List of characters

• Boromir son of Denethor
• Faramir son of Denethor
• Lindir, a master stonemason of Minas Tirith
• Eldahil, distant kinsman of Faramir and Boromir
• Mardil and Eradan, two soldiers in Eldahil’s company
• Arnuzîr, a prince of Far Harad
• Abrazan, scribe and counselor to Arnuzîr
• Belzagar, nephew of Arnuzîr
• Hirluin, Faramir’s aide-de-camp
• Arwen, queen of Gondor
• Caranhir, a spy of Umbar
• Moradan, his associate
• The Warden of the Houses of Healing

The narrow stairway was cleverly hidden by outcroppings of rock. It twisted and turned up the mountainside, steadily rising until the Citadel was far below. The small party climbed the endless steps, their cloaks and hair streaming in the wind. When Faramir was certain he could go no farther, the stairway suddenly ended. A great iron-bound door was set in the rockface.

Master Lindir carefully knotted a rope around Boromir’s waist. “More than one worker has met his death in the cistern,” the master stonemason told them as he worked.

“Are the corpses still in there?” Boromir asked with a look of mingled horror and disgust.

“Stand still, young lord,” the stonemason replied as he tried to knot the ropes. “No, they must drain the cistern until the corpse is recovered. A mighty task, so I ask you all to take care. The water is low during this time of the year, but never forget to look for signs of rain before entering the tunnels. After a storm, the rising waters are deadly.”

While the stonemason fastened a rope around his waist, Faramir scowled at the empty, blue sky, searching for rain clouds. Far below, a mosaic of brown fields and green pastures shimmered in the heat. How strange to look down on the roof of the White Tower, how strange to see the City streets laid out like a map.

When the rest of the party had been fitted out with ropes, the stonemason unlocked the great door. “The Steward and Lord Hurin also have keys,” he told them. “Though the door is more to keep out bats than any intruders. We just came up the only path.”

Master Lindir led the way, followed in single file by the Steward’s sons and their two guards. An apprentice came last. Each member of the party carried a lantern and a coil of rope. Generations of workers had worn the tunnel floor smooth, and the vaulted ceiling rose high above their heads. The damp air, heavy with a mineral tang, grew steadily cooler as they walked.

The stonemason brought the party to a halt when they reached a flight of stone steps. “Young lords,” he told Faramir and Boromir, “The Steward sent you here to learn of your City’s defenses. For countries may vaunt their armies and wealth, but the true strength of this City lies in the heart of the mountain.” Then he led them up the steps and raised his lantern overhead.

The lantern light sparkled like a fountain in the sun, reflecting from the water to the ceiling far above. Faint blue echoes glimmered in the distant reaches of the cavern, across the vast depths of the lake.

“Ooh,” Faramir whispered loudly then heard his own voice call back at him from several directions.

“Hallo! Hallo!” Boromir shouted. The words bounced from wall to wall in a cascade of echoes.

When the noise had at last died down, the stonemason said, “There are two silent captains who ride with the Enemy’s armies. Their names are Thirst and Pestilence, and as surely as any battering ram, these captains can breach the strongest walls. Without this great store of water, our City could not long withstand a siege.”

“What if it dries up after a drought?” Boromir asked.

“That will never happen, young lord. ‘Tis far more likely that the King will come again. This cistern is fed by underground springs.”

Faramir knelt at the edge and peered into the water. “Are there any fish down there?”

Master Lindir nodded. “I have seen only a few. They are strange, pale creatures without any eyes.”

Now they uncoiled the ropes, and Master Lindir fastened the party together, with the Steward’s sons in the middle of the line. Faramir thought they looked like a team of horses. Still trying to imagine the strange, sightless fish, he followed one of the guards along the narrow ledge that skirted the water. As they walked, they heard a dull roaring that grew steadily louder and louder. Ahead, the cavern wall was set with three great gates. As they drew nearer, Faramir saw that one of the gates was raised so that water rushed under it and vanished down a dark tunnel.

“That tunnel fills every fountain and bath in the City,” the stonemason told them. “Any surfeit of water is carried away and dumped outside the walls.”

“Why is there more than one gate?” Boromir asked.

“If the level rises too quickly, we open the other floodgates to release more water.”

The narrow path widened into a broad platform that was littered with piles of stone and wood and refuse from repairs. The party halted, and Master Lindir unfastened them from one another, warning them sternly to stay away from the water’s edge. To emphasize his point, he threw an apple in the lake. It bobbed for a moment near the open gate and then, with a horrible suddenness, was gone.

The nearest gate towered over them, as high as a city wall. They climbed a winding stair so they could see the great pulleys and counterweights that moved it up and down. The two brothers quickly grasped how the mechanism worked, for it was very like in design to the Citadel portcullis.

“Each gate weighs many tons,” the stonemason said, “But such was the marvelous craft of Numenor that it takes only two Men to raise them. Our skill is sadly fallen since those ancient days.”

Before starting the journey back to the Citadel, they sat on the broad platform and ate cold meat pies and apples. After they had finished eating, the brothers wandered around, poking at the heaps of broken tools and rock fragments. Hundreds of workers over hundreds of years had chiseled their names and the year into the cavern wall. Picking up a stone, Boromir scratched Boromir son of Denethor was here 2993.

Faramir leaned down to search for a jagged writing stone so he could add his name to the wall. But among the fragments of masonry, a perfectly round shape caught his eye. “Look!” he shouted as he held up a blackened coin.

Master Lindir hurried over to see his find. “You have unearthed ancient treasure. It would not be the first time that has happened in this cavern. Here, let me clean off the tarnish.” He rubbed the coin with the hem of his tunic then squinted at it by lantern light. “Yes, this is very old. A silver penny from the years of the Great Plague.” He handed the coin back to Faramir.

The silver had been stamped with a little crown surrounded by seven stars. Faramir turned it over to look at the other side. Tarondor—Lord of Gondor—1680 was inscribed in tiny letters. This penny had lain hidden for thirteen hundred years, only to be found by him. He hurried to show his brother, and they both set to work searching for more coins. They found a few nails but nothing else.

When Boromir and Faramir returned to the Citadel, their lord father questioned them at length about the cistern. He seemed pleased with their report on this part of the City’s defenses, though he had never heard of the blind fishes and could not say how it was that they found their food when they had no eyes. He studied the silver penny with great interest.

“You found this near the cistern?” he asked Faramir. “The reign of King Tarondor--that was an evil time. A plague from the east emptied the streets of Osgiliath, and untold thousands died. Yet still our people endured,” he said with the rare flicker of a smile. When he went to hand the penny back, Faramir shook his head. “I want you to have it, Father.”

Years later, after his father’s death, Faramir would find the silver penny tucked away in the Steward’s writing desk.

One week before Mettarë, 3019

In the early morning hours, there was no place more desolate than the ramparts of Minas Tirith. The stones glittered with frost, and the moonlight only made the shadows look darker. Drawing his cloak closer, Eldahil joined the two sentries who were trying to warm their hands at a sputtering, cheerless fire.

“Not too much longer, Captain,” one of the soldiers said by way of greeting. “At the midnight hour, it appears on top of that parapet. Hooded and cloaked, it speaks not a word but walks with the jangle of harness, back and forth as if it can find no rest. They say that in the waning of the year, the unseen world is closer, and the recent dead return to finish duties left undone.”

“If that were so, my good Mardil, I fear that these ramparts would be overrun,” Eldahil said with a wry smile, for this had been a year of grievous slaughter. “Have others seen this sight besides you and Eradan?”

Mardil shook his head. “It first appeared two nights ago while we stood the midnight watch. We have spoken to none but you, sir. I would not believe my own eyes if Eradan had not seen it too.”

