Epilogue

Aragorn feels the living light pulsing in his hand. How often did he watch it, on the velvety canopy of night, sailing across the sky as a sign that even in the greatest darkness, the light of hope shines? But was it just the light, or also the presence of the man that bore it? The white ship is shattered, and will sail the heavens no more... He feels Daenar's hand touching his, trembling slightly. A creature of darkness... A purest light in his right hand, and darkness in the left. And he feels like a connection between them, a balance that comes after a great loss.

He feels the Silmaril stirring in the song that sounds around them, the white flame in its heart burning brighter than ever, as if in joyful anticipation. Something compels Aragorn to look up, and he sees it. The matching light, like two stars of a constellation of three, calling to complete their unity. Nearing...

Steps approaching. The face of a man, the light of Silmarils reflecting in his eyes and mixing in the fire of his spirit, burning bright within their depths. Fëanor. Aragorn recognizes him immediately, not by the appearance, but the very essence of his being, burning strong in harmony with the Silmaril in his hand.

"My Lord..." he whispers hoarsely, and extends his hand with the holy jewel in offering. "Take the light that was Gil-Estel... Dark was its fate, imprisoned in Morgoth's crown, the price of a bride most fair that led to spilling of the blood in Doriath. My Lord, when you take it, remember the man that cleansed it from the blood lingering on it, and made it a sign of hope..."

Fëanor bows his head solemnly, and takes the light gently in his hand, careful like with a little child. For a moment, their eyes meet. All oaths are fulfilled...

With the Silmaril gone, it is dark. Aragorn kneels without motion, following the receding light. A hand on his shoulder brings him back to the present. He looks at Daenar.

"Let's go home..." the vampire says simply.

"Home?" Aragorn asks, and Daenar smiles slightly. "I would like to have one..."

Aragorn clasps his hand. "Yes, let's go home... I would like to see the White City again..."

Daenar helps him to his feet, and together they leave the battlefield, walking slowly. Out of sight, a winged figure ascends into the air, carrying another.

The journey should take much longer... but it is as if it was not the Sea that passed below, but a mere thought. And there it is, standing proudly beneath the slope of Mindolluin. It is dark yet, and the White City is like a pale beauty of the moon mirrored in the calm waters of a lake. A song is in the air, about growth and renewal. And suddenly, like in the first ray of a dawn, the white towers lit up, shining with the purity of the first snow in the morning. But it is not Sun that is rising on the sky. On the square before Ecthelion's tower, the leaves of the White Tree whisper in the air, its blossoms like little stars. Like the star of Eärendil... And Aragorn knows - the Two Trees shine again...

They land on the square, and like in a dream, they enter the tower together. Everything is like Aragorn remembers, but it looks even more real, more vivid than in his memories. But the last weeks are taking their toll on him, and he leans on Daenar heavily when walking the familiar corridors.

"My rooms..." he smiles slightly, when they reach the door.

Daenar nods. "Get some rest, my friend... If you allow me, I think I will search your wine cellars meanwhile..." he pauses, and smiles bitterly, "...to celebrate the victory."

Aragorn sighs. "I will join you... later."

Then he lies on the bed, and soft light is pouring through the windows. Half-asleep, he feels gentle hands removing his boots and covering him with a sheet. He would recognize the touch anywhere. Arwen... is his last thought before falling into deep, renewing sleep.