Long time no see! I have nothing to say for myself, beyond that which would incriminate me even more in my inactivity. BUT s2 of Rings of Power brought back my LotR brainrot in full force so I decided I might as well post again.

To make it up to you, this is a LONG chapter.

There's some Sindarin in this, the translation of which you will find at the very end of the chapter, should you belong to those of us who are not, in fact, fluent. All translations are supplied without liability because I also don't speak Sindarin.

Have fun!

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Even several days after they had reunited, it was hard for Boromir to believe Gandalf was alive. When he had first seen the wizard, clad in all white and standing by Théoden's side in the throne room, Boromir had almost fainted. For a moment, he had wondered if perhaps he had died that day at Amon Hen after all.

And now that Gandalf was gone again—on what business, only he and the Gods knew—Boromir was not entirely sure he had not been dreaming.

It did not help that they had spoken only for a short while—Boromir with a thousand apologies ready to burst forth, and Gandalf with his usual type of grumpy encouragement, and an apology of his own.

They could not go to save Robb, he had explained, not when all of Rohan needed their help to fight Saruman. Not when they did not know for certain where to search for him, or whether he was alive at all.

Boromir had looked around the room then, had seen Aragorn's lowered eyes, Gimli's tight grip on his axe, and the way Legolas' lips had thinned. He had felt a yell climb its way up his throat, had felt tears rise in his eyes and fury in his chest. But Boromir had tamped them all down.

He knew they wanted to help Robb, he truly did. They had all come to like, perhaps even admire him. For someone so young, Robb was remarkably mature. For a king, he was remarkably selfless. And he had suffered more than anyone Boromir knew. For that reason alone, they should have done everything in their power to get him back. Robb did not deserve to be left at the mercy of their enemies.

And yet, neither did the people of Rohan. As Robb's friend, Boromir wanted to drop everything and rush to save him immediately. As a captain, a leader, he could not in good conscience leave thousands of men, women, and children to face certain death for just one person. Even if it was his fault Robb had been taken.

And so, Boromir had closed his eyes and nodded.

Since then, the anger and despair had been a constant fire in his heart. Every second without a distraction saw him grinding his teeth, or clenching his fists around the reins of the horse he had been given for the trek to Helm's Deep.

The scenery had passed by Boromir in a blur, only briefly interrupted by conversations with Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn about the upcoming battle, with Théoden about his father, and with Éowyn about their brothers. They had all been tense, and had failed at hiding it.

They had done well enough at pretending in front of the people, of course—still did. But as soon as their scared, trusting gazes had no longer rested on them, the confident façades had started to crack. Boromir could feel it in himself even now, and see it on the faces of his companions.

Ironically enough, Théoden and Éowyn still appeared to be the ones with the most composure. Perhaps it might have been different, had Robb been with them. Certainly, Boromir would have been in better spirits.

Or maybe this part had always been meant to be a miserable affair. Half a day away from Helm's Deep, Warg-riders had attacked. The loss of a dozen men had been bad enough, but when he had seen Legolas by the edge of a cliff afterwards, pale as a ghost and holding Aragorn's necklace, Boromir had come close to breaking down entirely.

Was this how the line of Elendil ended? In obscurity, without even a body to bury? With nothing to remind everyone who came after of the man who would have been the best of them?

Boromir had fallen to his knees beside Legolas and gripped his own thighs so tightly he'd been sure they would bruise. He had squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply, bitten the inside of his cheek to keep quiet for fear that if any sound left his throat then, he would never be able to stop screaming.

Now, Boromir stood in the main hall of Helm's Deep. Leaning over the table in front of him, he studied the map of the area while absently listening to Gamling's report on stores, equipment and men. Erkenbrand, the Lord of the Deeping-coomb, had left a garrison of a thousand men here just a few days ago, along with supplies to last them several months. With the stream of civilians seeking shelter in the Hornburg, those wouldn't last nearly as long. Still, none of it mattered if they lost the upcoming battle.

