The faint scent of herbs and woodsmoke drifted through the air, intermingling with the subtle creak of wooden beams in the unfamiliar room. Boromir’s eyelids fluttered open slowly, his green eyes unfocused as he stared up at the thatched ceiling. Pain radiated from his chest and side, dull but persistent, each breath reminding him of the arrows that had pierced his body. His brow furrowed as memories of the attack came rushing back—Merry and Pippin in danger, the Uruk-hai, the Horn of Gondor’s mournful call, and Aragorn's somber expression. He remembered the overwhelming darkness, followed by nothing.

Yet now, here he was, lying in a narrow bed, bandaged and alive. The realization left him momentarily stunned, his mind grappling for clarity. He lifted his hand to his chest, feeling the rough texture of linen wrappings beneath his fingertips. Despite the soreness, the wound was no longer as raw as it had been. He turned his head slightly, taking in the modest room—a small hearth emitting a faint warmth, a table laden with herbs and bandages, and a chair pulled close to his bedside.

Before he could fully gather his thoughts, the quiet creak of the door drew his attention. His body tensed instinctively, though his strength was still far from returning. His gaze shifted to the figure entering the room—you, a stranger whose presence was both unexpected and puzzling. Boromir's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering across his face as he tried to discern your intentions.

"Who...?" His voice came hoarse and cracked, his throat dry from disuse. He cleared it and tried again, his tone steadier but guarded. "Who are you?"

Boromir shifted in the bed, wincing as he attempted to sit upright. “You...” He paused, his words faltering as he observed the small, deliberate gestures you made. The care you had evidently taken—bandaging his wounds, placing water within reach—began to sink in. He exhaled slowly, his suspicion giving way to cautious gratitude. “You saved me.”