Sword and Arrow

Epilogue

TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS LATER

War had come to Minas Tirith again despite its king's best efforts.

The Fields of Pelennor once again lay burning and covered with the bodies of the dead: both the silver-armored soldiers of Gondor and the dark-skinned Haradrim, painted blue and green. The vast bodies of mûmakil dotted the landscape like strange boulders as battles raged around their bodies.

It had been thirty-two years since the fields had been watered with blood.

The city had changed much in those thirty-two years. Its walls were perhaps whiter, and its gates shone brighter with silver than they had been those thirty-two years ago. No battering-ram had pierced those gates - they had learned their lesson since Grond had paid them a visit - and riders had left the city to drive back the attacking Haradrim.

Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor, had not changed much in those thirty-two years. He still had the same tall frame and eagle-faced look, and if there was more silver in his dark hair than there had been three decades ago, no one paid attention to it, because for all intents and purposes, the first king in the new line of kings was ageless.

Elessar - or Aragorn, as he preferred to be called by his friends - rode at the head of every charge on his snow-white stallion, Anduril - the Blade That Was Broken, the same blade that led the Host of the West to a legendary victory - flashing bright before him.

Or, rather, that was how a poet would have described him five years from then, because for all intents and purposes a sword was a useless weapon on horseback, so Aragorn held an enormous lance that he quite literally plowed down enemy ranks with.

The stallion - Thunderbolt was his name - lashed out with his forefeet, his white body streaked with bright blood, and even though he wasn't as dexterous as the Ranger horses that Aragorn preferred, he had to admit that Thunderbolt was quite the killing machine.

Ranger. Where was Beruthiel? He hadn't seen her since he had sent her off with another team of her Rangers to penetrate the Haradrim's high command formations. That had been over two hours ago - strange. His wife was an excellently efficient Ranger and should have managed it by now. Why had he not received a messenger by now, informing him of her success?

Aragorn paused, reining in Thunderbolt on a higher point of ground to survey the land around him. His forces were winning - Minas Tirith had learned its lesson in security by now, and having a King in command rather than an invalid Steward did wonders for a city's defense system.

His guard ringed him, leaving a small gap between them and him. Riders from the outer circle rode in to fill gaps from their wounded (or killed) comrades and spears bristled outwards.

Aragorn stood in his stirrups, trying to see over their heads. Nothing. "Oh, for Valar's sake," he grumbled. "How many times do I have to tell you lot. Stop circling me like this, it makes me practically useless!"

"But your Majesty-" Achastor - the captain of his guard - insisted.

Aragorn waved him off. "I am not here to be protected, Achastor. I am here to be useful. Now get out of my way, and let me see the damn field."

Achastor sighed but signalled his men to move aside, letting Aragorn through them. Aragorn trotted Thunderbolt up the slight incline to stand a few feet above his men and looked out at the mayhem on the battlefield.

There. The red helmet of a messenger. Aragorn waved to her, the crown motif engraved in his helm sparkling in the bright sun. He was grateful for the sun - if it had been cloudy, he feared that he would relive the memories that he so carefully suppressed. "Messenger!" he shouted. "Messenger!"