A/N:  Contains spoilers for "At Hope’s Edge"!

This is character study written so that I could more fully understand Elrond’s feelings and actions when he discovered Aragorn was suffering from the Black Breath. There are several details in this that did not make their way into the final story, so don’t try to match it up moment for moment but simply read it for what it is: an exploration of Elrond’s character, his thoughts about Estel, and a look at what he saw as he searched through the Darkness for his son.

Thanks always to my tireless beta, Inzilbeth.

~~~

My son came home at last, and I nearly let him die.

Estel, who seemed the son of my heart from the very moment when, at two years of age, he was brought here along with his newly-widowed mother, Gilraen; both were brought here to dwell in safety when her husband, Arathorn, the Dúnedain Chieftain and Heir of Isildur, was killed by orcs. With his death, his only son, a little boy who already showed the piercing grey eyes of his line and who was much loved simply for being the child he was, became precious beyond price, for there could now be no other Heir.

He, like all the Chieftains before him, could be called my nephew, although many generations have been removed between my twin brother’s heirs and myself. Still, each one I loved, and this one more than any other.

Although I am not his true father, I hold a fierce and protective love for this child of Arathorn, to whom, with Gilraen’s approval, I gave the new name of Estel. Hope, it means. For that is what he is, in so many ways. Hope for mankind, for he will, after traveling a long and difficult road, take back the throne of Gondor for his line. For my brother’s line. Elros, my twin, who chose the mortal life, whereas I chose the fate of the Firstborn. He was the first King of Númenor, and Estel... Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the name we kept hidden to protect him from Sauron’s notice... is his direct descendent and the last surviving heir to the throne. A precious treasure, Estel, worth more than all the mithril in Moria, indeed in all of Arda.

And I nearly let him die.

It was during the sixty-ninth year of his life, barely approaching his prime, for being of Númenórean blood, he is blessed with over twice the life span of the lesser men. He arrived at dawn. Weary, spent, careworn... and I assumed, wrongly, that it was because he carried with him his sworn brother, his cousin and boon companion, Halbarad, who was marked with a grievous wound – an orc arrow nearly impaling his spine. In the rush to care for Halbarad, I gave Aragorn only the most cursory inspection. I saw signs of fever, and as I looked into the depths of his large grey eyes, a hint of something darker. His fëa seemed to lie in shadow, and in a miscalculation that will haunt me even to the Undying Lands, I took it to be evidence of sorrow only.

That it was the Black Breath did not even cross my mind.

It should have. Ilúvatar forgive me, it should have. Had I not heard rumors that a Nazgûl, perhaps even the Witch-King of Angmar himself, haunted the southern and eastern approaches to Eriador and Arnor? Had I not sent my twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir, together with Glorfindel, to verify such and to seek out Aragorn to see if he needed aid? Glorfindel holds great power over the Nazgûl and although it will be up to Men to find and somehow destroy the One Ring and thereby overthrow Sauron and his Wraiths, Glorfindel certainly does well to keep the Nazgûl at bay in the short term. So I sent the three of them, and they had yet to return.

But Estel returned, astride Glorfindel’s mighty steed Asfaloth, and that too should have warned me. But I was so caught up in the joy of seeing my son again, and in my concern for Halbarad, who I could see deteriorating before my eyes, that I pushed aside my instincts and took Aragorn at his word when he said he was fine.

Fine. How many times had Estel hidden wounds and illness behind that single word? Estel could have a broken neck and he would smile and say he was fine and send me off to care for someone else’s hangnail. Selfish my son is not, and while I am very proud of him for his sacrificial spirit, it does vex me no end at times like this.

But I cannot blame him for this. The fault lay solely at my own doorstep. I should have immediately sought out the source of his fever, and I should have paid more attention to the disturbance I felt in his soul. But Estel is so hardy, so rarely falls ill... I assumed the fever was due to exhaustion and a long ride through the chill of night. So I sent him away with orders to rest and drink willowbark tea.

Willowbark! Like throwing a cup of water at a raging inferno! He needed athelas, and my touch, for it is only Elven medicine, and the touch of those gifted by Ilúvatar to heal the Black Breath, that will completely free its victim from its deadly grip. Aragorn has the gift, and is skilled beyond all men at the healing arts, but not yet fully trained in dealing with the Black Breath, and at any rate, I am not certain how effective a healer is when he is the one in need of care. I remember telling him of athelas, but it was in passing, when he was barely fifteen, during a quiet morning stroll together when we walked past a patch of it and I mentioned its effectiveness against the Black Breath. He had asked what that was, and I told him about the Nazgûl. But at that time, the wraiths were far to the south and not an active threat. I did not feel that he needed to study on it any further at that moment, for I feared that it would stir him to questions for which answers he was not yet ready. So I brushed off his questions to answer on some future day after he knew his full destiny, and somehow in the years that followed, that was the only conversation we had about the Wraiths.

How could I have made such a grievous error?

