She stood on the steps of the white city of Minas Tirith, and gazed

over the battlefield. Ravens circled overhear, waiting to descend upon

the remains of the day's carnage.

Two days before, she had sent her beloved down those same steps, and

now, in the wake of such desolation, she waited for his embrace

A great cry of despair rose from the gates, as the dead were carried

in state between the towers that had stood guard over the city for so

long. A tear slid down her cheek, a great sadness filling her heart. A

fervent prayer for her love escaped her lips as she waited, waited

with tears filling her eyes for those that would never hold their

loved ones again.

Yet another cry rose up, as the victors marched between those same

towers, led by their returned king.

And still she stood upon those steps waiting, her heart gladdened by

the victory, yet heavy with dreaded anticipation, praying,

praying…praying for her love, for his arms to hold her, his lips to

kiss her, or else for a single word of his death….