* thoughts or internal voices *
/ memories/

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Aragorn opened his eyes slowly to the darkness surrounding him. * Strange, * he thought. He could still see Arwen's face in front of him as she pleaded with him to hold on, assuring him that help was on the way. Now the memories and dreams were insinuating themselves into his waking mind.

* Those are called hallucinations, * his mind informed him. * One of your injuries must have become infected. You're sick and don't realize it. * Aragorn frowned, but struggled to move his hand enough to touch his forehead. It was hot. He was right, he was running a fever. * Of course I'm right, * his mind spoke up again. * You're sick. You probably don't have long now. None of your injuries have been treated, infection is setting in, and you haven't had anything to eat or drink for however many hours or days that you've been here. What would you say your chances of survival are? *

* Things are not all that bad, yet, * Aragorn protested.

His other self sounded amused. * You are currently arguing with yourself. Does that tell you nothing? *

*Do not listen to him, Aragorn. You have this tendency to doubt yourself. You are much stronger than you realize. *

* Legolas? * Aragorn groaned. He must truly be ill. Now he was hearing not only his own voice, but also that of Legolas.

* I am not truly Legolas, * the voice said. * I am the part of you that believes in your strength, your hope of surviving. Is it any surprise that I would take on the voice of Legolas? He has ever been your friend, your greatest support. Is he not the one you turn to when all seems lost? No matter what has occurred in your life, he has always believed in you. Think of me as your hope, your optimism. *

*If Legolas represents my hope, why then does the voice that tells me how dire my situation is sound like my own? *

* Because you doubt your own strength. You give hope to so many others, but you hold very little for yourself. When faced with physical peril, you fight for every moment of life. But ever since finding yourself here, you have given up and simply waited for death to take you. You cannot give up so easily, Aragorn. Fight for every moment of your life. Trust in those who love you. Have faith in them. They will come for you. You just have to be patient. *

* How will they even know I need help? *

* Do not worry about that. Just focus on staying alive. Do not give up, Aragorn, no matter what the other voice may tell you. Do not give up. *

Aragorn nodded slightly in his dark prison. Even if the voice in his head were the product of delirium caused by infection, he had to listen to Legolas. He was ashamed of how quickly he had given up. Though he did not know how they would find him, he had to trust that he would be rescued. This would not be the end for him. It could not end here. Hope burned within him once more.

He had to admit, though, that the other voice had made some valid points as well. If help were to reach him in time, it would have to come soon. Pain dominated his every waking moment. Try as he might to ignore it, there was no escaping the fact that he was badly injured. The fever was an indication that an infection was raging through his body. Dehydration was a serious problem as well. His mouth was parched, he was thirstier than he'd ever been, and though he had a high fever, his skin was dry. He didn't know how long he had been here, but he knew that he had already gone without water for far too long.

A small smile crossed his face. The voice listing his injuries and other medical problems sounded suspiciously like Elrond. Hearing the voices of his family and friends might be a sign of delusion, but it helped him feel that they were here with him, helping him through this. Now, if he could just manage to find some water to drink, he would be better able to wait for help. As if his thoughts had conjured the sound, and perhaps it had, he heard the faint sound of dripping water. He groaned in misery. Either his mind was playing tricks on him, or there was water somewhere in this cave, far out of his reach. All other thoughts gradually fled from his mind as he listened to the drip…drip…drip of the substance he needed most. It nearly drove him mad, knowing that he could hear the water, but not reach it. As time passed, his thoughts grew more clouded, distorted. Aragorn knew the infection was claiming him, but could not find it in himself to care. All he could hear, all he could think about was the steady dripping. Drip…drip…drip…drip.