Hope, in Darkened Days by Idrils Scribe

But when Estel was only twenty years of age, it chanced that he returned to Rivendell after great deeds in the company of the sons of Elrond; and Elrond looked at him and was pleased, for he saw that he was fair and noble and was early come to manhood, though he would yet become greater in body and in mind. That day therefore Elrond called him by his true name, and told him who he was and whose son; and he delivered to him the heirlooms of his house.

The Return of the King, LoTR Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Here Follows a Part of The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

Imladris, the year 2952 of the Third Age

Dinner for two had been set out in Elrond’s private solar. Tonight’s conversation was not one for the high table. Nonetheless the cooks had done their utmost: spiced venison, white bread still warm from the oven, and the very first spring vegetables the gardeners had coaxed from the greenhouse. 

The wine was Dorwinion, a fine vintage from Elrond’s private cellar. His esquire poured, first for the guest, then for the lord of the house. He placed the crystal decanter in Elrond’s reach and withdrew in silence. The door clicked shut behind him, and they were alone. 

Elrond could no longer delay the inevitable. He watched Gilraen across the table, and began the conversation he had dreaded for twenty years. 

“Lady, I would not go against your will.”
 
Elrond always took pains to honour the Chieftainess of the Dúnedain. Gilraen might be a guest in Imladris, a widow with little more than an ancient title and a dilapidated farm to her name, but Elrond afforded her the same courtesy he once gave the Queens of Arnor, who ruled in splendour from Fornost Erain.  

“My will is irrelevant.” Gilraen straightened herself. Her pale fingers folded demurely in the wide drape of her sleeves, but her gaze was sharp, her back ramrod-straight. Arathorn’s widow was steeled by her hardships. 

“Estel…” Even in this room she did not call her son Aragorn. When the boy’s safety required it, she had erased the name from her mind. “Estel himself has chosen the time.”

Elrond kept from wincing. Gilraen was far too gracious. She was well aware of her situation, and would never criticize her Elvish hosts. 

“My sons have been overly...” Elrond began his secondhand apology. 

“Your sons are right, lord.” Gilraen interrupted him, a rare thing. “Their message was a painful one, but it was necessary.” She smiled a sad little smile. “They delivered it to me with a healer’s grace.”

“I am relieved to hear it.” Elrond replied. “You have suffered so much already. I would not have anyone in this house cause you grief.” 

The twins had grown … intense, after the loss of their mother’s gentling influence. They were newly returned from supervising Estel’s first Troll-hunt, and had informed both Elrond and Gilraen in no uncertain terms that the time had come for the boy to hear his true name. Whatever Elladan and Elrohir thought necessary for the war they would see done, with little consideration for the feelings of others.

“It is not you who caused my grief,” Gilraen replied, “nor your sons, who have kind hearts and wounded spirits. Our Enemy alone is to blame.” 

She leant forward, and light from the Fëanorian lamps played across the emeralds at her throat. Elrond knew that necklace. Laerwen must have taken it from its strongbox when she dressed Gilraen for dinner. The craftsmanship was of the Mírdain, but those leaf-green gems were mined in Khazad-dûm. Celebrían used to wear them whenever she had dealings with the Dwarves. They brought out the green in her eyes. 

Elrond swallowed. Celebrían had sailed, Eregion lay fallen, Khazad-dûm was now Moria. Still, it was a strange comfort to see the necklace being worn.   
  
Gilraen possessed the deep insight of her people. She must have sensed his thoughts, because her expression grew softer. “Sauron dealt us both a fell blow, my lord,” she said. 

Her face was pale beneath the dark crown of her braided hair. No touch of grey yet, no lines around her eyes. How young she was, this child of Men, and yet she was right. 

“Aye, lady, we share the grief of widowhood. And together we shall avenge it.” Elrond raised his cup, and Gilraen touched it with hers in a toast. He smiled at her as they drank, but did not reach for her hand as he would with an Elf. 

There could be no hint of impropriety between him and Gilraen. Having this dinner unchaperoned already skirted the boundaries of what was wise. Elrond’s own household cared not at all - the very concept of adultery was alien to Elves - but Gilraen was Mortal. Such matters were different for her. 

“I am grateful, lord, for all your gracious dealings with me and my son. You have been a true father to Estel.”

“I thank you, lady.” Elrond had lain awake many a night, puzzling over how an Elf-lord’s household should properly foster a Mortal child destined to rule. Such arrangements had gone terribly wrong before. “Your son is a delight. He has brought great joy to all in Imladris.” 

“But now the time has come for him to take up his birthright.” Gilraen replied. “In this, too, you will steer him right.”

