A/N: This takes place the morning after my story "Dead Elvish Writers," though it should (hopefully) stand on its own. It is a two-shot, and the second chapter will (also hopefully) be posted before the New Year. With great thanks as always to my beta, Zopyrus, for pushing me to expand this and make it better.

T.A. 2957

Usually Ivorwen rose before Dirhael in the mornings, but as he awoke he turned to find that his wife was still sound asleep beside him. He smiled fondly as he pushed her hair out of her eyes, wondering if he should attempt to wake her himself or if he should simply leave her be. The previous evening’s festivities had gone long into the night, and he doubted that they were the only ones who had allowed themselves a few extra hours’ rest. He rose from the bed to stoke the dying embers in the fireplace, and added a fresh log amongst the coals before pulling back the curtains to their window. The previous night’s snowstorm had finally abated, and the late-morning sunlight streamed into the room.

“Shut the curtains,” a voice moaned from behind him, and Dírhael turned to see Ivorwen with her arm thrown over her eyes, “’Tis far too early to allow that kind of light in here.”

“It is nearly midday, my dear,” Dírhael replied. “Even in Rivendell folk are usually up and about before noon.”

“They can surely forgive our absence for one day,” Ivorwen said, burying her head underneath a pillow. “It will be awhile, I fear, before I am fit for pleasant company.”

“Just how many glasses did you have last night?” Dírhael shook his head, eyebrows raised.

“I lost track,” came the voice from under the pillow, “I’ve been told that’s where you run into trouble.”

Dírhael forced himself not to laugh as he busied himself with setting a kettle for tea over their bedroom fireplace. He could not remember the last time he had seen his wife in such a state, but their positions had been reversed enough times over the years that he knew he was in no place to judge. And Ivorwen was certainly better at hiding her intoxication than Dírhael himself would ever be. Indeed, had Gilraen not stopped him at the end of the night with a ginger root in hand and a whispered “Look after Mama, would you please?”, he never would have guessed anything was amiss.

"Elves do not water their wine," Ivorwen said weakly. "Did you know that?"

"Gilraen warned me," Dírhael replied, "the second night we arrived. Clearly she thought she did not need to worry about you."

"Daughters always underestimate their mothers," Ivorwen murmured as she rolled over in the bed, "so shall it ever be."

Dírhael poured out a glass of water for his wife, and Ivorwen winced as she sat up and pressed a hand to her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said as she took the glass. “I can only hope that the Lady Arwen is having a better morning than I am.”

“Is that who you were with?” Dírhael asked. “All of you women went missing at some point or another last night—even Lord Elrond noticed, by the end of it.”

“Oh, he noticed far before you did,” Ivorwen said, “I imagine he simply wished to give the lady some time to put her mind at ease before requesting she return to the hall. Though I’m afraid Gilraen and I were not very helpful, in that regard.”

“Were you not?” Dírhael removed the kettle from the fire and poured out two mugs of ginger tea. “Am I going to have to worry about us wearing out our welcome?”

“She was the one who wished for us to remain,” Ivorwen said, a note of defensiveness in her voice. “She said she could not remember when last she kept company with the women of our race. It made for…an enlightening conversation, to say the least.”

“I imagine as much,” Dírhael said as he placed Ivorwen’s tea on the table beside the bed. “So, am I going to be privy to that conversation, or shall I be left to my own devices to figure out what is going on?”

“I beg your pardon?” she sputtered.

“Out with it, Ivorwen,” Dírhael leaned back in his chair and blew on his tea. “There is something you and Gilraen have been keeping from me, something concerning the lady Arwen. I would have you tell me, before I have to threaten Gilraen with singing tales of her childhood before the Hall of Fire to get to the bottom of it all.”

“You wouldn’t!” Ivorwen smacked him lightly on the knee. “Leave our daughter out of this, Dírhael, I put her through enough grief last night as it is.”

“I am not above resorting to blackmail, if that’s what it takes,” Dírhael chuckled, “but it would save us all the trouble if you would just tell me yourself.”

Ivorwen sighed, and ran a hand through her hair as she reached for her own cup of tea with the other.

