Author's Note:

First of all I want to confess that I don't know what Eärnur looks like! I assume in this fic that he had brown hair, but if I'm wrong, do tell me so. I don't want to continue rambling on about his brown hair and embarrass myself if I turned out to be wrong! Just thought I'd tell you before a pile of flames come in.

Fëaruin Urulókë

The Tale of Fëagurth

Part 1: Fire Dragon

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In Minas Tirith, maids, servants, friends of Eärnur ran throughout the hallways of the abode of Ellasil, whom seven years before had married the gentle Dúnadan lady through love. A thunderous rumble shook the entire building as they ran to the bedchamber, after hearing the tidings from the cheerful and exceedingly pleased Eärnur. Behind the small crowd a twenty-year-old young Dúnedain named Ninrusco, a warrior of great skill in archery and weaponry with messy red hair in wavy locks below his shoulders, sprinted- or more precisely scrambled- through the small multitude of people, demanding to be first in his curiosity and fright. For in the seventh year of the marriage of his mother Ellasil with his beloved stepfather Eärnur, his first and only blood sister came to life.

"Son of Ellasil! Have entitlements! Me first!" he cried, almost swimming through the people as he picked his way to the front. Part of the young one was horrified at the idea of having a sister- besides, he without a sibling in the first twenty years of his life had absolutely no idea how to be a brother. But another part of him sang, because he was curious and excited to see his mother bear a new life with his own eyes- nothing like which he had ever seen before. Now this life that he had seen grow inside of his mother is born, and is in fact his sister- something which he was partly proud of, and desired to see more than anything at that particular moment in time.

Ninrusco was young and valiant; his name meant slender fox, for he was brave, like his birth father, learning quickly in all forms of weaponry. His movements were swift and graceful, like a slender fox, and his heart was light, always making jests, always filled with compassion and care. His features were mostly descended from Ellasil, his mother- she also had red hair, radiant and blinding as the sun.

Ninrusco braced himself, slightly irritating the crowd behind him, and promptly entered the doorless arch that led to his mother's room.

Ellasil sat on the bed, beads of sweat on her forehead and dampening her hair, causing it to hang below her breast lank and stained. A wrinkle of weariness was upon her brow, although her mouth was curled into a smile of merriment and love, and Eärnur sat with her, holding tight one of her hands. In her arms lay a small bundle, wrapped in a small white blanket, and from it came tiny hiccups that caused love to gush through the crowd at the door.

"Fair morn, my son," Ellasil greeted Ninrusco, who was still beholding the scene with much wonder.

"Good morning, Mother…" he faltered as he walked over to the bed. And there he clearly saw the babe that his mother cradled, hiccuping in its sleep. His eyes widened as he sat beside his mother, opposite to his stepfather, and gazed with amazement at the tiny thing that had sprung to life- his first and only blood sister.

"This is your sister, my slender fox," Ellasil weakly breathed, passing the bundle into Ninrusco's arms when Eärnur let go of her hand. "She is Fëaruin, the Spirit of the Red Flame in the tongue of the Elves, for seemingly she has inherited the bright red of our hair and a little brown of your Father's. May the Valar bless her with a heart that is born of fire, though let flames never in turn consume her."

"Fëaruin the daughter of the Crown Prince Eärnur is born!" exclaimed a servant at the door. He was immediately commanded to silence, but not soon enough; for the babe whimpered to tears, hiccuping again and again. The servant shyly smiled in embarrassment, and all around him more smiles arose, for they understood his excitement, and together the family, the friends and the abode of Eärnur and Ellasil shared their joy that was born, literally in fact, of such a little bundle.

* * * * *

Ten years swiftly passed, and the red flame of Fëaruin's heart was not only growing but also growing evident. Of course as the daughter of the Dúnedain she was mortal, and will never be as beautiful as the Elves, nor was she even close to be the most beautiful of the Dúnedain in Middle-Earth. However, she was well-known for her brown-red hair, which shone ruby red in the light of the sun; and from that auburn-red mane she looked beautiful enough in a way different to Elves, with their golden and brown heads, and yet slightly Elf-like in facial expression of grandness and pride.

She began to train hard in weaponry with her brother at such a young age, developing that stone hardness in her heart enveloped by flame, with which her mother blessed her with at birth. Even so, her soul loved every living person and every thing on that Earth, which was long ago named Arda; and in turn she was exceedingly loved by the swaying trees, and by everything else in nature she was merely humbly respected.

Even though she had a heart that was so fiery that even at a young age of ten some even feared to look upon the child and her brown-red mane, she befriended everyone she could find, a gift of love and care that was given to her at birth in the place of extraordinary, Elf-Queenlike beauty. For she loved the simplicities and complexities of everything, especially nature and people, and was easy to forgive their mistakes despite her stone-hearted stubborn nature. By this she was like a precious ruby to her father Eärnur's father, Eärnil, who was at this time King of Gondor.

At this young age of ten, whilst her somewhat musical mother was teaching her to play the fiddle, Ninrusco began to train her for the first time ever in her childhood in fighting arts and weaponry. Or more precisely, to teach the little nuisance of a sister the difference between a bow and an arrow. Even using tiny blunt daggers or arrows and spears with rounded tips, holding such a thing in her hands for the first time in her lifetime, excited her.

This was the greatest flaw of Fëaruin that ever she possessed.

The fact that she had learnt skills as easy as trying to strike a flower off its stalk with a blunt dagger made the flaw even more dangerous. For the fiery heart she was blessed with at birth had kindly permitted her to forgive people easily and love everyone and everything, at the cost that she was also to love war. And warfare she truly did love, even ones as simple as arguing with her brother over a piece of a pie at the supper table, and seeing damage caused by a weapon that had come from her hand easily made her heart stir with excitement and lust for more.

This flaw, unknown to the other side of her that held her innocence due to her love for all, was to cause much suffering greater than the dark shadows she would unwillingly be bound to.

Loyal to the fire within her she was sometimes clad with a maroon cloak, that almost mirrored the shade of her dark mahogany-red hair, although the color was slightly different. Also, determined by the unlikely claim in her youth to surpass all males in the arts of fighting, especially her father, she often wore leggings as they did (which did not go without many blatant stares). She did so especially when she trained with Ninrusco, reverting only to gowns at other times- that is, when she did not have a sword in her belt, a dagger in her hand, nor a bow across her back.

"OUCH!!" Ninrusco wailed, a cry that echoed through the grassy clearing in which he trained Fëaruin, as she slammed the dagger out of his hand. Of course, as a highly experienced warrior he had been very gentle with her, trying to help her gain confidence- although the confidence had indeed come very quickly, and irritated him.

"Beat you again!" Fëaruin giggled, taking her brother's hand sympathetically and holding it tight to help ease what little pain was present. "What was that, my dear brother, ten out of ten by now?"

"I… I was merely letting you win," Ninrusco jested, wriggling his hand stubbornly away from who he knew would eventually grow up to be a loyal student to him. Fëaruin smirked, letting his hand go.

"Aye, aye. Of course you were," she stated sarcastically, bursting into peals of laughter when Ninrusco raised an eyebrow at her. It was that day that her brother nicknamed her Urulókë, fire-dragon in the tongue of the Elves, because of her stone-hard stubborn and fiery nature; a byname with which she was called by the Elves who have heard of her as the daughter of Eärnur and the Elves she were to meet in the future, and some Elves who will hear the tidings of the tragedies surrounding her that have not yet come to pass.

And so began the tragic adventure that surrounded the Fire-Dragon, and Spirit of the Red Flame- the rise and fall of Fëaruin Urulókë of Gondor.

To be continued…