The Long Way Home – Chapter Three: Licking his Wounds

March the 1st, Year 3019 of the Third Age.

Boromir, having slept through much of the day and the whole, long late winter night, woke the next morning to the first rays of the sun peeking into their hideout from the East, and Arnuilas carefully approaching his side. Her relief at having lived another night without Orcs or other servants of the enemy attacking them was palpable, even though, as he had recently found out, daylight was by no means a guarantee for safety in these dark times.

"Good morning to you," said she, and only when she came close to him, he could see through her false cheer and noticed the bone-deep fatigue that had settled into her features during the night, the pale, puffy skin, the dark circles under her eyes... she did not look good, and that she did not look good did not bode well for him either.

"Have you slept at all since you have found me?" he asked brusquely and she looked up from the bundle that she had pulled over to her side.

"Dozed a few hours during daylight, when you looked less feverish than usual," she replied, and he just managed not to roll his eyes. Scolding him into not moving a limb, and then taking such risks herself!

"And when do you intend to rectify that?"

"As I said, when it is safe."

This time, his displeasure must have been visible, because she glared at him, and then huffed. "Let me check your bandages."

"If you rest afterwards, I will."

Fierce grey eyes met tired and pale blue ones, and finally, she sighed. "Fine. But you will wake me as soon as you get tired or you hear or see anything strange at all."

It was not a request, but an order, and Boromir did not react well to taking orders, not being accustomed to them... but he thought that in this case, he could make an exception, even though she was a woman, and even though he had doubted her abilities before. After all, the fact that he was still alive after taking four arrows that were probably poisoned spoke volumes of her skill and knowledge. "I will."

Now that she had stipulated her conditions, she even condescended to smile at him again, but, as she pulled out fresh bandages, he knew that might have been only because she was about to inflict new pain on him. After stubbornly trying to move the first, the second and even the third time, he had found out that her order not to stir had been given with good reason, and the thought of shifting now, or rather of being handled, and having cloth torn out of the dried blood of his wounds was not very appealing.

She seemed to notice his hesitation that stemmed chiefly from previous experiences and smiled. "Would you like to sit up?"

"Sit up?" That she would allow him such, considering her overtly protective attitude, surprised him deeply.

"Yes. It would help me tending to your wounds, and you could watch out better, that is, if you still want to keep your vigil afterwards."

He knew that her last condition had not been given lightly – she would hurt him, and hurt him badly, and that pain would not subside after she had finished, but would grate on and tire him, but nevertheless... she needed the rest more than he did, he had slept long enough in the past days after all. "Then I will."

She turned around and scratched something big, heavy over the dirty earth of the floor until he could feel it next to his head. Uneasiness drove him to try to turn around to see what it was, an endeavour that he paid for with a sharp stinging pain in his right shoulder. "It is my boat," explained she, when she noticed that he had tried to twist in nervous curiosity. "You can lean against it instead of the walls. It will be more warm and comfortable, though comfortable is a relative notion in this environment."

He nodded carefully. The dirty, cold stone did indeed not look very inviting, and he was near painfully aware that his chances of sitting on his own for a longer period of time were... slim, at best. His body simply was not up to it, no matter how much the elven remedies accelerated the healing process.

His own flinch surprised him when she pushed her right hand under his back and placed the other on his left side, as far as away from his injuries as possible. "Are you ready?" asked she quietly and he nodded with false bravado, he felt not ready at all, even when she prepared herself, apparently untouched by their forced closeness. "Help me as much as you can. You will have to sit on your own for a moment, so I can pull the boat close."

That a warrior of Gondor would think the task of holding his own weight, and only sitting, as a challenge, was a notion Boromir could not easily entertain, though it was undoubtedly true now, and so he just wished to be done with the matter as expediently as possible. "I will." He idly thought that he was acquiescing to a lot of things lately, when he felt her body tense next to him and she pushed him to sit upright. He tried to help her as he could, but his torn, agonized muscles screamed, and he feared that it was a good thing that so much power was hidden in her slender frame.

Her left hand moved, from his side to his back, next to the other, giving him a moment to steady himself, to get accustomed to his own weight that rested now on his own strength again, then looked at him quickly, searching for a reassurance that he could hold himself upright. Though he was not at all sure that he was capable of it, he nodded faintly and then felt one of her hands leave his back, gathering the blankets where his upper body had lain.

A moment later, the other was gone too and he struggled not to fall down onto the hard earth as if he were boneless, until the scratching sounds of the boat being pulled over behind him ceased and he felt the assistance of her hands on his back again.

