The Fourth Age of Middle-earth was comparatively peaceful. The Elves, with few exceptions, had completely withdrawn from Middle-earth, and the Dwarves kept to themselves after reclaiming Moria. Evil seemed to have been vanquished with the downfall of Sauron, and the Age of Men had truly begun.
Orcs and other dark creatures had been driven to the farthest corners and caves, while thriving cities of Men sprouted everywhere.
Much of this was thanks to Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the King of Men, ruling over Gondor and Arnor. The bonds with Rohan had grown stronger since the marriage of Faramir and Éowyn, and the alliance of the Men of the West was more unified than ever before.
Nearly 40 years had passed since that fateful day when Frodo and Sam, with the unintended help of Gollum, cast the One Ring into the Orodruin.
Aragorn sat on a small bench beneath the White Tree of Gondor, overlooking the city of Minas Tirith. His years as king had taken their toll, streaks of white now gracing his once-dark hair and beard. Worry was etched into his face as he was lost in thought.
It wasn't until a delicate figure wrapped her arms around his broad, battle-hardened shoulders and rested her head against his that a soft, contented smile crossed his lips.
"Arwen," he said quietly.
"My Elessar… what dark thoughts cloud your mind on such a beautiful morning?"
Aragorn pondered her question for a moment before replying, "The future… not as it once was, but the future of our family."
Arwen smiled faintly and said, "You mean the future of our son. Don't worry… Eldarion will find his path."
With a pained expression, Aragorn whispered, "Likely straight into the nearest brothel… How did I deserve such a useless son?"
Arwen chuckled softly. "Hard times create strong people, strong people create good times, good times create weak people, and weak people create hard times. Give our son a little time. I can feel it—there are challenges ahead for him."
Together, they gazed out over Minas Tirith as the sunlight sparkled on the city's white stones. Finally, Aragorn said, "I've been considering sending Eldarion to my brothers and friends in the North. Let the Rangers train him—teach him some humility, perhaps."
Arwen smirked and replied with a quiet laugh, "I know… I've already had Faramir set everything in motion. By now, Eldarion should be kidnapped by Faramir's men and on his way north. But don't worry—we'll see him again… I'm sure of it."
---
Eldarion's day had started well enough. He had woken rested in his chambers, taken a warm bath, and had breakfast brought to his room by a pretty maid. He had eaten his fill—a typical morning for him.
As the Prince of Gondor and Arnor, Eldarion lived a life of luxury, a fact he embraced fully at the age of twenty. As a half-Elf, he had a long life ahead of him, so why not enjoy his youth in abundance?
The throne was not his to inherit—his older sister was destined to be the first Queen of Men. Celebrian had decreed this early on, and truth be told, Eldarion had no desire for the responsibilities of the throne. His life was far simpler without that burden, and if his sister wanted it so badly, she was welcome to it.
After breakfast, Eldarion spent his day as he often did—roaming the taverns and brothels of the city with his friends. Not the most princely of behaviors, but his father's men had long since given up trying to drag him out of the arms of prostitutes. Surely, they had more important things to do.
Still, there were always his parents' disappointed gazes.
Now, stumbling drunk out of a tavern with a pretty girl on his arm, Eldarion suddenly sensed something was off. The air felt wrong, like a foul odor in a small room—silent but pervasive. Were his father's guards about to drag him back to the palace again? Would he be forced to endure another lecture in the throne room, surrounded by snickering nobles and his smug sister?
Thanks to his Elven and Númenórean heritage, Eldarion's senses were sharper than those of ordinary men. He knew he was being watched, and he knew something was about to happen.
He focused, his pointed ears twitching slightly as he prepared for what was coming. Gallantly, he pulled the girl into a nearby alley, only to unceremoniously shove her into the arms of an unseen figure behind them. Then he sprinted toward the palace, hoping to avoid the humiliation of being publicly captured.
Unfortunately, Eldarion hadn't accounted for his alcohol-clouded mind. The alley twisted and turned unexpectedly, and his steps faltered.
Through his Elven eyesight, he spotted shadowy figures leaping across the rooftops, pursuing him. Suddenly, as if summoned by magic, a man appeared before him, striking him with a longbow.
It was his uncle, Faramir, now nearly seventy but still as strong and sharp as a veteran of the War of the Ring.
The thick wood of the bow struck Eldarion's temple in what felt like slow motion. He managed to react, but he was too sluggish. With a dull thud, he collapsed, unconscious. Had he been a fraction faster—or had he drunk one less mug of mead—he might have dodged.
Faramir caught him gently as a Ranger of Gondor leaped from a nearby roof, slinging the unconscious prince over his shoulder.
