The morning before the wedding arrived with an unusual stillness. Serine stood by the window of the guest chamber, gazing down at the gardens of the Sixth Circle spread below. Enclosed by white stone walls, the garden bloomed with the wildflowers of Rohan that Éowyn herself had planted—now bathed in the morning light, they glowed a brilliant gold. Each time the wind stirred, the blossoms swayed, and their sweet fragrance drifted up to the window. *I couldn't sleep well last night.* Her encounter with Éowyn in the armory had not left her mind. The anguish of that legendary shieldmaiden—unable to reach the darkness in her husband's heart. And the resonance Serine had felt in that moment, recognizing the same wound within herself. Unconsciously, Serine traced the three parallel scars running across her left cheekbone with her fingertips. *She and I are the same.* Women who could find no meaning in existence except upon the battlefield. Yet Éowyn had cast aside war and chosen the path of healing. Serine could not yet make even that choice. A knock at the door made her turn. "[gentle]Lady Serine, the Lady of the house has prepared a midday meal in the garden." A young maidservant bowed politely. "[serious]Understood. I will go at once." Serine draped a deep blue mantle over her shoulders and belted her sword at her hip. It was not formal attire, but it was the minimum courtesy of a warrior. The Steward's garden was a tranquil space enclosed by chalk-white stone walls. At its center, a small fountain murmured, the sound of flowing water cool and clear. Beside it, a white stone table had been laid with freshly baked bread, fruit, and mead. Éowyn was already seated. Her golden hair, as if molten sunlight had been poured into it, was gathered in a net and spilled over her shoulders. Her pale blue dress was so graceful that one could scarcely believe she was the same shieldmaiden who had once worn armor upon the battlefield—it set off the whiteness of her skin beautifully. Yet in those clear blue-grey eyes dwelled the same complex light as the day before. "[gentle]Good morning, Serine." Éowyn rose and smiled. But that smile was close to the false mask she had worn yesterday in the armory. Calm on the surface, yet beneath it, wariness lay hidden. "[serious]I thank you for the invitation." Serine inclined her head slightly and seated herself across the table. Between them, there was undeniably a shallow bond—the solidarity of women who had lived through war. But Éowyn, perhaps conscious of Serine's past with Aragorn, chose her topics with care. "[gentle]I hear the settlers in Ithilien still number only around eight hundred. Once the King's wedding is complete, there are plans to recruit more." "[serious]The restoration of the forest will take time. There is no need to rush." "[gentle]True. But Faramir seems determined to restore the fiefdom to its former state as quickly as possible. He did not return from his inspection last night either—he should arrive around noon today." The moment she spoke her husband's name, Éowyn's voice stiffened, just barely. Serine did not miss it. *When she speaks of her husband, she builds a wall.* The secret Éowyn had confessed yesterday—the anguish of being unable to touch the darkness in her husband's heart—she made no attempt to speak of today. That had been a moment of vulnerability, and now she was trying to recover from that lapse. Serine silently raised the mead to her lips. The sweet liquid passed down her throat, but something bitter spread deep in her chest. *I am the same.* She did not want anyone to know of her unrequited feelings for Aragorn. They must never be known. On the surface, the two continued their gentle social discourse. Preparations for the wedding, the state of Minas Tirith's restoration, the differences in the northern climate—nothing but harmless topics. Yet in the depths of those silences, it was clear they were probing each other. Éowyn gazed steadily at Serine's profile as the latter lowered her eyes to the white flowers in the garden. *The wariness I felt yesterday in the armory—it has not yet faded.* That was when it happened. Heavy footsteps sounded at the garden's entrance. "[surprised]Faramir…?" Éowyn rose to her feet. Standing there was a tall man still in his traveling clothes. Dust clung to his raven-black hair, and his deep grey eyes held a distant, contemplative light, as though still gazing at far-off lands. White strands had begun to mingle in the hair that fell to his shoulders, and his left hand unconsciously traced the place where a ring had once been. He must have ridden hard from Ithilien. His cloak was stained with mud, and grass sap clung to his boots. Yet his mere presence shifted the very air of the place.—An aura of quiet, profound melancholy, like an ancient battlefield shrouded in mist. A coldness of irreparable loss lurking beneath warmth: Faramir, the Steward. "[gentle]I concluded my inspection a day early. There are preparations for tomorrow's wedding to attend to, after all." A low, steady voice. But his words were tinged with consideration for his wife. "[gentle]You surprised me. But I am glad. Come, this way—" Éowyn composed her smile and guided her husband to the table. "[serious]This is Serine of the North. She has come to the City by order of King Elessar, to attend the wedding." The moment Faramir turned to face Serine— His eyes widened, ever so slightly. Those deep grey eyes caught Serine's grey-blue ones. His gaze traced the three scars on her left cheek, lingered on the longsword at her hip, and returned to her face. *…What is this feeling?* Deep in Faramir's chest, something wordless stirred quietly. A taciturn bearing. The pride of a warrior worn like a mantle, yet beneath it, the shadow of a profound loss pressed down and hidden away.