~~~

I had worked long and hard on Halbarad. The arrowhead had glanced off his shoulder blade and splintered into hundreds of tiny fragments, each one of which had to be painstakingly removed lest it someday work its way into Halbarad’s spine, or into his lung, or simply fester in place and kill him with fever. So while the wound itself was not life-threatening, nor was it extremely difficult to repair, because of its precarious location and extensive nature, it took most of the remainder of the day, and by the time Halbarad finally wakened enough to show me he could move his arms and legs, my own back felt near to breaking. Immortal we Elves may be, but we too are prone to aches and pains and fatigue, and Halbarad, that dear friend and kinsman of my son’s, had stretched my stamina to its limits.

As soon as he was sleeping again and could safely be left in the care of the assistants in the House of Healing, I stumbled into my home. I hesitated beside Estel’s closed door, but hearing nothing but silence within, and not wanting to disturb his rest, I passed it without opening it, and staggered to my own bedroom. I think I was already well along the paths of sleep even as I peeled off my clothes and pulled on my night clothes. I fell into bed, and I do not remember ever pulling up the blankets.

Some hours later, I was awakened out of my exhausted slumber by the unlikely sound of Mithrandir shouting my name. Wizards rarely shout, unless it be to hurl imprecations and spells at their enemies. I had certainly never heard Mithrandir so much as raise his voice here in the safe confines of Imladris. I blinked, wondering if I had dreamt it, but his voice came again, this time from the hallway. My heart rose to my throat, for no one shouts in the depths of the night unless something horrible has happened. I leapt to my feet and, not bothering with donning a robe nor tying back my hair, ran to the door in my night clothes and bare feet.

"Elrond, cease your slumber and come immediately!" his voice thundered.

I yanked open the door and through the hair falling in my eyes saw him standing in the doorway to Estel’s room. The look on his face opened a vast hollow in my gut. I hesitated, shock immobilizing me, and Mithrandir raised his voice to deafening levels. "Elrond! Your son does not have time for you to stand as a coney caught in the gaze of a wolf!"

I blinked and ran, feeling the rare rush of embarrassed heat fly to my cheeks. I may be the Lord of Imladris, but Mithrandir is one of the Istari, and although it had been many years since he had need of chastising me, the truth is that sometimes even the highest Elf needs a sharp kick. I avoided his eyes as I slipped past him into Estel’s room.

My son was on his bed, dressed in the night shirt I had Erestor lay out for him but still wearing his stained and patched leggings. For some reason, maybe because thinking on it kept me from thinking on things far more terrifying, the incongruity of it caught my eye, and I had to fight back the ridiculous urge to chide my son for not undressing properly for bed.

Focus, you fool! What does it matter what he is wearing?

It felt as though I had to drag each thought and each movement from a mire, but I turned my eyes to my son’s face. It was drawn as if in great pain, and he tossed his head on his pillow as the most pitiful cries came from his mouth. The cries broke through my odd malaise and I rushed to his side and laid my hand on his forehead. It was so hot that I flinched. "Estel, Estel! Quiet, my son, quiet," I murmured over and over, trying to soothe him but he would not be calmed. "I am here, my son. Shh. I am here."

Estel could not hear me. He moaned and cried out things that I did not understand at all. "No! That is not my name!" Then he tossed his head on the pillow, crying, "He knows ... Adar ... he knows ... he knows ..." He kept repeating the words over and over, lost in delirium.

I looked wildly at Mithrandir. "How long has he been like this?"

"He collapsed in the hallway, just minutes ago. We had been talking, in his room, and he seemed ill, and tired. But nothing like this. But, Elrond, he has–"

I cut him off. "Get Erestor. Have him bring me athelas, and... and supplies..." My mind seemed to have locked up. I could not think of what I needed. So I waved Mithrandir out the door with an impatient gesture. "Just tell him Estel has fever. He will know what to bring. Hurry!" I spotted scratches and a bruise on Estel’s wrist and wondered if there was an unseen wound that had somehow gotten infected. "And water and bandages!" I cried as Mithrandir disappeared to search out Erestor.

