Eldarion felt like throwing up. Less than an hour ago, he had woken up here in the north, horribly hungover and with a splitting headache, and the first thing his aunt had in store for him was a forced march through the forest.
He was exhausted, and everything hurt—especially because every branch and bush seemed to conspire to trip him, while his aunt sprinted effortlessly through the woods as if the forest itself was making way for her.
Watching Eldarion run, one would never have guessed his Elven heritage. He looked more like a cross between an orc and a troll—at least judging by the tortured noises he was making.
As Eldarion stumbled forward, the tangled wilderness began to give way to rolling hills, their green slopes kissed by the golden light of the afternoon sun. The air was crisp and carried the scent of damp earth and pine, mingled with the distant hint of woodsmoke—proof that civilization was not far. His aching limbs protested every step, but his aunt pressed on without hesitation, her lithe form moving like a shadow beneath the swaying boughs.
At last, as they crested a ridge, the land opened before them, revealing the growing city of Fornost. It stood upon a broad plateau, its stone walls rising proudly against the sky, though they were not yet fully rebuilt. Beyond them, clusters of timber houses and market stalls sprawled outward, the hum of voices and the ringing of hammers drifting through the air. The banners of the Dúnedain, silver stars upon a field of blue, rippled in the breeze from high wooden watchtowers.
But Fornost was not yet the great city it once had been. The scars of the past still lingered—ancient ruins lay scattered beyond the main streets, their moss-covered stones whispering of the kingdom that had fallen to the Witch-king's shadow centuries before. Still, life had returned. Smoke curled from chimneys, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread drifting toward them, and children laughed as they chased each other through the cobbled streets.
Eldarion, though exhausted, could not help but stare. Here, in this place where history and renewal intertwined, the legacy of his ancestors was taking root once more. The men and women of the North had not forgotten their heritage, and under his father's rule, Fornost was beginning to stir from its long slumber.
His aunt, still tireless, turned to him with a smirk. "Not bad for a morning's work," she said, barely winded. "Come now, nephew. A hot meal and a softer bed await, if you can still walk that far."
Groaning, Eldarion forced his aching legs forward, his gaze lingering on the city that stood before him—a symbol of endurance, of a people unbowed, and of the future that yet lay ahead.
As they descended the ridge toward Fornost, the road widened, no longer a mere game trail but a well-trodden path of packed earth and scattered stones. The closer they came to the city, the more signs of life they saw—farmsteads nestled against the hills, their wooden fences enclosing flocks of hardy northern sheep; carts laden with timber and grain trundling toward the gates; Dúnedain rangers on horseback, their long cloaks flowing behind them like shadows as they passed.
Eldarion's legs burned with each step, but he pressed on, drawn forward by the promise of rest. His aunt—always tireless, always relentless—strode ahead as if she had not just forced him through miles of wilderness. He could not tell whether she meant to train him, punish him, or simply amuse herself at his expense. Probably all three.
The gates of Fornost loomed before them, rebuilt from ancient stone and fresh-hewn wood. Two guards, clad in mail and the star-emblazoned surcoats of the Dúnedain, stood watch. Their keen eyes took in Eldarion's state—mud-streaked, sweat-soaked, and utterly bedraggled—but they said nothing, merely nodding in deference to his aunt before stepping aside.
Within the walls, the city hummed with quiet industry. The streets were narrow but well-kept, lined with wooden houses, their beams dark with age but sturdy against the wind. Merchants called out from beneath awnings, selling everything from dried venison to finely crafted arrowheads. Blacksmiths worked at their forges, the ringing of hammers echoing down the alleys.
Eldarion caught sight of a great hall rising above the other buildings, its stone foundations worn by time but its banners new. It was no match for the splendor of Minas Tirith, nor even for his father's house in Annúminas, but it was a beginning. The North was stirring.
His aunt stopped at a tavern near the main square, its sign bearing the faded image of a rearing horse. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread was nearly enough to bring Eldarion to his knees.
"Drink first, then food," she said, pushing the door open.
Eldarion didn't argue. He stepped inside, blinking against the dim candlelight, and for the first time that day, allowed himself to hope that he might survive until nightfall.
Eldarion stumbled into the dimly lit tavern, exhaustion weighing heavily on his limbs. His clothes were torn from branches that had clawed at him mercilessly, his boots were caked with mud, and every inch of his body ached from the relentless march through the wild. He had never felt less like a prince.
