Chapter Two:Aragorn the Second
Ivorwen and Gilraen settled into the deep bed, cradling the infant between them. His every move and sound were astonishing to them, and they could not keep from poking him softly, stroking his tiny hands, kissing him with tiny kisses. Soon he slept, well-fed, at peace with his world.
"You should sleep a bit yourself, my daughter. From this day on, your rest will come in bits and scraps, so follow his lead and let me watch you both, my treasures, my two little loves…" She caressed her daughter's face and tucked her coverlet in around her shoulders.
"I will close my eyes, mother," said Gilraen, "I am so happy…" She trailed off with a sigh. Ivorwen gazed at them for a bit, then began to sing softly.
Swift as a deer, sweet as a rose
Water so clear, twinkle your toes
Sun, moon and star, song to begin
Call from afar, she'll bring us in.
"She will, I promise," she whispered to the infant. "Call her, she will never fail. From this day, I place you in her care, in her grace, A Elbereth Gilthoniel."
Arathorn raised the curtain and came to the bed. "They are sleeping, both, so sweetly and may it be dreamless," he said. He settled carefully across the foot of the bed. "I am full of joy and grateful, mother. But there is somewhat heavy on my mind from the lady Lynael."
"Not some harm to the boy, or to Gilraen?" asked Ivorwen uneasily.
"No, not harm to them or to anyone," he said. "But a great upheaval of our ways until now, mother. Lynael says we must prepare to end the days of our silence, and come forth as who we are. Claim our right, she says, and I am willing. But..."
"But...?"
"She says we are too few. We must call our men to marry quickly, those that have not yet a wife, and our women must bring forth children this year and each year following until our numbers have doubled and tripled. And yet each child must be raised and nurtured with no less than we have ever. So there is much to do."
"I understand her counsel. Aragorn will not be a lonely child."
"No. And he will come to manhood with many Rangers at his command. His own, his brothers, his blood. But our people will wonder! Such a plan, they will wonder."
"Perhaps not, my son," mused Ivorwen. "The reasoning is sound, and even a little thought will bring light to questioning minds. And the charge is enjoyable, is it not?" Ivorwen's eyes sparkled. "This will be a year of feasting... though more of the spirit than of the flesh, because we must begin to store. We will now be feeding many more growing and hungry children. Yes, we have much to do. Elbereth, send thy light."
xxx
The months grew towards summer, and like tiny blooms in the wasteland, grew one by one the number of the Dúnedain. The men, obedient ever but now inspired by their chieftain and his exhilarant mood, hurried their courtships and pleaded their cases. Not one woman of marrying age remained unwed by midsummer, and as the season for gathering approached many were already bearing their very own fruits: the harvest that year was plentiful. A score of tiny babies totalled by the end of the winter, and Aragorn at his first year was surrounded by tots crawling, rolling and teetering, others asleep in mothers' arms, some weeping, many laughing, more than one screeching away in tuneless song.
It was a good time, such as the people of Eriador had never known, nor had their ancestors for generations. Hunting and gathering had gone well, stores were building up, gone was the silence from the homes of the invisible Rangers. It is well that our valley is so hidden and so well guarded, said some, for chatter and song are such that an enemy could be led to us by them. Yet the din was blessed and beloved, and family ties were bonded that year, as Lynael had advised.
And yet the warriors were often away for days, riding down and finishing bands of marauding orcs that came ever down from the Misty Mountains. The brethren Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond, led the raids over the foothills and into secret dells, by night and by day, and counselled with the elders among the Dúnedain. After one raid, some better weapons had been recovered and it had been noted that some of the orcs seemed larger. "Coming perhaps from beyond, over the high passes," said Elladan. "We have not word of what runs along the eastern slopes, north of the Dimrill Stair."
"What is certain, indeed, is that the Enemy is stirring," added Elrohir. "Our father has brought us this vision from the Wise: that all roads must be watched, yet our watchers themselves unnoticed."
"This is ever our lives' task," said Arathorn, "but we will redouble our efforts." His thought strayed to the rooms above in the stone fortress. "I will leave you now, but food and drink will be brought soon. Be at peace, my brothers." He was out the door before any answer could reach him.
xxx
Not that any would have stayed him. He ran up the last stairs to the wide hall, and stopped at his chamber door. As always he let this instant grow long, swell, holding his breath, then pushed the heavy door open. "Dada!" screamed a small boy joyfully, jumping up and running to leap into his father's arms.
