Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And special thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter One: Hope

   “…The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts.”   Ivorwen

 The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                            Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Gilraen paused for a moment, putting down her sewing. She listened carefully; it had gone very quiet; too quiet. Getting to her feet, she quickly glanced around her parlour. She was sure her young son had been playing by the hearth only moments before, but there was no sign of him now.

   “Aragorn?”

   A peek behind Arathorn’s huge chair, a favourite hiding place, revealed nothing. She wandered through to the kitchen, but there was no sign of her son there either. Feeling more irritable than anxious, she swiftly crossed the room to the back door only to find it already unlatched. Cursing herself for her carelessness, she opened it quickly and called as loudly as she dared.

   There was no reply. Becoming more apprehensive, she stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine and looked around the courtyard. Still there was no sign. Panic was just beginning to rise in Gilraen when, beyond the safe confines of the walled yard, she finally spotted her son, toddling purposefully into the meadow towards the grazing horses. The tiny figure held up unsteady arms as he determinedly tried to make friends with Brethil’s new foal.

   “Aragorn!” Gilraen’s scream startled mare, foal and boy. The old mare bolted and retreated to a safe corner of the field where she eyed her mistress cautiously; the as yet unnamed foal frolicking unconcernedly about her. Aragorn turned round so sharply at his mother’s cry, he lost his balance and fell smartly into the grass.

   Gilraen raced across the field to collect her errant child.

   “Aragorn, how many times must I tell you? You should not wander off like that and you certainly must not go in with the horses on your own.”

   Tears appeared in the child’s eyes at his mother’s harsh tone, but Gilraen refused to be moved by them. Her heart was still racing from the shock of finding her son gone from the safety of the house and at that moment she had no soothing words to offer the bewildered child. She gathered up her son brusquely and carried him back into the house, dumping him unceremoniously on his father’s chair.

   “You can sit still for a while and watch while I finish my sewing,” she said, her voice softer now that her son was safe within her sight again.

    Oh how she wished Arathorn would return soon. He could have the task of entertaining his inquisitive son for a time. Her husband had managed to come home for a few days at the beginning of March for Aragorn’s birthday, but several weeks had passed since then.

   Spring was well underway. The winter had been long and severe and Arathorn had been absent for most of it. Gilraen knew when she married him that as chieftain he would be abroad more often than the husbands of other women, but this winter had been particularly difficult and she missed him dreadfully. Aragorn was now at an age when he tried to explore the world from dawn to dusk and continually watching him left her behind with her chores. Her mother helped out when she could, but she had her own troubles. A few months ago, Dirhael had received a particularly nasty knife wound and was proving slow to return to health. Ivorwen had little time to spare for her daughter or her grandson.

   The object of Gilraen’s concern sat across the room from her, patiently waiting to be released from his punishment. His grey eyes followed every movement of his mother’s hand as the stitches formed beneath her fingers. At last Gilraen had endured enough of her son’s intense scrutiny and she relented, laying aside her sewing once more.

   “Very well, young man,” she said with a severity she did not feel in her heart, “if you can behave yourself and do as I say, you may go and see the foal once more today.”

   Aragorn beamed at her and lifted up his arms to be carried. Ever since the foal had arrived he had been fascinated by it and loved nothing more than to spend time watching it scamper in the meadow and, when it came close enough, he would delight in stroking its soft velvety coat.

   Outside the sun was sinking lower in the sky, already lost behind the distant line of trees. As Gilraen led her son back to the field, her thoughts turned to preparing the evening meal. She still had so much to do that day; there was really not the time for such idling, but Aragorn, chattering nonsense to the horses, was in no hurry to return indoors. He squealed and squirmed with delight as the foal nuzzled his hair and face. As always, he pleaded with his mother to be allowed to sit on Brethil.

   “Please, Nana, just a short ride.”

