Aragorn loves and marries another before Arwen, an elleth named Lillianeth, daughter of the last Noldorian king, Gil-gilad. However, their life together is cut short when Lillianeth dies during the birth of their child, a daughter named Aralynn. Short years later the Dunedain are attacked and Aragorn is separated from his child. Grief-stricken, Aragorn sets out to find his daughter, she who is Born of Hope. AU/OC.

*This story is the beginning of an arc revolving around Aragorn and his daughter that will show how her existence will alter the fate of Middle-earth, not to mention how she will change her father. Later instalments will follow the events of Tolkien's trilogy in an alternate universe sort of way, of course. :P Hope you'll stay along for the ride! ~Sierra*

Disclaimer: I do not nor have I ever owned Tolkien's worlds, works, or characters. I'm just playing in his sand box. Props to the master.

Prologue

Forbidding clouds hid the sun, bringing darkness before its time. By mid-afternoon the lamps of Bree had been lit and sat flickering beneath rounded panes, little dots of dancing light flanked by the western edge of the South Downs.

Once a meeting place of ancient roads, the present village was naught but a smattering of stone houses and hobbit holes above the old highway. Aragorn had always found its inhabitants amiable enough, although they spared little love for him and his kin. Bree-folk were tiresomely inquisitive, but cautious, and they cared little for the wandering men they called rangers. He and those with him had arrived only the night before, but Aragorn was certain that by now all of Bree-land had heard of their coming. Less than a score all told, but more than enough wanderers to set the tiny township on edge. The Dunedain were not welcome here.

Aragorn leaned against the southern wall of a small stable, toeing a tuft of the desiccated swath as he tried vainly to hide from the wind funnelling through the plains between Emyn Uial and the Weather Hills. A dark hood hung low over his face, shadowing grim features, yet not so low he couldn't watch those who passed. He pulled his cloak tighter against his chest, its edges pinned beneath his forearms, safe from the prying fingers of the wind. A hobbit passed, eying the sword belted at Aragorn's waist and quickening his stout pace until he'd passed the bend in the road. Aragorn sighed.

It had been a long time since a stranger last looked at him with anything but fear or disdain. His clothes were dark, worn and spattered with mud, a soldier's garb, well-fit but ill-mended. He wondered if people could see the finely-woven elven tunic with sterling stitching beneath his long water-stained coat, would they think better of him for it.

Aragorn heard his name over the wind and turned toward the call. Halbarad's broad frame filled the doorway of a cottage that sat nestled in the crook of the hills, motioning for Aragorn to come. With a final glance at the murky skies, Aragorn drew up the collar of his cloak and strode for shelter.

Her pains had begun three nights ago. By first light they'd crossed at Tharbad, keeping to the North Road, known among Bree-folk as the Greenway. She'd ridden nestled against him, close enough he'd felt the tightening of her stomach when each contraction came. He'd pressed his lips to her ear, whispering in Sindarin as she squeezed his hand, forcing the blood from his fingers. Riding double had cost them time, but they'd reached the village proper just as the gates were closing at the end of the second day.

Aragorn had never been so glad to see the mossy gates of Bree split the hedge beyond the dike. He'd intended to see his wife to Rivendell before the first winter snows, but the snows had come early. A fierce arctic squall had blown down from the north coast, pinning the rangers down at Lond Daer, leaving them unable to make the journey north until the winds and the snows had subsided.

That the child was three weeks early had only left Aragorn more unprepared for its arrival. Firstborns tended to be late rather than early, although he supposed it was fitting that this particular firstborn would differ, considering his own obstinacy. It should only serve that his child had inherited it. Lillianeth had always been the patient one, the strong one, the wise, the compassionate one. Was. Not had been. Was, he amended as his eyes filled with tears.

He tried to smile, conjuring memories of the days when he'd stood, scrawny arms crossed over his chest as he stomped his small foot and glared at the venerable Elrond Peredhil who had been father, teacher, and comforter to him for the first years of his life. His rebellions in the Last Homely House had been an amusement to his ageless caregivers and Elrond's soothing healer's temperament could quickly squelch little Estel's unruliness. It was only as Aragorn grew older, more restless and more headstrong that he was made privy to the steely temper that glinted beneath the half-elf's self-possessed countenance.

Yet thoughts of his foster father brought grief too, for it was not just the snows that had made Aragorn delay his journey northward. Part of Aragorn`s hesitancy had stemmed from his disagreement with Elrond when last they'd met. Not that his foster father's anger was undeserved. Aragorn had wed Lillianeth, sole child of the last Noldorian high king, Gil-gilad.

