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Not Without Hope  by Gwynnyd

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
William Wordsworth (1770–1850)


“Open the gate.” The shout drifted up through Gilraen’s window.

She heard the commotion as a troop of riders clattered into the yard. Habit still took her feet six steps and half way across the room before she again remembered that visitors were no longer her concern. She stopped and leaned against a heavy post of the bed that jutted out into the center of the room. Figured velvet hangings brushed her face with a feather touch that reminded her of other soft touches in that great bed.

Never again, she mourned, hot tears stinging behind her eyes.

Five months of widowhood felt a hundred times longer than four years of marriage. Before, it would have been her responsibility. She would have run to the window, thrown back the shutters heedless of the weather and wind that rushed into the room and craned to see if, among the newcomers, one beloved dark head was turned laughing up to her window. Throwing on a shawl, she would have hurried to the door, snatching the welcome cup from the tray rushed up from the kitchens. Wrapping her dignity around shoulders considered too young to bear the duties of a great estate, she would offer the hospitality of the house, bidding them in to warmth and food and comfort after their time in the wild. Never again would she kiss the wine of welcome from the lips of her beloved, ignoring the grins of the stable boys as they led away the horses. Her responsibilities now were embodied in the small figure of her son; his face pale, dark hair tumbled over his ears as he slept restlessly in the grip of a childhood fever.

“Mae govannen!” The Sindarin greeting floated up into her room from the courtyard.

Gilraen tried to close her ears, resolutely refusing to hear the rest of the welcomes. She did not want to know who had come. It had nothing to do with her anymore. She could not, and would not, bow to the pressures being brought to bear. Her decision was the right one. She was certain of it. This fortress was her husband’s home, and here she would raise Aragorn to follow in his footsteps.

Almost against her will, she drifted closer to the window until she could see through the slats in the shutters into the courtyard below. The yard was a confusion of milling riders and horses. Gilraen was dismayed to see that they were all armoured. Not only did it make it harder to identify the riders, it spoke of a more present danger than was usual this deep in the Angle. She heard her Uncle Halbeleg’s voice and picked him out of the group as he pulled off his helm. He was riding next to a man whose armour was chased and decorated. It was not Elladan and Elrohir, then, come with more presents for Aragorn.

She stepped away from the window and turned uncertainly back into the room. Aragorn was sick and she had no intention of renewing the discussions with her Uncle. Gilraen hoped Halbeleg was only passing by and she could use the excuse of Aragorn’s fever to avoid him altogether during this visit.

With shutters closed, the room was dim, but the small fire burning in the hearth lent a warm glow to the hangings on the walls and was welcome for chasing away the chill of the cool autumn afternoon. She walked back to the hearth where a small pot sat on a trivet in the coals, gently simmering. Dipping a spoon into the liquid she tasted it. The rose hips and honey could not quite mask the slightly bitter, woody taste of the willow bark, but it would do. Shielding her hands with a towel, she picked up the pot and set it to cool on the stone top of the carved wooden sideboard that stood against the wall.

She went back to the alcove that contained her son’s bed and the truckle bed where Carlenna, the nursery maid, slept. Gilraen looped the curtain aside and settled down in a chair to watch over her sleeping child while the tisane steeped. The thin blanket that should have covered him was crumpled and pushed aside. The one pale cheek that she could see was beginning to flush red again along the bone. Holding her hand lightly over his out flung arm, she felt heat radiating off his skin. With a sudden start, Aragorn woke up and cried out for her. Stooping, Gilraen gathered his small body to her and settled back to rock him.

Gilraen held him cradled against her arm, his head lifted to help him breathe. Yesterday’s chill had developed into a stuffed and drippy nose. In the night he had been restless, waking frequently and demanding attention. Today he alternated between listless clinging and frantic whining as his fever waxed and waned. By mid-afternoon Gilraen had known he was overtired. She captured him and carried him to his sleeping nook off the bedroom of the suite, ignoring his indignant protests of ‘not tired’. Now, as she rocked him soothingly, his eyelids drooped again, lashes dark against his pale cheeks. His glassy, grey eyes flicked open and he twitched and snuffled. Gilraen crooned wordlessly to him and he sank back against her arm with a deep sigh, lids fluttering as he tried to hold them open against his need for sleep.

Gilraen continued to rock him and marveled at the way his two-and-half year old body sprawled over her lap. When did he get so tall?



Spring, 2931

She remembered Arathorn tiptoeing into the room three days late for Aragorn’s birth. He stood leaning against the bedpost with a fatuous smile on his face as he watched Aragorn nurse. He reached down to touch his son’s cheek with one calloused and gentle finger. Aragorn only sucked harder.

“A fine, strong son,” Arathorn commented after a while.

Gilraen smiled up at him. “I told you he would be.”

“So you did.” Arathorn sat down on the bed next to Gilraen, contrition writ large on his lean face. “I am sorry I was not here.”

“Babies come when they will. I am not sorry that you come to find us clean and fair,” she confessed. She looked at him, the love in her eyes masking the fear she knew whenever he arrived later than looked for. “As long as you are safely back, come when you will.”

Arathorn chuckled and leaned over to kiss her gently. Aragorn wailed loudly, protesting the invasion of his space. Arathorn jumped back. Gilraen put Aragorn against her shoulder, patting him gently on the back until his crying ceased. She held him out to her husband. Arathorn’s large hand nearly engulfed the baby’s head as he lay snug and secure against his father. Aragorn was not very much longer than his father’s forearm, Gilraen saw with surprise.

“My son,” Arathorn addressed him in mock severity, with a swift, sweet smile to Gilraen, “I plan to kiss your mother as often as I can. You will have to accustom yourself to it.”

Aragorn treated this statement with the contempt it deserved and closed his eyes.

“So, Aragorn,” his father continued softly, smiling down at his sleeping son, “even the Chieftain of the Dúnedain is beneath your notice. That is royal behavior indeed, my Areg.”

“All babies are so. Calling him ‘little king’ is no good strategy to remind him of his place,” Gilraen teased her husband.

“You think not? But Aragorn is such a long and formal name for such a small boy. Areg.” Arathorn tried out the name again, studying his son’s face. “Areg. Yes, it suits him.”

Mettarë 2931

The Hall below was filled with revelers, but Gilraen and Aragorn waited upstairs to greet Arathorn who had ridden in late. The sounds of the party drifted through the open door to the suite of rooms reserved for the Chieftain. Arathorn came bursting in calling for his son. Nothing could disguise the hurt in his father’s eyes as Aragorn screamed and crawled rapidly away from his father to the shelter of his mother’s skirts.

“When did he learn to crawl?” Arathorn asked, obviously disappointed in his reception. He stood up reluctantly from his welcoming crouch to his son and pulled the door closed behind him.

“Near nine weeks ago,” Gilraen said, regretting the renewed hurt she saw in her husband’s eyes as she confirmed how long it had been. She picked up Aragorn and walked over to greet her husband. Aragorn clung to her and buried his face in her dress. Arathorn drew Gilraen close to kiss hello, and Aragorn pushed his father away and screamed. “I am sorry.” Gilraen stepped away from her husband and rocked their son in her arms. “He does not remember you. It will be easier as he grows older.”

That night, Gilraen had lain in bed on her side with the unaccustomed warmth and comfort of her husband along her back. His hand draped over her and cupped her breast.

“Gilraen?” The soft murmur would not have woken her from sleep.

“Yes, my love?”

“Do you still want more children?”

She rolled over and touched his face, sliding her fingers lovingly over his cheek and down the line of the old scar that ran into his beard. “A foolish question, asked far too late. Of course I want your children. There are too few Dúnedain,” she said. “Three more sons and four daughters at least,” she added in a serious tone.

“Would you miss being the great lady if you lived in a small house with no servants and no responsibility for the estates for a while?”

The soft glow of the night candle on the other side of the bed curtains gave barely enough light for Gilraen to make out the gleam in Arathorn’s eyes. Raising herself upon one elbow, she eyed her husband suspiciously.

“Who has complained of my management?”

“Termagant!” Arathorn drew her into his arms and settled her head against his shoulder. “None would dare.” He hugged her gently. “No, love, I hear only compliments to your skills.”

“And every one prefaced with ‘She is really too young for so much responsibility, but…’” Gilraen groused.

Arathorn laughed. “Not every one. You confound them and delight me. No, listen, I have something else in mind.” His voice grew serious again. “You know I do not allow families to share the winter camps. It is too disruptive and too dangerous. But, should a man’s family live within an easy distance, I grant him leave to visit often. An old friend, my first swordmaster, has a farm near this winter’s camp with a place for you and Areg. It is just a small house, but I believe it will be safe enough. If you could bear seeing me two days out of five…” he trailed off and ran his free hand slowly down her side.

Gilraen smiled and shivered. She rolled herself onto her husband. Ignoring his ‘oof’ as she landed unexpectedly on his chest, she planted kisses all around his face. “Such hardships you ask of me,” she said between kisses. “I will bear them as cheerfully as I may.”



Aragorn stirred restlessly in her arms. He snorted, choked and woke from his light doze, whimpering. Gilraen hushed him with soft ‘shhs’ and settled him higher on her arm. His eyes quickly closed again. Open mouthed, he breathed noisily as he slept. Her eyes traced the resemblances to his father in the shape of his ears and the angle of his cheekbones. He was so like Arathorn.



Winter, 2932

A gale howled around the farmhouse, drafts sneaking in through warped windows as snow formed a thin drift in front of the door. Gilraen leaned into the fireplace, raking fresh coals around the pots to keep them simmering. It would have been foolish for Arathorn to even set out in such weather and she no longer expected him. Her husband would taste her cooking another day. The family still needed dinner, however, and she was proud of her newly mastered skill. She could plan meals for fifty or three hundred, command adjustments to the seasonings, stock the keep for a year, provision an army. These were familiar tasks. Stir the pot herself? She had not since she was barely tall enough to reach the spoon and had haunted her mother’s kitchens bothering the cooks.

Aragorn had crawled over to the table and pulled himself to a stand, wobbling a little, with one hand clutching the chair and the other waving about for balance, looking speculatively at a chest by the wall that was just out of his reach.

The door banged open, admitting a sudden gust of wind that swirled around the room. A snow-shrouded figure entered and shoved the door shut against the blast. Shaking the thick coating from his mantle, the man threw back his hood.

