Chapter Five: Flight from the Sanctuary
Gilraen awoke with a smothering gasp, her eyes wide in panic. The night only just ended had brought her no rest, and now even the light, restless sleep she had finally fallen into as dawn approached was ripped from her by a seeming cry of pain. But she heard nothing, even as she felt it, and saw to her distress that the shriek was in fact a whisper, and that it came from within her own body. The silent, sobbing feeling that so terrified her was located in her very womb, and in the midst of her dread a fleeting thought still passed. "It is so…there is a child… But, what…?" She panted in fear, not pain, and pressed her palms to her lower belly. "My child, what ails you?" she finally cried aloud, rocking back and forth.
A sudden sharp rapping at the door shot through her frenzy and jerked her outside herself. "My lady," a woman's voice in the crack of the door, "my lady, a rider from the company has arrived in great haste. Come. He is asking urgently for you." The knocking resumed, insistently.
Gilraen drew the cover around her shoulders and scurried to open the door. The serving-woman entered and clutched her mistress' hands. "Quickly, my lady, let me help you dress." Both women's fingers were stiff and clumsy, and the final lacing was tied as they were rushing from the room.
"Aragorn!" Gilraen said, stopping suddenly and turning to the little bed.
"He sleeps still, my lady," said the woman. "Leave him for now, and I will return at once to watch him. Now we must make haste."
"Where is the rider?" asked Gilraen as they hurried to the stairway. "And who is he?"
"I do not know for certain, my lady."
Gilraen stopped. "How is that? Is he not a Ranger? How can you know him not?"
The woman lowered her voice. "Not a Ranger, lady, not a mortal man. One of the elven-kind, that ride with our lads and men. Though I have seen him here on a time, I know not his name. But you must see him. He awaits you in the dining hall."
"The boy…"
"I will go to him at once, my lady. Have no fear."
Gilraen stopped outside the hall doorway. Her heart was pounding as if she had raced up a mountain, and she breathed deeply once, twice, three times, until she was steady enough to enter and face the messenger, if indeed a messenger it was.
"Master Glorfindel!" she exclaimed. "What…?" her words petered out at the gravity in his red-rimmed eyes. She looked about, seeing but not seeing, far from the familiar great room, the tables and benches, now all clean and cleared away.
"Lady Gilraen, daughter of Dirhael, queen of the Dúnedain…" his voice failed and he turned away.
"What is it, Master?" she came close to him and sought his eyes. Her heart was again beating wildly, and flashes of crazy movement and color hid the elf-lord's face from her on instants, while at others he seemed bathed in a harsh white light.
"He is gone, my child. You must come with me now, and the boy." He caught her to him as her legs gave way, and lowered her to sit on the floor. "Gilraen, Gilraen, stay with us," he took her face, shaking it softly, trying to read into her eyes.
"What are you saying…?" she uttered with difficulty. "How is he gone…? He…? My Lord Arathorn…?" her voice rose shrilly and he quickly placed a hand over her mouth.
"No wailing, my lady. Hold yourself in strength. There is much to do, and both you and Aragorn must do your part. There will be time for grieving later… years…" He clasped her in his arms and lifted her, fearful of her rigid body. "Gilraen…"
She could hear him only faintly, through the roaring in her ears, and her mind could settle on nothing that made any sense. But the old friend holding her was, she knew, trustworthy; and she let herself be led out of the hall and to the courtyard. "A warm cloak for my lady," she heard Glorfindel ordering, "and bundle up the boy snugly. We have a long ride ahead, and little time." Further instructions were lost to her, as far-off unrelated mumblings; she never felt the waves of horror and anguish coursing through the halls and stairways of the sanctuary, never heard the muffled sobbing or the words of grieving. Up on the elf-lord's horse before him, she barely noticed a second rider, one of her own Dúnedain, galloping close by with a small bundle bound to his body. It was growing light as they raced across the moors, but she saw nothing.
xxx
Miles devoured by the great hearts and legs of their horses, they arrived finally at a small woody cove in the hills. A ranger hailed them from the bush with a bird's cry, then stepped forward to salute his lady. She muttered an answer, dazed even now, and Glorfindel bent down to consult with him quickly and in secret. The ranger pointed in a direction to an angle, and as they passed, whistled coded signals to other watchmen about.
The woods thickened right ahead, and the riders were lost from sight in a moment, moving over the untracked forest floor. Scant minutes later they emerged into a tiny clearing, sheltered between the concave rocky rise of a mountain cliff and the close growth of pine and brush oak. The sky was barely to be seen above, and the morning light had not yet broken through.
Men were there, Gilraen saw vaguely, and elves. She seemed to know them all, but could hardly raise a hand in greeting. They were still and gazing at her, anxious some, others ashamed, many with great pity, and sorrow in them all. The twin sons of Elrond, whom she could never tell apart, came forward and reached up for her.
"My lady Gilraen," said one twin as he lowered her to the ground, "I am Elladan."
"Then you are Elrohir," said Gilraen smiling weakly at the other twin who was taking her arm and searching her eyes uneasily.
"Elladan, take Little Aragorn," said Glorfindel. "He is surely awake by now, and must be seen to at once, before he tries to jump down."
"He doubtless thinks he is on a hunting trip, and that this is a game… poor mite…" said the twin as he reached the Dúnadan rider who was unraveling the last of the wrappings that had bound the small boy to him. "Come, little cousin." He took the child in his arms and did not put him down. He was still quiet, half-numbed by the long hard ride.
Gilraen leaned upon the arm supporting her and moved away from Glorfindel's heaving horse. The elf-lord slipped to the ground and followed quietly. "Where is he?" she murmured. Elrohir pointed to the shadows at the foot of the cliff.
"There is a small recess among the rocks. It cannot be seen until one is almost before it. We ourselves found it only now, this day…" he trailed off, sadly.
"Show me," she said. "Take me to him." As they moved forward, Elrohir heard her mutter under her breath, "No wailing… no wailing… Aragorn…" They stooped to enter the small cave-like opening, and there she saw her lord asleep on a bed of stones and boughs. "Asleep," she said, turning to her companion, "he is surely asleep."
"In a sense, my lady," answered the elf sadly, "but he will awaken elsewhere, upon another time." He held her close around the shoulders and led her to the low mound they had built for the chieftain of the Dúnedain. The tall man seemed indeed asleep, and only a dark scarf across his forehead and right eye belied the impression. That, and the stillness. Ever his great chest rose and fell in sleep, Gilraen knew well. She reached out slowly and held her hand above him, delaying the touch of her lord's unmoving body. The final moment, before beginning her life without him.
She would shake him, call him, sing to him, cover his face with little kisses, and he would not open his eyes in answer. Little Aragorn would come bounding in, trumpet call before him, to leap up astride the broad breast, and no great laugh would awake in response. This she knew, by rote. This was dead, this was life ended. Not the mortal nightfall of her race after long years upon the earth, but a sudden breaking of a strong living branch, leafy-full and flowering, unlooked-for, unthought-of, even now unthinkable, as she lowered her hand to the heart of her beloved.
"Yes," she said. "I know this shoulder, I know this strong neck…" Her hand traced over his belly, seeking, barely daring to press harder. She was sure he would awaken of a sudden and grab her searching hand… She shuddered, and broke in a wrenching sob, falling across the wide chest of that which had once been alive as Arathorn II, son of Arador.