Disclaimer: The characters belong to the estate of JRRTolkien

Many thanks to Cairistiona for the beta

The Fifteenth Fosterling

   Elrond moved away from the window. His already bleak mood was not improved in the slightest by brooding on the dismal scene in the valley below him. It was snowing hard now. Such extreme weather was rare in Imladris. He fingered Vilya almost accusingly. He had silently willed it to increase its influence on the elements, but if the Ring had responded, there was no evidence of it to his eyes. The wind howled just a viciously and the sky was still laden with unfallen snow. He shivered slightly as he moved to the fire, though the room was in truth comfortable enough. Picking up a poker from beside the hearth, he beat agitatedly at the logs in the grate. The barely glowing timbers were scarcely providing any heat, but, as he stirred the chard logs, the fire sprang back to life and flames raced up the chimney.

    The Elf-lord sighed and returned to his desk. He knew it was no good fretting about those beyond the borders of the valley; those beyond his care. But he had never been one to ignore the perils of others. And as the years wore on, it seemed to him that his cares sat ever heavier upon his shoulders. At least his sons would be returning soon. For that he was thankful. Too many risks they took, to his mind, though he knew he could hardly chide them for it; not he, who had scarcely even left the sanctuary of his home in all this last Age. If his sons chose a dangerous road, then he had no choice but to allow them to travel it.

   Elrond sat heavily in his chair and reached across the desk to absently pick up the nearest book. It was one of his own journals that he had been reading only the evening before. And he knew perfectly well that it was a major source of his unrest. Any tome recording the lives of the Chieftains of the Dúnedain inevitably brought a dull ache to his heart.  Throughout the last millennium, there had scarcely been a single winter when he had not worried about the welfare of one or another of his brother’s descendants and this year was no exception.

    He knew he ought to be engaging his mind in more productive activities, but, against his better judgement, Elrond began turning the pages. So many years had passed since he had written the earliest entries, yet vivid memories of children raised and friends lost assailed him with every paragraph he read.  Aranarth had been the first. He had been but a young man in his twenties when Angmar virtually annihilated his father’s kingdom. Defeated and desperate, he had come to Imladris with a remnant of his people, seeking council and aid. To Elrond’s eyes, he had seemed little more than a frightened boy, broken with grief for the loss of his father and traumatised by the demise of all that he had once known and loved. Yet, as Elrond later learned, he and his brother had fought the Battle of Fornost with all the valour and skill one would expect of that people. The different ink in his journal relating this fact bore testimony to the lateness of his discovery. Those had been desperate times for the Dúnedain. Too few of Arvedui’s people had survived and those who had were scattered to the far corners of Eriador. That first winter had been bitter and, forced from their city homes, many more of that already dwindling race had perished in the aftermath of war. But as the years passed, and Aranarth sought in vain to rebuild his realm, Elrond had nurtured his young son; protected and cared for him and taught him much.

   Arahael had been the first Dúnedain Chieftain to be raised at Imladris. Elrond smiled at the memory of the young lad, gangly limbs flailing everywhere and a smile to melt even the coolest elven heart; so like Estel. Arahael had grown into the wise man that his name portended; a man worthy of leading the finest blood of Númenor. Elrond felt not a small surge of pride as he recalled how, when he returned to the wild, Arahael had played to the full his part in waging the ceaseless war on the evil things that were still abroad in the lands of his forefathers’ kingdom.