“Da!” Aragorn launched himself across the room at a precarious run, leaning farther and farther forward as his momentum carried him closer to the door. Just before he overbalanced into a disastrous meeting with the floor, the man swooped him up and tossed him into the air. Aragorn giggled and screeched in delight as his father caught and held him overhead.

Gilraen stood transfixed, tongs forgotten in her hand, as she watched her husband greet their son.

Letting his mantle drop into a sodden puddle on the floor, Arathorn carried Aragorn over to Gilraen.

“Da.” Aragorn said, patting his father’s cheek. “Da.”

“When did Areg learn to walk?” Arathorn wondered.

“Just now. When he saw you.”

Arathorn’s smile lit his face.

Spring, 2932.

A hundred shades of green blanketed the fields and forests on the ride back to Arathorn’s headquarters in the fortress in the Angle. Bouquets of lilacs sent their heady perfume into the air of the Chieftain’s suite, welcoming Gilraen and Arathorn home. After a tense minute, Aragorn remembered his nursery-maid and toddled off happily with Carlenna. She accompanied him, ‘oohhing’ and marveling at his growth and his new skills.

Arathorn came up behind Gilraen where she stood at the window overlooking the courtyard. He slipped his hands around her and rested them on her flat stomach, drawing her close.

“I am sorry there is no second child,” Gilraen said, leaning her head back against Arathorn. Her shoulders drooped. “I should have weaned Areg. I knew it, but I could not.”

Arathorn turned her around and held her. “There is plenty of time for more children.” He put his hand under her chin and tilted her face up to look at him. His eyes opened wide in mock-horror. “Unless you mean to tell me you have lost your taste for the begetting?” His voice was anxious but he lost the struggle to keep the knowing grin off his face.

Gilraen laughed, though tears gathered in the corner of her eyes. “Never.” Not while you live, my love, she added silently.

Arathorn gently wiped the tears from her eyes with the edge of his thumb. “What’s this? A soldier’s wife does not cry when he leaves.”

“You are not leaving until tomorrow. I promise you a smiling face then. Today…” She swallowed against the thickening in her throat, but broadened her smile to lessen his distress. “Today I grieve for the child that could have been and for my own lonely bed this summer. I will miss you all the more because the last months have been sweet.” She leaned into his comforting strength, trying to imprint the feel of his body into her memories so she could recall it at will.



Hard muscled arms and thighs, weapon-calloused hands, soft lips: rocking her feverish son, she could still feel them if she tried. She had only seen him five more times. The fighting was constant that year and the next winter’s camp farther away with no friendly farmhouse nearby. She remembered his last kiss, tasting of sausage and speaking of love, and the formal leave-taking in the courtyard in front of all where she kept the mien of the soldier’s wife. She smiled and waved as he rode away to fight, to keep her, his family and his people safe.



Spring, 2933.

After, she would always hate the scent of lilac. Her arms had been filled with branches of the fragrant purple and white flowers, but they fell from her nerveless hands and lay scattered at her feet.

“Dead?” How could half of me be dead and I not know? “How long ago?” she whispered. She felt the blood draining from her face, fleeing down to seek some warm and secret place where Arathorn still lived to come home to her.

Eyes too old in the ageless face of one of Elrond’s sons offered sympathy in her grief. “Nine days,” Elrohir said as gently as he could.

Nine days when she had laughed and played with Aragorn. Nine days assuring him that his father was well as she sang him to sleep at night. Nine days wishing her love to the stars when she did not know that her life had already changed. There was a great lump under her breast. She clutched herself with folded arms and could neither breathe nor cry. The sun, as it must, because all the world was shattered, dimmed and she fell into darkness.

Later, she sat numbly in her accustomed place, as her world was re-ordered around her. Arathorn’s second-in-command, her own Uncle Halbeleg, would command the Dúnedain until Aragorn was of age to lead them himself. Halbeleg was based north and west of the Angle in the hills near Fornost, and much of the administrative machinery would move gradually over the summer as guards could be spared. The great demesne farms of Arathorn’s estates would still be worked, but Gilraen was to return to her parents and Elrohir would take Aragorn to Rivendell.

“No.” Gilraen started out of her daze, heart lurching, her voice firm and loud. “You cannot mean to separate us,” she added incredulously.

There was a startled pause as the faces around the table turned to her. Some exchanged uneasy glances. Some avoided her eyes as she sought for reassurance from those gathered to decide her fate – and her son’s.

“It is best, Gilraen, and safest for Aragorn. Elladan is already making the arrangements. I assure you I will take very good care of him on the way to Rivendell,” Elrohir said, breaking the silence. “It has already been decided.”

“No. I will not return to my parents. This is Aragorn’s home. This is my home.” She stood and faced Elrohir, a dawning outrage holding her straight and keeping her voice firm. “Thank you for the offer. In ten years or so, at the usual time, I will send Aragorn to your father for fostering. Until then, he will be raised here, with me. For the rest,” she paused and quietly swallowed down the lump she found too often in her throat these days, ready tears misting her vision, “I do not care. Order things as you will.” She started for the door of the chamber.

“Gilraen,” Elrohir stood and called after her. “Things are not what they were. Aragorn will be safer hidden in Rivendell and he cannot be hidden if you are with him.”

“No. He belongs with me.” She was adamant. She stared into the eyes turned to her from around the table and her expression dared anyone to contradict her. Satisfied, she moved towards the door.

“Gilraen.” Elrohir took three long strides and put his hand on her arm as she reached the door. “If you would listen…”

“No!” she interrupted him. “It is not a matter for discussion. He is my son. We will stay together, here.” She stared pointedly at his hand on her arm and he dropped it to his side. With a last defiant look at the stunned faces around the table, she left the room and pulled the door closed firmly behind her. She stumbled a short way down the corridor and leaned against the wall, wiping at the tears that rolled down her cheeks. They want to take my son away? She tried to think of any reason why Aragorn would be better off without her, but her mind shied from the idea. She went to be with her son.

Just over a fortnight later, she had faced Elladan and Elrohir in the reception room of her suite. Aragorn was firmly ensconced in his nook off the inner room, fiercely watched over by Carlenna and a guard from her household levy.

“I have not changed my mind. Aragorn stays here with me.” She stood just inside the door and blocked their way into the room.

Elrohir gave her a reassuring smile. “I did not expect that you would, and we have come with no new arguments.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked suspiciously.

Elladan stepped forward. “Arathorn was our friend since he was a boy. These last years, he often spoke to us of ‘his Areg’. At the proper time, he wanted us to show Areg the things at Rivendell that we had shown him. He loved his son very much.”

Gilraen turned her head away and blinked back tears. “I know.”

“A boy should remember his father,” Elrohir said. “But Areg is very young and may well forget.” He held out a carved wooden soldier to Gilraen. “We thought he should have this.”

She gingerly took the painted figure and turned it over in her hands. She gasped. It was Arathorn, down to the scar on his cheek and the crink in the badly set finger on his left hand. He was clothed in his fighting Ranger garb, with the Star of Arnor on his breast and a sword that slid out of a loop and fitted into his hand. The jointed arms and legs moved, as did the head. The eyes were sparkling and a half smile curved the lips. The dark hair, as usual, had escaped from the tie at the nape of the neck and a few strands waved wildly.

Gilraen groped backwards into the room and collapsed into a chair. “This is… this is…” Stunned by the craftsmanship and care the figure showed she could not complete the thought.

“A Ranger should have something to fight,” Elladan said as her bemused silence dragged on. Smiling, he came up besides the chair and diffidently handed her another carving. “I do not craft men as well as Elrohir.”

A snarling warg, in perfect detail and scaled to the man, joined the soldier in Gilraen’s lap.

Elrohir knelt and put his hand on hers. “We knew Arathorn well. Let Areg have these. If he breaks them, we will mend them for him, or make them anew.”

“If I bring Areg out for you to give these to him - they are truly wonderful gifts,” Gilraen looked imploringly from one identical face to the other, “will you swear that you will not try to wrest him from me?”

Elrohir looked up at her, eyes widening. “Take him? No. No one ever wished to take Areg away from you,” he said. “We thought you would choose, as we did, to hide him in safety in Rivendell.”

“Without me?” Gilraen asked unable to mask the bitterness that crept into her tone.

“If you were known to be there, how could he be hidden? You are well known and cannot just disappear,” Elladan argued.

Gilraen shook her head, staring at her hands and the figures in her lap. “We belong together, Areg and I. I will not change my mind.”

Her eyes flicked up in time to catch the unspoken agreement that flashed between the twins.

“We will not take your son. We swear it, Gilraen,” Elrohir said. He squeezed her hand and stood.



Aragorn stirred restlessly in Gilraen’s lap. His eyes cracked open and he gave a soft cry before falling asleep again almost instantly. The arm supporting his head was beginning to ache. She shifted a little to put his weight more solidly on her body. Her glance fell on the basket of carved figures that were Areg’s favourite toys. Elrond’s sons had been busy. A dozen carved and painted figures – soldiers, animals, orcs, and trolls – had been delivered two at a time all throughout the summer and fall. Aragorn increasingly looked forward to the twins’ quick visits. They rode in laughing and rode away again too soon, rarely spending even a night. They never mentioned taking Aragorn away and, she admitted to herself, she looked forward as much as her son to their unexpected appearances. Better Elrond’s sons than her own uncle. The news was never good these days, but surely – surely! – things were not yet desperate.


Summer, 2933

Gilraen left her horse with the groom and hurried to the small garden where Halbeleg waited for her, not bothering to change her riding breeches for more formal clothes. Halbeleg stood near the tiny fountain where the paths met in the center. No one would ever mistake him for anything other than a lord of the Dúnedain. He had the dark-haired and grey-eyed colouring and the height that distinguished the Men of Westernesse. He was bigger-boned than Arathorn and habitually gruff, but she knew that Arathorn trusted him implicitly, and the men were pleased that he had assumed command. As she made her way along the flower-bordered paths to the center, he came limping out to meet her and caught her hands in a tight grip. Holding them together in front of him, he inspected her and seemed pleased by what he saw.

“It is good that you ride out and do not brood,” he said.

