Bàinrìgh Sienna

  June 7th, Year 67 F.A.

  My courage sank with every step. I had imagined this moment again and again. Eldarion lay upon a pedestal of marble. At first glance one might have thought he was merely asleep. But I knew the bitter truth. My father was gone. And that meant that, as his only child, I now had to take his place. That was easier said than done. I was barely seventeen, a woman, and unmarried. But the throne of Gondor was my birthright. I would not let anyone take it from me.

  Of course I knew the Crown Council would have a say in the matter. A regent was an unavoidable evil; I had no illusions about that. What I wondered was how long there would be one. Until I married? Until I turned twenty?one? Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. My father had certainly arranged the succession — but if so, why had he never told me whom I was meant to marry? Perhaps even Prince Alphros. The thought seemed absurd at first, yet the longer I considered it, the more plausible it became. We needed loyal vassals now more than ever.

  My cousin in Rohan had just given birth to an heir, and more children were likely to follow. The eldest son would one day rule the Horse?lords. The second child… I did not know. Perhaps Arnor. Perhaps something else. Only one thing was certain: the times ahead would be turbulent.

  A week after my arrival in Minas Tirith, Eldarion’s funeral was held. At sunset I would be formally proclaimed Queen of Gondor before the gates of the palace.

  I spent the morning in the royal crypt, lost in thought. My education in statecraft left much to be desired, but at least I was familiar with the recent history of our kingdom. King Théoden of Rohan had stood with us in the War of the Ring and renewed the alliance between our peoples. Yet it had not endured. And it had all begun so promisingly.

  Since Théoden had fallen in the Ring?war, his nephew éomer inherited the throne and became the next King of Rohan. He married Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, and his sister éowyn became the wife of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien. Both had been love matches, yet they forged a new and powerful bond between Gondor and Rohan — a bond my father had continued.

  Unfortunately, there was still the “lost” realm of Arnor. Even my grandfather, King Aragorn Elessar, had spent his life trying to unite that principality with Gondor, but all his efforts had failed. Many myths surrounded the delicate agreement between Elfwine, éomer’s son, and the Prince of Fornost. Only one thing was known for certain: Alyndra, then Princess of Arnor and heir to its throne, had been promised to Eldarion, but the betrothal was dissolved, and the young noblewoman was soon after married to the heir of Rohan — to prevent reunification.

  That decision had sent ripples through the centuries. Dol Amroth felt slighted, Gondor mistrusted Arnor, and Rohan had maneuvered itself into a position that held both strength and danger. My mother had always feared that these old wounds would one day reopen. I had dismissed it as pessimism. But now, on the eve of my own reign, I was no longer so sure.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  In the early afternoon, the public funeral procession began.

  My father’s coffin had been placed upon a dark carriage drawn by two black horses with silver harness. The streets were lined with people waiting in silence. No shouts, no music, no ceremony — only quiet.

  My mother wore a simple black gown and a veil that hid her face entirely. Her steps were slow but steady. I wore the official mourning dress of the heir: black with silver embroidery of the White Tree. The veil lay folded over my shoulder. I wanted to be seen.

  The procession moved through the seven levels of the city. The windows were draped with grey cloth, the doors stood open. Everywhere candles burned — on windowsills, on stairways, before doorways. A sea of small lights flowing through the whole city.

  I looked into the faces of the people.

  An old man bowing with trembling hands.

  A young woman whispering to the child in her arms.

  A soldier pressing his hand to his chest as we passed.

  Minas Tirith mourned.

  Not only a king. But an age that had ended.

  It was a mystery to me why Gondor clung so stubbornly to its old language, Gàidhlig. Since time immemorial it had been the tongue of the peoples of Gondor and Arnor. With Queen Arwen, Sindarin had come to Minas Tirith, yet it had never taken root. Even Father had rarely used it. Almost as if he were ashamed of his noble lineage.

  At sunset we reached the highest level of the city. Trumpets sounded before the gate. I drew a deep breath and stepped outside. The square was overflowing. People crowded the steps, the walls, even the rooftops of the surrounding houses. Candles burned everywhere, their flames flickering in the evening wind. The air was heavy with smoke, rain, and expectation. In the center of the square stood a stone dais, plain but dignified. Upon it lay a black cushion, and on the cushion the Seal?ring of Gondor. The Crown Council formed a half?circle behind me. My mother stood apart, still hidden beneath her veil.

  The herald stepped forward, raised his staff, and called out in a firm voice:

  “People of Gondor! Eldarion, son of Elessar, has departed. His daughter, Sienna, takes his place. Today she is proclaimed Bàinrìgh Sienna!”

  A murmur passed through the crowd — not loud, only reverent. I stepped forward.

  The herald lifted the ring from the cushion and held it high for all to see.

  “This ring is the sign of the rule over Gondor. Whoever bears it, bears the burden of the realm.”

  He handed it to me. The ring was heavier than I had expected. It nearly slipped from my finger, but I closed my hand around it, determined to endure this day. A soft rustle went through the crowd.

  And then something happened that I had not planned. Perhaps it was the wind. Perhaps the silence. Perhaps the memory of my father. So many. So many who had known him. So many who had lost him. So many who now looked at me — not with expectation, but with grief. And in that moment it struck me like a blow: these people had lost everything familiar. Not only a king. But security. Stability. A future. My throat tightened. Tears stung my eyes. The silence of the city pressed down on me. I had to do something. Anything. Something to show them that I saw them. That I understood their pain. That I inherited not only a crown, but a burden.

  Before I could think, I lifted my head and began to sing the Coronation Hymn:

  Vaness?ya

  Can? meleht?y?

  Latn?ss tanom?

  Andav?

  Imi alcariss?

  Ilya ya malta

  Uan na mirilya

  Ilya i ranyar

  Uin nar vanw?

  Not loudly. Not triumphantly. But like a prayer. A song that was heard only in the halls of the kings when a new age began. The crowd fell silent. Even the wind seemed to listen. I did not care whether my pronunciation was perfect. When I finished, the silence was absolute. Then the Crown Council knelt. Then the guards. Then the people on the steps. Then the whole city.