Taking a steadying breath, Rhosynel turned about to face him.
Boromir was stood with his back pressed to the door, hands flattened against it as though resisting the urge to reach out, to approach. But he was there, he was watching, he was in the room, even if he was keeping his distance.
His eyes, however, had no such restraint. Gone was the effort of keeping his gaze on her face, now it roamed far more freely across her body, across her pretty-but-impractical undergarments.
Béma he looked… hungry.
Rhosynel could feel a flush starting to creep up her throat and across her cheeks at the intensity in his gaze. It became a concentrated effort to remain still, letting him look, hoping that wasn’t all he’d do.
“Are you coming to bed?”
Rhosynel in this chapter be like:
ANYWAY this chapter should be reasonably stand-alone without too many spoilers besides, ya know, fuckin'. So it shouldn't have much impact on the story!
Travelling through the Eastfold brought a burst of nostalgia, familiar rolling landscapes, the odd spur of craggy rocks, the low-level scrub and brush that marked the land as Rohan.
It felt like returning home.
The sun slowly climbing above the White Mountains, the golden light spilling across the grassland of Eastfold. She could follow the road with her eyes as it winded throughout the hillocks and hills, before vanishing into the shadows cast by the mountains above. The wind, while steady, wasn’t bitter. Even as it swept down from the White Mountains, across the rolling grassland, and into Rhosynel’s upturned face. Even the sun didn’t burn, bright, clear, and calm as it bathed the land in its light.
Above, Ilmara gave a quiet whistle, and slowed her flight, coming to hover above Rhosynel for a moment, before gliding to the left. Trusting her bird more than her own eyes, she nudged Gwaedal off the road.
I am SO delighted with how this has come out! It's my first attempt at a 'painterly' background and boy howdy did I suffer loudly through it 😂 But what matters most is that I LOVE how it came out, especially once I got Rhosynel and Co. added to the image. I love doing line arts and colouring, so they were far more fun for me to do!
I'm really proud of how It's come out, so I hope you enjoy it too ❤️
Close ups below the cut!
Ilmara!! She's based on a northern goshawk which are stunning birds! This is the first time I've tried shading and highlighting in such a way to get that "back lit" effect, but I'm pretty happy with how she came out!
Rhosynel! I like trying to get characters personalities across in their clothing, so Rhos here doesn't have her uniform all done up smartly, but more loose and free, which suits her far better!
Gwaedal! It's him! It's the best boy! The one we're all secretly most invested in!!!! God I love him and that little white snip to his nose ❤️ It was fun coming up with some very Gondorian tack for him too, gotta slap trees and stars everywhere!
The familiar door to his chamber greeted the pair, and Boromir all but slid to a stop, releasing her hand and rapidly finding the key from within his doublet. It didn’t take long to unlock, and he nudged it partially open, turning to her and—
A startled whoop left Rhosynel as Boromir promptly scooped her up.
Clinging to his shoulders, she couldn’t help but laugh as Boromir carefully carried her over the threshold and into his chamber. There was a solid thump as he kicked the door shut behind him, but it barely registered as his mouth met hers once again.
Being kissed while being carried wasn’t exactly easy or safe, but Rhosynel offered no complaint. Fingers tangling in his hair once again, eyes shut against the disorientating motions, feeling how Boromir turned, bumping open another door, how the light levels changed. She already knew where they were, where he’d carried her, apparently not intending to waste a single second.
Which was all well and good, but he was wearing a uniform and she was wearing a corset.
As much as Rhymenel was enjoying visiting her extended family, the close quarters were proving to be a little… crowded.
Stepping from Héobald’s home, she sucked in the fresh summer air, filling her lungs and letting her head tilt back to bask in the sun. She adored her family, had enjoyed catching up with her cousins, took great delight in seeing the kids get into all sorts of mischief, but now Rhymenel was drained and tired, and not looking forwards to bidding Rhosynel goodbye in the morning.
It had been odd to return to Edoras, odd, but long overdue. She’d not walked these streets since she was a teenager, she could remember putting up such a fight at the idea of leaving the city, leaving her friends. Young Rhymenel couldn’t understand how such a change would influence her life, but elder Rhymenel knew now that it had been the right choice.
Their family had long since outgrown the small homes she grew up in, had chaffed at the boundaries of the city, and while Edoras was large, it still paled in comparison to Minas Tirith. No, Rhymenel had flourished within Gondor, had found her husband, had her children, improved in her work, receiving promotion after promotion, until she was in charge of the East Wing of the Houses of Healing.
Hopefully Warden Tathrun was coping without her, although Luthrin would be doing her best.
Surprise! It's a Rhymenel chapter! I wasn't sure I'd be able to fit in one last one for her, but I wanted a nicer send off than her previous last chapter of panicking over a nearly-dead-Rhosynel, and this was a lot more pleasant to write!
For a moment it felt like Rhosynel couldn’t move, locked in place, staring down at the two Hobbits, seeing how Merry glanced from her to Pippin in concern. How Pippin was stood resolutely in the face of her reaction, straight backed, chin lifted, small sword on his hip. Fuck she hadn’t even registered that he was dressed in the Citadel livery, ready for battle and eager to leave.
Rhosynel’s head lifted, eyes already scanning and tracking across the soldiers. She could feel the anger writhing and crawling, fighting to mutate her panic into sheer rage.
“Aragorn agreed to let me join,” Pippin was continuing, even if his voice was becoming distant and muffled against the ringing in her ears. Something about representation, something about doing his part.
There, across the busy and densely packed courtyard filled with horses and soldiers, was Aragorn. Speaking to some Lords, discussing something with Captains. He was busy. It didn’t matter. Rhosynel was moving before she’d even realised it.
“STRIDER.”
It was only Rhosynel that saw the archer.
At first, she didn’t realise what it was, just the figure of an orc, skittering to stand atop the felled troll. It was only when it raised a vicious black bow, aiming at the men, that Rhosynel’s blood ran cold. She was already moving, already running, darting towards the three men, eyes fixed on them, ten feet away.
The orc released the arrow, and without thinking further than the drive to protect them, to protect Boromir, Rhosynel put herself in its path without hesitation.
The thick black arrow slammed into her shoulder.
Many people seem worried by the idea of Rhosynel falling/leaping again... You all seem to have forgotten that she swore to put herself between Boromir and a hundred arrows...
“Come to tell me to be careful?” she greeted Boromir.
“I think you already know that,” he replied, drawing alongside, already reaching out to wrap her in an embrace. “Just like you already know how I feel about you leaving.”
