Free Rides

Going upriver was easier said than done—especially when one did not wish to miss the action, which was already beginning to unfold before their eyes. Théodred and Boromir, now well aware of their condition and trying to be considerate about it, stood a little apart from the living men who bustled about, preparing and loading near the ships. Quietly, they weighed the possibility of securing another free ride—unseen and unbothered.

“This may be difficult—I think the Elf can see us,” Théodred said to Boromir in a low voice, casting an uneasy glance toward the figure clad in green and brown, a grey cloak draped over his shoulders and a bow slung across his back. He stood not far from Aragorn, seemingly watching his surroundings with idle ease. “That is an Elf, right?”

“Aye,” Boromir nodded. “Of course he can see us. And just so you know—he can hear us too, even from that distance. That is Legolas of the Woodland Realm. I am not certain how much I am at liberty to share, but this should be safe: I traveled with a company of nine—and he was one of us.”

“I have never dealt with an Elf before,” Théodred said. “And I am beginning to wonder how much more I will have to learn in death.”

“And I am not sure I am ready to face old companions who still live—while I am dead,” Boromir muttered. “Least of all after they sang songs for me once I was gone.”

Just then, the Elf smiled, his piercing eyes turning their way. Both men—or the ghosts of what they had once been—tensed. And to their embarrassment, he walked straight toward them.

“Well met, my friend,” he said to Boromir, as though this were but another meeting after a brief parting. Then his gaze turned to Théodred. “You I have not met, I deem—but by your bearing, I would say you are—were—of the Rohirrim.”

At least he spoke the Common Tongue—Théodred had no confidence he could manage Sindarin without stumbling over every other word at this point in his life—no, death—by wind and mane, adapting was hard!—and he privately vowed to haunt his grandfather’s ghost if he were ever made to learn it again.

“Well met, Master Elf. I am Théodred, son of Théoden King of Rohan—the late Prince, as you have most perceptively observed, both with your eyes and with your tongue.”

“I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood,” said the Elf with a light laugh, before shifting into a more formal tone. “We have met your father, son of Théoden. I am glad to report that he has recovered from his grievous state, and was well and hale when we left him at Helm’s Deep. Even now, as we speak, he rides to war.”

A wave of disbelief and wonder washed over him—and for the first time since his death, Théodred felt something warm, like tears, rise in his throat.

“Tell me more,” was all he could say.

And so he heard what had passed after Boromir’s death—how the three companions gave pursuit in a bold attempt to rescue their little friends, how they were reunited with Gandalf in the haunted forest, and how their road led them at last to the Golden Hall.

Boromir listened just as intently. At the mention of Gandalf, he gave a small grunt and muttered something under his breath—and Théodred thought he caught words like: “Thrice-blasted wizards!”

“I could stand here and speak with you from night to dawn—and fill the hours with tales of Helm’s Deep and the roads that led us here,” the Elf said with a mischievous smile. “But folk may begin to wonder why I linger so long… and seem to be speaking to empty air.”

“You took the Paths of the Dead—under Dwimorberg,” Théodred said, still turning over all he had heard. Even he shivered at the name of that place. “Glad I was not the second Prince of Rohan to venture in there. But you are right—we have lingered too long. Any chance we might join you on the road? And… perhaps you could exercise a bit of discretion, and not mention us to the others—so they do not, well, panic. Not everyone is as composed as Lord Angbor of Lamedon, as we have come to learn.”

The Elf laughed. “I intend to do exactly that, my late prince. My Dwarf friend, Master Gimli, son of Glóin, would surely appreciate the peace of mind. Come, friends—war awaits us.”

By the time they set off, they saw many more arrivals. The sons of Elrond were a wonder unto themselves. “I once read they rode with Eorl the Young to the Fields of Celebrant,” Théodred murmured to Boromir.

The Dúnedain of the North were no less impressive—tall and grim, each seeming cut from the same cloth as Aragorn himself—and Théodred quietly wondered whether they, too, would linger after death, as he and Boromir had.

Angbor of Lamedon arrived with a great host of men, though he no longer seemed able to see Théodred or Boromir—a quiet relief to both. Aragorn bade them ride north on horseback, and so they did not embark with the others.

Going upriver in man-made ships was nothing like their passage in the Elven boat—and it was not an experience Théodred was accustomed to. Even knowing full well there was no real danger of drowning, he quickly grew seasick. Boromir, by contrast, seemed far more at ease, his confidence born of past experience. The fleet rowed steadily throughout the day, and as evening fell, a red glow rose in the north.

