Chapter One: Hallow

“And when you offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving to the Lord, offer it of your own free will.” ~ Leviticus 22:29

7th of Ringarë, 3019^th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning:

The Sun was beginning to rise as Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of Gondor and Arnor, stood on wooded foothill beneath Mount Mindolluin. The half dozen Citadel Guards that had come with him stood at the base of the ancient path. The guards’ armor gleamed in the soft light of dawn, black surcoats fluttering in the chill autumn breeze. Their horses were hobbled short distance away, the beasts nosing around the barren trees in search of something eatable. Aragorn wished them luck for this late in the year the acorns were gone and there was little greenstuff to be found.

 “Are you certain you wish to go alone, Sire? We could wait outside the High Hallow for you,” the tallest of the men implored. Aragorn resisted the urge to sigh. He had been King for only seven months and his guards were loath to leave him unattended in even the smallest of duties.

He hoped that time would dampen their enthusiasm.

“It might surprise you, Captain, but I somehow managed to survive in the Wilds of the North for decades without your assistance,” he replied dryly.

“You should at least take a sword, Sire. You may borrow mine,” the Man responded, undeterred by his liege’s tone. He reached down to untie his sheath from his belt but Aragorn stayed him with a gesture.

“Nay, ‘tis forbidden to take weapons of war into the High Hallow, nor are there enemies on the way to warrant it.”

“As you say, Sire,” the captain replied unhappily, his shoulder’s stiff set. “We will remain here and await your return.”

Aragorn nodded, smiling at the downcast expressions his guards wore. He picked up his pack, adjusting until it was placed comfortably on his back. It was heavy, nearly three stone, and he was glad that it was only about three leagues to the High Hallow near the top of the summit. He hung a water skin from his belt, and, without another word to his guards, set off on the faint trail that headed up the mountain. The morning was pleasant and the pale, rose tinted sky was cloudless. Aragorn kept his pace slow, enjoying the chance to be alone as he had seldom been since his crowning.

It had been over a year since he had traveled unaccompanied in empty lands. Aragorn had not realized how much he had missed it. He walked amidst the hornbeam, linden and hawthorn, their bare limbs swaying with the wind. Only the holly oaks still had leaves for they were evergreen. Yet even in its dormant state the woods had their own beauty. Small birds twittered to each other and rabbits darted into their burrows at the sight of him. The path he trod had once been paved, here and there, patches of grey stone protruded from the earth where tree roots had thrust them up to the surface.

The trail was composed of switchbacks that snaked up the mountain yet it was so overgrown Aragorn could scarcely see more than ten paces ahead. He stopped for a break at midmorning, sitting beside the trail to eat a small stack of seedcakes drizzled with honey. Taking a sip from his water skin, Aragorn wondered what Faramir was doing. It had been his Steward that had reminded him of Eruhantalë. Long ago in the Second age, it had been one of three holidays called the Three Prayers to Eru that had been celebrated in Númenor of old.

Three times a year the King or Queen of Númenor would ascend the Meneltarma, the holy mountain, and offer sacrifices to Eru on behalf of their people. When Númenor fell into darkness, the Kings had stopped this practice, and the Island was drowned not long after. Aragorn had not known that Isildur and Anárion, while ruling in Gondor, had the High Hallow built on Mount Mindolluin and reestablished the holiday of Eruhantalë to fall on the day of last full moon in autumn.  However, since Eärnur, the last of the Kings of Gondor of the House of Anárion, had perished at the Witch-King’s hand in 2050th year of the Third Age, observance of Eruhantalë had ceased.

For it had been decreed that none but the King and his heir may enter into the High Hallow, nor may any weapons of war be brought inside. Faramir, who had been invaluable in searching the records in order to find out the historic duties of the King of Gondor and Arnor, had informed him when Eruhantalë was to fall this year. “We have much to be thankful for this year. It seems appropriate to continue the tradition to demonstrate our gratefulness and devotion to Eru and the Valar,” Faramir had said. His Steward was right. They had much to be grateful for. After wiping his sticky hands on the bark of an aspen, he continued.

The forest had changed. Now the trees grew more closely together and were mostly comprised of beech, rowan, black pine and the white barked silver fir. The evergreen needles filled the air with a faint spicy aroma. It had been here he and Gandalf had discovered a sapling of the White Tree a week before his wedding at Midsummer. A short time later, Aragorn reached the tree line and emerged onto a mountain meadow. This late in the year the grasses were dead, yet littles splashes of color could be spotted hidden in the dull brown foliage. These were the hardy alpine flowers that would not perish until the heavy snows came.