“Hmm, I will be coming back, despite your fears,” Rhosynel teased gently, arms lifting to wrap about his shoulders. “Elessar is already talking about the next run he needs to send me on. You just need to have faith in me.”
“Oh but I do have faith,” Boromir replied, pressing his brow to hers, “I have faith that you’ll get into all sorts of trouble, but that you’ll also get out of that same trouble. I have faith that you’ll come back to me, and I have faith that you’ll stay safe, even if it is only for my sake.”
“You know me so well,” Rhosynel replied with a soft laugh, “but yes, for you I will stay safe.”
Sorry for the late post! Ao3 came back online for me about midday, but I wanted to hold off on posting till the site was fully up and running again. Hope you don't mind ❤️
Boromir's POV of Chapter 37. Aka Rhosynel and Boromir's first kiss during the aftermath of Helm's Deep. Contains spoilers for On Swift Wings!
FINALLY after nine+ months, I’ve gotten off my ass and written Boromir’s POV of Chapter 37!! Hilariously it’s ended up almost 2k words longer than the original chapter, apparently Boromir does a lot of introspection 😂
If you guys have any other scenes you'd like to see from Boromr's (or anyone else) perspective, feel free to suggest! Although bear in mind it'll probably take me another nine months to write it 😂😂
The Hornburg was brimming with soldiers and civilians, injured and hale, a sea of faces both familiar and strange. The scent of blood hung heavy on the air, voices were raised, calling out to one another, seeking aid and offering it freely. A melee and commotion that made it hard to think, and far harder to find someone.
And Boromir was searching.
Théoden had required his advice, something trivial, something Boromir had answered as swiftly and efficiently as possible, before making his excuse to leave. But the distraction had drawn him away from the courtyard, away from the flash of golden-brown hair, away from Rhosynel.
She was alive.
He’d seen how she’d not even hesitated to rush to Haldir's aid –of course she hadn’t– bolting from one side of the courtyard, darting and weaving through horses and soldiers alike. As swift as Ilmara, she’d reached the injured elf’s side almost before he’d finished staggering.
One look at his wound, and she was barking orders at Marchwarden, elven Prince, and Ranger.
It would have been amusing, seeing how easily Rhosynel took to commanding the men without hesitation, directing them up the steps, leading the way to the infirmary, ordering them to follow and quickly.
It was amusing, but Boromir didn’t laugh.
Not when he’d seen how pale her face had been, not when he’d seen her eyes frantically searching across the returning riders, skipping from man to man, searching, seeking, finding the Fellowship, desperate to know they were safe, and then—
Rhosynel’s eyes had met his own.
Sheer relief had flooded her face, her entire body, a sentiment he’d shared. She’d sagged, shoulders dropping, stumbling a half step, hand flattening against the rain and blood-soaked wall as though it could support her. Eyes locked on him, utterly overwhelmed with relief.
At which point Haldir slid from his horse and she rushed to help.
Boromir wasn’t surprised, not really, of course she’d hasten to help, that was what she did. But now it had been at least half an hour, and Boromir couldn’t find her.
Concern and worry roiled in his chest, like a brewing storm, threatening to overwhelm, to take over, to consume him in panic and fear. It was an effort to keep his steps steady, moving down corridor after corridor, eyes scanning across the myriad of blonde heads, unable to find her honey-coloured hair amidst the chaos.
Reaching the makeshift infirmary, he hesitated at the door.
It was grim, the stench of blood and worse filling the room, echoing with pained yells and screams, sobs and cries. Boromir’s fingers dug into the edge of the doorframe, wood starting to splinter beneath his nails.
She wasn’t here, but someone else was.
“Aragorn!”
The Ranger looked up at his call, giving him a nod of acknowledgement before he returned to binding the soldiers arm. It was an effort to remain still, to wait for him to finish seeing to the wound. But eventually, after far too long, Aragorn straightened up and started to head his way.
“Boromir,” he greeted, “are you wel—”
“Have you seen Rhosynel?”
There was a pause, Aragorn’s head tilting to one side at the interruption, but then he clearly brushed it off, looking about the large room. “She was assisting, Haldir’s been patched up and sent to the kitchen, perhaps she’s there?”
“My thanks.”
Boromir was moving before he’d finished speaking, the Heir’s concern sliding off his armour without finding purchase. It didn’t matter, he was fine, doing far better than any of the injured within that grim room, at least.
The common room wasn’t much better. A scan of the figures there revealed plenty of familiar faces, but still no sign of Rhosynel. The concern in his chest increased, straying dangerously close to panic.
Gritting his teeth, Boromir turned about, abandoning that line of searching. Pacing through the halls, his boots were heavy, loud, increasing in tempo until he was striding. Faces flashed past, concerned voices called out, but not one of them was who he sought.
Maybe Rhosynel was in the stables, that would make sense, she’d wish to check on Tallagor. He hoped, he prayed, that was where she'd headed.
Breaking free of one stifling corridor, he’d thundered halfway across the courtyard, when a shimmer of grey elven fabric caught his eye. He stopped so sharply his feet almost tangled, a staggering step, his head whipping about, and—
Boromir froze.
A figure, wearing a familiar storm grey cloak of feathers, was on the other side of the courtyard.
Rhosynel.
Relief swept through him, so strongly that Boromir raised a shaking hand, passing it across his face as though he could physically wipe away the fear. He’d started towards her automatically, only for his rush to slow, taking in the scene, realising what was happening.
She was crumpled, doubled over, arms wrapped about her stomach, head bowed, shoulders shaking.
Relief morphed to fear.
It was an effort not to sprint to Rhosynel’s side, not to seize her shoulders, not to spin her about to face him to check she was alright to see that she was alive. But Boromir managed, keeping his stride steady, doing nothing to lighten his steps, letting her know that he was approaching.
Her head didn’t even twitch his way.
That alone sent a bolt of fear lancing through his heart. She was observant, aware of the world around her, constant watching folks move about, easily clocking when he'd entered a room, recognising when he'd approached. But not to so much as a lift of her head, to glance his way? Something was wrong.
Gingerly drawing alongside, Boromir stiffly sank into a crouch, reaching out cautiously to rest his hand against her back. His touch drew no reaction, it always had before, but now…
Nothing, not even so much as a twitch.
Something was wrong and Boromir didn’t know what.
It took him a moment to realise there was a splattering of vomit, not far from where Rhosynel had crumpled.
Ah, the effects of war, catching up.
“Who?”
His question was quiet, reluctant, but needing to know who she’d lost, at least that way he could offer comfort or reassurances. But Boromir hadn’t taken into consideration that he might have known them.
