In this tale, a story of Gilraen and her sacrifices, I have taken liberties with her and Arathorn's feelings. I do not claim these to be the intention of J. R. R. Tolkien. And since we're on the subject, I don't claim ownership, either. I make no profit from this.
The gentle breezes of the valley brush her hair as she sits by the window watching the never-faltering, ever-lasting world of Imladris go by, and she wonders why.
Why she is here, and why her love had to die, and why said love must be the heir of kings, and why her son now bears that burden, and why, Sweet Eru, why?
It has only been a few weeks, how could it be, only a mere few weeks, insignificant even in the eyes of the Edain, let alone the Eldar, who watch mountains rise and fall, unchanged forever. But she has no such blessing or curse, whichever way you look at it, and her life has changed, irreversibly, indelibly.
Lost and found. She feels a strange mixture of everything in her, as if she still has not understood the bleak, cold truth that the Elrondion twins brought her, news heralded by stern countenances and sorrowful eyes. But he is gone, and she is left alone- no, not alone, for she still has one spark, one gift. She will not abandon him, not while she draws breath.
The leaves of autumn whisk by the window, solid proof that Rivendell is not untouched by all reminders of time passing, seasons changing, the great hourglass that no one can tip, and outside the elves go about their business, for it has been this way and it will be this way for so much longer than her mind can comprehend, and suddenly she is so tired of not understanding anything. Arathorn was a good man, a loving husband, but always there had been the painful, ever-lengthening shadow of the small matter of being Isildur's Heir between them, and she knew- had always known- that before her, before children, came his duty, to his people, to Middle-Earth.
It hurts her beyond measure, knowing that part, if not all, of the reason he had wanted Aragorn was for an heir. Not for children, not for the wistful, beautiful dream she harbours- harboured- for a family. For an heir. The next in line.
And she has this dreadful, defining feeling that her son, her baby, is the one. The Heir.
One day, the fate of Middle-Earth will rest on his shoulders, tiny as they seem now. One day he will deliver them from this darkness, one day he will ascend the long-empty throne of Gondor.
She knows well the pain that will follow in his footsteps. The uncertainty, the responsibility, the bitterness, the regret, the unending pain. And she so hates to let her child feel all that, for one moment all she wants is to bear him away, far away from the Dúnedain and the Eldar and all of Arda and let Middle-Earth rot in hell for all she cares, so long as her baby is safe...
But she knows it is all a selfish fantasy, and for the deliverance of the whole world her son's pain is but a small price.
For how many long years have the Dúnedain laboured, thankless and ridiculed, wearied and hurt, for the safety of the simple folks? How long have the elves stayed, bearing the grief of immortal years, abstaining from the peace of Valinor, waiting for the day when Sauron will be overthrown and hope returned?
Hope, she muses. It is an appropriate name.
Her son will tread a lonely path, into the deepest places of Middle-Earth, where the most evil, most dangerous places are, there he will go and he must come out if not unchanged, at least alive.
One Ring to rule them all.
For about the twenty-four thousandth time she curses their ancestor with all the colourful phrases she has accumulated over the years, curses him for weakness and pride and greed and for leaving a bitter legacy for those who follow, those who must right his wrong and somehow bring peace to this war-torn, broken, stained land.
"My lady?"
She looks up, and accepts the hand of Lord Elrohir- or is it Elladan? Arathorn could tell, but she cannot fathom how on earth he did it. The Peredhel offers her a grave smile which does not reach his eyes, and turns slightly towards the doorway.
"If you would accompany me, my father awaits."
And now she will know of her fate in the next few years or so. In fact, considering that these are elves she is talking about, it will probably settle it for the next century.
Lord Elrond of Imladris is seated in the library, the ornate carpet at his feet and elaborate candlesticks and general decor making her feel all the more out of place.
She is a Dúnedain woman, and she knows her place. It is out in the wilderness where the wind will awaken her heart, where the rocks are sharp and the trails untrod and the mountains that tower over her echo with the essence that she is.
But she must accept that it will not be that way anymore, not for the safety of one she holds most dear.
"Lady Gilraen." Elrond's stern eyes regard her, but she is too far gone to be cowed.
"Tell me of your plans, my lord. You must keep my son from harm, foremost. I am of secondary importance."
"I beg to differ, my lady. But our newly named Hope indeed must be protected. And so we deem that it would be safest to keep and rear him here in Imladris. The power of Vilya protects this valley, and he would learn all of Elvish and Númenorean history and lore. And you, Lady, would be most welcome to stay here with him. He will need a mother."
She is silent. Somehow she expected this, but her heart still resists it, still screams in all futility at her to refuse, go home, you belong in Eriador among the last remnants of your people...
But her son, her star, her hope must be safe. And the Last Homely House can offer security that is nowhere else.
Is this even her choice?
"I thank you for your graciousness, but surely to accomodate me as well as A- Estel, would be..."
"Nay, my lady! We beg of you, linger here to be with our Hope, for he will need you. And, forgive me, but I believe that you will need him." She turns startled eyes on the older twin. He has not spoken much, prefering to let his father and brother speak with her, but somehow his words touch her in a way the others' have not, and finds herself swaying.
The unchanging beauty of Imladris is not her wont, but she must accept it, the first in a long line of sacrifices that must be made, to foster and keep the Hope of Middle-Earth.
And so she inclines her head in reluctant thanks.
"Then I thank you, my lords. And I most gratefully accept."
Onen i-estel edain, u-chebin estel anim.