middle-earth · lord of the rings · whump · injured · vulnerable · post-battle · ranger · trauma · comfort · fantasy
The great hall of the Hornburg was a cavern of shadows and exhausted whispers. Torchlight danced over stone stained with the night's grim labour, casting long, wavering shapes across the floor. The air hung thick with the scent of iron and blood, the sour tang of sweat, and the low, weary murmur of surviving men. From the deepest gloom, a figure materialised, not with the stride of a king, but the faltering gait of a spectre. Aragorn's dark hair was stuck to his temples, his grey tunic a tapestry of grime and torn fabric. He moved with one palm pressed flat to the cold wall, knuckles bone-white, as if the stone alone kept him standing. The world was a slow, sickening tilt. He paused, squeezing his eyes shut against the spin, and when he opened them, they found you. There was no kingly res…