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

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 3:  The Son of Arathorn

   But when Estel was only twenty years of age, it chanced that he returned to Rivendell after great deeds in the company of the sons of Elrond; and Elrond looked at him and was pleased, for he saw that he was fair and noble and was early come to manhood, though he would yet become greater in body and mind.

“The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen”                                                   The Return of the King

   It was good to be home.

   It was a glorious April day. The sun was now high above the Misty Mountains in the east and the whole valley was bathed in its soft warming glow. To Estel’s eyes the house had never looked so fair, its mellow golden walls reflecting the brightness of day. Daffodils lined the path and primroses and bluebells clustered under the budding chestnut trees.

    Spring had come to Rivendell, and with every step that brought him home, the winter in Estel’s heart slowly receded too. Six months on his first proper patrol had left its mark on the young man. The excited lad who rode out of the valley last autumn had gone forever. Never far from his conscious thought now were the images of battle and death. At night when he closed his eyes those images still filled his mind; the horror would be slow to leave him. In the last few days, as he and his brothers had ridden home, Estel had brooded interminably over all he had seen and done that winter out in the wilds. He wondered how the others coped with such a life, year after year; how he would cope with it. But cope he must; this he knew. He was a warrior now. But the reality of seeing his friends butchered before his eyes was not as he had expected. The heroic tales he had devoured from his earliest years never mentioned the pain and the fear and the suffering that accompanied them.

  And he was exhausted. The endless watchful days and nights had left his young body yearning for a full night’s sleep in the comfort and safety of his own room. He ached for the soothing presence of his mother, and the compassion and gentle guidance of his father. He had missed both his parents dreadfully. It had not helped that he felt unable to admit to such childish longings to anyone on the patrol, not even his brothers.

   But as he left the stables and made his way to the house, Estel felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was Elrohir.

   “Come, let us go find Adar,” he said, smiling at his foster brother. Estel nodded, grateful for his wordless understanding, and then with Elladan beside him, the three walked side by side to the main entrance. Estel could not help but remember that a year ago he had returned from a month’s scouting with his brothers and had fairly raced down the path before leaping up the steps three at a time in his excitement at being home. No such compulsion drove him today.

   And yet amid all his turmoil and grief, there was a part of him that felt a joy such as he had never known before. Ever since he was a small boy he had dreamed of joining the warriors and fighting along side them in battle. He had trained eagerly for years, but as his training had neared completion, fear that he would fail this very first test had steadily grown within him. But now he had come through this rite of passage, and with honour at that. He had not only killed many orcs but he had slain a troll as well. He had earned respect and in doing so his confidence had soared. This was no longer the untried confidence of an optimistic youth but the firm surety of experience. In this he justifiably took no small amount of pride.

      Glorfindel met them all in the hallway as he was eager for news, but Estel wanted his father and so he left the twins giving their report and made his own way to Elrond’s study. Elrond heard him coming and was already at the door as he arrived. Estel’s face lit up as his father opened his arms to him.

   “Adar, I have so many tales to tell you,” beamed Estel, “So much has happened!”

   Elrond kissed his foster son and embraced him tightly, ruffling his unruly hair as he did so. He was relived to find him not only well and unharmed but also apparently eager to speak of his adventures. He had seen so many young warriors return changed from their first patrol and already he could sense that change in Estel. There was a haunted look in his eyes that stung Elrond.  He did not doubt that the lightness of his son’s greeting was a sign of the first thickening of his skin, a sad necessity if his ordeals were not to break him.

   “I’m glad to hear it,” Elrond said, holding the lad at arm's length so he could cast his eyes over him and satisfy himself completely as to his well-being. He had clearly thrived on his experiences. His eyes shone and his face glowed with health and vitality. He seemed to have grown even taller and he had certainly filled out. The muscles beneath his tunic were now firm and taut. In just a few short months, the boy had become a man.

  He was, however, filthy.

  “And I want to hear all about what you have been doing,” said Elrond, “though I’m afraid my son, half a year in the wild leaves you in more urgent need of a bath! Why don’t you go and get cleaned up and find yourself something to eat. Then when you are refreshed, come and sit with me and I can hear all the news.” He smiled affectionately. He did not want to push Estel away but he really wanted to hear from Elladan and Elrohir how he had fared before he heard his son’s own account of his adventures. Estel smiled back happily, his relief at finally being home, blended with the warmth of his father’s love, was already doing wonders to disperse the remnants of his grief.

   “Very well, Adar,” he said, “but I won’t be long.”

   “And go and see your mother,” Elrond added as Estel walked back down the corridor. Gilraen he knew had worried the whole time he was away, but like all Dúnedain women who lose their husbands young and then watch their sons grow up to face the same dangers, she bore her sorrows stoically and silently.

