The nobles have a grudge agaisnt you, an irrational one, born from inset jealously and a belief that you do not belong. And you constantly find yourself antagonized by jabs, mostly verbal but some... Not so.
Hence your current state.
Really, you'd think that if one were to attempt an assasination, one could at the very least hire a competent assassin.
The orcs had come closer than these people.
Still, you had been shot with the dart, and the slash from the knife has yet to stop bleeding, so you push yourself up from the floor and limp tword the medical wing.
You had just turned the corner when you come face to face with a guard, who quickly dons an expression of suprise at your bloodied figure. Forgoing any words he may have spoken, you wave your hand.
"I am perfectly alright soldier. However there is a group of assassins tied together with some draperys in that hallway, they should still be unconcouss." You pause a moment. "Although one is almost definently dead and another is bleeding quite profusely. And you may want to get someone to mop up the blood before it dries into the floor."
You pat his shoulder before limping on -because although you know you haven't broken it, you've done something to your ankle- and make a sound of thanks to his promise to take care of it.
When you finally make it to the familiar pristine hall of healing, you can tell by the look on the maids face that you look a fright.
You are soon rushed to a seat on one of the beds as your favourite healer is brought to your side.
"Gracious me, they did a number on you this time didn't they?" Vera eyes the slash wound critically before grabbing a length of bandage and a few suspisous smelling jars.
You smile at her worry and shrug, immediately regretting such. "Tis not really so bad as it looks, I am only suprised that they would dare carry out an attack within the palace wall-OI"
Vera makes a small 'hmf' sound at your exclamation of pain. "I thought it was 'not so bad'? Are you going to tell the King?"
You sigh heavily. "I imagine Aragorn will learn of it it one way or another, though not, I think, from me."
At that Vera ceases her movements. "And just why not? That man -king- would tear down the castle of Rohan for you!"
The deadpan stare you give her is droll enough to chase off an orc but she doesn't flinch. "Because my dear Vera, I know very well how protective of his friends our King can be. And I would not dare put it past him to throw all of the nobles in a cell."
Vera gives you a look, that plainly lets you know that she knows there's more too it.
"And" you begin quietly "I think I am afraid that he wouldn't do anything. I hardly see him anymore and I fear I've lost his friendship."
The expression on her face melts instantly. "Oh y/n..." She pulls you into a hug, but jerks back when you release a yelp. "What-" her eyes widen "What's this then?"
She's quickly tearing away the sleeve of your tunic and gasps at whatever she finds on your shoulder. "What? What's what?"
Instantly she becomes a flurry of movement. "You- didn't tell me you'd been shot with a poisoned dart!"
She begins dabbing around the area, causing you to let a hiss out from betwixt your teeth. "In defence of myself, I was unaware of the poison."
~
Unbeknownst to both you and Vera, the problem of telling Aragorn, called Estel, would not come to pass. For already is he informed and strides with long pace beside Boromir.
Boromir who, though he shows no sign of it, is quite worried. In many battles he has fought with his now king, but never has he seen this expression on his face.
The king of Gondor looks murderous.
Aragorn has always carried a ruged yet regal aura, somewhat intimidating, one that makes all around him willing to follow, to obey, and to trust.
The air of such is still present, but also is an undercurrent of threat. And though he will never speak of it, Boromir is afraid.
It is an irrational fear, as he is certainly not the one whom ordered the attack on you, and yet he cannot chase the discomfort away.
The guards infront of the cell jolt at the appearance of their King and Captain, bowing stiffly they open the doors at Aragorn's commanding motion.
Inside is a pitifully ragtag group of four men and one woman. One of the men has his shirt compleatly removed and a thick bandage wrapped around his chest, the rest sport less cotton but look no less miserable.
At the sight of Aragorn they all jerk to sitting positions, each with differant levels of pain. "Oh King, to what do we owe the pleasure?"
The look Aragorn gives the red haired man is eerily similar to the one he'd given the mouth of Sauron, and that hadn't exactly gone well for him.
Cutting past any pleasantries, Aragorn stares at the man. "You are the leader?" At his tentive nod Aragorn inclines his head. "Come here, we need to talk. What is your name, and why have you come into my city with ill intent?"
The man's demeanour remains flippant as he introduces himself as 'Traydor' however this is not Boromir's first, nor is Aragorn an unobservant man, and they both note the sweat on Traydor's forehead and the slight tremor of his hand.
"To my first query you have given answer," Aragorn speaks, in a tone so cold that the man with the bandaged chest shivers. "And yet my second goes unanswered."
"I should think our intent was obvious, King Aragorn."
Boromir takes a step back as the sword of Elendil flashes through the air and lands against the throat of Traydor, who's eyes widen. "It is not in my nature to make empty threats, so I give to you one more chance; explain in full why you have entered my halls and put in danger one who holds my favour."
