A time of joy
Estel took a lungful of the cool evening air. He had returned yesterday from a journey with Elladan and Elrohir. Yet he walked now with a spring to his step and felt no tiredness. Elrond and he had talked yesterday. Finally, he knew the name of his father.
"Arathorn, son of Arador, Lord of the Dúnedain," said Estel aloud.
He repeated the words over and over, pronouncing each syllable with care, as if to savor their foreign, but precious essence. His doubts about his father's honor had dissipated long ago. His mother couldn't have loved a disreputable man. But to know who that man really was, and for what cause he had given his life, filled Aragorn with fierce joy.
"Arathorn," he whispered. "Arathorn."
The path, filled with moonlight, blurred and trembled before him. The young man smiled through his tears. Pride and sorrow fought in his chest and made it hard to breathe. He laughed suddenly. All his childhood he had begged for crumbs of knowledge about his birth father. Now, he could retrace his line to Númenor the fair, to Elros himself. Oh, he had learned his lessons ; the master of Imladris had been a good tutor. Estel shook his head. Elrond had taught him the history of Arnor and Gondor, the fall of the kingdom of Arthedain, the loss of Eärnur, the last king of Gondor. The elf lord had dispensed treasures of patience while Estel had learned the names of the faraway and numerous Stewards of Gondor. And how very precisely could Elrond talk about Beleriand, Gil-galad, the War of the Last Alliance.
Aragorn wondered how the elf lord had felt, teaching him his own history. One tiny misstep would have been enough. If only Elrond had named Gilraen the Fair as Arathorn's spouse during their classes about the line of the Dúnedain Chieftains, and Estel would have known. But Elrond, high and noble elf lord that he was, had played hide-and-seek to perfection.
Maybe doing my education had its share of fun, chuckled Aragorn to himself.
Elrond had kept the secret and had protected him during all those years. Now, with his true lineage, the master of Imladris was giving him also his true responsibility. Fear and excitement cut the breath of the young man. Elrond had welcomed in his house many generations of his ancestors. And yet, Aragorn felt that the master was passing the torch on to him – from one shaper of events of Middle Earth to another.
I'm not ready.
He accepted the thought without hesitation. The news was huge. The changes in his life should probably match that scope. But right now, he just didn't know where to start.
"A-ra-gorn," whispered the young man. "Ara-gorn. Aragorn!" he claimed to the forest.
The joy returned to his heart. The ring of Barahir was gleaming on his hand. A second scabbard hung at his hip. He knew who he was now, and where he came from. True, he didn't know yet where he would go and what he would do, but the night was sweet. The stars sparkled far above. The birch trees murmured their welcome. A song came to Aragorn :
« The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinúviel was dancing there. »
She wasn't dancing. She walked in front of him, light as the moonbeams that surrounded her. Aragorn saw the blue mantle and the dark hair. The slender braids entwined with silver white ribbons glittered like gems. The young girl tilted her face towards the sky. Wind tugged at her heavy curls.
« And light of stars was in her eyes, » whispered Aragorn, mistaking the line and the rime.
He stood, as one stricken, then jumped forward with a cry.
"Tinúviel!"
The Nightingale, he called her in the ancient tongue, and Arwen came to him.
Aragorn lived the next days, transported on the wings of fire and hope. He wondered if Arwen knew that he followed her sometimes in her daily tasks, just to get a glimpse of her face and to hear her voice. In the evenings, they met under the white birches. They talked, laughed and walked together in silence.
Gilraen warned her son. She told him that the time when elves and mortals wed was far far gone. Her words left his joy untarnished. « Parting is such sweet sorrow, » Aragorn had read one day in a book in Elrond's library. He remembered those words. He understood them now. The summer and the autumn of his twentieth year were a time of mirth.
Then the cold winds came and, before the year was gone, Elrond called Aragorn to him. Aragorn stood, subdued, before the one who had raised him like a father. He listened to the quiet and melodious voice that had taught him everything he knew. The young man understood that the time had come for another lesson.
« She is of lineage greater than yours, » he heard and lowered his eyes.
Elrond was speaking still :
« She is too far above you. And so, I think, it may well seem to her. »
Aragorn lowered his head. The truth was ugly. During their walks together, Arwen had always been gentle and attentive, but he alone had burned like a flame, had breathed and lived as he had never lived before. But he was no more than a child next to her. « A yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers, » Elrond had said. No, Estel did not want to come between a father and his beloved daughter.
"Why have you never told me about her?" he asked, his voice low.
His golden dream lay broken to pieces at his feet.
"Elven visits can last elven years, Aragorn, answered Elrond. Arwen lives with her grandmother, in Lórien, at this moment. Most of your predecessors never saw her. You might never have met her."
He might not have, but his fate had been different. Aragorn left for the silent gardens, where pale, dry plants stooped towards the frozen earth. The sky gave no warmth, but the light was so pure it hurt him. Aragorn walked among the bare trees. The lord Elrond had talked about years of trials. « A great doom awaits you, » he had said. « Either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. » He was the descendant of the Kings of Númenor, and heir to the glory and the weakness of men by Isildur. The Dark Lord would never cease to search for him. He was the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, yet knew little of his people.
Aragorn exhaled and his breath misted in the cold air. Brought up by immortals, his perception of time sometimes resembled theirs. He had lingered too long in this harbor ; his time with the elves was over. He would leave to join his men tomorrow.
Aragorn squared his shoulders with an effort. His heritage was that of the greatness and the shame of men. He too would have to choose his path, now and every day of his life.
A/N : The words between « » are direct quotes from The Lord of the Rings, except for « Parting is such sweet sorrow », which, of course, belongs to Shakespeare.
This is a translation of one of my stories in French. Hope you enjoy. All comments are very, very welcome :-)
eiluj, thank you for such detailed proofreading. You are a reviewer a writer can only dream of. Now, if only I've had an English teacher like you... I'm glad you enjoyed the story. Thank you for letting me know what you liked most. As for my other stories in French, they are all prequels to this one and, except for the very first one, they are, I guess, of a different kind. Very AU, very dark, too.