Pen-neth
Chapter One - Imladris

He was simply refusing to believe it - refusing to believe any of it. And it was surprisingly easy for the little child to remain ignorant while he was being supported in his mother's warm arms, with the scent of grass and wildflowers still clinging to her dress and hair. It smelt of home - like the garden outside the house his father had made when he was a baby. Yet he did not know much about that, save that it was the place he felt safest and content. Even though it was exciting when his father took him out into the wilds on he back of his horse, his thoughts always turned to the warm house, where his mother would be waiting with a warm meal when they returned.

Yes. His young mind found it easy to focus on his home, and he was able to imagine that the steps his mother was carrying him over led to his very home. Of course - that was what was happening! Why, in just a few moments, she would shift him into one arm instead of two so that she could reach out and open the door. And then the sharp cool atmosphere would give way to the warm glow of the fire. Yes. And then she would let him down onto the ground, and he would find his father sitting by the fire, either gazing into it - his mind full of some important thought or another - or perusing a piece of parchment - or maybe even sharpening his big sword, and then the firelight would make the steel blade flash and glitter.

Then he could sit cross-legged on the hearth, watching the magnificent weapon, as his father would tell him stories of his latest adventures. He would tell him tales of great battles and orcs and trolls and fierce men with bad hearts. He would tell him of foreign places and things, and tell him of men and elves - the latter always fascinated the boy. He always wanted to meet an elf - though he was far too young, and his mother would never allow him to go out on a long journey to the places such as Imladris or Lothlórien, and as no elves seemed eager to visit him at his home, he was forced to be content with what he had. Yet his father made up for it - he told him stories of the elves, of all the great battles they fought and the things they did until his mother would become uneasy, and send him off to bed, saying such things were too old for him.

"Aragorn..." the little boy whimpered as the happy memories and images were chased away by the gentle voice of his mother. He realized that they had stopped climbing up those stairs. "Aragorn, we are here, my son. Open your eyes."

He did not want to open his eyes. Instead he whimpered and clung fast to his mother's soft cloak, hiding his face deeper into the crook of her shoulder. If he opened his eyes, then he would no longer be able to see the warm home and the face of his father. If he opened his eyes, he would have to remember that he would never again see his home, that he would never again see his father. He would have to remember that his mother was bringing him to Imladris, and that they were coming for him to be cared by some strange lord he neither knew nor wanted to know. He no longer wanted to see the elves. He wanted his father - he wanted to wake up and see that the past few months had been all a bad dream, and that maybe he would see his father trying to wake him up from his own warm bed when he opened his eyes.

So his young thoughts turned in circles, and when he opened his silver-blue eyes he was not confronted with the pleasant face of his father, but the careworn face of his mother. She was looking at him with a smile, and he blinked at her solemnly as she shifted him in her arms and brushed back a strand of dark hair from his face.

"We have arrived, my son," his mother whispered, a smile lighting on her features. It had been so long since he had seen her smiling that it almost lightened his heart. "Would you not like to meet the lord Elrond?"

The boy considered this, and then shook his head. No. If he met the lord Elrond, then it would be accepting his father's death - no.

"It is only polite, Aragorn," she said, her eyes hardening a little and glancing almost nervously past her son. "If you are going to live up to your father's example, young one, you have to learn your manners. We are going to be his guests - your father would want you to show your respect."

The boy's brow furrowed in a frown, and he shook his head again, tears in his eyes. No. He wanted his father, he did not want some elf lord - suddenly he became aware of the sound of laughter, and he squirmed around in his mother's arms to see where it came from. His young eyes widened. Standing out in front of some massive doors which had been flung open were four elves - they looked impressive and ethereal, dressed in garb quite strange to the little human and bearing an heir about them that made him lost for words.

Two were almost identical - the boy had never seen two beings so much alike. Compared to the other elves, they seemed young. Their bright eyes were silver-grey, the colour of stars or the twilit sky, and their hair was as dark as ebony. They were grinning, and seemed to be the ones who laughed. Beside them stood an elf so much unlike the twins that the boy had an equal amount of wonder by beholding him - he had never seen anyone so strong and lordly, bright, piercing blue eyes he had, and pale golden-hued hair. He was smiling as well, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. The third...

The boy's eyes widened even more when he began to take in the Elven Lord's form. The elf was tall, perhaps equal in height to that of the golden- haired lord. Though he looked more like the twins - or, rather, the twins more like the elder elf. He was standing out in front, and his eyes were soft as he gazed upon the boy. They were full of wisdom, and knowledge of things that he himself had no comprehension over. They seemed like such old eyes, and yet his face was ageless. The boy was awestruck.

