Note: ‘O, where are you going!’ from ‘The Last Homely House’, The Hobbit; J.R.R. Tolkien. Chapter title from ‘The Houses of Healing’, The Return of the King; J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter I: And Death’s Shadow Grows

O, where are you going,
And what are you doing?
Your ponies need shoeing.
The River is flowing!
O! Tra-la-la-lally,
Here down in the valley!

The wood-elves were singing high up on the slopes. Their merry, lilting voices could be heard even over the roar of the Bruinen, but Elrond Peredhil, Master of Imladris was too distracted to pay any mind to their words. He wished irately that they would be silent. Did they not understand that there were other concerns at hand far greater than their need to poke fun at the approaching strangers?

He knew that guests were coming. Gandalf, and fourteen others: doubtless the madcap adventurers that the wizard had said he was assembling to attempt to retake Erebor from the dragon Smaug. He had made mention of some such plan in the works last year, in connection with the proposed actions against Dol Guldur. Elrond supposed that the Rangers and perhaps even his sons had been brining reconnaissance of the approaching party for the last week or more, but they had known better than to interrupt him with such minutiae at a time like this. The river had no such compunctions, and it had made their approach known the moment they set foot in its waters at the ford. Border scouts had arrived at the house shortly thereafter, but Elladan had kindly waylaid them, refusing entry to his father’s chambers where a desperate struggle was taking place.

Elrond turned from the window, striving to block out the sounds.

O! What are you seeking,
And where are you making?
The faggots are reeking!
The bannock is baking!
O! Tril-lil-lil-lolly,
The valley is jolly,
Ha ha!

Jolly indeed, the Elf-lord thought bitterly. Nothing was further from the truth, and everyone knew it but those fools on the hillside. He had founded this place as a haven for all who sought peace, and he strove ever for tolerance and acceptance of others, but it was difficult at this moment to have any empathy for the frivolous wood-elves and their games. What cared they of the shadow hanging low over the Last Homely House? What cared they for the pain and helplessness of their avowed lord? What matter to them if a mortal woman wept in his antechamber, fruitlessly consoled by Elrohir? What matter to them that a man-child lay dying?

Elrond banished that black thought as he turned back towards his bed – a bed he had not occupied in six nights. There, beneath the dark silken canopy, tossing fretfully in a tangle of linen sheets, lay his patient. A fortnight ago he had been a hale and healthy boy: thin as a willow-whip and tall for his ten mortal years – doubly so by the standards of the Firstborn. He had been running about the house with a child’s merry abandon, and chaffing against the forced inactivity of lessons, and catching frogs to slip into Erestor’s clothes-press. A fortnight ago he had been the frustration of all the adults who collaborated in his care, for his nimble body and his sharp mind and his recent penchant for mischief were a formidable combination indeed.

Now, he was lying limp in a bed drenched with his own perspiration, bright fever spots on cheekbones that had degenerated from lean to emaciated in six short days. One long, lithe hand twitched feebly against a cast-off pillow, and his head, hanging loose from his sinewy neck, lolled from side to side as he fought whatever nightmares plagued his febrile mind. Brilliant carmine blemishes marked his face and his arms and his bare trunk, vanishing into the snarled cloth about his legs to re-emerge with his feet where the coverlet lay crumpled against the footboard of the bed.

At first, because of the blemishes, Elrond had taken the illness to be measles – in all likelihood carried into the valley by the trio of Rangers who had come by ten days since, bearing news from the ruins of Hollin. He had laughed at the boy, smearing lotion of hemimorphite upon his sores and reminding him teasingly that he had warned him not to trouble the guests. Estel had laughed back, declaring proudly that the tales the men had had to share were well worth a little itchiness.

The following day, when Estel had complained of a sore throat, Elrond had suspected scarlet fever. To be sure, the presentation was not typical, but the illness was common enough and it was natural for a human child to fall prey to it at one time or another. Growing up amongst the Elves, Estel had been sheltered from the great pool of mortal diseases save those to which he had been intentionally exposed lest an encounter with them at some later time prove deadly. It was inevitable that some day he would contract some unexpected sickness. Surely there was nothing to fear.

But on the third day, the fever – until then mild and manageable – had spiked to terrible heights. Estel had no longer been truly conscious, drifting in and out of awareness only to cry for his mother or for Elrond, or to beg for water.

On the fourth day, the hallucinations had begun.

O, where are you going,
With beards all a-wagging?

There was a bowl of steeped athelas by the bedside, though neither the healing herb nor all the Master’s skill had served to garner any change in the child’s condition. From the piteous cries of the child Elrond had gleaned enough of the content of the nightmares, or terrors, or visions to know that there was some evil at work here greater than the evil of disease. What he did not know was whether it was a concerted attack upon his young ward, or whether it was some black affliction that had long lain dormant in the mountains, descending now purely by chance and striking only the most vulnerable being in the Valley.

He dipped a rag in the basin, wringing out the excess fluid. If it was no good as an infusion of healing, at least it was still water, and he did not want to call for more. Gilraen was outside his door, and she still thought her son was suffering from scarlet fever. He had not had the heart to tell her the truth – nor, indeed, could it be rightly said that he knew the whole truth himself.

No knowing, no knowing

‘Estel,’ he murmured softly, bathing the boy’s head with the cloth and with his other hand brushing back the damp and tangled black hair. ‘Estel, come back to us. Our light, our hope, come back to us. Come back to me.’

What brings Bilbo Baggins
And Balin and Dwalin

The child whimpered softly, his cracked and bleeding lips working without effect. The errant hand jerked piteously. A tear coursed down the Elf-lord’s cheek.

Down into the Valley
In June,
Ha ha!

A paroxysm shook the small body beneath his hand. The chills had returned. As swiftly as he could, Elrond struggled to untangle the sodden sheets that he might cover the child. It was useless. Estel was sobbing now, hoarsely, his feeble voice robbing his body of what little strength it still possessed. Desperate to stop the shaking, desperate to do anything, anything to ease the suffering of his son, Elrond plucked the child off of the mattress, dragging the limp bundle of bones and agony into his lap.

O! Will you be staying,
Or will you be flying?

The broad sleeves of his robe, rumpled from three days’ wear and sorely in need of a good brushing, fell over the body in his arms, affording some cover to the naked boy. Elrond held him close, rocking to and fro against the bed. One hand pressed the lolling head against his breast, and he bent low over the boy, his lips brushing against the dark hair. The sobs abated.

Your ponies are straying!
The daylight is dying!

He could not die. The last Heir of Isildur, the final scion of the house of Elendil, the sole remaining descendant of Elros Tar-Minyatur, his brother’s last progeny, the infant he had saved from death, the toddling babe he had hidden and sheltered and raised as his own, his fourth child, though he had no right to claim him as such... Estel could not die. Clutching the boy closer, closing his eyes and rocking, rocking, rocking... Elrond focused all of his strength, all of his will upon this. He could not die.

To fly would be folly,
To stay would be jolly!
And listen and hark
Till the end of the dark
To our tune,
Ha, ha!

The wood-elves fell silent. The song was over, or the guests had passed out of sight and out of mind. Elrond neither knew nor cared. ‘Estel,’ he whispered, calling out to the child. ‘Estel, Estel.’

Whether the sound of his name uttered by a familiar voice soothed the boy, or the warmth of the Elf-lord’s body banished the chills it was impossible to say. The quaking stopped, and Estel was still. For a moment afraid that death had come to him at last, Elrond groped frantically for the invalid’s pulse. He found it, thin and thready but incontrovertible, and cold relief washed over him. Gently he lifted the boy from his lap and returned him to his place in the bed. The linens were in sore need of changing, but he could not do that unaided. He straightened the long, spindly legs, pausing to cup his hand around one bony ankle. Estel whimpered again– a thin, mewling sound that stood in a cruel contrast to his wonted laughter and shrewd, piercing questions. Elrond placed the palm of his hand on the boy’s wasted cheek and watched as the contact seemed to soothe him.

It took a moment to disentangle the sheet, and when he did Elrond realized that it was too damp to be used: it would surely bring on another fit of chills. Casting it aside, he drew up the coverlet instead, tucking it around the child’s body. With the angry red blotches for the most part concealed, and with them the terrible gauntness of his young body, Estel almost seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Elrond knew that such a state was a temporary one. It would not be long before the hallucinations returned to wrack him with torment. Beneath his hand he could feel the fires raging within his son, and there was nothing he could do to quench them.

Many times in these last days had he attempted his healing – what Men would call magic. He had striven to recall Estel from the darkness that was devouring him. He had reached out into that darkness, struggling to divine what black force gripped his son: a valiant white warrior venturing forth to reclaim the body and soul of the dying child. Like Fingolfin before the gates of Angband he had shouted for the Enemy to come forth, to reveal himself and to fight. Unlike Fingolfin, he had been forced to return time and again with his challenge unanswered. Either the Sauron in his distant place of hiding had nothing to do with the child’s ailment, or he had hidden himself so well that he could not be detected.

There was a soft rapping at the door. Elrond withdrew his hand and raised himself from the bed, catching the lower post of the canopy for support when he stumbled. Though his mortal blood ran thin, he had an occasional need for a few hours of human sleep, and he had not indulged this weakness in many days.

Swiftly he composed himself and called out a quiet, ‘Come.’

The door slid open, and his second son slipped inside. Elrohir was clad in a smock of palest blue, in stark contrast to the shades of heavy woodland green he usually wore. The garment served to make him look younger, and Elrond was put in mind of a time, so long ago, when the son before him had been as small as the son behind.

‘Atarinya? Is he...’

The Elven warrior stepped further into the room, closing the door carefully behind him so that the Lady Gilraen would not hear what was said. He glanced furtively towards the little body dwarfed in the broad bed, afraid to ask the question because he dreaded the answer.

Elrond shook his head sadly. ‘There is no change,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he will sleep for a while, but the fever still rages. I cannot... all my powers of healing, all my skill in the arts physic, and I cannot help him.’ He looked down at his hands, so useless and ineffectual.

‘He will recover,’ Elrohir said stoutly. ‘He must.’

There could be no answer to this. Elrond sighed softly and turned his face away. ‘What brings you here, my son?’ he asked.

‘The guests are fast approaching. Gandalf and thirteen dwarves...’

Elrond shook his head. ‘The river spoke to me of fifteen crossings. Do not tell me that he has coerced one of the Dúnedain to join in his fool’s errand. They are few enough in number and they shall all be needed before long.’ His eyes strayed towards the bed. ‘We cannot afford to lose even one,’ he said softly.

‘No, not a Man,’ Elrohir said, and from the tone of his voice it was impossible to say whether he was scandalized or amused. ‘A Hobbit.’

‘Not one of the Little People!’ Elrond exclaimed, in his astonishment momentarily forgetting that he was in the presence of a sick and delirious child. From the bed Estel moaned, and swiftly his guardian was at his side. He waited, breathless, but no further motion came from the boy. After a moment he withdrew back towards the door. ‘How does he hope to overthrow the last of the great dragons with the aid of thirteen dwarves and a pampered child of the Shire?’ he demanded in a whisper.

‘You will have to ask him,’ said the younger Elf. ‘They will be arriving within a quarter of an hour, if they are not further waylaid by our choirs in the hills.’

Elrond gestured distractedly. ‘There are preparations to be made... the kitchens must be informed, and the guests will need lodgings – it is best, I think, if the dwarves are put in adjacent rooms, and well away from any of the wood-folk. Then there is the question of their ponies—’

Elrohir caught his father’s hands and pressed them together, effectively arresting the mad gesticulation. ‘All that has been taken care of,’ he promised. ‘We shall house them all in the north wing, and Erestor has ordered two chambers prepared for Gandalf’s choosing: one with the rest of his party and the other where he usually stays. The folk in the stables assure me that there will be no trouble accommodating the beasts at this time of year, and the kitchens are busy preparing a feast worthy of the Last Homely House. Elladan is preparing to greet them now, and he will make your apologies.’

‘My apologies...’ echoed Elrond.

‘Yes. We will make sure they know how much you regret your absence, but that you are occupied with affairs of great importance. Doubtless Gandalf will wish to meet with you later in the evening, but even him we can waylay for a time. I promise: no one shall disturb you.’

The temptation was terrible. He did not wish to leave the side of the dying child even for a moment, and the idea that the guests could be attended to by others had tremendous appeal. After all, would a passel of dwarves and a travelling Hobbit even care whether their host was there amid the throng to greet them? True, Gandalf would be annoyed at first, but when he learned the cause of the Elf-lord’s absence he would understand. After all, he understood full well the importance of the boy’s life and his particular value to his guardian. Any other father would have made the same choice...

But it was not that simple, he knew. Elrond Peredhil was not any other father. He was the lord of this valley, and though most were polite enough to forget it, the High King of the Noldor. He had a duty to his guests. The needs of his family came second to that. Had there been anything more that he could do here, the matter would have been different, but he was useless. The simple tasks of nursing could be carried out by anyone.

He moved to the clothes-press and began gathering fresh garments. Then to the jewel-box on the bureau, where he took up a silver circlet and a pair of emerald brooches. Elrohir watched in puzzlement: clean clothes were meant for comfort, but the jewels would not be needed in this room.

‘Atarinya, what are you doing?’

‘I need you to enlist the help of the elf-maidens in changing the bed-linens,’ Elrond said quietly. ‘They are growing quite foul. Bring fresh athelas and lavender to sweeten the room, and have food brought for the Lady Gilraen. She is under no obligation to attend the feast tonight, but I must.’

Elrohir’s face crumpled in mingled sorrow and compassion. ‘Father, no one would fault you for your absence tonight.’

‘Perhaps not, but nonetheless there would be fault.’ Swiftly he began to strip off his soiled garments, and Elrohir lent his deft assistance. ‘I will slip away later in the evening, and I charge you to fetch me if anything should change. So long as he sleeps I have not the luxury of staying by his side. Furthermore,’ he added wearily as he fastened his mantle to his shoulders with the brooches; ‘his mother doubtless longs to sit by his side, and she would disdain my presence.’

‘Gilraen is a good lady, Atarinya,’ Elrohir said. Over the years he had managed to strike up a friendship with the widowed Chieftess; a feat that few others had accomplished.

‘But a lady not over-fond of me,’ Elrond told him sadly. In the early days, when the wife and son of Arathorn had first come to Rivendell as refugees before the threat of the Necromancer, he had poured his attentions into befriending the toddling child. The unintended result was that, though Estel loved him and trusted him, his mother did not. She was grateful for the protection afforded to her and to her son, but at the same time she resented her dependence and it did not please her to see the bonds of filial love between her child and this Elven stranger. Elrond’s efforts in this matter had been to no avail, and often he had wished that his daughter were here. Arwen would have had insight into the heart of the Lady Gilraen that he, despite his reputed wisdom, evidently lacked. It was impossible of course: Arwen was with her mother’s kindred in Lothlórien, and the threat from Mirkwood was swiftly making the mountains impassable. Neither Elrond nor his sons would suffer the lady Undomíel to risk their crossing: they remembered all too well the doom that had befallen her mother in those treacherous hills.

A swift brushing brought his hair into order, and he settled the circlet upon his brow while Elrohir gathered the cast-off clothes into two bundles: body linens for washing and outer garments to be aired and brushed. A quick glance in the looking-glass reassured Elrond that his appearance betrayed nothing of his weariness or his growing despair. Moving to the bed, he bent and brushed his lips across his ward’s inflamed brow.

‘I will return as soon as I may, Estel,’ he promised. The unspoken supplication was clear: please, my son, do not worsen in my absence.

Then he moved to the door and opened it.

In the antechamber, the Lady Gilraen swept to her feet, rising from the couch where she had been seated. Clearly she had been expecting Elrohir, for her face, at first frantic and vulnerable with worry, hardened when she saw Elrond.

‘My son...’ she said as coolly as she could, though he could see her desperation and her pride were warring within her.

‘He is sleeping at the moment,’ Elrond told her gently. ‘I think it would do him good if you would sit with him a while.’

It was plain that she had been longing for this, and yet she did not want let him see it. Elrond felt a thrill of compassion. Poor mortal child: she had been no more than a girl when she had lost her husband and her home to the machinations of Sauron. Her sole focus in life was her son, and it hurt her to share him, however much his other relationships benefitted the boy. ‘I suppose it would,’ she said with admirable restraint.

Elrohir came out of the sick-room, carrying the bundles of laundry. ‘We two shall care for him this evening, lady,’ he said gently. Opening the door that led to the corridor, he handed his burden off to the attendant who had been standing watch over his lord’s apartments. Then he returned to the room and offered Gilraen his arm. She took it gratefully and allowed herself to be led into Elrond’s bedchamber.

The Master of Rivendell watched them go, but the moment the door closed he was making his egress. With each step that bore him away from Estel his heart grew heavier, but he pressed on with dignity befitting his station. He had obligations that went beyond his responsibilities as a father, and this was one of them. Promising himself that he would slip away as often as he could during the evening’s revelry, he quickened his pace. The guests were surely within sight of the house now, and he had to be at the threshold to greet them.

It was his duty.

Chapter II: An Uneasy Meal

As swiftly as he could, Elrond passed through the front doors and onto the greensward before the house, stepping out into the twilight and the fragrance of summer. A panoply of Elven-folk was arrayed to greet the guests, and he moved with as much grace as he could through the throng towards their head. As he had feared, he was late: the visitors were already dismounting, and Elladan was stepping forward to greet them.

“Welcome...” the younger Peredihil was saying as Erestor stepped aside to let his lord pass. Elrond brushed against his son, who smiled as he fell silent, and took two steps beyond him. He extended his arms and smile graciously.

“Welcome,” Elrond said like an actor rushing onto the stage after his cue had passed. “Welcome to the Last Homely House. Here may you rest from your travails, and find all the hospitality that we have to offer.’

Several of the dwarves, looking disgruntled and uneasy, fixed their eyes on Gandalf, but it was the stateliest of their number -- a broad-shouldered figure with an extravagant silver beard -- who stepped forward to accept the greeting.

‘Thank you, good master,’ he said, sweeping a low bow that almost brought the tip of his beard into the grass. ‘I am Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain.’

‘Welcome, Thorin. You do honour to this house,’ said Elrond courteously. ‘Never since the days of the Last Alliance has a prince of your people of such high birth graced Rivendell as my guest. I am Elrond, son of Eärendil son of Tuor, and I hope that I and my household may serve to aide you in your bold endeavour.’

‘I hope you may,’ the dwarf grunted, and out of the corner of his eye Elrond saw Elladan covering an appreciative smirk with the first two fingers of his left hand. Thorin gestured to the rest of his party. ‘May I present Kili and Fili, my kinsmen. Balin and Dwalin, brothers and formidable warriors. Oin and Gloin; Dori, Nori and Ori. Biffur. Bofur. Bombur. I understand you are already acquainted with Gandalf the wizard.’

Elrond turned his head instinctively to look at the one member of the party over five feet tall, and instantly wished that he had not. The piercing eyes shone from beneath the shade of the broad hat and the long curling brows, and Gandalf cocked his head in an unspoken question. He could tell that something was amiss, and far from bewaring the wrath of wizards, Elrond knew it was their curiosity that could be most bothersome. He could only hope that Gandalf possessed sufficient restraint to refrain from questioning him in the presence of the strangers.

Thorin cleared his throat, looking rather annoyed. ‘And this,’ he began, gesturing vaguely behind him; ‘is—’

‘Bilbo Baggins, a-at your service and your family’s,’ a small, portly figure said hastily, scurrying forward and bowing awkwardly.

At the sight of the hobbit, Elrond could not help but smile despite his cares. He remembered the Shire-folk only as they had been in their earliest days of settling along the river Baranduin: simple agrarian folk living happily in sandy dugouts by the water. The folk of Gil-galad’s court had delighted in evening forays among them, to sing songs and tell tales to amuse the Little People. In these latter days few Elves visited the Shire, and he supposed that to such as Master Baggins his kind were the stuff of mystery and legend.

‘Welcome, Bilbo Baggins,’ he said warmly, bowing in return. ‘I hope your stay with us will be a merry one.’

‘Why thank you, I’m sure,’ blustered the hobbit, his tongue clearly overtaking him. ‘That is to say I’m sure it will be a very pleasant stay, a very pleasant stay indeed.’

‘That’s enough, Mister Baggins,’ Gandalf said, amusement twinkling in his eyes. ‘You don’t want to bore our host to tears.’ And again he shot Elrond a scrutinizing glance that broadcast in no uncertain terms that he could see that something else entirely had been bringing him to tears this day.

Elrond was not the only one who caught that look, for Glorfindel stepped forward, smiling warmly. ‘Welcome back, Mithrandir,’ he said, clasping the wizard’s hand in greeting and stepping effectively between the guest and his lord. ‘I hope you shall find the time to tell me of your travels.’ He continued talking pleasantly as he gestured to one of the grooms to take Gandalf’s horse. Several others came from the crowd to relieve the dwarves of their beasts.

‘Please, come inside, all of you,’ Elrond went on. ‘My folk will show you to your rooms, where you may rest and prepare for the evening’s revelries. Master Thorin, my son has made ready one of our finest guest-chambers for your use. Elladan, if you would be so kind...’

The elder twin stepped into the breach, peppering the dwarf leader with polite questions that were answered briefly and gruffly. Elrond had no proof of his statement that the room prepared for Thorin was one of the finest, but he trusted his son’s good sense. In the days before the fall of Moria Elladan and Elrohir had become quite well acquainted with the dwarves and their customs – and it was Durin’s folk who had provided the reconnaissance so instrumental to the rescue of Celebrían. For all his powers, he had been unable to heal her also, he remembered bitterly.

His thoughts returning to the sick child within, Elrond allowed himself to fall back as the assembly filtered into the house. He caught sight briefly of Master Baggins, who was trying to walk and to look ‘round himself in every direction at once. The result was comical and strangely endearing, but Elrond had no time to dwell on it. Erestor was already making it known that the feast would begin in a half-hour’s time, which seemed to meet with the enthusiastic approval of the travellers. Evidently their stomachs overruled their weariness. Elrond sighed quietly, allowing himself a moment of amused resignation. Dwarves.

Once inside, he slipped away from the crowd and hurried towards the staircase near the hall that led to the kitchens. He would not be missed for a few minutes at least – not until the time came for the head table to take their seats. He did not delude himself into thinking that a brief visit upstairs would ease his mind, but at least it would soothe his conscience.

The golden-haired attendant was back at his post, sober-faced as he sat in his seat by the door, sombre and vigilant. Courtesy expended, Elrond brushed past him and into the antechamber. He rapped lightly on his own bedroom door, acutely aware of the irony, and waited. After a moment, Elrohir opened it a crack, peering out. He opened the door the rest of the way without hesitation.

Two Elven maidens stood by the bed, arms full of fresh linen. As Elrond entered they curtsied deeply. The Lady Gilraen was seated in a chair by the bed, leaning forward towards her son. She seemed scarcely aware of the new presence in the room. ‘We were just about to begin,’ Elrohir said by way of explanation or apology. ‘I was hesitant to move him.’

‘Allow me,’ Elrond said. He strode to the bed and placed his palm against Estel’s brow. The dreadful fever... He deftly wrapped the coverlet around the boy’s body and lifted him into his arms. A pained hiss issued from the child’s lips as Elrond drew back from the bed. ‘Here, Lady, take him,’ he said, bending to settle the gently child in his mother’s lap. With care he laid the febrile head against her shoulder, and when she did not move to do so herself he took her arm and curled it securely around the boy’s back. Gilraen bit back a silent sob and turned her head to kiss her son’s cheekbone. Feeling that he was intruding upon a private moment, Elrond courteously turned his back. Estel was her son by blood, and any claim that he had to the boy was secondary to hers.

The women made swift work of stripping the bed and folding the fresh sheets around the down-filled mattress. Elrohir, who was showing a remarkable aptitude for domestic tasks today, gathered up the soiled cloth and knotted it into a convenient bundle. Finally, Elrond turned back to Gilraen and lifted the child from her arms. Elrohir pulled back the top sheet and Elrond settled Estel among the pillows. He peeled away the stuffy silken quilt and covered the child with the cooling linen instead.

When he drew his hands away, Estel cried out feebly. Convulsively the Elf-lord gripped his bony hand, but Gilraen was on her feet now and she fell to her knees beside the bed, reaching out to brush the hair away from his face.

“Estel?” she called to him. ‘Estel, I am here.’

With every iota of self-control that he possessed, Elrond released his hold and stepped back from the bed. He waved the elf-maidens from the room, drawing Elrohir towards the window. ‘Keep a close watch on his fever,’ he said. ‘If he grows any warmer...’

‘I’ll come for you,’ Elrohir promised. ‘Atarinya, are you certain you cannot stay? It is plain that you want to: you were gone scarcely ten minutes!’

The thought of the pompous dwarf-lord and Gandalf’s keen, questioning eyes was like a schoolmaster’s admonition. Elrond shook his head. ‘I must see to our guests. I shall return when I may.’

He glanced again at the bed. Gilraen was whispering halting platitudes. It was unlikely that the boy could hear her, but Elrond could not fault her efforts: half an hour since he had been engaged in much the same behaviour.

lar

Three days had passed since he had last sat down to a proper meal, and yet Elrond found no pleasure in the fare before him. The savoury meats and the succulent spring vegetables turned to ash in his mouth. Even the fine wine laid out by the seneschals in honour of the guests had no flavour for him, though at least it warmed his insensate limbs and arrested the enervated tremor in his hands.

As was his wont he was seated at the east end of the high table. At his right sat Glorfindel, still engaged in artful conversation with Gandalf. At at his own request the wizard had a place of less honour than he was usually given, and he was three chairs from Elrond’s left, with Erestor and Elladan seated above him. Erestor was stealing surreptitious glances at his lord, and Elrond managed at last to catch his eye and frown disapprovingly. Erestor smiled in wry apology, but the unspoken question remained. Elrond shook his head in answer and tried to choke down another mouthful.

Beyond Glorfindel, where Elrohir would have been seated had he not been occupied upstairs, sat Thorin, the proud dwarf-lord. For the last forty minutes, he had been boasting to everyone within earshot of the grandiose plans to retake the halls of his fathers. He seemed to have no pragmatic grasp of the enormity of the task before him, or else he was too filled with bravado to voice his compunctions. A dragon was not a foe to be taken lightly, and Elrond doubted that this treasure-hunter and his rag-tag companions had the mettle to defeat Smaug. It would be interesting to hear Gandalf’s thoughts on the matter when they had an opportunity to speak in private.

Ah, but a gracious host would never question the aspirations of his guests; or at least not until they asked him for counsel. For the moment it behoved the Lord of Imladris to participate graciously in the conversation.

‘I had occasion to visit the halls of Erebor once,’ he said when an appropriate silence emerged. ‘Not long after their founding, in fact. I was struck by the singular beauty of the stonework in the central chambers. Do you remember, Elladan?’

His son laughed. ‘I, forget? I was not so young as all that,’ he said in well-played amusement, picking up the cue admirably. ‘Indeed I learned a thing or two about metallurgy from one of the smiths – Galin was his name.’

‘Ah, Galin,’ Thorin said, nodding. ‘He is honoured as a master of fine filigree and handwork. My grandsire’s treasure halls are said to contain numerous examples of his most exquisite creations. Why, the Axebreaker’s Chalice alone is said to contain over two hundred feet of gold wire...’ He stopped abruptly, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘But Galin lived more than thirteen hundred years ago.’

‘Indeed it was,’ Elladan said; ‘but you forget that we of the Eldar have no proscribed limit to the span of our days. I was born into a world in which there still dwelt noble dwarves who had fought alongside Elves and Men against the might of the Black Land.’

‘You are remarkably well-preserved for one so ancient,’ Thorin said coldly, obviously discomfited by this revelation and by his own ignorance.

‘Elladan is among the younger members of this company,’ Glorfindel said, eyes twinkling. ‘There are those in our number who remember even the kindling of the Sun and the Moon.’

Thorin made some trenchant remark about the nature of the celestial bodies and Erestor parried with a diplomatic platitude about the differing philosophies of Elves and dwarves, but Elrond had ceased to attend to the conversation. Plainly it could now continue for a time without any further contribution from him. He turned his head from Glorfindel, surveying the length and breadth of the hall appraisingly.

The rest of Gandalf’s party were seated at the table third in precedence. The dwarves were talking loudly amongst themselves, and the hobbit was helping himself to another piece of fresh bread. He munched it happily, closing his eyes in an expression of purest bliss. He looked such a cheerful fellow, despite being overwhelmed by his boisterous travelling companion and the activity all around him. It was restful to watch him, so contented by such a simple pleasure.

Elrond might not have looked away from his little guest, but a sweet-faced maiden appeared at his shoulder to clear away his dish. When she saw the large quantity of untouched food she hesitated, but he waved her on. She gathered up Glorfindel’s empty plate as well and then turned to move off, but Elrond caught the tippet of her gown before she moved from range. Surprised, she turned and hastened back towards him. Elrond gestured that she should lean near to him, and she complied.

In a whisper so low that it was doubtful that even Erestor, two chairs away, could hear, Elrond said; ‘Leave this, and go to my chamber: ask Andras to inquire of Elrohir how my patient fairs. When you return do not come directly to me as if with a message: bring a flagon to replenish my cup. Will you oblige me in this?’

She nodded wordlessly and hurried away. Two full minutes passed before an attendant came for Elladan’s dish, and when at last she appeared it was a different maid. While the rest of the table was seen to, Elrond sat forward in his chair, resisting the urge to drum out his impatience on the tabletop as he waited breathlessly for the lady’s return.

She came at last, walking sedately as ever with the decanter in her hand. As she bent to pour into Elrond’s goblet she turned her head towards him.

‘My lord, your son reports that the patient yet sleeps, but cannot be induced to take water. He bade me tell you that there is little change and no greater cause for fear.’

‘Thank you,’ Elrond said aloud. Realizing his indiscretion too late, he attempted to cover it by lifting the vessel and saluting her with it as if his gratitude was for the wine. The tidings were not ill, but scarcely could one call them good. Estel had swallowed little enough water throughout the day. If he was not taking any now...

‘I would like more as well, my dear,’ Gandalf said, penetrating eyes fixed on the head of the table. ‘It is a fine vintage. Perhaps our host could enlighten us as to its year and origin.’

The interruption was unconscionable, and Elrond could not help the irritation that flashed across his face. He schooled his features as quickly as he could, but he did not delude himself into thinking that no one had noticed. Thorin, at least, seemed occupied in draining his own glass before the Elf-maid could bear away the flagon. The others near enough to see could be trusted, but there was now no hope of putting off the confrontation with Gandalf until morning. Already he seemed on the verge of bursting forth with the obvious question. Elrond prayed that he would realize the need for discretion – but subtlety in the face of curiosity not one of the wizard's foremost gifts.

Before Gandalf could open his mouth again, the Elf-lord took a swallow of his wine, rolling it about his tongue. He was not an oenophiliac out of particular interest, but one picked up a few talents over the centuries and this was one of his. Ordinarily his assessments were quite good; when not accurate, at least close. Now, however, no matter how he tried the wine still had no taste. A red, he noted, and surely a fine one: the wine steward’s pride would not countenance the serving of merely average vintages with dwarves in the hall. It would be an opportunity for him to demonstrate the superiority of his cellar. Elrond made a leap of logic.

‘It is our own wine,’ he said. ‘From our southern slopes. It is... a 2852, I believe.’

Glorfindel raised a circumspect eyebrow, and Elladan guffawed. Erestor frowned in concern. ‘It’s a 2792, my lord,’ he said. ‘From the town of Dale in the lee of the Lonely Mountain.’

‘Ah,’ Elrond said; ‘of course.’ He had forgotten that they still had some of the old Dale wine in the cellar. It was artful indeed to serve it on this occasion, to the warriors who proposed to slay Smaug and restore the old rule of the dwarf-lords in Erebor.

The sweet course was being served now, but Elrond could not even affect to enjoy it. He picked at the delicate-looking pastry for a time, and then pushed it aside. The dwarves were falling silent now, satiated with the fine food and growing ever more ready to retire. Indeed, little Mister Baggins was very nearly asleep in his chair. Elrond spared a hope that they might decline the offer of song and tale and retire straightaway: once they were settled for the night he would be free of his obligations as host, and he could explain to Gandalf the present situation and remind him of the need for secrecy while there were strangers in the valley. Gandalf was never indiscrete when he had reason for care, but the longer he remained in ignorance of the fact that Estel was the cause of the uneasiness of his host, the greater grew the danger that he would ask awkward questions in front of the dwarves.

Unfortunately, Thorin showed no sign of repairing to his chamber. When the inevitable moment came and Elrond rose, the dwarf stood expectantly and followed the rest of the high table as they passed from the dining hall and out onto the broad veranda where the night’s revelries were to take place.

Elladan had arranged everything capably, but Elrond wished that his son had not been so extravagant. Surely it would have been just as suitable to offer the guests a quiet evening of rest, and wait until the next night for song. In fairness to his son, Elladan had expected to preside over the evening himself, while his father remained upstairs with the ailing child. Duty and necessity had made that impossible.

Having once made his appearance, Elrond could not abandon the assembly. To slip in and out over the course of the evening would be permissible, however, for even the most attentive host had to depart from time to time to attend to matters of the household, and he intended to do so the moment the opportunity arose. He had to wait, however, while the minstrels sang of Dagorlad, and the mighty siege in which the folk of Moria - Khazad-dûm in the dwarf-tongue - fought valiantly alongside the armies of Elendil and Gil-galad before the Black Gate. The stars shone high above, and the summer night was sweet, but the Master of the Last Homely House had neither eyes for the Firmament nor patience for the serenity of the evening. In his heart there was no peace, and with each passing minute his restlessness mounted.

He wished his son had chosen a shorter lay with which to begin.

Chapter III: Cries in the Night

The last notes of the lay of Dagorlad rang into the night and died away. There was a lonely sound of two hands applauding, but only three claps rang out before the hobbit realized that no one else was expressing their appreciation in this way. He flushed a little, awkwardly, as numerous eyes riveted upon him. Elrond smiled at him.

‘It is an inspiring tale, is it not, little master,’ he said pleasantly.

‘Oh, yes!’ Mister Baggins said enthusiastically. His after-dinner sleepiness seemed to have abated, and his eyes were shining with wonder. ‘I’ve never heard a song like it. But what happened afterwards? When the siege was ended and the Black Gate was opened.’

‘That is another long tale,’ Elrond replied, and though his gracious expression remained unaltered his heart sank. If they were going to sing The Fall of Gil-galad, it would be two hours or more before he could slip away even for a few minutes. As one of the supporting players in that tale, he could not do diservice to the fallen by abandoning the assembly in the midst of its recitation.

Erestor appeared to understand his feelings on the matter. ‘It is not a joyous one, either,’ he said diplomatically. ‘Perhaps we might have something more merry now.’

Elladan nodded to one of the minstrels, who struck up a major chord upon her lute and rolled into a bouncing, rollicking ballad about a fox and a hare. Relieved, Elrond sat still until the second chorus, by which time many of the assembly were singing along. It was the perfect opportunity for a circumspect escape. Quietly he rose from his chair and moved to where Elladan stood leaning on one of the pillars.

‘I am going up—’ he began, but his son nodded almost instantly.

‘Go,’ he said. ‘No one will notice.’

Elrond knew that would not be true: already he could feel Gandalf’s eyes boring into his back, but at least the guests could hardly fault him for a brief absence in the midst of the merriment. It took enormous self-control, but he moved slowly and sedately back towards the doors that led into the house. He passed gracefully through them and maintained his pace for a few yards, until he was a good distance from the windows. He quickened his pace to a swift stride and gained the back stairs. Abandoning dignity and lifting his robes he flew up the steps and down the long corridor towards his rooms.

Once in his antechamber he did not tarry to knock, but opened the door at once and slipped into the sick-room.

Gilraen was seated on the edge of the bed, bent over Estel as she bathed his face with the athelas-water. The sheet was once again tangled about the child, and one leg was kicking petulantly against the mattress. His mother’s efforts did not appear to be soothing him, for he was mumbling incoherently, eyes screwed tightly shut. Elrohir stood by the foot of the bed. He had been watching helplessly and picking at the curtain with one hand. When he heard to door opened he turned.

‘Atarinya! At last...’

‘I was told he is taking no water,’ Elrond said, moving around to the side of the bed opposite the human woman so that Estel lay between them. He placed his hand upon the child’s head, and turned sharply to glare at his second son. ‘I told you to fetch me if his fever grew worse!’ he said, more sharply than was his wont.

‘I wanted to,’ Elrohir responded simply.

The Lady Gilraen raised her eyes from her son, who had fallen silent at the Elf-lord’s touch. Further proof, thought Elrond, of some foul power at work. ‘He grows so hot,’ she said, the desperation in her voice but thinly veiled behind a façade of candour.

‘Give me that mug,’ Elrond ordered, nodding at the sideboard. Elrohir hastened to hand over the vessel, which was half-full of cool water. ‘And the spoon.’

Taking the cup and the utensil, he sat down next to Estel. Gilraen pulled back and rose: she did not look happy to do so, but she was a woman of good sense and she knew that, whatever her personal feelings about the master of the house, he had her son’s best interests at heart.

Elrond eased the cushion out from beneath the child’s head, and curled his left hand around the far side of Estel’s neck. Balancing the cup against his leg, he drew out a spoonful of water. With care he dribbled the life-giving fluid between the cracked lips. All three adults froze, waiting breathlessly for the child to swallow. After a moment there was a soft choking sound, and Estel’s swollen tongue oozed forward against his teeth, pushing out the water. It seeped from the corner of his mouth onto the mattress. Gilraen covered her face with a despairing hand, and Elrohir sighed softly.

‘He has been doing that since you left us,’ he murmured regretfully. ‘I fear—’ His eyes flitted to Gilraen’s bowed form, and he did not finish his sentence.

Wordlessly Elrond handed Elrohir the mug. He attempted to lift Estel up, but his mantle was hampering him. With a disgusted exhalation he removed it, casting the garment and its heavy emerald brooches carelessly into a corner of the room. Freed of its encumbering weight, he drew the boy towards himself, slipping his knee behind the small of Estel’s back and cradling the child’s head and shoulders in the crook of his right arm. Elrohir rounded the bed, touching Gilraen’s elbow consolingly as he passed her. When Elrond reached out with his left hand, Elrohir was ready with the spoon. Tilting his little son’s head back, he once again slipped water into his mouth. Swiftly, before the boy’s reflexes could expel the fluid, he dropped the spoon and stroked the back of his index finger down the length of Estel’s throat. The larynx tightened, and Estel swallowed. There was a tiny, wet cough, but the water was down.

Elrohir smiled softly, and Gilraen choked back a sob of relief. She was hugging herself now with one arm, the opposite fingertips pressed to her mouth as she watched. ‘Good boy,’ Elrond murmured, recovering the spoon and taking another dram of water from the cup that Elrohir held. ‘That’s my brave child.’ He repeated the procedure with care, and again Estel swallowed.

In this way he induced the child to take two ounces of liquid. When no amount of stroking would coax him to swallow, Elrond desisted. He did not want to release his hold and lie the child back down, but he had no choice. He had done what he had come to do, and now he had to return to the gathering below. ‘Lady, help me with the sheet,’ he instructed gently. Gilraen carefully unwound the tangled cloth with quavering hands. Once more, Elrond settled the child in the bed, and his mother covered him.

‘Continue to bathe him as you have been,’ the Elf-lord said to her. ‘We must contrive to lower his fever somehow. If it is no better when I return, we shall have to try something else.’

Gilraen swallowed hard, and spoke hesitantly. ‘When children at home suffered from scarlet fever the old women would shave away their hair...’

'That is a mortal misconception,' Elrond said as diplomatically as he could. 'The fire is in his blood: there would be little purpose to shearing his head. There are surer ways to lower a fever, though I have yet hope that we will not be forced to resort to them.’ He looked at Elrohir. ‘I shall have someone bring up a washtub and water lest we have need.’

Elrohir grimaced. ‘I pray we will not,’ he said. ‘How soon should I try to make him drink again?’

‘Unless he cries out for more, wait twenty minutes,’ Elrond instructed. ‘If he takes as much then as he did just now there is no cause for worry. If he will not drink at all you will have to fetch me, but tell whomever you send to be judicious about the way in which they approach me. We cannot have dwarves asking awkward questions.’

‘Touching upon awkward questions, has Gandalf said anything yet?’ asked Elrohir.

Elrond shook his head. ‘He will. His curiosity has been aroused. My co-conspirators have so far kept him at bay. I must remember to thank Glorfindel for his aid.’ He started for the door but Elrohir called him back.

‘Atarinya...’ He crossed to the far corner of the room and picked up the fallen mantle, shaking it out. Elrond stood still while the heavy, impractical garment was eased over his shoulder. He fastened one side, and Elrohir the other.

‘I will return when I can,’ Elrond said softly. Then he slipped from the room and made his way back towards the stairs. It was a simple matter to find someone to see to his request that a washtub be brought up to his chambers, and with that necessity discharged he made his way back towards the assembled merrymakers.

He reached the porch to find Erestor in the midst of the tale of Telchar, the dwarven smith who had befriended the Noldor when first they came in Exile to Middle-earth. He was telling of the making of Angrist, the fell knife made as a gift for Celegorm, third son of Fëanor, that later came into the hands of Beren son of Barahir who used it to prise a Silmaril from the very crown of Morgoth. The dwarves were listening appreciatively with the exception of the largest one, who appeared to have drifted off to sleep on his bench.

Only three pairs of eyes turned to Elrond as he returned to his seat. Erestor paused for only a fraction of a second in his recitation as he eyed his lord appraisingly. Gandalf turned his head and stared sharply. And Mister Baggins looked at the Elf-lord and dared a smile. Elrond returned it as warmly as he could. As he did so he folded his hands and made a show of settling comfortably into his chair, though indeed he was beyond taking comfort in anything.

Gandalf rose and edged nearer to the Lord of the Valley. ‘Perhaps we might have a word in private,’ he said wryly. ‘Once you feel you can be spared from the revels.’

‘I would be glad of that,’ Elrond said softly, mindful that he did not disturb Erestor’s adept storytelling. ‘We have much to discuss.’

‘Indeed. It seems that all is not well in the Last Homely House,’ hissed the wizard through his beard. ‘I have noted that you yourself are grievously troubled, and your closest advisors seem frightened for your welfare. It is plain that your son has assumed the larger part of your duties this night, while his twin is nowhere to be found, and twice now you have vanished without apology and explanation. And that absurd guess about the wine at dinner – it was a mistake I doubt even Mister Baggins would have made. What is—’

‘In private,’ Elrond said firmly, raising his hand in a subtle gesture for silence. ‘Once I feel I can be spared from the revels.’

Gandalf snorted disapprovingly, but he returned to his place and sat down, plucking thoughtfully at his beard and eyeing his host suspiciously.

When Erestor’s tale came to an end, Thorin rose from his chair. ‘Thank you, good sir, for the illuminating story,’ he said. ‘But now it is my turn.’ He stepped forward in to the centre of the company and surveyed his audience appraisingly. He raised his hands in a very grandiose gesture indeed, and announced, ‘I will tell you the tale of the coming of Smaug and the downfall of Dale.’

Politely appreciative murmurs rippled through the crowd, though a good number of those assembled had heard the tale in various snippets at dinner, and some of them knew the story better than Thorin himself. For once Dale had been a beautiful town, and a destination of pleasure visits for the folk of Imladris. The close friendship between the people of Dale and the King of Mirkwood had made possible all manner of commerce between Men and Elves. Elrond had visited the community in its infancy, and again with Celebrían scarcely three hundred years before her capture on Caradhras. He remembered the fair houses and the glittering River Running, and the kind and generous folk who had made him most welcome.

He remembered, too, the desolation of the dragon and the wanton destruction of the fair lands about the Lonely Mountain. When news had come of the disaster, a convoy had been assembled to travel from Rivendell to the aid of the men of Dale. Bearing clothing and provisions and all manner of necessary goods, it had also brought skilled folk to help heal and rebuild the shattered community. Elrond had accompanied his emissaries, and had done what little he could to help the people of Dale. In those days the foundations of the new community of Lake-town had been laid.

The doom of that pretty town was a bitter reminder of the helplessness of the Children of Ilúvatar before the evil that dwelt in the world. Such reminders were never welcome, and now, thinking again of the dying child upstairs, Elrond felt sick at heart. He could not save Celebrían, he could not save the town of Dale… what hope did he have to save Estel, whose affliction was neither a random misfortune nor an accident, but most likely a targeted strike on the part of the Enemy?

Thorin was speaking now, and Elrond had to admit that the dwarf-lord possessed a very fine voice. It was of deep timbre, and it rose and fell in an elaborate rhetorical style that, though by Elven standards was rather pompous and silly, imbued the listener with enthusiasm and the sense of being profoundly inspired. Despite his rather colourful vocabulary and his penchant for lofty and slightly inept metaphors, Thorin was infusing the whole bitter tale with a solemnity usually accorded to high mythology. Elrond supposed, upon reflection, that to his mortal guests this tale had indeed become a mythology of sorts: a legend that at once defined who they were and motivated them towards what they would become. Ashamed of himself for allowing his mind to wander while his guest spoke, he focused intently upon Thorin’s words.

‘Then came the dragon, a fiery beast from the nethermost north. I imagine he must have been eager to establish a hoard of his own, and my grandfather’s seemed an easy target. I was away from the Mountain at the time, and lucky it was, too. I could see the dragon coming, and he settled atop the Lonely Mountain like a bird on a weathervane. Then he snaked down the hill towards the woods, and the forest caught fire before him. By then Dale was alerted, and the bells were ringing. The Men—’

Far away in the night there was a scream. It was coming around from the far side of the house, so hoarse and weak that it was almost inaudible even to the ears of the Eldar. To the ears of a father, however, it was as loud as the trumpets of war. Elrond stiffened, gripping the arm of his chair.

Thorin continued with his tale: clearly he had not heard the cry. Likewise the other dwarves remained unaffected. Many of the Elven-folk seemed equally unaware: either they had not heard it or they chose to disregard it. Some of those members of the household not intimately familiar with the crisis at hand exchanged briefly puzzled looks, and then turned their eyes back to the storyteller. 

The sound was not discoutned by all. A number of the maidens, who as a rule were very fond of Estel, looked about, whispering sorrowfully amongst themselves. Glorfindel stood suddenly erect, staring off into the night with eagle’s eyes. Erestor turned to look at Elrond, pain and pity writ upon his face. Elladan abandoned his indolent posture and was already stepping forward to cover his father’s retreat. Gandalf looked almost ready to erupt with a barrage of inappropriate questions.

Thorin was still speaking, but as a second shriek echoed distantly in the darkness, Elrond could no longer stand on ceremony. He sprung to his feet and swept off of the porch, nearly catching the edge of his mantle in the door as it swung closed behind him.

The dwarf-lord paused in his tale, looking affrontedly at the empty seat. Elladan smiled graciously and assumed the chair his father had so swiftly abandoned. ‘You will have to excuse my sire, mighty Oakenshield,’ he said. ‘It is not a reflection upon your tale, but he has other duties to attend to, and he must see to the proper running of the household. The master cannot always sit in leisure with his folk, as I am sure such a lord as yourself well understands.’

‘Indeed I do, venerable master,’ said Thorin, mollified. ‘I hope he will return in time for our song.’

Not all of the Elves looked pleased at the prospect of Dwarven music, but Elladan smiled a politician’s gracious smile. ‘He would be a fool to forgo it, I am sure,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Pray, continue your tale.’

Dwalin leaned forward towards Bilbo Baggins. ‘Other duties, pah!’ he said as Durin resumed his speaking. ‘Did you see him run? Anyone would think he had left the house on fire.’

Bilbo said nothing, for in the course of Thorin’s tale he had drifted off to sleep.

Chapter IV: Dark Dreams

Elrond broke into a run the moment he was through the doors. As he tried to take the first step he pitched forward, and only his reflexes saved him: he caught the banister before he could fall. His right shoe had slipped from his foot. Wrathfully, he kicked off the left one as well. Cursing his lack of good sense in donning impractical velvet slippers instead of good sturdy leather, he plucked up the hems of his garments and resumed his hasty journey in stocking feet.

The sentry before his suite looked pale and wary, but Elrond paid him little heed. From within he could hear frantic sobbing now, and the ineffectual efforts of the Lady Gilraen as she strove to calm her son. He burst unceremoniously into the room, casting his cumbersome mantle pre-emptively away.

Estel was thrashing violently on the bed, his chest heaving with panicked sobs that broke forth in a hoarse, shattered staccato swiftly punctuated by another scream. Nearly as distraught as her child, Gilraen was tearfully attempting to soothe him, crying out his name and gripping his shoulders with white-knuckled hands as she struggled to keep him from harming himself.

‘Sea... the sea...’ Estel choked out, his eyelids fluttering low over madly rolling eyes.

‘Lady, ease your hold: you will bruise him,’ Elrond said, hastening into the room. As he rounded the bed he barked one shin on the large tin washtub that had been set up near the sideboard. He scarcely noticed the resulting bolt of pain or the sloshing of the water against the metal.

Gilraen looked up at him, wild-eyed and frightened. There was no coolness in her voice now as she exclaimed, ‘How did you know to come?’

‘I heard him cry out,’ Elrond said; ‘and I was not the only one. Estel, Estel, can you hear me?’

He caught one of the flailing hands and pressed it between his own. Estel’s whole body arched away from the contact and he moaned piteously. He was full in the throes of whatever panic was seizing his mind, and this time neither the Elf-lord’s voice nor his touch had the power to recall him.

At her son’s violent motion Gilraen pulled back from the bed. ‘What is wrong with him?’ she demanded frantically. ‘This is like no fever I have ever seen.’

‘Black water... black...’ cried the child. There was an acute desperation in his voice, as if he were shouting out an invocation – or a warning.

‘What is wrong with my son?’ Gilraen repeated, more forcefully. She seized Elrond’s sleeve and shook him. ‘Tell me what is wrong with my son!’

Elrond was feeling for the boy’s pulse in his wrist, which while he tensed and struggled was proving to be an impossible task. 'I do not know,' he breathed mournfully. Gilraen’s hold hand withdrew in horror. Freed of the pressure on his arm, Elrond he placed both hands upon the boy’s ribs, forcing him to lie flat while he bent over him and pressed his ear to the heaving chest. The lady made a sound of protest, but Elrohir took hold of her and drew her back from the bed.

‘You must let him work, lady,’ he said, as levelly as he could. ‘There will be time for questions when the crisis has passed.'

‘Estel?’ Elrond repeated, raising his head and taking hold of the child’s chin. ‘Estel, awake. It is not real. What you see is not real.’

‘The Sea...’

The fever was no lower, and the hallucinations had returned. There was no help for it now. Elrond had hoped to avoid this treatment, for it was crude and ugly and little better than torture, but he knew not what else he could do. The fires raging through the child’s blood had to be stopped, and there was only one method left untried.

‘Go,’ he commanded, looking over his shoulder at Elrohir. His look was that of a healer about to take grim but necessary action; when such a light ignited in his eyes his son understood that he would not be disobeyed. ‘Take the Lady Gilraen to her chamber, and send someone for a brick of ice and a mallet. Go!’

‘No!’ Gilraen cried. ‘He is my son! I will not leave him!’

She struggled against Elrohir’s hands, but he drew her into a restraining embrace. ‘Hush, lady,’ he said. ‘You can be of no help here, and you do not wish to watch what must be done. I will bring you tidings, I promise you. Come.’

Struggling wretchedly to hide her tears, she let herself be led from the room. While he waited for the necessary tools, Elrond tried vainly to calm the boy, focusing all of his powers of healing upon the thrashing body. He tried to project serenity and peace and security as he spoke again. ‘Estel, you are safe,’ he promised softly, placing his hands on the bony forearms and applying gentle pressure. ‘You are home. You are safe. No harm will come to you here.’

That, indeed, had been the hope eight years ago: that here in Imladris the boy might protected from the evil that sought him. The valley-folk had all conspired to this end, and such of the Dúnedain who knew the fate of their infant Chieftain had sworn solemn oaths to take this knowledge inviolate to their graves. There was a network of intelligence throughout Eriador alerted to rumours concerning the Heir of Isildur, and any that struck too near the mark were swiftly quashed. Yet it seemed all this care was in vain, for still Estel had fallen prey to some machination of the Enemy, and the only thing that was uncertain was whether he was the intended target or no.

He was speaking again, sobbing something about tall ships in the darkness, and a flame on the mountain and water, black water, black water in the darkness... Elrond could not banish the terrors of the mind any more than he could will away the fever, but he gathered up the child into his arms again. Holding him fast though the boy struggled fretfully he tried once again to step between his son and the terrible dreams. He could feel Estel’s horror and helplessness and the dreadful panic that wracked him, body and soul. He could almost hear the crashing of the waves on the distant shores, and the roaring of the storm and the wrath of Ossë, and he understood the terror: Estel was dreaming of the fall of Númenor.

Elrond was torn away from his desperate struggle with the indeterminate evil ravaging his son when the door flew open. In came Elrohir and the sentry, each carrying a block from the icehouse as large as a smith’s anvil, swathed in sackcloth. The doorwarden stared at the strange sight of his lord cradling the naked mortal child in his arms until Elrohir drove him out with a chastising stare. Without needing any instruction, he set the ice upon the floor. With three swift blows of the mallet, each carrying the full weight of his sword-arm with its fell immortal strength, he reduced the first block of ice to splinters. The second he felled with four blows, and he emptied each heap into the washtub, stirring the water within it with his hand until he was forced to yank it back, shuddering against the cold.

Elrond got to his feet, staggering momentarily as the balance of the weight in his arms shifted. He moved around the bed, steeled his resolve with a long, deep breath, and plunged Estel into the bath full of ice.

A fresh scream tore the air, but this one was thin and reedy: a cry of shock and pain, not of terror. Estel’s body sprung to life, twitching and shaking as if in the throes of some violent fit. Wet now, he was hard to grasp firmly, and he slipped away from Elrond’s hands. There was a sickening crack as his head struck the side of the washtub and sunk below the surface. For a moment his foster-father was too startled to react, but Elrohir kept his presence of mind. He reached into the tub and caught the boy by the ear, pulling his head back above the surface. Estel choked and sputtered, water streaming from his mouth and his nostrils. His eyes flew open and for a moment the glassy quicksilver orbs locked with Elrond’s own.

‘Atar—ah—’ the boy choked out. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp, falling deep into a swoon.

‘Get him out!’ Elrond exhaled, recalling his objectivity for a moment at least. ‘Help me get him out before he freezes.’

He tried to lift the boy himself, but his body seemed sapped of all its strength. Elrohir hoisted Estel out and lifted him into the Elf-lord’s lap. The wasted little body was shivering convulsively now, and his lips were a lurid shade of purple. The fever was no longer of immediate concern: for the moment at least it had been beaten back.

‘We must get him to the bed,’ said Elrond numbly, looking down at the ravaged form in his arms. He was unable to hold him too close, lest the warmth of his body should undo what had just been accomplished. ‘Go to his mother and tell her the fit has passed. Bid her find what rest she may. I will watch over him: I shall not be returning to the assembly tonight.’

Elrohir nodded, bearing Estel to the bed and returning to offer an arm to his father. Elrond gripped it tightly and with his son’s aid somehow made it to his feet. His futile attempt to deflect the attack had left him weak, and he had been weary already.

‘He seemed to recognize you,’ Elrohir observed softly as Elrond eased himself down next to Estel, where he might be close at hand if there was any change. ‘He called out to you, or tried to.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the elder Peredhil sadly; ‘or perhaps I was merely a part of his torment.’

‘Shall I bring you anything, Atarinya?’ Elrohir asked, eyeing his sire with concern. ‘Wine? Cordial? Something to restore your strength.’

Elrond closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I shall collect myself presently,’ he promised. ‘But there is one thing you can do.’

‘Yes, Father, anything.’

‘Before you seek out the Lady Gilraen, go down to the west porch and send Gandalf to me.’

Elrohir nodded his assent and made his quiet exit. Elrond sat for many minutes, leaning wearily against the headboard with his eyes fixed upon the shivering body beside him. Presently he began to sing softly, stroking the sodden black hair. He sang a lamenting riddle-song that he remembered from his own childhood, long ago in the First Age of the world when the shadow of Morgoth had hung heavy in the North. It had soothed Estel as a babe, and he hoped it might do so once again.

He had not progressed very far when he heard the anteroom door open. A moment later the door to the bed-chamber was swept aside and the wizard strode wrathfully into the room. ‘High time you made some attempt to speak to me!’ he snapped, his eyes lancing wrathfully. ‘I am not used to being treated like a common—’

He assessed the scene before him, and all trace of anger melted from his face. He pushed the door closed and took two sharp steps forward. ‘The human child?’ he asked. ‘What did you call him...’

‘Estel,’ Elrond said, nodding. ‘My ward, as it were.’

Gandalf stepped around the bed and lowered a wizened hand to the boy’s clammy forehead. ‘He is not warm,’ he noted. ‘No fever?’ Elrond nodded at the tub full of melting ice. ‘I see,’ said the wizard grimly. ‘What ails the boy?’

‘I do not know,’ Elrond said bitterly. ‘Some contrivance of the Enemy; I have little doubt about that. But whether it is some forgotten evil of fallen Angmar, or a fresh device created in the hope of ferreting out our pretext, I do not know. Whatever it may be, it is beyond my art to cast it out, though I have tried.’

‘I can see that,’ Gandalf remarked, studying the careworn face of his host. He placed one hand firmly on the boy’s brow, and pressed the other over his heart. ‘There is some dark power at work here; that much is certain. Have you sought for aid in your endeavours?’

The Elf-lord nodded. ‘The healers of the Last Homely House know not what more can be done. Glorfindel has tried to aid me, to no avail. My sons can do nothing, and were I to send to Lórien or Lindon I fear help would come too late. If there is anything you can do I would welcome your assistance, but I do not know if even you have the skill.’

‘Skill to surpass yours? I doubt it,’ Gandalf said. ‘Perhaps together we might achieve what we cannot alone.’

He raised his hand from Estel’s breast, and upon his finger a red stone shone like fire. Elrond knit his brows wearily. ‘It is dangerous,’ he said. ‘The Enemy is moving and though Imladris has always been a hidden haven, safe from his sights, with his growing presence in Mirkwood I fear his eye has penetrated our borders.’

‘Then you do not believe that this affliction he suffers is some trap of the Witch-king, left behind to plague the remnant of Arnor,’ Gandalf observed.

‘I do not know,’ Elrond admitted heavily. ‘But the timing seems so well-contrived. Perhaps the Necromancer has learned of our designs and this is his attempt to waylay me. Or perhaps he has at last succeeded in finding the one he sought with such vengeance.’

‘Or perhaps this is only an unhappy coincidence. In any case we are in agreement that the boy must live?’

‘He must,’ Elrond said, more desperately than he had meant to. ‘A great doom is on him, and either he will rise to heights beyond any of his kindred since the dawn of this Age, or he will slip into darkness with the remnant of his people.’ Even as he repeated his now-familiar prophesy, a terrible realization settled like a pall upon his heart.

