Stranger of the Falls

by Mimi_Lind

Summary:

You gather healing supplies below the Falls of Rauros when a boat with a dying man drops at your feet. As you take the stranger home, you resolve to achieve the impossible: to heal him, find out who he is, and figure out why he is so determined to die.

Note: The E-rating is only for the bonus chapter, which can be skipped.

Notes:

• For Scyllas_revenge.

Chapter 1: The Stranger

Notes:

This fic is dedicated to Scyllas_Revenge who made me realize what an interesting character Boromir is. But I also wrote it for me. :) I have a thing for hurt, silent, stoic warriors…

Now translated to Russian by baccary!

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About my x-reader series: I try to write the reader as neutral as possible in gender, looks, hair texture etc., but I tend to make them slightly feminine, and often more petite than the love interest. They also nearly always have a backstory which makes them something in between an OC and a reader insert, hence the tagging.

1. The Stranger

The Eastemnet was unnaturally empty and it felt eerie to drive along the narrow road, the reins in one hand and a long dagger in the other. The shepherdesses had seen a band of orcs in the vale that night. You knew those monsters were afraid of daylight but had brought the weapon just in case; better safe than sorry.

Soon a familiar rumbling sound began, steadily growing louder, until you rounded a corner and saw the mighty waterfall ahead. You would never get tired of the sight. A fine mist lay perpetually in the air and when you got closer a vibrant rainbow formed across it.

But you had no time to stop and admire the beauty of the Rauros Falls; just below them was your favorite bog moss patch and after the long winter you thoroughly needed to restock your supply of the absorbent material.

You had nearly filled your cart when a movement from above drew your eyes. Realizing what it was, you sharply drew in your breath. A boat? What idiot was riding a boat down that sheer drop?

That was all you had time to think before the boat crashed down, throwing the man it carried into the shallow part of the river while the rest of the vessel continued unperturbed.

You darted forward, catching him before the water sucked him down, and with all your strength you managed to haul him ashore. 

Frowning in concentration you swiftly examined the man. At first you thought he was dead, but then your experienced fingers found a pulse; weak, barely perceptible, but there. He must be within an inch of his life. His face was pallid and he had a long, ragged gash over his forehead where he had hit the rocks of the river bed, and from his chest and stomach several cruel, black arrows protruded, one of them broken. 

“Orcs,” you hissed between your teeth, nervously glancing around you, but thankfully the plains were empty. He must have been assaulted somewhere above the Falls.

You were grateful there was no safe way down the sheer cliff on this side of the river.

You returned your attention to the stranger. His wounds smelled oddly chemical. Some sort of poison you surmised, something that had petrified him, for as far as you could tell the arrows hadn’t pierced any vital organs. That meant he might live if you could get them out fast enough.

Knowing it would be a close call, you still never hesitated. You were a healer, and a patient was a patient, even if it was a stupid stranger who had tried to ride a boat through a swarm of orcs and down the world’s tallest waterfall. 

The man was big; tall and broad shouldered, and there was no way you could lift him into the cart by yourself, but with the help of the horse you finally managed to pull him on top of the soft, damp pile of moss. You wiped the sweat off your forehead and hurriedly drove home.

Back in the village, the palisade guards helped you lift the man into your house and put him down on your combined kitchen- and examination table. 

“Must be a rich fellow,” said Torsten. “Look at that golden belt and the embroidery on his tunic sleeves!”

“If you heal him, he gets to pay the belt,” Vidar decided, ogling it greedily. “And if he dies we get it anyway, obviously. For trying.” 

“Leave,” you ordered. You needed peace and quiet around you.

As soon as the door closed behind them you began working. You slid off the man’s long surcote and cut apart the tunic and shirt he wore underneath, wincing as you ruined the beautiful garments but there was nothing for it. Perhaps they could be mended later.

Then you started with the arrows, pulling them out one by one, thankful he was unconscious and unable to feel the pain. The broken one was a bit trickier to extract and you hoped you got all the splinters out.

You cleaned the nasty injuries with strong mead, adding a thick paste of honey, yarrow and other herbs to stop the bleeding and prevent infection. You covered them with wads of dried bog moss, the last of your old supply, and finished by wrapping his torso with snug linen bandages.

After working with such concentration you almost felt lightheaded when you paused to catch your breath, but there was no time to rest. You still had a lot to do if the stranger would survive. 

You took a quick detour to the kitchen, downed a cup of mead and put a slice of hard bread in your mouth. Then you continued, chewing on the dry food as you started on his head. 

A huge bump had formed and the entire area was red and swollen. You could not do much more than smear yarrow paste on it, hoping he hadn’t hurt his brain in the fall.

You checked his vitals again. By now, a little color had returned to the man’s face and the pulse was stronger. Whatever poison that had been on the arrow heads must have stopped affecting him as you got them out. 

His erratic breathing indicated he was on the verge of waking up. 

You returned to the kitchen, preparing a potion of poppy seed tincture, and willow bark for the pain, and mixed it with a nourishing broth. The man had lost a lot of blood; he needed his strength back. You also brought more mead.

Back at the table, the man’s left eyelash fluttered and opened. Immediately his whole side began to tremble as he struggled to move, and he slurred in an unknown language with his mouth twisted in a crooked grimace.

You knew from the frantic pulse on his neck that he was panicking, and no wonder. First nearly killed by orcs, then sent down the Falls, now unable to move. 

You tried to calm him, patting his quivering hand while mumbling in a soothing voice until he became still. Then you coaxed a spoonful of potion into his mouth; with luck, it would put him to sleep. 

But he had a hard time swallowing it.

That was not a good sign. You recalled old Ulf who used to be the village blacksmith; he had become crippled for life from a horse hoof in his face while shoeing it. Afterwards he was only able to move half of his face and body, and struggled to speak and swallow, and though he got slightly better with time he never fully recovered.  

If this stranger survived, it was possible he would end up the same way. 

You slipped more potion down his throat and followed it up with mead. He had stilled somewhat and his only open eye was beginning to roll back into his head. Then he went limp as the effect of the herbs and alcohol kicked in, and fell asleep.

The worst was over; now all you could do was wait and see. If the wounds did not fester he might make it.

You stretched your aching limbs. You could use some rest too, but duty called. 

Vidar was still lingering outside. “Did he die?” He sounded imprudently hopeful.

“Not yet. Get Torsten; we need to move him to the bed.”

The guards helped you carry the man to the only bed in the room, which happened to be yours. Normally patients would be brought to their own home after being treated, but this one obviously had nowhere else to go. You did not mind; you had a comfortable chair by the fireplace where you often slept.

The stranger stirred in his sleep and his left eye twitched. Again he mumbled something incomprehensible through his lopsided mouth.

“Is he a foreigner?” asked Vidar.

“Of course he is, you fool,” Torsten retorted. “Who in this land has dark hair like that?”

You regarded the man. It was true, he did not look Rohirrim. Was he from the north? You were not good at geography and did not know much about what kingdoms there were up there. He had costly clothes and his high boots, which you had removed to make him more comfortable, were of excellent quality. Though his palms were calloused, those marks must come from weapon use rather than labor, and his strong build was an indication as well; his wide shoulders and bulging arm muscles could have had ‘swordsman’ written on them. Was he a prince perhaps, or a high lord? 

But there was no time to idly wonder about the stranger’s origin, you still had a wagonload of bog moss that needed to be taken care of. “No rest for the wicked,” you told Vidar. “Will you help me unload my moss?”

When you were finally done it had grown late. Your stomach was growling but you were too tired to prepare a meal, instead you slumped into the chair and immediately fell asleep.

※

You woke early as was your habit and turned your head to look at the patient. Had he survived the night?

He had. Both his eyes were open now, albeit the right one just barely. He was moving the fingers of his left hand with an air of concentration, as if to test his limits. Despite his efforts he only managed a tiny wiggle and his features grew increasingly frustrated and desperate.

You felt sorry for him and what he must go through; it must be extra hard for a warrior to become paralyzed.

Your stomach growled and the sound drew his attention. You were surprised by the intensity in that one-eyed gaze. Yesterday he had been in shock, and later drugged, but he was perfectly clear headed and aware now.

His eye had an unusual gray color, in stark contrast with his dark brown hair and beard. The same color as the Falls where you found him.

He moved the good half of his mouth to speak. You still could not make out any words, but his voice was pleasant, deep and mellow. 

Upon hearing himself a faint blush crept up his cheeks and he immediately silenced. 

You went over to the bed, checking his forehead for a fever and whether his bandages needed changing. They did; dull red spots were blooming on the linen both on his head and chest.

“You were gravely hurt, my lord.” You told him where you found him, what injuries he had and how you’d treated them. If a patient knew what had happened to them, that could often ease their stress. This man had been near death. Coming to terms with such a thing wasn’t easy. 

The man did not reply and shifted his gaze away from you. 

“Do you understand?” you asked. You were using the common language but perhaps he did not speak it. Or maybe he just did not want to slur again and embarrass himself. 

You continued speaking, whether he understood or not. It was a bit like soothing a wounded animal; they did not know the words but the tone calmed them. “I am going to change your bandages now.” You did so, explaining everything you did, and apologizing for the pain. 

He uttered not so much as a grunt when you changed the bloodied bog moss and rebandaged his arrow wounds. Did he not feel it, or was he just stoic? If the former, that was worrisome; loss of sensation often meant the paralysis would last.

Then you saw a growing damp patch on his pants. 

He had noticed it too and blushed furiously, an expression of deep mortification passing over his features. He squeezed both eyes shut and turned his face to the wall.

You took it as a good sign. He obviously could not control his bladder yet, but since he knew what had happened he must feel it, and that gave you hope he would regain more mobility in time. 

You pulled the blanket higher, and under its cover you peeled off his soiled garments and cleaned him. While working, you told him what you had been thinking, partly to take his mind off the uncomfortable situation. “You see, my lord, someone who hurts their head and cannot feel a thing afterwards, they will often not get better. But I believe your senses are intact which means you are not so ill-fated. Even if you will never be completely healed, you might very well be able to learn to walk again – perhaps with a cane.” You put a bedpan strategically between his legs. “There, all done. Worry not about this, my lord; I have been a healer nearly all my life and there is not much I have not seen.”

Your stomach reminded you that you still hadn’t had breakfast. “Time to prepare something to eat.” You made gruel for both of you, but topped off your patient’s share with more poppy tincture and willow bark. As you brought it back you explained its contents and the calming, painkilling effect. 

“Swallow this,” you bid, holding a spoon to his lips.

He closed them into a thin line.

“Come on,” you goaded. “It tastes a little bitter but you can wash it down with mead.”

He did not obey. Instead he looked at you. Both his eyes were open now, but only the left one fully. 

