I stood along Anduin's now-fair banks, gazing toward Minas Anor. "Aye, it is fair, father, but I do not see..."

Beregond shook his head. "Not west." He placed his hand on my shoulder and faced me toward the North. "Look to the site of Gondor's victory."

Of course I had heard the stories. How the Prince of the City was pierced by many arrows. How he had fallen but not faltered.

And then I understood. Our horn had been cloven, our chest pierced, but still Gondor strove on. Like Boromir.