Promise Me

Chapter Six

It was the longest of nights as Gabriella sat there at his bedside. Various healers passed through. They poked and prodded and made Boromir cry out in pain—which made her ready to leap across the bed and throttle the party responsible—and then left without a word to her. She didn't know how many of them had heard him confessing to wanting to kiss her that day down by the river, nor did she care. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered now but Boromir's getting better. And whatever the other healers knew, they kept to themselves. Boromir had made it clear she was to remain there, and they would honor his wishes, of course.

She sat at his bedside, stroking his hair to calm him when he grew restless, moaning and mumbling in his sleep. Every so often, she refilled the basin and bathed his forehead, his neck, his chest until he calmed. As the night crept on, she kept hoping he'd open his eyes, that he would sit up and assure her everything was going to be all right.

But he didn't, of course. Heat wafted from him. He mumbled and muttered and spoke to no one in particular—to his brother, his father, his mother. He threw off the linens and swore whenever she tugged them back up. She laid a hand against his forehead, only to have him moan softly and try to get away from her.

Ioreth had left a pain elixir for her to give to him, which was no easy feat as he did not want to be touched at all. Still, she managed to get a least a few drops into him, and then he'd settle back and be calm for a while.

Gabriella just watched over him, like a mother hawk. She drifted off more than once, and each time awoke with a start at the slightest sounds. Each time she lay her hand across his forehead, it felt hotter still. Fever ravaged him, burned wildly through him to leave him thrashing against the sheet as if it was lined with sharp nails scraping against him.

She had no way of knowing when he'd been wounded, no way of knowing how he managed to survive them and walk back to Minas Tirith. How he managed to survive the walk itself. Orcs seemed to have plagued every last corner of the world and now, no one left the city unless they absolutely had to. No riders from other realms came, no supplies came, no exports left, and yet, somehow, Boromir had crossed untold miles through the most dangerous of territory, to make it back home.

"No, please..." his voice grew thin and reedy, such a far cry from its normal calm, soothing tones, "I must find them... the little ones... they are in danger..."

She sat up sharply at his moaned words. He'd kicked the sheet from himself once more, so she rose to grasp it and gently tugged it back up. "Shh..."

"I cannot shhh..." he growled, a hint of furious desperation woven through his voice. "Do you not understand? It is my fault! What have I done? The little ones are gone and I must find them."

"Little ones?"

She tried to soothe him by stroking his hair, only this time, it seemed to only agitate him further. "Yes! And Frodo! I must find him. Where is he? I wouldn't have harmed him..."

She pressed her lips together as his voice broke then and a tear slid from the corner of his left eye. "I would not have harmed him, I swear it."

"Of course you wouldn't," she assured him, although she had no idea what he could possibly mean. Her fingers slipped lightly along his hair as she added, "You are a gentle man, Boromir. One of the gentlest men I have ever met, you know. You would not harm anyone without just cause."

"Gabby... I just wish to return home to her," he replied brokenly, his voice hitching. "She worries for me. No one has worried for me since my mother's death... I—I don't know what to do with that..."

Her hand went still. Boromir rarely spoke of his mother. All Gabriella knew was that she had died when he was about ten years old. He went quiet then, and a hint of a smile played at his lips. "Gabby... I must return home to her. I promised her I would..."