"Get back here!"
An exasperated mother chased her child around the small room. The small boy scampered from chair to table to hearth from chair to table to hearth, mindless of the frustration he was causing the young woman. Finally, he hid behind a table leg and looked mischievously up at his mother. As grey eyes met brown, the mother's face softened and she chuckled.
"For such a youngling, you have great skill in running," she said. And it was true; scarcely two years had passed since his Birthing Day. Her mother, in a recent visit, had remarked on his abilities, saying that they were true foretellings of his destiny. Old healer lore said that the young who advanced rapidly had to grow rapidly…as fighters and survivors. As she had related the information, however, Gilraen's face grew dark. Her mother hastily added, "Yet it may be that he will live in a time of peace. Time will only tell."
Her mother had not visited since that day. Gilraen understood the absence as ominous, and as testament to the truth of the healer lore.
She shook herself from her reverie, and eyed her son. It's a game he wants, she mused. I can play a game. Gilraen then turned away, and sat in the chair, a replacement for the previous occupant. The rocking chair had gone to another woman in circumstances, and to replace it she had received in turn a large, widened model, cushioned by a rare pillow.
She hummed to herself as she untied the leather thong in her hair. It was rather tangled after the chase, and it deserved at least a finger-combing. She made no sign of noticing her son.
Her son, meanwhile, watched with suspicion. Was this a new game? He crept forward.
Still she paid no attention. All her focus was on her hair. Deft fingers ran through it, catching here and there, but eventually smoothing it to manageable degree.
The boy stepped forward again. He really was confused. Why was she not chasing him?
Gilraen watched from the corner of her eye. He was close enough, almost close enough to…
"Ha!" she cried triumphantly as she leaped from her chair and scooped him up. Her son screamed delightedly. He wriggled in her arms, and pointed at the chair.
"Again?" she asked, amused. He nodded.
For hours, it seemed, they played what Aragorn would later call "Sneak Attack": he would creep, as quietly as he could, to wherever she was (chair, hearth, a rock outside) and she would catch him, swinging him through the air.
One last time was begged before Gilraen put him to bed, cradling his favorite toy, a wooden horse, carved by an older lad. He fell asleep quickly, no doubt due to the energy spent during the day.
Gilraen watched him until the image of him was burned into her heart. His hair, short, dark, and tousled; his tunic, rumpled with wear, and faded to a color to match his grey eyes; the wooden horse, affectionately rubbed, held against his chest; and finally, his eyelashes, curled lightly against his cheek.
Her own eyelashes were wet.
She did, then, the only thing she could think to do: pulled some parchment, a pen, and a handkerchief from their places and began to write.
My dear son,
Two years old and already you have won the heart of the encampment. Your destiny has a hand to play in that, certainly, but you have charm like no other child. Most here are tall, grim, and forbidding, even the lads. You, however, seem to bring light whither you go, and in that light we revel.
I hope you notice my improvement. I have been practicing writing daily, usually letters to your father. He is away again, though fortunately not as far. He left two weeks ago, and will return soon. I can only wait with anxious heart and breathless hope.
By the by, you adore your father. When he is home, there is no separating the two of you (unless you wander, as is sometimes your wont!). He carries you on his shoulders throughout the camp, and you giggle at how suddenly tall you are. In more somber moments, you are on his lap, stroking his beard.
How you love his beard! You do not ask for kisses from me, but your father! He rubs his chin against you as he kisses you, and you laugh and laugh and laugh.
By the second by, an elf recently arrived. It is not one of the sons of Elrond, though they visit often; they accompanied your father on his journey. No, he is their records-keeper; accordingly, he sketches every heir that is born. He has a large journal of many he has drawn, though he assures me that they are not all his drawings. He drew you with your father, and as he did, I asked for a copy.
I was afraid to ask, and barely managed a volume louder than a whisper, but he must have heard me, because he promptly smiled and withdrew another parchment from his bag. Enclosed here is that parchment.
Keep it close, for it is the best likeness, failing capturing you and your father and attaching you to the parchment. What a sight that would be!
It is late, and growing darker. You are asleep, as well I should be. I will join you in sweet dreams.
Your loving
Mother
-to be continued-