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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 4: Elrond’s Daughter

   “…You shall be betrothed to no man’s child as yet. But as for Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and of Lorien, Evenstar of her people, she is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot besides a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you. And also Ithink it will seem toher…”

Elrond                                                                                 The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oo0oo~

   Rain had been falling persistently all day long. It ran in rivulets down the window planes of Aragorn’s bedroom and drained into an ever increasing puddle in the middle of the balcony. Aragorn stood with his nose almost touching the glass, his breath condensing in front of him, obscuring much his view of the valley. It was not the best day to be leaving home. His camp tonight would be chill and sodden. But now he had made up his mind to go, he would delay his departure by not even so much as a single day. He had postponed leaving for too long already.

   He was twenty years old; no age to still be loitering at home. Turin by this time was a veteran of some three years fighting on the marches of Doriath; Tuor had endured four years as a thrall of the Easterlings. He had been most fortunate to have a home with a loving family for so long. But he had duties to take up; people were expecting things of him. And he himself was not the least of those. He wanted to be on his way now. That was where his future lay, not here in Imladris. If it had not been for her, he would have gone months ago.

   He felt his face colour as he thought of Arwen and of his own audacity. What a fool he had been. Was everyone laughing at him, he wondered; the foolish boy, daring to think he stood a chance of claiming the hand of the great Elf lord’s only daughter? But his mother had not laughed when she learned of his desires and Elrond certainly had not. Even the lady herself always treated him with a measure of respect and was invariably kind and friendly towards him. He cheeks flared even more brightly as he recalled his stumbling attempts to woo Elrond’s daughter. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the cool glass as he did so. His emotions had been in complete turmoil ever since he first met her. His longing for her made him shy and clumsy in her company and he found his blood rose within him whenever she so much as entered his thoughts. Now that Elrond had crushed what little hope he ever had, there was no point in delaying his departure any longer. To stay now would only bring him continued anguish.

   Autumn was well underway; there was scant green to be seen in the trees now. It hardly seemed a whole year since he had set out on the winter patrol with Elladan and Elrohir. Looking back, it was a very different young man who rode out of the valley on that fine morning from the one planning his departure today. How youthful and beguilingly innocent he must have seemed. His hopes and dreams were so simple in those days.  Then he had been blissfully unaware of the responsibilities he would soon be required to undertake. He had grown and matured on that patrol, but the change within him then was as nothing to that wrought in the last few months.

   ‘Lord of the Dúnedain!’

    He said the words out loud as if to remind himself to whom this title belonged. It had taken some getting used to. After Elrond’s revelation, his mother had spent many a long evening talking to him, providing him with intensive instruction on his inheritance. She told him tales of the exiles of Númenor, tales passed down through countless generations and told beside every fireplace, in every cot where still there lived the remnants of that people. Aragorn had heard many of them before as he had been taught the history of the North Kingdom from a tender age. But learning of his people through the tales of his mother was quite unlike being told of their history in the school room. Elrond taught him the names of the kings, the places where they fought their battles and the dates when they died. His foster father, of course, knew all the kings and chieftains personally and remembered many with affection and not a little sadness. But his mother spoke of other things; of a people diminished; their pride and dignity long gone, of a house bereft of power and status, of lives lived in the shadows, a sad, secret people; the former kings of men living as shunned outcasts, with little hope of ever renewing the days of their past glory.

   And she spoke of his father, a man he felt he was gradually getting to know at last. She told of his difficult life and the struggles he had and how valiantly he fought to keep Eriador free from evil. Aragorn wished with all his heart he could know him through more than just the memories of others. He needed him now as he never had when he was growing up. Arathorn alone could tell him what it meant to be the lord of their people. Elrond had been as a father to him, and he hoped he always would fulfil that role, but already he could feel a distance growing between them. It was tiny, a germ of division, too small too fret over, nothing more perhaps than the natural easing of the bonds that inevitably occurred between father and son as the son grew to manhood. But it was there all the same. He rarely called his father ‘adar’ any more. ‘Master Elrond’ had become the form of address. It was spoken with love, deep felt and lasting, but Aragorn had another father now. Even long dead, Arathorn was beginning to exercise his influence over his son.

