Post by Admin on Jan 2, 2021 23:35:30 GMT
Author: My Blue Rose
Summary: Gilraen’s first morning in Rivendell.
Gilraen placed a hand to her temple and tried not to cry.
Aragorn's swaddling was soaked through. The dampness spreading to the sleeve of her chemise had awoken her. It was sill dark outside; the bed curtains were partially drawn and out of the glazed windows she could see stars and hear the dull roaring of a waterfall. She had fallen asleep cradling her son in her arms. The elegantly carved daybed that Elrond's sons had carried into the bedchamber of the suite stood against the wall, unused. She had not slept without her son since receiving the news of her husband’s death a week ago. Throwing off the coverlet and wool blanket, she pulled back the bed drapes and slipped out of the bed.
Lord Elrond had ordered a brazier placed in the room to ward off the early autumn chill. Some of the coals inside the bronze bowl still smoldered, casting queer shadows about the room. Taking the candle from the bedside table, Gilraen lowered it through the brazier grate, holding it against a glowing ember until the wick lit. Under the candles’ gentle light she surveyed the damage. The bed sheet was of undyed linen, finer in quality than any she owned. She wondered if it had ever been used before; linen yellowed after a few washings and greyed with body oil. Yet this sheet still retained the light cream color of newly loomed fabric.
Or at least, it had.
Gently shifting her son, she discovered that the sheet underneath him was damp and mustard colored. Gilraen groaned softly. It would take much scrubbing and soaking with lye to remove the stain, and despite her best efforts it still might faintly linger. She had not thought to ask where the laundry was. Or perhaps the Elves washed their clothes in the river? That was how most women of the Dúnedain accomplished their washing. Yet it was difficult to imagine Elves engaging in such a task. Unbidden, tears began to roll down her cheeks. This was a foolish thing to cry over. She drew several deep breaths and, mastering herself, slowly untucked the sheet from the bed, careful not to disturb Aragorn.
Gilraen sighed with relief as she found that there was a quilted worsted pad over the mattress tick, no doubt designed to protected the goose down inside. The pad had absorbed the rest of the urine so she did not need to contemplate how she might remove the soiled feathers. She was also pleased to see that the coverlet appeared unscathed. It was of tapestry work depicting a forest glade covered with flowers. On the table by the door was a washbasin. Placing it on the floor, she filled it with water from the carafe on her bed table and dipped the cloth into the basin. She had gotten it early enough that the stain was unlikely to set. She prayed it would not. It was a poor way to repay Lord Elrond's generosity by ruining linens that probably cost more than a year’s wage for most Dúnedain.
But now she had another problem.
While she had packed spare swaddling for Aragorn, Gilraen had not thought to bring anything to fill it with as her son had not wet the bed since midsummer. She had been quite pleased when he had learned to use the chamber pot after only a few weeks of practice. There was no spare cloth she might use, either. She had taken few garments with her to Rivendell as they had no packhorse and were to make do with saddlebags. Her father had arranged a wagon to deliver the rest of her possessions to the Hidden Valley—but it would not arrive for at least a week. If only she had her ragbag with her, or even a few skeins of wool.
But she needs must find something to pad the bindings before her son managed to ruin any more linens. Sighing, she fingered the still damp sleeve of her chemise. It was older than she was as it had once belonged to her mother. The linen had discolored over time and was now an ashen blonde. She owned other, finer, underclothes. But Gilraen had chosen to bring this one, stained and frayed as it was. It was her favorite, worn soft by the years, it smelled like home. She went to the chair at the foot of the daybed where she had laid out her travel clothes to air before placing them in the wardrobe. After retrieving the dagger from its sheath on her girdle, she removed the chemise.
Shivering slightly in the cool air, she carefully ripped the seam that bound the sleeve to the body of the chemise. Gilraen hastened to liberate the other sleeve, feeling vulnerable, naked in a strange room. Slipping the now sleeveless chemise over her shoulders, she gathered the spare swaddling from her satchel containing Aragorn's clothes. Careful so as not to wake him, she gently removed the damp woolen swathes, replacing them after dropping the soiled ones into the basin to soak with the sheet. She stuffed the wrappings with the damp gown sleeve, folded so the wetness would not touch the boy’s skin. She transferred Aragorn to the daybed, covering him with the wool blanket that was still warm with the heat of her body.