His gaze was the most dejected you had ever seen. Filled with bottomless darkness and despair, as if everything, absolutely everything, was lost to him. He had given up. 

You read death in his eyes.

It frightened you a little. What had happened to this man to make him abandon all hope? Well, apart from nearly getting killed, obviously.

His hopelessness filled you with sympathy, and somehow he must have sensed that for his forehead suddenly creased and he turned away again. He did not want your pity, that much was clear.

With a sigh you left him alone. With time his hunger and thirst would make him weak and his pain become unbearable. Then he would hopefully accept the relief you offered.

Notes:

Feedback is much appreciated!

Chapter 2: Lord Främling

2. Lord Främling

In the afternoon you became busy with a new patient; little Kalle, Vidar’s stablehand. He was a boy of ten, his hair a flaxen mane around a freckled face, and his arm had swelled into twice its normal size. 

“Was it Svarten again?” you guessed.

The boy nodded and swallowed a sob. Trying to be brave, young as he was.

“Vána give me patience; someone ought to do something about that black devil,” you grumbled as you helped him sit on your kitchen table and drink a cup of weak mead with willow bark for the pain. While it took effect you continued talking, again using your voice to calm a frightened patient. “I wonder why Vidar keeps that infernal, troublesome horse. This is already the third accident in that many months. If I were him I would have gotten rid of it a long time ago.”

“Svarten sires good foals,” Kalle objected.

“Still not worth the trouble keeping him, I would say, but I guess it is not my stallion.”

“Who is he?” asked the boy a bit unsteadily, trying to focus his gaze on the stranger.

“A man I found below the Falls of Rauros; I do not know his name. I will examine you now.” You began to carefully prod his arm. “Let me know if it gets too painful.” 

He winced. “It’s alright.”

“It does not appear to be broken. You were lucky,” you concluded. “In a few weeks you will be as good as new.”

When you helped the boy down from your table a while later, arm bandaged and supported by a sling, he went over to the bed. Kalle and you had been speaking Rohanese, but now he said in the common language: “Goodbye, Lord Främling, and I hope you get well soon.” 

You smiled; Främling was a fitting name for a stranger.

He did not react.

Kalle left and you went on with your day. In between chores, you checked on Lord Främling, emptied his bedpan and tried in vain to make him swallow anything. He made no movements, no sounds, and did not open his mouth.

As if he had decided to die.

Something about the set of his jaw made you certain Främling could be a very stubborn man, but you were a very stubborn healer. You would win this, you determined.

Drawing your comfortable chair closer to the bed, you studied his profile. Again you wondered who he was and what he had been through to make him capitulate so completely. 

Part of it might be because he feared becoming a cripple, you figured. He was tall and handsome, and strong. A mighty swordsman. Perhaps he had been a famous hero in his country – and now he was lying here, partly paralyzed and unable even to control his own bladder. It was probably enough to break the spirit of the bravest man.

Yet, you did not think it was only that. There was something else. The darkness in his eyes went far beyond hurt pride.

You wished he would talk and explain.

You wished you could help him – and not only with his physical injuries.

He intrigued you. 

※

You fell asleep in your chair again. When you woke, Främling was moving fitfully in his sleep. You immediately recognized the symptoms of fever.

As you checked him, you saw one of the arrow wounds had festered. Around the edges the skin was swollen and an angry red, and a putrid liquid seeped from the uneven hole. 

It was the one where the arrow shaft had been broken. Had a splinter become stuck in there? If so, its poison might spread into the bloodstream and kill the man.

You were uncertain what to do. You could cut away the infected flesh and try to find the splinter, but that would be unbearably painful for him without a strong pain killing potion. 

You decided to wait a while longer and smeared on more yarrow ointment. Maybe it would be enough to counter whatever was poisoning the wound. 

Lord Främling groaned and his eyes flickered open. He tried to push your hand away but had no strength in his arm. 

“You still do not want anything for the pain?” you asked.

He did not reply. Did he really not understand the common language?

There was no way to tell.

You had finished putting on new bandages when there was a knock and Maja, one of the shepherdesses, came in with a puppy on her arm. 

“Can you heal my Ludde?” she asked in a small voice. She described the symptoms, how the poor dog could not keep any food down and had diarrhea the whole day. It had started yesterday after she brought him with her to practice herding sheep. Could he have been poisoned somehow?

You examined the puppy but saw no signs of poisoning. No drooling, no trembling. This time of year there were not many poisonous plants or mushrooms around so you doubted that could be the cause anyway.

Maybe the water, though? The many puddles and pools near the river were none too clean, and several of them were natural tar pits where a thick, oily sludge occasionally bubbled up. Tar was a great resource for waterproofing baskets and roofs but less great for thirsty animals.

”Did he drink anything when you were out?”

”Just pond water. He had so much fun chasing water birds and I did not have the heart to stop him. Was that bad?”

“He must have caught something in it, but worry not, it will probably pass. I shall feed him boiled water with honey and broth, it will calm his stomach. He can stay with me today, and I will notify you as soon as he improves – and in the future, do not let him drink anything but river water or water from the well.”

A bit calmer, the girl left and you began preparing the treatment. 

There seemed to be no problem with the puppy’s appetite. He swiftly emptied the bowl you put down, licking it clean.

“There is a good boy. Try to keep that down now,” you instructed him. 

Thankfully he did not vomit, and after an hour or so you ventured some mashed potato with more honey water. When you took him out for a walk a while later his bowels were less runny. 

Relieved you went back inside. At least this patient would be cured.

But as for your other one… Främling’s face had grown pale and sickly, with droplets of moisture forming on his bandaged forehead. When you touched it he felt burning hot.

You tried to slip a spoonful of potion between his lips, hoping he was becoming too confused by the fever to remember to refuse, but he snapped them shut and frowned at you.

“Damn your stubbornness,” you muttered between clenched teeth.

He looked like he was thinking exactly the same thing about you.

You went to the kitchen, cooking yourself a warm meal. With luck, the irresistible aroma of lamb stew would make him so hungry he could not stop himself.

But in all honesty, you were seriously beginning to doubt that. The man’s willpower was unbelievable. You feared he would win – that he would die on you.

While you ate, Ludde was becoming increasingly lively. The food had revived him and now he bounced around the room, frolicking like a colt, attacking the furniture and chewing on your boots. 

You decided to ask Torsten to fetch the shepherdess; her dog was good to go. 

When you returned, you were surprised to see that Ludde had jumped onto Främling’s bed. But even more surprising, the man was clumsily petting the puppy with both hands, though the left one was still the most agile. He must have regained more mobility during the day.

“You can move your right hand,” you exclaimed, pleased.

He quickly put it down with an almost sheepish look, like a boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

You sat in the chair beside him, leaning forward. “And – just now you heard what I said and understood it. Do not deny it. You put the right hand down. You have understood me this whole time, you stubborn man!”

He neither replied, nor looked at you, but it was too late. He could not fool you anymore.

You turned his face towards you, forcing him to meet your eyes. “It is a relief that you understand, because I need to tell you something important. I suspect there is a splinter left of one of the arrows and it is poisoning you. Corrupting the wound. That is why you have a fever.”

He did not reply but you knew he was listening. His gaze did not waver.

“I have to cut away flesh to find it and get it out. It will hurt. Much. I have a potion that can take away the pain and I need you to take it. I do not want to torment you needlessly.”

For the first time a hint of insecurity flickered across his eyes. Then he firmly shook his head. 

“Nno… lleave me alone,” he slurred, trying to push you away but he was weak as a kitten.

“I will not let you die,” you said with emphasis. “You are my patient and I am a servant of Vána; I have sworn to use her herbs and flowers to heal, and to do everything in my power to save lives. I will try and it will hurt. Please, accept the potion. It is stupid not to.”

His gaze hardened. 

You made yours equally hard. Stern. 

He frowned angrily, turning the left corner of his mouth down. “Uck you.”

“I will pretend I did not understand that.” You put the spoon against his mouth. ”Open up.”

With a last, furious glare at you he obeyed.

Notes:

Hurt/comfort incoming in 1… 2… 3… (Did I mention it’s among my favorite tropes?)

Trivia: Vána is one of the Valar, married to Oromë the Huntsman, whom the Rohirrim call Béma.

Chapter 3: Healing

3. Healing

The man had not eaten anything substantial for two days so the strong potion kicked in almost immediately. You made use of his temporary lack of awareness to feed him a large bowl of nourishing broth and a jug of water, and he wolfed everything down hungrily. 

You waited until Maja had fetched Ludde before you began. A bouncing, playful puppy distracting you was the last thing you needed.

Then you uncovered the swollen area. Bracing yourself for the pain you must inflict – the drugs could never take away it entirely, just make it more bearable – you willed your hand to be steady and forced the hole open so you could sink the knife into it.

The sharp blade cut easily through muscle and flesh.

“Hurtsh!” he slurred, tears breaking out in his eyes and sweat on his forehead. 

“I am sorry; I know it hurts. I dare not give you more poppy extract but you may have mead if you like?”

He nodded. 

A large jug of mead later you continued. 

His fingers feebly scratched the mattress and you knew he forced himself to be still. A low, strained groan slipped from his clenched teeth.

Cold sweat had broken out on you as well now and your shoulders became stiff from the effort. Each grunt, each gasp from your patient felt like a slap in your face.

Yet you continued.

You had cut out most of the festering tissue but there was so much blood. You could not see the shard. But it must be there, this inflammation was much beyond a normal arrow wound.

You used a wad of your new bog moss to soak up blood. There… at last! Something black, deep down. With a pair of thin pliers you tried to pinch the edge, groping through the frayed tissue.

The man howled and his whole body tensed. “Uuuckk!” He was panting heavily, sweat trickling down his forehead.

You tried again. And again. His groans and writhing limbs made you want to cry, but you did not. You continued, and finally you caught the splinter. 

“I have it,” you mumbled. “This was the worst. The worst is over now…”

Slowly you pulled it out, afraid to break it in more pieces.

“Nnnggg…” He clenched his hands into fists.

You wanted to cry again, this time with relief. Wiping your damp forehead, you coated the wound with a generous amount of ointment and covered it with clean bog moss and linen.

Främling was breathing calmer. He looked exhausted and dizzy from poppy seed and pain. Before he dozed off completely you fed him a bowl of rich broth with potatoes mashed into it.

Not long afterwards he was fast asleep.

He slept soundly all night. You did too, completely drained, both mentally and physically.

In the morning the fever was gone, but Främling did not seem happy about that at all. On the contrary, he looked murderous, and when you brought a bowl of morning broth he actually managed to sweep it out of your hands. The earthen bowl cracked in halves, spilling its contents on the floor.

