The morning breeze from the east carried the scent of the sea and whispered news from distant lands. In the distance, birds and kites fluttered low, signaling the changing seasons. And with it came a decision I had long postponed: to face Celenor.
The kingdom of Celenor was known for its elegance and vigilance. Its white walls reflected the sunlight like crystal, but its heart was not easily opened. They had not forgotten the war two decades ago. No wound was deeper than a loss never mourned.
However, I had to come. Not as a ruler. Nor as a former enemy.
But as someone who had learned from silence.
I came without an army. Accompanied only by an old guard and a letter from the young man—he had written it without my knowledge, containing a single sentence:
> "He built a home with me."
And somehow, the letter carried me through the eastern gate of Celenor, until I sat before Queen Avarenne.
She hadn't changed much. Her eyes were still as sharp as the night before a storm. But there were lines of exhaustion beneath it, like someone who had been on guard for too long in a world they no longer believed in.
"What do you want?" he asked directly.
I sighed.
"I don't want to," I said. "But I need to. For a world that doesn't burn each other anymore."
He stared at me for a long moment. And for a moment, there was no past between us. Just two old leaders who were running out of time to blame each other.
"And why should we trust you now?"
I pulled a small scroll from my robe—a map of the valleys on the northern border. Not to be conquered, but to be cultivated. There were new rivers that had appeared after the last earthquake, fertile lands that lay empty with fear.
"We plant together. We guard together. Not a war alliance. An alliance of life."
Queen Avarenne didn't answer that day. But a week later, Celenor's envoy arrived. He brought seeds, farming tools, and five farming families. Not an army. But life.
We began building a new settlement on the banks of the River Raniel. The land that once separated our territories. Now it's a place where we cultivate, write common rules, and share the seasons.
And on her first night, as the stars began to descend one by one, Queen Avarenne herself came. She looked up at the sky and said softly, "Perhaps... this isn't about forgiving you. But about forgiving the past."
I just nodded. Because that was more than enough.
By the riverbank, we planted a second tree. Still young. Still fragile. But its first roots touched the ground that had once bled.
Perhaps from there a new world would grow.
And if someday the children of the valley and Celenor would play together under that tree, not knowing who started what—then that would be enough for me.
> Because legacy isn't about who gets remembered. It's about who decides not to perpetuate the pain.
The next morning, a thin mist blanketed the newly cleared fields. The sound of the first hoe pierced the silence softly, as if asking permission from the earth. In the distance, children began to laugh as they chased the shadows of birds among the young corn shoots.
Amidst it all, an old man from Celenor and a young woman from my valley sat side by side, sharing bread and stories. There was no animosity between them—just the planting season and the hope of a harvest.
There was no grand announcement. No treaty-signing ceremony.
Just willingness.
And perhaps, that's precisely where the strength of this alliance lies: born not from political necessity, but from a wound it doesn't want to inherit.
I gazed at the second Arhel tree we planted yesterday. Its first leaves were beginning to open, gently but surely welcoming the morning dew.
Then, without realizing it, I smiled.
> Because in a world full of ruins, sometimes the bravest aren't those who build castles...
But those who are patient enough to plant trees.