The Silver Flame (LOTR)

After the Storm

The battle was finally over.

As the last echoes of clashing steel and war cries faded into the distant hills, the battlefield of Pelennor lay eerily quiet. The silence was a stark contrast to the chaos and carnage that had unfolded only hours before. A sea of bodies—men, orcs, and beasts alike—lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth, motionless beneath the darkening sky.

Visenya perched atop her new dragon, the beast's great wings settling with a final rush of air. Its black scales gleamed faintly in the dying light of day, its eyes still alert as they surveyed the wreckage. A deep sadness washed over her as she looked upon the fallen soldiers, both friend and foe, who had given their lives for this victory. She could feel the weight of it in her bones, the cost of war that could never truly be counted in words.

Ahead, Aragorn stood before the King of the Dead. The spectral army, a pale shadow of their former selves, hovered ominously as they awaited the release of their oath. The King's eyes—cold and devoid of life—locked with Aragorn's, a silent demand hanging in the air between them.

"Release us," the King of the Dead demanded, his voice hollow and ancient.

Gimli, standing to the side, couldn't help but interject. "Bad idea," he muttered under his breath, though the hint of respect in his voice betrayed his earlier doubts about the dead men's worth. "Very handy in a tight spot, these lads, despite the fact they're dead."

But Aragorn remained unmoved by his companion's jest. His gaze never left the King's, and after a long moment, he nodded gravely. "I hold your oath fulfilled," Aragorn said, his voice steady. "Go, be at peace."

With that, the spectral army began to fade, their forms dissolving like mist caught in the breeze. The King of the Dead lingered only a moment longer, his eyes searching Aragorn's face as though seeing something more than just a man. Then, he too was gone, his body dissipating into the wind.

The battlefield was still once more, save for the distant cries of the wounded.

Visenya nudged her dragon forward, the creature's claws crunching over broken shields and weapons. She needed to help. There were too many dead and injured, and the battlefield was vast, stretching endlessly toward the city gates. She spotted Pippin moving among the bodies, his face pale and drawn as he searched desperately for someone.

Not far from him, Éomer's anguished cry broke through the air.

"No!" His voice was a raw mixture of pain and disbelief as he dropped to his knees beside his fallen sister. Éowyn lay unconscious in the dirt, her once-bright armor now dulled with blood and grime. Merry, not far from her, was motionless as well, a small figure against the brutality of the scene.

Visenya's heart clenched at the sight of them, but she had no time for hesitation. Her dragon, sensing her urgency, lowered its massive head, allowing her to slide down swiftly. She reached Éomer's side just as he cradled Éowyn's limp form in his arms, his face wet with tears.

"I'll get them to the Houses of Healing," Visenya said gently. Éomer looked up, his grief-stricken eyes locking with hers. He nodded, unable to speak, but the gratitude in his expression was unmistakable. Together, they carefully lifted both Éowyn and Merry onto the dragon's broad back.

Visenya climbed up behind them, securing the injured riders as best she could before signaling the dragon to take flight. The beast's wings beat against the air with powerful strokes, lifting them into the sky above the battlefield.

As they flew toward the city, Visenya looked down upon the scene below. The fields of Pelennor were littered with the dead and dying, but amid the devastation, small groups of survivors were emerging. Soldiers, wounded but alive, were helping one another to their feet. Healers and aides began to arrive from the city, moving quickly to tend to the injured. The sight offered a glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak landscape.

Visenya's dragon soared over the city walls and descended gently toward the Houses of Healing. Once they landed, healers rushed forward to take Éowyn and Merry inside, their pale faces reflecting the severity of their injuries. Visenya lingered only long enough to ensure they were in good hands before mounting her dragon once more and taking off again.

There were more to be saved.

As the hours dragged on and dusk settled over the land, Visenya and her dragon worked tirelessly, ferrying the wounded from the battlefield to the city. Each flight felt heavier than the last, not because of the weight of the bodies but because of the mounting toll on her heart. Every face she saw—whether alive or dead—reminded her of the cost of this war. The fire of battle that had burned so fiercely in her veins was now replaced by a deep, numbing exhaustion.

On one of her last trips, she found Gandalf standing amidst the aftermath, his white robes stained with the dirt of the field. He was speaking softly to Aragorn, whose own face bore the marks of both fatigue and sorrow. Beside them, Gimli and Legolas stood silently, their usual banter absent in the face of such overwhelming loss.

The dragon landed a short distance away, and Visenya dismounted. The weight of the day pressed heavily upon her as she approached the group.

"It's done," she said quietly. "The last of the wounded are being tended to."

Aragorn looked up, his eyes filled with gratitude. "You have done more than we could ask for, Lady Visenya. We owe you a great debt."

Visenya shook her head, brushing off the praise. "No. We owe it to the fallen to carry on. This victory was theirs as much as ours." Her gaze drifted to the horizon, where the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the field.

All around them, the surviving soldiers were gathering what strength they had left, tending to the wounded and preparing to mourn the dead. The battle was over, but the war was far from won.

Later that night, the Houses of Healing were filled with the groans of the injured. Éowyn lay in a small bed, her pale face illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. Aragorn knelt beside her, his hands glowing faintly as he treated the wound left by the Witch-King's touch. The room was silent, save for the quiet murmurs of the healers and the crackling of a nearby fire.

Éomer stood at the foot of her bed, his eyes fixed on his sister, willing her to wake. His usually proud and fierce demeanor had crumbled in the face of his grief, and Visenya felt her heart ache for him. He had lost so much, and now, the fate of his beloved sister was uncertain.

After what felt like an eternity, Éowyn stirred.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as her eyes fluttered open. She blinked slowly, her gaze unfocused at first, but then her eyes found her brother's face, and a faint smile touched her lips.

"Éowyn," Éomer whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"I... I am here," she whispered weakly, her voice barely audible. She tried to sit up, but Aragorn gently placed a hand on her shoulder, keeping her still.

"You must rest, my lady," Aragorn said softly. "The wound from the Witch-King's touch was grave. You need time to heal."

Éowyn nodded, her strength fading as quickly as it had returned. Her eyes drifted closed again, but the tension in the room had eased. She was alive, and that was more than any of them had dared to hope for.

Visenya watched from the doorway, a sense of quiet relief washing over her. There was still so much to do, still so many battles to be fought, but for now, there was peace. For now, they could breathe.

As the night deepened, Visenya found herself standing outside the Houses of Healing, gazing up at the stars. The air was cool, and the sky was clear, a stark contrast to the horror of the day's events.

Her dragon, resting nearby, let out a soft rumble, sensing her unease. Visenya placed a hand on its warm scales, drawing comfort from the familiar presence.

"We did what we could," she whispered, though she wasn't sure if the words were meant for herself or the dragon.

In the distance, the sounds of the city were fading as the people of Minas Tirith began to settle into the quiet of the night. The battle was over, but the war still loomed ahead. And though there was much to be done, for now, they could rest.