Chapter Sixteen: What Hope I Have

Elrond and Gilraen climbed further up to a recess in the mountain- side. He led her around an outcropping of rocks fallen thousands of years ago, and before her eyes there unfolded a scrap of dreaming. In the almost-magic valley of Rivendell, still she had never seen a spot such as this. And there was, indeed, a tree.

Such a tree, not so tall as plethoric, almost overfull, almost too many, countless, thick branches forming a radiance of yellow flowers around a thick, knotty trunk. The final rays of Arien seemed to love the tiny blossoms and seek them out for the last kiss of the day, flitting little circles of light through the leaves onto the green forest floor. Not to be outdone, the rocky backdrop harboured continents of moss and lichen amid its vast ocean of glittering crystals, twinkling as well in reply to Arien's warm adieu.

"It sparkles also under the beams of Isil," said Elrond to Gilraen, who stared open-mouthed, "when Tilion sails his silver boat with full canvas over Arda. And even in the softest glow of Varda's stars." He brushed his hand over the brittle surface. "And upon a time there come tiny spiders weaving early-morning webs that catch more dewdrops than flies and add their own water-twinkles to this woody jewel." He turned back to the great flowering tree. "But my deepest love is for this megalia, come as a seedling gift from lost Númenor... a strain from the Lonely Isle itself."

"The scent of it is bewitching, uncle," she said faintly. "I had no inkling of such a spot, even here in your house. Almost it overwhelms me."

"Surrender, my dear lady," he laughed. "There is no resisting the gentle torrent of the wise-tree. And no harm will come to you, further than putting from your mind all other matters than that which brings you to the circle of its embrace."

"One thought alone I bring to the bosom of this wise tree," said Gilraen quietly.

"Yes..." said the elf-lord.

"Aragorn, my son."

Elrond took her hand and led her to a seat formed naturally amid the twisting roots of the megalia. "Let us rest a moment here," he said, "and share our visions."

"I know my deep task, once for twain and now heavy on my shoulders... lonely..." the shadow of a tear fell from her words. "I must bring Arathorn's son to manhood. Such I swore before his body asleep under the mountain." She raised her eyes to Elrond's, not unlike a wounded deer. "And such I have spoken with my beloved ladies. But I am not equal to the task. Not alone."

"You are not alone in this, well you know."

"I do," she said with a tiny smile. "Even at this moment, my boy is with his kinsmen the twins... instead of shuddering in a corner as he watches me madden with grief."

"Gilraen..."

"Dear uncle, I am so grateful. These crucial hours have been spent in joyous play and discovery, instead of sinking his oneness into fear and sorrow." She lifted her hand to play in a late sunbeam surging with dust-specks.

"So we all believe," said Elrond seriously. "He must not learn fear as yet, a small child. There is a natural bit in us all, from birth or even before, which must be left strictly alone so that it remains thus, functioning naturally. No load must be added, for any reason. A child must grow up free from fear."

"Caution, one can learn; bravery, never. So have we been taught, uncle, even by you the Eldar."

"And so were the Eldar taught by the Powers, long ago…" Elrond seemed to gaze beyond the rock wall, "and I was taught along the way." He sighed.

"So, then…" she said, picking at his sleeve.

"When reason has fully blossomed," he went on, "when self has been learned; when the body is shooting up and passions churning awake, then it is well to introduce and explore fully the true causes and workings of fear."

"It must be a tool for weighing and gauging," Gilraen said intensely, "not an ailment to muddle and stricken. This we spoke of, my lord and I, upon a sleepless night as we watched Aragorn work through his first bout of fever… and we were afraid, as never before. A wild, crazy fear of losing our child."

Elrond touched her hand, and she turned to face him. "But it must not blind us, we said; and we sang softly through the night, he with his tuneless voice and heart of gold. Come the day, the fever had broken."

"A sense of danger is to be most treasured," said the elf-lord, "among the parts of a warrior's armament as much as a mother's healing-chest." He gazed lovingly at his young kinswoman. "Your work, and the chieftain's, with the boy has been brilliant thus far. Elbereth with us, it will so continue… even if a swerve of direction has fallen upon us unlooked-for."

"Indeed…" she said, with such sadness that his heart ached for her.

"We have given much thought to this matter," he said seriously, searching her face again. "Earlier we met with the Dúnedain and gave them to consider a plan, one to snatch its prey from the jaws of misfortune. Are you willing that I speak, Gilraen?"

"Allow me to gaze with you, uncle."

"As we were climbing here to the megalia I spoke of your two tasks: the first being for you to heal yourself, and make yourself whole. Every effort, every talent in Rivendell will be bent to that purpose. I, to begin, have left in your quarters a gift, for you."

"A gift, uncle? Still more?"

A special gift which I aspire to see taking flight under your exquisite fingers, my dear lady," he said. "The box awaiting you contains that which you will require to set in writing, both poetry and faithful record, all that has passed in the life of Aragorn's father..."

"Where shall I begin?" she whispered.

"Where you will," he said carefully. "Of the greatest import, this, for his story must now pass to shadow... for the years of the child's raising."

"What say you, uncle?" she started in alarm.

"His station, secret; his sire, undisclosed: such must be the condition of this child. Not Aragorn, son of Arathorn, never more until he comes of age and can take on the heavy mantle of his kingship. For kingship it will be, Gilraen, whether in victory or defeat. Only for this is it demanded of you such sacrifice."

She was speechless. A timely bird chirped down into the megalia branches, then fluttered to perch on Gilraen's knee. It cocked its beady eye at her, emitted a fussy tweet and pecked between its little talons. The girl jumped, at that, and brushed the bird away as she turned on the elf-lord again.

