Chapter 1. Reunion

Théodred had never thought he would die thus.

“Let me lie here—to hold the Fords till Éomer comes!” [1] Heroic enough, was it not? And—alas! He had been too weak to speak more, and they had merely assumed him dead and laid him in the earth.

He had wanted to cry out as the dirt fell upon him, but no breath would rise. Too late. It was done.

So here he was, a fresh ghost, seated upon his own grave-mound, with his standard at his side, watching the Fords.

We should have invested in the healing arts, he thought with a wry twist of spirit. At the least, trained folk to know when a man is truly dead. I surely hope Éomer shall learn from this.

Well, that part was beyond mending—at least for him. Now he needed to learn how to be dead. Live and learn, as the King’s scholar had always said—or rather, die and yet learn, he added, not without a silent amusement.

It was not pleasant to be dead, for you could not do much. He soon realized he was confined to the eyot, and based on the range he had scouted, he suspected it was determined by the distance between him and his grave—or his body—or his standard. Who knew? Hard to prove any theory in his state, as he could not truly touch or move anything, or anyone, or easily let others see him—oh, it was possible, but it required no small effort.

He had managed a flicker before Elfhelm, but the marshal merely shivered and muttered that it was too cold, and that he must be seeing things. As for Grimbold—likely the more unfeeling sort, Théodred concluded. For none of his efforts made the slightest impression on that hardy man; he did not even raise a brow.

No wonder he thought I was dead, Théodred thought.

Being dead was no joy—that was his conclusion after the first day. All he could do was watch; and what followed in the days after was no joy to watch either. Saruman attacked. Then Saruman attacked again. Twice were the Rohirrim defeated at the Fords of Isen—and it grieved him deeply.

If only I were not dead, he thought. I could have done so much… Well, perhaps not. Perhaps they had been too confident—too unready for a long-time ally turned foe.

He wondered what had befallen those in Edoras—his father, and his cousins. He hoped the war, gone awry, would not bring them pain or ruin. As for how they might mourn him—alas, he only hoped his father still remembered how to grieve. And for Éowyn and Éomer—

That was when the flood came.

Before he could so much as cry “What in Middle-earth—?” he was swept away. Can a ghost drown? was his first thought. Then: I wish I had a horse.

He lost count of time and vision. When all had stilled again, he found himself adrift in a vast field of water. Endless and glimmering under a pale sky, it stretched into silence, its surface silver-grey and ever-shifting, like a mirror to the twilight of the world. There was no wind—only the slow breathing of the Sea, deep and unfathomable.

He had not expected to hear a familiar voice.

“How did you end up here?”

He turned—and beheld a familiar figure, another ghost, seated in a grey, leaf-shaped boat with a high prow: none other than one of his dearest friends—Boromir, son of Denethor, heir to the Stewardship, Captain of the White Tower of Gondor.

“I should be asking you the same!” he said, more than a little surprised. “The horse I lent you returned, but you did not. I thought you had taken some other road home!”

“I did take a different road home,” Boromir said dryly. “I just did not expect it would be this one. And you—what happened to you?”

“War,” Théodred told him. “Saruman waged war upon us. And from what I gathered—after I died—he seemed to have been determined to see me slain, at all costs. Not sure if I should feel honoured.”

Boromir snorted. “You would feel honoured no matter what.” His eyes darkened. “Not sure about me. I… made a mistake.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Théodred said, lightly. “Just apologize, and next time, we shall see.”

“I apologized—with my life,” Boromir replied.

“You are truly a serious man,” Théodred said after a pause. “Do you feel better now?”

“I suppose,” Boromir replied, “though worse in another way. I saw my brother, when this boat came down along Anduin.”

“I dearly hope he yet lives?” Théodred asked, with care.

“Aye, he lives,” Boromir looked as though he might slap him, but refrained. “I had not seen him in a long while,” he added at last.

“Well, here we are,” Théodred said. “Let us hope no more of those we care for come to join us. Though now that I think of it—why do we still linger?” he mused.

“Perhaps because of our Elvish blood,” Boromir replied, dry as dust.

They both fell silent—then both broke into laughter.

“What do we do now?” Théodred asked, once their laughter had passed. “I am not familiar with this place—it looks like water and coast, all the same to me.”

“I know where we are,” Boromir replied. “We are in the great bay of Belfalas—in fact, not far from Dol Amroth.” He looked at Théodred with a smirk.

“Ah! Is there a way for us to steer this boat toward it?” Théodred’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps we could see your cousin! I have not seen her in years—”

“Are you sure you want her to see you like this?” Boromir asked. “And what would you say to her, even if you could still speak to the living?”

“You have the right of it,” Théodred sighed. “All right. Then what?”

“I want to see how it ends,” Boromir said. “I want to see if my people can withstand the darkness. They have a new leader—I only hope he does not fail them, as I did.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Théodred replied.

So they made the boat move. It took little effort, in truth. Must be Elvish magic again. Théodred thought he had never appreciated his Elvish blood so much. The boat moved with and without wind, steady upon the water, and soon they neared a small harbour.

“Edhellond,” Boromir told him. “Soon we shall pass into the river of Morthond. I wonder if we might move more freely upon the land.”

“Only one way to know,” Théodred agreed.

The boat glided smoothly into the harbour, then into the river, and began to move upstream—steady and swift. Time seemed to pass gently, until there came a day when the sun did not rise.

“I wonder what that means,” Théodred said, leaning against the prow of the boat.

