The White City feels too large without her in it. Everything echoes differently. Footsteps stretch too far across the stone, voices carry longer than they should, and even the wind seems to move through the high walls with a hollow sound that was never there before. Or perhaps it was always there, and she was simply the thing that made it feel full.

I stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out over the city without really seeing it. I have been describing things in my head again. I cannot seem to stop. The sky is clear. The stone is warm beneath my feet. There are banners shifting in the wind. I catalogue it all the way I used to when she stood beside me, the way I would have told her without thinking, as if the act of naming things might somehow keep her here.

“She would have liked the way the wind moves through this place, it changes between the walls. You can hear it if you stand still long enough.”

Gandalf stands near enough that I can feel the weight of his presence even without looking at him. Faramir is there as well, still and attentive, the kind of stillness that waits rather than intrudes. Neither of them interrupts, which is good, because I would not know what to do if they did.

“I told her I would take her home,” I continue, my voice rougher now. “Not just here. The Shire. I told her about it constantly, actually. The hills, the gardens, the way it smells after it rains. I said she would like how quiet it can be when the world settles.” I let out a breath that does not steady me. “I said I would show her everything.”

The words feel heavier now than they did when I first made the promise.

“They found her cloak,” I say after a moment. “Torn. Caught on something like she had been pulled or forced back. And one of her daggers was lying not far from it.” I press my hands flat against the stone railing in front of me, grounding myself against something that will not move. “They said there was no sign she made it out.”

Silence answers that. Not empty silence. The kind that understands what cannot be argued with.

“She does not lose,” I say, more firmly, as if that alone should undo the conclusion. “She does not hesitate. She does not make mistakes in a fight. I have seen her stand against things that should have taken her down and walk away from it without so much as a stagger.” My throat tightens, and I force the words through it anyway. “So if she did not come back, then it was not because she failed.”

Which leaves only what I do not want to say.

“I was not there,” I admit instead. “I was not close enough. I was not paying attention to where she was moving or how the line shifted or whether we were separating too far.” My grip tightens against the stone. “I was somewhere else, and she was fighting alone.”

The words settle heavily between us.

“I keep thinking if I had stayed closer,” I go on, quieter now, “if I had listened the way she listens, if I had just been where I was supposed to be—” I stop, because the end of that thought does not change anything. It only sharpens what is already there.

Faramir shifts slightly, as though he might speak, but does not. Gandalf remains still, which somehow makes it easier to continue.

“I did not even ask her properly,” I say after a long moment. “I was going to. I had been planning it for days. Weeks, probably. Terrible plans. Asking the wrong people for advice. I asked Sam if he could officiate.” A weak, breathless sound leaves me that might almost be a laugh. “I thought I had time.”

The word feels foolish now.

“I was going to take her to the Shire first,” I add, softer. “I wanted her to know it before I asked. I wanted it to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere she could stand without having to measure every sound like it might turn into something dangerous.” I swallow hard. “I thought that mattered.”

It still does.

It just does not matter to anything that can change what has already happened

For the first time since I started speaking, I look down at my hands, still braced against the stone. “I was supposed to take her with me,” I say quietly. “I promised."