Gilraen gave his hands a squeeze. “The crops need overseeing, and you will want supplies soon enough. I was out with the bailiff estimating the yield of the barley. There is a field that I think should have been left fallow an extra year or perhaps turned into pasture. The grain does not thrive.”

“Poor child,” he tucked her hand under his arm and led her to a bench in the shade. “You should not have to be worried with such things.”

“That is fond Uncle Hal talking, not Chieftain Halbeleg.” Gilraen patted his arm as she was formally bowed onto the bench. “I would rather have things to occupy me, and the estates do need care. It took me long enough to convince everyone that I knew my job. I do not intend to relinquish my authority.” She settled herself as discreetly as she could in breeches and noted with approval that a pitcher and glasses, along with a plate of sandwiches, were in easy reach at the end of the bench.

“Arathorn would hear no word against you even when he put far too much burden on you.” Halbeleg sat down next to her, his right leg straight and stiff in front of him.

“He put no burdens on me that I was unwilling to bear, Uncle, and the house and the estate run smoothly. Your supplies will still come when they are needed.” Uncomfortable with the thought that her uncle assumed her care of the estates a job she wanted to be free of and not the solace she found it, she tried to change the subject. “I see you are wounded. Is there aught I can do to ease it?”

“No. I thought it was just a scratch, but it did not close. The orcs are poisoning their blades. However, Elladan sang some songs over it and packed it with herbs and it is healing well now.” He took the cup of ale she had poured for him and leaned back against the bench. “You were never raised to deal with ugly wounds, Gilraen. It will do well enough till your healer can see to a new bandage.”

Gilraen laughed, her trill ringing out over the garden. “Uncle,” she got out at last. “Surely you know your sister better than that? You cannot think my mother would be so lax in my education. I am daughter and wife of the Dúnedain and have changed bandages since I was old enough to hold the basin. I am not so fragile a flower.”

“You ought to be,” Halbeleg grumbled. “You are still very young and very beautiful.”

“Gilraen the Fair,” she agreed cordially, eyes dancing with remembered mischief. “I have been called that since the mettarë I was sixteen and the young men scuffled and fought to be my partner. My father ended up insisting I dance every dance with a different partner. I remember how upset you were when I used the name brazenly to bring myself to Arathorn’s attention. But I am a mother and a,” she looked away to hide the distress that still came too easily at the thought of Arathorn’s death. “A widow. My place is here, running things until Areg is old enough to bring home a bride.”

“That is far in the future. You deserve more of a life than that.” He hesitated and then blurted out, “Arathorn said you wanted many children.”

“So we did,” she turned back to him with a small smile for his discomfort at this personal information. “He envied you your family. He was hoping for more sons, though. Not that I do not love my cousins, but your son is younger than mine and he has three sisters.”

“You should still have those sons, Gilraen, and not bury yourself here. You are just the age to begin thinking about marriage and many men would be happy to take you to wife. You need to meet them again, visit more. You should go home to your parents.”

Gilraen stared at her hands clutched in her lap, nearly blind with sudden anger. She did not answer. The silence dragged on for long seconds.

Halbeleg’s hand tentatively touched her fingers. “You are not the only one raw with grief,” he said quietly. “Arathorn was as close as a brother to me and I curse every time I give an order that he should be giving. But I do what I must do, and so must you, Gilraen.”

“I care for my son’s estates and I will raise him to his place in the Dúnedain,” she said tightly, still not looking at her uncle. “What more would you have me do? I have no wish to marry again.”

She heard his exasperated sigh. “You feel that way now, Gilraen, but that will not last. Your grief will fade. You should be ready to take up your place again.”

“And Aragorn will be hidden in Rivendell?” She met his eyes at last, but hers were still cold.

“Exactly. You need not be burdened with his education. Master Elrond is best fitted for that. You will have a new family to raise soon.” Halbeleg sounded relieved that she understood at last.

Gilraen stood and paced a few steps away and back again. She stopped and faced her uncle squarely. Her voice was low and controlled. “Neither Aragorn nor the estates are a burden to me and I do not understand why you think he will be safer at Rivendell. I will send him to Master Elrond in ten years, when he is of an age to be fostered and educated as our chieftains have always been. I suppose that in ten years it is possible that my grief will fade and I will wish to remarry. Does that satisfy you?”

With a groan Halbeleg levered himself upright to confront her, looking down sternly into her eyes. “No, it does not. The line of kings has to continue and Aragorn is the only heir we have. I’ll take no chances. I want Aragorn hidden and Rivendell is the safest place I know.”

“Then let me go with him,” Gilraen pleaded, breaking her stiff stance and holding out her hands in supplication.

Halbeleg shook his head. “It will be hard enough to keep his location a secret. You can’t both just disappear. If you go on with your life, no one will think to look for him and you can turn away all queries lightly. They will know he is safe somewhere if you are not seen to be concerned. Here, with my family, Rivendell, near Lune: he could be anywhere. If it becomes known that you are in Rivendell – and how could we keep that knowledge from spreading? – it will be obvious that Aragorn is there.” His voice softened. “I am sorry, Gilraen. Can you not do what is best for Aragorn?”

“Is it best?” Gilraen’s voice shook with anger. “I think it is best that Aragorn stay with me, here. I do not believe that Arathorn would think it best that his son grow up knowing neither of his parents.”

“Things are bad, Gilraen. He also might have sent Aragorn away to safety,” Halbeleg countered.

“Then let me go with him,” she pleaded again. “If it is so bad that fleeing to safety is what must be done, surely Arathorn would have sent me with Areg. I could go disguised as his nurse if I may not go as his mother. I do not find the estates a burden to throw off at the first chance, but I am not so enamoured of their care that I will never relinquish them. I will teach Areg to call me by a different name. Please, Uncle, we need to be together.”

Halbeleg paused and his lips twitched upwards. “A nursemaid? You? Gilraen the Fair!” His smile broadened and he chuckled and sat down again on the bench. “That is the best joke I have heard in months. How could you think to pass as a nursemaid when all Eriador looks to you and follows your fashions? And what do you suggest I tell people when they ask where you are? That you wandered away into the wild and no one could be spared to look for you?” His chuckles turned into guffaws and his eyes lit with amusement as he looked up at Gilraen. “The requests for leave from my troops would leave me short staffed indeed as they all vied to track you down first, hoping for favor.” His laughter gradually died away. He indicated that Gilraen should sit next to him. “Though you may not claim the title, you are royal, Gilraen, and cannot always please yourself. Come. There is no need for you to make such jokes. Sit down. Have some ale and we will discuss this calmly.”

“I did not mean it in jest.” Gilraen sat down warily, her body sideways on the bench to face her uncle. Keeping her voice soft but determined, she said, “Areg and I should be together.”

“Yes, of course, and in normal times you would be,” Halbeleg agreed. “I do not want to take him away from you. I want you to send him to Rivendell where he can be safely hidden away from all dangers until he is of age.”

Gilraen turned her face to the sky as if she would find counsel written in the clouds, but they remained stubbornly plain, blank slates that nearly covered the endless blue. It seemed such a simple thing, that she and her son belonged together until he was of normal age to be fostered. She sighed and brought her gaze back to Halbeleg. She shook her head firmly. “No. I will not send Areg to Rivendell without me. You will have to rip him from my arms and I will follow you if you do.”

Halbeleg started at that, eyes narrowed, and voice hard. “Do not try my patience too far, Gilraen. I am not Arathorn that you can twist me round your finger with your tears or your pleas. You think only of yourself and how much you will miss your son. I will do what I know is best for all the Dúnedain.” He reached over, gave her shoulder a quick pat and his voice took on a more normal tone. “I know you loved Arathorn. You are worn out with grief and work and cannot think straight, so I will tell you the good news.” She started to speak but he forestalled her with an upraised hand. “I brought Thorlach and his family with me. He has agreed to be my seneschal and oversee the lands and the people here. There, that is one worry lifted from you.”

Gilraen sagged back against the bench in disbelief. The administration of the estates was the least of her worries. She straightened again and her voice was icy as she asked, “And if I do not want your seneschal meddling on the estates?”

“Do not be foolish. The estate must have continuity and the supplies from here are vital. I dare not risk any disruption.”

“Have you heard nothing that I have said?” Gilraen cried, starting to her feet. “I am not leaving. Aragorn is not leaving. I will manage the estates. I have done so for the last three years and there have been no interruptions of your supplies.”

“Yes, you’ve done well. Very well,” Halbeleg said implacably but with a fond smile. “When you remarry you will have estates of your own to manage again.”

“Uncle! I swear…”

“No,” he again forestalled her protests, “do not swear to things you will regret. You are a beautiful young – very young – woman. Do not swear to me that you will never again marry. I would not have you feel you are breaking an oath when your grief lessens and you wish to start a new family. Sit down,” he said more firmly this time.

Ignoring his command, Gilraen strode to the edge of the garden and paced an agitated circuit of the paths while she tried to marshal her thoughts. She saw Halbeleg help himself to a sandwich from the platter. He watched her movements around him in apparent unconcern for her agitation. She even thought he smiled occasionally. But her mind was blank and she found no additional arguments to offer. It seemed such a simple and obvious thing. Aragorn needed her. The thought of her son growing up without her chilled her with a deep unreasoning dread.

She came to a stop at the edge of the garden and leaned against the sturdy grey trunk of a pear tree. It was majestic but had been allowed to grow far too tall to conveniently harvest its fruit. It gave the sweetest pears in the orchard, however, and she had forbidden the bailiff to do more than gently prune it as had Arathorn’s mother before her. She looked up along the trunk and a puff of stronger breeze ruffled the branches, showering her with tiny, hard missiles of immature fruit. She shivered and looked out over the familiar land. The cloud cover that had almost obscured the sun all morning was breaking up and wide patches of blue were visible to the west. The breeze was warm and mild, pungently scented with the many herbs that bordered the paths.

In the distance she could see two members of the patrols that ceaselessly circled the estates, keeping off any stray intruders and watching for trouble. Her own household guard was not as well trained and not as well equipped as the Ranger garrison that protected the land. Gilraen carefully counted up the members whom she thought would be loyal to her even in the face of opposition by Halbeleg, and she came to the reluctant conclusion that they would be far too few to be effective. Effective. She grimaced and leaned her cheek against the tree trunk, obscurely soothed by the rough feel of the bark on her skin. She would not, could not, order her guard to their deaths against Halbeleg’s men to prevent them from taking Aragorn against her will. She could conjure all too real images of screams, confusion and blood as men she considered friends were cut down in the halls outside her chambers. She closed her eyes. Tears welled out, flowing unheeded down her cheeks.