Glancing out the window, Gilraen could see the Gil-Estel and knew dawn was coming.
She ought to get dressed as it was certain she would not be going back to sleep. From the wardrobe, she retrieved her kirtle, gown and clothes satchel. She opened the satchel and found a pair of sleeves, and her cylindrical wooden pin container. She also retrieved a strip of bobbin lace and a couple laces—which were sturdy round, finger-loop braids. She had brought only one gown and kirtle besides her ridding clothes due to lack of space. However, she had also taken several different sleeves for her kirtle and a variety of partlets as theses garments took little room and would hopefully fool the Elves into believing she possessed more clothes than she did.
She sat on the bed laying the kirtle on her lap. It was sleeveless and front-lacing, made of woolen broadcloth dyed bright yellow with weld. Gilraen had woven the decorative band on the collar and bodice herself. The tablet woven trim bore a design of orange scrolls against a pale pink background. Taking two laces, Gilraen attached the chartreuse sleeves to the kirtle by passing them through the eyelets on each garment. She then pulled the garment over her head, fastened the laces and pined the wide strip of lace to the neckline. The lacework flowers were studded with beads of gold and yellow beryl.
Gilraen then slipped on the gown that had been sewn from a woolen brocade she had woven several years ago, with a pattern of orange, yellow and white flowers against a pale green background. It had a low pointed collar with sleeves that only reached to mid-forearm, both features that helped display the kirtle beneath. The gown was trimmed with miniver at the cuff and collar. Smoothing her skirt, Gilraen looked at herself in the little hand mirror that was on the wash table. The gown and kirtle were her best spring raiment, but she did not think any would discern this. She had deemed her best autumn gown as not fine enough to wear among the Elves and her winter gowns were too warm, even for late Yávië.
Satisfied with her appearance, she reached once more into her satchel and found a head covering that she was named for. This gilraen was woven from copper thread that enlaced small gems of opaque, apple-green chalcedony. After tucking her plaited hair under the network, Gilraen pulled on her stockings, tying on garters to hold them, hating the way they felt on her calves. But she must bear them. Women of her stature did not wear hose or leggings, save when riding or during the coldest days of winter. After putting on her shoes, she tied a tooled leather girdle spangled with brass rivets about her waist, wishing she had thought to bring her necklace with the emerald pendant. She would just have to wait until her father arrived with the rest of her jewelry.
Kneeling by the daybed, Gilraen stroked Aragorn’s hair.
She was loathe to leave him here alone, but it would be selfish to wake him. She had done her best to hide her sorrow from her son, only weeping at night while he slept beside her, though her eyes often burned with unshed tears. He did not yet truly understand that his father was gone. And what if he woke in this strange room without her? Yet she supposed nothing too terrible might befall him in Elrond’s house. The Half-Elf had given her a suite of rooms next to his own, across from those belonging to Lord Glorfindel, to her trepidation. The Elves would most likely hear Aragorn crying ere she did.
She nodded to herself, mind decided. Gilraen closed the door quietly and crossed her apartment sitting room as silently as she was able, egressing into the corridor beyond. She passed down a flight of stairs into the entrance hall. There was no one about. After a moments indecision, Gilraen passed through one of the doors which opened southward onto a terraced garden above the steep bank of the Bruinen. The dim predawn twilight echoed with the sound of running water and the cool morning air was filled with the faint scent of trees and flowers and the chirping of hundreds of unseen birds.
Seized by the sudden desire to see the Sun rise, she headed left along a flagged path and found that there was a porch on the side of the house looking east. She was not alone. Elrond Peredhel stood facing south, his hands resting on the stone balustrade that enclosed the porch. On his brow was a circlet of silver and he wore an indigo robe that fell to his ankles. It was trimmed with sable fur and girdled with a black leather belt embossed with silver. The Half Elf was gazing at the sky, long raven hair unbound save for two front braids. Gilraen hesitated and almost turned back but the Elf Lord turned to face her, a smile on his face.
“Fair morning, Lady,” he called in the Common Tongue.