“Héomod.”
Boromir inhaled so sharply he half expected his throat to be cut.
Héomod? The lad? Shit, shit. He was Rhosynel’s cousin, scarcely into his twenty’s, young and inexperienced. But still experienced enough to die.
“Fuck. I… I’m so sorry, Rhosynel,” he breathed, hand tightening on her shoulder without meaning to, as though his strength could bolster her. “He was a good lad. Bright and smart. I’m so sorry.”
“He wasn’t even dead yet, I just couldn’t do anything,” she said, voice strained, cracking with the weight of her grief. “Stabbed in the chest. I could hear the blood in his lungs. I can’t save him from that, and Haehild had sought me out. They had hoped, but I couldn’t—”
A sharp sob left her, and Boromir’s heart broke.
Even as she pressed a hand to her mouth, Boromir found himself… frozen.
He was used to deaths, used to soldiers dying, used to commiserating with his men and celebrating the lives of those who’d passed, telling stories and sharing anecdotes. But for this? For her cousin? He’d scarcely known the lad, not long enough to have any words of comfort at least.
Not when Rhosynel was crying, not when her body was shaking with grief.
A moment of indecision, but then Boromir made up his mind. His grip on her shoulder tightened, a light pull. There was no hesitation from her, turning blindly towards him, head thudding against his breastplate, the harsh metal doing little to deter her as she wept.
“I’m sorry.”
Meaningless murmurs, reassurances she’d not hear, condolences that didn’t matter. Even as Boromir’s arms wrapped about her shoulders, even as he pulled her closer, pressing his face into her hair. There was nothing he could do.
She’d lost someone she loved, and now… What was it she’d said?
‘I couldn’t save him.’
Valar, she was always trying to help, to save people, and then failed in saving her own cousin.
Boromir couldn’t help, he wasn’t a healer, didn’t have the knowledge. Hells, he could bind his own injuries, but that wouldn’t prevent infection. Rhosynel, with her deft hands and confident touch, knew how to wash, how to clean, how to prevent infection from taking hold. But even she couldn’t save Héomod.
Boromir’s grip on her tightened, the cut to his arm twinging in protes—
In his arms, Rhosynel choked out a sob, crumpling heavily against his chest, and entirely on impulse, Boromir gave a faux grunt of pain.
Instantly Rhosynel pulled back, eyes flying open and snapping to his face, just as he smoothed sign of discomfort from his expression. It didn’t hurt, not really, the arrow wounds to his shoulder and flank were worse than the measly cut to his arm, he’d suffered worse grazes in the past, this was nothing.
But to Rhosynel it was something.
“Boromir?” her voice croaked, one hand dashing through the tear marks on her cheeks as she fought to get control of herself, “y-you’re injured?”
He smiled, it felt far too lopsided to be real, but he tried to brush off her concern. Like usual. Like she'd expect him to.
“Have been for a while now.”
Her brow furrowed, and it took far too much discipline not to reach out, to smooth the crease and her worries away.
“Your shoulder?”
Rhosynel was already reaching out to touch his arm, gingerly, almost as though she feared hurting him further. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. But the blood that had soaked the sleeve of his tunic drew alarm, eyes widening, banishing the last of her grief, at least for the time being.
He remained still, letting her fuss.
“Amongst others, yes,” Boromir admitted quietly, watching her closely, brows still furrowed with worry.
For a moment, she froze, hands hovering over his arm, eyes flicking up to search his face. The furrow of her brow deepened, searching his expression for… something. Whatever it was she sought, she found it, eyes widening slightly, brow relaxing, a dawning realisation and then—
“Alright,” she said, rapidly and easily taking charge. “L-let’s get you patched up.”
He didn’t miss Rhosynel’s own wince as she climbed to her feet, but Boromir allowed her to fuss, to give him a hand, as though her slender frame would be able to actually pull him up. No, she was strong enough in temperament, even if she wasn’t in body. Although the grip on his hand as she started towing him in her wake, was fierce.
Did she expect him to vanish, if she let go?
Did he expect her to vanish?
Boromir didn’t release her hand, even as he followed obediently. She was scanning the corridors, entering the keep once more, even if his own eyes didn’t leave her. At the door to the infirmary, Rhosynel drew up short, shifting onto her back foot, face paling further at the prospect of entering. She wanted to see to his wounds, and Boromir wanted to let her, but this wasn’t the right place.
A squeeze to his hand, and she flitted through the room, moving so quickly he had trouble keeping his eyes on her. Before a minute had passed, she was back, supplies in arm, and already reaching for him again. All too willing, Boromir wrapped his fingers about her slender hand, waiting for her to take the lead.
She didn't.
Instead, Rhosynel froze. She didn’t know where to go, he could see it in the darting of her eyes, in the anxious swallow, in the hovering, shifting her weight from one foot to another.
That was fine, he could help.
“This way.”
Thank the Valar she didn’t protest, didn’t hesitate to follow, allowing him to lead her through the crowds. Up ahead was Éomer, the horse lord catching his eye and perking up, already starting towards him.
A sharp shake of his head, and Éomer froze, head cocking as he eyed Boromir, looking past him, noticing Rhosynel. For a brief moment he looked amused, only for that to slide from his expression, no doubt realising just how pale she was.
The prince shifted aside, with a subtle gesture upwards. A nod of thanks and Boromir moved past him, heading to what he hoped would be the one room of the keep not filled with injured soldiers.
It was a relief to enter the empty and quiet war room. No signs of battle marred its walls, no signs of orcs, and other than the faint smell of copper and the distant echo of cries, it was blessedly quiet. Apparently plans to return to Edoras had not yet begun, good, it would give them time to breathe.
Apparently that quietness was enough for Rhosynel to find her voice, as once more she took charge.
“Sit,” she instructed, gesturing to a chair.
Boromir did not.
She was already starting to arrange the medical supplies on the table. Setting out a few rolls of bandages, a little clay jar, a couple of the layered fabric pads.
Entirely oblivious to how he watched her.
How… How had she survived? Boromir was confident enough in his own prowess not to fear battle. But Rhosynel, she may have been with the Rangers, may have fought amongst the trees and forests of Ithilien, but that was far from the walls and corridors of a keep. How had she survived?
