Happy New Year!

The promised epilogue, at last! This took a while to come together, and I do hope it was worth the wait. It's a nice juicy long one, so that's something, I suppose! Thanks to Shirebound, Bookworm-soul and Silkleaf for your lovely reviews on the last chapter, it's been wonderful to share this with you and with everyone reading. Thanks also to my beta Ink Stained Quill for your unwavering support and dedication to this fic.

This should be obvious in the fic, but all of this is set before Aragorn finds the new sapling of the White Tree on Mount Mindolluin.

Without further ado...

Epilogue

'The connections we make now might set an important precedent for Gondor's future trading patterns,' Aragorn mused, his forehead resting on one palm as he scanned the parchment detailing all of the goods that war-ravaged Minas Tirith would need to import.

'I believe so, sire,' Faramir agreed gravely, 'It would certainly be well to strengthen Gondor's internal trade links. Lossarnach managed to retain much of its livestock, so they will be useful for wool, and you may be able to win over Lord Mirdal on the Council if you initiated a trading agreement between the Lossarnach merchants and the Weaver's Guild.'

'Lord Mirdal?' Aragorn looked sharply across at Faramir, brow furrowed in thought as his fierce intellect sifted frenziedly through masses of new information on Gondorian politics he had had to absorb, the concentrated inquiry in his eyes deftly masking his bewilderment. A man less observant than Faramir might have missed his confusion entirely. The Steward, however, had privately dubbed this the 'Faramir-I'm-confused-please-explain' expression; though he had far too much respect for his new Sovereign to dream of informing him of this.

'His brother is the president of that Guild, Mirdal is still wavering about supporting you fully; get him on your side and you get Lords Adronil and Farandar as well. It would be a wise political move in my opinion, Sire.'

Aragorn took a moment to process this, and then his brow creased again, in distaste this time, 'That may be, but it sounds too much like bribery to me.'

A loud groan from the other side of the room had both King and Steward turning their heads.

'Aragorn, you need to learn that there is a time and place to be noble. You will find that dealing politically with the nobility themselves is never it.'

Legolas had made this pronouncement from the settee, where he was rapidly sorting through piles of correspondence and resting his feet on another stack of probably very important political documents, itself teetering on the edge of the coffee table. Faramir was doing his best not to think about this, since he was still unsure how his new liege lord would react to his brother-in-arms being thoroughly lectured on proper care of paperwork by his Steward and was not yet willing to make an experiment of it.

Despite his decided nonchalance when it came to paperwork, Faramir had to admit that Legolas was an astute political advisor, and he was also fast becoming a close friend. Although not technically entitled to a seat on the King's Council, the Elf would often drop in and keep company with the King and Steward as they worked together in their study. His time assisting his father in the running of a kingdom besieged and battered by Sauron's forces gave him specialised insight into Gondor's problems, and the fledgling King was grateful for his old friend's generous and perceptive guidance. Aragorn had of course been trained in the proper running of a large kingdom in Rivendell, but Legolas was a useful source of practical information to combine with Aragorn's often overly idealistic theory.

'Surely this doesn't go on in the Elven realms though, Legolas? Erestor always impressed upon me the value of leaders who are just and fair, who earn respect rather than buy it…'

Legolas gave a rather inelegant snort. 'Of course he did, and if everybody acted by the book that would always work, but since they don't, I assure you it is perfectly possible to be a just, fair and good leader who also knows how to get the right people on his side. I don't know where that leaves my Elvenking if it isn't.'

Aragorn paled. 'I didn't just accidentally insult King Thranduil, did I? Valar have mercy'

'No offence taken,' Legolas smiled back lightly. 'I know what you meant. And as to your question about Elven politics, you try running a realm made up of half inherently suspicious native forest-folk and half war refugees from the noble houses of Doriath without recourse to the occasional bit of political manoeuvring…'

Aragorn paled further. 'I've got quite enough on my hands with one Reunited Kingdom, thank you very much. I see your point. And since such an agreement should be beneficial to the people anyway… Faramir, could you begin drafting letters to both the Weavers Guild and the Mayor of Lossarnach and see what we can do about creating favourable trade conditions?'

Faramir shot Legolas an appreciative glance, forgiving him his unorthodox attitude to paperwork just this once. 'Of course, sire. That is an excellent idea.'

Aragorn gave Faramir a wry look. 'You really don't need to pass off all your good ideas as mine, you know. I do notice when you do that.'

'And his ego really doesn't need to be any more inflated than it already is, believe me,' Legolas chipped in, with a wink at Faramir, who blushed, still rather uncomfortable with being implicated in openly teasing his monarch.

Aragorn simply shot the Elf a long-suffering glance, then rubbed his temples as he scanned the list of goods again. 'Still doesn't solve our biggest problem, though, which is going to be dried foodstuffs for the winter. Our stores were almost completely depleted during the siege, and I doubt the provinces will have fared any better.'

'Speaking of the Elven realms,' Legolas suggested. 'I will ask the Elvenking if Eryn Lasgalen could potentially provide some help, although our own stores are depleted, and I suspect we will have to give priority to Esgaroth and Dale, so I cannot promise anything. Between Imladris and Lothlorien, you should be fine, though.'

'I've already heard from Celeborn,' Aragorn sighed, 'he said that he would be willing to do what he can this year, which is a comfort, and as much as possible in the future, but he warned us not to become too reliant on trade with the Elven realms in the years to come.'

'Why ever not?' Legolas frowned. 'Surely the old prejudices will not survive if what you hope comes to pass.'

Faramir did not miss the expression of fervent longing that flitted across Aragorn's face at these words, nor Legolas' indulgent smile in response, but before he had a chance to decipher these happenings Aragorn had changed the subject.

'It's not that,' the King said, massaging his temples with his fingertips. 'It's just that with the new East Lothlorien to populate, and so few of his people choosing to remain, Celeborn wanted to make me aware that he'll be working with a disparate and decreasing population so trade with other realms will become increasingly difficult.'

