As soon as he saw his uncle and sister lying in the battlefield, all the pent-up emotions – rage, sorrow, hopelessness – exploded from him. He called all the ferocity out of his men, and they fought with strength magnified tenfold. In his blind fury, he cared nothing of his safety or that of his men's. All he saw was red death.
As quickly as his rage set in, everything around him stilled. A woman dressed in healer's garb stood before him. Before he could say a word, she placed her hand over his heart and gazed into his eyes. Then a heartbeat later, she whispered, "Peace, dear heart, all will be well."
He lifted his eyes and beheld a white tree with seven stars above it waving in the wind, leading black sails. With a shout of joy, he fought on with a smile.
Laughter and music floated from the Great Hall and the city below. After all, it was only right that Minas Tirith should celebrate the crowning of the long awaited king. As for herself, she stood in the garden, staring into the night sky. True, she was supposed to be in the Great Hall, but no one would miss her.
After a few moments silence, the person beside her murmured in a voice only males have, "All is well, dear heart."
Smiling faintly, she turned her head. Her gaze met with that of the Rohirric king. "Is it?" She asked. "And why are you here?"
In response, he took her hand and pressed it against his beating heart. "Because of you. In my darkest moment, you came to me and made all things well. Will you let me do the same to you?"
He gazed into her eyes, giving her permission to search his mind and heart for any falsities. But she already knew that he only spoke truth and love. She took his other hand, and held it to her heart. "You already have," she said. And their hearts beat to the same rhythm.