The lingering warmth of the wedding feast still seemed to seep through every corner of the stone walls. The guest chamber in the Steward's residence was filled with the white light of morning. The chalk-white walls of Minas Tirith reflected the sunlight, making the room feel far brighter than it truly was. In the shaft of light slanting through the window, fine dust danced a slow, silent waltz. Serine sat on the edge of the bed, retying the cords of the saddlebag she had been packing for her journey. Her hands moved with practiced ease. The feel of leather, the coldness of the metal fittings, the skill of binding baggage tight and small without waste—all of it had been etched into her body through nearly twenty years of life as a ranger. Her fingers worked on their own, drawing the cords taut. *(This will do.)* She murmured the words in her mind. Her feelings for Aragorn—she had laid them to rest beneath the White Tree. That night, when she had offered her blessing as a comrade-in-arms before the torch-flames—something deep in her chest had shattered with an audible crack. The long years' weight, that burden named unrequited love. It had vanished, truly. But. *(I should return to the North.)* That was the natural course of reason. The King's wedding was over. Her duty as a ranger of the North was complete. There was no longer any reason to remain in this city—her mind understood that. And yet. Her hands stopped. The cords of the saddlebag were not yet fully tied. One final knot remained, and Serine's fingers hung suspended in the air. What rose in her mind was the scene from the night before. Éowyn's face, her eyes swollen from weeping, yet bearing an unmistakable smile. And Faramir's face—deep within those grey eyes that held such profound sorrow, a light she had never seen before, one free of hesitation. The two of them hand in hand, leaning against each other's shoulders—there, at the roots of the White Tree. *(Those two have reconciled.)* So Serine thought. And if that was so, then all the more reason for her, an outsider, to leave. If their bond had been restored, there was no reason for her to remain. Yes, by all logic— "No matter. I have seen it." She spoke her habitual phrase aloud without thinking. But her voice lacked its usual cold, unshakable certainty. It trembled, faintly. Outside the window, the morning bustle of the marketplace was beginning. The cries of merchants, drifting up from the Great Market of the First Circle. The sound of cart wheels. The laughter of children. All of it mingled together, shaping the morning sounds of the White City. Serine rose and walked to the window. The cityscape, seen from the height of the Sixth Circle, was dyed gold by the morning sun. The chalk-white walls shone with a golden light, and far in the distance, the surface of the Great River Anduin glittered silver. A beautiful city. A world utterly different from the desolate wilds of the North. *(Was it good that I came here, or—)* That was as far as her thoughts reached. *Knock, knock, knock.* There came a rapping at the door. Serine's entire body went rigid in an instant. *(Éowyn? Or—)* Her hand moved unconsciously toward the hilt of the sword at her hip. No—there was no possible need for a sword here. She exhaled deeply, as if to steady herself, and moved toward the entrance. She opened the door. Standing there—were Faramir and Éowyn, together. Éowyn still wore the ceremonial attire from the previous night's wedding. Her golden hair was bound up, and her gown, grounded in the blue of Rohan, glowed softly in the morning light. Her tear-swollen eyes had been concealed with powder, but a faint redness still lingered. Faramir—unusually, he did not wear the mantle of the Steward. Instead, he was dressed in simple traveling clothes, a deep blue cloak draped over his shoulders. It was the practical attire he wore when setting out to inspect Ithilien. His jet-black hair, cut short still from wartime habit, framed his face. From within that frame, his deep grey eyes gazed directly at Serine. " [gentle]Lady Serine, might I have a moment?" Faramir's voice was quiet. But it was not the formal tone of the Steward. It was something more personal—the voice of a single man. Serine was silent for a moment, then gave a small nod. " [serious]Please, come in." The two of them stepped into the guest chamber. Faramir's eyes caught the saddlebag upon the bed. Travel preparations. Readying to depart for the North. His grey eyes quietly absorbed that fact. " [serious]As I thought. You intend to leave." There was no note of reproach in his voice. Only a calmness that sought to confirm a fact. Serine did not answer. Instead, she stood beside the saddlebag and placed her hand upon the half-tied cord. The gesture itself was her answer. " [serious]May I ask your reason?" " [serious]…My duty is finished." Serine's voice was flat. Yet at the end of her words, a faint tremor lingered. " [serious]To attend Lord Aragorn's wedding—that was my task. Now that it is done, I return to the North. That is all." " [serious]That is not a reason." Faramir's voice grew slightly firmer. " [serious]You leave not because there is a reason to go, but because there is no reason to stay—is that not so? But, Lady Serine. If that is the case, then I ask you to hear what I now offer, and judge whether it might become a reason to remain." Serine's grey-blue eyes fixed on Faramir as if piercing through him. Faramir drew a deep breath, and then—without preamble—he spoke. " [serious]I ask that you lend your strength to the restoration of Ithilien." The air in the guest chamber trembled, softly. Serine caught her breath for an instant, then questioned him in a low voice. " [cold]…Why me? There are many capable warriors in both Gondor and Rohan. I am—an outsider." " [serious]Because you are an outsider." Faramir's voice was startlingly frank. He took one step closer to Serine. Beneath