Prologue
It had come to him again.
The same horrible dream the fourth time in a row. There was always the fire, closing in around him, until he feared it would burn him alive. Then there was a voice, calling his name, and after that—
He would wake up, bathed in sweat, breathing hard. No rest would find him afterwards, and he had reached the point where he even feared sleep. Dark circles were beginning to form beneath his eyes. He was exhausted, and he had almost become resigned to the fact that he would never be granted peace.
Aragorn had wasted his skills upon him. The king should have let him go—he had wanted to go. He went out to battle, hoping to be reunited with his brother.
That gave him the courage to go on, to ride out into inevitable darkness and death.
His wish, his desire, was to die.
Yet it had been denied him.
He had been cheated.
And now, there were only memories to haunt him, for he was utterly alone.
His brother had died.
His mother had died.
And his father—
He was certain of his death, even though no one was willing to tell him so.
While he was unsure of the exact way that it had occurred, he had no doubt that it had happened. He just knew—it was a rare thing for any dream of his to show falsehoods. He had no doubt the flames carried a message for him, or else they would not keep on returning.
The fire had come to tell him of his father’s death, just as the water had come to tell him of his brother’s.
He had nothing left.