Finally, the much anticipated (by me anyway!) sequel to “Day and Night” has arrived!  Hurrah!  I’m always experimenting with my writing style and this story will be quite different in many ways, though I hope you still enjoy it.  The first two chapters of “A Yearling Shoot” take place the very next day after the events of “I Will be Your Memory” and, thus, about one month after the end of “Day and Night.”  I don’t think that it is completely necessary to have read the other stories first, but, as all of my stories build on what has happened before, you may wish to.

It was spring, a time of rebirth, of renewal, of change.  Streaming down in patches between the branches of awakening trees, the sun’s rays caught the cool morning mist and dew, and cast all, both air and earth, in a luminous glow.  The trees flourished in response to the promise of light after the cold dark sleep of winter, and though her thoughts weighed on her mind as she walked through the woods of her childhood, Arwen’s mood was lifted by the signs of new life all around her.  She paused to gently touch the delicate leaf bud of a birch; a tiny shoot that within a short span of days would reach the full vigor of its maturity, only to wither and fade as quickly as it had thrived.  While the leaf, like all its kind, would soon fall to decay upon the very earth which now sustained it, the tree itself would endure, as it had for years uncounted, to witness again this cycle of birth and growth, decline and death.

For how many centuries had she watched with unchanging eyes the seasons change?  In some distant year past, she had ceased to number the passing years.  Why today did she wonder at this?  Little heed she had paid it till now.

Her thoughts returned again to a chance meeting just last eve amongst these very trees.  Was it only yesterday when first she saw him?  A mortal man, and even by the measure of his own people, barely more than a boy, and yet, somehow, she felt as though she had known him all the days of her life, so familiar was he.  When before had they met?  Perhaps in a dream.  She heard him sing of Beren and Luthien, and Tinuviel he had called her.  Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, Lord of the Dunedain, he called himself.

On this day, however, she sought another in these woods, and as she moved silently between the white stemmed birches with the certain steps of one who had walked this path a thousand times before, she knew just where to go.  Soon, the calming, constant babble of running water began to soothe her as a grassy glade by the side of the creek came into her view. 

He was there, as she knew he would be, and she felt her spirits lift at the very sight of him.  Oh, how she had missed her home and her family!  So strong was her desire to return to Imladris that, despite her father’s entreaties to stay in Lorien, she simply could remain there no longer, and she had beseeched her grandfather to arrange for her homeward journey earlier than planned.  Celeborn never could refuse her.

The smile that now brightened her brother’s face as she joined him by the creek side made quite apparent his joy at seeing her too.  “Arwen!  I am most glad that you sought me here!”  Holding out a hand to her, he continued:  “Come, sit with me, and let us speak for a time.  I have dearly missed your company these past years, my little sister.”

Taking his hand in her own, she sat in silence beside him on the grass, and as she studied the features of a face that she had adored for as long as she could remember, her smile faded.  He had changed.  So, too, had his twin.  She had known it from the first moment she saw them again.  Though still her brothers looked as young as ever they did when they had doted on her in her childhood, she read it plainly in their eyes:  they grew weary from the weight of their years.

A gentle but firm voice drew her from her thoughts. “You know how little I care to see such an expression darken your fair face.  As your older brother, it is wholly within my duty to worry over you, not the other way around.”

In an effort to appease him, she smiled again as she teased:  “And truly you do fulfill this self-appointed task with much diligence, Elladan.”

His smile returned as well in response.  “Of all that I may be faulted for, no one has yet to accuse me of failing to honour my obligations!”  Turning to look over the rushing water of the creek, he then asked her lightly:  “And what news do you bring with you from the realm of our grandparents?”

Recalling years unnumbered, each very much like the one before, that she had passed in serenity there, Arwen replied with a wistful sigh:  “I have little to tell, for Lorien does not change.  Amongst the beauty of the mallorn trees, one can almost forget the cares of the world outside those timeless woods.”

Pausing for a moment, she studied his profile before speaking again, the tone of her voice now reflecting the gravity of her thoughts:  “And yet, as sheltered as I was there, still word reached my ears of the ever growing shadow just beyond our protected borders.  A day did not pass when I did not worry for the welfare of my brothers who were lost in that darkness.”

Elladan remained silent, his eyes still turned to the creek, and though she tried to read upon his face the play of his mind, he kept his thoughts well concealed beneath expressionless features.  Then, unexpectedly, a sly smile grew on his lips as he cast her a sideways glance.  “And what of Rumil?  How does Lorien’s young border guard fare?”

“Elladan!”  Caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation and taken aback by his impudence in even posing such a query, she was briefly at a loss for a response.  However, she soon remedied that with a light swat on his arm.  “You well know that Rumil is but a handful of years your junior!  As for the question of how he fares, of that I have not the slightest notion, for never did he have a private word with me in the entirety of my stay there!  I know not what you said to him when last we were in Lorien together, but it seems you have effectively convinced him of the wisdom in keeping his distance from me!”

As he tipped his head with a smile, her brother seemed far too satisfied with himself.  “Now that is good news indeed.” 

She was not truly angry at her brother’s meddling, for while he might try to make light of it, she well knew that his compulsion to protect the ones he loved was as much a part of who he was as his fierce and selfless devotion to them.  The tragedy that befell their mother had only served to strengthen his need for some sense of control.  Long ago she learned to accept his overprotective nature and, in truth, she had grown to love him for it.  That did not mean, however, she would allow an opportunity to pursue the matter pass her by:  “Remind me again why it is that you feel the need to dissuade any male who pays me the slightest heed with such vigor, when Elrohir, who loves me just as dearly, does not display this same inclination?”   

Elladan shook his head.  “As fond as I am of him, I am afraid that brother of ours can be entirely too complaisant at precisely the wrong times.”  Though he schooled his face into a mask of seriousness and kept his voice stern, she could hear the teasing behind his words.  “Vigilance is required in the protection of our sister’s honour.”

Arwen’s tone mimicked his own, and she did not allow so much as a hint of a smile as she responded:  “Do I have need of a guardian, then?  You think me some giddy maiden, incapable of acting with wisdom in the choice of whom I bind to my heart?  I have always believed myself to be higher in your estimation than that!”

He bowed his head, apparently in apology, but more likely to conceal a smirk.  “You wound me.  Never would I accuse you of giddiness or lack of judgment, my fair Undomiel.  Truly, you are the daintiest of flowers, the sturdiest of trees, the swiftest of rivers, the mightiest of mountains, and the brightest of stars.  I assure you that I hold you always only in the highest esteem!”   Then, turning his head away from her, he continued in a low voice:  “All those smitten, overly-eager swains who come sniffing around your door, however, are quite another matter.”

“You would see me never wed!”  She gave him another light swat on his arm in response, though, in truth, she greatly enjoyed this silly, playful banter, for it reminded her of happier times long past when they were young and carefree together.  Since the departure of their mother, to see him so was rare indeed.  Her presence seemed to bring him some measure of joy, and for that she was most glad.  And yet, though he tried to keep their conversation light, she could sense the inner turmoil that he attempted to conceal from her, and she wished dearly to find some way to aid him.  However, she knew her brother well enough to understand that if she were to press him now concerning the source of his distress, he would likely withdraw from her further.

Feigning insult,  he replied in a tone of mock offense:  “My dear sister, you speak unjustly!”  A slight smile then crept back to his lips as he continued:  “I swear to you now that when I deem a suitor to be worthy of the Lady Arwen’s hand, I will most gladly take my place at the head of the wedding procession, bearing a banner of silver on my arm and a most contrite expression upon my face!”

“Ah, but therein lies the very heart of the problem, my dear brother, for if I was to wait until you judge a suitor worthy, then I truly believe that I would be waiting alone until the end of Arda.”

Suddenly growing most serious, Elladan answered her in earnest:  “Never will you be alone, not while your brothers remain to watch over you, and remain we shall for as long as you choose to walk upon this land.”

Squeezing his hand lightly, she could not resist an impertinent smile and a wink as she teased him again: “As much as I love you both, I think it not quite the same to be eternally in the company of my brothers as I imagine it would to be alone in the company of my husband.”

