Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The banners of Gondor fluttered in the cool breeze as Boromir stood atop the ruined battlements of Osgiliath, his tall, proud frame silhouetted against the pale light of morning. The sunlight, muted by lingering clouds, danced faintly on the silver thread of the banner he held aloft. His hands, calloused from years of swordplay, gripped the standard with the resolve of a man who bore the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. Below him, the soldiers of Gondor gathered in the rubble-strewn square, their faces a mix of weariness and grim determination. Their cheers rose like the tide, surging up to meet him, a wave of fierce, unrelenting loyalty.

“Boromir! Boromir!” they cried, their voices filled with admiration and gratitude, each syllable ringing with hope. For many, the sight of the Steward’s heir standing proud beneath the banner of the White Tree was a vision of Gondor reborn.

With deliberate force, Boromir drove the standard into the ancient stone of the battlements. The metallic clang echoed over the ruins, as though the stones themselves bore witness to this moment of defiance. The banner unfurled in the wind, its white and silver gleaming as though it captured the memory of a brighter age. Boromir turned, unsheathing his sword in one fluid, practiced motion. His face, marked by the fatigue of battle, shone with unyielding resolve. He raised his sword high, the polished steel catching what little light the morning offered, and his deep, commanding voice carried over the assembled soldiers like the toll of a great bell.

“This city was once the jewel of our kingdom,” he declared, his gaze sweeping across the ruins, his voice steady and unshaken. “A place of light, and beauty, and music. And so it shall be once more!”

A murmur ran through the ranks, swelling quickly into a thunderous cheer. Men pounded their shields, their voices blending into a symphony of defiance and hope. Boromir lowered his sword slightly, the steel glinting near his shoulder, and his eyes narrowed, his voice rising again, stronger and fiercer.

“Let the armies of Mordor know this!” he called, each word striking like a hammer. “Never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands! This city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed—for Gondor!”

“For Gondor!” the men shouted, their voices echoing through the crumbling city.

“For Gondor!” Boromir repeated, the words ringing with conviction as he thrust his sword skyward. His voice carried such fervor that even the wounded, leaning on their comrades for support, raised their fists and joined the cry.

The cheers reverberated across the square, louder and fiercer with each repetition, until it seemed the very stones of Osgiliath trembled with the force of their voices. Amid the thunderous acclaim, Boromir allowed a rare smile to touch his lips—a smile born not of triumph alone, but of pride in his men, in their courage, in their indomitable will. His broad shoulders relaxed slightly as he let the moment wash over him, though his chest still heaved from the exertions of the battle.

Behind him, Faramir emerged from the shadow of a ruined tower, his face a mix of joy and quiet relief. His step was lighter than it had been in days, but his eyes held a guarded expression, as though he feared the moment might dissolve too soon. When Boromir turned and caught sight of his brother, the smile on his face widened, transforming into a warm laugh that seemed to push aside the lingering weight of the war. He strode forward and clasped Faramir in a tight embrace, his arms encircling his brother with the protective strength of a shield.

“Good speech,” Faramir said, his voice tinged with playful humor as they pulled apart. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a rare, genuine smile. “Nice and short. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Boromir threw his head back, a hearty laugh bursting forth. “Short, was it? Perhaps. But leaves more time for drinking! Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!”

The cheers renewed, now infused with a raucous, almost boyish joy, and the soldiers clattered their weapons against the ground as barrels of ale were brought forward. Boromir himself fetched two goblets, the silver cups dull but sturdy, and filled them to the brim. He pressed one into Faramir’s hands, clapping him on the shoulder with unrestrained affection.

“Remember today, little brother,” Boromir said, his voice softer now but no less resonant. “Today, life is good.”

Faramir raised his cup, his smile more subdued but no less sincere. They drank together, savoring the moment—a brief respite from the shadows that loomed ever closer. But as Faramir lowered his goblet, his expression shifted. The lightness drained from his face, and his eyes flicked toward the edge of the crowd, where movement caught his attention. His smile faded entirely, replaced by a tension that drew his brows together.

“What is it?” Boromir asked, his sharp eyes catching the change in his brother’s demeanor.

Faramir hesitated, his gaze steadying on a figure emerging from the throng. His voice dropped, quiet enough that only Boromir could hear. “He’s here.”

Boromir turned sharply, his shoulders stiffening as his eyes settled on their father. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, cut a grim figure as he made his way toward them, his black robes billowing like storm clouds. His face, pale and drawn, was a mask of stern authority, the lines etched deep by years of worry and bitterness. His dark eyes swept the gathered soldiers, but there was no trace of warmth in his gaze, no spark of pride.

Boromir’s expression darkened, and he drew in a slow breath, bracing himself. Denethor’s sharp, calculating gaze scanned the men who had gathered to celebrate their hard-won victory, but his eyes lingered only briefly on Boromir before they sought out Faramir. As he approached, the crowd parted before him like waves before a gale, though none dared to meet his gaze. The weight of his presence was palpable, a force that seemed to freeze the air around him. Boromir felt his chest tighten, his earlier warmth drained by the coldness that emanated from their father.

“Where is he?” Denethor’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. “Where is Gondor’s finest? Where is my firstborn?”

Boromir’s stomach churned, the familiar sting of his father’s expectations pressing down on him. With a heavy sigh, he stepped forward to meet Denethor, offering the barest of nods in greeting. His face was tight, but he had learned long ago not to show the anger that often simmered beneath his skin in the face of his father’s coldness.

“Father,” Boromir said, his voice measured, but with a hint of weariness creeping in.

Denethor’s eyes flicked over him, briefly assessing his firstborn son. There was a momentary glimmer of something—almost like approval—but it vanished quickly, as though it had never been. Denethor’s lips curled into a thin, disapproving line, and his voice dropped, laced with a cold edge. “They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handedly,” he said, his words dripping with calculation, as though he were sizing up the magnitude of Boromir’s victory not with pride but with suspicion.

Boromir shook his head, his jaw tightening, but he kept his composure. “They exaggerate. The victory belongs to Faramir as well,” he said, his eyes flickering briefly to his brother, who stood a few paces behind him, his expression wary and guarded.

At this, Denethor’s gaze turned to Faramir, his eyes hardening as they landed on his second son. Faramir, ever the quiet one, met his father’s gaze with a subdued nod, but there was no warmth in his posture—just the rigid form of a soldier who had long been used to his father’s cold criticisms. Denethor’s face twisted into something like disdain as he surveyed Faramir’s slender figure and pale countenance, which seemed to shrink under the weight of Denethor’s unspoken judgment.

“But for Faramir,” Denethor’s voice turned sharp, his words like a lash, “this city would still be standing.”

Faramir’s shoulders stiffened at the accusation, his normally composed expression faltering for a fleeting moment. The color drained from his face, and the brightness that had briefly touched his eyes evaporated. He took a step back, his gaze dropping to the cracked stone beneath his boots, as though the very ground could swallow him up.

“Are you not entrusted to protect it?” Denethor pressed, his voice low and venomous. He took another step toward Faramir, who instinctively recoiled but held his ground. There was no fear in Faramir’s eyes—not outwardly—but the deep hurt that flickered there spoke volumes.

Faramir swallowed, his voice steady though the words came out strained. “Our numbers were too few.” The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a thousand battles fought and lost—his own pride fractured by circumstances beyond his control.

“Too few,” Denethor repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. “You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim. Always you cast a poor reflection on me.” His eyes narrowed, and his gaze seemed to pierce through Faramir, seeing not the son standing before him but the weakness he believed lurked in his very blood.

Faramir flinched as though struck, but he did not defend himself. Instead, he lowered his gaze even further, the shame of his father’s words sinking deep into his chest. The ache of being perpetually overshadowed by Boromir, the burden of never being enough in Denethor’s eyes, weighed heavily upon him. And yet, despite the sting, there was no anger in his response—only quiet acceptance, the resignation of a son long accustomed to this cruel treatment.

“That is not my intent,” Faramir murmured, his voice a whisper now, barely audible over the distant sounds of the soldiers still celebrating. His words seemed to vanish into the wind, unheard, forgotten by the man who stood before him.

Boromir, who had been silently observing the exchange, his fists clenched at his sides, could no longer contain his rising anger. His jaw tightened, his lips pressed into a thin line. He stepped forward, his chest rising with the sharp intake of breath. “You give him no credit,” Boromir said, his voice low but firm, the anger in his tone palpable. “And yet he tries to do your will.” His eyes burned with an intensity that matched the fire in his words, and for a brief moment, he wondered if this was the breaking point between them—the point where his father’s coldness would drive his brother further into the shadows.

Denethor dismissed Boromir’s words with a flick of his hand, his expression unreadable. He turned away, as though the subject were of no consequence to him. Boromir’s fists tightened, the urge to shout rising within him, but he held himself back, knowing it would do no good.

“We have more urgent matters to discuss,” Denethor said with a dismissive wave of his hand, as though the fate of Osgiliath—and his own sons—meant little in comparison to the schemes that churned behind his eyes. He motioned for Boromir to follow him, leading him away from the men, toward the shadows of the city’s ruined walls.

“The Elves,” Denethor began, his voice now quieter, but laced with suspicion and conspiracy. “Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He does not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumored that the weapon of the enemy has been found.”

Boromir froze, his eyes narrowing, his heart thumping in his chest as the implication sank in. “The One Ring,” he whispered, almost unwilling to speak the name aloud. “Isildur’s Bane.”

Denethor’s grim nod confirmed his worst fears. “It has fallen into the hands of the Elves,” he continued, his voice low but urgent. “Do you not see? They will seek to destroy it, or worse, wield it for themselves. Men, Dwarves, Wizards—none can be trusted. And Gondor will be left defenseless.”

Boromir’s gaze turned inward, troubled by the prospect. The Ring was a perilous thing—a weapon of unimaginable power, capable of unraveling all that they sought to protect. “Power such as this must come to Gondor!” Denethor’s voice rose again, filled with an obsessive fervor. “Only we have the strength to wield it!”

Boromir did not respond immediately. He clenched his jaw, his brow furrowed in deep thought, the shadows of doubt creeping into his mind. Despite his loyalty to his father, the idea of claiming such a weapon—one so dangerous, so corrupting—filled him with an unshakable unease. “The Ring is perilous, Father,” Boromir said finally, his voice strained, conflicted. “Its power could destroy us as surely as it could destroy the enemy.”

Denethor’s eyes flashed with a glint of madness, the desperation of a man who would do anything to secure Gondor’s future, even if it meant sacrificing its soul. “Gondor must have it! And we shall be the ones to wield it! No one else can.”

Boromir, still torn by the weight of his father’s words, felt the chasm between them growing ever wider. But before he could voice his dissent, Denethor cut him off, his gaze turning to Faramir, who had remained a silent observer in the shadows.

“You will go,” Denethor said sharply, his voice cold and commanding. “If this is a senseless errand, it suits you well enough.”

Faramir stiffened, his heart sinking, but he did not speak. He was all too familiar with the sting of Denethor’s commands. His shoulders tensed, but his face betrayed nothing—no defiance, no hope, just the quiet acceptance of a son whose worth was measured only by the shadow of his brother’s greatness.

“Father,” Boromir began, his voice rising in protest, but Denethor silenced him with a mere wave of his hand.

“You will remain here,” Denethor said, his tone final. “You are Gondor’s true leader. Gondor’s pride. I will not risk you on this fool’s errand.”

Boromir exchanged a long glance with Faramir, his heart heavy with the weight of their father’s decision. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Denethor’s voice softened, though the venom remained. “Do not fail me again, Faramir. You are accustomed to failure, are you not?”

Faramir met his father’s gaze, his expression weary but resolute. There was no anger in his eyes—only a quiet, undying sorrow. “I will do what you command.”

Denethor nodded curtly, his robes swirling around him like the dark clouds that followed him wherever he went. He turned and strode away without another word, leaving the brothers in the silence of the ruined city. Boromir stood frozen, his fists clenched in frustration, torn between the anger he felt for his father’s treatment of Faramir and the helplessness that swelled in his chest.

Faramir, though, simply stood there, his face a mask of resigned quietude. He approached Boromir, offering a faint, weary smile that seemed to come from a place far deeper than mere fatigue.

“It is as he wishes,” Faramir said softly, his voice betraying a sadness that could not be hidden.

Boromir placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his gaze dark and filled with a sorrow of his own. “You deserve better than this,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Faramir shook his head, his smile never reaching his eyes. “What we deserve matters little. Only what must be done.”

They stood in silence, the weight of their father’s words hanging between them like a shroud, the distant sounds of revelry from the soldiers growing ever fainter. Above them, the banner of Gondor flapped proudly, but even its gleaming White Tree could not banish the shadows that loomed over the brothers.

***

The moon was pale and thin above the ruined crown of Weathertop, its light feeble against the gathering dark. Rían moved silently through the jagged stones, her cloak blending with the shadows. The faint cries of the Nazgûl had already sent her pulse quickening—dread coursing through her veins like ice—but she forced herself to focus, to steady her breathing. She had tracked Aragorn for days, keeping to hidden paths, though she hadn’t expected to find him embroiled in a battle against such foes.

Her sharp gaze caught the flicker of firelight below, and she crept closer, careful to keep to the cover of the rocks. There, in the clearing, was Aragorn—her chieftain, her kinsman—standing between four small figures and the towering shapes of the Nazgûl. His sword was drawn, but it seemed dull and weak against the black robes of the Ringwraiths. Around him, the hobbits huddled near the fire, their faces pale with terror.

Her stomach clenched as she counted the figures. Five. Five of the Nine. And they were closing in, their movements deliberate, their whispers cold and venomous on the night air. Aragorn was shouting something, but the words seemed swallowed by the unnatural chill.

The shadows seemed to press closer, and for a moment, Rían hesitated, her hand hovering over the hilt of her sword. Every fiber of her being screamed to flee—to turn and leave the cursed wraiths to their work—but she gritted her teeth and forced herself forward. She had not survived the fall of her home, the death of her family, only to cower now.

With a swift, silent motion, she drew her sword, its ancient steel catching the faint light of the moon. The sword’s edge gleamed with a faint silver sheen, as though eager for battle. She took a deep breath, her muscles coiled and ready, like a serpent preparing to strike. Then she moved.

The first Ringwraith never saw her coming. She swept down from the rocks with all the swiftness of a hunting hawk, her blade slicing through the air.  Her blade struck the creature’s shoulder, the steel shuddering on contact, but the wraith reeled back with a scream like grinding stone.

Aragorn turned, his gray eyes widening in brief surprise before recognition lit his face. “Rían!” he called, his voice sharp but grateful.

She said nothing, her focus trained on the Nazgûl that now turned toward her, their hissing voices thick with malice. One surged forward, its jagged blade slicing through the air toward her. She stepped back just in time, the tip of the weapon missing her by a hair. With a sharp twist of her wrist, she struck back, her blade slashing across the wraith’s chest.

The Nazgûl screeched and staggered, but another was already advancing. Rían ducked low, the black blade slicing over her head, and drove the blade of her sword upward in a powerful thrust. The creature hissed and fell back, its dark cloak trailing smoke.

To her side, Aragorn was a blur of motion, his torch burning fiercely as he drove another wraith away from the fire. The hobbits cowered near the flames, Sam gripping his sword with trembling hands. Rían’s heart clenched as her eyes flicked toward Frodo, who lay motionless on the ground, his face as pale as death.

“Frodo!” Sam cried, his voice breaking.

“We must hold them!” Aragorn shouted, his torch swinging in a wide arc.

Rían gritted her teeth and stepped closer to the fire, forcing herself between the hobbits and the advancing wraiths. She raised her sword, the edge catching the firelight, and met the nearest wraith head-on.

Its blade came crashing down, and she blocked it with all her strength. The impact rattled through her arms, but she held firm, her teeth bared in defiance. With a sharp twist, she forced the wraith back and swung her sword in a wide, precise arc. The creature hissed and retreated, its cloak smoldering as it neared the fire.

The battle was chaos—a flurry of movement and shadow, of flame and steel. But slowly, the tide began to turn. Aragorn’s torch burned brighter, its light driving the wraiths back step by step. Rían pressed forward, her strikes quick and unrelenting, until at last the remaining Nazgûl let out an ear-splitting shriek and fled into the night.

The clearing fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the labored breathing of the companions. Rían lowered her sword, her arms trembling from the strain, and glanced at Aragorn. His face was streaked with sweat, but his eyes burned with determination.

“Is everyone all right?” he asked, his voice tight with urgency.

“I think so,” Sam said, though his voice shook. He knelt beside Frodo, his hands trembling as he touched the hobbit’s shoulder. “But Frodo—he’s hurt bad.”

Aragorn was already moving, kneeling beside Frodo to examine the wound. Rían sheathed her sword and stepped closer, her sharp gaze scanning the horizon for any sign of the wraiths’ return.

“The blade was Morgul-forged,” Aragorn muttered grimly, his hands gentle but sure. “The shard is still inside him, driving deeper with every moment. If it reaches his heart—” He paused, his jaw tightening.

Rían crouched beside him, her voice firm despite the lingering tension in her chest. “Then we must take him to Rivendell,” she said. “Elrond alone has the skill to heal him.”

Aragorn nodded, his expression resolute. “We leave at first light. But the road will be perilous. The Nazgûl will not rest until they have reclaimed their prize.”

Rían met his gaze, her own eyes steady and determined. “Then they will have to go through me first. I will see this task through, Aragorn, if you will have me.”

For a moment, Aragorn simply looked at her, his expression softening. Despite the danger, a faint smile touched his lips. “You have always been steadfast, Rían. Your blade and your will are welcome.”

She nodded, gripping the hilt of her sword once more as she rose. “Then we will see Frodo to Rivendell. And if the Nazgûl come again, I will show them the steel of Arnor.”

Her words rang with quiet resolve, and though the night was heavy with shadow, the firelight glinted off her blade like the promise of dawn.

***

Frodo lay on the ground, his body trembling as his eyes, once bright, grew cloudy. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared up at the stone trolls, their twisted forms looming over him like silent sentinels of death. Sam crouched by his side, helpless.

“Look, Frodo,” Sam said, his voice catching with a mixture of awe and dread. “It’s Mr. Bilbo’s trolls.”

Frodo’s breathing hitched, his eyes wide with recognition, but his body grew colder. Sam pressed his palm against Frodo’s forehead, his face etched with panic.

“He’s going cold!” Sam gasped, his voice breaking as he felt the chill that had begun to claim his friend.

Aragorn, standing between the hulking stone figures of the trolls, lifted a torch high. The flame flickered in the stillness of the night as the sound of distant screeches echoed through the trees.

“He’s passing into the Shadow world,” Aragorn said gravely, his voice carrying above the noise of the battle stirring in the distance. “He’ll soon become a wraith like them.”

Frodo’s gasps grew more labored as his eyes fluttered, struggling to focus. Sam’s heart thudded in his chest, and his eyes darted toward the trees as the cries of the wraiths grew louder.

“They’re close!” Merry shouted, his voice tight with fear.

Aro looked to Rían, who had been quietly observing the scene from the edge of the group. “Rían,” he said urgently, his voice calm despite the tension in the air. “Find Athelas, quickly.”

Rían nodded without hesitation, her eyes flicking to the distant thickets where the herb was known to grow. She sprinted into the shadows, her boots soft against the earth as she moved swiftly through the trees. Moments later, she returned, the delicate green leaves of Athelas clutched in her hand. She pressed them into Aragorn's palm as he chewed them quickly, the sharp, aromatic scent filling the air.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his focus entirely on Frodo as he leaned down to press the crushed leaves to Frodo’s wound.

An elleth  appeared from between the trees, her figure like a vision of light against the deepening night. Her long, dark hair flowed behind her, shimmering in the moonlight, and her eyes held the wisdom of ages as she urged her horse forward with steady grace. The horse, Asfaloth, moved with the ease of the wind itself, his hooves barely touching the ground as he galloped through the clearing, the urgency of their mission quickening their pace.

Aragorn's gaze met hers as she approached, her face etched with concern, but her resolve unwavering. She guided the horse with a masterful touch, bringing it to a swift stop beside them, her hand still holding Frodo gently as though she could hold him to life with her own strength.

“Frodo, téna’ n’illúvatar,” Arwen murmured softly in Elvish, her voice carrying the weight of her words. (Frodo, I have come to save you.)

Sam looked at her, wide-eyed, his voice filled with awe and disbelief. “She’s an elf!” he whispered urgently to Pippin, still struggling to understand what was happening.

Merry, still trying to understand, turned to Rían. “Who is she?”

Rían glanced at the elf, watching as Arwen tended to Frodo with a grace and confidence that only someone of her lineage could possess. “She is Lady Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell,” Rían explained. 

Arwen’s eyes turned to Frodo, her hand brushing his forehead as she wiped the sweat from his brow. The wound on his shoulder was darkening, the blood congealing, and she could feel the pull of death at his side. Her brow furrowed with concern, but her voice remained calm, firm, and gentle.

“He’s fading,” Arwen said, her voice soft but resolute. She knelt down, carefully pulling back Frodo’s shirt, revealing the deep wound that had nearly claimed his life. “We must get him to my father,” she continued, urgency now present in her tone. “He is the only one who can help.”

Aragorn moved quickly, lifting Frodo into his arms with a quiet, determined strength.

Arwen met Aragorn's eyes for a brief moment, understanding passing between them. “I’ve been searching for you for two days,” she said, her voice full of worry. “There are five wraiths behind you. The others, I do not know where they are.”

Aragorn's face tightened, a fleeting shadow of worry crossing his features. “Stay with the Hobbits,” he said quietly. “I will send horses.”

But Arwen shook her head, her gaze hardening with purpose. “Hon mabathon. Rochon ellint im,” she declared firmly, her voice filled with the strength of her lineage. (I am the faster rider. I’ll take him.)

Sam, confused and a little overwhelmed, leaned closer to Rían. “What… what are they saying?” His voice was full of uncertainty.

Rían hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking between Arwen and Aragorn. “I don’t know,” she admitted with a rueful smile. “I’ve never learned the Elven language, though I’ve heard enough of it over the years to recognize some words. But no, I can’t understand what they’re saying.”

Pippin, still confused by everything happening around him, stepped closer to Rían. “But you understand enough to know she’s helping, don’t you?”

Rían nodded, her gaze softening as she watched the scene unfold. “I know that much,” she said quietly. “And that’s enough for now.”

Aragorn's brow furrowed, his concern evident, but he did not argue further. He nodded, his grip tightening slightly on her hand. “Andelu i ven,” he said quietly, the words heavy with warning. (The road is too dangerous.)

Pippin, still processing the surrealness of the situation, leaned toward Merry and whispered, “What are they saying?”

Arwen turned her eyes toward Aragorn, a soft yet unwavering smile touching her lips. “Frodo fêr. Ae athradon i hir, tur gwaith nin beriatha hon.” Her voice was steady and calm, filled with the confidence of one who had long understood the burden of life and death. (Frodo is dying. If I can get across the river, the power of my people will protect him. I do not fear them.)

Aragorn's hand tightened around hers, his heart evidently conflicted but resolved. “Be iest lân,” he whispered, his eyes locked on hers. (As you wish.)

Arwen mounted her horse with graceful precision, her movements as fluid as the wind itself. She gently guided Frodo’s limp form onto the saddle behind her, her hands steady as she adjusted him carefully. With a quick command, Asfaloth leapt forward, his hooves pounding against the earth as they sped into the night.

“Noro lim, Asfaloth, noro lim!” Arwen cried, her voice carrying across the battlefield as the steed surged forward, faster than the eye could follow. (Ride fast, Asfaloth, ride fast!)

The clearing was left in a quiet stillness as Aragorn stood, his eyes still on the path Arwen had taken. Sam watched, his face pale and full of worry, the sounds of the night growing distant.

“What are you doing?!” Sam shouted, his voice rising with panic. “Those wraiths are still out there!”

Aragorn stood silent, his gaze fixed on the trail Arwen had vanished down, his heart heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. He did not answer Sam’s question, for there were no words that could ease the tension in his heart. He only hoped, with all that was left in him, that Arwen would make it across the river with Frodo, before the darkness could claim him entirely.

***

The sun was rising over the valley of Rivendell as the weary travelers crossed the final bend of the narrow path, its golden light filtering through the trees and glinting off the distant waterfalls. The sharp chill of the night lingered in the air, though the sight of Rivendell’s serene beauty felt like a balm after the long and harrowing journey.

Rían paused at the edge of the path, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the view. She had heard of Imladris in songs and tales, the hidden refuge of Elrond Half-elven, but even her childhood imaginings had not done it justice. The golden and silver spires of the Last Homely House rose above the mist, framed by the jagged peaks of the mountains. Streams wove like threads of light through the valley, their song mingling with the faint murmur of Elvish voices carried on the wind.

For the first time in weeks, Rían felt a flicker of peace. But it was fleeting. Her thoughts shifted to Frodo, she hoped Arwen brought him here on time

“Come,” Aragorn said softly, his voice low but commanding. “We are here.”

They descended into the valley, where Elrond’s attendants awaited them. Rían stepped aside as the Elves moved to greet Aragorn, their movements full of grace. The tension in Aragorn’s shoulders eased slightly as he exchanged a few words with the elves in their tounge.  

Sam made to follow, his hands clenched into nervous fists. “Will Frodo be all right?” he asked, his voice almost breaking.

Elrond himself appeared then, tall and grave, his presence both soothing and commanding. “The poison has not yet reached his heart,” Elrond said, his deep voice calm but firm. “But it is a grave wound. He is strong, stronger than he knows. I will do all that I can.”

Sam hesitated, his loyalty warring with his uncertainty, until Rían stepped forward and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “If Lord Elrond says Frodo will recover, then trust him,” she said, her tone quiet but reassuring.

Sam nodded reluctantly, though his eyes remained fixed on the doorway where Lord Elrond  had disappeared. Merry and Pippin appeared beside him, their expressions a mix of worry and awe at their surroundings.

“It’s like a dream,” Pippin murmured, glancing around at the cascading waterfalls and graceful arches of Rivendell.

“One I’d rather not have come to under such circumstances,” Merry replied, though he, too, could not help but marvel at the beauty of the place.

Rían allowed herself a small, fleeting smile at their exchange. The hobbits’ resilience never ceased to amaze her, even in the face of such overwhelming danger. She turned as Aragorn approached, his face grave but touched with relief.

“Rían,” he said, his tone both formal and familiar, “thank you.”

She frowned, tilting her head slightly. “For what?”

“For standing with me,” Aragorn said. “For keeping Frodo alive when all seemed lost.”

Rían shrugged lightly, though her gaze was steady. “It was the right thing to do,” she said simply. “You would have done the same for me.”

A faint smile touched Aragorn’s lips, but it faded quickly. “I must ask more of you still,” he said, his tone growing serious.

Rían’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Aragorn glanced toward the great hall of Rivendell, where voices could already be heard in heated debate. “Elrond has called a council. Representatives from all free peoples of Middle-earth have been summoned to discuss what must be done with the weapon of the enemy.” His gaze shifted back to her, sharp and piercing. “I want you to stay."

Rían’s first instinct was to refuse. She had spent her life in the wilds, far from the councils of kings and lords. Her place was on the edges of civilization, battling the darkness in the shadows, not in the halls of power.

“I am no diplomat, Aragorn,” she said, her voice tinged with unease. “What use could I possibly be at such a council?”

Aragorn’s expression did not waver. “Your skill with a blade is not the only strength you possess, Rían. You have a voice, one that has been shaped by the struggles of our people. You have seen what is at stake. And you are one of the Dúnedain. Your blood is of Númenor, and that alone grants you a place in this council.”

Rían’s mouth tightened at the mention of Númenor, the shadow of her lineage an ever-present weight on her shoulders. “You are our chieftain, Aragorn. My duty is to follow you, to serve where you lead. But this—this is not my place.”

Aragorn stepped closer, his tone softening but losing none of its firmness. “You have more courage than you realize, Rían. You stood against the Nazgûl when others would have fled. You carried Frodo through the wilds when all hope seemed lost. Do not tell me this is not your place.”

Rían hesitated, the conviction in Aragorn’s voice unsettling the walls she had built around herself. She looked away, her gaze drifting to the distant waterfalls. The beauty of Rivendell seemed almost otherworldly, untouched by the shadow that loomed over the rest of Middle-earth.

At last, she gave a curt nod. “As you wish, my lord. But do not expect me to be gentle with fools.”

A faint smile touched Aragorn’s lips. “That, Rían, is precisely why I ask you to stay.”

Rían exhaled, the weight of his request settling heavily on her shoulders. She had never sought the burden of leadership, but she would not refuse her chieftain. With a final nod, she turned toward the house, her steps deliberate.

***

As she entered the halls of Rivendell, the faint echoes of Elvish music drifted through the air, mingling with the distant murmur of voices. She felt out of place in such surroundings, her rough leathers and weathered cloak a sharp contrast to the grace and elegance of the Elves. Yet she squared her shoulders, her resolve firm.

Whatever this council would decide, she would bear witness to it. Middle-earth was at a crossroads, and she would not shy away from the path that lay ahead. For the sake of Frodo, for the sake of her people, and for the hope that the shadow might yet be defeated, she would stay.

Rían leaned against one of the smooth stone columns in the great hall of Rivendell, arms folded across her chest, her keen eyes following the movements of the Elves as they went about their business. There was a sense of tranquility here—almost a heaviness of peace—and it felt strange after the relentless urgency of their journey. Her thoughts were still with Frodo, the faint lines of worry etching her brow despite Elrond’s assurances, but for the moment, she allowed herself a brief respite.

The soft chatter of the hobbits caught her attention. Merry and Pippin had just entered the hall, both looking a little out of place in the company of Elves, but their faces were bright with curiosity, eyes wide as they took in the beauty of the Elvish architecture.

Merry, ever the practical one, was studying a vase of flowers with great interest, turning it slowly in his hands, while Pippin seemed completely entranced by the hanging tapestries that adorned the walls. The two of them made their way towards Rían, their lighthearted energy a stark contrast to the weight of their recent travels.

“Well, this is different,” Pippin remarked, his voice carrying easily in the hall. “Not a tavern, not a tree, and certainly not a hole in the ground. This place is… well, it’s certainly grand!”

Rían couldn’t help but grin at the sight of Pippin, who was looking at everything with the kind of unabashed wonder that made him appear more like a child than the brave hobbit who had walked  beside Aragorn and her on the road.

“Aye,” Rían agreed with a chuckle, “it certainly isn’t a hole in the ground. Though I suspect it’s not entirely to your liking, is it?” she teased, giving him a sidelong glance. Pippin gave her an exaggerated sigh.

“Nope! No good food or drink in sight yet,” he lamented, puffing out his chest in mock indignation. “I thought Elrond’s house would be full of all sorts of treats, but so far, all I’ve seen is…well…stone.” He waved his hand around the magnificent hall as though the polished surfaces and intricate carvings were mere inconveniences.

Rían laughed softly at the sight of him, his lighthearted mood infectious. “You’d think you’d be used to stone by now. It’s what keeps the wilds away from our door.” She tapped the edge of the column next to her with her fingers in a rhythmic motion, and Pippin, taking this as an invitation, leaned in, his eyes gleaming.

“Stone is well and good for keeping things out, but it doesn’t keep the ale flowing, does it?” He winked and Rían couldn’t help but shake her head.

“Not sure there’s much ale flowing here, Master Pippin. Elves prefer their wine, I hear.” Rían’s tone was light, but a playful glint lingered in her eyes. “But don’t worry. If I have anything to say about it, there might be a tankard or two before long.”

Pippin’s eyes brightened at the thought. “Aha! There’s hope for you yet, Rían! You’ll fit right in with us hobbits, you will.”

Merry, who had been listening quietly to their exchange, turned from his examination of the flowers and gave Rían a knowing smile. “You’re not wrong, Pippin,” he said. “Rían’s got the spirit of a hobbit in her, I think.”

Rían raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Do I now?” she asked, amused. “And here I thought you hobbits were all about comfort and food.”

Merry grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, we are,” he replied, “but we’re also about adventure. You’ve been with us long enough to know that.”

“Adventure, eh?” Rían mused. She crossed her arms, leaning back against the stone pillar and reflecting on their travels. “I’ve been on a few adventures myself, though I’ve never thought of them as… comfortable ones.”

Pippin let out a dramatic gasp. “I knew it! You’ve got hobbit in you, I’m telling you.” He threw a triumphant glance at Merry, who just shook his head, still grinning.

Rían’s expression softened as she looked at the two hobbits, seeing the weariness in their faces but also the quiet strength in their eyes. It was strange to think of them as adventurers—small, unassuming creatures—but they had proven time and again that bravery wasn’t always measured by size. She had seen them face dangers that most men would have fled from, and she had seen them stand tall in the face of impossible odds.

“Your courage is something,” Rían said quietly, the warmth of her words carried with a steady conviction. “I’ve been in battle beside many men, but none have shown the spirit you two have.”

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances, both of them clearly taken aback by the compliment. Pippin, ever the cheeky one, scratched the back of his head and gave her a sheepish grin. “Oh, we try our best, of course. But I’m sure you’ve seen much braver warriors than us.”

Rían’s eyes softened as she looked at Pippin, a wry smile curling her lips. “I’ve seen warriors with more skill, that’s true,” she admitted. “But there’s a fire in you, both of you, that I don’t often see in men twice your size.”

Merry leaned closer to Pippin, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You hear that, Pip? We’ve got fire. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Pippin looked up, his eyes shining with mock seriousness. “Fire, eh? I always knew we had a bit of it in us. Now all we need is someone to light the way to the kitchens, and we’re good to go!”

Rían chuckled, shaking her head. “You may be able to light the way to the kitchens, but I suspect it will be a long wait. The elves are too busy with their council to think about such things.”

At the mention of the council, Merry sobered, his face dimming slightly. “Aye, the council…” He glanced toward the far side of the hall where the high table was being prepared. “We’ll be joining it soon, won’t we?”

Rían nodded, her expression shifting to one of quiet resolve. “Yes, but not yet. For now, we wait.”

The three of them stood there for a moment, looking out across the hall, the tension in the air settling, if only for a moment.

“Well,” Pippin said, giving an exaggerated stretch, “while we wait, how about a walk? I’d love to see more of Rivendell before we’re all stuffed into a room with important folks and talk of doom and destiny.”

“Maybe not too much walking,” Merry teased, “Or else we might end up running into someone who insists we start discussing the doom of Middle-earth before we’ve had a good meal.”

With that, the tension lifted, and Rían laughed. “Lead the way, then,” she said, gesturing toward the door, “but I’ll warn you now, if we’re caught stealing food from the kitchens, I won’t be saving you.”

Pippin flashed a mischievous grin. “I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve got a way of charming even the sternest of cooks.”

Rían rolled her eyes, but the playful camaraderie of the hobbits filled her with warmth. For all the hardships they had endured, there was a simple joy in this moment—an easy comfort in the company of friends who had become family in the truest sense.

Together, the three of them stepped away from the shadows of Rivendell’s halls, finding a moment of respite in laughter, and in the strange, shared understanding that whatever was to come, they would face it together

***

The soft murmur of voices echoed through the cool, airy halls of Rivendell, mingling with the sound of running water from the streams outside. Rían had found a quiet corner in the great hall, a place where the constant motion of Elves and travelers could be observed without overwhelming her senses. Her thoughts were still with Frodo, though she had no doubt that Elrond and his healers would see to the hobbit’s care. The wound from the Morgul blade was poison—no doubt of that—but Elrond was no ordinary healer, and Rían had heard enough about him to know that few were better equipped to deal with such a grievous injury.

But even as her mind turned to these things, there was no escaping the knot of worry in her stomach. She had seen the look in Sam’s eyes when Frodo was carried away, that raw, unfettered fear that only a true friend could feel. Sam had been the one to hold Frodo together through so many trials, and now his heart was torn by the thought of losing him.

Rían had watched him from across the hall, pacing restlessly, his hands wringing together as though he could somehow hold his companion’s fate in his grip. She’d seen that kind of fear before—saw it in the eyes of those who had lost comrades, those who had seen too much darkness and no way to hold it at bay.

It had troubled her to see Sam in such a state. She knew the depths of his devotion to Frodo, the loyalty that bound them tighter than blood ever could. She knew, too, that he was struggling with the weight of the situation, unable to act, to do anything but wait.

Her heart moved toward the little hobbit as she stood and made her way toward him, her boots silent on the stone floors. He was near one of the tall windows, gazing out at the waterfalls in the distance, though his eyes were unfocused, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Sam’s voice was small, almost lost in the sound of the rushing water. “I don’t know what to do, Rían,” he said, his words heavy with emotion. “I’ve never felt like this before… like everything’s falling apart. Frodo—he’s always been the strong one, the one, and now… now he’s the one who needs help, and I can’t—”

Rían stepped forward, her boots clicking softly against the stone, and placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. The simple contact seemed to startle him, and he turned, blinking as though surprised to find her standing there. His face was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes from the sleepless nights.

“Sam,” Rían said quietly, her voice calm, yet full of that gentle strength she had honed over years in the wilds. “You’ve been through so much already, and yet here you are, still standing.” She paused for a moment, letting her words settle in. “You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than you believe.”

Sam’s lips pressed together in a tight line, but he said nothing. He simply looked down, his fists clenched at his sides.

“I don’t feel strong, Rían,” he said at last, his voice cracking slightly. “I feel like I’m losing him, and I can’t… I can’t lose him. He’s my best friend. My master. He’s everything.”

The words stung, and Rían’s heart ached for him. The bond between Sam and Frodo was like no other—unshakable, unwavering—and it had carried them through more hardships than any of them should have endured. She could see it in Sam’s eyes now—the overwhelming weight of that love, that fierce, unrelenting devotion. It was a love that had carried him all this way, and it was clear that the thought of losing Frodo felt like the very earth was slipping away beneath him.

Rían stepped closer, her eyes soft but firm. “Frodo is strong, too,” she said gently. “You must know that. He is a survivor, Sam. He has survived so much already, and his heart is fierce, even if it’s hidden beneath all that gentleness.”

Sam let out a breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. He wiped his hand across his face, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. “I don’t know if I can do this, Rían. What if—what if I can’t help him? What if he—”

Rían reached out then, her hands gentle as she cupped his face in her palms, her thumbs brushing away the few stray tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes. Sam froze at the unexpected gesture, his brown eyes wide, and for a moment, there was only silence between them.

“Samwise Gamgee,” Rían said softly, her voice unwavering. “You’ve carried him this far. Don’t you dare believe you’re weak now. You’ve fought beside him, and you’ve never left his side. That is the greatest thing any friend can offer. Frodo is not beyond help. He’s still alive, still breathing, and with Elrond’s care, he will recover. But you have to believe that, too. You have to believe in his strength as much as you believe in yours.”

Sam blinked up at her, as though trying to process her words. The storm in his eyes had not yet passed, but it seemed, for the moment, a little less consuming. He took in a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort to steady himself.

“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Rían said, her gaze never leaving his. “We all are. But fear is not the same as giving up. You’ve faced fear every step of this journey, and you’ve not once faltered. You’ll face it again, and again, but you won’t let it define you, Sam. Not now, not ever.”

Sam swallowed hard, the weight of her words sinking into him, and for a moment, he simply stood there, his gaze lost in the distance. Then, slowly, he nodded. It was a small gesture, but it was enough.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough. “I just… I needed someone to say it. Someone who wasn’t…” He stopped, his voice catching in his throat. “I needed to hear that Frodo will be all right.”

Rían’s heart swelled at the trust in Sam’s words. “He will be, Sam. I promise you that. Elrond will heal him. And when he’s well, you’ll both continue this journey. Together.”

The hobbit let out a shaky breath, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right.” He gave a small, tentative smile. “Guess I just needed someone to tell me to stop worrying so much. It’s just hard, you know?”

“I do know,” Rían said softly. “But worrying will not make Frodo’s healing any quicker. What will help him is seeing you calm, seeing you strong, even when you feel like you’re not. He needs you, Sam, more than ever. You’ve been his anchor, and that is something not even the darkness can take from you.”

Sam nodded again, more firmly this time, as though the weight on his chest had lessened a little. “I won’t let him down. I won’t.”

Rían smiled, stepping back, her hand still resting gently on his shoulder. “I know you won’t, Samwise Gamgee. Not now, not ever.”

With that, Sam took one last look toward the healing rooms, where Frodo lay in the care of Elrond’s healers, and exhaled, his shoulders seeming just a little lighter. He nodded again, and this time, there was no hesitation in his step when he turned away.

“You’re right,” he said, with renewed determination. “I’ll be here for him. I’ll always be here for him.”

And though Rían knew there was still a long road ahead, a road fraught with uncertainty and darkness, she also knew that Samwise Gamgee—braver than any warrior she had ever met—would not let the shadow take his friend. Together, they would fight for Frodo’s life, as they had fought for each other’s in the darkest of days.

Chapter Text

Rían sat by one of the open windows in Rivendell, the soft breeze carrying the scent of pine and water into the room. The beauty of the place was almost overwhelming—its tranquil beauty and the almost ethereal quality of the Elves that lived here. She could feel herself starting to relax, though she tried to keep a measure of control, her warrior’s instinct still alert beneath the surface. It was hard not to be awed by Rivendell, though. Even the air seemed to hum with ancient power, and it had taken some time for her to stop feeling as though she were trespassing in a world so far removed from her own.

Her thoughts wandered, memories of her travels, the journey from the Weather Hills, and the long road that had brought them here. The chaos of their flight from the Nazgûl, the urgency in Aragorn’s voice when he had urged them onward to Rivendell, all of it seemed a distant, dreamlike blur. Yet, she could still hear the sound of the Black Riders, their shrieking wails haunting the edges of her thoughts, as they pursued Frodo relentlessly. Even now, the image of the Nazgûl still brought a chill to her spine, and she was not so sure it was something she would easily forget.

The sound of hooves broke her reverie, a gentle clip-clop that grew louder as it neared. Rían turned slightly to see a rider approaching the gates of Rivendell. She had learned in the past days that the arrival of guests was a common occurrence, but this rider seemed different—there was a sense of purpose in the way he sat tall in the saddle, his posture confident yet wary. His horse moved with a grace that matched the rider, a sturdy creature with a proud gait.

The man was cloaked, though his face was visible, and his grey eyes scanned the surroundings with a quiet wonder. As he rode through the gates of Rivendell, his gaze flicked over the high, gleaming towers and the breathtaking scenery, as though it were the first time he had seen such beauty. The wonder in his eyes was hard to miss, though there was something else there too—a sort of guarded curiosity.

She noted his features with a swift, appraising glance. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark blonde hair falling about his face in waves. His cloak was simple, but well-made, and he wore the look of someone who had seen the road’s hard edge. But it was his eyes that drew her attention. They were grey, almost as grey as Aragorn’s, but they lacked the same intensity. They held the quiet, contemplative nature of someone accustomed to keeping his thoughts to himself, though there was a flicker of something else—something deeper—as he looked at the Elven city.

It was only then that it struck her: this man, despite his somewhat humble appearance, must be someone important. She had seen the glances exchanged between Aragorn and Elrond when they spoke of Gondor. This must be Faramir, the son of the Steward of Gondor. Of course. The resemblance was unmistakable now that she thought of it. Faramir was much younger than the stories spoke of his father, but there was no mistaking the lineage.

As the rider dismounted, his eyes still fixed on the city, Rían had to admit that she had expected someone more imposing. Someone with a more striking presence to match the weight of their heritage. Instead, Faramir appeared somewhat… ordinary. He looked like any other soldier, though there was a quiet strength in the way he held himself—an unspoken leadership that she was certain would become more apparent as she observed him further. But still, there was a sense of humility about him that was unexpected for a son of Gondor’s ruling house.

He did not approach the Elves in a hurry. Instead, Faramir stood for a moment just outside the gates, taking in the beauty around him. Rían could sense that he felt out of place in this city of light, as if it were a world foreign to him, one he had only heard of in tales, but never thought he would see. She could understand that feeling. Rivendell was a place untouched by the harshness of the world outside, a sanctuary for those who sought peace. The weight of the world seemed to fall away here, and it was no small thing for a man like Faramir to come from a country as war-worn and troubled as Gondor.

Rían shifted slightly, her attention still caught on the man who stood in quiet awe. She hadn’t meant to stare—she was not one to scrutinize the movements of others. But something about him kept her gaze rooted. There was a vulnerability in him, a momentary uncertainty, as he took in the grandeur of Rivendell, the peacefulness of it, and it made him appear all the more human to her. He was not some grand lord of Gondor come to claim his place among the Elves. He was a man, one who had likely seen war, loss, and the weight of responsibility far greater than his shoulders should have borne. Yet here he was, standing at the gates of Rivendell, looking every bit as lost as any soul who found themselves caught between worlds.

She considered him for a moment longer, but there was no need to linger on the thought. It was not her place to wonder about the son of Gondor’s Steward, not now. She had her own concerns to deal with, her own journey to continue, and Aragorn’s call to action had already been made. There was no room for distractions. She turned back toward the window and allowed herself a deep breath, releasing some of the tension that had settled in her shoulders.

And yet, even as she did, she couldn’t help but wonder what role Faramir would play in the coming struggle, and if, in some way, their paths might intersect again.

***

Faramir wandered through the tranquil paths of Rivendell, feeling both awed and a little out of place. The air here was cool and crisp, the towering trees casting dappled shadows on the stone walkways, and the sound of flowing water echoed through the valley, carrying with it a peacefulness he hadn’t known in years. Every step seemed to lead him deeper into a world untouched by the chaos of Middle-earth—where time seemed to slow, and the weight of his homeland’s burdens felt distant, almost forgotten.

He had come here with purpose, of course, but the overwhelming beauty of Rivendell, the serenity it offered, made him feel strangely unmoored. He didn’t belong here, not like Elrond, whose bearing was one with this land. Still, he couldn’t help but marvel at the high, arching bridges, the shining waterfalls, and the elegant buildings. There was a purity to the place that made even the hard edges of war feel like a distant memory. It was almost too perfect, like a dream too beautiful to hold onto for long.

As he ventured further, hoping to gather his thoughts, he stumbled upon a quiet alcove tucked away from the main paths, near the edge of a quiet stream. The area was shaded, with stone benches arranged around the perimeter and soft moss covering the ground. It seemed peaceful here, far removed from the council and the weight of Gondor’s hopes.

But there, sitting with her back to the stone wall, a figure was resting—her dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, her posture one of quiet solitude. At first glance, he might have thought she was one of the Elves, but there was something in her presence, something that did not quite match the ethereal grace of the Elves he had seen around Rivendell. Her grey eyes, however, were striking—sharp and keen, as though always watching, assessing.

He paused in the doorway of the alcove, unsure whether to intrude. She was not looking his way, and he half-turned to leave, but something in her stillness made him linger. It was clear she didn’t seek the company of others, and yet she was not alone.

She must have sensed him, for as soon as he moved a step closer, her eyes flicked to him, narrowing slightly, as if she were already prepared for a confrontation. She didn’t speak immediately, but there was a flicker of annoyance, a subtle shift in her posture, as though she had been disturbed.

For a long moment, Faramir simply watched her. She was no Elf, that much was certain. He had seen many of their kind since his arrival, but this woman—whoever she was—was different. There was a quiet fierceness about her, something raw beneath the calm surface. She was certainly a stranger to Rivendell, and yet her presence here seemed not at all out of place.

Rían, still sitting on the bench, looked up at him with a glance that suggested she might prefer his company elsewhere.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Faramir said, stepping forward, his voice soft.

She sighed, but her lips curled upward in a half-smile, a wry expression that spoke of someone who had been interrupted far too often. “It seems the peace of Rivendell is an illusion,” she said dryly. “But don’t worry, I’m not bothered.” She waved her hand in dismissal, as if to send him away, but he didn’t leave.

For a moment, Faramir stood still, unsure whether to speak further. Then, his curiosity overcame him, and he ventured, “You’re not an Elf, are you?”

Her eyes widened slightly, as if surprised by the bluntness of his question, but she offered him a look of mild amusement. “No,” she replied, her tone not unkind. “I’m not.”

Faramir studied her more closely then, unable to ignore the natural beauty that seemed to emanate from her despite her apparent annoyance. Her features were sharp and striking, the high cheekbones and slightly pointed chin marking her as someone not of common descent. Her grey eyes, though, held something deeper—something beyond the surface that he could not easily place.

“I… I must admit, I thought you were an Elf at first,” he said, his voice betraying his surprise. “You certainly posses their grace and fairness.”

Her lips twitched in an almost imperceptible smile. “Flattery does you no good, Lord Faramir,” she replied, her voice now laced with faint sarcasm. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Faramir blinked at her mention of his name. “You know me?”

“Not in the least,” she said, standing up slowly, her posture straightening as she fixed her eyes on him. “But I am not blind. You’re the son of Denethor, are you not? I’ve seen your likeness in the few passing mentions of Gondor’s leaders.”

Faramir flushed slightly, not used to such directness. He nodded. “I am. Faramir, of Gondor.”

There was a long silence between them, and then she shifted her weight, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I thought you might be one of Gondor’s lords,” she said in a soft voice, almost more to herself than to him. “But you don’t quite look the part, if I’m honest.”

Faramir blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” he said, caught off guard.

She shrugged. “You seem… humble, I suppose. For a man of your station.” Her smile was easy, almost teasing. “But I suppose that makes sense. Not every lord carries the weight of his title in the same way.”

Faramir, for his part, was unsure whether to be insulted or amused. He settled on a soft laugh. “Perhaps I don’t, but I do carry the weight of my people, whether I wish to or not.”

Her smile faltered, but she nodded. “Indeed,” she said softly. “And that weight is not something easily shared.”

For a moment, neither spoke, and the soft wind rustled through the trees nearby.

Finally, Faramir cleared his throat. “I’m here for the Council, I suppose, but it is… not the place I would have chosen.”

Rían’s expression softened, though she still wore a faint frown. “I know what you mean. I was sort of roped into this whole thing myself,” she admitted, her voice a little lighter. “I think you’d be better off in the library, if you want a peaceful spot. It’s a beautiful place.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said, though he could sense her desire to be left in peace. “Perhaps I will visit.”

With a small nod, Rían turned toward the path that led deeper into Rivendell. “Take care, Faramir of Gondor,” she said, her tone returning to something more formal, though it held none of the harshness he might have expected from a stranger. “You’re welcome here, though I think I’ve already overstayed my welcome in this corner of the world.”

As Rían turned to leave the quiet alcove where they had crossed paths, Faramir stepped forward, his voice soft but earnest. “Wait—your name, my lady. Will you not tell me?”

She paused, the faint light of the autumn sun catching her dark hair.. Turning her head, her gaze met his, calm and steady. “I am Rían of the Dúnedain,” she said, her voice clear and melodic, carrying a strength beneath its quiet tone. 

Faramir watched her walk away, her presence lingering in the air for a moment longer. There was something about her that intrigued him—something beyond her sharp wit and directness. Something that spoke of her strength, and perhaps, a little of her own burdens. He was certain their paths would cross again.

***

The evening had descended upon Rivendell, and a soft, cool breeze whispered through the gardens. The fading light of the sun cast the valley in a warm, golden hue, though the shadows were lengthening as night crept in. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers and damp earth, the sweet, delicate smell of the place adding to the sense of peace that enveloped the Elven realm. The distant sound of waterfalls blended with the rustling of the trees, creating a serene symphony that seemed to echo the quiet that had settled over the valley.

Faramir wandered through the garden paths, his thoughts turning inward, weighed down by the heavy events unfolding in Rivendell. The Council loomed ahead, its purpose both mysterious and uncertain. He had known of his father’s disapproval of this gathering, of the distrust that simmered between Denethor and the other leaders of Middle-earth, but his duty had called him here, as it had called all who had gathered. His feet carried him aimlessly for a time, until he rounded a bend and found himself face to face with someone he had not expected to encounter again.

Rian stood in the quiet of the garden, her back to the path, looking as though she were lost in her own thoughts. She had not heard his approach, and when she turned to face him, her expression was one of mild surprise. She stood still for a moment, a faint, almost amused smile playing on her lips. Her dark hair framed her face, her grey eyes meeting his with an unreadable expression, though she seemed in better mood than before.

“By chance, again,” she said, a light laugh escaping her. “It seems fate insists on us crossing paths.”

Faramir stepped back slightly, but his smile remained, genuine but tinged with amusement. “It would appear so. Perhaps I should start taking the long way round to avoid you, though I fear it might only make us cross paths more often.” His voice held a playful tone, though he was aware of the oddity of the situation.

Rian’s smile deepened as she considered his words. “I do not mind the company, as long as it's not too disruptive,” she replied with a teasing glint in her eyes. “But I suppose I’m still wondering why I keep running into you. Surely there is no great reason.”

Faramir was about to reply when he noticed the gentle curve of her smile fading slightly, a flicker of something deeper behind her eyes. He couldn’t quite place it, but there was a weariness there that seemed out of place in the otherwise tranquil surroundings of Rivendell.

After a moment, he noticed that she had already started walking, and without thinking, he stepped in beside her, offering his arm in an unexpected gesture of courtesy. “Would you do me the honor of walking with me? The evening is too beautiful to waste on solitary thoughts.”

Rian hesitated for a brief moment, her gaze lingering on his arm, and then she accepted, though her movements remained fluid and unhurried. She had a warrior’s grace, her steps as light as a shadow, yet there was no hesitance in the way she walked beside him.

They moved slowly through the garden, and the peaceful atmosphere of the place seemed to quiet their minds, at least for the moment. Faramir glanced at Rian, his brow furrowed slightly in thought before he spoke again.

“You said earlier that you were ‘roped into’ staying for the Council,” he began, his tone gentle but curious. “I must admit, I am curious as to what you meant by that. What brings you here, if not by your own choice?”

Rian’s expression remained composed, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. She glanced at him sideways, as if weighing how much to share. After a moment, she spoke, her voice steady and quiet, but her words carrying the weight of a life lived by duty and sacrifice.

“I am a Dunedain ranger,” she said, her voice holding the faintest trace of pride, though it was not boastful. “My father and my brother both gave their lives in service to our people and the fight against the shadow. I was raised to do the same—to fight and to serve. When my chieftain asked me to remain here for the Council, I could not refuse. It was not for me to question his will.”

She paused, and Faramir could see the way her shoulders tensed slightly, as though the weight of her words was heavier than it might seem.

“I’ve never been one for politics,” she continued, her voice soft but resolute. “I belong in the wilds, tracking orcs and keeping watch over the borders. But my duty has brought me here, and I will remain as long as my chieftain requires it. Though I fear my place here is… uncertain. I’m not one to sit in councils or debate matters of the realm. I belong to the wilderness, not the halls of Elrond.”

Faramir nodded thoughtfully, considering her words. He could see the steadfastness in her eyes, the strength of character that ran deep in her. It reminded him of the many warriors who had fought beside him in the wars of Gondor. Duty was a bond that could not be easily broken, no matter how far the path wandered.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “Duty often calls us to places we do not wish to go, but we answer it nonetheless. And sometimes, the journey leads us to unexpected places.”

Rian gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Perhaps,” she said, though there was a hint of doubt in her voice. “But this is not the place I would have chosen.”

Faramir’s gaze grew distant for a moment, his thoughts returning to the words of his father. “My father…” he murmured, almost to himself. “He believes this whole venture will be a great failure. He sent me here, perhaps, because he thought I could not fail him any more than I already did..”

Rian glanced at him, but she said nothing, sensing that he did not wish to elaborate further. Instead, she shifted the conversation, as if to allow him a moment of respite.

“So, did you enjoy the library?” she asked, her voice light, though there was an undercurrent of curiosity there.

Faramir blinked, surprised at the sudden change in topic, but his smile returned easily. “Ah, the library,” he said, his eyes brightening. “It is… magnificent. Rivendell’s collection of knowledge is unrivaled. There is a depth to the books there, an ancient wisdom. I found myself lost in it for a time.”

Rian chuckled softly, her smile more relaxed now. “It’s easy to do. The library here has a way of making one feel as if time itself slows down. You may find yourself returning often, though I doubt that it will answer all the questions you have.”

“Perhaps,” Faramir replied with a light laugh, though there was a trace of something deeper in his voice. “But I hope it might offer some clarity.”

Rian nodded, the weight of their shared silence falling between them again, but it was comfortable, not strained. The evening air was growing cooler, but there was warmth in their conversation, a quiet connection that neither of them had expected to find in a place like this. The stars above them were just beginning to glimmer faintly, and the quiet stillness of Rivendell seemed to wrap itself around them, holding them in its peaceful embrace.

As they continued their walk, the sound of the river in the distance, Faramir felt a sense of ease settle within him, a momentary respite from the burdens that weighed heavily on his heart. There were many roads ahead, and the Council was but the beginning. But in this brief moment, in the stillness of Rivendell, it was enough just to walk beside another soul who understood the weight of duty, the strength of honor, and the quiet uncertainty that followed it.

Chapter Text

The hall of Rivendell was silent save for the soft murmur of anxious voices. Elrond stood before them, his presence commanding, his eyes filled with the weight of millennia. Each representative—elves, men, dwarves, and hobbits—were gathered to decide the fate of Middle-earth. The One Ring had been revealed, and now, the Council of Rivendell was about to make a decision that could either save the world or doom it.

Elrond’s voice broke the silence as he addressed the assembly.

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old,” he said solemnly, his gaze sweeping across the gathered leaders. “You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom.”

He looked down upon Frodo, who stood trembling with the Ring in his hand. Elrond gestured toward him. “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.”

The hobbit walked slowly to the stone plinth at the center of the room, his heart heavy with the burden of his task. He placed the Ring on the stone, its dark power palpable in the air.

Faramir, standing at the edge of the gathering, took a sharp breath. His hand rose instinctively to his mouth. “So it’s true,” he muttered, staring at the Ring as it lay before them all.

The room fell into a tense silence. Legolas and Gimli exchanged wary glances as the Ring seemed to speak to them, its sinister influence creeping through the minds of those near. But it was Faramirwho could hold back no longer. He stood, his voice rising in challenge.

“In a dream,” Faramir said, his words slow but filled with a grim certainty, “I saw the Eastern sky grow dark. In the West, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying, ‘Your doom is near at hand.’ Isildur’s bane is found.”

As he spoke, the sky outside the hall seemed to darken, and the words of the Black Speech filled the room. Gandalf began to speak in the twisted tongue of Mordor, the words rolling from his tongue like poison.

Ash nazg durbatûk, ash nazg gimbatul,

ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

Legolas closed his eyes in pain. Elrond winced, his face contorted, as though the words themselves were tearing at his very soul. Frodo gripped the Ring tighter, his head spinning as he heard the Ring’s whispers echoing in his mind.

Gandalf finished the incantation, and a deep, unsettling silence fell over the room.

“One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,One Ring to bring them all, and in the Darkness bind them,” Gandalf spoke, his voice tinged with sorrow.

The darkness lifted as quickly as it had descended, but the unease lingered. The sun began to shine through the windows once more, though its light seemed colder now, its warmth diminished.

Faramir sat back down, his face pale, as he absorbed the full weight of the Ring’s power. Elrond stood, his voice rising with quiet authority.

“Never before has anyone uttered words of that tongue here in Imladris,” he said sharply, his eyes full of sorrow and anger.

“I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond,” Gandalf replied, his voice heavy with the knowledge of what was to come. “For the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West. The Ring is altogether evil.”

Faramir stood up again, his thoughts racing. His gaze fixed on the Ring, and his voice grew louder, more insistent.

Faramir stood slowly, his expression solemn but resolute, the weight of his people’s long struggle reflected in his gray eyes. His voice, though calm, carried an unmistakable edge.

“It is perilous indeed to carry such a weapon as this into the heart of the enemy,” he said, gesturing toward the Ring. “But peril lies in doing nothing as well. Gondor has borne the brunt of Mordor’s wrath for long years—our borders aflame, our people driven to despair. Shall we now let slip such a chance to turn the tide?”

He glanced around the Council, his tone growing more impassioned. “The blood of Gondor is spilled so that others may live in peace. Would you have us keep fighting in vain while this—this tool of great power lies unused? Perhaps it is not for me to say, but I wonder if any here truly understands the cost of standing against the Dark Lord without hope of strength to match him.”

A murmur rose among those gathered, but Aragorn’s steady voice broke through. “You speak of strength, Faramir, son of Denethor. But this is not strength. The Ring is treachery and deceit bound in gold, answering to none but Sauron. It would twist even the noblest of hearts to its will.”

Faramir turned sharply to Aragorn, his gaze narrowing. “You speak as though you have seen it at work, yet how can you know its power? I have seen my city crumble, my people slaughtered. Shall we sit idle, allowing that ruin to spread, for fear of what might come?”

Legolas rose then, his keen eyes flashing. “Do not mistake wisdom for idleness, son of Gondor. Aragorn speaks with authority, and you would do well to heed him. He is no mere ranger, but Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur.”

Faramir blinked, visibly taken aback by the declaration. His lips parted, but before he could reply, another voice rang clear.

“Aragorn is right.”

It was Rían who spoke, her voice quiet but firm, cutting through the tension. “The Ring cannot be wielded. To claim it as a weapon is folly. Its power belongs to the enemy, and it will betray any who seek to use it.”

Faramir looked at her, surprised by her certainty. There was no wavering in her tone, no doubt in her bearing. For a moment, he held her gaze, his own argument faltering.

Elrond’s voice broke the silence, grave and final. “The Ring must be destroyed. There is no other way.”

The room fell silent as they all looked at Elrond. The hope that had sparked in Faramir’s heart moments earlier was extinguished in the face of that final, damning truth.

Gimli, never one to shy away from action, raised his axe, his voice booming in the hall. “Then what are we waiting for?”

He swung his axe toward the Ring, but as it struck the stone, a force greater than anything he had ever known threw him backward, crashing to the floor. His weapon shattered, and a terrible vision of the Eye of Sauron flashed in Frodo’s mind, causing him to clutch his head in pain.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess,” Elrond said sorrowfully. “The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. There was no choice but to embark on the perilous journey into Mordor, the heart of Sauron’s power, to destroy the Ring. But Faramir, ever the strategist, could not let go of his doubts. He spoke again, his voice filled with grim certainty.

Faramir stood, his face drawn and serious, his voice steady yet underscored with a quiet intensity.

“You speak of destroying this Ring, but do you truly grasp what that means? Mordor’s shadow stretches far, and its strength grows daily. Gondor stands upon the very edge of ruin, holding fast with naught but blood and will. And now, here is a chance—a weapon to strike back at the enemy.” His gaze swept the Council, lingering on the Ring. “Would you have us throw it away without thought?”

His voice grew quieter, more somber. “For generations, my people have fought and died to hold the darkness at bay. Is it folly to consider that such a weapon could bring us the victory we have long sought? Or is it folly to march into Mordor, blind to the inevitable doom that awaits?”

Aragorn rose, meeting Faramir’s gaze with calm authority. “You speak of hope, Faramir, but this Ring offers none. It would destroy all who seek to wield it. You know of Gondor’s strength and sacrifice, but do not let despair cloud your wisdom.”

Faramir’s jaw tightened. “And you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn—would you have us do nothing? I do not question the valor of those here, but Gondor has held this line for years without relief. To hear my people cry for help as we stand at the brink of destruction, yet to reject the means to save them—can you call that wisdom?”

Legolas rose swiftly, his tone sharp. “This is no ordinary man you address. Aragorn is heir to the throne of Gondor. You owe him your allegiance.”

Faramir’s eyes flashed briefly with indignation, but then his expression softened, tempered by the weight of the moment. His voice dropped lower, but his resolve remained.

“Perhaps, it is not my place to question. Yet, I cannot see how we walk into Mordor with hope of success. The Black Gate is guarded by more than orcs—there is a malice there that does not sleep. And if we fail, what then? The Ring will fall into Sauron’s hand, and all will be lost.”

Legolas, his face hardening, jumped to his feet. “Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!”

Gimli, quick to respond, shot back, “And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?”

Faramir, unwilling to yield, stood taller. “And if we fail, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?”

Gimli raised his voice. “I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf!”

The Council was in uproar. Voices rose and fell like a storm-tossed sea, each faction speaking over the other. The Elves, their expressions sharp and indignant, rallied to Legolas’s side. The Men, bristling with pride, squared their shoulders in defiance. Arguments clashed like swords, their words cutting through the air with no sign of resolution.

Gimli’s gruff voice boomed above the din, his frustration spilling over. “Never trust an Elf!” he growled, his piercing gaze fixed on Legolas.

Legolas turned sharply, his face a mask of restrained anger, but before he could respond, Gandalf stood. His presence commanded the room, and the gathered company fell momentarily quiet, though their tensions still simmered beneath the surface.

“Do you not understand?” Gandalf’s voice thundered, his staff striking the stone floor with a resounding crack. “While we bicker amongst ourselves, Sauron’s power grows! He does not wait for our indecision. None can escape his shadow—none! If we do not act together, you will all be destroyed.”

As his words echoed through the chamber, Frodo sat silently, watching the chaos unfold. His eyes, wide and uncertain, strayed to the Ring on the plinth before him. In its polished surface, he saw the reflections of the Council—their faces contorted in anger, their voices rising again in discord. Frodo gasped, his heart pounding, and the fear he had tried to contain boiled over. He pushed to his feet, his small frame trembling with resolve.

“I will take it!” he called, his voice small but clear.

No one heard him. The arguments continued unabated.

“I will take it!” he said again, louder this time.

Gandalf, who had remained standing, closed his eyes as if in sorrow. Slowly, the arguing voices fell away, one by one, as Frodo’s words pierced the noise. All eyes turned to him, and silence blanketed the room.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor,” Frodo said, his voice steady but tinged with fear. He glanced around at the gathered faces, uncertainty clouding his features. “Though I do not know the way.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Gandalf stepped forward, his face heavy with both grief and pride. “I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins,” he said, his voice gentler now, as though speaking to a child. “As long as it is yours to bear.” He walked slowly to Frodo’s side, his hand resting on the Hobbit’s shoulder, a quiet strength in his gesture.

Aragorn, who had remained apart from the heated exchanges, now rose from his seat. His face was solemn, his gaze steady as he crossed the room. “If by my life or death I can protect you, I will,” he said, his voice low and resolute. Kneeling before Frodo, he placed a hand over his heart. “You have my sword.”

Gandalf’s lips curved into a faint smile as he exchanged a knowing look with Elrond, who gave the smallest of nods, his grave expression softening.

Legolas stepped forward next, his movements fluid as the stream of a clear river. “And you have my bow,” he said, his keen eyes locking with Frodo’s, a silent promise in their depths.

Gimli followed, his gruff demeanor unchanged but his loyalty unmistakable. “And my axe,” he said firmly, his glance flickering to Legolas with the faintest grimace. Despite their differences, he moved to stand beside the Elf, his posture unyielding.

The tension in the room rose again, but Rían, who had been standing quietly nearby, spoke out once more. Her voice was firm, unshaken by the rising tempers around her.

“I will join you. If there is a need for another hand to carry this burden, you have mine.”

Her words were simple, but they rang with the weight of something more—something resolute.  The quiet resolve in her voice struck Faramir like a hammer. He could see in her eyes the same determination that he had felt on the battlefields of Gondor. She would not back down, not from this. He met her gaze, and for a moment, the weight of their shared duty seemed to bind them together.

“If this is indeed the will of the Council,” Faramir said, “then Gondor will see it done.” He said as he as well moved to stand next to Frodo, taking his place at Rían’s side. 

Sam, who had been hiding behind a bush, suddenly leaped forward with a shout. “Mr. Frodo’s not going anywhere without me!” he called, rushing to his friend’s side.

Elrond, raising an eyebrow, could not help but smile at the unexpected interruption. “No indeed, it is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not!”

Pippin and Merry, who had been listening from behind a pillar, emerged at that moment, eager to join the quest.

“Wait! We’re coming too!” Merry shouted.

“You’d have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us,” he said, his arms crossed as he glanced at Frodo, a mischievous grin on his face.

Beside him, Pippin, ever eager to make his presence known, chimed in with a thoughtful nod. “Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission… quest… thing.”

Merry turned to his cousin, his expression mockingly skeptical. “Well, that rules you out, Pip.”

A soft ripple of laughter passed through the group, the tension easing ever so slightly. Even Gandalf, who had been grave throughout the Council, allowed the faintest flicker of amusement to touch his lips.

Elrond stepped forward then, his gaze sweeping over the assembled company: Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Hobbits united by fate and duty. He regarded them with a mixture of hope and solemnity.

“Ten companions,” he said, his voice firm and deliberate. “So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

The proclamation hung in the air, heavy with promise and peril. The Fellowship exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them, each acknowledging the path ahead.

Pippin, ever irrepressible, broke the quiet. “Great!” he exclaimed, his bright eyes darting around expectantly. “Where are we going?”

The momentary levity drew a soft chuckle from Aragorn, though he quickly masked it with a cough. Legolas rolled his eyes in faint exasperation, while Gimli muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

Elrond, for his part, simply shook his head, his expression one of both bemusement and resignation. Even in the gravest of quests, it seemed, there would be room for lightness. And so, the Fellowship stood together, their resolve set, as they prepared to take the first steps on a journey that would shape the fate of Middle-earth.

***

The morning light had barely begun to touch the peaks of the Misty Mountains when the Fellowship set out from Rivendell, their path winding through the narrow valleys and dark forests that lay before them. Their journey was fraught with uncertainty, and the air felt heavier than it ever had before, as though the very weight of Middle-earth was pressing upon them. Among the company, a quiet tension had settled, a sense of the vast responsibility each of them now carried.

Aragorn walked beside Rían, his gaze ahead, but his thoughts clearly elsewhere. The weight of their mission was heavy on his heart, and yet, something in him was unsettled by the presence of the Dúnedain woman at his side.

“I am glad you came with us,” Aragorn said, his voice low, almost contemplative. He glanced at Rían, a slight furrow in his brow. “But, I can’t help but feel guilty. This is a perilous path we walk, and although I wanted you to stay for the council I did not ask you to join. I… I did not want to involve you in this.”

Rían’s expression remained unreadable, but the corners of her lips twitched ever so slightly, as though she might smile at his concern. She looked at him for a long moment, considering her words carefully before she spoke.

“There is nowhere else for me to be,” she said, her voice steady, but with an undercurrent of something deeper, something that tugged at the air around her. “I have no home to return to. No family waiting for me.” She drew in a breath, her eyes hardening as she looked forward again. “If I must give my life for this cause, then it will be the last thing I do gladly. I will not hesitate.”

Aragorn’s gaze softened, and for a brief moment, he looked at her with something akin to respect, a hint of sorrow in his eyes. “I admire your resolve, Rían,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But I cannot help but feel responsible for your fate in this. It should not have come to this.”

Rían gave a small shake of her head, dismissing his words as though they were of little consequence. She fell into step beside him, the sounds of the journey around them seeming to fade as they continued their trek.

***

Hours later, the day passed into dusk, and the Fellowship made camp beneath a thick canopy of trees. The air was cool, and the crackling of the fire was the only sound that filled the evening stillness. Faramir, who had kept largely to himself since the Council, sat by the fire, his mind weighed with the thoughts of his homeland and the grave responsibility of the task they had all taken on.

The crackle of the fire filled the quiet night as Faramir sat, tending to his sword, a faint glow from the flames dancing over the metal. He had been quiet for some time, his thoughts swirling in the shadows of the night, and his eyes were drawn to Rían, who sat alone, a little apart from the others. She was looking into the fire, her face softened by the flickering light, though her expression seemed faraway, as if lost in her thoughts.

Faramir hesitated, unsure whether to disturb her solitude. But then, taking a breath, he stood and walked over, his footsteps soft on the forest floor. He hesitated a moment before speaking.

“You’re up late,” he said, his voice calm, though there was a trace of curiosity beneath it. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Rían glanced up at him, and the faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lips, though her eyes remained sharp, assessing. “No,” she replied, her voice steady. “I have no interest in sleep when the road ahead is far more daunting.”

Faramir sat down beside her, the fire crackling between them, casting fleeting shadows on his face. He glanced at her, noting the hard edges of her demeanor, the way she seemed to guard herself even now.

“You’ve a knack for keeping to yourself,” he began, his tone light but probing. “Not many can hold their own so well in silence.”

Rían didn’t look at him immediately, her eyes fixed on the flames. After a pause, she offered a small shrug. “It’s what I’m used to. There’s a certain comfort in solitude.”

Faramir nodded, folding his arms as he lingered a few steps away. “Still,” he said slowly, his voice dropping to something more thoughtful, “it must be hard, having no one waiting for you when the journey is done.”

The words landed heavily, and Rían’s gaze snapped to him, her brows drawing together sharply, although there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

“Ah I see…” she said with a raised brow. “someone was eavesdropping earlier. Quite the skill you have, Lord Faramir. Listening to private conversations and then seeking them out later.”

Faramir’s eyes widened in mild surprise, his cheeks flushing slightly, though he quickly composed himself.

“I wouldn’t call it eavesdropping,” he said, attempting to sound casual. “You spoke plainly enough. Anyone nearby could have heard.”

“Is that so?” Rían countered, her lips curving into a faint smile. “And what exactly did you hear?”

Faramir hesitated, knowing he was caught. Finally, he sighed, his gaze dropping to the fire.

“You told Aragorn you have no one waiting for you back home,” he admitted. “I saw you sitting alonejust now and thought you might want somecompany.”

Rían’s expression softened for a moment, and she shifted her gaze to the fire, her fingers absently tracing the hilt of her sword. The silence between them stretched, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, laced with an unspoken sadness.

“My father and my brother both fell in battle,” she said after a long pause, the words almost a whisper. “They died defending our lands. And my mother… she lost all hope after them. She succumbed to illness, leaving me with no kin. No one else.”

Faramir listened, the weight of her words pressing heavily on him, and he felt a deep sympathy for her. She spoke of loss with a calmness that belied the pain in her words, and he could sense that her stoicism was not something learned from battle alone but from necessity, from living with sorrow in a world that did not always make room for mourning.

Rían shifted slightly, turning to face him now, and though the shadows of the night still veiled much of her face, there was an almost bitter smile on her lips as she continued.

“I was taught duty and battle, Faramir. That was my life,” she said, her voice even but with a faint edge of bitterness. “I had no time for lovers, no room for grief. Just the mission, the fight. So, when Aragorn called on me to stay for this… council, there was no choice. I had nothing else to return to.”

Faramir felt a twinge of discomfort, unsure how to respond. Her words were raw, revealing a depth of solitude he hadn’t expected. But it was her final remark that caught him off guard, and he swallowed, trying to mask his own unease and desperately searching for something to say to change the topic.

“No time for lovers?” he repeated awkwardly, his voice softer than usual.

Rían gave a small, almost rueful smile, as if amused at the thought.

“Not if you want to stay alive,” she said lightly, though there was a sharp edge to her tone that told him this was no jest. “Duty, battle, survival—those are the things that fill your days, not the affairs of the heart. At least, that’s how it’s been for me.”

Faramir felt a slight flush rise to his cheeks at her words, unsure of how to reply. He had been raised in the courts of Gondor, where the matters of love and politics were often intertwined, yet Rían’s words painted a different world, one where survival itself was the only pursuit worth the effort.

“I… I understand,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he did. He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking to the fire.

Rían stood up suddenly, brushing the dirt from her tunic. Her posture was resolute, her gaze distant once more.

“Anyway,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “thank you for the conversation, Faramir. But I think I’ll take my leave now. We’ve a long journey ahead, and there’s little time for idle talk.”

Faramir nodded, standing as well, though he didn’t try to stop her. As she walked away into the darkness, he stood there, feeling the weight of her words lingering in the air around him, and for a moment, he found himself at a loss for what to think—or what to feel.

The fire crackled on, but the night seemed suddenly colder.

***

The Fellowship moved onward through the wilderness, their steps measured, the journey ahead stretching long and uncertain. The day was still young, the sun filtering through the clouds and casting its pale light upon the rugged landscape. The path wound upwards, flanked by hills that rose like the backs of ancient, slumbering beasts. The remnants of old ruins stood half-hidden among the trees, their weathered stones a silent testament to forgotten ages. It was a place of deep history, both mournful and awe-inspiring.

The air grew colder as they ascended, the peaks of the Misty Mountains ever nearer. Every now and then, the wind would stir the treetops, sending a rustle through the leaves that broke the stillness of their march.

Gandalf’s voice lingered in the minds of the company, a quiet but urgent reminder of the long road ahead.

We must hold this course west of the Misty Mountains for forty days. If our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will remain open to us. And from there, the road turns east toward Mordor.

Sam, ever watchful over the food and supplies, came to Frodo with a plate of sausages in his hands. Frodo, sitting by a small fire, had been watching Merry and Pippin’s practice sparring with Faramir. The two hobbits, struggling with swords far too large for their size, made a clumsy but earnest display of their efforts. Faramir, despite his own measured grace, seemed to indulge them, offering gentle corrections between their stumbles.

Faramir, his stance steady and his sword poised in a practiced grip, watched as Merry lunged awkwardly at Pippin, who dodged with a gleam in his eye.

“You’re getting better, Pippin,” Merry teased as they broke apart, both puffing with exertion.

Pippin grinned, wiping his brow. “Thanks, Merry. You look like you’re actually trying to hit me now.”

Faramir offered a faint smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he spoke to them both. “You fight like soldiers of Gondor—or at least, like their more mischievous kin.”

Aragorn, who had been quietly observing the hobbits, finally let out a soft chuckle. “They make more noise than an entire band of orcs.”

Merry and Pippin, now laughing, joined together to wrestle Faramir, who—despite his best efforts—was quickly overpowered by the two energetic hobbits. With a grunt, he went down under their combined weight, and the two laughed uproariously.

“For the Shire!” Pippin cried, attempting to pin Faramir’s arms.

“Hold him, hold him down, Merry!” shouted Pippin, his legs flailing to keep Faramir’s larger frame pinned.

Aragorn watched with an amused smile, leaning on his sword as he observed the playful tussle. “Gentlemen, that’s enough,” he called, though his tone was one of reluctant amusement.

But the hobbits weren’t done yet. With a final push, they toppled Aragorn as well, sending him sprawling onto the ground, much to the delight of the two of them.

“You’ve got my arm!” Pippin yelped as Aragorn wrestled with him.

Faramir, now sitting on the ground, had been caught up in the laughter and chaos. He rubbed his side, grinning. “I suppose I’ll never hear the end of this.”

Rían, who had been sitting beside the group, chuckled softly at the scene. She couldn’t help but tease Faramir as she walked over to him, her grey eyes gleaming with mirth.

“Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms and arching an eyebrow, “seems like you’ve been bested by a couple of hobbits.”

Faramir looked up at her, still laughing. “It seems so. Though they fight with more spirit than I expected.”

Rían grinned. “I’ll have to make sure to remember that for later. I’d never have guessed you were so easy to take down.” She shrugged lightly and continued, “At least you’ve got the good sense to laugh at yourself.”

Faramir rose from the ground, brushing off the dirt from his cloak, and gave Rían a slight smile. “You seem to enjoy watching the chaos unfold, Rían.”

She nodded, her expression softening. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such lightheartedness on a journey. We could all use more of it.”

But their banter was interrupted when Sam, still holding the plate of sausages, turned toward the rest of the group. His sharp eyes had noticed something. “What’s that?” he murmured, his voice low, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. A dark speck, far off and moving swiftly against the wind, hovered just beyond the horizon.

Gimli, who had been resting on a rock nearby, looked up dismissively. “Nothing, just a wisp of cloud.”

But Faramir—was more perceptive. He squinted, his brow furrowing as he saw the shape in the sky. “It’s moving fast,” he said, his voice tinged with concern. “And against the wind.”

“Crebain! From Dunland!” Legolas shouted, his sharp Elven senses immediately discerning the threat.

“Hide!” Aragorn barked, his hand gripping his sword as he sprang into motion.

The group scattered, gathering their belongings quickly and seeking shelter among the rocks. Rían and Faramir found themselves pressed together behind a large boulder, barely enough room between them to breathe. The air around them seemed thick with tension as they tried to remain as still and silent as possible, their bodies touching in the cramped space.

Rían could feel the warmth of Faramir’s presence beside her, the faintest whisper of his breath against her cheek. She glanced sideways at him, noting the sharpness in his eyes as he scanned the skies. Despite the danger of the moment, there was a peculiar, almost magnetic stillness between them.

They sat quietly for several moments, the only sounds the distant cries of the crebain, until the sky cleared and the crows disappeared, their shadows no longer darkening the air.

Faramir exhaled slowly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He turned to Rían, his voice a low whisper. “I’m sorry about earlier…  About how I behaves during the council… It’s just… It’s hard to know who to trust sometimes, with all that’s happening.”

Rían nodded, though she kept her eyes forward. “It’s alright. I understand. This isn’t an easy path for any of us. Although I think you should apologize to Aragorn, not to me”

Faramir shifted slightly, leaning closer, but Rían didn’t move away. She felt the weight of his presence more acutely now, the tension between them palpable, like the stillness before a storm.

“There’s a lot of danger ahead,” Faramir said quietly, his voice almost too soft to hear over the wind.

Rían’s lips curved upward in a half-smile, though her eyes remained distant. “It’s what I was born for,” she replied, her tone carrying an unspoken truth. “As I said if I must give my life to this cause, I’ll do it gladly.”

Faramir, caught off guard by her words, glanced at her sharply. The seriousness in her voice was unmistakable, but it was something else—an intensity in her gaze—that made him pause.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside was silent, save for the distant calls of birds and the crackle of the fire they had left behind.

Eventually, Rían broke the silence, standing and brushing the dirt from her cloak. “Now that the spies are gone, we should move on,” she said briskly, her voice returning to its usual tone, light and unaffected.

With a final glance at Faramir, she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there by the rock, still trying to sort out the emotions she had stirred in him.

Chapter Text

The journey up Caradhras grew more perilous with each passing hour. The cold wind howled through the mountain passes, carrying with it the bitter sting of snow that cut through their cloaks and chilled their bones. The Fellowship struggled onward, the deep drifts of snow pulling at their legs, making each step feel like a small battle against the mountain itself.

Rían, walking beside Aragorn, could feel the exhaustion setting in. The snow had piled high, nearly to her waist in places, and each step was a painful effort. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, and though the cloak Faramir had given her offered some warmth, it did little to fight back the cruel grip of the mountain’s chill.

Aragorn noticed her slowing and glanced over at her. “Can you manage?” he asked, his voice soft but filled with concern.

Rían nodded, though her face betrayed her fatigue. “I’ll be fine,” she replied, though the words felt hollow as she struggled to lift her feet from the snow with each step.

Behind them, Faramir, moving with more ease through the drifts, caught sight of her slowing pace. He paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful, then quickened his stride.

Faramir moved to her side, a gesture almost instinctive. With a swift motion, he unfastened his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. The heavy wool was warm, and for a moment, the icy grip of the mountain seemed to loosen its hold on her. His cloak smelled of wood and earth, and the warmth it offered was a small comfort amidst the unforgiving cold.

“You’ll need this more than I do,” he said softly, his voice barely audible above the howling wind. “Don’t argue, Rían. Just take it.”

She hesitated, then gave a grateful nod, pulling the cloak tightly around her. Her heart gave a small flutter at the gesture, and she looked up at him. There was something in his gaze—an unspoken understanding, perhaps, or something more—but she quickly turned her focus back to the journey ahead.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled by the wind, though there was a warmth in her words.

Faramir said nothing, but his eyes lingered on her for a moment before he turned to help carry Pippin through the snow. 

They continued on in silence, with Faramir now walking beside her, helping to shield her from the worst of the biting wind. The rest of the Fellowship trudged forward through the snow, their progress slow but steady.

Suddenly, a shout rang out from Frodo, who had slipped and fallen, his hand flailing through the snow. The Ring, hidden beneath his cloak, slipped from his grasp, tumbling into the snow. For a moment, there was a frozen stillness among them.

Faramir was the first to reach it. Kneeling down, he swept aside the snow and uncovered the dark, gleaming object. His hand hovered over it, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he felt the pull of it—felt the ancient darkness calling to him.

He shook his head sharply, the temptation fleeting but powerful, and with a swift motion, he picked the Ring up and handed it back to Frodo.

“It’s yours,” Faramir said, his voice hoarse with the strain of resisting the Ring’s power. Frodo accepted it silently, his eyes filled with quiet gratitude, and the rest of the group fell back into the heavy silence that had befallen them.

Legolas, walking ahead of the group, stopped abruptly. His sharp elven senses had caught something in the air, a disturbance. He stood for a long moment, his eyes scanning the horizon, before he spoke, his voice low and tense.

“There’s something wrong,” he said, his sharp gaze fixed on the distant peaks of the mountains. “I hear a voice… It’s not the wind.”

Gandalf, who had been walking beside Legolas, slowed his pace and looked up at the mountains with furrowed brows. “Impossible,” he muttered. “There is no one here but us.”

But Legolas’ unease only deepened. “It is not the wind,” he repeated, his voice urgent now. “It is a voice… and it is not natural.”

Gandalf’s expression darkened as he turned his eyes toward the mountain once more. He could feel it now, too—a presence, a malignant force, stirring in the cold winds. The mountain groaned, as though it was alive and listening.

The ground beneath them trembled slightly as the mountain seemed to respond to the evil whisper in the air.

“We cannot stay here,” Gandalf said sharply, his face grim. “Saruman’s power is at work.”

Faramir looked at the mountain, his jaw set in frustration as he spoke, his voice barely audible over the wind, “We must get off the mountain. Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!”

Aragorn, who had been walking ahead, turned sharply at Faramir’s words. “The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard,” he said, his tone firm, but his eyes revealing the difficult choices they faced.

“Then what do you suggest?” Faramir asked, his voice growing more urgent. “We cannot stay here! The hobbits… Merry and Pippin look frozen. This will be the death of them!”

Gimli, who had been trudging behind them with a scowl on his face, suddenly brightened at the idea. “If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it!” he said, his voice thick with the passion of a dwarf. “Let us go through the Mines of Moria!”

Gandalf, who had been silently studying the mountain and the storm that seemed to grow ever fiercer, paused. His eyes narrowed as he considered their options, his breath misting in the cold air. Finally, he spoke, though his words were heavy with the weight of their choices. “Let the Ringbearer decide,” he said quietly, turning his gaze to Frodo.

Frodo, who had been walking ahead with Sam, paused and turned to look at Gandalf. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide with uncertainty. “I… I don’t know,” he said, his voice thick with doubt. He looked over at Sam for guidance, his companion’s steady presence always a comfort.

Sam, ever loyal, gave Frodo a reassuring nod, though his own face showed the wear of their journey. “We’ll follow you, Mr. Frodo, whatever you decide.”

Faramir’s eyes flicked to Frodo and Sam, his face tight with frustration. “We cannot stay here!” he repeated, his voice edged with urgency. He looked to Merry and Pippin, who were huddled together, shivering and pale. “The hobbits are barely holding on. We cannot waste time in this storm. The mountain will take us all if we wait much longer.”

Gandalf turned to Frodo again, his brow furrowed in thought. “Frodo?” he asked, his voice gentle yet firm, as if guiding the hobbit toward a difficult decision.

Frodo stood in the snow, his small frame dwarfed by the vastness of the mountain. He was torn—both paths were fraught with peril. His heart ached with the burden of leadership, but the decision had to be made. After a long, tense moment, Frodo looked up, his gaze steady, though still uncertain.

“We will go through the Mines,” Frodo said quietly, his voice filled with resolve. His eyes flicked toward Gandalf, seeking confirmation.

Gandalf’s face softened, though his expression was still grave. “So be it,” he said, his voice resolute. He turned and waved for the Fellowship to begin moving again. “We make for Moria.”

Rían let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The decision had been made. The weight of it hung heavy in the air, and as she turned to follow the others, she could feel the gravity of their situation settling into her bones.

Faramir, who had been walking beside Rían, now moved a little closer to her, his cloak still wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The wind bit sharply at their faces, and the snow stung with each step, but somehow, in the cold, their presence together felt like a small warmth in the midst of the storm. Neither of them spoke, but there was a sense of shared understanding between them as they trudged toward the darkness that awaited. The mountain’s shadow grew longer, and with each passing moment, the cold seemed to grow deeper.

But they had no choice now. Moria awaited them.

***

The Fellowship trudged through the misty, rocky valley, the air heavy with the weight of the mountain that loomed above them. The ground was slick with a fine layer of dampness, and the fog seemed to cling to everything, obscuring their path ahead. Every step felt like a struggle, the snow beneath their boots now a soft, treacherous slush. The silence was broken only by the occasional murmur of the wind or the soft crunch of feet on the wet stones.

Gandalf, his staff glowing faintly in the dim light, moved ahead of the group, his deep voice breaking the quiet. “Frodo, come and help an old man,” he said, placing a hand lightly on the hobbit’s shoulder. “How’s your shoulder?”

Frodo glanced up, his face pale, eyes shadowed with fatigue. “Better than it was,” he replied, but his voice was strained.

“And the Ring?” Gandalf’s gaze was keen, searching. “You feel its power growing, don’t you? I’ve felt it too.” He paused, glancing around at the Fellowship, as if to ensure none of them were listening too closely. “You must be careful now. Evil will be drawn to you—from outside the Fellowship, and I fear, from within.”

Frodo’s brow furrowed, his gaze troubled. He turned to Gandalf, lowering his voice. “Who then do I trust?”

“You must trust yourself,” Gandalf replied softly, the weight of the words settling heavily between them. “Trust your own strength.” His voice was calm, but there was a shadow in his eyes—an unspoken warning, one Frodo couldn’t ignore.

Frodo looked at the wizard, confused. “What do you mean?”

Gandalf’s face grew more somber. “There are many powers in this world—some for good, some for evil. Some are greater than I am, and against some I have not yet been tested.”

Gimli, who had been walking a little behind them, stopped and pointed excitedly. “Ah! The walls of Moria!”

The Fellowship halted, gazing up at the sheer cliff face ahead of them, the stone gray and imposing.

Gimli tapped the wall with his axe. “Dwarf doors are invisible when closed,” he said, his voice thick with pride.

“Yes, Gimli,” Gandalf replied, his eyes narrowing as he studied the wall. “Their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Legolas’ voice came from the edge of the group, his tone tinged with dry humor.

Faramir, walking closely with Rían, gave a half-smile at Legolas’ words, though his thoughts remained distant. He was preoccupied with the stormy weather and the burden they all carried. He glanced at Rían, who walked alongside him, still wrapped in his cloak. It seemed to give her little protection from the biting cold, and he felt a stirring of concern for her well-being.

Rían caught him looking and smiled faintly. “I’m fine, Faramir. Don’t worry.”

But Faramir didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual before he turned away, focusing on the task ahead.

Suddenly, Frodo stumbled, his foot slipping into a small puddle near the edge of a dark lake. His face twisted in worry as he glanced around, clearly unsettled by the shadowy waters.

The Fellowship continued to move forward, but Gandalf paused and rubbed his hand over a smooth part of the stone wall. “Ah, now let me see… Ithildin,” he murmured, brushing away dirt to reveal a faint pattern beneath. “It mirrors only starlight… and moonlight.” His eyes lifted to the sky as the clouds parted slightly, revealing a sliver of moon. The pattern on the door began to shimmer and shine as the moonlight touched it.

The ornate door before them slowly revealed itself, etched with ancient Elvish writing above its arch. Gimli let out a low whistle, his awe palpable as he leaned closer. Gandalf stepped forward, tapping the stone with his staff.

“It reads, ‘The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria, Speak Friend and Enter,’” he said with a knowing look.

Merry, standing nearby, blinked. “What do you suppose that means?”

Gandalf chuckled softly and turned toward the door. “Oh, it’s quite simple. If you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open.” He raised his staff and placed it against the center of the door. “Annon Edhellen, edro hi ammen!” he intoned in a deep, commanding voice. “Gate of the Elves, open now for me!”

There was no response. Gandalf frowned, his brow furrowed with confusion. He cleared his throat and tried again, his voice growing stronger. “Fennas Nogothrim, lasto beth lammen!”

Still, nothing happened. Gimli muttered a curse under his breath. Pippin, who had been watching with wide eyes, spoke up, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “Nothing’s happening.”

Gandalf muttered, shaking his head. “I once knew every spell in all the tongues of elves, men, and orcs.” He walked up to the door and pushed against it, testing its resistance. “Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took, and if that doesn’t shatter them—and if I’m allowed a little peace from foolish questions—I will try to find the opening words.”

The Fellowship found a spot on the rocks to sit, waiting for Gandalf to solve the riddle. Rían and Faramir sat quietly on the stones, her back against his shoulder for warmth. She held his cloak tightly, the material heavy and soft against her skin. She was trying her best to seem unaffected, but she couldn’t ignore the warmth that seemed to spread whenever he was near.

“Any luck?” she asked softly, glancing at him.

Faramir didn’t meet her gaze, but his voice was low and steady. “None yet. But Gandalf is never one to be defeated.”

Rían nodded, her eyes lingering on Gandalf as he muttered to himself, searching for the correct phrase.

Meanwhile, Aragorn was helping Sam remove the baggage from Bill the pony, gently ushering the pony away from the group. “The Mines are no place for a pony—even one so brave as Bill,” Aragorn said with a slight smile.

“Goodbye, Bill,” Sam said, his voice tinged with sadness as he watched the pony leave.

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Aragorn reassured him. “He knows the way home.”

As they watched the pony depart, Merry and Pippin began tossing rocks into the dark water, a soft splash echoing each time a stone hit the surface. Aragorn quickly moved to stop them, his voice sharp. “Do not disturb the water.”

Then, suddenly, Frodo’s eyes widened, and he stood up, as though a thought had struck him. “It’s a riddle!” he exclaimed, his voice full of realization.

“The elvish word for ‘friend’,” Frodo muttered, looking back at Gandalf.

Gandalf, who had been pacing, turned quickly. “Mellon,” he said softly.

At that moment, a great crack echoed through the air as the doors slowly creaked open. Gandalf let out a soft chuckle of triumph, but the moment was short-lived. The Fellowship quickly gathered themselves as the sound of something ominous from the lake drew closer.

Inside Moria, all seemed silent, but there was something in the air that spoke of old, forgotten things. As Gandalf stepped forward, lighting the tip of his staff, the air seemed to grow colder.

“We will be entering the home of my cousin Balin,” Gimli announced proudly, “and they call it a mine!”

But as they moved deeper into Moria, the sight of skeletal remains—dwarves who had clearly fallen in battle—stopped them in their tracks. Gimli let out a horrified cry. “Noooo!”

The stillness of the lake shattered as a monstrous screech echoed through the valley, and from the dark waters behind them, a great tentacle surged forth with terrifying speed. It struck without warning, coiling around Frodo and lifting him high into the air. His cry of alarm sent a shiver through the company.

“Frodo!” Merry and Pippin cried in unison, darting toward him with their small blades drawn.

Sam, more resolute, shouted, “Strider!” as he slashed at the writhing tentacle gripping his master. The water churned violently as more limbs erupted, lashing out in all directions. Frodo was wrenched further toward the lake’s shadowy depths, his cries growing fainter under the deafening roar of the creature.

Rían’s breath caught as she reached toward Frodo, her voice rising above the chaos. “Frodo!” she cried, helpless against the onslaught of limbs

Before she could take another step, a massive tentacle swept toward her, its slimy coils striking with alarming speed. It wrapped around her waist, lifting her off her feet as she struggled fiercely against its grip. Her sword fell from her hand, clattering to the rocks below.

“Rían!” Faramir’s voice cut through the tumult like an arrow. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his blade flashing in the dim light. He dodged another lashing tentacle with fluid grace, his focus entirely on the creature gripping her.

With a powerful swing, Faramir brought his sword down, severing the tentacle. The monstrous limb writhed in agony, releasing Rían from its hold. She gasped as she tumbled toward the ground, only to be caught in Faramir’s strong arms.

For a moment, everything stilled between them, though chaos raged around them. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling with exertion as he held her close. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

Rían looked up at him, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. “No,” she whispered, her voice trembling with both relief and something unspoken. “Thank you.”

Faramir’s eyes met hers, dark and filled with concern. His hands lingered on her arms as he steadied her, his grip firm yet gentle. “Stay close,” he said softly, his words carrying a weight she couldn’t quite define.

Their moment was shattered by Aragorn’s command. “To the doors! Now!” he bellowed, his voice ringing with authority.

The creature, enraged by its wounds, surged toward them, its massive limbs lashing wildly. One tentacle coiled around Frodo again, dragging him toward the lake with renewed force. Aragorn, sword in hand, charged forward with a fierce cry. He slashed at the tentacle, his strikes precise and powerful. Frodo was released, falling into Aragorn’s grasp as the ranger caught him effortlessly.

Aragorn carried Frodo toward the mine entrance, his expression grim but resolute. Merry and Pippin flanked him, their small blades raised defensively, their courage undiminished despite their fear.

Behind them, Faramir helped Rían, his hand briefly brushing hers as he handed her back her sword. “Go,” he urged, his voice firm. “Get inside.”

Rían hesitated, her eyes darting to the lake where the creature thrashed in fury. “Not without you,” she replied, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes.

Faramir’s expression softened for a heartbeat, but he nodded. Together, they retreated toward the entrance, Faramir guarding their rear.

The company scrambled into the mines just as the creature’s tentacles slammed against the great stone doors. The force echoed like thunder, but the doors held firm, sealing them in the dark safety of Moria.

Inside, silence fell, save for the labored breathing of the company. Aragorn gently lowered Frodo to the ground, inspecting him for injuries. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and kind.

Frodo nodded weakly, his wide eyes reflecting the terror of what had just transpired. “I think so,” he managed.

Merry and Pippin sank to their knees beside him, their faces pale but relieved.

Rían stood apart, her breath still uneven, her gaze flickering to Faramir. He leaned against the wall, his hand pressed briefly to his side where a tentacle had grazed him, though he seemed otherwise unscathed.

“You saved me,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.

Faramir turned to her, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with something she couldn’t name. “It was nothing,” he said softly, though his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned away.

In the dim light of the mines, the company gathered themselves, their resolve hardening once more. But for Rían and Faramir, a silent understanding seemed to pass between them—something unspoken, but deeply felt, forged in the crucible of danger and trust.

The Fellowship hurried deeper into the mine, but Rían felt as if the world had shifted in that moment, as if the ground beneath her feet had become a little more unstable.

Chapter Text

The fellowship stepped into the yawning gateway of Moria, the shadows within devouring the last pale light of day. Inside, the air was cold and oppressive, heavy with the weight of millennia. The faint sound of their footsteps echoed through the vast emptiness like whispers of forgotten voices. Gandalf struck his staff against the stone floor, and a soft radiance blossomed, illuminating their immediate surroundings. The light revealed worn steps rising before them and glimpses of great, echoing chambers beyond.

Gandalf’s voice broke the heavy silence, low and grave. “We now have but one choice: we must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

He turned, his staff casting faint shadows on the craggy walls, and began ascending the steps. The others followed cautiously, their movements subdued, their breaths shallow.

“Quietly now,” Gandalf added over his shoulder, his tone a solemn warning. “It is a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.”

They climbed higher into the dark, winding paths carved long ago by dwarven hands. Faintly, the scent of stone and decay lingered in the stagnant air. The silence seemed alive, oppressive, pressing in from every side. Abandoned mines stretched like deep veins into the earth, their rusted chains and shattered beams the only testament to the bustling industry of a forgotten age.

Faramir, keeping toward the rear, glanced frequently at Rían, who walked just ahead of him. Her steps were sure, her posture confident, but he could see the tension in her shoulders and the faint flicker of unease in her gaze as she surveyed the darkness around them. A quiet determination burned within her, but the weight of Moria was palpable, even for one as steadfast as she. He frowned slightly, his instinct to protect her rising unbidden, though he said nothing.

Suddenly, Gandalf stopped, his eyes catching a glimmer in the rock face. He touched his hand to the silvery-white veins running through the stone and studied them with a solemn expression.

“The wealth of Moria,” he said quietly, almost reverently, “is not in gold or jewels, but mithril.”

He raised his staff, shining its light into a vast cavern below. The fellowship gathered around him, gazing downward in silent awe. The chamber stretched endlessly, the walls shimmering faintly with the glint of mithril.

“Mithril?” Sam muttered, stepping closer.

Gandalf turned, a faint smile touching his lips. “Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings. Thorin gave it to him.”

Gimli’s face lit with wonder. “Aye,” he said, his voice filled with admiration, “that was a kingly gift!”

“Yes,” Gandalf said, his tone almost wistful. “I never told him, but its worth was greater than the value of the Shire.”

Frodo turned to Gandalf, his expression astonished. The light caught his face, pale and wide-eyed, as if he were only now beginning to grasp the enormity of their quest.

The fellowship continued on, climbing steep and treacherous steps. The path was narrow, and Pippin slipped once, his hand flailing briefly before Merry caught him with a sharp tug.

“Pippin!” Merry hissed, his voice sharp with alarm.

They reached a junction where three doorways stood before them, dark and foreboding. Gandalf stopped, his brow furrowed as he gazed intently at the paths. His pipe was in his hand, and he puffed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve no memory of this place,” he said finally, his voice a murmur that seemed swallowed by the shadows.

The fellowship sat down to wait, each member subdued by the creeping unease of the place. Gandalf smoked in silence, his thoughts clearly far away.

Pippin, restless as ever, whispered, “Are we lost?”

Merry shot him a look. “No.”

“I think we are,” Pippin insisted.

“Ssh!” Sam snapped. “Gandalf’s thinking!”

Merry rolled his eyes. “What?”

“I’m hungry,” Pippin muttered.

As they waited, Frodo’s gaze drifted toward the darkness behind them. A chill ran down his spine. He thought he saw a flicker of movement, a pale shape clinging to the shadows. He stood abruptly and hurried to Gandalf.

“There’s something down there,” Frodo whispered, his voice taut with urgency.

Gandalf turned, his expression grave. “It’s Gollum,” he said quietly.

“Gollum?” Frodo repeated, his voice filled with disbelief.

“He’s been following us for three days.”

Frodo’s eyes widened. “He escaped the dungeons of Barad-dûr?”

Gandalf’s expression darkened. “Escaped… or was set loose. And now the Ring has drawn him here.” He sighed, shaking his head. “He won’t ever be rid of his need for it. He hates and loves the Ring, as he hates and loves himself. Smeagol’s life is a sad story. Yes, that was his name once, before the Ring found him. Before it drove him mad.”

Frodo hesitated, then said, “It’s a pity Bilbo didn’t kill him when he had the chance.”

“Pity?” Gandalf’s voice sharpened. “It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo? Do not be too eager to deal out death and judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or for ill, before this is over. The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many.”

Frodo fell silent, troubled. He glanced back, but Gollum had slipped away into the shadows.

“I wish the Ring had never come to me,” Frodo murmured. “I wish none of this had happened.”

Gandalf placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the Ring. In which case, you were also meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought.”

A faint smile touched Gandalf’s lips, and he turned suddenly. “Ah! It’s that way.”

Merry jumped to his feet. “He’s remembered!”

Gandalf shook his head. “No, but the air doesn’t smell so foul down here. If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose.”

The fellowship rose and followed Gandalf through one of the passages. After some time, the narrow tunnels opened into a vast chamber. Gandalf held his staff high, letting its light shine further.

“Behold,” he said, his voice reverent, “the great realm and dwarf-city of Dwarrowdelf.”

Columns of stone, towering and ornate, stretched endlessly into the distance, their intricacy a testament to the glory of dwarven craftsmanship.

Sam gaped, his voice full of wonder. “There’s an eye-opener, and no mistake.”

They walked through the center of the great hall, their footsteps a faint echo against the vastness. Faramir kept close to Rían, his gaze drifting to her from time to time, his concern unspoken but evident in the quiet protectiveness of his presence. Rían caught his glance once and offered a small, resolute smile, and though the tension of the place remained, Faramir felt a measure of peace in her strength.

***

The fire crackled and flickered in the dim light of Moria, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the cavern. The fellowship had gathered around the small fire, its warmth a meager comfort in the oppressive cold of the deep mines. The air was thick with the sense of foreboding, but for a moment, the sounds of laughter and easy banter broke through the silence.

“Here, Pippin,” Merry said, passing a small flask of what smelled like whiskey to his cousin. “I’ll bet you can’t finish that in one go.”

Pippin grinned, taking the flask with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Is that a challenge, Merry? I’m not one to back down from a challenge.”

“Better not if you don’t want to be in my debt,” Merry teased.

The rest of the fellowship laughed softly, the tension of the journey momentarily forgotten. Aragorn, leaning against the stone wall, smiled faintly as he took a swig from his own flask, passing it to Legolas, who made a face at the strong liquid but took a careful sip. Gimli, sitting close by, raised an eyebrow but didn’t refuse when Merry offered him a drink.

“Strange times, these,” Gimli remarked with a dry chuckle, his voice deep and rich. “Dwarves and elves sharing whiskey by the fire in Moria. I would never have thought it.”

“Neither would I,” Legolas said with a faint smile. “But I’ll admit, it’s a fine drink for a dark place like this.”

The fire crackled and flickered in the dim light of Moria, casting long shadows against the stone walls of the cavern. The fellowship had gathered around the small fire, sitting in a loose circle, sharing what little warmth it could offer in the cold, oppressive darkness of the mine. The clinking of water skins and the soft murmur of voices filled the air, momentarily distracting them from the unnerving silence of their surroundings.

Faramir, sitting nearby, couldn’t quite put his finger on why he felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest as he glanced at Rían. He had noticed it earlier, too—the way she seemed to wear the cloak as if it were her own, as though it belonged to her as much as it belonged to him. He swallowed, trying to ignore the strange sense of protectiveness that stirred within him, inexplicably heightened when she moved or spoke. And now, watching her in his cloak, he felt the stirring of something more—something unsettling and undeniably real.

The laughter of the hobbits, along with Aragorn’s deep voice, broke through his thoughts. The air felt warmer, if only for a moment, as they shared easy banter. Legolas was teasing Gimli about his beard, while Pippin and Merry whispered something that made them all laugh. But Rían seemed distant, her eyes not quite focused on the camaraderie of the group.

The darkness of Moria had a way of draining the spirit, Rían thought. It wasn’t just the oppressive stone walls or the endless passageways, but the very air felt heavy, as if it sucked the light and warmth out of the world. It pulled the hope from her chest, leaving nothing but a gnawing unease.

“Do you feel it?” she asked quietly, looking at Faramir, her voice barely above a whisper. “The darkness here… it seems to weaken my resolve. To pull all the warmth out of me.”

Faramir met her gaze for a moment, something in her voice pulling at him. He didn’t speak right away, unsure of what to say. There was something in the way her eyes were fixed on him, a softness in them that he hadn’t quite expected. Her words rang true for him too, though, as if Moria’s gloom sought to swallow all their hopes.

“It is difficult,” he said slowly, his voice carrying a quiet weight. “But perhaps it is not the darkness here alone. Perhaps it is the weight of the journey itself.”

Rían nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly, as if the weight of the journey pressed against her too. She shifted closer to him, just a fraction, their arms almost brushing. Faramir’s pulse quickened, and he turned his gaze toward the fire, focusing on the flickering flames.

“Tell me something warm, Faramir, ” Rían murmured, her voice soft, but there was something wistful in it, as if she were trying to summon light from the shadows. “A memory of something beautiful. Something that might help fight this… this darkness.”

Faramir glanced at her, startled by the softness of her request. He hesitated for a moment before speaking, his voice quieter now, the flickering firelight dancing on his face.

“I remember,” he began slowly, “the sight of Minas Tirith, from the walls. The light catches the towers, and the city gleams like silver and white stone. It’s a beauty I never tire of seeing. I remember the first time I saw it, standing on the walls with my father. The whole city waking beneath the light. It was a beauty I think many miss, for they do not see it from the walls, where the sun rises over the Pelennor Fields.”

Rían didn’t speak, but she moved closer, resting her head gently on his shoulder. Faramir felt a sharp breath catch in his chest, his heart beating faster than he had thought possible. He didn’t pull away, though the urge to do so burned at the edge of his mind. There was something so natural, so right, about her closeness, but it unsettled him all the same. He could feel the warmth of her, could hear the steady rhythm of her breathing, and it felt, for a moment, as though the fire was not the only thing keeping them alive.

“I hope,” he continued softly, his voice almost a whisper now, “that you might see it someday, Rían. Minas Tirith… the city of stone. It is a place worth seeing.”

Rían’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and for a heartbeat, the world around them seemed to vanish. She felt something stir in her chest, a warmth that had little to do with the fire before them and everything to do with the closeness she shared with Faramir. She breathed in, slowly, and when she opened her eyes again, she turned her head just enough to look at him.

“I’d like that,” she said quietly, her voice almost too soft to hear. “To see it someday. With you.”

The words hung between them, delicate as a thread, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The warmth of the fire seemed to pale in comparison to the warmth that had blossomed quietly between them. Neither could deny it, though neither dared speak of it aloud, yet. The quiet intimacy of their shared space, of shared words, was enough—for now.

***

The fellowship moved cautiously through the grand, cavernous halls of Moria, their footsteps echoing faintly in the immense, lifeless space. The air grew heavier, colder, as if the ancient stone walls themselves mourned the loss of their once-proud kingdom.

Suddenly, Gimli, who had been leading the group with his keen eyes fixed on every detail, halted. His breath caught. Before him loomed a doorway, slightly ajar, leading into a dimly lit chamber. Something in the air seemed to call to him, and without a word, he rushed forward, his boots clattering loudly on the stone floor.

“Oh!” Gimli exclaimed, his voice thick with emotion.

“Gimli!” Gandalf called sharply, his staff illuminating the dwarf’s figure as he knelt before a stone tomb in the center of the room.

The fellowship followed, entering the chamber one by one. The light from Gandalf’s staff revealed the scene: an intricately carved sarcophagus surrounded by debris and scattered weapons, a silent testimony to a long-past battle.

“No… no,” Gimli murmured, bowing his head as his broad shoulders shook. He rested his hands on the edge of the tomb, his grief unmistakable.

Gandalf stepped forward, his eyes falling on the dwarven runes etched deeply into the stone lid. He leaned in, tracing the inscription with his fingers before speaking, his voice grave.

“Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.” He paused, his expression darkening as he removed his hat. “He is dead then. It is as I feared.”

A deep silence fell over the room, broken only by Gimli’s quiet, guttural sobs. His proud visage, now so overcome with sorrow, drew the attention of Rían, who had been lingering near the doorway. Her heart ached for him. She stepped forward, her boots scuffing softly against the stone, and knelt beside him.

“Gimli,” she said gently, her voice steady but full of quiet sympathy. She placed a hand on his shoulder, offering what comfort she could. “He was a great dwarf, by all accounts. His memory will not be forgotten.”

Gimli did not look at her, but he gave a faint nod, as though her words had reached some hidden part of him through the veil of his grief.

As the moment lingered, Gandalf’s gaze shifted to a skeletal figure slumped beside the tomb, its bony fingers clutching a thick, crumbling book. Carefully, the wizard passed his hat and staff to Pippin and reached for the relic, blowing away layers of dust as he lifted it. Fragile pages fluttered loose, drifting to the floor like dead leaves.

Legolas, standing beside Aragorn, cast a wary glance toward the shadows. “We must move on,” he said softly. “We cannot linger here.”