“Nothing good,” Boromir answered.

The next day, they drew very near to land. The boat came to a halt, as though it had a will of its own. Taking this as a sign that their journey upon the water had ended, they stepped ashore—and found, to their pleasant surprise, that they could now walk freely upon the land, and with great swiftness.

“What is so special about this place?” Théodred had to ask. “I could not even leave the eyot when I was freshly dead.”

Boromir was not nearly as amused. “Probably because there are other ghosts here—it lies near Erech, a place well known for… unquiet things. And I am not sure you would wish to meet those folk—Oathbreakers, they are.”

“But I do not see any of them,” Théodred said, puzzled. “And—that is actually a man, a living man over there, if my ghost-sight is not deceiving me.”

So it was. And when they drew near, they were glad to find that the man could see them with ease as well—though his reaction was somewhat unexpected.

“Not again,” the man groaned, turning away. Boromir was surprised to find that he knew him: Angbor, Lord of Lamedon.

“Your host just passed through—no idea how you two fell so far behind, but if you hurry—” He broke off, eyes widening. “Captain-General! But how—”

“Long story,” Boromir replied calmly. “And—it is the late Captain-General now, as far as I am concerned.”

“Aye,” the poor man was, for a moment, at a loss for words.

“You said they went that way?” Théodred gently offered.

“Aye,” Angbor recovered from his shock, though he now eyed Théodred with suspicion. “You look familiar—”

“Aye, I know,” Théodred sighed. “Look a little closer—you might recall me. I saw you once in Mundburg.”

“I am sorry, my lords,” was all Angbor could say.

“All right, do not trouble yourself further,” Théodred reassured him. “Your late Captain-General and I—we shall follow in their wake. After all, I have never seen an army of the Dead in my life—well, nor in my death either. Seems worth the effort.”

They left Angbor and took the road he had shown them. They crossed the river of Gilrain, passed through the fields of Lebennin, and at last beheld the vast harbour of Pelargir upon the great river of Anduin, where battle had been joined.

“I never imagined the Dead could be so capable!” Théodred exclaimed.

“And he commands them,” Boromir said at length, his eyes fixed on a man in the distance—with awe, and a touch of bitterness.

Théodred followed his gaze. “Thorongil!” he cried. “I know him!”

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Boromir corrected him, narrowing his eyes. “Thorongil, you say?”

“Aye!” Théodred replied. “I saw him when I was young, in the Wold—that time you came to investigate the dark horse!”

“And I know that name from my father’s day,” Boromir said in a strange tone. “So he is the great captain Thorongil. That explains much.”

“You are speaking in riddles now,” Théodred said, eyeing him. “Any history I should know?”

Just then, they saw the Shadow Host withdraw and gather at the shore, as if waiting for a sentence—an answer long overdue. And borne upon the wind, they heard the man’s great voice:

“Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur! Your oath is fulfilled. Go back, and trouble not the valleys ever again. Depart—and be at rest!” [2]

Then the King of the Dead stepped forth, broke his spear and cast it down. He bowed low and turned away. And the whole grey host vanished like mist before a strong wind.

“I suppose he is the answer to the riddle you sought to solve,” Théodred said at last.

And Boromir sighed—with both relief and sorrow. “Aye. He is the King who has returned.”

“What of us?” Théodred asked, curious. “Who shall release us?”

“I do not know,” Boromir said. “How should I? I have never died before—either.”

“Very well,” Théodred said, a sudden grin breaking across his face. “Shall we go up the Great River? There may yet be wonders to behold.”

---

Notes:

[1] Quoted from Unfinished Tales.

[2] Quoted from LotR.

Notes

[1] Boromir's question and Denethor's answer are quoted from LotR.

---

Boromir made his way up through the City—not as directly as he had hoped.

He had imagined that, as a ghost, he might be spared the winding roads and endless switchbacks. But no—whoever had designed Minas Tirith, or its earlier form of Minas Anor, had clearly decreed that no one—living or dead—should reach the Citadel without a proper climb.

Some invisible barrier kept him to the path—so here he was, rushing along the Main Street, through shattered gates and past fire-scarred ruins in the lower circles, pressing ever upward toward the heights.

It grieved him to see his people suffer, his City aflame. Yet amid the cries of pain and the wails of sorrow, as word spread—of the Rohirrim’s arrival, of southern reinforcements coming up from the river, and of a banner bearing the White Tree, unseen for a thousand years—he saw their faces, no longer veiled in doubt.

They had hope.

I thank you for that, Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

Fate was a strange thing, he thought as he pressed on. When he had fallen at Parth Galen, he had been full of regret, frustration, and anger—anger at himself for what he had done to Frodo, for the heavy truth of the burden the Halfling had borne in growing silence, and for the heavier truth still: that he had failed his people, his lord father, and his brother.

And yet, even then, he had not given his full trust to Aragorn—the liege lord to whom he was bound, if the heritage he claimed was true. As he urged Aragorn to go to his city, and as the gaze of death settled upon him, a thought rose within him—clear as the silver trumpets that broke the dawn upon the white walls: It was still too soon to tell. The test was not yet over.

But now that he knew Aragorn was none other than Thorongil—now that he had seen, with his own ghost-eyes, how he had commanded the Dead and released them with ancient faith and quiet grace—now that he rode the wind and the ships back to the City he had once loved so dearly, he saw it again, with the same clarity as before—and perhaps greater still: The King they had long awaited had returned.