“Gilraen?” Her uncle’s voice was soft and questioning, very near.

Her eyes flew open and she saw him looming in front of her through the blur of tears. She tensed and dashed her hands across her face.

“Do not run. I am too lame to chase you through the gardens,” Halbeleg’s plea was quiet. “I am sorry, but it must be settled.”

Gilraen fought to keep her voice steady but did not succeed. “Aragorn needs me, Uncle Hal. Please, let us be together. Here. Rivendell. I care not. Do not take him away. I must fight you if you try. Ten or perhaps fifteen of my guard would stand for me if I asked them and they would all be dead and the halls awash with their blood and still you would, you would….” She drew in a tremulous breath and her arms ached as she felt her screaming son being torn from her grasp by men with swords darkened and dripping with the blood of friends. There was no relief for her aching lungs. A hard lump seemed to have settled like a stone in her chest. “And Areg… alone. Please....” She felt the renewed sting of hot salt tears on her cheeks and her head swam as she struggled to find the words that would make her uncle understand how wrong his course was. Defeated, she sagged against the tree behind her, mute and helpless.

Halbeleg stood dumbstruck. “You would set your guard against my men?” he got out at last.

“I do not want to, but…” was her strangled reply.

Halbeleg gave a growl of frustration. “It is not safe, even here. Our borders are being pressed hard this spring. This area was Cardolan, Gilraen, not the far west of Arthedain. All this land was overrun once before and could be again. Aragorn will be safe and protected in Rivendell. Loved. He’ll have a different name. One that’s not royal. And you,” Halbeleg’s voice softened, “will have a new family; more children. It will not be so bad.”

“Do not take my son,” Gilraen’s moan was barely audible. The only thing solid in the universe was the tree under her hands. Gilraen clutched it, eyes closed, bark crumbling off in her fingers as she shook her head over and over in desperate denial. The silence stretched out unbearably.

Halbeleg again gave a wordless snarl and reached up and shook the tree. Hard fruit peppered them, stinging as they hit unprotected skin. “If, and I say again, if I do not take Aragorn at this time, there would be conditions.”

She cautiously opened her eyes, her breath coming in shuddering pants. That Halbeleg was even willing to discuss conditions meant there was hope he would not summarily take Aragorn away. “What conditions?”

“If the situation deteriorates, becomes truly desperate, you will give him up willingly.”

“And who is to decide if it is desperate?” she asked.

“I will, if I live.”

“If you…” she whispered.

“I have fought for a long time and I have never seen attacks so numerous and so determined. We are hard pressed on many fronts this summer. I wish I knew why. Unless they have heard that Arathorn is dead and think we are leaderless.” He shook his head slightly to dismiss the puzzle and continued, “And you will cooperate with my seneschal, giving him his full authority and diminishing your own.”

Gilraen bit her lower lip in indecision, but knew she had no real choice. “Very well. I agree to your conditions.” Scrubbing at her face with her hands to remove the tracks of tears she breathed a long sigh of relief and essayed a tentative smile. “I believe it will get better. The raids will slow.”

Halbeleg held her eyes, his lips compressed into a thin line, until she dropped her gaze and turned away.

“I brought thirty-four men with me. I will leave twenty of them to bolster the garrison here. We will step up the patrols, and hope.”

He turned and limped towards the house. He did not look back.



The memory of the scents of the summer garden was replaced with a waft of herbs just starting to scorch. Gilraen came back to the present with a start and checked that Aragorn was deeply asleep in her arms. She carefully slid him into his bed and covered him again with the light blanket. She quickly added water to the pot on the brazier and sniffed at the surface to be sure no burnt smell lingered. Adding another handful of herbs from the basket on the floor, she gave the mixture a quick stir. As she dropped the curtain across the alcove and stepped back into the bedroom, she remembered the willow-bark steeping. If she didn’t rescue it soon, it would be too bitter. Smiling ruefully, she put her memories behind her and continued with the few tasks that remained hers. A few minutes later, Gilraen was straining the cooled mixture when she heard a tentative knock on the door of the servants’ corridor that ran along the inside wall of the suite.

“My lady? My lady?” Gilraen recognized Carlenna’s whisper. Hurrying to the door, Gilraen opened it a crack. “Shhh. Areg is still sleeping.”

“Oh, my lady, your uncle is here and he brought Master Elrond. Here! Imagine that. Master Elrond himself is in the hall. We’re all ever so excited. He’s so much better looking than I imagined. That hussy, Lissiel, is removing his armour and lingering over every buckle and begging to draw his bath. She’ll be in his bed tonight, no doubt. She tries for Elladan every time he’s here, but he’s learned to lock the door.” She drew a breath at last. “You must come down.” Carlenna’s brown eyes peered into the room around the edge of the door.

“No. Areg is still feverish.” Gilraen tried to pull the door closed.

Carlenna clutched the edge of the door to hold it open. “I will stay with him, my lady. They bid me tell you to come down now.”

Gilraen shook her head. “Areg needs me. Tell them I cannot come.”

Carlenna’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Me! Tell Lord Halbeleg and Master Elrond? I can’t tell them that, my lady. I can’t,” she wailed.

“Shhh. Don’t wake Areg.” Taking advantage of the maid’s consternation, she pulled the door quietly shut, and threw the latch.

Standing where the late afternoon sun filtered dimly through the closed shutters, she leaned her head wearily against the window frame. She tilted the slats a trifle to give a wider view of the courtyard. The bustle caused by the arrival of the visitors had died down and the yard was ordered, familiar and peaceful in the early autumn sun. The peace was deceptive. She thought she had settled the matter with Elrohir last spring when he had brought her the news of Arathorn’s death and again when Uncle Halbeleg had come in the summer. There could only be one reason for Master Elrond’s presence. He wanted to take her son away from her. Gilraen knew she had only postponed the inevitable confrontation.

A soft knock sounded again. Go away, she thought. She made no move to go to the door. After a long pause, there was another soft knock. Taking pity on her hapless maid, Gilraen crossed the room, opened the door a crack and peered around the edge.

“Just tell them... Uncle!” Gilraen faced not her timid maid, but her Uncle Halbeleg, his grey eyes apologetic but determined. He still wore the plain, quilted gambeson that provided padding under armour. Gilraen hoped the stains on it were rust and not dried blood. Halbeleg grabbed the door in a firm grip before she could pull it closed, his bulk blocking her view of the narrow servants’ corridor beyond. He easily pulled the door out of her restraining hand.

“Master Elrond heard that young Aragorn is sick. He would like to see him.” Halbeleg gestured to the hallway behind him with the hand not holding the door open.

“It is nothing. A little chill. In three days he will not even remember that he was sick.” Gilraen spoke with frosty dignity, barring the entrance to the room with her arm. “He is sleeping and should not be disturbed.“

“We will not disturb him.” Elrond stepped into view around Halbeleg. Elrond’s gambeson had not the utilitarian lines of quilting that held the padding in place on her uncle’s but elaborate scrollwork in several colors. “Permit me to see if it is as trivial as you say. I have some skill in healing.” He put his hand on Gilraen’s where it lay on the doorframe. His expression was open and friendly. “Let me help.”

Even warned that Elrond was handsome, Gilraen was surprised at how young he seemed. He looked little older than his sons. Next to her uncle, a man in his prime, Elrond seemed almost boyish, until you looked into his eyes. Those ancient eyes met hers and Gilraen’s arm dropped. She stood aside so they could enter.

She led them to the alcove and drew back the curtain. Air redolent of aromatic herbs wafted damply out of the niche. A small smokeless brazier held a pot of bubbling water near the bed. Elrond bent over and sniffed the steam that rose from the pot. He nodded appreciatively.

“He has trouble breathing?” he asked quietly.

“A stuffy nose. The herbs help to clear it.”

Elrond looked down at the small form that lay sleeping on the bed. Aragorn‘s mouth hung open and he was snoring softly. Elrond passed his hands carefully over the boy, feeling the heat of his skin. He stepped out into the bedroom and dropped the curtain back across the alcove.

“Willow bark would help to bring down the fever.”

Gilraen, her face impassive despite seething resentment, pointed out the medicine waiting on the sideboard. “I know how to care for my son.”

“No one says you do not, Gilraen,” Halbeleg said quietly moving closer to her. “But he would be safer in Rivendell, you cannot deny that.”

“I do deny it,” Gilraen hissed hotly. “This is the heart of Ranger territory. No one, nothing, can reach him here.”

Halbeleg reached out an arm to hug Gilraen, concern foremost in his eyes. She shrugged off his proffered embrace and stood defiantly with her back against the bed.

“We need to discuss this,” Halbeleg said, stepping back. “Master Elrond has come a long way. At least hear him out.”

“His time is his to waste as he pleases,” Gilraen spat. She caught herself with a small gasp, and relaxed her features into a semblance of reasonability. Giving herself a moment to compose herself, she went over to the shutter and opened it a crack allowing a thin stream of sunlight to illuminate the room. She walked over to a small table at the far side of the hearth, drew out a chair and sat down, folding her hands on the top. “I will not have it said that I am a foolish young woman who will not even listen to the counsel of the Wise. Sit, please. I was, perhaps, too overcome in my grief to properly understand when it was first proposed to take Areg to Rivendell without me. I will hear your arguments, though I do not promise to heed them.”

Halbeleg walked heavily across the room, betraying a slight limp as he moved, and drew out a chair opposite Gilraen. He groaned a little as his knee bent. He rubbed it under the heavy table drape.

“Does your wound from the spring still pain you, Uncle? I made up lots of willow-bark.”

“No, child. It is the three I’ve taken since then that give me problems. There’s been an uncommon lot of fighting this summer.”

Elrond stood behind Halbeleg and put a hand on his shoulder. “And that is the heart of the problem, Gilraen. There have been many raids into places we thought safe.”

“They’re afraid,” Halbeleg added, eyes stark at the memory of treachery. “People on our borders who have been friends for years betray us, and they sob to me their sorrow and grief at their weakness. Had they known where you were, even now an army would be before your gates. I think no land of Men is safe right now. Not here. Not anywhere.”