Gandalf read the despair in his eyes. ‘It is not his time to slip into darkness yet,’ he argued. ‘You and I shall see to that.’ A pensive frown followed a long, appraising stare. ‘But we shall do so on the morrow: you are in no condition to ply such power tonight. Your latest attempt has taxed your spirit, and you need to rest.’

‘I cannot rest,’ Elrond protested. ‘While Estel lies dying, I cannot rest.’

‘Then do not, if it does not please you,’ Gandalf said with an indifferent shrug. ‘In any case I must. My present adventure may not be one of the high deeds of Elven song, but it is in its own way exhausting.’

Elrond chuckled ruefully. ‘Thirteen dwarves,’ he said wonderingly.

‘And Mister Bilbo Baggins,’ added the wizard sagely.

‘You shall have to tell me how you hope to accomplish anything with such a company of misfits,’ said Elrond.

‘I shall,’ Gandalf pledged; ‘when the present calamity is past.’ He laid his hand upon the door. ‘I shall return after breakfast. Such work is best done in the full sunlight anyhow. If you fear watchers, we might even wait until noon.’

‘I do not wish to wait,’ Elrond said, shaking his head heavily. ‘My own peril is less immediate than his. Return after breakfast, and we will attempt it then.’

‘Agreed,’ said Gandalf. He opened the door and leaned against it, affecting exasperation. ‘You might have said all this when first I arrived, and saved me a great deal of annoyance,’ he said. A faint smile upon his lips showed that his comment was not meant in earnest: now that he knew the cause of the disruption he understood the need for secrecy and discretion in front of the strangers.

‘You need to learn to curb your curiosity,’ Elrond countered with almost equal levity, a twinkle of mischief lighting in his weary eye. ‘Who better to teach you that lesson than I?’

lar

After being so unceremoniously removed from the chamber where her son languished in torment, Gilraen had extricated herself from Elrohir’s well-meaning hold and made her way back to her own suite of rooms overlooking the back garden. She barred the door of her sitting room, and leaned heavily against it, fighting the hysterics and despair that threatened to drown her.

It could not be so. Estel could not be dying. He was her beloved babe, her only son, all that remained of the brief, blissful years of her marriage. He was the last of his line. He was destined to do great deeds and win renown and live a full life and a happy one. He could not die now, felled by some wicked sickness. It was impossible that he should die while she stood here, alone and powerless to save him.

It was a terrible thing to be so helpless. It was torture to watch her child suffering and to be able to do nothing. She could not even quiet him when he cried out: only Master Elrond could accomplish that. Though she knew the sentiment was unworthy she could not help feeling envious of the Elf-lord’s gift. Before, when Estel had fallen silent at the barest touch from the Lord of the Valley, she had wanted to scream in jealous frustration.

She was weary, she knew, and that was why she was so unreasonable. She ought rather to have been grateful that anyone could calm Estel at all, not angry because she had not been the one to do it.

Gratitude, always gratitude. She owed a debt to these people that could never be repaid. They had saved her child from death once already. If Master Elrond contrived to do so again...

If he contrived to do so again, she pledged, she would never question his judgement. She would defer to his wisdom when it came to matters of parenting. She would accept his counsel. Never again would she snub him or rebuff his attempts at courtesy. Never again would she frown when he walked into a room, or watch with displeasure when Estel ran to him with some tale of childhood triumph, instead of to her. If only he could save her son, she promised, he would have her loyalty, and her devotion, and her obedience...

Her limbs were shaking, and she knew that she had to lie down. She would not be allowed back into the sick-room tonight. Not unless Estel reached the very brink of death. Surely then they would call her. Surely then she would be permitted to go to him and cradle him in her arms one last time. One last time.

She sobbed brokenly, crumpling to the floor where she stood. The skirts of her kirtle pooled about her legs and her head drooped low over her lap. She did not know how long she wept, but when at last the paroxysmal tears passed she was left shattered and spent on the threshold of her room.

Someone had lit a fire in the sitting-room hearth, and by its light she struggled to her feet. She stumbled along the wall to the door beyond which lay the little chamber where her son had always slept. Once littered with marvellous toys of dwarven make, it was now filled with books and drawings and a young boy’s treasures. She could not bear to enter that room, for it seemed that she was already within, packing away his clothes and his possessions and choosing garments in which to bury him.

Her own room was next to Estel’s: a bare, virginal place devoid of any personal trappings. The keepsakes of her youth had been abandoned in the midnight flight from the nameless northern hamlet where she had grown to womanhood. The works of her hands all went to clothe her son and to adorn his chamber instead of her own. On the dressing table there was a single individual touch, visible as a silhouette against the starlit window: a silver flagon in which sat a bundle of primroses. Estel had picked them for her on the same day that the blemishes had appeared. They were dead now, hanging limply over the sides of the vessel, and where before there had been the soft fragrance of summer, there was only the spice, oversweet reek of death and decay. Her son had outlived his flowers at least.

There was a soft rapping at the antechamber door, and Gilraen stiffened. Somehow she managed to cross back to unbar the entrance, and she dragged open the heavy door.

‘My lady,’ said the caller. It was Elrohir. The front of his tunic was soaked with water and his hair was in disarray. Seeing her appraising glance he ran a hand through his unruly tresses and smiled ruefully. ‘I am not a pretty sight, I fear.’

‘Tidings,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘You promised to bring me tidings.’

‘Yes. The treatment we mentioned has had the desired effect: the fever is much reduced, at least for the time being. The hallucinations have abated and when I left him your son was resting peacefully.’ He placed a comforting hand upon her forearm where it held the door. ‘Do not despair, lady. My father will do all that he can, and mayhap Gandalf can help him.’

‘Gandalf...’ The name meant little to her. Arathorn had spoken of a wizard, a wise old man schooled in ancient incantations, and lately there had been much talk of such a one who was arranging an expedition for dragon treasure. But could a wizard and an adventurer help in the healing of a little boy? Surely not.

‘A friend,’ Elrohir promised. ‘If any can aid Elrond Halfelven it is he.’

‘And if he cannot then Estel will die.’

‘It may not come to that,’ Elrohir said gently. ‘My counsel to you is to rest, lady. There is nothing more that anyone can do tonight.’

He was about to withdraw, but Gilraen caught his sleeve and held him fast. ‘Tell me,’ she said, her eyes brimming with pain. ‘You saved Estel once from those who would murder him. Over the years you have been very kind to him and a dear friend to me. Do you love my son?’

‘I am very fond of him, lady: he is a bright lad and full of promise. I would grieve to lose him.’ Elrohir paused, considering his words. ‘In a way I do love him, yes,’ he acceded.

‘Master Elrond loves him very much,’ Gilraen said softly.

‘Yes. Of that there can be no question. My father loves Estel very much indeed.’

‘Then he will not let him die,’ she declared brokenly, as if by saying it she could make it so.

Elrohir looked upon her with deep sorrow in his gentle eyes. ‘He would lay down his life in Estel’s stead if he could,’ he said softly. ‘But I do not think that would avail him any in the current crisis.’

Gilraen nodded, and her lips uttered a polite goodnight. Elrohir promised to bring her fresh tidings as soon as there was any change, and then she shut her anteroom door and stumbled back into her bare bedchamber. Enervated and heartsick, she collapsed upon her bed and buried her face in the silken pillow. It was not long before exhausted slumber overtook her and bore her away into the land of dark dreams.

Chapter VI: The Hunted Awakens

Gilraen was huddled on the seat in the casement of her little parlour. Elrohir sat next to her, a consoling hand resting on her arm. He had long since ceased to attempt to cheer her: it was no use and in any case he had little cheer to offer. Her son was dying and soon there would be nothing left to do but mourn him.

Elrohir was weighed down with regret. His conversation with his brother was still fresh in his mind, and it filled him with sorrow that he knew so little about the child whose life they had saved. They had rescued the son of Arathorn and carried him through peril and calamity to Imladris, and then they had left his welfare to others, trusting their father and the folk of the Valley to nurture and to raise him. The Sons of Elrond had returned to their labours in the Wild, and when they had occasion to return home to rest and resupply, they had never made more than the most cursory inquiries regarding the boy’s welfare, nor spoken to him unless he sought them out. Remembering the admiration that had always lighted in Estel’s eyes on such occasions, Elrohir’s guilt redoubled. Certainly he and Elladan seldom had the luxury of tarrying, but they might have exerted some effort towards the child on their brief visits. Given a second chance...

There was a knock at the door. Gilraen’s body contracted and her head flew up like that of a hound scenting calamity on the wind. Elrohir gripped her arm as reassuringly as he could. ‘Allow me, lady,’ he said softly. He rose and with a trembling hand opened the door.

Elladan stood in the corridor, his face pale and grave. ‘There is news,’ he exhaled.

Elrohir ushered his twin into the room, and Elladan approached Gilraen. He was not so friendly with the widowed lady as his brother was, but she had always been cordial to him. He knelt before her like a soldier bringing news of the field of battle to his queen. ‘Lady,’ he said, addressing her in her favoured tongue; ‘your son lives. The efforts of Elrond Half-elven and Gandalf the Grey have borne fruit. Estel sleeps peacefully and the fever is broken. With rest and proper care, there is every hope that he will recover fully.’

A tremor tore through Gilraen’s body. Her feet slipped from the seat as her spine straightened. Her eyes grew wide and she pressed a hand to her mouth as it opened in a silent scream. She turned towards Elrohir, and a moment later she was embracing him, quivering with the strength of her emotion.

‘How is our father?’ Elrohir asked over the lady’s head, wrapping an arm about her lest she should fall.

Elladan rose from the floor, shaking his head. ‘I have not seen him. Gandalf left him with the boy, and brought forth the news. Erestor thought it best if I came here at once.’

‘Thank you,’ Gilraen wept, turning her head so that she could see the elder twin. ‘Thank you.’

‘It is not I who should receive your thanks, lady,’ Elladan told her gently. ‘It was my father and Gandalf who brought about this miracle. Thank them.’

‘I will...’ Gilraen pledged, and there was a strange resolve in her voice. ‘But first, I must go to my son. I must go to him. I must—’

Hysteria seemed to be building in her voice. Elrohir eased her away from his chest and gripped her hand bracingly. ‘We shall go at once,’ he promised. ‘Come.’

The three of them hurried down the corridors to Elrond’s bedchamber. In the anteroom they found Erestor, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. For a moment, Elrohir was afraid that the glad tidings were premature, but the lore-master looked up, and he was smiling.

‘Lady Gilraen, he sleeps!’ he said joyously. ‘Gandalf has said the fever is broken, and that Estel will recover.’

Gilraen seemed unable to find words with which to reply, or perhaps she was daunted by the lore-master’s presence. She did not know Erestor personally, except as Estel’s teacher, and they seldom spoke.

‘Where is Gandalf?’ Elladan asked, looking around the otherwise empty antechamber.

‘Glorfindel has gone to escort him to his room,’ Erestor explained. ‘He is weary from the effort exerted to save the boy.’

‘And our father?’ Elrohir asked, looking towards the bedchamber door.

‘Still within. I was reluctant to enter: it seemed meet that the child’s mother—’

And before any could stop her Gilraen pulled away from Elrohir and pushed open the heavy door, laying bare the sick-room. A rush of stale air wafted out of the room, and Gilraen hastened inside, stumbling over the hem of her gown in her haste. She stopped short at the foot of the bed as the twins entered after her.

Estel was lying in the middle of the mattress, his eyes closed and his face smooth and peaceful. Kneeling beside the bed, his head bowed over the child’s chest, was the Lord of Imladris. He had one of Estel’s hands in each of his own, and he was utterly motionless, seemingly unaware of the intruders who were watching him.

Gilraen plucked at her throat, torn between shock at this spectacle and her obvious desire to fling herself upon her son. Elrohir could only stare at the shattered aspect of his sire. It was Elladan, ever the hard-headed statesman, who recovered himself first.

‘Atarinya,’ he said, coming forward and placing a hand on Elrond’s bowed back. ‘The Lady Gilraen is here to see her child.’

For a moment there was no response, and Elrohir wondered whether his father had swooned, overcome with the effort that must have been exacted in banishing the fever. Then Elrond raised his head and released his hold on Estel. He used his hands to push himself up and back onto his heels. They fell limply into his lap and he stared down at the curled fingers, his hair falling forward to cover his face.

‘He has been spared, lady,’ he said hoarsely, his voice flat and weary. ‘He will not die this day.’

Gilraen’s arrested flight resumed itself. She climbed onto the bed and leaned forward over her child, caressing his face and weeping as she breathed his name. Estel stirred a little as her voice touched him in the realm of slumber, and a tearful laugh broke forth from her lips. Her pledge to thank her son’s healers seemed forgotten, but her desperate joy brightened the whole room.

Elladan crouched by his father, trying to meet his eyes. ‘Atarinya?’ he said, reaching out and sweeping back the curtain of black hair.

Elrond looked at his son, eyes shining with tears and gratitude. ‘He will live,’ he sighed.

A band of pain tightened about Elrohir’s heart. Centuries had passed since he had last seen his sire so careworn. The fair Elven face was taut with weariness, grey-hued with exhaustion. His lips were pale and quavered as he spoke. Tear-tracks stained his cheeks and his eyes were red from weeping. Yet on his face there was joy instead of sorrow, and thankfulness instead of bitter despair. The triumph was hard-won, but it was a triumph nonetheless.

Elrond tried to rise, but his legs would not hold him. Elladan bent swiftly and caught his shoulders before he could fall. Elrohir stepped forward and between the two of them the warriors raised their father to his feet.

‘Let us go,’ Elrond murmured, leaning heavily upon the arms of his sons. ‘Leave the lady for a while with her child.’

There was a tiny cry from the bed, and Gilraen rose in haste. She came around the bed and flung herself at the Elf-lord’s feet. ‘You saved him!’ she cried. ‘You have saved my son; again you have saved my son. Forgive me! Forgive my selfishness and my wicked ingratitude! Forgive me, my lord! You have saved my child...’ She wrested Elrond’s hand from Elrohir and kissed it, first the back and then the palm, apparently oblivious to the way that the object of her gratitude had to shift his full weight against Elladan in order to remain upright.

Elrond slipped his fingers away from hers and raised her bowed head. As if at his will, Gilraen rose to her feet, eyes fixed upon his. ‘Lady, do not prostrate yourself before me,’ he entreated as graciously as his unsteady voice would allow. ‘I love your son dearly, and what was done here today was a small price for his life. Stay with him awhile. When he wakes send someone to fetch me, but for now I must rest.’

Then he leaned forward and kissed her gently, just to the left of her nose upon her proud Númenorean cheekbone, and he nodded to Elladan, who helped him around the astounded woman towards the door.

Elrohir took Gilraen’s arm and led her back to the bed, where she sat and rested her hand upon Estel’s abdomen where the beating of his heart thrummed through the thick artery towards legs that would once more run in the hills. ‘Stay with him,’ he said. ‘Erestor will be outside, and I will return as soon as I may.’

Gilraen nodded, but she was once more transfixed by the sight of her sleeping son and she did not reply.

Elrohir left her, hurrying to the doorway where his brother was just helping their sire into the anteroom. At the sight of his lord's haggard countenance, Erestor rose with a soft cry of pain, but Elrond attempted to assuage him with a weary waving of his hand. ‘I am but weary,’ he said. ‘I must rest...’

Elrohir resumed his place at his father’s side and they moved out into the corridor. The Elf-lord’s whole body now shook with enervation, and without needing to confer with one another the twins turned towards the nearest suite of rooms: that which belonged to their absent sister.

They moved with excruciating slowness through her anteroom, and past the door that led to her solar where her books and her harp and her little loom stood idle, awaiting a mistress stranded on the far side of the Hithaiglir. The rooms were kept fresh and tended against the day when the passage of the mountains might once again be deemed safe, and the Lady of Imladris might return.

Elrond did not seem to understand his surroundings, for his head was heavy now, and he leaned with more desperation upon the supporting arms that held him. They reached the bedchamber at last, and the twins eased their father onto his daughter’s vacant bed, where he sat as docile as a child while they loosened his outer garments and removed his shoes. When at last he was clad only in his smock, Elrohir pulled back the bedclothes and Elladan eased the exhausted Peredhil back onto the cushions. They drew the covers over him, and Elladan once again brushed his hair away from his face.

They thought at first that he was already insensate, but his keen eyes focused for a moment and seized upon Elrohir. ‘You are to wake me at once,’ he said, imperious even through the veil of fatigue; ‘when Estel regains consciousness. He is in need of much care still. It will be a long and miserable convalescence.’

‘I promise,’ Elrohir said, nodding firmly.

‘Good,’ breathed Elrond. ‘Now I must sleep...’ And as his sons watched he slipped at once into the heavy slumber of mortals, such as the Halfelven at times required. Exchanging a communicative glance, the twin brothers withdrew from the room.

Lar

Estel did not regain consciousness while his foster-father slept. The child slumbered until the shadows were long in the garden and the light of the setting Sun was red in the Valley. Elrond had arisen of his own accord, and bathed, and taken a little food in his anteroom in the interim, and when the child stirred his guardian was seated by the bedchamber window, once more thrown open, watching the boy and his mother as they slept in his bed.

A soft cooing sound alerted the watcher that his charge was awake, and he was at the bedside in an instant. Estel’s eyes opened slowly, for they were crusted closed with the salt of sweat, and he blinked in the warm evening light. His gaze fell upon his mother’s head where it rested against his shoulder and he tried to lift his left hand to touch her, but he was too weak: the arm fell back against the mattress.

‘Ah... an...’ he exhaled, his dry lips and ravaged vocal cords refusing to obey him as they ought. Elrond stroked the side of the child’s face tenderly while with his other hand he reached for the vessel of water that stood at the ready on the little table by the bed.

‘Do not try to speak, Estel,’ he said gently, smiling sadly as the boy turned his eyes towards him. ‘You have been perilously ill, and you have a lengthy recovery before you. Are you thirsty?’

The child nodded mutely, staring once more at his mother’s sleeping form. Elrond shifted his position so that he was parallel to the child instead of facing him. With one arm he drew Estel out from beneath his mother and held him in a semi-prone position, supporting the dark head against his arm. With the other hand, he held the cup to his son’s mouth. The water lapped against the cracked lips, and Estel sucked greedily at the cool fluid. After a moment Elrond took the cup away.

‘Slowly,’ he coached. ‘You do not wish to make yourself ill.’ Presently he offered the cup again, and this time Estel drank with greater moderation. When the vessel was withdrawn again, the child’s muscles released and he fell limp in Elrond’s arms. He licked his lips and let out a tiny cough.

‘A-arinya,’ he croaked. ‘Atarinya... why...’

He could not finish his sentence, but his finger twitched towards his mother. Elrond smiled as he adjusted his hold on the boy.

‘I might have known the first words from your mouth would be a question,’ he said fondly. ‘Your mother sleeps because she is weary. You have lain ill for many days – do you remember?’

‘Spots,’ Estel said, raising one arm a little to point at a fading red blemish on the other. ‘And m-my throat...’

‘That is correct,’ said Elrond. ‘On the day after your throat began to pain you, your fever grew terrible. In the night you sunk into a delirium. Today is the seventh day since you first fell ill.’

Estel made a soft sound of assent but did not reply. Elrond offered him the water again, and he swallowed a little. Carefully the Elf-lord drew the child into his lap and embraced him. ‘I am glad that you have returned to us, Estel,’ he said. ‘I was sorely afraid that you would not.’

He rested his cheek on the crown of the boy’s head and rocked gently to and fro. Had he been restored to his full vigour, the child might have thought this an indignity too great for his ten venerable years. Now he was weak, his body and his spirit ravaged by the wicked illness, and he ached for the comfort as much as his foster-father. He raised one hand to caress Elrond’s arm.

Neither noticed the Lady Gilraen rise from her slumber until she spoke. ‘Estel!’ she exclaimed in an anxious whisper. ‘You have wakened at last!’

The boy turned his head and held out his hand. ‘Mama,’ he said, reverting to the name of his babyhood. Gilraen clasped his hand in both her own, tears shining in her eyes.

‘Here, lady, move to the chair,’ Elrond instructed, plucking up the comforter and wrapping it around Estel. ‘He can sit with you while I make arrangements for a warm bath and fresh linens. You would like both, I think, Estel.’

The boy nodded placidly and allowed himself to be settled in his mother’s lap. He was quickly growing too tall to be held thus, but after the ravages of his illness he was lighter to bear than he had been, and Gilraen in her joy would have carried him across Eriador. Elrond cast about for a low stool, and he knelt, lifting the lady’s feet and slipping the support beneath them. When he rose, Gilraen was watching him, a curious expression in her eyes.

‘You are very kind,’ she whispered, as if this had never struck her before. ‘You are very kind to both of us.’

Elrond smiled sadly. ‘I have always tried to be, lady,’ he answered.

For a moment she seemed to struggle. Then she found her voice and forced her lips to move. ‘I have behaved poorly,’ she said. ‘I have never expressed my gratitude, nor made any effort to show it. Your sons rescued us from death, and you have given us shelter and peace. You have given my son love and affection, and you have seen to his education. Now, you have once again saved his life. Thank you.’

‘There is no need to thank me. I have done what I must, and my rewards are manifold. He is a fine child, and he will grow to be a great man. That is repayment enough for my labours on his behalf.’

Gilraen did not speak, but bowed her head to look at Estel, who was dozing against her shoulder. Elrond stepped back and moved towards the door, wondering from whence this new humility had come, and what it meant. As ever he did not understand Dirhael’s daughter, but he hoped that this might mean an end to the hostility she had previously shown: Estel was growing old enough to be fully aware of such things, and it pained him to see those two people he loved best at odds with one another.

Elrohir was waiting without, while Elladan was downstairs presiding over supper and seeing to the guests. Elrond gave swift instructions, and his son hastened off to fetch the needed articles.

In the space of an hour, the bed linen was changed and Estel was bathed and clad in clean nightclothes. A salve of beeswax and mountain mint was applied to his sore lips, and the blemishes on his skin were rubbed with sweet oil to aid in their healing. He took more water, and even half a cup of dilute milk, and he spoke a little with his mother and his guardian. Then Gilraen left to wash herself and change into fresh things, and Elrond remained with the invalid, singing until Estel sank once more into peaceful slumber.

When Gilraen returned with a loose robe over her shift, Elrond rose from the bed. ‘You will sleep here with him tonight, I trust?’ he asked.

Once again she seemed to want to make some cold retort, but she curbed her tongue. ‘If I may,’ she said.

‘I think it would be best. I do not want him left alone so soon,’ Elrond said. ‘I will be just beyond the door if you have need of me. Sleep well, lady.’

He slipped from the room, while behind him the Lady Gilraen removed her robe and climbed into the bed next to her son. She murmured softly to him, though he was too deep in sleep to hear her, as the door closed gently.

By this time weariness was once again snapping at the Elf-lord’s heels. He plucked up a cushion that had fallen from an armchair at some time during the evening’s activities, and set it on one end of the low chaise by the bookshelves. He eased himself down upon the piece of furniture, stretching out his long legs and exhaling wearily. Once again, mortal slumber sang her siren song, and he was just about to slip away when there came a soft rapping on the outside door.

A concerted effort brought Elrond back to his feet and he peered out into the corridor. Gandalf was standing there, his eyebrows casting strange shadows in the light of the wall sconces. ‘We must speak,’ he said.

‘I know,’ said Elrond; ‘but not tonight.’

‘The visions that plagued the boy – we must discuss their ramifications.’

‘I know,’ Elrond repeated, more firmly. ‘But not tonight. You and your treasure-hunters will tarry here for a few days more, surely?’

‘I think I would have a rebellion on my hands if I tried to lead them into the mountains so soon,’ Gandalf chuckled. ‘They seem quite taken with the luxuries of your house.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Elrond assured him. ‘That will give us time, then, to discuss what happened this morning at some time that is not the present.’

‘There are other matters to address,’ Gandalf warned. ‘And the sooner we come to a consensus regarding them, the sooner word may be sent to Lórien and Isengard.’

Elrond’s mouth tightened. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, abruptly pragmatic. Sleep beckoned, but there were more important labours at hand -- labours he had neglected in favour of Estel. ‘I had forgotten. We can use the private library: there are maps there, and we will not be disturbed. Give me but a few minutes to speak to the child’s mother and to fetch someone else to wait here...’

Gandalf raised his hand. ‘Peace, Peredhil,’ he said. ‘One more day will scarcely mean the difference between victory and defeat. Rest and attend to your patient. You have not recovered your accustomed vigour, and I would prefer a well-rested counsellor.’

Elrond chuckled softly. ‘I am not crippled,’ he said ruefully.

‘No, you are weary. Rest tonight. Tomorrow I will work you like a dray-horse.’ The wizard’s eyes sparked with amusement as he turned to stride away down the corridor.

Chapter VII: Counsels of War

The following morning, having examined his young patient and left orders with Glorfindel that he was to be kept well-provided with water, and offered broth or weak milk every two hours as long as he was awake, Elrond repaired reluctantly to the private library on the third floor of the house. His heart ached to leave Estel, who was still very weak and in need of constant supervision, but there was little time to waste. Now that the child was no longer in peril of sudden death, Elrond could not afford to neglect the larger matters at hand.

Gandalf was waiting for him amid the rare tomes and ancient texts: he sat at one of the work-tables, with heaps of books and scrolls and a map of the West spread out upon the table before him. Near at hand were a compass and callipers, and a sheaf of hastily penned notes spoke of his sleepless night.

Elrond closed the library door and drew to its heavy bolt. Few folk came up the narrow staircase to this far corner of the house, and the residents of Rivendell would never have passed that door, once closed, without leave, but one never could tell with dwarves: they had a penchant for delving into the secrets about them, and they were fond of exploring and of inspecting unfamiliar architecture.

‘How is the child?’ Gandalf asked, pushing a chair back from the table with one booted foot and nodding that Elrond should take it.

‘He is very weak,’ replied the Elf-lord. ‘He has lost a stone in weight: it is as if the illness was consuming him from within. His mother is with him, and Glorfindel will watch over him, but I warn you now: should they require my aid our counsels shall be put instantly on hold.’

‘He is very important to you,’ Gandalf observed. 'You are extraordinarily protective of him.'

‘The time may come when he will be very important to us all,’ Elrond said. 'My heart foretells shall be great in his own right ere his years begin to wane, and I protect him now only because he cannot yet protect himself.’

‘You are the very picture of altruism,’ commented Gandalf. ‘It cannot be, of course, that he has carved out a place for himself in your heart, and that you could not unseat him if you tried. I saw you weeping at his bedside: you love the mortal boy.’

‘As I love the children of my own body,’ Elrond affirmed.

‘It is a peculiar arrangement,’ the old man observed.

‘In your eyes, perhaps,’ Elrond allowed, setting his jaw coldly against the scholarly detachment in his friend's voice. ‘To me, nothing could be more natural.’

The wizard laughed aloud at the half-Elf’s countenance. ‘Clearly the strain of recent days has worn thin your infinite patience. It would be wise for you to avoid my travelling companions for a day or two. If I grate upon your nerves, be certain that Thorin would rasp them raw.’

‘Thorin. That brings up an interesting point, if we are to pass the morning analysing one another’s foibles,’ said Elrond, his temper cooling and a wry smile playing on his lips. Only Gandalf could rouse in him such irritation and defensiveness: it was one of his friend’s special talents. ‘What do you hope to accomplish with your band of opportunists?’

‘The overthrow of Smaug and the retaking of Erebor, of course,’ Gandalf said lazily. ‘I would have thought that Thorin’s words at the feast two nights ago made that very plain indeed – though perhaps you were not listening to his boasting, being much occupied with other matters.’

‘He spoke at great length of his goals,’ Elrond said; ‘and I am sure he is continuing to do so wherever he can find courteous ears to listen. I asked what you hope to accomplish.’

‘I care little for the ancestral treasures of Thrór,’ Gandalf assured him; ‘but I have a keen interest in the incidental slaying of the dragon that their retaking will entail.’

‘And you expect thirteen rag-tag coal-diggers to conquer the last of the Great Dragons?’ Elrond asked, still disbelieving.

‘Thirteen rag-tag coal-diggers and a hobbit,’ corrected Gandalf. ‘I think they have as good a chance as half a dozen of the Dúnedain, and they can be better spared. The dragon is a threat we cannot ignore. As long as he lies dormant in that mountain it is only a matter of time before he is charmed by the promises of the Enemy and surges forth to lay the North to ruins.’

‘So you have often said,’ Elrond commented. ‘Yet still I question your reasoning. How can they hope to overthrow the dragon? Or will you follow them into its lair and slay the beast yourself?’

‘No,’ Gandalf said. ‘I shall ride with them as far as I may, but I will be in Isengard for the appointed meeting in the second week in August. Once they are through Mirkwood they can accomplish the rest themselves.’

‘I do not understand how you can have such faith in them,’ Elrond argued. ‘Even the heroes of old found dragons to be a fell foe.’

‘As the son of a renowned dragon-slayer you ought to know that better than I.’ The wizard shrugged. ‘But as one who fought before the Black Gate with Durin’s folk at his side, I would also expect you to have more faith in the courage of the children of Mahal.’

‘I do not question their courage or their fortitude,’ Elrond said. ‘I question their common sense.’

‘So do I,’ Gandalf agreed. ‘That is why I have procured the services of the indomitable Mister Baggins.’

‘The hobbit... I am astounded that you managed to convince him to leave his home. The complacency of the Little Folk is legendary.’

‘So is the complacency of Elves,’ countered Gandalf; ‘and yet the Eldar have never failed to come through when needs must.’

‘I will take you at your word that he has a hard head on his shoulders,’ said Elrond; ‘but I fail to see what other assets he may offer. He is neither swift nor strong, and I doubt he would be of much help in a moment of peril.’

Gandalf chuckled as if at some private joke. ‘Before we take leave of your house I shall have him tell you how he and I brought about the downfall of a trio of hill-trolls,’ he said. ‘He is neither so soft nor so frivolous as he looks – and for all your criticisms I noticed you eyeing him favourably yourself, when you took time from your fretting the other night.’

‘He is filled with simple joy,’ Elrond explained. ‘To one who has seen the long ages of darkness and suffering it is a comfort to know that such pleasure and innocence still exists in the world. That is a power in itself -- yes, I see why you brought him along on your treasure-hunt.’

‘Before the year is out you will be glad of my little expedition,’ Gandalf warned. ‘Or would you stand like Turgon before your doors, while dragon-fire devoured your folk and laid your hidden valley to waste?’

‘You need not threaten me with such horrors: I appreciate the need to dispense with the beast. If your thirteen dwarves – and Mister Baggins – can accomplish this then so be it. Yet it seems to me that if they are to succeed, the Enemy must be distracted from the Lonely Mountain. Our other enterprise must go forward without delay.’

‘There can be no doubt of that,’ said Gandalf gravely. ‘If there was any question of his intentions, I think the events of yesterday morning laid them to rest.’

Elrond frowned. ‘I fear it is so,’ he said; ‘and yet how is it possible? Unless the child’s identity is known to the Necromancer, why would he take the chance of assailing Imladris?’

‘Perhaps he did so in the hope that it would serve to weaken and distract you – as I may point out it has. Perhaps it was an evil of some other intent that happened to seize upon the boy instead of its intended target. In any case I think the Enemy is amassing the strength to assault you, and if we let him go unchecked any longer he will spill forth from Mirkwood and lay Rivendell to waste, and Lórien with it.’

‘That would not be a task so easily accomplished,’ said Elrond. ‘While we have our Rings and he lacks the One, our realms will not be simply assailed.’

‘Do you think you could withstand the full onslaught of Sauron?’ Gandalf asked gravely. ‘He does not have the One, but he controls the Nine, and of the Seven he has obtained three. His armies would have the high ground, and long has it been since your folk rose up in their own defence. The ragged remnant of Arnor could not waylay them long, and any aid from Lindon would come too late.’

‘We would fly if we must. I have done so before,’ the Master of Rivendell murmured, his mind drawn back to the fires of Eregion and the ruin of the fair realm of Hollin. ‘And Galadriel would not yield easily.’

‘She would not yield at all,’ Gandalf agreed; ‘but in the end she would be cast down, and the Golden Wood would burn, and at last the only haven of the Eldar would lie beneath Círdan’s hand, and as the Shadow spread Westward even it would fall. Without the One Ring the Enemy’s power is diminished, but still he has the Ularí, and his orc-armies are breeding in the mountains. The fortress of Dol Guldur places him too near to Imladris and Lórien both: we must drive him out.’

‘You have my agreement: you know that already,’ said Elrond; ‘and I speak also for Lindon and Lórien when I say that we know that this must be done. Yet it remains to convince Saruman. When last we discussed this his counsel was to watch and wait. We have done so, and as you say we have seen the Necromancer’s strength increase with each passing year. Now that it is certain who dwells in that tower, we must act. I fear already it may be too late, but to delay any longer would certainly be fatal.’

‘When the Council meets we will have to have our arguments prepared,’ said Gandalf. ‘I may not have time to return to this valley ere I must make for Isengard: it may well be that this is our last opportunity to confer before presenting our case to Saruman. How many of your folk could be mustered to march on Dol Guldur?’

‘Seven score at least,’ Elrond said. ‘Of the green Elves who wander the Wild we might recruit three score more. No great force can be mustered from Lindon, for in crossing Eriador a large company would be easily espied, weeks and perhaps months before we were ready to strike. My latest missives from Lord Celeborn indicate that Lothlórien might raise three hundred with no danger to their own defences: twice that if their patrols were spread more thinly.’

‘What of the Dúnedain? How many of their number might be brought forth to aid us?’

Elrond shook his head. ‘That is out of the question,’ he said firmly. ‘With no Chieftain to lead them, and no Heir of Isildur to lend them strength and courage, they are hard-pressed to maintain the safety of the west-countries. Evil things are astir in the far North, and the threat to Breeland and the Shire and the hidden hamlets where dwell the women and children of the remnant of Númenor is constant. The Dúnedain cannot be spared from their labours, not even for this.’

‘Five hundred,’ said Gandalf softly. ‘Eight, if we took the risk of leaving Lórien defenceless. What of Thranduil? Of old you were his dear friend. Might we call upon him for aid?’

‘I do not think so,’ Elrond said. ‘He would perhaps lend us a legion of archers, but even that cannot be counted upon.’

‘A poor friend, then,’ Gandalf remarked; ‘especially considering that he would benefit most immediately from the overthrowing of the Necromancer.’

‘And pay most dearly for the failure of any such venture,’ Elrond pointed out. ‘In his place I too would be reluctant to goad the war-wolf on my doorstep.’

The wizard grunted in acknowledgement, and then turned his attention to the map. ‘We might approach from two fronts,’ he said, tracing paths with his finger as he spoke. ‘The folk of Lórien might come from the south, with whatever forces Saruman has to offer us – from Isengard they could come by the Gap of Rohan in the last days of summer. Then your forces could approach from the northwest.’

Elrond shook his head. ‘There are goblins in the High Pass,’ he said. ‘It is no longer safe. Even a small party such as yours will be hard-pressed to win through undetected. An army would surely be cut off and slaughtered.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Gandalf. ‘Or perhaps my little party will draw out the goblins and I can rid you of much of that scourge. Who can say? It could be that these rag-tag treasure hunters may prove useful in more ways than one.’

‘A southern march to Caradhras would be but little slower and considerably safer,’ said Elrond. ‘There is less chance of our passing being detected the longer we remain west of the mountains. My advice is to avoid the orcs as best you can when you take your dwarves across: Thorin will have need of every one of his followers before journey’s end.’

‘Of course, we might—’ Gandalf was interrupted by a circumspect rapping at the door.

Swiftly, Elrond rose and opened it. Glorfindel stood there, his fair face grave.

‘Forgive me, lord,’ he said. ‘I was loathe to interrupt, but you were most insistent that I should fetch you if aught went amiss with the child.’

‘What is it?’ Elrond demanded hoarsely.

‘He took some barley broth and fell into what we thought was a natural sleep,’ said Glorfindel; ‘but now he has awakened suddenly and he is in great distress.’

Elrond turned to make his apologies to the wizard, but Gandalf nodded curt acquiescence. ‘Go,’ he said in resignation. ‘Neither of us shall have any peace unless you do.’

The Elf-lord followed his counsellor swiftly down the stairs and into his bedchamber. Estel lay huddled on the bed, his limbs curled inward towards his abdomen. He had tried to press himself up against the headboard, but he had not the strength to move such a distance. His body was trembling violently and a soft, keening sound came from his throat as he wept into his hands.

His mother stood back from the bed, pain and horror on her face. ‘He will not suffer me to touch him,’ she said anxiously.

‘Nor me,’ Glorfindel added before needing to be asked.

‘Estel?’ Elrond said gently, drawing near the bed. Cautiously, he stretched out his hand and touched the boy’s quaking shoulder. ‘Estel, my child, what is wrong?’

The boy whimpered and tried scramble towards his guardian, but again he was too weak. He clutched at Elrond’s arm instead, and the Elf-lord sat, drawing him up into a sitting position and letting the boy press his torso against him. Estel buried his face in the front of Elrond’s robe, plucking plaintively at his garment as a sundering sob shook his wasted frame.

‘Hush, little one, you are safe,’ Elrond soothed. ‘What is the matter?’

‘M-my head,’ Estel wept. ‘In my head...’

Elrond glanced at Glorfindel, whose face was impassive. From her place by the wall Gilraen was watching, wide-eyed and pained, as another gave her child the consolation she could not. ‘You had an evil dream?’ Elrond asked.

Estel shook his head convulsively against Elrond’s ribs. He tried to speak again, but another sob prevented him. Elrond ran his hand soothingly up and down the child’s spine.

‘Take a moment and calm yourself,’ he instructed softly. ‘Draw in a deep breath. Now release it slowly. Good boy. Slowly. I am here. You have naught to fear.’

Several minutes passed as the terror began to leach away. Estel’s breathing grew more regular and the shaking abated somewhat. At last Elrond ventured to ask again; ‘Tell me what is the matter. What has frightened you so?’

‘There are things...’ Estel gasped, his ravaged voice cracking painfully. ‘There are things in my head. I can see them... like memories...’

‘You had many black visions while you were ill,’ Elrond said. ‘It may be that one such apparition is revisiting you now. Do you want to tell me about it?’

The boy shook his head, and then nodded almost immediately afterwards. ‘Fire,’ he said. ‘There is fire. A flaming mountain. People... p-people are dying... b-b-burning...’ A fresh sob welled up and he began to weep again.

‘My brave boy, my poor brave boy,’ Elrond soothed. ‘It is only a nightmare, an echo of your sickness. Do not be afraid: nothing can harm you while I am here.’

‘I can smell it...’ Estel whispered. ‘I can sm-mell...’ He shuddered violently and clutched more desperately at his guardian’s arm.

Elrond closed his eyes against the bitter onslaught of memory. He too could smell it: the acrid reek of singed garments and burned hair, the metallic tang of heat-compromised mail, and the sweet salt stench of charred Elven flesh. A prince of the Noldor was not so easily slain: words had passed between them ere the end. He could feel the broken body in his arms, ichor oozing from the bone-deep burns. A tremor ripped through him and Estel whimpered.

‘Atarinya...’ he said haltingly.

‘I am here, little one,’ Elrond murmured, recalling himself. He stroked the child’s silken hair. ‘I am here.’

‘Please,’ Estel ventured tremulously. ‘P-please...’

He did not finish his entreaty, but Elrond understood. He tightened his embrace and rocked the child gently. ‘Peace, my son,’ he said, momentarily forgetting Gilraen’s presence in the room. ‘I will not leave you.’

Estel needed him, and the matter was settled. The affairs of the Council would just have to wait until another day, and Gandalf with them.

Chapter VIII: Healing Draughts and History

Gilraen stood in the anteroom of Master Elrond’s chambers, her back to the wall beside the open bedroom door. Inside, the Lord of Imladris was examining Estel. He had not asked her to leave, but she had withdrawn nonetheless, for when he was about the business of a healer she always felt profoundly out of place. Unwilling to go far, she remained where she was, out of sight, and listened as the Lord of the Valley spoke with her son. 

‘Your lips look much improved today,’ Elrond was saying. He was speaking in the language of the Elves and his voice was light and pleasant. From its sound no one would have guessed that the child before him had been on the very brink of death two days before. ‘Do they feel any better?’

‘Much,’ said Estel, answering in the same tongue. He spoke Sindarin beautifully; far better than Gilraen could ever aspire to. Today, however, his words were hoarse and raspy, for he was still very weak. This morning he had managed to sit up for half an hour while he took some milk and porridge, but the effort had exhausted him and he had slept for two hours after that. It was not surprising: last night he had awakened twice in the throes of some terrible nightmare, and only Master Elrond had been able to soothe him. ‘I do not understand, Atarinya. What is wrong with me?’

‘Now very little,’ the Elf-lord assured him. ‘Once you regain your strength you will be quite as good as new.’

‘But what ailed me? I remember you said I had caught measles from the Dúnedain.’

He spoke of them as the Elves did, Gilraen thought with a pang of sorrow. They were his own people, and he was destined to be their lord, yet their ways were strange and even amusing to him. At least, she supposed, she should be thankful that he was able to have even occasional contact with them – thankful that Master Elrond allowed it despite the risks it bore.

‘It was not the measles,’ answered Elrond. ‘Nor was it scarlet fever. I do not know precisely what the illness might be called. It is sufficient to know that it brought with it a deadly fever and dark dreams, and that it is a wonder that you were not carried off by it. You are very fortunate, Estel.’

‘I do not feel fortunate,’ Estel said, a little crossly. ‘I am weary and I ache. When can I return to my own room?’

Gilraen had been wondering the same thing. Though it was a grand gesture on Elrond’s part to put the boy in his own bed – she supposed it was also a practical measure: the room was larger and more central, and the intense care her child had required had doubtless been easier here – she longed for life to return to normal. She wanted Estel back in his own bed, once more under her care.

‘Not yet,’ Elrond said sagely, and Gilraen gritted her teeth in frustration. What right had he to keep Estel from her? What had he to make such decisions without consulting her? What right—

Her promise resounded in her mind. She had vowed, in her moment of utter despair, that if the Master of Rivendell contrived to heal her son she would never again question him. True, a promise made in desperation and witnessed by no one was hardly a binding contract, but she felt honour-bound to uphold it nonetheless. Had she been more honest with herself she might have realized that there was a part of her, too, that was terrified to break it, as if she had made a pact with death and if she failed to uphold her end of the bargain Estel would be claimed by the darkness after all.

Elrond was still speaking, but the timbre of his voice had changed as if he had moved away from the bed. ‘I want your mother to sleep in her bed tonight, and I fear that if you awoke you would disturb her. She has been through a great trial these last days, and she must rest lest she, too, take ill. It will be better if you remain here a few days more.’

‘Oh,’ Estel said meekly, sounding rather ashamed. ‘I had not thought of that.’

It was apparent from Elrond’s voice when he answered that he was smiling his serene, gentle smile. At times, Gilraen found that particular expression infuriating: his quietude even in moments of crisis seemed a criticism upon those around him possessing less control. ‘It is only natural to think first of oneself,’ he said; ‘but we must strive always to overcome that impulse. The needs of those around us must come before our own desires. A noble man considers others first.’

‘I-I am sorry,’ whispered Estel. He sounded on the verge of tears, and it was all that Gilraen could do to keep from bursting into the room to berate the Elf-lord for making her child cry. ‘I love my mother, I promise that I do.’

‘I know that well,’ said Elrond, and his voice was kind; ‘and I know you want what is best for her. It is simply that you have not yet learned how to see it. This time, I have pointed it out for you. Next time you will see it for yourself. And at last you will not even have to consider the question: the answer will come to you of its own accord. It is a part of growing up.’

There was a small sniffle, and Estel cleared his throat. ‘I’ll see it next time,’ he pledged.

‘It will be easier, too, when you are not so weak and weary.’ These words did much to mollify Gilraen: at least the half-Elf was not placing blame. ‘Here, drink this.’

‘What is it?’ Estel asked immediately.

‘Taste it and tell me,’ instructed Elrond.

Estel was silent for a moment, during which Gilraen supposed he took the draught. ‘Spring wine,’ he said at last; ‘and honey. Cinnamon and a distillation of willow bark washed with oil of vitriol – that is for the aches, is it not?’

‘Verily,’ Elrond said. ‘What else?’

‘I can taste... rosemary. Why rosemary?’

‘It, too, is helpful for the aches, and it will settle your stomach,’ Elrond answered. He had returned to his position on the edge of the bed: his voice was clear once again.

‘I had not complained about my stomach,’ Estel said, sounding a little affronted. ‘How did you know?’

‘I would be a poor healer if I treated only the symptoms severe enough to garner a complaint,’ Elrond answered. ‘I saw how you were pressing your fingers to your wrist as I had taught you. You felt nauseated.’ There was a sound as he plumped up the cushions. ‘Tell me what else you taste.’

‘Something sweet...’

‘The honey, perhaps?’ teased the Elf-lord.

‘No, no,’ said Estel. ‘It’s... it’s...’ He made a soft smacking sound with his lips. ‘It’s dragon’s wort!’ he exclaimed, laughing a little.

‘Well done!’ Elrond applauded. ‘Do you know why I added that?’

‘It will help...’ Estel paused, wracking his brain. ‘It will ease my weariness, I think...’ he ventured.

‘Very good! I am pleased to see that our lessons in herb-lore have not been wasted. Since you have divined the secrets of my draught I suppose I shall have to—’

‘Ah-ah!’ Estel said. Gilraen imagined him expending the energy necessary to wag a finger at his guardian. ‘There’s something else in it. It tastes bitter... but it’s very faint. Not much was used.’

Elrond laughed softly. ‘You are not so easily fooled,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it is, then.’

‘I do not know,’ Estel said. ‘I haven’t tasted it before, I think.’

‘I should think not,’ the Elf-lord told him. ‘It’s nightshade.’

‘But nightshade is poisonous!’ the child exclaimed delightedly even as Gilraen’s pulse quickened. Was the Master mad, feeding toxic herbs to her son?

‘That is true,’ said Elrond; ‘but in small quantities it may ease pain and soothe the stomach. More importantly, it will ward against any return of the fever.’

‘You fear the fever might return?’ asked Estel.

‘I do not think so, but it pays to be cautious. You frightened us all: we could not bear to lose you.’

‘I am not dead yet,’ Estel said stoutly. ‘I intend to stay that way.’

‘Perhaps that is why you are mending so well,’ said Elrond. ‘You are too stubborn to sicken.’

Gilraen could hear him moving about the room, but when he spoke again his voice still came from the area near the bed. ‘Now let me listen to your heart, and then we can recall your mother.’

‘Atarinya, were you truly frightened?’ Estel asked after a moment.

‘I cannot listen while you talk, Estel. Be silent for a moment.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘Yes,’ said Elrond at last, gravely. ‘I was very frightened. I was filled with terror. I love you and I do not wish to lose you.’

‘I have never known you to be afraid,’ Estel said in a small voice. ‘I must have been very ill indeed.’

‘You were,’ his guardian said soberly. ‘But now you are well and you are healing. You will be strong again, and next time you will not fall prey to sickness so easily.’

‘You healed me,’ Estel said.

‘I and Gandalf the Grey, yes,’ said Elrond. ‘When you are stronger perhaps you can thank him.’

‘How did you do it?’

‘There are other skills than herb-lore,’ the Elf-lord said, nicely skirting around the question. ‘In a year or two, perhaps, you will be ready to learn them, if you show aptitude for the healing arts.’

‘Then Second-born can learn them, too?’ asked Estel.

‘A good number of the skills I use can be learned by you,’ promised Elrond. ‘If you have the gift, you can do many wondrous things.’ He sighed a little. ‘For now, however, I need you to rest. If you do not wish to sleep, perhaps your mother might read to you.’

‘Could you read to me?’ asked the child.

‘Not now,’ Elrond said regretfully. ‘I have other business to attend to.’

‘B-but...’ Suddenly Estel sounded frail and frightened.

‘I shall return shortly,’ the Elf-lord pledged. ‘If you need me, have your mother send the sentry. I will come at once if you have need.’

‘Thank you, Atarinya,’ Estel said softly.

‘There is no need of thanks, my child. Now promise me you will rest. You must recover your strength.’

‘I promise,’ Estel said.

‘Very well.’ A moment later Elrond stepped into the antechamber. ‘Lady, if you would...’ he said.

Gilraen flushed, ashamed to be caught eavesdropping. ‘You knew...’

‘I did not hear the outer door open or close, and your breathing is clearly audible to my ears. I knew. I hope you did not hear anything that was to your disliking.’

She looked for mockery in his grey eyes but saw none. Her desire to be curt and cold was thwarted by the memory of her desperate oath. ‘No, my lord,’ she said. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

He made no reply, but nodded sombrely and was gone. Gilraen smoothed her kirtle and entered the bedroom, where Estel lay propped up amid the cushions.

‘Hello, Mother,’ he said, his worn little face lighting up with a sudden smile. For her benefit, he reverted to Westron. ‘Atar said you might read to me.’ He caught himself and said politely, ‘If you wish to.’

Gilraen smiled in return. It seemed the Elf-lord’s gentle lecture in selflessness had made an impression upon Estel. However she might privately resent Elrond Halfelven, he cared genuinely for her son's emotional growth as well as his physical health, and for that surely he deserved at least her respect. ‘I would love to,’ she said.

lar

A cursory search of the private library failed to produce any signs of Gandalf. He was not in his chamber, either, and Elrond descended to the main floor of the house. He met Erestor at the foot of the stairs.

His counsellor greeted him with a faint smile. ‘Is Estel well?’ he asked.

‘He is recovering,’ replied Elrond. ‘He is awake now, answering questions and providing commentaries on my medicines. In as much as I can judge, his faculties have not been impaired by his illness. I was concerned: high fevers in mortals are dangerous to the mind. Fortunately, those fears seem unfounded.’

‘That is glad news. He has a fine mind, ever eager for knowledge.’ Erestor’s face relaxed out of its lines of concern. ‘If you seek Mithrandir you will not find him today. He has ridden forth with your son to scout the paths leading up to the High Pass.’

‘Which son?’ asked Elrond.

‘Elrohir, of course. Elladan is much occupied entertaining the dwarf-lord. He seems to possess boundless patience for tales of treasure-vaults and boasts of sure victory.’ Erestor wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. ‘Dwarves and their gold,’ he said in disdain.

‘We shall see,’ Elrond said, tempering his answer as befitted a gracious host. ‘Gandalf has high hopes for them.’

‘My hopes are not so lofty,’ Erestor said. ‘One of their number asked to be shown our library. When I obliged him I was shocked to note that he had seen fit to bring his pipe with him. He seemed quite astonished when I intimated that smoking among the books is not permitted.’

‘Is he still there?’ Elrond asked. Erestor nodded. ‘I will go and have a word with the errant dwarf. We must find some way to make his stay a pleasant one.’ Before the lore-master could speak, Elrond held up his hand and said reassuringly; ‘Fear not. I will not permit him to smoke in your library.’

The main library stood in the southern corner of the house. Broad windows overlooked a vast pleasure-garden, into which the readers might wander at their leisure. Unlike the private one upstairs, this library was never locked, and all were welcome within. It held a vast selection of books, both common and unique, in the languages of Men and Elves in present and in ancient times. It was a great source of pride for Erestor, who with his assistants kept it orderly and well-preserved. There were tables for study and comfortable chairs and couches for reading. In one corner there was a rug and cushions, a memory of a time when the Last Homely House had been overrun with children.

Elrond found the guest near the wall of windows, sitting in an armchair with his furry feet propped up on a stool. A cursory glance revealed that it was no dwarf, but the hobbit, Mr Baggins. He had found a volume of history written in Westron, and seemed deeply absorbed in his reading. The offending pipe lay with its pouch of pipe-weed upon the little round table at his elbow, next to a cup of tea long gone cold.

Elrond approached quietly and sat down upon the edge of a low sofa nearby, watching the hobbit with interest. He had a round face that looked as if it had been a good deal rounder a few short weeks before. The hair on his head and on his feet was luxuriant and curling, and his curious clothes were clean and neatly mended by skilled Elven fingers. His tongue was poking between his lips and his brow was furrowed in concentration as he read, eyes skimming swiftly across the paper over and over again. When he paused to turn the page, he noticed his watcher and sat up with a startled, ‘Oh!’

The Elf-lord smiled. ‘Forgive me,’ he said; ‘I did not mean to interrupt.’

‘Think nothing of it!’ the hobbit squeaked. He pulled his feet off of the stool as if he felt they did not belong there, and they dangled several inches above the floor. ‘How long have you been sitting there?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t hear you come in: you Elves certainly do seem to have a way of moving quietly about. You’re even quieter than hobbit-folk, and that’s saying something. Though I suppose after spending all this time with the dwarves I’m used to more noise: they make such a racket tramping about, you know.’ He halted, and his eyes widened as he recognized his host. ‘You’re the Lord of the Valley, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Elrond. I suppose you’ve come to lecture me about smoking,’ he added sheepishly. ‘That other Elf didn’t seem to approve at all. I suppose Elves think it’s a silly habit.’

‘I fear Erestor certainly does,’ Elrond admitted. ‘I, however, came to see if there was some way you might enjoy your book and your pipe at the same time. You are my guest, after all, and I want your stay to be a pleasant one.’

‘It’s been very pleasant indeed, thank you!’ Master Baggins said enthusiastically. ‘You set a first-rate table: truly marvellous! All the music and the merriment, too... and the tales! I do believe that Elves like stories every bit as much as hobbits do. Your folk tell them so well, I was afraid I might not find any of them written down, but I did.’ He held up the book indicatively.

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Which portion are you reading?’ Elrond asked. The hobbit’s good cheer was infectious. It was a shame he could not be brought upstairs to bring some of it into the sick-room: Estel’s mood was not a glad one, however he might try to seem contented.

‘I’m reading about that battle that they sang about the night we arrived,’ the hobbit said. ‘Dagorlad. All these great heroes – Gil-galad and Elendil, and the Elven queen... oh, what’s her name...’ He looked back at the book, flipping the pages in search of the answer.

‘Galadriel,’ Elrond supplied.

‘Yes, that’s it. Galadriel. What happened to them all? I shouldn’t ask, I suppose, for I don’t want to spoil the ending, but tell me anyhow! I can’t bear the suspense.’

He was talking about the Last Alliance as if it were a simple story: a tale to while away a winter’s night. For a moment Elrond was affronted, but then he smiled. ‘If you insist,’ he said. ‘The Lady Galadriel yet lives: she reigns still in her forest of Lothlórien and—’

‘Oh, good! Don’t tell me any more!’ said Bilbo. ‘It’s nice to hear that someone lived through the war. It seems like such a dreadful thing.’

‘It was,’ said Elrond gravely; ‘but it brought about great good. It has given us many hundreds of years of peace.’ Peace, he thought bitterly, that appeared to be coming to an end. ‘Those of us who fought are not sorry that we did so.’

‘Those of us...’ Mister Baggins echoed. ‘Then you were there, too?’

Elrond nodded. ‘I was the herald of Gil-galad,’ he said simply. The whole truth was too grim and complex to pour out to a stranger at a chance-meeting in the library.

‘But I thought... that is, the way Gandalf spoke... he made it sound as if you weren’t an Elf at all.’

A smile played upon Elrond’s lips. ‘Do I look like an Elf?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes... but he called you an Elf-friend.’ Bilbo’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.

‘It is true I am an Elf-friend, but I am also an Elf. I am of mixed parentage, as Gandalf may have mentioned. I have both mortal and immortal blood in my veins, but my life is the life of the Eldar, and the span of my days is not bound by the limits of Men. I am called the Halfelven.’ There was no point complicating matters by discussing the divine blood that mingled with that of Elves and Men: it was likely that the hobbit knew nothing of Thingol and Melian or their wondrous offspring.

‘That’s marvellous!’ Bilbo exclaimed. ‘Gandalf did say something about heroes and Elf-lords of old. I wondered if maybe King Elendil was your ancestor, but I suppose if you marched with him he mustn’t have been.’

‘He was not,’ Elrond confirmed; ‘but we were distant kin. Not all the Half-elven chose the life of the Elves. My brother was a king of Men, and Elendil was descended from him.’

‘Fascinating!’ the hobbit said. ‘You must tell me all about it. I’m very interested in genealogy, you know. Hobbits are as a rule, but I like to think my study of the subject goes beyond the average.’

‘I would like very much to do that some day,’ Elrond said earnestly. ‘For now, I fear, I will have to delay that pleasure. But at least we can settle the question of your pipe.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Mister Baggins said, glancing down at the implement. ‘I don’t really need it, you know. It’s just that a pleasant read and a pleasant smoke go so well together.’

‘If you were to take both out into the garden, you could certainly enjoy them together,’ Elrond suggested.

‘But what about this book?’ Bilbo asked, indicating the volume he had been reading. ‘Won’t my smoke spoil it, too?’

‘In the open air, I think not,’ said Elrond. Erestor would doubtless disagree, but as Elrond had been reminded time and again in recent days, courtesy sometimes had its price. ‘There are no armchairs out there, but you might sit beneath a tree: I find them to be lovely company while reading.’

‘That’s a very pleasant suggestion,’ Bilbo told him. ‘I’m in your debt, sir.’

‘You may call me Elrond,’ said the Elf-lord; ‘and my reward is knowing that my guest is content.’

‘I think Elves make hosts quite as well as hobbits do,’ Bilbo said thoughtfully, and from his tone Elrond could tell this was the highest praise he could think of. ‘Good day to you, Elrond.’

‘And good day to you, Master Baggins,’ he said.

Bilbo gathered up his pipe and his pouch, and hopped off of the chair. Elrond moved to hold open the door that led to the garden. The hobbit did not have to travel far before he found a tree to his liking, and he sat down with his back to it. Elrond watched from the window as he packed and lit his pipe, then picked up the book and resumed his reading, absent-mindedly blowing puffs of smoke from his mouth. Satisfied that his guest had an enjoyable afternoon ahead of him, the Lord of Imladris turned and made his way back into the main body of the house.

Chapter IX: Bitter Premonitions

The full moon was high in the cool autumnal sky, and the vast fields of stars sang their sweet song of twilight. The Bruinen was laughing softly in the night, and beneath the canopy of crimson and gold and fiery orange now softened by darkness two lovers wandered. Arm in arm they walked barefooted on the grass, heads bowed together so the silver hair and the black mingled together. The lady spoke, her voice gentle and murmuring under the sound of rushing water. The war was over and the world was at peace, and the time had come for the battle-worn to find their rest. And one weary soldier had found his rest in her...

She was far younger than he, who was long past the age at which the Firstborn were wont to take a mate. He had thought himself beyond such yearnings, until he laid eyes upon her, the Elf-queen’s daughter. He had borne the memory of her beauty into the darkness of Mordor, and the promise of her love had sustained him through blood and fire and despair. He had come forth from the Black Land with the burden of leadership heavy upon his back and a deadly secret in his heart, but when he looked upon her the long years fell away from his eyes and his heart sang. For a little while when he was in her presence his cares were cast aside, and this night was theirs alone.

There was a great stone by the riverbank: a keepsake left behind by the forces that had thrust up the soaring mountains and carved out this hidden valley. It was five feet high at its lower edge, with a broad, smooth top that sloped gently towards the water. Laughing, the maiden plucked up her skirts and scaled the boulder, her bare feet finding crevices to bear her up. She stood atop the mighty rock, and raised her white arms towards the moonlight in a gesture of joyful abandon. Her hair glistened like a waterfall of mithril, and her eyes glittered as she beckoned to her suitor. Nimble as the night wind, he climbed up after her.

