The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Call to War

The dim glow of the evening fire in the Golden Hall of Meduseld was peaceful, belying the storm of war that approached. Visenya stood at the far end, her gaze cast downward as she absentmindedly traced the silver dagger at her hip, a recent gift from Lady Galadriel. She had yet to grow accustomed to the weight of it—the weight of responsibility it symbolized.

For weeks now, she had journeyed with the Fellowship, witnessing the growing darkness spreading across Middle-earth. Every passing day brought them closer to the inevitable battle with the forces of Mordor, but still, doubt tugged at her. Gondor would soon fall under siege; that much was certain. And Rohan, proud as they were, still teetered on the edge of indecision.

Suddenly, the heavy doors of Meduseld swung open with a creak. Aragorn strode in, urgency rippling through every step. His face, usually so composed, was etched with a mixture of relief and determination.

"The Beacons of Minas Tirith!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the hall. "The beacons are lit!"

Visenya's heart skipped a beat as she looked up. This was it. The call had come.

Aragorn's eyes met King Théoden's across the room. His voice rang louder now, filled with the weight of Gondor's desperation. "Gondor calls for aid!"

Théoden, seated in council with his men, stilled. The hall went silent as all eyes turned to the king. For a moment, Théoden said nothing, the gravity of the situation settling over him like a heavy mantle. He had known this day would come, but the decision still weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had already lost so many—his son, his people—and now Rohan stood on the precipice of another great loss. Yet, as his gaze traveled over his people, and as the memory of Gandalf's guidance tugged at him, he knew what must be done.

"And Rohan will answer," Théoden said at last, his voice firm and resolute.

The men around him let out a collective breath, a mix of relief and readiness settling over them. Théoden rose from his seat, standing tall as he issued his command.

"Muster the Rohirrim!" he bellowed, his voice carrying through the hall and beyond the doors into the night.

A soldier sprang into action, ringing the alarm bell that hung in the courtyard. Its sharp clang echoed out across Edoras, signaling the Riders of Rohan to prepare for war. Théoden swept past his men and out into the open air, his cape billowing behind him as the cold night wind tugged at his hair. His gaze found Éomer, his loyal nephew, who was already standing by with a small group of Riders.

Théoden placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder, gripping it tightly. "Assemble the army at Dunharrow," he commanded. "As many men as can be found. You have two days."

Éomer's eyes hardened with determination. He nodded, understanding the weight of the task. But before he could turn to leave, Théoden pulled him back one last time, his voice lowering as he spoke the final words with solemnity.

"On the third day, we ride for Gondor. And war."

A brief but fierce smile touched Éomer's lips as he nodded once more. "And war it shall be," he said, the promise of battle glinting in his eyes.

As Éomer turned to gather the Riders, his eyes found Visenya standing in the shadows near the pillar. For a fleeting moment, their gazes met—no words were exchanged, but the look they shared carried the weight of their recent entanglement. It was brief, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but the connection between them lingered in the space between breaths. Visenya felt her heart quicken, a warmth blooming in her chest despite the chill of the evening air.

Théoden's voice brought her back to the present. "Gamling!"

The loyal captain stepped forward, bowing his head. "My lord."