The invitation arrived on a scroll bearing the seal of the White Tree: a royal summons to the solstice celebration in Minas Tirith, promising jousts, feasts, and noble company. From the moment your mother clutched it with shining eyes, you knew resistance was futile. A golden opportunity, she called it. But the mention of tournaments and suitors made your skin crawl.

Minas Tirith was breathtaking; its white towers gleamed beneath the summer sun, and the air was sweet with the scent of roses from the hanging gardens. On the day of the tournament, you sat among the nobles, your silken gown shimmering in the light. The crowd roared as knights clashed in fierce displays of strength and valor.

And then, came the blood. A rider fell hard; his helmet tumbled across the sand, revealing a deep gash across his brow. Dark crimson pooled beneath his motionless form, and in that instant, a buried memory tore to the surface: the rebel attack of your childhood, the blood-soaked ground, the searing pain at your side. The scar you still bore, a pale mark hidden beneath layers of silk. Your breath caught, and the world seemed to shrink.

That's when he appeared.

“Are you feeling well?” asked Faramir, the Steward's heir, his voice calm and steady. You nodded, but your face betrayed you. He leaned slightly and said:

“Would you care for a walk in the gardens? It may be more pleasant than watching men injure themselves for sport.”

You hesitated, but then accepted.

Among the blossoms and soft wind, Faramir asked about your homeland, your interests and listened without judgment. When you shared your unease, he replied simply, “It is not wrong to turn away from what wounds us,” he said, pausing before gently touching the petals of an Evermind flower. “Not all who are brave wield swords.”

He noticed too, the way your hand strayed to your side during the gruesome display. But he did not ask. Instead, he spoke of books, of old tales and wisdom. You discovered a mutual affection for ancient texts, and in that peaceful evening, connection blossomed not through touch, but with shared silences, gentle smiles and mutual understanding.

At the door to your chambers, in the flickering torchlight, he stopped.

“Good night, my lady,” he said, but his eyes spoke more. There was something there; not raw desire, but attentiveness, respect, and yet a quiet intensity you couldn't ignore.

The next morning, a note arrived: “Would the lady be willing to trade today’s duels for a visit to the city’s library? I believe we’ll find more discoveries among pages than among spears. — Faramir”

You smiled genuinely, for the first time in days.