'Remain?' Legolas queried, his heart hammering in his chest at this news, and he slid his feet neatly down from his improvised footrest until he was perched on the edge of the settee, his frame taut with tension. 'What do you mean, remain?'

He, of course, knew very well what was meant by 'remain.' He felt ridiculous asking it, the only Elf in the room appearing ignorant of their current situation, but his heart protested vehemently against the idea that the beautiful, timeless Lothlorien would begin to fade. He knew this, had known it for a long time, but it was a crushing realisation that it was beginning, his people really were disappearing, it was happening now. And of course, Aragorn's words had reminded him of his own struggle to remain; he had felt the tugging of the sea calling his heart especially strongly this morning, but he had fought it, told himself sternly that Aragorn needed him, and he had thought that for a few hours at least he had won. Now, though, invisible gulls were crying their mocking calls in his ears, ridiculing him for having ever believed he could make himself forget them.

Aragorn seemed to sense the distress behind the unusual question, and his voice was gently sorrowful as he responded.

'Many of the Lothlorien elves are choosing to sail. Especially those involved in the attack on Dol Guldur, after all horrors that they saw there-'

'But I have seen horrors this past year and I'm going to stay,' Legolas burst out, finally honestly declaring what they both knew: this conversation, by now, was not really about Lothlorien.

'I know, and I am so grateful for your sacrifices,' Aragorn replied, his voice low and soothing as if calming a skittish horse. 'But though it would pain me to part from you, I would not have you inflict more suffering upon yourself for my sake. If you find you must go, like so many of those Lothlorien elves, you would go with my blessing. You know that, don't you?'

Legolas was breathing fast and shallowly by now. Why could Aragorn not understand that this was not what he needed? He didn't need assurances that he could sail: he knew that, and it was a terrifying truth rather than a comforting one. He needed to be needed, to be anchored to this place that he would continue to call home in defiance of the gulls for as long as his friends were there to make it so. And suddenly the office felt claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in on him and amplifying the painful screaming of the gulls that only he could hear. He nodded numbly, no longer really aware of what he was agreeing to other than that he needed to get outside and fast.

'My lords, please, I beg your pardon, would you excuse me?' he managed to choke out, leaving King and Steward exchanging a glance of confused concern as he fair bolted to the door, ignoring Aragorn's calls for him to stay a moment.

Reverting as he often did at times of panic to his Silvan instincts, Legolas' one clear thought in the tempest that surrounded him was the need to find something green and growing and let its song soothe his distraught feelings. He flew through the corridor, heedless of the startled guards left in his wake, and burst out into the main courtyard.

What he found, of course, was a tree. But not a green and growing one. He stopped short before the ancient White Tree of Gondor, gnarled and twisted and really more grey than white now, leafless despite the mild May weather. He collected himself enough to nod to the guards, who had been instructed to allow any of the Nine Walkers access to the tree if they wanted it, and hesitantly approached, longing to reach out and feel if any life resided still in the broken shell, yet afraid of the despair that might take him if there was not.

Reverently, he knelt, reaching out to curl both his hands around the curve of the trunk, focusing his senses on the being before him. He strained to hear any movement of bubbling sap hidden deep within the dead outer shell, to see any hesitant, incipient leaf buds emerging, to feel if roots still wriggled on their quest for water beneath the soil. He listened with his soul for life in the White Tree.

And there was nothing.

It was thus that Gimli found him, hands clasped around the tree trunk and head bowed, as the Dwarf made his way to stop by Aragorn's study after his weekly meeting with Minas Tirith's stonemasons. To see Legolas in such a position was not unusual, and this provided Gimli with ample opportunities for teasing from his elven friend; on any other day, Gimli might have clapped him on the shoulder and asked cheerily 'what's that old piece of deadwood saying to you then?' However, Gimli was reading his new friend better with every passing day, learning to interpret the body language and expressions of the Elf he once thought so aloof and emotionless. He had no idea how he knew, but as he changed course to join his friend beside the White Tree, something told him that his friend's head was bowed not in respect, but in despair, and his hands were not draped around the tree solely to initiate contact, but clutching it for support.

So, he knelt at an angle from his friend around the tree, and reached out his hands to cover Legolas', saying quietly, 'Is everything well, lad?'

Legolas looked up at him, and Gimli saw to his horror that he had been proven right: Legolas' expression was one of deep anguish.

'What have we left behind us, Gimli?' he asked in a quiet, sorrowful tone. 'Three Ages of existence in Ennor, and all the Secondborn have to thank us for is war damage, prejudice and a withered White Tree.'

'Laddie,' Gimli replied, shaken by this unaccustomed mournfulness, and squeezed the pale hands resting beneath his on the tree trunk. 'What's brought this on?'

'The Elves are sailing,' Legolas explained. 'So many from Lothlorien that Celeborn predicts that in future years his realm will not produce enough even to trade with Minas Tirith. And this not solely because of the fading of the Three, but also because of the horrors they have seen in the battle with Dol Guldur. What then of my people, who have faced its horror for centuries and confronted it in pitched battle in the past year? Those with Sindarin blood might sail, the Silvans retreat into the secret places of the wood. My heart will rest in the forest no more indeed, for the forest itself will not rest as its protectors disappear.'

'Not all of them, surely,' Gimli countered. 'There must be others like you who intend to stay: Celeborn seems certain of having a realm for the coming years, at least.'

'Few enough, and the time will come for us, too, to leave these shores or fade as if we never were. The Age of Men has begun, mellon nín.'

Gimli froze for a moment in indecision. Part of him wanted to keep arguing, to impress upon Legolas that the Elves were not all sailing yet, that there was still time to build and grow in Middle Earth, and to comfort him with these words. But Legolas' words had struck him to the core, summoning up a pain he had buried deep within himself until this moment. So guided by some wisdom whose source he knew not, Gimli sensed that the best thing he could offer Legolas was not empty consolation. It was the reassurance that, painful as it was, he understood.