   Aragorn turned away from the window. The bleakness of the day only darkened his mood. He returned to his task of oiling the Shards of Narsil. It was the sort of job that freed his mind to allow him to dwell on other matters. It would soon be time to say his farewells and he needed to gather his thoughts. He was going to miss everyone terribly. There were so many here whom he had grown to love; his foster family had never made him feel anything other than a full and beloved inhabitant of Imladris. He also owed Elrond and his entire household a huge dept of gratitude. Almost everything he possessed had come from the Elves. They had kept him well fed and safe, and he had wanted for nothing in all his growing years. But more than that, they had guided and tutored him and shaped him into the young man that he had become. He had so much to be grateful to them for; when he left, he wished to express his appreciation fully.  But he knew he would be tongue tied and incoherent if he did not sit in the quiet of his room and rehearse and perfect his words beforehand.

    And then there was Arwen. As his thoughts turned to her, he winced as if in sudden pain. There is was again, that aching desire, stabbing right through him, consuming him. He fought to suppress his longing, as he knew he must. Even if he could stay, the pain of doing so would now be unbearable.  Yesterday Elrond had made his feelings on the matter of his daughter quite clear. Arwen was beyond his reach. Yet in spite of his foster father’s words, there was still a corner of his youthful heart that retained its optimism. It may just be his imagination, but when Arwen looked at him, he was sure that her smile was that bit warmer and her eyes more vital than when her gaze fell on any other. He knew her station placed her too far above him, and he had nothing to offer her, but equally, he thought to himself, such concerns had not deterred Beren or Tuor. Perhaps in time he too might achieve great deeds and earn the right to her hand. Somehow he could not completely abandon his hope, however remote its chance of fulfilment might be.

~oo0oo~

   “Finished at last,” said Arwen, holding up for inspection the thick woollen shirt she had been embroidering. She had joined Gilraen in her sitting room at first light that morning to work on mending Estel’s clothes. Following the unexpected announcement the night before of his imminent departure, some emergency repair work had been called for on the items he travelled in and she had urgently needed to finish the shirt she was making for him.

    “Do you think he will like it?”

    Gilraen looked at the delicate workmanship that was far beyond her own skill, and refrained from commenting that her son would no doubt adore any gift made by the Elf maiden’s own hand. Instead she said: “Of course. He will be glad of it in the cold days ahead, I’m sure.”

   “Good, that is as I wished,” said Arwen as she added the shirt to the pile of clothes that Gilraen had already worked on. So many of the items had rips and tears in them, she idly wondered how Aragorn was going to manage out in the wilds with no one to repair them for him. But he would at least now be setting out with them all in a serviceable condition.

    She stooped to pick up the drab bundle of green and brown items.

    “Shall I take them to him now? That is all of them, is it not?” she asked.

    Gilraen did not reply; her thoughts at that moment were elsewhere and she was not listening. Her child was leaving home today and she knew with absolute certainty that a life of great hardship and danger lay ahead of him. It would take much more than a warm shirt to keep him safe.

   Arwen, guessing the direction of her thoughts, laid the bundle back down and came and sat beside the troubled woman.

   “He will cope, Gilraen, have no fear,” said she. “If all I hear is true, my brothers have taught him well. They speak most highly of his skills. Do not burden yourself with such fears. He is going to live with the Dúnedain is he not? They will protect him.”

   Gilraen knew her son was as well equipped as he could be for the life ahead of him but the thought brought her no comfort at all. Arathorn had been as capable a warrior as any among the Dúnedain but that had not earned him protection. And it was precisely the failure of the Dúnedain to keep their chieftains safe that had brought her and her child to Rivendell in the first place. No, she could not explain to Arwen that she would never know a moment’s peace while her son was away. She had little hope that she would see much of him again once he became caught up in the affairs of their people. She would just have to get used to the constant, never ending, fear and learn to live with it.

   “I will try not to worry too much,” she said, forcing a smile for the sake of the beautiful Elf maiden sitting beside her. She was the most exquisite creature Gilraen had even seen with her flawless ivory skin and her dark, raven hair. But, oh how she hoped Estel would meet a girl in one of the villages to divert his desires away from her. She feared greatly for her boy’s happiness if he persisted with his hopeless infatuation. Unfortunately she very much doubted there were any maidens among the Dúnedain who could compare favourably with Arwen’s beauty and allure.

