Lost in Arda

Tolkien fanfics. Always.

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I recall I was reading a work of yours, but I think I didn't finish? Could you tag me in it?

Absolutely! I think I only posted two here, Steelsheen and Till Death Reunites Us :D Will tag you!

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Brethren - Prologue. The Prince and the Marshal-to-be

“You shall lead, and I will follow.”—But neither knew what lay ahead. A tale of Théodred and Éomer, brothers in all but name.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Canon compliant; Light-hearted—mostly light-hearted anyway; Not a healing story because there was never any strife to begin with. Per Unfinished Tales: “Éomer... his love and respect for Théodred (thirteen years older than he) was only second to his love of his foster-father.” This story, along with Steelsheen and Dark Horse (in Chinese; not yet translated), takes place before Till Death Reunites Us and may be read as its backstory.

Prologue. The Prince and the Marshal-to-be

It was well known that Théodred, son of Théoden King of Rohan, had neither brother nor sister. In truth, he could not even recall the face of his mother, Elfhild. She had died in childbirth—indeed, not yet queen in name when she passed—leaving him no memory of her, save what others chose to tell. Throughout his life thus far, the one nearest to him, apart from his father, was Théodwyn, the youngest of Théoden’s sisters. Even now, he held her in highest esteem, deeming her the fairest lady in all the Riddermark. When she wed Éomund, chief Marshal of the Mark, Théodred had been quietly disheartened—not out of any grievance toward Éomund; quite the contrary: in his youth, he had looked upon the Marshal as a man of honour and valour, and had held him for a hero.

After Théodred’s father, Théoden son of Thengel, took up the crown, duty bound him to remain in Edoras for most of the year. Thus it was that Éomund of Eastfold came to embody, in the young prince’s heart, all that the word hero might mean—valiant in battle, steadfast in judgment, and swift to oppose all that was base or cruel. In Éomund were found the chief virtues most prized by the Men of the Mark, and his bold, open spirit won him the esteem of many lords and marshals. Whenever the Marshal rode to Edoras, the sound of his voice and laughter rang through the Golden Hall. None, it was said, could give fuller voice to the old song “Where now the horse and the rider?” That such a man should win the heart of Théodwyn seemed only fitting—for the songs of the Rohirrim were rich with tales of valiant warriors and the fair maidens who rode beside them.

Yet not all such tales come to their ending in joy, nor in the grace of long years shared. Éomund fell before his time in an ambush, and not long after, Théodwyn sickened and did not recover. The tidings came heavy and swift, and only when the children they had left behind were brought from Aldburg to Edoras did Théodred at last face the cold truth: those who had departed would not return. And when the King himself came forth to the doors of Meduseld to receive them, Théodred was struck by the sight of his father’s golden hair now streaked with grey—as though ten years of sorrow had come upon him in a single night.

Éomer and Éowyn had grown since last he saw them. The boy was now a tall, lean youth, all long limbs and restless energy, still caught midway in his growing. The girl, though yet a child in years, no longer bore the unshadowed look of one untouched by grief.

“From this day forth, this shall be your home,” said the King to the only children of his beloved sister. “You shall be to me as my own son and daughter.”

Éowyn spoke no word at first, her small white teeth pressed hard upon her lip; but when she was gathered into a strong and gentle embrace, she stiffened—then, unable to hold back, broke into tears. Seeing his sister weeping in their uncle’s arms, Éomer’s eyes grew red, yet he stood unmoving at her side, too proud to weep and uncertain what to do.

Théodred understood all too well what the boy was feeling. And when he could endure it no longer, he stepped forward, bent toward him, and said, “Come with me.”

He led Éomer out of the Golden Hall and down the steps that ran from the high terraces on which Meduseld stood. At length they came to the stone carved in the likeness of a horse’s head, where clear water flowed without ceasing. Théodred knew that the surest remedy for sorrow was to turn the mind to other things. As they walked, he cast his thoughts back to what had filled his own heart at Éomer’s age—horses, swords, and maidens, in that precise order. The last, he deemed, was best left untouched for now: it was no jest fit for one still in mourning, and Éomer, after all, was yet half a boy. So he turned the talk instead to the other two.

“You will dwell in Edoras now,” said Théodred. “Have you thought what you would do here?”

“Not yet,” answered the golden-haired youth, his eyes following the stream as it wound down the hillside. “My mother used to say how magnificent Edoras was—but to me, the houses are only larger than those in Eastfold, and there are simply more people. The tapestries in the Hall are fine, I suppose, but the colours are so faded. They make the place feel close… and heavy.”

Though the boy had somewhat missed the heart of the question, his candour amused Théodred, and he took it as a hopeful sign. Éomer was not yet of an age to value such ancient adornments—and that was no fault of his. Théodred himself had only come to understand the meaning of royal splendour and the weight of heritage after journeying beside his father to Mundburg in Gondor. The Men of Númenórean descent held knowledge in high honour, but the Rohirrim asked strength and boldness of their sons. What was worth knowing was passed down by the elders of the folk; as for scrolls and written lore—such matters were best left to their kinsfolk in the south, those grave-minded scholars who dwelt in their houses of stone.

“And what did you do in Eastfold, back home?” asked Théodred.

“Ride, of course!” The boy’s eyes kindled with sudden light. “I am good with the bow and the spear—and better still with the sword!”

Of all the tales told in Rohan, none was more renowned than that of Eorl the Young, who tamed the great steed Felaróf and rode with him into legend. The Men of the Mark were raised in the saddle, and Théodred himself had learned to ride almost as soon as he could walk. Éomer, of course, was no exception. But swordplay—that was another matter entirely.

“You can wield a longsword already?” asked Théodred, brows slightly raised.

“Not yet,” the boy admitted, his shoulders dipping slightly. “Just an ordinary one. My father said I need to grow stronger first.”

“Would you like to be my squire?” asked Théodred, as if the matter were of no great account.

“Is there need to ask?” Éomer’s eyes lit at once with eager light. “Who would not wish to serve the Prince of the Mark? And what is more, it is as it ought to be—you shall be King one day, and I shall be your Marshal.”

Théodred laughed despite himself. “You would be a Marshal?” he said. Indeed, it was no great surprise. As the saying went, a Rider who did not dream of becoming a marshal was no true Rider. And with the blood of the Kings of the Mark in his veins, it would have been stranger still if Éomer had lacked such ambition. Yet because he had spoken with such bold certainty, Théodred found himself inclined to tease him. “And to what purpose?”

“To avenge my father!” Éomer lifted his chin, his young face grown solemn, and for a moment, he bore the look of a hero beyond his years. Then his eyes—so like his father’s—turned toward the Golden Hall, and his voice fell softer. “And… to protect my sister. I do not wish to see her weep again.”

“That, I fear, may prove harder than becoming a Marshal,” said Théodred with a hearty laugh. “What little girl does not weep?”

“Éowyn is different,” Éomer said, his voice firm with conviction.

He was, indeed, still a boy. And yet, there was something in his bearing—something that moved Théodred to believe him.

“Very well,” he said. “It is settled, then. You shall be my squire. And as for the days to come… we shall speak of them when they come.”

It was the Year 3002 of the Third Age. That year, Théodred was twenty-four, and Éomer but eleven.

Next: Chapter 1. The Squire and the Second Marshal

No pressure tag :D @konartiste

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Till Death Reunites Us - Ep. Use Well the Days

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 10. The Last Alliance

Epilogue. Use Well the Days

“I do not understand why we still linger,” said Théodred, after the final wisps of Wormtongue and Saruman vanished—gone from both the world of the living and the dead. For a moment, he thought the wizard’s ghost had turned their way, as if startled to recognize them. But it was too late for that. A chill wind rose from the West, and with it, the ghost bent away and dissolved into nothing.

He and Boromir had followed the company from Minas Tirith, unwilling to miss any further great deeds or new tales. In truth, when they returned to the White City, nothing astonished them more than the news that Faramir and Éowyn had fallen in love. So great was their surprise that only the wonder of seeing the Ringbearer and his companion borne back by the Eagles scarcely matched it.

“What happened between them?” Théodred had raced to the Citadel to ask his father, with Boromir right on his heels, saying nothing, but clearly just as curious.

The King, for his part, was entirely unknowing, and more than a little irked at being pressed.

“How should I know?” he said, his tone not far from Théodred’s own. “I had seen no reason to leave the Hall, until you two decided to call upon every dead soul in Middle-earth. And by then, they were already kissing on the walls. After that? I have had even less reason to step outside, thanks to the Ringbearer, and the rest of you.”

“All right,” Théodred said, already turning for the door. “I will go to haunt Faramir. I need an answer.”

Boromir caught him by the arm before he could vanish. “I am not sure my brother is well enough to be haunted,” he said firmly, holding him back.

“Fine,” Théodred relented with a sigh. “I will find Gandalf and ask how we are supposed to speak to the living—that ought to be harmless enough!”

This time, Boromir nodded and let him go.

Together they went to seek the wizard beyond the City, for they had returned well ahead of the host, which had only just reached the Pelennor and begun to raise the pavilions. Gandalf stood apart, watching the men with a faint smile on his weathered face. Yet no sooner did he glimpse Boromir and Théodred approaching than he muttered, half to himself, “I am rather busy, overseeing the crowning of the King. I am not certain I have time for unquiet ghosts.”

“How about ghosts who helped you win this war?” said Théodred, flashing a broad grin.

“That sounds slightly exaggerated,” the wizard replied, gazing off in the opposite direction. “But as it happens, I have a moment to spare. What is it, my dear restless friends?”

“We need to speak with someone,” Théodred said, his grin deepening. “Someone still among the living.”

At that, Gandalf turned back sharply, his brow furrowing. “I will not assist you in haunting Aragorn.”

Boromir gave a short laugh, and Théodred adopted an expression of exaggerated offence.

“How little you think of us!” he declared with mock solemnity. “We only wish to speak with someone else. You, of all people, should understand the care we bear for our younger kin.”

The wizard raised a bushy brow and gave him a sidelong glance. “I see,” he said. “Is there something I should know—but do not?”

Later that night, Faramir dreamed.

In that dream, he met one he had never thought to see again, another he had not expected to meet at all, and a third he knew well, but never imagined he would find in the company of the first two.

“It has been a long time, little brother,” said the first.

And they embraced—just as they had in life.

When he awoke, he remembered little of the dream: only a sense of something long hollow now filled, and a peace and joy he had not known since the day his brother fell.

He was content, though a strange weariness lingered, the kind that followed the telling of a long tale, when every turn was met with a hundred questions.

The morning was clear and cool, and he, the last Steward of Gondor, was ready to fulfill his final duty.

Outside the Houses of Healing, he saw Éowyn waiting—for him. Her eyes were no longer shadowed by sorrow or despair, and her face was alight when she beheld him.

He smiled, took her hand, and kissed her gently upon the cheek. It is going to be a fair day, he thought.

And he did not know that nearby, two ghosts stood watching—both smiling, with the same quiet joy, and a touch of sorrow in their eyes.

“I never thought it would come to this,” Théodred sighed. “Seems there is no need for me to haunt King Elessar after all.”

“Aye,” Boromir said simply. “I am glad for them.”

“Aye,” Théodred echoed. “So am I.”

So they remained, through those days of joy and gladness. King Théoden was borne with honour to the Hallows—a token of Gondor’s reverence, for he had been born in this land, and for a time, here would he rest. The ghost of the King was no longer bound as once he had been, yet he only walked the streets of the White City now and then, drawn by a single desire: to see Éowyn smile once more.

Together, they witnessed the crowning of the new King of Arnor and Gondor. They beheld the discovery of a sapling of the White Tree, and its planting in the Court of the Fountain. And in awe and wonder, they watched the arrival of the Fair Folk, before Midsummer came.

“I have seen her before,” Théodred whispered to Boromir, his gaze fixed on Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond. “Now I understand what has haunted me all these years—why no maiden in the Mark ever stirred my heart.”

“Where did you see her?” Boromir asked dryly. “In the Wold again?”

“Aye,” Théodred admitted. “A rather fruitful adventure.”

“Thrice careful, then,” Boromir warned, a glint of amusement in his eye. “If my uncle grows stern with those who look too fondly on his daughter, I dare not guess what this lady’s father would require. Perhaps the crown of both Arnor and Gondor before he gave his leave.”

And so it proved. Théodred laughed for half a day at Boromir’s prophecy-come-true, when word arrived of the betrothal—and the coming wedding—of Elessar and Arwen. He laughed all the more when later Éomer returned to bear King Théoden home, and was heard in cheerful dispute with Gimli over which lady was fairest: the Lady of the Golden Wood or the Queen Evenstar.

Boromir remarked with a smirk, “He truly is a brother to you—you even share the same taste.”

And Théodred only laughed harder. “Nay, you have no idea how he came by that taste.”

This time, when the Rohirrim departed, all journeyed together. The King’s body was transferred with honour from Rath Dínen and borne with care the long road back to Rohan, to the barrow-field of his fathers. As the company moved westward, the King’s ghost rode astride Snowmane, flanked by two warrior-ghosts clad in full ceremonial array. Yes—by now they had found means to change their attire at will, a trick Gandalf had let slip. Théodred suspected it was a reward for all the tales they had wrung from Faramir, though the wizard insisted it was merely a matter of propriety.

“Two ghosts improperly dressed at King Elessar’s crowning would have been a grievous eyesore,” he had claimed, “especially in the presence of the Elven folk.”

The funeral of King Théoden was all that a king of the Mark might hope for—fallen in battle, and laid to rest with the knowledge that the world to come would be better than the one he left behind. The feast that followed was no less fitting, rich with honour and memory. But it was the betrothal of Éowyn and Faramir that made it unlike any other—rare, and unforgettable.

When Éomer rose and said, “Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister,” [1] the late King stood among them, and looked upon Éowyn as though she had been his daughter by blood. And at that very moment, he sighed, soft and content; and Théodred, watching him, knew it for what it was.

“I will depart now, my son.” While mead and song still echoed in the hall behind, the King stepped out into the night, and found Snowmane waiting—bright-maned and proud once more, as in the days of old. “Since you are not yet ready to follow, I shall await you in Béma’s halls.”

They embraced one last time, in death as in life, and the King mounted with a smile—and with quiet relief. Under the open, star-strewn sky of Rohan, he rode forth with Snowmane, man and horse together, like a silver flame borne upon the wind. Farther and farther they passed, until the land swallowed them into silence, and they were seen no more.

“He is gone,” Théodred said at last, when ghostly tears had dried in the unseen wind.