"What mean you?" she hissed. "Undisclosed?" She paced to the rock wall and back, her agitation increasing. "This man was the love of my life, a giant born to father twenty children." Her body shook in a terrible shudder. "Mischance, devilry, cruel fate beyond my ken have taken him from me, and now you would blot out even his memory, rob his son –his only son– of the comfort of his great love..." She crumbled to the ground, weeping now in anger and grief.

Elrond rose and approached her slowly, sinking to the ground as he reached her side. "All you feel is true," he whispered, "but this is only for a short time. When he has grown, and is ready, his story will be given back to him, and he will be reunited with the memory of his father." He touched her arm timorously. "I beseech thee, daughter dear... trust in me... in us all..."

"What say the Dúnedain men?" she asked bitterly. "Have they agreed to this plan?"

"With silent doubts, but trusting in the end," he said slowly. "Nothing is further from my heart than to take from Arathorn his just reward, his high place in our chronicles. You must know this. Forget not that he, too, was fostered in my house, and I loved him as my own. I fed his heart and mind with what very best I had, to make of him a great king, one to unite the free peoples of Middle-Earth against the Enemy."

Gilraen looked up, struggling with a smile. "He was, in truth... he would have..."

"He did his part," interrupted Elrond firmly, "and only Eru knows why his time was so brief. We, here, cannot truly gauge the high import of his union with you, gifted woman, and the star risen over the head of the son brought forth between you." He looked deep into her eyes. "I, too, am trusting. This counsel is not sprung from me alone, but even harvested from whispers brought in meditation... in the water..." He lifted his finger to his lips in the timeless gesture of quiet...

"Uncle... my lord..."

"You must play your part, Gilraen, or we shall hardly arrive," he said, taking her hand and rising, "and I haven't a notion of where we would be, then." He returned to the megalia and pressed his body against the ancient trunk. He passed his palms over the rough surface, lovingly, and finally turned back to the girl watching him, almost in rapture. "What say you, daughter?"

"Who is Gilraen to stop the flood of spring waters?" she said, caught between sadness and inspiration. "My hand and my word are with you, dear uncle."

The Lord of Imladris turned away from the tree and the rock wall, closing his eyes and seeming to knead the air with his palms hollowed. "A dense quality is lifting," he said. "There are powers at work in our favor... as we toil in the same cause..."

"Let us seek my ladies and Master Glorfindel," she said, almost cheerful. "Then perhaps we may go to find the boys... my boy, I mean, and yours forever youthful." She turned back to the mystical haven and blessed the megalia. "Thank you for bringing me hither, my lord. I deem it is not open to many."

"Come whenever you like, but come alone."

"I understand, uncle." They rounded the outcrop and returned to the wide view of the valley and the four companions singing softly below. Gilraen made out three strains in the High-Elven Quenya speech, of a song unknown to her. As they neared, she perceived a dialogue between a hunter and a gatherer, spied upon by a witness and all guided at last by the picking and strumming of Milia's harp. Their argument was not yet settled and would have to wait upon another day, as the four joined the two and trotted down to the river path.

They turned towards the upstream, but Glorfindel stayed his companions for a brief moment. "The last look of her," he said, as if reaching for the sliver of Anar sinking into the rim of the Misty Mountains. The six watched in silence as the final bit of bright vermilion slipped behind the black peaks, and then raised their eyes to the wide dome above, to the first tiny sparks of Varda. A whispered prayer of thanks came from them as one, and they took the upstream path with jauntier step than had been all day.

Elrond fell a pace behind with Glorfindel, and all was told though no word passed between them. Gilraen and the sisters joined their hands and laughed, also without words, adding a skip here and there to their footsteps and, always Milia, a stolen bit of song at an instant.

Of a sudden, at a rise in the path ahead appeared first the heads and shoulders of the identical sons of Elrond, then the bouncing little boy rounding them and hopping from one to the other. His fingers clutched the end of a cord, at whose end swung a fish half his own size, silvery wet and gleaming. His happy cries reached Gilraen and her companions, stopped in their tracks and holding their breath.

"My son," she said softly, then crying out, "my son! My sweet son! Come to Momo—"

"Call him not Aragorn!" Elrond cut in, swiftly. "Name him anew, quickly... from your heart, now!"

"Estel!" she cried, lapsing into the Sindarin tongue of her childhood. "Come to Momo, my love... show me your big beautiful fish!"

"Fish, fish, fish!" crowed the ecstatic child, dancing around his mother and re-enacting the scene with the prime character in his hands. "He came to me, to my line, to my lure, like this..." he drove the fish through the ripples of air around them, now cautious, now greedy, finally succumbing to a tiny shake of the lure. "Ha!" cried the boy, then stopped suddenly and looked aside at his mentor. "Elladan made for me a fine lure..." he lowered his voice and confided to his mother, "a secret one, of Ada and Elladan and Elrohir... and now, of Aragorn." His grey eyes twinkled, and he raised a finger to his lips, made a soft shushing sound, and went on. "But, Momo, fish come to the lure, go back again, come, go back again... then Elrohir show me–" he held up his index finger, then added one by one the remainders, whispering, "ah... sa... fe... tuu... taan... jaaa..." finally closing them joined loosely at the tips. "Fish says jaaa, and..." he mimicked a deep gulping sound and gesture.

The fish was hooked, the players applauded, the listeners well-served. As night seemed to rise from the depths of the valley, they directed their steps to the gallery. All the way the boy plunged his fish to and fro, free now forever from the toils of this life and soon to pass –cooked in herbs– into the grateful body of his victor.