Henneth Annûn Story Archive

A/N: Orginally, I wanted to call this "Sympathy," referring to the connection between Gilraen and Arathorn. But I was afraid the title would be misleading as to tone. For the record, this is probably one of the lighter fics I've written!

The Angle: Reference gleaned from: "Of thegns and kings and rangers and things." March 30, 2001. Michael Martinez. www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/64660

Dedication: By name, RiccoRagazza again, because she wanted a little more insight into Gilraen and Arathorn as a couple. Thanks Ricco! But also written for those who have said how much they have enjoyed the Gilraen fics and would like to see more.

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The sun rose slowly in the east, and the light streamed pale through the wintry air, gilding all with a sublime glory but shedding no warmth. February had been unusually dry this season, and though no one missed the snow, the frost could cut like a knife. Arathorn stood in the shadow of a great pine tree, dressed in heavy, fur-lined garments, and flexed numb fingers. Dry, chapped skin cracked about the joints and bled as he gazed north. Such discomforts were all too familiar to a Ranger, however, and he paid them little heed as he pulled his gloves on once more. Even were he inclined to dwell on such minor irritations, there were other matters of more import to occupy his mind. A hand landed on his shoulder just then, and he turned to see Caranthar standing there. "You might have wakened me, rather than standing the whole watch yourself, Arathorn."

"'Twas too cold for rest. And of late you have seemed tired," Arathorn replied reasonably.

Caranthar raised a skeptical brow at that, and searched his friend's face, valiantly fighting the half-smile that threatened to ruin his severe expression. "And?" he asked, waiting expectantly.

"And," Arathorn gave a low, rueful chuckle, knowing he deceived no one, least of all Caranthar, "I cannot sleep. You know well the reason for my anxiety, my friend!"

"I do indeed! Patience, Arathorn! To all events their proper time, this no more nor less than any other happening. You have yet some ten days 'til the end of the month, do you not?" Caranthar asked blowing on his hands as he rubbed them together, and his breath steamed in the cold.

"Ten days!" It was an almost prayerful utterance, and Caranthar grinned broadly this time.

"I know, I know! Have I not been there myself?"

"And how did you endure my blithe company all that while?" Arathorn wondered aloud, clapping the other on the shoulder. "I hope you used the short watch to your profit, my friend, for I have a mind to walk far today."

"Lead on, then, at your best speed, for I shall not tire ere you do!" Caranthar replied, following Arathorn as the other sprang ahead. Six days out of Fornost, they had left the Weather Hills standing somberly at their backs, while the land fell away into a hilly, wooded country as they approached the Misty Mountains. The journey from 'Deadman's Dike' to the Angle might take as many as fourteen days, or as few as eight, given a horse, but by Caranthar's reckoning, they would arrive in another six days if they continued on at their present pace—three swift marches a day, with a short pause of five hours for rest. Caranthar did not resent the hasty trek, being eager to see home again after a long absence, yet the pace was wearing, even to a Ranger. But having spoken, Caranthar refused to let Arathorn outrun him, and so, as the hours wore away, and they pushed ever onward, he counted his breaths and settled into a comfortable stride. They did not speak, unless it were briefly as they rested, each being preoccupied with his own thoughts.

The sun was riding low behind them, and Caranthar's mind had drifted somewhat further than a Ranger ought to permit when Arathorn stopped so abruptly that Caranthar nearly collided with him. "What is…?" And then he paused, question left unfinished as he saw what lay ahead.

Arathorn, for his part, sucked in a sharp, hissing breath, cursing inwardly. Before them lay a broken swath of land: trees had been slashed or felled, the bushes and underbrush were trampled, and the ground was deeply scored as by heavy shoes. The jagged path cut southeastwards through the trees like a raw wound, obscene and malevolent to the Rangers' eyes. "Orcs!" Arathorn said grimly, and heard Caranthar's disgusted agreement. It was difficult to determine how many, given such wanton destruction, yet he estimated perhaps twenty or twenty-five—a large enough band if they came out of the mountains, especially when Arathorn had only himself and Caranthar to oppose them. Nevertheless, they must be confronted, for in these lands wandered many a solitary Ranger and to allow this group to pass unhindered would invite casualties among Arathorn's people that could ill be afforded.

"And Fornost is too far behind us to send to for help," Caranthar sighed.

