Author's Note: Thanks for sticking with me throughout this bleak tale (or at least, I am hoping that you're still with me after I killed off Legolas in the last chapter). This will not be the final chapter. There will be one final chapter after this, otherwise this chapter would have been huge in comparison to the others in this story. I sincerely thank each and every one of you for taking the time to read and review my work – it really helps to keep me inspired and excited about writing my stories.

LOTR…LOTR…LOTR…LOTR…LOTR…LOTR…LOTR…

Nearly a week later, Gimli sat alone in the ruined courtyard that stood before of the palace of Minas Tirith. He still could not remember the events that led him back into the city, despite how hard he tried to force his memory back. He could only remember tripping as he ran to avoid the lava flow, sliding down the mountainside and the collision with the rock. All else that followed was a dark void in his memory, for the next thing he was aware of was waking up in the palace, the relieved face of Lord Elrond above him. Surprisingly, and to the great relief of the elven healer, the dwarf seemed to be only slightly worse for wear than could otherwise be expected. He was cut, bruised, and slightly malnourished, but aside from that, he was in good health. Within a day's time, Gimli was given leave to abandon his bed, though Elrond had given him strict orders not to exert himself too greatly.

As for Minas Tirith, Gimli sighed heavily. The city was in a bad state of disrepair and the restoration of it would be a slow, painstaking process. Many of the buildings, though they still stood for the most part, had been mistreated and now lay partially destroyed. Homes stood half burnt along the cobbled streets, while foul orc graffiti marred those buildings which still stood strong. The city gates had been smashed beyond repair; new ones would have to be fashioned for each level of the city. The white tree that had once stood in the courtyard was withered and dead. The orcs had not touched it, probably having been content that the symbol of the kings was nothing more than a tired skeleton of its former glory. Still, much in Gondor could be restored, Gimli noted to himself, though his heart sank at the thought. Aragorn was dead and the line of kings had perished with him. Sauron had succeeded in destroying the house of Numenor. However, despite all of this, Elrond had already commissioned such elves and men as he could find to begin the restoration process, saying that Minas Tirith needed to stand as a reminder to all of what Middle Earth had once been and would need to become once more. But the labor force for this venture was limited. Many of the free folk were weak from the months spent in labor camps or in hiding from the Enemy, and those that could work were a divided group. Some were eager to lend their hand to rebuilding the city. Others simply departed the city for their own homelands, hoping to rebuild those lands and reunite with such loved ones as they could find. All of this, of course, had happened even as they mourned the death of the son of King Thranduil, Legolas, the Crown Prince of Mirkwood, who had destroyed the ring and freed all of Middle Earth.

Gimli sighed once more as he adjusted his position on the palace steps. After a moment, he tilted his head slightly back, giving him a better view of the peaceful night sky. The rising moon was waxing towards full and the countless stars gleamed like tiny diamonds. Here and there, a tattered shred of cloud lingered, left over from a gentle rain earlier in the day. It was quiet and calm, the sort of night that Gimli knew Legolas had been fond of. Between the clouds, the moon threw down a pure, silver light, but to the dwarf, it felt distant and cold. Angrily, Gimli shifted his gaze to stare out into the nothingness of the far horizon, but a tear made it to the corner of his eye nonetheless. He did not bother to brush it away. He had shed so many over the week since Legolas had been killed, that it no longer mattered to the dwarf how many more rolled down his cheeks, or who was there to see it. The tear struggled against his eyelid for a moment before squeezing through and beginning its downward path over the dwarf's face.

"Tell me, why do you weep, Master Dwarf?" asked a soft voice as a thick cloud sailed over to cover the moon.

Gimli looked in the direction of the voice, but could see little in the sudden darkness. Hurriedly, he brushed the tear away. "Have you not heard what events have come to pass?" he asked.

"I have," replied the voice and Gimli decided that it belonged to one of the elves who still resided within the city. Perhaps it was one of Haldir's warriors. The voice spoke again. "Yet it seems to me, that this is a time for celebration, not grief. Middle Earth has been liberated from a great evil."

