It used to startle them both, a rare mistake that was quickly realized and sheepishly corrected. Forgive me, Théoden would say. It’s just that he is often in my thoughts. But somewhere along the way, these simple slips of the tongue have become much more than the absentminded substitution of one name for another. Somewhere along the way, the line between the two men has blurred, and a mistake that was once uncommon and casual is no longer either. Now, in the eyes of Théoden, son and servant are one as often as they are not.

It doesn’t seem to matter that Háma looks nothing like the prince, who is half a foot taller, half a decade older, and crowned with the blonde waves of the House of Eorl rather than the straight auburn hair that rests on his own shoulders. Nor does it matter that the king’s mind is not otherwise entirely weak. He thinks and rules much differently of late, Háma will admit, with a great deal less patience and a great deal more mistrust. But the mistakes he makes are primarily those of judgment, not capacity, and why the simple matter of his son’s identity should be the exception is a mystery. There is no discernible logic to it, and after much fruitless effort, Háma has stopped looking for any. There is nothing to be done. It is now just the way of things for him to receive the fond words, the looks of pride, the familiar grasp of a fatherly hand, all meant for another man.

Correcting the error proves awkward, a delicate balance of deference with truth. Again and again, Háma must tell his king that he is mistaken. He tells him that Théodred’s home is in the Westfold and that the duties of the Second Marshal are too numerous and heavy to allow for more frequent visits. He tells him that even though it makes a poor substitute for a prince and a son, Théoden must make do for now with only his humble captain at his side. He tells him that his humble captain is honored by the task.

Sometimes Théoden hears the correction calmly, nodding like a child who may not fully comprehend an explanation but accepts it anyway because it was spoken with love and patience. Sometimes he turns away, saddened to understand the truth and ashamed by its revelation, and then he keeps his distance from Háma for a while, perhaps believing that to hold the man at arm’s length will do the same to the confusion that plagues his mind. But it is the nature of Háma’s duty to be always on hand, a loyal presence unfailingly in the background. It is never long before they are together again, and so it is never long before the next time that Théoden looks at Háma and sees his son once more.

Háma has tried to find the good in this over the long, slow months of decline. It is a mistake born of trust, he tells himself. There is something in you that comforts him, something that speaks to him of his own boy and brings that boy to his mind, heart and lips. But now Théodred is dead, a fact that also seems to slip from Théoden’s grasp as easily as water through clenched fingers, and correcting the error as Háma is used to doing begins to feel not just awkward but cruel. He has broken the news of Théodred’s death to Théoden four times already, each as painful and unexpected as the first because they were all the first in their own unnatural way. The fifth will be the first once again.

“My lord,” he says gently, “your son has fallen. Can you remember? We came to mark his memory here in this place that gave him so much joy.” He holds up the bundle of simbelmynë blossoms that they have brought to leave by the small cairn raised at the garden’s edge. The neat stack of pale rocks, pulled by Háma from the depths of the Snowbourn, looks westward toward the Fords and the very different riverbank where the man it honors will rest forever.

“Théodred… is fallen?”

There is a long, heavy silence as Théoden’s watery eyes pore over Háma’s face, puzzling out this mystery of a son who stands alive and well only to proclaim his own death. He reaches out a tremored hand to run a finger softly across Háma’s brow, a place where Théodred bore a scar and Háma has none, and Háma’s heart turns over in his chest. Suddenly, and without warning, it is the old Théoden looking back at him, peering out from behind the mask of a man aged and wearied before his time. It is the Théoden that Háma recognizes; the Théoden that recognizes him. The hand drops.

“My son has fallen,” he repeats, no longer a question, and something that might be a sob bursts from his throat. But he turns fiercely away before Háma can see, and the shaking of his shoulders is the only proof of his quiet weeping.

The urge to comfort is a strong one, but Háma doesn’t know any words that could provide it. If Théoden remembers now that his son is gone, he may also remember that they parted on poor terms, with Théodred’s pleading offers of counsel refused and twisted to look instead like ambition and scheming. If he remembers now what has become of Théodred, surely he also remembers that his realm is in disarray and his hall divided, his nephew in a jail cell and his niece in a trap of a more insidious kind.

It is a heavy weight to bear, all this pain, and though Háma knows much of it is Théoden’s own doing, he still cannot wish that pain on someone who has been so good to him since he was just a young man starting out in the world. He cannot wish that on someone who has long treated him as a son even when he didn’t yet mistake him for one.

“Théodred?” Théoden is looking at Háma again, and the grievous truth that has just been shared has vanished already back into the murk of senility or confusion or denial that clouds his tear stained eyes once more. “Could you be a good lad and help your father inside? I seem to have overtired myself somehow.”

The expectant hope in his voice cuts right through Háma, and his will to say the difficult words seeps out through the wound it leaves behind. What good does it do to break an old man’s heart over and over again? Will it restore Théoden to his old self, his sound judgment and measured wisdom? Will it make the Mark any safer for its king to be shattered just when its heir has been laid to rest? How often can one person be asked to take this kind of blow, or to deal it? There are limits on even the strongest of spirits, and though others might call it cowardice, Háma would call it compassion instead. Compassion for his king and for himself.

He places the simbelmynë by the cairn on his own, careful not to cover the first fragile shoot of a crocus flower struggling to free itself from the frost-hardened earth at its base, and rests a hand on the rock at the top of the stack. It is smooth beneath his palm, the stones slow to relinquish the warmth of the late winter sun. Forgive me, old friend, he thinks into the silence. I do not wear your name lightly.

When he turns back to the king, he has forced down his tears and summoned instead a smile and a nod.

“Of course I will, father,” he says softly and takes the old man’s hand into his own. “Your son will see you home.”

Based off this (x)

It’s now a rule that Logan no one can ask Patton question based round food (it’s just too risky)