The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air, mingling with the deep, earthy aroma of ale and pipe smoke. The tavern was modest but sturdy, built of rough-hewn wood and stone, its beams darkened by years of firelight. Rangers and townsfolk sat together, drinking, eating, and speaking in low, serious tones. These were not the gilded halls of Minas Tirith, filled with courtly laughter and noble gossip. This was the North—a place of hard lives and harder men.
Lindëwen strode inside ahead of him, moving with the easy confidence of someone at home. A few heads turned in greeting, nods exchanged without words. She was respected here—one of their own. Eldarion, on the other hand, received only a passing glance before the patrons returned to their meals.
She led him to a wooden table near the hearth, where a serving girl soon arrived, placing two mugs of dark ale before them. Eldarion, despite the churning in his stomach, lifted his drink and took a long gulp. The bitterness was sharper than what he was used to in Gondor, but it was grounding, pulling him further away from the haze of his miserable morning.
Lindëwen waited until he had set his tankard down before she spoke.
"You'll be staying in Fornost for a long while, nephew," she said, her voice calm but firm. "You are no longer a prince here. You are simply another man among the Dúnedain."
Eldarion let out a tired sigh, rubbing his forehead. "And what exactly does that mean?"
"It means you'll train with the Rangers," she said, leaning forward. "You'll wake before dawn. You'll run until your legs give out. You'll wield sword and bow, but also learn to fight with your hands. You'll track, hunt, and survive off the land. You'll sleep in the wild more often than in a bed, and you'll carry your own weight—or you'll break under it."
Eldarion gave a weary chuckle, shaking his head. "So, you've dragged me halfway across Middle-earth just to kill me slowly."
Lindëwen smirked. "If you die, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
Eldarion stared into his ale, letting the reality sink in. He had spent his life indulging in luxury, avoiding responsibility, and living as he pleased. But here, none of that mattered. There were no noble titles to shield him, no palace walls to keep him safe. For the first time, he would have to stand on his own.
He exhaled sharply and looked up at Lindëwen. "And if I refuse?"
She leaned back, taking a slow sip from her mug before answering. "You won't."
Eldarion groaned, downed the rest of his drink, and slumped against the table. His old life was over. Whether he liked it or not, this was his new reality.
---
The White Tower of Ecthelion, Minas Tirith
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the royal chambers, casting a golden glow over the marble floors. The air carried the scent of fresh parchment and lavender, mingling with the distant sounds of the city awakening below.
Arwen sat beside the great hearth, embroidery in hand, though her needle had not moved in some time. Her thoughts were elsewhere—far to the North, where their son had been sent. It had almost a week since Eldarion had been taken under the care of the Dúnedain, and though she had been the one to set his journey in motion, her heart ached with the weight of a mother's worry.
Aragorn stood near the window, clad in his usual black and silver robes, though his posture was that of a ranger more than a king—arms crossed, gaze distant. He had said little that morning, but Arwen knew him well enough to read his silence.
A soft knock at the chamber door broke the stillness.
"Enter," Aragorn called.
The heavy door swung open, revealing Faramir, his expression composed but carrying a hint of restrained amusement. In his hands, he held a sealed parchment. He strode forward and bowed slightly before offering the letter to Aragorn.
"This arrived with the Northern riders early this morning," Faramir said. "Your son has arrived in Fornost."
Aragorn's expression did not change as he took the letter, but Arwen saw the slight ease in his shoulders—the breath he had been holding without realizing it. He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, scanning the message quickly.
"He arrived five days ago," Aragorn murmured, almost to himself. "No harm befell him on the journey."
Arwen set her embroidery aside and rose gracefully. "Five days? That is longer than I expected for a report to reach us."
Faramir smirked. "Perhaps the Rangers wished to ensure the boy did not flee before sending word."
Aragorn sighed, rubbing his forehead. "A reasonable precaution."
Arwen stepped closer, resting a gentle hand on Aragorn's arm. "And? How is he?"
Aragorn hesitated before glancing at the letter again. "Adjusting… poorly."
Faramir chuckled. "I imagine he is regretting every cup of wine and every wasted hour spent in idleness and the arms of a whore."
A wry smile tugged at Arwen's lips. "Then the Dúnedain are doing their work."
Aragorn exhaled, setting the letter aside. "Lindëwen says he complains incessantly, stumbles over roots like a drunken troll, and has the stamina of a well-fed house cat."
Faramir laughed outright. "That is kinder than what I expected."
Aragorn shook his head. "She also says he will either learn… or he will break."
Arwen lifted her chin, her voice soft but firm. "Then he will learn. He is our son."
Aragorn met her gaze, the tension in his frame loosening. "Yes," he said at last. "And in time, he will become a man worth remembering."