his jet-black hair, his grey eyes burned with earnest intensity. " [serious]Éowyn and I—last week, we were in a living hell." Éowyn shifted slightly. But she did not interrupt. " [serious]I clung to my brother's shadow, afraid to face my wife. Éowyn, too, was tormented by a sense of helplessness, unable to touch the darkness in her husband's heart. Though we loved each other deeply—we could not reach each other's deepest places." Serine listened in silence, accepting Faramir's words. " [serious]But then, you appeared." Faramir's left hand unconsciously traced the mark of a ring. His deep grey eyes revealed, for the first time before Serine, a genuine vulnerability. " [serious]Lady Serine. It was because you were there—a catalyst—that we were forced to look directly at each other's darkness. You became a mirror, reflecting my guilt and Éowyn's jealousy back at us, whether we wished it or not. Had you not been here, our living hell might never have even exploded as a living hell." " [serious]Did my presence not break you?" Serine's voice trembled, low. " [serious]No." Faramir shook his head. " [serious]What broke were parts that had been broken from the start. Had you not come, we would have remained broken, not even realizing we were broken, continuing a happiness that was only a hollow form. Now—we know pain. But by that same measure, regeneration has begun." There was no lie in his voice. Serine gazed back into Faramir's grey eyes. The old sorrow still lingered there. His sense of atonement toward his brother Boromir would likely never vanish. But—beyond it, there was a certain resolve. The quiet resolve possessed only by one who has taken a step forward out of darkness. *(This man—is in earnest.)* Serine released her hand from the saddlebag cord. It was then. " [whispers]I have a request as well." Éowyn stepped forward. Her golden hair, as if molten sunlight, shone in the morning glow. Her tear-swollen eyes still bore a tinge of red, but in her clear blue-grey eyes, there was neither the flame of last night's jealousy nor the shadow of pity. " [gentle]Please, come to Ithilien. Not for my husband's sake, nor for the Steward's—but for mine." Serine's eyes widened slightly. " [gentle]You see, I am a woman who could only find her worth on the battlefield." Éowyn's voice, while retaining the dignified accent of Rohan, trembled somewhere deep within. " [gentle]When I struck down the Witch-king of Angmar—for the first time in my life, I felt that I was needed. As a warrior, on the battlefield, staking my life—only then did I feel my existence was permitted." She looked at her own hands. A warrior's hands, hardened with sword-calluses. On the fingers of her left hand, countless small scars from the Pelennor Fields gleamed white. " [sad]But the war is over. I loved Faramir, and chose the path of becoming his wife. The path of a healer, mending the wounds of others—I wanted to live not as a warrior, but as a woman." Éowyn raised her face and looked straight into Serine's grey-blue eyes. " [sad]But, you see. In the days of carving out a life with my husband in a desolate land—I find I no longer know where to place the warrior I once was. Whether I, who no longer swings a sword, have any worth. In the midst of peaceful days, I feel my reason for being growing fainter and fainter—and I am afraid." " [crying]If you were there—if you, who bear the same warrior's scars and know the same pain, would walk the eastern wilds with me—" Tears traced paths down her cheeks. But Éowyn did not wipe them away. " [crying]I think I could remain unbroken." In those words, there was—not a shred of jealousy, not a drop of pity. There was only a naked wish, offered as an equal friend. Serine caught her breath. *(Not offering myself for someone else's sake—)* The thought resonated heavily deep in her chest. For many long years, she had lived for Aragorn. She had risked herself for his safety, hidden her feelings so as not to burden him, and stepped aside for his happiness. Always—she had sacrificed herself for another. But now, what Éowyn sought was not "sacrifice." *(A reason to stay—for my own sake.)* It was the first time in Serine's life she had ever been asked such a question. Silence filled the guest chamber. Neither Faramir nor Éowyn spoke. They did not rush her. They did not press for an answer. The very fact that they could simply wait for Serine's words—was proof that, to them, she was already an equal. Serine turned her gaze outside the window. The morning sun was dyeing the white stone of Minas Tirith gold. Far away, the Great River Anduin glittered silver, and beyond it—the forests of Ithilien stretched out as a band of pale blue shadow. Whether that land held anything that could be called hope, she did not yet know. But. *(On the battlefield, there was always the next order.)* *(In my wandering ranger days, there was always the next mission.)* *(But now, what lies before me is—)* A choice. Not an order, not a mission. A choice that Faramir and Éowyn had offered, one she must grasp by her own will. Serine could not deny it—the weight of being needed by someone, a weight utterly different from her long habit of self-sacrifice, was settling deep into her heart. Slowly, she reached for the cord of the saddlebag. And then—she undid the knot she had been tying. The leather cord loosened with a whisper, and the mouth of the saddlebag fell open. That single motion was enough. Tears glistened in Éowyn's eyes. But she did not wipe them away. " [crying]…Thank you." She said only that. Faramir exhaled deeply and bowed his head low. " [gentle]You have my gratitude, Lady Serine. This is—a very great thing for us." Serine gave a small nod, then raised her face as if suddenly remembering something. " [serious]Before I go, there is one thing—" Her voice had returned to its flat, masculine tone. But now, both of them understood that it was armor, worn to conceal