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Sleep, my Child
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Outside it was dark, but the upper guest chamber in the Last Homely House of Rivendell was warmly illuminated by several lamps which were spreading golden light.
Elrond Peredhel silently entered and looked about the room. The bed was occupied by a fair-haired elf who was fast asleep, his face relaxed and betraying nothing of what he had just been through.
The elf-lord let his gaze linger on him for a while, then turned to the fireplace; in front of it, a man was lying on the hearth-rug, facing the now dying fire, his head resting on his rolled-up coat.
Elrond approached him and knelt down next to him; he was not surprised to see that Aragorn was asleep as well, overwhelmed by his exhaustion, even though his sleep was light and his face not as relaxed as his companion´s. He was still wearing his travel-worn clothes, traces of what had happened being evident not only on them but on himself as well: dried blood had crusted underneath his hairline, giving him a rather savage appearance. Though Elrond asked himself how anyone could ever mistake the Ranger for savage if they looked more closely: his face was that of a noble man, not of some coarse brute, and those who talked to him inevitably would notice how soft-spoken he was, how well-thought-out his responses usually were.
Elrond smiled; he himself could not be counted as impartial, of course, for Aragorn was his son and would forever remain his child. Gently, he reached out and placed his hand on the man´s brow, concentrating: “Sleep”, he murmured. Soon, Aragorn´s breathing deepened, and his features seemed to calm down.
-
Elrond stoked the fire, then got up and left the room; when he returned a short while later, he carried a tray with some cloths, a few jars, bowls, a nightshirt and a jug of warm water. He set those down next to Aragorn and knelt down again, then cautiously turned the man on his back and assessed him once more: he had more lines than Elrond remembered, and his hair showed the first streaks of grey, but his face betrayed his Númenórean origin and made him seeming much younger than his actual age.
Elrond opened one of the jars and mixed its contents with some of the water; he soaked a cloth with it, then started to wash the blood off Aragorn´s face. The man did not even stir, and Elrond was glad about it; he was sure that the Ranger had not gotten much sleep during the past few days. The elf-lord had not yet heard the full account, but it seemed that Legolas had been injured badly in an incident with wolves which had cost both his and Aragorn´s horse their lives; Aragorn had thus brought Legolas to Imladris on foot, which had taken them several days.
Elrond pondered at the tale while he was tending his foster son. Rarely had he heard something similar about mere wolves, and he suspected that there was more to it than he presently knew. He would talk to Aragorn in the morning; when he and Legolas had finally reached Imladris, the Ranger had barely been able to speak, so exhausted was he. His friend had been feverish and unconscious since the previous day, and it had taken the better part of Aragorn´s strength to bring him home.
-
When Elrond had finished at last, Aragorn´s own if minor injuries were tended, he was relatively clean and wore a fresh nightshirt. The elf slid one arm underneath his son´s shoulders, the other underneath his knees, and slowly got up, thus carrying Aragorn out of the guest chamber and to his own room next door, where he eased him down on the bed and thoroughly tucked him in. Images of similar scenes came to his mind, of days long forgotten: how many times had he put Aragorn to bed after the boy had fallen asleep, marvelling at the little one for one reason or another?
He smiled down on the sleeping man, then turned to go: it would never change. No matter how old Aragorn would become, he would forever remain Elrond´s child indeed, for his father was still marvelling at him.
--
The End
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