Time flew by like water through open fingers.
This year, a hideout north of Roadside Keep near the Ettenmoors was exposed. Rangers fought ceaselessly with nearby orcs, skirmishes erupting almost daily. In one fierce battle, trolls descended from the mountains in a coordinated assault, catching the Rangers completely off guard.
At the critical moment, an apprentice Ranger called Thorongil stepped forward, boldly engaging the trolls in single combat and nearly defeating them through sheer skill and determination alone.
Later, he was nominated by his captain for an excellent graduate commendation, with unanimous agreement from other squad members.
Very few could be awarded Roadside Keep's excellent Ranger graduate medal. Take Aragorn's Ranger captain Yawen as example—he only received his Roadside Keep excellent graduate medal after fighting Barrow-wights, rescuing villagers, participating in countless orc elimination operations, escorting merchant caravans all the way to Gondor, and receiving personal bonus recognition from the lord himself.
This showed the medal's extraordinary value in every sense. Though outwardly dull and unremarkable, these medals were pure gold inside—strong concealment with maxed-out intrinsic worth.
In 2952, aside from various minor matters, the year's single event of consequence was Levi's recovery of the Star of Elendil, lost for thousands of years. Through his labors, this ancient symbol of Arnor's royal authority emerged from darkness once more.
For safekeeping, both the Star of Elendil and the shattered fragments of Narsil were entrusted to Rivendell, where elven guardians would watch over them in their timeless halls.
After visiting Rivendell, Levi remained peacefully within his own lands. His people often saw him in conversation with folk of all stations—retired craftsmen, master smiths, and learned minds from every trade.
He spoke and learned with them in workshops and smithies, his hands often as begrimed with honest labor as theirs.
Days passed leisurely like this, peaceful and productive.
When time reached early 2953, grave news spread across Middle-earth.
Rohan's notorious King Fengel, unable to bear disease's relentless torment any longer, finally drew his last breath and passed away at home.
Rohan's many marshals, high officials, and common folks collectively demanded that Rohan's only legitimate heir Thengel return home to assume the throne.
Though quite unwilling to abandon his life in Gondor, Thengel ultimately brought his family back to Rohan and became the kingdom's sixteenth king.
He was forced to begin cleaning up the considerable mess his dissolute father had left behind.
But this year, Fengel was not the only king who could not hold on.
"Ecthelion... Ecthelion..."
In Gondor's Steward's private bedchamber, a weak voice called out like wind through autumn leaves.
"Father, I am here."
Ecthelion rushed to the bedside, grasping Turgon's frail hand in both of his own.
Turgon turned his head with effort, looking at his still-vigorous son as countless memories surfaced unbidden.
"How fast time passes..."
Ecthelion's nose stung sharply. He lowered his head, blinking rapidly to avoid showing weakness before his father in these final moments.
"Lift your head, child. Let me see your face clearly."
"You... and Denethor, you must both live well and witness Gondor's prosperity with your own eyes."
"I swear it, Father."
The moment these words left his lips, Ecthelion finally could not hold back. A single tear fell, shattering his carefully maintained composure.
"What is Denethor doing?" Turgon asked with great difficulty, his eyes barely open now.
"He just returned triumphant from battle, Father."
"Well done. Call him over soon—let me see his valiant appearance one last time."
"Yes, Father."
Mentioning Denethor, Ecthelion suddenly remembered something crucial.
"Father, the golden apple is with Denethor. Perhaps it can save you, extend your time..."
Turgon shook his head slightly, the gesture costing him visible effort.
"It is useless now, Ecthelion. You should understand—I am not ill. My time has simply come to its natural end."
Ecthelion fell silent, accepting the bitter truth.
"One last matter before I rest."
Turgon's voice was barely a whisper now. "I want to see Levi once more."
"I will send someone to find him immediately."
An urgent letter was dispatched to Roadside Keep that very hour.
The day the letter arrived, Levi traveled through the Nether gate to Gondor's outpost, heading straight for the Steward's bedchamber without delay.
"Good afternoon."
Upon seeing this Steward whose breath was like gossamer, thin and fading, Levi momentarily did not know what words could suffice.
The sun set westward, crimson light streaming through the windows, yet unable to add the slightest flush of life to Turgon's pallid face.
