While I thought this was going to be 4 chapters long when I first started this story, I have found that it is definitely going to be longer. If I had to guess, it looks to be about twice that length, though I cannot say how long the story will go.

Chapter 5 is taking a bit longer to write than previous chapters. I will attempt to have it out before the end of the year.

It took several minutes of thorough searching before Aragorn found what appeared to be a very old, unusually long needle. It was covered in a substance that looked suspiciously like ancient blood.

Ignoring the implications of its former usage, he placed it against the hard floor and began to bend it with his thumb and forefinger with as much force as he could manage. It took several minutes - and the soft, but incessant pounding in his head did not make things easier - but after much bending and twisting he split the needle in two.

That was the worst of it. Aragorn then quickly worked to bend the tips of each piece into a right angle without breaking them. It was tedious work, but eventually his efforts paid off. He picked up both pieces and made his way over to Strange, though hesitated as he eyed the red cloak. It wasn't moving… currently.

Time was of the essence. Exhaling lowly, he slowly approached as if he were stepping up to a skittish animal. When he was about two feet away, the collar twitched. He paused and stared. While it was posed unnaturally, it was not moving, and so he carefully took another step closer towards Strange's left arm.

Now it shifted more. The left side of the cloak flew upwards and its end curled towards its master's arm in what almost seemed a protective manner.

Aragorn paused again. With time ticking away, he pushed aside the feeling of foolishness and tried another tactic. "I'm here to help him," he told the red fabric. He lifted the two bent needle halves. "I'm here to free him."

Stars above, you are talking to a cloak.

The cloak did not move; Aragorn remained still in return. After about a minute, it slowly descended to the floor and back into a more natural position.

"Thank you," he said, more as a matter of habit than actually believing the cloak really understood him because it was a bloody cloak. He carefully knelt beside Strange's left hand and - ignoring the ache that still throbbed in his left leg - brought up the makeshift pick and tension wrench to the manacle and began to pick at it.

As he worked, he noticed the numerous long scars upon the sorcerer's hand. His brow furrowed at the sight. What caused such an injury? From what he could see, they looked like the work of a talented healer - but surely it was not under a surgical knife that they came to be. After one last look, he pulled his thoughts away from the unusual scars and back to the manacle.

Aragorn was not at it for longer than a minute when Strange suddenly opened his eyes. He then grimaced in pain. "Ow."

He raised a brow at him. "Welcome back. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. I just forgot how sore I am." Strange made a face to himself, then peered up at his left hand. "Where did you find that?" he asked as he eyed the makeshift pick.

"I found a needle under some of the hay. It makes a convenient pick with minor adjustments." Aragorn turned his gaze back to the manacle and started working on the lock once more. He noted Strange's hand slightly began shaking as it had earlier, but did not comment upon it. "Did you find my company?"

"I did. They are three to five miles southwest of us. They're riding here now."

"That is good news."

"Quite."

Strange fell silent, but Aragorn could still feel his eyes upon him.

The silence did not last for long at all. "So…"

Aragorn raised a brow at the pause without turning from his work.

"... royalty, huh?"

He exhaled. He was bound to figure out sooner or later. "Yes." Aragorn instinctively looked towards the door.

Strange scoffed in turn. "Don't worry, the guards are nowhere near. I'm not an idiot. They're still far down the hall and the sorcerer is still playing with my sling ring, though he seemed rather frustrated with it." He smirked slightly, before sobering and stating evenly, "I suppose it's only a matter of time until his impatience overrides his pride and he comes demanding answers."

Aragorn gave him a wry look and began on the manacle once more without replying. The shaking in the left hand had disappeared, for now.

The silence did not deter Strange in the slightest. "And you're a king at that?"

"Yes." He kept his eyes on the lock.

"... where does a king learn how to pick locks?"

Aragorn could not help but snort softly in amusement. "I was not always a king."

"You know very well what I mean. Unless in your kingdom the skill of lock picking is considered a very princely art."

His lips quirked. "Not in Gondor, no. But it certainly has its uses."

Strange's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, so you're from Gondor?"

"Yes." A click. Aragorn smiled slightly and held Strange's left arm before releasing it. He carefully lowered it to his side. "How is your shoulder?"

"It doesn't feel like bubbles and sunshine, but I'll manage."

Aragorn snorted quietly, then moved to his right manacle to begin the process anew. His brow furrowed as he noticed that his right hand bore very similar scars to his left. It, too, shook in the manacle slightly. Turning his gaze back to the lock, he asked Strange, "You then have heard of Gondor before?"

"The sorcerer mentioned it. He thought I was from there." A pause. "He knew your company was here."

Aragorn frowned. "So I suspected myself. The ambush was too well-organized. Somehow he must have heard of our coming."

Strange lifted his brows. "So, you're… not supposed to be in this area?"