The path was more easily discerned here with much of the paving stones still present, though deeply weathered. Following it, he crossed the meadow, heading northeast until the trail ceased at flight of stairs cut into the rock of the mountain. These he climbed and emerged out onto a broad ledge covered in scree and a thin layer of snow. In another month it would be impassable. The entrance to the Hallow was a doorway set into the mountain itself. It seemed an ordinary doorway, except it was a hand taller than was normally seen in Gondor. But then, like himself and most of the Northern Dúnedain, the Men of Númenor had been tall.

He took off his pack, stretching and trying regain his breath. The air was thin and cold and he drew his cloak tight about him. Aragorn walked to the edge of the ledge, squinting in the bright light of noon. The ledge was part of a large outcrop of rock that overlooked Minas Tirith, hundreds of rangar below. Looking over the edge, the City’s towers appeared as distant white trees, and the Anduin a blue ribbon against the fallow brown fields of the Pelenor. Off in the distance, Aragorn could discern the glint of sunlight upon water, and he realized it was the Sea. As cold as it was up here, the lands below were free of frost.

He had forgotten how much warmer it was in the South.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Aragorn picked up his pack and went through the doorway. Inside was a short and narrow hall, only about one rangar across and three rangar long. The walls were rough cut and it was clear that this was no natural cave. He made his way to the end of the hall where there were two columns, carved to look like trees. In between them, set into the wall in silver, was the device of the White Tree with seven Stars arrayed above it. Aragorn touched it briefly, wondering how the silver had remained untarnished, and realized it was made of mithril.

The door was spell-sealed, like the one in Moria had been. It would not open unless the password was spoken or powerful sorcery assailed it. Aragorn wondered if this door was Dwarf work too. Perhaps not; the Men of Númenor had been great workers of stone, as Minas Tirith and Orthanc attested. Aragorn drew a deep breath, then intoned the words Faramir had found in an ancient manuscript in the Archives pertaining to the High Hallow.

“Valar valuvar ar nai Eru orava messë ilye.”

For a moment nothing happened, then the door swung inward on silent, unseen hinges. Aragorn found himself blinking rapidly, momentarily blinded. While the hall behind him had been dim, the chamber inside was brightly lit. Looking up, he saw that the room’s high ceiling had shafts cut into it, allowing the Sun’s light to illuminate it. That was not all they let in. Aragorn noted that the floor was wet and the room smelled like damp stone. He wondered how the chamber drained, for surely there would be a flood of water inside if did not.

This room was larger than the previous one. It was square, about six rangar to a side. In the center of the room was an altar of built of undressed marble, about waist high. The walls were the white limestone of the mountain and Aragorn gasped as he saw that they were carved in bas-relief. On the wall to his right were images of the Sun, Moon and Stars. On the wall to his left there were depictions of trees, flowers, horses, deer and other creatures. On the wall before him was a representation of what must have been Osgiliath in its glory, straddling the Anduin River with Minas Anor and Minas Ithil visible in the distance.

Aragorn turned around so he could see what was on the wall with the door behind him. On the wall to the left of the door was a map of the Star Isle. Above it was written in High Adûnaic, the ancient tongue of Númenor: “Remember Our Past Follies”. On the wall to the right of the door was a map of Gondor and Arnor, and above it was written in the same language: “Remember Our Hope for the Future.” Aragorn stared at the map of Númenor. He had seen similar maps in his youth in Imladris but such things were rare in Gondor. Most of those whom had survived the Downfall had desired to forget about their past, and much knowledge was lost.

Yet here was a reminder of where they had come from, preserved by their first kings.

Shaking himself out of his musings, Aragorn approached the altar. Divesting himself of his pack, he placed it on the floor and opened it. He removed several fagots of wood and kindling, carefully arranging them on the altar. On top of them he placed several handfuls of wheat and barley from fields in Lamedon, as well as some of the choice fruits and vegetables from the Northern fiefs of Anórien. Over the offering he poured out two small flasks containing the first presses of wine and olive oil from the Southern fiefdoms in Anfalas and Dor-en-Ernil.

