He and Boromir had followed the company from Minas Tirith, unwilling to miss any further great deeds or new tales. In truth, when they returned to the White City, nothing astonished them more than the news that Faramir and Éowyn had fallen in love. So great was their surprise that only the wonder of seeing the Ringbearer and his companion borne back by the Eagles scarcely matched it.

“What happened between them?” Théodred had raced to the Citadel to ask his father, with Boromir right on his heels, saying nothing, but clearly just as curious.

The King, for his part, was entirely unknowing, and more than a little irked at being pressed.

“How should I know?” he said, his tone not far from Théodred’s own. “I had seen no reason to leave the Hall, until you two decided to call upon every dead soul in Middle-earth. And by then, they were already kissing on the walls. After that? I have had even less reason to step outside, thanks to the Ringbearer, and the rest of you.”

“All right,” Théodred said, already turning for the door. “I will go to haunt Faramir. I need an answer.”

Boromir caught him by the arm before he could vanish. “I am not sure my brother is well enough to be haunted,” he said firmly, holding him back.

“Fine,” Théodred relented with a sigh. “I will find Gandalf and ask how we are supposed to speak to the living—that ought to be harmless enough!”

This time, Boromir nodded and let him go.

Together they went to seek the wizard beyond the City, for they had returned well ahead of the host, which had only just reached the Pelennor and begun to raise the pavilions. Gandalf stood apart, watching the men with a faint smile on his weathered face. Yet no sooner did he glimpse Boromir and Théodred approaching than he muttered, half to himself, “I am rather busy, overseeing the crowning of the King. I am not certain I have time for unquiet ghosts.”

“How about ghosts who helped you win this war?” said Théodred, flashing a broad grin.

“That sounds slightly exaggerated,” the wizard replied, gazing off in the opposite direction. “But as it happens, I have a moment to spare. What is it, my dear restless friends?”

“We need to speak with someone,” Théodred said, his grin deepening. “Someone still among the living.”

At that, Gandalf turned back sharply, his brow furrowing. “I will not assist you in haunting Aragorn.”

Boromir gave a short laugh, and Théodred adopted an expression of exaggerated offence.

“How little you think of us!” he declared with mock solemnity. “We only wish to speak with someone else. You, of all people, should understand the care we bear for our younger kin.”

The wizard raised a bushy brow and gave him a sidelong glance. “I see,” he said. “Is there something I should know—but do not?”

Later that night, Faramir dreamed.

In that dream, he met one he had never thought to see again, another he had not expected to meet at all, and a third he knew well, but never imagined he would find in the company of the first two.

“It has been a long time, little brother,” said the first.

And they embraced—just as they had in life.

When he awoke, he remembered little of the dream: only a sense of something long hollow now filled, and a peace and joy he had not known since the day his brother fell.

He was content, though a strange weariness lingered, the kind that followed the telling of a long tale, when every turn was met with a hundred questions.

The morning was clear and cool, and he, the last Steward of Gondor, was ready to fulfill his final duty.

Outside the Houses of Healing, he saw Éowyn waiting—for him. Her eyes were no longer shadowed by sorrow or despair, and her face was alight when she beheld him.

He smiled, took her hand, and kissed her gently upon the cheek. It is going to be a fair day, he thought.

And he did not know that nearby, two ghosts stood watching—both smiling, with the same quiet joy, and a touch of sorrow in their eyes.

“I never thought it would come to this,” Théodred sighed. “Seems there is no need for me to haunt King Elessar after all.”

“Aye,” Boromir said simply. “I am glad for them.”

“Aye,” Théodred echoed. “So am I.”

So they remained, through those days of joy and gladness. King Théoden was borne with honour to the Hallows—a token of Gondor’s reverence, for he had been born in this land, and for a time, here would he rest. The ghost of the King was no longer bound as once he had been, yet he only walked the streets of the White City now and then, drawn by a single desire: to see Éowyn smile once more.

Together, they witnessed the crowning of the new King of Arnor and Gondor. They beheld the discovery of a sapling of the White Tree, and its planting in the Court of the Fountain. And in awe and wonder, they watched the arrival of the Fair Folk, before Midsummer came.

“I have seen her before,” Théodred whispered to Boromir, his gaze fixed on Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond. “Now I understand what has haunted me all these years—why no maiden in the Mark ever stirred my heart.”

