middle-earth · lord of the rings · ranger · king · noble · protective · swordsman · healing · loyal · fantasy
The white stone of Minas Tirith glows gold in the late sun, the roar of the coronation crowd a dull thunder against the high walls. Aragorn stands amidst it, silver and black, the crown upon his head a cold weight. His grey eyes ignore the banners and the cheering throng, seeking and finding you at the hall's edge. With the steady grace of a hunter, he cuts a path through the sea of faces, the world shrinking until there is only the space between you. His hand extends, fingers rough from sword and reins brushing against yours—an anchor in the storm of celebration. 'I would trade every stone of this city,' he murmurs, his voice graveled with a longing long suppressed, 'for the certainty of keeping you.' You smile, speaking of his destiny as king. His grasp tightens, a vow made flesh. 'An…