I find Gilraen and Elrond to be absolutely fascinating characters, and I hope you enjoy my portrayal of them.  This tale takes us back in time from my other stories, but is important in the story arc for what is to come.

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“I gave Hope to the Dunedain, I have kept no hope for myself.”  Gilraen, mother of Aragorn II.  Appendix A, The Return of the King.

T.A. 2933

The heavy rains of waning autumn drenched the trio of sombre riders.  Casting a glance to the sky, the young woman pulled her heavy cloak even closer around her in an effort to ensure the protection of the precious burden she bore without complaint.  As long as her son remained warm and safe in her arms, she did not mind the rain, for the cold, dull greyness of the day seemed only fitting, and she tilted her head back slightly to welcome the water upon her face.  Unable to cry despite the desperate ache in her heart, she took some small comfort instead in the tears of the sky.

Her boy had now become the entire purpose of her continued existence, her sole reason for enduring.  He was not yet three years of age, and the whole world as he had known it had abruptly come to an end at the point of an orc’s arrow.  His father was dead.

Arathorn’s death had come as no shock to her, for she had long foreseen the day would come when the sons of Elrond would return bearing her husband’s body.  Though Arathorn had shared a bond of brotherly affection with Elladan and Elrohir since the days of his youth, she had always been wary of the two, and she had kept them at a distance.  Each time the grandly noble and wondrously fair twin sons of the half-elven lord, dressed in their fine attire and speaking with courtly grace, had swept into her village to take her husband away on another of their campaigns against the shadow, she had known in her heart it could well be his last.

Now, she was a widow at the age of twenty-six, and Aragorn, barely more than a babe, had a father no longer.  Her people no longer had their chieftain, at least not one who was yet out of swaddling.

When the party had returned from their ill-fated patrol, there was much heated debate between the sons of Elrond and the village elders concerning her son’s future and her fate.  Elladan and Elrohir had spoken in earnest of the dire situation of the Dunedain.  Their father had foreseen that the Enemy was actively seeking to eliminate the descendants of Isildur and, they argued, now that Aragorn was all that remained of his line, it was imperative that the boy be immediately secluded in secrecy in Elrond’s realm. 

The Dunedain, of course, had a long history of contact with Imladris.  In times of dire need, Lord Elrond had been most generous in offering succour to her people, and many of their chieftains had spent some years of their youth in the haven, learning warcraft and lore from the elven masters there.  However, no future chieftain had been taken at such an early age and had his contact with his own people so completely severed as Elrond’s sons now proposed.  Eventually, the village elders, included amongst them her own father, reluctantly agreed to allow the sons of Elrond to take her and her young boy away from their people to the protection of an elvish haven.  She had acquiesced, for she would have agreed to sail to Valinor itself if it would assure the safety of her only child.

She did not witness the burial of her husband.  There was no time to mourn; little time, even, to prepare.  She did not need to pack, the sons of Elrond had told her, for all she needed would be provided for her and her boy when they reached their destination.  Time was of the essence they told her, and every delay could put their lives in jeopardy.

Now, as they traveled the perilous trails between her home and theirs, she placed her son’s very life, as well as her own, in the hands of the two who had failed to protect her husband.  She cast a heated glare at the one who rode ahead of her.  As if somehow sensing the angry look directed at his back, the son of Elrond seemed to grow even more rigid in the saddle as they continued their sombre journey in silence.

Were she honest with herself, she would admit that her anger was misplaced.  She was not the only young widow amongst her people, for the days were dark indeed, and the Dunedain had grown sadly accustomed to the reality of untimely death.  She knew her husband well, and, under the influence of the sons of Elrond or not, nothing would have kept Arathorn from riding out against the Enemy with his men.  He was their chieftain, and his sense of honour was far too strong for him to ask of others what he was unwilling to do himself.  For now, however, her grief was still too close and, in her sorrow and her pain, she sought an easy target upon which to pin the blame.

The pace of their flight to safety had been relentless and her entire body ached from the strain of the journey.  Despite many offers from the twin who spoke in gentler tones to carry her precious burden, she had allowed neither to take her child.  They rode in single file, with the twin who seemed inclined to take charge riding at the front of the solemn procession.  The other followed closely behind her, as he had done since the beginning of their travels.  Both remained ever vigilant, their swords at the ready.

No words had passed between them for many hours.  Even young Aragorn, sensing the gravity of the situation, had remained silent.  Finally, now, he slept fitfully in her embrace, his head resting against her chest.  He was frightened and confused; she could feel the tension in his small body and the unnaturally rapid pace of his heart.   

Eventually, they came upon a valley that had been hidden to her eyes until they were directly above it and they carefully made their way down the steep winding path which led them into a forest of pines.  Only now did the sons of Elrond relax their guard, if but a little.  The trail widened slightly and the twin in the lead allowed his pace to slow as the one who had long guarded her back brought himself to ride at her side.  She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the trail as he turned his head to speak to her softly, relief evident in his voice:  “Lady Gilraen, we now approach Imladris.”

She acknowledged him with a slight tip of her head, though his words were unnecessary.  She could feel a change in the forest around her, for while the day remained grey and the rain continued, the air felt lighter somehow, less oppressive, and she took in a deep breath.  A sense of peace pervaded these woods, and though it brought no peace to her heart, she was relieved to feel Aragorn relax slightly in her arms.

After a time, they came to a clearing in the trees beside the bank of a river that was running rapidly and gurgling noisily under the heavy rains of late autumn.  All around her, from the very trees it seemed, she could hear soft singing.  The voices were glorious and sublime, the likes of which she had never before heard, and although the song was sung too softly for her to decipher the words, the tone was sombre and sorrowful.  She imagined that this was some form of elven greeting and, perhaps, a lament for her dead husband. 

Her mind turned to thoughts of her village, her home.  What were her friends and family doing now?  While, no doubt, they were still deeply in mourning, they were not climbing trees and singing, of that she was quite certain.  Autumn was waning and the days were growing colder.  That meant increased labour, for winter brought even greater hardship.  The crops had to be fully harvested and preserved if they were to survive the coldest months without hunger.  She dearly wished she could be there to lend her hand, for every able body was needed at this time of year.

She was drawn from her thoughts by the quiet voice of the twin who now stood beside her:  “We must dismount and walk our horses over the bridge, my Lady.  It is quite narrow, and the only crossing on the river.  Please allow me to aid you with your son.”

After a moments hesitation, she carefully passed her waking child to the twin just long enough to allow herself to dismount, before she immediately took the boy in her arms again.  “I will carry my son.”

He conceded with a bow of his head.  “Permit me to lead your horse then.”

The stone bridge was indeed very narrow; so narrow, in fact, that they were required to cross slowly in single file.  Quite an intelligent design from a defensive point of view, she took note, and wondered briefly if Imladris had ever in its long history had need to defend itself.

They continued in silence on foot, and she was most glad for the opportunity to stretch her legs.  Soon the buildings of Imladris came into view amongst the trees.  Although Arathorn had spoken warmly of the elven refuge where he had spent a few years of his youth, no poetic descriptions that she had heard of its beauty could quite prepare her for what she saw now before her eyes.

It was a city of air and water.  Constructed of highly-polished and intricately carved thin beams of wood, the buildings were open and airy, almost ethereal, against the heavy mass of the tree-lined mountain that formed one side of the valley.  They were not merely dwellings, for each one was a work of art to her:  ornate and grand, yet simple and natural; solid and timeless, yet light and delicate.  Several waterfalls of varying heights cascaded down the cliffs, and streams, making their way to the river in the middle of the valley, meandered between and even through the buildings.  Everything was in balance and harmony, and the structures seemed to grow out of the very trees and the air and the water all around them. 

She felt movement in her arms and looked down to see Aragorn peering out from between the folds of her cloak.  Though his mouth was hanging open, he made not a sound, and she nearly smiled at his awestruck expression of childish wonder until she realized that her face likely bore a very similar countenance.

They soon arrived at what she thought to be the main house, and, despite the foul weather, its doors were flung open wide, as if in greeting.  As they approached, a figure, seeming to her an apparition, emerged from the doorway and glided down the stairs to stand directly before her. 

Not for the first time this day, she found herself gaping in wonder.  The being appeared to have physical form, for she could see that he was tall, lithe, and strong, and wondrously fair of face with long golden hair; and yet, to her it was as though the very sun had lowered itself from the heavens to greet her.  This translucent corporeal shell seemed barely able to contain the pure white light within, and she had to restrain her ardent desire to touch the empyreal vision before her eyes to assure herself that this was in fact a thing of flesh and blood.

She was roused from her reverie by the melodious sound of a soft, lyrical voice:  “Lady Gilraen, I am Glorfindel and I welcome you to Imladris, though I regret deeply that my welcome can not be under better circumstances.”

Then, the golden elf lowered his head, closing his eyes and placing his right fist against his chest, as he continued:  “Imladris grieves with you.”

These words made her ire rise.  What did this creature of pure light know of her grief and why did he demean them both with such trite and empty phrases of duplicitous bereavement?  She bit back the angry retort on the tip of her tongue and instead said nothing in response.

He raised his head and again turned his eyes to her.  Her breath caught in her throat.  She saw now upon this face untouched by age the raw and undisguised sorrow of ages.  It was as though he had lowered a veil and opened himself to her, permitting her a rare glimpse into the fathomless depths of his soul.  She then knew with certainty that he spoke with the utmost sincerity and respect, his voice like the most sorrowful, yet most beautiful music she had ever heard, as he added softly:  “I grieve with you, my Lady.”

Deeply moved, she knew not what to say.  At that moment, however, she was spared from the need to respond by a small arm emerging from her cloak and making its sure way toward the beautiful, and very tempting, golden strands of hair within its reach.  She gently, yet effectively, contained Aragorn’s small hand within her own as the boy peeked his head further out from his mother’s cloak.

At this, Glorfindel suddenly smiled and, despite the ceaseless rain, the day grew brighter.  “And what do we have here?” asked a now light and merry voice.

“I Aragorn,” answered the toddler proudly as he readily returned the smile.

“Indeed you are,” came the pensive response as a pale hand reached out to softly stroke unruly stands of curly dark hair.  “You are your father’s son.”

Then Glorfindel turned to look at her and she could see that the veil was again in place, and his face displayed little emotion as he said kindly:  “Please, come with me now, for Elrond, the master of this house, awaits you inside to offer what comfort he can in this time of grief.”

Much to her relief, the elf did not ask to carry her son, but rather held out his arm to her.  Resting Aragorn on her hip with her left arm, she accepted his offer with a slight bow of her head, looping her other arm in his.  She was grateful for his steady support as they mounted the stairs and entered the house, for, while she was not one to swoon, at this moment she had the very disconcerting feeling that her legs might fail her.

She focused her attention on the surroundings.  The grand hall through which Glorfindel now led her was adorned with antiquities of all kinds:  paintings and portraits dating back to the second age; ancient sculptures and statues; fine, delicately crafted pottery which looked to be hundreds, if not thousands of years old.  Aragorn, usually quite an active boy, began to squirm in her arms, indicating his desire to get down.  She held him firmly, for this was no place for a curious toddler.

