I described this chapter to my friend as "a very brief interlude of Boromir fucking with Gríma" and she misread it as "Boromir fucking Gríma" which is certainly an interesting alternative way for this to go.

but yeah boromir definitely fucks around and finds out in this one. have fun!

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Leaning against a pillar in the empty throne room that evening, Boromir contemplated if he had not given up on helping Robb too quickly. After he had been taken, all Boromir had truly wanted to do in Edoras was ask for aid in finding him. The Rohirrim knew the Mark better than anyone. Even just informing the border patrols to keep an eye out would have eased Boromir's mind, for wherever the Orcs had taken Robb—Isengard or Mordor, but most likely the former—the guards would surely have come across their trail at the very least.

But with King Théoden in Saruman's hands, Théodred dead and Éomer banished, with the border patrols called off entirely...in truth, Boromir had not even attempted to ask for help. The only one with the authority to grant it was Gríma, and he was almost certain to worsen the situation. And the problems this kingdom faced were not something he could ignore, not when Éowyn had asked for his aid so directly. As much as he wished to rescue Robb, for now Boromir could not. But he could help Éowyn.

Boromir sighed soundlessly and startled when a door opened across the hall. A sliver of light illuminated the hall for just a few seconds, and in it Boromir recognized the dark hair of the king's advisor as he entered the room.

Boromir smiled, casting his thoughts of Robb aside for the moment. Finally, his quarry had arrived. The man crossed the hall quickly and quietly. Boromir pushed away from the pillar.

"My Lord Gríma," he said, and pretended not to notice the way Gríma jumped and froze in guilty surprise. "I wondered if we might have a word."

Finally, Gríma's eyes found Boromir in the darkness. "Lord Boromir. More suspicious minds would say you were trying to engage in a conspiracy."

Boromir laughed. "Me? No, I haven't the mind for it. I prefer to be open about what I want."

"And what would that be?"

"I realize, my lord, that both of our kingdoms are in peril." Boromir shrugged, crossing his arms. This, of course, was true. Faramir had always told him that the best lies were rooted in truth. "Our enemies are stronger than we had imagined. Not half a year ago, I would have gone charging into battle without doubt of our victory. But now?"

He shook his head, sighed. Gríma still had not moved, but at least he was listening.

"I have seen things, Gríma, that might have had Elendil himself running for his life." Elendil had faced Sauron in combat and so Boromir doubted it, but what came next was the real lie. The one he had to sell. "I have come to see what our only way forward can be. That way is not battle."

Gríma took a tiny step forward, an almost imperceptible shuffle, but Boromir saw it and knew he had the man hooked.

"What would you propose instead?"

"We condemn Ulfang the Black for his alliance with the Enemy, but I have realized he was right. If we want to live—if we want our people to live, that is the way we must follow."

Gríma tilted his head. "You would betray your father to Sauron?" He hummed. "That does not sound like the loyal son and Captain you are lauded as."

Boromir pressed his lips together. By the gods, Gríma was a suspicious bastard. Suddenly, he was thankful Éowyn had told him so much about the man, had helped him figure out his approach.

"I never said I liked the thought of it. But as I said, I have changed. I do not wish for senseless death. I would more gladly give my own life than my father's, but if that is what Sauron demands in return for the survival of my people, I will obey."

The words burned like acid in Boromir's mouth. He suspected he would have meant them if the Ring was still near. Boromir clenched a hand behind his back, the sharp crescents of pain in his palms helping him suppress a full-bodied shudder, and went on.

"I care for the people of Rohan as well, Gríma, and you seem like a sensible man. More foresighted than most. I would have you by my side, and save both our peoples."

Gríma was silent for a long moment. Then, he chuckled. "'I haven't the mind for conspiracies.'—You must reevaluate your skillset, Lord Boromir, because that very much sounds like one."

Cold spread through Boromir's chest, afraid Gríma had called his bluff. But the man went on without a care.

"Very well. I agree. In fact, I would go so far as to say I am well ahead of you, my lord."

Boromir tilted his head and tried to speak through the breath caught in his throat. He needed confirmation of Gríma's treason, but that did not mean he wanted the man to be anything more than a self-serving upstart.

"Oh?"

"Indeed. Lord Saruman approached me with similar words some months ago. At that time, my king was not willing to consider his proposal. Now..." Gríma shrugged. "Now, I have reason to believe that is no longer a concern."

Eyebrows rising, Boromir said, "A remarkable coincidence."

Gríma gave a thin smile. "If that is what you want to call it."

"What would you call it, then?" Boromir took a step forward.

"A pragmatic use of well-chosen words on my part. Or magic, if one wanted to be crass about it."

Boromir's lips thinned and he took another step. "Hm. Then you are right. Coincidence is indeed the wrong word. But so is magic. Perhaps the right one would be—" He stopped, shook his head— "no. I should not say it."