For all his experience in battle, Boromir had never had to defend a fortress from a siege. Osgiliath came closest, but even that had been more of a battle in the streets than anything else. Everything useful he knew was about besieging, or breaking a siege from the outside. He supposed he should be thankful for the natural protection the Deeping Stream outside the walls provided, as well as the several sets of walls. The mountains prevented attacks from behind and, with its numerous caves, gave the women and children a place to hide—but at the same time, once the Hornburg was taken, the caves were hardly a challenge.

They needed archers, Boromir was aware, but they had none save for Legolas and a handful of Rohirrim. Not nearly enough to defend the Hornburg for any meaningful amount of time.

At least with the river, they would never be short of water to boil and pour over the ramparts. The curtain wall had no gaps for cauldrons that could be secured in place and would swing back up when tipped over, so buckets and thick gloves would have to do. According to Gamling, Erkenbrand had left behind at least a dozen barrels of oil in addition to the ones already stored, but using it for the same purpose would be a waste. Perhaps they could use it for burning arrows and set flame to catapults, battering rams and siege towers.

Boromir sighed. Even with the steady stream of arrivals at the Hornburg, they would be hard pressed to find even two thousand men to defend it, nevermind defeat Saruman's army.

He wished they had more information. The scouts that had attacked them at least confirmed Saruman knew where they had been going. He wanted to rule Rohan, so it was safe to assume he would send his army to fight Théoden soon, but beyond that, they were clueless. What were their numbers? How far out were they? Would they be fighting Uruk-Hai, or Orcs, or both? How well-equipped were they? Would they attack by day or by night? Would they try to starve them out, or attempt to take the Hornburg?

Shaking his head, Boromir pushed away from the table and turned to Théoden.

Whatever it was he had been about to say, it went up in smoke the moment the doors flew open.

Backlit by the rays of the early afternoon sun, Aragorn truly looked like Elendil come again. He was dirty and bloody and wet, but still he took Boromir's breath away. For a second, Boromir wondered if his desperate mind was playing tricks on him, resurrecting another friend thought dead, but then Aragorn looked at him, and he knew it was real.

Boromir stumbled forward. "Aragorn," he whispered, clutching the man's shoulders tightly and drawing him into a hug. The bonfire of fury and guilt lessened in his chest, if only by a fraction. "You live."

His own hands coming up to pat Boromir's back, Aragorn chuckled. "The Gods were with me, my friend."

Then, he hissed. Boromir drew back, looking him over.

"Are you hurt?"

Aragorn gave a lopsided smile and tapped Boromir's right hand where it still rested on his upper arm. Eyes widening, Boromir let go. There was blood on his palm.

"No more than a cut," Aragorn said with a shrug, "but I should clean it soon, and bandage it if we can spare the cloth."

Boromir nodded, but Aragorn seemed to read the doubt on his face.

"Worry not, Boromir." He gave his bloodstained hand a squeeze. "I am fine. For now—" Aragorn turned to the room at large, nodding at Théoden respectfully— "I come bearing news."

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Boromir wanted to bury his face in his hands and groan. His father would scold him, would say it was unbecoming, but if any situation warranted the action, it was this.

Ten thousand strong. Ten thousand. How in the world were they supposed to defeat an army of that size?

"They will be here by nightfall."

Forget burying his face, Boromir wanted to scream.

Théoden left the room with his guards, his steps sure, but Boromir saw the way his hand clutched the hilt of his sword. There was a leader who knew his chances of survival, nevermind winning.

Boromir pressed his lips together. Next to him, Aragorn sighed and finally let himself drop into a chair. Legolas was by his side in an instant, pestering him to take off his coat and let him look at the wound. The two devolved into quiet, Elvish bickering as Gimli stepped up to Boromir.

"You Men are all so quick to despair," the Dwarf noted, leaning on his axe. "This battle will be one for the ages, whether we win or not. Even if we die, our names will not be forgotten."

Boromir glanced at him, then returned to staring at the closed door. "They will, if the Enemy wins the war."

"One battle lost does not mean we lose the war. You said yourself your father is a great man, and I have heard you speak of your brother, as well. If they are as capable as you claim, they will manage to hold out."

"They will not. Not if they are attacked from two sides."

