Land of the King, Chapter 84: The Flame of the West

Only a day after the battle and it was warmer than it had ever been for years. The thaw had come as the darkness abated. The unnatural clouds had dispersed and the sun’s light shined warmly on Winterfell.

If Winterfell was feeling the impact of the Great Other’s death and the defeat of his servants so far north, surely Arnor itself and the rest of the empire were already well on their way to recovery and stability? Twenty years of a cold dark winter, and it seemed spring was finally on its way.

The inevitable collapse of Arnor and the Empire that Aragorn had feared had been staved off, for now. Yet with so many lost in the war against the dead, and the food situation in Arnor likely to remain unresolved for at least another year, Aragorn had a lot of work to do, both as High King and as the commander of the army that had fought for the dawn.

In the aftermath of the defeat of the Others and the death of the Great Other and his lieutenant, Night’s King, most of the enemy’s wights had fallen to the ground, with no power to animate them any longer. With their master’s death, the surviving Others had fled from battle and were believed to be desperately trying to return to the Lands of Always Winter before the ice bridge linking it to northern Essos melted away. Aragorn was already preparing his rangers to hunt down the Others fleeing from Winterfell and ensure they and their ilk could never return to trouble the lands of the living again.

With Winterfell left open to them, the Arnorian-Northmen army had slept inside the castle walls that night, tired and exhausted after their long and brutal battle. They had burned all the wights and the dead on great pyres outside Winterfell, the smell of ash remaining in the air as the fire burned the whole night.

The bodies of a select noble few, like his father, had not been burned and had been sent south to Moat Cailin where they would be prepared and preserved for burial in the tombs of their forefathers. The list of the dead was long indeed. So many of his friends had been slain in the battle. His own father had perished, as had his uncle and cousins. The line of House Stark had ended at last.

Aragorn tried to distract himself from the grief, keeping in mind that once Formenor was stabilized and the last Others exterminated, he could go home to see Ashara and his daughters, see his beloved homeland again… and then have to be crowned as High King. No matter how much he tried, his mind kept going back to the way the Maia’s axe had sliced into his father like he was nothing, just a chaff of wheat to be reaped.

He heard a knock on the door of the solar, and Faramir and Arthur entered once he gave his leave. Aragorn greeted them a little sadly, noticing that Dawn was slung across Arthur’s back, proof that he was now the Sword of the Morning as his uncle’s recognized successor.

“Arthur, Faramir. What brings you here? Have our scouts found the Others?” he asked.

They looked at each other before answering. “Not exactly,” Arthur said. “There are guests waiting for you in the godswood,” Faramir explained.

“Guests? What guests could there possibly be?” Aragorn asked.

“You will not believe us if we tell you. You must come Aragorn, they say it is urgent,” Arthur answered.

Sighing, Aragorn rose to his feet and followed them to the godswood. What he saw there however, was very surprising.

“A Child of the Forest?” he said in wonder, seeing the Child sitting there, praying before the heart tree. Aragorn did not understand. The Tawarwaith were supposed to have gone extinct millennia ago, their records noted them disappearing sometime before the Kin-Strife.

“Surprised to see me Heir of Isildur?” the Child spoke.

“Yes I am, your people are supposed to be extinct, you’ve been missing from Westeros for millennia. And why do you name me as heir of Isildur? It is true I suppose, but he was only the second king, not the first,” Aragorn asked.

“Isildur was with whom we made our pact, the agreement between us and the Dúnedain that the Children would be protected in Arnor and the forests left to our care. His wise and good father Elendil upheld it and swore that he and his line would always keep that pact. Yet in time, your people’s greed and lust for power saw them renege their agreement and turn upon us. Arnor began cutting down the woods, using them to build their massive fleets, and so we left, withdrawing to secret and safe places, making you believe we were extinct.”

“I recall nothing in our histories of us betraying the Children,” Aragorn protested.

The Child raised her eyebrow. “There is much of your own history that you do not know and much that has been forgotten is now lost. But the weirwoods see all, and they do not forget, and they do not forgive, and neither do we. We would give no further aid to Arnor nor its Kings for their betrayal of their oath to shelter us.”

“What changed then?” Aragorn asked, wanting to know why the Children had revealed themselves at long last.

“His release. This winter has been nightmarish for the world. We have been expending all of our magic trying to lessen its effects as much as possible. Yet against an Ainu, even we would fail. With his temporary defeat, we have been able to gain an advantage and bring about this thaw, allowing my brethren to spare me as an emissary to Arnor once again in these dark times and as I spoke to your ancestor over 5000 years ago, I speak to you Aragorn of the darkness that awaits us all.

