The ache in your side had dulled, but the memory of Aragorn’s scolding still burned fresh. You had only tried to help—climbing that ridge to scout ahead—but the fall had cost you more than bruises.

Now, as sunlight filtered through the trees, you tried to slip from your blanket, stretching your stiff legs. But before your foot even touched the earth, a shadow fell over you.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Aragorn’s voice was quiet, but firm—laced with that same mixture of concern and frustration that had followed your accident.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze. “I just need to stretch.”

But Aragorn was already kneeling beside you, one hand hovering over your ribs, careful but insistent. “Fine? You nearly broke half your body falling down that cliff. You call that fine?”

You huffed, embarrassed. “I misjudged the slope—”

“You misjudged your limits,” he cut in sharply. Then, softer, “You scared me.”

That softened your stubbornness. His eyes, usually sharp with focus, held something gentler now. Worry.

“You are not alone in this fight. You do not need to prove yourself by risking your life.” His hand rested over yours, warm and steady. “Rest. Please.”

You sighed, defeated but touched. “Just a little walk?”

He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “If you take a single step, it will be with me beside you—and likely carrying you back the moment you wince.”