"Do not force him, Gilraen," he said in a soft, mellifluous, voice that sounded fairer than any he had heard before. He bore an accent that sounded as if he were used to speaking a language much more rich and beautiful than the common tongue. "He has been through much, young Aragorn - no doubt the journey has wearied him as well." And he walked up to them, and looked kindly on the boy, his silver eyes peering curiously at him. "Aragorn - so what I hear is true. You look the very image of your father. He was a great man, Arathorn. I am called Elrond. Welcome to Imladris, pen-neth. You have done well, young Aragorn, to bring your mother safely to my realm. You must continue to be strong now - as your father was - for your mother needs you now, pen-neth. Will you be able to do so?"

The boy goggled at Elrond, startled at hearing his father's name spoken so kindly by one so lordly and fair. The elven lord merely chuckled softly when the young boy could produce no answer, and began to lead he, his mother and their escorts into the last homely house.

That was Aragorn's first memory of Elrond. He knew very little of the lord of Imladris. He had no comprehension of his age - he did not know that he had seen at least two ages wax and wane on the earth. He had no idea that he was of such great lineage that his blood could be traced back to heroes and heroines far back to the beginning of the world. He had not the slightest clue that people came from far and wide to gain the counsel of the ancient loremaster - all he knew was that he had said he was brave, and that he looked like his father.

And that was the first time he could think of Arathorn without tears or denial.

A/N: Woohoo! Finally, an update! This is what happens when all of my plot bunnies decide to die at once. xD But yes, thank the Furb-meister for this update. Rawr.

Pen-neth
Chapter Two: Good Morning!

Alas, but young Aragorn was unable to take in very much else of his new home the first time he was carried into it. He did not stay awake long enough. He could not help but to let his head fall into the curve of his mother's shoulder, or to let his heavy eyelids droop over his sea-grey eyes. A thunderous yawn pulled from his lips, and the next thing he knew, he was lying in the most comfortable bed he had ever been in. Gilraen was trying to wake him up, telling him that it was time for breakfast. She was not being very successful in this act, however. Aragorn felt that he was literally buried in a nest of humongous blankets and fluffy pillows, and everything was so warm and cozy that he was loath to let himself be awoken.

Better yet, his dreams had been nice, and did not contain memories and visions of a father that he would never see again. However, unlike the last time Gilraen tried to rouse him, he was not being difficult because he wanted to pretend he was somewhere else - quite the contrary! He was so pleased with his current situation that he wanted to stay exactly where he was. The reposed little boy whined and whimpered as his mother bent over him, occasionally nudging him and trying her hardest to wake the little creature.

Sleep was such a good thing. His mother went to such lengths usually to put him to sleep, why was she so set on waking him now? The boy let out a little whine sounding something like 'no!' and scrambled even further under the blankets, pulling them over his head hiding somewhere in the middle of the mattress and mass of bedclothes, deeper into the stifling warmth. Gilraen gave a soft chuckle, and briefly her hand lighted over his head from the other side of the thick comforter. The woman rose gracefully to her feet. Aragorn only knew of this because he felt the mattress shift as she withdrew her weight. He laid very still, and heard her footsteps padding softly along the flagstones of the floor as she began to walk away.

"Have it your way, then, my little one!" she called. "I suppose I shall just go on my way, then. I will have to eat all of master Elrond's fine food by myself."

What? She was leaving him? Alone? In this strange land of elves and - big beds that had spells woven about them that made you want to sleep in them forever and ever and ever until you die an old man from starvation!?

"NO!" he exclaimed, struggling with the now-suffocating layer of blankets, which suddenly now seemed threatening, dangerous and cold without the warmth of his mother nearby. "NO! Wait! I'm coming!"

The little boy erupted from his cozy nest in the time it took her to take another step. Once perched on the edge of the mattress, the small boy watched his mother with a wide, plaintive expression in his eyes. His mother halted at once, and turned a gentle smile on him. A very pretty lady was his mother, the most beautiful in the world in his opinion. She was not a very tall or doughty woman - indeed, she was rather small, slender and lithe, though she had a quiet inner strength of her own that made Aragorn feel safer with her than in the company of a hundred other warriors. She returned to her son, and he reached out for her. She sat down upon the bed beside him, gathering her little one in her arms.

"Did you have a nice sleep, my son?"

