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She kept her head down. 

The toddler in her arms whined slightly as she shifted his weight against her, his tiny body aggravated from fever and hunger. Neither of them had eaten all day. The paths of Imladris were unfamiliar to her, but she could see her destination on the hill ahead. The residents, mostly elves and some Men like herself, mostly ignored her. The lack of attention was almost relieving. 

She had checked her horse at the gates, paying the three coins for the stabling of the animal, and opted to walk to Castle Imladris on foot. Exhaustion clung to her; her baby was a thousand pound weight in her arms. She only wanted to curl up on the ground and succumb. If her payload had been less important, she probably would have. The stairs were the worst part. She clung to the rail, wobbling badly. 

“... Nana?”

“We are almost there,” she whispered. “Just a bit longer. Then we shall have a warm place to sleep and some food and water.”

“... Wan’ water.”

“I know, baby.” She kissed the ratty, overlong curls. “I am thirsty too.”

She finished climbing the stairs, huffing and puffing. She hadn’t slept in nearly two days. Packing for Imladris, saying a hasty goodbye to her own parents, saying goodbye to her late husband’s folk, then the ten-hour ride to Imladris had taken more time than she had intended. 

The guards met her at the door. “You are here to speak to my master, I presume?” said a slender, somewhat effeminate ellon in blue robes. His voice was soft and mellifluous, and in another time, she may have wanted to encourage him to sing. 

“Yessir.”

“Of course. Ah… please allow me to store your weapons.” 

“... I have none,” she managed. “Well… I have this.” She ruffled her skirt, finding her dagger where it lay against her thigh. She presented it to the guard. “My husband gave it to me. It is all I have left of him. Besides my little one here, that is.”

The guard gave her a somewhat piteous look. Her insides boiled in resentment. “... Keep your dagger,” he said. “It is dull, anyway.”

She held her son a little closer and kept in a retort. “... Thank you, sir.” The dagger was slipped back into its fabric prison. The guard pushed a button hidden amongst the white marble brick of the castle, and the high, shimmering, golden doors glided open. She bit her lip to keep from gawking. 

“Continue within. My master is in his study, I will fetch him.” He nodded at his unspeaking compatriot, who nodded back. Having come to some unspoken agreement, he walked into the castle, beckoning her. 

She patted her babe’s back, feeling him cough, and followed the guard. She expected to see a throne of some kind, but, stepping into the largest hall she had ever seen, she saw none. Scattered elves spoke in moderate tones, standing on the polished marble floor, or lounging on cushions. Domed windows covered the higher parts of three walls, with a fireplace on all four. She suddenly realized that, if she were to collapse against a cushion, no one would pay her any heed, save for perhaps the guard, who had turned to speak to her. 

“I will return shortly,” he nodded. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“... I am unwashed,” she said feebly. “And my baby is ill.”

“Our folk do not sicken,” he soothed, “and you are not that dirty. I will make sure my master has water and medicine for your babe.” He gave a small smile, nodded, and vanished through a small back door that she had not previously seen. She looked around for a place to sit, ultimately deciding on a small green pillow against the wall. It looked a bit beaten and homey, something she may have owned in her old life. 

She sat down on it, laying her pack aside. She lay her babe in her lap, gently stroking his hair. He was asleep, his little body burning with fever. Anxiety flared in her chest. He was her only son. 

The elves stirred around her, peaceful and unchanging. Had these beautiful, timeless souls known loss? Had they ever had to leave their loved ones behind? Had they ever had to choose between their parents or their children? Their comfort or their children? Their world and their children? Themselves and their children? Or were their hardest choices deciding what to eat for dinner, what to clothe themselves in?

Her eyes fell on a stir at the door her guard vanished through. Two men--ellons--slipped through the door. One of them was the guard from before, blue-robed and baby-faced, a reassuring sight amongst a hundred strangers. The other was only a bit taller, clad in thick red velvet and a silver circlet with a ruby diadem set on his forehead. He was strange amongst the elves that surrounded her in that his forehead was marked with a slight wrinkle, a mark of worry and care. A ribbon, red as his robe, tied off his inky black hair. 

The guard gestured to her, and the stranger approached. “Greetings,” he said, his voice kindly. He looked a bit closer. “Ah, a woman. What brings you here?”

She swallowed. “Master Elrond, I presume?”

“Yes, that is me.” Elrond nodded. 