   The imploring look on the child’s face moved his mother’s heart, as it always did, and, with a resigned sigh, Gilraen lifted him up on to Brethil’s broad back and began leading the mare around the meadow. The old war horse had become very staid in her old age and Gilraen had no fear for her son’s safety.

   “Faster, faster!” cried Aragorn, flapping his legs completely ineffectually against the horse’s sides.

   “No, Aragorn, maybe when your father comes home,” said Gilraen, hoping once again that day would be soon. But her child’s joy was infectious and she found herself laughing with him as she continued her sedate circuit of the meadow, the foal skipping playfully beside them.

~oo0oo~

   Later that evening, with her work finally done for the day and her son asleep upstairs, Gilraen sat beside the fire in her parlour and began to doze. She knew she should go to bed yet she felt too tired to even make that effort. But she had barely closed her eyes when she was abruptly woken by the sound of the dogs barking. She heard old Handir talking to them as he came down from his room above the hayloft. Handir was an elderly kinsman of her mother's who did the heavy work outside and had lived with her and Arathorn since their marriage four years ago. He was bent and wizened now, but had been a capable warrior in his day and Gilraen was glad of his protection when her husband was away.

   She could hear voices in the yard, quickly followed by a knock at the door. Her heart lurched. It was far too late for visitors from the village. She jumped to her feet, and strode quickly to the door, though she nevertheless opened it with great caution.

   It was Handir standing there. He looked shocked, his face deadly white and, Gilraen noticed, his hands were trembling.

   “What on earth is the matter, Handir?” she asked, feeling her own anxiety rising. “Who is it?”

   “It’s the sons of Lord Elrond, my lady,” he said.

   “Elladan and Elrohir?” said Gilraen, feeling relieved. “Then please invite them in; they should not be left standing out in the cold.” But even as she said the words, she felt a foreboding in her heart. With another glance at Handir’s ashen face, she pushed passed him and dashed out into the courtyard.

   There, in spite of the darkness, she could clearly see the tall figures of the twin sons of Elrond. They were busy with one of the horses, untying straps that securely held in place a large pack on the horse’s back. As she looked on, she realised the pack was actually the bundled up body of a man.

   Suddenly with horror, she realised that the horse belonged to her husband.

   “No, no, please no!” she cried as she ran towards them, panic raging wildly through her.

  The Elves turned sharply at her call and Elladan rushed to catch her as she tried to fly past him.

   “Gilraen, no!” he said as he trapped her in his arms.

   “Arathorn?” Gilraen barely managed to utter the name, though, with dread certainty, she knew the answer before it came.

   “Yes, it is Arathorn,” said Elladan, his voice breaking with emotion. “I am so very sorry.”

   Gilraen struggled to be free and he let her go. He could not spare her this. She was Dúnedain after all; her life was enmeshed in the sorrows of her people.

   Gilraen walked slowly towards the horse as Elrohir carefully laid the bundle on the ground.

   She stared at it for a moment, still hoping this might be some terrible mistake. Perhaps, when she parted the blanket, it would not be her beloved husband lying there at all. She knelt in the rough dirt beside the body and raised trembling hands to uncover the body of the dead man. Elrohir tried to stop her, but Gilraen had to see with her own eyes. She knew she would never believe it was true unless she had beheld the man who lay there for herself.

   But she was not prepared for what she saw.

   Arathorn had been shot through the eye with an orc arrow. Gilraen gasped and fell to the ground, stricken with shock. The sons of Elrond, were immediately at her side, but, knowing there was nothing they could do to ease her pain, they respectfully retreated to give her time alone with Arathorn. But as she clutched her husband to her and began to tremble uncontrollably, they began to wonder if they had done wisely bringing his body home at all. After a while Elladan managed to steer her back inside the house and sat her in front of the fire.

   As the twins fumbled around the kitchen preparing a warm drink for Gilraen, Handir was sent to Dirhael’s house at the other end of the village. Elrohir remembered his flask of Miruvor and was able to persuade Gilraen to take a sip of the reviving cordial. At once her shivers ceased and she at least seemed calmer.

