The spring rain had stopped.
On the Central Square of Minas Tirith, the damp stone slabs reflected the lead-gray clouds.
The territory's people poured in from the streets and alleys on all sides, like streams flowing into a lake.
They crowded the square, heads tilted up at the high stone platform in the center, whispering amongst themselves in hushed tones.
To one side of the platform, Caroline stood beside Velin, the sea breeze stirring her silver hair.
She watched the sea of heads below. Their faces showed no post-war fear or numbness, but rather an irrepressible sense of anticipation.
"You've summoned everyone," Caroline said, her voice audible only to Velin. "I thought I was coming to a solemn memorial service."
"A memorial is necessary, but not now. Right now, what they need more is to see hope."
With the tolling of a bell, Tristan walked onto the high platform.
He was dressed in the crisp, immaculate uniform of a Civil Servant.