The last time Boromir had seen her was within the common room, clinging fiercely to his arms, her head shaking between his hands. She was pleading with him, all but begging him not to go, not to leave, not to leave—
She’d not been able to finish her sentence, and Boromir couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Let’s get this armour off yo—”
Rhosynel didn’t get chance to finish, as Boromir stepped forwards, into her space. One moment he’d been watching her in contemplative silence, the next, he’d seized her arms, dragging her to him, wrapped his own arms about her slender frame. The desperation of his grip came as a surprise, the sheer relief, the fear, the worry, the fretting, all bubbling up until Boromir barely felt in control of his own body.
What mattered, was that Rhosynel was alive.
A startled noise had left her throat, but there was no hesitation to wrap her own arms about his shoulders. He could feel her own fear and desperation in her grip, clinging on, her face tucking in against his neck.
His own was already buried in the curls and waves of Rhosynel’s hair, pressing against her neck, eyes falling shut as he breathed in deeply. Breathed her in. Blood and sweat yes, but beneath that… lavender?
She did like that soap, maybe he should find some for her to carry.
There was a slight wobble, like her legs had tried to give out. Instantly Boromir’s grip tightened, pulling her closer –blasted armour making even that difficult– almost lifting, trying to support her, trying to give her the strength to remain standing even as his own wavered.
She was alive.
She was alive.
Boromir inhaled, and sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re alive,” he replied, eyes screwed shut, with his face pressed against her neck it was safe to let his own fears and feelings bubble up, even if it laced his words, his voice, with relief. “You survived.”
Rhosynel’s hands were toying with his hair, carding her fingers through its length, a comforting gesture, for her as well as him, it seemed.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and alarm flicked through Boromir’s chest, wondering why she felt the need to say that, even if her next words explained further. “For worrying you. But I know, if, if… I had been in the caves. I, it… I couldn—”
Her voice cut off, a quiet choke.
“It’s alright.”
Boromir meant it, even if the idea of her being in the midst of battle sent fear roiling and sparking through his chest. One hand slid up to the back of her head, fingers tangling in the soft waves of her hair, head turning towards her. He could feel her pulse, could practically hear the drumming of her heart.
The urge to kiss her neck flickered through him, but was hastily batted away. Now was not the time.
“We –I– shouldn’t have suggested it,” he forced himself to say, fulling lifting his head, but not far, only enough to brush his brow against hers, “not after how you were in Moria… That was unfair of me to demand, I’m sorry. I was just worried, and afraid.”
“I’ll let you off as long as you never ask me to enter a cav—”
“Deal.”
He’d never ask such a thing of her, not now, not ever, not after seeing how panicked and afraid she’d been. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the idea of asking her to do something that terrified her, couldn’t stand the idea of being the cause of her fear.
But to Boromir’s surprise, Rhosynel laughed.
Only a soft quiet thing, as though afraid to break the post-battle silence, her head shook, a grin flickering at the edges of her lips.
He’d missed her smile, missed her laugh.
Boromir finally, finally, relaxed. Even if his grip on her didn’t. Against her waist, his hands tightened, unwilling to release her, unwilling to let go, no matter how her grief seemed to have eased, he didn’t want to let go.
But Rhosynel was starting to straighten up, and far to reluctantly, Boromir dragged his fingers free of her hips.
Already her attention had slid away from his face, settling on his armour, starting to do battle with the buckles that were coated in blood and mud and worse. Her hands may have been nimble, may have been familiar with scribbling missives or tracing across maps or binding injuries, but she had no experience with armour.
Biting back a laugh of his own, Boromir let her figure out his pauldron, his own fingers making short work of the buckles on his other side.
It was oddly… intimate.
A job usually done by a squire, but now Rhosynel was stubbornly battling his armour, doing her best to strip it from his heavy limbs, her brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed in annoyance. But eventually, Boromir was free.
He tried not to feel too disappointed when she turned to the supplies on the table, rather than help with the rest of his clothes. Then again, that would have been far too intimate, even for him.
Moving stiffly, he shucked off the surcoat, tossing the long leather garment onto another chair. His tunic was in poor condition, far too much sweat, blood, and mud. He’d see about burning it, maybe Éomer would have one he could borrow for a while, or at least until Boromir could return to Minas Tirith and his own wardrobe.
A splash of water had Boromir’s head lifting, finding that Rhosynel had pilfered a ewer, rinsing her hands thoroughly, even if she had no soap to truly clean them. Why… Why did healers do that? It must be important, even if he didn’t understand it.
But then Rhosynel was turning back to him, only to freeze.
For several long heartbeats, she stared at Boromir, eyes mostly fixed on his face, only the briefest dips lower suggesting at why she’d frozen.
Far to abruptly, Boromir realised he’d never taken his tunic off in front of her. Not at Edoras, where he’d slept in his undershirt, nor at Amon Hen, where she’d all but sliced through his tunic, nor before that. He didn’t have a spare shirt, not since he’d lent it to her on Caradhras, and especially not since apparently Rhosynel liked to sleep in it. His own face started to warm.
With a slight jolt, Rhosynel started moving again, a pink tint to her previously pale face.
Well, that was one way to get the blood back into her.
But Rhosynel was approaching, eyes now roving across his bare chest with far more professionalism than curiosity, scanning the dirtied bandages, flickering to the new cuts, eyes narrowing as she took in their condition.
She took a hold of Boromir’s arm, and he inhaled unsteadily at the feeling of her bare hands on his bare skin. She might have been inspecting his torn flesh with a professional eye, but it felt… intimate. Her fingers were cool, light on his bare skin, moving his arm so gently it was as though she expected him to disintegrate.
Rhosynel trailed her fingers along the edge of the cut, and Boromir swallowed thickly, trying not to shiver.
All too quickly, her inspection was done, withdrawing a tiny knife from the pouch on her hip, she made short work of cutting through the bandages that bound his shoulder. The fabric pad, however, was firmly stuck.
An apologetic grimace flashed across Rhosynel’s features, gingerly starting to peal the pad free. Boromir gritted his teeth, breathing steadily, ignoring the discomfort ignoring the pai—
Rhosynel’s hand pressed to his chest, and Boromir went rigid.
Any self-discipline went out the window at that, the feeling of her fingers splaying across his bare skin earnt a ragged inhale. Hands flexing and curling in a bid to resist reaching out to her, a low noise left his throat, something close to a groan.
Her murmured apologies suggested she though he was in pain, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
All too quickly the pad came free, and Rhosynel’s hand left his chest.
He was breathing heavily, hands pressed to the seat of his chair, feeling oddly off balance, leaning forwards slightly. Already she was starting to test at the skin around the arrow wound, brows furrowed in consideration.
“They’re healing up well,” she murmured, even if the worry didn’t leave her eyes.
