9. Reflections in the Night
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times, Aragorn thought as sleep failed to come to him despite his weariness. Either side of him in the tent slept his foster brothers, curled in a protective circle.
Minas Tirith was saved, at least for now, but Halbarad, his kinsman and dearest friend was slain, as was Théoden king together with many other good men, while Denethor, his sworn rival, but nevertheless a great man, had taken his own life and almost taken that of his innocent son too.
Yet others had lived thanks to the kingly power in his hands. His healing gifts were greater than he had ever believed and he had brought back many from the deathly clutches of the Black Breath. He had saved his good friend, Merry, the sad Lady Éowyn, and Denethor's son, Faramir, who had hailed him as king.
The time was not ripe yet, though to claim the throne of his forefathers.
Maybe one day soon he would be king, maybe he would realise his heart's desire at last. The road ahead, though would be hard and long. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
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