“You know,” I say casually, staring out over the white curve of the city walls, “I have a wife.”

Faramir pauses mid-step beside me.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A wife,” I repeat, nodding as though this is common knowledge. “Mrs. Ellariel Took.”

He studies me more carefully now. “You are married.”

“Yes.”

There is the faintest flicker of surprise in his expression. Before he can respond, a familiar voice cuts in behind us.

Boromir lets out a low laugh.

“Aye,” he says, clapping a hand to Faramir’s shoulder. “The lad’s got himself an elven lass. Never shuts up about her.”

“I do not—” I begin.

“You absolutely do,” Boromir counters, amused. “Every hall, every march, every campfire.”

I lift my chin.

“Well, she’s worth mentioning.”

“To an Elf?” he asks.

“Mm,” I confirm brightly. “Princess of Mirkwood.”

He blinks.

Faramir’s interest sharpens. “Tell me of her.”

That is an invitation I will never refuse.

“She’s taller than I am,” I begin at once. “Which, admittedly, is not difficult. But she stands like she was carved from winter itself. Blind as the dark and twice as steady.”

“Blind?” Faramir repeats quietly.

“Yes. Completely.”

I fold my hands behind my back, rocking slightly on my bare heels against the cool stone.

“They look at her like she's something broken,” I say softly, chin lifted. “But they’re not. They’re proof she survived. And her eyes—white as winter, steady as stone—there’s nothing about her is. She's beautiful. By everything green She’s beautiful. I don’t see ruin when I look at her. I see strength that is unparalleled.”

“She hears everything,” I continue. “Every shift of air. Every step. Once an orc tried to come at me from behind. I hadn’t even turned yet, and she’d already moved. Steel clean through before I could blink.”

Boromir nods. “Saw it myself.”

“She stood between me and a wizard once,” I add proudly. “Didn’t say a word. Just unsheathed her daggers.”

Faramir’s brows rise.

“She sounds formidable.”

“She is extraordinary,” I say, and this time the humor softens.

The wind moves through the upper tiers of Minas Tirith, carrying the distant clang of metal and murmur of soldiers.

“And she chose you,” Faramir observes.

I grin.

“She did.”

Boromir shakes his head fondly. “Luckiest Hobbit alive, he’ll tell you.”

“I will,” I confirm. “Frequently.”

The grin fades slowly, though.

Because she isn’t here.

Minas Tirith feels wrong without her presence beside me. Too much staring. Too many whispers. Too many men who look and judge and do not understand.

“She doesn’t play about her Hobbit,” I murmur.

Boromir snorts softly. “That she does not.”

Faramir studies me a moment longer. “You miss her.”

“Yes.”

The word is small.

Honest.

Before anything else can be said—

The horns sound.

All three of us turn toward the gates.

“A company approaches!” a guard shouts.

Something surges through me.

I know.

I don’t think.

I bolt.

“Peregrin!” Boromir calls.

Too late.

My bare Hobbit feet hit against stone as I sprint down the tiered levels of the city, cloak flapping wildly behind me. I nearly skid on the smooth steps, catching myself awkwardly with a flail of arms.

“Careful!” someone shouts.

“No time!” I shout back.

The gates are opening.

The crowd is gathering.

My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe.

I stumble once more—curse these perfectly polished Gondorian stones—and then I see her.

White hair against dust.

Tall.

Still.

Unmistakable.

The world narrows to that single figure beyond the threshold.

I stop so abruptly I nearly fall forward again.

She stands there as though separation had merely been inconvenience.

Alive.

Whole.

Unbroken.

A laugh bursts from my chest, half relief, half triumph.

I spin wildly, searching for Faramir and Boromir behind me.

“FARAMIR!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “THAT’S MY WIFE!”

Boromir’s laughter rings across the courtyard.

“I told you!” I beam, breathless and radiant. “I told you she’d come!”

Because of course she did.

She always would.

She does not play about her Hobbit.

And I am very much that Hobbit.