Chapter 18

So this is the final chapter. I want to thank absolutely everyone who has read this story, because it means a huge amount to me that you enjoy my works and come back, chapter after chapter. To those who have reviewed, whether you have only done it once, or for every chapter, I am so very grateful. I try to reply to all of you every time (so sorry if I have ever missed you!) but this is my overall, final thank you. Thank you! Writing can be lonely if nobody is there to read it, but you guys are all here, and I am very, very grateful for it.

There is no epilogue to this piece of work, no neat way to round off all of the story in one go. To write such a thing would not be deserving of the spirit of the story, and the spirit of how Tolkien wrote Middle Earth. Such events as these cannot be resolved in a year, let alone the length of one story. It is a continual fight, a never ceasing battle, yet there I believe that there is hope, here, at the end.

This story in particular means quite a lot for me. I wrote some parts of this, particularly parts within these last chapters, when I was going through a bit of a rough time last winter. It would mean a lot to me if you would take the time to read the last few paragraphs of this story carefully. I think not enough people hear this message, sometimes, and if you are ever struggling, please, think of these last words that I have written. I hope that they can help.

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1

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Dawn in Gondor used to be a slow thing. The sun would creep over the Ephel Duath, and it seemed like it would spend the early hours of the morning pushing through the haze that always seemed to hang over the mountains. Only a few hours before noon would the sun finally break through and hang high in the sky, and as the years drew closer to the end, shortening to months and then weeks, the days seemed to shorten, dawn slowly fading into dusk without much else in between.

Now, though the sun rose exactly as it had before the twenty fifth of March, it was vastly different. The haze drifting over the mountains was merely the morning mist rolling off the forests of Ithilien, the sun glancing through the mist and falling first on the foothills of the Ephel Duath and then Ithilien, before finally reaching out to touch the wide open space of the Pelennor.

There came a soft sound from behind Legolas, who was sat on the wall on the edge of the courtyard, and the blond elf turned to see Faramir walking towards him. He smiled softly. "The sun has not yet fully risen," he said. "Surely you can have a few more hours sleep?"

Faramir shook his head with a smile. "It is not too early," he said, coming to lean on the courtyard wall next to Legolas. "And once awake I will not sleep again." It didn't matter whether he woke up with Eowyn in his arms as the light filtered through the curtains, or with a quickly muffled shout, nearly falling off the edge of the bed. Once awake, he knew he would not go back to sleep.

His gaze flitted to the sunrise, and he smiled. "A reassuring thing to watch, I think," he murmured. The quiet of the morning did not lend itself to loud voices.

Legolas nodded, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. "The sun used to rise like this over Erebor," he said. "In the forest, you could not see much of the sunrise through the trees. If the sun broke its way through the trees, then it could be beautiful, but the canopy is rather thick in some places."

He sighed softly. "But if on the eastern border patrol, on the edge of the forest, or if you found a high enough tree near the stronghold, you could watch the sunrise in the east. It would climb up over Erebor, and Andnen would gleam in the morning sunlight." He shook his head slightly as he smiled, seemingly remembering old memories.

"Andnen?" asked Faramir.

"The name in Sindarin for the Long Lake," said Legolas with a smile. "Even after knowing your language for hundreds of years, it is sometimes easy to forget." He chuckled. "Your tongue is a strange one, I must admit."

Faramir shrugged. "I could say the same thing about Sindarin. I have learnt what I have had time for from the archives, but my vocabulary is woefully depleted."

Legolas laughed. "When we return, Belhadron and I will teach you. It should not take too long to learn."

"You are leaving soon?" asked Faramir. It had been a week or so since they returned from Ithilien, and the weight of the most recent death, the Ranger, has lessened. He felt a little guilty about that, but as Eowyn had rather sternly told him, they had done what was necessary to survive, and he should not feel guilt over it.

Legolas nodded. "In a few days. We must return home, at least for a few years. The forests need healing before we look beyond our borders." He smiled softly. "But a few years is not so long for an elf."

Faramir chuckled under his breath, and the two of them fell silent, watching as the rays of sunlight slowly moved towards them across Ithilien. The wind was blowing slightly from the east, and even in Minas Tirith, both Faramir and Legolas could smell a hint of the sweet air of the woods.

"Ithilien is young," said Legolas with a soft smile. "And will, I think, be a welcome change for some. It may take some time, but," he said with a chuckle. "We are elves, and at home in any trees."

"Belhadron certainly seemed it," said Faramir with a smile. "He tried to explain, how he could...talk to the forest, I suppose? That is the wrong word, of course, but-"

"I know what you mean," said Legolas. "And it is a hard thing to explain. Trees cannot talk, not unless they are Ents, and we cannot talk to birds and beasts such as we are talking now. But we can, for lack of a better explanation, sense the undercurrent running through all things wild. Birds back home have known us for so long that we can, in all essence, speak with them, and the trees are almost the same."