In his twenty years as an officer, Eldahil had heard some wild tales from his men, but these two were tough, old campaigners and about as fanciful as a pile of rocks. Though it seemed unlikely that a spirit walked the ramparts, they must have seen something or they would not have troubled their captain with this tale. Armed with his sword and a flask of good brandy, Eldahil had decided to join the midnight watch. As wind blew from the snowcapped heights above, he thought with longing of his featherbed and pillows while the sentries tried in vain to revive the sickly watch fire.

“Would you like some tea, sir?” Eradan held up a battered kettle then started as the city bell began to strike. The cold air rang with the slow, solemn tones for midnight. Stumbling to their feet, the three men turned and stared at the wall.

“Valar help us,” Eldahil whispered. Just as the sentries had described, a tall figure stood on the parapet, hood drawn over its face.

“Perhaps if you speak with it, Captain,” Mardil told him. To his credit, there was only the slightest quaver in his voice. “You are a scholar and learned in ancient lore.”

“What?” Eldahil asked, his surprise distracting him from utter terror. No one had ever accused him of being a learned man.

“It might listen to a scholar, sir, instead of common soldiers like us.”

“Ah, indeed,” Eldahil said with more confidence than he felt. He could not take his eyes from the creature striding along the parapet. There was something oddly familiar about its gait, though he could not say what. “Unquiet spirit,” he called loudly, “Cease thy—“ He stopped a moment to think. "Cease thy restless patrol of the ramparts. I charge thee speak and tell us what thou seekest.”

“Look, Captain! It has halted its march.”

Encouraged, Eldahil continued, “Pray tell what thou seekest that we may aid thee, unhappy ghost.” When there was no response, he added, “And if this is someone’s sorry notion of a jest, then know that you face the terrible wrath of Captain Eldahil for hauling my arse out in the cold when it is my well-earned turn to sleep.”

The figure squinted at him from under the hood. “Eldahil? Is that you?”

At the sound of that voice, Eldahil’s heart nearly stopped. How could this be? Could a dead Man return to walk among the living? “Boromir?” he asked in a strangled squawk.

“Boromir of Gondor. In the flesh,” the ghost replied, throwing back the hood. Though untouched by corruption, his face was not unchanged. He looked travel-worn and older, and his proud glance was tempered with sadness. An unhealed gash ran across one cheekbone, and his dark hair hung in tangled, wet strands to his shoulders.

“What are you?” Eldahil asked, his voice trembling. He could feel the cold sweat running down his neck. He would have turned and fled, but his knees had gone suddenly weak.

Backing away from the ghost, Eradan drew his sword. “Keep away from it, lest it lead you to your death!”

Mardil grabbed his captain’s arm. “Don’t look at it, sir.”

Yet Eldahil could not help but stare in horrified fascination. The likeness was so close, even the creature’s bearing and its manner of speech. “If you are truly Lord Boromir, then prove it by giving me some sign or token.”

The ghost considered for a moment. “On your twenty-fifth birthday, you lost a game of darts at a tavern in the first circle. You put up a valiant fight, but the beer mixed with brandywine and mead was your downfall. As had been agreed in advance, your forfeit for losing was that you had to—“

“Say no more. I am convinced,” Eldahil said quickly. This had to be his late kinsman. He had never let Eldahil forget that infamous forfeit.

“My lord, you have returned to us!” Mardil cried, and then he and the other sentry sank to one knee and bowed their heads to hide that they wept.

Eldahil gave a shaky bow and an even shakier grin. “You come to us in strange estate, noble cousin, yet still am I glad to see you,” he said.

What’s not to believe? Eldahil told himself. There are stranger things in heaven and earth. Like screeching, headless wraiths mounted on flying monsters. Or a giant, flaming eye. Compared to them, a talking dead Boromir hardly seems out of the ordinary.

"I do not deserve such kind welcome.” Boromir flung back the tattered cloak then jumped down from the parapet with a solid thud. “I return after betraying the trust of those I had vowed to protect.”

Eldahil tried not to stare at the gaping rents in his cousin’s armor and clothing. The river Anduin had washed away the blood, but the broken ends of several arrows still jutted from his breast. Whatever Boromir had done amiss, Eldahil deemed he had the paid the price in full. “Come what may, you are still my kinsman and friend. And who can say how I would have fared had our places been exchanged.” Save that far fewer orcs would have been slain during that quest, Eldahil told himself. Fighting back his revulsion, he clasped the dead Man’s hands in his own. Though cold, the flesh seemed solid enough, and to his great relief, it did not dissolve into stinking, black corruption as in the old tales of the walking dead.

With a sad smile, Boromir told him, “I am grateful for your devotion, though I deem it badly misplaced.”

At the ghost’s command, the two sentries rose to their feet. “Many have mourned your death, lord,” Mardil said, his voice still choked from weeping.

“The grief of honest soldiers is ill spent on such a traitor,” Boromir replied, yet his face was somewhat less downcast. “But now I must needs take counsel with Faramir and my lord father. The City is in great peril.” Wincing as if with sudden pain, he put a hand to his brow and leaned heavily against the parapet. “But, no, my father is gone. Even in my dark sleep, I knew of his passing to the Halls of Judgment. Unless I am deceived by some lingering madness, for truly I know not what to believe nor even what I am.” He glanced around the ramparts with a look of desperate confusion.

“It grieves me to say that you heard the truth. Your lord father died during the siege on the City, and Faramir now sits in the Steward’s chair.” Eldahil threw a warning look at the two sentries and silently willed them to hold their peace. He deemed that the less said about the manner of Lord Denethor’s death, the better. “Kinsman, you look somewhat--“ Eldahil paused to search for the proper word since the dead could hardly be described as looking ill or faint. “You look somewhat unsteady. Come sit by the fire and rest.” He put an arm around the dead Man’s back, taking care to avoid the broken arrow shafts. Eldahil shuddered from both horror and the cold as river water soaked through his tunic and his dead cousin’s hair dripped on his shoulder.

His head bowed silently, Boromir allowed himself to be led to a seat. With trembling hands, Eradan offered a cup of steaming tea which the ghost accepted with an absent-minded nod of thanks. “Alas for my father,” he murmured. “At least he died defending his people. Yet he never rejoiced in the victory after laboring all his days against the Nameless One.” He stared for a moment at the tea; after taking a slow and wary sip, he swiftly drained the cup and held it out for more.

“Then you know of the fall of Mordor?” Eldahil asked in surprise, and then he wondered why he should be in the least astonished by anything Boromir said. He was talking with a Man who had several arrows buried in his heart.

Rubbing a hand across his brow, Boromir stared into the sputtering flames. “Felt rather than heard. I sensed the change in the fortunes of the world. The darkness around me seemed less heavy, and as if through a curtain of flowing water, I could see the stars again. Yet aside from my father’s death and the lifting of the shadow, I had no awareness of the living world.” He paused and looked up from the fire, his grey eyes troubled. “Not until a vision disturbed my sleep, a foreboding of evil for Minas Tirith.”

Edahil could feel the hair on his neck standing on end, and beside him, the two sentries stared wide-eyed at the ghost.

Rising to his feet, Boromir looked at each Man in turn, his eyes gleaming strangely in the firelight. “A dream lured me away on that fatal journey to Imladris, and now a dream has called me back to walk among living Men. Is Faramir in the City? I must speak with him at once to warn him of this danger.”

“Yes, he is in the City, though I doubt that his guards will let you get very close.” At Boromir’s aggrieved look, Eldahil added, “Aside from your truly alarming appearance, they will think you a madman or worse if you claim to be the late lord Captain-General. And since that emissary from Harad arrived, the City garrison has been wary of any strangers.”

Glancing down at his ruined armor and garments, Boromir seemed to notice them for the first time. He gingerly touched the broken shaft of an arrow. “Indeed, there may be some truth in what you say, my cousin. But a message will not serve. Why would my brother believe it? He would deem it simply a cruel deceit or, even as you say, the ravings of a madman.”

“My lord, why can you not simply appear before your lord brother?” Mardil asked. “Just as you came here.”

