DISCLAIMER: All things LOTR belong to J. R. R. Tolkien, I'm just ad-libbing.
KINGDOM
With his dark hair, the weather-worn tatters of his garments and the long sword he holds in one hand, runes tracing down its centre, he can only be the rightful king of Gondor.
The alert eyes, unchanged through the many battles he has fought, under many names, are open wide to the city before him. The well-used leather of his boots finds secure footing on the rare patch of unspoilt grass on the fields. Carnage surrounds him. There is blood on the air, sweat drips from the tips of his hair, touching the wounded ground.
Smoke, and the strewn mountains that are the dead Mumakîl linger over Pelennor that lies behind him. Needles of spears spike outwards from the bodies of men and animals alike. All around an unearthly quiet. Before him, the footsteps of Elendil and Isildur imprint their way towards the imposing gates, but this exile is more like to the former, his sword grasped in a scraped and dark, from the congealed blood, hand. Before him, the destruction half finished by the Enemy. Parapets torn in two, towers reduced to piles of unrecognisable rubble. Black, thick cords of smoke and burning missiles lace upwards towards the tower, standing a little sullied and offended in the light. Already his keen gaze, long since honed from living among the Elves, those blessed with sight not only over grey distances but through the greatest distance, Time, has picked out the sad corpses of knights and civilians alike. Some have draped over jutting walls, where the Nazgûl have dropped them, cruelly released from dizzying heights. The thud of flesh hitting the white stone, although he has not heard it, crosses his mind more than once.
And this is the near conclusion, the end of the journey which has brought him across the earth, out of exile and anonymity, out of dark corners in taverns which ask no questions, out of the arms of the fairest being in all of Middle-Earth; this maimed city, this begrimed pillar of white. Every path he has trod through rain and mud, the remnants of which stain the long tapered ends of his coat, has led him here.
Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan, ar Hildinyar, tenn' Ambar- metta.
Such are the words he has come to lay claim to. Such is the White City before him, the last stop of his journey. Already being consigned to the past are the nights alone under starlit ink, the unknown dangers of the wilderness, the self-conscious wandering across a land beset by war on all sides, all peoples. The Ranger burns cooly beneath the star on his chest. The King looks out from his brow, taking in the unlovely first gaze for a long time of a city he has spent this time making his way back to. He has inherited a legacy wrought with pain, treachery, death and as of hours before, madness and a desperate need for healing. Only his hands, scarred by numerous cuts, ingrained with dirt and strong bones can heal the hurts of Gondor and its long-suffering people.
The vanguards of the dead, born of this city, grip his arms, firmly willing him on. The wisdom of the returned behind him offers unspoken support. Two friends, as unlike to one another as the times allow stand reunited by the end of this one battle. There are more on the horizon, that he can see.
This is his now, his to claim, to command, to govern. To love, and fight for. No soft breezes on untouched plains, no sweet fragrance blown in from Ithilien to welcome him into the arms of Gondor. There is ash and death on the winds, and grief, raw pain and fear to take him into their grave embrace.
He lifts his head, and the blood of Númenor that has been sifted through the many years courses proudly in his veins. His blue eyes behold with sharp clarity; the inheritance of his line.
This is his kingdom, and with this first look at a ravaged city, he takes Gondor eagerly into his hands and into his valiant heart, for it is his now.
Out of the Great Sea to Middle-Earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.