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….