#aragornxreader

Up ahead, a young elf prince strode with ease across the rough rocks and soot brought from the murky sky above. As he glanced back, he saw the pack of orcs seemingly doubling in size, his mind began to race as he drew his bow. 

“We must fight,” the prince stated, coming to an abrupt halt. 

“Legolas,” Aragorn began “I admire your courage but we are far outnumbered-”

“and out of breath” Gimli wheezed, collapsing to the earth. 

Aragorn looked to his friend then back to the elf, “We must press on, there is an abandoned village just over this hill, we might seek secrecy there.” 

Legolas looked from the man to the orcs across the horizon then back to the man. “Get up, my friend” He commanded, hauling the dwarf off the earth, agitation lacing his normally, steady tone. 

A bellowing howl rang across the land as the three quickened their pace once more. Soon, the man spotted a court yard, surrounded by strong iron gates. “There!” he pointed, redirecting the focus of the group. 

“On three.” Aragorn began, “one, two, three!” the three creatures pulled back on the gates, a whining shriek filled their ears as the iron released its hold for the first time in centuries. Once inside, the three braced the gates and waited in a circle of stifled breathing. 

“Where are the bastards?” Gimli huffed, his axe resting on his shoulder. 

“Hush now,” Aragorn whispered, looking about the forgotten stone walls of the village’s court yard. The three stood in a circle for sometime, until they heard the growling language of the orcs and the howl of their beasts.

The three passed a look of awareness between each other, tightening their grip on their weapons. 

“What are they saying?” Aragorn whispered into Legolas’ ear. 

Legolas tilted his head slightly to hear the orcs beyond the gates. 

“They know we are here,” he stated flatly, “yet, they hesitate.”

Aragorn scrunched his eyebrows, “What do we do?”

“We wait.” Legolas said.

A few moments passed and nothing but the sound of grunting beasts surfaced from beyond the walls. Gimli shifted his weight, eagerly awaiting an attack, Aragorn stood still with a strong grip on his sword and Legolas perched at the foot of a statue, listening, waiting. 

A crunch echoed throughout the stone, disrupting the silence. Gimli wheeled around to face the noise, only to find stone. Aragorn’s eyes frantically scanned the tops of the walls. Suddenly a scarred head popped over the wall followed by a body. “Legol-” Aragorn began but an arrow sent the orc back flying over the wall. As if on cue, dozens of orcs began to flood over the walls and the sound of thunder echoed as the beasts tried to break down the gates. Legolas’ arrows began to fly, swiftly taking down the orcs one by one. 

“Give me a boost will ya, Laddie?” Gimli grinned at Aragorn. Aragorn rolled his eyes as he squatted down to thrust Gimli into the air. Gimli flew over to a ledge, welding his axe at the same time, decapitating the orcs that met him. 

Turning around Aragorn was met by a blade but skillfully blocked it, then kicked the orc back into another. He then spun to sweep the legs of an orc while slicing open the body of another, all in one fluid movement. A foot landed on its head as Legolas hopped across the court yard on the heads of the orcs, like a game, all the while releasing arrows into the sky. Once he reached Gimli’s side, the two took down 20 orcs in a matter of seconds. 

“Haha! That makes 14 for me!” Gimli cheered, looking slyly at Legolas.

“28!” Legolas grinned, “oh-” 

The two ducked as an orc swung a sword over their heads. Gimli went to swing up his axe but Legolas swept his legs, then fired an arrow into the orc’s chest. 

“29” Legolas announced.

“Ya cheated!” Gimli protested, his face the color of his beard. 

“You just have to be quicker, my friend.” Legolas smirked.

A cry came from across the court yard. Legolas looked for the owner of the sound, only to find Aragorn buckling at the knees, an arrow in his side.

The two leapt from the ledge and made their way to their injured friend but were met by a new wave of orcs blocking their path. Legolas looked pass the orcs, to Aragorn, who lie on the ground, moaning in pain. 

“There are too many of them!” Gimli cried, swinging his axe.

Legolas shot an arrow into the chest of two more orcs, as he reached for another arrow, his fingers were met with air. A grunt escaped his lips as he drew the daggers at his sides. He looked back in the direction of Aragorn, only his body was no longer there. His eyes frantically scanned the court yard until he saw a cloaked figure dragging Aragorn across the grass. He pushed past the orcs, only to be met by a larger orc, a breed he’s never seen before. This one darker, the scars formed symbols foreign to his teachings and hair that draped across hulking muscles. He cocked his head to the side in curiosity but was struck about the side and tossed across the court yard like a doll. Legolas moaned in pain, and reached for his missing dagger. The new orc, came into view and stepped on his arm. A sharp pain surged through Legolas’ arm, as he stabbed the orc in the calf. This move did not injury the orc but only angered it, the orc bent down and grabbed Legolas by his neck, strangling him. Legolas’ feet dangled and his eyes bulged but he could not seem to escape the orc’s grasp. 

Suddenly, a dagger came into contact with the orc’s throat. The orc froze, blood cascading down his scarred skin, his body slumped and Legolas fell to the ground, gasping for air. Above Legolas, the cloaked figure from before stood, bow drawn. Legolas tried to stand but failed and settled for rolling onto his knees. The figure moved swiftly across the court yard, in strong strokes, fast releases and skillful leaps the figure eliminated 1/3 of the orcs in minutes. 

Legolas while regaining his composure, watched the figure glide with little to no effort about the court yard. Something about these movements, which were heavily elvish influenced, seemed dreadfully familiar to him. He looked down at the fallen orc beside him. “Such strength, such accuracy,” he thought. In the throat of the orc the handle of the dagger caught what little light the sky was producing in magnificent arrays of color. He tried to catch his breathe but the air was suddenly unbreathable.

 He reached over the corpse, and pulled the dagger from its throat. He turned the forgotten relic of his past in his hands slowly, inspecting every curve and indention. His eyes began to sting with the sorrow of a thousand mourning souls. Looking up he saw the orcs retreating back over the wall and through the broken gates. Gimli jogged over the Legolas, bewildered, yet enticed by the figure. 

Legolas slowly stood to his feet as the cloaked figure, pulled the other dagger out of a fallen orc. The figure turned to face Legolas, and froze.

The court yard fell silent with the ambience of connection.

The figure began to approach the two slowly, which only gave Legolas more adrenaline. The figure then stopped a couple feet away and held out their hand. Legolas looked from the hand to the dagger, a breath he’d been holding escaped his lips as he held out the dagger. The figure reached for the dagger but Legolas, in one motion, dropped the dagger, grabbed their hand and pulled back the hood. He stiffened. 

“S Suilad, Legolas.” She said.

He watched as Aragorn turned his body towards the fire in an attempt to quicken his pace of searching. With a grunt of frustration, Aragorn shook his pack to its side, spilling its contents onto the ground in the light of the flames. Within seconds, he snatched up a silver flask that glinted in the firelight. He unscrewed the flask and wafted it under his nose, pulling away with a disheartened look. 

Aragorn's displeasure came from the realization that he had only brought ale, which was a weaker beverage in the sense of its alcoholic content. It was good for warming up a cold body and taking the edge off of a hungry stomach, but not strong enough for sterilizing an open wound. Aragorn glanced at your pack but didn't bother to check your flask. He knew you only carried ale, and occasionally a small store of mead.

"Legolas, what did you bring with you?" 

"Just wine from my father's halls. It's won't do much for this, I'm afraid," Legolas looked apologetic. He wished he had something of more use. It was true that elves could hold their liquor better than most, but elven wine was soft and sweet. It wasn't meant for making one drunk, but rather to pair well with fine dishes and desserts. It took bottles of the stuff to make someone inebriated and Legolas only had a few ounces.

