A LAST REMAINING HOPE
By: Rai
Rated: PG

Author's Note: When I began this story, using the prompt "Mothers" for the May 2010 edition of the Teitho! Fanfiction Contest, I had no knowledge of the fan-made movie Born of Hope. In fact, my discovering of the movie, which chronicled the relationship of Gilraen and Arathorn, was in fact an act of happenstance in that it was found while double-checking the accents found within the Elvish. As it were, in tribute to the impressive quality of said movie, which I would highly recommend to any fan of The Lord of the Rings, I subsequently altered my own tale somewhat so that events that had passed in Born of Hope are applicable within the canon of this story, though without explicitly referencing it.
Spoilers: It reveals Aragorn, also known as Strider, for whom he truly is and will become as well as much of what goes on within the appendices. But otherwise, nothing of true consequence is spoiled within the books or otherwise.
Disclaimer: I am not the owner nor creator nor the writer of Middle-earth or The Lord of the Rings, nor am I owners of any of the movies, nor coincidentally, do I claim any ownership with Born of Hope. I am not making any money out of this and am doing this for pure personal enjoyment. Any canonical and grammar errors are slips of my own.
Summary: And Gilraen knew that if by her life or death she would see that Aragorn lived then she would give it. For he was her son, and the last remaining hope of Man.

Part 1 – Onen i-Estel Edain

"We cannot tarry here."

Gilraen raised her eyes, roused from her repose. Elladan, a son of Elrond, had emerged from the darkness of the still spring night into the camp. His poise concealed his haste, for he was an elf born with the grace of the Eldar so that his footsteps made no sound as they tread lightly upon the ground beneath his soft boots.

His brother Elrohir ceased his softly sung song to the stars above as he stood to behold his brother with an expression on his face that bellied his concern. It is not often that Elladan would express such urgency. But the evening had an ill-wind about it, and that was enough reason for Elladan to seek out the cause of the disturbance.

"Then they are close," said Elrohir grimly, and Gilraen saw that the light in his eyes were cold and hard. "I had hoped that we had gained a march upon our foes when we stole away in the night. But alas! We must have misjudged them."

"We have time yet before they overtake us, but it would be unwise to remain as we are," said Elladan as he began to collect what little that had been unpacked upon their arrival. His face was concealed by the deepening gloom of the late night. But the night was not deep enough to conceal the dull gleam of the sword he held in hand from Gilraen.

"Then I will ready the horses," said Elrohir. "And we should depart while we are still able. We are not far from the Fords of Bruinen. And the river will be able to provide us some protection. Hopefully they will not pursue this too much further so that nothing ill befalls us before we cross."

Elladan turned his eyes expectantly over to Gilraen as he walked. "I am sorry that this night will not be as restful as hoped, young lady," said Elladan gently, his eyes filled with a sympathetic light. "If I had been but more conscientious, there would have been little need for this perilous and difficult journey."

"I have told you many times, son of Elrond, that I hold to you and your brother no blame or fault for my husband's end," said Gilraen calmly. "All knew of the dangers when he went to drive the invading Orcs back into the mountains. That his end would befall him so early in his life is but the consequences of our struggle against the dark forces of this world."

"And yet, it does not lessen my sorrow to see one so young and fair as you widowed, that you should have to know the pains of this struggle so early in life," responded Elladan quietly, averting his gaze. "It pains me further knowing that your son is now in danger, due to the passing of the father he will now never know."

She looked upon the young child curled beneath the blankets next to her, his thumb tucked gently in his mouth as he slumbered. At two years of age, he slept peacefully; blissfully unaware of the dangers that now pursued him, a state which she envied. Sleep had all but abandoned her since the death of her husband a fortnight ago by way of an ill-fated Orc arrow. Now she knew only the terror and worries that fraught her existence.

It was for her son that she had fled under the watchful care of Elrond's sons. For it came to pass that the Enemy was seeking the last remaining heirs of Isildur in the North, so that he may destroy them. And there would be much peril to the boy if found; for there was now only one. Only Aragorn remained of that once noble line, diminished by time and hard struggle since the fall of the North-kingdom under Arvedui Last-king. And so she rode with the elves towards the haven of the Last Homely House in Imladris, a place that has long fostered Isildur's children, though not since Isildur's youngest son Valandil was born in Rivendell did it foster a child as young as her only son.

But there, she hoped, he would be safe.

Yet even with fair warning, it still seemed that they had left too late. The Wilds have proven to have become a dangerous place, beset by many dangers, as they journeyed south and east from her former home among the Dúnedain, the last remnant of the faithful. Several times already they had only barely avoided confrontation with the Enemy, and only the skill and ability of Elrond's sons made their safe passage possible to this point.

She placed a soft hand on his shoulders, shaking him gently as she cooed, "Aragorn, Aragorn, ion-nin. Cuivo! Awake!"

The little boy stirred, his grey eyes fluttering as he opened them slowly. "Lau, naneth," he muttered drowsily, shaking his head, little brown curls falling onto his face.

"I am sorry, little one, but we must go," she whispered softly as she lifted him to his feet. "We cannot stay, ion-nin, it is not safe for you here."

He yawned fitfully, but did not protest further. Instead he held up his arms to her. Smiling sadly, she embraced him, lifting him in her arms, humming softly into his ear as she followed Elladan to where they had settled their horses earlier in the night.

The only sound that could be heard was her gentle voice, for the air had grown still and silent, as if it were the first breath before a gathering storm. Elladan listened for awhile before he said, "It is a beautiful song that you sing, Gilraen."

