This time, however, the two men who had once acted as leaders in their own realms bore no mantle of command. They were not called to ride the lines, nor consulted for counsel. It was strange—to see so much done with such swiftness, and never to lift a hand to hasten or amend it. They moved through the camps upon the Pelennor like shadows: bystanders at the edge of life, a little wistful, and unnaturally idle.

“Six thousand Riders came to the battlefield—now only four thousand remain,” Théodred sighed. “So great a cost—and the war not yet ended.”

Boromir did not sigh, only grimaced. “Few lords of Gondor remain as well. I knew them all—every one. Some were dear friends, men in whose hands I would have placed my life.” He paused, set his jaw, and went on: “We lost many at Osgiliath over the years, more at Cair Andros, and yet more upon the fields of the Pelennor. But had the Rohirrim not ridden to our aid, we might have lost all.”

He turned to Théodred and met his gaze fully. “Your people have Gondor’s thanks—and mine above all.”

Théodred nodded, and a deep sadness stirred in him—that neither he nor Boromir could offer their thanks in life to those who had honoured their ancient oath, nor pay their respects to those who had fallen for it. Not far from where they stood, Éomer worked with Elfhelm to select foot-soldiers and the finest Riders; five hundred would be needed for each company. Prince Imrahil stood with them, his expression unreadable—though his eyes, now and then, turned to Éomer with a trace of quiet approval.

“I see that my uncle is fond of your cousin,” Boromir said, sensing the heaviness and turning the talk aside as he followed Théodred’s gaze.

“Our grandmother was his kinswoman,” Théodred replied wryly. “I am sure you have not forgotten that.”

Boromir gave a low laugh. “May they renew that kinship—and perhaps forge new bonds besides.”

“Now,” Théodred murmured, suddenly thoughtful, “that is an interesting notion. And you know—Éomer, too, is unwed. Perhaps I shall mention it to him, when my haunting days begin.”

“Careful,” Boromir said, the meaning catching up to him a beat later. “My uncle becomes the most particular man in Middle-earth the moment anyone shows even a glimmer of interest in his daughter. And are you quite certain you wish to play matchmaker—in this case of all cases?”

“What harm can it do?” Théodred replied, perfectly innocent. “I am dead, after all—and the living still need to fall in love.”

They walked on—toward the place where the King had fallen, where Éowyn had struck down the Black Captain. The carcass of the fell beast had been burned, and the ground lay scorched and blackened. But nearby stood a new grave, where green blades had already begun to break the soil, and a stone upon it bore fresh-cut markings. They drew near and looked upon it.

“They need not have carved that,” Théodred sighed once more, reading the words: Master’s Bane, among others.

“Nonetheless, it is how men choose to remember him. But I do not believe Snowmane minds,” Boromir said, his gaze following the white ghost-horse as he raced across the distant fields, teasing Shadowfax with a burst of speed. The great grey steed, for his part, clearly saw him—yet held his ground with an air of studied indifference. “He has found peace. He is free.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching. Then, wordless, they turned together toward the City—each bearing a thought unspoken, yet steadily growing:

When shall we find our own?

As was now their daily custom, they returned to the Houses of Healing to see how Faramir and Éowyn fared. To their continued joy, both were much improved, though still kept abed at the Warden’s counsel. The hobbit named Merry had recovered more swiftly and now walked about—though at present, he was in low spirits, unable to join the host soon to depart. The other hobbit, Pippin, was busy with preparations, already arrayed in the livery of the Guard.

“He is marching as well?” Théodred asked, raising a brow. “I have heard what Merry did beside Éowyn, and I am impressed by his courage. But to think of these small folk in the battle that lies ahead—”

“Do not underestimate them,” Boromir said, a fond smile touching his face. “For one thing, they throw stones with uncanny aim. And their small blades are no mere ornament—not when their slow-kindled courage catches flame.”

When the day came and the trumpets sounded, the host assembled upon the Pelennor began to move. Théodred and Boromir rode together upon Snowmane, close behind the vanguard, though they kept their distance—lest any among the living should sense their presence. Gandalf saw them, of course; but the wizard said nothing, only let his gaze rest for a moment on the arms they bore—and there it lingered, as though in silent recognition, touched with a glimmer of quiet delight.