As she marveled at the finery all around her, her mind again turned to thoughts of home.  She found herself thinking of the food that could fill the larders, and the warm clothes that could cover the backs of the children in her village with but a tiny portion of the wealth of Lord Elrond, friend to the Dunedain.  With a slight shake of her head, she firmly turned her mind from that path.  No good could come from such thoughts, particularly not when she was now directly dependent upon the charity of this elf Lord, perhaps for her son’s very survival.

They stopped at a finely engraved massive oak door, and before Glorfindel could knock, she heard a voice from inside. “Enter.”

Glorfindel brought her into a large study, laden with ancient volumes and tomes which contained within the history of millennia.  There she met for the first time the Lord of Imladris.

He stood tall and straight, mighty in stature, and as fair as the most noble of elf lords.  His long hair was as dark as a moonless night.  In his grey eyes was wisdom, and, though his face seemed ageless, she saw borne upon it the memory of many a profound grief.  Yet, despite the sorrow he bore in his countenance, there was about him a sense of serene kindness that was a balm to her heavy heart.

“Father…,” she heard a rough voice and only now did she realize that the sons of Elrond had followed her and Glorfindel into their father’s study.  She had not brought herself to look upon the faces of the twins since they had returned to her village with Arathorn’s body and now, as she turned her gaze on them, she saw for the first time the true depth of their anguish.

The father tenderly wrapped his arms around the one who had spoken, and the son seemed to slump wearily into his embrace, as Elrond whispered quiet words into his ear. 

The other twin remained standing rigidly and she could see the tension in his body as he spoke with agitation:  “Father, there is much to discuss…”

Elrond turned to his other son, and there was great affection, yet firm authority in his tone as he responded calmly:  “It will wait till the morrow, Elladan.  For now, I will see to the comfort of our guests.  You would all benefit greatly from some rest.”

With that, Lord Elrond turned to her, taking her hand in his own as he spoke:  “Lady Gilraen,” and then he addressed the child she held in her arm with a deep bow, “and Lord Aragorn.”  This brought a smile to her little boy’s face.  “I welcome you to our home.  It is my most sincere desire that you will find some measure of comfort here.”  He gestured toward a large sofa near the hearth, in which a fire burned brightly.  “Please have a seat by the fire, for you must be cold and weary.”

Suddenly feeling weary to her very bones, she gratefully sank into the comfortable sofa, keeping Aragorn firmly on her lap despite his protests to get down, and she lowered her eyes deferentially as she responded:  “I thank-you for your hospitality, my Lord.”

“Please, call me Elrond, my Lady.”  His voice was kind and his words warmed her spirits more than the fire could.

She looked up at him again.  “Only if you will call me Gilraen.”

With a bow of his head and a slight smile on his lips, Elrond conceded.  “As you wish, Gilraen.” 

He poured a small amount of a clear liquor from a silver flask into a goblet, which he then gave to her.  “Please drink this.  You will find it quite refreshing.”

She accepted the goblet and took a small sip.  Her eyes widened in surprise, for, though the liquid had no taste on her tongue, she felt warmed and invigorated by it, and as she drained the rest of the glass, she was much revived.  “I thank-you, Elrond.  I do feel better.”

“You are very welcome.  If you wish now to refresh and take some rest, it would be my honour to show you to your rooms.”

She could think of nothing she desired more than to be alone with her son and her grief and she hoped her face did not betray her eagerness too keenly as she responded:  “That would be most appreciated.”

Elrond offered his arm and led them from the room.  After giving Aragorn strict instructions not to touch a thing, she permitted him to walk at her side, though she still kept a firm grasp on his hand.  She was reluctant to admit it, but he was the only familiar thing around her, and he felt to her like a lifeline.

They were brought to a suite of rooms far more lavish than anything she had before seen.  There was a sitting room, with a fire burning in the hearth and a table laid with what to her was a feast.  Off the sitting room, there were two bedrooms, one containing a small bed with side railings, suitable for Aragorn, and a bathing chamber containing a large metal tub that she could see had been filled with warm water, still steaming.  Several changes of clothing had been laid out for them both, as well as some small carved wooden animals, much to Aragorn’s delight.  She marveled at how all had been prepared so well for them in such short order.

“I hope you will find this suitable,” said Elrond as he showed her around.

“It is more than suitable.  I thank-you again for the hospitality that you have shown to me and my son.”

“You need not thank me.  We will speak again in the morning, when you feel rested.” 

He then introduced her to the elf maiden who was placing a vase of fresh flowers on the center of the table.  “This is Mereniel.  If you have need of anything, just ask it of her.”

“I can think of nothing I could possibly need.”

Mereniel spoke kindly:  “If you need my assistance for any reason, my Lady, please just open your door and I will be at your side.”  With a warm smile and a deep bow, the maiden left the room, and Elrond followed her, closing the door behind him.

Releasing a deep sigh, Gilraen sank into a chair at the table.  She was numb from weariness and grief.  Her husband was dead, her family was far removed from her, and she felt very much alone in a foreign land.  She wanted nothing more than to give in to her sorrow and move no more, but she could not, for she had her boy to care for.  She could not fail her son, he was all she had left.  He was now her whole world.

With great effort she turned her attention again to her child.  Aragorn, happily playing with his new toys, seemed quite content in these strange surroundings.  She managed to get him to sit at the table, and she was most relived to see him eat heartily.  The food, though more elaborate than she was accustomed to, had a wonderful aroma, but she found that she could not bring herself to dine with her son. 

After bathing Aragorn in the wonderfully warm water of the large tub, and finally convincing him to get out, they both dressed in thick, soft nightclothes which fit as though they were made for them.  She brought her son into the big bed with her, holding him close.  The bedding was of the finest cloth she had ever seen; intricately embroidered yet soft and warm and beautifully scented.  Although Aragorn was still excited by all that had happened that day and he squirmed in her arms, he was also deeply exhausted and, after a brief tale of brave lords and beautiful ladies, he was soon fast asleep.

She remained awake long into the night, listening to the deep, rhythmic breathing of her son in his peaceful sleep.  Outside the last homely house, the heavy rains continued unabated.  When she closed her eyes and listened, the lonesome and steady sound made by the drops of water hitting the roof transported her to a stormy night in the small but sturdy and comfortable home she had shared with her child and her husband.  It was as though she were back there, and Arathorn lay in the bed with her, and Aragorn was curled safely between them.  For the first time since her husband’s death, Gilraen wept, until sleep finally claimed her.

Coming up in the next chapter:  a conversation between a half-elven Lord and his sons.  Please leave a review.  Thanks.

Here, finally we get a glimpse of the relationship between Elrond and his sons.  It may not be what you are used to, but it is internally consistent with the characters as I have developed them and at least believable in terms of the few canon facts concerning the twins that we see in Tolkien.  Remember, they are all deeply grieving at this point.   I would love to hear your thoughts and reactions.

The storm continued unabated and the wind blew in strong gusts, pushing the rain under the cover of the balcony upon which he stood.  He reveled in the sensation of water and air upon his face as he closed his eyes and listened.  In storms long past, he would stand in this spot with Celebrian and together they would savour the roar of the rain and the howl of the wind, warm and secure in the comfort of each other’s arms.  How long he had remained there he knew not.  The sky had begun to lighten slightly in the east, heralding the approach of another new day, but he paid it little heed, for his head and his heart were turned steadfastly to the west.

He was drawn from his thoughts by the sensation that he was no longer alone, and though he heard no sound, he knew that a familiar figure approached.

“You have lingered here throughout the night, Elrond?”  The voice was warm, but tinged with concern.

He neither turned his head nor opened his eyes as he responded quietly:  “If the dawn is indeed breaking, then it must be so.”

“What of your sons?  Have you yet spoken with them?”

“Nay, I sent them to bathe and to rest before we meet again.  They are weary with grief, and Elladan will benefit from some time to think before he speaks.”

“Do you truly believe that time to think will slow his tongue, my friend?”

Elrond responded to the light tone in the query with a slight smile as he turned finally to look at the one who spoke.  “I can always have hope, Glorfindel.”

A hand came to rest protectively on Elrond’s shoulder, and though the smile was readily returned, concern was clearly written upon the golden face.  “You, too, are deeply weary and greatly in need of rest.”

In the comforting presence of his most trusted friend, Elrond felt no need for pretense, and he allowed his fatigue to show in his countenance as he responded: “This weariness has endured for over four hundred years, though I fear it is not yet my time to rest.”  His eyes were drawn again towards the west as he added wistfully:  “Perhaps, soon...”

Glorfindel turned his head to follow his friend’s gaze. “Do you foresee that our time here draws now to an end?” 

Closing his eyes, Elrond grasped at tenuous images through the mists of his inner vision.  With a slight frown, he shook his head in frustration.  “Little is clear to me.  Choices will soon be made and actions taken.  Events will be set in motion, and, like a boulder dislodged from its precarious position at the top of a cliff, will gain momentum, becoming as an unstoppable force hurtling toward its inevitable conclusion, be it for good or ill. Though darkness envelopes the land and hope fades, hope is not completely lost, for from the shadows a path may yet be forged and light may emerge.”

He opened his eyes again to look at Glorfindel directly as he continued:  “This I know: the young son of Arathorn will have a vital role to play in what is to come.  The Enemy fears greatly the line of Isildur and seeks relentlessly to eliminate his heirs.”

Glorfindel was silent for a time before he spoke again.  “It is good then that Aragorn and his mother were brought to your protection without delay.  Elladan chose wisely.”

A very slight smile played again at the corners of Elrond’s lips.  “We may at times be loathe to admit it, but insight often lurks behind the hasty decisions of my eldest son. His foresight is a gift to him, though he attempts to resist and deny it.  He needs simply to learn how to temper his words and actions with greater patience.”

Glorfindel smiled at these words.  “Tis true, ‘patient’ is not the first word which comes to my mind when I think of the elder of your twins.”

The two then turned their eyes outward and their thoughts inward, and they stood for a while in the comfortable silence of old friends, until Glorfindel spoke, his tone now sombre:  “What of Lady Gilraen?  This has all been most difficult for her.  How do you believe she will fare?”

Elrond responded quietly, his voice betraying both his true sorrow and his deep respect.  “When I took leave of her in her rooms, she was somehow managing to keep hold of her composure despite her grief, the upheaval of the whole of her life, and the loss of almost all that she holds dear.  Though she is very young, she carries within her a great strength.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning a landscape that, while so intimately familiar to him, must seem so very foreign to the one of whom he spoke.  “She believes her son to be all that is left to her, and she holds to him tightly.  She feels so very lost and lonely, and while she needs some time to find release from her grief in solitude, we must not leave her alone too long.  With our help, she will learn to adapt.  I know not if she will ever believe herself to be truly at home amongst us, though I hope it will be so.”

Glorfindel, too, cast his gaze over the beauty of Imladris as he reflected quietly:  “At times, I find I overlook the remarkable resilience of the Second Born.” 

Elrond smiled slightly.  “I have seen many a mortal grieve profoundly and yet recover from their loss.  Men have been gifted with many qualities that the First Born tend to disregard.”

Silence reigned again, though Elrond could read in Glorfindel’s posture that their conversation was not yet over, and he waited patiently for his friend to give voice to whatever thoughts still pressed at his mind.

