Once, a company of Rangers kept the lands to the north-west safe and secured, operating from the isle within Nenuial's cleansing waters. The strongest of them all, Amendil, known as the Shadow-walker, lead them into battle against foes beyond counting. After his vanishing, it was into the hands of Vinti, known among the Elves as Alaghir, to pick up where he left, and to lead the Dunedain once more. A Man of few words but greater deeds, questioned by some, loved by those close to him, Men and Elves, granted the aid and blessing of Auredhel, and the undying love of Aerlire of Edhellond, now in the Halls of Mandos.
My father.
Those days are gone now.
Our halls are in ruin. My mother has fallen to grief, our Men of the West scattered, divided, lost, or dead. The Alaghir is gone, lost the Auredhel's grace, and the company is far from whole.
And now it is in my hands. Grown up under the towering shadow of my father's legend, and the growing grief of my mother, who I, even near the end, did not know at heart. The Auredhel has kept me where my mother could not, the Erfaron, Cyras Neveris, has stood by me where my father failed to do so. Iselilja I am, as my father named me, Ysh-lillin as the Angmarim spit, Hithien in Rivendell. For my entire - though short - life, I have questioned who I am, have been unsure, and have thus lingered under the red and brown of the fading trees, without rest, without peace.
Auredhel rides south, at the side of Erfaron. The Halls are mine now, they say. Mine to rebuild, to keep, to hold, to fill once again with the sound of those who represent Númenor that was.
I was born from the ice, to represent life, or so it was told. It is in my hands. I shall keep the Halls, and my vows.
