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fandomweekly2026-01-17 05:42 pm
vamp_ress) wrote in fandomweekly2026-01-17 05:42 pm
Entry tags:
[#287] What They Say (Lord of the Rings)
Theme Prompt: Hot Water
Title: What They Say
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating/Warnings: General Audiences
Bonus: No
Word Count: 985
Summary: Two times Aragorn takes a bath.
“Weird fellow, this Strider,” Aragorn hears Butterbur mutter under his breath to another patron. He’s pushing a pint of ale in front of the man – Aragorn hears the distinct sound of stoneware scratching across hard wood – and says in a conspiratorial voice: “Well, he doesn’t look like it, for sure. But he always pays in silver coin and never causes trouble.”
Aragorn hides a grin and continues walking up the stairs to his room. It seems he’s made a good impression, mostly at least.
When he enters the room, it’s dark and still, because no fire is burning in the small fireplace yet. Even like this, it’s considerably warmer than outside. He isn’t one to indulge and for the most part doesn’t mind the weather, the damp clothes and the weak sun that doesn’t manage to penetrate his warmth-starved skin. But in the long, wintry nights of January everyone is entitled to some degree of desperation and he has decided that he needs a straw mattress, a roof and a dry and warm place, at least for a few days. His clothes haven’t been dry for weeks. His feet are constantly cold and there’s a hole in his left sock that – for lack of other interesting things happening lately – is occupying all his thoughts.
A maidservant enters, gives a perfunctory and sloppy curtsy without looking at him and then goes about starting a fire. Once that licks greedily at the little twigs she’s fed it with she leaves only to come back with a fellow maid. They are carrying a wooden bathtub into the room and will use the next half hour to fill it with steaming hot water. The air in the small room grows hot and humid in mere minutes and Aragorn revels in the fact that feeling returns to his fingers and toes.
When the tub is half full the women leave with another disinterested curtsy and Aragorn makes quick work of his clothes, peeling off layer after layer of sodden clothing: cloak, shirt, another shirt he’s wearing underneath, his boots and trousers, the damned woolen socks. Naked, he shivers when the air hits his cold, damp skin. He stands there for a moment and enjoys the anticipation of dipping his feet into the hot water. It will hurt in the beginning. But once his body starts to thaw, it will feel so good.
He puts a few logs on the fire to keep it burning merrily and then slowly submerges himself in water. It burns his skin, as he knew it would, but he pushes through and finally sits in this warm and wet cocoon of absolute bliss. He wiggles his toes in the water, closes his eyes and sighs. A winter storm rattles the windows, but it’s a winter storm he won’t have to endure out in the elements.
He stays in the tub for as long as possible, for as long as the water gives off heat. And then he gets out and lays down in the bed, drawing the cover up to his nose to preserve warmth. Perfect.
Sometimes, he feels guilty for indulging in his desires like this. It is a time-consuming effort to heat up all this water and carry it to the royal bathtub. To him, making demands of other people’s time and muscle often feels like an unnecessary luxury. Then again, he is their king, as his wife points out so eloquently from time to time. As such, it is not only his right but also his duty to set tasks for his subjects that they can fulfill. And so they pour a bath for him every single day, because that is the king’s command.
It seems to Aragorn that the procession of servants is slowly coming to an end and he walks over to the bathing chamber. His robe quietly rustles behind him.
The last of the servants empties out his bucket and, noticing that his lord has entered, bows deeply and walks backwards out of the door, his eyes respectfully on the floor the whole time. Now alone, Aragorn dips a hand into the warm water to test the temperature. It is scalding hot, just as he prefers it. He lets the fur robe slip from his shoulders and then gets rid of the linen shirt and trousers he is wearing underneath. Yes, his manservant would oppose to the king undressing himself. But his manservant is not here, thankfully.
Once naked, Aragorn dips a careful toe into the water. His whole foot follows and then he gasps when the hot water bites his skin with sharp teeth. He steps fully into the bathtub – one leg and then the other – and waits for his body to adjust. Eventually, he sits down and hides in the water until it laps at his chin. He closes his eyes and feels how the knots in his shoulders slowly relax. He feels weightless, like he’s floating.
He knows the servants in the citadel talk and gossip. Not even Denethor’s wife, a lady through and through, had bathed this regularly. That’s what they mutter amongst themselves. What dirt does he even have to wash off, that’s what they ask. Aragorn doesn’t mind the chatter. It amuses him greatly.
He is a weird one, this Elessar – that’s what they say. And truly, he can’t argue with that.
Aragorn smiles with his eyes closed as his hands play with the water, making it splash. Sometimes, it pays to be king.
