Chapter III: Interlude at the Last Debate
Aragorn waited in the court. It hadn’t changed since Thorongil advised the Steward Ecthelion II nigh on forty years ago. Gandalf hadn’t arrived yet; Legolas and Gimli had taken an early walk through the lower levels of the city to survey the damage from the Siege.
Footsteps echoed in the long hall of black and white stone. Aragorn turned to see Éomer, looking around in uncertainty tinged by awe. The future king of Rohan passed each cold statue in silence, before reaching the living man near the high throne. Aragorn could see that he was troubled. He was shifting nervously, and there was a glint of worry in his hazel eyes.
"What ails you, Éomer?" Aragorn placed his hand comfortingly on the third marshal’s tooled red leather pauldron.
Éomer let out a shaky sigh and looked at Aragorn. "My sister has awakened to health—but not to hope. She is not fully healed, is she?"
Aragorn looked away. "I cannot bring the healing she needs. It must come from another."
Éomer nodded. Just then, the gates opened, and a wizard, an elf, and a dwarf entered.