'Indeed it has, lad,' Gimli agreed solemnly. 'I don't know if this is a particularly comforting thing to hear, but the Dwarves too are coming to the end of our time. There were few enough of us in Erebor as it was, and after the battering we took in its defence, well-'

Gimli shared a long look with Legolas, in which both saw their own grief and growing resignation mirrored in the other's eyes. And perhaps it was this which gave Gimli the courage to finish his sentence.

'I don't think we're going to be coming back from this.'

'Nay,' Legolas sighed. 'Neither will the elves.' A beat, as their acceptance of the waning of their peoples resounded in the air like the clanging of a gong. 'Do you ever wonder, Gimli, centuries hence, what Men will say of your people?'

'Never really given it much thought before,' Gimli replied, drawing back his hands and sitting back on his heels. He dug out his pipe and began to chew on it thoughtfully. 'Although I suppose it is fairly obvious. We Dwarves guard our history more jealously than our gold, so if we are remembered at all, they will only think us short, hairy people obsessed with mining. That's all we've ever let them see, anyhow, so we cannot expect them to remember any more.'

'But what will become of your heritage, then? Your stories, your songs, your rituals, tales of your courage and honour and strength. Will all of that be forgotten?'

'I suppose,' Gimli mused, 'our heritage will be as the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. An abundance of untold worth and beauty, lying unremarked in the darkness.'

'But you intend to reveal the beauty of Aglarond to the world, do you not?'

'Aye. That I do. But there are those Dwarves who would say that our history is too precious even for such a careful unveiling, and that it is better to let it remain shrouded in darkness than to risk it becoming tainted from exposure.'

'And what do you say, Gimli son of Glóin?'

'A year ago, I might have agreed with them,' Gimli admitted. 'But I have changed. Seeing the Glittering Caves, starved of the care and the notice that could make them a wonder of this Middle Earth, taught me the sadness of a beautiful thing abandoned when it should be admired. After all, it is the mark of a true Dwarf to rejoice in unearthing the secrets of the dark underground and bringing them to light. And our history is far more intricate and beautiful than the most complex formations of mithril, and yet we bury it rather than releasing its beauty.'

'So you would consider sharing it, perhaps, that it might be remembered?'

'Perhaps, with the same precision and care I intend to give to Aglarond. It must be unfolded gently, a story or a song at a time, so that the listener might gradually come to appreciate all that it represents to the Dwarvish people.'

'And where do you intend to find such a listener in the world of Men? Aragorn may not have time with all his duties, but perhaps you would find in Faramir a willing and enthusiastic student, although he too carries heavy burdens, of course…'

Gimli shook his head, smiling a little. 'I was not speaking of the Secondborn, Legolas.'

'Oh? But surely that would be the point, to pass on the history of the Dwarves that your valour and wisdom may be remembered in this Middle Earth, would it not?'

'Perhaps in part, but it is not important to me where it is remembered. I may trust a Man to hear and understand our secrets, but to transmit them? Write them down? The thought makes me uncomfortable.'

'But if you only entrust them to one person, swearing them to secrecy, then after one lifetime all that history is forgotten again and the situation is unchanged.'

'Depends how long that lifetime is, then, doesn't it? I was not speaking of the Secondborn, remember?'

Finally, Legolas worked it out.

'You- you would honour me thus? Entrust this to me? But your ancestors…'

'Will be turning in their graves, absolutely,' Gimli agreed cheerfully. 'They'll be glad of a little exercise, I'm sure. Dwarves in general don't give them enough.' He grew serious again. 'And the thing about unearthing beauty, is that it is all for nothing unless you find a pair of eyes that can really see it. And I have already entrusted my life to yours. They can count spears on the plains of Rohan, aim a perfect shot at a Nazgúl's steed in the dark and I believe they will see the worth in the tales long held in the secret places of my heart.'

'Then I would indeed be honoured to hear whatever you see fit to tell me, and I will let your crafting of the stories reveal their inner beauty like the finest polished gems. But still, do you not mind that the Men will forget that it was your sacrifices that protected them from Sauron, that they will write histories in which you are portrayed without depth, simply because you did not show them you are more than miners?'

'No,' Gimli replied calmly. 'I will entrust the jewels I care for the most into safe hands. That way I will know that their beauty has not gone unappreciated, and yet it is not tarnished by overexposure. I can be content with that.'

'Oh,' Legolas was stunned for a moment before he recovered his composure. 'If you are content, then so am I. And you may be certain then that your history and your customs will survive as long as I do. I will not forget.'

Gimli smiled at him for a moment before saying, 'I know you won't, lad. And that's why I trust you with them. You seem concerned with what Men will say of Dwarves in later Ages- what do you think they will say of elves?'

Legolas grimaced. 'It has already begun. You heard them in Rohan. Already they do not understand us, and think us capricious sprites at best, malicious sorcerers at worst. Our history will disappear from this land as we do.'

'And that bothers you,' Gimli observed. 'Why is that? Your people will hold onto all your traditions and stories as you go West, surely.'

'Aye. But those who died in defence of these lands will be forgotten in the places they gave everything to redeem, and that thought distresses me. Aratur, Brondir and Thelion gave their lives to return the Greenwood to itself, and those who later walk under its boughs will not think on that. They will believe the elves of Eryn Lasgalen but a fairy tale, a fancy dreamed up by over-imaginative children of the Lakemen who insist they saw a pixie in the woods. It is a strange thing, is it not, to think of the valiant dead of the Greenwood being denied their very existence by those whose lands they died to save?'

Gimli had not really considered this before, and he gradually began to understand Legolas' upset. He imagined the slow slide from history into legend into fairy story, envisioned the Lakemen hiking up Erebor with their children hundreds of years hence, perhaps insisting that the carefully sculpted rock formations were simply natural phenomena, and that tales of the Dwarves who chiselled them were merely fancy. He thought of Orin, of all that he was, of his enthusiasm and determination, of the love for his mountain home that had led him to die in its defence, and he thought of all those very real sacrifices being forgotten, dismissed as a nonsense story for children. Rage and sorrow roared up in him, and it took him a few moments to quiet them and search for any consolation that could be found here.