They stood briefly together, hands clasped to one another’s arms in a pantomime of unity. Then the lady pressed a palm to either side of the lord’s fair face – a face no longer sorrowful as the sight of her healed his spirit. Upon her forefinger glinted the token of their pledge, and in her eyes was reflected all the glory of Arda. He could smell the sweet fragrance of her breath as she rose upon her toes to kiss him tenderly. His hands found her waist and he drew her towards him. The trees whispered about them and their embrace, at once chaste and yet sublimely intimate, seemed to eclipse the night. The war was forgotten, the dead ceased to cry out to him, and the dreadful, furtive fear was banished. In that instant, there was no one in all the world but she: his wife to be, his silver queen, his heart’s ease.

The balmy heat of June replaced September’s sweetness, and the birches melted into bedposts as Elrond’s mind slipped back into the present. At this midnight hour the waning moon had not yet risen, but from his chair near the window he could see the distant stars. They were silent now, as if they, too, feared to wake the sleeping child in the bed. Estel was lying curled onto his side with his back to his guardian. Elrond’s keen Elven sight allowed him to note even in the darkness the way the vertebrae of his neck stood out against his skin. It was now the fifth night since Estel’s fever had been broken, and it seemed that, at last, he was going to make it through until dawn without revisiting the terrors of his illness. Perhaps tomorrow he could be moved back into his own room.

He was growing stronger each day: this afternoon he had spent six hours sitting up in bed, reading and talking with his mother and his guardian. Erestor had come up to sit with him for a while, and they had worked together on a mathematics lesson until Estel had started to drift off to sleep. He had rested until supper, when again he had awakened for a while to eat and to speak further with Elrond. He was able to take small amounts of solid food, provided it was not too rich. In another two or three days he would be well enough to be set in a chair for short periods of time, but already he had regained enough of his strength to begin to chafe at the enforced inactivity. As he continued to heal the chief difficulty would be in keeping his busy young mind occupied so that he did not overexert himself and hobble his recovery. There was only so much that his mother and Erestor could do to distract him.

Estel stirred in the bed, and Elrond held his breath. His left foot jerked up and his right jerked down, but then he fell still once more. Warily, Elrond exhaled.

The nightmares angered him. In the throes of the dreadful fever, Estel had been subjected to unspeakable horrors. The entire bitter history of his people had been thrust upon his febrile, tortured mind: spectres of death and darkness such as no child should ever behold had come to life within him. Yet there had been a chance, while he lay wracked with delirium, that the terrors might fade with the sickness. There had been a chance that he might forget. But now he was reliving them again and again in his dreams, and there was no hope that he would fail to recall them . In time, the dreams would cease and the details perhaps slip away, but the change these visions had wrought in him would remain. Estel had in one bitter stroke been robbed of both his health and his innocence. His health could and would be restored by tender care and watchful nursing, but the innocence was lost forever. Elrond could see that bitter truth in the sombre grey eyes that looked out from deeply shadowed sockets, and he could hear it in the hoarse, tremulous voice that tried so hard to sound merry. Estel had been thrust brutally forward towards adulthood, before he was ready, and the injustice of that infuriated the Elven lord and chilled him with the despair of failure.

There was a sharp, sudden intake of breath, and Estel’s back tensed. For a moment Elrond could not move, waiting for the tormented scream, the inevitable broken sob. Tonight, it did not come.

Tonight, Estel did not cry out.

He was awake, but he made no sound. His breathing was shallow and nearly as quiet as that of an Elf – a feat he had been practicing, but one that required immense concentration and control. He did not move, but there was no doubt: he had been visited once again by the bitter shadows of the past.

Elrond got to his feet and moved swiftly to the bed. He reached out a mournful hand and laid it upon Estel’s shoulder. The boy stiffened. For a moment they were frozen thus, and then the child began to tremble. Bone-deep concussions shook his frail frame, and his hand shot out to cling to his foster-father’s wrist, but still he was silent.

‘Estel,’ Elrond said softly. He eased himself down onto the mattress, his leg running the length of the child’s bony back. Carefully he guided Estel’s hand further up on his arm so that he could maintain his anxious hold while Elrond picked him up and drew him into his lap. He wrapped his free arm around the boy and looked down at him.

Estel was staring up at his dim silhouette with wide, wild eyes. Tears ran in twin rivulets down his cheeks, but he made no sound of terror. As Elrond looked at him he understood: the boy was exerting every effort to contain his fear. He was struggling to overcome it, to lock it away deep within him, and to bear it alone.

‘There is no need for that,’ Elrond whispered, stretching out a single finger to touch Estel’s cheek. ‘You do not need to bear this burden alone. You do not need to be strong now. There will be time enough for...’ He faltered as long years of labour and hardship stretched out before his Elven sight: darkness and cruelty and bitter winter snows. Loneliness and betrayal and the ever-present fear of discovery. Weariness and hunger, filth and toil and thankless travails; unending tests of body and spirit and will. Mistrust and ignominious mistreatment at the hands of those whose lives he safeguarded with his own. Cold sea water and remote, dispassionate starlight, and fire and darkness and unyielding burdens. Through it all, the haunting temptation of hearth and home, the siren song of a quiet life in the wooded valley... a life that the wanderer could never have. Unable to finish his sentence, Elrond repeated sorrowfully, ‘There will be time enough.’

A tiny sob tore free of the tightly-pressed lips, and Estel twisted in the Elf-lord’s lap, throwing his arms around Elrond’s neck and clinging tightly to him. He hid his face in his father’s hair and let the adult rock him soothingly. Yet that one sob was the only sound he made: he kept his mouth closed and his throat silent while the paroxysms of fear ebbed away and his pounding heart slowed in his chest.

‘I am sorry, Atarinya,’ he said at last, his voice raspy and weak but steady. He pulled away from Elrond’s chest, but did not slide from his lap nor attempt to loose the protective arms around him. ‘I cannot stop the dreams.’

‘Nor can I,’ Elrond said with bitter regret, producing a handkerchief and wiping away the tear-tracks. ‘Would that I could.’

‘They seem so real,’ Estel hissed, a shiver running up his spine. ‘If only they did not seem so real, I think I could bear it better.’

‘You bear it well enough,’ Elrond told him. ‘There is no shame in your fear: I am very proud of your courage.’

‘I do not think I am courageous,’ Estel said, casting his eyes away and hanging his head in shame. ‘Brave men do not wake weeping in the night.’

‘That is not true,’ said Elrond. He reached out to turn Estel’s face back towards his own. ‘I have known many brave Men, and many valiant Elves: heroes of song and legend. I have known those who defied Morgoth himself, and those who ventured into the Black Land and mounted the slopes of Orodrúin. I have known those who laughed in the face of death, and those who rose up from maiming and torment to fight once again, and this I can tell you truthfully. I have never known one who did not, at some grim time or another, wake weeping in the night. It is the lot of those who stand forth to defy the evil in the world that they will be wounded by it, and suffer for their gallant efforts.’

‘But I am not defying evil,’ muttered Estel, his self-disgust palpable. ‘I am only frightened of silly dreams. I am no better than a coward.’

‘They are not dreams,’ Elrond said. He had debated at great length whether he ought to reveal to Estel the nature of the visions that haunted him, and he had until this moment thought that to do so would be more traumatic than helpful. Now he was no longer so certain. He owed his son the truth.

Steeling his resolve, he proceeded to explain as objectively as he could. ‘These night terrors that plague you are not flights of fancy, nor are they the inventions of a fevered mind. You are reliving dark times, times when the machinations of the Enemy fell with sundering force upon the Second-born. Everything you have seen, and felt, and heard has happened – long years ago, maybe, and many hundreds of leagues away, but still they have come to pass. I do not know why you are visited by these apparitions, but they feel real because they are, or they were. You are not a coward. You are facing horrors that made grown Men quail and sights that turned my blood to ice. And each time you lie down to sleep, you risk these visions once again. That is the true test of courage: not whether one is afraid or no, but whether one has the strength to walk forward into terror by design.’

Estel swallowed painfully. ‘They’re real?’ he whispered. ‘The wild black water and the mountain of flame and the... the things in the winter night... they’re real?’

‘Things in the night...’ Elrond echoed, and his mind touched Estel. Terror and despair on the frozen winds... hollow hopelessness in the houseless hills... and far away the fell, screeching call of a winged beast. The folk of Arnor fled before the nameless fear, and few fled quickly enough. The Ularí, the Ringwraiths, swept across Eriador breathing death and ruin on the once-prosperous lands of the Dúnedain. And behind them came their captain, the Witch-King himself...

‘Yes, they are real,’ said Elrond sorrowfully, his voice breaking the binding spell of the memory. ‘There is much in this world that is fraught with evil and ugliness and despair. I have sheltered you from such things as best I could, but in the end I was doomed to fail. You no longer have the benefit of unawareness. I am sorry for that, and if there had been any way to guard you a little longer from these bleak truths I would have done it.’

‘What can I do?’ Estel asked. ‘How can I stop it?’

‘There is only one thing that any of us can do,’ Elrond told him. ‘Be true to yourself, and fight. Defy the evil and do not submit to it. While there are those who are willing to rage against it, the Darkness cannot prevail.’

‘How do I find the strength to fight?’ the child queried unsteadily.

‘You found it tonight,’ Elrond pointed out. ‘Your error was in trying to find it alone. There will be times in your life where you must face your fears without aid, when there is no one on hand to help. But I was here tonight, and I will be here for many nights more; indeed, for many years more I will be here to aid you whenever you have need. Do not bear your burdens alone: let me help you. What seems too heavy for a single back to bear may be light for two.’

‘Atarinya?’ Estel murmured at last.

‘My son?’

‘When I am grown, will you still help me bear my burdens?’ he asked, so softly that his voice was almost inaudible even to Elven ears.

‘Yes,’ Elrond promised. Whether the question sprung from some glimmer of foresight, or whether it was nothing more than a supplication for reassurance from a frightened child, he could answer it honestly. ‘When you are grown there will be times when you and I shall be far apart, and unable to sit together as we are now, but even then my heart shall be with you, and I shall help you bear your burdens as best I may. Though doom and death should separate us, and the Sundering Seas lie between, my heart shall be with you.’

‘And mine with you,’ said Estel gravely. He could not see the long labours that lay before him, nor could he appreciate the peril that his guardian foresaw, but this was not the time to lay his doom upon him: that truth could wait. The Enemy’s curses had driven him nearer to inevitable adulthood, but he was still a child. When he came at last to the full flower of manhood there would be a day of reckoning, but Elrond was not prepared to think of that now.

Perhaps sensing his guardian’s grim thoughts, the boy drew close once more and embraced Elrond tightly. Then he planted a fond kiss on the Elf-lord’s cheekbone and rested his head somnolently upon his shoulder.

Elrond smiled into the darkness. ‘Now let us lie down,’ he said, easing Estel onto the cushions and covering him with the bedclothes. ‘You are still convalescing, and I grow weary of the long night. We would both benefit from the balm of sleep.’

Estel made no reply, for his eyelids were already heavy with exhaustion. Since the fever had broken he had not yet slept more than a few hours at a time, and Elrond no longer felt optimistic that the visions would soon fade. Still, the boy seemed prepared to face his fear yet again, and perhaps he could be warded from further incursions tonight. Elrond stretched out on top of the coverlet, his body pressed close to his child. He stroked the dark hair fondly, and closed his stinging eyes.

He had lost so much over the long centuries, and so many whom he had loved had passed away into the Twilight, but the weariness of the world had not yet entirely consumed his spirit, he realized with wonder and muted delight. Despite the struggles that the future held, there was still goodness and joy in Middle-earth. There were still things worthy of cherishing, and people who needed his love and his care. His daughter was far away, and his merry little twins had grown into hard and wrathful warriors, and the time would come when he would see Estel, too, take up arms and go forth into the shadows, but tonight in the wake of terror and evil there was peace. And at this moment, he realized as mortal sleep lulled him into unconsciousness, that was enough.

Chapter X: Curiosity

Estel stared down at the book in his lap and sighed. He was alone in his father’s bedchamber for the first time since he had awakened from the fever. He supposed it was a good sign; he was well enough now that even Mother felt able to leave him unattended. It was also very dull to sit here, however, propped up in a bed he lacked the strength to leave, with nothing to do but study in solitude.

Erestor had come by about an hour ago, bearing the book and a wax tablet and stylus. He had proposed – in his tutor’s voice that made gentle commands of suggestions – that Estel might review his language lessons.

Estel had an aptitude for tongues. He was fluent in Westron, Sindarin and Quenya, as well as the particular dialects of the Green Elves of both Lindon and Mirkwood. His reading skills were strong and he could write a passable hand in each of those languages already, and in a number of older variants of Eldarin he could hold sustained conversations without lapsing into Quenya. He even knew a little of the old dwarven tongue, for though it was secret and they taught it to none, Atar had contrived to learn something of it during his years in Hollin, and he had shared that knowledge with Estel.

His present study was the tongue of Númenor, and he was finding it uncommonly difficult. Part of the trouble was that so few still spoke it. Westron was his mother’s tongue of choice – though now she spoke Elvish as well – and he had heard if from birth. As long as he could remember, he had used and understood both Quenya and Sindarin. In learning the other dialects, he had not lacked people with whom to converse. With opportunities to ply the tongues he studied, his progress was rapid.

Adûnaic, however, was a dead language, no longer spoken in daily discourse by any of the peoples of the world. Indeed, it had never been widely spoken in Middle-earth, for the remnant of the Fiathful had swiftly adopted the languages of the mainland, and within three generations of the fall of Elenna Adûnaic had fallen out of general use. Nearly three thousand years later, there were few even among the folk of Imladris who still remembered the foreign sounds of that lost tongue. Erestor was one, and of course there was Atar, who had helped in the devising of its letters and its formal syntax in the decades following the War of Wrath and in later years been fast friends with the High King of the Dúnedain and many of his descendants. Yet neither Atar nor Erestor had unlimited leisure to lavish upon helping Estel practice, and he had sought for others with whom he might speak. Among those who tended the libraries two had a passing familiarity with the tongue, and there was one Elven lady, a fletcher, who had marched with the armies of Isildur and recalled the language of her comrades-in-arms. Yet these three, too, had other tasks to see to and little time to spend conversing in forgotten tongues, and in the last weeks before his illness Estel had made very little headway in his studies.

He was faring no better today: there were such rigid rules to the grammar, and his codex contained so limited a vocabulary that he was finding it difficult to put himself through exercises. His head ached, and he was tired. With a sigh, he pushed the book off of his lap and let his head and shoulders fall back against the cushions.

The bedroom door opened and Mother came in. She was wearing her cornflower-blue gown over a kirtle of brown summer wool, and with her plaits wrapped in a coronet around her head she looked very mortal. Estel noted with some relief that she seemed well-rested today: her eyes were not shadowed and her face was free of the furrows of worry that it had worn in recent days. She closed the door with care, and when she turned towards him he was smiling for her.

‘I thought you might be sleeping,’ Mother said, coming forward and seating herself on the side of the bed.

Estel shook his head. ‘I was trying to study,’ he said ruefully, indicating the cast-off volume beside him. ‘I wasn’t succeeding.’

Mother reached out to stroke his hair in a habitual gesture that was usually profoundly embarrassing. Just now, however, Estel did not mind it. It was good to be here in daylight, safe from the horrors that invaded his mind in the night, and it was good to know that he was loved.

‘You do not need to study if you are too tired,’ Mother told him. ‘Master Elrond has given strict instructions that you are to be allowed to rest.’ She gathered up the book and the tablet and moved both to the table by the bed. ‘I came to ask if you want me to bring you anything. It’s tiresome to lie here with nothing to do, isn’t it?’

Estel could see that her assertion was not really true: she had come up here to check on him, because she had been frightened and it comforted her to see him. Atar said it was impolite to point out what one knew about a person, especially if that person was making some pretext in an attempt to cast a different light on their actions. So Estel shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is a little dull,’ he allowed. ‘I can’t think of anything I want at the moment. Perhaps you could stay with me for a while?’

Her smile confirmed his judgement, and Estel was gratified: he had been proved right in his observations, and at the same time he had made Mother happy. She was so seldom happy. He supposed that was because his sire was dead, and she still loved him greatly.

Sometimes Estel wondered about his blood-sire. He knew that he had died eight years ago, but neither Mother nor Atar would ever explain how he had perished, or where. Beyond that, there was little that Estel knew. He supposed his sire must have been tall, for he was himself tall, but even the colour of his hair was a mystery: Mother had dark hair, and so did Estel. On several occasions he had tried to question Atar, but to no avail: his guardian had gently but firmly explained that Estel’s father could not be spoken about, and eventually the boy accepted this answer. As he grew older and wiser, Estel had come to realize that his foster-father acted out of wisdom, and that just because he could not understand the Elf-lord’s reasoning did not mean it was not sound.

As for Mother, Estel had not tried to broach the subject of his parentage with her since the day when, at the age of five, he had first truly understood that Atar was not his real father. On that day she had scolded him for his curiosity and fled from his room to weep behind the locked door of her own chamber. Her sorrow was less raw now, but it gave her an aura of unsettled mournfulness that was not unlike Atar’s more pensive moods. Perhaps, Estel thought, that explained why he loved them both so well when they did not particularly like one another.

Mother was fussing with the bedclothes, and Estel watched her, half amused. She had difficult sitting still. It seemed to be a mortal proclivity, this need to be in perpetual motion when one was uncomfortable. He had observed it in the Dúnedain who visited Rivendell, too. Though mortal himself, Estel had adopted many of the behaviours and attitudes of his Elven caretakers. Stillness was peaceful, and more soothing to an agitated spirit than anxious fidgeting. So he sat unmoving as his mother spent her nervous energy, and when she was finished and her restless hands returned to their roost in her lap, he spoke.

‘What is amiss?’ he asked. ‘You are troubled: what is wrong?’

She looked at him furtively, as if he had caught her in the midst of some secret act. Then suddenly tears stood forth in her eyes and she pressed the tips of her fingers to her mouth. Her other hand reached out and halted just short of his face. ‘You’re alive,’ she choked out.

Estel said nothing. Stillness was more soothing to an agitated spirit...

‘Y-you’re alive, he saved your life...’ A fat tear rolled down Mother’s cheek. ‘I thought...’

She seemed unable to express what she was trying to say, but Estel understood. He loosed his legs from the bedclothes and pulled himself across the mattress towards her. ‘I did not die,’ he said quietly. ‘I will heal. Do not be afraid, Mama.’

There was a soft, tremulous sob, and suddenly she was embracing him, hugging his body to hers with such force that Estel wondered if his ribs could bear the pressure. When at last her hold eased a little, he turned in her arms to find a more comfortable position. She was kissing the crown of his head, and murmuring something incoherent. At last she sniffed and drew her handkerchief from her sleeve while her other arm still held Estel close.

‘You sound like him,’ she said softly. Estel did not have to ask to whom she was referring: she had told him before that he sounded like Atar, and in the past she had not said so kindly. Now, however, there was some other subtext to her voice. She sounded resigned, sombrely acquiescent, almost defeated – as if this was a truth now, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

Mother took him by his forearms, holding him from her so that she could see him properly. The tears were spent, but the deep pain in her eyes still remained perilously near the surface. She sighed and caressed Estel’s jaw with her fingertips. ‘My poor baby,’ she whispered. ‘It has been so difficult for you. I promised... I promise I will try harder from now on. He has been so good to you; it is only natural that you should care for him. I understand that now, an-and I understand how much he loves you, too. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why?’ Estel asked, puzzled. He was not yet so skilled at the reading hearts of others that he could divine from her words how she wanted him to respond.

‘I have never made it easy for you: I tried to keep you to myself, and I tried to divide your love and your loyalty. I was wrong to do so. A child needs a father as much as a mother, and I see now that Master Elrond is your father in all but blood. I had thought... I had felt that he was usurping a place to which he had no right, but I was mistaken. He loves you dearly, and when you lay sick...’ She stopped, unable to continue. ‘I was wrong to speak ill of him in your presence. I was wrong to treat him like a rival for your affection. Can you forgive me?’

Estel nodded. He had long known that his mother disapproved of Atar, and that it displeased her when Estel went to the Elf-lord with his triumphs and his struggles, instead of choosing her. ‘I love you also, Mother,’ he said softly. ‘Because I love Atar does not mean I do not love you.’

‘I know that now,’ said Mother softly, her eyes haunted with sorrow and remorse. ‘I understand that now.’

Weariness descended suddenly upon Estel. His limbs felt weighted down with fatigue, and the aching in his body had returned. He was still weak, and he wanted to lie down, but he was not certain that he could crawl back to the head of the bed. ‘Mother?’ he said quietly.

‘Yes, my love?’ she said. There was a peculiar peace in her grieving eyes now: the cause of her distress had been laid bare, and her heart had been soothed.

‘I can’t...’ Estel looked longingly at the cushions. ‘I don’t think I could... can you help me lie down?’

A sound almost like a laugh issued from Mother’s lips. ‘Of course, dear heart,’ she acceded, sounding glad of the chance to tend to him. She got to her feet and rearranged the cushions, then held out her hands to help Estel back to his place in the bed. She eased his head down onto the pillow, and smoothed his nightshirt before drawing up the bedclothes and tucking them snugly around him. She gathered his long hair together, twisting it a little so that it would not fly in his face if he chanced to turn in his sleep. Her hands were capable and gentle, and Estel remembered why he loved to be put to bed by his mother. When she was finished, she went to the window and drew the diaphanous curtains so that the room grew dimmer. Then she took up a seat in the chair by the bed. Without needing to be asked she seemed to understand what he wanted, for she began to sing to him, her sweet, imperfect voice picking out the melody of a human lullaby. At length the room grew indistinct and vanished into darkness, and Estel slept.

lar

He awoke of his own accord, and not in the throes of some terror of the mind, when the afternoon sun was filtering through the silken drapes. Estel rolled onto his side and opened his mouth in a sundering yawn. His mouth was dry, and his eyes were sticky with sleep, but his head did not pain him and the soreness in his body had ebbed somewhat. When he felt ready to attempt movement, he turned to the other side to survey the rest of the room. He was alone again.

It took considerable effort and some careful manoeuvring, but he managed to get himself into a sitting position, with the cushions once more bolstered up behind him. The arrangement was perhaps not quite as tidy as it would have been had an adult contrived it, but it was comfortable enough.

His eyes fell upon the tome of Adûnaic by the bed, and with a resigned sigh he hauled it into his lap. If he did not make some effort, he would disappoint Erestor. Estel was very fond of his teacher, and he admired him greatly. He did not want to dissatisfy him.

He had not read more than four words when there was a soft knock at the door. Estel stiffened a little in surprise. His mother would not knock, and this was Atar’s own room, so he did not have to. Perhaps it was Erestor, come to check on his progress; if that were the case the written lesson might be turned into a spoken one, which the boy much preferred. ‘Come in!’ he said eagerly.

The door opened slowly, and a golden-haired Elf bearing a laden silver tray edged into the room, pushing the door with his shoulder. When he was safely through the entryway he looked up from his load and smiled enormously. His presence seemed to illuminate the entire room with grace and good cheer.

‘Glorfindel!’ Estel exclaimed merrily.

‘Good afternoon, young master!’ the Elf-lord said in kind. He moved around the bed, plucked the wax tablet and stylus off of the little table, and set down the tray. ‘You look much improved from the last occasion I had to see you.’

‘I think I am growing stronger,’ agreed Estel. ‘Perhaps tomorrow I may get out of bed for a little while.’ He frowned a little disconsolately. ‘I do not know if I am able to walk yet.’

‘That will come,’ Glorfindel promised. ‘And then I’ll have you running again in no time.’

This prospect was a pleasant one. Glorfindel had taken it upon himself to take charge of Estel’s physical education, and he was the nearest thing to a playmate that the boy had. It was Glorfindel who had taught him how to climb a tree properly – after a botched attempt without any instruction had led to a broken arm – and it was Glorfindel who took him rambling in the high places of the Valley and climbing by the falls. He was also coaching Estel in the art of running in the Elven fashion: fleet and tireless as wind on the plains. It was a difficult skill to learn, for as a Mortal Estel was at a significant disadvantage. He lacked the stamina of the Eldar, and his body was not built to trip tracklessly over the earth, but Glorfindel was adamant that even if he would never pass for an Elf, either in his running or in the faint trail he would leave, he might at least surpass the skills of Men. It was a lofty goal, but attainable, and they had been engaged in its attainment for the better part of a year.

‘I would like that,’ Estel said earnestly. ‘I am weary of this bed.’

‘Ah, but be wary!’ warned Glorfindel, drawing up the chair and settling in it. ‘If you press yourself too quickly, you will only squander the strength you have been gathering and add days, perhaps weeks, to your sojourn within it.’

‘I know,’ Estel sighed. ‘Atar and I discussed that at length this morning.’

‘And what are you engaged with this afternoon?’ asked the Elf, indicating the text in the boy’s hands.

‘Adûnaic.’

Glorfindel laughed. ‘Your tone tells me this is not a cherished study,’ he said. ‘You do not like the tongue of Númenor?’

‘No, I do not,’ Estel confirmed candidly. ‘It is an ugly tongue, and I have no use for it. Furthermore, there is no one with time to speak it with me, and that makes study difficult.’

‘I cannot help you in that respect,’ Glorfindel said. ‘I did not come to this place until long after the Last Alliance was broken and the Kingdom of the North had adopted a different dialect.’

Estel frowned. Glorfindel always spoke strangely of his birth. He had been born here, in Imladris – Erestor had said so once – and yet he always spoke of an arrival, rather than a birth. There was some mystery in his teacher and friend that Estel could not unravel. He would not do so now, either, he decided pragmatically.

‘How can I learn a language if I cannot use it?’ Estel asked. ‘And why does Atarinya wish me to learn it at all? It is a disused tongue, and even the men of the South Kingdom no longer speak it, or so says Erestor.’

‘If Erestor says it, it must be true. And surely you understand that your atar would never ask you to do anything if he did not believe that it was important.’ Glorfindel turned in his seat, and began to uncover the dishes on the tray. ‘While we debate this, your supper is growing cold.’

‘Where is Atarinya?’ Estel asked as the Elf-lord handed him a plate bearing a little loaf of fresh bread, roasted summer vegetables and a small piece of game hen. There was even a tiny dish of butter, which was a further sign that they thought he was recovering his appetite. ‘I have not seen him since this morning.’

‘Missives have come from Lindon, and he and Erestor have been in counsel with the bearers all day,’ Glorfindel said. ‘They shall most likely halt for the night in time for the evening meal, and I am certain that Elrond will look in on you once he has seen to the comfort of his guests. He has neglected them in your favour since the night the first party arrived.’

He had a flagon of cold milk on the tray, and from it he filled a mug. Estel balanced the plate on his lap while he took a mouthful of the nourishing fluid. Glorfindel took the mug and held it so that Estel might use both of his hands while he ate.

‘Have Elladan and Elrohir gone back into the wild?’ he asked between cautious bites. The healing draughts did much to settle his shrunken stomach, but their power was not infinite and he knew that he must not overeat.

‘No,’ said Glorfindel. ‘Or perhaps, “not precisely” would be nearer the truth. Elrohir is outside the Valley at the moment, but he is only on a brief expedition to reconnoiter the Pass. He is expected back tomorrow. Elladan has not left at all.’

‘Oh.’ Estel was at once pleased and disappointed. He admired the sons of Elrond enormously and worshiped them from afar, for they were doughty warriors, and the tales of their deeds inspired him with a desire to ride forth on quests of valour and might. They returned home so seldom, and their visits were a delight to him. He was pleased, because if they had not yet departed then he had not wasted their time of tarrying in fever and delirium. He was disappointed because they had not come up to see him. He knew they had little interest in him – a small mortal child who despite his value to their father surely seemed a nuisance to them – but in the past they had always been kind, and he had selfishly hoped they would at least care that he had been ill.

Glorfindel was watching him thoughtfully, and seemed read what was in his heart, because he said, 'When we feared you were dying, Elladan saw to the running of the household so that your atar could be freed to tend you. Elrohir spent many hours in this room; he guarded the door and brought whatever his father required. He was a great comfort to your mother, as well.'

'I am pleased to hear it,' Estel said with studied politeness. 'I shall have to thank them when I am well. And Gandalf the Grey, also: Atar said that he aided in my healing.'

'I understand he did. He is with Elrohir at the moment, for it is his party who will be taking the High Pass into the Lands Beyond. Perhaps there will be an opportunity for you to express your gratitude before he and his dwarves depart.'

'Dwarves?' Estel parroted, nearly losing the piece of fowl he had been chewing. He swallowed hurriedly and made haste to clarify. 'There are dwarves in the Valley?'

'Thirteen,' Glorfindel confirmed, launching into an animated account of the guests before Estel had a chance to demand one. 'They have been keeping the household very busy indeed, for each has a different notion of what makes a pleasant rest. Some like to smoke, some to sleep, and some to sing. They eat and they drink like hill trolls; if they stay more than a few weeks, the wine cellars will run dry! The smithies have been overrun, I am told, and there are dwarves in the kitchens and dwarves in the library. I found one the other day in the space under the backstairs, investigating what method our architects had used to keep them standing.'

Estel laughed at the thought of anyone questioning the skill of the Noldor who had ensured that this house had endured for more than four thousand years with only the most routine of maintenance. 'Do they think so little of Elven craftsmen?' he asked.

'I think, rather, that they're too curious for their own good. Not unlike a little man-child I know,' Glorfindel said playfully, cuffing Estel's arm lightly with his knuckles.

'I have an inquiring mind,' Estel said primly. 'That is how I learn.'

'Indeed it is, and someday I fancy you will find that you have learned rather more than you want to know,' warned the Elf-lord. The words sounded not unlike a portent, and Estel shifted uncomfortably against the cushions. He knew that Atar had had some vision concerning him last night, when they had been speaking about fear and the struggle against evil. It made him uncomfortable to think that his future was something into which others might look, like a shadow box, while he remained ignorant.

'Tell me more about the dwarves,' he said, trying to sound merry despite the chill that had settled on his heart. It did not occur to him that this, too, might be a premonition, for it had never crossed his mind that mortals might possess some measure of Elven-sight.

'Well,' said Glorfindel thoughtfully, though his smile was now strained at the left corner, where he carried his cares; 'their leader is Thorin, called Oakenshield. It seems he won the name in battle in Moria. He is a venerable dwarf, and he wears a large gold chain. He is very self-assured, perhaps a little arrogant. He has no doubt that he and his followers will succeed in their quest.'

'What is their quest?' Estel asked, his spirits recovering swiftly as the shadow on his soul dispersed.

'They intend to overthrow the dragon Smaug, and to retake Erebor.'

'Thirteen dwarves?' said Estel skeptically.

'And a hobbit,' Glorfindel confirmed. 'You have studied the fall of Dale: can it be done?'

Estel's brow furrowed as he considered the question. Strategy and tactics was another subject in which Glorfindel was tutoring him, though Atar did not entirely approve of such subjects for so young a pupil. They had considered the destruction of Dale several months ago, shortly after the last of Gandalf the Grey's visits, and many of the details now eluded him, but Estel remembered the diagrams of the dwarven halls for maps, like tongues, came easily to him. 'I do not think that it can,' he said. 'If they assailed the gate, the dragon would see them approaching, and pick them off as they came. If they drew it out onto the plain, they would likewise have no chance of survival. Dragons are not easy creatures to slay.'

Glorfindel laughed. 'You sound like your father,' he said.

Estel's expression darkened. His friend's words had touched upon the issue that had plauged him earlier in the day. 'My real father?' he asked guardedly.

'Your father who loves you and who has just spent many days and nights at your bedside, nursing you through your illness,' Glorfindel translated without pause.

'Oh,' Estel whispered, and he felt suddenly serene. As always, Glorfindel had found a way to make an impossible question seem exquisitely simple. 'My real father.'

Chapter XI: A Debate Resolved

When the evening meal had been eaten and the company had dispersed to the various pleasures of the night, Elrond ascended the back stairs as he had so many times in recent days. Tonight, at last, his departure was serene, for he knew that the child awaiting him upstairs was convalescing and had no need of his haste.

He found Estel sitting up in bed, frowning at a wax tablet that lay cast off over his knees. The boy looked up as his guardian entered the room.

‘You look well, Estel,’ Elrond told him, stretching the truth only a little. The thinness of the child’s face was alarming: he had been too slender for his height even before the illness, having shot up so swiftly in recent months that his body could not keep pace, and now the candlelight cast long shadows into his cheekbones and his temples. Yet his quicksilver eyes were bright and keen again, and the lines of strain had vanished with the deathly grey hue from his skin. ‘Your hair wants brushing.’

‘I have been in bed all day,’ Estel said. ‘Why should I trouble to brush my hair?’

‘It is not vanity to tend to one’s cleanliness and appearance,’ Elrond said, collecting a comb from his clothes-press and crossing to the bed. He placed his left hand on the nape of Estel’s neck, and with his other began to set right the unruly black locks. ‘If you wish to look like a wild thing, that is your own affair, but I prefer tidy children.’

‘You should have left the comb where I could reach it, then,’ Estel retorted impishly. ‘You told me that I had to stay in bed.’

‘Now I know you are healing: you have begun to talk back to me!’ laughed Elrond. ‘Someday I must teach you greater respect for authority.’

‘It matters not what I may say, so long as I perforce obey,’ Estel countered in a sing-song voice. ‘You have often said that one counsellor who speaks his mind is of greater value than ten who comply blindly with their lord’s commands.’

‘That is true,’ said Elrond; ‘but you are not my counsellor.’

‘I will be some day. And when I am – Ai! Atarinya, that pulls!’

‘If you had brushed your hair when you awoke, you would not have knots. Every decision has consequences, foreseen and unseen. This particular result could be easily predicted.’ Elrond spoke the words firmly, even as his fingers sought out the next matted piece of hair and worked it smooth before drawing the comb across it. This time it did not tug upon the boy’s scalp.

‘But the comb—’

‘Now, do not make excuses, my son. Had you wished to do it, you could have asked your mother to bring it to you. Or Glorfindel. Either one of them would have been happy to use it for you, too. Your choice was made freely, was it not?’

‘My choice was made freely,’ Estel admitted ruefully. He sat in silence while Elrond finished with the comb and plaited the dark hair with deft fingers. He plucked the piece of cord that bound one of his own braids and tied off Estel’s.

‘I see you have been studying,’ he said, picking up a book that lay cast off on the coverlet. It was the Númenorean lexicon that the boy had been using to learn the language of his forbearers.

His words provoked an immediate response. Estel tossed his head in defiance. ‘No, I have not!’ he exclaimed crossly. ‘I have tried, but I cannot do it! It is an impossible tongue to learn, and I do not understand why I need it at all!’

Elrond waited patiently. When no further outburst seemed forthcoming, he sat down on the bed, fingering the embossed spine of the volume. ‘I see,’ he said sagely. ‘Have you expressed your frustration to Erestor?’

‘No,’ Estel whispered, looking rather ashamed of his angry eruption. ‘I did tell Glorfindel how I felt...’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said that you must have a good reason for wanting me to study it,’ the boy said.

‘Do you think that I have a good reason?’ Elrond asked, cocking his head to one side and regarding his ward quizzically.

‘I know that you often act upon private motives, and I have never found your logic to be faulty...’ Estel hedged. Elrond nodded his assent, but did not speak. After a moment’s silence, Estel said vehemently; ‘But I cannot see the use of this language! No one speaks it: even in Imladris there are so few that I can count them on one hand! There are only seven books downstairs, and four of them have translations in both Sindarin and Westron. I will never have need of this tongue!’

‘I suppose it must seem that way,’ Elrond said. ‘I confess that I had thought that learning this language would give you pleasure: you have a gifted tongue, and you pick up dialects so swiftly. It is not like the Elven tongues you know so well, but neither is the dwarf-language, and you learned so eagerly all that I had to teach of that.’

‘I might use that tongue at any time!’ Estel protested. ‘Why, if I were well enough to go downstairs, I might even try it with the dwarves who are visiting the house! But Adûnaic...’ He gestured vaguely, and then let his hands fall to his lap with a discouraged sigh.

‘Who told you there are dwarves visiting the house?’ Elrond asked with a curious smile.

‘Glorfindel. O, Atarinya, when will I be strong enough to go down and meet them? I have never seen a dwarf.’ The frustration was supplanted by an eager, supplicating grin.

Elrond hesitated. It was imperative that his son learn tolerance of the many races of Middle-earth – and tolerance for dwarves was a taste that had to be carefully nurtured and slowly acquired – but the dangers were manifold. Even if he would not be exhausted by such a meeting, there was the need for secrecy to consider. Gandalf’s motley treasure-hunters were stout and single-minded, honest Children of Aulë, but dwarves were notorious yarn-spinners; particularly in their cups. If they carried from this house tales of a sickly mortal child who addressed the Lord of Imladris as ‘father’, word would inevitably reach agents of the Enemy. It was a choice, then, between Estel’s education in the cultures of the world in which he would soon be called to take his place, and his continued safety.

‘If you were not so peaked and wasted, I might allow it,’ Elrond said regretfully; ‘but I am afraid you will not be well enough by the time they are ready to depart.’

Estel’s smile wavered, but he was undaunted: his quick, analytical mind was already working out compromises. ‘Glorfindel could carry me down, and I could be propped up on a couch. I would be careful to remain warmly wrapped, and I would tell you as soon as I grew weary,’ he promised. ‘Please, Atarinya; I would so like to meet them!’

A healthy, happy child might not arouse any suspicions in honest dwarven minds, but an emaciated and ailing one could hardly fail to. Sadly, Elrond shook his head. ‘You cannot, my child. I am sorry. You cannot.’

The expression of disappointment on the boy’s face wrung at the Elf-lord’s heart. ‘So I must lie here like a prisoner, with nothing to do but study forgotten tongues and long for the day when I can get out of this bed,’ Estel muttered, casting his eyes away from his father and hugging his abdomen disconsolately.

Elrond reached out to stroke his head, but stayed his hand when he recalled how much Estel disliked it when his mother subjected him to such a gesture. Instead, he let his hand come to rest on the boy’s shoulder. ‘It is a grievous yoke to bear,’ he said; ‘but I think you know that it is necessary. We cannot risk your recovery on such an excursion, and we cannot have the guests asking untoward questions. Yet perhaps there are other things we can do to relieve your boredom. Are you ready for sleep?’

Estel shook his head, still wracked with melancholy. He did not meet Elrond’s eyes. ‘I am scarcely weary at all now. I have been feeling better since Glorfindel visited me.’

‘Yes, Glorfindel’s presence is a balm for the soul,’ Elrond agreed, thinking of his wise and merry counsellor who had served him so well through the centuries. It pleased him that Estel had struck up such a nourishing friendship with the Elf. ‘If you feel well enough, you might leave this bed for a while in my company. Though I am afraid I cannot take you to meet the dwarves, there is something else I would like to show you.’

The child looked up, puzzlement in his wounded eyes. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘You will see,’ Elrond said, smiling. ‘Do you feel well enough?’

‘I do not think I could walk very far,’ Estel said, a little embarrassed.

‘I would not have you walk at all: I will carry you.’

‘Then yes.’ The boy’s expression grew fiercely determined. ‘Yes, I am well enough.’

Elrond brought a heavy winter mantle from the clothes-press and made quick work of swathing Estel’s bony body in it, tucking the rich cloth around his bare feet. With a warm woollen shawl wrapped around his shoulders, he was adequately protected from the chill of the evening. Elrond lifted him in his arms, and bore him out of the bedchamber and up the back staircase. Estel remained very still out of deference to his bearer, but his eyes darted around, taking in the doors that they passed and the corners that they turned as Elrond made his way towards the western wing.

When he reached the door he sought, he was obliged to set the child down upon a bench in the corridor while he dug out the heavy ring of keys hanging under his surcote. Estel watched as he found the correct one and unlocked the door. A moment later they were inside, and he settled Estel in an armchair by the hearth. Moving swiftly through the dark, he plucked the flint and tinder from the mantelpiece and set about lighting several sconces. The flames illuminated the room with its round study-tables and its high glass windows – some of the few in the house that could not be opened – and its rows of laden shelves.

Estel looked around in astonishment. ‘The private library?’ he said. ‘But you said I was too young for these books!’

‘You were,’ Elrond told him, replacing the tools on the mantle and igniting a candlestick from the nearest wall fixture.

‘Have I grown so much in a few weeks?’ asked the boy.

Elrond regarded him sadly and yet with pride. ‘Tell me, do you not feel you have aged more in the course of your illness than you had in many weeks, or months, before?’

‘Yes,’ Estel exhaled, and from his suddenly sombre expression it was plain that he spoke the truth.

‘Then I think you are old enough now.’

The wondering smile crept back onto the child’s face as he eyed the room filled with heretofore forbidden knowledge. ‘Can I read any of these?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Elrond said. ‘It will be some years yet before I show you the archives that lie beyond that far door, but the books in this room are now yours to peruse as you wish. You can read any of them... save the volumes on this shelf here.’

He indicated a shelf on the interior wall, sheltered from the windows by an outcropping arch. Dust was not allowed in the libraries of Imladris, and yet these rows looked untouched nonetheless. There were heavy, leather-bound volumes and broad folios wrapped in linen, and the three lowest shelves were given over to heavy leaden cylinders stamped with the catalogue of the scrolls within them.

‘Why am I not permitted to read those?’ asked Estel, at once bewildered and intrigued.

‘I did not say you were not permitted to read them: I said you cannot.’ Elrond picked up one particularly slender, delicate-looking tome and caressed its gilded cover. ‘These are the books written in the language of Númenor, which you have admitted to being unable to learn.’

‘I did not say I was unable,’ Estel said rather edgily. ‘I said that it was difficult, and I could see no purpose to it.’ He eyed the volume in his foster-father’s hands. ‘I did not realize there were other books...’

‘There are. They are too precious to be stored in the main library: these are all very old – older than Elladan and Elrohir. Some of them were even brought over in the Crossing of the Faithful when they fled the wreck of Númenor.’ He came and seated himself in a chair near the child.

‘Was that one?’ Estel asked, nodding at the book that Elrond held.

‘No. This book is the work of one of my pupils; a young Mortal who dwelt in Rivendell long ago, before I had children of my own. He was not overfond of books or of lore, and he wished rather to be trained as a warrior alone, but in time he came to see the importance of such studies, and he applied himself to the creation of this book. The task was a lesson in self-discipline, and it imbued him with patience and an appreciation for the written word that he had not previously posessed. This volume represents the painstaking labour of two years.’ He held it out towards Estel. ‘Have a care: the pages are more brittle than other volumes you have held.’

Estel looked at the cover. ‘Did he bind it, too?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Elrond admitted. ‘Erestor saw to that, for bookbinding is an art unto itself, and it requires many decades of dedicated study to perfect. My pupil transcribed the text within, and he created the illuminations. It was that task which consumed so much of his time.’

Estel opened the book with care, turning the leaves as gently as Elrond could have wished: he was a very considerate child when he set his mind to be so, and extraordinarily patient. The Elf-lord watched as he studied the meticulous but artificial and occasionally lopsided script that marked the aged parchment. When he reached the first illumination, Estel giggled softly at the sight of the imperfect drawing: an adolescent’s careful academic attempt at reproducing the classical style. He looked up quizzically. ‘How old was the person who made this?’ he asked.

‘He began when he was nearly seventeen. As you can see, your hand is better already than his, and you do not even understand the language.’

‘Did you make him study Adûnaic as well?’ asked Estel.

‘I had no need to: it was his mother-tongue and he spoke it as perfectly as you speak Sindarin or Quenya. His name was Valandil, the son of Isildur and the first independent king of the North.’

Estel knew his history well, even though he did not realize that it was his own. ‘Elendil’s heir,’ he said. ‘He was too young to go into battle, so he remained here and thus survived the massacre of the Dûnedain at the Gladden Fields. I did not realize that he was your pupil.’

‘All the children who have dwelt in this valley have been my pupils,’ Elrond said; ‘though not all have received quite so much of my tutelage as you have. I see, however, that you need still more than you have been given. We shall have to work together on your work in the tongue of Nûmenor, and then perhaps you can read that book yourself.’

‘What is it?’ Estel asked.

‘It is the tale of Tar-Aldarion, the sixth king of Númenor, and Erendis his fair lady wife. Valandil chose for this exercise a tale he had heard many times throughout his childhood, though it is a tale seldom repeated now. In that book it is preserved as it was told of old, by the Men to whose history it belongs. No translation can ever do justice to a story as its own tongue can, just as songs written in Elvish sound strange in Westron.’ Elrond folded his hands and waited, allowing Estel time to ponder his words. ‘Now tell me why I wish you to learn Adûnaic.’

‘Because it is a part of the past that must be preserved,’ Estel said. ‘If no one learns it, then it will vanish into the darkness, and it will be as if it never had been.’ He looked at the shelf of Adûnaic texts. ‘I suppose that is all that remains of the lore of Nûmenor,’ he remarked. ‘The rest would have been lost when Arnor fell.’

‘That is not quite true,’ Elrond told him, smiling a little at the boy’s pensive countenance. ‘There endure some texts, I am told, in another treasury of knowledge far from this valley. In the white city of the Men of the West, in the archives of the Stewards in Minas Tirith there remain still some works in the language of their long fathers. I have never seen them, and perchance I never will, but it may be that one day one of my students, who has been instructed by me in this “useless” tongue, may travel there, and decipher those scrolls and learn something of the founding days of Gondor that has been forgotten even by her lore-masters.’

‘I understand now,’ Estel said gravely. ‘Knowledge must be shared in order to be saved. I promise I will apply myself more diligently to my studies.’

‘And I in turn promise that I shall make time to speak with you in the language of Númenor. That makes it easier for you to pick up a tongue, I think,’ Elrond observed. ‘You have a gifted ear. That is a fortunate talent; it will serve you well through all the years of your life.’

Estel raised a judicious hand to his mouth in an attempt to disguise a yawn. He blinked slowly and tried to hide his weariness, but Elrond plucked the book gently from his fingers and returned it to its place with the others. He moved along the walls, snuffing the candles with quick puffs of air. ‘And now to bed, little one,’ he said fondly, and gathered up Estel and his wrappings. Once outside, he locked the door. He would have to see about getting a key cut for Estel, now that he had been promised free run of the library.

The boy remained once more very still while Elrond carried him, his head resting against the Elf-lord’s shoulder. Indeed, Elrond thought the child had drifted off to sleep in his arms, but as he stepped off of the last stair and started down the corridor towards his chamber, Estel spoke.

‘Atarinya?’ he murmured. ‘Are you certain I cannot meet the dwarves?’

Elrond laughed softly. ‘You are incorrigible, my son, but I am immovable. I am sorry. I will do my best to contrive to have you introduced to Gandalf, now you are once more among the living and can appreciate the uniqueness of that experience, but you cannot meet the dwarves.’

‘Hmm,’ Estel said noncommittally, yawning once more. By the time Elrond reached his bedchamber, the boy truly had slipped into peaceful slumber.

Chapter XII: First Steps

Gilraen sat at her sitting-room casement, setting the left sleeve into a soft cambric shirt. Across the room, Estel was bundled in a chair before the fire, conversing haltingly with the Lord of Imladris in a tongue she could not comprehend.

In response to Estel’s awkward query, Elrond launched into a smooth, slow and carefully enunciated oration. Estel listened intently, and when the speech ended he said in Sindarin, ‘Five pillars of blue?’

Master Elrond laughed softly. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Now say it in the correct language.’

Gilraen supposed that Estel complied, but his words meant nothing to her.

There was a rap at the door, and before Gilraen could react Estel sang out, ‘Come in!’

Elladan entered, scanning the room hastily. His eyes fixed upon his father. ‘Gandalf has returned,’ he said, his speech rapid and grave. ‘He awaits you in Elrohir’s chamber. I am to bid you to come at once.’

‘Is something amiss?’ the Elf-lord asked with maddening calm.

‘Nothing that a few stitches and a little rest cannot mend,’ Elladan said, though there was some darker emotion behind the easy words. ‘It seems they ran afoul of a raiding party three nights ago. Elrohir took a wound to the arm.’

‘Ah.’ Elrond closed his eyes serenely. If the news of his son’s injury distressed him at all he did not show it. This was precisely the kind of situation that made him seem so uncaring and aloof, as if he were detached somehow from all the world’s ills. Gilraen caught herself, forcing forward the memory of Estel, lying tormented in bed while the Elf-lord bent over him, wracked with fear and anguish that he could no longer wholly conceal. She understood him better now, she told herself resolutely. It was the detachment, and not the love, that was affected.

It was no use, she realized bitterly. She was still disinclined to look favourably upon him. Her behaviour she could control, but not the whisperings of her heart. His own son was wounded, and he sat there unmoving. Would he give any greater care to her child?

‘You must excuse me, Estel.’ The Master of Rivendell rose to his feet and touched the boy's shoulder in a brief gesture of affection. ‘It seems someone else has need of my healing hands today.’

‘Is he seriously injured?’ Estel asked, twisting in his wrappings to look at Elladan.

‘Not seriously,’ the Elf assured him with an almost earnest smile. ‘He will soon be put right.’ He looked at his sire, who was waiting expectantly in the doorway. ‘You go to him, Atarinya. I would like a few words with young Estel.’

‘I am glad,’ Elrond said, so quietly that Gilraen scarcely heard him. Then suddenly he was gone and Elladan carefully closed the anteroom door. Abruptly it occurred to Gilraen that the usually charismatic and self-assured Elf looked profoundly out of his depth.

‘You look... well,’ he said, moving nearer to the invalid boy.

Estel smiled, the muscles around his mouth rippling beneath the tightly-drawn skin. ‘I think you are being very diplomatic,’ he said candidly.

‘Estel! Do not be so impolite!’ Gilraen scolded.

Elladan laughed. ‘Fear not, lady: he is quite correct. I forget that he is no longer a little boy, and it was rude of me to treat him as such. In sooth, Estel, I find you distressingly changed.’

‘Yet I am alive,’ said Estel in a straightforward way that wrung at his mother’s heart; ‘and I am told that I am fortunate.’

‘Perhaps. That is not for me to say: in matters of healing I defer always to my father. Yet I think, fortunate or no, you are also bored. It is not easy to sit idle when a lively spirit yearns for action. How have you been occupying your time?’ The Elf took the chair his father had vacated, but not before drawing it a little further away from the patient.

‘I have resumed my lessons,’ Estel said in the studiously polite voice that he used when unfamiliar adults asked about his education. ‘I cannot afford to waste time in that respect, for there is much that I still must learn. I am presently studying the tongue of Númenor.’

‘Ah, then you have my pity!’ Elladan grimaced sympathetically. ‘That accurséd tongue cost me many hours of fruitless labour until my father gave up trying to teach me. It was a useless language even then.’

‘Do not tell him that,’ Gilraen interjected. ‘Your sire has only just convinced him that its study is worthwhile.’

Elladan cocked his head to one side. ‘And you approve?’ he said curiously, guarded surprise in his voice.

Gilraen flushed and quickened her stitching. ‘It is not for me to approve or disapprove,’ she said tersely, ashamed that her scornful behaviour was such common knowledge. ‘I have given the education of my son over into the hands of Master Elrond: he must do as he sees fit.’

‘That is a very different tune from the one you were wont to play, lady,’ Elladan said. Then he smiled graciously. ‘It is to your credit that you are able to change it.’

‘I am attempting to,’ Gilraen said, fixing her eyes upon her work and refusing to look at the Elven warrior.

Elladan nodded in understanding and turned his attention back to Estel. ‘Glorfindel tells me that you are fleet and sure of foot,’ he said.

‘Not now,’ Estel told him. ‘I have not even attempted to stand on my own since I fell ill.’ He scowled blackly. ‘I cannot even walk across the room.’

Gilraen waited for the placating expression of condescension, for some patronizing variation upon ‘such things will come in time’, but instead Elladan grinned. ‘I think you will surprise yourself,’ he said, rising and unwrapping the cocoon of blankets.

‘What are you doing?’ Estel said, somewhat alarmed. Elladan lifted the boy’s bare feet, and slipped the stool out from under them. Pushing back the blankets, he took Estel’s hands in his own.

‘Now stand up,’ he said.

The shirt was in Gilraen’s lap now, her hands motionless as she watched. Estel gripped Elladan’s fingers tightly and slid forward. One foot, then the other struck the floor with a soft slapping sound. Then slowly, cautiously, Estel straightened his knees. His legs trembled under the forgotten strain, and for a moment Gilraen feared he would fall. But Elladan remained still, a living pillar to which the child could cling, and at last Estel was upright.

The Elf spoke a word of encouragement, and withdrew his hands. The child remained upright, swaying slightly, a thin little spectre in his nightshirt. Estel was standing.

A sound halfway between a laugh and a snort of surprise escaped the boy. Elladan took a long step backward. ‘Now try to walk,’ he prompted.

Estel took three halting steps before his weakened knees gave out. Swift as a diving hawk, Elladan swooped forward to catch him, even before Gilraen could spring to her feet with a cry of alarm. He lifted him in his arms and looked frantically at the boy’s face. ‘I am sorry!’ he exclaimed in dismay. ‘Are you hurt? Shall I fetch my father?’

Estel raised his head, a radiant smile on his face. His eyes were shining with the light of triumph. ‘I can walk!’ he exclaimed happily.

‘Not very far,’ the Elven warrior said, looking very relieved indeed. He moved back towards the armchair and set the boy once more among his blankets.

‘What does that matter? Endurance will come in time!’ Estel laughed. In his delight he looked more like his former self than he had at any time since falling ill, and in her heart Gilraen blessed Elladan for giving her that gift. ‘I can walk!’

lar

Gandalf leaned against the door-frame, watching dispassionately as the Lord of Imladris tied off the last suture and clipped the fine silk thread. The ragged edges of the wound were closed now: a meandering red line dissecting the forearm of the half-Elven soldier. Elrohir was leaning on his good arm, his face turned away from his father’s ministrations. Though taught with pain, his primary expression was one of embarrassment.

‘They caught us unawares,’ he said ruefully. ‘Four large orcs and a craven goblin slave. One moment we were alone among the rocks, and the next they were upon us.’

‘A bold band, to assail the two of you,’ Elrond said, soaking a cloth with spirits and daubing gently at the wound. ‘I assume they paid dearly for their audacity.’

‘Not dearly enough,’ Elrohir muttered. ‘What troubles me is that they have grown so bold. We have been remiss in our duties: when my arm is healed there shall be a day of reckoning.’

‘Have you reconsidered your route?’ Elrond asked, turning towards the wizard. ‘Surely it is plain that the High Pass is too dangerous.’

‘We were two lonely travellers on foot,’ Gandalf said. ‘I shall be taking fifteen, and ponies. I must get them across the mountains somehow, and any other pass would take us hundreds of miles off-course. We shall proceed as planned.’ He frowned. ‘How did the servants of the Enemy propagate so enthusiastically upon your very doorstep? What is amiss with the Dúnedain? First you tell me they cannot aid us because they are safeguarding the North, and now it is made plain that they cannot do even that.’

Elrond shot to his feet, his eyes flashing in sudden anger. ‘What is amiss with the Dúnedain?’ he snapped. ‘They are outmatched and hunted! They have no lord to lead them, and each year their number dwindles. Five weeks ago three were lost in the Troll-fells, and signs of a fourth was found on the north shores of Nenuial. Whether he had frozen to death and was later eaten by carrion, or whether he had been overcome by wargs before he perished could not be determined from the fragments that remained. My folk give them such aid as we can, but if the tides do not turn soon there will be no men left in fifteen years. If they cannot secure the mountains that is no fault of their own!’

Elrohir reached up to pluck at his father’s sleeve. ‘I am certain the criticism was not meant in earnest, Atarinya,’ he said sombrely. ‘As doubtless you can see, Mithrandir, the fault lies chiefly with my brother and I. If your party will linger here a few weeks more, we shall cleanse the Pass of the goblin filth for you.’ The old hatred smouldered in his eyes, and he clenched the fist of his sword-arm so that the flesh around the stitches rippled and a dark trail of blood oozed from the wound.

The wizard shook his head. ‘We shall not tarry much longer. Thorin is already eager to be gone, and I have no time to waste. We will take our chances with the orcs. You must spare your energies: we shall have need of the fell Sons of Elrond for a greater endeavour ere long.’

Elrohir’s brow furrowed. ‘Then we are to proceed?’ he asked. ‘The attack upon Dol Guldur is going forward?’

Elrond shook his head. ‘That is yet unknown,’ he said. ‘It remains to convince Saruman that such action is necessary. When last the Council met he was most reluctant to make any move.’

‘We will convince him,’ Gandalf growled. ‘We must.’

‘I ride for Orthanc in August,’ Elrond told his son. ‘If an accord is reached, our forces can depart from the Valley and cross the mountains at Caradhras. I will not return in the interim, but shall ride with Galadriel to the muster in Lórien.’

‘You cannot mean to suggest that you will march on Mirkwood?’ Elrohir said incredulously. Elrond gave him a long, steady look. ‘Atarinya, that is madness!’

‘Have you so little regard for me? I have long lived in peace, but I have not forgotten the arts of war. I am an able commander, and I will lead my folk to battle if I must,’ the Elf-lord said. ‘Do not forget who taught you to wield a blade, my son.’

‘It is unnecessary,’ protested the younger Peredhil. ‘Elladan and I can lead our people. You must stay here, and safeguard the Valley. If we fail at Dol Guldur the Enemy will surely strike back against us: who will protect Rivendell if you do not?’

‘Erestor will rule our people while I am gone. You have seen him only as a lore-master and a teacher, but he too is versed in the ways of combat and defence. I cannot sit idle while the Council moves against the Necromancer. If anything were to go amiss,’ he added with a pointed glance at Gandalf; ‘my presence would be needed in Mirkwood.’

‘Your father is right, Elrohir,’ the wizard said. ‘We have need of him. Without his aid there is little hope of success.’

‘Surely you will not use...’ Elrohir caught himself and rephrased his statement. ‘Surely you will not take extraordinary measures on the very threshold of the Enemy’s tower? What has endured in secrecy so long cannot be laid bare now.’

‘No, it cannot,’ Elrond agreed; ‘and the Three will not march to open war yet. As a last resort, if ruin lay before us, we could unmask our power, but I do not think it will come to that. My heart forebodes that our struggle shall be brief, but in the end fruitless. While the One endures unfound there can be no hope of lasting victory.’

‘Then it must be found,’ Elrohir said. ‘We can drag the Anduin from its source to its mouth if needs must—’

Elrond laughed mirthlessly. ‘A grand gesture, no doubt,’ he said; ‘but useless I think. Saruman has often assured the Council that the Ring was washed into the Sea long ago. After so many centuries it seems impossible that the One could remain where it had been lost, if indeed it was lost there at all. The survivors of the massacre might easily have mistaken what they had seen, or I in my folly might have misinterpreted their words.’

‘That is less likely than you seem to think it,’ Gandalf said wryly. ‘Never have I known you to be hasty in judgement. I would trust your counsel in such matters above even my own. Yet such matters may be debated to greater purpose in Isengard.

