Author’s Notes

*~*

I originally included a brief version of these notes with Chapter One of this story; however, because this endeavor has been an intensely emotional process for me, I concluded that this work warrants a more comprehensive explanation of my motives for writing Gilraen as I did. I sincerely hope that readers will take the time to read these notes so that they may appreciate my rationale.

You will find that I write Gilraen and, to a lesser extent, Elladan differently from how we typically see them portrayed in fan fiction. Because we have so little canonical information on these characters' personalities, I don't think any of us can say with any certainty what they would have done in the circumstances in which I have placed them. My story presents merely one possible alternative.

But for my readers to understand my motives for presenting Gilraen, in particular, as I have, I must explain that Gilraen’s irrational and disturbing behavior is based on my own mother’s behavior after the death of my brother when I was one year older than Estel is in this story. Certain events are lifted directly from my own childhood, including, but not limited to, Gilraen’s look of disgust directed toward Estel and her “inappropriate” behavior toward the OC Lainon. Before my brother was killed, my mother was as doting a mother as there ever was. After her grief was less raw, she was again that doting mother (albeit an overly protective one. She had lost one child; she was not about to lose another). In fact, she told me years later that I was ultimately the reason she managed to live through her pain, even though by all appearances, she seemed to want to have nothing to do with me when her grief was raw. I have written Gilraen in the same vain; I envision her as a loving mother (you will note that in the first chapter I refer to her tenderness toward Estel before Arathorn’s death), who, through tragic circumstances, became temporarily crazed with grief. I imagine her as working through this grief and coming to a point where pain no longer so clouded her vision that she was blind to the blessings of motherhood in particular and life in general. So to those readers who find it difficult to imagine a mother behaving as Gilraen does in this story, all I can say is that I know from personal experience that Gilraen’s reactions in this story are plausible. Illogical, yes, but plausible. In fact, the illogical nature of Gilraen’s thoughts and actions is reflective of the entire point of the story: grief makes people behave in ways that they otherwise would not.

As for Elladan’s reactions, I ask you to suspend judgment during the first three chapters. All will become clear. You will find that his perspective on both Gilraen’s behavior and Celebrían’s departure is skewed. He, too, will need to work through unresolved grief that has resurfaced with Gilraen's presence in his home.

That, dear Readers, is all. Thank you for your indulgence.

A/N 1: This story is finished, but I am not posting all chapters at once. I will update every few days. Also, I am grateful to my betas, Chris, Warg, and Vana, for their invaluable assistance.

A/N 2: You will find that I write Gilraen and, to a lesser extent, Elladan differently from how we typically see them portrayed in fan fiction. Because we have so little canonical information on these characters' personalities, I don't think any of us can say with any certainty what they would have done in the circumstances in which I have placed them. My story presents merely one possible alternative. In order to understand my rationale for writing this story as I did, please read the Author's Notes contained in the Prologue. Thank you

Chapter One: The Boy Called Hope

0o0o0

“Look at you!” spat the woman. “You are filthy!”

The boy looked down, flushed with shame. Though he was, in fact, spattered here and there by mud, having only just come in from his outdoor play, he knew that it was not his appearance to which his mother referred. He concluded, with the simplicity of his age, that if his mother found him disgusting, he must truly be vile, unable to recognize his mother’s reaction as a reflection of her own pain.

It had been nearly four months since that horrific day that had transformed the relationship between mother and son, when the boy’s father, many years his mother’s senior, had met his sudden and violent end. When the part-girl, part-woman found herself a widow, she cared little that she was also mother to a young boy still learning to speak in complete sentences. On the contrary, her pain blinded her to the possibility that loving another creature, even her own flesh and blood, could be anything but folly. Her son, therefore, was no treasure but liability.

Neither knowing nor caring how she would raise the boy alone, the young mother did the only thing that came to her marred mind: she accompanied the sons of Elrond to Imladris, and mother and son took up residence as two mortals among a sea of Elves and Peredhil.

The boy scarcely remembered a time when they had not lived in Imladris with the kind half-elven Lord and his kin, recalling only flashes of his former home and his brave father, Arathorn. In fact, he had nearly forgotten that he had been known by a different name in those earlier days; he had been born nearly three years earlier as Aragorn, but following Arathorn’s death, the boy’s name had been changed to conceal his true identity as Isildur’s heir. Thus, on that darkened day when Arathorn died, Hope was born.

The boy called Hope, Estel in the tongue of the Eldar, had loved and admired his father but was still young enough that his life revolved around his mother, Gilraen. Before Arathorn’s death, Gilraen had been a freckle-faced young woman with a free spirit and unruly hair (“Woman, your hair is nigh as unruly as your temper,” Arathorn had been fond of saying). From the little that Estel could remember, the small family had been happy, and he had always had the distinct impression, though he was too young to know it consciously, that he was the center of his parents’ lives. No more.

This day, when Gilraen’s son sought her attention, he was met by a loathsome stare that hardened the face of the woman who, only a few short months earlier, had been pretty and youthful. Reading the hatred in her eyes, the boy retracted his hand, his body aquiver with restrained tears. He longed to return to the days when his mother, upon seeing his tears, would scoop him up in her arms, clutch his head to her shoulder, and caress his back with such tenderness that his pain and unhappiness was soon forgotten. Now, his sobs only caused her lip to curl in utter disgust.

