The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Shadows in the Stone

The shadows lay thick within the stone halls of the citadel as Aragorn ascended the stairway, his boots echoing against the cold marble floor. The weight of their plan pressed heavily upon him, and the silence of Minas Tirith's upper chambers seemed to deepen as he approached the throne room. This was the heart of the White City, its grandest and most solemn hall, yet today it felt desolate, like a kingdom awaiting its fate.

He pushed open the great doors, slipping into the throne room, and his gaze landed on the object waiting within: the Palantír, the seeing-stone. It rested upon a pedestal in the center of the room, covered with a dark cloth. Aragorn paused, his hand lingering over the shroud, a surge of anticipation mingled with trepidation filling his chest.

His fingers grasped the cloth and pulled it away, revealing the stone in its dark, glimmering splendor. The Palantír's smooth surface seemed unassuming, an orb of cold crystal, yet he knew the power it held. He took a steadying breath, his heartbeat quickening as he lowered his hand to touch it.

The moment his fingers brushed the stone, a flash of heat surged through his arm, almost as if it resisted his touch. But Aragorn grasped it firmly, lifting it until it was level with his gaze. He stared into the depths of the Palantír, feeling the stone's presence beginning to awaken.

The Eye appeared instantly, blazing into life—a terrible, fiery orb that seemed to reach for him, seeking, grasping. Aragorn's body tensed involuntarily at the searing intensity of it, a pull that urged him to look away, to flee. But he held his ground, forcing himself to meet Sauron's gaze with defiance.

He knew Sauron had been searching for him for a long time, had felt his presence, his influence, even in the far corners of Middle-earth. The Eye narrowed, its cruel attention locking onto him fully. Aragorn leaned closer to the stone, his voice a low, unyielding murmur.

"Long have you hunted me," he said, the weight of his lineage settling onto his shoulders. "Long have I eluded you. No more."

A flicker of rage seemed to burn within the Eye, twisting with a predatory gleam. Sauron's malice was as palpable as a living thing, writhing through the Palantír like a venomous snake. Aragorn's grip on the stone tightened as he brought his other hand to the hilt of his sword. The blade shone with a deadly light, the edges honed to perfection.

He lifted Andúril before the Palantír, letting the ancient blade catch the dim light of the throne room. "Behold the sword of Elendil," he declared, his voice clear and unwavering. The Palantír vibrated under his grip, as if recoiling from the truth of the blade, and he held it steady, refusing to back down.

A ghostly shape emerged within the stone, coalescing in the haze of shadow. Sauron's form loomed, clad in dark armor, his iron mask twisting with the faintest hint of a cruel smile. Behind him, the visage changed, taking on a new, horrid vision.

Arwen.

She appeared pale, still, her beauty faded into death. Her lifeless body lay cradled by twisted shadows, her raven hair spread out like ink upon a bloodstained floor. Aragorn's heart clenched, his body seized by a chilling terror as he stared, unable to turn away. The sight left him gasping, fury surging through him. His mind screamed that it was a lie, a trick, but the vision was too visceral, too real. The Evenstar necklace at his chest felt suddenly cold, its presence against his skin a painful reminder of the love he had left behind.

A harsh, mocking laughter filled the chamber, echoing from the stone, and Sauron's cruel visage took form once more. The malevolent sound reverberated, pounding against Aragorn's senses as he finally released the Palantír, letting it slip from his grasp. His hands trembled as he stumbled back, the stone crashing back onto its pedestal with a dull thud. As he stepped away, the Evenstar pendant around his neck slipped from his shirt, the chain snapping as the pendant fell to the floor and shattered into tiny, glistening shards.

Aragorn's hand reached for the fragments, but he hesitated, caught in a strange stillness as the pieces lay scattered, as if marking an end to the life he had known. The remnants of the pendant seemed to gleam up at him like small stars, their light faint but unyielding even against the bleakness of the vision.

He knew he couldn't let Sauron's tricks unsettle him, not now. His love for Arwen, the hope she represented, burned as fiercely as ever in his heart. And yet, he could feel the touch of despair, lingering like a shadow in the depths of his soul.

He rose slowly, gathering his strength, the memory of her face pushing him forward. The hall seemed colder, emptier as he made his way to the door, leaving the fragments where they had fallen. Just as he reached the threshold, he stopped, steadying himself with one last glance toward the Palantír, its black surface now dormant and unyielding.

As he opened the door, he found Visenya waiting in the corridor, her face a mask of calm but her eyes searching his intently. She could see the weight that had settled over him, the strain that had taken root in his features.

"Is it time?" she asked, her voice as soft as a whisper, but her question held the strength of resolve that matched his own.

Aragorn met her gaze, his face somber but steady. The moment had arrived, a final step toward what he knew would be the most perilous march of their lives.

"Yes," he replied, his voice a low rumble filled with determination. "It's time."

A knowing silence fell between them. Visenya gave a single nod, her gaze drifting toward the shattered Evenstar lying beyond the doors of the throne room. She didn't ask him about it, didn't question the sorrow she had seen on his face. But as she turned and started down the corridor beside him, Aragorn felt her silent presence as a steadying force, like the calm before the breaking storm.

Together, they made their way down the stone corridor, their footsteps echoing with quiet finality. The shadows seemed to press closer, the air thick with an unspoken foreboding. The fate of Middle-earth hung in the balance, and they both knew there would be no turning back.

As they descended into the heart of the city to rejoin the others, a chill wind swept through the citadel, rustling the banners along the walls. The storm was gathering, and soon they would face the darkness head-on.