"You know your orders," Faramir commanded, his voice still firm and authoritative. "Take the boy to his kin in the North. Protect him with your lives until he's delivered. After that, it won't be my fault if the Queen tears me apart for whatever happens to him."
Shortly after, fifty Rangers rode out of Minas Tirith's main gate, the prince of Gondor and Arnor tied to a horse, snoring softly and sleeping off his drunkenness.
---
Eldarion felt miserable. His head throbbed with a hangover, and a swollen lump on his temple reminded him of his encounter with Faramir. His memories were foggy, blurred by the pain.
Groaning, he opened his eyes to find himself in a dark forest surrounded by towering pine trees. The air was unnaturally still—no sounds of the forest, no rustling leaves, no distant animals. Something was wrong.
The cool night air chilled him. Gondor's weather should have been warm by now, even at night. Struggling against the pounding in his skull and the nausea in his stomach, Eldarion got to his feet, his knees bent slightly, ready to defend himself—just as his father had taught him.
Had he not skipped so much training, he might have been an exceptional swordsman, at least according to his father. But now, he barely knew the basics. Still, he wouldn't go down without a fight—at least, he hoped not.
A branch snapped behind him, and Eldarion spun around, fists raised—only to be interrupted by a familiar laugh.
"As Cousin Aragorn said, a mouse in a dragon's body… but we'll fix that, my dear nephew," said a small figure cloaked in the dark garb of the Northern Rangers.
The sight wasn't unfamiliar to Eldarion; Aragorn's family from the North had visited often, though never for long. The Rangers of the North took their duties seriously—protecting the people of the West, especially the Shire. It was a vow they all shared, especially after the Ring War hero Frodo Nine-Fingers hailed from the Shire, along with Pippin, Merry, and Samwise, who were still enjoying their twilight years there.
Eldarion had met all three and even picked up a few bad habits—mostly from Pippin.
The voice, too, was familiar. Slowly, recognition dawned.
"Aunt Lindëwen? Since when are you visiting again?" he asked, confused.
"You're still groggy from the drink and Faramir's blow, nephew," she said with a laugh. "Welcome to the North! And to your own personal hell. The Queen and my brother have tasked us, the Dúnedain, with turning you into a proper man."
Eldarion let himself sink back to the ground. What had he done to deserve this?
---
Faramir entered the throne room of Minas Tirith with his head held high and quick strides. Nearly 40 years ago, his father Denethor had still sat on the Steward's Chair, but that seat had been abolished in the past decades. Though Faramir still held the title of Steward, both the throne and the Steward's Chair had been replaced under Aragorn's rule.
Now, four comfortable chairs stood in the heart of the hall, reserved for the King, the Queen, the heir to the throne Celebrián, and the King's closest advisor—Faramir himself.
Rarely was court held in the traditional sense here. Few matters were deemed significant enough to require the assembly of all dignitaries. Most decisions were made within the King's inner circle.
Faramir let himself fall heavily into his chair—a custom piece crafted by the skilled hands of Hobbit artisans. A deep sigh escaped the old man as he sank into the unmistakable comfort the Hobbits were renowned for. In this, no one could rival them.
Beside him sat Aragorn and Arwen, both smiling at the sight of their old friend.
Knowing his duty, Faramir announced, "My King, my Queen, your son has been entrusted to the safe care of the Dúnedain."
Aragorn chuckled. "Old friend, you know you can forgo titles in our company. How is Éowyn? Did she return safely from her journey to Rohan?"
"Yes," Faramir replied with a nod. "She brings good news. Éomer is still in good health, and I believe he has just become a grandfather for the ninth time. If only I could finally experience such joy myself… but your son would rather drag mine into every brothel in the land."
Faramir grumbled, though a wry smile played on his lips. "I almost sent Boromir along with that little scoundrel. But only the Valar know what kind of trouble those two would have caused together among the Dúnedain. Still, now that there's no longer the distraction of Eldarion in Minas Tirith, I'll be dragging Boromir into the guard until I'm satisfied with him."
Arwen laughed softly. "Perhaps you'll find Boromir easier to handle now, without Eldarion leading him astray."
Faramir gave a dry chuckle. "One can hope, my Queen. But knowing my son, I wouldn't count on it."
Aragorn and Arwen both laughed, and Arwen said, "We've all been punished with our sons... but if your son turns out to be even half the man his namesake was, you can rest easy."
A wistful glance passed over the faces of Aragorn and Faramir.
"Boromir..."
"Brother..."
Arwen finished, "He rests with our friends in the halls of Valinor..."
To lighten the mood, Faramir added, "Éowyn would love to meet with you for tea tomorrow, Arwen... and if there's any news about your rascal, I'll be sure to inform you immediately..."