Chapter Three: Wolf-pup
The days following were so full of joy and bustle as never before. Aragorn's very first lessons were indeed begun, for his little body was growing daily strong and agile, and his bright childish mind was ever groping for puzzles and wonders. Arathorn took him daily on his great horse Rogarin, and the child screamed in delight at each leap and turn. He was never afraid, for he was bound to his father's immense solid body, and slowly grew to be one with the saddle.
"Soon he will be galloping across the moors by himself," said Arathorn proudly as he lowered the boy into his mother's arms. He dismounted and followed the chattering pair, considering the choice of a foal this year for his son's mount. "In three years' time," he counted, "a small boy can ride a grown colt. They must be together always, at work and at play, so they will bond from infancy. With this colt shall he grow into a horseman, and from its line he will choose all of his mounts in the years to come. As my Rogarin, come from the bloodline of the great-hearted Starseeker, my boyhood companion. Yes, indeed, a grave choice: this of his foal."
They entered the great hall, where tables were set with platters and flagons, and hungry happy kinfolk streamed in to find a seat amid the bustle of the coming meal. The three took their places at the table raised on a higher platform, and basins of steaming perfumed water were brought.
"Yes, my love, you must cleanse your face and hands, like so…" Gilraen firmly directed the reluctant child's motions, adding her swipes of the washcloth to his own. "See? I do, so, and your father as well."
"Don't clean hands in the wild," muttered the boy.
"Aragorn must eat with clean hands at the table," said his mother. "We all do so, and chew slowly with our mouths closed. We wipe our lips and cheeks with the cloth, see? Take little bites, my son."
Father and son exchanged glances, Arathorn winked, and Aragorn settled down to his meal. Fine roasted meats, breads with herbs, and platters of nuts and apples, cheeses and cream and butter, pitchers of milk, pots of honey. "Such a feast," said Arathorn. "Do we not save for days to come?"
"We do, my lord," retorted the good cook Agadil as she offered him a bowl of sweet cakes. "This feast is in thanks for our plentiful harvest and overflowing larders. Joy and thanks, my lord, we have many reasons for them." She moved on, laughing at the calls her way from neighboring tables.
"Tomorrow we shall start looking for Aragorn's right pony," said the chieftain through his dripping drumstick. "Are you ready, my son?" he teased, poking the boy's ribs.
The child stopped dead still with the bite halfway to his lips. His eyes were wide, and a tear seemed to tremble in the deep gray pools. "Aragorn's pony…" he whispered. He shot up suddenly. "Aragorn's pony!" he bellowed. "Aragorn's pony Aragorn's pony Aragorn's pony…" he leaped from the table dais and galloped around the hall, circling every table and buzzing his magic chant until the entire company was in a hilarious, joyous uproar.
"There has not been a horseman such as this will be," sentenced an old leathery-faced Ranger. "A deep stream of spirit flows from a great rider to his mount, and back. Any horse feels it, and welcomes the nearness of one, but only with his very own noble beast does a great horseman reach the heights of understanding. Not unlike the love of one's very own wife," he finished laughingly, while he caressed the hand of the lady at his side, still handsome in her autumn years.
"Better than the passing love of any poor wench, I'll wager," she quipped back amid the laughter at her table. "Come, little master," she caught the boy in her arms as he sailed by, hooting and whooping. "Tell us about Aragorn's right pony."
The child's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes were amazing. "One pony, one little, little pony for Aragorn," he explained, now totally serious. "One little pony, one little boy. One big pony, one big boy. Friends. Always friends, always… together," he said with a frowning effort, helping his words with vivid gestures from his small hands.
His parents watched from their seats, as all the company felt the love flowing for their little prince, their pride in his brightness. Their deep awareness of his great heart. The rising star of hope…finally, at last.
Only Agadil watched from the doorway with a tiny flutter in her breast. "One should be so happy…" she said. "And now it seems we have so much to lose…" She shrugged and tossed off her scrap of darkness. "Silly sallies, nothing doing," she sang loudly. "Who can eat another cake, my fine feasters? Growing cold in my basket, such a shame, I say…" she laughed gaily on her way around the rounds, once more, once again, until the final bite was done and all had risen to seek their bloated rest by a homefire. Many herb teas were already brewing, to soothe their way into unhungry stomachs that would otherwise never get a moment's relief through the long, overfed night. The Dúnedain would survive the unaccustomed banquet, never dreaming that many years would pass before any such were ever seen again.