“You tricked me,” he growled in a slightly less slurred voice than yesterday. “Tricked me to eat. Uck you!”

“I did not trick you,” you bit back, suddenly angry. “I gave you broth and you ate. It is my task to feed patients if they cannot eat themselves. I already told you, I will not idly watch you die!”

He scowled darkly at you.

You forced yourself to calm down. He was entitled to be annoyed at being helpless in your hands. Yet, he was so much better already; it must have taken quite some force to swat the bowl away. He would be up and walking soon, you were sure of it.

With a softer voice you tried to reason with him. “See, I understand you are upset; I would be, too. But starving yourself to death is not the way. It is a difficult, slow, painful method. You are a strong man in your prime and your body will not allow you to kill it that easily. It will work against you, undermining your resolve until you are so weak you cannot resist the food offered. And that will set you back to square one. The same cycle will repeat itself and it will only be painful and frustrating for both of us.” You started to clean up the mess on the floor and threw away the shards. “You need to accept I will do my best to keep you alive, and your own body will do the same. When you are fit to leave from here, it is up to you what you do with your life, but until that day comes I will give you food and treat your wounds.”

You brought another bowl of broth, holding it out so he was sure to feel the aroma. “Come on,” you coaxed. “I am a good cook. You liked it yesterday, did you not?”

He looked at the bowl. His stomach made an encouraging sound. Then he looked at you with an air of defeat – and self-loathing.

“You win,” he said bitterly, opening his mouth.

Spoon by spoon he quickly emptied the bowl. His ability to swallow appeared to be restored, and though he opened the left side of his mouth more, he could move both sides now.

When he was done you fetched another one, mashing down potatoes and bread in it to make it thicker. He gulped that down too, obviously ravenous. 

He looked expectantly at you.

“I think this will have to do for now or your stomach will hurt.” Instead you fetched the mead and held the flagon to his lips. He managed to take hold of it himself and emptied it too.

When he was done he burped unapologetically and leaned back, looking unusually content. As if he had finally come to terms with the situation and would allow you to have your way.

Well, that was a relief, for sure!

You decided to use his new cooperation and let him help you change the bloodied sheets. It was a bit tricky to manage with him still lying in the bed, but when it was done you both were relieved to be rid of the evidence of last night’s painful operation.

Afterwards you fetched a bowl and began to wash his face, using a soft cloth and warm water from the stove. He seemed to enjoy it. His face became relaxed and the furrows in his forehead smoothened out. 

You admired it while you worked. Such dark hair, beard and eyebrows were so unusual around here. His lashes were dark too. They rested peacefully against his cheeks.

He was strikingly handsome. 

You moved on to the part of his torso that wasn’t bandaged. Now that you paid attention, you noticed many small scars, healed nicks and cuts from past sword fights. A trail of dark hair disappeared under the linen bandages. You followed the length of his arms with the cloth, fighting down an inappropriate twinge at the feeling of his defined muscles. This close, his scent wafted up; soap, warm skin, and something masculine. You liked it.

When you reached his flat stomach you hesitated. Suddenly it did not seem as routine to clean his private parts, but…

“No.”

You looked at his face and met his stern gaze. Secretly relieved, you pulled the blanket back up. “Right. Enough washing for today.” Instead you took a bone comb and began to ease the knots out of his long hair. 

He closed his eyes again. 

It made you glad that he liked what you did, and you prolonged the moment needlessly. When you finally put the comb down his hair shone.

“You have beautiful hair,” you said without thinking. You instantly regretted it and felt your cheeks heat up. You were his healer and not supposed to think about any part of him in any other way than strictly medical.

Thankfully he did not react with anger over your blunder; he just looked at you with his clear, gray eyes.

You tried to hide your embarrassment with small talk. “It feels strange to keep calling you ‘stranger’. What is your name?”

He did not reply.

“Why the secrecy?”

Still nothing.

“You know, with your mobility returning, you need to practice speaking.”

He gave you a sharp look. “I do not.” He spoke without even a hint of inarticulacy, clearly making an effort to pronounce the words correctly.

His stubbornness made you want to laugh, and something in his eyes told you he was equally amused. But he did not move a muscle in his face.

※

Your patient obediently ate anything you offered him during the rest of that day, and looked increasingly less weak. With the poison gone from the wound you felt hopeful he would soon be up and walking.

Meanwhile, you went on your usual rounds in the village. Visiting the elderly, providing potions and small talk, changing the bandages of a bedridden grandfather, checking on Maja’s mother Sigrid who was pregnant again, making sure she followed the nourishing diet you had prescribed. She was over forty and needed to be extra careful. 

In the evening, when you as usual slumped down in your chair, you felt him staring at you.

“What is wrong?”

“No bed?” he asked.

“I sleep well in the chair, it is no trouble.”

He frowned and indicated the bed he lay on. “Yoursh?”

“Well yes, but…”

He moved back, wincing slightly, until there was an empty space beside him. “Lie down.”

“I cannot; you are hurt, what if–”

“Lie,” he repeated. He said it in the voice of a man used to commanding others and not accepting no for an answer.

You obeyed.

Though you tried to stay at the edge, you acutely felt his warmth along your side. His scent filled your nostrils.

You fidgeted with the fraying hem of the blanket. This was awkward. How did he expect you to sleep like this? 

“So… It pleases me we are on speaking terms,” you said, trying to hide your nervousness. “I wonder, were you an army officer? You seem like someone who gives orders.”

He did not reply.

“A sergeant, perhaps?”

“No.”

“A captain?”

Silence.

“Where are you from? You came down the river; are you an exiled northern prince?”

He sighed and put his hand over your mouth. “Shut up and shleep.”

You lifted it with some effort. “Rude. But I am glad you are so much stronger already and your speech sounds almost normal. That is good news, indeed.”

“Jusht be quiet.” He turned his back to you.

Notes:

Why do people never have an extra bed in fics? :D

Chapter 4: Convalescence

4. Convalescence

From then on, Lord Främling steadily improved. It was as if when he agreed not to starve himself, he also decided to get well as soon as possible. Already the next day he was sitting up, propped against a pillow, and spent every waking moment exercising his legs, arms, hands and fingers, stretching and lifting them without respite, forcing the unwilling limbs to cooperate. Especially his weaker side. 

One of the first things he wanted to do, apart from eating without being spoon fed, was to get rid of the bedpan and use a cane to limp to the outhouse. The first time he nearly fainted, and when you had to help him back he looked so mortified you thought he was going to hide under the blanket in shame.

But he did not, insead he resumed his exercises with renewed frenzy.

The arrow wounds began to heal, and so did the gash in his forehead. It would leave a scar, but his long hair covered most of it. 

His left side was soon almost back to normal mobility and strength, but his right side was far behind. He explained it felt like he was a baby learning to walk for the first time, as if his right limbs had forgotten how to do things.

His speech became clear and he no longer slurred on the words, but he still did not say much. You thought that he probably had been a quiet person even before the accident.

Instead of talking he worked out, limped around the room, did pushups, practiced fine motor skills. He mended his shirt and tunic, painstakingly sewing neat hems and pulling up the thread to start over whenever he wasn’t satisfied.

When he was done you could hardly see where the rift had been.

The pure doggedness he demonstrated was both impressive and a bit frightening. Was he in such a hurry to heal because he wanted to be released from your care so he could end his life? You wanted to ask him, but did not know how to bring it up.

Your house was too small for an extra bed, so he still shared yours. At least it was wide and comfortable, and it was easy to get used to the added warmth of an extra person. Though spring was on its way, nights were still cold.

One night you decided to be blunt and just ask what was on your mind, using humor to make it seem less serious. “So… It is true we agreed that as soon as you are healed, you are free to choose death, but how will you go about it?”

Unsurprisingly he appeared a bit baffled over your choice of topic. “Pardon?” 

“Will you fall on a sword, perhaps? It could be just like Túrin in the legend…”

“Too untidy. Very rude to whomever found my corpse.”

You smiled, relieved that he had replied, and in the same flippant tone. “I forget what a gentleman you are.” 

“Also, I have no sword.” You could almost hear the silent ‘…anymore’ he left out.

“Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“That is unfortunate. You could have leapt into the river. Hm… Maybe charge headfirst into a band of orcs?”

“I already tried that.” He no longer sounded amused.

You drew a sharp breath. Was that how it all happened? “You tried to kill yourself that time? You paddled your boat to a group of orcs and then ran it down the falls because you wanted to die?”

“No,” he snapped. “Absolutely not! I tried to save… someone.” The anger ran off him and he sounded very tired. “I failed.”

“I am sorry. I should not have brought it up.” You put a soothing hand on his shoulder. 

He stiffened at first, but then relaxed, allowing you to softly stroke him over his shirt. 

“Do you wish to talk about it?” you asked.

“No.”

“Oh. Well then, let us return to the previous topic. You could… go to Mordor and challenge the Dark Lord? I am certain it would get you slayed swiftly and efficiently.”

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” he mumbled, but you could hear he was smiling.

“I am aware. That is the idea: you try and fail and hence you die.”

He put his hand over yours and gave it a light squeeze. “Truly, I understand and appreciate what you are trying to do,” he said softly. “But it is pointless.”

You felt a strange fluttering in the pit of your stomach. His hand was much bigger than yours and felt strong.

“I am not doing anything,” you replied a bit breathlessly.

“You endeavor to talk me out of it.”

The flutter vanished, replaced with a sinking feeling. “Well, I suppose I am,” you admitted. Your voice became pleading. “Please stay.”

“Why?”

Because I like you, you thought, but of course you could not say that. “I just feel this world is already so full of monsters and evildoers. We need good men like you for balance.”

“I am not good.” He removed his hand. You felt cold where it had been.

“I think you are.”

“You do not know me.”

“I feel like I do.”

He did not reply, just turned his back on you and was silent.

※

As if your talk of Mordor had brought the war closer, the next day dire news reached you – old news, which was often the case this far east. Théoden King’s only son and heir had been killed, caught in a trap by the river Isen in the west. Saruman of Isengard was said to have been behind it, but the king had avenged his son and defeated the wizard’s army at Helm’s Deep, and later turned Isengard into ruins.

Now there was to be a great muster of riders. All able men were to gather at Dunharrow for further instructions.

The news affected your patient in a strange way. When the young men left the village he became increasingly more restless. He would take walks around it, limping surprisingly fast, and often stopped to look at the sullen crimson tint on the clouded sky that marked the border to Mordor, his fists helplessly opening and clenching.

As if he wanted to join the riders and lamented that he was still not able to do so.

He slept fitfully, and one night he woke you up with a strangled cry.

“Dark dream?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Will you share it?”

“No.”

“Please, I am curious.” 