Gimli shook his head. "Not all of Rohan's forces are here, lad. Théoden's nephew took his men with him when he was banished. The other Lords of Rohan still have their own forces. They are too far away to help us, but if we weaken Saruman's army enough, they will be able to defeat him later. Gondor will not be attacked by Isengard."

"Gimli is right," Aragorn spoke up. Boromir turned to look at him, and he smiled. "Besides, Gandalf is still out there. And even if our goal now is to defend Rohan, we were only ever meant to be a distraction from Frodo. No matter what happens to us, so long as Frodo manages to destroy the Ring, we will have succeeded."

Boromir clenched his teeth. "If we die now, we will no longer be a distraction. We will have failed Frodo and Sam, and everyone else. Especially Robb."

Aragorn winced. "Boromir—"

"No!" he hissed, pointing at Aragorn. The fire in his chest sparked to life again, growing hotter and hotter as he spoke. "If we die, we leave him in Saruman's clutches. His value as a hostage will be nonexistent. He will be interrogated, tortured, until Saruman and Sauron decide he is of no more use to them. And then, they will kill him. All while we did nothing to help him. We just stood here, waiting for death. We did not even try to come to his aid!"

"The people of Rohan—"

"I know!" Boromir roared. "Of course I know that! Do you think I would still be here if I did not? But if we are all going to die anyway, what difference does it make?"

Closing his eyes, Boromir took a deep breath.

"I owe it to him," he whispered. "I owe it to him to try, and it kills me that I cannot. Robb—" Boromir's voice broke, and he blinked to keep his tears at bay— "Robb took care of me for days despite his own injury, despite the fact that I tried to take the Ring from Frodo and lost Merry and Pippin. Only the Gods know how hard it must have been for him to even look at me, to see the face of his dead father every single day! And still, he never complained about any of it. Not once. I do not think I ever heard him complain about anything. At nineteen. When all you want to do is complain about every single thing!"

Realising how loud he had become, Boromir stopped. He wiped a hand over his face and shook his head. "I never even thanked him for it. Any of it. And now that he needs my help more than ever before, I choose not to give it."

The silence in the room was deafening. Boromir turned away from the pale faces of his friends, from Gimli's downcast gaze, Legolas' tight grip on Aragorn's shirt, and the teary eyes of the latter.

"So, I think you will find our losing does matter."

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Boromir followed Théoden down the stairway and into the outer court. He was steadfastly ignoring Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas trailing behind them while the king rattled off orders to Gamling.

"I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall," Théoden said, his voice strong but shoulders tense.

Gamling nodded and left for the barracks.

Looking around the courtyard, Boromir pressed his lips into a thin line. They needed every man they could get, but sending children into battle did not sit right with him. Without training, without experience, Théoden might as well send them to the gallows right away.

Stepping through the gates, Théoden directed his attention at Aragorn and Boromir himself.

"We will cover the causeway and the gate from above," he said, pointing up at the battlements. Théoden straightened his back when he turned to look at them. "No army has ever breached the Deeping Wall or set foot inside the Hornburg."

Gimli drew up next to them, fixing Théoden with a dark look. "This is no rabble of mindless Orcs. These are Uruk-Hai. Their armour is thick and their shields broad."

Boromir let his gaze wander as first Théoden and then Aragorn responded. His eyes swept over the valley ahead of them, catching on the glinting of the river in the afternoon sun, on the way the wind created waves in the grass. The trickle of refugees had tapered out almost entirely, a lone rider in the distance the only person in sight. It was beautiful, so far nothing hinting at the fact that the area would be filled with Uruk-Hai by midnight.

Closing his eyes, Boromir gave a soundless sigh as the discussion next to him became more agitated. He was tired. Had been, for days, now. And when he was not tired, Boromir was angry, or despondent, or just miserable in general—which, of course, only made him more exhausted in the end.

Théoden's sharp voice startled Boromir from his thoughts.

"And who will come?" the king snapped, his hand flying out to gesture at their little group. "Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead!"

"Gondor will answer," Aragorn insisted.