He merely nodded a little. His head safely on her shoulder, he began to look about him, observing the room that he had spent the night in. His mother had slept in the bed with him, much to his relief - he did not want to have to sleep all alone in a strange place his first night. It was not a very big room, though it was bigger than the one he had had at home. The bed was humongous in his opinion. There was a desk underneath a window upon the wall across from them. A pattern of pale gold made of sunlight filtering through the branches of trees was flickering over the smooth flagstones, making its way ever closer to the bed.

The furniture – the bed, the desk, the chairs, nightstand and things of the sort – all looked like things that had been taken out of the great stories of old, straight from the great castles and fortresses in which there were valiant elven kings, rich beyond measure, and princesses, and great quests of which there were many endings - most everything was carved in some way. Even the bedposts had some sort of decoration etched into the dark wood. It was a very fair and beautiful place, but it was nothing… absolutely nothing like his home.

"I want to go home," he said in a quiet, rather tearful tone. "I miss it. Why do we have to stay here?"

Gilraen's tone had a slightly stern note to it as she answered, though she stroked his ruffled bangs tenderly as she spoke. "The lord Elrond has been very kind to let us come, little one. You must be thankful that he lets us stay here."

"I don't want to stay here! I want to go home."

"Aragorn," she was sterner still. "We cannot go home. We have to stay here for a little while at least. Please, my son, think of Imladris as your home for a while. We shall be safe here, and no harm shall come to us. We are with friends. Do you not remember how well lord Elrond spoke of you? Will you let us down, son of Arathorn?"

With a small sigh, Aragorn shook his head. When would he ever let his mother down? His heart longed for the home of his father, but he was beginning to accept the fact that nothing was going to be the same as it was beforehand.

"No, mother."

"Good. We shall go down to break our fast with Elrond and his house, now. Let us get you dressed!"

A few minutes later, the two were ready to go out in search of breakfast. Imladris had to be the most stunning place Aragorn had ever seen. It was the stuff of dreams! There seemed to be windows everywhere, and if he peered outside he could see a glimpse of golden sunlight, blue sky, purple mountains or the dark green of dense forest. As his mother led him down the halls, Aragorn walked beside her, though his little hand was fervently clutching hers. He was afraid of getting lost in this vast place. There were shelves of books, there were sculptures, there were candlesticks that were twice the size of he, there were tapestries and paintings that depicted scenes of things he had never even heard about, and everywhere there were elves.

Tall and fair were they, even taller Aragorn guessed than his father, although he would like to have thought that his father was the tallest, strongest and most handsome man in all of Middle-Earth. Some laughed and hailed he and his mother joyfully as the two made their way to the dining hall, and some just nodded solemnly to them and went on to their own affairs. Aragorn was huddling close to his mother when the unmistakable aroma of food came to him, and his stomach growled. Ahead of him the hall stopped, and there was an archway in the wall that led out to an even bigger room. This, Aragorn guessed, was the dining hall. Hunger having momentarily chased away his fear, he started to tug on his mother’s hand, urging her to go a bit quicker.

“It’s just in there, mother! Hurry! I’m hungry!”

A/N: For you, Furby. =3 S'horrible, I know, but this is the best you're gonna get. You better hope that Blind Guardian doesn't get lost in the mail, or I'm going to have to demand retribution.  nn;

Pen-neth
Chapter Three:  Caretaker.

“Mother!” a small voice cried, its tone laced in utter dismay and incredulousness. “I do not want to leave you!”

“You must, my little one,” said another, and these words were spoken with love, but were firm. “I must speak with the lord of this fair place! Master Elladan has been kind enough to offer to show you about Imladris while I do so. He is a good and a kind elf, Aragorn – the son of master Elrond. He shall take good care of you.”

“B-but—!”

“Say no more of it, my child – we shall meet up with each other again, as soon as my business with Elrond is finished.”

“Do – do you promise?”

“I promise.”

So it was Aragorn at last consented to the wishes of his mother. These words were spoken quickly in the hall outside the room they dined in that morning. Breakfast was a rather awe-inspiring experience for the child. He barely ate a bite he was so enamored by those who he was dining with. There were faces that he remembered, but could not name. Such fair faces, such bright eyes, such beautiful words, such musical laughter…! It was all a bit much for him, and now his mother was having him spend his afternoon with one of those very ethereal beings. He longed more than ever now for the quiet home that he and his family had dwelled in so happily. He had desired, then, to meet the elves his father had spoken so highly of! That was why he was surprised that now he almost feared them. Gilraen’s gentle face smiled at him, pleased that she at last succeeded in securing a promise from her little boy. She did not speak, she merely ran a hand fondly over his hair, and kissed his cheek. She had knelt on the ground as she spoke to him, so they could speak eye-to-eye. Now she rose to her feet, and not a moment too soon. The child heard the door to the nearly deserted dining hall open, and out walked an elf. Aragorn took special care to examine this one who was to be his guide.

