A/N: another quite short chapter, but the next will make it up, I promise. This one's just there to close the circle that had begun somewhere at the beginning of "Alda mi mornië" and I had thought my story to be incomplete, if I had left it out. So, you can expect one more chapter, but before that, enjoy this one!

I still don't know if I'll write an alternative end, because I just don't know if I should change my original storyline in such way. Normally I just start with a story, and then let it develop itself – with just a very rough plan in my mind. Writing an alternative end would mean that I am not completely satisfied with the story as it is now – and, I have to admit – I am fairly pleased with it at the moment. It's my first long story and I didn't think it to go on so well and fast. I'm yet undecided……… the chances for an alternative end might be about 40:60 at the moment. So, don't be disappointed when there will be none, but do not think that there's no chance for it!

Again: Huge thanks to all who have reviewed so far! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

The King is coming home

It was a short time after midnight, December 11th would not dawn for hours, as Legolas, Gandalf and Aragorn left the Dark Tower to take on their long way towards Minas Tirith.

Two days ago they had set out from the city, and during their ride their hearts had been in a constant turmoil of hope and despair. But now merely the latter had survived, and Legolas could hardly turn his head from the wizard and the lifeless figure riding in front of him. A heavy weigh lay on his and Gandalf's shoulders: They had to bring the tidings of the death of the last Númenorean to Minas Tirith and so never would a king of that line sit in the high-throne below Elendil's wise gaze.

Nevertheless they ever urged their mounts to go on quickly and so the sun was just about to rise when the three had already reached the peak of Cirith Ungol where they had stood yesterday, two hours before noon. It seemed an eternity ago. None of the two riders glanced at the fires of Orodruin still visible in the distance, they did not see the dead Orcs framing their way. Legolas had fixed his eyes on Arod's mane, intently staring at the fine fur covering the horse's neck. He did not want to watch Gandalf. The wizard had not moved even a tiny bit since they had left Barad-Dûr: He still was clutching Aragorn with his left, the man's head resting on his shoulders. Only from time to time Gandalf clenched the fingers lying on his friend's stomach, a gesture of quiet wrath and fury.

No rest did they allow themselves until they had passed Minas Morgul in the late afternoon, and even then it was just a short one. Although both of them felt weary and drained, they longed to leave that barren malicious country. They had walked it for too long already. Its blackness was nagging on their minds, leaving no room for pleasant thoughts which would have come difficultly even if the lands had flowered beautifully. A cold wind was in the air, coming from the west, and enormous gray clouds were gathering over the Ephel Duath. The sky above Gondor was no longer visible, it had been snowing constantly since the morning Legolas and Gandalf had left Minas Tirith. In Mordor, however, mist was blocking the revived sun, and in the night the stars seemed distant and their light cold.

Legolas shivered. Soon would they reach Ithilien, where they would be able to breath more easily, and from there it would merely take some short hours to arrive at the city. Blackness would stop to threaten them.

It had already gotten dark when the two travelers finally set foot on the ground of Ithilien, and at once a heavy weigh seemed to fall off their shoulders. Absently each of them exhaled deeply, as if to get rid from the dark air of Mordor. For almost three days they had had to breath it, but now the cold and wet air of Ithilien tasted like fresh delicious water from a spring in Rivendell. 

Quickly the bridges of Osgiliath were left behind, the Anduin ceased to roar in their ears. The Pelennor Fields were stretching in front of them, the first lights of the city already visible in this clear night. They were so bright that the snow was almost reflecting them, creating a luminous shimmer around the two riders. They had drawn their hoods into their faces, for the wind was bitingly cold, but still each of them saw the two torches burning on top of the White Tower. It was a sign of old: Minas Tirith was mourning the death of one of its stewards: Lord Denethor.

Just having ascended a gentle slope of a hill, Legolas and Gandalf halted their horses for a short moment and stared at the city, thinking of the war it had survived, of the sorrow filling its streets. The fire of the torches looked like stars standing low in the sky, and peace was in the air. The night was quiet and if there had not been any snow, it would have been completely dark.