“Wonderful. I am Gilraen, queen-princess of the Dunedain and wife of Arathorn, and I have come to plead for the protection of my son, Aragorn son of Arathorn. My husband--his father--is slain. Orcs come for us, all men, women, and children. I fear for my son. He is ill, and every Orc in Middle-Earth wants his tender blood. Please, I beseech thee, aid him!” 

He sat down in front of her, reaching out to Aragorn. “What is he ill with?”

“... I believe influenza, but I am not a physician,” she responded. 

“May I touch him?”

“Yes, of course,” she nodded. 

Elrond lay a hand on Aragorn’s forehead. “Hmm.” He caressed Aragorn’s temple. Aragorn whimpered under his touch. “I think you are correct.” He turned to the guard before saying, “Lindir, take her bag. Can you carry him, Gilraen? I think his mother’s touch would be better for him than mine.”

She wobbled to her feet, holding him again. “Yes, I can. Thank you, my lord.”

He smiled, but it was a sad thing. “It is not a problem, milady. Come, I will get him to a room.”

“Thank you so much.” Her voice wavered, and she swallowed back her tears. Elrond and Lindir led her through a different door, through what she could tell was some kind of massive feast-hall, through several large hallways with more elves milling about quietly, into a small pocket in the wall and up what had to be a back stairwell. It was uncarpeted, and the steps were a gray stone. Two more hallways, painted in white and marked with many doors, slipped by Gilraen’s eyes after they emerged from the stairway. It was all very dizzying.

Finally, Elrond pushed a door open. A bed, a comfortable chair, a fireplace, and a combination dresser and bookshelf filled the room. Two other doors were visible, one on the north wall next to the bed and one next to the chair on the east wall.

“Where would you like your bag?” asked Lindir. 

“... Ah… put it beside the chair, please.”

Lindir laid the bag down. 

“Lindir, I believe your role here is done,” Elrond said. “Go back to your post, please. I will see you at dinner. Gilraen, could you lay him in the bed?”

Gilraen laid Aragorn down. He clung to her neck even after his back hit the bed. “We are safe now, baby, you can let go of Nana now.”

“...Don’ go.” His little voice broke. “Don’ go, Nana.”

“I am staying,” she murmured. “I am not going anywhere.” She took his hand in hers, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. 

She raised her head to request water from Elrond, but he had already produced a full waterskin. “He is awake?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Good.” He sat on Aragorn’s other side. “Hello, little one.”

Aragorn looked up at him with half-lidded eyes. 

“I am Elrond, and I am going to help you and your Nana. Will you drink some water for me?”

Aragorn held out his little hands. “... Wan’ water!”

Elrond smiled sadly. He helped guide the nozzle of the waterskin to Aragorn’s mouth, letting him drink. 

Gilraen had to fight the urge to test the contents of the waterskin for herself. Elrond is kind and trustworthy. He would not give something bad to Aragorn. Besides, Aragorn is drinking happily--he would spit it out if it were foul. She did not think Elrond a villain, but her love for Aragorn drove her to mistrust. 

When Aragorn was done drinking, Elrond handed her the now half-empty waterskin. She sipped. Just water. Once she was confident in its contents, she drained the waterskin and put it aside. 

Elrond opened a large cloth bag, rummaging through its contents. He produced a few small bottles, fantastically colored, and studied them before deciding on one that was a dark, translucent green. He gave it a sniff. “Okay, this should help.” He turned to Gilraen. “This is good for fevers in children. However, it does have a soporific effect. Is that okay?”

“So he will sleep?”

“He will sleep,” Elrond confirmed. “Sleep is good for a fever, though.”

Gilraen thought. “That is sensible. Please administer it to him.”

Elrond nodded. He turned to Aragorn. “Aragorn, babe? Will you take this for me?”

“... Does it taste bad?”

“No, it should taste like mint.”

Aragorn took a cautious sip from the bottle, then finished it. 

“See? It isn’t so bad,” he said kindly. “It may make you sleepy. Sleep is good. Your mother and I will be close by. You are safe here, little one.”

Aragorn made a squeaky noise and stretched.

Gilraen petted Aragorn’s hair. “Let us get him into his nightclothes and down for a rest. He probably needs cleaning anyway.” 

“Of course,” Elrond agreed. “The bathroom is right there. Do you need help with that, or can you manage?”

“Could you bring me a bucket of water and a few rags for cleaning, please?”

