Since Théodred’s death, Théoden has not been the same. Grief weighs on him like a heavy cloak, slowing his steps, deepening the lines on his face. You see it in the way his eyes linger on you a little longer, as if reassuring himself that you are still here, still safe.

He does not speak of his sorrow often, but it is there, in the way his hand rests on your shoulder when he walks past, in the quiet sigh when he sees you preparing for battle, in the soft, lingering way he says your name. When you stand beside him in court, his posture straightens just slightly—pride warring with the ever-present fear that one day, you too will be taken from him.

At night, when the halls of Meduseld are quiet, you sometimes find him staring into the fire, lost in thought. He does not turn when you approach, but after a moment, he says, voice low and tired, "I failed my son. I will not fail you." It is not a command, nor a plea, just a truth. One that binds him to you more than any title or crown ever could.