   “What happened?” she asked when she had stopped trembling. It seemed an obvious question but she wanted to know every detail of why this great man whom she adored had been so cruelly slain.

   But when Elladan came and sat beside her, he told her the barest outline of the terrible day they had just endured. There was no need for her to know the full horror of it. Arathorn had died instantly, that much he could tell her truthfully. He did not think she heard much else.

   Shortly Handir returned with Ivorwen and Dirhael. Both were shattered by the news yet they tried to comfort their daughter as best they could. Their words though were meaningless to Gilraen, hollow platitudes lost in the gaping chasm that was all that remained of her life. Once they themselves had absorbed the initial shock of their loss, inevitably the implications began racing through their minds. Arathorn was more than a much-loved son-in-law; he was also their chieftain, though they both realised that honour now belonged to the little boy asleep upstairs. It was only three years since Arathorn’s father, Arador, had been captured and slain by trolls. Aragorn was now the last of his line; a line which suddenly seemed very precarious and fragile.

   He had to be kept safe.

   Gilraen was soon exhausted by her grief. Elrohir mixed up a draught to help her sleep and her mother took her to her bed. The sons of Elrond camped outside that night, keeping guard over Arathorn’s body. They were grieved to the core. Arathorn was their friend. They had known him since he was a lad and had spent several years at Rivendell under their father’s guidance. They knew in their hearts they could not have prevented today’s tragedy, but that did nothing to purge their feelings of guilt. Like Dirhael and Ivorwen, they were both keenly aware of the new status of Arathorn’s son. They were in no doubt as to what should be done, but the choice was not theirs to make. The final word rested with Gilraen.

~oo0oo~

   In the morning, Arathorn was buried with as much honour as could be afforded a chieftain whose identity his people wished to remain secret. The whole village attended to make their farewells to a man well liked and respected by everyone. Gilraen got through it somehow. Whatever potion the twins were dosing her with, it seemed to work. She brought Aragorn with her to the burial, but no one told him it was his father they were honouring that day.

   When Gilraen returned to her house, she sat motionless, bleakly staring into the fire. She would gladly have stayed there, lost in her thoughts and her memories, but those around her knew a big decision had to be made and it had to be made soon.

   It was Dirhael who broached the subject. He came and sat beside her, taking her hand between his.

   “Gilraen, dearest daughter, you must listen to my words for time is short,” he said. “You must decide what is to be done about little Aragorn. He is our chieftain now and Isildur’s Heir, the last of his line. We can not risk any harm coming to the child.” He paused, he was not at all sure Gilraen was listening to him, but these things needed to be said and so he continued.

   “It is my belief that he should go at once to Rivendell where he will be safe from the eyes of the Enemy. Master Elrond can guide and teach him in all he needs to know. You would, of course, go with him.”

   Gilraen had been paying more attention than Dirhael realized, for the well-being of her son was never far from her concerns. She knew and accepted that Aragorn would travel to Rivendell to be fostered for a time at some stage in his younger years and that she would accompany him, but she did not relish the idea of leaving now, not when her life had been shattered and she needed her family and friends about her more than ever.

   “I can not think on this now,” she said wearily. “I am too tired and too broken with grief.”

   “But Gilraen, do you not see?” said Ivorwen, joining her husband. “We can not delay. Aragorn is the Heir of Isildur. The Enemy will hunt him, but they must never find him. Even before you and Arathorn were wed, my foresight revealed to me that hope would spring from the union of the two of you. This can now only mean Aragorn. Without him, there will be no hope for our people while this Age lasts.”

