#viggomortensonxreader

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.