“Aye,” Boromir said, his voice a little rough. “And still we remain.”

“Then perhaps there are still things we wish to see,” Théodred said.

Boromir was thoughtful for a moment. “Aye. Perhaps you have not yet seen all you need to see.”

So they journeyed with the company that departed Rohan, and came at last to Rivendell, where they tarried in the Last Homely House. Only then did they begin to truly absorb all they had encountered along the road: the Ents—“Trees that can talk and walk! No wonder the Entwood is said to be haunted,” Théodred had exclaimed—and the unexpected encounter with Saruman and Wormtongue.

“I hope you do not intend to follow them and haunt them,” Boromir had said, his voice marked with genuine concern.

Théodred had only shaken his head. “I would have—only now I would rather use my days seeing other things first.”

Boromir had been to Rivendell before; but for Théodred, all was new. He followed the hobbits as they wandered the halls, offered courteous nods to every Elf he passed, and soon grew familiar with the rhythm of the place—and to those who, by some grace or gift, could perceive him.

He did not expect the master of the house to speak to him. Yet sure enough, one day, as he stepped out of the old hobbit’s chamber—having just listened to a marvellous tale of a dragon and a hoard beneath the mountain—he walked straight into Elrond the Halfelven.

“Well met, Prince Théodred,” Elrond said, with a faint smile.

“Well met, Master Elrond,” Théodred replied, inclining his head with due respect. He cast a quick glance downward, making sure his attire passed muster. Boromir, as ever, preferred his old training leathers—and the Elves here, never short on mischief, had already composed more than one playful song about the ghost who “forgot his station but never left his post,” complete with a few “Tra-la-la-lally” and “in the valley, ha! ha!” lines, of course. Utterly mortifying.

“I hope our presence has not troubled your folk,” he added.

“No,” Elrond said, “quite the contrary—we are rather entertained. Though I am not certain how our little friends would feel, were they to know.”

Théodred gave a low laugh. Somehow, he felt a touch awkward—perhaps because Elrond was a loremaster, while he himself had never claimed such learning, and had grumbled often enough when made to pursue it. And so, almost without meaning to, he voiced the question he had long kept unspoken: “Do you know, Master Elrond… why the spirits of Men remain? We have our theories, but I find myself no longer certain.”

Elrond regarded him for a moment, then smiled once more. “Life holds many mysteries, and death no fewer. I do not claim certainty. But this I know: your abiding is not born of shadow, nor bound by malice. I have heard from Mithrandir what befell before the Black Gate—and all that has followed since.”

“Then what should we do?” Theodred wondered.

“Follow where your heart would lead you,” Elrond replied. “The answer, I deem, shall come in its own time.”

Days deepened, and at last it was time for the hobbits to leave Rivendell and return home. Théodred and Boromir followed, not yet ready to take their leave of the world. Thus they came to witness the scouring of the Shire—and how Saruman and Wormtongue met their end.

And that was when Théodred said, “I do not understand why we still linger.”

“I had thought this was what you needed to see—the end of those two,” Boromir said, visibly thoughtful. “But now that we have seen it, I do not see in you the same readiness your father showed.”

“Nor do I see it in you,” Théodred replied. “So—what other wishes have we yet to fulfill?”

They fell silent, both considering hard.

“Well,” Boromir said at last, a dry edge in his voice, “I did once say that when all was settled and the world at peace, we should travel together—to see all that we never had time to see.”

“If that is it,” Théodred sighed. “then you are truly a serious man. Had I known, I might have made you promise something a bit more interesting.”

“So are you,” Boromir retorted. “I do not see you resting, either.”

“Well then,” Théodred laughed, “what are we waiting for? Looks like we shall find no peace until that promise is kept.”

And so they set out from the Shire together, to see the world they had never had the chance to behold in life. Eastward they went, over the mountains, until they came to Langwell, where the great river of Anduin was born, and where the Éothéod had once dwelled before answering the call of Steward Cirion and riding south. There they wandered for a time, marveling at the wild beauty of the land.

They followed the path once taken by the Rohirrim, passing beneath the high eyries of the Misty Mountains and beyond the Golden Wood, where time had once slowed its steps—but now, with the fading of the power of the Three, even Lórien had begun to feel the weight of the years. They came to Dol Guldur, where sorcery had once been spun in webs thick and dark, and rejoiced to see its dungeons laid bare, its pits broken open, and its shadow finally dispelled.

“I suppose your people will be short on ghost stories for a while, now that these places are back to normal,” Boromir said.

“Aye,” Théodred replied. “But I would not worry—my people are tough. Give them time, and they will think up new amusements soon enough.”

They passed through all the lands of Rohan, from the Wold to the White Mountains, from the Fords of Isen to the borders of Anórien. The tower of Orthanc still stood tall, but it no longer brooded with malice. Isengard had become a garden, alive with trees and birdsong, with the rustle of leaves and the bustling of squirrels.

Farther east they turned, and came to Amon Anwar, where they paused to pay their respects, though the Great King’s remains had long since been removed to the Hallows of Minas Tirith. Then they pressed on, past the White City, into the fair southern lands of Gondor: Lossarnach, Lebennin, and the coastlands of Belfalas. There they tarried for a time—and to their quiet delight, beheld their cousins forming a bond none had foreseen, not unlike the other union of love they had witnessed not long before.

“I hope you are well,” Boromir said, casting Théodred a look both amused and concerned, as they watched Éomer—visiting the coast and his kinsfolk on his grandmother’s side—walking side by side with Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil, along the windy shores of Dol Amroth.

“Of course I am,” Théodred replied, smiling with unmistakable sincerity—and a touch of mischief. “After all the darkness and ruin, I am more than glad to witness love anew.”

And that night, Éomer dreamed—restlessly, though not unhappily—and when he woke, he felt a strange gladness, as if comforted by the knowledge that a brother once lost was not truly gone.

They journeyed on, farther south and east, passed once more through the great havens of Pelargir, and even tarried in Umbar, where the Corsairs were no longer a threat, and the people, at last, stood united and at peace.

They lost count of time—a lesser concern for those no longer bound by it. They saw much, heard more, and now and then lent a hand—for the arms once granted by the Stewards remained at their sides, and proved useful still, whenever trouble found them, as it did now.

“Tell me again,” Théodred asked, as they sat within a circle of stones in the Barrow-downs. “Why are we here?”

“Because of bad directions,” Boromir replied, his tone sharp with lingering annoyance. “Blasted wizards—white, grey, or brown! I should have known he was one, even back then.”

“Back then?” Théodred was curious.

“Aye,” Boromir nearly rolled his eyes. “How else do you think it took me a hundred and ten days to reach Rivendell?”

As they talked, an unexpected visitor approached—wearing a blue coat and great yellow boots, singing something ridiculous like, “Hey dol! merry dol!”

“Not again,” they groaned in unison. “Night-time songs of cold hands, heart, and bone were terrible enough—now we have noisy living neighbours too?”

But the man walked straight toward them.

“Never thought I’d see the day when barrow-wights came whining to me about intruders,” said the man, his eyes alight with mirth. “Looks like we’ve got a pair of new sheriffs haunting the Downs.”

“They whined to you?” said Boromir, incredulous. “Wretches! We did them no harm!”

“They whined to you?” Théodred echoed, though his tone was different. He studied the strangely merry figure before them—who, by all outward signs, seemed a man, yet something deeper told him otherwise. For one thing, this one could see them. “Well met, master,” he said, “I am Théodred, son of Théoden of Rohan; and this is Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor. Might we know your name?”

“I’m Tom Bombadil,” the man replied, smiling as if the very world had been made for his delight alone. “I welcome visitors, so long as they mean no harm; and you two seem well enough. Goldberry is not at home, else I might bid you come and sit awhile.”

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Boromir and Théodred said together. Then Théodred, after a pause, asked carefully, “And those wights—are they your friends?”

“No, no,” the man laughed. “But we’ve been neighbors a long while.”

“Understood,” Théodred nodded. “As long as they keep that dreadful song to themselves, we are perfectly accommodating.”

“You know,” said the man, his eyes twinkling, “you might do well to head west. A company passed not long ago—you may find them worth your while.”

So they went on—and at the farthest edge of the land, they came upon the Grey Havens, fair beyond all mortal imagining. There, among those gathered, they beheld Gandalf the White; the Lady of the Wood, radiant with a gentle light, her raiment white as cloud about the Moon; Elrond the Halfelven, bearing a star upon his brow; and Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin—the hobbits they had not seen in many a day.

The sea sang softly on pearl-white sands and jet-black stones, and a white ship waited in silence. By the quay stood a tall Elf, grey with age and long-bearded, his eyes keen as stars.

“Elves can grow beards?!” Théodred very nearly exclaimed, had Boromir not slapped some sense into him.

And for a long while, Boromir stood and watched Frodo. Then he said quietly, “I think I know now why I lingered. I was waiting for this moment—to see him find peace, and healing.”

“And I was waiting for you to find it, brother,” said Théodred.

When all farewells had been spoken, and the last of tears shed, the passengers stood ready upon the deck of the white ship.

“I am not certain ghosts are welcome aboard,” Gandalf murmured, casting a glance at the two who had come unbidden.

Bilbo had dozed off again, but Frodo turned with a puzzled frown. “What are you talking about, Gandalf?”

“In time, you will know,” the wizard replied solemnly.

And all the Elves aboard smiled with quiet knowing—as did Boromir and Théodred.

-The End-

Notes:

[1] Quoted from LotR. The chapter title is taken from LotR, from Galadriel’s parting words to Aragorn. Yep, the main story ends here; but I can easily see myself returning at any time to write more about their days spent haunting—no, journeying through all of Middle-earth 😂

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Till Death Reunites Us - Ch10. The Last Alliance

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 9. Shadow of Death

Chapter 10. The Last Alliance

They felt the Nazgûl before they saw them.

No Fell Beasts shrieked from the air, nor did the Ringwraiths cry aloud; yet the air thickened with a suffocating gravity, coiling like a thundercloud and pressing down upon the very core of their being—whispering of futility, of despair, of doom. Yet more terrible than the Ringwraiths was that which loomed behind them: a vast, immeasurable darkness, seated in iron-bound security upon the land where shadow had lain for ages, sustaining them, urging them on, watching—and mocking.

Boromir and Théodred had been battling without cease, like men climbing an endless, ever-steepening hill. Since the moment they left Morgul Vale, they had known no true peace. And with every step they took toward the dominion of the Shadow, the burden grew heavier, the struggle more fierce.

Thus far they had endured—had even thought, for a time, that they had grown hardened to it. But the sheer presence of the Ringwraiths—shades of once-great kings and mighty warriors, who had surrendered their names and their very selves to darkness in exchange for power and desire—brought the trial to a new and dreadful height.

It was no longer a nudge here and there, a whisper now and again. It had become a chorus of voices—some fair and sweet, others ragged and terrible—rising all at once, a dark symphony woven of submission and longing, of ecstasy and despair.

Yet, they pressed on.

Following the main host, they marched forward, never far behind the van, where the Captains of the West led onward—a host now dwindled to less than six thousand, with many left behind at the Cross-roads and others dispatched to Cair Andros.

On the sixth day since their departure from the Cross-roads, they came to the Black Gate.

Across the broken rock and blasted earth before the Morannon, they saw them at last: the Nazgûl, regathered and hovering above the Towers of the Teeth like vultures, borne upon wings of shadow and death.

Boromir and Théodred did not know whether the Ringwraiths had marked them. After all, they were but three—two men and a horse—and the Nazgûl had watched countless souls falter and fall before the Black Gate. Yet even their idle presence pressed down like a heavy hand, smothering thought, grinding will into dust.

“This will not do,” said Théodred once more to Boromir. Both had dismounted, unwilling to burden Snowmane further—faithful and unflinching to this point, yet finally showing the weariness even a mighty one of the Mearas could not wholly escape, not even in death. “If we continue thus, we shall be of no use or aid to them.”

Boromir did not answer at once. A strange light burned in his eyes, fixed upon the circling shapes beyond. And in the deepening gloom, Théodred saw how their own forms—once clad in a sheen of silver—were now dulled and tarnished, as though the shadow itself gnawed at their very being.

“Boromir!” Théodred cried, seizing his arm. Boromir started, as though roused from a dream. They met each other’s gaze—and in that brief glance, each read the same grim thought: If this is the burden laid upon the Ringbearer, how can he hope to endure it? And even if he has endured so far, how much longer can his strength hold? Yet neither dared to speak it aloud—not here, so near to the heart of the Shadow.

Ahead of them, Aragorn marshalled the host, leading them up onto two great hills of blasted stone and earth, piled by the Orcs through long years of labour. A foul mire stretched between them and the Black Gate, a reeking moat of filth and pestilence; and this was the best ground they could claim. No enemy could be seen upon the field; yet they knew the hills and caves about them teemed with foes, and that they had walked into a snare long prepared.

Fear stirred in the hearts of men. Yet Aragorn moved among them—calm amid ruin and despair. His eyes, once grey as storm-lit stone, now burned with a fire: a fire terrible and tender, that lifted the hearts of all who beheld him.

Without a word, Boromir and Théodred moved to one of the hills, halting some twenty yards from the banner of the Tree and Stars. There they stood, as Gandalf spoke to Aragorn in a voice so low that even their ghostly hearing could not catch the words. At last, Aragorn turned to face the Gate; and a faint smile touched his lips, as he said: “Now we go forward and issue the challenge.”

“I would not risk moving closer,” Boromir said firmly, before Théodred could speak. “The stake is too high. I have faced that darkness once—and failed the test. I will not imperil all that we have won, nor all that may yet be achieved.”

“Nor I,” Théodred answered, for he had learned the truth of Boromir’s fall and bore him no reproach. “You and I are of one mind. Let us wait here; we may still behold what must come, even from afar.”

And so they watched as the Black Gate groaned open, and the Mouth of Sauron came forth, bearing cruel tidings and crueler lies. They saw Aragorn meet him in silence, matching will against will, and Gandalf cast back Sauron’s challenge with words keener than any blade.

“There will be no parley, then,” said Théodred, as the hosts of Mordor surged forth like a black tide across the broken land. He took the bow from his back and strung it with steady hands.

“What did you expect—a surrender? For all I see of Aragorn, he is no Tar-Calion,” Boromir answered dryly, drawing his broad sword with a steely rasp and setting his shield firm in his grasp.