Elrond blinked. “You wish for me to tell him his true name? Would you not rather do it yourself?”

“No, my lord,” Gilraen replied. “You, not I, are the keeper of Estel’s inheritance. Let him hear it from your mouth.”

Elrond nodded. “If you wish it so,” he replied, but his heart misgave him. Estel was but twenty years old. So terribly, heartbreakingly young! He hated to be the one to shatter his innocence. 

He ate a few bites, taking time to straighten his thoughts, and watched as Gilraen did the same. The venison had been stewed in good red wine and spiced with cinnamon - an indulgent luxury, traded from the Grey Havens. 

In the lean end of winter, the Dúnedain of the Angle would dine on rye bread and the last dried peas from their emptying stores. Every year more fields remained fallow as the men who should plough them fell to the Orcs, and every year Imladris had to send more grain, lest hunger slay their families, too. The North had become a dangerous land indeed.

“Once Estel is named chieftain he will desire to lead his men,” Elrond said. “It is perilous, lady, sending him into the wilds with the rangers.  We must consider keeping him at home a while longer. Perhaps another year training with my sons… ”
 
Gilraen shook her head. “Once Estel becomes chieftain, he must be seen. The Dúnedain must know their lord.” 

She gave him a clever look. “And not for war alone. I have a boon to ask,” she said, holding his gaze. “If you permit it, I would ride to the Angle to find a bride for Estel.”

Elrond drew a deep breath, and took a sip of wine as he thought. An arranged marriage for the sole purpose of breeding - in wartime no less! The very idea seemed cruel to both Aragorn and this unknown Dúnedain girl. He imagined forcing one of his own children to such a thing, and the thought alone made him ill. 

“Lady, you are my guest and not my vassal. You travel as you will without need for my permission, and I will gladly provide an escort.” Elrond hesitated. “Yet your purpose seems strange, to Elvish eyes. Shall your son wed a stranger, sight unseen? Would such a union prove a blessing or a burden?”  

Gilraen’s face held not a trace of doubt. “My son is Mortal, and time is our enemy. As you say, the danger is great. A single stray arrow may end the House of Isildur.” She sat up straighter. “Isildur’s heir must sire children.” 

She breathed deeply, as if to steel herself. “If you allow it, Estel shall marry this summer. He could be holding his firstborn come spring.”

Elrond did not answer, but studied the woman across the table. Gilraen herself had married young. Absurdly young: wed at twenty-two, mother at twenty-four, widow at twenty-six. 

Unsettled by his silence, she fiddled with the stem of her wine glass. Upon her forefinger a matched pair of wedding rings glinted in the light.
 
She truly did love Arathorn. She still mourned, after twenty years. 
 
To a Mortal it would be a long time indeed, but it was a mere eyeblink to an Elf. Twenty years after Celebrían’s loss - no, he should not recall those bitter days now. 

Suddenly Elrond wanted to weep. The lady’s eyes shone wet, too, and it would not do to make her lose her hard-fought composure.  

“May it be so!” he answered, and her minute sag of relief was a painful sight. 

Elrond did not relish his role as Gilraen’s protector. It was a necessary evil: the Dúnedain settlement in the Angle was little more than a village of wooden houses behind a stockade, manned by ever fewer warriors. Gone were the royal guards in black and silver, the white walls of Fornost Erain, the great fortress of Amon Sûl. The heirs of Isildur had fallen far indeed.

It was a bitter fate that brought a woman of Gilraen’s lineage to ask Elrond’s permission to marry off her own son. 

Better to think about his next question. He had to put it carefully, lest she misunderstood his intentions.

“When Estel becomes chieftain, my people shall rebuild his father’s house in the Angle,” he began cautiously. 

He caught her eye, and she hung on his every word. 

“Even so, Imladris will always have a place for you, even in Estel’s absence. You are an asset in the House of Healing, and I have come to care for your company.”

“Lord, this house and its people have been my comfort in the greatest trials of my life.” Gilraen met Elrond’s eyes, and smiled with genuine warmth. “I am happy here, as much as my situation allows, and I would gladly remain all my life, but...” she hesitated, swallowed, clearly nervous at refusing him anything. It was heartbreaking. “... but once I have a good-daughter and grandchildren, my place shall be with them.”

Elrond smiled in turn and nodded graciously, hiding his disappointment. He had known her answer, and yet regretted it. Gilraen was a skilled healer, and wise in the ways of Mortals. She had built many bridges between Elves and Dúnedain. She would be missed.

At Elrond’s call, sugared almonds and sweet dessert wine were brought. He poured the golden drink himself, breathing the scents of honey and wildflowers that rose from the crystal decanter. 