The ghost shook his head. “I fear it is not so simple. I have no memory of that journey and know not whether I travelled here by chance or by some unknown design.”

“Wait,” Eldahil said as he suddenly realized exactly what they should do. “I have a plan.”

Another day of negotiations had come to a close.  Prince Arnuzîr inclined his head in the slightest of bows.  “Until we meet again,” he said in heavily-accented Westron.   The white scars of battle were stark against his swarthy face.      

Faramir returned the slight bow, the courtesy of one prince to another.  “Until we meet again,” he replied, also using the Common Speech.  Not surprisingly, neither Arnuzîr nor his Men knew how to speak Sindarin.  They had travelled from Ûrîzâyan which lay to the east of Umbar.  Among themselves, they spoke a strange tongue that seemed descended from long-dead Adunaic, the language of ancient Numenor,   The prince had promised Faramir that he would write down some phrases along with their translations before he left. 

While the two ranking officials exchanged their courtesies, Arnuzîr’s nephew traded icy glares with the Steward’s aide-de-camp, Hirluin.  How hard it is to put aside a lifetime of enmity, Faramir thought.   To look at your old foe without sighting down the shaft of an arrow.  

The emissary and his party withdrew to their quarters in the Citadel.  After a hasty meal, Faramir walked across the courtyard to the Steward’s house.  With little surprise, he noted that the number of guards on the doors had been doubled.  Lieutenant Hirluin was not the only one who viewed their guests with distrust. 

In the study, the servants had already lit the braziers, and the tall wooden shutters had been closed against the night air.  Hirluin soon arrived, bearing a satchel of missives and reports.   A servant brought them tea and cakes to eat while they worked. 

The letter from Eowyn he put it aside to read later. Eomer King had asked for the honor of his company for Yule, but the negotiations with Prince Arnuzîr had required that the Steward remain in the City.

His aide handed him a dispatch that bore the royal seal stamped in red wax.   Elessar King had sent word of the campaign in the South.   When the dispatch was written, Elessar’s ships had just reached the port of Pelargir.  More than one Southron kingdom had refused to submit to Gondor’s lordship, and Elessar had finally been forced to move against Umbar, the largest of the renegades.  Despite the destruction of much of their fleet, the Corsairs had continued to ravage the coast, and Elessar hoped to quickly subdue them before more lives were lost. Since Prince Arnuzîr’s homeland lay on the eastern border of Umbar, his people would face the wrath of the Corsairs for making peace with Gondor. 

“Who could have foreseen it?  That one day we would greet these old foes as our allies,” Faramir said, shaking his head in disbelief.  “Only a few months past, you and I waited in ambush for the Haradrim and shot them down as they fled.  Prince Arnuzîr and his Men have little reason to love us.”  

“Nor we them, Captain,” Hirluin replied, his fair face reddening with anger.  “If not for Prince Imrahil, the Southrons would have slaughtered you as you lay wounded on the battlefield.”

“The Haradrim suffered greatly under the Nameless, and they paid him a tribute in blood and treasure. Many were driven by fear to rally to his banner. I cannot deny there are evil Men among them, but that does not mean that all are bad-hearted.  Now that they are free from Mordor’s sway, we must give them the chance to show their true quality.”

“I mean no disrespect, sir, yet the very sight of them troubles me.  I deem you were safer on campaign in Ithilien, surrounded by your own Men.  There, at least, we knew foe from friend.”

“No doubt Prince Arnuzîr and his Men feel much the same way.  It is no small thing to put aside the past, but we must try to for the sake of both our peoples.”

“I will do my best, lord,” Hirluin said with a doubtful look. 

“I can ask no more of any Man,” Faramir replied, grateful that his aide was as honest as he was loyal.  "Did Lord Hurin send a report?"  

The lieutenant drew a scroll from the satchel and handed it to Faramir.    

More stonemasons had arrived from the southern fiefs to aid in repairing the damage from the Seige.  However, the work on the Rammas Echor had halted due to a lack of supplies.  Faramir sighed to himself as he read.  The lack of supplies was an ever-present problem, from lime for mortar to grain for the horses.   The Enemy’s armies had destroyed whatever lay in their path—fishing boats, farmsteads, and workshops.  Lord Hurin also reported that a sentry had been murdered while patrolling the outer defenses.  His body was found near the end of a pipe that carried waste water away from the City.  His slayer remained unknown.

“Do you know if this Man was quarrelsome or rash in his deeds?”  Faramir asked the lieutenant.

“His commanding officer says he was well-liked by all and will be sorely missed, Captain.   The Man was not robbed--a bag of silver pennies was found, along with his sword and other arms.” 

A strange matter, Faramir thought, but then his aide handed him the next report and he turned his mind to the merchants’ complaints. 

Shortly before midnight, they finally read the last report.  With a bow, the lieutenant bade him good night and left. 

After straightening the papers on the desk and stirring the coals in the brazier, Faramir sat down and opened Eowyn’s letter.   The first part must have been written by the court scribe at Edoras, and the flowery greetings and list of the Steward’s titles covered nearly half the page.  He quickly skimmed over the polite inquiries about his health until he reached the bottom of the page where a note was scrawled in Eowyn’s wild hand.  Her news was of the harvest and the health of her horses.  Despite the ravages of the War, she wrote, there would be enough hay to last the winter.  To her joy, the ailing colt had recovered, so perhaps she was a healer after all.   She grieved that he could not come to Edoras for the Yule, but next year, they would celebrate together in their new home.  For awhile, he sat with her note in his hands, almost imagining he could smell the newly-cut hay.  Then he carefully put the letter in the old writing desk.  It was late, and he needed to rest.

Since his father’s death, Faramir had taken to sleeping in the study.  The chambers reserved for the Steward and his family now seemed too desolate to bear.  An alcove in the study held a simple camp bed curtained in plain linen.  As his father grew older, Denethor had become more and more wakeful and had sometimes slept in the study rather than rouse the household in the early morning hours.  Unlike the family’s chambers, this room held no grief for Faramir.  The scrolls ordered with exacting care, breathing out the musky scents of parchment and leather, reminded him of the nights when he and his father had sat by the brazier, talking of history and herblore.  Even the carpet with its faded colors was an oddly comforting sight.  

Faramir pulled off his sword belt and boots, setting them within easy reach from the bed.   He stripped down to his shirt and then, shivering, crawled between the coverlets.  As the bed slowly grew warmer, he began to feel drowsy.  With a sigh, he turned and drew the coverlets over his head, only then feeling the full measure of his weariness.  Soon after, he sank under the black surface of sleep and lay unaware until a dream broke his slumber like a ripple on the surface of a lake. 

This same dream had visited him for the past two nights.  He stood in an archway, holding a lantern in one hand.  Before him, shadow and light danced and swayed on a high stone ceiling, reflected from a vast expanse of water.   He knew this place, the great cistern in the mountainside.  Years ago, Denethor had sent his sons here to learn of their City’s defenses.  The master stonemason had shown them the huge weights and pulleys that raised the floodgates, and then he and Boromir had scratched their names on the wall.  Faramir wondered if their names were still there.  You are asleep, he told himself, yet when he reached out a hand, he could feel the cold, rough surface of the rock. 

“Hallo!” a child’s voice called.  “Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!”  The sound echoed from wall to wall, fading with each repetition. 

He raised the lantern and shouted, “Boromir! Where are you?”

“Hallo, hallo, hallo” ran along the walls then subsided into silence.  Then the light suddenly failed, and a strange dread weighed on his heart.   He felt for the sides of the archway and his hands found nothing but cool, damp air.  Something rustled and clicked in the darkness around him.   Not something but somethings, for it was not one sound but many.   The footsteps of small creatures?  Or the scratching of dead branches against stone?  The sense of foreboding grew, pressing against his heart until he could scarcely breathe.  He forced himself to kneel and sweep his hands across the floor, yet his blind search found nothing.   He crawled forward, reaching his hands out before each step.  There must be a way out; he had only to find it.  Around him, the darkness seethed with sound. 

