Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: This is a thank-you gift. Thank you, all of you who read and reviewed this story, all of you who took a chance with something so new and unusual. I wish I could thank all of you personally, but this is the best I can do. Thanks for sticking with me and waiting patiently for updates. To be honest, I'm really sad to see this story end. But it's been a great ride! This chapter is short, sweet, and full of love.

To all my reviewers—

Good hunting.

EPILOGUE

~         

            The tundra stretches into eternity.

            Blue sky is the only thing that clarifies it from the green earth; otherwise the horizon seems to merge with the air. Enormous, billowing clouds drift lazily overhead, each a brilliant shade of white, puffy and peaceful.

            Caribou rumble across the land, their bodies clumped together so that they are simply a mass of antlers and pounding hooves. Their low, mournful voices bellow the song of travel, and of spring, and of rebirth.

            Gradually, a great bird can be seen gliding over the herd. Whiter than the clouds, wingtips stained black from the Balrog's fire, the mighty eagle gives a cry and lifts higher into the air, out over the open ground.

            Gandalf, the spirit of the tundra.

            An answering cry sounds, the scream of a second eagle. Rising into flight next to him, an entity black as the night sky, with eyes a flashing green.

            Elrond, the spirit of the wolves.

            As Gandalf was reborn from the flames, so the warrior wolf lives on. A spirit too great and a heart too big to be lost from the world forever, so he returns to continue his service to the tundra.

            Together, the pair soars across the land, wings barely moving as they coast on the warm spring air.

            First they move north. Swooping low, they pass over what was once the territory of the Mirkwood pack. Famine has passed, and the earth has become fertile once more. And it is no longer barren of life.

            The Naugrim have taken up residence here, leaving behind the brutal living conditions of the Paths of the Dead, they now race and hunt in the green, green territory. They rush to the hilltops and leap into the air, saluting the eagles that fly overhead.

            Continuing their flight in a great arc, the two continue down through the land of Lorien. It is all but empty now; the once-great pack seems to have entirely died out.

            But racing over the hill comes Celeborn and Galadriel, side by side, and behind them runs Haldir. The golden trio shoots across their tundra, preserving the legacy of the Elven wolves for years to come. They sing in joy as the eagles soar past.

            Cutting through Gondor territory, they stumble quite unexpectedly on Legolas and Gimli. Too restless to stay in one place, the duo has sworn to spend the rest of their days exploring and adventuring across the great, wide land. Although the wolf walks with a bit of a limp, the fox's legs are short enough that their paces are evenly matched.

            Elrond dives low and plucks at Legolas' ears in a teasing motion, only to feel a nudge in the side as Gimli attempts to tackle him. The eagle barely remains airborne, and circles the pair briefly before flying onward.

            The eagles glide through the Southern territories, calling their greetings to the Ents that thunder along below. Treebeard calls a –hoom, hom- to them in response.

            Finally, the spirit of the tundra and the spirit of the wolves fly into the Shire. The land beneath them is a rich emerald, and the vegetation is lush and brightly colored. And at last, the pack comes into view.

            Merry is the first to spot them, and he races under them, keeping pace, their shadows falling across his back. Then Pippin, who barks gleefully. A pup when the Quest started, Pippin is now a young adult, and next to him stands a pretty young she-fox, whom he nuzzles affectionately.

            Bilbo and Gaffer raise sleepy heads and promptly go back to their napping.

            Sam appears on the hill, his pace leisurely and relaxed. Behind him comes Rosie, and she stands at his side as the eagles go by. But both Gandalf and Elrond arc around for another pass, landing softly in the grass.

            For at Sam's feet are three little pups, born a few weeks ago in the beginning of spring. Little Frodo, Boromir, and Elanor squint their eyes as the two great birds bend over to inspect them, though roguish Boromir swipes at them with one tufted paw. A warrior already.

            Flapping their huge wings, the eagles take off again, flying for a short while before cresting low over a great, green hill.

            Glorfindel raises his tired head, and his tail wags. Napping next to him, Frodo wakes and glances about sleepily. The exhaustion is gone from their eyes, replaced by a weary sense of relief and contentment. One of Frodo's ears is a mere rag from the mark of Gollum's teeth, and Glorfindel's body still bears the physical scars of battle.

            But two tortured souls have found peace at last, in the Undying Land of the Shire.

            So onward fly the eagles.

            As they speed over the endless tundra, they can see the Great Pack, running full tilt to meet them.

            Faramir and Eowyn lope at an easier pace together. He, too, has a slight limp from the bullet that hit him so long ago. She runs slowly for an entirely different reason, however; her slender form is now heavy with pups. They're due any day now, and her face glows with maternal pride.

            Then comes Arwen, her beautiful black form also swelling with the promise of new life. She lifts her voice in a salutation to the eagles, and Elrond alights on her back for the most breathless of moments before continuing on.

            For now comes Aragorn. His chest seems broader, his head held higher; truly here is the King that the tundra was waiting for. He runs with a proud and powerful gait, and when the eagles get close enough, he leaps into the air.

            His nose touches Elrond's with the barest brush of contact.

            Then he takes off at a full speed gallop. Legs pumping rhythmically, the King darts across the land like a shooting star. The birds swoop to join him, and Elrond flies low over him, so from above it looks as though the black wolf has two great ebony wings.

            Suddenly, they come to a sharp drop. No problem for the eagles, but Aragorn has to slam on the brakes, causing him to lurch backwards on his hind legs. Gandalf gives a warm cry of approval, so Aragorn holds the pose.

            Rearing back, his ruff a cape and his voice a thunderous song of victory, the King of the Tundra paws at the air, the eagles circling tight around him.

            And then they are gone, leaving Aragorn to land on all fours, breathless, heart swelling with pride and soul flying with them.

            The white eagle and the black one drift higher into the sky, mere silhouettes against the vast clouds that seem to take shape into the form of one great wolf, racing across the sky and watching his kin.

            Boromir runs on.

            The rhythm of the tundra pulses with birth and death, shame and glory. It holds battles and warriors, romance and lovers.

            And though wolves will die and new ones shall take their place, the King of the Tundra will sit eternally on his throne, in memory and in song.

            The circle of life is complete.

            The voices of the wolves sing as one.

~ THE END