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

※※※

A/N:

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