Gilraen trudged wearily up the winding ramp to Elrond's apartments. These elves never bothered to shovel the snow – why would they, when their whisper-light elf feet didn't even sink in the stuff? But she would have welcomed a smoother path. She could feel her sturdy leather boots wetten steadily as she went, and she grumped under her breath about that, too. Soon her woolen stockings would be soaked through, and then 'twas only a matter of time before the cold seeped into her bones. She'd end this day with a strong posset and an ache, she knew. But this task had to be done, and today was as good as tomorrow for it.
She paused to catch her breath and swept a glance back over Rivendell, her home these last two-score and eight years. Beautiful it was, a thing to tug at dreams. She remembered being utterly enchanted, and not a little overawed, when first she'd climbed this spire, when first she'd soaked in this view. She'd been a girl then, clutching her bundle of warm and wonderful babe. Clutching all of her own future and possibility, too, she supposed. And just look how that had turned out.
But coming here had kept her son safe for a time, and for that she reckoned her own hopes well sacrificed. Not that her Estel was safe now, o'course. Grown to manhood was that babe, now off seeking his fortune gods-knew-where. Every night beside her fire, Gilraen looked into his future, seeking by her foresight to know him safe. Some nights were easier than others. She knew already that his heart was lost, but she could do nothing about that now. She'd been too late with the sight when it came to Arwen, a thing Gilraen knew she'd live to regret.
Her breath was coming easier now, after her pause, and she flexed her fingers stoutly, gathered her will, and started up the spire once more.
Gilraen recalled a girlhood friend, Marget, a pretty ginger-haired thing who'd been sore afraid of high places, to the point that she hadn't even climbed trees with the other children in Eriador. Well, it were good Marget hadn't married the Chieftain and ultimately found her way to this haven in the mountains, Gilraen thought now. It were good Gilraen was made of stronger stuff. For elves, though they didn't so much fly, sure had a way of living above the ground.
Her boots slurched in the last bit of snow before the door, and she thumped her knuckles against the arch. Across the room, Elrond looked up from his long parchment. The frown he'd been sporting eased when he saw Gilraen in his doorway.
She stepped just inside, warmed by his presence if not by the tiny fire in the ingle by his chair.
"Well, I'm leaving," she told him brusquely, shifting her weight from one squishy boot to the other. Elrond looked long into her eyes, seeing, she reckoned, much more than her care-lined face or fading hair. His gentle eyes said that he saw her spirit and honored it, that he always had. She'd been in a fair way to loving him for it, once. But she didn't have much patience for these long looks and soul-reading anymore. Her life had moved on, even if his had not.
"I had hoped you would stay," he said, rising and offering her the low chair by the fire.
"Nothing left to stay for," she snapped, knowing that her tone was rude. And knowing just as plain that Elrond wouldn't mind it. In all these years, he'd never risen to her bait. He'd never once lost his irritating self-possession. She took another step into the room but ignored the chair. He remained standing.
"He will return," Elrond said. "I have foreseen it."
"Humpf," replied Gilraen.
"And you must know that you are welcome to wait for him here." That voice, all heavy with wisdom and knowledge, had lulled her into believing the most ridiculous of her dreams, but Gilraen figured herself proof against that nonsense now. She pursed her lips.
"He'll know where to find me, if he comes looking to do so. But if he comes back here, it won't be for me, Elrond." Gilraen met Elrond's gaze squarely. They both knew who tethered Aragorn to this place. If Elrond had been a Man he would have winced.
Instead he drew those fine brows together, and he crossed the deep knotted rug. He took Gilraen's cold hands within his own and looked down at her from his lofty height. Once her pride would have balked at being so far below someone, but years had granted her humility. She was able to look Elrond in the eye and bear no shame for who she was, for the fact that her feet sank in snow and her hair shot with silver and her son loved so far above his station.
"May all our sacrifices lead to this, that the kingship of Men may be restored," said Elrond. His hands were cool as the snow.
"I hope you do indeed see such things," Gilraen said bitterly, "for my own sight grows clouded. All I see is darkness and despair, and a lone warrior, blood of my blood, far in the southlands and alone. I thought coming here would save him from a life of warring. I was wrong."
"Perhaps such toil hones him for another fate. A better one," Elrond still sought to reassure her, bless him, even when he must have realized all that such fate would entail. But Gilraen just shook her head and wiggled her hands free of the elf-lord's clasp. She tsked behind her teeth but said no other words.
These elves, they'd fostered her hope in more ways than one, but in the end she'd come here laden with potential and would leave with regret. She trudged back down the spiral of Elrond's apartments, her heart now empty but strangely no less heavy for its loss.