Ascent

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Boromir made his way up through the City—not as directly as he had hoped.

He had imagined that, as a ghost, he might be spared the winding roads and endless switchbacks. But no—whoever had designed Minas Tirith, or its earlier form of Minas Anor, had clearly decreed that no one—living or dead—should reach the Citadel without a proper climb.

Some invisible barrier kept him to the path—so here he was, rushing along the Main Street, through shattered gates and past fire-scarred ruins in the lower circles, pressing ever upward toward the heights.

It grieved him to see his people suffer, his City aflame. Yet amid the cries of pain and the wails of sorrow, as word spread—of the Rohirrim’s arrival, of southern reinforcements coming up from the river, and of a banner bearing the White Tree, unseen for a thousand years—he saw their faces, no longer veiled in doubt.

They had hope.

I thank you for that, Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

Fate was a strange thing, he thought as he pressed on. When he had fallen at Parth Galen, he had been full of regret, frustration, and anger—anger at himself for what he had done to Frodo, for the heavy truth of the burden the Halfling had borne in growing silence, and for the heavier truth still: that he had failed his people, his lord father, and his brother.

And yet, even then, he had not given his full trust to Aragorn—the liege lord to whom he was bound, if the heritage he claimed was true. As he urged Aragorn to go to his city, and as the gaze of death settled upon him, a thought rose within him—clear as the silver trumpets that broke the dawn upon the white walls: It was still too soon to tell. The test was not yet over.

But now that he knew Aragorn was none other than Thorongil—now that he had seen, with his own ghost-eyes, how he had commanded the Dead and released them with ancient faith and quiet grace—now that he rode the wind and the ships back to the City he had once loved so dearly, he saw it again, with the same clarity as before—and perhaps greater still: The King they had long awaited had returned.

And yet, alongside wonder, a different kind of doubt began to stir within him.

His grandfather, Lord Ecthelion, had known this man as Thorongil—had trusted him, even above his own son, so far as Boromir had learned. And yet, the man had left, choosing to bide his time. Why? Why had he not revealed then who he truly was? My father would have— 

Then the thought came. Cold, and unbidden.

—Or, would he? 

Unease crept into his heart, growing stronger as he neared the Sixth Circle. And when he stepped out from the gate tunnel, he came face to face with a company he had never expected: Gandalf the Grey—now robed in white, though stained with fire, soot, and battle—and beside him, a small figure clad like a Guard of the Citadel… though only half the height.

“Peregrin Took!” he exclaimed—though he already knew, from Legolas, that the two little ones he had tried to protect with his life had survived, and gone on to wonders of their own. What caught him off guard, however, were their words: “Faramir, in the Houses of Healing.” And—“The late Steward.”

Boromir froze, his heart stuttering—if a ghost could still have a heart.

Just then, the wizard looked his way, and Boromir felt as though he had been pierced by the gaze beneath those thick brows. He braced himself, expecting to be called out. But to his surprise, the wizard said nothing. He merely sighed and walked on, something like pity flickering in his eyes.

Boromir lingered for a breath—or whatever passed for a breath in his state—then turned and made his way swiftly toward the Houses of Healing.

This had never been his favorite place. It was too quiet—bordering on ghostly—and given its purpose, the feeling seemed justified. His mother had spent her final days here, and Boromir had loathed it ever since, for taking her from him.

Now, with war raging below and beyond the walls, the Houses had lost some of their usual stillness and composure. Moving swiftly past the wounded borne in from the field, Boromir shut out the moans and cries that echoed through the halls, focusing only on the path ahead. If what he had heard was true, his brother would be in the chambers at the back.

And soon enough, he saw him.

He had seen him once before—when he rode the Elven boat down the river—his younger brother standing on the bank, eyes full of disbelief and sorrow. He hadn’t spoken to him then, of course—and had even felt, strangely, a kind of gratitude that he could not. For what could he have said? That he had failed? That his pride had led to presumption, and presumption to ruin? That he had taken the burden upon himself—and been crushed beneath its weight? That it had been sad, and bitter, and utterly devastating?

And now his brother lay here—unconscious, stricken with a darkness that Boromir could see spreading through him, down to the very core. It was a shadow steeped in malice, thick with despair, and it held Boromir at bay, forbidding him to draw near. And there was nothing he could do to stop it—not in his present state. Not even if he were still alive.

“Brother,” was all he could say. For the first time since his death, Boromir was seized by something that could only be called fear—raw, choking, and helpless in its grip.

How did it come to this? 

He knelt beside his brother and watched him burn with fever, eyes closed, the Black Shadow creeping over him like a shroud. At his side stood Beregond of the Guards of the Citadel—utterly unaware of Boromir’s presence—his sword still unsheathed, his black-and-silver uniform torn and bloodstained, his face drawn with grief and weariness.