“Fair morning, my Lord,” she greeted. Gilraen wondered, briefly, if she ought to bow but dismissed the idea. As the wife of the Chieftain she was near equal in rank to the Lord of Imladris. Her composure faltered when she remembered that she was now the Chieftain’s dowager.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Aye, my Lord,” she replied, averting her gaze. The Elf Lords’ eyes were ancient and knowing, baring an echo of the same grief she bore.
“Come, join me,” Elrond beckoned. Gilraen drew closer until they were standing next to each other.
“I try to see the Sun rise as often as I am able,” he said looking east. “It reminds me that there is still hope in the world.”
They stood in silence for a moment, gazing dark masses that were the heights of the
Misty Mountains, the sky lightening to a pale yellow halo behind them.
“I wanted to thank you again,” Gilraen began. “For inviting us to stay here.”
The Elf Lord inclined his head. “We know that someone is hunting for my brothers’ heirs. Until they are stopped or are found, your son will be in danger.”
Gilraen nodded. Since Arador’s death almost three years ago, the Orcs attacks had tripled. What was more worrying was that the monsters themselves claimed to be seeking to eradicate
Isildur’s Heir.
“To that end, I believe that Aragorn’s name must be changed and we shall not speak to him of his heritage until he has come into manhood.”
Gilraen balked. “You mean that he shall not know of Arathorn? Of his own father? How am I to raise him to be the leader of my people if he does not know his place among them?”
“Yet he shall know safety in anonymity,” Elrond said gently. “If most believed your son dead, the attempts on his life would cease. Is that not worth more to you than even the boy knowing of his father and inheritance?”
Gilraen bit her lip, feeling torn. She wanted her son safe—more than anything. But to deny her son knowledge of his sire and his birthright… Aragorn was so young it was not likely he would remember Arathorn, let alone any other Dúnedain. The thought of her son growing up in nameless obscurity, ignorant of his own father, like some exiled baseborn bastard… it was almost too much to bear.
“I understand your trepidation,” Elrond said quietly. “I have scarce memories of my own father.”
Gilraen glanced up at the Moring Star, without intending to.
“Yet strange as it may seem, I have mostly pleasant memories of my foster father,” he continued.
“I presume you intend to foster Aragorn?” she asked. She had long ago know that her son was destined to be fostered by the Half-Elf. It was tradition that the Chieftain’s sons were fostered by Lord Elrond as soon as they reached their tenth year. She just had not consider that it would be so soon.
“If you are amenable,” he said.
“It would be an honor,” Gilraen replied solemnly. Her son would need a father to guide him into manhood and if any could teach her son what he would need to survive and rule it would be the Lord of Imladris.
“Then you will agree to my proposal?”
Gilraen sighed. Her misgivings aside, she was not certain the Elf’s plan would succeed.
“How are we to convince people that Aragorn is dead?” she asked.
“Your son is quite young,” Elrond softly. “Young children of Men often perish from illness.”
Gilraen looked at the ground, face flushing. It was common knowledge that, despite all their skill in the healing arts, one out of every six Dúnedain children did not survive to see their tenth year. Yet hearing such a thing from this ancient, immortal being made it seem shameful, somehow.
“In a week I will send word that Aragorn has contracted scarlet fever,” Elrond said. “Then five days later I will send my sons to announce that Aragorn has perished from his illness. Only those who need to will know the truth.”
He will be as dead to his people as his people will be to him. The unpleasant thought caused her to frown.
“Do not despair,” the Elf Lord said. “Your son will not lack love nor will he be kept entirely ignorant of his people. He will be made to learn your history and know the names and deeds of all his forefathers. When the time comes, he shall take the mantle of Chieftain as adroit and assiduous as any of his ancestors.”
“Look,” he gestured at the snowcapped mountains to the east. The pink tinged sky flushed orange above the rim of dark mountains. Gilraen and Elrond watched in silence as the Sun, a molten fiery red, slowly ascended above the distant peaks. Soft light flooded the valley and the dew upon the beeches and oaks glimmered. The low whispering wind left its hiding place among the clefts and hollows of the hills, and wandered among the rustling bushes and trees, waking the flower buds to the life of another day. In the distance a cock crowed, announcing the fragile glory of the dawn.
Glossary
Yávië (Quenya): name for the third season of the Calendar of Imladris that corresponded to late summer and early autumn; 54 days between modern 12 August and 4 October.
Gilraen (Sindarin): A netted head covering with small gems in its network worn by Elven women as well as the noble women of the Dúnedain.