“Where did you see her?” Boromir asked dryly. “In the Wold again?”

“Aye,” Théodred admitted. “A rather fruitful adventure.”

“Thrice careful, then,” Boromir warned, a glint of amusement in his eye. “If my uncle grows stern with those who look too fondly on his daughter, I dare not guess what this lady’s father would require. Perhaps the crown of both Arnor and Gondor before he gave his leave.”

And so it proved. Théodred laughed for half a day at Boromir’s prophecy-come-true, when word arrived of the betrothal—and the coming wedding—of Elessar and Arwen. He laughed all the more when later Éomer returned to bear King Théoden home, and was heard in cheerful dispute with Gimli over which lady was fairest: the Lady of the Golden Wood or the Queen Evenstar.

Boromir remarked with a smirk, “He truly is a brother to you—you even share the same taste.”

And Théodred only laughed harder. “Nay, you have no idea how he came by that taste.”

This time, when the Rohirrim departed, all journeyed together. The King’s body was transferred with honour from Rath Dínen and borne with care the long road back to Rohan, to the barrow-field of his fathers. As the company moved westward, the King’s ghost rode astride Snowmane, flanked by two warrior-ghosts clad in full ceremonial array. Yes—by now they had found means to change their attire at will, a trick Gandalf had let slip. Théodred suspected it was a reward for all the tales they had wrung from Faramir, though the wizard insisted it was merely a matter of propriety.

“Two ghosts improperly dressed at King Elessar’s crowning would have been a grievous eyesore,” he had claimed, “especially in the presence of the Elven folk.”

The funeral of King Théoden was all that a king of the Mark might hope for—fallen in battle, and laid to rest with the knowledge that the world to come would be better than the one he left behind. The feast that followed was no less fitting, rich with honour and memory. But it was the betrothal of Éowyn and Faramir that made it unlike any other—rare, and unforgettable.

When Éomer rose and said, “Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister,” [1] the late King stood among them, and looked upon Éowyn as though she had been his daughter by blood. And at that very moment, he sighed, soft and content; and Théodred, watching him, knew it for what it was.

“I will depart now, my son.” While mead and song still echoed in the hall behind, the King stepped out into the night, and found Snowmane waiting—bright-maned and proud once more, as in the days of old. “Since you are not yet ready to follow, I shall await you in Béma’s halls.”

They embraced one last time, in death as in life, and the King mounted with a smile—and with quiet relief. Under the open, star-strewn sky of Rohan, he rode forth with Snowmane, man and horse together, like a silver flame borne upon the wind. Farther and farther they passed, until the land swallowed them into silence, and they were seen no more.

“He is gone,” Théodred said at last, when ghostly tears had dried in the unseen wind.

“Aye,” Boromir said, his voice a little rough. “And still we remain.”

“Then perhaps there are still things we wish to see,” Théodred said.

Boromir was thoughtful for a moment. “Aye. Perhaps you have not yet seen all you need to see.”

So they journeyed with the company that departed Rohan, and came at last to Rivendell, where they tarried in the Last Homely House. Only then did they begin to truly absorb all they had encountered along the road: the Ents—“Trees that can talk and walk! No wonder the Entwood is said to be haunted,” Théodred had exclaimed—and the unexpected encounter with Saruman and Wormtongue.

“I hope you do not intend to follow them and haunt them,” Boromir had said, his voice marked with genuine concern.

Théodred had only shaken his head. “I would have—only now I would rather use my days seeing other things first.”

Boromir had been to Rivendell before; but for Théodred, all was new. He followed the hobbits as they wandered the halls, offered courteous nods to every Elf he passed, and soon grew familiar with the rhythm of the place—and to those who, by some grace or gift, could perceive him.

He did not expect the master of the house to speak to him. Yet sure enough, one day, as he stepped out of the old hobbit’s chamber—having just listened to a marvellous tale of a dragon and a hoard beneath the mountain—he walked straight into Elrond the Halfelven.

“Well met, Prince Théodred,” Elrond said, with a faint smile.

