"We'd have to raise taxes for something that ambitious," Narathir, one of Fornost's treasurers, said nervously. His thin lips were set in a straight line, and his ever-growing forehead was creased all the way up to his rapidly-retreating hairline. 

Gerithor tapped his fingers impatiently on the throne, giving Narathir a kind smile. "Surely there is a better way to raise funds for the road. Higher taxes aren't always the solution."

"But my lord, taxes are the backbone of any strong kingdom," Narathir countered, glancing at his compatriots for support. "We've already spent the profits of our trade agreement with the Blue Mountains, and King Elessar seems reluctant to aid us with what seems to be a mutually beneficial venture."

Gerithor tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn. They had been at this for hours now, and chances were they would be until the sun set outside. He always seemed to be at odds with the officials of Fornost, though he was unsure whether this was due to his impatience with politics or their collective opinion of him. He knew he was no steward. He never claimed to be. But it seemed that the role of Warden was gradually changing from defender to governor, and he would soon have little choice but to change with it.

Despite his own aversion to such affairs, he attempted to remain engaged for the sake of his only son, Carenor. The boy already struggled enough with the idea of succeeding his father, it wouldn't do well for him to pick up on Gerithor's negative view of the position. 

And so, he shot Narathir another fake smile and took a deep breath before continuing. 

"Mutually beneficial it is indeed. However, if you had spent the gold our generous liege had sent on the actual project instead of on rebuilding the treasury we wouldn't be having this conversation at all." 

"How dare you accuse me of misappropriating funds!" Narathir sputtered indignantly. "I only ever do what is in the kingdom's best interest. Perhaps if you were here at home more instead of out galavanting with the Rangers this would've been resolved sooner."

Gerithor narrowed his stormy eyes at the older man. "The title of Warden comes with many responsibilities, Narathir, the largest of which is keeping the people of Arnor safe. I shouldn't have to sit here and tend to you and the other courtiers like a mother hen to her chicks. Find a way to pay for the road, or I will find someone who can." 

Narathir stood and spun on his heel, angrily storming out of the throne room. Gerithor turned to Carenor, who was slouched in his seat next to his father, wearing an expression of boredom. His head was rested on his hand, and his eyes were glazed over. 

"Want to take care of this next one, Carenor?" Gerithor asked quietly. After getting no response he spoke a little louder. "Carenor?" 

The young man started and shook his head rapidly. "I'll watch, thank you."

Gerithor pursed his lips. He wanted Carenor to take an interest, but he wouldn't force him. He knew that his son took after his adventurous nature more, but eventually he would have to take responsibility and learn the ways of the court. 

"Lord Marhil, I believe you wished to discuss our recent issues on the seas," Gerithor began, finally turning to a subject he had at least a passing interest in. 

Lord Marhil, one of the more prominent traders in the Northern Realm, rose to his feet. He was a stern man, with a thin, measuring face like that of a crow that seemed to disapprove of absolutely everything. "The last three ships haven't made it to harbor, Warden. Losing one ship every now and again is to be expected, especially with the weather we've been experiencing of late. But three is unacceptable. We need to send military escorts with our cargo vessels."

Gerithor stroked his beard thoughtfully before answering. "Asking for a military escort leads me to believe that you think someone is attacking these vessels. What brings you to that conclusion?"

"Not someone, m'lord. Something. We found one of the ships dashed upon the rocks to the west of Himling. Its crew..." he paused, clearly unsettled. "Its crew had killed and eaten one another."

A collective gasp sounded through the chamber. Gerithor's eyes widened slightly, but he forced himself to remain calm. "Starving sailors have been known to resort to such repulsive behavior when starving before. What makes you think this is any different?"

"One of them kept a journal," Marhil replied. "You might wish to look it over yourself." 

At this, he produced a tattered old book from the folds of his garments. Hushed whispers began to spread through the room, but a raised hand from Gerithor silenced them. He rose, descending the stairs and coming to Marhil's side. The older lord handed the book over, his keen eyes studying Gerithor as he opened it. Most of it contained an ordinary ship's log, detailing the voyage and the various events that happened during it. But near the end, the handwriting quickly became poor and hasty, as if written in panic. Gerithor cleared his throat and began to read. 