He was silent briefly, then turned toward you. You felt his thigh press lightly against yours and stopped breathing. You hoped he wouldn’t pull it back.

He did not.

“I dreamt I had a mighty weapon. A magical weapon that was the most powerful in the world. I became invincible. I used it to defeat Mordor. Sauron. All his underlings. Everybody fell before me… I slayed them effortlessly.”

“That does not sound like a nightmare.”

“It was.” He took your hand and put it over his chest. You felt how hard his heart was beating. “For, after I won… I sat myself on his throne and everyone bowed to me, did my bidding. On my orders people were either killed or enslaved. I took his place. I became him.” He drew a shaky breath. “It was appalling.”

For once, you lacked words. He had never shared anything even remotely personal with you before. And he was so close, the moment so intimate. His hand over yours felt burning hot.

Your heart was beating faster too now, but for a very different reason.

“I am not like that,” he continued. ”I never sought such power – or any power. All I ever wanted was for my people to be safe. My friends. My family. My home where I grew up.” His voice cracked and he drew a few breaths. “But I failed. How can I continue living when I am so weak? A failure, easily led astray by… my lack of restraint.”

“You are not weak! How can you even think that? I have never seen anyone with your strength. You were almost completely paralyzed only weeks ago and now you are up and walking, regaining more function every day. And as for restraint, you nearly starved yourself out of pure obstinacy. It was impressive. Foolish, but impressive.” You forced yourself to sound calm. Most of all you wanted to hug him but you did not know if he would appreciate that.

Besides, it would be highly inappropriate.

“That had nothing to do with strength. I merely realized everything was lost and I might as well–” He sighed. “What will happen if Mordor prevails? To my home… to a peaceful village like this? To you? What would you do?” 

His skin was warm and soft under your hand. His heart had slowed down into a steady beat.

The feeling made it hard to think. “I… I do not think Mordor will gain victory, but if so, I reckon I would… continue healing people, carry on with my life? Perhaps join a rebel force.”

“You sound very calm about it.”

“Well, why burden yourself with speculations about the future? Neither of us knows what it will be like.”

He did not reply to that. 

“Thank you,” he said at last. He was still pressing your palm against his heart, now he slid his thumb over your hand, back and forth in a gentle caress.

“You are welcome. But… but for what?” 

“For being there. Listening to my midnight ramblings.”

His touch filled you with butterflies. You wished you knew what he meant with it, if it was just his way to say thank you – or something more. 

“Do not kill yourself,” you blurted. ”Even though you can, please… do not.”

His thumb stilled. “I will not.” 

Relief filled you like a tidal wave. You were certain Främling was a man of his word; had he said he would continue living then he would do so.

He released your hand and turned away. Only partly. His thigh still touched yours. “Good night.”

But you could not sleep, not after that. Your palm tingled where it had been resting on his chest, and you still felt the ghost of his thumb on top of it. He would live. Your work had not been in vain.

※

You were a bit awkward around Främling the morning after his nightmare, but he did not mention it and acted normal, as if nothing special had happened. You didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed over that.

In the afternoon, more news reached you. A band of unusually big and strong orcs that had been sighted running across the plains a while back. You guessed it must have been them the shepherdesses saw the night before you found Främling, and you wondered if it was they who nearly killed him.

All talk of war made everyone nervous and careful. The village was badly protected with only Vidar left to guard the palisade gate, and a few other old men to protect the rest of it. All younger men had rode to join the king. The shepherdesses kept their herds within sight of home, ready to run back to safety at short notice, and the farmers hesitated to begin plowing the fields.

When Främling heard the news, he expanded his exercise and began doing weapon routines, using a long stick for a sword. He held it in his left hand and supported himself on a cane, yet managed to appear strong and fearful. You wouldn’t want to meet him in battle.

The next day he went out after breakfast, and when he returned a couple of hours later he told you he had bought Svarten, Vidar’s malicious black, and a rusty sword that looked to be about the same age as Rohan itself.

“You did what?” you asked incredulously. “Why?”

“I needed a weapon and a horse.”

“What for?” 

In the brief, frightening moment before he replied you thought it was so he could ride away. Leave you.

“To fight. I am too slow on foot. When the war is upon us, you require more men to protect the village. After your kindness to me, it is the least I can do.”

His words frightened you almost as much as the thought of him leaving. He had said ’when’ as if it was a certainty the war would come. 

“You are not yet strong enough.”

He frowned. “You need not remind me of that. But even in this state I can best a few orcs, particularly on horseback. I am fairly decent with my left hand too now.” He speculatively flexed his fingers.

“They will not come this far. There are no hiding places out in the plains and they are afraid of sunlight,” you reminded him.

“Not all orcs,” he said bitterly.

The rest of the morning he spent sharpening and polishing the old sword until it shone. Then he commenced to train Svarten with the same stubborn grit that had driven him for as long as you had known him. Aided by young Kalle, he mounted the vicious animal and rode him around a small paddock, round and round and round until the stallion was so exhausted he did not even have the energy to bite his rider when he dismounted at last.

“How did you pay for it?” you asked when he returned to you, weary and sweaty and ravenously hungry.

“I gave him my belt.”

“You what? But it must be worth a fortune! Yet you only obtained a mangy, evil horse and a rusty sword! That damn, greedy old–”

A very unusual sound interrupted your indignant speech. Främling was laughing heartily. 

“War draws near and all you can think of is whether I paid too much for my horse?” He was still chuckling.

His rumbling laughter and warm smile melted your heart into a puddle. His smile was slightly lopsided from the accident, and you adored it. You wanted to tell him he should laugh more often, for he had the most wonderful laugh, but he was right, these were bleak times. When the war came, all smiles would wane and all laughter silence.

His face grew serious. “I will protect you as best I can,” he promised.

That night you were afraid of the future for the first time and you crept closer to him, letting his strong, large form comfort you. 

As if he understood how you felt he put an arm around you, just holding you. 

When you woke up he had not removed his arm.

Notes:

The golden belt mentioned in this chapter was a gift the stranger had previously received from a certain elf Lady in Lothlórien (book canon).

Chapter 5: Boromir

5. Boromir

The sun did not rise the next morning. Or perhaps it did, but you could not see it through the darkness emanating from the enemy’s realm. 

News traveled even more slowly now with the villages so empty of people, but when another day dawned equally dark and sullen as the previous, words reached you that Gondor had lit the famous beacons in the south and sent the Red Arrow urging Rohan to ride to their aid. 

You also learned a huge orc army had taken control over the fort at Cair Andros. They were swarming all over both sides of the river and in the cover of the unnatural darkness they plundered storages and burned villages at will.

When Främling heard about it his face became ashen. 

“Cair Andros is in Anórien, a Gondor fief,” you said, feigning calmness you did not feel. “Gondor is our mighty ally in the south. They have protected us against Mordor for so long, and I am certain they will succeed this time also, especially with our riders on the way to help. The steward of Gondor is a brilliant statesman they say, and his sons mighty warlords. Together they will settle this. Fear not.”

At his dismayed face you became silent. He was looking at you almost with the same despair as when he first woke up after the accident. “Your king must pass through there,” he droned tonelessly. “In his way to aid Gondor, Théoden has to pass near Cair Andros, but with orcs throughout the lands he will be delayed. Then Gondor stands alone. All hope is lost.”

From the way he spoke you suddenly understood. His dark hair, his wealth. “You come from there. From Gondor.”

He did not meet your eyes.

“Who are you?” you asked again. “Please tell me. I need to know your name in case…” Your voice trailed off and you felt a tear trickle down your cheek.

He softly wiped it away. “I am Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor.”

“Boromir,” you whispered. The mighty warlord. Here in your village, unable to use his right hand properly. No wonder he had lost hope.

When more tears filled your eyes he drew you to him in a hug. “Forgive me. I should have been there, defending the fort, keeping the enemy at bay. Had I not… But even then, I am not certain we could have– There is this weapon you see. The one I dreamt of. It exists, and if the enemy acquires it then…” His voice trailed off and he drew several breaths. “I am rambling. Do not listen to me. You are right; the war may never reach this remote place, and if it does I will protect you with my life.” He kissed your head. “Do not weep. Nothing will happen.”

But you heard in his voice that he did not even believe that himself.

※

He went out again and soon you saw him in the paddock, brushing the horse, talking in a soothing, soft voice. Svarten did not try to tramp or kick him; he actually seemed to enjoy it.

Vidar sauntered by, his new golden belt gleaming around his waist. You glared at it.

“I am impressed,” said he, indicating Boromir. “Never have I seen a man manage Svarten so well. Lord Främling is an extraordinary horseman.”

“And you owe him,” you retorted. “Do not pretend you were unaware of the value of that belt, yet what you gave him in return was hardly worth a thing. Nobody in their right mind would pay even a penny for Svarten! You should return the belt and lend the horse to him for free.”

Vidar protectively covered the belt with his hands. “Well, enough chit-chat; I have a palisade to guard. Later!” He hurried off.

Annoyed, you turned your attention back to Boromir. He had mounted Svarten and was riding round and round, swinging the sword in his left hand. It did not show that he had been nearly paralyzed not long ago; he sat steady like a rock in the saddle, quite a feat for someone with only one good leg.

It struck you that he no longer needed to stay in your house. You had done what you could for him and he would manage the rest himself with all this exercise.

A bit guiltily, you hoped he wouldn’t realize that himself; you did not want him to move out. You could not stand the thought of being alone at night when everything was so frightening in the world.

Besides, where else could he go? He did not know anyone in the village and it was too dangerous to travel. He was stuck with you.

You thought about the hug and kiss he gave you earlier and wondered what they meant. A gesture of friendship? Or more?

Suddenly you wanted it to be more. Under this strange, frightening darkness, in the midst of war and worry, you wished for a glimmer of happiness. A few stolen moments of tenderness and love to carry you on.

But as you thought about it, trying to picture Boromir and you as a couple, you realized you could not. There was a certain bitterness in him, troubled thoughts or memories that filled him with guilt and hopelessness. You suspected that even if he did feel something more for you he wouldn’t allow himself to succumb to it.

If only you had met in other circumstances! In peaceful times, perhaps in your youth, then it could perhaps have come to be.

You felt robbed of his love even though you never had it.

Then you squared your shoulders. As always, there was work to do. You wiped your moist eyes dry and left on your daily round to check on the sick and elderly.

※

At noon, Boromir and you shared a stew with hard bread and mashed potatoes. Somehow this time it felt different to sit opposite to him in your simple house. He looked larger, stronger, more dangerous – like the captain and warlord you now knew he was. He made you feel small.