'Strange indeed,' he managed at last, 'but I take comfort in the fact that the land itself will remember, even if its inhabitants forget. The stones will know who shaped them, and I daresay the trees will remember who tended them.'

'That is a comfort,' Legolas agreed, 'but tell me, Gimli, will the stones and the trees still sing of us if there are none left able to listen?'

Gimli shook his head slowly, and in bitter resignation, used Legolas' own phrasing back to him, echoing words spoken in this very city three months, an Age and a lifetime ago.

'To that the Dwarves know not the answer.'

'Sire?'

Aragorn wrenched his attention back from replaying the conversation that had led to his friend's sudden exit from his study, analysing every word he had said to try to work out what he had done to cause Legolas such distress. He had followed him to the door but Legolas was at his elven fastest, and would not heed Aragorn's calls, so the King had reluctantly conceded that the elf needed some time alone. But since then, he had been itching to get up and go after him, wondering after every few minutes if he had left it long enough. He gave his Steward a smile he didn't feel.

'My apologies, Faramir, my attention wandered.'

To your elven friend's upset. Yes, I am aware of that, my ridiculously compassionate King. Your attention has been with him since he left your study, naturally, his Steward thought wryly.

'Where were we?' Aragorn asked, giving a rather convincing air of studied nonchalance, which was nevertheless utterly transparent to Faramir. Out loud, the Steward answered,

'The resource sharing proposals with Rohan to present to the Council next week. Sire, may I make a suggestion?'

'You needn't ask permission every time, Faramir, speak freely.'

'Thank you, Sire. I was thinking that perhaps we might do more productive work on this matter once I have gathered more evidence. Perhaps we might postpone our discussion on this until tomorrow?'

Aragorn ran a distracted hand through his hair. 'Perhaps that might be best. And now?'

Faramir finally took the plunge and abandoned his formal charade, for the most part.

'Go to him, Sire. Go and find him. I do not believe your mind will rest until you know he is well. I beg your pardon if I have spoken out of turn, Sire.'

Aragorn blinked, stunned for a moment, before allowing a delighted grin to spread across his face as he rose and strode to the door.

'No pardon needed, Faramir, you have my every permission to direct me to follow my heart when I am feigning deafness to it. You really are a miracle of the Valar, you know that?'

And leaving Faramir to utter a confused 'Sire?' at his King's retreating back, Aragorn headed off to search for his elven friend. Once in the corridor, he took a deep breath and tried to imagine where Legolas would go if he were distressed. The answer, of course, was blindingly obvious as it hit him. He headed off on the quickest route outside at a run.

Once he reached the archway leading out into the main courtyard, he sighed in relief to see Gimli beside Legolas where they both knelt at the White Tree and began to wonder if his presence would be helpful or if he should just leave the situation in Gimli's capable hands. Just as Gimli had read Legolas' posture earlier though, Aragorn had grown knowledgeable about his companions' ways, and as he approached on silent feet, he noted with concern that both his friends seemed to be downcast, so he began to listen to their conversation as he came within range of hearing. That they were so lost in contemplation that they did not notice Aragorn's approach set another warning bell ringing in his mind.

'Funny, isn't it,' Gimli was saying, 'That for most of our existence our races have been at each other's throats, and yet we recede into twilight together. I don't know what to call it. Ironic, perhaps? Poetic justice?'

'A tragic irony,' Legolas asserted firmly, 'A tragic irony that we have wasted so much time on Age-old grudges and quarrels of superiority, only to learn too late that together we could have done so much more.'

'What's this I'm hearing about 'too late'?' Aragorn declared, clapping a hand on the shoulder of each of his friends, thus performing the remarkable feat of startling both an Elf and a Dwarf at the same time.

'The Age of Men is upon us, Aragorn,' Gimli stated seriously once he had recovered. 'You know that better than any. And Legolas and I were discussing the changes that are coming as our peoples disappear from this Middle Earth.'

'I see,' Aragorn commented, his tiredness suddenly becoming all the more visible in his expression. 'I do hope that the thought of entrusting these lands to Men is not as terrible as your faces make it appear. And Legolas, I apologise for my insensitivity earlier, I did not think and perhaps I misunderstood what you needed. Forgive me.'

'Nothing to forgive,' Legolas affirmed him, though his expression was still troubled. 'I am sorry.'

'What have you to be sorry for?' Aragorn asked, confused.

There were so many ways that Legolas could have answered that question.

Sorry that you have inherited a war-ravaged kingdom which will need all your hard work just to pull through the first winter.

Sorry that so many of the Elves are abandoning you to struggle through the aftermath of this victory and the grievous losses that come with it.

Sorry that I have been plagued with my own sorrows and fears at a time when I hoped to be assisting with all the new demands being heaped upon you.

Sorry that my own heart now listens to the incessant call of the Sea, even when I would have it listen to you instead.

Sorry that this victory is turning out to be more complicated than any of us could have imagined.

Legolas wasn't even sure himself what he was sorry for, whether he wanted to say all of it or none of it, so what he said in the end was rather different.

'The White Tree is dead.'

Aragorn glanced at him keenly, and Legolas felt for a moment that Aragorn had heard in those five words everything he didn't say.

'But the spirit of Men is not,' Aragorn affirmed quietly, and for a moment the early morning sun splintered through the White Tree's spindly branches and seemed to focus like a star upon his brow. He kneeled then and placed his hands atop his companions' where they were resting together on one of the tree roots.

'You prove that admirably every day,' Legolas acknowledged with a fragile smile.

'Aye. That you do,' Gimli agreed, but continued 'and after inhabiting this Middle Earth for Ages, our peoples have left a true challenge for that indomitable spirit, have we not?'

'A shattered shell of a White Tree to match a world shattered by the evil we courted, allowed to thrive on our prejudices and divisions, and failed to combat until it was almost too late,' Legolas elaborated on Gimli's statement, eyes falling to the ground as he found himself unable to look at Aragorn whilst speaking of the weight of the destruction he would need to bring his kingdom back from.

