Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belong to Tolkien. I still don't own Aragorn, no matter how many times I've tried to trap him.

Summary: Aragorn's thoughts at the birth of his first child.

A/N: This is basically drabble. I was really bored, but it might have come out all right. You tell me. And this is dedicated to brave captain of gondor for writing a really good story. You all should go read it after you read this.

All right, I'll shut up. Now for our feature presentation. Aragorn's POV.

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Is this really happening?

It must be. I remember months ago when your mother told me she was with child, the long awaited child we hadn't expected to have. It didn't seem real, even as I watched her belly slowly swell over time. But now, as your angry shrieks fill the air, my mind finally begins to accept that you are entirely real.

I watch in awe as your mother holds you for the first time, her shining blue eyes and wide grin showing how much she's wished for this moment. I'm so glad to see her happy, especially after all her efforts. The midwives didn't want me in here during your birth, but I rushed in at the sound of Arwen's first scream, demanding that I would be allowed to stay. My request was grudgingly accepted, and I knelt by the bed, letting Arwen squeeze my hand. Her nails pierced through my callused hands, and although my mind was screaming at my to pull my hand away, I wouldn't. I was eager to share her pain, even if I could only receive a fraction of it.

Arwen brushes back one of her damp curls and turns her gaze to me. "Hold your son," she says softly, offering the bundle that is you.

I take a step back. I was happy to watch your mother hold you, but I am not ready for that. "No," I say, shaking my head. "I'll break him, or drop him."

She laughs, holding you out to me. "You won't hurt him," she says, still wearing a glowing grin. "Take him, Aragorn. Don't you want to hold your own son?"

I step closer to the bed and nervously take the bundle. I stand carefully, still holding you over her lap, so if I falter you won't fall to the stone floor. My hands tremble as I look down into your face.

Your cries have grown softer, and you turn your pink head to peer up at me. Your eyes are gray-blue; your lips full like your mothers. I feel a foolish grin spreading quickly across my own lips as I tighten my grip on you a little. I feel almost as if I don't deserve to hold you, with my callused hands, now marked with bloody crescents from Arwen's nails.

Now there is finally something to fear. Something to make myself better for.

"Please, take him back," I whisper to Arwen. I want to see you in the arms of your mother. She looks worthy of you, the angel I married. But she shakes her head, that beautiful smile letting me know she enjoys watching me uncomfortably hold my son just as much as I loved watching her ease.

"So my tough warrior King has finally found something he fears," she says teasingly.

"I do not fear him!" I exclaim. But I do. I fear not being a good father to this gift that has been brought into my life.

With one finger I stroke the top of your head, the rounded tip of your ears. At last I can stop worrying if I'm a good enough man to be King, to be Arwen's husband.

From now on, all I have to worry about is being your father.

Sleep well, Eldarion.

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Yes I know, completely pointless, but I'm going to try to write a story or two about Eldarion and Aragorn, so this is like a prologue I guess. Thanks for reading!