Elrond nodded. “I can do that, yes.” He closed the bag and put it on the dresser-bookshelf-thing, then left the room. Gilraen opened her pack, pulling out a soft shirt and britches for him, as well as a clean cloth nappy. Elrond returned to the room with a bucket of clean water and rags. “Here, milady.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” She carried Aragorn, the clothes and the water bucket into the curtained area, laying Aragorn down on the floor. She undressed him, cleaned him gently with a warm wet rag, then redressed him in nightclothes. She scanned the room for soap to wash the garments with and, finding it, cleaned the lightly soiled clothes before laying them out to dry.

She could already tell that he was falling asleep. When she was done washing his clothes, he was curled up on the floor, his eyes closed. She picked him up carefully, gave him a kiss on the top of his head, then carried him from the room. Elrond had vanished. Well. I suppose he found something else to do. She tucked Aragorn into his bed, then drew the curtains, making the room dim. She sat down next to him, humming a few bars, stroking Aragorn’s hair. 

“You have a lovely voice,” came a whisper. 

She started. “Elrond! Where did you go?” 

“I went to get something. Would you mind if we let Aragorn sleep? I would like to speak with you without waking the little one.”

“But where would we go?”
Elrond smiled. He opened the door at the side of the room, revealing… another room! “I thought you might like to stay close to your babe.”

She swallowed back the lump in her throat. “... Thank you, my lord.” She followed him into the other room, identical to the first one, but mirrored. “Do you mind if I sit on your bed?” Elrond asked. 

“... Go ahead,” she managed. She flopped down heavily in the chair, realizing for the first time that she was hungry, thirsty, full-bladdered, and deathly tired. She took a deep breath. “... Aragorn is in danger. That is the first priority.”

“That is true.” Elrond sighed. “And we must protect him.”

Gilraen managed a feeble nod. 

“I can house him easily. Resources are not a concern. I have plenty and I am happy to share. You, too, should stay--he is still too young to part from his mother. However, I do not think I could pass him as my own child. My wife is… well, she is not here. Elves rarely remarry, so I could not have taken you as a second bride and had him with you.”

“I would not ask you to take on the care of another child, nor me as your wife,” Gilraen sighed, “nor would I give up my babe, not for all the jewels in Arda. Fostering the lad is more than enough. Dark things desire him. He is of high blood, not just amongst the Dunedain, as I am sure you know.”

“Elros Tar-Minyatur was my brother. I have tracked his kin from his children to dear Aragorn here. The weight this child will carry when he comes of age is great. I know that as well as you do, dear Gilraen.” He closed his eyes in thought. “Aragorn is a known name of Dunedain royalty. Dark things know of the name of Aragorn. ”

“You would rename him?” You would take the name that dear Arathorn gave him? You would erase that last remnant of his life?

“I would give him a new name, on top of his old one, to conceal his identity.” Elrond looked at the ceiling, then the floor, his brow furrowed. “... How about Estel?” 

Gilraen couldn’t help but giggle. “Hope?”

“It sounds more masculine in the Elven tongue.” 

“That is true.” Gilraen cocked her head, testing it. “Estel, come help me carry this! Estel, come to Nana! Estel, get in the bath! Estel, take that out of your mouth!” She nodded. “It sounds fine.” 

Elrond stifled a smile. “Yes, it does.”

“We will see if he likes it when he wakes.” Gilraen nodded. “If he likes it, it shall be his new name.” 

“And if he refuses it?”

“Then we will come up with something else.”

Elrond nodded. “And we will keep him within the walls of Rivendell for now. He will be very safe. We will tell him of his identity when he reaches manhood--until then, he will be the orphaned son of a Dunedainian soldier who was tragically slain…”

“... and I raised him here because I had befriended your two sons, and they arranged for me to come here as his father’s dying wish,” Gilraen finished. “Wonderful idea.” 

Elrond grinned. “Thank you. When he is older, he will train with the sword and shield, for his own protection. I will make sure he receives training.”

Gilraen thought of her little babe as a soldier, and her heart twisted. She managed a nod. “That sounds very safe.”

Her distress must have been visible on her face, because Elrond murmured an “Are you well?”

“...I… I need to relieve myself. And drink some more water.” She stood up. “I will be right back.” 

She slipped through the door to the bathroom. She flopped heavily down onto the chamber pot and put her head in her hands. 

It was then she realized what, exactly, her situation was. 

Arathorn was dead. He would never come back. He would never hold her again. He would never hold Aragorn again. His handsome face had been arrow-marred and pierced, and his life had flowed from him, never to return. She had watched them bury him. He was gone, and she was alone. She had left her family. Her friends. Her countrymen. She was alone, in a strange land, totally reliant on the courage of Lord Elrond, a total stranger, with her baby, who was completely dependent on her. She was alone. She was helpless. 