“Much has been prophesied of you Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Thirtieth and ninth from Isildur, yet none more like Elendil before you. It is fitting perhaps that it is to you that the final duty to bring the dawn comes.”

“What do you mean by temporary defeat?” Aragorn demanded. “The Great Other is dead and gone. The Sword of the Morning and my father killed him, and it cost them their lives.”

The Child of the Forest shook her head. “You do not understand, place your hand on the weirwood. They will explain better than I ever could.”

Aragorn didn’t really trust her, but saw no reason to do what she asked. He regretted it. The moment he placed his hand on the weirwood, he could feel something reaching out and pulling at his soul, dragging his consciousness into the tree. Panicked, Aragorn tried to remove his hand, but it was too late. Darkness took him.

When he awoke, it was to an unfamiliar scene and a land that he did not recognize, yet it sung to his soul and he felt deep down in his bones that this land was home. The golden leaves fell from the trees gently to form a blanket upon the ground as far as the eye could see, moving inland toward a great mountain that towered into the sky. In the other direction, Aragorn could see a great haven nestled in the bay, facing west toward the setting sun.

He heard a voice then and he turned around to see the fairest woman he had ever seen singing a sad melody. She was fairer even than his own wife Ashara, thought to be the most beautiful in all of Arnor and its great empire. She had golden-blonde hair and a long forest green dress flowed from her shoulders. An aura of highness and nobility surrounded her, one greater even than the Dúnedain, hearkening back to the Elder Days of myth and legend. A Maia.

Yet unlike the Maia Aragorn had seen and faced personally the day before, her aura was much weaker, and sadder, it thrummed of power, power lost and inaccessible to her.

“A beautiful land isn’t it?” she asked. Her voice was like a melody, gentle like the wind blowing between the trees.

“It is. Where are we?” Aragorn asked, looking around at the land in wonder.

The Maia laughed sadly. “Such a different reaction you have from Isildur. But then, it has been almost five millennia since this land passed from living memory. Yet deep down, your people have never forgotten that they live in a Realm-in-Exile.”

Númenor

Never had Aragorn thought he would lay eyes upon his ancestral homeland, for it laid beneath the sea, in a strange and faraway world that they could never reach, if the stories told true. He took in wondrous sight and beauty, knowing now that it was but a mere illusion, a facade that could only mimic the Blessed Isle of Elenna.

“Why did you bring me here?” he finally asked once he had finished taking in the sight of Númenor.

“This illusion, this memory, I pulled it from the mind of your forefather when he met me all those millennia ago. I told him then of the history of this world, of what had to be done to prepare for his coming.

“Yet it seems that for all the pride your people have in your ‘long’ memories, you forget the things that are most important. That there are Seven Maiar who dwell in this world is something your people have by now relegated to the history books, to fairy tales, not taking us seriously, not realizing we still live, but I suppose that matters not anymore, we will soon be history anyway.”

Aragorn turned to the Maia in confusion and she spoke again. “I am Yvaine, the Lady of the Woods, the Queen of the Forests. I who tended to the trees and grew their fruits when this world was but a thought in the Allfather Eru Illuvatar’s mind. And there is much that your people, that your line has forgotten Son of Isildur.”

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The Maia spoke at great length of the history of the world, repeating what had been told to his ancestor Isildur once upon a time. Yet Aragorn still did not understand.

“I understand that you may be upset that you have been forgotten… but why do you speak of the Great Other like he is still a threat? Is he not vanquished?” Aragorn asked.

Yvaine shook her head. “The Ainur are spirits, we can never truly die. My estranged brother is certainly not dead nor will he ever be. Yet for all intents and purposes, successive bodily deaths can leave us utterly impotent and incapable of ever influencing the world around us ever again.

“That is what should have happened to Boreas when his body was slain in the battle yesterday. Yet he remains, weakened, but not yet powerless. He utilized the power of skinchanging, one not of his domain of power yet still usable to him, and he transferred his soul and consciousness into the body of one of his servants, one that was once a Ranger of the Night’s Watch and Arnor. If he is not killed once more, he will…”

“Wait. What do you mean the Other was once a Ranger of Arnor?” Aragorn asked, interrupting Yvaine.

Yvaine was taken aback. “Truly your people have such short memories. Do you not know the story of the exiled prince who became the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch? Of how he lost a dear friend beyond the Wall to the Others?”

“You speak of Cirion? The second son of Earendur Falastur, tenth High King of Arnor? He surrendered and ended the War of the Three Brothers and was exiled to the Wall where he served honorably, later becoming the most beloved and remembered Lord Commander the Watch ever had if I recall the Annals of Kings correctly. But that was over four thousand years ago! And I learned nothing of this ranger that you speak of!”

