The night rain came down like sheets of silver knives, the dark sky looming with black clouds, the swells of the sea murderous and the wind whipping on the faces as they watched their king fall atlast.
Though the war of the middle ages had been over for long, there were always enemies lurking around the corner, tempted to conquer the White Throne of Minas Tirith. Its king, Lord Aragorn had to wage many battles to keep harm away from his lands and protect his people, fighting the crusaders from the souths, the vikings from the norths and what was left of the orcs.
But, bless his soul, what brought his death were not swords or arrows, but age. Lord Aragorn, though the greatest warrior the middle ages had ever witnessed, was in the end just a mortal man, and like every other, his times had to end.
"Do not cry my dear child, your grandfather is gone where he is meant to be....", though trying to console her son, she couldn't do that for herself, she had lost her father, and the emptiness pained her just like when her mother had gone.
