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Mirage ✷ Aragorn

Pairing: Aragorn x Rohirrim!Fem!Reader

Words: 1.8k

Description: Amidst the Battle of the Hornburg, Aragorn sees a mirage cast up by the Valar⏤for it is impossible for a lady to fight as valiantly as the one in front of him.

( SILÉAS says ... ! ) This is just a little something, take it as practicing writing LOTR fanfictions. I'm not really satisfied with it but, oh well, whatever. Basically, this is just Aragorn being a simp and thinking he's crazy.

THE SURROUNDING CHAOS made the worst vices of Creation flourish on the scarred plains, obliterating any notion of race in their filth. Men and orcs alike had left behind quiet hatred for bloodshed and horror. Suddenly, the hitherto unspoken presence of Sauron materialised in Saruman's army before the helpless but resolute gaze of the nation of Rohan.

War, a destructive invention that endured despite the thousands of souls it took across the Ages. If War—in all its terribleness—were to have a name, the Battle of Hornburg would be the embodiment of it. Before the eyes of the Innocents, Helm's Deep had become the cursed resurgence of Angband. Legend and reality had merged, and, within them, the violence endured.

The rain poured down in torrents, blinding the warriors who, as best they could, struck their swords in general confusion in the hope of killing enemies.

Faced with Orcs howling for death, the men cried out for their homeland, for the courage that dwindled as their companions fell one by one.

Saruman's army had invaded the fortress not long ago. A strange concoction had resounded and sent the impenetrable defences of the stone city tumbling. A flood of monstrosities, weapons in hand, had colonised Aragorn's vision and had not left since then. Not even the arrows of the Elves seemed to stop the haemorrhage of suffering and torture.

They had been fighting for hours and the fatigue was beginning to show in the blows and the morale of the troops. The Ranger himself could do nothing against the despair that was gradually eating away at his heart and, with it, his hopes of Dawn.

Would he one day be made king, or would he die here without knowing if Frodo had succeeded? Was the race of Men doomed?

His cloak, saturated by the torrential rain, weighed him down, but not as much as the weight on his shoulders which, with each cry of pain from the men around him, became less and less bearable.

Amid this desolate spectacle, a glimmer of light caught his eye. Not far away, facing three enraged orcs, a figure was fighting fervently. Each blow was returned with tenfold strength. Hatred and determination moved this singular being and caused the enemy's blood to flow.

A play of shadows hid their face, but the length of their hair, flattened by the rain, gave one clue as to the identity of this valiant warrior.

It was a woman.

Disturbed by this sight, Aragorn narrowly avoided his opponent's club. Propelled to the ground, he miraculously managed to avoid being crushed by the fighters around him, far too blinded by adrenalin to pay attention to their surroundings. The Orc, encouraged by his vulnerable position, raised its weapon again and brought it down on him. It crashed against Aragorn’s shin, making him grunt in pain.

Even when his sword finally pierced his opponent's skull—in a last-ditch effort to defence himself—Aragorn's gaze wandered back to the strange sight, unable to believe it—for all the women were safe in the fortress. It was impossible for any of them to be on the battlefield. Eowyn herself, despite her warrior's heart, had stayed behind.

Time, as if manipulated by Vairë, stopped. The bewildered Ranger stood motionless in the middle of the vengeful crowd. His eyes, like a dragon's when faced with gold, couldn't move off the woman glinting in the moonlight.

The still-lit torches cast an orange halo over the side of her face. The lines of her body, shifting as she fought, faded at times into the darkness. It was as if she was one with the night but illuminated those who deigned to lay eyes on her—like Varda herself. You could have mistaken her for a star, for she looked so divine amidst this epic painting.

An Orc's head rolled at his feet and roused him from his torpor.

Only a few steps away from him, the rest of the body lay in a puddle of foul-smelling black blood. Above the dead man, Her. Triumphant. Her sword painted with murder. The shadows that had previously hidden her features had disappeared, revealing a face of great beauty, albeit bloodied.

She had just saved his life.

Aragorn was speechless. He did not really know what to think. Perhaps the battle and fatigue were starting to play tricks on him and making him lose his senses.

“Do not give up, my lord,” she said in a gentle voice. “All is not lost.”

Her soft tone pierced his doubts and softened his fears.

Assuredly, the lady was a mirage, cast up by his troubled and tired mind.

She was a vision of Tulkas, sent to guide the troops. She had this aura. They were dazzling, here and there, all those reflections that, on her armour, left behind a trace of the moon. This creature had been sculpted by the hands of the Valar who, at this tragic moment, were sending the army a good omen.

She embodied hope. The sign to persevere. Her very presence heralded Dawn.