He nearly cried aloud with joy when his hand struck a stone wall and then the outline of a door.   It ground slowly open as he put his full weight against it, then he stumbled through the doorway and into the Courtyard of the Fountain. 

As he glanced around the courtyard, the relief at his escape swiftly changed to horror.  With a choked cry, he broke into a run, racing past the banners that hung heavily in the dead air, past the unmoving guards clothed in silver and sable.  He knelt by the silent fountain and gently lifted the broken sapling.   The wondrous leaves of silver lay scattered on the pavement, and the young trunk had been wrenched from the earth then twisted until it split asunder.  It needed no gardener to see that the White Tree was dead.

“Who would do such evil?” Faramir shouted, nearly mad with rage and grief. Then he woke to a light shining in his face.

Two guards stood over him with a lantern.  “My lord, is aught amiss?” one of them asked as Hirluin dashed into the chamber, barefooted and sword in hand.  He must have been sleeping fully clothed for only his boots were missing. 

Faramir rose, drawing the coverlet around him like a cloak.  “Nothing worse than an evil dream.  I must have called out in my sleep,” he told them, feeling more than a little foolish.  “Forgive me for raising an alarm when there is no cause.  And for waking you from your sleep,” he added to Hirluin.  

The two guards returned to their posts, and at Faramir’s urging, the lieutenant departed for his bed.   For a long while afterward, Faramir lay awake, staring into the darkness as he pondered the strange dream.

Tolkien seems to have created only a few words of the Haradric language.  Since Harad (like Gondor and Arnor) was settled by Numenoreans, it is not unreasonable to assume that later inhabitants came to speak a language which was descended from Adunaic (just as Westron was descended from Adunaic).

Would Eowyn have lived in Gondor or Rohan before her marriage?  Looking at historical marriages between European royalty, practices varied widely.   Sometimes the woman lived with her future in-laws for years before the wedding; sometimes, the bride and groom did not even meet until the ceremony.  In extreme cases, the couple were married by proxy and met sometime after the marriage!   My thought is that she lived in Minas Tirith before her marriage, but at the time of my story, she had gone to visit her brother (who was not yet married at the time).  

“We disguise you as a messenger bearing a most urgent dispatch.  You have orders to give it to the Steward alone.”  Eldahil took a long draft from the flask of brandy then poured some in Boromir’s cup.  He could not say which of them needed it more.

His cousin scowled and shook his head.  “One does not simply walk into the Citadel.  I will not get past the guards without a messenger’s warrant.  Unless I am escorted by an officer.”

Eldahil bowed.   “That will be my part in the plan.  I will say you were sent by Prince Imrahil.”  Since Eldahil hailed from Dol Amroth, he could vouch for a messenger from his liegelord.  “But first, we need to find you some clothing. The holes in that tunic will hardly pass unremarked.”

Besides being several inches taller, Boromir outweighed Eldahil by nearly three stone so none of his clothes would serve.  Luckily, Mardil was almost as tall and broad as the dead Man.    “I will gladly give you what I have, lord,” the sentry said, “Though my garb is plain and ill-suited for a great lord.”

“The plainer it is, the better,” Eldahil assured him.  “After your watch is over, bring it to my house.”

“And speak to none of my return,” Boromir added. ”Some evil is afoot, and until I know the cause, it is better I remain dead and gone.” 

The two sentries swore to keep the secret; then Eldahil and Boromir left. They had decided to wait until dawn to see Faramir.  Though the dead Man’s disguise would be aided by the dim torchlight, the guards would not wake the Steward simply because a dispatch had arrived.   At night, any messengers would be taken to the Steward’s aide-de-camp.  Lieutenant Hirluin had served with Faramir for nearly twenty years, and even by torchlight, he would know Boromir’s face and at once would suspect an imposter.  Though his vigilance was admirable, they agreed that this Man was to be avoided at any cost.  

In the early morning hours, the City was dark and nearly deserted.  As they walked through the second circle, past the ruined walls of shops and houses, Boromir asked in a low voice, “Did the Enemy breach the walls?”

“They battered through the Great Gate,” Eldahil replied.  “But there they were stopped.”

Boromir halted in the middle of the street. “If they got past that gate, the City was lost.  There is no force in heaven and earth that could have stopped their advance.”

“Save the wizard Mithrandir and the Riders of Rohan.”

“Mithrandir is alive?” The joyful shout echoed among the ruins.  In the distance, a dog began to bark and someone shouted, “Keep it down out there!” 

“Yes, he is alive,” Eldahil said, trying not to laugh. “Though it was a near thing for us all.  The Rohirrim came in the very nick of time.”

“If only I had been there,” Boromir murmured. 

With some misgiving, Eldahil told how Lord Aragorn had brought the black fleet and turned the tide of battle. To his great surprise, his proud cousin only said, “I asked him to save our people, and he honored his word.  Gondor could have no worthier king.”  He asked if Aragorn was in the City and looked relieved when Eldahil told him that Elessar King was travelling to the Southlands. 

They followed a narrow lane until Eldahil halted in front of a darkened townhouse.  It was one of the few buildings left standing on the street.   Fire and stone shot had nearly leveled this part of the second circle.  Some folk refused to live among the ruins, claiming that they were haunted, but the rent was cheap and Eldahil had yet to see any sign of the restless dead.  Or at least not until tonight, he thought with a glance at his kinsman.

A chorus of dogs started barking as they reached the sheltered porch.  Eldahil stopped to light a lantern then pushed open the door.  A large dog jumped up and licked his face, while several others crowded around him.   They had long, soft ears, and their white coats were dappled with red spots.   At the sight of Boromir, they stopped in their tracks and stared.  

“This is your Uncle Boromir,” Eldahil told them.   

Boromir dropped to one knee and held out a hand for them to smell.  The dogs slowly approached the dead Man then backed away, whimpering uneasily.   The smallest one, no more than a pup, scampered to hide behind Eldahil. 

After Eldahil had unbuckled his sword and hung it by the door, he led the way to the kitchen.   “The housekeeper and cook have gone home for Mettarë, so the dogs and I are on our own,” he explained as he cleared away a stack of dirty plates and bid his cousin sit down at the table.  

He filled several shallow bowls with cold stew and put them on the floor for the dogs.   The little pup gave a squeak of surprise and then a tiny growl when an older dog came too close to her bowl. 

Boromir looked at the pup with a wistful smile.  “Give her a few more months, and she will be their leader.”

“She is brave as long as food is at stake.”  Eldahil stirred up the coals in the fireplace then rummaged in the larder for something to eat.  “Are you hungry?” he asked, unsure of a courteous way to ask his dead cousin if he still needed food. “I can cook some eggs and bacon.”

“Do not trouble yourself on my account. Though I will be glad to bear you company at the table.”       

While Eldahil cooked their meal, they spoke of events since Boromir’s death.  Boromir asked how his brother had fared.  Taking care to say little of Lord Denethor, Eldahil told him of Faramir’s injury and illness. 

“Has he fully recovered?”  Boromir asked.  He had risen from his seat and begun pacing back and forth.

“It was some weeks before his strength returned, but he has since regained full use of that arm thanks to the skill of Elessar King.”

“My father must have been less than pleased when Aragorn arrived to claim the throne,” Boromir said, smiling grimly.

“It was shortly after your lord father’s death so he never knew,” Eldahil replied as he set out a basin of water so his otherworldly guest could wash his hands.

The dead Man ate very slowly, as if he had to remember how after so many months, and he left much of the meal on his plate--though this may have been a tribute to Eldahil’s cooking.  Despite their misgivings about Boromir, the dogs were drawn by the smell of meat and were soon taking snips of bacon from his hand. 

