Minas Tirith

This would have been my wedding day.

Today I saw the Lord Faramir standing by the wall near the Houses of Healing, kissing a woman with golden hair. Many saw them. The shadow has passed and now joy and love return, they say.

These garments spread out before me, made with care by my mother and my aunt from the best fabric our family could afford. These tiny, tiny stitches that their elderly fingers can do. Trimmings of silk. Useless now, like fallen leaves.

We grew up together in opposite houses here in the third circle of the city, playing together in the street, making faces at each other from the windows on those rainy days when our mothers would not let us out. A boy and a girl bound together by the laughter and the games and the stories we shared. Seamlessly our childhood friendship turned into adult affection. No other objection did any of our parents have than that the times were darkening and the future uncertain. And yet we thought that we could wait for the spring, for that auspicious season.

This would have been my wedding ring. It is thin and light, all the gold that a carpenter’s family could buy. For the sake of a ring this war was fought, for the sake of a single band of gold, heavier than this one for sure, but a ring only, nonetheless. That such a small thing should have yielded so much power.

Today the Lord Faramir has chosen his bride, standing by the wall looking east, towards the place where the Dark Lord was overcome by those they call the Periain. That such small folk should have defeated such evil. Today I stand in my chamber looking across the street towards a window that will remain empty.

These would have been my wedding shoes. Light and soft and meant for dancing, too delicate to walk the streets of stone day after day. The Periain wear no shoes, they say. With their bare feet they trod over the barren plain of Gorgoroth. Naked toes found the path to the salvation of us all.

Out there on the Pelennor Fields the wreckage of the battle lies still. All those siege engines and catapults. They sent into our city missiles of flame, shooting over the walls at great height, and thus it was that while I slew orcs by the gate, one landed in the third circle, where a woman was hurrying along the street on an errand for the Warden of the Houses of Healing.

Today the captains of the armies are rejoicing and the People of Gondor are beginning to rebuild their fair city. Today I run my fingers over my wedding garments, my wedding ring, my wedding shoes and marvel that I, a soldier, should live, while she, a healer, died in flame.