[Airerûthiel]

Airerûthiel slung the bow over her shoulder and returned the arrow to her quiver. Her hand strayed instinctively to the hilt of Minyacirith, and she kept her bowed head covered as she tried to hide in the half-shadows cast by the stables.

A figure emerged before the soft warm glow of the porch lamps, and Airerûthiel tried to wake herself up from the dream she thought she had surely fallen into. This was an apparition from her past; she could not believe he was truly real after spending so long trying to push the memory to the back of her mind.

Laitalathion had shoulder-length red-gold hair that shone like a halo of flame in the hazy backlight, and his cerulean eyes had more than a hint of sapphire about them. Clad in traditional Elven garb and with a longbow slung over his shoulder, one could have mistaken him for one of that kind at a fairly insignificant distance.

"Can it be...?" His eyes travelled to the Ranger who stood in the shadow of the stables. He took two paces forward and then one back, muttering to himself, "No, it cannot be! The house of Rocconinquë were slain long years ago - and yet one survived." His eyes strayed to her stained scabbard, where the crest of one of the houses of Gondor was in plain view. "Shadow of my childhood, if you be real, come into the light!"

Pulling back her hood and maintaining the direct icy stare that positively blazed with a slowly seething anger, Airerûthiel walked towards her cousin. "Laitalathion." Her voice was as cold and bitter as Midwinter morn; flecks of spittle that dripped black poison rolled off her tongue as she enunciated every syllable of the name. "Clearly your memory of a face from your past is up to scratch with that of your Elvish grammar. You have not come to this inn for its excellent ale, although 'tis widely known in these parts, and you are not as fine a player as you believe yourself to be. So why are you here before me, when the last I knew was that you had ridden to the lands of the Fair Folk, our mothers' kind?"

"A pity it is that the assassins left you alive, when all you ever did in our young days was read and spend time alone," Laitalathion replied, a smug expression upon his face. "Now if only they had saved one of your fair sisters, who had no time for lessons and would never cease talking..."

"Whilst I must confess that I am no doubt relishing this conversation of reminiscence over our younger days in Gondor, I asked you a question and you did not answer." Airerûthiel still did not release her blade's hilt, but she did relax her grip. "Have the years since we last laid eyes on each other been so long that you have forgotten common courtesy?"

"Indeed I did go west, to Lothlórien and to Mirkwood," replied the young male half-Elf, "and later did I settle in Rivendell. Whilst there my desire to wander the land grew once more, and so late one night some months ago I took one of the white palfreys of Elrond's house and rode east to Edoras. My heart desired greatly to return to my homeland in Gondor, but alas! my family is exiled from that fair country.

"Finding no comfort in gossip and falsehoods, I rode west once again to seek the counsel of the Lady Galadriel. I knew nothing of this place they call the Shire, but the name of The Prancing Pony was known to me. So I set out for Bree and spent some nights in that village. Then two nights ago I heard someone hold forth the tale of the Rocconinquë.

"'They say one of that kin still lives, mind,' said a wizened old man in the corner, who I noticed frequented the inn but did not speak if he could help it. 'A Ranger she is, and she seeks revenge on the ones that slew her family before her eyes.' I had only been half listening to the tale, but this talk made me listen.

"'The talk is a female Ranger with the sign of the White Horse on her scabbard was seen in these parts only last night,' replied the barman. 'She was heading westwards, but where exactly I know not.' On hearing this I then took my leave and rode without stopping until I came upon this inn.

"But enough of my tales! Let us go inside and I shall see if the ale is as good as you say. Old acquaintances become new friends where the fire is warm and the ale flows free, and tonight is one for tales of old and new. Come, let us go into this inn. My horse is stabled, and you have no reason to draw your weapon. I offer the hand of friendship."

A spasm of anger passed swiftly over the maiden's face, and then she sheathed her blade. The two childhood companions made their way towards the heavy oak door and walked in, bringing a cold blast of wind with them and letting a wave of delicious heat out into the night. All heads except two turned for a moment to take stock of the two in the doorway as a silence like the grave fell, and then the chatter broke out again all at once.

As Laitalathion went to get two pints of ale, Airerûthiel scanned the crowd. Her eyes fell on the lone traveller she had noticed before, who was now seated at a corner table with the one called Valeria, another whose face dimly registered in her mind. She noticed that they both wore identical rings, set with blood-red stones, as she walked towards their table.

"Forgive me for interrupting your conversation, my friends, but there are no places left anywhere in this inn. My cousin Laitalathion and I have journeyed long and hard, and we are weary. May we sit here at your table?"