Chapter 7. Grave Matters

“It seems Snowmane has no trouble bearing us both,” Théodred remarked, as they rode back toward the City, ascending the winding streets with astonishing speed. Lo—if the ghosts of men moved swifter than in life, then the ghost of one of the Mearas might well outrun even the wind—especially when he had no concern for pedestrians, carriages, or other horsemen. They would feel no more than a sudden chill and take it for a passing gust, if they were sensitive enough to sense a ghost at all.

Boromir sat behind him—they had engaged in a lengthy debate over who ought to take the rear seat, each claiming to be the more skilled horseman. At one point, Boromir had declared, “I am no doubt more to his taste—I have ever preferred white stallions, and I have ridden them all my life. Come to think of it, I have never seen you on one in yours!” And Théodred had retorted, “I am of the Rohirrim—Ro-chir-rim! The very word proves my claim! And here I am, having a linguistic argument with a Gondorian!” In the end, he had prevailed—bolstered, no doubt, by Snowmane’s unmistakable approval.

And at his comment, the white stallion arched his neck and quickened his pace, as if to boast of his ghostly might.

“After all, we wear no armour and bear no weapons,” Boromir replied, then fell briefly into thought. “I wonder—how much do ghosts truly weigh, especially to one another? I can feel your strength—and you feel mine, for I can strike you, if need be. We can restrain each other, it seems—much as in life. Do you suppose Snowmane feels our weight as if we still lived?”

Snowmane answered by breaking into an even swifter gallop.

“You could surely outrun Shadowfax now,” Théodred said in jest, amused by the display. But the proud stallion snorted in protest as he raced along the streets of the sixth circle, clearly displeased by the comparison. At once, Théodred leaned forward and laid a hand upon his neck in apology.

“Peace—peace,” he murmured. “You are right, and I shall not say it again. You are yourself, in life or in death.”

“You are quick enough with apologies,” Boromir remarked, “though you still manage to be a serious man—most of the time.”

Théodred only laughed. “Then you must mark the rare hour when I am not, for I would not wish the moment wasted.”

They reached the Citadel in no time and halted at the doors of the Tower. Théodred and Boromir dismounted, but Snowmane lingered in the courtyard, choosing to stand beneath the Tree that had once bloomed white as snow. He was plainly reluctant to go within—and they understood why, and did not press him.

Within, the King stood beneath the dais, his back to the door, gazing long upon the empty throne. He did not turn at their approach.

“Are you come to bid farewell?” the King asked, his voice steady, as though already prepared. “I can feel the stir of warriors from a hill away.”

“Aye,” Théodred replied. “But not this day. In two days’ time, we shall march with them—the remnant of the Rohirrim, the new hosts out of the South, and all else that Gondor can yet spare—unto the Black Gate.”

The King sighed and turned at last. He appeared much as he had the night before—noble and fair, with wisdom deep as time in his clear blue eyes. “It seems fate has willed me to remain,” he said. “I cannot pass beyond this Hall—so I have come to understand.”

“Then we shall know the City is in good hands while we are away,” Théodred replied with a wide smile.

Boromir bowed his head. “My brother is still in recovery. I do not think he will ride with the host. I know not what strength we possess in death—but if any power is granted us, then I would humbly ask your aid, my lord: to guard him from any shadow or creeping darkness.”

“And I believe,” Théodred added, “that Éowyn is to remain at rest for at least ten days more. Since Éomer will surely ride forth with the Rohirrim, I would entrust her also to your care, father.”

“You place great trust in an old man,” said the King with a smile—half self-mocking, half sorrowful, but without doubt. “An old man who cannot even leave the hall in which he lingers.”

“If once you left your former hall, found new strength, and wrote your tale anew—then, my father and king, when the need arises,” Théodred knelt before him, yet looked up with eyes earnest and steadfast, full of trust and love, “you shall do so again, in life or in death, Théoden King—Ednew.”

The King laughed, deep and true, then turned his gaze toward the door, as though beholding something far beyond it. He raised his voice in that direction. “And you—I suppose you go as well? Will you not bid me farewell, before you depart?”

At that, the white ghost of the horse stepped forth from the shadow—silent and slow, and not without reluctance—and came to the King. There he bowed his proud head, still bearing the weight of a guilt unspent, and a sorrow deep and unspoken.

The King pressed his forehead to his.

The horse started, as if he had not expected such tenderness, such affection. Even his ghostly form tensed, straining as though to keep from trembling.

