Post by Admin on Jan 3, 2021 0:32:40 GMT
Author: Helena Markos
Aragorn would not stop fiddling with the shiny brass buttons on his coat. He kept pulling and pulling and pulling so that now his fine jacket was up around his waist and half turned around. If not for his belt, he might have pulled the whole thing over his head.
He turned towards her with round, grey eyes, so like his father’s. “Muttah,” he lifted his arms, “ap.”
“You want me to pick you up? You can get up quite well on your own.”
“Ap!”
Lady Gilraen sighed and shook her head and untangled him from his dress clothes. Now did not feel like the time for lessons in manners. She gently undid the shiny brass buttons and slid the coat from her son’s tiny shoulders. “That’s enough, Estel,” she scolded, pulling him onto her lap. “Rest now. We will be there soon.”
His head fell obediently against her breastbone, and Gilraen smiled, threading her fingers through his mop of curly, brown hair. With her other hand, she passed him his coat and he snatched the fine, dark wool in his small hands, immediately going to tug at the buttons. The coach bobbed and bucked and Lady Gilraen stared out into the passing forest, her guard’s horses at the edge of her vision.
She had not seen Lord Elrond face to face since her marriage. Even then, it was a polite, formal sort of meeting; the kind of meeting with stiff handshakes and long introductions. But his letters had been exceedingly informal these past few weeks, since Arathorn’s death. Gilraen had begun to find great comfort in his missives. She had agreed readily at his offer to become Aragorn’s foster father, had seen the wisdom in hiding her son’s true heritage from everyone, even himself. Once escorted to Imladris, her guard would be sent away and it would just be her and her boy among the elves. Guests in Rivendell, like so many others.
Addressing Aragorn as Estel was taking some getting used to, but the change of his name felt right for more reasons than hiding his ancestry. She had foresight of the Dunédain, and had seen the hope that would come from her marriage with Arathorn, even if her father could only see the sorrow.
Wiping an errant tear from her eye, Gilraen gingerly repositioned her son so he lay across her lap. For the first week after Arathorn’s death, she had taken Aragorn to bed with her, anxious to be parted from him, lest he sense his father’s absence. And he had sensed that absence, but he was small, and easily distracted. He still asked for Arathorn, but that asking was coming less and less. Gilraen would never know if the scent of woodsmoke and wilderness would remind him of Arathorn as it did her. Would his father be less than a memory to him; no more than whatever stories she shared with her son? She would have to recall some good stories for him, regarding his father.
This line of thinking had her throat tightening uncomfortably. She sipped some water and focused her attention on the dense foliage outside her cart. They would be there in minutes. Already, their elven escort had arrived. Though Gilraen could not hear additional horses, she knew the elves were there all the same. How strange it will be to live among these ancient people! She knew many, but only in passing. What would it be like to grow old while the faces around her remained young, ageless?
‘I suppose I will find out,’ she mused.
They were through the gate, and Gilraen shook her son awake. Aragorn rose groggily, rubbing his eyes as she stepped from the carriage with him in her arms. Lord Elrond was already waiting for them, his grim faced sons flanking him on either side. She had met Elrohir and Elladan at her wedding as well. Such serious young men! But the Lord of Imladris smiled brightly, extending his arms. From the corner of her eye, Gilraen realized Aragorn was watching the elf lord curiously.
“Lady Gilraen,” Elrond said, taking her free hand, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, Lord Elrond,” she replied and felt her heart grow a little lighter now that she had left the shadow of her solitude. With a little bounce, she angled Aragorn so that he was closer to their host.
“Estel,” she breathed, “this is Lord Elrond, your new foster father.”
Aragorn gave her a questioning look. “Fudder?” He looked at Elrond with the same question in his eyes, and Gilraen wished she had chosen her words a little better. He was so small, and had been through so many changes this past month.
With a gentle smile, Elrond took Aragorn’s hand with a reassuring squeeze. He glanced briefly towards Gilraen, before focusing on his new charge, his eyes creased with somber merriment.
