A/N: I've borrowed some ideas on Elven hospitality from The Hobbit and from Fellowship of the Ring for the following scenes. Some of the descriptions of the heirlooms are quotes taken directly from The Silmarillion, though I have taken some liberties, adding some concepts lifted from the movie version of Fellowship of the Ring.

Gilraen ran out to meet her son, glad to see him have him home safe and sound. Master Elrond had promised her that Estel would be protected, but she could not help worrying about him. He was her only child, after all. As she watched him dismount, she marvelled at how much older he looked, as if a decade at least had passed in the wild. He was the image of his father, but lacked the sternness that had marked Arathorn. Gilraen had made it her personal mission to bring joy into her husband's life, and each time she saw him laugh, she counted it a victory. Estel, however, was full of joy and laughed easily. With a pang, she realised her child no longer needed her. She was beginning to lose him.

Estel caught her in his arms, picked her up and swung her around, laughing.

Gilraen kissed her son on each cheek and held him at arm's length, looking critically at him. “How did you fare on your patrol?” she asked.

“Very well, mother. I suffered no hurts, and helped slay two trolls!”

She went pale, and her grip on him tightened. 'Trolls slew your grandfather. They tore him apart and roasted him like a rabbit. His grave is out in the wilds. He could not be brought home as he was and buried with the honours due to him, for we are Dúnedain and must live our lives in secret.' She dared not say the words aloud, for Master Elrond had warned her against revealing her son's heritage. The thought of such a fate befalling her son was more than she could bear, and her eyes filled with tears. “Estel, you could have been killed!” she wailed.

“Like Arador?” asked Estel. “Is he akin to me?”

Gilraen froze, clearly perturbed at her son's question. She looked away, but Estel still held her, and would not let go. She returned her gaze to her son, and saw that he was now a full-grown Man. “I cannot tell you, Estel,” she replied, her voice quiet and small. “But trolls are fierce and deadly creatures. I am glad you had the twins with you.”

“Aye, mother,” Estel told her in stern tones, “but I know not who my sire is. Trolls I can slay well enough with an Elven blade.”

“Who has told you this, Estel?” asked Gilraen. She was visibly worried, her breathing fast. How in the name of all the Valar had Estel discovered this? And how could he be kept safe if others now knew of his provenance? What could she do to protect her son now? Tears spilled down her face as her fears overwhelmed her.

“Why is it such a great secret?” Estel shouted, shaking with frustration. “Why must I not know?”

“If you did know, others might also learn; and for your safety, we deemed it wise to keep the knowledge from you, Aragorn,” said a calm, fatherly voice.

Estel turned from his mother. Behind him stood Elrond Half-elven, Lord of Rivendell. “Come, my son, for I have much to tell you,” he said.

Estel followed the Elf-lord into the house.

An Elf appeared at Gilraen's side and put a handkerchief into her hand. Her vision was blurred from weeping, so she could only say “Thank you.” When she had recovered her composure, the Elf was gone, and she stood alone with her thoughts on the balcony. Everything was changing, but she did not know if it was for the best.

Elrond's office was a large, airy room. Scrolls and books of various sizes lined bookcases that ran from floor to ceiling, and on the wall there were cupboards and shelves filled with sheets of parchment, pots of ink, quills and other items Elrond and his scribes needed. There were two oaken desks and several chairs.

“Sit down, Aragorn,” said Elrond in a kindly voice, indicating a seat by his desk. He went into a side room and returned with some items wrapped in black velvet cloth. “These belong to you.”

Estel's... Aragorn's mind raced. Everything had shifted, as if he had been standing on a rug which was pulled from beneath him. He felt as though he had got drunk the night before, then woken up unable to remember where he was. He knew Elrond was not his sire, but he had never had the slightest inkling that Estel was not his name. “Why did you change my name?” he asked in a small voice.

“To protect you,” Elrond answered as he sat down behind the desk, his voice calm and level. “I see you have come early to manhood. Now the time is right to tell you who you truly are, and set you on the path of your destiny.”

Elrond watched him carefully, apparently looking for signs of weakness or unworthiness. Estel said nothing. After a while, it seemed to Estel that Elrond was satisfied, and the Elf-lord continued, “You are Aragorn son of Arathorn, chief of the Dúnedain. They are the last of the lords of Arnor. They are descended from my brother Elros. You are descended from my brother Elros, and while one drop of his blood flows in the veins of any Man, I am bound to care for him as best I can. I kept your name and provenance from you to protect you from Sauron, who has a deep, abiding hatred for those Men of the line of Elendil.”

“Nothing has been heard of Sauron since days of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men,” said Estel.

“But his servants are many, and they harry your people still,” said Elrond. “Your numbers are few now, and there is but one direct descendant of my brother's line alive.”

“Aragorn son of Arathorn,” said Estel, locked in wonderment. Surely this was a dream. At any moment, he would wake up and be Estel, who lived in Rivendell as a foster son of Elrond. “And I am the last of your brother's line*.”

