They went to no tomb. Denethor, despising fate, had rejoiced. Halbarad would've cared little—what Ranger cares for his own flesh so? But men not yet corpses have their needs—the Grey Company laments as flames roar.
Mayhap fire's fitting, Aragorn, watching, thinks. Stewards serve all indifferently; therefore let the wind be as generous dispersing their ashes. The thought's not uncomforting, and comfort's needed: smoke rises still from Rath Dînen. But there's yet no king in Gondor—hard judgments can wait. Thus Aragorn will be as indifferent-generous as the funerary dust: unto death they served; let none look further today.
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