All around them, they felt the men tense, readying themselves for the last stand. Yet something—something born of that parley at the Gate—brought more assurance than fear. For had all hope been lost, they would not have seen the light in Gandalf’s eyes; nor would they have seen Aragorn stand unshaken.

It was then that Theodred realized how much he had come to look to the man, as one who would lead. Yet he had no time to dwell on it: the Captains rode back among the host, and as they climbed the hills, the sun was veiled by the fumes of Mordor, and a sullen red bled across the sky—as if the day had ended before its time, or as if the very world of light were drawing to its end.

And out of the deepening gloom, terrible cries arose from above the Towers—cries that chilled the living to the marrow, and struck even the dead with dread.

Forth came the Nazgûl.

And with the men, Boromir and Théodred cried out against their will, while Snowmane reared high, loosing a terrible neigh. And in the Unseen, they beheld them—the Ringwraiths, long fallen prey to the Shadow—stripped of all veils, their true forms laid bare.

Gaunt and hollow they sat, their ancient glory twisted beyond all memory, their faces masked in anguish and hunger, their hands clutching at power yet grasping only emptiness. A terror unlike any wrought by the living struck Théodred and Boromir at the sight. Yet mingled with dread came another revelation, fierce and clear—a pity deep as the roots of the earth. For in those wretched shades, they beheld not a foreign doom, but the mirror of their own fate, had they yielded to the darkness.

That revelation shimmered faintly—no more than a firefly against a moonless night. Yet it was enough: a light in the shadowed world, wavering yet unbroken, a beacon amid the rising storm. And so their defiance did not pass unnoticed.

One of the Nazgûl turned, wheeling upon them—a vast shadow astride a Fell Beast, whose wings beat the heavy air like a living tempest. Down it swept, dark as a thundercloud and crowned with malice, its descent terrible and sure.

At their side, Snowmane stood firm. He flung up his proud head and neighed again—not in fear, but in rage and defiance. And like their steed, neither of the men wavered.

Théodred dropped to one knee, nocked an arrow to the string, and waited—with a stillness he had never known even in life—until certainty filled him wholly. Then he loosed.

The shaft flew like a shooting star, a silver streak against the gloom, and struck its mark upon the beast’s flank. It shrieked—a sound like iron scraping iron—and veered aside, narrowly escaping the sweep of Boromir’s upraised sword.

But the Nazgûl, dark and commanding, turned his wheeling steed and bore back toward them, uttering a cry—a curse wrought in tongues of ancient malice, black and bitter beyond all measure.

And at that sound, the world around them darkened.

In the beginning, there was only darkness.

And out of the darkness came a voice—a sigh upon the dying wind that stirred the withered grasslands, slipping between thought and breath.

Usurper.

It was no shout, nor even a cry of accusation, but a whisper.

He always desired what you had possessed, murmured the voice. Your young, ambitious cousin—son of your father’s house, yet not your true brother. Watching. Coveting. Waiting for his hour. 

Visions flared before Théodred’s eyes: Éomer, proud and fierce, drawing the loyalty of men by his boldness and fire, rising ever higher, until even the throne seemed near at hand.

He bears no love for your father. He seeks not to serve, but to rule. All these years you kept him at your side, treating him as a brother. Yet no sooner had you fallen than he hastened to claim your place, as though you were but a stepstone to his ascent. Ungrateful. Insolent. Was it not? 

The words lapped at his heart like dark water—cold, insidious, and persistent. They stoked fears he had never fully named, nor even known to lie within him: the cold fear that haunted him after death—that all he had wrought might be forgotten in another’s ascent, that he would become no more than a name carved upon the stones of the barrow-field, and that even the simbelmynë would not suffice to keep his memory alive.

Yet another voice stirred within him—steadfast and clear, sweeping aside all doubts with ease: doubts fit only for faint hearts—the memory of seventeen years of laughter, of sparring in the yards, of jests and counsel shared beside the fire, of blood shed side by side upon the battlefield.

A brother, in all but blood.

Against his ears, the shadow whispered still: He gave his allegiance to another but days after your death. What is love so easily shifted? What is loyalty so swiftly sold? See how quickly he turned to another, when he deemed it to his advantage—Aragorn, son of Arathorn, saviour of your people, King returned, the most powerful ally a man might hope for. And you—what were you to him? What worth had your years of brotherhood, when they were cast aside at the mere meeting of a stranger?

And Théodred, standing straight upon ground he could not see, smiled—a slow, fierce smile that kindled in the gathering dark.

“How little you understand me,” he said into the darkness, his voice light with grim amusement. “Know this: the Men of the Mark do not lie, and therefore they are not easily deceived. [1]

“What wrong is there in taking the lead, when the leader has fallen? What wrong is there in loving one who is worthy of love? Éomer—you mock his heart, and cast doubt upon his choice; and in doing so, you mock mine also, and dishonour my judgment. Not the wisest way to tempt me, I deem.

“But as a courtesy, I will tell you this: my brother is as steadfast in loyalty as ever I could have been. I know well now why he follows the man you fear—for I too would have followed him, for all that I have seen. Now—have you more to say, or is this all your cunning can conjure?”

Hearing no response, he laughed—full and free—and the shadow recoiled from him, like smoke before a rising storm.

And at his side, Boromir lifted his head and roared.

The voice that found Boromir was older, deeper—laden with sorrow, with pride, and with an ancient bitterness.

Why him? it whispered, cold and insidious. Why Aragorn, a Ranger of the North, heir of a broken line, wanderer and pretender? Why not you, Boromir, son of Denethor?

Who guarded Gondor in the long twilight? the voice demanded, deep and relentless. Who bore the burden, when the Heir of Isildur hid in the wild? 

The air thickened; visions spun before his eyes—Osgiliath and Minas Tirith burning; Faramir lying pale and unconscious upon the bed of healing; Denethor’s hands clenched around the shards of the sundered horn.

It was your house—the Stewards of the House of Anárion. For a thousand years, your fathers stood against the dark, while he lingered in secret, gathering strength in the safety of Elven halls and distant lands.

Then the voice turned coaxing.

Your people bled for him, unknowing. Your father set himself aflame, spent by years of vigilance, worn to the bone. And now he comes, at the last hour, to claim what your line defended at the price of all hope.

Boromir staggered, for the old wounds flared anew—raw, unhealed, and hungering.

In his mind’s eye, he saw his father—grey and proud—standing high upon the walls of the White City, gazing far across the broken land, with the White Tower gleaming dimly behind him. And beside him, Faramir—stricken and dying—lay under the creeping hand of the Black Shadow.

Your father is already with me, the voice murmured, softer still, as though a smile lingered upon hidden lips. Your brother… perhaps soon enough. But that, son of Denethor, lies in your hands.

Before Boromir, a silver presence took shape—shimmering faint in the gloom, seated as if in counsel, yet bowed by a weariness beyond bearing.

Your father was wise, the voice coaxed on, not to live to see the ascension of one unworthy. Or—

Right then, it was interrupted.

“Silence!”

The dwindling silver presence stirred—and spoke, with Denethor’s voice: strong, grim, and proud, as it had once been.

“Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor, may not trust to the hope of wild dreams… but he shall never bow to the Shadow, in life or in death.”

With those words, the silver light blazed forth—bright and blinding, like the last flare of a falling star—and was gone. And the dark voice recoiled with a hiss and a cry of rage, sharpened by disbelief.

And Boromir, seeing it, lifted his head and roared—a cry fierce and full, ringing out like a war-horn over unseen fields.

And at his side, in that very instant, Théodred laughed.

Darkness washed away from them like a retreating tide.

They stood once more upon the hill that seemed doomed, and all about them the battle raged. The host of the West was surrounded, their plight desperate.

Yet they stood—Boromir, son of Denethor; Théodred, son of Théoden; and Snowmane, son of Lightfoot—against the dark tide surging around them. Unseen and unheard by the living, they poured forth every last trace of their strength: every memory of dawnlight and hearthfire, of open fields and riding winds, of sorrow, and of joy, and of freedom—of life once dearly held.

From the depths of their hearts they cried—not in words, but in spirit—and their cry rippled through the world of the Unseen, calling for memory, for valour, and for every fading ember of hope.

For a moment, all was still: only the heavy breath of battle and the deep murmur of the dark. Then, as if in answer, lights arose—across the broken lands of Middle-earth, invisible to mortal eyes.

Pale were they: silver wisps, some flickering like the last breath of dying stars, others keen and cold as drawn blades—the voices of the forgotten and the fallen: of nameless spirits in barrow and wood and sea, in the marshes where the hosts of old had perished, even from the vale of the Shadow of Death itself.

Those who had lingered in sorrow, whose strength had long ebbed but whose hope had not wholly perished, stirred at last.

Like mist upon a rising wind they gathered, thread by thread, tatter by tatter, until they were as one. They raised no banners. They uttered no cries. They endured—and remembered. And in that hour, when the fate of the world hung by a breath, they rose—together.

And at that very moment, a cry arose among the living:

“The Eagles are coming!” [2]

Riding the wind came the beating of mighty wings, and above them the heavens still lay pale and clear.

For one fleeting heartbeat of the world, they stood—all of them, living and dead alike—the last alliance of the Free Peoples, arrayed against the vast and shadowed might: the tyrannous darkness that had endured through long ages, breaking hope again and again.

But this time, against wrath, and love, and faith long-held, it faltered.

Notes:

[1] Quoted from LotR; these are Éomer's words. [2] Quoted from LotR.

Next: Epilogue

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Till Death Reunites Us - Ch9. Shadow of Death

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 8. Marching Dead

Chapter 9. Shadow of Death

I'm afraid this chapter and the next will not be light-hearted—but the epilogue shall be! (Yes, only two more chapters to go for the main story!)

They had not fully reckoned with the terror—nor with its suddenness.

It came swiftly, without warning.

It came as Théodred and Boromir followed the host, led by Gandalf and Aragorn, to the threshold of Morgul Vale.

There, within that shadowed vale, the land lay dark and lifeless, and the air hung heavy with a malice long unspent. The stones reeked of old sorcery; the hills still breathed with the echoes of screams that had never faded. And from the earth itself rose a pull—subtle, insistent—like the call of a long-lost home, but twisted and defiled.

Boromir and Théodred felt it more keenly than any living soul. To Boromir, it was a fear akin to what the Nazgûl had once wrought—but deeper and more potent, for it reached into the Unseen with a weight far more dreadful than any shadow cast in the world of light. [1] Yet for Théodred, who had never faced a Ringwraith in life, the terror was wholly new—and utterly overwhelming. He sat transfixed, unable even to lift a finger. A cold seeped through him—through ghostly bone and flesh—down to the very core of his being, and it chilled him beyond all reckoning. He had not known the dead could feel such despair—sharper than any grief endured in life, for life has its measure, and its mercy: it ends. But death, unmoored, might stretch on without hope, into long ages of silence and suffering. And the thought of such torment came near to breaking him.

With what little will remained to him, Boromir urged Snowmane to fall back—but even the great horse moved with painful effort, as though the very earth had turned against his tread, and the shadow clung to his hooves like iron chains.

Fortunately, Gandalf had marked their soundless struggle. Staff in hand, he turned and rode toward them upon Shadowfax. “Go no further,” he said, his voice low and firm, his lips barely moving, while men were sent to break the bridge. “The evil that dwells here is perilous beyond death—more perilous to the dead than to the living.”

His very presence stemmed the pull, as though the shadow itself recoiled from him. Boromir had never been more grateful for a wizard’s company. For a time, the spell slackened its hold, and they were able to fall back. Yet the call of Morgul’s ruin was not so easily thrown off. With every step they retreated, it clung to their spirits still, reaching with a hunger that did not fade—only waited.

“How did he do it?” Boromir muttered, as they drew farther from the Vale.

Théodred, still shaken, did not at first follow. “Gandalf? He is a wizard.”

“No—Aragorn,” Boromir said. “He came here before… treading the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale. [2] So he told us in Rivendell. How did he do it?”

“Like the Kings of Gondor of old,” Théodred murmured—and for once, there was no jest in his voice.

That night, for the first time since his death, Théodred dreamed.

Or so he believed afterward—for the word dream had lost its meaning. It was no longer easy to tell shadow from substance, or sleep from waking, when even his own being stood in doubt.

He was in Edoras again.

Not as a ghost, but as a man of flesh and blood—limping up the hill-road, his arm bound in bloodied linen, his ribs aching beneath battered mail. Wounded, yet unfallen. The Fords lay behind him: lost, yet he had lived, and returned.

The wind swept over the grasslands, carrying the scent of home—sharp, familiar, and faintly bitter. But Edoras… Edoras had changed.

The Golden Hall, once a hall of kings, proud and bright with the voices of warriors and the ring of mead-cups, now crouched like a herdsman’s shelter—dim, forlorn, and forsaken. The banners hung limp and stained, heavy with long neglect, and the air bore no song.

His forefathers’ hall. His father’s pride. And Théoden, too, had dwindled—no longer the king he had been, but a hushed and halting figure, cloistered within, aged before his time. His cousins… Éowyn—sister in all but name—withered by slow degrees, her eyes veiled by grief and silence. And Éomer—fierce, unyielding Éomer—flung himself into every hopeless battle, like a starving hawk chasing death with every beat of his wings.

It was as though he had woken from a long, weary nightmare—one in which he had fallen and passed from the world, burdened with regrets beyond count and a thousand deeds left undone, the weight of his unfulfilled heart too heavy to bear—only to find himself in another.

His pace quickened, the ache in his limbs forgotten. Rage stirred within him, slow and steady, rising like fire climbing the walls of his heart.

No guards stood at the door, and he entered without pause. Within the Hall, the torches guttered low, and shadows slithered across the carved pillars like black water. And there upon the dais, cloaked in black, he sat—whispering honeyed counsel into the old king’s ear—

There he was.

Meagre of frame, pale of face, with eyes too craven by half. Humble in bearing, obsequious in voice—and venomous as a serpent.

And behind that loathsome mask lurked another: white of robe and hair, yet black at heart—scheming, cold, and patient—who through long years had turned his malice against Rohan, biding his hour.

Kill them. 

His hand moved before the thought had fully formed—reaching for his blade, swift and sure. How easy it would be. How just. To strike at the root of all this ruin. To spill their blood. To feel its warmth upon his hand—

A steady hand stayed him.

“Théodred,” said a voice beside him, low and urgent, “are you well?”

He started, and found his hand clenched tight around the hilt at his side. Boromir had caught his arm before the blade was drawn—and now stood beside him, watchful and grave.

