My dear Lord Denethor,

It is with heavy heart that I write.

Three months ago, your son came to Edoras. He bore a missive from you requesting a horse and gear, enough to take him to the far north. We so provisioned him. I gave him a stallion with the blood of the Mearas. A great beast, well suited for a journey of length and hardship. Boromir sat him well. Pride swelled my breast as I watched him ride out the gates.

Three weeks ago, the steed we gave Boromir returned. Alone. It was lame; its legs were grievous wounded.

I gave order that my own son seek Boromir. A fortnight later, a soldier brought a helm to Théodred. It had been found in the shallows of Lond Daer. The helm was smashed almost beyond recognition. If not for Gondor’s heraldry, it might have been any soldier’s. Théodred recognized it. It was Boromir’s.

It now lies in my lap. My heart is burdened. The thought of losing a son, of losing my Théodred, consumes me. Causes feelings such as I have not known since my sweet Hild passed.

I am convinced that your son has perished. We were unable to find his body. I have Riders scouring the land between the Greyflood and the Isen, but I hold little hope. There was evidence of a flash flood sometime ago. The Greyflood can be vicious. The waters rise without warning from summer storms far to the north. 

I am sending the helm with this missive. I would hope Théodred is wrong about its owner. That it might not be Boromir’s. But your son and mine were close. I fail to believe Théodred is wrong.

I offer my regrets, dear friend. I would I had better news.

Théoden King of the Mark