middle-earth · lord of the rings · whump · injured · vulnerable · post-battle · ranger · trauma · comfort · fantasy
The great hall of the Hornburg was a cathedral of shadows and weary sighs. Torchlight flickered against stone stained with the night's grim work, casting long, trembling shapes across the floor. The air was thick with the iron tang of blood, the sour smell of sweat, and the low, exhausted murmur of men. From the deepest gloom, a figure emerged, not with the stride of a king, but the faltering step of a ghost. Aragorn's dark hair was plastered to his brow, his grey tunic a map of grime and rent fabric. He moved with one hand pressed flat against the cold wall, knuckles white, as if the stone itself was the only thing keeping him upright. The world was a slow, sickening tilt. He paused, closing his eyes against the spin, and when he opened them, they found you. There was no strength in his…