Notes - Some additional character and plot arcs. Plus a cameo from our favorite Nazgul. One of you out there is giving me some good plot advice so thank you.

Tharbad – The Bar Aran – Ninui 10th

In the dim bed chambers of the Chancellor, the young princess sat with her head down. The normally luxurious room smelled musty as most of the shades were drawn closed to keep the chilly wind out. Nirnadel was silent as Nimhir stormed back and forth in his green night robe with bandages still covering his chest and arms. He had only recently been on his feet since the attack that nearly cost him his life.

"What were you thinking, Your Highness? Do you know what you've done?" he said, trying to contain his anger. His normally styled black hair was mussed and the streaks of gray more pronounced since the attack and he looked older, more worn. He stopped, putting his hand on one of the plastered walls to steady himself.

"We…We only sought to obey the Laws of Cardolan. We did what We thought was right," Nirnadel answered in a near whisper. Though she kept a stoic face, her lower lip quivered. As strong as she wanted to be, she couldn't help but feel weak and childish before her 'uncle.'

Nimhir looked through the blinds of one of the open windows onto the snow-covered streets below. He sighed heavily and warmed his hands over glowing braziers full of hot coals. "Mablung Girithlin means to have your crown, and he is now in a position to take it. Should I be killed, he would assume the position of Chancellor and he could force you into a marriage for the good of the Kingdom. After all, you have no heir and by law, a male should rule. That would mean Falathar Girithlin would be king and under the control of his father."

"Falathar is not such a bad man," Nirnadel said meekly, straightening her emerald-colored dress.

Nimhir turned back, agitated, his eyes boring into the Princess. "That is not the point! The point is that Mablung will be the de facto king. I fear for you, Your Highness. Your indiscretions at the Houses of Healing were nothing compared to this. We must accept King Araphor's proposal, and we must do it now. You are seventeen and old enough to marry, even for a Dúnedain."

The princess' pale cheeks turned bright red, but her expression remained impassive. Nimhir stood for a moment, angry and obstinate, but his love for Nirnadel cooled his blood and once again, he melted. Sighing, he came to her and knelt with a pained grunt, taking her hands in his. "Your Highness, I apologize for my harshness. My only concern is for you. Mablung's only care is for his own power. He would use you like a handkerchief and discard you when your use to him was done. I know him and his scheming. I fear that he may be in league with our enemies, but I cannot prove it. If we accept Araphor's proposal, the northern kingdoms would reunite. Araphor is young, but he is a good man and will be a good king."

"But what of the sovereignty of Cardolan? We have existed as an independent kingdom for more than five hundred years."

Nimhir patted her delicate hand gently. "We would endure and grow stronger. The glory of the old Kingdom of Arnor would shine again. Is this not what we want?"

His words made sense. Regardless of his words or actions, his love for her was never in doubt. Nirnadel nodded slowly, pondering the future. She brushed her ebony locks from her face. "Very well. We accept your wisdom. Kind Nimhir, please send a messenger to Fornost Erain to inform the good king that We accept his proposal."

In the corner, old Anariel smiled while Kaile approached and put a jade-hued cloak over the Princess' shoulders and secured it with a mithril pin in the shape of a tree. Nirnadel stood, and all bowed to her as she turned to go. Nirnadel's three ladies followed her out, but Nimhir held the old nursemaid back.

Stroking his graying goatee, he whispered, "She is still young and still a princess. We must do all we can to see that she becomes a queen."

Anariel bowed submissively. "Yes, Your Grace. I will do my best to see that it becomes so," she said and then scurried off as fast as she could.

Nirnadel strode down the hall and into the garden, which was covered in a thick blanket of crisp new snow. Young pine trees poked up through the frosty covering, lining the pathways. The Princess stepped along the path, her feet crunching on the soft flakes and she felt the cold breeze on her face. Her cheeks quickly became rosy red, and her ebony hair and cloak fluttered behind her.

Galadel came up behind her and straightened her gold necklace that held a single, massive ruby and two smaller ones. She then began to move snow off of the path with a small shovel.

