Witten for the "There and Back" challenge.
With grateful thanks to Raksha
“Your towels, sir,”
“Bring them in.”
Somewhat timidly, the maid entered.
Boromir, lounging in the largest tub the inn could provide, seemed unperturbed by her presence.
The girl knew she should avert her eyes, but could not help but steal a glance at the firmly muscled chest and broad shoulders of the Steward’s heir.
“Hand me one, please.”
She did so,reluctantly turning to leave as he rose from the water.
“Your supper is prepared for you, my lord,” she said.
He smiled at her. “You would be welcome to join me.”
The look in her eyes gave the answer.
Aragorn gazed sadly at his fallen comrade. They had not been close friends and many had been the disagreements between them. How could it be otherwise for two great warriors, born to lead Gondor when only one could rule?
Yet Aragorn’s grief was sincere. He had respected Boromir’s courage and prowess. He remembered him as a babe in arms, the darling of his proud parents.
Aragorn tore a strip from his shirt and soaked it in the river. With it he gently bathed the dead man’s face, washing away the encrusted blood.
It was the last service he could render.