Dreams Wrought

I

             Among the beeches where she used to dance with the other maidens of Imladris, Arwen now danced alone.  She rejoiced to be in the home where she’d been born so many yeni since.  Finding her father smiling freely once more and her brothers no longer grim with their rage toward the orcs who’d taken and tortured their mother had heartened her beyond reason, easing her own lingering grief.  So, she danced, not realizing that a stranger to her watched her, his own heart filled with the wonder of her presence here—and with her beauty.  Ere she noticed his presence he had already lost his heart to her, thinking he’d seen Lúthien Tinúviel herself in these latter times, here in his own chosen refuge within Elrond’s realm.

            Another descendent of Isildur found himself yearning for the daughter of Elrond and Celebrian, although he did not as yet know her parentage or why she had suddenly appeared here among the beeches that had filled his heart with ineffable hints of glory unseen—unseen until now, at least.

            Having seen him, she paused, recognizing the worship in the young Man’s eyes, not recognizing as yet the slight stir in her own heart.

II

            “But, Master Elrond, you already know that Estel has lost his heart to your daughter?”

            Elrond sighed.  “I assure you that that this has been normal for my brother’s descendants ever since Undómiel became a maiden.  Each of Isildur’s heirs that has seen her has become enamored of her in turn.  Why should Estel be any different?”

            Gilraen was shaking her head.  “This is more than merely becoming enamored of her.  My son has truly lost his heart to her.  I doubt that he will be drawn to any other woman enough to agree to take her to wife.  I know it in my own heart.”

            The Master of Imladris closed his eyes and shook his own head.  At last he spoke in a low voice, “Does the day of my loss come upon me at last?”  When he opened them again his expression was determined, almost fierce.  “The signs are that if Sauron is to seek again to conquer all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, then it will happen in Aragorn’s time.  And I will tell you this, that if he is able to stir her heart in return, my bride price will be the equal of that Thingol asked of Beren, but it will be both desirable and attainable—he must reunite the realms of Arnor and Gondor again.  Not for anything less than that shall I allow my daughter to sacrifice the birthright I attained for my children!”

III

            “Come with me, Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

            The use of his birth-name by his adar surprised Estel enough to bring him directly to his feet.  He automatically dropped the lap harp he’d been playing onto the padded bench on which he’d been sitting as he followed the one he’d ever considered his father out of the Hall of Fire.

            Lindor had risen as Elrond entered the chamber, and as the young Edan disappeared from the room, the Elf approached the bench and lifted the harp into his own arms, testing the strings to make certain they’d stayed unbroken and true in tone.

            The song Estel had been composing was in keeping with those the minstrel had heard from countless of his lord’s former fosterlings.  So many of the heirs of Isildur had been enamored, each in his turn, with the Lady Arwen.  Why would Elrond react so sternly with this one?  Then he realized—all were becoming aware that the final confrontation with Sauron was looming—that this particular mortal was likely to be the Man who would face him and either prove victorious, or who would fall before the Dark Lord, dragging all of Middle Earth down with him.

            “Estel perhaps has the power to rob our Lord Elrond of his greatest remaining treasure—his daughter.  Oh, but what bride-price will he impose on this youth for the woman he desires to take to wife?”

My birthday mathom to all.  Thanks to those who have encouraged me, and particularly Lindelea who has listened to so many of my ideas.

IV

            “Dearest one?”  Gilraen tapped a second time at the door to the chambers assigned to her son, now that he was recognized as a Man grown.  “Dearest son of mine—may I enter?”

            She was uncertain as to how she might find him.  After all, Master Elrond had appeared most grim when he had left her once she had assured him that Estel had truly lost his heart to his daughter after seeing her first on her return to Imladris.  The Lord of Rivendell had left her more abruptly than she had ever known him to act, and she knew that his subsequent interview with the young Man had distressed them both.

            “Enter, Naneth,” she heard from behind her son’s door, so she opened it with a degree of trepidation.  Would she find him in the depths of despair or perhaps even grief, having learned the impossible task laid upon him if he were to win the permission of Elrond to take to wife the one of womankind who had truly stirred his heart?  How might she reassure and comfort him?

            He sat upon the wide seat in the entrance chamber, an open book in his lap.  He had sought guidance or solace within a book?  But when he looked up to engage her eyes, she saw that his face was set in determination rather than consternation.

            “I am glad you have come, Nana.  I have much to ask of you.  My—Master Elrond, I mean, has laid a hard task upon me, one that I intend to accomplish.  Of course, I do not know that I shall ever manage to stir the heart of the one I find I love to return her own affection, but I must prepare for that possible day. 

            “He has laid it upon me that I must become Lord and King of both the ancient kingdom of Arnor and that of Gondor to the south ere he might grant me permission to take the one I love to wife.  But how am I to do this when all I know of these peoples is what is written of them in this book?”  He held it up to show it was the volume that Elrond and others had written of the doings of the Kings and peoples of the two realms founded by the descendants of those who had returned to Middle Earth on the wings of the storms engendered by the fall of Númenor.  “Yes, I know your brother who I understand rules the remnant of the land of Arnor in—in my name.  I know his wife Anneth, and others who were chosen to stand as witnesses to my survival when it was put about that I died as little better than a babe in arms.  But how am I to earn their trust?  And do I even wish to become their Chieftain?  Tell me, Nana, how is it that the Men of the remains of Arnor become accepted as Men grown, as guardians and leaders of her lands and the peoples that fill them?  How do I prove myself worthy to be accepted as a Man of Arnor, for I must do this before I can look to one day become more than mere Chieftain but to serve as Arnor’s King.”

            Gilraen realized he did not need her solace, but truly her guidance.  Did Elrond realize just how much determination the two of them had engendered in the heart of the son of her lost husband Arathorn?  “Well, Aragorn...,” she began.