Gilraen's Son

"Tell me now, Halbarad, and be not wary of your words - what of my mother?"

"She is no longer with us, my lord."

"My lord, he says; that means ill tidings. Be swift, man! If she is not on Arda, say so and have it out!"

"Then I shall, Aragorn, for withal she is not. She passed nigh on the turning of the spring; the first of March, it was, if my memory deceives me not."

The first of March, he says - what a day to die! For verily she brought her son into the world on the same, and now she leaves on't. Ai, Gilraen!

But now I cannot help but remember what she said last - ah, mother-mine, your wordplay you loved too well; 'Onen I estel Edain', she says, and so many meanings it has behind its simplicity. Estel was I, but I have not been for such a time, and Aragorn I must be, but I wish not to be - I wish only for estel, and for peace I have known that comes not to me now.

Ah, Gilraen! It was not your time to die; nay, would not have been for a time yet. Aged you were by care, and I - I was that care. I would not have it so!

"Halbarad, I would see where she spent her last days. With haste we must, for the hour grows late!"

 

See! We come now to the cottage - the cottage, your cottage, mother-mine. And I know it well - I place my hand here, so, and this is the brass hook on which in days long-gone you hung gleaming copper pans; here now, a little to my left, and this is where the rafter slices unevenly across the room, where I must stoop and walk under it. 'Tis so as I remember it, this little cottage. My mother's cottage.

 

"Gilraen's son."

 

"Ha! Who said that? Halbarad, who spoke?"

"I heard nothing, Aragorn. Art sure that -  "

"Aragorn he is called, but Elfstone, the Elessar they will call him, they whose king he will become one day. And he will be Envinyatar, the Renewer, he with the King's healing hands. Other names he will bear, though I - I cannot see them."

"Aragorn?"

I hear - and who are they? Now 'tis a woman, not old but sad, and now there are other voices, though I cannot make them out. What business have they in this cottage?

And who are they - suddenly I feel as though I know one of the voices, but then 'tis gone again before I can catch it. They seem to flow and mingle like so many long threads of silk, at once growing and dwindling. What are they?

Ha! A sudden flicker before my eyes - ai, I can almost catch a glimpse now, of the fire blazing, and the fair faces with starry eyes, and then 'tis black again. Gilraen, Gilraen, what madness is this?

This cottage - ah, there is something strange in the air about it, this strange dark cottage - this curséd cottage. For cursed it must be - I see, I see now people, strangers on the bed, midwives hustling around, and then I see mourners weeping by a bier. What is this? Is it past, or is it a foreboding of the grief yet to come?

But I fear we cannot have more grief. Already we have lost so many - and we, the Dúnedain of Arnor, we must live in hovels such as this while still in the South there is silk, and fine wine, and rich food, and there is a nobility to enjoy them. Ha! Perhaps 'tis time to claim the throne indeed.

But yet there are responsibilities with a throne - there is sacrifice with the crown. The Steward - I fear he will not (never!) give his place willingly, not to one such as I, a raggéd wanderer from the 'uncouth' North.

And now 'tis gone, the vision, the voices, as quickly as it has come. What was its purpose? For all things have a purpose, and I did not understand - was it to warn, or to remind, or to stir me into thinking? Or was it not meant for me at all, but for some other poor soul, and I saw it in his stead?

 

Gilraen, Gilraen, I leave now thy cottage, and I see thy grave - my mother's grave. It is but a small one, marked with a plain stone. No sweet resting-place for Gilraen and Arathorn together - no double stone o'er them both. And no ceremony - no splendid marble, nor rich velvet, nor procession. Why, the meanest fellow in all Gondor would receive more than just this - a simple stone, and a simple grave. Indeed, we of the North have tarried too long, reluctant to intrude upon their world. But now it must be breached, or we will fall - but perhaps if we demand leadership, we will not fall, but they.

But this I say, o mother most dear - we will prevail. Though ambition's desire be not met, we will. That it is my duty to ensure - if not for myself, then for Gilraen most fair.

 

Gilraen, Gilraen, I bid you farewell! But as I leave now, and though my resolve is true indeed, I cannot help but wish that it were not my task to bear. O curséd fate! O wretched doom! O three-times-curséd destiny!