Envinyatar: the Renewer

"Verily, for in the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and Envinyatar, the Renewer."

Aragorn's heart pounded in his chest. Before him stood three makeshift thrones of green turves, three great banners flying in the wind above. The largest was a White Tree upon a field of black, the Winged Crown and Seven stars glittering in the soft sunlight above the Tree. Hundreds of years had passed since the standard was last seen. Many still marvelled to see it unfurled upon the wind but wondered more at its meaning.

Shadowy hair framed a face once worn by years of toilsome journeys, but many were wiped away now that peace was returning to Middle-earth and he would soon claim his right to the Crown of Gondor.

As he walked toward the highest seat, his eyes shone as stars in the heavens. He reached the seat and ran his fingers along the turf. This "throne" was quite ordinary and austere compared to the mighty throne sitting in the great hall in the Tower of Ecthelion, but it was one step closer to the fulfilment of his purpose. Soon he would find himself in that majestic place.

Aragorn felt refreshed after the wearying brevity of the defeat of Sauron now that he was newly clothed and washed of the grime and black orc blood. The memory of the great cloud of darkness slithering up into the heavens and fading away played itself over again in his mind. All sound had faded at that decisive affair when the world's fate was finally decided.

Gandalf approached from behind. A strange mixture of weariness and joy was etched in his wizened features. "They are here. I fear they have little strength left, but their hearts are strong. It is time you exercised your true power of healing for no one has needed it more than they. Come."

Gandalf's white robes glinted in the light as he moved away. Aragorn pushed aside anymore thoughts once he and Gandalf reached a place surrounded by fragrant trees of Ithilien and carpeted by cool grass. Two small forms lay limp on pallets, wrapped in soft blankets. His heart was rent for the faces were hardly recognisable. Two small hobbits forgotten in the tumbling of fate but soon to be raised up above men.

"Dear Frodo," he murmured when he pressed a warm hand against the shaken hobbit's cheek. His eyes were deep pools of pity and sorrow knowing what manner of suffering his dear friend had endured. The hobbit's cheeks were no longer round and rosy: they were sunken and wan. His dark curls had gotten mussed in the turmoil of his struggles as did poor Sam's who lay near him with the same look of repose on his sleeping face. Aragorn put his other hand on the cheek of Sam. "And loyal Sam," he said with a gentle smile. "You had hope even when Frodo let it go."

He heard Gandalf's garments rustle behind him. "They have toiled through fire and the depths of shadow, my friend. It is a wonder they still live for there is but a spark of life enduring deep inside." He smiled faintly. "Hobbits are much stronger than most men believe."

"Indeed." Aragorn felt the faint strain of life within each hobbit. This would take time.

Time...he had plenty now.

Gandalf left Aragorn to his work, and it was hours later when he returned, Aragorn still bent under his labour. Life glimmered in his eyes and, as Gandalf looked closely at the Heir of Isildur's hands, it was almost as though a radiance as of soft moonlight danced upon his skin. To common eyes nothing would be out of the ordinary, yet the Istari had eyes for the unnatural.

Aragorn paid no heed to the world around him, and Gandalf dared not disturb him. A smile did touch his lips when he saw the change stirring in Frodo and Sam.

Aragorn would not stop until they were brought far from the brink of death and despair.

The sweet fragrance of Ithilien was caught up by the breeze and ruffled along the tips of grass. The stream glistened under a warm sun, reflecting the green trees and array of colourful flowers on its banks upon the gently moving surface.

Aragorn strolled amongst the beeches and beside the stream. After the chaos and darkness of years gone by, it was strange to finally realise it was ended.

It is over at last, he thought. Can it really be true?

How life would change! It would take getting used to for the man who once lived in the constant awareness of his enemy and lived a life in hiding. Of course, the threat was not entirely rooted out. Lingering traces of Sauron's followers remained. In time, they would be found and dealt with.