—A sense of déjà vu, as if looking into a mirror. The figure of one who sealed unrequited feelings and thoughts of atonement inside, standing clad in the outer shell of a warrior. That was his own figure. "[serious]…A Ranger of the North. I have heard of you from the King." Faramir exhaled deeply and consciously wove his words together. Though he observed every courtesy, a faint tremor mingled with his voice. "[serious]I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor. You are most welcome." "[serious]I am called Serine. It is an honor to meet you." Serine stood and answered briefly. Hearing that voice, Faramir felt his chest stir once more. *This voice, too—it carries something like the remnants of pride my brother once possessed.* But no. There was a deep pain in this shieldmaiden's voice that his brother Boromir had never known. "[gentle]Oh, I shall excuse myself for a moment. I have instructions to give the servants." Éowyn rose abruptly. Her voice feigned calm, but she had not missed the fleeting disturbance in her husband's expression. For Faramir to show such a look to a woman he had only just met— *Why did he look at her with those eyes?* Suppressing her inner turmoil, Éowyn disappeared into the depths of the garden with graceful steps. A quiet silence flowed between the two who remained. Faramir seated himself across from Serine and reached for the fruit on the table. But his movements were listless; he picked up a single piece of fruit and did not bring it to his lips. "[gentle]How fares the North? Are the Rangers of the Dúnedain still scattered across the lands?" His voice had softened a little from before. Tactical topics—for him, they were a means of hiding behind the walls of his heart. "[serious]Many have gathered in Minas Tirith at the King's summons. But there are still those who continue to scout in the northern forests. I was among those awaiting their reports." "[gentle]I see. Ithilien, too, requires scouts. Orc remnants still lurk there. Even now, three months after the war, we have not fully driven them out." "[serious]So I have heard. I, too, have received orders to head east after the wedding." Faramir's eyes glimmered faintly. "[gentle]You will? That is reassuring. I have heard the Rangers of the North know forest warfare inside and out." "[serious]I have merely observed. It is no trouble." Hearing Serine's characteristic phrase, Faramir's mouth relaxed just a little. "[gentle]I, too, have seen many things on the battlefield. And… I have seen things I should not have seen." *—My brother.* He did not speak those words aloud. But the deep bitterness that seeped into his voice spoke volumes. Serine gazed at Faramir in silence. *This man, too, is the same as me.* One who had lost someone precious and yet chosen to go on living. One who sank unrequited feelings and thoughts of atonement deep into his heart, yet still stood firm as a warrior. "[gentle]Tell me, are you—" Faramir began to say something. In that instant, a quiet resonance beyond words passed between them. It was not a feeling of romantic love. It was something deeper, something darker—a resonance of souls bearing the same wound, touching for just a moment. From behind the shrubbery in the garden, Éowyn watched. Having finished instructing the servants and about to return, she had stopped just as she rounded the corner. Beside the fountain, her husband and Serine spoke quietly in low voices. Faramir's expression—it was not the face full of consideration he showed his wife, nor the solemn face of loyalty he showed King Aragorn. It was simply a calm expression, quietly gazing at another soul. A sharp thorn pierced the center of her chest. *That face—I have never seen it.* Éowyn's fingers unconsciously gripped a white stone pillar. So tightly that her knuckles turned white. *Why? Why won't you show that face to me?* The weakness she had confessed to Serine yesterday in the armory now pressed down upon her even more heavily. At that time, she had thought Serine was someone who could understand. But now, it was different. *This woman—she might be able to touch my husband's darkness.* Jealousy swelled uncontrollably within Éowyn's breast. "[gentle]Faramir, I have returned. You must be hungry. Let us eat together." Éowyn quickly composed her face and returned to the table. But her smile had cooled, just slightly. "[gentle]Ah, thank you. Forgive me—I am still covered in dust. I shall excuse myself briefly." Faramir rose and departed into the house to change. Éowyn and Serine were left alone. "[gentle]Faramir seemed to enjoy speaking with you. He rarely shows such a calm expression." Her words were gentle. But invisible thorns were mixed into their edges. "[serious]…Is that so." Serine answered shortly and lowered her eyes. *Éowyn is on her guard.* It was only natural. Serine keenly sensed that her own presence was driving a wedge between Éowyn and her husband. And yet, she could not deny it—there had undeniably been something in that brief exchange with Faramir. A small sense of guilt sank deep into her chest. The dinner table was calm on the surface. In the Steward's dining hall, white candlelight flickered, and the three sat around a heavy oaken table. Roasted lamb, wine from Lebennin, white bread. Every dish was delicious, but Éowyn's heart had gone cold. "[gentle]The preparations for tomorrow's wedding are nearly complete. I hear the Hall of Feasts in the Citadel has already been decorated with flowers." Her voice was even brighter than before, deliberately so. But that very brightness was unnatural. "[gentle]The King, too, was glad to see a comrade from the North after so long." Faramir spoke quietly. "[gentle]Is that so… You have known the King for a long time, then? You have always spoken with him in such closeness?" Éowyn's words were directed at Serine. It was not a direct accusation. But it was a question laden with clear wariness. Serine's fingers stiffened for an instant. *She sees through me—my feelings for Aragorn.* Torn between