   Elrond watched him go, a child no longer. Yet it seemed hardly any time at all since he had arrived in Rivendell, a frightened little boy of just two years, brought here hastily for his own protection following the slaying of his father. Estel was the fifteenth Heir of Isildur he had fostered, but he was the only one who had come to him as a baby. He was the only one he had named himself, and the only one he had reared as his own son. He was also the only one who had not known who he really was. Elrond had made up his mind; if Elladan and Elrohir spoke well of him, then the time had come for him to be told.

   He could see the twins chatting to Glorfindel in the hallway and went to greet them, embracing them together, one in each arm. They returned with him to his study and Elladan went straight to the wine flask to pour them all a drink.

   “It’s a relief to be home,” he said. “It’s been a long winter and hard. We’ve had more than our usual share of trouble this year. Certainly there were orcs roaming about in greater numbers. The Dúnedain have been very hard pressed and were glad of our aid. They would have struggled without us, I think.” He took a long swig of his wine and sat himself down in a comfortable chair beside Elrohir, who was already sprawled on the sofa.

   “Estel seems well,” said Elrond. “I hope he didn’t find it all too much of a trial.”

   “Yes, where is Estel?” asked Elrohir, reaching for his glass. “I thought he would be here regaling you with tales of all his adventures.”

   “He would be,” said Elrond, smiling at his son, “only I sent him to get a bath.”

   “Ah, we had noticed!”

   “Not only that!” continued the Elf-lord, “I wanted a chance to ask you about him, how he fared. Is he ready to be told?”

   Elladan and Elrohir glanced at one another and a look of resignation passed between them. They knew this was the first step to losing their foster brother to the life he must soon lead.

   It was Elladan who answered. “He is more than ready,” he said. “He has learnt his lessons well. He will soon be as good a swordsman as any among the Dúnedain and already he has more skill at hunting. He had to face many trials this winter and at times it was far from easy for him, but nonetheless he overcame his fears and proved a worthy member of the patrol. He is growing into a fine young man; we all have good reason to be proud of him.”

   “Yes, it was a joy to see him,” added Elrohir. “He earned the respect of all the Rangers. And although life in the wilds is still something of an adventure for him, he is well aware it is only so because we are at hand to protect him. He takes everything we have taught him to heart; I deem his greatest fear is disappointing you.”

   “All that you say pleases me,” said Elrond as he considered his sons’ words. “Of course he has always been an eager pupil. But what of Dírhael; did he meet him?”

   “Oh Dírhael is impatient for his return,” said Elladan. “The lives of the Dúnedain are as difficult as ever. They lost two good men just this last week. Dírhael leads them as best he can, but it is so long since they had any real hope.”

   “But they do not want Estel just as a figurehead,” added Elrohir quickly. “It was not just his fighting and hunting skills that impressed them. In his quiet, thoughtful way of listening to and learning from all that is said, he shows a maturity beyond his years. He is not at all proud and arrogant as some young men seem to be. They will follow him, Adar, even now, even though he is only young. Dírhael said as much.”

   “Well,” said Elrond, “if he has impressed Dírhael then he must have fared well indeed. I shall never forget the trouble poor Arathorn had persuading him he was worthy of marrying Gilraen. My mind is made up. I shall tell him today.”

~oo0oo~

   Estel, clean, changed and fed, arrived back at his father’s study to find Elladan and Elrohir still there, still drinking wine, still telling Elrond all the news from Eriador.

   “I hope you two have left some tales for me to tell Adar,” he said, as he strode across to the board and poured himself a drink from the dregs in the flask.

   “Do not fear, Estel, I want to hear all about your adventures,” said Elrond. “Come and tell me your news. These two, I’m sure, want to get cleaned up as well.”

   Elladan and Elrohir showed no inclination to move from their comfortable seats by the fire until discreet gesturing on Elrond’s part signalled that they had out-stayed their welcome, and they both reluctantly got to their feet.

  As the twins left the room, Estel came and sat beside his father and told his tales. As Elrohir had said, there were no boasts, mostly stories to make Elrond laugh, although there were many things about which Estel wanted advice on or reassurance. Meeting the Dúnedain had made a huge impact on him. He was immensely curious about these rather grim and silent men, for he had long known he was of the same blood though he could not, in truth, say he felt much sense of kinship with them.

    But the deaths of the two men he had come to know as friends troubled him greatly and as he finished his tale, it was obvious to Elrond he was still badly haunted by the experience.

   “It was horrible,” Estel admitted, “there was nothing anyone could do to help them.”

