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The aftermath of a battle, Aragorn ponders, is a strange thing. After all the hustle, the rush and haste of parrying and attacking, advancing and escaping, always follows silence. No peaceful silence, mind you; it is broken by the wounded men's cries and the mourning of those whose dear ones did not survive; filled by the crawing of the carrion-birds and the creak of dispatched armour. Afterwards comes reconstruction, revival; but the direct aftermath is silence. A broken silence, still reeking of battle and filled with pain, but silence.
It is quite silent now.
Aragorn's reign was widely considered a reign of peace, but he never has forgotten the battles that preceded it. And how could he? They were the greatest battles of his age. Yet, in comparison to the battle that has ended now (when? moments ago? hours? years? ages?), the War of the Ring was but a petty skirmish. One would think that this battle's aftermath would last forever. There was no place in Creation where its power was not felt, after all; the dead, the living, all were swept into it, struggling, fighting, falling.
Strange that he cannot still feel the sky shake from the force of the clashing armies. Strange that the very earth is not torn by the violence of the battle. Strange that there is no mourning, no cries of despair or pain.
But of course, this was no ordinary battle. And it has shaken the sky and torn the earth so completely that nothing was left. There was no silence, no mourning: Reconstruction followed at once. This, he reminds himself, is an all-new World.
It is, he has to admit, leaning on a white window-sill, overlooking the silent white city, probably all the better for it. All he feels and sees seems so... calm, so perfect. The stones under his hands, the breeze playing with the curtains, the impossibly green leaves of the trees lining the white street below, the warm sunlight bathing the houses: They all feel perfect.
This is not a perfect world, the former king of Gondor and Arnor thinks to himself; humans are imperfect, and as long as they inhabit a world, it can never be quite perfect. But it is probably as close to perfect as anything can be.
He smiles.
When Aragorn's time to die came, he accepted it calmly. He did not try to prolong his life, or rage against his fate; he simply lay down and waited for death to take him. He knew, after all, that there was no point in fighting it; and he knew, or at least hoped, that it would not be followed by nothing. Aragorn died peacefully, and, for the most part, happily.
Yet, to live again pleases him. To live again in a new, un-marred World pleases him all the more.
The streets below slowly fill with the sounds of people, with birdsong; with life.
It has begun.
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