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Awakened by the bumping of his table, Estahir yawned, stretched somewhat, and looked around. It was still night. Noise still flowed in from the party outside the inn, and the inn was full of the cheerful babble that characterized inns everywhere.
Estahir rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the sleep out of his mind. If his dreams were merely going to rehash the past, there was little point to dreaming. He called the Hobbit barmaid over, and requested another drink.
Inevitably, though, once he had the drink in his hand, and with no one to occupy his attention, he began to doze again. He was conscious of it, even as it was happening, and it irked him. A Ranger of the North ought to be able to stay awake at need. But there was no need, for the heart of the Shire was as safe as any place, and his body cried for the rest it lacked.
Estahir began to doze...
The events following the coronation of Elessar had been exciting times for the Dúnedain of the north. After a millennium of quiet warding and hidden dwellings, they were suddenly again the centre of the Kingdom of Arnor, and with the King dwelling in Gondor, it fell on many of his kin to make ready the North for the re-establishment of the realm.
Estahir had been one of those who had been charged with re-establishing an Arnorian presence in Fornost. The old capital of Arthedain was not to be Elessar's seat, for he would sit in Annúminas, but the old Arnorian city was to rebuilt, regarrisoned, and resettled. It would be many years indeed before it was fully populated, with the sons of post-War Gondor seeking opportunity in the North, but in the meantime, it fell upon Estahir and a small company of Rangers to refurbish and occupy the Royal house in Fornost.
Among the many tasks that befell them in the process of restoring the home that had been defiled by the Witchking's presence was the cleaning and repair of the old monuments that had adorned the halls and courtyards of the Kings of Arthedain. Most were beyond repair, smashed during the last Angmarian war, or weathered by the years of a millennium gone by. Most had to be removed, and tossed out.
It was in the process of removing a rather large stone block that had once been the base of a long-gone statue, that Estahir discovered a familiar name. On the base of of the statue had been inscribed the words, in Quenya, that had read "Donated by Angelimir of Nenuial, in memory of his father Angbor".
"Angelimir of Nenuial?"
The name had seemed awfully familar to Estahir, and it echoed in his mind as he and his companions hauled the heavy block out of the courtyard and the city.
It continued to echo as the day went on, and was still bouncing around in his mind as he lay down to sleep- when it hit him.
The rag of the dying man from the Battle of the Morannon. In eager excitement, he began to hunt for the long-forgotten rag, finally finding it with an old cloak and tunic that he had worn on the ride to Gondor.
"The Horde of Angelimir of Nenuial" the rag had read. Who was Angelimir of Nenuial, and why had he had a horde?
Estahir's dream turned from recounting the events of yore, and turned to fancy. Hand on his mug, face on the table, his mind fly with the birds of the air while his body remained firmly in the Green Dragon Inn.
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