Author's Note:

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Aragorn

The sight of blood on his hands was forever imprinted on his mind.

Blood never troubled him before. He spent long hours in the infirmary, suturing wounds and changing dressings. But blood like this was spilt by his own hand, with the intent to kill rather than heal.

And so, as he scrubbed his hands until the skin turned pink and raw, he felt as if he missed a clot under his fingernails or a speck of blood in the folds of his skin.

He pulled his hands from the basin of water, dripping wet and brought them close to his face. He could still smell the tangy scent of blood even after he washed his hands in scented water. He could still hear the arrow flying from his bow, its head passing through bone and muscle until it embedded into his enemy's brain.

Bile rose in his throat once more, bitter against the back of his throat and he immediately swallowed it down.

A knock startled him out of his thoughts. He dropped his hands in the clean, if soapy, water. The gentle rap on his door sounded again. He dried his hands on a thick towel and went to open the door.

Elrond stood in the hallway with a grave expression. Aragorn looked down at his father's feet, unable to show him his vulnerability.

"You will never forget," Elrond said quietly. His feet shifted until Aragorn assumed by his stance that Elrond now leaned against the door frame. "But it will get easier. There is only one lesson to derive from it." Aragorn stole a glance at Elrond. His father was solemn, but his eyes were understanding. "Never forget your heart, Estel. Do not let it harden. If it does, you will lose yourself, and all will be lost."

Aragorn swallowed and nodded wordlessly.


Author's Note:

Saving a life is one thing. Taking it is completely another. As someone who is linked to preserving life, the thought of taking one, even under self-defense leaves a bitter taste in one's mouth.