Chapter Two: A Prayer
Eldarion glanced in the mirror, ensuring his appearance was as expected for his 25th birthday celebration. His face mirrored his father's features, but his fair complexion, slightly pointed ears, and striking blue eyes came from his other parent. His long, dark brown hair fell, almost touching his shoulders. He stood slightly taller than average; his muscular build showed the results of years of training in the wild with the Rangers. His regal attire had been crafted specifically for this occasion: a dark blue tunic embroidered with silver and outlined in black. The open sleeves ended just before his wrists, revealing the silver silk of the undertunic. Over this, he wore a black, sleeveless overtunic with a high collar that bore a stitch of the White Tree, fastened with two rows of silver buttons. His black trousers and tall, leather boots completed the outfit, along with a black velvet belt holding his sword in a silver sheath at his hip. A silver circlet, bearing the symbol of the White Tree, pressed against his forehead, indicating his status as the heir of the Realm.
Eldarion began to practice a smile that he hoped looked warm and inviting, though it felt far from genuine. Satisfied with his appearance and facial expressions, he turned away from the mirror and moved to a veiled corner of his room. Pulling the drape aside, he revealed a portrait of Legolas, his birthing father.
Legolas' striking blue eyes stared ahead, radiating kindness and love, his expression tender and full of quiet strength. His golden hair, cascading in soft waves, shimmered as if kissed by sunlight, while his flawless, pale skin and elegant features epitomized Elven's grace. Dressed in a simple yet regal green tunic with silver trim and brown leggings, Legolas sat beneath a tree, his hand resting lightly on a bow on his lap, exuding peace and calm. Full of affection, the faint smile on his lips conveyed the beauty within his soul—pure, serene, and full of warmth.
"Ada," Eldarion said softly, his smile tinged with sadness. "I'm ready for my 25th birthday celebration, which Faramir had arranged, as always, but I don't feel like going. I doubt Father will be there—he never is. Without you and him, it doesn't feel like much of a celebration." He paused as if waiting for an answer from the painted figure. Legolas' warm smile and bright eyes remained frozen on the canvas, but it still comforted Eldarion. "I wish you were here," the young man whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "If you were, none of this would feel so empty. You and Father would be the ones to plan the celebration, and we'd all be happy celebrating it together."
"Eldarion!" Faramir's voice echoed from outside the room.
The Prince snapped out of his thoughts, quickly wiping away the unshed tears from his eyes before covering the portrait. Taking a deep breath, he slipped his mask of composure back into place.
"I'm coming!" he called, moving away from the portrait and leaving his room. He found Faramir waiting in the living room, holding a covered parcel.
"Blessings upon the day of your birth, my Prince," the Steward said, smiling broadly. "May your years be blessed and your days be full of light."
"Thank you, Faramir," Eldarion said, offering a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"The Hobbits and Gimli send their apologies for not attending," Faramir said. "but they've sent gifts and good wishes. Lords Elladan and Elrohir are present, as are my wife, son, and daughter. And I took the liberty of inviting some members of the nobility."
"Who happened to have daughters at a marriageable age," Eldarion continued the part Faramir didn't want to say.
"I only wish for your happiness, my Prince," Faramir said. "You shouldn't spend your life alone. You're a young man in his prime, and it's time you find someone who can bring you joy. Love is a wonderful thing, especially for the young."
"Love is nothing but pain and heartache, Faramir," Eldarion said, his expression darkened. "I don't wish it for myself."
Faramir's heart clenched at the sight of the sorrow in the Prince's eyes, but he understood—Eldarion had seen firsthand the pain and sorrow love had caused his father. Still, Faramir hoped the young Prince would find happiness one day. Sensing Eldarion's discomfort and tension, he shifted the conversation.
"Ah, I almost forgot! Your father sent this as a birthday gift." He placed the parcel on a nearby table. "Would you like to open it?"
"He's not attending the celebration again, is he?" Eldarion asked, though he already knew the answer.
Faramir shook his head.
"He's left to Houses of the Dead since this morning. I'm sorry."