“Two chieftains killed in just three years, and the next heir still so young. Children of Men die so easily.” Elrond shook his head. “I would protect Aragorn, if you will let me.”

Halbeleg took Gilraen’s hand. “Good men are dying to protect you and young Areg, Gilraen. Men I can ill afford to lose.” Gilraen tried to pull her hand out from Halbeleg’s but he tightened his grip, holding it firmly. “Twenty-three dead this summer and three times that many wounded, some who will never fight again. We can’t sustain losses at that rate.” He abruptly released her hand and gestured to his gambeson. “We do not ride abroad in armour for comfort or vanity but for protection from ambush even here in, as you say, ‘the heart of Ranger territory.’”

Elrond leaned forward and put his hands on the table. “Rivendell is withdrawn from the world, but I know what passes in the lands around us. All the scouts I send out and all the information that comes to me says that the Enemy is looking for Isildur’s heirs. He gathers strength and wishes to wipe out the line of Elendil at last. Aragorn will be better protected in Rivendell than here,” Elrond said.

Gilraen’s eyes went anxiously from one face to the other seeking an assurance that was not to be found. “Tell me again, then, exactly what it is you propose.”

Elrond drew a third chair out from the table. He sat easily and his eyes held Gilraen’s. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if she had trouble understanding simple arguments. “We will take Aragorn to Rivendell and conceal his identity. He will have a new name and I will raise him as my own son. That is not so terrible a thing. I have had many boys under my care. He would be fostered with me in any case in a few years, would he not?”

“Areg is too young for fostering. He needs me now,” Gilraen whispered.

“My son is younger still, and I’d send him to safety if the Enemy was looking for him.” Halbeleg gave Gilraen a reassuring smile. “When Aragorn is a man we will tell him who he is and with my blessing he will step into his place in the Dúnedain. He will lose nothing.”

“And is there no place for me at Rivendell?” Gilraen asked, hopes rising as she addressed Elrond.

“For yourself, you would be welcome, and a time there might heal your grief,” Elrond said. “But it would be dangerous for your son. His safety lies in secrecy.”

“I swear that I will bring you news regularly, “ Halbeleg told her. “You will know how he fares. Yet we cannot hope to keep his identity secret if you are living there with him.”

Gilraen rested her forehead on her hands, feeling badgered and isolated between the two powerful men. Areg, alone, without me. It was wrong. Tears pricked behind her eyes, but she blinked them back. Fearing they would take her silence for consent, she looked up at Elrond and asked, “Who will he be?”

“We already told you we’d give him another name. You can choose it if you like,” Halbeleg said and gestured magnanimously. She knew his smile was meant to reassure her.

“Yes, yes, I understand that. He’ll be called a name without the royal ‘ar’ to betray his lineage. Who will he be?” Gilraen asked again.

Elrond was genuinely puzzled by the question. “What do you mean? Who can he be but himself?”

Gilraen pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed in exasperation. “He will not be ‘Aragorn, son of Arathorn and Gilraen’. When you are asked, ‘Where does he come from? Who are his parents?’ what will you say?”

“Nothing,” Elrond said smiling. “No one will ask. Many boys have fostered with me at Rivendell and no one has ever asked those questions.”

“No one ever had to.” Gilraen gave a mirthless snort. “Master Elrond, you have fostered fifteen generations of Chieftain’s heirs. I memorized the lists of kings and chieftains and the histories of our people like every other child of the Dúnedain and I will teach my son in his turn. I never heard that you fostered any children of Men who were not of the line of Elros.”

Elrond paused, clearly thinking. “That is true,” he admitted, “but not important. I will see to it that no one asks awkward questions.”

“Not to your face, perhaps,” she said with a small shrug. “But you will not be able to prevent them from gossiping and speculating once they leave your presence. We saw no need to keep Aragorn’s birth a secret. The news was spread far and wide, as we knew it would hearten the Rangers to know that the line of kings continued. Surely someone will make the connection between the strange boy in Elrond’s household and the heir of Isildur who would be the same age and has vanished. It will not be a secret long. And if it can not be kept anyway, why should I not be with him?”

Elrond shifted in his seat. “Aragorn, whatever name he is called by in Rivendell, will be kept hidden. Few except members of my household will ever see him. He will be safe and hidden,” Elrond repeated.

“Hidden? And will you be hiding with him, Master Elrond?” Gilraen inquired with a sarcastic edge in her voice.

Halbeleg had looked increasing irritated during this exchange. Sudden anger darkened his face and he pounded the table. “Troll’s balls, Gilraen,” he shouted, “that’s enough! Master Elrond has had the education of our chieftains for a thousand years. You’ll not insult him that way while I stand by!”

“It’s not an insult. It’s a fair question.” Gilraen leaned over the table and matched her uncle’s volume. “Arathorn sat at Elrond’s side in the halls of Rivendell and lived openly in Elrond’s household. He knew he would be the chieftain! Arathorn wasn’t a baby. He wasn’t hidden away in some elf cottage in the wilderness wondering why he was different!”

They glared at each other. Elrond moved to intervene, but a small, quavery, voice interrupted them.

“Momma?” Aragorn stood clutching the curtain to his alcove in one hand and trailing his blanket behind him in the other. His dark hair flopped untidily over his glassy, feverish eyes, and a trail of moisture dripped from his nose. He swiped the sleeve of his linen nightshirt across his face and sniffed wetly. Looking uncertainly at the strangers, he repeated his plaintive question, “Momma?”

Gilraen hurried around the table towards him. “Momma’s here, sweeting.”

Aragorn closed the distance between them with a rush. His bare feet sticking out from under the too short nightshirt, he buried his face in Gilraen’s skirts, and then raised his arms up to her.

“Up, momma, up!” he demanded.

Gilraen swooped him into her arms and his skinny limbs wrapped around her, clinging tightly. With one of Gilraen’s hands supporting his bottom and the other cradling his head, Aragorn snuggled into his mother’s shoulder and whimpered. “Feel sick.”

“Of course you do, sweeting, you’re still all hot. Momma has something to make it better.”

Gilraen shifted his weight onto her hip and started towards the sideboard. Elrond quickly stood and gestured her back into the closest chair.

“No. Please sit here. I will get it for you.” Elrond said.

At the sideboard, Elrond dipped a finger into the bowl and tasted the liquid to estimate its strength. He poured a small amount into a waiting glass and started to bring it over to the table.

“He likes a drink of water afterwards,” Gilraen called to him. Her arms were still around her son. Aragorn was leaning limply against her breast, but his eyes were fixed warily on the half-elf pouring the liquids.

Elrond poured out a glass of water from a pitcher also on the sideboard. He came back to the table and handed the small glass to Aragorn, putting the larger glass of water on the table in front of him.

“No want it,” Aragorn said with a grimace.

“Momma put a lot of honey in it this time. Drink it up all at once and you’ll hardly taste the bitter,” Gilraen told him.

Aragorn held the small glass firmly in his grip, but made no move to drink. He fixed Elrond with a hard stare.

“Not El’dan,” he announced.

“That’s right, Areg, he’s not Elladan,” Gilraen said.

“Not El’hir.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He’s not Elrohir either. This is Master Elrond. He’s Elladan’s and Elrohir’s father. And this,” she continued cutting off further questions, “is your Uncle Halbeleg. You met him before, earlier this summer. Now drink up,” Gilraen finished sternly.

Snuffling loudly, Aragorn took a small gulp of the medicine in the glass and moved to drop it onto the table. Deftly intercepting the glass before it could spill, Gilraen held it, closing her fingers around Aragorn’s hand still holding the glass.

“Drink all of it,” she ordered.

“More honey in it?” Aragorn asked hopefully.

“It has lots of honey. And you only get to lick the honey spoon when you drink it up right away without arguing. Drink.”

Heaving a huge sad sigh, Aragorn drained the medicine. Gilraen switched the glasses and he took a thirsty drink of the plain water. He slumped back against Gilraen and laid his cheek against her, his feverish eyes still fixed on the strangers. Gilraen eased the blanket from his hand and wrapped it around his bare legs and feet. She smoothed his unruly hair away from his face.

There was an awkward pause. It seemed impossible to continue the argument.

“How is it that he knows my sons?” Elrond asked at last.

“They have come by often this summer, if only for a short time each visit. They are carving him an army. Each time they come they bring him another horse or fighter or orc or troll. They are all very life-like. The first one,” Gilraen’s voice caught, but she cleared her throat and went on, “looks exactly like his father.”

Halbeleg said gruffly, “I’ve seen them working on the carvings but I didn’t know they were for Areg. It was well done of them.” His mouth twitched. “They stopped by here? No wonder they were so often late when they were looked for.”

“Would you like to show your army to Master Elrond and Uncle Halbeleg?” Gilraen asked her son.

Aragorn shook his head and buried it deeper into his mother’s dress. He clutched a fold of fabric and drew up his legs slightly, but his eyes never stopped searching the faces of the strangers.

Halbeleg moved his chair back impatiently. “Very touching, Gilraen, but the decision is made. He is going to Rivendell, will you, nill you. Pack his things. You say he’ll be well again in three days. We will leave then.”

Gilraen fought to keep her voice steady and not betray her distress. She tightened her hold on Aragorn. “My poor little son! You would take him from the only home he has ever known. Separate him from his mother with not one familiar face around him. Will there even be any other children for him to play with?“

Elrond steepled his hands on the table and looked at her, compassion foremost in his eyes. “Gilraen, we are not monsters. Aragorn will be raised as my own sons were. He will be taught to be a man and a leader of Men. He must be kept safe until he is grown, and he must be hidden away now. I understand your concerns, but babies would not be in evidence when I received visitors in any case. By the time he is old enough to sit at my side and learn statecraft, it will be accepted that he is just there. No one will expect that boy to be the heir of the Dúnedain. It would only be your presence that might remind them of the connection. ‘Aragorn’ will be rumoured dead and forgotten years ago.”

Gilraen whispered, “Forgotten. Alone.” She tightened her hold again and stared unseeing across the room, trails of hot, bitter tears rolling down her cheeks. “I will not forget.”

Squirming in Gilraen’s too tight embrace, Aragorn twisted around and put one hand on his mother’s cheek. “Momma? Why you crying?” His lower lip trembled in sympathy with her distress and tears pooled in his eyes.