He bowed his head and uttered a silent prayer of thanks for the bountiful harvest that they had received and had sorely needed after the deprivations of the War. He then liberally doused the pile with a skin of queer smelling naphtha. He took out his tinder box from the leather pouch at his belt and was about to strike the flint with the steel when Aragorn jumped in surprise. The flint and steel striker fell to the floor with an echoing clatter that sounded loud in the stillness of the chamber.

Someone was standing in the corner of the room opposite him.

Glossary

“7th of Ringarë, 3019th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning”: November the 27 on the Gregorian calendar.

Eruhantalë (Quenya): ‘Thanksgiving to God’.

Eru (Quenya): ‘God’.

Stone (English): Fourteen pounds.

Hand (English): an archaic measurement equal to four inches, now exclusively used for measuring horses.

Rangar (Quenya): A measure used by the Númenóreans and their descendants in Middle-earth. One ranga was defined as the length of the stride of a man walking at ease or 38 inches. A height of two rangar was conventionally referred to as 'man-high', meaning that the average height of a Dúnadan was 6 feet, 4 inches.

“Valar valuvar ar nai Eru orava messë ilye.” (Quenya): ‘The will of the Valar be done and may Eru have mercy on us all’.

Imladris (Sindarin): ‘Rivendell’.

Naphtha (English): A word that refers to a number of flammable liquids used since ancient times, normally made of crude oil.

Note: Eruhantalë really is one of Three Prayers to Eru celebrated in Númenor at the end of autumn and the High Hallow on Mount Mindolluin is a real place in the books. However, the idea that the holiday was continued in Gondor by Isildur and Anárion is my idea that probably stems from my love of all things Second Age. 

Chapter Two: Sacrifice

“For thou desirest not sacrifice; else would I give it; thou delightest not in burnt offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” ~ Psalm 51:16-17

7th of Ringarë, 3019^th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning:

The stranger was very tall, towering an ell above Aragorn, clad in an azure robe that fell to his ankles and belted with a white sash. Aragorn’s first, wild thought was that this must be an Elf. For the stranger was very fair and his golden-brown hair was long and bore elven style front braids. But something told him this was no Elf. He emanated an eldritch aura of power that reminded Aragorn of when Gandalf had unveiled himself as the White of his Order. Unintentionally, Aragorn took several steps backwards, heart hammering in his chest.

 “Who are you?” Aragorn demanded roughly. His throat felt very dry and he swallowed hard.

“I have many names, Child.” The stranger possessed a melodious tenor and spoke Quenya, the High Tongue of the Elves that Aragorn had learned in his youth.

“Yet perhaps the name that suits me best is Vicegerent, for that is what Ilúvatar has appointed me.”

Aragorn’s jaw slackened, a shudder running down his spine. “Manwë Súlimo, the Elder King,” he whispered as he knelt on the damp floor, head bowed, eyes on the Vala’s feet which, strangely, were barefoot.

“Indeed, Child. Though in truth I am more steward than king.”

He watched the Elder King legs come toward him and Aragorn closed his eyes. Clenching his fists, he resisting the impulse to flee. For where would he go? Although the door remained open behind him, even if he made it through, Aragorn doubted there was any place in Arda he could run from the High King of the Valar. He felt a warm hand on his chin and his eyes sprang open. His head was gently forced upward, and he found himself staring into the King of Arda’s eyes. They were the clear blue of summer skies, the irises lambent with their own light.

A description of Elder King from the Elder Days came to him: “His raiment is blue, and blue is the fire of his eyes…”

“Be at peace, Child. I mean you no harm.”

Aragorn gasped as he felt the weight of Lord Manwë’s mind press against his own. He himself could perceive much of the hearts and minds of Men as could many those in whom the blood of Númenor ran true. Yet, despite its gentleness, the touch of the Elder King’s thoughts upon his own felt more alien than any he had ever experienced, more so than any Elf’s. It took all his will to not close his mind against the intrusion, and he grit his teeth, vaguely aware of the trembling in his limbs.

Worse still, Aragorn could sense the terrifying vastness of the Vala’s mind lurking just beyond Lord Manwë’s regard. He sensed, nebulously, how incredibly ancient the being before him was, and he had been raised amongst Elves who counted their age in millennia. For all of his eighty-eight years, Aragorn suddenly felt very young. It was little wonder Lord Manwë called him child. Abruptly, the scrutiny ceased and the Elder King released his hold on Aragorn’s chin. Aragorn found that he was panting as though from great exertion.

