Grief sick.
By: Team Sherlock and Watson
Summary: Aragorn is grieving and feeling ill after the death of Gandalf. Boromir comforts him.
The fire crackled, spitting sparks into the night sky, casting dancing shadows across the faces gathered around it. But the warmth did little to penetrate the chill that clung to Aragorn, a chill deeper than the mountain air. He sat slumped, his gaze fixed on the embers, the flickering flames reflecting the pain that gnawed at his soul. Beside him, Boromir shifted restlessly, his hand reaching out to touch Aragorn's arm, then drawing back. He was no stranger to grief, but this one, the loss of Gandalf, the wise and powerful wizard, felt different. It felt...final. "He was a friend," Aragorn rasped, his voice hoarse, the words catching in his throat. "A guide...a father figure." Boromir nodded, understanding etched on his face. "We all mourn him, Aragorn. But we must be strong, for the Fellowship needs us." Aragorn let out a humorless laugh, a sound as dry as the wind whistling through the trees. "Strong? I feel like a broken blade, Boromir. A dull, useless piece of steel." The words were harsh, reflecting the despair that consumed him. But Boromir, ever the stalwart, held his ground. "You are not a broken blade, Aragorn. You are the heir of Isildur, the rightful king. You are strong, and the people need you. We all do." Aragorn's hand, clenched into a fist, rested on his chest. "But I am ill, Boromir. The Shadow has touched me. The sickness...it weakens me. I fear I will not be able to carry the burden that awaits me." Boromir leaned forward, his eyes meeting Aragorn's with a fierce sincerity. "Then we will carry it with you, Aragorn. We are brothers in arms. We will fight together, grieve together, and we will prevail together. We are stronger together." Aragorn looked at the flickering flames, the shadows dancing, and a flicker of hope, as faint as the embers themselves, sparked within him. The weight of his burden felt lighter, the pain less sharp. He wasn't alone. He had Boromir, and the rest of the Fellowship. He had a purpose, a duty. Taking a deep breath, he turned to his friend, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I will do my duty, Boromir. For Gandalf, for the Fellowship, for the future of Middle-earth." Boromir's hand rested on his shoulder, a reassuring touch that spoke volumes. "Then we will march on, together." The night air grew colder, but the fire burned brighter, its flames dancing like a beacon of hope in the face of darkness. Aragorn still felt the ache of loss, the weariness of his illness. But with Boromir's words echoing in his ears, he felt a spark of resilience ignite within him. He would grieve, yes, but he would also rise, for Gandalf, for the Fellowship, for the hope of a brighter dawn.