Just then, Ioreth—an old wife who had served in the Houses longer than Boromir could remember—entered, her arms laden with cloth and basin, her voice low but sharp with urgency.

“Valar be thanked you stopped him,” she muttered, not even sparing Beregond a glance. “To think the Lord Steward would bear his own son to the Hallows and light a pyre beneath him—madness, I say. Madness!”

Beregond said nothing—he only bowed his head.

But Boromir had heard enough.

He rose in rage, a storm of fury and sorrow surging within him—only to feel it break, once more, against the same unseen wall. He was utterly powerless—yet utterly restless. In the wrath born of despair, he turned and swept out, making his way toward Rath Dínen. If I linger, perhaps my father lingers too, he thought. He was always so strong-willed. If I could only catch him— 

Yet he did not reach it.

For even then, a new procession was making its way up the road—bearing two more beneath the banner of the Rohirrim and a host of torches, with Gandalf and Pippin at its head. One was shrouded in a great cloth of gold, beyond all healing, and was borne straight to the Citadel; the other was carried swiftly toward the Houses of Healing.

And beside them, silent and spectral, rode a ghost upon a white, ghostly horse.

---

Boromir and Théodred sat in silence on the steps before the Houses of Healing, Snowmane standing quietly at their side.

The sun stood high in the sky now, but neither of them could feel its warmth. That was part of death, as they had both come to learn: nothing could warm you anymore—save, perhaps, something as old and enduring as hope.

As they sat, Boromir saw Meriadoc Brandybuck being brought up by Gandalf, with Pippin at their side. Now, within the Houses of Healing, lay his brother—and with him, the two small friends he had come to know and hold dear. Beside them rested Éowyn, daughter of Éomund—niece to the fallen King, and cousin to Théodred. And above them still, in the Citadel, within the Hall of the Tower, lay Théoden King of the Mark, honoured in death.

For a long time, neither of them spoke nor stirred.

“My father was not there,” Boromir said at last, his voice hollow and worn. The fury had passed, leaving only emptiness—and a grief too deep for words. “The dome of the House of the Stewards had fallen in flame.”

“Old men have their reasons,” Théodred said, having already learned what had come to pass. He was still pale—if a ghost could grow paler. “Even if, at times, those reasons lie beyond our understanding.” 

“I had never thought of my father as an old man,” Boromir said. “Least of all one who might lose his reason, his composure, or any of the qualities that mark a ruler. Your father’s condition startled me when I came to Edoras last year. At the time, I counted myself fortunate that mine still seemed sound and steadfast—only to learn, in the end, that he was not.”

“My father remembers your visit,” Théodred said. “He would like to meet you again—properly, this time.”

“You found your father’s… presence, then?” Boromir asked, though Théodred’s words had already made it plain.

“Aye,” Théodred confirmed. A faint smile ghosted across his face. “But he would not come to join us. I think he was rather put out that it did not all end in glory, renown, and the like.”

He cast a glance toward the winding path below, where the living moved to and fro. “I do understand him, in a way. It is not a pleasant thing, to believe your tale is ended… only to discover you still have a host of unfinished business. I will find him in the Citadel later. After all, I suspect he cannot move as freely as we do.”

Then, after a pause, he added, “Truth be told, I still do not know how we manage it. Death is full of mysteries—more so, I think, than life itself.”

“At least he learned that your young cousin is alive,” Boromir said.

Théodred gave a faint nod. “Aye.” His voice was quiet at first, touched with something like fondness. “But he was all the more upset that she was hurt—and might have blamed me for it, had he not remembered, just in time, that I was already dead when it happened.” He smiled, then rose to his feet. “Come—let us go see them. Your brother, and my cousin.”

Boromir gave no answer. For a long while, he sat utterly still. Then, in a low voice—barely audible even to a ghost—he said, “I am afraid.”

I am afraid to see him pass. I am afraid to watch him die. My father is already gone—lost to flame and despair—and I fear I will lose my brother too. And more than that… I fear I will not be able to bear it. Not anymore. Not in life, nor in death. 

“And that is why we must see them,” Théodred said firmly. “For I think you would fear more the thought of lingering—knowing you were not there, if their time truly came.”

Then his voice softened, and a small smile touched his lips. “And besides—if it did come to that, would you not wish to be the first to greet them? After all, they too carry the Elvish blood.”

At that, Boromir sprang to his feet and gave Théodred a solid slap across the chest—the kind born of long-tolerated mischief and well-earned payback. Snowmane snorted beside them, as if lending his own dry approval.