The Silver Flame (LOTR)

A Heart Reunited

Aragorn urged Brego forward as Helm's Deep loomed in the distance, its towering walls providing the only beacon of hope amidst the gathering storm. His heart raced, not just from the urgent ride but from the horrors he had witnessed—the sight of Saruman's army, ten thousand strong, moving with the single-minded intent to annihilate. The weight of that knowledge hung heavily on his shoulders as he rode toward the fortress, each step of his horse echoing his dread.

But even with the burden of the war ahead, Aragorn felt a different kind of heaviness, a concern that had simmered within him since he had been separated from the Fellowship. His mind wandered to them—Legolas, Gimli, and Visenya. How would they receive the news of the impending threat? His eyes softened at the thought of Visenya. She had become a kindred spirit, her strength and loyalty unwavering in the face of so much loss. He longed to see her, to know that she was safe.

As he entered the gates of Helm's Deep, the stir of refugees and soldiers rippled through the crowd. Whispers of astonishment spread quickly—he was alive. Aragorn hardly took notice of the shocked faces; his eyes were fixed ahead, searching for his friends amidst the sea of people.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the noise. "Where is he? Where is he? Get out of the way!" Gimli's booming voice was unmistakable, and Aragorn barely had time to react before the dwarf barreled into him, pulling him into a bear-like embrace.

"You are the luckiest, the canniest, and the most reckless man I ever knew!" Gimli grumbled, his voice thick with emotion despite his attempts to hide it.

Aragorn grinned, clasping the dwarf on the shoulder. "Bless you, Gimli. I'm glad to see you in one piece."

"And I'm glad to see you at all, laddie," Gimli retorted, releasing him with a gruff sniff.

Aragorn's attention quickly shifted as he spotted Legolas standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, waiting patiently. "Le ab-dollen," the elf said, his lips twitching into a small smile. "You're late."

Aragorn couldn't help but return the smile, though the weight of the moment lingered. "Hannon le," he murmured as Legolas handed him the Evenstar pendant, a reminder of the love and hope that anchored him. He squeezed the elf's hand, the silent gratitude passing between them.

But as the initial greetings subsided, his thoughts turned to Visenya. His heart quickened as he scanned the crowd once more, searching for the fierce warrior who had stood beside them in countless battles. Before he could look much further, he heard the soft rustle of familiar footsteps.

"Aragorn."

He turned toward the voice, and there she was—Visenya, standing just a few paces away. Her silvery hair, as wild and untamed as her spirit, caught the dim light of the fortress, and her piercing eyes were filled with emotions she could not hide. She crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, her usual composure momentarily forgotten as she threw her arms around him.

"You're alive," she whispered against his shoulder, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

Aragorn returned the embrace tightly, feeling the warmth and reassurance of her presence. "Yes, I'm alive," he replied softly. "And I'm glad to see that you are too, mellon nín."

For a long moment, they stood there, holding on to each other, finding solace in the fact that they had both survived what felt like insurmountable odds. Visenya pulled back slightly, her hands resting on his shoulders as she searched his face. "When we lost you at the river, I feared the worst. We all did," she admitted, her voice thick with the weight of those days spent waiting, hoping for his return.

"I saw them," Aragorn said gravely. "An army—ten thousand strong. They march on Helm's Deep as we speak."

Visenya's eyes widened, and her grip on his arms tightened. "Ten thousand?"

He nodded. "It is an army bred for one purpose: to destroy the world of men."

Visenya took a deep breath, her warrior instincts immediately taking over. "Then we fight," she said, her voice firm but with a shadow of fear lurking in her eyes. "Whatever comes, we fight."

Aragorn admired her resolve, though he could see the exhaustion that weighed heavily on her. "We will fight," he agreed, his voice softening. "But first, we must prepare."

Visenya nodded, though her gaze lingered on his face for a moment longer. "I'm glad you're here," she said finally, her voice quieter now, more vulnerable. "We've lost so much already. I didn't want to lose you too."

Aragorn smiled gently, brushing a strand of her silver hair behind her ear. "You won't lose me, Visenya. Not today."

A silence passed between them, filled with the unspoken understanding that even in the chaos of war, they had found a bond that could not easily be broken. Their reunion, though brief, was a reminder of what they fought for—each other, and the hope that they might survive this together.

"Come," Aragorn said, releasing her from their embrace but keeping a hand on her arm. "The king awaits. We have much to discuss."

As they made their way to the hall where Théoden awaited, Visenya's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. The news Aragorn had brought was dire, but there was a strange comfort in his presence, in the way he carried himself with quiet strength. She had always admired him, not just as a leader but as a friend, someone who had seen the same horrors she had and yet remained steadfast.

When they entered the hall, Théoden greeted Aragorn with a mixture of relief and resignation. "A great host, you say?" the king asked, his voice heavy with the burden of his people's fate.

"All Isengard is emptied," Aragorn confirmed, his tone grave. "They will be here by nightfall."

Théoden's face tightened, the reality of their situation sinking in. "Ten thousand strong at least," Aragorn continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Ten thousand," Théoden repeated, the weight of the number settling over the room like a heavy fog.

Visenya stood silently beside Aragorn, her heart pounding as she listened to the exchange. Every part of her wanted to rush into action, to do something, anything to prepare for the coming storm. But she knew there was only so much they could do.

Aragorn's words cut through her thoughts like a blade: "They do not come to destroy Rohan's crops or villages. They come to destroy its people. Down to the last child."

His words hung in the air, stark and unyielding. The reality of their situation pressed down on Visenya's chest, making it difficult to breathe. But there was no time for fear, no room for hesitation.

They would fight. And they would do so together.