Gilraen broke her song to look towards Elladan and said quietly, "It was my husband's favourite song, and so has become my son's." She looked towards the sky, her eyes shining as if recalling a distant, joyful memory, but they dimmed as she then said, "It is unusual for danger to tread so close to the Fords of Bruinen."

"It is, but these are darker times, my lady," said Elladan sadly. "I fear we may see greater dangers walk these paths still ere the end of this Age, though it is my heartfelt wish and hope that you or yours should not live to see it."

"A wise man once told me that it is not ours to decide what times we must live through," said Gilraen, gently caressing her son. "We can only decide what we can do with what time we are given."

Elladan blinked, and she thought she saw but a ghost of a smile on his face as he said: "Rarely will you hear wiser words. But come, Gilraen, for Elrohir is waiting and there is little time left to waste."

And so it happened that they would ride into the dark of night towards the Fords of Bruinen, her son drowsily slumbering in the saddle before her, held in place by one arm, so that the other held the horse's bridle. Only the light of the fading moon warned them of any impediment that would endanger their passage in the night. And so they moved with care, and they would frequently pause so to allow one of Elrond's sons to listen for sounds unaccounted. But the only sound that greeted them was silence.

The night deepened as the moon flew past its zenith, and the disquiet grew. She could barely see the silhouette of Elladan who rode before her, but saw enough to notice the tension in his back as his head swivelled about, looking into a night that refused to reveal its dark secrets.

And she worried.

"Sleepy," moaned little Aragorn grumpily as he began to squirm in his seat. "Sleep, Naneth."

"Hush, little one, we will rest soon," lied Gilraen urgently as she looked up at Elladan again, whose weapon had left its sheath.

"Now," he cried softly, still squirming.

"No, my son," she said more firmly, looking back at Elrohir who rode behind her. But he was too far away in the dark for her to be able to see the expression on his face.

"NOW!"

Aragorn's scream surprised her so that the hand that held her rein jerked back suddenly, causing the horse to rear dangerously. And then it seemed everything happened at once. Elladan cried out, galloping heedlessly into the bush on the left as Gilraen dropped the rein to grab her son and the saddle in front of her before either fell from their precarious perch upon their horse, the wind whistling sharply in her ear. Elrohir's horse screamed suddenly and inexplicably toppled, and he only barely managed to avoid becoming crushed by his own mount as he tumbled off of it. But such is the grace of the Eldar that barely had he fallen to the ground did he rise again, hand on her rein and weapon in hand as he stood protectively in front of them, scanning the landscape.

Little Aragorn sobbed pitifully in her arms, a miserable, grumpy little thing, though Gilraen expected little less from one as young as he. How could she expect him to understand the danger they were in, and the need for them to remain quiet? Hopelessly, she could only rock him gently, humming a soft song in his ear in the hopes of calming him enough so that he would cease his sad little cries.

As her son settled back into a restless daze, other sounds began to fill her ears, harsh and uninvited, distant though they were. And it chilled her blood, for it was the sound of steel upon steel, mixed in with the cruel, terrified cries of other, more sinister persons.

"They have found us," she said faintly, fear lacing her voice.

And then Elrohir spoke. "The path up the east bank along the Fords of Bruinen will be on your left," he said quietly but firmly. "Trust your horse, Narandir. He knows the way home. And he is a swift creature."

She turned to look upon him and speak as she understood what it was that he was asking her to do, but a look from him, even in the dark, told her that he wanted her to be silent. So she held her silence, allowing her fears to remain unspoken.

At length, he finally broke their silent tryst. "I cannot come with you," he said finally, "for though you were fortunate to have avoided the bolt that was aimed for your life, my horse was much less fortunate."

She froze in her saddle. A bolt? thought Gilraen anxiously. Surely not! But then her blood ran cold as she remembered the sound of a swift wind blowing in her ear, though there had been no wind to speak of for many an hour. Slowly, she turned her head to her right. In the trunk, a mere stone's throw from where she now stood, a viciously crafted crossbow arrow was buried deep into the trunk of a tree.

A lump of fear rose in her throat.

She felt warmed steel being pressed into the palm of her left hand by Elrohir. She looked down to see him bequeathing his sword to her. "Can you use this, daughter of the West?" he asked.

She opened her mouth to deny his gift, to refuse to accept the task that it represented, but instead she said: "I am of the Dúnedain, son of Elrond, and a daughter of the Wild. I have learnt to wield a sword, and know it well."

"Then I give unto you this sword so that you may protect yourself and yours from harm, though it is my hope that you will not need to," said Elrohir softly, releasing his blade that she now held aloft. She gazed awhile in wonder of the weapon, for it was light and well balanced. "I will have less need of this than you will in the near future." His eyes looked upon hers, cold and hard as midwinter's ice in the Misty Mountains. "It is not I that they seek or pursue."

She clutched her son to her breast a little tighter, her body tense as she swayed on her horse, heart pounding.

He patted her horse's nose gently. "Tollen i lû, Narandir," said Elrohir softly. "Noro lim."

She barely had time to grip the pommel of her saddle with her her hand, that same arm holding Aragorn close to her breast as the steed suddenly sprang forward into the night. Tears stung the corner of her eyes as she raced further away from Elrohir, and her last hope of protection.

She was alone now.

Only she remained between the safety of her son and the untimely end of the last remaining hope for Man.

TBC