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inzilbethMany of the chapters are too long to be posted whole but I will post all the parts in one go as they were never intended to be read in segments.
I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.
To Cairstiona and Estelcontar, I offer my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.
Chapter One: Hope
“…The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts.” Ivorwen
The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen Return of the King
~oo0oo~
Gilraen paused for a moment, putting down her sewing. She listened carefully; it had gone very quiet; too quiet. Getting to her feet, she glanced quickly around her parlour. She was sure her young son had been playing by the fire only moments before but there was no sign of him now.
“Aragorn?”
A peek behind Arathorn’s huge chair, a favourite hiding place, revealed nothing. She wandered through to the kitchen but there was no sign of her son there either. Feeling more irritable than anxious, she crossed the room to open the back door only to find it already unlatched. Cursing herself for her carelessness she opened it and called as loudly as she dared.
There was no reply. More apprehensively she stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine and looked around the yard. Still there was no sign. Panic was just beginning to rise in Gilraen when, beyond the safe confines of the yard, she spotted her son, toddling purposefully out into the meadow towards the horses where he was determinedly trying to make friends with Brethil’s new foal.
“Aragorn!” she screamed, startling mare, foal and boy. The old mare retreated to a safe distance where she eyed her mistress cautiously, the as yet unnamed foal frolicking unconcernedly about her. Aragorn turned round so sharply at his mother’s cry that he lost his balance and fell down smartly into the grass.
Gilraen raced across the field to collect her errant child.
“Aragorn, how many times must I tell you? You should not wander off like that and you certainly must not go in with the horses on your own.”
The child felt tears sting his eyes at his mother’s harsh tone, but he would not cry if he could help it. Gilraen picked him up and carried him back into the house, dumping him unceremoniously on his father’s chair.
“You can sit still for a while and watch me finish my sewing,” she said, her voice softer now that her son was safe within her sight again.
How she wished Arathorn would return soon. He could have the task of entertaining his inquisitive son for a time. He had managed to come home for a few days at the beginning of March for Aragorn’s birthday but that was now weeks ago.
Spring was well underway. The winter had been long and severe and Arathorn was absent for most of it. Gilraen knew when she married him that as chieftain he would be abroad more often than the husband’s of other women but this winter had been particularly difficult and she missed him dreadfully. Aragorn was now at an age when he tried to explore the world from dawn to dusk and continually watching him left her behind with her chores. Her mother helped out when she could but she had her own troubles. A few months ago her father, Dirhael, had received a particularly nasty knife wound and was proving slow to return of health. Ivorwen had little time to spare for her daughter or her grandson.
The object of Gilraen’s concern sat across the room from her, patiently waiting to be released from his punishment. His grey eyes followed very movement of his mother’s hand as the stitches formed beneath her fingers. At last Gilraen had endured enough of her son’s intense scrutiny and she relented, laying aside her sewing once more.
“Very well young man,” she said with mock brevity, “if you can behave yourself and do as I say, you may go and see the foal once more today.”
Aragorn beamed at her and lifted up his arms to be carried. Ever since the foal had arrived he had been fascinated by it and loved nothing more than to spend time stroking its soft velvety coat.
Outside the sun was sinking lower in the sky, already lost behind the distant line of trees. As Gilraen led her son back out into the field, her thoughts turned to preparing the evening meal but Aragorn, chattering nonsense to the horses, was in no hurry to return indoors. He squealed and squirmed with delight as the foal nuzzled his hair and face. As he always did, he pleaded with his mother to be put up on Brethil.
“Please Nana, just a short ride.”
The look on his face won his mother over and with a sigh, she lifted him up on to Brethil’s broad back. The mare had become very staid in her old age and Gilraen had no fear for her son’s safety.
“Faster, faster!” cried Aragorn, flapping his legs completely ineffectually against the horse’s sides.
“No Aragorn, maybe when your father comes home,” said Gilraen, hoping once again that day would be soon. But her child’s joy was infectious and she found herself laughing with him as she led Brethil sedately round the meadow, the foal skipping beside them.
~oo0oo~
That evening, with her work finally done for the day and her son asleep upstairs, Gilraen was sitting by the fire beginning to doze, when she was abruptly woken by the sound of the dogs barking. She heard old Handir talking to them as he came down from his room above the hayloft. Handir was an elderly kinsman of her mother’s who did the heavy work outside and had lived with her and Arathorn since their marriage four years ago. He was bent and wizened now but had been a capable warrior in his day and Gilraen was glad of his protection when her husband was away.
She could hear voices in the yard, and the next thing she knew there was a knock at the door. Jumping to her feet, she strode quickly to the door, but she nevertheless opened it with caution.
It was Handir standing there. He looked shocked, his face deadly white and, Gilraen noticed, his hands were trembling.
“What on earth is the matter Handir?” she asked, feeling her own anxiety rising. “Who is it?”
“It’s the sons of Lord Elrond, my lady,” he said.
“Elladan and Elrohir?” said Gilraen, feeling relieved. “Then please invite them in; they should not be left standing out in the cold.” But even as she said the words she felt a foreboding in her heart. With another look at Handir’s ashen face she pushed passed him and dashed out into the courtyard.
There in spite of the darkness she could clearly see the tall figures of the twin sons of Elrond. They were busy with one of the horses, untying straps that securely held a large pack in place on the horse’s back. As she looked on she realised the pack was actually the bundled up body of a man.