In due course, Glorfindel spoke, turning his head slightly to give Elrond a sideways glance.  “I believe that Arwen would have enjoyed meeting Lady Gilraen, and no doubt, could have helped to ease the poor Lady’s transition to her new life, but as you have sent your daughter away again to Lorien, unfortunately that can not be.”

Well Elrond knew his old friend, but this turn in the conversation caught him off his guard.  While the course of Glorfindel’s words seemed at times to change as rapidly as his moods,  nothing he expressed, even the seemingly most trite of sentiments, was without careful consideration and greater purpose.  The challenge lay in deciphering the deeper meaning behind the words that were spoken.

Elrond remained silent and, though he could feel his friend’s eyes upon him, his own were fixed upon an indistinct point in the horizon.  Glorfindel spoke out of concern for him, this he understood, but even if he wished to, he could not adequately explain the reason behind his actions.  How could he account for his strong desire to sequester Arwen from the presence of this young boy, to keep all knowledge of his precious daughter from this child of Men? 

Finally, he replied with an answer, that while superficially the truth, did not begin to address the true heart of the matter:  “You well know, Glorfindel, that Arwen is far more content when she is with her kin in Lorien.  In Imladris, she tries to maintain a joyful demeanor largely for my sake, but there are too many painful memories tied to this place for her to find true happiness here.”

Clearly not satisfied with the response, Glorfindel turned to study Elrond intently as he pressed the issue:  “And yet, many times over these past few hundred years you have bemoaned the lack of Arwen’s presence in these halls and wished dearly for her return.  Finally, she returned to you and, for all I could see, she was truly happy to be back in her home, only to have you send her away again after a mere score of years.  I can not help but wonder at the timing.”

The words hung heavily in the air between them.  It was rare indeed that Elrond was at a loss for a well-reasoned response.  He had been gifted with great wisdom and foresight, but Glorfindel had always displayed an impressive ability to see past the surface and effectively arrive at the truth which lies beneath, and Elrond found himself questioning his own motives.  Why was this so difficult for him to contemplate, even within his own mind?  What did he so fear?

He was saved from the need to answer by a tugging on his awareness, and he turned his head toward the closed door of his study.  “I am afraid, my friend, that our conversation must wait, for my sons now approach, and I believe that they are greatly in need of my counsel, if they are but willing to listen.”

With these words, there came, surely enough, a strong, decisive knock upon the heavy oak door.  Glorfindel paused long enough to cast Elrond a last look before he passed from the balcony and through the study to answer the summons.

Elladan entered the room without ceremony, followed closely by Elrohir, and Elrond took a moment to study the two with a father’s eye.  He could see that they had washed and changed, and perhaps tried to rest, but both still looked haggard and weary, and Elrond knew that they were suffering greatly.  They were deeply affected by Arathorn’s death.

As Arwen had fled Imladris after Celebrian’s departure across the sea, so too had his sons; though whereas she had turned to the comfort of her mother’s mother in Lorien, they had found release from their grief by twining their fates with those of far more distant kin.  Each time they returned to Imladris from one of their increasingly long sojourns with the Dunedain, bearing ill news of the spread of evil and the ever-worsening situation of the mortal descendants of their father’s brother, they had aged again in Elrond’s eyes.  It was not a tale of years that showed upon their faces, but rather a far more pervasive aging from within.

Without so much as a sideways glance towards Glorfindel, Elladan approached his father and spoke, his voice tense and urgent.  “We have much to discuss...”

“And I will leave you to your council, after I wish you all a good day, of course,”  said Glorfindel with a slight bow of his head.  He then exited the room, closing the door behind him and leaving the father alone with his sons.

Elrond took a deep breath before he addressed them:  “Tell me all that has happened, my sons.”

Elladan spoke for them, as Elrond knew he would.  “It was an ambush.  Arathorn was killed instantly by an orc arrow through his eye.  We were taken by surprise, for the orcs employed tactics we had never before seen in their kind.  Each time we engage them in battle, their actions are increasingly more purposeful and planned, and far less the result of blind rage.  Their strength is growing and they are becoming ever more bold.”

As Elladan recounted the details of their latest fatal encounter with the enemy, Elrond could hear the guilt and sorrow in his voice.  Elrohir remained silent and still, warily watching in turn his father and his brother, who had begun to pace the room in agitation.

Elladan paused briefly, shaking his head slightly before he continued.  “This battle was all the more unusual in that Elrohir and I were clearly not the intended target of their attack.  Until recently, we have always been singled out by orcs as the only elves in a group of men, and inevitably we faced the brunt of their fury.  This time, they seemed to focus their attack instead on the men, and Arathorn in particular.  It is no coincidence that the heirs of Isildur are falling in these battles, for I believe that the enemy is actively seeking them out.”

Elrond nodded his head slightly, as if in confirmation.  “I have seen this, too.”

At these words, Elladan stopped his pacing and turned to look at Elrond directly.  “How can you have seen this father, when you are never there?”

“Elladan...”  Elrohir stepped forward slightly, and spoke his twin’s name with a note of warning, as if he were trying to contain his brother’s words.

With defiance in his posture, Elladan did not acknowledge his brother but, rather, kept his gaze fixed firmly upon his father, awaiting a response.

Elrond met his son’s eyes evenly as he answered softly:  “There are other ways of seeing, Elladan, as you would well know, if you would only accept your gift and learn from it.  At times, you act far too rashly, my son, and without due consideration.”

Elladan’s glare grew even more heated. “You say I act too rashly, but what of you?  You are always thinking and waiting, never acting!  You remain here, safe within the comfort of your fine haven, biding your time, and you wait.  What do you wait for, father?  For all your foresight and your visions and your dreams to come to fruition?  For a sign, some small symbol or token, that doom is near at hand?  How will you know?”

As he spoke, his voice grew louder, until it became an angry shout that reverberated through the room:  “While you endlessly wait, good men die!”

Elladan then turned away and he was silent for a moment, his head bowed and his eyes closed tightly.  There was a tremor in his voice when he spoke again, his words now barely more than a whisper. “So many good men have died in the fight against the Shadow.  Ever does Its strength grow and Its greedy reach further foul the land.  Ever does It claim more sons from their parents, husbands from their wives, fathers from their sons. Mothers from their children!” 

Elladan turned quickly to look at the face of his father, piercing him with accusing eyes.  “You have waited for many generations of men, always holding in your heart the hope for change, but never holding in your hands a sword to bring about victory!”

With these words, Elladan again fell silent, and all that could be heard in the room was the sound of heavy, ragged breathing, as he closed his eyes and stood rigidly, his body tense and trembling, his hands clenched in fists.  Though Elrohir moved forward to place a hand on his shoulder, he recoiled from the touch, rejecting the comfort offered.  No one spoke. 

Then Elladan acted in a manner that Elrond did not expect.  His eldest son took to his knee, turning desperate eyes upon his father, and Elrond could see the barely restrained tears there as he pled in earnest:  “I implore you, father, I beg of you, wait no longer!  Unleash now the full strength of Imladris against our enemies, before their forces are too strong to be defeated!”   

Elrond’s heart clenched at the sight of his noble and brave son on his knees before him, and he knelt to join Elladan on the floor.  Taking Elladan’s hands in his own and looking him directly in the eyes, Elrond spoke to him softly, his own voice pleading for his son’s understanding:  “Our hope for victory does not lie in the strength of our arms, this you know in your heart, Elladan, if you would only listen.  There is much greater evil at work here than mere orcs, goblins, and trolls, and I fear that the very heart of our Enemy can not be stopped by force alone.  Some victories can not be won at the point of a sword, my son.”

With a vehement shake of his head, Elladan pulled his hands free from Elrond’s grasp and hastily stood again, backing away from his father as he responded harshly: “No victory will ever be won by doing nothing!”

Raising himself from the floor, Elrond answered quietly, his voice betraying his hurt at his own son’s harsh words.  “You accuse me of doing nothing?  I have lingered here in Middle Earth long past the point that my heart would bid me leave and I have kept Imladris not only as a place of knowledge and a haven of peace, but also as a beacon of hope.  Here, I have helped to protect, teach, and train many generations of my brother’s kin.  I have preserved their history through hard times, keeping them strong in the memory of who they are, and maintaining their hope for the future.”  

Fixing his gaze on his son and willing him to understand, Elrond spoke in earnest:  “Hope is a powerful force, Elladan, do not turn your back upon it.”

Elladan’s shoulders slumped despondently in response, and he spoke quietly now, as if in resignation:  “Hope is all but lost to us, father.  We have failed your brother’s line.  We have failed our very kin.”

With that, he turned and fled the room, closing the door soundly behind him.  Both his brother and his father called out to him, but he did not return, nor did he acknowledge their pleas.

Near oppressive silence followed Elladan’s hasty departure.  Neither the father nor the remaining son moved nor spoke, but rather, each looked intently at the other, unsure of what to do or to say to heal these hurts.

 Finally, Elrohir, looking more weary and vulnerable than he ever had since his mother’s departure, spoke, his voice shaky:  “Forgive him his harsh words, father.  His grief loosens his tongue.”

In an effort to ease his son’s distress, Elrond managed a slight smile as he responded:  “Your brother has never been one to withhold his thoughts, even in the best of times, and now, my son, is not the best of times.”

With those words, Elrond opened his arms to his son and Elrohir gratefully accepted, again slumping wearily into his father’s embrace.  As Elrond offered what comfort he could, he turned his head to look through the open balcony beyond his study.  Morning had fully broken, and, yet, the sky remained dark and grey, and the heavy rains continued.  As he stared out into the gloom of another stormy day, however, Elrond could see in the far horizon a point at which the clouds were lightening and lifting slightly, taking upon them the yellow glow that was the promise of light to come.

Holding Elrohir firmly, he turned again to whisper in his son’s ear:  “I know your heart is heavy with grief for all that is lost and you worry deeply for your brother,  but mark now my words and take some comfort in them:  Elladan will find his hope again.”

Please take the time to review.  I love to know what you think. 

Here, finally, is chapter three.  I apologize for the delay, but, unfortunately “real life” gets in the way sometimes.

I hope you enjoy.  If you do, let me know why, if you don’t, let me know that too.  Reviews are always most appreciated.

Her eyes still closed in sleep, Gilraen smiled as she snuggled deeper into the soft cocoon of feathery blankets with a contented sigh.   She lingered in the hazy world between dreams and reality, not wishing to leave, for here she felt warm and safe, and enveloped  in a tender embrace.  Arathorn.  Inhaling deeply, she could smell him, so close, and her body tingled in anticipation. 

With growing excitement she waited, but no touch followed.  She felt no pressure of lips which claimed hers possessively as their own.  There were no strong but gentle hands to reverently caress her flesh.

Her sigh became one of frustration.  Why would he tease her so?  Why would he deny her the release she now so desperately sought?  She struggled against the paralyzing grip of sleep to move her arms, to reach out and find her lover, but her hands met only the fabric of fine blankets which suddenly felt so very foreign to her. 

Something was not right.  Frowning in confusion, she fought to clear her mind of the last foggy remnants of her dream world.  Finally able to open her eyes, she blinked against the light of day, and her thoughts raced as she tried to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. 

Memories flooded back in an instant, and she struggled for breath, for it seemed as though she would drown.  Arathorn was dead.  Never again would she feel his touch.

