Character Reference:
Eldarion — King of the Reunited Kingdoms; son of Aragorn & Arwen; brother of Aramiel; uncle of Arestel
Arestel — Daughter of Aramiel & unknown elf father; granddaughter of Aragorn & Arwen; niece of Eldarion
Elboron — Steward to the King of Gondor; son of Faramir & Éowyn; father of Barahir & Éromir
Éromir — Prince of Ithilien; son of Elboron; grandson of Faramir & Éowyn; younger brother of Barahir
Barahir — Prince of Ithilien; son of Elboron; grandson of Faramir & Éowyn; older brother of Éromir
—
Barahir sat under the shade of an old tree, the leafy branches shielding his fair skin from the sun as they stretched high and fanned out above him. In his lap was a green leather-bound book, in which he had been writing for over a year. It was closed now, resting on his knee as he paused from his task and pushed the blonde hair from his face, taking a moment to gaze across the hill at the Anduin. White foam danced on the blue surface of the rapids at a bend in the river, and Barahir sighed. What a beautiful land they dwelled in; how stark the knife-like plume of smoke was behind him against the expansive sky. He dared not look east for fear of despair.
This elder son of Elboron looked back to his writing. Long had he admired Frodo's legendary account of the War of the Ring, and long had he yearned to write an epic of his own. Barahir wanted to pay tribute to the late king and queen and thus had begun The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen. His composition was nearly finished, and while he was proud of the work he'd done, he shivered to think a new tale already might be on the horizon, one just as dark and sinister as King Elessar and the Nine had faced in the Third Age.
The sharp blast of a horn startled Barahir from his thoughts. He stood now, catching glimpse of his younger brother Éromir galloping on horseback for the bridge that would lead him across the Anduin and into Emyn Arnen. The bridge had been a gift to Prince Faramir in the days after the War, commissioned by King Elessar of the dwarves of the Glittering Caves. Made of shining mithril bricks, the bridge arched over the river, reflecting the last glints of the evening sun as Éromir raced across. Guards at either end sounded their horns and saluted as he rode past. Barahir gathered his book and quill and set off down the hill toward the palace. Though nowhere near the staggering structure that was Minas Tirith, the Steward Palace — nestled in a narrow space between two sloping hills — was still a marvel to behold. Gilded arches rose with the wood and stone façade; inside the halls were hung with Gondorian flags and banners of the finest silk, and tapestries bearing the long and rich line of the House of Húrin. Barahir lived there with his father and brother; his mother had died when Barahir was eight and Éromir just five.
"Brother!" Éromir called out from the the top of the long stone staircase where he stood just outside the great entrance. When Barahir made it to the top the siblings embraced. To see them together was to witness opposites at their most: the elder Barahir, tall and slender, fair, clean-faced and bookish; the younger Éromir, rugged and solid, strong-willed, a soldier and a fighter. Though Éromir with his commanding presence seemed more suitable for the throne, it was Barahir who would be Prince Elboron's heir, a task which loomed heavy on his mind.
"You have long been away," Barahir said with a smile. "It's good to see you home."
"And you," answered Éromir. "I did not see you when first I arrived, before Father sent me on to Minas Tirith. He said you had gone off on your labor again."
Barahir tapped his book lightly against his palm. "Yes, a labor of love, I'm afraid. But it's nearly finished."
Éromir reached out and squeezed his brother's shoulder. A somber look overtook his face. "That is wonderful indeed, Barahir, and I am certain your scholarly toils will please King Eldarion. But you must know with the appearance just beyond the mountains that it is not safe to wander far."
"Nothing has been sighted yet. And who would dare venture into these hills?" Barahir argued. "Besides, you cannot expect me to stay locked inside the palace. I have need of the sun, the air, the Anduin."
"And Ithilien has need of its heir." Éromir sighed. "I have seen who would enter these hills, Brother. Before I left for Minas Tirith I told Father of a troubling encounter during my patrol. My men and I intercepted a group of Haradrim. They are on the move, Barahir, toward Rhûn. But to what I do not know. There are still those loyal to the evils that once took haven in Mordor, and they would do what they can to see Gondor and its people destroyed. You must take care."
Barahir looked away, annoyed. Perhaps he wasn't as skilled a fighter as his brother, but he wasn't helpless. Éromir spoke as if he were the elder and Barahir were a child to be protected.
"Come," Éromir said as he put his arm around Barahir. "Let us go inside and meet with Father. I have news from King Eldarion you both must hear."
The brothers pushed hard on the iron and wooden doors, stepping into the sun-streaked entrance of the Steward Palace. They made down a long corridor toward the rostrum where Elboron sat, the banners inscribed with the names of their forefathers stirring as they went.