“Forgive me, Child,” the Elder King’s smile was both pleased and rueful. “I did not intend to distress you. But know that I do not call you child because of your age, though you are indeed young by the reckoning of my kindred. I call you child because you are of the Eruhíni, and deserve to be acknowledged as such.”

Aragorn nodded, feeling as though he had just passed some sort of trial. Yet he was also filled with foreboding, wondering what Lord Manwë wished of him. Snippets of ancient lays and tales about his distant ancestors flited through his mind: of Tuor and Ulmo, Lúthien and Mandos, of Eärendil and Elwing before the Valar. He shivered slightly, not only from dread but also with cold, wrapping his cloak more tightly about him. The damp floor had seeped through his fine linen trousers and the room had the chill of a cave.

“Stand up, Child,” the Elder King commanded, frowning slightly.

Aragorn hesitated. It seemed impious to stand before the One’s vicegerent. “My Lord, I and my fathers have always feared the Valar,” he replied the High Tongue.

“It is no great thing to be feared, Child,” the Elder King said softly. “Even our enemies do that. You are a mighty King of Men, are you not? Would you have your subjects fear you?”

Aragorn reflected for a moment, gazing up at the Vala towering over him before he answered. “Nay, my lord. I would rather they serve me out of love or, failing that, out of a sense of obligation to the King of the realm.”

“Indeed, Child. Do you think me so different? Would you make one of your subjects kneel on a wet floor when they were already shaking with cold?”

Aragorn felt himself flush. He was about to rise, when, to his surprise, the Elder King bent over and grasped Aragorn’s right hand and helped pull him to his feet. It was a small gesture of kindness yet it seemed strange that the most powerful being in Arda would deign to assist him so. A line from an old story came to mind: “Manwë has no thought for his own honor, and is not jealous of his power, but rules all to peace.” Even so, Aragorn could not help but feel that the King of Aman had better things to do with his time than speak with him.

“Nay, Child,” the Vala’s voice interrupted Aragorn’s musings. “This is indeed as important as anything I might do with my time. I am King of Aman, but am I not also King of Endórë? Should I not be concerned with proceedings here?”

“Of course, my Lord. Forgive my presumption,” he said, feeling disturbed that the Elder King appeared to be able to perceive his every thought.

“No forgiveness is required for no offence was intended. Ask your question, Child,” the Elder King prompted gently, regarding Aragorn with unfathomable eyes. “There is no need for fear.”

“Why are you here, my Lord?” he asked with some trepidation, steeling himself.

“Because I wished to speak with the one whom is King of Gondor and Arnor,” the Elder King stated simply.

Aragorn wondered, fleetingly, if Lord Manwë had appeared to any of his ancestors when they had presented their offerings in the Hallow in centuries past. The Archives held no record of such an encounter, yet that did not mean it had never happened before. Perhaps the Elder King had often presented himself to the Kings of Gondor. He found himself glancing at the wall beyond the altar, depicting the relief of Osgiliath in its splendor and wondered how his own reign would one day be remembered.

“Seldom did I speak with your forefathers as I rarely deemed it necessary, Child. But that is not to say that when they offered their sacrifices here they were always as alone as they supposed,” Lord Manwë said with a smile. “Neither were the Kings of Númenor when they made their offerings upon the Meneltarma.”

 “You have deemed it necessary to speak with me, my Lord?” he asked uncertainly.

“You find that hard to believe, Child?” the Vala laughed lightly, a joyous sound that reminded Aragorn of chiming bells. “Your humility becomes you.”

Aragorn was about to inquire as to what Lord Manwë wish to speak about when an icy wind blew in through the doorway. He shivered violently, his fur-lined cloak unable to ward off the chill brought on by his damp trousers. He would soon need to light a fire or start moving to warm himself. He had witnessed Men perish in the Wilds, beyond even his aid, when they had gotten wet in the dead of winter. The Elder King looked at him, concerned, and Aragorn knew he had discerned his thoughts. He looked at his feet, feeling ashamed at his weakness.

“It is not weakness, Child. One does not criticize silver for not being gold. You have limitations, yes, but you also have strengths and abilities that even I do not.”

The Elder King looked rueful as he next spoke. “I ask your forgiveness, Child. It has been many yéni since I have spoken to one of the race of Men. It did not occur to me that such a thing might not be only uncomfortable, but also dangerous for you.”

