AN: The lines with italics are direct quotations from the Master himself. Anything else should be mine. :) I did not have a beta's help for this one, so there might be a couple of mistakes, though Certh was kind enough to point out a couple of errors for me! :) Thank you, for all your help!

'What do you sing of, Master elf?'
Legolas abruptly stopped. His singing was like the music of a stream, never-ending, unconscious of itself, yet beautiful and ever-changing.
What was he singing of?
His songs used to be about things that were young and lively, breathing a fast, light melody of life. He sang the praise of Kementari for all her creations, he sang of all that lived and sang its very own song, to join him in a joyous harmony.

At least he used to. He has lived through battles, he had seen much pain and loss and yet none of that touched his heart until today, not truly. Today was different. Today the bittersweet sorrow of old songs that made them so beautiful to listen to, came to life. The words suddenly weighed more and meant more. Elven-clear blue eyes turned downward, darkening with unresolved thoughts.
'I sing of old losses, Master dwarf!'
'Have you not enough pain of your own?'
The question was just, and he knew it. Gimli was right, after all he should be singing about his own losses, his own story.
'More than enough, friend,' he said and the Dwarf nodded in agreement. Either he did understand what he meant or was true enough of a friend to sense, further inquisition would be of no use.

Because it was easier to ponder on the past than to face the present, for now all seemed dead and quiet. This magnificent city of Men had no life in it, nothing green, nothing to touch, nothing to talk to, nothing to dance with. No air.
So he sang. About all that came to mind. About all that should have been here to answer his tunes. He tried to ignore the sudden sense of restlessness he felt, the need to run from here and leave all this death behind.

'There is some good stone-work here but also some that is less good, and the streets could be more contrived. When Aragorn comes into his own, I shall offer him the service of stonewrights of the Mountain, and we will make this a town to be proud of.'
He stirred. Nay, he could not yet understand his friend. The stone-work seemed good enough for him. All was fair and white. Perhaps not quite as refined as the artwork of Imladris or his home, or not as airy as the vast halls of Moria, but it suited the people of Gondor. Something else was missing, something else entirely.
Deep inside he envied his friend. So sure about victory, so careless about tomorrow's dark deeds. Already nurturing plans of work, already measuring stones. How tireless he seemed, how busy in his art. If only he could see things the way Gimli did. His songs faltered for a while, until he gathered some courage.

'They need more gardens. The houses are dead and there is too little here that grows and is glad. If Aragorn comes into his own, the people of the Wood shall bring birds that sing and trees that do not die.'
He could not yet be as sure as the Dwarf for everything died here. The laughter of men was short-lived and all soon turned into sorrow, even the great deeds were lessened by tears. The memory of victories was blurred and dim, not even the stones remembered it, and there were no trees to speak of ancient glory and happier, peaceful days. Everything bent slowly towards decay and the white walls whispered of their own downfall. Yet not all was lost. There was still hope.
And he smiled at the tiny green flower that grew in the crack of a white wall. The house it once belonged to was no more, leaving empty ruins behind, but upon the roofless stones, the small flower bloomed persistently, petals burning with flames of green, fire of life. It cared not for war or blood. It sang its own happy melody.
So he smiled and answered the flower's song, a melody that only elves understood and no mortal ears ever heard, until he sensed a different presence, unknown, yet strangely familiar.

'Hail, lord! It is long since the people of Nimrodel left the woodlands of Lórien, and yet still one may see that not all sailed from Amroth's haven west over water.'
The clear light in his eyes was a familiar sight, he welcomed the Prince Imrahil as one of his kin.
'So it is said in the lore of my land, yet never have one of the fair folk been seen there for years beyond count. And I marvel to see one here now in the midst of sorrow and war. What do you seek?'
Indeed the song of Nimrodel lived long in her people and echoed still in the speech of their descendants.

What did he seek here? He sought the strength of merry youth and healthy spirits. He sought hope amidst sorrow and war. For battles raged in his homeland as well, he was certain, but whether there were flowers of hope resisting the darkness of the forest, or had they fallen to it completely, he couldn't tell.

'I am one of the Nine Companions who set out with Mithrandir from Imladris, and with this Dwarf, my friend, I came with Lord Aragorn. But now we wish to see our friends, Meriadoc and Peregrin who are in your keeping, we are told.'
For his dear friend refused to rule the city; Aragorn, it seemed was more cautious than Gimli. He smiled fleetingly at the thought, for it was not much of an achievement on Aragorn's part. Nay, the temper of his odd friend was much akin to his size, quite unlike his bravery. Gimli was anything but cautious.
'You will find them in the Houses of Healing, and I will lead you thither.'

'It will be enough if you send one to guide us, lord. For Aragorn sends this message to you. He does not wish to enter the City again at this time. Yet there is need for the captains to hold council at once, and he prays that you and Éomer of Rohan will come down to his tents, as soon as may be. Mithrandir is already there.'
And he himself was not there. While the Prince said his courteous farewell and they parted, his mind was absorbed by these thoughts. At home, he would have been present at any sort of council meeting. King Thranduil ruled, yes, but he was always involved in some way. For the first time now, he had no reason to appear. He had no soldiers, and wielded no power other than his own weapon. And he felt in his heart that no matter what the captains decided, he would do what Mithrandir advised and he would follow Aragorn into whatever end. It did not matter to him what they were speaking of, for his mind was set, his thoughts resolute. He would stick to his friends until all this ended, one way or another.

And even if not for them, the Secondborn deserved their life of peace. For deep in his heart, he knew, he would not linger long on the hither shores, not even if they succeeded. He gazed long after the Prince's tall figure. These people deserved to be helped.
'This is a fair lord and a great captain of men. If Gondor has such men still in these days of failing, great must have been its glory in the days of its rising.'

He wondered what it was like, when he was a child. What sort of songs lit up its white walls, what kind of tales did the story tellers speak of? How many proud men and women walked its clean yet busy streets? He could have seen all that. But these things were of no interest to him then, until he left his home to journey to Imladris with his ill news. He had to admit to himself, even though Aragorn was but a child in his eyes, the man knew more than he did. Because he felt the pressure of destiny and the pressure of death, his friend had made a better use of his time. While he was fighting orcs in some minor battle of their borders, carelessly swinging from branch to branch, humming the tunes he learned the other night from the robins, the grim Ranger won battles that were still remembered...

'And doubtless the good stone-work is the older and was wrought in the first building. It is ever so with things that Men begin: there is a frost in Spring or a blight in Summer and they fail of their promise.'
Truly, the descendants of Elros were given Númenor, and failed. The children of the West who sailed securely to Middle Earth, failed. And yet, Aragorn was here, the legend reborn, the chance given again. The amount of power, of resistant energy this line of Men possessed, amazed him.
'Yet seldom do they fail of their seed.' He walked closer to the wall and stroke the petals of the green flower lovingly. 'And that will lie in the dust and rot to spring up again in times and places unlooked-for. The deeds of Men will outlast us, Gimli.'

'And yet come naught in the end, but might-have-beens, I guess.'
Curious. So Gimli was not so assured of victory and better days as he seemed. Somehow the Dwarf never really believed, this all could end happily. He understood his reasons, and he found again that they were more alike than he would have believed. For them, no end of this war would bring peace and prosper, not for long at least. They would sail away, and the Dwarves would hide under their mountains for Men distrusted them, had no love for them, no understanding of them.

The Age of the Secondborn was to come, and in it, they had no place. But to what end would the Age of Men come, he could not foretell. The song would begin, but no soul now alive knew its end, not yet.
Maybe only Eru Illuvatar himself.

'To that, the Elves know not the answer.'