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Written for the "Ghosts and Ghouls" challenge at Tolkien_weekly. Rather AU.
With the creak of tackle, the standard of Isildur was hauled up the mast. The faithless dead watched from the shore.
“Depart and be at rest!” the lord Aragorn shouted. Even as he spoke, he espied a shadow less blurred than the others. Still housed in flesh, it had not faded.
“Bide awhile, Boromir of Gondor!” he longed to cry, but he feared to burden the dead with a curse. His eyes stung from the smoke of battle, and he wept. Gray mists closed around the tall shadow; then the wind blew them aside, leaving naught but empty darkness.
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