Summary: Gilraen’s first morning in Rivendell.
Gilraen placed a hand to her temple and tried not to cry.
Aragorn's swaddling was soaked through. The dampness spreading to the sleeve of her chemise had awoken her. It was sill dark outside; the bed curtains were partially drawn and out of the glazed windows she could see stars and hear the dull roaring of a waterfall. She had fallen asleep cradling her son in her arms. The elegantly carved daybed that Elrond's sons had carried into the bedchamber of the suite stood against the wall, unused. She had not slept without her son since receiving the news of her husband’s death a week ago. Throwing off the coverlet and wool blanket, she pulled back the bed drapes and slipped out of the bed.
Lord Elrond had ordered a brazier placed in the room to ward off the early autumn chill. Some of the coals inside the bronze bowl still smoldered, casting queer shadows about the room. Taking the candle from the bedside table, Gilraen lowered it through the brazier grate, holding it against a glowing ember until the wick lit. Under the candles’ gentle light she surveyed the damage. The bed sheet was of undyed linen, finer in quality than any she owned. She wondered if it had ever been used before; linen yellowed after a few washings and greyed with body oil. Yet this sheet still retained the light cream color of newly loomed fabric.
Or at least, it had.
Gently shifting her son, she discovered that the sheet underneath him was damp and mustard colored. Gilraen groaned softly. It would take much scrubbing and soaking with lye to remove the stain, and despite her best efforts it still might faintly linger. She had not thought to ask where the laundry was. Or perhaps the Elves washed their clothes in the river? That was how most women of the Dúnedain accomplished their washing. Yet it was difficult to imagine Elves engaging in such a task. Unbidden, tears began to roll down her cheeks. This was a foolish thing to cry over. She drew several deep breaths and, mastering herself, slowly untucked the sheet from the bed, careful not to disturb Aragorn.
Gilraen sighed with relief as she found that there was a quilted worsted pad over the mattress tick, no doubt designed to protected the goose down inside. The pad had absorbed the rest of the urine so she did not need to contemplate how she might remove the soiled feathers. She was also pleased to see that the coverlet appeared unscathed. It was of tapestry work depicting a forest glade covered with flowers. On the table by the door was a washbasin. Placing it on the floor, she filled it with water from the carafe on her bed table and dipped the cloth into the basin. She had gotten it early enough that the stain was unlikely to set. She prayed it would not. It was a poor way to repay Lord Elrond's generosity by ruining linens that probably cost more than a year’s wage for most Dúnedain.
But now she had another problem.
While she had packed spare swaddling for Aragorn, Gilraen had not thought to bring anything to fill it with as her son had not wet the bed since midsummer. She had been quite pleased when he had learned to use the chamber pot after only a few weeks of practice. There was no spare cloth she might use, either. She had taken few garments with her to Rivendell as they had no packhorse and were to make do with saddlebags. Her father had arranged a wagon to deliver the rest of her possessions to the Hidden Valley—but it would not arrive for at least a week. If only she had her ragbag with her, or even a few skeins of wool.
But she needs must find something to pad the bindings before her son managed to ruin any more linens. Sighing, she fingered the still damp sleeve of her chemise. It was older than she was as it had once belonged to her mother. The linen had discolored over time and was now an ashen blonde. She owned other, finer, underclothes. But Gilraen had chosen to bring this one, stained and frayed as it was. It was her favorite, worn soft by the years, it smelled like home. She went to the chair at the foot of the daybed where she had laid out her travel clothes to air before placing them in the wardrobe. After retrieving the dagger from its sheath on her girdle, she removed the chemise.
Shivering slightly in the cool air, she carefully ripped the seam that bound the sleeve to the body of the chemise. Gilraen hastened to liberate the other sleeve, feeling vulnerable, naked in a strange room. Slipping the now sleeveless chemise over her shoulders, she gathered the spare swaddling from her satchel containing Aragorn's clothes. Careful so as not to wake him, she gently removed the damp woolen swathes, replacing them after dropping the soiled ones into the basin to soak with the sheet. She stuffed the wrappings with the damp gown sleeve, folded so the wetness would not touch the boy’s skin. She transferred Aragorn to the daybed, covering him with the wool blanket that was still warm with the heat of her body.
