The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Upcoming War

The morning dawned grey and ominous over Minas Tirith, a quiet tension hanging heavy in the air. The city's people had hardly recovered from the bloodshed on the Pelennor, and the wounds—both physical and emotional—remained raw. Yet, even as the battle-scarred walls of the White City stood weary under the weight of the recent battle, they were preparing once again for what lay ahead.

The Great Hall of the King, silent but for the soft echo of bootsteps, began to fill with the leaders of men and elves who had fought together on the Pelennor. Aragorn, now the uncrowned but rightful king, stood at the head of the table, a sense of quiet authority in his bearing. His face was solemn, but his eyes held a fierce determination.

To his right, Gandalf leaned upon his staff, his white robes a stark contrast to the dark stone around him. He looked troubled, a furrow etched deep in his brow. Around them, familiar faces took their places: Gimli, Legolas, Éomer, and the other commanders of Gondor and Rohan.

Visenya entered last, her footsteps barely audible as she approached the council. She had changed from her armor into a long, dark cloak, her silver hair catching the low light of the hall. Her face was still smudged from the previous day's battle, but there was no mistaking the fire that burned within her gaze. She gave a slight nod to Aragorn as she took her seat, her dragon lingering just outside the hall's towering doors, as if watching over her.

The silence in the room grew as they waited for Gandalf to speak, the weight of his words already hanging in the air before he uttered them.

"Frodo has passed beyond my sight," Gandalf began, his voice steady but heavy with worry. "The darkness is deepening."

Aragorn's gaze remained focused on Gandalf, his brow furrowing slightly. "If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it," he said, a sliver of hope in his voice.

Gandalf shook his head. "It's only a matter of time. He has suffered a defeat, yes, but behind the walls of Mordor, our enemy is regrouping. The danger has not lessened; it grows stronger."

The tension in the room was palpable. Gimli, seated casually on the steward's throne, puffed on his pipe, his expression a mix of defiance and weariness. He grunted, sending a cloud of smoke swirling above his head.

"Let him stay there. Let him rot!" Gimli declared, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Why should we care?"

Visenya could feel the frustration in Gimli's voice, but before she could interject, Gandalf's voice cut through the hall, stern and resolute.

"Because ten thousand orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom," he replied, his words a harsh reminder of the grim reality they faced. "I've sent him to his death."

"No," Aragorn interrupted, his voice filled with conviction. "There's still hope for Frodo. He needs time and safe passage across the Plains of Gorgoroth." He paused, looking around the table at the faces of those who had stood beside him through battle and bloodshed. "We can give him that."

Gimli looked unconvinced, his arms still crossed over his chest. "How?" he asked, his tone challenging.

Aragorn's eyes met each of theirs, his determination unwavering. "We draw out Sauron's armies," he said. "Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate."

Visenya's gaze sharpened. She knew the magnitude of what Aragorn was suggesting—a march on the very heart of Mordor. She felt a thrill of dread mixed with a strange kind of resolve. This was a gamble, but it was their only hope. She spoke up, her voice steady.

"By marching to the Black Gate, we become the beacon that will draw his gaze," she said, her tone contemplative. "But Sauron is no fool. He will suspect a trap if he senses our intentions."