Till Death Reunites Us - Ch1. Reunion
Théodred had never thought he would die thus. Nor had he expected to meet another—after death.
Humour (Mostly); A non-traditional ghost story; Canon-compliant, as long as one ignores ghosts; Fix-It, but I'm not going to change any book-canon for it; More urban legends about the effect of Elvish lineage; And more urban legends about what wizards can do.
Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Main Characters: Théodred, Boromir Rating: PG
Chapter 1. Reunion
Théodred had never thought he would die thus.
“Let me lie here—to hold the Fords till Éomer comes!” [1] Heroic enough, was it not? And—alas! He had been too weak to speak more, and they had merely assumed him dead and laid him in the earth.
He had wanted to cry out as the dirt fell upon him, but no breath would rise. Too late. It was done.
So here he was, a fresh ghost, seated upon his own grave-mound, with his standard at his side, watching the Fords.
We should have invested in the healing arts, he thought with a wry twist of spirit. At the least, trained folk to know when a man is truly dead. I surely hope Éomer shall learn from this.
Well, that part was beyond mending—at least for him. Now he needed to learn how to be dead. Live and learn, as the King’s scholar had always said—or rather, die and yet learn, he added, not without a silent amusement.
It was not pleasant to be dead, for you could not do much. He soon realized he was confined to the eyot, and based on the range he had scouted, he suspected it was determined by the distance between him and his grave—or his body—or his standard. Who knew? Hard to prove any theory in his state, as he could not truly touch or move anything, or anyone, or easily let others see him—oh, it was possible, but it required no small effort.
He had managed a flicker before Elfhelm, but the marshal merely shivered and muttered that it was too cold, and that he must be seeing things. As for Grimbold—likely the more unfeeling sort, Théodred concluded. For none of his efforts made the slightest impression on that hardy man; he did not even raise a brow.
No wonder he thought I was dead, Théodred thought.
Being dead was no joy—that was his conclusion after the first day. All he could do was watch; and what followed in the days after was no joy to watch either. Saruman attacked. Then Saruman attacked again. Twice were the Rohirrim defeated at the Fords of Isen—and it grieved him deeply.
If only I were not dead, he thought. I could have done so much… Well, perhaps not. Perhaps they had been too confident—too unready for a long-time ally turned foe.
He wondered what had befallen those in Edoras—his father, and his cousins. He hoped the war, gone awry, would not bring them pain or ruin. As for how they might mourn him—alas, he only hoped his father still remembered how to grieve. And for Éowyn and Éomer—
That was when the flood came.
Before he could so much as cry “What in Middle-earth—?” he was swept away. Can a ghost drown? was his first thought. Then: I wish I had a horse.
He lost count of time and vision. When all had stilled again, he found himself adrift in a vast field of water. Endless and glimmering under a pale sky, it stretched into silence, its surface silver-grey and ever-shifting, like a mirror to the twilight of the world. There was no wind—only the slow breathing of the Sea, deep and unfathomable.
He had not expected to hear a familiar voice.
“How did you end up here?”
He turned—and beheld a familiar figure, another ghost, seated in a grey, leaf-shaped boat with a high prow: none other than one of his dearest friends—Boromir, son of Denethor, heir to the Stewardship, Captain of the White Tower of Gondor.
“I should be asking you the same!” he said, more than a little surprised. “The horse I lent you returned, but you did not. I thought you had taken some other road home!”
“I did take a different road home,” Boromir said dryly. “I just did not expect it would be this one. And you—what happened to you?”
“War,” Théodred told him. “Saruman waged war upon us. And from what I gathered—after I died—he seemed to have been determined to see me slain, at all costs. Not sure if I should feel honoured.”
Boromir snorted. “You would feel honoured no matter what.” His eyes darkened. “Not sure about me. I… made a mistake.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Théodred said, lightly. “Just apologize, and next time, we shall see.”
“I apologized—with my life,” Boromir replied.
“You are truly a serious man,” Théodred said after a pause. “Do you feel better now?”
“I suppose,” Boromir replied, “though worse in another way. I saw my brother, when this boat came down along Anduin.”
“I dearly hope he yet lives?” Théodred asked, with care.
“Aye, he lives,” Boromir looked as though he might slap him, but refrained. “I had not seen him in a long while,” he added at last.
“Well, here we are,” Théodred said. “Let us hope no more of those we care for come to join us. Though now that I think of it—why do we still linger?” he mused.
“Perhaps because of our Elvish blood,” Boromir replied, dry as dust.
They both fell silent—then both broke into laughter.
“What do we do now?” Théodred asked, once their laughter had passed. “I am not familiar with this place—it looks like water and coast, all the same to me.”
“I know where we are,” Boromir replied. “We are in the great bay of Belfalas—in fact, not far from Dol Amroth.” He looked at Théodred with a smirk.