Gilraen spun away and fled the room.

Left alone with his pain, Estel’s mind quickly strayed to a conversation he had overheard between Gilraen and Elrond shortly after their arrival in Imladris, one that haunted him:

“From now on, we call the boy only Estel,” Elrond explained matter-of-factly.

“Estel? Hope? Why do you call him Hope? No Hope remains!”  

“Gilraen, it does. You will see, though not yet. Your pain clouds your vision.”  

“Say what you will, Elrond. That boy is not my Hope! . . .”

It was not his mother’s words so much as their hateful tone that had shattered Estel’s heart, and that tone played itself over and over again in his mind, reminding him that he had somehow lost his mother’s love. What horrible infraction had he committed to make his mother despise him so?

0o0o0

Through his study window, Elrond saw Gilraen leave the Last Homely House. Again. Her absences had become habit, but she was too unstable to be allowed to stray far. His younger twin son, Elrohir, usually volunteered to find her and had done so today; he had always had a knack for finding strays: kittens (they had delighted Arwen), frogs (they had repulsed Celebrían), and now young widows. Interesting talent he has, mused Elrond.

Elrond knew that with both Elrohir and Gilraen gone, Estel would likely be alone. The Lord was pleased to have a respite from his current task of preparing a long overdue account of Arathorn’s death for the home’s ever-expanding repository, and he welcomed a chance to spend time with the young Dúnadan.

Elrond found Estel sitting on the floor of his chambers, hugging his arms about himself as he sniffled, silver eyes gleaming with tears.

“Come, Estel. Let us go sit by the fire, you and I.”

Elrond picked the boy up and carried him to the Hall of Fire, settling into an overstuffed chair, Elrond’s favorite. Estel curled into a ball and placed his head on Elrond’s lap. Soon, his sniffles transformed into the deep, steady inhalation and exhalation of sleep.

The boy had been asleep only minutes when a figure appeared in the doorway, catching the periphery of Elrond’s vision. The Lord turned his head, not surprised to see the elder of his twin sons. Although his sons spent a fair amount of their time apart, each always seemed to sense when the other was absent, something the Lord understood well, being a twin himself, sorely missing his brother.

“Is she gone again, Father?” Elladan inquired coolly, glancing at the sleeping child in his father’s lap.

“Yes, Elladan, but please, let us not wake the boy.” The Lord ran his fingers through the young mortal’s hair. “Your brother is out looking for her now.”

“I should hardly think it is his responsibility to fetch her each time she runs off, nor is it yours to raise another child.”

The boy stirred in his sleep.

“Elladan, please keep your voice down.”

“Sorry, Father,” Elladan whispered. “I have no wish to disturb Estel.” He paused, fingering the pendant around his neck as he was prone to do when agitated. The elder twin of Elrond knew he should let the conversation lie, but he had never been much good at holding his tongue. This day was not different. “I still think that woman should be here caring for him instead of you!”

“Elladan,” Elrond whispered in return, struggling to keep his voice even. “We knew when the two came to us that this would be a difficult period of transition. And certainly you realize what pain can do to a person. Gilraen can hardly be held responsible for her actions.”

Yes, Elladan knew all too well how grief could poison love. Everything he saw in Gilraen—what he had seen in his own mother—told him it was so.

When Elladan failed to respond, Elrond continued, “She simply knows not how to cope with her grief, so she flees this home. I suppose that she thinks that if she runs far enough, she will escape her pain.” Elrond had a faraway look in his eye, and Elladan wondered whether his father was thinking of Celebrían’s departure, as well. He considered asking but decided against it; Celebrían was a subject rarely discussed even though the memory of her haunted this home like an invisible shadow, a presence made ever more palpable through each effort to deny its existence.

Elrond sighed inwardly. In Elladan’s younger days, he had been the more easy-going of Elrond’s sons, but his anger had been ready to flare at the slightest provocation ever since his mother had left Middle-earth centuries ago. When Celebrían first departed for Valinor, it was Elrohir for whom Elrond felt the greatest anxiety; the younger twin had always been sensitive and moody, and with the absence of his mother, his pain was open and raw. But his youngest emerged from his grief with greater clarity and wisdom than he had had before. Arwen, too, wept and mourned with the grace becoming a lady, grace she had inherited from her mother and which only served to ripen her beauty into one of true womanhood. Elladan, however, was reticent and increasingly quick to anger. Elrond lamented the change, but he knew not what to do to help his son cope with unresolved feelings of loss.

The Lord himself was still silently lamenting his beloved’s absence, but Elrond’s pain went beyond grief; his loss was exacerbated by the unrelenting mental tirade of “if only.” Many a restless night, the hunger of his demons woke to nibble on the fringes of his mind. At such times, he sat alone in Celebrían’s favorite courtyard with only the trees as his confessor, silently berating himself for his perceived ineptitude. Inevitably, it was Celebrían’s voice that quieted him; the sea separated their bodies, but in mind and spirit, they were still one, and her voice dwelled in his mind, providing him comfort as it always had:  

Ai! Celebrían, if only I had not permitted your journey to Lórien.  

Elrond, you think you could have prevented it? I am too strong-willed for that, being my mother’s daughter.  

If only I had sent more adequate protection.  

As it was, you sent a most capable escort. They suffered and died to protect me.  

If only I had—  

Enough, Beloved. It is because of you that I live.