'In the meanwhile,’ he said, pushing himself off the door-post and striding to the window; ‘I have treasure-hunters to set on their way, and a stubborn old wizard to win to my cause.’

‘Now you know how the rest of us feel,’ Elrohir said cheekily. ‘Father, will you bandage the arm so that I may go and bathe? Then I would like to see Estel.’

‘Your brother is with him now,’ Elrond told him. ‘I am pleased that the two of you are at last taking an interest in the boy. Not many years remain before he will be old enough to be entrusted to your tutelage.’

‘I had not thought of that,’ admitted Elrohir. ‘He will have to learn the ways of the wild somehow, I suppose.’

‘He will indeed, and he could benefit greatly from your care and wisdom. It would please me to see my children in harmony: Estel thinks very highly of you.’

When Elrohir was gone, in search of a bath, Gandalf turned from the window. His bushy brows were knit into a pensive frown. ‘It occurs to me, Peredhil,’ he said; ‘that you have an ulterior motive for riding to Mirkwood by way of Lothlórien.’

‘Have I indeed?’ Elrond asked softly.

The Istar nodded sagely, plucking at his beard. ‘It has been many years since you have last seen your daughter.’

‘Yes,’ said the Elf-lord, a small sorrowful smile touching his lips. Once, many thousand years ago in a land long lost beneath the Sea, it had been whispered that his family was broken, sundered by the ills of Arda Marred. At times like this, such still seemed to be the case. ‘So it has.’

lar

Midnight was long past and the candles had burned low, but still the two confederates sat bowed over Gandalf's carefully-drawn diagrams outlining the outer defences of Dol Guldur. The information was many years out of date, but at the moment it was all that they had. Fresh intelligence might be gathered later, but a polished plan of action had to be produced now, before the wizard continued on his quest for dragon gold. To win the support of the head of the Council would be no easy task, and it was imperative that they had a firm answer to any question he might ask. All through the evening they had conferred, arguing all sides of each propsed move and trying to pick their plans apart as meticulously as Saruman surely would. Both were weary and irritated from the debates, both real and manufactured, and they were grating mercilessly on one another's good graces. Their present discussion was not a case of simulated cross-examination; the dischord was very real, and it was growing more heated by the moment.

'Far be it from me to question your admittedly extensive experience in seige warfare,' Gandalf was saying, exasperation thrumming in every pore; 'but you have left an avenue of escape between the arms of your mounted force and the archers of Lórien.'

'Seige warfare is precisely what we must avoid at all costs,' Elrond countered tersely. 'We have neither the might nor the resources to sustain a lengthy conflict. We must descend swiftly upon the Necromancer and drive him forth from his fortress. If we encircle the tower entirely, we will force him to entrench himself and settle in for a contest of attrition. Meanwhile the situation in the North will grow ever more grave, and Lórien will be come little better than a garrison. And what of your dwarves? You will not be able to ride north to their aid, for you will be occupied maintaining a doomed blockade.'

Gandalf planted one bony finger on a heavily annotated map, tracing an arc behind the hatching that represented the battallions of Imladris. 'If we do not form a complete perimeter,' he said; 'then the forces he has assembled within the tower can trickle forth at will. We will find ourselves embroiled in a battle on two fronts.'

'Our purpose is to drive him out. We cannot hope to cast him down utterly, and so we must deprive him of his intolerably advantageous strategic position. If we expect him to fly, it is encumbent upon us to leave him some means to do so.'

'Why, then, force him south? Why not east? As it is now the greater part of our army must gather in the north, with its back to the evils of Mirkwood.' Gandalf gestured broadly and sat back in his chair with an irate sigh. 'The spiders will muster to the scent of blood and death, and once again we will have foes before and behind.'

'Thranduil's folk can afford us some respite from the spiders,' Elrond argued. While his erswhile friend might not be willing to come to their aid, at least he could not deny them assistance with controlling the vermin that infested his realm. 'If we force Sauron east, there is no telling where he will fly. He might migrate north and treat with the dragon, when your dwarves fail to neutralize it. He might even cross the mountains to the ruins of Angmar, and then we would be in a worse position than before. If we drive him south, at least we will know where he will next appear.'

Gandalf's eyes grew black with ominous enlightenment. He leaned forward onto his elbows, hands planted on the table before him like the paws of a great prowling cat, and he fixed the Elf-lord with a terrible stare. 'You wish to drive him into Mordor,' he hissed, and it seemed as if the room grew darker and a cold wind swept through it. 'You wish to force him to return to his old haunts, where he can raise the Barad-dûr anew and breed armies to devour the world.'

'While the One Ring remains within the bounds of the world, we shall never prevent it,' Elrond said. 'Our only chance is to delay him, to beat him back as best we may, and to secure our borders against the next assault. We cannot hope to end his power.'

'You had an opportunity to do just that, and you failed,' Gandalf said bitterly. 'Out of camraderie or pity you allowed the Ring to vanish from our knowledge, when the fires of Orodruin were beneath your very feet! Your gentle heart may destroy us all.'

'That I know well,' murmured Elrond, drawing a weary hand across his temples. 'Grievously shall we all pay for my folly, ere the end. But what is done I have not the power to undo. All I can do is make reparation for that misstep as best I can, and attempt once more to set right that dreadful wrong.'

Their eyes remained locked as a terrible silence fell upon the room. At length the wizard cast his gaze away, and chafed at his beard. 'It is a terrible burden to hold the fate of the world in one's hands,' he said. 'One cannot always choose aright, and ill-made decisions have catastrophic consequences that none can forsee.'

That was as near an absolution as he was ever going to give, and Elrond tried to take some comfort from the words of empathy. It was of little use. He had never forgiven himself for that moment of weakness, and he could not be exculpated so easily, not even by Gandalf the Grey.

The two weary conspirators stiffened in alarm as an unexpected sound cut through the stillness of the library. It was the scraping of a key against the strike plate of the door. They heard it enter the lock, but whoever was weilding it appeared to have difficulty forcing the key against the heavy tumblers. With a soft squeak it was withdrawn, and slowly, tremulously, the door was pushed open.

Chapter XIII: An Untold Tale

Elrond turned in his chair as the hinges spread inward. A thin white hand appeared first, desperately gripping the edge of the door. Then a slender bare foot slipped over the threshold, and suddenly the intruder was inside and the heavy door swung closed with a low thud behind him.

‘Estel!’ Elrond exclaimed in astonished dismay. ‘What are you doing out of bed? You are not strong enough to be wandering the house in the middle of the night.’

‘I know,’ Estel whispered, his chest heaving as he drew in an unsteady breath. Only then did Elrond see how he was trembling. There was a ghastly pallor to his face and his eyes were rimmed in red: he had been weeping, perhaps in frustration at his body’s weakness.

Elrond rose and moved to lay his hand on the child’s shoulder. Reacting to the gentle contact, Estel took a stumbling half-step forward and buried his face against his father’s ribs, the fingers of one hand clutching his belt for support as his thin legs shook. ‘Atarinya, forgive me,’ he exhaled tremulously.

He was quaking with exhaustion, and Elrond was tempted to pick him up and bear him straight away to bed, but he did not. Estel was well enough now to resent being treated like an invalid or a babe. If they did not address his folly in a reasoned and mature manner, this incident would only repeat itself. It was necessary to discuss whatever madness had seized him and brought him, against all reason, halfway through the vast house. The Elf-lord took a more bracing hold on the child’s arms, lest the trembling knees should fail him.

‘Why do you ask my forgiveness?’ he inquired in a wryly factual tone. ‘It is not my recovery that will be hampered if you have overtaxed yourself this night.’

‘I did not know you were in counsel,’ Estel mumbled, jerking his head ever so slightly in Gandalf’s direction. ‘Else I would not have come to...’

His words trailed off and he closed his eyes tightly as a concussive shudder rippled down his spine. His nightshirt was damp with perspiration and he was now placing almost his full weight against the adult’s torso.

‘My child, when I said you had free run of the library, I did not mean that you should come here unescorted so soon in your healing,’ Elrond went on. ‘What made you believe that you could walk so far?’

‘Elladan and Elrohir... they helped me today. After I had supped, I walked across Mother’s anteroom,’ the boy whispered. His voice was quivering and he sounded perilously close to tears: he knew that what he had done was foolish.

‘That is glad news indeed, but such an accomplishment does not mean that it is mete for you to test your limitations so ambitiously,’ Elrond scolded gently. ‘You might have fallen or swooned away, and gone undiscovered until morning. How ever did you manage the stairs?’

‘I crawled,’ Estel said, and his voice broke in a half-sob.

Elrond sighed. The child’s stubborn streak had certainly survived his illness. He was at once proud of Estel’s tenacity and dismayed at his lack of good sense. ‘You might have had anyone in the house fetch you something to read, child,’ he said.

Estel looked up abruptly, bewilderment on his drawn little face. ‘I did not come for a book!’ he exclaimed unsteadily.

Gandalf snorted into his beard, and Estel turned wary eyes upon him. ‘For one so wise, Peredhil,’ remarked the wizard; ‘you are at times extraordinarily thick-skulled.’

Elrond did not dignify that piece of commentary with a reply, though he berated himself silently for his hasty assumptions as he cupped a tender hand around the back of Estel’s head. ‘Another night-terror,’ he murmured.

The nod was almost imperceptible. ‘You told me...’ Estel faltered.

‘I told you that you should not bear them alone,’ Elrond said, nodding sorrowfully. ‘It seems it is I who must ask your forgiveness, my son. I should have come to watch over you while you slept. Shall I return to your room now and stay with you?’

Gandalf pursed his lips in annoyance, undoubtedly resenting further delay to their debates. Elrond cast him a quelling glance. Estel was watching his guardian with pain-filled eyes. ‘Must we... can I not... could I stay here awhile?’ he pleaded piteously.

‘Of course,’ Elrond soothed with a fond smile. He turned to lead Estel back to the chair, but the child’s legs seemed locked and he did not follow the guiding hand on his shoulder. Wordlessly, Elrond bent, crooking his arm around the boy’s thighs, and carried him to the table. He sat, drew Estel snugly into his lap and folded the right gore of his robe around the thin bare calves. Estel huddled close against his father’s chest, resting his head against Elrond’s clavicle.

‘There. Are you comfortable?’ he asked. Estel nodded. ‘You will soon be too tall to fit thus in my lap. How swiftly you have grown, child.’

‘Atarinya...’ Estel ventured, reaching up to brush the Elf-lord’s jaw with the fingertips of his left hand. He withdrew his arm quickly, tucking it close to his body. ‘Atarinya, there is a river...’

Elrond ran a reassuring hand along the child’s side, waiting while he collected his thoughts.

‘A great river, many ells across... there is blood, and there are bodies on the bank. Many unarmed, none armoured. The dead are half-naked: the enemy came in the night, while they slept...’ Estel shuddered. ‘There is so much blood...’

‘I know,’ Elrond said softly. It seemed as the boy spoke that the image played before his eyes. He had not witnessed the carnage himself, for news had not come North until the following winter when it was too late even to bury the dead. Yet now, tapping into the depths of Estel’s heart he could visualize it as vividly as if he had beheld it with his own eyes. ‘Try to put it from your mind, my son. It was only a vision of things long past. You must try to forget.’

‘What was it?’ Estel whispered. He was afraid of the answer, and yet even in his fear his curiosity won out. ‘What did I see?’

‘The river is the mighty Anduin,’ Elrond said. ‘The dead are the hosts of Arnor, beset by orcs while they lay down to rest. The greater part of the armies of the North fell that day: only those who had come home in the company of my folk two years before survived.’

‘The Gladden Fields...’ murmured Estel, shuddering convulsively. In conjunction with his studies of the Last Alliance he had learned the bare facts of the massacre, and often he had heard on nights of song the ballad called Ohtar’s Lament, in which the roll of the dead was recited and remembered. Yet never had the bitter reality of this ancient disaster struck him as it was doing now. ‘So many bodies. So many parents robbed of their sons. Wives bereft of husbands. Children without fathers. Atarinya, why did it happen?’

‘It happened because the Dúnedain did not look for danger,’ Elrond told him. ‘They were bold in the wake of their victory in the South, and they had grown complacent – so had we all. Worse still, their lord was occupied with other matters. He did not take the care that a captain should, and his folk paid dearly for his lapse in judgement. A leader of men must always put the needs of his people before himself. He must always think of them before attending to other affairs.’

‘A lesson in captaincy in the wake of a nightmare?’ Gandalf said mildly. ‘Can you not just let the boy sleep?’

‘We must learn from past mistakes,’ Elrond said, looking levelly at the wizard and alluding as much to their earlier conversation as was he speaking for Estel’s benefit. ‘If we do not, then the dead have perished for naught, and the same calamities will overtake us again.’

The tension in Estel’s body was ebbing away. He shifted and tried to sit up a little. ‘Atarinya, what occupied Isildur and kept him from his duties?’ he asked, puzzled.

‘Private matters,’ said Elrond, careful not to answer too swiftly lest haste should breed suspicion. ‘Mayhap it shall never be known what filled his mind in the last years of his life. I think among the rest he was overeager to return home to his kingdom and his family. He held his triumph to be complete when it was not: for though the Dark Tower was cast down and the Enemy driven forth, there are other evils in the world, and there are few places where one is entirely protected from them.’

‘Imladris is such a place,’ Estel said, for a moment only a child, frightened in the wake of a dream and desiring reassurance that his home was secure.

‘Yes,’ agreed Elrond; ‘while it remains in my power to keep it thus, Imladris is such a place. You are safe here, and I hope it shall always remain a haven for you and for all those who seek it.’

‘I am sorry that I interrupted you,’ sighed the child remorsefully. The abrupt change shift in was proof that the fear was passing. ‘I did not mean to.’

‘Your incursion is of little moment. We were only arguing as old friends sometimes must.’ Elrond arched his brows at Gandalf, who was rather sour of countenance, leaning back in his chair with his arms across his chest. ‘Do you wish me to return you to your bed?’

Estel shook his head. ‘I... may I stay just a little longer?’ he asked. ‘My room... I could smell the blood in my room,’ he confessed, his voice scarcely a whisper.

Elrond made a soft sound of understanding, and moved his arms a little to better warm the thin body they encircled. ‘You are welcome to stay,’ he said, and he pressed his cheek to Estel’s forehead. ‘You are always welcome.’

For several minutes there was silence. Estel relaxed slowly in Elrond’s arms, and presently his head bowed and his chin drifted limply down towards his chest. At last Gandalf spoke, his voice carefully modulated so as not to disturb the drowsing boy.

‘It is strange how he has wormed his way into your heart, Peredhil. I have never observed you in such... paternal activities,’ he said, half amused.

Elrond’s eyes flashed. ‘This is not the first time you have made derogatory mention of my domestic arrangements,’ he muttered blackly. ‘If you have some criticism to make I suggest you put it forward so that I may enlighten you as to your error.’

‘It is extraordinary how defensive you are,’ said Gandalf. ‘Like a great cat safeguarding her young. Yet he is no child of your body, nor has he any claim on your good graces save your long friendship with his house.’

‘Peace,’ Elrond said pointedly. ‘I am aware that he seems younger when he is frightened and overtaxed, but he is ten years of age, and he is no fool. His curiosity may waken even if his body seems to sleep. He has no house but mine.’ He hoped the admonition would be enough; the boy could not be given cause to suspect his origins or lineage. Not yet.

‘Of course,’ Gandalf acceded with a satirically gracious nod. His keen inquisitive expression returned swiftly, and he looked like an eagle perched behind a flowing beard and protruding eyebrows. ‘Your compassion for the weak and the helpless is well known. Yet I have never seen you take those you aid and clasp them to your bosom like closest kindred.’

Elrond closed his eyes, and a pained expression drew thin his lips. He was weary of this sparring game: it was time to silence the wizard for good. ‘Mithrandir, what do you know of my personal history?’ he asked tersely.

‘You will not get a rote recitation of Elven lore out of me, Master Elrond,’ Gandalf said sardonically. ‘I am not Estel, to be put through my paces so late at night. I know all that is laid down in the annals of this house, and several details that are too sensitive to record. I know of the agonies you suffered in the wake of your wife’s capture and fading. I have heard you speak of the torments of war. I am aware how it pains you to be separated so long from your youngest child, and how—’

‘I am not separated from my youngest child, nor do I speak of the recent ages of my life, which indeed you know well. I speak of my childhood,’ Elrond said coolly. ‘You say you know what is recorded in my libraries. On that subject, I think, I have writ very little. In the Third Kinslaying and the sack of Sirion my brother and I were captured by the forces of the Sons of Fëanor, but Maglor the minstrel took pity upon us and offered us succour, and a love grew between us, as little might be thought. That, I think, is all that you know.’

‘I know how old you were when these events took place,’ Gandalf amended. ‘Or rather, how young. It must have been a bitter ordeal for two little elflings.’

‘It was.’

When no further information seemed forthcoming, Gandalf frowned thoughtfully. ‘I trust you have some reason for telling me this?’ he asked.

‘I do. My brother and I were alone, utterly bereft of all that we had known, in the clutches of a foe who had driven our mother, so we thought, to her death; and razed our homeland; and slain those who had been good to us; and who had finally borne us off into a strange and desolate country far from any aid. Little kindness did the Half-elven find among the servants of Maedhros, and less still was there to be had at the hands of those who had served his fallen brothers, all of whom had been slain in the two attempts to regain the Silmaril of Beren from our kindred. Maedhros himself had little interest in us: he had taken us as surety of the High King’s good behaviour as his hobbled army withdrew from Sirion, but once it was no longer likely that Gil-galad would mount a pursuit we became useless to him. Had we been left to the mercy of his folk I do not doubt that I would not be sitting here now, arguing in defence of my affection for this child.’

He smoothed Estel’s hair, the feel of the sleeping child anchoring him briefly in the present before he found the strength to continue with his grave recollections.

‘Yet here do I sit, for Maglor alone of the folk in Ossiriand took pity upon us. He took us into his care, and as best he could he sheltered us from evil. He saw to our education and to the care and nourishment of our bodies and our spirits. Though a Kinslayer, he came to take the place of the father who had departed from Middle-earth when we were almost too young to recall him at all. We became his sons, in all but blood. I grew to love him dearly, and I love him dearly still. When at last the time comes for me to depart into the West, I shall stand before Súlimo and Elbereth in the Ring of Doom and I shall sue for mercy on his behalf, for his mercy was shown to me when most I had need of it.’

For a time Gandalf sat motionless. Then he pressed the tips of his fingers together and leaned forward onto the table. ‘That is a bold declaration, Peredhil,’ he said sombrely. ‘To take the part of a Kinslayer before the seat of the Valar... I do not think it wise to make such pledges: you may find them difficult to keep.’

‘Indeed I will not,’ Elrond said coldly. ‘He was my father and I would take his doom upon myself if by so doing I might repay some small part of my debt to him. So when you say to me that the present arrangement is passing strange, understand when I tell you on no uncertain terms that to me it is as natural as my bond with Elladan and Elrohir. The children of my body and the child of my choice are equally dear to me. His “claim upon my good graces”, as you have it, was made many thousands of years before his birth, when his long forefather found comfort in the arms of an enemy. Do not presume to question it further.’

A low chuckle issued forth from the Istar’s lips. ‘You are an extraordinary being, child of three Kindreds,’ he said. ‘So little love was given you, and so much have you lost over the long Ages, and yet your heart would envelope all the world if given half a chance.’

‘I was given the love that I needed, at the time when it was most desperately lacking,’ Elrond amended. ‘If I may give some of it in return, that is my good fortune.’

‘And his,’ Gandalf remarked, gesturing at Estel. ‘Yet have a care, Peredhil. Someday a parent may find that his beloved child has stolen away what most he cherished. It may be that you will have pains enough from this boy to outweigh your joys.’

‘Fatherhood is fraught with pains, yet there is joy even in that,’ said Elrond. ‘All I have I would gladly give to Estel, when he is ready to receive it.’

‘You have offered the treasures of your heart to a mortal child, and your very soul to a Son of Fëanor,’ Gandalf said wryly. ‘I wonder what else I could charm out of you tonight.’

‘Few kind words, if you continue to press me,’ Elrond warned, curling his lip in dry amusement.

‘Then I shall desist. There is one more question that I have for you. Does the boy understand that you are not his sire?’

‘Yes,’ Elrond said. ‘He was too young to make that distinction when first he came to Imladris, but he understands it now. It does not seem to trouble him. He has heard the words all his life: some years ago he merely reached the stage of his development where he could comprehend them. He knows I never attempted to deceive him.’

‘You made no pretext to be the one who fathered him?’ Gandalf queried.

‘I did not. He knows little of his mother’s husband, save that he is dead, but he knows I am not his father by blood.’ Estel stirred a little in his arms, and Elrond poured out his spirit to calm the child.

‘Then why did you have him learn to address you as father?’

Elrond smiled sardonically. ‘Ah, but I did not,’ he said.

‘He calls you “Atarinya”,’ Gandalf pointed out. ‘His mother may speak little Quenya, but I am quite fluent. That is ‘Father’, with possessive overtones.’

‘It is, but he did not begin to use it at my instigation.’ The explanation was simple, but there was no fun in pouring it out without prompting. It was only fair that he be allowed to make Gandalf work a little for the information he desired.

‘Surely not at his mother’s: your sons led me to believe that she does not entirely approve of you.’ The wizard sounded quite amused by the domestic discord that had haunted Estel’s unconventional family for eight years.

‘It was not her idea, either,’ Elrond allowed.

‘Then who proposed it?’ It was clear that Gandalf was growing tired of this interrogation.

A broad smile spread across the Elf-lord’s face. There was a certain sport in baiting the Istar. ‘Why, Estel, naturally,’ he said innocently.

Gandalf snorted in exasperation. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked in annoyance.

‘He was two years of age when my sons brought him hither. They made a great impression upon him, and he was in awe of all that they did. As small children are wont to do, he imitated them, mimicking their stance and their behaviour and their speech. They have addressed me as “Atarinya” since they reached their full stature and set aside the habits of childhood. Hearing them ply the epithet, and desiring to ingratiate himself in their eyes as well as my own, Estel naturally assumed its use as well. It was the first word of Quenya that he learned,’ he added, allowing himself a moment of paternal pride.

‘Extraordinary,’ Gandalf said dryly. He got to his feet. ‘I suppose you will want to take him to his bed. We shall get no more accomplished tonight; that much is plain. Tomorrow our tempers will have cooled and we can further debate the merits and deficiencies of the proposed campaign. In the meantime, I think I shall go out and enjoy your gardens until dawn.’

‘Which is to say, you will enjoy a well-packed pipe where neither I nor Erestor can upbraid you for your outlandish habits,’ Elrond said in amusement.

‘How well you know me, Peredhil,’ Gandalf cooed, bowing with a sweeping flourish. He paused in the doorway and looked back, his head cocked to one side. ‘It is strange, for the blood is so dilute, but I can see a resemblance between his features and your own,’ he remarked. Then with a rustling of robes he was gone.

Elrond sat motionless for a long time with Estel cradled in his lap, until the candles burned themselves out and the first rosy flush of dawn was reflected upon the crests of the mountains before the library windows. Then he rose and bore the child back to his bed, before his mother could awaken and be dismayed by his absence.

Chapter XV: Sacrifices of Motherhood

It pleased Gilraen that Estel was passing so much of his time in the company of Elladan and Elrohir. Her gladness sprung not only from her pleasure in seeing the tedium of recovery eased by their attentions, but also from her deep abiding affection for the twin Elf-lords. She had always been fond of the sons of Elrond, for they had been dear friends to Arathorn and had often travelled with him. They had even come out of the Wild to dance at their comrade’s wedding. They were good men – good Elves – and they had always treated her with deference and courtesy. To them mortals were more than an academic curiosity or an object of pity: they had ridden with the Dúnedain through many generations and they understood Gilraen’s people as few in the Valley could. Isolated as she was now from all that she had known, they were her only tie to her old life.

Elladan was the more formal and politic of the two, but his was the gracious charisma of a charming statesman: he was neither so lofty nor so remote as his sire. At times he could be extraordinarily witty. There was a melancholy cast to his spirit that surfaced at strange times, for his long life was not without its sorrows. For the most part, however, he made a pleasant companion.

Elrohir was kind and affable, with an easy humour not accompanied by the frivolous abandon of the wood-elves. He was quicker to anger than his brother, though Elladan was held to be no less fearsome when roused to rage and Arathorn had often said that the wrath of the sons of Elrond was fey and terrible to behold. Though she had heard many accounts of their fierceness in battle Gilraen had never seen this side of the brothers; in her presence both were always gentle and considerate, and Elrohir most of all. She considered him a very dear friend – perhaps her dearest now, in this place of exile far from her girlhood companions and the wise women who had coached her through the trials of her life, maid, bride and mother alike.

It soothed her heart to see these two interact with her son. Estel worshiped them, and had done so since that night when they had descended upon the cottage to bear him away to safety, but in the past they had taken little notice of him during their brief sojourns in the Valley. Days ago, when Estel had been teetering on the threshold of death, Gilraen dimly remembered asking Elrohir if he loved her son. The Peredhil had seemed shocked by his inability to answer in a strong affirmative. She wondered if this sudden interest in Estel’s recovery had been prompted to some degree by this encounter.

Whatever the cause she was glad of the result. Estel’s face lit up in a radiant smile whenever the sons of Elrond drew near, and under their watchful eyes he was becoming more active again, rebuilding his shattered stamina. At this rate it would not be long before he was well again. He was sleeping now, curled on his side with one hand on the pillow beside his thin face. In the flickering light that filtered through the door from the anteroom fire, Gilraen watched him silently for a moment, drinking in his peaceful expression and the soft sound of his restful breathing. A smile visited her lips – a rare occurrence except when she did it for Estel’s benefit. Short days ago she had thought that she would never again stand this way, watching over her sleeping son.

Fearful she would wake him if she lingered longer, Gilraen turned from the bed and moved quietly into the other room. She banked the fire with care and drew the curtains over the open windows. A huff of breath snuffed the lone candle by which she had been reading, and she was about to retire to her own bedchamber when she heard a sharp intake of breath. She paused, but when no further sound came she opened her door, for surely she had imagined the noise.

She unlaced her kirtle and removed it with care, draping it over the back of her chair. She doffed her slippers and her stockings, and then loosed her plaits from their coronet and began to unbraid them. She shook out her wavy hair and picked up her soft-bristled brush. When she was finished smoothing her tresses she bound them in a single thick, loose plait. Her bed was cool and smelled of sunshine and lavender... but it was empty. Empty as it would always remain: a widow’s tomb disguised in fine linen and covered with a coverlet of Elven workmanship.

Restless now she rose, and went to the narrow casement that looked out over the Valley. Beyond those hills, where the mountains shrank to rolling plains, dwelt still the remnant of her people. It was nearly summer, and the fields would be gravid with wheat. The women tended the farmland, for the men had labours of their own, safeguarding ignorant strangers from the dangers of the world. In the heat of the day her one-time fellows would walk the rows of produce, hoeing away the weeds and laughing together. In the cool evenings there would be singing and dancing on the village green. The little children would fall asleep in the fragrant grass, and the older ones would beg to be allowed to stay out just a little longer. She thought of the dear little babies, and the happy young striplings – distant cousins that Estel would never know, until he and they together went into the bitter labours of their people. Her son had been robbed of his birthright. A childhood that might have been was lost, and in its place there was this vast house of lore, and a father that was not his own, and a people who could never understand him.

With a wistful sigh Gilraen turned her back on the starlit vista and slipped into the sitting-room. She would go into Estel’s room and sit awhile, taking solace in his peaceful slumber. She could find none of her own.

When she reached Estel’s room, she discovered to her horror that his bed was empty.

The starlight filtering between the curtains revealed little to her human eyes, but she could see the empty pillow and the indentation where his head had been resting only a little while before. She took two long steps forward and felt out in the gloom, hoping that her hands would find him elsewhere in the bedclothes, but her efforts were fruitless. He was gone.

‘Estel?’ she called softly. She had not heard him moving about, nor had he left the room or she would have seen him from her chamber.

There was a soft sound behind her: a ragged exhalation. She turned, squinting in an attempt to see her son. There was a glint of something in the corner behind the door, and Gilraen knelt down. Estel was pressed against the wall, huddled in the darkness with his knees drawn up to his chest. When she put out her hand to caress his arm, he buried his head against his legs.

‘What is it, my darling? What’s wrong?’ Gilraen asked softly, plucking at a sweat-dampened tendril of hair.

‘Nothing, Mama,’ Estel whispered, but his voice was unsteady and he was trembling beneath her hands. ‘I’m sorry: I did not mean to wake you.’

‘I’ve not gone to bed yet,’ she said. His use of the name he had called her when only a baby brought tears to her eyes. He only called her mama when he was hurt or frightened or vulnerable. ‘Tell me what is wrong. You’re shaking.’

‘It is nothing,’ he repeated. ‘Just a dream. A foolish dream. I can bear it by myself.’ He sounded as if he was trying to convince someone that his words were true, and Gilraen did not think she was the object of his effort.

‘Another dream?’ she asked unhappily. She did not understand why her son was plagued thus. He had never before suffered from nightmares – at least no more than any other small child. These recent apparitions were different from his childhood dreams of imagined perils: there was something far more vivid, far more ghastly about them. Master Elrond seemed to think that it was a consequence of his illness, but he had not seen fit to discuss the matter with her, nor had she worked up the audacity to ask him. Seeing her brave and spirited child brought low by some torment of the mind was a terrible thing.

‘I can bear it,’ mumbled Estel, hugging himself more tightly and rocking a little against his bare feet. ‘I can bear it. I can bear it.’

‘I know you can,’ Gilraen said soothingly; ‘but you must come back to bed. You might so easily catch a chill.’

Estel said nothing, but he did not resist when she drew him to his feet and led him to the bed. Gilraen sat down on the edge of the mattress, and eased Estel down beside her. She curled an arm around him and pressed his head against her shoulder.

‘Do you want to tell me what you were dreaming of?’ she asked. ‘Sometimes it helps to talk about such things.’

‘I do not think it will help,’ Estel said, his voice low and tremulous. Gilraen stroked his cheek, expecting to find tear-tracks, but his face was dry. He had wakened in terror, and left his bed for the shelter of the door, but he had not wept. ‘It would only trouble your heart then as well as mine. I must learn how to control my fear. It is only a vision, a night terror.’

Gilraen sighed softly. ‘That is so,’ said she; ‘it is only a dream. But it is natural to be frightened. Dreams can be terrifying. I have often had nightmares that woke me in the darkness. No one will think any less of you for being afraid.’

‘I shall think less of me,’ Estel muttered. ‘I must learn how to cope by myself: I cannot always have you or Atarinya running to comfort me. I am not a little child any longer: I should not behave like one.’

There was a steely edge to his voice, and his jaw was set. Gilraen withdrew her arm and used it to stroke his tense hand. He could be so wilful when he wished to be; so stubborn. She wondered fleetingly how this characteristic would mount in future years.

‘I do not think you are behaving like a little child,’ she said. ‘I am proud of you: you have been working so hard to regain your strength and stamina, and you have shown great restraint over these last few days. You seem to be learning patience at last.’

Estel made a strange snorting sound; almost but not quite a laugh. ‘Must you tease me also, Mother?’ he asked.

‘It seems to please you when Glorfindel does it,’ Gilraen remarked.

‘Glorfindel is my friend,’ said Estel.

‘O, my love...’ Gilraen said softly. His words touched upon her own unhappy musings. She pressed her lips to the crown of his head and he leaned a little into her touch, accepting her comfort and perhaps sensing the ache in her heart. He had uncanny insight into the workings of her mind. ‘Tell me. Do you never wish you had companions your own age? Boys to play with and study with?’

Estel cocked his head up to look at her. He had very keen eyes and saw more in the dark than Gilraen ever could. ‘Boys?’ he echoed. ‘Mortal children? Like me?’

‘Yes,’ Gilraen whispered. She wished now that she had not spoken. She had never made a secret of her discontentment with Imladris, though she realized now that she should have. Bad enough that he should know she was not satisfied with her new life and her new home. To deliberately sow seeds of that unhappiness in her child was unforgivable.

‘Sometimes I wonder what other children are like,’ Estel reflected softly. ‘Whether they like to sit and read old annals, or if they sit by the river and watch the sunlight dance on the water. I wonder how well they can ride, and how fast they can run, and what sorts of songs they most enjoy. Did you know many children when you were young, Mother?’

‘A few,’ Gilraen told him. She smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid they were not much like you.’

‘How so?’ Estel asked, sounding suddenly anxious. Gilraen was startled by the note of insecurity in his voice. It had never occurred to her that her son, isolated as he was from his own kind, might be susceptible to the same insecurities as any other child. She considered her reply carefully before she spoke.

‘When I was a child I lived in a remote farming village. Do you remember the little cottage?’

‘I remember the chickens,’ Estel said pensively. ‘A black one and a brown one with a small white head.’

Gilraen smiled at the memory of her toddling baby chasing after the plump hens on his short, sturdy legs. ‘That’s right. There was always more than enough work to be done, and too few folk to do it. Children had to help tend the gardens and to chase crows out of the fields. The boys took the cows to pasture every day, and watched over them while they grazed. Though we learned how to read and write and cipher, there was never time for the sort of lore you are able to study. There were no ancient books to read, and there was little opportunity to watch the river or learn new tongues or do many of the things that you love to do. There was no Erestor to teach us, and no Master Elrond to order our lives or see to our education. I fear you would not have much in common with the children I knew: you are more thoughtful than them, and more learned. They were noisier than you, and more impulsive and less wise. You get into fewer scrapes than the boys I knew, too, and for that I’m thankful.’

‘I would not want to give up my books...’ Estel said softly.

‘I would not want you to,’ Gilraen told him. ‘I am glad that you have been given the opportunity to explore the fullness of your potential, instead of growing up labouring all day just to lay by food enough for the winter. You have had a better life here than you would have had in the place I was raised.’

‘Yet you wish we lived there still.’ She could see only a glimmer of Estel’s eyes, but it seemed as if they pierced her very heart. ‘You wish we lived with your old friends, and the other children, in that farming village somewhere in the Wild.’

‘I do not. Not truly. There are times when I miss my old home, and the people I knew and loved, but I am glad that we are here. In Rivendell you are safe, and happy, and free to grow up as you ought to. You have people who love you, even if they are not of your blood, and you have a fath...’ She could not say it. She knew it to be true, but to say it seemed like to denouncing Arathorn, and that she could not do. ‘And Master Elrond cares deeply for you,’ Gilraen said instead. She twisted a little to embrace Estel. ‘I count my old life cheap, for it has bought your future. You are more important to me than a hundred friends or a whole village full of other children.’

There was an interminable silence. ‘Mother?’ Estel said at last, his voice so low that he could scarcely be heard. ‘If I had died, would you have left Rivendell and gone back to your people?’

Her people. That was what they were, Gilraen realized. Not their people: hers alone. Though some day he might learn to love and understand the Dúnedain, and to lead them, he would always be a son of Elrond, a child of Rivendell. Estel’s folk were here: the Half-elven and the Noldor and the frolicsome wood-elves. Imladris was his world, the only home he knew. He belonged here. That was the price of his survival. That was the fate of the last Heir of Isildur. He was a mortal content in an immortal realm, and he would never be like Arathorn. He was destined for something higher and more strange... something far removed even from his mother. Even now she could see it, in his sombre eyes and in the tongue that could already speak of his own death with a philosophical detachment that wrenched her heart.

Estel was waiting for an answer. ‘My child, if you had died I should never wish to do anything more ever again,’ Gilraen said, her voice low and unsteady as she voiced the most fundamental truth of her being. ‘You are everything to me, Estel. You are all that I love and all that I treasure. You are all.’

Estel said nothing, but he got up on his knees and he embraced her, one hand clutching the back of her head as she had so often done to him.

‘I love you, Mother,’ he said. ‘I love you deeply.’ Then he kissed her gently to the right of her nose. ‘It is time to sleep now,’ he told her quietly. ‘I do not think I will dream again tonight.’

Gilraen remained by his side until slumber reclaimed him. She returned then to her own cold, empty bed, but she lay awake for hours, until the lark was singing in the beech trees and the rosy dawn was staining the sky. When at last she fell into an uneasy sleep her dreams were filled with darkness and loneliness, and the soft whispers of her long-dead husband.

Note: Selected quotations from “Roast Mutton”, The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien

Chapter XVII: Of Hope and Audacity

When the household dispersed after the evening meal, Elrond retired with Gandalf and the hobbit to the Hall of Fire. As he had expected, the room stood empty, its perpetual fire blazing cheerfully. He led his guests to three seats by the hearth and waited courteously while Gandalf settled himself and Bilbo Baggins climbed into the chair, his bare feet dangling.

‘That does not look very comfortable,’ Elrond said pleasantly, casting about for a stool. He fetched it and crouched to slide it into place. Bilbo watched, wide-eyed, and flushed a little. Elrond looked up and smiled. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I expect you don't see many folk my size,' Bilbo said. 'You’re a very considerate host.’

Elrond raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That is kind of you to say.’ He rose and took his seat, arranging his garments with practiced hands. ‘I regret that I have not had more of an opportunity to spend time with my guests. I hope you will remember your stay in Rivendell favourably regardless.’

‘O, my, yes!’ the hobbit enthused. ‘I had no idea that places like this still existed: a secret valley filled with Elves, a place where all the stories are remembered and treasured. It’s wonderful.’

‘Again, I thank you. I have always endeavoured to make it so,’ Elrond told him. ‘Now it seems you have a story of your own to add to my treasury of lore: I understand you have been patiently awaiting my leisure to hear it.’

The tips of the hobbit’s ears grew red. ‘I appreciate you taking the time,’ he said; ‘though it seems to me that Gandalf would tell it better than I could.’

‘Nonsense,’ grunted the wizard in mild annoyance. ‘You promised to do it, now get on with it.’

‘Well, I... that is... I mean...’ Bilbo blustered in embarrassment.

Elrond shot Gandalf a quelling glance, reigning in his own smile. The hobbit’s discomfiture was oddly endearing. ‘Take a moment to collect your thoughts,’ he said kindly. ‘We shall not interrupt you.’

‘Thank you, thank you I’m sure,’ said Bilbo gratefully. Then he seemed to sink into a sort of reverie, eyes closing as he tried to prepare himself.

In the silence Elrond was suddenly aware of a fourth presence in the room. Circumspectly he glanced over his shoulder, but there was no one to be seen. Instead of rising to investigate he listened critically, and he heard what he had half expected to: a soft sound of carefully controlled breathing, well nigh as quiet as the inhalations of any Elf, but labouring a little on the exhale. It was coming from behind an arras near the door, and the nose through which the sounds issued was a little less than five feet above the floor.

Torn between irritation and amusement at this defiance of his wishes that was not quite disobedience, Elrond looked to see whether Gandalf was equally aware of the observer. The wizard raised his eyebrows and nodded ever so slightly towards the heavy tapestry with its richly coloured depiction of scenes from the ill-starred tale of Turin Turambar. Elrond smiled wryly and inclined his head. There was no way of rousting out the watcher without attracting Bilbo’s attention, and in any case no harm would be done – provided that the hidden spectator had sufficient strength to stand there noiselessly until the tale was finished and the hobbit could be led off to some other diversion.

‘I think I’m quite ready now,’ said Bilbo at last, and when Elrond nodded his assent the hobbit began. ‘Well, we ran into some quite nasty rain on the road, right about where it crosses the river at an old stone bridge. By the time we stopped for the night there wasn’t a dry place anywhere to be found, and no dry wood for kindling, either. It was then that we realized that Gandalf had gone and left us.’ He cast a frown of indignant irritation at the wizard, who snorted into his beard.

‘We were trying to get a fire going in spite of the wet when Balin spotted a light through the trees, and we thought it might look like a fire. There was quite a to-do then, as you can imagine, for you never know what sort of folk you might find so near the mountains: queer, dangerous people – begging your pardon, of course, Master Elrond; I didn’t mean you.’

Elrond inclined his head graciously. At his left, Gandalf had raised his hand to his mouth and appeared to be concealing a broad grin of amusement.

‘The dwarves fell to arguing, and at last one of them said “Well, haven’t we got a burglar with us?”, and the others all agreed that we had... meaning me, of course,’ said Bilbo with a hint of reticence. ‘I wasn’t much pleased to hear that, but what could I do? After all, I had agreed to come along on this expedition, and without Gandalf there to help I didn’t seem to have much choice but to do what they said. So we all crept forward a ways, and Thorin says to me, “Now scuttle off, and come back quick, if all is well. If not, come back if you can! If you can’t, hoot twice like a barn-owl and once like a screech-owl, and we will do what we can.” So on I had to go...’

lar

Bilbo proved to be an able storyteller indeed. His narrative style was unlike any Elrond had heard before, for he seemed to say whatever popped into his head with no thought for the colourful metaphors of Men or the rich imagery characteristic of Elven harpers, and his words were embellished by personal commentary that proved enlightening as well as amusing. As he recounted how he had come upon the trolls he began to warm into his role, and even began altering his voice for each of the three brigands. More than once he elicited a laugh from his listeners, and each time he felt himself chuckling Elrond could hear muffled noises of mirth issuing from behind the arras by the door. Bilbo, however, did not appear to notice, and he went on to tell of the quarrel and the careful baiting that had kept the trolls arguing until the sunlight claimed them. He described the discovery of the troll-hole, and the fruitless attempts on the part of Gandalf and the dwarves to open it.

‘Then I remembered I had picked up a key in the clearing,’ Bilbo said sheepishly. ‘Sure enough it fit the lock, and in we went. I’ve never smelled anything quite as ghastly as a troll-hole, and I hope I never shall again! It was full of plunder, all cast carelessly about. We took the pots of coins, and we buried them, and of course we took as much of the food as looked fit to eat. And there were swords of all kinds. There were two with hilts encrusted with jewels, and Gandalf and Thorin each took one. They’ve got runes on them, and Gandalf said once we could read those we might be able to find out more about them.’

Elrond looked at Gandalf, head cocked to one side. ‘Runes that you are unable to read?’ he asked.

‘A very old tongue,’ said the wizard. ‘Ancient Telerin, perhaps, or maybe even something older. Letters are your study, my friend, and not mine. I have not go the blade with me, or you might take a look right now. As it is it seems you shall have to wait until tomorrow. In any case, I rather think Thorin would resent his exclusion from such a study: I think his blade and mine are of like make.’

‘There are proverbs about those who claim plundered treasures as their own,’ Elrond said warningly, his eyes glinting with amusement. ‘Have a care, Gandalf the Grey.’ He turned once more towards the hobbit and smiled graciously. ‘Thank you for your tale, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,’ he said. ‘It was most diverting, and quite educational as well. You handled yourself quite nicely in a difficult situation, and I hope you will be proud to tell that story many times more. You have a talent for weaving a fine tale.’

‘The tale wove itself, really,’ Bilbo said, flushing with pleasure. ‘I only told it as it happened.’

‘Ah, but it is the way that you told it that delighted your listeners,’ said Elrond. ‘A curious event does not always make for an entertaining story: much depends on the teller.’

‘You’d know more about that than I do,’ said the hobbit. ‘No one tells stories like your folk. I’m sorry we have to leave so soon: I’d love to learn more of your songs and your legends.’

‘You cannot linger longer, I fear, but I hope you shall tarry here again someday,’ said Elrond earnestly. ‘Do not forget: my house lies on your homeward road.’

Bilbo’s expression was one of astonishment. ‘Then you think we’ll slay the dragon and find the treasure? Some of the other Elves seem to think we’re all going to die horribly.’

‘I sincerely hope none of my folk had the poor taste to say that,’ Elrond said, trying valiantly to hide his amusement.

‘Well, no, not exactly,’ Bilbo admitted; ‘but they do love telling the dwarves tales of every great dragon that was ever felled by a mighty Elf-lord or a fearless human warrior, and all the destruction they wreaked before they were finally defeated. One of the smiths especially likes the story of that dragon up in the Grey Mountains that the dwarves couldn’t kill.’

‘And you do not find these tales encouraging,’ Elrond said.

‘I suppose they were all slain in the end,’ Bilbo hedged; ‘but it does sound awfully dangerous, don’t you think?’

‘Your road is a perilous one, yes, and whatever the outcome the course by which you will reach it will be hard and treacherous, but I do not think it is hopeless,’ Elrond said, casting a look out of the corner of his eye at Gandalf, who was watching with a smile behind his beard. ‘You may succeed, or you may fail, but I do not think that you set out from here to march to certain death, and it is my fond hope that you will return victorious, to share with me and with my folk the tale of your triumph.’

‘There you have it, Mr Baggins,’ said the wizard. ‘What further assurances could you ask for? Elrond Half-elven himself has blessed the quest and your part in it. Can there be any doubt of success?’

‘There is always doubt,’ Elrond interjected pointedly. ‘One must not ask “is there doubt”, but rather, “is there hope”. Tell me, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, do you think there is hope?’

‘It seems to me there’s always hope while folk are healthy and determined and keep their wits about them,’ the hobbit said, shrugging his shoulders a little.

‘Then you have your answer,’ said Elrond serenely. He rose and moved to stir the fire. ‘Thank you for your tale: you are indeed an able storyteller. It is a skill you ought to hone, for when you return you shall have many stories to share. But for now we should seek out the rest of your party and ensure that they are enjoying themselves. After all, you have but one night more in my house, and I would fain have you take pleasure in your last days here.’

‘I don’t know,’ Bilbo said, yawning as he hopped off the chair. He stretched his small arms enormously. ‘I rather think I’m going to turn in for the night: I don’t suppose we shall get much sleep in the mountains, shall we, Gandalf?’

‘Not the kind of sleep you’ll get in the Last Homely House,’ the wizard warned with a teasing smile. ‘You ought to make the most of it while you can.’

‘Good night, then,’ Bilbo said, holding out his hand. Elrond took it and they shook amicably. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening, I hope?’

‘Indeed you shall,’ said Elrond. ‘I am anxious to take a look at your plans, to say nothing of those swords,’ he added with a pointed frown directed at Gandalf.

‘Tomorrow,’ said the wizard, eyes twinkling wickedly. ‘You are not the only one who can play these games, Peredhil.’

‘Good night,’ Bilbo said again. ‘I’ll just be going now, if you’ll both be so kind as to let me slip by.’

Elrond had not realized that he and Gandalf had effectively blocked the hobbit’s route of escape, cornering him with chairs on one side, the fire on another, and two tall robed figures before him. With a soft chuckle, the Elf-lord stepped back, and Bilbo was able to move past.

‘My, how you humour him,’ Gandalf said once the hobbit was gone. He clasped Elrond’s arm appreciatively with one wizened hand. ‘Thank you.’

‘He is a delightful fellow,’ Elrond said earnestly.

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Gandalf. ‘Unfortunately his fellow adventurers are having difficulty seeing it. Thorin endures his company because it is the price of my aid, but the dwarves do not respect Mr Bilbo Baggins. Not yet.’

‘But you think that they will come to.’

Gandalf nodded. There was a shuffling sound from the other side of the room, and Elrond turned.

‘Come out, young watcher,’ he sang.

The arras was drawn aside, and Estel emerged, a rueful smile on his face. ‘Good evening,’ he said, almost shyly.

Elrond quirked an eyebrow. ‘Is it indeed?’ he asked. ‘Then perhaps you can explain to me how I find myself so grievously disobeyed tonight?’

Estel coloured a little, staring down at his shoes with his hands clasped behind his back. ‘I wanted to see the dwarves,’ he confessed.

‘I see. The dwarves are out beneath the stars, doubtless regaling Glorfindel and the others with tales of imagined triumph and glory. Yet here you stand, like a mole rousted from his hole, where you were neither expected nor invited.’ Elrond struggled to remain stern: he was overjoyed by this proof that Estel’s indomitable will had not been broken by the horrors he had endured. Discipline, however, was of equal importance to audacity, and it came less naturally to the child.

‘I knew you did not want me where I might be seen,’ Estel said; ‘but I heard you talking yesterday about coming here for a tale from one of the guests, and I thought that if I crept down while everyone was at supper I might hide and listen unobserved. I failed,’ he added, his lip curling a little.

‘Not entirely,’ Elrond admitted. ‘You managed to keep your presence from our guest, and that is fortunate. Still, there is the question of your defiance of my clearly expressed wishes.’ He waited for Estel to speak, but the boy appeared to be at a loss for words. Beneath the flush of embarrassment he was rather pale, and he swayed a little on his feet: evidently his recovering strength was not quite equal to the task of standing so long immobile. Elrond sighed. ‘Come and sit down, and we shall discuss it,’ he said.

Estel obeyed gratefully, taking the chair that Bilbo had abandoned and placing his own feet on the stool. His long legs raised his knees quite high in such a position, and he rested his elbows on them, cupping his chin in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Atarinya,’ he said. ‘I was curious.’

‘You were curious?’ asked Elrond. ‘And now?’

‘Now even more so!’ Estel admitted, eyes igniting with eager fire. ‘Who was that? What manner of creature is he? He is not a dwarf, for he has no beard – or perhaps he is a dwarven child? You call him Baggins, but that does not sound like any dwarf-name I have ever heard. And he has woolly feet!’

‘It seems that although we could not see you, you saw us quite well,’ said Gandalf drolly.

‘Yes,’ Estel said frankly. ‘There is a place on that tapestry where a worn spot on Nienor’s gown was mended. You cannot see it from this side, but the repair was backed with linen instead of wool, and with the firelight behind it the patch is quite translucent. I have sharp eyes, for a mortal,’ he added quietly, making an effort not to sound as if he was boasting.

Gandalf laughed aloud, and Estel sat up straight, looking rather affronted. ‘It seems you do not know your house as well as you think, Elrond Peredhil!’ the wizard chortled. ‘And you, boy, appear to have a particular knack for turning up where you are least expected. I do not envy your guardian the task of seeing you through adolescence.’

So saying he swept from the room, leaving Elrond alone with his son. The Elf-lord turned querying eyes upon Estel, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘I am sorry that I disobeyed you, Atarinya,’ Estel said.

‘Yet I think you are not sorry for the act of disobedience itself,’ commented Elrond.

‘No,’ admitted the child; ‘for it was a most diverting tale, and I have never seen a person like Master Baggins before. Is he a dwarf-child?’

‘No, indeed. He is a hobbit, one of the little folk who dwell far to the west, beyond the Old Forest. Their land lies north and west of Sarn Ford, and south of the ruins of Annúminas.’

‘In what was once called Arthedain,’ said Estel, his eyes closed as he recalled the maps that he had drawn and redrawn a hundred times. He then looked avidly at Elrond, ‘But what is his business in Imladris? He will not be of much use in slaying a dragon: why do the dwarves want him with them?’

‘I do not think they especially do,’ admitted Elrond; ‘and I confess that I can see little use for him myself, beyond his unflagging hope and a degree of common sense, but Gandalf is an able judge of mettle, and he believes that the hobbit will be of some help. We cannot always foresee what a person may contribute, but we must never discount an individual’s potential for aid – or for mischief,’ he added with a pointed look at his son.

Estel flushed again. ‘Are you very angry with me, Atarinya?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Elrond admitted. ‘I ought to be, but I am not. I understand your curiosity and I am relieved to see your high spirits remain untainted. If the price of that discovery was this moment of insubordination, then I count it cheap. However, if you defy my wishes again we shall have to see about some form of punitive action. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Quite clear, Atarinya, thank you,’ said Estel gravely.

‘Then the matter is settled. Though if in future you wish to pass unnoticed in Elven company, you shall have to have a greater care about your silence.’ Elrond rose to his feet and held out his hand for the boy to take. ‘Now show me this patch on the back of the arras, that I may seek out the shoddy artist who used inferior materials in its mending.’

An enormous smile illuminated Estel’s face: he knew he was forgiven.

Note: excerpt from “The Lay of Leithian”, The Lays of Beleriand, The History of Middle-Earth Volume 3, J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien. Dialogue on blades, moon-letters and Durin’s Day from “A Short Rest”, The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien

Chapter XVIII: Unknown Lineage

‘For the love of all that’s good and noble, child, be still!’ Gilraen exclaimed in exasperation as the length of hair she had been trying to plait slipped from her fingers for the fourth time.

‘I am sorry, Mother, but I’m most excited!’ Estel said gleefully, twisting in the chair to look up at her. ‘I did not look to be allowed downstairs at all tonight!’

‘It is only for an hour or two,’ she reminded him. ‘When Master Erestor comes to fetch you, you will have to go quickly and quietly and without protest. Had the choice been mine you would not...’ She caught herself on the cusp of criticising Elrond’s decision. The midsummer revels marked one of the high holidays of the year, and it would have been a grievous blow to her son had he been forbidden from participating. She reminded herself sternly that preserving Estel’s secret and with it his life was as important to the Elf-lord as it was to her... or nearly. ‘You are very fortunate to be permitted to do this, but if you do not hold still then you shall not be fit to go out at all.’

Subdued somewhat by her warning, Estel sat as motionless as he could, though his body was fairly thrumming with exhilaration. ‘Do you think they shall sing the Lay of Beren and Lúthien tonight, Mother?’ he asked eagerly. ‘It is by far my favourite.’ Then he launched into the sweet, plaintive melody:

All these he had and loved them less
than a maiden once in Elvenesse;
for fairer than are born to men
a daughter had he, Lúthien.

Such lissom limbs no more shall run
on the green earth beneath the sun;
so fair a maid no more shall be
from dawn to dusk, from Sun to sea.
Her robe was blue as summer skies,
but grey as evening were her eyes;
‘twas sewn with golden lilies fair,
But dark as shadow was her hair.
Her feet were light as bird on wing,
her laughter lighter than the spring;
the slender willow, the—

‘Hold right there, my son, or you shall sing it all for them,’ Gilraen said fondly, smiling in private pleasure. Estel had a very fine voice, much better than her own. She only hoped that he would keep his perfect pitch after it broke in adolescence.

‘I do not know it all,’ said Estel candidly. ‘Only the first four cantos, and the death of Finrod Felagund. Friend and comrade, Beren bold, my heart is burst; my limbs are cold...’

‘Stop!’ cried Gilraen, a shiver running up her spine as she thought of her beautiful child grown grim with long labour, languishing like his forebearer in some dungeon of the Enemy far from any aid. She shook off the fearful supposition and tried to laugh. ‘There will be singing aplenty tonight.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ Estel chanted obediently. ‘You are not dressed for revels. Will you not be coming out with me?’ he asked.

‘I will not,’ Gilraen answered quietly. ‘For the folk of the Valley this is a night of joy and celebration, but for me it is a time of solemnity and remembrance.’

Estel turned his head and again she lost her hold on his hair, but this time she did not scold him. His brows were knit with puzzlement. ‘You have always gone down to the river before,’ he said.

‘You were too young to understand; I did not wish to detract from your merriment,’ Gilraen said; ‘but I was wedded upon this night twelve years ago, and for me it is a reminder of he whom I have lost.’

‘My sire,’ Estel said softly, and for a moment he seemed lost in thought. Then his face grew grave and he regarded her steadily. ‘Then it shall be a night of solemnity and remembrance for me as well, though still one of merriment, for had you not wed him, I should never have been born.’

Gilraen reached out to touch his cheek. ‘Your grandmother once said something similar,’ she told him. ‘Now turn around and let me finish, or they shall be up to fetch you before you are ready to go.’

Estel obeyed her contentedly, somewhat more sedate. Gilraen hoped that she had not spoken too soon of her pain. He seemed older now, since he had been ill, but he was still young, and the burdens of her broken heart were not his to bear.

lar

Estel sat in the grass as the glorious sunset flamed above him. The revels were just beginning, and much of the household was still inside, tidying up after the evening meal. His father was in counsel with the guests, which was why he had been allowed to come out. When the time came for the dwarves to join the celebrants Erestor would come to spirit Estel away, but for now he was content to sit and smell the sweetness of the summer evening, and to enjoy the songs.

They were singing of Gil-galad and the founding of Mithlond at the dawn of the Second Age. Though the deeds of which they sang were deeds of healing and creation rather than war, the song was coloured by a profound sadness. For the folk of Imladris had been the High King’s people, and there were many who remembered the grim day when he had ridden with his armies and the soldiers of Elendil to wage war against the Shadow. There were many who remembered how he had fallen to the fires of Orodruin, and many who had seen his glory fade into wistful memory.

Sometimes Estel wondered what it must be like to look back upon a life as long as the hills themselves, and see friends who had passed into darkness, comrades who were now the stuff of legends, brides and children and compatriots lost in the eddies of time. He thought of Atar, whose parents had vanished into the West nevermore to walk the forests of Middle-earth, whose brother had taken the doom of Men and perished in a long-ago Age, and whose wife had ridden the Road all the way down to the Sea and never returned to the Last Homely House. And though she was not of the Elven kindred he thought of his mother, and how her bitter loss coloured her every thought and deed. Was that what it meant to grow up, he wondered; to learn the sorrow of loss and the bitter-sweet savour of remembrance?

‘Such a grave face on such a merry night,’ a mellifluous voice observed as the speaker lowered himself onto the greensward next to the boy. It was Elrohir, clad in blue and gold with bright gems bound on his brow. He rested one arm upon a raised knee and leaned to look at Estel. ‘What troubles you?’

‘You have lived long in Arda,’ Estel said.

‘An astute observation,’ said the warrior, smiling a little. ‘Is it my turn? You have lived ten years, and look to live many more.’

‘My mother says that you have had many mortal friends,’ Estel ventured, emboldened by the amused indulgence in the adult’s voice.

‘I have. And I hope that I may come to count you among them, if you will have me. I have found Men faithful in fair weather and in strife alike, and doughty in battle, and resourceful in a tight spot, and they are surpassing witty when they have a mind to be. The Second-born make glad company.’ Elrohir halted, tilting his head to listen to the song that floated amid the trees and seemed to echo off the water.

‘When they die, do you remember them?’ asked Estel.

‘I remember them all,’ Elrohir said. ‘But why do you speak of death upon such a night as this?’

Estel shifted uncomfortably. As friendly as the Sons of Elrond had been these last few days, he was not certain he could freely unburden his soul to one of them. ‘I was thinking of Gil-galad,’ he said.

‘Ah. That is some matter different,’ said Elrohir. ‘Gil-galad was of the Firstborn. When he was slain his fëa was severed from his body and passed into the Halls of Mandos...’

‘Where in time it might be healed of its hurts, and take corporeal form again, and Gil-galad might walk freely in Valimar, and be once more reunited with his family and his friends,’ Estel concluded. He was well-versed in metaphysics, and what he did not wholly understand he could at least recite accurately. ‘But when a Man dies his spirit is freed from the bounds of the world, and what then becomes of it no one can say, not even Atarinya.’

‘That is true,’ said Elrohir solemnly; ‘yet that is both the doom and the gift of Men, for they are not fettered to the fate of Arda, and they need not linger to watch the things they love age and crumble and pass away into memory. When you have at last grown old, and you are weary of the world, you may depart from it in peace, and find freedom that the Eldar cannot.’

There was a shadow in his grey eyes, and he seemed to be walking in distant memory or in some vision of a future hidden beyond Estel’s ken. The boy watched sombrely as the Elven warrior returned to the present and smiled. ‘But here we sit debating the fate of the Children of Eru while the night is fair and our friends are dancing. Shall we not join the revels?’