“Yes. Aglaran was his name, he was closest to Cirion of the Arnorians that followed him to the Watch. The Others attacked the two of them in the Lands Beyond the Wall and Cirion was forced to leave Aglaran behind and flee to the Wall. They found him then, and turned him into another servant of Boreas like they were.”

“I… I see.” Aragorn put his head into his hands. Rage began to fill his heart as he realized that Boreas was still out there. His father, Arthur’s uncle, Imrahil, Boromir, Beregond, Halbarad, and so many others had given their lives for nothing? His anger was burning brightly within him, but he hid it well, for it would not be courteous to show it before Lady Yvaine.

“Truly, we have forgotten so much. So little of our history before the Kin-Strife do we still have, they have been lost to the passage of time. History has become legend, legend became myth, and myths were forgotten,” he said instead.

“It matters not in the end. What matters is what you do from here on Aragorn. My siblings and I are spent. All of our power has been eroded away containing our wayward brother and his dark winter. When this is all over, we will likely be reduced to utter impotence. If you fail to kill Boreas for good now, one day he will rise again, and I fear Arnor will truly end then and the world shall fall into a winter that never ends.

“Maple did well bringing you to us. When you leave this place, speak to her again, and tell her that you will have need of Lightbringer. She will understand what you mean. And you will have a weapon capable of doing what must be done.”

Aragorn nodded. “Thank you Lady Yvaine, for everything. I am sorry, on behalf of all my ancestors, that we forgot our pact and our oath to you and the Children. When this is all over, I will strive to make amends and ensure you are not forgotten again, your legacy will remain,” he promised.

She smiled. “Do not make promises you cannot keep Aragorn. But your words are kind, and though we likely will not be around any longer to know if your promise holds true throughout the millennia, perhaps in another five thousand years, should the One ever see fit to restore us, we might reawaken and find that we are still remembered.

“Go now Aragorn. Go with the goodwill of all of us, of all mortals and Maiar, and save this world from the depths of everwinter,” Yvaine declared as she dismissed him.

As his vision began blurring, Aragorn blinked his eyes and saw six other figures, three on each side of Yvaine. A brunette hunter with a bow slung over her back, an intimidating man of great stature with a blacksmith’s hammer, a queen with a crown of wind and a blade of thunder, a lord with a trident and the sea at his command, a fiery warrior dressed in a raiment of sunlight, and a lady with moons for eyes and stars on her dress.

As he vanished from the realm of the Maia entirely, Aragorn saw Yvaine mouthing one last line, but he could not hear her words. Unbeknownst to him, her last words referred to a name and title Aragorn would never have in this world. “Go Elessar.”

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“Aragorn, Aragorn!”

He awoke to Faramir shaking him awake. Sitting atop the tree roots, Aragorn could see the Child of the Forest, Maple, with Dawn at her neck. His trusted champion was trying to save his king.

“Enough Arthur,” he commanded. “She did only what she was told.”

“Do you understand now?” Maple asked.

“Yes. I will have need of Lightbringer.”

Surprise filled the Child’s face momentarily before it vanished. “The sword in your bodgyguard’s hands was once wielded as that blade. But something tells me that you are not referring to Dawn.”

He shook his head. “As mighty a blade Dawn is, it is not the weapon of the King of Arnor.” Turning to Arthur, Aragorn commanded his sworn sword. “Bring me the shards of Narsil.”

Maple accompanied them to the forges where the army blacksmiths had relit the fires and begun work on repairing metal tools for the rebuilding of Winterfell. They had been stunned when Aragorn had told them he wished for them to reforge Narsil.

“Your… Your Majesty, surely such a task should wait until we have returned to Arnor, and Narsil put under the care of the finest smiths in Arnor? None of us feel like we are worthy of reforging Elendil’s blade. We are merely blacksmiths for the army Your Majesty. We have nowhere near the skill and craftsmanship of the finest royal armourers.”

“You are the finest smiths in Arnor my friends,” Aragorn praised them. “Perhaps not in skill, but in courage certainly. You have come far against the hordes of the undead. I would be honored to have you reforge my blade. Yet more importantly, time is against us, and I will be in need of my blade.

“The Child of the Forest will oversee the reforging, and she will be working alongside you to restore and enhance its enchantments for the task ahead.”

“And what task will that be Sire?”

Aragorn smiled grimly. “To kill the Lord of Winter.”

Arthur and Ned turned to him in surprise and began asking what he meant, but Aragorn ignored them, telling them only to prepare an elite force of their most skilled remaining warriors for an attack north and promising he would explain to them later. It was imperative now that his attention be focused on the reforging of Narsil.

For hours the smiths worked, fixing each of the shards back into place and melting them together to reforge the blade. All the while, Maple gave commands and sung in a language Aragorn did not understand, drawing upon the power that the Seven Maiar had invested into the very essence of the world to give the blade new strength.

