“POCKETSES”

The moment of the battle was getting closer with each passing hour. The fortress of Helm's Deep was swarming with preparations for the fight, You could hear orders being shouted and swords being sharpened. You, too, were busy with getting ready, but not without problems. Sparring with a sword or a dagger and shooting with a bow weren't skills unknown to you, but participating in actual warfare was new. This led to your current dispute with the fastening of the chain mail you were supposed to be wearing. Was this thing even the right way around? The string of curses you muttered under your breath covered the noise of footsteps entering the room.

"Would you like any assistance with that?"

You flinch in surprise, turning around to see Aragorn leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

You sigh, defeated, and hand him the chain mail, trusting his experienced hands to fix whatever mess you had created with the piece of armor.

While he works on that, you turn your back to him and discard your old shirt, quickly putting on a tunic instead, to better shield your skin from the rough metal rings.

Aragorn averts his gaze, feeling somewhat embarrassed despite having lived similar scenarios before with you throughout all the time you two have traveled together He had never particularly cared before.

You reach behind your back to fasten the laces that would close the back of the tunic. A recent injury to your shoulder made you clench your teeth, the dull pain undermining your mobility. Aragorn notices as he always does, for his eyes having trained themselves to follow your every movement when possible, to assure him you're alright.

He sets the chainmail on a table before stepping closer to you. "Allow me" he says, his voice soft.”

"Thank you. This injury is more annoying than the orc who caused it," you reply, moving your hair away from your back to allow him to work on the fastening of the tunic.

He stands behind you, hesitating.

"Are you certain you don't wish to join the women and children in the caves?"

Your head turns to glance at him. "I'm sure. I want to do what I can to defend this place," you affirm determinately.

He nods, but his heart weeps at the thought of sending you into battle, despite knowing that you can hold your own. The very same determination he admires you for is now troubling him. His fingers start to fasten the lacing of the tunic. The air seems to get heavier with each delicate brush of his fingers against your skin. He slows down, stopping about halfway. His eyes fix on the skin between your neck and shoulder. The warmth of your body tempts him, the smoothness of your skin seems to be awaiting the touch of his lips. Slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away or stop him, should you wish to do so, he leans down. His lips brush tentatively against your shoulder, not heavier than the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

Your breath hitches but you don't move. Instead, your neck cranes slightly, giving him more room. As if in a trance, he trails his lips until they're pressing against the side of your neck, his stubble tickling your skin.

Suddenly, the noises of approaching footsteps reaches his ears: a warning from someone who knows exactly how to walk without making a single noise.

He pulls back as if burned by an incandescent object and goes back to fastening your tunic just in time before Legolas enters the room.

His eyes meet Aragorn's while you put your chainmail on The future King of Gondor can clearly make out an amused glint in his friend's eyes.

"The orcs are quickly approaching," the elf announces.

The three of you leave the room and join Gimli and Theoden's men on the walls that hug Helm's Deep, ready for the battle.

Men and Orcs clash for a long time, each of them fighting strenuously, but in the end humankind is granted victory.

The aftermath of the fight is just as tiring as the fight itself: there is rubble to remove, wounded to tend to, everyone who has fought is hungry (and tired). It's not until late noon that you get a moment to rest. You manage to sleep for a couple of hours before a hand on your shoulder wakes you up. Legolas is asking you to help him look for Aragorn, because the king wants to speak with him. He tells you more details, but you keep dozing off, and he has to wake you up every time. In the end he manages to get you up and asks you to check the upper floors of the building while he searches in the stables.

You're too tired to protest or voice that Aragorn has no reason of being in the stables right now. So you drag yourself up the stairs and begin your search.

It's not long before you find him, asleep, laying on a chaise. You catch yourself staring at his sleeping face, your eyes taking in his peaceful expression, the straight line of his jaw and the curve of his nose. Sitting on the edge of the chaise, you call his name. You wait for a moment, but he doesn't wake up. You guess he must be really tired. You've seen him wake up to the bare rustling of leaves before.

You put your hand on his shoulder and shake him gently while calling his name again.

He slowly opens his eyes, clearly still exhausted from the battle.

As he comes back to his senses he hears you talking. "Legolas is looking for you. He said something about Theoden, but I'm afraid I wasn't really listening..." the sentence fades out as your gaze meets his. You feel like you're drowning in his irises, the same colour of the sky during a stormy dawn. You can't deny to yourself that it's been long since you stopped seeing Aragorn as a mere friend and, in this moment, the air is so charged that you feel like it might be the same for him, the sheer intensity of his gaze revealing his own feelings.

As if following a silent order from both of your hearts, you slowly lean down over him.Your hand caresses the side of his face while your lips brush against his. You pull back quickly, as if realising your impulsive action.

Aragorn, not giving you a chance to regret what you've done, moved his hand to cup the back of your head and pull you down again.

Surprised, but definitely not about to complain, you follow his lead and your lips meet again in another gentle touch. One of your hands moves to rest on his chest, giving you some stability and allowing you to feel the slightly accelerated beat of his heart under your palm.

His lips chase after yours, one kiss after the other, his hand moving from the back of your head to the side of your face.

When you finally pull back, both of your breaths are heavy, the love that passes through your meeting gazes could warm even Mordor's cold lands and its cruel inhabitants.