I placed my hand again on Estel’s forehead, and another on his chest, and his reaction shocked me. As soon as I touched his chest, he bucked upward in the bed, arching his back and groaning as though I had stabbed him. I immediately pulled my hand away, but kept one on his forehead. I pulled back the collar of his tunic, and thought I saw a dark bruise, but there was no evidence of blood. I left it for the time being, and, closing my eyes, I tried to reach his mind, but all I saw was a fog of darkness tinged with flames. I gasped, for I could almost smell a sulfurous fume. It was a stench, a soul stain, an evil that I had not seen in many long years but one with which I was far too familiar.

It was the Black Breath.

"Estel," I whispered, my heart breaking. "How did I miss this?"

I knew I needed to go more deeply into that horrifying realm of shadow, but I needed athelas and where was that councillor of mine? Since there was nothing I could do for the Black Breath until Erestor arrived with the athelas, I decided to see what else was wrong. The Black Breath does not cause such a fever as I felt in my son, so there had to be something else... some wound...

Valar, let it not be from a Morgul blade....

I swiftly pulled Estel’s breeches off and examined each leg, feeling an odd pang as I looked at the sturdy, well-muscled length of them. It had seemed only yesterday that those legs were no bigger than the length of my forearm, chubby little things propelling him into more trouble than any two-year-old should ever have been able to find. Now they were scarred but strong, the legs of a man who had walked many hard miles. "Strider," I murmured the nickname he had picked up on his journeys and accepted somewhat wryly as his own. It was such a low name, one spoken in derision, but for some reason he never protested or seemed overly offended by it. I sometimes fussed at him, telling him if he would not defend himself against the slur, to at least tell the name-callers to say it in Quenya. He had given me one of his quiet smiles and said, "Telcontar it shall be someday, but for now, it is safer to be lowly Strider." It was one of those moments where the child brings the parent up short with his wisdom, and he had laughed as I bowed my head, duly corrected.

The scars I saw were old. I traced a finger along one particularly horrendous one that ran the length of his right thigh. It could easily have killed him and I wondered what the story was behind it, if anyone had been there for him, or if he had been in the wilds, alone, with no one to give him succor. My throat ached, but this was not the time for mourning over my son’s old wounds. I rolled him carefully onto his side, to better see the back of him. No wounds there.

He moaned again, crying out for me, pleading for me with a sorrowful voice that pierced me right through. I touched his cheek and murmured soothing words that he did not seem able to hear. I hurriedly pulled his tunic up and looked at his abdomen, mindful of that painful way he reacted when I touched his chest. My son’s life left no softness about him; the muscles there were as lean and well-defined as those on his legs, and there were a number of scars, but nothing recent.

It saddened me deeply to see etched on his body the evidence of the difficult journey I had foreseen him taking.

I chided myself again. I had to stop this mawkish reflecting and focus.

It would jostle him too much to work his tunic off over his head, so I pulled the small utility knife I keep always on sheath hanging around my neck, even when I sleep, and its keen edge made quick work of slicing through the fabric. It was then I saw more clearly what made him flinch when I touched his chest. A bruise, a very deep one from the looks of it, marred the skin, in the clear outline of a sword. "Estel, what evil did this to you?" I touched the skin around the bruise, careful not to touch the bruise itself, pressing lightly, seeking out evidence of broken bones, which thankfully I did not find. Still... the bruise was nearly black, and ugly. And as I looked at its shape, a chill walked down my back. It looked for all the world like a Morgul blade.

He must have battled the Nazgûl hand to hand. I looked at his face, and it seemed I could feel his fëa weaken even as I watched. How long had the battle gone on? And how long in the days since had Estel fought off the effects of the poisonous miasma the wraiths spew out? My son was strong... his bloodline gives him fortitude and endurance few other men possess. But no man can withstand the Black Breath indefinitely.

An icy pit formed in my stomach and I feared what else I might find. Had the Morgul blade penetrated his flesh... Elbereth, please no. Do not let me find what I fear most... I cannot bear to lose him to...

I did not allow myself to finish the dreadful thought. I looked more closely at the bruise, running my fingers as close to it as I dared without causing him undue pain. I let out a shaky breath when I found no evidence that the blade had broken his skin. The wraith must have somehow slapped Estel with the flat of the blade.

But he could have a wound elsewhere...

I applied the knife again and cut the sleeves away and found a bandage around Aragorn’s upper left arm. From the smell alone, I knew immediately this was the source of his fever and my fingers hesitated over the stained bandage, for I feared that I would find the telltale evidence of the stabbing tear of a Morgul blade. If it were so... if a Morgul blade had done this damage... then Estel was already lost to me.

I shut my eyes tightly. Tears have no place in a healer’s eyes.