Suddenly with horror, she noted that the horse was her husband’s.
“No, no, please no!” she cried as she ran towards them. The Elves turned sharply at her call and Elladan rushed to catch her as she tried to fly passed him.
“Gilraen, no!” he said as he trapped her in his arms.
“Arathorn?” Gilraen barely managed to utter the name, though she knew the answer before it came.
“Yes, it is Arathorn,” said Elladan, his voice breaking with emotion. “I am so very sorry.”
Gilraen struggled to be free and he let her go. She was Dunedain after all; her life was enmeshed in the sorrows of her people.
Gilraen ran towards the horse as Elrohir carefully laid the bundle on the ground.
He tried to stop her from parting the blanket that covered her husband’s body but Gilraen had to look with her own eyes. She knew she would not believe it was true unless she had seen him for herself.
But she was not prepared for what she saw.
Arathorn had been shot through the eye with an orc arrow. She gasped and fell to the ground, stricken with shock. The sons of Elrond, knowing there was nothing they could do to ease Gilraen’s pain, respectfully retreated to give her time alone with Arathorn. But as she clutched her husband to her and began to tremble uncontrollably, they began to wonder if they had done wisely bringing his body home at all. After a while Elladan managed to steer her back inside the house and sat her in front of the fire.
As the twins fumbled around the kitchen preparing a warm drink for Gilraen, Handir was sent to Dirhael’s house at the other end of the village. Elrohir remembered his flask of Miruvor and was able to persuade Gilraen to take a sip of the reviving cordial. At once her shivers ceased and she at least seemed calmer.
“What happen?” she asked when she had stopped trembling.
Elladan came and sat beside her and told her the barest outline of the terrible day they had just endured. There was no need for her to know the full horror of it. Arathorn had died instantly, that much he could tell her truthfully. He did not think she heard much else.
Shortly Handir returned with Ivorwen and Dirhael. They tried to comfort their daughter as best they could but their words were meaningless to Gilraen, hollow platitudes lost in the gaping chasm that was all that remained of her life. Once they themselves had absorbed the initial shock of their loss, the implications started racing through their minds. Arathorn was more than a much loved son-in-law, he was also their chieftain. They both realised that now though that honour went to the little boy asleep upstairs. It was only three years since Arathorn’s father Arador had been captured and slain by trolls. Aragorn was now the last of his line; a line which suddenly seemed very precarious and fragile. He had to be kept safe.
Gilraen was soon exhausted by her grief. Elrohir mixed up a draught to help her sleep and her mother took her to her bed. The sons of Elrond camped outside that night keeping guard over Arathorn’s body. They were grieved to the core. Arathorn was their friend. They had known him since he was a lad and had spent several years at Rivendell under their father’s guidance. They knew in their hearts they could not have prevented today’s tragedy but that did nothing to purge their feelings of guilt. Like Dirhael and Ivorwen they were both keenly aware of the new status of Arathorn’s son. They were in no doubt as to what should be done but the choice was not theirs to make. The final word rested with Gilraen.
~oo0oo~
In the morning Arathorn was buried with as much honour as could be afforded a chieftain whose identity his people wished to remain secret. The whole village attended to make their farewells to a man well liked and respected by everyone. Gilraen got through it somehow. Whatever potion the twins were dosing her with, it seemed to work. She brought Aragorn with her to the burial but no one told him it was his father they were honouring that day.
When Gilraen returned to her house she sat motionless, bleakly staring into the fire. She would gladly have stayed there lost in her thoughts and her memories, but those around her knew a big decision had to be made and it had to be made soon.
It was Dirhael who broached the subject. He came and sat beside her, taking her hand between his.
“Gilraen, dearest daughter, you must listen to my words for time is short,” he said. “You must decide what is to be done about little Aragorn. He is our chieftain now and Isildur’s Heir, the last of his line. We can not risk any harm coming to the child.” He paused, he was not at all sure Gilraen was listening to him but these things needed to be said and so he continued anyway.
“It is my belief that he should go at once to Rivendell where he will be safe from the eyes of the Enemy. Master Elrond can guide and teach him in all he needs to know. You would, of course, go with him.”
Gilraen had been paying more attention than Dirhael realized for Gilraen was a mother first and a wife second. She knew and accepted that Aragorn would go to Rivendell to be fostered for a time at some stage in his younger years and that she would accompany him but she did not relish the idea of leaving now, not when she needed her family and friends about her more than ever.
“I can not think on this now,” she said wearily. “I am too tired and too broken with grief.”
“But Gilraen, do you not see?” said Ivorwen, joining her husband. “We can not delay. Aragorn is the Heir of Isildur. The Enemy will hunt him but they must never find him. Even before you and Arathorn were wed, my foresight revealed to me that hope would spring from the union of the two of you. This can now only mean Aragorn. Without him there will be no hope for our people while this Age lasts.”
Gilraen looked across the room to her son who was sitting on the floor happily playing with his wooden horses, oblivious to the discussion taking place about his future. He was only two years old, just a little boy and yet so great were the expectations now being placed upon him. She knew her parents were right. The orcs that slew Arathorn had been less than a day’s ride away. Nowhere was safe in Eriador now; except perhaps Rivendell. She sighed in acceptance; her own grief after all would be with her wherever she dwelt. And Aragorn was her life now.
“Very well,” she said. “We will leave tomorrow.”