Genuinely forgot I had so many pre-written Boromir chapters left which is why you're getting a very long one now. over 3k words! amazing.

This is also an apology for making you guys wait for so long. my excuse is work and also i watched ted lasso which consumed my brain lmao.
anyway have fun with this!!

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In the light of the setting sun, the Golden Hall of Meduseld gleamed like a jewel. It was a sight for sore eyes.

Pressing one hand to his chest, Boromir gave a relieved if rattling sigh. Edoras remained unchanged. A constant where the rest of the world as well as Boromir himself had been irrevocably transformed. The air still smelled faintly of horse and hay and the wind continued to whistle through the city walls, mingling with the chattering of people and the snorting of animals to create a melody that was intrinsically Rohan.

All was as it had been when Boromir had last come through some six months ago.

Boromir stumbled forward. His knock on the gates was carried away by the wind and for a moment, he doubted whether anyone could have heard it at all. The gates of Edoras were not made for knocking. But after just a few seconds, a voice rang through the air.

"What business have you in Edoras?"

Boromir took a step back and raised his head.

"I am Boromir of Gondor," he called up to the guard on the walkway above. His mouth was dry, and he had to swallow. "The steward's son. My business is with the king."

There was a beat of silence before the guard disappeared out of sight and the gates creaked open. Boromir stepped through. The guard stood just inside, waiting for him.

"Lord Boromir," he greeted, holding out a hand in greeting. Boromir grasped it at the forearm. "I am Háthain, son of Hámód. We had almost thought you lost after the horse we lent you returned riderless."

"There was an incident on the road, near Tharbad," Boromir replied, falling into step with the guard. "And more on the way back."

The guard nodded. "Hence your late return. We are glad to see you alive, my lord."

The friendly clap on his shoulder almost sent Boromir to the ground. His vision whited out as pain bloomed from his shoulder and spread through his chest. A wheeze left Boromir's lungs, entirely without his volition.

"My lord?" he heard the guard ask when the ringing in his ears finally faded. "Are you alright?"

"I may have need of your healer later," Boromir admitted with a gasp. "But I must speak with King Théoden first."

Háthain's brows were furrowed behind his helmet, one of his hands hovering over Boromir's arm. He held the guard's gaze and straightened his stance. Finally, Háthain nodded.

"As you wish."

They continued their way up the hill. Men, women and children went about their business alongside them, cleaning clothes, leading horses, playing. The city was less busy than it had been in autumn, though. Now, at the beginning of spring, that struck Boromir as strange. Even with the ever rising threat of Orcs in their lands, would not more people flock to the safety of the capital?

"The king has been unwell of late," the guard spoke up again, interrupting Boromir's train of thought, "and I must warn you that visitors are not welcomed as they once were."

'It can hardly be worse than the welcome at Moria,' Boromir thought to himself, waving off the well-intentioned warning. No man was fully his true self while sick and Boromir was the last person who could judge him.

Boromir's breathing grew ragged again when they ascended the stairs to the Golden Hall. At the top, he had to blink once, twice, three times to clear his vision from the black that had taken over. He recovered just in time for another man to approach-this one, Boromir knew. It was Háma, Théoden's door warden.

"Lord Boromir," he called, a greeting which Boromir returned perhaps a tad more weakly than he would have preferred. "We did not expect you to visit at this time."

Boromir's brows climbed his forehead. Háma's interpretation of courtesy had certainly suffered in the past half year.

"Nor did I expect to visit," he replied instead of pointing this out. Perhaps they really had thought him dead, although Boromir liked to think his return from the dead would be received a bit more warmly than this. "Under the circumstances, I had no way to forewarn you of my coming. I must apologise."

Háma nodded, then gave a strained smile. "Rohan welcomes you nevertheless."

Boromir inclined his head. "You have my thanks."

"Lord Boromir wishes an audience with the king," Háthain spoke up, his expression nearly as uncomfortable as Háma's. Slowly but surely, Boromir began to doubt whether Edoras truly had stayed the same since his last visit.