As Elrond lost himself in private reverie, silence covered the room and hung so long that Elladan thought perhaps his father had forgotten he was there. Eventually, Elrond shook his head as if to clear one of his visions from his mind’s eye, but Elladan thought it more likely that a memory had held his father spellbound.

“We will do what we must. My concern is for the boy.” Elrond gazed at the sleeping form in his lap, and there was no mistaking his affection.

“Yes. Mine, as well,” said Elladan. And with all his heart, he meant it.

Warning is for character attempted suicide/suicidal thoughts. Although it is not graphic, some readers may find it disturbing. Please use your own judgment when deciding whether to read this chapter.

Chapter Two: End It

0o0o0

Elrohir’s unusual talent proved true once more, and he returned home not two hours after leaving, carrying Gilraen, who thrashed in his arms. He stumbled into the Hall of Fire, where Elrond now sat alone, the Lord having carried Estel to his bed some minutes earlier.

Gilraen, the Lord noted, had picked up quite a colorful vocabulary from living with her husband, and she was using every term she knew to tell Elrohir just what she thought of him. When she bit the younger twin as he put her down, Elrond quickly poured a glass of wine and thrust it into her hand, hoping to calm her long enough to allow Elrohir to catch his breath. She downed the cup in seconds. She has indeed learned much from Arathorn, noted Elrond before pouring another. And she has certainly lost none of her feistiness. Good. Arathorn loved that about her, and in time, it will serve her well.

Elrond tried to dissuade the widow from drinking a third cup of wine, but she grew agitated again. He stifled a smile when he noted Elrohir unconsciously rubbing his arm where it had been bitten, and thought perhaps it was best for all involved if this night, Gilraen were allowed to drink herself into oblivion. With any luck, she would pass out before Elrohir had to hunt her down once more.

Gilraen was deep in her cups when guests arrived at the Last Homely House: three of the Rangers who had been closest to Arathorn paid a call to their friend’s widow. The Rangers had never been strangers to this home; Elrond had sworn to welcome his brother’s distant descendants as long as he remained in Middle-earth. These particular visitors had come frequently over the past four months, their concern as much for Gilraen as for the boy who would someday be their chieftain and—dared they hope?—their king.

Elrond showed the Rangers to the Hall of Fire, proffering each a seat and a beverage.

Gilraen stumbled as she stood, clumsily walking over to the youngest of the Rangers, a young Man named Lainon.

“Come, let us dance, Lainon. Do you not wish to dance with me?” Gilraen teased, her words slurred. She stood before the Man, licking her lips and swaying her hips as her ample bosom threatened to spill from her dress.

Lainon, remembering all too well that the young coquette was none other than the widow of his late friend and leader, demurred, earnestly trying to avert his eyes from her exposed curves. He—and for that matter, everyone in the hall—knew that Gilraen’s behavior was simply further evidence of her grief and confusion, fueled by too much wine.

“That is enough, Gilraen,” said Elrond in his most fatherly manner, and he placed his hand on her back to steer the confused and drunken woman from the room.

“I do not wish to leave, Elrond! Though I am younger by far than the youngest Elf in your valley, I am a grown woman.” Ironically, her protest made her sound like a petulant child.

The Lord paused to inhale deeply, realizing that despite his numerous years, he had never found himself in precisely this predicament.

“Now Gilraen, you have had quite a bit of wine. Let us get you safely upstairs to your chambers.” Elrond moved his hand to Gilraen’s arm to guide her.

“To my chambers? Why? I shall only be alone again!” The young woman spun away from Elrond, momentarily disentangling herself from his light hold on her arm. He caught hold of her once more and held her arms firmly, fearing she would flee again.

Gilraen surrendered, crumpling to the floor, supported in part by Elrond’s grasp.

“Let me go,” she wailed. “I want only to go to him. Why do you wish to keep me here? I no longer want to stay.”

For a moment, Elrond thought it was Estel whom Gilraen wanted to see but soon realized that the “he” to whom the woman referred was her late husband. Worse yet, he understood that by “here,” Gilraen meant not Imladris but the world of the living. Elrond responded with the only tactic he could think of, although he realized it had little chance of success: “Think of the boy, Gilraen. Remember Hope.”

Whether his words assuaged Gilraen’s death wish, the Lord knew not; Arathorn’s widow was crying too hard to respond. Elrond lifted the sobbing body into his arms and carried her to her chambers, hoping that she would sleep soundly through the night. For what? To wake to another day of pain? pondered Elrond, wondering when the young woman’s grief would be bearable, wondering whether it would ever be bearable at all.

Would Celebrían’s?

0o0o0

The Rangers took their leave with an awkward “Goodbye” as soon as Elrond returned from depositing Gilraen on her bed. After their departure, Elrond went directly to his study. The evening had disturbed him, and he thought a bit of mundane work might take his mind off the matter. He had little chance to engross himself in budgets and tallies, however, before Elladan flung open the study’s doors.

“You saw her in there, Father. Surely you cannot think her behavior appropriate! Arathorn was my friend, and his widow now makes a mockery of their marriage!”

Elrond laid down his scrolls with a sigh. “Elladan, naturally I find Gilraen’s behavior inappropriate. Highly inappropriate! But the woman is not herself. She is lonely; perhaps she believes that if she can garner the attentions of another man, she can ease her pain. And I suppose she misses her life among the Dúnedain, among the Rangers and their families. Is it so hard to believe that she might want to—er—recreate her former life?”

