The Strength and Truth of Men by Raiyana

Returned out of Memory and Mist

He was dressed strangely – his cloak not the deep red of his usual garb, and his armour…. – but no, that was Boromir’s sword, and Boromir’s hand to wield it, his arms to swing it, to cleave his foes, and Imrahil knew him. 

It was Boromir even if it could not be Boromir. 

His nephew had returned in the darkest of hours, at the head of an army they had not dared to hope for. 

“Boromir.” The word left his lips softly, and yet he thought it might have been a shout, for Boromir turned, that face so echoing his mother’s set in grim lines of focus Imrahil knew far too well. 

“Uncle!” 

“It is you.” 

“Should it not be?” Boromir asked, frowning. The cut above his eyebrow kept bleeding sluggishly, making him blink to keep Imrahil in focus. 

“I… only as a spirit, dearest nephew,” Imrahil said, voice hoarse and rough, but then he took two steps and his arms wrapped around Boromir’s shoulders were as warm as they had ever been, holding him tight with strange relief. 

“Uncle?” Boromir asked again, returning the embrace. “Are you well?” 

“Only glad, Boromir, we… Faramir, he - he found your horn, my boy, and dreamt - as I did - of you, pierced by many arrows, falling beneath a white hand on black.” Imrahil swallowed, the hug growing tighter. “You were dead, Boromir. And now you are not.” 

“Only by the hand of one I would call friend,” Boromir replied cautiously. Imrahil was not one for gossip, but still he would tell Denethor of Aragorn’s claim in his own words and his own time. “And the skill of Elvish medicines.”

“I am glad to see you returned to us in this darkest hour,” Imrahil said, releasing him, “but I beg you go now to the Houses of Healing - Faramir has been struck down and I do not know if he will live much longer.” 

Boromir closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself against a resurgence of grief. “Am I to lose all whom I hold dear upon arrival?” he muttered to himself. “Am I a spectre of death, now, a bringer of ill omens?”

“Perhaps a bringer of good,” Imrahil objected gently. “Faramir… he would fight to return to you, you know this.”

“I will go see him,” Boromir swore, even though the distance between himself and the gate of Minas Tirith might as well be the distance between Rivendell and Mordor to him. 

“Take a horse.” Imrahil patted his shoulder, waving for a mount to be given over. “And all gladness go with you, sister-son, till we meet again.”