This mirage—for he believed her to be such—made him redouble his efforts and his strength. Minutes and hours passed, and Orcs, Trolls and other of Sauron's filth fell in his path. Throughout the night, the enchanted vision continued to exist in the corner of his eye and to fight, leaving behind the disfigured bodies of their enemies. They fought in tandem, always close to each other but never speaking again.

When, at last, Rohan's horn sounded and Gandalf appeared on the hill, just as the first rays of the sun began to warm hearts and lands, the Ranger gave himself the right to breathe fully, to allow himself this moment of respite—the brief second of calm before the storm. Charging up behind King Théoden, Aragorn took one last look around.

She had disappeared.

Disappointed but now full of hope, he pounded his fist against his heart.

The Valar had delivered their message; their harbinger, now gone.

ROHAN WAS CELEBRATING. Warmth and light once again filled the halls of the city. There was no better proof of victory than the return of laughter and hearts filled with the joy of simply living.

Legolas and Gimli had been caught up in the euphoria and were drinking glass after glass—as always, driven by their competitive spirits—in hope of seeing the other give up.

At the other end of the room, near a table where food of all kinds was piling up and didn't seem to be diminishing despite the hungry citizens, Éowyn was conversing with someone. He could only see the back of them, but Aragorn was seized by a strange feeling of déjà-vu that made his heart clench. Yet, the figure in the trousers did not look familiar.

It was only when she turned to grab a bunch of grapes that the Ranger understood the feeling.

The Mirage.

It couldn't be. And yet there she was, tangible, real. His mind, clear again, no longer tormented by the spectre of death, had conjured up this vision once more.

As on the battlefield, she was ethereal. While the other women wore the traditional robes of Rohan, she could have been mistaken for a man with her trousers. And though she differed from the others in her provocation, she was nonetheless the most enchanting of them all.

She exuded a certain poise. Her features were delicate, showing a certain youthfulness, but what troubled him most were her eyes. They gazed out at the world in such an intense and magnetic way that it was impossible to look away.

“This is Y/N, the stable master’s daughter,” Éomer's voice startled him. As during the battle, the mere sight of this woman had plunged him into a trance. “She runs the stables with him, although her heart is shaped after a sword and not a horseshoe.”

“I didn't know it was the custom of Rohirrim women to fight.”

“It isn't. Y/N is stubborn. Too much so.”

“You speak of her with familiarity,” remarked the Ranger.

“We all know her here. She looks after our horses,” he shrugged.

It made sense. The sacred bond between the riders of Rohan and their mounts naturally elevated all those who cared for them to an influential and crucial role.

“Y/N has wanted to join the army ever since she was a little girl. She taught herself how to use a sword.”

Aragorn turned his face towards her, but Éowyn was now alone and looking at him strangely. He immediately looked away.

"I don't see why I shan’t," intervened a voice that startled both men. Neither of them had heard her coming. “I love the nation just as much as any other soldier present that night. I belonged on the battlefield.”

“Yes, Y/N. If you say so.”

The king's nephew's condescending tone made her scowl. She let out an angry groan, obviously having little respect for decorum, and marched towards the hall doors. This seemed to be a regular occurrence, judging by Éomer's blasé look and the lack of reaction from the other citizens close enough to hear the conversation.

Aragorn watched her walk with difficulty, avoiding putting any weight on her right ankle as she zigzagged between the revellers. Suddenly she was human, as fragile as all the other Men, as fragile as he. She was no longer this divine creature—although she had the features of one—but a wounded and, above all, frustrated soldier.

He caught up with her without difficulty, reaching into his pocket.

“This balm should help your ankle, my lady.”

Her eyebrows were furrowed. A drop of sweat beaded on her forehead from the pain, but she made no move to take the remedy.

Y/N did not reply until they had left the room and were isolated from the collective joy. The woman dropped onto one of the many cushions in the corridor. In silence, her gaze wandered over the untouched plains of Rohan.

“Would you have given this concoction to a man?” she said at last. Her voice was no longer soft but hoarse, damaged by combat, fatigue, and anger. Tired of having to justify herself. Anger at having her sex interpreted as a sign of weakness.

He hesitated for a moment: “No, but a mighty warrior like you cannot decently fight with a broken ankle.”

A shy smile softened her face. Aragorn's heart clenched at the sight and missed a beat when a hand—hardened by combat and blacksmithing—closed around his own.

She took the container.

“Thank you, son of Arathorn. I shall use it with gratitude.”

He seized her hand and kissed it tenderly, avidly tasting her skin. Always, a man driven by destiny, Aragorn for once gave in to happiness—however volatile it might be. The warmth spreading in his chest was worth all the hardships.

“We shall meet again on a battlefield, envoy of Tulkas.”

The promise to see each other again bloomed as the mirage became a reality.