Throne of Stone -II- Book Three of the Tales of the Fourth Age Series

Chapter Seven

Fo.A 2, April 17th

Ninel had known what would happen to her brother the moment he'd been taken in the gardens, but it did not lessen the blow when Faramir returned and announced her brother's death.

It had been over a week ago, and she had been locked up tight in her room since then, only coming out to eat and bathe, but little else.

She was overcome by a mixture of anger, hate, sorrow, and pain that beat her relentlessly. Some of it was directed towards the king because he was the one who had pronounced her brother's doom; even then, though, she knew that it had not been the king who had kidnapped her. It had not been his doing to let those filthy men touch her.

No, that had been Dalion and the members of the Black Tree. Damn them all! They were the reason Tachion was dead, and she would make them pay.

Ninel stood before the mirror in her room, gazing into her own eyes, haunted by the past. Her long brown hair hung loosely, falling over her shoulders and cascading down her back; he vibrant brown eyes, hallow and sad, stared back at her.

Innocence had been ripped from her.

The young girl's eyes became hard as mithril, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line; She would make sure the Black Tree never rose again.

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Tachion shifted his pack on his shoulders as he stood on the borders of Gondor and Rohan, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. He could barely make out where he knew Minas Tirith to be; where his former home was.

Turning his gaze away from the lands of his birth, he looked out on the rolling plains of Rohan, the tall grasses swaying in the gentle breeze. Tachion sniffed. He'd try and make it through Rohan quickly; explaining himself was not something he wanted to do if he could help it.

Tachion took one last longing look back. "Goodbye, Ninel," he whispered, "may your paths always be blessed."

With that, he turned his back. He would never see his homeland again.

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Fo.A 2, June 18th

Aragorn wasn't sure when the anxiety had started, just that it had taken over his thinking. He blamed it on the planning for the celebration in three days. Deep down, though, he knew the answer probably lay in the news that the healer had brought: Arwen might never be able to have children again.

The healer, Daron, emphasized that there was yet a chance that they could; she was an elf, and her body still healed in ways that mortals could not.

Aragorn stared blankly down at the plans for the Mid-Year celebration, shuffling through the papers without reading them.

A sudden surge of anger rose within him, and he brushed his desk clear with his arm, sending everything falling to the floor with a clash. He threw his glass and watched it shatter against the wall, then braced himself on his desk.

Why did it have to be his child? Had it been his fault? Did he do something to cause it?

The door to his study opened, and Aragorn looked up to see Faramir standing in the doorway, taking in present state of the office. Faramir met Aragorn's gaze. "Hard day?" he asked, forcing a smile.

"You could say that," Aragorn replied with some annoyance.

Faramir's smile dropped, his face more serious.