"But not without great loss," the dwarf countered angrily. "My best friend died to save us all."

"I have heard rumor of that," came the reply. "Some say that the Prince of Mirkwood was responsible for Sauron's defeat."

"Aye," Gimli said. "You heard correctly. Tell me though, Master Elf, who are you that this news is naught but a rumor to you?"

The figure was silent for a moment. The cloud that had hidden the moon was swept away by a light breeze, and the light of the moon flooded the courtyard once more. Gimli could now see the figure of the elf, though a hooded cloak prevented him from seeing just who those folds of fabric covered. Two other such figures flanked the speaker on either side.

"Come now!" Gimli demanded, getting to his feet. He was becoming angrier and more uncomfortable by the moment. "Speak!"

"I am one who has returned to this city despite all odds," came the reply, the words sounding carefully chosen. "Tell me, who is in charge of the city? I must speak with them."

Suspicion rose in Gimli and he planted himself firmly in front of the battered citadel doors. "You will see no one until I know who you are," he said defiantly.

"That you already know," replied the figure. "Or can it be that you have already forgotten me?"

"Enough of your riddles," Gimli challenged him. "Speak plainly!"

The figure gave an audible sigh. "As you wish, though I suggest perhaps that you take a seat."

"I will not!"

The figure made no reply. To the two others on either side, it gave a quick nod. Three pairs of hands reached up and slowly slid the hoods back over their heads, exposing their identities little by little. When at last their heads were uncovered, they raised their heads to allow Gimli a full view of who they were. The dwarf's eyes widened and he staggered a moment, until he landed on the stone steps in an awkward sit down. His legs had failed him as he saw who it was that stood before him and fresh tears rushed to his eyes.

"How can this be?" he whispered. "Legolas!"

The elf smiled at the dwarf warmly. "Forgive my earlier secrecy. I did not know how best to reveal myself to you."

"You died," Gimli said, continuing his train of thought as though Legolas had not spoken.

Legolas nodded. "So I did. I will explain everything inside. I have heard tale that Lord Elrond is here."

"Aye. I will take you to him," Gimli said as he pulled his unsteady legs underneath himself to stand.

As the dwarf stood, Legolas crossed the distance between them and pulled his friend into a tight embrace. When they broke, Gimli glanced behind the elf, seeing, for the first time, who the other two silent figures had been. His heart caught in his throat as he realized that more than one miracle had taken place.

"Lady Arwen, Faramir," he greeted the two. "I am so pleased to see that your hidden shelter served well to protect you." He shook his head slowly, as though he were still unsure if the three before him were real. A small laugh escaped his lips. "I must look like such a fool," he mused aloud. "Forgive me my manners! Let us sit inside. Elrond will be overjoyed to see you all."

The others nodded and Gimli spun on his heel, leading them through the decorated citadel doors. He directed them to a small meeting room that the kings of old had used as a private study. Worn books and stacks of dust-laden scrolls still adorned the shelves, which took over the far wall and most of the sides. Leaving them to settle into the plush chairs, he then sped down the marbled halls in search of Elrond. Legolas slipped the cloak from around his shoulders and draped it neatly over the back of his chair before picking up a metal poker and stirring the dying embers in the fireplace into a comfortable blaze. For good measure, he added another thick log or two to the flames from a small supply that stood nearby. Arwen and Faramir also shed their traveling cloaks and sat, waiting for Gimli's return. A few moments passed in silence, with only the crackling of the fire to break the stillness. Then a smile crossed Legolas' face as he heard familiar footsteps heading back towards the study. He strained his ears to listen to what it was that Gimli was saying.

"…will be pleased with what I have to show you," Gimli was saying enthusiastically.

"Lead the way, Master Dwarf," came the elf lord's reply. To Legolas' ears, the elder elf sounded weary.

The footsteps reached the doorway and stopped for the moment as the polished doorknob turned. The heavy door swung inward on its hinges. Legolas, Arwen, and Faramir stood waiting. The door opened fully and Elrond stepped over the threshold before his mind could register who else was in the room with him.

"Lord Elrond," Legolas said, saluting the lord of Rivendell in elf fashion.