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And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 20:Gilraen

   Onen i-Estel Edain, u-chebin estel anim

   After a few years Gilraen took leave of Elrond and returned to her own people in Eriador, and lived alone; and she seldom saw he son again, for he spent many years in far countries. But on a time, when Aragorn had returned to the North, he came to her….

Appendix A                                                                                       The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Somewhere a dog barked. It was an indignant, challenging bark that refused to be ignored. Gilraen’s heart lurched as it always did at such a sound. Anxiously, she opened the door of her cot to see what had so annoyed the animal. A cold draught immediately raced in through her front door, smothering the newly kindled fire in the grate. She cursed the hound under her breath, but the dog’s bark became even more insistent. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she stepped out into the yard to investigate.

   It was very early; a grey mist still clung to the valley and as yet no one stirred. Gilraen wandered down to the lane where the dog continued to voice its warning. She could see nothing that could have alarmed it so, but it was not usual for the dog to bark for no cause. She stood and listened, straining her ears to catch the slightest disturbance in the chill morning air. Her guts tightened as fear steadily grew within her. Any moment she expected to hear the sound she had spent almost every waking moment of her life dreading; the clatter of horses’ hooves approaching her house. Then, round the bend in the lane, would come the sons of Elrond, bringing with them the dread tidings that would shatter forever what little hope remained in her life.

    She was no stranger to such fears; she had grown up living with their unrelenting stranglehold on her happiness. She knew she was not alone. Every woman who ever held a man of war in her heart suffered a similar, unspoken burden. As a child, her greatest fear had been for her father who was absent more than he was at home. From her earliest years, she had come to know that haunted look on her mother’s face, no matter how she sought to conceal it. Then, when she was older, she fretted for her brothers who followed the same dangerous path as their father. When she married, her fear was for her husband. That nightmare had all too swiftly become a reality and although the depth of her sorrow had eroded with the mounting years, the torment of her loss had never left her completely. But for the last fifty years, all her cares had centred on her son. She saw him rarely; the needs of his life took him far from hers. His road was more treacherous than any among his kin in living memory and a day never dawned when he was not at the forefront of her thoughts.

   Seeing nothing but the deserted lane, Gilraen sighed and was about to return to her home and try once again to coax the damp wood to burn when she at last saw the object of the dog’s wrath. A tall man was walking up the path towards her. She narrowed her eyes to see the better through the early morning mist.

  Suddenly joy erupted within her. Emerging out of the grey light of dawn came her son, whole and well.

   Tears of relief welled in her eyes on seeing him again. She sent a silent pray of thanks for his safe keeping and, hitching up her skirts, she strode towards him. His grim, tired face broke into a smile as he suddenly knew her too. Gratefully, she tumbled against his chest. She stood clasping him to her, relishing the feel of his realness, and basking in the solid comfort of his body. For a few blissful moments she was able to forget that he would all too soon be leaving again.

   She felt his hand gently stroking her hair and she forced back her tears. Her son had not returned home to watch her weep. Reluctantly she withdrew from his strong embrace and Gilraen and her son walked back to her cot, her arm through his. She yearned to ask him questions. Where had he been; what had he been doing? But she knew better than that. He would tell her little. She must be content that he was home and safe; for now.

   “It is cold in here, naneth,” Aragorn said, admonishing her gently as he opened the door to the uninviting room. Once inside, he had the fire blazing in no time, and water for tea heating above it.

   Gilraen drew up a chair to the fire. “Rest, Estel, you must be tired,” she said.

    He smiled at her and sank heavily into the comfortable armchair. While he warmed his hands, she brought him bread and meats from her parlour. She sat across the hearth from him and, in silence, watched him eat, glad to see him enjoying his food. She had not failed to notice how his clothes hung too loosely on his gaunt frame. He had always pushed himself too hard. How long had he been gone this time; three years or was it four? Every time she saw him again he seemed to have aged more than he should. There were streaks of grey in his hair that had not been there before and the lines around his eyes betrayed his weariness. Would he ever know peace this side of his grave, she wondered sadly.

    “I would hear such tidings as you can tell me, my son,” she said when he had finally eaten his fill.

   Aragorn threw another log on to the fire and stretched out his long legs. There was little he could say. He had been far away, over the Misty Mountains, to places beyond Gilraen’s understanding.

   “I have been travelling to lands in the East once again,” he said. “I still hunt the same creature I mentioned when last I was here. Alas, my search has been in vain though I have been fortunate this time to have Gandalf with me for the most part.”

   That comforted Gilraen little; the wizard was always leading her son into danger.

   “I can see with my own eyes, Estel, that your burden is as heavy as ever. And no doubt will you be returning to this quest again when you leave?”

    Aragorn nodded, but he had clearly said all he wished to about his own business.  “I would rather hear your news, naneth, and learn how my people have fared in my absence.”

   “I have no tidings that will cheer you,” said Gilraen, reluctant to burden him further with the latest sorrows of his people. “There is nothing of any consequence that I can speak of, only gossip and trivia. If you wish to know who young Haleth is stepping out with or how many piglets old Boron’s sow produced, then I shall gladly tell you, but I’m sure you don’t want to hear of such things.”

   Aragorn looked at his mother long and hard; so hard, she even began to feel uncomfortable under his questioning gaze. At last he smiled, but the sadness expressed on his beloved face tore at Gilraen’s heart.

   “It is those things that often seem of the least worth that bring me the most cheer,” he said gently as he reached across and took her hand. “Speak, my mother, for I deem it will ease your heart to do so.”  

   Gilraen stared at his large hand cradled in hers; his strong fingers rough and chapped, the skin thickened from long years of toil. It seemed more than a lifetime since those same fingers had barely been able to wrap themselves around hers. She caressed them lovingly and knew she could not bring herself to tell him of the young mother who died in childbirth only last month or of the two infants that succumbed to the pox the winter before. Nor would she mention the widow in the homestead up the valley whose husband had been so cruelly butchered by orcs. He did not need to know these things; not yet.

   Instead she talked of the everyday happenings in this small village where she had lived since taking leave of Elrond’s household. When she had finally returned to her people, she had decided to make a home for herself here, in this settlement of some dozen houses, rather than in her former home where there were too many memories that she had spent too long forgetting. She had no desire to reawaken them. Here, she had tried to forget her cares and shut out the wider world, attempting to cocoon herself from the growing darkness. She knew she had failed and, as she told her tales, she purposefully kept her voice light in the hope of disguising the festering despair in her heart. She did her best to reassure her son that she was cared for well. As the widow of one chieftain and the mother of another, sufficient food was always brought to her door; her larder was never empty. She offered help to her neighbours where she could, but for the most part, she lived a quiet life. It was a stark contrast to her days at Rivendell.

   But she had not been talking long when she realised her son’s breathing had fallen into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. She watched him for a long moment, the dual aches of love and pain that had long since merged into one, slowly torturing her heart. Silently she rose and covered him with a blanket.

   In sleep he looked peaceful; perhaps hope still dwelt somewhere in the depths of his heart. But she knew it had long ago died in hers. She could see no hope of a light beyond the darkness and she had no wish to live on only to bury her son. The burden of a lifetime of cares would soon defeat her. 

    Gently she kissed her child and left him to his rest.

~oo0oo~

   …Aragorn went away heavy of heart. Gilraen died before the next spring.    

Appendix A                                                                                The Return of the King