The darkness in the stable was still deep. In contrast to the upper levels of the White City, where wedding bells rang out, a cold silence lingered here. The scent of hay. The gentle breathing of horses. And the faces of two women, the traces of tears not yet dry. Serine held Éowyn's outstretched hand, remaining in a long silence. From the tips of her fingers, Éowyn's warmth seeped into her. A warrior's hand. Calluses from the sword remained hard, the knuckles thick from years of training. But now, they trembled faintly. *(This person, too—could she only live on the battlefield?)* Serine gazed into Éowyn's blue-grey eyes. Swollen from weeping, rimmed with red, yet deep within them, a strong light remained, undimmed. The pride of the legendary warrior who had slain the Witch-king of Angmar. But at the same time—the loneliness of one whose heart could not be opened to the one she loved. "[whispers]...Let us go to the wedding." Éowyn's voice was hoarse with tears. But in her tone, the jealousy of the night before was gone. "[whispers]Alone, I would surely grow afraid again. To stand before the darkness in that man. But—" She drew a breath, then spoke. "[whispers]If you can face King Aragorn, then I can face Faramir. If you are there—I can take off this warrior's armor." Deep in Serine's chest, something creaked. The logic of self-sacrifice that had bound her for so many years—the cold certainty that everything would resolve itself smoothly if she simply stepped aside. That armor, now, was being cracked by Éowyn's words. *(That running away is not atonement, but rout.)* Éowyn had said that. Not with jealousy, not with pity, but with her naked, honest heart. Serine exhaled deeply. Her breath, white and clouded, dissolved into the cold air of the stable. The same breath she had seen countless times in the northern wilds, before a winter dawn. But now, there was someone beside her to see it. "[gentle]...I understand." Serine's voice was low and matter-of-fact. But the end of her words trembled, just a little. From beneath her masculine tone, a feminine resonance she could not suppress slipped through. "[gentle]I will go. Before Lord Aragorn. And—I will settle this." It was a command to herself. Éowyn gave a small nod, and the two released their hands at the same time. The sensation of their fingertips slowly drawing apart. But the warmth that remained there was a kind they had never known before. Serine retied her beloved horse's reins to the stable pillar. The saddlebags remained as they were. Her traveling preparations for departing to the north were still not undone. But—now was not the time to undo them. First, she would settle this. "[gentle]Let us change. Into formal attire." Éowyn smiled faintly. It was a smile made with a face still bearing the traces of tears, yet it was certain. Side by side, the two pushed open the stable door. —*Clang, clang.* The wedding bells poured down with the morning light. The sky over Minas Tirith was washed in a blue without a single cloud. The Court of the White Tree blazed with torchlight. The circular plaza at the foot of the White Tower, in the Citadel of the Seventh Circle. A sacred space, perhaps fifty meters across. At its center, the newly planted White Tree swayed its youthful silver leaves in the moonlight. Surrounding it, hundreds of torches pushed back the darkness. The nobles' ceremonial robes reflected the torchlight, their jewels glittering like stars. Warriors wore polished armor, and guards trailed mantles of deep crimson. The murmur of over two hundred guests amplified the festive exaltation. At the center, upon a dais set before the White Tree—Aragorn and Arwen stood side by side. His black hair, reminiscent of night's darkness, was streaked with white like hoarfrost. His features were rugged, carved by wind and rain. His grey eyes, even in age, held the sharpness to see through all truths. Yet now, each time he looked at the wife beside him, the passion of his youth returned to their depths. Arwen wore a silver raiment that seemed woven from moonlight itself. The immortal beauty of the Elves, shining even in the darkness. Each time she smiled, the torch flames seemed to burn ever brighter. Serine stopped at the entrance to the courtyard. *(This is the place where it ends.)* Éowyn stood beside her. Her golden hair was bound up, and she was clad in ceremonial attire of Rohan's blue. Powder concealed her swollen eyes. Her hand touched Serine's back, gently. "[whispers]Let us go." The voice urging her forward did not tremble. Serine took a step. The eyes of the crowd gathered upon her all at once. The woman warrior from the north. The three-line scar running down her left cheekbone. Her grey-blue eyes held the cold, quiet stillness cultivated as a Ranger. A sword hung at her waist, and she wore the deep blue mantle she was accustomed to on the battlefield. *(This is different from a battlefield.)* Serine murmured in her heart. She was used to the fear of battle. Enemy blades, rain of arrows, the presence of death—these she could handle with movements ingrained into her body. But the fear she felt now, amidst this crowd, was of an entirely different kind. The fear of settling an unrequited love, as a single woman. Even so, her feet did not stop. The crowd parted to left and right. Serine straightened her back and advanced directly before Aragorn. One step, then another. The torch flames flickered, and her long shadow danced upon the flagstones. Aragorn's grey eyes caught Serine. His sharp insight, in this moment, saw completely through what she had come here for. The dignity of a king, and the deep understanding of a comrade who had once stood shoulder to shoulder with her on the battlefield—both mingled within that gaze. Arwen's smile was directed softly toward Serine. The Elf's silver eyes saw through everything. The existence of another woman who had long kept close to