And yet, alongside wonder, a different kind of doubt began to stir within him.

His grandfather, Lord Ecthelion, had known this man as Thorongil—had trusted him, even above his own son, so far as Boromir had learned. And yet, the man had left, choosing to bide his time. Why? Why had he not revealed then who he truly was? My father would have— 

Then the thought came. Cold, and unbidden.

—Or, would he? 

Unease crept into his heart, growing stronger as he neared the Sixth Circle. And when he stepped out from the gate tunnel, he came face to face with a company he had never expected: Gandalf the Grey—now robed in white, though stained with fire, soot, and battle—and beside him, a small figure clad like a Guard of the Citadel… though only half the height.

“Peregrin Took!” he exclaimed—though he already knew, from Legolas, that the two little ones he had tried to protect with his life had survived, and gone on to wonders of their own. What caught him off guard, however, were their words: “Faramir, in the Houses of Healing.” And—“The late Steward.”

Boromir froze, his heart stuttering—if a ghost could still have a heart.

Just then, the wizard looked his way, and Boromir felt as though he had been pierced by the gaze beneath those thick brows. He braced himself, expecting to be called out. But to his surprise, the wizard said nothing. He merely sighed and walked on, something like pity flickering in his eyes.

Boromir lingered for a breath—or whatever passed for a breath in his state—then turned and made his way swiftly toward the Houses of Healing.

This had never been his favorite place. It was too quiet—bordering on ghostly—and given its purpose, the feeling seemed justified. His mother had spent her final days here, and Boromir had loathed it ever since, for taking her from him.

Now, with war raging below and beyond the walls, the Houses had lost some of their usual stillness and composure. Moving swiftly past the wounded borne in from the field, Boromir shut out the moans and cries that echoed through the halls, focusing only on the path ahead. If what he had heard was true, his brother would be in the chambers at the back.

And soon enough, he saw him.

He had seen him once before—when he rode the Elven boat down the river—his younger brother standing on the bank, eyes full of disbelief and sorrow. He hadn’t spoken to him then, of course—and had even felt, strangely, a kind of gratitude that he could not. For what could he have said? That he had failed? That his pride had led to presumption, and presumption to ruin? That he had taken the burden upon himself—and been crushed beneath its weight? That it had been sad, and bitter, and utterly devastating?

And now his brother lay here—unconscious, stricken with a darkness that Boromir could see spreading through him, down to the very core. It was a shadow steeped in malice, thick with despair, and it held Boromir at bay, forbidding him to draw near. And there was nothing he could do to stop it—not in his present state. Not even if he were still alive.

“Brother,” was all he could say. For the first time since his death, Boromir was seized by something that could only be called fear—raw, choking, and helpless in its grip.

How did it come to this? 

He knelt beside his brother and watched him burn with fever, eyes closed, the Black Shadow creeping over him like a shroud. At his side stood Beregond of the Guards of the Citadel—utterly unaware of Boromir’s presence—his sword still unsheathed, his black-and-silver uniform torn and bloodstained, his face drawn with grief and weariness.

Just then, Ioreth—an old wife who had served in the Houses longer than Boromir could remember—entered, her arms laden with cloth and basin, her voice low but sharp with urgency.

“Valar be thanked you stopped him,” she muttered, not even sparing Beregond a glance. “To think the Lord Steward would bear his own son to the Hallows and light a pyre beneath him—madness, I say. Madness!”

Beregond said nothing—he only bowed his head.

But Boromir had heard enough.

He rose in rage, a storm of fury and sorrow surging within him—only to feel it break, once more, against the same unseen wall. He was utterly powerless—yet utterly restless. In the wrath born of despair, he turned and swept out, making his way toward Rath Dínen. If I linger, perhaps my father lingers too, he thought. He was always so strong-willed. If I could only catch him— 

Yet he did not reach it.

For even then, a new procession was making its way up the road—bearing two more beneath the banner of the Rohirrim and a host of torches, with Gandalf and Pippin at its head. One was shrouded in a great cloth of gold, beyond all healing, and was borne straight to the Citadel; the other was carried swiftly toward the Houses of Healing.

And beside them, silent and spectral, rode a ghost upon a white, ghostly horse.

---

Boromir and Théodred sat in silence on the steps before the Houses of Healing, Snowmane standing quietly at their side.

The sun stood high in the sky now, but neither of them could feel its warmth. That was part of death, as they had both come to learn: nothing could warm you anymore—save, perhaps, something as old and enduring as hope.

As they sat, Boromir saw Meriadoc Brandybuck being brought up by Gandalf, with Pippin at their side. Now, within the Houses of Healing, lay his brother—and with him, the two small friends he had come to know and hold dear. Beside them rested Éowyn, daughter of Éomund—niece to the fallen King, and cousin to Théodred. And above them still, in the Citadel, within the Hall of the Tower, lay Théoden King of the Mark, honoured in death.

For a long time, neither of them spoke nor stirred.

“My father was not there,” Boromir said at last, his voice hollow and worn. The fury had passed, leaving only emptiness—and a grief too deep for words. “The dome of the House of the Stewards had fallen in flame.”

“Old men have their reasons,” Théodred said, having already learned what had come to pass. He was still pale—if a ghost could grow paler. “Even if, at times, those reasons lie beyond our understanding.” 

