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In the small dressing room off the bedchamber, Gilraen stripped the damp nightshirt off her son and sponged him clean with a warm wet cloth. Though his cheeks were still pale, his eyes were clear and had lost their feverish shine. She wrapped him in a thick linen drying sheet and sat him on a padded bench along the wall while she searched out a clean set of clothes from a basket. Aragorn had found two of his carved men tucked under the bench and was happily chattering and making up a game with them. Gilraen dressed him warmly and set him back on the bench with his toys. Amazed as always at the resilience of children, and conscious of her own still shaky condition, Gilraen quickly unfastened her dress with trembling hands and slid out of her chemise. After washing, she pulled on clean underclothing. She sat down next to Aragorn wondering if her wild idea could possibly work. She carefully counted the months on her fingers, twice. Yes, she thought, it was just possible. She wondered if she could convince Halbeleg and Master Elrond. She stood and peered uncertainly into her clothes chest. There had to be a way to keep the Dúnedain safe, her son safe, and still be with him. If he were not Aragorn there would be no problem. To be convincing she had to look exactly right. She needed an outfit that was subtly flattering, but not inappropriate to her station. Her rummaging hands found a fold of soft, deep red wool and she pulled it from under the other garments. Arathorn had loved this gown. He would sit in his chair by the hearth and watch her as she moved around the room doing the ordinary tasks of the evening. His eyes caressed her, sliding over her curves as the soft wool that draped her body clung and moved. She would pretend not to see the smile and the invitation in his eyes, but she would wander closer until, reaching out a swift hand, he would capture her and draw her down onto his lap. Laughing, he would pull the pins from her hair and it would cascade over his hands touching the fabric at her breast. Never again. She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. Oh, my love, forgive me. Areg is all I have left of you. I will do what I must to keep him safe. Dressed, she inspected herself in the mirror. The gown was still flattering, though looser than she remembered, but she looked pale, tired… old. Her hand hovered over the cosmetics on the table, unused for many months, but she rejected them as too obvious. Taking up her brush, she redid her thick, black hair from its severe braids into a more flattering style and carefully pulled a tendril to wave around her face. Gilraen the Fair. Could she still earn that name? She looked at her reflection and saw great, haunted eyes, and drained, white cheeks. Practicing an artful smile, she tried to summon up the ghost of the eager girl Arathorn had married. She rubbed her cheeks and bit colour into her lips. Taking her son’s hand she led him, clutching his toys, back into the bedroom. The men still sat at the table, but the argument seemed to be resolved. As Gilraen walked over to the men Elrond looked up at her and smiled. “We leave for Rivendell in three days. I hope that you and Aragorn will be happy there,” he said. “Yes. I am sure that we will be,” Gilraen responded. Relief washed over her. Now she had a place to begin her plan. Aragorn tugged at her skirts. “Momma?” He waved the carved figures he was holding. “My men need a en’my. C’n I get some?” “Yes. Bring the whole basket. You may play with them out here on the rug.” Aragorn scampered off into his sleeping alcove and she called after him. “And don’t touch the brazier.” Gilraen seated herself at the table and watched as Aragorn lugged a basket of out of his niche and onto the rug. He upended the basket and a dozen carved figures poured out. Seeing him safely occupied, she turned her attention to her uncle. “With Areg and me in Rivendell, do you think the attacks will continue?” she asked. Halbeleg grimaced. “They will. Our enemy hates the whole of the Dúnedain. While Aragorn lives…” He stopped and made a gesture of frustration. “Aragorn must live to take his place as Chieftain of the Dúnedain.” “Was not the plan to make it seem that Aragorn was dead?” Gilraen asked. “If the enemy hates all the Dúnedain, even if I had agreed to let Areg go to Rivendell without me, would not the attacks have continued? There are many who have some little bit of royal blood. My father is a descendant of Aranarth, even though no one would say he is in the line of succession. How would this plan have protected the Dúnedain?” Elrond leaned forward and put his hands on the table. “There are two reasons Halbeleg leads the Rangers now,” Elrond said. “He was Arathorn’s second in command and is well able to lead them. But second, there is no connection to Isildur in his lineage and we are making sure that is known. From what information I can gather, the enemy feels that he has nothing to fear from the ‘rag-tag remnants’ of Arnor,” he bowed to Halbeleg in apology, “without the hope of an heir of Isildur to rally them. Aragorn is the last who could be considered Isildur’s heir. There will never be peace, but I believe that the worst of the attacks would have ceased if the Enemy believed Isildur’s Line was ended.” “If you must be with him, we will not try to conceal him. We will fight as we always have,” Halbeleg said and his voice carried resignation as well as conviction. “It is nothing new.” “As any mother must, I wish my children to grow up in safety.” Gilraen