Taloth-gil-Faroth, Tol Morwen
March, 3015 T.A.

       Rain pelted the rider’s hands and face, the steed’s hooves tearing into the wet grass trailing black scars of soil as man and beast hastened toward the sea. The furious torrent chasing them over the downs and into the open plains of Taloth-gil-Faroth. Rising in the distance, the gray stones of Minas Corladen stood cold and desolate on its promontory upon the sea. What had begun as a fine day for a hunt had retreated into a cold and wet dash for shelter. Such are the days of Tol Morwen where the weather is as mercurial as it is malevolent. Arachil chided himself for not keeping a more watchful eye on the shifting storm clouds, and for being without necessary provisions. He could, however, forecast a stern reproach from Grimbold. His father’s brother’s son, Grimbold was his elder by only a handful of years, but even more senior in wisdom of woodcraft, steel and bow.
       "Ranger of the North, indeed!" he muttered. "Grimbold will surely have something to say about this!" His ruddy companion seemed to bray assent as they sped on.
       Approaching the tower, Arachil pulled back on the slick, water-laden reins persuading Hîthroch to an eager canter, placing each step with quickened care. The landscape surrounding the spire was broken and uneven, making it a difficult approach for friend and foe alike. He lashed Hîthroch to a crosspiece in the small stable and made for the postern. At the landing stood a mighty oak door carved from trees akin to the ancient woods of Nivrim, now deep within the bosom of Belegaer. He heaved his shoulder to it, opening it just enough to slip through. Inside, he was greeted only by the sound of his own labored breathing and the silent images of Telumendil, Soronúmë, Anarríma, and Wilwarin carved upon the smooth stone walls. Above his head on the domed ceiling were Menelmacar, warrior and Lord of the Hunt, and the Valacirca that were hung in the firmament by the Vala ere the awakening of Men. Under normal circumstances, the Warden of the Watch would have welcomed him; but it was the peak of Annon Galeanna, when duties were few but the celebration was overflowing. All were invited to feast at Lórfalas, Arachil's family home on the eastern shore of the island. This was a fête to honor the gifts from Melian in thankfulness for the rescue and care of Eluchíl and Eluréd. Ere the feast began, a great hunt would ensue on both Tol Morwen and Tol Fuin lasting nearly six days and involving nearly two hundred men. Arachil and his father had returned to Lórfalas to take part in the celebration of his mother’s family. Setting out alone, as he was wont to do, Arachil had been caught in the unseasonal monsoon and separated from the body of the hunt. Knowing the lay of the land well, he headed for the ancient watchtower.

       Tol Morwen was his home and the ancestral home of his mother's lineage. For ages the remote island off the western shore of Forlindon has served and been served by a remnant of the Edain from Numenor. In days long past, in the reign of Tar-Meneldur of Númenor, Tol Morwen had served as haven and source of lumber for the voyages of the King’s son, Aldarion and his Guild of Venturers. In 3325 of the Second Age, the inheritors of the Bequest of Eluchíl, and the ancestors of Arachil, were granted guardianship of Tol Morwen by Elendil, and served the King as an outpost and haven of the kingdom, while keeping vigil upon the Uttermost West. On the western shore Minas Corladen was erected in adoration of the Vala, and in wariness of the servants of Sauron. Still today--more from custom than need--men keep watch upon the tower, but it serves more readily as shelter for wayfarers and hunters.
       As a young boy, Arachil would often ride from Lórfalas with his mother’s brother and there learn lore of old, of the days of Arnor and Gondor, and the battles of his father’s fathers and the Realm of Cardolan against the Witch-King of Angmar. Of the most loved of all Nestir's tales and songs were those of Arachil’s great-grandsire, Tirjin Orcamarath. These stories both chilled and warmed his blood as listened to the travels of his father Caranil and of his duties as a Ranger of the North in the service of Arathorn--and more recently, Aragorn son of Arathorn. Ever he longed for the day to serve alongside his father and kin, riding alone in the hills and grass of the North.
       At the age of 18, only a year has passed since having had the title and honor of Ranger of the North bestowed upon him. At present in the aid and service of the noble Cirjin, Chief of the House of Cardolan, matchless in powers of healing and knowledge; serving also alongside Cirjin’s brother Mathros--of lesser rank than Cirjin but of unequaled valor and strength. Many times had Arachil witnessed the famed Might of Mathros. It was often told that had he no sword, bow or spear, his courage--coupled with a few small stones--would fell a band of orcs and their wolf mounts.