After they had finished their meal, Eldahil told his cousin, “That mail will have to come off before I can draw the arrows.”   The dogs would be underfoot while he worked, so he called them with a sharp whistle.  They leapt up and, tails wagging, followed him into the study.   “Down, stay,” he ordered, and the dogs settled at once, with even the little pup following the lead of her elders. 

“Well-trained,” Boromir said with an approving nod.   

“I take them hunting as often as I can,” Eldahil replied.  “Though they would  rather sit by the fire, lazy creatures.”  Eldahil leaned down and scratched along a spotted back. The dog’s long tail beat against the floor like a heavy club. 

Boromir unbuckled the mail shirt and, with Eldahil’s help, drew it off without catching on the broken arrows.  In the warmth of the kitchen, his sodden hair and clothing had finally dried.

Lamp in hand, Eldahil peered closely at his kinsman’s wounds.  Three arrows had struck Boromir’s breast, and several others were scattered across his back.   His comrades must have readied him for burial since the shafts had been neatly snapped off only an inch or two above the skin.  Eldahil would have to use a long knife to cut around any barbs before he could pull the arrows free. This was not the first time that he had had to draw an arrow, and he knew that the wounded soldier often died from such rough treatment, though who could say whether his dead cousin would suffer any harm.  Despite Boromir’s protests that the wounds caused him no pain, Eldahil insisted that he put a leather belt between his teeth to keep him from biting his tongue.

Head resting on his arms, Boromir sat hunched over the kitchen table.   He did not even flinch while Eldahil cut the first arrow from his back; instead, he spat out the belt and asked to see the recovered dart.  The crude steel had started to rust, but the edges were still keen and a pair of cruel hooks, designed to rend the flesh, curved out from the base.  “With that shape of a point, try pushing the shaft to one side before you use the knife,” the dead Man suggested.

Trying not to dwell on his task, Eldahil set to work.  Strangely, the most disturbing part was not the lack of blood or the ice-cold flesh but Boromir’s lively talk as a knife was stuck in his back.  Even after death, his cousin was full of opinions and advice.  When at last the final arrow had been drawn, Eldahil leaned wearily against the side of the fireplace.  “Those orcs were good bowmen for their kind,” he said.  “Several of those hits were right in the center.”  

“Nay, kinsman.” Boromir rose from his chair.  “Their aim was poor enough.  They were five score or more, and they shot from just beyond the reach of my sword arm.  A blind Man would have hit me at that distance.” 

“The Valar help you,” Eldahil murmured at the horror of his cousin’s dying moments.  “Your brother heard a horn calling from the north.  It was then he first feared you had fallen in the wild.”  Turning his back on his cousin, he knelt down to shovel more charcoal on the fire.   Curse you, Boromir, he said to himself as he wept. 

“Fate was against me that day. Though indeed I received no more than I deserved.”  The dead Man strode to one of the windows and swung aside the shutters.  The sky was still black, and the Sickle shone high above the mountains.  “”Tis several hours until dawn,” he said quietly.

Suddenly, Eldahil remembered that the walking dead were said to turn to dust at the touch of sunlight. They had not considered this likelihood in their plans. “Will you need to take cover during the day?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Hide from the sunlight, or return to the grave.”  Eldahil added, “‘Tis a long walk to the Hallows, so you are welcome to stay in my wine cellar.”   Indeed, Eldahil would gladly join him there and drink himself senseless.

Still gazing at the sky, the dead Man said, “Lest I crumble to dust as in the old tales? No, I think not.  Whatever power has sent me back, it will not see me destroyed so soon.”

An uneasy silence fell, and both men started when the dogs began to bark, but the cause for the alarm was only the sentries bringing a basket of clothes.  The hour was late, so Eldahil took the basket and ordered his men to return to their quarters and get some rest.  

A little bathhouse was built off the kitchen, designed so the heat from the fireplace would warm a stone tank of water.   Eldahil turned on the tap that filled the bath then helped his cousin pull off his water-logged boots.  Leaving his mangled clothes in a heap on the floor, Boromir slid with a sigh of contentment under the steaming water.  “My first bath since Lothlorien, unless you count several months in the River.”

When the ghost had finished bathing, he sat wrapped in a coverlet while Eldahil dressed and bandaged his wounds.   It seemed wise to hide the gaping holes in his flesh, and the bandages showing at the neck of his tunic would help explain the dead Man’s terrible pallor.  After his wounds had been swathed in linen, Boromir looked through the basket of clothing.  He donned a pair of plain black trousers and a knee-length black tunic, and around his shoulders, he fastened a horseman’s short grey cloak.  To give the garments a travel-stained look, he smudged them with dirt from the garden.  After a glance in the mirror, he also rubbed the dirt on his face.   The dead Man had worn a gleaming belt fashioned of linked golden leaves.  Eldahil had never seen its like. This treasure was put aside and replaced with a simple leather belt.  To complete the disguise, one of Eldahil’s saddlebags would serve as a messenger’s satchel.  

“You look convincing,” Eldahil said, “though an errandrider would never travel unarmed.”   He fetched his sword from its place by the door and offered it to his cousin. 

“No longer am I fit to bear such honorable arms,” the dead Man said in low voice.  “Find me a spear or short bow instead.”

“Boromir, that sword belongs in your hands, not mine. You would easily knock me sprawling in a fight,” Eldahil told him with a grin.  “Your skill with the sword is unmatched.  If you mean to defend the City, why throw away that advantage?”

Even Boromir could not argue with the truth of this, so with a slight bow, he took the offered weapon.  He drew it slowly and held the blade near the light, studying the welded pattern of its forging.  After hefting its weight in his hand, the dead Man hurried outside to the kitchen garden to test its balance and speed.  The blade glimmered in the darkness as he raised it overhead then brought it down in a gleaming arc and turned then raised it again.  The steel whistled as it cut the cold air.  Back and forth he strode, stepping between the frozen rows of cabbage.  For the first time since his return, he seemed almost happy.

As soon as the sky had faded from black to grey, they set out for the Citadel.   The dead Man carried the satchel over one shoulder and kept his hood drawn forward.  The Enemy’s catapults had reached only the lower levels, so as they ascended the hill, there was less and less sign of damage to the buildings.   Mettarë was less than a week away, so houses were hung with garlands of pine, and the cold air was sharp with its scent.   The streets grew more crowded as the City began to stir. 

“So many strange faces,” Boromir murmured as they hurried past the market.

“Many folk from the townlands have yet to return to their homes,” Eldahil replied.  “The Enemy destroyed everything in their path.  And so many lives were lost during the Siege that companies from the south have remained to help guard the walls.”

When they reached the sixth circle, they stopped at a tavern.  At Eldahil’s request, the serving maid took them to a table in the back, though at this early hour, there were few other patrons.  The maid brought them tea then went back to cleaning and sweeping the floor. 

“I will wait here while you scout ahead,” Boromir told the other Man.   “The last thing we need is to run into Hirluin.  If he is with Faramir, we will need to wait and make another attempt.” 

After a half hour, Eldahil returned from the Citadel.  “The way is clear,” he said.  “I asked after Hirluin, and the guards say he has gone to the Tower armory.  We can find Faramir in the small council chamber.”  After paying the serving maid, they left.

At the entrance to the Citadel, the guards asked them to state their names and errand.  By custom, no strangers could pass unescorted.

“I am Eldahil son of Duinhir,” Eldahil said with a courteous bow, “and this is—“ In sudden horror, he realized that they had forgotten to give the messenger a name.   “Uh, this is my elder brother Barahir.  He comes bearing a most urgent dispatch from my lord Imrahil.”     

“You are known in the City, Captain, so if your brother will surrender his sword, he may pass.” 

Without a word, Boromir unbuckled the weapon and handed it to the guards. 

“Sir, I mean no discourtesy, but as you are a stranger here, I must ask you to uncover your face.”