- The End
Title: What They Say
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating/Warnings: General Audiences
Bonus: No
Word Count: 985
Summary: Two times Aragorn takes a bath.
“Weird fellow, this Strider,” Aragorn hears Butterbur mutter under his breath to another patron. He’s pushing a pint of ale in front of the man – Aragorn hears the distinct sound of stoneware scratching across hard wood – and says in a conspiratorial voice: “Well, he doesn’t look like it, for sure. But he always pays in silver coin and never causes trouble.”
Aragorn hides a grin and continues walking up the stairs to his room. It seems he’s made a good impression, mostly at least.
When he enters the room, it’s dark and still, because no fire is burning in the small fireplace yet. Even like this, it’s considerably warmer than outside. He isn’t one to indulge and for the most part doesn’t mind the weather, the damp clothes and the weak sun that doesn’t manage to penetrate his warmth-starved skin. But in the long, wintry nights of January everyone is entitled to some degree of desperation and he has decided that he needs a straw mattress, a roof and a dry and warm place, at least for a few days. His clothes haven’t been dry for weeks. His feet are constantly cold and there’s a hole in his left sock that – for lack of other interesting things happening lately – is occupying all his thoughts.
A maidservant enters, gives a perfunctory and sloppy curtsy without looking at him and then goes about starting a fire. Once that licks greedily at the little twigs she’s fed it with she leaves only to come back with a fellow maid. They are carrying a wooden bathtub into the room and will use the next half hour to fill it with steaming hot water. The air in the small room grows hot and humid in mere minutes and Aragorn revels in the fact that feeling returns to his fingers and toes.
When the tub is half full the women leave with another disinterested curtsy and Aragorn makes quick work of his clothes, peeling off layer after layer of sodden clothing: cloak, shirt, another shirt he’s wearing underneath, his boots and trousers, the damned woolen socks. Naked, he shivers when the air hits his cold, damp skin. He stands there for a moment and enjoys the anticipation of dipping his feet into the hot water. It will hurt in the beginning. But once his body starts to thaw, it will feel so good.
He puts a few logs on the fire to keep it burning merrily and then slowly submerges himself in water. It burns his skin, as he knew it would, but he pushes through and finally sits in this warm and wet cocoon of absolute bliss. He wiggles his toes in the water, closes his eyes and sighs. A winter storm rattles the windows, but it’s a winter storm he won’t have to endure out in the elements.
He stays in the tub for as long as possible, for as long as the water gives off heat. And then he gets out and lays down in the bed, drawing the cover up to his nose to preserve warmth. Perfect.
~*~
A sheer endless row of servants are filling up the wooden tub in the bathing chamber of the royal quarters. Man after man comes in, empties out a bucket of hot water and leaves again, making way for the next. Aragorn, in a splendid robe of fox fur to keep off the chill of the rather draughty citadel, waits in the adjacent bedroom for the work to be done.Sometimes, he feels guilty for indulging in his desires like this. It is a time-consuming effort to heat up all this water and carry it to the royal bathtub. To him, making demands of other people’s time and muscle often feels like an unnecessary luxury. Then again, he is their king, as his wife points out so eloquently from time to time. As such, it is not only his right but also his duty to set tasks for his subjects that they can fulfill. And so they pour a bath for him every single day, because that is the king’s command.
It seems to Aragorn that the procession of servants is slowly coming to an end and he walks over to the bathing chamber. His robe quietly rustles behind him.
The last of the servants empties out his bucket and, noticing that his lord has entered, bows deeply and walks backwards out of the door, his eyes respectfully on the floor the whole time. Now alone, Aragorn dips a hand into the warm water to test the temperature. It is scalding hot, just as he prefers it. He lets the fur robe slip from his shoulders and then gets rid of the linen shirt and trousers he is wearing underneath. Yes, his manservant would oppose to the king undressing himself. But his manservant is not here, thankfully.
Once naked, Aragorn dips a careful toe into the water. His whole foot follows and then he gasps when the hot water bites his skin with sharp teeth. He steps fully into the bathtub – one leg and then the other – and waits for his body to adjust. Eventually, he sits down and hides in the water until it laps at his chin. He closes his eyes and feels how the knots in his shoulders slowly relax. He feels weightless, like he’s floating.
He knows the servants in the citadel talk and gossip. Not even Denethor’s wife, a lady through and through, had bathed this regularly. That’s what they mutter amongst themselves. What dirt does he even have to wash off, that’s what they ask. Aragorn doesn’t mind the chatter. It amuses him greatly.
He is a weird one, this Elessar – that’s what they say. And truly, he can’t argue with that.
Aragorn smiles with his eyes closed as his hands play with the water, making it splash. Sometimes, it pays to be king.
- The End
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