“Ah! Is there a way for us to steer this boat toward it?” Théodred’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps we could see your cousin! I have not seen her in years—”
“Are you sure you want her to see you like this?” Boromir asked. “And what would you say to her, even if you could still speak to the living?”
“You have the right of it,” Théodred sighed. “All right. Then what?”
“I want to see how it ends,” Boromir said. “I want to see if my people can withstand the darkness. They have a new leader—I only hope he does not fail them, as I did.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Théodred replied.
So they made the boat move. It took little effort, in truth. Must be Elvish magic again. Théodred thought he had never appreciated his Elvish blood so much. The boat moved with and without wind, steady upon the water, and soon they neared a small harbour.
“Edhellond,” Boromir told him. “Soon we shall pass into the river of Morthond. I wonder if we might move more freely upon the land.”
“Only one way to know,” Théodred agreed.
The boat glided smoothly into the harbour, then into the river, and began to move upstream—steady and swift. Time seemed to pass gently, until there came a day when the sun did not rise.
“I wonder what that means,” Théodred said, leaning against the prow of the boat.
“Nothing good,” Boromir answered.
The next day, they drew very near to land. The boat came to a halt, as though it had a will of its own. Taking this as a sign that their journey upon the water had ended, they stepped ashore—and found, to their pleasant surprise, that they could now walk freely upon the land, and with great swiftness.
“What is so special about this place?” Théodred had to ask. “I could not even leave the eyot when I was freshly dead.”
Boromir was not nearly as amused. “Probably because there are other ghosts here—it lies near Erech, a place well known for… unquiet things. And I am not sure you would wish to meet those folk—Oathbreakers, they are.”
“But I do not see any of them,” Théodred said, puzzled. “And—that is actually a man, a living man over there, if my ghost-sight is not deceiving me.”
So it was. And when they drew near, they were glad to find that the man could see them with ease as well—though his reaction was somewhat unexpected.
“Not again,” the man groaned, turning away. Boromir was surprised to find that he knew him: Angbor, Lord of Lamedon.
“Your host just passed through—no idea how you two fell so far behind, but if you hurry—” He broke off, eyes widening. “Captain-General! But how—”
“Long story,” Boromir replied calmly. “And—it is the late Captain-General now, as far as I am concerned.”
“Aye,” the poor man was, for a moment, at a loss for words.
“You said they went that way?” Théodred gently offered.
“Aye,” Angbor recovered from his shock, though he now eyed Théodred with suspicion. “You look familiar—”
“Aye, I know,” Théodred sighed. “Look a little closer—you might recall me. I saw you once in Mundburg.”
“I am sorry, my lords,” was all Angbor could say.
“All right, do not trouble yourself further,” Théodred reassured him. “Your late Captain-General and I—we shall follow in their wake. After all, I have never seen an army of the Dead in my life—well, nor in my death either. Seems worth the effort.”
They left Angbor and took the road he had shown them. They crossed the river of Gilrain, passed through the fields of Lebennin, and at last beheld the vast harbour of Pelargir upon the great river of Anduin, where battle had been joined.
“I never imagined the Dead could be so capable!” Théodred exclaimed.
“And he commands them,” Boromir said at length, his eyes fixed on a man in the distance—with awe, and a touch of bitterness.
Théodred followed his gaze. “Thorongil!” he cried. “I know him!”
“Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Boromir corrected him, narrowing his eyes. “Thorongil, you say?”
“Aye!” Théodred replied. “I saw him when I was young, in the Wold—that time you came to investigate the dark horse!”
“And I know that name from my father’s day,” Boromir said in a strange tone. “So he is the great captain Thorongil. That explains much.”
“You are speaking in riddles now,” Théodred said, eyeing him. “Any history I should know?”
Just then, they saw the Shadow Host withdraw and gather at the shore, as if waiting for a sentence—an answer long overdue. And borne upon the wind, they heard the man’s great voice:
“Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur! Your oath is fulfilled. Go back, and trouble not the valleys ever again. Depart—and be at rest!” [2]
Then the King of the Dead stepped forth, broke his spear and cast it down. He bowed low and turned away. And the whole grey host vanished like mist before a strong wind.
“I suppose he is the answer to the riddle you sought to solve,” Théodred said at last.
And Boromir sighed—with both relief and sorrow. “Aye. He is the King who has returned.”
“What of us?” Théodred asked, curious. “Who shall release us?”
“I do not know,” Boromir said. “How should I? I have never died before—either.”
“Very well,” Théodred said, a sudden grin breaking across his face. “Shall we go up the Great River? There may yet be wonders to behold.”
Notes:
[1] Quoted from Unfinished Tales. [2] Quoted from LotR. Thanks to my friend Findirien for the cheerful discussion on “How could the Rohirrim bury Théodred on the eyot? A flood was coming soon!”
Next: Chapter 2. Free Rides