Looking away from the arrow wound, she reached out abruptly, pressing a hand to his brow, and entirely without meaning to, Boromir’s eyes fell half shut leaning into her touch. She was cool, soothing against his overheated skin.
“Are you okay?”
Alarm laced her voice, jolting Boromir. With a lurch, he sat upright, physically pulling himself away from her touch. “I—Yes. Just… tired.”
That earnt a sympathetic smile, telling him she’d accepted the lie.
“There’s no sign of the poison around them,” Rhosynel was explaining, “with any luck we’ll not need to reapply Kingsfoil again.”
“Good, it burns like hell.”
“Then you’ll love this salve.”
His groan was more for dramatic effect, but it still earnt a flicker of a smile.
Despite that, Boromir’s hiss of pain at the first bush of salve was real. It didn’t burn, not like the Kingsfoil did, but it was still unpleasant as Rhosynel carefully smeared it across the torn flesh. Her brow was furrowing, chewing her lip as she worked, eyes fixed on his injuries besides the occasional glance to his face, clearly worrying that she was hurting him.
It didn’t hurt. Not really. Not truly.
Rhosynel had sank into a crouch before him, one arm resting on his thigh holding the little clay jar, while the fingers of her other hand smoothed across his flank. The shuddering exhale was beyond his control, fingers gripping the edge of his seat so strongly that Boromir half feared the wood would crack. He didn’t dare release his grip, especially when Rhosynel’s breath feathered across the skin of his stomach.
It was getting hard to resist, resist the urge to lift his hand, to smooth the furrow of worry from her brow, to catch her chin, to tilt her face up to him, and then he’d lean forwards an—
“Salves done.”
Boromir sucked in a startled lungful of air, fighting to come back to his senses.
“Oh. Thank Oromë.”
She didn’t seem to hear how hoarse his voice was, how it was an effort to speak. No, Rhosynel was already collecting a roll of bandages and a fresh cloth pad, turning back to his shoulder. With deft movements she bound the cut about his arm, a quiet word of thanks when he handed her the cloth pad. Quick motions, practised and steady, looping the bandage about his shoulder. Around, a loop, and back.
With every pass of the bandage about his chest, Rhosynel leant into his space, honey-gold curls brushing his chest, his neck, his chin. Her arms wrapped about his chest, passing the bandages from hand to hand, another lean, another pass, another lean. Every brush of her hair against him, had Boromir’s eyes tacking her movements, head turning to follow her motions. It was hypnotic, watching her work.
Did… did Rhosynel know how quiet she went, when seeing to his injuries? Did she realise how focused she became? Working silently, eyes fixed on her work, hands smoothing across the bandages, across his chest. A slight pull to tighten the bandage and her eyes dropped lower to his stomach as he tensed. Almost without conscious thought, she tightened the bandage again, and Boromir tensed once more.
Rhosynel’s breathing hitched.
Interesting…
But all too soon, she was tying a knot, checking it wasn’t putting pressure on his injuries, hands gliding over the bandage, making such it all lay flat. “There,” she said quietly, voice oddly breathless, “all done.”
She did not stand up, eyes still fixed on her handiwork, refusing to meet his gaze, not looking up, not rising to her feet, not moving away.
The air felt thick, laced with tension, and Boromir couldn’t bring himself to lean back, couldn’t bring himself to give her space. Doing that would mean she’d leave, would mean she’d stop touching him with slender hands and confident gestures.
“Rhosynel…”
Her name slipped from his lips without meaning, light, almost a whisper.
There was a flash of blue-grey flickering his way, only to snap away from meeting his gaze, an unsteady inhale. A flush was creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks to a rosy hue.
“My lady,” he tired again, swallowing thickly, trying to find something to say. “Are you injured?”
“No,” she lied, and Boromir couldn’t help but sigh. But the spell was broken, she pushed back out of his space, away from him. He didn’t want that, didn’t want her to leave, didn’t want her to move away. “We should go check on the othe—”
Without conscious decision, his hand closed about hers.
Immediately she froze, breath hitching, eyes staring at nothing. Rising to his feet, Boromir cautiously lifted his hand, fingers grazing her jaw, gently tilting her face towards his, trying to meet her eyes, only to watch as they slid away from his face, dropping to his shoulders, his chest, dipping lower only to immediately snap back up to his shoulder.
The rose hue to her cheeks shifted more towards crimson.
Shit, he was making her uncomfortable.
Changing tack, his hand left her jaw, touching her brow and showing her the tacky blood that coated his fingertips.
“Are you sure you’re not injured,” he asked in amusement.
The grimace she gave was answer enough.
“Honestly Rhosynel,” Boromir chided lightly, hands gently steering her around, a push, and she mutely sat in the seat he’d just vacated. “You’re so insistent on looking after others, but not yourself.”
“I’d see to it.”
“Let me see to it.”
He wasn’t a healer, but he’d watched how she’d cleaned out his own wounds, how she’d applied the salve. Maybe he wasn’t trained, but that didn’t mean he was unable to help.
Fully expecting her to continue protesting, it came as a surprise when Rhosynel huffed, deflating in her seat. One moment she’d been stiff and upright, the next… it was like a great weight had landed on her shoulders. Her back bowed, her shoulders curved inwards, as all the energy seemed to drain from her body.
But at least she wasn’t making excuses and trying to flee.
Reassured, Boromir turned to the ewer, doing his best to scrub his hands free of the worst of the blood, mud, gore, and grime. It was still under his nails, but at least his skin was cleaner.
Tearing a scrap from the end of a bandage, he soaked it in the water, before returning to Rhosynel’s side. Her eyes looked… hollow, but as he knelt before her, they sharpened once more.
Exhausted and drained, but not yet dead to the world. Good, that was good, he’d seen new recruits become immobile after a battle, but Rhosynel was still functioning. Maybe the act of healing, of helping others, helped keep her busy, helped process the trauma of horror she’d witnessed.
But when her eyes dropped to his knees, and then back to meet his own, a flicker of annoyance crossed her expression. What was that for? Why was she annoyed with him—Oh. Oh he was on eyelevel with her while kneeling. That was kind of funny.
Pressing his lips together over a laugh, Boromir reached out, starting to dab at the cut to her brow. It wasn’t easy, her head kept shifting beneath the pressure of his touch, and he quickly found himself cupping her jaw in his free hand.
Only to freeze as her eyelids lowered, head becoming heavier, leaning into his touch.
She looked… vulnerable.