But Gandalf, absorbed in the book, did not seem to hear. He turned its brittle pages carefully, his expression grim. “They have taken the Bridge and the Second Hall,” he read aloud, his voice low but clear. “We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums… drums in the deep. We cannot get out.”

A chill swept through the room, and the fellowship exchanged uneasy glances. The silence seemed to deepen, pressing in on them, as Gandalf continued.

“A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. They are coming.”

Pippin, who had been inching backward, his curiosity getting the better of him, found himself near a well. A skeleton sat slumped against it, clutching chains. His eyes fixed on the arrow protruding from its skeletal grasp. Without thinking, he reached out, nudging it.

The skull shifted, teetered, and fell with a resounding clatter into the well.

Gandalf turned sharply, alarmed, as the skeleton tumbled after it, chains and armor clattering in a cacophony of sound. The echoes reverberated through the chamber and far beyond, traveling deep into the unseen halls of Moria.

Pippin froze, his face pale as he grimaced in horror. The others held their breath, their hearts pounding as the echoes slowly faded. For a brief, tense moment, there was silence. Even the faintest whisper of sound seemed to vanish.

Aragorn and Faramir exhaled almost simultaneously, relief washing over their faces.

Then Gandalf’s voice rang out, sharp and scathing. “Fool of a Took!” He snatched his staff and hat back from Pippin, his eyes blazing. “Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!”

Pippin hung his head, his face red with shame.

But the reprieve was short-lived. A deep, resonant drumbeat shattered the fragile silence. One beat, then another, faster and louder. The sound reverberated through the ancient halls like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant waking to rage.

Sam’s voice broke through the growing noise. “Frodo!”

Frodo drew his sword from its sheath, and the blade glowed with a cold, blue light. The screeching wail of orcs echoed in the distance, growing nearer with every passing second.

“They are coming,” Gandalf said, his tone grave as he straightened, gripping his staff tightly.

The fellowship gathered, weapons drawn, their breaths quickening. Rían stepped to Faramir’s side, her hand instinctively finding the hilt of her sword. He glanced at her briefly, his concern apparent, but she gave him a resolute nod. Whatever awaited them in the depths, they would face it together.

The atmosphere in the chamber grew tenser with every passing moment. The rhythmic pounding of drums echoed through the great halls of Moria, louder and closer with each beat.

“Orcs!” Legolas hissed, his keen elvish eyes catching movement in the shadows beyond the doorway.

Before anyone could react, Faramir dashed forward toward the doors, his sword in hand. Two arrows shot past his head, embedding themselves in the wooden panels with a dull thunk.

“Faramir!” Aragorn shouted, rushing to join him. “Get back!” Turning to the hobbits, he commanded firmly, “Stay close to Gandalf!”

The hobbits huddled near the wizard, who placed his arms around them protectively. Faramir pushed the heavy doors shut and leaned his weight against them. Aragorn joined him, shoving hard as the battering began from the other side.

“They have a cave troll!” Faramir announced, glancing at Aragorn grimly.

Legolas was already moving. He grabbed a pair of axes lying near the door and passed them to Aragorn and Faramir, who used them to brace the doors as best they could. The wood trembled with each thunderous blow from the other side, but it held—if only barely.

Gandalf drew his sword, Glamdring, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. The hobbits, trembling but resolute, followed suit, each brandishing their small swords.

Gimli climbed onto Balin’s tomb, planting his boots firmly. His axe gleamed in the light as he growled, “Agh! Let them come! There’s still one dwarf in Moria who draws breath!”

The battering intensified, and suddenly, the doors gave way. They shattered under the weight of the assault, and a tide of orcs poured in. Aragorn and Legolas fired arrows through the breach, felling the first attackers, but more surged forward, their grotesque forms illuminated by Gandalf’s staff.

The fellowship sprang into action. Aragorn and Faramir waded into the fray, blades flashing as they cut down the first wave of orcs. Legolas, standing slightly behind, fired arrows with precision, each one finding its mark. Gimli swung his axe with wild ferocity, shouting dwarvish oaths as he struck down his enemies.

In the midst of the battle, a thunderous roar echoed through the chamber. The orcs parted, and into the room lumbered a monstrous cave troll, a massive chain hanging loosely around its neck. Its yellow eyes gleamed with malice as it bashed its fists against the walls, shaking the very ground beneath their feet.

“Pull!” Aragorn shouted, grabbing the chain around the troll’s neck alongside Faramir. Together, they heaved, managing to yank the creature backward. The troll roared in fury, thrashing violently.

Suddenly, the beast caught hold of the chain. With a tremendous swing, it flung Faramir against the wall. He crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

“Faramir!” Rían cried, her voice breaking. An orc charged toward him, blade raised, but she reacted swiftly. Her knife flew through the air, burying itself in the creature’s neck. The orc collapsed in a heap.

The troll, undeterred, continued its rampage. It swung its massive club at Gimli, shattering Balin’s tomb and sending the dwarf tumbling to the ground. Sam, Merry, and Pippin scrambled to hide behind a pillar as debris rained down around them.

Legolas, ever nimble, climbed onto a platform, firing arrows into the beast’s chest. Each shot made the troll stagger, but it pressed on, swinging its broken chain like a whip. The elf deftly dodged, then leaped onto the chain, walking its length until he reached the troll’s shoulders. With remarkable speed, he fired an arrow directly into its head. The creature howled in pain and swiped at him, but Legolas leaped gracefully to safety, leaving the troll staggering.

Meanwhile, Sam fought valiantly, wielding his frying pan like a club. He smacked an orc across the head, grinning despite the chaos. “Think I’m getting the hang of this!”

The troll, furious and injured, turned its attention to Merry, Pippin, and Frodo. Merry and Pippin darted to one side as the troll brought its club down with a deafening crash, narrowly missing them. Frodo, now alone, tried to retreat behind a pillar, but the troll’s enormous head loomed around it, sniffing the air.

“Frodo!” Aragorn shouted, fighting his way toward him.

Frodo sidled around the pillar, heart pounding, hoping the troll would lose interest. But as he turned, the troll’s face suddenly appeared in front of him. It roared, and Frodo stumbled back in terror, his path blocked.

The troll’s massive hand shot out, grabbing Frodo by the foot and dragging him across the floor. “Aragorn!” he cried, desperately clinging to a pillar. “Aragorn!”

Aragorn leaped toward him, plunging a stake into the troll’s chest. The beast screamed in rage, flinging Aragorn across the chamber. The ranger landed hard and lay still, unconscious.

Frodo, now on his own, struggled to free himself. The troll lifted its club high, aiming for a final blow. Merry and Pippin, with a shared look of determination, charged at the troll, leaping onto its back and slashing wildly with their small swords.

Rían moved swiftly through the chaos, her sword flashing as she cut down an orc that strayed too close to Sam. Her eyes flicked toward the corner where Faramir had fallen earlier, her heart tightening as she saw he had yet to stir. She fought harder, determined to reach him.

“Frodo!” Sam shouted, his voice breaking as he saw the scene unfolding. He fought his way toward his friend, hope and desperation driving him forward.

In the chaos, Rían stood protectively over Faramir’s prone form, fending off any orc that dared approach. Her eyes flicked between him and the battle, her resolve hardening. She would not let him—or any of them—fall this day.

The troll roared its last, staggering back with a groan as Legolas’s arrow struck deep into its gaping maw. Its massive body swayed, crashing to the ground with a resounding thud that echoed through the chamber. Merry, clinging stubbornly to its back, was flung to the stone floor, rolling a few feet before coming to rest. Gandalf rushed forward, his staff held high, while Sam fought his way to Frodo’s still form lying crumpled on the cold stone.

Gimli stood nearby, breathing heavily, his axe clutched tightly as he faced the troll’s corpse. Blood seeped into the cracks of the floor. With a fierce shake of his head, he turned to deal with the remaining orcs, but their numbers were dwindling as the fellowship drove them back.

“Frodo!” Aragorn’s voice broke through the clamor as he crawled toward the hobbit, his face pale with worry. He turned Frodo over, his hands trembling. Frodo gasped weakly, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Sam stumbled forward, dropping to his knees beside his friend. “He’s alive!” he cried, his voice thick with relief. His hand hovered over Frodo as though afraid to touch him. “Oh, thank the stars, he’s alive!”

Frodo groaned softly, his hand clutching his chest. His face was pale, but he managed to push himself upright, glancing at the others. “I’m alright,” he said, his voice shaky. “I’m not hurt.”

Aragorn stared at him in disbelief. “You should be dead,” he said, his tone heavy with amazement. “That spear would have skewered a wild boar.”

Frodo, his brow furrowed, looked down at himself. His fingers fumbled with his shirt, parting it to reveal the gleaming silver vest beneath. Mithril. Its luster shone even in the dim light, unmarred by the troll’s attack.

“Mithril!” Gimli exclaimed, his eyes wide with awe as he took a step closer. “You are full of surprises, Master Baggins!”

Sam reached out hesitantly, his fingertips brushing the smooth metal. “A kingly gift indeed,” he muttered, his voice filled with wonder.

Gandalf, who had been silent for a moment, let out a soft chuckle. “I think there is more to this hobbit than meets the eye,” he said, his tone carrying both pride and amusement.

The fellowship’s relief was short-lived. A sound echoed through the chamber, faint at first but growing louder—the screeches of more orcs and the unmistakable rustle of shadows moving through the dark. Gandalf straightened, his sharp gaze sweeping the room.

Rían knelt beside Faramir, her face shadowed with concern as she uncorked a small flask from her pouch. The sharp scent of smelling salts filled the air as she waved the vial gently beneath his nose. For a moment, he didn’t stir, and her heart clenched. Then, at last, his brow furrowed, and he let out a faint cough, his eyes flickering open.

“Faramir,” she breathed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

His gaze was unfocused at first, but as his eyes settled on her face, a flicker of recognition sparked within them. “Rían…” he murmured, his voice hoarse. He blinked, as though trying to process his surroundings, then frowned faintly. “Smelling salts?”

Her lips curved into a small, teasing smile, though the worry had not entirely left her expression. “I carry them in case some fair maiden faints and needs to be rescued.”

Faramir let out a weak chuckle, though it was accompanied by a wince as he attempted to shift. “You seem to have mistaken me for a fair maiden, my lady,” he said, his tone laced with quiet humor.

She laughed softly, a sound that seemed to ease the lingering tension of the moment. “Perhaps,” she replied, “but I’ve yet to meet a maiden with your penchant for diving headlong into danger.”

As she helped him sit up, his hand brushed hers, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his blue-grey eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her pause. “I don’t just mean for this, though I am grateful. You’ve saved my life.”

Her teasing demeanor faltered under the weight of his earnestness. “And I will save it as many times as need be,” she said softly, her voice steady but her heart unsteady beneath his gaze.

His breath caught, and his gaze lingered on her, as though he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he broke the moment with a soft laugh, though his eyes remained warm. “You’ve a way of making even a wounded man feel invincible,” he said, his tone lighter but no less sincere.

“I only speak the truth,” she replied, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she helped him to his feet.

He swayed slightly, but she steadied him with a firm grip. For a brief moment, he leaned on her, their proximity making her acutely aware of the warmth of his presence despite the chill of the chamber.

“Come,” she said, her voice regaining its strength. “The fight isn’t over, and I’ll not have your brother blaming me if you get knocked out again.”

Faramir gave her a small, crooked smile, his strength slowly returning. “If Boromir gives you trouble, you need only call for me. I’ll be there.”

Her smile softened, and she inclined her head, the ghost of a laugh in her tone. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Together, they turned back toward the rest of the fellowship, who were already bracing themselves for the next wave of danger. Yet, as Faramir readied his sword, his eyes flickered back to Rían, and though the threat loomed ever closer, there was something in his expression—gratitude, admiration, and something deeper still—that remained unspoken.

Chapter Text

The Fellowship tore out of Balin’s tomb, hearts pounding as the deafening clamor of pursuit filled the air. Orcs swarmed behind them like a black tide, spilling out of crevices in the walls and ceilings, their shrieks echoing off the great stone columns. The torchlight glinted on jagged swords and cruel eyes as the companions sprinted through the immense cavern of Moria, the oppressive weight of the mountain above pressing down on them.

At last, they came to an abrupt halt. Before them, thousands of orcs poured from every shadowed corner, an endless host that surrounded them on all sides. Weapons drawn, the Fellowship stood back-to-back, forming a defensive circle. Faramir, sword in hand, moved instinctively closer to Rían, who drew her blade with a steady hand, her grey eyes sharp and fearless.

The air seemed to tighten around them, and then it came—a deep, guttural roar from the archway behind the orcs, sending a tremor through the stone. A fiery glow began to pulse from the depths of the darkness, growing brighter with each passing moment.

The orcs froze. Their shrieks turned to panicked cries, and one by one, they turned and fled, scrambling over one another in their desperation to escape.

A second roar followed, louder and more menacing, reverberating through the cavern. Gimli, though winded, grinned savagely. “Hah! Cowards, the lot of them!”

But Faramir, still catching his breath, turned to Gandalf, his brow furrowed. “What is this new devilry?”

Gandalf’s face was pale and grim, his eyes clouded with both fear and resolve. He hesitated, as if reluctant to speak the truth. At last, he spoke, his voice low and solemn.

“A Balrog,” he said, the words heavy with dread. “A demon of the ancient world. This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”

There was no time for questions. The Fellowship turned and ran, feet pounding against the stone as the fiery glow behind them grew brighter. Gandalf drove them onward, his staff raised to light their way.

Rían sprinted alongside Faramir, her breath coming in quick bursts. She cast a glance over her shoulder, but all she could see was the fire spreading through the great archway. “Faster!” she called out, urging the hobbits ahead of her.

Faramir was the first to reach the edge of the staircase that dropped suddenly into a vast, yawning chasm. He stumbled to a halt, teetering dangerously on the edge. The abyss seemed bottomless, its darkness illuminated only by the faint, flickering glow of distant flames.

“Faramir!” Rían cried, her voice sharp with alarm.

Legolas darted forward and grabbed Faramir by the shoulder, pulling him back from the brink. “Careful!” the elf said, his voice urgent.

Behind them, Gandalf arrived, his breathing heavy. Aragorn turned to him, his face etched with concern. “Gandalf?”

Gandalf waved him off. “Lead them on, Aragorn. The Bridge is near!”

The Fellowship followed his direction, descending the perilous staircase that wound its way down toward the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. But their way was not smooth. The fiery glow behind them intensified, and with it came the sounds of destruction—the Balrog was drawing closer.

Ahead, the stairs ended abruptly in a wide gap. Legolas leapt across with elven grace, landing lightly on the other side. He turned and gestured to the others.

“Quickly!” he called.

Gandalf jumped next, his robes billowing as he landed beside Legolas. The others hesitated.

“Come on!” Rían urged. Without waiting, she sheathed her sword and made the leap. Faramir was already waiting to steady her, his hand firm on her arm as she landed. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly.

Faramir nodded, his eyes darting to the others. “Merry! Pippin!” he called, grabbing the two hobbits, one under each arm. With a mighty leap, he cleared the gap, landing with a jolt that sent loose stones clattering into the abyss. Behind him, a large section of the steps collapsed into the void.

“Sam!” Aragorn shouted, picking up the hobbit and throwing him across the gap. Sam yelped in surprise but landed safely in Faramir’s waiting arms.

Gimli, meanwhile, planted his feet firmly. “Nobody tosses a dwarf!” he bellowed, and with a great leap, he cleared the gap. He teetered dangerously on the edge, but Legolas grabbed him by the beard, steadying him.

“Mind the beard!” Gimli grumbled as Legolas pulled him to safety.

The red glow behind them burst into the open as the Balrog emerged, its immense shadow filling the cavern. Its fiery mane flared, and its whip of flame cracked against the air.

“Steady!” Aragorn said, holding Frodo firmly by the back of his cloak as the staircase swayed alarmingly. The stone beneath them cracked ominously, sending bits of rubble tumbling into the abyss below. Frodo wobbled, his face pale with terror, but Aragorn kept his grip steady.

“Hold on!” Aragorn urged, his voice low but commanding.

Behind them, the Balrog’s roar grew louder, and the heat emanating from the creature made the air shimmer. The red glow illuminated the crumbling steps, casting long shadows on the Fellowship.

On the far side of the gap, Legolas drew his bow, his movements swift and precise. He fired arrows into the darkness at the pursuing orcs that scrambled along the collapsing staircase, thinning their numbers with every shot. Gimli stood beside him, axe in hand, ready to defend their position if the creatures got too close.

“Aragorn!” Rían called from the other side, her voice filled with urgency. She stepped closer to the edge, her grey eyes locked on him and Frodo. “You must jump now!”

The narrow bridge seemed impossibly frail, a mere ribbon of stone stretched over a yawning abyss of darkness and flame. The Fellowship raced across, one by one, their steps echoing against the ancient rock. Behind them, the Balrog advanced, its immense, horned silhouette framed by the inferno it carried with it. The heat was suffocating, the air thick with ash and embers, and the ground trembled beneath the weight of the demon’s fiery strides.

“Over the bridge!” Gandalf commanded, his voice ringing clear even amidst the chaos. His white staff gleamed like a beacon as he turned, placing himself between the advancing Fellowship and the monstrous creature bearing down upon them. “Fly!”

Rían, her face pale but determined, was among the last to cross, her boots skidding slightly on the uneven stone. She reached the far side, turning back to see Aragorn guiding Frodo across the span, the hobbit’s small frame trembling with fear.

“Lean forward!” Aragorn shouted to Frodo, his voice cutting through the deafening roars of the Balrog. The bridge swayed beneath them, cracks spidering through its ancient surface.

On the other side, Rían reached out, her arm extended toward Frodo. “Come on!” she urged, her voice steady despite the terror coursing through her veins.

Faramir was at Aragorn’s side in an instant, grasping his arm as he leapt to safety. Rían caught Frodo, pulling him firmly to solid ground just as the section of the bridge behind them crumbled away into the abyss. For a moment, there was only the sound of cascading rubble and the heavy breathing of the Fellowship.

But there was no time to linger. “Run!” Gandalf called, his voice sharp with urgency.

The Fellowship bolted into the next chamber, but the sight that met them there was no reprieve. Flames licked the walls, devouring the once-mighty hall. The air shimmered with unbearable heat, and every breath burned. Columns toppled under the Balrog’s advancing weight, its roar reverberating through the cavern.

“Over the bridge!” Gandalf ordered again, his voice resolute. He stood firm, his eyes narrowing as the flames surged higher, casting flickering shadows that danced across his weathered features.

From the inferno, the Balrog emerged fully, its immense, shadowed wings unfurling to blot out the light. Its horned head turned toward Gandalf, and it roared, a sound so deep and primal it seemed to shake the very soul. Fire spewed from its maw, and in its clawed hand it brandished a massive blade wreathed in flame.

“You cannot pass!” Gandalf’s voice rang out, fierce and unyielding, echoing across the bridge and filling the cavern with its authority. He stepped forward, staff in one hand, Glamdring in the other, his white robes flaring in the searing wind created by the Balrog’s approach.

“Gandalf!” Frodo cried, his voice breaking with horror. Aragorn placed a steadying hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, pulling him back.

The Balrog paused, drawing itself up to its full, terrible height. Its fiery eyes glowed with malice, and its wings stretched wide, their shadow falling like a dark veil over Gandalf. With a roar, it raised its flaming sword high, the heat of it blistering the air.

“I am a servant of the Secret Fire,” Gandalf declared, his voice steady and ringing with defiance. “Wielder of the Flame of Anor.” His staff blazed with white light, a stark contrast to the Balrog’s hellish glow.

The demon brought its massive blade crashing down upon him, the force of the strike splitting the air with a deafening crack. But Gandalf raised his staff, meeting the blow with a flash of blinding brilliance. The light flared, and the Balrog’s sword shattered into fragments, the pieces falling into the chasm below.

The creature roared in fury, its fiery whip now coiling and writhing above its head. Its cloven foot stepped onto the bridge, testing the stone beneath its weight.

“The dark fire will not avail you,” Gandalf shouted, his voice rising in power. “Flame of Udûn!”

The Balrog hesitated for a moment, its fiery gaze fixed on the wizard before it. Then, with a bellow, it surged forward, swinging its whip in a wide arc.

“Go back to the shadow!” Gandalf commanded, his voice a mighty echo that seemed to shake the very walls of Khazad-dûm.

The Balrog lashed out with its whip, the flaming tendrils snapping toward Gandalf. But the wizard stood firm, raising both staff and sword above his head.

“You shall not pass!” Gandalf shouted, his voice filled with a power and authority that transcended the mortal realm. He brought his staff crashing down onto the bridge, and the ancient stone cracked beneath the force of the blow.

A deep rumble filled the air as the bridge beneath the Balrog’s feet began to crumble. The creature roared, lunging toward Gandalf, but the bridge gave way entirely, sending the Balrog plunging into the abyss.

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the sound of falling stone. Gandalf stood at the edge of the broken bridge, his eyes fixed on the darkness below.

Gandalf, his face strained, grunted in effort and turned away from the danger. But before he could step back, the tail end of the Balrog’s whip lashed upward, striking like a serpent. It coiled around his ankle, jerking him off balance and dragging him toward the edge. Gandalf’s fingers scrabbled desperately at the stone, his body dangling perilously over the void.

“Frodo!” cried Faramir, his voice sharp with command. But Frodo was already moving forward, his feet carrying him recklessly toward the wizard’s peril. Faramir surged forward and grabbed him, holding him back with force.

“No!” Faramir’s voice cracked, his grip tightening on Frodo’s shoulder. “Stay back!”

But Frodo wrenched against his hold, his eyes wide with terror. “Gandalf!” he cried, stretching out his hands as if he could somehow bridge the gap between them.

Gandalf, his face contorted with pain, clung to the edge with his fingertips, his other hand gripping his staff. His eyes, filled with a knowing sorrow, met theirs for the final time.

“Fly, you fools!” Gandalf’s voice rang out across the chasm, but it was already too late. With a final, heart-wrenching cry, the wizard was pulled into the abyss, disappearing into the darkness.

“Nooo!” Frodo screamed, his voice raw with grief. He fought against Faramir’s grip, but Faramir held firm, unwilling to let him throw himself into the chasm after Gandalf.

Faramir’s heart hammered in his chest, his face pale with the shock of the loss. He could barely comprehend what had just happened. The guiding force of their Fellowship was gone, and the world felt suddenly colder and darker.

Faramir tightened his hold on Frodo, his voice low and firm, though his heart was breaking. “Aragorn!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the raw silence. “We need to move, now!”

Aragorn, standing nearby, had witnessed the loss as well, his face drawn in disbelief. But when Faramir called to him, he snapped back to the present, his expression hardening with resolve.

With a glance back at Gandalf’s fallen form, Aragorn turned and sprinted toward the exit of Moria, his boots striking the stone with purpose. As the fellowship tumbled out of the mine and onto the grassy hills below Aragorn looked around, noticing the hobbits laying on the cold hard ground. Aragorn’s gaze shifted, his grief momentarily giving way to the grim reality of their situation. “Legolas!” he called, his voice tight. “Get them up!”

Faramir’s chest heaved with sorrow, but his voice was sharp as he turned to Aragorn. “Give them a moment! For pity’s sake, Aragorn!”

Aragorn paused, his eyes dark with the weight of the moment. But his face hardened with resolve. “By nightfall, these hills will be swarming with orcs! We must reach the woods of Lothlórien. Come, Faramir, Legolas, Gimli, get them up!” His voice softened as he crouched next to Sam, whose grief had reduced him to tears. “On your feet, Sam,” he said, lifting him gently. “We must go.”

But Sam didn’t stir, his eyes lost in the abyss of sorrow. Frodoon the other hand was walking slowly away from them, his back turned, his movements slow and heavy with grief. Aragorn watched him for a moment, his face a mask of concern. “Frodo!” he called out, his voice laced with urgency.

Frodo halted, but he did not turn immediately. When he did, his tear-streaked face was full of silent pain. His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of their loss. He met Aragorn’s gaze, but words failed him.

Aragorn reached out to him, a comforting hand, but Frodo simply nodded, tears continuing to fall. There was nothing left to say.

Aragorn gave a solemn nod before turning and leading the others forward. They had no choice. The journey could not end here. The road to Lothlórien was long and fraught with danger, but it was the only road ahead.

Faramir stood there for a moment, his face pale, his breath shallow. The weight of Gandalf’s loss was nearly unbearable, and he found himself unable to look away from the chasm, where their friend had fallen. His hands clenched at his sides, fists trembling with emotion.

It was then that Rían stepped toward him, her footsteps light but purposeful. She had watched the exchange with a quiet intensity, her eyes full of sorrow. She moved without hesitation, placing a firm hand on his arm. It was not a romantic gesture, but a steadying one, a silent understanding between them.

Faramir blinked, his gaze meeting hers, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. The loss of Gandalf had left him hollow, but the warmth of her touch—so simple yet so full of quiet strength—stirred something in him. Her hand, strong and steady, gave him a feeling of grounding that he hadn’t realized he needed.

“Aragorn is right,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the sorrow that lingered in the air. “We must move.”

Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but she placed a gentle hand on his, her fingers warm against his skin. He felt his breath catch in his throat as she continued.

“I know the grief is consuming,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “I know it all too well. But now is not the time for it.” Her eyes locked onto his, her grip tightening just slightly, as if to reassure him. “Later, when the danger has passed, we will mourn. But not now.”

Her words were like a balm to his weary soul. The sorrow was still there, thick and heavy, but Rían’s presence brought him back from the edge. She was right. They couldn’t stay here, frozen by grief. They had to keep moving, or they would be lost to it forever.

He nodded, his heart aching, but his resolve returning. “I will follow you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer than necessary. There was something unspoken between them, a quiet understanding that felt as real as the grief they shared.

Rían released his hand, but the warmth of her touch lingered, and Faramir found himself holding onto that warmth even as he turned away.

They moved forward, toward the distant hills, where Aragorn had already begun leading the Fellowship. Legolas was already on his feet, urging the other hobbits to rise. Gimli, his face set in a grim mask, was also helping. Despite their sorrow, the Fellowship was moving again. The road ahead was unclear, but the only choice was to keep walking.

Faramir walked beside Rían, feeling the weight of her presence beside him. It was a comfort, though neither spoke as they walked. The loss of Gandalf would stay with them, but together, they would face whatever came next.

The road to Lothlórien stretched ahead, dark and uncertain. But the Fellowship walked on. And so would they.

The hills of Dimrill Dale gave way to softer slopes as dusk deepened, and the Fellowship trudged onward, their hearts heavy with grief and weariness. On the horizon shimmered the edges of a great forest, its golden treetops gleaming faintly in the fading light.

“There,” Aragorn said, his voice steady despite the sorrow that still weighed on him. “Lothlórien lies before us.”

As they pressed forward, the air grew lighter, carrying with it a faint, sweet fragrance. Soon, they entered the outer borders of the forest, and the Fellowship paused, awestruck. Beneath their feet, the ground was strewn with yellow flowers, and above them stretched a canopy of golden leaves that seemed to catch the starlight. The towering trunks of the mallorn trees rose like silver pillars, their bark smooth and grey, their age immeasurable.

Legolas lingered, his bright eyes shining with wonder. “Ah, Lothlórien,” he said softly, almost to himself. “The fairest of all the dwellings of my people. There are no trees like these in all Middle-earth. In autumn, their leaves do not fall but turn to gold, and only when spring comes does the new green unfurl, and the golden leaves fall. Then the boughs are heavy with yellow flowers, and the floor of the wood is golden, and golden is the roof. So still our songs in Mirkwood tell.”

Behind him, Gimli shuffled nervously, casting wary glances at the towering trees. “Stay close, young hobbits,” he muttered, his tone gruff. “They say a great sorceress lives in these woods—an Elf-witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell… and are never seen again!”

Sam swallowed hard, edging closer to Frodo. “Mr. Frodo?” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly.

Gimli pressed on, as if reassuring himself. “Well, here’s one Dwarf she won’t ensnare so easily! I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox!”

His bravado was cut short as shadows shifted around them. From the trees emerged a host of armed elves, their movements silent and swift, their bows drawn, arrows aimed unerringly at the Fellowship. At their head stood Haldir, tall and stern, his grey eyes gleaming like tempered steel.

“The Dwarf breathes so loud,” Haldir said coolly, “we could have shot him in the dark.”

Gimli bristled but said nothing, though his hand tightened around the haft of his axe.

The elves motioned for them to move, and the Fellowship was guided deeper into the forest. Night fell swiftly among the golden trees, their soft glow offering faint light in the growing darkness. They climbed to a platform high above the forest floor, where Haldir greeted them formally.

“Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion,” Haldir said in Sindarin, his tone polite but firm. (Well met, Legolas, son of Thranduil.)

“Govannas vîn gwennen le, Haldir o Lórien,” Legolas replied, bowing his head. (Our Fellowship stands in your debt, Haldir of Lórien.)

Haldir’s gaze shifted to Aragorn. “A, Aragorn in Dúnedain istannen le ammen,” he said, his words tinged with recognition. (Oh, Aragorn of the Dúnedain, you are known to us.)

Aragorn inclined his head. “Haldir.”

Gimli, however, was less composed. “So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves!” he exclaimed. “Speak words we can also understand!”

Haldir’s expression did not change, though his tone cooled. “We have not had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days.”

Gimli snorted, his temper flaring. “And you know what this Dwarf says to that? Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!”

Aragorn seized Gimli’s arm, his voice low and firm. “That was not so courteous.”

Haldir ignored the outburst, his attention shifting to Frodo, who stood uneasily beneath his gaze. After a long pause, the elf spoke gravely. “You bring great evil with you.” His eyes turned to Aragorn. “You can go no further.”

The Fellowship was left to wait while Aragorn and Haldir conferred some distance away. Their voices, speaking in Sindarin, rose and fell, the cadence of the elven tongue flowing like a song, though its meaning was lost to most.

Faramir, sitting near the edge of the platform, turned to Rían, who leaned against the smooth trunk of a mallorn tree, her face thoughtful. “What are they saying?” he asked, his voice low.

Rían glanced at him, her lips curving into a faint, tired smile. “Most Rangers don’t know Elvish,” she admitted with a small shrug.

Faramir raised an eyebrow, a touch of humor creeping into his voice. “I thought you knew everything.”

She let out a soft laugh, though it sounded strained. “Not everything.” Her gaze flicked back to Aragorn and Haldir, her brow furrowing. “But I can guess. They’re wary of us, and of what we carry. It’s no easy thing to permit strangers through their land, especially with evil at our heels.”

Aragorn’s voice rose then, urgent and pleading. “Boe ammen veriad lîn! Andelu i ven!” he said. (We need your protection. The road is very dangerous!)

Haldir’s response was quiet, inaudible to the others, but Aragorn persisted. “Henio, aníron boe ammen i dulu lîn!” (Please, understand, we need your support!)

Faramir, who had been sitting nearby with a pensive expression, slowly rose to his feet. His gaze, thoughtful and steady, turned to Frodo, who sat hunched near the edge of the platform. The Ring-bearer’s shoulders were bowed as if under an invisible weight, his fingers idly tracing the folds of his cloak.

Faramir approached quietly, his footsteps soft on the wooden floor. He hesitated for a moment, as though searching for the right words, then knelt beside Frodo. “Frodo,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Frodo looked up, startled out of his thoughts. His eyes, weary and shadowed, met Faramir’s.

Faramir paused, his own expression lined with sorrow and care. “Gandalf’s fall grieves us all,” he said softly. “Yet his sacrifice was not in vain. He would not have us falter now.”

Frodo blinked, his gaze falling back to his hands. “I know,” he whispered. “But it feels… wrong to go on without him. He was our guide, our strength. Without him, I—” He broke off, his voice trembling.

Faramir laid a hand on Frodo’s shoulder, firm but gentle. “You carry a heavy burden, Frodo,” he said. “But do not let it grow heavier with the weight of the dead. Gandalf’s strength was in his wisdom and hope—he would not wish you to despair.”

Frodo’s lips tightened, and he looked down at the Ring hidden beneath his tunic. “It’s not just his loss,” he murmured. “It’s the path ahead. The closer I come to Mordor, the heavier it feels. I wonder if I have the strength to see it through.”

Faramir studied him for a moment, his grey eyes calm and steady. “You have borne this far more courageously than many could,” he said at last. “And you are not alone. There are those who walk beside you, ready to share in your trials, if you let them.”

He glanced at him but said nothing, and in the silence, Haldir returned.

“You may stay,” he said, addressing the Fellowship as a whole, “but only for a while. Tomorrow, we will lead you to the city of the Galadhrim.”

Relief swept through the group, though unease lingered beneath it. As they settled into the quiet of the night, the golden trees of Lothlórien seemed to hum with ancient wisdom, their whispers both a comfort and a warning of trials yet to come.

Chapter Text

As the Fellowship climbed the last rise of the hill, they emerged onto a broad hilltop, and there they halted, gazing in silent wonder. Before them, the vast woods of Lothlórien spread out in golden splendor, the late afternoon sun casting long rays that danced among the mallorn trees. In the distance, rising from the heart of the forest, stood a hill of green crowned with mighty mallorns that stretched higher than any other. Amid the branches of those towering trees, a city shimmered in hues of gold, silver, and green, glowing as though it held a light of its own.

Far to the east, beyond the pale gleam of Anduin, the river wound its way through the land. Beyond the river lay a flat expanse, shadowed and desolate, fading into a dark wall of land that rose like a forbidding sentinel against the horizon. The light of the sun, warm upon Lothlórien, could not banish the gloom that lingered there.

Haldir stood beside Aragorn, his gaze resting fondly on the distant city. “Caras Galadon,” he said reverently. “The heart of Elvendom on earth. This is the city of the Galadhrim, where dwell Lord Celeborn and Galadriel, the Lady of Light.”

The Fellowship stood in awe, drinking in the sight of the enchanted city. Beside Legolas, Rían stepped forward, her face alight with wonder. “It is as though the stars themselves have fallen to earth and made their home among the trees,” she murmured.

Faramir, standing nearby, glanced at her, his expression softening. “Does it remind you of your people’s woods?” he asked, his voice low so as not to disturb the others’ reverie.

Rían shook her head, her dark hair catching the golden light. “No,” she said softly, a touch of wistfulness in her tone. “Our forests are beautiful, but this… this is a realm untouched by time, where sorrow and shadow seem only distant whispers.”

Faramir studied her for a moment, as though her words held some deeper meaning, but he said nothing more.

That evening, the Fellowship was brought to the heart of Caras Galadon. They ascended a great stair that wound around the trunk of the mightiest mallorn tree and stepped onto a wide platform. The chamber seemed to glow with a light that was soft and yet unyielding, as if the very walls and roof of green, silver, and gold radiated an otherworldly power. At the center stood the vast trunk of the mallorn, its bark smooth and silvery.

At the far end of the chamber, two figures awaited them. Celeborn, tall and grave, stood with an air of quiet authority. His silver hair shone like moonlight, and his ageless face was both stern and beautiful. Beside him stood Galadriel, the Lady of the Elves. Her golden hair fell like a river of light, and her gaze, both kind and piercing, seemed to see into the hearts of all who approached.

Celeborn’s eyes swept over the company, pausing briefly on Aragorn. “The enemy knows you have entered here,” he said gravely. “What hope you had in secrecy is now gone. Eight there are here, yet nine there were set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him. I can no longer see him from afar.”

Frodo shifted uneasily, his gaze flickering to Galadriel. Her eyes, deep and luminous, rested on him for a moment before she spoke. “Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land,” she said softly, her voice like a gentle breeze through leaves. “He has fallen into shadow.”

Legolas stepped forward, his fair face darkened with grief. “He was taken by both shadow and flame,” he said. “A Balrog of Morgoth. For we went needlessly into the net of Moria.”

The Fellowship bowed their heads, each reliving the harrowing moments of their loss. Celeborn’s expression grew grave, his brows furrowed in sorrow.

But Galadriel turned her gaze upon the company, her expression calm yet filled with deep understanding. “Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life,” she said. “We do not yet know his full purpose.”

Her eyes moved to Gimli, and she addressed him with a gentleness that surprised the Dwarf. “Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli son of Glóin,” she said. “For the world has grown full of peril, and in all lands, love is now mingled with grief.”

Gimli looked up, his stern face softening, though he said nothing.

Celeborn turned to Aragorn, his tone heavy with doubt. “What now becomes of this Fellowship?” he asked. “Without Gandalf, hope is lost.”

Galadriel’s gaze, steady and resolute, rested on Aragorn. “The quest stands upon the edge of a knife,” she said. “Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains, while the company is true.”

Her eyes lingered on Sam, who blinked and shifted nervously under her gaze. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” she said gently. “Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil.”

Her voice grew softer, almost a whisper, as her gaze settled on Frodo. “Tonight, you will sleep in peace.”

Frodo stared at her, entranced, as her voice, soft and distant, seemed to echo in his mind. Welcome, Frodo of the Shire… one who has seen the Eye.

He shivered, but not from cold, as a strange mixture of comfort and unease filled him. The Lady of Light, it seemed, saw more than he wished anyone to see.

***

The golden canopy of Lothlórien spread above them, its leaves shimmering faintly in the soft light. The air was rich with the scent of moss and flowers, and the faint strains of Elven songs drifted through the trees. Rían sat cross-legged on the mossy ground, her sword resting beside her as she sharpened her dagger with practiced ease. Across from her, Faramir leaned against a broad tree trunk, his posture unusually stiff.

Rían’s sharp eyes flicked to him, catching the faint wince as he adjusted his arm. The movement betrayed him, though he clearly tried to hide it. “You’re favoring your left side,” she said, her tone calm but pointed.

Faramir looked up, startled. “It’s nothing,” he replied quickly, almost too quickly. He flexed his fingers as if to prove his point, though his jaw tightened slightly.

Rían set down her dagger, studying him with a mixture of amusement and concern. “Nothing,” she repeated dryly. “I suppose the blood on your sleeve is nothing as well?”

He glanced down at his arm, where a faint red line seeped through the fabric. “It’s just a scratch,” he said, a touch defensive.

Her brow arched. “A scratch from a goblin’s blade. Faramir, we both know better than to ignore even the smallest wound from their weapons.”

“It doesn’t even hurt,” he protested, though the faint color rising to his cheeks betrayed him.

Rían leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees as she fixed him with a skeptical look. “So if I told you to let the Elven healers look at it, you’d do so without complaint?”

Faramir hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “I… don’t like stitches.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Stitches?” A small laugh escaped her, light and teasing. “The Captain of Gondor, afraid of something as small as a needle and thread?”

Faramir’s blush deepened, and he shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t say it made sense,” he muttered.

Her laughter softened, her teasing tempered by genuine consideration. “Well,” she said after a moment, tilting her head, “what if I stitched it for you? Would that make it any easier?”

Faramir straightened slightly, his eyes widening in surprise. “You would do that?” he asked, his voice a mix of gratitude and hesitation.

“Of course,” she replied, gesturing for him to sit closer. “It’ll be quick. You might not even feel it.”

Faramir hesitated again before moving toward her. As he sat down, closer than he had been before, he felt an odd flutter of nervousness—not from the prospect of stitches, but from Rían’s proximity. Her calm presence was steadying, yet the thought of her hands on him felt oddly intimate, more so than he expected.

She reached for his arm, rolling up his sleeve carefully. Her fingers brushed against his skin, light and precise, and he tensed before he could stop himself.

Her brows knitted together in concern. “Does it hurt already?” she asked, glancing up at him.

“No,” he said quickly, his voice a little sharper than intended. He cleared his throat, trying to sound less tense. “It’s nothing. Just… go ahead.”

Rían gave him a questioning look but didn’t press further. Instead, she pulled out her needle and thread, her movements deft and confident. “Hold still,” she said, her tone firm but gentle. “This will be over before you know it.”

Faramir did his best to sit still, though the awareness of her touch lingered. Her fingers were sure and steady, and the warmth of her hand on his forearm sent his thoughts spinning in directions he wished they wouldn’t go. She was focused, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration, and he found himself watching her more than he should.

“Relax,” she said without looking up, clearly mistaking his tension for pain. “It’ll hurt more if you stay so rigid.”

“I’m fine,” he murmured, though his voice lacked its usual steadiness.

As Rían worked, her brow furrowed in concentration, Faramir found himself unable to look away. Her touch was gentle but firm, her fingers steady as she guided the needle through his skin. Despite the slight sting of the stitches, his thoughts were consumed by the strange intimacy of the moment—the way her hand lingered on his arm, the faint scent of pine and leather that clung to her, the soft rhythm of her breathing as she worked.

“You’re remarkably skilled at this,” Faramir said, his voice breaking the quiet. He hoped it sounded casual, though his heart betrayed him with its insistent, uneven beat.

Rían glanced up, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said lightly. “I know just enough to keep myself—or others—alive when there’s no one better around. Hardly the work of a proper healer.”

Faramir shook his head, his gaze steady on her. “You have a steady hand and a calm manner. Those alone make you far better than most.”

Her smile softened, though she shook her head slightly. “My mother would have agreed with you,” she said after a pause, her voice touched with quiet fondness. “She hounded me relentlessly to learn the healer’s arts. Said it was a safer calling than wielding a sword or chasing after shadows. But I’ve never had the patience for it—not the way she did. I had the spirit of a ranger, not a healer.”

Her words hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Rían’s focus returned to her work. But when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost wistful. “She wouldn’t have approved of the path I chose. Yet I miss her all the same. Every day.”

Faramir’s chest tightened at the words, the familiar ache of loss stirring within him. “I understand,” he said softly. “I lost my mother when I was still a boy. She was the light of our family. When she passed… my father changed. The warmth she brought to him faded, and what remained…” He hesitated, his voice tightening. “What remained was bitter, and cold. I wished I could remember how he was before, but I was only a small chold”

Rían paused, her hand stilling for a moment as she looked up at him. Her eyes met his, searching and gentle, and for a moment, Faramir felt as though she could see straight through him. She wanted to say something, to offer some solace, but the shadow in his gaze stopped her.

“I’m sorry,” she said instead, her voice soft. “Losing a mother—it leaves a mark, doesn’t it?”

Faramir nodded, his expression distant for a moment. “It does,” he said. “But I see her in little things. In the kindness she showed, the wisdom she shared. Even in the moments I miss her most, I try to hold on to that.”

Rían’s hand resumed its work, her touch even gentler now. “She must have been remarkable,” she said quietly.

“She was,” Faramir replied, his voice warm but tinged with sadness. He hesitated, then added, “She would have liked you, I think.”

The words caught her off guard, and her hands faltered for the briefest moment. When she glanced up, his gaze was steady on her, and something unspoken passed between them, heavy with meaning.

“She would have liked my stubbornness, you mean?” Rían teased, her voice light despite the sudden blush on her cheeks.

“Perhaps,” Faramir said, a soft smile playing on his lips. “But there’s far more to like about you, I think.”

The warmth in his tone left her momentarily speechless, and she quickly looked down, her hands finishing the last stitch with practiced efficiency. She tied it off and leaned back, her voice deliberately casual. “There. Good as new. And it wasn’t so terrible, was it?”

Faramir flexed his arm slightly, glancing at the neat line of stitches before meeting her gaze again. “Not terrible at all,” he said, his voice quiet. “Though I think that had more to do with the healer than the healing.”

Rían laughed, though the sound was softer than usual, almost bashful. “Careful, or I’ll think you’re trying to charm me,” she said, her tone half-teasing.

Faramir chuckled, though he didn’t respond directly. Instead, he watched her as she packed away the needle and thread, the glow of the Lothlórien light catching the curve of her cheek. The air between them felt heavier somehow, charged with something unspoken.

Rían’s eyes flicked to the cut on his forehead, where his dark blonde hair, matted with blood, clung to the wound. She motioned to it with a quiet nod.

“Let me take care of that one too,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm. “It’s a mess, but it should heal easily enough.”

Faramir hesitated for a moment, the feeling of her eyes upon him making his pulse quicken. Then, after a brief breath, he gave a quiet nod, his voice rougher than usual. “If you insist.”

She reached for a damp cloth and gently pressed it to his forehead, her fingers brushing his skin as she unwound his tangled hair from the cut. The simple act felt intimate in a way that made his heart thrum in his chest. The warmth of her hands, the gentleness with which she tended to him, was both comforting and unnerving.

Her movements were fluid and practiced, but when she tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear, she lingered just a moment too long, her fingers brushing the soft curve of his ear. He felt a shiver run down his spine.

She didn’t comment on the awkwardness that seemed to hang between them, but her eyes flicked to his face, watching him closely. Then, with a quiet murmur, she produced a small flask from her pouch and uncorked it, the faint smell of herbs and earth filling the air.

“This might sting a little,” she warned softly as she poured a small amount of the liquid onto the cloth and pressed it to the wound on his forehead.

The sharp burn of the liquid made him flinch, but the sting was momentary. What lingered was the weight of the closeness between them. Rían’s fingers brushed against his temple, her touch so light, yet it seemed to hum with unspoken understanding. He could feel the warmth of her body so close, and his breath caught, though he quickly forced it back to normal. He couldn’t help it—being so near her, the intimate nature of this moment, unsettled him in ways he had not expected.

Her gaze remained steady, though, and she did not flinch from the tenderness of the moment. Instead, she continued, her tone quiet and unassuming.

“There,” she said, stepping back after a moment and inspecting her work with a satisfied nod. “That should do it.”

Faramir nodded, his voice low and steady, though the discomfort of their closeness lingered. “I’m in your debt, Rían,” he said, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity he had not meant to reveal.

She gave him a small, fleeting smile, but there was something unreadable in her eyes—something that made his chest tighten in a way he could not explain.

“You owe me nothing,” she replied quietly, her fingers brushing her pouch absentmindedly as she stepped back, giving him space. “You would have done the same for me.”

And yet, as she moved away, the unspoken tension between them only seemed to grow, hanging in the air like the scent of the damp forest, both comforting and overwhelming at once.

Rían, sensing the shift, glanced at him briefly before turning away, her voice lighter than her expression. “Next time, perhaps you’ll take the advice to see a healer sooner,” she said, a faint smile on her lips.

“Perhaps,” Faramir replied, though his gaze lingered on her as she rose to her feet, brushing her hands against her cloak. For a moment, neither moved, the unspoken tension between them as tangible as the faint breeze that stirred the golden leaves overhead.

***

The Fellowship had dispersed for the evening, seeking what solace they could in this haven of timeless beauty. Rían stood alone upon a low ridge, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like a shadow against the pale light of the moon. Her gaze was cast downward, fixed upon the silver gleam of the Anduin far below.

Aragorn approached quietly, his steps careful so as not to startle her. Yet, she turned as if sensing his presence, her grey eyes meeting his. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of their shared grief heavy between them.

“Are you all right?” Aragorn asked at last, his voice low and steady.

Rían’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “I should be the one asking you that,” she replied softly. “Gandalf was more your friend than mine.” She hesitated, her gaze flickering away to the trees before adding, almost as an afterthought, “And Faramir’s.”

Aragorn did not miss the subtle change in her tone, the slight falter that hinted at something unspoken. A shadow crossed his face, though his voice remained calm. “Gandalf was a friend to all of us,” he said. “His wisdom, his guidance—it was not given to me alone. And Rían…” He stepped closer, his keen eyes searching hers. “You must stop acting as though you have no one to care for you.”

Her head lifted at that, and for a moment, surprise flickered in her expression. Then she smiled—genuine this time, though tinged with weariness. “You sound like Halbarad. He told me I had a knack for pushing people away so I could pretend I am alone. Said it was foolish,” she said, her voice lighter now.

Aragorn allowed himself a small smile in return. “Perhaps you should listen to him, then. He has always spoken sense.”

Rían laughed softly, a sound that felt rare and precious in the stillness of Lothlórien. “Halbarad would agree with you on that, no doubt.” She glanced at Aragorn, her smile fading into something gentler. “But I will try, if only to honor your persistence.”

“Good,” Aragorn replied. “You are of the Dúnedain, Rían. Strength flows in your veins, though you often doubt it. Do not let the shadow in your heart convince you otherwise.”

She nodded, though her expression remained distant, her thoughts clearly still with the one who was gone. Aragorn did not press her further. He placed a hand briefly on her shoulder, a silent gesture of understanding, before turning to leave her to the solace of the night.

As he walked away, the faint sound of her voice stopped him.

“Aragorn,” she said, her tone softer now. “Thank you.”

He glanced back, his eyes warm despite the sorrow etched in their depths. “Rest well, Rían. You are not alone.”

And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the golden wood, leaving her beneath the ancient trees, where the light of the stars wove a fragile web of hope through the dark branches above.

***

The forest of Lothlórien was cloaked in a profound and otherworldly stillness, the kind that seemed to stretch beyond the bounds of time. The golden mallorn trees stood tall and unyielding, their silver trunks shimmering faintly in the moonlight. Rían and Faramir sat together beneath one of these ancient trees, the scent of blossoms drifting in the cool evening air.

They had barely spoken since Gandalf’s fall in Moria. The grief that hung over them was too vast, too raw, to be easily shared with words. Yet, in their silence, there was a strange kind of solace—a shared weight that made the burden of loss a little more bearable.

Faramir leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his grey eyes clouded with sorrow. “He was my dear friend,” he said at last, his voice low and unsteady. “Gandalf. As a boy, I would sit for hours at his feet, listening to his tales of music, lore, and things far beyond the knowledge of men. My father thought it a waste of time, but I… I cherished those moments. His words shaped me, made me see the world differently.” He paused, his gaze fixed on the ground. “Now he is gone, and the world feels emptier for it.”

Rían turned her head, her gaze softening as she looked at him. She had known him as a man of quiet strength, steadfast and resolute even in the face of danger. Yet here, beneath the moonlit boughs of Lothlórien, he seemed younger somehow—more vulnerable, the weight of his sorrow etched plainly in his features.

“He was a light in this world,” she said softly, her voice carrying a gentle resonance, “and one that will not soon be forgotten. He saw something in you, Faramir, something he believed in. That belief, I think, is his legacy to you.”

Faramir’s lips pressed into a faint smile, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I hope you are right,” he murmured. “I only wish I had told him how much he meant to me. There was so much I still hoped to learn from him.”

The quiet of Lothlórien was suddenly filled with a sound both haunting and beautiful. It began as a single voice, soft and clear, rising like the first glimmer of dawn. Soon, others joined, weaving a melody so ethereal it seemed to come not from the singers themselves, but from the very air and trees around them. The lament for Gandalf drifted through the forest, a hymn of sorrow and remembrance that stirred the heart and soul.

The words were in the Elven tongue, their meaning a mystery to those unlearned in its intricacies. Yet the weight of grief, the bittersweet reverence, and the sense of a world diminished by the loss of one so great could be felt in every note.

Rían and Faramir sat motionless beneath the mallorn tree, listening. The golden leaves above seemed to tremble gently in the song’s wake, as if they too mourned the passing of Gandalf the Grey.

Faramir tilted his head, his brows furrowed as he strained to catch some glimmer of understanding in the flowing syllables. At last, he sighed and turned to Rían, his voice quiet but tinged with frustration. “I wish I could understand what they sing,” he said. “There is such beauty in it, but it slips through my grasp, like trying to hold water in my hands.”

A heavy silence settled between them again, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves in the breeze. Rían shifted slightly, leaning back against the smooth trunk of the tree. She closed her eyes and began to hum her own tune, the melody soft and haunting, weaving itself into the quiet of the forest.

Faramir glanced at her, his brow furrowing as the tune took shape. Then, with a voice low and lilting, she began to sing:

“I would shun the light,

Share in evening’s cool and quiet.

Who would trade that hum of night

For sunlight, sunlight, sunlight?”

Her voice was clear, yet touched with a wistful ache, as though the song itself carried the weight of an old wound. Faramir’s breath caught as the melody flowed from her lips, filling the air with something both mournful and beautiful.

“But whose heart would not take flight,

Betray the moon as acolyte,

On first and fierce affirming sight

Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight?”

Her gaze lifted to the canopy above as she sang, her expression distant, as though she were speaking to memories long past. The moonlight caught in her dark hair, and Faramir, for a moment, forgot his grief, watching her as if he too were caught in the spell of her song.

“I had been lost to you, sunlight,

And flew like a moth to you, sunlight, oh, sunlight.

Oh, your love is sunlight,

Oh, your love is sunlight,

But it is sunlight.”

Her voice trembled slightly on the refrain, and she paused, her eyes closing as though she could still hear the echoes of her father’s voice singing these same words. Faramir could almost see it in her face. 

“All the tales the same,

Told before and told again.

A soul that’s born in cold and rain

Knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.”

Faramir’s hand moved, almost without thought, resting gently against the soft fabric of her sleeve. She did not look at him, but he felt the faintest tremor in her frame, as though the song was a weight she had long borne alone.

“And at last can grant a name

To a buried and a burning flame,

As love and its decisive pain.

Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.”

The words grew softer, her voice faltering slightly as she neared the end of the verse. There was a vulnerability in her tone now, a fragility that only deepened the beauty of the song.

“All that was shown to me, sunlight,

Was somethin’ foreknown to me, sunlight, oh sunlight.

Oh, your love is sunlight,

Oh, your love is sunlight,

But it is sunlight.”

The final notes lingered in the air, fading into the stillness of the night like the last rays of a setting sun. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them filled with the unspoken weight of loss, hope, and something unnameable.

Faramir was the first to break the stillness. “It is beautiful,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I have never heard its like. Where did you learn it?”

Rían’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “It was my mother’s favorite song,” she said softly. “My father sang it often.. He sang it so much that I learned every word by heart. But…” She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I never truly understood it—not until I was left to grieve for them both.”

Faramir’s expression softened, and he moved closer, his voice quieter now. “It speaks of love,” he murmured. “A love that endures through all shadows, all pain. I think, perhaps, you understand it better than anyone.”

Rían turned her head to meet his gaze, her grey eyes searching his face. For a moment, the grief they shared seemed to draw them closer, like two candles brought together to burn brighter. She could feel the warmth of his hand against hers, the steady strength in his touch.

“You honor their memory with your strength,” Faramir continued, his words barely above a whisper. “And with the light you carry within you, even when the world grows dark. It is a gift to all who walk beside you. To me.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she could not look away from him. His words lingered between them, unspoken emotions rising to the surface. Her hand moved, brushing against his, and the faintest smile touched her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Faramir hesitated, his fingers barely brushing against hers, and in the starlit quiet of Lothlórien, it felt as though the world itself was holding its breath.

***

Faramir sat alone beneath the boughs of a towering mallorn, the soft gold of its leaves casting dappled shadows in the moonlight. His head was bowed, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, and though the air was still and serene, a storm of doubt and sorrow raged within him. The faint sound of Elven song drifted through the trees, a lament so achingly beautiful it seemed to carry the weight of the world’s grief.

Aragorn approached quietly, his steps making little sound upon the forest floor. He paused a few paces away, watching the younger man. The moonlight caught the faint shimmer of tears upon Faramir’s face, and for a moment, Aragorn hesitated, as though unsure whether to intrude upon his solitude. But something in Faramir’s posture—the way his shoulders sagged, as though carrying an invisible burden—moved him to step closer.

“Take some rest,” Aragorn said gently, his voice low but firm. “These borders are well guarded. Lothlórien is a haven, even in dark times such as these.”

Faramir did not look up, his gaze fixed upon the earth at his feet. “There is no rest for me here,” he replied softly. “Her voice haunts my mind. She spoke to me without words, as if she reached into my very soul.” He paused, his throat tightening. “She spoke of my father, of Gondor, and of its fall. She said, ‘Even now, there is hope left.’” He lifted his eyes to Aragorn then, and they were filled with despair. “But I cannot see it. Hope has long since fled from the hearts of my people.”

Aragorn knelt beside him, his rugged features soft with understanding. He placed a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, a gesture both steadying and compassionate. “Lady Galadriel’s words are not lightly given,” Aragorn said. “She sees much that others cannot. If she spoke of hope, then it is not yet lost.”

Faramir shook his head, his expression clouded with doubt. “My father is a noble man,” he said after a moment, his voice laced with both pride and pain. “But his rule falters. The shadow grows, and our people despair. He looks to me to be his strength, to make things right. I would do it, Aragorn. I would give everything to see Gondor’s glory restored. But the weight of his expectations… it is more than I can bear.”

He turned his gaze to Aragorn, his eyes searching. “Have you ever seen it? The White Tower of Ecthelion, rising like a pillar of pearl and silver? Its banners streaming high in the morning breeze? Have you ever heard the clear call of the silver trumpets, ringing out across the plains, calling her sons home?”

A shadow of longing crossed Aragorn’s face, and his eyes, grey and deep as the sea, seemed to drift far away. “I have seen it,” he said softly. “Long ago.”

Faramir’s lips parted in a faint smile, and though his eyes still glistened with sorrow, there was a flicker of hope there as well. “One day,” he said, his voice trembling with conviction, “our paths will lead us back to her gates. And the tower guard will cry out, ‘The Lords of Gondor have returned.’”

Aragorn returned the smile, though it did not reach his eyes. There was a shadow in his heart that he did not speak, a sorrow he did not share. For even as he looked at Faramir, he saw the weight of Gondor’s fate resting heavily upon him, and he knew too well the burdens of such a destiny.

When Faramir turned his gaze away, Aragorn’s smile faded. For a moment, his weariness showed—his sadness and the doubt he carried, unspoken, in his heart. But as Faramir turned back, Aragorn straightened, his expression steady once more. “Rest while you can,” he said quietly. “The road ahead is long, and we will need all our strength.”

Faramir nodded, though sleep seemed far from him. Together, they sat beneath the golden boughs, the soft lament of the Elves carrying their thoughts far from Lothlórien, to the White City and the uncertain fate that awaited them.

***

The serene moonlight bathed the forest of Lothlórien in soft, shimmering hues, making the towering mallorn trees seem to glow with an ethereal radiance. The air was thick with the scent of wood and earth, a timeless perfume that calmed even the deepest of hearts. Yet beneath the beauty of the forest, Faramir could not shake the weight that pressed on his chest—an invisible burden that had followed him for years.

He had walked the paths of Gondor, fought in its wars, and seen the cruelty of men. But it was the cruelty of his father, Denethor, that had broken him in ways no enemy ever could. His father’s contempt, his constant comparison to Boromir, and his disregard for his son’s loyalty and honor had carved deep wounds into Faramir’s heart. The loss of Gandalf had only added to the burden, the old wizard’s final words echoing in his mind like a fading call to duty—Fly, you fools!

Faramir stood alone in the quiet of the Lothlórien woods, his gaze fixed on the mirrored waters of a small pool, though he saw nothing. His mind was adrift, haunted by his own thoughts, by his father’s scorn, and by the painful realization that he had never been enough to earn his father’s love.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps drew him from his reverie. He turned to find Lady Galadriel standing before him, her silver hair falling like a cascade of moonlight over her shoulders. Her eyes, ageless and filled with ancient wisdom, fixed upon him with a penetrating gaze that seemed to see through the very fabric of his soul.

“You carry a heavy burden, Faramir,” she said, her voice soft, but with an undeniable strength behind it. “I have seen it in your heart since the moment you arrived. The shadow of doubt you bear is not your own; it has been placed upon you by another.”

Faramir froze, his breath catching in his chest. He had not spoken of his troubles to anyone here—not even to Aragorn, whom he had come to trust. Yet, here was Galadriel, sensing his inner turmoil with an uncanny clarity.

“You are right,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have long carried this burden. My father—he is a man consumed by pride and ambition. I am nothing to him. I am not my brother, Boromir. No matter what I do, I cannot earn his approval.”

Galadriel’s gaze softened, her eyes filled with both compassion and something more ancient, something knowing. She stepped closer, her presence calming yet potent, and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“You must not seek your worth in the eyes of one who cannot see it,” she said, her voice like the whisper of the wind through the trees. “Your father’s cruelty does not define you, Faramir. He is blinded by his own pride and fear. Do not allow his shadow to fall upon you, for you are not the man he wishes you to be. You are the man you choose to be.”

Faramir closed his eyes, as though absorbing the weight of her words. Her words were like a balm, but they stirred something deeper within him—a longing for approval, for love, from the one man he had always sought it from. But Galadriel was right. He could not continue to live in the shadow of his father’s expectations. There was more to him than that.

“But,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness, “what am I to do? My father has always favored Boromir. And now, with the fall of Gandalf, I wonder… what will become of Gondor without him? What will become of me, the son who was always second-best?”

Galadriel gave him a long, measured look, her expression a mixture of pity and understanding. “You are not second-best, Faramir. You are a man of honor and strength, and you will lead when the time comes, not because of your father’s wishes, but because of the strength within you. Gondor will need you, Faramir, just as it needed Gandalf. Do not allow his shadow to hold you back. The time will come when your light will shine, and you will lead the way.”

Her words struck a chord deep within him. For the first time in years, Faramir felt a flicker of something he had long lost—hope. It was small, fragile, but it was there. He stood for a long time in silence, contemplating her words, before he finally spoke.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I… I have never been told these things. Not from my father, nor from anyone else. It means more to me than you could ever know.”

Galadriel smiled, a gentle, knowing smile that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom. “You will find your path, Faramir of Gondor. Remember this: you are more than you think. Do not let the cruelty of others blind you to your own worth.”

As her words faded, the Lady of Lothlórien stepped back, her figure retreating gracefully into the shadows, vanishing like a dream into the night. The air seemed to shift, growing quieter, leaving Faramir with the echo of her presence and the weight of her counsel. And yet, it was another presence, a more grounded one, that now reached out to him from the depths of the woods.

Rían stepped into the moonlit clearing, her movements quiet but purposeful. She had been walking alone, perhaps drawn by some inner restlessness after the loss of Gandalf, or perhaps to give herself some space to breathe in the quiet of Lothlórien, the same peace that had been slipping through her fingers as she found herself caught in the quiet pull of her thoughts. She caught sight of Faramir standing there, gazing up at the stars, lost in the gravity of his emotions, and she moved closer, unsure of what exactly brought her to him—only knowing that in this moment, she needed to be near him.

Faramir turned, sensing her presence before he saw her, and his eyes met hers. The world seemed to pause, just for an instant, the night air thick with unspoken things. Rían’s gaze softened as she took in his weary face, the vulnerability that had never quite left him since their journey began. She had heard the echo of Galadriel’s wisdom and understood the weight it carried. But more than that, she understood the burden Faramir carried, the pain in his eyes, the quiet sorrow that had become part of him.

“Rían,” Faramir’s voice was almost a whisper, a touch of surprise in the sound of it, as if he hadn’t expected her to find him here. His hand twitched, almost as if he wanted to reach for her, but he held back, unsure of what to say. Instead, he settled on a simple question. “What is it you seek, here, at this hour?”

“I seek nothing,” Rían replied softly, stepping closer, her hand brushing against the rough bark of a nearby tree. “Only to be here. With you. You don’t have to speak, Faramir. Not unless you want to.”

There was a long pause. Rían’s words seemed to draw him in, to pull him closer to something he couldn’t name. The silence between them grew, and in that space, there was something shifting—something tender that he couldn’t quite understand, yet it resonated deep within him. Faramir’s heart beat a little faster, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something other than the weight of Gondor’s expectations. He felt… seen.

She stepped closer to him, her presence a quiet comfort that seemed to ease the sharp edges of his thoughts. She reached out, her hand brushing against his, a gesture so simple yet filled with unspoken meaning. His heart stilled at the contact, a warmth flooding through him, though it wasn’t just from the cool air of Lothlórien. It was from something else entirely. He found himself holding his breath, unsure of how to respond, unsure of what to say when everything in him urged him to stay still and feel the quiet strength of her hand in his.

“I’m not sure what I’m meant to be, Rían,” he said, his voice low, tinged with frustration. “I’ve never been what my father wanted, and I am unsure if I ever will be.”

Rían’s eyes softened, and she stepped even closer, her hand tightening gently around his. “You don’t need to be what anyone else wants, Faramir. Not even your father. What matters is who you choose to be. I’ve seen who you are—beneath the expectations, beneath the armor of duty—and it is more than enough.”

Her words, so quiet yet so powerful, seemed to undo something inside him. Faramir felt a flood of emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years—hope, tenderness, vulnerability—and something else, something deeper that he couldn’t quite name. His heart thudded in his chest, and he looked at Rían with a new intensity, as if seeing her for the first time.

“I don’t know,” Faramir murmured, looking down at their joined hands, a fleeting sigh escaping his lips. “It’s hard to ignore what my father has said, what he expects of me. His cruelty has been…” He trailed off, his voice thick with emotion, his chest tightening as the old bitterness surfaced. “His disdain, his endless demands. I’ve been trying to live up to it all, but it’s never been enough. I don’t think I’ll ever be the son he wanted.”

Rían’s thumb brushed across his hand, her touch gentle and firm. There was no pity in her gaze, only understanding, a deep empathy that resonated between them. Her voice was soft, but full of conviction as she spoke. “Faramir, your father is a fool if he cannot see how great a man you are. How much you’ve sacrificed. Your wisdom, your kindness, your courage—they are rare gifts, and they should not be measured by another’s expectations. You have done far more than anyone could ask of you.”

Faramir’s breath hitched at her words, and he looked up at her, her sincerity like a balm to his troubled heart. She wasn’t speaking in empty platitudes; she saw him, truly saw him, in a way no one else ever had. Her words reached into the deepest parts of him, places he had kept hidden for years, and pulled them into the light.

“You think so?” Faramir’s voice was softer now, raw with emotion. “I’ve never been enough for him. And it’s been hard, Rían, harder than I can say.” He paused, a deep breath filling his chest. “But when I look at you… I don’t know what it is, but it feels different. You make me feel like there is more to me than what I’ve always believed.”

Rían’s gaze softened, and she stepped even closer to him, her hand still holding his. “There is more to you, Faramir. So much more. You are wise beyond your years, you are kind when the world would teach you not to be, and you are courageous even when the road before you is uncertain. Your father’s cruelty cannot erase that.”

A quiet moment passed between them, and Faramir felt his chest lighten, the weight of years of bitterness beginning to lift. For the first time in so long, he felt like he could breathe again, as if Rían’s words had given him permission to believe in himself once more. He let out a quiet sigh, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude. “For seeing me. For caring.”

Rían smiled softly, her eyes warm, and she leaned in slightly, her face so close that Faramir could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. “You are not alone, Faramir. Not now. Not ever.” Her thumb brushed gently across his hand, sending a shiver through him.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away. It was just the two of them, standing in the moonlit clearing, a quiet understanding between them. And in that silence, Faramir felt something stir in his chest—a new sense of hope, of connection. He felt the truth of her words deep within him, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps he was worthy of such care. Perhaps he was worthy of her.

The night wrapped around them, the stars above them a silent witness to the fragile moment between them, and Faramir, with Rían by his side, felt a weight lift from his heart. The burden of his father’s cruelty no longer seemed so insurmountable, not with her there, offering him something he had longed for—understanding, acceptance, and a warmth that he had never thought he deserved.

Chapter Text

As the Fellowship prepared to depart Lothlórien, the company gathered on the silver-green banks of the Anduin. The golden light of the fading day filtered through the mallorn trees, casting the scene in a dreamlike glow. Galadriel stood among them, radiant as the morning sun, her presence both comforting and sorrowful. Celeborn was at her side, his gaze steady and solemn. The air was heavy with unspoken words, as though the trees themselves held their breath in reverence.

Galadriel moved to Legolas first, her light steps silent on the soft grass. She extended her hands, presenting him with an elegant bow of pale wood, its craftsmanship surpassing even that of his Woodland kin. The string glimmered like a thread of silver.

“My gift to you, Legolas, is a bow of the Galadhrim,” she said, her voice a gentle melody. “May it serve you well, and may your skill bring honor to its making.”

Legolas took the bow with a deep bow of his own, testing its strength with a practiced hand. “It is a treasure beyond measure, my lady,” he said. “I will wield it with care and gratitude.”

Galadriel then turned to Merry and Pippin, who stood close together, their expressions a mix of awe and trepidation. She handed each of them a dagger, their hilts inlaid with delicate patterns that shimmered like stars.

“These are the daggers of the Noldorin,” she said. “They have seen battle before, and they shall serve you in the battles yet to come.”

Merry drew his dagger, his eyes widening as he admired its fine edge. Pippin hesitated, turning the weapon over in his hands with a mixture of wonder and unease.

“Do not fear, Peregrin Took,” Galadriel said gently, sensing his hesitation. “Courage is already in your heart. This blade is merely its companion.”

Her words seemed to steady Pippin, who nodded, though he cast an uncertain glance at Merry.

When she came to Sam, she handed him a coil of rope, shimmering faintly in the evening light. “For you, Samwise Gamgee, a gift of hithlain. This rope is strong, yet light, and it will not fail you in your need.”

Sam blushed as he accepted the gift. “Thank you, my lady,” he said hesitantly. Then, with a shy glance at Merry and Pippin, he added, “Though I don’t suppose you’ve got another one of those nice shiny daggers, do you?”

Galadriel’s laughter was soft as spring rain, and Sam ducked his head, smiling sheepishly.

Next, she turned to Gimli, who stood apart, staring at the ground. When she addressed him, he glanced up, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I require no gift, my lady,” he muttered gruffly. “Only to look upon your fair face one last time. For no jewel beneath the earth compares to the beauty I see before me.”

Galadriel laughed again, her mirth like the chime of distant bells. But Gimli, emboldened, continued hesitantly, “Though… if it is not too much to ask… a single strand of your golden hair might serve as a token of this memory.”

Galadriel’s smile deepened, and to Gimli’s astonishment, she plucked three strands of her golden hair and placed them in his hand. “Your words have honored me, son of Glóin. Treasure these, and may they remind you of a friendship between Elf and Dwarf.”

Gimli stammered his thanks, his voice thick with emotion as he turned away to compose himself.

When Galadriel approached Faramir, her gaze lingered on him with quiet intensity. “Faramir of Gondor,” she said, “your path is fraught with sorrow and trial. Yet I see in you a strength that will not yield, even when the shadows grow long.”

She handed him a bow crafted in the style of the Galadhrim, its wood pale and supple, its string as fine as a hair of her golden tresses. “This bow is my gift to you. May it remind you that even in the darkest times, there is still light, if only you will look for it.”

Faramir bowed deeply, his voice steady but filled with gratitude. “You honor me, Lady Galadriel. I will not fail to use this gift for the defense of all that is good in this world.”

Finally, Galadriel turned to Rían, who stood silently, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her current sword. Galadriel placed a new weapon in her hands—a sword of Elven make, its blade gleaming like moonlight on water, its hilt adorned with intricate patterns of vines and stars.

“For you, Rían, daughter of the north, a blade worthy of your courage and skil. May it strike true, and may it sing of hope in the hands of one so steadfast.”

Rían ran her fingers over the hilt, her heart swelling with wonder and determination. “I will bear it proudly, my lady,” she said.

As the Fellowship lingered on the banks of the Anduin, Galadriel turned her gaze to Aragorn. Her eyes, deep and filled with wisdom, seemed to see through the shadows that lay heavily on his heart. She approached him with measured grace, her golden hair shimmering in the soft light of Lothlórien’s trees.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” she began, her voice a soft melody that seemed to resonate with the very air around them. “I have nothing greater to give you than what you already bear.”

Her slender hand reached out and gently touched the Evenstar pendant that rested against his chest. The light caught on the delicate jewel, casting a soft glow that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat.

“You carry the love of Arwen Undómiel,” she said in Elvish, her voice tinged with both sadness and hope. “Am meleth dîn. I ant e-guil Arwen Undómiel … pelitha.” (For her love, I fear, the grace of Arwen Evenstar will diminish.)

Aragorn bowed his head, his voice low and steady as he replied in the same tongue, “Aníron i e broniatha ar periatham amar hen. Aníron e ciratha a Valannor.” (I would have her leave these shores and be with her people. I would have her take the ship to Valinor.)

Galadriel’s expression softened, though a shadow of sorrow crossed her radiant features. “That choice is yet before her,” she said gently. “But you have your own choice to make, Aragorn. To rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin.”

The weight of her words hung heavily in the air. Aragorn straightened, his resolve hardening even as the doubts within him stirred. Galadriel smiled faintly, a glimmer of hope in her gaze.

“Nadath nâ i moe cerich. Dan … ú-’eveditham, Elessar.” (There is much you have yet to do. We shall not meet again, Elessar.)

Aragorn bowed low, his heart heavy but steadied by her words.

Finally, Galadriel approached Frodo, who stood a little apart from the others, his small form dwarfed by the towering mallorn trees. His face was pale, his expression weary, as though the burden of the Ring weighed more heavily with each passing moment. Galadriel’s presence seemed to envelop him like a soothing balm, and he looked up at her with wide, questioning eyes.

“Farewell, Frodo Baggins,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm. From her hands, she held out a small crystal phial, its light gleaming like a captured star.

“I give you the light of Eärendil, our most beloved star,” she said, her voice filled with a quiet reverence. “May it be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

Frodo hesitated for a moment, then reached out with trembling hands to accept the gift. The phial seemed to pulse with a comforting warmth as he held it.

Galadriel leaned down and kissed his brow softly, her touch as light as the evening breeze. Frodo felt a strange strength fill him, as though her touch carried with it the resilience of ages long past.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

As Frodo stepped back, the Fellowship gathered around their boats. Galadriel stood at the water’s edge, her figure a luminous beacon in the dimming light.

Her gaze swept over them, her expression mingling hope and sorrow. “You are all bound to a great and perilous road,” she said. “But take these gifts with you, and remember this: even in the darkest hour, the light of the stars does not falter. Farewell, brave ones.”

As the Fellowship prepared to board their boats, Galadriel’s voice lingered in their hearts—a guiding melody that would not soon be forgotten.

***

The boat glided smoothly down the Anduin, the sun beginning to dip below the hills, casting golden streaks across the water. The Fellowship had been on the river for several days, and the quiet rhythm of the oars dipping into the water was the only sound to break the stillness of the evening.

Faramir sat at the stern, his posture relaxed, eyes fixed on the river’s gentle flow. The peacefulness of the moment seemed to calm the tension that always lingered just beneath the surface. He glanced up as Rían approached, stepping lightly into the seat beside him. Her cloak fluttered slightly in the evening breeze, and she offered him a brief, mischievous glance before settling in.

“A fair sight, indeed,” Rían said with a soft smile, her voice light yet carrying a note of amusement. “Though one might almost forget the perils we face, with such a view.”

Faramir let out a quiet laugh, his gaze turning towards her. “Aye, one could. But I suspect our enemies would be less forgiving if we were to grow too comfortable.”

Rían grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Details, details. We shall make the most of this fleeting peace. How often do we travel so… gracefully?”

She motioned to the boat, her hand sweeping the air in a casual gesture. “I’ve never been on a river quite like this, with such fine company.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re telling me you’ve never sailed down the Anduin, pursued by shadow and steel, with a fellowship of adventurers at your side?”

Rían’s smile widened, though there was something more in her gaze now—a softness that lingered between the teasing. “I’m afraid not,” she said lightly. 

After a long pause, Faramir shifted slightly, leaning back on his hands as the boat glided silently along the river. The moonlight shimmered on the water, casting a soft glow on their faces. “You know,” he said, his voice casual but carrying an almost hidden intensity, “my elder brother, Boromir, would probably take a liking to you.”

Rían raised an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Oh? How’s that?”

Faramir turned toward her, his gaze steady, though his voice dropped just a little, as if considering his words more carefully. “You remind me of him, in some ways. He was stubborn, impatient, fiercely determined—always charging into things without thinking, much like someone else I know.” He smiled, a faint, knowing curve of his lips. “But he was also strong-willed, brave… the kind of person who would never back down, no matter the cost.”

Rían chuckled lightly, though something warm and charged fluttered in her chest. “Sounds like a fine match, then. But is that a compliment, or a warning?”

Faramir’s laugh came softly, his tone light, but there was something in the way his gaze lingered on her that made her heart skip a beat. “A bit of both, I suppose. Boromir… he’s a complicated man, but his heart’s always in the right place.” His voice grew quieter then, and for a brief moment, his eyes grew distant. “I miss him. It feels like the space between us is… endless.”

Rían watched him closely, sensing the weight behind his words, and despite the lighthearted conversation, she felt a sudden swell of sympathy for him. “I can see that,” she said, her voice softening. “You two must be close.”

Faramir looked over at her then, a flicker of something raw in his eyes, before he quickly masked it with a small, almost wistful smile. “We were. But there were times when we didn’t understand each other. Boromir always felt like he had to bear the burden of Gondor alone, and I… I tried to help, but he never wanted to hear it. We always butted heads about that. I miss him, though. His stubbornness, his fire. It’s strange, you know? Even when he’s infuriating, I find myself longing for his presence.”

Rían tilted her head, her heart stirred by the vulnerability he’d shown in his words. She could relate more than she cared to admit, having once had that fire with her own brother. She rested her chin on her knees, turning slightly toward him, her voice quieter now. “Sounds like you two were a lot alike, then,” she murmured, her eyes soft. “I had a brother like that. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but now that he’s gone…” Her voice faltered slightly, and she cleared her throat before continuing. “I’d give anything to hear him argue with me again. To feel that fire again, even if it was just to make me mad.”

Faramir turned to her fully now, his gaze searching, as if seeing something in her he hadn’t before. There was a silence between them, broken only by the soft lapping of the water against the boat. Slowly, he reached out, almost hesitantly, and placed a hand near hers, though he didn’t quite touch. The space between them felt charged, as if the air itself had thickened.

“I know that feeling,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent. “The ache of wanting to hear someone’s voice again, even if it was the last thing you wanted at the time. I think we all carry pieces of those we’ve lost. It’s… it’s not always the pain we miss, but the small things. The moments when they were just there, you know?”

Rían nodded, her chest tight with her own memories. She was aware of the heat of his hand close to hers, the quiet way his words seemed to reach inside her, threading through something deep and vulnerable. She didn’t pull her hand away; she couldn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—fragile, yet undeniable.

“I do,” she whispered, her breath catching as she looked up at him, meeting his gaze fully for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The space between them was narrowing, the subtle warmth of his presence suddenly overwhelming. “I never thought I’d feel so connected to someone. But with you…” Her voice trailed off, and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears, betraying the calmness she tried to maintain.

Faramir shifted slightly, leaning a little closer, the weight of the moment pressing them together, though neither of them dared to close the distance fully. “Rían,” he began, his voice barely a whisper now, the words hanging between them like a secret they weren’t sure they were ready to share, “You’re stronger than you know. I see that in you. More than you might realize.”

Her pulse quickened at the sincerity in his voice, at the way he looked at her—not with pity, but with something deeper, something real. She could feel his words stirring something inside her, making her want to reach out, to feel more of that connection, but she stayed still, afraid of what it might mean if she took that step.

“I… I never wanted to be this close to anyone again,” she said, her voice soft but steady, “but somehow, it feels like this is where I’m meant to be.”

Faramir’s gaze darkened just a fraction, the weight of her words hitting him harder than expected. There was a long, silent moment where neither of them spoke, but in that quiet, a deep current flowed between them, undeniable and intimate. Finally, Faramir’s hand brushed lightly against hers, and  Rían didn’t pull away. Her skin tingled from the brief contact, but she found herself wanting more.

His voice was barely audible, and he leaned just a fraction closer. “Rían, you’re not alone. Not now, not ever.”

Her heart hammered in her chest as she held his gaze, a soft smile tugging at her lips, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed the calm she tried to project. “I know,” she said, her voice steady despite the rising tide of emotions inside her. “I’m glad of that, Faramir.”

As the boat drifted down the Anduin, the night around them felt still, almost holding its breath. Neither spoke further, but they didn’t need to. Their shared silence said everything. The connection between them was undeniable, and as they sat side by side, the world around them faded into the background. In that moment, they were two souls, adrift together, bound by something far deeper than the river itself.

And as the night stretched on, the space between them remained, but the tension, the unspoken promise, was enough to carry them forward into whatever lay ahead.

***

The grey light of pre-dawn bathed the Anduin in a ghostly hue, casting soft ripples across the surface of the river as the Fellowship’s three elven boats drifted silently through the gorge. The air was crisp and still, save for the gentle splash of oars dipping into the water. In the stern of the lead boat, Aragorn paddled with steady strokes, his gaze fixed ahead.

“Frodo,” he murmured, his voice low yet reverent.

Frodo stirred, lifting his weary eyes from the river’s surface. What he saw before him made him catch his breath.

Rising on either side of the river were two colossal statues, their forms carved with astonishing detail into the sheer faces of the cliffs. Towering over three hundred feet tall, they stood as eternal sentinels, their weathered visages gazing into the horizon with expressions of stern authority. Each bore a shield upon one arm, the other raised in a gesture of warning or command, as if bidding those who passed to heed the majesty of the realm they guarded.

“The Argonath,” Aragorn breathed, his voice filled with wonder.

In the second boat, Faramir sat at the bow, his face a mask of awe. The light of early dawn caught the silver of his vambraces, casting a faint glow across his features. He turned to Rían, who sat beside him, her hands clasped tightly around the edge of the boat. Her dark hair fell loose about her shoulders, stirring faintly in the breeze, but her gaze was fixed on the towering figures.

“I never thought to see them with my own eyes,” she whispered, her voice carrying a note of both reverence and disbelief. “The Pillars of the Kings. Such grandeur, such strength…”

Faramir nodded, his expression pensive. “Long ago, they were raised to mark the northern boundary of Gondor’s might. Now, they seem like relics of a world that is slipping away.”

In the lead boat, Aragorn’s face was etched with emotion as he stared up at the statues. Though he spoke softly, his words carried across the water. “Long have I desired to look upon the kings of old… my kin.”

The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of history. Even Gimli, who often jested to lighten their burdens, was struck mute by the sight. Legolas, sitting behind him, gazed upward with an Elven appreciation for the craftsmanship that had endured through the ages.

As the current carried the boats forward, the Fellowship passed between the statues’ mighty feet. Their heads craned upward, taking in the crumbling crowns and vast, weathered features. The air seemed charged with a quiet power, as if the Argonath themselves bore silent witness to the peril and hope that traveled below them.

Beyond the statues, the gorge opened into a vast lake, its waters stretching toward the horizon, where the light of the rising sun began to kiss the distant peaks. It was a moment of calm before the storm, a fleeting reminder of the greatness that still endured in the world.

***

The Fellowship had pulled their boats ashore beneath the shadow of the great trees of Parth Galen. The forest loomed around them, its thick boughs casting a cool, green twilight. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of damp earth and pine needles, but the stillness carried with it an unspoken unease, as though the very woods were holding their breath.

Aragorn stepped forward, his voice low and steady. “We cross the lake at nightfall. Hide the boats here, and continue on foot. From there, we approach Mordor from the north.”

Gimli grumbled as he heaved his pack onto a nearby rock, his brows furrowed beneath his helmet. “Oh yes, just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil, an impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks. And after that, it gets even better—a festering, stinking marshland as far as the eye can see.”

His voice dripped with sarcasm, but the weariness in his tone was plain. He wiped his brow with a thick hand and sank onto a mossy stone.

Aragorn turned to him, his expression calm yet resolute. “That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf.”

“Recover my—” Gimli started indignantly, but his retort was interrupted by Legolas, who approached Aragorn with a quiet urgency.

“We should leave now,” Legolas said, his sharp eyes scanning the dense forest around them.

Aragorn shook his head. “No. Orcs patrol the eastern shore. We must wait for the cover of darkness.”

“It is not the eastern shore that worries me,” Legolas said, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze swept the shadows beneath the trees, his fair face clouded with unease. “A shadow and a threat has been growing in my mind. Something draws near, I can feel it.”

Aragorn regarded the elf carefully. The tension between them was unspoken but palpable, for Aragorn knew well the weight Legolas carried—the far-seeing awareness of the Eldar.

Rían, standing a short distance away, caught the exchange and moved closer. Her dark hair was tied back, and her cloak was damp from the spray of the river, but her stride was steady as she joined them.

“What is it you sense, Legolas?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with concern.

Legolas glanced at her, his expression troubled. “There is something unnatural in this forest. It is as though the very air trembles with malice. I cannot yet name it, but the feeling is… sharp, like a blade pressing against the mind.”

Rían frowned, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her sword. She looked to Aragorn. “Could it be some remnant of Saruman’s spies? His reach has been long of late.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Unlikely. The shadow Legolas speaks of feels different, deeper. This forest holds many secrets, not all of them friendly.”

Rían nodded, though unease flickered in her grey eyes. “Then we must tread carefully.”

Aragorn turned to her, his voice softening. “You have been vigilant since we left Lothlórien, Rían. Do not let the burden of worry rob you of what strength remains.”

She gave a faint smile, though her gaze did not leave the trees. “I am no stranger to shadow, Aragorn. It does not frighten me—but neither will I ignore it.”

Before Aragorn could reply, Sam stirred where he had slumped against a fallen log, jolted awake by Merry noisily dumping a small pile of kindling at Gimli’s feet. The hobbit rubbed his eyes and looked around, his expression groggy.

Rían’s sharp eyes darted across the camp. A shadow of alarm crossed her face as she turned suddenly to Aragorn and Legolas. “Where is Frodo?”

Aragorn’s head snapped up, his gaze scanning the clearing with swift precision. Sam, now fully awake, looked around in panic.

“Mr. Frodo!” he called out, scrambling to his feet.

Legolas’s hand went to the bow slung across his back, and Aragorn’s fingers brushed the hilt of Andúril. Rían was already moving, her steps swift and silent as she searched the surrounding shadows.

“Stay here,” Aragorn said firmly to the hobbits, his voice low but commanding. He exchanged a brief glance with Rían and Legolas. “We spread out, but do not go far. He cannot have gone too far from camp.”

Rían gave a curt nod, drawing her dagger with one hand as she melted into the trees. Her sharp gaze swept the forest floor, her heart quickening with each passing moment. She could feel the weight of the forest pressing around her, its silence growing heavier.

“Frodo,” she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. “Where are you?”

***

The woods of Amon Hen were silent but for the faint rustling of leaves in the wind, a stillness that made Faramir uneasy. His keen eyes swept over the landscape as he rose from where the Fellowship had gathered. Frodo’s absence gnawed at him. The hobbit had grown more withdrawn, burdened by the Ring’s weight. Faramir, ever watchful, knew Frodo could not be left alone in such a moment.

Slipping quietly into the forest, Faramir followed faint traces—footprints in the damp earth, the disturbed edge of a mossy rock. He moved swiftly but silently, until he found Frodo standing alone on a knoll, his shoulders hunched as if under a crushing weight. The hobbit’s hands clutched the chain around his neck, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

“Frodo,” Faramir called softly, not wanting to startle him.

The hobbit turned sharply, fear flashing in his wide eyes, his hand moving toward the Ring. When he saw it was Faramir, he relaxed only slightly.

“What are you doing out here alone?” Faramir asked, stepping closer. His tone was calm, though concern furrowed his brow.

“I… I needed to think,” Frodo replied, his voice distant, as though he spoke from some faraway place.

Faramir’s gaze dropped to the Ring, glinting faintly in the dim light of the woods. Its presence seemed to thrum in the air between them, and he felt its pull like a dark whisper in his mind. Images flickered unbidden: Gondor’s banners rising, his father’s stern face softened in approval, the armies of Mordor crushed beneath his feet.

Faramir clenched his jaw, shaking his head to clear the thoughts. He took another step toward Frodo, his voice steady. “Frodo, I see how this burdens you. Let me help you bear it.”

Frodo’s eyes widened in alarm, and he stepped back, clutching the Ring protectively. “No! You can’t help me. No one can. The Ring—it… it twists everything.”

Faramir halted, realization dawning. The Ring was testing him, seeking to exploit his doubts and desires. His voice softened, laced with sorrow. “I do not desire it, Frodo. Not truly. But its voice is insidious, even to the strong of will.” He placed a hand over his heart. “I swear to you, I will not take it from you. But you must not bear this burden alone.”

Frodo’s face was etched with anguish as he shook his head. “I must go alone. No one else can carry this. Not you, not Aragorn. Only me.”

Before Faramir could reply, a sharp cry shattered the stillness, followed by the heavy footfalls of many approaching foes. Uruk-hai burst from the trees, their grotesque faces illuminated by shafts of dappled sunlight.

“Run, Frodo!” Faramir shouted, drawing his sword.

The hobbit hesitated, his terror warring with his instinct to stay.

“Go!” Faramir commanded, slashing at the first Uruk that charged him.

Frodo turned and fled, disappearing into the underbrush. Faramir fought fiercely, his blade a blur as he parried and struck. But the Uruks pressed in, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm him.

The forest exploded with chaos as the Uruk-hai descended upon them. Faramir fought valiantly, his blade flashing in the dappled light, his movements precise yet desperate as he parried and struck. The sheer number of enemies pressed him back, and for a moment, he faltered, realizing just how alone he was.

A sharp whistle cut through the air—a dagger, spinning with deadly intent. He saw it too late to react.

The dagger never struck. A metallic clang rang out as the blade was deflected mid-flight, spinning harmlessly into the undergrowth. Faramir turned to see Rían emerge from the shadows, her sword raised. Her eyes burned with fierce determination, her cloak billowing as she surged forward, placing herself between him and the next wave of Uruks.

“You’re not dying here, Faramir,” she said, her voice steady and unyielding.

The two of them moved in tandem, their blades flashing in unison. Rían’s strikes were swift and precise, her movements fluid as she danced through the onslaught, cutting down one Uruk after another. Faramir, his composure regained, matched her skill with his own, his strokes sure and deliberate as he struck at their foes.

An Uruk charged at Rían with a crude axe, its guttural roar reverberating through the clearing. She sidestepped the blow with ease, her sword finding its mark in the beast’s exposed side. Another Uruk came at her from the left, and with a feral cry, she spun, her blade slicing cleanly through its throat.

“Behind you!” Faramir called, his voice sharp with urgency.

Rían turned just in time to see an Uruk lunging at her with a spear. With a fluid motion, she raised her blade and parried the strike, sending the spear’s tip glancing off the edge of her sword. She stepped in close, her sword flashing as she drove it into the creature’s chest.

Faramir, meanwhile, was locked in a brutal clash with two Uruks. He deflected one’s strike, his sword catching the light as it bit into the creature’s arm. The second Uruk lunged at him, but before it could land a blow, Rían’s blade sliced through its side. She had moved to cover his blind spot with startling precision.

“Watch yourself, Faramir,” she said, breathless but smiling faintly as she positioned herself back-to-back with him.

“Noted,” he replied, his voice tight with exertion but laced with admiration.

The moment of connection was fleeting, as another Uruk charged, its growl breaking the spell. Faramir and Rían fought together, their movements synchronizing effortlessly as they brought down the last of the attackers.

When the final Uruk fell, Rían stood over its corpse, her chest rising and falling with exertion. She turned to Faramir, her sharp gaze softening as she scanned him for injuries.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice quiet but urgent.

“Nothing I can’t manage,” Faramir replied, his tone gentle, though his eyes lingered on her. She looked different now—her hair tousled, her face streaked with dirt, but there was a strength in her, a fire that captivated him.

“You fight with a ferocity I’ve rarely seen,” he admitted, his voice low, almost reverent.

Rían sheathed her sword and met his gaze, her expression softening. “And you,it seems, cannot be left alone for more than fifteen minutes without  almost getting hurt” she said, her voice teasing, but with an undertone of genuine worry.

Faramir’s breath caught. For a moment, the horrors of the battle faded into the background as he stood there, captivated by the light in her eyes and the steadiness in her voice.

The spell was broken when Rían glanced toward the woods where Frodo had fled. Her expression hardened with resolve. “We should find Frodo before the Uruks regroup,” she said, stepping toward the dense forest.

Faramir nodded, though his gaze lingered on her a moment longer. “Yes,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Let us go.”

***

Faramir and Rían emerged from the dense forest, their weapons still drawn, the echoes of the Uruk-hai battle fading behind them. The sight that greeted them filled both with a heavy sense of dread—Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn stood in a tense huddle, their faces grim and their clothing stained with the marks of battle.

Aragorn turned as they approached, his eyes shadowed but resolute.

“Frodo?” Faramir asked, his voice taut with hope and fear.

Aragorn shook his head slowly. “I let Frodo go,” he said, his voice heavy. “Sam went with him.”

The words struck the group like a hammer blow. Rían inhaled sharply, her hand instinctively gripping the hilt of her sword. “And the others?” she asked, her voice trembling.

A flicker of pain crossed Aragorn’s face. “Merry and Pippin were taken,” he admitted. “By the Uruks.”

Rían’s knees nearly buckled, the weight of the news hitting her with the force of a blade. “No,” she murmured, shaking her head, her voice barely audible. “Not Merry and Pippin.”

Her shoulders slumped as grief threatened to overwhelm her, but before despair could take hold, she felt a steady hand on her arm. She glanced up to find Faramir beside her, his expression filled with quiet empathy. He didn’t speak, but his presence—solid and unwavering—offered her the strength she so desperately needed.

Aragorn’s voice cut through the stillness, firm and unyielding. “Frodo’s fate is no longer in our hands.”

Gimli’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned heavily on his axe. “Then it has all been in vain,” he growled bitterly. “The fellowship has failed.”

“No,” Aragorn said sharply, his gaze hardening as he looked at them. “Not if we hold true to each other. We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death, not while we have strength left.”

The determination in his voice was like a spark in the gloom, igniting a flicker of hope in the hearts of his companions. Aragorn knelt swiftly, opening his pack and pulling out a hunting knife. He strapped it onto his belt with precise movements, his jaw set in grim resolve.

“Leave all that can be spared behind,” Aragorn said, his tone brooking no argument.

The group fell silent as they watched him, the steel of his resolve evident in the sharp glint of his eyes. His next words carried the weight of a vow.

“We travel light,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let’s hunt some Orc.”

Gimli straightened, his eyes alight with renewed purpose. “Yes! Ha!” he bellowed, gripping his axe tightly.

Legolas nodded, his keen eyes scanning the horizon. “They will not outrun us,” he said, his voice quiet but fierce.

Rían tightened her grip on her sword, her grief now transformed into determination. She looked to Faramir, who gave her a single, steady nod.

“They’ll regret taking them,” Faramir said, his voice low but filled with conviction.

They moved swiftly, their steps sure and their purpose clear. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting the forest in deepening shadows as they began their pursuit of the Uruks. Aragorn led the way, his movements quick and efficient, his sharp eyes scanning the trampled grass and broken branches for signs of the captors’ trail.

Gimli’s heavy boots thudded against the earth, his grip on his axe unrelenting. Legolas moved like a shadow beside him, his bow at the ready, his elven ears straining for the faintest sound.

Rían and Faramir followed close behind, their steps synchronized as if drawn together by the urgency of their shared mission. Rían’s face was set with fierce determination, but when she glanced at Faramir, she saw in him a calm strength that steadied her frayed nerves.

Faramir noticed her gaze and offered a faint, reassuring smile. “We’ll bring them back,” he said quietly, his voice filled with quiet certainty.

She nodded, her throat tightening as she replied, “Yes, we will.”

The remainder of the fellowship pressed on, the trail of the Uruks clear before them. Though grief still lingered in their hearts, it was tempered now by a fiery resolve. They would not rest, not falter, until Merry and Pippin were safe—and until the enemies who dared to take them paid the price.

Chapter Text

The air was sharp and cold against their faces as Aragorn pressed his ear to the rock, his brow furrowed in concentration. The wind carried faint sounds—distant and elusive, yet enough for him to catch the rhythm of their prey’s movement.

“Their pace has quickened,” he said, his voice low but certain. He straightened, the urgency clear in his expression. “They must have caught our scent. Hurry!”

Legolas was already at his side, glancing back over his shoulder toward Gimli, who lagged behind with a determined, if labored, stride. “Come on, Gimli!” the Elf called, his tone both encouraging and impatient.

The Dwarf appeared moments later, panting heavily as he crested the hill. “Three days and nights of pursuit,” Gimli grumbled between breaths. “No food, no rest. And no sign of our quarry—save for what bare rock can tell.”

Nearby, Rían cast a longing look at the vast plains stretching far ahead and muttered, “I miss my horse.”

Faramir, running alongside her, glanced over, his curiosity piqued. “What happened to him?”

She grimaced, her stride faltering briefly as the memory surfaced. “Someone stole him, just before I met with  Aragorn and the Hobbits. Likely some desperate soul who didn’t realize the trouble they were borrowing.” She sighed and added wryly, “I hate running.”

Faramir smirked, a rare glimmer of amusement lighting his features despite the exhaustion etched into them. “A Ranger who hates running? Surely not.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “I can run,” she clarified, her tone defensive. “I just hate it. My father would agree with you, though. He always said a horse was of little use to a Ranger—it robs you of stealth. But I hardly  went anywhere without mine, and it worked well enough for me.”

Faramir chuckled softly, shaking his head as they continued the relentless pace over jagged hills and rocky terrain.

They pressed on, the world around them a blur of stone and grass. Above them, the sky was painted in hues of grey and pale blue, the sun veiled behind shifting clouds. Each step seemed heavier than the last, their breaths ragged from the unyielding pursuit.

Ahead, Aragorn suddenly dropped to one knee, his hand reaching down to pluck something from the ground. Rían and Faramir halted behind him, their eyes narrowing in curiosity as Aragorn held up a small, delicate brooch.

“Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall,” he murmured, his voice tinged with both hope and urgency.

Legolas stopped, his sharp gaze fixed on the brooch. “They may yet be alive,” he said, his voice steady but filled with resolve.

Aragorn stood swiftly, his grip tightening around the brooch as he looked ahead. “Less than a day ahead of us,” he said. “Come.”

The Elf was already moving, his long strides carrying him forward effortlessly. “Come, Gimli! We’re gaining on them!”

Behind them, the Dwarf stumbled, tumbling down the slope with a loud grunt. Rían turned back, unable to suppress a laugh at the sight of him sprawled awkwardly on the ground. “You’ll be left behind at this rate, Master Dwarf!” she called teasingly.

Gimli pushed himself upright, dusting off his tunic with an indignant huff. “I’m wasted on cross-country,” he declared, glaring at her. “We Dwarves are natural sprinters. Very dangerous over short distances.”

Rían chuckled, nodding with mock solemnity. “I don’t doubt it. Surely your speed rivals even the swiftest of us.”

He harrumphed in response, but the faint glimmer of pride in his eyes suggested he took her words as sincere.

They pressed onward, their steps quickening as they reached the brow of a hill. Below them stretched the rolling plains of Rohan, vast and golden beneath the pale light of the veiled sun. The air felt different here—thicker, as though heavy with an unseen malice.

“Rohan,” Aragorn said, his voice quiet with both reverence and unease. “Home of the Horse-lords.” He paused, his gaze scanning the distant horizon. “There is something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures, sets its will against us.”

Ahead, Legolas broke into a sprint, his keen eyes fixed on the far horizon. Aragorn called after him, his voice ringing over the plains. “Legolas! What do your Elf-eyes see?”

The Elf came to a halt, his silhouette sharp against the pale expanse of sky. “The Uruks turn northeast,” he called back, his tone grave. “They are taking the Hobbits to Isengard.”

Aragorn’s jaw tightened, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. “Saruman.”

The word fell like a curse upon the wind, and they moved forward again, their resolve hardened by the knowledge of their enemy’s designs. The race against time continued, the land itself seeming to echo the urgency of their quest.

***

The five hunters moved swiftly across the open plain, the sound of their boots muted against the dry earth. The air was heavy with the distant tang of smoke, and Aragorn’s keen eyes swept the ground for any sign of tracks. He knelt, pressing his fingers lightly to the dirt, his expression darkening.

Suddenly, the thunder of hooves echoed across the hills, followed by the sharp neighing of horses. Aragorn straightened quickly, signaling to the others. “Riders. Follow me!” he said in a low, urgent tone.

They darted to the shelter of a cluster of jagged rocks, crouching low as a host of horsemen appeared over the crest of the hill. The Riders of Rohan galloped past, their banners snapping in the wind and their spears gleaming like shards of light. Aragorn peered out from their hiding place, his eyes narrowing.

When the Riders had passed, Aragorn stepped into view, followed closely by Legolas, Gimli, Faramir, and Rían. His voice rang clear across the plain. “Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?”

The leader of the host raised his spear high, signaling his men to turn. The Riders wheeled around, their mounts kicking up dust as they surrounded the group, the tips of their spears pointed inward. Their steeds snorted and pawed the ground, their riders tense and watchful.

The leader, a tall man with long golden hair and piercing blue eyes, urged his horse forward. His gaze was hard and questioning as it swept over the company. “What business does an Elf, two men, a woman, and a Dwarf have in the Riddermark?” he demanded. “Speak quickly!”

Gimli bristled at the tone, stepping forward with his axe resting on his shoulder. “Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine!”

The man dismounted gracefully, the faintest shadow of amusement on his face as he walked toward the Dwarf. “I would cut off your head, Dwarf,” he said with measured disdain, “if it stood but a little higher from the ground.”

Legolas moved swiftly, his bow drawn and an arrow aimed unerringly at the man’s heart. “You would die before your stroke fell,” the Elf said coolly, his voice like the edge of a blade.

Tension crackled in the air as the Rohirrim lowered their spears, ready to strike. Aragorn stepped between Legolas and the man, his hand firmly pressing down on the Elf’s arm. “Peace,” he said in a voice both commanding and calm.

Turning to the man, Aragorn spoke with measured authority. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Gimli, son of Glóin, Faramir of Gondor, Rían of the Dunedain and Legolas of the Woodland Realm. We are friends of Rohan and of Théoden, your king.”

The man studied Aragorn for a moment before removing his helmet, revealing a face both noble and wearied by care. “Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe,” he said gravely. “Not even his own kin. Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands.”

He gestured to his men. “My company are those loyal to Rohan. For that loyalty, we are banished. The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets.”

“We are no spies,” Aragorn replied firmly. “We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “The Uruks are destroyed,” he said grimly. “We slaughtered them during the night.”

Gimli stepped forward, his voice rising with desperation. “But there were two Hobbits! Did you see two Hobbits with them?”

Aragorn added, “They would be small. Only children to your eyes.”

The man’s face was somber as he shook his head. “We left none alive,” he said quietly. “We piled the carcasses and burned them.” He turned, gesturing toward the faint plume of smoke rising in the distance.

Gimli’s axe lowered, his face a mixture of disbelief and grief. “Dead?” he murmured, the word heavy with sorrow.

Legolas’s gaze fell, his bright eyes dimmed with sadness.

The man nodded solemnly. “I am sorry.” Turning to the Riders behind him, he whistled sharply. Three horses trotted forward, their glossy coats catching the light. “Hasufel! Arod! Cynfel!” he called. “May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters.”

As the horses approached, Éomer—now introduced as the leader of the Riders—turned his attention to Rían. His eyes lingered on her sword at her hip and the set of her shoulders. “The road ahead is dangerous,” he said, his voice cautious. “Especially for a woman. If you wish it, we can escort you to safety.”

Rían’s eyes narrowed, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her sword. “I had slain  my first Orc at sixteen,” she said evenly, her voice sharp but measured. “I have walked more dangerous roads than this, my lord. I will manage without an escort.”

Éomer blinked, caught off guard by the quiet authority in her tone. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though he quickly masked it with a nod. “As you wish, my lady.”

Faramir, already mounted, extended a hand to Rían. “Come,” he said gently.

She took his hand, mounting with ease, her movements graceful and practiced. Once seated behind him, her hands rested lightly at his waist, and the horse shifted beneath them as though attuned to their presence.

Éomer watched them for a moment before pulling his helmet back over his head and mounting his own steed. He turned to Aragorn, his expression grave. “Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands.”

With a commanding shout, he called to his men. “We ride north!”

The Riders of Rohan wheeled their horses and galloped away, their banners streaming like golden fire in the wind. The hunters stood in their wake, the silence heavy with unspoken grief and a glimmer of unyielding resolve.

***

The sun hung low in the west, casting a fading golden glow over the plains of Rohan, but the air was heavy with the acrid stench of charred flesh. Smoke curled in faint spirals above the blackened pile of bodies, a grim testament to the ferocity of the battle. The company approached warily, their horses snorting uneasily.

Aragorn was the first to dismount, his sharp eyes scanning the desolation. Rían followed, her expression unreadable, though her lips pressed tightly together. Legolas and Gimli dismounted silently, while Faramir’s gaze lingered on the distant horizon, his thoughts far away.

Gimli strode toward the pile of scorched corpses, his axe held loosely in one hand. He began to dig through the ashes, grunting with effort as he overturned fragments of armor and charred limbs. At last, he paused, his hand closing around something small and familiar. He pulled it free—a belt, singed but unmistakably crafted for a Hobbit.

“It’s one of their wee belts,” Gimli said, his voice rough with sorrow. He held it up for the others to see.

Legolas stepped forward, his keen elven sight lingering on the broken remnants of battle. He lowered his head, placing a hand over his heart as he murmured in Sindarin, “Hiro hyn hîdh ab ’wanath…” His voice was soft, a lament carried by the wind. (May they find peace in death.)

Aragorn’s jaw clenched, and a fire kindled in his storm-grey eyes. With a sudden burst of anguish, he kicked the charred helmet of an Uruk-hai, sending it tumbling. The pain in his cry echoed across the desolation as he sank to his knees, his hands clawing at the earth.

Gimli’s voice was thick with regret. “We failed them,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the smoldering ruins of the battle.

Rían had not spoken. Her piercing gaze swept the ground, studying it with the precision of a hawk. She crouched low, running her fingers lightly over the trampled grass and disturbed soil. “Aragorn,” she called softly, her voice breaking through his grief like a beacon.

He rose to his feet, drawn by her certainty, and joined her. His sharp eyes followed hers as she traced the faint, tell-tale signs of movement.

“A Hobbit lay here,” Aragorn said slowly, his voice filled with a grim determination. “And the other.”

Behind them, Faramir watched in quiet wonder. The two moved with the focus of hunters on the trail, their minds as one, unraveling the story etched into the ground. It reminded him of the hounds he had followed on the long hunts of his youth, racing through Ithilien’s wilds at Boromir’s side.

“They crawled,” Rían murmured, pointing to faint drag marks and the imprint of small hands in the earth. She straightened, her expression resolute. “Their hands were bound.”

Aragorn knelt again, his fingers brushing over the remnants of rope fibers on the ground. His voice grew sharper, more urgent. “Their bonds were cut.”

He rose swiftly, his movements fluid as he tracked the faint footprints. “They ran over here,” he continued, pointing to the next set of prints. “They were followed.”

Rían’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the trail. “The tracks lead away from the battle,” she said, gesturing toward the edge of the forest.

The group followed her gaze, and all fell silent as they stared at the dense, shadowed expanse of Fangorn Forest looming before them. The towering trees seemed ancient and alive, their gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers into the dimming light.

“…Into Fangorn Forest,” Aragorn said at last, his voice heavy with foreboding.

Gimli’s face darkened as he shifted uneasily on his feet. “Fangorn?” he repeated, almost spitting the word. “What madness drove them in there?”

No one answered. The forest stood before them, vast and impenetrable, its secrets hidden within the shadows. A chill settled over the company, but Aragorn’s gaze remained fixed on the woods, determination gleaming in his eyes.

“We must follow,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it left no room for doubt.

***

The shadows of Fangorn Forest thickened, a canopy of gnarled branches twisting above Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Rían, and Faramir as they pressed onward. The air was heavy, dense with the weight of ages, and every sound seemed magnified—a rustle of leaves, a groan of wood. The company moved cautiously, their steps echoing faintly on the leaf-strewn ground.

Gimli crouched low, his hand brushing over a blood-stained leaf. He raised it to his mouth, testing it, only to spit violently and scowl.

“Orc blood,” he muttered grimly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Aragorn knelt nearby, his sharp gaze tracing the faint prints etched into the earth. His brow furrowed as his fingers hovered just above the ground. “These are strange tracks,” he murmured, his tone heavy with suspicion.

Behind him, Rían glanced uneasily at the trees, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “Strange or no, I do not like this place. The air feels… alive, almost watchful.”

Legolas, standing apart, turned his face upward, his expression serene but wary. “This forest is old,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Very old. Full of memory… and anger.”

A deep groaning sound rolled through the woods, causing Gimli to whirl, his axe raised defensively. Faramir, standing slightly behind Rían, instinctively placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, though his face betrayed no fear—only unease.

“The trees are speaking to each other,” Legolas continued, his sharp elven ears catching what no other could hear.

Aragorn glanced back at Gimli, his voice low and firm. “Gimli! Lower your axe.”

The dwarf blinked, then slowly lowered the weapon, muttering, “Oh.”

Faramir stepped closer to Rían, his tone measured. “I do not think it wise to provoke the forest. Let it be, Gimli.”

“Let it be?” Gimli grumbled. “A fine thing for a man of Gondor to say. But if one of these trees reaches out to grab me, you’ll see if I ‘let it be.’”

Rían smirked faintly, nudging Faramir with her elbow. “You must forgive him. Dwarves are not known for their patience.”

“I heard that!” Gimli huffed, though his tone was more gruff humor than genuine offense.

“The Elves began it,” Legolas interjected, his voice distant, as though lost in some ancient memory. “Waking up the trees, teaching them to speak.”

“Talking trees,” Gimli muttered, shaking his head. “What do trees have to talk about? Except the consistency of squirrel droppings.”

“Aragorn, nad no ennas,” Legolas said suddenly, his voice sharp with urgency. (Something’s out there)

Aragorn straightened, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Man cenich?” he asked. (What do you see?)

Legolas stared into the depths of the forest, his eyes narrowing. “The White Wizard approaches.”

At this, the company stiffened. Rían’s hand tightened on her sword hilt, her heart quickening. “Saruman,” she whispered, her voice taut.

Aragorn’s jaw clenched. “Do not let him speak,” he said firmly. “He will put a spell on us.”

As one, Aragorn, Faramir, and Rían unsheathed their swords. Legolas drew an arrow from his quiver, nocking it swiftly, while Gimli hefted his axe, his stance ready.

“We must be quick,” Aragorn added, his voice low but commanding.

Suddenly, a brilliant white light burst through the trees, blinding them. Gimli, with a roar, hurled his axe, but it was deflected effortlessly. Legolas loosed his arrow, only for it to veer off harmlessly. Aragorn’s blade turned red-hot in his hand, and he was forced to drop it with a grimace.

The White Wizard’s voice emerged from the light, resonant and commanding. “You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits.”

“Where are they?” Aragorn demanded, his tone edged with desperation.

“They passed this way the day before yesterday,” the voice answered, calm and knowing. “They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?”

Rían stepped closer to Faramir, her brow furrowed as she squinted against the light. “Who are you?” she asked sharply. “Show yourself!”

The light dimmed, and a figure stepped forward—dressed in robes of radiant white, a staff in his hand. Rían’s breath caught.

“It cannot be,” Aragorn murmured, his voice a mix of disbelief and hope.

Legolas bowed his head, his voice contrite. “Forgive me. I mistook you for Saruman.”

Gimli followed suit, though less gracefully, muttering, “Gandalf…”

The wizard smiled faintly. “Yes, Gandalf. That was what they used to call me. Gandalf the Grey. That was my name.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “I am Gandalf the White. And I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide.”

Rían blinked, her hand dropping from her sword. “Gandalf…” she whispered, her heart flooding with relief. Faramir glanced at her, noting the rare softness in her voice.

As they moved through the forest, Gandalf explained all that had transpired—of fire and water, of the Balrog, and of his return. His words painted a tale so grand and terrible that even Gimli was left in reverent silence.

