To Rivendell

In the beginnings of spring in the harsh North, a woman held her young child. This was no ordinary woman, nor was the child any more ordinary than she.

She was Gilraen of the Dunedain, wife of the now-deceased Arathorn II. The child she cradled so lovingly in her arms was her only child: Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dunedain and last surviving heir of Isildur.

Gilraen grieved deeply for Arathorn, for she loved him with all of her being. But her mind turned to her son. She feared for the babe's very life. Arathorn had been an exceptionally strong man and a great warrior. Aragorn was only two years old. "He cannot die!" she cried out into the swift wind.

She stood and listened to her voice resonate for a moment before her thoughts began to turn. She could not protect Aragorn by herself, and she would not surrender him to a stranger.

Examining the woods surrounding her, she stealthily crept to a part of the woods where the trees thickened and sat between two exceptionally huge maple trees. Gilraen now rejoiced in her youth. Whenever she was alone for a while, she had slipped off into any nearby woods and practiced the skill that all Rangers pride themselves in: the ability to blend with the trees in an almost elvish fashion. Gilraen had had plenty of harsh words for her "masculine pastimes", but she now rejoiced in the skill she had hones in her youth.

Her thoughts returned to Aragorn, who was sleeping peacefully, to her exceptional good luck. She couldn't care for him by herself, even if they never left the woods. Trolls...she shuddered with an amalgamation of hatred and fear at the thought. Trolls were the thrice-cursed creatures that had slain Arathorn.

All the names of the realms of Middle-earth ran through her head. Rivendell. Yes! she thought.

Suddenly, Aragorn awoke and began to cry. Gilraen could not stand the sight of his blue-grey eyes filling up with tears. She cradled him near to her heart.

"Shh, my dear. We are going to Rivendell."