"Come, let us follow this trail awhile, for it will soon leave the woods, and then we may learn more of our enemies' direction at least." Arathorn pressed forward, the other hard upon his heels, and together they ran along the scarred path. As the trees grew scarcer, the land began to rise, and Arathorn, after a moment's thought, turned right, making for the crest. From there I shall be able to see better how wends this track, and perhaps even catch a glimpse of the Orcs. After perhaps ten minutes of climbing, they broke from the eaves of the woods and stood gazing down over the uneven land that led up to the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Their enemies' trail lanced starkly through the withered grass, black and irregular, and it seemed to run straight for many miles.

"What think you?" Caranthar asked after a moment. "To me, they seem bound for the Langdrim pass."

"So also do I judge. A hard chase it will be, for they have a long lead," mused Arathorn, and tried to quell the angry frustration that welled up within him. Langdrim pass lies south even of the Angle! For many days now, he had gazed east with longing, eager to return home … to return to Gilraen. Married almost two years now, he had nevertheless spent too little time in her company, to his great chagrin. Especially since Arador's unexpected death last winter, he had had precious few hours to call his own, and not all of them befell in the Angle. Now I must borrow those hours yet again. I promised Gilraen I would return home ere the end of this month, he thought. Even had I not, still I would wish to return to her. Alas! It is as I feared: wed to absence she is, and now I must once more turn aside! He sighed softly, halting the silent litany of complaints. Despite frequent and prolonged partings, their marriage remained strong, and he knew they would weather this delay as they had all else fate had hurled at them. And in the end, he knew that his was often the easier part, for however thick fear and loneliness pressed during the long, often solitary watches, he could be certain that his wife at least was safe. Gilraen, on the other hand, was condemned ever to wait for him, to watch the horizon and hope that he would return unscathed… or at all. Now indeed must I learn a wife's patience, he thought, with wry humor that did little to ease the hurt. Ten more days… and how many orcs to slay?

"Send to the Angle for such help as can be spared. Say that we shall meet beneath the Thorostad in five days," Arathorn said, naming a point just north of the unmarked trail into the Langdrim pass. Caranthar nodded, scanning the skies for a likely messenger. Among the Bree-folk, rumor had it that Rangers could speak to beasts and birds, and that was true after a fashion: such creatures as had voices and the power to speak could in time be understood, and Caranthar had a way with birds especially. Perhaps two days as a kestrel flies to the Angle, he thought, thinking of how much further he and Arathorn would have to run. Five days is bare time indeed, but if we allow much more, our quarry will certainly escape, if it has not already! Glancing at the other, he saw the far-away look in Arathorn's eyes, and felt the other's disappointed resignation. Caranthar gave a slight, sympathetic smile that went unnoticed by his friend, for he understood quite readily the other's impatience. After all, it is not every day that a man becomes a father!

As the sun set red over the sea, their message sped homeward on a hawk's wings as they passed like shadows through the land.

***

Gilraen woke suddenly from sleep, and lay for a long moment in silence, listening. Outside her window, the wind blew chill off of the heights and rattled the shutters. Pale stars flickered in a purple sky that shaded to deep midnight blue as her gaze traveled up from the horizon: dusk had arrived. Of late, she found that she slept in fits and starts, waking at odd hours—often in the late afternoon or early evening—and she missed the gentle translation from dreaming to wakefulness. Now, she would come abruptly from deepest sleep in a heartbeat, as if obedient to some unknown call or sign. Her hand strayed to her swollen belly in an instinctive gesture of reassurance that all was well with her unborn child. Then as she turned her head, her hand, following her gaze, slipped to the empty space beside her. Two months gone, and nine days left with the setting of the sun! Gilraen sighed softly, wondering where Arathorn was at that moment. It seemed terribly unfair that he could not stay with her at least during these last few weeks. But the world turned still and drew him away with it, though this time he had answered his duty rather more grudgingly than ever before. And ere he had left, he had sworn to return by the end of February. Clinging to that assurance, she counted the days anxiously, much to the amusement of her keepers.

"He shall be of no help to you, dear," Ninaleth, the midwife, had warned her. "Men never are in such matters."

