Chapter Text
Title: Sowing Seeds of Kingship
Author: Kaylee Arafinwiel
Summary: 'But when Estel was only twenty years of age, it chanced that he returned to Rivendell after great deeds in the company of the sons of Elrond; and Elrond looked at him and was pleased, for he saw that he was fair and noble and was early come to manhood, though he would yet become greater in body and in mind. That day therefore Elrond called him by his true name, and told him who he was and whose son; and he delivered to him the heirlooms of his house.’ – The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen
A/N: Okay, so Aragorn’s not quite twenty yet in this chapter, but he’s getting there. Nineteen and eleven months and however many days is close enough, wouldn’t you say? I disclaim (besides the summary) the speech Elrond makes to Estel at the end (also from ‘The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen’) and the description of the Ring of Barahir (from The Silmarillion, ‘Of Beren and Lúthien’) as Tolkien’s words, not mine. This is the beginning of the Spring stories, which will tell how Aragorn took up his mantle as Chieftain of the Dúnedain in Tâduin (before "Summer in Tâduin".
"Estel, why could you not have waited for us?" Elladan threw a scolding look at the tired, wounded young Mortal who now rode before his twin, astride Elrohir's horse. Estel looked away.
"The troll was coming; you and Elrohir were too busy fighting off the yrch."
At this reminder, the sons of Elrond exchanged glances. Their father would not take their inattentiveness lightly. True, Estel had been patrolling with them since he was fifteen, but not quite five years later he was still a green youth as far as they were concerned. To have a hill-troll come down upon them unawares, and have Estel defeat it single-handedly - well, the fact that he had been wounded only by a stray orc arrow was a miracle in itself. At least, Elladan consoled himself, all the yrch as well as the troll were dead. Their horses fairly flew toward Imladris, leaving the Trollshaws far behind, and they splashed through the Bruinen, the guards falling back and closing rank behind them again. Elladan went to locate Elrond, while Elrohir spurred his stallion forward, almost to the very doors of the Last Homely House, before whistling him to a halt and leaping from his back, scooping Estel into his arms. His Mortal brother was tall and were it anyone else, Elrohir might consider them a heavy load. But he carried Estel to the healing wards, where Elrond met them.
"The orc arrow pierced his upper arm, hir nin." Elrohir had done his best to staunch the bleeding and prevent the spread of poison, but he was not Elrond, and could only do so much out in the Wild.
"You have bound it well, ion nin," Elrond replied. "Estel, ion nin, do you hear me?"
Estel nodded wearily. "The troll distracted me, Adar. I am sorry."
Elrond had begun to remove the arrow, and he did not let this statement unnerve him. Elladan had told him about the troll. "You are very lucky, ion dithen," he said. "You could have died easily."
"I know it," replied the youngest son of Elrond disconsolately. "Naneth would demand to be admitted entrance to Mandos simply so she could drag my fëa back to the realm of the living, only to kill me again." His elder brothers chuckled.
"Gilraen is a formidable woman," Elrond agreed. The arrow removed, he packed the wound and wrapped it well. He would only sew it closed when he could be sure all poison and infection was drawn from the limb. "Even I would not dare to displease her."
"She brought light and laughter into our home again when she gave you to us, Estel," Elladan said quietly. "You were well named."
Elrohir gave his twin a searching look, surprised by the remark, but Elladan merely nodded toward Elrond, then Estel, meaningfully. Elrohir's eyes widened and he let out a slow breath. The time had nearly come. He understood.
"Estel, ion dithen, sleep. When you wake, we will speak of it," Elrond said firmly, for they had both noticed the twins' exchange.
"I am not tired, Ada," Estel said around a treacherous yawn. He sighed in defeat, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him. What could his adar and brothers mean to tell him?
It might have been hours later - it might have been days, Estel was never sure how time passed in the healing ward in Imladris. All he knew was that when he woke he felt immeasurably better; his wound was sewn closed and did not throb with pain, and his mind was clear. He recalled Elrond's parting words to him at once. When you wake, we will speak of it. What could he mean by 'it'? Estel smiled wanly. Of course there could only be one thing; the secret of his parentage.