I angrily swiped my eyes against my sleeve and forced myself to move. I unwrapped the bandages, wincing as at last I found the ugly wound and then had to shut my eyes again as relief rushed through me in such a wave I felt almost dizzy. These were no Morgul blade wounds but looked to have been made from splinters of some kind. Two of them were angry with pus and redness, perhaps from remnants that had not been completely removed. I glanced at the door, willing Erestor to hurry with that water, for the wound needed cleaning and needed it immediately. I looked at the redness that spread outward from the wound. One streak had already started up his arm. He might lose the arm, but then the bleak realization hit that with the wound so close to the heart, the poison would surely kill him before he would ever lose the arm to gangrene. I may have to take the arm right away ...

I felt sick at the thought.

I looked at it once more and decided that the infection had not gone so far that cleaning it and applying medicine might yet save the arm without undue risk to his life. A risk it would be, but one I deemed worth taking, at least for one day. By tomorrow evening, I would know.

Somewhat relieved, I left that wound to its own and checked his other arm. It seemed unharmed. I then touched Estel’s cheek again, for he had fallen silent. "Estel," I called softly, and to my surprise, his eyes opened and he looked at me.

"Ada?" he breathed, his voice tight with pain and fear. The look in his eyes... it was hard to look upon such terror, and harder still seeing it on the face of my son. All the protective instincts of a father rose to choke me for not having saved him somehow from this. I have failed you. I banished the self-pitying thought. What did I expect from this suffering man before me? Absolution? ‘Twas a selfish notion, and such blessing from him I could never ask.

"Shhh, my son. You will be fine," I soothed, hoping that I was not telling a bald-faced lie. I stroked his hair back and smiled down at him and carefully hid all traces of my own fear. "You will be fine, my son."

"Arm... hurts," he whispered.

"I know. The wound has become infected. Can you tell me how you were injured?"

He licked his lips. The pitcher beside his bed was empty. Again I looked wildly toward the door. How long could it take a wizard and a seneschal to bring water?

"I... wall collapsed... splinters..." His voice faded. I had never seen him so weak.

"Shh, that is all I need to know. I will take care of it. Just rest and do not worry. I am here, and I will take care of you." My lips trembled but I kept my voice steady.

"Not just... my arm... There is blackness... a shadow..." His eyes had closed but they suddenly shot open and he looked at me with such despair that my heart skipped a beat. "He knows, Adar. Sauron knows... who... who I am."

I did not know what to say, for there was no way of knowing if Sauron truly did discover, through the Wraith, that Estel was the Heir of Isildur, or if his fear was an illusion brought on by his fever or the Black Breath. I prayed it was merely confusion. I brushed my hand again over his hair, trying to find words of reassurance. "Then he knows," I finally said. "There is nothing to be done about that right now. He cannot reach you here. You must not worry."

His eyes drifted shut and he sighed. His lips moved and I leaned close. "I am sorry... so sorry... I have... failed... everyone.  Failed you..." A tear fell from the corner of his eye and tracked down his temple to dampen his hair.

I brushed it away and my heart utterly broke within me. I pulled him into my embrace and though he had once more lapsed into unconsciousness and could not hear me, I reassured him over and over. "No, Estel. You have not failed me. You have not failed." I let the tears fall this time, and it was thus that Erestor and Mithrandir found me.

Erestor skidded to a halt in the doorway, the water he carried sloshing in a great wave onto the floor. "Oh Elbereth Gilthoniel!" he cried. "It cannot be! He has died?"

I shook my head violently, unable to speak. Mithrandir came over and laid his hand on Estel’s forehead, and then on mine and I felt a comforting peace settle on me and even Estel seemed to relax in my arms. I blinked and looked up. "Thank you, Mithrandir," I choked.

"Let us see what we can do about this young man," Mithrandir smiled, and his pragmatic benevolence seemed to wash over me and strengthen me. I lowered Estel back onto his pillow and again swiped my sleeve, which was becoming admittedly soggy, against my eyes. Mithrandir grimaced and produced a handkerchief and handed it to me. "As bad as Bilbo," he muttered. "Never with a handkerchief when you need one."

I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and felt very much like a small Elfling but something about Mithrandir’s matter-of-fact manner calmed me even further, to the point where I was finally able to gather my wits and think like a healer and not an overwrought father. I rose from where I sat on the edge of the bed and took up the athelas that Erestor had laid on the small table beside the bed. I blew on the leaves softly and held them between my hands for a long moment to warm them. Erestor, long used to working with me, placed the bowl of what was left of the steaming water beside the bed and I cast the leaves into it. The aroma immediately refreshed me, and I could tell from their soft sighs that neither Mithrandir nor Erestor were immune to its effects.