"It is a complicated situation involving several factions around here." Aragorn pressed his lips together. "Rhûn has only managed a fragile stability in the last few years."

"I see." Strange fell silent for a moment. "You know, actually, along with mentioning Gondor, they called me something weird."

"What did they say?"

He frowned thoughtfully. "They called me a... tark, I think. Yeah, that sounds right."

Aragorn frowned at the response. "It is a rather unfriendly epithet for the people of Gondor and of similar heritage. You do bear resemblance to a Gondorian."

"Ah." Another click. Strange looked over as Aragorn opened the other manacle. He let his right arm fall to the side. "Thank you," he said, carefully rubbing at each wrist. The sorcerer slowly picked himself off the ground. His cloak spread out widely, as if stretching, before falling to a natural position.

Aragorn simply nodded and leaned back against the wall, spreading his left leg out. He lightly massaged his thigh a few inches from the wound and took a moment to gather his strength before trying his luck on the cell door.

The silence sat for a brief moment as he rested his leg and Strange began a slow series of movements with his arms and hands. The sorcerer grimaced, but did not stop.

Eventually Strange exhaled and looked down at his hands thoughtfully. "So… King Strider then?"

His lips quirked. "No. Strider was but a moniker in days long past. My given name is Aragorn."

Strange frowned. "I thought I heard them say something else. King Elessar?"

"Elessar is my regnal name."

Strange turned away from him to face the other wall. "Oh, uh, like a house name?"

"No." He did not conceal all of his amusement as he answered. "The name of my house is Telcontar."

Strange began the movement of his arms once more, this time a bit faster. "So you have four names?"

Now he chuckled. "Many more than that over the course of my lifetime."

Strange snorted. "Aren't you just a Picasso."

"I beg your pardon?"

He sighed. "Never mind." Falling completely silent, he did the series of gestures once more with even more speed.

Aragorn's eyes widened as a bright orange circle filled with many shapes and strange runes that he did not recognize came from the sorcerer's right hand. It remained present for about five seconds before sputtering out like a flame.

"Oh, come on," Strange growled in clear annoyance. He started anew and Aragorn watched in complete fascination as he went through the same series of complicated gestures and movements once more. Again the circle filled with runes came up and lasted a few seconds before sputtering out again. And so he did them again, and again, and again. Aragorn eventually lost count.

After several minutes of repeating the same gestures, the shield came up again, and this time it stayed solid upon his hand. Strange muttered, "Finally," as he moved his right arm back and forth, testing his range of motion and keeping a careful eye on his creation as he walked around. It remained put. He exhaled, smiling in satisfaction.

"What… exactly is that?" Aragorn asked as he picked himself off the ground. His leg ached, but it held his weight.

"Shield," he answered, finally allowing the orange circle to disappear. "I don't usually have such difficulty procuring them, but this world is rather testy with its forces. There are many forces here but they are a bit… stubborn."

"Stubborn."

"Yeah. Stubborn." He began another series of movements; Aragorn had seen the last round of gestures enough times to realize this one was something different. "And as everyone here seems quite interested in stabbing me with something, a shield seemed like a good place to start." His palms began to glow orange once more.

Aragorn stared at the man's hands before looking towards the entrance. "Would your sorcery work against the door?"

The glow faded as Strange broke his thought process and looked to the door with a frown. "Eventually, but at this rate, it might take several hours."

"I think I may be a little faster," he said dryly.

"Probably," answered the sorcerer in the same tone. He began the gestures once more.

He only hesitated a moment before turning his back towards him as he faced the door. If he wanted to kill you, he would not have bothered to find help, Aragorn. He shook his head softly and knelt beside the door to work on the lock.

Despite logic telling him that the man behind him - who just happened to be a sorcerer - has done everything to show that he really was no enemy, he could not still nerves and instincts honed over the decades. As Aragorn attempted to work, he heard every strange electric spark emitting into the air, every time the other man moved, every time that enchanted cloak swooshed-

He heard the tight hiss of pain and the sound of dying sparks. Aragorn swiftly looked over his shoulder and caught Strange supporting his left arm, wincing in discomfort.

"Are you well?" he asked, frowning softly.

Strange immediately straightened and schooled his expression at Aragorn's look. "Yes, fine. You - you keep doing that. Don't mind me."

Aragorn raised his brows at him. The sorcerer mirrored his expression. He gave Strange a final knowing look before turning back towards the door. He started on the lock once more, and behind him he heard the sparks begin anew. Not a minute had yet passed before a sharp hiss of pain interrupted the electrical buzz and the sounds died down.

He looked over his shoulder again and once more caught Strange holding his left arm. Aragorn took the pick and wrench out of the keyhole, pocketed them, and straightened before turning to the other man. "Let me help."

"Help?" He snorted. "Unless you're hiding some ibuprofen somewhere, there's not really much you can do to help."