“I had never thought of my father as an old man,” Boromir said. “Least of all one who might lose his reason, his composure, or any of the qualities that mark a ruler. Your father’s condition startled me when I came to Edoras last year. At the time, I counted myself fortunate that mine still seemed sound and steadfast—only to learn, in the end, that he was not.”

“My father remembers your visit,” Théodred said. “He would like to meet you again—properly, this time.”

“You found your father’s… presence, then?” Boromir asked, though Théodred’s words had already made it plain.

“Aye,” Théodred confirmed. A faint smile ghosted across his face. “But he would not come to join us. I think he was rather put out that it did not all end in glory, renown, and the like.”

He cast a glance toward the winding path below, where the living moved to and fro. “I do understand him, in a way. It is not a pleasant thing, to believe your tale is ended… only to discover you still have a host of unfinished business. I will find him in the Citadel later. After all, I suspect he cannot move as freely as we do.”

Then, after a pause, he added, “Truth be told, I still do not know how we manage it. Death is full of mysteries—more so, I think, than life itself.”

“At least he learned that your young cousin is alive,” Boromir said.

Théodred gave a faint nod. “Aye.” His voice was quiet at first, touched with something like fondness. “But he was all the more upset that she was hurt—and might have blamed me for it, had he not remembered, just in time, that I was already dead when it happened.” He smiled, then rose to his feet. “Come—let us go see them. Your brother, and my cousin.”

Boromir gave no answer. For a long while, he sat utterly still. Then, in a low voice—barely audible even to a ghost—he said, “I am afraid.”

I am afraid to see him pass. I am afraid to watch him die. My father is already gone—lost to flame and despair—and I fear I will lose my brother too. And more than that… I fear I will not be able to bear it. Not anymore. Not in life, nor in death. 

“And that is why we must see them,” Théodred said firmly. “For I think you would fear more the thought of lingering—knowing you were not there, if their time truly came.”

Then his voice softened, and a small smile touched his lips. “And besides—if it did come to that, would you not wish to be the first to greet them? After all, they too carry the Elvish blood.”

At that, Boromir sprang to his feet and gave Théodred a solid slap across the chest—the kind born of long-tolerated mischief and well-earned payback. Snowmane snorted beside them, as if lending his own dry approval.

Chapter 4. Dead But Unquiet

Steadily, the day waned.

The healers and caregivers did all they could, drawing upon the ancient arts passed down from the days of Númenor—but even their skill could not turn back a darkness born of such malice. Faramir, Éowyn, and Meriadoc showed no sign of waking.

Boromir was visibly agitated; unable to approach Faramir, he paced without cease. And given his ghostly swiftness, Théodred thought he might soon earn a headache from watching him—if such things still befell the dead.

Snowmane, for his part, grew increasingly vexed by his inability to graze upon the flowers and herbs in the garden that bordered the Houses. Théodred did his best to soothe him, offering what little wisdom death had thus far bestowed.

“No food, no drink—you have no need of them now, as you will soon discover for yourself. And do not give me that woeful look—I have no apples. Least of all ghost-apples.”

Feeling like the only grown-up in the Houses, Théodred sighed, turned back indoors, and quietly seated himself beside Éowyn once more.

He looked upon her pale brow and tried not to dwell on the hush that had settled over her features. Earlier, she had spoken in fevered dreams—murmuring fragments, sobbing at times, yet even in unconsciousness restraining herself, just as she had when first she came to Edoras: a child bereft of both mother and father.

Most of her words were scattered and faint, but with the sharpened hearing granted him in death, he caught those that came most often—her brother’s name, a cry for her uncle and king, and a fierce command driving some unseen foe to stand down. And at last, when the struggle had spent her strength, with effort born of dread—as though forced to speak some cold and bitter truth—she uttered his name.

That had broken his heart.

A memory rose unbidden—one of those quiet, half-forgotten moments they had shared in a season of unrest. He had found her in the herb garden below Meduseld, gathering the finest leaves for their king, hoping their fresh scent might bring some ease.

“I owe you my thanks, sister,” he had said then—not lightly, nor out of courtesy. He had meant every word. He knew well how she bore the burdens he could not: watching over their king in his waning strength, standing guard against age, and frailty, and the pale shadow that lingered ever near—in the Golden Hall, where hope had grown thin, the hearth burned low, and the wind crept cold through stone.

But he must have misjudged the weight she bore, and expected too little of it—for it had not struck him, until now, what his death had wrought in her. Little sister, he thought, sorrow rising like a tide, I never truly reckoned what those I held most dear must have endured in my passing, not knowing I could yet linger. He had thought only of the battle, of the fall, of the larger war waging beyond. But she—she had remained to endure the rest. She had wept where none could see, endured what none could ease, and smiled where she ought to have been held. And now he found himself asking, again and again: What sorrow had she borne alone? What strength had she summoned to don armour, to take up the sword, and to ride to war?

And now she lay in silence—the weariness, the unspoken fear, and the shadow of long-held grief still etched upon her young face.

He held her left hand—for he could not draw near the right, where the deadly darkness had taken hold—though the touch was but the memory of warmth. Through that gesture, he willed what strength remained in him to pass into her.

Let it reach her, if it may, he pleaded. Let her remain. She is so young, and so fair. She does not deserve to depart from a world she has scarcely begun to claim. 

Yet as the sun sank westward, a grey shadow—slowly, yet inexorably—crept across her brow.

