The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Before the Storm

The winds whistled through the narrow valley as the encampment at Dunharrow bustled with activity. The Riders of Rohan moved about with purpose, preparing for the coming battle, though there was a palpable tension in the air. Dunharrow, perched high in the mountains and surrounded by jagged peaks, felt both secure and exposed, a precarious balance between safety and the looming threat of Mordor. Théoden, King of Rohan, rode slowly through the encampment alongside Aragorn, his keen eyes assessing the state of his army.

The sound of hooves thudded steadily on the packed earth as Théoden turned to Grimbold, one of his commanders.

"Grimbold, how many?" Théoden asked, his voice calm but edged with the urgency of a man leading his people into a war that would decide the fate of all.

Grimbold dipped his head. "I bring five hundred men from the Westfold, my Lord."

Théoden nodded solemnly and turned to Gamling, who rode at his other side.

"We have three hundred more from Fenmarch," Gamling reported, his expression tight with concern.

Théoden's brow furrowed as he scanned the assembled forces. The numbers were smaller than he had hoped for. "Where are the riders from Snowbourn?" he asked.

Gamling's eyes lowered slightly. "None have come, my Lord."

Théoden grimaced, his lips pressing into a thin line. From a small rise in the camp, he halted his horse and surveyed his army. The sea of Rohirrim warriors stretched out before him, but it was not nearly as vast as he had imagined. His heart felt heavy as he thought of the battle ahead, the near-impossible task of defeating Sauron's armies with such a force.

"Six thousand spears," Théoden murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Less than half of what I'd hoped for."

Aragorn, riding beside him, was silent for a moment, his gaze steady on the Rohirrim soldiers moving below. "Six thousand will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor," he said grimly, his voice low.

Théoden turned to look at him, his eyes filled with a determination that belied the weariness in his soul. "More will come," he said, though it sounded more like a prayer than a certainty.

Aragorn's expression remained serious. "Every hour lost hastens Gondor's defeat. We have until dawn. Then we must ride."

Théoden nodded, though his gaze remained distant, the weight of his responsibility resting heavily on his shoulders. A nearby horse suddenly reared, its rider struggling to calm the beast.

Legolas approached, his elven senses alert as always. "The horses are restless," he observed, his sharp gaze flicking to the trembling animals. "And the men are quiet."

Éomer, riding up beside them, nodded in agreement. "They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain," he said, gesturing toward the dark silhouette looming above them.

Gimli, ever the pragmatist, squinted at the ominous path leading into the Dimholt. "That road there, where does it lead?" he asked, his gruff voice filled with curiosity.

Legolas's face was impassive as he answered, his voice a quiet warning. "It is the road to the Dimholt; the door under the mountain."

Éomer, his face set in a grim expression, spoke next. "None who venture there ever return. That mountain is evil."

Aragorn's gaze lingered on the dark path, a shadowy profile barely discernible against the backdrop of jagged stone. The weight of an unknown destiny hung in the air as he stared, lost in thought. But before he could ponder further, Gimli's grumbling voice cut through the tension.

"Aragorn, let's find some food," the dwarf suggested, clearly eager to distract himself from the unsettling atmosphere.

As the group began to disperse, preparing for the long night ahead, Visenya appeared, her silver hair catching the dim light as she approached with purpose. She had been quiet in the hours since they'd arrived at Dunharrow, her mind occupied with thoughts of the coming battle, but now she moved through the camp with grace, her eyes searching for Éomer.

She found him near the smiths, overseeing the sharpening of blades and checking the readiness of the horses. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, a flicker of warmth passed between them—an acknowledgment of the unspoken history they shared. Éomer's lips quirked into a small smile, one that Visenya mirrored, though her heart remained heavy with the burden of what lay ahead.

"Is everything ready?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.

Éomer nodded, his expression growing more serious. "As ready as it can be," he replied. "Though I'd feel better with a few more thousand men at our backs."

Visenya placed a hand on his arm, her fingers briefly brushing the rough fabric of his sleeve. "We'll make do with what we have. We always do."

Éomer's gaze softened for a moment before he turned his attention back to the preparations. "You should get some rest," he advised, his tone gentler than before. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

Visenya shook her head. "Rest will not come tonight," she admitted, her eyes flicking toward the dark mountain. "Not while that place lingers over us."

Éomer followed her gaze, his jaw tightening. "The mountain has always cast a shadow over this land, but we cannot let it distract us from what must be done."

Visenya nodded, her face resolute. "I know."

As she turned to leave, Éomer's voice called her back. "Visenya..."

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"Stay close," he said, his tone earnest, though the meaning behind his words was layered. It was not just about the battle ahead, but about the connection they shared—one forged in fleeting moments and stolen glances.

Visenya gave him a small, understanding nod before walking away.

As she made her way back to her tent, she passed by Aragorn, who was speaking with Théoden and the other leaders. Her thoughts drifted to the role she would play in the battle tomorrow. Though she was not bound by oaths to Rohan or Gondor, she had chosen to stand with them. The memory of Galadriel's words still echoed in her mind, a reminder of the destiny that awaited her in Middle-earth. The road ahead was fraught with danger, but Visenya had long since accepted that her path was one of fire and steel.

Beside the tent, she found her white horse, now fully equipped for the coming ride. The creature snorted softly, sensing the unease in the air.

"You and I have seen many battles, haven't we?" she murmured, stroking the horse's neck. "But this one...this one feels different."

The horse nuzzled her hand, offering a brief moment of comfort. Visenya smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. Her thoughts turned to Gondor, to the city that was teetering on the edge of destruction. It seemed like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break.

As night fell over the camp, a heavy silence settled in. The fires burned low, and the soldiers sat quietly by their tents, sharpening blades, repairing armor, or simply staring into the distance, lost in their own thoughts. Visenya wandered through the camp, the weight of the coming battle pressing down on her chest. She passed by Merry, who was diligently polishing his small sword, determination etched on his face despite his small stature.

She smiled softly at him, offering a nod of encouragement before continuing on.

The night stretched long and uneasy, but dawn would bring the first steps toward the final battle. Visenya knew that by this time tomorrow, the fate of Middle-earth would be decided. Whether by sword or by flame, she would stand with her companions until the bitter end.