisper, eyes darting with concern to the place where Aragorn had cut his shoulder the day before.

“It is not the wound,” Aragorn reassured.

Legolas did not look encouraged. “Even so, you are ill. You should stay here, rest, then ride to Edoras with Éowyn’s company tomorrow. There is no shame in it.”

“Legolas,” Aragorn pushed himself off from the wall, crossing his legs as if to show that there was still some strength in his limbs, closing his eyes briefly to quell the dizziness that the movement left in its wake. “Mellon Nin, I must go to Isengard. I am not wounded enough that I can yet leave that task to others.”

“He is right.” Gandalf’s voice was grave, quiet as it entered the room, as a gentle wind stirring the embers of the hearth just enough that they crackled. “As much as I am hesitant to make you come on such an errand when you are not well, I fear that we shall need you ere it is over.” Gandalf leaned against the wall, looking downwards at where Aragorn sat shivering in his twisted blankets, and Legolas still knelt. Gimli had not moved from his place by the hearth, though his pipe had long gone out, and he was watching the exchange with  furrowed brow and uncharacteristic silence.

“Are you well enough to travel?” Gandalf asked, his voice gentle, almost regretful.

Aragorn nodded, meeting Legolas’s eyes with resolution. “Well enough. When must we be ready to depart?”

“You have two hours,” Gandalf replied. “Rest as much as you can before then. I will wake you when it is time to leave.” He blinked once more at Aragorn with pity, then swept out of the room like a bird on a sudden gust of wind to see to his countless other preparations.  

“You heard him,” Gimli grunted, “back to bed with you.” He stalked toward Aragorn and pushed him back to laying down on the pallet, then laid his own cloak down on top of the thin blanket.

He drifted off once more under the warm, watchful vigil of both dwarf, and elf, their resolve and care cheering the stars enough in their grief to grant Aragorn just enough strength to fall into the last vestiges of one more restful sleep.

This time he dreamed that the sun, too, had drowned in the sea, and that her lament became washed up with the dirge of grieving stars. He was too cold, and it was too dark, as he drowned in stormy salt-depths, and could not cry out to either of them. He sank until he saw fire on the ocean floor, and by then, no memory of star or sun song was left to lend him strength.

He woke to someone gently shaking him. Groggy, he opened his eyes to see Legolas’s blurry form kneeling beside him.

“Gandalf says we are leaving within the hour.” With that, he stood and strode over towards the fire.

Aragorn blinked, struggling to muster enough energy to sit up.

“Here lad, let me help you.” He felt Gimli’s stout arms around his shoulders and let them bear him upwards so he could lean against the wall. He did not feel quite as dizzy as earlier, though there was a weakness in his limbs that he couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how many times he blinked or shook his head.

“I have your clothes warming by the fire,” Gimli continued. “I cleaned your mail and mended the holes in your shirt, though there was no time to wash it properly.”

Aragorn smiled weakly. “Your thoughtfulness gives me strength, my friend.”

“So too, will this,” said Legolas, bringing a cup of something steaming and smelling of herbs that Aragorn recognized. “Drink, you’ll feel better.”

While Aragorn took the warm cup in his stiff hands, sipping the brew gingerly, Legolas once again felt his forehead with the back of his hand. “Still feverish,” he remarked as he drew it away. “Though it is not dangerously high, and you’re no worse than before. Another night of uninterrupted rest would probably set you right again, but it seems that in these dark and urgent times that simple luxury is one we cannot afford to give you.”

While Legolas and Gimli finished packing up, Aragorn finished Legolas’s tea. It warmed his limbs and gave him just enough energy to raise himself up from the bed and pull on his mail shirt and jerkin, though the ache and chill in his entire body remained. He left the shirt that Eowyn had lent him folded on the pallet.

 He pulled his cloak close around his shoulders, closing his fingers weakly around Arwen’s Evenstar, willing its light to refrain from the pull of the dark sea for just a little longer as he followed Legolas and Gimli out to where Théoden’s company was assembled.

“I wish that we did not have to ask you to spend so much of your strength,” Gandalf whispered, giving Aragorn a glance of grateful pity as he hauled himself up onto Brego, cold sweat breaking over his brow and his arms shaking with the exertion.

“Gladly, I will give it,” Aragorn returned, gathering as mush fervor into his voice as he could, weak with fever and tired as he was. “For we are one of the last vanguards against a darkness that would drive the light of stars, and even of the bright sun, from this land’s skies forever.”

He felt Éowyn’s eyes watching them as they rode into the coming night, her gaze mirroring the sun as it departs into the West, alight with the dread of day’s leaving, and the uneasy hope of stars.