"Gimli?" Aragorn's gaze found the dwarf's above the tips of the flickering flames as he sat brooding in worry on the other side. His stout companion seemed puzzled by his inquiry as he glanced from your body and back to the ranger, as if Aragorn's question seemed unrelated to the predicament at hand.

"Ay', uh," He cleared his throat. "I brought some pipeweed. An extra tunic in case ah' soil this one. A few pairs of socks—finest wool in Moria; thick stuff. May not be pretty tah look at, but it'll save ya from losin' a toe when the frost nips at yah in the night. Oh, and ay' brought 'ah spare pipe in case 'ah lost this one. And there's a shilling of—..." The dwarf trailed off as he noticed Legolas turn back to face him, his hands still pressed firmly on your abdomen. The incredulous look on the elf’s face was matched by Aragorn's annoyed expression, which was soon accompanied by a sigh.

"In your flask, Gimli, what did you store in your flask? Ale? Mead?"

"Oooh," Gimli nodded slowly. "I brought this—" 

Gimli pulled his flask from his pocket, swishing its contents around. "Strongest brew this side o' tha' Iron Hills. Make 'ah mere man choke up 'is own gullet." 

Within seconds, Aragorn had screwed the lid back onto his own flask and got to his feet. With two large strides, he snatched the bronze flask from Gimli's hand and opened it. With one small sniff, Aragorn knew it was potent enough to complete the task. He turned his heel and knelt on the other side of your torso, across from Legolas, whose hands were still steady. 

"Lift your hands gently," Aragorn said, his voice calm but full of authority. "Now remove the cloth. Slowly." He watched as Legolas followed his instruction carefully, allowing him to pour a generous amount of the liquid over the wound. 

As he did so, he glanced at your unmoving face, surprised to see you unfazed by the contact, which was no doubt extremely painful paired with the depth of your wound. In one breath, he was thankful that you were blind to the pain in your unconsciousness, but in another, it worried him all the more. Something this strong would indefinitely jolt a body's reflexes, but with you, nothing happened. Aragorn swallowed his worry and looked at Legolas. The elf was holding the blood-drenched cloth in his hands, trying not to despair as he realized what was happening to your body before his very eyes. He'd rarely seen death, especially not anything so brutal and gruesome—not inflicted upon his companions. 

"Aragorn—" The ranger followed where Legolas' eyes fell. The elf's hands were tainted with crimson liquid and the once pure cloth of Aragorn's shirt was stained red and dripping onto the earth. Aragorn sympathized with Legolas; he knew the young prince had hardly seen death in his life, yet in the last day alone he had watched one companion die before his eyes and now another's blood was riddled in his pores. 

He wanted to comfort his friend, but there wasn't any time to spare. Comfort could come when you were conscious and on your way to mending.

 "Rinse your hands and throw that piece out. We can't use it anymore. Bring those other strips from the pot over here. She needs fresh bandages." Aragorn’s words seemed to drift from one pointed ear through to the other. The elf was frozen as he stared down at his hands, which trembled slightly in the cascading light of the fire, the color of your blood staining his pale skin. Aragorn's heart rent within his chest for him, but there simply wasn't time for this! "Legolas! The bandages."

The elven prince was startled to action and promptly made his way to the waterskin canteens by the fire, pouring some over his hands just enough for most of your blood to rinse off. He ignored the pink tint that remained as he reached for the collection Aragorn's remedies. There were a few strips of clean cloth that had been sterilized a little earlier, which were now dry. He picked one up and, while unraveling it, handed it to Aragorn. 

Aragorn glanced at Legolas' face as he took the strip from his hand and doused it with the liquor within Gimli's flask. He then leaned forward, dabbing the gash in your torso gently, probing it enough to let the alcohol sterilize whatever infectious grime had nestled itself there. He was sure, no doubt, that the Uruk's blades were never purified, cleaned, or even made with a straight edge. Your skin bore the ramifications of their hastily made weapons. 

"Take the yarrow and mix it with a little bit of water and grind the blossoms up until it's firm. It will help to stop the bleeding and seal the wound. Gimli, take those strips out of the boiling water and drape them over the edge to dry. I'll need them for her other cuts. And find the linen gauze in her satchel; I'll use it for the binding." 

Both companions set to complete the tasks given to them as Aragorn began the tedious task of cleaning your wounds—but before he could properly clean them, he had to find them. He was aware already of the deep gash in your lower abdomen, which was the worst of all. But apart from your torso, everything was still hidden beneath your clothing, just barely peeking out from wherever your clothes had been torn. In order for Aragorn to clean and purify the flesh, he had to have access to them.

He took his knife and carefully loosed the seams at the shoulder of your sleeves so they could be removed easily, leaving your upper torso covered and shielded from the brisk evening air. There were a few cuts to your face and a light laceration to your left arm, which could now be seen well enough to clean. The rhythmic sound of the rock grinding into the bowl that Legolas was using to mix the yarrow and water into a paste provided Aragorn with a stimulant to pace himself. With each small cut, he allowed himself a few seconds to dab water over it and remove the blood and dirt, and a few more seconds to apply a little of Gimli's liquor. 

Every few seconds, he would glance to your torso, watching the cloth there slowly sop up more blood. He tried his best to focus on one task, but the loss of blood was beginning to worry him. With the laceration on your left arm, he could see a little bit of your deeper tissues beneath the initial abrasion. Each time he poured water over it, fresh blood pooled in its place. Aragorn's mind began to race. If you kept losing blood like this, you would be gone within the hour. There would be no way to bring you back if you died from—

"Here, this is the first of the yarrow," Legolas unknowingly broke through Aragorn's anxiety as he knelt down next to him, handing him the first small batch of yarrow on a clean rag. "I'll make some more for her smaller cuts." As Legolas laid the rag in Aragorn's palm, he promptly returned to his bowl and cluster of uncrushed yarrow blossoms. 

Aragorn hadn't the ability to utter thanks as he crossed over to your right side where the gash was. He removed the cloth gently, which was soaked through with blood. He tossed it onto the earth next to the other ruined strip. With more water over the gash to rinse the fresh blood onto the ground beneath you, he used two fingers to press the yarrow into the marred flesh. When he filled the wound, he spread a light layer of it on the edges of the broken skin, sealing up any available passage. 

By the time Aragorn had finished, Legolas had another batch of the paste prepared for the other wounds. Aragorn promptly applied it to your arm as he had your torso, and then used a tiny bit to seal up the cuts on your cheeks. Legolas and Gimli watched impatiently, awaiting their next task. When Aragorn finally stood on his knees and turned towards them, they sat up straight. 

"I will need both of you to help me," Aragorn instructed, preparing the thicker gauze he had wrapped up in a coil from his satchel. The two companions came to his side, eagerly listening as he guided their hands. "Gimli, I need you to keep her sitting up just enough to allow Legolas to pass the gauze underneath her into my hands."

Gimli sat on the ground as Aragorn gently nestled your shoulders onto his legs, where Gimli was to support your back with his arms. Your head rested back against Gimli's chest where he could see the dark crimson in your (h/c) hair and the dried blood that had tainted your flesh. It was enough to bring the disagreeable fellow to a few tears that threatened to spill over his round cheeks and into the braids of his beard.

He watched quietly as Legolas and Aragorn repeatedly wrapped your torso, passing the gauze back and forth until it was layered generously. After that, Legolas wrapped your arm while Aragorn placed small patches of the gauze over your cheeks. When they finished, Aragorn helped Gimli position your body onto the ground gently. As Gimli stood, both he and Legolas noticed the shift in Aragorn's demeanor. 

