Minas Tirith stood bathed in the light of the setting sun, its seven levels rising like carved stone from the mountainside. From the highest tier, standing in the courtyard of the White Tree, you watched the Great Gate far below.

The city had whispered of his death.

Days had passed since word arrived—of an ambush, of no survivors. They spoke carefully in your presence, wary of the weight of their own words. Yet you had not wept. You had not left this place. Instead, you stood watch, as though willing the horizon to bring him home.

And then, at last, the horns sounded.

The city stirred, gathering at the walls, at balconies, at windows. From the Great Gate, soldiers and banners poured inside, a weary host led by a single rider in a tattered cloak.

Aragorn.

Your breath left you. Your heart hammered.

He was too far to see you clearly, but you knew—knew—that the moment he passed through the gate, his eyes had lifted. Had searched. Had found you.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The city buzzed around him, yet he sat motionless upon his horse, gazing up, up, up—toward the highest tier, where you stood.

All the rumors you were told, of him not coming back. You didn’t believe them at first, but now he was here.