The company stood at the edge of Fangorn Forest, the dark canopy of ancient trees behind them whispering faintly as if reluctant to release them. The air seemed lighter here, though shadows still clung to the edges of the wood like watchful sentinels. Gandalf stepped forward, his white robes catching the dappled sunlight, his grey cloak trailing behind him like a fading memory of his former self.

“One stage of your journey is over,” he said, turning to face the group. His voice carried a calm yet unyielding authority. “Another begins. We must travel to Edoras with all speed.”

“Edoras?” Gimli exclaimed, his brow furrowing beneath his helm. “That is no short distance!”

Aragorn stepped forward, his boots stirring the soft earth. “We hear of trouble in Rohan,” he said gravely. “It goes ill with the king.”

“Yes,” Gandalf replied, his expression shadowed. “And it will not be easily cured.”

Gimli huffed, crossing his arms. “Then we have run all this way for nothing? Are we to leave those poor Hobbits here… in this horrid, dark, dank, tree-infested—” He broke off as a deep groan emanated from the forest behind them, low and resonant, like the rumble of distant thunder. Gimli glanced nervously over his shoulder, then cleared his throat. “I mean… charming. Quite charming, this forest.”

Rían, standing slightly apart, shook her head with a faint smile. “Your grumbling is more likely to wake the forest’s ire than your axe ever could, Gimli.”

Gandalf, his keen eyes fixed on the distant plains of Rohan, added, “It was more than mere chance that brought Merry and Pippin to Fangorn. A great power has been sleeping here for many long years. The coming of Merry and Pippin will be like the falling of small stones… that starts an avalanche in the mountains.”

“Always riddles,” Aragorn murmured with a wry smile, his tone lightening the weight of Gandalf’s words. “In one thing you have not changed, dear friend.”

Gandalf raised a brow, glancing at him. “And what is that, Aragorn?”

“You still speak in riddles.”

Gandalf chuckled softly, a sound both amused and knowing. “And you, Aragorn, still have much to learn about listening.”

Beside him, Faramir stood silent, his thoughtful gaze fixed on the horizon. He seemed restless, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword absently, as though his mind were leagues away. Rían, watching him, leaned slightly closer. “Your thoughts are heavy,” she said quietly, her voice meant only for him.

He glanced at her, his expression softening. “Rohan lies near Gondor, yet it has long seemed distant. I think of Théoden, who stood with my father in his youth. To hear of his ailment troubles me.”

Rían nodded. “The shadow stretches far, yet even the longest night must end. Perhaps hope still lingers, even in Rohan.”

At that moment, Gandalf turned back to the group, his voice firm. “A thing is about to happen that has not occurred since the Elder Days. The Ents are going to wake… and find that they are strong.”

“Strong?” Gimli muttered, glancing uneasily at the forest as it groaned again, the sound like the creaking of ancient bones. “Oh, that’s good.”

Gandalf’s piercing gaze fell on him. “So stop your fretting, Master Dwarf. Merry and Pippin are quite safe. In fact, they are far safer than you are about to be.”

Gimli muttered something inaudible, though Rían thought she caught the words, “This new Gandalf is more grumpy than the old one.”

As the group emerged fully from the shadow of Fangorn, Gandalf strode a few paces ahead. He stopped suddenly and raised his staff high, letting out a long, clear whistle that rang across the plains. The sound seemed to pierce the very air, carrying far beyond their sight.

They waited, a hush falling over the group. Then, from the distance, there came a faint thunder of hooves. The sound grew steadily louder, and soon, a great white horse appeared on the horizon, galloping toward them with unmatched grace. Its mane and tail flowed like streams of silver, and its movements were so swift and fluid it seemed to glide over the earth.

Legolas’s eyes widened in recognition, and he spoke in a voice filled with quiet awe. “That is one of the Mearas… unless my eyes are cheated by some spell.”

Gandalf stepped forward as the horse drew near, its mighty frame coming to a halt before him. The wizard bowed his head in greeting, a gesture of respect. “Shadowfax,” he said, his voice warm. He stroked the horse’s neck gently, and the great steed nickered softly in reply. “He is the lord of all horses… and has been my friend through many dangers.”

Rían watched the scene, her expression one of quiet admiration. “He is magnificent,” she murmured.

Faramir nodded, his gaze fixed on the horse. “Truly a king among his kind.”

Gimli, however, folded his arms. “A fine beast, no doubt, but I hope he has a strong back. If we are to ride with all speed to Edoras, I’ll need a steed that doesn’t mind carrying a dwarf and his axe."

At this, even Legolas smiled faintly. Gandalf turned back to them, his expression resolute. “We ride for Edoras. Shadowfax will lead us.”

Though they had yet to mount, there was a sense of urgency in the air, a silent command to prepare for the road ahead. The plains of Rohan stretched before them, vast and untamed, and the company felt the weight of the journey yet to come.

***

The company rode swiftly across the rolling plains of Rohan, the wind carrying the scent of grass and earth as it whispered through the golden fields. The horses moved with a steady rhythm, their hooves striking the ground in unison. Rían sat behind Faramir on his steed, her arms wrapped loosely around his waist. She told herself it was only practical—necessary, even—but the intimacy of their shared space made her heart beat faster, much to her annoyance. She relished the warmth of his presence and the steady rise and fall of his breath, but at the same time, she cursed the way her thoughts kept wandering into unwelcome territory.

For his part, Faramir was equally discomfited. Though he sat upright, his back straight and his gaze fixed on the horizon, he was acutely aware of her nearness—the brush of her hands, the gentle weight of her leaning against him as the horse galloped onward. He told himself it was nothing, yet his resolve faltered with every mile.

The silence between them stretched until Faramir finally turned his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of her in the corner of his eye. “Rían,” he began, his voice low, as if hesitant to disturb the moment. “Tell me about the orc you slew when you were sixteen. I’ve been curious since I heard you mention it.”

Rían glanced up at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “That was my brother’s doing,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and nostalgia. “He took me on a hunt one autumn morning, just the two of us. By chance, we crossed paths with a small party of orc scouts. I had only ever sparred with him or other rangers. But he… he let me handle it on my own, content to sit back and observe.”

Faramir’s brows furrowed, and he cast her a quick, sidelong look. “He wasn’t afraid for you? Surely the danger must have been great.”

Rían laughed softly, the sound lilting like a breeze over water. “He wasn’t afraid because he knew I was wellprepared. He would say I learned to ride before I learned to walk and that I held a sword better than a fork.” She shook her head, a fondness in her tone. “Besides, I think he trusted my eagerness to fight more than anything. He used to say I was as stubborn and impatient as the northern wilds.”

Faramir chuckled, the deep sound of it rumbling in his chest, and Rían felt his laughter in the way his body trembled ever so slightly against her. “That does sound like something I’d say to my brother,” he admitted. “Boromir was always the hot-headed and impatient one. I was forever trying to keep him in check.”

There was a wistful note in his voice, and Rían tilted her head, curious. “It seems we have something in common, then. I hope I’ll have the chance to meet Boromir one day.”

Faramir’s expression softened, his lips quirking in a faint smile. “I think you’d get along well. Too well, perhaps,” he said with mock solemnity.

Rían raised a brow, her grin turning teasing. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about dealing with both of us being stubborn and ill-tempered? You might regret introducing us.”

Faramir laughed again, his gaze briefly flicking back to her, his grey eyes warm with amusement. “I think I can manage,” he said, his voice lighter now.

The moment hung between them, the air thick with unspoken words and a tension neither dared name. Rían felt her grip on his waist tighten instinctively, a simple gesture but one that spoke volumes. She turned her gaze to the horizon, watching the shadow of Edoras begin to take shape in the distance, but her thoughts remained on the man before her. Whatever lay ahead, the journey no longer felt as lonely.

Chapter Text

The banners of Edoras fluttered in the brisk wind as Gandalf and his companions rode toward the gates of the city, the golden light of afternoon casting long shadows over the rugged ridges of the White Mountains. The city itself perched upon a green hill, its wooden halls crowned by the Golden Hall of Meduseld gleaming in the distance. As they approached, a gust of wind pulled free one of the standards atop the outer gate. It fluttered to the ground beside Aragorn, who dismounted to retrieve it, his expression grave as he handed it to a nearby guard.

The people of Edoras turned from their labors as the company passed through the gates and into the city streets. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes filled with quiet despair. Women held children close, and men leaned on their tools with furrowed brows.

“You’ll find more cheer in a graveyard,” muttered Gimli, his voice gruff yet tinged with sorrow.

Rían, riding beside him, nodded her agreement. “I have seen places of mourning with lighter hearts than this.”

Aragorn lifted his gaze to the Golden Hall. For a brief moment, he saw a maiden standing on its high terrace, clad in white, her golden hair catching the sunlight. But as swiftly as he noticed her, she was gone, retreating into the shadowed halls.

Their steeds were left behind as they climbed the steps to Meduseld. The steep ascent was flanked by great carved beams, weathered by time and wind. At the top, Hama, captain of the king’s guard, stood waiting, his expression unreadable. His men, clad in the livery of Rohan, flanked the entrance to the hall.

“I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame,” Hama said. His voice was calm, though there was a flicker of unease as his gaze swept over the company. “By order of Gríma Wormtongue.”

Gandalf, his white robes swaying with the wind, nodded in understanding. He turned to the others with a quiet gesture. One by one, they relinquished their weapons. Aragorn handed over his sword. Legolas gave up his bow, quiver, and twin white knives. Gimli removed his axe with a reluctant grunt, muttering something about trusting no man with a dwarf’s weapon.

Rían, her grey eyes narrowing, removed her sword from its sheath and handed it over with some reluctance. Hama reached out to take it, but Aragorn coughed deliberately, his eyes fixed on her in a pointed look. She sighed in exasperation before bending down to withdraw a dagger hidden in her boot. “Fine. Take this as well,” she said to the guard. Her tone was sharp, but it carried an edge of jest. “But if I find so much as a scratch on either blade…”

Faramir, standing nearby, offered his sword and bow without protest. His movements were graceful, though a flicker of tension tightened his jaw. “Do not fault her,” he said softly, glancing at Hama with a faint smile. “She is from the north and has long been in peril’s company.”

Hama’s lips quirked in a brief, almost reluctant smile. “I will see to it myself, my lord.”

The captain’s attention turned back to Gandalf. “Your staff,” Hama said, though his voice wavered slightly.

“Hmmm,” Gandalf muttered, leaning heavily on his staff as if it were no more than an old man’s crutch. “You would not part an old man from his walking stick.”

Hama hesitated. For a moment, he looked as though he might insist, but the flicker of uncertainty returned to his face. At last, he gave a nod and turned, leading them into the hall. Gandalf shot a sly wink at Aragorn, whose lips twitched with faint amusement.

The company followed Hama into the shadowed interior of Meduseld. The hall was vast, its high beams darkened with smoke and its walls adorned with tapestries of Rohan’s history. A fire burned low in the central hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. At the far end sat Théoden King upon his throne, though he seemed more shadow than man, hunched and withered as if age had taken him beyond his years. Beside him, Gríma Wormtongue leaned close, his pale face serpent-like as he whispered into the king’s ear.

As the company moved forward, guards clad in heavy mail closed in behind them, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Gríma’s sharp eyes caught sight of them, and his lips curled into a smirk. He leaned closer to Théoden, his voice an oily whisper. “My lord, Gandalf the Grey is coming. He is a herald of woe.”

Gandalf did not wait for pleasantries. His voice rang out, firm and clear, as he addressed the king. “The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King.”

The guards stiffened at his tone, but Théoden did not respond. His gaze was distant, his face slack. Gríma rose from his place at the king’s side, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear,” Gríma sneered, stepping forward. The guards around them inched closer, their presence menacing. “Láthspell, I name him. Ill news is an ill guest.”

Gandalf’s eyes flashed with sudden fire. “Be silent,” he said, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade. “Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm.”

As he spoke, Gandalf lifted his staff, holding it before him like a beacon of light. Gríma flinched, his pale face twisting with shock and anger.

“His staff!” Gríma hissed, his voice rising in a shrill command. “I told you to take the wizard’s staff!”

Hama hesitated, his hand twitching toward his sword, but he did not move. Behind Gandalf, Faramir stepped forward ever so slightly, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakable. Rían placed her hand lightly on the hilt of an imaginary sword at her hip, her eyes flicking toward Aragorn, who remained motionless but alert.

The tension in the hall thickened, the air heavy with the weight of what was to come.

The menacing guards moved forward at Gríma’s signal, their heavy boots echoing on the stone floor of the hall. Their faces were grim, hands gripping sword hilts with readiness, but the company did not falter. Gandalf continued his steady march toward Théoden, his staff held aloft, a beacon of light in the darkened hall.

Legolas was the first to act. With a lithe movement, he intercepted a guard’s swing, catching the sword in his bare hands with Elven precision and twisting it away. Aragorn followed, striking with his fists, his movements swift and precise. Gimli let out a battle cry, barreling into two guards with his stout frame, sending them sprawling to the ground.

Rían’s grey eyes flashed like storm-lit skies as she ducked beneath the swing of a sword. In one fluid motion, she snatched a shield from a fallen guard and used it to deflect another blow. Though unarmed, her ferocity was unmatched; she drove her shoulder into her attacker, sending him reeling.

Faramir moved with the practiced grace of a ranger. He sidestepped a lunging guard, grabbing his wrist and twisting the weapon free before tossing it aside. His expression was calm, but his blue-grey eyes betrayed a fire kindled in the defense of Gandalf and his companions.

“Enough!” Gandalf’s voice rang out, cutting through the din of the scuffle like a crack of thunder. The guards hesitated, unnerved by the wizard’s commanding presence.

Near the throne, Hama moved to draw his sword and join the fray, but Gamling laid a firm hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. “Wait,” Gamling murmured. “Let us see how this unfolds.”

Gríma, meanwhile, had attempted to slink away from the chaos, but Gimli was upon him in an instant. The dwarf planted a sturdy boot on the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground. “I would stay still if I were you,” Gimli growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Gandalf continued his approach, unperturbed by the skirmish behind him. His gaze fixed on Théoden, who slumped in his throne, his once-vibrant eyes clouded and lifeless. “Théoden, son of Thengel,” Gandalf intoned, his voice reverberating through the hall, “too long have you sat in the shadows.”

Théoden’s lips twitched, a mocking laugh spilling forth. “You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey,” he rasped, his voice laced with scorn and the sinister undertones of another.

Gandalf’s eyes blazed with anger. In one swift motion, he cast off his grey cloak, revealing the dazzling white robes beneath. Light erupted from him, filling the hall with a brilliance that caused even the guards to recoil. Théoden gasped, thrown back into his chair by the force of the light.

“I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound,” Gandalf declared, thrusting his staff forward. Théoden cried out, his hands clawing at the arms of his throne as if to anchor himself.

Eowyn burst into the hall, her white dress billowing as she ran toward her uncle. “Théoden!” she cried, her voice breaking with anguish. But Aragorn was there, catching her by the arm.

“Wait,” he said gently, though his voice carried the weight of command.

Théoden’s body stiffened as Saruman’s voice spilled from his lips, cold and venomous. “If I go, Théoden dies.”

Gandalf’s steps did not falter. “You did not kill me,” he said, his voice steady as he drew closer. “You will not kill him.”

“Rohan is mine,” Théoden—no, Saruman—hissed, his defiance radiating through the possessed king.

“Be gone!” Gandalf roared, his staff blazing with power. Théoden lunged from his throne in a final act of resistance, but Gandalf struck him back with the force of his will. In the same moment, miles away in Isengard, Saruman was thrown from his feet, crashing to the floor. Blood streamed from his nose as he clambered back up, his face twisted with fury.

In Meduseld, Théoden slumped forward, released from the spell. Eowyn broke free of Aragorn’s grasp and rushed to her uncle, catching him before he could fall. Her tear-streaked face searched his as his features began to transform. His hair and beard shortened, the pallor of his skin faded, and the lines of age melted away. His eyes, once clouded, now gleamed with clarity.

He looked at Eowyn as if seeing her for the first time. “I know your face,” he said hoarsely, his voice trembling. “Eowyn. Eowyn.”

A smile broke through her tears. “Yes, Uncle,” she whispered, holding him close.

Théoden’s gaze swept across the hall, taking in the company that had come to his aid. His eyes settled on Gandalf, who stood before him with a calm, knowing expression. “Gandalf?” Théoden asked, his voice filled with wonder and disbelief.

“Breathe the free air again, my friend,” Gandalf said warmly.

Théoden rose shakily, his movements tentative as if testing the strength of his renewed body. “Dark have been my dreams of late,” he murmured, lifting his hands and gazing at them as if they belonged to someone else.

Gandalf stepped closer. “Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword.”

Hama, who had been watching in silent awe, stepped forward and offered Théoden his sword. The king took it, the weight of the blade seeming to ground him in the present. He lifted it before his eyes, studying it as if seeing it for the first time in years. A smile touched his lips, but it was fleeting. His gaze darkened as it fell upon Gríma, who still lay pinned beneath Gimli’s boot.

Gríma was dragged to the steps outside the Golden Hall and thrown down. He landed in a crumpled heap, his face pale with fear. Théoden followed, his sword in hand, each step deliberate. “Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast,” Théoden said, his voice hard and unforgiving.

Gríma scrambled backward, his hands scrabbling at the stone. “I’ve only ever served you, my lord,” he stammered, desperation leaking from every word.

“Send me not from your sight,” Gríma begged, his voice quivering as Théoden raised his sword high.

Aragorn stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Théoden’s arm. “No, my lord,” Aragorn said firmly. “Let him go. Enough blood has been spilt on his account.”

For a moment, Théoden hesitated, his grip on the sword tightening. Then, with a deep breath, he lowered it. Aragorn extended a hand to Gríma, but the wretch spat at it before scrambling to his feet and pushing past the gathered crowd.

“Get out of my way!” Gríma snarled, mounting a horse and riding out of Edoras at a reckless gallop.

“Hail, Théoden King!” Hama’s voice rang out, breaking the silence.

The people of Edoras, who had gathered to witness the scene, fell to their knees, bowing before their restored king. Inside the hall, the company followed suit, Aragorn kneeling at Théoden’s side. Rían glanced at Faramir before lowering herself gracefully, her head bowed in respect.

Théoden, standing tall, turned his gaze back toward the Golden Hall. His expression was solemn, shadows darkening his renewed features. “Where is Théodred?” he asked, his voice heavy with grief. “Where is my son?”

***

As the sun rose over Edoras, casting the Golden Hall in hues of amber and bronze, preparations for Théodred’s funeral consumed the city. The mournful sound of horns carried through the crisp evening air, blending with the murmur of grieving voices and the steady tread of feet. Within the hall, the company moved about with solemn purpose, donning dark garments and bearing the weight of sorrow on their shoulders. Yet one figure lingered apart from the rest.

Rían stood on a balcony overlooking the plains of Rohan, her grey eyes fixed on the horizon where the wind stirred the golden grasses. She leaned lightly against the stone railing, her dark hair unbound, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her posture was calm, yet there was a weight to her stillness, a tension in the set of her jaw and the slight downturn of her lips.

Faramir spotted her as he stepped out into the cool air. He had been tying the cords of his borrowed black cloak, but the sight of her standing so still gave him pause. After a moment’s hesitation, he approached, his footsteps soft against the stone.

“Rían,” he said gently, not wanting to startle her. She turned her head slightly, acknowledging his presence without fully meeting his gaze. “Will you not join the mourners?”

Her lips twitched into a faint, almost bitter smile. “I’d rather not,” she replied, her voice low, the cadence measured. “I have seen enough funerals to last a lifetime.”

Faramir studied her, his brows drawing together in quiet concern. He moved closer, resting a hand lightly on the stone rail beside hers. “Do you wish to be alone?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

She hesitated, glancing at him briefly before looking back to the horizon. “No,” she admitted softly. “But I do not wish to burden you.”

“You could never be a burden,” he said, his tone earnest. He leaned slightly toward her, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “And if we are discovered lingering here, I’ll simply say I was ensuring you didn’t lose your way to the ceremony.” A flicker of amusement touched his lips. “Though I must confess, I’d rather no one notices.”

A faint laugh escaped her, quiet and unbidden. “You’d risk the disapproval of Théoden King for my sake?” she asked, a hint of warmth creeping into her voice.

“For you? Without hesitation,” he replied, his eyes catching hers in the fading light. The sincerity of his words unsettled her in a way she could not name, and she turned her gaze back to the distance, her smile fading.

Faramir waited, sensing there was more she wished to say. When the silence stretched, he prompted her gently. “What troubles you, Rían?”

She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool evening air. “No parent should bury their child,” she said, her voice tight. “Théoden should not have to endure this. It is not the way of things.” She paused, her hands curling against the stone railing. “I saw what it did to my mother when my brother…” She faltered, her words catching in her throat.

Faramir’s expression softened, and he moved a fraction closer. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “You have endured much.”

Rían shook her head, a bitter edge creeping into her voice. “I never let myself grieve for them—not properly. I thought if I did, I would lose myself in it. So I pushed it away. But seeing Théoden now… it brings it all back.” She pressed her lips together, her composure wavering.

Without thinking, Faramir reached out and placed a hand on Rían’s shoulder. His touch was light, hesitant, as though afraid he might break something delicate. She stiffened slightly at the contact, her body tense beneath his fingers, but she did not pull away. Emboldened by her acceptance, he stepped closer, his hand sliding gently to her upper arm as he drew her into a brief embrace.

His arms wrapped around her carefully, as though she were something precious and fragile. For a moment, she remained still, caught between instinct and uncertainty, before she let herself lean into him. Her weight rested lightly against his chest, and he felt her exhale a breath she seemed to have been holding for far too long. The warmth of her presence seeped into him, easing aches he had long ignored.

Faramir closed his eyes briefly, the world narrowing to the sensation of her against him. Her hair, dark and unruly, brushed against his jawline and carried a faint, natural fragrance—like woodsmoke and wildflowers, unpretentious and grounding. He inhaled deeply, savoring it, a part of him wishing he could stay like this forever. Her closeness, her trust, stirred something within him, a yearning he dared not name. He tightened his arms around her slightly, fighting the irrational urge to press his lips to the crown of her head.

For Rían, the embrace was unexpected but not unwelcome. She had not thought herself capable of feeling safe, not truly, and yet here she was—held within the steady, protective circle of Faramir’s arms. The firm yet gentle strength of his embrace shielded her from the weight of her grief, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to rest there. Her heart, however, betrayed her composure, skipping a beat at the closeness, the way his warmth seemed to envelop her entirely.

Her cheek rested lightly against the rough fabric of his tunic, and she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath it, a grounding reminder of his presence. She did not want to move, afraid that if she did, she would shatter the fragile peace between them. But her mind wavered, uncertain and conflicted. She had faced enemies without fear, yet the tenderness she felt now unnerved her. It was unfamiliar, and yet it felt… right.

Faramir felt her relax against him, and it was all he could do to keep his own composure. Her trust humbled him, and the way her presence softened his edges both thrilled and terrified him. He knew he could not linger like this, but the thought of letting her go left an ache he could not explain. Against his better judgment, he let his hand shift slightly, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against the back of her head, tangling briefly in her hair. She froze at the intimacy of the gesture but did not pull away.

Rían’s breath caught at the touch, her chest tightening as her heartbeat quickened. Yet she did not step back. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, just enough to rest against his shoulder. In his arms, the storm within her seemed to quiet, even if only for a moment. Her voice, when it finally came, was soft, almost a whisper. “Thank you,” she said, though her words carried meanings she could not bring herself to voice.

Faramir’s throat tightened, and he found he could not trust himself to speak. Instead, he held her just a moment longer, committing the feeling of her in his arms to memory.

“You do not have to carry it alone,” Faramir murmured, his voice close to her ear. “Grief may be borne in silence, but it need not be borne in solitude.”

Rían pulled back just enough to look up at him, her grey eyes shadowed but grateful. “You are kind, Faramir,” she said, her voice trembling. “Kinder than I deserve.”

He met her gaze, his blue-grey eyes steady and filled with quiet intensity. “You deserve far more than kindness, Rían,” he said softly, his words hanging in the air between them.

For a moment, the world seemed to still. The sounds of the mourners, the horns, even the wind faded into the background. Rían’s breath caught, but she looked away before the moment could deepen further. She stepped back, the cool air rushing into the space between them. When she finally pulled back, he let her go reluctantly, his hands falling to his sides as though they had lost their purpose.

“I do not wish to get you in trouble,” she said, attempting to recover herself.

Faramir’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Then I shall hope no one notices us,” he said lightly, his tone meant to soothe.

Her expression softened, and for the first time that evening, a true smile touched her lips. “Thank you,” she said simply, her voice carrying more weight than the words alone.

He inclined his head. “Always,” he said. And though the silence returned, it was no longer heavy with unspoken grief but something gentler, something shared.

Faramir glanced at her once more before stepping back, his mind still lingering on the memory of her warmth, her scent, and the way she had fit so perfectly in his arms. This is folly, he thought, though his heart did not listen.

***

The Golden Hall of Meduseld shimmered in the fading light of the day, its golden roof glinting with a radiance that seemed at odds with the shadows gathering within. Eowyn stood before the company, her bearing noble but her face drawn with anguish. Her voice trembled with suppressed fury as she spoke, her grey eyes sweeping over those assembled—Gandalf, Théoden, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Rían, and Faramir.

“They had no warning,” she said, her voice breaking. “They were unarmed. Now the Wild Men are moving through the Westfold, burning as they go. Rick, cot, and tree.”

Her words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with despair, before the silence was broken by a small voice. Freda, clutching at Eowyn’s skirts, looked up with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“Where is Mama?” the child whispered.

Eowyn bent swiftly, wrapping a blanket around the trembling girl. “Sssh,” she murmured, pressing her lips to Freda’s hair in a rare moment of tenderness.

Across the room, Gandalf sat beside Théoden, the king’s head bowed in his hand. His voice, grave and measured, cut through the charged air like the ring of a hammer on steel. “This is but a taste of the terror that Saruman will unleash.”

Théoden raised his face slowly, his weariness etched deep in every line. Gandalf continued, “All the more potent, for he is driven now by fear of Sauron. Ride out and meet him head-on. Draw him away from your women and children.” His hand rested firmly on the arm of Théoden’s chair. “You must fight.”

Aragorn stepped forward, his rugged face resolute, yet not unkind. “You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak,” he said, his voice steady. “Éomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their king.”

Théoden rose slowly to his feet, his bearing stiff with pride. “They will be three hundred leagues from here by now,” he said, shaking his head. “Éomer cannot help us. I know what it is you want of me… but I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war.”

Aragorn’s grey eyes hardened, his voice low but fierce. “Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Then Théoden turned, his gaze like steel. “When last I looked, Théoden, not Aragorn, was King of Rohan.”

A soft, clear voice broke the tension. It was Rían, stepping forward from where she had been standing near Faramir. Her dark hair fell in a cascade over her shoulders, her grey eyes glinting like polished silver in the firelight.

“With respect, my lord,” she said, her voice calm yet cutting, “it would be wise to heed Aragorn’s counsel. He rode to war when you played with a wooden sword as a child. His wisdom is born of battle and blood, not pride.”

Before Théoden could reply, Gandalf intervened, his tone sharp with urgency. “Then what is the king’s decision?”

The hall grew heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of the wind howling outside.

***

Hama stood among the people of Rohan, his voice commanding but not unkind. “By order of the king, the city must empty,” he declared. “We make for the refuge of Helm’s Deep.”

The people moved hurriedly, gathering what few belongings they could carry. Some clutched at bundles of clothing, others led children by the hand. The air was thick with murmurs of fear and grief.

Gandalf wove through the crowd, his white robes a beacon amidst the turmoil. Behind him walked Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Rían, and Faramir. The ranger’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of her sword, her gaze scanning the scene with quiet intensity. Beside her, Faramir walked in measured silence, his face pale and grave..

“Do not burden yourself with treasures,” Hama called, his voice rising above the clamor. “Take only what provisions you need.”

“Helm’s Deep,” Gandalf murmured to himself as he strode past, his face clouded with thought.

Behind him, Gimli grumbled under his breath. “They flee to the mountains when they should stand and fight. Who will defend them if not their king?”

Aragorn glanced at the Dwarf, his expression somber. “He’s only doing what he thinks is best for his people,” he said. “Helm’s Deep has saved them in the past.”

Rían’s voice cut through, low but filled with quiet vehemence. “He acts out of pride as much as out of care,” she said, her dark brows drawn together. “He’s leading them into a trap. Helm’s Deep is no fortress; it is a grave if the enemy is allowed to encircle it.”

Faramir, who had remained silent thus far, spoke at last. “There is nothing left for us to do but fight,” he said softly, his grey eyes shadowed. “If it comes to that, we will stand with them, whether the odds are in our favor or not.”

The company walked on, their footsteps heavy with the weight of what was to come. In the distance, the golden light faded, swallowed by the encroaching night.

Chapter Text

The people of Rohan had stopped to rest along the long, weary road to Helm’s Deep. Tents were hastily pitched, and fires flickered in the growing twilight, casting shadows on the tired faces of the refugees. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, mingling with the faint aroma of stew cooking in a pot over one of the fires.

Near one such fire, Eowyn approached, a bowl and cooking pot in her hands. Her steps were purposeful, but there was a nervous energy about her as she stopped before Gimli, who was busy sharpening the edge of his axe.

“Gimli?” she asked hesitantly, holding out the pot as though offering a gift.

The Dwarf looked up, startled, and then quickly shook his head. “No, lass, I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.” He waved her off with a gruff laugh, though his eyes twinkled kindly.

Eowyn turned to Aragorn, who was seated on a low stone, carefully cleaning his blade. “I made some stew,” she said softly. “It isn’t much, but it’s hot.”

Aragorn looked up, surprised by her approach, but accepted the offered bowl with a small nod. “Thank you.”

She lingered a moment, watching him take the first bite. His expression froze, and he fought valiantly to conceal the grimace that followed.

“It’s good,” he said quickly, his voice betraying nothing.

Eowyn’s brow furrowed, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. “Really?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

He nodded again, though the slightest sheen of sweat had begun to form on his brow. Satisfied, Eowyn turned to walk away, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Aragorn, seeing his chance, discreetly tilted the bowl to pour its contents onto the ground—but Eowyn turned back suddenly, and he quickly stopped mid-motion, his expression as calm as if nothing had happened.

Rían sat atop a small boulder some distance from the main camp, the glow of the fires casting a golden hue on her dark hair as it rippled gently in the evening breeze. Her grey eyes were fixed on the quiet scene unfolding across the way, where Éowyn lingered near Aragorn, her posture betraying both hesitation and hope. The Lady of Rohan’s pale dress caught the firelight, making her seem almost ethereal against the rugged backdrop of the company.

Rían’s expression was hard to read—calm, yet with the faintest trace of pity as she watched the exchange. She shook her head slightly, though whether in amusement or regret, even she couldn’t say.

“You look like you’re puzzling over something,” came a soft voice behind her.

She turned to see Faramir approaching, his hair slightly mussed from the wind and his face touched with the weariness of their travels. He carried two steaming bowls in his hands, and his smile, though faint, carried the warmth of familiarity.

“And if I am?” Rían replied, arching a brow as he stepped closer.

“Then I would guess it’s not stew you’re thinking about,” he said, handing her one of the bowls before sitting beside her on the rock.

She accepted it, eyeing the contents warily. “This isn’t Lady Éowyn’s doing, is it?” she asked, her tone light but edged with suspicion after she saw how even Aragorn, accustomed to eating nothing but roots and weeds in the wilderness, reacted to her cooking.

Faramir chuckled, the sound low and warm. “No, I promise you, it isn’t.”

At this, Rían allowed a small smile to tug at her lips, and she nodded. “Then I am grateful for your thoughtfulness.” She raised the bowl in mock salute before taking a tentative taste. It was simple fare but satisfying, and she nodded her approval.

For a moment, they ate in silence, the sounds of the camp—clinking pots, low voices, and the occasional crackle of fire—filling the space between them. But Rían’s attention drifted once more to Aragorn and Éowyn, her gaze lingering on the hopeful way the Lady of Rohan leaned toward him, her every movement steeped in quiet longing.

“Lady Éowyn has her eyes on Aragorn,” Rían said at last, her voice soft but steady.

Faramir followed her gaze, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in the scene. “So it seems,” he murmured, his tone contemplative.

Rían rested her bowl on her lap, her fingers tracing the rim absently. “I feel for her,” she continued. “She is young, and her  heart is in the right place, but I fear it will not end as she hopes.”

Faramir turned to her, his eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. “And what makes you so certain?” he asked, his voice quiet yet probing as he leaned slightly toward her.

Rían met his gaze, one dark brow arching as though the question itself were self-evident. “Because Aragorn’s heart has belonged to Lady Arwen for decades,” she said simply. “Even if she sails to the West, his love for her will not fade so easily. Such devotion is not so quickly extinguished.”

Faramir tilted his head, considering her words. “That may be true,” he admitted. “But… Arwen is leaving Middle-earth. If she departs, does that not leave Aragorn untethered to her? Could time not heal his grief?”

Rían shook her head, her expression softening into something wistful. “Love like that does not fade with the turning of the years. Aragorn and Arwen’s bond was forged long before Éowyn was even born. And even if it did—” she paused, her lips curving faintly, “the difference in years alone would see him treat her as a younger sibling at most, not a lover.”

Faramir’s lips quirked upward at her reasoning, though there was a touch of something unreadable in his expression. “You speak as if you know the hearts of men so well,” he teased, though his tone was gentle.

Rían’s grey eyes gleamed with faint humor. “I know Aragorn well enough,” she replied, her tone wry. “And perhaps a little of the hearts of men, though they are oft a mystery even to themselves.”

Faramir laughed softly at that, and for a moment, the weight of their journey seemed to lift. He looked down at his bowl, stirring its contents absently, before speaking again. “You have a way of seeing things clearly,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s… admirable.”

Rían glanced at him, her expression softening at the sincerity in his voice. For a fleeting moment, she saw not the soldier nor the captain, but the man beneath—the kindness in his eyes, the quiet strength in the lines of his face.

“And you,” she said, her voice low, “have a way of turning a conversation around so subtly that one hardly notices.”

Faramir chuckled, though a faint flush rose to his cheeks. “Perhaps it is a gift,” he said lightly, though his gaze lingered on her longer than it should have. He quickly looked away, his heart quickening slightly.

Rían tilted her head, studying him with a look that was half amusement, half something she couldn’t quite name. “Perhaps,” she said at last, her voice quieter now.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he cleared his throat and shifted the conversation. “But enough of love stories. There are already too many of them on this journey.”

Rían glanced at him sidelong, a flicker of humor in her grey eyes. “You’re the one who brought it up,” she teased gently, though her voice softened as she added, “Still, you’re right. Let’s talk of something else.”

Faramir tried to focus on her words, but his heart gave a small, foolish lurch at the way her lips quirked into a faint smile. He busied himself with his bowl, hoping she would not notice the faint warmth creeping up his neck.

Faramir’s thoughts wandered—of the way the firelight danced in her hair, the way her voice carried both strength and a softness he could not resist. And Rían, though she would not admit it, felt a peculiar sense of comfort in his presence, as though the world’s burdens were just a little lighter with him near.

***

The rolling hills near Helm’s Deep were bathed in the light of the waning day, shadows lengthening across the land. The atmosphere was tense as Rían and Faramir rode alongside the gathered host of Rohan, their horses steady but their riders watchful. Far ahead, Legolas stood atop a hillock, his keen elven eyes scanning the horizon with unease.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves pounding against the earth broke the stillness. Hama and Gamling galloped past, their armor gleaming faintly in the dim light. Legolas shifted his gaze, his sharp features tightening as he caught sight of something amiss.

The two horsemen slowed, sensing the same.

“What is it, Hama?” Gamling asked, his voice low but steady.

Hama frowned, his hand tightening on his reins. “I’m not sure,” he replied, his eyes darting to the cliffs above them.

Then it appeared—a shadow against the stone. A Warg, its hulking body snarling and frothing, leapt down the cliffside with terrifying speed. Its rider, a vicious Orc with jagged armor, shouted a guttural cry.

The Warg barreled into Hama, throwing him violently from his horse. Hama barely had time to draw his sword before the beast was upon him, its jaws sinking into his throat. The captain of Rohan fell without a sound, his blood staining the earth.

“Wargs!” Gamling bellowed, his voice ringing out across the hillside.

Gamling engaged the Warg’s rider, their swords clashing in a spray of sparks. From above, Legolas moved with elven swiftness, his bowstring snapping as an arrow struck the Warg squarely in the eye. The beast crumpled, and the rider leapt to attack, only to be met with Legolas’s twin knives, gleaming like silver lightning.

 “A scout!” Legolas called, his voice sharp with urgency.

The cry had barely left his lips before the horizon darkened. From the far hills, dozens of Wargs and their riders surged forward, their guttural war cries echoing like thunder.

Rían and Faramir, already on edge, turned their horses as one. Without a word, they galloped toward the fray, their cloaks billowing behind them. The wind carried the mingled cries of men and Orcs, the clash of steel and the deep, guttural snarls of the Wargs.

Meanwhile, Gimli struggled to mount his horse, the stout Dwarf grumbling under his breath. “Come on, get me up here!” he barked, swatting at the animal’s flank. “I’m a rider! Come on!”

Legolas, now atop the hill, loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding its mark. Theoden called to his men, his voice commanding and resolute. “Follow me!” he shouted, spurring his horse forward.

As the Wargs bore down upon them, the clash became inevitable. Theoden’s riders met the enemy in a wave of steel and fury, swords rising and falling like the tide. Legolas swung himself atop Arod with effortless grace, his arrows cutting through the chaos.

Rían and Faramir were not far behind. As they entered the melee, Rían’s sword flashed in the dimming light, slicing through an Orc who lunged at her. Her movements were precise and unyielding, her northern training evident in the calculated strikes that felled foe after foe.

Faramir fought nearby, his swordsmanship fluid and deliberate. He ducked a swinging axe and retaliated with a swift upward strike, sending his opponent crashing to the ground. “Rían!” he called out, warning her of a Warg charging from her blind side.

She turned in time, her blade driving deep into the beast’s throat. Blood sprayed, dark against her weathered cloak, but she paid it no heed. “Thank you!” she called back, her voice tight with exertion.

Not far away, Gimli faced his own battle. He swung his axe with relentless determination, cutting down a Warg that lunged at him. “Bring your pretty face to my axe!” he shouted, planting the weapon deep into the creature’s skull.

Yet as the Warg fell, its weight toppled onto him. “Stinking creature,” Gimli muttered, struggling under its bulk. Before he could free himself, another Orc leapt over the pile. Gimli acted quickly, snapping the creature’s neck with his bare hands. The Orc collapsed atop the Warg, adding to the pile pinning him down.

“By Durin’s beard,” Gimli groaned, trying to push the bodies off.

Another Warg crawled over the heap, its jaws snapping hungrily. From the chaos, Rían spotted the danger. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she seized a discarded spear from the ground. “Hold still, Gimli!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the din.

She hurled the spear with precision honed by years of practice. The weapon struck true, piercing the Warg’s chest. The beast collapsed, lifeless, atop the pile already burying Gimli.

“This too?” Gimli grumbled from beneath the heap, his voice muffled.

The battle raged on, though the tide was turning in favor of Rohan. The field was a chaos of noise and movement—screams of men and orcs, the snarling of Wargs, and the clash of weapons echoing off the rocky hills. Among the fray, Theoden and Aragorn fought valiantly, cutting through their foes with grim determination.

Suddenly, a Warg, larger and fiercer than most, lunged at Aragorn. The beast knocked him clean from his horse, sending him sprawling to the blood-soaked ground. Aragorn rolled to his feet with the reflexes of a seasoned warrior, his sword flashing as the Warg’s rider charged past on the beast. With a quick leap, Aragorn grabbed hold of the Warg’s saddle straps, hauling himself up behind the snarling Orc.

The two clashed atop the galloping beast, their weapons ringing with every strike. Aragorn’s balance faltered as the Warg surged forward, yet he held firm, his blade driving deep into the Orc’s side. The creature let out a strangled cry and tumbled from the saddle, leaving Aragorn clinging precariously to the beast’s back.

But as the Orc fell, Aragorn’s hand became tangled in the leather straps of the saddle. The Warg, wild with fury and pain, charged blindly forward, its sharp claws tearing through the earth. Aragorn struggled to free himself, but the straps held fast, and the beast showed no sign of slowing.

Ahead, the ground dropped away. A jagged cliff loomed, its edge perilously close. Aragorn pulled against the straps with all his strength, but it was too late. The Warg plunged over the precipice, its massive body twisting in the air. Aragorn’s cry was swallowed by the roar of the river below as he disappeared into the abyss.

The battlefield stilled for a moment, a sharp silence cutting through the chaos as if the land itself had gasped in shock.

Theoden, standing amidst the fallen, surveyed the carnage. The field was strewn with the bodies of men, Orcs, and Wargs, their blood mingling in dark pools upon the ground. Gimli swung his axe one final time, felling a Warg with a deep grunt of effort.

Legolas moved swiftly through the battlefield, his sharp eyes scanning the bodies for a familiar figure. “Aragorn!” he called, his voice tinged with urgency.

Gimli approached, his face creased with concern. “Aragorn?” he echoed, his axe resting heavily in his hands.

Nearby, Rían dismounted from her horse, her grey eyes wide with disbelief. She turned to Faramir, her voice trembling. “Where is he? Aragorn?”

Faramir shook his head, his expression grim. “I do not see him.”

Legolas paused at the cliff’s edge, his elven gaze falling upon something glinting in the dirt. He crouched, his long fingers brushing against it—a broken strap, stained with blood. Behind him, a guttural laugh rang out.

The Elf turned sharply, his bow raised, to see an Orc slumped against the rocks, its body broken but its grin cruel. “He’s… dead,” the Orc rasped, its breath rattling. “Took a little tumble… off the cliff.”

Gimli stepped forward, his face dark with anger. He raised his axe menacingly. “Tell me what happened, and I will ease your passing.”

The Orc’s grin widened, its sharp teeth gleaming even as it gasped its final breaths. “You’ll find… naught but a corpse…” it muttered before slumping lifeless to the ground.

Legolas’s eyes blazed with fury. “You lie!” he snarled, seizing the Orc by its collar, but the creature was already dead.

As he released the body, something caught his eye. In the Orc’s gnarled hand, a silver chain gleamed faintly in the fading light. Legolas’s breath caught as he drew it free, his heart sinking. The Evenstar. Its delicate form lay cold and still in his palm, glimmering faintly with a light now subdued.

Rían approached, her face pale as she saw the pendant. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “It cannot be. Aragorn cannot be—” Her voice broke, and she turned away, her hand pressed to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Legolas rose, his movements slow and deliberate, as though the weight of the Evenstar had become unbearable. He walked to the cliff’s edge, his sharp eyes scanning the rushing waters far below. There was no sign of life, only the relentless current and jagged rocks.

Theoden joined him, his expression grim. “Get the wounded on horses,” he ordered Gamling, his voice heavy with weariness. “The wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead.”

Legolas turned to him, disbelief etched on his fair features. “Leave him?” he asked, his voice low and strained.

Theoden placed a hand on the Elf’s shoulder, his gaze steady but sorrowful. “Come,” he said simply, before walking away to tend to his men.

Legolas remained, staring down at the Evenstar in his hand. Gimli joined him, his face a mix of anger and sorrow. Rían stood nearby, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as though to hold herself together. Her thoughts raced, memories of Aragorn’s steadfast leadership and quiet strength flooding her mind.

Faramir stepped closer, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “Rían,” he said softly, his voice grounding her amid the storm of her emotions.

She looked at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “He cannot be gone,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “Not like this.”

Faramir said nothing, only squeezed her shoulder gently, his own face a mask of restrained grief.

The company began to disperse, heavy-hearted and silent, leaving the field of death and despair behind them. Theoden’s command rang in their ears—there was no time to linger, no time to mourn. But as the others turned away from the cliff’s edge, Rían remained. Her shoulders were stiff at first, her back straight as though defying the weight of the world. Yet, as the last of the footsteps faded into the distance, her composure broke like a dam, and grief surged through her.

She sank to her knees on the blood-stained grass, her hands trembling as they covered her face. The sobs came then, deep and wrenching, torn from a place so raw it was as though her very soul wept. The sound echoed across the cliffs, mingling with the relentless roar of the river below. She was no longer a ranger, no longer the steadfast warrior who had fought through countless battles. She was simply a woman broken by countless losses.

Her tears fell for more than Aragorn. They fell for the dwindling hope of her kin, for the weight of a crownless kingdom she had sworn to protect. She thought of the rangers who had followed Aragorn’s call, of their long years of toil and sacrifice, and now this—their hope dashed, their leader gone. Most of all, she cried for her friend—the man who had been a steadfast presence in her life, who had understood the burdens she bore, and whose quiet strength had been a light in the darkness.

Faramir, who had lingered nearby, turned sharply at the sound of her cries. It was a sound unlike any he had heard from her before—raw, unrestrained, and filled with anguish. His heart clenched painfully at the sight of her crumpled form, her shoulders shaking as grief overwhelmed her. She had fallen to her knees, her hands pressed against her face as though to shield herself from the weight of her sorrow. Without hesitation, Faramir approached, his steps soft yet purposeful, as though drawn by an unseen force.

Kneeling beside her, he hesitated for only a moment before gathering her into his arms. She did not resist; instead, she turned into him, her face pressing against his shoulder as her sobs wracked her body. He held her tightly, as though his embrace alone could shield her from the tide of despair threatening to sweep her away. One hand rested firmly on her back, his fingers splayed as he sought to anchor her, while the other moved to her hair, gently stroking it in long, soothing motions. Her dark locks were tangled from the battle and the wind, but he cared not, his touch soft and steady, a silent promise that he would not let her face this alone.

“Rían,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with sorrow that mirrored her own. “I am here.”

Her hands, trembling and desperate, clutched at the fabric of his tunic as though he were her last tether to the world. He could feel her ragged breaths against his neck, each one a reminder of the weight she bore. Her grief was not only for Aragorn, though that loss was a wound in them both, but for all that his fall represented—the crumbling hope of her people, the shadow that loomed ever closer over them all. Faramir’s heart broke anew as he held her, witnessing the unyielding warrior of the north reduced to this moment of raw humanity.

His hand moved in slow circles on her back, the repetitive motion meant to ground her, to offer some semblance of comfort. The warmth of his touch, steady and sure, seemed to ease her shuddering breaths little by little. “It is all right,” he whispered, though he knew his words could not truly mend the wound she carried.

Her sobs, which had been fierce and unrelenting, began to soften, though they did not cease entirely. Faramir shifted slightly, pulling her closer, his hand continuing its gentle path over her hair. He noticed how her dark tresses caught the faint light of the overcast sky, a detail that seemed almost incongruous amidst the gloom of their surroundings. He bent his head slightly, his breath warm against her temple, and spoke again, his voice no more than a murmur. “You don’t have to be alone.  Let me carry this with you.”

Minutes passed, though to him they felt like an eternity. Her tears soaked the fabric of his cloak, but he paid it no mind. Her breath, though still uneven, began to calm, and the shaking of her shoulders lessened. Faramir continued to stroke her hair, his movements never faltering. It was a comfort he could give, though he longed to do more, to take away her pain entirely. But he knew that grief must have its time, and all he could do was stay by her side.

At last, she took a shuddering breath and began to pull away. Her movements were stiff, as though the act of rising from her sorrow was a weight in itself. Faramir loosened his hold but did not let go entirely, his hands sliding to rest gently on her shoulders. He watched as she wiped at her tear-streaked face with trembling fingers, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, distant and full of unspoken sorrow.

“I am sorry,” she said hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I should not have…”

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Faramir interrupted gently, his voice firm yet kind. His hands gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before he finally let them fall to his sides. “Grief is no weakness, Rían. It is the price of love, and of hope.”

She gave a faint, almost bitter laugh, though it was more a breath than a sound. Her grey eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, met his, and he saw in them the fierce resolve that had drawn him to her from the beginning. “There is no time for grief,” she said, her voice steadier now. “No time for tears. We must carry on.”

Faramir inclined his head, his expression one of quiet admiration. “Then carry on we shall,” he said. But as they rose together and turned to rejoin the others, his gaze lingered on her, and he vowed silently to himself that he would not let her bear this burden alone.

She gave him a faint, almost bitter smile. “It feels as though all is lost. Aragorn… he was our hope. Without him…”

Her voice faltered, and Faramir’s hand moved to clasp hers. “Hope does not die with him,” he said quietly. “It lives on in those who remain. In you, Rían.”

She nodded, though her expression remained distant, her gaze fixed on the horizon. After a moment, she rose to her feet, brushing the dirt and grass from her knees. Faramir stood with her, his hand still on her arm as if to steady her. She looked at him then, her grey eyes resolute despite the redness of her tears.

“Let us go,” she said firmly. “There is still much to do, and the enemy will not wait for us to grieve.”

Faramir inclined his head, his expression filled with quiet admiration. He did not speak, for he knew she would not welcome further comfort, but he stayed close by her side as they turned to follow the others. As they walked away from the cliff’s edge, he cast one final glance at the roaring river below, a silent prayer in his heart for the man they had lost—and for the woman beside him, who bore more weight than she should ever have been asked to carry.

Chapter Text

Theoden, Legolas, Gimli, Rían, Faramir, and the weary soldiers of Rohan rode into Helm’s Deep under a heavy sky, their horses plodding slowly as if sharing in the burden of their riders’ grief. The gates creaked open to admit them, revealing the anxious faces of those who had awaited their return. Women and children lined the walls, their eyes wide with hope that quickly turned to despair as they counted the few who had returned. The sound of hooves striking the stone courtyard echoed hollowly, a sharp contrast to the distant cries of wounded men.

Eowyn was among those waiting, her white gown fluttering in the wind like a banner of sorrow. As Theoden dismounted, her keen eyes searched the group, her breath catching in her chest. She stepped forward, her voice trembling slightly as she addressed him.

“So few,” she said, her words barely louder than a whisper. “So few of you have returned.”

Theoden met her gaze, his expression grave, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his grief. “Our people are safe,” he replied quietly. “We have paid for it with many lives.”

The truth in his words struck like a blow, and Eowyn faltered, her hand moving instinctively to clutch at her chest. Gimli approached her then, his gait slow and heavy with weariness.

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head in respect.

But her attention was not on him. Her eyes darted past the dwarf, scanning the faces of those who dismounted. “Lord Aragorn…” she began, her voice tight with apprehension. “Where is he?”

Rían, who had been standing to the side, froze at the question. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line as she averted her gaze. The pain in her grey eyes was answer enough, but still, she shook her head, the motion small and restrained, as though even that simple gesture cost her too much. Without a word, she turned sharply and walked away, her boots striking the stone with hurried steps that echoed in the stillness.

Faramir hesitated, torn between remaining with the group and following her. His eyes lingered on her retreating form, his expression conflicted. At last, he muttered an apology to those gathered and went after her, his long strides quickly closing the distance between them.

Eowyn stood motionless, watching them both, confusion mingling with the rising dread in her heart. Her gaze shifted to Gimli, who stood with his helmet tucked under one arm, his face shadowed by sorrow.

“He fell,” Gimli said, his voice heavy with grief. Each word seemed to carry the weight of the loss anew.

Eowyn stared at him in stunned silence, her lips parting slightly as though to speak, but no words came. Her eyes filled with unshed tears as she turned toward Theoden, who was already ascending the steps to the keep. She called out to him without words, her gaze pleading for reassurance, for some sign that this was not true. But Theoden, his face lined with sorrow, could not meet her eyes. He paused briefly on the steps, his shoulders rising and falling in a heavy sigh before he continued upward, leaving her standing there, bereft.

Eowyn’s chest rose and fell rapidly as the tears finally spilled over. She pressed her trembling hand to her lips, as though trying to stifle a cry that would not be contained. Her world, already shadowed by war, seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Aragorn—strong, steadfast, and unyielding—was gone. The realization struck her like a blow, and for a moment, she swayed, as though her body could no longer bear the weight of the grief that descended upon her.

Around her, the soldiers of Rohan dismounted, their faces grim as they began tending to their wounded and their weary horses. The courtyard, once filled with hope at the sight of their return, was now cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the distant weeping of women and the low murmurs of men recounting the horrors of the battle.

Eowyn stood still amidst it all, her eyes unfocused as she tried to comprehend the loss. The cold wind swept through the keep, carrying with it the distant cries of the wounded and the dying, as Helm’s Deep, though standing, bore the scars of yet another sorrowful chapter in its long history.

***

The night at Helm’s Deep was heavy with silence, broken only by the distant sounds of wounded men murmuring in their restless sleep and the faint cry of the wind as it swept through the high, stone walls. Rían stood alone on a narrow parapet, her dark hair loose and disheveled, stirred by the night breeze. She leaned on the battlements, her grey eyes staring into the distance where the mountains loomed dark and vast, their peaks shrouded in mist.

The sound of soft footfalls behind her drew her from her thoughts. She did not turn, for the step was too light to belong to any but one. Legolas came to stand beside her, his elven grace silent but for the faint rustle of his cloak. He too gazed into the shadowed distance, his keen eyes searching for what he knew he would not find.

“You are far from the others,” Legolas said softly, his voice like the wind whispering through the trees. It was neither a question nor a reproach, merely an observation.

Rían did not look at him. “I sought solitude,” she replied, her voice low and rough, as if unused. “But it seems even solitude cannot keep company with this grief.”

Legolas nodded, his golden hair catching the faint starlight. For a time, he did not speak, allowing the silence between them to stretch. The Elf understood grief, though it touched his kind differently. But Aragorn had been no ordinary mortal—he had been friend, kin of spirit, and one who carried the hopes of many upon his shoulders.

“He would not want us to grieve,” Legolas said at last, his gaze softening as he turned to her. “Not like this.”

Rían let out a breath, her hand tightening at her side. “And yet, how can we not? He was hope for so many—for Gondor, for Rohan… for the North. For me.” Her voice faltered on the last words, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, blinking rapidly against the tears that threatened to fall. “It feels as though the world has dimmed without him.”

Legolas placed a hand lightly on the stone of the parapet, his long fingers pale in the moonlight. “He was light to all who knew him,” he said, his voice tinged with sorrow. “And his light still burns in those he touched, though we may not see it now. I knew him long, Rían. Longer than most. He carried his burdens with a strength I have seldom seen in Men, yet he never allowed it to harden his heart.”

Rían turned to him, her eyes glistening. “You knew him longer than I,” she said quietly. “Was he always so steadfast? So sure of his path?”

Legolas smiled faintly, a bittersweet curve of his lips. “He was not always the man you knew. In his youth, he wrestled with doubt, with fear of his lineage and the weight of his destiny. But he grew into himself, and in time, he embraced his purpose, not because it was expected of him, but because it was right. That was Aragorn—he walked the hard road willingly, even when it led to darkness.”

Rían swallowed hard, the Elf’s words both a balm and a fresh wound. “He carried so much,” she whispered, her fingers loosening their hold on the cloth. “And yet he never faltered. He believed in us all, even when we could not believe in ourselves.”

Legolas looked at her then, his piercing gaze kind but unyielding. “He believed in you, Rían,” he said. “He saw in you the strength of your forebears, the fire that has kept the Rangers alive through the long years of shadow. That belief was no small thing, and it was not misplaced.”

She lowered her head, the weight of his words pressing against her grief. “I do not know if I can bear this loss,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “He was not only a leader, Legolas. He was my friend. He made the impossible feel possible.”

Legolas reached out and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, the touch both grounding and comforting. “And now it falls to us,” he said gently, “to carry that hope forward. Not for ourselves, but for him—and for all who cannot.”

Rían closed her eyes, letting the silence settle over them once more. She thought of Aragorn’s laughter, the way he had drawn them all together with his quiet strength, and the unyielding resolve in his grey eyes.

“Thank you, Legolas,” she said at last, her voice steadier now. She opened her eyes and looked at him, a faint glimmer of determination breaking through her sorrow. “I will try to honor his memory.”

The Elf inclined his head, a small, solemn smile on his lips. “You will, Rían. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Together, they stood in silence, gazing into the distant night. Though the weight of loss lingered heavily upon them, there was a faint sense of kinship in their shared grief—a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, they were not alone.

***

The gates of Helm’s Deep groaned open, and through the crowd of haggard, weary soldiers and refugees, a rider emerged. His dark hair clung to his face, damp with sweat and river water, and his clothes were torn and mud-streaked. Yet he sat tall on the back of his steed, a faint light in his grey eyes as they swept over the gathered throng.

“Mae carnen, Brego, mellon nîn,” (Well done, Brego, my friend) Aragorn murmured, patting the horse’s neck. Brego nickered softly in reply, his own weariness evident, yet he carried himself with pride, having borne his rider from the clutches of death.

A woman in the crowd gasped. “He’s alive!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking with relief.

The murmur rippled through the people, and soon all eyes were on Aragorn. Relief and disbelief mingled in their faces, as if a ghost had returned from the shadows to stand before them.

Through the gathering, Gimli appeared, elbowing his way past the stunned onlookers. “Where is he? Where is he?” he bellowed, his voice gruff but carrying a note of deep emotion. He shoved past a soldier and stopped short before Aragorn, his small frame vibrating with barely restrained energy.

“You are the luckiest, the canniest…” Gimli shook his fists at Aragorn, though his eyes shone with something akin to tears. “…and the most reckless man I ever knew. Bless you, laddie.” Unable to contain himself, he threw his stout arms around Aragorn, pulling him into a fierce embrace.

Aragorn smiled faintly, patting Gimli’s back with his good hand. “Gimli, where is the king?” he asked, his voice hoarse from exhaustion.

The Dwarf nodded toward the hall. “Inside,” he grunted, stepping aside to let him pass.

Before Aragorn could take another step, he heard the sound of hurried footsteps, and then a blur of movement as Rían broke through the throng and flung herself at him.

“Aragorn!” she cried, her voice thick with emotion. Her arms wrapped around him carefully, mindful of the wounded hand that hung at his side. He returned the embrace with his good arm, his expression softening as he held her close.

“You’re alive,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to cup his face in her hands. Her grey eyes were bright with unshed tears, her smile trembling as it fought to steady itself. “I thought we had lost you. I thought…” She faltered, her voice breaking, and she took a deep breath.

Aragorn’s hand came up to rest lightly against her arm. “I am here, my friend,” he said quietly, his tone steady.

Rían’s expression shifted, a teasing light entering her eyes even as she leaned closer to him. “If you ever do that again,” she murmured, her voice low so that only he could hear, “I swear, falling off a cliff will be the highlight of your day.”

A soft laugh escaped Aragorn, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. “I shall endeavor not to test your wrath,” he replied, his voice touched with warmth.

She stepped back reluctantly, her hands trailing down from his face as she released him. Just beyond her, Faramir stood watching. His grey eyes flicked between Aragorn and Rían, his expression caught between relief and a flicker of something deeper—envy, perhaps. The way Rían’s guard fell so easily with Aragorn, the unspoken bond of trust and friendship between them, stirred a longing in him. He yearned for Rían to look at him with the same unreserved affection, to know him as she knew Aragorn.

Faramir stepped forward, placing a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “It is good to see you well, my friend,” he said sincerely, though his voice carried a slight edge of restraint.

Aragorn clasped Faramir’s arm in return, a knowing look passing between them. “And you, Faramir,” he said.

As Aragorn turned toward the hall, fastening his belt, a familiar figure suddenly appeared in his path. Legolas stood before him, tall and graceful, his sharp eyes alight with both relief and amusement.

“Le abdollen,” (You’re late.) the Elf said, raising a single eyebrow as he studied Aragorn’s disheveled state.

Aragorn raised his own brows in reply, his lips quirking in a faint smile.

Legolas tilted his head, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You look terrible,” he added dryly.

Aragorn chuckled, the sound faint but genuine, as the Elf reached into his hand and produced something gleaming—a silver pendant, the Evenstar, resting in his palm.

Legolas handed it to Aragorn with reverence.

“Hannon le,” (Thank you) Aragorn said, his voice soft as he took the pendant and held it aloft. For a moment, he gazed at it in silence, his thumb brushing over the smooth surface.

Nearby, Eowyn stood amidst the crowd, her eyes fixed on Aragorn. She had stopped mid-step when she saw him, her initial rush of relief replaced by a hesitance she could not explain. Now she watched silently as he accepted the Evenstar, her expression caught between joy and sorrow, her eyes glistening with unspoken emotion.

***

Theoden stood at the head of the hall, his hands clasped behind his back as he conferred with Gamling in low tones. The weight of the day sat heavy on his brow, lines of strain etched deeper with every passing hour. The firelight flickered across the stone walls, casting long shadows as though the Hall itself shared in his growing unease.

The doors groaned open, the sound echoing through the chamber. Theoden turned sharply, as did Gamling, to see Aragorn standing in the doorway. His face, shadowed and grim, bore the wear of his harrowing journey, but his grey eyes were alight with urgency.

Theoden listened as Aragorn relayed the might of Saruman's army he saw. 

“A great host, you say?” Theoden asked, his voice measured, though his expression betrayed his rising alarm.

Aragorn stepped forward, his boots ringing against the flagstones. “All of Isengard is emptied,” he said, his tone grim.

Theoden’s jaw tightened. “How many?”

“Ten thousand strong, at least,” Aragorn replied, his voice like the toll of a bell.

Theoden froze, his disbelief plain. “Ten thousand?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It is an army bred for a single purpose,” Aragorn said, stepping closer, his voice low and steady, each word weighted. “To destroy the world of Men. They will be here by nightfall.”

Theoden turned away abruptly, his steps heavy as he crossed the hall. His face was pale but resolute as he paused, staring into the middle distance. “Let them come!” he declared, his voice hard with defiance.

He strode past Aragorn, beckoning Gamling, who hurried after him. Aragorn followed, joined by Legolas, Gimli, Rían, and Faramir, their faces shadowed by the same grim resolve. Together, they stepped out into the fading daylight of the keep, where the chill wind carried the faint scent of rain.

Theoden halted at the gate, turning to Gamling. “I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall,” he commanded. Gamling nodded and immediately set off, his voice carrying over the growing bustle of the fortress as he relayed the orders.

Theoden turned back to the others as they ascended the ramp overlooking the Deeping Wall. “We will cover the causeway and the gate from above,” he said firmly. “No army has ever breached the Deeping Wall or set foot inside the Hornburg!”

Gimli, who had been studying the defenses with a critical eye, frowned. “This is no rabble of mindless Orcs,” he said, his voice low but insistent. “These are Uruk-hai. Their armor is thick, and their shields broad.”

Rían, standing beside him, nodded solemnly. “He speaks true, my lord,” she said. “I have crossed swords with many Orcs in the wilds, but the Uruks… they are stronger, faster, and far more disciplined. These are not foes to underestimate.”

Theoden turned to her, his eyes narrowing. “I have fought many wars, my lady,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of irritation. “I know how to defend my own keep.”

Gimli’s face darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line as Theoden walked past him. Aragorn, sensing the Dwarf’s growing frustration, placed a calming hand on his shoulder. Gimli huffed but said nothing, his eyes still fixed on Theoden’s retreating form.

The king’s voice carried over the sound of preparations as they moved along the inner ramparts. “They will break upon this fortress like water on rock,” Theoden said, gesturing toward the Deeping Wall. “Saruman’s hordes will pillage and burn. We’ve seen it before. Crops can be resown. Homes rebuilt. Within these walls, we will outlast them.”

Aragorn shook his head, his voice rising with quiet intensity. “They do not come to destroy Rohan’s crops or villages,” he said. “They come to destroy its people—down to the last child.”

Theoden stopped abruptly, turning to face Aragorn. His eyes burned with a mixture of anger and weariness as he stepped closer, gripping Aragorn’s arm tightly. “What would you have me do?” he demanded, his voice low but fierce. “Look at my men. Their courage hangs by a thread. If this is to be our end, then I would have them make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance.”

Aragorn’s gaze did not waver. “Send out riders, my lord,” he urged. “You must call for aid.”

Theoden laughed bitterly, releasing Aragorn’s arm and stepping back. “And who will come?” he said, his voice laced with scorn. “Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead.”

Faramir, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, his voice steady despite the storm brewing in his heart. “Gondor will answer,” he said firmly.

Theoden turned sharply, his face hardening as he advanced on Faramir. “Gondor?” he spat, his voice rising. “Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was Gon—” He stopped himself, his breath catching as he fought to regain control. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less resolute. “No, my lords,” he said, his tone heavy with finality. “We are alone.”

He turned on his heel, striding back toward the Hall with Gamling and the guards following close behind. “Get the women and children into the caves!” he ordered as he went.

The companions stood in silence, the weight of Theoden’s words settling over them like a pall. Above, the clouds thickened, and the faint rumble of distant thunder echoed through the mountains, a grim herald of the storm to come.

***

The night was heavy with the murmurs of fear and sorrow, as the women and children of Rohan were ushered into the caves of Helm’s Deep. Torches sputtered in the chill air, casting flickering light on pale, anxious faces. Soldiers, clad in weather-worn armor, directed the flow of people with sharp commands.

“Move back! Move to the caves!” one shouted, his voice cutting through the noise.

“Quickly now, come on!” another called, waving families forward.

Aragorn moved among them, his stride purposeful despite the fatigue etched into his face. Legolas walked at his side, his keen eyes ever watchful. As they passed, women clutched their children closer, and the men who lingered cast them uncertain glances, as though searching for reassurance in the face of such grim resolve.

“We’ll place the reserves along the wall,” Aragorn said, his voice low and steady. “They can support the archers from above the gate.”

Legolas glanced at him, his brows drawing together in concern. “Aragorn,” he said softly, “you must rest. You are no use to us half alive.”

Before Aragorn could answer, a voice called out, urgent and familiar. “Aragorn!”

He turned to see Éowyn weaving her way through the crowd, her white dress catching the torchlight like a banner. Her face was alight with determination, though her eyes betrayed a deeper turmoil. She came to a halt before him, her chest heaving slightly.

“I am to be sent with the women into the caves,” she said, the words spilling out in a rush.

Aragorn regarded her kindly, though his expression remained unreadable. “That is an honorable charge,” he replied.

Éowyn’s lips tightened, and she looked down, her voice trembling with frustration. “To mind the children? To find food and bedding when the men return?” She raised her gaze, and there was fire in her eyes now. “What renown is there in that?”

Aragorn hesitated, then stepped closer, his tone quiet but firm. “My lady, a time may come for valor without renown. Who then will your people look to in the last defense?”

Éowyn’s resolve faltered for a moment, and she glanced away, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. Then, she looked back at him, her voice rising in desperation. “Let me stand at your side.”

“It is not in my power to command it,” Aragorn said gently, his voice tinged with regret. He turned, as though to walk away, but her words stopped him in his tracks.

“You do not command the others to stay!” she cried, her voice breaking.

Aragorn turned back to her, his expression softening as he saw the glint of unshed tears in her eyes.

“They fight beside you,” Éowyn continued, her voice quieter now but no less impassioned, “because they would not be parted from you. Because they love you.”

For a moment, there was silence between them. Their gazes met, laden with unspoken emotions. Then, as though suddenly aware of the weight of her words, Éowyn looked away. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

A figure stepped forward from the shadows, and Éowyn looked up to see Rían standing nearby, her expression one of quiet sympathy. Her dark hair, streaked with dust from the day’s toils, framed a face etched with weariness but tempered by unshakable resolve.

Éowyn straightened, her chin lifting slightly, and met Rían’s gaze. “Why?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a note of bitterness. “Why does Lord Aragorn let you fight beside him and not me?”

Rían hesitated, her grey eyes flickering with something akin to sorrow. She glanced briefly at Aragorn’s retreating form  before speaking. “Aragorn has said many times he wishes I did not go with him on this journey,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with an undercurrent of something deeper. “He knows the dangers we face and fears for all who stand beside him.”

She stepped closer to Éowyn, lowering her voice so that only she could hear. “But Aragorn also knows me,” she continued. “We have fought together for decades, through battles and hardships you cannot yet imagine. He knows my stubbornness well enough to understand that no command of his could ever keep me from standing beside him.”

Éowyn’s expression softened, though the hurt in her eyes did not fade. Rían’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then she reached out, resting a hand gently on Éowyn’s arm. “Do not think that he values you any less,” she said, her voice firm but kind. “Your strength is not measured by the sword you carry, nor by the battlefield you long to stand upon. In the caves, your people will look to you for hope, for courage. That is a far heavier burden than any blade.”

Éowyn did not respond, but her lips parted as though to speak. Before she could find the words, Rían stepped back and inclined her head. “Be safe, my lady,” she said simply, then turned and walked away into the shadows.

Éowyn stood there for a long moment, her thoughts warring within her and her eyes followed Rían into the gathering darkness.

***

The clang of steel echoed through the armory, a discordant symphony of sharpening blades and trembling hands. Men and boys, some scarcely old enough to wield a weapon, stood in uneven lines, their faces pale with dread. Farmers, farriers, and stable boys—all pressed into service against an enemy that seemed insurmountable.

Aragorn moved among them, his brow furrowed, his heart heavy. He picked up a sword from a nearby rack, testing its weight before setting it down with a sigh. His eyes roamed over the gathering, lingering on trembling hands and the thin frames of boys barely out of childhood.

“Farmers, farriers, stable boys,” he muttered, his voice low but edged with frustration. “These are no soldiers.”

Gimli, sitting nearby on a bench, hefted his axe and leaned forward, his face grim. “Most have seen too many winters,” he said quietly, his gaze sweeping over the grey-haired men clutching spears with uncertain hands.

“Or too few,” Legolas added from where he stood, his sharp elven eyes taking in the faces of frightened youths.

Rían, standing beside him, nodded in silent agreement. Her grey eyes, shadowed by weariness, softened as they passed over the men. She said nothing, not wishing to add to the weight already pressing upon their hearts, but the sorrow in her expression spoke volumes.

“They’re frightened,” Legolas said, his voice quieter now, yet carrying an undertone of anguish. “I can see it in their eyes.”

At these words, a hush fell over the group. Gimli shifted uncomfortably, while Aragorn turned, his gaze locking onto Legolas. The elf’s words seemed to hang in the air, undeniable and heavy.

Legolas continued, his voice dropping into the lilting tones of Sindarin. “Boe a hyn: neled herain dan caer menig!” (And they should be… Three hundred against ten thousand!)

Aragorn’s jaw tightened, his face hardening. “Si beriathar hyn ammaeg na ned Edoras.” (They have more hope of defending themselves here than at Edoras.)

Gimli's brows furrowed in irritation, and he turned to Rían, who stood beside him adjusting the straps of her bracers.

“Well, what are they on about now?” Gimli grumbled, his voice low but rough as the rumble of distant thunder. “Plotting some grand elvish trickery, no doubt. You’re a ranger, are you not? Surely you can understand them.”

Rían froze mid-motion, her fingers pausing on the leather strap as she turned to him, one dark brow arching high. Her grey eyes, sharp and keen as ever, flashed with a spark of exasperation. “Why does everyone assume that because I’m a ranger, I must speak Sindarin?” she said, her voice edged with disbelief. “Do I look like I grew up reciting elvish poetry?”

Gimli, caught off guard, blinked at her, his expression shifting from suspicion to bemusement. “Well, I thought—”

Rían shook her head and resumed her work on her bracers, muttering under her breath. “It’s bad enough they’re speaking riddles while we prepare to fight for our lives, but now I’m expected to translate as well?”

The dwarf snorted, leaning closer to her conspiratorially. “Hmph. If they were speaking Khuzdul, I’d have half a mind to knock their heads together. It’s plain rude, that’s what it is.”

Rían let out a short laugh, glancing sideways at Gimli with a wry smile. “Then I suggest you tell them that yourself, Master Dwarf. I’m sure Aragorn would welcome your feedback.”

Gimli grunted, his mouth twitching as though he were suppressing a smile. “Ah, I’d rather not. The man’s got enough on his plate without me grumbling in his ear. Though,” he added with a pointed look at the pair still deep in their conversation, “a good axe at my side speaks louder than words. Let them scheme in their fancy tongue—so long as they leave some orcs for me.”

Rían chuckled softly, her irritation melting away like frost before the morning sun. “Plenty of orcs for us all, Gimli,” she said, her voice quiet but steady as her gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the storm of war brewed. “More than enough.”

As Legolas pressed on, his frustration was rising. “Aragorn, nedin dagor hen ú-’erir… ortheri. Natha daged dhaer!” (Aragorn, they cannot win this fight. They are all going to die!)

At this, Aragorn’s composure cracked. His voice rose, sharp and resolute, cutting through the tense atmosphere. “Then I shall die as one of them!”

His words rang out, silencing the armory. The two friends locked eyes, the tension between them palpable. Legolas’s brows knit together in silent reproach, while Aragorn’s expression was one of defiance. Without another word, Aragorn turned on his heel and strode away, his cloak swirling behind him.

Legolas made to follow, his movements quick and purposeful, but Gimli reached out and gripped his arm firmly. “Let him go, lad,” the dwarf said, his voice low and steady. “Let him be.”

Legolas hesitated, his gaze flickering between the doorway Aragorn had vanished through and Gimli’s steady hand.

Before he could protest, a light touch fell on his shoulder. Legolas turned to find Rían beside him, her expression calm but laced with understanding. “I will go,” she said quietly, her voice steady and soothing. “He may need a friend who understands his burden.”

The elf hesitated, his sharp features softening as he met her gaze. After a moment, he nodded, stepping back. “Le hannon,” he murmured (I thank you).

***

Rían found Aragorn in a small alcove near the armory, seated on a low bench with his back against the cold stone wall. A single torch flickered nearby, casting long, wavering shadows across his face. His sword lay across his knees, and he ran a whetstone over its edge in slow, deliberate motions. The tension in his posture spoke of a man carrying the weight of the world, though he did not look up as she approached.

She stopped a few paces away, a small bundle of bandages and salves clutched in her hands. “Aragorn,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced up, his grey eyes dark with weariness and something heavier—grief, perhaps, or resignation. A faint smile ghosted across his lips, though it did little to lighten his features. “Have you come to remind me of the odds as well?” he asked, his voice dry, though not without warmth.

Rían shook her head, stepping closer. “No,” she said simply. “I came to tend to your wounds.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, glancing at the supplies in her hands. “I’ve had worse,” he said, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And if I let you tend to yourself,” Rían replied, arching a brow, “you’ll be no better than the farmers wielding pitchforks out there. Sit still and let me help, Aragorn.”

He hesitated, his pride and weariness warring within him, but finally he nodded, setting his sword aside. “Very well,” he said, leaning back against the wall with a faint sigh.

Rían knelt before him, setting the bundle of supplies on the bench beside her. Her movements were precise and practiced as she unwrapped the bandages on his hands and arms, revealing cuts and bruises that spoke of battles fought without pause. “You’ve done too much already,” she murmured, carefully cleaning a gash on his shoulder with a damp cloth. “You must take what rest you can, Aragorn. They need you strong.”

He watched her work, his gaze steady. “And what of you?” he asked after a moment. “You fight as fiercely as any, yet you take no thought for your own rest.”

Rían smiled faintly, not looking up as she smoothed a salve over his wound. “We are  of the North, Aragorn. We endure. Besides,” she added, glancing at him briefly, “I’ve not fallen from a cliff recently, so I think I’m faring better than you.”

A soft laugh escaped him, and the sound, though brief, seemed to lift some of the weight from the air around them.

As she began to wrap a clean bandage around his arm, her voice softened. “I know the burden you carry,” she said, her tone quiet yet firm. “To lead when the path ahead seems dark, to hold onto hope when it feels like sand slipping through your fingers.”

Aragorn’s gaze dropped to the floor, his hands resting limply in his lap. “Hope is a fragile thing,” he said after a moment, his voice low. “It falters beneath the weight of such odds. Ten thousand Uruks against farmers and boys—how can I ask them to fight when I know what awaits them?”

Rían paused, looking up at him. Her grey eyes met his, steady and resolute. “Because hope is not yet lost,” she said firmly. “So long as we stand, so long as we fight, there is hope. You’ve seen it, Aragorn, as I have. Even in the darkest of times, it endures. And it is that hope they will see in you, that will give them the courage to stand as well.”

He held her gaze, the weight of her words settling over him. Slowly, he nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You always were the more stubborn of us,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“And don’t you forget it,” she replied, tying off the bandage with a flourish.

She stood, brushing dust from her knees, and offered him a hand. He hesitated only briefly before taking it, allowing her to pull him to his feet. “Thank you, Rían,” he said, his voice softer now, touched with sincerity.

She inclined her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Get some rest, Aragorn,” she said as she turned to leave. “You’ll need your strength for what’s to come.”

He watched her go, her steps light yet purposeful, before turning back to the sword resting on the bench. Her words lingered in his mind, a quiet reminder that even in the shadow of despair, there was still light to be found.

***

Rían paced in the shadowed hallways of the keep, the weight of the coming battle pressing on her like a thunderstorm about to break. Her boots barely made a sound as they echoed faintly in the stone corridors, and her hand trembled against the rough, cold stone walls. She had seen battles before, yes—too many of them. But something about Helm’s Deep, the sheer hopelessness in the air, gnawed at her. She had known the weight of fear, but today it felt different. It wasn’t fear for herself, not entirely. It was for those she had come to care for.

Her mind wandered back to the quiet moments they had shared on the journey here—Faramir’s steady gaze, the way he had moved with purpose in everything he did. He had always seemed a figure of strength and resolve, but now, as the shadow of battle loomed large, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than just the impending war that had her restless.

Turning a corner, she spotted him sitting alone in a shadowed alcove, his form hunched and brooding, as if he too were caught between the past and the future. His dark blonde hair fell across his face, disheveled and untamed. For a moment, she lingered, watching him from the corner of her eye. The air around him was thick with the scent of oil and steel, but something about the quiet way he sat, his sword resting against his knee, stirred a strange protectiveness in her heart. He was usually so composed, but today, something in his posture felt different, as though the weight of what was to come had settled on him too.

Her steps slowed, and for a brief moment, Rían found herself staring at him, her thoughts drifting toward unbidden feelings she had long since buried. She wasn’t sure what exactly drew her to him, but there was a quiet intensity in Faramir that had always captivated her—the strength beneath his quiet demeanor, the honesty in his eyes. It unsettled her, the way he made her feel something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

“Faramir,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He looked up, startled at first, but his expression softened when he saw her. “Rían,” he said, rising to his feet. “You should be resting. Tomorrow will come all too soon.”

“Rest will not find me tonight,” she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. Her eyes lingered on him, her heart clenching at the thought of what lay ahead. Without thinking, she moved closer, her gaze fixed on the way his hair fell over his brow, half-obscuring his thoughtful eyes.

“You’re staring,” Faramir said with a faint smile, trying to lighten the weight of the moment.

She didn’t reply, stepping even closer. “Turn around,” she said abruptly.

Faramir blinked, confused. “What?”

“Just turn around,” she repeated, her tone firm but not unkind.

Faramir looked up at her in mild surprise, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to read her expression in the dim light. He hesitated for a moment, almost as if unsure whether to comply, and she could feel the quiet tension in the air between them. When he finally did turn his back to her, the movement was slow, as though he was reluctant to break whatever silent connection had been building between them.

Rían stepped behind him, her breath quickening with a nervous energy she couldn’t quite quell. Her fingers brushed against the rough fabric of his cloak, and her hand trembled slightly as she reached for his hair. It didn’t help that she was so close to him in such an intimate way, and she could feel the heat rising in her chest, a strange mixture of nerves and something else—something softer, more vulnerable.

She began to braid his hair, her fingers deftly weaving the strands together. The soft pull of his hair between her fingers was oddly grounding, and as she worked, the restless energy inside her began to still, just a little. But even as she focused on the task at hand, she couldn’t ignore the strange tension that seemed to hang in the air between them. His stillness felt different now, more charged, as though he, too, were aware of the closeness between them.

Rían could hear his breath catch ever so slightly, a subtle shift in the air that made her pause. She could feel the heat of him so close, the faintest tremor in his muscles as though he were holding himself together by sheer will. She had no idea why he seemed so still—no idea that her hands in his hair were making him so nervous—but it made her suddenly aware of her own racing heartbeat.

“You know,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “it would be terribly stupid if you went into battle with your hair like this. You won’t be able to see the enemy properly, and we both know you’re no fool.” Her voice held a note of teasing, though it was thick with something else. Something deeper.

Her hands worked quickly, but her movements weren’t just practical—they were grounding. Her fingers trembled slightly as she braided his hair, but with each strand she wove together, some of the tension within her seemed to ease.

Faramir’s voice, low and steady, drifted back to her. “Is this for me, or for you?”

Rían paused for just a moment, her hands stilling as the weight of his words hung in the air. There was an intensity in his voice, a hint of something that she had never quite been able to place. She turned her face toward him, but he did not look back, his gaze fixed ahead, though she could feel him watching her in some way, beyond mere sight.

She looked away, her gaze flickering to the ground. “Does it matter?” she murmured.

Faramir reached out, his fingers brushing against her arm, drawing her attention back to him. “Rían,” he said softly, “I will not fall tomorrow. I swear it to you.”

“You cannot promise that,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“No, I cannot,” he admitted, “but I can promise that I will fight with every breath in me to see this through. And I will fight to return to you.”

Her breath caught at his words, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away from him. The space between them felt charged, the world around them fading into the background.

“We’ve  done this before,” she said, her tone soft but still edged with vulnerability. “Faced impossible odds and walked away. But this time feels different.”

Faramir’s hand moved to hers as he turned around fully to face her, his touch warm and reassuring. “It feels different because it is,” he said. “But that does not mean we will fail.”

Her lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, she stepped closer, resting her forehead briefly against his, drawing strength from his quiet confidence.

“I cannot lose you,” she whispered, the words barely audible, and the desperation in her tone, with the undertone of something he couldn’t quite place seemed to pierce straight through his heart .

“You won’t,” he said firmly, his eyes searching hers. “But you must promise me something as well.”

“What is that?” she asked, her voice steadying.

“Promise me you will take care of yourself out there,” he said. “For me.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I will try,” she said, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“That will have to be enough,” he replied, his own smile soft but unwavering.

The unspoken promise in his words hung in the air between them, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it felt as though the world outside the walls of Helm’s Deep had receded. There were no battles, no enemies, no walls that would soon be breached. Just the quiet connection shared between them, fragile and uncertain, but real.

And in that silence, Rían felt something stir deep inside her—something she had not dared to name. Perhaps it was the fear that had made her heart race, or perhaps it was something else entirely. But in that moment, she knew that when the battle came, she would fight not just for her own life, but for his.

***

The clang of chainmail and the hum of quiet preparation filled the armory as Aragorn adjusted his tunic and began fastening his mail shirt over it. The weight of the armor was familiar, a mantle he had borne countless times before, though tonight it felt heavier. He drew in a steadying breath as he reached for his sword, but before his hand could close around the hilt, another reached for it.

Legolas stood beside him, silent and graceful as always, holding out the sword. His expression was softer than usual, his keen eyes meeting Aragorn’s with an unspoken apology. “Gwestannen le ammen úan. (We have trusted you this far.) You have not led us astray,” the Elf said quietly, his voice tinged with both regret and resolve. “Forgive me. I was wrong to despair.”

Aragorn paused, taking the sword from his old friend’s hands. A faint smile played on his lips as he placed a firm hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “Ú-moe edaved, Legolas. (There is nothing to forgive, Legolas.)”

The Elf returned his smile, and for a moment, the weight of what lay ahead seemed to lessen between them. They clasped shoulders, their bond unspoken but unshaken.

The moment was interrupted by the clatter of metal and a muffled curse. They turned to see Gimli wrestling with his chainmail shirt, the garment far too long and dragging on the ground behind him. “If we had time, I’d get this adjusted,” the Dwarf grumbled, letting the shirt drop with a resigned sigh. “It’s a little tight across the chest.”

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged an amused glance, their somber mood lightened by their companion’s predicament.

Rían approached with Faramir at her side, a soft chuckle escaping her as she knelt to help Gimli. “Come now, Master Dwarf,” she said, her deft fingers tucking the excess fabric beneath his belt, “we can’t have you tripping on your own mail in the middle of the battle.”

Faramir stood nearby, his presence quiet but steady. Aragorn’s gaze flicked to him briefly and lingered. Faramir’s dark blonde  hair was neatly braided in a style Aragorn recognized as one of the northern traditions, unmistakably Rían’s handiwork. A flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps amusement—crossed Aragorn’s face, but he said nothing.

Before any more could be said, the deep, resonant call of a horn echoed through the stone halls of Helm’s Deep. The sound was clear, noble, and unfamiliar. All movement ceased as the companions stilled, their eyes widening.

Legolas turned sharply towards the door, his expression alight with recognition. “That is no Orc horn,” he said, his voice low but certain.

Without waiting, the Elf darted from the room, Aragorn close on his heels. Rían, Faramir, and Gimli followed swiftly, their boots echoing against the stone floor as they made their way outside.

On the walls, men gathered, leaning over the parapets to see what approached. Shouts of surprise and urgency rippled through the defenders.

“Send for the king!” one soldier called. “Open the gate!”

“Open the gate!” another repeated, and the heavy iron doors groaned as they began to swing inward.

From beyond the walls, the rhythmic march of disciplined feet filled the air, accompanied by a faint shimmer of gold and silver in the moonlight. A host of Elves entered the fortress, their armor gleaming, their movements as fluid and precise as a river in motion. The men of Rohan parted before them, their faces lighting with hope and awe as the warriors passed.

Theoden descended the stone steps with measured strides, his expression caught between disbelief and cautious wonder. “How is this possible?” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the Elves.

At the head of the host, Haldir of Lothlórien stepped forward, his golden armor bright against the shadows of Helm’s Deep. He bowed slightly to Theoden, his manner both formal and warm. “I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell,” he said, his voice clear and strong. “An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago, we fought and died together.”

As Haldir spoke, his eyes shifted, catching sight of familiar faces descending the steps—Aragorn, Legolas, Rían, Faramir, and Gimli. A smile broke across his face, brief but genuine. “We come to honor that allegiance,” he finished.

Aragorn surged forward, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides. Without hesitation, he clasped Haldir in a fierce embrace, a rare smile lighting his weary face. “You are most welcome,” he said warmly, the gratitude in his voice unmistakable.

Haldir returned the embrace with a nod of respect before turning to Legolas, who greeted him with equal joy. The Elf prince smiled as he stepped back, standing behind Haldir as the Lórien warriors turned their gazes upon him.

Theoden watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as the weight of the moment settled upon him. For the first time in days, hope glimmered in his eyes.

“We are proud,” Haldir said, his voice rising so all could hear, “to fight alongside Men once more.”

The gathered soldiers of Rohan looked on with renewed courage, their faces lifting with the sight of the Elves. The night was still dark, the battle still to come, but for now, the light of fellowship shone bright.

Chapter Text

The night was heavy with tension, the kind that wrapped around the soul and whispered of battles yet to be fought. Clouds gathered like an ominous shroud above the Hornburg, and the air smelled of rain mingled with sweat and steel. Along the battlements of Helm’s Deep, the defenders stood shoulder to shoulder, grim-faced and resolute. Men of Rohan, armed with swords and spears, gripped their weapons with white-knuckled hands, while the elves—tall and proud, their hair gleaming like silver in the torchlight—lined the Deeping Wall, their bows at the ready.

Rían stood near Faramir, her dark hair pulled back from her face and a sword resting in her gloved hand. Her grey eyes were sharp as they scanned the approaching tide of Uruk-hai, the torchlight flickering off their iron armor. Faramir had his bow in hand, an arrow already nocked but not yet drawn.

Behind them, Gimli grumbled, shifting from foot to foot. The dwarf was too short to see over the wall and made no secret of his irritation. “You could have picked a better spot,” he muttered, his tone laced with good-natured frustration.

Legolas, standing tall beside him with his bow in hand, glanced down at his companion with an amused smile. Aragorn approached then, weaving through the ranks of elves, his face shadowed but resolute. Gimli turned toward him with a wry grin.

“Well, lad, whatever luck you live by, let’s hope it lasts the night,” Gimli said, his voice gruff but tinged with camaraderie.

Aragorn’s gaze lingered on the dwarf for a moment before shifting to Legolas.

“Your friends are with you, Aragorn,” Legolas said softly, his voice like the murmur of the wind.

Rían, leaning slightly against the wall as she observed the scene, let out a faint, dry laugh. “The Uruks should hope  they last the night,” she added, her tone lightly joking but laced with a grim edge that suited the moment.

Aragorn glanced briefly at her, his mouth lifting in the barest hint of a smile before he turned away. His boots clicked softly against the stone as he moved among the elves, pausing now and again to speak to them in their own tongue.

Overhead, the sky rumbled, and a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the advancing Uruk-hai. A storm was coming, and with it, the clash of armies. As the first drops of rain began to fall, hissing as they struck the metal armor of Théoden’s men, the defenders braced themselves.

The Uruk-hai moved closer, their ranks a sea of dark, glinting armor and snarling faces. In the caves behind the fortress, the cries of frightened women and children echoed, their fear palpable even through the thick stone walls.

At the head of the Uruk-hai host, a massive captain climbed onto a jagged rock. Raising his hand, he called his army to a halt. The sudden stillness was unnerving, broken only by the hiss of the falling rain. On the wall, Gimli bounced on his heels, craning his neck in frustration.

“What’s happening out there?” he demanded, his tone sharp with impatience.

Legolas, his keen eyes fixed on the enemy, didn’t look away as he answered, “Shall I describe it to you? Or would you like me to find you a box?”

Gimli threw back his head and laughed, his hearty chuckle ringing out even amidst the tension. “If we live through this, I’ll make you pay for that one!”

Rían, standing nearby, couldn’t help but smirk as she adjusted her grip on her sword. “Careful, Gimli. I think Legolas could out-talk you just as well as he can outshoot you.”

The dwarf turned to her with mock indignation. “You wound me, Rían! I thought we were allies in this!”

She raised an eyebrow, her expression wry. “We are—for now. But if you keep complaining, I might find a higher wall for you to stand on myself.”

Faramir chuckled softly, though his eyes remained fixed on the advancing enemy. “Peace, my friends. Save your wit for the fireside stories. We’ll need every ounce of focus before the night is through.”

Gimli grunted, but the tension eased slightly among them, the brief exchange reminding them all of the bonds they shared.

Below, the Uruk-hai began to stamp their spears in unison, the sound rolling like thunder across the plain. They beat their chests and growled, their war cries growing louder with each passing moment. Aragorn, standing near the elves on the wall, drew his sword. The steel gleamed in the torchlight, a beacon of defiance against the tide of darkness.

He raised his voice, speaking in the language of the elves, the words ringing clear and fierce:

“A Eruchîn, ú-dano i faelas a hyn an uben tanatha le faelas!" (Show them no mercy! For you shall receive none!)

The elves shifted slightly, their bows creaking as they raised them as one, their faces solemn and unyielding. The men of Rohan gripped their weapons tighter, their breaths steadying as they prepared for what was to come.

The Uruk captain thrust his scimitar into the air and let out a guttural roar. His army answered in kind, their voices a deafening wave of fury. They began to charge, their steps like the drumbeats of an approaching storm.

But even as the chaos surged, one among the defenders faltered. An older man, his hands trembling with age, accidentally loosed an arrow from his bow. It arced over the wall and struck one of the Uruk-hai in the neck. The creature fell with a thud, choking as it collapsed to the ground.

Aragorn’s hand shot into the air. “Dartho!” (Hold!) he shouted, his voice sharp and commanding.

For a moment, the defenders stilled, their arrows still nocked but not released. The Uruks roared louder, their bloodlust ignited by the sudden death of their comrade. They began pounding their weapons against their shields, an echo of fury and defiance.

Gimli, bouncing on his heels again, grumbled loudly, “What’s happening now? Are they just going to shout us to death?”

Legolas, his sharp eyes never leaving the advancing horde, replied smoothly, “If shouting were enough, they’d have already won.”

Rían snorted softly, her grip firm on the hilt of her sword. “If shouting isn’t enough, Gimli, you can always lend them a few lessons.”

The dwarf turned toward her, his beard bristling as he muttered something incomprehensible. But even he couldn’t hide the faint grin tugging at his lips.

The Uruk captain let out another cry, this time thrusting his weapon forward. With a unified roar, the Uruk-hai broke into a full charge, their torches and weapons shining like malevolent stars against the night.

“Tangado a chadad!” (Prepare to fire!) Aragorn commanded as he strode along the line of elven archers.

The elves drew their bows in perfect unison, their movements fluid and practiced. On the wall, Faramir raised his own bow, his fingers steady as he sighted down the shaft of his arrow. His expression was calm, yet there was a gleam of determination in his grey eyes.

Beside him, Rían held her sword at the ready, her gaze focused on the oncoming tide. She took a deep breath, centering herself, the weight of the blade in her hand as familiar as an old friend.

As the Uruk-hai closed the final stretch, Aragorn’s voice rang out, strong and resolute. “Leithio i philinn!” (Release the arrows!)

The elves released their bowstrings, and a rain of arrows descended upon the charging Uruks. Many fell, pierced through the throat or chest, but still, their comrades pressed on, relentless in their assault.

Faramir loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding its mark. His movements were swift and precise, honed by years of practice. Yet even as he fought, his eyes flicked briefly toward Rían, ensuring she was unharmed.

Arrows fell in torrents from the walls of Helm’s Deep, streaking through the night like swift, silent harbingers of death. Many of the Uruk-hai faltered and collapsed, black-fletched shafts jutting from their throats and chests. The front lines staggered, but the tide pressed on, relentless and unyielding.

Gimli stood on the wall, his face alight with battle-lust, gripping the haft of his axe tightly. He squinted into the chaos below, his stout form vibrating with energy. “Did they hit anything?” he grumbled, craning his neck toward Legolas.

Théoden turned sharply to Gamling, his voice filled with the commanding authority of a king accustomed to war. “Give them a volley!”

Gamling raised his arm, his voice ringing over the clash of steel and the roar of the approaching horde. “Fire!”

“Fire!” came the cry of an old man standing among the ranks, his voice trembling but resolute.

Another volley of arrows arced from the battlements, loosed with deadly precision. Uruks shrieked as the shafts found their mark, the front ranks faltering under the weight of the slaughter. But for every Uruk that fell, it seemed two more surged forward, trampling their own dead in their blind fury.

Aragorn strode forward, his sword raised high, its edge gleaming even in the shadowed light of the storm. He turned to the elves stationed below the Deeping Wall. “Ribed bant!” (Full volley!) he commanded, his voice echoing over the din.

The elves responded in perfect unison, loosing their arrows in a single motion. The precision was devastating; Uruks fell in waves, their armor clattering against the blood-slick ground. But the enemy was relentless, their ranks endless.

Gimli growled, his breath steaming in the chill night air. “Send them to me! Come on!” He hefted his axe eagerly, his eyes gleaming as he prepared for the melee to come.

A shrill whistle pierced the air, and the Uruk-hai raised their crossbows, sending a deadly volley of bolts toward the defenders. The cries of the wounded rang out as several elves toppled from the walls, their silver-clad forms crumpling lifelessly to the stone below.

“Pendraith!” (Ladders!) Aragorn shouted, his voice rising above the chaos.

The first of the siege ladders slammed against the Deeping Wall, their wooden frames groaning under the weight of the armored Uruks climbing them. At the top of each ladder, berserkers snarled and growled, their wild eyes filled with bloodlust as they prepared to leap into the fray.

Gimli grinned fiercely. “Good!” he barked, raising his axe.

Aragorn turned to the elves stationed along the wall, his voice sharp and urgent. “Swords! Swords!”

At his command, the elves drew their blades in unison, the sound of steel ringing through the air like the first note of a battle hymn. The Uruk berserkers reached the top of the wall, howling as they leaped into the fray, their heavy blades swinging.

The clash of weapons erupted in earnest. Rían met the first berserker head-on, her blade flashing as it found the weak point in its armor, the creature falling heavily at her feet. Beside her, Gimli swung his axe in powerful, sweeping arcs, cleaving through the advancing horde.

Faramir, stationed further down the wall, loosed arrow after arrow, each one precise and deadly. His grey eyes never wavered, even as the Uruks began to swarm the battlements. He cast a brief glance toward Rían, who fought with fierce precision, her movements fluid and deadly. A flicker of something unreadable touched his face before he turned back to the fight.

Gimli let out a ferocious battle cry, hefting his axe as the Uruks began to swarm the wall. “Now this is more like it!” he roared, cleaving into the nearest foe.

Legolas, beside him, fired arrows with an unearthly grace, each shot felling an Uruk before it could climb higher. “Try not to get yourself surrounded, Master Dwarf,” he called, though his tone was almost teasing.

“Surrounded?” Gimli barked. “I’m counting on it!”

Rían exchanged a fleeting glance with Faramir as the battle raged around them. No words passed between them, but in that single moment, there was understanding—an unspoken promise to fight and survive, side by side, until the end.

The storm broke above them, rain falling in sheets and mixing with the blood that began to stain the stones of Helm’s Deep. The night had truly begun, and with it, the desperate fight for survival.

The Uruk berserkers poured over the top of the ladders like black waves, their heavy blades gleaming wickedly in the rain-soaked light. Aragorn met them with a shout, his sword flashing as he cleaved through the first to leap upon the wall. Beside him, Legolas moved with swift precision, his bow singing as he sent arrow after arrow into the hearts and throats of the attackers.

Haldir’s golden hair was darkened by the rain as he fought with unrelenting grace, his sword a blur of silver as he struck down each Uruk that dared to challenge him. Nearby, Gimli stood at the base of a fallen berserker, his axe lodged deep in the creature’s chest. He wrenched it free with a growl and looked up just as another Uruk loomed over him, its cruel blade raised high.

“Legolas!” Gimli shouted, slamming the haft of his axe into the Uruk’s knees and bringing it down to his level. With a fierce cry, he buried his blade in its neck. “Two already!”

Legolas, perched atop the wall, loosed an arrow into an approaching berserker’s eye without even turning. He paused briefly to glance at Gimli and grinned. “I’m on seventeen!”

Gimli scowled, his thick brows drawing together in frustration. “I’ll have no pointy-ear outscoring me!” he bellowed, spinning around just as another berserker reached the top of the wall. With a powerful swing, his axe cleaved through its helm and into its skull, the beast falling lifeless at his feet.

Legolas, unperturbed, fired two more arrows in quick succession, each finding its mark. He turned back to Gimli, his expression smug. “Nineteen.”

“Bah!” Gimli muttered, shaking his head as he charged toward another ladder.

Further down the wall, Faramir stood amidst the defenders, his bow in hand, his grey eyes sharp and steady. Each arrow he loosed found its mark, striking down Uruks with unerring precision. He moved swiftly, retrieving arrows from fallen bodies as he adjusted his aim to account for the rain and chaos. For every berserker that reached the wall, there were five more still climbing, and he fired tirelessly to thin their numbers.

Rían fought not far from Faramir, her sword a gleaming arc of steel as she faced the berserkers with a ranger’s precision and ferocity. She danced among them, her movements fluid and efficient, each strike deliberate. An Uruk lunged toward her, its blade swinging wide, but she ducked beneath the blow and drove her sword upward, the tip piercing its throat. With a swift kick, she sent its body tumbling from the wall.

“Faramir!” she called as she dispatched another Uruk. “How many arrows do you have left?”

“Enough,” he replied, not pausing as he loosed another shaft. “But not for long if they keep coming like this.”

Rían nodded grimly, sidestepping another attacker and slashing through its exposed side. “Then I suggest you make each one count.”

Aragorn, meanwhile, fought like a storm incarnate. He surged forward and seized one of the ladders, his muscles straining as he heaved it backward. The ladder tipped, and the Uruks upon it screeched as they plummeted to the ground below. The wooden frame crashed into the ranks below, scattering the attackers and crushing those unfortunate enough to be caught beneath it.

“Bring them down!” Aragorn shouted, his voice carrying over the roar of the battle. “Hold the wall!”

The defenders fought on, their weapons flashing in the rain, their cries mingling with the screams of the Uruks. But for every foe they felled, more rose to take their place, the tide of darkness threatening to overwhelm them. Yet still, they stood firm, their hearts resolute, for they fought not for survival alone but for the hope of those who sheltered behind the walls.

The storm roared above Helm’s Deep, rain cascading over stone and steel as the defenders braced against the relentless tide of Uruk-hai. Gimli stood atop the Deeping Wall, his axe an extension of his fury, cleaving through the grotesque forms of Uruks scaling the ladders. Each strike was accompanied by a sharp battle cry.

“Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen!” he roared, his voice echoing over the din of battle. Another Uruk fell to his blade, its black blood splattering across the stones. “Twenty! Twenty-one!”

Nearby, Faramir loosed arrow after arrow, each shot finding its mark with deadly precision. The captain of Gondor stood calm amid the chaos, his face set with grim determination as he protected the soldiers beside him. He called out to Rían, who fought with her blade against the invaders on the wall.

“Rían! They’re advancing!” he shouted, nocking another arrow.

Rían turned briefly, her sword gleaming as she slashed through an advancing Uruk. Her dark hair clung to her rain-soaked face, but her grey eyes burned with focus. She spared Faramir a fleeting glance and a nod before returning to the fray. “Then we’ll send them back to the abyss!” she called over her shoulder, her voice fierce.

Below, Aragorn moved swiftly, his sharp eyes catching the movement on the causeway. He glanced over the wall at the approaching pack of Uruk-hai, shields locked in an unyielding formation  He shoved past the elves, pointing urgently to the advancing pack of Uruks. “Causeway!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The elves shifted, their bows rising in unison as they loosed a volley of arrows. The outermost Uruks fell, their shields unable to save them from the deadly precision of the elven archers. But still, the formation pressed onward, relentless in its approach.

From the battlements above, Théoden stood watching the battlefield with narrowed eyes. Rain dripped from the edge of his helm as he muttered bitterly, “Is this it? Is this all you can conjure, Saruman?”

But Saruman’s malice was only beginning. Near the base of the wall, Uruks carried massive spiked spheres brimming with black powder. They moved with grim determination, planting the explosives near the sluice gate. The defenders atop the wall had yet to notice, their focus divided among the surging waves of enemies.

Through the horde, a berserker emerged, carrying a torch that burned brightly in the downpour. His wild, guttural cries pierced the storm as he sprinted toward the explosives. Aragorn spotted him, and his voice rose in urgency.

“Togo hon dad, Legolas!” (Bring him down, Legolas!)

Legolas turned swiftly, drawing his bowstring to his cheek. His arrow flew true, striking the berserker in the shoulder. The beast barely stumbled, his resolve unshaken.

“Dago hon! Dago hon!” Aragorn cried again, desperation thick in his tone. (Kill him! Kill him!)

Legolas fired again, this time embedding an arrow in the berserker’s other shoulder. But the Uruk snarled defiantly and leaped forward, plunging into the sluice.

The explosion that followed was catastrophic. Fire and stone erupted outward in a deafening roar. The Deeping Wall crumbled, massive sections falling away into the water below. The ground shuddered violently as masonry rained down upon the defenders. Water from the Deep surged through the breach, sweeping away bodies and debris alike.

The force of the blast sent Aragorn sprawling, his head striking the stone as he fell unconscious. Nearby, Gimli was struck by flying rubble and crumpled to the ground, dazed. From the caves, the frightened cries of women and children echoed, their terror growing as the sound of the explosion reached them.

Through the breach in the wall, the Uruks poured like a dark flood. Among them came a monstrous battering ram, carried by massive Uruk-hai, and aimed directly at the Main Gate. Théoden, regaining his wits, called out to his men.

“Brace the gate!”

The soldiers rushed to obey, pressing their backs against the timbers as others hurled rocks and spears at the attackers. Still, the battering ram struck with terrible force, shaking the entire gate.

“Hold them! Stand firm!” Théoden bellowed, his voice rising over the storm and the clash of steel.

Amidst the chaos, Aragorn groaned and stirred, clutching at his head as he forced himself upright. On the wall, Gimli shook himself free of debris, his sharp eyes scanning the carnage below. He spotted Aragorn struggling to rise and shouted, “Aragorn!”

Without hesitation, Gimli leaped from the wall, landing with a tremendous splash in the water below. He waded into the tide of Uruks, his axe swinging furiously. Each strike was met with resistance, but the dwarf pressed on, defiant as ever.

“Gimli!” Aragorn cried, alarmed as he watched the dwarf disappear beneath a press of bodies. He turned sharply to the elves still holding position on the wall. “Hado i philinn!” (Release arrows!)

The elves responded swiftly, their arrows raining down upon the advancing Uruks, cutting through their ranks. Aragorn wasted no time and raised his sword high. “Herio!” he commanded. (Charge!)

With a battle cry, he led the charge into the fray, the elves surging behind him in a gleaming wave. They clashed with the Uruks in the water-filled breach, their swords flashing in the rain.

On the wall, Legolas saw the chaos below and seized a fallen Uruk shield. Without hesitation, he leaped onto it, sliding down the stone steps in a graceful arc. As he descended, he fired arrows with unerring precision, striking down attackers even as the shield carried him into the thick of the battle. At the bottom, he flipped the shield into the air, sending it hurtling into the chest of an advancing Uruk.

Gimli, submerged beneath the water, finally surfaced, gasping for air. Before he could fully regain his footing, Rían appeared, cutting down an advancing Uruk with a swift stroke of her blade. She reached out and grabbed Gimli, hauling him to his feet.

“Come on, Master Dwarf!” she shouted, her voice fierce but steady. “This isn’t your time to drown!”

Gimli coughed and spluttered but managed a grin. “Aye, lass, but if it were to, I’d prefer a pint in hand!”

Not far from them, Faramir fought valiantly, his bow a blur as he loosed arrow after arrow into the oncoming horde. His sharp eyes scanned the battlefield, ensuring Rían and the others were still standing amidst the chaos. When an Uruk came too close, he dropped his bow and unsheathed his sword, dispatching the foe with swift efficiency.

High above, Théoden stood on the Hornburg wall, his face set in grim determination as he shouted down to Aragorn, his voice carrying over the chaos.

“Aragorn! Fall back to the Keep! Get your men out of there!”

Aragorn, his sword cutting down an advancing Uruk, turned and bellowed, “Nan Barad! Nan Barad!” (To the Keep! Pull back to the Keep!) His voice rang out with authority, and he looked up toward the top of the wall. “Haldir, nan Barad!” (Haldir, to the Keep!)

Haldir heard the call and nodded, motioning to the elves still fighting atop the wall. “Nan Barad!” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. The elven warriors began their retreat in disciplined order, their long blades flashing as they fought to keep the Uruks at bay.

Haldir remained atop the wall, ensuring his warriors were clear. His blade flashed in a deadly arc, cutting down an advancing Uruk. “Nan Barad!” he called again, urging the last of his kin toward safety.

But then, as he turned to follow, a towering Uruk charged him, its jagged blade plunging into his stomach. Haldir froze, his hand instinctively clutching at the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark against his rain-soaked armor. Another Uruk came from behind, driving a second blade into his back.

From below, Aragorn saw Haldir falter, his golden hair gleaming even in the rain. “Haldir!” he shouted, his voice raw with anguish.

Aragorn fought his way through the press of Uruks, his sword a whirlwind of motion. He climbed the broken wall, leaping over rubble and cutting down enemies with ferocious precision. At last, he reached Haldir, who had fallen to his knees amidst the bodies of his slain kin. The elf’s gaze lingered on the lifeless forms around him, and a haunting stillness filled the air, as if time itself mourned.

Aragorn caught Haldir as he collapsed, holding him close. “Haldir…” Aragorn whispered, pressing a hand to his own chest and then to the elf’s. But Haldir’s eyes closed, and his spirit passed. Aragorn gently laid him down, his face grief-stricken.

Meanwhile, at the gate, the Uruks battered against the timbers with their massive ram. The gate shuddered with each impact, and a splintering crack heralded the opening of a hole. Through it, the Uruks fired their crossbows, bolts tearing into the defenders on the other side. Men fell, crying out as they collapsed, but the others held firm.

“Brace the gate!” a soldier shouted, rallying his comrades.

“Hold them!” another cried, even as the ram struck again, shaking the entire gatehouse.

Théoden, standing atop the Hornburg wall, turned to Gamling and the other captains at his side. His face was pale but resolute. “To the gate. Draw your swords!”

The king led the charge down to the gate, his blade drawn as they reached the barricades. They pushed against the Uruks trying to force their way through, swords and spears flashing in the dim light.

Faramir was there, his bow now set aside as he fought with his sword. Blood streaked his face, but his strikes were swift and precise. He fought alongside the men bracing the gate, urging them to hold fast. “Stay firm!” he called, parrying a blow and countering with a strike that felled an Uruk.

Nearby, Rían was a whirlwind of motion, her blade cutting through the attackers with deadly grace. Her grey eyes blazed with defiance as she stood shoulder to shoulder with the men. When an Uruk forced its way through the barricade, she was the first to meet it, her sword driving through its chest. “Hold the line!” she shouted, her voice rising over the clash of steel.

The gate shuddered again, and Théoden grunted in pain as a long spear found its mark, piercing his arm. Gamling was at his side in an instant, pulling him back. “Make way!” Gamling shouted, dragging Théoden to safety. “We cannot hold much longer!”

Theoden, clutching his wounded arm, looked grim but defiant. “Brace the gate!” he ordered, his voice unwavering despite his injury.

Aragorn appeared, rallying the remaining soldiers. He placed a hand on Théoden’s arm, nodding to him with silent respect before plunging back into the fight.

“How long do you need?” Aragorn shouted over the chaos.

“As long as you can give me!” Théoden replied, gripping his sword tightly as Gamling bandaged his wound.

Aragorn turned, spotting Gimli he grabbed his friend and pushed him towards a side passage  “Come Gimli!” he called, his tone urgent.

The men surged forward again, holding the gate as best they could. Théoden, regaining his strength, called out, “Timbers! Brace the gate!”

Théoden stood amidst the din, his voice rising above the clamor of orders and the pounding of boots.

“Shore up the door!” he commanded, gesturing with his sword to the men hauling beams of wood and heavy crates toward the Gate.

“Make way!” shouted a soldier, pushing past with an armful of timber.

“Follow me to the barricade!” cried another, motioning for his comrades to reinforce the failing door.

“Watch our backs!” a voice rang out as more men piled into the room, carrying whatever they could find to fortify the entrance.

“Throw another one over here!” a soldier called, pointing to a weak spot in the barricade.

“Higher!” Théoden urged, his face lined with determination. His voice was steel, his presence unyielding as he rallied his men.

Rían fought alongside the men bracing the Gate, her grey eyes sharp as lightning in the storm. Her blade flashed in the torchlight as she cut down an Uruk that had forced its way into the barricade. Blood spattered her face, but she pressed on, her movements swift and deliberate.

“Hold the line!” she shouted, her voice clear and commanding. The men around her rallied, emboldened by her fearlessness.

Beside her, Faramir worked with relentless efficiency, his swordsmanship precise and deadly. Each strike was a calculated movement, cutting down foes with a grace that belied the brutality of the moment. His dark blonde hair clung to his face, and his breaths came hard and fast, but he held his ground.

“They’re coming through!” Faramir warned, glancing at Rían.

