The Lord of the Rings x Reader Inserts

tortured heart | aragorn | 2/2

REVISED on August 4th, 2022. Expanded from 7.5K to 7.7K.

summary: as his hands meddle with herbs and linens, mingled with your blood and his own tears, Aragorn's darkest fears are realized.

warnings: wounds, blood/gore, violent circumstances, sickness/fever

word count: 7.7K

music: Healing Katniss, Rue's Farewell, & We Could Go Home by James Newton Howard

"Legolas," Aragorn summoned, his voice quick and assertive, pulling the elf from his anxious position on the other side of the fire and close to his side. The fair-haired archer knelt down beside him, his gaze following where Aragorn gestured with a jut of his stubbled chin. "Place your hands here, where mine are, and push down firmly."

Legolas quickly replaced Aragorn's hands with his own and waited for the ranger as he rose with haste and made his way to their supplies, which laid in a heap next to Gimli.

He grabbed his pack from where it lay and brought it back to your unconscious body. Legolas watched pensively as Aragorn fumbled through the bag, careful to keep the pressure on your wound even. Legolas had laid out most of the medicinal things just moments prior, but there were a few items he had overlooked.

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—"