Aragorn looked between his friends, burdened by both their people's histories and their futures, and nodded as he reached a conclusion. He rose suddenly, encouraging his companions to do the same.

'I do believe,' he declared, 'that you are both suffering from an excess of symbolism. Come with me and we shall rectify that.'

He strode off in the direction of the City, discreetly tailed by his guards, and after exchanging a mystified glance, his friends followed him.

The walk was short, and since Aragorn seemed disinclined to explain himself and the others were lost in their thoughts, silent. They stopped when they reached what seemed like a fairly average Minas Tirith street in these times. Three of the shops had re-opened and were displaying their wares on trestles outside, and a few passers-by were idly inspecting them as they passed. The return of the street's inhabitants was signalled by smoke rising from several chimneys and the wet washing drying on lines strung out between the houses. There was some evidence of the damage caused by the war, but in a stroke of ingenuity a group of mud-smeared children had repositioned some of the rubble from a ruined house to make a court for their ball game. Oblivious to all else, including the strange trio who had just paused in the lee of an awning at a shopfront, the children threw themselves wholeheartedly into their game, letting the wind snatch away their shouts of triumph and quarrels over points. Aragorn saw his companions' curious glances, but instead of explaining why they were here, he announced something rather different, and instantly Gimli and Legolas set aside their own concerns on hearing it.

'I've been having doubts about whether I really am capable of ruling Gondor well.'

'Not this again, lad!' Gimli scolded affectionately, while Legolas sighed in exasperation before saying, 'Aragorn. We've been through this. You are intelligent man: surely you can see how much the people respect you, how beneficial all the decisions you've made are, how perfectly suited you are in personality to this role.'

'My ancestors, too, were intelligent, but they were led astray by dreams of power. That the Ring is destroyed does not render me immune to this weakness- I fear that I will fail my people by repeating my ancestors' mistakes. It is, after all, partly the fault of my bloodline that Minas Tirith suffered such devastating losses in the first place.'

'What would Mithrandir say to hear you speaking thus, Aragorn?' Legolas asked.

'I don't know. You tell me,' Aragorn countered with a gleam in his eye, confirming Legolas' growing suspicion that this crisis of confidence was more than it seemed. It was Gimli, however, who answered, speaking slowly as he too, realised what Aragorn was driving at,

'He would say that you are not your ancestors, and that all you have are the choices that are afforded to you. Your quality shows in those choices alone, and yours so far have been mighty fine, I might add. Therefore it is both nonsensical and futile to attempt to bear the guilt of your forebears on your own shoulders- oh.'

'Oh indeed,' Aragorn responded with fond amusement. 'Unless there's something big you're not telling me, I highly doubt that you two are solely responsible for all of the conflicts that have plagued Middle Earth in the past three Ages, so I'd thank you for not berating yourselves as if you are.'

'That was underhanded, Aragorn,' Legolas scowled, not quite managing to hide his relief and gratitude as Aragorn's words melted away some of his irrational guilt.

'Perhaps,' Aragorn agreed amiably, 'Simply payment in kind for all the time you've spent convincing me I'm not Isildur, mellon nín. And it was effective, was it not?'

'Very much so, lad,' Gimli agreed, and Legolas responded with an 'aye,' and a mock-exasperated shake of the head.

'For what it's worth,' Aragorn continued softly, after smiling in acknowledgement of this, 'I don't much care for the idea of one symbol to represent everything the Elves and Dwarves have given to Middle Earth. We speak of generations and generations of complex people with complicated motivations, and their mark on these lands is far too profound to be summarised so neatly. But if I had to choose one image to represent what you two, as individuals, have given to Gondor, it wouldn't be the dead White Tree. It would be this.'

With this, he made a gesture encompassing everything that surrounded them. 'A city returning to itself. Lives being rebuilt and carrying on despite Sauron's best efforts to stop that happening. And this, this resurrection, as it were, is thanks to you. You stood firm in the face of terrible danger, you marched with me to the gates of Mordor itself, you fought in defence of this city of Men unknown to you. And I do not forget your kinfolk in the North who fought Sauron there, either; without them, and without you, Minas Tirith would not be standing. Of course there is destruction here, but life has prevailed, because of all those who fought to see it do so. If you must have a symbol, I prefer this one.'

'Aye, well,' Gimli mused, his quiet voice and even tone not quite hiding how much he was moved by this. 'I think I do too.'

'You have grown into a fine orator, Estel,' Legolas murmured, pride and perhaps something else gleaming in his eyes.

'And I mean every word,' Aragorn reassured him. 'And I would know, if you care to share it, Legolas, precisely what it was about our discussion earlier that sent your thoughts down this path. I understand that speaking of the elven realms diminishing might have been painful, but I thought you were already aware of that.'

'Of course I was,' Legolas snapped, and then steadied himself. 'It is simply…different, knowing that it will happen, knowing it in theory, to encountering its effects first-hand, finding myself longing to stand firm and anchored here, even as the tide of my people's exodus threatens to pull me away. I had not felt it so deeply before.'

'I think I understand,' Aragorn nodded, 'And you know I respect your choices, whichever way you decide. But sometimes, I am unsure what you require of me when it is weighing on you.'

'Aye, you are most anxious to ensure I know that I am free to sail without your resentment. But there's something I'd like you to know too: I choose to stay, and nothing you can say will sway me. And in those times when I feel myself being pulled away, I need for you to be an anchor and remind me that I still have a place here. That despite the changing of the world, I will be welcome and wanted.'

'That's something I can do, most certainly. And there will be always be a welcome for you here, Legolas, I thought you knew that. I did not want you to feel that I was pressuring you to stay, but do not assume from that that I want you gone. That could not be further from the truth.'

'Good to know,' Legolas smiled in obvious relief, and they drew together and touched foreheads in a warrior's embrace.

When they pulled apart, Aragorn continued, 'I'm glad we clarified that. But how did you get from that feeling to assuming the guilt for all the problems in the world that Men are inheriting? Was it the dead White Tree?'