Feeling his patience slip further, Aragorn found himself stepping closer and lowering his voice. "Let me help." It was not so much a request as it was a command. Perhaps it was unprecedented, pulling what his wife fondly called his 'kingly presence' upon Strange, but the man was so damn stubborn and he could hardly hear the lock if the sorcerer kept hissing in pain.

Strange slowly leaned back, brows raised as he looked Aragorn up and down. His cloak had… tensed, for lack of better word. Yes, definitely as tense as its master. Aragorn kept the sorcerer's gaze, expression unrelenting.

The other man exhaled slowly. "Fine. What do you think you can do to help?"

Aragorn relaxed slightly. "Here," he said, his voice softer now. He brought his right hand up to Strange's left shoulder.

"Uh…" The sorcerer trailed off. "What are you-"

"Just - stop. Relax." Bloody stubborn man. Aragorn resisted shaking his head and instead closed his eyes.

There was an old saying, once considered doggerel in Gondor, that the hands of the king are the hands of a healer. As is often the case in old tales, there is a hint of truth to even the strangest of stories. In Aragorn's case, the line of kings bore abilities that other Men did not bear, talents that went back all the way through their ancestry to their foremother Lúthien the Fair. He had the great fortune of learning to harness these abilities by another one of her descendants and possibly the greatest healer of the Third Age. Elrond had spent many years teaching him the healing arts, including those that were unique to their shared heritage.

And so it was that, when Aragorn opened his eyes and pulled his hand away, Doctor Strange was giving him a very, very baffled look.

"... what did you just do?"

He could not help but smirk a bit at his expression and tone. This was certainly not a man used to being baffled. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, and I want to know how you did that."

Aragorn chuckled quietly. "It is part of my bloodline. It comes from one of my distant ancestors." Before Strange could say anything to that, he gestured to his hands. They were still slightly shaking. "What of your hands?"

Strange's former thought died as he pressed his lips together tightly and looked down upon them. "Old injury, as I said earlier," he answered stiffly.

"I saw the scars. They are unlike anything I have seen before."

"The procedures done on my hands are likely more advanced than any medical technology here, unless your people are in the habit of using stainless steel pins in several-hour reconstructive surgeries," he answered tersely. "Not that they did any good." Strange turned away from him and started a series of gestures again.

Aragorn raised his brows. "Several-hour reconstructive surgeries," he repeated. "It seems to be a miracle that you kept your hands at all."

"Don't you have a lock to pick?" he retorted sharply in return without looking at him.

He stared at Strange's back for a moment. Not worth my time. Expression schooled to one of neutrality, Aragorn said nothing as he turned back to the door and began on the lock again.

The silence sat heavily between them, interrupted only by the sound of soft sparks. He did not bother to look back to see exactly what he was doing. Instead, he kept his ear close to the door, carefully listening for that quiet click. It was, unfortunately, proving to be a lot more difficult of a lock than those on the manacles.

The hiss of sparks died down after a few minutes. Eventually, Aragorn heard him say softly, "Thank you, by the way." It sounded sincere. A pregnant pause followed. "Uh, your majesty."

He snorted softly at the uncertain addition and shook his head. "In here, just call me Strider," he insisted quietly. "Should we be successful in this, my given name is fine beyond these walls. And," he slightly smiled, "you are welcome, Doctor Strange."

"Call me Stephen," he answered. The sound of sparks began anew. "Say, I don't suppose you have anything I could borrow?"

Aragorn now looked behind him. His brows rose at the sight of several bright lines of orange light connected between Strange's hands; it reminded him of a spider's thick webbing. "Ah - borrow?" he asked after recovering from the sight.

"Something, anything," he answered. "Something you don't mind being thrown around. My pockets are quite empty."

"Ah…" Why does he believe I have anything? The only thing I have is my knife-

"Something like your knife would be perfect."

There it is. "I might need it." He quickly amended, "I will definitely need it."

"I won't damage it. Well, as long as throwing it up and down does not damage it, which it really shouldn't."

Aragorn hesitated briefly before unlacing the small sheath from his belt and holding it out to him. Strange let the tendrils of light disappear and took it with a nod. "Thanks." He kept it sheathed as he placed it on the ground, then stepped back a few feet. Aragorn continued to watch as he stretched out his hands and the bright lines that connected between his fingers appeared again.

Suddenly the sorcerer broke his right hand away and whipped part of the orange light towards the knife. It was pushed back a bit. Frowning, he whipped at it again. It bounced. "Why - is - this - not - working?" he gritted out as he continued to strike at the sheathed knife with each pause.

"What are you trying to do?" Aragorn asked as he watched the bright light fly from his fingers.

"Grab it," he said shortly. "This should-" He struck out at it again. "-be easier-" And again. "-than this." Strange glowered at the knife, as if it was its fault. "How's the door coming?"

