(The following takes place a few days after the events of Lights in Arnor - Part 12 )
Neth sat alone in the outskirts of Trestlebridge as the sun was starting to settle in the sky, the only sounds accompanying her was the dull sound of metal grinding against stone as she sharpened Shrouded Glory, and the wind howling in the ravine below.
She stared down at the blade, the act of sharpening it so automatic and familiar she didnt need to pay much attention to what she was doing, instead her mind wandered back to the ruined city, and even before. It wasnt that long ago when she thought her life would end within those accursed walls, forgotten and disgraced. Yet here she sat, having not only survived the ordeal but also discover a great many things, none of which she knew the answer to and all of which confused her to no end.
Ever since the group had arrived before the forlorn plains stretching outside the city she had seen visions. Glimpses of the distant past of people... People she knew not, but felt kinship to, least of all because these people whom she did not know seemed to be in posesion of the very same sword that now rested in her lap. Of course she had known the blade had been passed down in her family through generations, but the scope of time had always escaped her. Could it really have been the same sword that she wielded now? Or was it the original, and what she now had was merely a replica, constructed as the original was claimed by the passage of time...?
She lifts the sword up, holding it infront of her, the waning sunlight bathing it in fiery light, she read the inscription etched onto the metal and felt the familiar welling of pride she always got when she imagined those who had wielded the blade in the past, followed by the pang of doubt that always came with those thoughts, would she herself ever measure up to those who came before? A question she herself could not fully answer.
A question she would have to answer another time, as their sojourn into Fornost had given her a great many more to ponder, her thoughts continued to return to the dream... Or perhaps it was a vision, she knew not for it felt so very real. She shook her head a little and told herself that it was but a dream, yet the memory of Shrouded Glory clashing with the blade of the Warden of the Tower of Fire, and sundering the blade of the enemy came roaring to her again. Strong as she was she had never managed to strike with such force as to break the blade of an enemy... Much less one she knew not the full importance of.
And then there was the words spoken to her by the spirit, the anger she felt when it taunted her about the events of Linhir, and when it doubted her resolve to settle the matter, for nothing within her burned brighter than the desire to bring justice to Mans for what the wraith had done to her family.
She let out a little sigh. Her family...? She had never questioned of where they had come from, as far as she could tell she was the middle daughter of Ynnabeth and Lindhard of Linhir, that alone was something to be proud of. But now new questions gnawed at her. The twisted spirit of the boy who would become the first of the Captains of the Dunedain had called her "Daughter of the Tower of Water" A title she had no idea what it ment, for all her knowledge of Arnor of old she had never heard of such. But her curiosity was piqued and she knew that upon returning to Bree she would seek out the archives once more to figure out what it ment.
She let out a sigh and lowered the sword. For all her expertise of sharpening blades she still felt the need to inspect her handiwork, a small smile forming as she looks along the edge, the weight from her shoulders lifted for now, as the cursed remains of Fornost were behind her and this time she did not plan on returning, unless absolutely necessary...