Gimli stepped in to explain then. 'Aye. We both realised more fully than ever before that the times of our respective peoples are ending, and we did that in the presence of a symbol of the violence and destruction that Middle Earth has endured. And as we thought on the ending of our times, we felt the weight of our history with all its mistakes which our peoples now have little time to put right, and the weight of a future in which those who gave their all to stand against evil at the end may not be remembered.'

Aragorn whistled low under his breath. 'No wonder you looked so maudlin! I hope at least that you feel the past to be less burdensome now you have remembered you cannot be entirely responsible for it.'

'Aye. But it is still jarring to me that those I have lost may be dismissed as non-existent by those who live in our woods in the centuries to come,' said Legolas.

'That is a painful thought indeed. But I wonder- I do not like thinking on this- but Eru forbid, if it were you who had fallen in defence of your home, would you want its future inhabitants to maintain a solemnly respectful remembrance of your sacrifice?'

A pause, while they both considered that, until Legolas said, 'I think not, actually. I would have died so that our forest could be free: I would want them to live without need to think of danger and death.'

'So would I, I think,' Aragorn agreed. 'I am reminded of something Halbarad said to me before we took the Paths of the Dead. I do not know those you have lost, so perhaps I presume too far in assuming they would share his sentiments. If they would have wanted their sacrifice to be remembered over the ages then sadly, there is little any of us can do, as none can dictate the future. But Hal, he said to me, 'when you come into your kingdom'- and that was Hal through and through, he had that unshakeable faith, always saying when and not if- 'when you come into your kingdom, you are like to inherit a city surrounded by battlefields. If I were you, I wouldn't let the approach to my city be ever mournful. Grieving will have to happen, but you'll have the graves for that. Turn what remains of the battlefields into meadows, my lad, and bring life back into that place of death. And as for me-''

Aragorn choked on the words and had to stop for a second to collect himself, barely noticing the firm, anchoring dwarvish hand curling around his arm or the whispering comfort of elvish fingers circling lightly on his back. He took a few steadying breaths and continued in an almost-whisper.

''As for me,' Hal said, 'if I should fall, then I don't want people to stop and sorrow at the spot where it happens. I wouldn't want them to mark it at all. I'd want them to race horses in sport over it, to bring their children to fly their kites there, to dance there in the springtime. And wherever I am then, I'll be laughing in joy, laughing at Sauron and saying we won.''

Aragorn gave a grateful smile to his two companions, finally seeming to register that his left hand was being gently cradled in both of Gimli's and that Legolas had drawn him in to rest against his side.

'I intend to ensure that Halbarad gets his wish,' Aragorn declared, the slight waver in his voice only adding to the conviction of the sentiment.

'And so do we, now we know,' Legolas replied while Gimli nodded vigorously in agreement. 'When we replant the Pelennor next spring, I shall think of him, and sing my songs of renewal in his honour.'

'He'd like that,' Aragorn murmured. 'Songs of renewal, rather than laments. It would be fitting.'

Silence descended for a few moments, as all three warriors thought of those they had lost, and the complexities of memory and mourning. Gimli spoke at last.

'Halbarad had the right of it, I think. We've all lost people, we all grieve, and that's right and as it should be. But we won, and it's also right that we rejoice in the lifting of the darkness that plagued us. I think those we lost would be the first to tell us to celebrate what they died to give to us. We owe our noble lost companions our respect and our grief for their deaths. But perhaps we owe them our joy, too.'

'Well said, elvellon,' Legolas smiled. 'And it is for future ages to choose what they remember, and if we become simply a fable to them, then so be it. It is for us to honour those we lost by living in this present moment that they died to secure for us.'

The three of them may have continued in that vein for quite a while, perhaps even talking themselves into a greater melancholy with their eloquent statements of the joy they owed their lost companions. However, fate, or perhaps the Valar, intervened in the form of a very muddy inflated pig's bladder, the makeshift ball from the children's game on the other side of the street. The three companions had become accustomed to the noises emanating from the ruined house, and were largely blocking them out, hence they didn't register the shouted warning as one of the older boys missed his aim and ended up pelting the ball straight into the back of Gimli's head.

Gimli flinched, then reached around to investigate the offending object, but Legolas got there first, snatched it up and began to toss it absentmindedly from palm to palm. Three children came haring down from their impromptu court and skidded to a halt as they realised that their unintentional victims were none other than those great personages they had only seen from a distance during Aragorn's triumphal entry to the city. For a moment the two trios regarded each other.

The two younger children were open-mouthed and staring with unabashed curiosity, but the boy who had thrown the ball reacted first, stumbling into a clumsy bow and stuttering out apologies. The girl to his left interrupted him.

'Are you going to chop us heads off for treapson?' she asked, eyes impossibly wide, seemingly more in a sort of morbid fascination than in fear, though.

Aragorn cast an amused glance at his companions and stroked his beard in mock thoughtfulness.

'Hmmmm. I am yet to pass judgement. What say you, my trusted advisors? Should we throw these little miscreants in the dungeons for ever and ever?'

'I say nay, my lord,' Legolas asserted, 'In fact, I think you should reward them for providing an invaluable service.'

'Indeed, you speak truly, our dear Dwarf is out of practice at having things thrown at him, since you have neglected to do so since the early days of our Quest. These kind souls have remedied that,' Aragorn quipped back, enjoying himself more with every word. Gimli started sputtering incoherently, more to entertain the children than out of any real upset. The youngest child giggled at him.

'A reward in the shape of the return of their plaything, then, perhaps?' Aragorn suggested, and Legolas casually strolled over to the children. The older boy sighed in relief, reassured that these strange noble heroes of the war really were only teasing them.

Legolas squatted down before the children, as if about to return to the ball, but he suddenly paused.

'Really, my liege, that is most ungenerous of you. The ball belongs to them anyway, so clearly that is not an adequate reward. And that reminds me, I have been remiss in my duties towards someone else as well...' And before Aragorn had time to process the warning, Legolas had winked at the older boy, swivelled on his heel, and sent the ball sailing right over into Aragorn's face, leaving a glorious streak of mud along his cheek.