       In the cold Grand Room of Minas Corladen, Arachil kindled a fire and laid out his cloak and boots to dry. Slumped in a large chair next to the blazing hearth, he tried to remember where Nestir kept his store of pipes and Southern Star. Soon, the driving wind and rain were all but forgotten, replaced by rings of smoke that drifted upward into the domed ceiling. With sleep close at hand, he recalled the very last time he had looked upon these walls. It was a hunt to celebrate his fourteenth birthday.
He had been summoned away from the hunting party and called to Minas Corladen. As he entered this very room, a raven-haired man in a long green cloak was talking with his father while two other figures stood close to the door with their hoods pulled low. By their gestures and the manner of their conversation, the man and his father seemed to be old friends. But the other two remained aloof, their grey cloaks scarcely hiding their fine raiment and physical stature. Catching him staring, one of them pulled his hood back somewhat, and held Arachil’s gaze. Though embarrassed, the boy was unable and unwilling to look away. In the other’s eyes he saw a brilliant fire, but in his face he revealed a coldness that belied that fire. He was of the Eldar from Mithlond who came to Tol Morwen at times escorting passengers on errand from Cirdan. Young Arachil had recalled seeing the elf one other time, speaking in hushed and hurried voice to Caranil, then leaving quickly with him by ship before the sun set on Minas Corladen. In fact, he remembered as he warmed himself by the fire, the only times he had seen that elf was here, in the Grand Room of Minas Corladen, and never at his family’s home or among his kinfolk on the eastern shore.
       Many times in the last four years had he thought about that day. His father seemed grave and had said scarcely more than, "The fulfillment of your desire is at hand. But you alone will see it completed. You will go with this man and learn to be a Ranger of the North, as I and my fathers before me. If you fail, you will live here, serving to protect yourself within the safety of ramparts of this land, hunting fox and fowl, tending sheep and cattle, and listening to the stories of Nestir. Yet should you succeed, you will sacrifice much that you hold dear for the sake of others. Many shadows will you face and alone will you be. Choose now, the path of your life and whom you will serve." Four years he rode as a Ward of dark-haired Meletim and not once looked on the beauty of Tol Morwen, fairest of the isles of Arda save the two that passed long ago.

       The voices of the storm outside continued to bellow and Arachil was roused from his memories. He glimpsed out of an arrow-loop hoping to spy some break in the storm. He caught sight of a tall silvery ship amid the rising and falling waves, on the outer banks of the inlet. He was surprised at the sight and wondered what fool would risk setting sail in this squall. Either they sail from the sea itself or their errand be truly urgent. He climbed to the parapets to risk a better view, and through the lashing rain could just make out the sails of the ships of the Grey Havens.
       He pulled on his boots and wrapped his cloak about him. For the second time today Arachil found himself speeding through the rain under blackened storm clouds He climbed down from his horse and waited in the thrashing surf for the ship's rowboat to come ashore. In the vessel he could see two figures clad in grey pulling hard on the wooden oars. Thrice the small craft was nearly upset by the waves. Soon, the craft was near enough that Arachil grasped an oarlock to pull them ashore.
       "You are Arachil, son of Caranil, Ranger of the North, are you not?" one said, shouting over the sound of the waves.
       "I am. Do you seek me or the Warden of Minas Corladen?"
       "It is for you and no other that we do come, though we were not certain to find you."
       "Come with me to the tower. Your trip would be in vain should we drown here."

