Chapter Text
It was early in the morning, the mist of the dawn still clinging to the grass beneath her boots, when Maewyn saw something unexpected floating along the river. It was not the fact a body had floated down beside her shore that surprised her. No, bodies were not in short supplies these days. It was his armor that caught her eye. What was a man of Gondor doing so far from the white city? And why was his body floating along the Rivermark?
She dropped her basket of herbs, wading into the knee deep water to pull the man ashore. He was heavy, dressed as he was in armor and his clothing soaked through. She huffed as she pulled him up onto the pebble-strened riverbank.
"Cold," she muttered as she searched for a pulse along his neck. There was none to be found, nor did there seem to be any breath coming from his lungs. She gripped his wrist, pulling his arm from his body and testing the movement of it. "But not yet stiff, despite that grip you have on your sword. You've still some color in you, my lord. Your spirit may yet still cling to you."
If that was the case, she had a duty to make an attempt.
She let out a grunt as she once again heaved him up into her arms, dragging his body away from the shoreline and towards her small domicile. She dropped him rather uncermoniously on her bed, pushing his legs up onto the mat with a huff. In a rush, she retrieved her basket of herbs before returning and slamming the door shut. It wouldn't do to be interrupted.
Firstly, she needed to assess whatever wounds led him to be in his current condition. She divested him of his tunics and chainmail, finding several puncture wounds in his torso. Arrows. Large ones. Nothing the Rohirrim or the wildmen used. This man fought orcs. And if that was the case, she had even more of a reason to bring his spirit back into the world of the living.
She sorted through the herbs in her basket, plucking a few particularly robust leaves and flowers before turning to her collection of drying plants that hung from her rafters. She grabbed all the kingsfoil she had, tossing it into the cloth-lined mortar along with everything else. With a flick of her fingers, the dying embers in her fireplace roared back to life. She heaved her pot onto the hook above the flickering flame, peering in to make sure there was still enough broth left for her plans. Satisfied, she turned back to her herbs.
Grinding the herbs into a paste left her arms and shoulders burning with the effort. When she was finaly satisfied, she squeeze the oil from the mixture, wringing it from the paste until it gave nothing more. She tossed the oil into the slowly simmering broth, watching the color turn into a brilliant bronze sheen for a moment before settling into its usual hue. What oil still coated the walls of the motar she gathered up on her fingers and spread across the Gondorian's closed eyes. The paste she smeared across his wounds, packing it thickly into the deep punctures as she muttered the Old Language her mother had taught her. Then, she slipped a thumb into the man's mouth, prying it open and smearing a line of the poultice onto his tongue.
With her words finished, she placed her own lips upon his and blew, filling his lungs with her own breath. She could feel the warmth leave her chest to fill his own. Lips that had been blue took on a fresher, pinker hue. Just a little more.
She connected their lips once more, pushing more breath into his chest. Over and over she filled his lungs with her own life's breath until she could no longer taste the herbs on his lips. She waited, hands on either side of his handsome face. And then, she felt it. An exhale against the skin of her cheek. She stood tall, eyes darting down to see his chest expand as he inhaled of his own power. She collapsed into the chair by the fireplace, taking a deep, shuddering breath of her own. She covered her mouth with her shaking hands, the shock settling deep in her belly.
Never before had she attempted such a complicated, taxing spell. Setting bones for riders that had fallen off their horses? Child's play. She did it weekly when she and Eomer were still young and the boy was more foolhardy. Chasing away a fever that plagued a child for days? As simple as blinking. But this? Returning a departed spirit to their body? Even her mother had never completed the spell successfully. Whoever this man was, he had a great desire to return to the living world. She wondered what unfinished business he had, what task could not be left be after his passing.
"Who are you?" she murmured, watching the steady rise and fall of the man's chest as color returned to his skin.
She supposed she would find out when he awoke.
The smell of herbs tickled Boromir's nose. And that in and of itself was enough to startle him into wakefulness. Rough wooden beams and a thatch roof greeted him, along with the sound of someone bustling about nearby. For a moment, he wondered if this was what death brought mortal men. If this was what they meant by the halls of his fathers. He had imagined something more grand. Something less earthly.
