She was bent over some herbs in her garden, carefully weeding out the unhealthy plants, when her mother visited that strange day. It was peaceful and calm; Aragorn was napping nearby, under the shade of a tree. She smiled to see the light dappling over him, and it gave her great hope to see him so innocent.

Perhaps her mother's words were for naught, she mused, and he might live free of that yoke, destiny. But her smile fell when a shadow fell over his form, and she looked to see her mother standing not far away.

"Mother!" she said, surprised. "What brings you?"

Her mother turned-she had been facing away from her daughter-and eyed her sorrowfully.

"He is your hope, Gilraen."

"I was thinking the very same."

But her mother seemed to grow more sorrowful at this.

"Always remember: hope."

She did not approach her daughter, but instead, her grandson. She knelt and kissed him on the brow, murmuring something Gilraen couldn't understand. Without a word, she left Gilraen's garden; wiping tears away, Gilraen noticed.

She left her daughter bewildered.

Gilraen puzzled over her mother's visit for hours afterward. She could make no sense of them, despite trying various inflections, including the one her mother used. And though Aragorn was typically a cheerful distraction, this day he seemed sluggish, almost ill. She had to check several times to be sure he was not, wondering at the source of all the unnatural behavior.

Evening came, and she discovered why, and how, and when. She received the news gracefully, allowing the dispatch rider to tend to his horse without awkwardness. She stood alone at the large fire in the middle of the camp, cold despite the heat the blaze gave. She knew Aragorn was waiting for her, but one moment she had to have for herself.

It was here that they had married, around the fire. It was here he had been told of Aragorn's impending birth. It was here he had so often sat, his son in his lap. Gilraen had many a fond memory of bringing the men their drink while news was shared and discussed. She would sit as the talk died down, and the men rested before finally going to their beds. Then the small family would have a precious few minutes together, without worry, and without words or news or talk…just them.

Lost in memories, Gilraen did not notice the sons of Elrond taking her arm and guiding her to a cot to sleep. She did not notice their command to her mother to tend to Aragorn in Gilraen's absence, or when they brought the stretcher to the fire for the ceremonial decoration and burial to take place in three days.

All she knew was this blank despair that seemed to prevent her from moving forward. She felt suspended in time, it having stopped when she heard the words:

"He is gone, milady."

She was aware there was more, that Arathorn received an arrow through the eye 'so he suffered none', but none of it registered. The despair had blanketed then, wrapped her up so closely that Gilraen, in future days, would recall the odd sensation of having been wrapped in a physical, scratchy blanket, though none was given her.

She came to at a light touch from one of the lads, gently offering her a drink. It was the same lad who had carved Aragorn the wooden horse, Halbarad. She accepted it, in silence, struggling to say something. Anything.

Halbarad, realizing her struggle, merely nodded and patted her shoulder.

She took a sip of the drink, and looked around consciously. She was not far from the large fire, being beneath an erected awning. In and of itself, that was worrisome: awnings were built when space had become unavailable in the homes, and that occurred only with many wounded.

She noticed a man lying near the fire, and without quite realizing it, ventured near. Only as she knelt to identify him did she release a keening wail, the first sound she made in a full day and half a day.

She didn't hear the footsteps, but felt a gentle hand pull her away and close. It was one of the sons of Elrond, offering comfort where there was none. She fought him, out of a need to fight someone, to find a person to blame.

"He died protecting those he loved," the elf said. "He would not have died any other way."

Gilraen knew he spoke truth. Yet it did not dilute the pain.

"He had this in his possession," the elf continued, gesturing to his right. His brother approached, having obviously been nearby, and placed a leather bag next to her. It was worn, scratched, and she did not dare try to identify a stain coloring one corner. But it was familiar, as were its contents.

"You may sort through them, Lady Gilraen, but we must reach Imdadris. The party of orcs that attacked us likely had friends. They will be searching for the heir."

It was with this knowledge that instinct took entire control over Gilraen. She bowed her head, gathered herself, and stood up fiercely. The sons of Elrond, still kneeling, both watched her as she stared at them, eyes burning with fatigue, loss, and love.

Gilraen did not turn from them or bend under their gaze as she hoarsely asked, "What must I do?"

My son,

He is dead.

It is the utter, awful truth.

I am dead.

It is the utter, awful truth. Without my husband, how can I live?

But live I must, for you. For you and the possibility of any that might come after, for you are now the only heir.

I should not even write those words. Lord Elrond tells me that should the Enemy find this correspondence, it could mean the end of this world. Of me, of you, and of Men, Elves, and all free folk.

But I do not listen to him.

For you are all I have.

The ride here- for obviously I am now in Imladris, what we call Rivendell – was taxing and long. The sons of Elrond tell me that in actuality the ride was less than a sevenday. I felt it lasted years. It was strangely clear and beautiful the entire journey. Every night I watched the stars, and wondered if your father was among them, seeking me.

You were quiet the entire journey, also odd. You are still so, with none of the energy and cheer you carried previously. What is wrong, my son? What ails you? You turn from me, wearily, as my mother did that day before she kissed you on the brow.

When we arrived, the elves watched us curiously, if not anxiously. I was intimidated by the sheer beauty of this place and of the folk around me and, shamefully, did not greet them. I was taken to a room furnished with a bed and crib, and laid just as gently as you were, to bed. No-one bothered us for some time, as we were both asleep instantly.

Though I still grieve, I must be strong. I must be your mother first, before a wife widow. It has been nearly a fortnight, and I have spent enough time in my own thoughts. After this, you are all I know and care for. You are all I love.

I will address Elrond concerning this matter, and inquire to tasks I can undertake while we remain here. I admit, I have a desire to return, but my heart tells me otherwise. As my heart also tells me that what ails you is something beyond my aid.

Be well, my son.

Your loving

Mother

-to be continued-