Arawen had just sat there, sat there beside him, and stared; she couldnÂ’t cry, the shock was too great, and she could barely feel the grief, merely hear the words of her mother when she had been little and her friendÂ’s mother been killed by Orcs, running like a mantra in her headÂ…

‘The loss of a loved one is hard to bear, and only revenge can quell the burning fire of grief.’

Vicious words coming from her gentle mother.

‘The loss of a loved one is hard to bear, and only revenge can quell the burning fire of grief.’

‘The loss of a loved one is hard to bear, and only revenge can quell the burning fire of grief.’

‘The loss of a loved one is hard to bear, and only revenge can quell the burning fire of grief.’

‘Thelossofalovedoneishardtobearandonlyrevengecanquelltheburningfireofgrief.’

The words had run through her head, and they still did, getting faster and faster with each revolution of her skull that they took until single words couldnÂ’t be distinguished, merely the same pattern, repeating over and over again.

She had sat there by his body only the Powers Above knew how long, staring into space, until she had felt hands on her shoulders and she had been carried back to the Citadel, and laid in her bed chambers.

Everything after that was a blur.

She stood from her bed and walked over to the vanity table against the opposite wall, grabbing the bone comb and raking it viciously through her dark gold hair; ‘my most beautiful feature,’ she though idly, and even it was not very lovely.

“I’m an ugly bitch,” she muttered, glaring at her reflection in the beaten silver plate on the wall which served as a mirror. Her reflection glared back, its green-brown eyes burning, yet they seemed wet and glistening with tears that would never fall, and they were set in a determined, heart shaped, pussy-cat face with a turned up nose.

Then she looked at the little ring on her finger; her fatherÂ’s parting gift. It was almost like an engagement ring such as the older girls of the court, mostly older sisters of her friends, had been able to boast, and she had seen all three rings they had worn, and all were much like this one.

“I wonder what’s so special about you?” she asked the ring, not knowing why she thought this would help. It gave her no answer. “You look like a simple ornament to me, and I don’t like ornaments.” She flung the ring across the room, anger overwhelming her.

‘Well, what did you think it would do?’ asked a nasty little voice in her head. ‘Sprout wings and fly? Tell you a way to get daddy back? Turn you into a princess? Give you a fairy Godmother like in those stupid stories?’

The nasty voice ranted on, giving an endless list of things she might have thought the ring could do, when in reality, she had no idea what exactly she had expected. It was just what her father had said, ‘You have a chance, child, to right the wrongs of the world.’

What sort of a stupid, surreal and pointless phrase was that? SheÂ’s probably imagined it.

“I must have imagined it,” she said out loud, and suddenly laughed. ‘There you go, Ara, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness,’ said the little voice in her head.

Just then there was a timid knock on the door.

“What?” she snapped nastily; anger was always her way dealing with pain.

There was a squeal from the other side of the door and the face of her youngest brother, Arion, appeared round the door, his curly black hair in a mess, and his eyes red and swollen from resent weeping.

“Ma-mama s-says that y-you mu-must come d-down,” said Arion, stuttering and casting a fearful glance at his obviously enraged older sister.

“Well tell her that I don’t want to,” yelled Arawen, flinging one of her riding boots at the door.

There was a muffled squeak and the sound of running feet outside, then silence. Blissful silence.

She walked over to her bed and flung herself face down on it, letting out a cry of annoyance as there was another knock at the door, this one with no hesitation.

“Come in, Eldarion,” she called, keeping her anger in check, for it would be no use to shout at the boy… no man, for that was what he was, who would shortly be crowned king.

The face of her eldest brother appeared. He was tall, and alike to her father in every way, save the eyes, they were their mother, ArwenÂ’s eyes; clear, deep blue.

Eldarion opened his mouth to speak, but Arawen cut him short.

“Don’t tell me, mama wants me to come down,” she said. “And I have the same answer for you as for Arion; no, I don’t want to tell them every last detail of what happened this morning.”

“Yester morn, Ara,” corrected Eldarion. “Tis a half hour into the new day.”

“Whatever,” muttered Arawen, glaring into the pillow. “Now what are you really doing in my room if not to get the whole story?”

“I came here to see you, and to make sure you are holding up,” said Eldarion, sitting on the bed beside her and putting his hand on her back. “After all, you were the last one to talk to father, and you saw him die. I… I just thought that you might want someone to talk to.”

“No, Eldarion,” said Arawen, “what you mean is you want someone to talk to about being a king when you are just twenty years old. Am I right?”

“You caught me,” admitted Eldarion. “Now will you at least turn over, if not look at me?”

Arawen turned over and looked into his blue eyes, “Got nothing to loose, have I.”

He shook his head, “Do you think I can manage this, Ara?”

“Why are you asking me?” asked Arawen. “Why not mama, or Faramir?”

“Because they’ll just try to praise me and keep my spirits up,” said Eldarion. “I want a realistic impression, not some glamourised version. And you’re always right.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, El, but I’ll answer anyway,” said Arawen, taking pity on her older brother. “Yes, I think in time you’ll make a great king and leader to your people.”

Eldarion visibly relaxed and let out a sigh of relief, “Well, that’s good, then, because I was really worried that… well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Now get going,” said Arawen, pushing him off the bed. “I can’t stand having an insecure person around, it’s really annoying.”

Eldarion got up, “Come out of here soon, alright?”

“Yes, now go,” snapped Arawen, her temper returning. “Or, so help me, I will kick you out!”

“I’m going, I’m going,” cried Eldarion, as Arawen sat up and prepared to chase him out. “See you, little sister.”

Arawen, satisfied that he was gone, lay down and looked at the ceiling as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

What would it be like with Eldarion as king? And would he be okay? He was barely even twenty, the oldest of a family of six.

She began to mentally review her family; there was Eldarion; twenty, handsome, and the King-To-Be, then there was Arthennon; the mini of his mother, with an Elven name to boot, he would be nineteen in a month, then there was Elardan; completely different, with light gold hair and, blue eyes and a dark, tanned complexion, he was seventeen. Then she, apparently like her great grandmother, Galadriel, though she was certain that Galadriel had been beautiful, that one glance from her and men fell to their knees, but she herself was certainly nothing special; she was sixteen.

Then there was Amron; tall and dark; the brooding type already at fourteen, and last there was Arion; bright, always cheerful and happy with massive blue eyes and black hair so curly that it had been known to break combs in half if you tried to tame it. He was just eleven.

She let out a sigh, they were all so young, all of them, and Eldarion wasnÂ’t even of age, for Gondorian men came of age in their twenty-third year. And yet, all this had been ripped apart by a treacherous, Angmarien advisor who had advised their father to ride with his four eldest children and see prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. On their way, the Orcs had suddenly sprung down from the cliff face above them and attacked; they had been great in number, and the few guards and captains that escorted the royal family had been easily over thrown; in the end only her older brothers, herself, Faramir, Deiren, one of the captains, and Linus, another captain stood alive on the battle field, and king Aragorn was dead, with an Orc throwing knife through his heart; it had been a thing of great awe to Arawen that her father had not died on the spot from such a woundÂ…