The weight of the crown is nothing compared to the weight of expectation. The halls of Minas Tirith are filled with cheers, voices rising in celebration of the return of the king. Aragorn stands tall, regal in the silver and black of his new station, the crown of Gondor gleaming in the sunlight.

But he does not hear the cries of the people. He does not see the banners unfurling in his honor. His heart beats only for the moment his gaze finds yours.

You stand at the edges of the great hall, lost in the sea of nobles, soldiers, and common folk who have gathered to witness history. And yet, to him, you are the only one who matters.

He moves toward you, the noise of the court fading as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your hand.

“I would trade all of this if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with something unspoken.

Your heart clenches. He has always spoken like this—like duty and love were things meant to war against each other. Like he could not have both.

“You were always meant for this,” you say, forcing yourself to smile. “You were always meant to be king.”

His fingers curl around yours, strong and unwavering.

“And yet, you are the only thing I ever wanted.”