The Last Day Of Autumn
The afternoon sun shone through the window panes, sending a sprinkle of reddish spots, and her daughter lay dying.
"A day or two," Elrond had replied softly when she asked him. "No more."
The time was running out.
Will he make it?
Gilraen had been rash with her for having him summoned but Ivorwen knew her daughter: during the rare moments of waking, more and more often her eyes travelled from the window to the door, with hope.
Hope that she said she had given up, yet clung to it with the last desperate strength. It was that very hope which kept her alive.
The sound of loud rushing footsteps made Ivorwen startle and exchange glances with Elrond; were it her movement or foreboding, Gilraen opened her eyes. Elrond slowly rose from his chair and moved to the door, his face uncharacteristically stiff.
Ivorwen held her breath: she knew whose footsteps they were, even before her daughter uttered without a shade of doubt: "Estel."
Aragorn arrived before the sunset, spent almost like his horse, after a fortnight's journey almost without rest. He had left Halbarad behind and sped to the house with his, and the horse's, last effort. He ran through the halls, passing the surprised servants, to her room on the first floor, fearing what he would see.
Encountering Elrond in the doorway was certainly what he never expected. He paused, at a loss, but his foster-father gave him no time to recollect himself. "Go to her," he said and stepped aside. "We shall speak later."
Gilraen lay in her bed, propped with pillows to a half-seating position, and breathed with great difficulty; yet her eyes shone at his arrival, and never left his face. Speaking cost her great effort but she did try nonetheless, enquiring about his exploits and well-being with a single word or two. He held her hand and talked till he could see that she was too weary; his own weariness was also getting the better of him, and so he bid her good night and kissed her brow.
"Farewell," she whispered, or something that closely resembled, and his throat tightened so painfully that his "I love you" was rather thought than pronounced. "I'll be here in the morning," he promised.
In the morning, though, she never woke up.
If it was the progress of the disease or the drugs that Elrond administered to her during the night to ease her condition, Aragorn did not know, and did not ask: it was better for her to sleep and not to feel.
Only that he would wish very much that she opened her eyes one more time.
There was actually a moment when her lids moved as he was leaning to her, softly muttering the things he meant to say and did not the previous day; the things that seem pathetic until it comes one's turn to say them. The eyes remained half-opened for some time and he shifted to the centre of her vision.
"It's me, your Estel. I am here. I'm with you," Aragorn said with hope but the eyes remained unfocused until they slowly closed again.
And so he only sat by the bedside and held the hand that did not respond. It was soft and warm, constantly bringing back to his memory how warm and strong that hand had been when he clung to it on countless occasions, eyes wide with fear that only a mother's hand can stay away. The warmth it emanated now was that of building fever, the fever that flushed her cheeks with false rosiness.
It was the breath that betrayed all: the mouth wide agape, the pause between the inspiration and expiration. He had seen it before when the end was near. She would never wake up, her sleep would deepen till the breathing ceased.
Yet, if only she did open her eyes to look at him but once.
If it weren't for the laborious breath, Gilraen looked, in fact, much better than she had for some time. The fluids that swelled her stomach and chest, oppressing the heart and lungs, also rounded her haggard face, smoothed the lines wrought by the illness and pain.
At midday, crisis came, and she was striving for every breath, her chest forcefully rising. They gently held her hands, which would now and then twitch and rise uneasily, and caress her brow and hair. "Let go, darling," Ivorwen muttered, "let go, may Valar guide you."
The end still would not come.
They propped her higher, and placed bowls with fresh athelas concoction at the head of her bed, and Elrond administered a higher dose of drug that deepened her sleep and eased the body's craving for air several times, and that was all. Gilraen lay in a deep slumber, and knew of her pain no more.
If she knew that her son was still with her, holding her hand – Ivorwen certainly hoped so.
As they sat at the opposite sides of the bed, Ivorwen took the chance to look at him now and then when he seemed lost in thought: a stranger to her, this grandchild of hers. She had a memory of a boy of two, tall and slender for his age, whose face beamed with every smile and eyes shone with mischief. Here he was, a grim man, hardened with travels, his hair showing the first threads of grey. He always addressed her with respect, even love, but not that love which roots from the intimacy of the life together. Those lost years could not be made up for.
"There is no other way," her daughter had said in a broken voice, yet her resolution firm. "To keep him safe, he may not know who he is. He will have no memory of his father, or of you. I am so sorry, mama!"
Even after all that time, Ivorwen still felt a shade of grudge for that – even more so that her daughter was never to see grandchildren of her own, if there were any to come at all.
In those last weeks of her life her daughter finally confided why it was that Aragorn still remained unmarried, and the shock of it still reverberated every time she looked at Elrond's composed face. Had she known, she would never have dared to ask for his help.
Yet it was this help that had kept Gilraen alive long enough to see her son one last time. It eased the pain of the fracturing bones; it sustained her on the Elven waybread and herbal brews when she was unable to digest food any more.
And above all, Elrond showed friendship deep and true, taking turns at her bed with Ivorwen, always kind, always helpful.
Ivorwen couldn't help wondering what he must have been thinking all along.
Hours passed, the sun continued its course, its golden glory denying the close breath of winter now at the end of Narbeleth. The trees outside bathed in gold, as if the Golden Wood itself had reached its arms to the distant North to bless the last days of autumn.
The Golden Wood, where the other woman of Aragorn's life now strolled, or led a dance, or sat on the green grass under the mellyrn trees.
