They hunched in the reeds, the three of them, thoughts of hunting and
food forgotten as Aragorn took Boromir's wounded hand in his own,
peering at the bloody cut. Boromir held out his hand awkwardly, pain
slicing his finger, knife and dead goose forgotten beside him.
"It is nothing," he murmured, "it is a mere cut that will
heal by itself."
He tried to pull back his hand but Aragorn held it firmly, examining
the injury with a healer's gaze, while the steady trickle of
blood already started to slow down.
"A mere cut perhaps, Boromir, but the knife that made the cut was
dirty and the wound needs cleaning or it will start to fester. "
He turned to Sam, who had put his pack down on the only other piece
of dry ground nearby and squatted next to it, hand patiently lying on
his arm, the other resting on his knee, waiting until they would move
on again.
"Is there still any water in your flask left, Sam?" he asked,
"I fear ours have been empty for quite some time now."
Sam took his water flask and turned it over, but only a few drops
fell out, and they quickly mingled with the dirty water pooling
darkly around the yellowing reed stems.
"I'm sorry, Strider, but mine's empty too, not a drop
left, I'm afraid."
Aragorn returned his gaze to Boromir's injured hand and spoke
again, his voice now soft and serious.
"Ah well, Boromir, even without water, this wound still needs
cleaning. We'll have to make do then."
And Aragorn took Boromir's wounded finger in his mouth, his
tongue and lips businesslike working to clean the cut. Sam looked on
in wonder, gaze shifting from Boromir to Aragorn and back again. But
Boromir sat very still and did not move a muscle as Aragorn inflicted
his healing pain on him. He merely breathed in and out, while his
other hand lay in his lap, a fist that clenched the empty air.
Then Aragorn looked up at Boromir and smiled as he released the other
man's finger from his mouth.
"There, all clean. It should be fine now. Sam, do you have a
clean strip of cloth to bind this?"
Boromir breathed out as he felt the evening air cooling Aragorn's
spittle on his wounded finger, numbing the pain maybe just a little
bit. He looked at Aragorn, trying to make sense of what had happened
just yet, trying to make sense of what had happened to him. He
started to speak, but Sam startled him, handing Aragorn the strip of
cloth he had taken from his pack. Boromir looked at the Hobbit, as if
only now remembering they were not alone. He pulled back his hand as
soon as Aragorn had bound his finger and he started to speak anew.
"You made far too much of this, Aragorn. I could have taken care
of it myself. Next time, ask for my permission before you put your
mouth on me."
He froze at his own words, but Aragorn laughed and rose swiftly,
picking up the knife, wiping it clean on the wet grass between the
reeds and handing it hilt first to Boromir.
"Don't worry, Boromir," he said, as he picked up the dead
goose and pulled Sam up in one fluid movement. "I will do just
that."
The End
After Images II: In The Reeds
by Sasjah Miller
Going South, Day Two
ere, let me see that."