Taking a steadying breath, Boromir kept cleaning the wound, trying to remove the worst of the blood, inspecting the shallow slice. There was grit and dirt about it too, mixed in with the blood.
“It looks like a shard of stone nicked you,” he explained quietly, “lots of blood but it’s not deep, should I apply the salve?”
“Yea…”
By Oromë, she must be exhausted.
“Are you alright?” he asked gently, unwilling to disturb the peace and quiet as he reached for the little jar of salve.
“Just… tired.”
That much was obvious, and Boromir breathed a laugh.
“This’ll wake you up.”
He didn’t give her chance to wonder, smoothing a globule of the salve across her brow.
“OW! Son of a Balrog fucker, that hurts!”
The snort that left his throat wasn’t very dignified, but Boromir hadn’t heard that turn of phrase before. He did, however, hastily back up as her hands raised, curling and flexing as though resisting the urge to lash out. She wasn’t going to, he knew she wouldn’t, but it was a way to shake off the pain, if her heavy breathing was anything to go by.
“It’s only a small cut,” he countered, “that ‘graze’ to your arm will hurt more…”
She froze, cheeks turning scarlet once again. “How’d you know?”
“Legolas told me.” Boromir politely pretended not to hear the curses and name calling that Rhosynel muttered under her breath, setting the salve within reach, before turning back to her. “Let me give you a hand with your armour.”
Somehow, it felt worse to be the one undressing her, than it was to be undressed.
Swallowing harshly, Boromir kept his eyes locked on his hands, going through the routine pattern of unbuckling bracers, pauldrons, the tassets about her hips. His fingers stuttered as he reached for the buckles of her breastplate, having to take a steadying breath before he resumed.
At it came loose, a soft sigh of relief left Rhosynel’s lips, as Boromir helped her shrug free of its constraints.
It was an effort to turn away as she started unbuckling her tabard, splashing his hands with ice cold water did a poor job of knocking some sense into him, but at least he wasn’t imposing.
By the time he turned back, she’d pulled her arm free of the tunic, and was inspecting the vicious cut. Shaped like a sickle, it curved across her upper left arm. Part of the skin had been pulled away, making it gape, but even to Boromir’s limited knowledge it wasn’t too major, the muscle not split.
“I may need stitches later,” Rhosynel said, probing it carefully, only to wince. “But a bandage should be fine for now.”
“Good, my needle work is atrocious.”
His poor excuse of a joke made her snort in amusement, but Boromir’s eyes had already strayed.
Rhosynel’s forearm was laced with scars.
Entirely without meaning to, his hands dropped, gently taking her wrist, supporting her elbow, turning her arm back and forth so the light caught the silvery scars riddling her skin. They were old, faded to silvery white, a constellation in a distinctive shape. A shape of large jaws, with large, dagger-like teeth.
Boromir knew those scars, knew what caused them.
“Oh, that’s—”
“A Warg bite,” Boromir finished her sentence, one finger tracing across the scars, the light touch earning a subtle shiver. “You got bitten by putting yourself between it and my brother.”
Rhosynel was staring at him, but Boromir didn’t react. He remembered that day, Faramir had come hurtling into the city, demanding to know if she’d lived, and all he’d been able to do was ask ‘who?’. Naturally that hadn’t helped calm his brother, especially not when father was making his own demands.
“We visited you, in the houses of healing,” he explained quietly, reaching over to collect the jar of salve. “You were still incredibly dazed from the attack, but were already on your feet and pacing about restlessly. Faramir said that Warg got a lock on your arm and shook you like a ragdoll? It’s a miracle your neck didn’t snap.”
“It felt like it did,” she admitted quietly. “My arm was broken in three places, my ribs too, not to mention my dislocated shoulder, the injury to my head, and Béma knows how many bruises and scrapes.”
A pang of fear flickered through Boromir’s chest, pain at the idea of losing Rhosynel before he’d even known her.
“No wonder you didn’t recall our visit. I was with Faramir, he wanted to check in on you the moment he got back but had to report to our father first.” For a moment Boromir fell silent, jaw clenching, remembering how Denethor had laughed at Faramir’s concern. Then again, he’d never approved of the ‘girl’ that Faramir Captained. “I remember standing there, listening to you say you’d be ready to rejoin the Rangers in a couple of weeks, and all I could think was that if even half my soldiers had your determination, the war would have been over by now.”
The snort that left Rhosynel wasn’t very dignified. “Do not exaggerate.”
“I’m not, Rhosynel, you could barely string two sentences together, but you were on your feet and dying to get out of that room after just four days.”
It seemed like his answer stunned her, as Rhosynel fell quiet, eyes dropping to his hands, watching as he gathered the salve on his fingers and began carefully applying it. It must have burned, but Rhosynel remained still, her jaw clenching, her hands flexing, but she gave no protest.
Even if her breathing was quickening and her brow growing damp with sweat.
“That’s done, I can start bandaging,” he said, apologetically, worried as he glanced up to her sweat soaked face. “Unless you want me to stop—”
“No.”
Boromir paused, eyes roaming across her face at the swift answer. It had been hasty, voice rough, straying almost to… desperate? But then she was avoiding his gaze, clearing her throat and shifting slightly in her seat.
Very well. He picked up the bandage, using the distraction to give her chance to breathe. Instead, Boromir tried to recall how she’d bandaged his own arm, partially unwinding it, gently pressing the soft fabric to her arm, before he started binding.
Rhosynel was watching him work, eyes following the path of his hands, throat bobbing as she swallowed heavily. Was she judging how he’d done? What was she thinking? Was he doing a bad job or…?
His fingers grazed her arm as he tied the knot, and her shaky inhale suggested the bandage was the last thing on her mind.
“There,” Boromir said, clearing his throat, “how does that feel?”
She moved and flexed her arm, head tilting in consideration. “It feels fine.”
“Good,” he said quietly, relieved that it wasn’t uncomfortable. “Now how’re your ribs? I saw how you winced earlier, don’t try and deny it.”
Her nose wrinkled as she grumbled, but to give Rhosynel credit, she didn’t lie or try to brush him off. Her movements were stiff, taking the hem of her tunic and pulling it up, high enough to get a look at the bandages wrapped about her middle. They were dirty by now, a mixture of sweat, grime, and orc blood which had seeped through her clothes. There was, however, a patch of fresh red, not huge, more like small blotches which had spread and joined, on her right flank.
That was concerning.
“Should it be bleeding?” he asked, eyeing the blood in alarm.
“Ideally not.”
Before he could reply, before he could offer suggestions, aid, or anything, Rhosynel straightened up, pulling her tunic up and over her head.