Yes, they both bore arms now—gifts granted by the Stewards long at rest. These were no arms in the living sense of steel and weight, but rather their shades: the memory of sword and shield and bow, the echo of weapons and gear once used in Gondor’s defence. Yet they lay perfect in the hand—light, keen, and familiar, as though they had long known the touch of those who now wielded them. They had not yet tested their stroke, but each bore the sense that these arms would still prove deadly—even within the bounds of the living world.

In the van, Théodred caught sight of a company of men—sent from the City—and the one leading them looked familiar.

“I believe I saw that man guarding your brother in the Houses of Healing,” he said to Boromir, as they moved eastward along the great road to the Causeway.

“Aye, I know him,” Boromir replied. “That is Beregond of the Guard. But if what I have heard is true, he is a man awaiting judgment—and the best he may hope for now is to reclaim some honour before the end.”

“For what?” Théodred asked, raising a brow. “He looks a decent man to me—and judging by his face when he stood by your brother, I would not question his loyalty. He would have drawn steel for him, had it come to that—that is my read.”

“And that is exactly the wrong of it,” Boromir replied. “Spilling blood in the Hallows, where it is forbidden, and abandoning his post without leave—that is what I have gathered.” His voice was grim, yet not without pity. “By our laws, such deeds carry the penalty of death.”

“And all this—was it not done to save your brother?” Théodred asked.

“Aye,” Boromir said. “But that does not exempt him from the penalty. You have led Riders—you know how it is. Orders are orders, and to break them carries a cost, even when the cause is just. Yet this is not the hour for judgment. The Captain of the Guard has set him aside from his post and sent him to march with the host—a fair and fitting course, I deem, for now.”

The host arrived at Osgiliath before noon. It was teeming with activity: repairing, building, clearing wreckage, and rearranging the defences. Théodred could not help but take note of a large company of craftsmen at work, all bearing military rank. Though the Rohirrim kept horse-herds among their ranks to manage spare mounts, they had no branch devoted to the craft of wood and stone—or to its breaking, should the need arise. Die, and yet learn, he thought once more. King Folcwine had likely known it, having sent his twin sons to aid Gondor, but such knowledge seldom passed into song or tale.

The vanguard did not tarry; they crossed the River and continued along the road that led to the old Minas Ithil—now called by a name far more feared: Minas Morgul. But the larger host on foot halted some five miles beyond Osgiliath. The horsemen pressed on, and Théodred and Boromir, mounted upon Snowmane, naturally followed them all the way to the Cross-roads and the great ring of trees.

That was when they began to feel it.

A watchfulness—silent, yet intent—as though all around them, tree and leaf, water and earth, held its breath to observe. In their present state, they sensed it more keenly than any living man might.

“I have an eerie feeling about this,” Théodred said with a shiver. “Not evil—but unsettling, all the same.”

“I feel it too,” Boromir murmured. “We are being watched—by what, I cannot tell.”

As they spoke, trumpets sounded from each of the four roads, heralds cried out their proclamations, and men went on with their work—cleaning and restoring the statue of the old king. Upon its brow, the crown of white and yellow flowers still lay, undisturbed.

“Should we take this as a sign?” Boromir muttered, watching with a mingled feeling of awe—and a lingering trace of rivalry.

“That is yet to be seen,” Théodred replied—though at the sight, his heart was quietly lifted.

They made camp there that night. Théodred and Boromir, being ghosts, had no need of rest—but they took pleasure in watching their once-fellows at ease, and found comfort in the murmur of familiar voices. They had lingered near the Rohirrim in days past, but tonight they chose to remain closer to the Gondorian encampment—the company from the City, now under the command of Prince Imrahil. Amid the tall men, one small figure stood out: Pippin, seated on a stone near the outer fire, finishing a third helping of rations. Beside him sat Beregond, sharpening a knife with unhurried hands.

“Watching him eat almost stirs hunger in me,” Théodred remarked. “My people may not be famed for their cookery, yet there is no denying the comfort of a hot meal—meat and ale by firelight. And look at him—he makes dry bread and salted meat seem a feast, the way he wolfs it down.”