He did not remember his true father, but he had always known he was purely Mortal, the Peredhil but his foster-family. Elrond had a close bond with him, and he could never remember calling another Ada, and yet he must have done. The Last Homely House had been home for nigh on eighteen years. Before that, though...he remembered nothing. Oh, sometimes he thought he remembered snatches of another voice, a Man's voice, but these half-remembered dreams might be nothing at all. All he knew about his true father was that he had been an honourable Man, an Elf-friend; that Gilraen had loved him, and they had both loved Estel from the moment of his begetting.
It was not long before the sons of Elrond entered, and Elrohir helped his foster-brother from the bed. They saw him bathed and dressed, despite Estel's weak protests that he could do so on his own, and soon after, he was conducted to Elrond's study, where the Master of Imladris would only summon him for matters of greatest importance.
"Sit down, Estel," Elrond said, and Estel sat before the desk, wondering at the carved case of dark wood that lay on the desk before him. He raised his eyes to Elrond's, studying the grave grey depths.
"Tell me, Estel; what do you know of the line of Isildur?" Elrond asked. Estel blinked; his foster-father had called on him for a history lesson?
"Isildur was the son of Elendil, the son of Amandil, Lord of Andunie in Númenor of old, the Star Isle that was called Westernesse, and a descendant of Elros Tar-Minyatur Earendilion," he recited. "Your brother," he added, and Elrond nodded.
"What of Isildur's descendants, Estel?"
"Valandil was his only surviving son. Born and raised in Imladris, he became the first King of Arnor who did not rule Gondor as well, and so the Kings of Arnor were reckoned through Valandil while the Kings of Gondor were reckoned through Anarion's scions, the brother of Isildur. Valandil's descendants ruled Arnor until Amlaith, the eldest of three sons took the greatest of the three shares, Arthedain, while his brothers' shares became Cardolan and Rhudaur, which fell into ruin. Arthedain became known as Arnor again in the day of Argeleb the First, and eight more kings of Arnor followed. Arvedui Last-King, the fifteenth king of that line, died and left Arnor in ruins, with no kingdom but a scattered people for his son Aranarth to rule," Estel continued, and Elrond nodded.
"So it was, and so it is, that these Chieftains of the Northern Dunedain," Elrond said, "beginning with Aranarth, brought their first-born sons to me when they were ready, while they wandered in the Wild with their folk. I raised these sons in my home, teaching them their history and the lore of their people, as well as the art of sword and bow and shield, that they would not go defenseless when the time came to take up the mantle of Chieftain themselves. From Arahael, the second Chieftain, to Arathorn the Second, these came to me as children old enough to remember their sires and honour them, to long for their families far to the North. Not once since the line of Kings was reduced to wandering had I been brought barely more than a babe in arms." He paused, and Estel stared.
"Eighteen years ago," Elrond continued, as though his pause was of no consequence, "everything changed."
Estel swallowed hard. "Arathorn the Second, fifteenth Chieftain of the Dunedain," he whispered. "Then I..."
"You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Elrond said quietly. "Estel I named you, the hidden hope of your people. But now it is time that you know the name Arathorn bestowed upon you himself."
Aragorn, Estel thought dizzily. "Aragorn," he repeated aloud. "Aragorn the Second...sixteenth Chieftain of the Dunedain."
"So you were, and so you are, and so you shall be," Elrond said quietly.
“Thank you, hir nin,” Estel – Aragorn – said quietly. His gaze flicked back to the wooden chest, and Elrond opened it. Within, resting on silken cushions, were a sword, its blade broken into several pieces, a silver rod, and a small leather pouch, which Elrond opened, withdrawing a silver ring that 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.
'"Here is the ring of Barahir," he said, "the token of our kinship from afar; and 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. The Sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it."
Aragorn nodded his understanding. The Sceptre of Annúminas, after all, belonged rightly to the King of Arnor, and king he was not – not yet. "If you will excuse me, hir nin, I believe I will take some air in the garden," he said, still feeling rather overwhelmed. Elrond nodded.
"Do not go far," he cautioned his human son, and Aragorn bowed.
“I will return in time for supper,” he promised. Elrond let him go, wondering at the sudden sense of foreboding that threatened to roll over him once Aragorn was out of sight. What could possibly befall his foster-son here in the heart of Imladris?