Disclaimer: Not mine.
To hold him. That was all I wanted. I wanted to hold him until he forgot to fear. I wanted to keep him close in the strong cradle of my arms until the horrors he had suffered dissolved into nothing more than a faraway memory, as if they never existed. But that would not happen, as surely as I knew he would never open his eyes. They would never again be full of the old joy I used to adore in those sparkling silver depths, they would never again seek me out in a room of Nobles and Lords and fix upon me as if there was no one else of import, and smile. His eyes used to be able to smile, even if his lips didn't quirk. The edges of his eyes would crinkle, and light would come to his eyes. That would never happen again, and neither would Aragorn be permitted to forget, when the scars of his torment would not fade.
When I looked to our future, when I once saw joy, I saw only the greys of uncertainty and darkness, and not just for my blinded partner.
He only let me hold him when my arms were the only things connecting him to reality, when nightmares of fifteen lunar cycles in the darkness assuaged him. He would shake, his whole body trembling, and he would cry out, such awful screams, wrenched from a pit deep inside him. Elladan and Elrohir usually took up residence in the room next to us, and were mercifully abroad with the other poor souls we had rescued, but the elf who had been staying on the other side – a Lórien ambassador had requested to move after two nights of the wails. I, wrenched from sleep, had the task of pulling him from them too.
"Aragorn, Aragorn, please wake up." My voice was loud, raised, but it took several tries to tug him from those depths. If I could have, I would have shaken him, but he was not to move violently. He was not to move at all, ideally, but Elrond knew how impossible that was. Little more than a year before, this was a healthy young man, raring to challenge life and the evils and adventures it held. Then I could not even shake him awake from nightly evils.
The cuts on his back from his last flaying were still raw, and too tender to lie upon. Having stared at them for many of the nights, I knew that a few of them wept, oozing the pus of infection. The thin sheets draped around his waist, to avoid getting stuck to the foul liquid, and each time a breeze rushed through the window, he shivered with a chill I could not banish. There was a fire in teh grate, which I had teased to flame several times in the night.
Deep lines of pain were prematurely engraved on his forehead, crumpling it. I wanted to kiss them away.
Finally, he started awake, with a last cry. Sometimes, I still expected his eyes to open and be full of terror, wild. That last shout was my name, and this was the only time he would permit me to hold him, or in any way be close to that. I could place my arm around his shoulders, help him to sit up though he struggled against the touch. I knew part of him was still ensconced in that dreamworld, that memory, and that it was my job to save him. Once was not enough. I had to repeat my actions every night, sometimes multiple times.
"I am here, Aragorn. I am right here," I whispered. "You are safe. You are home."
"It is still so dark," he groaned. His hands found my waist, and held tight, but kept me at a distance. He could not bring himself to pull our bodies close, to allow that much contact.
"I know melda." It was always to be dark for him. In the moment when he emerged from the dream, it was clear he remembered, and he let out a whimper. There was nothing I could do to comfort him, but whisper words of nonsense, which I knew he could not coherently hear above the noise of the sobs.
He would only do that, as far as I was aware, at night. He only let me see that weakness. I knew he thought himself as vulnerable enough in the eyes of others; having to be lifted from place to place, and unable to breathe in another's hold, blind and scarred from vicious abuse. He thought he could feel their pity, and he didn't want it.
I still just wanted to hold him tight, but the nearest I could get was the press of his forehead into my shoulders, as hot tears spilt out from under his eyelids and down my nightshirt.
000
Aragorn fell asleep on my shoulder, and I returned his limp body to the mattress. With gentle touches, holding a handkerchief, I brushed the tears away from his cheeks, for it is a bad omen to fall into sleep with sorrowful tears upon one's skin. When they were clear, I knew well that it was a foolish, vain action, for the waist that could happen near enough had, and the nightmares would not be held at bay.
He turned his face towards me, and the scars I hate the most greeted me, the faint red line I had not wanted to detect the first time I saw it, the line which I know to have been the cause of my love's blindness. Touching the shiny skin lightly, I knew what Elrond had said the day before to be true. Though my future law-father had known for a number of days, indeed a week, since he first examined my love when we first arrived, he had not wanted to tell Aragorn. He had not wanted to say the words, but eventually informed us that Aragorn would not see again.
There had been that incredible hope that he would be able to see those moments of incredible optimism followed by devastating depression and pain upon realisation of reality which had become the norm for me during the months of separation. But at least he was home. He would not leave me again. And maybe we could find a way to flee from the memories at the same rapid pace as we left those caves. Again, I found myself hoping.
