Seven years passed. A war was fought and won, the Shadow vanquished. In the City of the Kings to the south of the Riddermark, there was great celebration and rejoicing.
One midsummer night in the Citadel atop the city, across the great Hall of Feasts, the eyes of a shieldmaiden of Rohan and an elf warrior met. They walked through the crowded hall to meet each other.
She had forgotten how heartbreakingly beautiful the elf warrior was, as he walked tall and eternally youthful in his long silver-white elven robes, his golden hair radiant in the bright torchlight of the hall.
She was a woman grown now, in the full bloom of a beauty great even by the measure of elves: tall and noble in her flowing white gown girdled with gold, her pale flaxen hair falling unbraided down her back, a circlet of gold on her fair brow. In her face, he saw the grievous trials and great sorrows of those seven years, the glory of her recent victory over a great evil, and the joy of her present bliss.
"Hail and well met, Lady Éowyn of the Rohirrim."
"Hail and well met, Lord Glorfindel of the elvenfolk."
"Did I not say once, child, that there would be songs of your valour in the halls of heroes?" He smiled luminously at her.
She smiled back. "I have discovered more. That before that prophecy, you made another. A prophecy at Fornost—that the Black Rider King should fall not by the hand of man."
"It was a thousand years ere our paths crossed that the first foresight came to me. And so it was that by no man did he fall indeed, but by a valiant maiden of the Eorlingas, beautiful and deadly as a shining blade of steel." He looked at her curiously with glittering eyes. "And who was it told you this prophecy was mine? If I may assay a guess—a certain wizard once grey?"
"It was indeed Gandalf the White Rider," she said. And they both turned their heads to look at the white wizard who lifted a tankard of ale in salute to them from a far table.
She turned back to look at the elf warrior. "When you taught me to fight, years ago," she asked, her grey eyes wondering, "Did you know that it was I who would fulfil your prophecy?"
His eyes were bright like stars, and she saw his enigmatic smile once again. "Perhaps."
"You never gave me the chance to reward you."
"To know of your deed and see you victorious and blissful is all the reward I desire."
She bowed her head to him and smiled. Then, a little wistfully, "So. . . do you sail west as you said of old?"
"That I will, for my people's time has passed, and we must depart or fade."
"Sadder will these lands be, and duller, when the magic and light of elvenkind are gone."
"Not so. For there shall always be the wonder and glory of valiant deeds and joyous hearts and strong spirits among the race of men. How brightly your flames burn, though for but a brief moment. And none shine brighter than the lines of Eorlingas and the men of Gondor." His brilliant blue eyes turned to look at the great doors of the hall, where handsome, brown-haired Faramir had just entered, and was walking towards his lady, "And I rejoice to see the shieldmaiden and the steward make those two lines one."
She held out her hand to the elf warrior, and he took it and clasped it, and they smiled a last time into each other's eyes.
"Farewell," she said huskily.
"Namárië," the elf lord replied, in the ancient language of Elvenhome, and released her to go to her lord.
As Éowyn walked to Faramir, the white wizard crossed over to his golden-haired friend, and they walked out of the hall onto the terrace that ran down its length.
The wizard pulled out his pipe, lit it, blew a few rings, and elf and wizard looked over the city spread below them, yellow lights glowing in the summer night.
The wizard turned his head to peer at the tall elf lord with his keen eyes. "Why, Lord Glorfindel. . . is that a tear I see?"
The golden lord gave a light laugh. "Your smoke is getting in my eyes, Olórin. Why in Eä you fancy that foul weed no elf shall ever be able to fathom." He looked at his ancient friend with a gentle smile. "I did not think you a romantic."
The wizard chuckled. "A golden elf and a golden mortal maid's chance meeting one fine summer on grassy plains. A prophet's fortuitous meeting with the fulfilment of his prophecy. If there is romance in destiny, I would say it is Eru Ilúvatar who is the romantic, not I."
"It was a sweet moment," the elf conceded, "and it shall not be forgotten." As the wizard peered into his face, the elf added with a heartfelt sigh. "No, Olórin, those are not tears. Please stop blowing smoke into my face."
"Come, come, old friend. Let's drink the night away and talk of balrog slaying."
"Sentimental old fool," said the elf affectionately. "You may talk, and I will listen. You know I have spoken of that confounded balrog many a thousand times already, and I am quite done with it."
With a twinkle in his eye, the wizard slapped the tall elf lord on the back, and white and golden they walked down from the terrace into the gardens where music played and the stars smiled down.