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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.

Prologue: Kingly Valour

And his father gave him the name Aragorn, a name used in the house of the Chieftains.

 Forward                                                                                The Peoples of Middle-earth

~oo0oo~

   Ivorwen stood back from the table for a moment with her hands on her hips and surveyed the results of her long labours.

   ‘There must be enough food there to feed an army’, she thought, greatly satisfied.

   Days, she had slaved at the stove in her kitchen, as had her daughter in hers and everyone else in the village who knew how to turn flour and water into something edible. Preparing sufficient food to satisfy the demands an entire village and two patrols of hungry Rangers was no mean feat. Yet, on the table before her stood a huge pile of crisp, freshly baked loaves, as well as a vast assortment of crusty pies and a veritable mountain of soft biscuits, to say nothing of the whole sheep roasting on the spit outside or the cauldron of vegetables boiling away on the stove. Annoyingly, the sensible voice in her head insisted on reminding her that the supply of grain in the stores was running perilously low and there were still many months to go before the next harvest, but Ivorwen refused to listen to such pessimism. Her grandson was being named today and, by way of celebration, she was determined to provide a feast fit for a king.

   She shuddered slightly as the thought rushed through her mind and turned her attention back to washing the last of the baking trays. Foresight had ever been a mixed blessing for her. For some reason, perhaps known only to the Valar, she had been gifted with more that the usual measure, even for one of her People. If the gift had been such that it provided her with complete and accurate visions of what would come to pass, then there might have been some purpose to it, but rarely were her insights so obliging. Instead fragments of scenes which taunted her with their vagueness were the norm.

    Often weeks, even months, passed by when she was not troubled with them at all, but she had been plagued with visions ever since this child of her daughter’s had been born three and a half weeks ago. Very little of what she saw in her mind’s eye made any sense to her, but there were a few things that stood out clear and firm and recurred with alarming regularity.

   She had been shaken, for instance, to learn of Arathorn’s choice of name for the infant. It was not that there was anything wrong with the name ‘Aragorn’. It was a good, old name from the house of the Chieftains. The first ‘Aragorn’ had not achieved anything of note, as she recalled, except to get himself killed by wolves only a few years after he inherited his title. She could hardly hold that against her son-in-law. But on more than one occasion recently, as her thoughts had turned to her new grandson, she had seen before her eyes, not a newborn child, but a great and noble king, renowned for both his valour and the healing power of his hands. She was quite sure it was no coincidence that Arathorn had chosen a name for his son that reflected that.

   She hardly dared attach too much hope to the truthfulness of the visions. She had been ridiculed often enough in the past when she had misinterpreted the meanings behind her foresight and so had learnt that holding her tongue was often more prudent than speaking up.

   But one vision she received had caused her more disquiet than the others as she understood it not at all. Ivorwen’s mind’s eye had repeatedly conjured up an image of a green stone which she knew was somehow inextricably linked to this babe. And with it, came the suggestion of another name; his true name. It troubled her that she could make no sense of this. She wondered if she ought to mention it to Arathorn, yet she felt it would hardly be proper to announce to the Chieftain that he was giving his heir the wrong name, especially as she had no firm idea of what his true name should be.

   It mattered not now, anyway. In just a few hours, the child would be named Aragorn and thus would he be known ever after.

   The last of the trays washed, she heaved them out of the tub of now greasy water before hauling the barrel out into the yard and pouring the contents into the drain.

   She was still mulling over her thoughts when her daughter appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, holding her infant son in her arms.

   “Can I do anything to help, Naneth?” asked Gilraen. “This little terror here has finally fallen asleep. I can put him down for a while and lend a hand if you have need of me.”

   Ivorwen decided to leave the barrel for one of the men to refill and walked over to her daughter. She gently folded back the shawl covering her grandson so as to gaze at the sleeping child.

   “No, Gilraen, you nurse him a while longer,” she said, smiling loving at the babe. “He looks so peaceful, I would not disturb him. I am nearly done here. There are just those dishes to dry and put away and then I think we are about ready. I expect people will start arriving within the hour. Go and put your feet up while you can. Where’s Arathorn got to, I wonder? I need him to bring more wood for the fire or that sheep won’t be cooked until tomorrow the way it’s going.”

   Gilraen smiled. “I think he and adar are still trying to make some room in the stables. They don’t know how many horses will need caring for tonight. Thankfully, the weather looks set to remain fair.”