“Then we meet them here,” she replied, gripping her sword tighter. Her voice was steady, but her heart pounded in her chest.

At the Gate, Théoden peered through a narrow gap, his face pale as he called to Aragorn. “Gimli! Aragorn! Get out of there!”

Aragorn and Gimli turned toward him just as an Uruk surged forward, grabbing them both in its iron grip. Théoden disappeared behind the barricade as the gap was filled, leaving the two companions to fend for themselves.

High above, Legolas saw their plight. Without hesitation, he grabbed a length of rope and tied it off, leaning precariously over the wall. “Aragorn!” he called, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Aragorn reached for the rope with one hand, his other arm wrapped firmly around Gimli. The dwarf grunted in protest, but Aragorn held fast as the two were hoisted up the wall. Legolas and a nearby soldier strained against the weight, pulling them to safety.

More ladders slammed against the walls, each carrying a deadly burden of Uruk-hai. Legolas, without missing a beat, fired two arrows in quick succession, felling the leading climbers before turning to assist Aragorn and Gimli over the parapet.

Inside the Hornburg, Théoden issued another command, his voice echoing through the Keep. “Pull everybody back! Pull them back!”

Gamling, bloodied but determined, took up the call. “Fall back! Fall back!”

“They’ve broken through!” Théoden shouted, his tone urgent but controlled. “The castle is breached. Retreat!”

The sound of the Gate finally giving way was deafening. The Uruk-hai poured through, their guttural cries filling the air as they surged into the Hornburg.

“Fall back!” Gamling cried, herding the men toward the inner Keep.

“Retreat!” Théoden ordered again, motioning for the last of the defenders to flee.

Men hurried inside, their faces grim with the knowledge that the outer defenses had fallen. Aragorn and Rían ran among them, shouting for stragglers to hurry.

“Hurry! Inside! Get them inside!” Aragorn urged, his voice cutting through the panic.

“Into the Keep!” Gamling echoed, directing the men toward safety.

Legolas, standing his ground at the rear, fired a final shot, releasing two arrows in rapid succession before turning and sprinting for the Keep.

***

Daylight broke over Helm’s Deep, casting long shadows across the broken battlements and bloodied fields. The banners of Saruman flew above the Hornburg, stark and defiant: black fields emblazoned with the White Hand. Below, the Uruk-hai surged forward, their relentless battering ram pounding against the great doors of the keep. The men inside scrambled to reinforce the barricade, sweat and desperation mingling on their faces.

Théoden stood at the heart of the chaos, his eyes vacant as he surveyed the scene. “The fortress is taken,” he said softly, his voice heavy with despair. “It is over.”

Aragorn, carrying a heavy timber alongside Legolas, turned to Théoden sharply. “You said this fortress would never fall while your men defend it,” he said, his voice rising with urgency. “They still defend it. They have died defending it.”

From deep within the caves, the cries of women and children echoed, each thud of the battering ram bringing fresh terror.

“They are breaking in!” a woman shouted, her voice trembling.

“They’re past the door!” cried another, clutching her child close.

Aragorn turned back to Théoden, his piercing gaze demanding an answer. “Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves?”

Théoden said nothing, his gaze fixed on the floor. Aragorn stepped closer, his voice insistent. “Is there no other way?”

Gamling answered grimly. “There is one passage. It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far. The Uruk-hai are too many.”

The thunderous pounding of the ram continued, each blow shaking the very foundations of the keep.

Aragorn placed a firm hand on Gamling’s shoulder. “Tell the women and children to make for the mountain pass. And barricade the entrance behind them.”

Théoden, still staring as if lost in memory, murmured, “So much death.” He looked up at Aragorn, his expression a mix of grief and bewilderment. “What can Men do against such reckless hate?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the relentless battering of the doors. Then Aragorn straightened, his face resolute. “Ride out with me,” he said.

Théoden turned to him, surprise flickering in his eyes. “For death and glory?”

“For Rohan,” Aragorn replied, his voice steady. “For your people.”

Behind them, Gimli, still clutching his axe, glanced toward the small sliver of dawn visible through the narrow windows. “The sun is rising,” he said.

At that, Aragorn’s expression changed. He looked to the east, and Gandalf’s voice echoed in his mind: “Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn… look to the east.”

Théoden, as if waking from a dream, nodded slowly. “Yes… yes. The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep… one last time.”

“Yes!” Gimli cried, already heading toward the great horn tower.

The great doors began to splinter, and Théoden turned to Aragorn, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let this be the hour when we draw swords together.”

The great horn of Helm Hammerhand rang out, deep and resonant, a sound that seemed to shake the very stones of the keep. Théoden mounted his horse, his silver armor gleaming in the faint light of dawn. Beside him, Aragorn mounted his own steed, sword drawn and eyes blazing with determination. Legolas, his long knives sheathed for now, nimbly climbed onto Arod. Faramir and Rían joined them, their steeds pawing the ground in eager anticipation. 

Théoden raised his sword high as the great horn of Helm Hammerhand roared once more through the battered halls of the Hornburg. Its deep, echoing cry called out to the hearts of the defenders, igniting a spark of defiance in their weary souls. Mounted atop his steed, Théoden sat tall, clad in shining mail that glimmered in the faint light of dawn. His voice rose above the tumult, a cry of fury and resolve:

“Fell deeds, awake. Now for wrath, now for ruin, and a red dawn!”

Aragorn, riding beside him, drew his sword with a ringing hiss, the blade glinting with cold fire. Legolas, already astride Arod, turned his sharp gaze toward the shattered doors, where the Uruk-hai surged forward like a tide of darkness.

Theoden placed his helmet firmly upon his head, the golden crest catching the pale light of the rising sun. With a swift kick to his steed’s flank, he urged his horse forward. “Forth Eorlingas!” he cried.

The charge began. The thunder of hooves filled the hall as Théoden, Aragorn, Legolas, and the rest of the mounted defenders surged through the broken gates, their weapons cutting a path through the Uruk-hai. The air was thick with the cries of battle and the clash of steel.

Rían rode at Théoden’s right, her grey eyes sharp and steady as she guided her steed with the ease of long practice. Her horse moved with an almost unnatural grace, weaving through the chaos with precision. Her blade sang as it met the flesh and iron of the enemy, each strike deliberate and unerring.

Faramir, riding just behind her, glanced toward her as they cut through the throng. For a moment, the battlefield seemed to fall away. He watched as Rían leaned into the movement of her horse, the two moving as one, as though the steed could sense her every thought and intent. She looked born to the saddle, her movements fluid and commanding, her presence a force as natural and untamed as the wind over the plains.

In that instant, Faramir understood. This was why she preferred to ride, why she had always chosen the freedom of the horse over the heavy press of foot soldiers. Here, astride her steed, she was unbound—an extension of the beast itself, her blade a swift and deadly promise.

Rían caught his glance, her lips curving into a faint smile even as she swung her blade to dispatch an Uruk climbing toward Théoden. “Focus, Captain!” she called over the din, her voice clear and steady.

Faramir nodded, his own resolve strengthening as he turned his sword against the nearest foe. The sight of her, fierce and unyielding, kindled something deep within him—a determination to fight harder, to protect this fleeting moment of light amid the darkness.

They burst out onto the causeway, where the mass of Uruk-hai stood like a black ocean, countless and unrelenting. Gimli, stationed at the great horn tower, sounded the horn once more, its resonant cry sending shivers through even the bravest hearts. The riders plunged forward, their swords flashing as they carved through the enemy ranks.

Aragorn, at Théoden’s side, felt his breath catch. A light, pure and white, broke through the gloom. He looked up, his eyes widening as he beheld Gandalf atop the hill to the east. The wizard sat astride Shadowfax, the great horse rearing with a cry that seemed to pierce the very heavens.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn whispered, a surge of hope coursing through him.

Theoden pulled his horse to a halt, raising his eyes to the hilltop. There stood Gandalf, his staff raised high, its light illuminating the battlefield. His voice rang out, clear and commanding:

“Theoden King stands alone.”

But another voice answered. From behind Gandalf rode Éomer, his golden hair streaming in the wind as he raised his sword. “Not alone!” he cried. “Rohirrim!”

Behind him rode the Riders of Rohan, their banners streaming as they crested the hill. The sound of their charge was a thunderclap, the earth trembling beneath the hooves of their horses.

“The king!” Éomer called, his voice carrying across the field.

“The king!” the riders echoed, their cry a wave of defiance.

“The king!” Théoden murmured, his heart swelling as he raised his sword once more. “Éomer.”

“To the king!” Éomer shouted, and the Riders surged forward, their steeds plunging down the steep hill toward the waiting Uruk-hai.

The Uruk-hai faltered, their dark eyes fixed on the brilliant light of Gandalf’s staff. As the wizard rode forward, he unleashed a blinding radiance, a white fire that burned away the shadows. The front ranks of the Uruk-hai reeled, their spears falling from their hands.

The Riders of Rohan, with Éomer and Gandalf at their head, crashed into the enemy ranks. Spears broke against shields, swords bit into flesh, and the tide of battle turned.

Rían and Faramir, their mounts swift and sure, joined the charge. Rían’s blade was a blur, her horse carrying her through the throng with unerring precision. Faramir fought at her side, his strikes measured and purposeful. Together, they pressed forward, driving the enemy back.

Gandalf’s light spread across the field, a beacon of hope. And as the sun rose fully, its golden rays illuminating the battlefield, the defenders of Helm’s Deep rallied. The cries of victory rose above the din, a song of triumph against the darkness.

Chapter Text

The Uruk-hai, once so relentless in their assault, were now a broken tide, fleeing in chaotic waves from the battlements of Helm’s Deep. The dawn light cast long shadows over the field, where the black banners of Saruman lay trampled beneath the feet of the victors. Blood and ruin stained the ground, but the cries of the enemy were no longer those of attack—they were shrill and desperate, the wails of defeat.

Théoden spurred his horse forward, its hooves pounding over the torn earth. At his side rode Gandalf, a glimmer of light even in the morning sun, his white robes billowing as Shadowfax leapt forward with an energy that seemed unearthly. Aragorn followed close, his sword gleaming at his side, his eyes fixed on the retreating foe. Legolas rode behind, his quiver emptied of arrows.

Rían rode near the edge of the group, her dark hair streaming behind her, the morning breeze catching her cloak and lifting it like a banner. Her horse moved effortlessly over the uneven terrain, its sleek muscles rippling beneath her. To her left, Faramir kept pace, his face a mask of calm focus. His eyes darted toward her briefly, and again he marveled at how natural she looked in the saddle, her posture a seamless blend of grace and command. He glanced away quickly, his grip tightening on the reins as they approached the fleeing enemy.

Ahead, the forest loomed, dark and still. It had not been there before. The riders slowed as they neared the edge, their horses uneasy, snorting and tossing their heads. The trees were ancient, their gnarled trunks twisting skyward, their branches interlocking to form a canopy that seemed to drink the light of the rising sun. A strange silence emanated from the wood, broken only by the distant, panicked cries of the Uruk-hai as they fled into its depths.

Eomer, leading the Riders of Rohan, suddenly wheeled his horse around, raising his arm to halt the advance. His face was pale beneath his helm, his eyes fixed on the dark forest ahead. He raised his voice, clear and commanding:

“Stay out of the forest! Keep away from the trees!”

The company drew up their reins, their horses stamping nervously as they obeyed the marshal’s warning. Théoden frowned, his gaze shifting from Eomer to the unnatural forest. “What is this sorcery?” he muttered, his voice low.

The Uruk-hai continued their headlong flight, their numbers swallowed by the shadow of the trees. And then it began. The forest came alive. The trees groaned, their branches creaking as they moved, though no wind stirred. Their roots writhed, twisting like serpents beneath the soil. What had seemed an impenetrable wall of wood now surged forward, closing around the fleeing Uruk-hai.

A scream tore through the air, then another, each one more chilling than the last. The men and riders stood frozen, their faces pale as they listened. The sounds of battle returned—not the clash of steel, but a strange and terrible noise: the crack of limbs, the groan of splitting wood, and the agonized howls of the Uruk-hai.

Rían leaned forward in her saddle, her grey eyes narrowing as she studied the strange movement of the trees. “The forest is no mere wood,” she said softly, as though speaking to herself. “It remembers.”

Legolas, beside her, nodded grimly. “The Huorns,” he murmured, a note of awe in his voice. “Long have they dwelt in Fangorn, but now they have come to make war. This is the vengeance of the earth.”

Faramir tightened his grip on his sword hilt, his gaze shifting between Rían and the ominous forest. He felt a chill creep up his spine as he listened to the dying cries of the enemy. There was no honor in this slaughter, no clean victory to be claimed. Yet, in his heart, he understood. The Uruk-hai had defiled the land with fire and blood. Now the land itself answered.

Théoden turned his horse, addressing his men. “Hold here,” he commanded. “We do not follow. Let the forest deal with them.”

The riders murmured their assent, relief mingling with unease. They watched as the last of the Uruk-hai vanished into the shadowed depths, their cries fading into the eerie stillness that followed.

***

The sun shone brightly in the sky, its golden light spilling over the battlefield and bathing the ruins of Helm’s Deep in a somber glow. The sounds of battle had faded, leaving only the cries of the wounded and the distant hum of wind through the ravaged hills. Among the chaos of men and horses regrouping, Rían sat astride her black mare, her posture weary but steady. Blood and dirt marred her face and tunic, but her grey eyes remained sharp, scanning the field for any remaining signs of danger.

She adjusted her grip on the reins, her fingers aching from the battle’s relentless demands. Her sword hung loosely at her side, its once-bright steel dulled with the blood of orcs. Yet despite her exhaustion, there was a quiet satisfaction in her bearing, a sense of duty fulfilled.

The sound of hoofbeats drew her attention, and she turned to see Éomer riding toward her, his golden hair disheveled, his armor streaked with grime. His warhorse was lathered with sweat, its breath heavy, but both horse and rider moved with the proud grace of victory.

“Lady,” Éomer called as he approached, his voice carrying the warmth of admiration. “You fight as fiercely as one of the Riders of the Mark.”

Rían straightened slightly in her saddle, a faint smile curving her lips despite the weariness in her eyes. “No my lord,” she replied, inclining her head respectfully. “I fight not as one of Rohan, but as a Ranger of the North. Surely there are enough songs and tales to speak of the skill of my kindred with blade and bow.”

Éomer laughed, the sound a rare note of levity amid the grim aftermath of the battle. “Indeed, there are,” he said, his eyes bright with respect. “But few of those tales speak of a lady wielding sword and steel as if born to them. You honor your kin with your deeds today.”

From a distance, Faramir watched the exchange, his own horse shifting beneath him. His grey eyes lingered on Rían, taking in the way she held herself, proud despite the weight of battle. Her dark hair, disheveled and streaked with dust, framed her face in windswept tendrils, and there was a fire in her expression that even exhaustion could not dim.

Though his body ached and his mind swam with fatigue, a faint smile touched his lips. The sight of her, speaking with Éomer as if she were his equal in rank and skill, stirred something in him—a quiet admiration, and something deeper he dared not name.

Éomer, too, seemed captivated by her presence. He reached out and clasped her forearm in a gesture of camaraderie. He said something to her that Faramir couldn’t quite hear.

As Éomer rode off to see to his men, Rían turned her gaze to the horizon, the faintest trace of a smile lingering on her lips. Faramir nudged his horse closer, though he made no move to speak. He simply watched her, the sun casting her figure in a golden glow, her silhouette stark against the bruised sky.

In the quiet of his heart, Faramir marveled at her—this woman who moved with the strength of a warrior and yet carried the weight of her past with such quiet grace. For a moment, he let himself imagine that perhaps, one day, he might earn the right to stand beside her, not just as a comrade, but as something more.

***

The path back to the keep was a tumultuous sea of noise and motion. Healers bustled between the wounded, their faces drawn with urgency as they barked orders or offered quiet reassurances. Families combed through the chaos, calling out names, their cries heavy with desperation or tinged with relief. The clash of swords had given way to a different kind of clamor—one filled with the weight of survival, grief, and hope intermingling in the aftermath of battle.

Rían moved through the throng, her steps swift yet purposeful, her eyes scanning the crowd. Her dark hair was loose and wind-tossed, strands clinging to her dirt-smudged face. Her heart hammered in her chest—not from exhaustion, but from a growing dread that something might have happened to him. She pushed through the gathered men and women, ignoring the ache in her limbs, until at last, she spotted him.

Faramir stood near the steps leading up to the keep, his figure slightly slouched with weariness but steady as he helped a wounded soldier to his feet. His tunic was torn and bloodied, though whether the blood was his own or another’s, Rían could not tell. Relief flooded through her at the sight of him alive and standing.

“Faramir!” Rían called, her voice breaking slightly, raw with a mix of relief and desperation. She had not meant to call his name so loudly, but the sight of him—alive, standing amidst the aftermath—unraveled the control she’d clung to throughout the chaos.

He turned at once, his grey eyes locking onto hers with a flicker of surprise. Dust and blood marred his face, his hair clinging to his brow in damp strands, yet the quiet warmth in his gaze softened the grimness of his features. For a moment, the clamor of the battlefield’s aftermath faded between them. Time seemed to slow.

Before he could utter a word, Rían was upon him. She threw herself into his arms with a force that nearly knocked him back a step, her momentum colliding with the sturdy wall of his chest. The shock of her embrace sent a jolt through him—an unexpected warmth that cut through the chill of exhaustion and grief. He hesitated for the briefest moment, his mind catching up with his body, before he tightened his hold on her. His arms wrapped around her slender frame, firm but gentle, as though afraid she might disappear if he held her too tightly.

Rían buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in—earth, blood and sweat mingled with the faint scent of leather and steel. Her own breathing came in short, uneven gasps as though the relief of seeing him alive had finally allowed her body to feel the full weight of her fear. He could feel her trembling against him, her fingers moving with desperate intent over his shoulders and chest, searching for wounds. The urgency of her touch sent a strange heat coursing through him—part comfort, part longing, and part something deeper, something he dared not name.

Faramir felt the heat of her palms through the fabric of his tunic, and his heart quickened in response. The battle had left him weary in both body and spirit, but her presence stirred something within him — a spark of warmth that chased away the cold shadow of war. Her touch lingered longer than necessary, and he found himself unwilling to move, unwilling to break the fragile connection between them.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice tight with worry, each word carrying the weight of all she could not say.

His hands rested lightly on her back, their warmth seeping through the worn fabric of her cloak. “I am unharmed,” he replied softly, though his voice betrayed a quiet concern that was not for himself. His gaze searched her face, noting the streaks of dirt and blood, the weariness in her eyes. “What of you? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head but did not speak immediately. Her eyes roamed over him with the same urgency her hands had moments before, taking in the bruises and cuts that marred his features. “You are bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, though he could not look away from her. He was struck by how fierce she looked, even in her disheveled state. Her grey eyes burned with intensity, her dark hair falling in wild waves around her face. She was disheveled and battle-worn, yet to him, she had never looked more beautiful.

Her hands stilled as they reached his face, her thumb brushing over a shallow cut on his cheek. The touch was delicate, almost hesitant, as though she feared causing him pain. Her thumb lingered, tracing the edges of the wound with a tenderness that made his breath hitch.  He had not felt the wound until now, but the sensation of her touch was both soothing and electrifying.

Faramir’s heart thudded against his ribs as he watched her. Her dark hair, tangled and windswept, framed her face, and her grey eyes—so often guarded—were now filled with something raw and unspoken. He felt a pang in his chest, an ache that had nothing to do with the battle. She was so close, her warmth and presence weaving through his senses, grounding him in a way that made him ache to stay in this moment forever.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Rían remained close, her head resting against his shoulder, her fingers brushing lightly along the edge of his jaw. The sensation was both soothing and electrifying, a contrast that tangled his thoughts into knots. Her fingers lingered,  with a care that made his heart skip a beat. She was so close, so impossibly close, that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. It was almost too much to bear.

 She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her other palm, and it was that feeling—calm, reassuring—that finally steadied her own racing pulse. Yet there was another rhythm beneath it, deeper and quieter, that she dared not name.

The scent of him—earthy and rugged, touched with the faintest trace of something warm and familiar—wrapped around her like a shield against the chaos surrounding them. She closed her eyes briefly, willing the storm of emotions within her to quiet. Yet the temptation, fierce and consuming, rose despite her resolve. The urge to lift her head, to close the distance between them, to feel his lips against hers—it burned within her, and she cursed herself for the weakness.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled back. Her hands lingered on his arms for a moment, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as though reluctant to let go. When she finally stepped away, the absence of his touch left a cold ache that startled her.

Faramir’s heart raced, though he told himself it was the aftermath of battle, the rush of relief at seeing her safe. But a deeper part of him knew the truth—knew that the warmth spreading through him had little to do with relief and everything to do with her. The way she fit against him, the way her hands lingered on his chest as if she could not bear to let go—it was intoxicating, and it terrified him.

He did not fully understand what he felt for her, but he knew it was dangerous. He had spent years guarding his heart, shielding it behind walls as unyielding as the stone of Minas Tirith. Yet now, in the space of a single embrace, those walls felt as though they might crumble.

The absence of her warmth left him cold, and he found himself resisting the urge to pull her back. She looked at him for a moment longer, her eyes searching his, as though trying to decipher the unspoken emotions that hung between them.

Faramir’s eyes remained on her, his expression unreadable. Yet there was something in his gaze—a flicker of longing, of unspoken emotion—that mirrored the tumult in her heart.

“Rían,” he began, his voice low and steady, though it carried an edge of hesitation. “You needn’t—”

“I had to make sure you were alive,” she interrupted, her words spilling out before he could continue. Her voice trembled slightly, and she cursed herself for it. “You have a habit of throwing yourself into danger. Someone has to make sure you come out of it in one piece.”

A faint smile touched his lips at her words, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And yet, it seems you do the same,” he replied, a note of warmth softening his tone. “Should I start worrying for you now?”

Rían let out a quiet laugh, though it held little humor. “I think we’ve both earned the right to worry after today.”

Faramir chuckled softly, his hand brushing against hers as he gestured toward the keep. “Come,” he said gently. “The air  grows colder, and you look as though you could use some rest. We’ve both done enough for one day.”

As they began to walk side by side toward the keep, their steps slow and deliberate, the unspoken tension lingered between them. Words of gratitude, of concern, and of something deeper remained unspoken, but they walked in companionable silence, each carrying the weight of what they dared not say.

***

The forest loomed dark and vast, its canopy casting dappled shadows over the company as they rode cautiously beneath its boughs. Gandalf led the way, his eyes keen and ever-watchful, the lines of worry etched deep into his face. Beside him rode Théoden, his gaze hard and resolute, while Éomer kept a vigilant watch on the flanks. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Rían, and Faramir followed in a silent procession, their senses heightened by the eerie stillness of the woods. The sound of hooves against the soft earth was the only noise, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo the tension in the air.

The forest began to thin, and as they emerged from the treeline, the ruins of Isengard spread before them, a shattered monument to the folly of Saruman. The once-mighty towers lay in ruin, the black stone cracked and crumbling, overtaken by the slow encroachment of nature. Smoke curled lazily from scattered fires, and the remnants of a great flood still glistened in the sun, reflecting the sky in stagnant pools.

A distant sound of laughter drew their attention, light and carefree amidst the desolation. Gandalf’s brow furrowed, and he raised a hand, signaling the company to halt. From their vantage point, they could see two small figures seated amidst the wreckage, puffing contentedly on their pipes and surrounded by the remnants of a hearty meal.

Merry took a long drag from his pipe, the fragrant smoke curling upwards. “It’s good,” he declared, his voice carrying a tone of satisfied indulgence. “Definitely from the Shire. Longbottom Leaf, if I’m not mistaken.”

Pippin nodded eagerly, a blissful smile on his face as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “Aye,” he agreed, his eyes half-lidded with contentment. “I feel as if I’m back at the Green Dragon. A mug of ale in hand, feet up on a settle after a hard day’s work.”

Merry chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Only,” he added, a sly grin spreading across his face, “you’ve never done a hard day’s work in your life, Pippin.”

Pippin laughed, unbothered by the jab. “True enough,” he conceded, raising his mug in a mock salute. “And all the better for it, I say!”

The sound of approaching horses drew their gaze, and both hobbits rose, albeit somewhat unsteadily, to greet the arriving company. Merry, ever the more ceremonious of the two, straightened his jacket and extended his arms in a gesture of welcome.

“Welcome, my lords and lady,” he called out, his eyes twinkling as he added the latter with a nod toward Rían. “To Isengard!”

Gimli, dismounting with a grunt, strode forward, his expression a mix of exasperation and relief. “You young rascals!” he bellowed. “A merry hunt you’ve led us on, and now we find you feasting and smoking as if the world weren’t in peril!”

Rían, stepping down from her steed, cast a weary but affectionate glance at the hobbits. “We ran after you for days,” she said, her voice carrying a note of fond reproach, “and Gimli nearly collapsed from exhaustion more times than I can count.”

Gimli huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I did no such thing,” he protested, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement.

Pippin, oblivious to the scolding, continued with his sandwich, speaking around a mouthful of bread and meat. “We are sitting on a field of victory,” he announced grandly, “enjoying a few well-earned comforts. The salted pork is particularly good.”

Gimli’s eyes lit up at the mention of salted pork, and he took a step closer. “Salted pork!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with both surprise and eagerness.

Gandalf dismounted, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and admonition. “Hobbits!” he said, his tone a blend of exasperation and affection.

Merry, sensing the shift in mood, raised his hands in a placating gesture. “We’re under orders,” he explained, his voice taking on a more serious note. “Treebeard has taken over the management of Isengard. He bade us make ourselves comfortable while he attends to matters of import.”

“Enough of this idleness,” Gandalf said firmly, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Merry, Pippin, you’ve had your fill of comforts. Now it’s time to ride. We must go to Orthanc.”

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances, their carefree demeanor faltering under the wizard’s gaze. Pippin looked longingly at his half-eaten sandwich, but Merry, ever the quicker to adapt, gave a resigned nod.

“Very well, Gandalf,” Merry said, dusting off his hands. “But I must say, it’s been a rather pleasant interlude.”

Pippin sighed, picking up his pipe and sandwich as he stood. “Back to business, then,” he muttered, though the twinkle in his eye suggested he wasn’t entirely unhappy about it.

Gandalf gestured to Shadowfax, who stood nearby, his silvery coat gleaming in the dappled light. “Come, climb up. We have no time to waste.”

Merry and Pippin made their way to the great horse, their short legs scrambling up onto its broad back with some assistance from Legolas, who chuckled softly at their antics. Once seated, Pippin clung to the mane, the hobbits looking slightly less confident than they had a moment before.

“Hold on tightly,” Gandalf advised as he mounted ahead of them, his voice carrying a note of warning. “Shadowfax will not slow for your sake.”

With a nudge, Shadowfax leapt forward, the other horses following suit as the company rode swiftly toward Orthanc. The wind rushed past, carrying with it the scent of the forest and the promise of the challenges yet to come.

***

The riders approached Orthanc with a cautious reverence, their steeds moving in measured strides as the towering black spire loomed ever larger. The air was thick with an ancient weight, as if the land itself remembered the deeds of the past and held its breath in anticipation of what was to come. Gandalf led the company, his white cloak billowing gently in the breeze, his gaze set firmly on the foreboding tower. Beside him rode Aragorn, his face grim, eyes sharp as they scanned the horizon. Théoden and Éomer followed close, their expressions mirroring the weariness of war and the burden of leadership.

As they neared the gates, the ground seemed to tremble beneath the steady cadence of their horses’ hooves. The shadow of Orthanc stretched long across the desolate landscape, broken only by the small figure of Treebeard, who stood like an ancient sentinel before the ruin.

“Hoom, young master Gandalf,” Treebeard rumbled, his deep voice resonating like the groan of old wood. “I am glad you have come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master, but there is a wizard to manage here, locked in his tower.”

Aragorn’s gaze lifted to the pinnacle of Orthanc, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “Show yourself,” he called, his voice steady and commanding.

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed with caution. “Be careful,” he warned. “Even in defeat, Saruman is dangerous.”

Gimli, ever the practical one, shifted restlessly in his saddle, his fingers tapping against the haft of his axe. “Well then,” he grunted, “let’s just have his head and be done with it.”

Rían, riding close beside Faramir, placed a calming hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “Patience,” she urged softly. “We might yet learn something from Saruman.”

Gandalf nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yes, we need him alive. We need him to talk.”

From the heights of Orthanc, a figure appeared, draped in robes that once gleamed white but now bore the stains of treachery. Saruman’s voice, smooth and insidious, drifted down to them like a serpent’s hiss. “You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden King, and made peace afterward. Can we not take counsel together as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace, you and I?”

Théoden’s face hardened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the reins. His voice, when he spoke, was filled with righteous fury. “We shall have peace… we shall have peace when you answer for the burning of the Westfold and the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace when the lives of the soldiers, whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg, are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows… we shall have peace!”

Saruman sneered, his eyes glinting with malevolence. “Gibbets and crows! Dotard! What do you want, Gandalf Greyhame? Let me guess—the key of Orthanc? Or perhaps the keys of Barad-dûr itself? Along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the five wizards?”

Gandalf’s expression remained inscrutable, his voice calm yet laced with an undercurrent of steel. “Your treachery has already cost many lives. Thousands more are now at risk. But you could save them, Saruman. You were deep in the enemy’s counsel.”

Saruman’s lip curled, and he raised a hand, revealing a dark sphere that pulsed with an ominous light. “So you have come for information,” he mocked. “I have some for you.” He gazed into the palantír, his eyes reflecting its unholy glow. “Something festers in the heart of Middle-earth. Something you have failed to see. But the Great Eye has seen it! Even now, he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon.”

Gandalf rode forward, the weight of his presence palpable. Saruman’s voice turned venomous. “You are all going to die! But you know this, don’t you, Gandalf? You cannot think that this Ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile, crept from the shadows, will never be crowned king.” His gaze flicked to Aragorn, derision dripping from every word. “Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him—those he professes to love! Tell me, what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom? The path you have set him on can only lead to death.”

Gimli’s patience snapped. “I’ve heard enough!” he roared, gripping his axe. “Shoot him! Stick an arrow in his gob!” This time Rían did not protest. 

Legolas reached for an arrow, his bow taut with readiness, but Gandalf raised a hand. “No!” he commanded. “Come down, Saruman, and your life will be spared.”

Saruman laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “Save your pity and your mercy. I have no use for it!” With a swift motion, he directed a bolt of fire at Gandalf, but the wizard stood unharmed, the flames dissipating harmlessly around him.

Gandalf’s voice rang out with the finality of doom. “Saruman… your staff is broken!”

With a shattering crack, Saruman’s staff burst asunder, splintering into fragments that fell to the ground. Behind him, Gríma Wormtongue appeared, his face pale and drawn, his eyes darting between the gathered company and his master.

Théoden leaned forward, his voice filled with an old sorrow. “Gríma! You need not follow him! You were not always as you are now. You were once a man of Rohan. Come down.”

For a moment, Gríma hesitated, a flicker of something—perhaps hope—crossing his face. But Saruman’s voice cut through like a lash. “A man of Rohan? What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs? The victory at Helm’s Deep does not belong to you, Théoden Horse-master. You are a lesser son of greater sires!”

Théoden’s plea was steadfast. “Gríma… come down! Be free of him!”

“Free?” Saruman sneered. “He will never be free!”

With a snarl, Saruman turned to strike Gríma, but the man had already made his choice. With a desperate cry, he plunged a dagger into Saruman’s chest, the blade striking twice. Saruman gasped, stumbling forward, and Legolas loosed his arrow, striking Gríma through the heart. Both fell from the tower, Saruman’s body impaled on the great wheel below, his lifeless form disappearing into the murky waters.

Rían flinched, her hand tightening on the reins. She turned to Faramir, her voice low and somber. “I suppose we shall learn nothing from Saruman after all.”

Gandalf’s gaze lingered on the tower, his expression grave. “Send word to all our allies and to every corner of Middle-earth that still stands free. The enemy moves against us. We need to know where he will strike.”

As Saruman’s body sank beneath the water, the palantír slipped from his grasp, sinking into the depths. Treebeard watched with an ancient sorrow, his voice a low rumble. “The filth of Saruman is washing away. Trees will come back to live here—young trees, wild trees.”

Pippin’s eyes caught the glimmer of the dark orb beneath the surface, and, dismounting quickly, he made his way toward it.

“Pippin!” Aragorn called, a note of warning in his voice.

But Pippin, entranced, reached down, his hand closing around the palantír. For a brief moment, it held his gaze, his eyes widening in horror.

“Bless my bark!” Treebeard exclaimed, startled.

Gandalf strode forward swiftly, his voice sharp. “Peregrin Took! I’ll take that, my lad! Quickly now!”

Pippin, shaken, handed the palantír to Gandalf, who wrapped it carefully in his cloak. The young hobbit watched him with wide eyes, a mixture of awe and trepidation as the wizard turned away, the weight of the orb now a heavy burden in his grasp.

***

As the company rode from the desolate ruins of Isengard, the sky above darkened with the gathering twilight. The fading light bathed the landscape in hues of amber and crimson, casting long shadows across the plains. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of earth and grass, mingling with the distant murmur of the Entwash as it meandered through the rolling hills.

Rían rode beside Faramir, her gaze fixed on the horizon, though her thoughts were far from the fading daylight. Her brow was furrowed, and the silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken worries. The rhythmic cadence of their horses’ hooves on the soft earth provided a steady accompaniment to the procession, but Rían’s mind was troubled, her heart weighed down by the words of Saruman.

She glanced at Faramir, his profile lit by the dying light, his expression solemn and contemplative. The sight of him, steadfast and enduring, offered her a measure of comfort, though it did little to ease the dread that coiled in her chest.

“Faramir,” she began softly, her voice barely above a whisper, so as not to disturb the others. “Do you think Saruman spoke the truth? That Sauron’s attack is imminent?”

Faramir’s gaze shifted to her, his grey eyes meeting hers with a quiet intensity. He considered her question, the weight of it settling over him like a mantle. “Saruman was a creature of deceit,” he replied, his voice low and measured. “Yet even in his lies, there may be a shadow of truth. Sauron’s power grows daily, and his eye is ever watchful. We cannot afford to dismiss the threat.”

Rían nodded, her fingers tightening around the reins. The cool leather bit into her palms, grounding her in the present moment. “I fear for Rohan,” she admitted, her tone tinged with sorrow. “Its people have suffered so much already. Another attack could break them.”

Faramir’s expression softened, a glimmer of understanding in his gaze. “Rohan has weathered many storms,” he said gently. “Its strength lies not just in its walls and swords, but in its people—their resilience, their courage. They will endure, as they always have.”

Rían’s lips pressed into a thin line, her thoughts lingering on the battles yet to come. “And Gondor?” she asked, her voice quieter now, as if speaking the words aloud might summon the danger. “Is it ready for what lies ahead?”

Faramir’s gaze turned forward, his jaw tightening. “Gondor has stood against the shadow for centuries,” he said, though there was a note of weariness in his voice. “But the strength of men is not infinite. We must hold fast, even as the darkness closes in.”

For a moment, they rode in silence, the gravity of their conversation hanging between them. The soft rustling of the wind through the tall grass and the occasional call of a distant bird were the only sounds that punctuated the quiet.

Rían’s thoughts churned, the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily upon her. She turned to Faramir again, her eyes searching his face. “Do you ever wonder,” she began hesitantly, “if we will see the end of this war? If peace will ever return to these lands?”

Faramir’s gaze softened, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. “I do,” he admitted. “For all the darkness that surrounds us, there is still light—faint, perhaps, but present. We fight not just for survival, but for the hope that one day, peace will reign once more.”

Rían’s heart ached at his words, a mixture of longing and determination swelling within her. She allowed herself a small, fleeting smile, finding solace in his quiet strength. “Then we must hold onto that hope,” she said, her voice resolute. “For without it, we are already lost.”

Faramir inclined his head, a solemn promise in his gaze. “We will hold on, Rían. Together.”

As the company pressed on through the deepening dusk, Rían felt a renewed sense of purpose, her fears tempered by the steadfast presence at her side. They rode toward an uncertain future, but in that moment, amidst the gathering shadows, a fragile thread of hope bound them together, weaving light into the fabric of their journey.

Chapter Text

The hall of Meduseld was alive with the sound of laughter and the clinking of mugs as the people of Rohan celebrated their hard-earned victory at Helm’s Deep. The fire in the hearth crackled brightly, casting a warm glow over the faces of the revelers, while the long tables were laden with food and drink. Song filled the air, and the men of Rohan, as well as their guests, basked in the lightness of the moment, savoring the freedom won at great cost.

At one end of the hall, a drinking contest had formed, and the crowd of Rohirrim gathered around the table, their spirits lifted by the merry competition. Éomer stood nearby, his arms crossed, watching with a grin as Gimli and Legolas took their places for the challenge. The contest was simple, but it was no less fierce for it—whoever could drink the most without faltering would be the victor.

Éomer raised his voice to call out the rules with a boisterous laugh. “No pauses!” he shouted, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

He looked at the pair of competitors, both standing tall, each ready to face the other with determination. Gimli’s stout form towered over the tankard in his hand, while Legolas, graceful and poised, seemed unconcerned by the challenge. The laughter of the Rohirrim swelled around them as Gimli swirled his tankard and lifted it to his lips.

Gimli’s deep, rumbling voice rang out as he added, “And no regurgitation!”

The crowd burst into laughter as Gimli drained his tankard in one swift gulp, setting it down with a satisfied grunt.

Legolas watched with a raised eyebrow and a light smile, unfazed by the dwarf’s bravado. “So it’s a drinking game, then?” he asked, his voice as calm as a breeze.

“Aye!” the Rohirrim cheered, their enthusiasm nearly shaking the rafters of the hall.

Gimli grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Last one standing wins,” he said with a hearty chuckle, his eyes already beginning to gleam with mischief.

As the contest continued, the loud cheers and laughter of the Rohirrim reached Rían, who was standing a little to the side, leaning casually against a wooden pillar. She watched the spectacle with a bemused smile, her arms folded loosely across her chest. Her dark eyes twinkled with amusement as she surveyed the scene before her.

It wasn’t long before Éomer, his gaze flickering over the crowd, noticed her standing there. His lips curled into a grin as he made his way over to her, his stride confident and easy.

“Well met, Lady Rían,” he greeted her, his voice warm with a hint of teasing. “Who do you think will win—your elf friend or the dwarf?”

Rían’s lips curled into a sly smile as she glanced toward the pair of competitors. She leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice so that only Éomer could hear, and replied with a playful tone, “An elf and a dwarf? The matter of victory is obvious, don’t you think? One of them has probably been drinking for centuries.”

Éomer let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing through the hall. He glanced at the two competitors once more, clearly appreciating Rían’s sharp wit.

“A fair point,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “Though I dare say, the dwarf seems to have a bit of an advantage, with that—how shall I say it—sturdy constitution.”

She raised an eyebrow, her smile never fading. “Indeed. But I don’t think itwill help him much against the elf.” she continued, her tone light with mirth. “Although please don’t tell Gimli I said that.”

Éomer chuckled, clearly impressed with her insight. He looked her over with a knowing glint in his eyes. “Your secret is safe. You have a sharp mind, Lady Rían. A worthy companion in battle and wit alike.”

Rían gave a soft laugh, raising a hand to brush a lock of hair away from her face, and shook her head. “Ah, my lord, don’t flatter me so. I’ve had more than enough of battle and drink to last me a lifetime. I leave the competition to the true experts.”

Éomer, still grinning, stepped a little closer to Rían, his presence warm but persistent. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You know, Lady Rían,” he said, his voice dropping a touch lower, “I must admit, I find myself quite taken by your wit. It’s a rare thing, to find someone who can keep up with me in conversation and jest. Perhaps, when the night is quieter and the fires have dimmed, we could share a tankard together? Maybe even talk of things other than battles and wine.” He gave a charming smile, his intentions unmistakable.

Rían raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharpening as she studied him. She took a small step back, the teasing glint still in her eyes, but there was a firm edge to her tone when she spoke.

“My lord Éomer, I appreciate the offer, truly,” she began, her smile gentle but unmistakably clear in its resolve. “But I must decline. I’ve no interest in sharing a quiet evening with you, especially one spent over more drink.” She gave him a playful, but pointed, look. “I’ve seen enough of your victories today.”

Éomer laughed, his grin widening, though it was clear the rejection stung a little. “You wound me, Lady Rían,” he teased, though there was no real offense in his voice. “But I’ll not press. Perhaps another time?”

Rían shook her head, though the smile never left her lips. “I doubt it, my lord,” she said, her tone light yet final. “I think we’re both better off sticking to more… appropriate company for the evening. Take no offense, but you might want to save your tankard for someone else.”

A shot distance away, Faramir’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to Rían. She stood with a quiet grace, her simple blue dress flowing gently with her movements, the intricate silver trim catching the light like starlit frost. Her black hair, braided in the northern custom, framed her face in a way that accentuated her striking features—a blend of strength and quiet resilience. Faramir felt his breath catch as he watched her, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest. His heart stirred with a mixture of admiration and something deeper, a yearning that took him by surprise, as though he had glimpsed a piece of something long missing, now found in her presence.

As Éomer leaned in closer to Rían, his voice dropping with an easy charm, Faramir watched from a distance. He couldn’t quite place the sensation that had twisted in his chest when the Rohirrim lord had begun flirting with her, but it felt like a tight knot, coiling with each word Éomer spoke to her.

Faramir stood by a pillar, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed their exchange. He knew Éomer’s reputation, the way he always seemed to move through a room with his natural confidence and ease, always the center of attention. But with Rían—there was something different. He saw the way Éomer’s gaze lingered on her, the smile that never seemed to fade from his lips. Faramir couldn’t help but feel a pang of something that was almost… possessive.

It was not jealousy, he told himself, not exactly. But the tightening of his chest, the way his hands seemed to flex in response to the sight before him—those were not feelings he usually experienced. He had never cared for anyone in this way, and it unsettled him.

As Éomer continued speaking to her, Faramir’s eyes shifted, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Rían’s face. She was smiling, though her eyes sparkled with something that made him think she wasn’t quite as charmed by Éomer as she appeared. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying the teasing in a way that almost amused her—her responses playful but firm. Still, it made something in Faramir stir, that sense of protectiveness rising up inside him.

The moment passed quickly enough as Rían, with her usual poise and humor, managed to shut down Éomer’s advances. She laughed softly, shaking her head as she excused herself from him, her voice light but final. There was something in the way she moved, something that told Faramir she was looking for him.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, her eyes met his. For a brief second, their gazes locked, and something in Faramir’s chest seemed to ease, that strange sensation he had been carrying dissolving into something simpler, warmer. He didn’t know what it was—maybe the way her face lit up when she saw him, or the way the noise of the crowd seemed to fade away when she walked toward him.

He cleared his throat, and as she approached, Faramir offered her a soft smile, though it was laced with a hint of something uncertain. The tension in his shoulders that had built up just moments before seemed to slip away with the sight of her, but there was still something pulling at him, something that made him feel as though he wanted to say more—something that he wasn’t ready to admit just yet.

“Faramir,” she said softly, her voice carrying a touch of amusement, “It seems Éomer is quite persistent.”

He chuckled quietly, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes. “He is that,” Faramir replied, his tone low and a little distant, though he did not look away from her. “But you’ve handled him well.”

Her smile softened as she met his gaze. “I started to doubt if he understands the meaning of ‘no,’” she said, with a touch of mockery that made her seem more relaxed, more herself.

Faramir watched her closely, the tension in his chest easing further with the simple exchange. “You’ve certainly made that clear,” he said, the words falling from his lips almost without thought.

Rían smiled, but there was something more guarded in her expression now, a quiet resolve that hadn’t been there before.

For a long moment, the two stood in silence, the noise of the hall around them fading into a distant hum. Faramir felt the weight of her words, and the strange, twisting feeling in his chest seemed to settle once more. But as their eyes met again, the moment seemed to stretch, the space between them feeling more intimate than it ever had before.

And just like that, with one soft glance, something shifted. Neither of them said a word, but there was an unspoken understanding between them now. They were close, closer than ever before, yet there was still something that lingered in the air—something that neither one of them could quite name yet, but both of them knew was growing between them.

With one final glance, Rían offered a small, genuine smile. “I should get back to the others,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

Faramir hesitated, his heart caught in a tangle of uncertainty and longing as he watched Rían begin to step away. Her form, silhouetted by the soft glow of the lanterns, seemed almost ethereal, a vision of grace and strength that stirred something deep within him. Faramir hesitated for a moment, watching Rían, her form illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns. His heart pounded in his chest, an insistent rhythm urging him to act before the moment slipped away. Summoning his courage, he called softly, “Rían.”

She turned back, her expression curious but warm, a gentle smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Yes?”

He stepped closer, the air between them tingling with an unspoken tension. His arm extended with a small but earnest smile, the gesture both tentative and hopeful. “Would you… take a walk with me? The air is cooler outside, and I think we could both use some quiet.”

Rían’s eyes flicked to his arm, then back to his face, the playful glint in her gaze revealing her amusement. She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting in a teasing smile. “A walk, is it? Not a ploy to steal me away?”

Faramir chuckled lightly, though the touch of pink creeping up his neck betrayed his nervousness. “No ploy, I assure you. Merely a moment to escape from the revelry.”

Rían tilted her head, considering him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Her gaze softened as she stepped forward, her hand slipping lightly onto his arm. The warmth of her touch sent a gentle thrill through him. “All right, then. Let’s escape.”

They strolled out into the cool night air, leaving behind the warm chaos of the hall. The laughter and music faded into a distant hum as they ventured further from the glow of the lanterns. Outside, the stars stretched endlessly above them, their light sharp and clear against the velvet darkness of the sky. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of grass and distant blooms, mingling with the soft murmur of the wind and the gentle rustling of leaves.

As they walked, the silence between them was companionable, filled with the quiet comfort of shared presence. Rían glanced up at Faramir, her eyes gleaming with a teasing light. “You know,” she began, her voice playful and lilting, “to someone watching, it might seem as though you’re whisking a lady away for the night.”

Faramir nearly stumbled at her words, a sudden warmth rushing to his face as his mind scrambled to respond. He could feel his pulse quicken, the unexpected suggestion catching him off guard. “I—no, I wouldn’t—” He broke off, his words faltering, his usual eloquence failing him in the face of her teasing. He took a steadying breath, forcing himself to meet her gaze with quiet earnestness. “I don’t take ladies for the night, Rían. And you… you are certainly not such a lady.”

The sincerity in his voice, rich with unspoken meaning, caught her off guard. The playful smile faltered, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. Her heart gave a small, unsteady flutter at the weight of his words. “I know,” she said quietly, her voice gentler now. “It was just a jest.”

Faramir, realizing the weight of his own intensity, smiled apologetically, a touch of self-reproach in his expression. “I know. Forgive me; I only meant to say that… well, I hold you in the highest regard, Rían.”

Rían blinked, the warmth of his words settling over her like a soft cloak. She looked down for a moment, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush, her heart fluttering in a way that surprised her. “Well,” she said briskly, her tone shifting back to playful to mask the vulnerability she felt, “it’s probably for the best. Too much mischief wouldn’t suit a captain of Gondor anyway.”

Faramir laughed softly, the sound low and comforting, easing some of the tension that had built between them. “Perhaps not. But I think you could make mischief of any sort seem honorable.”

She smiled at him, the warmth in her chest growing as she felt the sincerity in his words. Her fingers tightened briefly on his arm, a subtle but unmistakable gesture of closeness. “Careful, Faramir, or I might start believing you.”

As they walked side by side, the warm glow of torchlight flickered along the stone path, casting their shadows close together. Rían’s hand rested lightly on Faramir’s arm, her touch a quiet but constant presence. Behind them, the sounds of the feast—laughter, music, and Gimli’s unmistakable boasts—faded into the night, leaving only the gentle rustle of the wind and the rhythm of their footsteps.

“You’ve been quieter than usual tonight,” Rían said, her voice breaking the gentle silence that had enveloped them. Though her tone was casual, there was a keen curiosity in her gaze as she glanced up at Faramir, her eyes sharp and searching.

Faramir smiled faintly, a subtle curve of his lips that hinted at the contemplative thoughts swirling within. His eyes, however, remained fixed ahead, tracing the path illuminated by the soft glow of the stars. “Perhaps I simply preferred to observe tonight,” he replied, his voice low, carrying a thoughtful weight.

Rían tilted her head, a playful smirk forming on her lips, the glimmer of mischief dancing in her eyes. “To observe Gimli’s drinking prowess?” she teased, her voice light and teasing, inviting him into the levity of the moment.

Faramir chuckled softly, the sound warm but introspective, as though his mind was still half-lost in the reflections of the evening. “To observe everything,” he replied, his tone soft and reflective, as if each word held more meaning than he cared to elaborate on.

Rían’s smirk deepened, her eyes narrowing slightly with playful suspicion. “That’s a very noble answer,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Too noble, even for you.”

He turned to her then, his gaze flickering with amusement as he met her eyes briefly before looking ahead once more. “You think me incapable of noble thoughts?”

Her teasing softened, edged with genuine warmth. “No,” she replied, her tone gentle but laced with humor. “I think you’re capable of far too many noble thoughts. But subtle? Not so much.”

Faramir arched a brow, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in amusement. The flicker of a smile danced across his lips, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “Not subtle?” he echoed, his voice carrying a hint of playful challenge. “Whatever makes you say that?”

Rían gave him a pointed look, her smirk growing more pronounced, the twinkle in her eyes reflecting the soft light of the stars above. She tilted her head slightly, her dark hair falling over her shoulder in a cascade. “I saw you glaring at Éomer earlier,” she said, the corners of her mouth lifting with mischief. “If looks could kill, Gondor and Rohan would have a diplomatic crisis on their hands.”

Faramir flushed slightly, the faint color rising to his cheeks betraying the composed facade he usually wore. The cool night air did little to quell the warmth that spread across his skin. But his laugh was genuine, a rich, warm sound that resonated in the stillness, breaking the quiet with a comforting familiarity. “That wasn’t glaring,” he said, shaking his head lightly, though the smile lingered on his lips. “I was… assessing.”

“Assessing?” she repeated, her laughter ringing out like a bell, light and carefree, a sound that seemed to lift the weight of the night. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned in slightly, her voice filled with playful incredulity. “If that’s what you call it, remind me to stay on your good side.”

His expression softened, the lines of his face relaxing as the tension ebbed away. Still, a touch of defensiveness crept into his voice, a quiet vulnerability that he rarely allowed to surface. “I wasn’t jealous, if that’s what you’re implying,” he said quickly, though the faint hue on his cheeks lingered, betraying the internal conflict he sought to mask. His gaze dropped briefly before meeting hers again, searching for a sign of understanding.

Rían’s smile softened into something gentler, the teasing edge giving way to a warmth that seemed to radiate from within. Her eyes held his, steady and sure, the playful glint tempered by something deeper. “Of course not,” she said with mock seriousness, her voice low but filled with an affectionate tease. Yet, her gaze lingered on him, the warmth of her smile unwavering, a quiet reassurance woven into her words. “You’re far too composed for such a thing.”

For a moment, they stood in the quiet intimacy of the night, the world around them fading into the background. The soft rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze, the distant murmur of the wind through the trees—all seemed to retreat, leaving only the space between them, charged with unspoken emotions. The flicker of her smile, the softness in her gaze, the delicate rise and fall of her breath—all held him captive in a way that both thrilled and unsettled him. The stars above gleamed in the clear night sky, their light catching in Rían’s dark hair as it swayed softly in the breeze.

“You’ve seemed different tonight,” Faramir said at last, his voice quieter now, carrying a note of gentle curiosity. The words had been on the edge of his thoughts for some time, lingering unspoken until the quiet of the night offered him the courage to voice them.

“Different how?” Rían asked, her tone light, almost teasing, though her expression betrayed a deeper curiosity. Her eyes, soft and inquisitive, searched his face for the meaning behind his observation.

He hesitated, his gaze drifting upward as if searching the stars for the right words. “More at ease, perhaps,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Or… brighter, somehow.”

Her lips twitched into a small, almost shy smile, though her gaze softened with something unspoken. “Maybe I’m just tired of battle, for once. A moment of peace is… rare.”

Faramir’s heart ached at the quiet truth in her words, the weariness that underlay her strength. He could see the weight she bore, the burden of a life lived in the wild, always on guard, always fighting. There was a gentleness in her that she seldom allowed to surface, a tenderness she seemed almost afraid to acknowledge. “You deserve peace,” he said, his voice warm with sincerity, each word carrying the weight of his admiration and hope for her. His eyes softened as he spoke, searching hers, hoping she could feel the depth of his earnestness.

Rían looked at him then, her brow lifting slightly, a playful spark in her eyes even as her tone remained light. “You’re very free with your compliments tonight,” she teased, a faint smile curving her lips. “Should I be suspicious?”

Faramir’s lips twitched in response, a soft chuckle escaping him, though his gaze never wavered. “Only if you doubt my honesty,” he replied, his voice quiet but steady. There was a depth to his words, a sincerity that lingered in the space between them. His heart quickened, the truth of his feelings pressing against the bounds of his restraint, yearning to be known.

Her hand, still resting lightly on his arm, tightened slightly, a brief but noticeable gesture of connection. The warmth of her touch sent a shiver through him, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in the soft glow of the firelight. She released her grip, her fingers smoothing the fabric of her dress in a pretense of casualness, though the lingering warmth of their brief contact still burned between them. “Careful, Faramir,” she said, her voice soft, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Someone might think you’re trying to charm me.”

He tilted his head slightly, a smile touching his lips, though his eyes remained serious, filled with a quiet intensity that made the air between them feel charged with something unspoken. “Would that be so terrible?” he asked softly, the words gentle but laden with meaning.

Her steps faltered slightly, her breath catching at the unexpected question. A ripple of warmth surged through her, unfamiliar and disarming. She hadn’t anticipated the effect his words would have on her, nor the way her heart seemed to skip at the tender tone in his voice. She quickly recovered, her laughter light and airy, though it did little to disguise the flush warming her cheeks. “Terrible? No,” she said, her smile returning, though there was a new softness in her gaze. “Surprising? Perhaps.”

Faramir held her gaze, his own eyes steady, reflecting the flicker of something deeper. The moments stretched between them, filled with the unspoken, the unsaid. His smile softened, a quiet, intimate curve of his lips that spoke of things he had not yet dared to say. “But then again,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve surprised you.”

The space between them seemed to shrink, the cool night air around them charged with a tension that neither could quite name but both felt acutely. In that moment, under the vast expanse of stars, their shared silence spoke of promises yet unspoken, the fragile, burgeoning bond between them growing stronger with each passing heartbeat.

Rían’s heart skipped a beat, but she masked it quickly with a light laugh. She couldn’t quite tell if he was teasing or if there was something more beneath the surface. Her gaze faltered for a brief moment, then she looked away, trying to shake off the growing tension between them.  Then, to mask the rush of heat rising to her cheeks, she gave a small laugh and shook her head. “You’re impossible, Faramir. Utterly impossible.”

“And yet you walk with me,” he said softly, his smile faint but genuine.

She didn’t reply, but the warmth in her eyes said enough. As the stars above shone brighter and the night deepened around them, the air between them felt heavier with meaning, unspoken yet undeniable.

As they crested a gentle rise overlooking the city, Rían released his arm and paused. She tilted her face to the heavens, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, catching the faint starlight. “The stars are beautiful tonight,” she murmured, her voice soft and filled with wonder.

Faramir stopped beside her, his eyes following hers to the endless expanse above. The stars gleamed like shards of crystal scattered on black velvet, their light steady and eternal. “They are,” he said quietly, his voice touched with both awe and sorrow. “Though I fear they are but a faint echo of what they once were. Too often are they veiled by the clouds of war.”

Rían’s expression softened, her gaze distant. “I miss the north,” she said after a moment. Her voice carried a wistfulness that tugged at something deep within him. “The skies there seemed fuller. As though the stars were closer, brighter, so numerous they spilled over the heavens like a river of light.” She hesitated, then turned to him, her eyes searching his. “I hope I might see it again someday. Perhaps… with you.”

The words hung in the air, delicate and fragile as spun glass. She looked at him earnestly, her grey eyes filled with both wonder and something deeper, something that made his breath catch.

She was beautiful—achingly so. The silver starlight illuminated her face, accentuating the curve of her cheek and the soft line of her jaw. Her lips, slightly parted as though awaiting his reply, tempted him more than he cared to admit. In that moment, she seemed to him like some untouchable vision, both near and infinitely far.

And yet, she was so close. He could reach out, draw her to him, and let his hands cradle her face as he kissed her, gently at first and then with the fierce longing that had kindled in his heart. His gaze flickered to her lips, and for a brief, dizzying moment, he imagined how it might feel—soft and warm, with the faintest taste of sweetness, like honey from a spring meadow.

By the Valar, what am I doing? His thoughts reeled, and he tore his gaze away, horrified at the depth of his longing. He could feel his pulse racing, his heart betraying him in a way it never had before. He was a soldier of Gondor, a man of duty and discipline. There was no room in his life for such desires, not now—not with the shadow of Sauron darkening the horizon.

But the war wasn’t the only thing that made him hesitate. He was afraid—afraid of what this might mean, afraid of giving in to something he could not control. His life had been shaped by restraint, by putting the needs of others before his own. To allow himself to care for her, to let her into his heart, felt as dangerous as standing unarmed before an enemy blade.

And yet… the thought of losing her, of never knowing what it might be like to hold her, terrified him even more.

“I hope the north remains as beautiful as you remember,” he said finally, his voice steady but quieter, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate tension between them. “Perhaps… when all this is over, you will show it to me.”

Rían smiled softly, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before returning to the sky. Faramir let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, though his chest still ached with the conflict warring within him.

He clasped his hands behind his back, as if the act might ground him, might keep him from doing something reckless. But even as he stood there, his eyes were drawn to her again.

***

The hall of Meduseld lay quiet and still as Rían and Faramir slipped through its heavy doors, the golden light of the fading fire casting long, flickering shadows across the stone floor. Their footsteps were soft, muffled by the thick rugs that covered the cold stone, as they moved carefully through the vast room. The night had deepened, the stars outside now high in the sky, and the rest of the Fellowship lay in peaceful slumber, their breathing the only sound in the hushed space.

Rían’s heart beat in a steady, rhythmic thrum as they approached the cots laid out along the floor. The others had already claimed their places, their cots positioned in a haphazard but functional arrangement, leaving just enough space for the two remaining cots to be placed side by side. The proximity was unavoidable, and as they quietly arranged their bedding, the closeness of their shared space seemed to hum with an unspoken tension.

They settled down in near silence, each mindful not to disturb their friends, who lay in various states of repose. Rían slipped under her blanket, her body easing into the cot with a soft sigh, though her mind remained restless. The dim glow of the embers bathed the room in a gentle warmth, casting a soft light that played across Faramir’s face as he lay beside her, so close that their shoulders nearly brushed.

Rían’s thoughts churned, a delicate blend of longing and uncertainty filling her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, the rough-hewn beams stretching above her, but her mind was far from the structure of the hall. Instead, it lingered on the man beside her, the quiet strength of his presence, the warmth that radiated from him, even in the stillness. She yearned to close the small distance between them, to feel his arms wrap around her as they had earlier, to rest her head in the crook of his neck and let the weight of the world fall away.

Her fingers twitched beneath the blanket, aching with the desire to reach out, to trace the lines of his face, to draw comfort from his closeness. But the fear of breaking the fragile peace, of exposing the depth of her feelings, kept her rooted in place. The longing swelled within her, bittersweet and unfulfilled, as she lay still, her heart aching with the unspoken desire.

Beside her, Faramir lay equally restless, though his breathing remained measured, his gaze fixed on the shadows that danced along the ceiling. His thoughts were a tangled web of emotions, each one pulling him in a different direction. The warmth of Rían’s presence so close, the scent of her hair mingling with the faint aroma of the fire, stirred something deep within him—a longing that he had tried to suppress, yet could not deny.

He wished, more than anything, to reach for her, to pull her close and let her head rest against his chest, to feel the soft rise and fall of her breath as she slept. The thought of holding her, of being the one to offer her solace and safety, filled him with a thrill that was both exhilarating and daunting. Yet, alongside that yearning, came the quiet voice of restraint, chastising him for daring to hope for more than what was prudent.

Faramir closed his eyes briefly, willing his thoughts to quiet, but the image of her lingered behind his lids—the soft curve of her smile, the light in her eyes, the way her presence seemed to ease the weight of his burdens. The idea of waking beside her each day, of sharing these quiet, intimate moments, filled him with a yearning so profound it almost hurt.

Their breaths synchronized in the stillness, a subtle rhythm that seemed to bind them together, even as unspoken desires kept them apart. Rían shifted slightly, the movement bringing her just a fraction closer, the barest brush of her arm against his setting his heart racing. He turned his head ever so slightly, his gaze finding hers in the dim light, the softness in her eyes mirroring the turmoil in his own.

For a moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in the quiet cocoon of the night. The soft glow of the dying fire cast flickering shadows across the room, its warmth a gentle contrast to the coolness of the air. Neither spoke, the silence between them filled with the weight of what they could not say. And yet, in that shared stillness, a fragile understanding blossomed—one of unspoken longing and the tender, unfulfilled hope of what might be.

Rían’s breath was steady, though her heart beat with a rhythm that felt both unfamiliar and exhilarating. Slowly, as if testing the boundaries of this newfound intimacy, she reached out wordlessly, her fingers brushing against Faramir’s hand. The touch was tentative at first, but when he did not pull away, she intertwined her fingers with his, squeezing gently. Her grip was firm yet reassuring, a silent promise that spoke of comfort and understanding. Faramir’s heart leapt at the contact, the warmth of her touch spreading through him like a balm to the weariness he carried.

They remained like that for a few moments, neither daring to break the spell. The simplicity of the gesture carried a depth that words could not convey, a shared solace in the quiet, fleeting connection. Then, just as silently, Rían withdrew her hand, though their fingers lingered, barely touching, as if reluctant to sever the fragile bond. The closeness of their cots, the mere inches that separated them, became a tangible reminder of the thin line between desire and restraint.

Each found solace in the quiet presence of the other, the simple comfort of knowing they were not alone. The unspoken promise in that brief touch lingered in the air, a tender echo of what their hearts dared not yet voice. As sleep finally began to claim them, their dreams carried the echo of that moment—a quiet, persistent hope for a day when such closeness would no longer need to be hidden in the shadows of the night.

Chapter Text

Rían’s eyes fluttered open, her senses immediately alert as the sharp sounds of distress cut through the stillness of the hall. The warmth of the cot beneath her did little to calm the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through her veins. She sat up swiftly, her gaze darting around the dimly lit room, the flickering embers casting long shadows on the walls. The sight that met her eyes sent a jolt of alarm through her—Pippin, writhing on the floor, his hands fused to the glowing Palantír, the ominous orange light casting a ghastly hue over his pale face.

Beside her, Faramir stirred, his brows knitting together as the muffled cries reached his ears. He pushed himself up on one elbow, his expression quickly shifting from confusion to concern as he took in the chaotic scene. The quiet murmur of the night was shattered by Merry’s frantic pleas, his voice trembling with fear.

“Help! Gandalf, help!” Merry’s cry echoed through the hall, his wide eyes fixed on Pippin’s convulsing form.

Faramir’s heart thudded in his chest, the sight of the young hobbit struggling against the unseen force wrenching at something deep within him. His hand instinctively reached for his sword, though it  wasn’t at his side.

Gandalf awoke with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes snapping open, immediately assessing the danger. The wizard’s gaze locked onto the Palantír, his expression hardening as he grasped the gravity of the situation. He rose quickly, his robes billowing as he moved toward Pippin, his staff clutched tightly in his hand.

The doors to the hall burst open with a forceful clang, and Aragorn and Legolas entered swiftly, their weapons drawn, their movements fluid and precise. Aragorn’s keen gaze swept the room, taking in the scene in an instant, while Legolas’s elven senses honed in on the source of the disturbance.

Rían, now fully awake, pushed the blanket aside and rose to her feet, her hand instinctively brushing against where the hilt of her blade would normally rest. She exchanged a brief glance with Faramir, a shared understanding passing between them—a silent acknowledgment of the danger that had infiltrated their sanctuary.

Rían moved swiftly, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum as she knelt beside Pippin, her mind racing with a desperate need to protect. Her gaze flicked to the Palantír, its dark, malevolent surface glinting with an eerie light, and without a second thought, she reached for it. The instant her hands made contact, a searing pain shot through her arms, as if fire itself coursed beneath her skin. She gasped, her body convulsing as the fiery tendrils of the Palantír’s power seemed to consume her from the inside out. Her fingers clenched around the orb in an instinctive attempt to break its hold, but the pain overwhelmed her senses, dragging her into a haze of agony before she crumpled to the floor, the Palantír rolling away with a hollow clatter.

Faramir was at her side in an instant, his breath catching in his throat as he dropped to his knees beside her prone form. His heart raced, each thud reverberating with a mix of fear and an unfamiliar, raw emotion that surged to the forefront—something that went beyond mere concern for a comrade. His hands, steady yet trembling with suppressed panic, cupped her face, his fingers brushing against her cool skin. He tilted her head gently, his eyes searching her face with an intensity that spoke of his mounting dread.

“Rían,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, the normally composed cadence wavering under the weight of his fear. “Are you all right?”

For a moment, there was no response, and the world around him seemed to fall away, leaving only the sound of his own ragged breathing and the silent plea in his heart. Then, her eyes fluttered open, their dark depths meeting his with a soft, reassuring light that calmed the storm within him.

“I’m okay,” she murmured, her voice weak but steady, a fragile yet resilient thread of strength woven into each syllable. Her lips curved into a faint smile, one that sought to alleviate the worry etched into Faramir’s features.

Faramir’s thumb brushed lightly against her cheek, the warmth of her skin grounding him. For a moment, he forgot the chaos around them, lost in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The softness of her face beneath his hands, the gentle rise and fall of her breath—it was a tender connection that he had longed for, yet never dared to voice.

Reluctantly, he withdrew his hands, though the ghost of her warmth lingered on his fingertips. His heart ached with the desire to hold her, to shield her from harm, but the weight of duty held him back.

Merry’s voice broke the moment, his panic drawing their attention back to Pippin. “Pippin!”

Gandalf hurried after the Palantír, throwing a blanket over it, smothering its dangerous light. He turned back, his expression grave as he knelt beside Pippin. “Fool of a Took!” he muttered, though his voice was tinged with concern.

Pippin lay still, his eyes open but unseeing. Gandalf’s heart clenched, a rare flicker of fear passing through him. “No,” he whispered, his hands moving swiftly to grasp Pippin’s.

Merry watched, wide-eyed and terrified, as Gandalf placed a hand on Pippin’s forehead, muttering inaudibly. His other hand cupped Pippin’s cheek, his fingers gentle yet firm, as if willing him back to consciousness.

Pippin gasped suddenly, his body jerking as he awoke. His wide eyes met Gandalf’s, filled with fear and remorse. “Gandalf, forgive me!” he cried, his voice trembling.

“Look at me,” Gandalf commanded softly, his eyes locking onto Pippin’s. “What did you see?”

Pippin’s breath hitched, his voice shaky. “A tree… there was a white tree in a courtyard of stone. It was dead.” His gaze grew distant as he recalled the vision. “The city was burning.”

Gandalf’s expression darkened, the weight of Pippin’s words pressing upon him. “Minas Tirith?” he asked, though the answer seemed to hang heavy in the air. “Is that what you saw?”

Beside them, Faramir paled, the blood draining from his face as the reality of the situation set in. His hand instinctively reached out, seeking an anchor amidst the rising tide of uncertainty and dread. His fingers found Rían’s, the familiar warmth of her grasp a lifeline in the tumultuous sea of his thoughts. He clung to her hand as though it were the only thing tethering him to the ground, the strength of her grip a silent reassurance against the rising fear that threatened to consume him.

Rían’s fingers tightened around his, her own expression steady though her heart pounded with the same unspoken fear that coursed through Faramir. She glanced up at him, her grey eyes filled with a quiet determination, a promise that they would face whatever was to come together. Her touch was a balm to his fraying nerves, the simple, wordless gesture conveying a strength and solidarity that words could not.

“I saw… I saw him!” Pippin continued, his voice quivering. “I could hear his voice in my head.”

Gandalf’s eyes widened, the urgency in his voice rising. “And what did you tell him? Speak!”

Pippin’s eyes filled with tears, his voice barely a whisper. “He asked me my name. I didn’t answer. He hurt me!”

Gandalf’s gaze softened for a moment before hardening with resolve. “What did you tell him about Frodo and the Ring?”

Pippin’s silence spoke volumes, his fearful eyes locked onto Gandalf’s, the weight of the encounter pressing heavily upon him. The room remained tense, the echoes of the danger they faced resonating in the stillness, a stark reminder of the ever-present shadow looming over them.

***

The morning sun filtered through the high windows of Meduseld, casting long, golden beams across the polished stone floor of the great hall. The remnants of the night’s tensions lingered in the air, though now softened by the gentle light of a new day. The company had gathered once more, their faces solemn, each weighed down by the knowledge of what lay ahead.

Gandalf stood at the center, his white robes catching the sunlight, a stark contrast to the shadow of the news he bore. His gaze swept over those gathered, pausing briefly on Pippin, who stood beside Merry, his head bowed slightly. “There was no lie in Pippin’s eyes,” Gandalf said, his voice steady but laced with a trace of weariness. “A fool, but an honest fool he remains.”

The room was silent as Gandalf’s words hung in the air. Pippin glanced up, his face pale but resolute, meeting Gandalf’s gaze with a mixture of shame and determination. Merry stood close by, a hand on Pippin’s shoulder, offering silent support.

“He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring,” Gandalf continued, his tone firm, offering a glimmer of reassurance. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the hall, Gimli’s low grunt of approval the most audible among them.

“We’ve been strangely fortunate,” Gandalf said, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Pippin saw in the Palantír a glimpse of the enemy’s plan. Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith.”

The weight of his words settled over the room like a heavy mantle. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Théoden exchanged glances, the gravity of the situation reflected in their eyes. Théoden’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the news.

Gandalf’s gaze shifted to Aragorn, a quiet intensity in his eyes. “His defeat at Helm’s Deep showed our enemy one thing,” he said, his voice resonant with the significance of the moment. “He knows the Heir of Elendil has come forth.” His nod toward Aragorn was subtle, but the meaning was clear. The camera of attention lingered on Aragorn, who stood tall, his expression unreadable but his presence commanding.

“Men are not as weak as he supposed,” Gandalf continued, his voice growing in strength. “There is courage still. Strength enough, perhaps, to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the peoples of Middle-earth uniting under one banner.” His gaze shifted to Théoden, the weight of his words pressing upon the King of Rohan. “He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a King return to the throne of men. If the beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan must be ready for war.”

Théoden’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he considered Gandalf’s words. The weight of his people’s suffering at Helm’s Deep and the long-standing grievances against Gondor simmered beneath his calm exterior. “Tell me,” Théoden said, his voice steady but tinged with bitterness. “Why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours? What do we owe Gondor?”

The room fell silent again, the tension thick and palpable. Aragorn stepped forward, his eyes burning with resolve. “I will go!” he declared, his voice firm, a declaration not of obligation, but of duty and honor.

“No!” Gandalf’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding, halting Aragorn in his tracks.

“They must be warned!” Aragorn insisted, his tone brooking no argument.

Gandalf stepped closer, his form imposing even in the dim light, his robes whispering softly with each movement. His voice, usually resonant with wisdom and authority, now lowered, imbued with a quiet urgency that seemed to hush the very air around them. “They will be,” he said, his gaze locking onto Aragorn’s with a fierce intensity. “You must come to Minas Tirith by another road. Follow the river. Look to the black ships.” His words hung in the air, laden with foreboding, each syllable pressing into the hearts of those who heard. He paused, the gravity of his message settling over them like a shroud. “Understand this, Aragorn. Things are now in motion that cannot be undone.”

He turned, his keen eyes falling on Pippin, the weight of responsibility and care softening his otherwise stern expression. “I ride for Minas Tirith,” he continued, his tone gentler now, though still firm. “And I won’t be going alone.”

At those words, Faramir stepped forward, his posture straight and composed, though the determination in his eyes spoke volumes. “I will go with you,” he said, his voice calm but resolute, the quiet strength of his character evident in every word. His commitment was clear, a reflection of the unyielding sense of duty that guided his every action.

Gandalf nodded, his approval silent but palpable, the briefest of smiles ghosting across his lips. The wizard’s gaze shifted momentarily to Rían, who stood near the edge of the group, her hands loosely clasped before her, a slight furrow of contemplation creasing her brow. Before she fully understood the pull within her, she spoke, her voice steady despite the flicker of surprise that crossed her features. “I will go too,” she said, the words carrying a quiet resolve that belied her inner turmoil. Her eyes darted to Faramir, a question unspoken in their depths. Was it him she wished to follow? Was it the unrelenting call of duty, or perhaps the stirrings of her own heart that compelled her?

Her gaze shifted to Aragorn, seeking the steady wisdom she had come to rely on. “If I have your leave,” she added softly, her tone carrying a note of hesitation, as though unsure of the path she was about to embark on.

Aragorn met her eyes, his own gaze filled with a solemn understanding. His expression, though serious, held a kindness that eased her uncertainty. “Go,” he said, his voice a gentle command, laden with both approval and trust. He glanced toward Gandalf, a silent agreement passing between them, the unspoken bond of leaders who understood the weight of the decisions before them.

Gandalf inclined his head, his sharp eyes glinting with approval. “Very well, then,” he said, his voice carrying the finality of their resolve. The tension in the room seemed to ease, though the gravity of the journey ahead loomed over them all. “Let us prepare,” he added, turning toward the others, his staff tapping lightly against the stone floor as he moved with purpose.

***

The dawn was just breaking over the ridges of Edoras, casting a pale light across the Golden Hall as Gandalf strode swiftly toward the stables, his cloak billowing behind him. Pippin and Merry hurried after him, their small feet scuffling against the stone paths in their haste to keep up.

“Of all the Hobbits, Peregrin Took, you are the worst!” Gandalf’s voice, though laced with exasperation, carried a sense of urgency that made both hobbits quicken their pace. “Hurry! Hurry!”

Pippin’s brow furrowed as he jogged after the wizard, his heart pounding not just from exertion but from the turmoil of the previous night. “Where are we going?” he asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and fear.

Merry, his face drawn with worry, shot a sharp glance at his friend. “Why did you look?” he demanded, his frustration bubbling over. “Why do you always have to look?”

“I don’t know,” Pippin admitted, guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders. “I can’t help it.”

“You never can!” Merry’s voice cracked with emotion, the weight of the danger they now faced pressing down on him. “Don’t you understand? The enemy thinks you have the Ring! He’s going to be looking for you, Pip. They have to get you out of here.”

Pippin’s steps faltered slightly as the full gravity of Merry’s words settled in. He turned toward his friend, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. “And you?” he asked quietly. “You’re coming with me?”

Merry hesitated, his heart aching at the question. But he knew the answer, the necessity of what had to be done. His feet shuffled as he took a step back, avoiding Pippin’s gaze. “Come on,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Gandalf reached the stables, the great horse Shadowfax stood ready. With a quick, fluid motion, the wizard lifted Pippin onto the horse’s back. The hobbit looked down, his heart hammering as he gripped the reins.

“How far is Minas Tirith?” Pippin asked, his voice small and uncertain.

“Three days’ ride, as the Nazgûl flies,” Gandalf replied, his tone grim. “And you’d better hope we don’t have one of those on our tail.”

As Pippin’s gaze dropped to the ground, Merry stepped forward, his hand reaching into his pocket. “Here,” he said, holding out a small leather pouch. “Something for the road.”

Pippin’s eyes softened as he took the pouch, recognizing the familiar scent. “The last of the Longbottom Leaf?” he asked, his voice filled with quiet gratitude.

Merry managed a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know you’ve run out. You smoke too much, Pippin.”

Pippin’s heart tightened, the comfort of the familiar gesture overshadowed by the looming separation. “But… we’ll see each other soon, won’t we?”

Merry’s gaze flicked to Gandalf, seeking reassurance where there was little to be found. He looked back up at Pippin, his expression somber. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

As Merry backed away, his emotions raw, Pippin’s voice trembled with desperation. “Merry?”

Before Gandalf could spur Shadowfax forward, Rían stepped forward from where she had been saddling her own horse, her form cloaked in the soft hues of dawn, her presence calm and assured. Her dark hair, braided in the fashion of her Northern kin, caught the gentle light, a silent testament to her heritage and resolve. There was a serenity about her, a steadying force amid the rising tension, that drew the eye and eased the heart.

She approached Merry with measured steps, her face softening as she saw the grief etched in his features. Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm but comforting, grounding him in the midst of his turmoil. Merry looked up at her, his eyes wide with the sorrow of parting, and she knelt slightly, bringing herself to his level so that their gazes met.

“Merry,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm, her words imbued with a quiet strength that belied her own fears. “I promise you, I will keep Pippin safe. You have my word.”

Merry’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as he struggled to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. His heart ached with the weight of the uncertainty that lay before them. “How can you be sure?” he whispered, his voice thick with the unspoken fears that clung to him.

Rían’s smile, though soft, was resolute, a beacon of hope in the encroaching shadows. She tightened her grip on his shoulder slightly, a gesture of assurance. “Because hope still remains,” she said firmly, her voice unwavering, a quiet fire burning in her eyes. “And because we’ll make it so. We’ll see you again, Merry. This is not goodbye.”

Her words hung in the air, a promise forged in the dawn, a glimmer of light against the dark tide. Merry swallowed hard, the sincerity of her voice a lifeline in the storm of his emotions. Slowly, he nodded, though the ache in his chest remained, a stubborn reminder of the bonds that tied him to his dearest friend.

His gaze flickered to Pippin, who sat on Shadowfax’s back, his wide eyes filled with worry and uncertainty. The younger hobbit’s hands fidgeted nervously, clutching the folds of his cloak as if seeking comfort in its familiar weight. Merry’s voice trembled as he spoke again, his plea barely more than a whisper. “Take care of him.”

“I will,” Rían promised, her voice like a vow made beneath the stars, unbreakable and true. She rose, turning her full attention to Pippin, whose small frame seemed to shrink under the weight of the moment. Her expression softened as she approached him, her hand extending to rest lightly on his arm.

“Pippin,” she said gently, her tone soothing, “we’ll keep each other safe. You and I, together. And we’ll come back. I swear it.”

Pippin looked down at her, his gaze meeting hers with a mixture of fear and gratitude. Her words, simple yet heartfelt, eased the tight knot of anxiety that gripped his heart. He managed a small, hesitant nod, the warmth of her reassurance seeping into the cold corners of his soul. “Thank you, Rían,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the sincerity in his words clear.

Her smile deepened, a quiet warmth shining in her eyes as she squeezed his arm gently. “Have courage, Peregrin Took,” she said softly, her voice a whisper of strength. “You are braver than you know, and your heart is stronger than you believe.”

Merry stepped back reluctantly, his eyes never leaving Pippin as Gandalf mounted Shadowfax. The great horse shifted beneath him, eager to be off, sensing the urgency in his master’s heart. The stillness of the moment stretched, the wind stirring gently through the grass, carrying with it the soft murmur of voices preparing for the journey ahead.

“Run, Shadowfax,” Gandalf commanded, his voice filled with urgency. “Show us the meaning of haste.”

With a powerful leap, Shadowfax surged forward, carrying Gandalf and Pippin swiftly away from the stables, the wind catching in their cloaks as they disappeared into the early light.

“Merry!” Pippin’s voice echoed back, a final plea as the distance grew between them.

Merry stood watching, his heart heavy, but the promise of their reunion glimmering faintly in his mind. As the sound of hooves faded into the distance, Rían and Faramir approached their own horses, their expressions resolute but somber.

Rían placed a hand on Merry’s shoulder once more, her gaze steady. “We’ll bring him back,” she said, her voice filled with quiet strength.

Merry nodded, though the tears threatened to spill. “Be safe,” he murmured.

Faramir offered a brief, reassuring glance before mounting his horse. Rían followed suit, settling into the saddle with practiced ease. She glanced back at Merry one last time, offering a small, hopeful smile.

With a nod to Faramir, they spurred their horses forward, following in the path of Gandalf and Pippin. The sound of hoofbeats echoed through the still morning air, carrying them toward the uncertain future that awaited in Minas Tirith.

***

The small company rode through the shadowy plains under a sky of deepening twilight. Gandalf’s white robes seemed to glow faintly in the dim light as Shadowfax led the way, swift and sure. Behind him, Faramir and Rían rode, with Pippin perched behind Gandalf, clutching tightly to the wizard’s cloak. Their destination loomed heavy on the horizon, Minas Tirith—a white beacon of hope, yet now clouded by the shadow of Sauron’s rising malice.

When night fell, Gandalf called for a halt, and the group dismounted near a small grove of wind-worn trees. They set a simple camp, with a small fire crackling softly in the growing chill. Pippin sat beside Gandalf, the two sharing a companionable silence as they smoked their pipes, the fragrant tendrils of pipe-weed curling upwards like whispered prayers to the heavens.

Rían lingered near Faramir, her eyes flicking over his face as he stared into the fire, his features cast in flickering light and shadow. There was a grimness about him, a heaviness that seemed to settle over his shoulders like an unseen burden. At last, she sat beside him, close enough that her knee brushed his.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said gently, tilting her head to catch his eye. “Are you all right?”

Faramir turned to her, his grey eyes reflecting the firelight, though they seemed distant, lost in thought. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when the White City might fall,” he murmured. His voice was low, almost as if speaking the words aloud gave them too much power. “All my life, I’ve thought of Minas Tirith as eternal, unyielding… but now, even she seems vulnerable.”

Rían’s gaze softened, and she reached out, resting her hand lightly on his arm. “We cannot lose hope,” she said firmly, her voice steady. “Not now, not ever.”

Faramir let out a faint breath, his lips curving in a bittersweet smile. “How does one hold onto hope in times such as these, when the very foundations of the world seem to tremble beneath us?”

Rían hesitated, her hand tightening slightly on his arm before she answered. “By turning to those we love,” she said softly. “Even those who are no longer with us. I believe they lend us their strength when we need it most. And…” She paused, her voice growing quieter. “I will lend you mine as well, if you’ll have it.”

Her words hung in the air, delicate yet unyielding, like a promise spoken in the ancient tongue. Faramir’s eyes searched hers, and a smile touched his lips, faint but genuine. “How is it,” he asked quietly, “that you have so much strength to give?”

Rían’s serious expression lightened, and a playful glimmer appeared in her eyes. “It’s probably hereditary,” she said with a small shrug. “My father once defended a village from an orc raid with only three men and a handful of villagers armed with pitchforks and torches.”

Faramir chuckled, the deep, warm sound breaking through the tension in the air. Rían could feel the subtle vibration of his laughter as it coursed through his frame, so close to hers. “That does sound like something he would pass down to you,” he said. “You must tell me the whole tale someday.”

Faramir’s gaze lingered on Rían as she now crouched by the fire, inspecting her arrows one by one. Her movements were swift and sure, each arrow held briefly against the flickering light before she examined its fletching, her fingers deft and practiced. There was a calm precision in her actions, a steady rhythm that contrasted with the storm brewing in the east. Yet, something about the scene puzzled him.

“Rían,” he said after a pause, his voice thoughtful. “You keep your arrows in perfect condition, yet I’ve never seen you use a bow in battle. Why is that?”

Rían glanced up at him, her dark hair falling over one shoulder, and arched a brow. “Because I don’t fight with one,” she replied simply, returning her attention to her quiver.

Faramir tilted his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “And why is that? Surely you’re skilled enough. You have the hands of someone who knows a bow as well as a blade.”

She snorted softly, setting an arrow down and shaking her head. “I hunt with a bow when I must, but I’ve no great love for it,” she admitted. “Give me a sword or a knife any day. I just don’t like bows.”

Faramir’s smile widened, his tone teasing now. “Like how you dislike running?”

Rían shot him a pointed look, though her lips twitched as if fighting a smile. “It’s not like that at all,” she said, though her tone betrayed her amusement. She straightened, holding an arrow loosely in her hand as her grey eyes softened, her expression turning thoughtful. “When I was a child, one of my father’s men grazed me with an arrow during training. It was an accident, of course, but…” She paused, her voice taking on a wry note. “I suppose it left an impression—on my leg and my opinions of bows.”

Faramir’s smile faltered, his brows drawing together in alarm. “You were struck? How badly were you hurt?”

Rían waved off his concern with a casual flick of her hand. “Oh, it was nothing serious. A shallow wound—barely even a scar now. But my father was furious. I think I learned more creative curses that day than in all my years since.”

Faramir leaned forward slightly, his concern not entirely assuaged. “And the man responsible? What became of him?”

“Oh, he got an earful, I can tell you that,” Rían said with a chuckle, her eyes gleaming with mirth. “My father’s voice could carry across a battlefield like a horn blowing, and he put it to good use that day. Poor man was probably more scarred than I was after the lecture he received.”

Faramir let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing, though his gaze lingered on her thoughtfully. “And yet it seems the incident stayed with you.”

Rían shrugged, slipping the arrow back into her quiver. “It’s not as though I’m afraid of bows,” she said lightly. “I just don’t favor them. Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “you seem quite adept at filling the role of archer. Why should I compete with that?”

Faramir chuckled, his expression softening as he watched her with quiet admiration. “You’re full of surprises, Rían,” he said.

Rían’s chuckle faded as she studied Faramir, her sharp eyes noting the faint, wistful smile that had crept onto his face. He leaned back slightly, resting his hands on his knees, and glanced at her with a spark of amusement in his grey eyes.

“Well, since you’ve shared your tale, I suppose it’s only fair I offer one of my own, although unfortunately it did end with me getting scolded” he began.

“Oh?” Rían tilted her head, intrigued. “What did you do to earn such wrath? You hardly seem the sort to stir trouble.”

Faramir’s smile grew, tinged with a hint of mischief. “Appearances can be deceiving,” he said lightly. “When I was a boy—perhaps seven or eight—I was determined to best my brother in swordplay.”

“Boromir?” Rían interrupted, arching a brow. “Wasn’t he older? And… larger?”

“He was,” Faramir admitted, his tone warm with fondness. “Five  years my elder and already a head taller. But in my youthful determination, I thought that if I practiced hard enough with my wooden sword, I might defeat him in a duel. So one day, I challenged him in the courtyard.”

Rían smirked, leaning forward slightly. “And how did that go?”

Faramir laughed softly, shaking his head. “About as well as you’d expect. I swung wildly, thinking my enthusiasm might make up for my lack of skill. Boromir, of course, easily parried every strike and laughed the entire time.”

“Sounds about right,” Rían said dryly, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

“But,” Faramir continued, holding up a finger, “in one desperate lunge, I managed to catch him off guard. My wooden sword slipped past his guard and struck him squarely in the mouth.” He winced at the memory, though his smile didn’t fade. “I very nearly knocked out one of his teeth.”

Rían burst into laughter, the sound clear and unrestrained. “You? The calm, composed Captain of Gondor? You almost knocked Boromir’s teeth out with a wooden sword?”

“I did,” Faramir admitted, his tone mock-solemn. “And I was promptly made to regret it. Our nursemaid, a formidable woman named Míriel, descended upon me like a storm. She scolded me so thoroughly that even Boromir—despite nursing a swollen lip—felt the need to come to my defense.”

“And did it work?” Rían asked, still chuckling.

“Not in the slightest,” Faramir replied, shaking his head. “Míriel was relentless. She made me sit through a lecture on proper swordplay and respect for my elders, all while Boromir sat smirking behind her.” He paused, his smile softening. “Though later that night, he came to my room and declared it the best duel we’d ever had. He even gave me his old leather bracer as a token of encouragement.”

Rían’s laughter faded into a smile, her gaze thoughtful. “He sounds like a good brother,” she said quietly. “Encouraging you even after you nearly maimed him.”

Faramir nodded, his expression wistful. “He is the best brother I could wish for.”

Before Rían could respond, Pippin’s voice broke through the quiet, cheerful and irrepressible. “I hope there’s a proper feast waiting for us in Minas Tirith!” he declared, drawing their attention. “Something hot and filling—none of this dried bread and salted meat nonsense!”

Faramir’s smile grew, and he glanced at Rían, his expression lighter now. “I’ll see to it that there’s a feast fit for a Hobbit, Master Took,” he said, his tone carrying a trace of humor.

Rían joined in, her laughter soft but genuine. “And if there isn’t, I’m sure Pippin will have plenty of suggestions for how we can fix that,” she teased, earning a proud nod from the Hobbit.

For a moment, the weight of their journey lifted, replaced by the warmth of companionship and shared laughter. But as the fire burned low and the stars began to glimmer in the vast night sky, Faramir found his thoughts drifting back to Rían’s words—her quiet strength, her offer to stand beside him, and the way her presence seemed to steady his heart even in the darkest of hours.

***

The night was quiet save for the gentle rustle of the wind through the grass and the distant murmur of the Anduin as it flowed southward. The small company had stopped to rest, and Gandalf and Pippin were already deep in slumber beneath their cloaks. The stars above shone cold and bright, unbothered by the shadow growing in the east. Yet even amidst the stillness, Rían could sense the unease that hung over Faramir like a storm cloud, darkening with every mile they drew closer to Minas Tirith.

She had noticed it first in the way he sat his horse—tense and guarded. As the leagues passed, his words had grown fewer, his face more drawn. By the time they had made camp, he had retreated entirely into himself, sitting apart from the rest, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Rían watched him for a long while before finally rising to her feet. Draping her cloak around her shoulders, she crossed the short distance to where he sat, his figure outlined by the faint glow of the moonlight. His back was turned to her, his shoulders hunched as if weighed down by an invisible burden.

“Faramir,” she said softly, her voice gentle so as not to startle him.

He turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the weariness in his eyes. “Rían,” he said, his voice low and strained, “you should rest.”

“So should you,” she replied, moving to sit beside him. “But it seems neither of us can find much peace tonight.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze returning to the darkened plains before them. She waited patiently, her hands resting loosely in her lap. Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy with sorrow. “The nearer we draw to Minas Tirith, the more I feel the weight of it,” he admitted, his words halting as if each one cost him dearly. “I thought I had left it behind—my father’s shadow, his… his disdain. But it follows me still.”

Rían’s heart ached at the pain in his voice. “Faramir,” she said quietly, her tone coaxing, “tell me what troubles you so.”

He hesitated, his hands curling into fists on his knees. “I had almost forgotten it,” he said, his voice breaking with the effort to keep his emotions in check. “Traveling with the Fellowship, I felt—for a time—free. But now…” His breath hitched, and he turned his face away from her, but not before she caught the glint of tears in his eyes. “Now it feels as though I am walking back into the cage I thought I had escaped.”

Rían leaned in slightly, her expression soft with understanding. “What cage?” she asked gently. “What shadow?”

For a long moment, he was silent, his jaw tightening as he fought the words that wanted to spill forth. At last, he spoke, his voice low and rough, as though dredged up from some deep and painful well. “He has never loved me,” Faramir said. “Not as a father should love a son. Always I was found wanting, no matter how I tried. When I was a child, a single misstep—breaking a dish, faltering in my lessons—would earn his wrath. He had no patience for weakness, no room for kindness. He would raise his voice, his hand…” Faramir trailed off, his breathing unsteady. “I learned quickly to be silent, to be still. But even then, it was not enough.”

Rían’s heart tightened at his words, her hands curling unconsciously in her lap. “And as you grew older?” she asked softly, though she feared the answer.

Faramir gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “It only changed in form. His words became his weapons—sharp, cutting. I could do nothing to please him. If I spoke, it was insolence. If I remained silent, it was cowardice. And always—always—he compared me to Boromir, the son he loved, the son I could never be.” He paused, his voice thick with bitterness and grief. “I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, that I was strong enough to bear it. But now, as we draw near, it feels as though I am that frightened boy again, bracing for the next blow.”

Rían’s chest ached with the weight of his confession, each word cutting through her like a blade. The pain he had carried alone for so long lay bare before her now, a wound hidden beneath layers of duty and quiet strength. Tears glistened in his grey eyes, catching the faint moonlight as he turned his face away, ashamed of the vulnerability he could no longer conceal. His shoulders trembled ever so slightly, and she could see how tightly he was holding himself, as though he feared falling apart entirely if he let go.

Without hesitation, Rían reached out, her hand brushing lightly against Faramir’s arm. The contact was soft but firm, a tether to pull him from the abyss of his grief. Her fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary, as if the simple touch could convey what words could not. “Faramir,” she murmured, her voice steady yet imbued with a deep, unwavering compassion.

He froze at her touch, his body taut as a bowstring, every muscle coiled with the tension of unspoken pain. For a moment, she thought he might pull away, retreating behind the walls he had carefully constructed to protect himself from further hurt. His breath caught, and the silence stretched between them, fragile and taut. But then, slowly, as though summoned by a force he could no longer resist, his gaze shifted to hers. His storm-grey eyes met hers, the vulnerability within them stark and raw, asking a silent question—Why? Why do you care?

Her answer was wordless but clear. Her gaze softened, filled with an earnestness that reflected the depth of her heart. Gently, she leaned closer, her movements deliberate yet tender. Before he could protest or retreat, she slipped her arms around him, drawing him into an embrace. At first, his body remained stiff, as though the act of being held was foreign to him, a distant memory long buried beneath the weight of duty and sorrow. His breath hitched sharply, and for a fleeting moment, she feared she had overstepped.

But then, something within him broke. He let out a quiet, shuddering sigh, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of all the emotions he had kept locked away. His head lowered to her shoulder, his weight pressing against her as he surrendered to the comfort she offered, as if finally allowing himself to accept the solace he had long denied.

Rían tightened her hold, her hand moving to the back of his head, her fingers threading softly through his hair. She marveled at the surprising softness beneath her touch, a stark contrast to the hardened exterior he presented to the world. Her other arm encircled his back, her palm resting against his shoulder blade, feeling the slight tremor of his body as he struggled to contain the flood of emotions rising within him. She held him close, her embrace a silent promise that he was not alone, that he need not carry the burden by himself.

“You do not have to carry this alone,” she whispered, her voice low and steady, a balm against the rawness of his pain. Her lips brushed near his ear, her breath warm against his skin, a gentle reminder of her presence, of her unwavering support. “Not now, not ever.”

For a long time, he said nothing, his breaths uneven as he fought to compose himself, the quiet weight of her words sinking into him. Her hand continued its soothing rhythm, stroking his hair gently, as if to remind him that he was safe, that the walls he had built could crumble without leaving him defenseless. She felt the heat of his tears soaking into her shoulder, but she said nothing of it, offering him the quiet dignity he deserved in this moment of vulnerability.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, so soft she had to strain to hear it. “He will never see me,” Faramir murmured, his words laced with a bitter sorrow that made her heart ache. “Not as I am. Only as I fail to be.”

Rían’s hand stilled for a moment, her fingers lightly tracing the curve of his hairline before she resumed her gentle motion. “Then he is blind,” she said, her voice low but fierce, her words trembling with conviction. “Blind to the man who stands before him—a man of wisdom, courage, and grace. A man who carries burdens no one should bear and still fights for what is right.”

Her words struck something deep within him, and his breath hitched again. She felt him turn his face slightly, as though seeking her gaze without lifting his head. Slowly, she eased back just enough to look at him, her arms still wrapped around him, anchoring him in the present. His face was inches from hers, close enough that she could see the faint shimmer of tears clinging to his lashes, the vulnerability in his eyes laid bare in a way that made her heart ache with both tenderness and longing.

“Do you truly believe that?” he asked, his voice hoarse and raw, barely above a whisper. His breath mingled with hers in the small space between them, the closeness igniting a spark of something more—something neither dared to name but both felt keenly.

“With all my heart,” she replied, her voice steady and sure, though her own heart thundered in her chest. She reached up, brushing a stray tear from his cheek with the pad of her thumb, her touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary, the intimacy of the gesture stirring a quiet thrill within her. “And if he cannot see it, then he is unworthy of you, Faramir. Not the other way around.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words, with the emotions neither dared to fully voice. Her hand slid from his cheek to rest lightly against the curve of his neck, her thumb brushing against the edge of his jaw in a gesture so intimate it made his breath falter.

“You are a  greater man than you know,” she whispered, her voice soft yet resolute, each word carrying the weight of her belief in him. “Greater than his cruelty could ever diminish.”

Something shifted in his gaze then, a flicker of light breaking through the shadows that had clouded his eyes. He leaned into her touch almost imperceptibly, the faintest tilt of his head as if drawn to her warmth. The moment hung between them, delicate and trembling with possibility. But the fragility of it gave him pause, and he pulled back just enough to regain his composure, though the loss of her touch left an ache in its wake.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice still thick with emotion, though a faint glimmer of gratitude shone in his eyes now, a softening of the heaviness he carried.

Rían offered him a small, reassuring smile, her hands sliding down to rest on his arms as she released him, though the connection lingered in the space between them. “You need not thank me,” she said gently, her voice warm. “But promise me this: hold fast to hope, no matter how dark the night may seem. Hope is not yet lost, Faramir, and neither are you.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, a faint smile touched his lips, hesitant but real, a fragile step toward healing. “I will try,” he murmured, and in his eyes, she saw the faintest glimmer of something she had not seen before—a spark of belief, fragile yet unyielding, a promise of something brighter on the horizon.

Chapter Text

The wind carried the cool scent of stone and mountain air as they ascended through the levels of Minas Tirith, the White City standing proud against the looming shadow of Mordor in the east. Hooves clattered upon the stone streets as Gandalf, Rían, Faramir, and Pippin rode swiftly, their cloaks billowing in the early morning light. The city, carved from the bones of the mountain, gleamed pale and stern, its many levels rising like steps of a grand, ancient throne.

As they reached the topmost level, the sounds of their steeds’ hooves echoed in the silent courtyard. Before them stood the great white hall of the Citadel, its walls tall and unyielding, the doors closed like a sentinel guarding the heart of Gondor. Before the hall, the White Tree of Gondor stood, barren and withered, its leafless branches reaching skyward like a skeletal hand beseeching the heavens. The sight of it, once a symbol of the line of Kings, was a stark reminder of Gondor’s fading glory.

Pippin, his small hands clutching tightly to Gandalf’s grey robes, let out a sudden, breathless exclamation. “It’s the tree! Gandalf, Gandalf, look!”

The wizard slowed Shadowfax to a halt, his gaze softening as he regarded the ancient tree. “Yes,” Gandalf murmured, his voice laden with both reverence and melancholy. “The White Tree of Gondor. The tree of the King. But,” he added, his tone shifting as he turned his keen eyes upon Pippin, “Lord Denethor is not the King. He is a steward only, a caretaker of the throne, until the King should return.”

They dismounted, their footsteps echoing on the smooth stone as they approached the grand entrance. The weight of history pressed upon them, the very stones seeming to hum with the memories of ages past.

Gandalf paused at the threshold, placing a firm hand on Pippin’s shoulder. His gaze, sharp yet kind, met the hobbit’s wide, curious eyes. “Now listen carefully,” he said, his voice low but insistent. “Lord Denethor is… a complicated man. His heart is burdened with many sorrows, and his mind walks dark paths. So do not mention Frodo or the Ring. And say nothing of Aragorn, either. In fact,” Gandalf added, a hint of sternness creeping into his tone, “it is better if you do not speak at all, Peregrin Took.”

Pippin gulped, his eyes darting nervously. “Not speak at all?” he repeated, his voice a mere whisper, but there was a glimmer of determination in his expression as he nodded in understanding.

As Gandalf turned back toward the great doors, Rían reached out, her dark eyes meeting Faramir’s. She could see the shadow of weariness that lined his face, the burden of duty pressing heavily upon him. Without a word, she took his hand, her grip firm and steady. It was a simple gesture, yet it carried the weight of unspoken reassurance. Her presence beside him was a quiet strength, a reminder that even in the face of uncertainty, he was not alone.

“Courage, Faramir,” Rían murmured, her voice barely audible, but its warmth penetrated the cold air between them. “We walk these paths together.”

Faramir squeezed her hand gently in return, a fleeting smile softening his grim features. “And together we shall endure,” he replied, his voice resolute, though his heart carried the burden of many doubts. Yet, in Rían’s eyes, he found a flicker of hope, a steadfast light against the encroaching darkness.

As the great doors of the hall groaned open before them, they stepped forward, the light of the morning spilling into the vast chamber.  The massive hall of the Citadel was a place of echoes and shadows, its high vaulted ceiling disappearing into the dim heights above. Columns of white stone lined the vast space, standing like silent sentinels, and the pale light of dawn filtered through tall, narrow windows, casting elongated beams upon the smooth, cold floor. The air was thick with the weight of history and the quiet solemnity of a realm that had stood for millennia, now teetering on the edge of ruin.

Gandalf, clad in his white robes, strode purposefully across the hall, his staff tapping lightly against the stone with each step. Beside him, Rían and Faramir walked in measured silence, their gazes forward, yet each attuned to the undercurrents of tension that seemed to hum through the air. Pippin trailed close behind Gandalf, his small form dwarfed by the grandness of the hall, his wide eyes darting nervously from side to side.

At the base of the steps leading to the great throne of Gondor sat a man, tall and stern, his face lined with care and a shadow of bitterness. Clad in rich robes of black and silver, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor, sat not upon the throne itself, but on a seat at its foot—a symbolic reminder of the absent king.

Gandalf halted before the steward, his gaze steady and unflinching. He bowed his head slightly in deference, his voice clear and authoritative as it echoed through the hall. “Hail, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor.”

Denethor’s eyes narrowed slightly, his fingers tightening on the armrests of his seat. There was a flicker of recognition, mingled with wariness, as he regarded the wizard. Gandalf continued, his tone grave yet respectful. “My lord, I come to warn you. War is coming. The enemy is on your doorstep. As steward, you are charged with the defense of this city. Where are Gondor’s armies? You still have friends. You are not alone in this fight. Send word to Théoden of Rohan. Light the beacons.”

Denethor’s expression hardened, a cold gleam entering his eyes. His voice, though calm, was laced with disdain as he leaned forward slightly. “You think you are wise, Mithrandir. Yet for all your subtleties, you have not wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know.”

He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, as if to emphasize the weight of his authority. “With your left hand, you would use me as a shield against Mordor, and with your right, you would seek to supplant me. I know who rides with Théoden of Rohan. Oh yes, word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And I tell you now—I will not bow to this Ranger from the North, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship.”

At these words, Faramir’s face grew pale, his lips pressing into a thin line. The mention of Aragorn stirred a complex mix of loyalty, duty, and an unspoken tension within him. He glanced briefly at Rían, whose expression remained impassive, though her eyes flickered with a quiet intensity, hecould see the anger with here, a fierce protectiveness. Her hand brushed against his arm in a brief, reassuring gesture, a silent reminder of her steadfast presence beside him.

Gandalf’s eyes flashed with a restrained fire as he stepped forward, his voice calm but firm, each word weighted with the authority of one who spoke for the greater good. “Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the king, steward.”

Denethor’s face twisted with anger, his composure slipping as he surged to his feet, the folds of his robe sweeping around him. His voice, filled with a barely contained fury, rang through the hall. “The rule of Gondor is mine, and no others!”

The tension in the hall was palpable, the echoes of Denethor’s outburst reverberating off the cold stone walls. Rían’s gaze remained steady on the steward, her hands at her sides, fingers flexing subtly as if preparing for a confrontation that she knew must be avoided. Faramir’s heart pounded in his chest, torn between his duty to his father and the undeniable truth of Gandalf’s words.

Denethor sat back in his chair, his lips curling in a bitter smile. “And what would you have me do, Mithrandir? Shall I abandon my people to your ‘hope’ in a broken sword and a halfling’s trinket? Shall I place my trust in a king who has not yet claimed his throne? No, Gandalf. Gondor stands alone, as it always has.”

Faramir stepped forward, his voice steady though it carried the weight of weariness and quiet resolve. “Father, Gandalf speaks the truth. The enemy is stronger than we have ever seen. If we do not fortify the city, if we do not rally our allies, we will fall.”

Denethor, seated like a vulture on his black chair, turned his piercing gaze upon his son. His eyes, dark and unyielding, seemed to harden further, as though Faramir’s words were not warning but insult. “Ah my wayward son returns with the Grey Pilgrim. You dare to instruct me, Faramir?” he said, his voice sharp enough to echo against the high stone walls. “You, who could not hold Osgiliath? You, who let our enemies cross the river unchallenged? Is it not enough that you have failed me time and again? Now you come crawling back, parroting the words of this conjurer.”

Rían, standing to the side, saw the faintest flinch ripple through Faramir’s form, though he did not lower his gaze. She noticed the way his hands tightened at his sides, the tremor of restraint in his jaw as he kept his composure. But his shoulders, broad though they were, seemed to carry the weight of his father’s scorn like a man bearing a heavy yoke for too long.

“I did what I could, with what strength I had,” Faramir said quietly, his voice like a shadow of flame, both subdued and unyielding. “I fight for Gondor, as I have always done.”

Denethor’s laugh was sharp and mirthless, a sound that cut through the air like a blade. “You fight, yes, but to what end? To lose? To bring shame upon this house? You are no captain, Faramir. You are a pupil of a wizard and a disgrace to your bloodline.”

The words struck like blows, and Rían felt her stomach twist as she watched Faramir. His head remained high, but his hands now curled into fists. The light in his grey eyes, which so often burned with quiet wisdom, seemed dimmed beneath the weight of his father’s cruelty. His breathing was steady, though she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest quicken, as if he were bracing himself, waiting for another blow.

Rían could endure no more. She had taken many beatings and injuries I’m her life and always held her head high through it all but she couldn’t bear to see harm done to those she cared about. The simmering anger that had stirred within her throughout Denethor’s tirade now boiled over, and she stepped forward, her boots ringing against the stone. Her voice, clear and sharp, cut through the venomous atmosphere like lightning splitting a darkened sky. “My lord Steward, that is enough!”

Denethor’s cold gaze shifted to her, his lip curling as though at a fly that had dared to buzz too near. “And who are you to speak in my hall, ranger?” he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. “A mere shadow of the North, skulking in the wilds with no title and no claim. Do not presume to lecture me on my son.”

Rían’s grey eyes flared, storm clouds gathering behind them. She took another step forward, her chin lifted high and her voice ringing with defiance. “I may have no title, my lord,” she said fiercely. “But neither do I need one to see what stands plain before me. I know courage when I see it, and I have seen more courage in Faramir than you ever will. For you are blinded by your own bitterness, and in your blindness, you cast stones at the one man who has never faltered in his duty to Gondor.”

Denethor’s eyes narrowed, clearly surprised that someone even dared to challenge him, but she pressed on, her voice rising as anger and sorrow mingled within her. “While you sit here on your chair, hurling insults like a spoiled child  and wallowing in despair, your son has stood on the front lines, defending this country with everything he has. He has fought not for himself, nor for your approval, but for the people of Gondor—people you seem content to forget as you drown in your pride.”

Faramir’s gaze had shifted to her now, his expression unreadable. But she saw the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or even disbelief that someone would dare speak to his father so. His fists, once clenched, relaxed slightly at his sides, though his stance remained tense, as though braced for the inevitable storm.

Denethor’s face darkened with rage, and he rose suddenly, his hand clenching the rod of his office. “You dare—” he began, his voice shaking with fury. He stepped toward her, raising his hand as if to strike.

Before Rían could move, Faramir was there, placing himself firmly between her and his father. His hand hovered in front of her protectively and his voice, though quiet, carried an unshakable resolve. “Enough,” he said, his tone calm but unyielding. “If you wish to vent your anger, Father, let it be on me. But you will not touch her.”

Denethor froze, his hand hovering in the air. For a moment, there was silence, the tension thick as a drawn bowstring. Then, slowly, the Steward lowered his hand, his lips curling in disgust.

“You defend a mere ranger over your own kin,” he said coldly. “It seems you are determined to disappoint me, Faramir.”

Rían stepped back, her heart pounding, anger and shame warring within her. Without another word, she turned and strode from the hall, her boots echoing against the stone floor. She pushed open the great doors and stepped into the cool air of the Citadel, her hands trembling with fury.

Behind her, Faramir remained where he stood, his back straight, his face pale but composed. Denethor returned to his seat, his expression hard and unmoving. Gandalf watched them both, his eyes full of sorrow and understanding, but he said nothing. The silence in the hall was deep and heavy, broken only by the faint crackle of the torches.

***

The evening had draped Minas Tirith in a cloak of twilight, the sky above shifting into the burnished hues of sunset. The city below was alive with a quiet hum, a mixture of lingering activity and the hush that came as the people prepared for the night. The winds, gentle but insistent, swept through the high terraces, bringing with them the cool, crisp air of the plains, carrying the scents of the fields and the faint aroma of hearth fires.

Rían stood alone on the balcony, her hands resting lightly on the smooth stone balustrade, her fingers tracing the ancient carvings worn smooth by time. The weight of the day, heavy with confrontation and tension, pressed on her shoulders. She gazed out at the horizon, the distant mountains silhouetted against the fading light, a reminder of the vastness of the world beyond the city walls.

Yet her thoughts were not on the distant lands but on the moment in the hall, where she had stood resolute before Denethor. She could still feel the tension in the room, the heavy silence that had followed her defiance, as if the very stones of the citadel held their breath. The memory of the steward’s cold disdain lingered in her mind, but so too did the quiet gratitude in Faramir’s eyes as he looked at her afterward. Now, as the city prepared for the coming storm, she sought a moment of peace beneath the stars.

She heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching, tentative and measured, the leather soles barely whispering against the stone. Turning slightly, she caught sight of Faramir as he stepped onto the balcony. His expression was a blend of uncertainty and quiet resolve, the lines of worry etched into his features softened by the gentle light of the stars. He hesitated a few paces away, as if unsure of how to proceed, before gathering his courage and closing the distance between them.

“I should thank you,” Faramir began, his voice low but steady. There was a tremor of emotion beneath his words, a vulnerability that he rarely allowed to surface. His gaze dropped for a moment, the weight of gratitude and uncertainty pressing upon him, before he met her eyes once more. “No one has ever stood up to my father like that… not for me. I’m grateful.”

Rían’s lips curved into a soft smile, her gaze warm with understanding. She could see the depth of his appreciation, the quiet relief that someone had finally spoken for him, had seen him for who he truly was. “You needed someone to speak the truth,” she said gently, her voice steady yet kind.

Faramir’s smile was faint but genuine, a flicker of something rare and precious in the shadowed corners of his heart. “It was… unwise, perhaps,” he added, a touch of wry humor in his tone, though the concern in his eyes remained. “Denethor does not take kindly to those who challenge him.”

Rían’s eyes sparkled with a defiant light, her chin lifting slightly as she replied, “I’m not one to stand idly in the face of injustice. I never have been, and I do not intend to start now.”

Faramir stepped closer, drawn to the strength in her voice, the unwavering conviction that made her presence a balm to his weary soul. The gap between them narrowed, and though he still held himself with the careful restraint that years of duty had instilled, there was an openness in his gaze now, a tentative hope. His voice, quieter this time, carried the weight of something deeply personal, something he had longed to ask. “Did you mean what you said?” he asked, his eyes searching hers. “About me?”