Elrond had opposed the marriage: he maintained that for a mortal king yet to be crowned to marry one of high blood was unwise, even if such a union would renew the diminished line of Numenorean kings and return the lords of Gondor to their former might and wisdom. Aragorn knew it had not been lack of love for men that made Elrond refuse. Elrond's love for Lillianeth simply exceeded his love of men and magnified his reluctance to surrender the sole child of his friend and king to a mortal fate, although she herself was willing.

Lillianeth had made every effort to persuade Elrond that her marriage to Aragorn and a mortal life was what her heart desired, yet in this matter, as in few others, Elrond had been immovable. Tempers had flared and Lillianeth was brought to tears, her fondness for her father's herald surpassing any bonds of blood or duty.

At the sight of Lillianeth's tears Elrond had left the house, but Aragorn had followed close on his heels, his cutting words carving through the stillness of Elrond's gardens. They'd fought bitterly, both ignoring Glorfindel's attempts to subdue their quarrel. Aragorn had never seen Elrond as hurt or as angry as he been that day. When Aragorn had stalked away fighting tears, Glorfindel had lingered and Aragorn wished he'd not heard Elrond's last words.

Wait, please. Aragorn I-I love you…my son.

Pride alone had pushed Aragorn through the vine-draped arches and kept him from looking back at the one he'd loved and revered since childhood. Still, though Aragorn knew his foster father would welcome him and his wife into his home with joy and great love, he felt as if some curtain had been drawn between them. He told himself it was the snows that had made him delay his departure, but Aragorn knew it was his shame and his pride. He'd put off leaving longer than he should have. He'd waited until the last possible moment and now his wife lay dying, in a small town of meddlesome mortals, far beyond even Elrond's reach.

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut, wishing with all his might to open them and find himself standing at the door to his father's house, to see the lights burning, to hear the warm welcome of the door wardens and to feel the strength of his brothers' embrace. If he'd not been so proud, so selfish, they would now be safe, protected by the mighty spires of Rivendell's mountains. This was his fault. Halbarad had been pushing him to leave for over a month. Lillianeth had been packed to leave two weeks after the Dunedain settled in Lond Daer. Even he himself had been dreaming of passing a winter of ease among the elves since the first frosts. Still he'd delayed.

He stopped mid-stride, hunched against the pummelling wind and wept, face in hands as he prayed to the Valar, to Eru himself, that they might hear the cry of his soul and take pity on such a wretched and undeserving man as him.

I do not pray to you as elves do, with faithfulness and reverence. Or at least I have not since I dwelt among them. Aragorn stared up at the sky, trying to envision the stars he knew lay blanketed beneath the unyielding clouds. But please, if you have not forgotten me, if I yet hold any of the grace you have gifted those who sheltered me from the shadows of this world, please. Please, don't take them from me. They are so precious to me. Please.

He grimaced, tugging his hood down over his face to fend off the pricking of the snow and started walking again, taking little comfort in a prayer to beings he barely believed were listening, let alone cared for the fate of his wife and unborn child. His bitterness surprised him, having shared the regard of the Noldor for those who dwelt in Aman during his years in Rivendell and even after. When had that changed he wondered, ducking as he entered the midwife's house and flinching when the door slammed shut behind him. He leaned against it, breathless.

"My lord?"

Aragorn lifted his head, nudging back his sleet-soaked hood as he met the elder man's gaze. Halbarad's dark eyes gleamed and teardrops hung, glinting like gems where they'd caught in his sterling beard. Aragorn looked away and stomped vigorously to rid his iced boots of their extra weight.

"This storm is worse than the one that picked up your tent in the middle of the night and strung it up in those trees under the Blue Mountains." Aragorn's laughter sounded forced, even to his own ears. "I'll never forget the expression on your face when you finally woke up, buried to your waist in snow. I could have sworn you were one of the fallen kings, waking after a thousand years of slumber." Aragorn walked to the far side of the room, sliding the rocking chair closer to the hearth as he sat and began prying the top of his boots away from his calves. Halbarad's mournful eyes followed him uncertainly. "I don't think I've laughed so hard before or since."

Halbarad grunted.

"You weren't laughing so hard when I took your tent and sent you up the tree after mine, were you."

Aragorn's lips twitched upwards reflexively but fell short of a smile as he set his boots in front of the fire. Outwardly there was nothing extraordinary about them. They were a dull dun color boot, worn and gouged, but the velvety rabbit-skin lining was tight as a drum. Even in this weather his feet were warm. They were of elven craft. A gift from Lillianeth and the twins two winters ago after he'd gotten a horrendous case of frost-bite trekking through the Misty Mountains after orcs. Tears flooded his eyes, but he blinked them back.

