Arantur carries a sword that sits awkwardly at his hip, interfering with his loose, easy stride. It is a beautiful piece of weaponry: slender and fair, with a string of engraved runes saying simply Arantur, son of Rilyatur. He looks upon the runes often, polishing the curved strokes that spell out "son of Rilyatur" with special care.
His sister notices, but says nothing. Her left hand bears a thin silver ring, whose twin has been left behind on the hand of her love; no one ever hears her weep.
They promise each other: new lives in Arda, and no regrets.