Post by Admin on Jan 2, 2021 23:30:40 GMT
Author: Obscurebookwyrm
Rating: G
Pairings: None shown; canon pairings referenced
Summary: In the wake of Aragorn and Gilraen’s arrival at Rivendell, Elrond muses.
The ring in my hands is beautiful. Firelight plays on silver and gold, glints off priceless emerald. If I shift it just so, the serpents nearly appear to be dancing. I turn it in my fingers to study it for a few moments longer. It is easier to look at the ring than at any of the room’s other occupants.
Arathorn is dead. My sons brought me the tidings not an hour before. Arathorn is dead, and if not for the valor of my children and my kinswoman Gilraen, the Line of Kings might have ended this day as well. It seems only a short while since Arathorn – then a boy, not a chieftain – was fostered in my house. Now the man is gone, and before I may mourn the latest death in my brother’s line, I must decide what is to be done with his wife (widow) and his child.
Truly, when it comes to their future, there is no decision. Gilraen and Aragorn are my kin. There place is here, with me. But how am I to safeguard them against the main force of the Enemy? Imladris is defended by a not inconsiderable power, true, but even the forces of all the Elven realms amassed could not withstand the Dark Lord and his servants.
“No, indeed.” Mithrandir’s words mirror my own thoughts. “Our best hope lies in secrecy.”
Across the room, Elladan starts at the sound of the wizard’s voice. I do believe he was lost in thought. The behavior is wholly unlike him. Normally it is Elrohir who is the dreamer, the more openly sensitive and sympathetic. It is for that very reason he does not sit with us now. He has instead been dispatched to watch young Aragorn, while some of the ladies tend to Gilraen. Young she was when she wed Arathorn; his death has aged her. It is my hope that with time and rest she will recover her strength, but there is a shadow in her eyes… With an effort I wrench my thoughts back to the matter at hand. Even as I must postpone my grieving for Arathorn, I must postpone my worry for Gilraen.
“What are your thoughts, Mithrandir? It is in my mind to succor them.”
“And in mine that you should. Clearly, the wild is no longer safe for the Children of Elros. The Enemy is seeking them now in earnest, as he has not for an Age.”
“You spoke of secrecy. What did you have in mind?”
“Not only the Heirs of Isildur are fostered in Imladris. You have sheltered other Dúnedain over the years. Let these two be just that – a Ranger’s widow and her son, come to live in peace. Give the boy a new name. A new start.”
~.~
A new name. Two weeks the newest additions have haunted our halls, like living ghosts, and no name has presented itself. Clearly nothing in the tongue of Númenór will be safe. Perhaps the Elder Tongue… already the boy grows dear to me. I feel the pull of tradition, though I am not his mother: to grant him a name that will reflect his nature. His essence. Already he is called Aragorn. Kingly valor. It is a name his grandmother hoped would prove prophetic. But what of who he is, rather than who he may yet be?
A laugh rings through the air and breaks my reflection. Aragorn is visible in the courtyard, just beneath my study window. Elrohir is racing him. Obviously my son seeks to even the odds between the child and myself, or else some forfeit has been imposed on him, for as they dash towards Elladan, he is hopping on one foot. Elladan is laughing so hard he is nearly in tears, and even Gilraen smiles past the shadows in her eyes.
I had worried my sons’ hearts would be darker. They rode out with Arathorn the day he fell. Each day, I have feared that this new loss would renew their rage, that it would rise to the fever-pitch that followed Celebrian’s departure. Aragorn has lightened their hearts. Even more than the peace I cultivate in the valley, the child has renewed their spirits.
There is insight, but I do not have to dwell long. The name comes to me in a flash. Estel. Smiling, I start for the stairs. I have to share the news with my family. With all of them.
Rating: G
Pairings: None shown; canon pairings referenced
Summary: In the wake of Aragorn and Gilraen’s arrival at Rivendell, Elrond muses.
The ring in my hands is beautiful. Firelight plays on silver and gold, glints off priceless emerald. If I shift it just so, the serpents nearly appear to be dancing. I turn it in my fingers to study it for a few moments longer. It is easier to look at the ring than at any of the room’s other occupants.
Arathorn is dead. My sons brought me the tidings not an hour before. Arathorn is dead, and if not for the valor of my children and my kinswoman Gilraen, the Line of Kings might have ended this day as well. It seems only a short while since Arathorn – then a boy, not a chieftain – was fostered in my house. Now the man is gone, and before I may mourn the latest death in my brother’s line, I must decide what is to be done with his wife (widow) and his child.
Truly, when it comes to their future, there is no decision. Gilraen and Aragorn are my kin. There place is here, with me. But how am I to safeguard them against the main force of the Enemy? Imladris is defended by a not inconsiderable power, true, but even the forces of all the Elven realms amassed could not withstand the Dark Lord and his servants.
“No, indeed.” Mithrandir’s words mirror my own thoughts. “Our best hope lies in secrecy.”
Across the room, Elladan starts at the sound of the wizard’s voice. I do believe he was lost in thought. The behavior is wholly unlike him. Normally it is Elrohir who is the dreamer, the more openly sensitive and sympathetic. It is for that very reason he does not sit with us now. He has instead been dispatched to watch young Aragorn, while some of the ladies tend to Gilraen. Young she was when she wed Arathorn; his death has aged her. It is my hope that with time and rest she will recover her strength, but there is a shadow in her eyes… With an effort I wrench my thoughts back to the matter at hand. Even as I must postpone my grieving for Arathorn, I must postpone my worry for Gilraen.
“What are your thoughts, Mithrandir? It is in my mind to succor them.”
“And in mine that you should. Clearly, the wild is no longer safe for the Children of Elros. The Enemy is seeking them now in earnest, as he has not for an Age.”
“You spoke of secrecy. What did you have in mind?”
“Not only the Heirs of Isildur are fostered in Imladris. You have sheltered other Dúnedain over the years. Let these two be just that – a Ranger’s widow and her son, come to live in peace. Give the boy a new name. A new start.”
~.~
A new name. Two weeks the newest additions have haunted our halls, like living ghosts, and no name has presented itself. Clearly nothing in the tongue of Númenór will be safe. Perhaps the Elder Tongue… already the boy grows dear to me. I feel the pull of tradition, though I am not his mother: to grant him a name that will reflect his nature. His essence. Already he is called Aragorn. Kingly valor. It is a name his grandmother hoped would prove prophetic. But what of who he is, rather than who he may yet be?
A laugh rings through the air and breaks my reflection. Aragorn is visible in the courtyard, just beneath my study window. Elrohir is racing him. Obviously my son seeks to even the odds between the child and myself, or else some forfeit has been imposed on him, for as they dash towards Elladan, he is hopping on one foot. Elladan is laughing so hard he is nearly in tears, and even Gilraen smiles past the shadows in her eyes.
I had worried my sons’ hearts would be darker. They rode out with Arathorn the day he fell. Each day, I have feared that this new loss would renew their rage, that it would rise to the fever-pitch that followed Celebrian’s departure. Aragorn has lightened their hearts. Even more than the peace I cultivate in the valley, the child has renewed their spirits.
There is insight, but I do not have to dwell long. The name comes to me in a flash. Estel. Smiling, I start for the stairs. I have to share the news with my family. With all of them.