"Belhadron has always been more sensitive to it than I have," Legolas said. Faramir raised one eyebrow in surprise, and Legolas nodded. "I am not truly a Silvan elf, though there is little distinction now except in blood. But I have Sindarin blood, not Silvan, and though we are both elves of the forests, Silvan elves are closer, in a way, to the song left by the Valar. Belhadron is fully Silvan. It is what has made him such a good tracker, I think."

Faramir shook his head slightly, and Legolas laughed. "You hear the tales of the First Age, of Gondolin, Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the War of Wrath, and all that time there were elves this side of Ered Luin. And though tales are known of Doriath, of the Sindar elves from which I am descended, the Noldor wrote it."

Faramir laughed. "I suppose they did," he said. History had a habit of becoming a little biased towards those who had the quills in their hands.

"How many do you think would come from Eryn Lasgalen?" asked Faramir, leaning more heavily on the stone wall. Below them the city was beginning to wake as the sun steadily meandered towards it, and the noise of the first market stalls could just be heard. Legolas shrugged.

"At least a few hundred," said Legolas. "Maybe more. I do not know exactly. Home feels more…distant now, since I returned, as if I no longer understand it as well as I used to." He chuckled wryly. "I suppose that is what comes of leaving just before the war had truly arrived on our doorstep." His voice sounded bitter, almost guilty, even though his rational mind knew full well he could not have changed the outcome in Mirkwood much.

Faramir shook his head. "We both know that there was never any chance of us coming through unscathed," he said. "We knew that as soon as we picked up weapons, I think, as soon as the first person lay dead because of us. We knew there would always be scars, if the wounds did not kill us in the first place." As he spoke, his hand almost unconsciously drifted up to the puckered skin high on his chest, where the Southron dart had struck a little over a year ago.

Legolas nodded, his face a little shadowed by some mixture of emotion that Faramir suspected was all too familiar to any soldier now. But it was less than it perhaps had been a few weeks ago, less than the initial weeks and months after the war was won when everyone's faces seemed to be veiled, when they thought nobody was looking.

"They say time heals all wounds," murmured Legolas after a moment. The corners of his lips twitched in a wry smile. "Whoever they are, they have never lived an elven life."

"They have never lived through something like this," pointed out Faramir. "I doubt they actually exist at all. It seems like they are the people who everyone seems to talk about, but when you search, can't seem to be found."

Legolas laughed. "That sounds true," he said with a smile. He chuckled again, and the talk turned to lighter things, idle conversation as they watched the sunrise. At one point, Legolas laughed, leaning back dangerously far on the wall, and Faramir started. Legolas chuckled. "I would not fall," he said with a smile.

Faramir shook his head. "I did not think you would," he said. "Not after seeing your impressive display a few days ago."

He had seen Legolas fight, and he had seen Belhadron fight, but until a few days ago, he had never seen two elves fight one another. It had, to say the least, been breathtaking.

Legolas and Belhadron were near perfectly matched, and had each had one of Legolas' wickedly sharp hunting knives. The grace with which they had moved, slashes and parries and footwork that was too fast for Faramir's eyes to follow, it had been something Faramir had never seen before. For a few brief moments he wished he could live long enough to be able to fight with such skill, but then he remembered exactly why Legolas and Belhadron had needed to become so good, and he stopped wishing.

The first match had ended when Belhadron, seemingly giving up a little on the elegance and grace of the elves, got inside Legolas' guard and bodily slammed him, knocking him to the floor and pressing his knife to Legolas' throat. The blond elf had just lain there and laughed, grabbing hold of Belhadron's arm and kicking his legs out from underneath him, flipping him so the dark-haired elf was on the ground as well.

It had taken a minute and Aragorn threatening them in a rush of Sindarin to get them both up and back on their feet, large smiles on both of their faces. They had begun again, and Faramir could see the two elves becoming less and less serious, until their final bout ended with both of them on the floor, again, in peals of merry laughter.

Still, Faramir had never seen two people move so fast. He said so, and Legolas chuckled.

"I think that was because Belhadron has not sparred simply for the sheer pleasure of it for a long time, and as such, was rather enjoying himself." He laughed again, remembering the slightly sloppy blows that followed whenever either of them pulled off a more complicated manoeuvre, the large grin that had been on Belhadron's face when Legolas had fallen to the floor.