This was one of the dark-haired twain he caught a glimpse of the day they arrived, and who was sitting at Elrond’s table. So tall was he! The boy had to arch his neck to see him. He looked friendly enough. He had bright gray eyes that seemed to speak to the child better than words. Why, he could almost hear him say, “Hello, there! And how are you, little master?”! His face was young (well, Aragorn’s idea of young was a bit different than that of others at the time), fair and full of light and energy. He was dressed in a tunic that was of a silver-blue materiel, and darker-colored leggings. The tunic reached past his knees, and the sleeves fell past his knuckles. It was a graceful garment, and a pretty one. The child felt an impulse to reach out and touch the shimmering fabric and see just how soft it was, but he would not be so bold yet. Instead, he blinked expectantly up to this elf, completely forgetting that he was supposed to fear him. In fact, he had forgotten his mother’s presence entirely, until she spoke. She attracted Aragorn’s attention immediately, however, for she began to speak in a tongue that he did not recognize. He looked sharply at her, intrigued by the musical words, and then at Elladan, when he spoke in like kind.

The dialogue that was completely lost upon the son of Arathorn’s ears ended in a chorus of light laughter, and with Elladan saying,

“Worry not, my lady, I shall take good care of your son.”

“Thank you, my lord. I am truly grateful.”

“Worry not of it, for I am pleased to have his company!”

And now at last Elladan turned to look at Aragorn. The boy was not expecting to be noticed so soon, and he jumped a little in surprise. His gray eyes widened a bit. He held the immortal’s gaze and returned it, just as curiously.

“Well, good morning, young Aragorn!” the elf said, a look of amusement softening the majestic look on his features that the child had found a bit intimidating. “I hope you have enjoyed your stay in Imladris thus far. I trust my father’s food was good enough for you, pen-neth…?”

Not knowing what else to say, Aragorn gave a solemn nod. He was still a little speechless, and he reached out to grasp a handful his mother’s skirt to be sure that she was not yet leaving him.

“Yes, my lord,” he mumbled, relaxing a little once he realized that his mother was still where she had been moments ago. Gilraen gave a ghost of a smile, and rested her hand on his head. Elladan chuckled, and he held out a slender white hand to the small human.

“You may call me Elladan. Are you ready to come with me, then? You shall return to your mother soon. I shall show you a good time, I promise.”

He hesitated. He very much was interested by this elf, and would like to see more of this wonderful and overwhelming land, but his desire to leave Gilraen was very small, if there at all. He did realize, though, that he had little choice. So he glanced at his mother, and she smiled, and motioned for him to follow the elf. So he turned to Elladan, giving yet another nod. Those star-gray eyes seemed to sparkle as he nodded in return.

“Come, then! Bid farewell to your naneth, and we shall be on our way.

Aragorn wasted no time in turning to Gilraen and flinging himself into her arms for one last hug. She chuckled, and stroked his hair, and then with a last kiss she pushed him towards the waiting elven lord.

“Have fun.”

***

It did not take long for Aragorn’s tongue to be loosened and his uncharacteristic bashfulness to scatter to the four winds. The small son of Arathorn trotted happily alongside the son of Elrond, his hand clasped tightly around the elf’s fingers.

It was not long before Aragorn's uncharacteristic bashfulness scattered to the four winds. He took to Elladan almost at once, and began to speak; and once he started, he would not stop. Their dialogue ran as such:

“What is that?”

“It is a statue.”

“Who is the lady?”

“The lady Elbereth.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“Mmhm. Ooh! What is that?”

“What is what?”

“That!”

“Oh. ‘Tis a candlestick.”

“It’s pretty.”

“I suppose it is.”

“What is that?”

“That is a … actually, I do not know what that is.”

“Hmm. That?”

“It is a tapestry.”

“What’s down this way?”

“The library. Would you like to see it?”

“What’s a library?”

“…Perhaps we better not. Would you like to see the gardens, pen-neth?”

“Eeh! Yes!”

A curt nod met this declaration. Unless it was quite Aragorn’s imagination, Elladan seemed relieved. Hand-in-hand, the two made an abrupt turn in the hall down through a rather wide passage. Within a few moments of (blissful) silence, they had passed through Imladris’ doors and into the golden sunlight.