"Then there's no point in opening it," Eldarion muttered, turning away.
"On the contrary," Faramir said with a mysterious smile. "His gift is of great value. Maybe it would give you some peace."
Eldarion's brow furrowed at the Steward, noting the man's unusual enthusiasm and the odd twinkle in his eyes. He walked to the table and examined the package more closely. The rich green velvet cover was embroidered with intricate Elvish patterns, delicate threads of silver and gold woven into the fabric, forming swirling leaves and vines that seemed almost alive. A finely crafted metal chain bound the parcel, each link engraved with elegant Elvish script, shimmering faintly in the light. The craftsmanship was unmistakably Dwavish with a touch of Elven artistry, carrying an air of both reverence and mystery, hinting at the importance of what lay within.
Unveiling the gift, Eldarion gasped.
Before him lay two slender, slightly curved elegant twin swords with a distinctly Elven aesthetic; both blades had a graceful, curved design, tapering to sharp points. The blades featured intricate, swirling patterns etched along their length, giving them a refined and artistic look. The handles were a golden hue with smooth, ergonomic curves that matched the flowing design of the blades. These swords embody beauty and precision, typical of Elven weaponry.
"These are..." Eldarion whispered, his heart pounding and his voice thick with awe. He had heard tales of these swords from his father's companions and the Elven twins and seen them only in paintings, but he never imagined seeing them with his own eyes, let alone holding them. His father had hidden all of Legolas' belongings, never showing or speaking of them.
"Prince Legolas' twin swords," Faramir nodded. "which he used during the War of the Ring. They are yours now."
Eldarion stood silently, his fingers gently running along the surface of the swords. He could feel Faramir's gaze, gentle but insistent, waiting for him to respond. The weight of the gift—and all it represented—settled heavily in his chest. His heart ached, torn between his longing to connect with the memory of his Ada and the deep-seated fear that he would never be worthy of such a legacy…not worthy to wield such swords. After a long pause, Eldarion finally spoke, his voice strained.
"I cannot accept them," he said. "I'm not worthy of them."
Faramir sighed softly, stepping closer, his tone both understanding and uplifting.
"You are more than worthy," he said. "This is your birthright, Eldarion."
Eldarion shook his head slightly, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
"It doesn't feel right," he said. "All my life, my father never treated me as if I was part of the world he and my Ada belonged to and shared. Why would he give me those swords now?"
Faramir's brow furrowed with concern, and he placed a hand on Eldarion's shoulder. "You are more a part of that world than you realize. You carry the blood of both Men and Elves—These swords…they are a symbol of that connection. Your father's gift is his way of acknowledging that connection."
Eldarion closed his eyes, frustration and sorrow warring within him.
"He blames me for Ada's death," he whispered.
"That's not true, Eldarion," Faramir said passionately. Eldarion's words hung in the air, raw and heavy, weighting on the blond man's heart.
"He blames me," Eldarion repeated, his voice quieter this time, filled with a bitter resignation. "He may not say it, but I see it in his eyes. Every time he looks at me, he remembers…He remembers that Ada died, bringing me into this world. That's why he distanced himself and my Ada's legacy from me."
Faramir shook his head, his expression stricken with sadness and concern. "Eldarion, that's not true. Your father…he grieves, yes, but not because of you. He loved Legolas more than words can express, and when Legolas died, a part of him died, too. But he does not hold you responsible for that."
"How can you be so sure?" Eldarion asked, his tone more defensive than he intended. "He barely talks and looks at me for as long as I can remember. He spends my birthday mourning at Ada's tomb every year while I… I'm left alone."
Faramir sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the Prince's pain. He wished he could find the right words to comfort him, but the Steward couldn't find an excuse for Aragorn's long grief.
"The King doesn't know how to face his own grief, Eldarion," he said softly. "He's trapped in it. But you are not the cause of that pain. If anything, you are a reminder of what he's lost…of Prince Legolas."
Eldarion gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white.
"If that were true, he would have given me the swords himself. He would have been there for me, for once—especially today!"