"Fourth Age, the year 21,

The crew has gone mad. I alone remain sane. The cabin boy was the first one they took. Poor lad, he had no parents to mourn him. After him, they began to attack one another. Now only four, withholding myself, still live. The rest lie bloody and torn apart on the rocks. They are consuming them as I write. They cooked the cabin boy, but these men they merely tear apart and devour like wild animals. 

They speak of a voice, though I hear it not. They claim it commands them to do these horrid things. 

I only pray that they do not find me, for I fear what they would do."

Frightened murmurs once more spread through the hall. Gerithor closed the book and returned it to Marhil, who continued to look at him expectantly. 

"This alone is not enough to warrant fear," Gerithor said. "Madness causes many evils. Still, it would be prudent to be wary. Send a warship with each vessel. Have them bring ravens aboard, so they can send a message should things go awry."

Marhil nodded gratefully. "Thank you, m'lord. I will see it done." 

The councilors and notables began to disperse, most likely still speaking among themselves about the missing ships. Carenor seemed fully alert now, coming to his father's side. He bore a striking resemblance to Gerithor in his younger days, though he stood taller and had a more noble look to him. No doubt traits gained from his mother, Gerithor mused. 

"I have an ill feeling from that last topic," Carenor said quietly, his keen blue eyes watching the nobles depart. "Dark clouds have hung over the sea for some time now."

"Sometimes dark clouds are just dark clouds," Gerithor said with a tired smile. "We have been at peace for some time now. It is only normal for people to see assassins in the shadows. Peace breeds restlessness."

Carenor nodded slowly. "You may be right, father. Still, I think you made the right call."

Gerithor turned to his son. "Indeed? It's always prudent to be overly cautious. Besides, even if this is nothing, our warships could use the time at sea." 

Carenor nodded again, this time more absently. His mind had already wandered to other things. "Shall we go hunting tomorrow? I haven't been out in weeks and neither have you."

"Aye, right you are. I could use the fresh air. Tomorrow it is, then!"

He watched as his son headed down the hallway. He would have to teach Carenor the ways of court. It was only a matter of time before it was expected of him. But, Gerithor supposed, it could wait another day.

===================

It was the height of spring in Arnor, and the wilds were teeming with life. Birds chirped away happily in the treetops while squirrels and rabbits searched for food on the forest floor below. The scent of wildflowers traveled on the light breeze, bringing with it lazily meandering bees hoping for an easy harvest. 

They scattered as a girl bounded through the meadow, shortbow in hand and a mischievous grin across her youthful face. Unkempt tresses of copper hair followed in her wake, carried on the gentle wind. 

She leapt soundlessly up the trunk of a great oak tree, scurrying high into its boughs with the grace of a woodland spirit. There, upon one of the highest branches, she crouched down, smiling as she felt the familiar roughness of treebark against her skin. The breeze kissed her face, cool yet not overwhelming. 

Here, she could relax. Away from the hustle and bustle of court and the constant nagging of Nimloth, her older sister. In nature, where she belonged. 

She took in a deep breath of the pure forest air, closing her eyes as she felt the world move slowly around her. She could feel the bond between every living thing, an unseen force passing between root and leaf, leaf and fur. A wild purity that was untouched by the troubles of Man, living altogether separately in its own verdant world. 

"Morwen?" A voice called out in the distance. She quickly pulled her forest-green hood over her head to conceal her vibrant locks, silencing her breathing and becoming one with the tree she perched upon. 

Beneath her, her older sister appeared from out of the underbrush, dishevelled and clearly lost. "Morwen? It's time to return!" Nimloth called out again, looking to and fro but failing to look above her.

Just as she always does. Morwen grinned. She never looks up. 

She spread her arms, releasing her grip on the branch and allowing the breeze to take her. She fell silently, the ground swiftly rushing up to meet her. She landed in a patch of tall grass, her legs collapsing beneath her as she rolled forward. Nimloth let out a shriek of terror, recoiling from what she surely thought was an orc or goblin of some sort. 

Morwen rose to her feet, brushing herself off and laughing at her sister's panicked antics. "If only father could see you now, Nim!" She giggled.

