"Aragorn indeed lived to be two hundred and ten years old, longer than any of his line since King Arvegil; but in Aragorn Elessar the dignity of the kings of old was renewed."
The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A, The North-kingdom and the Dúnedain
A boy, age two, sits in his mother's lap, wrapped in a wool blanket, blinking up at his father with round eyes. His father smiles, chucks him under the cheek.
Be good, Aragorn.
He kisses the boy's mother, whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh. The boy likes it when she laughs; it sounds like bells. His father rises, and clasps forearms with two men– no, not men, Elves!– who are nearly identical in appearance; dark hair, strong jaw, ears that point to the sky, and cloaks that just brush the forest floor, close enough for him to grab with a little fist. Soft, rich velvet.
You have a strong hand, tithen pen!
The Elf laughs, winks, and then, gently prying the cloak from his hand, mounts his horse. With a shout, they ride, three figures disappearing into the morning fog. Gilraen sighs, kisses the boy on the cheek, and rises.
Come, Aragorn, back inside.
She never called him Aragorn again.
…
A boy, age four, sits on a lap that is not his father's, runs a finger down the sleeve of the fine robe of Lord Elrond, listens to the ever-present rush of water thundering down from the mountains, watches the quill scratch its way across parchment in Elrond's fine, strong script. He kicks his feet against the leg of the chair, kicks his shin.
Sorry, Ada!
Elrond stops. He glances at the little boy on his lap, now gazing out the window, thinks of the man who will never hear his son say those words. He wraps his arm a little tighter around him, rests his chin on his head.
That's all right, Estel.
…
A boy, age six, sits on the sidelines as Elrohir draws his broadsword, glittering in the sun, against his brother Elladan. He watches with eager eyes, chin tucked into his hands propped on knees, watching the dance of silver flashes and swirling robes, listens to a language unfamiliar, the ringing tones of their voices, laughing, teasing. He watches as Elrohir drives forward, disarming his brother, thrusting the blade against his neck with a shout. He winks at the boy. The boy smiles back.
Gilraen, standing on the sidelines, keeps a careful eye on her son, and the other on the twins; no matter how long she looks, all she sees is an arrow flying through the air and into her husband's eye.
…
A boy, age ten, draws a small dagger from his belt and places his boots carefully over the unbroken snow, stepping into the unexplored land of Elrond's frozen gardens, imagining the dulled blade to be shining and glorious, imagining a circlet of stars upon his head, imagining that the snow remained unbroken by a single set of small footprints. Real elves' socks are never soaked through, real elves' never got so cold they were scolded by Erestor and Ada and Elrohir. (Elladan never scolded, not if he could help it.)
"Estel, you'll catch your death in this cold!"
Naneth. He forgot about Naneth.
…
A boy, age fourteen, swings his (borrowed, for now) blade, an attack Elrohir blocks easily, with one hand. He frowns, tries again.
Go easy on the boy, Elrohir!
A voice, ringing across the courtyard. Elladan, a long cloak slung over his shoulders— soft velvet. Elrohir smiles, laughs, and suddenly, the boy thinks of his father, riding with them, riding away, riding to his death. Perhaps that was the last thing he heard. Perhaps it was the last thing he saw.
Something in the boy's eyes changes, darkens. He lunges with a shout, a ferocity, drives Elrohir back, to the edge of the training field.
You were there!
He is shouting, nearly incoherent. Elrohir dances out of the way, blocking, steel on steel– he disarms the boy, holds him tight. It was an accident, he wants to say, but he knows there is nothing to say.
…
Age seventeen. The boy stands in the hall, staring up at the image hung on the wall, memory brought to life, memory immortalized. Outside, sheets of white rain falling from the sky– a thunderstorm, wind crashing through the open arches. White rain, white paint; the sword of Elendil depicted with silver brushstrokes, staving off darkness. A moment of victory, of heroism, of bravery; Isildur lies upon the body of his father, holds his sword.
Estel shudders. He is very glad it is not him.
…
A man, age twenty-one, no longer a boy but still boyish, stares at himself in the mirror, looks himself in the eye, grey on grey, looks at the ring on his finger and the sword at his hip. History, embodied; legacy and lineage. Aragorn, now, no longer Estel. Gilraen approaches her son from behind, placing her hands on his tall shoulders.
Ónen i-Estel Edain. Ú-chebin estel anim.
Her son looks up sharply, meeting her gaze in the mirror; piercing, like his father. She lifts her chin because she must, and presses a kiss to the forehead.
…
He is still twenty-one when he cries Tinuviel! Tinuviel! in the sunlit woods of Imladris. He is only twenty-one when he falls in love with dark hair and beauty beyond this world; he is twenty-one when Elrond is stern with him for the first time.
No, Aragorn. Not unless you are king will you be worthy of her hand.
…
A very young man (this is what Halbarad has decided to call him) rides with the Dunedain, an odd man, who speaks more Elvish than Westron, acquired Elvish mannerisms, like that odd gracefulness and uncommon habit of singing in the night. In another life, he would have considered him a brother; in this one, more a son. The first night, he slipped, called him Arathorn; the boy flinched as if burned, then met his gaze with steady grey eyes, and Halbarad almost did it again.
He does not ask a lot of questions, but he carries them, this leader of Men who has grown up apart from his people, and soon, almost unawares, the Dunedain begin to look to him for guidance. Strider, he calls himself. But Aragorn is the name that hangs on the lips of his men.
