The wind carried a slight chill. The moment she passed through the Great Gate of Minas Tirith, Serine stopped without thinking. Before her lay the First Circle, still half-ruined from the war. Crumbled stone walls, charred timber frames, heaps of rubble piled everywhere. Yet through the gaps, crowds of people hurried busily back and forth. The sound of hammers. Here, there, everywhere. The shouts of stonemasons rebuilding the walls echoed through the air, and the laughter of women hanging flower-woven wreaths from the eaves drifted by as well. *(The king's wedding is the week after next.)* Serine paused for just a moment, taking in the scene. But soon enough, she began walking again across the stone pavement where her shadow stretched long before her. A tall woman draped in a deep blue cloak, a longsword at her hip, a bow across her back. Walking like that, Serine drew glances from the people around her. Eyes of curiosity. Or wariness. On the battlefield, she had felt nothing, but here in this city of peace, those gazes pricked strangely at her chest. "...I'd better not get in anyone's way." She murmured it to no one in particular. A small voice. But it was a voice that didn't need to be heard by anyone. Most of her thirty-two years had been spent in the northern wilds and forests. A Ranger's work was to hunt enemies like a shadow, to protect people from unseen threats. Out there, she never had to worry about anyone's eyes. But here, eyes were everywhere. *(Hurry. To the Citadel.)* The White City was divided into seven levels. Serine now stood in the lowest, the First Circle. This was the district of markets and craftsmen, where roughly a third of Minas Tirith's people lived. And it was here that the war had dealt its heaviest blow. Serine walked upward, following the main thoroughfare just beyond the gate. The stone pavement was cracked in places, black scorch marks still lingering. Yet the shops lining the street had flowers adorning their eaves, and the people were caught up in the twin labors of rebuilding and wedding preparations. *(This city has no more need for battle.)* The thought brought a faint ache deep in her chest. She passed through the Third Circle and climbed higher. By the time she reached the Sixth Circle, the air had changed. The wide streets were lined with the mansions of nobles, and the trees in their gardens swayed in the wind. The view of the city from here was beautiful. Tier upon tier of white stone houses, and far in the distance, the surface of the Great River Anduin gleamed silver. But Serine had no leisure to gaze slowly at such scenery. The Citadel of Merethrond — a vast white palace piercing through all seven levels. At its gate, the guards caught sight of Serine and their faces flickered with brief surprise. "Serine of the North. I have come at the King's summons." She showed them the brooch adorned with a silver star, and the guards immediately saluted. The Great Hall of the Citadel was beautiful beyond words. Light streaming from the high ceiling softly illuminated the white stone floor. Ancient tapestries hung upon the walls, their woven patterns depicting battle scenes from centuries long past. And there, at the very back of the hall, he stood. Beside the white throne, a tall man. Black hair streaked with white, grey eyes gleaming sharp as if they saw through all things. Once a chieftain of Rangers who fought, now the king who ruled this land — King Elessar, Aragorn. Serine advanced before the throne and knelt. "[gentle]You have come. I am glad, Serine." That voice was unchanged from before. A little low, but steady and grounded at its core. "[serious]My King. I offer my heartfelt congratulations on your wedding." Formal words came from her own mouth. These were the only words that should come. And then, Serine could say nothing more. Aragorn stepped a few paces closer and let his tone ease just slightly. "[gentle]It heartens me that a comrade from the North has come to celebrate. Far better than the stiff formality of the Elves." "...I." For an instant, Aragorn's eyes seemed to soften. Serine did not miss that moment. His grey-blue eyes wavered ever so slightly, and she felt the tension drain quietly from her shoulders, which had been rigid with strain. Aragorn had still said "I." He was treating her not as a king, but as a comrade who had once shared a campfire through the night. A gentle warmth spread deep in her chest. But she must not draw any closer. "...Your words honor me." Serine deliberately lowered her gaze. Aragorn's face returned at once to that of a king. "[serious]I have two duties to command of you." That voice was no longer a comrade's. "First, you will attend the wedding. As a representative of the Northern Dúnedain, you shall present yourself in formal attire." That was only natural. Serine gave a small nod. "[serious]Second, after the wedding, you will head to eastern Ithilien. For five days, you will scout the forest as a ranger. There are reports that remnants of Orcs still lurk there." Remnants of Orcs — unconsciously, Serine's hand moved to the scar on her left cheek. "[serious]Understood." *(This is the King's answer.)