Nirnadel gestured down the pathway. "Good Kaile, this path leads to our favorite part of the garden, the reflecting pond and fountain. It is frozen now, but come spring, it will burst into life once more." The gardens gave her solace. They always eased the pain and angst of her youth. Now, with her father and brothers dead and the weight of the kingdom increasingly on her shoulders, the quiet of the snow covered trees meant even more to her.

As Anariel shuffled to catch up, Nirnadel and Kaile strode along the wintry walkway to a small stone bridge that spanned the icy pond. "Look below the ice and you can see the fish, golden and orange," the Princess continued, her expression bittersweet. "How We loved to feed them with our royal father. We would also play here at being knights with our brothers. Good Kaile, We were never meant to rule," she said sadly, her mind full of doubt and fear. "Why has this fate been thrust upon us? Is this Illuvatar's vision for our people? A year ago, We played in the garden and studied the classics of literature and danced at balls. We would have married a prince or a baron to seal a meaningless alliance. That should have been my fate."

Nirnadel's gray eyes narrowed and a darkness swept over her face. She pointed northward and the emerald ring on her finger sparkled in the diffused sunlight. "But the Lord of Angmar changed all of that. What must We do? Give me your council." Every action, every decision she made could destroy the kingdom. She sat on a wooden bench and felt utterly lost.

Kaile bit her lip softly as her sandy hair ruffled in the chilly breeze. She seemed out of place in her silk dress of forest green rather than the rough spun brown robes of a healer. "Your Highness, you're frightening me. I have always seen your confidence. I don't know…I am just a healer."

Anariel moved between Kaile and the Princess, giving the Kaile a sour look through her wrinkled skin. "Your Highness, we must trust in the Chancellor. We must put our faith in Nimhir. He will guide us through this."

Nirnadel adjusted the mithril and emerald collar around her neck. "If We wed King Araphor, then what of Cardolan? What of the realm that has stood alone and unafraid for more than five hundred years? We would become a province of Arthedain, lost in the politics of that land. Would we stand with the seven great families of Arthedain…the Tarma, the Eketta, the Orros, the Hyam, and the rest or would we be subservient to their power? What of our own proud lords?"

Kaile moved around the old servant. "Your Highness, I see good in King Araphor. He will care for your people, and I know you will see to that."

A faint, forced smile broke over Nirnadel's ruby lips. "Indeed, We shall."

Barad Girithlin

Within the fortress of Barad Girithlin, the barrel-chested, pot-bellied Hir Mablung Girithlin swung his ermine cape back as he strode confidently through the hall of his keep. He was clad in a rich, maroon doublet with a mithril chain of office about his neck that hung down to a glittering green and gold medallion in the shape of a lion. His hunting boots were made of the finest doe skin with a thick fur lining, and he wore a soft, fur flat cap that complimented his red face. Following behind the massive lord was his personal guard and his son, Falathar, dressed in a doublet of brooding crimson with a fur cap to match.

They ascended an iron staircase until they reached Mablung's office, high in the tower. Two guards came to attention as they approached and opened the grand wooden door, revealing a luxuriously decorated chamber with a raging fire in a red brick hearth. Mablung walked past the guards, undid the clasp of his cloak and tossed the heavy item over a chair made of dark woods and fabrics.

"It's a shame Nimhir recovered," the heavy-set lord complained. "I shall have to bide my time." He blew out a sigh of frustration and curled the edge of his lip up in distaste.

A look of concern grew on Falathar's face. "Father, surely you didn't…."

Mablung's hand came up quickly and his penetrating stare silenced his son. "How dare you even think that I had anything to do with that. I might scheme and manipulate like all good lords do, but stoop to assassination? Never. I sense Angmar's hand in that. However, I would certainly stand ready to exploit any opportunity that could occur from Nimhir's demise."

Falathar bowed meekly, chastised by his father. "I meant no disrespect, father. It just seemed -"

Again, Mablung put his hand out and turned to the fire, ignoring his son. He took a blood red apple from a basket atop the Mallorn-wood desk and took a bite, the flesh of the fruit snapping off crisply. As he chewed, he warmed one of his large hands near the flames, thinking.

