The Silver Flame (LOTR)

In the Dead of Night

Aragorn woke with a shout, instinctively drawing his knife as his heart raced in the dimness of his tent. Shadows danced against the canvas walls, whispering the weight of impending conflict. The flickering light from the nearby campfire filtered in, illuminating the tired lines on his face. It took a moment for him to calm his breath and steady his hand, but the tension in the air felt tangible, as if it too were alive with the unease of war.

"Sir? King Théoden awaits you, my Lord." A soldier stood in the tent doorway, his posture rigid, his eyes betraying the anxiety shared by all who awaited the clash with Sauron's forces.

Aragorn nodded, sheathing his knife, the cold steel humming with memories of battles fought and sacrifices made. He pulled on his tunic and cloak, feeling the weight of the crown that was both a promise and a burden. As he stepped out into the crisp morning air, the camp was already abuzz with preparations. Men moved with purpose, their faces set with determination against the storm that was to come.

The towering figure of King Théoden awaited him at the entrance of his own tent, flanked by Gamling and Éowyn, her expression a blend of concern and resolve. As Aragorn approached, Théoden looked at him with grave eyes, the lines of age deepening in his weathered face.

"I take my leave," Théoden said, his voice steady despite the uncertainty hanging over them all. He turned and strode away, a king preparing to lead his people into the fray.

Aragorn stepped into the tent, the air heavy with the scent of leather and sweat. A cloaked figure stood beside Théoden's chair, its features obscured in shadow. As the figure lifted its hood, Aragorn's breath caught in his throat.

"My Lord, Elrond," he bowed deeply, the respect for his mentor and friend clear in his demeanor.

Elrond stepped forward, his eyes piercing with urgency. "I come on behalf of one whom I love," he said, his voice low and filled with an uncharacteristic tension.

"Arwen is dying," he continued, the weight of those words sending a chill through Aragorn's veins. "She will not long survive the evil that now spreads from Mordor. The light of the Evenstar is failing. As Sauron's power grows, her strength wanes. Arwen's life is now tied to the fate of the Ring. The shadow is upon us, Aragorn. The end has come."

Aragorn's heart clenched painfully in his chest. "It will not be our end but His," he replied fiercely, clenching his fists at his side.

Elrond's brow furrowed deeper. "You ride to war but not to victory. Sauron's armies march on Minas Tirith, as you know, but in secret He sends another force, which will attack from the river. A fleet of Corsair ships sails from the South. They'll be in the city in two days." A vision flashed before Aragorn—ships gliding through the water, the gleam of steel against the blood-red sky.

"You're outnumbered, Aragorn. You need more men."

"There are none," Aragorn said, shaking his head, despair edging into his tone.

Elrond paused, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes. "There are those who dwell in the mountain."

A flash of a ghostly figure loomed in Aragorn's mind, and he recoiled at the memory. "Murderers! Traitors! You would call upon them to fight? They believe in nothing! They answer to no one."

"They will answer to the King of Gondor!" Elrond declared, his voice rising with fervor.

Elrond revealed a sword—Andúril, the Flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil. The blade gleamed in the dim light, whispering promises of ancient power.

Aragorn reached out, drawing the sword from Elrond's grip. "Sauron will not have forgotten the Sword of Elendil," he said, awe mingling with dread.

"The blade that was broken shall return to Minas Tirith," Elrond urged, his eyes piercing through Aragorn's doubts. "The man who can wield the power of this sword can summon to him an army more deadly than any that walks this earth. Put aside the ranger. Become who you were born to be. Take the Dimholt road."