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roselightfairy) wrote2021-01-10 03:05 pm
roselightfairy) wrote2021-01-10 03:05 pm
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Last weekend, a friend and I watched Two Towers and the accompanying extra interviews, many of which I hadn’t seen. I was so taken by the bit where all Three Hunters actors were injured during the scenes they were trying to run across Rohan that I had to write a fic about it. I had vague thoughts about trying to make it a coherent story with other little bits of the plot, but the vignette ran itself out and then refused to go any further. Maybe one day I’ll add more or clean it up for an archive, but everything is Too Much right now, so I'm posting it informally on fan social media instead of an archive.
Every breath hurt.
Legolas had never run for so long without stopping before, but this would not have been a trying journey under any other circumstances. The plains and gentle hills of Rohan were clear and open, all possible obstacles easy to spot from a distance, and his ears sharp enough that he would hear if any foe approached from the rear. He was encumbered with his pack and his bow, yes, but that was an accustomed weight – easier, even, in the open rather than among the boughs of his home forest. And the smell of the grasslands was fresh and clean – except, he admitted reluctantly, for the foul taint that still hung about the edges of their quarry’s trail, the stink of poison and rot and something else unwholesome. But it would have been possible to ignore – indeed, it only drove the urgency of their pursuit – if not for –
He winced and pressed a hand to his left side as another flash of pain assailed him. His ribs were not shifting under his touch, he assured himself; the crack had not been so bad as all that – but still, every breath, every motion sent a new stab throbbing through him. The skin around the cracked rib was tender from the armor of the orc who had crushed him to the ground; bruises would form there soon enough, but that was ignorable. The rib was the worst of it, and the pain of breathing.
Behind him, Gimli was lagging. Legolas could hear the uneven thud of his footsteps beneath his heavy breathing, the drag of him favoring his right leg, and he grimaced in sympathy. His hurts might cause him pain when he breathed, but at least his ribs did not support his weight. Gimli, on the other hand, had twisted a knee in their fight before, and though they had wrapped it before setting out, this exertion would do it no good. The only cure for such an injury was rest, and this run afforded them none.
“How do you fare?” he murmured, falling back to Gimli’s side. He could catch up to Aragorn easily again if need be, and anyway, the man was the better tracker, particularly in such open plains. This land did not sing to Legolas in a voice that was familiar to him; he could learn it if given time, but would leave the tracking up to Aragorn for now.
“The wrapping is coming loose,” Gimli grunted, his breath coming in short hisses. “Do you suppose Aragorn would consent to stop while I rewrap it?”
Legolas glanced down at Gimli’s knee to see that he was right – the bandage, made of strips torn from an orc-rag, was already loosening. Of course they would use poor cloth for their trappings; why should their masters afford them the care of the best? If it came any looser, it would cease to do any good at all.
“I will do it,” said Legolas. “Aragorn!”
Ahead of them, Aragorn stumbled, then swore. He too seemed to have sustained some injury, as best Legolas could tell, though he had not confessed to it. It did not seem to be impeding his ability to run, but when he turned around, his teeth were gritted in pain.
“Gimli’s knee must be rewrapped,” said Legolas. He was already kneeling beside the dwarf, picking at the makeshift bandage – and ah, if running had been painful, stopping was even worse. It was not only the throbbing in his ribs that seemed to catch up with him but also an anxious fluttering, a squirm deep in his gut that twitched frantically outward: keep moving, keep moving, your quarry is escaping! His fingers fumbled at the wrapping, clumsy in his haste.
“Let me.” Aragorn crouched beside him, letting out a hiss of pain as his weight shifted. One of his hands snapped towards his right foot, but he withdrew it just as quickly and knocked Legolas’s stumbling fingers out of the way.
“You too have taken hurt, then,” said Gimli. “What ails you?”
“It is nothing,” said Aragorn, a little shifty. “Nothing to your knee, anyway. It will mend.”
“Why are you so reluctant to tell us?” said Gimli. “If an orc landed a blow on you” –
“It was no orc,” Aragorn cut him off. “It is – it is only a minor injury; I think a toe is broken. That is all. I can run well enough, and it will heal on its own.”
How Aragorn had sustained such an injury Legolas dearly wished to ask, but could already tell Aragorn would not say a word. The man could be close when he wished to. “Does it also need wrapping?” he asked. “Since we are stopped already?” The urge to move still vibrated within him, and he hoped that this stop would be the only one they need make.
“No, that would be more trouble than it is worth,” said Aragorn. “It causes me no pain unless I shift my weight.”
From the lines around his eyes, that could not be true, but Legolas did not press further. He rose to his feet instead, anxious to pace about as Aragorn finished his work so there would be no delay – but his haste made the motion jerkier than he had intended and a sharp breath of his own escaped him as his ribs protested.
Gimli looked up at him and laughed. “What a trio we do make,” he said. “The Three Hunters, indeed – should this moment ever be told of in song, I think the minstrels will omit the constant cries of pain!”
“A less glorious tale it makes, perhaps,” Aragorn agreed, “but no less valorous!” He gave Gimli’s wrappings a tug, then nodded, satisfied. “Test that.” He rose to his feet, grimacing as he did so, and gave Gimli a hand up.
