The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Greatest Blow of All

The chaos of battle erupted around Visenya like a whirlwind. The warg riders charged with ferocity, snarling beasts and bloodthirsty orcs clashing violently against the Rohirrim. Visenya, sword in hand, fought with a brutal efficiency, her blade slicing through the air in deadly arcs. She had been on foot, staying close to the villagers as they moved, but when the attack came, she broke away, instinctively drawn toward the fight.

Her silver hair streamed behind her as she cut down a snarling orc, its black blood splattering across her leathers. A warg barreled toward her, and she ducked low, her blade flashing upward into its chest. The beast let out a hideous screech before collapsing at her feet. Without a second thought, Visenya kicked its corpse aside and moved toward the center of the fight, where the battle raged fiercest.

She was no stranger to the blood and horror of war—Winterfell had seen its share of brutality, and she had fought dragons in Westeros—but this was different. Here, in this foreign land, there was no fire, no dragons' roars, only the pounding of hooves, the snarling of wargs, and the clang of steel. Her heart beat with a fierce rhythm, but it wasn't just the battle that unnerved her—it was the ever-present feeling that she was an outsider in this world, a wanderer lost between the past and the unknown.

In the chaos, her sharp eyes caught sight of King Théoden's horse, Snowmane, rearing in fear as a group of orcs broke through the front line, heading directly for the king. Her breath hitched—There was no time to think. Visenya sprinted toward him, her boots pounding against the dirt. An orc raised its jagged blade, intending to strike the king's mount. Visenya's hand was quicker.

With a fierce cry, she lunged, her sword finding its mark in the orc's side. The creature snarled, but she twisted the blade, watching its eyes dim as she pulled her sword free. Two more orcs followed close behind. With an agile leap, she rolled beneath their swinging weapons, rising behind them and cutting them down in quick succession.

Théoden's eyes caught hers in that moment, a flicker of something like admiration passing over his face as he swung his sword to finish off another orc.

"Visenya!" Théoden shouted over the din of battle, his voice laced with urgency. "Well struck!"

She nodded in acknowledgment, but before she could respond, another warg lunged at her. She barely had time to bring her sword up, its massive jaws snapping inches from her face. Her muscles strained as she shoved the beast back, using its own momentum to throw it to the ground before driving her blade into its neck. The battlefield was a maelstrom, bodies and beasts clashing in a flurry of steel and blood, but amid the chaos, Visenya moved like a storm, precise and unrelenting.

The king's horse was safe, and the warg riders were being pushed back. Yet even in the heat of the battle, Visenya felt a creeping dread. Her eyes darted through the mayhem, seeking one person.

Where is Aragorn?

Suddenly, a scream from the other side of the battlefield drew her attention. Turning, she saw Legolas and Gimli fighting fiercely, but Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. Her breath caught in her throat, heart pounding. In the distance, the form of Sharku, the lead orc on a monstrous warg, clashed with Aragorn. Visenya's blood ran cold as she watched the struggle unfold, helpless to intervene.

The next moment was a blur. She saw Aragorn, tangled in the saddle straps, dragged across the ground. He was pulled closer and closer to the edge of a cliff. The vision seemed to slow, as if time itself twisted around the moment. She screamed his name, but her voice was lost in the chaos.

"No!" she cried out, but it was too late. Aragorn and the warg toppled over the edge of the cliff, disappearing into the abyss below.

Visenya froze, the world around her fading into silence. She stood motionless, staring at the place where he had fallen, disbelief numbing her. Aragorn—her comrade, her guide in this strange land—was gone. She felt the earth shift beneath her, as if the ground itself had been ripped away.

Gimli and Legolas rushed toward the cliff's edge, their faces reflecting the horror and disbelief she herself felt. Her legs refused to move. The battle continued around her, but it was distant now, as though she was submerged in deep water. The sounds, the smells, even the fear—it all seemed far away.

Legolas gripped the Evenstar pendant in his hand, the symbol of Aragorn's connection to Arwen, and Visenya's heart clenched. Her chest ached, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She had known loss before—Cregan, her children, her homeland—but this was different. This was here, now, and it cut through her defenses like a blade. She had allowed herself to hope in this new world, to believe that perhaps she could belong here, with these people. And now, that hope had been shattered.

Théoden approached her, his face grim. He placed a hand on her shoulder, but she barely felt it. His words were a blur in her ears, something about retreating, about regrouping, but none of it mattered. All she could see was the edge of that cliff, the place where Aragorn had fallen to his death.

"We must go," Théoden said softly. "There is nothing more we can do here."

Visenya swallowed hard, her throat dry, her heart heavy. She glanced up at him, eyes clouded with a mix of anger and sorrow. "How can we leave him?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Théoden's gaze softened, and for a moment, she saw the weight of leadership and loss reflected in his eyes. "We must. There will be more battles to fight. For now, we live to fight another day."

The king's words cut through the fog, and she nodded, though it felt like a betrayal to her soul. Every step away from that cliff felt like she was leaving behind a part of herself.

As the survivors gathered their wounded and prepared to move, Visenya cast one last, lingering look over the edge. There was no sign of Aragorn, no movement, only the sound of the rushing waters far below. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest. For the first time since arriving in Middle-earth, she truly felt alone.

The wind howled across the battlefield as the last remnants of the fight faded. Legolas and Gimli stood beside her, both silent in their grief. And as they turned to follow Théoden and the others, Visenya couldn't shake the hollow feeling inside her—the cold, empty space where hope had once lived.

Theoden's voice broke through the quiet as he addressed his remaining men. "We ride for Helm's Deep. Prepare yourselves. The wolves of Isengard will return, and we must be ready."

Visenya sheathed her sword, her movements mechanical. The path to Helm's Deep stretched ahead, uncertain and dark. She mounted her horse in silence, her eyes flicking one last time to the place where Aragorn had disappeared.

With a heavy heart, she followed the others, knowing that the battle wasn't over. But for now, the loss of Aragorn felt like the greatest blow of all.