Beneath the sheltering arms of a vast mountain range, where clear waters flow over bright stones, there lies a hidden vale of natural grace. Rivendell endures there, a refuge untouched by the weariness of the world, where time seems to linger. Here, the burdens of the road are set aside, and even the most troubled heart finds a measure of peace.
Upon the wind-swept plains of Rohan™, Théoden weighs the cost of survival: His people must reach safety. The Warg-riders™ are repelled, but not without cost. His already dwindling ranks are further reduced. Time is against them and indecision means death. The king gives his command: “Get the wounded on horses; the wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead.”
Against the will of her kin, she rode to war among them. She was a proud shieldmaiden of Rohan; she would not be denied her choice to fight. And fight she did. For when the dreaded Witch-king struck down her uncle, the king, he cast his malice upon her: another life to be claimed by his hand. Her shield shattered by the enemy's assault, her arm injured, and the odds against her, Éowyn cast her fear aside. She drew upon all her courage and stood before him unyielding, to oppose that most fell and ancient foe.
Like butterflies of silver, the crown rested upon her brow with grace, woven by Elven hands with mythril shaped as though it were threads of starlight. It was set upon her in the hour of Aragorn’s crowning, but its meaning reached beyond the triumph of a king’s return. It was a symbol of choice, of love beyond the reckoning of time, filled with hope beneath fading stars.
A star gleamed upon her hand, as though light itself had taken form and found rest there. Forged with the mastery of Celebrimbor, Nenya seemed less an object of the material plane and more a moment of the ethereal preserved. It was entrusted to Galadriel and kept within the safety of Lothlórien, whose unwithering beauty was but an echo of its deeper power.
A relic from before the First Age, it bore serpents intwined in a form both ancient and unbroken, the emerald between them carrying the memory of older days. Through long history it came at last to Aragorn, when his lineage was revealed, as a token of kingship restored. An oath and a promise, which not even time could erase.
Upon the tranquil stone bridge, a single moment hangs suspended, holding the world at bay and slowing time itself. Sweet and sorrowful, the two stand together in quiet solitude; the mortal man and the immortal maiden, bound by a love that would prove stronger than fate.
His task was not yet done. After perishing alongside the Balrog, he returned to Middle-earth: not as he once was, but wielding even greater power as Gandalf the White. His transformation complete, rough-hewn robes gave way to pristine cloth, and gnarled wood to an elven-crafted, pure white staff.
Once bowed beneath the shadow of doubt, Théoden rises again a king restored, the lord of the Riddermark and guardian of his people. In the golden light of Rohan’s windswept plains, he stands renewed, his will unbroken and his purpose rekindled.
Beneath the ashen sky of Osgiliath, Faramir rode forth with the sons of Gondor™, their banners pale against the gathering shadow of Mordor™. Though doom waited upon the broken causeway and no hope shone before them, they spurred onward with the valour of Men who hold faith with duty when all else has failed. Their courage was undeniable, yet valour alone is no guarantee of victory.
Dark sorcery left his maw tarnished, for only vile words passed his lips; the Mouth of Sauron's cruelty and cunning were surpassed only by those of his master. Doom does he bring before the Black Gate, despair does he sow amongst Men and surrender does he demand.