Faramir sighed, acknowledging the young Prince's frustration.
"I won't deny he's made mistakes. But this gift… it's not just about the swords. Maybe it's his way of reaching out, even if he doesn't know how to say it. He's entrusting you with Legolas' legacy—your legacy. Maybe it's the first step toward something more."
Eldarion remained quiet, staring at the swords.
"I don't know if I can accept it," he murmured. "I don't know if I'm ready to wield them."
"No one is ever ready for what life gives them," Faramir replied, his hand resting gently on Eldarion's shoulder. "But these swords belong to you. They're part of your heritage, of the blood and spirit that live on through you."
Eldarion looked up, uncertainty clouding his eyes. But there was a flicker of something else—hope. He nodded, brushing his fingers over the hilt of one sword. "I'll try. I'll try to be worthy."
Faramir smiled warmly.
"That's all anyone can ask. Both your fathers would be proud of you."
With a deep breath, Eldarion straightened his posture, the weight of the legacy pressing on him. It was heavy, but it was his to carry. He couldn't change the past or the grief in his father's heart, but perhaps, with time, he could help heal the wounds between them.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. A servant stepped inside, bowing respectfully.
"My Lords, the guests have begun to gather," he informed. "Shall I inform them of your arrival soon?"
Faramir glanced at Eldarion, waiting for his response.
The Prince stood there momentarily, staring down at the twin swords. His hands clenched into fists as he wrestled with the emotions swirling inside him. Part of him wanted to retreat into his room, away from the nobles, the expectations, and the empty smiles. But another part of him—fueled by Faramir's words and the weight of the blades before him—felt a flicker of resolve. He couldn't keep running from his legacy or duties.
"Yes," Eldarion finally said. "I'll join them."
Faramir smiled, pride shining in his eyes.
"Very well. I'll inform the guests."
As the servant and Faramir exited the room, Eldarion remained still, his gaze lingering on the swords. He reached out, his fingers running along their smooth surface, feeling the familiar ache of loss.
"I'll try, Ada," he whispered. "I'll try to be worthy."
Eldarion took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and walked out.
️️
One of the small halls of the White Castle shimmered with life, bathed in the warm afternoon light streaming through the tall windows. Music filled the air, and the laughter of nobles and courtiers echoed through the stone halls. It was a celebration for Prince Eldarion's 25th birthday, and a selection of Gondor's nobility had gathered to pay their respects.
Eldarion took a deep breath as he moved through the crowd, accepting polite smiles and congratulations from the well-wishers. Yet, behind his own smiles, there was an emptiness. The celebration felt hollow. His father, King Elessar, was absent, as always on this day, and the weight of his absence hung over Eldarion like a shadow. Still, he did what was expected of him. He made conversations, accepted the toasts, and danced with the young noblewomen who fluttered around him like moths to a flame.
"Your Highness, would you care to dance?" A soft voice broke through his thoughts.
Eldarion turned to see a young noblewoman standing before him, her eyes bright with anticipation. Her gown was a shimmering shade of blue, catching the sunlight as it filtered through the windows. Her smile was perfect, but Eldarion could sense the calculation behind it.
"Of course," he replied with a courteous nod, offering his hand.
They moved across the floor in time with the music, but Eldarion's mind wandered. The noblewoman spoke in soft tones, complimenting him on his grace and strength, her words designed to flatter. But they felt empty, like the celebration itself. Like so many others, she wasn't here for him—she was here for the title, the power that came with being the future King of Gondor.
"You dance so well, Your Highness," she said, her voice sweet but rehearsed. "I'm sure you've had many admirers."
"You're kind to say so, my Lady," Eldarion replied, forcing a polite smile.
His gaze drifted across the room as they twirled around the dance floor. He saw Tharassir standing with her mother, Éowyn. Unlike the other noblewomen vying for his attention, Tharassir was honest and straightforward and did not seek to impress him. She was one of the few people in his life who didn't expect anything from him other than to be himself.
When the music slowed, Eldarion gently let go of the woman's hand and bowed. "Thank you for the dance."
