Chapter 6. One Does Not Simply...

“Tell me more of Aragorn,” said Théodred to Boromir, as they left the Citadel and made their way back toward the Houses of Healing. Dawn was nearing; the City had begun to stir—even after such a sleepless night for many, and for many more, a night from which they would never wake.

“I shall tell you what I am at liberty to share,” Boromir replied. “But first—why not begin with the lesser mystery?”He glanced at Théodred. “You said you met him when I came to investigate the dark horse. Tell me of your encounter then—for you said nothing of it at the time.”

Théodred cleared his throat. “Well—I ought not to have spoken of it. It slipped from me when I was newly dead. Long story short, I gave your brother my word that I would not speak of meeting a man named Thorongil in the Entwood—for reasons he was reluctant to share.” He had not pressed him afterward, either; it had been surprise enough, later, to learn how plainly the late Steward had favoured his elder son.

“Typical Faramir,” Boromir said, his voice shaded with fondness and affection, then sighed. “Always considerate. And he was probably right—I can only imagine the storm it would have stirred had my father ever found out. If there is such a thing as true rivalry, that must be the very definition—whatever it was between him and that man. Thorongil, by the way, was said to have served your grandfather before he ever came to Gondor.”

“So that is why the name had always felt familiar!” Théodred exclaimed. “Now I remember—my father spoke of him once, but he was likely gone from the court before I was born.”

So Boromir gave him a brief account of the tale of Captain Thorongil, and Théodred, in turn, shared his own encounter with him. By the time all was told, morning had come upon them. It was a fair day, with light clouds in the sky and a wind blowing from the west. To their quiet joy, both Faramir and Éowyn were faring far better than they had the night before, and now slept soundly—at last in peace, and on the path to healing. As for the little Halfling named Merry, who seemed well acquainted with both Éowyn and the King—Théodred had by now learned that they called themselves “hobbits,” and guessed they must be the same folk as the holbytlan of old hearth-tales among the Rohirrim—he was already awake, speaking cheerily with his friend Pippin.

“I have yet more tales to hear, I deem, of how these little ones came to be involved,” said Théodred, casting a glance at Boromir. “Are you at liberty to share them?”

Boromir laughed, catching the edge of protest in his tone, and yet replied firmly, “No.”

“You are truly a serious man,” Théodred sighed. “And I wonder when I shall ever hear the full tale of Isengard and Saruman—for the part I know best is but the flood that swept me to the Sea.” Then he grinned. “Come to think of it, I do wonder what Saruman would say, were he to see me now. Do you suppose a ghost might haunt a wizard in defeat? Perhaps in his dreams?”

Boromir snorted, though the glint in his eye betrayed a real interest. “Forget the haunting—do you think we might find a way to speak to the living? In dreams, perhaps, as you said?”

But before they could wander further down that path, they caught sight of a messenger hurrying toward the Houses of Healing. He was asking for Éomer, who had not left Éowyn’s side since the night before. The message was from Prince Imrahil, requesting Éomer to descend from the City and join a council with the other lords.

Naturally, Boromir and Théodred followed.

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The young King of Rohan entered the tent that Aragorn had set for council upon the fields of the Pelennor, muttering mildly about the morning chill. Gandalf, who must have noticed Boromir and Théodred trailing in his wake, said nothing. He merely gave them a faint smile—wry, and edged with warning—as if to say: I know you are here; behave, and you may remain. The sons of Elrond likely saw them too, but gave no sign; their faces remained still and unreadable, as though they had witnessed far stranger things in their long years.

And so, Boromir and Théodred joined the council—unseen, unannounced, and quite ghostly—and listened. Théodred still sensed the old tension in Boromir whenever the late Steward was named—but now it was tempered by something deeper: sorrow, understanding, and a quiet resolve. There was in him an anticipation, almost a challenge: for all the grief we have borne, and the sacrifices we have made, what now will you offer to answer it? 

At last, when they spoke of what seemed the root of all, Théodred leaned in and asked quietly, “What is this—this Ring of Power?”

