The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Wind Offered No Answers

As the company returned from the bloody battle with the warg riders, the tension hung in the air like the remnants of smoke from a burnt-out fire. Visenya walked silently alongside the others, her thoughts a swirling storm of confusion and sorrow. Her body moved on instinct, but her mind was far away—lost somewhere between the echoes of her past and the stark reality of this unfamiliar world.

The sounds of the soldiers' armor clinking, the horses snorting in exhaustion, and the faint cries of the wounded created a cacophony that should have grounded her in the present. Yet, all she could think about was the empty space where Aragorn should be. His absence was a physical wound, as though a part of her had been torn away with him when he had fallen.

Théoden rode at the head of the group, his face a hardened mask of duty and grief. Visenya could see the pain in his eyes, though he hid it well. As king, he had no choice but to lead. She envied him, in a way, for having that purpose. She felt adrift, caught in the tides of fate, powerless to control the outcomes that seemed to constantly shift around her.

As they entered the camp, Gamling shouted for the soldiers to clear the way for Théoden. The people parted, faces etched with concern as they looked at the ragged survivors. Visenya caught sight of Éowyn rushing forward, her face pale with fear.

"So few. So few of you have returned," Éowyn murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

Théoden dismounted, his expression grim. "Our people are safe. We have paid for it with many lives."

Visenya clenched her fists at those words, biting back the anger that flared within her. It wasn't just the lives of Rohirrim that had been lost today—Aragorn was gone. She could still see him in her mind, battling fiercely, a pillar of strength amidst the chaos. Now, he was nothing more than a memory, and the sharpness of that loss stung her in ways she hadn't expected.

Gimli approached Éowyn with a heavy heart. "My lady," he said, his voice low and strained, as though the weight of his grief was too much to bear.

Éowyn's eyes darted around, her hope clinging to the impossible. "Lord Aragorn, where is he?"

"He fell..." Gimli's words came like a hammer blow.

Éowyn gasped, her teary eyes lifting toward Théoden, seeking confirmation of this terrible news. The king lowered his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of her fears, before walking away. His silence spoke volumes. Aragorn was truly gone.

Visenya's heart shattered at that moment. Her chest tightened as if a vice had clamped down on her, making it difficult to breathe. Aragorn's fall was a wound that went deeper than the loss of a comrade. It was the loss of someone who had become more than just a companion on this perilous journey. He had been a light, a guiding force in the darkness that surrounded them.

She clenched her jaw, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over. She had been through so much already—losing Cregan, her children, her home in Westeros. She had told herself that she would never allow herself to feel this kind of pain again, that she would be strong, unyielding. But this world, with all its dangers and unexpected moments of tenderness, had cracked open the walls she had so carefully built.

It was not just the loss of Aragorn that cut her so deeply; it was the reminder that no one was safe, that in this world—just as in Westeros—death could come for anyone, at any time. The grief she felt for Gandalf's fall was still fresh, and now this... How much more loss could she endure?

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Legolas standing beside her, his own face marked with sorrow. His usually calm, ethereal presence was marred by the pain of losing his friend. They exchanged a silent look—both of them understood the depth of each other's grief without words.

"He cannot be gone," she whispered, almost to herself, her voice barely audible over the wind. "Not like this."

Legolas's lips pressed into a thin line. "I would not have believed it either... But the river took him. There was no sign—"

"There must be a way..." Visenya's words faltered. She knew there was no point in denial, but the thought of never seeing Aragorn again, of never hearing his voice, was unbearable.

Her mind spiraled back to the battle, to those moments when she had fought with every ounce of strength she possessed. She had defended Théoden's horse, slashing down the orcs that had threatened him, their snarling faces disappearing beneath her blade. Théoden had seen her then, his eyes locking with hers for a brief moment. There had been recognition in his gaze, an acknowledgment of her ferocity and skill. In that moment, she had felt powerful, in control of her destiny.

Now, all of that power seemed meaningless. What use was strength when those you cared about could be ripped away so easily?

"Draw all our forces behind the wall," Théoden's voice rang out from the battlements, pulling Visenya from her thoughts. "Bar the gate, and set a watch on the surround."

Gamling stepped forward. "What of those who cannot fight, my lord? The women and children?"

"Get them into the caves," Théoden ordered. His steps echoed against the stone as he walked past the sewer gate, his tone resolute. "Saruman's arm would have grown long indeed if he thinks he can reach us here."

Visenya watched him go, her mind still a tangle of grief and anger. She felt a hand brush against hers and looked down to see Gimli standing beside her, his own sorrow etched deeply into his features. "It doesn't feel real, does it?" he asked, his voice gruff yet soft.

She shook her head, unable to find the words to express the depth of her anguish. "No," she whispered. "It doesn't."

Gimli nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon as if hoping to catch a glimpse of Aragorn, alive and well, riding back to camp. But there was nothing. Only the endless expanse of land and sky, stretching on into uncertainty.

"Aragorn wouldn't want us to lose hope," Gimli said after a moment. "He always believed that, even in the darkest times, there was still light to be found."

Visenya swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that still threatened to fall. "I don't know if I have any hope left, Gimli," she admitted, her voice trembling. "Not after this."

Gimli glanced up at her, his expression softening. "We'll find it again. Together. For Aragorn."

She wanted to believe him, wanted to cling to the hope that somehow, Aragorn had survived—that he would return to them. But the weight of reality pressed down on her, suffocating the fragile flicker of hope she still carried.

As the night deepened, Visenya stood at the edge of the camp, staring into the distance. She felt alone in a way she hadn't since arriving in Middle-earth. The Fellowship was her family now, but with Aragorn gone, the foundation of that family had crumbled.

She closed her eyes, letting the wind whip through her hair, carrying her whispered prayer to the stars above: "Please... let him come back."

But the wind, like the world around her, offered no answers.