Háma pressed his lips together in a thin line before he nodded stiffly. "In that case, Lord Boromir, I must ask you to give up your weapons."

Boromir blinked, frozen in place. "What?"

Next to him, Háthain shuffled his feet. Háma clenched his jaw.

"King Théoden's orders. All who enter the Golden Hall must lay down their weapons. The Enemy is cunning and his spies may slip through the tiniest of cracks. At this time of unrest, it is better to be safe than sorry."

Háma had the cadence of a man repeating an instruction word for word. His face was blank. Only in his voice did a sliver of frustration shine through.

Boromir exhaled without sound. No, something certainly was amiss. And there was only one way to find out what, exactly, that was. In his state, Boromir was useless with weapons as much as without.

"Alright," he gave in, handing over his sword. His hands hesitated over the buckle of Airilírë's sheath for just a moment before he continued. "Take care with this one," Boromir said, not releasing his grip on the hilt until Háma relented to his forceful glare and nodded. "It belongs to a friend, given to him by the Lady of Lothlórien."

Háma's jaw slackened but he quickly controlled his features. "Understood."

Finally, the door to the Golden Hall opened before Boromir. Just a few steps in, despite the dim lighting, Boromir saw what had everyone here so on edge.

'Unwell' was not a fitting descriptor for King Théoden's appearance. Not by a long shot. The man looked old beyond his years, his skin a pasty parchment-yellow, dry and flaky. His once golden hair was now white and tangled, a matted mess that was almost indistinguishable from his equally dishevelled beard.

Back in September, Boromir had only met with Théoden for a short few minutes. He had not noticed any significant change to the man's appearance then, save for perhaps some more wrinkles that could easily be blamed on the passage of time. A change this drastic, however, should not have been possible within just half a year. It was unnatural.

More guards than usual lined the edges of the room. Their suspicious eyes made the back of Boromir's neck tingle as he crossed the Hall. His hand twitched, longing for the feeling of a sword in his palm, if only to reassure himself that he was not entirely defenseless.

When he reached the dais after what felt like an eternity Boromir bowed and, after the appropriate time, straightened once again. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to suppress a groan. He strongly suspected he needn't have bothered. Théoden's milky eyes stared sightlessly into the middle distance, and no reaction was forthcoming.

Unlike Théoden, the man's advisor was studying Boromir intently. He was a pale man with pale eyes and next to no eyebrows to speak of. His deep black hair hung limply around his face and were it not for his central position in the room-in a less ornate chair, but nevertheless at the king's right hand-Boromir would have said the man was trying to hide in his dark robes.

"King Théoden," Borormir greeted, trying to catch the King's milky eyes without success, "I thank you for receiving me despite my unannounced arrival."

"Boromir of Gondor," the advisor answered with a thin smile, "what business have you in the Riddermark?"

Boromir's eyebrow twitched unwittingly as once again etiquette was cast aside in favour of discourtesy. Just a week ago, Boromir might have risen to the bait. Now, he only gave a one-shouldered shrug (which he regretted more or less immediately, but such was the price of finding out what in the world was happening).

"I was travelling with a companion along the Anduin when we were...separated," he explained. "He does not know these lands well. I thought I might inquire as to whether he had passed through Edoras, or if any of your riders had seen him."

Boromir strongly doubted it, of course, but it never hurt to ask. Perhaps a patrol had come across the Orcs who had taken Robb and handily disposed of them. Otherwise, as was becoming increasingly clear to Boromir, no active help would be coming from Rohan at all.

"We have had no visitors to this city but you, my lord," the advisor drawled, dashing Boromir's meagre hopes. "And our patrols have been drawn back from the border since the unfortunate fate that befell our beloved Prince Théodred."

That seemed like a monumentally stupid idea to Boromir, but-

"Prince Théodred? What happened to him?"

"He was gravely injured in a skirmish at the Fords of Isen not one week gone, and passed in our sick rooms just two days ago."