"My son, my big boy!" laughed Arathorn, bouncing the child and swinging him around to his shoulders. "Where is my boy's pony? Where is Aragorn's fine horse?"
"Pony, pony!" clamoured Aragorn. "Go, pony, run, run!" Father and son roared and giggled, crossing the room in leaps and bounds, and finally collapsing at the feet of the ladies. "Momo," cried the boy happily, stroking Gilraen's knees as she rose to enter the huge embrace of her husband's arms.
"The Valar be praised, my lord," she muffled into his shoulder. "Your step across this threshold is the sun rising in my heart." He held her more tightly, while the boy picked at the great knife in its sheath at Arathorn's side.
"Big knife, big knife, Aragorn," he said, laughing. "Dada, big knife." He pulled again at the hilt, bound with leather cord, and finally managed to loosen the blade. Before the boy could draw it out, Arathorn took it himself and brought it to the light.
"Here, my son," he said, pulling Aragorn close and turning the blade to catch the firelight. "The big knife. It will be yours someday, as it is mine today and was my own father's. This knife has rested, worked and fought in the hand of each chieftain of the Dúnedain since the days of the first Aragorn…" The child looked at him in wonder. "Yes, my boy. You are Aragorn the Second, as I am Arathorn the Second. We were both named for great men of our own line." He put the knife back in its sheath and took from his pocket a small crystal globe, the size of an apple, blue as the first light of dawn. "For you, my lord Aragorn," he said, handing it to the child. "Put it your eye and see what you can see." The little boy took the crystal and turned it in his hands, as if taken by something in its depths. "Hold it to the light, like so…"
"My lord…" Gilraen stroked his long, black hair, still untouched by gray. "Would you be wanting a bite and a drink? Would you join me at the table?"
"Indeed, my lady." He rose and kissed her hand, holding it to his breast as he took her by the waist and sought the alcove beyond. "I do hunger, for meat and for sweets and for the sweetest of sweets which is yourself, my love…" They sat at the table in the alcove, close together, and as they heaped and emptied platters, and filled and drained cups of ale, tales of the days were told, songs were sung, news mulled over, their son's tiny stories cheered at. The tireless child came and went, stopping to examine anything through his blue globe, chattering endlessly.
As the meal ended and the fire died down, so did the boy finally nod off sleepily in a big cushioned chair. Ivorwen came and took him in her arms, and carried him off to sleep with her, for that night should belong to the chieftain and his lady alone. "The stars themselves know how she has longed for his return. Something is stirring in her heart, I can feel… Many signs have appeared to her, though she has not said what they might portend, and I haven't the heart to question her." She smiled and kissed her sleeping grandson. "Perhaps they mean to make another child. More and more babies are coming, and our lord and lady should not lag behind. Nor do they need much instruction in this matter, I believe," she laughed softly as she tucked herself and the boy into the warm bed.
xxx
It seemed these very thoughts were shared by Arathorn and Gilraen over their last evening cups of ale. "Our lady mother always knows what we want before we do ourselves, is it not so?" he said, stretching his long legs towards the fire. "She took the boy so we could have our bed for us alone. Not that his little sleeping body is a bother to me, nor his early morning singsongs…"
"To be sure, come morning he will fly in on us with a great leap and bellow," she said with a smile. "And you must take him on Rogarin with you. He has not let up on the pony story since you left, and you know he can call every horse by name. Every day he begs and begs us until we take him to the stables to visit his pony friends. Bits of bread and apples and whatnot he saves for them, and they lap up their tidbits from his little hands. He surely has a way with animals. Like his father…" She settled close to him and her hand strayed over his chest. "I love thee, my strong oak tree," she whispered. "I am a song plucked from my harp by thy fingertips…"
"You are a goddess, or the daughter of a goddess..." whispered Arathorn. "I see it when you stand before the fire with your long hair tumbling down. I hear it in your song, I feel it in your twirling body in your dance, and here, in this dance with me…" He held her close.
"It is time," she said softly.
