“Have you ever been welcomed home by the ringing of silver trumpets?” Boromir had once asked Aragorn. “One day we shall approach the White City, and the watchmen upon the walls shall take up the call: ‘The Lords of Gondor have returned!’”
That had been long ago, during the time of respite the Fellowship had known within Lothlórien, and the Man born to be King of Gondor and Arnor reunited had found himself willing to believe indeed that such a thing would happen one day. How strongly he was reminded of it now, as the cavalcade in which he rode approached the walls of Minas Anor once more after some months spent making a progress in the southern reaches of the realm.
It was not Boromir but rather Boromir’s brother who rode now at his side. Some lengths ahead of them rode Eldarion and Elboron, the two of them plainly pleased to be returning home at last. They’d been talking together, the two youths, and now both reached down to pull out the horns they’d been gifted by Prince Imrahil during their visit to Dol Amroth, horns purposefully reminiscent of the one that Boromir and before that his father and forefathers for hundreds of years had borne. They lifted their horns, and at a nod given by Elboron sounded them together.
The bray of the two horns, both taken from the same wild kine, was answered by the calls of silver trumpets upon the wall, and the King found his heart twisting with the ache of the memory, then lifted up at the welcome he sensed in those notes.
“We are home again,” he heard from the Man who rode at his side. “Rejoice, my beloved Lord and friend.”
And for a moment, as he looked on Faramir’s face, he saw Boromir’s wide and reckless smile, and was glad.