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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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.