Now that the bleeding had been stopped and the wounds had been medicated and cleaned, he could find some peace within himself. Although there were still dangers that could arise through the rest of the night, they had at least gotten the largest task done within a little more than an hour, which was incredibly good timing for such extensive wounds. 

But now came the waiting and the watching. 

Aragorn would have to watch carefully to make sure the yarrow had sealed the wounds, to make sure your temperature was level, and to watch the hours to ensure that you would become conscious on your own soon. He sat on his knees where he had been for half an hour, nursing your wounds, slouched and weary. As Gimli and Legolas settled themselves on their meager bedding, Aragorn stood and retrieved both his and your covers, rolling them out as he pulled them up from the ground. When he did so, your satchel tipped over, spilling your journal and a few other items onto the dirt. He bound the blankets in one arm and stooped to return your things, but the journal he kept in his hand as he seated himself on the ground beside you. 

He covered you gently with the thicker blanket, hoping to ward some of the chill off from your exposed body. It would be senseless to put fresh clothes on you when he would have to replace your bandages as soon as the morning dawned over the plain. You were right next to the fire as well, which would provide a lasting source of heat. 

As silence fell over them, Aragorn decided to flip through your journal, eager to see what you had stored away within its pages since you had last shared your writings with him. That was something you often did every few days with Aragorn as you traveled together, but since the Fellowship had been established and the journey to save Middle-earth had begun, there seemed to have been less time for personal pleasures. Now there were night watches, early hours, four hobbits to guard, and many other tasks that seemed to have overtaken the peaceable sense of your regular lives. There were a few nights, however, that Aragorn had stayed up after his watch to sit with you through yours, despite your protests, which had allowed you both some time to revel in one another's company.

Legolas and Gimli watched as Aragorn slowly turned the pages of the journal with a solemn smile upon his features. They recognized the book as yours; they had seen it in your hands many times since the journey had begun. There was one moment, though, as he read, that his brows drew together and his jaw tightened, and they wondered what he must have stumbled upon. When he looked up and studied your face for a moment as he contemplated what he had read, he brushed a strand of your hair from your face. They both looked away, towards the fire or upward into the sky, feeling as if they were witnessing something that was tacitly private and tender. They didn't utter a sound.

Aragorn didn't comment either as he heard Gimli's sniffles from the other side of the fire, nor did he act as if he noticed the way Legolas uncharacteristically rocked back and forth slightly as he tended the flames, or the way his fingers fluttered against each other in anticipation. As another hour wore on, their postures slouched and began to weigh heavily upon them. Aragorn, although tired, couldn't begin to think of resting himself. But there was no reason for them to avoid sleep. 

"Legolas, Gimli," He spoke gently with a comforting tone and a faint lopsided smile. "Get some sleep. There's no sense in all of us staying awake." 

"But Aragorn, what if you need help during the night?" Legolas asked, concern laced in his graceful features.

"Then I will wake you," He answered, nodding towards them in reassurance. "I'll be fine, so long as she is."

"Are ye' sure, laddie? We wouldn't mind sharin' tha' load with yeh."

"Quite," Aragorn's smile grew, but they saw the tiredness in his eyes. "Sleep."

His companions shared a questioning glance before settling beneath their bedding and allowing themselves to succumb to their exhaustion. Legolas, although an elf with considerable stores of energy, was even wearied by both the journey and the emotional strain of what he had witnessed in recent hours. And Gimli, however much he maintained his emotionally vacant facade, seemed quite worn himself from losing Boromir, the hobbits, and watching you struggle for life before his very eyes. But even their worries could not keep the sleep away for long. In a few minutes, Gimli's snores accompanied the crackling of the fire and the steady cadence of Legolas’ slumbering breath.

 For a long while, Aragorn returned to your journal, drinking in the richness of every page as though it were the very wine in Legolas' flask. You had written pages worth of things about the four hobbits and their gentle quirks, their innate kindness and hearty humor. You had scribbled down sketches of their curly hair or the way their feet compared to his and Boromir's. 

He chuckled as he studied the sketch of his foot next to Merry's. He remembered that evening with perfect clarity. It had only been two days after the Fellowship had departed from Rivendell, when everyone was still getting acquainted with one another. He had noticed how quickly the hobbits had taken to you, no doubt for the way you could feel like home to any soul that crossed your path. 

The sketch had taken place as everyone had settled in for the evening by the fire. Merry and Pippin had been telling stories about their home, describing the Shire and its quaint beauty, as well as the hobbits who inhabited it. 

You had become absolutely enamored with the thought of such a lovely place. However, amongst their words, you had been stuck on one detail about hobbit physiology since the moment you had met Frodo during the council meeting. Aragorn had been waiting for you to inquire about their feet for nearly three days; he knew you thought it both adorable and rather hilarious, that beings of such small stature would have such large feet—and the volume of the hair that grew on them! It was the source of your giggling as they went on with their storytelling. 

But as you asked your questions in between their sentences, you had had the brilliant idea to sketch their feet, which had soon led to you comparing Merry's feet to your own, and then Boromir's, who had also been subject to laughter on the subject; and finally, you had turned to Aragorn, who had been less than welcoming on the idea of parading his feet for eight other men to stare at. But the look on your face as you turned to him had been full of merriment and he could not risk disappointing you, however ridiculous the request was.

 He had been oblivious, however, to the butterflies that had erupted in your stomach when he had shied his boots away from your greedy hands and donned a bashful smile - all until you practically begged him, pulling at his arm with your delicate hands. He hadn't lasted more than a minute before you were seated by his bare feet, pencil scribbling away, as both Merry and Pippin peered over your shoulder, with Merry occasionally offering his foot as a model beside his own.

In the next few pages were different flowers and blossoms from weeds, as well as a few leaves of various shapes and colors. They were adhered to the page with the now-dried syrup Sam had brought along in his pack, much to the hobbit's dismay. Next to each carefully pressed object was a note, labeling the plant and the day it was picked, the reason it had been kept, and who had given it to you. The flowers and their frail pedals had been picked and given to you by Sam, who was always admiring their differences as the company trekked onward. 

Next to Sam’s chosen blossoms was one (f/c) flower that he remembered giving to you around the same time. He gently ran his finger over the perfectly dried petals as a swell of giddish happiness erupted within him. You had thought enough of it to keep it preserved next to your other treasures.

Next to it was a note written in careful penmanship.

 From Aragorn, in the afternoon on the fifth day of our journey, just before we reached the borders of the Lothlorien forest. He said it reminded him of me, since it bears my favorite color.

I thought it very sweet of him.

I shall cherish it forever.

Aragorn could feel the heat rise in his cheeks. He quickly flicked his eyes to the next page.

The leaves had been plucked from shrubs, trees, and the ground by Frodo, who claimed to have a collection of them himself in his home in Bag End (and had suggested turning them into garland once the journey was concluded). The weeds, of course, had been given to you by Merry and Pippin, who had somehow found beauty in their simplistic and plain blossoms. 

It was comforting to see their input in your journal, especially now that they had been separated from the rest of you. Aragorn's thoughts wandered to Merry and Pippin as he read their reasoning for picking the various weeds; some for the funny way they smelled and others for their odd shapes. 

Where were they now? Were they injured? Were they even alive at this point? 

With a steady hand, he closed your journal and set it beside him, unable to continue reading your eloquent words, gazing upon your simple handwriting, and admiring the pressed oddities hidden between its pages. It was obvious to him now that no matter how hard he tried to focus on the hope that you would be on the mend by morning, it was of no use; he would always worry for you. He would always fear a life spent in your absence.

The truth of the matter was that, if he was to lose you, to watch your life slip through his fingers before his very eyes, it would kill him completely. It was irony at its finest; to speak of that kind of inward death when your body was bruised and frail before him. It was a very ill-favored joke, a matter conveyed in very poor taste, as it were. 