000
When Aragorn woke properly, it was much more peaceful than the last, and for that I was intensely grateful. During the first few days, he had asked if it was morning, but soon enough, he recognised the signs; he could hear the birds, feel the morning sun, and even smell the dew freshening the grass. They were sensory stimulants which he had long associated with his elven home, and I could only hope that they comforted him.
"I am sorry for waking you. Again," he sighed, and the noise wrenched at my heart. He was disappointed in himself for something that he had no hope of controlling.
"Do not be foolish. I do not mind." The words are pathetic and I knew that I have no hope of him believing me. He does not do that anymore, I am sure. "I am sorry that you suffer those pains at all."
Aragorn gave a bitter snort, which rapidly turned into a moan of pain as he attempted to roll onto his side. "That is not your fault."
Rather more abruptly than I had intended, for I had instinctively reached to assist him in turning, and restrained myself at the last moment, I replied, "Neither are the dreams your fault I know that you do not intend to wake me. You are not at fault for... for what happened to you."
His voice was that of a defeated man who I could not identify as being of Aragorn, as he replied, "They are all I can see. Every time. My dreams have as good vision as I ever had, but they are all I ever see." He turned his face upwards, towards where he presumed mine to be. "Are they all I will ever see?"
"No." I have said the answer before I have had time to think about it, but known, absolutely, the truth of it. "No. You can not tell me that your imagination and your memory will fail you now, can you?" I asked. I continued, not permitting him the time to answer, I sought to take his hands in mine. They had had calluses for as long as I knew him, from the hands of an adventurous youth, always climbing trees, attempting to keep pace with his more nubile elvish friends, to that of a warrior, used to clasping the handle of a sword. Now they were rougher and more pitted than ever. I could feel the linen bandage which had been wrapped around his broken fingers to try and force them to straighten. Two had had to be rebroken, if Aragorn had wanted use of them again. "I remember the first time I met you, a chubby thing of a half decade, and you asked me for a story. I could think of none, so you gave me one, a tale of purple dragons, and a land with an orange sky – no, it was burnt umber. How a child of those tender years knew such words astonished me – and how you would slay the great King of the Purple Dragons."
"All children have active imaginations. They are pure and... unspoiled." Aragorn's voice hitched on the word. "My creativity is much diminished. As is my memory."
"You remembered that I was in your debt for honey pastries for three and a half years," I reminded him, smiling a little at the image of the impetuous youth in my mind.
"And then I did not see you for a dozen years. I forgot what you look like." Aragorn had gone pale, and suddenly I understood his real concern.
"You will not forget me, Aragorn. I am not going to let you do that. I am going to be right here, reminding you, every day of the rest of our lives." I had already written to Atar, explaining that I did not intend to return home soon, due to the condition of my betrothed, and that I pleaded to be excused the duties of a Prince that I might not be called away from him.
Aragorn seemed determined to protest, and I could not pretend that I was not pleased his stubborn personality remained. "What if I remember you wrong?"
I raised the hands that I held up, so that Aragorn's hands could linger on my cheeks. He did not feel as other blinded people I had met did, and would have dropped away were I not holding them there. "I am right here. At any point in time, you may remind yourself. I will not be offended to find you have forgotten." That was a lie. It would hurt, for a long time. I knew that. But I decided that there were more intense things for me to be concerned about. Such as getting food into Aragorn's skeleton thin body. "Come on. We ought to face the day."
000
I found myself grinning, as I heard the knocking on the door.
"I thought you asked them to leave us alone when it is morning?" Aragorn grumbled at me, as I slipped the second canvas shoe onto his foot.
"I did," I cautiously informed him, "For I know that you do not enjoy rising of a morning, or talking to people before you have shaved and cleaned, however this is special."
"What have you done?"
The dread-filled resignation in my partner's voice dimmed my excitement, and I asked, "Why? Do you not trust me, meleth?"
Aragorn sighed, his non-bandaged fingers tightening on the edge of the mattress he was sat upon. His head hung down, his back hunched, so that his bedraggled hair hung over his harrowed face. I hated to see him so defeated. "I have to trust you, or I would not go anywhere. I have to trust you to take me form place to place, to feed me, to do everything for me including my laces, like a child."
Biting back the hurt his bitter words brought, I gritted my teeth and told him, "Not any more." I left Aragorn where he sat, and made a note to request a stranger pain potion form Elrond. My betrothed would only say such things if he was really hurting. Opening the door, I greeted Erestor and Glorfindel with the widest smile that I could manage.
From Erestor's response, I knew that it had failed. "What ails you, mellon nin?"
"Nothing you could not remedy with this most blessed of gifts," I replied.
