“Good.” He reaches out to rest his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder—and then withdraws it. The gesture felt easy to make, but it is too familiar. It would be an overreach even if his hands were clean.

Well. It’s hard to find one’s way back to the solid ground of courtesy when the acquaintance was born in crisis. Boromir shifts the gesture into an indication that Fletcher should follow, and leads the way to one of the larger suites of rooms in this small place, leaving a request for hot water with the innkeep as they go.

The price of these rooms is, one can assume, higher on account of there being a door that closes between the bed and the rest of the space. The outer room is well-furnished, but otherwise bare; a cloak and hat hang from a peg and a pair of boots wait by the door, but the only other sign that the place is rented is a rosary, finely-made, draped across an end table. It is as though Boromir prepares for a hasty exit every time he leaves the place, or like he never bothered to settle in at all.

“Please, be comfortable,” he says; though while he speaks he falls heavily into one of the chairs, and grits his teeth to pull his arm from his bloodied shirtsleeve. It’s an ugly sight underneath—not showing obvious signs of poison, but still bleeding slowly.