Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I‘m only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: www.Tuckborough.net.

Mother of Hope

I watch as they bring news of my passing to you.

Ah, Gilraen! Beloved! Queen of my heart!

The sight of your grief aches more than the arrow which deprived me of your sweet embrace.

Weep not, gentle wife, I beg you! For I may offer no comfort while my spirit lacks form. It is a cruelty beyond pain to see you suffer; to witness bitter tears that kiss your cheek when I may not!

Your father had the right of it. He alone sensed the solitary years which stretched before you when first I spoke of my love. He alone saw the truth of your fate on the day we wed.

And now he grieves by your side, knowing that necessity will compel his daughter to flee his home forever, if hope for our people is to flourish in safety. How he must despise me for robbing him of his joy, for he may never see your face again, lest it be in the mists of the afterlife.

I shall beg his forgiveness when death brings him to me.

There! The sons of Imladris lead you now to the mare which will give you passage to their haven. Our son sits before you in fear and confusion - he weeps, though he does not know why. It is enough for him to feel his mother’s desperate grip on his little form as you clasp him to your bosom.

All is not well. He senses this. Grey eyes seek the answer to his unspoken question: demand the reasons for his mother’s sorrow, but he would not understand if it were given.

Swift be elven steeds as they carry you both through unsafe lands to Imladris. Certain are they in their footing across the dreary ground as the sky sheds its own tears at your pain. The borders of my childhood home open their arms in comfort and cloak you in the warmth of their glowing benevolence.

Would that it were I!

Imladris Fair witnesses the arrival of her mortal Queen, grave yet composed as you alight the mare that bore you hence. Our son sleeps fitfully in your arms, lost in a dream which offers small respite from the burden which awaits him. Elven arms offer to relinquish you of his weight, that you may walk unhindered to your chambers, but you refuse: clinging proud and fast to the lasting proof of our love, the irrefutable evidence that once you knew happiness.

Elrond approaches, grey eyes filled with compassion, and his hand settles on the one I cherish. Yet dry now are cheeks which flowed with grief hours before. Already is the path before you clear. You must be strong for our son. Your example will teach him the value of grace and humility, strength and fortitude.

Courage.

For there is no other alive on this earth more able to show a future King of Men this quality. Who else could? ’Tis a simple enough matter to take up arms and fight for the survival of one’s people. To take a wife and sire a child, then leave for weeks untold to guard borders from evil sway.

But to wed where one knows bliss may not endure? To wait thereafter in fear, never certain of the safe deliverance of one’s beloved heart from the heat of battle, until its beat can be heard with naked ear? To know the grip of grief when Elven heralds confirm the hated status of widowhood? And to accept with grace the inevitability of raising the child that remains among strangers who will surely mould him for War?

The Lord of Imladris leads you through the corridors of his haven. He offers words of solace and understanding, watching with quiet concern as you walk beside him in silence, but they are of little comfort. At the end of the hall, a room awaits and you find escape from his pity for a while as you settle our child to bed. But you cannot stay in the room forever and gaze at our son’s slumbering form. His future must be determined, and your own place therein assured. Elrond is a parent too, though, and he knows your fear. Though Aragorn’s path must now be guided by the wise and powerful, you shall not be excluded from your rightful role and he would never usurp your place in your son’s heart. Our child sleeps peacefully now, as if he senses the security of his surroundings, and as I gaze upon your face I see the tears return to their former tracks.

You weep quietly, unheard in the halls of your gilded prison. For though others may be blessed to call this place home, evermore shall it be for you the purgatory of your existence. Its elegant rooms may offer sanctuary to our son and relief to your mother‘s soul, but never shall it be a balm to your broken heart.

Forgive me my selfish need to call you mine. I never meant to wound you thus. ‘Twas my desire to lead you through life with a smile on your lips, yet all I have done is seal your doom. But even though you face the long years ahead with ears that will ever be deaf to the beat of my heart, I know that you would not regret your choice. Our spirits may be sundered by death, but our love will ever light your days and its legacy will bring peace to the lands.

For our love is Hope.

And you are its Mother.

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Author's Note: Hope is, of course, little Estel. But you knew that, right?