Nearby, the old woman Ioreth wept openly as she looked upon Faramir, while Boromir paced behind her—like a caged beast caught in a storm-wind. “Would that there were kings in Gondor, as there were in days of old, they say! For it is said in old lore: the hands of the king are the hands of a healer. ” [1]

At that, Gandalf lifted his head, a glint kindling in his eyes—and Boromir came to an abrupt halt. Then the wizard turned and strode from the room, murmuring only a few cryptic words as he went, among them: “Maybe a king has indeed returned to Gondor.” And Boromir followed at once—swift, silent, and without a word for Théodred. [2]

They did not return until nightfall. And when they did, it was a company Théodred knew well: with the wizard and Boromir came Éomer, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and the man he had once glimpsed in his youth as Thorongil—now revealed as Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North and Heir of Isildur.

---

“I never thought kingsfoil could be so useful,” Théodred said in quiet awe, as they watched. “I always took it for a spice—refreshing of scent, but vile to the taste.”

“And I never even knew what kingsfoil was,” Boromir replied wryly, now much calmer—almost himself again. “Let alone all the other names folk have for it. Though now I think I recall Aragorn using its dry leaves once, on our journey.”

They were far more at ease now, with Aragorn’s skill at last seeming to take effect on Faramir. Judging by Boromir’s borderline jesting, Théodred guessed he had emerged from that earlier state—when he had looked ready to strike something, or someone. And Théodred, in turn, was quietly relieved. For, truth be told, he was likely the only one Boromir could have struck with any real force.

But it was not long before Théodred found himself seething with the same urge.

“Release me,” he told Boromir, straining against his hold. “I have a great many questions for that man—did he truly say he rejected her? He ought to count himself exceedingly fortunate that she gave her heart to him. And wait—how old is he, exactly? I thought seventeen years was a considerable gap—how much older is he than she, seventy?”

Boromir, though just as stunned by the revelation, had in life witnessed enough elder brothers grow wholly unreasonable where their younger sisters were concerned. And so, in a rare moment of foresight, he felt himself possessed of absolute wisdom—and caught Théodred firmly by the shoulders before he could surge forward.

“First, you cannot touch him, even if I let you. Second, he still has her to tend—and Merry, in the next chamber. And last—” he lowered his voice, “do you not realize the wizard can both see and hear us? I would not tempt his wrath. He might yet turn us into ghost-frogs.”

Théodred froze for only a heartbeat before sneering. “So? As far as I know, he still owes my father Shadowfax—and my father, I might add, is presently seated in the Citadel.”

At that, the wizard gave a dry cough and replied—in a voice barely audible even to ghosts, touched with amusement: “In truth, your father gifted him to me—as a mark of honour, and in reward for my counsel.”

Théodred was, for a moment, entirely baffled by this unexpected turn. After a pause, he turned sharply to his cousin—now King of Rohan.

“Very well, then. What of Éomer? Are we not agreed he deserves a fair measure of ghostly retribution? Did I hear him say he thought her dead? Béma help me—I thought it bad enough when I was prematurely deemed dead! And what nonsense was that about her being fine until she met that man?—she was not fine!—And holding him blameless? What sort of brother says that? I—”

Boromir had to drag him away—firmly, if not unkindly—into the garden, for he had caught the wizard casting them another glance and muttering to himself, “I am not convinced that noisy ghosts are good for the patients.”

Outside, night had fallen clear. The stars were strewn across the heavens like scattered gems, and the wind was cool along the grassless path.

“I need to sort this out,” Théodred exclaimed, still fuming. “No one—no one, not even the King of Gondor, shall speak of her so.”

“Peace,” Boromir sighed. “Are you not glad that she is saved? And my brother—and the little one as well? That is what matters most. I saw it with my own eyes—‘the hands of the king are the hands of a healer,’ as Ioreth said. And she spoke true.”

“Healing of wounds that bleed or fester—aye, perhaps,” Théodred retorted. “But what of the wounds of the heart?”

Boromir fell silent for a moment. Then he replied, drier than before. “How should I know? I have no counsel to offer in such matters—for I am not wed. Nor are you!”

“By wind and mane, I shall haunt him to the world’s end if this is not resolved properly,” Théodred swore. “But first—I need a way to knock some sense into Éomer. Help me devise one!”

Then, all at once, a grin broke across his face. “To begin with,” he said, “I do know he is rather afraid of ghosts.” [3]

---

Notes:

[1] [2] The words of Ioreth and Gandalf are quoted directly from LotR.

[3] According to LotR, Éomer once said of the Paths of the Dead: “And that way I would not go, though all the hosts of Mordor stood before me, and I were alone and had no other refuge.” Sounds like ghost-fear to me!

Chapter 6. One Does Not Simply...

“Tell me more of Aragorn,” said Théodred to Boromir, as they left the Citadel and made their way back toward the Houses of Healing. Dawn was nearing; the City had begun to stir—even after such a sleepless night for many, and for many more, a night from which they would never wake.

“I shall tell you what I am at liberty to share,” Boromir replied. “But first—why not begin with the lesser mystery?”He glanced at Théodred. “You said you met him when I came to investigate the dark horse. Tell me of your encounter then—for you said nothing of it at the time.”

Théodred cleared his throat. “Well—I ought not to have spoken of it. It slipped from me when I was newly dead. Long story short, I gave your brother my word that I would not speak of meeting a man named Thorongil in the Entwood—for reasons he was reluctant to share.” He had not pressed him afterward, either; it had been surprise enough, later, to learn how plainly the late Steward had favoured his elder son.