“You were still,” Boromir said slowly, searching for the words. “Still, and… distant. And for a moment, you… you flickered—like a candle flame caught in the wind.”

“For a moment, I thought I had not died,” Théodred said, his voice strange to his own ears. “But what I saw… was worse than death.”

Boromir grimaced. “It is the shadow from the Vale,” he said. “It sows strange thoughts, leeches away hope, and drives men to madness. I have heard others speak of it before. And I have… tasted it myself—at Osgiliath, not long before I rode north upon my errand.”

Reflecting on it—on what might have come to pass, had he drawn the blade and yielded to that terrible urge—Théodred shuddered.

“Is this the darkness your people have long withstood?” he asked, his voice hollow and haunted. For the first time, he knew he had truly—and always—underestimated the burden their allies in the South had borne. “This temptation… this terror… it lies beyond the plain reckoning of my people, however many ghost-tales they have told.”

He lifted his gaze to Boromir. “It is my turn to offer thanks. Your people have Rohan’s gratitude—mine not the least—for holding such darkness at bay through all these years.”

Boromir inclined his head—not proudly, nor with sorrow, but with a warrior’s grace: the unspoken knowledge of duty done, and burdens borne without praise. Together they moved toward the campfire, where the living men lay at rest. Though its warmth could not reach them, the glow offered a semblance of comfort—a light to hold against the dark.

When Théodred’s gaze steadied, and the shadow loosened its hold, Boromir spoke again. “What did you see?” he asked, “if you do not mind the telling.”

“I saw the House of Eorl fallen into disgrace,” Théodred said at last, his voice low and uneven. “And I laid the blame upon one man—or at least the only one within my reach—and came near to slaying him, without judgment or decree. Perhaps he deserved it. But that is not our way. There was a reason no sword was drawn, all the years he rose in my father’s hall.”

“That counsellor your father kept?” Boromir asked, recalling the pale figure he had once encountered in Edoras. He gave a slow nod. “Aye. There would have been neither honour nor justice in it.

“As for me—when I first faced a Black Rider, and at last found sleep, I dreamed of fire, and a dark tide behind it: my City in flames, my people suffering and enslaved, my land laid waste. I was ready to ride into Morgul Vale and challenge the shadow that wrought it, as King Eärnur of old had done, a thousand years ago… and it was Faramir who woke me.” He paused, the memory dark behind his eyes. “Same trick, it seems.”

They fell silent for a time, the firelight flickering through their unseen forms.

Then Boromir, as if struck by a sudden thought, grinned. “And yet we are away from that place now—and still you seem more touched by it than I. Tell me—are you, like your cousin, uncommonly attuned to ghosts?”

Théodred gave him a dry look. “Perhaps in life. But I am one already. I doubt I could be haunted more than that.”

But the evil could, indeed, haunt him more.

On the next day’s march, with every mile northward, Théodred felt it—the pull, the deadly whisper, the gnawing urge. It hovered at the edge of his senses, ever present, ever growing: heavier, stronger, harder to resist. And though he spoke no word of it, he knew he was no longer alone in bearing it.

For soon enough, Boromir felt it too.

It was not the fear of death—he had met that long ago, on the first field where he faced the enemy. Nor was it the fear of pain, nor even of ruin. No; it was the fear of surrender: the soft, persistent voice that asked whether all the toil, all the sacrifice, all the victories won at such cost, had been for naught. Whether the triumph upon the fields of the Pelennor had been but a last, bright folly; whether the Shadow would rise in the end, all the same. And if so—why not yield now, and slip into forgetfulness? Or else—why not reach out to the rising power, and take hold of it, that he might stand tall once more: no longer bending the knee to an unknown king, no longer fearing for the fate of his people?

For there would be no future, save under shadow. He wrenched himself back before the thought could root itself. It was the same voice that had whispered to him once upon Amon Hen, though now it wore a different guise. Yet he knew it well.

They spoke little that day. Each turned his will inward, grappling with the shadow that haunted the edges of thought.

Their road led them through lands ever more desolate, where little grew and less endured. That evening, a strong force of Orcs and Easterlings lay in ambush, hoping to catch the host scattered and unready. But the Captains were wary, and the scouts keen-eyed; and so the trap was turned against them. The enemy was broken, their surprise repaid in kind.

Théodred and Boromir did not join the fray. There was no need—and they were already fighting a deeper war, more silent and more perilous. It was all they could do to keep their minds from straying into dreams, and from falling prey to phantoms.

And on the fourth day from the Cross-roads, they came to the end of the living lands and passed into the desolation that lay before the gates of Cirith Gorgor.

The hills were bare; the trees, twisted and sparse; and the wind that blew from the east carried the stench of ruin. So great was the horror of those places that even among the living, some faltered. They were no cowards—no oath-breakers nor faint-hearts—but husbandmen out of Lossarnach, who had taken up the spear for love of their land, and young Riders of the Westfold, unblooded until the fields of the Pelennor. Some had seen their kin fall; others had not truly known war until now. Yet here, amid the waste, the darkness pressed so near that it unmanned them. They trembled not from weakness, but from strength spent too swiftly, and they faltered beneath a burden they had never been trained to bear.

Théodred and Boromir watched them—silent, understanding. Even they, sons of mighty houses, long hardened by war and grief, bore that burden—if not a heavier one—and withstood it only narrowly.

“This will not do,” said Théodred at last, his gaze passing over the men. “No host so broken could fight the battle to come, much less win it.”

Boromir, seated behind him on Snowmane, gave a grim nod. “They are barely standing. They could not even be brought forward.”

Amid all the doubt and despair, they saw the man who was to be King ride back toward the main host. Yet when he spoke, it was neither with scorn nor with vain promises.

“Go!” he said. “But keep what honour you may, and do not run! And there is a task which you may attempt and so be not wholly shamed. Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros, and if that is still held by enemies, as I think, then re-take it, if you can; and hold it to the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan!” [3]

In silence and awe, Théodred and Boromir watched as some men, heartened, found strength to go on, while others turned aside to a different battle. Yet in all alike they saw hope rekindled.

And for a moment, even amidst the lifeless waste, they felt a faint stirring within them: the memory of the world as it had been, and a longing to guard what yet endured.

Without a word, they moved and followed after him—though neither knew that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had once been named Estel, which in the ancient tongue is Hope.

Notes:

[1] The worlds of Seen and Unseen, see LotR (Book 2, “Many Meetings”): “And here in Rivendell there live still some of his chief foes: the Elven-wise, lords of the Eldar from beyond the furthest seas. They do not fear the Ringwraiths, for those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the Seen and the Unseen they have great power.” [2][3] Quoted from LotR.

Next: Chapter 10. The Last Alliance

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Till Death Reunites Us - Ch8. Marching Dead

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 7. Grave Matters

Chapter 8. Marching Dead

The next two days were filled with labours both Théodred and Boromir knew all too well: the remustering of men, the sorting of those still fit to fight, the weighing of strength against need. Horses were assessed and assigned. Smiths worked without pause, fashioning and mending weapons and armour alike. Stores of food and provisions were counted and distributed; even the healers were busy, preparing salves and bandages for the march to come.

This time, however, the two men who had once acted as leaders in their own realms bore no mantle of command. They were not called to ride the lines, nor consulted for counsel. It was strange—to see so much done with such swiftness, and never to lift a hand to hasten or amend it. They moved through the camps upon the Pelennor like shadows: bystanders at the edge of life, a little wistful, and unnaturally idle.

“Six thousand Riders came to the battlefield—now only four thousand remain,” Théodred sighed. “So great a cost—and the war not yet ended.”

Boromir did not sigh, only grimaced. “Few lords of Gondor remain as well. I knew them all—every one. Some were dear friends, men in whose hands I would have placed my life.” He paused, set his jaw, and went on: “We lost many at Osgiliath over the years, more at Cair Andros, and yet more upon the fields of the Pelennor. But had the Rohirrim not ridden to our aid, we might have lost all.”

He turned to Théodred and met his gaze fully. “Your people have Gondor’s thanks—and mine above all.”

Théodred nodded, and a deep sadness stirred in him—that neither he nor Boromir could offer their thanks in life to those who had honoured their ancient oath, nor pay their respects to those who had fallen for it. Not far from where they stood, Éomer worked with Elfhelm to select foot-soldiers and the finest Riders; five hundred would be needed for each company. Prince Imrahil stood with them, his expression unreadable—though his eyes, now and then, turned to Éomer with a trace of quiet approval.

“I see that my uncle is fond of your cousin,” Boromir said, sensing the heaviness and turning the talk aside as he followed Théodred’s gaze.

“Our grandmother was his kinswoman,” Théodred replied wryly. “I am sure you have not forgotten that.”

Boromir gave a low laugh. “May they renew that kinship—and perhaps forge new bonds besides.”

“Now,” Théodred murmured, suddenly thoughtful, “that is an interesting notion. And you know—Éomer, too, is unwed. Perhaps I shall mention it to him, when my haunting days begin.”

“Careful,” Boromir said, the meaning catching up to him a beat later. “My uncle becomes the most particular man in Middle-earth the moment anyone shows even a glimmer of interest in his daughter. And are you quite certain you wish to play matchmaker—in this case of all cases?”

“What harm can it do?” Théodred replied, perfectly innocent. “I am dead, after all—and the living still need to fall in love.”

They walked on—toward the place where the King had fallen, where Éowyn had struck down the Black Captain. The carcass of the fell beast had been burned, and the ground lay scorched and blackened. But nearby stood a new grave, where green blades had already begun to break the soil, and a stone upon it bore fresh-cut markings. They drew near and looked upon it.

“They need not have carved that,” Théodred sighed once more, reading the words: Master’s Bane, among others.

“Nonetheless, it is how men choose to remember him. But I do not believe Snowmane minds,” Boromir said, his gaze following the white ghost-horse as he raced across the distant fields, teasing Shadowfax with a burst of speed. The great grey steed, for his part, clearly saw him—yet held his ground with an air of studied indifference. “He has found peace. He is free.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching. Then, wordless, they turned together toward the City—each bearing a thought unspoken, yet steadily growing:

When shall we find our own?

As was now their daily custom, they returned to the Houses of Healing to see how Faramir and Éowyn fared. To their continued joy, both were much improved, though still kept abed at the Warden’s counsel. The hobbit named Merry had recovered more swiftly and now walked about—though at present, he was in low spirits, unable to join the host soon to depart. The other hobbit, Pippin, was busy with preparations, already arrayed in the livery of the Guard.

“He is marching as well?” Théodred asked, raising a brow. “I have heard what Merry did beside Éowyn, and I am impressed by his courage. But to think of these small folk in the battle that lies ahead—”

“Do not underestimate them,” Boromir said, a fond smile touching his face. “For one thing, they throw stones with uncanny aim. And their small blades are no mere ornament—not when their slow-kindled courage catches flame.”

When the day came and the trumpets sounded, the host assembled upon the Pelennor began to move. Théodred and Boromir rode together upon Snowmane, close behind the vanguard, though they kept their distance—lest any among the living should sense their presence. Gandalf saw them, of course; but the wizard said nothing, only let his gaze rest for a moment on the arms they bore—and there it lingered, as though in silent recognition, touched with a glimmer of quiet delight.

Yes, they both bore arms now—gifts granted by the Stewards long at rest. These were no arms in the living sense of steel and weight, but rather their shades: the memory of sword and shield and bow, the echo of weapons and gear once used in Gondor’s defence. Yet they lay perfect in the hand—light, keen, and familiar, as though they had long known the touch of those who now wielded them. They had not yet tested their stroke, but each bore the sense that these arms would still prove deadly—even within the bounds of the living world.

In the van, Théodred caught sight of a company of men—sent from the City—and the one leading them looked familiar.

“I believe I saw that man guarding your brother in the Houses of Healing,” he said to Boromir, as they moved eastward along the great road to the Causeway.

“Aye, I know him,” Boromir replied. “That is Beregond of the Guard. But if what I have heard is true, he is a man awaiting judgment—and the best he may hope for now is to reclaim some honour before the end.”

“For what?” Théodred asked, raising a brow. “He looks a decent man to me—and judging by his face when he stood by your brother, I would not question his loyalty. He would have drawn steel for him, had it come to that—that is my read.”

“And that is exactly the wrong of it,” Boromir replied. “Spilling blood in the Hallows, where it is forbidden, and abandoning his post without leave—that is what I have gathered.” His voice was grim, yet not without pity. “By our laws, such deeds carry the penalty of death.”

“And all this—was it not done to save your brother?” Théodred asked.

“Aye,” Boromir said. “But that does not exempt him from the penalty. You have led Riders—you know how it is. Orders are orders, and to break them carries a cost, even when the cause is just. Yet this is not the hour for judgment. The Captain of the Guard has set him aside from his post and sent him to march with the host—a fair and fitting course, I deem, for now.”

The host arrived at Osgiliath before noon. It was teeming with activity: repairing, building, clearing wreckage, and rearranging the defences. Théodred could not help but take note of a large company of craftsmen at work, all bearing military rank. Though the Rohirrim kept horse-herds among their ranks to manage spare mounts, they had no branch devoted to the craft of wood and stone—or to its breaking, should the need arise. Die, and yet learn, he thought once more. King Folcwine had likely known it, having sent his twin sons to aid Gondor, but such knowledge seldom passed into song or tale.

The vanguard did not tarry; they crossed the River and continued along the road that led to the old Minas Ithil—now called by a name far more feared: Minas Morgul. But the larger host on foot halted some five miles beyond Osgiliath. The horsemen pressed on, and Théodred and Boromir, mounted upon Snowmane, naturally followed them all the way to the Cross-roads and the great ring of trees.

That was when they began to feel it.

A watchfulness—silent, yet intent—as though all around them, tree and leaf, water and earth, held its breath to observe. In their present state, they sensed it more keenly than any living man might.

“I have an eerie feeling about this,” Théodred said with a shiver. “Not evil—but unsettling, all the same.”

“I feel it too,” Boromir murmured. “We are being watched—by what, I cannot tell.”

As they spoke, trumpets sounded from each of the four roads, heralds cried out their proclamations, and men went on with their work—cleaning and restoring the statue of the old king. Upon its brow, the crown of white and yellow flowers still lay, undisturbed.

“Should we take this as a sign?” Boromir muttered, watching with a mingled feeling of awe—and a lingering trace of rivalry.

“That is yet to be seen,” Théodred replied—though at the sight, his heart was quietly lifted.