"Ready?" she asked, and when he nodded, she lowered him carefully down into a half sitting, half resting position on the cool, grey wood. He was thankful that her arms were there, or he would have slumped down unceremoniously and hit hardly, because the muscles on his waist and abdomen were no more up to the task of lowering his upper body steadily and slowly than of holding it upright. Every time he tried to tense them, the arrow he had taken brought itself forcefully to his attention, and pain screamed in his stomach. A lot of pain.

He tried to slow down his breathing while she watched him with sorrow in her eyes and fussed over him, putting some scrunched article of clothing, one of hers from the smell of it, under his head as a pillow. To her credit, she did not ask if it had hurt, thereby not forcing him to state the blatantly obvious, instead she just pulled back the blankets from his chest to do what had to be done, though he regretted the necessity even now, futile as his reluctance was.

The late winter air was still cold, even though she had kindled a small fire in a hidden corner of the damp cellar, and he tried to keep himself from shivering, to preserve his dignity. But there was nothing to do against his hairs, who seemed to have their own will and straightened themselves, an effect that was only increased by her cold fingers finding the bandage at his shoulder. She pulled out her dagger, and he instinctively shrank back. "I will cut it off. I will not have to move you so much that way."

He nodded and eyed the blade warily, trying to draw relief from the fact that the edges shimmered only lightly now, indicating that any Orcs in their vicinity were far, far away, probably on the other side of the river. When she touched him, the metal on his skin was not as cold as he had feared as she severed the bandages and raised his body lightly to remove them, but when he tried to twist his head in order to see the wound, her fingers gently found his chin, turning him back to face her for a moment. "Better look at the entry, will you?"

He doubted that she only asked this of him for security purposes, but nevertheless complied, hoping that it would make the pain and the growing feeling of anxiety inside him more bearable this way. As long as he could, he stayed silent while she examined his flesh, prodding and cleaning his wound with some burning concoction that made him very nearly retch, but then, as she reached for the next bundle of bandages wrapped in leather, he could not hold it any longer. "How is it?" forced he out through gritted teeth and she stilled her movements to look him in the eye, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Remarkably well. There is no infection, so any poison from the tips is burnt out, and considering that five days ago, you were on the brink of death, it is healing quite nicely."

If how he felt now as she raised his shoulder slightly from the boat so she could bandage it was quite nicely, he really did not want to know what really bad was in her kind of world. Definitely not. True, he had experienced his share of injuries during the twenty-five years he had fought in Gondor's army, and bore a number of scars to prove it, but he had never been wounded as badly as this time, not even when, during one of their campaigns in Ithilien, a scimitar had slashed his leg and the wound had become infected.

She tied the bandages and smiled. "One done, two to go. Would you like me to pause for a moment?"

He waved the notion off immediately, though part of him wanted to stop the pain tearing through his flesh, but his ratio disagreed. "The sooner it is over, the better."

She did not answer, but instead cut the next bandage off, this one around his torso, where his chest and stomach met, for the arrow had hit his side. He was probably very lucky that it had missed any major organs considering where it had met with his body, or if it had, that it had not struck the most important parts of them. This time, he could have looked at the wound without twisting his head in an awkward direction, but when he saw his own red, torn and blood-crusted flesh, he decided to watch the entry instead as she had told him. It was important to have her back while she tended to his wounds, or at least he could convince himself that it was, to have a reason not to stare at the gashing wound in his side until she had bandaged him up again.

"Still fine? No Orcs in my back?" asked she when she had finished, and he appreciated the attempt at humour, though he could not join in it, aware as he was that next would be his thigh, the deepest wound he had received in his vain attempt at defending the Hobbits. On every other day, in every other situation, having a tolerably pretty – and she was not only tolerable, but rather handsome – woman touch him around the middle of his thigh would have elicited very different responses. Now, he only clenched his teeth to refrain from crying out loud and therefore render all their efforts of not attracting enemies in vain, and tried to think of anything else. The dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder proved quite effective, and he concentrated on it, feeling every heavy thud of his heart in it, until he felt her pull the blankets up again cautiously.

"And?"

"You will be fine. At the moment, it is an ugly mess, but I am confident that it will not infect again, thanks to all the draughts I am administering." She hesitated for a moment, and he growled.

"Out with it, woman."

She shot him an admonishing glare, but answered nevertheless. "I do not know if you will ever retain full use of your leg or your right arm."

He had to admit that this was a blow, but knowing it now, being aware of what could happen, was better than finding out the hard way, when he had need of his limbs and could not command them.

