Author's Note: This is not the normal style I write my fanfics in, and never have I written a fan fiction focused upon our Estel, yet I have been bitten by a plot-bunny. --;; A most terrible fate, my reader, to be sure, and if I do not feed it then I will be slave to its will for many years. Therefore, read on, and be forewarned that my little ranger will attack anyone that does not leave a review. ^^

Pen-neth ---Chapter One---

He was simply refusing to believe it - refusing to believe any of it. And it was surprisingly easy for the little child to remain ignorant while he was being supported in his mother's warm arms, with the scent of grass and wildflowers still clinging to her dress and hair. It smelt of home - like the garden outside the house his father had made when he was a baby. Yet he did not know much about that, save that it was the place he felt safest and content. Even though it was exciting when his father took him out into the wilds on he back of his horse, his thoughts always turned to the warm house, where his mother would be waiting with a warm meal when they returned.

Yes. His young mind found it easy to focus on his home, and he was able to imagine that the steps his mother was carrying him over led to his very home. Of course - that was what was happening! Why, in just a few moments, she would shift him into one arm instead of two so that she could reach out and open the door. And then the sharp cool atmosphere would give way to the warm glow of the fire. Yes. And then she would let him down onto the ground, and he would find his father sitting by the fire, either gazing into it - his mind full of some important thought or another - or perusing a piece of parchment - or maybe even sharpening his big sword, and then the firelight would make the steel blade flash and glitter.

Then he could sit cross-legged on the hearth, watching the magnificent weapon, as his father would tell him stories of his latest adventures. He would tell him tales of great battles and orcs and trolls and fierce men with bad hearts. He would tell him of foreign places and things, and tell him of men and elves - the latter always fascinated the boy. He always wanted to meet an elf - though he was far too young, and his mother would never allow him to go out on a long journey to the places such as Imladris or Lothlórien, and as no elves seemed eager to visit him at his home, he was forced to be content with what he had. Yet his father made up for it - he told him stories of the elves, of all the great battles they fought and the things they did until his mother would become uneasy, and send him off to bed, saying such things were too old for him.

"Aragorn..." the little boy whimpered as the happy memories and images were chased away by the gentle voice of his mother. He realized that they had stopped climbing up those stairs. "Aragorn, we are here, my son. Open your eyes."

He did not want to open his eyes. Instead he whimpered and clung fast to his mother's soft cloak, hiding his face deeper into the crook of her shoulder. If he opened his eyes, then he would no longer be able to see the warm home and the face of his father. If he opened his eyes, he would have to remember that he would never again see his home, that he would never again see his father. He would have to remember that his mother was bringing him to Imladris, and that they were coming for him to be cared by some strange lord he neither knew nor wanted to know. He no longer wanted to see the elves. He wanted his father - he wanted to wake up and see that the past few months had been all a bad dream, and that maybe he would see his father trying to wake him up from his own warm bed when he opened his eyes.

So his young thoughts turned in circles, and when he opened his silver-blue eyes he was not confronted with the pleasant face of his father, but the careworn face of his mother. She was looking at him with a smile, and he blinked at her solemnly as she shifted him in her arms and brushed back a strand of dark hair from his face.

"We have arrived, my son," his mother whispered, a smile lighting on her features. It had been so long since he had seen her smiling that it almost lightened his heart. "Would you not like to meet the lord Elrond?"

The boy considered this, and then shook his head. No. If he met the lord Elrond, then it would be accepting his father's death - no.

"It is only polite, Aragorn," she said, her eyes hardening a little and glancing almost nervously past her son. "If you are going to live up to your father's example, young one, you have to learn your manners. We are going to be his guests - your father would want you to show your respect."

The boy's brow furrowed in a frown, and he shook his head again, tears in his eyes. No. He wanted his father, he did not want some elf lord - suddenly he became aware of the sound of laughter, and he squirmed around in his mother's arms to see where it came from. His young eyes widened. Standing out in front of some massive doors which had been flung open were four elves - they looked impressive and ethereal, dressed in garb quite strange to the little human and bearing an heir about them that made him lost for words.

Two were almost identical - the boy had never seen two beings so much alike. Compared to the other elves, they seemed young. Their bright eyes were silver-grey, the colour of stars or the twilit sky, and their hair was as dark as ebony. They were grinning, and seemed to be the ones who laughed. Beside them stood an elf so much unlike the twins that the boy had an equal amount of wonder by beholding him - he had never seen anyone so strong and lordly, bright, piercing blue eyes he had, and pale golden-hued hair. He was smiling as well, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. The third...

The boy's eyes widened even more when he began to take in the Elven Lord's form. The elf was tall, perhaps equal in height to that of the golden- haired lord. Though he looked more like the twins - or, rather, the twins more like the elder elf. He was standing out in front, and his eyes were soft as he gazed upon the boy. They were full of wisdom, and knowledge of things that he himself had no comprehension over. They seemed like such old eyes, and yet his face was ageless. The boy was awestruck.

"Do not force him, Gilraen," he said in a soft, mellifluous, voice that sounded fairer than any he had heard before. He bore an accent that sounded as if he were used to speaking a language much more rich and beautiful than the common tongue. "He has been through much, young Aragorn - no doubt the journey has wearied him as well." And he walked up to them, and looked kindly on the boy, his silver eyes peering curiously at him. "Aragorn - so what I hear is true. You look the very image of your father. He was a great man, Arathorn. I am called Elrond. Welcome to Imladris, pen-neth. You have done well, young Aragorn, to bring your mother safely to my realm. You must continue to be strong now - as your father was - for your mother needs you now, pen-neth. Will you be able to do so?"

The boy goggled at Elrond, startled at hearing his father's name spoken so kindly by one so lordly and fair. The elven lord merely chuckled softly when the young boy could produce no answer, and began to lead he, his mother and their escorts into the last homely house.

That was Aragorn's first memory of Elrond. He knew very little of the lord of Imladris. He had no comprehension of his age - he did not know that he had seen three ages wax and wane on the earth. He had no idea that he was of such great lineage that his blood could be traced back to heroes and heroines far back to the beginning of the world. He had not the slightest clue that people came from far and wide to gain the counsel of the ancient loremaster - all he knew was that he had said he was brave, and that he looked like his father.

And that was the first time he could think of Arathorn without tears or denial.