Whatever he had expected, it hadn’t been this.

Until Aragorn’s heritage had been revealed to him, the White City had held little more than a mere geographical meaning. Even when serving in Rohan, eyes always turned to the South, his thoughts of Minas Tirith recalled the dusty tomes and old scrolls of his childhood, studied under Erestor’s watchful eye. The legends and splendor of the kings of old came to mind, but even to a child of Rivendell the city always seemed to be just that—a legend, a mere shadow of Númenor’s splendor. To be sure, his breath had nearly left him at the first sight of the White Tower and the early morning sun shining through the mountains. And the height and grandeur of the various buildings certainly struck him with an appropriate sense of awe--Edoras now seemed but a mere village, and the thought of Rivendell a distant dream. Still, even upon entering through the gates, he hadn’t known what to expect from this city that felt so much like a fortress—a sense of watchfulness and vigilance, to be sure. A sense of decay, perhaps—the power of the kings of old had long since departed.

But what he hadn’t expected was that the city would feel so alive.

He had chosen the long way to walk to the Citadel, both to gather his own thoughts and get a better understanding of this city that would soon become his home. Never before had he seen so many people packed into one space. His senses were heightened in a way he had never felt before, taking in every sight, smell and sound that he passed by.

“Get your fresh bread right here!”

“…can’t believe he’s gone and done that, not again…”

“No, Mama, I don’t want to go…”

His path took him wandering through the various levels of the city, and before he knew it he had gotten himself properly lost. Suddenly aware of this, he stopped near a street vendor that was selling fresh fruit. He leaned back against a building, allowing the smells of half a dozen food carts and the voices of half a hundred people to wash over him. It seemed to Aragorn as if people from all walks of life were on this road—young, old, rich, poor, exanimate, enraged. Two young men walked down the street, arguing bitterly as a laughing child brushed past, all but dragging his poor mother behind in his glee. Aragorn smiled to himself, yet felt a sudden pang as he realized that in Edoras, he would have known this child, just as every Elf in Rivendell had known little Estel. In Edoras, Captain Thorongil could hardly have walked ten paces before being greeted warmly by one citizen or another. His sense of loneliness sharpened as he noticed two soldiers of Gondor on the street corner, their armor glinting in the mid-morning sun. Passerbys paid them no mind, and they themselves made no indication that they had recognized anyone.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed when an old woman approached him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me? ….Excuse me?”

He started, taken aback that someone would notice him in the crowd. “Yes?”

“You wouldn’t happen to be lost, now would you?”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “Is it really that obvious?”

She chuckled. “I’ve lived in this city my whole life, dear. I can tell who’s from around here and who isn’t. What are you trying to find?”

“Well, actually, I was trying to find a way to the Citadel.”

“Oh! Important business, eh? Well, it’s easy enough to find. You just go straight down this street…”

The woman rattled off a set of complicated directions that Aragorn was sure he would forget as soon as she closed her mouth. Still, as the woman set off with his heart-felt thanks, he didn’t bother to keep the smile off of his face.

These…these are your people, he thought to himself. This is your city. Your legacy.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be too difficult to call this place home after all.