It was as if he had become even more a stranger after you learned his identity. Now your romantic thoughts from earlier seemed laughably absurd. Lord Boromir was a nobleman; he would never have fallen for a simple Rohirrim healer even if his heart wasn’t so troubled.

Then a couple of red stains on his tunic caught your attention and you temporarily forgot being uncomfortable as your healer’s instincts kicked in. “Your wounds have reopened.”

He glanced down and shrugged. “Not much.”

“Let me examine them.”

He looked amused at your worry but did not protest. He removed his surcote, tunic and shirt and lay down on your bed.

Two of the arrow wounds had a crust of blood but they looked much better than you had feared. Somewhat calmed, you cleaned them and smeared on more ointment. The bleeding had already stopped so you left them unbandaged.

When you had finished, you grew uncomfortable again. You were reminded that this man who lay half-clad in your bed was Lord Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor. 

It felt like you saw him for the first time. The stewards were said to have Númenorian blood – they were heroes of old, part human, part elvish – and hence would grow older, taller and stronger than most men.

Looking at him now, you did not doubt the truth of that. How could you not have realized he was of such noble descent? Boromir’s features were aristocratic, from his straight nose and chiseled jawline to his bright, gray eyes, and now without the bandages you saw how perfectly sculpted his torso was. Like a work of art.

Your mouth became dry as you took in the sight.

“Finished yet?” he asked.

Face hot, you tore your gaze away. “I am. But you should not work so hard when you are still healing, my lord,” you scolded, hoping he did not notice how flustered you had become.

He only laughed at that, again striking you with how rich and warm his laugh was.

“War is upon us and you fuss over a few scratches? You need to change your priorities. Also – simply Boromir will do; I am not your lord.”

You could not help smiling back.

“When the men return and I have ascertained the village is secure, then I shall rest,” he promised. 

As he put his clothes back on, his forehead furrowed. “I only wish there were more warriors left… And that your houses and palisade were of stone, not wood that can be burned. Orcs are too fond of torching things.” When he saw your expression he hurriedly added: ”But the war will not likely reach this remote village.”

”You believe it will,” you accused.

”Do not trouble yourself about that. I will think of something.” 

“I can help.”

“Well then.” He suddenly smiled. “Let us think together.”

He sat on your bed, leaning his back against the wall, and you sat next to him. 

Silence ensued.

You tried to think of all the clever ways to protect places you had heard or read about. Boromir was right; stone walls seemed to be the most common part of the defense – with archers on top of them – and channels with narrow bridges leading up to the gates. This, you had heard, was what the Hornburg in Helm’s Deep looked like.

You had no such walls here, and no archers either, but maybe… “What about a moat?” you suggested. “We could channel the river here and lead it around the village. Can orcs swim?”

“Fairly well; it would need to be deep for it to work. And we are too few to dig one. If I had the strength of both my arms…” He frowned, glaring at his right hand as if it had betrayed him.

“Could we frighten them off somehow?” you asked, trying to take his thoughts off his incapability. “What do they fear? Apart from sunlight…”

“Not much.”  

He fell silent again, scratching his beard while he thought. A while later he suddenly looked up. “I think I may have an idea… Do you have anything that will burn for a prolonged time?”

“Firewood?”

“No, it has to last longer. Lamp oil could work, or distilled wine.”

“We have tar, plenty of it. We use it for waterproofing.”

He brightened. “Excellent! Show me.”

You asked Vidar to unlock the village storage, and on the way there Boromir explained what he wanted to do.

“An interesting idea,” said Vidar. “Dangerous, but might actually work! Here we are now.”

He opened a barrel of the black, oily liquid. There were many more. Tar was common in this area so you traded it to other villages, and some was sent down the river to be used for shipbuilding in Pelargir.

“Splendid! And you have such an abundance, too. I need most of these barrels, I think. Can I trade you something else for them?”

“Hm.” Vidar gave Boromir’s boots a calculating look.

“Do not be ridiculous.” You gave Vidar a shove. “If he will use it to save the village he shall have it free of charge.” You explained to Boromir that nobody owned the land where the tar pits were located so the resource belonged to everyone.

The two men carried out several barrels, despite your warning to Boromir not to strain himself and overdo it, and then he asked you to help him gather the people.

Soon the villagers curiously flocked around him. Apart from the bedridden elderly everyone had come, even Sigrid, one hand on her back and the other held protectively over her swelling stomach.

Boromir talked to them with the natural authority of one used to command. He told them that though it was not likely the war would come here, he had a plan that would protect the village just in case it did.

The people listened, none of them questioning his right to lead them despite not knowing who he really was. Why would they? They recognized a capable warrior and captain when they saw one.

He divided chores. Some were to dig, others to roll barrels to strategic locations, others to sharpen stakes. 

In no time the place was a flurry of activity.

Boromir and you worked with the stakes, sharpening them into lances and handing them over to Vidar and two other old men who pressed them into the soft loam outside the palisade with the sharp ends pointing outward.

Further out, Maja, her shepherdess friends, little Kalle, and many others were digging a low trench while trying to evade the enthusiastic nips of Ludde who thought they were playing a fun game. When they were done they would pour tar and cover it with boards and branches.

It took a couple of days until the preparations were finished to Boromir’s liking. Then he gathered everyone again. “Well done! After your hard toil we shall now finally be able to sleep soundly and without fear. One day, enemy armies might come this way to burn and plunder – but not this village!” 

As he raised his fist everyone cheered.

Notes:

Just in case anyone wondered; tar is another word for pitch or bitumen, a more sticky form of crude oil. It has been used for waterproofing and for fuel in lamps and torches since ancient times. It’s of course highly flammable.

Chapter 6: Defense

6. Defense

You twirled a smooth horn between your hands. Boromir had made it from a curved ram’s horn, drilling a hole in it and turning it into a sort of trumpet. Should the enemy approach you would blow it and alert everybody. 

You were on the lookout that evening; Boromir had divided the nights into watches and now it was your turn. You sat on a rooftop and observed the deserted plains in the growing darkness.

A few days had passed since the village prepared for war, and the dreary darkness from Mordor had finally disappeared, blown away by a fresh south-west breeze. Nothing had happened yet, and you were hoping it never would. Without the strange darkness to hide them, the orcs probably wouldn’t dare venture this far.

Even if Boromir had a plan, no plan was foolproof.

You wished you knew how the war went, but no news had reached you since you learned about the attack of Cair Andros. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something – be it good or bad. 

It made you restless and nervous.

You heard steps from below and turned to see Maja approaching you. “My mama needs you. It is time!”

You were about to climb down and fetch a replacement lookout when something else caught your attention: a group of people coming running across the southwestern plains. They were far away still, but heading to the village. 

No… not people. Orcs! You noticed their crooked swords and axes now.

The sight filled you with cool tendrils of fear. This was it. War. War was upon you!

You remembered the horn and blew it, producing a dull hoot. As you climbed down from your post, you blew and blew and blew, and from all doors around you people came out.

Boromir was among the first to reach you. He looked alert and strangely excited.

“The enemy army is here,” you told him. It came out like a terrified squeak. 

He observed the orcs briefly. “No, just a minor band, thirty or so at the most. Raiders perhaps, or deserters. With our precautions we should take them easily.” He turned to Vidar. “Take a lantern and wait for my signal over by the trench. Be sure not to drop it until every orc has crossed.”

You tried to swallow but your throat felt too narrow and too dry. Was this the last time you saw these men? Vidar… and Boromir.

You wanted to tell him to be careful but no longer trusted your voice.

“What about Mama?” Maja asked, pulling at your sleeve. “The child is coming.”

Boromir looked at her, then you. A fierce, crooked grin broke out in his face and he pressed your trembling shoulder encouragingly. “Then you deliver the child and I deal with the orcs. I will be seeing you!” 

You nodded. Deliver the baby. That you could do.

As soon as you entered Sigrid’s house you became completely calm. There was a patient needing your help and until she and the baby were safe you had no time to worry about orc attacks.

※

You could not say how much time had passed when you finally laid the wailing infant on her mother’s chest. It had not been an easy birth.

“Thank you,” Sigrid said tiredly. “Damn Torsten for putting this little monster in me and then riding off to war.” She stroked the baby’s damp head. “He thought it was a boy but I knew it would be a girl. When he returns I shall gloat at him that I won.”

Something about the way she said ‘when he returns’ made you want to cry. She did not think he would. 

But then you remembered about the orcs and your heartbeat increased. Had Boromir made it? 

You ran out. Guttural yells and clangs of steel reached you from beyond the palisade and you ran to the gate, expecting the worst. 

You were met by a spectacular sight. A burning ring surrounded the village, sending sparks and bright tongues of fire high into the air. Within the ring lay a litter of dark corpses in the grass, and others hung skewered on the sharp lances along the palisade. Some were still writhing in death throes; Vidar walked among them, grimly beheading anyone moving.

Boromir was chasing two last orcs on Svarten. He sat tall and formidable, driving them before him like Béma the Hunter himself. His face was streaked with soot and his hands covered in black blood.

This was his right element, here in the midst of battle, bravely protecting people.

You had never admired him more.

Desperate to evade the menacing pursuer, the orcs leaped through the fire, but the burning tar stuck on their boots and turned them into living torches.

Svarten easily jumped over the trench and followed them. Two neat sword slashes later and the orcs fell to the ground in reeking piles.

It was over.

※

Other villagers had joined you at the gate, now a loud cheer broke out. He had made it! The village had withstood the attack!

Boromir dismounted. Standing there tall, proud, victorious. Beautiful.

“After tonight, I will no longer call you ‘Främling’,” said Vidar. “You are no stranger to us anymore. Hence, since you still do not remember your name, I say we name you ‘Hjälte’! For, you are a true hero, and we are blessed to have you among us.”

His words were met by an even louder cheer and Boromir graciously bowed. “It was the least I could do after you took me in so generously.”

Everyone then helped put out the fire with buckets of sand and refill the trench with tar in case of new attacks. Like Boromir had said, this had only been a small band. They could be forerunners or scouts from a larger army.

Afterwards, you walked home beside Boromir almost shyly. For the first time, you had seen warrior-him in action. You wanted to hug him and tell him how glad you were that he had survived, but felt too intimidated.

“Thank you for saving us,” you said instead. “The ring of flames was fantastic.”

“It worked better than I had dared hope,” he said proudly. “I got the idea from a place called Moria where I once saw orcs hesitate before a burning chasm. Not one of my best memories, but this time it was helpful.” 

Back in the house, you noticed red blood in the water when he cleaned his hands. 

“You are hurt,” you said worriedly.

“A mere nick.”

“Let me treat it. There could be poison on their weapons this time also.”

Like the other day, your concern seemed to amuse him, but he obediently sat at the table and held out his hand.