"Aragorn."

The weight of Halbarad's mammoth hand on his shoulder was of no comfort. He fixed his gaze on one of the cornerstones of the hearth, his eyes tracing its mottled surface. Halbarad's hand didn't move.

"Do you remember the first time I met you," Aragorn asked quietly, his voice barely rising above the crackling flames at his feet.

"That was more than fifty years ago."

Aragorn nodded, his eyes never leaving the small granite stone. He'd been fifteen, on an errand with his foster brothers Elladan and Elrohir, before he'd know of his ancestry. Halbarad had met them at the mouth of the Angle, grave irascible and sullen as only a Dunedan can be. His dark eyes had been sharp, his russet hair unkempt and wild, while the breadth of his shoulders had made him seem like a giant.

"I was terrified of you, half convinced you were going to run me through when Dan and Ro weren't looking."

He glanced at the man standing at his shoulder, his apprehension seeming foolish. Halbarad's russet hair was now mostly silver, his sharp eyes this night showed only sadness and as he returned Aragorn's gaze, Aragorn felt for the first time that the man was beginning to show his age. For even among the Dunedain, Halbarad was growing old.

"I wasn't nearly so frightening after spending three days at the bottom of that rut in Hollin was I." Halbarad smiled wistfully. "Eru, what a sight you were, all backed up under that ledge beneath the hill. You were so pale I thought you were dead until you blinked. Your face and arm were bloodied and bruised, your ankle broken, half a tree stuck in your hair. It took me nearly three hours to get you cleaned up enough to recognize you."

"If you didn't know who I was, why go to the trouble?"

"I just assumed it was you. What other mortal would be fool enough to get caught in a den of orcs but the kin of Lord Elrond? And I couldn't let Elrond see you in such shape. He'd have had my head."

Aragorn smiled wanly. Halbarad had sent his companions to Elladan and Elrohir with word that he had found Estel and would take him directly to Rivendell. Then he'd carried Aragorn north to Rivendell's borders, more than forty leagues, as though he were nothing, nursing his wounds with tenderness Aragorn would never have guessed him capable of. And while they walked, Halbarad talked, regaling young Estel with stories of the days when the Dunedain were mightier, when the sound of their chargers thundering across the plains of Eriador made shadows flee, when elves and men were still friends.

Aragorn, true to his adolescent petulance, had been moody for the first two days of their journey, very much resenting this old man who felt he was interested in the doings of a bunch of wandering strangers. Yet by the time they'd reached Rivendell Aragorn had not wanted the stories to end. He'd pleaded with Halbarad to stay and continue but with a slight smile and twinkling eyes the ranger had declined, telling Aragorn he would hear the rest when he came again to the Dunedain. Aragorn had informed him he expected that would be many years, if ever he came at all. Halbarad had not argued.

"I still remember the stories you told me on that journey to Rivendell."

"I didn't think you were listening at first."

"I wasn't. But the more you told, the more I found myself drawn to the legends of the mighty kings of Numenor. After you left I spent weeks in the library, poring over the histories of the Edain. Even then it never occurred to me that I might one day become a part of those histories."

"I knew. Some doubted, but I knew." Halbarad squeezed his shoulder. "But now is not the time for stories."

Aragorn turned his head and unfastened his cloak, draping it over the small load of firewood he'd brought in for the midwife Gaerwn an hour ago. He'd dropped it in front of the hearth and then returned to the wind and bitter cold under the pretence of going for another load. He knew Halbarad would see through his charade but the man had said nothing. The hours of listening to Lillianeth's pained cries as she struggled to give birth to their child had made him weary, but the silence that hung over the house after she'd collapsed had been unbearable.

She'd been holding his hand, her expression weary but determined, a wooden spoon clenched in her teeth as she was gripped by another contraction and she pushed hard. Gaerwn had been kneeling on the end of the bed, holding up the thin sheet around Lillianeth's knees. His wife had laughed when Gaerwn announced that she could see the child's head and scooted further up the bed to support the child's neck.

He could still feel the warmth of her slick skin as he'd leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She'd reached up and laid her hand against his cheek, nuzzling his neck, breathing heavily but smiling broadly. Gaerwn's sudden cry had startled him and he'd felt his stomach fall as she withdrew her hands from the sheet, painted with blood and Lillianeth's hand slid from his face.

Panic had seized him and held him tight as he shook his wife, shouting her name as Gaerwn scooped Lillianeth up into her arms, vial in hand. Halbarad's vice-like arms had locked around him from behind, lifting him off his feet as he dragged him from the room. Aragorn remembered weeping, his resistance ending when Halbarad kicked the door shut behind them and the silence fell.