‘Tell me of my father,’ Estel said abruptly, the words tripping out before he could censor them. ‘Tell me of my mother’s husband.’

‘There is little that I may tell you that you do not already know,’ said Elrohir. ‘He was a formidable warrior and he was my dear friend. Upon this night one dozen years past I danced at his marriage-feast, when your mother’s laughter fell like silver rain upon the glade and the stars of Elbereth sang out their blessings upon their union. What more I can say, I do not know, for we do not speak of him any longer.’

‘Why not?’ Estel asked. ‘If he lived and died with honour, why must his life be secret? Yet if he lived or died in shame, should I not be told of it so that I may avoid the same pitfalls?’

Elrohir’s eyes flashed with something akin to fury. ‘Your sire never knew shame!’ he said fiercely. Then his expression softened and he continued with more decorum. ‘He was to the last an honourable man, and it may be that someday tales shall be told of his deeds, but that day has not yet come. For the time being he must be to us all as a nameless stranger, remembered in secret even by those who loved him best. A time will come when you will understand.’

‘I do not wish to wait: why can I not be made to understand tonight?’ asked Estel.

‘Because it cannot be,’ said Elrohir with a sad smile. ‘And because you must learn patience. If you live the long life that has been foretold for you, this will be the least of the things for which you must wait. Consider it a test; a preparation for your manhood.’ For a moment he paused, studying the child’s face. Then he sighed. ‘Yet it is a bitter thing to know nothing of the man who gave you life. Therefore ask me one question, and I shall answer it fully and with absolute truth. Let whatever comes of it, good or ill, come as it will.’

Estel’s eyes widened and the multitude of questions he had pondered over the years flooded to his mind. What was his sire’s name? Of what race or people was he born? Had he any history or lineage at all? How had his father died? And where? And why? It seemed an impossible task to choose just one question from among these and a dozen more.

Then he halted his racing thoughts and drew in a deep breath. This was a chance, he realized, for him to choose between gratification and wisdom. Never had his guardian equivocated or denied him the answer to any question – save only those pertaining to his birth and his genealogy. If Elrond Peredhil, master of lore and lord of Imladris, kept this knowledge from him, then surely there was some reason, grave and important. Though he did not understand the cause for secrecy, he trusted his father enough to know with absolute certainty that it was of desperate consequence.

Yet he could not cast away a chance to resolve at least some part of his doubt about his parentage. When the solution to his problem occurred to him, Estel smiled soberly.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I have chosen my question.’

Elrohir watched in apprehension, and Estel realized that he, too, had been thinking along those same lines and regretting his hasty pledge.

‘What colour was his hair?’ the boy finished.

A barking laugh escaped the Elf-lord’s lips, and his eyes grew wide in astonishment. Then he smiled appreciatively. ‘You are wise beyond your years, child of Gilraen,’ he said with quiet wonder. ‘His hair was dark as the shadows at twilight, even as your own.’

‘Thank you,’ Estel said neatly. ‘I do not think I could have troubled Atarinya with such a foolish question, and I would never dare to ask Mother. I am pleased to know the answer at last.’

‘You are welcome to it,’ Elrohir assured him. ‘And when the time comes I promise there shall be a day of reckoning, when my brother and I may answer all of your questions. For now, however,’ he said, getting to his feet and holding out his hands to draw Estel up after him; ‘the night is merry and the stars shall soon be coming out to join our singing. Let us go and be part of the revels. Unless you are too old and dignified to dance on the green?’

‘Never!’ said Estel, and he felt his spirits lifting. His step was light as he followed the Half-elven warrior towards the whirling colours of the brightly-clad dancers, and for once his curiosity was quelled without being satisfied.

That too, he supposed, was part of growing up.

lar

Reluctantly Elrond held the bare blade out, and Gandalf took it. The ancient runes vanished as the sword was returned to its sheath. ‘Keep them well!’ he said, forcing bravado and pride into a voice that longed to be tremulous with painful reverance.

‘Whence did the trolls get them, I wonder?’ said Thorin. In his hands Orcrist gleamed, and it seemed as if the delicate finger-marks of its original bearer still glimmered on the hilt. It was more wieldy than its mate, less in length and in weight than Glamdring. Upon its hilt was laid in sapphire and beryl the device of an ornate flower: six petals and six sepals that spoke more clearly than any volume of lore as to who had carried this blade. At least now, thought Elrond, the dwarf had some appreciation of what it was that he bore, though he would doubtless be displeased to hear the whole tale.

‘I could not say, but one may guess that your trolls had plundered other plunderers, or come on the remnants of old robberies in some hold in the mountains.’ Abandoned, doubtless, upon the heights of Turgon’s city when Maeglin was cast down by Tuor – left, perhaps, in favour of a burden more precious; a half-Elven child of seven years? Mayhap it was captured there by some great worm who bore it north, away from Angband and into the wastes that were not swallowed by the Sea when Morgoth was overthrown and Beleriand was broken? Or taken by a craven Orc and passed from one thief to another through the long millenia, until it appeared still matched with its mate in the house of the grandchild of its owner.

‘I have heard,’ Elrond went on, his lore-master’s tongue outstripping his frantically flying thoughts; ‘that there are still forgotten treasures of old to be found in the deserted caverns of the mines of Moria, since the dwarf and goblin war.’

As he had hoped these words caused Thorin to swell a little with pride. ‘I will keep this sword in honour,’ he pledged. ‘May it soon cleave goblins once again!’

Then, thankfully, he sheathed the blade and its spell was broken. ‘A wish that is likely to be granted soon enough in the mountains!’ Elrond said, a little ruefully. ‘But show me now your map.’

They produced it and he studied it with care. Here was a welcome distraction from hurts that were older than the halls of the ancient dwarf-lords of Khazad-dûm, and gratefully Elrond traced the fine lines of the pen that had laid out the mountain and the lost town of Dale. All the dwarves were watching him intently, and the hobbit seemed enthralled. Gandalf was leaning against a bookshelf,an impassive observer. By the door, Erestor was waiting for the sign to go out and whisk Estel away into the house. Elladan, who had insisted upon being present out of respect to the guests he had attended for a fortnight, seemed to have little interest in the map, for his eyes kept darting to and from between the swords. Elrond wished his son would desist: it was an unpleasant foreshadowing of a conversation that he did not feel equal to having tonight. He focused more intently upon the parchment in his hands.

It seemed that his eyes caught sight of a shimmer upon the page where it curled between his fingers. Puzzled, he lifted the map and held it to the moonlight that poured in through the window. ‘What is this?’ he said, a queer smile touching his lips. ‘There are moon-letters here, beside the plain runes which say “five feet high the door and three may walk abreast.”’

‘What are moon-letters?’ Bilbo exclaimed eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

There followed a brief lesson in dwarvish subterfuge, which Elrond delivered without his usual commentary on the unnecessary complexity of such methods of concealing important information. It would be rude to point out the folly of an artifice that left so much to chance, or the danger of such messages being lost forever, unless someone – like himself – chanced to lift a paper to the light of the proper moon because he was trying to distract himself from the ghosts of the past. Both Gandalf and Thorin seemed rather annoyed that they had not made this discovery themselves, which was gratifying both in its absurdity and because it was always rather amusing to see Gandalf vexed.

‘“Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks,”’ Elrond read; ‘and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the key-hole.”’

‘Durin, Durin!’ Thorin exclaimed, finding an opportunity to launch into a blustering boast. ‘He was the father of the fathers of the eldest race of Dwarves, the Longbeards, and my first ancestor: I am his heir!’

Elrond had yet to meet a dwarf who did not claim some degree of kinship to Durin, and he certainly did not need lessons in dwarven history. Yet such a holiday was unknown to him. ‘Then what is Durin’s Day?’ he asked, glancing back at the map.

‘The first day of the dwarves’ New Year is as all should know the first day of the last moon of autumn on the threshold of winter,’ said Thorin, with a hint of disdain in his voice. ‘We call it Durin’s Day when the last moon of autumn and the sun are in the sky together. But this will not help us much, I fear, for it passes our skill in these days to guess when such a time will come again.’

Elrond was about to offer the services of his astronomers, whose talents were more than equal to such a task, but Gandalf spoke before he could open his mouth. ‘That remains to be seen,’ said the wizard firmly, shooting the Elf-lord a look that demanded silence. ‘Is there any more writing?’

‘None to be seen by this moon,’ Elrond said. Behind him he heard Erestor open the door and slip out. It would take a few minutes more for him to reach the riverbank, and the same amount of time again to get Estel safely into the house. He rolled the map with care and handed it to Thorin, who secreted it about his person with the air of one entrusted with the destiny of his race.

‘Now,’ said Elrond, crossing to one of the desks and producing from it paper, pen and ink; ‘my folk are making ready provisions for you, and if there is any other article of gear that you require I shall be happy to furnish that also. Gandalf, you have said you will require one of my ponies...’

Fifteen minutes were effectively wasted while the dwarves deliberated amongst themselves, and items such as rope, and liniment, and a few drams of brandy (‘Strictly medicinal!’ said Ori) were added to the list. At length, Erestor reappeared at the door and invited the guests to follow him down to the water to join in the revels. They departed gladly enough, Bilbo Baggins fairly flying in his excitement. None seemed to notice that their host did not follow, and Elrond was soon left alone with his son, who was watching him appraisingly.

‘Now tell me, Atarinya, what you concealed about those swords,’ Elladan said, getting to his feet and coming forward to perch on the desk at which his sire sat.

‘What I told them was the truth,’ said Elrond. ‘Glamdring was the blade of the King of Gondolin – your great-great-grandsire. Orcrist was its mate.’

‘A strange mate,’ Elladan commented. ‘Though the craftsmanship is identical and the style is similar, they are rather different in size.’

‘Convenient for the finders, no doubt,’ remarked Elrond. ‘I do not think that the strength even of the mightiest dwarf-lord would serve to wield Glamdring with ample agility for battle.’

‘You were troubled by the sight of them: I saw the signs, and Erestor and Gandalf could not have missed them, either.’

‘I was astounded,’ Elrond said. ‘For seven thousand years those blades have been accounted lost, and they appear now, but a handful of stony miles from my doorstep. How? Why?’

‘You sound like Estel: one impossible question on the heels of another,’ Elladan said, laughing a little. ‘Does it matter? Is it not enough that they are found?’

‘It is a wondrous happening,’ Elrond said, his voice betraying something of his haunted thoughts.

‘Then what troubles you? Do you covet them, as treasures of your forefather? I had not thought you could be so... human.’

‘I do not covet the swords. They shall soon, as Thorin said, slay Orcs once more and avenge some small part of their lord’s demise, and I could not wish for a better fate for them.’ Elrond sighed and drew a hand across his brow. ‘Elladan, I am a master of lore. I know the history of our people from their very inception, as none now remember it, and yet all that I know of my father’s kin I learned third-hand and fourth from the servants of my liege-lord in the Second Age. There are no details in my mind not elsewhere recorded, no personal tales or undisclosed secrets. Ëarendil and his folk are as strange to me as the distant Vanyar, studied by me in book and legend as Estel learns the history of Númenor.’

Elladan put a consoling hand on his sire’s shoulder. ‘And this troubles you,’ he said softly, but it was plain that he did not understand.

‘When I was young, the pain of that ignorance was great,’ Elrond confessed. Seldom had he spoken to his children about his own childhood, and even now, speaking to a hale warrior who had known hardship and sorrow and torment enough, he kept his words intentionally oblique. ‘There were those who reviled my lack of knowledge, and derided me because of it, and I came to think that unless I knew those from whom I had come I could not rightly know myself. My Noldorin heritage was foreign to me, and even after I came under the tutelage of Gil-galad and began to learn something of the folk of Gondolin it was plain I would never understand that birthright as I did the legacy of Elwing and Lúthien her foremother.’

‘That is only natural,’ Elladan said. ‘You learned of that folk from your mother’s own lips. Yet if it is Gondolin of which you wish to learn, you might always ask Glorfindel. He remembers much of which he does not speak.’

‘And he has told me much that he has not shared with you. Yet still that is the testimony of an observer,’ said Elrond. ‘Tonight, for the first time, I learned something of that branch of my family without the aid of some veteran with no blood claim to my line – our line. Tonight I have discovered the answer to a question I had never thought to ask. It seems that Orcrist, long known to be the mate of Glamdring wrought by the Noldor of Gondolin for Turgon their king, was not wrought – as most have thought – for Ecthelion or another of the great lords of the city. It was wrought for Idril Celebrindal, Turgon’s daughter and my father’s mother. Her device is inlaid upon the hilt. That is why the sword is not so heavy as its partner.’

Elladan laughed. ‘That is a fascinating revelation,’ he said. ‘And as you say, it is nowhere recorded. Why did you not mention it to Gandalf?’

‘Do you think that Thorin Oakenshield, the indomitable dwarven adventurer, would be glad to learn that his blade was forged for a maiden?’ Elrond asked wryly.

‘Perhaps not,’ Elladan allowed. ‘But this discovery has provided you at last with a secret of your family to hoard in your vast stores of memory. Does that not please you?’

Elrond smiled sadly as he rose to his feet and made for the door. ‘I would rather be able to say that I had known my father,’ he murmured; ‘than learn the answers to all the mysteries of Ëa.’

Before Elladan could say more, Elrond slipped into the corridor, unable to endure any longer the sorrow and the bewilderment and the loving pity in his eldest child’s eyes.

With memories of his shattered childhood bearing down upon him with a sundering force that he had not thought possible after so many centuries, Elrond could not suffer himself to go out to laugh and dance with his folk. He made for the back stairs instead. He would go up and see Estel safely to bed. A foster-father was a poor substitute for a true one, but he would do his best. Moreover, he knew the boy’s presence would comfort him and ease his heart. Then, maybe, he would be in more of a mind to go out and celebrate the apex of the year.

Chapter XIX: Midsummer Morning

Midsummer morning dawned with all the glory that the Valley could offer. The Sun shone merrily and the air was fragrant with the scent of dew-studded flowers. The river sparkled, laughing in its bed to greet the day. Though the folk of Rivendell had tarried until dawn, heralding the height of the year with song and dancing, they were clear-eyed and joyous in the morning light.

The green before the Last Homely House was alive with activity as a crowd of ponies were saddled and laden and made ready to depart. One or two of the dwarves, somewhat more drowsy and wine-muddled than their hosts, made a pretext of overseeing the proceedings, but for the most part the travellers deferred to the unclouded judgement of the Elves. Mr. Baggins seemed torn between excitement and regret as he moved through the crowd, thanking anyone and everyone who would pause to listen, and reiterating over and over what a pleasant fortnight he had had.

There was as yet no sign of Gandalf, for he and Elrond had left the revels together two hours after midnight, and no one had seen them since. Elrohir was engaged in an enthusiastic discussion of mountain travel with Oin and Gloin. Nearby, Glorfindel had been caught by Thorin, who was regaling him once again with pledges of his glorious intent.

Satisfied that everything was well in hand, Elladan slipped back into the house and took the stairs three at a time. He rapped lightly at the door, and from within a child’s soft voice invited him to enter. Elladan opened the door and stepped into the little parlour.

Estel was sitting with his head against the casement-mouldings. At the sight of his visitor a cloud of disappointment crossed his thin face, and though he mastered it quickly and forced a peaked smile he made no move to rise. His grey eyes were clouded and his face was strangely wan.

‘Are you ill?’ asked Elladan, frowning in concern and coming forward to place a hand on the child’s forehead. The skin was cool and dry; there was no sign of either fever or chill.

Estel shook his head mutely.

‘Then perhaps you slyly sampled the new wine last night?’ teased the Elda.

‘I did not,’ Estel said indignantly. ‘I behaved very well last night.’

‘So I hear,’ Elladan acceded earnestly. ‘Erestor has said that you made no protest whatsoever about leaving the revels.’

‘I was very grateful to be allowed to go down,’ Estel sighed quietly, staring at his hands where they lay limp in his lap. He did not look so pleased about the matter this morning.

Elladan gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Perhaps you have overspent your gathering strength?’ he queried.

‘I do not think so.’ A faint flush touched Estel’s cheeks and he looked away.

‘Then tell me what is amiss, child, for yesterday you were as bright-eyed and hale as a young hart, and today I find you grey-hued and despondent.’ Elladan knelt so that he might look up into the boy’s face. ‘If there is aught wrong you must tell me of it, or I cannot help you.’

‘I do not need help,’ Estel said resolutely, still avoiding eye contact. ‘I can endure it.'

‘What are you endeavouring to—’ Elladan began, but at that moment the door opened and the Lady Gilraen entered, bearing a large breakfast tray.

Suddenly Estel was smiling enormously. He got to his feet and hurried to help his mother set down her burden on the table. ‘Fresh cherries!’ he said almost happily, popping two of them into his mouth. His mother laughed softly and took his arm to guide him onto a chair. ‘Sit down, my little fool, or you will choke on the pits,’ she said fondly, tousling his hair. Her gaze turned upon Elladan, and she smiled in welcome. ‘It is a pleasure to see you,’ she said. ‘Will you not join us as we break our fast?’

‘Nay, lady, I cannot,’ the Elven warrior said, watching out of the corner of his eye as Estel’s affected smile wavered, only to reappear again as Gilraen moved into his line of sight again. The child was putting on a show of merriment for the benefit of his mother. ‘I came to ask if Estel wanted to come down to join the household whilst we bid farewell to the guests.’

‘Atarinya has forbidden it,’ Estel said simply, moving his hands as his mother set before him a plate full of fresh fruit and hot buttered bread.

‘Ah, but you are not the only one who on occasion disobeys him,’ said Elladan.

Estel flushed. ‘I did not precisely...’ he hedged. Then, ashamed perhaps of his attempt at equivocation, he sighed. ‘How did you come to hear of that?’

‘Gandalf inquired whether Elrohir and I knew what a rebel our father was harbouring beneath his roof,’ Elladan said, grinning at the child’s discomfiture. ‘It seems the Grey Pilgrim was impressed by your mettle.’

‘What is this?’ asked Gilraen, distress upon her face. ‘Disobey Master Elrond? Estel, what have you done?’

Estel sighed heavily. He closed his eyes. ‘I crept downstairs two nights ago,’ he said doggedly. ‘I wanted to hear the one called Bilbo tell about the hill-trolls.’

Horror welled up in his mother’s eyes, and one hand clawed at her lips, which parted in silent dismay. Watching, Elladan could taste her panic; the mounting terror as she envisioned the carefully spun web of secrecy that had safeguarded her son collapsing before the Shadow.

Estel saw it, too, and cried out, distraught, ‘He did not see me, Mother. I promise he did not see me. Atarinya was not angry, and I shall not do it again. Please, Mother, no harm was done!’ Pained tears rose in his eyes and he scrambled to his feet. ‘Please do not weep,’ he implored, clutching her arm anxiously.

Gilraen looked from her frantic child to Elladan, the question in her eyes as plain as any words could make it.

‘It is true, lady. No harm was done,’ Elladan said. ‘Verily, I think my father was reassured to see the return of the spark of insubordination; it is a sign of a strong will, and that is nothing to be discouraged if it is tempered with good sense. That, it seems, Estel has in abundance.’ He smiled upon the boy.

‘Please, Mother. Please do not weep,’ Estel begged miserably.

Gilraen sighed softly and drew Estel into an almost habitual embrace. ‘You must not do such things,’ she scolded softly. ‘You must obey Master Elrond in all matters. He...’ She paused, as if the words she uttered had to be wrenched free from the talons of some inner demon. ‘He is wise beyond our reckoning, and he is – he is right.’

Again she was consciously striving to give the Lord of the Valley the honour that was his due, but Elladan understood how dearly these words were bought. Gilraen was a great lady, and in another, perhaps less evil, time she would have been a queen in her own right. Her pride was very dear to her, and to thus cast off years of firm conviction was a bitter blow. Yet she had seen her error, and was attempting despite her shame to rectify it, and for that she deserved his humble respect.

‘Heed your mother, Estel, for she too is wise,’ Elladan said. ‘I am abashed to say that she is wiser than I. I should not have come here to stir the fires of rebellion and to tempt you to disobey. Let us sit and eat. When the guests are done you may have the run of the house once more.’

Estel slipped from his mother’s arms, surreptitiously wiping away a stray tear with his sleeve. Gone was the mask of jollity, and he was pale and despondent once more. Gilraen looked at him, and then turned away in grief, for plainly she thought herself to be the cause of his misery. A great lady, perhaps, but with the insight of his kindred Elladan realized abruptly that she was also a wounded mortal girl, her heart bitterly sundered by the evils that had laid waste her life. Clearly a conciliatory breakfast was out of the question. There were matters more urgent to address this morning.

‘Estel,’ Elladan said, taking the chair nearest Gilraen; ‘take your breakfast to your room and eat it there. I must speak with your mother, and then I shall come to discuss this matter with you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Estel mumbled unhappily. He obeyed at once, closing the door to his little room as quietly as he could.

Elladan turned to the mortal lady, who seemed now nearer to tears than before. ‘Lady, you must unburden your heart,’ he said. ‘You cannot go on as you are, a hair’s breadth from breaking. You have known sorrows too great for your brief years, and in your place mighty queens would weep, but what of Estel? If you are too young to bear such pains, how much more so is he? Surely you can see how it wrings at his gentle heart to see you in such distress.’

‘Do you not think that I know what I do to him?’ Gilraen lamented. ‘I see my pain mirrored in his eyes; I see how he suffers with my unhappiness. I have tried to keep it from him. I have tried to endure it.’

The familiar words wrung at Elladan’s heart. ‘That is your error, dear lady,’ he said softly, taking her hand in his own. ‘You cannot endure it alone: you must ease your burden and allow others to help you bear it. From you Estel is learning to lock away his hurts, to suffer in silence rather than allow others to help him. In your example he sees that pain must be carried alone, and that is a dangerous lesson. In his life he will know pains that few mortal men may ever know, and if he must bear them alone they will break him. We must teach him trust, Gilraen. If he cannot trust he will never survive. Even if you cannot do this for your own sake, you must think of him.’

‘Why?’ Gilraen cried, and hot tears of rage and sorrow spilled suddenly from her eyes. ‘Why must I think always of Estel? I have given all I have for him: my freedom, my home, my family, my dignity. Must I also give up my grief?’

Elladan’s eyes hardened. ‘You are insensate with sorrow, my lady, or you would not say such things,’ he told her, his voice suddenly cold. To utter words of that kind was terrible enough. To speak them where the child might hear was a transgression he could not countenance. ‘I know you speak from pain, and not from any true resentment, but you must not use such words. You have forfeited much for his sake; that is true. But I think that in your heart you know that you did this not only for Estel but for yourself, because the sacrifice you have therefore avoided is the greatest of all.’

Gilraen was stricken dumb at his words, and she stared at him in silence, anguished eyes wide.

‘I think you know, lady, that had you retained your freedom, and your home, your family – had you retained even your beloved husband, but lost your son, you would be little better than a wraith, a shattered shadow of what you once had been. Twice now he has come perilously near to death. Twice now he has almost been taken from you. Can you not see how that loss would break you?’ Elladan slumped back in the chair, breaking the imperious lock of his eyes upon her own and abandoning his stern tone. ‘To we who care deeply for you nothing could be more plain.’

For a moment, Gilraen sat unmoving. Then she crumpled, her body shrinking forward over her lap. ‘Aye...’ she breathed, her face buried in her hands. ‘It would break me...’

Elladan placed a hand upon her bent back. ‘Even the fear of it has come near to sundering your sweet spirit,’ he murmured regretfully. ‘The chance that he might be discovered, the slightest threat to the secrecy upon which we all rely, terrifies you so that you know not what you say.’

‘The Enemy is hunting him,’ Gilraen wept. ‘He searches tirelessly for the Hei...’ She caught herself, and raised horrified eyes to stare at the door behind which her son was doubtlessly listening. ‘I cannot speak of it,’ she whispered frantically. ‘Do you not see why I cannot speak of it?’

‘Not here, maybe,’ said Elladan, his expression gentle once more; ‘but the Valley is wide. A place may be found, and uninvited listeners kept at bay. If you wish I will send for someone to attend to Estel, and we may seek such a place at once. If you will not speak with me, I will send for my brother. If even to him, whom I know you love well, you cannot unburden your heart, then we shall ride forth this very hour, and bring to you whatever confidante you choose: some companion of your girlhood, perhaps, or a trusted matron in whom you confided in the days e’re all your world was torn asunder.’

Gilraen raised her head and stared at him, wonder and anguish warring in her eyes. ‘You would do such a thing for me?’ she croaked in a strangulated voice.

‘Lady, you are my dear friend, and the mother of our hope. There is nothing the Peredhil would not do for you.’

For a long time she sat silent, lost in turmoil. At last, she shook her head. ‘No. The women... they do not know that we yet live. What they do not know cannot be wrung from them in joy or in torment. I cannot imperil my friends.’

‘Then let us bring someone who knows already,’ said Elladan. ‘Someone to whom you might trust the darkest secrets of your heart. There are those among the Dúnedain who know the truth – the men who led the agents of the Enemy astray while we bore you hither, those who have come to visit the Valley in recent years. Is there one of their number to whom you would speak?’

Gilraen shook her head.

‘You must open your heart to someone, lady. If you do not and this darkness continues to consume you, it will drag you down into madness, and it will poison Estel’s soul. That cannot be allowed. With whom will you speak?’ Elladan once more set his gaze upon her, but though it was unyielding it was softened with mercy and empathy.

‘Elrohir,’ she said at last, casting her eyes into her lap in a manner that evoked her son’s. ‘I will speak to Elrohir; I give you my word.’

‘Then I shall fetch him at once.’ Elladan rose and strode towards the door.

‘Wait—’

‘We cannot wait. We have waited too long for you to address these pains that have fed upon your heart since the night your husband perished,’ Elladan told her sternly. ‘You will speak to Elrohir now, while my words and the torment in Estel’s eyes are fresh in your mind.’

‘Then let me fetch him,’ Gilraen interceded, picking herself up off of the chair and gathering her skirts into one hand. ‘You promised...’ She swallowed with a great effort and inhaled through her nose. ‘You promised that you would go to Estel when you were finished with me.’

‘Am I finished?’ asked the warrior.

An imperceptible nod was Gilraen’s answer. ‘If – if he overheard my words...’ she ventured haltingly.

‘I will speak to him,’ vowed Elladan. ‘Go.’

Without further hesitation she hastened from the room, her slippers brushing against the floor with a soft hush-hush of supple leather. Alone, Elladan slumped against the wall beside the door, raising a weary hand to his temple. He was ill-equipped to advise her, though she was his dear friend’s widow and he longed to see her healed. Her hurts were beyond the aid of any power he possessed. If only she could trust his sire, she might find comfort, but that day would be long in coming. Perhaps, he thought despairingly, if Arwen were here she might reach out to Gilraen, but that too was impossible.

He hoped that his twin might accomplish something, at least. And there was another who needed his attentions now.

Elladan raised himself up and moved to rap lightly upon Estel’s door. When no reply came, he called the boy’s name. Still he was met with silence. Afraid that the child had withdrawn upon himself and was unwilling or unable to respond, the Elven soldier turned the handle and entered the room.

The plate of food sat untouched on the chair next to the bed. Atop the coverlet, his thin body curled like that of a newborn child, Estel lay motionless in slumber. Cold tear-tracks marred his pale cheeks, and his brow was drawn as if with pain. Elladan stood for a moment, studying the child but loath to disturb him. At length he picked up the rejected breakfast and withdrew from the room with silence such as only one of the Firstborn could muster.

lar

‘Take good care, and remember your own words of wisdom: where there is health and common sense, there is always hope,’ said Elrond, smiling down at the hobbit.

Bilbo nodded stoutly and reached out a hand, which his host took graciously. ‘Thank you again,’ he said; ‘and I hope you’re right about my coming back to tell you all about how we defeated the dragon and captured the treasure.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cheered Balin, who was mounted on his pony some feet away. Fili and Bifur echoed the cry enthusiastically.

‘Now let us be going, before we have squandered the whole day,’ grumbled Gandalf, who looked a little foolish on his stout borrowed steed. ‘Mount up, Mr Baggins, or I may just leave you behind after all.’

Bilbo looked a little dubiously at his pony. Doubtless he was wondering whether he would be able to reach the saddle with any dignity: Glorfindel had taken some amusement in describing the hobbit’s efforts at doing so.

A good host, of course, was always mindful of his guests’ comfort and their feelings. Swiftly and as smoothly as if it had been his intention all along, Elrond knelt and offered his hands for the hobbit to step upon. With a smile of appreciation, Bilbo planted one furry foot upon Elrond’s palm and accepted the gentle hefting that allowed him to swing his right leg over the saddle. He tucked his feet into the stirrups as the Master of Imladris rose.

‘I really can’t thank you enough,’ the hobbit said. ‘For everything.’

‘You can thank us all by riding to renown and glory – and to a safe return,’ Elrond decreed, smiling warmly. ‘Farewell, Bilbo Baggins. Farewell, good brother dwarves. May your beards grow ever longer. Farewell Thorin Oakenshield. May your efforts all be profitable, and your birthright be returned to you in due time.’

Thorin inclined his head. ‘Thank you, good sir, for your magnanimous hospitality. May you and your folk live ever in peace.’

He dug his heels into the sides of his pony and urged it on to a trot. The others followed suit. As they began to ride away, Elrond became aware of a commotion behind him. He turned, even as Erestor and Lindir began to lead the assembled household in a song of farewell, and saw at once the cause of the disturbance.

Gilraen had come out of the house. Her eyes were red from weeping, and her hands trembled. Those near her drew back, anxious faces betraying their dismay and their helplessness. Few were close to the mortal lady, but many knew of her pain. After a moment’s hesitation two of the maidens started towards her, consoling arms outstretched, but by then Elrohir had caught sight of her, and he reached her first.

‘What is amiss, lady?’ he asked gently, taking her hand in his and turning her so that his shoulders shielded her from most of the eyes that had been drawn by her unexpected appearance. He drew out his handkerchief and offered it to her.

‘I must speak to you,’ Gilraen replied as she wiped her eyes, and though her voice was tremulous she seemed to be in close control of her faculties. ‘I must... there are matters on which I seek your counsel.’

Elrohir nodded wordlessly, looking briefly about him. Elrond caught his son’s eye for a moment and communicated his approval. With no further upheaval of those around them, Elrohir and Gilraen vanished into the house. Gesturing that those who had halted to observe the encounter should follow his example, Elrond joined in the song.

lar

The elves were singing, and the Valley was passing them by as the ponies made their way towards the purple shadows of the Misty Mountains. Bilbo egged his mount forward a little and drew up next to Gandalf.

‘Who was that woman?’ he asked, raising his voice a little to be heard over the clomping of hooves.

‘What woman?’ the wizard asked, not troubling to look down at his travelling companion.

‘Just as we were leaving I turned to look back, and I saw a woman come out of the house. She looked like she had been crying.’ The kind-hearted hobbit was distressed by the sight, and still more so by the notion that all might not be as merry in this beautiful place as he has supposed. ‘I didn’t expect to find anyone in Rivendell who might have a reason for tears.’

‘Come now, Mr Baggins,’ Gandalf scoffed. The hobbit did not see the shadow of knowing grief in the wizard’s keen eyes. ‘Do you really think that in a place where there are so many people that all of them can possibly be happy at any given moment? Perhaps she has lost her cat. Perhaps she was reading one of those sad tales you seem to delight in. Perhaps she was sorry to see us depart.’

Bilbo was mollified. Any one of those explanations might account for it, and the day was bright, and he was on his way into great adventures. Still, he was determined to get the last word, even if he had been rather silly to mention it at all. ‘It can’t be that last one, though, can it?’ he said cheekily. ‘For I haven’t seen her once in the whole time we’ve been here. If she doesn’t know us, she can’t very well miss us.’

Gandalf cast his eyes briefly heavenward, and then clicked his tongue and muttered a command in Elvish to the borrowed pony. Obligingly the beast quickened its pace, and Bilbo was left behind, riding next to Ori.

Chapter XX: A Second Departure

Erestor followed his lord as Elrond strode through the corridors of the house. Having lately come from Estel’s room the Peredhil was troubled, and as his counsellor and friend Erestor desired to be on hand when the mood for speech took him. Ordinarily this was a labour that required little effort, for it was an easy thing to linger in some corner of the libraries or to make one’s presence known in the next room or to wander circumspectly beneath the same beech-trees, that he might be sought out when Elrond wished to talk. Ordinarily, of course, the Lord of the Valley was not taken to rambling without purpose.

Through the long years of their friendship, Erestor had come to understand the son of Ëarendil as few now dwelling in Middle-earth could. He remembered even the merry baby, one of the twin blessings of Sirion, who had delighted in song and passed many hours toddling over the sands, gathering brightly coloured shells with his brother. When the sons of Elwing had been lost at the sack of Sirion, Erestor had wept for them with tears more bitter than those he had shed for the dead. When the time had come at last that the sons of Maedhros had set loose their captives, Erestor had been there to help the abandoned child of his erstwhile lord through the pains of this new upheaval. Even then few had understood the workings of Elrond’s mind, for to the folk of Gil-galad it seemed strange that the youth should pine for the company of a rebel and a Kinslayer.

Erestor had beheld Elrond’s partings with his brother: the first when Elros departed with his chosen people to the far isle of Elenna, and that last and most painful farewell that must endure until the world’s end. As peers they had served together in the court of Gil-galad, and Erestor remembered well the first time he had quarrelled with Elrond.

There had come to Lindon a fair visitor; Annatar he called himself, the Lord of Gifts, and he had promised to share wondrous knowledge with the Noldor. Erestor had counselled the High King to welcome this stranger, that his folk might learn from him what they could, but Elrond had spoken vehemently against it though he could give no reasons why. Gil-galad had been swayed by the passion of his younger counsellor, and had rejected the wanderer’s overtures of friendship. At the time Erestor had been angry that his lord preferred the intangible arguments of the Peredhil to his own more reasoned advice. How fortunate, in the end, that Elrond possessed in some measure both the foresight of Melian and the obstinacy of his forefather Beren.

When the treachery of Annatar was revealed and the son of Elwing had departed to offer counsel and aid to Celebrimbor, Erestor had watched him depart in sorrow and fear. In those terrible weeks after the fall of Eregion, when it was feared that all her folk had been lost, Erestor had grieved for his friend, and the joy of learning that he yet lived was a bright memory even after so many centuries. It was Erestor who had come to Imladris with an entourage of soldiers and craftsmen, bringing with them wains laden with provisions and sundry supplies with which to relieve the suffering of that first bitter winter in the Valley. The following year, the forces of Sauron had swarmed over Eriador like a blight, and even after they fell before the bright swords of Númenor Erestor had remained in the hidden haven with his friend.

He had stayed with Elrond through sorrow and despair. He had guarded his realm when he marched to war in Mordor, and he had helped him to shoulder the burdens of leadership after the fall of Gil-galad. He had seen him wedded into bliss, and had watched with joy the years of the children, when Elrond and Celebrían brought into the world three blessings of their own. On that hateful day when the Lord of the Valley had felt his wife’s torment, Elrond had wept upon Erestor’s shoulder; and when Elladan and Elrohir had borne their mother’s broken body back to the Valley, Erestor had been on hand to offer what paltry aid he could. He had ridden to Mithlond with his lord and the haunted Lady of Imladris, and upon Celebrían’s sailing again Erestor was there to help his friend through his time of desolation.

The years since that parting had been a time of slow acceptance but little peace, with ample distraction from Elrond’s pain provided by the increasingly desperate situation in the North and the growing shadow in the Greenwood. Then there had come a snowy night when the sons of Elrond had returned to the Valley bearing an unusual burden, and a measure of healing unlooked-for had come to the heart of Heir of Thingol.

Abruptly Elrond halted, and Erestor, lost in his thoughts, overtook much of the circumspect distance between them. His lord turned his head, and there was a brief flicker of amusement in his eyes before he turned gravely back to the scene that had stayed him in his course. It seemed his wandering had not been purposeless at all.

In one of the alcoves of the gallery Elrohir sat upon a low chaise. Lying curled beside him with her head in his lap was the Lady Gilraen. Her eyes were closed in exhausted slumber, and a rumpled handkerchief was clutched in one white hand. The half-Elf had been studying her sleeping countenance while his fingers gently stroked her disarrayed hair. Noticing the observers, he laid his hand against her skull and looked up with grieving eyes.

‘I have not the heart to wake her,’ he said, his voice low and carefully rhythmic so as not to arouse the sleeper. ‘She is quite overcome.’

‘Elladan tells me that he urged her to unburden her heart to you,’ Elrond murmured. ‘What passed between the lady and your brother he would not say, but it seems that she is troubled in spirit.’

‘She is,’ Elrohir said. ‘We spoke together for nearly an hour before she...’ He gestured with his free hand at the sleeping mortal girl.

‘Of what did you speak?’ asked the Elf-lord.

A wry smile touched his son’s lips. ‘What she said to me was said in confidence. If I am to be her confessor, the tortures of the Necromancer would not wring her secrets from me. Nor will your gentle wiles.’

‘As she will not confide in me, I must trust in your wisdom to guide her,’ Elrond said. ‘It would seem that the ordeal of these past weeks has been more taxing to her spirit than I had feared.’

‘With respect, Father,’ said Elrohir coolly, abandoning his habitual expression of endearment and respect for its colder Sindarin equivalent; ‘it is not the ordeal of these past weeks that weighs upon her, but the tribulations of eight long years of solitary widowhood. Had you taken greater care when most she needed it, we might not have come to this pass.’

‘Your sire’s care was then more sorely needed by the child,’ Erestor interjected softly. He knew his lord would not speak in his own defence, but someone had to advocate for him. ‘Afterwards the lady showed little inclination to trust. Many times he has tried to extend his hand in aid, and many times she has slapped it away. She is proud and she is cold, and all that could be offered to her has been. If she chose time and again not to accept it, that is no fault of—’

‘Peace, my friend.’ Elrond raised his hand in a gesture of gentle deprecation. ‘It is true that I have done less for the lady than I might have done. I confess I have often forgotten her youth, and in my desire to avoid any unpleasantness that Estel might witness I have delayed a confrontation of her grief. It is fortunate that my children have wise and generous hearts.’

‘Yet your children cannot tarry here,’ Elrohir said, piercing eyes upon his sire. ‘My wound has healed, and there is great evil at work in the Wild. Between Estel’s illness and my foolish injury we have already lingered far longer than is our wont. The time is at hand for the sons of Elrond to return to their labours, and then who will offer succour to the Lady Gilraen? Though I know you have tried, and will continue to do so, she has no great love for you. That cannot be helped, but it is a grave misfortune. What is to be done with her if there is no healing in Imladris for the hurts of her heart?’

‘It is true that I cannot mend her wounded spirit,’ said Elrond. ‘But there dwells in this Valley one who has power in this matter that I do not. For him she sacrificed all that she had known, and he alone can heal her.’

‘Hope you have named him, but she has no hope left,’ Elrohir argued. ‘She has despaired. It is as well that she is of the Second-born, for such wounds as these would have driven an Elven spirit from the world.’

His jaw was taut, and his grey eyes grew briefly vacant. Then for a moment they filled with the blazing hatred that so grieved his father’s heart, and Erestor knew that he thought of another lady, her spirit broken so that she could no longer endure these fallen lands. He prayed that Elrond had not seen the signs, but there was little hope of that.

‘She has not despaired.’ The Peredhil took two truncated steps towards his son, stopping short of an arm’s length from him. ‘It is the fear of despair that haunts her. When she has voiced her sorrows and overcome them, then she will master that fear. She will survive: her folk have long lived with little hope.’

‘Poor child,’ murmured Erestor. ‘Is there nothing that can be done?’

Elrond shook his head. ‘She is no child. By our reckoning she has lived for but a brief flicker of time, yet by the measure of her kindred she is a woman grown to full stature in body and mind. She must mend if she will, or fade if she cannot: we can do nothing but offer comfort and counsel along the way. That I have done, but she would not accept it from me. It eases my heart that she can at least find it in you,’ he said to Elrohir. ‘Though you must ride forth I entreat you to return as soon as you may, if only for a brief time. It is plain that the Dúnedain need you here as surely as they need you in the Wild.’

A sad smile touched Elrohir’s lips. ‘Perhaps I understand now how you must feel, Atarinya, needed by all and able to aid only a few.’ There was the forgiveness, and with it the wonted name suffused with love. Looking down at the lady’s pale face the speaker sighed. ‘Yet I cannot sacrifice the safety of Eriador to comfort a grieving widow. We ride tomorrow, as planned. We shall return in time to see you off, if you are still set upon riding for Orthanc.’

‘I am,’ Elrond said. ‘Though I am loath to leave the Valley, I too have other duties. Gandalf has little hope of swaying Saruman without my aid. As for the action we intend to take... even the Enemy will be hard-pressed to withstand us if all are present.’

The oblique reference would have seemed harmless enough to the ears of the mortal lady, has she stirred at that moment from her slumber. Both Elrohir and Erestor understood precisely what the speaker meant, however, and a grim glance passed between them. Only in direst need would that power be unmasked before Sauron, but the fact that the bearer of Vilya was entertaining the even vaguest thoughts of such necessity did not bode well. It was doubtful that things would come to such a pass in Mirkwood, but someday, surely, unless some miracle came unlooked-for out of the depths of the earth, there would come a time when no other option remained.

No army of Valinor would march forth this time, for the Dark Lord now gathering his strength in Greenwood the Great was not of their number. What aid they would offer had already been sent: kindred of the one who was rising again. Already two had vanished into the East, and of the three who remained one seemed paralysed with inaction and another too entranced in his studies of the fauna of the Wilderland to care. Mithrandir alone seemed to possess the strength and will to defy the Shadow, and to rouse to action the last, waning might of the Eldar. Well-placed had been Círdan’s trust, but in the end Erestor feared it would not be enough.

‘Shall we bear the lady to her bed?’ he asked softly. They could not hold this counsel where they might be overheard, even by the widow of one whom had he lived would have been privy to these plans of war.

Elrohir shook his head. ‘I will remain with her until she awakens of her own accord. I would not have her disturbed, nor do I wish her to wake too near her son. Her tears scald his heart, and her pain is trebled when she beholds it mirrored in his eyes. Go to your councils. I will come when I may.’

Erestor thought to protest, but Elrond turned and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Come, old friend,’ he said softly. ‘Leave them be.’

They moved off together, and Erestor’s heart ached as he read the sorrow in his friend’s heart. He was reminded of the gentle youth who had mourned the world’s woes with tears to rival Nienna’s own. Despite his strength and his power, Elrond Half-elven was still helpless to assuage the suffering he beheld, and the pain of that failure shone keenly from behind his serene and sombre mask.

lar

Estel awoke with a start, horrified that he had fallen asleep. His throat was tight and his stomach was empty. Turning his head towards the window, he could see that the sun was past its zenith. He must have been slumbering for hours.

He rolled onto his stomach and slowly pushed himself up onto his knees. He had learned through unpleasant experience that his healing body did not respond well to rising too swiftly. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and ran his fingers through his mussed hair. A large yawn spread his jaws, and he did not resist it. He felt better for his nap, but the salt crusted on his cheeks reminded him of why he had been sent from the breakfast table. His first impulse was to run out to find his mother, so that he might beg her forgiveness for his thoughtlessness, but it would upset her if she saw that he had been weeping.

Carefully he slipped off the bed and went to wash his face in the basin by the window. The tepid water was soothing on his warm skin, and he cupped his hand to bring some of the fluid to his lips. The ache in his throat dispersed almost at once. Remembering Atar’s comments about tidy children, he fetched his comb and struggled to tug the tangles out of his hair. When he was satisfied that he was as presentable as he could contrive to be without assistance or a looking-glass, he smoothed his garments, squared his shoulders, and moved into the anteroom.

Mother was not there, but Elladan was seated by the casement with one of Estel’s books in his lap. He smiled as the child approached, but his eyes were grave. He laid aside the book and motioned that Estel should join him. The child obeyed, casting a glance into his mother’s chamber as he passed it. She did not appear to be present.

‘Did you sleep well?’ asked the warrior. Estel nodded. ‘I am glad. There is some colour in your cheeks again, at least. What was amiss with you this morning?’

‘I was only weary,’ Estel said, offering the small truth to belay revelation of the larger one. ‘I feel quite well again. Where is my mother?’

‘She is occupied elsewhere,’ Elladan said. ‘You and I have much to speak about. Estel, your mother loves you dearly...’

‘And I must not grieve her,’ Estel finished, closing his eyes against his remorse. ‘I am truly sorry for what I’ve done. I did not think how it would upset her when I went downstairs. I thought... that is... Atarinya is a small matter more rational in such situations. I cannot gauge Mother’s reaction by his, and yet I tried. I expected she would scold me a little, though perhaps with less amusement than he did, and then let the matter rest.’

‘Atarinya has had a great deal more practice coping with errant young boys than your mother does,’ Elladan said. ‘He understood you meant no harm, and he was able to see that no ill came of your disobedience. Your mother is, as you say, not quite so objective.’

‘I did not mean to cause her more distress,’ Estel whispered. ‘I have put her through much suffering these last weeks.’ His remorse was burning like a fiery brand in his chest, and he fought the tears that wanted to spring to his eyes. Every action has its consequences, he reminded himself, and it would be craven indeed to hide from them.

‘Estel, that was no fault of your own,’ argued Elladan. There was sadness and pity upon his face now, and he reached out to grip the child’s arm. ‘It was your illness that pained her so; your illness and the memories of others she has loved and lost. At some other time, less overwrought with long sorrow and worry, she would not have been so upset by your revelation of your evening excursion. She is frightened and she is grieving, and fear and grief often bring forth words that do not reflect the true feelings of the heart.’

It seemed that Elladan was trying to draw something out of him, to divine the answer to some question that he was hesitant to ask, but Estel could not imagine what that question might be. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘She is afraid because I am in danger.’

The half-Elf seemed dismayed by that statement. ‘Estel, understand,’ he said hastily; ‘we are all of us in danger of one kind or another. Your peril, though real, is not particularly distressing: you are safe here, with the power of Elrond and the might of the Noldor to guard you. It is only that to your mother your safety is so dear that...’ He halted and took a strained breath, striving to collect his thoughts and to reign in his astonishment.

In that pause, Estel curled his fingers over the hand holding his arm. ‘Atarinya told me what befell your mother,’ he said gravely, and he hoped with empathy. ‘How she was put to torment, and how he fears that evil folk still seek to harm those who are dear to him. I understand why I must be kept secret here until I can protect myself. When I am grown, I will ride with you and wreak vengeance upon the orcs and beat back the dark beasts in the Wild.’

A queer smile touched Elladan’s lips. ‘I do not think that our father spoke all those words,’ he said. ‘Vengeance?’

Estel flushed a little. ‘It is what the folk of the Valley say when they do not think I am listening,’ he confessed. ‘That you seek vengeance for your mother’s suffering.’

Elladan sighed softly. ‘That is in part true. The desire for retribution is still strong, and in moments when strength or courage fail it upholds us, but that is not why we ride forth. The wicked creatures that captured our mother were slain so long ago that even their bleached bones have turned to dust. Those we hunt today we hunt because of the threat they pose to all that is good and worthy in Eriador. We are guarding the land, not merely lusting for a reckoning that would neither undo what has been done nor return our mother to us. We ride so that we may spare some other lady from such suffering, so that we may spare some other son the pain we have felt. We ride so that the fair and peaceful places in the world may remain serene and beautiful. By our labours and the labours of the Dúnedain some measure of order is maintained in the North. When you are grown indeed you shall ride with us, but not to vengeance. You shall ride with us for hope and justice.’

‘I am glad,’ Estel said. ‘I fear Atarinya would not approve of vengeance.’

‘His approval means much to you,’ Elladan remarked.

‘I love him,’ Estel whispered, as if this could explain the matter.

The adult nodded: it seemed no further words were needed after all. For a long moment neither spoke. At last, Elladan withdrew his hand and leaned forward so that his forearms rested on his knees. ‘Tell me, Estel. What did you hear of the discussion between your mother and myself after I sent you from the table?’

‘Very little.’

‘Surely you heard some of it: you have keen ears, and plainly eavesdropping is not morally abhorrent to you.’ A small glint of amusement flickered in the stormy grey eyes.

‘You told Mother that she must unburden her heart,’ Estel recited softly. Well-versed in oral tradition, he seldom had to hear anything twice in order to remember at least the essence. ‘She could not go on, you said, a hair’s-breadth from breaking. Then you said...’ His voice broke a little and he strove to keep from weeping. ‘You said she is too young for her sorrows, but that I am younger, and she should not b-burden me.’

Hot tears slid down his cheeks and he cast his eyes away. Suddenly Elladan was no longer in his chair, but on one knee beside Estel’s. A strong arm curled around his back and drew him into a consoling embrace. ‘Aye, that is what I said,’ the Elf-lord murmured. ‘Did you hear her reply?’

Estel shook his head wretchedly. ‘I stopped my ears,’ he breathed. ‘I could not bear to listen longer. S-she does not mean to do it,’ he added, a plaintive plea in his voice. ‘She does not mean to place her griefs on me. They are too much for her to bear alone, that is all. She cannot help it.’

‘That insight shows great wisdom,’ Elladan said, holding Estel closer. ‘It is true that she cannot endure without aid, but it is not meet that such aid should come from you. You may help her best by letting her share in your joys, and by giving her someone on whom to lavish her care and her love. For the other, she dwells in a house filled with patient listeners, who have heard the myriad woes of the weary world. She should turn to one of them, and leave you to your merry childhood. She understands that, and I think from now on she shall endeavour to share her troubles with those better equipped to cope with them.’

‘Verily?’ Estel asked. He could not imagine his proud and valiant mother begging help of the Elves she so disliked.

‘Verily. I believe she is with Elrohir now; at least, that is where I sent her some hours ago,’ Elladan said.

‘Elrohir?’ That was different. His mother loved Elrohir: he was her trusted friend. She might certainly confide in him. ‘I am glad.’

‘So am I,’ Elladan told him. ‘So shall we all be, if he helps her.’ He pressed a fond kiss to the crown of Estel’s head and withdrew gently from the embrace, cocking his head to one side as he studied the child’s face. ‘You are a remarkable boy, Estel. I see why Atarinya loves you so well.’

‘I see why Atarinya loves you so well, also,’ Estel reciprocated, wiping away his tears. ‘Thank you, and thank you for your kindness to my mother.’

‘Come now, let us wash that face and then seek out something to eat. I missed the midday meal while waiting for you to awaken, and as you did not eat your breakfast as I told you to, you must be famished.’

Estel got to his feet with a long-suffering sigh. ‘It seems that all I do these days is wash my face,’ he said ruefully, sniffling a little to clear his sinuses.

Elladan’s laughter followed him into the bedroom.

lar

Very different from the departure of Thorin’s company was the passing of the sons of Elrond in the predawn hours of the day after midsummer. No merry throng gathered to sing blessings upon them, nor were there glad cries to launch them on to victory and success. They rode not to glory in some grand quest, but back into their long daily labours with the remnant of Elendil’s folk.

In the mists that rose off the Bruinen, the two brothers kissed their sire, and exchanged brief words with Glorfindel. Then each turned to the two slender figures standing together on the threshold of the house, nightclothes hidden beneath summer mantles. By wordless consent these two had each arisen early to see the travellers off, though both hoped to be able to return to bed once the farewells had been said. Elladan turned first to Gilraen.

‘Remember, lady, that you must not endure alone,’ he said. ‘Seek comfort where you may, but remember your hope.’

The lady nodded. ‘Thank you for all that you have done,’ she said. ‘I am grateful.’

Beside her Estel was bidding farewell to the other twin. ‘When you return mayhap I may learn how to hold a blade,’ the boy was saying.

Elrohir laughed softly. ‘I fancy that Glorfindel will have more to say on that matter than I,’ he said. ‘I am pleased that you are healed, but have a care not to drive yourself too hard.’

Then the brothers changed places. To Estel Elladan said, in a voice so low that only the boy could hear, ‘Remember how she loves you. Though at times the strain upon her heart may drive her to harsh words or to bitter tears, she loves you more than life itself.’

Estel inclined his head sombrely. ‘I will remember. Be watchful in the Wild: we do not want you to return wounded as Elrohir did.’

‘Ah,’ said Elladan, eyes twinkling in the lantern-light; ‘but I am more skilful than Elrohir.’

Estel raised his brows in a skeptical stare, but politely remained silent.

‘Dear lady, I beg you to take care,’ Elrohir said softly. ‘I will return as soon as I may, that we might speak again. Until then, I pray you may find some happiness in the small blessings of each day.’

‘Ride in safety and return to us again,’ Gilraen whispered. The words caught in her throat, for often had she heard them spoken to men – fathers, husbands, brothers, friends – as they went off into peril and hardship. They had come to seem almost an ill omen, and yet her lips moved in reflex and she could not now withdraw what she had said.

Then the twin brothers slung their bows across their backs and mounted their sturdy northern steeds. With soft commands they urged the horses into motion, and the hoof-beats faded swiftly out of earshot. Elrond turned and shepherded the others into the house as summer rain began to fall on the Valley.

Chapter XXII: Lessons in Trust

The cold roused Estel long before he was ready to wake. He picked himself up, leaning against the nearest cask until the wave of giddiness passed. His garments were damp and he was shivering, and therefore although his mind was still clouded with weariness and he dreaded the thought of abandoning his hiding place he was forced to ascend the stairs. Unwilling to face the friendly, worried throng in the kitchens, he crept as soundlessly as he could out of the scullery and into the narrow service corridor that brought him to the door that opened onto the back garden.

Steady mountain rain had fallen all through the morning, and though the downpour had petered away the silver clouds still hung low. They wrapped the Valley in a blanket of heavy heat. Already wet, Estel scarcely noticed the humidity, but he was grateful for the change in ambient temperature as he stepped outside. The chill in his bones dispersed rapidly and by the time he reached the garden wall he was quite warm again.

He climbed upon the stone palisade and perched with his back to the house. His long legs swung so that his shoes whispered in the cornflowers. He sat thus, watching the water fall from the blossoms, too numb with exhaustion and dread even to think. An indeterminate length of time passed.

‘Ai, at last!’ A familiar voice rang out like a song in the balmy air. ‘I have found the runaway.’

Estel raised his head as Glorfindel came striding towards him. He was clad in bright elven mail, and his golden hair was gathered back into a thick plait. His sword was buckled at his side, and with his lofty helm under one arm he looked like one who had stepped out of legend into the living world. Beside his lordly splendour, Estel was all the more ashamed of his grubby hands and his tear-streaked face and his wet clothes.

‘Erestor claims that he told you to seek occupation in the stables or the gardens. Somehow I do not think this is what he intended,’ Glorfindel said, a gently teasing lilt to his voice. When Estel hung his head the Elf-lord’s expression changed. He came nearer, carefully avoiding the flowers as he hopped onto the wall and sat next to the boy. When next he spoke his voice was quiet and sincere. ‘We have been looking for you for more than an hour,’ he remarked softly. ‘You must go at once and see your father.’

A cold wave of despair inundated Estel’s heart. ‘I did not tell a falsehood,’ he protested in a tiny, broken voice.

‘I did not say that you had,’ Glorfindel offered.

‘Erestor did,’ Estel whispered. ‘He thought – he mistook me.’

Glorfindel’s lip twitched into a sad half-smile. ‘So many years have passed since Erestor was a child that he forgets at times what a trial it is to be young.’

‘You do not forget,’ Estel protested.

‘Ah, but I was given a most unorthodox reminder,’ said Glorfindel, and a strange gleam appeared in his eyes. He reached out and laid a hand upon Estel’s knee. ‘You cannot tarry here: your atar awaits you.’

‘Is he wroth with me?’

‘He is concerned.’ Glorfindel caught Estel’s eyes at last and held them with his own. ‘Go to him and be truthful and you need not fear. Whatever transpired between Erestor and yourself today, be truthful.’

‘I did not lie!’ Estel protested. He felt as if he was pinned in a corner with no means of escape. Why would no one believe him?

‘I did not say that you had,’ Glorfindel assured him. ‘I know you would not perjure yourself, but perhaps you were not entirely forthright.’

This was incontrovertible. Estel looked away and sighed. ‘May I go and put on clean things first?’ he asked.

Glorfindel shook his head. ‘I do not think you should keep him waiting any longer. At least you look sufficiently pitiable,’ he added wryly. Drawing out his handkerchief he wetted it in crystalline rainwater that had pooled into a crevice in one of the stones and used it to wipe the dusty tear-tracks from Estel’s cheeks.

‘Will you come with me?’ the child pleaded. For the first time in his young life he feared to face his father, and that was a feeling more dreadful than any prompted by Erestor’s accusations or the nightmares or the cruel, hissing voice in his heart.

‘Only as far as the door,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Two such bedraggled vagrants as we would make a fine mess of Elrond’s study.’

Estel noticed abruptly that the Elda’s boots and hose were spattered with mud, and there was a bloody strip of linen wrapped around his off-hand where someone had nicked him in an attempt at derobement. He must have been sparring by the river. Now he did not look so majestic and daunting; he was merely Glorfindel, kind, understanding and wise. Estel tried to smile but managed only an unsteady swallow.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured.

lar

Elrond heard their approach, but Glorfindel did not knock immediately. On the other side of the door Elrond heard him as he said, ‘Do not be afraid. He will not be angry so long as you are honest. Your atar understands children well.’

Estel made no reply, but there was a moment’s silence before Glorfindel rapped on the door.

‘Enter,’ Elrond said, trying to prepare himself for the encounter. Despite his high spirits and his mischievous streak Estel had always been generally well-behaved. Never in eight years had they had to face such a situation as this. If what Erestor alleged proved to be true, he was not sure how he would cope. He closed his eyes and offered a swift prayer that this was all, somehow, nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding.

Estel was standing in the threshold while Glorfindel held the door for him. The child stole a furtive glance at Elrond, before staring at his feet once again. Gently Glorfindel prodded him between the shoulder blades, and Estel took three halting steps forward, glancing anxiously backward. The golden Elf-lord smiled his reassurances, and then closed the door, withdrawing quietly.

Elrond waited, but the boy said nothing.

‘Is there something you wish to discuss?’ Elrond prompted patiently.

A tremor ran through Estel’s body, but he did not speak. His clothes were wet and smeared with dust. Elrond wondered where he had been hiding, that even Glorfindel had been unable to find him for more than an hour.

‘I have had complaints about your behaviour from several members of the household,’ said Elrond, his voice grave but carefully free from any accusation or demand. ‘It seems you have been irritable and impatient of late. Inattentive. Impolite.’

He could see Estel’s eyes flitting from side to side under hooded lids as he attached each of these adjectives to a recent incident and recognized each of his accusers by name. A flush of shame appeared across his cheekbones.

‘Erestor came to speak with me,’ Elrond added softly.

‘I did not lie to him,’ Estel muttered, so quietly that he could scarcely be heard.

Elrond leaned forward onto his elbows, watching his son across the desk. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘If Erestor came to see you, then you already know what happened,’ Estel snapped, eyes flashing with sudden belligerence. ‘Unless you also think that he would lie, in which case you will never be satisfied that you know the truth, being so surrounded by deceivers.’