“Well met, Estel.”
Aragorn would not stop fiddling with the shiny brass buttons on his coat. He kept pulling and pulling and pulling so that now his fine jacket was up around his waist and half turned around. If not for his belt, he might have pulled the whole thing over his head.
He turned towards her with round, grey eyes, so like his father’s. “Muttah,” he lifted his arms, “ap.”
“You want me to pick you up? You can get up quite well on your own.”
“Ap!”
Lady Gilraen sighed and shook her head and untangled him from his dress clothes. Now did not feel like the time for lessons in manners. She gently undid the shiny brass buttons and slid the coat from her son’s tiny shoulders. “That’s enough, Estel,” she scolded, pulling him onto her lap. “Rest now. We will be there soon.”
His head fell obediently against her breastbone, and Gilraen smiled, threading her fingers through his mop of curly, brown hair. With her other hand, she passed him his coat and he snatched the fine, dark wool in his small hands, immediately going to tug at the buttons. The coach bobbed and bucked and Lady Gilraen stared out into the passing forest, her guard’s horses at the edge of her vision.
She had not seen Lord Elrond face to face since her marriage. Even then, it was a polite, formal sort of meeting; the kind of meeting with stiff handshakes and long introductions. But his letters had been exceedingly informal these past few weeks, since Arathorn’s death. Gilraen had begun to find great comfort in his missives. She had agreed readily at his offer to become Aragorn’s foster father, had seen the wisdom in hiding her son’s true heritage from everyone, even himself. Once escorted to Imladris, her guard would be sent away and it would just be her and her boy among the elves. Guests in Rivendell, like so many others.
Addressing Aragorn as Estel was taking some getting used to, but the change of his name felt right for more reasons than hiding his ancestry. She had foresight of the Dunédain, and had seen the hope that would come from her marriage with Arathorn, even if her father could only see the sorrow.
Wiping an errant tear from her eye, Gilraen gingerly repositioned her son so he lay across her lap. For the first week after Arathorn’s death, she had taken Aragorn to bed with her, anxious to be parted from him, lest he sense his father’s absence. And he had sensed that absence, but he was small, and easily distracted. He still asked for Arathorn, but that asking was coming less and less. Gilraen would never know if the scent of woodsmoke and wilderness would remind him of Arathorn as it did her. Would his father be less than a memory to him; no more than whatever stories she shared with her son? She would have to recall some good stories for him, regarding his father.
This line of thinking had her throat tightening uncomfortably. She sipped some water and focused her attention on the dense foliage outside her cart. They would be there in minutes. Already, their elven escort had arrived. Though Gilraen could not hear additional horses, she knew the elves were there all the same. How strange it will be to live among these ancient people! She knew many, but only in passing. What would it be like to grow old while the faces around her remained young, ageless?
‘I suppose I will find out,’ she mused.
They were through the gate, and Gilraen shook her son awake. Aragorn rose groggily, rubbing his eyes as she stepped from the carriage with him in her arms. Lord Elrond was already waiting for them, his grim faced sons flanking him on either side. She had met Elrohir and Elladan at her wedding as well. Such serious young men! But the Lord of Imladris smiled brightly, extending his arms. From the corner of her eye, Gilraen realized Aragorn was watching the elf lord curiously.
“Lady Gilraen,” Elrond said, taking her free hand, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, Lord Elrond,” she replied and felt her heart grow a little lighter now that she had left the shadow of her solitude. With a little bounce, she angled Aragorn so that he was closer to their host.
“Estel,” she breathed, “this is Lord Elrond, your new foster father.”
Aragorn gave her a questioning look. “Fudder?” He looked at Elrond with the same question in his eyes, and Gilraen wished she had chosen her words a little better. He was so small, and had been through so many changes this past month.
With a gentle smile, Elrond took Aragorn’s hand with a reassuring squeeze. He glanced briefly towards Gilraen, before focusing on his new charge, his eyes creased with somber merriment.
“Well met, Estel.”