Boromir's Return -II- Book Four of the Tales of the Fourth Age Series

Chapter Seven: Loss

Fo.A 2, July 3rd

A journey that had started off to celebrate a wedding had now become a funeral procession for Merry. Údar, Boromir, Aragorn, and Beregond bore the hobbit's body on a makeshift stretcher as the land, and its people wept for him.

Rain fell steadily, mixing with the tears as they walked. The company was sullen as they trudged along, sorrow tearing at their hearts and Údar most of all.

Anger had taken root firmly in his heart where it quickly blossomed into a barely controlled rage. It wasn't supposed to happen! Merry was supposed to live to a ripe old age, among many other things.

Údar squeezed back the tears; he would not weep, nay, he would take vengeance on the one who had done this, and they would suffer. Oh yes, they would suffer.

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They arrived at Edoras late on the third to the whole city lining the road with flowers and torches, singing a lament for Merry in their native tongue.

Boromir had always thought that they were an uncultured people, but Údar had shown him otherwise. Now, he let the tears flow as he allowed the song to engulf him, the memory of training Merry and Pippin playing in his mind.

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Eomer stood before the gates, a sorrowful and pained look on his face. He wore the crown of Rohan nobly upon his brow and had a large black cloak draped over his shoulders; in his hands, he held the horn of Rohan, something Merry had carried with him since swearing fealty to Théoden.

Eomer sounded the horn once, twice, three times before receiving the weary travelers. "I had hoped our meeting would have been under better tidings," Eomer said gravely, clasping Aragorn in greeting as an honor guard of Rohirrim relieved them of their burden.

"I, too, had hoped the same," Aragorn returned.

Eomer looked from his friend to Údar and Boromir. "Greetings Höfundur, who do you bring with you this time?"

Those within earshot looked at Údar confused. "Hail, Eomer King, it has been some time. This is Boromir, son of Denethor, the former Steward."

"Indeed," Eomer said, regarding the man. "And he is a friend?"

Both Aragorn and Údar nodded.

"Very well," Eomer said. "He shall be a friend to us as well." His face became grave. "Now, let us prepare for the burial."

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Legolas finally found Aragorn in the Halls of Meduseld, alone. He was smoking his pipe, eyes distant and face tear stained. He spoke first. "He's gone, Legolas."

Legolas bowed his head. "I heard," he said. "My heart is broken." He looked up, sweeping his keen gaze around the hall. "Where is everyone?"

"Locked up in their rooms, I suppose." Aragorn shrugged. "I cannot say for sure."

Legolas had another question burning in his mind as he sat down across from his friend. "Where is Gimli? I have looked everywhere for him."

Aragorn took a long draught from his pipe before answering. "Údar said he left the same night we found Merry, something about an emergency."

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "Údar told you this?"

Aragorn turned to his friend. "Yes."

Legolas grew serious. "I know you trust that man, Aragorn, but he is not what he seems."