'Why you impertinent elfling!' Aragorn exclaimed, sending it right back in Legolas' direction. He was ready for this and ducked, meaning that Aragorn's shot hit one of the children instead. Aragorn froze in concern for a moment and began to apologise profusely…until the boy laughed and retaliated, giving him a streak of mud across the other cheek to match his first. And then,

And then…

When they looked back on that day later, none of them could quite figure out exactly how it happened. All they knew was that somehow, not long after that, they were all being introduced to the children's friends and accepted as honorary members of their crew, and Aragorn was explaining that when he wore his crown he was King Elessar, but when he didn't they had his special permission to call him 'Estel.' Things progressed quickly after that, and Aragorn found himself receiving an essential education in the wide variety of Gondorian street games facilitated by a pig's bladder; Legolas was looking quite the 'overgrown Gondorian street urchin', much to Gimli's delight, after a determined group of girls had wheedled him into letting them braid his hair; and Gimli had acquired a limpet in the form of the youngest child, who was quite determined in her attempts to bury herself completely beneath his beard. Soon enough, the various groups of children scattered among the ruined houses began to coalesce, and the whisper ran through them like wildfire: 'we're going to play Pelennor!' When this reached the ears of the children's guests, they exchanged uneasy glances, the wildly light-hearted mood that had cannoned into them with the children's ball dissipating just as quickly as it had come. They didn't want to bring down the joyful mood or reject the children's company after having been accepted in so warmly, but that day still held horrific memories for them all, even though the battle ended in triumph. Aragorn felt the eyes of his companions on him: they knew that he had suffered the greatest loss that day, and they were letting him call this decision. He closed his eyes and tried to think. One part of him instinctively rebelled: the thought that perhaps they were going to act out Halbarad's valiant death as entertainment sickened him, and he felt the urge to flee rather than witness that. But then he heard the deep, contemplative tones of his standard bearer and mentor speaking in his mind, saying, 'turn the battlefields into meadows, my lad.' He remembered the many times that he had visited Hal's home, and delighted his lieutenant's young children by joining in their games, impersonating trolls and orcs and on one memorable occasion, a giant spider, as their imaginary situations demanded. And he remembered that he had never seen Hal so contented as at those times when he would puff his pipe stretched out by the fire, amusement and sheer delight twinkling in his eyes as he watched 'Uncle Strider' tumble about with his children. And Aragorn knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that if Hal could have chosen a memorial, this would be it. He took a deep breath, nodded, grinned and turned to the children. 'I take it we're playing ourselves then?'

This was met with general protest. One of the girls stepped forward and explained very patiently and slowly, as if speaking to a fussy younger sibling, that they had already had a turn being themselves and now they had to play nicely and let someone else have a go. Suitably chastened, and studiously not looking at each other lest they catch each other's eyes and dissolve into laughter, they submitted to the children's casting decisions. It was agreed that Legolas made a spectacularly evil Witchking, who was later skilfully taken down by three terrifying miniature Eowyns and two Merrys, a situation contrived to prevent a quarrel over who got 'the best parts.' And of course, their outrage that the Three Hunters were deemed decent parts but not the best was feigned…mostly. Gimli's role was taken care of when his new friend scrambled atop his shoulders and declared, 'you olifont. Me wider.' The Dwarf obliged with some impressive trumpeting sound effects, and that was that.

Aragorn's orc commander yielded with much dramatic snarling and growling to a team of Swan Knights just after the arrival of Rohan, so he retreated to the side-lines with the other 'dead' to watch the proceedings. So it was that he could watch the arrival of the Corsair ships (broken pieces of wooden signage, the children sitting atop them, being heaved along like sleds), and his miniature self charging into battle. And he couldn't look away from the boy holding a ragged end of cloth aloft, waving it proudly, fighting beside 'Aragorn,' with whom he was clearly friends. The standard bearer sent two orcs and Gimli's 'oliphaunt' into the 'dead zone,' before finally being surrounded and tackled to the ground. Aragorn had mentally braced himself for this, and it did not pain him to watch as much as he was expecting. He was, however, unprepared for the searing pang of grief that tore through him as 'Halbarad' scrambled up to his feet and ran cheerily across the battlefield to join the other dead. It only underlined with brutal poignancy that when his Hal was killed, he did not get back up. It took an almost inhuman effort to smile along with the others as 'Halbarad' started excitedly reliving his best moments from the battle to his friends. Aragorn didn't think his emotions could possibly be wrenched any more than they were, but as he listened to the boy's conclusion, he realised how wrong he was.

'Being Halbarad was so much fun! Even better than when I was Imrahil and I got to command the Swan Knights. Did you see how many I got before I died? I fought them all, even when I was surrounded, and never let go of the standard because I defended it with my life. Wasn't I valiant and loyal, Estel?'

His throat had clenched up so tightly he had no idea how he would bring himself to speak. But even through eyes swimming with tears he could see that a child was looking up at him for affirmation, and he was not going to confuse him with silence. He forced air into his unwilling lungs and managed to choke out the words, although when he did, he found he wasn't sure which Halbarad he was talking to.

'Aye. That you were. The best standard bearer I could have asked for.'

He tried fruitlessly to pull himself together and smile at the boy, but it was no use. All he could do was shut his eyes against the oncoming flood of tears and curse himself for bringing the sorrows of the real battle into the children's game of make-believe. He felt arms circling his waist, and his eyes shot open, releasing the tears he had been holding back, to see 'Halbarad' firmly embracing him around the middle. The other children had drawn away from them, for the most part, clamouring around the just-slain Woodelf Witchking. Aragorn was aware of Gimli hovering just behind him, ready to step in if Aragorn needed him.

'I'm sorry I made you sad,' the boy said, leaning his head penitently against Aragorn's side.

'Don't be sorry. I'm sorry I spoilt your game,' Aragorn tried to reassure him, but his voice still shook, traitorous thing, and the tears kept spilling over even as he swatted them away.