When I am King...Aragorn came to a sudden halt in thought and gait. Am I even ready? This day seemed so far away.

"My King Elessar?"

Aragorn turned at the sound of a young man's voice. The youth looked far too young to carry a blade in battle. He made a quick bow. "My King, the Periannath are awake."

Only the hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth, but the change in his countenance nearly glowed. "Thank you. I will come shortly."

The time they waited for Frodo and Sam to regain their health was quiet. Not until the Ringbearer and his faithful companion were well would anyone even give a cry of joy or sing a song of rejoicing. Once the hobbits awoke and were brought before all the great hosts gathered on the Field of Cormallen, the celebration began.

The sun fell low on the horizon and dusk painted the heavens gold and crimson. A warm, fragrant breeze stirred the banners of Gondor, Rohan, Dol Amroth, and King Elessar flying about the pavilions raised on the Field of Cormallen. The white, gold, blue, black, silver, and green cloth did not block the sound of the river's rushing or even the faint and distant murmur of the cascading waters of the Window in the West. Torches were lit to cast light within them before night fell, and what food and drink they had was laid out like a feast on the tables. Even though it was all hastily done and with meagre provision, you could not have found a merrier celebration. These men were witness to one of the greatest events in the history of Middle-earth and in the company of the bravest hobbits to step foot out of the Shire.

Some with fair voices were called on to sing, others raised their mugs in toast, and the Field of Cormallen was filled with talk and laughter and song not heard in over a thousand years.

The noise stilled for a moment when a herald announced the entrance of the two hobbits who saved Middle-earth. Then the King Elessar was announced behind them. A great roar of admiration rose up from the armies of men. Frodo and Sam looked up at Aragorn and warm greetings were exchanged even though they earlier had had a joyous meeting.

Gandalf was also close and cast a contented gaze on them. "The hands of a king are the hands of a healer," he murmured. "And all things shall be renewed in the days of the King."

Aragorn's smile turned to Gandalf when his keen ears caught his words. "Those days will come..."

"They've already begun!" The wizard's gaze fell pointedly on the hobbits. "They've already begun..."

Frodo's large blue eyes met the sharp grey stare of the Heir of Isildur. "Sam and I are extremely grateful, Strider...I mean, Lord Aragorn. Thank you. Gandalf told us what you did."

"You are most welcome," he said with a slight bow, "but I would never let you or Sam be taken by shadow. And do not fear to call me Strider. We are friends! Come! Let us enjoy this night and join our other friends who are still with us."

As they sat at meat together and feasted, Aragorn's attention was drawn beyond his company and the friendly banter of Legolas and Gimli. A surge of happiness brightened his countenance. His kin, the Dúnedain, were mingled with men of Gondor so much so that it was difficult to tell them apart unless they wore grey cloaks with the silver star or the black and silver livery. He excused himself from his seat at the head of the table and took a quiet stroll around the large pavilion, listening to snippets of conversation and song as he passed different clusters of men. It had been a long time since he was at a gathering of Men instead of celebrations of the Elves. It was quite different, but quite good.

He was pleasantly surprised to realise that few noticed his presence passing by. Everyone was engaged by the ever-increasing swells of joy and sense of freedom. The invisible bonds of fear and oppression were loosed and torn asunder as soon as the One Ring melted within the very fires that created it and its Master perished in the same instant.

Just as their hearts were free, so were their tongues. He smiled when he heard a company of Dúnedain and Gondorians regaling one another with tales from the Battle of the Pelennor Fields or at the Black Gates.

"The troll's fist was larger than my head!"

"Then it is good I came to your aid when I did..."

A round of laughter sprung along the table. It sounded as though a Gondorian with short black hair had nearly been skewered by the spear of a troll when a tall Ranger of very matured years stepped in to help. Aragorn recognised the Ranger. He also found himself lingering to listen. He would have joined them if it were only the Dúnedain and not also the men of Gondor. His own kin were accustomed to his presence and his lineage, but the men of Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth mostly saw him as the Heir of Isildur, the Captain who commanded the hosts of both the dead and the living, the King who bridged the ancient past to the present when he emerged from the hidden wilds of the North to claim the long empty throne.

