Chapter 4. Dead But Unquiet

Steadily, the day waned.

The healers and caregivers did all they could, drawing upon the ancient arts passed down from the days of Númenor—but even their skill could not turn back a darkness born of such malice. Faramir, Éowyn, and Meriadoc showed no sign of waking.

Boromir was visibly agitated; unable to approach Faramir, he paced without cease. And given his ghostly swiftness, Théodred thought he might soon earn a headache from watching him—if such things still befell the dead.

Snowmane, for his part, grew increasingly vexed by his inability to graze upon the flowers and herbs in the garden that bordered the Houses. Théodred did his best to soothe him, offering what little wisdom death had thus far bestowed.

“No food, no drink—you have no need of them now, as you will soon discover for yourself. And do not give me that woeful look—I have no apples. Least of all ghost-apples.”

Feeling like the only grown-up in the Houses, Théodred sighed, turned back indoors, and quietly seated himself beside Éowyn once more.

He looked upon her pale brow and tried not to dwell on the hush that had settled over her features. Earlier, she had spoken in fevered dreams—murmuring fragments, sobbing at times, yet even in unconsciousness restraining herself, just as she had when first she came to Edoras: a child bereft of both mother and father.

Most of her words were scattered and faint, but with the sharpened hearing granted him in death, he caught those that came most often—her brother’s name, a cry for her uncle and king, and a fierce command driving some unseen foe to stand down. And at last, when the struggle had spent her strength, with effort born of dread—as though forced to speak some cold and bitter truth—she uttered his name.

That had broken his heart.

A memory rose unbidden—one of those quiet, half-forgotten moments they had shared in a season of unrest. He had found her in the herb garden below Meduseld, gathering the finest leaves for their king, hoping their fresh scent might bring some ease.

“I owe you my thanks, sister,” he had said then—not lightly, nor out of courtesy. He had meant every word. He knew well how she bore the burdens he could not: watching over their king in his waning strength, standing guard against age, and frailty, and the pale shadow that lingered ever near—in the Golden Hall, where hope had grown thin, the hearth burned low, and the wind crept cold through stone.

But he must have misjudged the weight she bore, and expected too little of it—for it had not struck him, until now, what his death had wrought in her. Little sister, he thought, sorrow rising like a tide, I never truly reckoned what those I held most dear must have endured in my passing, not knowing I could yet linger. He had thought only of the battle, of the fall, of the larger war waging beyond. But she—she had remained to endure the rest. She had wept where none could see, endured what none could ease, and smiled where she ought to have been held. And now he found himself asking, again and again: What sorrow had she borne alone? What strength had she summoned to don armour, to take up the sword, and to ride to war?

And now she lay in silence—the weariness, the unspoken fear, and the shadow of long-held grief still etched upon her young face.

He held her left hand—for he could not draw near the right, where the deadly darkness had taken hold—though the touch was but the memory of warmth. Through that gesture, he willed what strength remained in him to pass into her.

Let it reach her, if it may, he pleaded. Let her remain. She is so young, and so fair. She does not deserve to depart from a world she has scarcely begun to claim. 

Yet as the sun sank westward, a grey shadow—slowly, yet inexorably—crept across her brow.

Nearby, the old woman Ioreth wept openly as she looked upon Faramir, while Boromir paced behind her—like a caged beast caught in a storm-wind. “Would that there were kings in Gondor, as there were in days of old, they say! For it is said in old lore: the hands of the king are the hands of a healer. ” [1]

At that, Gandalf lifted his head, a glint kindling in his eyes—and Boromir came to an abrupt halt. Then the wizard turned and strode from the room, murmuring only a few cryptic words as he went, among them: “Maybe a king has indeed returned to Gondor.” And Boromir followed at once—swift, silent, and without a word for Théodred. [2]

They did not return until nightfall. And when they did, it was a company Théodred knew well: with the wizard and Boromir came Éomer, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and the man he had once glimpsed in his youth as Thorongil—now revealed as Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North and Heir of Isildur.