Did she know? Was she with him, in her mind? On his journeys, he often had the feeling, but not today.
Of all possible days, black days when he was fighting for his life, running out of strength and despairing, she was not with him now.
Never before had he felt so helpless.
He was no child any more; he had seen death and inflicted it himself countless times, he had sat at a deathbed before. He did understand that this was the way of the world: parents died, while their children continued.
But not his own mother, not yet, not now!
Aragorn remembered how youthful she had always looked to him: rather the age of a sister than mother, the most beautiful woman of his life except the one.
The beauty and the youth were now gone for good. The raven hair, so smooth and glossy, turned all grey since the spring when there were only the first streaks of age.
How was it that he didn't know then?
She did seem thin and unwell but only mentioned a recent illness and let him dwell on it no more; her laughter as vivid as ever, as curious about every detail of his journeys as she always had been. They would talk long into the night, making up for the time that he had spent away, till it seemed that they had parted but for a couple of days.
It was only the last night that she grew silent and finally voiced the foreboding which he refused to believe. He embraced her, and bade her look after herself better; he would return sooner and were he to find out that she didn't eat enough, he would send for the grandmother to feed her oatmeal every morning.
The grandmother did arrive to take care of her after Gilraen's condition deteriorated so badly that the servants disobeyed her orders and sent word of her illness to Ivorwen, who in turn notified Elrond, who arrived personally in no time. And since Gilraen refused to be moved elsewhere, both stayed.
Both were also evasive when Aragorn enquired about the details of her condition, though Elrond did explain to him the nature of the disease which was devouring her from within, gnawing holes in her bones which ruptured with her mere weight.
Having answered his questions, Elrond retired to his chamber and only turned up in regular intervals to check on Gilraen's state, leaving the vigil to him and Ivorwen.
The woman who lay on her deathbed was their only link; the other one who was not there stood between them like a wall of silence.
The long night passed without any change. Aragorn and Ivorwen took turns in uneasy drowse until the greying sky announced the arrival of the new day. The sun remained hidden behind the shroud of clouds; hoarfrost outlined every single blade of grass.
Winter came, in a matter of night.
Another day was to be lived through in waiting.
"She can feel your presence," Elrond had said, "that's why she lingers on."
Ivorwen gently wiped her daughter's perspiring brow and sighed. "I suppose I should wash her a little and change her sheets. You may want to stretch your legs meanwhile."
Aragorn rose reluctantly and bent to kiss Gilraen's cheek. "I'll be back soon," he whispered in her ear. "I'll be back but –" he added in a sudden impulse, "you needn't wait for me any longer." He kissed her once more and left the room, avoiding Elrond's eyes as they met in the hall.
The air was chilly but fresh to his muffled senses. He made a few steps on the lawn, then looked down the mild slope opening to the valley. The bright autumn leaves hung limp, no breeze stirred to rip them pre-timely. A movement caught his attention: a couple of goldfinches pecked on a dry thistle.
Aragorn turned to look back at the house. The weathered palisade stood strong, a protection against the outside enemy, yet unable to stop one attacking from within.
This was the house where he had spent the first two years of his life: his father's house, and of his father, and of his father's father before, where generations of the Dúnedain chieftains were born and grew up.
"It was my husband's house where I was happy though the time was brief," his mother had said once, "and I was loath to leave it even for your sake; and I will not leave it again, ever." He had no memory of the place, or anything of his previous life, for that matter, but he did feel the bond as he was walking under the mighty beams blackened with age. It was the place where the Dúnedain chieftains were born, and some of them died.
His own children will be born elsewhere if his hope is fulfilled; the chill already piercing his body made that hope seem even fainter than ever before.
"Arwen," he said softly with longing, "oh, Arwen."
He shook his head and slowly strode to the trees, alarming the goldfinches from their breakfast.
"Aragorn!"
At first he did not recognize the voice as Elrond's, so changed it was with desperate urge; when he did, his heart missed a beat. There was no reason, unless –
He sped to the house, gasping aloud after that short distance as if a crumpling hand clutched at his chest.
Too late.
As he stopped in the doorway, he met Ivorwen's eyes as she shook her head helplessly; tears were dripping from her jaw on the fresh linen. She still held her daughter's hand but except for her sobs, the room was quiet.
With a moan, Aragorn fell on his knees by the bedside, taking the other hand in his. It was still warm, as well as the cheek and brow as he embraced her, but the breast heaved no more.
"It's alright," he said to no-one in particular, "it's alright, I told her she needn't wait." His voice broke in tears, though, saying that. It was not alright, and never will.
He was not aware of Elrond's presence until he felt his arms around his shoulders: first reluctant, then firm as they always had been. With his vision blurred, it took him a moment to realize that his foster-father's face was also streaked with tears, and that for the time being, the unspoken was forgiven, if not forgotten.
Together they held Gilraen, daughter of Dírhael, who gave hope to the Dúnedain and kept none for herself; who gave up much and received little in reward.
Only time could show if her hope was not for vain.
Author's note: Although Elrond was not originally embittered when young Aragorn fell in love with Arwen, they later became betrothed without his approval. He may have viewed the development of their relationship as partial breaking of the condition that he had set for Aragorn to achieve, thus becoming estranged from his foster-son for some time.
In memoriam of my mother, 13/4/1941 - 1/11/2009
Memoria tua tenemus, tenebimus.