‘Estel, for shame!’ The harsh, horrified exclamation startled them both. Never before had Elrond raised his voice to the boy in such a tone. Estel’s whole body stiffened and his eyes shot wide. Elrond’s pulse quickened and he drew in a levelling breath. ‘Estel,’ he said with more constraint. ‘I am giving you an opportunity to explain what occurred this afternoon. You would be wise to avail yourself of that chance.’

The child’s lower lip trembled. ‘I did not tell a falsehood,’ he quavered, tears shining in his red-rimmed eyes. ‘I didn’t...’

Elrond rose and rounded the desk. He could read the pain in his child’s heart. This was more than a simple quarrel over semantics. Something was tormenting his son, and he had to root out the cause. Estel’s head was bowed now, eyes fixed on the floor. Elrond laid a hand on each thin shoulder and knelt before him so that he was looking up into the boy’s face, now a twisted mask of misery.

‘Estel,’ he said; ‘tell me what is wrong. I beg you, tell me.’

Estel did not answer. He tried to pull away, but Elrond held him fast.

‘I know you did not lie to Erestor. Tell me what it is that pains you so.’

Estel tried to speak, but some shadow appeared in his eyes and his mouth closed wretchedly. He was trembling beneath Elrond’s fingers. The Lord of Imladris tried to think critically, as he had often coached the child to do. Short-tempered, distracted, rude... these were not words usually used to describe his son. Even during his difficult convalescence he had made an effort to be patient and polite; only exhaustion had ever made him cross and mulish. Ah, and the argument with Erestor had treated upon the boy’s reasons for falling asleep over his lessons...

Quietly, gently, understanding at last, Elrond asked, ‘Estel, are you still suffering from the dreams?’

A soft keening sound issued from the boy’s throat. That was all the confirmation the Elf-lord needed. He sighed heavily, bowing his head. ‘Why did you not tell me, child? I told you not to endure them alone. I promised to help you. I explained that they are not the marks of a coward, but the—’

Estel choked on a ragged sob, his chest heaving as he tried to bite it back.

‘Oh, my poor foolish boy,’ Elrond exhaled. ‘What have you done to yourself?’ He wrapped his arms around Estel’s back and held him close. As another sob shook his frame the child bent to hide his face against Elrond’s shoulder. Elrond could smell oak and pomace in his damp hair. The wine cellars, then. Making a swift note to check there first when next the boy went missing, Elrond refocused his attention on the tortured child in his arms.

‘Estel, why did you not tell me?’ he asked again, his own throat growing tight with impending tears.

‘I th-thought...’ Estel began, but he could not voice his misgivings. His knees were trembling now, and Elrond sat back, drawing Estel down into his lap. He rocked gently to and fro, stroking the dark hair and waiting patiently for the inundation of tears, the uncontrollable weeping, the frantic timpani of sobs that made no allowance even for breath. Instead Estel clung to him, two sharp hiccoughing noises breaking from his lips. He was fighting for self-control. No further sobs spilled forth, but for many minutes the two remained thus, all but motionless on the floor until the silent tears ceased to flow and Estel regained sufficient mastery over himself to speak coherently.

‘I did not lie to Erestor,’ he said.

‘I know. But neither did you tell him the truth,’ Elrond said tenderly. ‘You might have saved yourself much suffering had you come to someone with that truth, anyone at all.’

‘I could not. Mother... she would weep. A noble man places the needs of others before his own,’ Estel recited resolutely.

‘Surely you knew that I would not weep,’ pressed Elrond. ‘Why did you not come to me, as I told you to?’

‘I did...’

‘Once, weeks ago when you were almost too weak to walk. Why did you let me believe the visions had left you?’ Elrond stopped himself. He was badgering the boy, plaguing him with impossible questions. He negotiated his nose around Estel’s head and kissed his son’s brow. ‘Never mind, dear heart. You have told me now and we must decide what to do about it.’

‘I m-must apologize to Erestor,’ Estel said, shivering a little.

‘That can wait,’ Elrond told him. ‘There is a matter more pressing that we must address. Estel, in a few days’ time I ride for Orthanc; I am needed at a meeting of the White Council and I shall not return for some months.’

Estel inhaled sharply, pulling back from his guardian and looking up at him with horror etched upon his face. ‘Months?’ he yelped.

‘I regret the necessity but I cannot refute it,’ Elrond said gravely. ‘Yet neither can I depart if I know you will remain here in anguish and secret misery. I am grieved that you still suffer from these dreadful dreams, but what pains me more is the lengths to which you have gone to conceal them from those who love you. I understand your desire to shelter your mother, and though it is unjust that such a burden be thrust upon your young shoulders I fear there can be little help for that. But gladly would I have offered you comfort, and Glorfindel waits always with a sympathetic ear, and Erestor despite his austerity loves you dearly and would never deny you the benefit of his counsel. You have other friends in the house to whom you might have gone, and not one of them would have denied you.’

Estel hung his head. ‘I know,’ he whispered.

‘Can you then answer my question?’ Elrond asked.

‘There was a...’ Estel halted, evidently dismayed by whatever he had been about to say. He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I feared you would think me craven.’

‘This, too, we have discussed before,’ Elrond said in bewilderment. ‘Fear does not make you a coward. A brave man knows his fear and faces it, as plainly you have continued to do. Yet it is a wise man who seeks the aid of others when he is floundering, and this you did not do. You could face the dreams, night after night, and yet you could not face me and ask for my help. That concerns me greatly, Estel. I am frightened for your safety if you cannot admit when you are being persecuted, and I am frightened for your sanity if you cannot unburden your heart.’

‘I am not being persecuted; they are only visions of things that have been,’ protested the child.

Elrond hesitated, unsure whether to voice his suspicions as to the source of these terrors. To do so, he realized bleakly, would be to open the door to too many questions that could not be answered. In any case it was only an unfounded notion, and without proof there was no reason to further distress his child.

‘I disagree,’ he said. ‘You are being hounded and tormented in secret, in the midst of the night, by something beyond your power to control. It is no different to me than if some wicked person were stealing you away to some abandoned corner of the Valley to beat you. If such a thing happened, would you keep it from me?’

‘No!’ Estel exclaimed. ‘But Atarinya, such a thing would never happen...’

‘And yet night after night the flagellation of your spirit continues, and you did not confide in me. You do not trust me, and I must understand why. If there is something that I have done or something that I have said that has led you to believe that I would be ashamed of your confessions or revile you for them, tell me, that I may beg your forgiveness.’ Elrond fixed his earnest gaze on the child’s mournful eyes, half-expecting Estel turn away in unwarranted shame.

Instead he maintained steady contact. ‘There was nothing,’ he said gravely. ‘It was the murmuring of my heart, that is all. This is no fault of yours.’

‘I disagree,’ Elrond said. ‘I have taken for granted your childlike trust, and never have we discussed a more adult need for faith in and reliance upon those around us. Do you understand why you must trust others?’

Estel had no ready answer. His brows furrowed in thought, and he seemed to be debating among several possibilities. In the end, however, his shoulders slumped and he uttered a single syllable of defeat. ‘No.’

‘Then it is time for another lesson,’ Elrond said. Words had availed him nothing: some more tangible demonstration was needed. Briefly he thought of allowing the child to sleep a little first, since he was weighed down with weariness and had been through a considerable ordeal today. He decided against it. Want of sleep would sharpen the experience and fix the lesson permanently in the young mind. He lifted Estel from his lap and rose, taking the boy by the hand.

‘Where are we going?’ Estel asked, confused and overwrought.

‘Upstairs,’ answered Elrond simply. The corridor outside his study was empty: Glorfindel it seemed did not share his young friend’s insatiable curiosity. He led the way towards the stairs.

lar

Estel’s long legs kept easy pace with his father’s measured strides. He clung to the Elf-lord’s hand, his hungry soul devouring the comfort of the contact. It seemed so easy, now that it was done, to confide in Atar and allow him to drive away some of the darkness. The hateful voice, it seemed, could not endure in the presence of the Peredhil, for Estel had not heard its murmurings since entering his father’s study. Still his heart was heavy, for the dreams awaited him in the impending night, and now it seemed that Atar was leaving the Valley. It was inconceivable that such a thing should happen, and at the best of times he would have been grieved by the news. Now... now, he was terrified.

And perplexed, he reflected as they turned a corner and Atar opened a door that Estel had never before passed through. It led to a little closet-like space, where a graceful ladder ascended towards a trap door.

‘Where are we?’ he asked in sudden surprise.

‘Follow me and you shall see,’ his father said, smiling a little. He gathered his garments so that they would not hamper his legs and moved deftly up the ladder. When the porthole was raised, a shower of raindrops fell upon Estel’s upturned face, and as the lithe Elven figure climbed through the opening the silvery sky appeared. ‘Estel, come up,’ the kind voice urged unseen.

Estel ascended and hoisted himself out. Scrambling to his feet he looked around in amazement.

They were on top of the house, standing on a flat stone walkway bordered on three sides by sloping shingled peaks. From the fourth side stretched a narrow catwalk that ran like a ridgepole along a lower piece of roof. It stretched forward perhaps fifteen feet before it met another aisle running perpendicular to it.

‘Take off your shoes and hose,’ Atar instructed, leaning against the shingles to his left so that he might do the same. ‘Bare feet will grip the stone more surely.’

Estel obeyed with only a little awkward fumbling. His weariness was gone now, dispersed by exhilaration and apprehension. There were access paths like this all over the roofs, for they allowed for easy maintenance, but he had never had occasion to walk on one.

‘Go ahead of me, and when we reach the intersection halt one yard from the edge,’ his father instructed. ‘Do not walk too swiftly, for it would be most inadvisable to slip.’

Estel drew in a deep breath and set out across the catwalk, carefully placing one foot before the other. The stone path was less than eighteen inches across, and there were places where it was still wet from the rain. He was surefooted and he had never feared heights, but a thrill of anxiety gripped him as he reached the place where he had been instructed to stop. He could feel his father’s reassuring presence behind him and he wanted to draw back against the Elf-lord’s body, but he restrained himself.

‘Step forward carefully and look down,’ the melodious instructed. Two steady hands settled on Estel’s waist, gripping him firmly as he obeyed.

Awe and wonder warred with sudden apprehension as Estel beheld the vista before him. He was standing with the whole valley laid out before his feet. He could see the tops of the beech-trees like a carpet of silver-green beneath him, and the winding ribbon of the river. In the meadows beyond the stables, warriors in bright mail were engaging one another, but they were so far away that they looked like strange, animated dolls. Further afield Estel could see the dainty stone bridge and the oceans of wheat with the maidens wandering the rows like ants. And above, on the stepes, the white mass of a herd of sheep, and little specks that could only be wood-elves, wandering over the dewy grasses.

Then he lowered his gaze and saw his own bare feet, inches from the edge beneath which a steep slope of slate ended abruptly in open air. If he took one more step forward, if he slipped or lost his footing or his nerve, he would fall. He straightened sharply, fixing his eyes resolutely on place where the mountains faded into the nebulous mists.

‘Now step backward,’ Atar’s voice instructed gently. ‘Do not fear: I will not suffer you to fall.’

Estel obeyed; one, two, three paces he retreated. Then his father stopped and Estel could withdraw no further. The hands relinquished their hold, and then appeared on either side of Estel’s shoulders. One held a handkerchief.

‘I am going to bind your eyes,’ his father said serenely. ‘Whatever happens next, you may not remove the blindfold until I instruct you to do so.’

Estel’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Was his father mad? Or was this another nightmare? Without his eyes, how could he find his way back to the safety of the ladder? He would surely fall!

Yet he did not move while gentle fingers knotted the fine cambric about his head. Firm hands took his shoulders and spun him slowly in a clockwise circle, first once and then twice, and perhaps a little farther but he could not be certain. They lingered a moment or two, waiting lest he should be taken with a spell of dizziness, but though disoriented Estel was not giddy, save perhaps with terror. He stood fast.

He did not hear Atar move off, but presently his voice came from some distance away.

‘Now come back to me,’ it said.

‘I cannot!’ Estel cried, and a cold hand of panic closed on his heart. ‘I do not know which way I am facing, and if I misstep then I will fall!’ His hands moved up towards the cloth that bound his eyes, but he remembered his instructions before any reprimand could come, and returned his arms to his sides.

‘Think carefully,’ Atar told him. ‘You have with you all that you need to return in safety.’

Estel had an excellent sense of direction – Glorfindel had often said so – but at this moment he was sure of nothing but the downward pull of the earth upon his feet, and the empty void of air pressing in on every side. He would fall. He would slip and he would fall. He did not know which way he was turned, and if he misjudged he would tumble to his death.

‘I cannot do it,’ he protested, and he felt the inexorable urge to weep. Was this his punishment, he wondered, for his equivocation and his stubbornness and his cowardice?

‘Estel, listen to me. You have only to use what I have given you, and you will succeed,’ Atar was saying. ‘Trust me.’

Trust him? When he had brought him up here to this dangerous place, and left him disoriented and blind where he might fall to his death?

‘Atarinya, help me!’ Estel pleaded. Then realization dawned. All that they had been talking about in this last hour was trust, and the need to seek aid when one was overcome. ‘Atarinya,’ Estel said, his frantic heartbeat levelling off and his breathing easing to a more manageable pace; ‘please help me. Tell me where to step.’

There was a smile in his father’s voice when he spoke, and Estel knew that he had made the right entreaty. ‘Turn to your left, about sixty degrees. Be careful not to shift the position of your feet too far: at the moment you are right in the centre of the walkway.’

Estel turned slowly, trying to gauge the distance. He must have gone too far, for Atar said, ‘Now a hair’s-bredth to your right. There. Now carefully forward. Keep a true course and do not move too swiftly.’

He shuffled forward, arms outstretched to the sides as if they could provide him with ballast as he moved. ‘Halt,’ said his father. ‘You are drifting to your right. Turn a little to your left and take another pace.’ Estel complied. ‘There. That is better. Come forward. You are nearly there. Seven feet now. Six. Slowly forward.’

Suddenly Estel’s knees began to quake, and he froze , once more terrified. The calming voice penetrated his rising panic. ‘You are nearly there. So near that you could jump the distance. Forward, Estel. Come forward.’

A quaking step, a terrified shuffle, three sharp, mincing paces, and suddenly his hand was curled in warm, comforting fingers and the bandage was plucked from his eyes. Atar was smiling at him, pride and praise writ upon his brow.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Do you see now what can be accomplished when you dare to trust another?’

Estel was shaking with tension and relief. ‘I trusted you to guide me, aye!’ he cried, angry and indignant. ‘But what if I had slipped? What if a bird had cried out and startled me, or some gust of wind tugged my garments and plucked me from the rooftop? I would have been dashed to death below!’

‘Ah, but that is the second part of my lesson,’ Atar said, and he pointed down to the space between the intersecting stretches of roof. For the first time Estel saw the nets, made of fine Elven rope, that were strung below on either side of the catwalk. He would have slipped down two yards, or perhaps three, before they caught him in their cushioned embrace. He looked up in astonishment.

‘Our folk have been replacing slates on this section of roof all week,’ Atar explained. ‘You were never in any danger of falling far, except when you looked out over the edge.’

‘And then you held me,’ Estel said softly, understanding now. ‘I extended my trust in a matter of immediate need, but your faithfulness encompassed even what I could not see.’ He looked down once more, at the webs that would have protected him from any exigency. ‘My trust is rewarded to a degree I could not have foreseen.’

The Elf-lord drew him into a gentle embrace. ‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘Choose well those in whom you place your trust, and you will be rewarded.’

Estel did not speak. He pressed himself further into the encircling arms, suddenly overcome with a great weight of weariness. ‘Atarinya,’ he whispered; ‘may I sleep in your room tonight?’

The answer came, but he did not need to hear it: there had never been any true cause for doubt.

Chapter XXIV: Farewell by Moonlight

On the night of the full moon, Estel was reading in the third-floor library when Glorfindel peered around the door.

‘What have you got there?’ he asked, eyes twinkling.

Estel held up the book with a sheepish smile. It was a volume of old poetry in the High Tongue – not at all the tomes of Westernesse with which he ought to have been occupied.

Glorfindel clicked his tongue. ‘What ever will Erestor say?’ he wondered.

‘I promised to be quiet while the household slept,’ Estel primly rejoined. ‘I did not promise to be a model pupil. Besides, I am not quite accustomed to my new routine. I am resting my mind.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ Glorfindel said, coming up behind him and bending to look at the open page. ‘The Rime of Helcaraxë. What could be more restful?’

‘It’s nice to read on a summer night,’ Estel said with a hint of defensiveness. ‘Though I wouldn’t want to think of it if I were cold. It’s a very evocative piece of verse.’

‘You should discuss it with your father sometime. It was written by his grandmother.’

Estel looked down at the page. No author was noted. ‘Was it? Which one?’

‘Which one would you suppose, given a guess?’ asked Glorfindel.

Estel felt rather foolish as he made the obvious reply. ‘Idril of Gondolin, of course... but if she wrote it why is she not credited with it?’

‘Perhaps because the scholar who copied the songs down in that book did not know that it was her creation,’ Glorfindel said. ‘It is a very old verse.’

‘Then how do you know who wrote it?’ Estel challenged.

‘My, but you can be impudent at times, saucy Man-child,’ Glorfindel laughed. ‘I came to invite you to join me: I am going to help your father dress, and as tonight is your last opportunity to see him for quite some time I thought you might want to avail yourself of the chance to be with him.’

Estel laid aside the book and slid out of his chair. Glorfindel smiled in satisfaction, and laid a companionable hand on his shoulder as he steered him from the room.

As they walked down the corridor Estel’s mind flooded with questions, but he had vowed to be considerate of others, and they were passing by doors behind which Elves lay in rest or sleep. He held his tongue, though thoughts were buzzing within him.

It seemed strange that Atar would need anyone to help him dress. Estel understood the intricacies of Elven garments, and it was only in the last year or two that he had achieved the degree of manual dexterity required to arrange his daily garb unassisted. He still required help with his finer things, and any piece of clothing that laced up the back, but he had always assumed that these skills, too, would come in time. His mother never sought assistance when dressing, and he had always supposed that that was typical of adults. What manner of garment, he wondered, was beyond the capability of a full-grown Elf to don without help?

They reached Atar’s rooms, and he came to the door dressed in joined hose and a short, close-fitting tunic of woodland green. This in itself was astonishing: seldom had Estel seen his father so sparsely clad, for he preferred the more stately garb of a Noldorin lord to the easy comfort of wood-elves – or mortal children.

Glorfindel prodded him playfully between his ribs. ‘You ought to stop staring quite so conspicuously, Estel, and find some place to sit where you will not be in the way,’ he said in an exaggerated stage whisper.

The bedchamber was brightly lit with lamps and candles, and with the moonlight pouring through the open window it was almost as if night had not touched this corner of the house. Estel moved over to the casement and perched on the windowsill with his back to the bright night without.

‘I am pleased you were able to join us, Estel,’ said his father, smiling as he closed the door and picked up a tall pair of riding boots from the floor behind it.

‘Thank you for inviting me to do so, Atarinya,’ Estel reciprocated politely. In the days – in the nights, he corrected himself with some amusement – since he had started sleeping properly again, he had found it much less taxing to exercise patience and good manners. Sleep, he reflected, was an unrivalled marvel.

‘It was Glorfindel who thought of it, not I,’ the Elf-lord said. ‘He seemed to think it might prove educational.’ He handed the footwear to his seneschal and sat down on the bed, curling one bracing arm around the post at the lower left corner.

Glorfindel knelt, a broad smile shining upon his face. ‘Perhaps I meant only to undermine your dignity in front of your ward,’ he said as he lifted one of Atar’s feet. ‘Of all the pieces of gear a traveller wears into the Wild, Estel, the boots are at once the most valuable and the most aggravating. They are difficult to don alone, and all but impossible to remove unassisted if properly worn. Doffing one’s own boots is not a task to be lightly undertaken.’

There commenced a great deal of pushing and tugging, and once Glorfindel laughed aloud at his lord’s protestations, but in the end the boots were firmly in place, and Atar turned down the cuffs over his knees.

‘In the absence of a loyal servant, a shoehorn and some privacy will suffice,’ he said dryly, arching an eyebrow at Estel. ‘Though we shall not be wasting leather on boots for you until your feet slow their growth a little.’

He rose, rocking a little to test the supple soles. Satisfied, he moved around the foot of the bed to don a pair of deerskin chausses while Glorfindel retrieved a leather tabard from the chair nearby. Estel watched as his father rolled his shoulders in anticipation and then stood, arms outstretched to either side, while his helper slung the heavy garment over his head. Glorfindel bent his knees to lower himself, and swiftly ran a pair of braided leather points through the lacing holes beneath each arm, drawing the garment snugly over the cote so that it seemed almost a second skin. The Elf-lord might have done all that himself, but Estel had to admit that even the most agile person would not have accomplished it so quickly while wearing the garment.

Glorfindel looked questioningly at his lord, and Atar nodded towards the sideboard, where a shallow casket sat with a small silver key in its lock. Glorfindel opened it with care, and there was a strange shimmering sound as he drew out its contents. A shining coat of Elven mail appeared from within the box, swinging gently from Glorfindel’s fingers. The fine, closely-wrought rings sang softly with the motion, and the candlelight glinted off of them.

Estel’s eyes grew enormously wide. ‘Is it... mithril?’ he asked in awe.

Atar laughed softly. ‘No, indeed,’ he said. ‘Such treasures are not for the likes of me. It is merely silvered steel, though cunningly wrought as only the Noldor of old could make it. It was fashioned for me by Celebrimbor himself, at the behest of the High King when I dwelt as his pensioner in Lindon. A kind gift,’ he said, and his eyes were sad. ‘I valued it dearly.’

Estel wondered what melancholy memory was touching his father’s heart. He glanced at Glorfindel, hoping for some sign that the golden warrior understood, but he, too, looked perplexed and uneasy.

After a moment Atar’s lips moved into a faint, nostalgic smile. ‘I have not had occasion to wear it in many years,’ he said. ‘Let us see if it still fits.’

Of course it did fit, and Estel marvelled at the sight of his father, thus arrayed in brilliant mail like a king riding to war. ‘Atarinya, why do you need mail in Isengard?’ he asked as Glorfindel girded the Peredhil’s waist with a sturdy belt that would bear some of the weight of the steel.

‘I doubt very much that I do,’ Atar said. ‘But I am travelling a great distance through debatable territory, and it is probable that my road will not end in Isengard. I need mail so that I may be assured that I will return safely to you.’

Glorfindel finished his ministrations and stepped back. Atar moved to the box that had held the mail and reverently lifted out a parcel wrapped in velvet. ‘Here,’ he said, moving to the window and placing it in Estel’s hands. ‘The mail is not mithril, but these are.’

Estel balanced the bundle on his lap and carefully drew back the layers of cloth to reveal a pair of slender vambraces, remarkably light and unspeakably beautiful. At once he could see the difference. Where the mail shirt reflected the candlelight, these seemed to shine with a light of their own. They were almost painful to look upon, so fair were they, but as his eyes grew used to the splendour Estel was able to marvel at the intricate metalwork, and the raised filigree of vines and blossoms that twined about the baseplates. There was a device emblazoned above each wrist, but it was not the badge of his father’s house. An eight-rayed star surmounted by leaping flames adorned the bracers. Estel cocked his head, puzzled. He knew most of the heraldic insignia still in use among the Eldar, and several, like those of Gil-galad and Lúthien, that were revered and remembered in tapestries and illuminations throughout the house, but he did not recognize this.

‘Whose are they?’ he asked, then corrected himself. Obviously they were Atar’s now, or he would not keep them locked away with the coat of mail the High King had commissioned for him. ‘Whose were they?’

‘They belonged to my first lord before they came to me,’ Atar said softly. His eyes were once more clouded with memories. ‘I wore them on the day that I witnessed the muster of the hosts of Beleriand before the fall of Morgoth. I must have looked a fine fool indeed, with my gangling young limbs and my ragged clothes and spoils of the House of Fëanor upon my arms.’

Estel picked up one of the vambraces. The leather sleeve beneath the mithril plate was old and brittle, cracking a little even beneath his touch. ‘They are not fit to wear like this,’ he said. ‘Have you time to have them mended before you depart?’

‘I shall not wear them again,’ said the adult, shaking his head and turning away. ‘Let them sleep as they have slept since the dawn of this Age.’ He nodded to Glorfindel, who seemed to understand what was wanted: he came forward with the next garment.

Carefully, Estel wrapped the pieces of armour in their cloth again. He hopped from the window-frame and moved to the sideboard. He set the bundle carefully into the box, once again burning with fresh questions.

Atar’s motions were hampered now by the unaccustomed weight of his mail, and though he still moved with grace he was not so nimble. Glorfindel helped him into a long surcote, its skirts slashed before and behind to allow for ease in riding. It was green, and looked newly made, for seldom had the Lord of the Valley any need for travel-garb. It covered the mail completely, and obscured the chausses also, for the hem was past his knees. With a second, more slender belt cinched about his waist, Atar looked very much like any other traveller, if a trifle cleaner than most. Estel was glad to know that he was well-protected beneath the light summer wool.

‘Estel, would you bring me my cloak?’ his father asked, nodding at a soft grey bundle lying on the bed. Estel picked it up and brought it, shaking out the folds of Elven wool. Atar bent, and Estel was able to cast the garment about his shoulders. With a smile of thanks, his father drew it into place, fastening it with a silver brooch in the shape of a curling leaf. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I am ready.’

He took Estel by the hand and together they walked from the room, Glorfindel lingering behind to snuff the candles. They descended the stairs and moved past the door to the great hall, past the Hall of Fire with it perpetual, welcoming flames, and out into the moonlight.

There were many folk gathered on the green before the house – many more, as Estel could now attest with authority, than ordinarily stirred at this hour. Twelve horses stood patient in the moonlight, most of them bearing figures in shadowy cloaks. Longbows were slung across slender backs, and swords glinted beneath the stars. Here was the escort who would see their lord safely to the meeting of the White Council in Isengard.

Elrohir was standing with a horse at either shoulder, their reigns in his hands. He had traded in his doughty northern steed for a spirited Elven mare who tossed her head and nickered impatiently. The other was a proud bay stallion, its saddle-blanket embroidered with the marks of the house of Ëarendil.

Suddenly Estel felt a lump rising in his throat. That horse was for Atar. His father was leaving. Never, in all his life, could he remember a time when Atar was not there. Never had there been a moment when he had had to face his daily life without the knowledge that, if he needed him, he might run and find his father at any time. Atar was leaving Rivendell, riding forth on some mission of such secrecy and importance that he had given Estel only the barest of answers to his myriad questions. The ghastly fear of the unknown assailed Estel, and his knees trembled. What if calamity came to the Valley while Atar was far away? What if the nightmares returned and there was no one to help him? What if Atar was captured by orcs, as his wife had been, or eaten by wargs in the Wild, or captured by wild Men in the Gap of Rohan? What if—

Sternly he upbraided himself. He was behaving like a spoiled child. Atar had other duties, more important than him. The business of the Council, the affairs of Middle-earth were of greater weight than the insecurities of one small boy. He must not be selfish. It was difficult enough for Atar to leave him without any shameful performances before the household. He squared his shoulders and held his head high. He would not beg his father to stay. He would not bemoan his passing from the Valley. He would not weep.

Loving hands gripped his shoulders. A familiar smile was turned upon him. ‘The time will pass more swiftly than you think,’ his father said. ‘I shall return as quickly as I may.’

‘Promise you will ride safely,’ Estel said stoutly. ‘I saw them teaching that horse: he has a fiery spirit and you do not often go mounted.’

There was soft laughter from those near at hand, and Atar made a soft huffing sound. ‘Someday I shall have to curb your biting tongue,’ he remarked fondly, touching Estel’s hair. He knelt then, looking up at the boy. ‘Do not shrink from the darkness,’ he whispered so that only Estel could hear. ‘Though you must fear it, do not let it break you. Please, do not let it break you.’

‘I will not,’ Estel murmured. He looked around at the moonlit beeches. ‘The waking night is not so terrible as the night of dreams.’

Atar swallowed with a great effort and drew Estel’s face down towards him. He kissed the child’s brow. ‘I have won you back once,’ he said. ‘I will not lose you again.’

Estel wanted to ask what he meant by those last words, but he schooled his tongue. ‘I will not be easily lost,’ he promised. ‘I have a superior sense of direction.’

This time Atar did laugh, but Estel saw the single tear that slipped from the corner of his left eye. The Elf-lord rose, briefly embracing his young son. ‘Do not terrorize Erestor too much in my absence,’ he said. ‘Farewell for a time, my son.’

‘Farewell, Atarinya. Take good care.’ The words came out more steadily than Estel could have hoped.

The Lord of the Valley turned to Glorfindel. ‘I will see you in Lórien,’ he said.

The golden Elf-lord nodded. ‘I shall bring you three hundred and more,’ he promised. Though ordinarily Estel’s innate spark of curiosity would have been fanned to a raging wildfire by such oblique words, he was now too far gone in his struggle with his emotions to care what Glorfindel had said.

Erestor stood nearby, and Atar moved towards him, removing the signet ring from his smallest finger. He pressed it into the counsellor’s hand. ‘Imladris is yours, my friend. Guard her well.’ His voice dropped into a soft supplication. ‘Take care of my son.’

‘As if he were my own, my lord,’ Erestor vowed sombrely. Then he embraced the Peredhil. ‘Have a care that you come home to us with all your limbs intact,’ he said, and though his voice was light there was little jest in the words.

The Master of Imladris moved towards his steed, exchanging thanks for well-wishes from his folk as he passed them. He sprung into the saddle with a lightness that belied the weight of his mail beneath his travel-garb. His escort moved into formation around him. Elrohir mounted deftly and took up his position at the head of the company. The bay stallion shifted restively, and Atar twined the reigns about his left hand, leaning forward to pat the horse’s neck with his right while he murmured in its ear. The beast fell still, waiting patiently.

Atar straightened in the saddle, and his eyes sought Estel’s. No words passed between them, but a silent understanding was forged. Atar vowed to come back to the Valley alive and well, and Estel pledged in his turn to be whole and sound and undaunted upon his return.

Then the stallion turned and the riders moved off, swift and silent in the moonlight. Around him the household was dispersing, returning to their beds or their singing or the bake-house with its great stone ovens, but Estel stood fast, staring into the bright silver night as the cantering shapes shrank away out of sight.

When at last they were gone, he turned to trudge back inside where his studies awaited him. His shoulders quivered and then bowed under the weight of the desolation he had struggled so valiantly to hide. He halted, immobilized with sudden shame when he realized that he was not alone.

Gentle hands took hold of him and abruptly he found himself lifted into strong, slender arms. With a soft and shuddering sigh he submitted to the one who offered him succour in his moment of abandonment, resting his head on the broad muscular shoulder.

‘There now, my brave young soldier,’ Glorfindel said softly. ‘It is permitted for those who must wait behind to weep a little.’

As his friend and teacher carried him back into the house, Estel found that he needed no further invitation.

Chapter XXV: Lordless Lands

Estel appeared to be adjusting nicely to his unorthodox schedule, but Gilraen was not. She found herself unable to sleep for more than two or three hours at a stretch while the Sun shone, and the sleepless nights were wearing away at her already. She endured them resolutely, subsisting on sporadic naps throughout the day, but she was exhausted. With her discomfort came the terrible understanding of the misery that her son had endured prior to the discovery of his continued torment. That knowledge filled her with remorse and a suffering greater than that of weariness, and whenever she saw him happily bent over his ciphering or leaning out of his window singing softly in the moonlight she was seized with a desperate urge to prostrate herself before him and beg forgiveness for her blindness.

The more exhausted she grew, the stronger this urge became, but she curtailed it sternly. On the night prior to Master Elrond’s departure she had spent two hours sequestered with Elrohir, pouring out her sorrows upon his empathetic ears. She had emerged from that encounter with a fresh resolve that she would not burden Estel with the woes of her heart. Her pain must be hers alone, and if she found respite in sharing it with the younger son of Elrond she could not thrust it upon her own child. To plead for pardon would soothe her conscience, but it would distress Estel. That, she knew, she must not do.

She uttered many thankful prayers for the apparent success of Master Elrond’s almost heretical edict. Gilraen was still firmly entrenched in her belief that it was barbaric for children to sleep the day away and to roam the house free and unsupervised at night. Yet she had to admit that Estel was happier now than he had been in weeks, and the colour had returned to his cheeks once more. There had been no outbursts of rudeness, nor any complaints regarding his behaviour. He seemed quite amused by the inversion of his routine, and each night he had some keen and witty insight to share with her regarding the night life of Imladris.

So Gilraen was startled when he returned to her parlour at dawn four days after the riding of Elrond’s escort, eyes red and nose blocked from weeping. He had a rumpled handkerchief in his hand, and when he saw her he hastily wiped his nose and tried to smile.

Suppressing the desire to fly to him, crying out in consternation at his distress, Gilraen laid aside her sewing and held out her arms. ‘Estel, come here,’ she said as serenely as she could.

‘I am not distressed, Mother,’ he said, sniffling a little as he approached. ‘I promise I am not.’

Gilraen mastered herself and drew him onto her lap. Thus seated they were almost eye to eye. ‘Why are you weeping?’ she asked.

‘I am not,’ Estel said with a note of impertinence in his voice. That, more than anything, reassured Gilraen. Insolence in her child was not a defence mechanism, but a sign of good spirits.

‘Why were you weeping, then?’ she asked instead.

‘It is Erestor’s fault,’ said Estel. He busied himself in smoothing the damp square of linen in his hands and folding it neatly. ‘He insisted that we talk about...’ He stopped, dismayed realization flickering through his eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders, deciding, so it seemed, that he could continue with his explanation. ‘We had a quarrel a few days ago when I fell asleep over my copy-work. Tonight we discussed it, and made amends. Erestor can be extraordinarily kind when he sets his mind to be.’

Then they were tears of reconciliation, Gilraen thought thankfully, and not of distress at all. A weary smile touched her lips and she drew Estel close, wrapping her arms around him and finding solace in his nearness. ‘I am pleased that you and Erestor are at peace,’ she said softly. ‘Master Elrond would be displeased if you were to grieve your teacher in his absence.’

‘Atarinya asked Erestor to take care of me,’ Estel said, his grey eyes pensive. ‘Why would he do that?’

Secretly Gilraen had been wondering the same thing. Did the Lord of Imladris think her utterly incapable of caring for her son? Had he so little faith in her abilities as a mother that he felt compelled to make alternative arrangements for Estel? Of course, she could not voice these qualms. ‘It is natural to make provisions for the care of children when one must roam abroad,’ she said instead. ‘If I were ever to leave the Valley I should want to know that I had left you in good hands.’

Sudden fear lanced across Estel’s face. ‘You are not leaving, are you, Mother?’ he exclaimed warily. ‘Please do not go now, not while my father is away!’

The High Elven epithet was tolerable, but to hear her son say ‘my father’ in the language of her own people pricked Gilraen’s heart. She pressed her lips tightly together, and then kissed Estel’s cheek in an attempt to hide her pained expression. ‘Of course I am not leaving, love,’ she promised. ‘My place is at your side: I would not do such a thing.’

The look in Estel’s eyes was but to say that he had not thought that Elrond would do such a thing, either, but he said nothing and leaned more fully upon his mother’s shoulder. The sweet smell of his hair was a balm for her spirit. It was a wonderful thing, to be needed by her child. Too often he turned elsewhere for comfort, but now he sought it in her arms. The knowledge that he only did so because he could not go to the Peredhil troubled Gilraen little tonight. Second-best though she was, he had still come to her. She was still of some use to him. Her life still had purpose.

lar

Elrond had forgotten the simple pleasures of travel.

There was a peculiar satisfaction to spending long days mounted on a steed that moved with the speed and grace of the fresh north wind, watching as the miles passed by. Each evening a new camp was made, and there were songs and tales and camaraderie in the twilight. Meals were prepared over the open fire, and there was laughter and pleasant company. At first some of his escort had been uneasy in his presence, for though he was beloved of all his people he was less well-known by some, and the Silvan folk especially found him daunting at times. After a few days on the trail, however, inhibitions were allayed and Elrond was coming to know his soldiers better.

It was pleasant, too, to watch Elrohir in his native element. His son had always been a formidable huntsman and a skilled pathfinder, and it was a delight for Elrond to witness the joy with which he approached his daily duties. He uncovered hidden ways through which their horses might pass with ease, and always it seemed he was able to locate an amenable place to halt each night. He knew these lands well, for he had ridden in them through many centuries. Free of the burdens of the relentless defence of Eriador, he seemed younger than his wont, and he was merry.

On their ninth day of travel the little party halted to make camp shortly after noon. The elven horses had stamina equalled by few other beasts, and with their fair burdens they travelled swift and sure. But the crossing of Dunland was dangerous, for the wild men of that region were not over-fond of strangers, and Elves in particular they disliked. While the travellers had kept a moderate pace since leaving Rivendell, they would ride more swiftly after crossing the Glanduin. So it was decided that they should halt here, and take a half-day to rest their beasts and themselves.

Elrond was glad of the chance to stop, for it meant that he could remove his mail for a time. He had grown unused to armour in his long years of peace, and he found it to be rather hot and cumbersome. Thinking of Estel’s innocent wonderment he half-wished that his corselet was of mithril after all. It would have been lighter.

Mail, like a well-worn boot, was difficult to remove with dignity. Fortunately Elrohir was on hand to help, and the task was accomplished with a minimum of discomfiture. Pleased to be rid of the muggy weight of the steel, Elrond stretched and rubbed his shoulders. The discomfort quickly faded, and he went to rub down his horse.

‘I for one am weary of camp-fare,’ announced Andras, one of the younger members of the company. ‘If we are to halt for the day, may we not take time to hunt?’

‘You may,’ said Elrohir, who despite his father’s presence was generally understood to be the leader of the expedition; ‘but you will go on foot. The horses have need of rest.’

‘I would welcome a little rambling,’ said the eager soldier. ‘My legs are forgetting what it is to bear me.’

There was a murmur of agreement from several of his companions. A shuffling of gear followed as those who were interested in participating gathered the tools they would need. One of the archers withdrew and approached Elrond with only a shadow of her earlier timidity.

‘Will you join us, my lord?’ she asked. ‘It is a fine day for shooting, and Hollin is rich with game. It may prove a merry afternoon.’

Elrond shook his head. ‘Thank you, Calmiel, but I do not hunt,’ he said. He turned from his horse and held out his hands, palms upturned. ‘It is generally accepted that a healer’s gift is diminished by the spilling of blood. I do not quest for game, and I fight only at greatest need.’

The lady looked abashed. ‘Of course... I know that. My own sister plies the healing arts. I meant no disrespect, my lord...’

Elrond smiled. ‘Quite the opposite,’ he said. ‘I am honoured that you would wish to include me in your expedition. Go in peace, and may your arrows find their mark. Then perhaps, if you are of a mind, I might taste the fruits of your labours.’

A radiant smile touched Calmiel’s face, and she dipped into a curtsy – a curious sight, given her practical state of dress. She, too, was young, and had not known Imladris under the hand of Celebrían. ‘I would esteem it a great honour, my lord,’ she said.

As the hunting party moved off, Elrohir approached his sire. ‘You are a trickster and a cheat, Atarinya,’ he teased. ‘In the wild those who do not hunt do not deserve to eat!’

‘Do they not, indeed?’ Elrond rejoined. ‘Then you shall go hungry tonight, for I do not see you marching forth with snare in hand.’

‘Ah, but I shall be occupied with other labours,’ Elrohir said, eyes glinting merrily. ‘Someone must walk the river and find the best place to cross.’ He clapped his hand on Elrond’s shoulder. ‘Fear not,’ he declaimed in an overly dramatic voice. ‘The lady spoke aright: Hollin is indeed rich with game, and we shall all eat well this evening.

‘A good thing, too,’ he added, the bravado giving way to pragmatic gravity. ‘Once we cross the river we will have little time to satisfy the appetites of the body.’

He moved off, and Elrond was left alone. Two of the company were walking among the horses, conferring softly with one another. The others had dispersed. After taking a minute to murmur soft words to his mount, Elrond turned away from the clearing and strode into the underbrush.

He had walked these lands long ago, when the silence of the wood had been broken by the voices of the Noldor, and the fair houses of Celebrimbor’s folk had stood like stony blossoms among the holly-trees. Now all that was gone, swept away by the tides of war, and only the Peredhil remained, remembering.

It seemed that he could hear the desperate cries of the watchers in the mountains. The clash of steel. The cruel orc-whips. He could smell the fire in the holly, and he could taste the bitterness of retreat...

But that flight had saved the lives of many who would have otherwise been sundered from their bodies and sent houseless to the Halls of Mandos. That withdrawal, then so galling, had made possible all that he had accomplished in the intervening millennia. Imladris was built upon the ruin of fair Eregion; and now the land ravaged by Sauron in his vengeance was healed, and only the distant echo of the ruin wrought there remained.

It was strange to think that in this quiet place, among the trees that never faded from green, the doom in which the world seemed so inexorably caught had first taken root. Had it not been for the curiosity of the Noldor, their desire for ever more intricate and beautiful possessions, their delight in smithcraft and the works of the hands, Elrond would not be standing here now, riding to desperate action against Sauron.

He could feel the weight of Vilya on his hand, though of course the Ring was shrouded from sight. By it he was wound into the fate of the Enemy, and in the sorrows of the world he held a third part. Elrond spared a bitter thought for the one who had entrusted him with this grievous charge, but the flicker of resentment was swift to pass. It was well, in the end, that Gil-galad had chosen as he had. The Ring had been used to great good, though always with care and always in secret. It had safeguarded Rivendell and sheltered the Line of Elendil, and it had saved Estel’s life.

Estel. Not for the first time, Elrond wondered anxiously how his son was faring, left behind in Imladris with the nightmares still looming in the darkness. He had faith that the boy would adequately adapt to the change to his daily habits, but it hardly seemed possible that such a solution was sustainable. The Enemy’s malice knew no bounds, and if he was determined to hurt the Heir of Isildur he would find a way.

It was useless to dwell on such fears. There was nothing that Elrond could do now, save to press on and to pray for success. In little more than a week he would be in Isengard, and there a monumental task awaited him. The need could not be disputed, but it was no easy thing to sway Saruman’s mind. Wise was the leader of the Council, but stubborn also, unyielding as the black stone of his lately-won fortress. It would be a feat worthy of song if they could win him to their cause after almost a century of firm resistance.

With a heavy sigh that he would not have uttered had there been any to hear, Elrond picked his way back to the encampment, leaving behind the memories of Eregion amid the whispering trees.

lar

Glorfindel was amassing an army. For many days Estel had not noticed this, for most of the preparations occurred during the day while he slept. Tonight, however, in the grey twilight after the child had broken his fast, a large contingent of forest-folk had come out of the wild, talking of armaments and a journey over the mountains. They were the folk of Gildor Inglorion, or such among them as bore arms at need. There was singing by the river, but in the Hall of Fire Glorfindel and Erestor sat with the wandering Elf-lord and the captains of the border-watch in a council of war.

Estel knew he would not be welcome within, but he could not wander far from the door. Anxiety filled him. What disaster loomed upon the horizon, that the peaceable folk of Imladris were making ready to march into battle? He had heard the folk talk of goblin incursions in the mountains, and Elrohir had brought rumours of some misfortune that had befallen Gandalf the Grey and his dwarves in the High Pass – but an army would be of little use on the stony heights, and surely a small band of scouts would fare just as well.

Mother was upstairs, and Estel suspected that she was sleeping. She did not seem quite so fond as he was of sitting up all night and taking her rest in the day, but neither were her nights of slumber torn asunder by ancient horrors.

Estel shivered, though the corridor he paced was warm. Before, he had been little troubled by his visions once he was awake and the fit of terror had passed. Lately, however, the memory of the dreams haunted his waking thoughts. He could not read from his books of history without thinking of what he had seen, and smelled, and felt in the throes of those nightmares. When he ate it seemed that he could feel the ache of starvation in his bones. When he bathed the water was as cold as the merciless seas that surged within his mind, swallowing again and again the peaceful farmland and the gracious havens and the fair cities with their streets paved in marble... He was haunted by horror, pursued by memories of torment and death. He could never tell when another was going to arise.

The door to the Hall of Fire opened, and Glorfindel came out. He was speaking to Erestor in low, anxious tones.

‘I do not know what delays him, but I cannot abide much longer. It will take three weeks or more for our folk to reach Lothlórien, and if we tarry too long Caradhras will grow perilous. Short is the summer in the high places.’

‘He will be furious if you depart without him,’ Erestor warned.

‘I would sooner face Elladan’s wrath than fail his father,’ Glorfindel said. ‘If Lord Elrond—’ He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on the boy. ‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘Skulking in the halls like an unexpected emissary hoping to catch his host unawares?’

‘Why are you going to Lothlórien?’ Estel demanded. ‘Why does my father need an army? What is happening?’

The two adults exchanged a communicative glance, and Erestor nodded to indicate that these questions sprung from Glorfindel’s indiscretion and Glorfindel’s failure to clear the corridor before speaking. It was Glorfindel who had to cope with the consequences.

For a moment, Glorfindel looked entirely overcome. ‘Estel...’ he began helplessly. Then he sighed. ‘Come, let us not speak of these things here.’

He herded Estel down the corridor and into the empty dining hall. Erestor followed, and for a moment the three stood in darkness until Glorfindel struck a spark with his tinderbox and lit the candles in one of the sconces near the door. He sat down at the nearest table, indicating that Estel should take the chair opposite. Erestor remained standing, leaning against the doorpost with his arms across his chest and a stern, serious expression upon his face.

‘Has your father discussed these matters with you?’ Glorfindel asked.

Estel shook his head. ‘He said he was going to Isengard to a meeting of the Council,’ he said, rather plaintively. ‘Why would he need an army there?’ And why, he added to himself, had Glorfindel let him ride off with eleven warriors instead?

The Elf-lord sighed. ‘He does not,’ he said. ‘Elrond will be safe enough in Orthanc. Saruman is a assiduous host, if a little frugal, and he will suffer no harm to come to those under his roof. I am taking a host across the Redhorn Pass to Lothlórien, there to muster with the forces of Celeborn and whatever aid Saruman can send us. When all are assembled we will march on Mirkwood.’

‘Mirkwood?’ Estel repeated, not comprehending. ‘Why would you march on Mirkwood? The King of the Wood-Elves is an ancient friend of Imladris, and there are no other...’ He felt the colour drain from his face. ‘The Necromancer,’ he whispered, speaking the name murmured by adults under the din of other conversations at board, or whispered while some strong voice sang songs of errantry and triumph, or hissed behind raised hands when they thought the mortal child could not hear. Estel knew nothing about the Necromancer save that he had a fortress somewhere in the south of Mirkwood, and that he was so feared that no one dared to discuss him aloud. Even Atar never spoke of him in Estel’s presence.

Glorfindel seemed to read his dread clearly, and a thunderous shadow appeared in the bright eyes. ‘Estel, do not be afraid,’ he said sternly. ‘His chief weapon is terror, and if we submit to it there is no hope left. The Necromancer is not so strong as you may be given to think. He is fallen and he is crippled, like a beggar trying to pull himself up onto a wooden crutch. We are going to kick the crutch from under him, that is all, and to drive him away where he cannot threaten us further. Do you understand me, Estel? We must not bow to our fear.’

It was easy for Glorfindel to speak of such things. He was a mighty Elf-lord and he feared nothing. But Estel was a child, and he was haunted with memories of the horrors of war and the machinations of the Enemy. His father was far away, going into battle against some terrible force in a distant wood.

‘B-but Atarinya will be hurt,’ he protested. ‘Mayhap he will be slain.’ Tears swam in his eyes. He had already lost one father, when he had been too young to understand. What would become of him if he should lose another?

‘I do not think he will be slain,’ Glorfindel said gently, reaching across the table to grip Estel’s hands. ‘Look at me. Your father is – Estel, look at me.’ Lip trembling, the boy obeyed. The light in Glorfindel’s eyes seemed to pierce his heart, and he felt it infusing him with strength and courage and an unlooked-for calm. ‘Your father is mighty among the folk of Middle-earth. He has survived many campaigns and come through many battles unscathed, while all around him fell the great princes of the Eldar and the Edain. It is not his fate to perish in Mirkwood, casting down a cruel pretender. He will not be alone: Mithrandir will stand with him, and Celeborn and bold Galadriel his wife. Saruman will be there, and I with my host of three hundred strong. Lórien is mustering her people, and surely Saruman will have soldiers as well. It is most unlikely that Elrond will even need to draw his sword.’

‘Then why must he go?’ Estel demanded.

A curious smile touched Glorfindel’s mouth, and Estel realized that he, too, had asked this question. ‘He may be needed for other things,’ he said. ‘Do not forget that he is a healer of skill and power unrivalled in these later days. Besides, I do not think he likes the idea that the rest of the Council take action while he lies idle. He feels a responsibility in that respect as well.’

‘Then I wish they would disband the Council,’ Estel said caustically; ‘that he might be free of that responsibility and remain where he is safe.’

Glorfindel sat back, chuckling softly to himself. ‘You and I are of like mind,’ he said; ‘but I promise I will take care of him. If for no other reason than to ensure that he is available to heal my hurts when Elladan calls me to task for leaving him behind.’

He was speaking as if Atar was a child, and again Estel was perplexed. ‘Glorfindel,’ he said hesitantly. ‘You often seem older than you are.’

‘Older than I appear, you mean?’ the Elf-lord asked, amused. ‘That is the fate of the Firstborn.’

Estel shook his head. ‘You were born in Imladris in this Age of the world; you were born after Elladan and Elrohir.’

‘How did you come to here this?’ Glorfindel asked, looking over his shoulder at Erestor, who was suddenly less stern and greatly occupied with studying the ceiling.

‘Yet you speak as if you walked the world in the First Age. You behave as if Atar is a young one you have sworn to guard. You know things, like the fact that Idril Celebrindal wrote that poem, that only a very old person would know.’ Estel’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you explain it?’

‘I do not,’ Glorfindel said. ‘At least, not tonight. All that you say is true, in part, but this is a discussion of great complexity and length, and I fear that I have not the time to spare for it now. We are riding tomorrow, and there is much that must be done ere I can depart.’

‘But—’

‘I am sorry, Estel. I cannot spare the time. When I return, if you still desire it, we may speak then.’ Glorfindel’s voice was firm, but his regret was genuine. He rose. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Do not harry Gildor’s folk: they are sacrificing much to ride with us and deserve what peace we can give them tonight.’

He left the room, and Estel turned his eyes on Erestor.

‘You have been neglecting your mathematics of late,’ the lore-master said. ‘Come with me. Glorfindel may have much work to do, but my labours for the evening are done. Perhaps now would be a good time to introduce you to the rudiments of algebra.’

Estel blinked mutely at him. It seemed absurd to talk of mathematics at such a time as this. But often Atar had said that the simple duties of each day must be carried out regardless, even if all the world appeared to be overturned. Obediently, he went with his teacher.

lar

With the departure of Glorfindel and his host an eerie silence seemed to descend upon the Valley. The house seemed empty, and the evening meal – which Estel usually took with the rest of the household despite his night-time wakefulness – was a subdued affair. Whole tables stood abandoned, and the empty chairs on the dais seemed to howl with loneliness. Estel could not help the encroaching fear that some of them would never be filled again, especially when the shadows in his mind plagued him.

Three days after the riding forth of the host of Imladris, Estel was preparing for bed when he heard a great commotion from outside of his window. He rushed to lean out, looking down over the green. Folk were pouring out of the house, and Erestor was shouting orders. One of the elf-maidens who practiced the healing arts appeared to be directing him, while half a dozen people were clustered around three great northern horses. The tall, hardy beasts were spattered with mud and gore, and their proud heads were stooped wearily. On the two nearest the house sat a pair of haggard-looking Dúnedain. One had a blood-soaked strip of linen wound many times around his head, and his sword-arm hung in a makeshift sling. His face was grey with pain. The other seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, slumped over his horse’s neck. He was bound to his saddle with Elven rope.

Estel’s heart sprung into his mouth as this second man’s bonds were cut and he was lowered to the ground, revealing to the boy’s sight a greater part of the third beast. Lying like a sack across the saddle was a half-naked figure. The head could not be seen, for it was hanging with the arms over the beast’s right flank, but the bare torso was black with bruises and one leg had been thickly wrapped in what looked to be an Elven cloak, liberally painted with blood. Several of the people of Imladris seemed to be debating as to the best way to move the rider, who was obviously lost to the world. The healer came striding into the fray, gesturing imperiously, but Estel did not linger to see how they contrived to lift the wounded one down. He flew from the window and bolted into the anteroom, shouting for his mother. She came out of her bedchamber, still fully clothed though her dark hair was loose about her shoulders. When Estel told her what he had seen her face grew very white, and she seized his arm. Together they hastened down to join the rest of the household, dreading what they would discover.

Estel had recognized the third horse: it belonged to Elladan.

Chapter XXVI: Cruel Duty

Mother halted almost as soon as she stepped into the early morning sunlight. She looked afraid to go farther, as if she felt that she had no place in the anxious crowd. Estel had no such compunctions: he was as much a member of the household as anyone else, and his father’s eldest child was grievously wounded. It was his right to be present, and his duty to help if he could.

‘Estel, no; stay out of the way—’ Mother admonished. He did not heed her. Estel wove nimbly between the well-meaning Elves who were gathering to aid in the dismounting of the man with the head wound. A quick glance told Estel that his right arm was broken. It had not been set, but lay at an awkward angle in a crude splint made of a split branch. The man was grinding his teeth against the pain as he slowly swung his leg over the horse’s back and slid down against the waiting hands.

His companion was lying semiconscious in the grass, wheezing shallowly and plucking with fretful fingers at a tear in the skirts of his tunic. Lindir, whom Estel had never known to do anything but while away his days in song and offer critiques (often rather scathing) of the works of the other minstrels, was kneeling beside him. Though the Elf had little use for mortals he was not without pity: he was singing consolingly as he felt the man’s skull, searching for signs of trauma.

Estel slipped around the first of the horses, stroking its flank consolingly. The poor thing seemed quite overwhelmed by the frenzied activity around it: it was pawing the ground and shifting uneasily from side to side. The other gelding was standing very still, nickering plaintively into the palm of the handler who was removing its bridle. Furtively, for he knew he would be viciously scolded if anyone caught him doing something so dangerous and foolhardy, Estel scrambled under its belly, coming up on the far side with a piece of Elven rope clinging to his shoulder: a piece of the bonds that had held the rider in place.

Unlike the others, Elladan’s horse seemed quite calm – perhaps cognizant of the desperate state of its burden and the need for gentle handling. Three of the kitchen staff were waiting on the healer’s command to remove the battered body slung over the saddle, but the unfortunate maiden did not seem quite certain how to proceed.

‘Hold his legs firmly against one another!’ she said adamantly. ‘Then we’ll lift him up and ease him to the left – no. No, give me a moment to think...’ Her brow knitted anxiously together, vacillation overcoming her. ‘Wait...’ she repeated helplessly. She was clearly loath to move him, and Estel could understand why. Standing so near, unnoticed by the distressed adults, he could see that the bruises stood out stiff and swollen, straining against the skin, and the torn cloak swathing the leg from ankle almost to hip was drenched right through with gore. There was a smell, too; a strange, sickly-sweet smell that seemed vaguely familiar.

Erestor came striding over, anxiety writ upon his usually impassive face. ‘What is the delay?’ he asked. ‘We must get him inside at once.’

‘I am afraid to touch him,’ the healer said. ‘I have never... I am a student of herb-lore, not of... of...’ She gestured helplessly at the battered body. ‘If only Lord Elrond were here!’

The faint note of hysteria in her voice brought a wave of panic down upon Estel. What would Atar say if he returned to the Valley to find his son dead? The prospect was too terrible to comprehend.

‘Lift him down as swiftly as you may,’ Erestor instructed the waiting Elves. ‘It hardly seems possible to do more damage. Has no one found a litter?’ This last was shouted at the rest of the household.

Estel took a halting step backward, bumping against the flank of the gelding behind him. With a swift count, the three Eldar lifted the body and lowered him to the ground. Estel saw with horror that the bruises extended onto the chest and abdomen, and if anything they were more dreadful-looking than any on the back. As they turned the limp form, the head fell backward, and Estel beheld with dismay the ruined face: eyes swollen so that they looked impossible to open, broken nose smashed against the left cheek, blood and vomit matted into the long dark hair and the coarse beginnings of a beard...

Beard? Tears of uncertainty were startled into his eyes. It was not Elladan, Estel realized in desolate bewilderment. It was another one of the Dúnedain, a comrade of the other two. ‘B-but he is on Elladan’s horse!’ he exclaimed, unaware that he spoke aloud.

Erestor turned in consternation. ‘Estel! You should not be here: go back inside at once!’

Estel could not obey. He took a halting step towards the mutilated Man. The healer, looking near to tears herself, was groping through grime and cruor to find his pulse. ‘Elladan,’ he repeated, shock rendering him almost incapable of speech. ‘Where is Elladan? What has happened to Elladan?’

Erestor’s jaw worked helplessly, moving around words that he could not find. Either he did not know the answer, or the truth was too terrible to be spoken.

‘We left him on the ascending slope at the root of the path,’ a ragged voice interjected. The Dúnadan with the broken arm was shuffling toward them on trembling legs. Erestor moved swiftly to offer support to the man’s left side. ‘He could walk no further. I told him... I begged him to take my horse. I still have two good legs, though they quiver,’ he added ruefully, looking down at his mud-crusted boots and his shaking knees.

‘And Elladan has not?’ Erestor said shrewdly, his eyes calculating.

The man shook his bandaged head. The motion seemed to dizzy him. ‘His right foot. He says it is not serious, and I half believed him, but he could not go on. If one of the horses failed, he said, someone would have to lead the other two and my legs would be needed. Beldir was nearly lost to the pain by that time and Halion...’ He looked down at his broken comrade and shuddered convulsively. ‘Elladan said if we could reach the house before the poisons rose too far, he might yet live.’ There was a question or a plea in his voice.

‘I do not know,’ Erestor said sadly. ‘We will do all that we can.’

‘I thought that Master Elrond might have the skill to save the leg... but Elladan says he is gone from the Valley.’

A bier had been found at last, and for a moment attention was drawn away from the coherent man as his compatriot was rolled gently onto it. ‘He is burning with fever,’ the healer hissed, looking fearfully up at Erestor. ‘I have never treated such injuries!’ she said. ‘I know little of mortal physiology. You must fetch the Elrondion. I have need of his counsel, wounded or no.’

‘Yes, we must go!’ Estel exclaimed, breaking suddenly free of the numbing dismay and tearing his eyes from the mangled body on the stretcher. ‘We must find him at once!’

‘Go,’ the Dúnadan urged, pulling away from Erestor and swaying only slightly as he found and held his own balance. ‘On the ascending slope, above the path. If you brought a horse, I think he could ride.’

Erestor moved to take the reins of Elladan’s horse. ‘Can you bear me to your master, hardy one?’ he asked. The animal butted its nose against his arm. Erestor moved to mount.

‘I am coming with you!’ Estel said, hurrying forward.

‘You cannot,’ the lore-master decreed. ‘Stay with your mother and keep out of the way.’

‘If Elladan cannot ride after all, you will need someone to come back here to fetch aid,’ Estel argued obstinately. ‘I can be most easily spared.’