And yet he did not laugh. Nor did he smile. In fact, he felt himself swallowing tears. 

Aragorn's eyes settled on your features, recalling the words carefully written in your journal, recollections of each day and the things that mattered enough to be put to paper; the things so important to you that they had to be preserved. As he studied your bruised skin, a dark thought entered his mind with tumultuous volume. Would there one day be a time when he would wake to remember that you were no longer living? Would there be a day he would have to learn to adjust to never seeing your smile, to feel his thumb caress the softness of your cheek, or never being able to close his eyes as he listened to you speak? Would there ever be a time when the comfort of your presence ceased to exist? Or when those bright (e/c) eyes did not return his gaze, knowing every thought that passed through his mind?

Amidst his worries, Aragorn noticed the blood that had been mingled into your hair and skin and the dirt-smudged in your features. He leaned over your body and retrieved one of the rags he had used to clean your smaller cuts, which was still quite clean. He poured the waterskin over the rag, dousing it with fresh water, and scooting himself close enough to be able to place your head in his lap. 

Carefully, he took bunches of your (h/c) hair and ran the wet rag through it, cleansing the blood from its strands. He then took the rag and folded it inward to a clean side and gently scrubbed the dried blood from your forehead and nose, and finally over your lips. His fingers slowed there as he noticed, not for the first time, the beauty in your natural features. 

It was mesmerizing. 

He returned the rag to your forehead and swept it one final time over your skin. When Aragorn's fingers brushed against your forehead, the brief contact revealed an intense heat that had begun to radiate from your skin. With a puzzled expression, he placed the back of his hand against your forehead and neck. They were broiling hot. Beadlets of sweat were gliding down from your hair to the nape of your neck. 

"No, no, no," Aragorn mumbled, leaning forward on his knees, and laying you back onto the ground. His mind began to race with rapid thoughts of fear, worry, and responsibility; he knew what was happening, and there were limited ways that he could fix it. Most of what would come would be up to you. With firm force, Aragorn patted your cheeks in an effort to draw you into consciousness. "(Y/n), can you hear me? You need to wake up—now!" 

 The sound of Aragorn's voice roused Legolas from his slumber in seconds. The elf turned his head from his pillow and adjusted his eyes to the bright light of the fire. With a look at the sky, he could see that it was only the young hours of the morning, with the moon still high among the stars. He glanced to Gimli, who was still snoring, and to the heap of supplies that sat untouched, and finally, he flipped onto his back to find Aragorn leaning over your body with a tense expression. 

He was much more anxious than he had been before; there was a childlike urgency in his eyes. 

"Aragorn? What is it?" Legolas' groggy voice brought Aragorn's gaze to his. 

"She's caught a fever." Aragorn simply answered, shucking the blanket from his legs and taking large strides toward the collection of herbs Legolas has set out hours before. He grabbed a handful of jars and wrapped herbs and brought them back to your side. He began to unravel the wounds that he and Legolas had covered earlier, searching for the infection that had brought the fever on so quickly. 

"What can I do?" Legolas knelt beside Aragorn, watching anxiously as the ranger peered under the edge of the bandages wrapped around your abdomen. 

"She needs something to eat, whether she's awake or not. You could make some broth with the herbs I have here. They'll fight the sickness from the inside and give her some strength." Legolas took the herbs and began to boil water over the fire. While he waited, he nudged Gimli with his foot, drawing the dwarf from his slumber with a violent jolt.

"What are yeh tryin' tah do!? Give me ah' heart attack?!" Gimli chastised, rubbing a hand over his unkempt beard. 

"It's (Y/n). She's become ill," Legolas returned to the fire, snipping off the leaves of the herbs and crushing others into powder before pouring them into the pot. Gimli sat up and rubbed his beard a moment longer before getting to his feet. 

"What's that?" He inquired, peering over the boiling pot.

"Herbs to help her gain her strength back." Legolas watched as Gimli wandered over to his pack and pulled out a bundle of cloth. As he made his way back, he unraveled it and began dropping tuffs of dried meat into the pot.

"What are you doing? It doesn't call for your petrified meat!"

"It's dried pork; it'll give'er more strength than that grass yer' dumpin' in there."

"Gimli, you're supposed to be helping–"

"No, he's right. I was unaware that we had meat. Good thinking, Gimli." Aragorn's voice silenced the bickering of the two companions. Gimli's smile was smug as he looked at Legolas and added the rest of his pork into the mixture. Before Legolas could return his smugness, Aragorn's heavy sigh captured their attention. 

"It doesn't make any sense! Her wounds are fine; there's no sign of infection anywhere," Aragorn said, his voice laced with frustration. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, considering the possibilities. "We must have missed something." 

Legolas and Gimli watched as Aragorn pulled your boots from your feet and searched your legs a second time for any swelling or gathering moisture through your green leather. As the minutes wore on, he found one area on the inward side of your lower thigh, only a little more than an inch long. He ripped the fabric open enough to expose the complete wound, revealing a small gash with a green tint to the tissue surrounding it. 

What worried him most were the vessels of blood that bulged around the wound, gradually fading into the skin. It had bled little in comparison to the others and had dried much quicker, pulling the trousers close to your skin and hiding it rather well from his sight earlier on. From the looks of it, it seemed to be a wound inflicted by an arrow. He chastised himself for having looked over it before. 

"Legolas, come look at this," He said as he tenderly fingered the swollen skin. There was a fever here, too. When Legolas' shadow flickered beside him, he opened the cloth of your trousers to show the elf. "What does that look like to you?"

"Poison," The elf replied with a sudden expression of distaste. "They must have dipped the shafts of their arrows with it." 

Aragorn did not utter a sound, nor did he return his friend's fretful gaze. He only stared at the wound, considering the next course of action he could take for something this far along. In a mere moment, he was opening his jars and mixing things in his hands. A few things he chewed in his mouth with haste before applying them directly. After that, he began to medicate the wound as best as he could with what else he had. Until the broth had been prepared, Aragorn toiled tediously over your body, suppressing his thoughts with his calculated remedies, whispering between breaths only words that Legolas could interpret as elvish. 

When he had finished, he maneuvered himself around and placed fresh rags drenched in cold water on your forehead. Every few minutes, he would check the dilation of your eyes, warring with himself not to cry when he saw your eyes staring blankly into nothingness. He covered your feet with spare woolen socks and draped blankets over your body above the thigh in an effort to chase the fever. When Legolas finally brought the broth, Aragorn took on the task of trying to get you to swallow. He hoped the sensation would wake you since nothing else had. 

"Come on, (Y/n), swallow," He whispered as he tilted your head upward and set the edge of the bowl to your lips. "Swallow for me. You've got to try."

Gimli and Legolas sat themselves down in their bedding, not able to keep the tears from their eyes. It was heartbreaking, not only to see Aragorn so torn, but to see your life become so fragile, to watch you wilt like a flower as the hours tired on. Once again, they uttered no sound and gave no indication that they heard his tender pleas towards you. They began to wonder how it would be if they had lost another companion by morning. 

How could they part with your body? How could they offer proper respect to you? How would they be able to tread onwards without your footsteps beside theirs? 

Aragorn knelt forward and attempted to pour a small amount of the broth into your mouth, hoping that it would be swallowed. When it pooled out and trailed down your chin, his shoulders dropped. What else could be done if you remained unresponsive? He had done everything he could to medicate the wounds. This part was entirely up to you.

His tears blurred his vision as they spilled over his cheeks. He set the bowl down beside him and wiped the broth from your chin. Taking in a shaky breath, he leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. When his lips parted from your skin, he lingered there, gingerly holding your cheek in his hand. 

