Aragorn heard the distant sound, an echoing, rolling call that seemed to him to resound off Mount Mindolluin.

It had pealed through Minas Tirith, resonating through the stones, as he stood waiting to meet Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, masking his wariness at being where he was.

“The Steward’s heir,” he was informed.

He had met Denethor soon afterwards, battle-weary, yet a proud and noble man, confident and at ease in a post he was born to.

The echoes of the horn were fading as he watched the bearer enter the halls of Imladris, weary and travel-stained, yet just as proud and noble.