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When Lindir has finished his careful attention, there is no pain left, though there was little to begin with—Lindir visits Aragorn every morning, every evening, and Elrond stops by every second day to be sure he’s healing. They dote on him as though he’s made of thin parchment paper instead of mortal flesh. They gently wipe away the blood, rub a fine herb paste across his wounds, wrap both legs up in bandages and burn incense by his bedside. Lindir brings him every meal and tea several times a day, always there again to help him to the chamber pot, and it gets to the point where Aragorn has to jest that Lindir may as well move into his quarters rather than Lord Elrond’s. Lindir brushes bright across his fair cheeks and is only a tiny smidgen less persistent with his attendance.
In truth, Aragorn doesn’t mind the visits. He misses his independence but knows it will only last a short while longer. Most of all, he misses the greater world—the view of Imladris’ verdant valley is gorgeous, but so limited compared to what he’s used to. He grows bored quickly and enjoys the company when he has it, especially when Bilbo comes to visit and read to him. Bilbo leaves scroll after scroll and several messily-scrawled books behind in his wake, which at least gives Aragorn something to flip through.
He’s doing that when the door opens early—he glances up, expecting his guardian’s faithful attendant. Instead, the elf that slips through his door and carefully closes it moves with regal grace but the carefree spirit of the woods, an ever-present breeze ruffling his pale-gold hair and his creamy skin flush with wonder. He turns to Aragorn, and Aragorn is struck the same way he was when he first met the Woodland prince—the beauty overwhelms him. His heart catches in his chest, a smile on his face.
Legolas’ smile is captivating. He strolls across the floor in long, flowing steps, light as a feather, coming to perch on the side of Aragorn’s bed—he hardly dents the mattress. Aragorn could almost believe him to be a dream. But he brings with him the scent of trees and earth, too rich to be anything but real.
Aragorn murmurs a soft, “Hello, my prince.” And he would apologize, explain that Legolas should not have come without sending a message first, for Aragorn is unable to ride with him—Lindir won’t let him leave until he’s fully healed. But Legolas must already know that, because if Aragorn were not gravely injured, he wouldn’t still be in bed past sunrise.
Legolas answers, “Hello, my king,” and moves his trim hand across the blanket, laying it over Aragorn’s. His skin is softer than the silk sheets, warm and pleasant. Colour blossoms in Aragorn’s cheeks, but not simple embarrassment over the contact. He’s far more embarrassed with his own condition. If he had his way, Legolas would never see him at anything but his best. Legolas glances down the bed, over the hump of Aragorn’s legs beneath the blanket. He will have already heard of the incident—and hopefully how many orcs and wargs Aragorn took down with him. “Are you in much pain?”
“No. I have been well treated.”
“Mm. I was told you would be, but still I came as swiftly as I could.”
Aragorn’s chest constricts again. He would bow his head and hide his shame in his hair, but Lindir has braided it back, proclaiming him too scruffy and finally having him helpless to escape a grooming session. He’s also been shaved, which is a strange feeling after so long with day- or week-long stubble at a time, and he can feel Legolas’ eyes continually grazing his chin.
He promises, “I will be well soon. It was good of you to come, but hardly necessary.” Which isn’t to say that he’s not grateful. He’s immensely touched. He also knows that if news of his weakness reaches King Thranduil’s ears, he’ll be appropriately deemed unworthy, and their courtship will end.
Legolas seems unperturbed by the compromised position and notes, “Mortals are so fragile; I simply could not take the chance.”
Despite himself, Aragorn groans. Legolas laughs, a lovely, twinkling sound. He adjusts himself on the bed, shifting to rest against the headboard next to Aragorn, cushioned in the same pillows. He lifts a hand to delicately trace one of the absurd braids Lindir’s given Aragorn. There’s a good chance Legolas will untwist it later and restyle Aragorn’s dark mane—he understands the rugged style of the Dúnedain better than Lindir, who is sweet but far too sheltered.
Pressing a chaste kiss to Aragorn’s temple, Legolas hums, “I will stay with you awhile, I think. I will be sure that you heal well, and if you do not, then I will drag you to sail at my side, and I will have you whole one way or another.”
Aragorn sighs, “If I must be coddled, I suppose I would prefer it be by you.” He doesn’t bother to argue that he would fight at the shores to stay in his home, because it won’t come to that, not with Elrond around. Legolas nods, evidently finding the response satisfactory.
And Aragorn goes in for a kiss, because his mouth still works just fine.