"Time for…?" his question remained floating between their close faces.
"Aragorn must have brothers of his full blood, and sisters. My body is strong and hungry for more babies, and this little one is already beyond me. As if he knew he belongs to everybody." She sighed, not unhappily. "I believe you have much work to do, plowing here in my field."
Arathorn laughed softly. "There have been many times when my chieftainship has weighed heavily on me, and I have wished myself a simple ranger in the wild. I vow, however, that this is not one of them: to make a dynasty of princes in your sweet body is the task closest to what life in the Blessed Realm surely is…"
"Yet there must be no confusion," said Gilraen gravely, searching Arathorn's smiling eyes. "Aragorn alone is Chieftain of the Dúnedain, King of Arnor and Gondor in his right. Though ten brothers may come, they must know from the cradle that only our firstborn shall inherit… what little we have left…" she trailed off miserably.
"How now, brightest of my stars! What is this sadness at this time?" Arathorn still smiled, but seemed to search the air around them. "What do you feel?"
"I feel no danger in what is, and perhaps I only wish to foreclose any doubt as to the line of inheritance. We must never forget that the downfall of Arnor came when Eärendur ruled as a loving father but not as a wise king, dividing the realm in three and giving one parcel to each of his beloved sons…"
"But he did not, my lady," interposed Arathorn. "The brothers themselves settled on that division after Eärendur's death."
"Let us not be innocent, my Arathorn. He must have foreseen it. He did not prepare our long forefather Amlaith for the kingship and he did not prepare his other sons for its upholding, therefore he allowed this pass of things. His sons were good brothers, perhaps, holding each other dear and loyal to the death…but they were not equal in their life's calling, and they should have known: only one could be king blessed by the Valar," Gilraen stared thoughtfully into the fire, as if she saw there the distant events taking place. "We are not as our far brethren the First-Born, the Elves, who rule kingdoms for hundreds of years without change; our generations pass quickly. And so did they in Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhuradur, and when the day soon came that the bloodline failed in Rhuradur, there was not the will to reunite the rule of the land under the sons of Elendil's lineage. Others had seized power, directed by the hand of our Enemy…" Gilraen trailed off, her eyes haunted by fear of the Shadow.
"You are totally right, my queen," said Arathorn. "I marvel always at your far vision, but I would set your fears to rest. Aragorn shall be raised and trained as chieftain, to begin soon. His letters, along with his physical prowess with horse and sword. Long lessons in history, much study of such maps as we have, the languages of the realm and beyond; even the language of the Enemy, never to speak aloud but to train his ear for a time of need. There will be many times when he will want to play, as the other children do, and he will not. His books and his teachers, they will come first. Even his harp may await him at times in loneliness, coming finally to his hand only at the evening fire." He looked at her and smiled. "As children, no one will envy Aragorn his inheritance. When they are grown and come to realize his sovereignty, all will understand his worth, and remember the years of plowing and weeding he put in."
"And he must know from the start that his friendships and loves will be subject to his state. Poor dear, he belongs to his people even now…" sighed Gilraen. "And no one little friend may become bosom boyhood companion. A just king may have no favorite if he is to love and be loved by his people. Even his choice of wife is a matter to be considered by the council of our family heads, and advised by our Eldar brethren."
"At least now, in our time, we have learned much of what the kingship truly is," mused Arathorn. "How dearly we have paid, over hundreds and even thousands of years, the abuse of kingly power. Now our cities lie in ruin among tall grasses, our wealth scattered, our people fewer and fewer. We have had to disappear from memory itself and grow back in secret, waiting between hope and fear. Until now," he added, smiling once again. "These years that come fast will be full of changes. There are already changes. Good ones."
"The crop of Dúnedain babies, you mean," teased Gilraen. "Well, we must get on with it. No one must say that the chieftain and his lady are falling behind…"
"Ah, sweet wench," he growled. "You make my blood flame…" They kissed intensely, hands searching bodies, pulling at strings and buckles.
"Come, my love," she panted. "It is time."
As the fire burned low and became barely coals, so the lovers' passion. When they fell finally into delicious sleep, there was, perhaps, already, a tiny soul seeking to become flesh in Gilraen's body. Perhaps. No one, now, will ever know.