They made camp there that night. Théodred and Boromir, being ghosts, had no need of rest—but they took pleasure in watching their once-fellows at ease, and found comfort in the murmur of familiar voices. They had lingered near the Rohirrim in days past, but tonight they chose to remain closer to the Gondorian encampment—the company from the City, now under the command of Prince Imrahil. Amid the tall men, one small figure stood out: Pippin, seated on a stone near the outer fire, finishing a third helping of rations. Beside him sat Beregond, sharpening a knife with unhurried hands.

“Watching him eat almost stirs hunger in me,” Théodred remarked. “My people may not be famed for their cookery, yet there is no denying the comfort of a hot meal—meat and ale by firelight. And look at him—he makes dry bread and salted meat seem a feast, the way he wolfs it down.”

Snowmane gave a woeful whinny, and Boromir laughed. “I never quite shared the enthusiasm for food. A hot meal and ale are well enough—especially on winter nights—but more often than not, I was too occupied to enjoy them.”

“Aye, I guessed as much,” Théodred said, glancing over. “You seem the sort who never lingered on such comforts—especially considering you are still wearing that,” he added, his eyes flicking to Boromir’s training attire, “even in death.”

Near the fire, Pippin finished his meal, watched Beregond for a while, and then spoke. “Beregond… may I ask you something?”

Beregond looked up with a smile. “Aye—though I am relieved of my former post, I believe my assignment to answer your questions remains in full effect.”

“You’re here—and you don’t look like you regret it,” Pippin said. “I mean… what you did—saving him—that was brave. And right. Truly.” He paused, then added, quieter but no less earnest: “But why, Beregond? Why do you care for Lord Faramir so much?”

Nearby, both Boromir and Théodred turned, their attention caught by the question. But the hobbit, unaware, went on without noticing.

“I mean—I liked Boromir. He was brave, and noble, and he was kind to me. He died trying to save me—and my cousin. Faramir reminds me of him… but there’s also something of Aragorn in him. That… that Elvishness, if you take my meaning. I can’t quite put a name to it.”

Théodred glanced at Boromir and saw, as he expected, a smile on his face—proud and sorrowful at once.

“But you—” Pippin continued, “you love him. That much is clear. You speak of him as if he were more than your captain.”

Beregond was silent for a moment; the steady rasp of stone on steel went on for a few more strokes, then stopped.

“Aye,” he said at last. “Because he is.”

Pippin leaned forward, his voice full of curiosity. “What did he do?”

Beregond did not answer at once. He was a man in his prime—Théodred guessed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties—and bore the air of one still young, not long gone from home, nor much tested beyond the world he knew. But as he remembered and spoke at last, something shifted. A quiet gravity settled over him—a maturity not shown until now.

“Nothing others would have noticed. Nothing that would make a song.”

He set the knife aside and began to speak.

“It was years ago. My wife had been ill, and Bergil was just old enough to understand fear. I was sleeping little, and eating less. Doing my duty as a Guard, but only just.” He gave a small breath—almost a scoff. “No one said anything. Most men just nodded and gave me space. That was kindness, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Pippin echoed, though the notion was clearly a bit beyond him. “And Faramir?”

“He did not ask what was wrong. He did not offer comfort, either.” Beregond’s voice became lower. “One evening, he came to my post and handed me a letter. Said it needed delivering to the Second Circle, and that he thought I might want the walk.” He paused, fingers loosely curled on his knee. “It was not urgent. Did not even matter, truth be told. But the next day, he gave me another. And the day after that. Always just enough to draw me out of the barracks, or away from the Citadel. Through the streets. Past the market. Near the square where my son liked to linger and play.”

Pippin was intrigued. “You think he planned it?”

Beregond nodded once. “Not a doubt in my mind. He gave me a reason to move again. To see the City as something still worth walking through.”

He glanced toward the fire, the reflection flickering in his eyes. “And he never said a word—not then, not ever.” He sheathed the knife gently. “That is the kind of man Captain Faramir is. He will mend what is breaking in a man—without ever letting him feel broken.”

In the darkness beyond the fire’s reach, Boromir was silent for a long while. When he spoke at last, his voice was low and rough-edged. “Aye… that is him, to the core. Always seeing others. Never asking for himself.”

He looked down at his hands. “And if he is the one breaking—who will mend him?”

“Us, of course,” Théodred answered, without hesitation. “Even though we are dead—that is one more reason we march.”

Notes:

On the potential rivalry between Snowmane and Shadowfax, see LotR: “Even as they looked he was gone: a flash of silver in the sunset, a wind over the grass, a shadow that fled and passed from sight. Snowmane snorted and reared, eager to follow; but only a swift bird on the wing could have overtaken him.”

Next: Chapter 9. Shadow of Death

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Till Death Reunites Us - Ch7. Grave Matters

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 6. One Does Not Simply...

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 tunic and breeches of dark green and white, embroidered with gold, 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.”

Next: Chapter 8. Marching Dead

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Till Death Reunites Us - Ch6. One Does Not Simply...

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 5. Haunting Hope

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.

Next: Chapter 7. Grave Matters

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Till Death Reunites Us - Ch5. Haunting Hope

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 4. Dead But Unquiet

Chapter 5. Haunting Hope

As they spoke, they glimpsed Aragorn departing the chamber where Éowyn lay, with Gandalf and Pippin following close behind, bound for the little Halfling’s room.

“I am calm now,” said Théodred to Boromir, his composure largely restored. “Let me go in. I shall not cause a scene—nor haunt Éomer. Not here. Not yet. I am patient. I can wait.”

“Good,” Boromir released him—and nearby, Snowmane pricked an ear, as if to voice his doubts. “I must see to my brother as well—and learn more of what has passed. I shall meet you here by midnight.”

When Théodred stepped inside once more, he halted—staggered by a sight that pierced him more keenly than all the doom-shadowed hours before. To his great relief and joy, Éowyn was awake at last: pale, weary, and sparing of speech, but breathing. And beside her, Éomer was in tears—his young, bold, and proud cousin, weeping openly, unashamed—a sight Théodred had not seen since the fires of childhood sorrow last broke through the boy’s pride.

The frustration he had harboured—born of grief for Éowyn, dear to him as a sister; of Éomer’s seeming blindness to her pain; and of the helplessness that death had laid upon him—ebbed away in that moment.

Éomer—how well he remembered him, when first he came to dwell in Meduseld: eleven years old, not yet near the gate of manhood, wide-eyed and eager. From the start, he had looked up to Théodred as to a far-elder brother and a hero—just as Théodred himself had once gazed upon Éomund, Éomer’s father. He had served as his squire with unwavering devotion, idolizing him with the whole of his young heart. Quick to laugh, quick to anger, and quicker still to move—and to forgive—Éomer had been a storm of fire and loyalty in those days, ever chasing at his elder cousin’s heels.

“You shall lead, and I will follow,” he had once said—so naturally, so certainly, as if it were a truth that could never be undone, nor shadowed by doubt. “You will be King of the Mark, and I will be your Marshal.”

And Théodred had answered him: “Brother—whatever I have, it is yours also.”

And now, he saw not the Third Marshal of the Mark, nor the King of Rohan newly named—but the boy he had once known, laid bare in sorrow, and still true.

For a long moment, he simply watched—Éomer murmuring his remorse for all he had failed to see, and Éowyn, at last, giving voice to burdens long borne in silence. Not all tears are an evil. There was strength in it, and with it, a healing he could not bring himself to disturb. [1]

The man called Thorongil—or Aragorn—was absent from this hour. It belonged to them alone: kin of the same house, bound not only by blood, but by a love forged over long years.

At last, Théodred stepped forward, and with a gesture born more of instinct than intent, reached as if to hold them both—though his hands could no longer touch. Yet even so, he lingered in that stillness, savouring the rare peace that had come, after so many days of war and fear and loss.

And yet, even then, he thought wryly, I still mean to haunt some sense into him. The way he looked at Aragorn—it was as if he had found another brother to follow… or a father, by that man’s years.

And Théodred—though he would never have spoken it aloud—felt a flicker of jealousy. I have been gone but twenty days, he thought. One might expect a longer mourning—or at the very least, a delay before such swift allegiance was given to another. The thought brought with it no small measure of dissatisfaction, and only deepened his resolve to haunt him—later. For now, he would settle for this peace.

Later, when he met Boromir in the garden, they were both truly calm. By unspoken accord, they turned together toward the path that led to the Seventh Circle and the Citadel.

The way was just as Théodred remembered it from the procession earlier that day. Mundburg—Minas Tirith—the proud city steeped in history, learning, and renown—had filled him with awe when he first beheld it in his early twenties. The sheer labour it must have taken to raise such a city lay far beyond his imagining. Indeed, he could not picture his own people setting their will to such a task.

Nor, he thought, as they passed the Court of the Fountain and the barren White Tree that stood at its heart, would his people ever choose to dwell here. It was too high, too confined, too narrow. Even the wind was tamed and bound within these walls.

Boromir, by contrast, moved with ease—this was his home, his city, the place he had known and loved all his life—perhaps even more so in death.

Together they made their way toward the Hall of the Tower. But ere they crossed its threshold, a familiar voice rang out—firm and clear, yet touched with wryness. Boromir knew that tone well, having dealt with Théodred’s kind before—his own father not least among them.

“Boromir the brave,” it said. “The young perish and the old linger—I once spoke so. But never did I think to see you—and my son—linger as well.” [2]

Boromir halted in his step and bowed low, out of true respect—one warrior to another.

“Hail, Théoden King,” he said. “Would that we had met beneath a brighter sun—but as the old saying goes, better a meeting than a parting. I am glad indeed to behold you once more, and gladder still to see you as you were, in the fullness of your strength.”

He spoke true, and not from courtesy alone. For within the great Hall, beside a stately bier arrayed in hangings of green and white, and behind twelve guards—knights of both Rohan and Gondor—stood a figure both noble and spectral: Théoden King, no longer bound by flesh, his hair shimmering once more with the hue of sunlight, and his face younger and fairer than in life.

The King laughed. “Not bad—for one who believed his tale had ended in honour and renown, only to discover it had not ended after all.”

They entered the Hall and made their way to the King, passing the guards without heed. Théodred went at once to embrace his father, as he had always done in life; and though no longer bound by flesh, the gesture still bore meaning. Boromir, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection between father and son, followed the custom he knew best: he bowed his head, and laid one hand upon his breast in solemn respect.

“We have wondered, too, why we linger still,” said Théodred. “At first, we thought it might be the Elvish blood in our veins—however thin—but even that cannot wholly explain it.”

Boromir nodded, a shadow of thought behind his eyes; clearly, he had pondered it long.

“I am no loremaster,” he said, “but all our teachings from the elder days speak one truth: that Men are mortal, and their fate is to depart. Any other state is unnatural—and in the end, leads only to darkness and ruin. As for lineage, the line runs but one way: any with mortal blood must share the Doom of Men—barring rare exceptions, which surely do not apply to us.”

“Then even if we linger for a time—for now—our hour shall come,” said the King with a slow nod. “For I perceive no shadow in you—nor in myself.” He paused, then added more gently, “But let us speak no more of the dead—for the living still need our care.” Turning to Théodred, he asked, “How fares Éowyn? Since you come to me now with light in your face, I trust she is well?”

“Not well, perhaps,” Théodred sighed, “but surely better than before. I suppose you know what passed between her and Aragorn?”

The King raised a brow, blinked, and then let out a long sigh. “So that is why she came. I should have known—”

“No,” Théodred said softly, correcting him. “That was not the only reason. We all presumed too much, I think—and misjudged her. And so the sorrow unfolded. I only hope she may yet heal… at least in body.” And if she does not, he thought to himself, then I shall haunt the one who broke her heart. We shall see. 

They were silent for a while, until at last the King turned to Boromir. “And how fares your father, the Lord Steward? I have not seen him since I was brought here, but I assumed—amidst the war’s tumult—that he must be devoting all his strength and will to the defence of this City. It would be like him, indeed, to spare no time for the dead.”

Boromir was quiet for a moment before he answered. “My father… has passed.”

The King drew a breath—though it carried no air—and grief welled in his voice. “A grievous loss,” he said. “The day is darker still, if ill fate has also claimed Denethor the steadfast, Lord Steward of Gondor. Was he struck down by a foe beyond him—like the one I faced?”

Boromir drew a long breath in kind. “It was not as you thought, my lord,” he said at last.

Then he spoke—of what he had gleaned from the accounts of Beregond and Pippin, who had witnessed all that passed in the Hallows and spoken of it, unaware of his nearness: the despair, the fire, the end. His voice frayed toward the close—hoarse, raw with grief, and edged with fury. Even Théodred, who had known the outcome, had never heard the tale in such full and harrowing detail—and now felt, with bitter clarity, that his earlier remark, “Old men have their reasons,” had fallen woefully short of the truth. The King, too, stood long in silence, struck by sorrow—and by a quieter, deeper shock.

“I wanted to ask him why,” Boromir said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But as you have seen… he did not linger.”

After a pause, he continued. “I do not understand it. Would he not wish to know whether my brother lives? Would he not want to see if there remains even the smallest chance of holding the darkness at bay, just a little longer? He was the last man I would ever have thought to break—whether in life... or beyond it.”

“Then it is hope,” said the King.

Seeing both turn to him, puzzled, he went on:

“Your father surrendered it—entirely. He could not bear to remain and face disappointment—not once more. But we—the three of us—yet hold to it: hope that something good, something better, lies ahead for those we love… and a sorrow deep as the sea, that we did not live to see it fulfilled. And so, by some strange grace granted to us, we linger—to witness it, if we may.”

His gaze shifted to the empty throne upon the dais.

“That, I deem, is why we remain.”

Notes:

[1] [2] Words highlighted in these paragraphs are quoted from LotR.

Next: Chapter 6. One Does Not Simply...

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Till Death Reunites Us - Ch4. Dead But Unquiet

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 3. Ascent

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!

Next: Chapter 5. Haunting Hope

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Till Death Reunites Us - Ch3. Ascent

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 2. Free Rides

Chapter 3. Ascent

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.

Next: Chapter 4. Dead But Unquiet

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Till Death Reunites Us - Ch2. Free Rides

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

Previous: Chapter 1. Reunion

Chapter 2. Free Rides

Going upriver was easier said than done—especially when one did not wish to miss the action, which was already beginning to unfold before their eyes. Théodred and Boromir, now well aware of their condition and trying to be considerate about it, stood a little apart from the living men who bustled about, preparing and loading near the ships. Quietly, they weighed the possibility of securing another free ride—unseen and unbothered.

