He had left for Rivendell to find the answer to a dream - a dream we both had. I think about him everyday, and miss him terribly. It has been days upon months since he left Minas Tirith. Often do I come to the waters of the Anduin. It is a sad reason why. Our enemies captured Osgiliath before my brother departed. I sit by the shore keeping watch over the once fair city.

The quiet lets my mind wander, though my eyes still keep watch. I wish you were here, my brother. I feel a deep sorrow in not knowing what has become of you.

The new moon shows pale over the moving water. It is the midnight hour. Naught is stirring.

What is this that my eyes see?

A boat is floating by. I do not recognize its fashion, but there appears to be a faint glow around it. I’m feeling drawn it it’s side. I rush to the banks, and wade into the River. The boat comes nearer, within arms reach.

My breath runs still. A warrior lies within a crystal coffin of water. I know him. It cannot be! For it is my brother! What has become of you? Why is your sword broken? There are many wounds I cannot count them all.

I knew you once. I know you still.

But this cannot be my brother! Though it is his beloved face. I stay my hand from touching it, for his face is in peace and I will spoil what peace is left for him. His gear, his sword, but where is his horn?

‘Boromir!’ I cry. ‘Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? Oh Boromir!’

His ears hear no more. His mouth speaks no more.

The boat has been caught by the stream and rides away. I find it hard to move, for now I am doubtful to what has happened. Have I missed my brother so dearly that my mind has conjured this beautiful yet horrible sight?

I find that it is not. For I am awake, and there is no room for dreams now in this dark hour. My father needs to know, and I the one need tell him.

The Horn of Gondor

I rush to the Citadel, pass the guards of the Court of the Fountain. A guard at the Citadel door confirms my Father is inside, though his tone raises alarm in me. Most are grim in this time of age, but I can tell something is amiss. Has Boromir’s body been found? Was my vision truth? I assume the worst.

I approach the high seat of Denethor. He is there, head hanging and long grey hair obscuring his face. I bow, though my doubts say he does not see.

“Father,” I say, and he finally raises his eyes to me. His sunken face is paler than usual, glassy eyes seeing straight through me.

“Where is Boromir?” he says in a craggy voice. “Where is your brother?”

“He is not here?” I ask in bewilderment.

“No,” comes his stern reply. Then looking into his lap, he raises two pieces of an ox horn.

I step back, fear and anguish well up inside me. It is the Horn of Gondor; the special mark Boromir carries. I am breathless. “Where was it found?”

“On the River, cleaved in two,” my Father says. “Boromir was not with it. Faramir, have you seen him?”

My Father blazes with hope, for he loves my brother over all things. I lower my head. “I have seen him.” I see at a glance my Father’s posture straighten. “Though it be a vision, so I assumed.”

The glassiness in my Father’s eyes clouds now. I cannot meet them. “What of Boromir?” he commands, desperately.

“He is dead.”

In a choked voice, my Father says, “Dead?”

“He was lain peacefully in a boat, bearing many wounds, drifting down the Anduin. I dared not disturb him.”

“It ‘twas a vision,” my Father concludes, immediately. In my soul, I know it is not so, though I ever hope I am wrong.

Denethor, Steward of Gondor, sits on his high seat in the Citadel, day in and day out with the Horn of Gondor resting on his lap ever awaiting his beloved son to return home.