It had been a while since Legolas had handed Belhadron one of his knives as well. It had been amusing for Legolas, as Belhadron had very occasionally forgotten he had a knife, not a sword, and attempted something that, whilst would have expertly disarmed Legolas with a sword, had fantastically failed with a hunting knife. If both of them had been serious, had been sparring to train, to get better for the next skirmish, then that would not have happened, because almost every elf in Mirkwood had known how to fight with pretty much every weapon. But the war was over now, and they had merely been having fun.

Besides, they all had favourites anyway. Legolas had always known he was going to be an archer, without a doubt, and he had never much liked picking up a sword. Belhadron, on the other hand, had always gravitated to the sword, and had only really picked up the bow once becoming Legolas' second. The sword at his side now was actually Legolas' old blade, the one he had hardly ever used and had given to Belhadron when the dark-haired elf had lost his in the Forest River.

Legolas paused, and then the sound of feet of feet on the stone floors reached Faramir's ears as well. He turned to see Aragorn and Belhadron coming through the citadel doors, the guards bowing to Aragorn, who nodded back. The man and elf were talking animatedly about something, Belhadron laughing at something Aragorn was saying.

Legolas smiled as the two joined them by the wall of the courtyard. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to guess words in each other's language," replied Belhadron with a grin. Aragorn murmured a Westron translation to Faramir, who smiled, before continuing to speak with Belhadron. The dark-haired elf was guessing the meaning of Westron words that Aragorn gave him, and Aragorn in turn was attempting to work out Silvan words given to him by Belhadron.

"Is Silvan much different from Sindarin?" Faramir asked of Legolas. The blond elf shrugged.

"Technically, they are both Sindarin, but elves east of the Hithaeglir speak it with a Silvan dialect. But they have become so separate that they are essentially two different tongues." He listened in to Aragorn and Belhadron, and chuckled.

"You are both wrong," he said clearly. "You've lost some in translation, I think."

"By all means, enlighten us," said Aragorn with a smile, and Legolas chuckled, pointing out some finer details of the translation from Sindarin to Westron that had undoubtedly been forced into him at a young age by tutors.

Belhadron chuckled slightly from where he was standing in between Legolas and Faramir. His gaze drifted over to the east, to the rising sun, and his smile softened.

Faramir glanced over at him. "It is a good view, from up here," he said quietly. Belhadron nodded.

"In the woods you cannot see Anar rise," he said. "This is different." His accent was less, after only a few weeks, and Faramir pointed it out with a smile. Belhadron nodded slightly. "The tongue is more easy-"

"Easier," corrected Faramir automatically, and then froze for a second, before the dark-haired elf beside him chuckled.

"That does not make sense," he complained with a wry smile. "It will be a long time before I can speak your tongue with ease. But it is…easier." Legolas shifted on the wall, still debating with Aragorn, and Belhadron immediately glanced over. Once reassured that there was nothing wrong, he turned back to Faramir, who had a slight smile on his face. He took a pause to arrange the words in his head before speaking.

"Someone has to watch his back," he said. He fell silent, watching the sun, and Legolas, without turning from his conversation with Aragorn, shifted so he was pressing slightly against Belhadron's shoulder.

Faramir stood up from where he had been leaning a little on the wall. "If you will excuse me, my Lords, I promised Eowyn I would ride out with her across the Pelennor this morning."

Aragorn nodded, stepping back a little to allow Faramir to stand away from the wall. "Of course," he said. "Have a good day." Faramir nodded with a smile at both Legolas and Belhadron, and then walked away into the citadel.

Belhadron sighed slightly, and vaulted up onto the stone wall, drawing his legs up so he was sat with his knees to his chest, facing east along the wall. Legolas slid off the stone and came to stand beside Aragorn as they watched the sun meander up over Ephel Duath.

He murmured a phrase in Silvan that made Aragorn frown. "What does that mean?" he asked, and Legolas chuckled.

"He said 'it is' and then a word that's going to be quite hard to decide. There isn't an exact Westron translation, I don't think, and even in Sindarin it is a little dubious. It is one of those words which means an entire phrase in any other language. The closest I can come is probably 'the sudden and unexplainable feeling of calm', I think, although it could also be translated as 'the feeling of walking through the woods alone', if Elladan and Elrohir have a say in it."

Aragorn chuckled. "Is that meant to be a good thing?" he asked. "Considering the woods you two grew up in, I would not like to walk alone in them."

Belhadron shot a mock glare at Aragorn. "Our woods are perfectly fine, thank you very much," he said, but he was grinning as he said it. "If you do not count the spiders."

Both Aragorn and Legolas chuckled, and their talk turned to idle things, flimsy plans for Ithilien and the future, news from Dale and Erebor and Eryn Lasgalen, even the weather. Aragorn at one point pulled the pipe and his pouch of tobacco from one pocket, and Belhadron wrinkled his nose.

