The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Sequel/ New Story Alert

((AN: I've had a request to return to Visenyas story. And I'd love to. Read below a snippet of the first chapter of her next adventure as she returns to where it all started... Westeros. Let me know what you think!))

Chapter One – The Field Between Worlds

The training yard rang with the clash of steel, the rhythmic thud of boots against packed earth. Wind swept across the open plain, lifting golden dust and tangling Visenya's dark silver hair around her cheeks as she laughed—a clear, wild sound that echoed like a bell across the stone walls.

"You're holding back," she teased, circling Éomer with a practiced grace. Her sword glinted in the sunlight, her braid whipping behind her like a silken banner. "Am I not your equal now, my lord husband?"

Éomer arched a brow, smirking as he loosened his shoulders. "You are my wife, not my enemy."

"Then you'll die on sentiment." She lunged, and he deflected with a loud clang, their swords locked for half a heartbeat before they broke apart.

They danced like that for several minutes—thrust, parry, spin—two warriors molded by war and love, equally matched in strength and stubbornness. They were still in the haze of their honeymoon, married only a fortnight ago in the halls of Edoras, where the golden banners had flown high and her lips had tasted of mead and firelight.

"I'll admit," Éomer panted, "you've improved."

"I was always better than you," she said, breathless with laughter.

He growled playfully and charged again.

Their blades met. Sparks flew.

But then—
A shadow.
Just beyond the yard, a figure—too still, too silent.

Visenya's eyes flicked up.

Only for a second.

A second too long.

Her focus broke.

Éomer's blade, mid-swing, carried its momentum.

She turned back just as the sword caught her—not with the flat, not pulled at the last instant like he usually did in their mock fights—but with the edge.

Steel split cloth, skin, and muscle in a sickening slide.

A terrible sound escaped her lips—half gasp, half cry.

The world blurred.

Éomer's eyes widened, horror flooding his face as the weight of her body collapsed onto his blade. "Visenya—!"

His sword fell from his hand as she staggered back, blood blooming scarlet at her middle, already soaking the front of her tunic. She swayed, confused, her hands instinctively pressing to the warmth now pouring from her belly.

"No—no, no, stay with me, stay with me—"

He caught her as she fell, his arms trembling as he cradled her to his chest. Her body was limp, her breath hitching, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"I didn't see," she whispered, voice breaking. "Éomer—I didn't—"

"Don't talk," he said desperately, pressing his hand to the wound, already slick with her blood. "We'll get a healer, just hold on—Visenya, please."

But the world was tilting.

The wind was colder now. Snow was falling—wait, no... that wasn't right.

Snow?

She blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but her eyes struggled to grasp the changing scene around her. The scent of the Riddermark was gone. In its place—pine. Ice. Something older.