“Typical Faramir,” Boromir said, his voice shaded with fondness and affection, then sighed. “Always considerate. And he was probably right—I can only imagine the storm it would have stirred had my father ever found out. If there is such a thing as true rivalry, that must be the very definition—whatever it was between him and that man. Thorongil, by the way, was said to have served your grandfather before he ever came to Gondor.”

“So that is why the name had always felt familiar!” Théodred exclaimed. “Now I remember—my father spoke of him once, but he was likely gone from the court before I was born.”

So Boromir gave him a brief account of the tale of Captain Thorongil, and Théodred, in turn, shared his own encounter with him. By the time all was told, morning had come upon them. It was a fair day, with light clouds in the sky and a wind blowing from the west. To their quiet joy, both Faramir and Éowyn were faring far better than they had the night before, and now slept soundly—at last in peace, and on the path to healing. As for the little Halfling named Merry, who seemed well acquainted with both Éowyn and the King—Théodred had by now learned that they called themselves “hobbits,” and guessed they must be the same folk as the holbytlan of old hearth-tales among the Rohirrim—he was already awake, speaking cheerily with his friend Pippin.

“I have yet more tales to hear, I deem, of how these little ones came to be involved,” said Théodred, casting a glance at Boromir. “Are you at liberty to share them?”

Boromir laughed, catching the edge of protest in his tone, and yet replied firmly, “No.”

“You are truly a serious man,” Théodred sighed. “And I wonder when I shall ever hear the full tale of Isengard and Saruman—for the part I know best is but the flood that swept me to the Sea.” Then he grinned. “Come to think of it, I do wonder what Saruman would say, were he to see me now. Do you suppose a ghost might haunt a wizard in defeat? Perhaps in his dreams?”

Boromir snorted, though the glint in his eye betrayed a real interest. “Forget the haunting—do you think we might find a way to speak to the living? In dreams, perhaps, as you said?”

But before they could wander further down that path, they caught sight of a messenger hurrying toward the Houses of Healing. He was asking for Éomer, who had not left Éowyn’s side since the night before. The message was from Prince Imrahil, requesting Éomer to descend from the City and join a council with the other lords.

Naturally, Boromir and Théodred followed.

---

The young King of Rohan entered the tent that Aragorn had set for council upon the fields of the Pelennor, muttering mildly about the morning chill. Gandalf, who must have noticed Boromir and Théodred trailing in his wake, said nothing. He merely gave them a faint smile—wry, and edged with warning—as if to say: I know you are here; behave, and you may remain. The sons of Elrond likely saw them too, but gave no sign; their faces remained still and unreadable, as though they had witnessed far stranger things in their long years.

And so, Boromir and Théodred joined the council—unseen, unannounced, and quite ghostly—and listened. Théodred still sensed the old tension in Boromir whenever the late Steward was named—but now it was tempered by something deeper: sorrow, understanding, and a quiet resolve. There was in him an anticipation, almost a challenge: for all the grief we have borne, and the sacrifices we have made, what now will you offer to answer it? 

At last, when they spoke of what seemed the root of all, Théodred leaned in and asked quietly, “What is this—this Ring of Power?”

At that, a strange expression flickered across Boromir’s face—a mingling of remorse, fear, and a longing so deep it seemed carved into his very presence.

“I will tell you later,” Boromir said at last, “now that you have been granted entry to this council, I suppose I am free to speak. For now, think of it as a weapon—an ultimate weapon. One that may decide the fate of this war. One that Sauron desires above all else, as Gandalf has told it.”

“I had thought Aragorn was the answer to your errand north,” Théodred pressed. “But this Ring—this weapon—seems to weigh even heavier. And from what I hear, I deem it is not something we ourselves may wield?”

“Aye,” Boromir said, his eyes still downcast. “I had doubts once—but no longer. It led to my fall.”

The pain stirred afresh in him, too deep to bear, and Théodred laid a steady hand on his shoulder. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he said, more solemnly now. “What matters is to know it—and not make it again.”

“Yet that is the trouble,” Boromir replied, low and bitter. “Even now, I do not know if I would choose differently. That is the power of it—you cannot understand unless you have faced it. I only hope Frodo—the hobbit fated to bear this terrible burden—may yet have his chance.”

“Then that is what I hear,” said Théodred. “We will do all we can to make a diversion—to win him a chance, however frail it may be.” He turned to Boromir and met his gaze in full. “I shall go with them, to whatever end, if that is the only hope we have—though I have little knowledge in such matters. What say you?”

Before Boromir could reply, another voice spoke—Éomer’s, firm and clear: “I have little knowledge of these deep matters; but I need it not. This I know, and it is enough, that as my friend Aragorn succoured me and my people, so I will aid him when he calls. I will go.” [1]

At that, Boromir gave a short laugh, shaking off his inner struggle for a moment. “He is truly your cousin—the same turn of thought. If we set aside the matter of Aragorn, that is.”

Théodred laughed as well, though with a touch of embarrassment, and wondered—not without wryness—if Boromir had caught the subtle edge in his tone in his mentioning of Aragorn before. For there was something he had not yet spoken aloud: a guarded feeling toward the man who seemed already to have won so many hearts, and claimed such unwavering loyalty.

It was true: he had seen Aragorn command the Dead—and release them. He had seen him lead the charge into battle, and return from it unscathed. He had witnessed the gift of healing in his hands, and the strange peace that followed him wherever he went.

