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Arathorn is coming to walk with Gilraen today. For the first time, her father has given his blessing. With that change comes more: what was once only trying now must be triumph.
"Mother," Gilraen says.
"Yes, sweetness?"
Most days, when her mother brushes her hair, the slide of the comb is lulling. It brings peace, draws slumber nigh. Nothing, though, could bring sleep to her now.
"Are you certain of your foreboding?"
"As certain as spring follows winter," Ivorwen answers.
A foolish question: when has her mother's sight ever been wrong?
"Though none can ever say when comes the spring until it is upon us," her mother adds.
Silence, save for Ivorwen's careful counting. Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one. . . . A hundred strokes of the comb, twice daily, for the Queens of Númenor and their shining hair. (Or so old stories say.)
At the one hundredth stroke, her mother lays aside the comb, but does not at once take up Gilraen's hair.
". . . Do you love him?"
Gilraen ponders this. "Well enough."
Arathorn is grim in mood and stern with those who serve him. Yet she has seen his smile, quick as a bird flickering between trees, and it has sped her heart.
"Well enough must be good enough for these times." Her mother parts her hair in two and starts braiding.
Such strange, unsure times they are. In better days, Gilraen would have three years more at the least before thinking of marriage. She has not even finished making her share of her dowry yet! Still, as her grandmother often said, she must needs go that the Shadow drives.
"I would say that 'well enough' can grow to 'well indeed,' given time," Ivorwen goes on, "but I cannot see a long life together for you."
Will he be taken from me? she does not dare ask. Or will it be me from him?
Instead, she pulls in a deep breath and turns. "Will you teach me more of the running of a household, so I may do well with what time we have?"
"Face front, sweetness, or your hair laces will be crooked."
Gilraen does as bidden; her mother answers, "Yes, though you have already learned nigh everything from me. I will speak with Lord Arathorn's mother as well. She is likely to know more of what a chieftain's wife must do."
They fall silent again, almost until her crown of braids is stitched in place. Words try to travel up from Gilraen's heart, but fall back and fall back, until she at last pushes them past her lips:
"I am afraid."
She hears the shift of cloth, and then strong arms encircle her from behind.
"I know," Ivorwen says softly, then kisses her cheek. "You have the right to be. Your father and I are afraid, too. But try to keep hope in your heart and your head high."
Her mother and father are afraid too. . . . It is a comfort and yet truly not. Still—she will not bring shame to her house. Whatever her doom, she will not shy from it.
She rises, kisses her mother.
"Thank you for setting my hair. I will be back soon."
Then she leaves, to wait in the cooling air of summer's end for her lord and husband-to-be.