Aragorn awoke to a heavy object falling across his legs. His first conscious thought was that the orcs were trying some new method of "punishment," until his senses caught up and he heard the sound of battle. He brought his legs up and pushed the dead body—an orc, a detached part of his brain recognized—off of him. Still caught up in the adrenaline of the moment, and subdued by the fog of sleep, the pain had yet to crest. However, as soon as he brought his free legs back down in a swinging gesture meant to flip himself back onto his feet, it hit him in wave, barely in time to let him drop his feet and his momentum before he tore his dagger-impaled shoulder further. There is not much more frustrating to a warrior than being forced to be an observer to a battle—especially one that could hold the outcome of his life.
From his low position, he caught only glimpses of the battle, but it was enough to see that the orcs enemy—the enemy of my enemy is my friend—were humanoid and, if the half-face he saw under the swirling cloak was any indication, men. He was distracted from such thoughts when an orc's head landed next to him, staring grimly into his eyes. And in the midst of such carnage, he could not help quirk a grin, remembering the promise to himself the night before, that he would see the orcs dead. See them, well enough…
Beside him, a figure crouched down, peering at the bloodied ranger.
"'ello, then…what 'ave we here?" Aragorn was spared answering when the figure—man?—swiveled back to his feet in time to block an oncoming blow. The battle—skirmish? How many men—figures?—were there?—raged around him, while he lay, by now nearly unconscious once more, trying desperately to reach the knife in his shoulder with his "good" hand. He didn't notice when the sounds of combat faded to a close, but when a hand clasped his and pulled it back to rest on his chest, he frowned up at the figure. Man?
"'ow 'bout some 'elp, suh?" the man—figure?—offered. Aragorn tried to focus on the blurry thing above him. "Some bandages, Dranon!" the other called, turning momentarily away. Where, by the Valar, was he?
"Torell!" a deep voice growled, and Aragorn's brains scrambled to reassure himself it wasn't an orc. Or a troll. Or Valar knew what else…
"Yes, Stanton?"
"Don't damage the bloody prop'ty!"
Prop'ty? Prop'ty. Property. Ah, yes. By the Valar, yes…he knew where he was now. As the knife was slid out of his shoulder and his world exploded around him, the detached part of his brain silently observed …so the rumors were true…