“Well met, Master Elrond,” Théodred replied, inclining his head with due respect. He cast a quick glance downward, making sure his attire passed muster. Boromir, as ever, preferred his old training leathers—and the Elves here, never short on mischief, had already composed more than one playful song about the ghost who “forgot his station but never left his post,” complete with a few “Tra-la-la-lally” and “in the valley, ha! ha!” lines, of course. Utterly mortifying.

“I hope our presence has not troubled your folk,” he added.

“No,” Elrond said, “quite the contrary—we are rather entertained. Though I am not certain how our little friends would feel, were they to know.”

Théodred gave a low laugh. Somehow, he felt a touch awkward—perhaps because Elrond was a loremaster, while he himself had never claimed such learning, and had grumbled often enough when made to pursue it. And so, almost without meaning to, he voiced the question he had long kept unspoken: “Do you know, Master Elrond… why the spirits of Men remain? We have our theories, but I find myself no longer certain.”

Elrond regarded him for a moment, then smiled once more. “Life holds many mysteries, and death no fewer. I do not claim certainty. But this I know: your abiding is not born of shadow, nor bound by malice. I have heard from Mithrandir what befell before the Black Gate—and all that has followed since.”

“Then what should we do?” Theodred wondered.

“Follow where your heart would lead you,” Elrond replied. “The answer, I deem, shall come in its own time.”

Days deepened, and at last it was time for the hobbits to leave Rivendell and return home. Théodred and Boromir followed, not yet ready to take their leave of the world. Thus they came to witness the scouring of the Shire—and how Saruman and Wormtongue met their end.

And that was when Théodred said, “I do not understand why we still linger.”

---

“I had thought this was what you needed to see—the end of those two,” Boromir said, visibly thoughtful. “But now that we have seen it, I do not see in you the same readiness your father showed.”

“Nor do I see it in you,” Théodred replied. “So—what other wishes have we yet to fulfill?”

They fell silent, both considering hard.

“Well,” Boromir said at last, a dry edge in his voice, “I did once say that when all was settled and the world at peace, we should travel together—to see all that we never had time to see.”

“If that is it,” Théodred sighed. “then you are truly a serious man. Had I known, I might have made you promise something a bit more interesting.”

“So are you,” Boromir retorted. “I do not see you resting, either.”

“Well then,” Théodred laughed, “what are we waiting for? Looks like we shall find no peace until that promise is kept.”

And so they set out from the Shire together, to see the world they had never had the chance to behold in life. Eastward they went, over the mountains, until they came to Langwell, where the great river of Anduin was born, and where the Éothéod had once dwelled before answering the call of Steward Cirion and riding south. There they wandered for a time, marveling at the wild beauty of the land.

They followed the path once taken by the Rohirrim, passing beneath the high eyries of the Misty Mountains and beyond the Golden Wood, where time had once slowed its steps—but now, with the fading of the power of the Three, even Lórien had begun to feel the weight of the years. They came to Dol Guldur, where sorcery had once been spun in webs thick and dark, and rejoiced to see its dungeons laid bare, its pits broken open, and its shadow finally dispelled.

“I suppose your people will be short on ghost stories for a while, now that these places are back to normal,” Boromir said.

“Aye,” Théodred replied. “But I would not worry—my people are tough. Give them time, and they will think up new amusements soon enough.”

They passed through all the lands of Rohan, from the Wold to the White Mountains, from the Fords of Isen to the borders of Anórien. The tower of Orthanc still stood tall, but it no longer brooded with malice. Isengard had become a garden, alive with trees and birdsong, with the rustle of leaves and the bustling of squirrels.

Farther east they turned, and came to Amon Anwar, where they paused to pay their respects, though the Great King’s remains had long since been removed to the Hallows of Minas Tirith. Then they pressed on, past the White City, into the fair southern lands of Gondor: Lossarnach, Lebennin, and the coastlands of Belfalas. There they tarried for a time—and to their quiet delight, beheld their cousins forming a bond none had foreseen, not unlike the other union of love they had witnessed not long before.

“I hope you are well,” Boromir said, casting Théodred a look both amused and concerned, as they watched Éomer—visiting the coast and his kinsfolk on his grandmother’s side—walking side by side with Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil, along the windy shores of Dol Amroth.

“Of course I am,” Théodred replied, smiling with unmistakable sincerity—and a touch of mischief. “After all the darkness and ruin, I am more than glad to witness love anew.”