"Please, (Y/n), I can't save you if you don't try," He murmured, resting the side of his forehead to your temple. His breath met your ear. "Please, just try. You have to help me in this," When he rose, he placed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his tears dripping from his chin. "Do not abandon me to take up the crown alone, to embark on a life with your absence."

He sat up once more and picked up the bowl, whispering encouragement to you as he tried once more to offer you broth. As the liquid cascaded into your mouth, there was a stolid pause as he waited either for it to pour back out or be swallowed; nothing happened. He laid you back down, defeated within himself. Your recovery was a slim hope, now; a dim flickering against the horrid realization of what was to come. You would be dead by dawn. 

He set the bowl back down and buried his face in his hands, rubbing the exhaustion and crippling stress from his worn features. All three men studied the grains of dirt on the ground, buried in their grief. Aragorn released a silent, guttural sob as it leaped from his lungs. He dropped his head into his hand and the other he laid over your own. His tears poured forth without restraint; without dignity. 

What else was he to do? 

 The sound of sputtering pulled three pairs of eyes to your face with shocked silence. The broth in your mouth spilled out as you coughed and attempted to raise your head. Aragorn sat frozen as he stared at you, too stunned to react. 

"For—for Valar's sake! Are yo–are you trying to drown me?!" You managed, taking in heaving breaths between gargled words. You closed your eyes tight as your head throbbed. As you regained control of your body, you began to feel the weight of the blankets on top of you and the cloth on your forehead. Rather suddenly, you became aware of the searing pain in your abdomen, and a throbbing numbness near your knee. Your left arm felt as though it had been crushed and your cheeks burned. 

What on earth had happened?

"(Y/n)!" They all echoed.

"(Y/n), you're awake!" Aragorn breathed, taking your face in his hands. You heard him sniffle as he placed a salty kiss upon your forehead. He was finally able to surface above his tears, as one surfaces above the raging current of a river.

"What—...what happened?" 

"Don't you remember? You were attacked by the Uruk-kai," Legolas explained, coming nearer.

"And I lost?" You scoffed.

"What do you remember last?" Aragorn asked, brushing your cheek with his thumb. You could see the remnant of his tears glistening in his eyes. His gentle features brought a weak smile onto your lips as you tried to remember. But when it came rushing back to you, your lips fell into a frown.

"I—I remember going after Merry and Pippin. I knew you were running to find Boromir, so I thought I would trek ahead and try to get them back." Your voice was breathy and weak, but it was like sweet birdsong to Aragorn's ears. He had feared he would never hear it again. You lifted your head meagerly and looked around. "Where's Boromir? Is he alright? And the hobbits? Did you not go after them?"

"Boromir was slain, (Y/n). He, too, tried to rescue the halflings. He provided a distraction so they could escape." Legolas explained.

"What? He—he’s gone?" 

Legolas nodded slowly as your voice dipped with remorse. You looked up at Aragorn.

"And the hobbits? Were you able to save them?"

"Our concern was with you first, (Y/n). You nearly got yourself killed." Aragorn placed his hand on your forehead to check for the fever. It was still warm, but much cooler than before. When his eyes met yours again, you could see his relief had become a subtle frame of frustration. "It was foolish of you, going on alone like that! Did you want to die?!"

"Nonsense! I was fine! You should have left me and gone ahead!" You retorted, trying to pull yourself up into a sitting position. You winced as you did so, the pain in your abdomen increasing significantly. You felt Aragorn's hands on your upper arms, gently guiding you back down to the bedding. 

"Here, sip this. It will give you some of your strength back." He brought the rim of a bowl to your lips. You felt the warmth of his hand behind your hair, helping you lift your head. It was the same stuff you had almost choked on only minutes before. You swallowed one gulp and pulled your head away from it, earning a huff from Aragorn. He should have known you would be this difficult.

"How much time have we lost? We must set away immediately! Merry and Pippin are still out there," You ignored his second offer of broth and took in a deep breath, trying once more to sit up, ignoring the pain that surged all over your body. 

"You—" Aragorn began, applying pressure to your shoulders as he forced you to lie back down, "—are going to rest. We will continue our search soon enough."

"But the hobbits, they're onl–"

"There is nothing for it, (Y/n). We cannot control what has happened, nor the time that has passed," He chided, allowing his voice to grow a little stern. You were impossible sometimes! Even on the brink of death, you refused to realize how much strain your body had been put through. 

"I scouted the edge of the plain, just ahead, before I came back with the yarrow," Legolas offered.

"What did you see?" Aragorn asked, glancing up as he carefully tipped the bowl upwards to your lips once more.

"They moved beyond my range of sight not long after I spotted them, but if they're as foolish and unwise as we know them to be bred, they'll have gone through the forest of Fangorn."

"Why didn't ye' say somethin' before?!" Gimli barked, giving the elf an incredulous expression. 

"We needed to care for (Y/n). It would have been unwise for us to set off alone without Aragorn and leaving her here wasn't an option." Legolas explained to the dwarf, defending his reasoning with a deliberate tone. He turned to Aragorn and gestured with his chin to the plain. "The Old Forest will have slowed their journey to Isengard considerably. They are far too dense and impatient to have gone around. They will have tried to make their own path through it, which will take more time."

"Aye!" Gimli sat straight up, a smile forming from somewhere underneath his copper beard. "We may yet have a chance!"

"Not if we lay around," You mutter in between mouthfuls of broth and chunks of pork, evading the rim of the bowl Aragorn was bringing to your mouth. "We have to hurry."

"The sun is not even risen, (Y/n). You need your rest, as do the rest of us. We'll set out in the morning, as soon as I'm sure that you can withstand the journey." Aragorn's word was final. 

Once you had eaten the rest of the broth and its contents, he fed you a few mouthfuls of some disgustingly bitter herbs. 

Soon enough, you had drifted back to sleep, as well as Aragorn, who nestled himself not far from your side. For the next few hours, until the sun had risen far above the horizon, Legolas had remained awake to keep a careful watch on you while Aragorn regained his energy. When you began to wake that mid-morning to the sound of rustling about, you found that the small camp had been picked up and ready for travel, while your companions munched on Lembas bread and mead. 

Within the hour, you felt ready to begin the trek onward (or at least swore as much, though Aragorn’s skepticism remained unchanged). Rather than allow you to overexert yourself upon waking, he insisted that he change your bandages and apply more numbing extracts to help with the discomfort. 

He was incredibly tender as he wrapped your torso once more while Legolas helped you stand. When you had been patched up, Aragorn had assisted you in donning a fresh tunic. He had refused to let you wear a belt, however, for fear it would irritate your abdomen further (which you protested for the issue of not having a place to hitch your scabbard and blades). He felt worried enough at the chance of agitating your wounds with the walk you had ahead of you. 

While Aragorn and Gimli snuffed the fire and began to discuss the next best step with you in tow, Legolas had agreed to braid your hair since you were unable to lift your arms without encouraging the pain to become worse. So, with the prettiest braid you'd ever worn and the most fretful ranger aiding you in each step as you leaned against him, you set forth to regain your large-footed friends. 

 Aragorn realized as you leaned into him, his arm wrapped under your own, that the greatest pardon had been given to him in your recovery. He could see now from the terrible magnitude of his fear that he had felt through the night, that losing you would declare death upon his own soul—it would proclaim everlasting torture upon his heart.

 bonus scene: ( this is my favorite part, the rest is garbage ) 

This was ridiculous. You’d practically lived half your life mounted upon a horse, and now because of a few scrapes, you couldn’t manage it on your own? You huffed in annoyance with your uncooperative body.

