Minas Tirith has a way of making everything feel smaller than it is.
The walls stretch impossibly high. The halls echo. Men move in polished armor with purpose and pride.
And yet somehow, standing beside her, I have never felt taller.
We are received in one of the inner courts, sunlight pouring down in clean white beams. Gondorian banners hang from stone columns. Soldiers line the edges, curious and restrained.
And at the far end stands Faramir.
He approaches with measured steps, eyes sharp, thoughtful — not unkind.
His gaze finds her first.
Of course it does.
White hair against pale stone. Still posture. Controlled breathing. The subtle adjustments she makes to sound and air without anyone noticing.
He slows.
Not in arrogance.
In fascination.
“She navigates without sight,” he says quietly, more observation than question.
“She does,” I answer at once.
He takes a step closer.
Not inappropriate.
Not improper.
Just closer.
And something in my chest straightens.
I shift half a pace forward without thinking.
Not in front of her — never that.
But enough.
“You can admire,” I say pleasantly, “but you cannot drool this closely.”
A few nearby soldiers stiffen.
Faramir blinks.
“I beg your pardon?”
“She may not see you,” I continue calmly, chin lifted, “but I can.”
His brow rises slightly.
“This is your wife?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“My wife.”
The word feels magnificent in this marble courtyard.
He looks from me — five feet of stubborn Hobbit — up to her — tall, composed, lethal — and then back down again.
“There is no precedent for such a union,” he says honestly.
“There is now,” I reply.
Somewhere behind us I hear Merry choke on what I assume is laughter.
Faramir studies her again, careful now. Respectful, but undeniably captivated.
“It is extraordinary,” he says. “To adapt so completely.”
“It is discipline,” I correct.
He nods slowly. “I meant no disrespect.”
“Good,” I say brightly. “Because admiration is permitted. Proximity is negotiable.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes then — not offense, but surprise.
“You are protective.”
I beam.
“Extremely.”
He folds his hands behind his back. “I assure you, I am merely intrigued.”
“And I assure you,” I counter lightly, “that intrigue has boundaries.”
The courtyard air feels tighter now, though no one has drawn steel.
“She is formidable,” Faramir continues.
“Yes.”
“And you stand at her side.”
“Yes.”
“And you are… unbothered by the difference in stature.”
I glance up at her and grin.
“Not remotely.”
He studies me in open curiosity now.
“How did this occur?”
I do not bristle.
I do not falter.
“I asked,” I say simply.
A few men nearby shift, surprised by the lack of drama in the answer.
“And she agreed.”
“She chose me.”
The distinction matters.
Faramir exhales slowly.
“There has never been record of such a match.”
“History is flexible,” I reply cheerfully. “It adapts.”
His gaze lingers one second too long.
That is when I take the final step.
I move in close — close enough that I can feel the faint warmth of her at my side.
And I wrap my arm around her hip.
Not possessively.
Not aggressively.
Just firm.
Where someone taller might drape an arm across shoulders, I secure mine at her waist instead, hand resting steady at her side.
It is a clear message.
She stands tall and still.
I stand at her hip.
“My wife, Ellariel Took." I repeat softly.
Faramir notices.
Of course he does.
His expression shifts — understanding dawning.
“You are certain,” he says.
“Completely.”
“You do not fear that others might question it.”
I grin up at him.
“They already are.”
A quiet murmur ripples through the watching soldiers.
Faramir straightens slightly.
“You are aware,” he says carefully, “that many in this city will find this… improbable.”
“Yes,” I reply. “And many in this city are incorrect.”
For a moment, the corner of his mouth twitches.
“You are bold.”
“I am married.”
The words land with absolute certainty.
Let them puzzle over height and history and improbability.
I am not threatened by admiration.