And yet, Théodred thought, I would see more. I would see how he bears command not only in victory, but in doubt—how he meets counsel that does not flatter him, or fails to move those who do not bend easily. I would see how he holds his ground when all hope falters, when no road lies open but ruin. Let him stand against the full weight of shadow, and not merely outrun it.

Aragorn son of Arathorn, he thought, may have won their hearts. But mine—mine is yet to be won.

When their laughter faded, Boromir grew solemn once more.

“Though I know not what aid we may truly offer, even in death, I will not remain behind. I shall do all that lies within my strength to defend my land and my people. Even though my—” he paused, as if steadying something within, “—my father deemed it no more than folly.”

“Only in despair is hope truly known,” Théodred replied. “We shall see.”

“It is settled, then,” said Boromir. “Only one small problem: as we say in Gondor—one does not simply walk into Mordor.” [2]

Just then, a new figure emerged behind them—white and shimmering, proud and resolute. Snowmane, one of the Mearas, stepped into the tent with spectral grace. His mane streamed like a banner in windless air, and his eyes shone with a light no living steed could bear. Though unseen by the living, his towering presence filled the narrow space, and his hooves made no sound.

As they watched in awe, Éomer shivered when the ghostly stallion mischievously snorted against the nape of his neck.

Théodred laughed. “Looks like we shall not be walking, after all.”

And silently he mused, not without amusement, that Éomer—bold and stern though he was—was plainly no Grimbold. He might well prove, in truth, a rather entertaining haunt.

---

Notes:

[1] Éomer’s words are quoted from LotR.

[2] We all know where that came from!

The tale of Théodred once meeting Thorongil in the Entwood is drawn from my other Rohirrim-centered fanfics; although it is canon-compliant, it is NOT canon.

Chapter 7. Grave Matters

“It seems Snowmane has no trouble bearing us both,” Théodred remarked, as they rode back toward the City, ascending the winding streets with astonishing speed. Lo—if the ghosts of men moved swifter than in life, then the ghost of one of the Mearas might well outrun even the wind—especially when he had no concern for pedestrians, carriages, or other horsemen. They would feel no more than a sudden chill and take it for a passing gust, if they were sensitive enough to sense a ghost at all.

Boromir sat behind him—they had engaged in a lengthy debate over who ought to take the rear seat, each claiming to be the more skilled horseman. At one point, Boromir had declared, “I am no doubt more to his taste—I have ever preferred white stallions, and I have ridden them all my life. Come to think of it, I have never seen you on one in yours!” And Théodred had retorted, “I am of the Rohirrim—Ro-chir-rim! The very word proves my claim! And here I am, having a linguistic argument with a Gondorian!” In the end, he had prevailed—bolstered, no doubt, by Snowmane’s unmistakable approval.

And at his comment, the white stallion arched his neck and quickened his pace, as if to boast of his ghostly might.

“After all, we wear no armour and bear no weapons,” Boromir replied, then fell briefly into thought. “I wonder—how much do ghosts truly weigh, especially to one another? I can feel your strength—and you feel mine, for I can strike you, if need be. We can restrain each other, it seems—much as in life. Do you suppose Snowmane feels our weight as if we still lived?”

Snowmane answered by breaking into an even swifter gallop.

“You could surely outrun Shadowfax now,” Théodred said in jest, amused by the display. But the proud stallion snorted in protest as he raced along the streets of the sixth circle, clearly displeased by the comparison. At once, Théodred leaned forward and laid a hand upon his neck in apology.

“Peace—peace,” he murmured. “You are right, and I shall not say it again. You are yourself, in life or in death.”

“You are quick enough with apologies,” Boromir remarked, “though you still manage to be a serious man—most of the time.”

Théodred only laughed. “Then you must mark the rare hour when I am not, for I would not wish the moment wasted.”

They reached the Citadel in no time and halted at the doors of the Tower. Théodred and Boromir dismounted, but Snowmane lingered in the courtyard, choosing to stand beneath the Tree that had once bloomed white as snow. He was plainly reluctant to go within—and they understood why, and did not press him.

Within, the King stood beneath the dais, his back to the door, gazing long upon the empty throne. He did not turn at their approach.

“Are you come to bid farewell?” the King asked, his voice steady, as though already prepared. “I can feel the stir of warriors from a hill away.”

“Aye,” Théodred replied. “But not this day. In two days’ time, we shall march with them—the remnant of the Rohirrim, the new hosts out of the South, and all else that Gondor can yet spare—unto the Black Gate.”

The King sighed and turned at last. He appeared much as he had the night before—noble and fair, with wisdom deep as time in his clear blue eyes. “It seems fate has willed me to remain,” he said. “I cannot pass beyond this Hall—so I have come to understand.”

“Then we shall know the City is in good hands while we are away,” Théodred replied with a wide smile.

Boromir bowed his head. “My brother is still in recovery. I do not think he will ride with the host. I know not what strength we possess in death—but if any power is granted us, then I would humbly ask your aid, my lord: to guard him from any shadow or creeping darkness.”

“And I believe,” Théodred added, “that Éowyn is to remain at rest for at least ten days more. Since Éomer will surely ride forth with the Rohirrim, I would entrust her also to your care, father.”

“You place great trust in an old man,” said the King with a smile—half self-mocking, half sorrowful, but without doubt. “An old man who cannot even leave the hall in which he lingers.”

