His Queen

Chapter 63 - Alana

Alana's mind was burdened as she watched the city below from her perch on the high stone walls of Minas Tirith. It had been over a month since the defeat of Sauron, but Kitra had yet to wake. The sight of her cousin lying motionless on that bed, alive but still unresponsive, haunted her. The vial of Galadriel's gift had worked, mending Kitra's wounds and bringing her back from the brink of death, but the true battle—the healing of her spirit—was still ongoing.

With a weary sigh, Alana leaned against the cool stone railing, her eyes tracing the activity in the city below. Aragorn and Faramir were in the thick of it, working tirelessly to help the people recover. Faramir, fully healed from his own wounds, had thrown himself into the effort with all his heart. He worked with the displaced families, organizing the repairs to homes and ensuring that food and medical care reached those in need. Despite everything he had been through, Faramir's quiet determination was a source of strength for the city.

Aragorn, ever humble, had refused to have his coronation until Kitra woke and the city was restored. He worked side by side with the people, not as a king, but as a man determined to heal the wounds of war. Alana admired his resilience and his refusal to take up the mantle of kingship until everything was set right. His leadership was not about power, but about serving those around him. She watched him now as he helped lift a large piece of rubble from a collapsed building, the weight of the crown already resting on his shoulders, though he had yet to wear it.

The sounds of rebuilding filled the air. Everywhere she looked, the city was coming back to life. The clanging of hammers echoed through the streets, and the people, though still grieving, had begun to find solace in each other and in the work of restoration. The lower levels of the city were teeming with activity, as families worked together to rebuild their homes and lives. The fields outside the city walls were being cleared to plant crops, and already, the first hints of green were visible among the dark earth.

Alana's gaze shifted to where Lyra and Éomer were overseeing the efforts of the Rohirrim, who had stayed to help. Éomer, ever the warrior, now found himself leading his men not into battle, but in clearing rubble and organizing aid. His arm rested casually around Lyra as they spoke, directing their forces. The tender gesture between them brought a small, bittersweet smile to Alana's lips. Even in the wake of so much darkness, there was light—new bonds forged in the fires of war.

Determined to do her part, Alana tore herself away from the view and descended into the city streets. The people of Minas Tirith were still in need, and Alana had made it her mission to help wherever she could. She joined the others in distributing food, her hands filled with baskets of bread. Families lined the streets, grateful for the small comforts of grain, vegetables, and dried meats. The carts had come from the outlying farms, but even with the supplies, it was a slow process. The lines of people stretched far, and it would be some time before everyone was fed.

As she handed out bread to the women and children, Alana found herself exchanging quiet words of hope and comfort. The faces before her were tired, worn with grief, but there was a glimmer of resilience in their eyes. They had survived the darkness, and now they were rebuilding—slowly, surely, with each passing day. But still, in the back of her mind, Alana couldn't shake the worry for Kitra, and for what lay ahead. The city was healing, but the one person she longed to see rise from the ashes still lay silent.

Determined to do her part, Alana tore herself away from the quiet solace of the Houses of Healing and descended into the bustling streets of Minas Tirith. Though her heart ached to stay by Kitra's side, she knew there were others who needed her now. The city was still in the midst of recovery, and while the people were resilient, their needs were great.

She joined the others in distributing food, the simple task grounding her in a way that brought some measure of peace. With a basket of fresh bread in her hands, Alana made her way to the waiting lines of women and children. Their faces told stories of grief, exhaustion, and loss, but behind the fatigue, there was also determination. They had survived the siege, they had withstood the forces of darkness, and now they stood ready to rebuild.