Trees quaked on the fateful day, after the birth of the twins. Ithiliell bit her lip, she paced around the stone floors of the Birch Tower. In the village below was her husband, who toiled with their children. Tears soaked the stone floors of the Birch Tower, tears that belonged to Ithiliell. Every time that she laid her eyes upon the children, the more her tears flowed. Fear filled her. “There has not been a King sat in the high seat above Nenuial, in over two thousand years,” she said to herself. She laid upon the stone floors of the Birch Tower, looking to a ceiling that now showed stars dancing across the sky. She laughed, through puffy tearfilled eyes, as the great North Star sailed across the night like a boat gliding upon the sea. “What hope do we, men insignificant in these matters, have to change our fates?” she asked aloud. “Doom will befall us all. I cannot…” She broke into sobs, but the sound of it was disturbed by the ring of feet upon the stone floors of the Birch Tower. Her husband was not below, I was not below.
I stood in the open doorway before her, as she lay on the cold stone. I sat beside her, and I held her. I loved her with such determination and such passion, and yet I knew not then what troubled her. But dread gripped my heart as she uttered words I will never forget: “Arandur, my love, how I wish for a time better than now. To live in an age of peace, where I will fear not for the lives of my children. It is a dream, I fear, not to be obtained.” With this, we both stood and my head sunk as she placed her hands in mine. She spoke again, “I look to them, and I see not hope but despair. I cannot rear children in such a wretched time as this. I cannot bear this life any longer. I never longed for exile.” My heart was pierced, and I felt in that moment that I should have crumbled to pieces on the ground. Instead, I froze. Her cold hand touched my cheek, and, fleetingly, I felt warm lips upon mine. I remained still. And she left, and I stood unmoving, feeling as if I were stone like the statues in the halls of men. Again tears soaked the stone floors of the Birch Tower—tears that belonged to Arandur.
The writing here changes—the hand is not the same—yet the story continues.
Trees quake, this fateful day, seventy years after my birth. I stash my things into crevices where long have things been stashed. I pace around the stone floors of the Birch Tower. In the village below, is your resting place, father, where my kindred lie. Dirt covers the stone floors of the Birch Tower, marred by weeds and roots. Two thousand years and seventy more has it been since a king sat in the high seat above Nenuial. I run my hands across the walls, a smile on my face. You stood here both, one day, together on the stone floors of the Birch Tower. And my eyes do now wander to the path you have walked. But just as you left one entered in the distance behind me. An Elf to be sure, of lithe body and grace. I have lost you all, now, and I wonder if mother was right to leave. Tears soak the stone floors of the Birch Tower, tears belonging to Aranarion.