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And so it came to pass that the very height of the Dúnedain's hope had been reached, and perhaps would have truly climbed ever higher, when a dark shot unseen and unlooked-for claimed the day and turned the bright path of Elendil's people back into the shadows of the forest and the silence of the caves.
Two days before the orc arrow pierced his eye and sent him on his final, lonely journey, Arathorn rose early from his bed, still a bit overstuffed from the grand meal at the thanksgiving banquet. He kissed Gilraen softly, and she half-waked to smile sleepily. "So late last night with the feverish children…" she muttered in apology. "I didn't hear you rise… Are you going already?"
"Sshh, my sweet. Sleep on. This is a short tour of inspection, and we will return within the week. This fever, is it bad? Aragorn…?" he questioned, more casually than he truly felt.
"It is of no great concern. A bit of rash, some fever, and they must stay abed for some few days. All children pass through this illness, but some go down harder. Aragorn showed a handful of red spots, a touch of fever for one day, and that was all. A hardy boy, our son…" she finished with a happy smile.
"Every day he is more and more the brightest child I have ever seen," mused Arathorn proudly. "When I return, we will go fetch his foal. Tell him for me, as he sleeps still and I hardly want to wake him." The chieftain looked down on the sleeping boy in his little bed, and finally delivered a careful, brief kiss on the flushed forehead. "Are you certain he has no fever?" he said, picking up his gear.
"None at all, my love," Gilraen sat up. "Now kiss me as well, for a week is a long time to be without your hungry lips." She reached out for him, and his strong legs quaked with sudden desire at the sight of her half-naked body amid the tousled bedclothes, her laughing red mouth…
"Your sparkling naughty eyes," he mumbled into her neck as he embraced her fiercely and sought her lips, "I could easily not go at all…" Already he was loosening the straps that bound his sword-sheath and dagger to his body, and she laughed harder and pushed him away.
"Would you have the Rangers come knocking at our chamber door asking for their chieftain, and him entangled in his lady's legs and the bed-sheets?" she teased merrily and kissed him with little kisses all over his face. Suddenly serious, she said, "I love thee, my lord Arathorn. Go now, and return safely. I will seek for thee from the high window, one week hence."
"When I return, we shall be abed for ten days, and answer to none."
"When you return, I shall sing for thee a new song… perhaps…" she smiled secretly.
He reached the door and went out, barely stealing a glance back. She gestured shoo-shoo, and fell back happily on her pillows as the door closed with the smallest scrape. She blessed him with a thought, then searched her body lightly with her fingertips, seeking the truth of her heart's boding. "A daughter… could it be so…?" She smiled again, seeing in her mind's eye Arathorn beguiled by a tiny little girl. "Elbereth grant us this joy," she prayed.
Aragorn gurgled suddenly and laughed aloud, half-dreaming still and as always joyful at coming awake. "Day is come!" he crowed, his happy call of each morning.
Gilraen called to him. "Here, my little son. Come to me and sing the wolf-pup song," she begged in serious fun. Aragorn jumped from his bed to his parents', his daily leap from time unremembered, and hugged his mother like a playful monkey. They tussled for a bit, laughing fit to burst, until she finally surrendered. "The wolf-pup song," she demanded. "Sing."
Aragorn drew himself up, his expression grave at once. "Wolf-pup running in the wood," he sang, "come to me, come and play." He clapped twice and continued, "Wolf-pup splashing in the stream, wait for me, wait for me…" he made a small pouncing gesture, once and again, and sang on, "wolf-pup bite, wolf-pup lick, happy go play with me, every day," Gilraen joining in the final chorus, "happy go play with me, every daaaayyy…!" They collapsed in ecstasy, their breath gone to the last stretching note of the child's song. It was his first own composing, his mother's pride, a small piece of the legend already growing around him, far from his understanding.
"Where is Dada?" asked Aragorn, suddenly aware of his father's absence.
"He's gone riding with the Rangers, my son. He left you a message," she added quickly, seeing a cloud come over the child's face. "He said to tell you that when he returns you will go and fetch your pony. Your pony! Aragorn's pony!"
The boy lit up in high joy, and bounced on the bed shouting, "Pony, pony!" until she plumped him with a pillow and pinned him down.
"Let's go eat, Aragorn," said his mother. "You must be big and strong for your pony…"
"Pony! Pony!" the boy began again.
"Oh, goodness," said Gilraen, finally giving in. "There will be no peace until you are on that animal's back… And may he carry you ever safely, my son," she added seriously in a sudden afterthought. There seemed to be a sort of chill in the room, for a moment, and Gilraen quickly took the boy's hand and led him out.