"I owe you my life, noble Ranger."

"Ah, but there is no debt. We are brothers for the blood of Westernesse runs in both our veins. Brothers have no debt amongst each other."

The others began to speak, but the Ranger lifted his eyes as he listened to his companions and noticed Aragorn. Their eyes met. He gave Aragorn a reverent nod but said nothing to draw attention to the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. After so many years, he understood his lord's desire for discretion and his lack of desire for lavish attention. Of course, the Men of the West of Gondor and Arnor were in no way juvenile or asinine, yet their mood would surely shift if they realised the very Heir of Isildur was among them.

The matured Ranger tore his gaze away after a long moment of respectful regard. Aragorn smiled softly and continued on his way, admiring the mingle of men. War and a common Enemy had brought them together, and the bonds of friendship and freedom would seal them.

A new realisation suddenly struck him: it no longer mattered what his destiny was or what was personally ahead. All that mattered now was the fate of his people, his own blood and kin within the realms soon to be under his reign. The well-being of others had always been an important intention—if not the most important—throughout his life, yet his own course had dwelt at the forethought of his mind and heart in preparation for the day he would ascend the throne. The day that fast approached.

A King would soon return to Gondor and Arnor. And Men would at last be united again. The southern and northern kingdoms had long lain separate and kingless.

No more.

He could see the name of Envinyatar was not given him in vain for here at the end of the Third Age sat men of the two kingdoms Elendil and his sons founded long ago, forming long-lasting alliances. He was indeed the Renewer, a renewer of kingdoms and the unity of Men in Middle-earth.

Finally some noticed Aragorn and recognised him. A chorus of greetings interrupted the hum of talk and laughter as more and more brave warriors realised their companions were hailing their future King and rising to their feet.

Aragorn raised his hands. "Please, sit. I am honoured enough by your company. This is a night for celebration and rest." A curious smile tugged at his lips. "And I am not yet King..."

The men laughed a little and returned to their seats when they realised Aragorn cared little for veneration that night. He appreciated the respect but no more than was necessary.

So from table to table he sat, from group to group he walked until the darkest of night passed and a faint lightening of coming dawn emerged. It was significant to the men for it was much like King Elessar's coming to them. He arrived when the night of war and the Shadow began to suffocate all light, stayed through the darkest time as he inspired courage and hope, then helped bring the dawn when night was at last defeated.

They not only respected him: they loved him. Even as he revealed in his wanderings that evening, it was plain to their eyes that this man cared for them more than he cared for himself. Genuine selflessness suffused his character.

And that made him a true leader.

Now that Middle-earth had peace, Aragorn was also finally at peace.

Although one day all mortal men in Middle-earth must die and Aragorn's fate was no different, his name and his legend would endure throughout the ages of the world. The kingdoms under his rule would flourish and stand strong until many eras had passed. And his heirs would remain even longer till a time when the names of Gondor and Arnor were almost forgotten.

Author's Note: Alas! This is indeed the end...It was a blast to write and greatly interesting to study the many layers of Aragorn that parallel with his many names. He's been my favourite character since I first read the Lord of the Rings years ago.

I also hope this last chapter is enjoyable and a good ending. I'm hesitant on it and would love to know if there's anything I should add or change to make it a better ending.

Many genuine grateful thanks to all of you who read this series!! And especially to all of you who left me feedback and reviewed :). That was very helpful and encouraging. And writers always need a little encouragement right? :D It's also just great to know you guys are reading my stuff.

I'd love to know what you all think! I respect your opinions and love to hear from you amazing people :D...Let me know what you think of this piece as a whole too.

Much love,

Beloved of Aragorn