She watched with interest his eyes widen briefly at her boldness.  It was always great sport to try to vex her brothers.  In an obvious attempt to change the subject, he then asked her:  “And speaking of never being left alone, do tell me, how fare our dear grandmother and grandfather?”

“They are the same as ever they were,” with these words, she paused briefly for emphasis before continuing: “exactly the same.”

“Ah, I see.”  Elladan nodded in an exaggerated expression of understanding.  “I hope then that father will excuse you for returning to Imladris sooner than he may have wished.” 

Arwen remained silent for a moment, pondering the unusual tension she had sensed in her father just yesterday as he greeted her and welcomed her home.  “While he has said nothing of my early arrival, still I feel that my presence here now does not entirely please him.  What I can not fathom is why this is so.”

There was a hint of laughter in her brother’s voice as he responded, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender:  “Please, do not seek from me the answer to such a riddle!  Surely you can claim a far better understanding of our father’s mind then can I!” 

He paused then for a moment, apparently lost in his thoughts, and his smile faded as he cast his eyes down to avoid her gaze.  “Though I will admit to you that as enigmatic as his words and actions so often are to me, only through severe trial have I come finally to see that a greater knowledge underlies all that he says and does.” 

Sensing a thinning of the armour that he wove around his thoughts, Arwen placed her hand under his chin and raised his head to look him in the eyes as she implored him:  “Elladan, tell me what has happened to you.”

He looked at her with an expression she could not decipher, and her concern for him grew with the moments that passed in silence, for he was not usually one to mince his words, or to hesitate in speaking his mind.  Stroking his cheek lightly, she studied his face in earnest, and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet and sad.  “I know of the injuries you sustained on your last patrol.  I know also how close you came to the Halls of Waiting.”

Would he try again to evade her?  She could see that he would by the slight smile that returned to his face before he replied:  “You have not yet been back even one full day, and still it appears that you have already found the time to gather information.  Tell me, what magic do you cast upon Glorfindel that allows you to attain from him an unveiled response to your every query?”

Despite her frustration and concern, Arwen could not help but smile a little at the irony of Elladan’s own evasive response.  She dropped her hands to her lap with a sigh.  “Attaining clear answers from Glorfindel is not so very challenging.  One simply needs to know the right questions to ask.”

Elladan’s smile grew broader.  “I doubt that any question I might ask of him would result in an answer that I actually seek.  Mind you, I have not had him twined around my fingers with my charms as you have since you were but an infant.”

Frowning, she shook her head.  “Do not try flattery in an attempt to forestall my queries!  Glorfindel spoke openly to me on this matter in the hope that I might find some way to aid you.  You may not believe it, but he worries for you.  As do we all.”

“There is no need for you to worry, I assure you.” 

His words failed to convince her, and she clasped his hands again as she searched his face for answers.  “Tell me truly, do your injuries pain you still?”    

The smile he now forced upon his face was clearly an attempt to reassure her.  “Nay.  I feel little discomfort but for a stiffness in my arm in the morning, and that too is diminishing by the day.  Soon I will be back to my old self, you will see.  You have a hard headed, stubborn mule for a brother, one who would never allow a mere wall of rock to claim him.”

She did not like to remain uninformed, particularly when the well-being of her loved ones was at stake.  At yesterday’s banquet, she had acquired from Glorfindel a part of the story of last month’s fateful patrol, and a careful questioning of Elrohir earlier that morn had garnered more details.  In the telling of this tale, one name was mentioned repeatedly:  Estel, or Aragorn, as he had introduced himself to her last eve.  “But there is more to your survival than your hard head, is there not?  I have heard tell that the boy of the Dunedain, the one father named Estel and calls his son, had a part to play in it.”   

A sudden thrill coursed through her as she spoke of the mortal youth.  Why did he unsettle her so?  She felt as though the answer to a complex riddle that had long eluded her was now temptingly close at hand, and yet, still just beyond her reach. Who was this Hope?  No matter how dark the days grew, and dark indeed they had grown, their father continued always to hold to hope for the restoration of the kingship of Men through the unbroken line of his mortal brother.  Elrond had not given this boy the name ‘Estel’ lightly, of that much she was certain.   

Elladan’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.  “In truth, I owe my life to him.  He is gifted with the hands of a healer.”

“And the heart of a king?”  Her voice quavered slightly as she spoke these words.  Could he be the one for whom they had all waited so many generations of men? 

Again she had the sense that he withheld something from her, some significant piece of this puzzle, as he looked down and responded quietly: “Of that, only time will reveal.  He is very young still, and I fear many years of trial await him.”

He kept his head bowed, his gaze fixed firmly on her hand in his own as he sat for long moments in silence.  Then, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, whether to comfort her or himself she did not know, before he spoke again:  “No matter his fate, I foresee that the time of our father’s dwelling in Middle-earth draws soon to an end.”  His next words were so soft that Arwen had to strain to hear him above the noisy babbling of the ever rushing water.  “Tell me, have you thought much upon the choice which will soon be laid before us?”

Though his voice was barely more than a whisper, his words screamed in her ears, and she felt for a moment as though her breath had been stolen from her.  The choice of the children of the peredhel was not something they spoke of lightly, for the pain their father bore still from the sundering beyond the end of the world of brother from brother was bitter for them to see.  And yet, as unexpected as this question was, to Arwen it felt somehow most timely, for portents of her doom had seemed to dwell in the very air and the earth and the water all around her since her arrival home last eve.

She paused for a moment, taking in a deep breath to compose herself before responding:  “Little have I considered our choice throughout the many years of my life, for my path has always appeared to stretch out clear and straight ahead.  Now, I find that I have been reminded of the choice of the peredhil twice within as many days, and suddenly it feels as though the road before me turns and my way is obscured from view.”

“In that, you...”  He paused mid sentence, his brow furrowing as he looked at her directly.  “Twice?  Who else has spoken to you of your choice?”

“Not spoken of it as such, but when I first met him last eve, Estel called me Tinuviel, and said that I walk in the likeness of Luthien.”

His grasp on her hand tightened briefly and she could feel the sudden tremor that coursed through him.  “Did he?” 

In his voice, she thought she could detect a tone of wonder, and perhaps, of dawning realization, but a realization of what, she did not know.   One thing she knew for certain, however, was that she too had much to think upon, and that much of her thought would be devoted to a young man who bore the name of Hope.  Unable now to express her thoughts more clearly, she said simply:  “He is most intriguing.”

Elladan turned his eyes away from her again to look over the water of the creek, and to Arwen it seemed as though he were searching for answers there.  “That he is,” he responded absently, and with these words, he fell silent.

Arwen, too, spoke no more, for she found that she had lost the will to press him on this matter.  Perhaps there were some answers that were best left to time to reveal.  Instead, she offered him what comfort she could with her presence and took comfort herself in his, as the two sat hand in hand in silence for hours they did not count, each lost in their own thoughts as together they watched the cool, clear water of the creek run its sure and rapid course.

Please take the time to leave a review.  All feedback, both positive and negative, is greatly appreciated.

Coming up in the next chapter: a conversation between Elrohir and Gilraen has some surprising revelations.

It’s been six months since I last posted anything.  There were some difficult times over those months, but I am glad that I was able finally to find the time and the inspiration to bring you this,  and I would love to hear what you think.  Please take a moment to share with me your comments, thoughts, reactions, and critiques. 

This chapter takes place at the same time as chapter one, and so, as Arwen and Elladan are having their conversation (in chapter one), so Gilraen and Elrohir are having theirs.  Thus, this chapter too is set the very next day after the events of “I Will be Your Memory.”  Obviously, this chapter has references to the events of that short story, but it also ties in elements from “Day and Night” and, in particular, “To Give Hope” as well.

I hope you enjoy!

Buoyed by the warm spring sun, the larks in the trees above serenaded him with cheerful songs as Elrohir made his way along one of many stone paths that wound through the forests of Imladris.  His spirits, too, were light, for his sister had just this past day returned to them and they were all together once more.  Well, no, not all, but he would not dwell on that.  Not now.

