Bar-en-Eladar by Gabriel  

“My Lord.” A woman bowed and placed a flower at the foot of the throne. Arathorn stared at it, completely dazed, trying to comprehend all that had happened in these last few days. His father had died under dubious circumstances, the guards had said. Branig, Captain of Arador’s Guard and someone his son did not trust and never had, cited orcs as the cause of the unfortunate incident. Whatever the truth, the fact remained that Arador, beloved Chieftain of the Dúnedain, was dead. No amount of accusation in any direction was going to rectify that.
The Captain had been named as the Chieftain's Regent, should Arathorn be too young at the time of Arador's death to be given the mantle. This made the circumstances surrounding Arador's demise more suspicious. It was also common knowledge among their people that Branig desired the Chieftain's wife, Arathorn's mother, for his own. Fortunately for the Dúnedain, Arathorn was a few weeks shy of his fifteenth birthday, the age that was deemed old enough, by their customs, to shoulder his father's responsibilities.
Arathorn slowly raised his head to stare at the throng of people shuffling forward to pay their respects. Somewhere to his left he heard a woman sobbing, and turned to lay red-rimmed eyes upon his mother surrounded by her ladies. He wished he could comfort her, tell her everything was going to be well, but he could not find the will. His own grief had slowly subsided into a sense of numbness, that in every sense of the word felt so wrong. He needed to feel, to show his father meant the world to him and his people. But tears would not come and Arathorn felt a sudden pang of guilt.
Aside from spending some of his childhood in the Elven realm of Rivendell, he felt he still knew nothing of being Chieftain except of what he had observed of his Father. But he remembered something his father had always reminded him: “Great Kings and Chieftains are not conceived; they are shaped, created, forged.”
He returned his attention to the growing mass of flowers at his feet, finding at least some kind of comfort, no matter how small, in their beauty. He closed his eyes briefly against the emptiness he felt inside, wishing this was all a dream and when he opened them again his father would be standing there with his customary smile and mischievous blue eyes.
“My lord?” A voice soft and melodious, like summer rain, interrupted his thoughts. Arathorn opened his eyes to stare upon a young maiden observing him. “Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you,” she declared, holding a white flower tightly against her chest.
“No need to apologise, my Lady,” Arathorn replied.
“I am so sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man. He will be sorely missed.” The maiden leaned down and placed the flower at the youth's feet, straightened and gave him a respectful courtesy then turned and hurried away.
Arathorn, draped in his father’s heavy cloak with the customary eagle feathers adorning the shoulders, suddenly leapt from his seat and made for the entrance of the hall of Bar-en-Eladar, looking for the young girl. He caught sight of her honey coloured hair against the multitude of dark heads milling just outside. It was only when he caught up with her that he realised he had nothing to say. “My Lady,” he called and she turned. Her gaze met his. “Thank you for your kind words…” His voice trailed off nervously as he found himself falling into her soft blue eyes. A smile gradually crept across her face and her cheeks turned a red hue.
She couldn’t help but giggle at the face he was making whilst staring at her, then cupped a hand over her own mouth at the possible disrespect she might be showing. The fifteen year old Chieftain shook himself out of his reverie and lowered his gaze with embarrassment. “Forgive me, I did not mean to stare,” Arathorn said apologetically.
“It is quite all right,” she responded, coyly.
“May I walk with you?” Arathorn asked. It was the first time he had felt alive in days.
“I would like that,” the maiden replied with another smile.
And as sunlight streamed down upon them from between the clouds he held out an arm and she took it hesitantly. “May I ask your name?”
Her smile deepened. “I am Gilraen, my lord.”
The End.

Chapter End Notes

Bar-en-Eladar: Sindarin {House of the Starfather}

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