Rían turned to face him fully, her expression softening as she took in the vulnerability that lingered in his question. She stepped closer, her hand brushing lightly against his arm, the touch grounding and sincere. “Every word,” she assured him, her voice steady, her gaze unwavering. “You are far more than he can see, Faramir. Your strength, your honor, your kindness—they are not diminished by his blindness.”

Her words seemed to settle over him like a balm, easing the ache that had long resided in his heart. Faramir’s breath caught, the quiet fervor of her declaration filling a space within him that had long been empty. For a moment, he could not speak, overwhelmed by the depth of her sincerity, the unexpected solace her words provided.

Rían, sensing the weight of the moment, allowed a playful smile to soften the intensity. “And,” she added with a light tease, “I meant every word I said about Denethor too.”

Faramir’s chuckle was soft, a low sound that resonated in the cool night air, easing some of the tension that had settled between them. “I have no doubt,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on her with a quiet affection, a gratitude that went beyond words.

The wind stirred gently around them, carrying the scent of the fields and the faint murmur of the city below. As they stood together beneath the vast expanse of the sky, the closeness of the moment was a fragile, tender thing—a shared solace against the storm that loomed on the horizon.

Rían glanced back toward the city, her gaze thoughtful, the lights of Minas Tirith flickering below like a sea of distant stars. The vastness of the view seemed to mirror the emotions stirring within her, a mix of determination and tenderness that had taken root since their confrontation with Denethor. “I know it’s not easy,” she began softly, her voice steady yet laced with understanding, “standing up to someone like Denethor. Especially when it’s someone you love.”

She turned back to Faramir, her eyes meeting his with a quiet intensity that made the air between them feel charged with something unspoken. “But Faramir,” she continued, her tone earnest, each word carefully chosen, “you deserve to be seen, truly seen. And not just as a captain or a steward’s son, but as the man you are.”

Faramir’s breath hitched slightly, her words cutting through the layers of doubt and duty that had long weighed upon him. He looked at her, the flicker of hope igniting in his eyes a fragile, trembling thing, but real nonetheless. “It’s hard to believe that sometimes,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, each word heavy with the vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. “But when you speak, it’s as if… I can.”

Rían’s heart swelled at his words, a warmth spreading through her chest that she hadn’t anticipated. There was a tenderness in his admission, a trust that stirred something deep within her. Without thinking, she reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, a gentle, grounding touch that conveyed more than words ever could. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips, the stubble of his beard a tangible reminder of the man before her—strong yet gentle, burdened yet resilient.

“You should believe it, Faramir,” she said softly, her voice steady but imbued with a quiet urgency. “Because it’s true.”

Faramir reached up, his hand covering hers where it rested against his face. His touch was warm, grounding, the simple act filled with a quiet reverence. His fingers curled gently around hers, holding her hand in place as if afraid she might pull away. “Thank you, Rían,” he said softly, his voice filled with a depth of feeling that made her heart ache. “For seeing me.”

Rían’s gaze softened, her lips curving into a tender smile as she stepped closer, the space between them shrinking to a mere breath. “And I shall thank you for standing with me,” she replied, her voice equally soft, yet filled with a strength that spoke of unwavering support, a promise that she would not waver in her belief in him.

“You were brave to speak to my father that way,” Faramir said gently, his voice carrying a note of admiration that was both genuine and tinged with awe. “No one has ever done that before.”

Rían turned slightly, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. A wry smile curved her lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Foolish, more like,” she replied. “If I stay here much longer, Gandalf might find me and give me a lecture that would rival any punishment Denethor could dream up.”

Faramir’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his gaze warm despite the shadows that lingered in his expression. “I don’t think Gandalf would yell at you,” he said quietly. “He knows my father well enough to understand that his mind was made up long before you spoke. Your words may have angered him, but they did not change his course.” He hesitated, then added, “If anything, they gave me strength.”

Rían’s grey eyes flicked to his, searching for something in his expression. She seemed caught between gratitude and discomfort, and after a beat, she shifted her weight and looked away. “Still,” she muttered, “it was reckless of me.”

Faramir studied her for a moment before speaking again, his tone lightening. “I believe I promised to show you the city,” he said.

Her brows lifted slightly in surprise, though she didn’t immediately answer.

“I insist,” Faramir added, stepping closer and extending his arm to her with a faintly self-conscious smile. “If I don’t fulfill my promise now, I might not have the chance.”

Rían regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she sighed softly and placed her hand on his arm. “If you insist,” she said, though there was a note of reluctant amusement in her voice. Privately, she found his formality endearing, though she would never admit it aloud.

As they descended from the hall and began to walk through the winding streets of Minas Tirith, Faramir pointed out landmarks and areas of interest, his voice steady and thoughtful. He spoke of the city’s history, its people, and its beauty, though his gaze often drifted to Rían as she looked around with wide, wondering eyes.

The golden light of the evening sun bathed Minas Tirith in hues of amber and rose, softening the sharp edges of the city’s white stone. Towers rose high into the sky, their pinnacles glinting like polished silver, while banners bearing the emblem of the White Tree stirred gently in the breeze. The air was cool, carrying with it the faint scent of stone and the distant hint of wildflowers from the plains below. The city’s seven levels wound upward in a perfect arc, each tier guarded by a mighty gate, and from their vantage point, Rían could see far into the distance where the Anduin flowed like a ribbon of liquid gold.

Rían stood at the edge of the balcony, her hands resting lightly on the cool stone rail. She gazed out over the bustling city below, where narrow streets wove like veins through clusters of whitewashed houses. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mingling with the soft hum of voices and the occasional peal of a bell. It was a city steeped in history, alive with the echoes of ages past and the heavy weight of what was to come.

“This place…” she murmured, almost to herself, her voice carrying a note of awe. “It is so alive. I cannot help but wonder if this is how Annúminas and Fornost once looked before they became the ruins I know.”

Faramir, standing just a step behind her, watched her closely. The light caught in her dark hair, giving it a faint copper sheen, and her grey eyes, filled with wonder, reflected the fading hues of the sky. He found himself entranced by the way she seemed to absorb the city’s beauty as if seeing it anew with every passing moment.

“They must have been beautiful,” he replied, his voice quiet but certain. “But I doubt they could rival what stands before me now.”

Rían turned her head to him, a faint crease of confusion marring her brow, as if she were about to ask what he meant. But Faramir’s gaze lingered on hers for just a heartbeat too long, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Her expression softened, and she quickly looked away, her fingers tightening slightly on the railing.

He stepped closer, gesturing to the city below. “Look there,” he said, pointing to a wide square bustling with activity. “That is the Market of the Sixth Circle. On feast days, it’s filled with music and stalls brimming with goods from every corner of Gondor. And beyond it—there, where the walls curve—lies the Houses of Healing.”

Rían followed his gaze, her eyes lingering on the sprawling courtyard of the Houses of Healing. “It looks peaceful,” she said softly. “A sanctuary amidst all this stone.”

“It is,” Faramir agreed, his tone tinged with affection. “Many find solace there, though few come to it willingly.” He hesitated, then added with a faint smile, “But I hope you never have cause to.”

She turned her gaze to him, and for a moment, there was a quiet understanding between them. The city, grand and ancient, seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the two of them standing together in the golden light.

They began to walk again, descending to the lower levels where the streets grew narrower and the scent of bread and hearthfire lingered in the air. Faramir continued to point out landmarks—the Tower of Ecthelion, the Rath Dínen where the honored dead rested, and the barracks where the city’s defenders readied themselves for the battles ahead. Rían listened intently, her questions revealing a keen interest in the stories and histories he shared.

As they passed through the Fifth Circle, she paused, her gaze sweeping over the city once more. “It is strange,” she said after a moment, “to walk among so much life and think of the shadow that looms beyond. It reminds me of how my people must have once lived—clinging to beauty while knowing it could all be lost.”

Faramir regarded her silently, the weight of her words settling over him. Her eyes, though filled with wonder, held a trace of sadness that he longed to banish.

“We should probably find Gandalf and Pippin,” she said finally, breaking the silence. Her voice carried a reluctant practicality, though there was a faint smile playing on her lips. “I’ve delayed long enough, and Gandalf is not a patient man.”

Faramir chuckled softly, his expression warming. “If it comes to it,” he said lightly, “I’ll stand up for you this time.”

Rían arched a brow, a hint of amusement breaking through her guarded demeanor. “That might be the most foolish promise you’ve made yet,” she replied, though her tone lacked any real reproach.

He smiled at her, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Perhaps,” he said, “but some promises are worth keeping.”

As they turned back toward the upper levels, the fading light of the evening cast long shadows across the white stone. Faramir found himself stealing glances at Rían, her profile outlined against the fiery hues of the sky. She seemed both part of the city and apart from it, a figure carved from the very tales of old Gondor, yet grounded in a strength all her own.

And in his heart, Faramir could not help but think how he wished for this moment to last just a little longer—for the chance to remain by her side, even as the shadow of war drew ever nearer.

Chapter Text

The streets of Minas Tirith were cloaked in the deepening twilight, the last hues of the sun casting a golden glow over the white stone of the city. The air was thick with the tension of impending war, the citizens moving about with hurried steps, their faces etched with worry. Amidst the bustle, Gandalf strode purposefully through the winding streets, his robes billowing around him, the light of determination in his eyes. Beside him, Pippin kept pace, his small legs moving swiftly, his face set with a mixture of anxiety and resolve. Rían and Faramir followed closely, their expressions grave but resolute, the weight of their task heavy on their shoulders.

“Peregrin Took, my lad,” Gandalf began, his voice firm yet carrying a note of encouragement, “there is a task now to be done. Another opportunity for one of the Shire-folk to prove their great worth.” He stopped at the base of a great watchtower, the structure looming tall against the darkening sky. Gandalf placed a hand on Pippin’s shoulder, his gaze steady and reassuring. “You must not fail me.”

Pippin nodded, swallowing hard, the gravity of the moment sinking in. Without hesitation, he turned and ran toward the cliff face, his small form silhouetted against the towering beacon. His hands found purchase on the rough stone, and he began to climb, his heart pounding with both fear and determination.

Below, Gandalf watched intently, his keen eyes following Pippin’s ascent. Rían stood beside him, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her gaze never leaving the hobbit. Faramir, standing to her other side, felt his breath catch as he watched Pippin’s brave climb, the tension in the air palpable.

As Pippin reached the top, he moved quickly to light the beacon, the flames catching and leaping upward into the sky. The fire blazed brightly, casting a warm glow that banished the encroaching darkness. Pippin’s face lit with relief as he saw the flames take hold, but his eyes widened in alarm as he realized the danger. He scrambled down quickly, the heat of the fire licking at his heels as he made his escape.

The soldiers on guard, who had been unaware of the hobbit’s actions, suddenly noticed the blaze. They turned in astonishment, their eyes widening as they watched the beacon burn brightly against the night sky.

“What?” one of the soldiers exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief as he pointed toward the fire.

They moved toward the blaze, their expressions a mix of confusion and awe as they took in the sight. Faramir’s lips curved into a rare smile of satisfaction, the success of the task lifting a weight from his shoulders. He stepped forward, moving swiftly to the parapet, his eyes scanning the distant mountains.

“Amon Din,” Faramir said softly, his voice carrying a note of hope as he watched the distant beacon blaze forth.

The soldiers around him followed his gaze, their eyes lighting up as they saw the flames leap into the night, a signal of hope and defiance. “The beacon!” one of the soldiers cried, his voice ringing out across the parapet. “The beacon of Amon Din is lit!”

Gandalf, watching from below, let out a laugh of pure delight, the sound echoing through the streets of Minas Tirith. The sight of the beacons alight brought a glimmer of hope to the grim city. Inside the citadel, Denethor, observing the scene through a window, scowled and retreated, his expression dark and displeased.

“Hope is kindled!” Gandalf declared, his voice filled with triumph. His eyes sparkled as he turned to Rían and Faramir, the victory in his gaze unmistakable.

The beacons blazed across the mountain peaks, one after the other, each flame a signal of unity and defiance against the shadow looming in the East. The fire spread from peak to peak, a chain of light that carried its message far and wide, until finally, in the distant land of Rohan, Aragorn stood in Edoras and saw the flames rise. His heart swelled as he beheld the beacon, the fiery light reflecting in his eyes, a call to arms that could not be ignored.

The fires of the beacons burned brightly, a promise that all was not yet lost, and that hope still lived in the hearts of men.

***

The flames of the beacons burned brightly against the night, casting their warm glow far across the lands, a signal of hope and unity in the face of the coming storm. Rían, Faramir, Gandalf, and Pippin stood on the high walls of Minas Tirith, the wind tugging at their cloaks as they watched the distant peaks blaze one by one, the firelight reflected in their eyes. The beacons’ message was clear—Rohan was being summoned to Gondor’s aid.

But even as the fire kindled hope within their hearts, the stillness of the moment was broken. Rían’s keen eyes were the first to catch sight of the movement on the Pelennor Fields, and she stiffened, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her sword.

“There,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “Riders, fleeing across the fields.”

Faramir’s gaze followed hers, his breath catching as he took in the scene unfolding below. In the growing shadows, he could make out a group of horsemen galloping from the direction of Osgiliath, their forms silhouetted against the darkening sky. Above them, the fell beasts circled, their black wings beating the air as the Nazgûl pursued their prey with relentless intent.

“It’s them,” Faramir whispered, his voice tight with emotion. “It must be Boromir and his men.” His heart clenched at the sight, a cold dread seeping into his veins. His brother was out there, racing against death, with only the thin thread of hope to keep him from falling to the darkness.

Rían turned her gaze to Faramir, her grey  eyes filled with concern. Without thinking, she reached out, her hand finding his and curling around it. Her grip was firm, a silent promise that he was not alone in his fear. Faramir glanced at her, a flicker of gratitude passing between them, though his attention quickly returned to the scene on the plains.

Beside them, Pippin’s wide eyes were fixed on the riders, his small frame trembling with the intensity of his emotions. He tugged at Gandalf’s robes, his voice urgent and filled with a mix of fear and determination. “Gandalf,” he pleaded, “we have to help them! You will help them, won’t you?”

Gandalf’s gaze was already locked on the distant figures, his expression grave as he took in the peril they faced. The cries of the fell beasts echoed across the fields, a sound that pierced the heart with its malevolent intent. The wizard’s jaw tightened, his mind swiftly calculating the time it would take to reach them, the risks, and the necessity of action.

“I will not let them perish,” Gandalf said firmly, his voice imbued with a steely resolve. “Come, Pippin,” He seized the hobbit by the arm pulling him along. Without another word, he turned and strode purposefully toward the stables, his white robes flowing behind him as he moved with the urgency of one who understood the weight of the moment.

Rían and Faramir stood in stunned silence for a moment, the echo of Gandalf’s words lingering in the air. The gravity of the situation pressed upon them, the reality of the danger below stark against the backdrop of the blazing beacons. They turned their gaze back to the Pelennor Fields, their eyes fixed on the desperate flight of the riders.

The group of horsemen moved as one, their steeds driven to the brink, their riders hunched low, urging every ounce of speed from their mounts. The ground seemed to tremble beneath the thunder of their hooves, and the air was thick with the tension of the chase. The dark forms of the fell beasts loomed above them, their shrieks cutting through the night, harbingers of doom that sought to drag their prey into the abyss.

Faramir’s hand tightened around Rían’s, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. His eyes were locked on the figure he believed to be Boromir, a silent prayer on his lips for his brother’s safety. The thought of losing him, of seeing his brother fall beneath the shadow of Mordor, was a pain he could scarcely bear.

Rían’s gaze flickered between Faramir and the fleeing riders, her own heart heavy with the weight of the moment. She could feel the tension in Faramir’s frame, the fear that gripped him, and she drew strength from their shared resolve. “Gandalf will reach them,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. “He won’t let them fall.”

The two stood together on the parapet, their eyes fixed on the distant figures, the fires of the beacons casting long shadows over the city. The fate of the riders hung in the balance, and in their hearts, they clung to the hope that light would prevail against the darkness. The distant flames on the mountaintops blazed on, a signal that help would come, that they were not alone in this fight. And as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, the promise of that hope burned bright in their hearts.

***

The gates of Minas Tirith groaned open as a company of riders emerged from the mists of the Pelennor. The banners of Gondor streamed in the wind, though they bore the scars of battle—torn edges and dark stains. Boromir rode at their head, his armor dented and smeared with the grime of Osgiliath’s fall, yet he carried himself with unshaken pride. Behind him rode the Rangers of Ithilien, grim-faced and weary, their numbers reduced but their spirits unbroken. Among them was Gandalf, seated tall on Shadowfax, with Pippin clutching tightly behind him, his small hands grasping the wizard’s cloak.

As they passed into the gates, the people of the city watched in tense silence, their murmurs hushed by the sight of such hard-won survival. Faramir was among those waiting in the court of the fountain, his grey eyes scanning the riders with anxious determination. When he saw Boromir’s familiar form dismounting, a smile broke across his face, a rare and sudden light amidst the growing shadow of war.

“Boromir!” Faramir strode forward, his hands outstretched, his voice carrying a mix of relief and urgency. His elder brother, turning at the sound of his name, paused mid-stride. For a fleeting moment, the weariness etched into Boromir’s features softened, and a grin spread across his face, breaking through the fatigue that had weighed him down.

“Faramir!” Boromir caught him in a rough embrace, the weight of the past days forgotten in the joy of reunion. The warmth of brotherhood momentarily banished the shadows of war. “I thought perhaps I would return to find you already gone. I am glad you are still here, brother.”

“And I am glad you have returned,” Faramir said earnestly, stepping back to look him over with concern. His eyes scanned Boromir’s armor, noting the dents and scratches that spoke of hard-fought battles. “When I saw you gallopingacross the fields,  enemy in tow, I feared the worst.”

Boromir’s expression darkened slightly, a shadow passing through his eyes. “Fear not,” he replied, his voice resolute, though a hint of sorrow lingered. “The city is lost, but not all who defended it. Gandalf’s arrival turned the tide, though not before much was sacrificed.” He glanced back at the wizard, who dismounted Shadowfax with the ease of one accustomed to urgent action. Pippin, clutching at the horse with all his might, tumbled off the great beast with a look of profound relief, his small face pale but determined.

As Faramir stepped aside, he gestured towards Rían, who had stood quietly nearby, observing the reunion with a keen gaze. Her stance was poised, her dark hair braided neatly in the northern style, her eyes sharp and appraising as they rested on Boromir. “Boromir, allow me to introduce Rían,” Faramir said, a note of something gentle in his voice. “She has traveled far to stand with us in this fight.”

Rían inclined her head, a faint smile touching her lips. “Captain Boromir,” she greeted him, her tone respectful yet carrying a warmth that softened her formal words. “Your deeds precede you.”

Boromir’s eyebrows rose slightly as he took her in, his gaze briefly flicking to Faramir with a glimmer of mischief that sparkled in his eyes. His expression lightened, the lines of weariness on his face momentarily easing. “And it seems my brother has brought home a beautiful lady while I was gone,” he said, his tone light, teasing, and full of brotherly affection. “I had no idea he had such talents off the battlefield.”

Faramir’s reaction was immediate. A faint flush crept up his neck, spreading into his cheeks, the color betraying the composure he fought to maintain. His stoic demeanor faltered, the discomfort evident in the tightness of his jaw and the slight shift of his stance. He cast a glance at Rían, attempting to mask his embarrassment, but the effort only made his discomfort more apparent.

Rían, catching his look, raised an eyebrow, her own smile widening with a mix of amusement and affection. There was a sparkle in her eyes as she tilted her head, her expression one of playful enjoyment at Faramir’s predicament. She found herself enjoying the moment, the warmth of Boromir’s teasing and the quiet vulnerability in Faramir’s reaction.

Boromir laughed heartily, a deep, resonant sound that echoed in the cool air of Minas Tirith. The sound was infectious, drawing the attention of nearby Rangers who had been quietly observing the exchange. Their lips twitched in amusement, their eyes glinting with mirth as they hid their smiles behind their hands.

“What is this, Faramir?” Boromir continued, his voice carrying the ease of an elder brother relishing the rare opportunity to tease. “Has the stoic captain of Gondor been bested at last?”

Faramir muttered under his breath, his voice low but tinged with exasperation. “Enough, Boromir,” he said, clearing his throat as he glanced toward Rían, his expression a mix of apology and flustered embarrassment. His shoulders stiffened slightly, as if bracing himself against further teasing. “There is no need to—”

“No need to what?” Rían interjected smoothly, her voice sly but measured, a playful glint dancing in her eyes. She met Faramir’s gaze, her expression both teasing and kind. “To speak plainly? I find Captain Boromir refreshingly honest, Faramir.”

Her words drew another chuckle from Boromir, who clapped his brother on the shoulder with a friendly yet firm hand. The gesture was affectionate, a brother’s camaraderie that conveyed both pride and mischief. “If she is as quick with her sword as with her wit, you may have your hands full with this one,” he said, his grin widening as he glanced between them, clearly enjoying the interaction.

Faramir glanced down, his gaze momentarily breaking from theirs as he gathered himself. Despite his discomfort, the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a reluctant acknowledgment of the humor in the situation. His gaze flickered briefly back to Rían, and in that brief moment, their eyes met. Her amusement was tempered by a flicker of warmth, a quiet affection that made his breath catch.

The color in Faramir’s cheeks had not faded, and the way he avoided her gaze only deepened the growing affection Rían felt for him. There was something endearing in his quiet reserve, the contrast between his command on the battlefield and his evident discomfort in the face of his brother’s teasing.

Before the moment could linger further, Gandalf’s voice cut through the exchange, firm but not unkind. “Boromir, this is not the first halfling you saw, is it?” He gestured toward Pippin, who stood nearby, still catching his breath.

Boromir’s expression grew serious, the weight of his journey returning as he nodded. “It is not,” he said, his voice lower now. “I saw two others. In Ithilien, before I rode for Osgiliath. They were weary and alone, though Frodo spoke little of their purpose. It seemed that every step they took was heavy with peril.”

Gandalf’s eyes sharpened, a keen intensity filling them. “You must tell me everything,” he pressed, his tone urgent, though tempered with the wisdom of one who knew the gravity of the situation.

As Gandalf turned to confer further with Boromir, his attention drawn to matters of urgency, Faramir took a quiet step closer to Rían. She had withdrawn slightly from the group, her gaze turning toward the distant horizon as if seeking solace in the open sky. The pale light cast a soft glow over her features, highlighting the contemplative expression that rested there.

Faramir’s voice, quieter now, carried a touch of apology as he broke the silence. “Boromir can be insufferable at times,” he admitted, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. There was a mixture of affection and exasperation in his tone, a brother’s love tempered by the familiar frustration of sibling antics.

Rían’s gaze shifted, her grey eyes meeting his with a thoughtful intensity. A small smile curved her lips, her expression softening as she considered his words. “I find him amusing,” she replied, her voice light yet sincere. “And he seems to think very highly of you.”

Her words lingered in the air between them, carrying a quiet warmth that wrapped around Faramir like a comforting embrace. He felt the faint stirrings of emotion in his chest, a gentle swell of gratitude for her understanding. His lips curved into a faint smile, one that reflected the mixture of affection and a touch of bemusement that Boromir so often stirred in him. “He has a strange way of showing it,” Faramir said, his voice tinged with wry affection.

“Perhaps,” Rían agreed softly, her tone gentle and sure, as though offering a reassurance she knew he needed. Her gaze did not waver, her eyes holding his with a quiet steadiness. “But he is proud of you, Faramir. That much is clear.”

Her words settled over him like a balm, soothing the insecurities that often lingered in the shadow of his father’s stern expectations. Faramir met her gaze then, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. There was a silence between them, not born of awkwardness, but of an unspoken understanding, a connection that blossomed quietly in the shared stillness.

His hand brushed against hers, a fleeting touch that sent a warmth through both of them. The contact was brief, almost accidental, yet it carried with it a depth of feeling that neither could deny. Rían’s heart quickened, the simple brush of his hand against hers stirring something within her that she had long kept buried. The chill wind that swept through the city seemed distant, its cold unable to reach the warmth that now blossomed in her chest.

Faramir felt it too, the quiet thrill that accompanied the gentle contact. He marveled at the way such a simple touch could evoke such a profound sense of connection. His fingers, though they lingered only for a moment, yearned to close the distance, to hold her hand in his. But he hesitated, the weight of uncertainty holding him back, the quiet fear that perhaps this burgeoning connection was too fragile to grasp fully.

***

The sun dipped low over Minas Tirith, casting the city in hues of amber and gold. The stone walls, worn by time and battle, seemed to glow under the fading light, a quiet contrast to the turmoil in Rían’s heart. She sat alone on a low stone bench tucked into a quiet corner of the city, away from the bustle of preparations and the murmurs of the wounded. The distant hum of life around her was muted, a background to her thoughts as they wandered to a place she rarely let herself dwell.

Her fingers traced absentmindedly over the worn fabric of her cloak, the cool breeze brushing against her face as she closed her eyes. In the stillness, memories surfaced, unbidden but vivid. She thought of her brother, his face clear as though he stood before her, though the years since his passing stretched like a chasm in her heart.

It was a memory that seemed insignificant when it happened, one of those moments you live through thinking it will fade with time, only to find it burned into your mind, its meaning growing clearer with the passage of years, through heartbreak and grief. She could see it now, as clearly as the day it happened—the two of them, children still, sparring in the yard of their home.

Her brother had always been taller, stronger, his movements sure and practiced. She had been smaller, her steps quick but unrefined, her determination fierce but inexperienced. He had humored her, she realized now, putting in just enough effort to make it feel real, to give her the sense of a true fight. But he always let her win, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he feigned defeat, collapsing to the ground with an exaggerated sigh, his sword clattering beside him.

“You’ve bested me again, little sister,” he’d said, laughter in his eyes. And she, beaming with pride, had believed it, her heart swelling with the victory she thought she had earned.

As she grew older, the sparring sessions changed. Her brother no longer folded so easily. The playful battles became real challenges, his strikes faster, his parries more precise. She had to fight with all her strength, her determination tempered by skill, to meet him blow for blow. The day she finally disarmed him, the practice sword slipping from his grasp as he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, she had seen it—a flicker of pride in his eyes, genuine and deep. He had clasped her shoulder, his grin broad and sincere. “Well done, Rían,” he had said, his voice warm with approval. “You’ve earned this.”

She had laughed, the victory sweet, but now, years later, that moment held a different weight. She missed him dearly. The ache of his absence was a constant companion, a hollow place in her heart that no time or distance could fill. The sight of Faramir and Boromir together, their bond so evident, so tangible, brought back the loneliness with a fresh sting. Watching them, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of her own loss, the reminder that a part of her was gone with her brother.

Losing him had been like losing a piece of herself, a part that anchored her to who she was and where she came from. His laughter, his unwavering belief in her, his steady presence—it was all gone, leaving a void that she struggled to navigate. She wondered sometimes if he would recognize the woman she had become, the path she had chosen, the battles she had fought.

She thought of another memory, one that had grown hazy with the passage of years, its edges softened by the blur of time. Yet it remained, etched in the corners of her heart, a lingering shadow that surfaced when least expected. It was the day the Rangers returned with her father’s body, borne upon a simple bier of wood and cloth. She had been but a child then, the world still vast and full of wonder, untouched by the deeper sorrows of life. Her brother, scarcely more than a boy himself, stood tall beside her, the faintest shadow of stubble just beginning to show upon his cheeks.

She remembered how he knelt beside her, his arms wrapping around her small frame, drawing her close. Her face pressed against his chest, she could hear the steady thud of his heartbeat, a rhythm that spoke of life even as death loomed near. He kept her turned away, his body a shield between her and the sight she was too young to bear. Their father’s form lay shrouded, the strength and pride that had once defined him now wrapped in the stillness of death.

At the time, she had not understood. The weight of grief was foreign to her, the finality of loss still a concept she could not grasp. She had clung to her brother, seeking comfort in his presence, unaware of the act of kindness he had bestowed upon her. He had borne the full brunt of their father’s death, sparing her from the sight of the broken body, allowing her to remember him as he had been—strong, proud, a pillar of their family.

Now, with the clarity that came from years of reflection, she understood fully the depth of his gesture. In shielding her from that moment, he had preserved the memory of their father as he had lived, not as he had fallen. It was an act of love, unspoken yet profound, a testament to the bond they shared and the weight he had carried for her sake.

The wind whispered through the city, carrying with it the scent of the fields beyond, the faint murmur of life continuing in the face of all they had endured. Rían opened her eyes, the warmth of the setting sun casting long shadows over the city. She placed a hand over her heart, as though by doing so she could hold onto the memory a little longer, keep him close in a world that had become so vast and uncertain.

The soft rustle of footsteps drew Rían from her thoughts, the fading light casting long shadows across the stone walls of Minas Tirith. She turned her head slightly to see Pippin approaching, his small frame silhouetted against the twilight sky. His steps were light, and though his usual buoyancy was tempered, his expression was one of gentle curiosity. He came to stand beside her, his bright eyes reflecting both concern and warmth as he glanced up at her.

“There you are,” Pippin said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt that was unmistakably his. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he rocked slightly on his heels with the easy air of one accustomed to finding his way into and out of trouble. “I thought I’d find you with Faramir. You two have grown nearly inseparable.”

Rían chuckled softly, the sound light but genuine, a stark contrast to the somber thoughts that had filled her moments before. She brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her face, her gaze drifting back to the horizon before meeting Pippin’s eyes. “Faramir is a good friend,” she said with a smile, though there was a lingering sadness in her tone. “But sometimes, even the best of friends need a moment alone.”

Pippin nodded thoughtfully, his fingers fidgeting behind his back as he considered her words. “I understand,” he said, his voice softening slightly. Then, in typical Pippin fashion, his curiosity bubbled to the surface. “What’s on your mind, if you don’t mind me asking? It must be something serious to keep you away from Faramir’s company.”

Rían sighed softly, her fingers brushing over the fabric of her cloak, tracing the embroidered edges as she searched for the right words. “I was thinking about my brother,” she admitted, her voice carrying a quiet melancholy. “He’s been on my mind a lot lately.”

Pippin’s playful demeanor shifted, his face softening as the glint of mischief in his eyes gave way to empathy. “I know how that feels,” he said quietly, his usual energy dimmed by the weight of understanding. “I’ve got three older sisters—always fussing over me, mind you—but Merry… Well we’re technically first cousins on my mother’s side but  Merry’s like a brother to me. I miss him dearly. There’s a certain way he laughs when he’s up to no good, and it feels strange not hearing it every day.”

Rían’s heart warmed at his words, a tender smile touching her lips. “I know how you feel,” she said gently, her voice imbued with a note of understanding that spoke of shared sorrow. She reached out, placing a hand lightly on Pippin’s shoulder, her touch firm yet comforting. “It’s hard, being apart from those we love. But it’s the bond we share that keeps them close, no matter the distance.”

Pippin looked up at her, his eyes bright with a mixture of gratitude and wistfulness. His usual chatter was momentarily stilled, replaced by a quiet reflection. “I suppose that’s true,” he said softly, a small, thoughtful smile forming as he took comfort in her words. “Though sometimes, I think he’s the lucky one, off gallivanting on an adventure, while I’m stuck worrying.”

Rían’s smile grew, a glimmer of mischief returning to her eyes as she sought to lift his spirits. “Aren’t we on an adventure of our own? Besides,” she said, her tone lightening, “I’m sure Merry’s finding plenty of trouble to get into. We’ll have quite the stories to exchange when we see him again.”

Pippin’s chuckle was warm and genuine, the weight of his worry easing slightly as he let himself picture Merry’s antics. “That does sound like Merry,” he agreed, his smile widening as a familiar twinkle returned to his eyes. “Always finding the most interesting ways to get into trouble. Did I ever tell you about the time he convinced Farmer Maggot’s dogs to chase me halfway across the Shire? Said it was to test my speed, but I think he just enjoyed the spectacle.”

Rían laughed, the sound like a melody on the evening breeze. “I can imagine,” she said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “It seems trouble follows the two of you like shadows.”

“Oh, we’re practically magnets for it,” Pippin said, his grin broadening. “But you know, Merry always made it feel like an adventure. Even when we were stuck in the most dire of situations, he’d find a way to make me laugh. That’s what I miss the most.”

Rían looked at him fondly, the warmth of their camaraderie easing the ache in her heart. “You’ll see him again,” she assured him, her voice gentle but confident. “And when you do, it will be like no time has passed at all.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the companionship between them a balm against the lingering shadows of their thoughts. For a moment, the burden of their grief was lightened, replaced by the simple comfort of shared understanding.

Rían looked out over the city once more, the lights of Minas Tirith twinkling like stars against the encroaching darkness. The cool air carried the scent of stone and earth, grounding her in the present. “Thank you, Pippin,” she said softly, her gaze thoughtful as she turned back to him. “For finding me.”

Pippin smiled up at her, his face alight with a twinkle of warmth and a hint of his usual mischief. “Anytime, Rían,” he said, his voice filled with quiet sincerity. “After all, friends look out for each other. And besides,” he added with a cheeky grin, “who else am I going to annoy with my stories while Merry’s away?”

Rían chuckled, shaking her head fondly. “I’ll gladly endure them, Pippin,” she replied, her heart lighter for his presence.

Together, they stood in the gathering dusk, the shared silence between them filled with the unspoken promise of hope and the enduring strength of friendship.

***

The golden light of evening spilled through the high windows of Minas Tirith’s great hall, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Boromir stood near one of the narrow windows, gazing out over the city he loved so dearly, his expression contemplative yet at ease. His armor had been set aside, and he bore only a simple tunic embroidered with the White Tree, a mark of the fleeting peace within the city walls.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed softly through the stone chamber, drawing Boromir’s attention from the distant cityscape. He turned, a genuine smile breaking across his face as Faramir entered. His younger brother’s presence was a welcome balm amidst the tension that had weighed upon them both for so long. Boromir strode forward, his heavy boots thudding softly against the floor, and clasped Faramir’s shoulder with a firm, familiar grip, a gesture laden with affection and unspoken solidarity.

“It has been too long since we spoke in such calm, brother,” Boromir said, his voice rich and warm, carrying the unmistakable note of relief. His gaze lingered on Faramir’s face, taking in the weariness that lined his features, the subtle signs of burdens carried and battles fought. “Come, sit with me.”

Faramir returned the smile, a faint but genuine warmth spreading across his face as he followed Boromir to a quiet alcove near the window. The stone seats, worn smooth by time, offered a vantage point overlooking the sprawling city below. The faint hum of life drifted upwards—the distant clatter of hooves on cobblestone, the murmured voices of citizens preparing for the uncertainty that loomed. The brothers settled into their seats, the familiar comfort of each other’s company easing some of the weight they carried.

For a time, their conversation stayed on matters of duty—battles recounted with a soldier’s precision, strategies discussed with the careful deliberation of men who knew the stakes. Their voices were low, measured, the cadence of their words underscored by the gravity of their shared responsibilities. Yet, as the conversation drifted, Boromir leaned back against the cool stone, a glint of curiosity sparking in his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting into a knowing smile.

“So,” Boromir began, his tone light but edged with intrigue, “who is this lady I saw you with earlier? She is no maid of Minas Tirith, that much is clear.”

Faramir hesitated, the question pulling him from his thoughts. His gaze turned inward for a moment, as though weighing the words before he spoke. “She is a ranger of the North, one of the Dúnedain,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, laced with a reverence that did not go unnoticed.

Boromir’s brows lifted, his interest clearly piqued. He studied Faramir, noting the subtle shift in his brother’s demeanor—the thoughtful expression, the softened tone. “Ah,” he said, nodding slowly. “That explains her spirit. She carries herself with a fire I’ve seldom seen, save in those who have weathered great trials. The North breeds strong folk indeed.”

Faramir inclined his head in agreement but offered no further comment, his gaze drifting toward the window where the last light of day lingered. The silence between them stretched, but Boromir was not one to let a conversation that intrigued him falter.

“And what of her place in all of this?” Boromir pressed gently, his tone casual yet probing. His keen eyes rested on Faramir, watching for the subtleties of his response. “She seems… rather close to you, brother. You trust her deeply.”

Faramir’s eyes lowered, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the stone ledge as he considered the truth in Boromir’s words. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, imbued with a quiet sincerity. “She has earned that trust,” he admitted. “She has stood beside us in peril more times than I can count. And…” His voice faltered for  a moment, the memory tugging at emotions he rarely allowed to surface. “She stood up to our father. For me.”

Boromir’s eyes widened, the weight of Faramir’s words sinking in. He leaned forward, his expression a mix of disbelief and admiration. “She did what?” he asked, his voice low, as though he feared the walls might overhear such a bold claim. “She stood up to our father?”

Faramir nodded, his gaze steady but somber. “When I returned to the city and Father questioned my judgment… Rían spoke in my defense. She did not waver, even when his anger turned on her.”

Boromir stared at Faramir, his astonishment evident as he absorbed the revelation. For a moment, he was silent, his mind replaying the countless instances where their father’s ire had silenced even the most steadfast of men. “By the Valar…” he breathed, shaking his head in wonder. “That is no small feat. Few dare to meet Denethor’s gaze when his wrath is roused. And she did this for you?”

“She did more than that,” Faramir added, a hint of wry amusement flickering in his voice. His eyes, though reflective, held a glimmer of warmth. “She told him… that he was behaving like a spoiled child hurling insults.”

Boromir froze, his mouth slightly open as he processed the audacity of the statement. “She what?”

“She said he was like a spoiled child,” Faramir repeated, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Hurling insults.”

For a heartbeat, Boromir remained still, then a burst of laughter erupted from him, rich and hearty, reverberating through the chamber. He leaned back in his seat, his hand pressed to his chest as he laughed, the sheer boldness of Rían’s words leaving him incredulous. “By the Valar, she has more courage than I could have imagined!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with admiration and disbelief. “She said that to Denethor’s face? Our father?”

“She did,” Faramir confirmed, his own amusement tempered by a lingering gratitude. His lips curved into a soft smile as he watched his brother’s reaction.

Boromir wiped at his eyes, the laughter fading into a chuckle as he shook his head, still marveling at the audacity of it all. “I don’t know whether to be horrified or thoroughly impressed,” he admitted, a grin spreading across his face. “No wonder you hold her in such regard. And yet you claim you are merely companions? She stands before our father, unyielding, and you see nothing more than a friend in her?”

A faint blush crept up Faramir’s neck, the color deepening as he avoided Boromir’s gaze. “She is… a dear friend, Boromir. Nothing more. We share much in common, and she has been a steadfast ally, but I would not presume—”

Boromir’s chuckle turned into a knowing smile, his eyes gleaming with affection and amusement. “Ah, brother, you are far too modest. A woman like that does not defend a man lightly. If you cannot see it, then perhaps you are as blind as Father is bitter.”

Faramir’s flush deepened, but he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the stone floor. The quiet vulnerability in his posture spoke volumes, revealing a side of him rarely shown.

Boromir clapped a reassuring hand on Faramir’s shoulder, his grin softening into one of genuine fondness. “I will not press you further,” he said, though his tone made it clear he had his own thoughts on the matter. “But take care, Faramir. Women of spirit are rare, and it would be a shame to let her slip away.”

Faramir gave a faint smile, though his thoughts were clearly elsewhere, the weight of Boromir’s words settling over him like a cloak. He glanced toward the window, the fading light casting long shadows across the room, a reminder of the fleeting nature of the moments they shared.

Boromir leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on his younger brother with a mixture of pride and affection. In the quiet that followed, the tension of war seemed to recede, replaced by the warmth of familial understanding and good-natured teasing. Whatever lay ahead, Boromir could see the unspoken bond between Faramir and Rían, even if his brother had yet to fully realize its depth.

And for that moment, amidst the stone walls of Minas Tirith, the brothers found solace in each other’s company, the shadow of duty lifted by the enduring strength of their bond.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon light streamed through the high, arched windows of the hall, casting long beams of gold and shadow across the stone floor. Outside, the faint sounds of the city drifted upward—snatches of conversation, the distant clatter of hooves, and the hum of life within Minas Tirith. Inside, perched upon a bench much too high for him, sat Peregrin Took, his small frame clad in the black and silver livery of the Guard of the Citadel. The intricate embroidery of the white tree gleamed against his chest, though the tunic hung a little loose in places, a testament to its adjustment for its newest wearer.

Pippin’s legs dangled over the edge of the bench, swinging idly as he rested his hands on his lap. His brow furrowed in thought, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he muttered softly to himself, his accent carrying a touch of the Shire’s rustic warmth.

“What were you thinking, Peregrin Took?” he said aloud, his voice tinged with self-reproach. “What service can a hobbit offer such a great lord of men?”

The words hung in the air, heavy with doubt, until the soft creak of a door broke the silence. Pippin startled slightly, glancing up to see Faramir entering the hall. The steward’s son moved with a quiet grace, his dark blonde hair falling loose around his face, though his posture carried a lingering weariness from the trials of battle. His expression, however, was kind as he approached, his grey eyes resting warmly on the hobbit.

“It was well done,” Faramir said, his voice low and steady, carrying both reassurance and quiet approval. “A generous deed should not be checked with cold counsel.”

Pippin scrambled to his feet, standing as straight as his small frame allowed. He flushed slightly at the unexpected praise, though he tried to mask his surprise with an awkward grin. Faramir came to stand before him, his tall figure a sharp contrast to the hobbit’s diminutive stature, though there was no trace of condescension in his gaze.

“You are to join the Tower Guard,” Faramir continued, his tone gentle but firm.

Pippin blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “I didn’t think they would find any livery that would fit me,” he said, glancing down at the tunic he wore, his smile growing sheepish.

Faramir’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “It once belonged to a young boy of the city,” he said, a hint of wistfulness creeping into his tone. “A very foolish one who wasted many hours slaying dragons instead of attending his studies.”

Pippin’s grin widened, his curiosity piqued. “This was yours?” he asked, his voice bright with interest.

“Yes,” Faramir admitted, his smile deepening as he adjusted the tunic on Pippin’s shoulders. “It was mine. My father had it made for me.” His hands worked deftly, smoothing the fabric and straightening the hem as though performing the simple act brought him a measure of comfort.

Pippin tilted his head, examining the garment anew. “Well,” he said with a touch of cheekiness, “I’m taller than you were then. Though I’m not likely to grow anymore—except sideways.”

The jest drew a laugh from both of them, the sound light and unguarded, echoing briefly in the quiet hall. For a moment, the weight of duty and loss seemed to lift, replaced by a shared levity that bridged the gap between their worlds.

Faramir’s laughter faded into a fond smile, though a shadow crept into his eyes. “It never fitted me either,” he said softly, his voice tinged with a quiet melancholy. “Boromir was always the soldier. They are so alike, he and my father. Proud, stubborn even, but strong.”

Pippin’s gaze softened as he studied Faramir, noting the flicker of sorrow that passed across his face. “I think you have strength of a different kind,” Pippin said earnestly, his words uncharacteristically serious. “And one day, your father will see it.”

For a moment, Faramir said nothing, his gaze dropping to the floor as he considered the hobbit’s words. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet Pippin’s, a faint but genuine smile curving his lips. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, though the warmth in his expression suggested that the small figure before him had succeeded in offering a balm to his heart.

***

The stone corridors of Minas Tirith echoed faintly with the sounds of the city preparing for war: the clatter of armor, the hurried footsteps of messengers, and the low murmur of voices carrying grim tidings. Rían and Faramir stood in a shaded alcove overlooking the lower levels, the light of the waning afternoon bathing the city in a golden haze.

“How did it go with your father?” Rían asked softly, her voice cutting through the stillness. She studied him with quiet concern, her grey eyes reflecting the weight of her question.

Faramir hesitated, his gaze distant as he leaned against the cool stone. “He did not even spare me a glance,” he admitted at last, his voice low and steady, though it carried the faintest tremor. “I do not know whether to be relieved or wounded by his indifference.”

Rían’s expression tightened, a flicker of anger passing through her eyes. She reached out and placed her hand on his, her touch firm yet gentle. “I am sorry, Faramir,” she said, her tone laced with genuine sympathy. “You deserve better than his neglect.”

Faramir looked down at her hand, then back to her face. Her touch was grounding, a tether against the tumult of his thoughts. “It is a matter long out of my hands,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile. “But your kindness is not unwelcome.”

She nodded, her fingers lingering for a moment longer before withdrawing. “We cannot dwell on his failings now,” she said, her voice steady but resolute. “A battle looms, and we have little time to prepare.”

Before Faramir could respond, the sound of hooves on stone broke the relative quiet. Both turned instinctively toward the noise, their eyes scanning the courtyard below.

A figure emerged, mounted atop a sturdy, weathered horse. The man sat straight-backed and proud, head held high, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. His hair was streaked with grey, his face lined with the marks of time and hardship, but his sharp gaze betrayed the strength of his spirit.

Rían’s breath caught, her heart leaping as recognition struck her. “Halbarad,” she murmured, a name half-spoken and half-prayed.

Without a second thought, she broke into a run, her boots ringing against the stone as she descended the steps to meet him. Faramir remained where he stood, watching with quiet curiosity as the ranger dismounted.

“Rían,” Halbarad greeted her, his voice deep and steady, a note of warmth threading through his usual gravity. He barely had time to brace himself before she reached him, her hands gripping his arms as though to assure herself that he was real.

“You came,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. He pulled her into a tight embrace, familiar, like a father greeting his child. Relief flickered through her heart, though it was quickly tempered by the absence of the one she most hoped to see. “Why are you here? Where is Aragorn?”

Halbarad paused, his jaw tightening as if searching for the right words. “He is not with us,” he said finally. “When we set out from the north, he left us in Rohan with little explanation. He spoke only this: that I should ride to Minas Tirith and find you, for you would know what must be done. The enemy is already gathering across the Pelennor. We don’t have much time.”

Rían blinked, the words falling on her like a sudden chill. “I would know?” she repeated, shaking her head in disbelief. “What could he mean? He told me nothing—gave no counsel save that we must stand firm against the darkness.” Her voice wavered, and her hands clenched at her sides. “I do not understand, Halbarad.”

Halbarad’s gaze softened, though his expression remained grave. “Nor do I, but Aragorn’s trust in you was clear. He said you would lead us in his stead until he could return. You are his kin, Rían, and we are yours. Whatever path lies ahead, we will follow you.”

Rían stood in silence on the terrace, her thoughts a tumult of doubt and uncertainty. The evening air was cool against her skin, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and the distant murmur of Minas Tirith below. The weight of the decision before her pressed heavily on her chest, yet amidst the storm of her mind, one thought rose above the rest. It was reckless, perhaps even foolish, but it felt right. She could not do this alone.

She turned suddenly, her cloak swirling lightly around her ankles, to where Faramir lingered nearby. He stood leaning against the stone railing, his profile outlined against the fading twilight. His gaze was distant, fixed on the white peaks of the mountains in the east, and his expression was calm, though a quiet weariness seemed to linger in the corners of his mouth. At her movement, he straightened, turning to face her, his grey eyes meeting hers with quiet curiosity.

“Faramir,” she began, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart, “I need two horses. Will you ride with me? Meet my kin?”

For a moment, there was only silence between them, broken only by the faint rustle of her cloak in the breeze. Faramir blinked, clearly caught off guard, his expression a mixture of surprise and confusion. “Me?” he asked, stepping closer to her. “I am no man of the north, Rían. These are your people, your brothers-in-arms. What use would they have for a captain of Gondor?”

Rían hesitated, her fingers brushing against the stone balustrade as if seeking its cool solidity to ground her. Asking him had been a wild impulse, a choice she had barely considered before speaking it aloud. Yet now, looking into his steady gaze, she realized how deeply she wanted—no, needed—him to come. He will steady me, she thought, just as he always does.

Her lips curved into a faint, wry smile. “The men of the north and south once stood as allies, bound by a friendship older than this age,” she said. “It is time that alliance was renewed. You have fought with courage and wisdom. There is no man I would rather have at my side.”

Faramir’s eyes widened slightly at her words, and his surprise deepened. He searched her face as though trying to discern whether she truly meant it. There was no jest in her expression, only the quiet conviction that he had seen in her many times before. For a moment, he said nothing, the wind catching his dark blonde hair and brushing it against his brow.

At last, he inclined his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Then I shall ride with you,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “Though I warn you, Rían—I am not one for grand speeches to northern warriors.”

The corners of her mouth lifted into a small laugh, a sound that eased the tension coiled in her chest. “I think you will find them more like you than you imagine,” she replied, her voice light but warm.

Before Faramir could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. Halbarad emerged from the shadow of the archway, his sharp eyes darting between the two of them. The older ranger’s face was lined with the weight of recent losses, but there was still a strength to his bearing, a watchfulness that spoke of years spent guarding his kin.

“You’re taking him?” Halbarad asked, his tone carrying both curiosity and a touch of incredulity as he glanced at Faramir. He folded his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing slightly as he gave the captain of Gondor a slow, appraising look, laced with something almost protective.

Rían squared her shoulders, meeting Halbarad’s gaze with quiet determination. “I am,” she said simply.

Halbarad’s brow furrowed, his expression unreadable as he studied Faramir. The younger man stood tall under the scrutiny, his grey eyes calm though a flicker of unease passed through them. At last, Halbarad’s lips curved into a faint, grudging smile. He gave a short nod, a gesture that carried with it both respect and a touch of approval.

“Very well,” he said, his tone lightening just slightly. “But I hope he knows what he’s getting into.”

“I believe I do,” Faramir said quietly, his voice carrying a quiet dignity.

Halbarad’s smile widened, and he gave a short laugh before clapping his hands together. “I’ll see to the horses,” he said, turning on his heel. “Don’t keep me waiting long.”

As Halbarad moved to prepare for their ride, Rían and Faramir lingered together. She turned her face to the wind, her brow furrowed with thought. At last, she spoke, her voice quieter now. “I have no idea what Aragorn meant,” she admitted. “I do not know what I am meant to do.”

Faramir’s grey eyes softened as he took a small step closer to her, his presence steadying in the growing twilight. His hand brushed hers briefly, a light and fleeting touch, yet one that sent a ripple of warmth through her. It was as if he could sense the turmoil in her heart and sought to anchor her without words.

“Rían,” he said gently, his voice low and steady, “you always know what is right.”

She looked at him sharply, her grey eyes narrowing slightly, almost in protest. For a moment, she wanted to argue, to tell him that he was wrong, that she felt more lost now than ever. But the quiet confidence in his expression, the way his smile curved with a warmth that seemed to cut through the chill in the air, left her momentarily disarmed. It was not blind optimism she saw in him but faith—faith in her.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she turned her gaze briefly to the horizon, the mountains etched in shades of shadow and gold. The world seemed so vast, and she, standing there with the weight of the north on her shoulders, felt impossibly small.

“I do not know if that is true,” she murmured at last, her voice softer now, tinged with a vulnerability she rarely let show. Yet as the words left her lips, she felt some of the weight lift, as if merely admitting her doubt made it less suffocating.

“It is,” Faramir said firmly, his tone carrying a quiet conviction that made her look back at him. His gaze held hers, steady and unyielding, as if he could will her to believe it too.

He reached out then, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. The touch was brief, almost tentative, but it lingered just long enough to send a warmth blooming through her that she could not ignore. Her heart quickened, and she wondered if he could sense it, though she held herself still beneath his touch.

The wind stirred between them, carrying the faint scent of the fields beyond, but neither of them moved for a moment. There was something in the way his fingers curled slightly against her shoulder, a gesture of reassurance, of quiet strength. And there was something in the way her body leaned ever so slightly into the contact, as if seeking solace she had not realized she craved.

Rían forced herself to speak, her voice steady but quieter than before. “You make it sound so simple,” she said, though the faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Faramir’s own smile deepened, soft and knowing. “Not simple,” he said, stepping back just enough to let his hand fall away. Her shoulder felt colder in its absence. “But I trust in you, Rían. And I think, perhaps, you should trust in yourself too.”

His words settled over her, quiet but profound, and she felt something inside her begin to shift. She wasn’t sure if it was the way he looked at her, as if she were capable of far more than she believed, or the way his voice carried such quiet certainty. Either way, the shadows in her heart seemed less oppressive now, as if his faith in her had become a light she could carry.

She let out a slow breath, her gaze softening. “Thank you,” she said, the words simple but sincere.

Faramir inclined his head slightly, his expression still warm, though there was something in his eyes—something unspoken. “Come, Rían,” he said after a moment, his voice calm but resolute. “Let us meet your kin.”

For a heartbeat, she hesitated, studying him. The quiet strength in his voice, the way he stood so steady despite all he had endured, stirred something deep within her. He had become someone she leaned on without even realizing it, and she wondered, briefly, how she had come to rely on him so much.

As he turned to lead the way, Rían fell into step beside him, her gaze lingering on his profile. There was a gentleness to him that belied the warrior he was, a quality that both unsettled and comforted her in equal measure. And as they walked together toward the waiting horizon, the weight of her burden felt just a little easier to bear.

***

The evening sky was painted with soft hues of gold and lavender, the last light of the day spilling over the white stones of Minas Tirith. A cool breeze whispered through the city’s quiet streets as Rían and Faramir stood at the stables, their horses saddled and waiting.

Pippin arrived first, his small frame a contrast to the large and imposing gates of the city behind him. He was clad in his full uniform of the Guard of the Citadel, the livery carefully adjusted and polished as if it could shield him from the uncertainty ahead. His face, however, betrayed a mixture of determination and apprehension as he approached.

Gandalf followed at a slower pace, his white robes billowing softly in the breeze, his staff clicking lightly against the stone path.

As Pippin neared, Rían turned to him, her expression softening. Her dark hair, braided in the northern fashion, stirred in the wind as she knelt slightly to meet his eye level. “Peregrin Took,” she said gently, her voice steady but warm. “You’ve grown into quite the soldier.”

Pippin flushed at her words, his cheeks turning pink. “I’m not sure I’d call myself a soldier,” he said, trying to sound modest but failing to hide the flicker of pride in his eyes. “I’m just doing what I can.”

Rían smiled, and her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “What you’re doing takes more courage than you realize, Pip,” she said. “You are braver than most who stand twice your height.”

At this, Pippin chuckled softly, though his eyes glistened faintly. “Well mind you I am very tall for a hobbit. And…” he said, his voice faltering slightly, “I’ve had good examples. And good friends.”

She pulled him into an embrace then, her arms wrapping around him with a gentleness that belied her strength. Pippin hesitated for only a moment before returning the gesture, his small hands clutching at her cloak.

“Have courage,” Rían whispered, her voice low but filled with quiet conviction. “The road ahead is uncertain, but you are stronger than you know.”

Pippin nodded against her shoulder, the weight of her words settling over him like a shield. “I’ll try,” he murmured, his voice muffled but earnest.

As they pulled apart, Rían rested her hands on his shoulders, her grey eyes searching his face. “No,” she said softly but firmly. “Not just try, Pippin. You will have courage. I know it.”

He looked up at her, his heart swelling with her unwavering faith in him. “Thank you, Rían,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “For everything.”

Faramir, who had been standing a short distance away, stepped forward then. He placed a hand lightly on Pippin’s shoulder, his grey eyes warm but serious. “Take care of yourself, Pippin,” he said. “And look after Gandalf. He’ll have enough weight on his shoulders without worrying about you.”

Pippin gave a small smile, his eyes flicking between the two of them. “I’ll do my best,” he said, his tone lightening. “Though I’m sure Gandalf will be doing most of the looking after.”

Gandalf, who had been silently observing the exchange, stepped closer now, his sharp eyes softening as he looked at Rían and Faramir. “The both of you carry heavy burdens,” he said, his voice calm but laced with quiet authority. “May you find strength in each other and in those who ride with you.”

Rían inclined her head respectfully. “And may you find strength in your path, Mithrandir,” she replied, her tone steady. “The shadow is growing stronger, the fight is far from over.”

Gandalf’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes carried the weight of centuries. “Indeed,” he said. “Farewell, Rían. Faramir. Ride swiftly, and may the stars guide your way.”

Rían watched as Gandalf turned, striding away through the streets of Minas Tirith, his movements fluid despite the burden of age and responsibility. Pippin lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on them as if committing their faces to memory. Then, with a deep breath, he followed Gandalf, jogging after him to catch up.

And then for a moment, Pippin turned to look at them one last time, raising a hand in farewell. “Until we meet again!” he called, his voice carrying over the stone courtyard.

Rían lifted her hand in return, her expression steady though her heart ached with the uncertainty of their parting. Faramir stood beside her, his gaze following the white horse as it disappeared down the path.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of the farewell settling over them. Then, with a soft sigh, Rían turned to Faramir, her keen eyes meeting his. “Shall we?” she asked, her voice quiet but resolute.

Faramir nodded, his expression steady though there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—something unspoken but shared. Together, they turned toward the waiting horses, the path ahead stretching wide and uncertain, but one they would face side by side.

***

The morning sun cast a soft, golden light upon the rolling fields as Rían rode alongside Faramir and Halbarad, their horses’ hooves drumming a steady rhythm against the earth. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and the promise of the day ahead. The three riders moved with purpose, the distant horizon stretching out before them as they made their way to meet the waiting Rangers.

Halbarad, riding a few paces to her right, guided his horse closer to Rían’s, his keen eyes studying her with a mixture of affection and curiosity. “Rían,” he began, his voice warm and familiar, “where have your travels taken you all these months?”

A playful glint sparked in Rían’s eyes as she glanced at him, a teasing smile curving her lips. “It might be easier to tell you where they did not take me,” she quipped, her tone light, though a flicker of something deeper danced beneath her words.

Halbarad chuckled softly, his gaze thoughtful as he rode beside her. “And did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, his voice quiet but earnest, the question laden with a gentle weight.

Rían’s smile faltered for a brief moment, her brow furrowing slightly as she considered his words. The question caught her off guard, stirring a restlessness she had long tried to ignore. “I wish I knew what I was actually looking for,” she admitted, her voice softer, tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

Halbarad’s expression softened, a paternal warmth filling his gaze as he regarded her. “You know,” he said gently, “You are like the daughter I never had.”

Rían felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words, though she quickly masked her emotions with a jest, her smile returning with a playful tilt. “Ah, Halbarad, the old bachelor,” she teased lightly. “If not for you, I’d have likely been lost long ago.”

Halbarad shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Gods be my witness,” he said, his tone affectionate yet wry, “talking sense into you has been the hardest battle of my life.”

They both laughed, the sound easing the tension of the moment, a brief respite from the weight of their journey. The bond between them was palpable, forged in the fires of shared history and tempered by years of loyalty and care.

Faramir, riding a little further back, observed the exchange with a quiet marvel, his heart stirred by the easy closeness between Rían and Halbarad. There was a warmth in their bond, a familial connection built on trust and affection, and it struck him with a pang of longing. For a moment, he wondered what it might be like to have a father figure who truly cared, someone who offered guidance and support without judgment or expectation. He gave them space, respecting their moment, yet the thought lingered, casting a shadow over his own memories. Despite this, he couldn’t help but admire Rían’s ability to foster such connections, her spirit drawing people near even as she bore her own silent burdens.

Rían’s gaze shifted back to Halbarad, her expression thoughtful, a subtle crease forming between her brows as she broke the companionable silence. “Halbarad,” she began, her voice calm but laced with curiosity, “what exactly did Aragorn tell you when he sent you this way? And where is he now?”

Halbarad glanced at her, his brows furrowing slightly in contemplation. His hand briefly tightened on the reins, a gesture that betrayed his own uncertainty. “He didn’t say much,” he admitted, his tone carrying a hint of bemusement. “Only that he had some matters to attend to, and he must go alone.”

Rían exhaled softly, a slight sigh escaping her lips as she leaned forward in the saddle, her fingers brushing absentmindedly against her horse’s mane. Her lips curved into a faint smile of exasperation, the expression lightening her otherwise serious demeanor.

 “What game are you playing now, Aragorn?” She muttered, almost to herself before adding a little louder.  “He always has his reasons,” she mused, her eyes scanning the horizon where the first rays of sunlight bathed the land in a golden hue, “but he could stop being so mysterious all the time.”

Halbarad chuckled, the sound low and warm, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he turned to look at her. “It’s part of his charm, isn’t it? The enigmatic Ranger, always with a plan but never sharing too much of it.”

Rían shook her head with a light laugh, the sound soft but genuine. Her fingers tapped lightly against the pommel of her saddle, a subtle reflection of her restless curiosity. Though the laughter softened her features, the curiosity lingered in her eyes, a spark that refused to dim. “And what else did he say?” she pressed gently, her tone coaxing but persistent. “Surely there was more than just a vague instruction.”

Halbarad’s smile faded slightly, his expression turning more serious as he straightened in his saddle. His gaze met hers, steady and measured, as though weighing his words carefully. “He told me to lead the Rangers to Minas Tirith and to find you,” he said, his voice steady but laced with an undertone of concern. “That was the extent of it. No further explanation.”

Rían’s brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processed his words. A flicker of exasperation mingled with her curiosity, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “What could Aragorn want of me?” she wondered aloud, her voice tinged with both puzzlement and a touch of self-doubt. Her gaze dropped briefly to the reins in her hands, her fingers tightening slightly around the leather straps. “Sometimes I wonder if he looks into my eyes and sees my father. But I’m not him, Halbarad. I’m no leader.”

Halbarad regarded her quietly, his eyes softening as he watched her struggle with her thoughts. The silence stretched between them, weighted with unspoken understanding. He leaned slightly toward her, his voice gentle but firm when he finally spoke. “You could be one,” he said, the conviction in his tone unshakable. “I see it in you, Rían. There’s a strength in you, a fire that your father had, but it’s yours, not his. Your father was a great man, one of the bestI’ve known. But he wouldn’t want you to live in his shadow”

Rían looked away, her gaze drifting toward the horizon as the wind caught a stray lock of her dark hair. It fluttered across her face, and she brushed it back with a distracted gesture, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. Her expression was pensive, her eyes distant as she pondered his words, the weight of his belief in her settling heavily on her shoulders.

Faramir, riding a little behind them, watched the exchange in quiet contemplation. His gaze flicked between Rían and Halbarad, the intensity of his focus revealing his deep interest in their conversation. His eyes softened as they lingered on Rían, taking in the subtle changes in her expression—the way her brows knitted together in thought, the way her lips pursed ever so slightly as she considered Halbarad’s words. He admired the quiet strength she exuded, the way she carried herself with a grace that belied the uncertainty she felt.

Her beauty struck him anew in the soft morning light, the golden rays casting a warm glow over her features. The curve of her jaw, the delicate arch of her brow, the way her eyes caught the light—all of it captivated him. But it was more than her outward beauty that drew him; it was the depth of her spirit, the resilience she carried within her. In these quiet moments, he saw the full measure of who she was—a woman of strength, of courage, of quiet dignity.

Before Rían could respond, Halbarad’s lips twitched into a grin, his eyes glinting with humor as he sought to lighten the mood. “Remember that time we encountered the cave troll?” he said, his tone playful. “That young ranger, barely out of his training, was so scared he wanted to run away. But you cussed him out so thoroughly that by the end, I swear, he was more afraid of you than the troll.”

Rían laughed, the sound ringing out like a bell, clear and genuine. The tension in her shoulders eased, her posture relaxing as the memory brought a warmth to her cheeks. “That does sound an awful lot like something my father would do,” she admitted, her smile softening as the laughter faded into a fond, reflective expression.

Halbarad nodded, his gaze filled with a quiet fondness as he looked at her. “And he’d be proud of you for it,” he said, his voice quieter now, more reflective. “Just as I am.”

Faramir’s heart stirred at Halbarad’s words, and he found himself nodding inwardly in agreement. Though he remained silent, his admiration for Rían only deepened. She was a beacon of hope to him, a symbol of strength and resilience in a world shadowed by uncertainty. Her laughter still echoed softly in the air, and he couldn’t help but feel a growing affection for the woman who had become an anchor in these tumultuous times. To him, she was more than a warrior; she was a light in the darkness, a presence that inspired and warmed his heart.

***

The wind swept across the Pelennor Fields, carrying with it the distant sound of drums and the harsh cries of the approaching enemy. The Rangers of the North, clad in their weathered cloaks, stood clustered together, their horses shifting uneasily beneath them. Their faces were grim, their eyes turning again and again to the dark horizon and then to the woman who sat astride her horse at the forefront of their company.

Rían’s cloak fluttered in the breeze as she looked down at the Dunedain from her mount, her face pale but resolute. She felt their unease like a weight pressing down upon her. These were men who had followed her father, Ríndor, and who rode at Aragorn’s command—men bound by ancient oaths to stand against the shadow. Yet their leader was not here, and the absence of Aragorn  hung in the air like a wound unspoken.

From a distance, Faramir watched her. He sat astride his own horse, his hands gripping the reins lightly, his gaze fixed on her with quiet intensity. He did not move, nor did he speak. There was something in his eyes—pride, perhaps, or concern, though his face betrayed no fear for himself. It was Rían he watched, as if willing her the strength to rally the Rangers in this darkest of hours.

There were no more than thirty men in their company, and some among them seemed to have weathered more winters than they should. Their garments were rough-hewn and ill-matched, speaking of hard roads and harsher lives, and their mounts were a far cry from the proud and sinewy steeds of Gondor. These were hardy beasts, stocky and short of limb, clad in thick coats of fur that seemed more suited to mountain paths than the plains. Yet as Faramir watched, his gaze turned to Rían. He had seen her fight, and if these Rangers were even half as skilled with the blade  as she, then their small number mattered little—for they would prove a foe to be feared.

At last, one of the Dunedain stepped forward, his voice carrying over the murmuring of the men. “Rían,” he called, his tone heavy with doubt. “We have come because we were summoned. Yet where is our chieftain? Where is Aragorn? We thought he was with you, but clearly he is not here. Should we not wait for him before we join this battle?”

The question struck her like a blow, though she had expected it. Her hands tightened briefly on the reins as she lifted her chin, letting her gaze sweep across the gathered Rangers. Their doubt was a reflection of her own fears, but she knew that she could not falter now. Slowly, she guided her horse a few paces forward, her voice quiet but clear.

“I will not lie to you,” she said, her words steady despite the storm within her. “I do not know where Aragorn is. I do not know why he is not here. But I know this—he would not abandon us in this hour of need. Whether he rides to some other duty or faces some great peril, he would have us stand here, now, where the fate of Middle-earth shall be decided.”

The Rangers listened in silence, their expressions unreadable. Rían felt her heart clench, her breath catching in her throat. She had never sought to lead them; she had always looked to Aragorn for that. Yet now, they turned to her, and she could not let them see the depth of her uncertainty. She straightened in her saddle, her voice growing stronger.

“I am not my father who you have followed into battles,” she said, her words weighted with honesty. “And I do not dream of being so great a leader as Aragorn is. I don’t have much  to offer you, not much  to promise. But what I can offer is this: I stand with you, as I always have. I will fight beside you, and I will die beside you if that is what the hour demands.”

The wind tugged at her hair, carrying her voice across the gathered rangers as she raised it again, her tone ringing with unshakable resolve. Her dark cloak billowed behind her as she guided her horse forward at a steady pace, the restless shifting of the other horses the only sound accompanying her words.

 “Look to the fields below!” she cried, sweeping her arm toward the black tide of orcs and trolls that stretched across the Pelennor. Her eyes burned with defiance as she turned in her saddle to meet the gazes of the men surrounding her. “There is the host of Mordor, come to tear down the White City, to crush all that is good and fair in this world beneath their iron boot.”

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over them, her horse snorting and pawing at the ground as if sharing her fire. Her gaze swept across the faces of her kin, each man watching her with rapt attention, their expressions a mix of grim determination and pride.

“And yes,” she continued, her voice rising, “we are few, and they are many. But have we not always been few?” She turned her horse sharply, riding a few paces to the right, her dark hair whipping across her shoulders as she gestured toward the approaching enemy. “Have we not always stood against the tide of shadow, unyielding, though the odds were never in our favor?”

Her voice took on a fiercer edge, and she leaned forward slightly in the saddle, her gloved hand tightening on the reins. “We are the Dúnedain!” she declared, her eyes blazing like embers in the night. “We are the heirs of Númenor, the watchers in the wild, the guardians of the free peoples of Middle-earth!” She turned her horse again, circling back toward the rangers, her movements sharp and deliberate, her presence commanding.

Her words seemed to strike a chord, and the men began to straighten in their saddles, their hands gripping weapons and reins with renewed purpose. She met their eyes one by one, her gaze filled with fire. “Long have we stood in the shadows, unseen and unthanked, but our deeds have kept the darkness at bay for generations. And now, here, we are called upon once more—not in secrecy, but in the open, under the eyes of the Enemy himself.”

She halted her horse abruptly, her chest rising and falling with the force of her words. Her voice dropped, carrying a deadly seriousness as she drove her final point home. “Will you falter now, when all that we have fought for, all that we have bled for, stands on the brink of ruin?” Her gaze swept across them again, and her voice swelled, filled with fierce pride. “Sauron himself is afraid of the blood of Númenor, and we should make sure he doesn’t forget that!”

The Rangers began to stir at her words, their doubt giving way to something harder, fiercer. From where he sat, Faramir’s lips curved into a faint, approving smile. His eyes did not leave her, even as his men murmured amongst themselves, nodding to one another.

Rían’s voice softened, but it did not lose its strength. “This battle is not for Gondor alone,” she said. “It is for the Shire, for Bree, for every quiet village and every hidden glade where children laugh and the wind carries the scent of peace. It is for the world we wish to leave behind for those who come after us.”

She drew in a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she steadied herself. “I do not ask you to follow me because of my blood or my name. I ask you to fight because it is the right thing to do. Because it is what we were born to do. I ask you to fight because this is our moment, the moment when the shadow fears the flame that we carry within us.”

A long silence followed, and then the Rangers began to nod, their faces hardening with resolve. One by one, they gripped the hilts of their swords, their bows, their spears. They were ready.

Halbarad sitting astride his horse a few places behind her rode forward and inclined his head to her. “Rían,” he said gravely, “I think I speak for all of the men here on this matter. We will fight. For the Dunedain, for Middle-earth. And we will stand beside you.”

Rían inclined her head in return, her heart swelling with gratitude and pride. “Then let us ride,” she said, her voice steady. “And may our deeds be worthy of song.”

As the Rangers began to move into formation, Faramir urged his horse forward, stopping beside her. He said nothing, but the look he gave her was full of admiration and something deeper, something unspoken. Rían met his gaze briefly, her heart beating faster, before she turned back to the field ahead. Whatever came, they would face it together.

***

The Rangers moved with quiet purpose as they prepared for the coming battle on the Pelennor Fields. The air was heavy with anticipation, the distant rumble of the enemy’s forces a reminder of the storm that was about to break. Horses were saddled, weapons checked, and murmured words exchanged between comrades who knew that the dawn might bring both victory and loss.

Rían rode through the assembled men, her dark hair braided in the northern fashion, her face calm but resolute. Her gaze scanned the preparations, pausing briefly on familiar faces, before settling on Faramir, who stood by his horse, tightening the straps of his saddle. His expression was focused, yet there was a hint of something softer in his eyes as he looked up and saw her approaching.

Without a word, Rían reached into her cloak and withdrew a silver brooch, its design simple yet elegant—a star of the Dúnedain. She extended it toward him, her fingers brushing lightly against his as he took it. “I had a spare one,” she said, her voice steady but carrying a quiet weight. “You’re riding with us, after all. And you are of the same blood, no matter how distant.”

Faramir looked down at the brooch, his thumb brushing over its polished surface. There was a reverence in his movements, a quiet gratitude that he struggled to put into words. “Thank you, Rían,” he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. He pinned it to his breast, the silver gleaming against the dark fabric of his cloak. “I will wear it with honor.”

Rían nodded, a faint smile touching her lips before she turned away, her eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for something beyond the battle to come. Faramir’s gaze lingered on her, a warmth stirring in his chest that mingled with the weight of the impending fight.

Halbarad, watching from a distance, observed the exchange with a pensive expression. His mind wandered back to a time long ago, a memory that weighed heavily on his heart. He could see it as clearly as if it were yesterday—the day he bore the body of Rían’s brother back to their village. The young man had fallen in battle, and with every step closer to the village, the burden of his loss grew heavier.

How do you tell a mother her son has died? How do you tell a young girl that her brother will never return? The questions had haunted him as they carried the fallen ranger to Rían’s doorstep. He remembered the way Rían’s mother had collapsed on the ground, wailing for her son, the sound of her grief cutting through the stillness of the day.

Rían, barely a teen, had stepped forward, her face pale but composed, the childlike features just beginning to fade into the contours of a young woman. She had knelt beside her brother’s body, her hands trembling as she removed the bloodied brooch from his chest and held it tightly in her grasp. Her eyes, filled with a sorrow so profound that Halbarad felt his breath catch, had met his, and in that moment, he saw the weight of loss settle upon her shoulders.

Yet, despite her own grief, Rían had turned to her mother, speaking to her gently, trying to pull her up from the ground. Her strength had been a beacon of solace amidst the darkness of that day. Halbarad remembered the burial, the way Rían had stood beside her brother’s grave, singing a mourning song, her fingers tracing the outline of the brooch as if it were a talisman against the overwhelming tide of sorrow. In her eyes, he had seen the same look he had seen in many Rangers—the look of a child forced to grow up too fast.

As Halbarad watched her now, he had no doubt that she had just offered that very brooch to Faramir. He wondered if it was a gesture born of the bond they were forming or if it signaled something darker—a resignation, a giving away of her possessions as one who has lost hope. He approached her, his steps measured, his voice tinged with wryness. “A spare one, huh?” he said, his brow arched knowingly. “None of us has a spare.”

Rían shrugged, her expression unreadable, though a flicker of something passed through her eyes. “My brother wouldn’t mind,” she said softly.

Halbarad regarded her with quiet concern. “Why are you giving it away?” he asked, his tone gentle but probing.

Rían’s gaze turned distant for a moment, her fingers brushing the hilt of her sword. “Why did I take it in the first place?” she replied, her voice thoughtful. “Maybe for this very purpose—to pass it on when the time was right.”

Halbarad’s heart ached at her words, the pain of loss resurfacing. “It pains me greatly that I never saw your brother grow into the man he was becoming,” he said quietly, the weight of unspoken memories heavy between them.

Rían’s expression softened, her eyes reflecting a deep, abiding sorrow. “I miss him,” she admitted, her voice low. “Even the constant bickering. We were so alike we could never get along.”

Halbarad chuckled softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Familiar stubbornness,” he said, the warmth of shared memories easing the somberness of the moment.

As they stood in silence, Faramir watched from nearby, his heart stirred by the depth of their connection. He offered no words, but his presence was a silent testament to the bond they were forming, a quiet promise to stand beside them in the battles to come.

Chapter Text

The first rays of dawn pierced the heavy veil of smoke that hung over the Pelennor Fields, casting a pale light on the dark sea of Mordor’s forces. The air was thick with the sound of drums, deep and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of some foul creature born of shadow. Orcs snarled and jeered, their guttural cries mingling with the clash of armor and the snorts of foul beasts. Banners bearing the red eye of Sauron flapped in the wind, a stark contrast to the white tree of Gondor and the golden sun of Rohan that flew defiantly above the defenders.

Rían sat astride her horse, her sharp eyes scanning the approaching horde. Her dark hair was pulled back and braided away from her face, and her grey eyes gleamed in the morning lighr. The star of the Dúnedain pinned to her breast seemed to shine defiantly, a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. She turned her head slightly, catching the gaze of her rangers who awaited her command. Their faces were grim, but their eyes burned with determination.

“Steady!” she called, her voice carrying over the tumult, firm and commanding. She rode along their line, her horse’s hooves thudding against the trampled grass. “Remember your training. Stick to your groups, watch each other’s backs, and for the love of the Valar, don’t let those bastards outflank you! The first one of you who tries to play the hero on their own will answer to me, and I promise you, Mordor’s wrath will feel like a gentle breeze compared to mine!”

A few of the rangers chuckled despite themselves, their tension easing slightly at her sharp wit. An older one, Calen, riding nearby, grinned and called out, “That sounds familiar, doesn’t it? You sound more like your father every day!”

Rían shot him a look, though her lips quirked upward in the barest hint of a smile. “If I do, it’s because he was bloody right, now wasn’t he?”

Her attention snapped back to the field as the first wave of orcs surged forward, their blackened armor glinting in the light of the rising sun. The ground shook beneath the weight of their charge, and the cries of battle rang out as they clashed with the front lines of Gondor and Rohan. Riders of Rohan swept in from the flanks, their spears piercing through the ranks of the enemy with devastating precision. The clash of swords and shields became a deafening roar, and the smell of sweat and iron filled the air.

Faramir’s gaze followed Rían as she maneuvered through the chaos, her voice cutting through the roar of the battlefield like a blade. She sat tall in the saddle, her black hair unbound and whipping in the wind, her eyes fierce and alight with determination. This was not the gentle, introspective woman he had come to know in quiet moments by the fire, nor the thoughtful companion who spoke of loss and hope in equal measure. This was a commander, a warrior, a force of nature.

She moved with a commanding grace, her sword flashing as she directed her rangers with an unflinching confidence. Faramir marveled at the transformation, at how effortlessly she seemed to embody the strength and leadership her father must have passed down to her. Yet even in the midst of battle, her beauty struck him anew—not the quiet beauty of soft words and kind eyes, but the kind that burned bright and fierce, a light that could not be dimmed even by the shadow of war. For a moment, he forgot the battle around him, caught in the realization that he admired her in ways he had not fully understood until now.

Rían urged her horse forward, her sword gleaming in her hand. She cut through the chaos with precision, her blade finding its mark again and again. An orc lunged at her, its crude axe raised high, but she sidestepped deftly, her sword slicing through its neck in one clean motion. Blood sprayed the air, but she had already turned to face her next opponent, her movements fluid and unrelenting.

“Keep your lines tight!” she shouted to her rangers, her voice sharp and unyielding. “Pick your targets and don’t waste your bloody arrows! Save them for the trolls and the wargs—they’ll be on us soon enough!”

The rangers responded with precision, their arrows raining down on the advancing orcs with deadly accuracy. Every shot was placed with care, and the first few trolls that lumbered onto the field were brought down before they could wreak havoc. Yet still the enemy came, an unending tide of darkness.

Rían wheeled her horse around, cutting through the fray to reach a group of her men who had been pressed back by a cluster of orcs. “Hold the line, you scoundrels!” she bellowed, her tone scathing but filled with an unshakable resolve. “What are you, wet-behind-the-ears recruits? You’ll make me look bad in front of the Gondorians! Push them back!”

One of the younger rangers, his face pale but determined, rallied at her words, driving his sword into an oncoming orc with a cry of defiance. Rían nodded approvingly, her blade flashing as she took down another foe. “That’s the spirit, lad! Now show these bastards what it means to face a son of the north!

Rían urged her horse forward, its hooves pounding the earth as she darted through the chaos. The enemy surged around her like a tide, dark and unrelenting, but she was unyielding, a figure of sharp precision amidst the roiling storm. Her sword flashed in the pale light, striking true with every sweep, its edge biting into the blackened flesh of orcs that dared to block her path.

To her left, a group of rangers fought shoulder to shoulder, their bows slung over their backs now that the melee was too close for arrows. One called out, "Rían, to your right!" Her instincts took over, and she leaned low against her horse as an orc swung a jagged blade at her, the weapon slicing harmlessly through the air where she had been a heartbeat before. With a quick twist of her wrist, she drove her sword through the creature's chest as she rode past, her horse rearing briefly to trample another enemy beneath its hooves.

"Keep moving!" she called to her men, her voice cutting through the clamor of battle. "Don't let them trap you in one place! Strike hard, then break away!"

The rangers responded like a well- oiled machine, their movements fluid and calculated. Rían felt a surge of pride as she watched them cut down their foes with practiced efficiency, their swords gleaming and their eyes fierce. Her father's teachings echoed in her mind - Always move, always think ahead. Let the enemy stumble in their own chaos.

An orc carrying a crude spear charged at her from the front, its guttural roar rising above the din. Rían tightened her grip on her reins and rose slightly in her saddle, her posture poised

like a hawk ready to strike. At the last moment, she veered her horse to the left, dodging the  spear and slashing her sword in one fluid motion. The orc crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

"Rían, behind you!" came another shout, this time from Calen. She turned sharply in her saddle, just in time to see a hulking orc charging her with an axe raised high. Her heart quickened, but she remained steady. Pulling her horse to a halt, she swung her blade in a wide arc, meeting the axe mid-swing and deflecting it with a sharp clang of steel. The force rattled her arm, but she grit her teeth and slashed again, this time cutting deep into the orc's exposed side. It fell with a howl, and she spurred her horse forward once more.

All around her, the rangers fought with relentless determination, their movements a testament to the bond forged between them over countless battles. They moved in small groups, covering each other's flanks and pressing the enemy lines back with methodical precision.

Rían rode at the forefront, her black hair whipping behind her like a banner as she weaved through the melee with a precision of an eagle in flight. Her presence was like a spark among dry kindling, igniting the morale of those who fought beside her. When one of the younger rangers stumbled, his shield slipping from his grasp, she was there in an instant, driving her sword into the orc that bore down on him and pulling him to his feet.

"Focus, lad!" she barked, her tone sharp but not unkind. "You can fall apart later-right now, you fight!" The young ranger nodded quickly, his face pale but resolute. He hefted his sword once more, falling back into the line with renewed determination.

The enemy pressed harder, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm, but Rían refused to give ground. She spurred her horse into a tight circle, slashing at the orcs that surrounded her, her blade cutting through armor and flesh with ruthless efficiency. Beside her, Calen and another ranger broke through the enemy ranks, their swords carving a path through the chaos.

"Rían!" Calen called, glancing over his shoulder as he parried a blow. "We're pushing them back!"

"Good!" she shouted in reply, her voice fierce. "Keep them off balance! Don't let up!"

Her horse reared as another orc lunged at her, its clawed hand swiping for the reins. She swung downward, her sword biting into its shoulder and sending it sprawling to the ground. The beast howled in pain, but Rían was already moving on, her gaze fixed on the next threat.

The tide of battle ebbed and flowed around her, the chaos unrelenting. But as Rían rode through the enemy lines, her presence a constant force, the rangers found strength in her determination. For every orc that fell beneath her blade, for every shout of defiance that rose above the clamor, the rangers knew they were not alone. They fought as one, their unity a shield against the shadow, and at their head rode Rían-fierce, unyielding, and unafraid.

***

The air around Rían was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood. Her horse, a sturdy black steed, danced nimbly through the chaos of the battlefield, hooves striking the earth with a rhythmic thunder. The cries of men and orcs alike filled the air, but she had no time to heed them. Her focus was sharp, her grip tight on the reins, her sword gleaming as it cut through the murk. The weight of battle, the heat of the moment, was all she had known in the past hours—yet still, her eyes sought him, that one figure who could still anchor her to the world.

With a savage cry, an orc lunged toward her, a crude scimitar raised high. Rían’s horse reared, throwing the beast off-balance as she swung her sword in a sweeping arc. The blade met its mark with a sickening thud, cleaving the orc’s weapon from his grasp. She was swift, moving as if one with the steed beneath her. Her horse surged forward, its hooves a blur, and in the next instant, Rían was upon another foe, a wicked grin curling on her lips as she struck. Her blade whistled through the air, cutting through armor and flesh, her body a fluid dance of grace and fury.

A pair of orcs, one armed with a spiked mace and the other with a jagged spear, charged toward her. Her steed twisted and turned with expert skill, narrowly avoiding the spear’s thrust as Rían brought her sword in a sharp arc, deflecting the mace with a clang of steel. With a shout, she leaned low, urging her horse into a gallop. They raced across the battlefield, the ground shaking with each pounding step, and with a swift turn, Rían was on them, the point of her blade finding the gap in the orc’s chestplate. He fell with a grotesque gurgle, his weapon slipping from his fingers. Her steed barely slowed, leaping over the fallen body, as if it too were part of the great, unstoppable tide of battle.

The clash of steel continued all around her, but Rían had trained for this, had prepared for this. Every strike, every movement was deliberate, each step part of a greater rhythm that she followed as instinctively as breathing. And yet, despite the carnage surrounding her, a part of her mind, a part of her heart, never ceased its searching, always looking, always hoping for that one familiar face to appear through the storm of smoke and bodies.

Rían’s heart pounded in her chest as her eyes swept the battlefield, her breaths coming fast and shallow. She parried a blow from an orc, the impact reverberating up her arm, and struck back with deadly precision. Yet even as she fought, her gaze darted relentlessly across the battlefield, searching for a familiar figure among the chaos.

Then she saw him.

Time seemed to slow, the sounds of battle fading into a dull roar as her eyes fixed on Faramir. He fought near the front lines, his blade flashing in the dim light as he struck down a Haradrim warrior with a swift, decisive stroke. For a moment, relief surged through her—he was alive, still fighting. But the moment was fleeting.Their luck seemed to have ran out. 

A black-feathered arrow streaked through the air, its path cruelly direct. Rían’s breath caught in her throat as she watched, helpless, as it struck Faramir in the side. The force of it twisted his body, his sword slipping from his grasp as he staggered, his knees buckling beneath him. He fell to the ground, his hand clutching at the arrow embedded in his flesh, blood staining the blue and silver of his tunic.

“No,” she whispered, the word escaping her lips as a breathless plea, before the full weight of the moment hit her. “Faramir!” she screamed, her voice rising above the din of battle, raw with terror and desperation.

The world seemed to narrow to a single point—the sight of him lying on the blood-soaked ground, his breaths shallow, his strength fading. Every instinct in her screamed to reach him, to protect him, to save him.

Gripping the reins tightly, she spurred her horse forward, cutting through the chaos with reckless determination. An orc lunged at her, its blade aimed for her chest, but she struck it down with a fierce cry, her focus unyielding. Another enemy came at her from the side, but she leaned low in the saddle, her sword slicing through the air in a deadly arc. Nothing could stop her in that moment.

The distance between them closed, though every second felt like an eternity. The battlefield seemed endless, a maze of carnage and peril, yet she pushed onward, her heart hammering in her chest. As she approached, she reined in her horse sharply, the beast skidding to a halt mere feet from Faramir’s fallen form. Without hesitation, she swung down from the saddle, her boots sinking into the mud as she rushed to his side.

“Faramir!” she cried again, dropping to her knees beside him, heedless of the muck and blood that clung to her. Her trembling hand touched his shoulder, as if reassuring herself that he was still there, still alive.

His eyes fluttered open, the pain in his gaze cutting through her like a blade. “Rían,” he murmured, his voice faint, barely audible above the chaos around them.

She leaned closer, her hands moving with frantic care as she assessed his wound. “Stay with me,” she said firmly, her voice trembling with urgency. “You’re going to be all right. Just keep breathing, do you hear me? Keep breathing.”

Her fingers brushed against his blood-streaked cheek, her touch gentle even as her own composure threatened to break. The arrow jutted from his side, the dark feathers stained crimson, and the sight of it made her stomach twist with helplessness. She glanced around, her sharp eyes scanning for any immediate threats, but all that mattered was getting him to safety.

“You’re not going to leave me. I won’t let you.” Her words were a promise, a plea, and a command all at once, as if sheer will could keep him tethered to her.

Faramir’s hand moved weakly, his fingers brushing hers in a gesture that was both a reassurance and an apology. “I… I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice raw with pain.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she said fiercely, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that burned through her fear. “Don’t you dare. You’re going to stay with me, Faramir. You have to.”

The sounds of the battle crept back into her awareness—the distant clash of swords, the cries of men and orcs alike—but she forced herself to focus on the man before her. In this moment, nothing else mattered.

Faramir gave her a weak nod, though the effort seemed to drain him. “You have…a habit of appearing when I’m in trouble,” he whispered, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips.

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though her eyes glistened with worry. “And you have a habit of finding trouble.”

Her attention snapped back to the battlefield as another wave of orcs surged toward them. Rising swiftly, she positioned herself between Faramir and the advancing enemy. Her blade flashed as she fought, her movements swift and lethal. An orc lunged at her, and she sidestepped, driving her sword into its chest.

Behind her, a voice rang out—a familiar voice, hoarse and raw with panic. “Faramir!”

Boromir stormed toward them, his broad figure cutting through the chaos of the battlefield. His shield was smeared with blood, his sword dangling limply in his grip as his wide, stricken eyes fixed on his brother. The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale, his usual composure shattered as he dropped to his knees beside Faramir. “Faramir!” he called again, his voice cracking, his trembling hands reaching out but unsure where to begin. “What’s happened? Speak to me!”

“He’s alive,” Rían snapped, her tone sharp with urgency, “but not for long if we don’t move!” Her sword flashed as she turned, cutting down another orc that had strayed too close. Blood spattered the earth, and she faced Boromir again, her expression fierce and determined. “Help me get him out of here, or he won’t survive!”

Boromir blinked, shaking his head as though trying to wake from a nightmare. He nodded then, a jerky, frantic motion, as he shifted closer to Faramir. “I have him,” he muttered, his voice thick with desperation. He slipped his arms beneath his brother, his hands shaking as he lifted him.

Faramir groaned, a weak sound that sent a spike of terror through Rían’s chest. “Careful,” she barked, though her voice softened almost immediately. “Don’t jostle him too much. And try not to move the arrow.” She reached out, steadying Faramir’s shoulder with one hand, her other gripping her bloodied sword tightly as her eyes scanned the battlefield.

Boromir gritted his teeth, his jaw taut with grim determination as he carried his brother toward his horse. Every step seemed to cost him dearly, not in strength but in anguish, the sight of Faramir so pale and vulnerable tearing at something deep within him. Rían stayed close, her own breathing ragged as she kept her blade ready, her body acting on instinct as her mind raced.

When they reached the horse, Boromir swung into the saddle with practiced ease, though his movements were burdened by urgency and fear. He reached down, his powerful arms pulling Faramir up in front of him with a care that was almost tender. He secured his brother tightly against his chest, one arm steadying him while the other gripped the reins. Faramir’s head lolled slightly, his eyelids fluttering as if fighting to stay conscious.

“Rían…” he murmured, his voice barely audible, yet the faint plea in it cut through the din of the battle like a blade. His grey eyes, clouded with pain, found hers, and she could see the effort it took him to form the words. “You’re coming too… aren’t you?”

Rían froze for a heartbeat, her chest tightening at the rawness in his tone, the unspoken fear beneath his words. Her heart ached as she nodded sharply, her voice firm despite the lump rising in her throat. “I’ll see you to the gates,” she promised.

Boromir glanced at her briefly, his own expression flickering with gratitude and unspoken trust. Without another word, he nudged the horse forward, the beast surging through the chaos with powerful strides. Rían mounted her own horse swiftly, the reins taut in her hands as she followed close behind, her eyes never straying far from Faramir’s slumped form.

The battlefield around them blurred into noise and chaos, but Rían’s focus was singular. She would not let him fall—not here, not now. Her blade was ready, her resolve unshakable, as they rode toward the sanctuary of the city’s gates, leaving the howls of orcs and the roar of battle in their wake.

Rían and Boromir urged their horses forward, the chaos of the battlefield surging around them like a storm. Boromir held Faramir tightly in front of him, one arm steadying his brother’s limp form while the other gripped the reins. He had no hand free for his sword, and his face was drawn tight with worry and helpless frustration.

“Rían!” he called, his voice edged with desperation as an orc surged toward them from the left.

“I see it!” Rían shouted back, her own horse surging forward. Her blade flashed as she struck the orc down with precision, wheeling her mount around to fend off two more attackers. Her movements were fluid and fierce, her focus unshakable.

Boromir’s horse stumbled briefly under the weight of its riders, and he cursed under his breath, adjusting Faramir’s weight to steady him. “We’ll never make it like this. The orcs—”

“We will make it,” Rían interrupted sharply, her voice brooking no argument. “Keep riding. I’ll handle them.”

She spurred her horse alongside Boromir’s, shielding him as another wave of enemies surged toward them. A Haradrim foot soldier hurled a spear in their direction, but Rían deflected it with her sword in a fluid motion, the force of the blow reverberating up her arm.

Boromir glanced at her, astonishment flickering across his face. “How are you doing this?”

“Determination,” she replied tersely, her eyes scanning for the next threat. “And a refusal to let either of you die today.”

Faramir stirred weakly, his head lolling against Boromir’s shoulder. “Rían…” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.

She glanced back at him, her heart tightening at the sight of his pale, pain-stricken face. “Save your strength, Faramir,” she said, her tone softening briefly. “You’re going to make it.”

As they neared the base of the city’s causeway, the enemies thickened, desperate to cut them off. An orc archer drew his bow, aiming for Boromir’s unguarded side. Rían saw it in the corner of her eye and shouted, “Duck!”

Boromir obeyed instinctively, leaning forward over Faramir as Rían’s horse surged ahead. She raised her sword and sent the archer sprawling with a deadly strike, then wheeled her mount around to block another assailant charging at Boromir.

Her blade sang as it clashed with a curved scimitar. The enemy soldier was strong, but Rían’s fury was stronger. She pushed the attacker back with a swift blow  to his chest, sending him tumbling beneath the hooves of a passing horse.

“You’ve fought like this before,” Boromir muttered, his voice rough with awe as they broke through the throng.

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” she replied, breathless but unwavering. Her gaze turned ahead to the gates of Minas Tirith, which loomed closer with every pounding hoofbeat.

Behind them, the sound of horns rang out, signaling reinforcements from the city. Relief surged through Rían, but she didn’t let her guard drop. “Just a little farther,” she urged, riding close to Boromir to shield him from a stray arrow.

The gates opened before them, a cacophony of shouts and the thunder of hooves filling the air. As they passed beneath the archway, Boromir pulled his horse to a halt, his hands trembling as he lowered Faramir from the saddle into the waiting arms of a healer.

Rían reined in her own horse beside them, watching as Faramir was carried away. 

Rían’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched Faramir being lifted from his horse, his form limp and pale, but she couldn’t afford to dwell on it now. The city’s gates were wide open, and Boromir had Faramir in the care of the healers, but Rían’s resolve burned hotter than ever. She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze scanning the distant horizon where the battle raged on, and then looked back at Boromir.

He had dismounted from his horse, his face drawn with exhaustion and concern, but it was a mix of gratitude and worry that filled his eyes when he met her gaze.

“Rían…” he started, his voice hoarse. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she gave him a brief nod, her chest tightening at the thought of leaving Faramir in the hands of others. He was in good care, but her duty was not done. Not yet.

She pressed a hand to her horse’s mane, tightening her grip on the reins. “There are still many out there who need me,” she said, her voice firm. Her eyes were steely with determination. “The battle isn’t over, Boromir. I can’t stay here.”

His brow furrowed with both concern and understanding. “Rían—”

“I’ll be back, Boromir,” she said quickly, her voice softer now, though resolute. “But I have to go back. There are too many out there who are still fighting. Take care of your brother for me please.” There was an edge of desperation in her tone, even though she didn’t even let the possibility of losing Faramir cross her mind now.

She didn’t wait for another reply. She spurred her horse forward, leaving Boromir behind as she turned her back on the gates of Minas Tirith, her figure a swift silhouette against the smoky battlefield. The sounds of clashing steel and cries of pain echoed in her ears as she rode back into the thick of it, her heart heavy with the weight of the battle, but her spirit unyielding.

She charged toward the battlefield once more, cutting through the chaos with fierce determination. Her blade flashed brightly, fending off enemies that surged too close, her mind focused entirely on the task at hand. She moved with purpose, each strike a clear message that she would not leave her brothers and sisters in arms behind.

Her horse suddenly reared violently, a cruel blow from a spear thrust through its side sending it crashing to the ground. Rían was thrown from the saddle, her body tumbling through the air before hitting the ground with a harsh, breath-stealing impact. She gasped, struggling to regain her bearings as the battlefield spun around her, but there was no time to think, no time to mourn. The war raged on.

Without hesitation, Rían pushed herself to her feet, her muscles protesting with every movement, the weight of her bruised body dragging at her. The adrenaline of battle surged through her veins, dulling the pain and lending her strength. She grasped the hilt of her sword, the familiar weight grounding her, and turned her gaze back to the enemy.

A harsh, guttural roar split the air, and Rían’s eyes snapped to the enormous Oliphaunt charging toward her. The massive beast towered over the ranks of orcs, its tusks glistening with the promise of death, and atop it rode a Haradrim warrior, his face twisted with savage intent. Cursing under her breath, Rían reached for her bow, the weapon unfamiliar in her hands, but there was no time for hesitation.

She pulled back the string, the tension of the bow biting into her fingers, and loosed an arrow with all the speed and force she could muster. It sailed wide, missing its mark, and she cursed again, quickly nocking another. It was her own fault for not practicing enough. She was good enough when hunting, when she had all the time in the world, but here her time was quickly running out.

She let the second arrow go. This time it flew true, but still, it struck the beast’s armored flank and did little more than glance off. She had no time for more thought, and with a curse of frustration, she drew a third. The shot was fast and furious, the air thick with the smell of sweat and iron as the arrow found its mark. The Haradrim soldier’s eyes widened in shock, his throat pierced by the shaft. He toppled from the Oliphaunt’s back, the beast roaring in confusion as its rider crumpled to the earth below.

Rían let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her chest heaving as she quickly slung the bow over her shoulder. “I hate bows,” she muttered, disgust in her voice, before her hand instinctively reached for the comforting hilt of her sword. The battle was far from over, and there was still much to be done.

The moment the bow left her hands, the battlefield came rushing back, the cries of men and the clash of steel reverberating in her bones. But through it all, her thoughts never strayed far from Faramir, the memory of his bloodied form a constant pull in the chaos, the one thing that kept her moving forward, kept her fighting.

The battlefield stretched like a sea of chaos beneath a storm-wracked sky, the cries of men and beasts mingling with the thunder of hooves and the clashing of steel. Amidst it all, Rían pushed forward, her blade red with the blood of foes, her breath coming ragged and sharp. Yet, as her eyes scanned the carnage, a familiar figure caught her gaze—a man lying among the fallen, his dark hair streaked with blood, his breath faint and labored.

“Halbarad!” she cried, her voice cutting through the din as she rushed to him.

She fell to her knees beside him, the world narrowing to the sight of his pale, weathered face. His eyes opened slowly, grey and familiar, filled with a pain that struck her like a blade to the heart. She remembered those eyes—steady and strong, always watching over her, even when her world had crumbled around her.

Her hands trembled as she lifted his head onto her lap, brushing blood-matted hair from his brow. “Halbarad, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Stay with me.”

He gave a faint, wry smile, though his breath was shallow. “You are always so… stubborn,” he rasped, his voice a threadbare echo of its usual strength.

Rían choked back a sob, her mind spinning with memories, each one as sharp as the day it happened. Halbarad, coming to her family’s small home in the wilds of the North, his eyes filled with sorrow as he knelt before her mother and spoke the words that shattered their world: Your husband, my captain, has fallen in defense of the north. She had been only a child then, too young to fully grasp the weight of death, yet she had seen it reflected in her mother’s face and felt it in the hollow ache that remained.

Years later, it had been Halbarad again who came to her, his voice gentle but unyielding as he told her of her brother’s death, how he had died a hero’s death, but death nonetheless. She had been sixteen, headstrong and wild with grief, and Halbarad had been there to steady her, to remind her that life, though fragile, must go on.

And again, as a young woman, when her mother’s light had faded, not in battle but from a grief too heavy to bear. Halbarad had stayed by her side, silent but present, as she watched the only family she had left slip away. When the grief had threatened to consume her, when she threw herself into the life of a ranger with reckless abandon, daring danger to take her, it was Halbarad who had pulled her back from the edge.

“Do not throw your life away, Rían,” he had said to her once, his voice fierce with care. “You may think it means nothing, but it is worth much. You are worth much.”

Now, as she cradled him, his blood staining her hands, the weight of all those years crashed over her like a wave. The man who had been her anchor through every loss, every heartbreak, every wound, was slipping away from her, and she was powerless to stop it.

“Halbarad, please,” she whispered, her tears falling freely now. “I can’t do this without you.”

His hand, weak but steady, found hers and gripped it lightly. “You can… and you will,” he murmured. “You are stronger than you know.”

She shook her head, her vision blurred with tears. “Not without you. You’ve always been there, Halbarad. Always.”

A faint chuckle escaped his lips, though it was edged with pain. “And now… it is your turn… to be strong.”

She bowed her head, her tears falling onto his brow as she held him close. “It’s all right,” she whispered, her voice trembling but steady. “You can rest now. It’s okay to go.”

His gaze, though dimming, was warm as he looked up at her. “I’m proud of you, Rían,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I always… have been.”

And with that, his breath left him, his body going still in her arms. A silence fell over her, broken only by the distant clash of the battle, the world moving on as hers seemed to shatter.

She pressed her forehead to his, her tears unending as she clung to him one last time. “Thank you,” she whispered, though she knew he could no longer hear her. “For everything.”

The battle raged around her, but for a moment, Rían let herself grieve, her heart breaking anew for the man who had been her mentor, her family, and her steadfast friend. Then, with a deep breath, she laid him gently upon the ground, closing his eyes and placing a hand over his heart.

Rising to her feet, she looked toward the chaos of the battlefield, her grief sharpening into resolve. She would fight on—not just for the fate of Middle-earth, but for Halbarad, for all he had stood for, and for the promise she had made to him long ago: that she would not throw her life away, but use it to build something greater.

With one last look at her fallen kin, she turned and strode back into the fray, her blade gleaming in the pale light of the sun breaking through the shadowed skies.

The battlefield roared with fury, an endless sea of clashing steel and the maddening shrieks of orcs. Rían fought as though she were one with the storm, her sword flashing in the light of the dying sun. Her arms moved with the rhythm of battle, each strike purposeful, cutting through the ranks of the enemy with unrelenting precision.

The heat of the fight surged through her, a force that drowned out all the other aches – the exhaustion, fear, the gnawing sorrow in her chest from seeing Faramir wounded and carried away and the bottomless grief that she felt looking at Halbarad’s still from . Her mind had pushed everything else aside in favor of survival, but still, her heart thrummed with an unfamiliar emptiness.

She drove forward, her blade flashing in a deadly arc as she cleaved through an orc’s chest, the creature stumbling backward in a spray of blood before crumpling to the ground. Another orc lunged at her from the side, but Rían was quicker, her sword a blur as it met his with a harsh clang. She twisted, bringing the blade down in a swift, final strike. There was no time to dwell on the carnage. The battlefield was alive, a shifting chaos of movement and noise, and her body moved without thought—again and again, she cut her way through the enemy.

And then, as if the world itself had shifted, the air grew thick with a strange energy, and for the briefest of moments, the clash of weapons and cries of war seemed to fade. Rían’s sword paused mid-swing, her gaze snapping toward the unnatural silence that had gripped the field. A chill crawled up her spine, and she turned.

Through the haze of smoke and blood, she saw them: Aragorn, his sword gleaming with purpose, moving like a force of nature amidst the turmoil. Beside him, Legolas was a blur of grace, his bow singing the death of orcs with every swift release of an arrow, while Gimli, broad and steadfast, cleaved through the enemy with the power of his axe, a laugh of pure defiance rumbling in his throat.But it was not the sight of her comrades that made her breath hitch—it was what followed them.

The dead had come.

A ghostly army surged forward, their translucent forms a blur of green and silver. They moved as one, sweeping through the orc horde like an unstoppable tide. The snarls of the enemy turned to shrieks of terror, their once-mighty ranks breaking apart as the spectral warriors cut them down.

For a moment, Rían could only stare, her heart pounding with something akin to awe. The history of the Dead Men of Dunharrow was etched deeply into the lore of her people, whispered around campfires and recounted in grim tales. Never had she thought to see them in her lifetime, let alone fighting under the command of the man she had traveled and fought beside. Aragorn—ranger, healer, the heir to the throne of Gondor—had called upon the cursed army and brought them to battle. Pride and disbelief warred within her, and though her body moved instinctively, striking down an orc that rushed toward her, her gaze lingered on the spectral tide.

As the dead surged past her, she fought her way toward Aragorn. When she reached him, his eyes found hers. Even amidst the chaos, there was a calmness in his gaze, steady and sure. “Rían,” he called over the din, his voice clear and strong, “are you well?”

“I’ll be,” she shouted back, her voice raw but resolute. There was no time for more. The orcs came again, and Aragorn fell into step beside her, their blades moving in unison.

They fought side by side, the spectral army clearing paths through the enemy as they struck down those who remained. “You’re slowing down, elf!” Gimli called out beside them with a grin, his voice rich with challenge. He swung his axe wide, cleaving through a pair of orcs who had dared to approach him from either side. “I’ve already lost count of how many I’ve felled! You’re not keeping up.”

Legolas, his movements fluid and precise as ever, shot a quick glance at Gimli over his shoulder, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, don’t worry, Gimli. I’m simply giving you a head start. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m showing off,” he teased, his bow singing as another orc fell to the ground.

“I’m not worried about you showing off, elf!” Gimli retorted, his voice booming above the din of battle. “I’m worried that I’ll finish the fight before you get your second arrow nocked!”

Rían couldn’t help but smirk as she cleaved through an orc’s chest, her blade moving instinctively as she focused on the battle. The exchange between the elf and the dwarf was always a constant source of amusement, even in the midst of war. It was a welcome distraction from the weight of the battle—and from the pain gnawing at her insides.

“You’re both insufferable,” Aragorn called from beside her, his voice steady as always. He turned toward them with a brief but amused smile. “Keep it up, and I’ll have to start counting your kills for you.”

“We’ve counted our own kills, thank you, my friend,” Gimli said with a hearty laugh as he swung his axe once more, sending an orc tumbling backward. “And I’m well ahead of the elf, just so you know.”

Rían shook her head, but the smile on her lips was brief—it quickly turned to a determined frown as she turned back to the fight. The banter between her companions didn’t dull the urgency in her heart. The battle raged on, but she couldn’t ignore the growing panic that had begun to take hold of her since seeing Faramir.

The orcs, who had been so confident moments before, screamed in terror as the spectral warriors tore through their ranks, their bodies falling in swift, silent destruction.

Rían again stood frozen for a moment, awe flooding through her as the Dead Men of Dunharrow swept past her, cutting down the orcs with terrifying precision. It was as if the legends she had heard since childhood had come to life. The chill of their presence lingered in the air, but the sight of them, fighting at Aragorn’s side, was enough to set her heart racing with a new kind of resolve.

She snapped out of her reverie as an orc lunged at her from behind, but Legolas’ arrow flew past her with deadly accuracy, striking the creature before it could even raise its weapon.

“You’re welcome!” Legolas called, his grin wide and mischievous.

“I didn’t need your help!” Rían retorted, though she couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips.

“You’re welcome anyway,” he teased, already turning to loose another arrow into the fray.

Together, they pressed forward, Aragorn’s calm leadership guiding them through the chaos, while Legolas and Gimli fought like forces of nature, each determined to outdo the other. The enemy’s resolve shattered as the Dead Men of Dunharrow continued to sweep through the orcs, their spectral forms unstoppable.

But as the last of the enemy fell, and the silence of victory began to settle over the battlefield, Rían’s sword lowered slowly, her chest heaving with exhaustion. Her body ached, but it was not fatigue that gnawed at her. It was the urgent need to return to Minas Tirith—to the one person whose safety had weighed so heavily on her mind.

Her eyes darted to Aragorn, who stood beside her, his blade still in hand. “I—I need to return to Minas Tirith. Now,” she said suddenly, her voice edged with panic.

Aragorn’s brows drew together, confusion flashing across his face. “Minas Tirith? Now? Why—”

“Boromir will be waiting,” Rían blurted out, her voice faltering. She could not look at him as she added, “Faramir…” Her throat tightened around the words, her composure threatening to crack. She suddenly realized she didn’t have her horse with her anymore, her mind scrambling for a solution. 

Understanding dawned in Aragorn’s eyes. He studied her for a moment, then gave a firm nod. “Go,” he said simply. He motioned toward a riderless horse weaving through the chaos. “Take that one.”

Rían hesitated, glancing at him as if to confirm she had his leave. The trust and certainty in his gaze steadied her, and she nodded. Without another word, she turned and sprinted toward the horse. The animal reared as she approached, its nostrils flaring in fear, but Rían moved with purpose. She grasped the reins and spoke softly, her voice cutting through the noise of the battlefield.

With a practiced motion, she swung herself onto the horse’s back, clutching the reins tightly. She glanced over her shoulder once, her eyes meeting Aragorn’s. Then she urged the horse forward, its hooves thundering against the ground as she raced toward Minas Tirith.

Chapter Text

The air of Minas Tirith hung heavy with smoke and sorrow, the acrid tang of the fires still clinging to the stones and streets. The sky, once darkened by the shadow of Mordor, now held a dim light, as if hesitant to return to full brightness.

Rían moved through the city like a ghost, her steps slow, her boots scuffing against the cobblestones worn smooth by countless feet. Her face was pale, streaked with the grime of battle and shadowed by an exhaustion that went deeper than flesh. The star of the Dúnedain gleamed faintly on her breast, a solitary light in the midst of ruin, though it brought her little comfort. Victory had come, yes—but at what cost? Her heart was uneasy, every beat a dull echo of a name she dared not speak aloud, a name that had anchored her in the storm and now seemed to drift ever farther from her reach.

Turning a corner, she was suddenly halted as a small figure stumbled into her path. Pippin, his face pale and streaked with soot, looked up at her with wide, frightened eyes. There was a weight to his expression that made her heart seize.

“Rían!” he cried, grabbing the edge of her cloak with trembling hands, as though it were the only thing holding him steady. “I—I need to tell you—about Faramir—”

The sound of that name struck her like a blow. Her breath hitched, and she crouched swiftly to his level, her gloved hands coming to rest firmly on his shoulders. Her grip was gentle, but there was urgency in her touch, a need to anchor both him and herself against the rising tide of dread. “Pippin,” she said, her voice steady though her heart pounded painfully against her ribs. “Speak. What of Faramir? Is he—?” The words caught in her throat, as if voicing her fear would make it real.

Pippin stammered, his small frame trembling under her hands. His lips moved, but no coherent words came, and his face crumpled with frustration, his emotions too raw to shape into speech. “He—he’s—oh, I don’t know how to say it—”

Before she could press him further, a familiar voice, deep and measured, broke through the haze of her panic. “Rían.”

She turned sharply, her cloak swirling behind her, and saw Boromir striding toward them. His armor was darkened with ash and streaked with the blood of battle, his face drawn and grim, yet his gaze was steady. But there was something in his eyes—a shadow, a weight—that made her stomach twist with dread.

“Boromir,” she breathed, rising to her feet, though her knees felt unsteady. “What has happened? Tell me.”

Boromir stopped before her, towering yet burdened, and for the first time, she saw the strain etched deep into his features. The proud captain of Gondor now seemed like a man who had stood too long beneath a great storm. His voice, when he spoke, was low and grave, heavy with grief. “My father is gone,” he said simply.

The words did not register at first. She blinked, startled. “Gone?” she repeated, the word unfamiliar and strange on her tongue. “What do you mean?”

Boromir’s jaw tightened, his voice low and grave as he continued. “Denethor went mad, Rían. The Enemy’s shadow clouded his mind. He thought Faramir was dead—”

The name tore through her like a blade, and her breath left her in a ragged gasp. Her legs nearly buckled beneath her, but she caught herself, her hand gripping the edge of her cloak as if it might hold her steady. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “No, Boromir—”

Boromir continued, his expression sorrowful. “He tried to burn Faramir upon a pyre.”

