DISCLAIMER: Sorry, own nothing, so don't sue!
SUMMARY: Two generations of fathers reflect as they hold their new born sons.
* * * * * * * * * ** * * * * *
PART ONE: SON OF ARATHORN
Your eyes stare sightlessly at me as Gilraen passes you into my arms. But you do not cry as I had feared. Barely a whimper escapes your lips at being parted from your mother. It is as though you trust me; it is as though you know who I am, my son.
I lift my gaze to stare into my wife's eyes, and find them moist with tears. I can feel them sting my own eyes as I hold you, my firstborn.
"He must have a name," Gilraen tells me. "As his father, you must choose."
I simply nod, staring at you once more. The truth is, child, I have chosen a name for you; but I fear to give it to you. I fear the duties it will bring you, the burden it will place on your tiny shoulders. You entered this world barely an hour ago; I will not place all its weight on you just yet, Aragorn, son of Arathorn.
Reluctantly, I place you back in your mother's embrace, and kiss her brow softly. "He is perfect, my love. Perfect."
She smiles even through her exhaustion. Her labour has been long and hard, and more than once I had feared for both of your lives. Many good women have been lost in childbirth, and I could not bear my wife to join them. But you are both alive and healthy, and I offer a prayer to the Valar in thanks.
I sit on the bed, and wrap my arms around her. She leans into my embrace and lays your tiny head on her breast. How vulnerable you look, child. It chills me to know what path lays before you one day; but no more thoughts of that. That time seems infinitely far away from the joys of this day.
Yet I cannot force this knowledge from my mind. I know that the day will come when you will leave the shelter of this house for the harshness of the wilds. Men will one day shun you, and creatures of darkness will hunt you like a beast. The fate which passed to me with the death of my father will be passed to you on my death. It is our burden, my son. Our gift and our curse.
Far in the east, Gondor's throne sits empty. But I will not be the Man to sit upon it. Perhaps you will succeed where so many of our kindred failed. We are the Heirs of Elendil, the Chieftain of the Dunedain, the Rangers of the North.
"He looks so much like you," Gilraen whispers, drawing me from melancholy thoughts of my son's - our son's - future.
"Aye," I reply, dropping a kiss to the back of her neck.
The midwife, who I can imagine has stood outside the door tapping her foot impatiently, marches into the room, and scolds me for staying with my wife and child for so long. She takes my son from Gilraen's arms, and lays him in the cradle. I am barely able to kiss my wife goodbye before the woman ushers me from the chamber and closes the door.
I pause outside the door, and smile softly. Sleep well, my love. Sleep well, Aragorn, my son.