   “That is a blessing,” said Ivorwen, glancing up at the clear sky. “Folks can spill out into the yard if needs must. We’ll never accommodate them all in the house. I’ve never heard of so many attending a naming as we are expecting for this one.”

   At that moment a loud crash was heard in the stable and some choice words wafted across the yard towards the kitchen door. Mother and daughter smiled knowingly at each other.

   “Perhaps I’ll see to the wood for the fire myself,” said Ivorwen as she ushered Gilraen back indoors. “Goodness knows what they’re doing in there, but best get that babe into the parlour. They’ll be disturbing this little one’s rest if they do that too often, that’s for sure.”

~oo0oo~

   An hour later it was almost impossible to move inside the Chieftain’s house. The two Ranger patrols had both arrived, as had the entire village and as many people from the surrounding ones as could reasonably make there way there. Arathorn and Dírhael had finished rearranging the stables and were happily accepting congratulations on the new addition to the family from all those present. The babe himself seemed contentedly oblivious to the commotion going on around him and, to his mother’s relief, remained sound asleep.

   Ivorwen stationed herself in the kitchen so as to oversee the serving of the meal. It was also the best place to be sure of chatting to absolutely everyone in the gathering as all made their way towards the inviting smell of the fresh-baked bread sooner or later. But as she watched plate after plate disappearing far too quickly, she realised she had seriously underestimated the ability of hungry Rangers to deplete a table, even one as well stocked as hers had been. Not that she grudged them in the slightest. She smiled at each weathered face atop a too lean frame that came sheepishly seeking a second helping and provided as generously as she could. The men-folk had come to the end of a long, hard winter in the wilds, where, for months, the bulk of their diet had only consisted of what they could catch themselves. The fare on offer today was a welcome treat for their shrunken stomachs.

   Once the kitchen had been purged of every mouthful and nothing remained of the roast sheep but a few charred bones, it was at last time to attend to the important business at hand; the naming of the Chieftain’s first son. Arathorn sought out Gilraen through the mass of bodies filling his house, and taking his wife by the hand, he led her out into the yard and through to the stables where many of the guests had already gathered to escape from the crushinside. The afternoon was passing and, as the shadows lengthened and the first stars began to appear, the fine spring day was already turning decidedly chilly. The fire still provided a welcome source of heat and soon everyone was assembled around it, though with full bellies and several cups of very agreeable ale inside them, none seemed too troubled by the nip in the air. Dírhael called for quite and a hush slowly descended.

   It was the Chieftain who spoke next.

   “My friends,” said Arathorn, in a loud, clear voice. “Dúnedain of the North, this is a most joyous day for us all. We are gathered here to celebrate the birth of my son.” A cheer from the crowd was followed by spontaneous applause. Dúnedain births were far too rare an occurrence as it was, but a birth in the chieftain’s family might happen only once or twice in a lifetime.

   Arathorn glanced at his beloved wife and smiled at her as he drew her and the child asleep in her arms closer to him. Gently, he gathered his son in his large hands and held him up for all to see.

   “My People, I give you ‘Aragorn,’ my son and the next Heir of Isildur. May he serve you honourably with valour and wisdom all the days of his life.”

  The Dúnedain roared their joy. It was only a year since Arador had been so cruelly taken from them and the ever darkening days cast a growing shadow in the hearts of this once proud and noble people. But the birth of this child provided at least a glimmer of hope that the line of Elros would yet endure a while longer.

   When the cheers finally subsided, Ivorwen, who stood beside her daughter, finally decided to seize this opportunity to reveal something of the visions she had seen. In a quite voice, she said: “Kingly Valour, yes, for so that name is interpreted, that he shall have, but I see on his breast a green stone, and from that his true name shall come and his chief renown: for he shall be a healer and a renewer.’ [1]

   All eyes turned to Ivorwen for none knew of what she spoke as there was no green stone to be seen upon the child’s breast. But Ivorwen refused to be drawn further until she herself knew more of what the visions portended.

   “That is all I am prepared to say,” she said as she held up her hands to silence the questions that hurtled towards her following her revelation. “This much I have seen, but what it means for the future of us all, I do not know.”

   Aroused from his slumber by all the cheers and raised voices, baby Aragorn finally realised something out of the ordinary was happening and decided to voice his disapproval as loudly as his little lungs were able. Ivorwen was glad of the distraction created by the child’s timely participation in the proceedings, though Gilraen struggled to quieten him again as Aragorn seemed determined to ensure he remained the centre of attention.

