The Towers of Minas Tirith

The towers of Minas Tirith aspired above the morning mist, a sight that gladdened Aragorn’s heart whenever he beheld them. In the early morning light, they seemed to be fashioned from pearl and silver.

He had ridden all night and was sore weary, but the sight of the fair city revived him. He brought his horse to a halt beside a chestnut tree, laden with white blossoms. He would tarry here a little while and watch the sunrise.

It would be good to be home again, he mused. He had come to think of Minas Tirith as his home, not least because of the kindly Steward. Ecthelion had become almost as a father to him. He had not realised until the elderly Steward had befriended him, just how much he had missed knowing the love of a mortal father.

Master Elrond had been the kindest of foster fathers, but he had always seemed as far above the young Estel as the moon. How Aragorn wished he had known Arathorn! All he could do was aspire to be the great leader of Men, he had been told that his father was. He imagined that Ecthelion was a leader such as his father might have been if he had lived into old age.

Aragorn’s hand felt inside his tunic and touched the letter that Gandalf had brought him from his mother a few days before. Gilraen had written at length about how his people in the North were faring and how much she loved and missed her son.

Aragorn was seized with a sudden pang of guilt and longing. Ought he to be here in Gondor at all, should he not be nearer to his mother in the North? He loved Gilraen dearly and wanted to be a dutiful son to her. Yet, he was certain that only by gaining experience and renown here could he ever hope to restore his people’s greatness and win Arwen’s love.

It grew brighter and a shaft of light, bright as a thousand splendid suns, struck the Tower of Ecthelion, transforming the stone to sparkling crystal. The sun rose higher, illuminating the snow on the mountain behind, so it resembled a sea of sparkling diamonds. Aragorn’s heart soared as the sound of silver trumpets greeted the new day.

Aragorn resolved to write to his mother and describe this glorious sight. Someday, somehow, he would win the Winged Crown and he would bring Gilraen to dwell with him here in Minas Tirith, and give her all the honours due to her. No longer would she be a guest in another’s house, but would preside over the splendour of a great house fit for a queen.

Could any Man have been blessed with a more devoted mother? She had given up everything to ensure his safely. How could he ever repay such great love?

Aragorn urged his horse forward again, filled with even greater determination. He would win both crown and sceptre and prove himself a worthy son.