He would think instead of Arwen, and of his joy at seeing her again.  She had not changed.  And, oh, how she reminded him of their mother!  The resemblance though lay not so much in her features, but rather in the strength of her will.  For some reason beyond his understanding, their father had bid Arwen to delay her return home for another year, and yet, still she strode through those doors yesterday with a firmness of step and a look in her eye that brooked no argument.  Always it had been like this, and if Arwen set her mind upon a course, he did believe there was no force upon Arda or Aman that could deter her from it.

As he recalled their conversation earlier that morn, he realized with a smile and a shake of his head that interrogation might be a more apt term.  Knowing that Elladan did not wish to burden her with news of his injuries, Elrohir had been on his guard against her attempts to extract information -- though somehow in the end, he found himself revealing far more than he had intended.  Little did he doubt, however, that this was for the best, for if anyone could find a way to aid their brother, Arwen would.

The trail of his thoughts led him inevitably back to Elladan.  While there was for Elrohir no novelty in worrying over his brother’s welfare, he had found himself spending far more time in this pursuit over the past month than ever before. Elladan had been gravely injured on that fateful patrol, it is true, but he had recovered quite well, at least from his bodily wounds.  However, even as he pulled Elladan from the wreckage of that accursed rockfall, he had sensed that more than mere physical pains troubled his brother.  He was different.  Though Elladan had since tried to made light of it with him, still he would not speak freely of what really had happened in that cave.  There existed now a distance between them that felt so very foreign; a distance, it seemed to Elrohir, that Elladan quite deliberately maintained. 

Why did his brother push him, and everyone else, away?  Why, after so many long absences from her home, did his sister feel such a compelling need to return now that she would defy their father’s will?  Why, at any rate, would their father be less than pleased with her arrival?  And, why now, in this time of relative peace, did it seem to him that his family was in such turmoil? 

Something had changed...

At that moment, a glint caught his eye, and he paused from his thoughts to take greater note of his surroundings.   He stood on one of the many small bridges that spanned the largest of the creeks running through the valley of Imladris.  Filtering through the trees, the sun’s light illuminated the ripples on the water below, causing the creek to glitter in patches with what looked like a multitude of tiny gems dancing on its surface.  Over the years, he had walked this path too many times to count, and rarely had he paid the creek much heed, but on this day, the glow of the water held him fast.  On impulse, he leapt over the railing of the bridge to land with little effort on the moss-covered rocks below, and he knelt to bring himself closer to surface of the creek, the better to study it.  

He was struck by the notion that something as seemingly simple and mundane as water could in fact be so very complex.  In the light, the ripples on the surface did sparkle and shine, but in the shadows, the water was so crystal clear that he could see the fine details of the pebbles on the bottom of its depths.  And yet, despite its clarity, the creek was always restless and in motion.  As the water scurried around large rocks and other obstacles in its path, it frothed and bubbled, almost, it seemed, in protest over any attempt to impede it, but, regardless, nothing held it back for long.  Indeed, bolstered by the spring thaw, the creek seemed lively and loud and in good spirits as it ran its ceaseless course, and, as he listened, he swore that in its boisterous babbling the water spoke to him.   

Smiling at the absurdity of talking to a creek, he found himself unable to resist the desire to respond.  “Tell me, my friend, why do you always hurry so?  What need do you have of such haste?”

His only reply was the constant, bubbly chatter of running water which now seemed so very calming to him.  He wished suddenly to hold it, to contain it, and he cupped his hands to scoop some water up, only to watch it trickle out from between his fingers.  

With a laugh, he stood.  “Well, be off with you then.  Far be it from me to hinder your course.”  Turning his head to look up at the sky, he could tell by the position of the sun that morning would soon give way to noon.  “I must apologize, but I dare not tarry here much longer.  You see, if my brother were to find me talking to a creek, I am afraid that not in a hundred yén would he let me live it down.  And besides, I am due at a meeting with a most dear friend, and the lady does not much care for tardiness.”

With that, he was off again down the path, though at a slightly quicker pace.  Earlier that morn, he had received word that Gilraen wished to see him, and he had arranged to meet with her around midday.   In truth, he wanted to speak with her too, for a mere two days past, his father had revealed to her son the truth of his lineage, and he wondered at how she fared.

He knew just where to find her.  She stood in silence upon the balcony outside her rooms,  overlooking the mountains that cradled Imladris, her gaze fixed upon the largest and most magnificent of the many waterfalls that rushed to meet the river from the opposite side of the valley.  Lost in her thoughts, she had not yet sensed his approach, and he paused for a moment to study her profile.  Gilraen the Fair her people had called her in days past.  Indeed, for a daughter of Men, she was most fair of face, and yet, it seemed to him she held a far greater claim to the title than that of mere beauty.  Like the father of her son, she traced her lineage to the line of Elendil, and in the strength, nobility and grace of her spirit there could be no doubt that she too was a child of kings.

She was not nearly of an age that counted as old amongst her people.  The Dúnedain, in particular those of royal descent, were blessed with longer life than that of lesser Men, and, lest their lives be cut short by unnatural causes, they could dwell in strength and vigor for many decades past their hundredth year.  If he did recall correctly, this spring marked her forty-fourth, and amongst her people she would be considered in her prime still.  To Elrohir though it seemed as if she aged before his very eyes.  The traces of grey that streaked her dark hair and the small lines of care that etched her face were now painfully clear for him to see as she slumped wearily against the railing of the balcony.  He frowned. It would seem that with the revelation to Aragorn of his lineage, she had been released from far more than her onerous promise to keep from her son all knowledge of his father.  She was also now free to show how heavily the weight of eighteen years of secrecy and deception wore upon her.

Concealing his concern behind a soft smile, Elrohir then spoke: “You wished to see me, Gilraen?”

The genuine joy that lit her face as she turned to greet him warmed his heart.  “Elrohir!”  Without hesitation, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him in the comfortable gesture of an old, dear friend, and he readily returned the embrace.  “I want to thank you for working your magic yet again on my son.”

Unable to resist a slight chuckle at her choice of words, he replied:  “And what, do tell, is this ‘magic’ of which you speak?”

She released her hold to study him for a moment and shook her head slightly before she responded:  “I know not how you do it, but there is nary a time that I can recall when you have failed to lift my son’s spirits.  Yesterday morning, he was as surly as a bear awoken too early from its winter sleep, for he spoke naught but in grunts and growls, and stomped about these rooms with a ferocity that gave me cause to fear for the welfare of the floors.  I know that you spoke to him last eve, but I can not fathom what you might have said to transform him this morn into a songbird in spring, for when he woke he seemed more to sing than to speak, and to my eyes it was as though he were walking on a cloud, so light were his steps.”

“I am most glad to hear that I could help to ease his heart, but there was no ‘magic’ involved, I assure you.  I merely spoke to him a little of his father.”

Gilraen smiled and took his hand. “The magic, my friend, was in managing to speak to him at all!”  Her smile faded as she continued:  “Never have I seen him so angry as I did yesterday morn.  He seemed little interested in hearing my justifications and the reasons for my actions, and, in truth, I found that I could not blame him.   He felt deeply betrayed, by all of us, I think, but none more so than by his own mother.”

Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, Elrohir reassured her: “He simply needed some time to consider all of these great tidings.  It is a lot to put upon one who is still so young, but my father would not have done so, if he did not think Estel...Aragorn...ready to bear this burden.  He is strong, and despite his youth, already quite wise.  He seems to have a better understanding of the reasons for our deception now, and does not blame us—any of us.  However, I think he has, in effect, just begun to mourn the loss of the father of whom he has no memory, and he needs to know more of Arathorn.  I believe that Aragorn will have many questions for you.”

“Aragorn.”  Closing her eyes, she repeated the name slowly, rolling it over her tongue as though she were savouring the finest wine. 

Releasing his hand, she sat upon the balcony bench where Elrohir had seen her spend so much of her time of late, and motioned for him to join her, as she said:  “I am afraid that I am all too familiar with memory, for I have found myself dwelling in mine far too often of late.  Tell me, do you recall when you and your brother first brought my son and me to Imladris?”