'You didn't spoil it, silly. We're in the dead zone so it doesn't matter. And it's alright to miss him,' the boy informed him matter-of-factly. 'I still miss my big brother. He died too, but he doesn't get a part when we play 'Pelennor.''

Those words twisted inside Aragorn like a knife as he realised just how many of his subjects would be mourning someone who didn't get a part in 'Pelennor,' someone whose name would never make it into songs or stories, someone who may never even be part of a number, whose only existence in the history of this extraordinary war would hover, elusive, behind the phrase 'grievous losses.' And the pressing desire to do something, anything at all to make this right gave him the urgency he needed to pull himself together as he squatted down to be at eye level with 'Halbarad' and gazed at him seriously.

'And that doesn't make his sacrifice any less than Halbarad's, understand? Your brother did a very brave and noble thing when he died in defence of his home, and it is because of him and all the others like him that we are both alive today. And it is a terrible sorrow that his name is not being honoured across the whole world, when this world would not be safe and free without him. Not all deeds of valour make it into the songs. Do you know that?'

'Halbarad' stared into the King's sorrowful, imploring eyes, not entirely sure what was being demanded of him. The boy couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

'Course I know that,' he replied, as if Aragorn had just told him that apples grow on trees, 'And what does he need the whole world to honour him for? He's got me. And me Mam and Da.'

Aragorn blinked, stunned. Could it really be that simple? Was he tormenting himself over the fall into anonymity of thousands of soldiers, when in fact they were not anonymous in the only way that mattered- in the hearts of those they loved? Given the conversation earlier, he found himself wishing that Legolas and Gimli were hearing this too, glanced around and saw that fortuitously, Legolas had made his way over and they were both there. Their faces made it very clear both that they had heard and that they were feeling as Aragorn felt, strangely astonished at hearing a Gondorian nine-year-old voice the answer to their deepest fears.

'What do our fallen comrades need the honour of all future ages? They have us,' Legolas murmured in awe.

'And we will not let them down,' Gimli agreed quietly.

'Halbarad,' however, had missed this quiet exchange and was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot under the joint scrutiny of his new king and his famous brothers-in-arms.

'Well, it's true!' he defended himself. 'What would Andil- that's my brother- want with a lot of people he doesn't know singing about him? Where's the use in that? We can remember him right, because we know him. Mam and Da don't do it properly, though. They keep talking like he never did anything wrong, but that's not true! He widdled in the cabbage patch when he came home drunk one night and Mam scolded him forever, but no-one else talks about that anymore, so I think they're leaving it to me to remember that.'

That did it. Aragorn let out a bright peal of laughter, loud and free although it was still mingled with his tears, and opened his arms wide. Slightly startled, 'Halbarad' stepped into his sovereign's embrace.

'You're absolutely right,' Aragorn told him, 'you just keep remembering him as he was and that's the greatest honour you can give him. He's lucky to have you.'

It was clear that the boy thought his King had gone completely mad, and his baffled expression was the final straw for Legolas and Gimli, who simultaneously gave up the fight to contain their own laughter. 'Halbarad' shook his head, evidently concluding that these people may be heroes, but they were all clearly bonkers. He patted Aragorn on the back a few times and said, 'There, there, Estel. It's alright. Anyway, we all have to get ready now.'

'Ready for what?' Aragorn asked him, and 'Halbarad' pointed back to the battle.

'The best part!' he exclaimed.

'Aragorn' had found a convenient pile of rubble and was holding 'Anduril' (a stick) aloft in a very self-conscious heroic pose.

'I summon the army of the Dead! Join me in my noble to cause to free the great city of Minas Tirith!'

With a roar, all those in the 'dead zone' plunged back into the game and the Three Hunters were swept along with the tide.

'But…I dismissed the Dead after Pelargir,' Aragorn protested weakly, being tugged along by 'Halbarad.'

'Well, you shouldn't have done, they could have been useful!' the nine-year-old scolded him.

'Dramatic licence, laddie,' Gimli chipped in, running alongside him, 'just go with it.'

Aragorn shrugged, and did.

Hence, the Three Hunters had the slightly surreal experience of running into the fray after a miniature Aragorn, as members of the Army of the Dead. Aragorn was fairly certain that the Dead had not made 'woooo' noises, but he supposed that since they were adding an extra army to the battle of the Pelennor anyway, a little more dramatic licence couldn't hurt, and found himself 'woooooing' enthusiastically with the best of them.

And later, as they walked back to the palace, mud-spattered and laughing with an abandon they had not felt for a long time, the three of them finally accepted, deep in their hearts, the victory that came along with the grievous losses. The victory that was children still playing in the streets of Minas Tirith, turning the rubble into a court and the battle into game. The victory that was shopkeepers returning to the city that had so recently been a garrison, and passers-by feeling safe enough to stop and idly peruse their wares. The victory in the myriad tiny triumphs of ordinary, uncontrolled life, that Sauron had failed to destroy in his quest for domination.

Learning to believe in this victory, of course, did not mean that the sorrow of those grievous losses disappeared. They all thought of their fallen comrades, sometimes with a bittersweet pang at moments of joy that they wished their friends were alive to see. Aragorn thought of Halbarad, two years later, as he opened the first Spring Festival on the Pelennor and watched the horses galloping proudly across a battlefield that had become a meadow. Legolas thought of Aratur, Brondir and Thelion as he led the elves following him to Ithilien south through a wood that, despite its burn scars, now truly merited the name Eryn Lasgalen. And Gimli was nearly overwhelmed as, concentrating hard to stop his hands from shaking, he carved a motif from Orin's last sketches into the Minas Tirith gates.

None can know what awaits mortals outside the Circles of the World, and Mandos' Halls too remain mysterious to those who have not passed through them. So perhaps these visions were comforting fantasies to help the living survive their losses; or perhaps they truly were intimations of things to come. Nevertheless, on those occasions when their absent friends were most sorely missed, sometimes Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli would fancy they heard a familiar laugh on the wind, and a cherished voice whispering we won.

And what we won was beautiful indeed.