"I have it…I must contact our agents in Tharbad. I must make it appear as though Arthedain had a hand in the attack on Nimhir. That would profit us most. Son, your wedding is not far off."

"But father…."

Mablung continued to ignore him, caught up in his own thoughts. "That would end the courtship of young Araphor to our beloved princess and put us at the forefront, methinks. Then, all we would have to do is deal with the Tinarës." He took another bite of the apple and turned back to Falathar. "Go son, summon a rider to take a letter to our man. Also, have the King's Road watched. I don't want messengers from Nimhir scurrying about before we've had time to hatch this."

Young Falathar pursed his lips for a moment as if thinking until his father waved him off dismissively. Mablung looked away as his son departed, not seeing the frown on Falathar's lips.

Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Prince, also known as Tindomul, the Twilight Son, the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl

The most powerful of the Ringwraiths stood on the dais of the Council Chamber in the highest level of Carn Dûm, the fortress-city of Angmar. Next to him was his iron throne, forged to resemble the massive bones of a dragon. He turned his translucent face down to a gold ithilnaur ring around his translucent index finger and read the Tengwar script that adorned the band. He both loved and hated the ring, a gift from his master eons ago. It was the source of his power, his mastery, his immortality, but also his endless torment. Above where his head should be was a helm of sea-drake skin that rose to a spiny crown-shaped crest. The ancient helm was of the design of the captains of Númenor, but this helm held greater power.

Before the dais, knelt his servants – the Númenórean sorcerer, known as the Angûlion; the pretty elf, Ulgarin; and the dog-man, Ulduin. The Angûlion, in his black robes with black pectorals of meteoric metal known as eog, rose and stepped forward, laying several tomes at the feet of his lord. He then stepped back to reclaim his staff from a servant.

The Witch King passed his hand over the books, and one rose to his grasp. The tome's cover opened of its own accord and the Nazgûl's ghostly eyes scanned the text. He emitted a chuckle that sounded like the dying gasps of a drowning man. He then spoke, his voice a dagger of ice. "…A historical accounting of the age of Númenor. It speaks of my father, Tar-Ciryatan, the Ship Builder. He sent great fleets to Middle-Earth to extract tribute from the lesser men and expanded the might of Númenor. You remember those times, Angûlion, don't you?"

The mighty sorcerer and right hand of the Witch King had lived uncounted ages through dark magic, and he nodded with a smile for his lord. That magic had a toll though and the Angûlion's features could barely be recognized as human.

The Nazgûl brought his hand to his lips, the ring of power shimmering with his movement. Pages of the tome flipped over, and the Black Prince continued, "My brother, Atanamir, was heir to throne of Númenor and I was but an unloved second son, born during a solar eclipse, a sign of ill luck." He walked away from the book, letting it float in mid air.

"I assembled a fleet and took it to Umbar, where I proclaimed myself king. This angered my father, and he ordered me to return to Armenelos, the seat of power in Númenor. I refused, and there, I took control of my own fate," he said as he held up a hand and closed a fist. "Through the agents of the Master, I entered Barad-Dûr in Mordor and became his greatest pupil. My powers expanded at a prodigious rate, and I was rewarded with this ring. I could then watch my brother grow old and senile, afraid to surrender the Sceptre of Armenelos until his death."

The Witch King turned back to his servants. "You have done well. Take the spell texts to the mages and alchemists when we are finished. I also commend you on further destabilizing Cardolan with the attack on the Chancellor."

The Angûlion looked perplexed and glanced at Ulduin and Ulgarin. "My lord, we had nothing to do with that, but it does suit our purpose."

The Lord of Angmar cocked his head for a moment. "Then was it that fool, Girithlin?"

"Our spies have made no mention of his involvement in such an act."

Er-Mûrazôr stroked his ghostly chin. To a ring bearer, he looked to be at the peak of his manhood, tall, strong, noble, with thick raven hair. But to his servants and his foes, he appeared to be a phantom, ancient beyond years, wizened with stringy gray hair and sunken eyes and cheeks. He narrowed his ghostly eyes.

"Then, we may have a new player in this game."