Glancing out the window, Gilraen could see the Gil-Estel and knew dawn was coming.
She ought to get dressed as it was certain she would not be going back to sleep. From the wardrobe, she retrieved her kirtle, gown and clothes satchel. She opened the satchel and found a pair of sleeves, and her cylindrical wooden pin container. She also retrieved a strip of bobbin lace and a couple laces—which were sturdy round, finger-loop braids. She had brought only one gown and kirtle besides her ridding clothes due to lack of space. However, she had also taken several different sleeves for her kirtle and a variety of partlets as theses garments took little room and would hopefully fool the Elves into believing she possessed more clothes than she did.
She sat on the bed laying the kirtle on her lap. It was sleeveless and front-lacing, made of woolen broadcloth dyed bright yellow with weld. Gilraen had woven the decorative band on the collar and bodice herself. The tablet woven trim bore a design of orange scrolls against a pale pink background. Taking two laces, Gilraen attached the chartreuse sleeves to the kirtle by passing them through the eyelets on each garment. She then pulled the garment over her head, fastened the laces and pined the wide strip of lace to the neckline. The lacework flowers were studded with beads of gold and yellow beryl.
Gilraen then slipped on the gown that had been sewn from a woolen brocade she had woven several years ago, with a pattern of orange, yellow and white flowers against a pale green background. It had a low pointed collar with sleeves that only reached to mid-forearm, both features that helped display the kirtle beneath. The gown was trimmed with miniver at the cuff and collar. Smoothing her skirt, Gilraen looked at herself in the little hand mirror that was on the wash table. The gown and kirtle were her best spring raiment, but she did not think any would discern this. She had deemed her best autumn gown as not fine enough to wear among the Elves and her winter gowns were too warm, even for late Yávië.
Satisfied with her appearance, she reached once more into her satchel and found a head covering that she was named for. This gilraen was woven from copper thread that enlaced small gems of opaque, apple-green chalcedony. After tucking her plaited hair under the network, Gilraen pulled on her stockings, tying on garters to hold them, hating the way they felt on her calves. But she must bear them. Women of her stature did not wear hose or leggings, save when riding or during the coldest days of winter. After putting on her shoes, she tied a tooled leather girdle spangled with brass rivets about her waist, wishing she had thought to bring her necklace with the emerald pendant. She would just have to wait until her father arrived with the rest of her jewelry.
Kneeling by the daybed, Gilraen stroked Aragorn’s hair.
She was loathe to leave him here alone, but it would be selfish to wake him. She had done her best to hide her sorrow from her son, only weeping at night while he slept beside her, though her eyes often burned with unshed tears. He did not yet truly understand that his father was gone. And what if he woke in this strange room without her? Yet she supposed nothing too terrible might befall him in Elrond’s house. The Half-Elf had given her a suite of rooms next to his own, across from those belonging to Lord Glorfindel, to her trepidation. The Elves would most likely hear Aragorn crying ere she did.
She nodded to herself, mind decided. Gilraen closed the door quietly and crossed her apartment sitting room as silently as she was able, egressing into the corridor beyond. She passed down a flight of stairs into the entrance hall. There was no one about. After a moments indecision, Gilraen passed through one of the doors which opened southward onto a terraced garden above the steep bank of the Bruinen. The dim predawn twilight echoed with the sound of running water and the cool morning air was filled with the faint scent of trees and flowers and the chirping of hundreds of unseen birds.
Seized by the sudden desire to see the Sun rise, she headed left along a flagged path and found that there was a porch on the side of the house looking east. She was not alone. Elrond Peredhel stood facing south, his hands resting on the stone balustrade that enclosed the porch. On his brow was a circlet of silver and he wore an indigo robe that fell to his ankles. It was trimmed with sable fur and girdled with a black leather belt embossed with silver. The Half Elf was gazing at the sky, long raven hair unbound save for two front braids. Gilraen hesitated and almost turned back but the Elf Lord turned to face her, a smile on his face.
“Fair morning, Lady,” he called in the Common Tongue.
“Fair morning, my Lord,” she greeted. Gilraen wondered, briefly, if she ought to bow but dismissed the idea. As the wife of the Chieftain she was near equal in rank to the Lord of Imladris. Her composure faltered when she remembered that she was now the Chieftain’s dowager.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Aye, my Lord,” she replied, averting her gaze. The Elf Lords’ eyes were ancient and knowing, baring an echo of the same grief she bore.
