#snowmane

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

Previous: Chapter 9. Shadow of Death

Chapter 10. The Last Alliance

They felt the Nazgûl before they saw them.

No Fell Beasts shrieked from the air, nor did the Ringwraiths cry aloud; yet the air thickened with a suffocating gravity, coiling like a thundercloud and pressing down upon the very core of their being—whispering of futility, of despair, of doom. Yet more terrible than the Ringwraiths was that which loomed behind them: a vast, immeasurable darkness, seated in iron-bound security upon the land where shadow had lain for ages, sustaining them, urging them on, watching—and mocking.

Boromir and Théodred had been battling without cease, like men climbing an endless, ever-steepening hill. Since the moment they left Morgul Vale, they had known no true peace. And with every step they took toward the dominion of the Shadow, the burden grew heavier, the struggle more fierce.

Thus far they had endured—had even thought, for a time, that they had grown hardened to it. But the sheer presence of the Ringwraiths—shades of once-great kings and mighty warriors, who had surrendered their names and their very selves to darkness in exchange for power and desire—brought the trial to a new and dreadful height.

It was no longer a nudge here and there, a whisper now and again. It had become a chorus of voices—some fair and sweet, others ragged and terrible—rising all at once, a dark symphony woven of submission and longing, of ecstasy and despair.

Yet, they pressed on.

Following the main host, they marched forward, never far behind the van, where the Captains of the West led onward—a host now dwindled to less than six thousand, with many left behind at the Cross-roads and others dispatched to Cair Andros.

On the sixth day since their departure from the Cross-roads, they came to the Black Gate.

Across the broken rock and blasted earth before the Morannon, they saw them at last: the Nazgûl, regathered and hovering above the Towers of the Teeth like vultures, borne upon wings of shadow and death.

Boromir and Théodred did not know whether the Ringwraiths had marked them. After all, they were but three—two men and a horse—and the Nazgûl had watched countless souls falter and fall before the Black Gate. Yet even their idle presence pressed down like a heavy hand, smothering thought, grinding will into dust.

“This will not do,” said Théodred once more to Boromir. Both had dismounted, unwilling to burden Snowmane further—faithful and unflinching to this point, yet finally showing the weariness even a mighty one of the Mearas could not wholly escape, not even in death. “If we continue thus, we shall be of no use or aid to them.”

Boromir did not answer at once. A strange light burned in his eyes, fixed upon the circling shapes beyond. And in the deepening gloom, Théodred saw how their own forms—once clad in a sheen of silver—were now dulled and tarnished, as though the shadow itself gnawed at their very being.

“Boromir!” Théodred cried, seizing his arm. Boromir started, as though roused from a dream. They met each other’s gaze—and in that brief glance, each read the same grim thought: If this is the burden laid upon the Ringbearer, how can he hope to endure it? And even if he has endured so far, how much longer can his strength hold? Yet neither dared to speak it aloud—not here, so near to the heart of the Shadow.

Ahead of them, Aragorn marshalled the host, leading them up onto two great hills of blasted stone and earth, piled by the Orcs through long years of labour. A foul mire stretched between them and the Black Gate, a reeking moat of filth and pestilence; and this was the best ground they could claim. No enemy could be seen upon the field; yet they knew the hills and caves about them teemed with foes, and that they had walked into a snare long prepared.

Fear stirred in the hearts of men. Yet Aragorn moved among them—calm amid ruin and despair. His eyes, once grey as storm-lit stone, now burned with a fire: a fire terrible and tender, that lifted the hearts of all who beheld him.

Without a word, Boromir and Théodred moved to one of the hills, halting some twenty yards from the banner of the Tree and Stars. There they stood, as Gandalf spoke to Aragorn in a voice so low that even their ghostly hearing could not catch the words. At last, Aragorn turned to face the Gate; and a faint smile touched his lips, as he said: “Now we go forward and issue the challenge.”

“I would not risk moving closer,” Boromir said firmly, before Théodred could speak. “The stake is too high. I have faced that darkness once—and failed the test. I will not imperil all that we have won, nor all that may yet be achieved.”

“Nor I,” Théodred answered, for he had learned the truth of Boromir’s fall and bore him no reproach. “You and I are of one mind. Let us wait here; we may still behold what must come, even from afar.”

And so they watched as the Black Gate groaned open, and the Mouth of Sauron came forth, bearing cruel tidings and crueler lies. They saw Aragorn meet him in silence, matching will against will, and Gandalf cast back Sauron’s challenge with words keener than any blade.

“There will be no parley, then,” said Théodred, as the hosts of Mordor surged forth like a black tide across the broken land. He took the bow from his back and strung it with steady hands.

“What did you expect—a surrender? For all I see of Aragorn, he is no Tar-Calion,” Boromir answered dryly, drawing his broad sword with a steely rasp and setting his shield firm in his grasp.

