𝐈𝐋𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄̈ || A.

𝟎𝟑𝟒 ⸺ the renovation of minas tirith

The halls of Minas Tirith, though still bearing the scars of war, were filled with a renewed sense of purpose. In a chamber of white stone, four figures sat in council: Thorin Stormhelm, King of Erebor; Thranduil, King of the Northern Woods; and Aragorn, King of Gondor, beside his queen, Iladya.
     Aragorn, son of Arathorn, inclined his head in gratitude, his voice measured and noble. "Great is our thanks, King Thorin, for the aid of your people in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith. Long have the realms of Men and Dwarves been sundered, yet now we stand together once more."
     Thorin Stormhelm, his bearing proud as the mountain from which he hailed, met Aragorn's gaze and bowed his head in return. "The honour is ours, King of Gondor. Too long have the bonds of our peoples lain broken, severed in the shadow of the Dark Days. May the works we forge in these times endure as stone and steel, and may friendship between Men and Dwarves be reforged as true as the finest blade."

Thorin cast a glance toward Gimli and gave a small gesture. At once, the dwarf let out a startled exclamation. "Ah! Yes, of course!" he muttered, hastily reaching for the roll of parchment at his side. With a craftsman's pride, he strode forward, unfurling the design before the gathered rulers.
     "I have given much thought to a new gate," Gimli declared, his voice rich with enthusiasm as he laid the parchment upon the table.
     Aragorn and Iladya leaned in, their keen eyes tracing the lines of the intricate design. For a moment, there was only silence, then Iladya exhaled softly.
"Gimli," she murmured, her gaze lifting to meet his. "This... this is a marvel. Such strength, such grace. It holds both power and majesty." She turned to her husband. "What do you think, my love?"
     Aragorn's eyes gleamed as he studied the craftsmanship laid before him. Then, a smile spread across his face, warm and full of admiration.
     "Gimli, my dear friend," he said, his voice deep with certainty, "if any hands are worthy of crafting this gate, they are yours."
     At this, Gimli threw back his head and laughed, glancing toward Thorin, who stood with his arms crossed, his expression one of quiet approval. The King of Erebor gave a knowing wink.
     "You are fortunate," Iladya remarked in an idle, almost playful tone, "that this task does not require any tossing."
     At once, Gimli stiffened, his head snapping around to fix Aragorn with a sharp glare. But the King of Gondor, despite his best efforts, could not suppress the smile that tugged at his lips. He cast his gaze downward, yet the amusement remained etched upon his face.
     "Tossing?!" Gimli grunted, his voice full of indignation.
     From his place nearby, Legolas arched a brow, glancing between them in question, while Iladya and Aragorn exchanged a knowing look, their laughter barely contained.

Iladya inclined her head, her gaze shifting briefly to Legolas and her father before returning to the Dwarven King. "I mean no offense, King Thorin," she said carefully, "but you bear a striking resemblance to the former King of Erebor—Thorin Oakenshield."
     At her words, Thorin Stormhelm's lips curved into a humble smile. He opened his arms as if to speak at once, but then let them fall at his sides. "My father told me I was named after his cousin, Thorin," he said at last. "He spoke often of him and of his deeds. He told me, too, of how he fell in battle during the great war of our forefathers—the Battle of the Five Armies."
Iladya gave a solemn nod. "I was there."
     At this, Thorin's eyes widened, though he swiftly composed himself. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze before he spoke again. "My father always told great stories of him," he murmured. "Now, I walk in the footsteps they have left, treading the path of my forebears in the line of Kings."
     Iladya regarded him with quiet understanding. "I have no doubt," she said, "that you strive to honor them."
     Thorin met her gaze with steady resolve. "I do."

Iladya rose gracefully from her seat and bowed her head. "My father," she said, her voice warm with reverence, "your aid in the restoration of Minas Tirith is deeply cherished. The Elves have offered to weave new gardens into the city's renewal, and for that, we are truly thankful."
At her words, the gathered Men and Dwarves, though not given to elvish custom, dipped their heads in measured respect toward their immortal kin.
     Thranduil, King of the Northern Woods, regarded his daughter with a thoughtful expression, his keen gaze resting upon her. "Long have the halls of Men stood in stone and steel," he said, his voice smooth as flowing water, "but life must find its place amid such strength. The Elves will see that beauty and growth take root here once more."
     Iladya smiled. "As it once was, so shall it be again."
Thranduil's gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, as if he could see beyond the walls of Minas Tirith, beyond the lands of Men, to the woods he called home. His voice, though ever measured, carried a weight of something deeper. "So too shall it be in my own realm. Mirkwood has long been a shadow upon this world, its name whispered in caution. But the darkness is gone, and it is time that Eryn Lasgalen rises once more."
     Iladya studied her father, sensing the unspoken burden in his words. "You seek to restore it?"
Thranduil inclined his head, though his gaze was distant, lost in memory. "Not merely restore, but renew. The time of the Shadow has passed. The trees shall stand tall and fair once more, their roots untainted by the evils of old. And in this, my people shall have a home unburdened by the past."
     His voice softened, and Iladya caught a flicker of something rare—something fragile—beneath the centuries of his guarded composure. "And in the heart," he continued, "I shall have a memorial raised. A place of light and beauty, where the flowers bloom unbidden and the stars may be seen through the canopy above." He paused, then said, quieter still, "For her."
Iladya's breath caught, and she stepped closer, laying a gentle hand upon his arm. "Mother would have loved that."
     Thranduil's lips curved faintly, though sorrow lingered in his eyes. "She was the fairest thing in all of Middle-earth," he murmured. "And I would have the world remember."
     A silence passed between them, one not of sorrow alone, but of remembrance. Then, after a moment, Iladya spoke again, her voice softer. "She would have loved my marriage as well."
Thranduil's gaze shifted to her, his brows drawing together slightly.
     "Because of love," Iladya continued. "She would not have cared that he was of Men, nor that I was of Elves. She would have only seen what bound us together. And I think she would have been proud."
     For a long moment, Thranduil said nothing. But then his expression, though ever reserved, softened at the edges. "She believed love to be the highest of all gifts," he murmured. "Had she lived to see this day, she would have rejoiced in your happiness."
     Iladya smiled, her grip upon his arm tightening. "Then let the renewal of Minas Tirith and the Greenwood be a testament not only to all that has endured, but to those we carry with us still."
Thranduil met her gaze, the depth of his grief met only by his resolve. "Indeed," he said. "Let this be an age where ruin gives way to rebirth—of stone and wood, of past and future, and of love that does not fade."