Boromir drew back the hood and regarded them with a cool look.   One of the guards peered closely at him and scowled.  “You had better have the healers clean that cut on your face, sir, before it begins to fester.”  Bidding them a good day, the guards let them through. 

“Your brother Barahir?” The dead Man gave Eldahil a wry grin from under the hood as they crossed the main courtyard.

“The best I could do at the moment.  Luckily for us, it has been many years since he last was in Minas Tirith.  A blind Man in a dark room would not mistake you for him.” 

As they neared the White Tower, Boromir halted at the sight of the King’s standard floating from the high spire.  He shook his head and murmured, “So much has changed since I left for Imladris.”  His voice was filled with amazement, yet his grey eyes were troubled and he suddenly seemed lost.

“We dare not tarry in plain sight,” Eldahil warned him and, catching his arm, tried to hurry him up the steps to the Tower. The guards at the door questioned them briefly then stood aside to let them enter.  The two Men hurried down the hallway toward the small council chamber where Faramir was.  We are almost there, Eldahil thought.  Just then Lieutenant Hirluin stepped into their path.

“Good day to you, Captain Eldahil,” the aide said with a courteous nod.  “Do you bring a dispatch for the Steward?”

Eldahil inclined his head in return.  “Lieutenant, I would like you to meet my eldest brother Barahir. He has journeyed from Dol Amroth bearing news on behalf of Prince Imrahil.” 

“I am honored to meet you, sir,” Hirluin said with a low bow. 

“Barahir,” Eldahil told the pretend messenger, “this is the Steward’s aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Hirluin.”

“I am your servant, sir,” the dead Man said.   He spoke after the manner of folk in Dol Amroth, drawing out some of the sounds while clipping others short.    Eldahil stifled a sudden, unseemly urge to laugh, though in truth, it was a fair attempt for a Man who was raised in the north of Gondor.

The lieutenant looked closely in Boromir’s face. “You bear a passing likeness to the Steward, sir.  But perhaps that is not so strange, as indeed you are kin...”  His words trailed off as he stared at the dead Man. Hand falling to sword hilt, he took a step backwards.  “What devilry is this that takes the form of the slain?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Good morning, Eldahil,” Faramir called as he strode toward them, followed by two guards.  “What brings you to the Citadel at this early hour?“  Then he caught sight of the messenger and stopped so suddenly that the guards almost ran into him.

“My lord, come no closer!” the lieutenant shouted, drawing his sword.  Faramir’s guards rushed forward, shoving the Steward aside as they reached for their weapons.

“We are both unarmed,” Boromir said loudly, this time in his own voice, the words ringing out like a command. He dropped to one knee and, grabbing Eldahil’s arm, dragged him down beside him. “I bear a message for the lord Steward.”

“This is no messenger! He is some foul deceit from the Nameless Land!”

“Let him speak, Lieutenant.” Faramir stared down at the dead Man, both horror and longing in his gaze.  Though his voice was steady, his breast rose heavily with each breath, and he caught at the wall with one hand.

“I am in truth a messenger. In that, there is no deceit,” Boromir said. His grey eyes were fixed on his brother’s face. “I bring tidings of a vision that woke me from a long sleep. I saw a wonder beyond all belief--a sapling of the White Tree. It had flourished and put forth fair leaves until a destroying hand left it twisted and broken. I know not what this vision means, but it fills me with foreboding.”

“How can you know of that dream?” Faramir murmured. “And you even have his manner of speech.” After a long silence, he said, “I will speak with this messenger alone.” His face was so pale that Eldahil feared he would swoon.

“Lord, do not hazard your life without need,” Hirluin said. “You know not who nor even what he is.”

Still looking at the dead Man, Faramir said, “I would meet with him alone. Bind his hands so he can do no harm. But do not treat him ungently. There are bandages at his neck, and his face looks deathly pale. Whoever he may be, he has been wounded and bled nearly white.”    He stumbled as he took a step forward, but one of the guards seized his arm before he could fall.

“What about Captain Eldahil?” the lieutenant asked. Eldahil had been hoping that, in the uproar, they would forget about him entirely.

“Hold him under guard until I send word,” Faramir replied. To Eldahil, he said, “Forgive me if I do you an injustice, cousin, but if I must err, it is better to be overcautious.”   Then he left, still leaning heavily on the guard.

Boromir quietly suffered them to tie his hands behind his back. “I fear I have brought you undeserved trouble,” he said to Eldahil.

“No trouble is too great for a kinsman and friend,” Eldahil replied, very much aware of the sword point pressed against his back.  Dead or alive, Boromir does stir things up, he thought.  Then, as he watched, they led the ghost away to speak with the Steward.

The sight of his brother’s face struck Faramir like a blow to the stomach, leaving him stunned and gasping for air. The guard still gripped his arm, and he leaned gratefully against this Man as he staggered toward the council chamber.  He forced himself to breathe slowly.  Breathe slowly and try to think.  Reason said that this must be some cruel deceit, though his heart told him what he longed to hear—that his brother had somehow survived to return.   He needed Aragorn’s counsel for he dared not trust his own judgment, but it would be weeks if not months ere the fleet returned from Umbar. 

The council chamber faced south, and the iron shutters were open to let in the thin winter sunlight.   The councilors’ chairs of richly carved wood sat in a half circle that faced the King’s seat on its raised dais.   At the foot of the dais sat the Steward’s plain black chair.  Faramir sank into it and thanked the guard for his aid.

“Fetch a healer to attend to the messenger,” Faramir told him.  “And tell the warden of the Houses that I would speak with him as soon as he can be spared from his duties.”

“Forgive me for speaking so boldly, lord, but your face is as white as a winding-sheet.  I would rather not leave you alone.”

Faramir shook his head.  “For a moment, I felt lightheaded, but the dizziness has passed.” 

With a doubtful “As you wish, lord,” the guard bowed to Faramir then left on his errand to the Houses. 

Two soldiers led the messenger into the council chamber then halted him before the Steward’s seat.   The likeness to Boromir was even more striking in the chill winter sunshine.  The Man was broad across the shoulders and towered over his guards.  Though he came as a captive with his hands bound, his bearing was easy and he wore the plain grey cloak like a princely mantle.   There was no mistaking his brother’s beloved face, though Boromir’s once proud glance now seemed weary and sad, and an unhealed gash marred one cheekbone.   That Man is not my brother, Faramir reminded himself. Rather he is an imposter or a semblance raised by dark arts.

The messenger bowed low to the King’s empty seat; then he knelt before Faramir.   He looked on the verge of fainting for, under the streaks of dirt, his skin was stark white.  At Faramir’s bidding, the men brought a low chair, and the messenger was seated, the rush seat creaking under his weight.  

“Leave us now,” Faramir told the guards.  The door closed behind them, and the chamber was suddenly still.   Outside in the courtyard, a sparrow chirped and trilled.    Sunlight streamed through the windows, leaving trails of golden dust.  Could some unlucky stranger have been forced to play this role?   Could a Man who resembled Boromir have been drugged or tormented until he would do whatever was asked?  The use of such cruel schemes was not unknown to the Enemy.  

“Who are you?”  Faramir asked.  “Be not afraid to speak the truth.”

“I cannot blame you for doubting me, but I swear on what little honor I have left that I am Boromir, son of Denethor, High Warden of the White Tower and your brother.”

“That Man has been dead for months.  Elessar King was with him when he died, and with my own eyes, I saw his lifeless body in a boat adrift on the Anduin.”

“I did not deny that I am dead.  Unwind these bandages and you will see clear proof.  I took three arrows to the heart and six at least in my back, though after a time I lost count.”

Rising from his seat, Faramir went to the windows and stood with his back to the messenger.  He felt sick with horror and grief.  The words, the voice, the forthright manner—all were too perfect to bear.  If this was a deceit, the planning had been masterful.   He gazed into the courtyard, staring blindly through tears.  “If you are in truth Lord Boromir, how is it that you came to return from the dead?”