He thought he knew Gilraen well by now, yet Elrohir did not expect this question. “Of course.  It was a most difficult time.  For all of us.”

“I hated you.”  While she kept her expression hard as she spoke these words, after a brief pause, a slight smile crept to her lips.  “Or, more truthfully, I strove to.  You always did make it so difficult for me to dislike you.”

Elrohir returned her smile, but remained silent as she continued:  “When you first brought me here, I was grieving and angry, and I sought a place to lay the blame for Arathorn’s death and for my fate.  To my shame, I will admit that you and your brother made easy targets for my wrath.  As soon as I allowed myself to see you truly, I saw my grief mirrored in your eyes.  Never before nor since have I seen you look as weary, and yet, with little concern for your own suffering, you did everything within your power to console my son, and me.”

“You seemed so very lost, Gilraen, that I only wished I could do more for you.”

Her gaze was drawn towards the waterfalls once more.  “So much water has past beneath the bridges of Imladris since then,” she said quietly.

Looking back to him, she continued with a sigh:  “It would seem to me that time, and how we sense its passing, is that which divides ephemeral beings such as I from those who will endure until the ending of all Arda.  To mortal men, time is like water, fluid and changing, and never truly ours, for no matter how much we may covet it, ever it slips away between our fingers.  To the immortal elves, it is as though time is as solid as stone, unchanging and eternal, and theirs to keep always firmly within their grasp.”

Then she lowered her eyes and said nothing, though Elrohir could sense that she wanted to say much more.  She seemed burdened and weary, and so he took her hand to comfort her as he waited patiently for her to speak the words she clearly found so difficult to say.

After a while, she spoke again:  “So very much has changed since then, at least for those of us who are not granted the blessing and the curse of endless time.  Eighteen long years have passed since first I came to Imladris.  I, born Dúnedain, sensible and practical, never afraid of the prospect of hard work, and never averse to getting my hands dirty.  I, a stranger to this home, this haven of knowledge and wisdom, this sanctuary for contemplation and reflection.  Well, in this place, I have most certainly found much time to think and much to think upon.”  

She laughed a little as she said this, and Elrohir thought he could hear the tint of bitterness in her laughter.  Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, he pressed her: “And what is it you have thought upon, Gilraen?” 

As she answered, he could see the sadness in her eyes.  “I have found the differences between Men and Elves, those qualities that forever sunder the Second from the First Born, to be a subject foremost upon my mind.”

Again, a response he was not expecting, and he wondered at what she was trying to tell him.  She took a deep breath, as if steeling her courage.  “And then, there is Elrond Peredhel, descended from the greatest houses of both the Edain and the Eldar, and from what I have seen, truly the epitome of the finest qualities of all the children of Ilúvatar.”

He heard it in her voice as she spoke his father’s name, a slight tremour that betrayed more than mere admiration, and then, finally, he understood.  “You love him.”  The words were spoken neither in accusation nor judgement, but rather with wonder at the sudden revelation of a truth which had long remained unseen before his very eyes.

Gilraen looked at him directly, unwavering as she responded:  “I am most weary of deception, and so I tell you quite freely that what you say is true.  I have loved your father for many long years.”

Elrohir remained silent as he pondered this.  A myriad of memories returned to him of Elrond and Gilraen together, of her strained silences, her subtle looks and gestures.  At the time, all seemed too insignificant to note, but upon recollection, suddenly, it all made sense.  He wondered if his father knew of this, and if so, how had he dealt with it, if at all.  He wondered that Gilraen, who had been, he thought, his good friend and confidant for years, had not told him of this long before.  Most of all, he wondered at how he had not noticed sooner.  The only unfortunate conclusion he could draw was that women, of all races, remained to him a mystery.  “Why is it that you tell me this now, Gilraen?”

“I feel that the time for secrets is over, and you, Elrohir, have always been a dear friend and a great support, both to my son, and to myself.”

She paused for a minute and sighed.  “How do I explain to you my feelings?  Over these past few days, I have been dwelling on thoughts of my long-dead husband far more than I have in years, and I find that my memories of him are distant and vague, clouded by the haze of time.  I can no longer remember his smile, his smell, his touch...”

Her voice wavered a little, and she closed her eyes briefly before she continued:  “I loved my husband dearly, I assure you, and I mourned his death for many months.  But, with the passing of time, the edge of my memories began to dull.  In time, I no longer called out for him at night and searched for him as I woke, I no longer heard his voice and saw his visage at every turn, I no longer remembered him always in my son’s every word and action.  I counted it as a blessing from Ilúvatar to his mortal children, for with the fading of his memory, my pain too began to diminish, and I found his death easier to bear.”

“While Arathorn drew ever further from my mind, your father grew ever closer, for it was Elrond, not Arathorn, with whom I raised a son.  We spent much time together in counsel over my—our—son, deciding what course was best for him.  Together we taught him and played with him, nursed him through the injuries and illnesses of childhood, cared for and nurtured him.” 

“When Arathorn died and I was brought here, I was a young woman still, and so very much alone.”  Elrohir could detect a slight blush spreading on her cheeks now as she bowed her head to look at her lap as she spoke.  “I feel no shame in admitting that I ached for my husband’s touch, though I knew I would never feel him again.  Elrond was so very beautiful, so vibrant and full of life, and so very near.”

She looked up at him again suddenly and he could see the strength of her emotion on her face as she added earnestly:  “Do not think, though, that the depth of my feelings for your father is limited to some base desire!  My affections for him are most sincere, I assure you.  I have never met another who is a match for his generosity, his gentility, his strength and his wisdom.  I love everything about him, from the way he can govern all with a kind heart and a cool head; to the way that he can still, after thousands of years, find joy and pleasure in the simplest of things; to the small furrow that develops between his brows when he is attempting to act more seriously than he truly feels.”

Though she smiled as she said this, Elrohir saw her barely restrained tears, and his heart ached for her.  He took her hand again, and with a soft, sympathetic smile, said gently:  “My father is most fond of you too and I know you are high in his esteem, but I tell you in earnest that he is unable to return your feelings.  His wife dwells no longer on Arda, but Celebrían is alive still, and, Valar willing, now whole, and she awaits him in Aman across the Sea.  No matter how long they both must need wait, my father will one day sail and they will be reunited.  Though even if my mother were dead, and she did reside in the Halls of Mandos, his devotion to her would never waver.  Once the marriage bond is formed between husband and wife, not even death can break it asunder.  This is the way of the elves.”

Gilraen turned her head away as she answered, her words so soft that he could barely hear her:  “I could only wish that the human heart would remain so constant.” 

Then, after taking a breath, she looked at him directly as she spoke with firm resolve:  “This I know, I assure you, for years of unrequited affection has driven the point deep into my heart.  And yet, even now, I am unable to stop myself from yearning over that which I will never have.” 

“Often I have wondered at the magic of the elves, for truly they have the power to turn sensible women into utter fools.”  She laughed again as she said this, and this time the laughter betrayed her bitterness.

Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, Elrohir answered with conviction:  “No matter the pain it may bring to us, love which we give freely is never foolish.”

She looked away, and they were both silent for a while, each thinking over the words that had passed between them.   Gilraen was the first to speak again and her tone was distant, as though her thoughts were far away:  “As strange as it may sound, Elrohir, this life of ease has made me weary.  I do not wish to seem ungrateful, for your father has shown me only kindness, but I was not born for this life, for I was born Dúnedain.  Whilst I dwell here in luxury, spoilt beyond what any may reasonably expect, the Shadow yet grows, and the suffering of my people increases with the passing of each day.”

Elrohir did not respond beyond a slight tip of his head, for he knew the truth of her words well enough.  She continued:  “My people need their leader, but, I fear, to give them that will mean my son will be forever lost to me.”  She paused for a moment and held his hand more tightly.  “You have a kind heart, Elrohir, and I take comfort in knowing that you and your family will remain to offer my son aid and guidance even when I may not.”

