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Aragorn tried very hard to move but every fresh movement sent a spasm in his stomach, a hard rolling wave of pain that meant he needed to vomit, but which he would not let himself give into. He refused to let himself give into the feeling. He wasn't that sick, he didn't need to be swathed in blankets like this, blankets which were making him hot, oh so hot...
“You are aware, no doubt, that you are saying all this aloud?”
Aragorn blinked to hide his surprise; he had not in fact realised what he had been saying and certainly not that his control over his own voice had drifted away from him. He sighed as Elrond's face slowly came in to focus and then again as Elrond pushed away some hair from his forehead. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment, curdling his insides, but he simply couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.
“Sleep,” Elrond said, and it was definitely a command. Aragorn tried to put up a protest, but sleep's pull was too strong and he once more sank into oblivion.
* * * * *
Aragorn's waking was not pleasant. One moment he had been dreaming of Arwen and a shining star, the next he was forcing himself to sit up and reaching towards the side of the bed, his stomach spasming in painful waves. He had to move in order not to soil himself, but every movement caused a fresh stabbing pain in his stomach and chest that made his eyes water.
“Here, here,” a voice said and before Aragorn could protest he was being helped to lean forward as he threw up the meagre contents of his last meal. He was thankful at least that he had not managed to eat much and therefore did not have much to lose.
Aragorn came back to himself in slow increments, hurting and embarrassed as he realised that Gandalf was helping him back to his bed. Surely the wizard had far more important matters to be taking care of than Aragorn's health.
“Don’t need...” Aragorn started to say, but Gandalf merely shushed him and tipped some foul tasting and even fouler smelling concoction down his throat. Aragorn tried not to swallow but it was impossible. He also tried to talk, to ask Gandalf the questions that were buzzing in his head, but the potion he had been made to drink was making his eyelids heavy.
“Sleep,” Gandalf instructed and Aragorn wished that he could fight this command also, but it was useless, and once more he drifted off into darkness.
* * * * *
Aragorn woke shivering, both cold and hot at the same time, and unsure how it was possible for him to feel both. He thought he was alone at last, and tried to move his hands, to throw the covers off himself, even as he burrowed himself closer into them. He wished to be moving, to hear what Gandalf and Elrond had to say that did not concern himself, but it all seemed so very hard. His thoughts were clear but he could not make his body do as he wished.
He felt a hand upon his brow and he arched into its coolness before he could stop himself.
“Your fever is still too high,” the voice above him said. Legolas he realised, dimly, before sleep took him once more.
* * * * *
Once more Aragorn opened his eyes, only to find that he was struggling not to throw up on himself. And once more a steadying hand was easing him to the side of the bed, and slowly rubbing soothingly at his back as he emptied the contents of his stomach.
“I'm going to move you,” Elrond said, voice clear and strong as ever, and he did just that, not giving Aragorn time to process the difference between lying in pain, and being half dragged towards a steaming pool of water. He sank into it gratefully, and could already feel the change it made to his body as the aches disappeared momentarily as the warm water soothed his pain away.
His embarrassment returned full force as he realised that Elrond was going to bathe him himself, and not request that another elf do so. He could not seem to form the proper words to object to this, which was surely a form of humiliation for himself and Elrond. Instead he closed his eyes, certain that the heat of the fever was not the only reason for the sudden flush he could feel rising up his body.
He could not be sure whether Elrond was aware of any of this – he was perceptive enough that he probably was, but was merely cataloguing it as yet another ridiculous feeling that man was prone to.
He tried to speak, but Elrond shushed him by placing a firm hand on his shoulder. The touch was both soothing and commanding at once, and Aragorn knew that resistance was pointless. He tried to remember exactly how he had come down with this infection in the first place, but the details were hazy, and he didn't want to ask for fear that Elrond would decide that he needed examining even more thoroughly. He wasn't sure if he could cope with that.
He must have drifted to sleep once more because suddenly Elrond was pulling and pushing him, drying him off and helping him to redress, before laying him back down in the bed.
“The fever has broken,” Elrond told him. “A few more days and then you will be able resume your travels.”
He placed a soothing hand against Aragorn's face, softly brushing away some loose strands of hair.
And when Aragorn next woke his stomach no longer ached, and he was alone in the room. He told himself it was relief, rather than disappointment that he felt, and began to hurriedly dress. Too much time had already been wasted, and he had a long and arduous journey ahead of him.