“This may be difficult—I think the Elf can see us,” Théodred said to Boromir in a low voice, casting an uneasy glance toward the figure clad in green and brown, a grey cloak draped over his shoulders and a bow slung across his back. He stood not far from Aragorn, seemingly watching his surroundings with idle ease. “That is an Elf, right?”

“Aye,” Boromir nodded. “Of course he can see us. And just so you know—he can hear us too, even from that distance. That is Legolas of the Woodland Realm. I am not certain how much I am at liberty to share, but this should be safe: I traveled with a company of nine—and he was one of us.”

“I have never dealt with an Elf before,” Théodred said. “And I am beginning to wonder how much more I will have to learn in death.”

“And I am not sure I am ready to face old companions who still live—while I am dead,” Boromir muttered. “Least of all after they sang songs for me once I was gone.”

Just then, the Elf smiled, his piercing eyes turning their way. Both men—or the ghosts of what they had once been—tensed. And to their embarrassment, he walked straight toward them.

“Well met, my friend,” he said to Boromir, as though this were but another meeting after a brief parting. Then his gaze turned to Théodred. “You I have not met, I deem—but by your bearing, I would say you are—were—of the Rohirrim.”

At least he spoke the Common Tongue—Théodred had no confidence he could manage Sindarin without stumbling over every other word at this point in his life—no, death—by wind and mane, adapting was hard!—and he privately vowed to haunt his grandfather’s ghost if he were ever made to learn it again.

“Well met, Master Elf. I am Théodred, son of Théoden King of Rohan—the late Prince, as you have most perceptively observed, both with your eyes and with your tongue.”

“I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood,” said the Elf with a light laugh, before shifting into a more formal tone. “We have met your father, son of Théoden. I am glad to report that he has recovered from his grievous state, and was well and hale when we left him at Helm’s Deep. Even now, as we speak, he rides to war.”

A wave of disbelief and wonder washed over him—and for the first time since his death, Théodred felt something warm, like tears, rise in his throat.

“Tell me more,” was all he could say.

And so he heard what had passed after Boromir’s death—how the three companions gave pursuit in a bold attempt to rescue their little friends, how they were reunited with Gandalf in the haunted forest, and how their road led them at last to the Golden Hall.

Boromir listened just as intently. At the mention of Gandalf, he gave a small grunt and muttered something under his breath—and Théodred thought he caught words like: “Thrice-blasted wizards!”

“I could stand here and speak with you from night to dawn—and fill the hours with tales of Helm’s Deep and the roads that led us here,” the Elf said with a mischievous smile. “But folk may begin to wonder why I linger so long… and seem to be speaking to empty air.”

“You took the Paths of the Dead—under Dwimorberg,” Théodred said, still turning over all he had heard. Even he shivered at the name of that place. “Glad I was not the second Prince of Rohan to venture in there. But you are right—we have lingered too long. Any chance we might join you on the road? And… perhaps you could exercise a bit of discretion, and not mention us to the others—so they do not, well, panic. Not everyone is as composed as Lord Angbor of Lamedon, as we have come to learn.”

The Elf laughed. “I intend to do exactly that, my late prince. My Dwarf friend, Master Gimli, son of Glóin, would surely appreciate the peace of mind. Come, friends—war awaits us.”

By the time they set off, they saw many more arrivals. The sons of Elrond were a wonder unto themselves. “I once read they rode with Eorl the Young to the Fields of Celebrant,” Théodred murmured to Boromir.

The Dúnedain of the North were no less impressive—tall and grim, each seeming cut from the same cloth as Aragorn himself—and Théodred quietly wondered whether they, too, would linger after death, as he and Boromir had.

Angbor of Lamedon arrived with a great host of men, though he no longer seemed able to see Théodred or Boromir—a quiet relief to both. Aragorn bade them ride north on horseback, and so they did not embark with the others.

Going upriver in man-made ships was nothing like their passage in the Elven boat—and it was not an experience Théodred was accustomed to. Even knowing full well there was no real danger of drowning, he quickly grew seasick. Boromir, by contrast, seemed far more at ease, his confidence born of past experience. The fleet rowed steadily throughout the day, and as evening fell, a red glow rose in the north.

“Minas Tirith is burning,” Boromir said with a grimace. Théodred observed that he grew graver with every league they gained northward.

“We are getting there,” he said, placing a hand on Boromir’s shoulder—and silently wishing the ships would move faster. I wish we had a horse, he thought once more. Could the Mearas see us? Would Shadowfax be willing to bear a late prince? After all, he bore a wizard.

Hope stirred in the middle of the night. A wind arose, blowing up from the sea, and before long, all the ships raised their sails.

In the third hour of the morning, they came to Harlond, riding the heels of rain and the returning sun.

“I never expected to see that banner raised in my lifetime,” Boromir said, his voice thick with feeling. “When I was young, I used to wonder why my father was not king, when he ruled as one. I asked him once—how many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not?”

He let out a low, self-mocking laugh.

“And he told me, ‘Few years, maybe—in other places of lesser royalty. In Gondor, ten thousand years would not suffice.’” [1]

Théodred looked at him—once the heir to the Stewardship, a mighty man born to bear the weight of duty, yet fated never to hold the sceptre nor wear the crown.

“Did that trouble you?” he asked.

“Aye,” Boromir admitted after a pause. “For a little while, at least.”

He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again.

“But I never thought I would witness the return of the King. I wonder what my father will say.”

“Do you think we can somehow take part in this?” Théodred asked, as the ships pulled into the harbour and the Dúnedain, the sons of Elrond, the warriors of Lamedon and Lebennin, and others from the southern fiefs disembarked to join the battle—Aragorn son of Arathorn at their head.

“I doubt it,” Boromir said, as one man ran straight through him without noticing. “See? We still cannot touch them.”

“At least let us get closer,” Théodred replied. “I see the Rohirrim—my father and Éomer must have arrived!”

“There—that is your cousin, is it not?” Boromir asked, pointing toward a Rider in the distance beside a high standard, where the white horse flew upon green.

“Aye,” Théodred said. “But that is the King’s standard next to him—and I do not see my father.” A shadow of worry crossed his face. “Go on ahead—I need to find out what has happened!”

“I will need to head to the City as well,” Boromir replied. “Seems we will have to part ways—for now. I will meet you at the Citadel. I need to find my brother—and my father.”

As Théodred moved through the fields of the Pelennor, he began to understand. It was true—not all lingered. In truth, very few did. With the sight granted him in death, he saw that most of the lives lost in the slaughter—men and beasts alike—rose and faded, vanishing like wisps of silver smoke amid the ruin, the blood, and the bitter fury of war.

So many deaths—it astonished him. So much hatred, so much blood.

I wonder what can come of this, once everything settles, he thought.

He did not find his father on the battlefield. But soon enough, he understood what had come to pass.

”Mighty was the fallen, and meet was his ending.” And it grieved him—more deeply than he had expected.

I may yet find him, Théodred thought, a small flame of hope rekindled. If I linger because of my Elvish blood—then he had it, too. I may yet find him.

But before that, he came upon the place where it had happened. The foul carcass of the fell beast still lay there, stinking of death. As he approached the spot where the King’s guards had fallen, he saw a horse—or rather, the ghost of one—standing alone. White of mane and body, the creature lingered, forlorn and sorrowful.

“Snowmane!” he exclaimed.

The horse turned to look at him, eyes still clouded with bewilderment, fear, and sorrow. Then they widened—just a little—in recognition.

“Come here,” he said. And the horse came.

“Great—I wondered if one of the Mearas could see me,” Théodred said, rubbing the white ghost-horse’s neck. “I heard what happened.”

The horse tensed beneath his hand, growing restless.

“It was a foe beyond you,” Théodred said gently. “Not everyone can be like Shadowfax.”

The horse stiffened, then snorted in protest—as if to say, “That is no comfort.”

“What do you wish to do now?” Théodred asked with a faint smile, his hand passing once more along the ghost-horse’s neck in a soothing motion. “Will you ride with me? My friend and I could well use your strength.”

The horse protested fiercely.

“Shhh,” Théodred murmured, fixing him with a look—one he imagined Eorl the Young might once have given to Felaróf.

“Do you truly want me to say the words?” he said softly. “All that talk about being Mansbane, owing a life or a weregild, and so on? You are no one’s bane. Come with me—we have yet a world to see. Together.”

The proud horse stood motionless for a heartbeat, then bowed his head in assent.

And together, they turned toward the White City, the great fortress of the Free Peoples, while all about them, the servants and allies of the Dark Lord were being driven out and slain, and the tale of Gondor’s wrath and terror was written in fire and steel.

Notes:

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

Next: Chapter 3. Ascent

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Till Death Reunites Us - Ch1. Reunion

Théodred had never thought he would die thus. Nor had he expected to meet another—after death.

Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG

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. Thanks to my friend Findirien for the cheerful discussion on “How could the Rohirrim bury Théodred on the eyot? A flood was coming soon!”

Next: Chapter 2. Free Rides

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Because you deserve one!

OMG - thank you so much! ❤️❤️❤️

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Steelsheen - Epilogue

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Gap-filler; Canon-compliant; But I do have complaints about certain Tolkien settings, so I'll just fill in the gaps my way.

Main Character/POV: Éowyn Rating: Teen (PG-13)

Previous: Chapter 10. Estel, Necestel

Epilogue. Steelsheen

Of the great battle of that age, the War that changed the world, many songs were sung, and many tales told. One of them spoke of Éowyn, daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn, who rode in secret guise beneath the name Dernhelm to the field of battle, and there, with the aid of a Halfling out of a far land, struck down a foe no man could withstand. Thereafter she was known as the Lady of the Shield-arm in the Riddermark, and her tale lived long in the mouths of men.

The world, though scarred, endured. And in its quiet turning, there came a season not only of rebuilding, but of remembrance—of wounds that showed, and wounds that lay hidden deep; of names nearly forgotten, and of fires that, once kindled, never wholly die.

In the first spring after the fall of the Shadow, Éowyn departed from her new home in Emyn Arnen and crossed the Great River at Harlond, journeying westward. Her road led to Lossarnach, the vales of flowers. She spoke of her errand to none but Faramir, who knew well the tale of her grandmother, and the legacy she had reclaimed. He offered to ride with her, but she declined, deeming the quest her own.

The road lay open now, green once more, and the orchards of the vales bloomed with promise. The air was rich with the scent of new earth and old memory, and the wind stirred softly through birch and ash.

“One day we shall ride again, to lands your eyes have not yet beheld, and come to know those you may yet hold dear.” She thought then of her cousin’s words, and answered in her heart: I have done so, brother. I only wish you were here, to see what I behold.

She bore with her two letters—the last she had not read ere the war: one, formal and sealed, affirming a claim to a small holding in Imloth Melui, granted in the final year of Thengel, King of Rohan. The other was from Finduilas, wife of the late Steward—indeed, Faramir’s mother—written with grace and marked by sorrow; it spoke of a promise kept, a final wish fulfilled, and the aid she had given Morwen in securing the Steward’s assent.

So she came at last to a hillside where flowers grew wild and free: a modest cottage, half-veiled in vine, with white lilies bowing beside a low stone wall. Far below, the two rivers—Erui and the great Anduin—glimmered in silver threads, winding through the folded land, past groves of olive and ash. It was a place unmarked on any map, unnamed in song—yet in that hour, it seemed not newly found, but remembered.

No one was there; indeed, the cottage seemed long abandoned, as she had expected. She dismounted, and bade her horse wait.

Beyond the garden, where tall grass met the wood’s edge, she found it: a cairn of river-stones, veiled in ivy, set apart in the hush of wild blossoms. No name was carved. No boast, no sigil. Only the stillness that followed when a tale was ended, and the world had no further need of remembrance.

For a long time she stood in silence, the wind stirring her cloak, the scent of earth and rose about her. Then she knelt, and laid her hand upon the stone.

She had not come to mourn—for grief, fierce and scalding, had passed through her long ago. Nor had she come to honour the dead with lofty words. She had come to see that her grandmother had found what she herself had once sought: not renown, nor escape, nor even love—but rest, in the place where her heart had ever dwelt.

Éowyn had seen war—its fire, its terror, its reckoning. She had fought, in the depth of her despair, to defend what she could not bear to forfeit. Her blade had been her voice, when none would heed her words. But war was not her calling—it had been her answer.

And when the dust had settled, and the world turned once more toward peace, she understood at last: her will to fight had been born not of pride, nor of ambition, but of fear—fear of powerlessness, of watching others suffer, and being unable to lift a hand to stay it. She had never longed to slay, but to shield; to preserve; to mend what had been torn.

And in the slow unmaking of her uncle, and in her grandmother’s written words, she had glimpsed what few would name: that healing was no lesser strength, but the rarer. That her people, bold though they were, had yet to learn how to tend wounds that did not bleed. That the hands of a healer might carry as heavy a burden as those that bore the sword.

She brought no garland. But she brought a chisel, and the strength of her hand.

She cleared the stone, brushing away time and ivy. Then, with slow and measured strokes, she carved a name—not in flourish, but in the ancient runes of the Rohirrim, grave and enduring. Not the name sung in mead-halls, nor the name spoken in the courts of kings, but the name that had withstood the years:

Steelsheen

When the carving was done, she set aside the tool and laid her palm upon the stone. The stillness that settled over her was not emptiness, but peace—deep and unwavering, like the hush that follows a storm.

For in that moment she knew, with an inexplicable certainty: her grandmother had chosen the hour and place of her passing—not as retreat, but as resolve, in the manner of the Men of old. As one who had walked a long road, and at last laid down her burden—not in defeat, but in dignity.

And Éowyn, too, had chosen.

She had not turned from war out of weariness, nor taken up the healing arts to be spared the blade. She had faced the shadow and passed through it. She had looked into the abyss—and risen above. And now she turned to the work most needed, and least sung: a labour no less demanding. She had learned swiftly to tend wounds of battle in the Houses of Healing, but herblore and leechcraft, alas, would ask much of her—effort, patience, and long years of toil, like the art of cookery, as Faramir had gently told her.

She rose, and the wind stirred the grass about her. When she turned to go, she did not look back. Yet her hand lingered a moment upon the old gate-post, roughened by weather and worn by time.

Then she mounted, and rode on—back to where she had come.

And in the turning of the world, her name was not lost—nor the name she carved, which weathered time, and outlasted stone.

-The End-

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Steelsheen - Chapter 10. Estel, Necestel

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Gap-filler; Canon-compliant; But I do have complaints about certain Tolkien settings, so I'll just fill in the gaps my way.