To which Gilraen had replied, "I care not what help or hindrance he might be, I would have my husband see our child at least once…in case…." Such was the fear that haunted her, sharpened by urgency as the days rolled slowly by. Confinement to this one room, also, did not help her temper, for she felt as a trapped animal and could not quite understand why she might not move about the house. For although she understood the concern of her keepers, she had not been troubled again by the mysterious pangs that had forced her to take to her bed. But Ninaleth and her mother, Ivorwen, had prevailed against her wishes. And in truth, who am I to dispute their judgment, who have never borne children before? Nevertheless, the greater part of her heart rebelled against her sentence, wishing vainly for the freedom of the tree-clad plains and hills.

Just then, the door opened and Ninaleth peered in, wearing a puzzled smile as she entered. "Awake again? And yet you seem to me weary. You should sleep longer," she said gently.

"I know not why, but I cannot rest," Gilraen replied, shaking her head. "Would that the waiting would end!"

"Soon enough it will," the other woman said serenely, which unaccountably irritated Gilraen. "Do you want for anything?"

"For naught, thank you," she answered resignedly, as Ninaleth settled herself in the chair by the loom and took up her work again. Naught that you can provide, that is! Gilraen amended to herself, thinking once more and longingly of Arathorn. For a long while, she sat in silence, propped up by the pillows, listening to the sound of Ninaleth's industry, and she felt her hands twitch in response. She had never been given to idleness, and she wished heartily for some task to perform, but with her mother and Ninaleth come to stay with her, she found herself little more than a guest in her own house. Is it ever thus when a woman is with child? I know they mean well, and I love them dearly, but by the Valar! Gilraen could not find words fitted to her frustration, and let the complaint trail off in an unvoiced splutter of exasperation. Except that she must have sighed, or given some other sign of it, for Ninaleth looked up, and smiled sympathetically.

"Patience, dear," the midwife advised. "Have you a name yet?"

A name. Gilraen smiled slightly, her mood changing as suddenly as the wind as memory beckoned. "Yes, we do." It had been a matter of some discussion between husband and wife, and not only because of the name itself. Arathorn, perhaps unique among men, and especially those of his rank, hoped for a daughter. "I think your people would not be half so pleased with a girl," Gilraen had remarked, surprised, tilting her head back to gaze up at him as they had sat together on a ridge just outside of the town—Arathorn, with his back to a tree, and she in his lap, leaning comfortably against him, both of them escaping awhile from their duties and the watchful eyes of Ivorwen.

"I doubt not that you are right, but for once, I care not what may best please the Dúnedain!" Arathorn had growled in response, and she had laughed at his vehemence, though it startled her.

"Why?" Gilraen had asked. "It matters little to me, except that you need an heir."

"There you touch on the heart of it, love," her husband had replied, trailing a lazy caress down her cheek, to her breast and ending at last with his hand laid protectively over her stomach, which yet had shown little sign of her condition. His voice had been tender, though touched with a wry humor, as he had continued, "You are right, of course, and if we have a daughter, then we must soon try to have a son as well. But what an inheritance for a babe! Any son of mine will be condemned to the same existence that I have led, and that I would not wish on any child. Isildur's is a proud line, and a great burden, though in truth, I do not regret what I have become. But this first time… is it so much to wish that this one time we might please ourselves first?" he had asked. For a moment, both had been silent, each thinking of the many times they had sacrificed their time together to the demands of duty, rank, propriety. But Arathorn had shaken off the somber mood swiftly, and laughed softly at himself. "A ridiculous sentiment, I know, but that is the way of such wishes, I suppose. Besides," he had added, murmuring in her ear with a certain mischief, "if it is a girl, I may hope she will have her mother's charms!" And he had kissed her….

"Gilraen?" Ninaleth voiced shattered her reverie, and she shook herself out of her memories.

"Ah… yes. We have decided that if it is a daughter, then 'Líriel' she shall be, after Arathorn's sister," Gilraen said quickly.

"And if a son?"

"If a son, then 'Aragorn' we shall call him," Gilraen replied, and smiled. Arathorn had not at first favored the name, but she had always liked the sound of it, and so he had bent to her wishes in the matter. 'Aragorn'… or 'Líriel', she thought, closing her eyes and concentrating on the tingle of almost physical anticipation that permeated her awareness of herself. I know not which you are yet. I feel you stirring within me. Sometimes I fancy I can feel your heart beat in my dreams. When you come, I hope both your father and mother shall welcome you into this world!