In the momentary silence, Boromir has the fleeting thought that Aragorn would probably not be holding a sword to the neck of a prisoner had it been him who'd been threatened, but then, he reasons, Boromir would rather remain a Spector of the long looks Aragorn sent to you, and not the recipient.
The silence dissolves with the broken tone of the man on the cott. "Traydor please. Dont let your pride take you from me?"
Traydor swallows agaist the unwavering blade agaist his person. "Fine! I will speak, but only because my husband pleads." He sends an anoyed, yet endearing, glance at mentioned man as Aragorn removes the blade from his neck.
"Then do so quickly, none of us wish for this meeting to be longer than it has to be." Aragon nods in agreement with Boromir's words and the redhead begins,
"As I pointed out, it us quite obvious that we were sent to end the life of lieutenant Y/n, in no specific way, and were offered a large sum to do so. 'Twas not until yestermorn that we learned of the past failed attempts on the Lory's life, and in haste we enlisted another's help, the man whom was slain.
"It was a risky endeavor the whole way through, for we were told that in halls of the palace our quary would be off guard, not so as we found, and were all desposed of and bound. I must say though, our hired hand managed a shot with his poison dart...?"
At this point he lookes to the least injured man who grimaced. "Plant called Eldarsbane."
Aragorn showes no outward sign of worry, but his breath catches and Boromir beguns to worry. "The name of that who hired you, give me this and you will keep your lives."
Traydor shrugs. "Fair, his name was Derind. Didn't like the fellow but I've lives I'm repsonsable for." At this his eye twitched and dismay coats his face. "Had I supose I should say."
Aragorn cannot find it within himself to pity the man, but turns to Boromir. "I must attend to Y/n, I trust you will deal with Lord Derind?" He barely acknowledges Boromir's nod before turning and disappearing diwn the hall.
"That was exciting"
Boromir son of Denthor, steward of Gondor, cannot disagree with the small man chrouched on the floor.
~
Aragorn has never regretted his Royal lineage more than in moments like this, when it is decidedly suspicious to run through the halls of the palace. He waves away concerned guard on this way to the halls of healing, praying to the Valar that you were there.
Someone must have heard his plees as he turn the last corner he hears the words: "In defence of myself, I was unaware of the poison."
You jolt up at his appearance, "Aragorn!" And if you watch a bit to closely at the fluid movement with which he sheds his cloak, that is no one's business but your own.
And perhaps Vera's, as she smirks knowingly. "What have you treated her with, Lady Vera?"
And so she rattles off a list of terms that only make slight sense to you, but he understands compleatly. When Aragorn mentions something of a 'Eldarsbane' Vera freezes, but quickly launches into movment at the request for some plant called prickelbear.
After she's hurried off in the direction of the gardens, you become far to aware of Aragorn's close proximity and in an attempt to distract yourself you joke; "How long until I die my King?"
He stills from his ministrations at your shoulder and your eyes widen. Turning, you look at him mouth agape. "I'm actually dieing? Mahal's hairy Balls of course I am. Will it be slow and painful-"
"Y/n, I will not allow you to die." The steel in his voice sends a jolt of alarm through you.
"And here I thought the plant was in charge of that." The jest is painfully halfhearted, and you shift your eyes always from Aragorn's. His reaction is to reach with a gentle hand and turn your face back to his.
"I say again," he says, voice as soft as the elves who raised him. "I will not allow you to die."
You fight the urge to rest against his hand -a battle not entirely successful- and find yourself in an odd state between releaved and dissapointed when he moves to trace the line of your jaw.
"How many times has this happned, y/n?" At your confusion he raises an eyebrow. "How many times has it escaped my notice and attention that the one I care for has been targeted for slaughter?"
Your mind is in a jumble, but you manage to tell him of the five previous attempts, by the end his elegantly grave features have hardened, before softening as he sets his forehead against your own.
You can feel the blood rush to your face, but still feel odly at peace, especially for someone who is dieing.
But then, near death has always pit things in perspective; as such the fact that occasionally indulging is no crime, an hour can produce more than a day, and you've fallen madly in love with the king of Gondor.
Oh dear.
Vera returns with an odd shaped green and purple plant with spiked leaves, fifteen minutes later, you've a thick bandage with an ill-smelling paste beneath it. Aragorn proclaims that you will live and the joy and relief in his eyes shows so plaibly that you notice, and take the chanve at pulling him in for a hug.
While pressed against you he whispers in your ear. "Y/n, I do belive I've fallen in love"
"With whom my King?" You ask barely daring to fraw a breath.
"The most talented and loyal person to walk the halls of Gondor." He replies pulling away to look at you.
You smirk, "Falling for one's self is hardly becoming of a King."
Aragorn presses near to your lips, just a tilt of your head and you could claim the King. "Will you allow me to court you, to worship and follow you, to speak your counsel above all else, and shower you with the love you so deserve?"
A soft 'yes' escapes you, before you know no more, other than the lips pressed against the other, and the healing hands of your king tangle in your hair.
Live long and prosper my little vulcan potatoes! 🖖