…
Aragorn is twenty-four and mending a tear in his cloak when the figure of an old man appears, stooped and grey, leaning on a staff. He stills, lifts his eyes, reaches for his knife.
The old man meets his gaze over the embers of the dying fire. Something, somehow, makes him pause.
Who are you?
The old man stops, sits down next to him with a heavy sigh, pulling a pipe from the depths of his robes. He leans over his shoulder, glances at the fine, neat stitches on the cloak, looks back up at him from under the wide brim of his hat.
I learned from my mother, Aragorn says quietly.
The man exhales, smoke trailing from the end of the pipe, dissipating into the cold air.
She taught you well.
…
He is twenty-five, he is thirty-seven, he is forty-nine. He strides into Meduseld, bows humbly before Thengel, rides with the Rohirrim against the forces of Sauron. He finds, just as he did with the Dunedain, that he is as comfortable among the men of Rohan as he is among the high Elven lords.
He hesitates, though, before walking the stone streets of Minas Tirith, fighting a twinge of guilt, fear, anticipation. Will the white city condemn its lost king? Will it claim him? He lays a hand on the hilt of Narsil, runs a finger over the pommel. Legacy and lineage. Ecthelion looks at him with nothing less than respect and no recognition in his eyes, but even so, when asked his name, he does not say Aragorn, or even Estel; he says Thorongil, a name devoid of prophecy, of expectation.
Ecthelion nods, turns away. His son, standing at his side, looks at him just a moment longer.
…
Fifty, weary and travel-worn, he stumbles into the woods of Lothlorien, breathing Elven air for the first time in years. It is a very different place from Imladris– thundering falls replaced by a gentle stream, stone walkways with grounded earth. It is through these trees that he once again sees dark hair and beauty beyond this world, but this time he does not cry Tinuviel. This time, he bows, takes her hand, and upon the great hill of Cerin Amroth, wildflowers replaced with elanor and niphredil, he pledges his heart to Arwen Undomiel.
…
Age seventy-six, deep in the Rhovanion, he comes to a halt for the night in an exhausted stupor. By habit, he hunts small game, starts a fire. These woods are thick, close knit; he sits with his back against the trunk of a tree. He glances up into the boughs on the thinnest of hopes of catching a glimpse of a pale limb or odd, glowing eye. But there is no sign of Gollum, nor has there been for the past week. A quiet part of him wishes, for the first time, that he were a few years younger. Seventy-six is no longer young. Seventy-six is no longer really middle-aged, and he realizes with a quiet pang of sorrow that he is older than his father. And it is at age seventy-six, beside the fire and staving off fatigue and the feeling of defeat, that the message comes in the form of an Elven rider, sliding off his horse with a gracefulness he has not seen in a long time.
My deepest apologies, hir-nin. I have been sent by Lord Elrond to tell you that your mother has passed away.
…
Eighty-five. Twelve years of hunting Gollum has brought him back to Rhovanion, to the halls of Eryn Galen, fingers raw from rope and ears full of inane babble and senseless noise. He throws him on the polished floor of Thranduil's throne room.
Watch him, he says, handing the rope to a guard and looking one last time at the creature, curled and snivelling on the ground. Skin and bones. Consumed by himself. Do not let him leave. Do not let him climb.
Their prince, an Elf with hair just like his father, escorts him to the edge of the forest, along the treacherous path of the Elves. The prince is light on his feet, unwearied and bright-eyed, and in the presence of immortality, Aragorn again feels his age– in his fingers, rough and worn, in the dirt caked into the beginnings of fine wrinkles around his eyes. The prince pauses, briefly, before a carved image of an Elf placed at the entrance to the woods. A beautiful image, her hair entwined with living vines, sprayed with flowers, and through ten long years of toil, of willful forgetting, Aragorn feels the barest of touches from his mother, her voice saying Estel, her laugh that sounded like bells.
Your mother? He asks the Elf prince, who is looking at the image with naked sorrow. He bows his head.
Not many call her that, he says back. Most simply say the Queen.
The prince turns and looks at him with those bright eyes, blue and unabashed as they fill with tears.
She was a mother first, Aragorn says. Mine was.
…
One year later, he stands before the statue of his own mother, white stone. He clears the vines, puts a gentle hand on the cheek, on the hands that raised him.
Ammê, I go to Minas Tirith.
He must go, he knows that now, after the Nazgul attack and the look on the hobbit's face as he claimed the quest– pale, fatigued, resolute. No one should bear it alone. Ahead, at the gates of Imladris, stand the Fellowship, four hobbits, three warriors, a wizard as mysterious as the day they met, and a heavy, heavy burden. He must go, even if going means never returning. But still, he wonders, and looks at his mother's face with regret.
Elrond sends them off in the dead of winter, laying no oath, taking no vow– Aragorn sees in his eyes the lessons learned from a childhood borne of oaths and vows, sees the glimmering of hope for the future. It is not to claim a throne that he chooses to go, yet with an odd sense of foreboding, he begins to understand that is where his path lies.
Estel, Elrond calls him, perhaps for the last time, and because he loved him like a son, speaks the words he desires. She would be proud.
AN:
Thanks for reading! Been on a renewed LOTR kick lately, and this was the result. If anything changes/is updated, it'll be notated in the summary. Potential part 2, going into LOTR cannon (selected parts, of course). Comments always appreciated!