Rían’s breath left her in a ragged gasp, the world spinning for a moment around her. She had faced enemies unflinching, gone through the trails that would break even the strongest men without a thought, yet this simple sentence made her feel more terror than she felt her entire life. Her knees threatened to just give out from underneath her.

Boromir reached out instinctively, his strong hand grasping her arm to steady her. His touch was firm but gentle, a lifeline against the storm of emotion threatening to engulf her. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “Faramir is alive. Gandalf, Pippin, and I stopped my father in time—” He hesitated, his voice faltering as his gaze flickered with pain. “Though Denethor… he fell from the tower in his despair. It is finished. He is gone.”

The weight of his words settled heavily upon her, and for a moment, the world around her seemed to dim. The noise of the city faded, the sunlight through the haze grew faint, and all she could hear was the frantic beating of her heart. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse and broken. “And Faramir?” she whispered, her lips barely forming the words.

Boromir’s expression softened, though the sorrow in his eyes did not lessen. “Faramir lives,” he said quietly. “He was pulled from the fire in time, though he is gravely ill with Black Breath. The healers are doing what they can, but his condition is perilous.”

She swayed where she stood, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Boromir steadied her once more, his hand firm on her arm, but her mind was spinning. The thought of Faramir—so full of life, of quiet strength—lying helpless, burned and broken, was more than she could bear. Yet even amidst the turmoil, one truth rose above all others: He lives.

“He lives,” she murmured, the words trembling on her lips like a prayer. She repeated them, as if by doing so, she could will them into certainty.

Boromir nodded solemnly. “Aye, he lives.”

She turned to Pippin, who lingered nearby, his small hands wringing together in distress. Her grey eyes, though shadowed by grief, now burned with determination. “Pippin,” she said, kneeling once more to meet his gaze. Her voice was steady, though her urgency was plain. “Go. Find Aragorn. Tell him everything Boromir has told me—about Denethor, about Faramir. He may be able to help. And please, by the Valar, hurry. Do you understand?”

The hobbit nodded rapidly, his fear now tempered by purpose. “Yes, Rían. I’ll find him—I’ll bring him!” Without another word, he turned and ran, his small figure disappearing into the winding streets.

Rían straightened, drawing a deep, shuddering breath as she turned back to Boromir. Her grey eyes met his, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then, with quiet resolve, she said, “Take me to him, Boromir. Please.”

Boromir nodded, his expression solemn. “Come,” he said simply.

As they walked through the winding streets toward the Houses of Healing, the weight of the city seemed to press down on them both. Rían’s steps quickened, her resolve sharpening with every passing moment. Yet her heart ached, and her mind was a storm of unspoken fears. Boromir glanced sideways at her. There was a resolve in her step that reminded him of the men that fought beside him—a will of iron wrapped in quiet strength.

“You sent him back with me,” he said softly. “You saved his life, Rían. I owe you everything.”

“I sent him back because I could not bear to lose him,” Rían replied, her voice low. “And I would not bear it now.”

Boromir nodded, his gaze ahead. “Then let us see him saved, and hope that lord Aragorn might yet heal him.” Together, they approached the shadow of the White Tower, where the Houses of Healing awaited.

They passed into the shadow of the White Tower, and Rían’s heart quickened, a prayer rising unbidden on her lips. Let him live.

For she knew, as sure as the sun that had risen again, a truth she had long kept hidden—if she lost Faramir now, it would not only  be the end of her strength, but the breaking of her soul, a grief too great for her to endure.

***

The chamber in the Houses of Healing was dim and quiet, save for the soft murmur of healers and the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. The scent of athelas, steeped in warm water, filled the air with a refreshing fragrance that seemed to banish the lingering shadow of Mordor. Aragorn knelt beside the bed where Faramir lay pale and still, his tunic hastily unfastened to reveal bandages stained with blood from the arrow wound that had nearly claimed his life.

Rían stood at the foot of the bed, her hands gripping the carved wood tightly, her knuckles white. Beside her, Boromir crossed his arms, his jaw tight as he watched Aragorn work. The sight of his younger brother—so fragile, so near death—had shaken even his indomitable spirit.

Aragorn placed his hand over Faramir’s brow, his voice steady and quiet as he sang a fragment of an ancient healing chant, the words lilting in the Elvish tongue. The bowl of athelas water shimmered in the soft light, and as he dipped a cloth into it, the fragrance intensified, washing over them like a breath of life renewed.

Boromir’s gaze lingered on Aragorn, the doubt and rivalry that had simmered in his mind dissolving in the face of what he now witnessed. As Aragorn’s hand brushed Faramir’s wound, the faintest glow seemed to emanate from his touch, and Faramir stirred, his breathing deepening as the fever visibly ebbed away.

Faramir’s eyes fluttered open, cloudy and weak but alive. A soft gasp escaped Rían as she clutched the edge of the bedframe, her relief mingling with disbelief.

Aragorn leaned back, his face weary but calm, his voice low as he addressed the healers. “The wound will mend, though he must rest for many days. Keep him warm and give him water often. The fever might return but it will pass.”

Boromir stepped forward then, his voice rough with gratitude and awe. “You have brought my brother back from the brink of death, Aragorn. I owe you more than I can ever repay.” His sharp blue eyes met Aragorn’s, and for the first time, they softened. He bowed his head low, a display of respect.  “The House of Stewards has stood watch over Gondor for long enough. You are our rightful king. Gondor is in your hands.”

Aragorn stood, his gaze steady but humble. “I would not have Gondor without its sons, Boromir. Faramir’s wisdom and your strength will be needed if the realm is to endure. I do only what I must.”

Boromir nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Then Gondor has hope at last.”

Rían, silent until now, stepped forward as the tension in the room shifted. Her face was pale, and though she stood tall, Aragorn saw the grief in her eyes. “Halbarad has fallen,” she said quietly, the words catching in her throat.

Aragorn’s expression faltered, and he closed the distance between them. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pulling her into his embrace,  his voice low and full of sorrow. “I am sorry, Rían. I know he was like family to you. And to me he was a steadfast companion and my kin. His loss will weigh  heavily upon us all.”

For a moment, she looked as though she might crumble, her composure faltering as tears welled in her eyes. But then she drew a sharp breath, her chin lifting as she steadied herself. “What is the plan now?” she asked, her voice firmer than she felt.

Aragorn regarded her for a long moment, his respect evident. “We must speak with Gandalf. There is much still to decide, though the weight of it will not fall on us alone.”

Rían nodded, stepping back as if the movement could shield her grief from the world. Boromir watched her closely, his expression unreadable but understanding.

“I will see to my brother,” Boromir said quietly, moving to stand by Faramir’s bedside as Aragorn and Rían turned to leave.

As they walked down the quiet corridors toward Gandalf’s chamber, the faint hum of life in the Houses of Healing followed them. Rían walked beside Aragorn, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her thoughts a tumult of sorrow and resolve.

“You carry much on your shoulders,” Aragorn said softly, glancing at her.

She met his gaze, her voice quiet but unyielding. “So do we all. And I will carry it as long as I must.”

The sharp scent of athelas lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood and the faint sweetness of herbs. Aragorn stopped suddenly and looked at her with concern evident in his gaze.

Rían leaned against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if to hold herself together. Her dark hair was disheveled, strands clinging to her dirt-smeared face, and though her posture appeared casual, Aragorn saw the stiffness in her shoulders, the tension in her frame. Her left sleeve was torn, a dark stain of blood seeping through the fabric.

“Rían,” Aragorn said softly, his voice breaking the heavy silence. She looked up, startled, her grey eyes meeting his. There was weariness there, but also something deeper—something raw and unspoken.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, her voice firm but brittle as she noticed where his gaze had fallen. She shifted her arm slightly, as though to shield the wound from view. “A scratch, nothing more.”

Aragorn’s expression did not waver, his keen gaze pinning her in place. “You’ve shed enough blood today, Rían,” he said gently but firmly. “Let me tend to it.”

She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, it seemed she might argue further, but then she sighed, her defiance crumbling under his steady regard. She nodded once, reluctantly, and moved to sit on a low bench by the wall.

Aragorn knelt beside her, carefully removing the torn sleeve of her tunic to reveal the gash beneath. The cut was deep, angry red around the edges, though the bleeding had mostly slowed. He worked in silence, his hands steady and sure as he cleaned the wound and threaded a needle with practiced ease.

Rían sat still, her jaw clenched tightly, her gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. Yet Aragorn could feel the tension radiating from her, the way her body seemed coiled, as if she were holding back an invisible weight. He finished stitching the wound and began to wrap it with a clean bandage, his movements deliberate and careful. But as he tied the final knot, he paused, glancing up at her.

“Rían,” he said softly, his voice full of quiet concern.

Her shoulders tensed further at the sound of her name, and then, as if something within her broke, she exhaled sharply—a sound that was half a sob, half a gasp. She covered her face with her hands, her body trembling as she tried to catch her breath. “I can’t—” she began, her voice choked with emotion. “I can’t do this.”

Aragorn shifted, moving to crouch directly in front of her. He reached out, taking her hands gently in his own and pulling them away from her face. “Rían,” he said again, his voice low and steady, grounding her. “Tell me what troubles you.”

She shook her head, her dark hair falling forward to partially obscure her face. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, and for a long moment, Aragorn thought she might not answer. But then, she raised her tear-filled eyes to meet his, and the words spilled forth in a rush.

“Losing Halbarad was like… like losing my father all over again,” she whispered, her voice cracking. Her hands tightened around Aragorn’s, as if clinging to an anchor in the storm of her grief. “He was always there, guiding me, reminding me who I was, even when I didn’t know myself. And now he’s gone.” She let out a shuddering breath, her tears falling freely. “And with Faramir lying there… wounded, so pale… I can’t—I can’t stop thinking that I might lose him too.”

Aragorn’s face softened with deep compassion. He had seen grief like this before, and he knew the hollow ache of losing those who were bound to one’s heart. “Rían,” he murmured, his voice as steady as the earth beneath them. “Faramir will recover. He is strong, as are you.”

Her gaze faltered, and she looked down at their joined hands. “But what if he doesn’t?” she said, her voice trembling. “If I lose him, Aragorn… I’ll lose myself. He’s become… he means more to me than I ever thought anyone could.” Her words came hesitantly, as though admitting them aloud made her too vulnerable, too exposed.

Aragorn reached up, placing one hand gently on her shoulder while the other remained wrapped around hers. “Rían,” he said softly, “you are not alone in this. You do not have to carry this weight by yourself. Faramir is alive, and he will fight to return to you, just as you fight for him. But you must allow yourself to grieve, to feel, so that you can heal.”

Her tears fell harder, her body trembling with the release of emotions she had buried for far too long. Aragorn moved closer, his hand sliding to the back of her head as he pulled her gently into his embrace. She resisted for only a moment before she gave in, her forehead resting against his shoulder, her hands clutching at the folds of his tunic.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered, her voice muffled against him. “I don’t know how to keep going anymore.”

Aragorn’s arms tightened around her, his chin resting lightly atop her head. “You do it one step at a time,” he said quietly. “And you lean on those who care for you. Halbarad may be gone, but the strength he gave you remains. He would not want you to falter now.”

Rían sobbed quietly, her tears soaking into his tunic, though Aragorn gave no sign of noticing—or caring. He simply held her, his steady presence a balm to the storm of her grief.

After a time, her sobs began to quiet, and she pulled back slightly, her cheeks flushed and her eyes red-rimmed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”

Aragorn shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “There is no shame in grieving, Rían,” he said gently. “It is not weakness, but strength to feel so deeply for those we love.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to her lap. Her hands still rested in his, and she found herself reluctant to let go, the warmth of his touch grounding her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice steadying. “For everything.”

Aragorn gave her hands a reassuring squeeze before releasing them and rising to his feet. “You are stronger than you think, Rían,” he said. “And you are not alone. Remember that.”

As he turned to leave, she watched him go, the weight on her heart feeling just a little lighter. She glanced toward Faramir’s room, a flicker of hope stirring within her. The grief was still there, sharp and aching, but Aragorn’s words had given her something to hold onto. One step at a time, she thought. And she would carry on. For Faramir, for Halbarad, and for herself.

***

The quiet of the Houses of Healing was heavy, broken only by the faint rustling of linen or the soft footfalls of the healers moving in shadowed corners. A single lamp burned low beside Faramir’s bed, its dim light casting a warm, flickering glow over his pale face. He lay still, but not peacefully; his brow furrowed as if troubled by dreams, his breathing shallow and uneven.

By his bedside sat Boromir and Rían, neither speaking. The silence between them was not uncomfortable—it was the silence of shared grief and unspoken fears. Boromir sat with his broad shoulders hunched, his elbows on his knees, staring at his brother’s face as though willing him to wake. His hand rested lightly on Faramir’s forearm, a gesture of steadfastness and care that required no words.

Rían sat near the foot of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the uneven rise and fall of Faramir’s chest. She had not meant to stay so long, but the stillness had wrapped itself around her like a shroud, pulling her deeper into memory.

She thought of her mother. Of the long nights spent by her bedside, the dim light of candles casting trembling shadows on the walls of their small home. Her mother’s coughing had been relentless, a harsh, wracking sound that tore at Rían’s heart with every fit. She had sat beside her, night after night, stroking her back, whispering soft reassurances even as her own voice trembled.

Rían had searched for healers far and wide, pleading with anyone who might help. But each had said the same: her mother lacked the will to fight. “She grows weary of the world,” one had told her. “We can make her comfortable, but the rest is beyond our skill.”

The memory of her mother’s final night rose unbidden. She had seemed almost peaceful, her breathing easier than it had been in weeks. Rían had lingered, reluctant to leave, but her mother had smiled faintly and urged her to rest.

“Rían,” her mother had said, her voice soft and filled with love, “I wish you had found a safer calling. But I am proud of you. So proud.”

Rían had struggled to reply, her throat tight with emotion. “Mother—”

“Promise me something,” her mother interrupted gently, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Promise me you will not walk this road alone. I hope you find someone who loves you as deeply as your father loved me. I hope you are not left to face the shadows without a hand to hold.”

Tears had burned in Rían’s eyes, but she had managed to smile. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Her mother’s hand had been cool but steady as it pressed against her cheek. “And I, you.”

Rían had left her mother sleeping, thinking there would be another morning, another chance to speak. But when the dawn came, her mother’s hand was cold, her breathing stilled forever.

The dirt on her mother’s grave had not yet settled when Rían had returned to her patrols. She had found Halbarad sharpening his sword by the campfire and told him simply, “I am ready.”

“You should give yourself time to grieve,” he had said, his voice low with concern.

“I have grieved enough,” she had replied, though the ache in her chest told her otherwise.

Now, sitting in the suffocating stillness of the Houses of Healing, that ache returned with a vengeance. The air felt too heavy, too close. She could no longer bear the flickering lamplight, the muted voices of the healers, or the sight of Faramir lying so still. Rising abruptly, she turned to leave.

Boromir’s voice stopped her. “Rían?”

She paused, her back to him. “Yes?”

“Are you… well?” he asked. His tone was gentle, but there was an edge of worry to it, and when she turned to face him, she saw the concern etched in his features.

The excuse was on her lips—a simple lie about needing fresh air or feeling weary—but something in his eyes stopped her. He was Faramir’s brother, and perhaps that connection, that shared bond, unraveled her resolve.

“No,” she said at last, her voice low and raw. “I am not.”

Boromir straightened, his expression softening. “Do you wish to speak of it?”

She shook her head quickly, feeling the prickle of unshed tears. “I… I need some air.”

He nodded, his gaze steady. “Take all the time you need. I will watch over him.”

Rían inclined her head in gratitude and slipped out into the cool night, her steps quick and purposeful, though her heart was anything but.

The cool night air wrapped itself around Rían as she stood just beyond the archway leading out of the Houses of Healing. The city stretched below her, its quiet streets bathed in the faint silver light of the moon. The spires and walls of Minas Tirith stood tall and proud against the night sky, but their grandeur did little to ease the turmoil within her. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, tracing cold paths against her flushed skin. She couldn’t even say for certain why they came—grief, regret, loneliness, despair, the image of Faramir, unconscious, yet plagued with nightmares—they all warred for dominance in her heart.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Promise me you will not walk this road alone. But here she was, alone amidst a city brimming with people, her heart aching with the weight of unfulfilled promises. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to push away the storm of emotions. She had wept far too much in recent days—first for Halbarad, now for Faramir. And yet the tears came, unstoppable.

The soft scuff of boots on stone reached her ears, pulling her from her thoughts. Hastily, she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself. She turned slightly, her gaze wary but curious. It was Boromir, his broad frame silhouetted against the golden light spilling from the doorway. He hesitated as if uncertain whether to approach.

“Rían,” he said softly, his voice carrying the warmth of both concern and awkwardness. “Do you… wish to speak about it?”

The uncertainty in his tone almost made her smile. Boromir, the stalwart Captain of Gondor, seemed entirely out of his depth when faced with tears. She shook her head faintly, her lips curving into a faint, weary smile. “There isn’t much to say. It’s an old tale,” she murmured. “Just a story of loss, of my family long gone.”

Boromir stepped closer, his face shadowed but his expression open, earnest. “Loss is no small thing,” he said gently. “And grief, though an old companion, is never easier for its familiarity.”

Rían tilted her head, her eyes drifting to the stone beneath her feet. “I lost a man who was like a father to me, just days ago,” she said, her voice low. “He fell in battle at the Pelennor.” Her gaze shifted to the horizon, her words trailing off into the stillness of the night.

Boromir’s jaw tightened. “I understand,” he said quietly. “Faramir is all I have left now.” His gaze flickered back to the shadowed windows of the Houses of Healing, his eyes distant. “I will not let him slip away.”

The fervor in his voice struck a chord in Rían. She studied him for a moment before speaking again. “My mother was ill for a long time before she passed,” she began, her voice tinged with sadness. “She lost the will to live long before her body failed her. I cared for her as best I could, but there was nothing to be done. No healer could save her.”

Boromir looked at her intently, his arms folded as if bracing himself against the weight of her words.

“She had one wish for me before she passed,” Rían continued, her voice faltering slightly. “And I… I did not fulfill it. And now…” She trailed off, her throat tightening. “Now, I wonder if it’s too late.”

Boromir frowned, his expression softening with sympathy. “It is not too late,” he said firmly. “We will make our last stand. And we will survive this war. Afterward, you will do whatever it is she asked of you.”

Rían turned to him, a faint, disbelieving laugh escaping her. “You speak as if you know me so well.”

Boromir’s lips curved into a small smile. “I do not know you well,” he admitted. “But I have seen enough to know you are not one to give up easily. If anyone has the strength to fulfill a promise, it is you.”

Her laughter came again, lighter this time, though tinged with incredulity. “I hope you are right,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of warmth. “And thank you.”

Boromir inclined his head, his expression earnest. “You will see it done, Rían. Of that, I have no doubt.”

For a moment, silence fell between them, but it was not heavy. It carried with it a faint hope, a fragile bond born of shared grief and resolve. The stars above seemed to gleam a little brighter, as if offering their quiet blessing.

Boromir’s gaze lingered on Rían, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. He leaned against the battlement, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his posture one of easy camaraderie. Yet his voice, when he spoke, held an edge of mischief. “Tell me, Rían, is our future king always so pensive and brooding? Or is this some special mood reserved for the grand halls of Minas Tirith?”

Rían couldn’t help but laugh, the sound soft but genuine. She leaned her elbows on the cool stone of the parapet, her grey eyes reflecting the faint glow of the stars above. “I’ll admit, he does seem to carry the weight of the world more often than not,” she replied, a smile tugging at her lips. “But can you blame him? He has rather a lot on his plate right now—armies to command, kingdoms to unite, enemies to defeat.”

Boromir’s brow arched, his smile deepening. “I suppose I cannot argue with that,” he said. “Though it does make me wonder—does he ever smile? Or is he forever the grave and stoic chieftain?”

Rían tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “Oh, he smiles,” she said lightly. “Though I will warn you, his sense of humor can be… peculiar.”

Boromir chuckled at that, his curiosity clearly piqued. “Peculiar, you say? You can’t just leave me with that, Rían. What has the great Aragorn done to earn such a description?”

Rían hesitated for a moment, then laughed softly, shaking her head. “You must promise me something first, Boromir.”

He leaned in slightly, intrigued. “And what might that be?”

“Never, ever let him know I told you this,” she said, her tone mock-serious, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

Boromir grinned, holding up a hand as if swearing an oath. “You have my word.”

Rían took a breath, her expression turning thoughtful as she cast her mind back to years long past. “The first time I actually met Aragorn,” she began, “I was already of age. He had been South for some time and only just returned to the North. I had, of course, heard of him—a great leader, a master of lore and the sword, the Dúnedain’s chieftain.” Her lips quirked wryly. “What I did not expect was how… human he could be.”

Boromir’s curiosity sharpened, his gaze fixed on her. “Go on,” he urged.

Rían smirked slightly, her eyes glinting with humor. “There was this ranger who had been injured horribly in a skirmish. His leg was mangled, beyond saving. The healer, grim as death, announced that the leg would have to be amputated.” She paused, her voice growing wry. “And in a moment of sheer idiocy, I volunteered to help. I thought to myself, ‘How hard can it be?’ I would just hold the leg steady. Simple, right?”

Boromir chuckled, already sensing where the story was going. “I take it that was not the case?”

Rían groaned softly, rubbing a hand over her face at the memory. “Not even close. It was… awful. The man was screaming, the blood—Valar, the blood—and the sound of the saw…” She shuddered slightly. “I barely made it through without fainting. And when it was over, I stumbled out of that house, pale as a ghost, and promptly emptied my stomach onto the ground.”

Boromir’s laughter burst forth, rich and genuine, but Rían held up a hand, her smile widening. “Wait, it gets better,” she said. “As I’m standing there, doubled over and mortified beyond belief, I hear someone chuckling.”

“Aragorn?” Boromir guessed, his grin widening.

Rían nodded, her own laughter bubbling up. “I turn around, and there he is—leaning casually against the wall, smoking his pipe like he hasn’t a care in the world, looking entirely too amused. I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. I had just made an utter fool of myself in front of our leader.”

“And what did he do?” Boromir asked, clearly enjoying the tale.

“Well, instead of chastising me or, worse, pretending not to notice, Aragorn took a long draw from his pipe, looked at me with that wry expression of his, and said, ‘The first time I saw a surgery like that, I was no better. Puked my guts out behind a tree.’”

Boromir laughed harder, his deep, rich chuckle echoing in the stillness of the camp. “He truly said that?”

“He did,” Rían replied, her grin widening. “I couldn’t believe it at first. Here was this almost legendary figure admitting something so… human. But he didn’t stop there. He took another puff of his pipe and added, ‘Though I found something that helps.’ Naturally, I asked him what that might be.”

“And?” Boromir prompted, his curiosity clearly piqued.

Rían leaned in slightly, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “He just raised an eyebrow, gave me that sly little smile of his, and said, ‘Booze.’”

Boromir threw his head back with laughter, his amusement ringing clear into the night air. “Booze! That’s his grand solution to the horrors of field surgery? The heir to the throne of Gondor himself recommends getting drunk?”

Rían laughed along with him, shaking her head. “He went on to explain, of course. He said it didn’t make the sight or the sounds any better, but it dulled the edge of the shock enough to keep the bile down. And the way he said it—with such a deadpan expression—I couldn’t help but laugh, even then. He managed to make what felt like one of the worsts moments of my life into something bearable.”

Boromir wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “That is a tale worth remembering. And here I thought our future king was nothing but stoic wisdom and solemnity.”

“Oh, don’t be fooled,” Rían said, her tone light but fond. “He has his moments of levity—though they’re rare enough. Still, I suppose it’s a good reminder that even Aragorn isn’t invincible.”

Boromir nodded, his laughter subsiding into a warm smile. “You’ve painted a very different picture of him than I imagined. A man like that—one who can admit his flaws and laugh at himself—is a man worth following.”

Rían’s expression softened, her gaze drifting toward the stars. “He is,” she said quietly. “He carries the weight of the world, but he never forgets the value of those who stand with him. That’s what makes him the leader he is.”

Boromir regarded her with a thoughtful look, a smile still lingering on his lips. “You’re fortunate to have known him so long,” he said. “And Gondor is fortunate to have him now.”

Rían’s eyes flicked back to Boromir, and she smiled faintly. “And we are fortunate to have you, Boromir,” she said sincerely. “Gondor’s strength rests not only on its future king but on those who fight for her every day.”

Boromir inclined his head, a hint of pride in his gaze. “Well said, Rían,” he replied warmly. “Well said.”

***

The day was somber in Minas Tirith, the sky overcast as if mourning the loss of one of its own. The city was still, its usual bustle stilled by grief, and its people gathered in quiet reverence. The great hall of the Houses of the Dead stood before them, its doors open wide, a silent invitation to those who had come to pay their respects. Inside, flickering torchlight cast long shadows against the stone walls, the air thick with the scent of incense and the sound of whispered prayers.

Rían stood near the front, her dark cloak pulled tightly around her as she waited beside Halbarad’s bier. His body, draped in a simple cloak, lay still as the rangers of the north stood in solemn formation behind him, their faces etched with grief. She had known Halbarad for many years, a steadfast friend, a mentor, and in many ways, the closest thing to a father she had known since the death of her own. His loss felt as a stone lodged in her chest, heavy and unyielding.

As the ceremony began, Rían could hardly take her eyes off him. The pallor of his face, the once vibrant strength gone from his frame—it was a sight she would never get used to. Aragorn, standing beside her with a quiet dignity, placed a hand on her shoulder. His presence was a comforting constant, though it did little to ease the ache she carried inside.

One by one, the rangers filed past, each offering a quiet farewell to their fallen comrade. When Rían’s turn came, she moved toward the bier with slow, deliberate steps. The coldness of Halbarad’s skin beneath her fingers was a bitter reminder of his absence, yet she pressed her palm to his forehead, her heart tightening as if trying to hold him in her grasp just a moment longer.

Her lips parted, her voice soft, barely a whisper, but the words felt like they held the weight of a promise. “You can rest easy now, Halbarad,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “I will not throw my life away, I swear it.” Her breath hitched as she kissed his brow, lingering for a moment, before stepping back.

Aragorn watched her, his eyes filled with sympathy and understanding. When she stepped away, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle. “I am sorry for your loss, Rían,” he said quietly, his voice thick with sorrow.

She nodded, her throat tight as she tried to blink away the tears threatening to fall. She had been strong for so long, but the weight of Halbarad’s death was proving too much for her to carry alone. “Halbarad was not just my friend, Aragorn,” she replied, her voice soft but steady. “He was kin to you as well.”

Aragorn’s gaze softened. “Indeed,” he said. “I will miss him dearly.” He paused, his eyes distant for a moment as he looked at the bier. “But it was you he considered almost like a daughter.”

Rían felt a sharp pang in her chest, the words striking her harder than she had anticipated. She swallowed, her breath faltering as she took a step back from Halbarad’s bier, her eyes briefly catching Aragorn’s. His words had cut through her like a blade, though she couldn’t tell whether it was the grief in them or the unexpected weight of his truth. She had always known the bond Halbarad and she shared was deep, but hearing Aragorn speak so plainly of it left her unsteady, unsure of how to feel.

For a long moment, she said nothing, her gaze fixed on the bier, the rangers around her, the flickering torchlight dancing on the stone. Finally, she nodded, though her heart felt heavier than it had before. “He was a father to me,” she whispered. “He always believed in me, even when I couldn’t believe in myself.” Her voice caught in her throat, but she held her composure, swallowing back the grief. “He was a good man.”

Aragorn said nothing, but his hand tightened on her shoulder for a brief moment before he stepped back, giving her space. Rían took one last look at Halbarad, a silent prayer in her heart for the man who had been like family, and then slowly turned away.

As the funeral continued and the rangers gathered to see their fallen comrade to his final resting place, Rían’s thoughts turned inward. She had promised him she would not throw her life away, but she was beginning to wonder if she had the strength to keep such a vow. The weight of the coming days pressed upon her—what would she do now? How could she move forward without the steady presence of the one man who had always been there, guiding her through her darkest moments?

And yet, as she walked alongside Aragorn, her mind and heart heavy with loss, she knew one thing for certain: Halbarad’s legacy would not be forgotten. His memory would live on in her actions, in the choices she made, and in the promises she kept.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall of Minas Tirith was bathed in the warm glow of torches and candles, their light flickering against the carved stone walls. The banners of Gondor hung solemnly from the high arches, but the mood in the room was far from triumphant. Shadows seemed to linger in every corner, as if the weight of the coming storm pressed down upon them all.

At the center of the hall, Gandalf paced, his white robes flowing like a restless tide. His expression was grave, his eyes distant as though searching for some unseen horizon. The others stood in a loose circle around him: Aragorn, his features calm but determined; Legolas, silent and watchful; Gimli, his brow furrowed in frustration; Éomer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword; Boromir, his arms crossed, his gaze intense; and Rían, who leaned slightly against a pillar, her face shadowed but her eyes sharp and attentive.

“Frodo has passed beyond my sight,” Gandalf said at last, his voice heavy with regret. He paused mid-step, his staff tapping lightly against the stone floor. “The darkness is deepening.”

Aragorn took a step forward, his gaze steady as it rested on the wizard. “If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it,” he said, his tone firm but laced with a quiet urgency.

Gandalf turned his piercing eyes to Aragorn. “It is only a matter of time,” he replied. “He has suffered a defeat, yes, but behind the walls of Mordor, our enemy is regrouping. He will strike again, and harder.”

Gimli let out a low growl, his gloved hand tightening around the stem of his pipe. “Let him stay there, then,” he said gruffly. “Let him rot behind those walls! Why should we care what the devil does in his own land?”

Gandalf’s expression darkened, his voice sharp as he countered, “Because ten thousand Orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom.”

A heavy silence fell over the group. Gimli shifted uncomfortably, glancing away as Gandalf’s words settled over him.

Rían, standing with her arms crossed, broke the quiet. Her voice was low but steady, carrying the weight of shared concern. “You truly believe Frodo cannot make it through without aid?” she asked. “That the Ring-bearer is doomed if we do nothing?”

Gandalf met her gaze, and there was a flicker of sorrow in his eyes. “I sent him to his death,” he admitted, his voice trembling slightly.

“No.” Aragorn’s voice rang out, quiet but unyielding. He stepped closer to Gandalf, his face filled with a calm yet unshakable resolve. “There is still hope for Frodo. He needs time and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that.”

Gimli looked up sharply, his expression incredulous. “How?” he demanded.

Aragorn turned, his gaze sweeping over the group, his voice steady as he said, “We draw out Sauron’s armies. Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate.”

Gimli choked on his pipe, coughing loudly, and Rían raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. Boromir, who had remained silent until now, spoke up, his voice carrying a note of challenge. “You would send us to fight an army that cannot be beaten,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “This is no ordinary gamble, Aragorn. It’s madness.”

“It is madness,” Éomer agreed, his tone grim. “We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms.”

Aragorn turned to face them, his expression calm but resolute. “Not for ourselves,” he said. “But we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron’s eye fixed upon us. Keep him blind to all else that moves.”

Legolas, who had been silent, nodded slowly. “A diversion,” he said thoughtfully, his sharp features unreadable.

“A certainty of death, a small chance of success,” Gimli muttered, shaking his head. “What are we waiting for?”

Gandalf tilted his head, his expression thoughtful but wary. “Sauron will suspect a trap,” he said. “He will not take the bait lightly.”

“Oh, I think he will.” Aragorn’s voice was quiet but firm, a faint glimmer of confidence in his grey eyes.

Boromir frowned, his arms still crossed as he studied Aragorn. “If we are to do this, it must be more than just bold words,” he said. “A strategy, a way to survive long enough to hold his attention—that is what we need.”

Rían’s gaze flickered between Boromir and Aragorn before she spoke, her voice sharp but tinged with dry humor. “If we’re marching to certain death, I’d at least like to know we’ve got more than good intentions and grand speeches to guide us.”

Aragorn allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “We have more than that,” he assured her. “We have each other.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “A fine sentiment, Aragorn,” he said, though there was no malice in his tone. “But fine sentiments alone will not see us through the Black Gate.”

“They won’t,” Aragorn admitted. “But Frodo will.”

A silence fell again, heavy with the weight of the decision that loomed before them. At last, Gandalf stepped forward, leaning heavily on his staff. “Then it is decided,” he said, his voice low but certain. “We march to the Black Gate.”

The group exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of determination and unease. Boromir’s gaze lingered on Rían, who nodded slightly, her face set with grim resolve. Together, they turned to face the east, the shadow of Mordor heavy on the horizon.

***

The dim light of the Great Hall seemed to soften the edges of the world, casting long shadows on the stone walls and giving the place an almost ethereal air. The sounds of soft footsteps and murmurs of voices filled the halls, but for a moment, Rían felt isolated, as though the weight of her grief was all she could hear. She had seen Faramir earlier, his condition improving after the battle of Pelennor Fields, and the sight of him in the healing beds had stirred something in her heart—a deep, undeniable pull that she could not fully understand.

The cool air of the evening wrapped around them as Aragorn and Rían stepped out of the confines of the Great Hall. The stars above Minas Tirith glimmered faintly, their light muted by the haze of lingering smoke from the battle. Rían walked beside Aragorn, her steps slow and heavy, as though the weight of her grief pressed down on every movement.

Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her knuckles white against the dark fabric of her cloak. She had never been good at showing vulnerability; the walls she had built around her heart were strong, but Halbarad’s death had shattered them in ways she hadn’t anticipated. The grief was raw, unrelenting, and she could no longer contain it.

“Aragorn,” she began softly, her voice breaking the silence between them. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to meet his. “I feel… strange. It’s as if a part of me has been torn away, and I don’t know how to carry on.”

Aragorn turned his head toward her, his grey eyes filled with quiet understanding. He walked with the steady grace of a man accustomed to carrying burdens, his presence a calming force amidst her storm. “Grief is a heavy burden, Rían,” he said, his voice low and steady, yet carrying a warmth that softened its gravity. “It is not something to be conquered or silenced. It must be borne, in its own time and in its own way. And though it feels endless now, it will ease—slowly, but surely. You must allow yourself to feel it.”

Rían swallowed hard, her throat tightening against the emotion that threatened to rise. Her eyes were fixed on the cobblestone path ahead, though her mind was far away—on Halbarad’s laughter, his stern but kind words, the way he had always been there to guide her when she felt lost. “Losing him…” she whispered, her voice faltering as a tear slipped unbidden down her cheek. “It’s like losing the last person who saw me as family. He was always there, always…” Her voice broke, and she pressed her lips together, willing herself to regain composure. “I don’t know where to go from here.”

Aragorn stopped walking, turning to face her fully. His gaze was steady and kind, the faint lines of weariness on his face betraying the toll of the days behind them. “Rían,” he said gently, “you have many people who care for you. You are not alone.”

She looked up at him sharply, her brow furrowing in surprise, though her voice carried a defensive edge. “I… I’ve always been used to being alone,” she admitted, her words tinged with a bittersweetness that she could not mask. But her voice softened as she continued, “Halbarad was the one who always seemed to care the most, and now… now he’s gone. It feels like I’ve lost everything.”

Aragorn’s expression darkened slightly, not with judgment, but with the deep understanding of a man who had borne similar losses. “Grief can blind us to what remains,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “I know it feels as though everything has been taken, but it has not. Halbarad’s love for you remains, even now. And so does the care of those who are still with you.”

His eyes softened, and after a pause, he added with quiet meaning, “Faramir, for one, cares for you deeply.”

Rían stiffened slightly at the mention of Faramir’s name, her heart skipping a beat. She had not expected Aragorn to bring him up, and the weight of those words—spoken so simply yet so knowingly—struck her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. A faint warmth crept into her cheeks, and she quickly turned her gaze away, trying to collect herself. “Faramir is a good man,” she said at last, her voice quieter now, though there was an edge of uncertainty in it.

Aragorn smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth softening with a mix of understanding and affection. He did not press her further, knowing well that the connection between Rían and Faramir was one she needed to navigate on her own. Instead, he stepped closer, resting a hand gently on her shoulder.

“You’ve always been strong, Rían,” he said, his voice carrying the steady assurance of a friend who had long seen her strength. “But strength does not mean standing alone. Your path is your own to walk, but you are never truly alone in it. Even when the shadows press in and the road seems too difficult to bear, there are those who will walk with you. That, I think, is something Halbarad would have wanted you to remember.”

His words broke something within her. A soft, shuddering breath escaped her lips, and without thinking, she reached out, gripping the sleeve of his tunic as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. Aragorn hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, pulling her into an embrace.

Rían stiffened briefly, unaccustomed to such vulnerability, but the warmth of his arms and the quiet strength in his embrace undid her completely. Her head rested against his chest, the fine embroidery of the tunic soft beneath her cheek. A few tears slipped free, soaking into the fabric. She thought briefly that she has been crying on his shoulder too often nowadays, but he didn’t seem to mind.  

“You’re not alone,” Aragorn murmured, his chin resting lightly on the top of her head. “Not now, not ever.”

For a moment, she allowed herself to let go, her hands clutching at the folds of his cloak as the weight of her grief poured forth in quiet sobs. It was not the kind of sorrow that could be healed in a single moment, but in Aragorn’s embrace, she felt a flicker of solace—a faint but steady light in the darkness.

As her tears subsided, she drew back slightly, her cheeks flushed with emotion and embarrassment. Aragorn smiled down at her, his expression filled with quiet understanding.

Rían blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sudden haze of warmth that had clouded her mind. Her thoughts were still swirling around Faramir—his quiet care for her, the way he had looked at her, the way his words seemed to carry weight she had not fully understood. She nodded silently, grateful for Aragorn’s wisdom, though her heart felt too full to speak. She wished she could find the clarity to understand these feelings that had begun to stir in her, but for now, she simply couldn’t.

They continued walking in silence, the only sounds the distant murmur of voices in the corridors. Aragorn gave her a sidelong glance, his smile gentle, but he said nothing further on the matter, giving her space to come to her own conclusions in time. Rían, though her thoughts were a whirlwind, appreciated that. She could not have said it then, but she was glad for the way Aragorn understood her in a way few did.

It was strange, though, the way Faramir’s name lingered in her mind. She could feel the weight of it, heavy in the air between them, as though it held secrets she wasn’t yet ready to uncover. And in the silence that followed, Rían felt as if the world had shifted slightly, and she was caught somewhere between the past and the future, between the sorrow of loss and the possibility of something new.

She just wasn’t sure what it was yet.

***

The room was dim, casting long shadows against the stone walls of the Houses of Healing. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs and the quiet murmur of distant voices, but Rían’s world had narrowed to the man lying before her.

Faramir’s breathing was shallow, his face pale, and his brow damp with fever. His eyes, though half-lidded and unfocused, flickered beneath their lids, as though trapped in a restless dream. Her heart ached at the sight, the weight of the moment pressing down on her chest, but she refused to look away. She had promised to stay.

The sound of distant footsteps echoed softly through the stone corridors of Minas Tirith, but within the quiet confines of the chamber, Rían remained unmoving, her gaze fixed on Faramir’s pale face. The flickering light from the lone candle on the table beside his bed cast long shadows across the room, the muted glow bathing them in a warm, golden hue. She had been there since the healer’s last visit, keeping a silent vigil by his side, her heart heavy with concern. Each shallow breath he took felt like a fragile tether, and she found herself willing him to hold on, to stay with her.

The rhythmic beat of Boromir’s footsteps in the hall was familiar as he paced back and forth, a steady cadence that spoke of his ever-present strength. Part of her longed to seek him out, to let him know how his brother fared, but even as the thought crossed her mind, Faramir stirred. His hand—though weak and trembling—reached out and grasped hers. The warmth of his fingers against her skin was faint, but the desperate need in his touch was undeniable.

“Rían…” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but it sent a jolt through her, her pulse quickening in response. She leaned in closer, her grey eyes searching his face, noting the fine sheen of sweat on his brow and the way his lashes fluttered weakly against his pale cheeks.

“Faramir,” she said softly, her voice trembling with concern and something deeper, something she had not dared to name. “Do you need me to find Boromir? He’ll be here soon, I’m sure.”

But Faramir shook his head weakly, his fingers tightening around hers as if fearing she might slip away. “No… stay. Please, stay.”

His words were a plea, soft yet filled with desperation, and something in his voice made Rían’s heart ache even more. She nodded silently, her fingers curling around his in a gentle but firm hold. Settling herself beside him once more, she reached out with her free hand, gently brushing the damp strands of hair from his forehead. The simple act felt intimate, tender in a way that caught her off guard. How right it felt to touch him like this, to offer comfort with such simple gestures, and yet, it was a closeness she could only allow herself when he was fevered and half-conscious.

Minutes passed in a slow, agonizing crawl, the silence punctuated only by the uneven rhythm of Faramir’s breathing. His restlessness grew, his body twitching and shifting beneath the weight of the fever. His face contorted in pain, his lips parting as though to speak, though no coherent words came forth. Rían’s fingers trembled as she held his hand, her heart pounding with helplessness.

“Faramir,” she whispered again, her voice gentle, almost as though speaking to a child lost in a nightmare. She squeezed his hand softly, hoping to anchor him, but his agitation only deepened.

“Father… no… don’t…” His words were broken, incoherent, filled with the haunting echoes of past wounds. His face twisted with the anguish of those memories—his father’s harsh words, the relentless battles, the weight of his unfulfilled longing for approval.

Rían felt a pang of helplessness, her own heart heavy with the burden of his pain. She wished she could just take it all away, free him of his pain even if it meant she’d have to carry it on her shoulders. Slowly, an idea came to her, fragile but worth trying. She began to hum, her voice soft and slow, the melody rising and falling like the gentle sway of leaves in the wind. It was a song her father had sung to her mother on quiet evenings—a song of light in the darkness, of hope amidst sorrow.

“I would shun the light, share in evening’s cool and quiet…” she murmured, the words trembling on her lips as she forced herself to keep her voice steady. Each note was an offering, each word seeking to soothe his troubled mind.

Faramir’s eyes fluttered beneath his fevered brow, his body still tense but responding to the soothing cadence of her voice. Rían’s hand moved gently, her fingers caressing his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead in a gesture so tender it made her heart ache. She didn’t know if he could truly hear her, if the fevered haze was too thick, but in this moment, it was all she could offer.

“Who would trade that hum of night… for sunlight, sunlight…” she continued, her voice steady and low, imbued with a quiet affection she could no longer deny.

Gradually, Faramir’s movements slowed. His breathing, once shallow and strained, began to even out, each exhale less labored. His face softened, the lines of tension easing, though the pallor of illness still clung to him. His hand, which had clutched hers with such desperation, relaxed, his fingers entwining gently with hers. Rían’s heart swelled with a mixture of relief and a tenderness so profound it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft hum of her voice and the steady rhythm of Faramir’s breathing. She stayed with him, her presence a quiet sentinel against the storm of his fever. As she watched him, her fingers still tracing soothing patterns against his temple, she marveled at how natural it felt to be here, to care for him with such quiet intimacy.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Faramir’s eyes slowly opened. The fever still lingered in the depths of his gaze, but the wildness had abated, replaced by a fragile clarity. He blinked up at her, his expression one of confusion and tentative recognition.

“Rían?” he whispered, his voice still weak but carrying a note of wonder. “You… you stayed?”

A soft smile crossed her lips, despite the worry that still tugged at her heart. “I promised,” she said, her voice a gentle whisper, laced with unwavering resolve. “I’m here, Faramir. I’m not going anywhere.”

He blinked again, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to reconcile the dream with the reality before him. Then, ever so faintly, a trace of a smile touched his lips. “I’m glad… you’re here,” he murmured, his eyes fluttering closed once more, though his hand remained in hers, the connection between them unbroken.

As the room fell into a quiet stillness, Rían sat by his side, her heart full of emotions she could not yet name. The weight of the world seemed to lift, if only for a little while, as she kept her silent vigil, her hand firmly clasped in Faramir’s, her presence a beacon of light in his darkest hour.

For a long time, Rían stayed by his side, her hand resting in his, her heart full of both relief and tenderness. She continued humming, one song after another, some joyful, some full of sorrow, some speaking of love and some of hope, the melodies her quiet promise to him.

***

As the sunlight faded over Minas Tirith, the city buzzed with preparations for the final stand. The streets were filled with soldiers, their armor gleaming in the dimming light, while horses were being saddled and weapons sharpened. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the coming battle settling heavily on every soul within the walls.

Rían stood beside Boromir, her eyes scanning the horizon to the east, where dark clouds swirled above the land of Mordor. The time had come, and the choices made had led them to this point. Boromir’s gaze was solemn, his expression as steadfast as ever.

“So Aragorn plans to march to the Black Gate,” Boromir said, his voice quiet but firm. “He intends to draw Sauron’s forces out, to give Frodo the time he needs to destroy the Ring.”

Rían nodded, her face resolute. “He does and I will fight beside him,” she declared, her voice unwavering. “As I always have. It is the only way.”

Boromir hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking over her, as though weighing her resolve. “I will go with you,” he said after a pause. “We need to stand together. And Minas Tirith needs to be defended. We cannot let the city fall, not while there is a chance to win.”

There was a brief moment of understanding between them—two warriors who had been through so much, and now stood on the brink of the final battle, their fates intertwined. Boromir’s concern for his brother, Faramir, was evident, but his loyalty to Gondor and the need to ensure the city’s safety came first. Rían felt that same duty, but her heart knew that the fight ahead was far from simple. The survival of Middle-earth itself rested upon this moment.

“I understand,” Rían said quietly, her voice a steady blend of steel and tenderness. Her grey  eyes flicked toward Boromir, the faintest trace of a smile gracing her lips. “We fight together, then.”

Boromir’s stern expression softened, and he gave her a small, tight smile. For a man so often burdened with the weight of his responsibilities, it was rare to see his features eased by anything but determination. “Together,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “And when the day is won, we will stand beside Aragorn as he claims the throne that is his by right.”

Rían held his gaze for a moment, her chest swelling with pride at the unity between them. Though their paths had been so different, they now converged on this singular purpose. “It will be an honor,” she replied, her voice steady, though her fingers brushed unconsciously at the hilt of her sword, a habit borne of tension.

Boromir inclined his head slightly, his lips pressing into a firm line. “The honor is mine,” he said, his tone softening. “To fight alongside those who do not falter, even in the face of despair.”

Before either could say more, the sound of measured footsteps drew their attention. Aragorn approached, his bearing regal yet weighted, as if the very air around him carried the gravity of what lay ahead. His grey eyes, keen and deep as the sea, shifted between Boromir and Rían, the faintest flicker of warmth passing over his features before the weight of the moment returned.

“You are prepared?” Aragorn asked, his voice calm yet edged with a sorrow that lingered beneath. His gaze lingered on Rían, then Boromir, as if seeking reassurance in their strength.

Rían straightened, lifting her chin slightly. “I am ready,” she said, her tone firm, though a faint tremor belied the immense weight pressing on her heart. “We will stand together, as we always have.”

Boromir nodded, stepping closer to Aragorn. “And I will fight beside you,” he said, his voice carrying the solemnity of an oath. “For Gondor, for Middle-earth—and for Faramir.”

At the mention of his brother, a brief shadow crossed Boromir’s face, though he quickly masked it with the resolute composure of a soldier. Aragorn’s eyes softened at the words, his hand coming to rest briefly on Boromir’s shoulder, a gesture of shared understanding.

“For Faramir,” Aragorn echoed quietly, his voice carrying the weight of their unspoken fears. He straightened, his expression hardening into resolve. “Then we ride together. Whatever may come, we will give everything.”

Rían glanced between the two men, the firelight from a nearby torch flickering across their faces. She saw in them both the steadfast strength that had carried Gondor through its darkest days. Her fingers tightened once more on her sword’s hilt, and she felt the faintest flicker of hope rise in her chest.

“Then let us ride,” she said, her voice firm but laced with a quiet determination. “The fate of Middle-earth will not be decided by fear, but by what we choose to do in its shadow.”

Aragorn nodded, his gaze briefly meeting hers, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips before he turned toward the waiting host. Boromir lingered a moment longer, his eyes meeting Rían’s with a faint glint of admiration.

“Stay steady, Rían,” he said softly, a rare gentleness in his voice. “We’ll see this through.”

She offered him a faint, wry smile. “Steady as the northern winds,” she said lightly, though her eyes carried the weight of her promise.

As the sun sank behind the hills, casting the land in deepening shadows, the time to depart drew near. The call to ride to battle weighed heavily upon Rían’s heart, but before she could take her place among the rangers, she made her way through the quiet halls of the Houses of Healing. The air inside was heavy with the mingled scents of herbs and faintly burning oil, a place caught between life and death. She stepped softly, her boots barely whispering against the stone floors, until she reached the chamber where Faramir rested.

The healer’s assurances that he was stable did little to ease her heart. Fever still clung to him like a shadow, and as she stepped closer, her breath caught at the sight of him. He lay motionless, his face pale and drawn, a stark contrast to the strength she had always seen in him. He was so still, save for the faint rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his breathing steady but fragile, like the delicate rhythm of a bird’s wings.

Her knees touched the cold stone floor as she knelt beside him, the weight of her sorrow pressing down on her shoulders. She reached out with trembling fingers, brushing aside the damp strands of his dark blonde hair that clung to his fevered brow. His skin was warm beneath her touch, almost too warm, and her heart clenched at the thought of the battle raging within him, unseen but no less fierce than the one she was about to face.

“Faramir,” she whispered, his name a prayer on her lips. Her voice wavered, betraying the strength she tried to summon. He did not stir, his features softened in restless sleep, and yet she leaned closer, her heart aching as she studied his face. Here lay the man who had shown her gentleness in a world that so often knew only cruelty, the one who had stood beside her with quiet strength when her own faltered.

She bent down, her lips brushing his brow in a kiss so tender it felt almost sacred. His skin was warm and damp beneath her lips, the faint taste of salt lingering there—a reminder of the fever that gripped him. The intimacy of the moment stole her breath, her heart tightening as if she had spoken aloud words she could not yet bring herself to say. She lingered for a heartbeat longer, her eyes closing as she let herself feel the depth of her care for him, unguarded and unhidden, if only for this fleeting moment.

“I will return,” she murmured against his skin, her voice low and fervent, carrying the weight of a promise she could not bear to break. “I swear it, Faramir. I will come back to you.”

Her fingers lightly trailed along his temple as she straightened, reluctant to pull away. The thought of leaving him here, vulnerable and fevered, filled her with a grief that threatened to undo her resolve. He was the embodiment of so much that was good and pure in her life, and the sight of him now—so weakened, so far from his usual quiet strength—left her feeling hollow.

For a long moment, she sat there, her hand resting gently on his, as though the connection between them might anchor her against the storm of fear and uncertainty. Her mind whispered that this might be the last time she saw him, that war was an unforgiving mistress who spared none, but she pushed the thought aside with a fierceness born of desperation.

Finally, summoning all the strength she had left, Rían rose to her feet. She hesitated at the doorway, casting one last lingering look over her shoulder. The image of him lying there, pale and fragile, would remain etched in her mind, a reminder of what she was fighting for. She turned away, her steps heavy as she left the room, her heart clinging to the hope that she would see him awake and smiling again.

Turning slowly, she left the room, her heart heavy but determined. When she stepped back into the courtyard, Boromir was already mounted, waiting. He nodded to her as she approached.

“We ride, then,” he said, a glimmer of something softer in his eyes. It was the same look he had given her after the battle of Pelennor fields, but now it was different, as if the days ahead were too uncertain for words.

Rían nodded, her heart a whirlwind of emotions, but she did not allow them to surface. There was no time for doubts, no time for fears. She had made her choice, and it was a choice that bound her to this fight.

***

The company rode through the idyllic landscape, a stark contrast with the grim shadow of Mordor looming ever closer on the horizon. The sky above was dull and grey, as if even the heavens mourned the task that lay ahead. Rían’s steed moved at a steady pace, her posture straight and composed, though her face betrayed little of the turmoil within. The rangers, ever loyal, rode near her, their silent presence a source of quiet solidarity. Beside her rode Calen, his sharp gaze scanning the  plains ahead. His dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, framed a gruff but friendly face that bore the marks of a life lived in the wild.

After a moment of silence, Calen glanced at her, his lips curling into a faint grin. “You know, Rían,” he began, his tone laced with humor, “you look every part the leader now—cloak flowing behind you, the sharp-eyed captain surveying her company. Very impressive.”

Rían turned her head slightly to look at him, one eyebrow arching in mild skepticism. “Is that so?” she said dryly.

“It is,” Calen insisted, his grin widening. “But, if I might offer some advice, you could stop being so grim about it. You’re starting to look like Aragorn when he’s brooding, and one of him is enough for any company.”

Rían huffed a quiet laugh through her nose but shook her head. “I think Aragorn will lead us well enough now that he’s here. And as for my mood - I don’t have much reason to smile, now do I?” Her tone was calm, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of the weight she carried.

Calen sighed, his expression softening as he glanced ahead. “Aye, I get how you’re feeling,” he said, his voice quieter now.

That caught Rían’s attention, and she turned her gaze to him fully, one brow raised. “Do you?” she asked, her tone carrying a hint of challenge.

Calen shrugged, his sharp eyes glinting with something deeper. “Maybe not in the same way,” he admitted. “But all of us have someone we’re thinking about, someone we’ve left behind. It’s no different for me.”

Rían’s lips curved faintly, though her tone was still guarded. “Your wife and daughters,” she said softly, a statement more than a question. She already knew of them, of the quiet pride and fondness that crept into Calen’s voice whenever he spoke of his family.

Calen nodded, his smile softening into something warmer. “Aye. My girls will be taller than me soon enough, the way they’re growing. And Aelith…” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I wouldn’t put it past her to have a list of chores waiting for me when I return. If I return.”

“You’ll return,” Rían said firmly, her voice carrying an edge of certainty.

Calen glanced at her, his sharp gaze lingering. “And you?” he asked, his tone quieter now, laced with something knowing. “Who are you thinking of, Rían?”

Rían’s fingers tightened slightly on the reins, and she looked away toward the horizon. “No one in particular,” she said too quickly, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Calen’s grin widened knowingly. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Rían huffed again, but there was no bite to it. “I’m not lying,” she said, though even she could hear how unconvincing she sounded.

Calen shook his head, his tone teasing but kind. “It’s alright, you don’t have to say it. I can see it clear enough. And if you’re thinking of him, chances are he’ll be thinking of you too.”

Her shoulders stiffened slightly, and she opened her mouth to retort, but Calen’s voice softened, cutting her off. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Caring this much about people. Makes you feel like the world’s been tipped off balance.”

Rían glanced at him, her expression caught between feigned irritation and reluctant honesty. “It’s not strange,” she murmured, though her voice wavered. “It’s terrifying.”

Calen nodded, his gaze forward once more. “Aye. That it is.”

A faint smile tugged at Rían’s lips despite herself, and she glanced at him sidelong. “You have an irritating habit of being right, you know that?”

“It’s one of my many talents,” Calen replied with a grin, patting her arm lightly. Calen nodded, his gaze turning toward the horizon, though his expression softened.

Rían let the silence linger for a moment, her fingers lightly brushing the reins as if grounding herself. Then she glanced at him, her grey eyes steady and unwavering. “You know,” she said, her tone light but carrying a weight beneath it, “I’ve buried most of the people I’ve ever cared for.”

Calen’s sharp gaze flicked to her, his expression softening even further as she continued.

“So,” she said, her voice tinged with wry humor, though her words carried an edge of something unspoken, “keep your head firmly attached to your shoulders, for your sake as well as mine.”

Calen chuckled, though there was a warmth in the sound that spoke of his affection for her. “Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?” he said, patting his horse’s neck. “I’ll do my best to stay in one piece,Rían. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of your ire.”

Rían shook her head, but the corner of her mouth tugged into a faint smile. “Good,” she said softly.

Calen’s grin widened, and he patted her arm lightly. “You’ll see him again, Rían,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “I’ve no doubt about that. And when you do, maybe you’ll finally stop pretending you don’t care so much.”

Rían let out a soft laugh, the sound quiet but clear against the somber landscape. “Perhaps,” she murmured, her gaze turning forward. “And you’ll stop your relentless nagging?”

“Not a chance,” Calen replied with a grin.

And so they rode on, the shadow of Mordor looming closer with each passing mile, but the faint flicker of humor and hope between them served as a small light against the encroaching dark.

***

The camp was a hive of quiet activity as the forces of the West prepared for the final confrontation at the Black Gate. The air was heavy with anticipation, the sky above tinged with the grey light of dawn, as if the heavens themselves held their breath. Amidst the rows of tents and the steady murmur of preparations, Rían stood near the edge of the encampment, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon, lost in thought.

The sound of footsteps approached, firm yet measured, and she turned to see Aragorn making his way toward her. He wore the tunic of Gondor, the white tree emblazoned upon his chest, its silver embroidery gleaming faintly in the pale light. His hair was clean and neatly braided, framing a face that carried the weight of destiny with quiet grace. In that moment, he looked every part the future king, a figure out of legend come to life.

For a moment, he studied her in silence, the weight of his gaze tempered by a quiet kindness. Then, his voice broke the stillness, low and steady. “What is on your mind, Rían? You seem far away.”

She blinked, startled by the question, but her expression quickly softened. Turning her gaze to the horizon, where the mountains stood like silent sentinels, she hesitated, as if unsure whether to give voice to the thoughts that weighed heavily on her heart. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but steady. “I was thinking about death.”

Aragorn’s brow furrowed slightly, though he did not interrupt, sensing there was more she needed to say.

“There is no dignity in death,” she continued, her tone reflective, her eyes fixed on the distant peaks. “At least, not in the way people imagine. It is ugly, painful… unfair. But if I had the choice, I think I would rather go as my mother did, letting my light flicker out like a candle extinguished, with quiet acceptance and a prayer on my lips, than like my father and brother. They fought till their last breath, raging against the dying of the light.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with sorrow and longing. Aragorn’s gaze softened, his expression one of quiet understanding.

“But alas,” Rían said with a faint, wry smile, “I am a faithful servant. And when my king calls, I come. Even if it means I must die for him.”

Aragorn stepped closer, his presence steadying, and he placed a hand gently on her shoulder. His grey eyes, sharp and clear, held hers with an intensity that was both commanding and comforting. “Rían,” he said firmly, his voice low but filled with warmth, “you are my friend before you are my serve. And you will not fall today.”

She looked at him, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing her face at the certainty in his tone. “You seem so sure,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I must be,” Aragorn replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And so must you. For we are not walking to our end, but to a beginning—a fight that will give others a chance to live, to rebuild, to hope. And I know this: you are stronger than you think, Rían.”

His words lingered in the stillness between them, and for a moment, her shoulders seemed to lift as the weight pressing upon her heart lightened just slightly.

“Thank you, Aragorn,” she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet sincerity. “You always know what to say.”

Aragorn inclined his head, but there was a glimmer of something softer  in his eyes as he added, “I have something to ask of you, though.”

Aragorn hesitated for a brief moment, as if weighing his words, before he spoke. “I would have you lead the Rangers into the battle,” he said, his voice carrying both the weight of command and the warmth of trust. “I have long led them, but now I ride not just as their chieftain, but as the heir to the throne. They look to you, Rían. They respect you, and they will follow you.”

Rían’s eyes widened slightly, surprise flashing across her features. “You want me to lead them?” she asked, her voice tinged with incredulity. She paused, considering the gravity of his request. “If you truly believe I can, then I will.”

Aragorn’s expression softened, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I know you can,” he said with quiet certainty. “You’ve earned their trust through your deeds and your strength. They already follow you. And you’ve proven yourself as a leader on thePelennor Fields”

Rían absorbed his words, a mix of pride and apprehension stirring within her. She gave a slow nod, her gaze steady. “Then I will lead them,” she said resolutely.

Aragorn inclined his head in acknowledgment, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer. As he turned to leave, Rían reached out and grabbed his hand, her fingers curling around his with a firm but gentle grip.

“Aragorn,” she said quietly, her voice soft but carrying an undercurrent of emotion. He turned back to her, his eyes questioning. “Please… be careful in the battle,” she added, her gaze dropping for a moment before meeting his again. “I cannot take another funeral right now.”

A flicker of something deep and unspoken passed through Aragorn’s eyes, and he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her in a warm embrace. His chin rested lightly on the top of her head, a gesture of both comfort and solidarity. “We will not fall today,” he said softly, his voice a quiet promise.

He pulled back slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Though perhaps I should be the one saying that,” he added with a touch of humor, “knowing your penchant for danger.”

Rían laughed, the sound light but genuine, easing some of the tension in her chest. “I’ve heard it so many times in my life,” she replied wryly, “that if it was supposed to make a difference, it would have by now.”

Aragorn chuckled softly, his eyes warm as he looked at her. “You can’t blame me for trying,” he said, his tone light but affectionate.

With that, he released her, a final squeeze of her hand before he turned and made his way back toward the heart of the camp. Rían watched him go, a quiet resolve settling over her as she turned back to the horizon. The weight of leadership pressed upon her shoulders, but in Aragorn’s words and in his trust, she found the strength to carry it.

***

The air before the Black Gate was thick with tension, the shadow of Mordor casting a pall over the assembled host of the West. Warriors sat astride their mounts, grim and silent, the faint sound of banners snapping in the wind the only noise against the eerie stillness. Rían guided her horse to a small rise, her sharp gaze fixed on the endless black expanse ahead. She adjusted her grip on the reins, her heart heavy but resolute.

The sound of hooves broke the stillness, and she turned to see Boromir approaching on horseback. The gleam of his armor seemed a defiant spark against the encroaching gloom. He reined in his horse beside her, his expression a mixture of determination and a rare gentleness.

“Rían,” he said, inclining his head slightly. His deep voice carried both strength and gravity. “Whatever happens today, we shall be remembered. You and I. All of us.”

Rían regarded him, a faint smile softening the steel in her eyes. “I made a promise, Boromir,” she replied, her tone quiet but resolute. “I will not throw my life away so easily.”

Boromir tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his steady gaze.

“I still have people I care for,” she continued, her voice softening as she looked out toward the distant horizon. Her thoughts drifted to Faramir, left behind in Minas Tirith, wounded but alive. The memory of his quiet courage lingered in her heart, and her voice grew quieter as she added, “I will not fall today. Nor will I let those I care for fall.”

She turned her gaze back to Boromir, her expression unwavering. There was no mistaking her meaning as her eyes met his.

Boromir’s stern countenance softened, and he inclined his head in respect. “I am honored to be counted among those you care for,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity. “And I swear to you, whatever strength remains in me is yours to command. I will stand by you.”

A faint smile touched Rían’s lips, and she nodded. “Then let us see this through together, Captain Boromir.”

He returned her smile, a rare warmth shining through his usual boldness. Glancing toward the Black Gate, he added, “Whatever may come, they will sing of this day.”

“They will,” she agreed, her voice steady, her grip on the reins firm. “And I intend to make it a tale worth singing.”

Boromir inclined his head one last time and urged his horse forward to rejoin the gondorians. Rían watched him go, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. As the oppressive shadow of Mordor loomed ever closer, she whispered a silent vow to herself.

For Gondor, for her friends, and for the quiet hope that even the darkness of Mordor could not extinguish—she would not falter.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over the plains as the armies gathered, the air thick with anticipation. The Rangers of the North, clad in their weathered cloaks and iron-hard resolve, were preparing for battle. Their steeds pawed at the ground, the sound of hooves mingling with the murmurs of men preparing for what was to come.

Rían stood before them, sitting comfortably on the back  of her horse,  her posture commanding as she surveyed her company. The weight of her leadership settled around her like the armor she wore. The silent trust of the Rangers was palpable; they knew her, had fought alongside her, and now she would lead them into battle.

She raised a hand, and the noise around them faded. The men turned to her, eyes filled with respect and loyalty. Her voice, steady and unwavering, cut through the tense air.

“Rangers of the North,” she began, her voice clear as a bell, “today, we ride together. You ride with me, and I with you. Let our swords be sharp, and our arrows fly true. I won’t bore you with any more grand words. May our deeds pass into song and legend. For this is our moment, and we will be remembered.”

The words hung in the air, powerful and stirring. Even the wind seemed to pause as the Rangers nodded in solemn agreement. A few of them murmured quiet oaths, a silent vow to follow her into whatever came.

From a distance, standing among his own Gondorian men, Boromir watched the scene unfold. He had known Rían as a fierce and capable warrior, but seeing her like this—at the forefront, a beacon of strength—struck him with an unexpected force.

There was something natural in the way she commanded the Rangers, a born leader whose presence drew men to her without effort. Her words were not mere commands, but a rallying cry, and the Rangers stood straighter, their eyes alight with the fire of battle.

***

The air over the battlefield was heavy with tension, the silence broken only by the distant clink of armor and the restless shifting of horses. On the rocky rise overlooking the plain, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, Merry, and Pippin faced the black-armored Mouth of Sauron. The ghastly figure towered over them, his voice a cold hiss that carried even to where Éomer, Rían, and Boromir sat astride their mounts further back. The distant figures stood like statues against the bleak backdrop of Mordor, their forms sharp against the oppressive gloom that stained the horizon.

Éomer shifted restlessly in his saddle, his hand tightening on the reins of his steed. His golden hair caught the faint glimmers of sunlight that broke through the heavy clouds. His sharp blue eyes, however, were fixed on the distant gathering. “What are they even doing?” he asked, his voice low but edged with frustration. “Standing there like that, while the Enemy watches. What purpose does this serve?”

Beside him, Boromir adjusted his grip on his sword hilt, his broad shoulders straight as he sat atop his mount. His grey eyes, shadowed with both exhaustion and determination, remained fixed on Aragorn. “Negotiations,” he said simply, his tone calm but tinged with a hint of weariness.

“Negotiations?” Éomer echoed, his tone incredulous. “With that—creature?” His lip curled as he gestured with his chin toward the Mouth of Sauron, whose twisted armor gleamed faintly even from this distance.

Boromir glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “If you can call it that,” he said dryly. “Though I doubt the Mouth of Sauron has anything resembling honest terms to offer.”

Rían, sitting on the other side of Boromir, listened quietly, her dark hair pulled back into a practical braid. Her cloak draped loosely over her shoulders, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. Her sharp eyes scanned the scene, her posture composed despite the rising tension in the air.

Éomer snorted softly, shaking his head. “If we had known this was to be a parley, perhaps I should have offered to represent the Rohirrim,” he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “I’m sure my particular brand of diplomacy would have made a fine impression.”

Boromir let out a low chuckle, his stern demeanor momentarily softening. “A noble gesture, Éomer, but I fear Aragorn is far more suited to this than either of us.”

Rían, her lips curving into a faint smile, finally spoke. “We’ll see how long his patience holds,” she said, her tone wry, her eyes flicking toward the black-armored figure who seemed to revel in the malice of his words. “Something tells me negotiations may end sooner than expected.”

As if to punctuate her words, there was a sudden movement on the rise. Aragorn, his face impassive yet resolute, rode forward and, in one swift motion, drew his sword. Andúril gleamed brightly even in the dim light, its edge catching the glint of the faint sun as it arced through the air. In a single, decisive stroke, the Mouth of Sauron was silenced.

There was a brief, stunned silence as the twisted helm of the creature clattered to the ground, its voice silenced forever. The soldiers of Gondor and Rohan, standing in formation below, shifted uneasily, and the air seemed to grow colder.

Éomer stared, his brows lifting in a mixture of shock and grudging admiration. “Well,” he muttered, his tone low but audible, “so much for diplomacy.”

Rían tilted her head, her grey eyes glinting with dry amusement. “I’d say the outcome of the negotiations is quite clear,” she remarked wryly.

Boromir let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Direct, as ever,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Though I would not have expected anything less from him.”

The three sat in silence for a moment, watching as Aragorn turned, his expression unyielding, his sword still gleaming with the finality of his decision. The tension in the air was palpable, the forces of Mordor stirring uneasily in the distance, but here, among the scattered remnants of the Free Peoples, there was a flicker of grim determination.

Rían shifted in her saddle, her fingers lightly brushing the reins of her horse. “So,” she said, breaking the silence with a faint smile, “do we fight  now, or wait for Aragorn to finish making his point?”

Éomer chuckled softly, his gaze steady on the battlefield. “I think he’s made it well enough,” he said. “Now we await his signal.”

Boromir nodded, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his sword. “And when it comes,” he said, his voice firm, “we’ll remind them why the Free People stand united.”

The three riders exchanged a brief look, a shared understanding passing between them, before their gazes turned forward once more, toward the black gates of Mordor and the storm that awaited them.

The Black Gate groaned as it began to open, the sound reverberating across the barren plains like the death knell of an age. Aragorn, his cloak billowing behind him, turned sharply toward the sound, his keen eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the dark tide emerging from the shadowy maw. Orcs, countless in number, poured forth, their guttural cries carrying across the lifeless landscape. The sheer enormity of the Enemy’s forces seemed to darken the very air.

“Pull back! Pull back!” Aragorn commanded, his voice sharp and resolute. He wheeled his horse around, the light catching on Andúril as it gleamed at his side. The company with him—Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, Éomer, Boromir, and Rían—turned as one, their mounts kicking up dust as they galloped back toward the main host of the army.

Behind them, the Black Gate continued to spill its malice, the ground trembling beneath the weight of marching boots and crude iron weapons. The dark host moved like a shadow given form, relentless and consuming, and the men of Gondor and Rohan waited with bated breath.

As he reached the assembled forces, Aragorn slowed his horse, his gaze sweeping over the men gathered before him. Their faces bore the strain of the long march, the weariness of countless battles, and the dread of what loomed ahead. Yet, as their future  king rode among them, their eyes turned toward him, seeking strength, hope, and a reason to stand.

Rían sat astride her steed among the rangers, her grey eyes fixed on Aragorn as he began to address the host. Her face was calm, though her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, her fingers tightening slightly as the weight of the moment pressed upon her.

“Hold your ground! Hold your ground!” Aragorn called out, his voice carrying over the assembled forces like a trumpet. He rode along the front lines, his presence a rallying point amidst the storm that brewed behind them.

“Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers,” he began, his voice steady and clear, every word imbued with both command and kinship. The men leaned forward, their weariness momentarily forgotten as they listened.

“I see it in your eyes,” Aragorn continued, his gaze sweeping over them. “The same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship…”

Rían’s lips curved faintly at those words, her mind briefly flashing to the rangers beside her, to Calen’s quiet humor and their unwavering loyalty. She tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes fixed on Aragorn as he rode past, his presence a beacon amidst the growing darkness.

“…but it is not this day!” Aragorn’s voice rose, a surge of fire coursing through his words. “An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!”

The men shifted, their backs straightening, their hands tightening on sword hilts and spear shafts. Rían felt a quiet strength ripple through her chest, her grip on her reins steady as she sat straighter in her saddle.

“By all that you hold dear on this good earth,” Aragorn bellowed, his voice rising to a crescendo, “I bid you stand! Men of the West!”

A roar erupted from the ranks, the sound carrying across the desolate plains like the call of a great horn. Swords were unsheathed, shields raised, and the men stood firm, their fear now tempered with resolve.

Aragorn wheeled his horse around to face the oncoming tide, Andúril gleaming as it caught the pale light of the overcast sky. Behind him, the soldiers formed ranks, a small, defiant line of light against the dark storm that encircled them.

Rían’s gaze followed him, her expression thoughtful but resolute. She glanced to her left, catching sight of Legolas and Gimli, who stood side by side, their postures tense but ready.

Gimli, gripping his axe, muttered under his breath, “Never thought I’d die fighting side by side with an elf.”

Legolas, his sharp elven gaze fixed on the distant orcs, turned slightly, a faint smile curving his lips. “What about side by side with a friend?” he asked, his tone quiet but warm.

Gimli looked up at him, his eyes narrowing briefly before softening. “Aye,” he said gruffly. “I could do that.”

Rían, who had caught their exchange, let out a quiet chuckle, her voice breaking the tension among the rangers near her. A few of them glanced her way, their lips quirking into faint smiles at the rare sound of levity.

As the orcs continued their march, surrounding the Gondorian and Rohirric forces in an unbroken circle of malice, Rían’s gaze hardened. She adjusted her grip on her sword, her knuckles pale against the leather-wrapped hilt. The battle loomed closer, the storm ready to break, but as she glanced at Aragorn standing tall at the front, she felt the flicker of hope steady within her.

Let them come, she thought to herself. We will stand.

The wind howled across the desolate plain of the Black Gate, carrying with it the acrid stench of Mordor. The ground beneath the horses’ hooves trembled with the rhythmic march of Sauron’s army—an endless tide of orcs, trolls, and worse, advancing like a storm eager to consume all light. The Rangers of the North, mounted and ready, held their position on the left flank, their dark cloaks blending with the shadowed landscape. At their head, Rían sat astride her horse, her sharp eyes scanning the enemy lines, her expression as cold and unyielding as steel.

Her fingers tightened around the reins, the leather creaking faintly in her grip. Her dark hair, braided in the northern style, whipped about her face in the rising wind, but she paid it no heed. Raising her voice above the distant din of snarling orcs and clashing shields, she turned to the rangers at her back.

“Hold steady, you lot!” she barked, her tone sharp and commanding, the voice of a leader who had seen too many battles and refused to lose this one. “Don’t any of you dare lose your nerve now, or I swear I’ll drag you back to the North myself and hang your hides on the walls of the Angle as a warning!”

A ripple of dark chuckles passed through the ranks, though it did little to mask the tension in the air. The rangers gripped their reins tightly, their faces grim but resolute. Rían’s sharp tongue was as familiar to them as her unrelenting courage, and her colorful threats, though rough, were oddly comforting in the face of such overwhelming odds.

Boromir, stationed nearby with the Gondorian cavalry, caught the tail end of her tirade and allowed himself a small, incredulous grin. Turning in his saddle, he murmured to a soldier beside him, “I daresay I’ve heard captains rally their men with oaths of glory, but this… this is something else entirely.”

The ranger nearest to Rían, Calen, snorted in amusement as he adjusted the strap on his gauntlet. “That’s our Rían for you,” he retorted back, his eyes glinting with both familiarity and pride. “Sharp as a blade and twice as unrelenting.”

The sound of war horns split the air, deep and thunderous, signaling the advance of Mordor’s host. Rían’s voice rose above the cacophony, sharp as a knife. “Loose formation! Keep moving! If you get bogged down, you’re as good as skewered. And for the love of all the Valar, keep your bloody wits about you! The first fool to ride straight into a troll without a plan will have me to answer to!”

The rangers spread out, their horses forming a fluid line as they began to move at a slow trot. Their silver stars stark against the darkness. Rían’s gaze swept over her company, her sharp eyes catching every movement, every hesitation. When one younger ranger faltered, she spurred her horse beside him, her voice cutting through his fear. “Pull yourself together, boy! You still got your head on your shoulders so use it!”

The young ranger straightened, his face pale but determined. “Yes, Captain!”

“Good,” she muttered, her eyes already moving back to the battlefield. The enemy was close now, the ground trembling with their approach. She raised her sword high, the silver star of the Dúnedain glinting on her cloak as she shouted her final command. “Remember who you are! We are the Dúnedain! The blood of Númenor flows in our veins, and no orc scum will ever make us forget it. Ride hard, strike fast, and leave no beast standing!”

A roar of approval rose from her men as they spurred their horses forward, the thunder of their hooves matching the pounding of Rían’s heart. She led the charge, her blade gleaming as it caught the pale light filtering through the ash-laden sky. The rangers surged behind her, their formation a wave of shadow and steel cutting across the battlefield.

The first line of orcs fell before her like wheat before a scythe. Her sword moved with deadly precision, each stroke slicing through black armor and vile flesh. Her horse danced beneath her, swift and sure, carrying her through the chaos with an almost supernatural grace. Rían’s voice rang out above the clash of steel, issuing commands and sharp insults in equal measure.

“Calen, for pity’s sake, keep the left flank from crumbling! I don’t care if you have to curse every orc’s ancestors to do it!”

“Faelir, is that an orc still standing? Put it down before I come over there and show you how it’s done!”

Her wrathful words lit a fire in her men, and even Boromir, watching from a distance, found himself momentarily stunned. In the chaos of battle, her eyes blazed with a fierce light, her presence commanding and unyielding. For a fleeting moment, even he, seasoned as he was, felt the sharp edge of her resolve and found himself marveling at the fire that burned within her.

. Rían’s voice cut through the cacophony of battle like a whip, sharp and unrelenting as her blade. She surged through the chaos, her horse weaving effortlessly between orcs, her sword flashing as it cut through the dark tide. Her tone was equal parts command and ridicule, fierce enough to shake even the sturdiest of her enemies.

“Keep moving!” she barked at her men, her eyes scanning for weak points in the enemy lines. “If any of you get yourselves cornered, I’ll carve your names on the nearest gravestone and make it as uninspiring as your swordsmanship!”

The Rangers, hardened though they were, couldn’t help but smirk at her rough humor, drawing strength from the sheer force of her will. They followed her lead with precision, spreading out to harry the orcs with arrows and swift strikes before vanishing into the fray.

At her flank, Boromir spurred his own Gondorian soldiers forward, his voice carrying over the din like the toll of a great bell. “Hold your ground!” he commanded, his tone brimming with authority. “Push them back! Show these foul creatures what men of Gondor are made of!”

Rían, overhearing him, cast him a fleeting glance, her lips curving into a wry grin. “Well said, Captain Boromir! But you might need to yell louder—they’re thicker than a mountain troll’s skull!”

Boromir barked a laugh even as he swung his sword with practiced ease, driving an orc back with a single, powerful strike. “Perhaps you should give the lesson yourself, Rían!” he called back, his grin flashing even in the chaos. “Your tongue is sharper than most swords on this field!”

“I’d rather spare them the embarrassment!” Rían retorted, her blade slicing through another foe.

Boromir, fighting alongside her now, spared a moment to marvel at the fire in her eyes. She was relentless, unyielding, her commands biting and precise as she directed the Rangers. “Circle around their right!” she shouted to a group behind her. “Cut off their retreat! And for the love of the stars, stop swinging your swords like you’re herding goats—put some backbone into it!”

She turned her gaze toward Boromir, her hair whipping around her face as she rode close. “Your men are holding steady,” she remarked, her voice steady despite the chaos.

“They’ve seen worse,” Boromir replied, parrying an orc’s strike and countering with a swift blow that sent the creature crumpling. “Though I think they’re taking notes on your… unconventional methods.”

“Unconventional?” Rían shot back, her grin sharp as her blade. “Is that what you call creative insults? If it keeps them alive, they can call it whatever they like.”

Boromir couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Wise choice!” she replied, spurring her horse forward again. “And if you’ve got any sense, you’ll get your archers to aim for those trolls before they flatten half the field!”

Boromir raised his horn to his lips, the deep, resonant note carrying over the battlefield as he signaled his archers. They unleashed a volley of arrows, the shafts finding their marks in the hulking forms of trolls advancing toward the Gondorian line.

As the battle pressed on, the two captains found themselves fighting side by side, their commands weaving together seamlessly. Where Rían’s sharp tongue and fiery leadership spurred the Rangers into swift, calculated strikes, Boromir’s steady, commanding presence rallied the Gondorian soldiers into a formidable wall of steel and shields.

“Rangers, to me!” Rían cried, cutting down another orc with a single, precise strike. “Let’s remind these beasts why the North isn’t to be trifled with!” Then, with a glance toward Boromir, she smirked. “Think you can keep up, Captain?”

Boromir grinned, his blood pumping with the thrill of the fight. “Lead the way, Captain,” he replied, his voice carrying over the chaos. “I’ve yet to meet a foe I can’t outlast!”

Together, they drove their forces forward, their combined strength breaking through the enemy line like a blade through shadow. For a moment, amidst the chaos and carnage, the battlefield seemed to belong to them—two leaders whose fire and determination burned brighter than the darkness around them.

***

The gardens of the Houses of Healing were quiet, the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional trill of a bird the only sounds that broke the stillness. Faramir stood near the edge of the garden, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed eastward. The first light of dawn was just brushing the horizon, painting the sky with hues of pale gold and lavender, yet his expression remained clouded.

Éowyn approached silently, her soft steps barely disturbing the peace of the garden. She wore a pale gown, simple yet elegant, her golden hair unbound and falling loosely around her shoulders. Her face, though still pale from her wounds, held a quiet strength, and there was a spark of determination in her clear blue eyes.

“You’re looking east,” she said gently as she came to stand beside him. Her tone was soft, touched with curiosity. “As if you’re willing them to return.”

Faramir glanced at her, startled from his thoughts. A faint smile curved his lips, though it did little to soften the worry etched into his features. “Perhaps I am,” he admitted, his voice low and thoughtful. “I cannot help but wonder if my brother is safe.”

He paused, his gaze shifting back to the horizon. After a moment, he added more quietly, as if the words were meant more for himself than her, “If Rían is safe.”

Éowyn’s gaze softened, her expression one of understanding. She looked out toward the horizon as well, her hands clasping the folds of her gown. “I wonder the same of my brother,” she said after a moment, her voice tinged with both worry and resolve. “He rides to war while I remain here, waiting. It is… not easy, this waiting.”

“No,” Faramir murmured, his shoulders tensing slightly. “It is not.”

For a time, they stood in companionable silence, the stillness of the garden a stark contrast to the turmoil of their thoughts. At last, Éowyn turned her gaze to him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You speak her name as though it is a prayer,” she said lightly, her  tone teasing but not unkind.

Faramir blinked, startled, and a faint flush crept up his neck. “I—I speak her name no differently than any other,” he stammered, though the color deepened in his cheeks.

Éowyn laughed softly, a sound like the rustle of leaves in the breeze. “Do not deny it, my lord,” she said, her voice warm with amusement. “I have seen the way you look at her, the way your face softens when she is near. As if she were the very light of day.”

Faramir turned his gaze away, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and quiet longing. “She is… remarkable,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Fierce and brave, yet kind and loyal. How could anyone not admire her?”

Éowyn studied him for a moment, her smile growing. “It is more than admiration, I think,” she said softly, her tone gentler now. “But I will not press you further, Faramir. Matters of the heart are your own to reveal.”

He glanced at her then, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Lady Éowyn,” he said quietly. “You are kinder than I deserve.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “Nonsense. I understand more than you think, my friend. And I will say this: they will return soon enough. You must have patience, as must I.”

Faramir nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful.

Éowyn hesitated for a moment before adding with a small smile, “And when she does return, you should tell her how you feel. Life is too short for silence.”

Faramir opened his mouth to respond but found no words. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the horizon, the faint blush on his cheeks lingering as Éowyn stepped away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

As she departed, Éowyn glanced back once, her expression a mixture of fondness and quiet amusement. She saw in Faramir a kindred spirit—wounded, thoughtful, and yearning for something just out of reach. Though the days ahead were uncertain, she felt a spark of hope that they both might find the happiness they sought, in time.

***

The air at the Black Gate was thick with smoke and the stench of orcs, the clash of swords and cries of battle rising to the ashen sky. The land itself seemed to groan under the weight of the struggle, as if the earth shared in the torment of those who fought. Boromir stood in the midst of the fray, his shield battered and his sword stained black with the blood of countless foes. Around him surged the mass of Sauron’s forces—grotesque orcs and monstrous trolls—but he stood as a steadfast rock, unyielding as the White City itself.

It was then that Boromir noticed her—Rían, a vision of relentless fury amid the chaos. Just like him she had lost her horse somewhere amidst the fray. She moved with a deadly grace, her blade flashing like cold fire as she carved her way through the enemy ranks. Her face was set, her dark hair flying around her. Each strike she delivered was swift and sure, and in her eyes was a gleam of determination that could rival even the courage of the sons of Gondor.

Boromir grinned fiercely through his sweat and blood. “By the Valar!” he shouted over the din, driving his shield into an orc before him. “I understand now why my brother thinks so highly of you!”

Rían glanced his way just long enough to shoot him a look that was both exasperated and amused. She parried a jagged blade, her own sword cleaving through an orc’s throat with an elegant arc. “Do you always talk so much during battle?” she called back, her voice sharp but carrying a hint of laughter.

Boromir barked a short, hearty laugh. “Only when the company is worth the words!”

They fought on together, side by side, two warriors bound by a shared purpose. Boromir defended with his shield as Rían struck out with swift precision, their movements falling into an unspoken rhythm as though they had fought as one for years. Around them, the enemy forces pressed in, but they held their ground like unyielding stones in a storm-driven tide.

The skies darkened further, the clouds above swirling with unnatural fury, and then it came—a sound unlike any heard before. A deep, distant rumble that seemed to rise from the very bowels of the earth. For a heartbeat, the battlefield fell still, as though all knew something vast and unthinkable was taking place. Then the earth shuddered violently beneath them.

Rían stumbled, her sword slipping from her hand as the shockwave struck. In the distance, the Tower of Barad-dûr, that blackened finger of shadow, was splitting and crumbling. The sky erupted with fire as the dark tower exploded, sending a wave of force sweeping across the plains. Boromir was knocked from his feet, his shield flying from his grasp.

For a moment, there was nothing but a blinding light and the roar of the wind. Then silence.

Boromir coughed, rising on his hands and knees, his ears still ringing. The dust began to settle, the sky above already brighter—cleansed, somehow, as though the very shadow of Sauron had been torn from it.

“Rían!” he shouted hoarsely, scrambling to his feet. He turned and saw her lying a short distance away, struggling to rise from the churned earth. He was at her side in an instant, pulling her up with strong hands. “Are you hurt?” he asked, searching her face for any sign of injury.

Rían shook her head, her breath ragged, her face streaked with dirt and blood. “I am well,” she managed, though she swayed slightly as she stood.

Boromir grinned, his face breaking into a wide, unguarded smile. Without warning, he pulled her into a rough embrace, holding her tightly in his arms. “We did it!” he laughed, his voice filled with triumphant joy. “Rían, we did it! The Ring is destroyed! The Shadow is gone!”

Rían stood stiffly at first, caught off guard, but then she allowed herself to relax in the warmth of the moment. For a fleeting second, she thought of her brother—how he used to embrace her just so after a hard-won hunt, his voice carrying the same exhilaration and relief. A pang struck her heart, but she pushed it aside, letting herself share in Boromir’s joy.

He let her go at last, his hands lingering briefly on her shoulders as he looked her over again. “You fought well, my friend,” he said sincerely, his tone softer now. “Faramir is not alone in his regard for you.”

Before Rían could reply, a new sound reached them—a cry of triumph from the rangers of the North. They were rushing toward her, faces alight with joy and disbelief, weapons raised high in a cheer of victory. An older ranger named Galdir reached her first, his face streaked with sweat and grime, but his eyes shining with pride.

“Well fought, Rían!” he shouted, clasping her arm tightly. “It was as if I saw your father on that battlefield, you carry yourself with the same fire!”

The other rangers surrounded her, their voices lifting as they pulled her into their celebration. Laughter and cheers rang out, a sound so at odds with the gloom of the battle that Rían almost could not believe it. She turned her face skyward, looking into the cleansed heavens.

The shadow was truly gone.

Further back, Boromir watched the scene with a grin still tugging at his lips. His gaze lingered on Rían as she was swallowed up by her kin. A small, knowing smile crept into his expression, and he shook his head, muttering under his breath. “She belongs in song, that one.”

Then, he turned to look over the battlefield, where men were beginning to raise their banners. The day had been won. The world, for the first time in an age, was free. As the smoke from the battlefield rose in twisting columns into the sky, the weary host of  the Free Peoples gathered together, some sitting on the trampled earth, others leaning on their swords. The air was thick with ash and the bitter tang of sweat and blood, but there was also relief—relief that, against all odds, they had endured.

Rían stood amidst the chaos, her shoulders slumped, her sword still clutched loosely in her hand. The weight of the battle hung heavy on her, but she carried herself with the quiet dignity of one who had endured much and survived. Her dark hair, streaked with dust and sweat, clung to her face as she gazed toward the horizon, her chest rising and falling in exhausted breaths.

She barely registered the sound of boots crunching on the charred ground until a familiar, steady presence was beside her. Calen’s arm wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her into a firm, grounding embrace. For a moment, she simply leaned into him, her forehead resting against his shoulder, her body heavy with weariness. His leather jerkin was warm beneath her cheek, and his scent—a mixture of earth and woodsmoke—was familiar and oddly comforting.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice gruff but tinged with concern.

Rían shook her head faintly, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “No, my head is still firmly attached to my body, as you can see.” She glanced up at him, a flicker of humor in her tired eyes. “What about you, Calen? Did you manage to keep yourself in one piece?”

He snorted, the sound both amused and fond. “A few scrapes here and there, but nothing worth boasting about,” he replied, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. His sharp eyes scanned her face, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in her pale complexion and trembling hands. “You, though… I haven’t seen you look this exhausted in a long time.” He paused, tilting his head with a smirk. “I can’t tell if you’re about to puke or faint.”

Despite herself, Rían chuckled weakly, shaking her head as she swayed slightly on her feet. “Neither,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. “Or maybe both. Who’s to say?”

Calen’s teasing grin softened into something gentler, the humor in his eyes replaced with quiet concern. “You need to rest,” he said, his tone firm but kind. “You’ve pushed yourself hard enough for one day.”

Rían exhaled slowly, her exhaustion threatening to pull her under. “You sound like Halbarad,” she murmured, though there was no bite to her words, only a faint wistfulness.

Calen’s expression softened further at the mention of their late captain, but he said nothing, simply guiding her to sit down on a fallen stone nearby. He crouched beside her, his hand steadying her shoulder as she lowered herself carefully.

Rían leaned forward slightly, her forearms resting on her knees as she tried to steady her breath. After a moment, she turned her head toward Calen, her voice low and hesitant. “Calen,” she began, her words soft but heavy with unspoken worry, “have we… have we lost anyone?”

Calen’s teasing smirk faded as he straightened, his sharp gaze scanning the faces of the rangers scattered across the battlefield. His expression grew serious, and he stood, hands resting on his hips as his sharp grey eyes swept over the gathered men. The grey streaks in his dark hair caught the light, making him look both weathered and resolute, a man who had seen too much of war but still stood unyielding.

Rían’s gaze remained fixed on him, her heart heavy with dread. “I meant it,” she added quietly, her voice trembling slightly, though her tone held a faint edge of defiance. “No funerals”

Calen turned back to her, his lips pressing into a firm line. He gave her a long look before exhaling slowly. “Give me a moment,” he said gruffly, his tone softer than usual.

He moved through the battlefield, pausing briefly to clap a hand on one ranger’s shoulder, exchange a quiet word with another, and nod toward a third sitting by the edge of the field. Slowly, methodically, he counted them, his sharp eyes not missing a single face. When he finally returned, his steps were slower, but his expression was lighter, carrying a faint trace of relief.

“No funerals,” Calen said at last, his voice both steady and warm. He crouched back down beside Rían, his sharp features softening as he looked at her. “Unless, of course, you collapse from sheer exhaustion and make me eat my words.”

Despite her weariness, a weak laugh escaped Rían’s lips, her head dipping slightly as she shook it in mock exasperation. “Not a chance,” she said, though her voice wavered with fatigue. She leaned back slightly, resting her weight against the stone behind her. “Someone has to keep your sorry hides in check.”

Calen chuckled, the sound rough but genuine, as he reached out and tugged her cloak a little more securely around her shoulders. “We’d be lost without you, Captain,” he said lightly, though there was an unmistakable warmth in his tone.

From a short distance, Boromir watched the exchange with quiet curiosity. He stood with his arms crossed, his sword sheathed at his side, his keen gaze fixed on the pair. Though he did not interrupt, he noted the ease with which Calen interacted with Rían, the unspoken understanding between them. It was clear to him that her bond with the rangers ran deep, forged through years of shared hardship and trust.

“She holds them together,” Boromir murmured to himself, his admiration for her growing. Though her body bore the weight of exhaustion, her spirit seemed unbroken, and the loyalty of her men spoke volumes about her character.

As Rían leaned back against the stone, her breathing steadying, she glanced up at Calen with a faint smile. “You’re too soft on me,” she teased lightly.

“And you’re too stubborn for your own good,” Calen countered, though his grin betrayed the fondness behind his words.

For the first time since the battle at the Pelennor Fields, Rían allowed herself to relax, the heavy tension in her shoulders easing as the camaraderie of her old friend steadied her. Around them, the battlefield stirred with the quiet sounds of soldiers tending to wounds and speaking in hushed tones. Though the scars of the day would linger, for now, there was peace.

***

The air in the medical tent was thick with the mingling scents of herbs, blood, and sweat. Rían moved briskly between patients, her hands deft and her tone firm, even as exhaustion tugged at her every step. She knelt beside an injured Gondorian soldier, wrapping a bandage tightly around his arm. Her dark hair had come loose from its braids, framing her face in wild strands, but she paid it no mind.

Rían’s hands moved with precision, the steady rhythm of her work a fragile tether to focus amidst her exhaustion. The young ranger sitting before her winced as her fingers tied off a knot on the bandage wrapped around his leg, but he didn’t protest. Rían leaned back slightly, her brow furrowing as she studied her work, brushing an errant strand of dark hair from her face.

“Hold still,” she ordered, her voice sharp but not unkind, her tone more authoritative than usual. Her grey eyes flicked to the ranger’s pale face, softening slightly at his discomfort. “If you thrash like that, I’ll have to start over.”

The young man muttered his thanks, his lips twisting into a sheepish smile as he sat still under her stern gaze. Straightening her back, Rían rubbed at her temples briefly, her fingers brushing against the fine sweat gathering at her hairline. Fatigue clung to her like a shadow, but she pushed it aside, moving to the next patient without hesitation.

As she reached for a fresh roll of bandages, the tent flap rustled faintly. Rían barely glanced up, assuming another injured soldier had entered. But the heavy creak of boots and the unmistakable gruffness of the voice that followed told her otherwise.

“Rían,” came Calen’s familiar voice, equal parts stern and amused. His tall frame filled the space as he stepped inside, his sharp gaze immediately locking onto her. The streaks of silver in his dark hair caught the dim lantern light, a testament to the years etched into his weathered face. His arms crossed over his chest as he regarded her. “Shouldn’t you be resting instead of playing healer?”

Without looking up, Rían snorted softly, her lips curving in a faint smirk as she reached for the next patient’s arm. “If you’re here to nag, Calen, save your breath,” she said curtly, the faintest flicker of humor coloring her tone. “Either help or get out.”

Calen leaned against the wooden post near the entrance, the worn edges of his cloak brushing against the ground. His lips quirked into a grin as he watched her work. “Help, is it? Let’s hope I’ve learned a thing or two since the last time I stitched you up,” he replied, the teasing glint in his eyes undeniable.

That caught her attention. She finally glanced up, one brow arched in mild skepticism, though her lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile. “Oh, I remember that disaster well,” she replied dryly, her tone tinged with amusement. “You stitched my shoulder so poorly the wound split open again.” She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms as if to challenge his memory.

Calen pushed away from the post, throwing his hands up in mock offense. “And whose fault was that?” he countered. “You didn’t exactly sit still, did you? I seem to recall you climbing a tree the very next day.”

Rían rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the faint laugh that slipped through her lips. “Blame me all you want, but those stitches were a disgrace. Let’s hope your dear wife has taught you a thing or two since then.”

He smirked, grabbing a basin of water and setting it beside her. “Fine, fine. I’ll try not to ruin anyone’s day.” His tone was light, though his gaze lingered on her face, noting the faint lines of exhaustion etched into her features.

Before either could say more, the tent flap parted again, this time revealing Éomer. His imposing frame seemed to fill the space, his golden hair tousled and his armor dented from the day’s trials. Despite the bloodied cut on his forearm, he wore a broad grin, his keen eyes bright with life.

“Lady Rían,” he greeted warmly, his rich voice carrying a note of cheer. “I come seeking a healer. Do you think I’ll survive this wound, or should I start preparing for the afterlife?”

Rían looked up, her sharp gaze falling on the cut running along his forearm. She tilted her head, feigning deep consideration as she crossed her arms. “Hmm,” she murmured, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “It looks serious. We might have to take the whole arm off.”

Éomer barked a laugh, the sound deep and genuine, resonating like a horn call through the quiet tent. He eased himself onto a nearby stool, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his worn tunic as he moved. His hair, golden and unkempt from the battle, framed a face lined with exhaustion but still carrying an unmistakable vitality. Extending his arm toward her, he grinned, the edges of his mouth tugging upward despite the weariness in his eyes. “You jest, but I’ve heard of worse from the battlefield,” he said, his tone light and easy.

Rían stepped closer, rolling up her sleeves with a practiced efficiency. The firelight caught the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, but her expression remained focused. Her dark brows furrowed slightly as she inspected the wound, and she began cleaning it with deft, sure hands. “You’ll be fine,” she said briskly, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her fingers moved with the confidence of someone who had treated far worse injuries. “I’ve had worse wounds as a child. This is nothing.”

At her words, Éomer’s laughter quieted, his expression shifting as the mirth faded from his face. He studied her closely, his clear blue eyes softening, as though seeing her in a new light. A pause lingered between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “Lady Rían,” he began, the usual confidence in his tone tempered by sincerity. “I owe you an apology.”

Rían’s brow knit in confusion, and she glanced up at him, her grey eyes sharp and questioning. “An apology?” she repeated, her hands pausing mid-motion as she cleaned the wound. Her fingers hovered briefly over the cloth before she resumed her work, a touch slower now, her curiosity evident in the faint tilt of her head. “For what?”

“For being so forward when we first met,” Éomer admitted, shifting slightly on the stool. His broad shoulders seemed to sag just a little, as if the weight of the day had finally caught up to him. His voice carried a rare gentleness, entirely devoid of the playful bravado he often wore like armor. “Had I known your heart belonged to another, I’d not have wasted my efforts.”

The words struck her like a sudden gust of wind, leaving her momentarily unsteady. Rían’s hands froze mid-stitch, and she stared at him, her lips parting as if to speak, though no sound came. Her cheeks flushed, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she struggled to compose herself. The golden light of the lantern seemed to deepen the color in her face, highlighting her flustered state. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” she managed to stammer, her voice barely audible, before quickly returning to her task. Her movements were quicker now, almost hurried, though her hands trembled faintly as she worked.

Éomer chuckled softly, the sound low and knowing. His blue eyes sparkled with quiet amusement as he leaned back slightly, his posture relaxing despite the tension in the air. “Come now, Lady Rían,” he said, his voice rich with good-natured teasing. “It is no secret among those who have eyes to see. I only wish you and him happiness.”

Rían’s fingers fumbled slightly as she tied off the final stitch with more force than necessary. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the words she wanted to say seemed to tangle in her throat. “There,” she said quickly, stepping back and gesturing to his arm. “You’ll live.”

Éomer stood, towering over her as he flexed his arm experimentally. A faint smile tugged at his lips, warmer now, as he inclined his head toward her in gratitude. “Thank you, Lady Rían,” he said earnestly, his voice softer but steady. He hesitated for a moment, as if considering saying more, then added with a nod, “And… do not forget what I said.”

With that, he turned and strode out of the tent, his golden hair catching the light as he disappeared into the cool night air. The flap of the tent swayed briefly in his wake, and the faint sound of voices from the camp outside filtered in.

For a moment, the tent was silent save for the soft crackling of the lantern and the faint rustle of supplies as Rían busied herself. Then, from beside her, a poorly suppressed cough broke the stillness.

Calen, leaning casually against a support beam, was failing miserably to hide his laughter behind his hand. His sharp grey eyes glinted with amusement as he straightened, his gruff face split by a wide grin.

“Not a word,” Rían snapped, turning toward him with a glare, her finger pointing accusingly in his direction. Her voice was firm, though the lingering pink in her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment.

Calen raised his hands in mock surrender, his expression unrepentant. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, though his grin only widened. After a brief pause, his voice took on a sly tone. “But… you didn’t correct him.”

Rían opened her mouth, ready to retort, but no words came. Her expression faltered, a mixture of frustration and hesitation crossing her face. With a frustrated huff, she turned back to the table, muttering under her breath as she sorted through the supplies with more force than necessary.

Chapter Text

The air was thick with the warmth of celebration, a stark contrast to the bitter chill of the battlefield that had come before. Rangers, riders of Rohan  and Gondorian soldiers alike crowded around roaring campfires, their laughter and cheers rising to meet the stars above. Mugs of ale and wine passed freely between hands, the amber liquid gleaming in the firelight. Boromir sat among them, his broad shoulders shaking with hearty laughter as he listened to one of the older rangers recount a tale of a long-ago skirmish. Beside him, Aragorn, who just finished tending to the wounded sat quietly, a faint but contented smile on his face, the weight of victory lightening his usual gravitas.

Calen was perched on a log, grinning as he tipped his mug back for another swig. One of the younger rangers nudged him with an elbow, his brow furrowed in mock concern. “Where’s Rían?” the young man asked, looking around the fire. “She hasn’t joined us yet.”

Calen lowered his mug with a sigh, running a hand through his greying hair. “She’s probably still fussing over every cut and bruise in that tent,” he replied. “She has this habit of acting like she has to be the personal saviour of all of Middle-Earth.”

The group chuckled, and another ranger piped up, “We should drag her here. She’s earned a moment of peace as much as the rest of us, if not more.”

Aragorn, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke, his tone warm but firm. “I agree,” he said, his gaze settling on Calen. “If we leave her to her own devices, she’ll work herself to death. Go, Calen. Bring her here.”

Calen groaned theatrically, though there was affection in his voice. “Aye, my lord, as you command,” he said with a mock bow, which drew more laughter from the group. Rising to his feet, he shook his head. “Mark my words, she’ll be as stubborn as ever.”

The camp watched him go, their laughter and chatter fading into the background as Calen made his way toward the medical tent.

Inside, the tent was dimly lit by a few flickering lanterns, their soft glow casting long shadows across the room. Rían was bent over a soldier’s arm, carefully tying off a bandage. Her hair was a wild mess of loose strands, her hands steady but her movements slower than usual. The exhaustion in her face was evident, though she refused to let it show in her work.

Calen stopped in the entrance, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame with a knowing smirk. “Rían,” he called, his tone teasing. “Are you planning to spend the entire night here, or do you actually intend to celebrate with the rest of us?”

Rían didn’t look up, her voice clipped as she replied, “If you’re here to scold me, you can save your breath, Calen. There’s still work to be done.”

Calen strode forward, his boots crunching softly against the dirt floor. “The bruises and scraped knees will heal on their own. The only thing that needs doing,” he said, his voice growing firmer, “is you getting out of this tent and joining the living. Either you walk with me now, or I’ll carry you there myself.”

Rían finally glanced up, her grey eyes narrowing at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Calen grinned. “Try me.”

She sighed, setting down the roll of bandages she’d been holding. “Fine,” she muttered, her tone begrudging. “But only because I’d rather not have you manhandling me in front of everyone.” She relented only because she was too exhausted to argue any further. 

As they stepped out into the crisp night air, Calen cast a glance at her. The pale moonlight illuminated the lines of weariness etched into her face, and he frowned. “Are you cold?” he asked, his tone softening. “Do you need another cloak?” He placed a hand gently on her arm, steadying her as she wavered slightly.

Rían huffed a tired laugh, shaking her head. “Stop fussing over me like a broody hen, Calen,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. “I’m tired, not dying of consumption.”

He chuckled, releasing her arm but staying close as they walked. “You say that now,” he said, a teasing edge to his voice. “But if you collapse halfway, don’t expect me to carry you gently.”

When they reached the fires, the group of rangers and Gondorians cheered loudly at the sight of Rían, their mugs raised in greeting. She managed a faint smile, her exhaustion clear but her spirit unbroken.

Boromir was the first to rise, offering her his seat with a sweeping gesture. “Captain  Rían,” he said, his tone grand but playful. “A hero deserves a place by the fire.”

Rían snorted softly, but she accepted the seat, sinking into it with a sigh of relief. One of the rangers handed her a cup of ale, and she took it gratefully, the warmth of the drink a comfort against the chill of the night.

“To Rían!” one of the rangers called, raising his cup high.

“To Rían!” the others echoed, their voices ringing out into the night.

She smiled, the sound of their camaraderie soothing the frayed edges of her weariness. For a moment, the weight of the war felt lighter, and she allowed herself to bask in the rare glow of peace.

The campfire crackled merrily, its golden light dancing on the faces of the gathered soldiers and rangers. Victory hung thick in the air, a balm to their weary bodies, and for the first time in what felt like an age, there was laughter.

At the edge of the gathering, Aragorn sat quietly, the firelight casting shadows across his weathered face. Though he was not yet crowned king, his presence commanded respect. A cup rested in his hands, untouched for the moment, as he listened to the rangers recount their tales with a faint, knowing smile. His grey eyes gleamed with the light of the fire, and though his expression was calm, there was a warmth in his gaze as it shifted occasionally to Rían.

She leaned back on her hands, her posture at ease but her eyes sharp, always attentive. She smiled faintly as the conversation flowed around her, though she was not above cutting in with a playful remark now and then. The Gondorians, unused to the wry humor of the northern folk, listened with growing astonishment as Galdir, a weathered ranger with a voice rich with drama, began his tale.

“It was some years ago,” Galdir began, his voice carrying the cadence of a practiced storyteller, “when Aragorn here was freshly of age, still wet behind the ears and eager to prove himself.” He grinned, nodding toward Aragorn, who chuckled softly and shook his head, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his lips. “Ah, but this tale is not about him, not truly. No, this is a tale of Ríndor, father of our Rían over here.” His expression turned more wistful as he continued. “Though he isn’t here to tell the tale himself, and believe me he was the best storyteller among all of us, I’ll do what I can in his stead”

Rían straightened slightly at the mention of her father, her lips curving into a knowing smile. She already suspected what story this was, and her gaze flicked toward Aragorn, whose expression softened with a flicker of nostalgia. Boromir, seated nearby, raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

Galdir continued, his tone rich with the drama of memory. “We were patrolling some of the northern villages, places so quiet you’d think nothing worse than a harsh winter storm could trouble them. We didn’t expect trouble in that region—not a horde of orcs, anyway. But trouble came nonetheless. A horde, as large as any I’d seen in my long years, stormed toward the village like wolves scenting easy prey.”

The Gondorians leaned in, their expressions a mixture of horror and fascination. One young soldier muttered, “A horde? And you had only a patrol?”

“Aye,” Galdir said grimly. “Just six of us and a handful of farmers armed with pitchforks and torches. Ríndor sent half of us riding for reinforcements, though he knew in his heart they’d never make it in time. So he turned to those left and said—” Galdir straightened, his voice dropping into a gruff imitation, “‘Well, lads, if any of you want to piss yourselves now, make sure you do it somewhere the orcs won’t smell it!’”

The rangers roared with laughter, and even Aragorn chuckled quietly, shaking his head at the memory. Rían couldn’t suppress a grin, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “That does sound like him,” she said, drawing more laughter from the group. Boromir, too, laughed heartily, clearly caught up in the tale.

Galdir smirked at her interjection before continuing. “Ríndor had no time for fancy speeches. He armed the villagers and told them to hide, told them if one of them so much as sneezed, we’d all be skewered before supper. Then, when the orcs came—over a hundred of them—what does he do?” Galdir paused for effect, his eyes glinting as the Gondorians leaned in closer.

“He sat in the middle of the road,” Rían cut in, her voice dripping with amusement. “With a pint of ale, no less.”

“Aye!” Galdir exclaimed, pointing at her with a grin. “Pulled up a chair as if he were a lord of the realm and planted himself square in their path, alone, drinking his ale as if it were the finest vintage in the land.”

The Gondorians gasped, their disbelief evident. Aragorn, his voice calm and wry, added, “And he did not waver. I remember that well. Few could match Ríndor in sheer audacity.”

“Surely that wasn’t all he did?” one of the Gondorian soldiers asked, his tone incredulous.

“That was all,” Galdir said, his grin widening. “The orcs were stupid, but not that stupid. They’d heard of Ríndor of the North, of his cunning and his great strategies. They thought it was a trap, that behind every tree and stone lurked an army of rangers ready to pounce. So, the cowards turned tail and ran before a single arrow was loosed.”

The camp erupted into laughter, Boromir slapping his thigh as he chuckled. “And here I thought the North had no tales to rival ours in Gondor!” he said, his grin broad as he looked at Rían. “Your father sounds like a man I would have been proud to fight beside.”

Rían smiled, though a flicker of wistfulness crossed her expression. “He was a clever man,” she said, her voice quieter now. “And perhaps a bit mad, though that likely runs in the family.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a slight smirk. “Madness? Perhaps,” he said, his voice carrying a note of fondness. “But there is greatness in that madness, Rían, as there was in your father.”

The fire crackled warmly as the laughter began to settle, the camaraderie of the moment lingering in the air. Calen leaned forward then, his eyes alight with mischief. “Speaking of madness,” he began, his tone teasing, “shall we speak of Rían herself? That apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

As the story shifted, Aragorn sat back, his expression a mixture of amusement and pride. Though he did not speak again, his presence lent the moment a quiet gravity, a reminder of the bonds forged in laughter and shared memory.

Rían groaned, rolling her eyes as she tipped her head back in mock despair. “Oh no,” she said, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Here it comes. Another tale of my supposed insanity.”

Calen smirked, his weathered face alight with mirth. “It’s not supposed, Captain. It’s well-documented,” he said, gesturing to the gathered company. “You may as well let them hear it, for they’ll find out soon enough.”

Boromir leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as his interest piqued. “Go on,” he encouraged, his grin widening. “I’ve a feeling this will be good.”

Calen chuckled, shaking his head as he began. “It was one of her first proper patrols with us. Middle of winter. A northern winter, mind you—not the mild kind you get in Gondor. The sort that bites right to your bones and makes you regret ever leaving the fire.”

Rían sighed dramatically, waving her hand. She already knew what the next part is going to be.  “Oh, go on, Calen. Tell them how you got yourself shot.”

“I was about to,” Calen replied with mock indignation. “An arrow caught me in the leg. Not deadly, mind you, but enough to stop me from running. And of course, with my luck, there were still orcs hot on our heels.”

The Gondorian soldiers leaned closer, their faces reflecting both disbelief and intrigue. One young man asked, “What did you do?”

Rían shifted slightly, her hand resting lightly on the edge of her cloak as she leaned closer to the fire. A glint of humor shone in her grey eyes as she replied, “Well, Calen here told me to leave him behind. To abandon him and save myself.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” Calen interjected, his weathered face breaking into a wry grin. Despite the lines etched into his features, there was a warmth in his gaze that spoke of long camaraderie. “Better one of us make it out than neither.”

Rían snorted softly, shaking her head, the firelight catching in her hair as it shifted with the movement. “And I told him,” she continued, her voice tinged with mock severity, “‘Over my dead body.’”

The soldiers chuckled at her words, the tension of the story easing momentarily. But as Rían continued, her playful tone softened, and her expression grew more thoughtful. “I dragged him to the edge of a rock outcrop and left him hidden in the snow, tucked behind a boulder. Told him to stay put.”

“Of course, I argued,” Calen cut in, shaking his head as if still exasperated by his younger companion. “Told her she was mad. Thought she’d lost her senses, running off to meet a group of orcs head-on alone, when she was barely a proper ranger.”

“Well, I didn’t meet them head-on,” Rían corrected, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she glanced at him. Her tone was calm, yet a flicker of pride danced in her gaze. “Not exactly. I had another idea.”