She curtsied, her smile faltering just slightly.
"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness."
He nodded and moved away, his chest tightening with frustration. He glanced at the windows. The light outside was beginning to shift, the sun inching toward the horizon. The party had started a couple of hours, yet the emptiness inside him only grew with each passing moment. His father's absence, the weight of the Crown he would one day bear, and the expectations of everyone around him felt suffocating. Every year, his birthday was the same. The empty pleasantries, the courtiers' false smiles, and his father's absence—all of it bore down on him until it became unbearable. Unable to stand the hollow atmosphere any longer, Eldarion quietly excused himself from the hall, slipping out into the afternoon light. His heart was heavy with the same question that haunted him every year—Where is my father?
He already knew the answer, and today, he was no longer willing to accept it.
Music and laughter faded behind him as he made his way through the quiet corridors of the White Castle, his steps quick and purposeful. He knew where his father would be, and he knew the path well. As he walked, the anger in his chest simmered. Why couldn't his father let go of his grief just for one day?
Eldarion had been left alone on his birthdays for as long as he could remember, forced to carry the pain and grief his father couldn't forget. And today, as he thought of the fake smiles and empty flattery of the courtiers, that weight felt unbearable. Reaching the stables, Eldarion marched to his horse and swiftly mounted, the lingering cold air left from the passing winter doing little to cool the fire burning inside him. Without a second thought, he urged his horse forward, riding through the streets of Minas Tirith and out toward the House of the Dead.
️️
Reaching the entrance to the Hollows, Eldarion dismounted his horse with practiced ease. His boots crunched against the gravel as he strode toward the stone archway. His heart pounded in his chest, the anger he had tried to suppress now bubbling to the surface. His father had always been a pillar of strength for the people of Gondor, yet when it came to his own son, Aragorn had been absent, consumed by sorrow.
As Eldarion entered the chamber, he saw him. His father, King Elessar, knelt at the foot of Legolas' tomb, his shoulders slumped, heavy with grief.
Legolas' tomb was unlike any other in the House of the Dead. While the other tombs were carved from cold stone, stark and imposing, Legolas' resting place radiated an ethereal beauty that felt as though it had been touched by nature itself. The tomb was crafted from pale marble, smooth to the touch but veined with silver and brown, resembling the bark of an ancient tree. Intricate carvings of leaves, vines, and Elven script wove around the edges as if the forest itself had come to embrace him in his eternal rest. Atop the tomb, an elegant carving of Legolas lay in repose, his face serene, as though he were merely sleeping rather than bound by death. His hands were crossed over his chest, holding his signature twin knives, their blades carved into the marble with painstaking detail. His bow and quiver rested beside him, symbols of the life he had lived as a warrior and protector. Above his head, a canopy of delicately carved stone branches arched over the tomb, entwined with ivy and flowering blossoms that seemed to grow from the marble itself. The branches formed a natural archway, casting soft shadows on the tomb, giving the impression of a meadow in the forest's heart. The rays of the setting sun filtered through an opening in the ceiling, casting a golden light onto the tomb. The warm glow illuminated the marble veins, making them shimmer like the silver leaves of the White Tree. The sight was breathtakingly serene, a fitting tribute to the Prince of Mirkwood, who had been as much a part of nature as he had been a warrior. At night, when the moonlight filtered into the chamber, the veins of silver in the stone would catch the light, casting a faint, silvery glow over the tomb as if the spirit of the woodland prince still lingered. Inscribed at the base of the tomb in gold, in elegant Elven script, were the words:
"Here lies Prince Consort Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood. In life, a hero who shone as a light in the darkest of times; in death, a guardian whose spirit shelters the weary. Beloved husband, father, and friend—forever entwined with the world he saved."
Legolas' tomb felt alive, as though nature itself had woven a tribute to one of its own. The air near it was always faintly tinged with the scent of fresh leaves and wildflowers, as though the forest had come to mourn its fallen Prince, leaving a living monument to his memory.
Eldarion's breath caught in his throat upon seeing a sight he had never imagined witnessing.