But what of Estel? I eased myself onto the bed beside him and with Erestor’s help tugged the table over closer to him. I dipped a cloth in the water and squeezed out the excess, and then wiped Aragorn’s face with it, but he neither stirred nor opened his eyes. I glanced at Erestor. "He is moving deep into shadow." I swallowed hard. "But I think there is time to clean up his arm. Likely he will not feel the pain it is sure to cause him, and I do not think a few more minutes will matter one way or another as far as the Black Breath goes, yet if it takes–" I swallowed. "If it takes a long time to bring him out from under the Breath, the arm would worsen and undo everything we have gained."

"Let me clean his arm, Elrond," Erestor offered. "You have worked long and hard today on Halbarad and I fear you will have a long, dark journey to call Estel back. I am not the healer you are, but I think I can manage. You need to rest for a few moments and let the athelas strengthen you before you begin."

"As always, you speak wisdom, my friend," I said. I moved further down the bed but kept my hand protectively resting on Estel’s knee. Despite the heat coming from his skin, I felt him shiver. I pulled up the blanket and tucked it around his legs and hips as I watched Erestor quietly and efficiently clean the wound. It was a messy job, but he did not flinch or hesitate. A pile of bloody rags soon grew on the floor by his feet, and at one point he triumphantly held up a jagged splinter of wood.

"It was so deep, any of us would have had trouble finding it," he said as he tossed it atop the rags.

Finally, he sighed and sat back. "There. It is finished. I cannot see any more evidence of splinters and the wound is clean. I do not think I will put any stitches in it but simply work medicine deep within, to fight the infection, and then bind it tightly. And pray the infection does not worsen."

I leaned forward to see it better. "You have done better than I could, I think." And he had. Erestor did not have the reputation I had, and he would deny it until the day he sailed, but the truth of the matter was that he was every bit as skilled in wound care as I.

He blushed slightly at the praise but busied himself with clearing away the debris on the floor. "Are you ready, Elrond?"

I nodded absently. I pulled the blanket up and across Estel’s shoulders, stalling a bit, although it needed to be done, for he still shivered. I smoothed the blanket over his stomach and arms, careful to avoid touching the bruise or the splinter wound. Finally, I took a deep breath and looked into Estel’s face.

Never in my darkest nightmares did I imagine having to journey after my own son into that realm that was neither death nor life. My mind skipped back to a time after the battle of the Dagorlad when so many had fallen under the Black Breath... I had exhausted myself to as close to death as an immortal Elf can get, and still far too many died and passed into shadow. The guilt of what I felt was my failure stayed with me for centuries. But that torment seemed as nothing compared to how I would feel if I could not save this single man lying before more.

Valar, I ask that all grace due me be given to my son ...

I laid my hand on Estel’s brow, and closed my eyes.

TBC

It is always different, with each person, each realm of darkness that I have to fight my way through to pull the wounded and dying fëa from death’s grasp. Most are murky places of darkness, unformed and unshaped yet filled with terror and loneliness. And what detail I can discern is a corruption of the fea’s experience, a twisted perversion of what life had been. Joyful memories become nightmare; terrible memories turn to horror beyond words. In His wisdom, Ilúvatar has given me the ability to fight through such places, to sense where the wounded soul is lying and bring him – or her – back, but it is always difficult, always taxing, always dangerous.

And never more so than now.

This time I stood before a river, its waters black and oily and foul. I walked along its edge and felt its deadness and knew that this was water that had never given their fealty to the great Vala of the waters. Ulmo had never touched these currents, and even Ossë in his wildness in the sea would find no joy in stirring water such as this. It was a lifeless stream, without song or light dancing on its sluggish waves.

Surely Estel is not caught in that, I thought in dismay.

I stood for a while, watching, listening ... and seeing and hearing nothing.

I finally turned my back on the water, certain that if Estel were somehow trapped in it I would have sensed him, and walked on. Trees, misshapen and frightening even beyond the ruined forest of Fangorn loomed over my head, and their roots twisted and moved like snakes beneath the rocky ground. Several times I nearly tripped as a treacherous root shot to the surface and then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. It was a horrid sight, that unnatural coiling and winding of them, for although I had seen trees move, like the slow movements of Ents who had become tree-like over the years, or even the peevish shifting of Old Man Willow’s roots, this was different. This was wholly evil, and my mind shied from thinking of just what Estel must have lived through for the darkness of the Black Breath to have created this foul place.