She paused, letting the suspense linger. The soldiers leaned in unconsciously, their breaths held as if they could see the scene unfolding before them. One of the younger men, his brow furrowed in curiosity, couldn’t resist breaking the silence. “What did you do?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Rían’s smile deepened as she leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “We carried ice skates with us back then—makes it easier to move across frozen rivers and lakes. I strapped them on, got onto  the frozen lake the orcs were barreling toward, and skated out to meet them.”

“Skated?” one of the Gondorian soldiers blurted, his jaw dropping slightly. His incredulous tone echoed through the camp. “Against orcs?”

Rían chuckled, lifting her cup in a mock toast to their disbelief. “That’s right,” she said, her voice light with amusement. “I couldn’t beat them in strength, so I figured I’d outwit them. I skated circles around them, weaving back and forth across the ice while they wasted their arrows trying to hit me.”

Calen, seated to her right, shook his head as he leaned back against a nearby log. “When I saw her gliding out onto that lake,” he said, his voice warm with memory, “I thought I was hallucinating. I was bleeding out, half in shock, and suddenly, there she was—skating across the ice like some spirit from a tale, her hair flying behind her in the wind.”

The rangers laughed, and even Aragorn, who had been listening silently, chuckled softly, his gaze warm. “And what happened then?” he asked, his tone curious.

“I suppose it must have looked strange,” she admitted, “but it worked. The orcs were as stupid as I hoped – they wasted all their arrows  trying to hit me. And when they ran out, they got angry. Stupidly angry.”

“They always do,” Boromir remarked dryly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he listened with interest.

“They tried to follow me onto the ice,” Rían continued, her voice carrying the pride of a clever victory. “As you can imagine,” Rían said, a glint of triumph in her gaze, “orcs aren’t the lightest of creatures. One by one, they fell through the ice, straight into the freezing water below.”

The Gondorians erupted into laughter, clapping their hands and shaking their heads in amazement. “And you didn’t get hit by their arrows?” one of them asked, his tone skeptical.

“Oh, I got hit,” Rían replied matter-of-factly, lifting her cup again. “Not directly, but grazed in enough places to keep the healers busy for days. I had stitches in more places than I care to remember.”

Rían leaned back slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of her cloak as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “In fact,” she added, her tone light with self-deprecation, “that little stint nearly ended my ranger career before it truly began.”

“Why do you say that?” another of the Gondorian soldiers asked, leaning closer, his brows furrowed in curiosity.

With a wry smile, Rían reached up and pulled back the dark strands of her hair, revealing a scar a little above her ear, hidden partially by her hair.“This one,” she said, tapping the mark lightly. “An arrow grazed me as I turned too sharply. Another few centimeters to the right, and it would’ve gone straight through my eye.”

The group murmured in astonishment, a few soldiers leaning closer to inspect the scar before sitting back, shaking their heads in amazement.

“I thought I’d have to carry her back alongside me,” Calen interjected with a chuckle, though his voice carried a note of fondness. “She just kept going, though—dragged me through the snow like a mule and refused to stop until we were safe.”

“I remember you begging me to stop for a rest,” Rían teased, her grin playful. “Said something about preferring freezing to  death over me dragging you by the arms any farther.”

“I wasn’t begging,” Calen protested, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. “I was stating facts. You’re surprisingly stubborn for someone so small.”

“And you’re surprisingly heavy for someone who isn’t a troll,” Rían retorted, the warmth of their banter drawing laughter from the company.

One of the younger Gondorian soldiers, his face alight with awe, leaned forward. “How did you even think to use the ice skates?” he asked. “I can barely stand on frozen ground without slipping, let alone on skates.”

Rían shrugged lightly, though her eyes glinted with amusement. “I suppose it’s one of those things you just grow up with in the north,” she replied. “I learned to skate as a small child. The frozen rivers and lakes are our roads in winter. You learn early or you don’t get very far.”

Boromir, who had been listening quietly, let out a low whistle. “You’re full of surprises, Rían,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. “I’ve met warriors who could wield swords and bows with the best of them, but I’ve never heard of anyone defeating orcs with a pair of skates.”

“It wasn’t the skates that defeated them,” Calen interjected with a smirk. “It was her audacity. Orcs are stupid, but it takes a special kind of mad to lure them onto a frozen lake.”

Rían laughed, the sound clear and bright, though there was a flicker of nostalgia in her eyes as she looked at Calen. “Madness or not, it worked,” she said simply. “And I’d do it again, if it meant saving someone.”

The group fell into a comfortable silence, the fire crackling softly as the stars began to emerge overhead. There was a sense of camaraderie in the air, the shared laughter and stories binding them together in the aftermath of war.

As the flames danced in the firelight, Boromir raised his cup, a grin tugging at his lips. “To Rían,” he said, his voice carrying warmth and respect. “And to her particular brand of madness.” The company echoed the toast, laughter and cheer filling the camp once more as they drank.

***

Faramir sat by the open window of the Houses of Healing, his thoughts restless as the soft hum of Minas Tirith stirred outside. The scent of spring flowers drifted in from the gardens, mingling with the faint tang of herbs and ointments inside the room. It should have been soothing, but the tension in his chest refused to abate. His gaze turned eastward, past the walls of the city, toward the shadowed horizon where the armies of the West gathered.

The healers moved quietly around him, their voices low but not inaudible.

“She was here, you know,” one of them whispered, her words cutting through his thoughts like the pluck of a harp string. “The lady ranger. Sat at his bedside for hours, they say. Sang to him in that fair accent of the North.”

“Beautiful, wasn’t she?” another chimed in. “Uncommon. Like something out of the elder days. He was fevered, though, poor thing—likely doesn’t even remember.”

Faramir shifted uncomfortably in his chair, heat rising to his cheeks. He clenched his hands on the carved wooden arms, his mind spinning. He did remember, though faintly. A cool hand on his brow. A soft voice, low and melodic, singing. Was it truly Rían?

Of course, it had to be her. Who else would it have been? Yet the thought of her sitting by his side, tending to him with such care, stirred something within him he could not quite name—something that both comforted and unnerved him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of light footsteps. He turned his head to see Éowyn entering the room. Her golden hair fell loosely around her shoulders, though her left arm was still bound in a sling. She looked pale but composed, her sharp eyes softening as she approached.

“Lord Faramir,” she said gently. “May I sit with you?” The two had grown rather close during the days that they spent in the Houses Of Healing, basically prisoners of the healers. They carried similar sadness within and they found they got along well together. 

Faramir nodded, forcing a small smile. “Of course, Lady Éowyn. Though I fear I make poor company.”

She took the seat beside him with a graceful nod, though she winced slightly as she settled. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves outside. Éowyn’s gaze followed his, out toward the east, and she was the first to break the stillness.

You are restless,” she observed, her voice low and even, though there was a faint note of amusement in it. “You watch the horizon as though it could make them return any quicker.”

Faramir exhaled slowly, his shoulders sinking under the weight of her words. He ran a hand through his dark hair, brushing back a stray lock that had fallen into his face. “It is difficult not to,” he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. “They are so far away, and I… I sit here, caged, useless.” His fingers curled tightly around the armrest, betraying the tension he tried to mask.

Éowyn shifted slightly in her seat, her gaze unwavering as she regarded him. Her movements were measured, almost regal, though her presence carried none of the stiffness of formality. “Is it only the distance that troubles you?” she asked gently, her voice probing but not unkind.

Faramir hesitated, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the right words. His eyes flickered briefly toward her before returning to the horizon. “No,” he said at last, his tone quieter, laden with unease. “It is not just the distance. It is…” He paused, his hands gripping the edge of his chair as though grounding himself. “A tangle of feelings I cannot seem to unravel.”

Éowyn leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on her knees as her lips curved faintly, though her expression remained kind. “You think of her, don’t you?” she asked, her tone gentle yet knowing. “Lady Rían?”

Faramir’s head snapped toward her, his grey eyes wide with surprise. “How do you even knowthat?” he began, his voice trailing off, puzzled and defensive.

Éowyn’s faint smile remained, though her gaze softened. “You spoke her name in your fever,” she explained simply, her voice calm. “And the healers… they talk. Besides,” she added with a teasing lilt, “I think even a blind man could see it clearly.”

Faramir let out a humorless laugh, leaning back against the chair as he covered his face briefly with one hand. “Of course they do,” he muttered, his voice low. “It seems everyone knows my heart better than I do myself.”

Éowyn studied him for a long moment, her gaze steady and thoughtful. “Do they?” she asked, her tone gentle but pointed.

Faramir dropped his hand, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I don’t know what I feel. I think of her constantly—her voice, her courage, the way she…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing deeply as he struggled to articulate the storm within him. “But the thought of it—it feels impossible. Inappropriate.”

Éowyn raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair with an air of mild incredulity. “Inappropriate?” she repeated, her voice tinged with amusement.

Faramir’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair as he straightened slightly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “She is bold, fierce, independent,” he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. “And I… I feel like a shadow of myself. How could I…?” His voice faltered, and he looked away, his expression tightening with self-reproach.

Éowyn’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile as she tilted her head. “You sound like a man who fears what he feels,” she said softly, “not one who does not know it.”

Faramir’s gaze snapped back to her, startled by her words. “I… I cannot afford to be distracted now,” he said, his voice rising slightly with urgency. “There is too much at stake.”

Éowyn leaned forward again, her expression earnest, her hands clasped together. “Is it distraction, or is it what gives you strength?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm. “The ones we think of, the ones we care for—they are why we fight, are they not? Why we endure?”

Her words struck a chord in him, and he fell silent, his gaze dropping to his hands, which now rested limply in his lap. The storm within him seemed to calm just slightly, though it did not fade entirely.

“Do not be ashamed of what you feel, Faramir,” Éowyn continued, her voice softening. “It is what makes us human, especially in times such as these.”

Faramir nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful, though the weight in his eyes remained. “I am still unsure,” he said at last, his voice low. “But… thank you. Your words bring some clarity, even if my heart remains a storm.”

Éowyn gave him a small, understanding smile, her eyes filled with quiet empathy. “Storms pass, Faramir,” she said gently. “They leave behind clearer skies.”

She rose then, her movements graceful and deliberate, and inclined her head to him. “Rest,” she said, her tone kind but firm. “You will need your strength. For her—and for yourself.”

As she left, Faramir turned back to the window. He still felt the restlessness in his chest, but Éowyn’s words stayed with him, like a steady flame in the shadows. His thoughts remained tangled, but amid the confusion, one thing grew clearer: he cared for Rían. Deeply. And though he could not yet admit it fully to himself, the knowledge settled into his heart, both frightening and grounding him.

***

The embers of the fire glowed faintly, casting soft, flickering light across the camp. Most of the soldiers and rangers had retreated to their bedrolls or found quieter corners to rest, their laughter and revelry giving way to the hush of the late hour. Rían and Boromir remained by the fire, the silence between them companionable, broken only by the occasional crackle of the dying flames.

Rían sat cross-legged, absently tracing patterns in the dirt with a stray twig. Her dark hair, still loose from the evening’s celebrations, shimmered faintly in the firelight. Boromir sat on a log across from her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“You fought well today,” Boromir said at last, his voice low but steady. “I was impressed.”

Rían glanced up at him, her lips curving into a small, wry smile. “High praise from the Captain of Gondor,” she replied lightly, though there was a flicker of genuine gratitude in her tone.

“I don’t give such praise lightly,” he said, his smile widening. “The way you led your rangers—sharp, fearless, and with a tongue sharper than your sword. I can see why Aragorn entrusted you with them.”

Rían chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Ah, my mother always said my tongue would get me into trouble someday. Perhaps it still will.” She tilted her head, studying Boromir. “But I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to find myself sitting by a fire with you, swapping compliments. I thought the noble sons of Gondor kept their distance from us uncouth northerners.”

Boromir laughed, a deep, warm sound that broke the stillness of the night. “Uncouth?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But I think I’ve decided you’re worth the risk, Rían.” He leaned back slightly, his expression softening. “Truthfully, I can see us becoming friends.”

Rían arched an eyebrow, feigning suspicion. “Friends, Boromir? You’re not just saying that because I saved your hide on the battlefield, are you?”

His grin widened, a flicker of amusement lighting his grey eyes. “I wouldn’t dare,” he said, his tone playful. Then, more seriously, he added, “Faramir told me that you and I are quite alike. He said we’d get along well.”

Rían leaned back slightly, her smile growing. “That’s peculiar,” she said, her voice tinged with amusement. “Because Faramir told me the very same thing.” She paused, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Though now that I think of it, perhaps we’ll get along too well. He might come to regret introducing us.”

Boromir laughed again, shaking his head. “That would serve him right for meddling,” he said, though his voice carried a note of fondness. “He’s always been better at reading people than I am.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the fire’s glow reflected in their faces. Rían turned her gaze to the horizon, where the faintest sliver of light hinted at the approaching dawn. Her smile faded slightly, replaced by a more wistful expression.

“I hope Faramir will be alright when we return,” she murmured, her voice quiet. “I know the healers are doing all they can, but…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Boromir studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “He will be,” he said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of his conviction. “Faramir is strong. Stronger than even he knows. You must have faith in him.”

Rían nodded slowly, though the worry lingered in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again, glancing down at the twig in her hand. Boromir watched her in silence, his gaze warm but guarded. Though he had noticed the bond she and his brother shared, the quiet affection that spoke volumes, he chose not to comment on it. It was not his place—not yet.

At last, Rían rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her hands. “I think I’ll take Calen’s advice for once,” she said lightly, her smile returning. “I’ll find my bedroll before someone drags me there.”

Boromir chuckled, inclining his head. “A wise decision,” he said. “Goodnight, Rían.”

“Goodnight, Boromir,” she replied, her voice soft as she turned and made her way toward the tents.

As she disappeared into the shadows, Boromir sat back, his gaze lingering on the glowing embers of the fire. For all the sorrow and hardship that lay behind them, and all the uncertainty still ahead, there was something about this moment—this bond forged in battle and tempered by trust—that gave him hope.

***

The day was clear and bright, the morning sun casting its golden light over the white walls of Minas Tirith. The city, which had long endured the shadows of despair, now stood in joyous celebration. Flowers rained from the hands of its people—petals of white and gold scattered like stars across the streets—as the sound of trumpets and cheers filled the air. Banners bearing the symbols of the Tree and Crown fluttered from every balcony, and the hearts of Gondor were full as they welcomed home the  King returning to claim the throne.

At the head of the procession rode Aragorn, now also called Elessar, the rightful King returned. Clad in simple mail over which a cloak of deep blue was fastened at his shoulders, he bore no crown upon his brow, yet he seemed a king already—his face noble and serene, as though the weight of ages rested upon it lightly.

Beside him, matching his calm presence with quiet pride, rode Rían. Her breast  bore the star of the Dúnedain upon her breast, and the silver gleam of it caught the sunlight as though the heavens themselves wished to mark her. Her dark hair fell loose, save where it was plaited and adorned with a small braid of silver thread—an echo of her Northern kin. Her eyes shone as she looked upon the people of Gondor, and her lips were curved into a gentle smile.

Behind them rode the Rangers of the North, their faces weathered but noble, a remnant of an ancient people who had wandered long in the shadows, now stepping into the light. At their side, with a proud and commanding presence, rode Boromir, leading the men of Gondor who had fought and bled for the White City. The cheers swelled louder when they appeared, the sons of Gondor returning victorious.

Faramir stood apart from the throng, watching the procession from a balcony in the Houses of Healing. His wounds were still bound, and though pain lingered in his body, his heart was lightened to see the King return. He leaned against the stone railing, the breeze lifting his fair hair as his grey eyes lingered on the procession below.

It was then that he saw her—Rían, riding beside Aragorn almost as an equal, her bearing proud, her face alight with a joy he had rarely seen in her. The people looked upon her and knew her as one of the Dúnedain, a warrior of the North who had shared in their victory. To Faramir, though, she was more than that. As she smiled, framed in the morning light, her dark hair rippling against her tunic, she seemed to him the fairest sight in all of Middle-earth. For a moment, he forgot his wounds, forgot the world entirely; there was only her, radiant and unbowed, a living song.

His breath caught as, suddenly, her gaze found him amid the crowd. Her smile widened, and her face lit up as though she had seen something precious. Faramir felt warmth flood his chest at the sight, though he remained frozen, unable to look away.

Aragorn, noticing her expression, leaned over slightly in his saddle, his voice pitched low but teasing. “It seems someone has caught your eye, Rían.”

Rían shook her head, though a faint blush crept to her cheeks. “Peace, Aragorn,” she replied, half-laughing, half-flustered.

“You will not deny it,” Aragorn said, his voice softer now, though his eyes glimmered with knowing. “Go to him. The North has ridden long at my side, and for today, they may celebrate freely.”

Rían hesitated only a moment before nodding. Without another word, she spurred her horse forward, parting from the procession with swift grace. The cheers of the people followed her as she rode toward the Houses of Healing, her path cutting through the gathered throng like a dark star streaking across the day.

***

Rían stepped into the quiet chamber of the Houses of Healing, her steps light, though each one seemed weighed with an invisible burden. The soft glow of the morning light filtered through the high-arched windows, gilding the stone walls with a golden haze. The scent of fresh herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of beeswax candles. It was a space of solace and restoration, yet Rían’s heart still beat with an edge of unease. Days had passed since the clash at the Black Gate, days of uncertainty as she had marched with Aragorn, her thoughts never far from Faramir.

Her sharp gaze swept across the room, taking in the rows of simple cots and the still forms of the wounded. Her heart quickened as she searched for him—the one whose absence had haunted her most of all.

And then she saw him.

Faramir stood near the far window, his silhouette framed by the light of the sun. His stance was upright, though she could see the tension in his shoulders, the faint sag in his posture that spoke of weariness not yet conquered. He leaned lightly against the windowsill, one hand braced as though steadying himself, the other resting at his side. His face was turned toward the horizon, where the last light of day painted the sky in hues of gold and violet. He looked at peace, and yet there was a yearning in his expression, as if his thoughts wandered to distant lands and uncertain futures.

Rían’s breath caught in her throat. He was thinner than when she had last seen him, the contours of his face sharper, his skin still pale from the ordeal of his near-death. Yet his grey eyes, now turning toward her as if drawn by her presence, held the same steady warmth she had always known. Their gazes locked, and in that instant, the weight of her fear, her longing, and her hope surged within her.

“Faramir?” Her voice, though soft, trembled with emotion as she stepped further into the room.

At the sound of her voice, he turned fully, his movements slow and deliberate. For a moment, he simply looked at her, as if trying to convince himself that she was truly there and not some figment of his imagination. Then, a small smile curved his lips, gentle but filled with a quiet joy that made her heart ache.

“Rían,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking her name might shatter the fragile moment. “You’re here.” There was a tremor in his tone, a mixture of relief and disbelief, as if he had been waiting for this moment but dared not hope too strongly for it.

He took a step toward her, unsteady but resolute. Before she could think, before she could even breathe, he reached out and gathered her into his arms.

The embrace caught her by surprise, her body tensing for the briefest of moments before melting against him. His arms encircled her, one hand resting firmly at her back while the other cradled the back of her head, his touch both protective and gentle. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, feeling the faint tremble in his frame and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His scent enveloped her—a mix of clean linens, faint herbs, and the indefinable essence of him that she had missed more than she could admit.

“I was terrified,” he murmured against her hair, his voice low and filled with raw honesty. “Terrified I was going to lose you. Every day, I looked toward Mordor, wondering where you were, if you were safe… if you and Boromir were even alive.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of those days pressing down on her again. She had marched beside Aragorn with her head held high, her resolve unshaken, but in the quiet moments of rest, her thoughts had always strayed to Faramir—wondering if he had survived, if the shadow of the Black Breath had claimed him despite their efforts. Now, feeling the warmth of him, the solidness of his presence, it was as though something had broken within her.

When he finally pulled back, his hands lingered, one resting on her shoulder, the other brushing against her arm. His touch was light, hesitant, as though afraid she might slip away. She looked up at him, her grey eyes meeting his. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence filled only with the soft hum of the distant city and the rustling of the wind beyond the windows.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said at last, her voice light but tinged with concern. Her brow arched slightly, though her lips betrayed the ghost of a smile. “The healers wouldn’t approve.”

He gave a small, sheepish laugh, his gaze flickering to the bandages visible beneath the loose tunic he wore. “They told me to rest, but…” He paused, his expression softening as his eyes met hers again. “I couldn’t stay there. I needed to see you.”

Her heart warmed at his words, though she managed to keep her expression stern. “You’re lucky I don’t march you back to your bed myself,” she said, though the edge in her voice was softened by the faint blush that rose to her cheeks. “You’re not invincible, Faramir.”

He smiled, the corners of his lips curving with both affection and amusement. “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But seeing you here… I feel stronger already.”

Rían rolled her eyes, though the warmth in her expression betrayed her. “Come, then,” she said, stepping closer and slipping her hand beneath his arm to support him. “Let’s get you back before you test the patience of the healers any further.”

As they moved slowly toward the bed, his hand slid down to rest over hers, his fingers curling lightly around hers. “I didn’t expect you to be the one to fuss over me,” he said, his tone soft and teasing. “You, who always seemed so steadfast and independent.”

She glanced at him, her lips parting as if to respond, but then her gaze faltered, her expression growing more serious. “You almost died, Faramir,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. And now, seeing you here… I—” She broke off, her throat tightening with the weight of unspoken emotion.

He stopped, turning to face her fully, his hand lifting to gently cup her cheek. “But you didn’t lose me,” he said, his voice low and steady, the sincerity in his tone anchoring her. “I’m still here, Rían. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Her chest rose and fell as she looked into his eyes, the world narrowing to just the two of them. His thumb brushed lightly against her cheek, and the tenderness in his touch sent a warmth spreading through her that she couldn’t ignore. His hand was warm against hers, and for the briefest of moments, she felt as if the world had stopped turning. In that moment, all the fear, all the uncertainty that had plagued her heart in the days leading up to this, seemed to fall away.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Faramir’s thumb gently stroked the back of her hand, and he gave her a soft, smile. His gaze lingered on her, the flickering lantern light casting a golden glow over her face. She looked at him with such quiet strength, her features softened by a rare and unguarded tenderness. It was a look that struck him to his core, filling him with a deep ache that he could neither name nor suppress.

She was beautiful beyond anything he had words for. Not merely in the way her hair framed her face or how her lips parted slightly as if she might speak—but in the way she carried herself, the way her spirit burned steady and bright despite the shadows that had sought to dim it.

Faramir’s chest tightened, his breath catching as an unbidden thought stirred within him: how would it feel to kiss her? The idea was at once exhilarating and terrifying, and it filled him with a yearning he struggled to master.

He tightened his grip on her hand, seeking some anchor as his thoughts raced. He wanted, desperately, to close the small space between them, to know the warmth of her lips, to let his heart speak the words his tongue dared not. But fear held him fast—fear that she might draw back, startled or uncertain, and fear that he had no right to reach for her.

She is Rían of the North, there will be ballads sung of her, he thought, the words a mix of awe and doubt. And I am… only me.

“Rían,” he murmured at last, her name soft as a breath. He could say no more, the weight of his emotions too great.

Instead, he let his thumb brush lightly over the back of her hand, a silent promise to himself. He would not rush this, nor risk losing the fragile bond between them. But as he looked into her eyes, Faramir knew one truth with painful clarity: his feelings would not stay hidden forever.

Before Faramir could say or do anything, the door of the room opened quietly, and Boromir stepped in, his presence as commanding as ever, though his face was softer now, the weight of the battle and the loss of their father pressing on him. He paused at the doorway for a moment, looking at his brother with an unreadable expression before his gaze shifted to Rían.

“I see I’m interrupting,” Boromir said with a slight smirk, though there was no malice in his tone. “I was hoping for a moment alone with my brother.”

Rían nodded, understanding. She glanced back at Faramir. He gave her a small, grateful smile. She didn’t need to hear any more words from him—she could see in his eyes that he was okay for now, that he was grateful for her presence.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” she said softly, her voice laced with a gentle affection.

As she moved towards the door, Boromir called out, his tone teasing yet warm, “Don’t worry, Faramir. I’m sure your lady friend isn’t going far. No need to watch her leave like that.” He winked at his brother with a knowing grin.

Faramir’s face flushed, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red at his brother’s teasing. He cleared his throat, trying to muster his usual composure. “I was not—” he began, but his words faltered. It was true, after all. He had been watching her, but he didn’t have the energy to explain himself. 

“Not what, Faramir?” Boromir grinned wider, crossing his arms. “Come now, I’m not blind. You look at her the way a man looks at something—or someone—he cares about.”

Faramir flinched, looking away, but then gave a tired smile. “Give me some peace, Boromir. I’ve just been shot with an arrow. I’m hardly in the mood for your… matchmaking.”

“Oh, I’m not matchmaking, little brother,” Boromir said with a smirk. “I’m just stating the obvious. You look at her like she’s the most precious thing in all of Middle-Earth.” He lowered his voice slightly, his tone growing serious but still teasing. “And who could blame you? She fought like a fury at the Black Gate. I was impressed by how she handled herself. Fearsome, that one.”

Faramir’s face softened at the mention of Rían. His thoughts wandered back to, the way she had moved with such purpose and strength, fighting like a force of nature. She had always been a fierce and capable warrior.

Boromir, clearly not missing the softness in his brother’s expression, chuckled. “Don’t worry, Faramir. I’ll leave it for now. I’m just glad to see you alive and well.” His expression shifted, becoming more sincere. “You scared me, you know. I thought we might lose you there for a moment. You’ve always been the more thoughtful one, the steady hand. But seeing you in that state, I realized just how much I depend on you, little brother.”

Faramir felt his heart tighten at the sincerity in Boromir’s voice. It was rare for his older brother to show such vulnerability, and Faramir found it comforting in a way that was almost too much to bear. He gave a small, grateful smile. “I’m still here, Boromir. I don’t plan to go anywhere.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Boromir replied, a chuckle creeping back into his tone. “But just remember, next time, try not to get yourself shot, eh?”

Faramir smiled ruefully. “I’ll try my best.”

Chapter Text

The days following their reunion in the Houses of Healing passed in a blur, though for both Rían and Faramir, time felt strangely suspended. Each morning dawned with the promise of purpose—duties to fulfill, tasks to occupy their hands and minds—and yet, the weight of unspoken words hung heavy between them.

Boromir, now the steward of Gondor in all but name, threw himself into the preparations for Aragorn’s coronation with tireless fervor. The city stirred with new life, its streets echoing with hammer blows and the clatter of tradesmen hastening to restore Minas Tirith to its rightful splendor. Faramir worked at his brother’s side as much as his still-recovering strength allowed, though it was not without the pointed disapproval of the healers who had urged him to rest. He ignored their admonishments, for in work, he found distraction—though not relief—from the restless ache in his heart.

Rían, meanwhile, sought solace in solitude. She spent her days wandering the gardens of the city, where the first shoots of spring had begun to bloom amidst the lingering scars of war. The scent of flowers mingled with the fresh air of the mountains, but it did little to ease her thoughts. Sometimes, she ventured into the bustling markets, her ranger’s boots a stark contrast to the fine slippers of the townsfolk who thronged the stalls. The voices of merchants hawking their wares and the laughter of children were welcome reminders of a world that still endured, yet even there, Rían found no peace.

When the walls of the city grew too confining, she joined the scouting parties tasked with clearing the countryside of any remnants of the Enemy. The rides were hard and grueling, yet the strain on her body was a welcome reprieve from the strain on her mind. Each swing of her sword, each arrow loosed, was a fleeting escape from the memories that haunted her: her mother’s frail voice in her final moments, and the lingering warmth of Faramir’s touch when he had held her in the Houses Of Healing.

Her last conversation with her mother replayed itself over and over, a bittersweet refrain that refused to fade. “I hope you find someone who loves you as deeply as your father loved me. I hope you are not left to face the shadows without a hand to hold.” The words echoed in her mind, but the more she thought of them, the more she doubted that Faramir could be that man. Not because of any flaw in him—indeed, he seemed too perfect. He was sweet and gentle, yet steadfast and wise beyond his years, a man who carried the weight of Gondor’s hopes on his shoulders.

And she? She was just Rían—a ranger of the North, with no title, no noble lineage, and no place in a world of kings and stewards. She belonged to the wilds, to the untamed lands beyond the borders of Gondor, and she could not imagine herself at Faramir’s side in the great halls of Minas Tirith. It seemed an impossible dream, one she dared not voice, not even to herself.

She saw him only in passing—a brief exchange of words in the corridors, a nod of acknowledgment across the courtyard. Each encounter left her chest tight and her throat dry, and though she longed to speak to him, to tell him of the turmoil in her heart, she found she could not.

Faramir, for his part, was no less troubled. Though his duties kept him busy, his thoughts always wandered back to Rían. He feared to seek her out, terrified that his feelings for her had grown too obvious to hide. And yet, the few glimpses he caught of her—whether striding through the city in her ranger’s garb or standing at the edge of a garden with the wind in her hair—stirred a longing so deep it threatened to undo him.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting long, golden shafts of light over the rugged hills and dense forests that stretched out before them. The patrol of Rangers moved with practiced ease, their eyes ever-vigilant, the quiet hum of nature surrounding them—a stark contrast to the clamor of war that had recently echoed across these lands. The victory over Sauron was still fresh in their minds, yet their task was not complete. They rode now to ensure that no remnants of the enemy lingered in the shadows.

Rían rode close to Calen, their horses moving in a synchronized rhythm as they traversed the uneven terrain. Calen’s figure was solid and dependable, his worn leathers bearing the marks of countless journeys through the wild. His dark hair, streaked with silver, framed a face weathered by time and hardship, each line a testament to the seasons he had endured. His keen eyes, ever watchful, turned to Rían, observing the quiet tension in her expression.

“You’re looking sullen today,” Calen remarked, his voice carrying a note of gentle curiosity. His words broke the silence, prompting Rían to glance his way.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I had a peculiar dream,” she admitted, her tone thoughtful, as though she was still grappling with its meaning. After a moment of reflection, she added, “It was about Halbarad.”

Calen’s brows knit together in interest, his gaze steady as he probed further. “What did the dream say?” he asked, his voice low, encouraging her to share more.

Rían shook her head slowly, her smile turning wry. “That’s the strangest part,” she said, a hint of disbelief coloring her tone. “He was yelling at me, telling me not to throw my life away so fast, to stop thinking constantly about every bad thing that’s ever happened to me.” She paused, the vivid memory of the dream lingering in her mind, then let out a soft, ironic laugh. “And then he said something about pulling my head out of my ass and finally looking at the people who care about me.”

Calen chuckled, the sound rich with affection and familiarity. “That sounds like Halbarad,” he said, a smile breaking across his rugged features. “Blunt as ever when it mattered.”

Rían’s smile softened as she allowed herself to be swept back into another memory, one that had etched itself deeply into her heart. “It was more than just a dream,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, laden with the weight of the past. “It was a memory. I was reckless back then. Remember that nasty stab in my side I got because of it?”

Calen’s expression darkened, a shadow passing over his face as he remembered the event. “We all thought we’d have to bury you next to your mother,” he said, his voice grim. “It looked bad… There was just… so much blood.”

Rían shook her head, wincing a little. She didn’t remember most of what happened, but the face Aragorn made as he carried her to the healers was burned into her memory. He looked scared, and she thought then, that it must be really bad, because never before had she seen him scared.  

“When I finally woke up, Halbarad was sitting by my bedside,” she said, her voice soft with nostalgia. “He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, pale and exhausted. I thought he’d be relieved to see me awake,” Rían laughed at the memory, shaking her head a little. “But instead, he yelled at me so much that he nearly lost his voice.”

Calen regarded her with a thoughtful look, his gaze steady and supportive. “Well, he had a point. Maybe the dream was a reminder,” he said, his tone measured. “That he still stands by his words.”

Rían considered his words, a soft smile curving her lips as she nodded slowly. “Maybe it was,” she murmured, her gaze drifting to the horizon where the first rays of the sun kissed the earth with a golden glow. “Let us hope it’s not that he is so displeased with us burying him so far from the North that he decided to haunt our dreams,” she added, a wry smile tugging at her lips.

Calen chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, easing some of the tension in the air. “Knowing Halbarad, he’d do more than haunt our dreams if he were truly displeased,” he said with a grin. “But I think, if anything, he’d be proud—proud of you, of the life you’ve chosen to keep fighting for. He always did have a way of pushing those he cared about to see their own worth.”

Rían’s smile deepened, her eyes reflecting a mix of affection and lingering sorrow. “He did,” she agreed softly, the warmth of their shared memories a comfort against the ache of loss.

Calen leaned back in the saddle, his gaze lingering on Rían with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Tell me, I’ve been curious,” he began, his tone light and teasing, “Where is your Gondorian captain, Rían? I noticed you two were rather… close.”

Rían stiffened slightly, though she hid it well, turning her gaze toward the horizon as if the distant mountains held the answer. “Faramir is busy,” she said simply, her voice calm but carefully neutral. “The coronation approaches, and his duties leave him with little time to spare.”

Calen chuckled, clearly unconvinced. “Ah, of course,” he said with exaggerated seriousness. “Busy with the affairs of Gondor. And here you are, conveniently busy with your own duties, avoiding each other like two people who are determined to act as if nothing’s there.”

Rían shot him a sharp look, though her lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile. “It’s not like that,” she said, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears.

“Not like that?” Calen laughed outright now, shaking his head. “Rían, the man was following you around the battlefield like a lost puppy. Half the rangers noticed it, though I suspect most were too afraid to comment. And yet you—” He gestured toward her with exasperation. “You, of all people, are determined to act as though you’re blind to it.”

Rían looked away, her fingers tightening slightly on the reins of her horse. “I’m not blind to anything,” she said quietly, her voice lacking its usual sharpness. She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the horizon as her thoughts churned. “I’m… cautious. That’s all.”

“Cautious?” Calen repeated, his teasing tone softening as he regarded her. “Rían, I’ve seen you charge headfirst into danger without a second thought, but when it comes to this, you’re… scared.”

The words hung in the air, and Rían’s breath caught for a moment before she exhaled slowly. “Maybe I am,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because it’s different. Because caring for someone like that… it’s terrifying. It’s like opening a part of yourself that you’ve kept locked away for so long, and I don’t know if I can do that.”

Calen’s expression softened, his usual humor giving way to quiet understanding. “Rían,” he said gently, “you’ve lost so much. Halbarad, your family… I can’t imagine how heavy that must weigh on you. But letting yourself care for someone doesn’t mean you’ll lose them. And if you keep shutting yourself off, you’ll miss the chance to let someone share that weight.”

Rían didn’t reply at first, her gaze fixed on the horizon as she processed his words. The ache in her chest felt heavier now, but not entirely unwelcome. “It’s not as simple as that,” she said finally, though her voice lacked its usual conviction.

“Maybe not,” Calen agreed, a small smile playing at his lips. “But nothing worth having ever is.”

Rían turned her gaze back to him, her grey eyes searching his face for a moment before she sighed softly. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” she said, though her tone carried no real bite.

“Of course,” Calen said with a grin, his mood lightening again. “But I’m also right.”

Rían shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Let’s keep moving,” she said, spurring her horse forward, though her thoughts remained tangled, Faramir’s name lingering in her mind like an unanswered question.

Rían reined in her horse before the rangers, her dark cloak flowing behind her as the wind caught its edge. She turned in the saddle, her keen gaze sweeping over the rangers trailing behind her. The dawn light painted her features with a soft glow, but there was nothing soft in her bearing. She straightened, her posture commanding yet poised, and when she spoke, her voice rang out clear and firm, carrying across the open plains like the toll of a bell.

“Gentlemen! We fan out!” she called, her tone steady, resolute, leaving no room for hesitation. Her hand rose sharply to draw their attention, the gesture as purposeful as her words. “You know the drill! Let no corner of this land remain unsearched. The shadow has fled, but we must ensure it does not linger.”

The rangers stirred at her words, their faces set with the quiet determination of men long accustomed to battle and vigilance. Even so, there was a flicker of something more in their expressions—pride, perhaps, or respect for the woman stood before them, a natural born leader.

Calen, seated astride his own steed a few paces behind, felt a faint smile tug at the corner of his weathered lips. He watched her with quiet admiration, a flicker of memory surfacing unbidden—the image of a little girl darting through their village with tangled hair and scraped knees, her laughter ringing out like the notes of a songbird. And yet here she was, no longer the child who ran barefoot through the fields, but a leader who commanded men with a natural authority.

“Who would have thought?” Calen murmured to himself, though his voice was laced with affection. The thought stirred both pride and a bittersweet ache in his heart. For though he marveled at the woman she had become, he could not forget the trials that had forged her into steel.

Rían’s gaze lingered briefly on the line of rangers before her, her dark hair catching in the breeze as she scanned their faces. “Ride with vigilance,” she added, her voice softer now, but no less resolute. “And ride with care. The shadow may have passed, but this land remembers its scars.”

With that, she turned her horse sharply, urging it forward with a flick of the reins. The rangers began to move as one, spreading out across the fields like streams branching from a great river. And as Calen fell into formation, he could not help but marvel anew at how time had shaped her—a flame tempered by sorrow but burning all the brighter for it.

***

The streets of Minas Tirith were still, the echoes of battle long faded, but the city, ever resilient, began to rebuild itself in the aftermath of the war. There was a strange peace hanging over the White City, an uneasy quiet in the air, yet the bustle of those rebuilding and restoring the city was a welcome sound.

Pippin, weary but no less full of life, wandered the streets, letting the calm of the city wash over him. The horrors of the past days were still fresh in his mind, but the sight of Minas Tirith standing proud in the sun brought a small sense of hope. After all they had endured, there was still much to be done—and so much to look forward to.

It was while wandering near the market  that he spotted Gandalf, the White Wizard, walking with his usual purposeful stride, his staff tapping the stone beneath his feet. He was alone, though there was a slight weariness to him now, the burden of the war perhaps still lingering in his heart. Yet, beneath that, there was something else—a quiet strength and wisdom that seemed ever present in him.

“Gandalf!” Pippin called, hurrying to meet him, his voice full of cheer.

Gandalf turned slowly, his piercing gaze falling upon the hobbit, and though his expression was one of mild exasperation, there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Ah, Pippin,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar weight. “What brings you to me this fine hour?”

“I need your advice,” Pippin replied, the mischievous spark in his eye betraying his usual curiosity. “It’s about Faramir and Rían.”

Gandalf’s brow furrowed slightly, and a faint sigh escaped his lips. “Faramir and Rían?” he echoed. “What concern is it of ours, Pippin? They are both of sound heart and noble mind. Let them be, as they will.”

“But Gandalf,” Pippin said, leaning in conspiratorially, “it’s obvious to everyone around them that they’re in love with one another. Everyone but them! I can’t stand seeing them tiptoe around their feelings. What can we do about it?”

Gandalf paused, his staff tapping softly against the stone. For a moment, his expression was one of disbelief, as though he had not expected such a question. “Pippin, my dear hobbit,” he said at last, the words tinged with both affection and exasperation. “It is not our place to meddle in such matters. Hearts are fickle things, and love is not something that can be coaxed or hurried.”

Pippin’s eyes twinkled, and he took a step closer. “I know, I know,” he said, grinning. “But surely you’ve seen how they are? Faramir can’t seem to look at Rían without getting that soft expression in his eyes, and Rían—well, she practically melts when he speaks to her. It’s so obvious! Can’t you help me out here?”

Gandalf gave him a long, considering look, as if weighing the matter with a great deal of thought. He then let out a sigh, though there was a glint of something almost like fondness in his gaze. “You are persistent, Pippin,” he said with a slight smile. “And perhaps… a little too eager to see things come to a conclusion. But you are right about one thing—their feelings are plain enough to see, and it is true that they both dance around it as if unsure of the steps. But,” he added, lifting his hand to silence Pippin’s eager interruption, “it is not for us to hurry them.”

Pippin pressed, undeterred. “They can’t go on like this forever. I just think it would be easier if someone gave them a little push.”

Gandalf’s lips quirked, and he regarded the hobbit with a knowing, wry smile. “A ‘push,’ you say?” he repeated, as if mulling over the idea.

Pippin watched Gandalf with eager eyes as the wizard considered his request, his brow furrowing in thought. After a long silence, Gandalf gave a resigned sigh, his staff tapping lightly on the stone floor.

“Very well, Pippin,” he said at last, with an almost reluctant smile. “I see you will not let this matter rest. Perhaps there is some small measure of help I can offer.”

Pippin’s eyes brightened, and he leaned in, his voice low but enthusiastic. “You will? I knew you’d come around, Gandalf! What should we do?”

Gandalf’s lips quirked in a smile, and he gave Pippin a knowing look. “You do not lack for persistence, Pippin. But you are also right to wish them well. Faramir, noble and dutiful, and Rían, strong and independent—they are both caught in their own thoughts, as many are in the face of such feelings.”

Pippin listened carefully, his expression thoughtful. “So, we need to help them… see it, right?”

“Yes,” Gandalf replied. “But not with force. That would only make matters more complicated. Perhaps instead, we can offer them the opportunity to see what is before them, to let them realize it in their own time.”

Pippin grinned, the spark of mischief already returning to his eyes. “So, we’ll just… suggest things a bit, in our own way?”

Gandalf chuckled, the sound low but full of mirth. “Something like that, yes. A gentle push, but nothing more. Sometimes, a small word or a quiet gesture can do more than the loudest of declarations.”

Pippin straightened, a grin spreading across his face. “I knew I could count on you, Gandalf!”

With that, the two of them turned and walked back through the streets of Minas Tirith, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet of the rebuilding city. And while the wizard spoke little more on the matter, Pippin could not help but feel a sense of anticipation. He had made up his mind. Faramir and Rían would have what they needed, and with Gandalf’s quiet help, he was certain the pair would find their way to one another—sooner rather than later.

For even the smallest of nudges could lead to great things, as Pippin well knew.

As Pippin and Gandalf made their way through the quiet streets of Minas Tirith, their footsteps mingling with the soft clatter of workmen restoring the city, they suddenly heard a voice calling from behind them.

“Gandalf! Pippin!”

Turning, they saw Boromir striding toward them, his brow furrowed with concern. His usually confident bearing was tempered with a rare seriousness, and as he approached, his gaze shifted from Gandalf to Pippin before settling back on the wizard.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Boromir said, his voice low but urgent. “It’s about my brother and Rían.”

Gandalf’s expression darkened slightly, and Pippin noticed the subtle shift in the wizard’s mood. He glanced sideways at Gandalf, who appeared more exasperated than usual.

“Do not tell me you’ve come to discuss this as well,” Gandalf muttered, rolling his eyes.

Boromir seemed undeterred, though. He came to a halt in front of them, his gaze fixed firmly on Gandalf. “I’ve noticed… well, I’ve noticed my brother’s recent behavior, and Rían’s, and I’m concerned. They are both acting as if they don’t see what is plainly before them. They’ve been dancing around one another for far too long.”

Pippin couldn’t help but glance between Gandalf and Boromir. A flicker of amusement crossed his face, though he kept it hidden, knowing how much the wizard disliked being drawn into such matters. Gandalf, however, did not share his amusement.

“Is it everyone’s business now?” Gandalf sighed, his voice a mix of exasperation and reluctant patience. “Very well. If you must involve me in this, Boromir, I suppose there’s little harm in it. Pippin and I were just discussing how to… nudge them in the right direction.”

Boromir’s expression softened, and he gave a small, grateful nod. “I had hoped you would see reason. It’s just that… my brother is so full of duty, and Rían, so fierce in her independence. It’s clear to me, and I suspect to you, that they are both too proud to admit what is growing between them.”

Gandalf looked at Pippin, then back at Boromir, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “And you believe they need… help?”

Boromir hesitated, but then nodded. “A little guidance, yes. They’ve both suffered so much, and yet they cannot see what they need right in front of them.”

Gandalf sighed, giving a look of reluctant agreement. “It seems I cannot avoid this any longer.”

Pippin gave a quiet chuckle, his face alight with mischief. “I knew you’d come around, Gandalf!”

The wizard gave him a reproachful glance but said nothing more. “Very well, Boromir. Join us. If you must involve yourself in this, you can offer your… wisdom, as well.”

Boromir gave a small, grateful smile and fell into step beside them, his long coat brushing the cobblestones.

Together, the three of them continued down the street, the sounds of the bustling city echoing around them. Though the weight of their conversation was serious, a sense of quiet camaraderie settled between them as they walked. Even Gandalf, despite his initial reluctance, seemed to accept that this was the path they were on—one where, perhaps, even a wizard could lend a helping hand to matters of the heart.

For the first time in a long while, Pippin felt a flicker of hope that things might just work out the way they were meant to.

***

The sun hung low over Minas Tirith, gilding the white stone of the city in hues of gold and pink. The air was calm, a welcome respite from the chaos and fire that had consumed Middle-earth only weeks ago. The streets were alive with joy and relief as the people of Gondor and beyond began to heal from the wounds of war. Yet, even amidst the light and laughter, Rían found herself seeking solitude.

She had wandered to a quiet garden on the sixth level of the city, where vines curled along ancient walls and the scent of blooming flowers filled the air. Seated on a low stone bench, she gazed at the fountain at the garden’s center, its gentle murmur offering a soothing rhythm to her restless thoughts. She looked at her hands, fidgeting nervously in her lap, her mind heavy with uncertainty and doubt.

“Ah, there you are,” came a cheerful voice.

Rían looked up to see Peregrin Took—Pippin, as he insisted everyone call him—bounding toward her with his usual energy. He still wore the livery of Gondor with a kind of boyish pride, though it was a size too large for him. His sharp eyes sparkled with mischief as he approached, clearly on some mission of his own making.

“Master Peregrin,” Rían greeted with a small smile, inclining her head. “What brings you here to disturb the peace of this garden?”

Pippin, ever quick to make an entrance, plopped himself down on the bench beside her with a carefree chuckle, his small feet swinging merrily over the edge. He looked at her with a mischievous gleam in his bright eyes. “Oh, nothing important. Just keeping my sharp hobbit eyes on things. And I’ve noticed something most curious—” He leaned closer with an exaggerated whisper, his voice dripping with playful secrecy. “You’re in love with Faramir.”

Rían blinked, startled by the sudden accusation. Her brows furrowed in disbelief, and she opened her mouth to protest, but the words caught in her throat. After a long pause, she settled for, “I beg your pardon?”

Pippin, however, remained utterly unfazed, waving his hand as if dismissing a trivial matter. “It’s obvious,” he said nonchalantly, a grin spreading wide across his face. “To everyone, that is, except you and him.”

Rían stared at him for a moment, her expression caught between disbelief and amusement. Her lips parted, searching for a reply, but no immediate words came. After a long pause, she shook her head with a soft laugh, though the sudden warmth in her cheeks betrayed her. “You’re mistaken, Pippin. I think highly of Faramir, yes, but—”

“Oh, stop that.” Pippin interrupted her with an air of surprising authority, though his words were light. He fixed her with a knowing gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly, but with a playful spark that seemed at odds with the gravity of his tone. “It’s written all over your face when you look at him. And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way he looks at you. He lights up like a candle whenever you’re near.”

Rían, flustered and taken aback, paused. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed a strand of dark hair back from her face, her gaze shifting to the ground as if to avoid Pippin’s piercing look. “I…” she began, but her voice faltered. The mention of Faramir’s gaze unsettled her more than she cared to admit. “Faramir is a good man, that much is certain. But I doubt I am the right person for him.”

Pippin’s usual joviality dimmed for a moment as he leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms and looking at her with something approaching seriousness. His eyes softened as he regarded her, a faint frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And why not?”

Rían hesitated, her shoulders stiffening ever so slightly as she turned her gaze toward the horizon, as if seeking an answer from the very wind that whispered through the trees. She felt the weight of her own doubts pressing against her chest. “He is of noble blood, a leader of Gondor,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, as if convincing herself of her own reasons. “I am but a ranger, raised in the wilds, with no titles or lands to my name. Surely there are others better suited to stand beside him.”

Pippin, however, shook his head in an almost exaggerated fashion, his posture shifting into one of firm resolve. “Rubbish,” he declared with surprising authority for such a small hobbit. His voice, though still light, was tinged with the sort of conviction that could not be ignored. “You’ve fought beside him, trusted him with your life, and he’s done the same for you. Do you think that matters less than some fancy title or where you were born?”

Rían was caught off guard by the firmness in his words. She looked away, her lips pressed together in thought. His words seemed to settle over her like a soft weight, and for the first time, she found herself questioning the walls she had built around her heart.

“And besides,” Pippin continued, his tone softening as he took a few steps closer, his small figure becoming less a playful figure and more a wise, if unconventional, counselor. “You make him happy. I’ve seen it. Faramir deserves happiness, don’t you think?”

Rían glanced at him, her eyes searching his face for any sign of insincerity, but she found none. The gentle sincerity in his expression made her heart ache with something she could not quite define. Her breath caught in her throat, and she fell silent, her hands unconsciously clutching the edge of her cloak.

She was silent for a long moment, and in the stillness, Pippin, sensing the shift, softened further. He crossed his arms in a way that suggested not defiance but a quiet determination. “Look, Rían,” he said, his voice now gentle and coaxing, like a child trying to make sense of a puzzle. “The two of you would be perfect together. Everyone can see it.”

With an exaggerated flourish, Pippin hopped off the bench, standing in front of her with hands placed on his hips in the unmistakable stance of someone who was both playful and determined. He looked down at her, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as though he were already celebrating a victory. “So stop overthinking it. Trust yourself, and trust Faramir.”

Rían’s gaze dropped to the ground for a moment, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line as she considered his words. A sigh escaped her, and she leaned back on the bench, her fingers loosening their grip on her cloak as she rested them in her lap. She gazed up at the sky, as if searching for an answer among the clouds. “You make it sound so simple,” she murmured.

Pippin, ever the optimist, tilted his head with a knowing smile that was somehow both endearing and mischievous. “It is simple,” he said with a playful wink. “You just have to stop being so stubborn about it.”

With that, he gave her a playful bow and bounded off, leaving her alone in the garden once more. Rían sat there, the words lingering in her mind, her thoughts now swirling with new possibilities. She gazed at the fountain, its waters sparkling in the light of the setting sun.

Could it truly be so simple? she wondered. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening—not to the wind or the rustling of the leaves, but to the quiet voice within her heart.

***

The twilight hour draped the White City in hues of gold and purple, the air crisp and tinged with the faint fragrance of blossoms from the gardens of the Steward’s House. Boromir stood with his hands on the parapet, gazing out at the Pelennor Fields. Despite the peace that had settled over Gondor since Sauron’s fall, his brow furrowed as if the weight of war still clung to him. Beside him, Faramir leaned against the wall, his eyes distant, caught in some thought far removed from their current tranquility.

Boromir cast a sidelong glance at his younger brother, the wry smile tugging at his lips betraying a mixture of affection and mischief. He nudged Faramir lightly with his elbow, a move both casual and familiar, one that spoke to years of camaraderie and sibling teasing.

“You’ve been quiet tonight, little brother,” Boromir said, his tone warm, almost brotherly, though the glint in his eyes suggested that he knew exactly what had been occupying Faramir’s mind. “Lost in thought, as always. Or is it someone who has you so distracted?”

Faramir’s head turned sharply, his eyes widening for just a moment as he opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, a faint flush crept up his neck, spreading quickly across his cheeks like a crimson tide, betraying his discomfort before he could hide it. He bit back the urge to argue, but the heat in his face gave him away.

Boromir, seeing this, chuckled—a deep, hearty sound that echoed lightly in the stillness of the night. His gaze softened, but there was an unmistakable gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Ah, I see it now. It’s her, isn’t it? The ranger with fire in her eyes.” He grinned, knowing full well that his brother could no longer pretend indifference. Faramir’s gaze dropped almost immediately, and he looked away, as though trying to mask the discomfort that had settled in his chest. “Rían.”

Faramir sighed softly, though the faintest of smiles flickered at the corner of his lips, an involuntary response to his brother’s teasing. “Must you pry into every corner of my thoughts, brother?” His voice was a mixture of exasperation and amusement, but there was no escaping the softness in it, the undercurrent of affection for the man beside him.

“Not prying,” Boromir said, his voice turning teasingly innocent as he clapped a heavy hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “Merely observing.” His thumb idly traced the edge of Faramir’s cloak, a gesture that spoke of their bond, of familiarity. “You’ve been watching her since the day she arrived back in Minas Tirith. And let us not pretend that your stammering around her has gone unnoticed.”

“I do not stammer,” Faramir protested indignantly, though the color in his cheeks deepened further, and the words came out in a half-hearted defense that only made him appear more endearing.

Boromir laughed again, his head shaking in playful exasperation. His posture was relaxed, one arm leaning casually against the parapet, but his eyes gleamed with the sharpness of someone who had seen his brother’s heart laid bare far too many times not to understand it. “Hopeless. That’s what you are. A hopeless romantic,” he teased with a grin that was full of fondness. “And to think, they call me the reckless one! You’re the one who has gone and let your heart lead you into battle without a shield.”

Faramir turned his gaze back to the horizon, though there was no mistaking the shadow of doubt that crossed his features, the furrow in his brow, as if something heavier weighed on his mind than his brother’s playful jabs. “It’s not so simple as you make it seem,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost beneath the sigh that escaped his lips. His eyes remained fixed on the distance, the city lights of Minas Tirith like distant stars.

Boromir raised an eyebrow, his expression flicking between amusement and concern. He leaned slightly forward, giving his brother a more direct, almost scrutinizing look. “What’s not simple about it? You’re in love with her.”

Faramir hesitated, his hands gripping the edge of the parapet as he stared out into the darkening city. His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper. “And if she does not feel the same?” His gaze flickered to Boromir’s, full of quiet uncertainty. “What then? Should I risk all for words that may only bring her discomfort?”

Boromir’s expression softened at that, the teasing falling away as he turned fully to face Faramir. His posture shifted as well, the weight of the conversation pulling him closer, as if he sensed the gravity of his brother’s internal battle. He placed his hand on Faramir’s shoulder once again, this time with a gentleness that was unmistakable. “Now you’re just being foolish. Anyone with eyes can see how she looks at you. She trusts you, relies on you, and more than that—” His voice dropped slightly, becoming more serious, more knowing. “She cares for you. Likely more than you know.”

Faramir hesitated, uncertainty lingering in his gaze. He turned slightly toward his brother, meeting his eyes as though seeking confirmation, the raw vulnerability in his eyes betraying his hidden fears. “You truly think so?” His voice was tentative, as though waiting for Boromir’s words to settle in his heart.

Boromir let out a huff, his voice firm now, but with a warmth that only a brother could carry. “Think so? I know so.” He gave Faramir a meaningful look, the sincerity in his tone unwavering. “She stood against our father for your sake, Faramir. Denethor would have burned the very stars out of the sky with his scorn, yet she did not flinch.” Boromir smirked, the edge of his humor returning. “Not to mention how she followed you into battle without hesitation. I’ve never seen her fear a fight, but she seems to fear losing you.”

Faramir’s lips parted, as though he might respond, but Boromir pressed on, his voice steady and reassuring. “You’ve always been the one with the heart in our family, brother. It’s what makes you the better man.” His hand tightened for a moment on Faramir’s shoulder, a small squeeze meant to convey strength. “But don’t let that heart of yours drown in doubt. Speak to her. Tell her how you feel. If you don’t, you’ll regret it—and I’ll have no patience for your brooding when you do.”

Faramir chuckled faintly, shaking his head as if to dismiss his brother’s words, but there was a trace of warmth in his smile now, a recognition that Boromir’s words were not to be taken lightly. “You make it sound so easy, Boromir.”

“It is easy,” Boromir replied with a grin, his voice laced with a mix of exasperation and affection. “And stop overthinking it. She’s not some distant star you can never reach. She’s here, in Minas Tirith, looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. So confess already, for the love of all that’s good.”

For a moment, Faramir was silent, his eyes drifting once again to the horizon as if seeking something within the darkening city. His brow furrowed slightly in thought, but there was a shift in his demeanor. The doubt had not completely left him, but it was now tinged with something new—hope. Slowly, a genuine smile crept across his lips, one that softened his features in a way that had not been there before. “Perhaps you are right,” he said, his voice quieter now, but the weight of uncertainty beginning to lift.

Boromir’s grin widened, and he clapped his brother on the back, his posture becoming triumphant. “Of course I’m right!” he said, the affection in his voice still present, but now with an unmistakable note of pride. “Now go and find her, before I start calling you the captain of Hesitation instead of Gondor.”

Faramir laughed softly, and though doubt still lingered at the edges of his heart, the warmth of his brother’s confidence gave him courage. As the evening stars began to emerge in the darkening sky, he turned his thoughts to Rían, his heart lifting at the thought of her. Perhaps it was time to cast his fears aside and trust in what might yet bloom between them.

***

The gardens of Minas Tirith were still and peaceful under the night sky, the air sweet with the fragrance of late-blooming flowers. The stars, no longer veiled by the shadow of Mordor, shone with renewed brilliance, scattering their silver light across the marble paths and the leafy boughs of the trees. Rían stood alone near the edge of the garden, her hands resting lightly on the stone balustrade as she gazed out over the plains of the Pelennor. Her dark hair caught the starlight, and her expression was thoughtful, though her heart was at ease for the first time in many months.

“Rían,” came a familiar voice, soft yet steady.

She turned to see Faramir standing a few paces away, his figure framed by the archway that led into the garden. He seemed hesitant, but the gentle smile on his face gave him away. He took a step forward, inclining his head slightly. “May I walk with you?”

Rían’s lips curved into a smile, and she nodded. “You may,” she said lightly, stepping toward him.

Faramir extended his arm to her, as he had done on a night long ago in Rivendell. The gesture made her pause for the briefest moment, and her smile deepened with a touch of amusement and warmth as she took his arm. Together, they strolled along the winding paths, the quiet of the night wrapping around them like a cloak.

“The stars seem brighter tonight,” Rían remarked, her voice soft and contemplative as her gaze lifted to the heavens. The vast expanse above them shimmered with countless points of light, unmarred by the looming shadow that had once darkened the land. “Without the shadow of Mordor to smother them, they seem to rejoice.”

Faramir glanced at her, his grey eyes catching the faint glimmer of starlight. The way the soft light danced in her dark hair, the quiet strength in her profile—it stirred something deep within him. “They are bright,” he agreed, his voice low and thoughtful, “but not so radiant as you.”

Rían stopped mid-step, her breath hitching as she turned toward him. She was not one to blush easily, her demeanor often steady and composed. Yet, the sincerity in Faramir’s words, coupled with the tenderness in his gaze, sent a warmth rising to her cheeks. She found herself momentarily disarmed, her usual poise slipping away.

“Faramir,” she began, her voice faltering as she sought to regain her composure, but he spoke first, his voice tinged with a mix of resolve and vulnerability.

“Rían,” he said, his voice trembling slightly despite the steadiness of his gaze. “There is something I must tell you, though I hardly know how to begin.”

Her heart quickened, the gentle thrum of anticipation mingling with a burgeoning curiosity. There was a softness in his expression, an earnestness that spoke of emotions long held in check. The air between them seemed to grow thicker, charged with unspoken feelings.

He drew in a breath, his grip on her arm tightening slightly, as if grounding himself for the admission to come. “I am in love with you,” he confessed, the words rushing forth like a river breaking through a dam. “I have been for some time now, though I was too much of a coward to say it until now. You have been a light to me, brighter than all the stars of this night, and I cannot keep it to myself any longer.”

Rían’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she could only stare at him, the weight of his confession settling over her like a warm cloak.

Faramir’s confidence wavered at her silence, and he began to ramble, the words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to bridge the gap he feared he had created. “But you need not say anything,” he added hurriedly, his voice thick with apprehension. “If you do not feel the same, I will understand. I would not wish to burden you or make you uncomfortable. We can remain as we are—friends, allies—whatever you wish—”

“Faramir,” Rían interrupted gently, stepping closer to him, her movements slow but deliberate.

His words faltered and died on his lips as she reached up, her hands cradling his face with a tenderness that stole his breath. The warmth of her touch stilled the storm of doubt within him, her presence grounding and steadying him. His heart pounded in his chest, but it was a different kind of fear now—a hopeful, exhilarating one.

“Stop talking,” she whispered, her voice soft yet trembling with emotion. Her thumbs brushed gently over his cheekbones, her touch light but sure. Her gaze roamed his face, as though seeking to memorize every line and curve, as though imprinting this moment in her heart. “You’re the most noble, most selfless man I’ve ever known. I love you too, Faramir.”

The weight of her words hung between them, a delicate but unbreakable bridge. Faramir’s breath caught, his eyes searching hers for any hint of uncertainty but finding only the mirrored reflection of his own feelings.

For a heartbeat, they simply stood there, the world around them fading into a distant murmur. Then, slowly, almost tentatively, Faramir’s hands came up to rest on her waist, his fingers splaying against the fabric of her cloak. He drew her closer, the space between them shrinking until it was filled with the warmth of shared affection and newfound certainty.

Rían leaned in, her breath catching as her lips brushed against his, tentative at first, as though testing the fragile boundary they had silently held for so long. But in an instant, that restraint shattered, and their kiss deepened into something both tender and fervent, a joining of souls that neither could deny.

Faramir’s hands tightened on her waist, his touch trembling yet firm, as though he feared she might vanish if he did not hold her close. His lips moved against hers with a passion that belied his usual gentleness, an unspoken promise that he would not let her go. The scent of the garden—night-blooming flowers and fresh earth—mingled with the faint, lingering traces of Rían’s hair, and Faramir thought that nothing in the world had ever felt so right, so achingly perfect.

Rían’s fingers slid into his hair, the silken strands slipping through her grasp as her touch became more desperate, more certain. Her other hand gripped his shoulder, grounding herself against the overwhelming wave of emotion that surged through her. Every moment of doubt, every fear she had carried, melted away in the warmth of his embrace, replaced by a joy so fierce it was almost frightening. She kissed him as though the world might end with the dawn, and in that moment, she would have cared nothing for it.

For Faramir, time seemed to stand still. The worries of Gondor the wounds he bore both seen and unseen—all faded into nothingness as he lost himself in her. He marveled at how perfectly they fit together, how natural it felt to hold her, to pour his unspoken longing into this single, infinite moment. A thought flitted through his mind like a half-forgotten prayer: By the Valar, I was lost, but here, in her arms, I am found.

The kiss deepened still, their bodies pressing closer as if drawn by a force neither could resist. Rían clung to him, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he must hear it. She had fought so many battles, faced so many trials, yet nothing had ever made her feel as vulnerable or as alive as this. She thought of all the walls she had built around her heart, and how effortlessly Faramir had stepped through them—not by force, but by his quiet kindness, his steadfastness, his very presence.

When at last they broke apart, it was only because the need for air became inescapable. Their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the cool night air. Neither spoke for a long moment, as though words might shatter the fragile perfection of what had just passed between them.

Rían opened her eyes, her cheeks flushed and her lips still tingling from the kiss. She found Faramir watching her, his grey eyes shining with a mixture of wonder and reverence, as though he were gazing upon something precious and sacred.

He smiled—a soft, unguarded smile that made her chest ache with its sincerity. “I…” he began, but words failed him. Instead, his thumb brushed gently against her cheek, and he shook his head as though to say nothing could possibly capture what he felt.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said instead, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rían laughed softly, her fingers brushing against his temple. “I think I might have an idea.”

He smiled again, his thumb brushing lightly against her waist. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice teasing yet full of warmth. “And I think I may have wanted it just as long.”

Faramir laughed quietly, his joy unguarded, and he pulled her close again, his arms wrapping around her. In the quiet of the garden, under the starlit sky, they stood together, finding solace and love in each other’s arms.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn crept softly through the window, painting the chamber in hues of gold and rose. The air was still and calm, as if the world itself hesitated to disturb the peace of that quiet morning.

Faramir lay upon the bed, his form half-covered by the light linens, the morning sun spilling golden light across his skin. His tunic hung open at the neck, the ties undone, revealing glimpses of pale bandages wrapped over his torso, reminders of wounds not yet healed. His face rested against the dark cascade of Rían’s hair, its scent—earth and wildflowers—familiar and grounding to him, like the cool forests of Ithilien. His arms rested around her loosely, as though he feared to startle her or shatter the stillness that enveloped them. And yet his hold, tentative as it was, betrayed a quiet desperation, a need for the closeness she allowed him.

Her back curved against his chest, fitting against him as though she were meant to be there. The steady rhythm of his breath rose and fell behind her, a soft reassurance, though she could feel the slight tension in his body—the weight he carried even in repose. Rían shifted slightly, rolling just enough to turn toward him. Her gaze swept over his features, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble there, and the small furrow that lingered between his brows, even at rest. His vulnerability in that moment—the warrior stripped of armor, unguarded—moved her deeply.

Rían let out a soft breath, her gaze lingering on Faramir’s peaceful face, the tension in his brow a stark reminder of all he had endured. Her hand, hesitant and light as a feather, reached to brush a strand of hair from his temple, her fingertips barely grazing his skin. She paused, her thoughts drifting as her eyes softened with a mix of fondness and something deeper—something unspoken.

A faint smile ghosted across her lips as a stray thought crossed her mind. What would the Gondorians think of this? she mused, a flicker of amusement tugging at her expression. Sharing a bed with a man who was not her betrothed nor her husband—no doubt, tongues would wag in Minas Tirith. She could almost hear the hushed whispers, the disapproving mutterings of courtiers who clung so tightly to propriety.

But she wasn’t Gondorian. In the north, no one would care—not the rangers, not her kin. The customs of her people were practical and unadorned by the rigid formalities of Gondor’s courts. A moment like this, born of trust and understanding, would not be looked upon as scandalous but rather as natural. The thought gave her some comfort.

Still, her eyes drifted back to Faramir’s face, her fingers unconsciously tracing a small, invisible circle on the sleeve of his tunic. Would he care? The idea seemed absurd. Faramir, who had spent countless nights in the wilds of Ithilien, sitting shoulder to shoulder with his men, sharing bread and song under the open stars—he was no stranger to the unspoken intimacy of shared burdens. He cared for honesty and connection, not for the rules of decorum that bound others.

No, he likely cared even less than she did. After all, it was he who had insisted she stay when the weight of the night’s conversation had left her eyes heavy with exhaustion. And when she had drifted to sleep in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder as the candle burned low, it was he who had carried her to bed, his steps careful so as not to wake her. He had laid her down gently, the touch of his hands steady yet tender, as though afraid she might vanish like a wisp of smoke. And then, instead of leaving her to sleep alone, he had settled beside her, his presence a silent assurance that she was safe, that he would not let the darkness of the world intrude upon that fragile peace.

Rían’s gaze softened as she remembered the quiet moments before sleep had claimed her. They had spoken into the deep hours of the night, their voices low and intimate, as though sharing secrets meant only for the stars to hear. He had listened with the kind of attentiveness that disarmed her, his grey eyes warm and unwavering, even when she spoke of things she rarely shared with anyone.

It wasn’t just the warmth of his embrace that had stilled the restlessness in her chest—it was the steadiness of his heart, the quiet strength that radiated from him like the unyielding roots of an ancient tree. He made her feel grounded in a way she had almost forgotten was possible.

Her gaze fell to the bandages beneath his loosened tunic. The white edges stood out starkly against his skin, a reminder of the suffering he bore for others. Tentatively, her hand lifted, her fingertips brushing against the frayed edge of the fabric. Her touch was as light as a feather, hesitant, as though afraid to cause him pain. “Does it still hurt?” she asked softly, her voice breaking the stillness. It was clear she wasn’t merely asking about the wounds of flesh but also the invisible ones they both carried. 

At her words, his eyes opened slowly, grey as the twilight, meeting hers with a quiet depth that took her breath away. A faint, weary smile tugged at his lips, softening the lines of his face. “No,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, carrying the weight of unspoken gratitude. “It does not hurt now.”

The simplicity of his words struck her, but beneath them lay something unspoken—something deeper. She searched his eyes, and for a moment, they shared an understanding that needed no words. Then, as though overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze, she turned her face slightly, letting her eyes drift to the sunlight dancing on the wall. Her hand lingered on his chest, their fingers brushing as if testing the boundaries of connection.

“I used to have nightmares,” she said quietly, her voice distant, as though speaking to a memory long buried. “Every night, without fail. My mother would hold me through the worst of them, her arms the only thing that could chase the shadows away.” She paused, her voice catching slightly. “Until… until she was no longer there to hold me.”

Faramir’s hand, broad and warm, shifted to rest atop hers. His fingers curled gently, holding her hand in a silent gesture of comfort. She felt the roughness of his calluses against her skin, a reminder of his life as a warrior. “Last night,” she continued, her voice soft, “I slept peacefully.”

The admission hung between them, simple yet profound, carrying a weight neither could ignore. Faramir’s gaze never wavered as he looked at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling faintly in an expression of deep understanding. Slowly, his other hand lifted, his fingers brushing her cheek. His touch was tentative, reverent, as though he feared she might vanish like a dream. His thumb traced the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the motion slow, unhurried, as though he were committing her to memory.

“You do not have to be alone anymore, Rían,” he said, his voice tender but firm. “Not now, not ever.”

Her breath caught, a tremble passing through her as the words sank in. She closed her eyes briefly, her heart aching with the weight of his sincerity. For so long, she had walked alone, carrying her burdens in silence, her grief and fears her constant companions. But in that moment, his touch, his words, made her believe—if only for a moment—that it doesn’t have to be that way.

When she opened her eyes, he was still watching her, his gaze filled with a mix of longing and quiet devotion. His hand lingered against her face, his thumb brushing softly against her skin. She felt herself leaning into his touch, drawn by a force she could not name, her heart beating faster as the space between them seemed to shrink.

“You are so dear to me,” he whispered, the words trembling on his lips like a confession. And before either could second-guess the moment, he leaned in.

The kiss was tender, a meeting of souls as much as bodies. Faramir’s lips moved softly against hers, their touch hesitant at first, as though asking permission. But when Rían responded, her lips parting beneath his, the hesitation melted away, replaced by a deeper need—a quiet yearning that had been buried for far too long.

His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin in soothing, slow circles. The other slipped around her waist, drawing her closer, careful yet firm, as though he wanted to protect her even in this moment of intimacy. Rían’s hands moved of their own accord, one resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, while the other lifted to tangle in his hair. She marveled at its softness, her fingers threading through the dark blonde strands as though anchoring herself to him.

The world seemed to fade away—the sunlight, the distant sound of the wind, the weight of the past. All that remained was the warmth of his breath, the steady strength of his embrace, and the unspoken promises exchanged between their lips. Faramir kissed her with a reverence that spoke of trust, of gratitude, of a love that had been quietly growing, unacknowledged, until now. There was no urgency in their movements, only the profound understanding that this was a moment neither wished to end.

When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them. Rían’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Faramir’s gaze. His grey eyes were softer now, filled with wonder.

“Rían,” he murmured, her name like a prayer on his lips. His hand moved from her cheek to trace the curve of her jaw, his touch lingering as though he couldn’t bear to let her go. “You slept peacefully,” he murmured, his voice carrying an unspoken joy. “That is all I could hope for.”

Rían smiled then, soft and rare, a light shining in her grey eyes. “And you, Faramir,” she whispered, “did you find peace?”

He looked at her, his heart in his gaze. “With you, I have.” He smiled then, a soft, fleeting smile that made her chest ache. His fingers brushed against her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Stay,” he said simply, his voice low and full of quiet longing. “Just for a little while.”

She didn’t answer with words; instead, she leaned back into his embrace, letting her head rest against his chest. His arms folded around her protectively, holding her close, and she felt the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her cheek. It was a sound that grounded her, that reminded her that, despite all the pain and loss, life endured.

Faramir pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, his lips lingering there as though to seal the moment. “No matter what lies ahead,” he said softly, his voice steady, “I will stand by you.”

Rían closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his words and the strength of his embrace surround her. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to believe in the fragile, beautiful possibility of hope.

They remained there, the morning light soft around them, holding one another as if the world beyond could not touch them. And for a while, in that stillness, it did not.

The morning light was brighter now, streaming through the window and casting a warm, golden glow around them. Rían stirred in Faramir’s arms, the peaceful stillness between them broken by a faint chuckle. She shifted slightly, turning her head to look up at him, her smile soft but touched with wry amusement.

“We should actually get ready,” she said, her voice light though laced with mock seriousness. “It would be unwise to keep the future King of Gondor waiting. Aragorn may be patient, but even he has his limits.”

Faramir sighed, though his arms remained firmly around her. “You’re right,” he admitted reluctantly, his tone teasing. “But do you think he would truly hold it against us if we were a little late?”

Rían arched an eyebrow, her smile growing. “Perhaps not Aragorn,” she said, pausing for effect, “but if we both arrive late together, you can be sure that Boromir will never shut up about it.”

At that, Faramir groaned, leaning his head back against the wall with an air of exasperation. “Believe me, Boromir barely shuts up about us anyway,” he muttered, though there was a hint of affection in his voice.

Rían laughed, the sound bright and melodic, filling the small space like a balm. “I can sympathize,” she said, shaking her head. “My own kinsmen are also determined to wear my patience thin. I’m beginning to think it’s a conspiracy.”

Faramir tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “What have they done now?” he asked, his grey eyes glinting with amusement as he watched her.

Rían let out a long-suffering sigh, though the corners of her mouth twitched as if suppressing a smile. “Apparently,” she began, her tone deliberately dramatic, “some of them had a bet going about whether I’d ever meet someone or if I was destined to become an old maid living in the wilds.”

Faramir blinked in surprise before a laugh escaped him, soft and disbelieving. “A bet?” he repeated, his voice filled with incredulity and mirth.

“Oh, yes,” Rían said, rolling her eyes though her tone remained playful. “But that’s not even the worst part.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smile. “What is the worst part, then?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

Rían sighed again, this time with mock defeat, and folded her arms. “I found out that Calen won the bet,” she admitted, her expression caught between exasperation and amusement. “Because,” Rían said, her tone dry but affectionate, “he was apparently the only one who believed I’d actually find someone. And not just anyone—someone who wouldn’t be too terrified of me to actually try and court me.”

At that, Faramir burst into laughter, his shoulders shaking as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He pressed a hand to his mouth as if to stifle the sound, but it was no use. The warmth and joy in his expression were infectious.

Rían watched him, shaking her head though she couldn’t help but laugh as well, her own smile breaking free despite her best efforts. “I expected more support,” she said, her tone mockingly indignant, though the gleam in her eyes betrayed her amusement. “But no, apparently everyone thought I’d remain alone until my dying day. Except Calen, of all people!”

Faramir managed to catch his breath, though his laughter hadn’t entirely subsided. He looked at her, his gaze softening even as his smile lingered. “I think Calen knows you better than most,” he said gently, his voice warm. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m grateful he was right.”

Rían’s teasing expression softened at his words, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. She looked down briefly, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips before she met his gaze again. “Well,” she said lightly, though her tone carried a note of sincerity, “I suppose I’ll forgive him, then.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the air between them filled with a warmth that went beyond words. Finally, Rían straightened, brushing an errant strand of hair from her face. “Come on,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “Let’s not tempt fate by keeping the future King waiting.”

Faramir nodded, his smile lingering as he offered her his hand. “Lead the way, my lady,” he said softly, his tone carrying a hint of playfulness.

With their laughter still echoing faintly in the room, they stepped out into the sunlight, the day ahead filled with both purpose and the quiet promise of hope.

***

For days, Minas Tirith had been alive with restless energy, a city shaken from the shadow of war and filled with a kind of expectant joy. The crowning of King Elessar—Aragorn, heir of Isildur—was spoken of in every street, from the white marble courts to the winding alleys of the lower circles. Garlands of white blossoms adorned every balcony, and the streets bustled with preparations as though the very stones of the city were readying themselves to witness history.

But amid the excitement, another tale had taken root, whispered in markets and murmured in noble halls: the growing closeness between the late steward’s youngest son, and a ranger of the north. The gossip was persistent, carried from the Citadel to the inns and back again. They spoke of secret moments shared in the gardens at dusk, of Faramir’s rare smile brightening when she was near. Some claimed to have seen the two walking hand in hand beneath the stars, their voices soft, their expressions too tender to be mere friendship.

Rían was well aware of the rumors. She could feel the weight of curious gazes following her wherever she went—the lingering looks from noblewomen in embroidered gowns, the subtle nods from guards who pretended not to notice her passing. Yet she held her head high, her expression calm and unbothered. Let them talk, she thought. Words were harmless compared to what she and Faramir had endured. And, in truth, the rumors were not entirely false.

She thought of Faramir’s hand brushing hers beneath the shelter of an ancient tree back in Lothlórien, of the quiet moments where their hearts seemed to speak louder than words. What the city whispered about in curiosity, she knew in her heart as something rare and real. But their bond was not something to be explained or defended—it was theirs alone.

For his part, Faramir gave no sign of caring what others thought. If the whispers reached him—and Rían had no doubt they had—he carried himself with the same quiet dignity as ever. His soft words and steady gaze betrayed no unease, though she knew the man behind the mask. She had seen his smile when they were alone, the way his defenses softened when they spoke of the future that might await them beyond war and duty.

Now, as she walked beside him through the streets of the White City, with Boromir striding at his other side, the whispers seemed to follow like shadows clinging to their heels. Vendors paused in their sales to watch them pass; a group of maids stifled laughter behind their hands, their eyes darting between Faramir and Rían with open curiosity. Even the stonemasons paused in their labor for a brief moment, their gazes lingering as the trio passed.

Boromir, ever the confident elder brother, smirked faintly, his amusement unhidden. “It seems the city finds you quite intriguing,” he said lightly, his tone just loud enough for Rían and Faramir to hear.

Faramir glanced at him with a calm that bordered on defiance. “Let them think what they will,” he replied, his voice steady. His hand brushed Rían’s lightly as they walked—a fleeting touch, deliberate in its simplicity, yet enough to send a warmth through her chest.

As they approached the great doors of the Hall of Kings, the whispers faded, swallowed by the solemn grandeur of the place. Rían glanced at Faramir, whose expression remained serene, though she thought she caught a flicker of warmth in his eyes when they met hers. Boromir, meanwhile, carried himself with easy confidence, his faint smile suggesting he found all of this thoroughly entertaining.

Adjusting her cloak, Rían straightened her shoulders and stepped forward, following the brothers into the Hall. Whatever tales the city spun, they mattered little here. This was Aragorn’s moment—a time for the past to give way to the future. Yet even as they entered the sacred hall, Rían couldn’t help but feel the quiet strength of Faramir at her side, a grounding presence in a world still uncertain.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of a private chamber in the Citadel, casting a golden light across the polished stone floor. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of banners stirred by the breeze. A small fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth a welcome comfort in the cool air. Aragorn stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his dark hair catching the soft light like strands of shadow.

As the door creaked open, Faramir, Boromir, and Rían entered together, their steps measured, their faces a mixture of curiosity and formality. Aragorn turned at the sound, a faint smile tugging at his lips as his grey eyes met theirs.

“My friends,” he said warmly, stepping forward to greet them. “It is good to see you.”

They inclined their heads respectfully, but there was an ease in their posture that spoke of shared battles and unshakable camaraderie. Aragorn gestured to the chairs near the hearth. “Come, sit. This need not be a formal audience. We are among friends here.”

Boromir was the first to sit, his broad shoulders relaxed but his eyes keen as he watched Aragorn. Faramir followed, his expression calm yet thoughtful, and Rían hesitated for a moment before taking her place beside him. Her dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and though her posture was straight and composed, her fingers fidgeted briefly with the edge of her cloak.

Aragorn remained standing for a moment, looking at them each in turn, his gaze lingering on their faces as though committing this moment to memory. “When I look at you,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion, “I see not only comrades but the finest examples of courage, loyalty, and resilience. Gondor—and Middle-earth—owes you all a debt that can never be repaid.”

Boromir raised a brow, his lips curving into a faint smile. “You honor us, my lord,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “But I suspect you didn’t summon us just to remind us of our virtues.”

Aragorn chuckled softly, his hand resting briefly on the back of a chair. “No, Boromir. Though it is worth saying all the same.” He paused, his expression growing more thoughtful. “We stand on the threshold of a new age,” Aragorn continued, his voice quiet but resolute. “The darkness has been driven back, but our work is far from done. The lands we fought for must be rebuilt. Trust must be reforged. And we must see to it that the sacrifices made were not in vain.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them. Rían’s gaze flicked to the fire, her jaw tightening. She had never been one for politics or titles, and she could sense where this conversation was heading.

Aragorn turned his gaze to Boromir first, his expression softening. “Boromir, son of Denethor,” he said, his tone carrying both the weight of kingship and the familiarity of friendship. “You have stood as Gondor’s shield, its defender, through every trial. You are a leader who commands both respect and loyalty, a man who holds his people’s welfare above all else.”

Boromir straightened slightly, his broad frame exuding quiet pride, though his expression remained humble. Aragorn smiled faintly. “It is my wish that you continue to lead Gondor, not just in its defense, but in its restoration. I name you Prince of Ithilien, to oversee its renewal and I also want you and your descendants to remain as Stewards of Gondor.”

Boromir’s brows rose slightly, though he recovered quickly, inclining his head deeply. “It is a great honor, my lord,” he said, his voice steady. “I have given my life to Gondor, and I will continue to serve her—and you—with all that I am.”

Aragorn nodded, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, before turning to Faramir. The younger brother met his gaze with quiet curiosity, his grey eyes calm yet searching.

“Faramir,” Aragorn began, his voice softer now, “yours is a quiet strength, but no less vital. You have proven yourself not only as a warrior but as a man of wisdom and honor. Gondor will always need leaders who value both sword and pen, men who can guide with both courage and counsel.”

Faramir tilted his head slightly, his grey eyes thoughtful, as if already weighing what Aragorn might say next.

“Your talents are too great to remain confined to one role,” Aragorn continued. “I name you Prince of Cardolan, to aid in its revival and stand as a guiding hand in Gondor’s renewal. You, too, shall serve as one of my  advisors.”

Faramir hesitated briefly, his brow furrowing in thought. Then he bowed low. “I am honored, my lord,” he said quietly. “And I pledge my service to you and to Gondor.”

Aragorn rested a hand briefly on Faramir’s shoulder, his smile one of genuine trust. “Your service has always been true, Faramir, and it will continue to be so.”

Finally, Aragorn turned to Rían. She stiffened slightly under his gaze, her hands gripping the edge of her cloak. Her grey eyes met his, wary but steady.

“Rían, daughter of Ríndor,” Aragorn said, his voice taking on a gentler tone. “You have stood as a light in the darkest of times, a leader among your kin, and a shield to those who could not protect themselves. The north has always been your charge, and it is time that legacy is restored.”

Rían blinked, her jaw tightening. “My lord,” she began cautiously, “I am no noble. I have neither the patience for politics nor the grace for courtly life. I am a ranger. My place is in the wilds.”

Aragorn’s expression softened, though there was a quiet determination in his gaze. “Your place is wherever you choose to make it, Rían,” he said firmly. “But you have already proven yourself a leader. The Dúnedain follow you without question, not because of your lineage, but because of who you are. It is time the north has a voice among us, and I can think of no one more fitting to take that mantle. I name you Princess of Arthedain, to guide your kin and to serve as an advisor here when you are needed.”

Rían’s eyes widened, and she shook her head slightly. “Aragorn…” she began, her voice faltering. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Aragorn rose to his feet and  stepped closer, his voice softening but losing none of its weight. “Your father, Ríndor, was a great man—a leader who gave all for the north, for Middle-earth itself. And you have proven that the same blood flows in your veins.”

She looked away, her throat tightening as memories of her father and Halbarad rose unbidden in her mind. When Aragorn placed a hand on her shoulder, she glanced back at him, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “Besides,” he added, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “did you not once tell me in Rivendell that you have no patience for fools? I could use someone like that in my court.”

The tension in her chest eased slightly, and despite herself, she laughed softly, the sound carrying a note of genuine warmth. “I did say that, didn’t I?” she murmured, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“You did,” Aragorn confirmed, his own smile broadening. “And I am counting on you to remind me of it when needed.”

With a sigh, Rían nodded slowly, the weight of the title settling heavily on her shoulders. “Very well,” she said quietly. “If this is what you ask of me, then I will do it.”

Aragorn’s gaze held hers, his expression filled with gratitude and trust. “Thank you,” he said softly.

She stepped forward and hugged Aragorn briefly, her arms tightening around him before she pulled away. “No, I should thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

As the three made their way out of the hall, Rían’s expression was still one of stunned disbelief. “A princess,” she murmured, shaking her head. “If my brother were here, he would never stop teasing me about this.”

Boromir, walking on her other side, glanced at her with a grin. “If it’s teasing you miss, I am more than willing to oblige,” he said, half-joking but with an undercurrent of sincerity.

Rían laughed, her spirits lifting, and she turned to Faramir. “Your brother is relentless,” she teased.

Faramir, his arm resting protectively around her waist, smirked. “I did try to warn you.”

Boromir chuckled, but his sharp eyes caught the way Faramir’s hand lingered against Rían’s side, the easy familiarity in the gesture. He said nothing, though his smile lingered, filing the moment away for another time.

And so they walked together, the air filled with the promise of a brighter future, though the unspoken threads of affection and camaraderie between them hinted at stories still waiting to unfold.

***

The streets of Minas Tirith were alive with activity as the city prepared for Aragorn’s coronation. The stone pathways were swept clean, banners of white and silver hung from windows, and the air was filled with a sense of eager anticipation. Yet, amidst the bustling preparations, there were whispers and knowing smiles, a quieter buzz of curiosity that seemed to follow Faramir and Rían wherever they went.

They had become a tale unto themselves, it seemed—a love story plucked from the songs of minstrels, whispered about by market vendors and smiths, even the children darting through the streets. “The Steward’s son and the wild ranger,” some called it, a romance woven from two different worlds. Others simply referred to them as “the Captain and his lady,” though that title always made Rían grimace and mutter under her breath.

Today, they walked together through the gardens of the Houses of Healing, a rare moment of peace stolen between their duties. Faramir’s pace was slower than usual, his wounds though almost healed still gave him some trouble, but his hand rested lightly on Rían’s as they strolled along the paths lined with fragrant blooms. The wind carried the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city below, but here, it was as though the world had quieted just for them.

“You’ve been quiet,” Faramir remarked, his voice low and warm, as they stopped beneath a great tree whose branches cast dappled shadows across the stone bench beside it.

Rían glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Have I?” she asked lightly, though there was a faraway look in her eyes.

Faramir tilted his head, studying her with that gentle intensity that always made her feel as though he could see straight into her soul. “You have,” he said softly. “What weighs on your mind?”

She hesitated for a moment before gesturing toward the city beyond the walls of the garden. “The people,” she admitted. “Their stares, their whispers. I can feel their eyes wherever we go. I am not as indifferent  to this as you are” Her tone was not bitter, but there was a note of unease.

Faramir smiled faintly, his hand brushing against hers. “They are curious,” he said, his voice steady. “You are unlike anyone they’ve known, Rían. And they see what I see—a strength and grace that commands admiration.”

She snorted softly, though her cheeks colored faintly at his words. “Admiration? They likely think I’m some wild creature who doesn’t belong in their fine city.”

“I think they find you captivating,” Faramir replied, his smile widening. “And perhaps they’re not wrong to see you as a little wild. But that is part of what makes you so… remarkable.”

Rían rolled her eyes, though her smile softened. “You have a talent for flattery, Faramir,” she said wryly.

“Not flattery,” he said earnestly, his gaze meeting hers. “Truth.”

She glanced at him, a faint smile curving her lips. “I was thinking of my mother lately,” she admitted, her tone tinged with a wistful melancholy. “And of something she said to me… on her deathbed.”

Faramir’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze intent. “What did she say?”

Rían paused by the fountain, her fingers trailing lightly over the cool stone edge as she stared into the clear water. “She told me that I must not walk this road alone,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “She said that one day, I must find someone who loved me as fiercely as my father loved her. That I should not walk this road without a hand to hold.”

Faramir’s breath hitched faintly at her words, and he stepped closer, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the stone. “And do you feel that her words have been fulfilled?” he asked gently, though there was a vulnerability in his tone, as if he feared the answer.

Rían turned to him fully then, her grey eyes meeting his with a quiet intensity. “Yes,” she said simply, her voice steady and filled with certainty. “They have.”

Faramir’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. His hand moved instinctively to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin. “Rían,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You honor me more than I can ever say.”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch. “You have given me what I thought I might never find,” she said softly. “A place to belong, a hand to hold, and a heart that understands mine.”

Faramir’s grey eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I am yours, Rían,” he whispered. “Now and always.”

The sound of the fountain filled the quiet that followed, but it was not long before Rían broke the stillness with a wry smile. “Of course, now you’ll have to endure the endless teasing of my rangers. They’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Faramir chuckled, his forehead resting lightly against hers. “And Boromir’s constant commentary,” he replied with mock resignation. “It seems we both have our trials to bear.”

Rían turned to him, her lips parting slightly, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, as though drawn by some invisible force, he leaned in, his hand brushing a few stray hairs away as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

She closed her eyes at the touch, her breath hitching slightly. “Faramir,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Before he could respond, a voice called out from the garden’s entrance, startling them both. “Captain Faramir! Lady Rían!”

They turned to see one of the younger Gondorian soldiers, his face alight with mischief. “I hate to interrupt,” he said, clearly enjoying himself, “but you’re wanted in the courtyard. Something about banners and placements for the coronation.”

Rían sighed, straightening slightly and brushing her hands against her tunic. “Of course,” she said dryly. “Heaven forbid the banners be placed incorrectly.”

Faramir chuckled, falling in step next to her and offering her his hand. “The price of being indispensable,” he said lightly.

As they walked back toward the city, Rían glanced at him, her smile faint but genuine. Despite the whispers, despite the stares, she found herself caring less and less about what the people thought. They would tell their tales and spin their songs, but here, in these stolen moments, she had found something far more precious—something that no rumor could tarnish.

***

The first rays of morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of the Citadel, casting golden beams onto the polished stone floors. Rían stood beside Faramir in one of the quieter halls, their conversation light, though both carried an undercurrent of tension that had yet to fade in the wake of the war.

It was Aragorn’s sudden appearance at the far end of the corridor that caught their attention. His stride was purposeful, his face alight with something both urgent and joyful.

“Frodo has woken,” he announced, his voice steady but brimming with warmth.

Rían’s breath caught, and without hesitation, she grasped Faramir’s hand, her steps quickening to match Aragorn’s as they moved together. “Frodo,” she murmured, the name carrying a weight of relief and gratitude.

Faramir squeezed her hand, his grey eyes softening. “He endures,” he said quietly, awe threading his voice.

“Of course he does,” Rían replied, a fierce smile tugging at her lips. “If anyone could, it’s Frodo—and Sam.”

The three hurried through the winding halls of the Houses of Healing, their cloaks billowing behind them. Rían’s heart beat faster with every step, the weight of her worries easing as they neared the chamber where the ring-bearer rested. She could hear faint laughter from within, light and joyous, a sound she hadn’t dared hope for in what felt like a lifetime.

Inside the room, Frodo lay back against soft pillows, the morning light streaming across his pale but peaceful face. The gentle sound of birdsong filtered in through an open window. His eyes fluttered open, taking in the room, and his breath caught as his gaze settled on a familiar figure sitting at the foot of his bed.

“Gandalf?” Frodo’s voice was a whisper, filled with disbelief and wonder.

The wizard’s face broke into a radiant smile, his eyes twinkling with joy. A warm, rich laugh escaped him, echoing through the chamber like a bell.

Frodo’s lips parted in astonishment before laughter bubbled up from within him. “Oooohhh!” he exclaimed, his joy spilling over as he laughed along with Gandalf, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

The door creaked open, and two small figures appeared in the frame. Merry and Pippin stood there for a moment, their faces alight with pure, unbridled happiness.

“Frodo!” Merry cried, his voice breaking slightly as he surged forward.

The two hobbits leapt onto the bed, their arms wrapping tightly around Frodo in a tangle of laughter and tears. Gandalf chuckled at the sight, his smile never faltering as he watched the reunion unfold.

“Aaaahh!” boomed a familiar voice, and Gimli stepped into the room, his arms spread wide.

“Gimli!” Frodo said, his face lighting up even further.

The dwarf clapped his hands together and strode toward the bed, his laughter mingling with the hobbits’.

Legolas entered next, his steps light and graceful. He paused in the doorway, his smile serene as he met Frodo’s gaze. The two exchanged a silent understanding, their bond forged in the fires of peril.

Then Aragorn stepped into the room, his presence commanding yet full of warmth. Frodo’s face broke into another wide smile.

“Aragorn!”

Aragorn smiled back, moving to stand near the others who gathered around the bed. Gimli, for all his gruffness, wiped a stray tear from his eye, his shoulders straightening as he composed himself.

Finally, two more figures appeared in the doorway. Rían and Faramir entered, their hands clasped tightly together. As they entered the room, their hands intertwined, a subtle shift passed through the fellowship. Aragorn’s sharp eyes flicked briefly to their joined hands, and though his face remained composed, a faint, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, a twinkle of amusement lighting his ancient eyes, though he said nothing.

Legolas exchanged a quick glance with Gimli, the elf’s lips curving into a sly grin. Gimli, for his part, gave a quiet huff that could have been mistaken for a chuckle, stroking his beard as if mulling over some unspoken thought.

Merry and Pippin, however, were less subtle. They exchanged wide-eyed looks of astonishment before Merry leaned toward Pippin, whispering something that made the younger hobbit stifle a giggle behind his hand.

Sam, ever observant, simply smiled to himself, his gaze soft as he looked at Frodo, as if silently thinking, There’s still some good in this world.

No one spoke aloud, but the warmth in their expressions said enough. Rían, catching the looks out of the corner of her eye, felt her cheeks warm slightly, though she didn’t let go of Faramir’s hand. Faramir noticed her reaction and squeezed her fingers gently, his own small smile betraying his amusement

Rían’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she released Faramir’s hand and crossed the room quickly. She knelt by the bed, her arms wrapping around Frodo and Sam, who had entered just behind her. The two hobbits blinked in surprise at her fervor before melting into her embrace.

“You two,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “The smallest among us, yet the bravest and most steadfast. You remind me of all that is good and pure in this world.”

Sam flushed at the words, stammering something incoherent, while Frodo simply smiled, his eyes shining with gratitude.

Faramir stepped forward, his movements measured as his gaze swept over the two hobbits. He inclined his head slightly. “Frodo. Sam,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere. “I am in awe of what you have done—for all of us. We all owe you a debt we  can never repay.”

Sam looked up at him, his wide brown eyes full of humility. “We didn’t do it alone,” he said earnestly, glancing around at the faces gathered there. “We all had a part to play.”

Rían pulled back slightly, her hands still resting on Frodo’s and Sam’s shoulders. “Perhaps,” she said softly, her smile tinged with affection, “but none of us walked into the heart of Mordor. That was your road, and you walked it without faltering.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of her words settling over them all. Then Gandalf broke the silence with a gentle laugh. “A great road it was,” he said, his voice rich with pride, “but it has brought us here, to this moment. And for that, I am thankful.”

As the fellowship exchanged glances, their bonds forged anew in the light of Frodo’s survival, the joy of reunion filled the room, spilling out into the halls of Minas Tirith and beyond.

The warmth of the moment lingered, filling the room with a quiet serenity. Frodo leaned back into the soft pillows, his gaze drifting over each face gathered around him. His smile faltered for a moment as if overwhelmed by the love and gratitude he felt but could not fully express.

Sam, still sitting beside him, gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, his own eyes glistening. “It’s good to see everyone together again,” Sam said softly, his voice carrying the weight of everything they had endured.

Rían stood, brushing her hands over her tunic as she stepped back beside Faramir, who looked at her with quiet admiration. She caught his gaze, a soft smile tugging at her lips, and leaned toward him to whisper, “They’re the reason we fought so hard, aren’t they? For moments like this.”

Faramir nodded, his hand brushing hers briefly. “For them, for peace… for each other.”

Aragorn stepped forward then, his voice breaking the stillness. “Rest, Frodo, Sam,” he said, his tone both commanding and gentle. “The road you walked was long, but now it is time for others to carry the burden.”

Frodo smiled faintly, his eyes heavy with weariness but alight with gratitude. “Thank you, Aragorn,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with relief. “For everything.”

As Gandalf’s warm laughter rose again, Rían and Faramir lingered by the doorway, watching the fellowship reunited. Faramir leaned closer to her, his voice low so only she could hear. “A tale for the ages, don’t you think?”

Rían chuckled softly, glancing at him. “A tale we’re fortunate to be part of,” she replied. Then, with a playful tilt of her head, she added, “Come, let’s leave them to their rest. We still have duties to attend to.”

Faramir smiled, offering her his arm as they quietly left the room, leaving the warmth of reunion behind but carrying it in their hearts.

Chapter Text

The moon hung high over Minas Tirith, its silvery glow casting the city in a serene light. From the balcony of the Steward’s House, the view stretched far over the fields of Pelennor and the winding course of the Anduin. The city below was quiet, save for the faint hum of distant voices as workers prepared for the coronation. The air was cool, carrying with it the faint scent of the summer blooms that adorned the gardens.

Rían stood with her hands resting lightly on the stone railing, her dark hair stirred by the soft night breeze. Faramir was beside her, his presence a comforting weight at her side. His grey eyes, illuminated by the moonlight, were fixed on her, though her gaze was lost somewhere in the distance.

“Do you think everything will go smoothly tomorrow?” Faramir asked softly, breaking the silence.

Rían turned her head, a small smile curving her lips. “With Aragorn?” she said lightly, though her eyes were warm. “He’s walked into more impossible situations than I can count, and he always comes out on top. I’d wager tomorrow will be no different.”

Faramir chuckled, his gaze softening. “He bears it well—the weight of it all. I wonder if I could do the same in his place.”

Her brow arched faintly as she studied him. “You would,” she said simply. “You already carry so much, and yet you stand tall. Faramir, the people of Gondor look to you with pride. Your strength isn’t loud or brash, but it’s steady. That’s what they need.”

A faint blush touched his cheeks at her words, and he glanced down, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t always feel strong,” he admitted quietly.

Rían reached over, her fingers brushing his briefly before curling around his hand. “Maybe none of us do,” she murmured. “But strength isn’t about what you feel. It’s about what you do despite it.”

They fell into silence again, but it was a companionable one. The soft sounds of the city drifted up to them, and the stars above glimmered faintly in the clear sky.

“It feels like the start of something entirely new,” Faramir said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “We’re standing on the edge of a different age. It’s humbling… and terrifying.”

Rían nodded slowly, her gaze drifting back to the horizon. “It’s something my kin have waited for, for generations,” she said softly, her voice tinged with awe. “The north has hoped for this—prayed for this—for so long. To see Aragorn crowned, to know he’ll bring strength and unity again… It’s more than I ever thought I’d live to witness.”

“But?” he prompted gently, sensing there was more behind her words.

She exhaled, the sound faint but heavy. “But I miss the north,” she admitted. “It’s been over a year since I last saw it. I miss the wilds, the rivers, the forests. I miss my people. There are so many I need to visit—so many I need to see.” Her voice grew quieter, her gaze distant. “And I need to visit my family’s graves. To tell them the story of what’s happened, to let them know we’ve made it. That Aragorn is king.”

Faramir’s hand tightened gently around hers, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. “And when you do, they’ll know,” he said, his voice steady. “They’ll know how much of this you made possible.”

She looked at him then, her grey eyes meeting his, gratitude and affection shining in her gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Faramir smiled faintly, his lips curving upward with quiet warmth. “For what?”

“For being you,” she replied, her voice tinged with sincerity. “For being someone I can lean on when the weight of it all feels too much.”

He studied her for a moment, his expression softening further. “Rían,” he began, his voice lower now, almost hesitant, “wherever you go, I want to go with you. I don’t care if it’s the north or Ithilien or the farthest corners of Middle-earth. I just… I don’t want to be apart.”

Her heart clenched at the vulnerability in his voice, and she turned fully toward him, her free hand reaching up to rest lightly against his chest. “I don’t want that either,” she said softly, her tone steady but filled with emotion. “I hope Aragorn would not ask it of us. But even if he did… Faramir, I wouldn’t let him.”

A flicker of relief passed through his eyes, and his hand rose to cover hers, holding it against his chest. “You mean that?”

“With everything I have,” she replied. “I will cuss out the very King of Gondor and Arnor if that means I get to stay by your side,” she added, her tone lighter, joking. 

He chucked slightly and leaned forward then, his forehead resting lightly against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of everything he felt. “Good,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “Because you’ve become my home, Rían. Wherever you are… that’s where I want to be.”

Rían’s lips trembled slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corners even as her heart clenched at the tenderness in his words. The warmth in his gaze, the way his fingers lightly brushed against her waist, grounding her—it was more than she thought she could ever deserve. Her eyes lingered on his face, tracing the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the soft curve of his lips, the quiet strength in his expression that always seemed to steady her.

Without a word, she tilted her head, closing the small distance between them. Her lips met his in a kiss that was neither hurried nor tentative, but steady and full of quiet longing. It was soft at first, a gentle exploration, as though both of them were still discovering the depth of the connection that bound them. But as the moments stretched on, the kiss deepened, becoming something more—a silent vow, a shared promise that words could never convey.

Faramir’s hand rose to cradle the side of her face, his touch reverent, his thumb brushing softly along her cheek. His heart raced beneath the steady rhythm of his breath, but it wasn’t the wild thrill of battle or the desperate urgency of war—it was something gentler, yet no less powerful. It was the overwhelming certainty that in this moment, in her presence, he was whole.

Rían’s hand slid up to rest against his chest, her fingers splaying over the soft linen of his tunic. Beneath her touch, she felt the strong, steady beat of his heart—a rhythm that seemed to match her own. It grounded her, tethered her to the present even as the kiss carried her away. For a brief, blissful moment, the world around them faded into nothingness, and all she could feel was him—the warmth of his lips, the faint scent of woodsmoke and the wilds that clung to him, the gentle strength in the way he held her as though she were something precious.

When they finally pulled apart, neither moved far, their foreheads still touching as they lingered in the shared warmth of the moment. Faramir’s grey eyes were heavy-lidded, his expression soft and unguarded in a way that Rían had rarely seen before. “Rían,” he murmured, her name falling from his lips like a prayer, his voice filled with quiet awe.

Her own breath hitched slightly as she met his gaze, her grey eyes glimmering with emotion. “Faramir,” she whispered back, her voice steady but low, carrying the weight of everything she felt. A faint smile curved her lips as she brushed her fingers along his jawline. 

“I think we’d better leave soon,” she said finally with a faint chuckle, breaking the tender moment. “Or we’ll find ourselves tangled up in wedding preparations for Aragorn and Arwen.”

Faramir laughed softly, though there was still a trace of unease in his gaze. “And you’d let Aragorn rope you into that?”

“Not without a fight,” she replied, her tone teasing but fond. “But we’ll manage, Faramir. Together.”

Rían leaned lightly against Faramir as they stood together on the balcony, her hand still resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm. The cool night air whispered around them, but the warmth radiating from his closeness kept the chill at bay. She glanced up at him, her grey eyes soft with affection as the moonlight illuminated the sharp yet gentle features of his face.

“You look so serious,” she said, her voice a quiet murmur, laced with gentle teasing. “Tell me you’re not already fretting about tomorrow.”

Faramir turned his head slightly to look at her, a small, rueful smile curving his lips. “I suppose I am,” he admitted, though his tone held no heaviness. “But it’s not the coronation itself that concerns me. It’s what comes after. What kind of world we’re going to build.”

She tilted her head, studying him with a faint smile. “Ever the dreamer,” she said softly, though there was no mockery in her voice. “It’s one of the things I admire most about you, you know. You see the world not as it is, but as it could be.”

Faramir’s gaze softened as he looked down at her, his grey eyes filled with quiet wonder. “And you,” he said, his voice low and earnest, “make me believe that the world could be better. That there’s still light worth fighting for.”

Rían felt her breath catch slightly at the intensity of his words, her chest tightening with a mix of emotion she hadn’t felt so deeply in years. She reached up, her fingers brushing lightly against his jaw before she cupped his face in her hand. “You speak as though you’re the only one who’s seen the light,” she murmured, her voice tender. “But Faramir, you’ve been that light for me. You’ve reminded me what it means to hope again.”

He closed his eyes briefly at her words, leaning into her touch as if drawing strength from her hand against his face. When he opened them again, his gaze was steady, filled with a depth of emotion that made her chest ache.

“You’ve given me more than hope, Rían,” he said quietly, his voice steady but trembling slightly at the edges. “You’ve given me something I didn’t know I was missing—a purpose beyond duty. A life beyond war.”

Rían smiled faintly, though her eyes shone with unshed tears. “And you’ve shown me that I don’t have to walk this road alone,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “For so long, I thought that was my fate. But now…” She paused, taking a deep breath as her fingers lightly traced the edge of his jaw. “Now I know what my mother meant when she said I would find someone who would love me as my father loved her. Someone who would walk beside me, no matter where the road leads.”

Faramir’s hand rose to cover hers where it rested on his cheek, his fingers threading gently through hers. “And you have my hand to hold,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “Wherever you go, wherever this path takes us—I will walk it with you.”

She leaned forward then, her forehead resting against his as their breaths mingled in the cool night air. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of their shared promises hanging between them like a sacred bond. The sounds of Minas Tirith at rest drifted faintly through the air—distant voices, the faint clatter of hooves on stone—but here, on this balcony, it felt as though the world had shrunk to just the two of them.

***

Faramir stood outside Rían’s chamber door, the rich weight of the deep blue mantle resting in his arms. He knocked softly, his heart quickening as he heard her voice bid him to enter. As he stepped inside, the sight before him took his breath away.

Rían stood by the window, her gown shimmering in the soft light that spilled into the room. The deep azure of the fabric complemented the gold accents perfectly, the intricate embroidery along the hem and sleeves resembling swirling stars. Her hair, braided in the northern style, was woven with golden threads and delicate beads that caught the light with every movement. A slender, golden circlet rested upon her brow. She turned to face him, and for a moment, Faramir forgot to speak.

“You… look radiant,” he finally said, his voice low, almost reverent. The words were simple, but they carried a depth of meaning that made Rían’s cheeks flush faintly.

Rían smiled, tilting her head as she regarded him. “You are not so unremarkable yourself,” she teased lightly. Faramir stood before her in his ceremonial attire, the silver breastplate gleaming, his tunic adorned with fine embroidery on the sleeves and cloak, a crown of honor upon his brow.

He cleared his throat, recovering from his daze. “I—ah—brought something for you,” he said, stepping closer. “May I?”

Rían nodded, curiosity lighting her eyes as she watched him unfold the mantle he carried. The rich blue fabric, darker than her gown, was adorned with golden stars embroidered across its length, shimmering like constellations in the night sky.

Faramir draped it over her shoulders with careful hands, his fingers brushing the fabric of her gown as he adjusted its fall. His touch lingered briefly before he pulled back. “A brooch,” he murmured, his eyes flicking to hers.

Rían reached up and removed the star-shaped brooch pinned at her shoulder, the symbol of her northern kin. She handed it to him, and Faramir fastened the mantle in place with quiet precision. When his hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, she met his gaze, her expression soft with gratitude.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, her fingers brushing the edge of the fabric. “Though I am from the north, you know. I’m used to the cold.”

Faramir smiled faintly. “It belonged to my mother,” he said softly. “She would have wanted someone like you to wear it.”

Rían stilled, her breath catching. “Your mother?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. She blinked back tears, overcome by the weight of such a gesture. “Faramir… I… thank you.”

Her words faltered, and instead, she stepped closer, her heart full as she leaned up and kissed him softly. It was a kiss of quiet gratitude and deep feeling, her lips warm against his.

For a moment, Faramir stood frozen, then his hands rose to gently cup her arms, holding her as though she might vanish. When they parted, their eyes met, and he saw the unspoken gratitude, the affection, the wonder in her gaze.

“It suits you,” he said, his voice low and steady, though his heart still raced.

Rían smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the golden stars embroidered along the cloak’s edge. “And you, Faramir,” she said, her voice equally soft. “You have a way of making me feel I belong here.”

The corridors of Minas Tirith echoed faintly with the distant murmur of preparations as Rían and Faramir walked side by side. The soft rustle of her gown and the faint metallic chime of his ceremonial armor filled the quiet spaces between their steps. The mantle draped over her shoulders felt unfamiliar yet comforting, its weight a constant reminder of the man at her side.

As they passed an arched doorway, a voice called out, breaking through the reverie. “Rían?”

Rían turned, a genuine smile lighting her face as she recognized the ranger approaching them. He was clad in worn leathers, his dark hair streaked with grey at the temples, and his weathered face bore the marks of many seasons in the wild.

“Calen!” she greeted warmly. “It is good to see a familiar face among all these nobles.”

The ranger dipped his head respectfully toward Faramir, his tone deferential. “My Lord,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with recognition.

Faramir inclined his head in acknowledgment, his demeanor calm but kind.

Calen turned back to Rían, his lips twitching into a grin. “I admit, I never thought I’d live to see the day when you wore a dress, Rían.”

Rían laughed, the sound clear and unguarded. “And here I thought you’d say you never expected to see the king’s return!”

Calen chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That too, though I suspect I’ll believe it better when I see him crowned with my own eyes.” His expression softened as he added, “I’m eager for the coronation, but I’m more eager still to return north. It’s been months since I last saw my little ones.”

“You’ll see them soon enough,” Rían said gently, her voice warm with understanding.

Calen’s gaze lingered on her, a smile touching his lips. “When you return to the north, Rían, you must visit. It’s long past time for us all to meet without an orc ambush or someone bleeding out by the fire.”

Rían nodded, her expression fond. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Calen shifted his attention to Faramir, his eyes glinting with a touch of mischief. “And you, my lord, are most welcome as well. My wife will be overjoyed to have a fine captain of Gondor as her guest. She’ll not forgive me if I don’t extend the invitation.”

Faramir seemed momentarily caught off guard, the faintest flush coloring his cheeks. “You do me much honor,” he replied, his voice quiet and measured.

Rían raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “And here I thought my presence alone would be enough to brighten her days,” she quipped, crossing her arms as she glanced at Calen.

Calen chuckled, shaking his head. “Your presence, Rían? Oh, it brightens her days, all right—especially when it means tending to the endless injuries you manage to acquire.” He turned to Faramir with a mock-serious expression. “I swear to you, my lord, Rían sees my wife more often than I do these days. Between the injuries and the endless tales, I’m lucky if I get a word in.”

Rían rolled her eyes, though her smile grew as she stepped forward. “Perhaps Aelith should be overjoyed, then, that no one has been bleeding on her pristine floors lately,” she retorted, her tone light, though her eyes glimmered with humor.

Calen laughed at that, a deep, hearty sound. “A rare mercy,” he agreed, his grin broad. “Though if I know you, it’s only a matter of time before you give her another mess to clean up.”

As the two laughed, Faramir’s expression shifted ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement, but his eyes grew shadowed at her words. The mention of blood—of Rían injured and in need of care—seemed to unnerve him. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at his side, and his gaze dropped for a moment, the faintest flicker of unease crossing his features.

Rían noticed the change in his demeanor almost immediately. Her laughter faded, her own brow furrowing briefly before she reached out, her hand finding his. She squeezed gently, her touch firm and steady, grounding him with a quiet reassurance.