Boromir, froze.
The abrupt reveal of bare skin so close to his hands, his face, was a shock. If it wasn’t for the linen bralette she wore, Rhosynel would be half naked and Boromir didn’t know what to think, where to look, or what to do. Still knelt before her, he was close, too close, not close enough.
Already she was unravelling the bandages, the movement of her hands, every shift of her arms, every turn of her body was a distraction, drawing his eyes to more of her exposed skin.
Skin which gleamed with sweat, throwing the curves and softness of her body into sharp relief. Silvery scars, old and new, the soft mounds of her breasts, the shadow of her ribs beneath her skin, the smooth expanse of her stomach as the bandage fell away. The two vicious cuts that had torn through her skin.
Fuck, he was staring.
Swallowing harshly, Boromir dragged his eyes away from her bare skin, staring at the table alongside them instead. No matter how he was breathing heavily, no matter how his grip on the edge of the seat had tightened, not matter how his jaw ached with how fiercely he clenched his teeth.
“Boromir.”
His name being murmured had him jerking, hands spasming with the urge to reach out and touch her, but with a great deal of effort, he forced his gaze to her face.
He’d be fine, provided he didn’t have to look down.
“Does it look infected?” she asked.
Well shit.
Swallowing heavily, Boromir forced his eyes down to her stomach –trying to ignore the expanse of skin on route– and did his best to inspect the twin cuts to her flank. The older cut was a neat slice, cutting smoothly though her skin and already showing signs of starting to heal. But the other one was ragged, little more than a tear, the stitches were still in place, but the skin was looking red, sore. The overwhelming urge to touch her waist ran through him, and he barely managed to prevent his hands from lifting.
“Inflamed, but no discolouration, or smell,” he managed to breathe. “Th-The stitches are holding as far as I can see.”
“Good, good,” Rhosynel said more to herself than him. “Pass me the salv—”
Eager for the excuse to stop his inspection, Boromir had snatched up the little clay jar, pressing it into her hands almost before she’d finished speaking. If she was confused by the haste of his actions, she didn’t say. No, a word of thanks was all he needed.
Although Boromir couldn’t help but watch as she started trying to apply the salve.
Key word, try.
At such an awkward angle, she was struggling, unable to twist her arm, unable to see what she was doing, the salve was occasionally being smeared across the cuts, but not frequently enough. Nor was it smoothly done, leaving heavy globules and clumps, rather than the even coating she’d left on his wounds.
Boromir didn’t wish to overstep the mark, but nor was he going to sit here and watch her struggle. With a tut, he reached out, gently taking the pot from her hands. “You’ll waste the lot at this rate, pass it here.”
That earnt a grumble but no protest otherwise.
With a steadying breath, Boromir rested his arm on her knee and coated his fingers in the salve. As long as he focused on the cuts, it would be fine. As long as he didn’t get distracted, he’d be fine.
A smear of salve and Rhosynel flinched.
“Whoa! Are you okay?”
Instinctively Boromir had steadied her, hand landing at her waist, but he was quick to snap it away from her skin as she inhaled raggedly. Jaw gritted, hands clenched on the seat, her face had flushed. Rhosynel’s chest was heaving for breath in a way that would have been distracting, had Boromir not been so concerned.
“I-I will be,” she managed to hoarsely reply, and with a gesture, indicated he could continue.
Wary of hurting her, Boromir kept his touch light, trying to move efficiently, gently, rubbing the salve across her flank, making sure the cuts were covered. But no matter how gentle he was, Rhosynel still trembled beneath his hands.
The sooner he finished the better.
“Done,” he announced, quick to set the jar aside “are you okay? You look… ill.”
“I am… exhausted.”
“At least we’re nearly done,” Boromir was quick to reassure, leaning over to collect the remaining bandages, unravelling it partially, mimicking how she’d started with his own wounds. “Hold this end.”
She was quick to press it to her ribs, only to tense as he leaned forwards.
For half a second Boromir was left wondering why, only to pass the bandage from one hand to the other, and realisation dawned.
He was leaning forwards, into Rhosynel’s space, his too-long hair brushed against her chest, or grazed her chin. Fuck, he was leaning so close that the gleam of her skin was right there, right in front of him, all he had to do was lean forwards just a little more, and he’d be able to press his lips to her shoulder.
Breathing harshly through his nose, Boromir forced his focus to stay on the bandage, even going so far as to pause a moment, making sure it lay flat across her ribs. Quick motions, unfamiliar but steady, looping the bandage about her shoulder. Around, a loop, and back.
His arms wrapped about her, passing the bandages from hand to hand, another lean, another pass, another lean. Every brush of hair against her, had Rhosynel’s head turning, tacking his movements, following the motions.
Boromir was painfully aware of how quiet he’d gone. Working silently, eyes fixed on his work, hands smoothing across the bandages. A slight pull to tighten the bandage and Rhosynel tensed, muscles shifting beneath his fingers. Entirely against his will, Boromir’s eyes –the traitors– dropped to her stomach, and without thinking about it, he tightened the bandage again.
Rhosynel’s breathing hitched.
Swallowing thickly, Boromir tied the bandage with unsteady hands, and looked up.
Blue-grey eyes filled his vision, Rhosynel was scarcely inches away from his own, widening in surprise. Her exhale was shaky, feathering across his skin, across his beard, across his lips. Even as he stared up at her, she swallowed heavily, pupils dilatating, banishing the blue, leaving nothing but steel grey.
Boromir’s eyes dropped to her lips as they parted, another shaky breath leaving her.
Had she leant closer? Had he leant forwards? There was scarcely an inch between them and yet Rhosynel hadn’t moved back, hadn’t leant away.
Did she… want this?
Maybe she wanted this as much as he did…
Cautiously, so so cautiously, Boromir closed the gap. Giving her time, giving her chance, giving her the opportunity to move away. Little more than a graze, a feather light brush of lips.
What he didn’t expect, was for Rhosynel to respond.
Her fingers brushed against his beard, running through the short hair with a soft sigh against his lips, leaning closer, her eyes falling half shut as her head tilted. Shocked, Boromir leant back factionally, watching as her eyes fluttered open once more, staring back at him, no matter how they remained heavily lidded. But she didn’t move away, her hand remaining against his jaw, didn’t jolt or curse or back up.
Rhosynel… wanted to kiss him.
With that thought, Boromir’s self-discipline, snapped.