   It had been then, though, that Elrond had first discovered the peril he had created for his own heart. He had come to love the boy, but, once he was grown, he had no choice but to watch from afar as he struggled to continue his father’s work and rebuild the kingdom of that once great people of Elendil. Elrond had known it to be a thankless task, just as he still knew it to be. Arahael had not the numbers to save the Dúnedain from the ignominy of the life of the nomad. So when he brought his own son to be fostered at Imladris, Elrond had guarded his heart. Yet Aranuir had been a delightful boy and Elrond had rejoiced to hear the sound of childish laughter filling his halls once again. And when Aranuir’s own son, Aravir, spent time in Imladris, his delight in the child was not lessened by his fear for the life the man must one day lead. And what a man was Aravir; a real jewel of a Dúnadan. Buoyed by the stability of the Watchful Peace, he had made great strides in restoring the fortunes of his people. His son, Aragorn, had been a most bold and valiant lad in his youth, but unlike his later namesake, his valour was not tempered by wisdom. Reckless, Elrond might have described him, but when he was lost to wolves in the wilderness of the eastern territories, it had been a harsh reminder to him of the dangers that all these children, whom he inevitably came to cherish, would face upon leaving the sanctuary of his home. And yet Aragorn had named his first son, Araglas, and the title suited him well. As a child, his joyous nature had earned him the love of all the Elves of Imladris and, in spite of his later cares, mirth was ever at the forefront of his heart. But Araglas had not the troubles to contend with of his son, Arahad, since orcs had yet to return to the Misty Mountains.

   Elrond closed his eyes for a moment. Why was he torturing himself this way? As if fretting over his absent sons was not sufficient to torment him on a day such as this.Yet he could picture Arahad’s grief-stricken face as clearly as if it had been only yesterday. The man had ridden long and hard to reach Imladris to extend his sympathy over the attack on Celebrían and to offer his aid. Subsequently, he and Elladan and Elrohir had relentlessly pursued those responsible and, for sure, Elrond did not doubt, they would have slaughtered every last one of those orcs which were in the Pass on that fateful day; for all the good it did his beloved.

   Elrond quickly turned the page. This was not the time to be opening old wounds. Not that the next name, that of Aragost, brought him any comfort either. Aragost had inherited his father’s passion for orc slaying and had accompanied Elladan and Elrohir on countless sortees into the Misty Mountains. ‘Kingly-dread’ he had been named and not for nothing was his name dreaded by their foes. Yet his son, Aravorn, had been of a different nature entirely, taking delight in the finer pleasures of life. A tall man, with hair like midnight, Elrond had been convinced that he had an eye for his daughter but, thankfully, Arwen had spurred his rather less than convincing advances. As a result of Aragost’s relentless assaults upon the orc strongholds, Aravorn had been able to enjoy a more peaceful sojourn as Chieftain than either his father or grandfather.

   However, Aravorn’s son, the second Arahad, had worries of an entirely different sort. Plague came to Eriador and it was only the scattered nature of the Dúnedain settlements that prevented the disease from taking a hold and the losses from being even worse than they were. Arahad’s son, Arassuil had only been a young boy at the time and had been brought hastily to Imladris for his safe keeping. His mother though, had not escaped the illness and Elrond recalled with undiminished sadness how, for all his skill as a healer, he had not been able to save her. It had broken his heart to witness the little boy’s grief at her death. Yet Arassuil had grown into a fine man, though he too had more than his share of troubles. In his time, orcs began spreading west, even invading the Shire, and there was rarely a season when he and Elladan and Elrohir were not engaged in battle with them somewhere in Eriador. Worse was to come, though, with the Long Winter of 2758 and the famine that followed; so many had perished in that bitter freeze.

   Elrond glanced up at the window. It was still snowing hard. Deep drifts were already piling under the trees. Soon the paths into the valley would be impassable. He did not in all honesty know if the Dúnedain could survive another winter like that one back then. And yet survive they had in the past. Arassuil’s son, Arathorn, truly had the heart of an eagle and had pulled his people back from the very brink, only to succumb to the cold himself whilst in the Northern reaches hunting orcs. His son, Argonui had also faced the consequences of atrocious weather. The loss of Tharbad in the Fell Winter of 2911 was a grievous blow to him. Poor Argonui; he had it hard. Half a century earlier, Elrond had broken the news to him that Sauron was actively seeking Isildur’s heir. Fortunately, by then, Argonui’s eldest son, Arador, was already thirty years old and able to fend for himself, but when Arathorn was born, at Argonui’s insistence, he was fostered at Imladris for longer than had been the custom. The Dúnedain were fearful for the safety of their Chieftains and, sadly, how right their fears were proven to be. Arador had been a lordly man, noble of bearing and nature. It had not surprised Elrond at all to learn that he had been at the forefront of the battle with the trolls in the Coldfells when he was so cruelly taken and slain. And Arathorn, such a stern man, and yet ever a stalwart friend to his sons, had suffered an orc arrow in the eye at the young age of sixty and so the infant Aragorn had been left fatherless.