Aragorn sat quietly on the bed, not moving to greet his friends, and I wondered if perhaps he was feeling repentant for his words. If he was feeling apologetic, I could be forgiving, even if we did not speak. I could make allowances for his pain, causing him to be loose with his words. Moving back to him, forcing myself to make footsteps thought it felt unnatural, I knelt at my partner's side and placed a hand over his. "Meleth nin, Erestor and Glorfindel have been working hard the past two days to make you this."
"Your Ada has been forced to manage the land by himself. I believe he even decided to send a letter to Lady Galadriel by himself, but sent it with a bird bound for Gondor, eh Erestor?" prompted Glorfindel, ever jovial.
After a moment, Erestor distractedly replied, "Y-yes. Yes he did." Full of pity for him, I gave him an encouraging smile. He was not a being of violence or battle. He much preferred the world of scrolls and dusty tomes. Injuries like Aragorn's were foreign to him, and disturbing. Like many of those I had seen look at my lover, he was uncomfortable being there with him, unsure how to treat him. I had to admit that, at times, neither did I.
"Well?" Aragorn impatiently asked.
I winced at the two advisors, trying my best to convey my apologies for his mood, which changed so rapidly that it made my neck hurt. Erestor nodded his understanding at me, as Glorfindel stepped forwards to explain, "It is a chair. With wheels, so whilst you can not walk, you can still move around."
Erestor added, "We remembered about your back, and have put cushions at the neck and the bottom, so you should not have to touch the back of the chair."
The three of us waited in a tense silence, as Aragorn frowned. After a painfully expectant pause, he reached out a hand. "May I feel it?"
A broad grin spread across Glorfindel's face as he wheeled the chair forwards, and enthused, "It is made of wicker, so ought to be light enough for you to move, and strong enough to take your weight."
"Which is hardly considerable at the moment," Erestor added.
"And there are stops so you can not tilt too far forwards or back," Glorfindel continued.
My Aragorn reached out to touch the present, his hands strayed down the back, examining the wheels which had once belonged to a cart, the plush cushioning for his comfort, and eventually, he gave a small smile. "Thank you, my friends," he murmured.
I had wormed the two of Aragorn's reluctance to be seen as weak, and I believed they too could see through the bravado. Obedient and oddly empathic as ever, Erestor said, "I hope it can help. Will we see you at breakfast?" He cringed at his use of a word relating to the ocular, but Aragorn paid it no attention.
"In a bit," I answered for him.
They said their goodbyes and slipped out of the room. Once we were alone again, I took a seat at his side, thigh determinedly three inches from his. I reached to take his hand, but his hand was limp in mine. "There is still disappointment in you. They know you near as well as I, and I think they could see that."
"Apologies," he mumbled.
"I do not want them, and neither do they. They are just trying to make life a little bit better for you, a tiny bit easier," I informed him. I wanted his old enthusiasm, his glee. I wanted to see happiness sparkle in his eyes. I have always wanted what I can not have; why else fall in love with a human?
After a pause, Aragorn sighed, "I know that." He would not speak his thoughts, but I guessed at them: a gesture such as this could not make fourteen months vanish from his life, and that, really, was what he wanted. "But it is in vain; I can not get in and out of that without help: my own arms will not hold my weight, and once I am in, I would just roll into a wall."
I shrugged. "I happen to have been involved in their organisation, and know that we can get past those things. If you will permit me to help."
His hand tightened in mine, his fingers lacing through my own. "I did not mean what I said. I do trust you, I do. I always have. I trusted that you would come, and rescue me, when all others claimed that was impossible."
"I am never going to desert you," I swore. "And I know how much hope hurts."
Bitterly, Aragorn snarled, "Hope. Estel. If I am the hope for my race, a sorry state we will find ourselves in."
I knew that I could not deny that and merely offered, "Perhaps your father's foresight was wrong. It has been before. It predicted a marriage between you and Arwen for a start."
In a voice full of the heavy intonations of darkness, Aragorn replied, "Well I am not wed yet."
I hissed in hurt, and knew that he heard it, but perhaps he needed to know that his words could still cause me pain. "Please do not say that. I know we have put off our marriage, but I still intend to make you my husband. You..." My words stuck in my throat, for I was unwilling for them to be heard. "You do not have to tell me if you do not feel the same anymore. I know that i was a long time."
Despite my words, I wanted him to reply that, no, he still desired me, and desired us to be wed. That was not to be, and he merely said, "Shall we go to breakfast then?"
The disappointment which washed over me was indescribable, and for an icy second, I was grateful he had lost his vision, for he could not see the tears which welled up in my eyes.
A/N: I'm just going to leave this here. Bit experimental still, working out where I want this to go.