Her words sent a chill through him, and he answered quickly:  “Why do you speak so Gilraen?  You are young still, and surely you will live to see your son prosper and give you many grandchildren.”

She smiled slightly in response, and he could see that she did not believe his words.  “My duty is almost served.  I have raised for my people a strong and noble leader.  I am no longer needed, and I am weary, Elrohir.  As the darkness of our time draws near, I fear I have not the strength left within me to face it.”

He did not answer, for he found he did not know what to say, but he remained with Gilraen for many minutes more, as they both sat hand in hand and watched as the water of the falls rushed ever on.  And though the sun still shone and the birds still sang, to Elrohir the day no longer seemed so bright.

In the next chapter, we will finally hear from Aragorn.  

This chapter is a bit more intense than the other chapters of this story so far, and there are a few rather graphic images in one instance, but I do not think it is too bad.  Let’s put it this way-- the chapter seems appropriate for this time of year, with Halloween coming up soon!

The end of the chapter overlaps with a short scene from Appendix A “Here Follows a Part of The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen” from The Return of The King and I have included a few direct quotes from this section into my text. Tolkien’s words are written in italics.

Gilraen awoke from a dreamless sleep to the sense that something was not right.  A quick glance around her chamber revealed nothing obviously amiss, but, although a mid-summer morning, the sky was dark and grey, and everything in the room looked faded, dull, as though muted and drained of colour.  Shivering a little as she stood, she pulled on her robe and held it close against the strangely cold air.  All was quiet, too quiet. Aside from the slight rustling of her own nightdress as she crept to the sitting room, she heard not a sound.  Imladris was always a place of peace, of course, but now she noticed acutely the lack of soft, melodic voices raised in song, of birds chirping, and, most unusually, of the never-ending, soothing roar of water rushing down the falls.  

She peered around the door that separated the sleeping room from her parlor.  At first, she was simply relieved to see that Elrond stood there, though she thought it unusual that he had entered her suites unannounced while she slept.  He looked as grand and magnificent as ever, and she knew that she had come to rely on his constant wisdom and his gentle strength far more than she might wish to admit.  At times, in his company, she felt there was no problem that he could not put right. 

But now, she realized, something was most terribly wrong.  He neither smiled, nor turned to greet her as she entered the room; indeed, he did nothing to acknowledge her presence in the least.  He remained absolutely silent and still, his face pale, his expression hard and unchanging, and the thought struck her briefly that he did look like some exquisite statue.  Yet no statue was he, for now she could feel the sorrow and the anger that rolled off his body in waves and chilled the very air around her.  While she could not imagine what she might have done to merit such displeasure, sudden terror at the thought of his censure compelled her forward, and, without thinking, she reached out to grab his wrist. “Elrond!  What is the matter?”

His skin felt as cold and unyielding as the finest marble that adorned his halls, and she pulled her hand away as though she had been burned.  Still he neither moved nor spoke, and finally she saw that his eyes were fixed upon the view outside her balcony doors.  For some reason she did not understand, she felt a chill of absolute dread at the thought of what she might see there, and yet, she could not resist the urge to turn her head and follow his gaze.

For a moment she did naught but stare in utter confusion, unable to fathom the sight before her.  Frowning, she tilted her head.  It was not possible.  The waterfalls no longer fell.  The water had not dried up, it simply hung there, unmoving, solid and frozen in time.  It was as though all the water that had rushed ceaselessly and for all eternity over those mountains and down those falls had just suddenly stopped still in its tracks.

Another breeze blew lightly across her face, but this time the air was different, sweeter and warmer, and she turned to locate its source.  The doors that had always led to the grand halls of Imladris stood wide open, but now no halls were there.  Instead she saw a forest, and an open trail that led between the trees.  With a shake of her head, she whispered under her breath:  “I have not seen that path before.”

For a moment, she hesitated at the thought that perhaps she should be wary of a path that suddenly appears, and yet these woods were so inviting, so familiar, she felt compelled to follow.  With one final, brief glance at the cold and stagnant scene she left behind, she strode out the door and into the forest.  After a mere few steps, Imladris had already disappeared amongst the trees behind her, but still the path stretched out clear ahead, and she continued on without pause nor fear.  She had not gone far when she began to hear laughter and merry chatter, and soon, she had arrived at a clearing in the woods. 

What she saw there felt so warm and welcoming that she could not resist a smile.  Her friends and family, all the dearly loved ones she had not seen in so very many years, were seated around a large banquet table, and they were having a joyous feast.  She could hear the crackle of wood upon the fire and smell the wonderful aroma of her mother’s stew, and she wondered at why, if it had always been so easy to go home, she had not returned much sooner.  No one had noticed her yet, and, wanting so dearly to join them, she took, without hesitation, a step into the clearing.

However, she was halted from going any further by a familiar voice at her side. She had not seen that someone stood beside her, and yet words were now whispered so closely she could feel the breath upon her ear:  “There you are, Gilraen.  You have been gone so long, I had started to think you meant to avoid me.”

“Arathorn.”  His arms twined around her as she turned toward him, and though she noticed briefly that she could not make out the details of his face, at this moment, she did not wish to consider what that might mean.

“I have missed you, my love,” he said as he began to trace soft kisses along the side of her neck.

Shivering at a sensation at once so familiar and so foreign, she sighed.  “And I you, my husband.”

Then she heard a childish giggle, and she turned her head in the direction of the happy sound.  There she saw her young son, barely two years of age, skipping merrily on the grass along the edge of the clearing. “Aragorn?” she questioned with a smile, and she tried to move toward him, only to find herself hindered by Arathorn’s firm grip upon her shoulders.

“Stay with me,” he whispered.

At that moment, Aragorn turned and bolted into the forest.  The sun was setting quickly now, and in the twilight, the trees suddenly appeared so much more dense and foreboding.  “Aragorn!” she called urgently this time, twisting to escape her husband’s hold.

She was held fast, however, and Arathorn pulled her close again to whisper in her ear:  “Let him go, he does not need you.”

“But surely he shall perish there, alone in the wild!”  Pushing against him with all her strength, she finally managed to slip from his embrace, only to be caught again by a strong hand upon her wrist. Pulling frantically now against his grasp, she cried:  “Release me!  I must stop him!”

Though he did not let go, Arathorn smiled and chuckled as he shook his head, speaking to her as though he were talking to a child:  “Foolish woman!  You must know that where he walks, you can not follow.”

Gilraen looked around desperately for aid, but no one else paid her any heed.  Still her friends and family went on eating and laughing as though nothing was amiss.  Turning back to Arathorn, she saw now that his features were blurred, as if she could not quite bring him into focus. She felt a deathly chill run through her. 

“Something is not right...”  As soon she spoke these words, Arathorn began to wither before her very eyes.  In a heartbeat, his face and body grew sunken and hollow, as though muscle beneath flesh had dissolved away.  His skin shriveled too and rapidly aged till it was nothing more than thin old leather stretched tight over a skeletal frame.  A mere moment later, there was naught left of him but dry bones, which in turn soon crumbled to dust.   

With a scream of utter horror, she turned and fled into the forest after Aragorn.  The sun had set now, and the forest grew dark.  The trees were close around her, the branches and roots hindering her steps.  Her feet felt heavy.  Still she heard him, somewhere ahead, ever further away.  She called out to him, but to no avail.  He did not seem to hear her.  She could no longer move, she could not reach him...

“Aragorn!”

Gilraen sat bolt upright in her bed, terrified and confused.  The gruesome images still strong in her mind, for horrible moments she could not distinguish reality from illusion.  Looking around frantically, she saw that she was in her chamber in Imladris, yet still she was reluctant to trust her own senses.  But this time the room was warm and flooded with light, and she could hear the birds singing, and much to her relief, the roar of the falls outside her doors. 