She was alone in a sumptuously large bed, surrounded by empty finery.  Alone.  For the second time in as many moments her mind reeled from the shock of sudden recollection and a jolt of utter panic raced through her body.  Aragorn!  Where was Aragorn?  Had he been taken from her too?

Desperate to find her son, she attempted to flee the now oppressive bed only to find that she was hindered in her escape.  The thick, luxurious blankets, which had felt so safe and warm mere moments before, now took on a far more sinister mien as they twined around her, smothering her in their tight hold.  She fought with a will borne of pure terror to free herself from the tangle of bedding, and, finally succeeding, she stumbled from the bed, calling Aragorn’s name as she ran from the room.

She found her boy laying upon the floor of the parlor in their grand suite of rooms in Master Elrond’s house, quietly playing with his new toys.  She fell to her knees and snatched him up, pressing him to her chest as if he might vanish from within her very arms.  “Aragorn!  Never do that again!”  Her voice was harsh.

“You hurting me, mommy.”

She struggled to calm her racing heart and, though she loosened her grip, she did not let go.  She could feel her little boy’s confusion and fear at seeing his mother in such a state and she scolded herself for her weakness as tears came unbidden to her eyes. 

Aragorn was clearly trying to hold back his own tears as a small chubby hand came to rest upon her cheek.  “Don’t cry mommy.  I sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, she spoke again, her voice calmer now.  “I am sorry, Aragorn.  You did no wrong, but I must always know where you are.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, mommy,” Aragorn turned his eyes to the floor as he responded quietly, and Gilraen knew that he could not possibly understand.

A moment of silence followed as she continued to embrace her son, breathing in deeply the scent of him, and rocking him gently to calm them both, until Aragorn pulled back to look at her with a very serious expression upon his little face.  “Mommy, when we go home?”

The innocent question threatened to undo her again, though she managed to keep her composure as she responded with the only answer she could truthfully give:  “I do not know, my boy.  Perhaps not for a long time.”

Clearly struggling to make sense of what was happening, Aragorn continued to study her intently.  “I miss daddy.  When we see daddy?”

Gilraen closed her eyes and released a shaky breath.  She had expected the question would come, though still she felt ill-prepared to answer.  Aragorn had already been told that his father was dead, but how could such a young child possibly grasp the true meaning of the word?  How could he possibly understand the absolute permanence of death?

Opening her eyes again, she reached out with a trembling hand to lightly stroke her son’s unruly hair, so much like his father’s.  “Oh, Aragorn, you know that your daddy loves you very much,” her voice faltered,  “but we will not see him again.”

Aragorn’s eyes grew wider as he uttered that most troublesome one-word question that is the domain of all two year olds:  “Why?”

The tears that still rimmed her eyes threatened to spill again.  “Daddy is dead.  He has gone to a place where you can not go.”  She wrapped her arms more firmly around her son in a protective hold.  “Not for a very long time.”

The boy’s brows furrowed in a heart-wrenching impersonation of his father as he thought for a moment before responding crossly:  “Daddy should not go!  Mommy sad.”

At this, Gilraen lost the battle to contain her tears as she pulled him close and whispered in his ear.  “Do not blame your father, Aragorn.  Daddy did not want to leave us.  Not even mommies and daddies can control all that happens.”

She felt his body grow tense in her arms and as he spoke again she could hear the firm resolve in his voice:  “Don’t cry mommy.  I protect you now!”

A soft knock interrupted her response, and she reluctantly released her hold on her son, wiping her tears away hastily as she answered the door. Opening it just a crack, she saw the elf maiden she had met the previous night standing before her, holding a basin of fresh water.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Lady Gilraen, but Lord Elrond hopes that you and your son will join his family for the morning meal.”

Seeing no way to escape the invitation, Gilraen opened the door a little wider to take the offered bowl  and accepted with a slight bow  of her head.  “It would be our honour, Lady...”

“Please, Lady Gilraen, call me Mereniel.”

“Very well, Mereniel, and you may call me Gilraen.  We will need some time to wash and dress, as you can see.”

The elf maiden bowed deferentially.  “May I assist you in any way?”

“No, I thank you.  All of our needs have been seen to most thoroughly.  We want for naught.

“Very well.  When you are ready, open the door and I will escort you to my Lord’s dining room.”

Gilraen closed the door and slumped against it with a heavy sigh, sinking to the floor with her head bowed.  She felt in no state to see anyone, least of all Lord Elrond and his family, but she could not possibly refuse an invitation to dine with her host and benefactor.  Her need to maintain his good will was far too strong for her to refuse him anything, for her son’s very life might now well depend upon the elf lord’s beneficence.  Her pride and her sorrow meant nothing in the face of her child’s survival.

Taking a deep breath, she cupped her hands in the basin which now rested on the floor, splashing the warm water upon her face.  She looked up to see Aragorn watching her curiously.

“Who that mommy?”

Gilraen stood and walked toward the bedroom to pick out suitable clothing for them both.  “The maiden we met last night with a message from Lord Elrond.”

“Who Lor Elron?”

“Do you remember the nice man whom we met yesterday?”

Aragorn thought for a moment.  “With shinny gold hair?”

Gilraen smiled slightly at the memory of her son reaching out to grab the ancient Elf Lord’s hair.  “No, the one with hair as dark as night.  He has invited us to break our fast with him, and we must be on our very best behaviour, do you understand?”

The boy nodded his head enthusiastically.  “I hungry!”

Soon, they were washed and dressed in the fine clothes that were the gift of Lord Elrond and Mereniel came to lead them through the grand halls of the master’s house.  Gilraen kept a tight hold on her son’s hand, again instructing him not to touch a thing, and though there were many glittering temptations, Aragorn did his best to be a good boy.

They had not gone far when they arrived at the small, intimate dining room that was apparently for the use of Lord Elrond’s family, and Gilraen was surprised by the close proximity of the family’s personal suites to the rooms given to her and her son.  As they entered, all four elf lords present rose from their seats.  Lord Elrond was at the head of the table, with Glorfindel directly at his right.  To Glorfindel’s right stood a regally dressed, dark-haired elf with a stern countenance whom she had not yet met.  To Elrond’s left, between him and one of his sons, there were two empty places. 

Elrond greeted her warmly:  “Gilraen, we are most pleased that you both could join us.  You have met Glorfindel and my son, Elrohir,” he then turned to the other elf, “and this is Erestor, one of my most trusted advisors and dearest friends.”

Erestor bowed his head deeply.  “I am most pleased to meet you, Lady Gilraen.”

“And I, you, Lord Erestor.”

Elrond gestured to the chairs at his left.  “Please have a seat.”

The bottom of Aragorn’s chin barely cleared the top of the table as she sat him in the chair beside Elrohir, and then she took the seat between her son and Lord Elrond.  Though the table was set for seven, only six sat down to dine, and the seat to Erestor’s right remained empty.  Gilraen wondered at this, for one of Elrond’s sons was absent, and never before had she seen the sons of Elrond apart.  

The table was splendid, covered with an intricately embroidered crisp white tablecloth and white linen napkins, colourful fresh flowers, delicately carved crystal goblets, fine porcelain plates, and sparkling silverware.  Aragorn was, so far, on his best behaviour and he sat quietly in his seat, and yet, still she felt the need to keep a firm grip upon his hands.

As soon as they were seated, elves appeared bearing silver trays of food, and a feast was laid before her.  There were savoury puddings and roasted meats, and exotic fresh fruits, the likes of which she had never seen, as well as breads that were still steaming from the oven and jars of sweet butter, honey, and fruit preserves.  A light, pale wine was poured into the elves’ glasses as well as her own, and though it tasted divine, Gilraen took only small sips as she was unaccustomed to drinking wine in the morning.  Aragorn, much to his delight, was given a strange, and quite sweet, bright red fruit juice in his own crystal goblet.

Elrond then turned to her:  “Gilraen, please help yourself to all that you would care for.”

Gilraen served Aragorn first, ensuring that he had some meat and fresh fruit in addition to the bread and sweet fruit jelly that were the real objects of his desire.  Though her own stomach threatened to rebel at the mere sight of food, she placed a small portion of everything offered upon her plate, as she thought was proper.

The others then filled their own plates, and the only sound to be heard was the light tinkling of silver spoons against porcelain as the food was served.  Gilraen noticed the lack of conversation, and while she wondered at it, she was also glad for it, for she too  had no desire to talk.   She sat in silence, her eyes lowered and focused upon some minute detail of embroidery in the fine white tablecloth as she absently pushed the food around on her plate without lifting the fork to her mouth.

When finally she thought to raise her eyes again, she saw four elf lords patiently waiting for her to start eating before they would begin their own meals.  Feeling the slight warmth of a blush forming on her cheeks, she reluctantly took a small bite, and though she knew that this was quite likely the finest food she had ever been served, it tasted like sawdust on her tongue. 

Clearly, her boy did not have the same problem, for he was most eagerly working his way through a large piece of warm bread laden with jelly.  She realized with some relief that Aragorn’s attention to his food should keep him quiet and out of trouble, at least for a while, and she eased her hold on him.

Elrond’s warm voice finally cut through the silence which seemed to hang heavily in the room.  “Gilraen, I do hope that you found your suite to be adequate for you and your son, and that you were able to find at least some measure of rest there.”

“It was more than adequate, I assure you.  I can not thank you enough, Lor..., Elrond, for the hospitality that you have shown us.”

“You need never thank me.  If there is anything you require, you need only ask.  Our home is your home for however long you wish it to be.”

Though she knew that the words were spoken in the spirit of absolute kindness, still they sent a shiver down her spine, for the only thought that screamed in her mind was that she did not wish it to be.  She wished for nothing more than to be at home, amidst familiar surroundings and familiar people, to have the support of her family and friends in this terrible time, and to be with those whom she loved and who loved her.  Reminding herself harshly that to wish was foolish, she tried to turn from such useless thoughts with a quick shake of her head.

Again no one spoke and an uncomfortable silence reigned once more, and she found herself wondering if meals at Lord Elrond’s table were always so sombre.  Despite her resolve, memories of many a merry conversation around the communal dinning table in her village flashed through her mind, and the solid lump that had been forming in her throat pained her as she swallowed hard.

Though she could not begin to fathom the nature of these strange beings, she would not allow herself to believe that the heavy tension she felt around her was the normal state of affairs in Lord Elrond’s house.  Certainly, Elladan and Elrohir were known to be quite jovial at times during their visits with the Dunedain.  Could these ancient elf lords truly be so deeply affected by her husband’s death, or was there more at work here than she was yet able to understand?  She found her gaze drawn again to the empty chair on the other side of the table, to a place so neatly set which sat unused.

A movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned to see her son on his knees in his chair, leaning over and stretching across the table in an attempt to help himself to the tempting jar of sweet fruit jelly that was just beyond his reach.  Anticipating trouble, she moved with the quick reflexes inherent to the mother of a young child to intercept him.  Unfortunately, however, she was just a moment too late, and she watched in horror as Aragorn’s arm brushed against his long-stemmed crystal goblet, tipping the unstable glass and spilling its entire bright red contents over the fine white tablecloth.

“Aragorn!”  Gilraen leapt to her feet, quickly grabbing her napkin in a futile attempt to blot up the juice, and sending a heavy silver knife clattering upon the stone floor with a loud crash in the process.  Much to her dismay, her efforts accomplished little but to soil her own napkin and further spread the stain.