Main Character/POV: Éowyn Rating: Teen (PG-13)

Previous: Chapter 9. The Fallen

Chapter 10. Estel, Necestel

But it did not come to that.

Not to the unjust and unauthorized spilling of blood, as Éowyn had feared yet steeled herself to commit, should the need arise. Rather, it ended—at least for a time—not in ruin, but in something she had never thought to find again: a flicker of hope, kindled amid the ashes of despair.

Since that darkest day, she had kept watch with a stillness like frost. The last sheen of warmth in her gaze had been extinguished. It was cool now—detached, unshaken, even in the face of cruelty cloaked in courtesy. A shadow had passed through her soul, and left it tempered.

She delivered the sorrowful news to the King—there was no way around it, and she could not bear the thought of leaving it to Wormtongue. He listened, but after a long silence, he only nodded and turned away, indifferent, as if it were but a passing wind at his ear. Yet she, observing all with a resolve-honed keenness, caught a flicker of pain in the depths of those fogged blue eyes—once so bright, so piercing, so full of vigour.

Then understanding came upon her. He knew it. But he could not bear it—so he would not accept it. Better, perhaps, to slip deeper into the oblivion born of grief and age. And when she saw this, she had no heart left to force his eyes open, no will remaining to rouse him back to care. Her agitation cooled into pity. For it would be kinder thus—for the one she loved as a father—to suffer less.

Fortunately, the dread she bore for her brother came to nothing—no fresh blow fell, no new name to mourn. Éomer was alive, and seemed never to have learned of the peril at the Fords—not yet. Indeed, a report reached Edoras the next morning: the Third Marshal had ridden out from Eastfold around midnight, in pursuit of an Orc-band that had come down from Emyn Muil—in open defiance of the King’s command.

“Ever seeking to rise higher,” she heard the whisper—the sort of comment that had grown more frequent of late, sly and quiet as worm-sign beneath the floorboards. And the voice that had once answered such slanders with firm, unfaltering clarity—her cousin’s voice—was heard no more.

She swallowed the loss that had wounded her to the core, and deemed it not yet the time to act. With Éomer away, any move she made would be reckless, desperate—or worse, deemed treasonous. One misstep, and both she and her brother might be accused of conspiring against the King and his Heir. For the worm was not alone; he had sown ambition and greed in more than a few hearts. She could not risk bringing ruin not only upon herself, but upon the House of Eorl—not now—even if it meant ridding them of the serpent at last. So she would wait. She was patient, after all. How could she not be, after so many years of practice—willing or no?

Only a few more days, till her brother’s return.

It proved to be three—merely three days, and yet they felt as long as a lifetime.

And in that span, ill luck found her—for she was taken unwell the day after the tidings: a dull ache low in her back, a faint chill, and a weariness that needed no name. Her courses had come—sudden and unbidden, as though summoned by grief and strain—and by the third day, the worst of it was upon her. She was forced to leave the King’s side, even during the customary hours, and withdraw to her chamber to bathe and change her linens and garments. It did not take long—perhaps an hour—but when she returned, she was told that the King had gone to the Hall, Wormtongue beside him, for Éomer had returned, and had asked audience at once.

She heard raised voices, and then the clash of struggle, as she hastened toward the Hall. But when she entered, it was already done: her brother stood held fast by Háma and the guards, disarmed, stripped of his weapons—unconscious.

Her breath caught; her heart stuttered. “Éomer,” was all she could utter.

At the sound of her voice, Wormtongue cast her a glance, and turned to the King. In his ever humble, ever honeyed tone, he said: “My life is given wholly to your service, my lord, and it grieves me more than I can say when the Third Marshal believes himself entitled to take it, despite your decree. Yet I know the King’s heart is ever kind, even toward those who have not earned such trust or mercy. For his own good—and for the good of the realm—perhaps Lord Éomer should remain under guard, until his fire is cooled.”

So it was settled. Éowyn followed Háma to the guard-houses, and Háma—who had never faltered in his loyalty—was stern, yet not without a trace of sympathy. “We will care for him,” he said, offering her what reassurance he could. “And we will send for you when he wakes. I regret what passed in the Hall, but your brother drew sword first—and swore to kill Wormtongue.”

Then she heard from Háma what Éomer had reported to the King: the Orc-hunt, and the strange encounter with a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf—who claimed to have been received with honour by the Lady of the Wood, and, stranger still, had come forth alive. “Sounds like fancies and dreams, even from your brother, my lady,” Háma said at last.

She was greatly relieved to see her brother returned safe and sound—but no less puzzled than Háma, and more than a little troubled. Later, when she returned at Háma’s summons, Éomer had already stirred and come back to wakefulness. The moment their eyes met, she knew: he had heard. And he, in turn, saw the pallor in her face, and a flicker of sorrow and regret passed over his own. “I should have refrained,” he said, his voice rough with weariness. “But I could not. That snake—he schemed to—”

“I know.” She took his hands and looked into his eyes, long and searching. And in them, he read the question she had not spoken.

He grimaced. “Do not, sister,” he said, with a quiet urgency she had never seen in him before. “I feel it in my bones—change is coming. When I dealt with those strangers, I did not act in haste, nor without thought, whatever others may judge.”

“Are you certain?” she asked after a pause. “In a time such as this, you truly believe they… they will keep faith—and stand by their word?”

“Aye,” he said. “And when they come, you shall see it with your own eyes.”

And she did see it, with her own eyes.

It was the strangest company she had ever beheld: Gandalf Greyhame—now revealed in raiment of white—with a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf beside him, just as Éomer had foretold.

They came to the Golden Hall in the early morning, and with their coming, the shadow that had long lain upon it was lifted. The splendour of Meduseld was restored—not only of the house, but of the spirit of its lord.

“The time for fear is past,” the King told her. And she turned as he bade, holding all turmoil within, for she could not yet fully believe what had just come to pass. But there was more. Something stirred at the edge of memory—something that felt as though she had seen it before, somewhere, long ago.

As she slowly approached the Hall, she paused at the doors and looked back—at the King, and at the newcomers—once more. And then it struck her: where she had seen the likeness of this Man before—tall and wise, grey-cloaked.

For a moment she stood still as stone, then turned swiftly and passed through the doors.

She hastened to her chamber, almost at a run. Bursting into the room, she flung open the wardrobe and began to search—and in no time, she found it: the letters, and the journal of her grandmother.

With unsteady hands she opened one of the letters—the one that held the portraits of the lords of the Mark… and a stranger: Thorongil.

It was he. She stared at the likeness, and the features—the bearing—shone forth, clear as crystal.

How many years had passed since then? If the man had stood in his prime during her grandfather’s rule, he would now be over sixty—perhaps even eighty. Yet his face bore not the marks of such years. He looked older, yes—or rather, more seasoned—but still he remained a man in the height of his strength, not one fading into the twilight of age and waning days.

He must be of the High Blood—one of the Númenóreans, the Kings of Men—whose ancient homeland lay beyond the mortal shores, far across the vast waters of the world.

With one hand holding his image, she opened the journal—as if guided by an unseen hand—and turned to its final pages.

The writing was Morwen’s—decisive, elegant, as ever. Yet now Éowyn discerned in it a resolve she had not seen before: quiet, but unyielding. The date marked the year 2980—the year her grandfather passed, and the year her grandmother faded from memory, and, as long presumed, from the world of Men.

Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

“I knew this day would come—that you would depart before me.

“You have walked long beside me, and now your steps are ended. I watched you fade, like autumn into winter—slowly, with dignity, as golden leaves fall, never to return.

“There is no bitterness in me. Only sorrow—and a quiet release.

“I have done all that was asked of me. I stood beside you in court and in counsel, in war and in waiting. I bore the burden of silence when words might have betrayed my place—not for honour, but for love.

“I wed you ere I loved you. I forsook my homeland and my kin. I raised your children, and I learned to live as your people live. I do not repent of any of it—no. But the fire abides in me still: the longing for my roots, for the mountains and the sea, and for the freedom I have long desired, yet cannot claim freely—for the love I have borne.

“With you gone, I will not be a queen of ghosts. Farewell, my beloved. As we long spoke among my people—a people you are well acquainted with—may we meet again beyond the circles of the world. For now, for a little longer, I shall go where my heart is bound.”

With a trembling hand, she turned the page.

“And with the aid of Captain Thorongil, who returned unlooked for—and who, it seemed, had at last achieved much of what he had long laboured toward—my journey home shall be made in safety.”

She did not pass that year! Éowyn’s eyes widened in shock and wonder. Her grandmother—after a life lived in a land not her own, and a love that had grown slowly, truly—had departed of her own will, to the vales of flowers where she came, when her duties were ended. And the King—he must have granted it, though never spoken of it; and Thorongil—no, Aragorn, son of Arathorn—had aided her, too.

Éowyn broke into tears then, and wept hard—not with constraint, nor with fear, but with a freedom long withheld. And hope, for the first time in many long months, rose up within her—like rain falling on withered grass, like frost retreating before the first light of spring.

She held that hope high, with a passion she had never known before, her eyes ever fixed upon the one she deemed had wrought the change and rekindled the flame. Nor did her heart falter, even when she was bidden to lead the people to Dunharrow in the mountains, while the King rode forth with the Riders to Helm’s Deep—sent once more to abide, to endure. For she loved her people, and was dearly loved in turn. In those first days of unrest, when the King was enfeebled and her kindred away, it was she who had gone among the folk: speaking with farmers driven from their homes, herdsmen bereft of flocks, and mourners of kin lost—father or mother, husband or wife, daughter or son. It was she who had hearkened to their grief, who had given grain and goods with her own hands, and who had spoken comfort: that the King would be told, and the lords of the Mark kept watch, against foes both old and newly risen.

But it failed her.

It failed her—not in the ill turns of battle, nor in the fall of those she held most dear, but in a calm and honourable refusal, veiled in flawless courtesy and born of true concern. A gentleness that cut more keenly than cruelty, and left no wound to show. In speaking with him, she came to understand: he did not truly see her—not what she had witnessed, nor what she had endured; not the fears that clung to her, nor the longing that stirred deep within. He mistook her fire for restlessness, her frustration for heedlessness, her resolve to go forth for a hunger after renown. Yet what she sought was not glory—not glory alone—but freedom: the freedom to choose, to follow where her heart was drawn, and to guard what she loved, rather than wait to be guarded.

And so the flame he had rekindled guttered—not for want of wind, but for want of air.

She remembered the ghostly hush beneath the stones, the way the wind itself held breath when Aragorn spoke of the road he would take—the Door under the Haunted Mountain, the path from which none returned. Awe had fallen upon the faces of the men, and fear as well. But in her, a cry rose—silent, fierce, unyielding—not for safety, but for a place among them. Not for a deed remembered, nor the songs of later years, but to stand where her sword might serve. That was the right she asked for. She did not fear that road. She feared only being left behind—to endure once more, to wonder, to wait in silence while others went forth and chose the fate of her, and of all she loved.

As she watched the man she thought she loved vanish with the Grey Company, and turned to stumble back to her lodging, a question trailed her like a shadow: Why had she asked for leave—and placed her hope in another’s hands? She had knelt in her tent, silent, head bowed, the ache in her chest as sharp as the thought that pierced it. In her hands lay the journal. There, the woman who had crossed mountains for love and stood unflinching before a foreign court had written: “When you speak, daughter, do not ask for space—claim it.” And Éowyn—who bore steel at her side, who had stood by the dying and led the living—had asked: for a place, for a purpose, for a heart never hers. That, she saw now, had been her error.

Her heart had mistaken him—not in honour, nor in stature, but in what he gave, and what he could not. She had seen in him the light that once touched Morwen’s face—in the likeness of Thorongil, remembered in portrait and in word—one she had believed would understand. But she had misread the tale. Morwen Steelsheen had endured, yet never wished to be a blade. But Éowyn—Éowyn desired more.

What love she bore for him had changed its shape: not broken, but dimmed. Not for any fault in him, nor in herself—but because the hope she had wrapped about him like a banner no longer fit, no longer held. It was simply no longer true. Yet she had learned from it. Not all aid will come. Not all doors open. Hope may falter—but even in the waning of hope, one may still act.

And soon she came to see that, by acting, she might yet aid another—the little Halfling, who also wished not to be left behind.

So, when the day came, when darkness gathered and no sun arose, she buckled on her armour. It fit her now, adjusted and reforged with the aid of the smith who had once served her friend. She gathered her few possessions—the letters, the journal, the comb—and stowed them in her saddlepack, beneath her cloak. Then she stepped into the cold air, the wind from the East stirring the grass about the stones.

She went to the horse-lines and found Windfola waiting—the great grey stallion who had once borne Elfhild through battle and fire. Since her death, no one had dared ride him—none but Éowyn, who had tended him faithfully ever since.

She bridled him herself. The morning was dark, and even the horns were hushed. Then she went straight to Elfhelm, who stood apart, watching as his Riders made ready.

“I need your help, Marshal,” she said, helm in hand, her braid bound tight and perfect. “I shall ride in your éored.”

Elfhelm looked at her—looked truly—and his eyes widened with recognition. Not in surprise, nor in confusion, but with the slow dawning of something long foreseen: a thing he had feared, and yet known would come.

“My lady, I cannot—”

“Do it,” she said quietly. “For Hild. For those who had no choice. And for me.”

Notes:

Necestel: Quenya, “Without hope, despair”. In LotR (Book V, Chapter 5), it is said: “There seemed to be some understanding between Dernhelm and Elfhelm, the Marshal who commanded the éored in which they were riding.” This, then, is how I have come to imagine the reason why. In the year 2980, Aragorn and Arwen plighted their troth in Lórien; in that same year, Thengel passed, and Théoden became King of Rohan.

Next: Epilogue. Steelsheen

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Steelsheen - Chapter 9. The Fallen

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Gap-filler; Canon-compliant; But I do have complaints about certain Tolkien settings, so I'll just fill in the gaps my way.

Main Character/POV: Éowyn Rating: Teen (PG-13)

Previous: Chapter 8. Wormtongue

Chapter 9. The Fallen

Of late, the King had grown ever more reliant upon Éowyn, since war had broken out upon the western borders.

He had begun to seek her presence, and would fret or murmur if she were not near. He would not let her pass from his sight, but kept her close from morning until late, though he indeed asked little of her—as though her nearness alone were a balm to his spirit, like a drowning man clinging to a shard of driftwood upon a dark tide.