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she clasped the pitcher on the table beside her with shaky hands and poured some water. More found its way onto the floor than into her glass.  She struggled to slow her rapid breathing and calm her racing heart as she tried to make some sense of the disturbing yet compelling images of her dream.  Was it only a dream?  Shaking her head, she could not escape the feeling that it was not.  Over these past few months, ever since Aragorn had learned of his inheritance, she had experienced many such dreams, heavy and dark, laden with portent.  But were they truly significant, or merely an expression of her own fears and worries?  To whom could she speak of this?  Though she did not quite know why, she felt in her heart that these were not dreams she dared share with Elrond.  Oh, how dearly she wished for her mother’s insight!  

Her thoughts turned again to her son, as so often they had these last months.  Always in her dreams now she called out to him, always she sought to reach him, to warn him.  But of what?  She had grown more concerned for him than usual of late, for she perceived a great change had come over him, something beyond even the knowledge that he was the son of kings.  Though he seemed full of hope, still he had grown quiet and restless, and he would not tell her why. 

With new resolve she rose and dressed quickly.  She would speak to her son with haste, and press him until she had an answer.  She had to discover what strange thing had befallen him, for the warnings in her mind and in her heart were too dire for her to let it be.

When she did not find him on the training fields, she knew where next to look.  Lately, he had taken to long, solitary walks along the forested paths that laced Imladris, particularly, she had noticed, on the greensward amongst the white stemmed birches.  Surely enough, there she found him, singing softly a haunting tune, one that she too had come to know well during her time in Imladris.  “The Lay of Beren and Lúthien always fills my heart with such sadness, though I know not quite why,” she said as she approached him.

“There is sadness in the tale in part, and yet much hope as well,” Aragorn responded with what seemed to her an unusual smile as he turned to greet her.  “I owe my very life to their love, if I am their descendent as I have lately been told.”

Linking her arm with his, Gilraen came to walk in step with her son.  The images of her dream still pressed heavily upon her mind, and she spoke to him without further preamble:  “Tell me, Aragorn, why is it that you have been so quiet and withdrawn of late?  I worry for you.”

“Do not worry about me, mother!  I fare well.  In truth, I am far better than well.  I simply have much to think upon these days.”

Again, there was that odd little smile, one that seemed to her so foreign on her son’s face.  She studied him intently, and with dawning realization, she knew she had seen that look before on the faces of other young men, albeit not for many years.  It could not be, could it?  Was it truly the smile of a young man who thought himself in love?  What woman could possibly have drawn his fancy now, in this place?  Knowing that the answer to this question would not please her, still she pressed on: “Has a young lady caught your eye, my son?”

Aragorn looked down and was quiet for a while, and she could see the slight flush of red spreading on his cheeks.  Then, taking a deep breath, he seemed to steel his resolve as he looked back up to her and said:  “A lady yes, one of the finest quality, but, though she is more beautiful than anything I have ever before beheld, I do not think she is so young.”

With a growing pit of dread in her stomach, Gilraen asked him:  “Tell me, who is this lady?”

“I met her in these very woods, but a few months ago.”  He stopped walking, and turned to look around as he spoke, his voice distant.  “Here, the course of my life was changed forever, and I met my destiny one evening in the twilight of these trees, for here I did first meet Arwen Undómiel, the daughter of Elrond and the fairest child of Eru ever to walk upon Arda or Aman.”

Gilraen felt a sharp stab pierce her heart, and she thought for a moment that she could no longer breathe.  He was completely besotted; she heard the passion in his voice.  It could not be, and yet it was, that the son had fallen to the same folly as the mother.  If only she could spare him the pain of the love of a mortal for the Eldar, but he was his father’s son, and once he had set his mind, he would not waver.  Still, she had to try.  “My son,” said Gilraen, “your aim is high, even for the descendant of many kings.  For this lady is the noblest and fairest that now walks the earth.”  She paused briefly to compose herself, and yet she could not completely conceal the tremor in her voice.  “ And it is not fit that mortal should wed with the Elf-kin.”

“Yet we have some part in that kinship,” said Aragorn, “if the tale of my forefathers is true that I have learned.”

“It is true,” said Gilraen, “but that was long ago and in another age of this world, before our race was diminished.”  She remembered her dream; of Elrond, cold and unyielding, full of anger, grief, and sorrow.  “Therefore I am afraid; for without the good will of Master Elrond the Heirs of Isildur will soon come to an end.  But I do not think that you will have the good will of Elrond in this matter.”

“Then bitter will my days be, and I will walk in the wild alone,” said Aragorn.

His words sent a chill through her, for she knew now the truth of them.  Suddenly, the images of her dream, her vision, came together with clarity.  Her son’s life would indeed be a bitter one, full of trial and hardship and suffering, and she could not see a light at the end of it.  For a brief moment, she was overcome with the desire to turn back time, and have her son simply be a little boy again, one whose biggest concerns were of scraped knees and boiled beans for dinner.  She shook her head, angry at her foolishness.  No mother can protect her child forever, no matter how much she might wish to.  Aragorn was a man now.  A man who needed to make his own mistakes and grow from them.  A man who needed to seek his own destiny.

Thus, she turned to him and said simply: “That will indeed be your fate,”  and then she spoke of it no more.

In the next chapter: Aragorn is called to a meeting with Elrond.

As always, I would love to hear any thoughts, comments, critiques or criticisms you have!

Red tinged the dawn as if in warning. Still, as Aragorn stepped out of doors and onto a most familiar path, he judged the small grey clouds streaking the sky too benign to threaten his faith in a fair day ahead. And yet, drawing his cloak more tightly around him, he had to concede to the cool morning air that bespoke the early arrival of autumn this year. So well he knew this route he traveled that he could walk without the need for conscious thought of his direction, which was good, for his thoughts were most certainly elsewhere.

So much had passed since last he felt such a chill wind blow! But no matter the weather, nothing would dampen his good mood and high spirits. This past spring and summer had been the best of his life, so very full of hope, and of new beginnings. The world had never before seemed so alive with possibilities and promise.

Spring had begun in turmoil and strife, and in the shadow of evil. Trolls plagued the High Pass and rained their malice upon those who dared venture there. Elrond, the master of Imladris and the one whom he called father, dispatched his finest warriors to eliminate the menace. Elladan had opposed his inclusion in the patrol, but Glorfindel had stood for him and insisted he take his place amongst them. He, then called Estel, rose to the challenge and proved his worth. With his own blade he felled one of the monstrous beasts, and with his own hands he alone saved the life of his foster father’s son.

When he returned home, Elrond had greeted him with most unexpected news. He was not who he had always believed himself to be. Rarely before did anyone, not even his mother, speak to him of his true father, and for many years he had assumed himself a bastard son of some rogue too bereft of honour to even merit mention. Then, so suddenly, to learn that he was no stray whom Elrond in his mercy had agreed to take into his home and foster as his own, but rather, the sole remaining son of a most noble lineage, a descendant of kings, the Lord of the Dúnedain.

On the very next eve he first saw her, and, for the second time in as many days, the course of his life was changed forever. From that hour he loved her, Arwen Undómiel, Elrond’s only daughter. The long hot summer days he had spent in their entirety on thoughts of her. In the recollection of her grace, and in the anticipation of catching a glimpse of her again--perhaps even, dare he hope, of sharing with her a few words and seeing her smile--she was ever in his mind. Still he fulfilled his duties faithfully and without fail as always, but, despite the mundanity and routine, all had changed. The mere thought of her made the colours around him brighter, the scents sweeter, the air warmer, and everything better. In her presence, he felt complete and truly alive for the very first time.

Striding down the path, he could not resist a sheepish smile at the trail of his thoughts and, despite the cool air, his cheeks grew warm. So silly such professions of love would have seemed to him a few mere months ago! He could remember, as a boy, reading in the history books of the great romances of the ages, and of all the things, both brave and foolish, that men would do for love. With a roll of his eyes and another vow never to fall to such folly, he would skim ahead in search of the next description of an epic and glorious battle. However, in this short time since first he met his Undómiel, he knew beyond any doubt that he would gladly do all in his power, and more, if only to catch her eye and win her favour. If asked to turn his heart from her, he may just as well be bade to cease its beating, so irrevocably to her did it now cleave.