You sat next to him, putting a generous amount of ointment on the cut and binding it neatly.

Still with his hand in yours, you looked at his beautiful face. You could not express your gratitude with words. He saved you; all of you. Maja and her mother, the newborn baby, Vidar, little Kalle, everyone had him to thank for their life.

This handsome, kind, generous man was truly a gift to your people. To you. You had never met anyone like him.

You admired him so much. Held him in such high regard… no. More than that.

You loved him.

Part of what you felt must have shown in your eyes, for Boromir gently eased his hand from yours and rose. “We must get some rest.” But instead of stretching out on the bed, he leaned back in your comfortable chair. 

At your surprised look, he explained: “Long have I been imposing on your hospitality. You should have your bed to yourself.“

“I do not mind sharing,” you said earnestly, feeling a lump in your throat. He was pushing you away. Creating a distance.

“You already did so much for me,” he said seriously. “I never even thanked you for saving my life. Twice. First you healed me, and then your faith in me and stubbornness hindered me from taking the cowardly way out. This way is better; I can do some good now. And for that, you shall always have my heartfelt gratitude.”

His words shook you to the core. This way is better.  

Did he mean to die in battle?

Now you saw the scene earlier in a new light. Boromir’s excitement before the fight; his heroic charge against over thirty orcs. It was not courage. It was the fearlessness of one who had nothing to lose. 

Was he still choosing the cowardly way out, but disguising it as bravery?

You did not say anything of what you were thinking. Instead you tried to hide your dismay and make your voice steady. “I am a healer; it is what I do. Think nothing of it.” 

You went to bed, ignoring how large and empty it felt, and exhausted after the long night’s events you fell asleep almost immediately.

※

The next morning, Boromir, Vidar and you went out to gather the orc carcasses, piling them up and setting them on fire. While you were working, a group of riders approached from the same direction the orcs had come. They were Rohirrim!

As they came closer, you felt your heart soar with relief. It was people from your village, as well as the neighboring ones. Jan, Ragnar, Karl, Torsten, all the rest of them. They had survived! Did that mean the war was over?

“Welcome back!” Vidar waved excitedly. 

The men looked weary, but relieved when they saw your pyre. “Béma be blessed. We were worried we would find naught but smoking embers like in so many other villages. We have been tracking these orcs for days and found only ruins and homeless refugees in their wake – until now. How did you defeat them?”

You proudly indicated Boromir. “We had help.”

Torsten cut in: “Why, if it is not Lord Främling! You look well. I am glad you made it.”

“He is Lord Hjälte now,” said Vidar.

"Congratulations on becoming a father again, Torsten,” you said.

“The child is born? And everything went well?” He leaped off the horse in a smooth jump. “I have to go see them at once. Was it a son? No, say nothing, I know it was. I have a talent for guessing these things.”

You smiled smugly as he hurried off.

Meanwhile the other riders filled you in with news from the war, at long last. A lot had happened. Théoden King and his riders found their way to Gondor blocked by the orcs at Cair Andros just as Boromir had feared, but got unexpected aid by a people who dwelled in the mountains and took them on a shortcut to Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor, just in time to save the day and help defeating Sauron’s enormous host. 

They then described the battle in detail, encouraged by a barrage of questions from Boromir. 

There had been many losses and injuries. Théoden King was dead, and his niece Éowyn, who unexpectedly joined the army, was badly hurt. Her brother Éomer would become the new King of Rohan. 

Another man who died was Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. Boromir’s father. 

“Poor old fellow; they say he lost his mind and burned himself alive, broken with grief after what happened to his sons,” said Ragnar, unaware that one of them was standing right in front of him. “The eldest was killed in battle in the north prior to the war, you see.”

Boromir did not betray any emotions at the news, but you saw his fists clench and his whole stance become rigid. 

You wished you could hug him. What a gruesome way for a man to die!

“And the youngest?” His gaze was intent.

“Hurt in battle, but Lord Aragorn healed him. He is greatly improved; they say he will survive.”

Boromir grew visibly less tense. “And what now? You said this mysterious heir to the throne has appeared, this Lord Aragorn. What are his plans? The Dark Lord lives, and although he lost a battle, he will return with renewed force soon enough.”

Ragnar shifted uneasily. “Lord Aragorn is on his way to Mordor. It is a ruse, and he does not expect to survive, but…” He lowered his voice. “There is a secret, powerful item, you see… a ring, they say, a ring of power. It was forged by Sauron a long time ago and if he can get it back he will use it to usurp the entire world. But a brave young halfling is on a secret mission to cast the ring into the fires where it was once wrought. A halfling is–”

“I know what a halfling is.” Boromir had grown very pale.

“Oh. Well, so Lord Aragorn has decided to make this decoy attack to distract the enemy, hence increasing the chances for the halfling to succeed. I know, it sounds impossible, but Aragorn believes it might work, and nearly everyone is following him there.”

“But not you?”

He blushed hotly. “He sent us to free Cair Andros. Us and some others…”

“We were afraid and did not want to die,” Karl cut in. “We have families waiting for us. He saw that and released us. A good man, he is. And a great king, if he survives.”

“We bested the army at Cair Andros,” said Ragnar. “This group we were tracing were the last survivors.”

After exchanging a few more words the men left you, eager to go see their families now that their task was finally over. 

Boromir left too, with a curt “I shall take a walk” that made it clear he did not want company.

You looked long after him.

※

That night Boromir moved out of your house. He said he was no longer a patient, and did not want to impose on your hospitality. Therefore he had arranged with Vidar to sleep in his spare room.

Your stomach grew tight; you knew what this was about. He wanted to keep a distance from you, and you were fairly sure it was because he suspected you had feelings for him.

“I am happy for Vidar’s sake,” you said, smiling forcedly. “He has been lonely since his wife passed away.”

“Goodnight then.” He bowed and left.

”Goodnight.”

You went to lie in your empty bed. And then you cried.

Notes:

Thanks for reading so far. If you like the story, feel free to comment. I love hearing from you!

Chapter 7: Free

7. Free

More days passed. You went on with your work, checking on Maja’s little sister and her mother, changing the bandages of an old injury on one of the returning men, seeing the elderly and telling them the good news about the war. You withheld the bad news about the decoy attack and the very slim chance of ever beating the Dark Lord.

At least Cair Andros was free; you need not worry about orc attacks any longer, nor keep nightly watches.

You saw Boromir sometimes but only exchanged brief nods. He kept training Svarten, and then a few foals Vidar wanted broken in. But most often you saw him standing at the outskirts of the village, leaning on his cane, eyes set on the eastern sky.

He was looking at Mordor.

One day you gathered your courage and joined him. “How are you?”

He gave his crooked grin without taking his eyes away from the horizon. “Fine.”

“How is your chest? Still healing nicely? No tightness of the skin?”

“No. Do not trouble yourself; I really am well.”

“And the mobility on your right side?” you continued stubbornly.

He opened and closed his hand a few times. “As good as it ever will, I think. I can do almost everything I could before, but not with the same strength, and I still need a cane when I must walk more than a few steps.”

“I see. Keep exercising.” 

“I will.”

You could not think of any more questions and fell silent.

His gaze returned to the ominous clouds, the perpetual darkness that had lingered over the Mordor border all your life.

What was happening there? Had the decoy worked? Was the secret mission completed? Or had it failed?

You were certain Boromir was asking himself these same questions too – over and over again.

“If that halfling succeeds – what will you do then?” you asked.

He did not answer right away. Then he sighed, looking more dejected than you had ever seen him. “I do not know,” he said, barely audibly. “I cannot see the future… I see only darkness ahead; impenetrable, frightening. And there is a heavy weight in me… in my heart.” He glanced at you. “I believe that is why I cannot bond with others like I used to, not form friendships or… other connections. Not until I know what will happen…”

You thought you understood what he meant. He was talking about you, trying to explain why he kept a distance. Somehow, his words lit a tiny hope in your chest. If you won, if the dark Lord was defeated…

But he swiftly crushed that.

“I have no hope the halfling will succeed. Maybe if the rest of the Fellowship had been with him…” He broke off, glancing at you again, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “It is my fault he must walk alone,” he whispered. “Do you recall the secret weapon I told you about? My dream? I had dreams of that ilk frequently. The Ring whispered to me… spoke to me… showed me visions. It became so precious to me I wanted to have it.” His hands were shaking and he clenched them. “First I sought to convince him, urging him to give it up, and when that failed I tried to wrestle it from him! I, a man of Gondor, twice his height. Unbelievable…”

You wished you knew what to say, but did not, so you just stood there. Silent.

“Frodo – that is the name of the halfling – ran away alone. That is why Aragorn must go on this suicide mission now. If he perishes, that is on me. If Frodo does, that is on me too. It will be my fault alone.”

“I do not think–”

“Do not try to excuse what I did. I was weak, and I fell, and countless lives have been spilled because of it. I should have been there.” He pointed south, toward his homeland. “If I had, my father would still be alive today. My brother might not have been injured.” He gave you a look full of self-loathing. “I am sorry, but I am not the hero you and the rest of the village believe I am. I am not strong, or brave. I am a coward. And what is worse…” He clenched his hands again. “Even now I want it. Even now a part of me hopes Frodo will fail so I can claim it.” 

Without another word he limped away.

※

After that conversation you became rather distracted in your work. All the time your thoughts lingered on Boromir.

You needed to figure out the complex man that was him.

With a few sly questions to Torsten and the others who had been to the war you tried to find out more of his background. You asked many questions about the quest he had been a part in when he was presumed killed, and you also pretended an interest in the new heir to the throne who had shown up, which brought on the topic of the ruling stewards who had held the power for centuries in the king’s absence. It helped you figure out more details about Boromir’s early life. 

Putting it all together, you concluded his actions were completely understandable.

Boromir was born the eldest son of the steward – basically a prince. Raised to be a leader and politician, to always do what was best for the people. Not allowed to have his own dreams or goals. 

He became a warrior and captain, trained to lead others into battle, and was likely encouraged to seek an honorable death, if worst came to worst. All his life Gondor had been the only country trying to defend against the darkness of Mordor, the only army trying to hold the last forts and cities, sacrificing their lives to do so while the rest of the world did not know or did not care what happened. 

You were one of them. You, a Rohirrim, had never realized what an impossible task Middle-earth had assigned Gondor. How selfishly you had continued your business as usual. 

Then Boromir had been sent to aid a halfling, who had no particular skills, strength or powers, to carry the most dangerous and powerful item in the world from Rivendell to Mount Doom in Mordor and destroy the ring there, right under Sauron’s – its maker and owner – nose. 

And Boromir had failed because he believed the ring could be used better by him or his father in Gondor. 

You could not blame him for that.