For a moment, she truly wished that the Orcs had killed her too. 

How could I think such a thing? Aragorn needs me. I am all he has left. My parents are alive still, my friends, too, and I could get a messenger to them if I had to. But Aragorn--Estel, now, I suppose-- is tiny still, and I cannot leave him alone. I must live. I must stay alive. 

She finished and rose, pumping some water into a bucket for washing. She washed her face and hands, took a few breaths, drank some water from her now cupped and cleaned hands, and left the bathroom. Elrond was still there. “I am finished.”

Elrond’s brow was furrowed. He studied her. “... That is good. Here, have a seat.”

She wanted to lash out, but she had no reason to. She sat down in the chair, staring at the floorboards. 

“Here. I brought you something. It should help you feel better.” Elrond extended a clear bottle to her. She opened the cork, sniffing. A powerful floral scent hit her nose. 

“... What is this?”

“Miruvor. The cocktail of Imladris. I made it myself. It is good for what ails you--cold, exhaustion, pain, illness. Grief.”

It took all of Gilraen’s composure not to throw it down. Instead, she opted to put it safely aside. How dare you think you can give me a little drink and solve all my problems? My husband is dead! Bile burned at her ribcage. As in never coming back! I am a widow! My son is fatherless! She took a breath, biting back her acidic thoughts, and decided on a simple, “If my mourning is making you feel bad, then I suggest you retreat and leave me here to grieve alone, instead of trying to solve it with a drink. No offense, of course, I am sure your brewery skill is top of the line.”

Elrond held up his hands, showing his palms. “I am not depressed by your mourning. You have been incredibly strong. I know you are angry. I know you are sad. I can see it in your eyes, you would like to scream at me for suggesting I could solve your grief with a cocktail. I compliment your restraint.” He gave her a gentle smile. “I think perhaps I have misspoken. This will not solve your grief. However, it will ease the sharpness of the pain for a bit, and give you energy and health, without the mental fog of regular alcohol. That is all I meant. I should have explained it outright.”

Elrond’s gentle gaze made Gilraen feel small. Part of her hated it, part of her wanted to curl up and let Elrond take care of her like a small child. Her eyes were hot and stinging. 

“I will get you some more water,” Elrond murmured. “Would you like me to take away the miruvor?”

Gilraen shook her head. 

“Okay,” he whispered, leaving the room. 

Gilraen picked up the miruvor again, staring at the glass bottle in her hands until it blurred. She felt the first tears dripping down her cheeks, landing on her dirty traveling skirt. She whimpered, drying her eyes on her collar. 

She missed Arathorn. 

She wanted him to hold her. She just wanted him to hug her again. One more hug. One more kiss. Why could she not have that? Why were the Valar denying her that? What had she done wrong? Everything hurt. She was shaking. She felt so small, so abused, so sick. She was beyond her depth. Her father had been right. She was still just a little girl. She should not have had to bear Isildur’s heir, Elros’s heir, the heir to the thrones of Gondor and Arnor. It should have been some older, wiser, stronger woman. All she would know now is grief, misery, and widowhood. 

She took a sip of the miruvor. 

Despite the coolness of the beverage, it was warming. It did not taste like chewing a rose petal, like she thought it would. It was sweet, and it tingled going down, like alcohol did. She hated to admit it, but it was soothing. She drank more, and the sharp knives of exhaustion, anxiety and grief settled into a dull ache. This was manageable. She still ached for Arathorn, but it was like an old bruise instead of a stabbing knife. 

Elrond returned. He carried a waterskin and a plate with bread, butter and jam. “Water and food, for you. Dinner isn’t far off, but I think an appetizer may be in order.”

Gilraen wiped her eyes. “... Thank you, Elrond. You are… you are far, far too kind.”

Elrond passed her the plate. “Hardly. Now eat. You will get sickly if you continue to deprive yourself.”

She nodded. The bread was warm and soft in her mouth, and the jam was sweet. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until she realized she was eating in a way that was beyond impolite, shoving bread into her mouth like a hungry dog. 

“... I am sorry. I was… very hungry.” Gilraen felt her face grow hot. 

“Do not apologize,” Elrond murmured. “How long has it been since you last ate?”

“My last meal was… Arathorn’s funeral… there was wine, and some cheese.” 

“... And when was that?”

“... Two days ago.”

Elrond was quiet. He scanned her. “... There is some time before dinner. You could wash up a bit. That may ease the pain.”