***

Thorostad, the Eagle's Spindle, stabbed through the earth, rending the hills in its allolithic splendor, for unlike most of the stone of this region, it was shale—dark and enigmatic. Every Ranger knew well its craggy, tapering profile, and Arathorn gazed up at its moonlit point, weary but still unable to close his eyes. Five days he and Caranthar had run, following the orcs' trail as it swept east, and then abruptly began to wind, turning first sharply south and then doubling back ere it made off north-east again to bypass Langdrim. The two of them had tracked their foes a league or so beyond Thorostad ere turning back to find reinforcements. Beneath the Spindle's dark heights had waited Hirthon, a friend and also a cousin, and the third in Arathorn's triumvirate. "Fifteen men have I with me, and I hope that will prove enough!" he had said, and Arathorn had nodded. Eighteen men in all, myself included—it shall have to be enough!

But even a company of Rangers needed rest in order to fight the better, and so they spared a few short hours to recover from their hurried journeys. With the dark ere dawn they would rise again and continue on as if there had been no sleeping interlude in their hunt. And for myself, that may be the truth indeed, Arathorn thought, disgusted with himself. For though he knew he needed rest, he could not seem to fall asleep. Like a moth about a candle's flame, his thoughts flitted from one idea to the next, circling ever and erratically about memories of and fear for Gilraen. Fear…. Arathorn tasted it sharp upon his tongue and within his breast, and though it was hardly a stranger to him, rarely had it had such a bite. For the first time in many years, he felt a flare of panic at the thought of death, and Thorostad's dark spire brooded over him, the incarnation of that menacing shadow which lay at the end of each life.

Arador had passed into that darkness almost a year ago, or perhaps a little more, and though he went about his duties with his customary efficiency, Arathorn had never ceased to grieve, though only Gilraen perceived his pain. Father and lord and commander, companion upon many dark journeys and counselor: Arador had been many things to him over the long years. And yet I knew him least as my father, I suppose, Arathorn thought sadly, feeling a shiver of dread for the future. There was not enough time when I was a child; truly, I did not come to know him closely until I grew to manhood. Must it be thus between me and my children? And what of Gilraen and me? Thought of his wife made her absence palpable to him, and he felt a wave of heartsick longing wash over him. He ached with it, and the more for the dread that voiced his darkest fear.

What if she should die? The Dúnedain were a people of great endurance, well able to bear up to hardship, but whereas he could defend himself from the orcs, nothing could protect a woman when it came to her childbed. Medicine could do only so much, and then there was fate to pay, if one wished to think thus of the danger that birthing presented. Gilraen had already frightened them once, complaining of severe stomach pains, and the women had been swift to confine her to bed. As with most men, Arathorn knew little of what happened behind closed doors at such times, but he knew quite enough to be terrified on her behalf: for his own mother had died giving birth to his sister many years ago. And Líriel lived only a few days longer than she, he thought, with a pang of remorse for the sister he had never known. Gilraen is young for this, and well do I know it! How many have suggested I not hope too much that this first child shall live? That my wife may not be ready yet for children? For her part, Gilraen did not heed such words. "Who can say, love, what may happen? I am young among the Dúnedain, but elsewhere, women younger than I are already mothers and expect to be so." That was true enough, as Arathorn well knew from his travels, and yet…!

It would kill him if Gilraen died. Fierce though his spirit was when faced with danger, he yet knew that he had not the strength to outlive her for very long… that indeed he did not wish to should the unthinkable occur. Coward! he mocked himself, scorning such weak sentiments, but to no avail. Closing his eyes, he shut out the ominous sight of Thorostad, wishing he could as easily stop his mind from thinking, and willed himself to sleep. Four more days ere February's end....