At that moment, the culmination of her sorrow, her grief, her loneliness, and her despair threatened to overwhelm her, and, feeling much like a lost child herself, she stammered out an apology as she struggled to maintain her composure.  “I...I am so sorry, Lor..., Elrond.”

Elrond stood and moved towards her, and she did not hear a harsh rebuke nor any angry words, but rather felt the comfort of a tender embrace as he spoke softly to her.  “Do not trouble yourself, Gilraen.  It is a trifling matter.  A tablecloth is of little importance compared to your distress.”

Forgetting all propriety, Gilraen briefly closed her eyes and lay her head on Elrond’s shoulder, taking a moment to simply find comfort in the touch of another, as he continued to speak quietly in her ear.  “I know that you grieve deeply, and that the next few months will be most difficult for you, but in time your pain will ease.  We will do all in our power to aid you and your son.”

Elrond then released his hold and Gilraen looked down to see Aragorn sitting in his chair, tears threatening to fall from his eyes, too.  “I sorry, Lor Elron.”

Elrond knelt and spoke gently to her boy:  “Do not fret, Aragorn, it was merely an accident.  That plain, dull tablecloth is much improved with some colour anyway, do you not think?”

With these words, Aragorn stopped his pouting and, upon some thought, nodded his head in agreement.  Elrond then stood and turned to her again:  “It is I who should apologize for not adequately meeting Aragorn’s needs.  It has been a long time indeed since one so young has brightened our table.”

With a grand sweep of his hand toward the red stain that now covered a large portion of the previously white tablecloth and a smile and a wink in Aragorn’s direction, Glorfindel added in a jovial tone: “Quite literally!”

An elf entered with an absorbent cloth to soak up as much juice as possible, though when he was finished the tablecloth still retained its newly-acquired red hue, and Aragorn was given some water to drink in a much more sturdy glass.  Elrond sliced another large piece of the bread, spreading it generously with jelly and offering it to the boy, who accepted eagerly.  “Please let us continue our meal, and give the matter no more consideration.”

Gilraen sat and dutifully ate another bite, though she did not taste it.  Again she did not speak, for her mind was in absolute turmoil, and she did not know what to feel, nor what to think.  In her heart, she was deeply grateful to Elrond, for he had shown her and her son nothing but kindness and generosity, and yet, at that moment she would rather have been almost anywhere else.  Everything was so foreign to her, so utterly strange, and she felt as though she were a goose amongst swans.  Though they had never treated her as such, still she found herself feeling utterly foolish, awkward and alone in the presence of these ageless and majestic beings.

She was pulled from her thoughts by an unexpected sound.  Looking up and turning her head in her son’s direction, Gilraen simply blinked and stared in stunned wonder, unsure of what to make of  the sight before her.  Elrohir had folded his napkin to form two stiff peaks in the shape of cat ears and placed it upon his head.  She blinked again, not quite ready to believe her own eyes.  This ancient and noble, wise and fair elf lord, with his grand attire and his intricately braided long hair that shone like spun silk, was wearing cat ears made from his napkin.

She heard her son’s delighted laugher, and she glanced down to see Aragorn grinning brightly and looking far happier than she had seen him in many days.  Then she looked back to Elrohir, the stiff white linen sitting atop his head in absurdly stark contrast to his silky black hair, and at that moment she forgave him a thousand sins, both real and imagined, for bringing again a smile to her little boy’s face.

The other elves joined in the laughter, and even Gilraen found that she could not help but smile in the face of Elrohir’s antics.  The rest of the meal passed far more jovially, with Elrohir continuing to amuse Aragorn by folding napkins into ever more elaborate forms, and by the time they had finished dining, she was quite sure that her son had found a new friend to idolize and adore.  She remembered, with a sharp pang of grief, how fondly Arathorn had always spoken of the twins.

Elrond turned to his son:  “Elrohir, if you are finished demonstrating the fine art of napkin folding, I would like you to check on the new foal and his mother to see how they fare.  Perhaps Aragorn would like to accompany you to the stable.”

With these words, Aragorn’s eyes brightened noticeably as he answered eagerly:  “Oh yes!  Mommy, I please go see horsies with Elhir?”

Gilraen’s blood ran cold at the thought of her son leaving her sight and her protection.  However, no matter how dearly she wished to refuse, to keep him forever close to her, she could read in Elrond’s words that he wished to speak to her alone and she did not wish to cross him.  Even if that were not the case, however, from the look of pure joy on her little boy’s face she could not find it in her heart to deny him anyway.  “Yes, Aragorn, but you must be good and obey Elrohir, do you understand?”

“Yes mommy, I will!”  With a broad smile, he jumped up from his chair, taking Elrohir’s hand in his own and trying to pull him up too.

As if reading her thoughts, Elrohir lay his other hand on her shoulder in reassurance as he stood.  “Do not worry, Gilraen, he will be well attended and cared for, I assure you.  I will have him back to you in time for the afternoon meal.”

With that, Aragorn bounced from the room, practically dragging Elrohir along with him in his excitement to get to the stables.  Warm smiles were upon the faces of the three remaining elf lords as they watched the pair leave the room, but she found herself unable to share in their joy. 

Elrond then turned to her. “Gilraen, if you would care to walk with me, I would be honoured to show you around our house, and perhaps, later, give you a tour of our beautiful gardens if the weather clears, as I believe it might.”

“I would be most honoured, Elrond.” she responded with a slight bow of her head, for as much as she did not wish it, she could think of no way to escape the conversation that she feared was to come.

Please take a moment to leave a review.  I would love to hear your thoughts.

Here, finally, is chapter four, I hope you enjoy. I apologize for the long wait, but I will admit that this is dense and complex writing, and I had to give it a lot of thought. Not to mention that, unfortunately, I just have so little free time.

Please take a moment to leave a review.  I would love to hear your thoughts.

Elrond stood from his place at the table and moved towards her, and though he could see that she attempted to conceal her feelings, he read with little effort the emotion written upon her face.  Gilraen was afraid. 

He knew that she was strong, yet she was still so very young, and her grief so fresh and raw, and he understood that she was frightened of many things.  She was haunted by the fear of losing her son as she had lost his father.  She feared that she might live out her days in isolation in a strange land, alone amongst beings who were to her so utterly foreign.  Above all, she was terrified of what he might ask of her. 

To his most sincere regret, in that regard he found he could not fault her.

With a gentle smile, he offered her his arm, speaking to her as one might to a lost child:  “Please, Gilraen, allow me to show you around our home, that you may become more familiar with it.”

Like a doe startled in the forest, she turned her face fully toward him with wide open eyes, and reluctantly consented with a small tip of her head.  She slowly looped her arm in his, and as he led her from the room her confusion and sorrow brought an ache to his heart.

For a time, he engaged her in light talk in an attempt to put her more at ease as they ambled through the halls of the main house.  He limited their tour to the wing were she and her son would be living in close proximity to his own family.  There would be time enough to show her the grander public rooms and halls later;  for now, he wished to familiarize her with the family’s quarters in the hope that she might know that she and Aragorn were truly welcomed there.

They arrived at his private study where he had first met her the previous night, and despite his efforts to make her more comfortable, he could feel her tension as he closed the large door firmly and led her to the sofa.  “Please have a seat, Gilraen, for we have much to discuss.  Though I wish that this conversation could wait for another day, there are some pressing issues which require our immediate attention.”

Gilraen sat stiffly, her hands clenched in her lap as if she were steeling herself against what was to come.  “If you believe what you have to say to be so urgent, then do please continue.”

Elrond sat beside her, bowing his head briefly to gather his thoughts before he looked at her directly.  Though he felt her pain deeply, he would not conceal from her his foreboding nor would he measure his words, for the need to convince her of the necessity of his proposal outweighed all other considerations.  “Gilraen, your son is in grave danger.  The minions of the Enemy search tirelessly for the descendants of Isildur with the intention of eliminating his line.  Now, two chieftains of the Dunedain have fallen at their hands in the span of a mere three years.  If Aragorn were to return to his people before he has reached maturity and attained the full measure of his strength, I foresee that his life could well be forfeit.”

Though her shock at the unadorned directness of his words was clear upon her face, she did not speak, and he continued in a tone that brooked no argument:  “For his safety as well as your own, you and your son must be concealed in Imladris until he has grown fully to manhood.”

Her eyes grew wide with disbelief.  “You wish us to remain here for a score of years or more?”

Laying his hand atop hers to offer some small measure of comfort, he gave her the only answer he could in honesty, and the one he knew she least wished to hear:  “It must be so, Gilraen, lest hope be lost for all.”

She looked down at his hand, and as she took in a slow, deep breath he could feel the slight tremor in her body.  She was struggling to control her emotions, and he paused for a moment to give her the chance to master herself. 

Unfortunately, however, there was much more to be said, and after allowing her this brief respite, he then pressed on:  “We can not risk turning the ever-searching eye of the Enemy toward Imladris, and thus I regret that our contact with the Dunedain during this time must be severely limited.  None of your people may come to see you here, though I will send messages on occasion with my scouts.  In protecting your son, secrecy is our greatest ally.”

At these words, Gilraen’s eyes snapped up and he could hear the resistance in her voice as she questioned him:  “Certainly you are not proposing that we be wholly isolated from our own people?  Aragorn could not possibly be raised here as a lone human boy amongst ageless and eternal elves!” 

As if suddenly remembering her place, she lowered her gaze and adopted a subdued tone as she continued to press her case:  “There would be no men for him to imitate and to learn from, no boys for him to play and to grow with, none of his own kind with whom to form vital bonds of friendship and brotherhood.  With no connection to his own people save for me, how would Aragorn learn what it means to be Dunedain?  How could he be expected to one day lead a people he could not possibly know nor understand?”

“Though we have not had one so young as Aragorn living amongst us for many generations of men, we have tutored and trained the sons of your chieftains for centuries. Well we know the ways of your people.  We will raise Aragorn in strength, nobility and wisdom, and teach him to understand and respect the history and customs of the Dunedain.  He will be more than adequately prepared for his role as their leader.”

Gilraen lifted her eyes to him again, and he could there the tears she was fighting so desperately to suppress.  “But he would be...so very... alone.”

The plea in her voice was clear and he understood that she was speaking of more than her son.  He could not deny that as the only mortals in a world of elves they would both face many challenges.  He feared that Gilraen might never find her place amongst them and he knew that Aragorn would be denied an important part of his childhood in the lack of playmates his own age.  

“While I regret deeply that your son will lose the companionship of other children, it is an unfortunate necessity of these dark days.  We will do our utmost to ensure that he is not alone, and that he wants for naught.”  He clasped her hands in a gentle yet firm hold as he tried to soothe her fears.

She turned to look through the open balcony, her gaze unseeing of the beauty there as she was clearly lost in her thoughts.  Elrond could read the turmoil upon her face and he remained silent for a time, granting her again a short reprieve before he began anew his unwilling assault.  How he wished he need not continue, for this conversation had already caused her much pain, but the most vital, and the most difficult, words had yet to be spoken.

