The Silver Flame (LOTR)

A Coronation of A King

The bright sun bathed Minas Tirith in a golden light, illuminating the terraces and courtyards of the White City. At the highest level, in the heart of the city, a vast crowd filled the courtyard, citizens and warriors alike gathering to witness the dawn of a new era. Banners of white and silver hung proudly from the walls, and the air buzzed with joy and anticipation. On this day, the crownless king would be crowned, fulfilling the ancient prophecies and the hard-won hope of a free Middle-earth.

At the front of the crowd stood the companions who had fought by Aragorn's side—the Fellowship. Each of them had endured much to reach this moment, their bonds forged in the fires of adversity. The hobbits stood together, their eyes wide with amazement, still not quite believing that they had helped bring about the return of the king. Behind them, Visenya, Faramir, Éowyn, and Éomer watched with quiet pride.

Amid the silence, Gandalf stepped forward, carrying the ancient crown of Gondor in his hands. Its silver shone brightly, adorned with leaves and stars, a symbol of the kingly line that had long lain dormant. Gandalf, who had guided Aragorn through shadow and doubt, now held the final piece of his destiny in his hands.

Aragorn knelt, bowing his head to Gandalf in reverence. Gandalf smiled softly, a glint of pride in his wise eyes, as he raised the crown over Aragorn's head and spoke.

"Now come the days of the king," Gandalf proclaimed, his voice deep and resonant, carrying over the crowd. "May they be blessed."

With a steady hand, Gandalf lowered the crown onto Aragorn's head, and as he did so, a cheer arose from the gathered crowd, their voices echoing against the stone walls of Minas Tirith. The king rose, and as he stood, the weight of his crown was nothing compared to the years of burdens he had carried for Middle-earth. Now, he looked out at the faces of his people, his companions, and the friends who had shared in his journey.

Aragorn's gaze softened as he addressed the crowd, his voice warm and strong. "This day does not belong to one man," he declared. "But to all. Let us together rebuild this world... that we may share in the days of peace."

The crowd erupted in applause, a shared, heartfelt joy spreading through them as they embraced the long-awaited moment. Among them, Faramir stood beside Éowyn, both of them healed from their wounds, their hands joined as they smiled up at their king. Tears shimmered in their eyes, for this was not only a victory for Gondor but for all who had suffered.

Aragorn's gaze turned to the White Tower, the symbol of Gondor's endurance, and then back to the crowd. Slowly, his voice softened, and in a clear tone, he began to sing:

"Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta."

The ancient Elvish words rolled off his tongue, powerful and filled with reverence. The crowd grew silent, listening in awe to their king as he sang a song of hope and endurance, his voice carrying across the courtyard. His promise to Gondor, and to Middle-earth itself, was made clear in every word: he would abide here, and his heirs after him, unto the world's end.

One by one, those closest to Aragorn approached to greet him. Visenya stepped forward, her heart swelling with pride for her friend, her ally, her brother. She had fought by his side, weathered countless battles, and now she stood before him as his sister in name and spirit.

Aragorn took her hand, his gaze holding hers with a warmth reserved for only the truest of bonds. As she curtseyed to him, he whispered in the ancient tongue, his voice a low murmur meant only for her ears.

"Kirimvose issa mandia," Thank you my sister, he said, the words flowing from him with a profound sense of gratitude.

Visenya's heart softened, and she replied with a small, proud smile. "Always, my king."

Faramir and Éowyn approached next, their smiles bright with newfound hope and purpose. Aragorn clasped each of their hands, the pride evident in his eyes as he greeted them. Then came Éomer, the new King of Rohan, with whom he shared an understanding nod, a wordless promise of the alliance that would forever unite Gondor and Rohan.

At last, Legolas approached with a small group of elves, their fair forms standing out against the humans surrounding them. The friendship between the elf and the king had been forged in the trials of war, and as Aragorn reached for Legolas, they clasped hands, both their grips firm and steadfast.

"Hannon le," Aragorn murmured, his words a tribute to Legolas's unwavering loyalty.

The elf smiled, stepping aside to reveal a figure who stood silently behind him, draped in silver and gray: Elrond. Beside him stood Arwen, a vision of beauty, her face alight with a quiet joy that had been tempered by centuries of wisdom and sacrifice. Aragorn's breath caught, his eyes filling with wonder and gratitude as Elrond, his old friend and mentor, offered his daughter's hand to him.

Elrond inclined his head, silently granting Aragorn the one treasure he had long desired. In an instant, Aragorn stepped forward, taking Arwen's hands in his and drawing her close. Their foreheads touched, and then, unable to hold back any longer, he lifted her into his arms, kissing her deeply as the crowd cheered, their happiness spilling over in celebration of their king's reunion with his love.

At last, Aragorn turned to the four small figures standing slightly apart, their wide eyes brimming with awe as they looked up at their friend. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin—heroes who had endured countless hardships, whose courage had carried Middle-earth to this moment.

The hobbits stood awkwardly, uncertain, and as they bent their knees to bow, Aragorn quickly stepped forward, his voice filled with the tenderness of old friendships and new memories.

"My friends!" he exclaimed, his voice warm and resolute. "You bow to no one."

Without hesitation, Aragorn dropped to one knee, bowing low before the hobbits, and in his gesture, everyone around him—men, women, elves, dwarves—followed suit, paying homage to the bravery of the smallest of their company. Wings flapped overhead as the large four dragons perched upon the walls of Minas Tirith as they too bowed low to the small hobbits. Frodo's cheeks flushed, his hand pressing to his chest in astonishment, while Sam blinked back tears, his expression filled with disbelief and pride. Merry and Pippin exchanged stunned glances, each standing a little taller.

The crowd rose, cheers filling the air once again, as Gondor welcomed its king, its queen, and the fellowship who had brought them all to this moment. Visenya, standing among the throng, let her gaze drift over the faces of her companions and friends, her heart swelling with gratitude and purpose. She caught Eomer's eye in the crowd, his smile a warm and steady presence that grounded her even amidst the overwhelming joy.

As the celebration continued, Visenya's gaze settled on Aragorn once more, her heart filled with a promise that was both simple and powerful: the days of the king had come, and with them, a new dawn for Middle-earth.