I spied a break in the trees and what looked like a meadow, lit with whatever passed for sunshine in this place, and I ran toward it as fast as I could, but I suddenly fell as several roots rose from the ground to wrap themselves around my ankle. I struggled, crying out in fearful rage as I jerked my ankle sharply, but even as I freed my ankle, a root wrapped itself around my arm. I pulled it off with my free hand and scrambled to my feet before any more of the wicked things could twine themselves around me. I glanced upward, but running through the branches of such a malignant forest would be no better. Nay, that would be to throw myself straight into its clutches. Besides, I was no wood elf, and it had been so long since I had run through the tree tops that attempting it now would be worse than dangerous. So I ran across the treacherous ground, and eventually I reached the edge of the wood.

"Estel!" I called as I broke stumbling away from the trees at last, but there was no answer.

I glanced back the way I had come. The trees had closed behind me and all trace of the river was gone. The sky was a uniform gray. Had this been a natural place I would have thought from the lowering sky that it might snow.

But this was no natural place. I shivered and looked around the dim meadow, which had only seemed sunlit when I was in the darkness beneath the trees. But the sky was open above and there was, if not a freshness, then a lessening of the fetid atmosphere of the forest behind me.

Where could Estel be? I called and called, but no answer came back to me.

I saw a glimpse of movement and turned my head. A stag leaped between boulders. I frowned. I had never before seen deer when searching through these wretched places. But then each victim’s nightmare is its own, and signs came in many forms. I knew how much Estel loved to hunt, so, taking it for a sign, I followed the stag, and found myself climbing. Up and up I went, pulling myself from rock ledge to rock ledge. Now and then my hand knocked loose a rock and sent it falling, but although it bounced against other rocks and sent them tumbling, they made no sound whatsoever.

"Estel!" I cried, and my call seemed swallowed by the air around me. I somehow sensed, deep in my spirit, that this was wrong, that Estel would not be found up among these high cliffs. I had to get back down. I cursed the traitorous stag for leading up such a dangerously false trail, but as I turned to go, my eye caught another movement. A bird, circling overhead. I watched it as it approached and saw it was an eagle. I pressed myself against the rocks, for who knew if eagles were friend or foe in this place.

It let out a raucous, bugling cry that made me jump, so loud it seemed in the silence around me. It looked at me with an eye more fierce than any eagle of Middle-earth, then flew off toward a valley to my right. Beyond the valley was blackness and smoke and a red glow that seemed to be an echo of the fires of Mt. Doom on Arda. Somehow I knew that if Estel had crossed that valley and passed into the smoke, he would be beyond my call.

I had to reach that valley.

I looked up again, searching the sky. Just before the grey sky met black, I spied a small break in the clouds. And in the sky far above the clouds I glimpsed something that sent my heart soaring.

A star.

An eagle ... a star ... Estel had traveled the far corners of Arda using those tokens as his identity. This could be no mere coincidence.

My son was in the valley.

I whispered a prayer of thanks and climbed as fast as I could back down the treacherous cliffs, marking the location of the hidden valley as I went. By the time I reached the bottom, I had spied a faint path wending its way through the murky shadows. My feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, so fast did I run. My heart pounded in my chest; my lungs started to burn, but I did not slow down. I was so close ...

...and then the trail ended in the blank face of another soaring rock wall.

"No!" I screamed, and beat my fists against the unyielding stone. I felt like weeping. I ran as far as I could to the left and then the right but there was no way through, and the wall seemed as smooth as glass, no handholds, no cracks ... no way up.

I bent over, my hands on my knees as I drew in deep breaths. The air felt ... wrong, somehow. It was too thin, yet dragging it into my lungs started to choke me as if I were trying to breathe in water. I backed away from the wall, up the hill and I could breathe again.

But where to go?

"Estel!" I shouted. "Estel, can you hear me? You must come to me!"

Silence was my only answer.

I started to run again, knowing that I could not keep up such a pace much longer but so afraid that if I did not find him soon, all would be lost. My hair worked free of the braids that held it back and fell into my sweating face. I shoved it back but it kept falling in my eyes and I finally had to stop. I roughly jerked it back and tied it into a knot, ignoring the temptation to yank it out by the handful.

As I was doing that, my eyes did not rest but looked every direction for a way into the valley. I could still see the eagle, but he was far away and moving fast. The star still shone, but seemed dimmer than it had been. "Estel!" I screamed. "Listen for my voice! Answer me if you can!"

Fear was now my constant companion. I ran, retracing my steps until I could actually see the valley again, and this time I stood and studied every inch of the land between me and that far green land. I saw the deceptively alluring trail and ignored it and looked for the harder way, the way that looked impossible ... the path that echoed the long and hard road that marked so much of Estel’s life. But that path seemed absolutely hidden. My eye could make out no opening, no break in the seamless wall of rock. I fell to my knees, my eyes filling with tears.

And then I found it.