“Minas Tirith is burning,” Boromir said with a grimace. Théodred observed that he grew graver with every league they gained northward.

“We are getting there,” he said, placing a hand on Boromir’s shoulder—and silently wishing the ships would move faster. I wish we had a horse, he thought once more. Could the Mearas see us? Would Shadowfax be willing to bear a late prince? After all, he bore a wizard.

Hope stirred in the middle of the night. A wind arose, blowing up from the sea, and before long, all the ships raised their sails.

In the third hour of the morning, they came to Harlond, riding the heels of rain and the returning sun.

“I never expected to see that banner raised in my lifetime,” Boromir said, his voice thick with feeling. “When I was young, I used to wonder why my father was not king, when he ruled as one. I asked him once—how many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not?”

He let out a low, self-mocking laugh.

“And he told me, ‘Few years, maybe—in other places of lesser royalty. In Gondor, ten thousand years would not suffice.’” [1]

Théodred looked at him—once the heir to the Stewardship, a mighty man born to bear the weight of duty, yet fated never to hold the sceptre nor wear the crown.

“Did that trouble you?” he asked.

“Aye,” Boromir admitted after a pause. “For a little while, at least.”

He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again.

“But I never thought I would witness the return of the King. I wonder what my father will say.”

“Do you think we can somehow take part in this?” Théodred asked, as the ships pulled into the harbour and the Dúnedain, the sons of Elrond, the warriors of Lamedon and Lebennin, and others from the southern fiefs disembarked to join the battle—Aragorn son of Arathorn at their head.

“I doubt it,” Boromir said, as one man ran straight through him without noticing. “See? We still cannot touch them.”

“At least let us get closer,” Théodred replied. “I see the Rohirrim—my father and Éomer must have arrived!”

“There—that is your cousin, is it not?” Boromir asked, pointing toward a Rider in the distance beside a high standard, where the white horse flew upon green.

“Aye,” Théodred said. “But that is the King’s standard next to him—and I do not see my father.” A shadow of worry crossed his face. “Go on ahead—I need to find out what has happened!”

“I will need to head to the City as well,” Boromir replied. “Seems we will have to part ways—for now. I will meet you at the Citadel. I need to find my brother—and my father.”

As Théodred moved through the fields of the Pelennor, he began to understand. It was true—not all lingered. In truth, very few did. With the sight granted him in death, he saw that most of the lives lost in the slaughter—men and beasts alike—rose and faded, vanishing like wisps of silver smoke amid the ruin, the blood, and the bitter fury of war.

So many deaths—it astonished him. So much hatred, so much blood.

I wonder what can come of this, once everything settles, he thought.

He did not find his father on the battlefield. But soon enough, he understood what had come to pass.

”Mighty was the fallen, and meet was his ending.” And it grieved him—more deeply than he had expected.

I may yet find him, Théodred thought, a small flame of hope rekindled. If I linger because of my Elvish blood—then he had it, too. I may yet find him.

But before that, he came upon the place where it had happened. The foul carcass of the fell beast still lay there, stinking of death. As he approached the spot where the King’s guards had fallen, he saw a horse—or rather, the ghost of one—standing alone. White of mane and body, the creature lingered, forlorn and sorrowful.

“Snowmane!” he exclaimed.

The horse turned to look at him, eyes still clouded with bewilderment, fear, and sorrow. Then they widened—just a little—in recognition.

“Come here,” he said. And the horse came.

“Great—I wondered if one of the Mearas could see me,” Théodred said, rubbing the white ghost-horse’s neck. “I heard what happened.”

The horse tensed beneath his hand, growing restless.

“It was a foe beyond you,” Théodred said gently. “Not everyone can be like Shadowfax.”

The horse stiffened, then snorted in protest—as if to say, “That is no comfort.”

“What do you wish to do now?” Théodred asked with a faint smile, his hand passing once more along the ghost-horse’s neck in a soothing motion. “Will you ride with me? My friend and I could well use your strength.”

The horse protested fiercely.

“Shhh,” Théodred murmured, fixing him with a look—one he imagined Eorl the Young might once have given to Felaróf.

“Do you truly want me to say the words?” he said softly. “All that talk about being Mansbane, owing a life or a weregild, and so on? You are no one’s bane. Come with me—we have yet a world to see. Together.”

The proud horse stood motionless for a heartbeat, then bowed his head in assent.

And together, they turned toward the White City, the great fortress of the Free Peoples, while all about them, the servants and allies of the Dark Lord were being driven out and slain, and the tale of Gondor’s wrath and terror was written in fire and steel.