Fly me to the Moon by daughterofshadows

The outer walls of the first ring of Minas Tirith are the best place to look out on the Pelennor fields, and today, nearly the entire city has congregated here.

The Pelennor is alight with hundreds of flickering flames, as hot air balloons begin to rise.

Aragorn’s arm is wrapped firmly around Arwen’s waist, and she rests her head on his shoulder. The spirit of the White City darts in and out of the masses watching the spectacle below, revelling in her people’s happiness, but as the first balloons rise to the sky, so does she, laughing as they climb higher and higher.

“I dreamt of a scene just like this, once,” Arwen whispers, a memory of her youth tugging at her mind.

“I stood on an open field, surrounded by Men and flames. But they did not burn. Instead, the Men tamed the fire and flew. I never believed it could actually happen! And yet… here we are!”

“Here we are, indeed,” Aragorn says. His voice is soft, but when Arwen lifts her head, she can see the wondrous smile on his face.

Minas Tirith returns to the ground, draping herself across Aragorn’s other shoulder and reaching out for Arwen’s hand in front of his stomach.

She takes it, linking their fingers together and smiling at her lover.

Minas Tirith’s eyes sparkle with joy.

“You should have seen it! Even Mindolluin looks small from above! It felt like I could touch the stars if I went just a little bit higher!”

“One day, you will reach the stars, I am certain of that,” Aragorn replies, with a surety that gives Arwen pause.

She knows her husband does not have the gift of foresight, but to her ears, his words sound like a prophecy nevertheless.

High above the world, in the place where stars and sky meet, a mariner sails, the light on his brow brighter than all others in the sky.

His world is a quiet one. A lonely one, some might say, but he doesn’t agree.

Eärendil is alone perhaps, but he isn’t lonely.

He hasn’t been in a long time. Not since his granddaughter and her lover tumbled over Vingilot’s railing.

Their spirits shine softly in the dark that surrounds them.

A city and her queen, still inextricably tangled together.

Eärendil remembers little of Gondolin.

A youthful spirit tucked against his grandfather’s side, whispering. Flashes of a merry face, and a salty breeze.

When the city fell, Gondolin chose to die with their people, rather than find a new home with the survivors.

Minas Tirith has crumbled to dust, and yet, her spirit is still here.

Eärendil asks her about it once.

She smiles softly, hands tangling with Arwen’s.

“It is different for each of us. Some of us, we are children of the stone and wood that make our city. We live and die with the buildings of our home. Others are linked to our people and as long as they live, so do we, even if we are no longer together. I came into being with the first stone they placed at Mindolluin’s feet, but it was the people that gave me life and they are not gone yet. They will not die while Arwen remains.”

There was no ship to bear her across the sea, but high above the world, Arwen finds a new home on a ship sailing the skies.

Chapter End Notes

Special thank you to Kaylee and Lyssa who let me info-dump parts of the fic and a lot of lore on them, respectively! You're amazing!

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