   Elrond stared at the last page in his journal. He had written very little about the current Chieftain of the Dúnedain, the fifteenth that he had fostered. A few notes recorded his parentage and his birth; the date he arrived at Imladris, and the date he had left. In between Elrond had jotted down a line or two on the progress of his studies and had recorded a couple of other events of note such as the time he broke his arm falling off his pony. ‘Aragorn: Kingly Valour,’ it said at the top of the page. Elrond smiled. How aptly had all the Chieftains been named.  Not for the first time though, he purposefully cast from his mind the disquieting fact that Aragorn’s namesake had not survived beyond his first century. This uncomfortable truth never did anything to quench his fears for the safety of his latest fosterling, no matter how much he told himself that the fate of Aragorn II would be entirely different from that of Aragorn I.

   Elrond abruptly closed the book and pushed it away before returning to his place by the window. It was snowing even more heavily now. The branches on the fir trees which grow on the steep slopes further up the valley were buckling under the weight of the snow resting upon them and, lower down, the leafless birches and oaks stood as stark sentinels against the all white world around them.

   It would be Mettarë soon. Elrond had always ensured this Dúnedain tradition was celebrated in Imladris while any of Elendil’s heirs dwelt in his house, be it in their youth or in their old age. In truth, it had become something of a favourite occasion of his and he never tired of watching joy erupt on the faces of the children as they received their gifts. For the first few years after Estel had left home, Elrond had maintained the tradition, partly for the sake of Gilraen, and partly because the celebration reminded him so much of his foster son. But with Gilraen returned to her people, and with Aragorn so far distant, there seemed little point in continuing with it now. He had already told Erestor there would be no festivities this year.

   He wondered what sort of celebration the Dúnedain would be having. Dírhael, when last he heard, had been confident that their food reserves were sufficient to see them through to spring; if not exactly comfortably, at least with only the merest tightening of belts. Elrond hoped the elderly ranger was not putting a brave face upon their plight. To him, there was no shame in asking for aid and certainly he would never cast blame, but he knew the Dúnedain to still be a proud people and they would not accept alms unless their situation became desperate. Still, he hoped they would find some reason for cheer this season. Elrond knew though that any celebration would be hollow until the day their Chieftain returned.

  Ah, yes, their Chieftain; here was the real source of Elrond’s unrest. Much as Elrond had, after a fashion, loved all the predecessors of this latest Chieftain, there was no avoiding the simple truth that none of them had quite wormed their way so completely into his affections as had the second Aragorn. The young man might be only distantly of his flesh, but he was, nonetheless, firmly a son of his heart. Without exception, all those of Elendil’s line had been worthy heirs; they all had their strengths and their failings, but they had all stepped up to the brink and played their parts to the full when their time came. But Elrond had long foreseen that the challenges demanded of his latest fosterling would far exceed those presented to any of Aragorn’s forefathers since the days of Elendil himself. And yet Elrond had never doubted that the child would grow into a man capable of fulfilling the highest of destinies. Of all the Chieftains, indeed of all the kings, Aragorn alone possessed the depth of wisdom, the generosity of heart and the strength of will that had been so evident in the High King of old.  If any could lead his people out of the shadows, it was he.