"If you are going to wreathe yourself in smoke, then I will not stay around to breathe it in," he said with a grin, slipping down from the wall. "I was meaning to check on Ascar and Arod this morning anyway," he said. "I will find you later."

"You know your way?" asked Aragorn, and Belhadron nodded, walking off towards the entrance to the sixth level, the stone white steps that, in a few hours, would be gleaming in the sunlight.

Legolas watched him go, and then turned back to Aragorn, looking pointedly at him until Aragorn sighed, admitted defeat, and put his pipe back in a pocket. Legolas smiled in satisfaction. "It is a strange habit you, the Halflings and Mithrandir have. You do realise that people, especially fragile mortals-" At that, Aragorn chuckled and half-heartedly swatted at Legolas' shoulder. The blond elf merely grinned, and continued.

"-That people are not made to inhale smoke. I cannot understand why you would do that to yourself."

Aragorn laughed. "It's relaxing?" he offered. "Truthfully, I'm not sure. It was something the Dunedain did, and as a young impressionable Ranger, I tried it. You do get used to it."

Legolas shook his head. "It is the strangest mortal habit I have ever come across," he said with a smile. Aragorn laughed softly, and shifted so he was leaning slightly against Legolas.

"Do you think…" he started, and then paused, shaking his head. "Never mind."

"What is it?" asked Legolas, his voice soft. They watched the sun meander up over Ephel Duath, grey eyes and silver blue tracking it as colour slowly flooded into the sky. Aragorn sighed softly, a small smile coming across his face.

"I was just thinking," he said. "That this is it. This is what we have won, what we have gained. And it's by no means perfect."

"It's far, far better than what could have been," pointed out Legolas with a wry smile. "Although we paid a heavy price, all of us, to get here. And I think that sometimes, everything…before? That was a lot easier." It seemed selfish and cruel to say it, for before they had won the war people were dying and the world was dark. But they had had a purpose, they had known what they had had to do, and they had been able to have hope in the face of their inevitable failure that they would, at least, die doing the right thing.

And then they triumphed. It was still so much to take in.

Aragorn shrugged, and leant his weight into Legolas a little bit. His grey eyes stayed east, the morning sun glinting off them and turning them into the colour of the glowing ash embers of a fire.

"We will always be, for lack of a better word, damaged," he said, guessing the thoughts running through the blond elf's head. "It became inevitable the moment we stepped up to become what we had to be in order to survive, in order to challenge what so many had challenged before us. And to triumph we had to become even more, I think."

Legolas nodded slightly, and Aragorn continued, the words suddenly flowing from his mouth as he stood in the morning quiet, Ithilien aglow in the distance, the Anduin a smooth ribbon of silver before them.

"It was this or death. It has always been this or death. You and I both know that there is no world where we can circle back to the beginning, to that point where we were, mostly, whole."

Legolas smiled softly as Aragorn spoke, and then the smile widened and he laughed, a merry sound spiralling into the warm morning air. "We may not need to," he said, tearing his gaze from the sunrise in front of them and looking over at Aragorn. His face looked young, to the man, something he had barely seen in the months they journeyed together.

"We do not need to go back," he repeated, and his gaze journeyed over the courtyard, the ornate doors of the citadel, the White Tree growing tall in the courtyard, to fall back on Aragorn. The man smiled at him, and though the years did not leave him, the weight on his shoulders lessened and he seemed to stand a little straighter.

"We survived the war," Legolas said, looking out across the Pelennor once again. "We survived the battles, survived the years of running and fighting and shadows. We will survive the scars everything has left us with. And we can survive this, I think. Surviving peace is not something either of us have ever done before, but I think we can try."

Aragorn smiled. "What is the Silvan word for peace?" he asked suddenly, the random thought coming to his head.

"The same as Sindarin," replied Legolas. "Sidh." He smiled, rolling the word on his tongue. "Sidh." He shook his head slightly, feeling the reassuring weight of Aragorn at his side.

"We can try," he echoed of his earlier words. "And somehow, I do not think it will be so hard."

"No, it will not," said Aragorn. "And you are right. We do not need to circle back. This- what we have now?" He smiled softly.

"This is good."

0-o-0-o-0

If you walk for long enough you still cannot come back around to where you were before. But even if you only take one step, that one step will still bring you to a different place. And if that place is not where you want to be, then take another step. Somewhere in amongst all of those steps you can find yourself walking quite a long way.

The scars were always inevitable. But scars are not the mark of a victim. They are the undeniable mark of a survivor, because no matter how deep the scars run, no matter what shape they are in, the body that bears them is still breathing. That heart is still beating, no matter the scars on it. And these scars bear a message.

They say bring it all.

Because I survived.

And I will survive again.

The End