her husband's heart. The soul of a warrior who, bearing an unrequitable love, had nonetheless continued to support him. All of it—Arwen knew. Serine stood before them and drew a deep breath. Her lungs filled with the cold night air. Deep in her chest, a sharp, stinging pain. The feelings of many years were about to end, here and now. "[serious]Lord Aragorn, Lady Arwen." Her voice was low, yet it rang clearly through the silence of the courtyard. "[serious]Serine, a Ranger of the North—as a comrade-in-arms, I offer my blessing." Her words trembled. But she showed no tears. She held back her blinking and continued to spin her voice. "[serious]May the King's reign be blessed with enduring happiness." It was not a ceremonial congratulation. It was the unrequited love she had nurtured herself—her long, silent love for Aragorn. These were the words with which she, by her own hand, erected a gravestone over it. After a moment of silence, Aragorn bowed his head deeply. It was not the courtesy of a king. It was the salute of a comrade, with whom he had once entrusted his life on the battlefield. In that bow were mingled gratitude, respect, and an apology beyond words. His grey eyes closed for a fleeting moment. *(I know. Your feelings—I know.)* A sentiment that could not be put into words filled that silence. Arwen stepped forward, softly. "[gentle]Serine." That voice was as clear as moonlight gliding over the surface of water. "[gentle]I understand the measure of your heart, fully. As a comrade—and as a woman, I offer my heartfelt respect for your decision." Arwen smiled. In that smile, there was not the slightest hint of a rival's triumphant superiority. There was only pure compassion for one who had passed through the same pain. As an immortal Elf who had lived for thousands of years, she knew better than anyone the preciousness of a love that blazes within the brief span of a human life. Serine bowed deeply. She bent her waist and lowered her face. In that instant, heat rose behind her eyes. But the tears did not fall. *(With this—it is over.)* Something in her chest shattered with a sound. And at the same time, a strange lightness visited her. The heavy stone she had sunk deep into her heart for so many years vanished, now. Serine turned on her heel. The eyes of the crowd gathered upon her once more. But she no longer felt their weight. Her back was straighter, certainly, than the day she had come to the White City. At the outer edge of the celebratory crowd, Faramir stood still. His jet-black hair was groomed, and he was clad in the formal robes of the Steward. But his deep grey eyes were fixed on a place far removed from the festive exaltation. *(Where is Éowyn?)* The carnage of the night before. The memory of being rejected by his wife before the fountain still pierced his chest, raw and vivid. The guilt over his own happiness. The sense of atonement toward his brother Boromir. The ineradicable self-loathing for having used that as a shield against his wife. He searched through the crowd. And then—he found her. Near the base of the White Tree, where the torchlight dimmed slightly, Éowyn stood. Her golden hair shone, bathed in the firelight. But on her face, the traces of wiped tears showed through the white powder beneath. Faramir approached. The murmur of the crowd receded. Amidst the festive music shaking the air, he stood before his wife—and slowly, he knelt. Éowyn caught her breath. "[serious]...Éowyn." His voice was low and trembling. "[serious]I—have long owed you an apology." The eyes of the crowd began to gather on the two of them. But Faramir paid them no heed whatsoever. "[serious]Regarding my brother... I could not forgive him for succumbing to the Ring's temptation. But in truth—I could not forgive myself. Myself, who could not stop my brother. And myself, who did not bear more than he did." Éowyn's blue-grey eyes widened. "[serious]I have used that guilt—as a shield against you." His left hand unconsciously touched the place where the Ring's mark had been. "[serious]By convincing myself I had no right to be happy, I fled from your heart. Fearing to open my heart to you—I clung to my brother's specter." Éowyn's entire body began to tremble. "[crying]...Faramir." "[serious]I will run no longer." He raised his face and looked directly into his wife's eyes. In those deep grey eyes, for the first time, hesitation had vanished. "[serious]I want to live, looking not at my brother's specter—but at your face. Together with you, in the land of Ithilien, I want to build a future." Silence. The torch flames crackled and popped. Éowyn, tears spilling freely, took her husband's hand. A warrior's hand. She wrapped both of her own around that hand, still hard with sword calluses. "[crying]Yes... live. With me—together." She made Faramir stand. And then—she rested her head against his chest. Faramir's arms wrapped around his wife's back. They remained so for a long time. The pride of the warrior who had slain the Witch-king of Angmar, the heavy responsibility of the Steward—all of it melted away, leaving just the figures of a man and a woman. A part of the crowd noticed the two of them. But no one tried to disturb them. Amidst the festive exaltation, that sight, simply beautiful, shone quietly in the space between darkness and flame. As the feast neared its close, Serine stood alone at the edge of the courtyard. The base of the White Tree. Its silver leaves rustled faintly in the night breeze. The torch flames were gradually diminishing in number, and the crowd was thinning. *(It's over.)* Her chest was filled with a strange stillness. The sharp pain immediately following the burial of her feelings for Aragorn had not yet vanished. But more than that—there was a lightness she had never felt before. The heavy stone was gone. *(I've just gone back to being a lone warrior.)* Serine tried to think that. But something was differe