   But, on this bleak winter’s day, Elrond was concerned less with the fate of the Dúnedain than with the well being of the man who led them; his youngest son. It had now been many years since Elrond had seen last seen him. It had comforted his foster father’s aching heart a little when he knew that Estel was in the employ of the Steward of Gondor. There, while he might face dangers at every turn when on military campaigns, he was at least not facing them alone. If he was injured, help would never be far from hand. Someone would tend to him and comfort him at need. But Elrond knew there would be no one to comfort him where he now travelled. It did not ease Elrond’s mind in the slightest that it had, in part, been his decision to encourage his foster son to venture into the far lands of the Enemy. Gandalf’s arguments for his doing so had been persuasive. And the wise Elf-lord, the respected member of the White Council, had found it impossible to disagree. The loving father, on the other hand, would have found any number of reasons to prevaricate had he only felt that he could.

   Oh how Elrond wished it would stop snowing. It would raise his spirits no end if the sun would show its pallid face, if only for an hour or so. As far as he knew, the weather where Estel now dwelt, deep in the south, would be entirely different from that which they were currently enduring on the west side of the Misty Mountains. He, himself, in all his long years in Middle-earth, had never been further than Barad-dûr. During that seven year siege at the end of the Second Age, those lands around Mordor had been cold and bleak, even when the stars told him that it ought to be summer. He had heard though that it was unbearably hot in the far South, so hot a man with a Northern skin could fry in the heat of the day, causing his fair skin to blister and peel. Elrond scarcely knew which was worse, the bitter North or the baking South. But whatever the weather his foster son was facing, Elrond wished only that he could reach him with his mind to reassure  himself of how he fared; merely even to learn with certainty that he still lived. But he knew it was hopeless; he had tried before and there was little chance of reaching him through the blanket of darkness which covered those lands of the Enemy. Yet, whether it was because the memories of the sacrifices of Estel’s ancestors still filled his mind, a new determination stirred in the Elf-lord and he steeled his resolve to try once more.

   Elrond closed his eyes, blotting out the disagreeable images before them. He emptied his mind, and concentrated all his will upon reaching out to his son. Tendrils of thought escaped him and traversed mountain ranges and bleak barren wildernesses, crossing fertile plains and wide rivers; searching, desperately searching for the mind of his son which had ever been open to him. As he reached further afield, Elrond gradually became aware of the evil of Mordor beginning to press against him, preventing him from finding the one he sought. But Elrond would not easily be turned aside. Not yet; his son was out there somewhere and he was determined to find him. But, as his mind neared the fences of Mordor, he knew he was approaching the very limit of his powers. He was almost ready to accept failure and retreat when he suddenly felt the presence of a familiar fëa attempting to contact his own.

   “Ada?”

    The voice was clear and sure and beloved. And although he sensed a mind laden with sorrow, struggling to drive toward a body wracked with weariness, Elrond was instantly consumed with joy at finding his son alive. Immediately, he channelled all of his love and his strength towards that voice, to nurture and encourage his son as best he could across the vast leagues that lay between them. What perils he had faced, he knew not; though, from the loneliness and despair he sensed tearing at Estel’s heart, he guessed they were many. Words spoken were few, but the message was clear. His son was coming home, at last.

  Far too quickly, the moment passed and the tentative connection was lost. Elrond slowly opened his eyes and looked upon the snow filled valley before him in a daze. Now, though, the wintry scene no longer dismayed him and he gazed serenely at the mounting drifts, his mind calm and untroubled for the time since he could not remember. It would be many months before his son would return to these parts. It would be spring at the earliest; maybe even summer and the snow would be long gone. Trembling slightly from the shock of the unexpected encounter, Elrond smiled at this encouraging turn of events. Realising he suddenly felt rather hungry, another very agreeable thought permeated his mind. Perhaps there would be no harm in indulging in a small Mettarë celebration after all.

   Elrond turned swiftly from the window and strode purposefully from the room, calling as he went.

  “Erestor!”