* Aragorn likely saw through everything about Serine. Even the faint feelings she had harbored for so many years — he knew them all, and yet he would never put them into words. It was cruel, but it was also a kindness. To give Serine a place to belong and a duty to protect. That was the only thing a king could do for a comrade. After Aragorn had departed, the Hall of Feasts was very still. Alone, Serine gently pressed her palm against the white stone wall. Only the cool sensation remained in her hand. From outside the window, the sound of wedding bells ringing somewhere in the city could be faintly heard. *(All I've ever done is fight.)* In the northern wilds, in the forests. Always alone, or alongside comrades. Relying on nothing but sword and bow, she had fought evil in secret. Those days had been her everything. *(But it's over now.)* He had become king, Arwen would arrive tonight, and in two days the wedding would take place. Everything was over. The battles, and — these feelings of hers, too. Serine let out a small breath. *(The only one who could stand beside him was Arwen.)* She had known that for a long time. The chieftain of Rangers and the immortal Elf princess. No one could come between them. But even knowing it, she could not stop the dull ache spreading through the center of her chest. The winter wind from the Anduin blew through a gap in the window, cold against Serine's cheek. The clamor of the festivities was something she simply could not bear. Serine left the Citadel and, without thinking, turned her steps toward the First Circle. The streets were decked with more wedding decorations, and the laughter of the people never ceased. But now, all of it felt distant. Before she knew it, she was standing in that ruined marketplace. A stone arcade left half-destroyed after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. The skeletal frames of burnt timbers cast shadows in the moonlight. She saw a single cat picking its way over the scattered rubble. *(This place... hasn't changed since that day.)* Serine crouched down beside the rubble. She picked up a small stone between her fingertips, and its coolness seeped into her skin. That was when it happened. In a gap in the rubble, a single white flower bloomed. A tiny wildflower whose name she did not know. It stretched its slender stem out from beneath the debris, blooming quietly under the moonlight. Unseen by anyone, yet with all its might. Serine gazed at that flower for a long while. *(Did you, too, choose the wrong place to bloom?)* But the flower simply bloomed. It was not mistaken, nor was it blooming for anyone's sake. It bloomed simply because life was there. In that battle, thousands of lives had been scattered. They said the Pelennor Fields still held the scent of blood even now. And these feelings of hers, too — they would never reach anyone. *(But even so.)* This flower was blooming. After the destruction, life still went on. Serine could not stand. For a long time, she remained crouched there, staring at the white flower. Each time the winter wind blew, the flower swayed, yet it did not break. It simply bloomed. That evening, the Citadel's steward informed Serine: "[serious]Your quarters have been prepared at the Steward's House in the Sixth Circle." Serine looked up, slightly startled. "[surprised]The Steward's House...?" "[gentle]Lady Éowyn, the wife of Lord Faramir, insisted that you be her guest." Éowyn. The shieldmaiden of Rohan. The warrior who slew the Witch-king of Angmar. And now, the wife of the Steward of Gondor. Serine had heard that name many times. Even among the Northern Rangers, the tale of the woman warrior who felled that Witch-king was spoken of like a legend. *(A fellow woman warrior.)* But Éowyn had cast aside battle and chosen the path of healing. Serine had not been able to do the same. As she walked the road leading to the Steward's House, Serine felt a small ember kindle deep in her chest. Tomorrow, she would meet her. For some reason, that thought brought both anticipation and fear. The fear of having this scar and these unrequited feelings known. But at the same time, a small hope — that as someone who had lived on the same battlefield, perhaps they might find something to speak of. *(Tomorrow, I'll meet her.)* The night wind gently stirred Serine's hair. The night of the White City was wrapped in a stillness broken only by the distant sound of wedding bells.