   “Here, let me have him,” said Ivorwen as she reached out to take the bawling infant from his mother. “Go and enjoy yourself for a bit. I’ll get him back off to sleep.” Gilraen smiled her thanks and gratefully left her child in her mother’s capable hands while she joined Arathorn in receiving further congratulations from their guests.

   Ivorwen rocked the fractious child back and for but, for all her wiles, nothing seemed to placate him. She slowly wandered down to the fields, away from the yard and the noisy gathering in the hope that the quietness of the evening would calm him. But her efforts were to no avail. After a time, she settled down on the grass and looked about her, her eyes scanning the now darkening sky to find anything that might distract the child from his noisy protest. There would be a frost that night and the full moon, bright and clear in the cloudless sky, had now risen above the line of the distant trees and was casting its eerie light all about her.

   “Look, Aragorn, can you see the man in the moon?” Ivorwen asked in desperation. “Can you see his face? There’s his nose and his mouth, and I think those two spots must be his eyes.” The child continued to scream and made no attempt to follow his grandmother’s finger as she pointed out the features on the moon’s face.

   “You can’t really see that far yet, can you?” Ivorwen chuckled at the quite oblivious bawling of this child that she already loved so dearly. She continued to rock him gently, but in that instant, the present world suddenly vanished from Ivorwen’s sight and she saw instead a vision of a tall man riding at the head of a vast army. He was leading his men into a terrible battle that raged before the gates of a towering white city. His face was grim and determined, the star of Elendil was on his brow and he held aloft a great sword like a flame. On his breast blazed that green stone.

   Ivorwen’s breath caught in her throat as the vision faded and she realised she was shaking. The babe in her arms had suddenly gone very quiet. She drew him closer to her, fearful of what she had just seen. The man in the vision was surely Isildur’s Heir.

   Was this then what the future held for this child?

   “Oh little, one, what terrible trials will your life hold for you?” she said as she gently stroked his tiny cheek.

   She did not doubt that his life would be a hard one. It was ever thus for the Dúnedain, but she sensed that this child would have to survive even greater hardships than any of his forefathers had in the long years of their decline. She felt tears prick her eyes at the thought of yet another child having to one day endure the hopeless task of struggling to lead their ever diminishing people as they continued their tragic descend into obscurity.

  ‘When would it ever change?’ she thought with despair as she turned her eyes to the night sky. ‘Is there no hope left at all for this once great remnant of Númenor?’

   She tried to picture all the scenes that had come into her head in the last few weeks as she desperately sought to make sense of them. What had prompted her to say this child would be a healer and a renewer? Was he really the one to restore the dignity and glory of the Dúnedain after so long in the wilderness? Oh how she would dearly love to believe this for certain. It was so long since they had had any real hope, she feared she was merely clutching at dreams that would always remain just that and never have substance.

   She sat for a time, lost in her troubled thoughts. But, as her tears dried, she saw that far away on the horizon, Eärendil had began his nightly voyage, the light of the Silmaril piercing the darkness more brightly than any other star in the clear sky that night. For a long time, she watched as the Mariner slowly steered his ship ever closer. Gil-estel, the Star of High Hope, seemed unusually bright tonight, she thought. It was too fanciful, perhaps, to believe that Eärendil had decided to acknowledge this distant descendant of his in person on this, his most special day, but it warmed her heart to hope it might be so.

   Ivorwen gazed in wonder for a while and then shook her head at her foolishness. There was too much that made no sense; the answer to the riddle posed by the fragments of visions still eluded her as much as it ever had.   She did not know anything of this green jewel. Maybe she never would, but she was beginning to suspect that the little baby boy, who lay sleeping so peacefully in her arms at that very moment, would himself one day become a great and treasured jewel in the long tale of his People.

   She wrapped the shawl more tightly about the child and got to her feet.

   “Come, Aragorn, let’s return you to your folks,” she said as she placed a soft kiss on his brow and began walking back towards the house. “They’ll be wondering what has become of you.”

[1]  But Ivorwen at his naming stood by, and said ‘Kingly Valour’ [for so that name is interpreted]: ‘that he shall have, but I see on his breast a green stone, and from that his true name shall come and his chief renown: for he shall be a healer and a renewer.’

 Forward                                                                            The Peoples of Middle-earth