“There are Men who can claim kinship to him, and one now sits on the throne of Gondor,**” said Elrond. “But you have the greater right, for your line is unbroken from the days of Arvedui. The line of Eärnur ended with his death.”

A flash of insight filled Estel's mind, and for a moment he was silent. “This is why I look a little like you,” he said.

“Indeed,” replied Elrond.

“And the reason why you call me son.”

“Yes.” The Elf-lord unwrapped the bundle and spread the contents out on the table.

Estel watched his liege lord, taking in the lineaments of his fair face, noting the set of his shoulders and the colour of his eyes. Many of the features of his foster father were mirrored in himself. The weight of the news began to settle on him. He understood the need for secrecy. How could he be expected to lead his people at his tender age? There was still so much to learn; and whatever he had said to his mother, the truth was, if the twins had not been with him at the Coldfells, he would have been cruelly slaughtered. He was not yet ready to take on the responsibility of being a lord. It had been so much easier when he was just Estel. Aragorn. The name felt strange in his mouth. His name was Estel. It was the first word he had learned to say.

Elrond picked up a silver ring, saying, “Here is the Ring of Barahir, the token of our kinship from afar.” He handed it to Estel, who examined it carefully.

The young Man remembered the text in his favourite history book, 'The Tale of Beren and Lúthien.'

For this ring was like to twin serpents, whose eyes were emeralds, and their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers, that the one upheld and the other devoured; that was the badge of Finarfin and his house.

He was holding a piece of history in his hand! Beren, their mutual ancestor, had borne this ring on his forefinger. Estel tried it on. It fit! His face lit up with joy for a moment, but a cloud passed in front of the sun in his heart. What if he failed to live up to the promise of his blood? He looked uncertainly up at Elrond.

“Yes, my son,” said Elrond, looking proudly on, “it is indeed the Ring of Barahir, and now it is yours. It is well that it fits you.”

“Aye,” said Estel, “but am I fit to bear it?”

“Beren was but a Man like yourself,” said Elrond. “The deeds he did were for the love of Lúthien the Fair. Were it not for her, I doubt he would have done as much as he did. And a great doom was upon him.”

Estel felt the cold metal of the ring against his skin. “I will try to live up to the standards of my kin,” he said soberly.

Elrond handed him some pieces of a broken sword, with a stern look in his eye. “Here also are the shards of Narsil. With these you may yet do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long.”

Test? Estel sat up straight. “Test, my lord?” he asked in respectful tones.

“I do not know how things will be for you, Aragorn,” said Elrond, “but I am certain of this: you have a long, hard road to travel. At the end, there will be either glory or shame. You alone can decide this through the choices you make.”

Estel was still trying to get used to his new... his real name. He picked up one of the shards of the sword that lay before him on the table. “Is this the sword that cut the Ring of Power from Sauron's hand?” he asked, his grey eyes wide with amazement.

“It is indeed,” replied Elrond. “It is yours, now. A symbol of the courage of the Men of your line.”

The young Man sat there, overwhelmed by the importance of the news. It was just as well he was sitting down, for his legs felt like they were made of straw. He looked again at Master Elrond, whose dark hair and grey eyes looked so much like his own, and compared his liege lord with his reflection in the piece of blade he was presently holding in his hand. They were akin.

Elrond picked up a short silver staff from among the objects on the table. “The Sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it,” he said, holding it up.

Estel dared not take hold of it, or even ask for a closer look. He knew that the last Man to hold it was Arvedui of Arnor, whose claim to the throne of Gondor had been dismissed by the Steward Pelendur. He could imagine the consternation Arvedui felt when he arrived at Gondor only to be sent away in favour of a Man with a weaker claim. The young Man said nothing.

“Aragorn,” said Elrond, “these things are yours to do with as you will.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Estel replied. “For a while now, I have wanted to know whence I came; but now that I do, I find that it was easier to be Estel. I like my true name, though, and will do my utmost to live up to it.”

“That you will, my son,” said Elrond, “that you will.”

It was a young Man called Estel who had sat at that desk, but Aragorn son of Arathorn who wrapped his broken sword in the velvet cloth, picked up the bundle and stood before Elrond. “I thank you, my lord, for telling me this, and for all you have done to protect me. Everything I do, I will do for my people, and for love of the Elves.”

Elrond stood and nodded, and Aragorn bowed low. The young Man straightened up and said, “By your leave, I will go and tell my mother what has passed between us, for she was distressed that I had asked about my father.”

“That you may do,” replied Elrond, “but be careful of whom you speak of these matters, for these are perilous times, and you are the last of your line.”

With a smile, Aragorn bowed again and left the room. He knew who he was now, and, more importantly, what he could become. Elrond's words rang in his ears: “The Sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it.”

One day, he would earn it indeed.

The End.