---

“I never thought kingsfoil could be so useful,” Théodred said in quiet awe, as they watched. “I always took it for a spice—refreshing of scent, but vile to the taste.”

“And I never even knew what kingsfoil was,” Boromir replied wryly, now much calmer—almost himself again. “Let alone all the other names folk have for it. Though now I think I recall Aragorn using its dry leaves once, on our journey.”

They were far more at ease now, with Aragorn’s skill at last seeming to take effect on Faramir. Judging by Boromir’s borderline jesting, Théodred guessed he had emerged from that earlier state—when he had looked ready to strike something, or someone. And Théodred, in turn, was quietly relieved. For, truth be told, he was likely the only one Boromir could have struck with any real force.

But it was not long before Théodred found himself seething with the same urge.

“Release me,” he told Boromir, straining against his hold. “I have a great many questions for that man—did he truly say he rejected her? He ought to count himself exceedingly fortunate that she gave her heart to him. And wait—how old is he, exactly? I thought seventeen years was a considerable gap—how much older is he than she, seventy?”

Boromir, though just as stunned by the revelation, had in life witnessed enough elder brothers grow wholly unreasonable where their younger sisters were concerned. And so, in a rare moment of foresight, he felt himself possessed of absolute wisdom—and caught Théodred firmly by the shoulders before he could surge forward.

“First, you cannot touch him, even if I let you. Second, he still has her to tend—and Merry, in the next chamber. And last—” he lowered his voice, “do you not realize the wizard can both see and hear us? I would not tempt his wrath. He might yet turn us into ghost-frogs.”

Théodred froze for only a heartbeat before sneering. “So? As far as I know, he still owes my father Shadowfax—and my father, I might add, is presently seated in the Citadel.”

At that, the wizard gave a dry cough and replied—in a voice barely audible even to ghosts, touched with amusement: “In truth, your father gifted him to me—as a mark of honour, and in reward for my counsel.”

Théodred was, for a moment, entirely baffled by this unexpected turn. After a pause, he turned sharply to his cousin—now King of Rohan.

“Very well, then. What of Éomer? Are we not agreed he deserves a fair measure of ghostly retribution? Did I hear him say he thought her dead? Béma help me—I thought it bad enough when I was prematurely deemed dead! And what nonsense was that about her being fine until she met that man?—she was not fine!—And holding him blameless? What sort of brother says that? I—”

Boromir had to drag him away—firmly, if not unkindly—into the garden, for he had caught the wizard casting them another glance and muttering to himself, “I am not convinced that noisy ghosts are good for the patients.”

Outside, night had fallen clear. The stars were strewn across the heavens like scattered gems, and the wind was cool along the grassless path.

“I need to sort this out,” Théodred exclaimed, still fuming. “No one—no one, not even the King of Gondor, shall speak of her so.”

“Peace,” Boromir sighed. “Are you not glad that she is saved? And my brother—and the little one as well? That is what matters most. I saw it with my own eyes—‘the hands of the king are the hands of a healer,’ as Ioreth said. And she spoke true.”

“Healing of wounds that bleed or fester—aye, perhaps,” Théodred retorted. “But what of the wounds of the heart?”

Boromir fell silent for a moment. Then he replied, drier than before. “How should I know? I have no counsel to offer in such matters—for I am not wed. Nor are you!”

“By wind and mane, I shall haunt him to the world’s end if this is not resolved properly,” Théodred swore. “But first—I need a way to knock some sense into Éomer. Help me devise one!”

Then, all at once, a grin broke across his face. “To begin with,” he said, “I do know he is rather afraid of ghosts.” [3]

---

Notes:

[1] [2] The words of Ioreth and Gandalf are quoted directly from LotR.

[3] According to LotR, Éomer once said of the Paths of the Dead: “And that way I would not go, though all the hosts of Mordor stood before me, and I were alone and had no other refuge.” Sounds like ghost-fear to me!