With that, the Elder King waved his hand negligently and Aragorn felt his trousers become dry almost instantly. He shuddered again. Not with cold this time, but at the seemingly careless display of power. He gazed up at the Lord Manwë in wonder. Aragorn had always believed the tales he had heard as a youth of the majesty and might of the Valar. Yet they had never seemed more true than at that very moment. He bowed, placing his right hand on his heart in the elvish fashion.

“Thank you, my Lord,” he said with all the gratitude he could muster.

Lord Manwë gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as if what he had done was too trivial to warrant any comment.

“Why did you wish to speak with me, my Lord?” Aragorn inquired.

“I have questions I wish to ask you, Child. Such as why you have chosen to reinstate this tradition?” the Elder King asked, gesturing at the altar and the offering upon it, still waiting to be set aflame.

“I thought it was obvious, my Lord,” Aragorn answered, frowning.

“Perhaps, yet I wish to hear your reasoning.”

“I do this because it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Lord Eru, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor. As King, I must do this for my people. Returning to this tradition seemed to me a good way of fulfilling this duty.”

The chamber was suddenly filled with a flash of light so bright Aragorn was momentarily blinded. The offering on the altar burst into flames, hot enough that he felt it from where he stood several paces away. He ducked into a defensive crouch, hand instinctively flying to his belt were a sword ought to have been sheathed. He rose when realized that what he had just seen was lighting striking the altar through one of the shafts in the ceiling. Feeling foolish, he turned to the Lord of the Air, wondering why he had done such a thing.

“It was not I who did that, Child. It appears Lord Eru has found your sacrifice agreeable and has decided to demonstrate a sign of his favor,” the Elder King smiled, sounding pleased.

Aragorn watched the fire consume the offering, a frisson of awe coursing through him.

 Glossary

Ell (English): an archaic unit of measurement, originally approximating the length of a man's arm from the bend of the elbow to the tip of the middle finger: about 18 inches.

Manwë Súlimo (Quenya): The King of the Valar, Lord of the Winds and husband of Varda Elentári, the chief of the gods as it were. 

Vicegerent (English): A person exercising delegated power on behalf of a sovereign or a person regarded as an earthly representative of God, both definitions being true in the case of the Elder King.

Arda (Quenya): ‘The earth’. Can also refer to the solar system. Literally means ‘realm’.

“His raiment is blue, and blue is the fire of his eyes…”: a quote from the Silmarillion.

“Manwë has no thought for his own honor…”: a quote from the Silmarillion.

Eruhíni (Quenya): ‘Children of Eru’. I.e. Men and Elves.

Vala (Quenya): Singular of Valar.

Yéni (Quenya): a unit of time used by the Elves equaling 144 years. Plural of Yén.

Aman (Quenya): ‘The Blessed Realm’. Also called the Undying Lands, it is a continent that lay to the west of Middle-earth, across the ocean. It is the home of the Valar and the Elves

Endórë (Quenya): ‘Middle-earth’.

Note: Aragorn’s response to Manwë is a direct quote fromGeorge Washington: “It is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor.” 

Chapter Three: Gift Offering

“Offer unto God a sacrifice of thanksgiving and pay thy vows unto the Most High.”~ Psalm 50:14

7th of Ringarë, 3019^th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning:

“Would you give Him my thanks for this favor?” Aragorn asked, feeling as if he should be kneeling, wet floor or no.

“That is not necessary. Our Lord Eru hears your prayers as readily as He hears mine, Child.”

Aragorn bowed his head, closing his eyes, he gave a brief, heartfelt prayer of thanks. Rising his head, he gazed at the cracking fire on the altar and released a breath he had not realized he had been holding. The flames were already dying, the intense heat of the lighting had consumed the offering almost instantly so all that remained was scant bits of smoldering wood and kindling, trailing smoke up to the shafts in the ceiling. This sign was better than anything he might have hoped for, yet Aragorn also felt uneasy, wondering what else it might portend. 

“Do not be troubled, Child,” Lord Manwë said, quietly. “The One has accepted your offering of thanksgiving, rejoice and do not take it for anything more than what it is.”

There was silence between them as the Vala regarded him with penetrating eyes, the only sound the crackling from the dying fire.

“What else did you wish to speak to me about, my Lord?” Aragorn asked, once his racing heart had finally slowed to its usual pace.