"It is not," Aragorn said with a frown. He turned again to the door and started upon it again.

"Uh huh." The soft strikes behind him continued. "So, those fellows out there don't know who you are, is that right?"

He raised a brow to himself. "They do not."

"I suppose they're expecting you to be in your castle or wherever you live."

Aragorn's lips quirked. "Citadel."

Another crackle of sparks flew in the air behind him. "Right. So if you're not there, who is ruling your country?"

"My son has recently come of age. He, my wife, and the Steward's son should be doing well in this time of peace." Why is this lock so difficult?

"You're in a time of peace?" Aragorn could hear him raising his brows in disbelief.

He cleared his throat. "Well, we were. It is difficult to predict what shall happen from here, but my Steward is, if anything, a most diplomatic tactician. If this can be smoothed over, I warrant he will find that way."

"Ah." Another crack struck behind him. "And by Steward you mean…?"

"He is my right-hand man. Faramir has a way with diplomacy that I have seen in no other man."

"Oh, him. Are you related to him?" The fizz of sparks snapped past him again, and this time he heard a quiet, "About time," before the soft clatter of something dropping a short distance hit his ears.

Aragorn slightly turned his head just to catch his knife stop moving. He looked back to the door again. "We are not related."

"You very well could be. He looks and acts like you." Again he heard the sound of the sparks behind him before it was followed by the quiet clatter of the knife. "I also spoke with a, uh, Beregond and Galdir." He heard the amusement in Strange's tone as he continued, "Do you know them?"

He smiled slightly. "Very well. Beregond is the captain of the lord Faramir's guard, and Galdir of my own."

"Well, that explains his anxiety. He hasn't done a very good job guarding you, has he?"

Aragorn slightly shook his head without taking his eyes off the lock. "The situation was not his fault." This conversation is probably not helping my concentration.

"Doesn't mean he's not terribly jumpy." Strange caught the knife again and let it hang in the air for a moment. He let his line on the item recede and grow time and again until he finally let the knife drop. "When I first came out to see them, he stabbed me before I could get much of a word in."

"That sounds like Galdir," Aragorn answered, then paused to glance over at Strange. The sorcerer had moved from picking up the knife to creating shields once more. "How is your shoulder holding?"

"Very manageable, considering," he answered, then paused to look over at him. "How are your head and leg?"

Aragorn grimaced slightly. The pounding in his head remained a soft ache, while his leg was enduring his weight without too much complaint. "Manageable," he said in turn.

Strange gestured at him with one of his shielded hands. "Can you do that thing that you did to me to yourself?"

"Unfortunately not. Not without supplies." Surely this lock is almost broken…

"Then teach me and I'll do it for you." Strange released his shield and picked up the sheathed knife.

Aragorn snorted quietly at the suggestion. "It is not something that can be taught."

"Maybe not to people who do not understand the forces of the world," Strange retorted. "I'm not one of those people. I understand the workings of the multiverse very well."

His brow furrowed, though he kept his eyes upon the lock. "If by forces you mean magic, I assure you it is not that. It is a gift-"

"-from your bloodline, yeah, you said so before," he interrupted. "And I'm calling bullshit." Aragorn now turned from the lock to stare at the sorcerer, who was staring right back at him, fiddling with the knife. "Whether you call it magic, sorcery, a gift, a program, it hardly matters. It's the same thing and you have knowledge of it."

He felt his annoyance growing once more. "That does not mean it is something that can be taught."

Strange shrugged with his right arm. "Maybe. Still, why did you react to sorcery so dramatically when you carry a similar type of power in your own blood?"

Aragorn frowned. "If you are suggesting I am a sorcerer-"

He snorted. "Hardly that. A little magical healing doesn't make one a true sorcerer," he began in a very matter-of-fact manner. "What I mean is that you had a very weird reaction to my powers when you have your own powers, as simple as they are."

As he was about to retort, he heard approaching footsteps coming down the hall. "They come!" he said in a quiet hiss as he got back to his feet. Strange immediately tossed him the sheathed knife, which he caught with ease. Aragorn pushed himself to the wall beside the hinges of the door, while the sorcerer went right to his side. A quick gesture of motion brought forth shields on both hands.

"How far?" Strange murmured. "I can check their numbers if-"

But it was too late. A key was put into the lock and the door began to open.

As Aragorn prepared himself with his hopelessly less-than-sufficient utility knife, he spared one last glance at Strange before looking forward.

I really hope he knows how to fight.

Concerning the Picasso jab: Picasso's full name was Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso. One of the best things I learned in art history.

Beyond using athelas and fighting the Black Breath, the full extent of Aragorn's (or Elrond's) healing powers are never really discussed by Tolkien. His ability to ease some pain by touch alone is my own interpretation.