Aragorn took out his newly whetted knife, slicing through prickly handfuls of vines and underbrush as he disrobed the gravestone of its trailing green gown. He had found two more, those of her children, the dragon-slayer and his tragic sister-wife, nearby.
Their story made Aragorn wince at his own rather petulant behavior.
Morwen Eledhwen, the most beautiful of all mortal women in the First Age had been wed at twenty-three, lost first a girl-child, then her husband to the pestilence of Morgoth and then her son in order to keep him safe from the Dark Lord's minions. Yet she had not bowed before the grief; she had wrapped her hopes and dreams around her children and willingly borne the cost of assuring their safety and security at risk to her own life.
Though she had not suffered privation and want as had Morwen, his own mother had sacrificed to secure his safety and security as well. While the child Estel had blossomed and flourished, Gilraen had faded, never quite accomplishing the transition that would have made her life in Rivendell something more than merely passable. She might have wed again if she had remained among her own people, made a new life, had other children. Instead, she had risen above the need to fulfill her own hopes and dreams and given her hope in service to her people.
Aragorn wished he had known that growing up. He might have behaved differently; been less impatient with her intransigence, been less intransigent himself, done more to make her life easier. He found a leafy patch of vegetation that would keep his newly clean clothes out of the dirt and sat down across from the stone.
His mother had been appalled when she had pried from him the sketchy details he had been willing to share regarding his twilight meeting with the daughter of the house of Elrond. He knew her to have some measure of the foresight of her people and had seen through her calm façade, but when he had pressed her, she had said only that he aimed high and that Master Elrond would not lightly give the Evening Star into the keeping of a mortal.
He had felt the keen edge of her concern, though he had brushed it off with that youthful arrogance that had carried him so quickly from his home.
Aragorn twisted the twining serpent ring upon his finger again. For thousands of years it had passed from father to son in an unbroken line, an heirloom binding the house of Finrod to the house of Bëor – elf to man, immortal to mortal.
And yet, he had been told, both elf and mortal deemed his love unworthy. The Dúnedain were a diminished people, their historical contributions amounting to little more than the destruction of half the known world in their age. But if that were truly the case, why would anyone want to put the reins of government into his hands? Let alone the fate of the world.
The early morning headache that had mostly receded as he had bathed and washed his clothes, was gaining ground again. He had fallen asleep while waiting for his clothes to dry, but he had slept little the night before and felt his eyelids growing heavy again as he sat contemplating the stone of Morwen Eledhwen. Crossing his arms over his knees he lowered his forehead and closed his eyes, weary of his circling thoughts.
He could not remember ever being indecisive; from the time his own desires had begun to manifest, he had known what he wanted and pursued it with single-minded purpose. It was wearying to be so irresolute in his course of action. It seemed as though one moment he was prepared to take on the world if it meant a two-thousand-year-old elf maid could be won by kingly accouterments; the next it was an impossible dream, weighted down by a burden of power that would scoop out his brains as surely as a troll.
His personal inclination was to kidnap the maid and disappear, but there had been no indication that she was like-minded. And why should she be? She who could make her choice among the most beautiful of Arada's immortal inhabitants, choosing a mortal man?
He was not so smitten with himself as to believe he had more to offer than one of her own kind, though he had – in the moment – boasted of his kinship to her. Impossibility on top of improbability…his thoughts trailed off into dreams again.
Aragorn woke with a start, late in the afternoon, muddled and out of sorts that he had slept so long when he had fully intended to explore the island's peak. He had had the presence of mind to collect samples of the abundant flora for his foster father as he had wandered up the hill from the rock springs, knowing Elrond would be able to instantly discern the healing properties of a plant just by looking at it.
He would have to ask Borlath to borrow one of the heavy tomes he'd seen on a shelf in the captain's quarters to press the specimens. In drying they would lose some of their efficacy, though not enough to make it useless to preserve them to take home. And a peace offering might make his apologies more palatable.
He had no idea what to expect on his return, which weighed on him as well. There had been no outright rebellion in Imladris in thousands of years, if one discounted the twins mischief-making tendencies. But that really didn't count, as their pranks were never harmful, and besides, they were full-blooded sons of the house, not a many-times-removed relative adopted for safe-keeping.
Thinking over the list of Rivendell inhabitants as he made his way as quickly as possible down through the undergrowth – careful to make a great deal of noise – Aragorn thought it probable there had never been outright rebellion in Rivendell. Compared to their other First Age relatives, the elves he knew were a quiet bunch, but then he supposed the three First Age Rivendell elves had seen enough rebellion to last an eternity.
There was little doubt in his mind that his return would be welcomed; he was just a little unsure of the kind of welcome he might receive. Especially if he returned with the intent to rouse rebellion in the heart of the much loved daughter as well.
He was half way down when he heard the shouts. They were looking for him from the sounds of it. He might not understand the language well yet, but he could distinguish the name he had given – Dúranu – and the urgency in the many voices calling for him.
Aragorn grabbed his knife and slashed his way through the undergrowth.
Amid the seething bustle on the beach, Borlath stood impassive, arms folded across his chest, eyes sweeping the hillside. "He comes! Load up and count heads," he shouted, hearing the crashing through the underbrush long before his passenger broke through onto the beachhead.
"Well, well, from filthy elven princeling to Edain," the captain observed, turning as the youth caught up to him. "You clean up decently." Though he eyed the shorn hair askance. "Will your elf maiden approve?"
Aragorn spared him a glance, but wasted no breath on a response to the observations. "What's the hurry?" he asked breathlessly, lengthening his stride to keep pace with the man.
"There is a storm coming. Get in the boat and put all that fervid young strength to an oar, we may yet be too late."
"Storm?" Grey eyes arced from east to west. "There's not a cloud in the sky. How could you possibly know a storm is coming?"
"Observe the waves; they are twice the height of the morning waves. The tide is considerably higher than it should be now. Do you see any birds? Nay, they are gone to their nests. Get in the boat." Borlath stepped into the boat half-full boat, taking a seat at an oar himself and switched to the harshly accented language of the Easterlings. "Do we have everyone?"
"Aye, Captain."
"Then shove off."
Aragorn, despite his skepticism, put his back into an oar.
Disclaimer: This is a work of transformative fan fiction. All characters and settings belong to the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and are being used with the greatest respect. The story itself, and the original characters, are the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.