Gilraen brought her attention back to her son with a start. She looked down into his troubled, grey eyes and the room blackened and faded around them.

Aragorn’s eyes open a tunnel into a suddenly knowable future, but the images flicker and twist sickeningly, meld and merge and run together, and nothing stays real long enough to grasp.

a hedge at night and the man under it is drunk and dirty, no, dead and wolves rend flesh, no, fire lights his smile and he touches a jewel at his throat, no, he lies drunk, dead, smiling…. The face writhes and changes and Gilraen’s mind reels grasping for reality, but the images slide away.

the midst of battle, ground black with the corpses of orcs and men, sky dark and dim above, orcs surge behind him to follow his charge, attack before him, behind, before, his sword swings and cleaves, heads roll, waver and blur, the shape under the blade changing from orc to man and back before the stroke can fall.… Gilraen tries to blink but her eyes are frozen on a future that twists and moves.

he waits and fear flowing out from the evil tower repels him and the fields burn at his command, no, draws him and black shapes ride to meet him, cowering, the fire and the dark merge and waver and he stays, stern eyed and grim, poised at the cusp, no, the light sweeps up and blinds her and Gilraen cannot tell which way he turns.

alone he wakes in the dark and it is still the familiar strangeness around him, his silent tears wet the pillow until dawn, no, he whimpers and familiar, loving arms cradle him to sleep, no,

alone… alone… alone… beats to the rhythm of her heart.

“Gilraen?”

Elrond’s voice sounds distant, lost in the vast darkness that surrounds her.

Her face is sheened with sweat, her body chilled and clammy, stinking of fear. Her arms clutch her sobbing son, but cannot feel him. She tries to draw breath, but her throat is closed and dry and she gasps ragged croaks that bring no relief to her air starved lungs. The room undulates.

“Gilraen!”

Elrond’s urgency penetrates the haze, but she can find no anchor to reality as it surges and changes around her.

Hard hands close around her shoulders and she looks into unearthly elven eyes.

Elrond shared, and then stripped the visions from her mind. She could breathe again as the room settled into solidity around her.

Aragorn was crying wildly against Gilraen. She looked down at him and he was only Areg again, solidly in the here and now.

Gilraen gentled her sobbing son, rocking him back and forth in her arms. “Shh, sweeting, momma’s sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Shhh. Everything’s going to be all right, Areg. Shhhh. Hush now.”

Slowly Aragorn’s sobbing ceased and he huddled in Gilraen’s arms, shuddering but quiet.

“He’ll be so alone.” Gilraen looked imploringly from Elrond, still standing in front of her, to her uncle. “He needs me. Not forever, but now, while he’s little. He needs me. So many terrible things could be.” She looked down at her son and repeated. “He needs me.” She wiped Aragorn’s tears and drippy nose with the edge of the blanket.

Halbeleg threw up his hands. “What just happened?”

“I am not sure,” Elrond said slowly, resuming his seat. “It felt like a true foreseeing, but so many, too many, futures. And contradictory. They could not all be real.” His tone became brisker, “Gilraen, have you seen things like this before?”

“No,” Gilraen replied uncertainly. “Nothing like that.” She swallowed against sudden nausea, and her face paled.

“Do you foresee things? Ever?” Elrond pressed her.

“Foresee? My mother does so, but I have never understood how to know if I have foreseen or only wished something to be. There have been only a few times I have been certain of things beyond wishing. I knew Arathorn would love me, that this baby would be a son.” She shifted Aragorn into a more secure position in her arms. “I am certain he needs me to be with him now. I don’t...” she ran out of words and trailed off. She tried again to sort out her confused impressions. “I do not think that is… It is different from…” Gilraen looked from face to face, eyes desolate. “I saw many terrible things. If that is foreseeing, I do not want the gift.” She lowered her eyes. Her stomach lurched and her mouth filled with saliva. She swallowed again.

“It is not something that can be refused.” Elrond’s voice was gentle.

“Master Elrond, are you saying that, against all common sense, she foresees that we’ll take her to Rivendell?” Halbeleg said angrily.

“No,” Elrond said and his face looked troubled. “She foresees different futures, some very terrible, and I do not understand why.”

Gilraen looked down at her son, swallowing over and over the water that rose in the throat, her eyes hopeless. “He needs me.” She squinted against the dim light piercing her dilated eyes and looked from her uncle to the elf lord starkly black and white against the glare. “I cannot bear it.”

Aragorn sighed against Gilraen’s breast. His hot, little body pressed to hers and formed a warm spot against the dank clamminess of her sweaty chemise. He reached over and tugged her arm. “Sing ‘Stars’, Momma?” he asked in a plaintive voice.

Gilraen fought down her nausea and started the melody she used to sing her son to sleep every night of his life. Unable at first to form the words of the lullaby, she wordlessly repeated soothing syllables. The familiar song calmed her, too. Yavanna save me. If it is not the separation, but that I do not let him go willingly? Gilraen found her voice.*

“…the stars and the dewfall have covered your hilltop with light. The wind in the lilies that blossom around you …” she sang quietly.

Gilraen heard the men arguing softly, but what they decided was out of her hands. Her uncle had made it clear that her wishes were secondary to the needs of the Rangers. She concentrated on the feel of her son’s trusting body held safe within the circle of her arms, fearful that it would slip again into the whirling darkness that hovered at the edge of her vision. That he lived and would grow to be a good man like his father were all the things that mattered to her.

“A ship out of shadow bears homeward by starlight.” The familiar words continued to roll out of Gilraen’s mouth without conscious thought. Aragorn’s heart beat slower now against her and his hands relaxed their grip. Gilraen breathed more easily. If only you were just my son and not the heir of the Dúnedain.

“My song shall ride home on the surf of the starlight and leap to the shores of the sky, Take wing on the wind and the odor of lilies….”

Squirreling from one half-formed plan to another, she frantically thought for some way to conceal them both in plain sight. Aragorn looked up at her trustingly and wiggled into a more comfortable position in her arms.

“Sleep well once again if you wake in the darkness, sleep knowing you are my delight. As long as the stars wheel the years round the heavens, as long as the lilies bloom white…” The song was ending and Gilraen saw a glimmer of an idea that might work. “…my darling, I kiss you good night.”

She suited her actions to the words of the song and kissed Aragorn on the forehead. It felt cooler under her lips.

“You’ve won, Gilraen,” Halbeleg‘s harsh voice cut across her moment of contentment. “We will not separate you.”

She looked up quickly and her eyes shone with joy. “I never thought it a contest, Uncle, but I thank you both.” Gilraen sighed in relief and momentarily closed her eyes. Aragorn was solid and comforting in her arms. The room was steady in the shaft of sun from the window and the future was unknown and decently hidden.

“It is agreed. We will leave for Rivendell in three days,” Elrond said.

Halbeleg shrugged. “While there was hope of concealing Aragorn, there was sense in hiding him away, but now we will take the risks ourselves rather than endanger Rivendell. They can stay here and we will provide for their safety as we always have.”

“They will still be safer under my protection in Rivendell,” Elrond said sharply. “I see no need to discard all our plans.”

Gilraen inspected her son. His face was sweaty and he was cooling rapidly in her arms. “Master Elrond,” she interrupted the new argument, “his fever’s down. Is it broken, do you think, or is it the willow bark?”

Elrond reached over. Aragorn allowed Elrond to lay his hand gently on his forehead. “Broken,” Elrond said after a minute.

Gilraen was conscious of her sweaty and smelly clothes, and Aragorn’s nightshirt growing damp under her hands as the fever left his body. “Then, for myself, I care not where we live, as long as we are together,” Gilraen said. She stood up with Aragorn in her arms. “I am a poor hostess to offer you nothing after your long ride. Please call for whatever you will. I am sure that half the household is waiting outside the door to serve you.” She gestured with her free hand to the end of the room where a door closed off the bedroom from the more public areas of the suite. “Areg needs a dry shirt. Perhaps when we come back you will be able to tell me where we will be living.” In the small dressing room off the bedchamber, Gilraen stripped the damp nightshirt off her son and sponged him clean with a warm wet cloth. Though his cheeks were still pale, his eyes were clear and had lost their feverish shine. She wrapped him in a thick linen drying sheet and sat him on a padded bench along the wall while she searched out a clean set of clothes from a basket. Aragorn had found two of his carved men tucked under the bench and was happily chattering and making up a game with them. Gilraen dressed him warmly and set him back on the bench with his toys.

Amazed as always at the resilience of children, and conscious of her own still shaky condition, Gilraen quickly unfastened her dress with trembling hands and slid out of her chemise. After washing, she pulled on clean underclothing. She sat down next to Aragorn wondering if her wild idea could possibly work. She carefully counted the months on her fingers, twice. Yes, she thought, it was just possible. She wondered if she could convince Halbeleg and Master Elrond. She stood and peered uncertainly into her clothes chest. There had to be a way to keep the Dúnedain safe, her son safe, and still be with him. If he were not Aragorn there would be no problem. To be convincing she had to look exactly right. She needed an outfit that was subtly flattering, but not inappropriate to her station. Her rummaging hands found a fold of soft, deep red wool and she pulled it from under the other garments.

Arathorn had loved this gown. He would sit in his chair by the hearth and watch her as she moved around the room doing the ordinary tasks of the evening. His eyes caressed her, sliding over her curves as the soft wool that draped her body clung and moved. She would pretend not to see the smile and the invitation in his eyes, but she would wander closer until, reaching out a swift hand, he would capture her and draw her down onto his lap. Laughing, he would pull the pins from her hair and it would cascade over his hands touching the fabric at her breast. Never again. She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. Oh, my love, forgive me. Areg is all I have left of you. I will do what I must to keep him safe.

Dressed, she inspected herself in the mirror. The gown was still flattering, though looser than she remembered, but she looked pale, tired… old. Her hand hovered over the cosmetics on the table, unused for many months, but she rejected them as too obvious. Taking up her brush, she redid her thick, black hair from its severe braids into a more flattering style and carefully pulled a tendril to wave around her face. Gilraen the Fair. Could she still earn that name? She looked at her reflection and saw great, haunted eyes, and drained, white cheeks. Practicing an artful smile, she tried to summon up the ghost of the eager girl Arathorn had married. She rubbed her cheeks and bit colour into her lips.

