Lord of the Rings x-Reader // Legolas, Thranduil, Boromir, Aragorn

4. Stranger of the Falls (Boromir) - Part 3

Not long afterwards he was fast asleep.

He slept soundly all night. You did too, completely drained, both mentally and physically.

In the morning the fever was gone, but Främling did not seem happy about that at all. On the contrary, he looked murderous, and when you brought a bowl of morning broth he actually managed to sweep it out of your hands. The earthen bowl cracked in halves, spilling its contents on the floor.

"You tricked me," he growled in a slightly less slurred voice than yesterday. "Tricked me to eat. Uck you!"

"I did not trick you," you bit back, suddenly angry. "I gave you broth and you ate. It is my task to feed patients if they cannot eat themselves. I already told you, I will not idly watch you die!"

He scowled darkly at you.

You forced yourself to calm down. He was entitled to be annoyed at being helpless in your hands. Yet, he was so much better already; it must have taken quite some force to swat the bowl away. He would be up and walking soon, you were sure of it.

With a softer voice you tried to reason with him. "See, I understand you are upset; I would be, too. But starving yourself to death is not the way. It is a difficult, slow, painful method. You are a strong man in your prime and your body will not allow you to kill it that easily. It will work against you, undermining your resolve until you are so weak you cannot resist the food offered. And that will set you back to square one. The same cycle will repeat itself and it will only be painful and frustrating for both of us." You started to clean up the mess on the floor and threw away the shards. "You need to accept I will do my best to keep you alive, and your own body will do the same. When you are fit to leave from here, it is up to you what you do with your life, but until that day comes I will give you food and treat your wounds."

You brought another bowl of broth, holding it out so he was sure to feel the aroma. "Come on," you coaxed. "I am a good cook. You liked it yesterday, did you not?"

He looked at the bowl. His stomach made an encouraging sound. Then he looked at you with an air of defeat – and self-loathing.

"You win," he said bitterly, opening his mouth.

Spoon by spoon he quickly emptied the bowl. His ability to swallow appeared to be restored, and though he opened the left side of his mouth more, he could move both sides now.

When he was done you fetched another one, mashing down potatoes and bread in it to make it thicker. He gulped that down too, obviously ravenous.

He looked expectantly at you.

"I think this will have to do for now or your stomach will hurt." Instead you fetched the mead and held the flagon to his lips. He managed to take hold of it himself and emptied it too.

When he was done he burped unapologetically and leaned back, looking unusually content. As if he had finally come to terms with the situation and would allow you to have your way.

Well, that was a relief, for sure!

You decided to use his new cooperation and let him help you change the bloodied sheets. It was a bit tricky to manage with him still lying in the bed, but when it was done you both were relieved to be rid of the evidence of last night's painful operation.

Afterwards you fetched a bowl and began to wash his face, using a soft cloth and warm water from the stove. He seemed to enjoy it. His face became relaxed and the furrows in his forehead smoothened out.

You admired it while you worked. Such dark hair, beard and eyebrows were so unusual around here. His lashes were dark too. They rested peacefully against his cheeks.