He stood, and raised his glass. “Another toast, then. To Estel, and to your new life.”

Gilrean rose as well, her skirts rustling. The motion looked familiar. Celebrían would toss them so as she stood, an elegant thing all women learned, perhaps, but he had not noticed it in others. 

Gilraen drank deep, then sat again when he did. “I beg you, lord. Speak with Estel soon. As with setting bones, the wait is worse than the deed itself.” 

Elrond smiled, glad for her counsel. Gilraen would become a formidable matriarch - as strong as the mountains, and as hard, perhaps. But she was right.

Proud are the words, and all there turned

to see the jewels green that burned

in Beren's ring. These Gnomes had set

as eyes of serpents twined that met

beneath a golden crown of flowers,

that one upholds and one devours:

the badge that Finrod made of yore

and Felagund his son now bore…

 

Lay of Leithian—Canto IV, vv. 1096-1103

Imladris was bursting into life. Elrond watched the apple blossoms blanketing the valley’s orchards from his study. The first fair day of spring poured light through the windows, bathing his worktable in pale gold. 

He looked down at the box his esquire just fetched from the strongroom in the cellar. In a carved chest lay the debris of Isildur’s fallen kingdom: a sword broken in half, a starred diadem, and a ring. 

Only the scepter of Annúminas still rested in its vault - to parade the symbol of kingship before a boy without hope of reclaiming that title demanded a cruelty Elrond did not possess. 

Elrond should never have touched these heirlooms, had the world been a just place. They belonged to Men, not Elves. 

He took up the Ring of Barahir. The emblem of the House of Finarfin stared at him - two serpents with emerald eyes, one devouring and the other supporting a crown of golden flowers. These Valinórean emeralds had once reflected the light of the Two Trees, but now they caught the pale sun of Middle-earth. 

The ring once shone on Finrod Felagund's own hand in Nargothrond. It was a promise, a covenant between Elves and Men - one that Elrond intended to keep.   

Safeguarding Isildur’s line would be no small feat: Aragorn was a wanted man. Sauron’s creatures lusted for the blood of his House, and they had grown powerful indeed. 

Arador, the boy’s grandfather, had been captured by hill-trolls in the Coldfells. The trolls spit-roasted the chieftain like a boar dressed after the hunt before they hacked his charred body to pieces. Elrond remembered how the ruined corpse was carried to Imladris in a litter. Even the sturdy horses of the Dúnedain had gone skittish at the stench, and so Arador’s men had to carry the grisly burden down into the valley themselves. 

Arador’s remains now lay in the western garden, beneath a stone monument in Númenórean fashion. Elrond rarely went that way. He preferred remembering the living man to revisiting the horror of his passing. 

Arador’s son Arathorn had to become chieftain before his time: he was young, rash, and newly married with a babe on the way. Even so, he was determined to avenge his father’s torment. 

Arathorn hunted Sauron’s creatures with a fell passion, and Elladan and Elrohir gladly joined him. They fought many battles together, gained many fruitless victories, and took far too many risks. It was no more than two years before Elladan and Elrohir carried Arathorn into the House of Healing with the barbed head of an Orc arrow jammed in the socket where his eye once sat. 

Elrond tried all that he could - Song and surgery and every kind of medicine - but the young chieftain never regained consciousness. Infection set in, and the twins had watched silently as their brother in arms raved and bellowed like a beast, dying a torturous, twitching death.  

The next Chieftain of the Dúnedain was a dark-haired, round-cheeked babe of two. 

There was no way to keep the child safe in the Angle, not with Wargs howling at the riverbanks and bands of Orcs crossing to raid. So few Dúnedain warriors remained now, and they were hard pressed to defend their stockaded settlement. If his people were to know peace, Aragorn had to disappear. 

And so he became Estel. In Imladris, the boy shone a ray of light in the darkness left by Celebrían's departure. Elrond and his sons had found each other again, emerging from a daze of grief and anger as together they changed soiled smallclothes, told bedtime stories and soothed night terrors.  

But the days of Mortal childhood were ephemeral, and today Estel’s was to end. Elrond would sever it with his own words, here in his study where he first took the sleeping toddler from his exhausted mother’s arms and swore that he would raise her son as his own. 

Just twenty years ago. Time flowed like a raging river, and Elrond could not hold it.  

He had sunk so deep in memory that the knock at his door startled him. He rose, and closed the chest before answering the door.

“Come in, Estel!”

The boy had grown even taller, in a single winter. His Númenórean blood now clearly showed. Just a few more years would see him tall and strong as a young oak. Last year’s slender youth - all knees and elbows - had become a blooded warrior who single-handedly felled a Troll. 