Gríma raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"Treason," Boromir hissed, lunging forward to crowd Gríma against the tall doors that led outside. Gríma gave a yelp as his back hit the wood. Boromir's hand found his throat and pressed—not hard enough to do harm or even truly take Gríma's breath away, but hard enough to intimidate.

"That is what it is, Gríma, treason. Release your king from this foul spell and you may yet live to see another day."

Gríma scowled, his fingers grappling at Boromir's hand without success.

"I could not, even if I wanted to," he finally spat. "My lord Saruman controls the king now. I am merely his hand, to carry out his orders when he is too busy with grander things."

Boromir gave Gríma a shake. Cold satisfaction ran through him as the man's head collided with the doors with another dull thud.

"Then there is nothing to stop me from ending your miserable life!" he hissed, ignoring Gríma's gasp of pain. "Without doubt that would do this court some good."

Gríma gave a harsh chuckle. "And give Rohan reason to declare war on Gondor? I think not."

Boromir's fist struck the wood next to Gríma's head. "They would not go to war for you—"

Suddenly, with only a creak as a warning, Boromir's world tilted. He had barely a second's time to realize what was happening before he hit the floor, burying Gríma underneath him. All air was driven out of his lungs as the man's bony elbows dug into his gut but at least the other man was faring worse. Boromir's full weight suddenly on top of him, Gríma let out a gasp that trailed off into a quiet keen.

Strong hands took hold of Boromir's shoulders and hauled him off the other man, an action that had Boromir swallowing down his own pained groan. His wound was better, but not yet fully healed.

"What is the meaning of this?"

It was Háma's voice that finally allowed Boromir to put things together: the door at Gríma's back had opened and, pressed up against it as they had been, the sudden lack of support had sent them tumbling. Why the doors had opened, Boromir knew not—perhaps their conversation had been overheard, or perhaps it was the thud of Gríma, of Boromir's fist, hitting the hard wood.

Looking at the situation now, he could only hope for the former. Loath as he was to admit it, assaulting a member of a foreign court, no matter how unpopular, was no small matter. Wars had been started for less.

Boromir clenched his teeth and stilled in the hands of the guard holding him back. He should have kept himself in check.

Batting away another guard's attempts to help, Gríma got to his feet, his pale eyes cold and fixed to Boromir's own.

"Lord Boromir attacked me," he hissed, brushing some dust off of his cloak. "Unprovoked."

"Because you have committed treason against your king!" Boromir tried to move forward, but the guard's grip was strong.

"A likely story," Gríma said. His voice was calmer now, no longer shaking with rage. "Where is your proof, I ask?"

Boromir clenched his teeth. There was none—Gríma had confessed everything to him, but nobody had witnessed it. He wished for a moment that Éowyn had been there. It was a thought he quickly discarded, for who knew how Gríma might have spun the story on them both.

Gríma nodded, and his satisfaction almost set Boromir off again. "As I thought. This is a grievous accusation, Lord Boromir, and your actions must have consequences. We can only hope King Théoden does not see this as an act of war. Háma—" he turned to the man with a rueful smile— "I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience. I believe it would be best to deal with the situation tomorrow, with cooled tempers. Until then, I feel the safest course of action for everyone is to confine Lord Boromir in the dungeons."

Háma's gaze jumped between Gríma and Boromir for a few seconds, his mouth half-open in bafflement. Finally, he straightened and, pressing his lips together, gave a sharp nod. "As you say."

The grip on Boromir's shoulders tightened further. He could only watch in hateful silence as Gríma smiled once more, then swept away into the darkness to do gods knew what—scheme, probably. Once he was gone, Háma sighed sharply.

"As much as I appreciate your dedication to justice, Lord Boromir," he said, "might I suggest you do not implicate yourself next time? You are a far better ally outside of a cell than in one."

❄️

The dungeons of Edoras, all things considered, were not the worst place Boromir had ever slept. Moria with its dank, dark halls had the dubious honour of being the first point on that list.

That was not to say they were the most comfortable one, however.

His cell had a small window at least, high up and impossible to reach but it allowed Boromir to track the time until daybreak. There was a bucket in one corner, the use of which he had so far been able to avoid, and a narrow pallet of wood to sleep on hanging from a wall. It was less than a meter above the dirty floor.

Boromir had slept little that night. The second he had been left alone, his thoughts had started to spiral. It had started with anger: at Gríma, at Háma, at himself for losing his temper. Then, he had remembered Éowyn and his fury had been pushed aside in favour of worry. Was she safe? Did Gríma suspect her involvement? She had not been brought down to join Boromir in the dungeons yet, but he knew that was but one way of punishing her.

The thought of punishment, in turn, brought Robb to the forefront of Boromir's mind. Was he still in the Uruk's clutches? Had they harmed him? Had they delivered him to Saruman? To Sauron?