Nimloth, realizing that the frightful 'foe' who had just leapt from the trees was only her mischievous little sister, let out a frustrated sigh. "You have to stop doing that," she said, patting the short sword at her side. "It's still far from safe in the wilds, I could have hurt you!"

Morwen rose her eyebrow, mirroring one of her father's signature expressions. "You didn't even reach for your sword." 

"But I could have, had I wanted to!" Nimloth replied indignantly. "Besides, you could have hurt yourself jumping from such a great height." 

"This is the third time I've scared you like this. You have to start coming up with better excuses," Morwen said with a smirk. "Like maybe you're just a scaredy-cat." 

Nimloth couldn't help but smile, though she pretended to remain angry. "I'll show you scaredy-cat, you little imp!" She cried, drawing her sword and rushing toward her sister. Morwen let out a surprised yelp and bounded away, her long legs quickly carrying her to the far side of the meadow. Nimloth gave chase, though there was little chance she would be able to keep up with her nimble sister.  

Their laughter echoed through the forest until they reached the cold stone walls of Fornost, the flag of the Reunited Kingdom flying high overhead. A small shape on top of the wall stopped moving as the two girls burst through the treeline, peering down at them curiously. 

"Halt! Who goes there?" A playful voice called from the ramparts. Morwen immediately recognized the voice of their cousin, Alif. He often stood guard on the walls, when he wasn't out training with the other rangers. 

"Two foul orcs who wish to take this pathetic castle for our own!" She growled, lifting her bow over her head and letting out what she thought must've been an absolutely terrifying orc howl. 

She could hear Alif's muffled laughing. "You'll have to get past me and my witty banter first! I'm afraid I left my bow in the armory!" 

"What kind of ranger stands guard over the walls unarmed?" She retorted, glancing over at Nimloth as she finally caught up. 

"Not a very good one, I'll warrant," Alif laughed. "Come on up! Tell me of your evil adventures, orc-filth!"

When they reached the top of the wall, Alif greeted them both with a hug. His long blonde hair, normally kept free, was gathered up into a ponytail, and his short beard was neatly groomed. 

"What's the occasion?" Nimloth teased, pointing at his unusually well-combed hair. 

Alif blushed, giving both girls a sheepish smile. "I'm going to visit a lady after I'm relieved." 

Morwen frowned in disappointment. "I thought you were better than that. We made a deal, remember?" 

"A deal more easily broken than I first thought, I'm afraid," Alif replied. "But I promise, you would like her. She's a ranger." 

"So?" Morwen huffed. "Does that mean that I'm allowed to start talking to men now?" 

Alif laughed. "Since our agreement has been terminated by me, I will not object. However, your father might have something to say about it." 

"That's not even the point!" Morwen said angrily. "I don't even want to talk to boys. They're silly and fickle. Like you!" 

"Listen here," Alif said. "I'm a man grown, nearly forty now! And though I have the blood of Numenor, I think that's quite old enough to start looking to start a family."

"About time," Nimloth interjected. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever want to settle down." 

"Settle down?" Alif nudged Morwen and let out a chuckle. "She thinks I want to settle down!" 

Morwen joined in the laughter, causing Nimloth to roll her eyes. "You're such children. Both of you."

"Just because you swoon every time some knight arrives from Gondor doesn't make you any more mature than us," Morwen jabbed, eliciting an even louder laugh from Alif. 

"Remember that one lug from Dol Amroth? What was his name... Sir Penilor?" Morwen burst out laughing at the memory. Sir Penilor had arrived clad in shining armor and a helm that obscured his face. His voice was deep and melodic, and his frame was broad-shouldered and muscular. Nimloth had been infatuated at first sight, daydreaming about what a beautiful face must have been hidden beneath. Later, Penilor removed his helm in court, revealing an aging man with a high grey hairline and a face better left helmed. To this day, any time an ambassador from Dol Amroth was to arrive their father would jokingly mention "Nimloth's one true love, Sir Penilor." 

"What a charming man he was," Alif snorted. "True courtship material, that one." 

"You two are impossible," Nimloth shook her head, turning and descending back down the stairs in a huff.

"What's wrong with her?" Alif asked. "She doesn't usually take a good-natured ribbing so poorly."

Morwen shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe her one true love, Sir Penilor, would know."

Their renewed laughter chased Nimloth down the stairs.