The Northern wilds did not release him unscathed though: his face seemed thinner than he had been, and on the fingers of one hand the chilblains had not yet healed despite Elrond’s attentions. Winter was brutal, out in the Coldfells. 

For a moment Elrond’s thoughts ran to Isildur, and it was as if the study darkened. Estel was so alike his forefather in face and bearing. So much had depended on that man, and Elrond could not bring him to do the right thing. The memory was painful even now. 

Elrond quickly collected himself, willing to see only the boy before him - Isildur’s heir, not Isildur himself. He stretched out his arms, and Estel gladly sank into the offered embrace. 

Elrond’s hand came up to gently cup his head and draw him closer. Estel gave a small sigh. Here was the ada who once banished the boy’s childish nightmares and kissed his scraped knees, and his coming of age had not changed that rock-solid sense of safety and belonging. It was a long time before they parted.

The sun once more streamed through the high windows, lighting the mother-of-pearl inlay of the chest on Elrond’s worktable. A five-pointed star shone on the lid. Estel eyed it curiously, too polite to ask. 

He directed the boy to the chair across the table, ignoring the pair of comfortable armchairs set before the windows. This was to be a formal conversation. 

As Estel settled into his seat, Elrond turned to a sideboard and brought out a bottle of miruvor. A fresh, clear scent of summer herbs rose from the small glasses of iridescent Fëanorian crystal. Estel’s eyes widened - he had never before been permitted to touch these priceless heirlooms. 

Elrond allowed them both a sip, then began. “My sons speak most favourably of your deeds.”

Estel’s face lit up. He had always been eager for Elladan and Elrohir’s praise. He treated the twins with the hero-worship reserved for older brothers. Even now he wore a tunic cut in that distinctive Sindarin style Elrohir favoured.

“They suffer much toil and danger in keeping the East Road passable,” Estel beamed. “I am glad to finally be of help.”

“There was more to this particular battle than you know.” Elrond said, softly. “And I believe the time has come for you to learn of it.”

Estel sat up straight. He had always been curious, but last autumn he had begun to ask the twins ever more clever and pressing questions. Despite all omissions and precautions and gentle discouragement he was well aware that something was amiss. 

In a bleak and darkening world, he was an anomaly: a Mortal child in a valley full of ancient Elves. A child being taught like a scholar, trained like a warrior and raised like a prince, and yet lacking a father-name and a House. 

“Estel … “ Elrond sought the proper words. “You are no longer a child by any definition, and  by now well aware that we are withholding the truth from you.”

Estel nodded, silent as if he feared Elrond would change his mind if interrupted.  

“We would not have done so without the gravest of reasons. Now you have grown to manhood, and it is time for you to shoulder a man’s responsibilities.”

Elrond beheld the child he had raised and loved as his own. He had wanted nothing more than to grant Estel one more winter honing that clever mind with Elladan in the library. One more summer in the valley’s green meadows sparring with Elrohir, swimming in the river, getting his coltish body sunburned.

That time has passed. 

Elrond beheld that beloved face. He had seen it change from a soft, round-cheeked babe into a clever boy, and now to manhood’s strong features. Estel’s childhood had been sweet, but brief. 

“So,” Estel said, after a silent eternity. “At last, I shall learn where I came from?”

“You were kept secret, hidden away for good reason. Only now that you can hold your own, dare I send you forth into the world under your own name, for that name carries great danger.” 

Elrond‘s hands clenched white-knuckled beneath the table. “Once you take it up, you will be a hunted man. There is a price on your head, higher than all the wealth in this valley...” he allowed his voice to trail off, a door left ajar.    

Please, Estel. Say no. One more year of freedom.

Estel nodded. “If that is my fate, I am ready. I am done hiding. No more secrets.”

“When you killed Trolls and Orcs this past winter, you avenged your father and grandfather, who both fought and died in the Coldfells.”

Estel’s eyes were fixed on Elrond’s face. The intensity of his gaze would have cowed a lesser man.

Elrond breathed deeply, and said the words that would change the future. “You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North.”

Estel had been well taught. He knew those names, and what they meant.

“Sauron wants me dead.”

“Indeed. And even within this valley I dared not speak your name openly for fear of his agents. Only now that you are a grown man is it time to take up your birthright and know who you truly are.”

Estel smiled, his mind brimming with relief. “This is the best I dared hope for!” He hesitated, colour rising in his cheeks. “I feared - I believed that my House was disgraced. Why would you give me a prince’s education, and yet keep me a secret? I thought I was dishonoured in some way.”