"Take your time, (Y/n). I'll not have you risk opening those wounds again," Aragorn's hands held your waist firmly as you attempted to mount the large steed that shifted awkwardly in front of you. You gripped the saddle with all your might, ignoring the pain that surged across your body as you tried to hop up. There had been three unsuccessful attempts already which had resulted in Aragorn's foot being smashed under yours. 

"Again?  I wasn't the one who opened them in the first place." You retorted, just before pulling up on the saddle and balancing yourself perfectly onto its seat. You sighed contentedly while Aragorn released the pensive breath he had been holding. 

"Scoot forward a little—but be careful not to rub your thigh against the pummel," He instructed, sliding his foot into the stirrup. There had only been two horses that could be spared from Eomer's charge whose riders had perished in the night ambush on the Uruk-kai. You watched as Aragorn tested the buckles and tugged on the skirt. "Now, stay still."

"Wait, you're going in the back?" Aragorn halted just as he pulled up, planting his foot with a thump onto the ground again. The expression on his face questioned your inquiry. "I would rather sit behind—if you don't mind."

"I thought we agreed that it would be more comfortable for you to sit in front, that way if you tire during the journey you can lean against me."

"I would rather lean forward against your back. It would impair you less."

"And what if you fall asleep and plummet to the ground?" 

"I won't. I'll hold on." You smiled sheepishly, knowing Aragorn was skeptical. He always was when you had injured yourself - or really any time there was a chance of putting you at risk. When he finally nodded, you swung your leg back over and began to slide yourself down from the saddle so he could mount easily without having to dodge you. He placed his hand firmly on your knee, stopping you where you sat.

"No, no—stay where you are. You don't need to do that all over again."

"How are you going to bring your leg around?" You asked, swinging yours back.

"I'm not quite sure," He smiled curiously, slipping his foot back into the stirrup and preparing himself to pull up. When he hid, he was slow and steady, carefully tucking his leg under him until he was up far enough to release it over the side. When he did, he tottered to the side momentarily, warranting you to fling your hands forward and steady him. His chuckle encouraged a genuine smile to form on your lips. When he glanced over his shoulder, you could see that he, too, was grinning. "Just like that, I suppose."

You allowed him to get comfortable before wrapping your arms around his torso to keep him balanced on the steed. Before long, Gimli and Legolas and done the same, without the minor inconvenience of mounting in the wrong order. And with that, you were riding across the plains of Rohan, towards the edge of Fangorn Forest. 

When it was discovered that the halflings had survived the ambush and made their way into Fangorn forest, you were able to dry your tears as you clutched little Merry’s belt. After you had met Gandalf the White within the shrouded cover of the trees, you found yourself exhausted from the exertion of the day's revelations. As you mounted the steed once more, you fell asleep against Aragorn's back during the ride to Edoras. 

Aragorn would never admit it for fear of worrying you further or giving power to his innermost fears, but he was glad you had decided to sit behind him instead of in front. It was not only much easier to steer Brego, but it was also comforting. It was a warming sensation to feel your head resting against his shoulder and your arms wound around his torso. He was beyond the feeling of relief as he felt your presence so close to him. 

He had faced his worst fears during the night and hoped desperately that they would never reoccur. He prayed that, should you one day agree to take his hand, he would be granted death before you. But he doubted he would be given such a pardon for a second time in his life.

“No, tha’ lass disappeared just before Boromir did. Before the ambush,” Gimli’s gravelly voice replied, his own concern putting weight upon his tone. His expression turned stern as he mulled over what predicament could have prevented your return. “You don’t think she-”

“I caught sight of her chasing after the hobbits after they were captured!”

Aragorn turned to the river at the sudden sound of Legolas’ voice. The fair-haired archer made large strides up the bank, his voice slightly strained from the exertion. When he stood level to Aragorn, he dipped his head in the direction that the hobbits had been taken. Aragorn followed his gesture and faced the southern path through the forest.

“So she’s ahead of us,” Aragorn added, but the queer feeling in his gut swelled. As he watched the flickering light of the sun scatter itself about the forest floor, an image formulated in his mind. A terrible, haunting image of you, dead upon the muddied terrain, your blood mixed with the earth. He cleared his throat and followed the path that the Uruk-kai had formed into the ground.

“What’s our plan, then? Search for tha’ lass?” Gimli huffed as he jogged up to Aragorn, who was studying the ground as he walked. Upon Aragorn’s silence, he looked to Legolas.

“What do you think? He’ll not so easily leave her behind. She’s a member of our Fellowship and his friend.” Legolas said, an incredulous look on his features.

“Well, I’d like tah’ know where I’m goin’, if ye’ don’t mind!” Gimli scowled, looking ahead at the trodden earth that had been washed into mud under the heavily armored boots of the Uruks.

“We find (Y/n) and then we track the party of Uruk-kai. We’ll not abandon Merry and Pippin, either.” Aragorn answered, carefully watching the ground beneath him as he went on ahead. It wasn’t long before he knelt to the ground and picked something up that had been buried under the mud. When Legolas caught up to him, a gasp escaped his thin lips.

“Her dagger.”

“So she’s without ah’ weapon,” Gimli added, eyeing the beautiful silver as Aragorn wiped the mud from its hilt and blade. When both Aragorn and Legolas turned and gave him a frown, he stepped back. “What? Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“She has a longsword, Gimli. She’s not defenseless. She’s just lost this,” Aragorn said, sliding the dagger into his belt, next to his own. However, despite the fact that you, as far as they knew, still had your sword, it worried Aragorn that you had dropped your dagger. You seldom ever misplaced or left your things behind, especially your weapons. “Come on, we’ll lose daylight quickly enough.”

“How could you forget about her sword? She nearly decapitated you with it when you threatened to throw the halflings into the river.”

Gimli only grumbled in return of Legolas’ inquiry.

From then on, Aragorn only mumbled his findings to himself, whether the movement of footsteps or the outcome of your fight. He could tell the difference between your shoeprint from the Uruks, as well as their own. He knew Boromir and Legolas had come this far to fight off the hoards of monsters, but your shoe shape was akin to his, although smaller.

For hours they tracked as they ran, following the scents, the prints, and the path made through the forest and onto the open plains. They did not rest but to check their path and what lie ahead, without a morsel of food. After what seemed like long hours as the sun shone and began to descend in the sky, Aragorn finally stopped in his tracks and dipped his fingers in one of many darkened puddles that littered a pattern into the stretch of the plain. When he lifted it to his nose, his features pursed.

“Orc blood.” He said, wiping it on his pants as he studied the ground nearby.

“How can ye’ tell without lickin’ it?” Gimli asked.

“It smells of rot,” Aragorn replied, following the paces of the Uruk that had been injured. He assumed it had been injured by none other blade than your own.

“Look, up ahead! There are bodies!” Legolas exclaimed, running ahead of them towards a cluster of large rocks buried in the hilly terrain a half kilometer away. When they finally reached them, Aragorn could tell you had cut down many Uruks. Not just by the bodies that lay strewn around the path, but from how you had cut them down. By the work of the blade, he could tell the fatal blows were the work of your longsword. His guess was clarified when he found your same prints all around them, showing where you had stood and fought, and what moves you had made.

In one pair of prints, he saw how your toes had dug into the earth further, which indicated that you had lunged on one of them from behind. A few yards away, a big brute laid dead on his stomach with a gaping gash drug down his back. In another, he saw how the right sides of your shoes had dug in, showing that you had ducked and dodged, possibly making a low cut. A few feet away lay another Uruk, a slice through his lower abdomen.

“They’ve not been dead long, she should be nea–”

A bloodcurdling scream broke across the plain, cutting Aragorn’s words short, and encouraging the fowl to scatter from the trees of the nearby Fangorn Forest. Without a second thought, Aragorn sprung to his feet and ran as fast as his long legs would allow, sprinting toward the source of the sound. However, no matter how fast he ran with his companions close behind, the sound of your screams kept eluding him. Each time your cries entered the air, they seemed to move further south. You weren’t dormant upon the ground as you would expect someone injured to be.