Gimli tested his foot cautiously on the ground, then nodded. “That will hold better, I think,” he said.
“Good,” said Legolas. The urgency was gnawing at him again such that he shifted from foot to foot, heedless of the pain. “Good.” He turned again to the trail of the heavy metal-shod boots. “Let us run, then, and let us have no more delays.”
Every breath hurt.
Legolas had never run for so long without stopping before, but this would not have been a trying journey under any other circumstances. The plains and gentle hills of Rohan were clear and open, all possible obstacles easy to spot from a distance, and his ears sharp enough that he would hear if any foe approached from the rear. He was encumbered with his pack and his bow, yes, but that was an accustomed weight – easier, even, in the open rather than among the boughs of his home forest. And the smell of the grasslands was fresh and clean – except, he admitted reluctantly, for the foul taint that still hung about the edges of their quarry’s trail, the stink of poison and rot and something else unwholesome. But it would have been possible to ignore – indeed, it only drove the urgency of their pursuit – if not for –
He winced and pressed a hand to his left side as another flash of pain assailed him. His ribs were not shifting under his touch, he assured himself; the crack had not been so bad as all that – but still, every breath, every motion sent a new stab throbbing through him. The skin around the cracked rib was tender from the armor of the orc who had crushed him to the ground; bruises would form there soon enough, but that was ignorable. The rib was the worst of it, and the pain of breathing.
Behind him, Gimli was lagging. Legolas could hear the uneven thud of his footsteps beneath his heavy breathing, the drag of him favoring his right leg, and he grimaced in sympathy. His hurts might cause him pain when he breathed, but at least his ribs did not support his weight. Gimli, on the other hand, had twisted a knee in their fight before, and though they had wrapped it before setting out, this exertion would do it no good. The only cure for such an injury was rest, and this run afforded them none.
“How do you fare?” he murmured, falling back to Gimli’s side. He could catch up to Aragorn easily again if need be, and anyway, the man was the better tracker, particularly in such open plains. This land did not sing to Legolas in a voice that was familiar to him; he could learn it if given time, but would leave the tracking up to Aragorn for now.
“The wrapping is coming loose,” Gimli grunted, his breath coming in short hisses. “Do you suppose Aragorn would consent to stop while I rewrap it?”
Legolas glanced down at Gimli’s knee to see that he was right – the bandage, made of strips torn from an orc-rag, was already loosening. Of course they would use poor cloth for their trappings; why should their masters afford them the care of the best? If it came any looser, it would cease to do any good at all.
“I will do it,” said Legolas. “Aragorn!”
Ahead of them, Aragorn stumbled, then swore. He too seemed to have sustained some injury, as best Legolas could tell, though he had not confessed to it. It did not seem to be impeding his ability to run, but when he turned around, his teeth were gritted in pain.
“Gimli’s knee must be rewrapped,” said Legolas. He was already kneeling beside the dwarf, picking at the makeshift bandage – and ah, if running had been painful, stopping was even worse. It was not only the throbbing in his ribs that seemed to catch up with him but also an anxious fluttering, a squirm deep in his gut that twitched frantically outward: keep moving, keep moving, your quarry is escaping! His fingers fumbled at the wrapping, clumsy in his haste.
“Let me.” Aragorn crouched beside him, letting out a hiss of pain as his weight shifted. One of his hands snapped towards his right foot, but he withdrew it just as quickly and knocked Legolas’s stumbling fingers out of the way.
“You too have taken hurt, then,” said Gimli. “What ails you?”
“It is nothing,” said Aragorn, a little shifty. “Nothing to your knee, anyway. It will mend.”
“Why are you so reluctant to tell us?” said Gimli. “If an orc landed a blow on you” –
“It was no orc,” Aragorn cut him off. “It is – it is only a minor injury; I think a toe is broken. That is all. I can run well enough, and it will heal on its own.”
How Aragorn had sustained such an injury Legolas dearly wished to ask, but could already tell Aragorn would not say a word. The man could be close when he wished to. “Does it also need wrapping?” he asked. “Since we are stopped already?” The urge to move still vibrated within him, and he hoped that this stop would be the only one they need make.
“No, that would be more trouble than it is worth,” said Aragorn. “It causes me no pain unless I shift my weight.”
From the lines around his eyes, that could not be true, but Legolas did not press further. He rose to his feet instead, anxious to pace about as Aragorn finished his work so there would be no delay – but his haste made the motion jerkier than he had intended and a sharp breath of his own escaped him as his ribs protested.
Gimli looked up at him and laughed. “What a trio we do make,” he said. “The Three Hunters, indeed – should this moment ever be told of in song, I think the minstrels will omit the constant cries of pain!”
“A less glorious tale it makes, perhaps,” Aragorn agreed, “but no less valorous!” He gave Gimli’s wrappings a tug, then nodded, satisfied. “Test that.” He rose to his feet, grimacing as he did so, and gave Gimli a hand up.
Gimli tested his foot cautiously on the ground, then nodded. “That will hold better, I think,” he said.
“Good,” said Legolas. The urgency was gnawing at him again such that he shifted from foot to foot, heedless of the pain. “Good.” He turned again to the trail of the heavy metal-shod boots. “Let us run, then, and let us have no more delays.”
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(Aragorn, what did you do to yourself?)
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