Ai, child! Why did you never bring this to me? I would have …  

Elrond did not finish that thought. Nothing he could have said would have sufficed to disabuse Estel of the harmful notion without betraying the secret. 

Now that he could, he was quick to end the boy’s pain. “No, Est.. - Aragorn. Never! Your father, and his father, and all those before him were brave and true enemies of the one Enemy. Caution alone led us to this pass.” He did not miss the glint of tears in Estel’s eyes. 

Then, at last, Elrond opened the chest. The treasures within gleamed on their bed of blue velvet. 

First he took up the ring. 

Estel stared with open mouth. He had seen drawings of this ring, studied its origins and its path through the Ages. And he had believed it lost to the vicissitudes of time. 

“Here is the Ring of Barahir, symbol of the covenant between Elves and Men.”

The gold felt heavy as he laid it in Estel’s open palm. Estel picked it up to examine it, tracing the sinuous lines of the swirling snakes with his finger. 

“Is this truly the same one Beren wore?”

Elrond nodded. “From Finrod Felagund to Barahir, from Barahir to Beren, to Díor, to Elwing, to Elros, the Kings of Numenor and the Lords of Andunië.” 

He let a silence fall, and Estel picked it up with the ease of long practice. “From Elendil to Isildur, to the Kings of Arnor, to the Chieftains of the Dúnedain.”

“Yes,” Elrond said, and he smiled. “A chain unbroken since Finrod swore everlasting friendship between Eldar and Edain. And now, to you.” 

Estel sat with the ring on his palm, and stared, mute as a fish. 

“Put it on,” Elrond encouraged him.

“Surely I should not …” The boy hesitated, his breath coming in gasps. He was clearly overwhelmed. Tears gleamed in his eyes.

“This ring is yours,” Elrond insisted. “Your birthright. I was but its keeper. Put it on.”

Estel slid the ring onto his right forefinger. “Did my father wear it when - “

Elrond felt the child’s pain as his own, a sharp, wrenching ache beneath his breastbone. Still, honesty was what he owed the boy. “No, Aragorn. Your father did not wear this ring when he died.”

“How did he …” 

Elrond could not - would not burden Estel with the visceral horror of Arathorn’s passing. “Your father was mortally wounded in battle, valiant to the last. Without his brave deeds, the Dúnedain would have been overrun.” 

Aragorn’s eyes were drawn to the sword in the chest. Elrond lifted it up. First the hilt, with a handbreadth of blade still attached, ending in a jagged edge. He placed the weapon in Aragorn’s hand, then carefully picked up the broken-off blade between thumb and forefinger. 

“And here are the shards of Narsil.”

Aragorn felt the edge. “The blade that cut Sauron’s hand.” 

“The very same one.” Elrond looked the boy in the eyes. “He will never forget. He seeks the heir of Isildur with enduring hatred. Your only safety has been in secrecy. Once you cast it off, he will hunt you unto the ends of the earth.”

“So you counsel me to remain in hiding?”

Elrond shook his head. “My counsel is not to hide in this valley. The North needs you and your valor. But do not be too keen to cast off Estel's cloak. It can be done but once. Bide your time until it serves you best.”

Aragorn nodded. 

Elrond smiled. “I think of you as a son. You shall always have a home under my roof. My protection will follow you wherever you may turn. These are Elladan and Elrohir’s words also.”

“I thank you for everything,” Estel replied with formal grace, as he had been taught. “I would call you father, had you not given that title to another today. Still, it is how I will think of you, always”

Elrond swallowed, his throat thick with tears, and lifted the final item from the chest: the Elendilmir, a white star of Elvish crystal upon a fillet of mithril. “This was once my gift to your House. I am proud to return it to you once again.”

Estel shook his head, intimidated by the jewel. “This is much too fine. I cannot accept it.”

“It is not a matter of acceptance. The jewel is yours by right. You may yet find cause to wear it.”

Elrond imagined it - Estel in his wedding finery, the star on his forehead. Imladris would be at feast, the balconies draped with garlands and banners streaming from the windows. Arwen was recently  returned from Lórien: he would have all of his children beside him, together in joy. The thought made his heart leap.  

He recalled Celebrían’s emerald necklace. The jewel would make a fine father-gift for Aragorn’s bride-to-be. Even with the lady chosen in such an un-Elvish way, he found he rather looked forward to the wedding. 

Chapter End Notes

And so young Estel's life is transformed, and as we know it'll soon change even more. I'd love to hear readers' thoughts on this story, particularly the relationship between Elrond and Gilraen, and the situation of her people.
I wish you all a merry Christmas, a happy New Year, or much joy in whatever holiday you celebrate this season!

Idrils Scribe