The morning of the wedding began in cold darkness. The stables of the Steward's residence, in the Sixth Circle of Minas Tirith. Not a single lamp was lit. Serine, her eyes long accustomed to the dark, tightened her beloved horse's girth. The feel of leather, the cold of the metal fittings, the quiet breath of the horse. All of it was a morning ritual ingrained into her body through years of life as a ranger. The saddlebags were already secured. Their contents were minimal. A change of clothes, dried meat, a waterskin, and a well-honed sword. On the desk in the guest chamber, she had left only a short piece of parchment as a note of thanks to the Steward's household. There was no mention of Faramir whatsoever. Only her gratitude to Éowyn, written in terse, reticent script. *(This is for the best.)* Serine stroked the horse's neck in silence. From the upper levels of the city, a faint singing voice carried along the cobblestones. A choir celebrating the wedding. It seemed to have continued through the night. Each time that sound reached this dark stable, Serine's loneliness was carved away more sharply. *(Without me, those two can go back to how they were.)* Faramir and Éowyn. A married couple who loved each other deeply, yet could not touch the deepest places in each other's hearts. Into that fissure, she—a foreign element—had been driven like a wedge. Unintentional as it was, her very existence had become a blade. These hands, which as a warrior had saved scores of lives, could now save no one. That fact weighed upon her hands with a heaviness she had never known before. The horse whickered softly. Serine finished tightening the last buckle and took the reins. —It was then. A creak of hinges. The stable door slowly opened. Serine's entire body stiffened like stone. When she turned, standing silhouetted against the dim light was—Éowyn. She was not in her ceremonial wedding attire. She wore the same house clothes she had been in all night. The thin blue dress was wrinkled all over, and her golden hair, like molten sunlight, was uncombed and fell tangled over her shoulders. And above all—her clear blue-grey eyes were swollen and red-rimmed from weeping. It was plain at a glance that she had not slept a wink since their quarrel the night before. "[whispers]...You're leaving." Éowyn's voice was hoarse. Serine, still gripping the reins, forced out a cold reply. "[cold]Yes." "[sad]It's because of... what I said last night, isn't it." "[serious]No. This is my own decision." "[crying]It is not. I—I hurt you. Out of jealousy, out of fear, I said terrible things to you." Éowyn's voice trembled. Her pronunciation, bearing the dignity of Rohan's royalty, was violently distorted by the surge of emotion. "[crying]I'm sorry. So—please don't go." Serine looked straight at Éowyn. Her grey-blue eyes held the cold, penetrating stillness cultivated through her years as a ranger. "[cold]Is this pity?" Her voice was low. "[cold]You were right last night. It would have been better if I had never been here. That is all. Your apology is unnecessary. You spoke the truth." Serine pulled on the horse's reins and moved to walk toward the door. But Éowyn stepped in front of her, blocking her hand. "[angry]It is not pity!" Her voice shook the cold air of the stable. The horse tossed its head in surprise. Only its breath, turning to white mist, wavered between the two of them. "[crying]I was... I was afraid. That you would take my husband from me." Those words fell into the silence of the stable. It was a voice that had cast aside all shame, all pride. The fear that the legendary warrior who had slain the Witch-king of Angmar laid bare for the first time before another person. Serine's hand stopped. *(—No. This is neither insult nor pity.)* Her ranger's intuition accurately grasped the weight of Éowyn's words. This woman was now exposing the ugliest part of herself. Her jealousy, her dependence, and her terror of losing her husband. She felt a crack form in the deepest part of the armor she had worn for so many years. Serine slowly turned back to face Éowyn. "[whispers]...There is nothing between Faramir and me." That was what she had meant to say. But—what came out of her mouth were entirely different words. "[sad]From the day Lord Aragorn became King—" Her voice trembled. "[sad]I have not even permitted myself to give a name to my feelings." It was a confession. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but in the silence of the stable, it reached Éowyn clearly. The first fissure shown by the solitary, ancient-tree-like warrior woman cloaked in deep stillness. A fragility that seemed as if it might break at a touch, laid bare in the darkness. Éowyn caught her breath. Silence. Only the horse's breath wavered, white. The two of them could find no more words. Within their mutual silence, they came to realize that their own pain and the other's pain shared the same shape. The powerlessness of being unable to reach the darkest place in the heart of the one they loved. Éowyn, to Faramir's sense of atonement toward his brother. Serine, to Aragorn's solitude as King. For years, each had kept reaching out—and had never reached. The shared defeat of bodies and wills forged as warriors proving utterly powerless on the battlefield of love. That was what set them standing on the same ground. "[crying]...I am the same." Éowyn's voice was wet with tears. "[crying]I have still never once touched the deepest place in Faramir's heart. Even though I am his wife. Even though I love him—his darkness is always somewhere my hand cannot reach." Tears traced down her cheeks. "[crying]When I saw you, I became afraid. I thought that you, who bear the same warrior's wounds—might be able to get closer to his darkness than I can. I could not forgive that." Her sobs were swallowed by the darkness of the stable. Serine watched her. Without words to stop her—tears spilled from her own eyes as well. They were the first tears she had shed since coming to the White City. No, even including her days of wandering in the North, they were the first tears she had ever shed before another person. The hot droplets traced the three lines of scars running down her left cheekbone. "[crying]...I." Serine's voice had shifted from its usual matter-of-fact, masculine tone to a faint, feminine tremor. "[crying]I held Lord Aragorn in my heart. But he became King. He was joined with Lady Arwen, a person like light itself. My feelings—from the very beginning, had nowhere to go." The words spilled out. "[crying]I could tell no one of those feelings. If I did, I would become a burden to him. So, alone—I have carried them alone, all this time. And yet, my existence has broken you and Faramir." "[crying]No!" Éowyn cried out. "[crying]I am the one who broke it! My jealousy and fear—drove you into a corner. You have done nothing wrong. And yet, I—" Words failed her. Éowyn collapsed to her knees on the spot, as if crumbling. The hay rustled softly. She covered her face with both hands and began to weep, stifling her voice. Serine stood rooted to the spot. The tears would not stop. *(This person, too, is the same.)* A proud warrior woman. She herself had only ever found meaning in existence on the battlefield. But Éowyn had cast aside battle and chosen the path of healing for the sake of the one she loved. And yet—and yet, there was still a place she could not reach. Slowly, Serine knelt beside Éowyn. The hay accepted the weight of both of them. The horse whickered quietly. Serine's hand, hesitantly—touched Éowyn's shoulder. "[crying]...I am the same." That was all she said. Éowyn raised her face. Her blue-grey eyes, wet with tears, gazed into Serine's grey-blue eyes. Between the two of them, words were no longer necessary. Only their sobs overlapped in the darkness of the stable. Shoulders drawn close, feeling the warmth of each other's tears—the two warrior women did not speak, but simply continued to weep. It was the moment their armor as warriors was completely stripped away. How much time passed? —A single toll, *clang*. From the city above, the sound of the first bell announcing the wedding ceremony echoed down. With the traces of tears still on their faces, the two slowly raised their heads. Dim light had begun to stream through the stable's latticed window. The White City was bathed in light. But the two inside the stable still sat in the depths, just short of that light. Éowyn spoke, her voice still wet with tears. "[whispers]...I was trying to drive you away. Out of jealousy and fear. But—now, here in this darkness, I am glad... that it was you with whom I first exchanged true words." Serine silently accepted Éowyn's words. Her resolve to depart for the North had not completely vanished. Yet the fact that she had spoken of her feelings for Aragorn in front of Éowyn had irreversibly changed something within her. "[gentle]...The wedding is soon, then." A faint, feminine softness mingled in Serine's voice. Éowyn gave a small nod. "[gentle]Yes. But—I still do not feel as though I can go." "[gentle]...Nor I." The two of them could not stand up right away. Outside, the celebratory bells continued, and Minas Tirith was wrapped in light. The day of the King's wedding. Yet the two in the stable still sat in the darkness. "[whispers]...Will you go with me?" Éowyn gently extended her hand. "[whispers]To the wedding. If you will face King Aragorn—then I will face Faramir. I could not do it alone. But if you are with me." Serine gazed at that hand. There was hesitation. But—she gently grasped Éowyn's outstretched hand in return. "[gentle]...Very well." It was a short reply. Yet within that single word was a resolve that the Serine of before had never possessed. The two of them slowly rose to their feet. They looked at each other's faces, still marked with the traces of tears, and then—exchanged just the faintest hint of a smile. Outside, the wedding bells rang out high and clear.