Frodo's feet remember these streets from two years before, when he was learning to walk again after giving up all his strength, learning to trust Aragorn after their long separation. Spring and green have returned to the White City and Frodo goes out to walk in the sunshine every day, comes home every night to lie in the arms of the King.

I made this place mine, he thinks. Not like a king coming to claim his throne or an exile banishing Sackville-Bagginses from his hobbit-hole. It was believing and living and loving that made Minas Tirith his home.