Boromir's jaw slackened and he took a step back. "What?" he rasped quietly, before managing to collect himself and bowing his head. Théodred had been a friend, if not one he saw very often. Even with all that had happened this past half year, and with the darkness that swept over the kingdoms of men, he had not expected this. He would have to honour his friend later, in a quiet moment-perhaps with Éomer and his sister, if they could stand to be reminded of their loss.

"You have my sincerest condolences, King Théoden," Boromir said. The King showed no sign of having heard, nor of caring about the subject matter at all. Boromir pressed his lips together. "As do your people, of course-for the loss of their Prince."

"The King thanks you," the advisor replied with another faint smile. Then, clearly ready to be rid of Boromir, he added, "Now, was there anything else you wanted, my lord?"

"There was, actually," Boromir answered. "I wondered if I might visit your healer."

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Edoras' healer was an older, freckled woman with grey hair and she was absolutely terrifying.

When Boromir had entered the room, she had taken one look at his posture-curled in on himself, now that he was no longer in the presence of a King-and ordered him to sit down on one of the beds and strip. He had tried, but given up on ridding himself of his mail shirt on his own when he had felt something rip open in his shoulder, followed by a warm trickle of blood. At that point, hearing his hiss of pain, the woman had hurried to his side and helped. It was not easy-mail was heavy and he had to lift his arms to get it off, which brought about more pain. The woman, however, distracted him with idle chatter of her grandson, and soon his torso was bare.

Her name was Aelfwyn, she informed him as she pressed a cloth to his bleeding shoulder, and she would be his demise should he dare to aggravate his wounds any further.

Boromir had not noticed his exhaustion until he had sat down but then, it almost overwhelmed him, and he found Aelfwyn's order exceptionally easy to follow. He was sure Aragorn would have eviscerated him for walking through the night to get to Edoras faster, not to even mention Robb and the worried gaze he had cast Boromir every time he so much as winced.

Minutes-or perhaps hours-later, when Aelfwyn had finally finished dressing his wounds, Boromir lay back on the bed. He had the stray thought of being in the most comfortable position since he had left Lothlórien, but that was swept away by a bone-deep tiredness almost immediately.

As soon as his head touched the pillow, Boromir was asleep.

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When Boromir awoke, it felt like coming back from the dead. His eyelids were heavy, and he had not a single clue where he was, nor how long he had slept. His face was pressed into the pillow, cheek wet with drool, and he knew that should he choose to sit up, the folds of the pillow would have left imprints on his skin. It was the best sleep he had had in months.

Only when he heard distant shouting did his memory finally return. He was in Edoras, in the infirmary, and something was gravely wrong with King Théoden. The shouting only reinforced that impression.

His thoughts gathered, Boromir gave a quiet groan and sat up. He was shirtless, his chest and shoulder wrapped in bandages. Looking around, he found a tunic sitting on a stool by his bedside. It was not his own, but Boromir did not think that one had been salvageable. Pulling it on, Boromir found his wounds hurt much less. Loath as he was to admit it, the rest had done him more than a bit of good.

How Robb fared as time passed was another question entirely, of course. With no help from Théoden, Boromir's hopes of rescuing him were dwindling. Now that Théodred was gone as well, the only one he could ask for aid was Éomer. The man owed him no favours, but he was honourable, and Boromir considered him a friend. He could only pray that was enough.

Aelfwyn was nowhere in sight, but she had given no orders to the contrary, and so Boromir left the infirmary to follow the noise of the yelling. He was unsurprised it led him to the throne room. What did surprise him was that Lady Éowyn was the one yelling-at Théoden's advisor no less. Having always known Éowyn to be a kindhearted if proud woman, Boromir felt the last of his goodwill for the man run out.

"-my brother was right!" she was shouting. "I can feel your eyes following me wherever I go-"

The advisor took a step back, hands raised as if in defense. "My lady, you must calm down," he said softly. "We would not want the court to think you hysterical. I understand your cousin's death must be hard to process, with no one here to comfort you."