    Elrond knew he could offer his son little in the way of comfort.  “It is a risk for all who take up arms,” he said. “There are no guarantees that a warrior will survive any battle. It is hard my son, I know, but you must not allow the deaths of your comrades to blacken your heart. All those who fight the Enemy do so because they must. Perhaps when you have seen more of the lands beyond our borders you will understand better why that is so.”

  Elrond was relieved, though, that, on the whole, Estel appeared to have enjoyed being in the company of the Dúnedain, and he was particularly pleased that he had become friendly with young Halbarad, whom he knew to be a kinsman of Gilraen. He was however rather evasive with some of Estel’s questions as he had no wish to be drawn further into a discussion on the Dúnedain until he had made his big announcement.

   And so at last Elrond stood and faced his son. He looked carefully at the young man before him. He had grown tall and fair and in his noble face Elrond noticed for the first time that of all his ancestors, he was most like Elendil himself. There was joy in his smile and as he looked at Elrond, he saw the trust in his eyes. With a twinge of guilt, Elrond realised they had all deceived him, no matter how well intentioned they had been.

   “Estel, I have something important to tell you,” he said. The young man immediately gave him his full attention. He considered everything that his foster father said to be important but if he himself said it was then it must be very serious indeed.

   “I have told you all about my brother Elros, have I not?” asked Elrond. Estel nodded, wondering whatever his history lessons had to do with anything.

   “You know that he was half-elven like myself but that he chose to be accounted among Men and became the first King of Númenor, from whom Elendil and his son, Isildur, were descended. I am sure that you remember all about the Kings of Arnor and, as the line later became, the Kings of Arthedain. But do you also remember that when the Kingdom was destroyed and Isildur’s Heirs just became known as the Chieftains of the Dúnedain, my brother’s line still did not fail?”

   Again Estel just nodded.

   “Can you perhaps recall the name of the last Lord of the Dúnedain?”

   Estel thought he probably did know, but he shook his head; he was beginning to feel a little nervous about where all this was leading.

   “His name was Arathorn, son of Arador. He was killed by an orc arrow eighteen years ago. Elladan and Elrohir were with him at the time.”

   An alarm rang in Estel’s mind and he sat very still. Elrond had his complete attention. He deliberately did not think any thoughts at all.

   “But the line did not die out even then,” said Elrond, as he watched Estel carefully. “For Arathorn had a son, though he was only a child of two years at the time.” Elrond saw comprehension and then disbelief dawn on Estel’s face. “Yes, Estel, you were that child; you are Arathorn’s son. You were brought here for your safe-keeping until you were old enough to take your rightful place as leader of your people. Your true name is Aragorn.”

   “Aragorn?” echoed Estel, quietly. Elrond waited for him to say more but he was clearly still absorbing this revelation so Elrond continued.

   “You are not only Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Estel, but you are also Isildur’s Heir and for that reason we changed your name and kept your identity secret, even from you. Your lineage may be the highest and most noble among men in Middle-earth but I am afraid, my son, that you inherit your title at a time of greater danger than has been seen by any of your forbearers since the days of the Witch-king.”

   He paused and gazed hard at his foster son. Still Estel said nothing but looked very grave and serious as he weighed up everything Elrond had said to him. Elrond laid his hand on his shoulder and smiled at him reassuringly. “I have some heirlooms of your house to give you,” he said. Estel watched him walk over to a chest at the back of the room and unlock it. He realised then that he had never seen inside that chest and had wondered as a child what might be in it. Elrond lifted out some items wrapped in cloth and brought them to him.

   “Here is the ring of Barahir,” he said, “the token of our kinship from afar; and here also are the shards of Narsil. With these you may yet do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long. The sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it.” [1]

   Estel took the ring but did not put it on his finger. He knew well the story of Barahir and the ring given to him, more than six thousand years ago, by Finrod Felagund for saving his life. Could he really be Barahir’s direct descendent? The Shards of Narsil he handled with awe and disbelief; the broken sword of Elendil that Isildur had used to cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand; was it really his heirloom?

   Elrond watched him turning the shards over in his hands, slowly coming to terms with all that he had told him. Elrond hoped that once he had absorbed these tidings, he would rejoice at the news of who he was. The burden of his destiny would weigh heavily upon him all too soon. It grieved Elrond to think of the hard and difficult life that would lie ahead of his gentle son. At least he had given him a happy childhood and equipped him the best he could for the life that he must lead. He would continue to offer him guidance in the future, but he knew others would do that task better now.

   He sat down next to Estel and put his arm around him. “This will always be your home,” he said, “and we will all help you all we can, but it is not your fate to stay here, nor do I think you would wish it to be. You have seen for yourself the work of the Enemy. His power grows; the Shadow in the East lengthens. There is much to be done and in this I foresee you will play no small part.”