“How can she possibly hope to do that?! Her husband is dead!”

“Hope? No, Gilraen has no hope—that is the problem—and in her more lucid moments, she knows all too well that she cannot recreate her past, but she was drunk and crazed with grief; people do unexpected things when they mourn, and far be it from me, you, or anyone else to try to tell a young widow what she should or should not feel!”

“So you would allow her to carry on as she does, in there prancing about like a whore?!”

Never before had Elrond felt the urge to slap his son, and he prayed to the Valar he would never feel it again.

Registering the flash in his father’s eyes and the flare of his nostrils, Elladan realized he had gone too far. He dropped his eyes to the ground. “I apologize, Father.”

Elrond measured his words carefully: “I condone neither her behavior nor yours. I simply accept that sometimes when people are upset, they behave in ways and say things that they may later regret. Would you not agree that that is so, my son?”

Elladan swallowed and nodded.

“You will recall, Elladan, that I put an end to Gilraen’s little . . . display. But I shall not judge her for it. Will you?” The last words were more statement than question, and Elladan knew he could do little but comply, at least outwardly.

“No, Father. Of course not.”

0o0o0

Elrond’s hope for a peaceful night for Gilraen proved false. On the contrary, she woke in the wee hours of the morning with a headache, waves of nausea, vague but disconcerting memories of her behavior of the previous evening, and the ever-present ache of Arathorn’s absence. And somewhere in this mix came the subtle but niggling thought that she was a horrible mother, for from time to time she actually remembered that she loved the boy, even if she denied herself permission to feel it. Alone in the dark, Gilraen waged a silent mental war with herself:

What have I done to my child?

You have destroyed him, young harlot!  

Young? I feel so old.  

End it.  

But the boy.  

End it.  

If only I could find my way. There must be a way back to whatever light remains in this world. 

There is no light. There is no Hope. You know it.  

Perhaps—  

End it.  

I—I want to live!  

Think of the boy. What sort of mother does he have? He would be better off without you!  

Not true! I need time; that is all. I simply need more time.  

Time for what? To damage him further?  

I want to live.  

You do not deserve to live. You do not deserve the kindness being shown you. You do not deserve the beauty and tranquility of Imladris. Arathorn is gone. How can you allow yourself to have Hope when your husband is dead? Make what amends you are able, Gilraen. End it.

The persecution of the voice in her head was more unbearable than the pain of Arathorn’s absence; it had to be silenced. How fortunate that she had thought to save portions of the sleeping draughts Elrond had so often administered to her and hold the remaining liquid in a flagon in her bureau. She hesitated only a moment, considering the possibility that her plan might fail. What if she had not saved enough of the draughts to make this sleep permanent? She would simply do better next time, she resolved, and eventually, she would succeed in ridding the world of her vile presence. In one swift move, she removed the bottle’s cork and downed the contents.

Chapter Three: The Mother of Hope

0o0o0

Witnessing Gilraen’s inappropriate behavior with Lainon left Elladan unable to sleep. No matter; he required little rest and knew his brother needed even less, so he set off for the one place he was sure to find his twin: the library. Although Elladan was not overly fond of books, being only as well-read as his position dictated, his brother devoured them. Sure enough, Elladan found Elrohir slumped in a most uncomfortable-looking position in a chair by the fire, knitting his brows and biting his lip as he always did when concentrating. As Elladan leaned against the library’s doorframe, Elrohir remained engrossed in a volume of some sort—Elladan cared not what, really—earnestly ignoring his brother’s presence. After an unacknowledged moment in the doorway, Elladan paced across the great room and flopped down on the floor next to Elrohir’s chair, waiting as patiently as his temper allowed. When Elrohir failed to acknowledge him after several minutes, Elladan simply tore the book from his brother’s hands and tossed it aside.

“Yes, thank you. I really had little interest in it anyway,” Elrohir said in his typical tongue-in-cheek fashion as he watched the book land some distance away.

“Does it not bother you, watching her carry on so,” responded Elladan as if Elrohir had said nothing, “fetching her whenever she runs off, tucking Estel in at night when his mother should be doing it?”

“Of course it troubles me, but not for myself; for Estel. What do you imagine it is like for him?”

“I should think it is rather miserable at the moment. It is out of concern for Estel that I speak, Elrohir.”

“Are you certain of that, Brother?” Elrohir’s eyebrows shot up in a manner that Elladan found rather smug.

“Of course I am! Why else would I mention my unease?”

Elrohir shrugged his shoulders. He had no doubt that his brother’s concern for the young Adan was genuine but thought that Elladan’s thinly veiled hostility toward Gilraen had quite a bit to do with his unresolved grief over their mother’s absence, as well. Elrohir was well aware that his brother—and his father, for that matter—thought he wore his heart on his sleeve, and in truth, they were probably correct. That mattered naught to Elrohir, who wished only that his brother would acknowledge the pain that he had bottled up inside himself for these many years.

“He might be better off without her,” Elladan said when Elrohir declined to respond.

“Elladan! How can you say such a thing?”

“Come, Elrohir,” said Elladan. “Do you really think she does him any good?”

“You would have him grow up fatherless and motherless?”

“He is already motherless, and our father is his father now.”