Elrond gently turned her face back to him.  “I have said, Gilraen, that secrecy is our greatest ally in protecting your son while he is still young and vulnerable.   The fewer who know of Aragorn’s lineage, the better our chances of preventing this information from reaching the Enemy.  Aragorn is but an infant and can not understand the critical importance of our secrecy.  Thus, in order to ensure his silence on this matter, the truth must also be concealed from him in his youth.”

Her confusion was evident in her response:  “I do not understand.  What exactly are you proposing?”

He paused for a moment to study the young woman before him.  The tale of her grief was written upon her face, and already she seemed aged beyond her years. She had endured so much, yet now he would ask of her so much more.  He saw in her eyes, though, a rare strength and he knew that while it would take a tremendous toll upon her, she would bear it for the sake of her people. 

He resolved then to give her the direct answer that she deserved, for he would not deceive her of the full implications of his request.  “During his seclusion here we can not speak to your son of his lineage.  While he will be taught the history of the Dunedain, he will not know of his place amongst them.  While he will study the names and the deeds of Isildur’s descendants, never will he be named in that line.”

Taking in a deep breath, Elrond then spoke the words that he knew she would feel as a dagger to her heart:  “We can not call your son by his given name, nor can we, any of us, speak to him of his father.  From now until the time when I deem your son ready to receive this knowledge, the names of Arathorn and Aragorn will no longer be spoken in these halls.”

At first, Gilraen remained silent, and he could see upon her face the course of her emotions, from confusion, to disbelief, then to sorrow, and finally to absolute fury.  She seemed deceptively calm as she questioned him:  “You wish to conceal from Aragorn not only the knowledge of his lineage, but also all knowledge of his very father?  Would you truly propose to bury all recollection of my husband alongside his body?  Arathorn’s memory is all that is left of him to my son, and now you would take that from Aragorn as well?”   

With these words, she pulled away from him and stood, moving behind the sofa as if it were a shield between them, her voice now reflecting her rage as she continued: “Has he not already lost enough in his short years?  And you are not even content with that, for you wish to take from Aragorn also his very name!  Whilst claiming to protect him for who he is, you will take from my son all that he is, to remake him anew for your own ends!  Never did I imagine that this is the price you would demand of me for your protection, for it is dear indeed!”

Elrond stood as well, but he made no response to her accusations.  Rather, he turned and walked toward the balcony, as much to grant himself the opportunity to master his emotions as her.  He could not deny that in her words there was some measure of truth, and he found himself wondering if he was asking of her too much.

As he stepped out onto the balcony, though, all conscious thought left him, for suddenly he was struck by the all too familiar sensation of the coming of a vision.  However, something was different this time.  The disorientation he felt now was unlike anything he had ever before experienced, and he scarce had time to grab the railing in an effort to brace himself against the onslaught.

Existing as one, all in the same time, the past and the present and the future fused, and in what felt to him as an instant and an eternity, a myriad of images assailed him.  He saw of the past memories of great loss and sorrow: of his mother, his father, his brother, his king, his wife; and of the present images of hardship and suffering: of his sons and of the Dunedain; and of the future visions of loneliness and despair: of ever-growing evil and the spread of the shadow, of a man great and noble in spirit enduring endless trials alone in the wilderness, and, most striking of all, of his beloved Arwen, her life’s grace diminished, dying forlorn and in mourning.

The brutal assault of memories and visions threatened to overwhelm him and he gasped for breath as he grabbed desperately at the railing as though it were a lifeline.  Just as he felt that he would surely drown in the violence and the pain of the maelstrom of images, the vision ceased.  His mind stilled and one thought alone remained, one word brought clarity and unity to all that he had seen.  Sacrifice... 

He did not know that he spoke the word out loud until he felt the movement of his tongue and the breath upon his lips.  As his awareness of the surroundings returned he could sense Gilraen’s gaze upon him, and at first he could not bring himself to meet her eyes, for he felt as if he were stripped bare and he stood there naked before her.  Leaning heavily on the railing, he fought to calm his rapid breathing and still the tremours that racked his body.  Only one other mortal had ever seen him so vulnerable, and that was his own brother Elros as he lay on his deathbed.

No words were spoken, though soon he had regained his composure enough to cast a glance in her direction.  Her wide eyes were transfixed upon him as if she were viewing a spectre, and he knew that she could not begin to fathom what she had just witnessed.  She too looked so frightened and vulnerable that he was moved by compassion for her, and putting aside his own distress, he turned to face her fully, seeking to offer her what comfort he could.

The vivid imagery of his vision had receded, leaving in its wake an ache in his heart and one word still fixed firmly in his mind, and while at that moment little else seemed clear to him, as he looked upon her, he knew with clarity what he need say. 

“Sacrifice is a word that you understand all too well.  As do I.” 

With a weary sigh he continued:  “And I fear it is a word that shall seem all the more familiar to us in the years to come.”

The expression on her face softened a little and in her eyes he saw reflected a profound sadness that he too felt deeply:  “You and I are not so different as you may believe, Gilraen.  We have both lived lives bound by duty and devotion to a cause that is greater than ourselves.” 

“We each have paid dearly for it.  Well do we know the pain of grief, the agony of having that which we hold near to our heart ripped from us by the machinations of the Enemy.  And yet, though it feels as if our heart has been cleaved in twain, for the sake of love, and of duty, and of all that is still good, we endure.”

Pausing briefly to take in a shaky breath, he continued in earnest:  “I foresee that the days will grow darker still, and that the course of our duty is not yet fully served.  I fear that you and I may soon be called upon once more to surrender, for the good of all, that which is most dear to us.”

Again a vision of Arwen, aged and grey, alone and grieving, came unbidden to his mind and Elrond could not suppress the shiver that coursed through his body. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the image away, before he looked back to Gilraen:  “Perhaps, though, it is destined that by our loss, so much more may be gained.  For, while the shadow spreads and casts a widening net of terror over the people of Arda, we may yet have in our hands the means to bring forth a beacon of light and hope in this darkness.  Is the price of our sacrifice too dear, to rekindle hope in the hearts of so very many?”

Elrond then fell silent, and, at first, Gilraen did nothing at all.  She neither moved, save for the slight tremble of her clasped hands, nor she did speak.  Heedless of the tears that now ran freely down her face, she stared at him for a long moment, as if studying some sign that she could not decipher.

Then she spoke, her voice hoarse:  “I…I need some time to think upon your words before I can give you an answer,”  and with that, she turned and placed her hand upon the door, ready to flee from his sight.

“Do you wish for me to escort you to your room?”  Concerned for her welfare, Elrond took a step toward her.

Gilraen paused, finally thinking to hastily wipe the tears from her face.  With a firm shake of her head, she spoke again with more resolve: “Nay, I thank you; I will find my way.”

Then she was gone, closing the door behind her, and the room again fell silent.  Elrond took another step forward and steadied himself on the sofa.   This vision had been the most powerful yet, and it had taken a heavy toll upon him, leaving him utterly spent.  Never before had he sensed so strong a portent.  Events will soon be set in motion from which there will be no turning back...

Suddenly, he was filled by an almost overwhelming desire to have his entire family close around him.  It seemed a simple enough wish, and yet one so impossible to achieve.  When gentle Celebrian, driven from Middle Earth by unspeakable acts of violence at the hands of the Enemy, had set sail for an unknown land, never did he allow himself to doubt that they would all be reunited at a better time and in a better place.  Now, he could not escape his growing sense of foreboding that his family would never be whole again.

The empty room felt stifling and he fled from it, his feet taking on a will of their own, carrying him without conscious thought down the stairs and out the door.   He found himself at the entrance of Celebrian’s own garden.  How she had loved this place!  With her own hands, she had lovingly nurtured every herb and shrub and tree from a tiny seedling to the fullness of its bloom, straight and strong and laden with flowers and fruit.  So many happy memories were tied to this place, of his family, together, of his children playing, of he and Celebrian alone under the stars.

Rarely did he come here now.  Since she had left, the gardeners had tried to maintain it, but it never was the same, and now it stood only as a shadow of what it once was, dark and fleeting.  Today it seemed all the more so, for though the rain had finally ceased,  the clouds still hung low and heavy, covering the sky in a grey veil and adding to his sense of utter desolation.

However, as he now stood at the edge of this garden full of memories both joyous and sorrowful, pondering why he had come, a sound reached his ears that he had not heard for  many centuries.  The merry sound of childish laughter rose up from behind a dense row of bushes, and for a brief moment he was taken back to a happier time as he half expected to see one of his own young sons come bounding out from behind the hedge, with the other in close pursuit.

Then, as he heard the din of what sounded to him as a herd of charging Mumakil, he was quickly reminded that the footsteps could only be those of an Adan child.  Surely enough, as Elrond stood still in his place, a small human boy came charging around the corner and, not watching where he was going as young children are wont to do, the boy promptly collided with his legs.  The force of the impact sent Aragorn tumbling back to land soundly on his bottom on the damp ground.  Though the child now bore the telltale green stains of wet grass upon his pants, without seeming to be phased in the least he sprang again to his feet to resume his sprint just as Elrond leaned down to scoop him up in his arms.

The boy squirmed in protest at the indignity of being held as gasped between his giggles:  “Lemmie go!  He gonna get me!”

With those words, Elrond saw Elrohir approaching, a bright smile on his face as he feigned breathless exhaustion.  Elrond found himself swept up in the child’s good humor, and spoke lightly to the boy, ensuring, of course, that his son too would overhear:  “Ah, young lad, now I understand the desperate need of your flight, for he is truly frightening, is he not?”

Elrohir came to stand beside them, an exaggerated expression of mock indignation upon his face:  “Father, that was not nice!” 

Aragorn quickly jumped to the defense of his new found friend:  “Elhir not frightning!  He fun!”

Elrond rubbed a hand down the boys back in a gesture of appeasement.  “I was merely teasing, child.”  He paused for a moment to give closer scrutiny to the boy’s rather disheveled appearance before turning to look at his son.  “It appears that you two have indeed been having fun.”

Elrohir had the good grace to look slightly apologetic.  “Young Aragorn is rather ...energetic.  We may have tossed a few handfuls of hay upon each other in the barn, and then there was the matter of the little tumble in the mud puddle during our race on the training fields, oh, yes, and...”

Elrond quickly forestalled any further disclosure of incriminating details with a slight wave of his hand.  “I have heard enough.”  After a brief pause, he then posed the question which was foremost on his mind:  “On your many exploits did you happen upon your brother?”

Though he could tell that Elrohir was trying to keep his voice light for Aragorn’s sake, his son could not conceal from him the undertone of worry in his response:  “Nay, I know not where he has gone.”

Placing his free hand upon his son’s shoulder, Elrond spoke to him in a voice too low for the boy in his arms to hear:  “As much as we may wish to help him, Elladan must find his own way.”

His attention was then turned again to the boy squirming in his arm, and hosting Aragorn more securely on his hip, Elrond turned toward the house.  “Let us get you cleaned up, child, before we return you again to your mother.” 

Before he had taken a step though, he paused and turned to look back at Elrohir with a sly smile.  “You come too, son.  Since you had a hand in creating this mess, you may as well have a hand in undoing it.”

Though Elrohir returned the smile, Aragorn was not so pleased as he immediately began to protest:  “No bath!  I not messy!”

Elrond hoisted Aragorn above his head, giving him a playful toss in the air, and the boy giggled in response.  “I believe I have somewhere a soap which will make a wonderful field of bubbles in the water.  Would you like that?”

