Spring arrived once again, bringing renewal and abundance to the land.
At the beginning of that year, Garrett received a letter bearing Denethor's seal.
"I have fallen in love with a gentle and beautiful woman."
A thunderbolt of an opening line.
Garrett set the letter down and examined the signature once more.
It was indeed from Denethor. He continued reading.
In this letter, Denethor had poured out his heart. He wrote at length of sentimental matters, describing his time spent with the lady, their shared experiences, and the gradual process of falling in love.
This truly surprised Garrett. Who would have imagined that this man, whose face was usually as stern as carved stone, could pen such words?
Love always brings great change to people.
But that was merely context. The main point of the letter was that Denethor was soon to wed his beloved, Finduilas, daughter of Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth.
He hoped Garrett could be present on that joyous day, to share in the happiness with his somewhat unreliable, mysterious uncle figure.
"Alright."
Faced with this earnest young man, no, by now he should be called a grown man of standing, he had no intention of dampening his joy.
Still, time truly passed swiftly.
It felt as though only yesterday they had last met, when Denethor had been merely a boy, no taller than Garrett's waist, serious and always frowning like a miniature adult.
But that was no longer the case.
The year 2976 of the Third Age, in Gondor's White City.
A grand wedding was held at the highest level of Minas Tirith.
Denethor, having carefully arranged his hair, donned a formal black doublet with white cuffs. He examined himself in the mirror, nodded with satisfaction, and stepped forth.
Coming toward him was Finduilas, dressed in flowing white wedding garments, her dark hair beautifully arranged.
Her eyes were bright and full of life. She stood taller than most women, and beside the tall Denethor, they appeared perfectly matched.
Deep affection shone in both their eyes.
The musicians struck up a stately melody as the two exchanged rings before the assembled guests, pledging themselves to each other for life.
Amid thunderous applause, Denethor stood tall and straight with Finduilas upon his left arm. Together they walked along a path strewn with flowers, passing by groups of friends and guests.
During that ceremonial walk, Denethor glanced about until he spotted the figure he had been hoping to see.
Garrett stood in a prominent position, smiling warmly as he nodded and applauded.
Beside him stood Denethor's father, Ecthelion, along with many of Gondor's high officials and nobles.
Denethor returned the smile with visible relief.
He turned his head slightly, his hand unconsciously brushing the ceremonial sword still belted at his waist even on such an occasion, his expression both proud and solemn.
The grand ceremony concluded with the couple's kiss.
When the wedding ended and the evening banquet began, after receiving countless congratulations from friends and relatives, Denethor finally found a moment of solitude. He stood alone by a tall window, gently swirling the wine in his cup, lost in thought.
"What troubles you?"
From behind, Finduilas wrapped her arms around him in a gentle embrace.
Denethor lightly held her hand and at last allowed a fraction of his true feelings to surface.
"I simply feel... perhaps I still haven't truly earned the recognition I sought. Perhaps I'm not as exceptional as I believed myself to be."
"Why would you say such a thing?" Finduilas asked softly.
Denethor merely shook his head, saying no more on the matter.
The topic quickly passed between them.
Feeling the warmth of her embrace, he murmured quietly,
"This happiness feels so fragile, as though it might slip away. If only it could endure forever."
"I shall always remain by your side," Finduilas replied gently, resting her head against his shoulder.
Neither spoke again. They simply stood there together, savoring that quiet, peaceful moment beneath the stars.
Yes, perhaps happiness is always fleeting and uncertain.
But when it graces one's life, it must be cherished.
---
Some dwelt in light and joy. Others walked alone through darkness.
Yes, through darkness indeed.
Deep within the black halls of Khazad-dûm, Gandalf raised his staff, the crystal at its tip glowing softly to illuminate the ancient path ahead.
Wizards seldom undertook journeys without purpose.
This expedition was no exception. Forsaking the easier routes through the Gap of Rohan or the High Pass to travel through Khazad-dûm was not an act of idle self-torment.
People claimed that the great war decades past had purged Khazad-dûm of all its evil creatures, but Gandalf was never one to accept such reports at face value.
So he had come himself to verify the truth with his own eyes.
"Now, which passage was it again...?"
In this vast, lightless labyrinth, he began to lose his sense of direction.
The structure of Khazad-dûm was far too complex. Even without monsters lurking in the shadows, its twisting passages alone posed deadly threats to the unwary traveler.
Not everyone, after all, could be like Garrett, able to choose any direction, start excavating, and somehow emerge safely on the other side.
There were some routes one simply could not avoid walking.
In that immense, silent maze, perhaps because of the oppressive stillness or perhaps because of something deeper, Gandalf felt a growing unease settle in his heart.
It was as though countless unseen eyes were fixed upon him from the darkness.
"Hm?"
Just as he stood before a fork in the tunnel, deep in thought, a flicker of light caught his attention in the gloom.
Was that... firelight?
Could something, or someone, be present here?
He tensed, his grip tightening on his staff.
He extinguished the light at his staff's tip and moved silently toward the source, creeping cautiously to a corner before peering carefully around it.
There, before him, burned a small campfire. Beside it, carved clearly into the stone, was a name.
"Garrett."
Gandalf suddenly smiled, all tension draining from his shoulders.
He knew this kind of fire well. It was one of Garrett's creations, like the eternal flames he had placed throughout his territories. Even without fuel, it would continue burning steadily unless someone deliberately extinguished it.
Reassured that this place was safe, he settled down heavily beside the warming flames, took a long draught from his water flask, then wrapped his grey robes more tightly about himself and rested awhile in the gentle heat.
The campfire crackled softly, a sound that might have lulled a lesser traveler to sleep in these dark halls.
But he was not so easily swayed by comfort. After only a brief rest with his eyes closed, he rose with new vigor and continued his journey deeper into the mountain.
Before departing, he carved his own mark beside Garrett's, a single Tengwar rune representing his name, the letter G.
It served both as a sign that he had passed through safely and as a message to any who might follow: this place was secure, certified by both the Lord of Wayfort and Gandalf the Grey himself.
The remainder of his journey through Khazad-dûm proceeded smoothly.
There were no obstacles along this route, no threats lurking in side passages. In fact, he found it almost disappointingly uneventful. Many paths still bore Garrett's eternal flames and carved waymarks, clearly indicating the safest routes through the labyrinth.
No danger, difficulty, or excitement. Hardly an adventure at all.
"Well then."
As he finally emerged through Khazad-dûm's western gate into blessed daylight, he shook his head with mild disappointment.
"Perhaps I should pay a visit to the City of Waters next."
Having settled upon his next destination, he lifted his gaze toward the distant horizon, where at the edge of the vast landscape, the outline of a great city could just be glimpsed.
Humming an old walking song to himself, he followed the ancient road the Elves had constructed in the Elder Days, striding onward into the welcoming light of day.