looked fondly over at Aragorn busily engaged in make-believe mayhem on the rug. Wishing for the luxury of a deep breath before the plunge, she assumed a bright smile and turned it on the Peredhil. “Would my younger son also have a welcome in Rivendell, Master Elrond?” Elrond’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “What?” Halbeleg demanded, outraged. “I found Arathorn too old and stern,” Gilraen said archly, schooling her face into a bright and airy smile. “He was ugly and scarred. Someone… younger was more attractive. Once there was an heir, I could indulge myself, could I not?” “Gilraen!” Halbeleg was shocked. “What are you saying? When? How? Arathorn trusted...” he spluttered to silence. “Last year, I spent several months away from here,” Gilraen started. “You were with Arathorn,’ Halbeleg interrupted. “I thought it foolish at the time to have you so near to the winter camp, but he wanted you close.” “So he wanted you to think. You never came to see me, Uncle, or you would know the truth. I have two sons.” Gilraen ran her hand down the side of her gown, outlining her curves. “Is it so hard to believe that another man would find me desirable or that - “ Gilraen made a moue of distaste - “I would prefer another man to Arathorn when he was so dour and rarely here?” “Who?” Halbeleg roared, standing up so abruptly that his chair crashed over. Gilraen took a quick glance at her son who had stopped playing and was warily watching the group at the table. “It’s all right, Areg.” She signaled him to go back to his game, turned back to her uncle and continued quietly. “I will not say who his father is. He is dead. So many Rangers die. What can it matter now?” She appealed to Elrond. “Is my younger son welcome at Rivendell?” Elrond studied her for a few long seconds, his face inscrutable. “Yes,” he said at last. “He will be welcome.” Halbeleg stood, ominously leaning on the table. “Good. Thank you.” Gilraen ignored her uncle’s wrath and gave a small, quirky half smile. “Then when Aragorn dies of his fever on the way to Rivendell, it will not seem odd that you will give succor and shelter to the twice grieving widow and her bastard son. It is good to know that I and my younger son would be welcome in any case.” Halbeleg righted his chair and sat down wearily. “Gilraen, speak sense. Aragorn will not die of fever. Not here. Not on the way to Rivendell. He is better. See?” He pointed to where the boy was playing. “Yes. He is better now, but he is hunted you tell me. The Dark Lord himself is searching to kill the last Heir of Isildur. Yet no one will care what happens to Gilraen’s bastard son.” Elrond gave a small burst of laughter. “It is certainly not a solution I would have thought of, Gilraen. Are you certain you wish to do this?” “Yes.” There was no hesitation before she spoke the simple affirmative. “If I understand what you are saying - you wish pass off Aragorn as his bastard younger brother,” Halbeleg said. When Gilraen nodded, he went on flatly, “It will never work. There are too many discrepancies,” “I have thought it over carefully. I believe the story will stand up even to scrutiny. I did spend several months when Areg was only a year old near Arathorn’s camp.” Her face softened at the reminiscence. “It was like playing house. It was only Areg and I and a couple of old friends of Arathorn’s, who are loyal and will not speak against it, living in that small house in the wild. Arathorn and I wanted to be together as often as possible.” Regret twisted her features. “Mother was right. She said it was too soon, and there was no second child. But the time I was there was long enough that I could have had a child in secret. If the child was not Arathorn’s, and he did not wish to acknowledge it, I could have left him safely there. It’s not so very hard to believe, is it? You believed it quickly enough, and you know – knew – us both. And if Aragorn must seem to die to keep him safe, then I can still have my son with me.” “A woman’s body is different when she has given birth. Your maids here would give the tale the lie.” Gilraen shook her head. “Carlenna is… persuadable. And I did have more milk when I returned. I had fewer duties at the farm that took me away from Areg, and nursing is a joy. She could be easily convinced to tell that I had given birth. I have given birth.” “He is too old. No one will believe him a year or more younger than he is,” Halbeleg said, pointing to Aragorn playing with his army on the rug. “My own son is six months younger and there is a great difference.” “Now, yes, but few will see him now. Not for years. Master Elrond said that visitors or strangers would not expect to see babies in Rivendell. If we are together, I will not mind being secluded with him for a while. And in five years who is to say if he is seven or six? Boys do not all grow at the same rate. There are enough who would know the truth...” She broke off and looked at the two sets of grey eyes staring at her in amazement. “Many will revile you for your unfaithfulness,” Halbeleg said bluntly. Gilraen shrugged and dismissed the problem. “I will not be there to hear the gossip. I will trust you to defend me.” “You hold your honour very lightly, Gilraen,” Halbeleg said, frowning at her. “Lightly? What price do you put on my son’s life? Or the lives of your men who you tell me are dying to protect him? If losing my honour saves them, surely it is value well spent,” Gilraen turned determined eyes on her uncle. “And it is not truly diminished. I love Arathorn. That he is not here does not diminish my