“I suppose there is no point in hiding it any longer,” she said slowly, “for it concerns Aragorn, too. He has been in love with the lady Arwen ever since he first laid eyes on her, the year he left Rivendell and returned to us. It is a love I fear has only strengthened with time.”

So, Dírhael thought, that is it, then. He had not pressed the marriage issue with Aragorn since their last thundering argument about it two years before, not wanting to create lasting discord with his grandson and Chieftain. It maddened him that Aragorn refused to budge on the matter, but he had been forced to accept that there was something far greater at work in his grandson’s heart than a mere reluctance to marry early. That he held a candle for the Lady of Rivendell herself, he supposed, should not astonish him in the least.

“Well, that explains his reluctance to give a straight answer to the captains,” he said at last. “I had guessed it must be something like that, for him to keep evading the subject for so long. He has a stubbornness to rival even the best of them.”  

“He has indeed,” Ivorwen raised her eyebrows, “and I cannot imagine for the life of me where he gets that trait from.”

Dírhael ignored her and rose from his chair to pace before the fireplace.

“I forget, sometimes, how young he still is,” he muttered. “He is wise beyond his years in so many respects, but in this he carries all the folly of youth.”

“Do not let Gilraen hear you saying that,” Ivorwen warned, “she already worries enough about how the men in her family get along.”

“Am I wrong, Ivorwen?” Dírhael fought to keep his voice from rising. “Everything we have done in the past thirty years has been for the cause of ensuring our line’s survival. Everything! Would he undo that now simply because he cannot let go of a childhood dream?”  

“Dírhael, please,” Ivorwen said sharply, “I have enough of a headache this morning, I do not need you adding to it. Do you think I have not already had these thoughts a thousand times over, ever since he told me?”

She fixed him with the glare that he knew so well over her cup of tea, and he sat down again in his chair as he picked up his own mug once more.

“Yes,” he sighed, “yes, I suppose you have.”

“Aragorn knows the weight of his actions,” she continued, “something we all could do well to remember. He deserves our faith now more than ever, as difficult as that may be in this situation.”

“Faith,” Dírhael shook his head. “How many things would I have done differently had I not placed faith in my Chieftain. Always have I trusted their judgement, even if it differed from my own. I held my tongue when Lord Arador led our son on that fool’s mission against the trolls…”

“Dírhael--”

“I held my tongue,” he continued doggedly, “and it cost both their lives. I believed Lord Arathorn when he said no harm would come to our daughter, and he left her a widow sundered from her kin before she’d passed her twenty-sixth year! So tell me, dear wife, what sort of path does faith in the line of Isildur give to us?”

“That is old grief talking, and you know it,” Ivorwen said, her own face taut with pain, “grief that has little enough to do with the choices our grandson faces now.”

“Are they not the same?” Dírhael asked, “Our lives have been defined by our losses, Ivorwen, it has been that way ever since the fall of Arthedain. We fight to preserve what we have left, and there is little else we can do...”

“Oh, we have fallen far indeed if you truly believe that is all we can do,” Ivorwen gave a bitter laugh. “For twenty years I stood by your side as you proved to our people there was more to live for than simply eking out an existence in the shadow of our forefathers. What now has caused you to think otherwise?”

Dírhael looked down at his hands, suddenly unable to meet his wife’s eyes.

“I do not know,” he sighed. “I look back on the years and I fear that little has changed. Forever are we doomed to be two steps behind the enemy, with our Chieftain ever in peril. There are days when I can think of nothing else beyond mere survival, and that even when Aragorn is with us.”

“You have always held out for more than that,” Ivorwen said. “You never settled for anything less than a better future. ‘Tis what you taught to Aragorn, when he returned, and I would be very surprised if that is not part of why he clings to his love for Arwen now.”

“So this is my fault, now.”

“Did I not say he got his stubbornness from you?” Ivorwen offered him a wry smile.

Dírhael shook his head once more, and stared into the steam still rising from his tea.

“Surely the lady Arwen has her own thoughts on the matter,” he said, to fill the silence. “I cannot imagine why else you all were holed up in that room for so long. What does she have to say about it?”

“Plenty, as it turns out,” Ivorwen’s face reddened. “She would not refuse him outright, not so long as her own heart remains conflicted. But it is no matter—you know as well as I do that Lord Elrond would never agree to it, no matter how his daughter feels.”