   Gilraen looked across the room to her son who was sitting on the floor happily playing with his wooden horses, oblivious to the discussion taking place about his future. He was only two years old, just a little boy, and yet so great were the expectations now being placed upon him. Yet she knew in her heart that her parents were right. The orcs that slew Arathorn had been less than a day’s ride away. Nowhere was safe in Eriador now; except perhaps Rivendell, and her own grief would be with her wherever she dwelt. She sighed in acceptance; Aragorn was her whole life now.

   “Very well,” she said. “We will leave tomorrow.”

~oo0oo~

   Early the next morning, Gilraen took Aragorn to the field to see the horses. She could not bring herself to tell him he would most likely never see them again. She doubted she would be able to hold her own emotions together if she had to deal with his distress as well as her own. Although Aragorn did not know it, his father had intended to give him the foal when he was older. As it was, Gilraen struggled to keep her tears in check as her son lovingly caressed the horses and kissed them farewell.

   Ivorwen had taken it upon herself to sort and pack the few belongings Gilraen could take with her. She would want for nothing at Rivendell, but there were personal items, mostly gifts from Arathorn, she knew her daughter would not be parted from.

   Soon all was ready; the sons of Elrond waited in the courtyard, together with four Rangers assigned the task of protecting their new chieftain on the long journey to Rivendell. Gilraen made her farewells brief, steeling herself at every turn to go through with this and not change her mind. Once outside, she quickly mounted Arathorn’s tall horse while Elladan lifted an excited Aragorn up into her arms and pulled a blanket snugly around him. Although it was late spring, the wind was bitter out on the bleak uplands.

   As they set off on their long road, Gilraen did not look back, but as they reached the end of the lane and the wilds of Eriador began to unfold before them, the tears that she had so far been unable to shed, suddenly came forth as a torrent of despair. She had lived all her life in the village, all her memories of Arathorn were there and now she did not know if she would ever return. Aragorn looked up at his mother with concern and fear at her sudden distress and Gilraen once more steeled herself to contain her grief. She did her best to reassure her son, brushing away her tears as she did so.

   The journey was slow and tedious, the nights bitterly cold, but the days bright and sunny. They met no one, much to their relief. They had all realised that exposing the child to the dangers of the wild was the weak point in their plan. Five days after they left the village, they finally crossed the Bruinen. Aragorn’s initial excitement over his adventure had long since dissipated and he was now irritable from lack of sleep and confinement. Gilraen’s arms ached from holding him, but she would not allow anyone else, not even the sons of Elrond, to hold her precious burden. She told herself it was because the warriors needed both hands free to properly defend him.

   Dusk was falling when Gilraen became aware that they were on a descending path. She could see little as they were surrounded by pine trees which made the night close in more rapidly. The path was a twisting one and as they descended further, the pine trees were replaced by the stark forms of beech and oak not yet in leaf. Then Gilraen could see they were in a valley, though it was grey and formless in the late evening light. They were nearing the bottom of a gorge and ahead was a large house with lights twinkling in the windows and she could hear singing, though where it was coming from she could not tell. Aragorn had fallen asleep, but now he poked his head out from the blanket and looked around in surprise at the changed landscape all about him.

   The horses walked in single file over the narrow bridge that led to the house and then they were there, halting in a large courtyard before the imposing home of Master Elrond. Several Elves came to take the horses and then the main door to the house opened and out stepped a tall, dark-haired Elf who so resembled Elladan and Elrohir that it was obvious to Gilraen that this was Lord Elrond. Elrohir came to her side to take Aragorn and help her dismount while, she noticed, Elladan went to talk to his father. Once on the ground, Gilraen leant on the horse for a moment while the feeling returned to her legs. She was unused to such long hours in the saddle and the journey had taken its toll, but she stood up straight when Elrond approached her.

   Very tall and regal he seemed. She felt suddenly shy and a little nervous. He may be Halfelven but to Gilraen at that moment he looked to be entirely of the Eldar. There seemed to be an unearthly quality to him that she found both intriguing and intimidating. But as he came towards her, he held out his hands and took hers. Gilraen could see the sorrow in his eyes as he spoke.

