Rivendell was gorgeous, nestled at the feet of the Misty Mountains—which towered so high above that their peaks weren't visible for the clouds that wreathed them—and filled with the music of many waterfalls both large and small splashing down from the mountains into frigid streams that would, eventually, wend their way to the Bruinen. Golden sunlight glimmered on the falls, and made the trees glow like living gems.
Gilraen hardly noticed any of it, or anything about Elrond's house, except that it was big and open and beautiful in ways that combined elegance with comfort, that weren't intimidating even when they probably should have been. She was barely able to keep herself together enough to thank Master Elrond for his kindness and hospitality.
The first few days passed in a blur. Gilraen slept more than she should have, dragging herself out of bed to care for Aragorn only with great difficulty. For his part, Aragorn was delighted with everything, from his new bed to the chest filled with cleverly-carved wooden toys, which he soon had strewn about the nursery, since Gilraen could not find the energy to pick them up. "Mama, look!" he kept exclaiming, holding up cleverly carved horses, or bears, or eagles.
"Yes, I see," she would reply, nodding in approval, but her head was whirling with other images—of a cloak-wrapped body, soaked and splattered with blood, the twin sons of Elrond with matching expressions of worry and guilt and grief, of a hurried funeral in the pouring rain, a lonely, anonymous cairn in the wilds because the Dúnedain did not dare set aside a proper place for the tombs of their dead—not even for their Chieftains. A grave she could never visit, a husband she could never see or speak to or kiss again.
Children she would never bear.
The Elves left them alone, for the most part. Or at least, they left Gilraen alone. Elladan or Elrohir made a point to come take Aragorn exploring in the gardens or down by the river, which thrilled him and let Gilraen breathe. Or try to breathe. She felt like she was drowning. So mostly, when Aragorn was elsewhere, she slept, pathetically grateful that she did not dream.
She wasn't quite sure how much time passed like that. A week, at least. But finally someone came to extend an invitation for lunch from Master Elrond, and Gilraen forced herself to get dressed properly, and braid her hair and pin it up, so she looked at least a little less haggard. There wasn't much she could do for the circles under her eyes, or the weight she'd lost, but…
Lunch was to be had on a little veranda overlooking a garden, filled with roses, lilies, and niphredil. Gilraen could hear the waterfalls in the distance, and somewhere in the garden someone was playing a flute. Elrond rose to greet her, with a gentle smile and kind eyes, and if he noticed the dark circles or how her dress hung more loosely on her shoulders than it should have, he didn't say anything. Instead they sipped at glasses of sweet wine while they ate, and Elrond spoke of harmless, inconsequential things like the weather, and how Aragorn seemed to be settling nicely into the life and routines at Rivendell. Gilraen felt herself starting to relax; breathing was easier, and the food tasted less like ashes in her mouth.
But when the meal was over, Elrond watched Gilraen sip her wine for a moment before saying, with painful gentleness, "We must talk about your son."
Gilraen carefully set her wine glass down, and clasped her hands together tightly in her lap. Of course they had to talk about Aragorn—he was the reason they were here in Rivendell, because Elladan had said the Enemy was looking for him, the Enemy was seeking to destroy the line of Isildur in the North, just as the line of Anárion had ended in the South. At the time Gilraen had still been reeling from the news of Arathorn's death, and had not even thought to argue with them, or with her father, when they said it was too dangerous to remain at home. Now the idea of her son being hunted really sank in, and she felt suddenly cold, in spite of the wine and the sunshine. "He'll be safe here," she said, glancing at Elrond. "Won't he?" That was why they had come.
"Yes," Elrond said. "But…" He paused, a frown creasing his forehead. Gilraen clenched her hands together tighter. "Imladris is not as Lothlórien," he said finally. "Travelers come and go freely; it has always been so. And so we must keep your lineage, and your son's, a secret—it must never be spoken of."
Gilraen could already see that she would not like whatever it was Elrond intended to propose. But she nodded, slowly.
"Aragorn is still too young to understand that," Elrond continued, speaking very gently now. He fiddled absently with his napkin on the table; Gilraen thought distantly how funny it was that even great Elven lords fidgeted. "And so it all must be kept secret even from him."
"It all—you mean—" Gilraen choked, all the implications hitting her at once. "But his father," she protested. "He'll barely remember Arathorn as it is, and what you want is to have those memories fade entirely? What am I to tell him when he asks where his father is, why he isn't here with us? Because he will ask, and—"
"And you will tell him the truth," Elrond said, still agonizingly gently.
"Half the truth," Gilraen said, unable to mask the bitterness that welled up suddenly, leaving a bad taste in her mouth and making it hard to swallow. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the heady scent of roses, and tried to stop her hands from shaking.
Because Elrond was right. Rivendell was safe, but it was meant to be safe for anyone who needed it, from Elves to Halflings, and Aragorn could not spend his childhood hidden away in some back room whenever there were visitors. "For how long?" she asked finally, opening her eyes. "How long must this deception last?"
Elrond regarded her with clear grey eyes that held a surprising amount of sadness—though Gilraen did not know if that was for her, or for Arathorn, or for something else entirely. "Until he is old enough to understand and shoulder the burden of his inheritance," he said finally. "Until then, let his childhood be as carefree as we can make it."