‘And will you run through the Valley clad as you are, unshod and ready for slumber?’ Erestor countered, nodding pointedly at the boy.

Estel looked down and flushed a little. He had run from his room in such haste that he had forgotten he was wearing his nightclothes. Bare feet poked out from beneath his long white smock. ‘I can run swiftly, even unshod,’ he said stoutly. ‘Glorfindel has taught me well.’ His bravado failed. ‘Please,’ he said quietly. ‘Please, I need to see Elladan.’

He realized that if Erestor asked him, he would not be able to name a single reason why he needed to see Elladan: he merely knew that he did. He felt he had to have some proof that what the man said was true, and the fearless Peredhil who had helped him take his first steps after his sickness, and who had been so kind during his recovery, was not seriously injured after all. But he realized sadly that he had done little running since his illness and likely lacked his former stamina. He would be little use, it was true, and Erestor was looking at him now, pensive, considering his answer carefully.

‘I am sorry, Estel. It is folly to take you. Go to your mother and stay with her.’

As if in response to Erestor’s words, a sharp cry of horror tore through the air. Estel whirled about like a hound scenting death on the wind. The sound had come from his mother’s lips. She was standing by the door, as white as death, clawing at her throat with one hand and staring at the broken man on the litter. Estel had no choice. Erestor would take care of Elladan, but there was no one to comfort his mother but he. He ran back towards the house, weaving agilely around those who stood in his way.

lar

Elladan sat with his back to the boulder for a long time, trying to collect himself. It had been many years since he had taken any debilitating hurt in the field, and he supposed that now that his luck had run out he ought to be grateful for a dislocated shoulder, an ankle certainly sprained but most likely broken, and a right flank rasped bloody beneath shredded garments. In two or three weeks he would be almost as good as new. The others had not been so fortunate.

They had picked their way through the High Pass with good speed, though the four northern horses often needed careful leading on the heights. No signs had they seen of Gandalf or the dwarves, save a small singed cave. It looked to have been struck by lightning, and Beldir had indeed made that assessment, but Elladan could taste the lingering power in the air, and the signs were written as clearly as could be: Mithrandir was here. No more than that had they found, and so they had pressed on down the slopes of the Hithaiglir, hoping to pick up some trail on the far side.

It should have been a warning when they found the pawings of warg-claws around the ruins of five burned firs. But Elladan had been bewildered beyond telling by the tale told in that strange place. Orcs had gathered, and with them the wild and wicked wolves. Fourteen pairs of booted feet, one unmistakably wizard-sized, and the bare toes of a hobbit had all left their marks in the rain-softened ground and the carpet of pine-needles. Many tracks led to the trees. None led away. Nor were there any signs of charred or despoiled corpses, nor of captives borne off back to the mountains. Even the unslakable appetites of a combined force of wargs and goblins could not have disposed of fifteen victims without leaving a trace. It was as if Gandalf and his cohorts had sprouted wings and flown off into the night.

Unable to find any further trail within several miles of the bonfire-site, the four of them had despaired and turned back towards Eriador. On their fourth night in the Pass, just as they began their westward descent, they had met up with some of the wargs – who had likely been stalking them since they left the Wilderland.

The Dúnedain had fought valiantly, but Halion had lost his footing in his dismount and the warg-captain had sprung upon him, calling curses to the sky. The cruel, noxious jaws had seized the young Ranger by the leg, shaking him like a rat against the stony ground. Though with his bow Elladan had managed to fell the beast he did so too late to spare Halion. Bereft of their leader pack had dispersed, howling to the heavens as they vanished. Whether it was the howling that had caused the mountains to rain down upon them then, or whether the falling stones were the work of some unearthly malice or merely the product of unhappy chance, the four travellers had found themselves bombarded by crushing granite.

Ondoher, who was nearly too old to be wandering the Wild any longer, had suffered a head wound that brought with it vomiting and blurred vision, and the bones of his arm had been snapped in twain. Slow would be the healing of that hurt to his aged body. Beldir, a hardy man well into his fifth decade of life, had suffered several cracked and broken ribs, and before nightfall he was passing blood. By the time Elladan and Ondoher, with two good hands between them, had dug Halion from the rubble, the young man’s heart was pounding with the force of the poisons released by his crushed organs, and the warg-wounds on his leg were already raging with infection. As to how much blood he had lost then and in the intervening days, Elladan could not make an accurate guess. He dreaded to try.

Their horses had wisely fled the rockslide, but not all swiftly enough. Elladan’s steed had returned first, and at her master’s behest had departed again and brought back Halion’s gelding and Ondoher’s. Beldir’s horse they found when daylight came at last: lying at the bottom of a steep but shallow ravine with its skull beaten in by a large oblong stone.

With three horses and four wounded soldiers, it had made the most sense for the Peredhil to walk. Elladan possessed greater stamina than the hardiest Second-born, and his injuries were less severe than those of the others. He had taken it upon himself to lead the horse bearing Halion. This had served a dual purpose. If led and comforted his mare was more likely to obey and to carry her burden gently wherever she was pressed to roam. And in leading her he could also lean upon her, for he was hobbled by his inflamed foot.

The first day he had fared well enough, and though the going was treacherous it seemed that if the need were desperate enough horses could navigate the high places after all. On the second day, pressing on without sleep out of fear for Halion’s life, the pain had been far more intense and the progress more slow though by then they were well into their descent. Through the night he had stumbled on until he could not stumble anymore, and then he had been obliged to send the others on and remain here to wait for help. The exhausted horses, each already overburdened with one rider, could not be trusted with two.

With two reliable arms he might have fared better. He could have fashioned a stave out of... what? Something. Then he could have... or perhaps...

His thoughts were muddled with pain and weariness. Greater stamina had he than his mortal brethren, but there was Man-blood in his veins, and the burden of his mixed heritage was a somewhat lessened resistance to the hurts and sufferings of the body than others of the Firstborn possessed. He had laboured as best he could in the face of unbearable odds, and he had brought his small band to the very marches of a safe haven. He could go no further.

They would send someone from the house to fetch him, and the sooner that was done the better. Halion’s torn and infected leg would almost certainly have to come off, and Elladan doubted that any healer who could be spared from marching with Glorfindel’s army – he realized in mildly absurd annoyance that the golden-haired warrior had almost certainly departed for Lórien without him! – would have the necessary skills to amputate a limb. It was not a procedure for which the Firstborn had much need: all but the most grievous of deficits could be resolved with time and patience. Elladan had learned it himself only through his close association with the remnant of Arnor.

Fortunately, amputation did not require the use of his feet, and once someone with two strong arms set his dislocated shoulder he would have the use of his hand again. His hurts were not serious, and without the removal of the poisoned limb Halion would surely die. Fighting back the panic borne of desperation and guilt, Elladan closed his eyes and drew in deep, calming breaths. The others would have reached the house by now, or at least they would have been seen by some of the wood-elves. Ondoher was lucid enough to tell them where he was. Someone must be coming already. He would be back in the Valley by noon.

He only hoped that he was not too late.

lar

She knew him. Even shattered and bloodied as he was, his bruised and swollen face all but unrecognizable, she knew him. They had suckled together, played together, worked and laughed and wept together. Until the night she had been whisked away by twin Elven warriors they had been near as any siblings, their shared blood only a small part of the bond between them.

Gilraen could not help the exclamation of anguish as she recognized the wounded Ranger. At her cry, the bearers hesitated, unsure of what to do. For a moment Gilraen was unable to move. She stood there, frozen as though smitten by a bolt of lightning. Then she ran forward, careless of those around her, and seized one cold and purpled hand.

‘Halion!’ she cried. ‘Halion, what devilry is this?’

‘You must release him, lady,’ said one of the Elves carrying the bier. ‘We must bring him into the house. If he is not soon tended he will die.’

Gilraen could not answer. Tears were pouring from her eyes and she felt as though her heart would break. The son of her father’s sister, her beloved cousin, dearest of all her childhood friends, lay beneath her fingers. In her mind he was still a young man of five and twenty, breaking in his first pair of boots in the hills around the village and talking with pride of his intentions to serve with honour and valour now that he was finally of age. She remembered the rainy night when he had risen from his supper and gone out into the night to find wild strawberries to satiate her gravid hankering. She could hear his laughter as he picked up little Aragorn and hoisted the baby – then not yet a year of age – high above his head.

‘My lady, please...’ someone else urged. Someone touched her shoulder, and Gilraen cast the intruding arm violently aside, refusing to relinquish her hold. The well-meaning elf-maid stepped back, startled by the vitriolic reaction.

‘We must bear him inside,’ another voice pleaded. ‘Lady Gilraen, I beg you...’

A slender hand grasped her own, gently prising her fingers away from their grip on the wounded man. Gilraen tried to protest, but the sound came out as a strangulated sob.

‘They must take him inside, Mother,’ a meek voice reasoned. ‘He is sorely wounded and the healer must tend him.’

The bearers waited no longer to hurry their burden away. Gilraen tried to run after them, but a half-grown body blocked her path. Arms twined around her ribs and refused to allow her to move. For a moment she saw only blazing light, and then her knees grew weak. Overcome by this living nightmare, latest in her unrelenting miseries, she swooned.

Elven hands caught her, but she was beyond their feeling. In the muddled moments before she slipped into oblivion, she could see Halion seated high in the chestnut tree, laughing and calling to her to hitch up her kirtle and follow. He was ten years old, and his face was Estel’s...

lar

Mother had been put to bed with a cup of valerian root tea, and once he was certain that she slept, Estel slipped from her room.

It was drawing on to midmorning – well past his bedtime – and yet he no longer felt able to sleep. His mind was filled with a cacophony of questions. How did his mother know the dying Dúnadan? Estel could not be certain, with the swollen and damaged face, but he did not think he had ever met one named Halion before. Yet obviously Mother knew him, and well. His pitiable state had so distressed her that it had driven her – his strong-stomached mother who never grew faint at the sight of a slaughtered animal or a broken limb or a festering orc-wound – to swoon away. And the way she had called his name; plaintive, desperate. Estel had only faint, fever-riddled memories of his mother using such a tone of voice, as she had called out to him while he lay ill. So she not only knew this person, but loved him, and Mother had never loved anyone but Estel. Estel and—

No.

No. Mother had said that his father was dead. Atar had said that his father was dead! The sons of Elrond, and Erestor and Glorfindel: everyone whom he loved and respected had always been adamant that his father was dead. They would not lie to him. It was inconceivable that Halion was his father.

The thought was not so easily put from his mind, but it was too terrible to contemplate. Instead, Estel reasoned with himself. His father could not have been one of the Dúnedain, or else there would be nothing to explain, no secrets to hide. The Rangers often died, usually in nameless battles in the hills but sometimes of disease or privation or exposure. Had his sire been one of them, the tale of his life would have been no different from that of any other Dúnadan. No different, perhaps, than the tale of the crushed man would be.

Comforted by the logic of this, Estel entered his own room and moved to look out the window at the now-empty greensward below. The grass was crushed and trampled, and would not look the same for weeks to come. There were bloodstains on the ground, and a deep rut where the restive horse had pawed the sod away. He looked up towards the mountains, his eyes tracing the path that Erestor would take as he returned with Elladan. There, sure enough, he saw the sturdy mare, toiling stolidly through the beeches. A figure sat awkwardly in the saddle, and another clad in a long surcoat walked alongside. They were perhaps twenty minutes from the house.

This time Estel did not run. If Elladan was well enough to ride that was a very promising sign, and if Erestor saw him wandering in his nightclothes again he would only send him back upstairs to change; or worse, order him to bed. Estel removed his smock and dressed himself in his oldest cote and hose, lest they should be fouled or spoiled by contact with the wounded knight. He even took the time to tie his shoestrings properly, twining them twice about his ankle and tucking in the ends with care. Then he went downstairs, and though still determined not to run he moved swiftly, taking long, sure strides.

He reached the main entryway just as the door opened and Erestor came shuffling in. He had Elladan’s left arm around the back of his neck, and he was supporting the younger Elf. Elladan was hobbling on one foot, his right leg bent. The boot seemed to be stuffed with something at the ankle, but Estel knew that this meant the limb within was swollen. Elladan’s right arm was twisted grotesquely at the shoulder, and he had tucked his hand into his belt, evidently unable to hold up his forearm. Estel flinched in sympathy as he saw the shredded remains of the right side of Elladan’s garments, and the ragged, bloodied flesh beneath.

Elladan spied him and forced a taut smile through his discomfort. ‘Why, it’s my dear young friend the eavesdropper,’ he said. ‘Erestor has been telling me how you overheard his counsels with Glorfindel. If you are going to make a habit of this, then you and I should sit down together and talk about strategies to avoid being caught.’

He sounded so much like the Elladan whom Estel knew that the boy began to weep. ‘You are alive!’ he cried, running forward. He wanted to embrace the warrior, but he stopped short, partly in awe of one whom he still rather idolized, and in part because he feared touch him lest by doing so he should cause more pain.

With a quiet grunt, Elladan hauled his arm off of Erestor and took a shuffling step forward. ‘You’ve borne me far enough, my friend,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Estel will consent to be my crutch for the remainder of my journey.’

Estel nodded vehemently, unspeakably grateful for the opportunity to be of some use. Elladan put his good arm around the boy’s shoulders and Estel placed his hands on the half-Elf’s waist, careful to avoid the injured side of his body. Elladan did not lean very heavily upon him, using him chiefly for balance when he hopped, and they moved quickly down the corridor, Erestor following behind.

‘What befell you?’ Estel asked.

‘We ran afoul of wargs,’ said Elladan. ‘All but Halion would have escaped unscathed, save that their yowling brought half the mountain down upon us. Oh, how wretchedly Elrohir will tease me!’ he added, smirking tiredly.

‘My mother knows him,’ Estel said abruptly as they turned the corner and passed the door to the apothecary workshop. ‘She knows the one called Halion.’

‘And you find this remarkable,’ Elladan observed. ‘Do you suppose you are the only man-child in Eriador with whom your mother is acquainted?’ At Estel’s long look, he sighed heavily and said, ‘She did not see him, did she?’

Estel nodded. Elladan closed his eyes, looking suddenly very haggard and worn. He looked about to say more, but at that moment the sombre infirmarian came to usher them into one of the work-rooms, and for a time Elladan had little breath for speech.

lar

‘If you instruct me I can do it,’ the healer was saying, clutching one hand to her blood-soaked apron. ‘It can surely be no more difficult th-than sawing a rail in two.’

‘It is often more difficult by far,’ Elladan told her grimly.

He was sitting on a bench in the corridor outside of the room in which Halion lay with a tourniquet around his thigh to prevent the further spread of infection. The Peredhil was exhausted, and sat with his head against the wall and his aching right arm cradled in his left. His abrasions had been cleaned and dressed, and his ruined garb replaced with a soft linen robe. If his ankle was broken it was only a crack, undetectable upon palpation. The foot was immobilized in a carved beech-wood brace. In two weeks he would be walking normally again – unlike Halion. The young Ranger’s limb was gangrenous, the poisons of the warg’s teeth bringing death to muscle, blood and bone.

The maiden looked half-sick and Elladan’s heart ached with pity. In five centuries of practice she had never troubled to learn battlefield medicine, but had focused upon the gentler arts of herb-lore, the cultivation of healing plants and the mixing of medicines. Such a brutal procedure as this was outside of her experience and beyond her ken. There had been little need for her to be involved in such things, for it was against her nature – a fact that had always amused Elrohir, for her sister was a huntress and an archer of no small skill. Such were the necessities of war: had any other healer been present in the Valley she could have been spared this ordeal. Had he the full use of his dominant arm he might have spared her this ordeal, but it was not possible that he could work the bone-saw today.

‘Do not fear,’ he said, trying to comfort her. ‘It will swiftly be done. At least the patient is beyond pain, and he cannot plead with you to spare the limb.’ They often begged thus, the prospect of life as a cripple seeming more terrible even than death. It was a hard thing to hear such pleas, to be the agent of that final blow that robbed a man of his ability to aid his people in their ceaseless struggle. A one-armed Ranger might still wield a sword, or mount a patrol, or at least run messages between camps, but a man without a leg was useless to his folk. And Halion was so young…

‘There is no other way?’ the healer asked.

‘There is no other way,’ said Elladan, berating himself as much as he was assuring her. ‘If you cannot bring yourself to do it I can find someone who is skilled with a saw: it is not a task requiring a healer’s gentle touch.’

‘I could find someone,’ a soft voice said. Both Eldar turned sharply towards the thin child seated further up the hall, his back to the wall. They had forgotten this unassuming witness to their conference.

‘You should not be down here at all,’ Elladan said sternly. At the expression of hurt that appeared on Estel’s earnest face he repented. The boy admired him greatly and had not stirred from his side even when Erestor had wrenched his arm back into its socket. More kindly he said, ‘I understand that you want to help, and I am thankful, but you are too young to hear us discussing such matters. Why do you not go and read to your mother? It might keep her mind occupied if you chose a fair tale.’

‘Mother sleeps,’ Estel said. ‘We should know at once if she did not, for she would be here. He is dear to her, though I know not why. How do they know one another? Was my mother guilty of unseemly conduct? Was she estranged from my sire even before his death?’

‘What a vivid imagination you have,’ Elladan said dryly. ‘Have you been reading the tale of Túrin?’

‘Aldarion and Erendis,’ Estel muttered, flushing a little.

‘Atarinya allowed you to read Aldarion and Erendis?’ Elladan was incredulous.

‘In Adúnaic. I did not understand all of it,’ admitted Estel.

‘Nor should you, whatever the language. Perhaps it would be a mistake to have you read to your mother after all. And the answer to both of your shocking questions is no. Your mother has always been an honourable woman and a most noble lady. She and Halion were children together, I think. He is six years short of two score… yes, they would have been very close in age.’ Elladan allowed his eyes to drift closed. It felt as if the effort of ciphering had sapped the last of his strength.

‘Th-there is little time,’ the healer said miserably, recalling him to the sad task at hand. ‘If you instruct me I can do it.’

With the barest of sighs, Elladan nodded and tried to rise. Instantly Estel was at his side, offering his arm and a sturdy young shoulder on which to lean. Elladan let the boy shore him up as he hobbled to the door. Then he stopped and ran a hand along the side of Estel’s face. ‘This far and no farther,’ he said firmly. ‘Why do you not go down to the stables? My poor mare would be glad of your company, for she has had a wretched journey, and I cannot comfort her today.’

‘I will do that,’ Estel said firmly. He looked grimly glad that he was not useless. ‘I promise.’

Elladan waited until the boy was out of sight before he opened the door. The healer came to his side, offering her arm as they shuffled forward together into the arena of death and decay.

Chapter XXVII: Before the Tower of Orthanc

Dusk was deep over the Gap of Rohan when the delegation from Imladris reached the gates of Isengard. They had ridden hard across Dunland, passing their nights in wary watches, but no misfortune had befallen them. Such was the awe and dread that the Lord of Rivendell inspired in the hearts of men, Elrohir said, only half in jest. Elrond, for one, cared not if it were dread that kept the wild men at bay, or luck, or the devices of Saruman. He was merely thankful that they had not been waylaid. The swifter they went, the more quickly they could return to the North. Elrond’s heart foreboded that all was not well in Rivendell.

They passed through the long, echoing tunnel that led under the walls to the gates. It seemed they were expected, for a guard in livery of white was waiting to thrust open the great iron doors. He made no reply to Elrond’s word of thanks, but bowed as the riders passed, and then drew the gate closed behind them.

Within the mighty ring-wall that joined with the mountain to encircle the ancient fortress of Men, there was a verdant bowl a full mile across. Fair avenues wound about it, passing beneath groves of trees laden with summer fruit. There were laughing streams running down from the mountains to the broad lake, and the air was sweet with the fragrance of flowers and the memory of the day’s sunlight.

‘Here is a welcome change from the barren plains!’ Calmiel said. ‘I had not imagined a place so fair.’

‘Fair indeed,’ Elrohir said. His voice sounded lighter now than it had for some days. Lately he had wandered restless while others slept, his brow drawn as if in pain, but when questioned he would not reveal the source of his distress. Elrond was pleased to hear some of this now care lifted from his words. ‘For Saruman is a wise lord and a good, and here he preserves something of the beauty of the South Kingdom of old.’

It seemed indeed the truth, for little could Elrond see that had changed since his last ride hither. Yet as they rode down a winding path that led towards the great tower of Orthanc, uneasiness stirred in his heart. Was there something different after all, in the gentle winds that rippled in the fruit-trees? Or was it merely his apprehension, knowing as he did the long debates that lay ahead? Or some other matter entirely, some ill happening in his home that was calling to him across the long miles. The last he feared most of all.

He put the uneasiness from his mind and drank in with all his senses the beauty of the orchards and the serenity of this sanctuary of light and order in an increasingly dark and chaotic world. Somewhere near at hand a nightingale was singing, and the trees had a music of their own, untroubled by any thoughts of desperate councils or Dol Guldur or defenceless children left behind to face the malice of the Shadow alone. Elrond drew in a deep breath full of the perfume of ripening pears, and forgot for a moment the stink of dread that came from the foresighted certainty that whatever the Council accomplished in this fated autumn, it would not be enough. The stars were out now, shining high above and visible periodically through the canopy of trees: their hope never faded, for they had seen the rise and fall of Morgoth, and the slow corruption of Númenor, and the thriving of the Elendili despite immeasurable hardships, and the muster of the hosts of Gil-galad and the casting down of Sauron, and the advancement and the destruction of Angmar. To them this latest threat of doom was but a part of the unending cycles of the world; they knew no fear and felt no pain, for they would shine on even when all those on whom they now looked were gone to their graves. The stars, at least, would endure forever unchanged.

At length the travellers emerged from beneath the trees at Orthanc’s very base. There, upon the bottom step of the great, broad stair that led up towards the tower, stood Saruman the White. On the ground upon either side of him there stood a servant bearing a bright lantern, and in the light of the pale flames Saruman looked like a king of old, smiling benevolently upon supplicants from the far countries.

‘Welcome, Elrond Peredhil, child of Lúthien, Lord of Imladris, King of the Noldor in these latter days,’ he said. His voice was melodious and strong, yet soft as summer rains and silky as the twilight. Every word radiated welcome, and graciousness, and good will. ‘I trust your journey has been swift and pleasant, free of danger and hardship?’

‘It has indeed,’ Elrond said, dismounting with deliberate grace and moving forward several paces. ‘Thank you for your welcome, Saruman the Istar, Warden of Orthanc and Leader of the Council. Yet I fear you have forgotten that I have never been crowned, nor do I use the title of king.’

‘Do you not?’ Saruman asked smoothly. ‘Forgive me, I had indeed forgotten. For a king you are, among the remnant of Gil-galad’s people, and you honour my humble home with your presence.’ To punctuate this assertion he stepped down onto level ground and came towards Elrond. ‘Swift are the horses of Imladris: you are the first to arrive though your road is the longest – save perhaps that of Gandalf the Grey. Who can say if he will even reach us through the perilous paths he walks?’

‘Gandalf will come,’ Elrond assured him. ‘He has given his word to me that he would, and the oaths of the Grey Pilgrim are a force to rival that which binds the very fabric of the world.’

Saruman smiled serenely. ‘Fair words from a noble friend,’ he allowed. ‘I mean to offer no offence; I confess that I merely lack your unwavering faith in his invulnerability. There are many dangers in the world, and our dear comrade seems over-fond of seeking them out.’

‘Better to seek them out and destroy them than to sit safely in your tower of stone while all the world is overrun with evil!’ Elrohir exclaimed. Elrond’s head snapped to the side so swiftly that his neck made a sound of protest, grey eyes commanding his son to be silent.

Saruman turned benevolent eyes upon Elrohir, unrepentant in his saddle. ‘All the West thanks you for your tireless labours, child of Elrond,’ he said courteously. ‘We are not ungrateful for your sacrifices, and many tales have been told of your valour and that of your noble brother. Yet not all of us can fight the Shadow with our swords, is that not so, Peredhil?’ He looked again at Elrond. ‘It seems your son does not know his duties, if he cannot stand in respectful silence while you converse with your peers. Perhaps you will have better fortune this time?’

‘He is not over-fond of flatterers, however sincere,’ Elrond replied, wondering with bewilderment what Saruman meant by his last words. ‘And we are weary after our long road. If we might retire to the rooms prepared for us I think we would all be most thankful.’

‘Of course,’ Saruman said, inclining his head. ‘Regretfully I had not looked for your coming for another three days or more.’ Now his voice was that of a well-meaning host, caught unawares by inconsiderate guests and filled with sorrow as he deprecated his own inadequacies. ‘The fair chamber in which I intended to house you is not ready. Your escort, of course, will perforce be made comfortable among my own guard, but it will take some hours to prepare your room. Perhaps you might sup with me while we wait? Unless of course you wish to bed with your soldiers.’ From his tone it was plain that no lord of might, however wayworn, would stoop to such humble lodgings.

Elrond, however, had no desire to linger over a meal filled with purposeful pleasantries and clever manoeuvring while Saruman tried to draw him, alone and unprepared, into debate. He was weary, and he was afraid that he might weaken the case that he and Gandalf had spent so many nights constructing if he was left alone with the sweet voice of Saruman. It would be better to go at once to his rest and to hope that on the morrow he would have better mastery over himself. An arduous task lay ahead, to win Saruman over to their cause. He could not make light of it, nor imperil it by pitting his addled wits against Saruman’s indomitable powers of oration, for the Istar was wise, and crafty, and proud – and every bit as stubborn as Gandalf.

‘Thank you,’ he said; ‘I would be pleased to go with my folk. I regret that our competent woodcraft has caught you thus unawares: next time we shall endeavour to find some misfortune to waylay us a little.’

‘The years have made you bitter, Halfelven,’ Saruman said sadly, and now it seemed that he was filled with grief as he witnessed the woes of a dearly beloved friend. ‘It is a hard thing, to dwell alone. It is not fair to expect you to endure it forever. But my lieutenant shall show you to your lodgings, if that is what you wish,’ he said, turning with a grand gesture and sweeping onto the stairs. He turned on the fourth step and smiled down at the travellers. ‘Rest well,’ he said. ‘There is much work to be done.’

Then he moved and ascended the stairs, vanishing into the tower. His servants with the lanterns followed him, and Elrond and his folk were left standing in the twilight to await the arrival of Saruman’s lieutenant.

lar

Elrohir was seething. He strode down the narrow corridor, past the doors behind which his soldiers were preparing to rest, in the hopes that he might stride away his fury. The hallway was not long enough. He reached the last door and opened it wrathfully.

His father was seated on the edge of one of the hard, narrow cots, unlacing his surcote. As Elrohir entered he looked up, his face a mask of mild surprise.

‘Calm yourself,’ he said. ‘There is no cause for anger.’

‘No cause for anger?’ Elrohir echoed tersely, slamming the door and stripping off his cloak. ‘Atarinya, are such slights to be borne? You are his equal – nay, his better! He ought to receive you as a knight receives his liege-lord, and yet he has the gall to house you here!’ He gestured broadly, his arm sweeping through almost the whole of the little barracks room. ‘You are the mightiest lord of the Eldar yet left in Middle-earth! It behoves him to treat you as such!’

‘I am not his liege-lord,’ Elrond said serenely; ‘nor would I wish to be. Saruman is a lord of wisdom and might, and he is the leader of the Council and the master of this fortress. We are his grateful guests, and it behoves us to behave with grace and humility.’

‘If we are his guests, then that is but a greater reason why he should treat you with deference!’ said Elrohir, undaunted. He was anxious and overwrought, and he was in no mood for rationality. ‘Never have you treated a guest with such disdain! Caught unawares, you would have made Thorin Oakenshield comfortable in your own bed before you sent him to share such a cell as this with one of his servants!’

‘You are not my servant; you are my son,’ said Elrond. ‘And as for my bed, I would not have emptied that had Dúrin himself been riding to Erebor.’

‘Because Estel was in it,’ Elrohir muttered irately. It was infuriating that even after the White Wizard’s slights his sire was still so... reasonable. ‘I know you take my meaning! Never would you tell a guest that he had come too soon, nor suffered him to be led to his bed by a lowly lieutenant while you turned your back and vanished into the twilight! Never—’

‘My son,’ Elrond said, his voice firm and grave and almost as overpowering as that of Saruman. Elrohir fell silent as keen grey eyes caught his gaze and held it fast. ‘What is amiss with you? You know Saruman’s ways, and never before have you behaved so shamefully. It cannot be mere indignation on my behalf, for you must know that tomorrow I shall be housed in all the comfort that Isengard can offer. What troubles your heart this night?’

Elrohir crumpled onto the other cot, stooping his shoulders low over his knees and hanging his head. ‘Elladan is in pain,’ he said. ‘I can feel it.’

The Lord of Imladris nodded, understanding in his eyes. He, too, had once had a twin. He understood the togetherness, the intuition, the unity even across the vast miles. Others dismissed or maligned such claims; none could comprehend them save those who knew what it was to be one of two souls knitted in harmony, like matching blades tempered in the same fire. ‘Do you know what is wrong?’ he asked softly.

Elrohir shook his head miserably. ‘For three days and four nights I have felt it: pain and uncertainty and guilt. The pain was at its worst last night before dawn, and it has lightened considerably since then. The shame and culpability are worse now than ever. I have tried to touch his mind, but he is weary and unable to find comfort. There is a feeling of failure. Something terrible has happened.’

He waited for some reassurance, some promise that all would be well. Instead Elrond sighed softly, chaffing one hand against his brow. ‘I, too, have felt that something is amiss,’ he said. ‘I fear I have chosen poorly: mayhap I should not have left Rivendell. I had hoped that my influence would be slow to face, and would safeguard the Valley for a time. Ere it could begin to wane, I thought, we would be upon the Necromancer’s doorstep and he would have no ill-will to spare for distant lands.’

‘I do not know...’ Elrohir said slowly, unwilling to wholly commit to his suppositions. ‘My brother’s distress seems more private, more personal than a fear for the safety of the Valley. Whatever calamity has befallen him, I do not think it imperils Imladris itself. I wish—’ He caught himself, but not soon enough.

‘You wish that you were with him,’ Elrond said, sad knowledge and remembrance in his eyes. ‘It is a grievous thing to be separated when one of you is suffering. If you wish, you have my leave to ride forth this very hour to seek Elladan out.’

‘And abandon you unguarded in the South?’ Elrohir said dismissively. ‘Never. Someone must look out for your interests, if Saruman will not.’

‘That is most unfair,’ Elrond chided. ‘Though I will allow that we have never been close friends, Saruman is a just leader and a worthy ally. You ought not to judge him by his skill as a host: he is a lord of might, after all, and not an innkeeper. Isengard does not see so many guests as Imladris; it may well be that he has forgotten the proprieties, or that his mind is occupied with weightier matters. I am sheltered and dry, and if once you help me off with my mail I shall be quite comfortable.’

Elrohir grimaced. His fit of choler was past, and he was rather ashamed of his anger and his outburst before the tower. He was weary and distraught, worn down by his brother’s distant distress. He sorely needed rest. ‘Forgive me, Atarinya. I am too old to behave like a spoiled youngling. I will not shame you further.’

Elrond rose and moved to sit beside his son. He wrapped his arm around the warrior’s back and with his other hand pressed Elrohir’s head against his cheek. He was holding him now as he had held him in his youth, with the arms that had comforted him through all the trials of his long life. Elrohir stiffened briefly in surprise, but swiftly submitted to the consoling embrace. ‘You have not shamed me,’ Elrond said softly. ‘I could never be ashamed of you, my bright valiant one.’ He kissed his son’s brow. ‘Now, let us do off with the gear of war and go to our rest. I will help you find sleep, and in the morning we shall turn to the tasks for which we came hither.’

lar

As Elrond had expected, Saruman was as good as his word. After the morning meal, at which the wizard sat with the two Peredhil in a hall in the ring-wall overlooking the lake, Saruman showed them to a suite of rooms with broad windows open upon the plain with an unobstructed view of Orthanc. It seemed that the chambers had been meant for some trusted seneschal of Gondor, for they were artfully furnished and yet functional. There was a large bedchamber amply supplied with all that was needed for comfort, and a handsome anteroom in which someone had placed several volumes of lore that might interest a visitor from the North. A smaller room provided a place for a bathing-tub, and there was a second bedroom opening on the first, that had most likely been occupied by a squire or manservant. This last consideration did much to placate Elrohir, who sent for his own pack and mail, and firmly established himself within, satisfied that he would be on hand to guard his sire.

Saruman tried again to address the reasons for the gathering of the Council, but Elrond remained firm. He had no wish to discuss these matters without Gandalf’s support. Instead he kept the conversation deliberately trivial, and managed to persuade his host to take him on a walking-tour of the orchards and gardens.

The afternoon was bright when the air was pierced by the clarion call of trumpets, echoing amid the mountain heights. Saruman halted in his commentary upon the difficulties of cultivating roses in this climate and a smile touched Elrond’s lips. ‘Lothlórien approaches,’ he said.

Saruman led the way up the path to the foot of his stair. As he had surely done the night before, he took his place on the lowest step, arranging his robes carefully and waiting in serene patience. Elrond took up a position on the wizard’s right, though he did not presume to place himself on equal footing with his host.

There were few folk about, but such of Saruman’s people as were near at hand gathered by the fringes of the trees, watching avidly as the fair panoply approached. The contingent from Lorien was one score strong; woodsmen and archers and proud-eyed knights riding in tight formation. Two handmaidens of the queen were mounted on fair palfreys, their mantles and their kirtles, short-skirted for travel, rippling lightly in the gentle wind of their passage.

At the head of the assembly rode the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. Celeborn the Wise sat high upon his stallion, silver hair about his shoulders and solemnity in his eyes. His raiment was of palest green beneath the ethereal grey of his cloak, and his brow was bound with a slender filet of gold. Beside him, mounted upon a war-horse with her shimmering hair in twin plaits down her back, rode Galadriel. Her kirtle was of white, remarkably unstained despite the long miles she had ridden. Sturdy boots of soft grey leather sat in her stirrups: unlike her ladies she rode astride, the soft folds of her gown falling gracefully despite their unorthodox position. Her mantle was thrown back over her shoulders, and she sat erect in the saddle, proud and puissant and perilously beautiful in the sunlight.

Elrond’s own folk had heard the call of the horns, and they too were gathering to greet the newcomers. Elrohir reached the foot of Orthanc just in advance of the horses, and stepped forward, offering a hand to Galadriel as she alighted.

‘Thank you, my noble knight,’ she said, and she kissed his brow.

Celeborn had dismounted, Galadriel moved to take his arm. Deftly, Elrohir skirted around to take the reins of the two horses, watching as his grandparents moved forward towards Saruman. The formal words of welcome were exchanged, and the Istar stepped forward with a pleasant smile on his lips.

‘It is a delight to look upon you again, lady,’ he said with courtly courtesy. ‘You bring with you such beauty as Isengard has not seen in many long years.’

‘I hope I may bring insight also,’ Galadriel said, gently rebutting his attempt at adulation. She looked about. ‘But where are the others?’ she asked, indicating Elrond. ‘Are we three the only ones who have arrived?’

‘I fear my brethren travel at a somewhat more leisured pace than Elven horsemen,’ Saruman said. ‘As for the envoy from Lindon, rumour has come to me of fair folk on the Old Road. They shall most likely arrive tomorrow or the day after.’

Celeborn strode over to Elrond and clasped his arm. ‘Kinsman, well met,’ he said. ‘Long has it been since last we looked upon one another. I could wish that we did so now under happier circumstances, but I am glad of the meeting nonetheless.’

‘And I, too,’ Elrond reciprocated earnestly. There had been a time, long ago, when he had lived in awe of the silver lord and feared even to raise his eyes in his presence. Now they knew each other well and loved one another as only those who have shared and lost a dear treasure could. ‘I hope your journey was as peaceable as mine.’

‘The orcs may breed like flies in the mountains, but they have not yet grown so bold that they will lightly risk the wrath of Finarfin’s daughter,’ Celeborn said. ‘We passed through the Wold unassailed.’

Saruman drew near, turning his attentions from the wife to the husband. ‘I shall be glad of your council, lord,’ he said to Celeborn. ‘There are grave matters to discuss and many questions to resolve.’

‘They shall not be resolved today,’ Celeborn said sagely, placing his hand upon Saruman’s elbow and drawing him away towards the fruit-groves. ‘Though we might proceed without Círdan’s emissary, it remains still for Mithrandir to arrive. Then we shall be long locked in serious discourse. For now, let us stretch our legs and roam in your fair gardens, and you can tell me the news of your land. In these dark days so few missives from other realms come to Lórien.’

As they moved off, Elrond turned his gaze upon Galadriel. Their eyes met, and he could feel her mind touching his. She beheld his anxieties about his home and his folk, and she offered her comfort: nothing could be too gravely amiss, or he would have known it, through the weaving of Vilya’s power with the Valley.

‘You are weary of heart, Peredhil,’ she said softly, drawing near and lighting her fingers upon his face. ‘Greatly has your strength been tried in recent weeks.’

‘I wish only to return home as swiftly as I may,’ Elrond confessed. Before her majesty and insight there was no chance of dissembling. ‘There are tasks which call me thither.’

Profound, seeking orbs delved into his soul, and drew forth the image of Estel, sombre and still, with pain in his young eyes that he strove so valiantly to hide. ‘He is very dear to you,’ Galadriel murmured. It was a sad thing, she told him without uttering the perilous words, when a father must be separated from his son while the latter was so young.

‘It is only for a time,’ Elrond said, as much to convince himself as to reassure her of his competence. ‘Tell me, how is my daughter?’

‘She is well. She is eager to see you. She begins to ache for the vales of her home, I think. To speak with you again will do much to quiet the yearnings of her heart.’

She did not speak the words, but the meaning was clear. Not one among them would suffer this fairest child of Lúthien to dare the passage of the mountains while the danger was so great. Not even in the company of a host of thousands would Arwen Undómiel be permitted to traverse the Hithaeglir until the day when the passes were once more deemed safe. Her mother’s capture and torment had nearly broken the family, and if the same fate should befall the pure and noble maiden of Imladris it would destroy them all.

‘We should follow my lord and Curunír, lest they should stray too far,’ Galadriel said, and her voice and eyes were suddenly merry. She held out her hand to Elrohir, who passed the reins off to one of Saruman’s grooms and moved to take it. ‘Come, my sweet warrior,’ she said fondly; ‘and tell me of your errantries.’

Elrond followed them into the grove of trees, lost in unhappy thoughts.

Chapter XXVIII: Dreamer and Pilgrim

Deep in the middle-night, Elladan awoke abruptly. He had fallen into deep slumber, and for a moment he was uncertain where he was or why the darkness was so utterly complete. He tried to sit up, but his sore shoulder protested, and the discomfort yanked his mind back into his body.

He was supine upon a low-camp bed in one of the windowless work-rooms near the chamber in which Halion lay in oblivion. The festering leg had been successfully removed, without much further loss of blood, and the stump had been sealed and dressed with all due care. The healer had risen admirably to the task and followed his instructions with care and diligence. When the sordid deed was done at last, she had excused herself, white-faced, from the room; but she had returned while the infirmarian was washing the Ranger’s broken body with rags that would have to be burned, and she had resumed her duties with quiet fortitude. She had performed well on the whole, and Elladan reminded himself – not for the first time that day – that he had to be certain to give his father a full report of her competence.

They had almost lost Halion two hours after the brutal operation. Elladan had recalled him from the very threshold of death into the pain-soaked sleep that lay upon him now, but it had taken all of the Peredhil’s skill and strength of will to do it. The effort had drained him of his last remaining vitality, and he remembered someone catching him before he could fall. A voice – Erestor’s perhaps – had intimated on no uncertain terms that it was time for him to retire to his bed. Elladan had protested feebly that he had to be near at hand lest the Man should require further attention. A compromise had been reached, he thought with the healer’s interjection; and here he was.

With a concerted effort, he rolled onto his left side and managed to sit, swinging his splinted leg carefully down to the floor. He could not use a crutch, for his reset shoulder could not bear the strain, but Erestor, ever the capable manager, had found him a sturdy willow cane. Groping about in the gloom, Elladan found it propped against the wall next to his cot. Hefting himself onto his one good foot he hobbled for the door.

Across the corridor he could see candlelight flickering in Halion’s room. He halted on the threshold, leaning against the door-post. The infirmarian was sitting by the table on which the Ranger lay, watching the tortuous rise and fall of his battered chest beneath the linen sheet. Hearing Elladan’s approach he turned towards him.

‘He is still unresponsive,’ he said.

Elladan looked at the place where the sheet fell away over the stump where once there had been thigh-bone and flesh. ‘That is a mercy, I think,’ he murmured. ‘Where is the healer?’

‘Young Faeliel? I sent her to her rest. She has laboured beyond her limits.’ The dark-haired Elda sighed. ‘It is a bleak night, my lord.’

‘I know, Ancalimon, I know,’ Elladan said grimly. ‘How fare the others?’

‘The old man will not be able to return to his labours,’ Ancalimon said. ‘The arm has been set, but such hurts heal slowly in the aged, and he is already past his ninetieth year. It is time for him to return to his folk. As for the one called Beldir, he will recover his strength in time. We have bound his ribs, and the damage to his inner organs appears to be mending: there is no longer blood in his water, and he was able to take a little broth before sundown.’

‘So I took three men from the Dúnedain, and from my fool’s errand only one will return,’ Elladan said bitterly. ‘And all for nothing. We did not find Gandalf or his dwarves, we offered no aid, and we returned with naught but an insoluble riddle for all our pains. The remnant of Arnor has paid dearly for my folly.’

The quiet eyes regarded him with sadness, but Ancalimon said nothing. He was most often silent, save when he reported on his patients. Elladan did not know what hurts had marred his spirit in Ages past, but he was grimmer than many of the folk of Imladris. At times he seemed almost old – a strange thing among the Firstborn – and Elrond had always said that he was to be treated with kindness and deference. Tending the sick and the wounded was his only joy in life: he took no pleasure in fine food, or rich wine, or in song or dancing or the works of the hands.

Elladan sighed, looking down at his numb right arm. ‘I had best get this into a sling if I’m going to be wandering the house,’ he said. ‘I want to speak with Erestor, though I think he has had rather enough of me.’

The infirmarian got to his feet. ‘Stay here and watch him,’ he said, once more in his element. ‘I’ll fetch what is needed.’

Some minutes later, his injured arm hanging from his neck in a cradle of linen, Elladan made his way out of the inner corridor. He quickly found his rhythm with the cane and fell into an odd, loping gait that placed only a little pressure upon his right foot in its brace. He reached the main entryway, and wondered bleakly how he was going to manage the stairs unaided.

Here, he could hear the sound of rain in the night. He shuddered, uttering a silent prayer of thanks that Ulmo and Súlimo had spared them that hardship at least. In the mountains rain was a wretched thing, and to those in such a state as they had been it might well have proved deadly.

Yet the rains of Rivendell were comforting, and Elladan longed suddenly for the sweet smell of wetted grass and the soft caress of water upon his weary face. Abandoning his quest for Erestor, he limped to the front door and with some difficulty opened it and slipped out into the night. The rains were driving hard and the night was very cool for the season. This was not a gentle shower of Imladris, but rather a merciless, pounding deluge from the Hithaiglir, no longer tempered by Vilya’s influence and its wielder’s will. After taking a few uneven steps onto the green, Elladan decided that this would not be a pleasant experience after all, and turned to hobble back into the house.

A soft sound barely audible over the pattering of the rain gave him pause. He looked around, even his Elven sight straining in the cloudy night. Under the beeches his eyes picked out a dark figure huddled on one of the ornately carved benches, hocks tucked up against hams, and arms wrapped tightly about the knees. Recognizing the body by its size rather than by any distinguishing feature, Elladan made his unsteady way down the path towards the bench.

‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked, easing himself down next to the boy. He was rocking a little against the bench, and his wet hair hung in straggles over his eyes and face. Elladan used his good hand to lift the sodden tresses away, trying to discern the child’s expression. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the mortal body shivering. ‘It’s very cold to be running around in your night-things.’

‘I w-want to be cold,’ Estel said belligerently, hugging himself more tightly and oscillating with greater force.

‘You have taken up the practice of self-flagellation?’ Elladan asked wryly. ‘The mortification of the flesh for the purification of the spirit? That is a practice of lesser Men, wild people of the far countries. Enlightened folk do not cause themselves unnecessary suffering.’

‘I am not suffering,’ Estel muttered. ‘W-while I am cold I w-will not fall asleep.’

‘Why should you fear to fall asleep?’ queried the warrior, wrapping his arm about the rounded back and hugging the drenched body to him. He wondered grimly how long the child had been sitting thus, half-frozen in the rain.

‘I did not rest today; I was occupied,’ Estel confessed wretchedly. It was no true answer to Elladan’s question, but he did not interrupt. ‘I did not mean to. Now I am w-weary and my mind will not obey me. I tried to overcome it inside, but I was failing. I did try. Truly I did.’

He sounded almost penitent, as if he were guilty of a tremendous transgression or some grievous failure. As Elladan was at the moment most sympathetic towards such feelings, he drew Estel nearer and said soothingly; ‘I am certain you did. But why do you seek to elude sleep? It is a balm for body and spirit alike. I feel much renewed by my brief hours of slumber, and I look forward to more.’

Estel made no immediate reply. He huddled against the warmth of the adult’s body and tucked his toes under the hem of his sodden smock. ‘Atarinya says that fear does not make a coward,’ he ventured at last. It was more of a question than a statement.

‘He is correct: it does not,’ Elladan said firmly. ‘Only inaction and deception make a coward. There is no shame in fear.’

‘I am afraid.’

The bluntness of the confession struck Elladan momentarily dumb. ‘Of sleep?’ he managed when he rediscovered his voice.

‘Of dreams,’ Estel answered. The in a voice made unsteady by horror and by cold he spoke of the terrors that visited him by night. He told of the visions of darkness and destruction and despair, of death and desecration and defilement. He explained how he had tried and failed to endure them alone, and he described the practical but unusual stopgap that his foster-father had proposed.

‘It was helping,’ Estel concluded in a low, broken tone that wrung at Elladan’s heart. ‘But today as I w-was preparing for bed the Dúnedain arrived…’

‘And you are now well into your second day without sleep,’ Elladan concluded. ‘I understand.’

Estel made a deprecating noise and buried his face in his arms.

‘I speak in earnest,’ Elladan told him. ‘I know what it is to fear slumber.’

‘But you are fearless,’ Estel said, raising his head with dauntless admiration warring with the hurt and vulnerability in his shadowed eyes.

Elladan almost regretted the imminent shattering of the boy’s grand perception of the inviolable Peredhil twins. It was rather flattering to be so idolized, and doubtless Estel had woven many elaborate imaginings around the objects of his adoration. Yet the boy would be better served by the knowledge that those he so esteemed were not immune to fear or suffering, but were as vulnerable to these as any Man. It would make his own lot easier to endure if he understood that he was not alone.

‘When my mother was rescued I was plagued by imaginings of her torment,’ Elladan said. ‘They haunted my days, but they poisoned my nights. If once I paused to think, for any reason, the images would come. I was afraid to sleep, to rest, to stop moving even for one moment lest the thoughts should surface and overwhelm me utterly. So I did not sleep. I did not rest. I kept myself occupied with whatever task I could find, so long as it kept my body in motion and drove any meaningful thought from my mind.’

‘What happened?’ Estel asked.

‘After ten days without rest, I nearly smote off my foot while splitting kindling that was not even needed,’ Elladan said. ‘At that point, Atarinya decided that I was quite incapable of rational decisions, and he sent me into a sleep so deep that the evils of my mind could not find me.’

‘Why could he not do the same for me?’ Estel mumbled miserably.

‘For one, because you have better sense than I, and seek your rest when you can get it. But also because he is now gone from the Valley and such measures will avail you little in his absence,’ Elladan said. ‘Yet if you are determined to outlast the darkness there are more pleasant ways to stave off slumber than shivering in the rain. Come, help me inside, and we will see what can be done.’

lar

Once they were out of the storm Elladan bade Estel creep quietly upstairs and put on some dry clothing. The boy obeyed as quickly as he could, pausing only long enough to peer into his mother’s room and assure himself that she still slept. When he was warm and dry once again, he descended to the Hall of Fire. Elladan was waiting for him, having managed to change his robe for a fresh one. He was sitting at the hearth, and before him sat a platter of savouries pilfered from the kitchens, two mugs of strong dark tea, and a game of tables.

‘You know how to play, I trust?’ Elladan asked, gesturing at the board.

‘How did you manage to carry all of this here?’ Estel asked in wonderment.

‘Magic,’ Elladain said, smirking.

Scepticism supplanted marvel. ‘You had someone bring it,’ said Estel shrewdly.

This prompted an indolent shrug. ‘If it pleases you to be cynical…’ Elladan said dolefully.

‘Are you certain you wish to play against me?’ Estel asked. His energy felt renewed despite the weary ache in his limbs. He had only to last a few more hours, and then he could go to his bed – and it seemed likely that he could pass that time in the company of one of those whom he admired above all others. ‘I have been known to best Glorfindel!’

‘A dwarf could best Glorfindel!’ Elladan laughed. ‘He treats tables like an exercise in battlefield tactics. You will find me a far worthier opponent.’

‘We shall see,’ Estel said impishly, helping himself to one of the squares of artfully garnished bread. He found himself extraordinarily hungry despite his exhaustion, and the plate was quickly emptied. The tea took away the last of the rain’s chill, and their hair dried in the heat of the fire. In seven games, Elladan won only five, which Estel counted a monumental achievement on his part. So the hours of danger slipped harmlessly away.

lar

On Elrond’s fourth day in Isengard, two more parties arrived at Saruman’s gate. The first was the delegation from the Havens, half a dozen fleet-footed folk headed by Galdor. The silver-haired Sindar, who was the emissary most often sent forth from Lindon when the need arose, would always be known (affectionately) as Círdan’s Errand-Boy. He was many centuries younger than Elrond, but they had once been cohorts and dear friends, in the days of the Last Alliance when each had stood as herald to his respective lord. They passed most of the afternoon together, talking of bygone days. It was a pleasant diversion from bleak thoughts about his sons, both the natural and the naturalized, and about the dark days that lay ahead.

The other was a party of one: Radagast the Brown had arrived, having ridden from Rhosgobel in the vales of Anduin. Elrond had hoped the solitary horseman might be Gandalf, but he hid his disappointment well. Saruman did not.

‘A pity it’s you, and not your more talented cohort,’ he said, with the thinnest veneer of a smile plastered over his disdain. ‘Have you had any tidings of Gandalf the Grey?’

‘No,’ said Radagast, looking somewhat abashed. He was of a bucolic disposition, accustomed to rustic living and the company of free fowl and wild beasts rather than lords of might and majesty. Standing among the great leaders of the Eldar, all of whom had laid aside their wayworn garb for fair garments provided by their host, he looked shabby and out-of-place in his russet robes. Elrond felt a twinge of empathy: once it had been he who had stood thus, threadbare and inadequate among princes. He stepped forward.

‘You have valuable intelligence to offer us, I am sure,’ he said, offering a companionable arm to the Brown Wizard. ‘Your birds and beasts have doubtless witnessed things that even the agents of Lothlórien could not uncover.’

‘I do hope so,’ Radagast said, looking much relieved to find a friendly face in the daunting crowd. ‘Why, my good friend the fox has wandered with his friends far and wide through southern Mirkwood, and he has tales to tell that would chill your blood…’

‘Well!’ Saruman said, interposing himself between Elrond and Radagast. ‘If we are to begin our debates at once, then why do we not remove to the tower and do so in comfort?’

Galadriel came gliding over the grass, her pale gown whispering about her. ‘We are not beginning our counsels,’ she said serenely. ‘Though unless I miss my guess it is nearly time for the evening meal. Surely our business is not so urgent that it cannot await the architect of our plans.’

Elrond was careful not to smile. The Lady of the Golden Wood was a formidable ally, and it seemed that she was firmly on his side. Before her knowing eyes and gracious smile even the wiles of Saruman availed but little.

lar

When at last Gandalf arrived, two days later, he was on foot, unheralded by trumpets and his meeting with Saruman at the stair of Orthanc went unobserved by any of the Eldar. They were gathered together in the twilight, seated on the lush grasses amid the flowers of Isengard, listening whilst one of Galadriel’s maidens played upon her harp and sang of the tragedy of Amroth and Nimrodel. Not until the company dispersed and went to their rest did Elrond realize that the Istar had arrived: when the Elf-lord retired to his chamber, he found Gandalf reclining on the bed. They regarded one another in silence for a moment.

‘At least you might have removed your boots first,’ Elrond remarked dryly. ‘I fear you have ruined Saruman’s counterpane.’

‘He can well afford to replace it,’ Gandalf said. ‘From the look of things his holdings have done very well for him since last I walked in the Gap of Rohan.’

‘Well, then you might have had a little regard for me,’ rebutted the Peredhil. ‘It is I who must inhabit that bed tonight.’

‘Have pity on an old man, Halfelven,’ Gandalf whinged, eyes twinkling. ‘I am stiff and sore after walking many leagues, and I did not feel up to the task of yanking them off. Now you, with the strength and stamina of the Firstborn, might oblige me...’

‘I think not,’ Elrond said, coming further into the room and unfastening his mantle.

‘Perhaps the High King is too proud to wait upon a humble wizard?’

Elrond’s eyes flashed. ‘Saruman has not been speaking of that again, has he?’ he demanded, discomfited and vaguely violated.

Gandalf laughed. ‘Why, son of Ëarendil, you are flushing! Does your crown sit so uneasily upon your head?’

‘There are no Noldorin realms; therefore there are no Noldorin kings,’ Elrond said tersely. ‘I am the Lord of Imladris, and that is all the rank and title to which I have ever aspired.’ He reigned in his emotions and cleared his throat. ‘I am pleased to see that you have arrived at last,’ he remarked. ‘Saruman has wasted no opportunity to attempt to pressure the rest of us into debate without you.’

‘I expect that he has,’ Gandalf said sagely. ‘After all, the Eldar may be fair and wise and studied in the arts of war, but I am more obdurate than any of you. Save perhaps the noble Lady of Lórien, and she has schooled her mercurial temperament carefully over the long Ages.’

‘Be that as it may, I fear we shall have a hard debate, and there is little time to waste,’ Elrond said. ‘I had hoped that you would come with more haste.’

‘The agreement was that we would meet in the second week of August,’ Gandalf said. ‘I arrived precisely when agreed, and I assure you that that took some contriving. The dwarves ran into some trouble in the mountains. It was a strange experience for all concerned, and I suspect that I do not know the half of it. I left them on the borders of Mirkwood, and I hope they can contrive to follow simple instructions.’

‘Do you mean to say that you have walked all the way from Mirkwood?’ Elrond asked, marvelling in spite of himself.

‘Not all the way,’ Gandalf said, curling his lip. ‘I borrowed a horse from a friend, and rode it as far as I felt in good conscience I could. Then I set it galloping for home and continued on foot. Do you see the lengths to which I go to ensure a timely arrival?’

He sat in silence for a while, head resting against the cushions. Elrond took the opportunity to remove the long robe that he wore and to unlace his soft shoes.

‘How is the boy?’ Gandalf asked.

‘Plagued by dreams,’ Elrond murmured grimly. ‘They torment him only in the hours of darkness, and so I set him to sleep through the day. There can be no doubt that it is some contrivance of the Enemy. I do not think that he knows that he has found his mark, however, and we must strike hard and swift before he can gain that knowledge.’

Gandalf raised a finger to his lips. ‘Remember that you are not in your own land, Peredhil,’ he said. ‘Saruman may be trustworthy, but there are those among his servants who are not. Many of them are mercenaries, soldiers of fortune accustomed to furnishing the highest bidder with service – and information.’

‘I do not think that I would trust even Saruman with this,’ Elrond said uneasily. He thought of his sweet child, felled with an orc-arrow through his heart, or borne off to the dungeons of Dol Guldur to suffer the torments and hatred of a foe beyond all mercy until his valiant spirit broke and he was cast aside into death like a toy bereft of novelty. The price of discovery was too high; the secret was too dear. He did not dare to imperil Estel by bandying about his identity here.

‘Now remove your boots from my bed,’ he said, affecting annoyance; ‘or I shall call my son to remove them for you!’

‘Do that,’ Gandalf said with satisfaction. ‘I should rather like to speak to him on the matter of the goblins.’

Chapter XXXI: Unrelenting Torment

Four hours remained until dawn, and the Last Homely House was serene in the starlight. In the upstairs gallery, Estel was pacing frenetically from one end to the other. He had been trying to work on his lessons, but he had found himself unable to focus. He was restless and agitated, and so he had come up here, where he could walk as swiftly as he wanted and work off some of his restive energy.

The same uneasiness had struck him the night before, but then Elladan had been sitting up in the library, and Estel had been able to go to him seeking distraction. Tonight Elladan was in bed, having spent most of the day sequestered with Erestor. He had assumed the larger part of his father’s responsibilities, relieving the lore-master of the unwanted burdens. Erestor had no great love of such labour, and it was obvious even to a child that he was relieved to pass it on into the capable hands of his lord’s eldest son.

Elladan’s injuries were healing well. He had recovered most of the motion in his arm, and he had at last replaced the wooden brace on his ankle with wool wadding and a winding bandage. Though from what Estel had overheard it did not seem that he would be riding after Glorfindel’s legions, the boy was afraid that Elladan would soon be leaving the Valley again to resume his patrols. The thought quickened his hammering heart and filled him with sudden anxiety. He felt so isolated, so alone... abandoned by those whom he loved and left to the hissing whispers in his mind.

Though he would have been grateful at this moment for her company, he was thankful at least that his mother was too busy to notice his distraction. She no longer sat up through the night, for her days were spent with the Dúnadan who had lost his leg. Estel supposed that they must have been quite good friends when they were young, and not mere acquaintances as Elladan had postulated. He had never given much thought to where Rangers came from, but now that he had given it some thought he supposed that they must start life as little boys, much like himself, and where would mortal children live but in the villages of Men? When Atar returned, Estel would have to ask him for more information on this subject, for he knew so little about the race of Men in these days when the cities of the North had long crumbled to dust.

When Atar returned? If Atar returned. Estel halted in his pacing, shivering convulsively at the thought. His father had ridden away against the Necromancer. He might never come home.

His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps now, as the low, hateful voice spun visions of the death of Elrond. His fëa would fly to Mandos, where he might heal and someday take form again. Then he would be reunited with his departed wife, and dwell in peace in Aman. He would not remember the little mortal boy who was not his true son. Forgotten and alone, Estel would live his short life in misery and he too would die, and not even the hills would remember him...

‘No!’ he cried out, his young voice fragile and feeble in the echoing gallery. ‘No...’ It was a whisper now. Some part of his mind protested desperately that his atar would not forget him, never! Not even if his spirit was sundered from his body. Not even if oceans separated them. Not even if Estel perished and his soul fled the circles of the world...

But the other voice laughed. Remember him? A worthless, cowardly little mortal? Wretched, sickly, afraid of the darkness... why would a mighty Elf-lord remember him? Perhaps Atar had ridden away because he had grown tired of caring for a weak man-child. Perhaps...