   “Lady Gilraen, I am shocked beyond words by the tidings my son has brought this day. Arathorn was a good friend to all at Imladris and everyone here shall grieve deeply at this news. Be assured it will not be the Dúnedain alone who mourn your husband. But your own loss is the deepest felt of all, and for that I can only extend my hand in friendship and offer you whatever is within by power to give that might bring you comfort and succour.”

   He was very sincere and kind and Gilraen felt more at ease as she thanked him. Then Elrond turned his attention to the bundle in her arms and the face peeping out from the blanket that seemed to behold him in wonder. Elrond reached out a hand to stroke the mass of unruly dark hair.

   “And this little fellow must be Aragorn,” he said, smiling at the child. Aragorn, however, was too overwhelmed to reply and frowned in confusion at the familiar and yet unfamiliar face.

   “This is Elladan and Elrohir’s father,” said Gilraen, remembering too late that she was trying to avoid that word. But Aragorn was too amazed by this revelation to be reminded of his own father, who in truth he had seen little of in the last few months.

   “Come, you must be tired from your journey and in need of refreshment,” said Elrond. “Rooms are being made ready for you as we speak. Erestor will see that your belongings are brought to them.”

   Then he ushered them up the steps and inside the Last Homely House. The size and sumptuousness of the dwelling far exceeded anything in Gilraen’s experience among the Dúnedain. The carving on the furniture and walls, and the needlework of the tapestries and hangings displayed skill of craftsmanship vastly superior to any found among her own people. Gilraen looked about her in awe, quite forgetting her earlier awkwardness.

   After walking down several corridors and ascending two flights of stairs, Elrond brought his guests to a beautiful sitting room. It was light and airy with exquisite furnishings. There was a spacious bedchamber in the room beyond. Arathorn had often told Gilraen of his years living at Rivendell, but the vision she had seen in her mind did not begin to compare with the reality. With a stab of guilt, she suddenly remembered why she was there and realised that for a few minutes she had not been thinking about her husband at all.

   Elrond left them alone for a while and arranged to have food sent up to the room. In his wisdom, he had rightly assumed a formal meal would be something of an ordeal for Gilraen on her first evening in such unfamiliar surroundings. Gilraen thanked him profusely, acutely aware that she and her son were now entirely dependent upon his goodwill. Once the Elf lord had gone, she lowered Aragorn from her arms and allowed him to explore, though she was not at all sure she would ever feel confident letting him loose amongst all this finery.

~oo0oo~

   Later that evening, after they had eaten and begun to settle in, they received a visit from one of the twins. Gilraen was glad of a familiar face, although the Elves who had attended upon her had all been very kind. Aragorn raced across the room when he entered.

   “El’dan!” he cried as Elladan swept him up into an embrace. Aragorn had always enjoyed the twin’s visits to their home and it continually amazed Gilraen that he never had any difficulty telling them apart. She, on the other hand, had not been at all sure of the identity of their visitor until Aragorn spoke his name.

   Elladan had come to check on their well being before turning in for the night himself. Watching Aragorn contentedly cuddling up to him, Gilraen had to admit that, for her son at least, she may well have made the right choice. He already had two friends here and no doubt in time she would too, but at the moment this new world was too strange and too different for her to feel anything other than a complete outsider.

   However, she assured Elladan that she had all she needed for now and arranged to meet both the twins and Master Elrond in the morning after breakfast. Alone again, tiredness swiftly overcame them both, though only Aragorn slept soundly. Gilraen woke often and lay in the vast bed between crisp sheets, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of Rivendell and all the while, willing herself to ignore the dull ache of homesickness that was threatening to surge within her.