“If once you left your former hall, found new strength, and wrote your tale anew—then, my father and king, when the need arises,” Théodred knelt before him, yet looked up with eyes earnest and steadfast, full of trust and love, “you shall do so again, in life or in death, Théoden King—Ednew.”

The King laughed, deep and true, then turned his gaze toward the door, as though beholding something far beyond it. He raised his voice in that direction. “And you—I suppose you go as well? Will you not bid me farewell, before you depart?”

At that, the white ghost of the horse stepped forth from the shadow—silent and slow, and not without reluctance—and came to the King. There he bowed his proud head, still bearing the weight of a guilt unspent, and a sorrow deep and unspoken.

The King pressed his forehead to his.

The horse started, as if he had not expected such tenderness, such affection. Even his ghostly form tensed, straining as though to keep from trembling.

“I thought I glimpsed you when I was brought here—but I was a little preoccupied with being dead,” the King murmured into his ear. “Do not mistake that for a grudge, nor take it for blame—I would have you know, my friend, that I hold none. It was well that we fought and fell together—we felled the black serpent.”

Then he laid a steady hand upon the stallion’s neck.

“Go where you will, if that is your will—but do not go seeking pardon or praise. You have no need of either.”

The horse bowed deeper. And when he raised his head once more, the dim haze of sorrow that had long troubled him was lifted, and he stood like the breath of the West Wind, made visible for a moment in form.

---

Preparation for departure proved more troublesome than expected—for neither of them knew what a ghost ought to bring, nor where such things might be found.

“I suppose food and supply are no longer needed—which is convenient; but are there even weapons we might use?” Boromir asked, his tone edged with doubt. “I recall the Shadow Host bore arms—but they were clad in full armour, which we are not. And truth be told, they had little need of blades—the terror they brought was weapon enough. You and I, on the other hand—I do not think we are frightening in the least.”

In truth, their present forms were not as they had appeared at the hour of death, as most might have expected. Théodred counted it a mercy—for he had no wish to envision himself as he had fallen: hewn by a great orc-man, buried in haste, and that before one even accounted for being swept away by the flood. Boromir, by contrast, found it something of an affront—for, having received full honours in death, he had perhaps expected more weapons and armour. Yet by some mystery, both now stood clad not in gleaming plate nor in ceremonial raiment, but in the plain attire they had worn most often in life.

“Perhaps I should count myself fortunate for favouring the simpler style of my people,” Théodred said, glancing down at his dark green tunic and breeches, embroidered with gold and white, and a cloak of matching hue draped across his shoulders. His sword-belt was fastened at his waist, though it bore no blade.

Beside him, Boromir stood in worn training leathers, with plates of armour across chest and shoulders. The only items that seemed unusual—or that he had borne before death and that had truly left their mark upon him—were a golden belt and a grey hood, light yet sturdy, both bearing the unmistakable touch of the Elves.

“You wore that most of your life?—setting aside the belt and the hood, I mean,” Théodred asked, unable to keep a note of bemusement from his voice. He found himself genuinely wondering what, precisely, this man had occupied his days with.

Boromir, for his part, looked honestly perplexed. “Why? What is wrong with it?”

“Never mind,” Théodred said. “If we are to ride to war—real or feigned—I should feel far easier with a weapon in hand. At this point, I am not particular; anything will do.”

“There is one place where we might find aid,” Boromir said after a pause.

Following his gaze, Théodred turned westward and at last discerned a door set into the rearward wall of the Sixth Circle.

“The door of Fen Hollen is shut and locked, ever since my father passed,” Boromir said, a strange light flickering in his eyes. “But I suppose that need not trouble the likes of us.”

Later in the Hallows, near the House of the Stewards whose dome had crumbled, Théodred said, “It may sound ridiculous—and perhaps it is some lingering habit from life, for my people are rather skilled at spinning ghost-tales. But I, even as a ghost, find this place eerily unnerving.”

He was visibly ill at ease amid the pale domes, the empty halls, and the carven faces of long-dead men. The street was called Rath Dínen—and it was silent indeed. No other ghost stirred; likely, there were none. “I did not realize you meant to raid the tombs of your own kin.”

“Too bad we are far from your kin’s barrow-field,” Boromir replied. “We must make do with what lies at hand, as we say in Gondor.”

“I still do not see anything usable,” Théodred muttered as he glanced about. “And—what exactly are we looking for?”

“I do not know,” Boromir admitted, though his gaze was fixed upon the half-ruined House of the Stewards. He stepped forward and stood before the threshold, where pale dust clung like ash and silence lay heavy as mist.

Then, in a voice steady and clear, he spoke:

“Lords and Stewards of Gondor, who kept watch through long years of war and peace alike, I call upon you now—not for pride, nor for glory, but for the last labour that lies before us. I, Boromir, son of Denethor, stand in need—of strength, of will, and of arms.”

A pause. Then, in a lower voice, he continued:

“And Father… if aught of you yet lingers, grant this boon to your son—and to his companion, who is as a brother to him—that we may defend the hope you once despaired.”

For a breathless moment, nothing stirred. Then, from the shadows within, a faint gleam shimmered into view. Beneath a shattered arch, they saw it—a shield and a broad, time-darkened sword, once borne by Steward Boromir, laid reverently across a stone bier. Beside them, a long sword and a bow of fine make, marked with the sigil of Steward Cirion, lay as though in quiet waiting.

Boromir exhaled slowly. “I think… they have answered.”