"Gondor?" Théoden looked very close to snorting derisively. "Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was Gond—"

"With all due respect, Théoden King," Boromir cut in, fingernails digging into his palms. His face felt suddenly cold with anger, and the flame in his chest threatened to explode. "Do you think my Father and I were twiddling thumbs while your people were dying? Do you think Mordor sent no forces to attack us? Osgiliath was taken, if you remember, and many good men died to free the city from the Orcs' clutches."

Aragorn's fingers closed around his arm, and Boromir became aware of Théoden's thin lips and furrowed brows. He took a deep breath, and briefly closed his eyes once more.

"I apologise. But surely you can see we were occupied defending our own people. Nevertheless, I am sure we would have done our best to come to your aid—only, can you truly say you would have accepted it?"

His face paling, Théoden swayed on the spot for just a second. It was a movement Boromir knew well. He had seen it on Faramir a thousand times, when their father had once again made a cutting comment, and his brother had needed to expend all his strength not to stumble back.

Boromir snapped his mouth shut, shaking his head, and turned away. Aragorn squeezed his arm once more, murmuring something in the king's direction—another apology, Boromir was sure.

He clenched his jaw, listening to Théoden's fading steps as the man returned to the courtyard. His control was slipping, and Boromir knew it. Twice in one day was twice more than he should have allowed it to happen. This time around, he could not even blame the Ring.

Pressing his lips together, Boromir let his gaze fall to the foot of the causeway. The rider he had spotted earlier was closer now, slowing his pale mount's canter as they approached the ramp. Their golden hair shone in the sun, and Boromir would have thought them another refugee, were it not for the fine blue robes they wore.

Narrowing his eyes, he nudged Aragorn's elbow with his, and pointed at the rider.

"A lord of the Mark, perhaps?"

Aragorn tilted his head, shielded his eyes from the sun and—grinned?

"No, my friend," he said, taking a step forward, ready to receive this new arrival. "Better than that."

He refused to say more until the rider finally came to a stop in front of them, an equally wide smile on their face when they caught sight of Aragorn. They were an Elf, that much was obvious even to Boromir.

"Estel," they spoke, their dark eyes gleaming much in the same way Lady Galadriel's always had. "Mae govannen! Gwannas lû and."

"Naw!" Aragorn responded. He inclined his head. "Ach amman odúleg hi?"

The Elf shrugged, and Boromir feared his eyes would bug out of his head at the casual movement. Not even Legolas shrugged—at least not in Boromir's presence—and they had been in close proximity for months now. He glanced at the Elf in question out of the corner of his eyes and frowned. Why did Legolas look like he had come face-to-face with one of the Gods? Boromir had never seen his eyes this wide.

"Tôl auth," the Elf said. "Paer menig yrch anglennar o Angrenost. Dhe nathathon."

Aragorn closed his eyes for a long moment before giving the Elf a quick bow. "Gin hannon, Glorfindel."

Boromir's breath caught in his throat. Glorfindel.

He examined the Elf again: his golden locks, the intricate embroidery on his cape that, if you looked closely, revealed dozens of tiny flowers. The ethereal light in those dark, ancient eyes. Yes, he could see why Legolas was staring, now.

Unaware of Boromir's inner turmoil, Glorfindel spoke up once more. "Tygin ben-eleg a nin," he said, jerking his chin back over his shoulder.

It was only now that Boromir noticed the arms loosely snaked around Glorfindel's waist and the dirty mop of curls peeking out from where it was slumped against his back. Boromir felt ice creep through his chest, and blood roared in his ears. He knew that hair.

"Ma den?" Aragorn asked, but he was already stepping around the horse. Boromir followed, his legs carrying him forward before he had consciously decided to do so. The man's face was buried in Glorfindel's cape, but there was no longer any doubt about his identity.

Tears of relief welled up in Boromir's eyes, and a quiet, broken sound escaped his throat. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Aragorn gasped, his fingers twitching as though he longed to reach out and touch, draw him off the horse, hug him.

"Robb Stark," Glorfindel answered.

He half-turned in his saddle, carefully so as to avoid jostling Robb, and placed one hand on his cheek. Robb did not seem to react at first, but when Glorfindel muttered a few words, he began to stir. He gave a