~oo0oo~

   Gilraen awoke to find the sun streaming in through the windows. Clambering out of bed, she opened the doors onto the balcony and stepped out into blazing sunshine. The bedroom faced east and although it was still very early, the sun was already peeping over the Misty Mountains, bathing the whole valley in the soft, golden glow of morning. Gilraen gasped in amazement at the sight before her. If she had thought the house sumptuous, it was now revealed as only a pale echo of the splendour of the valley itself. She drank in the warm air, much warmer than it had been at home, and stood soaking up the wonders of Rivendell. Gilraen in all her twenty-six years living in the same village in the bleak lands between the North Downs and the Weather Hills had never ventured very far. She had on occasion ridden into the hills, but she had never seen land carved and chiselled as deeply as this. The sheer rock faces of the valley towered above the house, and way, way below, amid the pattern of green fields and woods, there flowed the river, tumbling over a succession of waterfalls, the sound of it lifting joyously into the clear morning air.

   She had never seen such a sight and immediately, for the briefest moment, thought she must tell Arathorn about it, only to remember, cruelly, that this was something they would never now share together.

   The stirring of a toddler brought her mind back to her responsibilities. She returned to the room, closing the balcony doors, and saw to the washing and dressing of Aragorn. The serving maid soon brought their breakfast and Gilraen and her son tucked in with relish. The food was as wonderful as their new surroundings and there was plenty of it.

   They had just finished their meal and Gilraen was wondering whether to venture from the room when there was a knock at the door.

   It was Elrond.

   “Good morning Gilraen,” he said. “I trust you are refreshed from your journey and have breakfasted to your satisfaction.”

   “Yes indeed, my lord,” said Gilraen, feeling a little overwhelmed again by the Elf-lord’s presence. But she continued politely. “Everything has been perfect, and I thank you again for your hospitality.

   Elrond just smiled at her a little sadly and led her through the house out into the gardens beyond. Here they met Elladan and Elrohir who were sitting by the river, deep in conversation, but they ceased talking at once as Gilraen and her son approached. Getting to their feet, they greeted them both warmly. Aragorn immediately began pestering his mother to be allowed to go to the twins.

   “It would be as well to let him, Gilraen,” said Elrond, “for we have much to talk about. If you will permit it, perhaps my sons could take Aragorn to the stables to meet the horses.”

   Gilraen nodded, though in truth she did not want to let Aragorn out of her sight.

   Elrond then knelt down to be at eye level with the little boy: “Would you like to go with Elladan and Elrohir to see our horses, Aragorn? There is a new foal only a couple of weeks old who I am sure would be most pleased to meet you.”

   Aragorn looked at the Elf-lord with eyes filled with wonder. He nodded shyly, but grinned at Elrohir as he came to take his hand.

   “Come along then, little rider,” Elrohir said to him. “Let’s go and say hello to Tathren and her baby.” Elladan took his other hand and, clasped safely between his two new big brothers, Aragorn toddled off to the stables.

   Gilraen watched him go, cheerfully telling the twins all about Brethil and her foal.

   “Gilraen?” said Elrond, gaining her attention, “let us sit here by the river and talk for a while.” Gilraen was shown to an ornate white seat where she perched uncomfortably on the edge.

   At first Elrond chatted to her of her home, asking her about the little everyday things as if he hoped he would put her at her ease. Then he talked of Arathorn and of the years he had spent living at Rivendell. Gilraen was surprised at how well he knew her husband. She had never really considered this to be a bond they shared. It pleased her enormously and she found herself warming further to the Elf-lord. But then he turned the conversation to Aragorn and the future.

   “I want you both to think of this as your home now,” he said. Then adding with a kindly smile: “Please do not feel that you must thank me for my hospitality. It is freely and gladly given to both you and your son.”

   Gilraen returned his smile. “Thank you, I shall try to remember that.”

   “Good. Do not forget, Gilraen, Aragorn is my kin. Through many lives of Men he is directly descended from my brother. And are you not yourself a descendent of Aranarth? That makes you both part of my family. As you know, I have fostered all the Chieftains of the Dúnedain in this house since Arahael, Aranarth’s son, although I confess they were all older than Aragorn when they came to live here. Having a child so young in Imladris will be a pleasure, I am sure.”