Taking her son’s hand she led him, clutching his toys, back into the bedroom. The men still sat at the table, but the argument seemed to be resolved. As Gilraen walked over to the men Elrond looked up at her and smiled.

“We leave for Rivendell in three days. I hope that you and Aragorn will be happy there,” he said.

“Yes. I am sure that we will be,” Gilraen responded. Relief washed over her. Now she had a place to begin her plan.

Aragorn tugged at her skirts. “Momma?” He waved the carved figures he was holding. “My men need a en’my. C’n I get some?”

“Yes. Bring the whole basket. You may play with them out here on the rug.” Aragorn scampered off into his sleeping alcove and she called after him. “And don’t touch the brazier.”

Gilraen seated herself at the table and watched as Aragorn lugged a basket of out of his niche and onto the rug. He upended the basket and a dozen carved figures poured out. Seeing him safely occupied, she turned her attention to her uncle.

“With Areg and me in Rivendell, do you think the attacks will continue?” she asked.

Halbeleg grimaced. “They will. Our enemy hates the whole of the Dúnedain. While Aragorn lives…” He stopped and made a gesture of frustration. “Aragorn must live to take his place as Chieftain of the Dúnedain.”

“Was not the plan to make it seem that Aragorn was dead?” Gilraen asked. “If the enemy hates all the Dúnedain, even if I had agreed to let Areg go to Rivendell without me, would not the attacks have continued? There are many who have some little bit of royal blood. My father is a descendant of Aranarth, even though no one would say he is in the line of succession. How would this plan have protected the Dúnedain?”

Elrond leaned forward and put his hands on the table. “There are two reasons Halbeleg leads the Rangers now,” Elrond said. “He was Arathorn’s second in command and is well able to lead them. But second, there is no connection to Isildur in his lineage and we are making sure that is known. From what information I can gather, the enemy feels that he has nothing to fear from the ‘rag-tag remnants’ of Arnor,” he bowed to Halbeleg in apology, “without the hope of an heir of Isildur to rally them. Aragorn is the last who could be considered Isildur’s heir. There will never be peace, but I believe that the worst of the attacks would have ceased if the Enemy believed Isildur’s Line was ended.”

“If you must be with him, we will not try to conceal him. We will fight as we always have,” Halbeleg said and his voice carried resignation as well as conviction. “It is nothing new.”

“As any mother must, I wish my children to grow up in safety.” Gilraen looked fondly over at Aragorn busily engaged in make-believe mayhem on the rug. Wishing for the luxury of a deep breath before the plunge, she assumed a bright smile and turned it on the Peredhil. “Would my younger son also have a welcome in Rivendell, Master Elrond?”

Elrond’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

“What?” Halbeleg demanded, outraged.

“I found Arathorn too old and stern,” Gilraen said archly, schooling her face into a bright and airy smile. “He was ugly and scarred. Someone… younger was more attractive. Once there was an heir, I could indulge myself, could I not?”

“Gilraen!” Halbeleg was shocked. “What are you saying? When? How? Arathorn trusted...” he spluttered to silence.

“Last year, I spent several months away from here,” Gilraen started.

“You were with Arathorn,’ Halbeleg interrupted. “I thought it foolish at the time to have you so near to the winter camp, but he wanted you close.”

“So he wanted you to think. You never came to see me, Uncle, or you would know the truth. I have two sons.” Gilraen ran her hand down the side of her gown, outlining her curves. “Is it so hard to believe that another man would find me desirable or that - “ Gilraen made a moue of distaste - “I would prefer another man to Arathorn when he was so dour and rarely here?”

“Who?” Halbeleg roared, standing up so abruptly that his chair crashed over.

Gilraen took a quick glance at her son who had stopped playing and was warily watching the group at the table. “It’s all right, Areg.” She signaled him to go back to his game, turned back to her uncle and continued quietly. “I will not say who his father is. He is dead. So many Rangers die. What can it matter now?” She appealed to Elrond. “Is my younger son welcome at Rivendell?”

Elrond studied her for a few long seconds, his face inscrutable. “Yes,” he said at last. “He will be welcome.”

Halbeleg stood, ominously leaning on the table.

“Good. Thank you.” Gilraen ignored her uncle’s wrath and gave a small, quirky half smile. “Then when Aragorn dies of his fever on the way to Rivendell, it will not seem odd that you will give succor and shelter to the twice grieving widow and her bastard son. It is good to know that I and my younger son would be welcome in any case.”

Halbeleg righted his chair and sat down wearily. “Gilraen, speak sense. Aragorn will not die of fever. Not here. Not on the way to Rivendell. He is better. See?” He pointed to where the boy was playing.

“Yes. He is better now, but he is hunted you tell me. The Dark Lord himself is searching to kill the last Heir of Isildur. Yet no one will care what happens to Gilraen’s bastard son.”

Elrond gave a small burst of laughter. “It is certainly not a solution I would have thought of, Gilraen. Are you certain you wish to do this?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation before she spoke the simple affirmative.

“If I understand what you are saying - you wish pass off Aragorn as his bastard younger brother,” Halbeleg said. When Gilraen nodded, he went on flatly, “It will never work. There are too many discrepancies,”

“I have thought it over carefully. I believe the story will stand up even to scrutiny. I did spend several months when Areg was only a year old near Arathorn’s camp.” Her face softened at the reminiscence. “It was like playing house. It was only Areg and I and a couple of old friends of Arathorn’s, who are loyal and will not speak against it, living in that small house in the wild. Arathorn and I wanted to be together as often as possible.” Regret twisted her features. “Mother was right. She said it was too soon, and there was no second child. But the time I was there was long enough that I could have had a child in secret. If the child was not Arathorn’s, and he did not wish to acknowledge it, I could have left him safely there. It’s not so very hard to believe, is it? You believed it quickly enough, and you know – knew – us both. And if Aragorn must seem to die to keep him safe, then I can still have my son with me.”

“A woman’s body is different when she has given birth. Your maids here would give the tale the lie.”

Gilraen shook her head. “Carlenna is… persuadable. And I did have more milk when I returned. I had fewer duties at the farm that took me away from Areg, and nursing is a joy. She could be easily convinced to tell that I had given birth. I have given birth.”

“He is too old. No one will believe him a year or more younger than he is,” Halbeleg said, pointing to Aragorn playing with his army on the rug. “My own son is six months younger and there is a great difference.”

“Now, yes, but few will see him now. Not for years. Master Elrond said that visitors or strangers would not expect to see babies in Rivendell. If we are together, I will not mind being secluded with him for a while. And in five years who is to say if he is seven or six? Boys do not all grow at the same rate. There are enough who would know the truth...” She broke off and looked at the two sets of grey eyes staring at her in amazement.

“Many will revile you for your unfaithfulness,” Halbeleg said bluntly.

Gilraen shrugged and dismissed the problem. “I will not be there to hear the gossip. I will trust you to defend me.”

“You hold your honour very lightly, Gilraen,” Halbeleg said, frowning at her.

“Lightly? What price do you put on my son’s life? Or the lives of your men who you tell me are dying to protect him? If losing my honour saves them, surely it is value well spent,” Gilraen turned determined eyes on her uncle. “And it is not truly diminished. I love Arathorn. That he is not here does not diminish my love. I know the truth, and so do you both, and so will my son someday.”

“Some will not believe he is Aragorn when he is a man,” Halbeleg still argued.

Elrond spoke. “Even if we followed our first plan, some would have been hard to convince when we produced an adult Heir after concealing him for so long. We both knew this. Having her at Rivendell now will raise questions, but it will settle problems later.” He bowed to Gilraen. “You are not what I expected from Arathorn’s too young wife. I look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”

Aragorn appeared at the table at Elrond’s side. “Wouldja like ta see my army?” Aragorn asked, wide grey eyes open in appeal.

“Very much. I understand my sons made them for you.” Elrond said.

“El’dan and El’hir made ‘em for me,” Aragorn contradicted him firmly.

Aragorn tugged Elrond out of his chair and pulled him down next to him on the rug. He picked up an exquisitely detailed man and offered it to Elrond.

“This my daddy. See? His arms ‘n’ legs move. An’ he strong and brave. Like me.”

Aragorn picked up each carving and described its characteristics to Elrond as Gilraen and Halbeleg watched.

“I’ve learned how your mind works, Gilraen. What will you tell him when he asks about his father?” Halbeleg asked her.

Elrond turned to hear her answer, carved orc forgotten in his hand.

“The truth,” Gilraen said simply. “His father was a Ranger, a good man, and he’s dead. That he was strong and brave and loved his son very much.”

Aragorn having heard this paean to his father many times rubbed his sleeve across his nose to dry a drip and tugged Elrond’s arm to get his attention back. “’N that orc don’t like sunshine.”

Halbeleg and Gilraen watched from the edge of the rug while Aragorn and Elrond set up a simple battle. Elrond moved the orcs and was soundly beaten by the Rangers.

Halbeleg laughed, “It seems you have given the Dúnedain hope for another generation, Gilraen. He has the makings of a mighty war leader, if he can already defeat Master Elrond.”

“Hope. Yes.” She studied her son fondly. He was crowing in delight as his men scattered orcs and trolls around the rug. “He is filled with hope and promise.”

“Then we will call him Estel,” Elrond decided. “Has he started learning Sindarin yet?”

“No, “Gilraen said. “Our children do not usually begin to learn it until they are three or four.”

Elrond nodded at her, and turned his smile to the boy. “Is that a good name for you? Estel?”

“I’m Areg,” Aragorn shook his head emphatically.

“Ah, that’s here. You are coming to live with me at Rivendell. It is mostly elves there and they have different names for things. These,” he gestured to the pile of orcs on the rug, “are not orcs, they are yrch when you are with the elves. The men are not Rangers. They are Dúnedain. The room does not have doors, it has ennyn. I will teach you how to speak like the elves and they will call you Estel.”

Aragorn looked suspiciously at Elrond. “Momma coming, too?”

“Yes, of course I am coming.” Gilraen shot a grateful look at Elrond and knelt down next to Aragorn on the rug. She gave her son a quick hug. “And you will call me naneth not momma. It will be fun to learn the new names of things. You are very clever and will learn them quickly. I know how to speak like the elves, too, and will help you to learn lots of new names on the ride there. ”

Aragorn smiled sunnily at Elrond. “Good. I like go places like my daddy. I be Estel with elves. Ev’vyone get diff’rent names. What name elves call you?”