It was a gap, probably no wider than the length of my forearm, and had I not dropped to my knees, I would never have seen it. It was the only possible way through the impenetrable stone fortress that seemed to guard the valley.

I started running again. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself onward. Fear is a great motivator, and I was terrified that all my fumbling would cost Estel his life.

I reached the gap at last and saw it was narrower than I thought. It almost looked too narrow to squeeze through, but I turned sideways and eased into it. Rough stone pressed my back and my chest, but I pushed myself with arms and legs and inched my way into the passage. I glanced over my head ... the rock walls loomed so closely together that it might as well have been a cave I was traversing. I just prayed it would not get any narrower.

It did not.

I reached the opposite end at last and stepped into the open, drenched in sweat and shaking with relief, for I had never held any great love for tight places. "Estel!" I called, desperately searching the sere landscape in front of me. It had looked green from a distance, but that had been an illusion, another lie. This valley was filled with dead clumps of grass, jagged boulders and dangerous vents in the ground through which boiled steam and a sulphurous smoke, the same noxious fume I had sensed in my initial search of Estel’s mind.

It was a lifeless place, and it reeked of despair, and somewhere in this dreadful place my son was trapped.

"Estel!" I cried. My voice was growing hoarse. I was weakening far too fast. I had used up too much energy chasing down the false trail. I moved forward but tripped and went to my hands and knees. "Elbereth Gilthoniel, give me strength ... please ... you must help me find my son."

I struggled to my feet. "Estel! Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

I looked at the sky and saw the star nearly overhead, barely visible, so dim had it grown. There was no sign of the eagle. I let my gaze travel downward, studying the far horizon. Stunted trees stretched grasping bare limbs toward the sky, and on one of them perched the eagle.

I stumbled toward the tree, crying out Estel’s name, and for the longest time it seemed like I was running in place, never moving forward, never reaching the place where surely I would find Estel. But finally the eagle took flight, almost as though he knew I was coming at last. As I approached, I saw dark shapes below the tree... a dark-haired man crumpled on the ground, and another standing over him. Even as I watched, the standing man threw something to the side.

"Estel!" I cried, my voice breaking.

The man on the ground did not move, but the standing man turned and looked toward me. I saw that it was not Estel as I thought, but Halbarad. But that made no sense. Halbarad could not be in this place ...and not with such a look of hatred glaring from his eyes. I glanced at the ground, where he had thrown something, and saw a gleam of steel. Narsil! I frowned. Had he taken the shards of Narsil from my son? Why would he treat them with such contempt?

I stared at Halbarad and it came to me. This was more of the Dark One’s foul trickery. I drew my sword. "Be gone, servant of darkness!" I cried. "Leave him be!"

The false image of Halbarad wavered, shifted into its true form, that of an orc, then dissolved into smoke and blew away. I sheathed my sword slowly, fearing that such evil might come back in another form, but nothing moved and no one approached. Then I dared looked more closely at the man on the ground. It was Estel. He lay with his back to me but there was no mistaking. I wanted ... no I needed, in the worst way, to run to him, to take him in my arms and hold him and assure myself he lived, but I could not. Estel had to come to me. I walked as close as I dared and dropped to my knees, a few feet from him. "Estel!"

He did not move, but I could hear his breathing, a harsh, rasping sound that smote my heart and checked my own breath. "Come to me, Estel!" I cried.  Oh Valar, help him to come to me, please...

He moved, then, finally, a listless shifting of his arms ... and it was then I saw the chains that bound his wrists and his ankles. He turned his head and opened his eyes and he seemed not to see me.

"Estel!"

He blinked. "Adar?" he whispered.

"Yes, Estel. It is your adar. I’m here. I have come to take you home."

"Home?" He looked confused. "No ... it is a trick. I will not tell ... not tell you ... who I am ... cannot make me ..."

"Estel," I implored. "Listen to my voice! It truly is me. You must trust me!"

He shut his eyes. "No!" he moaned, a long drawn-out sound so full of pain and bewilderment that my heart felt crushed. "It is a trick... I will not listen!" He curled into a ball, burying his head in his arms.

I felt like burying my own face in my hands. I had never come up against anything as difficult as this. Fatigue wrapped itself around my mind, deadening my wits. "Think!" I told myself fiercely. What could I say to him that could convince him that I was real, that whatever illusion he was trapped in was nothing more than a lie as black and vile as Morgoth himself? The answer came to me. "Estel, a few moments ago you woke from this, briefly. You looked at me and told me that Sauron knew who you were."

I held my breath and for a moment it looked as though he would ignore me, but then he stirred, a shudder more than anything, but he did not answer nor look at me.