“Come, join me,” Elrond beckoned. Gilraen drew closer until they were standing next to each other.
“I try to see the Sun rise as often as I am able,” he said looking east. “It reminds me that there is still hope in the world.”
They stood in silence for a moment, gazing dark masses that were the heights of the
Misty Mountains, the sky lightening to a pale yellow halo behind them.
“I wanted to thank you again,” Gilraen began. “For inviting us to stay here.”
The Elf Lord inclined his head. “We know that someone is hunting for my brothers’ heirs. Until they are stopped or are found, your son will be in danger.”
Gilraen nodded. Since Arador’s death almost three years ago, the Orcs attacks had tripled. What was more worrying was that the monsters themselves claimed to be seeking to eradicate
Isildur’s Heir.
“To that end, I believe that Aragorn’s name must be changed and we shall not speak to him of his heritage until he has come into manhood.”
Gilraen balked. “You mean that he shall not know of Arathorn? Of his own father? How am I to raise him to be the leader of my people if he does not know his place among them?”
“Yet he shall know safety in anonymity,” Elrond said gently. “If most believed your son dead, the attempts on his life would cease. Is that not worth more to you than even the boy knowing of his father and inheritance?”
Gilraen bit her lip, feeling torn. She wanted her son safe—more than anything. But to deny her son knowledge of his sire and his birthright… Aragorn was so young it was not likely he would remember Arathorn, let alone any other Dúnedain. The thought of her son growing up in nameless obscurity, ignorant of his own father, like some exiled baseborn bastard… it was almost too much to bear.
“I understand your trepidation,” Elrond said quietly. “I have scarce memories of my own father.”
Gilraen glanced up at the Moring Star, without intending to.
“Yet strange as it may seem, I have mostly pleasant memories of my foster father,” he continued.
“I presume you intend to foster Aragorn?” she asked. She had long ago know that her son was destined to be fostered by the Half-Elf. It was tradition that the Chieftain’s sons were fostered by Lord Elrond as soon as they reached their tenth year. She just had not consider that it would be so soon.
“If you are amenable,” he said.
“It would be an honor,” Gilraen replied solemnly. Her son would need a father to guide him into manhood and if any could teach her son what he would need to survive and rule it would be the Lord of Imladris.
“Then you will agree to my proposal?”
Gilraen sighed. Her misgivings aside, she was not certain the Elf’s plan would succeed.
“How are we to convince people that Aragorn is dead?” she asked.
“Your son is quite young,” Elrond softly. “Young children of Men often perish from illness.”
Gilraen looked at the ground, face flushing. It was common knowledge that, despite all their skill in the healing arts, one out of every six Dúnedain children did not survive to see their tenth year. Yet hearing such a thing from this ancient, immortal being made it seem shameful, somehow.
“In a week I will send word that Aragorn has contracted scarlet fever,” Elrond said. “Then five days later I will send my sons to announce that Aragorn has perished from his illness. Only those who need to will know the truth.”
He will be as dead to his people as his people will be to him. The unpleasant thought caused her to frown.
“Do not despair,” the Elf Lord said. “Your son will not lack love nor will he be kept entirely ignorant of his people. He will be made to learn your history and know the names and deeds of all his forefathers. When the time comes, he shall take the mantle of Chieftain as adroit and assiduous as any of his ancestors.”
“Look,” he gestured at the snowcapped mountains to the east. The pink tinged sky flushed orange above the rim of dark mountains. Gilraen and Elrond watched in silence as the Sun, a molten fiery red, slowly ascended above the distant peaks. Soft light flooded the valley and the dew upon the beeches and oaks glimmered. The low whispering wind left its hiding place among the clefts and hollows of the hills, and wandered among the rustling bushes and trees, waking the flower buds to the life of another day. In the distance a cock crowed, announcing the fragile glory of the dawn.
Glossary
Yávië (Quenya): name for the third season of the Calendar of Imladris that corresponded to late summer and early autumn; 54 days between modern 12 August and 4 October.
Gilraen (Sindarin): A netted head covering with small gems in its network worn by Elven women as well as the noble women of the Dúnedain.