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Stranger of the Falls (Boromir) – Part 2 (7): 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.

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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.

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A/N:

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.