His father, the mighty King, was kneeling in front of the tomb, his head bowed, shoulders slumped. The image of strength and might Eldarion had held onto for so long seemed shattered at this moment. Aragorn was not the invincible figure of legend; he was a man broken by grief, mourning the one he had lost.
For a moment, Eldarion's anger faltered. He could see the depth of his father's pain, the weight of years spent grieving. But the bitterness that had festered inside him for so long wouldn't allow him to fully sympathize. He had been left behind, forgotten in the shadow of this sorrow.
"Father," Eldarion's sharp voice rang out through the chamber, filled with the frustration he had been holding back for years.
But Aragorn didn't move, his head still bowed, which only swelled Eldarion's anger. His father's silence, his retreat into grief, felt like another slap in the face.
"Father!" Eldarion's voice rose louder, filled with years of pent-up resentment.
Slowly, Aragorn lifted his head before rising to his feet, his movements deliberate but weighed down by the grief that clung to him like a shroud. He turned to face his son, his face etched with sorrow. The eyes that had once commanded armies looked hollow, drained of life. He had become a man consumed by loss.
"Eldarion?" Aragorn's voice was soft and hoarse. He blinked as though shaking himself from a distant dream. "What are you doing here?"
Eldarion's jaw clenched as he took a few steps forward. His hands balled into fists at his sides, and his body shook with barely contained fury.
"Of course, you didn't expect me," he spat, his words sharp and unforgiving. "You never expect to see me on this day because every year, you run away and hide here."
The words hit Aragorn like a blow. He blinked, taken aback by the venom in his son's voice. But the hurt that flashed in his eyes didn't stop Eldarion.
"You've spent my entire life mourning him," Eldarion continued. "But what about me? What about your son, standing right before you, begging for your attention?"
Aragorn's face hardened, his features contorting with a mix of grief and something close to anger. His hands trembled as he stepped toward Eldarion, his voice low and dangerous.
"You do not understand," Aragorn said, his tone filled with a pain so deep it barely sounded like him. "When I lost him, I lost the person who was a part of me. Legolas was your Ada—he gave his life for you, Eldarion. Do you think I could ever forget that? Or get over a loss like this?"
Eldarion's chest heaved as his eyes blazed with anger.
"I know he was my Ada and that he gave his life for me! Do you think I don't understand or appreciate what he sacrificed?" the young Prince spat. "But you—you weren't there for me! You were too busy drowning in your grief to see that I was grieving, too! You say you lost part of yourself? I lost two parents that day instead of only one!" Eldarion shouted the last sentence, his eyes welling with tears, his anger reaching its boiling point. "You made me lose the only parent I had left! You come here to mourn him every year, but what about me? I am the one who needed you by his side. But you are too obsessed with him to see that!"
"I was there for you, Eldarion," Aragorn protested. "I made sure you were prepared for your future—"
"Prepared, yes," Eldarion interrupted. "You've prepared me to be a King for Gondor! No, Father. You weren't there for me! You did what you had to do for Gondor, not for me! You trained me and prepared me to be a King, but you never saw me for who I am—not as your son, just as a future ruler. You were too consumed by your grief for him to be my father!"
The words struck Aragorn hard, cutting through the layers of grief and duty he had built around himself. His eyes darkened as the truth of Eldarion's words settled in, but his heart, raw with pain, refused to accept it fully.
Eldarion's chest heaved as his tears spilled over, his resentment finally boiling over. "You always chose him over me. Every year, you choose him over me! You chose him, Father! You always do!" he shouted, his voice cracking with raw bitterness, echoing in the chamber.
Aragorn's breathing became laboured, his hands trembling with a mixture of grief and fury. He took another step toward Eldarion, his control slipping. Without warning, his hand lashed out, striking Eldarion across the face. The sharp sound echoed through the tomb, leaving a stunned silence in its wake.
