The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Finally

The winter sun cast a pale glow over Edoras as Éomer stood at the base of the hill, gazing up at the dragon before him. Mornaur's black scales shimmered faintly in the muted light, his piercing eyes locked on the man who dared approach him. Visenya stood beside the mighty beast, her silver hair a banner in the chilly wind, her smile both inviting and mischievous.

"You're sure about this?" she teased, the challenge clear in her tone.

Éomer's hand rested on Mornaur's flank, the sheer size of the dragon making him feel small for the first time in years. "I don't back down from challenges, Visenya. Besides, you've been promising to show me the world from above for months."

She laughed, her voice ringing like a bell through the crisp air. "Then let's go, King of the Riddermark." With a practiced ease, she climbed onto Mornaur's back and extended a hand to Éomer.

He hesitated only a moment before taking her hand, hauling himself up behind her. The dragon shifted beneath them, muscles coiling like a spring ready to release. "Hold tight," she instructed, her tone firm yet laced with excitement.

And then they were airborne.

The wind howled past Éomer's ears as they ascended, the ground falling away beneath them at an alarming speed. He tightened his grip around Visenya's waist, his heart racing with a mixture of exhilaration and fear. Mornaur's wings beat powerfully, each stroke propelling them higher until they broke through the low-hanging clouds.

Visenya tilted her head back, her laughter carrying over the rush of the wind. "Breathtaking, isn't it?" she called, her voice full of life.

Éomer couldn't find the words to respond. The world below was a patchwork of snow-dusted hills and forests, the golden hall of Meduseld a mere speck in the vast expanse. He had ridden through Rohan's fields countless times, but seeing them from this perspective was entirely different—majestic, humbling.

As Mornaur leveled out, gliding effortlessly through the sky, Éomer leaned closer to Visenya. "Now I understand," he murmured. "Why you love this so much. It's freedom, isn't it?"

She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his. "It's more than that. It's connection. Mornaur and I move as one, and up here, it's as if the world's weight falls away."

They flew for what felt like hours, Éomer soaking in the beauty and wonder of the experience. By the time they descended, his heart was still racing, not from fear but from the sheer awe of what he had just shared with her.

Later that evening, Visenya stepped into the throne room and halted, her breath catching in her throat. The grand hall, so often a place of formality and command, had been utterly transformed into something intimate and magical. Soft candlelight bathed the stone walls in a golden glow, their flickering flames casting gentle shadows that danced like whispers across the carved surfaces.

At the foot of the throne, a plush fur pelt was spread out, its rich texture inviting beneath a low table adorned with an array of dishes. Steam curled delicately from bowls of hearty stew, and a loaf of fresh bread sat beside a bottle of wine, its deep red hue visible even in the dim light. The air carried a faint aroma of spices and woodsmoke, mingling to create a warmth that wrapped around her like a cloak.

Éomer stood at the edge of the scene, his figure silhouetted by the firelight. His smile, both boyish and confident, made her heart flutter. He had exchanged his usual armor for a simpler tunic, though it did nothing to diminish the commanding presence he carried. "I thought we deserved something special," he said, his voice low and soft, almost hesitant, as though uncertain of her reaction.