Shield and Sword

Lea of Mirkwood

Disclaimer: Same as always.

A/N: Do not attempt to use this medical stuff on yourself. It would not be wise to do so. DO NOT. This is only a story, FICTION, not a medical handbook. Also, I would like to stress that this is not a romance. And there will certainly be no romance with Melanwen. Melly is over ten years older than Boromir. I hoped that would sort of push away the romance idea, as well as describing her as having greying hair.

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Melanwen realized she must have looked quite ridiculous, dragging the man from the river to her house, a good quarter mile. She had dragged him, in the boat, over grass, roots and leaves. Now she was sitting next to him on the bed, trying to remove the arrow from his shoulder. He was perfectly awake and perfectly lucid, and was making suggestions as to how to remove this particular kind of arrow.

"This arrow has a sort of barb on the end," he said, and inclined his head towards his left arm. "Like that other one. You can see the way it pulls back if you look at the one in my arm."

Melanwen shook her head and concentrated on the one in his shoulder. "I would like to avoid looking at that one until I have to remove it, thank you. The bleeding is stopped, so there's no need to look at it right now. If you would just be quiet for a moment, I could check to see how deep the arrow is."

He nodded. "As long as you don't pull it out without telling me you will."

Melanwen nodded and bent over his bare shoulder. Prodding the flesh with her fingers, she pretended to see how deep it was imbedded, while really trying to tell if there were any major organs near the hole that could be ripped. Boromir clenched his teeth and, in Melanwen's opinion, acted far too much in pain for the simple poke. She had already given him half of the pain-numbing herbs in her house, and a quarter of that amount, she recalled clearly, had taken away almost all the pain of birthing her first child. She sat back up straight and looked him in the eye.

"You still haven't told me your name."

He shifted, at least as much as he could shift in his predicament. "Boromir."

"Really?" she asked, slowly creeping her hand towards his wound. "Where do you live?"

"I lived in Minas Tirith."

Melanwen carefully wrapped her fingers around the shaft of the arrow, making sure it didn't move a hair's breadth. She racked her brain for more questions.

"How old are you?"

"I'm forty-one."

"Really?"

As he nodded, Melanwen quickly pressed her other hand to his chest, bracing herself, then with one hard yank, pulled the arrow out with a sickening schloop noise. Boromir yelled an incomprehensible stream of words, which gradually petered out to a steady stream of curses. Melanwen pressed a cloth to the wound, stopping the blood flow with the heel of her hand. Keeping pressure on the wound, she looked with amazement at Boromir.

"I've never heard most of those words before."

Boromir exhaled slowly in a hiss between his teeth. "You told me you-"

"I know I did. I lied." At his look of fury, she raised her eyebrows. If her hands had been free, she would have held them up to ward off his waves of anger. "If I had told you, you would have tensed up, tightening the muscles around it, and making you hurt even more."

Boromir blinked at her painfully. "That hurt."

"It should hurt. If it didn't, it would mean I broke your spine dragging you along in that boat."

Boromir let out a hoarse laugh. "What now?"

Melanwen reached down beside the bed and came back with a handful of flour, which she put on the wound, then replaced the cloth. Then she looked back at him and addressed his question.

"I get the one in your arm. This one should be both easier and harder."

"Which ways?" he asked worriedly, breathing heavily.

"Well," said Melanwen, pulling a serrated knife from her skirt. "It's easier to get the actual arrow out, because I don't have to drag that barb back through your flesh. I can just cut the shaft around it. Harder, because I have to bandage the thing. Your bones are broken there, and so are some of the tendons."

She turned to his arm. The shield was sitting on the bed with Boromir's arm laying across it, still pinned together. A small pool of blood was collecting in the bowl of the shield, which made Melanwen slightly nauseous.

"All right then, Boromir of the White City," she said. "Hold still."

She reached down and held the shield steady and then grabbed the shaft of the arrow between the shield and Boromir's sword-arm. She placed the side of the knife against the wooden shaft, then began to saw. The small shavings fell down, light colored, and floated on the surface of the blood. Once she was done, it was almost a paste of sawdust and blood. Melanwen gently took Boromir's arm in her hand, and grabbed the head of the arrow. Then she slowly pulled the arrow out by the head. The moment the wood wasn't stanching the blood, the arm began to drip through the hole in his leather gauntlet. Melanwen quickly unbuckled the heavy leather strips and took it off, laying it aside. Then she pulled his chain mail away from his forearm and then rolled his sleeve back until she could clearly see the bloody wound.

"How is it?" whispered Boromir, his voice ragged. Melanwen looked up at him.

"It...it's a clean wound." She checked the hole. "The bone broke cleanly, but that's all I can tell for now."

Another handful of flour, on both sides, and then Melanwen took a long strip of cloth and wrapped it over and over the wound, pausing to lay a flat piece of metal in as a brace on both sides. When it was all wrapped around, she tied it off with twine.

"Boromir?" she asked softly. "Are you all right?"

He nodded. "I was just thinking," he said softly. "I should tell you I'm the son of the Lord Denethor."

Melanwen went as pale as her patient. "You...you are the heir?"

"No!" cried Boromir in consternation. "I am no heir. There is but one heir, and that is the heir of Isildur, who yet lives..." He stopped, realizing he was not sure Aragorn was living. "I am not he, I am merely the son of the Steward."

Melanwen laughed, and color returned to her cheeks. "Heir of Isildur! There is no such person. He is as much a legend as Elves."

Boromir shook his head. "No, my lady Melanwen, he is real. I have traveled with him. He is coming to claim his throne. You must accept him."

"All right!" said Melanwen, pushing Boromir back down on the bed, keeping him still. "I accept him, my Lord."

"Boromir."

"Lord Boromir."

"Just Boromir."

"Lord Just Boromir."

Lord Just Boromir smiled wryly and rested his head back on the pillow. "The Elves are real too, Melly. Later I'll tell you about it."

Melanwen smiled back as Boromir sighed and went to sleep.

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NOT ROMANCE.

*smiles happily and thinks of her Young Guns DVDs* Josiah "Doc" Scurlock...

I'm sharing the joy of Doc! Share the joy of reviews to me! God, he's hot...