Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

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.”

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.

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, which offered them a quiet measure of relief.

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?”

“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.

“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 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.

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.

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

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

“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.”

“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.

Till Death Reunites Us by Ecthelion of the fountain