For a long moment, the other Man was silent. “You know the manner of my death if you saw my body and you spoke with Aragorn son of Arathorn.  He treated me with great mercy, far greater than I deserved, and tried to ease my last moments.  After that…after that I remember little.   A long sleep I called it when I spoke to you just now, but I deem it more like the blind awareness of a worm that crawls in the earth.   I knew when the Shadow was lifted.  And also I knew when our father had gone beyond the circles of this world.”

Faramir looked up from the window.  “What else do you know of Lord Denethor’s fate?” 

Bowing his head, the messenger winced as if stabbed with pain.  “Only that he has died and gone to the Halls of Waiting.  The Valar help me, Faramir, I understand this no better than you do.” 

“Rest a moment. You look unwell,” Faramir told him curtly, though he wanted to bury his face in his hands and weep.  He poured some wine from the bottle on the sideboard and carried it to the messenger.  Since his hands were still bound behind his back, Faramir had to hold the cup so he could drink.   

“My thanks, but you need not worry for I am long past fainting,” the messenger said with a wry smile when he had emptied the cup.  “Why I did not join our father in the Halls of Waiting, I do not know. Instead, I lay in a daze, seeing the stars through a veil of flowing water--until a vision recalled me to myself.”  Then he told of the same vision that Faramir had seen, with the cistern and the rustling darkness and the mangled young White Tree.  “And when I awoke,” he said, “I stood on the ramparts of Minas Tirith.”

“For the past three nights, I have had the same dream,” Faramir replied.  “That you shared it is some token that you speak the truth.”      

“It would not be the first time that the Valar bestowed the same vision upon us.  And what better way to gain your notice than to send your dead brother as the messenger?”  The other Man looked up at him with Boromir’s clear grey eyes. 

“Yet you have no memory of how you came to Minas Tirith?”

The messenger shook his head.  “None whatsoever.  I found myself on the ramparts in the middle of the night.  As chance would have it, Eldahil’s company had the watch, and his men told their commander that a ghost was walking the ramparts.  He joined them in their vigil, and never was I so happy to see an old friend. Though he may now regret being drawn into my troubles.” 

With an echoing thud, the tall doors swung open, and the Queen of Arnor and Gondor rushed into the chamber with Lieutenant Hirluin close on her heels.  Her own guards were nowhere in sight, outrun by the elven queen or ordered out of the way.  She wore only her shift, and, and dark hair fell to her waist in a tangle of braids and pins.  An ivory comb was still clutched in one hand.     “Prince Faramir, I must speak with you!  Something not of this world--” Then she halted abruptly, her eyes wide.  “Lord Boromir!”

“Your Grace,” the messenger said with an uneasy look as he rose from the seat and bowed low.

With a rustle of silk, Arwen hurried across the chamber.  “What brings you from the Halls of Mandos?” she asked.  “Why have you left your appointed place?”  Strangely, she seemed more concerned than afraid.

“Lady, I know not, unless my treachery has bound me to this world.”

“The waters of the Anduin have long since washed away any guilt. Let go of the past, son of Denethor.” As she spoke, she reached out her hand and gently touched his shoulder.

He bowed his head, his dark hair falling across his face. “Lady, I cannot,” he replied, and it seemed as if he wept.

“Leave him be,” Faramir told her, his voice sounding harsher than he had intended.   “He should not be questioned further until a healer has seen to his wounds.”

“Of course. Forgive me, Lord Boromir.  I meant you no harm.  Prince Faramir, I would speak with you alone.”  With a glance toward the doorway, she added, “Lieutenant, if you would close the doors then attend on Lord Boromir?”  News of the strange messenger must have spread for a crowd was gathering in the hall. 

Faramir led her into the adjoining chamber, a small library used by the scribes.  

“You called him ‘Lord Boromir.’  Do you truly believe that Man is my brother?”  Faramir asked the queen.  “I fear my judgment is blinded by a grief that is still very near.” 

“Then let me tell you my judgment, for I am not swayed by a brother’s love. I met Lord Boromir in Imladris, and this is the same Man, in spirit and in flesh.  Every Elf in my household sensed the presence of one who is not of this world.”

“He cannot say how he came here.  What if foul sorcery was used to return him from the grave?”  Through the door, he could see the messenger standing quietly before the Steward’s seat as if awaiting his doom.    From a few feet away, Hirluin watched him, sword and dagger ready in his hands.

“Long ago in the north,” Arwen replied, “Angmar sent spirits to possess the dead buried at Tyrn Gorthad.   But this Man is not such a creature. I can sense no taint of evil in his mind.”    Though her face was unmarred by age, she had seen the fall of the Northern Kingdom a thousand years before, and to her people, the barrow-wights were more than a fireside tale. 

“But if not raised by dark arts, then how was he brought back?” Faramir asked. 

“His comrades gave his body to the waters of the Anduin. Perhaps his return is the work of Lord Ulmo. He has ever been a friend to your people.” 

The Vala Ulmo, lord of all waters flowing under and over the earth, armored for battle with glittering scales, sounding his great horn in the deep.  Faramir thought of his waking dream of the funeral boat.  The water around his slain brother had gleamed as if lit from within.  Had that also been the work of the Valar?  “For the past three nights, I have dreamt of the great lake in the City cistern,” Faramir said slowly. “This errandrider says he beheld the same vision.”

“Prince, you are wise to question your judgment in a matter so close to your heart, but it would be a grave mistake to doubt a messenger who was clearly sent by the Valar.”

He looked into her eyes that shone with the ancient light of the stars, and he knew that she spoke the truth.

"He held out a long time for a tark."

"You belittle the enemy at your own peril. Do not believe those tales about their cowardice." Caranhir rifled through the messenger's satchel as he spoke, pulling out letters and dispatches.

"Well, this one was willing to talk in the end."

"You flatter yourself, Moradan, if you deem you would do any better," Caranhir replied. Day by day, his dislike of this Man grew like a sore from an ill-fitting boot. If only he could have chosen a scout from his own company, but this mission had required certain traits beyond a fair complexion and a good command of Sindarin. His companion had not been easy to find.

The messenger had told them little of value, but some of the dispatches bore Elessar's seal. Caranhir shoved them in his own pack. He would have to read them later. This farmhouse was ruined but by no means deserted. Firewood was stacked by the hearth, and sheep shit mired his boots with every step. They dared not tarry any longer in this place.

Caranhir dropped to one knee beside the errandrider then drew a dagger. The Man of Gondor made a small sound as Caranhir grasped his hair and forced his head back, baring his throat. Then the steel sliced into his neck in one silver motion. There was a trick to making the cut without spraying yourself with blood. He had learned it from a butcher in the Havens of Umbar.

"We'll strip the body and put it in the river. Bury the clothing." Caranhir cleaned the blade with a wisp of dry grass. They had already left one dead man for the tarks to find, and it would not do to raise their suspicions any further.

"And the horse?" Moradan asked. Tied beside their four draught horses, the errandrider's mount sidled and blew out his breath, alarmed by the smell of blood.

"Take him to the shore and kill him," Caranhir said with some regret. The horse was a handsome bay, deep in the chest and clean-limbed, but he bore the steward's brand on his flank and only a fool would mistake him for a work horse. And if they turned him loose, he would run straight to his stable in the Causeway Forts.

After the messenger and his mount had been consigned to the river, the two spies led their wagon and horses along the overgrown lane. Caranhir pulled on woolen gloves and drew his hood over his head. This land was cold, cursedly cold. No one was in sight as the wagon creaked up the embankment and onto the high road. As Moradan climbed onto the seat, Caranhir saw that he now wore the errandrider's fine boots.

"Get rid of those," Caranhir told him flatly. By Melkor's teeth, this Man was a fool. "We are supposed to be merchants from the southern fiefs, not the king's messengers." He decided that this Moradan would bear close watching. He had already shown his poor judgment by leaving that sentry's corpse lying in plain sight. It was hard to believe he had been a spy in Dol Amroth during the War. But Caranhir knew little about his companion, and that left him ill at ease.