***

Days pass slowly when I see only absence, Gilraen thought. Tomorrow is the first of March! She stared out of her window at the ugly day—pregnant with rain and oppressive to the spirit—and she leaned against the sill. Ivorwen would not have permitted her to rise, but Gilraen had lain still with her eyes closed for an hour, feigning sleep, until her mother had quietly left the room. Almost immediately, she had crept to the window, her only outlook onto the world beyond her house. For whatever the danger to her health, she could no longer lie meekly abed. Some three days ago, an odd anticipation had built slowly within her, and now it was settled deep in her bones. With it had come restlessness, and Gilraen had felt her temper wearing thinner as the hours spent themselves with miserly reluctance. And though she kept all such thoughts to herself, she felt an unexplained sense of anxiety–'of dread, even, that pricked ever at her. Something will soon happen, but I know not what or to whom! A strange doubt, perhaps, given the circumstances, but nevertheless, the feeling was ambiguous: it did not seem to her to attach to her. Or not solely to me, she amended, and gazed west hopefully, anxiously, feeling her heart begin to race. Arathorn…?

Outside, clouds gathered dark on the horizon, and the storm winds began to blow…

… And in the hills a day's journey south of the Angle, Arathorn cursed the fickle wind under his breath, for it made shooting impossible. It depends now upon swordwork alone, he thought grimly. Thirty orcs! How many will I lose in this fight? His men were drawn up in a loose wedge as they awaited his signal, yet he made no move. Below them in a narrow cleft the orcs milled restlessly, knowing that they were pursued, and their commander fought to hold them together. From Thorostad to this nameless vale, the Rangers had hunted their foes steadily northward, and by dusk of the third day, they had them within sight. Now, though, there was no escaping the long sought-after confrontation, and a sense of grim determination permeated the ranks of the Dúnedain. Arathorn still knew nothing of the orcs' errand, and at the moment, he cared not what it might be. The end was in sight: thoughts of home beckoned, and he raised his sword.

With a braying cry, the Rangers broke from cover and charged into the midst of their foes. The orcs howled as well, turning to answer them, but they were so tightly bunched that they hindered each other. There was jostling up and down the front line up until the last moment ere the Dúnedain fell upon them. And yet whatever their lack of discipline, they did not retreat, and their response was fierce. Arathorn felt the shock of that first contact as a physical blow, and he grimaced as he parried, then cut hard. In his left hand, he wielded a dagger, for in such close quarters, he had not room to take full advantage of the sword, and used it more as a shield—catching blades and pushing them back to gain space for quick, short jabs that left bodies in his wake. Against orcs, the greater stature of Men evened out the disparity of numbers; nevertheless, only a fool would count upon that, and Arathorn knew how badly this fight could end for all of them. And he wanted so desperately to live! His concentration narrowed to a sliver, to the frenzied ebb and flow of battle, and the swift violence of combat became a deadly dance. Wrath and fear flared hot in the pit of his stomach, growing more intense with each stroke. He saw the orc at the edge of his vision, marked its howling passage as it hurled itself forward, but he could not turn in time. He brought his sword up flat between them, and that heat blazed suddenly white hot, radiating outward as a hard, sharp pain knifed through him just at waist level—

—"Arathorn!" Leagues distant in the Angle, Gilraen screamed his name, clutching her stomach as she doubled over, then collapsed to the floor in a sodden heap, panting. Cold sweat soaked her in an instant, and she felt a rush of wet warmth between her legs as her vision shaded to—

—"Gilraen!" Her mother's voice sounded near at hand, and hands—gentle, but firm and urgent—gripped her, lifted her to her feet and guided her back to the bed. "Gilraen, listen to me! He will come, but think now of yourself." Gilraen shook her head, dazed, unable to speak, to explain what had happened, blindly grasping at the women who pressed her down onto the bed. Ice cold were her hands as they found Ivorwen's, and her heart pounded, drowning all other sounds. Arathorn!

"—raen!" Arathorn cried, and hit the ground with bone-jarring force, catching the orc in an embrace as he curled instinctively about the locus of pain. The orc's blood splashed hot against him as the edge of his sword slit the creature's throat, and at the same time he rammed the dagger through its back. A moment he lay still in the midst of battle, stunned by the shock, confused in the aftermath of that intense, wrenching interlude which he knew somehow was connected to his wife. But he had little time to wonder at it, for battle instinct was ruthless, and he scrambled to his feet. Iron discipline let him shut out thought of Gilraen, and ignore the prickling of his intuition as he turned once more into the fray. Caranthar cried out sharply beside him, and he turned quickly to slash at the back of the orc who attacked his friend. With a snarl, Caranthar fell in at his side, and together they turned toward the knot of orcs that remained, joined severally by others of the Rangers. Bodies littered the field, most of them orcs, but there were Men on the ground as well. Finally, though, the last of the orcs fell to Hirthon's blade, leaving the field to the Dúnedain. Here and there, moans sounded, echoing too loudly in Arathorn's ears as he bowed his head, leaning on his sword for support.