She continued, obviously unsure of his reaction, but he barely noticed what she said, while he dealt with the shock. "Conditions here are not ideal for you to mend, as is quite obvious, and I fear that I will have to drag you up and about way before you are ready to walk again. But I dare not stay here longer than necessary."

She did not have to elaborate her reasoning, but he noticed that she carefully omitted where she wanted to go with him. Lórien then. She must be aware that I do not like that Elven witch and her cursed land.

His heart drew him south, but the knowledge of his failure, of his treachery, kept his longing to defend the country he loved at bay. Could he really return to his father and brother, knowing what he had done? Could he meet Aragorn again, who would be his king, and look him in the eye, if both of them survived this war? He did not know, and part of him was glad for the respite his injuries gave him. They were a reason, an excuse, to fail to appear in the heat of the battle, to collect his thoughts and find out his next course of action. "When do you want to travel north?"

She eyed him with no little amount of surprise. "As soon as you are able. I hope that the Elves will be able to mend your injuries better than my limited skills can accomplish."

The thought of owing not only her his life, but also the Elves, and maybe even Galadriel herself, his health, was not one he liked to entertain. "Maybe it is of no matter in which state of health I die as soon as we reach Lórien."

She smiled sadly at him, though he thought that he could detect a deeper concern lingering in her pale and tired eyes. "That may be. But as long as our treasure is not on the enemy's hand, there is still hope, and I do not intend to give it up."

"I fear that I already have."

She reached out and pressed his uninjured hand. "I know, Boromir... I know. I have lived under the shadow in the North for so long, fought it with all I had, sacrificed those I loved... maybe it is not hope that I kindle to my heart, but sheer defiance and the desperate wish that all I have done and suffered has not been in vain. Then again, what is the difference? It keeps me on my feet, it keeps me fighting, and sometimes, hopelessness does as much for your fervour in battle as the promise of a better future."

Her words rang a quiet bell in his heart, and he smiled back at her, a small, sad smile that felt genuine despite all the things he had done lately that he had to be ashamed of. "Sleep, will you?" he asked quietly, hoping that he could give back some of the care she had exercised onto him, and relieved when she nodded after a moment of consideration.

"If you feel up to guarding us, then yes." She carefully handed him the elven dagger to keep near, to watch out for signs of danger, and placed sword and bow in her reach before she curled into a ball next to him, wrapping herself into the only blanket that was still left. "And maybe I will wake up to a day that is not as dark as the one before."

True to his word, he let her sleep as long as he dared and could keep his vigil, but as the early dusk of late winter set in, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, and, as her sleep had become more restless in the last few hours, he felt little remorse in waking her. His hand on her shoulder obviously startled her, and he saw her reach for her sword until she obviously remembered were she was and the tension left her body. "How long have I slept?" she murmured as she sat up again, pushed a few strands of dark hair out of her eyes and judged the remaining light.

"Long," replied he, and she eyed him curiously.

"Has anything happened?"

"Nothing, fortunately, or you would have known."

He still saw the sleep in her eyes as she frowned at him, judging his words, looking for hidden meanings, and suspicion rose inside him. What did she knew? What had she found out? Had he talked in his sleep, about his failures, about the Ring...? But the moment passed as soon as it had come, the panic lessened and left behind only a nagging fear in his heart as she grabbed her dagger and stood, stretching her muscles, clenched from sleeping on the hard floor.

"Thank you," she simply said as she turned towards him again, and her words immediately brought to his attention that he had not expressed his gratitude for saving his life yet. Another of his failures, more to add to his guilt, and he clenched his teeth. "It is nothing compared to the service you have done for me."

It was not a proper thanks, but all that he could manage to say with his heart behind it at the moment, still not sure if surviving was a good thing after all... but maybe they would have time for that later. If there was a later, and if he managed to make up his mind in the time that was still left for them, not only with the constant threat of an attack on their little hideout, but also with the greater fear of losing this cursed war.

She did not seem to mind his lukewarm gratitude, though. "How do you feel? Has anything changed for the worse?"

"No, nothing."

"Good."

He had eaten and drank some while she had been asleep, and now felt that with the growing darkness outside, he struggled to stay awake – testament to his own weakness, weakness he could not accept, injury or not. But there was no judgement in her eyes as she helped herself to some of the water and sat besides him, also leaning back onto the boat. No judgement... and no damnation. It rather seemed as if he were not on her mind at all, as she stared off into the darkness, humming to herself quietly and off-tune. It was the last sound that he heard this day, and oddly, he found the thought that even the Rangers of the North were not perfect quite comforting as he drifted off.