Eldarion staggered back, his hand rising instinctively to his cheek. His father—his strong, invincible father—stood trembling before him, his face twisted with pain and regret. The suddenness of the strike stunned Aragorn as well, and for a moment, he stood frozen, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
"How dare you!" Aragorn's voice shook, his own anger and despair spilling over. "Legolas gave his life for you, and I will never let you speak of him like that. You do not understand—his death was the end of me. Everything that I am…everything I could have been died with him that day. I've lost everything...everything that mattered. I could've easily died after him. The only thing that made me go on was you." His voice broke, and his eyes filled with unshed tears. "I'm barely living because of you."
Eldarion stood frozen, his face stinging from the slap, but the real pain came from seeing his father like this—broken, shattered by grief. The anger that had burned so brightly within him began to cool, replaced by deep, aching sorrow.
"I—I didn't know," Eldarion whispered, his voice soft, filled with regret. "I didn't know how much you were hurting."
For the first time, he saw his father not as the King or the legendary hero but as a man who had been torn apart by love and loss. And for the first time, Eldarion wasn't angry anymore.
Aragorn took a trembling breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He wanted to say something—to explain, to apologize—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he watched helplessly as Eldarion turned and walked away, leaving his father alone in the fading light of the setting sun, standing amidst the silence of the tomb.
️️
Eldarion rode back to the White Castle, his grip on the reins tight as he blinked back the burning tears threatening to fall. The night that began to fall matched the heavy and suffocating darkness that swirled inside him. The cool evening air did little to soothe the storm of emotions raging within. His mind was consumed with the image of his father, broken and grieving, and the weight of their confrontation pressed on his chest like an immovable stone.
He had ridden to the House of the Dead full of anger, determined to make Aragorn see the pain he had carried for so long, the pain of being overlooked and abandoned in the shadow of Legolas' memory. But what he found had left him reeling—his father, the great King Elessar, brought low by grief, consumed by a loss Eldarion hadn't fully understood until now. His father, the man he had always thought was invincible, was broken.
Eldarion urged his horse forward faster as if he could outrun the flood of emotions. The distant lights of the White Castle began to appear, but they did nothing to lift the weight in his heart. His father's sorrow had been far greater than he imagined. How could he still be angry after seeing Aragorn like that?
The image of his father kneeling at Legolas' tomb shattered haunted him. All these years, Eldarion had been fighting for his father's love, battling against a ghost he could never defeat. And now, he realized, that ghost had been consuming Aragorn, too.
As he neared the Castle, Eldarion wiped the tears that finally spilled down his cheeks, his heart heavy with guilt and confusion. He had been wrong. His father had been drowning in his grief, just as Eldarion had been drowning in his own sense of abandonment. And instead of reaching out to each other, they had drifted further apart.
Now, more than ever, Eldarion wanted to find a way to heal the wounds between them. He wanted to help his father, to bridge the distance that had grown between them over the years. But how?
Could they even find healing after all the years of hurt and silence?
As he rode past the Castle's gates, Eldarion knew one thing for certain: Legolas' absence had left a wound in both of them that only his presence could heal. If there was any chance, any hope, of bringing his father back from the edge of despair, Eldarion had to believe in it even if it seemed impossible.
He dismounted his horse with renewed determination, his steps heavy yet purposeful as he made his way feet guided him unconsciously to the source of Eternal Light—the Light of the Valar—that graced the Castle's courtyard, Gondor's White Tree.
Kneeling at its base, his head bowed beneath its towering branches, Eldarion clasped his hands together, his heart a tumult of emotion. His breath came in ragged gasps as the weight of everything that had transpired bore down on him. The cool breeze that whispered through the leaves did little to calm his stormy thoughts.
Kneeling before the White Tree, a symbol of hope and renewal, Eldarion felt as though he was kneeling before something far greater than himself—a connection to the Valar, to his ancestors, to the spirit of the world itself.
"Eru Ilúvatar," Eldarion began, his voice trembling, barely a whisper in the stillness of the night. "Father of all that is... I beg of you... I don't know what else to do."