Dírhael snorted.

“I have been in his position before, with less at stake,” he said. “I do not doubt he would refuse any proposal Aragorn might be bold enough to put forth, and rightly so. So where does that leave our kinsmen? Left to hammer out our own survival while the heir of Elendil chases the impossible?”

“It would hardly be the first time,” Ivorwen reminded him dryly, “and there is much that is unforeseen. Only the Valar know what his journeys abroad will teach him. Perhaps his time in Rohan and Gondor will bring about a change of heart.”

“Your optimism is touching,” Dírhael rose from his chair once more, but gave a small smile as he did so. He pulled back the curtain and gazed out the window at the new-fallen snow, untouched save for the tracks of a deer leading off to the west. Somewhere, farther off in the same direction, his own people would be out in the freezing weather, busy concluding their preparations for the winter. The harvest had been good this year, a blessing that grew ever rarer, and for once no one would need to worry about going hungry in the frigid months. Orcs and wolves, however, were another matter entirely…

“You wish we were home,” Ivorwen murmured as she came up behind him, “not even the most heated of conversations could distract you from that.”

“Aye,” Dírhael said. “It gladdens my heart to be so near to Gilraen, and if proximity to Elven healing will stave off another year of lung fever, I shall stay as long as I need. But it maddens me just the same to be so far from our kin in the harshest of months, even if I can no longer ride out with the men myself.”

Ivorwen did not answer, but leaned her head against his shoulder in silent understanding.

“It shall be Mettarë soon,” she said, “and the turning of a new year. Perhaps it is time we let go of the fears we’ve held so close to our hearts these last decades.”

“Perhaps it is,” Dírhael said softly, “The fate of our people rests with Aragorn now, and Halbarad in his absence. Perhaps it is time I stopped pretending I can affect much else, beyond praying that they might still heed the grumblings of an old man.”

“Do not underestimate the grumblings of an old man,” Ivorwen smiled as she took his face in her hand, “Aragorn and Halbarard both know to listen to those who came before them. Trust in what you have given them, my darling--it is not simply your blood that runs through their veins. It is everything you have taught to them as well.”  

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! My apologies for posting this chapter later than promised...I should have known my self-imposed deadline was overly optimistic. But with this, the story is complete. Special thanks to Cairistiona for the pinch-hit beta, and to Zopyrus for her original push to expand this beyond the drabble it started as. 

***

Dírhael took his wife’s hand and kissed her as he glanced back out at the snow beyond their window. “Let us hope, at least, that Halbarad remembers what I have taught him about coping with blizzards. If he had his way they would have been out on patrol even last night.” 

Ivorwen chuckled. “Give him more credit than that, Dírhael! He has never been that reckless. Besides, we are not so ancient that we are the only ones left who remember the Fell Winter. None would have ventured out last night.” 

“And on the note of venturing out,” Dirhael put on his boots, “I am going to brave the cold for the kitchens…see if there’s anything I can scrape together in the way of a late breakfast. Do you want me to bring anything back for you?”

“No, thank you,” Ivorwen winced once more as she slid into bed and under the blankets, “Better that I not test my luck. The tea will suffice, for now.” 

“Well, I won’t be gone long, if you change your mind.” Dírhael closed the door behind him, and turned to see Gilraen approaching at the other end of the hall. 

“Is everything all right?” Gilraen asked with a frown, “I came by earlier, but I heard raised voices…”

“‘Tis nothing worth fretting about,” Dirhael replied. “Were we truly so loud?” 

Gilraen shook her head. “Maybe only in comparison to the Elves. More quiet than mice, when they want to be.”

“Well, we certainly weren’t bothering to lower our voices,” Dirhael said ruefully. “I fear I’ve already robbed your mother of the peaceful morning she needs.”

“How is she? I should have warned her about the Dorwinion, I’ve never seen her like that before…”

“She’ll be fine, Gilraen,” Dírhael reassured her. “A day of rest and that ginger you gave me is all she needs.”

“You did not hear her last night,” Gilraen said doubtfully. “I should have stopped her before things got out of hand…”

But Dírhael cut her off as he pushed her hair back from her face, an old habit of his that had never quite died. 

