#still having assorted crises about [gestures broadly]

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

it's not really for any of the handful of things still in my box, but it Is the requisite part 6 of Isengard Got Worse wherein Est Gets A Hug

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

You still haven’t slept.

Whatever was in the strange crystal-blue tincture the alchemist gave you, it’s still working. You had taken the second at Morflak’s angry insistence, and now you sit bound in Grimbold’s camp fit to vibrate out of your skin. 

You try to close your eyes, but however much you wish for sleep, your limbs heavy and even your restless fidgeting graceless and uncoordinated, they only spring back open a heartbeat later.

Maybe there’s something to be said for it, though. Welcome though a long and dreamless night would be, you fear that when sleep finally takes you it will not be peaceful in the least. Isengard, yes, but worse by far that moment in the shallow waters of the Fords- a hand grabbing, everything screaming danger, Lothrandir’s surprise as he fell back. Stars, Lothrandir. Maybe- maybe you could have helped him, if you had only gone to him in time. If you had not first let loose everything that had built itching beneath your skin for days. But you had not, and at your surrender you had been taken prisoner, the binding thing in your chest all but gone. None had been eager to speak with the half-mad magician come out of the Wizard’s Vale, and even fewer would let you touch your runestones again, and you had not had any news until Grimbold at last came and asked for answers.

At least you could give them willingly this time.

Whether they believed anything you said to them or not is a different question entirely, and you can't quite find it in you to care what the answer is. Your heart has still not settled; you can feel every beat of it with strange awareness, thumping in time with the persistent ache in your temples. You wonder if it knows something you do not of what is to come. 

You have heard that people will hallucinate if they go long enough without sleep. You never intended to find out for yourself the truth of it, but when you hear Lothrandir's raised voice beyond the empty tent where you wait, you think you must be. He had- you had-

"Esterín." 

The tent flap opens, and then Lothrandir is in front of you, his brow creased with worry, reaching for your bonds before Grimbold snaps at him to stop. Anger crosses his face, but he only pulls you gently to him. It’s warm and safe and all you can think is please, please can it be real?

“You’re alright.” And if he’s saying it to himself as much as you, you do not care. You can hear his heartbeat, and if it’s unsteady yours has been no better. He is here, and he’s warm like he was even on the shores of the icebay and he’s alive and you did not kill him. Your breath hitches and he pulls you closer, resting his chin on your hunched shoulder. “I will speak with Grimbold again,” he says. His voice is mild, but the strength of his grip gives the lie to any idea of restraint. “We’ll have you out of here and then we can return to the others. They will be so happy to see you again.”

You pull back sharply. “They’re alive?” you demand, desperate and fearful. Lothrandir hesitates.

“Some of them,” he says reluctantly, and your heart cracks a little more. “The Company did not have a good time of it.” You close your eyes against the sting of tears and Lothrandir hugs you tight again. “We’ll get back to them,” he says softly. You think how can I face them again and at the same time I would like nothing more. You gave them up- Saruman asked for their secrets and you gave them. You want to see them more than anything- or at least whoever remains, but what will they say when they see you, when they hear what you did?

“They will understand,” Lothrandir says, but that does not mean they will forgive. And even if they do… the thing that coiled in your ribs has not come undone entirely. You cannot risk being turned against them. Your heart could not bear it. But Lothrandir is firm, and he insists again that you’ll be free, and in weakness and exhaustion you let yourself dream it can be true.

“Alright,” you whisper. You will go home, at least for a little while.