Gilraen looks up sharply at the knock on my door, and the worry line between her brows deepens. I have watched that line grave itself into her face, along with the others that furrow her forehead, that trace now the contours of a mouth that must have brought Arathorn much joy once. She has a lovely smile, and doubtless it was the lovelier in her youth. And she has very light eyes, save for the shadows in them that speak of gravity beyond all years-I can see in them what might have drawn a man to her, even one such as Arathorn was, though I know him only through a chance meeting, and otherwise through my brothers' words and memories. Such a short-lived marriage: four years only.
Four years. Together, we rise when the knock is repeated, and Gilraen is quick to fetch the basket full of our embroidery as we move to settle ourselves in the dayroom, closing the door to my bedroom behind us. None go there save with my permission, and who has such permission these days? None but Gilraen. And as I settle myself, Gilraen goes to answer the knock. There is a brief, low-pitched exchange, as I consider how best to further my design, and then the door shuts again. Gilraen approaches, letter in hand. "From your brothers," she says, holding it out to me.
"Ah. The truants have finally thought to make amends for their wandering ways which take them everywhere but home," I say, and mean it to be amusing. But Gilraen merely nods, and the lines about her mouth grow deeper as her lips press tightly together. Of course, there has been no word from Aragorn for some time. I know only that Mithrandir and he have some errand, as my father tells it. Naturally, that puts the seal on all word of either of their activities-wizards and meddling and proverbs being much in the minds of all those who would oppose the Enemy. Still, it is hard, and since that day in Lothlórien, I know too well Gilraen's cares and fears, for they are mine as well. Four years...
She was not much in favor of her son's ambition; I need not guess, for she told me as much when first I sought her out to learn more of the strange young man I had met in the woods. The strange young man who brought thought of Lúthien's choice to mind with unexpected force. Wherefore should I have felt the touch of that kinship, who have seen every one of his ancestors but two grow old and die in Middle-earth? Elendil and Isildur, of course I knew not; for the rest, whether I knew them or knew of them, it was ever the same: the heralds came to announce their deaths with a certain comfortable regularity.
But all the Chieftains after Aranarth, these I have known; a very few I have seen die among us, but usually, they prefer to return home to the Angle to die, if indeed they leave it once they have left the duties of Captain of the North to their sons. And so it has been this Age, and I have not missed overmuch any of them, though they were none of them unworthy Men. That Gilraen's brash young son could compel my interest was unexpected, and if I thought it at first but the passing interest that novelty inspires, the times have shown otherwise. The ring I bear now shows otherwise, stark as my own surprise, for ere I saw him that day in Lothlórien, none of our other meetings had made me suspect that he would not need even to ask–to decide me, it was enough to see him, to walk with him, to listen to what the years had added to his voice.
I think that Gilraen, even, does not understand this. Aragorn is her son, and all her hope, but that does not mean that we understand each other very well on the matter of our mutual but differing love, though we have had some years to grope towards each other in that respect. Still, I think she does not approve wholly; I would say it matters not, but that would not be honest. It matters much, to both of us (nay, to all of us), and I would have it clear between us. Valar willing, there will be time still, though watching her grow thin, I begin to feel in earnest the passage of time that flows more swiftly away than silent misapprehension.
But despite that, she has been my companion, and my tutor, strange though that may sound. I know of the Angle, and of some of its ways, but I have not studied to learn much of its people until very lately. Gilraen is glad to speak of her home, though it pains her to remember what she misses, and what she cannot regain, even were she to leave us. But she is also conscientious, and since Aragorn and I have chosen each other, she has taken it upon herself to speak of the duties of the wife of the Chieftain. Men have peculiar customs–blind, I would say, tempered by their ignorance of what is to an Elf evident; ritual based on words alone, and yet it seems to satisfy. And so I, too, trust to their custom without understanding it, to learn what that is like. "Elves have memory to rely upon, but Men have signs," Gilraen has said. "The Lady of the Angle is a sign, and the keeper of signs, and through her wisdom, the Dúnedain remain Dúnedain, even though the Chieftain be often away. She is law-giver in his absence, and guardian of our ways. Should a queen be any less?"
A sign and keeper of signs. And so we sit in the recesses of my chambers, and I weave, while she amuses herself with stitchery, and we talk. She has such a different voice... And when others interrupt, we conspire to hide what we together make. My father in particular would not be best pleased, but my father has not been best pleased for many years now, though he has at least grown to accept Aragorn's occasional presence in Imladris with better grace than he once did, when first he learned of our decision. Still, there is no reason to concern him with this. Seven stars, and seven stones, and one white tree... and four years for Gilraen and Arathorn. She has done this in her turn, and it seems to me a morbid custom to give such a bride-gift on her wedding day. But one sees the logic of it, sadly. "Crowns and scepters are solid. They give the illusion of permanence. But the Lady of the Angle knows better; Men know better, though men allow themselves sometimes to be deceived. The House of Isildur endures not in itself, but in the succession of its members, in their living and begetting before death; so it is fitting to have a sign that endures, but only through being ever remade."
Mayhap, but an Elf does not undertake to make aught with the thought that it shall not endure, that it should be only for a little while, though we know well that our greatest works in Middle-earth shall be lost to us. Nevertheless, we each of us have some small thing that we have made that must come with us to Valinor, there to endure so long as Arda does. And so, knowing that I shall never come to Valinor, what I would have put into the making of that one thing, I give now to the weaving of this mortal tissue. I shall attempt to create as a mortal does, as the Lady of the Angle does. But not wholly so. Black cloth can be a shroud, and so the Dúnedain see it before they see the crest, for it is the tradition that a king, even uncrowned, goes to the grave with his standard. His standard–it becomes his body if that comes not home, bones and burial cloth in one.
But before all, it must be a standard, else it could not serve its other purpose. Therefore I will make no shroud in anticipation of untimely loss–no. My heart and such wisdom as I have say that the trial is yet to come, and that Aragorn and I are doomed to face it in its full fury. So be it! It may all run to dust and death–this we know. But I would have this length of cloth, symbol of my own death, be first the flag of hope–born of hope, to be borne by Hope, that in hope together we may bear all things.