Aragorn’s eyes lit up with delight.  “Oh yes!”

As Elrond held him aloft in his arms, the dark grey clouds that had covered the sky for many days finally began to lighten and lift, and a single sunbeam fought its way through the gloom, casting Aragorn’s unruly dark hair in a warm glow that looked to Elrond’s eyes as a glorious crown upon his head, and, in that moment, the full valour and majesty of the man within the boy was revealed to him.  Feeling suddenly a fierce love wash over him, he knew then that no matter the cost to himself, he would willingly pay it for the sake of this boy and for the sake of hope.  Holding the boy close in a protective hold, he whispered words that only he could hear.  “You are the hope of men, and you are my Estel.”

The next chapter will be the last one for this story, so please review! Reviews motivate me to keep plugging away at this.

No, your eyes are not deceiving you, the final chapter of “To Give Hope” is here!  To make up for the extremely long wait, it is an extra long chapter.  I hope you enjoy.

 Please take the time to review, I would love to hear your thoughts and reactions.

Of Elladan and Elrohir:  “they rode often far afield with the Rangers of the North, forgetting never their mother's torment in the dens of the orcs.”  Many Meetings, Lord of the rings: Fellowship of the ring.

Gilraen closed the heavy door firmly and fled down the hall, though she was unsure of the way back to her rooms.  The house seemed massive to her, and each hallway was identical to the next, a maze of ornamentation and finery.  Those grand ornate halls all seemed to mock her as she stumbled blindly down them, Lord Elrond’s words echoing through her mind:  duty, sacrifice, hope...

How could he ask this of her?  How could he dare?  To lie to her son, to deny him all memory of his father, even to conceal from Aragorn his very name, the name that his father gave to him.  It was all too much to ask.

Finally, she found her way to her suite, and as she closed the door behind her, she sagged against it, breathing heavily.  In truth she did not wish to be here either, for the room felt as a gilded cage to her, but she needed desperately to be alone, and in this grand house that was so utterly foreign she knew not where else to go.

Seeking fresh air, she walked to the open balcony despite the greyness of the day, and as she stood there overlooking beautiful gardens in which she could find no beauty, a sound reached her ears.  She could swear that she heard childish laughter on the breeze, and the sound brought to her a clear memory.  So vivid were the images she saw in her mind that she felt as though she were there again, back in her village less than one month ago, on the last day that she would ever spend with her husband...

Autumn had come fully, but the sun had lately gifted them with a final spell of light and warmth before the long dull greyness of late fall and winter set in.  The crops, which were blessedly bountiful this year, would soon need harvesting; however, that time had not yet come, and they were enjoying a rare moment of relative ease before their labour began anew. 

Gilraen smiled as she heard the laughter of children  and paused briefly from hanging the wet laundry to look in the direction of the joyous sound.  There she saw her husband surrounded by a group of young children, included amongst them their own son.  The children held in their little hands small, light wooden practice swords, and Arathorn was currently amusing them with a display of his fine swordsmanship.  All, both boys and girls alike, watched with wide eyes, quite in awe of their chieftain’s skill.

The smile froze on her face at the sight as her heart clenched with a sharp pang of grief.  For now the swordplay seemed merely in fun, but there was behind it a greater purpose, as often there was in their lives.  In too few years, training in weaponry would begin in earnest for these children, and far too many of them would meet their fate at the point of a sword.

She shook her head and returned to her task, annoyed at her useless sentiment.  In the face of the ever-growing Shadow this was the reality of their lives, and to wish it otherwise was a waste of precious time.  Every arm that was able to raise a sword was trained to wield one.  Such was the way of the Dunedain.  The women and children, too, perfected these skills, for while their men fought far afield in the protection of innocents from evil, those who remained behind increasingly had need to protect themselves as well. 

Gilraen worked at a swift pace borne of much practice, an efficiency that was dearly needed considering the vast quantity of laundry created by an active two year old boy.  She had nearly completed her task when she heard the excited murmurs of those who were working around her.   Sensing that something was amiss, she looked up from her labour, her eyes searching the distance in the direction where the others were pointing.  There she saw, low on the horizon, what appeared as two silver stars shining in broad daylight.  

In that moment the call of the sentries rang out through the village:  “Lords Elladan and Elrohir approach!”

Her blood ran cold.  

The village buzzed with excitement at the news of the visitors.  Children, shrieking with delight, ran to greet the approaching riders, and the women, both maids and matrons alike, suddenly took an inordinate interest in their appearance.  They laughed and chattered nervously amongst themselves as they straightened their hair and attempted to brush the soil of their labours from their clothing, and Gilraen could not help but wonder at the mystic power of these elven lords to reduce hard-working, sensible women to giggling, flighty girls.

She would not, however, allow herself to succumb so easily to their charms, though truly the sons of Elrond were beautiful beyond her capacity to describe, or even to comprehend.  They bore themselves always with the utmost gentility, and they were the most gracious of guests:  playful and indulgent with the children, patient and forbearing of the overly enthusiastic attentions of the young maidens, and always willing to provide entertainment for their hosts when asked, as so often they were.  And yet, while they would amuse all with their tales and elate all with their songs, to her it seemed as though they carried within them a profound sadness which, though carefully concealed, never waned. 

She might have desired to know them the better and to count them as friends, as Arathorn so readily did, but for her foreboding that the day would come when these glorious elven twins would lead her husband to his death.

Arathorn and Aragorn came to stand beside her as the sons of Elrond approached upon  the finest steeds that she had ever beheld.  They gracefully dismounted in unison, each landing soundlessly and lightly on their feet before her.  One of the brothers rushed forward, enthusiastically embracing her husband in greeting.  “Arathorn, my friend, it is so very good to see you!”

“And you too,” her husband responded warmly, returning the embrace.  “Gilraen, you remember, of course, Elladan and Elrohir.” 

As he said their names, he gave not the slightest indication of which brother was which.  This was his own private jest with her, for he was well aware of her inability to distinguish between the two, and he was not about to ease her confusion.

The twin who had just greeted Arathorn now turned to her and took her hand, placing a light kiss upon it.  “Lady Gilraen, it is always a great pleasure to see you and your son.  Arathorn speaks to us often of you both.” 

He released her hand and knelt to address Aragorn with a smile and a wink:  “And you, young Aragorn, have grown much since last we met.  Any day now, I am quite sure, you will grow to be taller than all of us here!”  

While Aragorn returned his smile, Gilraen’s expression remained carefully neutral as she responded with a slight tip of her head:  “I thank you, my Lord.”

The other twin then stepped forward to greet her.  So much more solemn was he than his brother, and his tone was formal as he spoke:  “It is a pleasure to see you again, my Lady.”

His eyes met hers briefly, and she felt a shiver of apprehension, for she could swear that she was able to read something in their endless depths.  Was it guilt that she saw in those fathomless grey eyes?

The moment passed as the son of Elrond turned from her to speak in earnest to her husband.  “Arathorn, I regret that we arrive bearing ill news.  A large band of orcs has been plaguing the small settlements which lie but five days ride to the east.  Their numbers are greater than we have seen in many years, and we have come to ask for the aid of your men.”

Arathorn’s response was quick and unwavering:  “And you shall have our aid, of course, as always.”

Her breath caught in her throat at his words.  Many times before Arathorn and his men had ridden out with the sons of Elrond in the pursuit of orcs, and each time she feared that he might not return.  This time was different, though, for this was no blind fear that she felt.  She knew in her heart that if Arathorn rode out, he would not ride back.

Her husband then spoke to her about some matter, but suddenly his voice seemed hazy and distant to her ears and she could not quite make out his words...something about the preparation of a feast...

The tense, terse response of the elven lord drew her from her stupor:  “There is not the time for that, Arathorn!  We must speak with you in private.”

With a shake of his head, Arathorn then turned to look again at the twin who had spoken. “Elladan, why does one with all eternity before him always need be in such a rush?”

Then her husband put his arm around Elladan’s shoulders and began to lead him toward the cabin reserved for the sons of Elrond as he continued:  “Worry not, my friend!  First, we will hold our counsel together, and by the time we have everything settled, a feast will await you.  We can not possibly leave before dawn, so on this night we might as well dine in your honour.  Every good leader knows that no matter how dark the days may grow, we must, on occasion at least, find the time for celebration, if for no other reason than to remember what it is we fight for!”

As Arathorn and the sons of Elrond spoke in private, the women saw to the preparation of a grand meal befitting their guests.  The weather had been fair throughout the summer and the crops had grown well, and in this time nearing the harvest, food was plentiful.  All were in a merry mood as they worked; all that is, save Gilraen.  

She kept her eyes fixed upon the cabin wherein Arathorn and the twins held counsel, anxiously awaiting her husband’s return.  The three spoke together for many minutes, and on occasion, Gilraen could hear raised, tense voices, though she could not make out their words, and she wondered at what they discussed.  Finally, they emerged and all had been settled.  A party of the finest Dunedain warriors, led by Arathorn himself, would leave with the sons of Elrond at dawn on the very next morning and, if all went well, they would be back within a fortnight, in time to aid the harvest. 

Many of the men, women and children of the village now surrounded Elladan and Elrohir, for all were anxious to speak to them, and Gilraen pulled Arathorn to the side, that she too could have a private word with him.  While she knew her words would not likely persuade her husband to change his course now, her heart compelled her to try.

Grasping his hands tightly in her own and holding them to her chest, she implored him: “Arathorn, I beg of you, do not ride out on the morrow with the sons of Elrond.”

While she could see the tenderness in his eyes, she could also hear the resolve in his voice as he responded:  “You ask this of me as if I have a choice, though you of all people should know that I do not.  Do you believe that I want to fight?  I would wish for nothing more than to remain here always with you and our son and to raise him in peace and prosperity.  But as you so often remind me, wishing is foolish.”  

Not willing to let the subject drop so easily, she continued to entreat him:  “I ask only that you do not ride out this time.  If you must, go with the sons of Elrond when next they return, for return they will.” 

Arathorn shook his head emphatically.  “Elladan and Elrohir, eternal friends and allies to our people, have called now upon our aid, for the band of orcs is too great in number for them to fight on their own.  I will not turn my back on them, nor will I send my men into danger without their chieftain at the front, for it is my duty to lead them.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders as he looked at her directly. “Gilraen, no matter what is to come, no matter how dark the days may turn, remember my words and follow them always:  to be Dunedain is to be bound by our duty.  Without duty there is no honour, and without honour there is nothing, for we are nothing.  We are no longer Dunedain.”

She knew he would not back down, but in one last desperate attempt to convince him, Gilraen then spoke quietly the words that pained her most grievously to say:  “There is a warning in my heart.  I fear greatly for your life if you ride out tomorrow.”

Arathorn, however, did not quail at these words, and his resolve seemed only to grow stronger as he responded:  “Do you not see, my wife, that fear is at the very heart of it?  Fear is the weapon of the Shadow, and it is a fear which threatens to overtake our land and consume us all.   When we ride out against the Enemy, we battle not only Its evil spawn, but also this fear, which is by far the greater foe.”

“So I say, if I am soon to meet my fate, then so be it, for I will not cower in fear in the face of the Enemy, and no one, not even you my beloved, can ask this of me.  If we forsake our duty on account of our fears then we have already lost, and not only the battle, but also the war.”

