Minas Tirith watches.
It watches from the walls. From the balconies. From behind polished helms and narrowed human eyes.
And they stare.
They do not even try to hide it.
When we enter the great hall of , the murmuring begins in earnest. Not quiet awe. Not respectful curiosity.
Assessment.
Whispers that slide like knives.
“She’s blind.” “Look at her face.” “Is that what Orc fire does?” “Monstrous.”
I feel it before I look at her.
The shift in air when people recoil.
She stands tall—far taller than me—white hair stark against the stone. Her chin is level. Her posture flawless. She does not lower herself to appease them.
I walk close to her side.
I reach barely to her hip.
And I have never felt smaller.
Not because of her height.
Because of the way they look at her.
We are brought before Denethor. He sits high and cold, carved into his chair like he belongs to it more than the hall does.
His gaze travels down the line of us.
Aragorn. Legolas. Gimli. Boromir.
Then her.
He pauses.
Too long.
His lip curls faintly.
“I was not aware,” he says, voice dry and cutting, “that Elves could burn so… thoroughly.”
The hall stills.
The word hangs there.
Burn.
Like it is something fascinating. Like she is something fascinating.
She does not move.
She does not speak.
She does not flinch.
Her breathing remains steady.
I feel something hot and sharp surge straight up my spine.
I step forward before I think.
I step in front of her hip, tilting my chin up at a man who is the Lord of Gondor.
“Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth!”
The words crack against the stone.
Boromir stiffens.
“Pippin—”
“No.”
My hands are shaking, but my voice isn’t.
“You will watch how you speak to her.”
The guards shift uneasily.
Denethor looks down at me like I am something he scraped from his boot.
“And who,” he says slowly, “are you to correct me in my own hall?”
“I am Peregrin Took,” I answer clearly. “And this is Ellariel Took.”
The surname lands heavy.
“She is Princess of Mirkwood. She has fought beside us since Rivendell. She has carved through Uruk-hai without sight, and you will not reduce her to a spectacle because her scars make you uncomfortable.”
A ripple of unease spreads through the hall.
Gimli mutters approval.
Merry takes half a step closer behind me.
Denethor’s eyes narrow.
“You presume much, Halfling.”
“I presume respect,” I reply.
My heart is pounding.
She remains utterly still behind me.
Not hiding. Not retreating.
She does not need shielding.
I know that.
But I will not let words strike her without answering.
“If you wish to speak of her scars,” I continue, voice lower now, more dangerous, “speak of the strength it takes to survive what she did.”
Denethor leans forward slightly.
“And if I do not?”
The tension tightens like a drawn bow. Good. Let it.
“I would advise against it,” I say evenly.
A murmur runs through the guards.
Legolas’ voice cuts in, calm but edged. “Gondor forgets itself.. that is my sister. Daughter of King Thranduil of Mirkwood."
Denethor does not look away from me.
“You threaten me?” he asks.
I square my shoulders, small though they are.
“No,” I answer. “I inform you.”
The silence grows heavier.
No apology comes.
No retreat.
Denethor’s gaze drifts once more to her face.
Appraising.
Judging.
Calculating.
“I see,” he says at last, tone unreadable. “Mirkwood sends damaged royalty and expects admiration.”
There it is again.
Damaged.
I feel my nails bite into my palms.
“She is not damaged,” I say quietly.
The hall hears it anyway.
“She is extraordinary.”
Denethor’s mouth tightens.
“And Gondor will decide for itself what it considers extraordinary.”
The tension does not break.
It coils.
Boromir steps forward cautiously. “Father—”
Denethor lifts a hand.
Silence falls again.
The message is clear.
This is not over.
This hall will not soften for her.
This city will not welcome her gently.
I stand there, barely reaching her hip, looking up at a man who believes power comes from height alone.