They had you in their grasp.

“Aragorn, they’ve captured her!” Legolas observed. He could not only hear your screams and what their elusive distance indicated, but also the scuffling of another fight and the coarse laughter of the Uruk-kai.

“Quickly!” Aragorn yelled, trying to pace his breathing as he pushed himself to run as fast as his feet would carry him. Another cry was heard, this time louder and more pained, with the hitching of sobs, and then it abruptly stopped. “(Y/n)!”

As they ran, Legolas could hear the resume of heavy boot falls.

“They’ve started south again!” He yelled over the sound of their own feet hitting the earth.

When they reach the edge of the jagged rock faces that dipped off onto a slope, Aragorn could see traces of a bright red liquid upon the rocks and spilled onto the ground. He looked up and could make out the black shadow of the Uruk-kai making their way across the plain, very near the border of Fangorn Forest. Legolas, with his keen elven eyes, could see that they only carried the two halflings with them.

“They don’t have her,” He said, squinting his eyes. “But they’re taking the hobbits to Isengard!”

“She’s down there, laddie,” Gimli’s voice was solemn as he pointed downwards. When Aragorn followed his line of vision, the breath in his lungs was stripped from him. He turned his feet sideways and began to shuffle down the slope, over the rocks and loosened earth. “Aragorn! You don’t know what you’ll find!”

“Do you think she’s dead?” Legolas whispered, taking in the sight of your body that was lying still upon the earth. He had rarely ever looked upon the sight of death, apart from his enemies, so the image of not only Boromir’s dying body, but also yours, was enough to break the golden-haired elf’s heart. He recalled the smile you often bore around Aragorn, the laughter that the ranger invoked from you, and the way Aragorn tenderly spoke to you.

“They would have no reason to keep her alive, but tah’ let ‘er suffer,” Gimli concluded, looking for a way to follow Aragorn down the slope. He planted his foot over the loose rocks, only for them to slide underway and lurch him forward. With his quick reflexes, Legolas clutched the dwarf’s arm, steadying him. Had the situation not been so serious, Gimli would’ve wrenched himself free of the elf with a snide comment, but he only nodded at him in thanks and followed where Legolas stepped.

When they reached Aragorn’s side, they could see the blood that stained grass crimson red, the torn and battered state of your clothes, and the longsword that lie shattered on the ground only feet away from your body. As Aragorn turned you from your side and onto your back, your mouth was open and your face was covered in all manner of dirt, grime, and blood. They were unsure if it was all your own or the result of the wounds you had inflicted upon the Uruk-kai. 

When Aragorn reached forward and pulled the hair from your face, your eyes fluttered open. As relieved as he was, Aragorn could only sit up straight and suck in his breath, eager to keep you conscious. No words would formulate upon his tongue, not even the taste of your name.  

“Aragorn?” You whispered, although it was barely audible amidst the strain of pain and the gurgling of blood in your throat. “I’m sorry-… I-I’m so sorry, I couldn’t-…”

“No, no, no, (Y/n),” Aragorn said, pulling your weak body against his chest. The tears flowed from his eyes in a hot rampage of fear and regret, flushing his cheeks and taking the grime from his face with them. “You must rest. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But the hob-…hobbits. I could-couldn’t save them. They’re go-gone.” You shivered in his arms as the blood in your body ran cold and your vision stirred into nothingness.

“Shh, stay quiet. We’re going to help you.” He said in the most soothing voice he could muster as he motioned for Legolas to unroll their bedding. He would need all the help he could get if he was going to save you.

“Aragorn, it hurts, it-…it hurts so much,” You whimpered against his chest, wincing every time you took in a breath. “Help me, please, don’t let me di…”

“(Y/n), hold on,” Aragorn pleaded, his voice cracking. The way you repeated your words over and over, as if you weren’t sure if you had said them or not scared him. The way the blood trickled through your clothes terrified him, and the extent of the wounds he had yet to examine made his gut sink further with dread. What would he uncover? “I can heal you. I can heal you, (Y/n)! Do you hear me?”

“Arag-…” His name faded from your speech as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Your body went completely limp in his arms.

“(Y/n)!” Aragorn yelled, but to no avail. You were unconscious, and if he didn’t act fast, you would remain that way for all of eternity. “Gimli, gather some firewood. I’ll need a fire to boil the water over. Legolas, I need the herbs from my pack, and find some yarrow. I saw some nestled near those boulders we passed up on the hill.”

When Aragorn stood, he picked you up as gently as he could, trying not to mar your wounds any further. He laid you down as softly as he could on the bedding Legolas had prepared, careful to unravel your hair from under your head. Then he unraveled the woolen shirt that had wound itself up and around the gash in your stomach. When he revealed the wound, he heard Gimli gasp. When Legolas returned with the yarrow, he knelt by the fire and watched silently, unpacking the herbs and ointments Aragorn had buried in his satchel.

Forcing himself to stray a small distance from your side, he set up a pot of water over the fire Gimli had begun to stoke. He enlisted Legolas’ help with applying pressure on the wound to your abdomen while he sterilized the cloth that he had torn from his own shirt. While he waited for the water to come to a boil, he began examining the rest of the horrible wounds and torture the orcs had inflicted upon you. As night set in around him, Aragorn never tore himself from your side.

“I’m not going to let you die, (Y/n), I swear to you,” He said, placing one of the sterilized cloths on your abdomen as he clean the blood from the wound. “I swear on my own life.”

“We’re sitting at the king’s table,” Faramir says again as you enter the grand dining hall. He nods toward the long expanse of marble topped with gleaming silver plates, flatware and domed serving trays 

The dinner, in honor of several retiring guards and their families, is the biggest you’ve come to since King Aragorn’s coronation a few months ago. 

The King has already had an exclusive dinner where he broke bread with the outgoing men. This celebration has a greater mix of company, and the king can sit with whomever he wishes. He specifically requested you sit by him. 

As you walk in on Faramir’s right, you respond through a frozen smile as you near the table and wave at familiar faces.

“I know where we’re sitting, mate. You’ve said it twice.”

“Just reminding you once more.” A quiver to his bottom lip tugs at his plastered smile. 

You gasp at what the involuntary move means. After all this time, you know what’s behind his every twitch, gulp and jerk.

“Faramir, you think I’m going to behave badly!”

“I’m thinking no such thing,” he says as you reach the table. A stoic server approaches and leads you to your seats, right near the head of the table. 

You sit across from Faramir, and within a minute or two several noblemen and their wives, all with whom you are acquainted, fill in the remaining seats on either side, greeting you and Faramir respectfully.

“I know how to behave before our King!” you whisper, as you lean forward, your voice high and hoarse. 

“Of course,” Faramir says. “It’s just that, he’s been under a lot of stress and strain, getting accustomed to his duties. And he’s dealing with…other unfortunate matters.”

You know what he’s talking about: the crushing blow. It irks you that Faramir thinks you’d be so insensitive.

“I’m not going to talk about Elf maidens, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Ch-ch-ch!” Faramir places his index finger to his mouth and slides his eyes cautiously to the guests to his right. When he realizes no one heard you, he lowers his finger and mouths, “and no jokes.”

”Might ease his heavy heart,” you suggest.

“A good joke, yes,” Faramir says aloud, carefully choosing his insult. “But a bad one…”

You shoot Faramir a hateful look, but it’s yourself you despise, for pouting like a child. And for what? It’s not as if the King of Gondor is expecting you to entertain him with comedy tonight. 