"Arathorn!" Caranthar grabbed the other's shoulders hard, gazing with concern into his friend's eyes. "What happened? Are you wounded?"

"Nay, I think not," Arathorn shook his head slightly, laying a hand over his stomach, and even as he spoke, he felt a wave of dizziness and nausea crash over him. Caranthar steadied him, alarmed, and Hirthon quickly reached out to lend a hand as well.

Drawing a deep breath, Arathorn forced himself away from such visceral sympathy, and, raising his eyes to Caranthar's, said simply, "It is begun." A moment, Caranthar stood silent, and the others shifted uncomfortably, uncertain what to make of this uncharacteristic behavior. But then understanding flashed across Caranthar's face, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Then you must away to your wife!" At that, there arose a soft murmur as the import of those words became clear to the others. For there was no one among the Rangers, or indeed, among any of the inhabitants of the Angle, who did not know that Gilraen was expecting.

"Go," Hirthon said quickly, glancing from Arathorn to Caranthar, "You were bound for home ere you turned aside, both of you. Go now, and I will see to the rest."

Usually, Arathorn would have balked at abandoning injured men, but just this once, he nodded curtly, accepting the other's offer. Giving Hirthon's shoulder a squeeze in gratitude, he picked his way swiftly through the bloodied field and, with Caranthar at his side, turned north into the gathering storm.

Sleet poured down, driven by the merciless north wind as the night wore away. Eriador lay under black clouds, and all creatures huddled under shelter. But Gilraen paid the storm no heed, unable to spare any attention from her efforts to birth this child. Sweat drenched her, and excruciating pain shot up her spine, exploding through her being as another contraction racked her. Each moment in pain was as an eternity enclosed in a kernel that, strung alongside others, measured out mortal time. Exhaustion beat down upon her, and she had long since lost track of the hours.

"It will be a hard delivery," Ninaleth murmured, glancing up at Ivorwen. The older woman only nodded, wiping sweat from her daughter's brow and face. Outwardly calm, Ivorwen nevertheless worried in silence, sensing in Gilraen's anguished calls to her husband something more than mere disappointment. She sees too clearly where he is concerned, Ivorwen thought. Though foresighted herself, she knew little of the strange bond that joined her daughter to Arathorn: for though it was erratic, it was yet more than mere prescience, or vague feeling. Almost elvish I would call it, she thought. And yet it is different. What does it mean, that she calls thus to him, with such fear in her voice? Ivorwen knew not the answer to that, and sternly relegated such questions to a more appropriate moment. Setting aside the towel, she reached out to capture her daughter's hands once more.

Gilraen, oblivious to the concern of either mother or midwife, choked back a cry as yet another contraction rippled through her. As she struggled to remain afloat upon the riptide of pain, she nearly crushed Ivorwen's hands in hers …

… while in the hills south of the river, in the lowest part of a nameless valley, two figures huddled together under such cover as could be found. On the leeward side of a few strewn boulders, pressed into the scooped out hollow beneath a bush, lay Caranthar and Arathorn. A doe's wallow, this, and likely many a fawn had come into the world here, but would no longer, Caranthar thought. The doe would not return to a place where Men had been. And desperate Men, too! The wind had driven the sleet into their faces, soaking them as they had moved through the trough that wound between the downs, and they had been bent nearly double as they trudged into the wind. Hours they had walked, Arathorn driven by his fear and Caranthar by friendship, else both would have halted sooner. But at last, by unspoken accord, they had surrendered to the storm, and sought shelter here, where at least the sleet could not find them so readily. Nevertheless, against the deadly chill, they had only their wet clothing and body heat, and so they lay close as a husband and wife, and shivered nonetheless. For his part, Caranthar did not understand what gripped his friend now, but neither did he question Arathorn's peculiar sensitivity to his wife's condition. He had seen it before, if never so blatantly, and it never occurred to him to doubt that what the other felt was real indeed. And so, despite weariness and cold, he remained awake, watching the darkness, and begging the daylight to come.