The pain that throbbed in his chest told him that no, he had not passed into the afterlife. If he had, surely the pain of his wounds would have long since left him. Somehow, he had been drawn back from the jaws of death. But how? And by who?
"Awake, are you?" a voice questioned, a hint of amusement in their tone.
Boromir did not get to turn his head by a few centimeters before a woman's visage appeared above him, auburn hair casting a shadow over them both as it fell around her face. Eyes the color of the edge of twilight stared down at him, taking him in with a keenness that reminded him of Isildur's heir, their sharpness tendered by a similarly painful kindness.
"Well," the woman said, standing and placing her hands on her hips. "You're looking a lot better than you did when I found you. You've more color in your cheeks."
"Who are you?" Boromir demanded, his voice raw and made of gravel.
"I could ask you the same question, son of Gondor," the woman said, stepping away and nodding towards the tunic that hung on her washing line just through her open door. The breeze smelled sweet and floral.
Movement in the corner of his eyes caught his attention, and he turned his head to see a bowl full of a simple soup held out to him.
"Drink," the woman said. "You'll feel better."
He grunted as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, taking the bowl from the woman and sipping directly from the bowl. It tasted earthy and herbal, but not poorly made. The woman watched him as he drank, and Boromir made sure to look anywhere but at her. There was a saddle in the corner of the small hovel, and a spear and bow propped up on the wall beside it. They looked well maintained.
"What are those for?" he asked, his eyes lingering on the weapons.
"Hunting, mostly," the woman responded, readily answering that question despite her earlier avoidance. "But dark times give them other uses."
"Aye," Boromir murmured. "I imagine they would."
He sipped the soup, finding he did, in fact, feel better as the liquid flowed down his gullet. He felt warmer, and like his strength was returning to him. "How did you find me?"
"You came floating down my river," the woman explained, nodding towards the river he could hear through the open door and windows. "I pulled you ashore and nursed you back to health. You may express your thanks at any time."
Boromir shot her a look, unable to help the amusement that bubbled up in his chest at her playful, lopsided smile "Thank you. May I have the name of my savior, so that my father may reward you properly upon my return home?"
"Maewyn," she said. Her smile spread a little farther. "I have been called the Witch of the Rivermark before, but I doubt your father — if he is of the statis that he can reward me for something such as this — would be keen to hear a witch saved your life."
Boromir chuckled. "No. No, I do not believe he would be."
The woman — Maewyn — eyed him curiously. "Might I know the name of the man I saved, now that I have given him mine?"
He figured it was only fair. "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the steward of Gondor."
Maewyn blinked owlishly, sitting a little straighter as her brow furrowed. "What in heaven's name are you doing floating down the Rivermark, then?"
"Fighting orcs," Boromir said wryly. He took another sip of soup. "And fairing poorly."
The healer seemed rather unimpressed with his answer. "That much, I had gathered."
Boromir frowned. He supposed he did owe the woman a proper answer. She had saved his life when he no longer thought such a thing possible. He had a second chance thanks to her. A chance to save the little ones. A chance to save his people. A chance to make it up to Frodo and his king. And it was all thanks to this odd healer woman along the river.
"My mission is secret," he said. "But it was given to me by the lord of Rivendell. We were escorting something important, and we were beset by orcs. Two of my companions were captured, and I…died." He could not ignore a fact such as that. This woman — this Witch of the Rivermark — had done more than heal him, she had brought him back from death itself. "I do not know what has become of the rest of my party."
Boromir could barely stand the sympathy that colored Maewyn's face. She stood, taking the now-empty bowl from his hands and returning to the fire. When she returned with another bowlful of soup for him to drink, she sat not on her chair, but on the edge of the bed. The only bed in the house, that Boromir could tell. He could not help but feel guilt at that.
"I have a friend who is a Marshal of the Mark," she told him. "He visits me often, even more now that the times have turned dangerous. I will ask him if he has heard anything of your compaions. He is not skilled at lying to me, despite his attempts to keep me blissfully ignorant. If he knows anything, his knowledge will be mine soon enough."
Boromir swallowed thickly around the stone that made itself at home in his throat. "I thank you, my lady."
Maewyn stood with a huff. "Don't thank me yet, Son of Gondor. The news may not be to your liking."
"Any news that scatters that shadows of doubt is welcomed news."
"As you say, your lordship."