   “And yes, we are all done here,” she quickly added, realising she had not answered Arwen’s earlier question. She secretly wanted to take the clothes to her son herself so she could fuss and mother him for a little while longer, but she could tell Arwen was eager to show off her own handiwork.

   “By all means take them to him,” she said.

   Arwen picked up the bundle again and made her way to Aragorn’s room.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn was still absently oiling the Shards. He was taking them with him when he left. They might be of no use as a weapon, but they provided irrefutable prove of his identity, lest any should doubt his claim. He had also decided to take the ring of Barahir which he had recently taken to wearing on his finger.

   It had at last stopped raining so he would soon be on his way. Noon had been and gone and he wanted to place as many miles as he could between himself and home before nightfall. He was still unsure of what he was going to say to everybody when he left. A barrage of memories kept assaulting and distracting him as he struggled to formulate his farewells. There were so many memorable moments from his childhood, incidents both great and small that would remain with him, carved into his mind forever. He was, in fact, becoming rather emotional as he dwelt on them all. It did not help that mingling with his flood of memories, were his hopes and fears for the future. Although he was genuinely looking forward to returning to his people, the prospect of being chieftain terrified him now that the time had actually arrived. Elladan and Elrohir had offered to accompany him to find Dírhael and stay for a while to ease him into his new role, but Aragorn had been insistent, he did not need mothering. He could make his own way now.

  He was brought out of his day-dreams abruptly by a knock at the door. He bid whoever it was to enter and as Arwen walked through the door, he leapt to his feet in surprise, nearly cutting himself on a shard as he did so. He immediately felt his shyness descend upon him and he suspected he had just lost the ability to string a sentence together. He had not been alone with Arwen since the day he first met her under the silver birches months ago. He just prayed he could keep a cool composure in her presence.

   Arwen entered the room and smiled at him as she placed the bundle of clothing on his bed.

   “These are for you,” she said, as she started spreading the items out for him to admire more closely. “Your mother and I have worked all morning darning and repairing your clothes for you, so I hope you will take good care of them when you leave.”

   Aragorn slowly came and stood beside her, aware as he did so that he was trembling. He heard without listening as she showed him the meticulous care that had evidently gone into each item, holding them up one by one for him to examine. He smiled and mumbled his appreciation as Arwen happily chatted on. Then she picked up the shirt she had made and held it out in front of him, as if checking the fit.

   “And this one I made myself,” she said. “I started it weeks ago but I’ve rushed to finish it today since you seem so determined to leave all of a sudden.”

   Aragorn felt himself burn and he looked away from her laughing grey eyes, busying himself with examining the shirt.

   “You made this for me?” he heard himself say, as he reached out a shaky hand to feel the perfect weave of the fabric.

   “I did. Do you like it?”

   “I love it,” he managed to utter, before adding quickly: “And I thank you, my lady.”

   “You are most welcome,” said Arwen, as she handed him the shirt and turned to leave. But as she reached the door, she paused and a frown marred her beautiful face. She suddenly looked grave.

   “I will no doubt see you again before you go,” she said, “but promise me Estel; you will take care of yourself out in the wilds, won’t you?” She looked Aragorn straight in the eye as she spoke and to his surprise, he found he could return her gaze.

    “I will, I promise,” he said soberly. Then Arwen suddenly beamed him a smile so dazzling, it smote him to the very core of his being.

    “Good, I’m glad.”

   And then she was gone.

   Aragorn stared after her in wonder. He had never seen her smile like that at anyone before. Joy exploded within him, and his heart soared. He needed no more convincing; his imagination was not playing tricks with him. That smile was real and it spoke from the heart. Oh how he would cherish this moment forever!  The memory of it was the best gift he could possibly have to take with him into his new life.

    He stood there, clasping the shirt to him. His fingers tightened their hold as he realised it still held her scent. And then a slow smile lit up his face and a gentle warmth spread right through him.

   No, he would not abandon his hope completely, not just yet.

~oo0oo~

   Then Aragorn took leave lovingly of Elrond; and the next day he said farewell to his mother, and to the house of Elrond, and to Arwen, and he went out into the wild.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                        The Return of the King