Chapter warnings: Graphic injury, blood

4. Stranger of the Falls (Boromir) – Part 3 (7): 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.

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A/N:

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