Hope, in Darkened Days by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 1

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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.