       Once inside, the door was shut and each began taking their wet cloaks off. By the firelight, Arachil saw their faces. They were elves, but none that he had ever met while as a Ranger or a Ward on the western slopes of Ered Luin.
       The one nearest the fire spoke first.
       "We were told in Lórfalas that you had left the hunt and were seen riding toward Taloth-gil-Faroth. One that accompanies us that remains aboard knew to look for you here."
       "May I ask your names and what it is that presses you so as to brave wind, water and doubt to seek me here?"
       "I am Curesgal, and this is Belegorn. We have come from Imladris and were sent by Master Elrond.
       "Elrond? What would he have with me? Surely there are Rangers nearer to Rivendell than those that haunt decaying towers on Tol Morwen?"
       Indeed there are, or were. Many of the others have been summoned as well. And are even now upon the Great East Road and at the doors of Hithaeglir."
       At that, Arachil became alarmed. "What do you mean? Tell me, why do the Dunedain leave their watches to gather at Rivendell? Do they travel together, in the light of the sun? What alarm has been raised that causes this…causes you to seek even I?"
       "Elf and man alike are needed, and all that can be spared." replied Curesgal.
       "You were not to be found within the arms of the Ered Luin, nor upon Emyn Beraid. Grimbold said to seek you here. Master Cirdan lent us a ship and a guide to bring you back with us." said Belegorn.
       "Who is has accompanied you to Minas Corladen and knew how to find me?"
       "He is Erran, much more we ourselves do not know. Only that he often alone wanders paths unseen by many, even Rangers. He does not speak much to strangers, nor even to his own kindred as we were told. But a friend of your father’s he is. Do you not know him?
       "Nay, I do not. But that is no matter. Your news is truly troubling and peculiar."
       "Rightly you speak. But there is much to tell and far to travel. We bid you follow and allow us to tell more, lest we tarry too long. We are in haste and mean to disembark at Mithlond by morning." said Curesgal.
       "Then let us be gone."

* * *

       The Elven-ship had scarcely received her passengers before she raised anchor and set course for the Gulf of Lune. With Hîthroch secured in the hold, Arachil climbed topside. The sway of the sea and a slippery deck were not quite the afternoon he had anticipated. Of course, neither was being caught in a downpour and holing up in a deserted watchtower. At least then he had had some pipeweed. At the helm, a tall elf, taller than Curesgal and Belegorn, fought to keep the wheel under his command. Erran. Arachil thought to himself. As he approached, he saw familiarity in the other’s features. He had met him. His eyes. This is the one that accompanied Meletim. Arachil reached for a crosspiece to steady himself next to the elder elf.
       "We are well met. Once more our courses have crossed." Arachil began. Erran said nothing. "It seems we know of each other. I have often seen you in the passages of Minas Corladen, talking with my father. Does he not join us in this gathering?" Rain ran in long streaks down Erran’s long face. Again, there was only silence. Arachil in frustration turned to go.
       "Our courses do not cross, boy. They merely run alongside each other, and only for a time. We have been delayed too long and now only come to fetch you from your weald games like a wayward child. Had you and your father been of a mind to fulfill the charge of a Ranger rather than a reveler, you would have come to Master Elrond ere now. To your dismay, there is little time for a pipe and a tankard of ale at the Prancing Pony. Your father does not await you; he has gone on ahead. Clearly, you have incensed even he. If you hasten, you can catch him." Arachil spun around at the sharp rebuke.
"Forgive me lonely wanderer, but perhaps in your solitary travels you have forgotten the art of eloquence. I am not yours to chide, neither have I neglected my obligations. As for my father, his judgments are his own. If he has departed, it is because I am skilled enough to attend to my own journeys and safety. You, Master elf speak proud but hollow words." The elf turned his face toward Arachil while gripping the wooden spindles of the helm. For the first in four years Arachil saw the smouldering eyes of the ancient elf.
       "Guard your tongue young Dunedain, lest you lose it," he said slowly. "I am here because of the rumor of your strength and courage in battle, and of your worth to the Rangers. Yet do not assume I owe you any kindness or love. I have traveled and fought alongside your father Caranil and his brother Cirjil. I aided your father’s father Tirjin in his training as a boy, and like him, have a taste for the flesh of yrch. Long have I wandered and waited; yea, longer than the one you call Teleyavë, the Patient. Strong in arms are you, but a whelp in wisdom. Do not oppose me boy, I would just as soon leave you upon a rock as shepherd you to safe haven."
       Arachil’s anger was blunted by Erran’s stern words. He looked at him but said nothing, and slowly turned to begin helping Curesgal with the rigging.