Beyond the relics of the House of Stewards, ash-burnt and embered, she passes, beyond the remnants of the ruined halls of kings. The shelling leaves fall at her wandering feet, curling faint in death. And past eternitudes of kings she walks, her heart aquiver in her untrembled breast. It's here they laid her King, her uncle, and here were laid Gondor's kings and stewards gone.
Death glory made in marbled busts of kings, and splendorous the bones of stewards past – so says Faramir it was of Númenor, death-loving and possessed – and so here it is, in truth, more glory in the names of fathers than of sons, strong-blooded. Yet glory lies in deeds, she thinks, more so than names the moss enshrouds with age. And glory true, ablaze within her blood, lies searing there beneath the skeins of skin, had seared there at the clash of helm and blackened mantle, will sear there soon at trailings of his touch, will kindle there in ages newly born.
I am eternal as departed kings, she thinks, her hand now warm upon a coldened bust. I live.
She passes by the storied kings of old, and dawn spreads, fire, upon the sun-flamed stone.
My first Lord of the Rings fic! Of course my obsession with crypts and horrible syntax leak into LotR, too. I am drunk and on holiday abroad, so forgive any non-Englishness and typos.