Snowmane gave a woeful whinny, and Boromir laughed. “I never quite shared the enthusiasm for food. A hot meal and ale are well enough—especially on winter nights—but more often than not, I was too occupied to enjoy them.”

“Aye, I guessed as much,” Théodred said, glancing over. “You seem the sort who never lingered on such comforts—especially considering you are still wearing that,” he added, his eyes flicking to Boromir’s training attire, “even in death.”

Near the fire, Pippin finished his meal, watched Beregond for a while, and then spoke. “Beregond… may I ask you something?”

Beregond looked up with a smile. “Aye—though I am relieved of my former post, I believe my assignment to answer your questions remains in full effect.”

“You’re here—and you don’t look like you regret it,” Pippin said. “I mean… what you did—saving him—that was brave. And right. Truly.” He paused, then added, quieter but no less earnest: “But why, Beregond? Why do you care for Lord Faramir so much?”

Nearby, both Boromir and Théodred turned, their attention caught by the question. But the hobbit, unaware, went on without noticing.

“I mean—I liked Boromir. He was brave, and noble, and he was kind to me. He died trying to save me—and my cousin. Faramir reminds me of him… but there’s also something of Aragorn in him. That… that Elvishness, if you take my meaning. I can’t quite put a name to it.”

Théodred glanced at Boromir and saw, as he expected, a smile on his face—proud and sorrowful at once.

“But you—” Pippin continued, “you love him. That much is clear. You speak of him as if he were more than your captain.”

Beregond was silent for a moment; the steady rasp of stone on steel went on for a few more strokes, then stopped.

“Aye,” he said at last. “Because he is.”

Pippin leaned forward, his voice full of curiosity. “What did he do?”

Beregond did not answer at once. He was a man in his prime—Théodred guessed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties—and bore the air of one still young, not long gone from home, nor much tested beyond the world he knew. But as he remembered and spoke at last, something shifted. A quiet gravity settled over him—a maturity not shown until now.

“Nothing others would have noticed. Nothing that would make a song.”

He set the knife aside and began to speak.

“It was years ago. My wife had been ill, and Bergil was just old enough to understand fear. I was sleeping little, and eating less. Doing my duty as a Guard, but only just.” He gave a small breath—almost a scoff. “No one said anything. Most men just nodded and gave me space. That was kindness, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Pippin echoed, though the notion was clearly a bit beyond him. “And Faramir?”

“He did not ask what was wrong. He did not offer comfort, either.” Beregond’s voice became lower. “One evening, he came to my post and handed me a letter. Said it needed delivering to the Second Circle, and that he thought I might want the walk.” He paused, fingers loosely curled on his knee. “It was not urgent. Did not even matter, truth be told. But the next day, he gave me another. And the day after that. Always just enough to draw me out of the barracks, or away from the Citadel. Through the streets. Past the market. Near the square where my son liked to linger and play.”

Pippin was intrigued. “You think he planned it?”

Beregond nodded once. “Not a doubt in my mind. He gave me a reason to move again. To see the City as something still worth walking through.”

He glanced toward the fire, the reflection flickering in his eyes. “And he never said a word—not then, not ever.” He sheathed the knife gently. “That is the kind of man Captain Faramir is. He will mend what is breaking in a man—without ever letting him feel broken.”

In the darkness beyond the fire’s reach, Boromir was silent for a long while. When he spoke at last, his voice was low and rough-edged. “Aye… that is him, to the core. Always seeing others. Never asking for himself.”

He looked down at his hands. “And if he is the one breaking—who will mend him?”

“Us, of course,” Théodred answered, without hesitation. “Even though we are dead—that is one more reason we march.”

Notes:

On the potential rivalry between Snowmane and Shadowfax, see LotR: “Even as they looked he was gone: a flash of silver in the sunset, a wind over the grass, a shadow that fled and passed from sight. Snowmane snorted and reared, eager to follow; but only a swift bird on the wing could have overtaken him.”

To dear Lindelea—here's the Beregond scene! :D