The latter was a possibility Boromir prayed had not come true. Besides the danger it posed to Frodo and Sam, to Middle-Earth as a whole, what Boromir feared for most of all was Robb's mind. In the face of the Enemy's torture, even the strongest men could be broken. It had happened countless times before. Robb was not yet twenty, but he had lived through more pain and tragedy than most men thrice his age. He had died. If Sauron could not bring Robb to his side—Boromir laughed at the thought of it—the horrors that resided in Robb's own mind were ammunition enough. Sauron might not have to even touch him. His tongue would do all the work for him.

Boromir suppressed a shiver and readjusted his position on the wooden pallet. Its hardness certainly did no good for his shoulder. Boromir's eyes caught on a sliver of light that crept along the floor of his cell. Dawn had broken, it appeared.

Forcefully tearing his thoughts away from Robb, Boromir wondered whether someone might bring him breakfast or if Gríma would conveniently forget about him instead. It seemed like something the man would do.

Well, Boromir thought, at least Éowyn could be counted on. If he did not show up to tell her of his success soon, she would surely come looking.

True enough, Boromir waited for two hours at most before he heard a door opening down the hall. Light footsteps followed and a moment later, Éowyn appeared in front of his cell. Her hair was unbound today and she looked resplendent in a dress as white as snow. If Boromir felt for her anything other than friendship, the sight would surely have made his eyes wander.

"Boromir!" she said, setting a small platter of bread and cheese down on the ground and sliding it through the bars in his cell. "What happened?"

One of her hands came up to clutch at a bar of his cell door. "Gríma says you committed treason."

"A good morning to you as well, Lady Éowyn," Boromir responded with a faint smile before sitting up. The smile became more genuine at the rolling of her eyes.

"No, I did not commit treason," Boromir went on as he stood to take the platter from the ground. "Since that would require me to be sworn to King Théoden. What I did is perhaps more aptly described as... warmongering, if Gríma decides to be unkind."

Éowyn gave an exasperated sigh. "As we both know, that is a favoured pastime of his."

"Indeed." Boromir sat back down and leaned against the cold wall, looking at Éowyn out of the corners of his eyes. "Is there any word on what he intends to do with me?"

"No. I suppose he cannot kill you, that would surely start a war Rohan is not prepared for—yet."

Only if Father came to know of it, Boromir thought. He had been gone for over half a year now and although Boromir was sure he was missed, no one had truly known how long this journey of his was going to be when he had set out. Even more, the road was dangerous. He could have died at any point, as the skirmish at Amon Hen had proved. If Gríma truly wished Boromir gone, it could be done without inciting a war with Gondor.

Boromir voiced none of this. Instead, he hummed and said, "He may just leave me down here to rot for as long as it pleases him."

"That might be to our advantage."

Boromir raised an eyebrow in Éowyn's direction.

"The longer you are here, the more careless the guards will be." Éowyn lifted a shoulder with a curl of her lips. "Fear not, Lord Boromir. In time, you shall be freed."

"I certainly hope so, my lady."

The creak of a wooden door opening at the end of the hall had them both fall silent.

"Lady Éowyn," a guard called down the corridor. "Your presence has been requested in the Throne Room."

Éowyn took a step back from the cell. "Of course," she replied even as her smile fell. "I shall be there momentarily."

When she turned back to look at Boromir, there was a crease between her eyebrows. "I must—"

"Of course, Éowyn." Boromir quirked his lips. "There is no need to worry about me—I am quite safe here."

"I would hope so." Éowyn sighed. "Still. I will try to come back later."

Boromir shook his head. "Only if it poses no danger to you."

She pressed her lips together but did not argue. They said their goodbyes quickly before she made her way back down the hall. Éowyn was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

It was only then that Boromir realized he had quite forgotten to thank her for the food.

❄️

When the door to the dungeons opened again later that day, it was with a loud bang. That—as well as the great amount of shouting from somewhere above in the palace that had preceded it—made Boromir endlessly curious as to what was going on.

And, perhaps, just a little worried.

Well, he supposed he would find out in just a moment.

Boromir could not quite say what or whom he had expected to appear in front of his cell, but it certainly had not been this.

"I am reliably informed you've caused a considerable amount of trouble," Aragorn said with a wide grin on his face.

Boromir jolted upright, ignoring the ache in his shoulder at the movement. "Aragorn!"

"How long have you been in Edoras, Boromir, a day? Two?" The man shook his head. "You were busy."

"How did you get here?" Boromir asked, scrambling towards the door. "Did you find the little ones? And Robb? Wait—Gríma is allied with Saruman—"

"Peace, Boromir," Aragorn said, pulling out a ring of keys from somewhere. "King Théoden is healed and Gríma has been banished. Merry and Pippin are not with us, but they are safe."

The cell door swung open and Boromir stepped through, throwing his hands around Aragorn's shoulders in a tight hug. His wounds twinged again but he ignored them when Aragorn returned the gesture with just as much fervour.

Then, Aragorn froze.

"Why do you ask after Robb? Is he not with you?"

The cold he had tried to suppress surged up in Boromir's chest again. He stepped back and closed his eyes with a shuddering exhale.

"No," Boromir whispered. "Robb was taken by the Enemy."