Without a word, Faramir turned and ran to the council chamber. He flung his arms around his brother, clutching at him with the frantic strength of the abandoned. He did not presume to question the Valar, yet it had been a bitter fate to be the last survivor, to lose brother and father in the space of a few weeks. The body in his arms was strangely still, without the heart's low murmur or the subtle rise and fall of the breath, and even through the cloak, he felt the river's chill. He drew his brother closer, as if he could somehow share the warmth of his own flesh.

"It's alright, it's alright," Boromir told him as if he were once again a child afraid of a thunderstorm.

"Forgive me, I dared not believe you." Hands shaking, he drew a knife and cut the ropes from his brother’s wrists. "I dared not hope--" Faramir felt a sudden weariness, like the overpowering exhaustion that follows a battle.

"My homecoming was hardly expected," the dead Man said. "But now it is you who look unwell. You must sit and have some wine." He grasped Faramir's arm to steady him. "And then you can tell me the news since I left for Imladris." A wry look, almost a smile, crossed his bloodless face.

"We can talk after the healers have tended your injuries,” Faramir replied. Hirluin hurried to support him on the other side. The lieutenant had put up the sword and dagger, and his face was pale and streaked with tears. Together they helped him to the steward’s chair.

"There is no cure for what ails me. And I would spare you the sight of my wounds."

"No, better that everyone in this chamber should see them in the plain light of day. So all can bear witness to what has happened here.”

Arwen, her bare feet silent on the stone floor, appeared beside him with a cup of wine. Her look was troubled as she handed him the cup.

The door swung open, and the Warden of the Houses strode into the chamber, bearing a satchel over one shoulder. "Good morning, Your Grace." He made a quick bow to the queen. "I am at your service, Prince Faramir. I was told that this errandrider-" With a   startled cry, the healer stopped. "Forgive me for being so forthright, lord, but if I did not know your late father so well, I would think this Man his bastard son. I mean no disrespect to the dead, but the likeness is remarkable."

"And what if he were indeed Boromir son of Denethor?" Faramir asked.

"My lord, you jest.  That is not within the realm of the possible."

"The boundaries of that realm have been redrawn of late," the elf queen said quietly.

Boromir was seated near the windows; in the winter sunlight, his skin glowed with   counterfeit life.  Shrugging off offers of help, he pulled the black tunic over his head. Ready to assist, Hirluin stood by the warden's side, holding the satchel and a basin of water.

With great care, the healer loosened the bandages then lifted the dressing that lay above Boromir's heart. For a long moment, he did not move or speak; then he looked up at Faramir, his face without expression. "You must see this for yourself, my lord. And you also, Your Grace."

The orcs had favored barbed arrows that were harrowing to remove, and this one had left a gaping hole. Taken alone, the wound would have been mortal.  Yet it had been one of many.  Faramir looked away.

In a low, broken voice, Hirluin said, "You took the hard road home, lord."

"If he wasn't already dead, he would have been slain when the arrow hit that great artery." The warden pointed to the severed structure. "You can see how it runs from the top of the heart. He should have been dead within moments. Yet he shows the outer semblance of life, and how that is, I cannot say."

"Have you ever heard of such a case?" Faramir asked. His own voice sounded so calm that it seemed like a stranger was speaking.

"No, though in ancient days, the loremasters of Gondor sought everlasting life through alchemy and the study of the stars. Did they also seek to restore life to the dead? If so, it is not written in the archives of the Houses. The healers of Minas Tirith are not trained in such dark arts. Indeed, they would run counter to our sacred oath to do no harm. The Rangers of the North tell of Men raised from the dead by the witchcraft of Angmar. For a rustic, wandering folk, they preserve a great store of learning so there may be some truth in the tale. If Elessar King or Lord Elrond were here," He bowed slightly to the queen, "No doubt they could say more."

"No doubt," the dead Man said.

"My lord, do you remember how you returned? If there was some spell or elixir used?"

"If there was, I do not recall. And I was alone when I woke."

As he rewound the bandages, the warden said, "This Man is in truth Lord Boromir. I spent too many years tending his hurts to be mistaken. Form, voice, manner—all are his. Right down to the scars from his youth.  But I cannot explain this life after death, neither why it happened nor how long it will last."

How long? Faramir had not considered that and pushed the thought from his mind. "For now, I must ask you to be silent on this matter. If any ask his name, he is Captain Eldahil's brother, Barahir of Dol Amroth."

"Healers are sworn to silence about secrets learned in the course of their work. I am bound in this case as in any other."

When the healer had finished, Boromir pulled the tunic over his head and shrugged into the arms. "Yet even if you say I am Barahir of Dol Amroth, those who knew me by sight will be startled out of their wits. And what if folk remember Eldahil’s brother ? They may deem him strangely altered. It has been some years since he journeyed to Minas Tirith, but—wait, where is Eldahil?"  He glanced about the council chamber.

Overwhelmed by the strange events of this day, Faramir had forgotten that he had ordered their kinsman held on suspicion of treason and black sorcery. He feared that, with such grave accusations, the guards might be treating Eldahil less than gently. "Send word to the guards to bring him," Faramir told Hirluin, and his aide went to speak with the sentries at the door.

Boromir unfastened the grey cloak and offered it to Arwen.  “These council chambers were ever drafty, and I have no need of this now.“  With a nod of thanks, she drew it around her shoulders. 

"Your Grace," Faramir said, "Aside from a message to Elessar King, I deem it best to keep this news secret."

"Yes, that would be wise, at least for now. I will also speak to the elves of my household. They sensed your brother's presence just as I did." Turning to Boromir, she asked, "Can you tell me of this strange dream that the two of you shared? We must consider what ill it portends."

Faramir started to reply then turned at the sound of the door.

"What!" Boromir leapt to his feet, reaching for his missing sword

Led by two guards, Eldahil stumbled into the council chamber. No doubt fearing he would cast a spell, they had taken no chances-- his hands were bound behind his back, and they had gagged him and bandaged his eyes.

"Here is Captain Eldahil, lord steward." As he spoke, the guard stared warily at Boromir. The dead Man glared back, brandishing an empty wine bottle in one hand.

"Set Captain Eldahil at liberty," Faramir ordered. "His name has been cleared. This messenger is indeed Barahir of Dol Amroth."

"Yes, my lord," the guard replied, still staring at the supposed messenger. Most of the Tower Guard had served with Boromir for many years. They were not likely to mistake him, especially not old veterans like this Man. The two guards swiftly freed their prisoner then made a hasty retreat as soon as Faramir dismissed them.

"Were you harmed?" Boromir asked. "I fear your kindness to me has been poorly repaid."

"No harm was done except to my pride." Eldahil rubbed where the ropes had bound his wrists. "That, however, has taken a mortal blow. And I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the laws of Gondor. Cousin Faramir, is it true that before traitors are hanged, they cut off their—Oh, Your Grace, forgive me." He made a graceful if somewhat shaky bow to Arwen. "I did not see you at first."

After Eldahil had been seated with a cup of wine in his hand, their council could begin. Faramir told the others of his ill-omened dream of the cistern and the dark passage and then the sight of the mangled white tree.

"And the same vision came to me," Boromir said. "Rousing me from the sleep of the dead. How I woke from that slumber is a mystery to me. I fear the Nameless has marked me as surely as if I bore his token on my breast. "

"I sense only the hand of the Valar in your return. They must believe you worthy to do their work," Arwen told him.

"Lady, I pray that is so, but I beg you all be wary lest I turn traitor again."

"Long you served faithfully, son of Denethor. Do you deem that carries no weight in the balance?"

"Would it were so, lady," Boromir replied. Yet it seemed to Faramir that his dark mood lessened if only a little.