Desperately, I continued. "There is more, Estel, things that I would know but Sauron and his minions would not. If you search your mind you will know to them to be true and know that I am true. Halbarad was injured. You brought him to Rivendell. You waited all day beneath the old willow tree, worrying over him, as I worked to remove the shards of the arrow from near his spine and lung. And you were so concerned for his well-being that you ignored your own wound, the splinter wound on your left arm. It has become inflamed, and is giving you fever."

I paused, hoping, but still he did not move. "I followed the eagle, and then the star. You saw them both, from a distance; yea, even followed the eagle yourself to this tree. They are your tokens, my son, and they drew me to you. Just now I saw Halbarad, or the being that was pretending to be Halbarad, swing the chains and hit you. But the chains did not wound you; you were already wounded when you came to Rivendell."

Finally, he stirred, and rolled over enough to look at me. The confusion and terror in his eyes smote my heart. "At Bracken’s Ferry," he whispered, his voice holding only a faint, rasping echo of its normal vigor. "How do you know? I did not tell you..."

"No, but I can see the wound on your arm, and no chain did such damage. Splintered wood, still embedded and festering. Erestor has cleaned it, though, and that was the pain you thought came from those chains." I smiled, as gently as I could. "Come, my son, let me take you home and then you can tell me everything."

He stared at me, seeming to take the measure of my very soul with his piercing, suspicious gaze. Then he looked around at the deadness surrounding us. I could almost see his thoughts as he weighed everything I had told him against the voice of his own heart, and then to my indescribable relief, he stretched out a trembling hand. "Ada, is it really you?"

I put my hand out and he reached forward and touched my fingers, and then let out a joyful cry as he nearly threw himself into my arms. "Ada!" I folded him into my embrace, my heart singing as joyful a song as surely Arda had ever heard, and as I drew him close, the chains fell and a sweet wind laden with the aroma of athelas swept away the toxic fumes. The valley seemed to melt around us. I buried my face in Estel’s hair and wept ....

.... and when I lifted my face, we were in Estel’s room, and he was stirring in my arms. "Ada," he croaked.

"Give him water!" I cried, and Erestor hurried forward with a cup. He held up Estel’s head as I held it to his lips with a hand that was shaking so hard that I spilled some of it down his chest. He seemed not to notice as he drank greedily.

"Slow down, Estel," I said, laughing as I pulled the cup back.

Erestor eased Estel’s head back to the pillow and he lay staring at me as if he still could not quite believe it was me and that he was back safe in his bed. In his home.

"Welcome back," I said, and laid a kiss on his forehead.

"What ..." The look of confusion on his face was almost comical. "How did..."

"Shhh. Save your questions, my son," I said. "You were in a far country, and an evil one, but now you are back home and you will recover." I carefully kept my glance away from his arm. Valar, let him be fine. I smiled inwardly. That word again.

He shifted uneasily on the bed, wincing as the movement jostled his arm. "Your arm was deeply infected," I said. "It will trouble you for some time, I fear, but it will heal." Let my words not be a lie...

He shut his eyes as he nodded. Pain drew deep lines of suffering on his face and he looked... old. Already gray hair shone here and there among the black strands and it seemed in that moment I became fully aware, viscerally aware, that someday I would lose this son of mine to death. That no matter how many times I or some other healer fought to keep him alive, death would inevitably steal him from me, either in battle or on that day when in the fullness of years he finally willingly gave back his life to Ilúvatar. The room seemed to fade for a moment, and instead of seeing Estel as he was before me, I saw him lying in great splendor and beauty, somehow young and full of years both, with a crown upon his head as he slept. But it was not sleep but death that I saw on his brow, and such pain filled my heart that I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. I would sail long before that moment, I knew, but what of my daughter? What of Arwen? The bitterness of parting would be hers to bear alone.

I shut my eyes tightly against the unbearable sorrow of it.

Valar, where do I hide this pain? Where can I put it so that I can do what you have set before me to do during my time in Middle-earth? How do I not shrink from this grief and seek out the shelter of the West, to not abandon my duty to remain here, to see this age finished and the Age of Man come to its fullness?

Help me, Valar, for the end of Arda will be so very long a time to wait to see my children again.

I opened my eyes, and the answer came gently as my eyes rested on Estel. He was looking at me, those eyes of his – eyes as grey and bright as the sky at dawn’s first touch – boring into mine with an intensity I had only seen in one other man, his ancestor Elendil. "Adar?" he said softly.

I laid a hand against his cheek. The warmth of his skin anchored me again to the present. To this instant in time, and it was enough. My son was alive now, and that was all that mattered. The future and its sorrows faded back into the recesses of my mind, and I smiled.

"Worry not," I said. "I am not troubled. Not any more."