   Gilraen could not help feeling both amused and apprehensive at that statement.

      “There is one last thing that I wish to discuss with you, Gilraen.” Elrond paused and took a deep breathe before continuing. “As you know only too well, Aragorn has been brought here for his own safety, to keep him hidden from the eyes of the Enemy. I greatly fear though that the Enemy has many spies and many ways to find what he wishes to learn. Although you may be assured that none here would ever betray him and we will do all in our power to protect him, this house, nonetheless, does not have a closed door. It was built as a refuge, and a refuge it remains, for all who come asking for succour and aid. It is mainly for this reason that I believe Aragorn’s true identity should be completely hidden from all, even himself.”

   “Whatever do you mean?” asked Gilraen in surprise.

   “These are dark times, Gilraen. The Shadow in the East deepens and the hand of Sauron reaches further than at any other time in this Age of the World. The name of Aragorn may have little meaning to most, but to those whose memories are long it is known to be a name from the line of chieftains, and the name itself is one denoting royal status.”

   “You wish to change his name?” Gilraen’s voice betrayed her disbelief.

   “Forgive me, lady, but I can not stress the danger enough. I do believe he should be known by another name until he is old enough to be told of his heritage and of the burden that fate has placed upon him. Until that time he should not be told who he really is, nor should he know whose son.” Elrond raised his hand to silence Gilraen’s protests until he had finished.

   “I foresee that this child’s life shall be hard and long. Let him have these few years of his childhood in ignorance of that burden which he will have to take upon himself all too soon. I know how hard this must seem to you, especially now when you have just lost Arathorn, but trust me, Gilraen, Aragorn’s life could depend upon this. Is it not a small price to pay so that he may live and grow into the man he may become?”

   Gilraen got to her feet and walked unseeing towards the river. She could not believe this was being asked of her. If she agreed, she would not be able to talk to Aragorn of his father. There were so many things she would be unable to share with him. She wondered how much more she would be expected to give of herself. It was as if her old life was vanishing before her very eyes, being rubbed out by some unseen hand. She tried her hardest to conjure up an image of Arathorn in her mind so that she might cling to something from the past that might anchor her to an uncertain future. But right then even he eluded her. She felt she could weep such was her despair.

   Then, above the sound of the water rushing passed her feet, she heard laughter ringing clearly in the crisp, spring air. Penetrating her despondency was the happy, carefree sound of a small child. Somewhere beyond the trees, Aragorn was enjoying himself enormously. The sound touched her heart and in that moment her mind suddenly cleared and she put her fears behind her.

   Elrond was right; all that mattered now was that Aragorn lived to grow into the man he was destined to be. The years of his childhood would be so short; there could be no harm in allowing him to enjoy them without cares. He would learn of Arathorn and of his doom soon enough. And as to his name, it really made no difference what others called him. He could have a dozen different names, but he would still be Aragorn; he would still be her little boy.

   Bracing herself, she turned to Elrond.

   “Did you have any particular name in mind?” she asked.

   Elrond smiled at her, seeing her acceptance. “I thought perhaps we could call him Estel.”

   At the puzzled expression on Gilraen’s face, he added.

   “It means Hope.”

~oo0oo~

    But Aragorn was only two years old when Arathorn went riding against the Orcs with the sons of Elrond, and he was slain by an orc arrow that pierced his eye……...

 Then Aragorn, being now the Heir of Isildur was taken with his mother to dwell in the house of Elrond; and Elrond took the place of his father and came to love him as a son of his own. But he was called Estel, that is “Hope”, and his true name and lineage were kept secret at the bidding of Elrond; for the Wise then knew that the Enemy was seeking to discover the Heir of Isildur, if any remained upon earth.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                The Return of the King