“... Nothing will ease the pain,” she said softly. “Arathorn is gone, and he was… he was the love of my life. He was my king and I was his princess and now he’s dead.”

Elrond reached his hand out. “There is nothing I can say to take that away.”

She took his warm, solid hand in her own and clung to it like a lifeline. 

He had a bath drawn for her. 

She didn’t ask him to. He just sort of did it, pumping water into the tub before calling servants to add a few buckets of hot water, to make it warm. Once it was full and warm, he urged her in the direction of the bathroom. “Do you need clothing for afterwards? I noticed you only had one bag.”

“... I should be all right,” she managed. “... I think my parents are paying to send a few more things later, too.” 

“If that does not come through, just know that you would not want for clothing here, my lady,” Elrond replied. 

“I do not think I would want for anything material here,” she replied politely. 

Elrond smiled at her and left, leaving her to her bathing. “I will have someone listen for Estel if he cries.” 

“Thank you so much. Really,” Gilraen called through the door. “It means a lot.”

Elrond chuckled. His footsteps retreated down the hall. She removed her dress and underclothes, putting them aside. She would have them washed later. The water was warm against her skin when she slipped in, lying down, letting her nose slip under the surface of the water. The warmth was comforting, but her whole body hurt still, and she didn’t know if it would ever really get better. 

She washed herself slowly, making sure to be thorough. She didn’t want to defile the Elven furniture with her filth. Elves are so clean and pure. I cannot hope to compare to them, but maybe I can come close. 

Once she finished bathing, she exited the bath, wrapping her hair and body in towels and sitting on a stool before the bathroom vanity. Her eyes bore prominent bags. Her face looked pale and drawn. She looked thinner than she had been, but that might just have been her imagination--Arathorn had only died a few days prior, after all. 

She took an unsteady breath, rising to her feet, exiting the bathroom. The simple acts of dressing herself and brushing her hair felt like enormous chores. Her dress was rumpled from her hasty packing, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Elrond’s miruvor had numbed the grief, but the emptiness and loneliness still lingered. She felt like she could rot into herself and drift away. 

A chiming of bells shook her from her thoughts. Her body tensed and she nearly yelled for someone to stop ringing the damned bells before her baby woke, but then she realized how futile that would be and sighed, leaning back and waiting to hear the wail that meant that Estel had awoken. 

Fortunately, the wailing never came. However, a knock on the door did. “Gilraen? Are you decent?”

“... Yes.” 

Elrond poked his head in. “The dinner-bell just rang. You and Aragorn should eat. If you want, I can have food brought to the both of you, or you can come to the feast-hall and get food for the two of you. Which would you prefer?”

“... I do not want to leave him,” Gilraen managed. “Not for any hunger or thirst.”

“I will have food brought up.” Elrond nodded and retreated. 

Gilraen managed to wake Estel, although it was very difficult. He whimpered as she stroked his hair and cheek. “I know,” she whispered. “It hurts. There is food on the way. You must eat. You have had nothing but water and milk for two days now.”

“... Nana.” 

“I’m here, baby, I’m here.” 

“... ‘Msleepy.” 

“I know.” She kissed his forehead. “I love you, my little prince. Nothing will happen to you when you’re here with me.”

He whimpered and lay his cheek into her hand. She picked him up carefully, holding him close and humming. He relaxed against her, and she with him, and for a moment, everything was warm and safe. 

One of the servants brought them food, meat and soup, salad and cheese and bread. She ate with one hand, feeding Estel with the other until he began to reject the little pieces of food. She even got him to eat a few small bites of salad, which she considered a miracle. Once they had finished, Estel extended his arms to her, and she held him once again. They fell asleep together in his bed, her wrapped around him in a protective embrace.

She had flickers of dreams. 

She saw Arathorn’s face, at first strong and handsome like he had been, then wounded and disfigured. She saw Elrond’s sons, who she had previously known, apologizing to her, then catching her in their arms when she fell faint from the shock and grief. She was in Arathorn’s arms, warm and firm, then they dissolved around her. Aragorn was crying, but she couldn’t find him, it was dark and she was stumbling blind. 

Aragorn… no, Estel woke her up with the healthiest cry she had heard from him in days. He was soiled, very sweaty, and his fever had broken. He cried until she drew a cool bath for him, carefully washing him clean. Elrond knocked mid-process. “Gilraen? Are you decent?”

“I am washing Ar… Estel! You can wait in the bedroom, though!” 