Calen, oblivious to the undercurrent between them, clapped Faramir on the shoulder with an easy grin. “Aelith will be pleased to meet you, my lord. But you should be warned—she has a sharp tongue and even sharper wit. In that regard she is just like Rían.”

Rían let out an exaggerated sigh, though her amusement was plain. “It’s no wonder she tolerates you, then,” she said, earning another burst of laughter from Calen. Rían smirked at that, her tone light. “We’ll see what we can manage, Calen. Now, if we don’t hurry, we’ll be late for the coronation, and I doubt even the king will excuse us for that.”

Calen laughed and inclined his head again. “Go then. But don’t forget what I said, Rían.”

As Rían and Faramir resumed their walk, the lively energy of the city seemed to fade into a quieter, more personal rhythm. Faramir’s hand brushed against hers once, twice, as they walked, until finally, he let his fingers find hers and clasp them gently.

Rían glanced up at him, her brows raised slightly, though a smile played at the corners of her lips. Faramir’s gaze remained forward, a faint but unmistakable look of contentment softening his features.

“Are you always this bold, my lord?” she teased softly, though there was no sharpness in her tone.

Faramir’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles. “Not always,” he replied, his voice low. “Only when I must.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his, and for a moment, the weight of duty, the expectations of the world, and the burdens of their past seemed to ease. Together, they made their way toward the Great Hall, where the world awaited.

The morning of the coronation dawned bright and golden, the promise of a new age glinting in every dewdrop that clung to the gardens of the Citadel. The air was filled with the sounds of the city stirring to life—voices raised in joy, the faint strains of music carried on the breeze, and the hurried footsteps of those preparing for the grand event.

Rían walked beside Faramir through the winding paths of the upper levels, her hand resting comfortably in his. The gesture, though simple, carried a quiet intimacy that neither of them could ignore. Faramir’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand, his touch warm and steady. Rían glanced sideways at him, catching the faint smile that played on his lips, and she couldn’t help but smile in return.

“You seem uncharacteristically cheerful this morning,” she remarked, her tone light.

“It is a rare thing to witness the dawn of a new age,” he replied, his voice thoughtful. “And rarer still to walk into it with good company.”

Rían chuckled softly, though the warmth in her chest was undeniable. Before she could respond, they rounded a corner and came upon Boromir standing near one of the arched entrances to the Hall of Kings. He was clad in the formal attire of the Steward’s House—rich black and silver embroidered with the white tree of Gondor. His broad frame filled the space, and the polished circlet of his office rested on his brow.

At the sight of them, Boromir’s stern expression broke into a grin. His sharp eyes, so much like Faramir’s, fell immediately to their joined hands.

“Ah,” he said, his voice carrying a teasing note. “So my brother does not come alone to this momentous occasion. And here I thought I would be the one drawing all the attention today.”

Faramir sighed, though a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Good morning, Boromir.”

Rían, catching the glint of mischief in Boromir’s eyes, tightened her hold on Faramir’s hand, as though claiming her place with quiet confidence. “Good morning, my lord,” she said, inclining her head in mock solemnity. Then, with a wry smile, she added, “I hope you will forgive me for stealing a bit of your brother’s time. It seems he has been too kind to decline my company.”

Boromir laughed, the sound deep and hearty. “Too kind, indeed. Or perhaps too enamored to refuse.”

Faramir let out a quiet groan, and Rían couldn’t help but laugh. “Well,” she said, turning to Faramir with a glint of amusement in her eyes, “You were the one that said I would get on too well with your brother, weren’t you ?”

“And you told me, I might regret it,” Faramir replied, his tone dry but his eyes warm as they met hers. “It seems your fears were well-founded.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Regret it, do you? I should think you’d be pleased to see us getting along so famously.”

“Oh, I am pleased,” Faramir said with a faint smirk. “But I am also wary. The two of you together—this alliance—is more dangerous than any I’ve faced in battle.”

Rían laughed, her voice light and unrestrained, and Boromir joined her, clapping a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “Come now, brother,” Boromir said. “You’ve survived orcs, trolls, and sieges. Surely you can endure a bit of teasing.”

Faramir shook his head, though his smile betrayed his amusement. “It seems I have little choice.”

As the laughter between them subsided, Boromir stepped back and gave Rían an approving look. “You know, Rían, I must admit—I think you’re good for him,” he said, his tone warm but teasing still.

“And here I thought I was simply here for the festivities,” Rían quipped, her smile playful.

Boromir chuckled and gestured toward the Hall. “Shall we? The King awaits, and it would not do for the Steward and his entourage to be late.”

With that, they continued their walk toward the Hall, the banners of Gondor fluttering above them in the morning breeze. Faramir, though mildly exasperated, felt a quiet joy settle over him. Rían’s laughter lingered in his ears, and the sight of her at ease with Boromir filled him with a sense of completeness he had not known he lacked.

And as her hand remained in his, he thought—just for a moment—that perhaps this day was not only the beginning of a new age for Gondor but for himself as well.

***

The sun rose high over the White City, its light gilding the pale stone with a brilliance that seemed to mirror the hope in the hearts of the people gathered there. The courtyard was filled to the brim—citizens of Gondor, rangers of the North, soldiers of Rohan, and many others stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces uplifted toward the steps of the great hall. The wind carried the scent of spring blossoms, mingling with the murmurs of anticipation that rippled through the crowd.

Rían stood among them, her hand clasped tightly in Faramir’s. Her dark hair was catching the sunlight like a river of shadowed silk. Faramir, beside her, wore the ceremonial attire of Gondor, his posture straight and proud, though his gaze was softer, drawn often to her face as they waited.

On the steps above, Gandalf lifted the crown high, the sunlight catching on its silver and jewels so that it seemed to blaze with its own light. The gathered crowd fell into a reverent hush as the wizard placed the crown upon Aragorn’s brow.

“Now come the days of the King. May they be blessed,” Gandalf said, his voice deep and steady, carrying over the courtyard.

Aragorn turned, ascending the final steps to face his people, his dark hair catching the wind, the mantle of kingship flowing around him like a river of midnight. His face was serene yet resolute, his grey eyes aglow with quiet strength. As the applause and cheers erupted, Rían felt her throat tighten, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

Faramir, noticing her emotion, gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She turned to him briefly, her lips curving into a small, watery smile. But when her gaze swept outward, she caught sight of several noblemen nearby casting curious glances toward her and Faramir’s joined hands. Their expressions, though restrained, betrayed mild surprise. Meeting their eyes, Rían raised her chin, her gaze sparkling with a hint of playful defiance. The nobles quickly averted their gazes, leaving her suppressing a grin.

She leaned slightly toward Faramir, her voice soft but carrying a note of humor. “The King’s return didn’t truly feel real until now.”

Faramir’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “I know what you mean,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on Aragorn. “It feels as though a great weight has lifted from this city.”

Aragorn stepped forward, his voice ringing clear over the crowd. “This day does not belong to one man, but to all. Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace.”

The applause surged once more, and petals of white and gold began to fall from the towers above. Gimli tilted his head back, marveling at the sight, while Rían, her hand still entwined with Faramir’s, let the petals brush against her upturned face. She closed her eyes briefly, savoring the moment.

As Aragorn began to sing the ancient song of Elendil, Faramir turned his gaze to Rían, who was quietly mouthing the words along with him. A spark of curiosity lit his eyes. “I thought you didn’t know Sindarin,” he whispered, leaning closer to her.

Rían smirked slightly, not taking her eyes off Aragorn. “I don’t,” she admitted softly. “But that song? Most rangers know it. It’s been with us for generations.”

Faramir chuckled under his breath, the sound warm and fond. “Of course,” he murmured. “It would be.”

When Aragorn descended the steps, Boromir stepped forward to bow deeply before him, and, surprisingly enough, Éowyn followed, staying at his side. Faramir and Rían exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. As they too moved to bow, Faramir leaned closer to Rían, his voice low with a hint of mischief. “I might finally have something to get back at Boromir for all his teasing.”

Rían smiled, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she quickly raised her hand to hide it. “I’d pay to see that,” she whispered.

Eomer, now King of Rohan, followed suit, bowing low with the dignity befitting his station. Behind him, Legolas stepped forward, the elf’s graceful movements catching the eyes of those around him. Aragorn clasped a hand to Legolas’s shoulder, his voice soft as he spoke words of gratitude in Sindarin. Legolas nodded, his expression serene, before stepping aside.

Aragorn turned, his breath catching as his gaze followed Legolas’ silent gesture. Beyond the crowd, past the banners of Gondor and the assembled lords and warriors, a banner of white and silver stirred gently in the evening breeze. Beneath its folds, stepping forth with the grace of the Eldar, was Arwen Undómiel.

She moved like a vision out of legend, her dark hair flowing like a river of midnight, her gown shimmering silver and blue, woven with the stars of her people. The light of the setting sun touched her face, gilding her fair skin with gold, but her eyes, luminous and unwavering, held only him. Behind her, Elrond stood in quiet dignity, watching with the weight of ages in his gaze. His lips moved in a whisper—words meant only for his daughter—as she stepped forward.

Aragorn felt the breath leave his lungs. Slowly, as if drawn by an unseen force, he descended the steps, closing the space between them. He took the banner from her hands, his fingers brushing hers, and she lowered her head, tears glistening in her lashes. He lifted her chin with gentle fingers, tilting her face to his, his grey eyes searching hers.

A tremulous smile curved her lips, and in that moment, the years of waiting, of longing, of sacrifice melted away. Without hesitation, he drew her to him, his hands firm yet reverent as he cradled her face. He kissed her, slow and deep, a kiss not of passion alone, but of promise—a binding of fates long entwined, sealed beneath the watching stars. A murmur of joy rippled through the gathered crowd, then a great cheer rose, echoing through the city like the ringing of a bell.

Elrond watched them with a quiet sorrow, but also a deep acceptance, and as Arwen pulled back, laughing softly, he gave the faintest nod. Aragorn pressed his forehead to hers, their hands still clasped as he breathed her in, as though grounding himself in the reality of her presence.

Hand in hand, they turned and walked together, the king and his queen.

Before them stood the hobbits—Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin—watching with wide eyes, their small forms dressed in fine garments that still seemed strange upon them. The moment they met Aragorn’s gaze, they dropped into deep bows, heads lowered in solemn respect.

Aragorn’s heart clenched. He stepped forward, shaking his head with quiet reverence.

“My friends,” he said, his voice rich with gratitude, “you bow to no one.”

And then, before the eyes of all, the King of Gondor bent his knee, bowing low before the smallest of the Fellowship. A hush fell over the courtyard, and in the next breath, the entire city followed—lords and warriors, knights and captains, elves and men alike—paying homage not to a great lord, but to the quiet strength of four small souls who had carried the fate of the world upon their shoulders.

The hobbits flushed, shifting uncomfortably, but there was no jesting now. Frodo’s lips parted, his blue eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief. Sam swallowed thickly, his hands clenching at his sides as if unsure what to do with such honor. Merry and Pippin exchanged glances, their usual mirth subdued in the weight of the moment. Finally Aragorn rose from his knees, a small, grateful smile on his lips. 

The fellowship and all the gathered host followed suit, including Faramir, who turned briefly to help Rían rise afterward. His hand lingered on hers as they both stood, his touch light but grounding. Rían glanced at him, her smile warm despite the tears glistening in her eyes.

“Well,” she murmured, her voice carrying a note of humor, “everything went smoothly after all.”

Faramir chuckled softly, his grey eyes alight with fondness as he replied, “For that, we can both be grateful.” After a pause, his lips quirked into a faint grin. “But I wouldn’t expect us to avoid more duties for long.”

Rían sighed theatrically, though her smile remained. “Don’t remind me,” she said wryly. “But let’s hope they at least allow us to celebrate a little longer.”

The courtyard was still alive with murmurs and scattered laughter as Rían guided Faramir through the crowd. Her steps were purposeful but unhurried, and her hand remained firmly entwined with his, anchoring them together amidst the sea of faces. Faramir couldn’t help but notice how the people parted instinctively for her, nodding with quiet respect as she passed. She led him to a corner of the courtyard where the rangers had gathered, their weathered faces alight with emotion.

Rían slowed her steps as they drew near. The rangers—her kin, her people—stood in a loose circle, their rugged forms silhouetted against the backdrop of Minas Tirith’s white stone. Tears glistened openly on many cheeks, and their usual stoicism had melted into shared embraces and heartfelt words. Even the gruffest among them bore softened expressions, their shoulders shaking faintly with emotion as they clasped one another’s arms.

“Look,” Rían murmured to Faramir, her voice quiet but filled with warmth. “This is what hope looks like.”

As they stepped closer, the group turned toward her, their faces breaking into smiles that seemed to chase away years of weariness. Galdir was the first to approach, his lined face flushed with pride and the faint gleam of tears in his sharp eyes. “Captain,” he greeted, his voice hoarse but steady. He reached out, clasping both her arms firmly. “You led us here, and you kept your word. I don’t have the words, lass, but…” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat roughly. “You’ve done us proud.”

Rían smiled, though her own eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “We all kept our word,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “Together, we carried this through.”

Galdir’s gaze shifted to Faramir then, his sharp eyes narrowing briefly before softening with approval. “And this one,” he said, stepping forward to clap Faramir on the shoulder. “We’ve heard much about you, my lord. You must be quite something to have earned our captain’s favor.”

Faramir blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sudden camaraderie. “It seems I’ve been greatly honored to be welcomed among you,” he replied, his voice measured but kind.

“You’ve earned it,” another ranger chimed in, his grin wide. “Anyone who can keep up with her is one of us now, whether he likes it or not.”

Laughter rippled through the group as several rangers stepped forward to greet him, clasping his hand or clapping his back with a warmth that left him faintly stunned. One particularly tall ranger pulled him into a quick, hearty embrace, muttering, “You’ll find no end of trouble here, my lord, but at least you’ll have good company.”

Rían chuckled softly, stepping closer to Faramir as she spoke with mock sternness. “They’ll try to break you in, Faramir, but don’t let them fool you. They’re all soft as kittens beneath the bluster.”

“Now, now, Rían,” one of the older rangers said with mock indignation, wagging a finger. “You can’t go giving away all our secrets.”

Another ranger, a younger man with a mischievous glint in his eye, grinned. “Let’s see if he can handle one of our toasts first. That’ll show what he’s made of.”

Faramir laughed softly, his grey eyes glinting with amusement. “I think I may survive,” he said, his tone teasing as he glanced at Rían.

As the rangers’ laughter filled the courtyard, Rían slipped her hand back into Faramir’s, giving it a light squeeze. When their eyes met, her smile softened, and she tilted her head slightly. “They’re my family,” she said quietly, her voice low enough for only him to hear. “They don’t let outsiders in easily, but… they’ve already claimed you.”

Faramir’s lips curved into a faint smile, his chest swelling with a quiet warmth he hadn’t expected. “Then I am honored,” he said simply, his voice equally soft.

“And a little trapped,” Rían added with a wry grin, the spark of humor in her gaze unmistakable.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and leaned closer as if to whisper a secret. “If this is the trap, I’m not inclined to escape.”

Chapter Text

The city of Minas Tirith was alive with celebration, its streets brimming with laughter, song, and the glow of countless lanterns. From the lowest tier to the highest, Gondor rejoiced in the crowning of its king. The stars above seemed brighter, as though the heavens themselves were joining in the jubilation.

On the edge of the festivities, amidst a cluster of rangers who had gathered in the shadow of the White Tree, Rían sat with Faramir. The two of them shared a low bench, their laughter mingling with that of the men who had long been her kin. Wooden goblets clinked together as toasts were exchanged, stories shared, and the bonds of comradeship strengthened after years of toil and shadow.

“You’re not escaping this one, Faramir,” Rían teased, nudging his arm as a ranger passed him a drink. “You’ve been adopted into our company for the evening. No excuses.”

Faramir, his face glowing with quiet amusement, raised his cup obediently. “If that’s the case, I expect to learn all the secrets of the northern wilds by night’s end.”

The rangers laughed heartily at that, and one of them clapped Faramir on the shoulder. “We’ll tell you, Captain, but you might not like what you hear!”

As their laughter filled the air, a hush suddenly fell over the group. Heads turned as Aragorn himself approached, the winged crown of Gondor still resting upon his brow, its silver and gems catching the warm light of the torches. Though his expression was warm and unassuming, the weight of his presence brought a natural pause to the conversation.

The newly crowned king gestured to an empty seat with a wry smile. “Might a weary king join his rangers for a moment?”

The group scrambled to make space, the ease of their merriment temporarily replaced by reverent quiet. Aragorn sat down among them, his hands resting lightly in his lap as his keen gaze swept over the familiar faces.

One of the older rangers stood, raising his cup high. “To King Elessar, long may he reign!” he called, his voice ringing clear and strong.

“To the King!” the rangers echoed, their voices rising in unison. Even Faramir joined in, his goblet raised high. Aragorn inclined his head, his gratitude evident, before motioning for them to sit and continue.

The conversation soon resumed, laughter rippling through the group once more. One of the younger rangers turned to Rían, his tone playful. “So, Captain Rían,” he began, emphasizing her title with an exaggerated bow, “you’ve climbed to the ranks of leadership, but I’ll be honest—you don’t look much the part. I’m sure you’re fierce, but your stature says otherwise.”

The group erupted into chuckles, and even Rían couldn’t help but laugh, though her grey eyes glinted with mischief. “Careful,” she warned, her voice light but carrying the edge of her wit. “It’s the unassuming ones you should fear most.”

Aragorn chuckled quietly, the sound drawing their attention. He leaned back in his seat, an amused glint in his grey eyes. “You jest, but I can tell you the exact moment I knew Rían would make a fine captain.”

Rían tilted her head, her brows arching in curiosity. “Oh?” she asked. “And here I thought this was just a spur of the moment kind of decision.”

“Not at all,” Aragorn replied, his voice steady but tinged with humor. “But there was one moment that cemented the thought in my mind. You may not remember it, but I do—vividly.”

The rangers leaned in, eager to hear what tale their king might share, while Rían crossed her arms and gave Aragorn a skeptical look. “This had better be a tale of my virtues, Aragorn,” she said with mock sternness, though her lips twitched with amusement.

Aragorn chuckled, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, it was a display of leadership, I assure you. Though perhaps not in the way you’re hoping.”

The group chuckled as Aragorn began. “It was years ago, during a patrol near the Ettendales. We had joined forces with a small band of free folk to deal with some orcs that had been harassing the villagers. It was hard work—tracking them through rough terrain, cold nights, and little to eat. By the time we set up camp, the men were worn thin. That’s when the grumbling started.”

“Grumbling?” one of the rangers asked, clearly intrigued.

Aragorn nodded. “The free folk—though brave enough—began questioning the plan. Some thought we should wait for reinforcements. Others suggested we abandon the effort entirely. Their doubt spread like a sickness, and even a few of our rangers began muttering. It was dangerous. Morale was slipping.”

Aragorn’s gaze swept over the group, his eyes glinting with amusement. “And then Rían stepped in.”

Rían’s brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Oh no,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched with a reluctant smile.

Aragorn’s grin widened. “She was standing by the fire, sharpening her knife. When the complaining got too loud, she didn’t say anything at first. She just… looked at them. And let me tell you, the firelight made her eyes burn like two embers. It was enough to make grown men start shifting on their feet, avoiding her gaze.”

The rangers erupted into laughter, though they quickly fell silent again as Aragorn continued, his tone light and amused. “And then… well, she didn’t just speak. She unleashed a torrent of words that left everyone stunned.”

“Oh, what did she say?” one of the younger rangers asked eagerly.

Aragorn leaned forward, a gleam of mischief in his grey eyes. “I won’t repeat all of it verbatim, for the sake of decorum, but let’s just say Rían’s talent for cursing rivals her skill with a blade. That night I’ve learned some curses I didn’t even know existed in  Common Tongue—or any tongue, for that matter. She told them—and I quote—‘If you cowards are too afraid of a few orcs, then you might as well pack up your gear and crawl back to your mothers. At least they’ll have the spine to slap some sense into you.’”

The rangers howled with laughter, slapping their thighs and shaking their heads in disbelief. Faramir, seated beside Rían, chuckled softly, though he pressed a hand over his mouth to mask his amusement. His grey eyes sparkled with quiet delight as he stole a glance at her.

“Oh, and it didn’t stop there,” Aragorn added, his grin widening. “One poor fool had been complaining about the orcs and how impossible the mission seemed. She pointed her knife right at him and said, ‘If you’re that desperate to run home to your bed, I’ll tie a ribbon around your neck and send you back like the cowardly pup you are!’”

The laughter was even louder this time, and Rían buried her face in her hands, groaning playfully. “I don’t recall saying that,” she said, though her voice was warm with amusement.

“Oh, you said it,” Aragorn assured her, his grey eyes glinting. “And then, after thoroughly scolding every man there, you ended with this: ‘If you lot can’t grow a backbone, at least be quiet about it so the rest of us can focus on saving your sorry hides!’”

Aragorn raised a hand to calm the raucous group, though his own smile didn’t fade. “But it wasn’t just the words,” he said, his voice softer now. “It was the way she said them. There was fire in her eyes, fiercer than anything I’ve ever seen. Even I felt a flicker of unease, though her wrath wasn’t directed at me. For a moment, I thought she might scare all the orcs away herself.”

The group erupted into laughter once more, and Rían shook her head, though a faint blush colored her cheeks. “And here I thought this was going to be a tale about my virtues,” she said dryly.

“It is,” Aragorn replied with a grin. “Even if one of those virtues happens to be your unparalleled talent for terrifying grown men.”

Faramir, who had been quietly enjoying the tale, leaned toward her, his smile soft but genuine. “Remind me never to complain in your presence,” he teased, his tone warm. “I don’t think I’d survive your wrath.”

Rían tilted her head, her grey eyes glinting with playful challenge. “You, Faramir? I’d hardly need to scold you. You’re far too noble for that.” Her voice was light, but the warmth behind her words was unmistakable.

Faramir chuckled, the sound quiet but pleased, as the conversation around them resumed, the camaraderie as bright as the fire burning beside them. The group erupted into laughter once more, and Rían rolled her eyes good-naturedly, though her smile lingered. “I should’ve known better than to expect anything else from you, Aragorn,” she said, leaning back in her seat.

“Virtue comes in many forms, Rían,” Aragorn replied, lifting his cup in her direction. The rangers raised theirs in unison, their camaraderie as warm and bright as the fire that burned beside them. Aragorn, his crown still shining in the flickering light, raised his cup once more, his eyes glancing fondly at his rangers before quietly departing, leaving them to their joy.

As Aragorn stepped away, his crown catching the flickering firelight in a way that seemed almost otherworldly, Rían’s gaze lingered on him. There was something profound in the way he carried himself, a quiet authority that had always set him apart. To see him now, crowned and at peace amidst his people, was both a relief and a strange reminder of how far they had all come.

She turned back to the rangers, her lips curving into a wry smile. “Truly, you cannot be surprised by my habit of cursing as though I were born on a ship,” she said, her tone light but edged with humor. “You’ve all met my father, have you not? And Halbarad? Neither were known for their love of gentle words or poetic turns of phrase.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the group, and one of the older rangers grinned knowingly. “Aye, that much is true,” he said, shaking his head with a faint chuckle. “Your father had a tongue sharp enough to cut stone.”

“And Halbarad,” Rían added, her eyes gleaming with mirth, “if there were an art to cursing, he would have been the bard of it.”

The rangers laughed, their voices carrying warmly through the night air. “That’s no jest,” one of the younger men said, leaning forward with a grin. “I once saw him lay into an orc for a quarter of an hour, and I swear it almost looked ashamed before he finished.”

Rían laughed, raising her cup in acknowledgment. “Precisely,” she said. “How could I grow up with such men as my teachers and not inherit at least a portion of their… colorful vocabulary?”

Several of the rangers chuckled, nodding in agreement. Another added with a grin, “Well, if they passed the torch to you, lass, you’ve carried it with pride.”

Faramir, seated quietly beside her, chuckled softly. “That explains much,” he murmured, his voice low and amused.

Rían turned to him with a raised brow and a smirk. “Oh, does it now?”

“It does,” Faramir replied, the corners of his lips curving upward as his grey eyes glimmered with affection. “Though I must confess, your father and Halbarad might still marvel at the breadth of your… vocabulary. It seems to me you have surpassed your teachers.”

The group erupted in laughter once more, and Rían shook her head, unable to suppress her own grin. “If that is so,” she said, lifting her cup as though in a toast, “then may their spirits forgive me, and may their colorful legacy live on.”

For a moment, the weight of the past lifted, replaced by the warmth of camaraderie and the sound of laughter that rang true beneath the stars of Gondor’s renewed hope.

The laughter had barely faded when one of the younger rangers, a wiry lad with untamed curls and a mischievous gleam in his eye, cleared his throat. He shifted uneasily on the low stone wall where he sat, the flickering light of the lanterns throwing long shadows across his face.

“I must admit,” he began hesitantly, his cup of ale cradled in his hands, “I imagined Aragorn a little differently. I mean, he’s a great leader and all, but there’s something… peculiar about him. Do you think it’s because he grew up among the Elves?”

The group fell silent for a beat, the only sounds the crackle of the nearby fires and the faint murmur of distant conversation. Then, without warning, Calen, who stood nearby with his arms crossed, reached out and swatted the back of the lad’s head—not hard, but enough to make a point.

“Watch your tongue,” Calen said, his voice gruff but not unkind, his grey-streaked hair catching the light. “That’s the King you’re talking about, you half-wit.” He shook his head, his expression exasperated but tinged with a flicker of amusement. “If your brain worked half as well as your mouth, maybe you’d think twice before saying something so daft.”

The younger ranger grimaced, clearly chastened, but there was a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t mean any offense,” he muttered, glancing around the others. “I just meant he’s… unexpected.”

Rían, who had been watching the exchange with an arched brow and a faint smirk, leaned back slightly in her seat. “Thank you, Calen,” she said dryly, her tone edged with humor, “for sparing me the need to use my extensive vocabulary on him.”

The older ranger hummed in response, though his lips twitched as if holding back a smile. “Consider it my gift to you,” he said, lifting his cup in a mock toast..

Faramir, who sat next to Rían, chuckled softly. “Perhaps the lad isn’t entirely wrong,” he said, his tone thoughtful as he rested a hand lightly on hers. “Aragorn does have a way about him that’s… unique. He’s not what most expect of a king.”

Rían tilted her head, her sharp gaze softening as she glanced at him. “That’s true,” she admitted. “Though I’d say it’s not a fault. Aragorn has always had a way of surprising people. I think everyone who meets him is caught off guard, in one way or another.”

Calen nodded, his gruff features softening as he leaned against a nearby post. “Aye,” he said. “There’s something about him. He can command armies, face down impossible odds, and still talk to you like an old friend. That’s no easy thing.”

The younger ranger, still nursing his wounded pride, nodded slowly. “It’s just… strange,” he said, his voice quieter now. “To think he’s the same man who’s been wandering with us in the wilds all these years. He never seemed… larger than life until now.”

Rían smiled faintly, her voice low and reflective. “That’s his strength, though, isn’t it? He carries greatness without making those around him feel small. It’s what makes people follow him—not because they have to, but because they believe in him.”

Faramir nodded, his gaze distant as he looked toward the fires. “That belief is what unites us,” he said softly. “What gives us the strength to stand here now.”

Calen reached out and clapped the younger ranger on the shoulder, his touch firm but not unkind. “Just don’t let your surprise turn into doubt,” he said, his voice gruff but steady. “The man’s earned his place, peculiar or not.”

Rían chuckled softly, shaking her head as she turned her gaze toward the sky for a moment. “Peculiar, indeed,” she murmured with a wry smile. Then, straightening slightly, she lifted her cup. “To Aragorn, peculiar or not, and to the men and women who stand with him.”

The group echoed her toast, their voices mingling in a warm chorus as their cups were raised. Faramir, with his arm now resting comfortably on Rían’s waist, smiled faintly as he lifted his own cup in silent agreement. The night stretched on, the fire casting flickering patterns across their faces, and for a while, the weight of the world felt just a little lighter.

The night deepened, but the fire burned on, casting a golden glow over the gathered rangers. Laughter and song echoed through the city, mingling with the occasional clang of tankards as toasts were made. A few rangers had broken into a lively, if slightly off-key, rendition of an old northern ballad, their voices rising in raucous harmony. Calen led them with gusto, his gravelly tone carrying over the chorus, much to the amusement of those too tired—or too sober—to join in.

Rían sat among them, rare smile graced her lips as she watched her comrades, the light of the lanterns  reflecting in her grey eyes. Yet, her thoughts seemed to wander, and when she glanced to her side, she found Faramir sitting close, his posture relaxed yet watchful, his grey eyes bright .

They shared a quiet look, an unspoken understanding passing between them. His hand rested lightly on his knee, and though he appeared at ease, there was a subtle tension in his shoulders, a silent question lingering in his gaze. Rían tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. Without a word, they both rose, their movements deliberate but unhurried, drawing the attention of the group.

“Leaving already?” came a sly voice from across the group. It was Calen, his keen eyes catching their movement. He was nursing his ale with the air of a man who’d seen far too much but refused to let it weigh him down tonight.

“We’ve had our fill,” Rían replied, her tone dry but playful as she stood, brushing off her dress.

“Fill of what?” another ranger chimed in, his grin wide enough to rival the crescent moon above. “The celebration or each other’s company?”

The group erupted into laughter, and Rían rolled her eyes, though her smile remained. “Neither, you fools,” she said, her voice tinged with exasperation. “Some of us need sleep before we fall flat on our faces.”

Faramir rose as well, his movement measured and calm as always. He nodded to the group, his lips twitching in a faint smile. “Rest is as vital as merriment,” he said simply, though the glimmer in his eyes suggested he found their teasing more amusing than he let on.

“Rest,” Calen scoffed, raising his cup. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

“Calen,” Rían warned, though her voice held no true edge. She stepped around the group to swat him lightly on the arm, drawing another wave of laughter from the rangers. “You seem determined to test my patience.”

“We’ll leave you to your ‘rest,’” another ranger teased, winking at Faramir. “But don’t keep her awake all night, Captain. The rest of us might have need of her tomorrow.”

Faramir flushed faintly, but his expression remained composed as he inclined his head. “I’ll be sure she gets the rest she needs,” he said, his tone so earnest that it only made the group laugh harder.

Rían sighed, shaking her head as she tugged her mantle tighter around her shoulders. “I don’t know why I bother,” she muttered, though her smile softened the words.

As they walked away from the group, Rían’s steps slowed slightly, her boots crunching softly against the earth. The distant sound of laughter from the celebrations lingered behind them, but out here, beneath the quiet canopy of stars, the world seemed calmer, almost untouched by the weight of war. She turned her head slightly to glance at Faramir, walking steadily beside her, his cloak billowing faintly in the night breeze.

“Thank you,” Rían said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, her gaze fixed ahead as the cool evening air curled around them, carrying with it the faint hum of distant voices and laughter.

Faramir turned his head toward her, his brow furrowing faintly in curiosity. The soft torchlight from the nearby buildings illuminated the sharp yet gentle lines of his face, his grey eyes searching hers with quiet attentiveness. “For what?” he asked, his tone quiet, inviting, his steps slowing to match her deliberate pace.

“For putting up with them,” Rían replied, the corners of her lips twitching upward in a wry smile as her grey eyes flicked toward him. “They can be a handful.”

Faramir chuckled, the sound low and warm, like the first stirrings of spring water after the frost. His gaze softened, and his shoulders, usually so burdened with duty, seemed to ease ever so slightly. “They care for you,” he said simply, his voice carrying the weight of quiet understanding. “It’s easy to see.”

Rían’s expression shifted, the teasing edge in her smile giving way to something more genuine. She glanced ahead, the faintest light of stars glimmering above them, and sighed, the sound carrying both affection and weariness. “They’re my family,” she admitted after a moment, her voice steady but tinged with a melancholy that settled like a shadow in her words. “The only one I’ve got left.”

Faramir’s steps faltered for just a breath, his thoughtful gaze falling briefly to the ground. The firelight flickered in his eyes as he lifted them again, studying her intently. Her features, sharp with determination but softened by exhaustion, bore the weight of too many battles fought and too many farewells said.

He reached out then, his fingers hovering just above hers, then, with deliberate gentleness, his hand brushed against hers, the contact fleeting but enough to send a quiet warmth blooming in both of them.

Rían glanced up at him, her breath catching as their gazes met. His eyes, steady and grey as a winter morning, held an emotion so unguarded and unspoken that her heart quickened in response.

“Perhaps not the only one,” Faramir murmured, his voice barely audible but rich with meaning, as though he was offering her not just comfort but a promise.

Rían’s steps slowed further, her dark hair shifting slightly in the breeze as she turned more fully toward him. The warmth of his words settled over her like a cloak, soothing the ache she hadn’t even realized was there.

Without a word, Faramir let his fingers slide against hers once more, this time more deliberate, his palm warm against her cool skin. Slowly, he laced his fingers with hers, his touch firm yet tender, as though anchoring them both to the moment. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand, a subtle, reassuring motion that sent a faint flush rising to her cheeks.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, she tightened her grip, her free hand lightly brushing her mantle aside as she looked up at him, her expression softening into something both vulnerable and steady.

“Faramir,” she began, her voice low and steady, though an edge of something unspoken lingered beneath the surface.

He tilted his head, his grey eyes fixed on hers, his expression patient and quietly expectant. “Yes?” he prompted, his tone gentle, though his lips curved into the faintest of smiles.

Rían hesitated for only a moment, then shook her head lightly, a quiet laugh escaping her. “You’ve a way of saying the simplest things that somehow feel profound,” she said, her voice carrying a warmth that matched the faint amusement in her gaze.

Faramir chuckled softly, his grip on her hand tightening ever so slightly. “And you,” he replied, his voice touched with affection, “have a way of pretending you aren’t moved by them.”

Rían smirked, glancing ahead once more as they resumed walking, their hands still intertwined. “Maybe,” she conceded lightly, though the slight blush on her cheeks betrayed her.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the Steward’s House looming closer, its pale stone catching the faint light of the stars. The warmth of Faramir’s hand in hers and the steadiness of his presence grounded her, chasing away the weight of the evening’s festivities and the lingering fatigue of battle.

As they approached the steps leading up to the entrance, Rían glanced at him once more, her grey eyes gleaming faintly with mirth. “You know,” she began, her voice quieter now but laced with dry humor, “we should be careful so Boromir doesn’t see us sneaking around like that”

Faramir groaned softly, though the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips. “Believe me,” he replied, his tone conspiratorial, “I think he’s too busy today staring at Éowyn to notice. ”

Rían laughed at that, the sound warm and unrestrained, and for a moment, the night felt lighter. She gave his hand a brief squeeze, her expression softening as they stepped inside together, the faint echoes of their laughter trailing behind them.

The door creaked as Faramir and Rían entered the room, laughter still lingering between them like the soft echo of the revelry outside. The corridors of Minas Tirith had been filled with songs and joy, the people celebrating the return of the king and the dawn of a new era. Faramir’s arm was comfortably draped around Rían’s waist as they moved into the quiet sanctuary of their chambers.

“Did you see Boromir trying to dance?” Faramir chuckled, his voice warm with mirth. “I thought for a moment he might fall over the railing.”

Rían’s laugh followed, a soft, melodic sound that filled the air with a gentle ease. “I think he was more concerned about what Éowyn would think than his own feet.”

They shared a quiet, knowing smile as the door closed behind them, the din of the coronation celebration muffled by the thick stone walls. Faramir, still smiling, stepped toward the hearth, his hand slipping from Rían’s waist as they approached the flickering flames.

But as the warmth of the fire touched his face, something in his expression shifted, the light in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. He stood still for a moment, gazing into the fire with a quiet introspection, his voice lowering.

“The world has turned a page, has it not?” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “So much has changed. And yet… here we are, standing in the aftermath. I wonder… where do we fit into this new chapter?”

Rían’s brow furrowed for a fleeting moment, but then she moved toward him with graceful certainty, she cupped his face in her hands, her touch gentle yet firm. Her eyes, bright and steady, met his troubled gaze, and in that moment, she knew he needed nothing more than the comfort of her presence.

“Faramir,” she said at last, her voice low, steady, and achingly familiar. “Please just stop worrying for a day.” She moved  her hand, brushing it against the front of his tunic, and then, without warning, she leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was sudden, catching him entirely off guard. For a fleeting second, he stood frozen, his lips unmoving against hers, his breath stolen away. But then, as if a floodgate had opened, he responded, his hands rising instinctively to her waist. He pulled her closer, his touch both hesitant and yearning, as though afraid she might vanish if he let her go.

Her fingers found their way into his hair, threading through the strands with a tenderness that made his heart ache. A quiet sound escaped him, a soft, involuntary moan that seemed to surprise even him. His grip on her tightened as though grounding himself, anchoring them both in the reality of the moment.

For a moment, the world around them seemed to dissolve, leaving only the warmth of their embrace and the taste of shared vulnerability. Faramir’s lips softened against hers, growing bolder with each passing second, as though the walls he had built around his heart were crumbling with her touch. His hands slid along her waist, steadying her as if to ensure she wouldn’t slip away.

And then, unable to resist the pull of her closeness, he tilted his head and let his lips trail downward, brushing against the soft curve of her neck. The gesture was unhurried, reverent, and yet filled with an intensity that sent a shiver through her. Rían felt her knees weaken, the strength in her legs faltering slightly as heat flooded her senses. Faramir noticed, his hands instinctively tightening their hold on her waist as he pulled her closer still, supporting her weight.

“Well now,” he murmured, his voice low and threaded with a hint of amusement. “It seems your usual composure has finally met its match.”

Rían tilted her head back to look at him, her breath still uneven, her grey eyes gleaming with a mixture of affection and challenge. “Is that so?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a playful edge. Her fingers slid from his hair to trace the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light yet deliberate. Before he could answer, she leaned forward, her lips finding the sharp angle of his jaw, then trailing along its edge with a deliberate slowness that made his breath hitch audibly.

Her lips brushed just behind his ear, and Faramir’s body gave an almost imperceptible tremor, his chest rising sharply against hers. Rían couldn’t help the faint smile that played on her lips as she leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Your composure,” she whispered teasingly, her voice low and intimate, “doesn’t seem to be faring much better.”

Faramir’s sharp exhale was accompanied by a quiet, breathless laugh, and he turned his head to meet her gaze, his grey eyes alight with both affection and longing. Whatever retort he might have offered was silenced as her lips found his again, this time slower, more deliberate. The kiss deepened, no longer hesitant but filled with a mutual understanding, as though they had both crossed an unspoken threshold.

His hand moved to the small of her back, the other rising to cup her face, his fingers brushing against the curve of her jaw with a tenderness that made her heart ache. Rían leaned into him fully now, her arms winding around his shoulders as though they could shield one another from the world beyond. The weight of their fears and the burdens they had carried alone seemed to melt away in the heat of their shared closeness.

Neither spoke as the kiss broke, their foreheads resting together as they caught their breath. The silence between them was not empty but filled with a quiet, unspoken understanding that words could never fully convey. Rían’s fingers lightly grazed the back of his neck, and Faramir’s thumb brushed her cheek in a gesture so gentle it sent a shiver through her.

“Rían,” he murmured, her name like a prayer on his lips. His voice was rough, his usual composure fraying at the edges. “Are you sure?”

He drew back just enough to look into her eyes, his own searching hers with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. The firelight cast a soft glow over her features, illuminating the determination etched into every line of her face. For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze steady and unflinching as though she could see straight through him. Then, with a quiet confidence that left no room for doubt, she nodded.

“I am,” she said, her voice low but resolute. Her hand moved to cradle his face, her thumb brushing lightly over his cheek. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

As Faramir stood motionless for a moment, Rían stepped closer, her fingers tracing lightly over the edge of his jaw, down to his collar. Her touch was tender, yet there was a firmness to it, as though she wanted to reassure him, to steady him. The quiet resolve in her expression never wavered, even as the emotions swirling between them threatened to overwhelm.

Slowly, as if testing the fragile connection between them, Faramir’s hands slid up from her waist, brushing the curve of her shoulders. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then leaned in again, capturing her lips with his. This time, the kiss was slower, deeper, charged with all the feelings neither of them had dared to voice.

Rían’s hands moved to his tunic, her fingers trembling slightly as they found the clasps. She began to undo them, one by one, revealing the pale linen beneath, and as the fabric loosened, her hand brushed over his chest. Her fingers paused when they found the fresh scar just above his ribs, left by the arrow that had struck him on the battlefield.

Her touch lingered there, light as a feather, yet filled with a weight that words could not convey. She traced the edge of the scar, her brows furrowing slightly as though lost in thought. Her eyes grew distant, and Faramir felt the shift in her, the way her focus turned inward.

She paused, her brow furrowing as she gazed at the mark. Her hand trembled slightly as she brushed her fingertips over it, her thoughts far away for a moment. “I thought I might lose you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Faramir caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing her fingers gently. “You didn’t,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’m here, Rían. With you.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing a kiss just above the scar, her breath warm against his skin. The gesture was both reverent and intimate, a silent acknowledgment of all they had endured, of all they had come to mean to each other.

Faramir closed his eyes at the sensation, a shiver coursing through him that had nothing to do with the evening chill. When her lips returned to his, it was as though something within him broke free. His hands found her face, cradling it as he kissed her deeply, his thumb brushing against her cheek.

As the kiss grew more fervent, his own restraint began to falter. His hands moved down, slipping to the laces at the back of her gown. He hesitated again, his breathing uneven as he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “If you wish to stop…” he began, his voice thick with both longing and care.

But she silenced him with a shake of her head, her eyes fierce and sure. “I do not wish to stop,” she said simply, her tone unwavering.

Her hands moved to his tunic, pushing it off his shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor in a soft whisper. She let her fingers roam over his bare skin, brushing over old scars and fresh wounds alike, as though committing every detail to memory. Her touch was both curious and reverent, her expression filled with a quiet intensity that stole his breath.

Faramir could only look at her, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt as though he was standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, a place where all his doubts and fears were stripped away, leaving only the raw, unshakable truth of her.

Her lips quirked in a small smile as she leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his. For a moment, they stayed like that, their breathing in sync, their world narrowing to the space they shared.

And then Faramir kissed her again, this time with a fervor that left no room for doubt. His hands slid down her sides, firm but reverent, as though rediscovering her in this new light. His lips moved against hers with a hunger that matched her own, their shared restraint crumbling as the moment deepened.

Her lips left his, brushing along the line of his jaw and down to the hollow of his throat. Faramir shuddered at the sensation, a quiet gasp escaping him.

"Rían," he whispered again, her name a lifeline in the storm of his emotions.

Then, as her hands moved to his shoulders, drawing him closer, he let go of his hesitation entirely. His fingers found the laces of her dress, and as they slowly came undone, the world outside faded away, leaving only the warmth of her touch and the steady rhythm of their hearts beating in unison.

The room was quiet, save for the soft murmur of the wind outside and the faint rustling of fabric as Rían’s dress slipped from her shoulders. The cool air caressed her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating between them. Yet, as the faint light caught the scars that mapped her body—a patchwork of battles fought and wounds endured—Rían felt a strange wave of self-consciousness rise within her. Her fingers twitched at her sides as if to cover herself, but she stopped short, meeting Faramir’s steady gaze.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. His grey eyes traveled across her form, not with scrutiny but with something deeper—an admiration so profound it made her breath catch. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, his fingertips brushing against a long scar that ran down her side, a pale line that stood as a stark reminder of a wound that had nearly claimed her life.

Rían tensed slightly at his touch, her heart pounding in her chest. But Faramir’s hand was gentle, his fingers tracing the scar with reverence, as if he were reading the story of her life through the marks etched into her skin. When he finally looked up at her, his gaze held an intensity that left her breathless.

“You are beautiful,” he said softly, the words carrying a weight of truth that left no room for doubt. His voice was steady, but there was a tremor of emotion beneath it, as though he himself was overwhelmed by the moment. “I have never seen a sight more beautiful in my life, nor shared a moment more perfect than this.”

His hand slid to her waist, pulling her gently closer as he dipped his head to press a tender kiss to the curve of her shoulder. His lips lingered there, murmuring against her skin, “It feels almost like a dream… that I get to call you mine. My Rían.”

Her breath hitched, her hands instinctively finding their way to his shoulders. She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the depth of emotion in them making her heart ache. “I am yours,” she whispered, her voice trembling with honesty. “Take whatever you need.”

A faint chuckle escaped him, soft and warm, as his fingers traced the lines of her face, his touch as light as a feather. “I will never ask for this much,” he said, his voice low and filled with wonder. “I only want a place beside you, Rían.”

She smiled faintly, her hand rising to rest over his where it cupped her cheek. “There is always a place for you beside me,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the breeze, “and in my heart.”

Faramir’s hand slid back to cradle her neck as he leaned in, his lips finding hers once more. This kiss was deeper, unhurried yet full of the quiet intensity of all they had left unspoken. Her hands slid into his hair, holding him to her, as if afraid to let go. The world beyond the room faded away entirely, leaving only the two of them, their breaths mingling as they lost themselves in one another.

The air was cool against her skin, but she hardly noticed, caught instead in the warmth of his touch as his hands skimmed over her arms, her waist, her back. Every touch felt deliberate, a silent conversation spoken in skin and breath and the weight of all they had endured to reach this moment.

Rían traced the lines of his body with equal care, her fingers mapping the scars and muscles beneath her hands. Each touch was an unspoken declaration, a promise to remember every detail of him, every mark that spoke of his survival. Her lips found his again, and the intensity of their kiss grew, the space between them disappearing entirely.

He drew back just enough to look at her, his eyes gentle and filled with emotion. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of their shared history and the depth of their unspoken connection hanging between them. Then, wordlessly, he bent to kiss the curve of her neck, his hands moving to her waist as he pulled her closer still.

Rían's breath hitched as she felt his touch, her own hands sliding up to cradle his face once more. "Faramir," she whispered, his name a mixture of longing and reverence.

The world outside—the celebrations, the songs of victory—faded to nothing as they surrendered to the moment, their emotions spilling into the intimacy they now shared. What followed was left to the hush of the chamber and the warmth of the embrace they had long denied themselves, a union forged not only by the trials they had endured but by the love that had grown between them, unspoken yet undeniable.

***

The soft light of dawn crept into the chamber, bathing the room in hues of gold and pale silver. The air was still, the only sound the faint rustle of the linens as Rían stirred slightly in Faramir’s arms. They lay entwined, bare beneath the light cover of the bed linens, their bodies a tangle of warmth and closeness. His arms were wrapped securely around her, his chest rising and falling with the slow, steady rhythm of sleep that had just begun to lift.

Rían opened her eyes first, blinking softly against the morning light. For a moment, she simply lay there, her cheek pressed against the curve of his shoulder, her fingers splayed lightly against his chest where she could feel the steady beat of his heart. A quiet smile tugged at her lips as she tilted her head just slightly to glance up at him.

Faramir’s eyes fluttered open a moment later, his gaze soft and unfocused as he looked down at her. His dark blonde hair was mussed, and there was a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He shifted slightly, pulling her closer as he rested his chin gently on the crown of her head.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice low and husky with sleep.

“Good morning,” she replied, her voice soft, a smile threading through her words.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, content to lie in the warmth of the morning, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of their shared space. Then, Faramir’s arms tightened slightly around her, and he pressed a kiss to her hair, lingering as though savoring the moment.

“I feel as if I’ve finally found my place in the world,” he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost a sigh. “For the first time in my life, I feel truly at peace. I wish… I wish I could hold you like this forever.”

Rían’s smile deepened, and she tilted her head to rest her chin lightly on his chest, her grey eyes meeting his. “Forever is a long time,” she teased gently, though her gaze was warm.

His lips curved faintly into a smile, but there was a wistfulness in his eyes that made her heart ache. “Not long enough,” he said softly, his fingers brushing over the curve of her shoulder. “I just regret not saying something sooner… not finding the courage to tell you how I felt. Every moment I didn’t get to hold you like this feels like time wasted.”

Rían’s gaze softened, and a quiet laugh escaped her lips, warm and full of affection. She reached up, her fingers tracing lightly along his jaw, the roughness of his stubble grounding her in the reality of the moment. “It’s not wasted,” she said gently. “If it led us here, how could it be?”

Faramir’s expression shifted, the lines of tension that so often marked his features easing into something lighter, something almost boyish in its simplicity. He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her fingertips as they lingered against his face.

Her smile grew, and she leaned up to press a soft kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to savor the warmth of him before settling back into the cradle of his arms. “You can hold me as long as you please, Faramir,” she murmured, her voice quiet but filled with certainty. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, low and deep, as he rested his forehead lightly against hers. “Careful, my love,” he teased, his tone tinged with humor. “I might take you at your word and never let you leave this bed.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” she countered, raising a brow, though the glimmer in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

“Both,” he replied with a smirk, his hands gently stroking along the curve of her back.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, their breathing in sync, the stillness of the morning wrapping around them like a cocoon. But then Rían shifted slightly, propping herself up on her elbow as she glanced toward the window where the sun was climbing higher into the sky.

“As much as I’d love to stay here forever,” she said, her tone wry, “someone will come knocking sooner or later. We do have duties to attend to, you know.”

Faramir groaned dramatically, burying his face against her shoulder. “Must you remind me?” he muttered, though there was no real annoyance in his voice.

She laughed softly, running her fingers through his hair in a soothing motion. “Yes, someone has to be the responsible one here,” she teased. “And besides, Aragorn would likely send half the city searching for us if we’re not at his side when he needs us.”

Faramir lifted his head slightly, a playful gleam in his eyes. “And Boromir would never let us live it down,” he said, his lips twitching into a grin.

Rían chuckled, nodding in agreement. “True enough,” she said. “And my rangers would likely have something to say about it too.”

He sighed, pulling her close once more, his lips brushing against her temple. “Then let’s linger just a moment longer,” he murmured. “Just one more moment before the world calls us away.”

And so they did, the golden light of morning wrapping around them as they held each other, stealing a precious moment of peace before stepping back into the ever-turning wheel of their duties.

Chapter Text

The morning sun poured through the high windows of the throne room in Minas Tirith, gilding the pale stone with a golden glow. King Elessar sat upon the great throne of Gondor, a figure of majesty and quiet strength, crowned with the weight of his people’s hope. Noble guards stood in their places, their livery bearing the White Tree and Seven Stars, but the air in the hall, though formal, was not cold. There was warmth here, and something unspoken that softened the grandeur of the scene.

Through the wide doors came Rían and Faramir, walking side by side. Faramir’s newly donned captain’s uniform bore no mark of disarray; he looked every bit the noble lord of Gondor, his grey eyes calm, though shadows of apprehension lingered at their edges. At his side, Rían moved with the poise of a ranger accustomed to the wild, the silver star of the Dúnedain pinned proudly to her cloak. Yet her fingers fidgeted faintly, brushing the fabric of her tunic where her sword would usually hang.

The previous night’s unease lingered in their steps as Rían and Faramir approached the throne, though neither spoke of it aloud. Both carried the weight of duty, yet there was a shared tension that ran deeper. It was the silent fear that the dawn’s orders from Aragorn would send them along separate paths, scattering the fragile thread of connection that had woven itself between them amidst the trials of war.

Faramir, had voiced his apprehensions to Éowyn as the evening fires burned low. “He will send me where Gondor needs me most,” he had said, his tone steady but heavy with resignation. “And who am I to question the king’s will? But…” His voice faltered, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped as if in prayer. “If it means leaving her behind, I fear I will not have the strength to bear it.”

Éowyn had stood at his side, her gaze softening as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Aragorn is no fool, Faramir,” she said gently, her voice carrying a warmth that tempered her usual bluntness. “He sees much. Do you truly think he would separate two people who fit so well together—who bring out the best in one another? I doubt it.”

Faramir had nodded, but the crease in his brow remained. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Yet I cannot help but fear otherwise.”

Meanwhile, Rían had sought solace in the company of Calen. Seated by the fire, the light casting flickering shadows on her face, she confessed her thoughts with a rare vulnerability. “He will send Faramir to Ithilien, no doubt,” she said, her voice quiet but tinged with bitterness. “And I will be sent to the North, or to some distant border where the King believes the Rangers are most needed. I do not begrudge him his orders… but it will be a hard thing to endure.”

Calen chuckled softly, though there was no mockery in his tone. “Rían,” he said, shaking his head as he stirred the fire with a poker, “for all your wit and sharp tongue, you have little faith when it comes to matters of the heart. Aragorn is not blind, nor is he cruel. If anything, he is a man who understands what it is to love deeply, even in the shadow of war.” He leaned back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Mark my words—he’ll not send you away from one another.”

Rían had sighed, rubbing a hand over her face as if to wipe away her unease. “You speak as if you can predict the future,” she had said with a faint laugh, though her gratitude for his reassurance was plain. Yet as the fire crackled and the stars turned overhead, her doubt remained a quiet companion, unyielding in its grip.

Now, as they walked side by side into the throne room, that same doubt lingered unspoken between them, like a shadow at their heels. Their outward composure was steadfast, but in the subtle glances they exchanged, in the faint tension of their shoulders, the shared fear of separation was written as plainly as the morning sun gilding the hall.

As they drew nearer to the dais, Rían leaned subtly toward Faramir, her voice low and wry but edged with nervousness. “If I trip trying to curtsy, you better catch me before I fall on my face,” she whispered, a fleeting glimmer of humor breaking through her unease.

Faramir glanced at her, his expression softening with affection, though he hid a small smile. “You will do no such thing,” he murmured in reply. “But if you do, I’ll make it seem intentional.”

A faint chuckle escaped her, but she straightened her shoulders as they reached the foot of the throne. Her heart beat faster as they prepared to bow, her mind darting to the etiquette lessons that had not prepared her for this moment.

Yet before she could even lower her head, Aragorn rose from the throne. His gaze, warm and full of light, fell upon them both, and to Rían’s astonishment, he descended the steps with long, unhurried strides. All formality dissolved in an instant, her etiquette lessons immediately forgotten  as the King of Gondor stood before her, and without a word, he embraced her like an old comrade returned from the wild.

Rían froze for the briefest moment, startled, but then relaxed into the warmth of the embrace. The knot of tension that had gripped her chest since entering the hall began to loosen, replaced by a feeling of profound relief.

“Enough of this solemnity,” Aragorn said as he stepped back, his hands still resting lightly on her shoulders. His eyes twinkled with mirth, though his voice carried the weight of sincerity. “There is no need for such formalities here, not among friends.”

Rían blinked, her lips parting in surprise, before a sheepish smile found its way to her face. “Forgive me,” she said quietly. 

The morning sunlight seemed to deepen as Aragorn’s words settled into the vast hall, his voice resonating with the quiet authority of a man who carried the weight of ages upon his shoulders. His gaze, both steady and piercing, moved between Rían and Faramir, who now stood silent, the enormity of his charge filling the space between them.

“You have fought with courage and honor,” Aragorn began, his tone grave yet kind, as though speaking to kindred spirits rather than subjects. “And now I entrust you with a task of great importance, one that reaches beyond our borders and into the very heart of our shared heritage. The Northlands, where the kingdoms of old now lie in ruin, call to us. It is time for Arnor to rise again. Its people, scattered and weary, must be brought together under one banner—the banner of unity, of hope.”

Faramir’s grey eyes widened slightly, his shoulders instinctively straightening as though to bear the weight of such a command. Beside him, Rían stood motionless, her sharp features betraying only a flicker of emotion—a quick exhale of breath, an unguarded moment of relief, like a storm breaking over still waters. She tilted her chin up slightly, as if to steady herself under Aragorn’s steady gaze.

“That is an honorable task,” she said, her voice clear and steady despite the racing of her heart. “It seems only fitting. Faramir is a Captain of Gondor, wise and steadfast. I am of the North, bound by blood and duty to its people. Together…” She paused, glancing at Faramir, her gaze softening. “Together, we can lead the men and rebuild what was lost.”

Aragorn’s lips curved into a smile then, one that brightened his somber features. His laughter followed—a deep, resonant sound, warm as the sunlight now streaming through the tall windows. “Indeed, Rían,” he said, his voice carrying a knowing warmth. “Though I think it is not merely your lineage or your skills that make you suited for this task. Nay, I deem the greater reason is that neither of you would wish to be kept apart.”

Rían blinked, caught off guard by the simple truth of his words. A faint flush rose to her cheeks, and she turned her head toward Faramir, who, to her surprise, did not deny it. Instead, he lowered his gaze briefly, as if gathering his thoughts, before meeting hers again. There was no embarrassment in his expression, only quiet resolve.

“You are not wrong,” Faramir said softly, his voice carrying a calm certainty that steadied her. “It would grieve me deeply to be parted from her.”

For a moment, there was silence, save for the faint rustle of banners shifting in the breeze. Then Rían laughed, a clear, ringing sound that seemed to fill every corner of the hall. It was the kind of laugh that broke through the weight of the moment, bringing with it a fresh sense of lightness. She shook her head, glancing sidelong at Faramir with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“Well, it seems we were the only ones oblivious to it, then,” she said, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile.

Faramir’s lips twitched upward, his face softening. “Perhaps we were.”

Aragorn’s smile deepened as he watched them, his gaze thoughtful and full of quiet affection. He straightened slightly, stepping closer and placing a hand on each of their shoulders. His touch was firm, grounding, as though he meant to bestow upon them the strength of his own will.

“You are both deserving of happiness,” Aragorn said, his voice low but filled with conviction. “More than you know. The task I entrust to you is not an easy one. The North has grown wild, and its people are wary. It will take patience and wisdom to rebuild what was lost—but I can think of no others more fit for this labor. Go now, with my blessing, and build a future worthy of your valor and your hearts.”

Rían swallowed the lump rising in her throat, bowing her head in reverence. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, her voice steady though her heart swelled with emotion.

Faramir inclined his head as well, his grey eyes glinting with quiet determination. “We will not fail you, my King,” he said solemnly.

As they turned to leave, the golden light catching on the silver of their cloaks, Aragorn called after them, his voice warm and filled with hope. “May the road be fair and the days kind to you both. And may the stars of the North guide you always. Luck and joy, my friends.”

Rían glanced back, her dark hair catching the light, and offered Aragorn a final smile—a rare, unguarded one that spoke of gratitude and trust. Then she turned forward once more, walking side by side with Faramir, their steps steady and sure as they passed through the great doors of the throne room. Together, they strode toward a new dawn, their hearts alight with purpose and the promise of what was yet to come.

Outside the hall, the light of morning sun was blinding for a moment, and it was not long before they were surrounded. Éowyn stood first among them, resplendent and smiling, her golden hair shining in the sun. Pippin and Merry flanked her, already whispering to one another until they caught sight of the pair.

“Well? What did the King say?” Éowyn asked eagerly, her hands clasped before her.

Faramir glanced at Rían briefly before answering, his voice light. “We are to ride North and take up the task of rebuilding Arnor. Together.”

Éowyn’s face brightened with clear delight, and she gave a nod of approval. “That is well done, then! It is only fitting that you go together.”

Éowyn’s gaze shifted to Faramir, and her expression softened into something warmer, more personal. With a few quick steps, she closed the distance between them, and before Faramir could even react, she wrapped her arms around him in a firm but heartfelt embrace. Startled at first, Faramir blinked, but a soft smile spread across his face as he returned the gesture.

As Éowyn pulled back slightly, she leaned in, her voice low so only he could hear. “I told you so,” she whispered, a hint of teasing in her tone but undercut with genuine fondness. Her bright eyes met his, and though her words were light, the warmth behind them carried a deeper meaning—a silent acknowledgment of the happiness she saw growing within him.

Faramir chuckled softly, his cheeks tinged with faint color. “So you did,” he murmured, his voice quiet but tinged with gratitude. “And I thank you for it.”

Pippin beamed up at Rían, rocking on his heels as if he could not contain his excitement. “I told you it would work out! Didn’t I say so? I knew it all along.”

“Ha!” Merry interjected with a smirk, crossing his arms. “You knew nothing of the sort, Peregrin Took. It was I who pointed it out to you first, and you sat there gaping like a fish before you believed it!”

“I did no such thing!” Pippin retorted, his face reddening slightly.

Rían laughed then, shaking her head fondly at their bickering. “Peace, both of you!” she said, stepping forward and embracing each of them tightly in turn. “I will miss this nonsense when we ride North.”

As she released Merry, she turned to Éowyn, who was watching her with quiet satisfaction. Without hesitation, Éowyn moved to embrace Rían as well. It was not the tentative touch of new acquaintances but the firm, genuine embrace of one who shared a bond forged through trials and mutual understanding.

When Éowyn stepped back, she held Rían’s arms lightly, her piercing gaze steady yet kind. “I am happy for you, Rían,” she said, her voice soft but resolute, the sincerity of her words unmistakable. “And I am happy for him. Faramir deserves joy, and I see it in his eyes when he looks at you. You make him truly happy.”

Rían’s lips parted slightly in surprise, her composure momentarily shaken by Éowyn’s heartfelt words. She blinked, the weight of Éowyn’s sentiment sinking in, and after a moment, a small, genuine smile touched her lips. “He makes me happy too,” she replied quietly, her voice carrying a warmth that mirrored Éowyn’s.

Éowyn’s expression softened further, and she gave Rían’s arms a reassuring squeeze. “Then it is well,” she said simply. “Take care of him, Rían. And of yourself. The world is brighter with you both in it.”

Rían nodded, her grey eyes reflecting both gratitude and a quiet strength. “I will,” she promised.

Rían smiled, her gaze meeting Faramir’s as he stepped closer. His hand reached for hers, warm and steady as their fingers intertwined.

“Come,” Faramir said gently, his grey eyes bright with something deeper than mere relief. “Let us see to the preparations. There is much to do.”

Rían nodded, her hand still clasped in his as they began to walk away. The sun was warm upon their faces, and the sounds of the city rang around them—bells chiming, voices raised in joy.

As they passed through the crowd, Rían looked up at him with a smile half-playful and half-tender. “Did you know everyone would think us fools for taking so long?”

Faramir chuckled softly, squeezing her hand. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But even a slow journey ends in the right place.”

And so, hand in hand, they walked forward into the bright day, toward a future full of promise and light.

***

The morning sun bathed the white walls of Minas Tirith in a soft golden glow as Rían and Faramir prepared their horses in the courtyard. The air was cool but carried the promise of warmth, a stark contrast to the bittersweet tension of farewells. Around them, their company of soldiers and rangers readied their gear, the clinking of metal and the occasional murmur of voices filling the quiet space.

As Rían adjusted the saddle on her horse, she heard a familiar voice from behind her.

“Leaving already?” Boromir called, his tone light but his expression warm. He strode toward them, his armor catching the light, though he carried no weapon—only the presence of a brother bidding farewell.

Faramir turned to greet him, a soft smile on his lips. “We are, brother. The north waits for no man, and Aragorn’s orders are clear.”

Boromir grinned and clapped a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, his strength evident in the casual gesture. “It seems to me you’ve taken long enough to figure out what everyone else already knew—that you and Rían belong together.” He cast an amused glance at Rían, who stood beside Faramir now, her arms crossed but her lips curved in a faint smirk.

“Ah, so you’ve been keeping tabs on us, have you?” Faramir replied, arching a brow.

“Only as much as an older brother must,” Boromir retorted, his tone teasing but laced with sincerity. “I am glad, Faramir. If I cannot be by your side on this journey, then I am comforted to know someone like Rían is.” He turned his gaze to her, his expression softening. “Take care of him, Rían. He’ll need someone strong to keep him in line up there.”

“I think it’s more likely I’ll be the one keeping her in line,” Faramir said, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Rían shook her head, chuckling softly before replying, “I’ll keep him alive, if that’s what you mean, Boromir. But you’ll not be without company yourself for long, will you? Not with the way you and Éowyn have been looking at each other.”

Boromir’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to protest but stopped, caught off guard.

“Well now,” Faramir said, his grin widening, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Boromir blush. What’s the matter, brother? Lost for words? That’s not like you.”

Boromir straightened, regaining his composure, and shot Faramir a sly grin. “Really, little brother? Feeling bold now that you’re riding off to the north? Don’t worry about me. Some of us don’t need to chase after destiny to catch a lady’s eye.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a teasing smile. “Ah, so it’s Éowyn doing the chasing, is it? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. She is a shieldmaiden, after all—bold and fearless.”

Boromir huffed, though his ears turned slightly red. “I didn’t say that. And I don’t recall asking for your commentary, either.”

Rían, watching the exchange with amusement, added, “I think Éowyn might catch more than your eye if you’re not careful, Boromir. Though I doubt you’d mind being caught.”

Boromir hesitated for a moment, then shook his head with a rueful chuckle. “You’re both insufferable. Perhaps it’s good you’re leaving; I’ll finally have some peace.”

Faramir laughed, his voice rich and warm, as he stepped forward to embrace his brother. The two men clasped each other tightly, their bond unspoken but deeply felt. “Take care of the White City, Boromir,” Faramir said, his voice quiet but firm. “And take care of yourself.”

“And you, little brother,” Boromir replied, his tone softer now. “Build something worth remembering up there. Gondor will always look north with pride, knowing you are its steward in the wild.”

Boromir stepped back, his eyes lingering on both of them. “Go now, before I say something sentimental.”

Rían gave a faint laugh, her gaze warm as she mounted her horse. “Goodbye, Boromir. Take care of Éowyn for us.”

Boromir shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “Safe travels to you both. And, Faramir…” He hesitated, his voice dropping slightly. “Come back someday.”

Faramir nodded solemnly, and with a shared look of understanding, the brothers parted.

Boromir’s grin widened as  they mounted their horses. “Ah, Rían, just remember, if he gives you too much trouble, send word to Minas Tirith. I’ll come remind him who’s the elder brother.”

Rían smiled, inclining her head slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind, Boromir, though I think I can manage him well enough on my own.”

Faramir sighed, casting his brother one final unamused look. Boromir chuckled, stepping back as the pair turned their horses toward the road. “Safe travels!” he called after them, his laughter carrying on the breeze as they rode away.

Rían and Faramir led their company through the gates, the sound of hooves echoing against the stone. As they rode out onto the plains of Gondor, Rían glanced at Faramir, who met her gaze with a quiet smile. They rode toward the unknown together, the White City growing smaller behind them, but its light still shining on the path ahead.

***

The morning light stretched across the rolling hills, gilding the world in a golden hue. The company of riders moved steadily northward, their banners snapping softly in the breeze. Among them were soldiers of Gondor, clad in their polished mail, and the rangers of the North, their cloaks blending with the muted tones of the landscape. They rode with purpose, yet their journey carried the weight of something greater—a quiet hope for renewal.

At the head of the column rode Faramir and Rían, their horses moving in unison as though even they sensed the bond between their riders. The silence between them was companionable, but as they crested a gentle hill, Galdir riding beside Rían broke the quiet.

“Rían,” he said, his voice roughened by years but warm with familiarity. “You should be proud of yourself.”

Rían glanced at him, startled by the directness of his words. “Proud?” she echoed lightly, her brow arching.

The ranger nodded, his weathered face softening. “Aye. I fought alongside your father many years ago. He was a great man—brave, wise, and steadfast. But you… you’ve proven greater still. You’ve forged your own path, faced trials that would break most, and come through stronger. He would be proud, as proud as any father could be.”

Rían felt a flush creep up her neck, and she shifted slightly in her saddle, unaccustomed to such open praise. “I thank you for your kind words,” she said, her tone modest. “But perhaps you should hold your judgment until we’ve actually completed our task. There is much yet to do.”

Galdir chuckled, his laughter like the rustling of leaves. “Fair enough. But I know your worth, and so will all the North before this is done.”

Before Rían could respond, another voice called out from among the riders. “Captain  Rían!” It was a younger ranger, his tone playful. “Give us a song for the road. It’s said you’re the finest singer among us!”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the company, with voices from both the rangers and Gondorian soldiers urging her on.

Rían smiled, a hint of reluctance in her eyes. “I think you overstate my talents,” she said lightly.

“Nonsense,”  Calen, riding nearby, replied with a grin. “Give us a song Rían. Lift our spirits for the long road ahead.”

At their insistence, Rían relented. She straightened in her saddle, her voice soft at first but gaining strength as she began to sing, the song was one she had heard many times, a song known well by the rangers of the north:

    “It took forever and a day,

For the canyons and coasts to erode away…”

The wind seemed to pause as the words filled the air, the rhythm of the horses’ hooves now becoming part of the music. The rangers, their faces softened by the familiar tune, joined in, their voices quiet but sure. Only a few of the Gondorians knew it, but those who did hesitated, then joined in, their voices blending with the rangers’ in a quiet harmony.

    “By the weight of the ocean’s cyclical motion they swayed.

And though the eons may pass as slow as the sands of an hourglass,

Every grain that we’ve counted,

Claims that even the mountains can change…”

Rían sang the words with more confidence now, her voice lifting in the cool air. Her eyes drifted to Faramir, who was riding just ahead of her. His gaze caught hers, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to pause. She felt the weight of the journey ahead, the uncertainty that lingered in their hearts, but there was something about the song, something about the unity it brought, that made the moment feel lighter.

    “Let it come down, let it come down,

Let it make in you, a new river.

Let it come down, let it come down,

Let it make in you, a new river.”

The rangers’ voices were louder now, filling the air with a sense of belonging, of something greater than the battle ahead. The Gondorians, still unsure, slowly began to join in. The song was too powerful to resist. It was a song of the land, of the past, and of the enduring spirit of Middle-earth.

    “I know the winds from the south have,

The waves riled up like a hungry mouth,

And your stomach goes hollow at the

Thought that it could swallow you whole…”

Her voice rose, carrying with it the sorrow and the strength of her people. She could feel Faramir’s presence beside her, and it steadied her as she continued. She wasn’t alone in this. None of them were.

    “Well, it’ll rain for forty days and nights,

And nothing you do can slow the rising tides,

But the river takes her shape from every tempest she abides.

And like her, you’ll be made new again.”

As Rían sang the last verses both the Rangers and Gondorians accompanied her, a sense of camaraderie building amongst them, their hearts captured by the sound of her voice. 

“Let it come down, let it come down
Let it make in you, a new river
Let it come down, let it come down
Let it make in you, a new river”

As the last notes of the song drifted into the wind, there was a quiet silence. The rangers, their faces reflecting the weight of their shared journey, exchanged glances. Some of the Gondorians were still caught up in the power of the song, though most had not known it until now.

A Gondorian soldier riding near Faramir leaned closer, his face alight with admiration. “Captain,” he said quietly, “you are a lucky one to have found a woman like that.”

Faramir’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he turned his gaze toward Rían, who rode just ahead. “Aye,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Luckier than I deserve.”

Spurring his horse forward, he caught up to her, the sunlight catching in his hair as he reached for her hand. Rían glanced at him, a question in her eyes, but she let him take her hand without hesitation.

“You have a way of quieting even the stormiest hearts,” he said, his voice low, meant only for her.

“And what of yours?” she asked, a teasing smile playing at her lips.

“It is quiet,” he replied, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But only because you are here.”

Rían’s expression softened, and though she said nothing, the look she gave him spoke volumes. They rode on, their hands entwined, the bond between them stronger than any words could express. Yet, as always, the road ahead called, and they answered together.

Chapter Text

Rían rode alone beneath a pale, fading sun, the crisp northern air stinging her cheeks and tangling her hair as the horse’s hooves clattered along the well-worn path. The journey had been long and quiet, a solitary one. Time spent among the northern people, working alongside Faramir to rebuild the kingdom, had made her strangely at peace. Yet, today, something called her back to the land where her roots had once grown deep—where her history lingered in every stone and shadow.

The village appeared before her like a whisper of forgotten days, nestled in a valley far from the bustling world of men. The cottage she sought stood at the edge of the village, humble and weathered, with a garden full of wildflowers and an air of gentle silence. She pulled the reins to a halt, dismounting with a grace born of long experience. There was something about this place, something that spoke of memories far older than her own.

As she approached the door, it opened. An old woman emerged, leaning on a gnarled staff, her face a map of age and wisdom. Her long silver hair framed a weathered face, her eyes bright and keen despite the years. She was known simply as Old Mara, for she was ancient even by the standards of the Dúnedain, she was already Old Mara when she babysat Rían decades ago.

“Rían,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warm, if weary, welcome. “It’s been too long, child. I had heard whispers even here, in this quiet village, of news from the south. Are you well?”

Rían smiled faintly, her gaze briefly distant. “I am as well as can be expected, Mara. The work is… endless, but we all do what we can. The north is stubborn, but we will see it rise again.” She paused, taking in the familiar sight of the old woman, her heart briefly lifting from the weight of her responsibilities. “But that is not why I came. I came for it.”

The old woman’s expression shifted at the words, her brows furrowing as she regarded Rían with a steady, knowing gaze. She nodded slowly, stepping aside to gesture for Rían to enter. “Then come in, child. It has been waiting for you, as it always does.”

Inside, the cottage was dim and musty, the air thick with the scent of herbs and old wood. A hearth burned quietly in one corner, and a faint murmur of wind outside seemed to press against the walls. Mara walked slowly to the far corner of the room, lifting a heavy plank from the floorboards with a strength that belied her age. Beneath it, hidden in the earth, was a long, wrapped object, its edges worn from years of concealment.

With great care, Mara retrieved it, her hands trembling slightly, though whether from age or the weight of what she held, Rían could not tell. The cloth that bound it was faded, nearly threadbare, but still it held the shape of something long and precious.

Rían took the bundle from her, her fingers brushing the aged cloth, and with a slow, deliberate motion, she unwrapped it. There, in her hands, lay the sword of her father and then her brother—long and lean, crafted with the skill of master smiths. The blade gleamed faintly, despite the years of disuse. Its hilt was adorned with intricate carvings, a reminder of the lost pride of a family once respected throughout the land.

Rían held the sword a moment, feeling its weight, feeling the ghosts of the past press upon her, yet this time they were no longer a burden. She exhaled, a long, drawn breath, her eyes softening as she traced her finger along the blade’s edge. “It’s… as beautiful as I remember,” she said quietly.

Mara watched her, her face unreadable. “Does it mean you are ready now, child? Ready to lay at least some of your ghosts to rest?”

Rían’s lips tightened, her heart heavy but resolute. “Yes, I am. But I did not do it alone.” Her voice softened, and she cast a glance toward the doorway where her father had once stood, his presence still lingering in her heart.

Mara smiled faintly, the lines around her eyes deepening. “You are not the only one who carries such burdens, Rían. But it seems you have found your way to the peace you seek.”

Rían stood in the small, familiar room, the weight of her sword resting comfortably in her hands. The light from the window fell softly across the weathered wooden floor, casting warm hues over the blade. Mara sat near the hearth, her worn hands resting atop the arms of her chair. The faint crackle of the fire filled the silence between them, its glow touching the lines of Mara’s kind but weary face.

Rían turned the sword slowly, the edge catching the firelight in a bright gleam. She drew a steadying breath, her voice soft and filled with quiet determination. “I’ll come back, Mara. After the wedding.”

The old woman’s sharp eyes lifted to Rían, a faint smile curling at the edges of her lips. “Will you now? And here I thought you would have forgotten about me in all the excitement of such grand events.”

Rían laughed, a low, warm sound. “Not likely. You are as much my family as anyone still living.” Her smile lingered, though a teasing glint entered her gaze. “I suppose you won’t travel for the ceremony?”

Mara huffed, shaking her head as if the very idea was absurd. “Not these days. I’ve had enough of journeys to last me three lifetimes. My feet stay firmly planted on this patch of earth, thank you.” She paused, her brow arching slightly. “But you’ve piqued my curiosity, child. Whose wedding is this, then?”

Rían tilted her head, feigning exasperation. “You’ve not paid enough attention to the rumors, Mara. I thought it had become the talk of every hall and marketplace from Gondor to Arnor.”

Mara’s frown deepened, though it was clear her interest was caught. “Go on then—don’t keep an old woman waiting.”

Rían’s expression softened, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips. “It’s mine,” she admitted quietly.

Mara’s reaction was immediate and unrestrained. Her face lit with delight, her hands clasping together as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “Yours?” she repeated, her voice breaking into laughter. “Oh, Rían, child, I had thought I might not live to see the day!”

Before Rían could respond, Mara had stepped forward, wrapping her in an embrace that was as strong as it was filled with love. “And to think,” Mara said, pulling back to look at her, her eyes bright, “all these years I had prayed to the Gods for this moment and thought my prayers had gone unanswered. Your parents—they must be so happy.”

Rían’s expression faltered at Mara’s words, and she hesitated before speaking, her voice quiet but gentle. “Mara… my parents are gone,” she said softly, as if afraid to remind the old woman of a painful truth. “They’ve been gone for some time now.”

Mara’s gaze sharpened, and she gave a soft, knowing chuckle. “Gone, yes. But not lost, child. Not lost.” Her tone carried no trace of confusion, only certainty. “You carry them with you, in your heart, in your memories. And I promise you this—they are watching over you even now, and I daresay they are beaming with pride.”

Rían swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat, nodding as she met Mara’s unwavering gaze. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Mara’s smile returned, warm and full of affection. “But,” she added, her tone taking on a playful edge, “you must bring your new husband here to see me after the wedding. I’ll need to meet the man who dared win your heart.”

Rían laughed, the sound brighter now, touched with genuine warmth. “I will. I promise.”

“Good,” Mara said, nodding with satisfaction. She returned to her chair, lowering herself into it with a faint sigh. “Now go on, child. You’ve much to do, I’m sure, and I have no doubt the road ahead will be busy enough.”

Rían stood, the sword now held firmlyin her grip, its weight no longer a reminder of loss, but of the journey ahead. “I will visit more often, Mara.”

The old woman inclined her head, a silent blessing. “I will be here, child. As long as time allows me to be.”

Rían gave a small bow of gratitude, then turned to leave, feeling the sword in her hands, but also something greater—an understanding that, no matter where the road took her, she would carry her past with her, but never again let it define her. She mounted her horse with a grace born of a renewed purpose, the sword gleaming in her hands, as she wrapped it once again and tucked securely behind her saddle, ready for whatever came next.

As the door of the cottage creaked shut behind her, Mara watched her go, a quiet hope in her heart that perhaps Rían had found, at last, the peace she had long sought.

As Rían rode back to Annúminas, the landscape unfolded around her like a canvas of rebirth. The once-barren hills were now dotted with the sturdy frames of new buildings, and the distant echo of hammers on stone mingled with the steady rhythm of workers laboring to restore the northern stronghold. The scent of freshly hewn wood and earth filled the air, and there was a sense of purpose to the land, as if it too were rising from the ashes, determined to become something more.

She urged her horse forward, the steady clop of hooves a familiar sound, though this time, the weight of the sword she carried at her side—her father’s sword, now hers—seemed to anchor her in ways the wind and the journey never had. As she neared the central square of the settlement, she saw Faramir, standing with a group of workers, bent over a set of construction plans. His brow furrowed in concentration as he spoke with the men, pointing to the plans with quiet authority, guiding their efforts.

Her heart lifted at the sight of him, and the warmth that spread through her chest was as constant and steady as the northern winds. She slowed the horse to a halt and dismounted, her gaze fixed on Faramir, whose face lit up when he saw her approach.

“Rían!” His voice was warm, filled with something akin to relief, though she couldn’t say whether it was the sight of her or the end of the task before him. “How was the road?”

Rían smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she stood before him. “The road was well enough, though the journey felt long at times. But that’s not why I’ve come.” Her tone shifted, carrying an air of quiet intent. “I came to show you something.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Show me something? What is it?”

Rían’s lips curled into a soft smile, as she motioned for him to follow her. As they weaved through crowded streets of the once desolate town, with some people bowing to them with respect, Rían couldn’t help but be proud of what they’ve accomplished together.

 Rían led Faramir away from the bustle of the construction site, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of the sword wrapped securely in cloth. They walked in silence for a moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken thoughts, until they reached a small, quiet corner of the newly rebuilt keep, sheltered from the prying eyes of workers and soldiers. The distant sounds of hammers and voices faded into a soft murmur, leaving them in a rare moment of peace.

Faramir glanced at her, his brow furrowed in quiet curiosity. “You said you wanted to show me something,” he said, his voice soft, though there was a trace of curiosity in his eyes. “What is it?”

Rían met his gaze, a flicker of something uncertain passing through her. Slowly, she unwrapped the cloth, revealing the gleaming steel beneath. The sword shimmered in the dim light, its polished blade reflecting the flicker of nearby torches. The craftsmanship was undeniable—ancient, noble, a weapon forged with care and skill. The hilt was wrought with intricate designs, runes engraved in Elvish, and a dark jewel set at the pommel that glinted with a quiet, hidden fire.

Faramir’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes traced the curve of the blade, the weight of history hanging in the air between them. His fingers twitched, as if drawn to the sword, but he hesitated, his gaze lifting to hers.

“It’s… beautiful,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Where did you find this?”

Rían’s hands lingered on the blade, her fingers grazing over the edge as though the sword were a living thing, a part of her own soul. She let out a quiet breath, her gaze distant for a moment before she spoke.

“It belonged to my father,” she said, her voice quiet, filled with a deep, personal reverence. “Then it was my brother’s… and now it’s mine. But I want you to have it, Faramir.”

Faramir’s eyes widened in surprise, and he stepped back as if the very idea of such a gift might be too heavy to bear. “Rían, I cannot—this is an heirloom, a piece of your family’s history. It’s too much. I… I cannot take it.”

She chuckled softly, her gaze steady. “Oh, don’t be so serious,” she teased, the warmth of the moment melting some of the tension between them. “We’ll soon enough be family, after all.”

His face softened, a quiet understanding passing between them. But Rían’s expression shifted then, becoming more serious. “I mean it, Faramir,” she said, her voice low, almost hesitant. “I want you to have it. It’s a symbol of strength, of resilience. And if anyone deserves to carry it, it is you.”

For a long moment, Faramir did not speak, his fingers still resting on the sword’s hilt. He seemed to consider her words, the weight of the moment settling between them. Then, with a small, soft smile, he reached for the sword.

He took it in his hands, his fingers wrapping around the hilt as though it had always belonged there. He studied it for a moment longer, before lifting his eyes to hers. “I… I don’t know how to thank you for such a gift, Rían,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But I will carry it with the same honor and duty that you have shown to me.”

Before she could reply, Faramir stepped forward, drawing her into his arms. The warmth of his embrace wrapped around her, the scent of earth and leather mingling with the faint smell of smoke from the fires of Annúminas. He kissed her then, gently but with a depth of feeling that made her heart flutter in her chest. His lips were soft, but the kiss spoke of something stronger, something more profound than words alone could capture.

When they finally broke apart, Rían felt her breath catch in her throat. Faramir held her at arm’s length, his hands resting on her shoulders, his gaze fixed on hers.

“I will treasure this, Rían,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I will cherish you, as I always have.”

Rían’s heart swelled in her chest, and she smiled, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “And I, you,” she replied softly. “We are in this together, Faramir. Always.”

The sword gleamed between them, a symbol not only of the past but of their future—one that they would walk together, side by side, in the rebuilding of a kingdom, and in the quiet moments that would come after. And for the first time in a long while, Rían felt as though the ghosts of the past were finally at rest, their weight no longer heavy on her heart. The road ahead might be long and uncertain, but it was one she would walk with Faramir, with strength and hope in her heart.

***

The sun hung low over the horizon as the rebuilding of Annúminas continued. The once-bustling city had fallen into ruin long ago, but now, with the strength of Gondor and the northern rangers, it was slowly being restored to its former glory. Stone was being cut and placed, timber stacked high for new buildings, and the sounds of hammer and chisel echoed in the air, all a testament to the new beginning taking shape.

Faramir walked through the worksite with his brother Boromir at his side. The older brother’s steps were slower than usual, his gaze scanning the progress with a thoughtful eye. He clapped his younger sibling on the shoulder, his voice a mixture of admiration and approval.

“You’ve done well here, Faramir,” Boromir said, his tone genuine. “I did not expect Annúminas to rise so quickly from the ashes. It will be a fine place for the North to heal, a symbol of strength for all the kingdoms of Gondor.”

Faramir nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “It will take time, Boromir, but we will see it through. The north is as important as the south, and I believe Aragorn’s vision of a united realm will be realized here, with hard work and unity.”

They paused for a moment, looking out across the landscape, where the crumbled ruins of the old city were slowly giving way to new life. Faramir gestured to a nearby group of rangers, organizing the construction of a new gate. “It is good to see the land coming back to life. But there is still much to be done.”

Before Boromir could respond, the sound of hooves caught their attention. They both turned to see a small company of riders cresting the hill, dust rising from the earth behind them. Faramir’s eyes immediately softened as he recognized the familiar figure leading them. Rían. Her hair flew behind her like a dark banner in the wind as she rode with the ease of someone born to the saddle.

Boromir looked up, a grin spreading across his face at the sight of her. “Well, well, look who’s here,” he muttered with a twinkle in his eye.

Rían guided her horse smoothly down the path, her company of rangers close behind. As she neared the two brothers, she slowed her horse to a trot, and Boromir, ever the affectionate one, immediately made his way toward her.

When she dismounted, he opened his arms wide, grinning like a fool. “Rían!” he said, his voice filled with warmth. “It’s good to see you again.”

Rían stepped back slightly, holding her hands up with a playful expression. “You probably don’t want to hug me, Boromir,” she said, her voice light but tinged with a hint of humor. “I smell like horse sweat and orc.”

Boromir laughed heartily, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I have smelled worse, I assure you.” He gave her a quick hug anyway, his embrace warm and familial.

Faramir raised an eyebrow at his betrothed’s words, glancing from her to the men behind her. “Orcs?” he asked, concern flashing in his eyes. “There have been no sightings for days. What do you mean, Rían?”

She sighed, brushing some stray hair from her face as she glanced at the ground for a moment. “Only a small group, just enough to make a nuisance of themselves,” she explained, her voice steady. “My men took care of it before I even had time to draw my sword.”

Boromir chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re restless, aren’t you? You must be getting tired of peace with no battles to fight.”

Rían gave a small laugh, though her eyes were thoughtful. “Not exactly,” she said. “I’ve had enough of fighting, for now. But war will find us eventually , whether we want it or not. For now, though,” she added with a smile, “I’m content with the simpler life.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “The simpler life, eh? You of all people?”

Rían shrugged, her posture easing as she met Faramir’s gaze. “There’s a kind of peace in it. There’s time to think, to plan for what comes next, and to be with those you care for. I’ll take this for as long as I can before the next storm arrives.”

Faramir, who had been quietly watching the exchange, smiled softly at her words. He could see the truth in them—Rían was a warrior, but beneath that exterior, she longed for the calm and peace that now seemed so fleeting.

Boromir, too, seemed to take her words to heart. He nodded thoughtfully and gave her a half-smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy, Rían,” he said. “But I’m not entirely convinced you’ll stay this calm for long.”

Rían’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “We shall see,” she said, her voice a playful challenge. “For now, though, I think I’ll enjoy the rest.”

With a quick glance at Faramir, who was watching her with a fond smile, Rían let out a breath. “Well, now that I’ve caught up with the two of you, I think it’s time for some rest,” she said, brushing off the dirt from her clothes. “We’ve all earned it.”

As they lingered, a lady from the city approached, her delicate gown swirling as she descended a nearby stair. Her expression was warm, though her manner bore the brisk efficiency of someone with many tasks at hand. “Lady Rían,” she said with a bright smile, inclining her head in greeting. “Once you’ve had time to refresh yourself, perhaps we might meet to finalize the flower arrangements for the wedding. It would not do to delay such an important detail.”

Rían froze, her hand tightening on the hilt of her sword. She shot a pointed look at Faramir, her expression a mix of disbelief and mild panic. “Why do they keep asking me these things?” she demanded, her voice sharp with incredulity. “You probably know more about flower placements than I do!”

Faramir’s lips twitched, but he met her gaze evenly, a hint of amusement in his calm demeanor. “I doubt that, my love,” he replied lightly, though there was a warmth in his tone that softened her flustered state.

Before Rían could respond, Boromir let out a booming laugh, his mirth filling the ancient courtyard. “Perhaps they think you’ve a hidden talent for it, Rían,” he teased. “Or perhaps my brother has been singing your praises too much of late. Be careful, Faramir, or you’ll find yourself relegated to arranging the roses on her behalf.”

Rían huffed and crossed her arms, though there was no real bite in her annoyance. “If they ask me again,” she said dryly, “I may suggest placing the flowers upside down and be done with it.”

Boromir’s grin widened as he clapped his younger brother on the back. “I’ve no doubt Faramir will save the day, as he always does. After all, this is his wedding too.”

Faramir chuckled softly, the faintest glimmer of pride in his expression as he turned to Rían. “You needn’t worry,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “Whatever flowers they choose will pale in comparison to the bride herself.”

Rían’s sharp retort died on her lips, her cheeks warming slightly at the sincerity in his words. Boromir raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the exchange, but for once, he held his tongue.

***

The great hall of Annúminas gleamed in the light of the setting sun, its newly restored stone walls adorned with garlands of green and gold. The banners of Gondor and Arnor hung side by side, their sigils a testament to the unity and renewal that had brought life back to the northern kingdom. The air was filled with anticipation, mingled with the faint scent of flowers and fresh wood, as friends and allies of the couple gathered to witness the union of two hearts.

At the head of the hall, Faramir stood tall, though his fingers betrayed his nerves as they fidgeted with the edge of his tunic. He wore the colors of Gondor, blue and silver, with a new star-shaped brooch clasping his mantle. His hair was neatly combed, though a few rebellious strands fell across his forehead. Beside him stood Boromir, resplendent in his own formal attire but distinctly less anxious, watching his brother with an amused grin.

“Stop fidgeting, Faramir,” Boromir teased, his voice low. “You’re making me nervous just looking at you.”

Faramir shot him a half-amused, half-irritated glance, his hands stilling for a moment. “I’m not fidgeting,” he replied, though his fingers immediately found the edge of his sleeve.

“You are,” Boromir countered, leaning closer. “And if you don’t stop, I’ll think you’re planning to run.”

Faramir shot him a dry look. “I’m not running.”

“Good,” Boromir replied with a smirk. “Because I’d have to chase you down, and that would ruin the ceremony.” His voice softened as he added, “You’ll be fine, little brother. She’s made for you. Everyone can see it.”  Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, “But if you faint when she walks in, I’ll never let you live it down.”

Before Faramir could reply, the sound of a harp drifted through the hall, silencing all murmurs. The doors at the far end opened slowly, and every head turned.

Rían entered, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

She was radiant, her gown of silvery-gray fabric shimmering with each step, the intricate embroidery of stars and leaves catching the light like a thousand tiny constellations. A slender circlet of mithril adorned her dark hair, braided in a style reminiscent of her Northern heritage, while a veil of fine lace trailed behind her, adding an ethereal touch to her every movement.

 As she walked, her gaze found Faramir’s, and her steady smile seemed to dissolve his nerves completely.

Boromir leaned closer and whispered, “Breathe, Faramir.”

Faramir didn’t hear him. His focus was wholly on Rían as she made her way to him, her steps unhurried, her presence commanding the room with a quiet strength. Beside her, Arwen Undómiel walked with regal grace, her silver gown glowing like moonlight, while Aragorn followed with a serious expression, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

When Rían reached Faramir, she stopped, and Arwen placed a gentle hand on her shoulder before stepping aside. Aragorn approached, his voice deep and steady as he spoke.

“Though Rían’s father cannot be here,” Aragorn said, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd, “it is an honor to offer my blessing, as your king and as your friend. Faramir of Gondor, Rían of the North,” Aragorn continued, his eyes reflecting a quiet, approving warmth. “May you walk together as companions, as equals, and as lovers. May your love endure as the mountains and the rivers, steadfast and unyielding. May your home be a place of peace, even as it is built upon the strength you have shown in the darkest of days. And may your love light the way for those who come after.”

Arwen, standing beside him, added softly, “Rían, your parents would be proud of you, as we all are. And today, you step into a new chapter, with Faramir at your side.”

The couple exchanged a grateful glance with Aragorn and Arwen before turning to each other. The hall was silent as they joined hands, Faramir stood before Rían, his heart racing despite the calm of the moment. His eyes were fixed on her, taking in the sight of the woman who had been by his side through every hardship, every trial. Her hair, dark as the raven’s wing, fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her eyes shone with a light that warmed him even in the coldest of times.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, filled with a deep reverence for the woman standing before him.

“Rían,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, as if he was choosing them carefully, “When we first met in Rivendell, I was struck by your strength and grace. I had no idea that this meeting would set the course of my life, but from that first moment, I was in awe of you. You walked into the halls of Rivendell, a stranger to me, and yet there was something in your gaze—something that told me you were not just anyone. You were someone who could change the world.”

Faramir paused, his hands slightly trembling as he reached out, as though to steady himself.

“I vow, Rían, to always see you the way I saw you that day—strong, determined, and full of life. I vow to never lose sight of the strength you carry, even when times are dark. I will stand beside you, as I did then, and never let go of the love I have for you.”

The wind picked up slightly, carrying with it the scent of the flowers in the fields nearby. Faramir’s gaze softened as he continued, the memory of their time in Rivendell fresh in his mind.

He took a deep breath, his voice firm as he made his promise.

“I vow to always fight for you, to protect you, as you have protected me. I will never falter in my devotion to you, Rían. You are my strength, and I will be yours, through all things.”

Rían’s heart swelled with emotion as she listened to his words. She had heard them before, in moments of quiet, but now, in this moment, with the world watching, they felt as if they were made just for her.

She stepped forward, her voice steady but filled with feeling.

“Faramir, I vow to stand with you in the light and in the dark. I remember the quiet strength you showed when the world seemed to fall apart around us. At Helm’s Deep, when the battle seemed endless, when hope felt so far away, you never once gave in to despair. You stood firm, not just for yourself, but for those who needed you.”

She took a moment to steady herself, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for his.

“I vow, Faramir, to never leave your side. To fight for you, as you fought for me. To love you, as you have loved me. In times of joy, and in times of sorrow, I will be with you. You are my heart, my light in the darkest of times. I will be your strength, just as you have been mine. Wherever life may lead us,I’ll always walk beside you, holding onto your hand.”

The vows lingered in the air between them, binding them together with the weight of their promises. The sound of the breeze in the trees, the distant call of a bird in the sky, all seemed to fade into the background as they stood there, the world slipping away.

Faramir reached out, gently cupping her face in his hands, his gaze searching her eyes for any sign of doubt, but finding none. He leaned forward, brushing his lips lightly against hers in a tender kiss, sealing the vows they had spoken with the simple, profound promise of their love.

As their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss, the gathered company erupted into joyous cheers. The sound of clapping hands and elated voices rose into the clear afternoon air, mingling with the rustling of banners and the gentle lapping of the waters of Lake Evendim beyond the city walls.

They stood together beneath the high arches of Annúminas, the ancient capital of the North, its stones bathed in golden light as the sun began its descent toward the western hills. Rangers of the North stood tall among the gathered guests, their weathered faces softened with rare smiles, while nobles of Gondor and Arnor, lords and ladies clad in fine raiment, looked on with approval. Among them, Aragorn and Arwen watched with warmth in their eyes, the King’s hand resting lightly over his Queen’s as they bore witness to the union of two hearts bound by shared trials and unwavering devotion.

Rían’s kinsmen, the rangers who had fought beside her for years, cheered the loudest, some calling her name with unrestrained joy. From among them, Calen let out a quiet laugh, grinning as he clapped his hands together. “About time!” he called, earning laughter from those nearby.

Boromir, standing proudly at his brother’s side, clapped Faramir on the back with a grin, while Éowyn, standing beside him, gave Rían a knowing smile. Even Éomer, King of Rohan, smiled and clapped, his blue eyes glinting with approval.

The banners of Annúminas fluttered in the breeze, bearing the sigil of the Seven Stars and the Crown of Elendil, a symbol of the old kingdom’s renewal. Beneath them, Rían and Faramir stood as husband and wife, their hands still entwined, their foreheads touching briefly as the cheers of their loved ones rang around them.

Faramir pressed another kiss to her brow, his thumb gently brushing against her cheek as he murmured, “We are home.”

And Rían, feeling the steady warmth of his hands around hers, the love in his gaze as sure as the stone beneath their feet, knew with all her heart that he spoke the truth. As they pulled apart, their foreheads resting together, Faramir whispered, “I am in awe of you, Rían. Always.”

And she smiled softly, her heart swelling with the certainty that this was where she belonged, at his side, forever.

Éowyn, standing beside Boromir, smiled warmly as she clapped. “They are perfect for each other,” she remarked.

Boromir grinned. “That they are. But let’s see if my brother remembers how to breathe now that it’s over.”

Faramir and Rían turned to face the crowd, their hands still clasped, as laughter and celebration filled the hall. As they walked together down the aisle, Rían leaned slightly toward Faramir, her voice soft enough for only him to hear.

“You weren’t nervous, were you?”

He chuckled, squeezing her hand. “Not at all.”

Her knowing smile made him laugh outright, and as they stepped into the sunlight outside, the future stretched before them, bright and unbroken.

***

The evening in Annúminas was nothing short of magical. The hall, adorned in garlands of evergreen and winter blooms, shimmered under the glow of countless candles suspended in wrought iron chandeliers. Their golden light illuminated faces flushed with cheer and wine, while the polished wooden floor reflected the dancing flames from the great hearth. Outside, the waters of Lake Evendim mirrored the stars above, the soft murmur of its gentle waves reaching faintly through the open windows. Laughter and music filled the air, weaving together into a jubilant melody that seemed to breathe life into the ancient walls.

At the high table, the newlyweds sat together as the center of it all, though they carried themselves with the quiet dignity that had earned them the love and respect of those gathered. Faramir, his sharp features softened by joy, leaned slightly toward his bride, speaking to her in low, warm tones between the bouts of laughter and conversation. Rían, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders sat comfortably at his side, her fingers periodically brushing over his. Her grey eyes, keen and watchful even amidst the revelry, softened as they lingered on her husband or turned to the dear friends and family beside her.

On Faramir’s right sat Éowyn, radiant in her gown of pale blue, her golden hair adorned with silver filigree. Her laughter was light and musical, her eyes bright with happiness for her brother-in-law and her new sister by marriage. Beside her was Boromir, whose booming voice and infectious humor had drawn much attention from the surrounding tables, though his proud and protective gaze often returned to his younger brother. On Rían’s left sat Calen, her steadfast friend, his rough-hewn ranger’s demeanor softened by the warmth of the evening, and his wife, Aelith, whose elegance and quiet wit were as luminous as the golden embroidery on her gown.

Éowyn leaned forward, her eyes dancing with mischief, and fixed her gaze on the bride and groom. “I thought long and hard about what gift I might bring for such an occasion,” she began, her voice carrying easily over the chatter. “It had to be something worthy of Gondor’s Captain and his bride, yet rooted in the traditions of Rohan.”

Rían tilted her head slightly, curiosity alight in her eyes. “You have piqued my interest,  Éowyn,” she said, her tone warm but playful. “What gift could embody so much?”

Éowyn smiled, clearly enjoying the suspense. “Two of Rohan’s finest horses,” she announced, lifting her goblet. “Strong of limb, swift of stride, and bold of heart. They are yours, to carry you through all the days ahead.”

Faramir’s face lit with genuine delight, his love for horses kindling a spark in his grey eyes. “Your generosity knows no bounds, Éowyn,” he said earnestly. “I will treasure this gift. But I suspect these steeds may possess a measure of their mistress’s famed resolve.”

Éowyn feigned offense, though her grin betrayed her amusement. “Stubbornness, you mean? Hardly. They carry pride and courage, nothing more. Traits I trust their new riders will find most familiar.”

Boromir chuckled deeply, shaking his head. “Pride and courage are well and good,” he said, raising his goblet in mock gravity, “but I pray they lack the temper of the horses Éowyn once rode into battle. You may recall the incident with the warg…”

“That was the rider’s fault, not the horse’s!” Éowyn protested, though her laughter bubbled over, catching the table in its wake.

As the laughter subsided, Calen’s voice carried forward, warm and tinged with mischief. “Speaking of horses,” he began, casting a sidelong glance at Rían, “it reminds me of a tale of our dear bride when she was but a small child.”

Rían groaned softly, already sensing the story to come. “Not this one,” she said, though her lips quirked in a resigned smile.

“Oh, yes,” Calen chimed in, leaning back with a grin. “This one.” His voice grew more animated as he turned to Éowyn and Faramir. “It was years ago, before Rían had even seen her tenth winter. The rangers brought a stallion to our village—a beast like none we had ever seen. Black as the night sky, with eyes that burned like coals, and a temper to match. He had thrown every rider who dared approach him, and even injured a few.”

Éowyn leaned forward, her golden brows knitting in curiosity. “And what did you do with such a creature?”

“Well, we certainly didn’t expect what happened next,” Aelith interjected, her smile bright with the memory. “One day, as I was working in the fields, I saw something that stopped my heart. There was little Rían—no more than six or seven—inside the pen with that beast.”

Boromir’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Inside the pen? What madness possessed you, Rían?”

Rían laughed, shaking her head. “I had no notion it was madness then. I only knew that I wanted to ride him.”

Aelith continued, her voice animated. “I screamed for help, certain the creature would trample her. Calen came running, but by the time he reached the pen, Rían had already climbed up the stallion’s leg.”

“She climbed him like a tree,” Calen added, shaking his head as if still in disbelief. “And there she sat on his back, as bold as any warrior.”

Boromir let out a booming laugh, slapping the table. “And what did the beast do?”

Calen’s grin widened. “That’s the most remarkable part. The stallion froze, as if considering this tiny human on his back. I could almost see what the beast was thinking in his eyes. Then, as calm as you please, he started walking around the pen, carrying her like a lamb.”

The table erupted in laughter, and even Faramir, who had been listening with rapt attention, joined in. “And what became of the stallion?” he asked, his voice tinged with wonder.

Rían’s expression softened, a fond smile lighting her face. “He became mine. My father—after shouting at me so loudly the whole village heard—gave him to me. He carried me faithfully for many years.”

Éowyn’s eyes gleamed with admiration. “Clearly, you have always had a way with taming wild things.”

“Wild things recognize their own,” Boromir quipped, earning another round of laughter.

As Rían laughed, her gaze drifted over the bustling hall. The light of countless candles flickered on the polished wood of the tables, their golden glow illuminating the faces of those gathered in celebration. Amidst the revelry, her sharp eyes caught a familiar figure across the room—Pippin, perched precariously atop a bench. He was gesturing with great enthusiasm, his small hands slicing through the air as he addressed a group of bemused rangers. At his side stood Merry, one hand gripping Pippin’s sleeve, the other clutching a goblet, his face a mix of exasperation and resignation.

Pippin’s voice, though partially lost in the cacophony of the hall, carried with its usual self-assurance. “And I’ll tell you this,” he proclaimed, puffing out his chest, “there wouldn’t be this wedding without me! Why, if I hadn’t—”

The rest of his declaration was drowned out as Merry gave a sharp tug on his sleeve, causing the bench to wobble alarmingly. Several of the rangers ducked back, chuckling as Pippin flailed to maintain his balance.

Rían turned back to Faramir, a smile tugging at her lips. Her voice was light, her tone laced with affection and humor. “It seems Master Peregrin is taking credit for our union.”

Faramir, who had been watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement, shook his head with a soft laugh. “Of course he is,” he said. “I imagine it won’t be long before he claims to have arranged the stars themselves for our benefit.”

At this, Boromir leaned forward, his goblet resting loosely in his hand as he seized the opportunity to join the banter. “If anyone deserves credit,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the noise like the call of a horn, “it’s me. Who else convinced you, little brother, to stop lurking in the shadows, muttering poetry, and actually speak to the lady?”

Rían arched a brow, her grey eyes glinting with curiosity as she looked to Faramir. “Is that true? Were you muttering poetry in the shadows?”

Faramir sighed, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed his humor. “If I was, it was only because I was pondering the right words. Words,” he added, shooting a pointed glance at Boromir, “that someone insisted on interrupting.”

Boromir’s laugh was a hearty rumble that drew the attention of nearby tables. He leaned back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction. “You can thank me later. And Gandalf.”

Faramir blinked, his expression shifting from amusement to surprise. “Gandalf?” he repeated, his brows drawing together.

Boromir shrugged, his grin widening as he swirled the wine in his goblet. “I may have sought his counsel,” he said, as though it were a matter of little importance. “He might have suggested that you would benefit from taking action rather than brooding like a storm cloud.”

The table erupted into laughter, Éowyn nearly spilling her wine as she leaned against her husband for support. Rían, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a linen napkin, shook her head in mock despair. “It seems we owe a great many debts,” she said, her voice warm with mirth.

Boromir tapped the table with his goblet, his grin turning mischievous. “Speaking of debts,” he began, leaning forward conspiratorially, “it’s high time I told you all a tale. Did I ever mention the time little Faramir was thrown off his pony?”

Faramir groaned, his shoulders slumping as though burdened by years of similar anecdotes. “Boromir—”

But before he could finish, Rían placed a hand on his arm, her touch light but firm. Her smile was sweet, almost disarming, as she looked up at him with a sparkle in her eye. “Oh, let him tell it, my love,” she said, her tone as gentle as a summer breeze. “Surely you wouldn’t deny your new wife the pleasure of a story?”

Faramir sighed, his expression one of feigned defeat. “It seems I’m outnumbered.”

Calen, seated on Rían’s other side, chuckled, clapping Faramir on the shoulder. “Welcome to marriage, my lord. You’ll find that the lady’s wishes always take precedence.”

As Boromir launched into his tale, his voice rising above the din with all the flair of a seasoned storyteller, Rían turned to Calen, her expression softening. “I saw Old Mara earlier,” she said, her voice quieter now, meant only for him. “Why didn’t anyone tell her I was getting married?”

Calen scratched the back of his neck, his lips curving into a sheepish smile. “I assumed someone else already did,” he admitted. “And no doubt they thought the same.”

Rían’s mouth quirked in a wry smile, her eyes glinting with mischief. “She told me she’d lost hope I would ever marry.”

Calen laughed, the sound rich and warm like the crackle of a well-fed hearth fire. “To be fair, Rían, most of us had. But love, as they say, finds a way.”

Her gaze shifted then, drawn to Faramir as he attempted—unsuccessfully—to interject into Boromir’s story. The firelight played across his features, casting shadows that seemed to soften his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. He laughed, his deep voice mingling with the general merriment, and in that moment, he seemed utterly at ease, as though all the weight of his duties had fallen away.

Rían reached for his hand beneath the table, her fingers weaving through his as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, barely more than a whisper. “It does indeed.”

Faramir glanced at her, his grey eyes meeting hers with a quiet intensity. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, the faintest of smiles curving his lips, and though he said nothing, his gaze spoke volumes.

Around them, the hall swirled with music and laughter, the voices of their guests rising and falling like the tide. But for a moment, it was as though the world had narrowed to just the two of them, a quiet oasis in the midst of joyous chaos.

Above the city of Annúminas, the stars shone brighter than ever, their light mirrored in the waters of Lake Evendim. Within the great hall, amidst the laughter of friends and the warmth of family, two hearts beat as one, their bond as steadfast as the stars of the north, eternal and unyielding.

Chapter Text

Faramir, though once a man of Gondor, took to the North as though he had been born under its stars. With Rían at his side, his gentle wisdom and steady resolve complemented her unyielding strength and sharp wit. The people of the North swiftly came to love them, for they were just and compassionate rulers, yet firm in the face of folly and injustice. Rían, ever true to her word, brooked no foolishness, and her clear-eyed counsel became indispensable to King Elessar, who esteemed her as one of his closest advisors.

Under their leadership, Annúminas was rebuilt not only in stone but in spirit. The halls of the city rang with laughter and song, and its markets bustled with trade from across Middle-earth. Travelers from Gondor, Rohan, and even distant lands spoke in awe of its beauty, calling it a jewel of the North.

To Faramir and Rían was born a single daughter, whom they named Eleniel. From her earliest days, it was said that the light of the northern heavens was in her eyes, and her beauty was such that she was likened to Lúthien of old. She had her mother’s raven hair, falling like a cascade of midnight, and her father’s grey eyes, keen and filled with thought. Yet it was not her beauty alone that captured the hearts of the people, but her wisdom, courage, and kindness, which mirrored the best of both her parents.

Eleniel grew to be a skilled scholar and poet, as well as a leader of unshakable resolve. Her mother taught her the ways of the wild and the history of their people, while her father instilled in her a love for lore and the wisdom of old Númenor.

The Lord and Lady of Annúminas did not forget their friends. They visited the Shire often, where they delighted in the company of the Hobbits who had played such a great part in the War of the Ring. Among them, Peregrin Took held a special place, for he often journeyed to Annúminas to visit and to share news and laughter. When Peregrin’s only son was born, he named him Faramir in honor of his dear friend.

In Ithilien, where Boromir and Éowyn ruled as Prince and Princess, Rían, as Faramir had predicted,found a kindred spirit in her husband’s elder brother. Boromir soon came to admire Rían’s courage and steadfastness, and a bond of mutual respect grew between them. Letters passed often between Annúminas and Emyn Arnen until Boromir’s death at the age of 110, which came only five years after the passing of Éowyn. Their eldest son, Beren, inherited the title of Prince of Ithilien, and the friendship between their houses endured.

When Faramir passed at the age of 120, a great shadow fell upon Rían’s heart. Those who knew her feared she would not long endure the weight of her sorrow, for she had loved him deeply, and her strength had been bound to his. Yet Rían did not falter. For twenty years, she ruled alone, pouring her love and wisdom into her daughter and ensuring that Annúminas remained a beacon of hope and prosperity.

When her strength at last began to wane, Rían sent word to King Elessar, who journeyed north to bid farewell to his loyal friend. In her final moments, she spoke with him of the days they had shared, and he laid a gentle kiss upon her brow, calling her the finest of his captains. After the King departed, Rían summoned Eleniel to her side.

As she held her daughter’s hand, Rían spoke words that her own motheronce spoke to her: “I hope you find someone who loves you as your father loved me. I hope you never walk this road alone, without a hand to hold.” And with that, Rían passed from the circles of the world, her spirit departing to join her beloved Faramir in the Halls of Mandos.

Eleniel buried her mother beside her father in the great tombs of Annúminas. Above their resting place, she commissioned a statue, depicting Rían and Faramir standing together as they had in life, hands entwined, gazing toward the northern stars to honor the people that saw Annumnais rise from ruins. 

Eleniel’s reign was one of wisdom and prosperity. She inherited her father’s love for poetry and lore and her mother’s unyielding courage and devotion to the North. Among her first acts as ruler was the founding of schools and libraries to preserve the knowledge her parents had cherished.

Not long after her mother’s passing, Eleniel wed a marshall of King Éomer of Rohan. Their union strengthened the bonds between Arnor and Rohan, and together they had two sons, who carried forward the legacy of their forebears.

To the day she passed Eleniel spoke about the night hermother died as such: “On that night, there were twice as many stars as usual in the northern sky, for even the stars paid homage to my mother’s spirit.”

The dynasty that began with Rían and Faramir endured for many generations. Annúminas flourished, becoming a center of culture and learning in the restored North-kingdom. The deeds of Rían and Faramir were sung in halls from the Shire to Gondor, and their names lived on in the hearts of their people, a reminder of the courage and love that rebuilt the North from the ruins of war.