“A day will come when she will remember her love for him, Elladan.”

“How can you be so sure? Have you suddenly acquired Father’s gift of foresight?”

Elrohir shook his head in impatience. “I just know. And do you not think that Gilraen questions whether Estel might not be better off without her as do you? Be careful what you wish for.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means—” Elrohir pondered. “Can you imagine if some ill should befall her?”

Elladan fingered his pendant. “Such things happen, Elrohir. Sometimes people leave their loved ones, and those who remain find a way to go on.”

“Which is exactly what Gilraen strives to do. I suppose she feels that Arathorn abandoned her.”

“That is different, Elrohir.”

“Yes and no. The point is—”

“I understand the point, Elrohir,” snapped Elladan.

“Do you?” Elrohir’s voice grew louder, and he took a deep breath before continuing more calmly. “The point is that as much as Gilraen’s behavior hurts Estel, it would hurt him even more if she were no longer with us.”

“Perhaps, Elrohir. Perhaps.”

Elladan stood and left the library.

Elrohir sighed. Although not naïve enough to harbor the false belief that the relationships in this household would wondrously return to what they had been before the attack on his mother, he had hoped that the remaining members of this broken family would turn to one another, sharing that unique bond that only mutual mourning forges. Not so. Arwen had been unwilling to stay in Imladris, seeking solace in Lórien as their mother had in Valinor. Their father grieved, but only privately, his public façade of poise imposing a certain barrier between him and his children that they dared not cross. Yet it was the distance that had grown between the brothers that Elrohir lamented most, differences that had multiplied since the arrival of Arathorn’s widow and son. Elladan had become a taut bowstring, ready to snap at any moment; Elrohir longed for the days when the brothers’ conversations would not invariably end in argument.

Each day, Elrohir prayed that his mother had found the comfort she sought, but still he questioned what was to become of those who remained.

0o0o0

The morning meal passed in silence, save the clanking of dishes and scraping of chairs. All were unnerved by Gilraen’s actions the night before, except Estel, who had slept through the night. Thank the Valar the boy did not wake to find his mother carrying on so, thought Elrond as he glanced at Gilraen’s empty chair. He was not terribly surprised that the woman had elected to remain in bed; no doubt she felt unwell. Yet unease tugged at his mind until, unable to bear it any longer, he sent a servant, Arnethel, upstairs to check on the young widow. Within minutes, Arnethel’s shrieks echoed down the stairs and into the dining hall.

Elrond bounded up the stairs two and three at a time and, rushing along the corridor, ran headlong into Arnethel, her eyes so wide she looked as if she had seen Sauron himself.

“Please, my Lord. Come quickly! Something is amiss. I cannot wake milady!” Arnethel’s voice quavered.

Elrond bolted into Gilraen’s chambers, shouting over his shoulder to the servant: “Keep the boy away!”

“Yes, Lord,” Arnethel answered. She dipped into a curtsy as Elladan and Elrohir flew by her, following their father into Gilraen’s chambers.

As father and sons moved toward Gilraen’s pale, limp body, Elrond noticed an uncorked flagon on the nightstand. He brought the container to his nose and inhaled the distinctive odor of his most potent sleeping draught. It was as he had feared.

Meanwhile, the twins assessed Gilraen’s condition: Elladan touched two fingers to the widow’s wrist feeling for a pulse, and Elrohir leaned his ear against Gilrean’s mouth searching for the faintest trace of breath. Elladan’s efforts were the first to bear fruit, and he cried a triumphant, “She lives!”

The three knew what needed to be done, and in seamless unison, they worked to save the mother of Hope.

Chapter Four: Happy Tears

0o0o0

A touch, as soft as a petal, caressed Gilraen’s brow. Arathorn? His hands had been calloused, but perhaps here with Námo his hands would be soft. Or perhaps this touch came from Námo himself.

A murmur, as gentle as a breeze, nuzzled her ear. Arathorn again? His voice had been booming, but perhaps here with Námo he had learned to whisper.

A scent, as sweet as a flower, tickled her nose. Arathorn? Surely not! Even in the Halls of Mandos, her beloved would certainly smell of steel not flowers!

If her semi-conscious state had allowed it, the woman would have giggled at the image of Arathorn bathing in rose-scented water. Instead, her only reaction was a delicate curve of the corner of her mouth, one that was imperceptible save to those who knew her well. And the tiny hand caressing her brow belonged to the one who knew her face best of all.

“Lord Elrond! She smiled! I saw. I promise!” Estel announced to Elrond, who gazed out the window lost in thought. The boy had been allowed into his mother’s chambers only minutes earlier, Elrond having concluded that it might ease Estel’s anxiety to see the steady rise and fall of his mother’s chest. Although the boy failed to understand the situation, he knew his mother was in some sort of trouble. He found the circumstances confusing; why was everyone so anxious to have his mother wake? She had always told him that he was less cranky when he had a good sleep. Perhaps if his mother slept long enough, she would wake happier, ready to love him once more.

“I believe you, Estel,” Elrond said, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Elladan and Elrohir rushed into the room, having heard Estel’s words. Elrohir promptly led Estel from Gilraen’s chambers, allowing Elrond to reassess the woman’s condition.