All around them, they felt the men tense, readying themselves for the last stand. Yet something—something born of that parley at the Gate—brought more assurance than fear. For had all hope been lost, they would not have seen the light in Gandalf’s eyes; nor would they have seen Aragorn stand unshaken.

It was then that Theodred realized how much he had come to look to the man, as one who would lead. Yet he had no time to dwell on it: the Captains rode back among the host, and as they climbed the hills, the sun was veiled by the fumes of Mordor, and a sullen red bled across the sky—as if the day had ended before its time, or as if the very world of light were drawing to its end.

And out of the deepening gloom, terrible cries arose from above the Towers—cries that chilled the living to the marrow, and struck even the dead with dread.

Forth came the Nazgûl.

And with the men, Boromir and Théodred cried out against their will, while Snowmane reared high, loosing a terrible neigh. And in the Unseen, they beheld them—the Ringwraiths, long fallen prey to the Shadow—stripped of all veils, their true forms laid bare.

Gaunt and hollow they sat, their ancient glory twisted beyond all memory, their faces masked in anguish and hunger, their hands clutching at power yet grasping only emptiness. A terror unlike any wrought by the living struck Théodred and Boromir at the sight. Yet mingled with dread came another revelation, fierce and clear—a pity deep as the roots of the earth. For in those wretched shades, they beheld not a foreign doom, but the mirror of their own fate, had they yielded to the darkness.

That revelation shimmered faintly—no more than a firefly against a moonless night. Yet it was enough: a light in the shadowed world, wavering yet unbroken, a beacon amid the rising storm. And so their defiance did not pass unnoticed.

One of the Nazgûl turned, wheeling upon them—a vast shadow astride a Fell Beast, whose wings beat the heavy air like a living tempest. Down it swept, dark as a thundercloud and crowned with malice, its descent terrible and sure.

At their side, Snowmane stood firm. He flung up his proud head and neighed again—not in fear, but in rage and defiance. And like their steed, neither of the men wavered.

Théodred dropped to one knee, nocked an arrow to the string, and waited—with a stillness he had never known even in life—until certainty filled him wholly. Then he loosed.

The shaft flew like a shooting star, a silver streak against the gloom, and struck its mark upon the beast’s flank. It shrieked—a sound like iron scraping iron—and veered aside, narrowly escaping the sweep of Boromir’s upraised sword.

But the Nazgûl, dark and commanding, turned his wheeling steed and bore back toward them, uttering a cry—a curse wrought in tongues of ancient malice, black and bitter beyond all measure.

And at that sound, the world around them darkened.

In the beginning, there was only darkness.

And out of the darkness came a voice—a sigh upon the dying wind that stirred the withered grasslands, slipping between thought and breath.

Usurper.

It was no shout, nor even a cry of accusation, but a whisper.

He always desired what you had possessed, murmured the voice. Your young, ambitious cousin—son of your father’s house, yet not your true brother. Watching. Coveting. Waiting for his hour. 

Visions flared before Théodred’s eyes: Éomer, proud and fierce, drawing the loyalty of men by his boldness and fire, rising ever higher, until even the throne seemed near at hand.

He bears no love for your father. He seeks not to serve, but to rule. All these years you kept him at your side, treating him as a brother. Yet no sooner had you fallen than he hastened to claim your place, as though you were but a stepstone to his ascent. Ungrateful. Insolent. Was it not? 

The words lapped at his heart like dark water—cold, insidious, and persistent. They stoked fears he had never fully named, nor even known to lie within him: the cold fear that haunted him after death—that all he had wrought might be forgotten in another’s ascent, that he would become no more than a name carved upon the stones of the barrow-field, and that even the simbelmynë would not suffice to keep his memory alive.

Yet another voice stirred within him—steadfast and clear, sweeping aside all doubts with ease: doubts fit only for faint hearts—the memory of seventeen years of laughter, of sparring in the yards, of jests and counsel shared beside the fire, of blood shed side by side upon the battlefield.

A brother, in all but blood.

Against his ears, the shadow whispered still: He gave his allegiance to another but days after your death. What is love so easily shifted? What is loyalty so swiftly sold? See how quickly he turned to another, when he deemed it to his advantage—Aragorn, son of Arathorn, saviour of your people, King returned, the most powerful ally a man might hope for. And you—what were you to him? What worth had your years of brotherhood, when they were cast aside at the mere meeting of a stranger?

And Théodred, standing straight upon ground he could not see, smiled—a slow, fierce smile that kindled in the gathering dark.

“How little you understand me,” he said into the darkness, his voice light with grim amusement. “Know this: the Men of the Mark do not lie, and therefore they are not easily deceived. [1]

“What wrong is there in taking the lead, when the leader has fallen? What wrong is there in loving one who is worthy of love? Éomer—you mock his heart, and cast doubt upon his choice; and in doing so, you mock mine also, and dishonour my judgment. Not the wisest way to tempt me, I deem.