Gilraen smothered a laugh at the look of surprise on Elrond’s face.

Elrond recovered his gravity. “In Rivendell you may call me adar, Estel.”

“Adar, ” Aragorn repeated. “Adar, Naneth. Estel. Yrch.” He stood up the toy Rangers on the floor in front of him. “Wanna have ‘nother battle, adar? ”



+++++++

Sindarin translations:

Areg: from royal -ar(a) and the diminutive ending -eg

mettarë the mid-winter holiday

Peredhil: Half-elven

Adar: father

Estel: hope

Halbeleg: OC. He is Ivorwen’s, Gilraen’s mother, brother and, while of all Númenorean descent, has no connection with Isildur’s line.

Gilraen’s father Dirhael is descended, in unknown genealogies, from the Chieftain Aranarth

* The song is blatantly plagiarized… ah, openly borrowed, from Poul Andersen’s novel “World Without Stars”. The melody I sang my daughters to sleep with is by Anne Passovoy. The story is of an immortal starfarer shipwrecked on a world so far out of the galaxy that no stars are present in the night sky. He sings the song to the woman he loves left back on earth. The actual name of the song is “Mary O’Meara”, but Anne’s melody is not available on the web anywhere I can find. If you search on it you get a strange folksy rendition that I don’t really like. It’s not really an awful melody, just different from the awesome soaring that is Anne’s version. Click Here if you want to hear it.

Special thanks and my top prizes go to Tanaqui, Marta and Lady Aranel without whose assistance, firm pokes with sharps sticks, help and encouragement this would never have been finished. They also have very nice shoulders that I cried on when things got rough along about draft three. Honorable mention goes to Chathol-linn who gave me encouragement and suggestions way back when this was a very nasty rough draft. Thanks are also due to Blade and Patti who provided fresh eyes at the end to make sure I overlooked nothing obvious. All errors are mine. Rotten vegetables and/or fresh flowers, suitable for throwing, can be purchased at the concession stands behind the stage. Q from puzzled reader: Aragorn is Gilraen’s bastard and they don’t want her in Rivendell? Is this some kind of strange AU? You should have warned me!

A: Short answer: No. I tried very hard to make this strictly canon based.

Long answer: Romantic ideas of a lost prince aside, it actually makes very little ‘real world’ sense to have Aragorn AND Gilraen in Rivendell while Aragorn is growing up. The most obvious solution, if Aragorn must go to Rivendell for safety, would be for Aragorn to go alone. I started with that as my premise. Elrond could probably have come up with some scenario to account for a boy living there that did not include any references to the line of Elros or Gilraen’s son.

Think of it this way: Prince Charles dies and Diana, Princess of Wales and two-year-old Prince William vanish from London. She is later known to be living with the Doge in Venice with one son, Fred, who not only is the same age as William but also is similar to him in colouring and looks. Is your first thought, “Aha! That must be William!”? Yes? No? Even if you truly believe, from some combination of naïveté and willingness to follow suggestions, that Fred isn’t really William, are you curious about the strange situation? Do you find yourself avidly following the gossip columnists to discover what happened to the missing heir and just who is Fred? Do you really think that the average Ranger or the agents of the Sauron wouldn’t think the same way?

Or this scenario: Prince Charles dies and Di goes back to her parents, remarries and has more children. Tragically, William succumbs to a fever and the line of Windsor ends. Five years later, you hear that the Doge of Venice has adopted a boy his sons found abandoned after a Saracen attack. Do you make a connection between the heir dead five years and the boy being adopted? Probably not.

How you reintroduce the heir, in either scenario, eighteen years later is a whole ‘nother problem, but we all have to work within JRRT’s framework.

The Dúnedain cared very deeply for the lineage of their chiefs. As a scattered and beleaguered people with a very long and proud history, it mattered to them, in a way it does not to most 21st century people, that their leaders were entitled to their position by being properly born to it. Gilraen wasn’t an unimportant person who could just move out after her husband died and no one would care where she went. She was considered a fitting bride for the latest in the line of Númenorean kings and important in her own right. She was descended from kings on her father’s side; and the fact that they kept track of that descent for fifteen generations tells you something about how important they thought it, and she, was as the last Chieftain’s wife.

Lots of people were bound to ask, “Where is Gilraen? Where is Aragorn?” I really don’t think the average Dúnedain would have taken “Don’t ask!” as an adequate answer and stopped thinking about it. The Rangers-in-the-field might if ordered to, but the women, the farmers and craftsmen? This was a horrible thing to happen. The Line of Númenorean Kings died out after two ages of the world! Woe unto the Men of Westernesse! Surely any hint of hope that it wasn’t true would have been seized on. Gossip and ‘common knowledge’ must have said something believable about what happened to Gilraen and Aragorn or Sauron wouldn’t have stopped looking for Isildur’s Heir. One of the main plot points of LotR is that Sauron does not find out there is a living Heir until Aragorn reveals himself in the palantir after the battle at Helm’s Deep. If toddler-Aragorn just disappeared under mysterious circumstances, why did Sauron believe Isildur’s line had died out and stop looking so hard? I refuse to believe that all the agents of the Dark Lord are so stupid that they have less intelligence and less curiosity about a mysterious disappearance than the average reader of a weekly tabloid.

Arathorn was fifty-six when he finally took a wife and Gilraen was only twenty-two. This was not only something that needed to be told to the whole Dúnedain population of the North, it was a very gossip worthy event! I’m sure everyone heard about this as fast as the news could travel. Aragorn’s birth was an equally newsworthy event. “Rejoice! The succession is assured! The line of kings in exile continues at last!”

There has to be a reason why this boy, Estel, the same age as the missing heir, looking like a typical Númenorean lord, being fostered by Elrond in Rivendell in the same manner as the previous fifteen generations of Ranger chieftains and living with his mother, Gilraen, who was the widow of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, was not believed to be Aragorn by everyone up to and including Sauron. “Whatever happened to Gilraen?’ “She’s living at Rivendell with her son.” “I thought the line of kings ended?” “Well…” There is a difficulty here.

What do we know about Gilraen?
She is ‘noble’, counts first Chieftain as direct ancestor, no one objects to her lineage, just her age.
She marries young, age 22; marriage opposed by Dirhael her father, supported by Ivorwen her mother.
She comes from a family that has foresight, although there is little evidence that she ever ‘foresaw’ things. When Aragorn says “ Then bitter will my days be and I will walk in the wild alone.” “That will indeed be your fate,” said Gilraen; but though she had in a measure the foresight of her people, she said no more to him of her foreboding…” This is the only known place where she ‘foresees’ events.
She moves to Rivendell when Aragorn is two.
She stays at Rivendell – even after Aragorn is grown, learns who he is at age 20 and leaves – even though she is well within the childbearing years of a Dúnedain. Gilraen is only 44 years old and could certainly have moved back into the Ranger controlled lands and taken up a life of her own at this point if she had wanted to.
She finally goes back to her people in Eriador. It comes in the narrative after Arwen agrees to marry Aragorn. The exact wording is “After a few years Gilraen took leave of Elrond”, so she is at least 73 years old.
She lives alone in Eriador.
She is ‘aged by care’ and probably depressed. She ‘kept no hope for herself’. She does not foresee an end to darkness and cannot face living even though her son tells her: “Yet there may be a light beyond darkness”.
She dies in the spring of 3007, age 100.


She lived in Rivendell from age twenty-six to at least age seventy-three. That’s forty-seven years in a place protected by an elven Ring and free from Shadow and she still comes out of it a sad recluse not willing or unable to take her place in the affairs of the Dúnedain. I think I can postulate a scandal in her background to account for that without straining canon too far.

As to why this never comes up in the Red Book narrative, I think Aragorn would probably be a tad touchy about his mother’s honour and the years when he thought he was not Arathorn’s son. If his mother was Arathorn’s wife but he wasn’t Arathorn’s son, even though he had to have been born when Arathorn was still alive, who was he? It is canon that Aragorn's lineage was hidden from him while he was growing up. What did they tell him, and who did he think his father was? I can't believe that he, an intelligent teenager who was being trained to think, wouldn't have come up with some very interesting ideas about that. But that’s another story.

I suppose one could argue that Rivendell was very isolated and it was unlikely that word of a boy living there would be generally known. I could have spun it that way, but it doesn’t make as interesting a story and to me it doesn’t do as a good a job of explaining Gilraen’s later behavior. YMMV.

Q: Where do all these fortresses come from?

A: Their living conditions also depend on what you want to count as canon. In HoME Tolkien says: "In the latter days of the last age [> Ere the Elder Days were ended], before the War of the Ring, there was a man named Dirhael [> Dirhoel], and his wife was Evorwen [> Ivorwen] daughter of Gilbarad, and they dwelt in a hidden fastness in the wilds of Eriador; for they were of the ancient people of the Dúnedain, that of old were kings of men, but were now fallen on darkened days...."

Someone living in ‘a hidden fastness’ is not living in a cottage or wandering around as hunter-gatherers. Webster’s Revised Unabridged dictionary defines a fastness as
2. A fast place; a stronghold; a fortress or fort; a secure retreat; a castle; as, the enemy retired to their fastnesses in the mountains.
I’m, obviously, going with the ‘hidden strongholds’ theory, not the ‘secret and wandering people’ theory to account for how they live. The Rangers as soldiers and guardians are ‘secret and wandering’, but they have ‘hidden strongholds’ to retreat to and grow food in and such.

Q: How big are these ‘great estates” anyway?

A: Not very. If you take Domesday Book numbers for amount of land that needs to be used to support roughly one hundred people it comes to about two and half square miles of land. Using a two-field system only half of that is cultivated at any given time. And some is also pasturage, etc. I assume less than 1% of the land within the old boundaries of Arnor is currently used, and it still gives me about 3,600 square miles of land that could be cultivated and support a population of about 100,000 people in about 360,000 square miles. There is still plenty of room for the wild and a reasonable Dúnedain population. I also assume they know how to use a three-field system, because they were taught by elves.

Q: Um, I can’t think of anything else.

A: That’s OK. If you have any more questions, please contact me. gwynnyd@di.org




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