When he finished speaking , he drew her into a tight embrace, and she buried her face in his hair, inhaling deeply his scent as if trying to burn a memory of him into her mind.  Releasing her, he then exclaimed in a suddenly jovial tone:  “We will speak no more of this now, for this is a night to make merry and be glad, whatever the new day might bring!”

 Worn down as he was by care, Arathorn had grown to be a stern man, for his father’s untimely death three years before and the burden of leadership in these dark times weighed heavily upon him.  But this night, he was far happier than Gilraen had seen in many a day, and she was most glad for it, and, despite her apprehensions, she could no longer resist the good humour of all those around her. 

Truly the Dunedain and the sons of Elrond together did have a joyous feast.  While the sentries kept their constant and ever vigilant watch, the rest told merry tales, and sang and danced as a fire burned brightly well into the night. 

And they did remember what they were fighting for.

The hour was late, and many had finally returned to their homes to sleep when Arathorn approached her with a certain glint in his eye.  “It is time that we, too, find our bed, my love.”

He again drew her close, tracing soft kisses along the length of her neck.  She shivered slightly at the pleasant sensation, though she could not help but ask:  “What of Aragorn?”

Arathorn’s kisses became more insistent as he began to nip lightly at the lobe of her ear.  “Your mother would be most pleased to keep Aragorn with her this night.  She would like nothing more than for her grandson to become an older brother.”

Gilraen, trembling now with anticipation, could not resist the opportunity to tease:  “Arathorn!  Little do your men know what a rascal you are, or they would never dare to follow you into battle!”

Arathorn pulled away from her, and though he was smiling brightly, he responded with a low, throaty growl:  “You dare to call me a rascal?  Then let me show you what a rascal I can be!”

Laughing with the pure joy of life, he swept her off her feet and carried her toward their small home, and the last words he spoke as he closed the door behind them were said steadfastly and without fear: “If, as you believe, this is to be our last night together, then let it be one to remember!”

A loud knock upon the door pulled Gilraen abruptly from her reverie.  She blinked and looked around her at the strange room, unsure for a moment as to where she was and where her husband had gone.

Then all came back to her with clarity:  Arathorn was dead, and she was now dependent upon the beneficence of an elf lord who wished to deny her son all memory of his father.  Never would Aragorn know of his father; never could she speak of his bravery, of his valour, and of his honour.

The knock was repeated and she moved blindly to answer, more out of habit than from any desire to know who stood on the other side.  As she opened the door, she saw again before her a son of Elrond.  However, something was amiss, for his clothes were disheveled and his face bore an expression of pure grief.  Remembering that Aragorn was under Elrohir’s care, she felt the panic well within her as she questioned him sharply:  “Where is my son?”

Clearly he did not expect this query, for he shook his head and looked at her in confusion as he answered:  “I know not.  Is he not with you?”

Gilraen, now realizing her mistake, spoke again with a sigh of relief:  “I apologize, Lord Elladan.  I mistook you for your brother.  He has taken Aragorn with him to the stables.”

“Then I assure you, Lady Gilraen, that your son is well cared for and you need not worry.”  Elladan paused, casting his eyes to the floor briefly, and when he looked up at her again, she was stricken by the depth of the sorrow she saw upon his face as he asked her quietly:   “May I please enter?  I wish to speak with you, if you will allow it.”

Only now did she realize that she had not bid him to enter, leaving this elf lord to stand in the hallway.  Feeling her face flush slightly, she moved aside and gestured toward the sitting room.  “Of course.  I apologize, Lord Elladan.”

As he entered the room and she closed the door behind him, he spoke again, his voice now strong and firm with conviction:  “You have nothing for which to apologize, my Lady.  It is I who has committed a most grievous offense against you and your son. I have come to beseech your forgiveness.” 

He paused again and turned his head away to look out the balcony at the oppressive grey clouds which hung low in the sky.  His voice grew quiet and pensive.  “Though, in truth, I know that I ask a great deal, and I would understand if you refuse to grant me pardon, for through my actions I have robbed you of your husband, and your son of his father.”

Recalling again that fateful day, the last time that the sons of Elrond rode into her village and took her husband away, she remembered well her anger and her fear.  Then, Arathorn’s words to her returned with clarity: ‘I will not cower in fear in the face of the Enemy, and no one can ask this of me.  If we forsake our duty on account of our fears then we have already lost, and not only the battle, but also the war.’

Now she found there was no anger left within her, only deep remorse for the loss and suffering of all who stood bravely against the Shadow.  Thus, when she answered him:  “There is nothing to forgive,” she did not merely speak these words, she truly meant them. 

Elladan turned to look at her again, and she could see the glint of unshed tears in his eyes as he responded:  “You are most gracious my lady, but in truth I have so very much to atone for, that I could not begin to make amends.”

Unable to turn away from his gaze, she studied his face intently.  Though he still looked as young to her as always he had, now those ageless eyes seemed as an open book in which she could read a history of ages.  She saw written there a melancholy tale, showing glimpses and hints of past happiness and joy, but now telling only of loss and pain, grief and guilt.  Even at her young age, she knew too well the weariness of care acquired in the span of one short mortal life.  She could not begin to fathom the weight of the burdens he bore from his millennia on Arda.

She would try, at least, to ease the weight of this guilt from his mind.  “You claim far too great a share of the blame for my husband’s death, Lord Elladan.  Arathorn was well aware of the risks, and none could dissuade him from following his conscience in what he thought to be his duty.”

He smiled at her, but the smile was tempered by sadness.  “I will tell you truly, Lady Gilraen, that when I came seeking Arathorn’s aid, I asked only that he send some of his men under my command.  I begged him to remain behind, for I did not wish him to come upon this fateful course.” 

Turning his eyes away from her again, he continued softly:  “There was a strong warning in my mind and in my heart that his life was in danger.”

A shiver coursed down her spine at his words.  So he too had known that Arathorn would die.  Her voice was more harsh than she intended as she responded: “Never would he have agreed to that!   Had he remained behind, then others might have perished in his stead, and that is something that he could not have abided.”

Without a glance in her direction, Elladan walked out to the balcony.  “That I know too, my lady, and that is why I should not have come seeking his aid.  Had I been honest with myself, I would have known that I could never persuade Arathorn to relinquish his duty to lead his men.  Now, I believe, you understand my guilt.  In effect, I knowingly led your husband to his death.”

Gilraen followed him to the balcony and studied him as he stared blankly, apparently unseeing, into the distance.  He seemed no longer to be speaking to her as he continued quietly: “Despite the warning in my heart, I could not stay away.  I could not let those orcs go, even at the cost of a true ally and a dear friend.  What force compels me to wreak vengeance against those fell beasts past the point of all thought and reason?  I am driven relentlessly, never do I rest.  How many more good men must die for my cause?  Will it never cease?”

Bowing his head, he whispered broken words filled with despair:  “I am lost...all is lost.”

She could not begin to know what horrors his fair eyes had beheld in the thousands of years they had seen pass, but as she looked upon him now, she saw with a mother’s eyes, and felt with a mother’s heart.  He seemed to her a lost child, so very vulnerable, alone, and in need of his mother’s care.  Where was she now?  What had become of her?

She was almost overcome by a strong desire to wrap her arms around him in a comforting embrace, until she reminded herself sternly that he was an elf lord more than a score of centuries her senior.  Instead, she spoke to him softly, with no trace of judgement in her voice:  “Arathorn died as he would have wished to, in the service of his people, fulfilling his duty in the fight against the Shadow.  He would not hold you accountable in the least for his death, and nor do I, Elladan.”

Elladan drew in a deep breath, and he seemed almost to grow brighter before her, as if he were drawing strength from an inner source she could not possibly fathom.  He stood straight, and turned to look at her again, his voice now strong with conviction:   “I speak truly when I tell you that I counted Arathorn amongst my dearest friends, and never will I forget his courage and his valour.  Though I can do nothing to bring him back, I can honour his memory in the service of those whom he held most dear.  My words may justly seem empty and hollow to your ears, but I swear now an oath to you, Lady Gilraen,  that I will do all in my power to protect your son from harm.  As long as I draw breath, I will not allow Aragorn to fall.”

For the second time that day, Gilraen nearly jumped from the sudden sound of a knock upon the door.  Without speaking a word, she reluctantly turned away from Elladan and moved to answer.

This time the Lord of Imladris and Elrohir stood before her, but her eyes were drawn instantly to the little boy that that Elrond held securely in his arms.  She could see that Aragorn’s hair was still damp from washing and that now he donned different clothing than that which he wore when last she saw him.  Knowing her son, she did not need to enquire as to the reason for it.

Upon seeing her, Aragorn smiled brightly as he exclaimed:  “Mommy!  I had such fun!”

She could not help but smile as well as she moved aside to allow them entry.  “I am so happy to see you, my boy.”

As Elrohir stepped into the room, she could clearly read the expression of utter relief upon his face as he saw Elladan, and all else seemed forgotten to the brothers as they rushed to greet each other.  Their foreheads touched as they spoke quiet words together, and to Gilraen it seemed as though something that had been broken was now whole again, and she was most glad to see that Elladan could find some comfort from his twin.

She turned back to look at her own son.  He was smiling brightly and sitting as comfortably in Lord Elrond’s arms as if he had been born into them.  She felt the sharp pang of jealousy and a fleeting sense of betrayal at the sight.

As if knowing her thoughts, Elrond spoke:  “Gilraen, I will return your son to you now.”

Though it seemed a simple statement, she could read the question in his words.

She was ready to snatch her son from the elf lord’s arms when Aragorn spoke: “No, mommy.  This house fun!  Lor Elron want to show me big liberry with books and maps and pictures of dragons!  Please, I go with him?”

With a sigh, Gilraen turned away to look out the open balcony.  The grey clouds still hung heavily, but now as she searched the sky, she could see brighter patches where the light fought its way through the gloom.  Just then, a sunbeam broke free and cast its light upon the gardens of Imladris, which were still damp from the heavy rains, causing all to glimmer and shine in its radiance. 

In that moment, she could again hear Arathorn’s voice as clearly as if he were standing beside her:  “Gilraen, no matter what is to come, no matter how dark the days may turn, remember my words and follow them always:  to be Dunedain is to be bound by our duty.  Without duty there is no honour, and without honour there is nothing, for we are nothing.  We are no longer Dunedain.”

Then she knew what she must do.  Though she would no longer be permitted to speak his name aloud to her son, she would honour her husband’s memory in her heart, and she would follow his will and fulfill her duty to the Dunedain.  She would offer hope now to this elven family, that hope might one day return again to her people.

Taking a deep breath, she turned back to look at her son, her voice steadfast and unwavering as she answered him:  “If it would please you, then go with him, Estel.”

An so ends this tale.  You can read what comes after in “Answers and Questions” “Day and Night” and “I Will be Your Memory.”

I still plan to write the promised sequel to “Day and Night” (in fact, I was writing sections of it as inspiration struck while I was working on this chapter.)  However, starting another multi-chapter story seems like a big commitment to me right now, because I would never abandon a story unfinished.  Reviews really do motivate me to keep writing.  I would love to hear any constructive criticism you have as well as praise.