“You worry too much, my dear,” he said gently. “Your mother takes good enough care of herself every other day of the year. She’ll be fine.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re a better judge of it than I would be.”

“Trust me, Gilraen,” Dírhael said, “I have survived far worse.”

“That I do not doubt,” she laughed as she took his arm. “Come, let me walk with you—the fresh air will do us both some good.” 

***

“Do you think there are any eel in the Bruinen?” Dírhael asked as they crossed the courtyard. “I might see if I can fry some up for your mother, see if it would help her any…”

“Fried eel?” Gilraen wrinkled her nose. “Ada, where on earth did you pick up such a notion?”

Dírhael drew himself up in feigned indignation. “A taverner in Bree. He said it was the best thing after too much ale. Given his usual state, I count on him as a trustworthy man in such matters.”

“These are the same folk who would have you believe that Tevildo the Terrible is real,” Gilraen laughed. “How is it that you always pick up such absurdities from the Breelanders? Arathorn and Dirlaeg never brought anything back beyond a new folk song or two.” 

Dírhael winked. “They never knew where to look.” 

“Well, I certainly can’t recall ever having any eel here,” Gilraen said, “but it can’t hurt to ask the kitchen maids…they shall know better than I do.” 

The Elves in the kitchens did not, in fact, have any eel, but they had the grace his daughter lacked and did not laugh at him when he told them what he had hoped to use it for. One of the maids recommended boiled cabbage for Ivorwen, a suggestion that Gilraen summarily rejected but that Dírhael made note of for himself in the future. In the end, he and Gilraen filled a basket with bread and some dried meat and took the long way back to their quarters, Gilraen still teasing him about his dubious choices for hangover cures. 

“It seems to be the morning for fathers and daughters,” she remarked as she pointed across the field. Elrond and the lady Arwen were walking arm and arm through the snow. 

“I imagine he must treasure the time he has with her. She does not return to Rivendell often, does she?”

“More so in recent years,” Gilraen replied. “But when Aragorn was growing up she dwelt only in Lórien. Indeed, until her first visit here I barely remembered that Lord Elrond had a daughter.”

“And she returned just in time to capture the notice of Aragorn.” Dírhael shook his head. “The Valar do have an ironic sense of humor.”  

Gilraen groaned. “Mama told you, didn’t she?” 

“Well, you both did a poor enough job of hiding that something was going on. Besides, as she said, we may as well have it out in the open. What’s done is done, and there is little point pretending we have it in our power to change things.” 

“Do you really believe that, Ada?” she gave him a knowing look. “Mama said that you and Aragorn have fought like cats and dogs about the question of his marriage."

“Your mother exaggerates,” Dírhael protested. “We fought once, and that was only after years of him dodging the answers to my quite reasonable questions. I simply reminded him that he had a duty beyond merely protecting our lands and leading our people.”

“He does not need a reminder of that,” Gilraen said as she cleared off the snow on a stone bench and sat down. “I imagine ’tis all he thinks of, most days.” 

“I am not questioning his commitment, Gilraen. Indeed, nothing but his greater duty could have taken him over the Misty Mountains to learn of lands beyond our own. Whatever Aragorn’s destiny may be, it is of greater import than any of the Chieftains that have come before him, certainly in my lifetime. I only wish he would consider the full weight of his choice.” 

Gilraen didn’t answer, merely ran a gloved hand over the snow on the bench. Dírhael noticed that the patterns traced in the stone differed little from the ones she had enjoyed making as a child. 

“Who is acting Chieftain now, with you both gone?” she asked, and Dírhael noted the pointed change of subject. “I did not even think to ask.” 

“Halbarad,” he answered. “Aragorn offered it to your brother first, out of respect, but Tarcil has enough going on with his own family. And Aragorn would much rather have left it to his cousin than anyone else—the two of them have hardly been separated these last few years. Truth be told, I’m glad that Tarcil had the sense to say no. Your brother is a fine warrior, but Halbarad shall prove a better leader than he or I could ever be.”

Gilraen shook her head.