His voice faltered as tears welled up in his eyes once more. They streamed down his face, falling silently onto the roots of the White Tree, which glistened faintly. "Please..." Eldarion whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his plea. "Mandos, Keeper of the Halls of the Dead. I know...I know I am stepping out of line. What I ask is impossible...it is not for mortals to make such requests, and it is not my place to question the will of the Valar." He paused, his voice breaking as he struggled to continue. The weight of his plea—of asking for something so far beyond mortal power—was almost suffocating. "I understand the laws of life and death. And I know that Legolas' fate is not mine to control. But still...still, I ask." Eldarion's body shook as he spoke, every word tearing at him, but he kept going, knowing this was his only hope. "I know this is beyond what should be asked. I know the laws of life and death are not meant to be broken, and I ask for forgiveness if my words are foolish. But my father...he cannot heal without Legolas. And I—" Eldarion's voice wavered as the depth of his own pain threatened to overwhelm him. "I cannot heal without my father." His tears fell faster now, dropping onto the roots of the White Tree as he knelt there, trembling under the weight of his plea. "Please," he whispered, barely able to speak through his grief. "Please...give him back to us. Give him back to my father. I ask not for the world, not for power, but for love. For the love that should never have been torn apart."
The silence that followed was deafening; the only sound was the soft rustling of the leaves above. Eldarion's chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, his forehead still pressed against the earth. He had laid his heart bare before the Valar, before Eru Ilúvatar, and now all he could do was wait.
The stars above seemed to shimmer more brightly, their light twinkling in the darkening sky. A soft breeze stirred again, moving through the branches of the White Tree with a gentle whisper. Eldarion didn't know if it was an answer, but he felt the faintest flicker of hope for the first time since this unbearable weight had settled on his soul. And in that quiet, trembling moment, it was enough.
️️
Midnight in Minas Tirith was still, and the city was bathed in the full moon's soft glow. The White Tree stood tall in the courtyard; its ancient branches were full of silver leaves that shimmered faintly in the cool breeze. The air felt heavy with anticipation as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Then, the wind began to stir. What started as a gentle whisper quickly swelled into a powerful gust, swirling around the White Tree with unnatural intensity. The silver leaves quivered before being torn from their branches, caught in the growing vortex surrounding the Tree. The wind roared through the courtyard, lifting the leaves higher and higher until they became streaks of light spinning wildly in the air.
Without warning, the wind collapsed inward, engulfing the White Tree in a radiant cocoon of shimmering light. Silver and gold flares sparked within, casting an otherworldly glow across the courtyard. The cocoon pulsed and vibrated as if the air itself was alive with ancient magic, the energy crackling in the night, both overwhelming and serene. The glowing cocoon brightened until it radiated like a heartbeat, throbbing with life and power. Then, as suddenly as it had formed, it began to dim.
For a brief moment, time stood still. The world beyond the courtyard remained silent and oblivious, yet something powerful and extraordinary had unfolded. The wind calmed, and the once-swirling leaves now drifted gently to the ground, their descent slow and peaceful. They spiralled down softly, settling at the base of the White Tree like a blanket of stars.
There, resting upon the bed of silver leaves, lay a figure, pale and still, as though embraced by the earth itself. Moonlight shimmered off golden hair that spilled over the leaves, catching the last trace of the now-quiet breeze. The branches of the White Tree seemed to bend slightly as if in reverence, casting delicate shadows over the form lying at its roots. Soft and radiant silver leaves covered the figure's body, their shimmering light acting as a veil of protection. The courtyard grew silent again, the once-ferocious wind nothing more than a memory. The figure beneath the Tree lay unmoving, as the world had returned to its eternal slumber. Yet a faint hum of magic still lingered in the air, a quiet echo of the powerful forces that had just been unleashed. The night resumed its calm, and the city of Minas Tirith remained unaware of what had transpired in its heart. Only the moon's soft glow bore witness to the miracle that had unfolded beneath the White Tree. The leaves, now resting, gleamed in the moonlight, covering the figure in a shroud of silver light. The stillness returned, and with it, the promise of something profound—an ancient return wrapped in the soft veil of a night that would never be forgotten.
️️
To Be Continued…