Lord Manwë visage was solemn as he spoke. “What do your people think of their new king? It has been a thousand years since they last had one, has it not?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Aragorn was surprised by the question and that the Elder King was aware of how long it had been.

“Why do you think me unconcerned with the fates of Men, Child? Are they not also under my purview as King of Arda?” the Vala chided gently.

“Yes, Lord. Forgive me,” Aragorn said, feeling like as child chastised for his thoughtlessness. He considered Lord Manwë’s question for a moment before he replied.

“Most of my people rejoice that their King has returned to them. The common folk have particularly longed for my coming, and all of the Lords of the realm have acknowledged my authority and have sworn their fealty to me. Yet I know some of the minor lords contest my claim and continue see me as a usurper from the North. I have had reports that they speak their dissent amongst themselves.”

“What have you done to them for their rejection of your claim, Child?”

Aragorn shrugged. “I have done nothing to them, my Lord. They are free to believe what they will as long as it harms none. As long as they give deference to me in public I care not what they say about me in private.”

The Elder King’s eyes were so intense, Aragorn shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “You do not seek to punish them for it?”

Aragorn frowned, taken aback. “I would rather win their affirmation. They speak from fear and ignorance.”

“Why do so, when you have the authority to compel their compliance?” the Vala asked.   

“Just because I have the authority does not mean I have the right, my Lord,” Aragorn replied quietly. “Coercion will turn their hearts even farther from me.”

“Indeed, Child. I am glad you understand this,” Lord Manwë said, smiling softly. “For it is a mark of a wise ruler.”

The Elder King sighed, his features sober. “The Elder Days have passed away and the Middle Day are passing. You are to be the one whom shall usher in the Younger Days. The Elves and Dwarves shall continue to fade until they are remembered only in the songs and stories of Men.”

“I wish it were not so, my Lord,” Aragorn interjected. “The world shall lose much of its beauty and wonder with the dwindling of the elder races.”

“It pleases me to know you think that, Child,” the Vala replied with a sad half-smile. “Yet, know that this was intended from the beginning. It is to be a new Age in which Men shall rule Endórë, from now until the Ending of the Arda. You shall rule the largest and most powerful empire in Endórë. Many of your ancestors were honorable, just and courageous yet others were cruel, petty and selfish. Truly, I desired to speak with you because I wished to know what kind of Man the King of Gondor and Arnor is. Now that I know you are indeed worthy of the throne of your forefathers, I wish you to have this, Child.”

Lord Manwë pressed something small and warm into Aragorn’s hand. Staring down, he saw that it was a ring. It had the brilliant silver sheen of mithril and on it was the image of a golden eagle with its wings outstretched as large as his thumb. Its talons griped a pea-sized sapphire of the deepest blue, with many tiny facets that caught and scattered the light. It was a exquisitely beautiful; the eagle was so detailed that he could trace the individual feathers on its wings and its beak parted mid-shriek.

“Why are you giving this to me, Lord?”

“So that when you tell those whom dispute your authority about our conversation, you have some evidence to prove it indeed took place.” the Elder King sounded amused.

Aragorn frowned. He had thought to tell no one of this conversation, save perhaps his wife and Faramir.

“King Elessar,” Lord Manwë said solemnly. Aragorn felt himself stand straighter at his tone.

“I wish you to have this ring as a token that I and my fellow Valar recognize you as the rightful King of the Reunited Realm.” he turned to glance at the smoking offering on the altar. “And we are not the only ones, Child.”

Sliding the ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand, Aragorn was unsurprised to find that it fit perfectly. Looking up, he realized that he was alone in the chamber once more. He stood there, watching the smoke trail up to the ceiling, fingering his new ring. Aragorn then retrieved his pack from where he had placed it on the floor. Shouldering it, he took one last look at the room, pausing before he sealed the door.

“Thank you, my Lord,” he said with reverence to the empty room.

He walked to the edge of ledge that formed the entrance to the Hallow and, once more, Aragorn looked out at the lands below. At the White City, brilliant in the midday Sun. At the shimmering ribbon that was the Great River. At the fields ravaged by war only months ago, now rich and fallow or green with the sprouts of vetches and broad beans. And at the Sea, sparkling in the distance like gold threads broidering a blue cloak.

“I am grateful for all that has been given to me,” he said softly, and began the descent down the mountain.

 Glossary

Endórë (Quenya): ‘Middle-earth’.