His Queen

Chapter 64 - Alana

The evening sun bathed the White City in a golden light, casting long shadows across the rebuilt streets and gleaming off the newly restored stone walls. Minas Tirith, once battered by the horrors of war, now stood resilient, a testament to the determination of its people. Alana could feel the pulse of the city—hope mingled with grief, and in the air, there was the faint hum of recovery. But something was still missing. The people had poured their hearts into the work of rebuilding, yet they needed something more. Something to bring them together. A king to lead them.

She and Gandalf had spent days speaking quietly of the matter, knowing that if the people were to heal fully, they needed a symbol—Aragorn. The rightful king of Gondor. But convincing him to take up that mantle would not be easy. Alana glanced at Faramir as they approached Aragorn's quarters in the citadel, the weight of their task heavy on her shoulders.

The balcony doors were open, allowing the evening breeze to sweep through, carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke and freshly turned earth from the city below. Aragorn stood at the edge of the balcony, his posture rigid, his hands gripping the stone railing as if he were trying to hold the city together with sheer force of will. His face was lined with exhaustion, but there was an undeniable fire in his eyes, a determination that had not wavered despite everything.

Alana's heart panged at the sight. He had given everything for Gondor, for Middle-earth, and yet he hesitated to claim his rightful place. She understood why—Kitra still lay unconscious in the Houses of Healing, her body mending but her spirit quiet. How could Aragorn possibly celebrate when someone so dear to him remained on the brink between life and death?

"Gandalf, Alana, Faramir," Aragorn greeted them as they entered, his voice steady but weary. "What is it?"

Gandalf stepped forward, his staff tapping softly against the stone floor. "We need to speak with you, Aragorn." His voice was gentle, but there was a firmness beneath it. "The city is nearly rebuilt. The people are recovering. But they need more. They need their king."

Aragorn sighed, his gaze slipping back to the city below, watching the small figures of workers moving about, carrying supplies, rebuilding homes. "The people are not ready," he said, his voice heavy with doubt. "Not yet. And Kitra..." He trailed off, his grip on the railing tightening. "I can't celebrate while she's like this."

Alana stepped forward, her heart aching as she looked at him. "I understand your hesitation," she said softly, her eyes pleading with him. "But the people need something to rally behind. You've been working alongside them, helping to rebuild the city, but they need hope now. They need to know that this isn't the end of the story. They need you."

Faramir, who had been quietly observing, nodded. "I've seen it, Aragorn. The people look to you. They speak of the king who fought alongside them, who helped save the city. You are their hope. You can't let that slip away now."

Aragorn's face was troubled, his brow furrowing as he considered their words. "But Kitra..." His voice broke slightly. "She should be here. She fought for this city, for this future. How can I stand before the people and celebrate when she is still..."

"Kitra would want you to do this," Alana interrupted, her voice stronger now. "She fought for this future, Aragorn. She fought for you, for the people of Gondor. When she wakes, she'll want to see you as king, not standing back waiting for her to heal. She would want you to lead."

Gandalf placed a comforting hand on Aragorn's shoulder, his gaze softening. "They need to see you now, Aragorn. The people of Gondor, the free peoples of Middle-earth—they need a king to unite them. Kitra would not want you to wait. She would understand."

For a long moment, Aragorn remained silent, the weight of their words settling over him like a mantle he was not yet ready to wear. His gaze moved from Gandalf to Alana, and then to Faramir. The resolve in their eyes reflected his own. They were right—the people needed more than walls and homes. They needed something to believe in.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, Aragorn nodded. "Very well. We will proceed with the coronation." His voice was quiet, but there was a spark of resolve in his eyes. "But I want the people to know... this is for them, not me."

Alana's heart lifted, a small smile breaking through the worry that had clouded her thoughts for days. She had known this would be hard for him, but they needed this. Gondor needed this.

Gandalf gave a soft nod, his eyes warm with approval. "They will know, Aragorn. And it will give them the hope they so desperately need."

Later that afternoon, the usual bustle of the city gave way to a quieter corner, where Alana and Lyra stood side by side. The war may have been won, but there were still battles of the heart being fought, and Kitra's absence weighed heavily on Alana's mind. Though her cousin lay still in the Houses of Healing, caught in a deep sleep from which she had yet to awaken, there was one thing Alana was determined to do—make sure that Kitra would be part of the coronation, even if only in spirit. That meant preparing something for her that reflected the strength, resilience, and beauty she had always embodied: a gown for when she woke.

They stood near the seamstresses' workshop, where bolts of rich fabric were strewn across the table, the vibrant hues of silk and satin catching the light of the late afternoon sun. The warm glow illuminated the folds of the fabric, each one more luxurious than the next, but Alana's eyes were drawn to a deep blue silk that shimmered like the ocean under moonlight. It was the perfect color—strong, calming, and regal, much like Kitra herself.

Lyra, ever the calming presence, stood beside her, her arm resting lightly on Alana's. She looked over the fabrics with a discerning eye before her gaze settled on the same deep blue. "It's going to be beautiful, Alana," she said softly, her voice filled with warmth. "Kitra will love it."

Alana smiled faintly, her fingers brushing over the fabric's smooth surface. It was cool to the touch, its texture soft but sturdy, much like the cousin she so deeply missed. "She deserves something special," Alana murmured, her voice tinged with emotion. "After everything she's been through... this dress will be more than just a gown. It'll be a symbol of hope. That she will wake up and join us again."

The thought brought a lump to her throat. Kitra had given so much for Middle-earth, and though the physical wounds had healed, Alana couldn't shake the worry gnawing at her heart. What if Kitra never woke? What if this beautiful dress went unworn?

Lyra squeezed her arm gently, pulling her from the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. "She will wake, Alana. And when she does, she'll see just how much love has been waiting for her. This dress is just the beginning." Her voice was filled with such quiet certainty that it momentarily stilled the worry in Alana's chest.

Alana glanced at her friend, drawing strength from Lyra's unwavering faith. There was something so soothing about her presence, the way she always found light even in the darkest of moments. "You've always been good at seeing the bright side, Lyra," Alana said, her voice softer now. "I'm grateful for that. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Lyra smiled warmly, her hand still resting comfortingly on Alana's arm. "We'll make sure this dress is perfect for her," she said, turning her attention back to the seamstresses. "And when Kitra walks through those doors in her new gown, the entire city will see her strength. She's a fighter, and this dress will show that."

Alana watched as the seamstresses measured and cut the fabric with precision, discussing the final details of the gown. Every stitch, every fold, was crafted with care, as though they too were honoring Kitra's spirit. The dress would be elegant, yet practical—a reflection of Kitra's own resilience and grace. The deep blue silk would flow like water, the bodice embroidered with silver threads in delicate patterns that mimicked the stars. It was a dress fit for someone who had stood against the darkness and survived, even if that battle had left her scarred.

As the two women continued to discuss the final touches, Alana felt something stir within her—a glimmer of hope that had been buried beneath the weight of her worries. Despite the uncertainty that still lingered around Kitra's recovery, this small act—this simple gown—felt like a step toward healing, not just for her cousin, but for all of them.