The Strength and Truth of Men by Raiyana

Where is the Rider?

“Éowyn!” 

“Lo-Lord Boromir?” Éowyn exclaimed, turning around to stare at him, her blue eyes wide in her face. “What are you - how are you here?”

“A long story, my lady,” Boromir sighed, leaning on the sturdy stick Merry had found for him to help with his still-sore knee. “I had hopes you might have news of our erstwhile companions?” He put his free hand on Merry’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce Meriadoc Brandybuck, son of the Master of Buckland in the far-away Shire. Merry, this is Éowyn, Princess of Rohan, daughter of Théodwyn, sister of Théoden the King.” 

Merry bowed politely in the style he had practised as they made their way south, and Éowyn smiled graciously, giving him a nod in return. 

“A story wanting told, I don’t doubt,” Éowyn said. “But perhaps one best told to the King.” 

“And Théodred,” Boromir added quickly. He had dreamt, or thought he had, of the man during his own recuperation; the Elven drink made the memories difficult to catch, glimpses and fractured images fading when he tried to focus, but he felt certain that Théodred had been there, pale hair in the wind and his face set in hard lines.

Éowyn’s face fell. She closed her eyes for a long moment, one hand gripping the other tightly. “Théodred is dead,” she said quietly, allowing him the privacy of keeping her eyes closed so she did not witness that first shock. 

Boromir staggered, Merry’s shoulder beneath his hand the only reason he remained standing. “No!” he cried, even though it was more of a low moan, pain ripping at his heart at the thought that he would never again see his dearest friend; Théoden had always understood him, the letters that sporadically made their way back and forth filled with insight and the support he could not ask from any subordinate. “No.” 

“He… he held the Ford of Isen,” Éowyn said quietly, hugging herself, a tear running down her cheek, though her voice did not waver. “They told us his last words were to leave him there - that he would- would hold them till my brother came.” 

“He…” Boromir closed his eyes, swallowing the sob building in his throat. “He would do that.” The knowledge did not stop him wanting to reach out and shake Théodred by the shoulders, forcing him back to life if only so this pain would cease. 

“I am sorry for your loss,” Éowyn said quietly, unwrapping herself enough to put a hand on Boromir’s arm. “You were close friends.” 

Boromir caught her hand between his, uncaring of the stick that fell over beside him. “I grieve with thee,” he offered formally, the Rohirric phrase thick on his tongue. Théodred always laughed at his accent, teasing him over the rocky shapes of Stoningland tongues trying to match the babbling brook of the Riddermark, an old argument they both enjoyed replaying. 

Éowyn’s fingers trembled in his grasp. “And I with thee,” she replied, bowing her head to accept the kiss on the forehead - familial affection even if they weren’t - he gave her in turn. “I will take you to my Uncle.”