“I thought I glimpsed you when I was brought here—but I was a little preoccupied with being dead,” the King murmured into his ear. “Do not mistake that for a grudge, nor take it for blame—I would have you know, my friend, that I hold none. It was well that we fought and fell together—we felled the black serpent.”

Then he laid a steady hand upon the stallion’s neck.

“Go where you will, if that is your will—but do not go seeking pardon or praise. You have no need of either.”

The horse bowed deeper. And when he raised his head once more, the dim haze of sorrow that had long troubled him was lifted, and he stood like the breath of the West Wind, made visible for a moment in form.

---

Preparation for departure proved more troublesome than expected—for neither of them knew what a ghost ought to bring, nor where such things might be found.

“I suppose food and supply are no longer needed—which is convenient; but are there even weapons we might use?” Boromir asked, his tone edged with doubt. “I recall the Shadow Host bore arms—but they were clad in full armour, which we are not. And truth be told, they had little need of blades—the terror they brought was weapon enough. You and I, on the other hand—I do not think we are frightening in the least.”

In truth, their present forms were not as they had appeared at the hour of death, as most might have expected. Théodred counted it a mercy—for he had no wish to envision himself as he had fallen: hewn by a great orc-man, buried in haste, and that before one even accounted for being swept away by the flood. Boromir, by contrast, found it something of an affront—for, having received full honours in death, he had perhaps expected more weapons and armour. Yet by some mystery, both now stood clad not in gleaming plate nor in ceremonial raiment, but in the plain attire they had worn most often in life.

“Perhaps I should count myself fortunate for favouring the simpler style of my people,” Théodred said, glancing down at his dark green tunic and breeches, embroidered with gold and white, and a cloak of matching hue draped across his shoulders. His sword-belt was fastened at his waist, though it bore no blade.

Beside him, Boromir stood in worn training leathers, with plates of armour across chest and shoulders. The only items that seemed unusual—or that he had borne before death and that had truly left their mark upon him—were a golden belt and a grey hood, light yet sturdy, both bearing the unmistakable touch of the Elves.

“You wore that most of your life?—setting aside the belt and the hood, I mean,” Théodred asked, unable to keep a note of bemusement from his voice. He found himself genuinely wondering what, precisely, this man had occupied his days with.

Boromir, for his part, looked honestly perplexed. “Why? What is wrong with it?”

“Never mind,” Théodred said. “If we are to ride to war—real or feigned—I should feel far easier with a weapon in hand. At this point, I am not particular; anything will do.”

“There is one place where we might find aid,” Boromir said after a pause.

Following his gaze, Théodred turned westward and at last discerned a door set into the rearward wall of the Sixth Circle.

“The door of Fen Hollen is shut and locked, ever since my father passed,” Boromir said, a strange light flickering in his eyes. “But I suppose that need not trouble the likes of us.”

Later in the Hallows, near the House of the Stewards whose dome had crumbled, Théodred said, “It may sound ridiculous—and perhaps it is some lingering habit from life, for my people are rather skilled at spinning ghost-tales. But I, even as a ghost, find this place eerily unnerving.”

He was visibly ill at ease amid the pale domes, the empty halls, and the carven faces of long-dead men. The street was called Rath Dínen—and it was silent indeed. No other ghost stirred; likely, there were none. “I did not realize you meant to raid the tombs of your own kin.”

“Too bad we are far from your kin’s barrow-field,” Boromir replied. “We must make do with what lies at hand, as we say in Gondor.”

“I still do not see anything usable,” Théodred muttered as he glanced about. “And—what exactly are we looking for?”

“I do not know,” Boromir admitted, though his gaze was fixed upon the half-ruined House of the Stewards. He stepped forward and stood before the threshold, where pale dust clung like ash and silence lay heavy as mist.

Then, in a voice steady and clear, he spoke:

“Lords and Stewards of Gondor, who kept watch through long years of war and peace alike, I call upon you now—not for pride, nor for glory, but for the last labour that lies before us. I, Boromir, son of Denethor, stand in need—of strength, of will, and of arms.”

A pause. Then, in a lower voice, he continued:

“And Father… if aught of you yet lingers, grant this boon to your son—and to his companion, who is as a brother to him—that we may defend the hope you once despaired.”

For a breathless moment, nothing stirred. Then, from the shadows within, a faint gleam shimmered into view. Beneath a shattered arch, they saw it—a shield and a broad, time-darkened sword, once borne by Steward Boromir, laid reverently across a stone bier. Beside them, a long sword and a bow of fine make, marked with the sigil of Steward Cirion, lay as though in quiet waiting.

Boromir exhaled slowly. “I think… they have answered.”