The sun had just begun to peek above the mountains in the east when he arrived at the training grounds. Stopping at the edge of the field, he shook his head and smiled. Elrohir was already there and, from the looks of it, well into a sparring match. No matter how early Aragorn awoke, he could never manage to arrive for morning practice before his brother. Despite Elrond’s repeated assurance that the amount of time he spent each night asleep was perfectly normal and healthy for a young man, he could not help but believe his need for sleep to be excessive compared to his elvish friends and family.

In the dim light of early dawn, it took Aragorn a moment to see clearly with whom Elrohir dueled. His smile faded. He had not expected Elladan here this morn. While in the past the elder twin had supervised his training closely, ever since the battle with the trolls and his injuries in the cave, Elladan had withdrawn, and Aragorn saw little of him now. With a sigh, he realized that over these past months he had grown quite accustomed to the lack of constant scrutiny and criticism, and he could not help but wonder at why Elladan had come to the training fields to spar with him this day.

The twins heard his approach, of course, and immediately ceased their duel as Elrohir turned to greet him with a smile. “Estel! I had begun to think you meant to sleep the morning away!”

Aragorn could only offer a shrug and a sheepish grin in response to the all too familiar jest. “Since finally there is enough light for my dim mortal eyes to see by, I am most keen to begin.”

Elladan marched toward him, his sword still drawn and no hint of a smile on his face. “Well, hurry and make ready then! We must get in as much practice as we may before the rain comes. I will spar with you first today.”

Still smiling, Aragorn turned aside and removed his cloak, making a point to take his time. Much had changed over these last few months, and he would no longer allow Elladan to unsettle him as he once did. “Why such haste, Elladan? There are but a few small grey clouds in the sky, and they will not last. It will be another fine day, if I judge correctly.” Slowly, he began to unsheathe his sword. “And besides, unlike you, I have not yet prepared...”

A sudden, rapid movement at the edge of his vision was his only warning; he barely had time to spin around and raise his sword to block the blow as the clash of metal striking hard against metal cut through the peace of dawn.

“You will not have the luxury of preparation when attack is imminent and unexpected.” Elladan ground out through clenched teeth as he took his advantage, pressing his full strength into his sword.

His muscles strained to the limit, but refusing to give ground, Aragorn returned force equally to force. For long moments they stood, swords locked, steadfast and unwavering as they faced each other down, and though he saw in Elladan’s ancient grey eyes something that chilled him, an intensity that almost compelled him to look away, he did not flinch under the weighty stare. This time he would not yield.

In a heartbeat, Aragorn made his move. He turned to the left, away from the force of the opposing sword, and immediately spun around again to face the threat, his sword drawn and ready to defend, but this time at a far more advantageous distance. His mind and body were taut and alert, and prepared to fight, and for a brief moment, he was surprised to see that Elladan, not some true foe, stood before him.

All was silent and still for a time as they studied each other warily, swords at the ready, each awaiting the other’s next move. And then, Elladan’s voice, low and heavy with warning, broke the tense silence: “Mark my words, Estel, the weather is changing. The sky grows dark and the rain will fall. Soon.”

Almost before Aragorn could register the movement, Elladan had charged at him again, aiming another solid strike at his torso. Only his extensive skill and well honed reflexes allowed him to dodge the powerful blow in time, and, briefly, he felt a surge of fear course through him. What was happening? This was no training match. It was a battle, and with a far more dangerous foe than he had ever known before.

His opponent advanced on him again, and all fear abated as his fighting instinct, perfected in years of hard training, physical conditioning and endless practice, took over. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Elrohir’s presence some distance away. He seemed concerned, and he was shouting something, but Aragorn paid him little heed; for now it was irrelevant, and he had to focus entirely on the threat before him. In a furious flash, his opponent struck again and again in rapid succession, but, although this enemy was far more quick and agile and clever than any orc or troll he had faced before, Aragorn found that he could match the strikes move for move.

For what seemed to him an eternity their intricate and deadly dance continued, blades flying almost faster than he could see, till they became like beautiful streaks of silver glowing in the morning light. Strike and parry, parry and strike, each one’s sword met the other with no sound but the slicing of air and the ring of metal echoing through the clearing. They were equally matched it seemed, and try as they might, neither could find the upper hand, that small opening that would allow one last strike to end it.

Despite the coolness of the morning, Aragorn grew very warm, and the fine sheen of sweat that formed on his face dripped down his brow and into his eyes. His breath came more quickly, and his arms felt weak. Only now did he realize that his foe, who seemed as fresh as if he had been talking a stroll through the meadow, had been toying with him all this time, slowly wearing him down, patiently awaiting a chance to deliver the final blow.

He knew he could not possibly match his enemy’s endurance. He needed an advantage. But what? Pulling back, Aragorn ceased his advances, resorting solely to blocking and parrying the many attacks. And carefully observing. What had changed in the way his opponent fought? Did he favour his left arm? Of course! Why had he not thought of it sooner? Suddenly, Aragorn remembered that a mere few months ago, the bones in that left arm had been shattered to pieces, crushed completely under heavy boulders. Surely, no one, no matter how powerful, could recover fully from such an injury so soon!

Fatigue forgotten, Aragorn advanced again with renewed vigor, striking rapidly and repeatedly at his opponent’s weakened left side. Though deftly his foe blocked the blows, twisting and positioning his body to compensate for the weakness and protect his left arm, Aragorn was relentless in the attack. Blow after blow he rained down, forcing his opponent into a completely defensive position for the first time, and Aragorn could see he began to tire from the strain of constantly defending his weak side.

Now he would take his advantage. He swung his sword around to strike from the right, which again was successfully parried. Then, with all the speed and strength he could muster, he struck from the left. This time, his weakened opponent was unable to compensate quickly enough, and Aragorn hooked his enemy’s sword, twisting his own blade to wrench it from his grasp. Without pause, he instinctively raised his sword to deliver the final strike, but at the very last moment, he froze. No deadly foe stood before him, only Elladan.

Immediately, he dropped his own sword and, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, he sank to the ground. For a time, his laboured breathing was the only sound as he remained on his knees, head bowed, weary and shaken by all that had occurred. Elladan stood tall and completely still above him, his expression grave and unreadable, and as Aragorn lifted his head to look up at the imposing figure, he felt a sudden surge of pride. In all his years of training and practice, he had never before managed to disarm a son of Elrond.

When Elladan spoke, the depth of the sorrow in his voice caught Aragorn by surprise: “We have tried, son of Arathorn, to teach you all that we can, and truly, you have learned much and grown strong. But I can only hope it will be enough to see you through the long dark days that loom before you. Again and again you shall be put to the test, and you will have need of all your skills, and your strength and your wits if you are to survive. Great evil is before us all, and I fear we all must needs endure much darkness ere we see the light again.” Looking away, Elladan continued, much quieter now, as if speaking only to himself: “If ever we see the light anew.”

With that, Elladan turned and stormed out of the clearing, brushing by Elrohir without another word, and for the first time since the fight began, Aragorn’s attention was drawn to his brother. Never before had he seen Elrohir look so unnerved, and at first, it seemed he did not know which way to turn as he watched his twin’s rapid retreat in stunned silence. Then, with a shake of his head, he rushed to kneel at Aragorn’s side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Estel, how do you fare? Are you injured?”

Attempting to put his brother at ease, Aragorn forced a smile to his lips as he stood again. “Do not worry, I am merely a little weary and, I will admit, somewhat bemused. Please, do tell me, what just happened here?”

Elrohir stood as well, and with a sigh, turned to look in the direction that Elladan had gone. “I wish I could explain to you my brother’s actions. At times lately even I have felt that I no longer know my own twin.”

For a moment, Elrohir seemed lost in his thoughts as he stared into the distance, and Aragorn watched with interest the furrow of his brow and the expression of deep concern that crossed his face. Then, as if suddenly remembering the presence of his little brother, Elrohir shook his head quickly and, when he turned back, no trace of a frown remained. “Think no more of it, Estel. You well know how Elladan can be. No doubt, he is just in one of his moods again. Though he would be loath to hear it, I swear he sounds more and more like Father with each century that passes!”