"Tell me then, Halbarad. What is this the time for? What am I to be thinking, to be saying, to be doing? Any act of mine will be useless unless your lips have words to speak your eyes have not already spoken."

The hand on his shoulder stiffened and then let go. Halbarad's silence was painful, but the words Aragorn knew were coming would be moreso. Lillianeth was dying.

"Aragorn, I— Halbarad's voice cracked. He cleared his throat twice. "The child is unharmed but Lillianeth— the bleeding could not be stopped. I-I'm sorry."

Snow ticked against the shuttered panes and the north wind whinged, rattling the flagons on a shelf in the far corner. The lid of a cast iron cauldron clunked against its lip, spitting its contents onto the tinder beneath. The arid, earthy scent of the hearthstones parched his mouth as his gaze settled on three saddlebags, slumped against the grate, buckles bronzed by the flames.

His was leather, worn through at the corners. It had been a gift from Glorfindel when he first left the Last Homely House to join the Dunedain. The better part of fifty years had rotted the straps. The left buckle refused to fasten. Lillianeth was constantly patching the lining to keep things from falling out of the holes in the bottom. He smiled, licking the tears collecting in the corners of his mouth. Who would mend it now?

"My lord, you've little time."

Aragorn blinked. "What?"

His eyes flicked to the door at the back of the room. Gaerwn stood in the doorway, watching him. Her cheeks were scarlet, her hairline soaked with sweat beneath the edging of her faded claret headscarf. A rusty smudge Aragorn recognized as blood marked a broad stroke up her forearm and made his knees weak.

"Your wife, sir, she has little time left. A half hour at the most."

Aragorn nodded and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

"Thank you," he managed.

From the corner of his eye he saw the woman nod, casting a troubled glance at Halbarad as she left the room. The door stood open behind her and Aragorn watched as she went to the bed, her voice too soft to be heard as she nodded and laid another blanket over its occupant. He scrubbed his face with his hands, jamming a chapped fist against his mouth to stifle the sobs shaking his body. Halbarad shushed him, draping a warm fur-lined cloak across his shoulders.

"I can't do this." Aragorn shook his head as he stared vacantly into the flames, making no effort to stem the steady flow of tears. "I can't say goodbye to her."

"You will never forgive yourself if you let her slip away and say nothing."

Aragorn stood, veering away from Halbarad when the elder man reached for him.

"No! I can't!" He was stopped short by the broad mantel. Teeth clenched, he slammed his fist against it once, twice, three times. "I believed I would be the one to leave her. In spite of all the danger we face I never imagined she would be the one to—"

"To die?"

Aragorn flinched. The words hurt like a blade slipped between his ribs.

"Don't say that! She is elf-kind. This wasn't meant to be her fate."

"Even elves can die, Aragorn. They are not invulnerable, in spite of their immortality. They may fall to sword, famine or heartache just as you or I. You have dwelt among them. Surely in your heart, you knew this."

Tears softened Halbarad's weathered features and made him seem older. Aragorn nodded mutely. He did know, had known. Still, he'd prayed her fate might differ, that she might live thousands of years after his passing just as she had before his birth.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and stepped past Halbarad into the back room. It was dimly lit by a dwindling blaze. Two lanterns hung, barely burning, on either side of the bed where his wife lay. Wool covers hid her face, but he caught a wink of gold against the blankets as Gaerwn prodded the crumbling timber. The embers crunched, lighting the woman's face with a fearsome crimson tinge and turning her tears to blood.

Lillianeth coughed and Gaerwn turned, dropping the poker when she saw Aragorn standing at the end of the bed. Her olive eyes were sad and knowing, as if she knew the guilt he was feeling and the loneliness to come. It unnerved him and he cast his gaze bed in front of him as she left, pulling the door shut behind her.

His chest ached and he took a step closer, consciously releasing the breath he'd been holding. His wife's beautiful face was drained of color, greyish and waxy like one of the dead, her breathing was shallow. With each pause he feared she was already gone. He still couldn't bring himself to speak her name.

She coughed weakly and shuddered, settling back on the thin straw tick. A small bloodied bundle was snugged against her breast and as she dozed she felt it, tightening her grasp as though she feared death would take it from her hands. Her teeth chattered as he sank into the chair beside her bed, draping his fur cloak over her prone form. He slipped his hand beneath the blankets' edge and found her hand. It was ice. He lifted it, holding it to his lips and exhaled slowly, rubbing it between his leathered palms.

