Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to the heirs and estate of Professor Tolkien. The concept alone is mine and I do not have any monetary gain from this tale.
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-Nuingaríen
A cloaked figure tread silently through the dark streets of Minas Tirith, moving swiftly and with purpose toward the sixth level of the city, toward the stables where the mounts for errand riders and the horses for the King's and the Steward's households were housed. The man, for the tall figure indeed was that of a man, went directly to one of the stalls but was stopped before he had gone far into the spacious stable. The man who stopped him bowed low when he realized who it was that he had challenged but the cloaked figure graciously told the stable-master that he was only doing his job then he proceeded to one of the stalls where he saddled a large stallion. With a nod to the still slightly startled stable-master, the cloaked man left the stable on foot, leading the stallion by the bridle and made his way down to the first level of the City where he mounted and rode toward the Anduin.
The stars were veiled and only the half-moon lent her light to the Fields of Pelennor as the lone horse and rider rode steadily in an even pace that was neither hurried nor delayed. After a time dark shadows that was Osgiliath rose from the banks of the Great River, broken walls and jagged towers indicating that the time of peace was but newly returned and not all had been yet renewed. The horse, as if sensing the air of solemnity that surrounded the ruined city, slowed down and stopped of his own accord within the shadow of the gate. The rider dismounted and entered the city with measured steps, his sword slapping in rhythm against his thigh. The man continued on his solitary mission, halting only when he reached the river as it cut through the two halves of the great city. He stood on one of the landings that was used by ships in times past, the Anduin gently lapping at the weathered stones.
The man pushed back his hood to reveal a fair and noble face with features that were unmistakably those of a son of Numenor. His raven hair was stirred and caressed by a gentle breeze; grey eyes gazed keenly and steadily afar. With a tremulous sigh that came from the depths of his being, the man uttered a single name, then another.
"Ondoher. Baranor. Saelon."
His voice which had begun above a whisper gained strength and conviction as he pressed on. The faces of those he named appearing in his mind as they were—men of valor and honor.
"Derufin. Duilin. Belegorn. Hirgon."
Riders who would no longer gallop across the Pelennor, soldiers who would no longer stand along the walls of Minas Tirith, Rangers who no longer would rest under the shades of Ithilien. Each was evoked with love and admiration, each name pronounced by one who had known the man who had carried it. The man continued, swaying slightly as tears previously unshed fell on his cheek.
"Theoden. Denethor. Boromir. Finduilas."
Then he fell silent, grey eyes lifted upward as if willing the spirits of the dead to make their way to the heavens and peace. The clouds that veiled the skies dissipated and light from a thousand stars broke through, bathing the lone figure in soft light. A shadow of a smile crossed the man's face as Faramir of Gondor placed his hand over his heart and bowed in silent salute to the Victorious Dead.
fin
A/N
This story was inspired by the song "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" from the opera Les Miserables based on the novel by the same name by Victor Hugo.
Some of you might note that Faramir did not really meet King Theoden in the books but I thought that through stories he may have felt that he knew the King so I added his name to Faramir's list of Victorious Dead.