Gilraen nodded numbly.
She stayed there long after Elrond excused himself. Someone exchanged her goblet of wine for a glass of a cordial they called miruvor. It was cool and sweet, and refreshing, but as she stared out over the valley, Gilraen thought she would trade this place of immortal beauty for her mother's kitchen, with the smoke-stained hearth and the knife-scored table, and a cup of steaming tea in a heartbeat. Master Elrond was one of the Wise, but it was Ivorwen's advice that Gilraen truly craved, delivered with a gentle smile and a request for help kneading bread or mending one of her brothers' shirts. But she thought she knew what Ivorwen would say—she would say that Elrond was right.
That night Gilraen dreamed. She stood in a great hall with high vaulted ceilings, its walls covered with many colorful banners, all the seats filled with men and women dressed in finery. And at the head of it all was a man resplendent in silver and black, sitting before a matching banner upon which a great White Tree had been embroidered, surrounded by seven stars wrought with gems, and above them all a white crown. On his brow sat a great winged crown, and he was smiling at her.
But she'd barely gotten a look at him before a great black abyss opened, and the scene in the hall stretched away and almost out of sight, remaining a white light like a distant star as fires and bloody swords and dark forests springing up from the writhing darkness. And over it all the sky turned red, like blood or like fire, and Gilraen felt the gaze of a great eye bearing down, cat-like, never resting or blinking, always searching—
She woke with a strangled gasp, choking on a scream as she jolted up and found herself twisted up in the sheets and soaked in sweat that left her chilled as she kicked herself free of the bed and stood. The window was open, and she could hear crickets outside, and somewhere the quiet hoot of an owl.
Gilraen shivered, but didn't stop to find a robe before going to check on Aragorn. He slept soundly in the nursery, clutching a cloth rabbit as he slept the peaceful, dreamless sleep of childhood. He had been the man in her dream, she knew, with that strange certainty that came with such visions and forebodings. Only rarely was she struck with such foresight, and never before had she had such a clear and awful dream, and she wished she knew what it meant.
After kissing Aragorn's messy curls, Gilraen dressed and left their rooms, unwilling to try to find sleep again. The dream would fade, eventually, but she didn't think the fear pressing down on her would—not for a long while.
She found herself after a while in Rivendell's library. She lit a lamp and wandered among the shelves, trailing her fingers over the leather binding of book after book. Books of lore, books of poetry, scholarly works on botany and healing and other subjects Gilraen was not familiar with.
Open on one of the tables, she found a book of genealogies. She turned the pages idly, finding the House of Finwë, the House of Elwë, and various others—Bëor, Hador, Eorl the Young. She turned the page and found herself looking at the line of Eärendil. It was strange to see how it stopped with Elrond's children on one branch, but continued on and on in the other through Elros, eventually turning into a chronicle of the Kings of Númenor, and then the line of Elendil and those of his sons.
Outside a nearby window, Gilraen could see the star of Eärendil, shining steadily in the darkness. She wondered if he could see what went on below him, what he thought of his son's last, struggling heirs. She had been named for that star, having been born at its rising on a moonless night. Ever the sight of it had been a sign of hope—not only for the Dúnedain, but for everyone who dwelled in Middle-earth.
She thought of her dream, of that brief image of her son come into his full inheritance, and of all that stood in his way. The Enemy—whoever it was, in this Age—was moving, growing stronger with each passing year. How could anyone hope to overcome such a shadow that only kept rising, again and again, no matter how many times it was cast down?
Before Gilraen realized it, morning had come, pale light streaming through the windows. Aragorn would be waking, soon. She rose, extinguished the lamp, and turned the book back to the page to which it had been open when she found it, not wishing to disturb anyone's studies.
Aragorn was still asleep when Gilraen returned. She took the chance to change into a fresh gown and to brush her hair, which was a matted mess after the night before. Her thoughts were still caught up in stars and trees and the great legendary figures from whom she was descended.
And as she pinned up her hair, Gilraen recalled suddenly her mother's words when Dírhael had opposed the match with Arathorn: The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people. And later, at Aragorn's naming, she'd spoken in a moment of foresight, claiming to see a green stone upon his breast, and from that his true name shall come and his chief renown: for he shall be a healer and a renewer.
Gilraen stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't feel at all hopeful—the darkness ahead loomed too large and too deep—but that didn't matter. She could nurture the hope in Aragorn—the hope he was meant to embody, and she would make sure he was prepared to meet that darkness, and to heal and renew the world after it was defeated. She did not know what her mother had meant when she said Aragorn's true name would come from a stone, but she did know until Elrond deemed the time right, he could no longer be Aragorn.
He was awake when she returned to the nursery, just preparing to start calling for her. "Mama!" he exclaimed, smiling as he reached for her. "Morning, Mama!"
Gilraen scooped him up and kissed his cheeks. "Good morning, Estel," she said.
Note: The quotations from Ivorwen in Italics are taken from "The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen" in Appendix A of The Return of the King and the forward of The Peoples of Middle-earth, respectively.