※

Boromir was standing alone, looking east as usual. You observed him, debating with yourself whether to try to talk to him again. Tell him to be less hard on himself.

But you had a feeling he would only be angry if you brought it up.

Suddenly Boromir began to shake violently and fell to his knees. He was clutching his chest.

You immediately ran forward. Was his heart troubling him?

“What happened? Are you ill?”

Still trembling, he turned his head east. “Look,” he whispered.

You looked. A gray pillar was rising into the sky, like smoke from a huge chimney. Beneath it the sky was a bright orange. 

“What is it?”

“It is gone. The Ring… I no longer sense it. He must have destroyed it.” He slowly rose to his feet, wiping moisture from his forehead. 

“Are you certain?” Could the quest really have succeeded against all odds? You did not dare believe it.

“That smoke… Frodo was going to throw the Ring into Mount Doom; perhaps it erupted as a consequence.” His voice was steadier now. “Either way, I know it is gone. All this time, I felt it. A heavy weight; a steady pull on my mind. But I no longer do.” 

“How are you feeling?” You were still worried.

“Good.” A surprised half-smile formed on his lips. “My heart is light. I feel free.” 

It struck you he looked like several years had been removed from his face; the perpetual worry lines were eased out. Slowly, gradually you were starting to believe him. It had to be true. Nothing else could have affected him so positively.

He caught you in an impromptu hug. “The victory is ours! The enemy stands no chance with the Ring gone!”

You clung to him, wanting to be in his arms forever. Relief and happiness flooded your chest, nearly choking you. There would be a future ahead that was not completely dark. 

Maybe you could even dare hope for love.

※

You were about to prepare dinner when there was a knock on your door. A bit puzzled you went to open; nobody knocked around here. They just barged in.

Boromir stood outside, looking different somehow. It took you a heartbeat until you realized why: he had shaved, leaving only a short, neat beard. His hair was slightly damp as if he had just taken a bath.

He was so attractive you could hardly breathe.

“Good evening. I have not told anyone else about the ring; I find it difficult to explain how I can be so sure it is gone, but I want to celebrate the upcoming victory. Will you join me?” He held up a flagon. “I have mead.”

Your head spun. Was this the same man who had so carefully kept you at a distance before?

“Of course,” you said, not letting your voice betray your surprise. “Let me make myself ready first.”

You hurried back inside, suddenly very conscious about your appearance. You washed your face and hands, wishing there was time to take a bath. You put on scented oil instead. 

Then you hauled out your nicest clothes and brushed your hair until it shone.

A bit breathlessly you went out.

He regarded your appearance appreciatively. “Lovely.” Something about the way he looked at you made your heart beat faster. 

Boromir took you to the roof you had been using as a lookout tower before, spreading a blanket for you both to sit on.

It was not very big, and as you sat down you felt the heat from his body and a whiff of his scent. He must have used perfumed oil as well.

“Time to feast. Here, have a cup. Vidar promised me it is the strongest mead he has.” 

You drank in companionable silence first. The evening was cool; it was still only late March, but you thought you felt the smell of spring in the air. The column of smoke over Mordor had a pink hue from the setting sun.

You did not quite dare look at Boromir. Again he felt so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and it intimidated you.

After a while the drink began to affect you, filling you with courage. You discreetly peeked at him from the corner of your eyes. 

You admired his profile; his straight nose, dark eyebrows, his clear eyes glittering in the evening light. How was it possible for a man to be so handsome? 

He must have dressed with care. The cloak he wore was new, lined with rabbit fur, and you did not recognize the tunic. 

“New clothes?” you asked, trying to hide your fluster with conversation as was your habit.

“Vidar let me choose between his spare ones; he said he still owes me for the belt. Your influence, I presume.”

Boromir had chosen well; the tunic was elegantly cut and suited him perfectly. You recalled that his other clothes and his boots were also very nice. Suddenly amused, you realized he must be a bit of a coxcomb.

“I was not aware you were a man of fashion.”

“I am a man of many talents.” His lopsided grin made your heart throb. 

“Indeed, you are,” you let slip.

“You are a person of many talents too.” He took your hand. “I was fortunate to be saved by such an attractive healer.”

You found no words to reply; your mouth had grown too dry.

Still looking intently at you, he took your hand and brought it to his lips. They were cool and burning hot at the same time. 

You had his full attention and charisma directed at you. It made your limbs feel weak. You could not move, not breathe. Time stopped. As if he and you were alone in the world. 

He took another sip from his mug and released your eyes; the tense moment passed. A small smile lingered on his lips.

He must know how he affected you. He played you like a fiddle.

But you did not mind. 

“More mead?” As he refilled your mug, his fingers brushed against yours.

You moved closer. “I am cold,” you mumbled as an excuse. It was a lie. You were burning hot, set aflame by your emotions.

His smile widened. He knew.

He put his cloak around you both, pulling you close. The rabbit fur was soft against your chin. 

He was so warm. You felt safe and protected with his strong arm around you. You leaned into him, rested your head on his broad chest.

He put the mug down to stroke your hair, a bit clumsily because it was his right hand. You did not care. His fingers were chafed and calloused. You did not care about that either.

You slid your own hand around his waist. His frame was lean and hard. You pressed your nose against the hollow under his neck, drawing in the scent of his warm skin. Your heart beat fast and hard, the sound of it filling your ears.

You felt his pulse beat fast too.

He held your cheek in his palm, turning your face up. He had such large hands. His eyes were dark, drawing you in. 

He was looking at your lips. You looked at his.

Then you kissed.

※

It was late when Boromir escorted you home. The kiss still burned on your lips, the memory of it repeating itself in your mind. You had never been kissed that way before. With such passion, yet so gentle.

Even in this, Boromir showed what a kind man he was. He did not push. He did not go too far. As if he wanted to revel in the moment, to share a kiss without pressure for more.

You had expected he would ask you out again soon after that night, or perhaps ask to move back in with you, but he did neither. He stayed with Vidar, continuing his work training horses. 

Yet there was a huge difference in his behavior toward you.

Now, when you met, he always smiled, and never failed to exchange a few words if there was time. And whenever you were in his vicinity you often felt his eyes on you.

If only you were brave enough to make advances, but it appeared you had caught a spell of unusual shyness around him.

Then one day when you were heading home from a visit to Sigrid and the baby, he fell into step with you. “Will you walk with me?” 

You noticed his hair was damp again after a bath, and his cheeks smooth and freshly shaved. Your stomach fluttered. You had not stopped thinking about the kiss. Longing to repeat it.

As soon as you were some way from the village he took your hand. Yours nearly disappeared in his. It was warm and strong. You squeezed it and he squeezed back.

Then you just walked. Admiring the spring flowers along the path, discussing what kind of birds you heard, enjoying the afternoon sun on your faces. Taking breaks now and then so he could rest his feet. Walking was still taxing for him.

When you were back at your house he kissed the top of your hand. “Sleep well. Will you walk with me again tomorrow? I enjoyed it very much.”

“I did too.” Your heart felt so full it overflowed.

From then on, you took daily walks together, and sometimes rode out on horseback. It felt like you explored the surroundings and saw them for the first time – because to him, it was the first time. You showed him all your favorite places, told him anecdotes from your youth, and he shared similar tales from his own childhood. He had been up to quite a lot of mischief with his brother it seemed, and whenever he shared those memories his eyes grew soft.

“You miss him.”

He nodded. “I do.”

You hoped one day the brothers would be reunited.

Some days later a rider arrived with more news and an invitation. Sauron was dead, the ring destroyed – exactly as Boromir had known. All the Dark Lord’s minions had been swiftly defeated afterwards. And what was more, against all odds Lord Aragorn had survived the decoy attack, and so had all the rest of the Fellowship. Gondor would soon have a king again after so many centuries without, and everyone was invited to his coronation, especially the men who had taken part in the war. 

“What will happen to the steward’s son?” asked Boromir, clearly feigning only a slight interest in the matter.

“He will become Prince of Ithilien. And he is engaged to marry one of ours! Éowyn, niece of Théoden King. Everyone saw them kiss at the city walls.”

Boromir relaxed. “Good for him.”

That day, Boromir was unusually quiet as you left the village on your walk. He seemed melancholy, but who wouldn’t be? The news from the south must have reminded him of where he came from, of his old life.

Did he think of going there? Perhaps attend the coronation? You felt a pang at the thought of him leaving you.

Maybe you could ask him to take you with him…

But no, you belonged here. What would the villagers do without their only healer?

Repressing a sigh, you took in the surroundings, trying to enjoy the beauty around you. It was a mild spring day and the pastures had become green. Everywhere you saw signs of new life: the lambs bouncing around their mothers, the new foals, Sigrid and Torsten’s baby napping in a basket.

You felt a huge wave of gratitude that all of it was still there. Other villages had been wiped out in the war, but not this one. 

Your steps had taken you in the direction of the river, and you realized you were almost at the place where you first found Boromir. It felt strange that only two months had passed since then.

Boromir silently regarded the roaring waterfall. Probably recalling the events of that day. His betrayal. The orc attack. Waking up afterwards unable to use his body.

“The halflings survived,” he said, nodding at the Falls. "Frodo’s friends. It was them I tried to protect in the orc attack, and all this time I thought I had failed. But I saved them. Funny that.”

“Yet you seem unhappy,” you said, taking his hand and squeezing it. Holding hands with him felt natural now.

He sighed. “I suppose I am, a little. I keep regretting I was not there… I could not follow through. The war is over and I did not help. Aragorn had to do everything.”

“How can you say you did not help? You saved us. Me. This may be a tiny corner of the world, but it is all we ever had. Because of you, we still do.”

He looked like he was going to object but you would not let him.

“As I once said, this world needs more good men. Men like you. And do not say I do not know you for now I do. You showed your kindness and virtue even when you tried to take that… thing  – no, hear me out! – for you did not hurt the one who carried it. I have seen you fight; you could have sliced his head off in the blink of an eye. You could have taken the ring so easily. But you did not. Because you are good and kind. Because you could never hurt a friend, ever.”

He stared at you. Then a mist appeared in his eyes and he turned his head away. “I have not thought about it that way.”

“But it is true, is it not? You could have killed him.”

“I could.”

“And if the tales are true, you were hardly the first man to be corrupted by the power of that ring.”

“I was not.” His voice was toneless.

“Boromir,” you said earnestly, squeezing his hand again. “It was not your fault.”

“It was not my fault,” he whispered. Slowly he turned his eyes back to you, allowing you to see the tears pooling in them. “It was not my fault.”

He wrapped his arms around you and pressed his face into your hair. You hid your eyes against his strong chest. You were crying too now. For him, for everything he had been through, all the heartache and guilt. For the loss of his father. For the loss of his strength and mobility.