And that night, Éomer dreamed—restlessly, though not unhappily—and when he woke, he felt a strange gladness, as if comforted by the knowledge that a brother once lost was not truly gone.

They journeyed on, farther south and east, passed once more through the great havens of Pelargir, and even tarried in Umbar, where the Corsairs were no longer a threat, and the people, at last, stood united and at peace.

They lost count of time—a lesser concern for those no longer bound by it. They saw much, heard more, and now and then lent a hand—for the arms once granted by the Stewards remained at their sides, and proved useful still, whenever trouble found them, as it did now.

“Tell me again,” Théodred asked, as they sat within a circle of stones in the Barrow-downs. “Why are we here?”

“Because of bad directions,” Boromir replied, his tone sharp with lingering annoyance. “Blasted wizards—white, grey, or brown! I should have known he was one, even back then.”

“Back then?” Théodred was curious.

“Aye,” Boromir nearly rolled his eyes. “How else do you think it took me a hundred and ten days to reach Rivendell?”

As they talked, an unexpected visitor approached—wearing a blue coat and great yellow boots, singing something ridiculous like, “Hey dol! merry dol!”

“Not again,” they groaned in unison. “Night-time songs of cold hands, heart, and bone were terrible enough—now we have noisy living neighbours too?”

But the man walked straight toward them.

“Never thought I’d see the day when barrow-wights came whining to me about intruders,” said the man, his eyes alight with mirth. “Looks like we’ve got a pair of new sheriffs haunting the Downs.”

“They whined to you?” said Boromir, incredulous. “Wretches! We did them no harm!”

“They whined to you?” Théodred echoed, though his tone was different. He studied the strangely merry figure before them—who, by all outward signs, seemed a man, yet something deeper told him otherwise. For one thing, this one could see them. “Well met, master,” he said, “I am Théodred, son of Théoden of Rohan; and this is Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor. Might we know your name?”

“I’m Tom Bombadil,” the man replied, smiling as if the very world had been made for his delight alone. “I welcome visitors, so long as they mean no harm; and you two seem well enough. Goldberry is not at home, else I might bid you come and sit awhile.”

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Boromir and Théodred said together. Then Théodred, after a pause, asked carefully, “And those wights—are they your friends?”

“No, no,” the man laughed. “But we’ve been neighbors a long while.”

“Understood,” Théodred nodded. “As long as they keep that dreadful song to themselves, we are perfectly accommodating.”

“You know,” said the man, his eyes twinkling, “you might do well to head west. A company passed not long ago—you may find them worth your while.”

So they went on—and at the farthest edge of the land, they came upon the Grey Havens, fair beyond all mortal imagining. There, among those gathered, they beheld Gandalf the White; the Lady of the Wood, radiant with a gentle light, her raiment white as cloud about the Moon; Elrond the Halfelven, bearing a star upon his brow; and Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin—the hobbits they had not seen in many a day.

The sea sang softly on pearl-white sands and jet-black stones, and a white ship waited in silence. By the quay stood a tall Elf, grey with age and long-bearded, his eyes keen as stars.

“Elves can grow beards?!” Théodred very nearly exclaimed, had Boromir not slapped some sense into him.

And for a long while, Boromir stood and watched Frodo. Then he said quietly, “I think I know now why I lingered. I was waiting for this moment—to see him find peace, and healing.”

“And I was waiting for you to find it, brother,” said Théodred.

When all farewells had been spoken, and the last of tears shed, the passengers stood ready upon the deck of the white ship.

“I am not certain ghosts are welcome aboard,” Gandalf murmured, casting a glance at the two who had come unbidden.

Bilbo had dozed off again, but Frodo turned with a puzzled frown. “What are you talking about, Gandalf?”

“In time, you will know,” the wizard replied solemnly.

And all the Elves aboard smiled with quiet knowing—as did Boromir and Théodred.

-The End-

---

Notes:

[1] Quoted from LotR.

The chapter title is taken from LotR, from Galadriel’s parting words to Aragorn.

Yep, the main story ends here; but I can easily see myself returning at any time to write more about their days spent haunting—no, journeying through all of Middle-earth 😂

To dear Lindelea: Somehow, your comment on the other story—“Boys, there’s a new sheriff in town”—lodged itself in my mind, and I simply had to slip it in somewhere! 😂