"I am alone only thanks to your machinations, you snake!"

"Come now, my lady-"

"Lady Éowyn!" Boromir had seen enough. He stepped out from behind a pillar and into their line of sight. Instantly, he saw Éowyn's posture relax in relief. Boromir inclined his head to each of them. "It has been quite some time since we last saw each other. Would you allow me to take you on a walk?"

"Lord Boromir," she replied, a smile breaking out on her face as she brushed past the advisor and took his proffered arm. "I would be delighted."

They were silent as they left the room, but as soon as the doors closed behind them, Éowyn let out a sigh. "Thank you, my lord. That was a well-timed rescue."

Boromir shook his head with a smile and let her steer him through the corridors. "No need for gratitude, Lady Éowyn. I have never known you to be a damsel in distress: you had him well handled. I simply...shortened the conversation."

Éowyn laughed and squeezed his arm. "Nevertheless, Lord Boromir, you are a sight for sore eyes."

Boromir raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? You would be the first to say so, my lady."

"Oh, the Hall's courtesy has been lacking of late," Éowyn admitted. With a quick glance up and down the corridor, she pushed open a door and they entered what were undoubtedly someone's private quarters. "Especially since Gríma became my uncle's chief advisor."

"Gríma? Is that his name?" Boromir filed that information away, then raised an eyebrow and gestured about the room. "My lady, you are aware how this could be interpreted, yes?"

Éowyn snorted and let go of his arm to sit down at the small table in front of them. Boromir followed and took a seat across from her. "Let them talk. Perhaps it will discourage Gríma."

"It is not Gríma I'm worried about, my lady. It's your brother," Boromir clarified, mouth twitching. "I fear he may hunt me for sport if he hears talk of any untoward advances on my part."

Contrary to Boromir's intentions, Éowyn's smile faded. He felt his own expression sober in response.

"What is it?"

"Éomer has been banished by order of the King."

Boromir inhaled sharply. "What? Why?"

Éomer had always been loyal to Théoden, their relationship almost as close as that of a father and his son. Boromir could not imagine a world where that had changed. Then again, he had thought much the same of Théoden himself-and he had been wrong.

"Gríma has poisoned the King's mind and weakened his body," Éowyn said, the grip of her hand tightening on the table. "And Éomer has never been one to let a betrayal like this stand uncontested. When Théodred- when he-" Éowyn sighed. "After. My brother went to confront Gríma, right there in the throne room. But with his control over my uncle, it was easy for Gríma to cast him out. I suspect that has been one of his plans since the beginning."

Boromir sat back heavily in his chair. Rohan was in far more disarray than he had dared to speculate. If the enemy ever found out-

Boromir's eyes widened.

"Gríma serves not only himself, does he?"

Éowyn glanced up at him and pursed her lips. "He certainly no longer serves the king, nor the people. If he has another master, Gríma gains enough from his machinations for it to make no difference."

Shaking his head, Boromir leaned forward. "Mordor is no longer the only enemy we face, Éowyn," he insisted, forgoing all formalities. "Saruman has betrayed us, allied himself with Sauron. I had not considered it before, but with what you have told me and what I have seen-well. I fear he means to take Rohan for himself. If Gríma is acting on his orders..."

"Then...my uncle's illness, Éomer's banishment-they were all a means to an end," Éowyn whispered. Her face was pale now, and her hand shook when she raised it to her mouth. "Perhaps even Théodred's death."

Boromir lowered his eyes and said nothing. It was answer enough.

Éowyn gave a shuddering exhale. Boromir saw her other hand tighten even further on the table's edge as she processed the information.

"Gríma does seem very fond of Saruman. We must do something, Boromir," she finally said. Her voice was no longer quiet, nor shaky. He met her eyes, and they were cold with determination. "Anything to stop him. I know we are not your people-"

With a quick shake of his head, Boromir covered her hands with his. "I would not leave you to save Rohan on your own. We must stand together, especially in these dark times."

Éowyn smiled. "Thank you."