A/N: I took a few liberties in this chapter; I really have no idea what a typical Dunedan's childhood would be like, so I fudged-and-fumbled a bit…otay? Don't get mad- get Glad!

My Muse is simply piling on the ideas tonight! Two chapters in one day? It's a record!!

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine today. Yesterday it was, and it will be tomorrow, though!

One Afternoon By The River

By Thalia Weaver

Chapter Five: Home

I did not know much about women, except for dim memories of my mother, and the sort of loose woman that exhibits her body for sport among the men that would have her. There were not many such men in my Ranger camp, and so I could not judge the cause of this sudden outburst of tears. All I knew was that when she cried, as she was doing now, I wanted to comfort her, and stop her from crying.

I had never felt so about any woman before. I had left my mother's village at twelve, to begin training as a Ranger, and had never had the chance to fall in love.

Perhaps this is just because I never knew any other, I thought. Then she lifted her gaze to me, and my doubt was dispelled. There was something in her eyes that stirred my heart and filled me with the strangest gladness…

"Arathorn…" she said softly, and it seemed as though I had never heard my name spoken before until it came from her lips.

I remembered seeing that look once before. My mother had raised me almost alone, for my father was not often home; he first came back when I was a child of five. I still remembered the look on her face as he entered the door- it was the same one that Gilraen wore now.

But I was Arathorn, son of Arador, Heir to the Chieftain of The Dunedain, the Faithful- the wandering warriors of Gondor. I would never settle, I would never be able to dwell in just one place- for I was a Ranger. I could not give that up, not even for Gilraen. Not even for the woman I loved.

Not even for the woman I loved.

"Come," she said, her voice sparkling with some inner joy I could not fathom. "I wish to show you something."

Women, I surmised, must be strange creatures indeed- was she not crying one moment ago?

Gilraen pulled me after her, smiling over her shoulder. This was one strange creature I would observe in her own habitat.

We walked swiftly through the narrow streets. Gilraen was greeted with respect, and I was barely noticed- Rangers came freely through most towns in Gondor, even villages as small as this one.

At last we stopped, before a small, dingy hut at the edge of the village. Gilraen looked at it with a slight expression of distaste, then beckoned me to go inside.

"This is my home, Arathorn," she told me apologetically.

The interior was dark, and smelled of straw and sweat. I looked around- there was a large pot on the hearth, a dirty rug on the floor, and a large section of exquisite needlework on a dingy chair in the corner. I picked it up.

"Gilraen? Who is that?" came a soft voice. Gilraen let loose an exasperated sigh, and walked to a dark curtain I had not seen in the shadowed hut. She drew it aside. There was a dirty bed on which lay an old woman, whose looks gave the impression that she had once been very beautiful- indeed, more beautiful than Gilraen. Her voice held suggestion of good breeding, and though her body was covered with the bedclothes, her face was wasted by long illness.

"Mother, you were supposed to be asleep," she said tenderly, her voice soft and gentle as she grasped her mother's hand.

"I am weary of always sleeping, Gilraen," said Gilraen's mother. "Sleeping and needlework are the only things I ever do. I wish to see the sun again! It has been overlong that I lay here."

Gilraen glanced at me apologetically. Her mother followed her gaze and fixed on me.

"Gilraen! Is this your suitor? Have you no courtesy?" With obvious effort, she raised herself and looked at me intently. Her gaze was sharper than that of a hawk's, and I sensed much strength in her bearing. "What is your name, young man?"

"I am Arathorn, son of Arador-"

"Arador? I knew Arador, once, when I was younger…he was one of my suitors once, you know. He was very handsome in his time, much as you are now. If you are half the man your father was, I would consent for you to marry my daughter."

I blushed, thinking of what it would be like to marry Gilraen. Suddenly, as had happened only a few times before, I was struck with a flash of vision.

Gilraen was smiling up at me happily, holding a bundle of blankets. "Our first, Arathorn," she said softly, her hair damp and mussed. "What shall we name him?"

"Aragorn," I said. I had decided already to name him after my father's father, for Aragorn I had been a man of valor and courage.

"You shall be called Estel while you are here," said Elrond to the small, serious-faced boy standing before him. "Welcome to my home."

"Strider is too poor a name, son of Arathorn," came the voice of a tall, blond Rider of Rohan. "Wingfoot I name you."

A tall man, noble in bearing, lifted a shining sword, standing atop a battlement as the dawn rose- a very vision of past Kings…

I awoke with Gilraen leaning over me, holding a wet cloth to my forehead. Her hair brushed my temple as she leaned over again, then saw my open eyes.

"Arathorn? Are you all right?"

I looked into her eyes for so long that she blushed and drew back as I sat up. A flood of happiness poured over me- never, in the history of the Dunedain, had a vision told less than the truth, and that meant that I would marry Gilraen one day. It did not matter when. I smiled, truly joyous as I had not been in many long years.

"I have never felt better," I said truthfully.