El Senor De Los Anillos - El Retorno Del Rey Ed... 🎯 Easy

Aragorn son of Arathorn entered, cloaked in grey and green, but no longer the Ranger. His brow bore no crown, yet he walked like a king who had already chosen his burden. Behind him came Gandalf the White, who nodded to Faramir and quietly woke Éowyn with a whisper.

“I would name you Prince of Ithilien,” Aragorn replied. “And I would have you stand beside me when the crown is placed upon my brow. Not behind me. Beside me.”

The black gates of Mordor had fallen. The Eye was no more. A pale, sickly dawn crept over the Pelennor Fields, where the grass was still wet with the blood of Men and Orcs. Smoke rose from the wreckage of siege towers, and the Great Eagles circled the jagged peak of Orodruin, where the Ring had been unmade.

Outside, the sun finally broke through the ash clouds. The great bell of the Tower of Ecthelion began to toll—not in mourning, but in hope. And on the high balcony of the White Tower, a banner unfurled for the first time in a thousand years: the Tree and the Stars of the House of Elendil, and beneath them, the Seven Stars and the White Crown. El Senor de Los Anillos - El Retorno Del Rey Ed...

A soft knock came. The door opened.

“You would keep me as Steward?” Faramir asked, his voice trembling.

The Return of the King had truly begun. Would you like a continuation focusing on Aragorn’s coronation, the farewell to the Hobbits, or the journey of the Elves to the Grey Havens? Aragorn son of Arathorn entered, cloaked in grey

Gandalf stepped forward, his eyes kind but sharp. “Not nothing, Faramir. The Steward is not a throne. It is a duty. And Aragorn does not come to cast you aside. He comes to ask you a question.”

Faramir tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough. “Steward? My lord, the Stewards were only ever caretakers until the King returned. You are here. The line of Elendil is restored. I am nothing now but a wounded soldier.”

Faramir stared. For a long moment, the only sound was Éowyn’s quiet breathing. “I would name you Prince of Ithilien,” Aragorn replied

Tears—whether from pain or wonder—welled in Faramir’s eyes. “Then I will serve, my King. Until the end of my days.”

Faramir’s grey eyes, so like his brother Boromir’s but gentler, flickered open. “You are the Healer,” he whispered. “You walked the Paths of the Dead. You brought the ships. My father… Denethor…” His voice cracked.

Faramir, Steward of Gondor, lay on a white cot. His hand, still bandaged from the arrow that had struck him in the retreat from Osgiliath, rested on the blanket. Beside him, Éowyn of Rohan, the White Lady of Ithilien, slept in a chair, her golden hair tangled with dried blood—not her own, but the Witch-king’s.

“Your father is beyond grief now,” Aragorn said softly. “But Gondor still stands. And it needs its Steward.”