Then Elrohir gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes, and Aragorn knew that although his brother tried to make light of it, Elrohir had been affected, deeply, by Elladan’s actions and words. “I believe you have had more than enough practice for today, Estel. Now, if you will excuse me, I have much I must attend to.”

Without awaiting a response, Elrohir now turned and left the field, following the path his twin had taken mere minutes before. With a sigh, Aragorn bent down slowly to retrieve his sword. Though the day had barely begun, at that moment he felt quite ready to return to bed and pull the covers over his head. Just when all was going so well, he should have expected that Elladan would try to ruin his happiness. Shivering a little, he picked up his cloak and fastened it around his shoulders. Now that the immediate warmth of physical exertion had passed and he was left drenched with sweat, he felt the chill acutely again. Looking up at the sky, he had to admit that the clouds were more dense and grey than first he thought. But, still, the sun shone through quite brightly in patches. Surely these clouds would burn off before midday?

“What is it in the air that you find so fascinating this morning, Estel?”

Starting at the voice, Aragorn turned quickly to greet the unexpected arrival. “Glorfindel, I did not hear you approach.”

“No. Indeed, you seemed quite distracted.” Glorfindel came to stand beside him, studying him with that look that always made Aragorn feel as though the ancient elf could see right through him. After a moment, and much to Aragorn’s relief, Glorfindel turned his gaze away to scan the clearing. “Where is Elrohir? I had not expected you two to be finished your practice so soon. I trust that you had a good session?”

Feeling his cheeks flush, Aragorn searched for an adequate response that said little. “It was...I most certainly learned a great deal, to be sure.”

Glorfindel smiled. “Ah, I see. Well, that is the best that one can hope for in a lesson, is it not?” His smile faded quickly though when next he spoke: “Estel, I have come here at your father’s behest. He bid me tell you that he wishes to speak with you in his chamber this morning.”

Aragorn wondered at Glorfindel’s suddenly serious tone. “Did he tell you what it concerns?”

“Nay, he did not. Though, I will tell you this much, he is not in the best of moods.”

Unable to resist a frown at this bit of news, Aragorn looked away as he muttered: “He would not be the first so afflicted this morn.” Then, turning back to Glorfindel, he sounded far more assured: “I will head there with haste, just as soon as I have washed up and changed these clothes.” Of course, he did not mention that this sudden concern for his appearance was borne at least as much from the thought that he might pass Arwen in the halls as from a desire to please Elrond.

Putting a hand on his shoulder, Glorfindel gave him a smile that Aragorn thought looked overly sympathetic. “I would advise you not to dally too long. I believe your father would not look kindly on tardiness today.”

With a tip of his head, Aragorn responded: “Well, then, if you will give me your leave, I will be on my way.”

Glorfindel tipped his head slightly as well in reply, and with that Aragorn, too, left the training fields. Though, as he returned alone to his rooms along those well known paths, he now found his thoughts far more troubled than when he had walked in the other direction not so long ago. As much as Elladan’s actions unsettled him, it was not so unlike Elladan to be in such a dour mood. Whatever problems Elladan had with him at present, Aragorn well knew it was not for the first time, and nor, did he suspect, would it be for the last. His father’s possible censure, however, was entirely another matter. Frowning, Aragorn paused for a moment, trying to recall any sort of transgression he may have committed, but, for the life of him, he could not think of what he might have done wrong that would merit Elrond’s displeasure. Of course, only after he spoke with him would he know for sure, and so, with a resigned sigh, Aragorn continued on his way to prepare for this meeting with his father.

Some of you expressed an interest in seeing my take on “the talk” between Elrond and Aragorn. Here we get a bit of a peek into Elrond’s thoughts on the matter. The sections of text taken directly from the conversation between Elrond and Aragorn in Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen are in italics.

Comments and critiques are welcome and very much appreciated. I would love to hear what you think!

I am weary. What is the hour? Darkness descends now, but it was morning still when first I called Estel into my chamber and confronted him, my foster son, about his feelings for my daughter. Have I truly dwelt here lost in my thoughts for all the day?

Estel, you foolish boy! Your own eyes have betrayed you.... How could you not know that I would read you as easily as words upon an open page? But...she is of a lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers.... How do you dare, Isildur’s last heir, descendant of an all but fallen mortal line, deem yourself worthy even to dream of her favour? She is too far above you.

And so, I think, it may well seem to her.... Surely, I have spoken true! For Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar, and the fairest of our people still to walk upon these lands, to turn her eye to a mere mortal youth, no matter whom he may claim as his forefathers: even to consider it is madness! And yet, Estel, what fear is it that made my words to you so harsh today? You do not know yet what you desire of me....

But there will be no choice before Arwen, my beloved, unless you, Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, come between us and bring one of us, you or me, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world.... And what a grievous parting would it be! If it came to that, my only daughter, would you turn from the land of your people, from eternal bliss in the Blessed Realm? Would you abandon me, and your mother, for a mere few years of fleeting happiness in the world of men? Oh, Celebrían, how I long for your wisdom and your counsel in this matter!

The clouds are growing thick now, and the air is heavy with the promise of rain. It rained on that night too, my beloved wife, the night you were brought home to me a mere shadow of what you were. Tormented without mercy at the hands of those foul beasts, those servants of evil, you suffered such unspeakable acts of base depravity I cannot even now bring myself to think upon it. But still, I remember how you writhed on the bed and pulled away from my softest touch, shivering in terror as I fought to heal you. How you begged for death to set you free! I remember in the darkness of each long night that followed how you awoke screaming in terror, still locked in a horrible nightmare from which you could find no escape. I could bring you no comfort, I could not reach you. You were lost to me.

I no longer recognized you, my love. They had consumed you and left behind naught but a battered and broken shell, thin and hollow. You seldom spoke, but when you did, your voice was flat, devoid of all emotion, and though you could not bear to look at me for more than the briefest of moments, those fleeting glances were enough to reveal that the light no longer shone behind your eyes; all that remained was a cold and dark void, an emptiness which frightened me above all else. You were fading, and I knew you had to leave us to save your very life. Much to my shame, I had failed you. Never again will your melodic laughter fill the rooms of this house, nor your smile brighten these now dreary halls.

But why do I dwell on that this evening? Surely, Celebrían, you are now healed and whole, and waiting, safe and content, in Aman, until the day we all are reunited, far from this darkness and despair. Far from this evil.

The years will bring what they will. We will speak no more of this until many have passed.... Estel, my son, I grew to love you as my own, and always you were such a good boy: strong and brave, courteous, honourable, and humble. Born a leader. And though you knew it not, in you I saw again the promise of a line of Kings unbroken, of a grand and noble race undiminished. Not for many generations have any mortal descendants of Elros so reminded me of him, my own brother. Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, Lord of the Dúnedain, listen to me! A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin... We all have placed much hope in you, Estel, and you will carry a great burden.

Many years of trial lie before you...this much I know, and it fills me with sorrow. Again and again you shall be put to the test, and your trials, I fear, will be most harsh. But you must rise above it all, my son, or you will fall. And all of Middle Earth could fall as well with you.

The days darken, and much evil is to come...

And with that, A Yearling Shoot really does come to an end. I regret that I will be unable to post the next story in the series, Into the Wild, at this site. It is a very dark piece—too dark, I understand, for many. I feel very strongly, however, that it is an important piece for me to write. There will be absolutely nothing graphic depicted and the story’s rating will not rise above an ‘R’. And I also want to stress, that as dark as it may get, I do see it ultimately as an uplifting story of strength and courage, and of the triumph of the human spirit over extreme adversity.

The first chapter of Into the Wild has been posted elsewhere. I would have put the links in my profile page, but I have absolutely no idea how to do that (does anyone know how I add information to my profile page?), so I’ll have to put them here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5090940/1/Into_the_Wild or at my LJ: http://peredhellover.livejournal.com/

Please, heed the warnings.

If you don’t want to read the next story in the arc, I completely understand. Once Into the Wild is complete, I will resume posting the next story in the series, In Dark Places, here at SoA. So, I’ll see you back here then! :-)