Elrond was silent as he checked the young woman’s vital signs. When he finished, he turned to Elladan and said with distinctive composure, “It seems that we were able to purge enough of the draught from her body before it did all its damage. I believe she will recover fully.” Silently, he wondered how long it would be before the grieving widow tried to take her life once more.

What if I do not find her as quickly next time?  

Let us hope there will not be a next time, whispered Celebrían’s voice in his head.

What if all hope of joy has fled her, as well?  

Give her time.  

What if—

Shhh, Beloved. Hush  

0o0o0

Elrond had sat by Gilraen all of the morning and most of the afternoon before being relieved by Elrohir for the evening watch. Now, night was falling, and a new guard was needed. Elrond asked for Elladan’s presence in his study to make his request known. As predicted, his son was less than pleased.

 “She cannot be left alone, Elladan.”

“And I heartily agree, Father, but why must I be the one to sit with her? What of Elrohir? He seems to have more patience with her than I. Too much patience, perhaps.”

“Elrohir sat with her all evening. Besides, it might do you some good.”

“Do me some good?! In what way?”

Elrond’s eyes strayed to the pendant around his son’s neck. “That remains to be seen, Elladan, but perhaps you will find that what is gone is not lost, only hidden.”

Elladan sighed. He hated when his father spoke in riddles, and he had noticed that his twin had taken up the same annoying habit. It was like living in a house full of Istari!

Perhaps the Valar would bless him by keeping Gilraen asleep throughout his watch, if they were still in the business of blessing at all.  

0o0o0

“Elrohir?” Gilraen slurred, rolling over to face the figure sitting at her bedside. Elrohir had been with her for the brief time she was awake during the evening; she naturally assumed the one she now saw was he. Few could distinguish the two, particularly when still bleary-eyed from sleep.

“No, it is Elladan. Would you—that is, should I,” what? “erm—fetch my father, perhaps?” Please say “yes.”  

“No, I only wanted some water. Would you—” Gilraen yawned. “Would you mind?”

“Ah—no.”

He poured, feeling Gilraen’s eyes studying him as she stretched her limbs.

“What is that pendant you wear?” The young woman propped herself up on her elbows. “I hope you do not mind my asking, but often have I noticed you toying with it, particularly when you are upset.”

“Do I? I was not aware of that.” Elladan discerned irritation in his voice.

Gilraen nodded, taking the glass of water from Elladan’s hands and drinking deeply.

When she had drunk her fill, she stared at him; Elladan realized she still expected an answer. He sighed, then explained: “This pendant was given me by my mother ’ere she sailed. Her mother had given it to her on her wedding day.” He paused, a melancholy smile gracing his face. “I never saw her without it until the day it passed to me.”

“You miss her.” In Gilraen’s voice was a mixture of weariness, fear, loneliness, and—unless Elladan was mistaken—a trace of anger. For a moment, the Peredhil felt as if Gilraen’s words had come from inside his head, taunting him with emotions he had carefully denied.

Elladan stared at his hands, unsure how to reply, for he was neither accustomed to nor comfortable with conversations of an emotional nature. No, that was more the territory of his brother, who felt and expressed his emotions as if they were the very air he breathed.

The thought occurred to him that if he waited long enough to give a response, Gilraen might simply drift off to sleep again. Hearing her deep, rhythmic breathing, he stole a glance at Arathorn’s widow. Pity, her eyes were still open.

“Yes, Gilraen, I miss her. But I fail to understand.”

“You cannot understand why you miss her?” Gilraen was incredulous.

“No,” Elladan shook his head impatiently, though his impatience was more with himself than with Gilraen. “What I meant was I fail to understand why she gave this to me, why she—” Elladan silenced himself.

“Why she went away,” Gilraen finished Elladan’s sentence, as if she had read his mind, his heart, his soul. “Yes, I know,” she sighed; there it was again, that blend of emotions that matched Elladan’s, though rawer and more intense.

“Did she not tell you her reasons?”

“For giving me her pendant or for sailing?”

Gilraen shrugged her shoulders. “Either.”

“As for her reason for sailing, Father had already explained that; he told us that Mother could no longer find joy in Middle-earth and that she hoped to find some measure of solace in Valinor.”

“You sound unconvinced.”

Elladan was amazed by just how perceptive Gilraen was for someone who only the previous morn had been on the verge of death. He had never noticed this trait of hers before, but come to think of it, he had rarely conversed with her about anything of a serious nature, even before Arathorn’s untimely death.

“I simply cannot understand how a mother could stop loving her children. She had always said that we were her joy, you see, so how could she no longer find joy? We were right there as we had always been.”

“She could no longer find joy for the same reason I cannot see Hope even though he is right here.” The words were out of Gilraen’s mouth before she had even been aware of them, and they startled her. Never before had she had called her son “Hope.”

Elladan looked long and hard at her, and for the first time since the young mother had come here, it occurred to him that maybe the woman he had once known was still in there, just as his father had said.

“And why can you not see Hope, Gilraen?”

“I suppose that I am entirely too afraid. What if—” Gilraen sobbed. “What if—” Her body shook, face buried in hands. Tiny hands, thought Elladan, not knowing what else to latch his mind onto, for he was entirely uncomfortable with, though not entirely surprised by, Gilraen’s sudden gush of emotion. He knew neither what to say nor what to do, so he let her sob, which was the best thing he could have done for her.

“Elladan, a handkerchief, please,” sniffled the weeping widow. “There is one there, on my bureau.”