Éowyn found herself no longer able to tend to the affairs of the court beyond the council sessions. And even there, the King had grown more wilful of late, speaking with a newfound resolve—though by now, it was no surprise that his words so often bore the shape and shadow of Wormtongue’s speech.

She was troubled by this change, fearing for a time that the King’s strength and mind had waned yet further. The dread of losing him grew anew within her, and she tended him in all the ways she could: bringing fresh, fragrant herbs sought with care even in the lean days of winter, listening attentively to his wandering recollections of years long past, and seeing to his every need with diligence. At first, she was also concerned that she would be compelled to endure more of Wormtongue’s presence, for that man now seldom strayed from the King’s side. But her unease was soon in part allayed, thanks to Éomer: the King gave orders that two guards should remain ever at Wormtongue’s side, “to shield him from insolence—and from certain inappropriate threats.”

It was not long after Théodred assumed full command of the military that Éomer sought her out, asking after Gríma—and whether that man had ever done anything that might rightly be deemed unwelcome, or a cause for alarm.

“Speak, Éowyn,” he had said to her in private, his voice low, yet charged with urgency and restrained wrath. “You must know—I stand with you, now and always.”

She was put on her guard, yet her voice remained steady. “What is it, brother?”

He did not answer at once. A long breath passed between them.

“I—and Théodred—beheld him… following after you. And the way he looked—” He met her eyes then, grey to grey, unwavering. “For that look alone, I would call him forth to answer.”

Yet he could not—for Wormtongue, well aware of his intent and loath to face his wrath, had struck first. He had contrived to secure the King’s protection, and in addition to the guards, the King himself laid a warning upon Éomer: that in the Hall, no man was to draw sword.

When Éomer was called to depart for Aldburg once more, he was visibly troubled. Éowyn had seldom heard him speak so much to her in a single evening—from how late she ought to stay awake, to what food she should give heed to—and so, ere she bade him goodnight, she showed him the dagger she had carried ever since the loss of Elfhild.

“I regret beyond words that you must bear this, sister,” he said at last, and clasped her hand firmly. “But wait—only a little longer. Wait for us to set all in order. We shall rid the Hall of this snake.”

“It is our uncle and King for whom I fear the more. As for myself, I can fend well enough. But you—do take care as well,” was all she said in return.

Later she thought, with both relief and a strange sense of loss, that he had changed—and for the better. He did not overreach as much this time, as though beginning to accept the truth that, however willing, he could not shield her from all of this alone. That truth angered him, and brought him frustration—but it also brought growth.

He was soon nominated to the rank of Third Marshal, though not without scrutiny and doubts stirred by Wormtongue: “Are we to encourage this restlessness, this unruliness of youth, that sets itself against the wisdom of both the King and his Heir?” But Théodred stood by his cousin, and with a wry smile and calm authority, dismissed the charge: “Or are we to foster this folly, this suspicion more often found among the faint of heart, that sets us against sound judgment, and turns us one against another?” And so it was done.

Now that his long labour in fortifying Aldburg for war had at last borne fruit, he could return to Edoras more often than before; the Riders under his command formed a great part of the city’s defence, and Elfhelm was frequently called away by the needs of Théodred.

Théodred. Her heart turned ever more anxiously toward him. She missed him keenly, and was swift to read each message that came from the west, in whatever little time she could spare from the King’s side. It had been more than a month now since last she saw him, and already the season was turning to early spring. With war now waged openly against Saruman and his allies, the Prince and Second Marshal had removed his seat to Helm’s Deep, whence he now directed the defence of the Fords and the western marches.

It was just past noon when Éowyn heard the horn sounded at the gate—a single blast, short and sharp, not the long cry that welcomed returning riders. She paused, listening where she sat. The King had finished his morning drill and now dozed by the hearth in his chamber. Wormtongue was not about; he had been rather busy of late—no doubt spreading fresh lies and sowing discord, she thought coldly.

She rose in silence and withdrew. The horn signalled a messenger, and she had not been able to look to the tidings these past three days, for the King had taken a sudden turn—weaker than was his wont—and had only now begun to mend. When she stepped through the doors of the Hall and stood atop the high stair, she saw that the sun hung high, yet veiled by a thin drift of cloud, and the air was still. But the wind had turned in the night, and now blew keen from the East.

Guards saluted her as she passed. When she reached the foot of the stair, she saw a messenger being led up in plain haste. One glance told her all: something grave had come to pass. Dust-covered and hollow-eyed, his hair clung to his brow, and his hands trembled with the weariness of long and hard riding. As he and the gate-guard beheld her, he bowed at once, clearly recognising who she was.

“My lady,” he said—and no more. His throat moved once, then twice.

She stepped forward. “What news?”

Her calmness seemed to lend the man strength.

“The Fords,” he said at last. “The Fords were attacked.”

She grimaced. Dire news indeed—but not unexpected. They had long known that, to invade Rohan, the troops of Isengard must first strike at the Fords.

But the messenger had not finished. He looked at her with a helplessness that could not be explained by the weight of such tidings alone. Meeting his gaze, her heart sank.

“What is it?” she said—quietly, yet with a steady command that permitted no evasion.

“The King’s son is fallen,” he forced the words from his lips with great effort, and avoided her eyes. “The night before last, at the Fords.”

All sound fled. It was as though the wind itself had been struck dumb.

She stood still as stone. Her hands, which but moments before had rested lightly at her sides, now clenched into fists so tightly that her knuckles whitened. She did not move. She did not speak. She did not breathe. She did not think. Her mind was swept bare, and her gaze grew hollow, as if all meaning and sense had, in that instant, forsaken the world.

It was a voice from behind—feeble, trembling, and uncertain—that called her back.

“Daughter,” it said. “Why are you out here? It is so cold.”

Éowyn did not know how she had supported the King back inside, to his warm, fire-lit chamber. Her body moved without her mind’s command, as though she had become an empty shell, acting on instinct alone—as if thought itself had perished within her. She did not know how to speak the news to her uncle—and even if she did, she was not certain he would understand. He seemed utterly bewildered. When at last the old man fell asleep again, after no small measure of care and quiet reassurance, she rose once more, passed into the Hall, and felt the cold settle upon her like creeping frost.

The messenger had been received by Master Gléowine, as she remembered—with what remained of her mind. And so her steps turned that way, to the east wing, where the King’s scholar was wont to work. As she approached, Gléowine rushed out, his face pale as snow—he had, it seemed, already heard the tidings. But when he spoke, his words were not of consolation, as she had expected—and could not have withstood.

“My lady,” he said, in a tone grave and unwavering, “you must hear this.”

She was led to his study, where scrolls and parchment lay scattered about them—records half-read and hastily set aside. The messenger was there, seated now, some small measure of vigour restored.

“The Fords were attacked two days ago,” Gléowine began, “and the Marshal, Elfhelm, received the Prince’s summons and set out at once. Edoras has since had no further word—”

“But the Marshal left word!” the messenger broke in, though plainly wearied. “The Prince called for aid, and the Marshal answered without delay—but he also sent the alarm, requesting reinforcements before he rode out, for more would be needed if it came to open war. Of this, Lord Erkenbrand was made aware.”

In her numb, slow mind—thickly clouded by a suffocating darkness—a flash of lightning tore through. The words struck her with the weight of a blow, but deeper still was the chill that bloomed in her chest. Amid the maelstrom of grief and disbelief, something cold was beginning to take shape.

The sudden change in the King’s condition. How she had been kept from all matters beyond the council sessions. A suspicion had taken root—and now, she had to be certain.

“Tell me everything,” she commanded, with a calmness unnatural, yet strangely well-suited—dismissing their concern with a silent, unwavering gaze. And so she heard it all—the battle, the loss, the still-unclear aftermath, and the Prince’s final words. She listened with a face set as steel.

Then, without a word, driven by a sudden renewal of strength, she turned and went straight to the chamber where the daily affairs of the realm were handled. Scrolls, letters, and loose pages lay scattered across the long table—records of duty and routine, dry as dust, lifeless as old bones.

She searched—quick, but methodical. At last, beneath a cluster of lesser reports—livestock, fodder, a scribbled request for woollen cloaks—she found it: a note from Elfhelm, bearing the Marshal’s hand and seal, and marked urgent. It was addressed to the King, but unopened. With a trembling hand, she broke the seal.

It was a summons for aid, plainly written in haste—urging the King to send Éomer with all the Riders he could spare, and echoing the counsel sent this very day by Lord Erkenbrand, who had further advised: “Let the defence of Edoras be made here in the West, and not wait until it is itself besieged.” Dated two days past. [1]

Slowly, she sank into a chair and sat in the dim chamber, until the candle guttered low, the crumpled message clenched tight in her fist.

“It saddens me greatly,” came a voice from the doorway, soft and cloying, as if out of nowhere—when it seemed an age had passed. “To see you so troubled and grieved, my lady. How tragic, for our beloved Prince—”

“Silence,” was the first word she had spoken in hours. Rising and turning, she faced him, her voice ragged, stripped of all warmth. “Spare me your words. You never loved him.”

The man who was named Wormtongue by her cousin slipped into the chamber, cloaked in shadow, dressed all in dark—like an ill omen. “It is unwise, my lady, to refuse consolation freely offered for your comfort.”

“My comfort is none of your concern,” she said, staring at him, unable to fathom how he could speak with such shameless boldness. “All I see is you gloating over the fallen—for it was you, you who sought to withhold his further aid.”

Wormtongue recoiled slightly—not in shame, but in faint surprise, and with calculated retreat. “That, lady, is a grave charge.”

She cast the note at his face. It struck its mark, though he did not flinch.

“He despised you—and rightly,” she said, her voice cracking with wrath, her fists clenched—not in fear, but with the effort of restraint.

“Yes, of course he did,” the man murmured. “These powerful, simple men—always bristling with swords and fury, always adored, always loved for it.”

There was something in his tone that stilled her blood—poisonous, thick with envy and long-harboured spite. Yet she stared at him, unwilling, yet unable to look away—like a bird caught in the gaze of a serpent.

“And all those High Men—ever condescending, as though all wisdom were theirs—like those allies, the ones of Gondor,” he whispered, stepping nearer. “Gondorians, Eorlingas—what sets them apart, save that long ago their forebears cast their lot with the power that prevailed, and so reshaped the world?

“But it does not last, lady. No—the world of Men ever changes, and so too does our fate. The time has come again to choose wisely—to align ourselves with those who shall shape what remains, when the tide turns.”

“And who are they?” she asked, her voice sharp and cold as steel. “Whom do you truly serve?” She stepped forward and looked at him levelly, for she was of a height with him, if not taller.

“Have you considered,” she said slowly, the words rising unbidden, yet so naturally, like water from a spring, “that the Men of old did not choose out of greed or fear, but for good and for evil? These allies you praise—does this power you serve sow deceit, treachery, and betrayal for gain? Then it is evil. It is the voice of the Shadow. We have heard it before, in the dark years long past. And the House of Eorl shall never hearken to it.”

Gríma laughed softly then—a laugh without mirth, only scorn.

“The House of Eorl,” he repeated, his tone thick with mockery. “I have never understood from whence this pride arises, my lady—despite the regard, and yes, the affection, that I bear for you.”

She shuddered at his open declaration—not in fear, but in revulsion.

“The Golden Hall you treasure is but a thatched hall of wood,” he went on, “the heritage you boast, no more than the dream of a herdsman’s song. Where is the splendour, when your King is old and frail? Where is the Rider, when the world no longer trembles beneath their hooves?”

He stepped back into shadow.

“The world has changed, lady. Rise and embrace the new power—or fall, and perish with the old.”

She returned to her chamber, exhausted, and bolted the door behind her. She stood with her back against it, and stillness closed around her.

At first, she thought she did not—and could no longer—weep, for she was utterly numb, as though the very capacity had been taken from her.

But then—a wetness bloomed upon her breast, darkening the linen of her gown. She looked down, bewildered, and only then did she realise her cheeks were wet with tears.

Her sorrow came not as a storm, but as a tide. In the darkness, impenetrable as ink, with the walls seeming to close in about her, she slid to the floor and curled there—wordless, trembling.

She dared not sob aloud—not here, not now, not with ears perhaps behind every wall, not with the serpent listening for weakness—so she wept as soundlessly as she could, her breath catching, her chest tight, struggling for air.

Only then, in the fog brought on by near suffocation, did she dare to think of him—Théodred: her cousin, dear as a brother; her teacher and guide; her liege-lord to be, and her most trusted friend. Buried in haste, far away, with no pyre, no funeral, no song. The one who had watched over her not from duty, but from love—who had known her heart and never mocked it.

She thought of his voice, and of his laughter, of the strength in it—so often wry, so often steady. She thought of his hand on her shoulder, and of the way he used to call her little sister, though he had ceased once she came of age. She thought of the way he stood, the way he strode, the way he rode—tall and proud, yet always with a light-hearted charm, commanding even silence with ease. She had grown so accustomed to his presence—and to her brother’s—that she had never imagined he could be taken. So suddenly, and by a viciousness wrought in the dark.

And her brother. Éomer. Éomer was away in Eastfold—or was he still? Did he know? Where was he now? Would he be safe? Or would the next dawn bring another blow, another name to mourn?

Was this her lot now? To endure, to wait, to persist—in this Hall whose splendour was fading, whose gold had lost its sheen—watching one she loved waste away, while others, one by one, fell into peril? To listen in silence, to bear it all, yet hold no power to mend it, nor to turn its course, nor to forestall its coming?

She stared into the dark, her fingers digging into the wooden floor.

I am done with enduring, she told herself. Béma bear me witness—I shall endure in silence no longer.

She rose then—not steady, but resolute—and reached for her dagger. It lay well hidden at her side. But a wave of dizziness struck her, and she swayed, catching herself with a hand upon the table before her mirror, for she had taken neither food nor drink since noon.

Something cool touched her fingers then. Bracing herself, she groped and closed her hand around it.

It was the wing-shaped silver comb, once owned by her grandmother. Slowly, she closed her fingers around it. The wing-tips dug into her palm, drawing blood, but she did not flinch—as though pain had no claim upon her.

Steel endures—and it cuts. So she thought, a coldness rising from the depths of her despair. If it must come to blood, so be it.

Notes:

[1] Erkenbrand’s words are quoted from Unfinished Tales. In the same passage, it is said: “But Gríma used the curtness of this advice to further his policy of delay.” This I read as evidence that Gríma had already been employing delay—deliberately aiding Saruman’s design to see Théodred slain at all costs.

Next: Chapter 10. Estel, Necestel

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@konartiste no pressure tag :)