She heard Elrond’s footsteps, then the creak of the bed. “How is he today?”
“I think he is better. His cry is healthier, and he woke up terribly sweaty.”

“The fever has broken,” Elrond replied. 

“I think so, too,” Gilraen replied. She rubbed soap in Estel’s curls, and he squalled loudly in response. 

“Powerful voice,” Elrond noted. “Does he sing?”

“A bit,” Gilraen replied. She lowered her voice and said, “Close your eyes.” 

Estel did as he was told. Gilraen gently rinsed his hair. “You’ll be my little minstrel someday. The minstrel of Rivendell.” 

“Nana, what that?”

“A minstrel?”

Estel nodded. 

“Oh, it is someone who sings for people.” 

Estel seemed to think on that. “Why?”

“Because it is fun and people like it.” 

“Why?”

“I know not, we just do.” Gilraen finished washing him and pulled him out of the tub, drying him off and putting a diaper on him, then wrapped him in a dry towel for warmth. She gently began running a comb through his curls. “Once you are dressed, Elrond would like to talk to you and I. There are important things to discuss. Do you remember Master Elrond?”

Estel nodded. “Can we see Ada?”

Gilraen’s heart wrenched. “... No, baby, not yet. Ada has gone far away, and he will not be back for a long time. Someday, we will go to him, but now is not the time.”

His small face crinkled with grief. He let out a small whine. Gilraen hugged him, pressing a kiss to his wet curls. “I miss him too.” 

Once Estel seemed somewhat soothed, she dressed him, picked him up and carried him from the room. Elrond was sitting on the edge of the bed. He smiled at them. “Well, good morning to you!” 

“Good morning,” Gilraen responded.

“G’morning,” Estel cooed. His child’s lisp turned it into g’mowning. 

“You seem so much healthier!” Elrond smiled. “Do you feel better, little one?”
“Ya!” 

“Wonderful!” Elrond laughed. “Now, I have a little more medicine for you, but not a sleepy one.” 

Estel pouted. “I don’ wanna.”

“Why not?” 

“Tastes bad!”

“It tastes like strawberries,” Elrond assured. “Do you like strawberries?”

Estel thought, then nodded. 

Elrond stood up. He pulled a vial of clear pink liquid from the same cloth bag that he had brought the previous day. “Here. Drink all of this.” 

With Elrond’s help, Estel drank the medicine. He put his head on Gilraen’s shoulder. Gilraen sat down in the chair, laying Estel in her lap. Gilraen and Elrond shared a look. Finally, Elrond spoke. “Little one, how do you like the name Estel?”

“Estel?” 

“Estel. It means hope.” 

Aragorn looked up at Gilraen, then back at Elrond, whose face was unsmiling but not unkind. “... Is okay. Nana likes it. Why?”

“We… we would like to know if you would like to be called Estel from now on.” 

“Why?”

“Because it sounds more properly Elvish,” Gilraen interjected. “We are amongst Elves now, so it may be best for you to take a more Elvish name. While Aragorn does come from the language of the Elves, it has been appropriated by the Dunedain, and is hardly Elvish anymore.” 

“What about Nana?” Estel pointed to Gilraen.

“Oh, I am too old to change my name.” Gilraen made a dismissive gesture. “Besides, you will someday need to fit in with the other little ones, and I will not, as I am already grown.” 

Estel looked down. His face crumpled. He whimpered, tears forming in his eyes. His little hands balled into fists. 

Oh Valar, Gilraen thought. A tantrum is incoming. 

Before Estel could start wailing or kicking, Elrond spoke. “It is not such a bad thing,” he murmured, getting down on his knee to look Estel in the eye. “I have known many who have changed their names to better fit them. My mother-in-law changed hers from Artanis to Galadriel, and a friend of mine changed his from Ereinion to Gil-Galad, and I had an ancestor that changed his from Elwe to Thingol. Changing your name can be a good thing. Estel means hope, and you are your mother’s hope. Besides, this will not change you. You are far more than your name, little one.” 

“You are all the hope I have left,” Gilraen said softly. 

Estel sniffled. “... Fine.” 

Gilraen kissed him. “Thank you, my babe. You have helped me more than you know.” 

Estel still looked a bit displeased, but that dissipated when Elrond announced, “If you are feeling better, perhaps we should go to breakfast.” 

“Breakfast!” Estel cheerfully repeated. 

“That is the spirit,” Elrond chuckled. “And after that, I think we are overdue for a tour. It would not do to have either of you getting lost in your new home.” 

The three of them left the room, together.