He probably still thinks I’m Faramir’s sister, you think, smiling subtly over the memory of the assumption he made at the coronation dinner. And he likely still doesn’t know my name - not without looking at my fancy gilded place card, anyway.

One more glance Faramir’s way tells him you agree. No jokes.

Just then, the booming voice of a herald announces the king’s entrance. Everyone stands and claps respectfully.

You add a long, studious stare to your applause.

Aragorn’s lovely, caring eyes are edged in slight uneasiness as he crosses the room, nodding appreciatively. He is finely clothed in rich deep velvet blue, and he is crownless, the first time you’ve seen his dark hair unadorned.

He wears an obligatory grin while the applause continues, then, arriving at the head of the table, he holds his hand up and gestures his thanks a final time. That’s the signal; the herald asks everyone to please retake their seats.

As he sits, Aragorn doesn’t make eye contact with any individual person for more than a half-second. You feel such empathy for him. It must be overwhelming, working his way through adoring crowds, attending meal after meal with the same foods and, often, the same company. 

All at once, Aragorn glances at you as if you’ve just spoken, and his eyes flash with the shine of familiarity and gladness, if only for a moment. You offer a smile, and he tilts his head toward you, acknowledging your presence. He starts to return a smile but something holds him back, and he turns to Faramir.

“Lady Eowyn could not join us?” Aragorn asks, glancing at the man sitting where the fair maiden should be.

“No, my lord. She had business in Rohan. Matters to settle, regarding heirlooms and other family concerns. She sends her regrets and regards.”

Aragorn looks lost for a moment, but quickly recovers and thanks Faramir for the message.

Though the King and Eowyn are close, his reason for missing her is this: If she were here, Faramir’s attention would largely stay on her.

But since she’s not…

That’s when Aragorn turns to you and says your name, without looking at the place card. 

Your stomach ropes into a thick knot.

“I am honored that you could join us this evening,” he says.

“Thank you, my lord. I am as well.”

The servers assigned to each table begin lifting the tray domes and scooping out the variety of meats, vegetables and bread, delicately placing them onto everyone's silver plates with large spoons, starting with Aragorn. 

While wine is poured generously into crystal glasses, your eyes resume their travel across the king’s features.

The ruggedness leftover from his past life as a ranger remains, looking so handsome on him in his new life. Even his trim but slightly scruffy beard has sophistication and authority.

Your gaze moves onto his hair, which you can imagine looking more natural and attractive if a strong breeze came through the open, stone-framed window on the north wall and tousled it a bit. You have a strong sense that he would probably prefer a slightly more disheveled look over the perfectly combed, stiff wig-like appearance his grooming staff has given him tonight.

Without warning, there is a nudge to your foot.

“Aoh-” you start, thankfully too low for anyone to hear above the murmurs of conversation. You glare at Faramir.

“Stop staring,” he mouths.

King Aragorn takes a sip of his wine and looks from Faramir to you, instantly picking up on communication he wishes he were privy to.

What you have long had with Faramir seems downright magical, certainly unbreakable, and thoroughly enviable.

You are just as comfortable chiding and rebuking each other as you are coming to the other’s defense. No one in Gondor can say Faramir’s name without saying yours - even now, when he’s found happiness with Eowyn. He would not be half the man he is to her without your friendship and wisdom.

“I know several of the retiring guards, your grace.” You sneak a wink to Faramir, and decide to show him that you can strike up a normal conversation. 

You quickly point to a graying man hunched over his food at the next table, surrounded by his grown children and grandchildren.

“Ernald taught me how to forge weapons. And Percivale taught me how to use them.”

You gesture toward some of the other masters you’ve been privileged to learn from, running down a list of amusing stories. Aragorn is intrigued by your thorough knowledge of weaponry and technique - even charmed - and yet he still seems solemn.

How are you to know that he’s picturing you as the courageous fighter that Faramir is always boasting about? He wishes he could see you in action. Not in war, of course, but in a sparring match or a demonstration. He’s thought of suggesting it, but has never come forth, probably because he knows your sparring partner of choice will be Faramir.

The two of you talk about each other with such love that Aragorn finds it hard to accept that you were never sweethearts. At least if that were so, he could accept his low-burning envy.

But neither you nor your lifelong friend ever pondered romance. Of the two brothers, Boromir was your very brief infatuation. May he rest.

Faramir has always been best friend, agitator and anchor, the one who can always make you smile, even when you’re cross with him. And vice versa. 

Wouldn’t it be nice if…

Stop at once! you snap at yourself, sounding uncannily like Faramir, even in the privacy of your own head. 

You feel Faramir’s eyes on you. Yes. Stop. 

But it’s too late. The idea has formed. 

Wouldn’t it be nice if King Aragorn smiled and laughed, truly and brightly?

The more you think about it, the more you desire it.

Right now.

“I am so sorry.” There’s no sound, but your lips form the words slowly to Faramir. As you turn to  Aragorn, in your peripheral vision, you see Faramir’s eyes practically jump from his head.

The joke can’t just be bad. It has to be so terrible that Aragorn has to laugh. It takes nothing to find humor in a good joke. Bad jokes hit a spot deep in the soul, a place no adult likes to admit still exists.

It’s that carefree space that finds humor in silliest, stupidest ideas. And it can save you from going mad from life’s strain, heartbreak and longing.

As the King stabs his fork into his roasted duck like it’s a fresh kill, you clear your throat.

“Excuse me, King Aragorn?” you begin.

Aragorn stops mid-fork-lift, raising his enchanting blue-grey eyes to you.

“Yes?”

“I have a joke for you.”

Faramir drops his fork, followed by his knife and spoon. Then, somehow his full plate flips into his lap and crashes to the floor.

But while everyone else’s attention turns to the fast-moving servants cleaning up the mess, you and the king hold each other’s gaze. 

“Why did the Elf put his bed into the fireplace?”

Aragorn puts his fork all the way to his plate now, his eyebrows raised and just a fraction of a hint of a smile coming through. 

“I do not know,” he admits, “Why?”

Before you answer, a small gust from the high window sweeps in and loosens his hair while blowing it back. 

You’re speechless, momentarily forgetting the punchline, because he is absolutely the most handsome man you have ever seen in your entire life.

“He wanted to sleep like a log.”

Aragorn’s smile blossoms, growing ever bigger as he stays fixed on you and leans back against the red velvet of his chair. A belly-deep laugh rumbles up and pours out, echoing throughout the hall. His eyes twinkle as he tilts his chin up and  flattens one hand just below his chest, shaking with laughter.

Soon most of the table is chuckling -not because they heard the joke, but because their king is so tickled.

You grin triumphantly and take a long sip of wine, having accomplished your mission much more successfully than you’d ever dreamed.

It takes Aragorn a half-minute to quiet, and you take great pleasure in joining him off and on. Even Faramir, cleaned up from his jittery spill, catches the contagious chortles.

At last, Aragorn settles down and wraps his hand around his glass. He lifts it in a toast to you and Faramir. 

“To humor and brilliance!” Aragorn says, clinking his crystal to the two of yours.

“Indeed.” Faramir says, smiling proudly at you after he takes a sip. “She is one of a kind.” 

Aragorn drinks with a smile still on his face. Then he pivots in your direction, and moves his head close to yours. You lean in, too.

“Thank you for the much-needed levity,” he whispers.”I should like to hear more at another time, very soon.”

Your stomach unknots, then re-loops as he leans in close, his brightened eyes set on yours.

“At your service, King Aragorn.”

As the dinner continues, no one - not even Faramir - sees the quick exchanges between you and the king, gazes that begin and end with a smile, and it dawns on you both what you’ve longed for whenever you’ve been around each other. 

You want your king unburdened, if just for a few moments.