A story collection featuring Aragorn, Legolas, Thranduil, and Boromir so far. There will be lots of hurt/comfort, sweet romance, humor and a pinch of angst!
Pairings:
1. Aragorn x You
2. Legolas x You
3. Thranduil x You
4. Boromir x You
The reader c...
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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.