   Estel looked up at his foster father then. “I can’t pretend this is anything other then a big shock,” he said, “but it is a relief also to know who I truly am and that my father wasn’t some kind of a rogue as I had sometimes feared.”

   “Estel, my son, you did not say!”

   “No, Adar, but I knew there had to be a reason why I was the only boy in a house full of Elves; now I know.”

   He paused and frowned. Looking questioningly at Elrond, he said:   “But why could I not have known of this before now? Why was my identity kept secret?” Such was Estel’s trust in his foster father, there was no accusation in his question, but it was nonetheless a question Elrond had hoped he would not ask just yet.

   “Sauron has long sought Isildur’s heir,” he replied. “It has ever been my greatest fear that he would find you. Let us not speak of this now. Know only that to keep you safe, I decided not to risk any knowing that you dwelt here. Fear of that chance remark or slip of the tongue guided me in this. A child could not be expected to fully understand the importance of this. I am sorry, Estel, but I deemed the risk too great. I am afraid, my son, there will be few to whom you can ever reveal your true name.” It was another burden to lay upon him and it saddened Elrond to have to do it.

   But the full implication of this did not at that time register with Estel as he was still too preoccupied with wondering about his new father. He hesitated to ask his next question, still fearful of what he might learn. Avoiding Elrond’s gaze, he asked in a quiet voice: “Did you know him?”

   “Yes, my son, I knew him well. He was a good and honourable man.”

   Estel was quiet for a long moment. This sudden and unexpected discovery of his real father had rocked him to the core. Although he had long known Elrond could not be his blood father, he nonetheless adored him. He had no wish for another to replace him and yet he was burning with curiosity for this man Arathorn. Involuntarily he reached for Elrond. His foster father took his hand in his and imparted what comfort he could.

   Estel’s mind was racing, his emotions a swirling maelstrom, but he was not the son of either of his fathers for nothing. He realised Elrond’s revelations were about far more than just his own parentage. He forced his own concerns into the back of his mind and tried to consider the wider perspective. He now found himself, quite unexpectedly, to be the lord of a scattered and impoverished people who fought a never-ending battle against evil. Before he continued, he thought about his words carefully.

   “This last trip, being among the Dúnedain; they see things differently from Elves, I believe. Maybe it has something to do with being mortal or maybe it’s because of how hard their lives are; I’m not really sure. But I do know I felt a need to do something more than just help with the patrols, and now I see that I must, that it is my duty even.”

   Elrond squeezed his son’s hand. “You are right, Estel, and I am glad that you can see this. You should talk to your mother. There is much that she can tell you.”

   “Yes, of course!” said Estel, jumping to his feet at once as questions to ask Gilraen immediately flooded into his mind. But then he stopped, for amid all the turmoil and confusion raging within him, it was slowly dawning on him that he had at last acquired an identity of his own. A smile spread across his face. He turned to his foster father and asked: “Is my name really Aragorn?”

   “Yes, Estel,” said Elrond, smiling back at him, “Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

~oo0oo~

   Estel went to find his mother. He was still in a daze over all that Elrond had told him yet his heart was surprisingly light and untroubled. Quite what the implications were for him, he had as yet no real idea. Being a chieftain sounded a rather daunting role but already he felt a growing pride in his newfound ancestry. He would go to the library later and work out exactly how he was related to Elrond. That he was actually distant kin to his foster family thrilled him enormously, though he was still a little stunned at the thought of all that royal blood flowing in his veins. But right now he wished only to hear more of his true father.

    He made his way through the house to his mother’s sitting room and knocked on the door.

   “Estel?” said a woman’s voice.

   “No, it is Aragorn!” came the reply.

   Gilraen opened the door and looked anxiously at her son. “He’s told you.”

   “Yes, he’s told me everything,” said Estel, smiling at his mother.

   Gilraen threw her arms around her son and held him close for a moment. She had waited for this day for so many years. At last she could share her husband with her son and tell him all the things about his father that she had kept to herself for so long. She had not been many years older than Estel when she had fled with him to Rivendell following the death of Arathorn. That day she not only lost her husband but also her family, her friends and her old life. She gazed up at her son and allowed her fingers to gently brush the thin stubble that now grew on his beloved face. She had given up much for her child but looking at her grown-up son, so tall and fair, who reminded her so much of Arathorn, she knew her sacrifices had all been worth it.

   “Come Aragorn, we have much to talk about.”

                                                                                 ~o00o~

That day therefore Elrond called him by his true name, and told him who he was and whose son; and delivered to him the heirlooms of his house.

“The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen”                                                   The Return of the King

[1]  The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                The Return of the King