“But as a courtesy, I will tell you this: my brother is as steadfast in loyalty as ever I could have been. I know well now why he follows the man you fear—for I too would have followed him, for all that I have seen. Now—have you more to say, or is this all your cunning can conjure?”

Hearing no response, he laughed—full and free—and the shadow recoiled from him, like smoke before a rising storm.

And at his side, Boromir lifted his head and roared.

The voice that found Boromir was older, deeper—laden with sorrow, with pride, and with an ancient bitterness.

Why him? it whispered, cold and insidious. Why Aragorn, a Ranger of the North, heir of a broken line, wanderer and pretender? Why not you, Boromir, son of Denethor?

Who guarded Gondor in the long twilight? the voice demanded, deep and relentless. Who bore the burden, when the Heir of Isildur hid in the wild? 

The air thickened; visions spun before his eyes—Osgiliath and Minas Tirith burning; Faramir lying pale and unconscious upon the bed of healing; Denethor’s hands clenched around the shards of the sundered horn.

It was your house—the Stewards of the House of Anárion. For a thousand years, your fathers stood against the dark, while he lingered in secret, gathering strength in the safety of Elven halls and distant lands.

Then the voice turned coaxing.

Your people bled for him, unknowing. Your father set himself aflame, spent by years of vigilance, worn to the bone. And now he comes, at the last hour, to claim what your line defended at the price of all hope.

Boromir staggered, for the old wounds flared anew—raw, unhealed, and hungering.

In his mind’s eye, he saw his father—grey and proud—standing high upon the walls of the White City, gazing far across the broken land, with the White Tower gleaming dimly behind him. And beside him, Faramir—stricken and dying—lay under the creeping hand of the Black Shadow.

Your father is already with me, the voice murmured, softer still, as though a smile lingered upon hidden lips. Your brother… perhaps soon enough. But that, son of Denethor, lies in your hands.

Before Boromir, a silver presence took shape—shimmering faint in the gloom, seated as if in counsel, yet bowed by a weariness beyond bearing.

Your father was wise, the voice coaxed on, not to live to see the ascension of one unworthy. Or—

Right then, it was interrupted.

“Silence!”

The dwindling silver presence stirred—and spoke, with Denethor’s voice: strong, grim, and proud, as it had once been.

“Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor, may not trust to the hope of wild dreams… but he shall never bow to the Shadow, in life or in death.”

With those words, the silver light blazed forth—bright and blinding, like the last flare of a falling star—and was gone. And the dark voice recoiled with a hiss and a cry of rage, sharpened by disbelief.

And Boromir, seeing it, lifted his head and roared—a cry fierce and full, ringing out like a war-horn over unseen fields.

And at his side, in that very instant, Théodred laughed.

Darkness washed away from them like a retreating tide.

They stood once more upon the hill that seemed doomed, and all about them the battle raged. The host of the West was surrounded, their plight desperate.

Yet they stood—Boromir, son of Denethor; Théodred, son of Théoden; and Snowmane, son of Lightfoot—against the dark tide surging around them. Unseen and unheard by the living, they poured forth every last trace of their strength: every memory of dawnlight and hearthfire, of open fields and riding winds, of sorrow, and of joy, and of freedom—of life once dearly held.

From the depths of their hearts they cried—not in words, but in spirit—and their cry rippled through the world of the Unseen, calling for memory, for valour, and for every fading ember of hope.

For a moment, all was still: only the heavy breath of battle and the deep murmur of the dark. Then, as if in answer, lights arose—across the broken lands of Middle-earth, invisible to mortal eyes.

Pale were they: silver wisps, some flickering like the last breath of dying stars, others keen and cold as drawn blades—the voices of the forgotten and the fallen: of nameless spirits in barrow and wood and sea, in the marshes where the hosts of old had perished, even from the vale of the Shadow of Death itself.

Those who had lingered in sorrow, whose strength had long ebbed but whose hope had not wholly perished, stirred at last.

Like mist upon a rising wind they gathered, thread by thread, tatter by tatter, until they were as one. They raised no banners. They uttered no cries. They endured—and remembered. And in that hour, when the fate of the world hung by a breath, they rose—together.

And at that very moment, a cry arose among the living:

“The Eagles are coming!” [2]

Riding the wind came the beating of mighty wings, and above them the heavens still lay pale and clear.

For one fleeting heartbeat of the world, they stood—all of them, living and dead alike—the last alliance of the Free Peoples, arrayed against the vast and shadowed might: the tyrannous darkness that had endured through long ages, breaking hope again and again.

But this time, against wrath, and love, and faith long-held, it faltered.

Notes:

[1] Quoted from LotR; these are Éomer's words. [2] Quoted from LotR.

And I said: he got a poem. And recited this from memory:

Faithful servant yet

Master's Bane

Lightfoot's foal

Swift Snowmane.

Donato Giancola, Eowyn and the Lord of the Nazgul, 2010. Oil on panel, 34 x 39 inches. Collection of Greg Obaugh.