"Good afternoon, friend."
Turgon managed a slight grin, though it cost him dearly.
He gestured weakly behind Levi. "You two, go out first. I have some final words to speak in private."
Despite profound reluctance etched on their faces, Ecthelion and another young man full of youthful vigor departed, closing the door softly behind them.
"How is it, friend? Do you feel time rushes by like a river in flood?"
Turgon looked at the tightly closed door, then back at Levi with clouded eyes. "Denethor has become a valiant warrior. He just returned from personally slaying over ten orcs in single combat."
"I must say, truly excellent work." Levi answered with complete sincerity.
"He will be very happy to hear that praise from you."
Whoosh. Turgon exhaled deeply, the breath rattling in his chest.
"A new era is beginning. We old fellows should make way for the young and vigorous."
"But you are different, Levi."
"These dozen years, you seem unchanged in the slightest..."
Levi remained silent, offering no explanation.
As if remembering certain distant events, Turgon suddenly laughed—a papery, fragile sound.
"I actually once thought of making you submit to Gondor's authority—my mind then was probably no clearer than it is now in these final hours."
"Thanks to Ecthelion, he stopped my obstinate foolish actions before they bore terrible fruit."
"He is a good child, is he not?"
"He is indeed a fine man." Levi gave an honest answer.
Turgon nodded with visible satisfaction.
"I believe Gondor will prosper even more under his governance—not just Ecthelion, but Denethor as well. Both are worthy."
"For a thousand years, our family has guarded all of Gondor, never harboring thoughts of usurpation. The throne stands beside us in empty majesty, yet our gaze has always looked toward the people below, serving them faithfully."
"I do not know what Gondor's future holds, nor what end this world will ultimately meet."
"I only know that for us mortals, nothing is eternal. All things have an end—whether life, prosperity, or anything else we hold dear."
After saying this much, Turgon paused to catch his labored breath, resting before continuing with obvious effort.
"I wish to request your forgiveness here, for what may come."
Levi shook his head gently. "The past is ancient history. I have not kept it in mind—forgot it the very next day."
"No, I am not speaking of that old matter. What I mean is this—in future days, Gondor's rulers may unintentionally do wrong and make errors in judgment. I wish to request your tolerance in advance for my descendants' inevitable failings."
"Tolerance..."
Merely tolerance, not even forgiveness for unnamed future transgressions...
"I promise you this much."
Turgon smiled slightly, his entire body relaxing as if finally able to rest after finishing all important unfinished business.
Moments later, he suddenly spoke with surprising clarity.
"My time has reached its end now."
"Then—"
"Good night... friend?"
"Good night, Turgon."
"Friend."
The sun set fully below the horizon.
Turgon closed his eyes for the last time.
Third Age 2953: Gondor's twenty-fourth Ruling Steward Turgon passed away peacefully. He lived ninety-eight years. During his long tenure, Gondor remained at peace and prospered under his wise governance.
The tall mallorn tree swayed gently in the spring wind, golden flowers blooming luminously among its branches.
Spring had arrived at Roadside Keep once more, bringing new life to the land.
A new small earthen mound had appeared beside the base of the golden tree, freshly turned soil dark against the grass.
Little Pink lay beside that small mound in the warm sunlight, looking unusually subdued and lethargic.
Few knew what—or who—was buried in that humble mound beneath the mallorn's spreading boughs.
Only the cook responsible for Little Pink's daily meals had planted a single yellow dandelion atop it, letting the flower sway freely in the wind like a tiny beacon of remembrance.
The cook still fulfilled his duties faithfully, greeting Little Pink each day and bringing the dragon's favorite foods with care. But most times Little Pink only moved its tail listlessly, sniffed the food in the plate without interest, then continued lying motionless on the grass.
No longer could one see that energetic figure who had once loved frolicking throughout the territory. The dragon now preferred curling up somewhere quiet, closing its ancient eyes for entire days at a time.
A familiar hand patted the dragon's massive head gently, stroking those iron-hard scales with practiced affection.
Little Pink opened one golden eye, nuzzling upward against the touch. Finally showing some appetite, it extended its long tongue to taste the food the cook had brought.
Dragon and human sat together on the grass in companionable silence, keeping vigil over this land and the small grave beneath the golden tree.