love. I know the truth, and so do you both, and so will my son someday.” “Some will not believe he is Aragorn when he is a man,” Halbeleg still argued. Elrond spoke. “Even if we followed our first plan, some would have been hard to convince when we produced an adult Heir after concealing him for so long. We both knew this. Having her at Rivendell now will raise questions, but it will settle problems later.” He bowed to Gilraen. “You are not what I expected from Arathorn’s too young wife. I look forward to furthering our acquaintance.” Aragorn appeared at the table at Elrond’s side. “Wouldja like ta see my army?” Aragorn asked, wide grey eyes open in appeal. “Very much. I understand my sons made them for you.” Elrond said. “El’dan and El’hir made ‘em for me,” Aragorn contradicted him firmly. Aragorn tugged Elrond out of his chair and pulled him down next to him on the rug. He picked up an exquisitely detailed man and offered it to Elrond. “This my daddy. See? His arms ‘n’ legs move. An’ he strong and brave. Like me.” Aragorn picked up each carving and described its characteristics to Elrond as Gilraen and Halbeleg watched. “I’ve learned how your mind works, Gilraen. What will you tell him when he asks about his father?” Halbeleg asked her. Elrond turned to hear her answer, carved orc forgotten in his hand. “The truth,” Gilraen said simply. “His father was a Ranger, a good man, and he’s dead. That he was strong and brave and loved his son very much.” Aragorn having heard this paean to his father many times rubbed his sleeve across his nose to dry a drip and tugged Elrond’s arm to get his attention back. “’N that orc don’t like sunshine.” Halbeleg and Gilraen watched from the edge of the rug while Aragorn and Elrond set up a simple battle. Elrond moved the orcs and was soundly beaten by the Rangers. Halbeleg laughed, “It seems you have given the Dúnedain hope for another generation, Gilraen. He has the makings of a mighty war leader, if he can already defeat Master Elrond.” “Hope. Yes.” She studied her son fondly. He was crowing in delight as his men scattered orcs and trolls around the rug. “He is filled with hope and promise.” “Then we will call him Estel,” Elrond decided. “Has he started learning Sindarin yet?” “No, “Gilraen said. “Our children do not usually begin to learn it until they are three or four.” Elrond nodded at her, and turned his smile to the boy. “Is that a good name for you? Estel?” “I’m Areg,” Aragorn shook his head emphatically. “Ah, that’s here. You are coming to live with me at Rivendell. It is mostly elves there and they have different names for things. These,” he gestured to the pile of orcs on the rug, “are not orcs, they are yrch when you are with the elves. The men are not Rangers. They are Dúnedain. The room does not have doors, it has ennyn. I will teach you how to speak like the elves and they will call you Estel.” Aragorn looked suspiciously at Elrond. “Momma coming, too?” “Yes, of course I am coming.” Gilraen shot a grateful look at Elrond and knelt down next to Aragorn on the rug. She gave her son a quick hug. “And you will call me naneth not momma. It will be fun to learn the new names of things. You are very clever and will learn them quickly. I know how to speak like the elves, too, and will help you to learn lots of new names on the ride there. ” Aragorn smiled sunnily at Elrond. “Good. I like go places like my daddy. I be Estel with elves. Ev’vyone get diff’rent names. What name elves call you?” Gilraen smothered a laugh at the look of surprise on Elrond’s face. Elrond recovered his gravity. “In Rivendell you may call me adar, Estel.” “Adar, ” Aragorn repeated. “Adar, Naneth. Estel. Yrch.” He stood up the toy Rangers on the floor in front of him. “Wanna have ‘nother battle, adar? ” +++++++ Sindarin translations: Areg: from royal -ar(a) and the diminutive ending -eg mettarë the mid-winter holiday Peredhil: Half-elven Adar: father Estel: hope Halbeleg: OC. He is Ivorwen’s, Gilraen’s mother, brother and, while of all Númenorean descent, has no connection with Isildur’s line. Gilraen’s father Dirhael is descended, in unknown genealogies, from the Chieftain Aranarth * The song is blatantly plagiarized… ah, openly borrowed, from Poul Andersen’s novel “World Without Stars”. The melody I sang my daughters to sleep with is by Anne Passovoy. The story is of an immortal starfarer shipwrecked on a world so far out of the galaxy that no stars are present in the night sky. He sings the song to the woman he loves left back on earth. The actual name of the song is “Mary O’Meara”, but Anne’s melody is not available on the web anywhere I can find. If you search on it you get a strange folksy rendition that I don’t really like. It’s not really an awful melody, just different from the awesome soaring that is Anne’s version. Click Here if you want to hear it. Special thanks and my top prizes go to Tanaqui, Marta and Lady Aranel without whose assistance, firm pokes with sharps sticks, help and encouragement this would never have been finished. They also have very nice shoulders that I cried on when things got rough along about draft three. Honorable mention goes to Chathol-linn who gave me encouragement and suggestions way back when this was a very nasty rough draft. Thanks are also due to Blade and Patti who provided fresh eyes at the end to make sure I overlooked nothing obvious. All errors are mine. Rotten vegetables and/or fresh flowers, suitable for throwing, can be purchased at the concession stands behind the stage. |
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