Elladan fetched the cloth, and Gilraen whispered a weak, “Thank you.”

She dabbed at her eyes and her runny nose, snorting between sobs in a most unladylike fashion, which Elladan found oddly charming.

“I must look a mess,” she sniggered.

“No, Gilraen, you look fine.”

“Now, Elladan, there is no need to resort to lies,” she chided.

“No, honestly Gilraen, you look fine, considering—”

“Considering I almost died yesterday,” Gilraen finished.

Elladan blanched. What was he supposed to say? It was true, but it hardly seemed diplomatic to tell a lady she looked good for someone who was nearly a corpse.

“Elladan, it is true! Say it! Say, ‘Indeed, Gilraen, you are without a doubt the best-looking nearly-dead woman I have seen in quite some time,” she giggled.

Elladan laughed in spite of himself, which caused Gilraen to laugh harder. Before long, both had tears running down their faces.

“Happy tears,” said Gilraen once she had caught her breath. “That is what I used to tell Arathorn whenever he made me cry with joy. ‘No worries, Dearest; these are happy tears.’ It has been quite some time since I have shed tears of this particular variety.”

Yes, she was still in there, Elladan concluded, that woman he had once known.

Chapter Five: One Breath at a Time

0o0o0

“Is she asleep, Brother?” Elrohir asked as his twin strode into the Hall of Fire looking utterly exhausted. It was not loss of sleep that had worn his twin out, Elrohir knew, but the strain of sitting with a suicidal widow. He remembered feeling the same upon leaving the young woman’s bedside the day before.

“She sleeps again, yes, but for a time she was awake. Quite awake, in fact.”

“Quite awake?”

“She seemed more her former self is what I meant.” Elladan collapsed on the sofa next to his brother.

“How so?”

“She laughed.”

Elrohir’s eyes widened. “At what? It seems an odd time for merriment, especially for one who has known nothing but sorrow these past months.”

“I agree. Perhaps there was simply nothing remaining for her but to laugh. She has to run out of tears sometime, one would think.”

“Did she say anything? Anything of note?”

Elladan considered whether to tell his twin of the conversation concerning Celebrían’s departure but declined. Their mother was a subject that neither had broached for centuries, and Elladan was loathe to be the one to mention it even though he secretly yearned to talk about Celebrían.

“We talked a bit about Estel, and she began to say something about him but was unable to get the words out. All she said was ‘What if?’ I have pondered those words; could she have meant what if she loses Estel, as well?”

“I would think so, yes.” Elrohir nodded decisively.

“You would? You sound not the least surprised.”

Elrohir shrugged his shoulders. “I imagine she feels as Mother felt before she left.”

Elladan tensed. So, there it was: the forbidden subject. And Elrohir had approached it so casually.

“And how was that?” Elladan asked.

“I have no doubt she feared some tragedy would befall us. Often have I wondered whether she so feared losing us to death that she no longer saw us living right before her. Little wonder she could no longer find joy.”

“Her love for us had not diminished then?” Elladan’s voice was so hushed that Elrohir had to strain to hear him.

“Of course not, Elladan. Did you really think so? Why did you think she gave you her pendant?”

“I never really knew why,” confessed Elladan.

“You knew how much that pendant meant to her; Grandmother gave it to her on the day she and Father wed. Do you not remember her telling us when we were small that she wore that pendant so that she would always remember she was loved?”

“I—yes, I remember now. But I am sorry to say that I had forgotten her words.”

“She gave you that pendant so you would always remember that you are so loved by her.” Elrohir felt as if he were lecturing a child. His brother was so unschooled in the ways of the heart it was a wonder they had shared the same womb!

“Why did she not give it to you then?”

Elrohir looked to the floor. He had hoped Elladan would not ask that question.

“Because I asked her to,” mumbled Elrohir.

“You what?!” Elladan was unsure whether to be infuriated or grateful.

“The day she left, she told me that she wanted to give something to each of us. To Arwen, she gave the stone given her by Grandmother, but she knew not what to give to you and me. I told her that I needed nothing but that I hoped she would give you her pendant. I know you too well, Brother; I knew you feared her love for us had waned, and I thought that if Mother gave you her beloved pendant, you would surely understand how much she still loved you. You should have seen her, Elladan. Her face lit up when I suggested it. It was the first time she had smiled in ages.”

Now, Elladan smiled, too, and though it was not the first time in ages, it surely felt like it.  

0o0o0

“Gilraen, it is good to see you up and about,” called Elladan as he made his way down the steps leading into the courtyard where Gilraen stood looking out over a grassy knoll dotted with wildflowers. This courtyard had been his mother’s favorite and she had often read or stitched here among its gardens.

“Thank you, Young Lord,” replied Gilraen, hoping she sounded cheerier than she felt.

Young Lord, noted Elladan. Arathorn used to call the twins by that title. “The two Young Lords of Rivendell,” he would say, before breaking into laughter at the thought of calling beings millennia his senior “young.” “I must do something to distinguish between you and your father, and I think it improper to refer to him as ‘Old Lord.’” Arathorn would burst into a fresh, and rare, bout of laughter; he had been a serious man, whereas Gilraen’s mirth had always been prepared to spill forth at the merest invitation.