“’Tis things like that that remind me just how long I have been away,” she said. “Even after my last visit, whenever I think of Halbarad I can’t help but picture a troublemaking nine-year-old trying to run away with my son. What was it—he needed a taste-tester for his berry cakes?”

“Which turned out to be more mud than cake, as I recall,” Dírhael laughed. “We truly need you home with us, daughter—there are not nearly enough of us left who remember Halbarad at that age and can put him in his proper place.”

“Still making mischief then, I take it?” Gilraen asked.

“He never stopped,” Dírhael shook his head, “but a better man you will never find. Halbarad is more than ready to lead our people whilst Aragorn is abroad—his father would be near to bursting with pride, if he could see him now.”

“So you do it enough for the both of you,” Gilraen gave a sad smile. “And I’m sure Tarcil does as well. I suppose that’s part of why I cannot see Halbarad as fully grown—when I picture him, I see Dirlaeg instead.” 

 “He favors his mother in looks,” Dírhael said, “and ’tis a good thing, too—things have been hard enough on Finnael. She has never gotten over her husband’s death.” 

“We were all so young,” Gilraen murmured, “how could any of us have gotten over it?” 

Dírhael sighed, thinking back to the difficult years surrounding his grandson’s birth. The celebration of new life had come in the wake of so many deaths…Arador, his own son Dirlaeg…and Arathorn barely three years later…

“Ada,” Gilraen’s voice broke through his reverie. “Can I ask you something?”

Dírhael turned back to his daughter. “Anything, ield-nín.”

“What made you change your mind about Arathorn and me?” 

Dírhael blinked in surprise. If anything, he would have expected this question from his daughter over a quarter century ago.

“What do you mean?”

“You were so against it, at the start,” Gilraen murmured, “I remember hearing you arguing with Mama, one night—the Chieftain’s life was too hard, you said, and you wanted better for your daughter. I was so certain that I’d be doomed to look for another husband, or at the very least wait until I was older.”

“Your mother was very persuasive,” Dírhael said dryly. “Never let it be said I do not listen to the women of my family.” 

“I know,” Gilraen smiled softly, “and I know now that Mama told you of her visions, but—it was more than that, was it not? I have never known you to be swayed by foresight alone.”  

Dirhael sighed. Rarely did he have such weighty conversations with his daughter—Gilraen had always been the easiest of his children to understand, and as such they had never said more to each other than what needed to be said. The subject of her romantic life they had certainly never touched. But he supposed he owed her an answer for that, late enough as it was. 

“I saw how happy he made you,” he said. “The way your face would light up when he came into the room—I have never seen you like that since, save for when you came home to visit Aragorn. Who was I to deny my daughter such fulfillment, no matter what the consequences might be?

“And there are times, even now, when I wonder if I should have stood by my instincts,” he continued, “if it would have kept you closer to us, if it would have spared you pain. But where would that leave us now? We would not be here, certainly. And we would not have Aragorn.”

Gilraen ducked her head to stare down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap, and Dírhael thought he caught a sheen of tears, but when she looked back to meet his gaze her eyes were clear. 

“I wonder, then, if that is how we should be thinking about it,” she said at last. “Who are we to deny his heart? Perhaps Lady Arwen is worth the risk he takes.” 

Dirhael snorted. “I should certainly hope she is, not least for the sake of the half-dozen disappointed women he has left behind in the Angle.”

Gilraen laughed. “My son, the heartbreaker…I suppose I should not be surprised.”

“Life shall certainly be less interesting, now that he is gone,” Dírhael sighed. “Even Halbarad has begun to settle down.” 

“Maybe I will have to return in the spring after all,” Gilraen’s eyes twinkled. “I am not sure how much excitement I can add, but I’m sure you and I can come up with some sort of mischief in their absence.” 

“Do not give me any ideas,” Dírhael said, “you know I shall do whatever it takes to have you come home with us.” 

She kissed him on the cheek. “I know. And that alone will likely prove enough to convince me.” 

She picked up the half-forgotten basket of food for Ivorwen and rose from the bench, but as she started to walk Dírhael remained, staring after his daughter. 

“Gilraen,” he asked, “was it worth it?” 

She stopped and turned.

“Every moment, Ada. It was worth every moment.”