“I am so sorry for you,” you sobbed.

“Thank you.” Then he suddenly chuckled, and added in a broken voice that was at the same time happy and sad: “I would never have thought I would be grateful for someone’s pity. But I am. So, thank you.”

“Not pity; sympathy,” you said firmly.

You kept the hug for a long time. Allowing one another to calm down and collect yourself. Then you sat on a soft patch of grass by the river. 

“Middle-earth is at peace. Will you return home?” you asked.

You were afraid to hear his reply but had to know. If this, whatever it was between you, should turn into something more, then you needed to know.

“I miss my brother, but the way things are I feel my return would only complicate things. I know he will be a good prince and leader, whereas I… well, I am a cripple.”

“You are not a cripple!” you objected.

Again he chuckled, blessing you with the genuine warmth of his laughter. “Not entirely, I suppose. And perhaps one day I shall visit Faramir. Let him know I am alive. But if so, I would not go there to stay.” He planted a kiss on the top of your hand. “Do you know what I want to do most of all?”

You mutely shook your head. Your heart was beating faster again.

“Stay here.” He nodded at the calm river and the reeds waving in the mild breeze. “In this beautiful place, with the river and the open, quiet plains. Among the horses and the sheep. I grew up in the bustle of the large city but now I have fallen in love with the peaceful, slow life and ways of the village.” He gave you his beautiful half-grin. “My father would think I had lost my mind if he could hear me now.” His smile swiftly waned. “But he is gone. I loved him, but I was never like him.”

“Would you not get bored? You enjoyed yourself on the battlefield, anyone could see that.”

“No more than I enjoyed breaking in Svarten and his foals. The thrill of galloping over a field is no less than the thrill of chasing an orc. No, I will not be bored. I will be happy.” His gaze grew soft as he met yours. “With you, if you will have me.”

“Of course,” you replied, fresh tears filling your eyes. Happy tears.

Softly he kissed them away, one by one. Then his lips found yours.

This time he did not stop after one sweet kiss. And this time he wasn’t only gentle. 

You both knew what you wanted and where this was heading. For – you were his and he was yours, until death would part you.

Notes:

The next chapter is an Explicit bonus chapter that can be skipped.

Chapter 8: Love

8. Love

Boromir’s lips were soft, the kiss tender. His scent overwhelmed you. 

He was taking his time. Slowly exploring you, tasting you. His tongue tickled the seam of your lips and you let it in.

Again it struck you how respectful he was, how he held back. You knew there was something wild and passionate in him; you had seen it when he fought. He wouldn’t let that side of him loose until you were ready. Until you invited it.

He had been cupping your face in his hands, now he slid them down to your neck. Stroking the skin under your ears with his thumbs.

You buried a hand in his hair, combing through it with your fingers. He hummed deep in his throat and slanted his head to kiss you even closer. His tongue swirled around yours.

The intimate kiss did things to you. It woke something up that you had never felt before.

You knew of course what couples did together at night in their beds; you were a healer after all. But you had never felt a need to engage in such activities yourself. 

Until now.

Kissing like this made you want to touch his bare skin. See him naked – and show yourself naked, too. Letting him look at you with eyes full of desire. 

You wanted to feel his hands on your body. You wanted to feel him inside you.

Still with one hand in his hair, you lifted his tunic to slide the other one under it. You surveyed the landscape of his back and chest, both familiar and foreign. You had seen it many times, touched it to apply ointment or change the bandages. This was very different.

The hairs on his chest tickled your palm. Again you longed to see it. You knew how beautiful he was, how well sculpted and perfect in every way, and now you would finally be able to look to your heart’s content.

“Take it off,” you mumbled against his mouth.

He moaned and the kiss became more intense. His tongue no longer hesitated; he bore it into you, and his hands around your neck pressed harder.

You were glimpsing the untamed fire beneath his self-control.

He made a pause to pull his tunic and shirt off, tossing them away without caring where they ended up. “You also,” he urged. His eyes were heated, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

You obeyed.

His eyes trailed over your exposed chest. You let yours do the same with his.

Vána help you, he was so attractive. His body achingly beautiful. You would never get tired of looking at his husky form, all muscle and sinews.

His lips parted, a breath of air escaping them. “Magnificent…”

“No more than you.”

He caught your hands, pulling you to him to resume the kiss. Your lips were raw but you hardly noticed it. You kissed him back with a fervor you did not know you had in you. 

He leaned back in the grass, drawing you with him. Your bodies pressed close together, skin against skin, and your legs intertwined. You knew what the hardness was that you felt. You wanted it even closer.

You slid your hand along his arm, feeling the muscles flex as he moved, both thrilled and excited at knowing how much stronger he was. He could break your arm with hardly any effort. 

He explored your body in a similar way, as if learning every curve and every ridge. He found your sensitive nipples and rubbed them. 

A burning ache erupted in your core. You pressed yourself against his hardness, moaning with need and longing.

He broke the kiss, allowing both of you to catch your breath. Instead he planted heated kisses along your neck. 

He reached a nipple and sucked it, producing another throaty moan from you.

You raised yourself on an elbow so you could follow his example. As you trailed kissed over his flat chest, you reveled in the salty taste, filling your nostrils with his masculine scent. His nipple was hard under your tongue. You rolled it between your lips, giving it a light nip.

He groaned and slid his hands up your thighs, pressing you down on his hardness.

Turning you over on your back, he lay over you, resting part of his weight on his good arm. He covered your form entirely with his bulky mass. 

You loved how small he made you feel. You loved to feel safe and protected.

His lips found yours and now you knew he no longer held back. His passion drove you along with him and you lost yourself in the moment. 

Then it was as if he momentarily woke up. He sat back a bit, chest heaving, his hair disheveled. “Do you want this? We do not have to–”

“I do.” You tried to pull him back down, but of course he wasn’t easy to budge.

He smiled lopsidedly. “I do too. But not this way.”

“Boromir!” You frowned at him. He had made you completely unraveled and now he expected you to stop?

“It is becoming cold and the ground is hard. Beds are an excellent invention.” His smile widened. “But I must say, right now you look glorious, and I would love nothing more than tearing those last garments off and take you right here.”

Your mouth went dry. “I would not say no to that.”

But he was stoic, as always. Soon you were dressed again and heading back. Your tempo was a lot quicker than on the way out, and the last part you almost ran.

You slunk into your house, and for once you latched the door. 

“At last,” he exclaimed, taking you in his arms and actually picking you up, carrying you the few steps to the bed.

“Boromir!” you scolded. “Think of your injury.”

“Tonight I very much prefer not to.” He stripped you of your clothes, again exposing your torso, and ridding himself of his own garments too. “Now, where were we?”

You had to admit your wide bed was a lot more comfortable than the riverside, and having him lay beside you felt familiar. You had missed having him there.

Then you resumed where you left off, and in a strange way the brief break had made your senses heighten. When Boromir kissed you with ill-restrained ardor it felt like the first time all over again.

Only this time you were less patient.

“Undress,” you begged.

You did not need to ask twice; he shrugged out of his pants and underwear, unabashedly exposing his length to your curious eyes.

Seeing the size of him, your curiosity briefly turned into anxiety. 

But then you got other things to think about. He caught hold of your last garments, slowly sliding them off, his eyes all but eating your body with every exposed inch. He did not say anything when he saw you but his expression spoke all the more. 

He swallowed. 

Almost shyly, he trailed his hand nearer. Meeting your eyes with a question in his own.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

He did. His rough fingers were surprisingly gentle as he slowly explored your most intimate parts. Finding your sensitive spots, figuring out what you enjoyed, listening intently to your soft moans and hums of approval.

Moisture leaked from you as your arousal grew.

His fingers became slick with it, and it felt so good. You repeatedly forgot to breathe.

He eased his fingertip into you. Your heartbeat roared in your ears. It was big, but not too big. It felt so different, yet unbearably good. You had needed this without even knowing it.

Slowly he came deeper, and then withdrew, the slickness from you making his finger slide along your walls. 

You would never cease to be amazed by his gentleness. How he, the large, strong warrior, could be so careful and restrained.

Still lingering inside you, he used his other hand to stroke you on the outside. Fleetingly you reflected that you were grateful he had enough mobility in his right hand to do that. 

But then he began to move his finger in and out, still stroking your most sensitive area, and you could not think about anything but how unbearably good it felt. Your attention turned inward as you felt something build up. A knot of lust, a bubble on the verge of bursting. 

Steadily he pressed deeper, probing, exploring, finding more sensitive spots on the inside.

“Please,” you mumbled hoarsely. “I want you. All of you. In me…” You did not even have words to express what you needed but he understood.

He spread your legs so he could lie between them, angling himself until he could press the tip in.

You winced. It did not hurt but there was a strange stretching feeling.

He held his stance, looking imploringly at you. His chest was heaving and you saw a rapid pulse flutter on his neck. Holding still like this wasn’t easy for him.

You moved your hands onto his back, sliding them over his smooth skin. He bent his head down and kissed you, and now with the tip of him buried in you it felt different. He became your whole world, filling all of your senses with his scent, the taste of his tongue, the sound of his fast breathing, his hardness quivering against your tight walls.

He pushed a little deeper and you gasped against his mouth. 

When he stopped you urged him on. “More. I need more.”

He obeyed. Slowly, ever so slowly he filled you with his girth. The stretch no longer felt strange, it felt good, you craved it. You raised your hips to take more of him in, pressing yourself against his front.

Sparks of lust shot through you as you did so. Your inner walls clamped down, squeezing him, and he groaned into your mouth. 

Your tongues intertwined, and so did your legs. You caressed his back, a bit erratically because it was hard to keep your attention on anything but the hardness within.

He began to move, pulling far out and pushing back, and you raised your hips to meet each thrust. Every time he buried himself to the hilt, a new jolt of pleasure chased through you, making your limbs tremble and your body grow tense. 

His pace became rapid, he was losing control. You loved to feel him let go. Allowing his instinct and unbridled lust to take over.

Again and again he plunged into you, again and again you met him. Your body was adapting, welcoming him. You effortlessly took in every glorious inch of him.

What he had started in you when he touched you with his fingers before was building fast a second time, reaching new heights. Raptures of sweet bliss swept through you like a storm.

You could not hold back a low scream as the dam burst and a prolonged series of spasms made you clench around his hardness.

He shook as well, his length pulsating as your release pulled him along. 

Exhausted, he sank down beside you. You lay your head on his damp, heaving chest. 

“I love you,” he mumbled into your hair.

“I love you more,” you claimed, a smile of giddy happiness plastering itself on your lips.

Not long afterwards you fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Comments are welcome. ❤️

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 6 of Mimi's x-Reader Stories