 "Their grief will merely increase," Gandalf then murmured softly, his eyes resting on Aragorn's serene features, "when the tidings of the death of the last Númenorean king will have spread. For hundreds of years and many generations have they been waiting for Elendil's and Isildur's heir to return, and now he comes back: Dead, being carried by the wizard who had promised that once the King would re-claim his throne and unify the peoples of Middle-earth."

He paused for a short moment, wondering if he should continue to utter the thoughts in his mind with audible words.

"In glory and praise," the wizard whispered then, "you should have entered Minas Tirith after your victory on the Pelennor Fields. Andúril should have hung on your side, your mail stained with black Orcish blood. Light should have been in your eyes, the fire of a victorious battle, wisdom to guide your people and knowledge that your Queen was on her way from Rivendell to your city. Aragorn, now you are lying in my arms, your skin is cold and your chest does not rise anymore. Your heart has stopped beating and the expression on your features will never change again. Never will anyone be able to look into your eyes once more, everything that was you lay in them! You return to Minas Tirith without glory, without praise! The Dark Lord took everything away. Andúril is lost, you do not even have clothes. Bright mail should have covered your body, but the only thing I could give to you was a gray cloak, weatherstained and worthily of no King of Men. Alas, Aragorn, you return in a night so black, and merely the stars are guiding your way. Your spirit is not among the living people anymore, and the only light on you is the necklace of Arwen. Alas, she will be broken at my tidings! Alas, why had no better fate been waiting for you! You should have become the greatest king ever, wise and powerful, and with you the Fourth Age should have begun in peace and concord! No steward will be necessary anymore, for no descendant of Isildur continues to dwell in Middle-earth. With you the line of kings has come to an end, and the old nobility disappeared from the lands! No longer will any sovereign of Gondor be able to confirm his might with having descended from Elros, brother of Elrond Half-elven, and Elendil, who overthrew Sauron, will no longer be among his forefathers.  Alas, the Scepter of Annúminas and the Winged Crown of the Kings who had come over the Sea will merely be a token of kingship and will not be borne by anyone in the future times, for they are heirlooms of Elendil and Isildur, and whom is not of their blood shall not be allowed to decorate himself with them! You, Aragorn, should have been crowned in a ceremony of great glory and the steward's office should have ended after 26th generations of waiting! But alas, fate would have it different! Now another king has to be chosen, for the rightful heir is dead without having re-claimed his throne! Alas, alas, the war is won but the king has not survived!"

And suddenly, just as Gandalf had finished, one of the torches on top of the White Tower began to flicker, the light getting unsteady, and it finally went out! Only the other flame was burning as brightly as before, but where the second had sent its light into the darkness, a mere black spot remained.

Minas Tirith seemed to honor the returning king with something that touched any heart deeper than any spoken word would have been able to.

Legolas reached out with his left hand as if wanting to catch the fleeing light, a silent and pleading gesture to keep the old spirit that left Gondor with the extinguished flame.

"The fire of old, the fire that had ever burned in Aragorn's eyes, has just disappeared," the Elf murmured sadly, "and the City of Men lost its light. But lo!" he suddenly cried with almost joy in his fair voice. "Gandalf! The other torch continues to shine and the flame of hope has not vanished! Ever will it shine on top of the White Tower and no longer shall it be a token of grief! From this day on it will represent the hope that is still there, even if the rightful king sacrificed himself and has died!"

And at these words Gandalf lifted his head again to look at the burning torch. A new fire was in his eyes, and they seemed to reflect the shine coming from the White Tower.

"You are right," he said aloud, the power being back in his voice. "The shadow has lost and the fire of hope has won! And with it there shall live the memory of the greatest king ever, although he never bore the crown!"

A/N: Oh yes, if you have any questions about my story – timeline, the characters' reasons for acting in a certain way, or something else -, ask in a review, for the next chapter will definitely be the last one, and I would gladly answer your questions!