Arathorn, on the other hand, had fallen almost instantly asleep in spite of himself. Worn out by the strength of his own emotions over the past several days, and a hard journey on little sleep, he was exhausted. For a time, oblivion draped him like a cloak, crushing any spark of awareness beneath its heavy veil. But in the end, the dreams came still, if dreams they could be called. In the nether realm where lies the landscape of dreams, there lies also collective, physical memory. The Elves, bound more intimately to material recollection and shaping, know best of all creatures the power of that memory, but Men are not insensitive to it. In his mind, Arathorn beheld Gilraen's still form, seeming as a substantive ghost—still as a statue, yet seeming to beckon him nonetheless. And yet he hesitated, unwilling to move toward her, sensing the writhing fire that lay behind this apparition. It stretched out its hand, and against his will, he felt himself reach in response….

Pain jolted through his arm as their fingers intertwined, suffusing his body, but settling most definitely just below his stomach. Arathorn doubled over, collapsing as he curled tight about himself, adrift now in a sea of fire that burned with each anguished breath. Gilraen? The ghostly form hovered over him, still claiming his hand, slender fingers ice cold, and agony lanced through him once more, radiating outward from his midsection. He felt himself twisted, and then torn open, ripped asunder… and there was nothing at all that he could do to save either himself or her! Gilraen!

***

"Push harder!" Ninaleth ordered, her voice more stern than Gilraen could ever have imagined it to be. I do push! she thought, gasping for air in the brief space allotted her, for the contractions came now hard upon each other. In the east, the sky above the clouds grew pale, though all beneath lay still under deep shadow. Another shudder. "Push!" Be quiet! Gilraen did not try this time to suppress the cry as she let her head fall back in agony. "Again! You must try, Gilraen!"

"I do try!" Gilraen snapped, and whimpered. Another contraction… her world emptied of everything but the pain that seemed to rip her wide, and her vision faded once more into a haze of red…! She felt sobs shaking her, unrestrained as she put all of her strength into one last effort. Valar… help… me! Arathorn! When the child came, it was quite sudden, and Gilraen gasped as the pain ceased almost in an instant, the contrast so pronounced that she felt herself faint. The last thing she heard ere darkness took her were the squalled complaints of her baby as it drew breath for the first time—

—as Arathorn woke with a cry, panting for breath, and he felt Caranthar holding him like a babe against the shudders that racked him. Through a break in the clouds, the sun shone pale as a new day began. And in his ear, he heard his friend repeating, again and again, "She will be well, Arathorn! Do you hear me? She will be well!"

"Caranthar?" Arathorn shook his head to clear his thoughts, disoriented. He broke from the other's embrace and crawled out into the open, hearing the other scramble after him. "Dawn again," he murmured, scanning the sky. "Let us go!" Caranthar gazed after his friend, bemused, uncertain what to make of the other's curt response, but after a moment, he simply sighed and ran to catch up. A father himself, he understood what drove Arathorn, and he hoped that there would be good news indeed when they reached the Angle.

***

Gilraen drifted slowly out of the grip of unconsciousness, and she tensed, for a moment expecting to return to the struggle of labor. No pain assailed her, however, and though she felt a dull ache about her middle, it was as nothing by comparison. Lying tucked in under thick blankets—clean blankets, she realized—she felt imbued with an incredible lassitude. Has the dawn come yet? she wondered suddenly, and turned—or rather, let loll—her head towards the window to see what might be seen of the world, only to gasp in astonishment. Curled up at her side, looking quite disheveled and exhausted, but otherwise hale enough, lay Arathorn! For a long moment, she could not move, fearing to break the spell. But then Gilraen reached out hesitantly to smooth aside still-damp strands of hair that hung close about his face, and she felt a terrible relief when he did not disappear like a phantom. For once, he did not rouse to her touch, which told her how very tired he must be, as he habitually slept lightly. Ah, my heart, I have missed you! she thought, gazing lovingly at him. Very carefully, she eased toward him 'til they were nearly nose to nose, and then, as she closed her eyes, she very gently touched her lips to his. It was a whisper of a kiss, but after a moment, she felt him respond, felt his hand brush her cheek and then trail down her throat to cradle the back of her neck. The kiss deepened, and Gilraen gave a soft moan, delighting in the feel of a familiar and long-missed embrace.