"Lia." Her eyes flitted fitfully beneath violet lids. He swallowed and spoke softly in Sindarin. "Lillianeth, can you hear me?"

Slowly her eyes stilled and the soft lashes parted, as if the motion pained her. Her azure eyes struggled to focus. Aragorn pressed her hand and she turned her head, smiling when she saw him. No one had a more beautiful smile than she.

"Hello."

Aragorn returned her smile reflexively and pressed her fingers to his lips.

"Good morning."

She laughed weakly.

"It can't be morning already."

"In two more hours the moon will set. That qualifies as morning."

She sighed, wheezing, but kept her smile.

"Perhaps to you. Most civilized people prefer to see the sun before they declare it morning."

"I'm not most people and I've rarely been accused of being civilized."

"True on both counts," she conceded. "I must, must be de-delirious."

She gently withdrew her hand, clumsily fingering the soiled rags that reeked of soured blood and sweat, frowning when she could not part them. He reached past her, tugging at a loose edge with one finger. His heart shot into his throat and the air rushed from his chest as he beheld the red and wrinkled face of his child.

Speech, had it been under his command, would have been useless. There were no words to express the deepness of his affection, his excitement, or his wonder as he gently touched his child's cheek with the tip of his finger. His wife laughed feebly.

"You won't break her, I promise."

"Her?"

Lillianeth nodded and laid her finger against their daughter's palm, her wan smile widening when five tiny fingers wiggled reflexively and held tight.

"Take her." Aragorn's silver eyes met his wife's blue ones, certain she could see his terror. "She will be yours to care for, Aragorn. I'm," she paused. "I'm not going to be there."

His vision blurred but he nodded as Lillianeth guided his hands, one under the child's neck, and the other at the small of her back. His hands shook and he prayed he wouldn't drop her as he gingerly lifted his daughter from his wife's arms. Tiny was the only word that came to his mind. Her nose, her eyes, her mouth, her ears, everything about her was small. She nearly fit in his two open palms. He touched the tip of her nose, smiling at her dark hair sticking up against the blankets' edge.

"She's beautiful."

"She is the best of us."

Lillianeth stretched out an unsteady hand, smoothing their daughter's dark hair with her fingertips and then shifted, tremulously propping herself up against the emaciated pillows. Aragorn carefully slid his daughter into the crook of his right arm and leaned forward, pulling the covers up around his wife's chest. Mindful of the child in his arm, he stood and stretched out beside his wife, ignoring the smell and stains of her labour bed as he laid the child between them.

Lillianeth smiled, her head tipping slowly toward her chest, eyes fixed on their child. Aragorn turned his head, his lips grazing her temple.

"What will we call her?"

"I leave that to you."

He frowned.

"Lillianeth I—

"I'm too tired to argue, Aragorn. Please, let's not waste what time I have left."

Aragorn tried mightily to swallow the knot in his throat so he could speak, but failed. He nodded instead. Lillianeth kissed his chin and looked down at the child asleep in his arms.

"I wish I could live, just long enough for you to remember me saying that I love you." Resting her cheek on his shoulder, Lillianeth leaned forward and kissed their daughter's head. Tears wet the child's hair as her mother struggled to find the breath to speak. "I-I lo-love you, little one."

Lillianeth laid back, lips still touching her daughter's downy head, an expression of utter peace making her gracious features childlike. Aragorn's heart tightened.

"Lia, no, please. Not yet."

"To all things there is an end, Aragorn," she murmured, her voice barely audible. Aragorn laid his cheek against her hair and breathed deep. "I have lived a good life. Eru blessed me with more than four thousand years. I have played, laughed, fought, wept and been loved by two of the greatest men I have ever known. Now I am a mother. How many have been so blessed?" She smiled. "I am content."

"Please, Lia, don't leave me."

She reached over his arm, her fingertips brushing their daughter's cheek.

"Do you remember what you said, when you were trying to convince me that we should have a child?" Aragorn sniffed loudly and closed his eyes, nodding. "You said our child will be born of our hope for this world, hope that the darkness will one day end, hope that Sauron will one day fall, hope that one day our peoples will be free."

"I remember," he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple and blinking quickly in an effort to stem his tears. "I remember."

"Do not forget it now."

Her violet lids slid slowly closed and he gathered her in his arms, his body framing her slender form, the child nestled between them. His lips brushed her ear as he spoke, his voice low.

"I love you, Lillianeth."

She smiled faintly, squeezing his hand as she snuggled closer to him.

"I love you…Aragorn."

With his name her voice faded forever, her last breath freed from her breast as a single tear skimmed across her cool cheek and loss bled through him.

To be continued…