Gilraen cast a wan smile at Elladan—he noticed that her face was still ghastly pale—before turning back to whatever had held her interest. Elladan followed her gaze to where Estel played, scooping mounds of soil with his bare hands into what appeared to be some sort of dirt fortress he had fashioned.

Gilraen and Elladan watched him in silence, Estel’s normal playtime chatter noticeably absent; over the past months, the boy had become increasingly sullen and withdrawn.

Elladan was the first to break the silence: “I apologize, Gilraen.” He looked her full in the eyes, seeing only confusion.

“Whatever for?”

“I fear I have been less than . . . warm to you over these past few months. I cannot say whether your loss reminded me of my pain over my mother’s absence or whether your distance from Estel had the same effect. Both, I suppose. In any case, I mean these words only as explanation not excuse.”

Gilraen smiled and squeezed Elladan’s hand. “Thank you for that, Young Lord.”

The two fell silent once more, watching Estel carry a fresh mound of dirt to his fortress, a most serious expression on his young face. Too young to be stern like his father, thought Gilraen. He builds a fortress around his heart. May it be as penetrable as the one he builds of dirt.

“I never told you, did I?” Gilraen asked after several minutes.

Elladan furrowed his brow. “You never told me what, precisely?”

“Why I have been unable to see Hope when it—he—is right before me.”

“No, I fear you did not, but I certainly understand if you would prefer not—”

“No, Elladan. I must say the words to someone. Perhaps if I say it aloud the thought will hold less sway over me.”

“Very well then.” Elladan braced himself.

Gilraen closed her eyes and drew a deep, ragged breath.

“What if—” Her voice choked, and Elladan feared she would fall to pieces again, but she drew another breath and seemed to calm a bit. “What if I lose him, too?” The words tumbled out in a rush.

Elladan nodded, his suspicions confirmed.

“All I know is this, Gilraen: if you so worry about some evil befalling the boy that you shut him out of your heart, you lose him of your own making.” Elladan thought he sounded remarkably like his brother, and of that, he felt uncommonly proud.

Gilraen looked Elladan in the eye and nodded subtly, her heart recognizing the truth of his statement even if her mind was not quite prepared to cooperate.

“But how does one stop one’s mind? It has become my enemy even more so than have orcs or any of Sauron’s other minions.”

Elladan looked away, narrowing his eyes against the setting sun. “I wish I knew, Gilraen.”

“You begin by taking a deep breath,” came a familiar voice.

Elladan and Gilraen turned to see Elrohir striding across the courtyard.

“Forgive my intrusion. I came seeking only a sunny spot in which to lounge—”

“My brother, the reptile,” quipped Elladan, amused by his own wit.

Elrohir ignored the interruption. “I fear I simply could not resist partaking in this most intriguing conversation.”

“Very well, Young Lord. I take a deep breath,” which Gilraen promptly did. “And now? What further lessons has the ever-so-wise son of the ever-so-wise Elrond for me?”

“Repeat,” stated Elrohir.

“True brilliance, Brother. And to think Father nearly sold you to a band of traveling minstrels.” To Gilraen, Elladan added, “They needed some sort of side-show, you see, and we all know how difficult it can be to train a dog to play the lute.”

Gilraen could not help but giggle, and even Elrohir cracked a grin.

“The point, Elladan, is that if Gilraen wishes to cope with her grief in a—shall we say in a less destructive manner?—then she must take it one breath at a time. I regret that there is no elvish magic to help you, Gilraen—to help any of us cope with such a loss.” Elrohir eyed his brother with import. “But the grief is made all the worse by attempts to skirt it when the only way through it is precisely that: through it. And we are each of us strong enough to bear whatever pain we must, lest none of us would still be here.”

“There you are mistaken, Young Lord; I am yet among the living because of your skill and that of your father, not because of any strength of my own.” Gilraen cast her eyes downward, suddenly ashamed of her weakness, as if she felt not shame enough already.

“I disagree, Gilraen,” countered Elladan. “I believe that the healing arts were only part of what saved you. You deserve the most credit, for none live who do not truly wish to do so, even if they have experienced moments when they thought otherwise.” Elladan’s mind strayed to his mother, and he suddenly felt overwhelmingly proud of her strength. A lesser woman would have succumbed to grief; his mother had not. No, Celebrían had departed Middle-earth with the earnest intent to live joyfully once more.

“For once, my dear brother speaks with the wisdom befitting him,” teased Elrohir.

Elladan rolled his eyes; Gilraen giggled. The brothers’ banter was something she had often enjoyed when Arathorn had still been among them. Had they tempered this habit over the past several months, or had she simply been unaware of it? Perhaps both, she decided.

Elrohir broke into laughter, prompting Gilraen and Elladan to turn their heads to see what had amused him: Estel had successfully concluded building his dirt fortress and now wiped his muddied hands across his tunic, a good portion of the soil also clinging to his hair and face.

Gilraen’s laughter rang out. “That boy! That beautiful, wonderful boy!”

She opened her arms wide, and Estel ran full force into them, allowing himself to be scooped up into his mother’s love.

The sun dripped her honey-sweet rays on this newly-formed family, and for the moment, they were content. Pain was still their constant companion—though that pain presented a different face to each member of the party—and would surely continue to be. How could it be otherwise in a world so tainted by Sauron’s Shadow? Yet they could bear it for just one breath. And one more after that. Each moment was all they needed; each moment was all that remained.

That and a little Hope.

The End