Finally, though, Arathorn drew back slightly, and she opened her eyes to see him smile tenderly as he murmured, "Late by two days, love! Am I forgiven?"

"Always! I have missed you so," she whispered in reply.

"And I you. I would have come sooner but…." he trailed off, gazing at her, eyes searching her face intently. "What use excuses? There will always be one, and I would rather say I love you!" Gilraen giggled as he leaned down and kissed her again, and felt the laughter vibrate through his body as well.

"Quietly, love," she cautioned, smiling brightly nonetheless, "If my mother thinks you have wakened me…!"

"I would risk Ivorwen's ire, but that she will have cause to rebuke me if I tire you."

"You need not worry about that, I think," Gilraen replied with fond amusement. Then more seriously, "Two days, you said? Then is it…?"

"The second of March," Arathorn answered, settling comfortably against her, smiling as he drew her close and Gilraen laid her head upon his shoulder. "You are already one day a mother!" A pause. "How do you feel, love?"

"Weary," she responded, "but well!" She gazed up at him, and her eyes narrowed slightly, "And you?"

"Weary also," he replied.

"And the babe? How fares our child?" Gilraen asked, feeling now a touch of anxious anticipation. "I fear I do not even know yet which we have: son, or daughter!"

"Do you not?" he asked, and bent his silver gaze upon her. After a moment, he murmured, "So it is! Your mother told me the tale when I arrived, but I had forgotten! Wait a moment longer, love," said he, and so saying, he rose and stalked to the door. Opening it, he went out and a low murmur of voices could be heard, too indistinct for her to make out what was said. But after a moment, she heard her husband's voice rise slightly and assume a somewhat sharper tone, and she guessed he was arguing with her keepers once more. How did he prevail upon them to let him in? she wondered, and then promptly forgot such trivial matters. For at that moment, Arathorn returned, bearing in his arms a tiny, blanket-shrouded form. Gilraen struggled to sit up as her husband came and perched beside her on the edge of the bed, delivering the sleeping child into her waiting arms. "Aragorn cried for hours while you slept. I fear, love, that we shall spend many a sleepless night together!" Arathorn said, but his tone belied the complaint, and as Gilraen gazed down in wonderment, he slid an arm about her shoulders, hugging her close, and she sensed his pride and love—for her and for their son both.

"Arathorn…." Gilraen shook her head, unable to take her eyes from the baby. "He is beautiful!"

"As is his mother," Arathorn replied, pressing another kiss to her hair as he fell silent, thinking. I have a son! Valar be thanked, I did not need to lose a wife to gain a child! Echoes of pain ghosted through him, swift as a bird on the wing, and his arm about her shoulders tightened. Gilraen glanced up at that, perceiving the shift in his mood in a heartbeat, and she looked a question at him.

"Tis naught, dearest," he replied to that silent inquiry. "I am glad to see you well." Gilraen continued to gaze at him, and he at her, each perceiving some unspoken concern behind the other's reticence. But if Gilraen was unwilling to remind him of the perils that he had faced and which she had sensed, Arathorn judged the moment unripe to tell of his strange glimpse into his wife's struggles to birth their son. For the moment, they were newly come to parenthood, with all its attendant worries and joys, and it was enough that they were together. For how long, I know not. Mayhap some weeks, if March proves the stormy month tradition makes it. "'The land is so wide, that pricks my heart with the yearning for home,'" he sighed, echoing the afflicted longing of generations of Rangers and, indeed, of all exiled wanderers.

"That at least I can cure," Gilraen murmured in reply, freeing one arm so she could stroke his cheek tenderly. "Welcome home!" she said softly, drawing him down. Arathorn did not resist, and as he kissed her, he held her close for all the lost nights and long, fear-filled hours… and for hope and the promise of another day.

******************

A/N 2: I hope you enjoyed this one. It's weird, and I thought I should say to the mothers among us: I honestly haven't got a clue about child birth, so forgive the inaccuracies doubtless contained herein. I guess that's partly why this fic idea appealed to me so: not only did I get to write more about Gilraen and what has to be one of the defining events in a woman's life, I got to impose my own (highly romanticized) view of the mystique of fatherhood! What woman could resist the idea of forcing a male to go through labor with her? ;-) Anyhow, I thought this might give me an opportunity to develop Arathorn a bit through the lens of his relationship with his wife, which was fun in its own right.