At long last, the blade was ready, and as it cooled, Aragorn ordered the smiths to inscribe the runes that he desired into the sword before he picked it up and held it aloft. The sword looked identical to what it had been before, yet all present could sense something was different. It thrummed with a power and purpose Telchar of Nogrod could not have given it.

Very bright was the sword when it was made whole again; the light of the sun shone readily in it, and the light of the moon shone cold, and its edge was hard and keen. Aragorn spoke then, christening the sword anew.

“Once you were Narsil, blade of my forefathers, Light of the Sun and Moon. No longer. From this day, you shall shine with a light of your own, for it is you which shall bring the light back into this world. Andúril, Flame of the West. Burn bright forevermore.”

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Three weeks later, Aragorn and his elite force of rangers and knights had finally caught up to Boreas and his Others near the melting ruins of the Wall. The sun was hidden behind a blizzard storm when they met in battle with the demons of the north once again.

Steel clashed and shattered against crystal ice. Battalions of undead wights threw themselves in vain against the impenetrable shieldwall of the Arnorian army as the Children of the Forest aided them in their fight with their magicks.

Raising Andúril aloft, the sword shone with a fiery light, a beacon of hope to the Arnorian warriors in the darkness as the Others attempted to bring the cold storms with their weakened magic.

Onwards did they push on, until at long last, he emerged from the ranks of his servants. Even in his weakened state, many an Arnorian would fall to his blade, and the Blood of Númenor spilled upon the ruined foundations of the Wall.

Last time, Aragorn had been preoccupied fighting his lieutenant, Night’s King, and his father had died. Not this time. This time his fight would be with the Lord of Winter. With Arthur at his side, Aragorn confronted Boreas in combat.

“So, my wretched siblings told you that I lived still. I wonder how they’ll react when I water the ground with your blood!” Boreas shouted as Aragorn deftly ducked under his slash.

Soon the Lord of Winter began a flurry of strikes which Aragorn desperately parried with Andúril. “Die, like your father!” he shouted in rage, his blue eyes burning as Arthur took the blow meant for Aragorn and was sent flying a significant distance away and landing with a heavy thud.

Aragorn was beginning to see that he was outmatched now. His petty need for vengeance had seen him foolishly confront the Lord of Winter personally, thinking that he could defeat him in his weakened state with Arthur at his side. Yet now that he faced him alone, Aragorn finally realized. Weakened or not, possessing a servant or not, Boreas was still a Maia.

Soon Aragorn found himself on his last legs, desperately blocking Boreas’s strikes with Andúril. Arthur was desperately getting to his feet, overcoming the pain of his broken bones. He was shouting his name in desperation as he tried to reach his king. But he was too far, he would never make it in time.

Aragorn almost closed his eyes resigned, cursing his foolishness. His anger had burned hot and it had betrayed him to his death. Yet before the Lord of Winter could land the final blow, time seemed to slow and his life seemingly flashed before his eyes. He remembered what Lady Yvaine had said of the Other that Boreas possessed.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Tower of Amon Erain, hasn’t it kinsman?” Aragorn asked.

For a brief moment, a flash of grey appeared in Boreas’s icy blue eyes and in that moment, Aragorn struck. He parried Boreas’s incoming blade and before he could recover from his momentary hesitation, Aragorn thrust his blade through his icy heart.

Time stopped for an instant before everything seemed to happen at once. Every single wight upon the battlefield dropped to the ground in an instant while the Others were rendered utterly powerless, the blue in their eyes fading and their skin darkening from its snow white as they became fully mortal once more, and in the chaos many were slain.

For the Lord of Winter himself, his spirit was forced out of the body he possessed and the north wind that he had once controlled turned upon him and blew his spirit away, dispersing it. Reduced to impotence, he would never again be able to cover the world in darkness.

As for the body he had left behind, the dying Aglaran dropped to the ground, the bond to Boreas severed entirely. As he died, Aragorn comforted him and watched as his hair turned brown and his complexion changed from snowy white to the darker but still fair complexion of a Dúnedain. His once malicious blue eyes were fully grey now and full of regret and sorrow.

It looked like Aglaran wished to say something, but he could not and his eyes went still. As he closed his eyes gently, Aragorn sent a brief prayer to Eru that Aglaran might still have a place in his Timeless Halls and prayed that his soul might find rest, free at last from his enslavement.

The thaw which had begun at Winterfell all those weeks ago quickened now, and almost before Aragorn’s eyes the blizzards and clouds dispersed and the sun’s warmth filled all the land as it rose to high noon. After twenty-two years, winter had finally ended. Spring had come, and it was like a dream.