At that, a strange expression flickered across Boromir’s face—a mingling of remorse, fear, and a longing so deep it seemed carved into his very presence.

“I will tell you later,” Boromir said at last, “now that you have been granted entry to this council, I suppose I am free to speak. For now, think of it as a weapon—an ultimate weapon. One that may decide the fate of this war. One that Sauron desires above all else, as Gandalf has told it.”

“I had thought Aragorn was the answer to your errand north,” Théodred pressed. “But this Ring—this weapon—seems to weigh even heavier. And from what I hear, I deem it is not something we ourselves may wield?”

“Aye,” Boromir said, his eyes still downcast. “I had doubts once—but no longer. It led to my fall.”

The pain stirred afresh in him, too deep to bear, and Théodred laid a steady hand on his shoulder. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he said, more solemnly now. “What matters is to know it—and not make it again.”

“Yet that is the trouble,” Boromir replied, low and bitter. “Even now, I do not know if I would choose differently. That is the power of it—you cannot understand unless you have faced it. I only hope Frodo—the hobbit fated to bear this terrible burden—may yet have his chance.”

“Then that is what I hear,” said Théodred. “We will do all we can to make a diversion—to win him a chance, however frail it may be.” He turned to Boromir and met his gaze in full. “I shall go with them, to whatever end, if that is the only hope we have—though I have little knowledge in such matters. What say you?”

Before Boromir could reply, another voice spoke—Éomer’s, firm and clear: “I have little knowledge of these deep matters; but I need it not. This I know, and it is enough, that as my friend Aragorn succoured me and my people, so I will aid him when he calls. I will go.” [1]

At that, Boromir gave a short laugh, shaking off his inner struggle for a moment. “He is truly your cousin—the same turn of thought. If we set aside the matter of Aragorn, that is.”

Théodred laughed as well, though with a touch of embarrassment, and wondered—not without wryness—if Boromir had caught the subtle edge in his tone in his mentioning of Aragorn before. For there was something he had not yet spoken aloud: a guarded feeling toward the man who seemed already to have won so many hearts, and claimed such unwavering loyalty.

It was true: he had seen Aragorn command the Dead—and release them. He had seen him lead the charge into battle, and return from it unscathed. He had witnessed the gift of healing in his hands, and the strange peace that followed him wherever he went.

And yet, Théodred thought, I would see more. I would see how he bears command not only in victory, but in doubt—how he meets counsel that does not flatter him, or fails to move those who do not bend easily. I would see how he holds his ground when all hope falters, when no road lies open but ruin. Let him stand against the full weight of shadow, and not merely outrun it.

Aragorn son of Arathorn, he thought, may have won their hearts. But mine—mine is yet to be won.

When their laughter faded, Boromir grew solemn once more.

“Though I know not what aid we may truly offer, even in death, I will not remain behind. I shall do all that lies within my strength to defend my land and my people. Even though my—” he paused, as if steadying something within, “—my father deemed it no more than folly.”

“Only in despair is hope truly known,” Théodred replied. “We shall see.”

“It is settled, then,” said Boromir. “Only one small problem: as we say in Gondor—one does not simply walk into Mordor.” [2]

Just then, a new figure emerged behind them—white and shimmering, proud and resolute. Snowmane, one of the Mearas, stepped into the tent with spectral grace. His mane streamed like a banner in windless air, and his eyes shone with a light no living steed could bear. Though unseen by the living, his towering presence filled the narrow space, and his hooves made no sound.

As they watched in awe, Éomer shivered when the ghostly stallion mischievously snorted against the nape of his neck.

Théodred laughed. “Looks like we shall not be walking, after all.”

And silently he mused, not without amusement, that Éomer—bold and stern though he was—was plainly no Grimbold. He might well prove, in truth, a rather entertaining haunt.

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Notes:

[1] Éomer’s words are quoted from LotR.

[2] We all know where that came from!

The tale of Théodred once meeting Thorongil in the Entwood is drawn from my other Rohirrim-centered fanfics; although it is canon-compliant, it is NOT canon.