His hand slid up to the back of Rhosynel’s neck, and dragged her to meet him halfway, their lips crashing against one another. He could taste the salt of sweat from her skin, the slight tang of copper, the reek of orc, but under all of that, the ever-present scent of lavender. Her lips were soft, so soft, no matter how barbed her words or sharp her tongue, Rhosynel was soft. Softness against his ruggedness, gentleness against the harsh edge of him, a contrast which was dizzying and left Boromir wanting more.
It seemed he wasn’t alone in that thought, Rhosynel’s own hand had tangled in his hair, the other clinging to his shoulder, fingertips digging into his skin, trying to pull him closer.
Something that Boromir was all too eager to allow, pressing closer, trying to draw her too him. Rhosynel’s knees parted in welcome, and Boromir abruptly found his chest flush to hers, naught but the bandages and bralette between them. With the coolness of Rhosynel’s skin against his heat, the softness of her breasts pressed flush to his chest, Boromir groaned.
Against his lips, Rhosynel’s lips parted with an unsteady inhale, and Boromir was powerless but to take advantage.
Head tilting, pressing close, Boromir swept his tongue across hers, feeling how she shivered in his grasp, fingers curling to a fist in his hair. Another sweep, a tease, coaxing her to join, encouraging her to respond. Rhosynel’s own tongue darted into his mouth, and Boromir briefly forgot how to breathe.
Fuck she was arching into his touch, pressing herself as flush as possible to him, her fingers kneading at the muscles of his back, her breasts far too soft and appealing against his chest, her own head tilting, trying desperately to deepen the kiss even more.
It was getting hard to think, hard to focus, hard to breathe.
Parting for the barest of moments, Boromir sighed against her lips. “Hhh, Rhosynel.”
A shiver swept through her, and Boromir’s hand glided up from her hip, to her waist. Her cool skin met Boromir’s palm, his fingers automatically gripping, clinging on, unwilling to let Rhosynel out of his grasp for even a second.
A barked groan left him as Rhosynel’s leg hooked about his hips, dragging them flush to hers.
Shit. Fuck.
At this rate he was going to get carried away and then where would that leave them. In admonishment, Boromir nipped at her lip, but that only served to draw a soft, needy, whine from Rhosynel’s throat.
What other noises could he draw from the woman in his grasp? As much as he wanted this he didn’t want to dishonour her here in the war room, no matter how the table was in easy reach, he could ju—
The clack of the door latch was far too loud, as was the startled exclamation of whoever had stepped into the room.
With a jolt, Boromir shoved himself back and away from Rhosynel, lurching to his feet and turning to face the intruder. Already he was moving, putting himself between her and whoever the fuck had burst in, hand closing about the empty space his sword would rest. Only to draw up short at a familiar–albeit very alarmed– face greeted him.
“Ah. Gamling.” Boromir choked out, voice rough and harsh. “What is it?”
“Apologies my Lord, I uh, it was, nothi—apologies!”
And with as much haste as he’d arrived, the man left. An outright clatter of armour in his panic to descend the stairs, the door slowly swinging shut behind him.
It was only once the door creaked to a stop, that Boromir exhaled, shoulders dropping and head hanging, one hand dragging his hair back from his face. His skin was burning up, heart pounding, breaths short and sharp. Behind him, he could hear Rhosynel also trying to find enough air for her own lungs.
Turning to her, jokes already rising to his lips, Boromir froze.
Her face was crimson, eyes wide, staring up at him with a hand pressed to her chest, covering herself from his gaze. Even as he watched, she swallowed harshly, eyes flickering down away from his, and back, darting to the door, and back once more.
She looked… shocked.
Shit.
Shit.
He’d overstepped. No, more than that, he’d outright accosted the poor woman when she was feeling vulnerable. Scarcely half an hour after finding her crying in the courtyard, grieving the death of her cousin. And then he’d been pinning her down, pawing at her, and practically assu—
Shit.
“Forgive me, Lady Rhosynel,” he blurted.
“Not a lady.”
Her voice was strained, breathless and quiet.
“Regardless,” Boromir insisted, hastily snatching up his tunic and dragging it on, wincing as the cuts and punctures to his flesh ached at the sharp gestures. “That was inappropriate of me, I shouldn’t have done such a thing. It won’t happen again.”
“Oh.”
Boromir froze, only his head turned fractionally towards Rhosynel, watching her from the corner of his eye.
“I wasn’t, I mean, I didn’t.” She all but stumbled over her words, looking everywhere but at him. Her brows had drawn together in consternation, swallowing heavily and avoiding meeting his gaze. “It’s, it’s fine. Really. I get it. I… I understand. It doesn’t mea—”
With a harsh clear of her throat, Rhosynel snatched up her own tunic with a wince.
“Has anyone talked about the plan to leave?” she asked, clearly forcing her voice to lighten.
She was changing the subject.
“Not… that I’m aware,” he replied slowly. It was an effort to drag his eyes away from her, using the excuse of searching for his surcoat instead. “I imagine it’ll be tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
Rhosynel still didn’t look to him, even as she sought out her own clothing. Boromir didn’t push the matter, painfully aware of how he’d caused her such discomfort, of how pale her face had gone, of how her hands shook and her eyes gleamed.
He’d done that.
He’d accosted her.
He’d rendered the whip sharp and snarky woman to a near shaking mess.
He’d sacred her.
“Rhosynel,” he spoke without conscious choice, needing to apologise, needing to right what he’d wronged, needing to fix what he’d broken. “Forgive me, please.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she replied sharply. Too quickly. Not meeting his gaze. “Really, its fine. We battled, we survived, it’s a relief. I get it.”
A… Relief? The battle? They’d survive—oh.
A sinking realisation settled in Boromir’s chest. Rhosynel thought he’d acted from adrenaline, that he’d forced himself on her from relief, as an outlet from the tension of battle. That wasn’t it. He’d not kissed her from some misguided sense of relief. He’d wanted to kiss her, and for a brief moment thought she did to.
It seemed to take a great deal of effort, but Rhosynel lifted her head, a fake smile plastered on her lips. Fake cheer to her words. A lightness that didn’t suit her and felt wrong.
“Should we see how the others fare?”
No. No he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to leave what was left unspoken, he needed to explain, needed to tell her. Needed her.
But the opportunity had slipped through his fingers, like smoke on the wind.
Rhosynel’s forced smile faltered when he didn’t reply.
“I’d rathe—” Boromir cut himself off with a harsh clear of his throat. He’d already made her uncomfortable, he needed to shut up and let her escape his presence, not try and explain himself and make her all the more uncomfortable. “Yes. I think, I think that would be good.”
His answer couldn’t have been further from the truth.