Estel clapped his hands to his ears, as if by doing so he could drive out the hateful thoughts. The back of his throat prickled as he fought the urge to weep. Why was his mind turning against him? It mustn’t be true, it couldn’t be true... but the doubt and the panic were insidious, clawing viciously at his heart. He almost wished for the nightmares, because as filled with violence and terror and unspeakable evil as they were, at least they did not prey upon his secret fears and these strange new feelings of inadequacy.

He did not know where to go. There was nowhere he could hide, for the torment was in his mind. He thought briefly of creeping down to Elladan’s room to wake the kind warrior and beg him for comfort, but the hissing in his mind forbade it. If Elrond had no use for him then he was worthless to his sons as well. Elladan was fond of him, Estel protested feebly – but he was no longer certain that he believed it.

The gallery seemed vast and threatening now, as if evil things lurked in the alcoves, waiting to spring upon him. Fearfully Estel looked about, and then he ran, speeding from the long walkway and taking the stairs so quickly that he almost overbalanced. There was one place he could go, one person whose rejection even the voices could not make convincing.

He scarcely saw the doors that flew past as his feet found their way to his mother’s apartments. Once inside, he closed the anteroom door and leaned against it, chest heaving. He had to calm himself. If she heard him, she would awaken, and then she would be pained. Frantically, desperately he drew in slow and steady breaths, fighting for control. As long as he focused on his breathing, he could not hear the cruel whisperings of his heart. He closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly. Quietly.

When he deemed that he was no longer huffing like a mountain bear, he crept forward, his soft shoes making little sound. His mother’s door stood ajar, and he slipped into her room. She was lying on her stomach, her dark plait curling over her back. In the faint light from the window, he could see that her face was peaceful. Her body rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

Estel wanted to wake her, to find comfort in her arms, but he could not. She was working so hard, tending to the wounded Man. She needed her rest. She shouldn’t worry about him as well as the Ranger. That was unfair.

Her arm was draped over the coverlet, her fingers curled around the edge of the mattress. Estel lowered himself to his knees, wary of making any sound. He crawled to the side of the bed and sat upon the floor, leaning against the shallow box in which the mattress nestled. Carefully, delicately he lifted his mother’s hand, turning it a little. He bent his back and rested his ear against the mattress, contorted into a position that he knew would soon become uncomfortable. He did not care. He lowered his mother’s hand gently, resting it upon the side of his face. With his own hand he pressed her palm to his cheek, closing his eyes.

He wanted to weep. He had not realized how much he had come to miss her touch in these last few weeks while each had slept through the waking hours of the other. He knew that his increasing independence and his love of his foster-father sometimes made her feel extraneous and useless. But he was still a young boy, in recent days assailed by doubts and starved for affection, and he needed his mother. Even now, the illusion of her comfort eased his frenetic thoughts. It was easier to suppress the wicked whisperings when he could feel the thrum of her blood in the artery that ran to her thumb. Estel reached with his free hand and laid it upon her back. Now he could feel her breathing also. It was a poor substitute for a loving embrace, but the hateful hissing voice snarled that it was more than he deserved. He was grateful.

lar

Gilraen awoke to the distant sounds of the morning. She lay still for a moment, revelling in the comfort of her warm pillow. The world was not so grim now as it had been. She had been visited by sweet dreams of home, unsullied by hurt or loss or fear. She could still feel a gentle hand against the small of her back – the touch of a friend or a loved one, perhaps.

With a soft sigh of contentment, she stirred. There was a gasp and a sudden sound of someone scrambling about. Startled out of her pleasant reverie, Gilraen flipped onto her back and sat up, eyes shooting open.

When she saw who it was who had invaded her sanctuary, she smiled.

‘Good day, my dear one!’ she said. Estel was standing with his hands behind him and his back pressed to the wall by the door. His eyes were wide and his chest was heaving: it seemed that her awakening had startled him. Gilraen held out her arms. ‘Come, darling. Did I surprise you?’

There was desperation in his eyes as he bolted forward, clamouring onto the bed and climbing into her lap. Gilraen twined her arms about him, drawing him into a fond embrace. His hands reached around her and he hugged her tightly. She laughed softly into his hair. ‘Why, Estel, what has come over you?’ she asked. A dark thought surfaced: her first of the day. ‘You did not fall into dreams, did you?’

The boy shook his head against her. ‘I seem quite used to staying awake all night,’ he said quietly. He did not sound distressed or frightened, but it had been a long time since he had held her so firmly just for the pleasure of it.

‘Is something amiss?’ Gilraen asked gently, petting his hair.

He hesitated, and then let loose a tiny, wistful sigh. ‘I have missed you,’ he confessed, sounding rather guilty at the admission.

‘Oh, dear heart, I’m sorry,’ Gilraen said, rocking a little though really he was growing too old now to be held thus. ‘I’ve been neglecting you.’

‘I understand,’ Estel said. ‘The injured Dúnadan needs your attentions more than I. It is good of you to help him: it is a work of mercy.’ He sounded like Elrond, she thought, catching herself on the cusp of annoyance as she hearkened back to Halion’s words. Better that he should have someone to love and admire than live dispossessed and fatherless...

‘All the same, Estel, I am your mother, and of late I have been forgetting it,’ she told him. ‘We shall have to do something together this evening.’

‘No. No, that is not necessary: I can amuse myself,’ Estel said. His embrace tightened, and Gilraen reciprocated. His next words were whispered: ‘I only wanted to hug you; that is all.’

Gilraen closed her eyes in quiet bliss. Her dear little boy... this was what made life worth living. This sweet child, her only beloved one. The hope for her people.

‘Shall we dine together?’ she asked. ‘You must be ready to sup, and I need to break my fast.’

Estel nodded against her shoulder. ‘Mother?’ he asked after a moment. ‘Might I then meet the wounded Ranger?’

Gilraen thought of Halion, lying helpless in bed and fighting for hope. ‘Nothing, I think, would give him more pleasure than to see you,’ she said.

lar

Estel watched with sombre eyes as his mother opened the door to the room in which the injured man lay. As he had hoped, she seemed pleased by his desire to visit the Dúnadan. Furthermore Estel was curious, now that the sun had risen and the hateful voice had remitted. He had never before met someone whose limb had been amputated, and furthermore he wondered what sort of a man might so engage his mother.

‘Ai, you are awake,’ Mother said, entering the room and setting down the breakfast tray that she bore. ‘Let me help you.’

Estel lingered in the doorway, watching as his mother bent so that the man could wrap an arm around her neck. She helped him to pull himself into an upright position, arranging the cushions to support him. She took a bolster and placed it under his remaining knee, supporting him so that he would not slip forward in the bed. Estel could not help looking at the stump where his other leg had been. It was neatly dressed and free of any sign of bleeding or infection beneath the bandage, and yet it had an ugly, unnatural appearance. The sight made him feel uneasy.

Mother arranged the man’s smock neatly and covered him to the waist with the bedclothes. Then she picked up a comb and brushed back his hair, teasing out the knots with her fingers.

‘There,’ she said fondly. ‘Now you are fit to be seen – though you really do need to be shaved again.’

‘Alack!’ the man said, a strained smile visiting his lips. ‘We were both fortunate enough to survive the first attempt... dare we hope to endure another? But who is this?’ His voice was suddenly hoarse and his shadowed eyes grew wide as he espied Estel.

Mother smiled and gestured that the boy should come forward. ‘This is my son,’ she said softly, her voice infused with such love and pride that Estel felt suddenly self-conscious. But he had been raised to be polite, whatever his feelings, and he stepped up to the foot of the bed.

Executing a precise, graceful bow, he said, ‘I am Estel son of Gilraen and ward of the Lord Elrond. It is an honour to meet you: Elladan son of Elrond speaks highly of your valour.’

The Dúnadan stared at him, and for a moment his mouth worked soundlessly as he slowly shook his head. ‘He should not bow to me,’ he said, his voice coarsened with shock and dismay. ‘Child, do not bow to me!’

Estel glanced warily at his mother, wondering how he had erred. She smiled. ‘Pay it no mind, Halion: he has learned courtesy from the Master of Rivendell himself. You ought to introduce yourself.’

The young man nodded numbly. ‘I am Halion son of Hallach, a-at your service.’ His eyes were fixed on Estel, and suddenly the boy felt uncomfortable, as if this man knew something about him that he did not know himself.

His mother seemed to sense his discomfort, for she moved to place a comforting hand upon his shoulder. ‘Halion and I are dear friends,’ she said. ‘We were children together in the little village where I was born.’

The Dúnadan’s expression grew less intense and he smiled. ‘Your mother had a talent for climbing trees,’ he said; ‘if once one could coax her to lay by her dignity and get off of the ground.’

Estel laughed softly, looking up at her. ‘Truly, Mother?’ he asked. It was difficult to imagine her hitching up her kirtle and shimmying up into the spreading branches of an oak.

She nodded, flushing a little. ‘I am afraid so,’ she said. ‘I drove your grandmother to distraction, I fear.’

Halion was eyeing Estel in wonder again. ‘Come nearer, Estel,’ he said softly. ‘Let me touch your hand.’

The boy obeyed, reaching out for the Ranger’s bandaged fingers. The man studied his palm in wonder, and gripped it as best he could. He met Estel’s eyes. ‘I never hoped to see you again,’ he marvelled softly. ‘I...’ He stopped and looked at Mother. ‘I held you when you were a small baby,’ he finished weakly, but Estel could tell that that was not what he had been about to say.

A question sprang to the tip of his tongue, but he glanced at his mother and repressed it sternly. He had long ago pledged never to speak of his father in her presence, for it brought her nothing but pain. As much as he wanted to learn if this man had known his sire, he restrained himself.

‘Will you remain in Imladris now?’ he asked. ‘When Atarinya returns he will make you most welcome.’ He was astonished to discover that now, standing in a sunlit room, he was less doubtful that his foster-father would return alive and well.

Halion looked questioningly at Mother. ‘Master Elrond,’ she explained, her voice straining only a little. ‘In the high Elven tongue it means...’

‘Ai, I know. The Peredhil brethren use the same epithet,’ the man said, pity and comprehension in his eyes. He turned again to the boy. ‘No, Estel, I shall not remain here forever. Once my ribs have healed and I have regained sufficient strength I must return to my home. My family awaits me.’

‘I am glad you have a family,’ Estel said gravely. ‘You are very dear to my mother, and I would not wish you to be alone.’

‘Thank you,’ said Halion. ‘Those are kind words indeed. I hope my own son may grow to be half so well-spoken.’

‘But now, my well-spoken one, to bed,’ Mother said, stroking Estel’s hair. Ordinarily he would have been affronted by such an undignified caress, particularly in front of the Dúnadan, but Estel was tired and it felt good to be loved. He nodded complacently.

Halion reached out to touch his arm. ‘I must thank you for coming to visit a sorry invalid,’ he said. ‘It has eased my heart greatly to see you and speak to you – Estel.’

‘I am glad indeed to have spoken with you,’ Estel said honestly. ‘Perhaps we may find an opportunity to do so again some evening.’

‘I would like that,’ the Ranger murmured.

‘Run along, love,’ Mother said. ‘I’ll come by in a little while to tuck you in.’

Estel slipped from the room, and as he went he could hear his mother cajoling the man about his breakfast. She seemed so happy to have someone to care for. It was so hard for her to have a growing son who did not need her so often as once he did.

lar

Autumn was upon them. Every day the Sun rose a little later, set a little earlier. Each night was longer than the last. Estel found the darkness oppressive. He was burdened by dread and indistinct anxieties, and as the days drew on they seemed to worsen. The feelings took longer to fade, too, once the daylight came, and he found himself slow to settle into sleep. He was uneasy and skittish when left to his own devices, and in the presence of others he found himself growing wary, cagey lest he should voice some of the uncertainties that troubled him.

But Atar had taught him that it was a courageous thing to trust others, and that if he chose well those in whom he placed his trust he would be rewarded. So one night, when the whisperings of his heart were at their most hateful, he defied them with all of his strength of will and went to his father’s study, where Elladan sat working.

The Peredhil looked up as he entered. ‘Why, good evening,’ he said, smiling warmly. ‘Do come in. Have you finished your lessons for the night?’

Estel shook his head and closed the door carefully, though before it had stood ajar. He turned to the adult, who was watching him in quiet concern. ‘Please... I need to tell you something,’ he whispered.

Elladan nodded gravely. He set down his quill and rose, moving towards the chairs by the hearth, and held out his hand. Estel moved to take it, and let himself be settled into a seat.

‘Now, tell me,’ Elladan said. ‘Whatever it is that troubles you, I will do all that is in my power to help.’

His words were so fair and gentle that for a moment Estel could not even hear the taunting, goading hiss that told him the warrior was only being polite, that the problems of one self-centred little boy meant nothing to him. But the voice surfaced at last and Estel, worn down with fighting it, clutched his temples and whimpered a little. ‘I think I am going mad,’ he breathed, the words coming out in a single swift exhalation.

For a moment Elladan stared at him, utterly bereft of speech. ‘What would cause you to think such a thing?’ he asked at last, almost serenely.

Tears sprung to Estel’s eyes. ‘There is a voice in my mind,’ he confessed miserably. Was there any surer sign of madness?

‘We all have many voices within us,’ Elladan said. ‘Our minds are in constant debate with themselves. That does not mean that you are mad.’

‘It is not like other voices,’ Estel protested, weeping despite his best efforts to master himself. ‘It is not reasonable. It is not driven by passions or emotions. It is not my conscience, or my intellect, or the part of my mind that translates things into other tongues. It is as if every fear and every doubt within me has been given a mouth, and they cry out more loudly than ever before, and I cannot stop them and I cannot run from them and I am afraid of what I will do if they do not stop!’

Suddenly Elladan was gripping his hands, leaning forward and staring intently into his eyes. ‘Estel, what do you mean—’ When the boy tried to look away, the warrior seized his chin in finger and thumb and turned his face so that he could not. ‘Estel, what do you mean, you are afraid of what you will do?’ he demanded, his voice low and anxious and deathly serious. ‘What is it that the voice is trying to urge you to do?’

‘Nothing; anything,’ Estel said. It was crying out to him now, scolding him for his tears, upbraiding him for his foolishness, spinning elaborate and horrific scenarios of revilement and rejection. ‘It makes me want to run away, into the mountains. It makes me want to hide where no one can find me. It does not like me to eat, it does not want me to sleep. It... it says I am not wanted. It says I am cowardly. It says I am doomed to falter and to fall.’

There was fear in Elladan’s eyes now, and Estel felt his own terror mounting. The Peredhil saw it, and he attempted to compose his features, releasing his hold on Estel’s face and placing his hand on the child’s shoulder instead. ‘Do you hear this voice all the time?’

Estel shook his head. ‘It is worst at night. By noon it can no longer touch me – not until dusk.’

Elladan closed his eyes as if he had been struck by a sharply slapping hand. ‘How long have you endured it?’ he asked.

‘Two months and more,’ Estel whispered. ‘At first it was only a murmur, a hiss in my heart. It has been growing steadily worse since Atarinya departed. W-what can I do?’

‘I do not know,’ admitted Elladan. He sounded as if his heart would break. ‘This is a matter beyond my power to address. If our father were here, perhaps he could find some way to drive forth the voices and give you peace, but he is far away and you and I are left alone.’ He turned his head away, staring into the candles on the mantelpiece. He appeared to be debating in his heart, for at last his face hardened with resolve. ‘There is one thing only that I can do,’ he said. ‘I can promise you that I will not allow you to act upon the goading in your mind.’

‘How can you make such a promise?’ Estel asked. He could hear the hissing: it was impossible. No one could help him. No one could save him. No one would want to. He was alone, all alone in a hostile world, and he would be found. They would find him and they would destroy him and no one would care...

‘I will be your guard, your watcher,’ Elladan said. ‘You will remain with me at all times: when you sup, when you read, when you walk in the gardens. We will sleep in one bed, and I will set myself to wake of you should chance to stir. You will never be more than three strides from my side, and I will watch over you. If you try to run, I will follow you. If you try to hide, I shall be at your side. If you try to harm yourself in any way, or to do something foolish that might imperil your life, I will stop you. It is hard,’ he added sadly; ‘when you cannot rule yourself with reason. Let me protect you in the only way I know.’

‘What will become of me when you leave?’ the child asked. His head was filled with cruel laughter. Of course the Peredhil would leave! He had duties to discharge and great deeds to do! He had no time for a whinging mortal!

‘I will not leave,’ Elladan promised. ‘Until the Master returns to the Valley, I will stay and watch over you. The orcs can wait: Eriador will endure for a time with one less sword to her defence. I am not indispensable, but you are. You must survive, whatever the cost.’

Why? The voice taunted. What was the life of one craven boy? These great folk did not care, could not care. ‘He does care!’ Estel cried, the words startled from his lips as his rational mind tried to fight off the phantoms. He realized that he had spoken aloud, and he looked at Elladan in dismay. Instead of rejection he saw only grief and empathy in the grey eyes.

‘Say that you agree,’ he urged. ‘Say it now, before your mind can sow its doubts.’

‘I—I agree,’ Estel said haltingly. ‘Please... please, I do not want to listen to it, but I do not know how my strength can last. Help me.’

Elladan nodded fervently. ‘I promise, I will help you.’

‘But we must not tell my mother!’ Estel exclaimed anxiously. ‘I do not want to frighten her.’

‘We cannot keep this from her,’ Elladan said. ‘I will explain as gently as I may, but this is too grave a matter to keep from her. She must understand that evil is whispering in your heart, and that you and I will attempt to fight it.’

‘She will weep,’ Estel protested. It seemed as if he would drown in his misery.

‘I do not know,’ Elladan said. ‘The Lady Gilraen is a doughty lady. Beneath her pain and vulnerability there lies a core of steel, as supple as the blades of Westernesse. She will not break so easily as you might think.’

The hissing voice disagreed.

Note: excerpt from “The Lay of Leithian”, The Lays of Beleriand, The History of Middle-Earth Volume 3, J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien.

Chapter XXXIII: The Artifice of Dol Guldur

At dawn the armies of the White Council set forth, moving swiftly through the undergrowth of southern Mirkwood. They were less than seven hundred in number now, for swift riders had been sent to warn Thranduil of the threat of the orcs, while a party of hunters from Lórien and Imladris had hastened forth in the hopes of finding and waylaying the errant band. There had been some debate on the matter, but in the end Celeborn’s adamant insistence that they could not sit idly by had won out over the dissenting voices. For his part, Elrond had been loath to give up even a small part of their strength when haste and swift might were most needed, but neither had he been willing to consent to complicity with the threat to his one-time friend.

The host came swiftly to a place where no trees grew. Of old the forest had encroached to the very base of Amon Lanc, but now the earth was poisoned by the incursions of the Shadow, and no green thing could abide its wicked fumes. Once they reached the edge of the unnatural clearing the legions dispersed, spreading themselves into a broad half-circle. Signals long arranged passed between commanders as the heralds stepped forward and the banners were unfurled.

Elrond watched the paltry panoply as their valiant theatrics unfolded. His heart was heavy. The great mass of stone and sorcery before them loomed above like the last bastion of doom. There were fortifications upon the outer wall, but no living thing – man or orc or beast – could be seen among them. The tower itself was silent, its gaping windows black and empty. There was no sign that they were expected, though they could not hope that their coming was a surprise. The stillness was at once perplexing and terrifying, and Elrond was put in mind of the eerie calm that had fallen upon the world before the unmaking of Beleriand.

A well-muscled shoulder brushed his own, the two bright shirts of mail singing softly against one another. ‘It is not too late,’ Elrohir said grimly. ‘You can hold back. You should hold back. When all is done these folk will have sore need of healers.’

‘I note you do not attempt to dissuade your grandmother,’ Elrond muttered grimly.

‘Nay,’ said Elrohir, the fell light of a warrior in his grey eyes; ‘for if I am to die today, I wish to die thrust upon the sword of one of the Ularí, not slain by the fire in the eyes of Finarfin’s daughter.’

Then Saruman stepped forward, taking his place before his standard-bearer. He drew breath for speech, and cast his eyes, cold and scornful, upon the gates of the Necromancer. The moment of reckoning had come.

lar

‘Shall we try to sleep a little?’ Elladan asked. His voice was hoarse and his face was grey with weariness. He was leaning now so heavily that had it not been for the crook between headboard and wall that supported him, he would have crumpled into a heap on the pillows. Having reached his bed with the aid of one of the cooks, he had resolved to stay awake through the remainder of the night, pressing Estel with questions that were answered in brief but purposeful syllables.

The child had passed these hours on the foot of the bed, long legs curled beneath him and head resting against the window-frame so that the starlight was on his face. Though at times he had seemed very distant, he had managed to keep up with Elladan’s questions and it appeared that his mastery over whatever evil thoughts tormented him yet endured. Gilraen, forsaking her own bed for a chair by the door, had watched with painful pride as her son had conquered the hours of peril and achieved the blessed respite of dawn. Now a frown furrowed her weary brow as he shook his dark head.

‘I do not want to,’ he said. ‘You sleep. I will stay and watch over you.’

‘Watch over me?’ Elladan said with a weak smile. ‘It is I who am meant to be watching over you.’

‘I do not want to sleep,’ Estel said.

‘Is this some evil trick of his mind as well?’ Gilraen asked, casting an anxious glance at Elladan.

The Peredhil looked equally perplexed. ‘Estel?’ he said. ‘Estel, is it the wicked voice that is telling you this?’

‘No! No.’ Estel shook his head, and his eyes blinked very slowly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will rest for a while.’ He crawled up to the head of the bed and reached out to offer Elladan his arm. The adult smiled and accepted his assistance as he slid down and lowered himself onto the mattress. Estel drew up the blankets and settled beside him.

Eyes already drifting closed, Elladan wrapped a protective arm around Estel’s chest. Many times in recent days had they slept thus, almost like two brothers in their single bed. Gilraen rose and bent to kiss her son’s brow. ‘I’m going to see Halion,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll come back when he has broken his fast.’

Estel nodded, but his exhaustion was overwhelming him. He could not answer her. Gilraen settled the coverlet more securely over them, and then slipped from the room. Her son would be safe for an hour or two, she told herself. Elladan would protect him.

lar

They stood like scattered jewels on the bleak approach; the Elf-lords in their mail, lofty helms over flowing hair, and the three Istari, their robes rippling in the wind. To the troops that encircled them no doubt they were an inspiring sight: fair and deadly with bright swords drawn. To Elrond as he looked about they seemed like fools: a vainglorious clutch of petty princes, arrayed in the finery of their fading days and assembled for a hopeless enterprise that would lead only to a fruitless end.

In number they were eight, for Galdor had remained in Lorien. From Gandalf on the easternmost end to Galadriel to the southwest the distance along their scattered line of parley was perhaps a quarter of a mile. From the gates of Dol Guldur all could be easily seen: Gandalf with Glamdring, the Foe-hammer of Gondolin glowing brilliant in his hand; Glorfindel beside him, the Balrog-slayer of old. There was Radagast, his discomfiture well-masked by an expression of dogged determination, and Celeborn, tall and daunting in his silver mail and short blue cloak. Saruman had the place of prominence, in the centre of the road that rippled up the hill. There was Elrond, grave and grim, the only one of the eight whose sword still hung at his side; and beyond him Elrohir, the resolve of battle in his eyes and wrath writ on his brow beneath the bright stone he wore.

Last of all was Galadriel, resplendent in the glory of old. Her hair was coiled out of sight beneath a helm etched with bright stars and a fair, branching tree. Her breastplate was of mithril, a treasure as ancient as Glamdring and no less wondrous. Beneath it she was clad in white, soft folds of goffered linen falling in petals to her calves over chain-mail chausses. Her boots were white with tassels of gold, and her face was as cold and as fair as the light of the Sun upon a winter’s morning.

‘Necromancer!’ Saruman roared, his voice resonating once again off the walls of the tower. ‘Stand forth, coward, and answer for yourself! It does not please us that you see fit to dwell here, polluting our lands and threatening our realms! Stand forth, and do battle!’

Silence. Only silence. Above the gloom that hung low over Mirkwood, the Sun was climbing high. It was the time of the Council’s choosing: it did not suit the Enemy. Not all the goading of Saruman would drive him forth into the waking day.

‘Do not call him by the name he has taken himself,’ Celeborn said. Then he, too, raised his voice. ‘Sauron!’ he cried. ‘Sauron, come forth and face us!’

‘Accursed thrall of Morgoth, come forth!’ Glorfindel shouted.

There was no outward sign that their challenge had been heard, but to the three bearers of the Elven Rings it was plain that the Enemy was aware of their host. The hatred seemed to grow, pulsing and undulating through the forest.

‘Sauron, we are waiting! Stand forth or we shall ascend and cast you down!’ roared Elrohir.

Only silence; silence and malice. They waited still. Only silence.

lar

Gilraen found Halion in good spirits. His hands and ribs were all but healed, and he had spent much of yesterday working with the infirmarian. He was slowly regaining the use of his remaining leg with the help of a beautifully carved beech-wood crutch fashioned by some kindly member of the household. Today he was sore, but hopeful. In another week or two he could start learning how to balance on a horse, and then he would be able to return home, to his wife and his baby who would grow up knowing and loving his sire.

‘Something is weighing on your mind, Gilraen,’ the Ranger said as he began to peel his egg. ‘What is wrong?’

She smiled wanly. ‘It is nothing,’ she said. ‘I did not sleep well last night.’

‘If there is aught that it would ease you to tell me, be assured that I will alwa—’ He stopped, tensing suddenly and leaning forward in the bed. ‘Did you hear that?’ he hissed.

‘I heard nothing,’ Gilraen said, puzzled.

‘Hush. Listen.’ Halion held his breath, straining with his quick Ranger’s ears. Gilraen found herself unwittingly doing the same. This time, she heard it, faint and distant, filtering from an open window far above to the narrow casement of Halion’s chamber. A scream. A piercing shriek of terror.

Estel.

She flew from the room and up the stairs with almost the speed of an elf-maiden. She burst into the room just as her son flung himself off of the bed, falling to the floor with a resounding crash amid a tangle of blankets. Elladan, wild-eyed and pale, was pushing himself up onto his elbows on the mattress.

‘What is it, Estel? Speak to me!’ he cried, and it seemed not for the first time.

The little boy scrambled backwards against the floor, horror in his eyes as he stared at the Elven warrior. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and he cried out in a voice made shrill and harsh with panic. ‘You were there! You were there!’

‘Where?’ Elladan clamoured out of bed and took a step towards the child. Estel screamed again, pressing himself into the corner and trying futilely to scurry still farther away. Elladan halted. ‘It’s all right. Do not fear. I will come no nearer. Estel, tell me what has frightened you so!’

‘A nightmare?’ Gilraen said softly, coming further into the room and holding out her hands, palms open.

Elladan nodded frantically. ‘At first it seemed he was not even awake,’ he said, breathless. ‘He cried out again and again, his whole body was tense, and then suddenly... Estel, please! Please, calm yourself.’

‘Y-you were there!’ the child repeated. ‘They were dying and you were there! Why? Why were you there?’ He burst into tears, burying his face in his hands even as he strove to make himself as small as possible, curling against the intersecting walls.

Gilraen tried to run to him, but as she drew nearer he shrieked in terror and thrust up his hands as if to shield his body. She froze.

‘One...’ he choked out. ‘In his eye! It s-struck the bone – why were you there?’ The last was aimed at Elladan: admonition and horror and unspeakable fear infusing the words with a sound so terrible that Gilraen could scarcely believe that it had issued from the lips of her sweet-voiced son.

‘I do not know – I do not know...’ Elladan said helplessly. He could not decipher the details of the dream any more than Gilraen could.

‘His eye...’ Estel sobbed. With his palm he dug at his own face, against his left eye socket. ‘B-black and fletched with red, it struck the bone...’

The last vestiges of colour drained from the half-Elf’s face. ‘Estel...’ he moaned softly.

The boy’s head snapped up, and the accusation and terror in the grey eyes was almost more than Gilraen could bear. The terrible expression was not fixed on her, but on the Peredhil. ‘Why were you there? Why?’

‘We were fighting for our lives,’ Elladan whispered like one entranced. His legs trembled and he sank to his knees. ‘I could not stop it...’

‘Into his eye...’ Estel cried again, and again he struck his own face, sobbing frantically. Elladan flinched and looked away, unable to witness the child’s distress. There was guilt in his eyes, and sorrow, and as he glanced furtively at Gilraen she understood.

For a moment she could neither move nor breathe. It was as if her last reserves of strength and resolve had been stolen from her. She had known that Estel dreamed of the suffering of the Dúnedain, and that he was visited by apparitions of death, but this...

She closed her eyes, trying to master herself, but burned upon her lids was the image of her husband, his face smeared with dark blood and filth and vitreous humour, his left eye burst like a pig’s bladder with an orc-arrow lodged in the shattered socket. A hair’s-breadth to the right, and it would have sunk deep in his brain, killing him swiftly; painlessly. The sons of Elrond had never spoken of the last, tortured hours of Arathorn’s life, before the swelling of the tissues damaged by fragments of dislodged bone had finally snuffed out the light of his spirit and freed him from his suffering. It had been left to Gilraen to imagine, hour after hour, night after night through the lonely years, the thoughts that had passed through the mind of her valiant husband as his skull had filled with fluid and his powers of reason faded. Dying in unimaginable agony, riddled with delirium and robbed of the last shreds of dignity – what broken words had he uttered before he lost the power of speech? She would never know...

Her knees grew weak, and she felt certain that she would collapse next to Elladan, insensate and overcome. But she opened her eyes, and she saw Estel, cringing in the corner, weeping frantically in the wake of an unspeakable nightmare that he could not understand. He was still digging at his eye as if by doing so he could expunge the memory of what he had seen in the shadows of his tormented mind.

‘Estel, stop...’ she breathed, hastening to his side. Now he did not quail from her: he was too far gone in his distress. Gilraen took his hand and drew it away from his face, deftly catching the other before it could assume its partner’s abandoned task. ‘You shall surely harm yourself if you do not stop.’

The only answer was a broken sob.

Gilraen stroked his sodden hair. Perspiration soaked his brow, running down into his eyes. ‘My love, my dear one, it was only a dream. A vision of sad things that happened many years ago. Come, beloved, let me hold thee...’

He did not move. She shifted her weight from her feet to her hocks, and dragged him into her lap. Wrapping her arms around him she rocked him back and forth, back and forth. ‘Hush, Estel. You are awake now. The visions will fade.’

‘No,’ he whimpered. ‘N-no...’

‘They will,’ she said, with greater conviction than she felt. ‘You are so strong, so brave, my heart. You must endure a little longer. Only a little longer.’

The next words came, soft and tremulous, from some place far inside of her, the depths of which she had never plumbed. It was a place of wisdom and selflessness that she had never before found. It was a place where there was only love, and understanding, and the desire to do whatever she must, to accept whatever she must, to comfort and protect her child. The words that came from that place came without pain. ‘Only a little longer, my love. Then your father will come home, and he will heal you. As he did before, he will heal you.’

The words seemed to soothe him. The trembling body in her arms fell still, and the poor tortured head rested upon her breast. Nearby, Elladan was panting softly as he struggled with his sorrow and his guilt, but Gilraen had care only for her son. She cradled him against her body, wishing for the first time that Master Elrond were here. She wished, at least, that she had some measure of his gift, that she might pour forth her strength and her love into Estel and salve the hurts of his gentle spirit. But she was only a mortal woman, and she had nothing more to offer him than the comfort of her arms, and of her voice.

Softly, unsteadily at first, she formed words with her lips, and her throat sent forth an unsteady melody, imperfect and not quite tuneful, but filled with love. She sang:

Her robe was blue as summer skies,
but grey as evening were her eyes;
‘twas sewn with golden lilies fair,
But dark as shadow was her hair...

lar

The afternoon waned. All day they had stood, waiting for the Enemy to answer them. The host was restive and the leaders of the Council were grave as they gathered to confer together behind the line of standards. Elrohir was overseeing the lighting of great bonfires, for night would fall soon, and they would be left in the darkness. It was this, of course, for which the Necromancer was waiting.

‘He will surge forth as soon as the Sun sets,’ Saruman said between teeth gritted in frustration. ‘Orcs will fight in daylight at need, but by night they are far more deadly.’

‘More deadly than orcs are the Ularí,’ Glorfindel argued; ‘and in darkness they are terrible.’

‘Then clearly we cannot wait for darkness,’ said Galadriel. Even her carefully composed voice was taut with irritation.

Radagast huffed cantankerously. Emboldened by aggravation, he said tersely, ‘What do you propose we do? Walk up to the gate and knock?’

‘That is not at all a bad idea,’ said Gandalf, thoughtfully turning his sword in his hands. ‘It is easy to ignore a rabble shouting in the woods. It is not so easy to overlook a direct assault.’

They waited until Elrohir was finished, and the pillars of smoke rose from the resin-soaked fir-wood fires. There were a few hours of daylight left. Enough, perhaps, to decide the victory, if the Enemy responded at last.

The delegates from Imladris and Lothlórien assumed the positions they had held before, but the three Istari strode forward, up the broad road to the very apron of Dol Guldur. They were a strange sight: three wizened old men in their simple garments, each leaning heavily upon his staff. Their blades were sheathed, and in the lee of the great tower they seemed diminished, shrunken to tiny parodies of living folk. Elrond had only a moment to offer a silent prayer for success before Saruman thrust up his arms.

‘Sauron!’ he bellowed, and the force of his voice seemed to send a concussion through the armies. ‘You are discovered! Come forth and face our wrath!’

Then as one the three Istari struck the door with their staves, and it seemed that there was a great flame ignited in the air, as if lightning had rent the gate. The hinges buckled and the ground shook.

‘Come out!’ cried Gandalf. ‘No more shall you skulk here! Stand forth and do battle, accursed slave of darkness!’

Then the three were obliged to turn and run back, for there was a sound of rattling chains and grinding gears, and a shrill, high shriek of some unearthly creature. The forces of the Council readied their weapons: arrows nocked, spears at the ready, shining swords drawn. The standard-bearers retreated behind the ranks and the eight who stood forward drew their blades, stepping back to join the front lines of their folk. Not a moment too soon did Elrohir shout the order to stand fast.

The enemy came.

Note: excerpt from “The Lay of Leithian”, The Lays of Beleriand, The History of Middle-Earth Volume 3, J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien. Different canto this time, though; I promise.

Chapter XXXIV: The Flight of the Necromancer

The first wave of orcs poured from the gates so swiftly that they seemed to be swarming out of the very stones of the tower. Against every instinct that screamed at him to charge, to smite the foul things before they could gain any more ground, Elrohir held back, brandishing his sword above his head and shouting once more the order to stand fast. Far down the crescent of their forces, Glorfindel was doing the same. Elrohir bristled momentarily at this inaction. Timidity served one poorly in war, and his father’s order rankled in his heart, but only for a moment. For as the orcs surged forward, charging down upon their stationary enemy, he understood the wisdom at work. By remaining where they stood, the host of the White Council was drawing the enemy out onto level ground, and depriving them of the advantage of the slope. In the sort of combat in which Elrohir usually engaged, it was a small thing to correct the allotment of the high ground, particularly when the opponents were not equally matched. A lithe Elven warrior could easily outmanoeuvre three or four orcs, or a troll, or a brace of clumsy mortal brigands, but an entire army was another matter.

For all his years of battling for the freedom of Eriador, Elrohir had little experience assailing fortified strongholds such as this. His father, on the other hand, had spent seven long years as one of the prime instigators of a siege against a tower of which Dol Guldur was but a pale shadow. It was easy to forget that Elrond Peredhil had many skills that he did not ply in his daily life. Artful stratagem, it seemed, could be counted among them.

The time for pondering his sire’s many talents was past: the orcs had reached the front lines at last. Celeborn gave the order for his archers to fire, and a rain of arrows peppered the advancing horde. In the same moment, the swords of the Elves met orcish steel. Without thought or pause Elrohir swung into action, moving with the grace and strength of the Firstborn. His blade sang in harmony with the Noldorin steel around him, parrying the blows of black scimatars and smiting off limbs and heads. His dark hair flew, lashing from cheek to cheek with each swift twist of his torso. In combat he scorned a helm, for he found such gear to be heavy and unwieldy, quick to impair one’s vision if it shifted even slightly. The silver filet that bound his long tresses back from his face reflected the glow of the nearest bonfire, and glittered in the spray of sparks that went up as he drove the goblin before him backwards into the flames.

Around him, others were fighting for their lives. Amid the swath of fallen orcs there was a golden head here, a slender white arm there; a cloak of Lórien grey, bright ringmail stained carmine with its wearer’s blood. Elrohir had to leap over the body of one of Saruman’s mercenaries to cut down the next wretch in his path. He could taste the desperate wish for self-preservation to his right and his left, but he felt none of it himself. His movements were instinct honed over the centuries into effortless ability. Whatever fear or remorse had once visited his mind at such times had long ago been obliterated by relentless plying of the art of slaying, and the dark seed of hatred that he still nourished deep in his heart. He was not a soldier, valiantly doing his best to serve his lord. He was something more; a soul lost in the glory of battle, a fey and dauntless extension of his blade. He was elemental wrath, the living embodiment of violence.

He did not know whether he fought for one hour or ten. Time had little meaning. Once he saw Galadriel, the fire of her spirit unmasked in her wrath and the light of Valinor shining from her eyes. Her proud face was set in lines of stone, but a faint trace of triumph caught the corner of her mouth as she brought down one great Uruk and spun to slay his kinsman. Then the tides of battle swiftly swept his grandmother from his sight, and Elrohir had no further thought than the next thrust of his blade. From neck to nave he rent the next goblin to assail him. The light had faded now, and the bloody glow of the great bonfires, belching black smoke and the stink of singed flesh, stained the battlefield with a crimson light that showed black the blood of Elves and orcs alike.

Above the clamour of blade and staff, above the whistling of gleaned arrows and the clattering of chains there came a sound; a high-pitched ululation of hatred and malevolence. It rang across the battlefield, and the Men of Isengard quailed. Some of the Galadhrim threw down their arms, clapping their hands over their ears, but the older folk of Imladris knew that sound, and egged on by Glorfindel’s cries they redoubled their efforts against the orcs. For his part, Elrohir scarcely heard it, for he was flying forward like one possessed, pressing his advantage upon orcs that hesitated as another shriek sounded after the first.

Galadriel was mustering her people, her words and the brightness of her spirit strengthening those who shrank in fear. Somewhere, in a distant world far from the sweat and strain of his deadly swordplay, Elrohir could hear Saruman shouting at his forces, but whether his honeyed voice availed him aught now the son of Elrond could not say. Celeborn and Gandalf were marshalling any who hesitated, directing them as best they could. Though at first the orcs had seemed startled or dismayed by the cries in the darkness, they seemed to draw new vigour from them – or from the fear that filled so many of their enemies at the terrible sounds. Those that remained struck out with greater force, and around him Elrohir sensed the mounting of the second wave of battle.

There was no moon, and the stars had no light to pierce the gloom of Mirkwood. Another cry, this one louder than the others, shivered through the night air. The ecstasy of battle ebbed at once away, and though his arms continued to swing and his legs did not cease their motion, Elrohir found his strength and courage failing. Another orc fell beneath his blade, but he took no exaltation from its feeling. His blood-lust was gone, and in its place there was a nameless fear.

The orcs it seemed fled before him despite his flagging valour, for in a moment he was left alone, unassailed in a sea of the slain. Bewildered he turned, thinking perhaps it was ended and victory was theirs; but a few yards away he saw Radagast and Andras and many knights of Rivendell still locked in deadly combat. Away in the distance, behind the bank of fog that was clouding his vision, the bright figures of Galadriel and Glorfindel moved like spirits of white smoke amid the hordes of goblins, meting out death with their arms. There was a blue light dancing like lightning in the night, and that was Gandalf with Glamdring... the battle raged on, but it had moved towards the trees and left him behind, here at the very base of the Hill of Sorcery, alone in the night.

Perplexed and angered, Elrohir raised his sword above his head. Then his hand trembled and the blade fell to earth. He stared at it, startled. Despair flooded his heart. It was over. They could not triumph. The darkness was all around them and the bonfires were failing. Suddenly it seemed as if the armies that had stood so proudly hours ago were now utterly surrounded by blackness, cut off from the world and abandoned here to falter and fall. This was the end. They would die forgotten, and the spiders would creep forth out of the trees to pick their bones.

To his sister in Lothlórien no news would ever come of her grandfather and the proud Galadhrim, or the last valiant moments of Queen Galadriel, to the last fair and bright as the morning. Those who had remained behind would take Arwen Undómiel in her grandmother’s place, to be queen of their realm in its last desperate days, for without the protection of the mightiest lady ever born to the Noldor the Golden Wood would fade and fall into darkness. The Warden of Isengard would never stand again on the stairs of Orthanc, and Turgon of Gondor would never learn what had befallen his proud tenant. And to Rivendell no ragged army would return; no Lord of the Valley with bright mail and eyes as gentle as a summer evening, as wise as the hills themselves. No master would cross the Bruinen as the river sang its welcome. No father would come home to the little boy left alone with his terrors. There would be nothing left of their host, and soon, when the Shadow spread to devour the Wilderland, Eriador, Gondor, all – nothing left of goodness in the world.

He was dimly aware of dark shapes circling, of black armour and sable cloaks, and the hissings of evil upon his tainted ears. Yet the doubt and the terror overwhelmed him, and he found himself sinking, sinking, sinking into cold and empty waters, far from air, far from light, far from love or bravery or faithfulness. Despair was devouring him, and as he struggled for one more breath, for one more moment upon his feet, there was a clatter of mail and a high, chilling laugh, and a black blade swam before his eyes. But his body knew what to do even if his mind was failing, and he lurched to one side, catching up his sword again.

Elven steel met the Morgul blade. Elrohir felt the impact in his arms and shoulders, like the distant concussion of a rockslide that shakes the earth many miles away. He tried to recall himself, he tried to remember. He had faced these creatures before, in the days of the Last King. The Úlairí, the Ringwraiths, the Nazgûl of Sauron. He tried to resist, but they had come upon him unawares, when his mind was laid bare by the rapture of battle, with no protection from their machinations. They had hold of his heart now, and they would not release him. Unspeakable despair drained the warmth from his limbs. He parried again, but it was the memory ingrained in muscle and bone that directed the motion, and no rational process of his besieged mind.

Again the Nazgûl struck, and this time Elrohir’s knees buckled. He fell slowly, so slowly, to the bloodstained earth, staring up at the sword raised high above him as a child stares at a dangled bauble, transfixed with mute wonder. The blade descended, but in the last moment his body asserted itself once more over the haze in his thoughts. Instinct, more powerful even than fear, dragged him to the right, arching his back and foiling the intent of his attacker. The blow intended for his heart struck something more soft, rending his mail, ripping into flesh and muscle, glancing off of bone...

Elrohir scarcely felt the pain. The darkness swallowed him.

lar

In spite of his most valiant efforts, Estel submitted to sleep in the end, his overtaxed young body lacking the stamina to remain conscious any longer. Neither Gilraen nor Elladan dared to wander far from him, but they had sore need of talk, and so they slipped into the anteroom, leaving the bedchamber door ajar.

Elladan sank quickly onto a hassock by the wall. His face was grey and he looked more weary than one of the Firstborn had any right. His eyes searched Gilraen’s face, flooded with devastation and sorrow. ‘Dear lady, forgive me,’ he breathed. There were tears in his eyes.

‘For what shall I forgive you?’ she asked. ‘You did not send the dark dreams to my son. You did not slay my husband. Nor did you in the moment of panic betray our secret.’ Her voice faltered a little, but she mastered it desperately. The desolate figure before her had almost as much need of care as the forlorn little body lying in the next room, and there was no one to offer it but she. His father and his brother and his friends were far away, making war upon some distant enemy. He had no lady love to soothe the hurts of his spirit, and his mother was gone from the world. If Gilraen, Dírhael’s daughter, did not give him consolation, who would?

‘I thank you for your sorrow, and for the love you bear for Estel and for his father, but you cannot hold yourself responsible for this,’ she said softly, standing next to him and stroking his hair as if he were her child.

‘He woke from a vision of unspeakable terror to find himself lying next to one of its chief players,’ moaned Elladan. ‘I should have calmed him, I should have been strong and yet I...’ He stared down at his hands. They were quivering. ‘I know what he saw, lady. I know how horribly—’ He stopped, consternation upon his face as he realized what he had been about to divulge.

‘Tell me,’ Gilraen said softly. ‘Tell me of my husband’s death.’

‘Elrohir told you of the arrow.’

‘And your father explained that his death was not swift,’ Gilraen added. Her heart was palpitating in her breast, but she kept her voice level and her hands gentle.

Elladan looked up at her, and his eyes were dark. ‘He should not have done that,’ he growled.

‘He had no choice,’ Gilraen said. ‘It was soon after Estel and I arrived in the Valley. I was half-mad with grief, and I went to him, demanding answers. I beat upon his breast and I shouted so loudly that I must have roused half the household. He tried to calm me, but I would not be placated. In the end, to spare me from injuring myself in my frenzy, he explained what such a death means. It was not quick.’

Elladan slumped low, hiding his head in his hands. ‘No. It was not quick. In the heat of battle we took him to be slain, but when the last of the orcs were dead and we turned to prepare his body for burial, we realized our error. We did what we could, but it was little enough. It had been a long campaign – surely you remember that ghastly winter – and our supplies were spent. We had nothing even to ease his pain. We sheltered from the wind in a hollow of the mountainside, and I held him against me, hoping to warm him. Elrohir tended to the others who had survived the skirmish, and then he, too, came to sit vigil with Arathorn.’

At the sound of her husband’s name, Gilraen moved swiftly to the door, peering into the bedroom. Estel was curled upon his side, his hair spread across the pillow in dark disarray. One hand had crept up onto the cushion and his knuckles made pale indents on his cheeks. His shadowed eyes were closed and he looked peaceful enough in the flickering lamplight. Her heart filled with dread as she realized that darkness had fallen. It would not be long now before he awoke again, once more in the grip of some evil spectre of the past.

She hurried once more to Elladan’s side. ‘Did he speak to you?’ she asked in a hushed voice. ‘Did he say anything at all?’

Elladan nodded. ‘He said many things in his final hours that I could not understand, but near the end he regained some measure of consciousness. He charged us to help his people, and to aid them in their struggles as best we could. He expressed his wish that your father lead the Dúnedain until such a time as...’ His voice trailed away and his eyes flitted to the door behind which Estel lay sleeping.

‘Is that all?’ Gilraen asked softly. She tried not to let her pain show, but she had hoped, selfishly perhaps, that Arathorn’s last thoughts might have been for her and for their child, not for the welfare of his people. She repented instantly of such an unworthy thought. Arathorn had been a consummate leader, as devoted to his people as any great lord or mighty king. First and foremost he had been the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and so had he died. That had to be comfort enough, for she would receive nothing more.

But Elladan shook his head. ‘He begged us to protect his son. He made us swear to keep him from harm.’ His voice cracked a little, and from the desolation in his eyes Gilraen could see that he felt he had failed in that charge. She moved to speak, but Elladan continued. ‘Then he spoke your name and he told us... he said...’ He closed his eyes and rocked a little. ‘“I have been a poor husband. I have plucked the rose and yet I cannot give it water, nor yet restore it to its stem. She gave me joy and I have given her...” Then he could not speak, but Elrohir gave him water. And he whispered “nothing”, and after that he sank into deep delirium. Before the dawn he breathed his last.’

There was silence, but for Gilraen it was the silence that came with the release of pain long pent within her. Tears tracked twin rivulets down her face, but she cared nothing for that. In his moment of death, Arathorn had thought last and most lovingly of her.

‘He gave me much,’ she whispered. ‘All that I have he gave to me. My memories of love and joy. My son. And the friendship of two noble knights whom he loved as dearly as brothers.’ She bent to kiss Elladan’s brow, and then knelt beside him, looking up into his careworn face. ‘You have always laboured to uphold your promise to my husband. Let me lay upon you another charge: give to my son the love you gave to his father, and let him, too, know what it is to be your dear friend.’

Elladan smiled sadly. ‘My lady, after these last days he should have had that love even if you forbade it. But what shall we tell him when he wakes? Erestor reports that he and my father have spoken at length about each of the visions: surely he will ask who it was he saw fall.’

For a moment Gilraen was tempted by the truth. Here was a chance, perhaps, to lay bare her son’s heritage. Elrond was not here to prevent it. From the look in Elladan’s eyes she knew that he, in his grief and his guilt, would take his cue from her. At last, maybe, she could tell Estel the truth.

But she could not, she realized. She could not lay that burden upon him. The horror of the scene he had beheld was dreadful enough. If he knew that it was his father, her husband... how could a little child cope with such a revelation? And there was the ever-present need for secrecy, too. Was the truth so important that it was worth Estel’s life? She knew the answer to that without any pause for thought.

‘Explain to him that he saw a battle in which you fought beside the Rangers. Tell him it happened long ago and far away: the last is true, and the first is not entirely false, for to one of his brief years such a time seems like an Age.’

‘And if he asks the identity of the fallen man?’ Elladan queried wearily. ‘This is not some tragedy from the annals of history: he saw me there. He will know that I remember. He will recognize the honorific, and it will seem strange to him that he has never read of such a death among the Chieftains of the Dúnedain.’

Gilraen sought desperately for some solution to this difficulty, but her wiles failed her. ‘I do not know,’ she said softly. ‘It seems there is no way to protect him without resorting to falsehood, and that I cannot do.’

The eyes of the Peredhil had for a moment gone vacant. A faint smile touched his lips. ‘Fear not, my lady,’ he said. ‘I know what I shall tell him.’ With an almost inaudible sigh he hauled his weary body up off of the tuffet. Gilraen hastened to take his arm as he swayed upon his feet.

‘You are exhausted,’ she said. ‘You must rest.’

‘Alas, I cannot,’ Elladan told her. ‘My mind is filled with the lust of war, and I ache to wield blade. My waning strength will not allow it, I promise,’ he added with a small smile of amusement to answer her look of dismay. ‘Yet the desire is strong. I am unused to sitting idle while my twin plies our trade far away. I believe the hosts of Imladris and Lórien have engaged their enemy at last.’

‘How can you know this?’ Gilraen asked, perplexed. Mirkwood was hundreds of miles away: even the swiftest of messengers would take weeks to bring news.

‘I cannot with absolute certainty,’ Elladan informed her; ‘yet it seems to me that Elrohir is in battle, and has been for some hours. Though I know not how our forces fare I can tell you that he, at least, is finding great success.’

He smiled more earnestly now as he moved toward the bedroom. ‘Thank you, lady, but I assure you that I can stand unassisted,’ he said wryly, looking down at his arm.

‘Oh, your pardon!’ Gilraen whispered. She had half forgotten her grip upon him.

Elladan looked at Estel, still sleeping peacefully, and then turned to regard the mortal lady. ‘Why do you not go to your rest?’ he suggested. ‘You, too, are weary, and we have many weeks yet to endure before Elrond returns once more to the Last Homely House. We shall all have need of strength.’

Gilraen nodded, her heart sinking at the thought of such a state of affairs continuing for weeks. She moved to the bed, petting Estel’s hair as she bent low to kiss him. He stirred under her touch and made a soft cooing sound of drowsy contentment. That noise did more to heal her heart than many tears could.

When she turned to bid Elladan good-night she found him staring with unseeing eyes. His face was drained of all colour again, and he was trembling. Gilraen froze in horror. ‘What is it?’ she hissed, only just remembering to modulate her voice so as not to wake the sleeping child. ‘What is amiss?’

Elladan blinked slowly, his eyes labouring to fix themselves upon her face. ‘All is not well...’ he whispered. Then his face contorted into a mask of anguish and he staggered back against the wall. Gilraen ran to him, helping him as he staggered to the chair she had occupied earlier in the day. He brought his head down to his knees, long hands clutching at his legs as he quaked convulsively. ‘Pain...’ he exhaled, and he sounded suddenly like a lost child crying for help in the darkness. ‘Elrohir is in pain...’

lar

Elrond had little opportunity to gauge the battle around him. He and a battalion of his folk had been swiftly surrounded as the orcs swarmed over the plain, and for an indeterminate length of time survival had taken precedence over any other concern. At times he was aware of Celeborn’s strong voice, rousing to action those who faltered and striving ever to gain an advantage on the sea of foes around them, but for the most part he was overwhelmed by the task at hand.

It had been many years since he had done more than spar, and though his technique was flawless and his arm was true he found himself ill-prepared for the mind’s response to battle. The thrill of panicked elation that coursed through his chest each time his blade found its home in another thick hide; the moment of terror when he did not know whether old reflexes were up to the task of diverting a swiftly descending scimitar; the cold horror as a severed artery sprayed face and mail with foul black blood – all these sensations he had forgotten over the long years, and he rediscovered each with fresh dismay. Most horrifying of all was the realization that he was deriving some manner of gratification from this frenzied task. The spending of strength seemed to release some of the anxiety and anger and frustration that he had kept under such a tight reign these last months. Though there was no joy in this labour of necessity, Elrond could not help feeling a certain purgative catharsis, as if his pains could flow away as easily as his perspiration.

When night fell he looked about with dread. The orcs would draw strength from the darkness, but that was not his chief concern. Sauron had other servants more deadly than these expendable soldiers, and by night their power was such that even the Wise feared them.

He had faced the Úlairí before this, in darker places and less puissant company, but years away from such evil had dulled his memory. With the first dreadful cry the flood-gates opened and the terror of old came surging forward. He had no time to master himself, for the orcs were still around him and his sword needed all of his focus, but all the same he tried beneath the rapid racing of his battle-mind to beat back the fear. The power of the Ringwraiths was terrible enough without his imagination to augment it.

With the second cry even the orcs quailed, and the forces of the Council pressed the advantage. Elrond cut down six in rapid succession, before the seventh mustered enough energy to put up something of a struggle. He felt rather than witnessed the descent of the Nazgûl; the encroaching despair that oozed through the night. He braced himself against it. Great was their power, but greater was his – though he could not unmask it all. Setting his teeth he focused upon the task at hand.

Suddenly Glorfindel cried out, and Elrond turned to seek out his seneschal. The golden warrior had pulled away from the fray in which he had been embroiled, and was attempting to cut through to the thinning horde towards the place where Elrohir was fighting. Elrond had caught glimpses of his son throughout the battle, his wrath terrible to behold and his skill equal even to that of Glorfindel. Now he was faltering, his sword-work erratic. There was a look of shock and puzzlement in his eyes as the goblins fell away and fled.

He did not see them until they were upon him: four figures in cloaks of nebulous sable, circling him and pressing upon him. Elrond saw him blench, saw the sword fall from his hand. Now the Lord of Rivendell, too, forsook the battle, no longer fighting the orcs but weaving around them. He cast away his blade and ran as swiftly as he might to the nearest bonfire. Caring nothing for burnt fingers or a singed sleeve he caught up a brand that had fallen loose as the tent of fuel collapsed, and thrust it into the embers.

He closed the distance between himself and his beleaguered son, who was trying despite his obvious terror and disorientation to defend himself from the greatest of the four, but he was too late. Elrohir’s blade fell away, and as Elrond cried out in consternation and rage the Nazgûl brought its blade to bear. At the last moment Elrohir swayed to the side, and the thrust that should have plunged into his heart struck lower, sundering mail and flesh, but glancing off in the end. The wraith cried out in rage, raising his sword to finish his opponent, but Elrond flung the fire at its dark form. All three drew back, and abruptly unarmed and at a loss as to what more he could do, the Elf-lord submitted to instinct and cast himself over the body of his fallen son.

He waited for death, but it did not come. Glorfindel was near now, and others had seen their lord’s wild flight and were gathering flames.

‘Be gone, vile servant of darkness!’ the golden voice so often raised in laughter rang out now in an imperious demand. ‘Be gone, or I shall destroy you utterly!’

Laughter sounded, cold and proud. ‘The mongrel’s chattel challenges me?’ the Nazûl mocked. ‘You could not slay my captain: why should I think you can destroy me? I am little less in might than he. If I wished I could smite you down as I have smote the half-breed brat!’

‘I think not, foul shadow; else why do you stand and bait me thus? Why not smite me, if you can?’

Again the laughter. Crouching low over Elrohir’s bleeding form, Elrond reached for his son’s abandoned sword. If it came to it, he would spring up to attack, joining Glorfindel in a last, desperate foray. But the Nazgûl spoke again. ‘We are not here to strike you down,’ it said, derision in the sibilant voice. ‘We come only to divert you.’

There was a wailing of wind and the bonfires faltered, scattering ash and sparks into the air. A sound as of horses charging was heard and the broken gates of Dol Guldur flew from their hinges. A vanguard of orcs issued forth, and then came a presence, fell and vile and filled with wrath. It was greater in power and malice than any wraith, and more terrible than any horror of the mind. Only once before had Elrond felt such fear and revulsion, and among those assembled only Gandalf could make like claim. He knew at once who had ventured forth. In what form the Enemy came he could not say, for his vision was blinded and his reason suspended in terror and loathing and dread, but the air itself was poisoned by his presence, and it seemed that he could feel the Eye of Sauron upon him. The Eye, the Eye, those eyes profound, in which their senses choked and drowned...

For a moment he felt naked before Sauron’s hate, stripped bare of his secrets and revealed in all his pitiful arrogance... but then there was a sound of swift hooves over stone, and the Nazgûl were gone, and the orcs were left alone, aghast. So passed the Necromancer from the shadows of Mirkwood, and though in after years his servants crept forth to reclaim Dol Guldur, never again did the hand of Sauron besmirch that land with its hated presence.

‘An end! An end!’ a faltering voice cried. It grew stronger as it spoke, and Elrond knew in some distant recess of his sundered mind that Galadriel was calling out to the scattered hosts. ‘Free folk of the West, let us make an end of this dark deed! To arms! To arms!’

Then the sounds of war resumed as the remnant of the army of the Necromancer was swept away, but Elrond did not rise, nor lift a blade, nor marshal his troops. He knelt amid the ruin that his son had wrought, and with his hands strove to stem the tide of blood that flowed from Elrohir’s side. Overcome with exhaustion and desperation and the bitter knowledge that all this would in the end prove to be for naught, he wept.

Chapter XXXV: Healing Hands

The battle was over and the Enemy had fled, but the labours of the Council had only just begun. The able-bodied were swiftly divided into three contingents. The first, directed by Radagast and Glorfindel, set about the ugly task of sorting the dead. The fallen folk of the Elven realms could not be left to moulder in such an evil place, yet neither could they be borne far, for such strength as the company had left would soon be needed to aid the wounded in the retreat to the river. At last it was decided that they should be brought from the forest at least, and laid to rest under the open skies of the Wilderland. With them, of course, the dead soldiers of Saruman would be interred, though the remaining Men seemed less dismayed at the prospect of an expedient burial on the fields of war than were the proud Noldor and the merry Sindar and the reticent Galadhrim.

The second force had the grimmest task. Saruman resolved to search the tower, not only for lingering servants of Sauron, but for any prisoners still languishing within the deep dungeons. With them only the most courageous dared to go. In a remarkable show of selflessness, he had offered to do so alone, but Celeborn had insisted upon gathering a group to accompany him. Elrohir would have sprung forward to volunteer, had he only been conscious, and his bravado might have inspired others, but as it was the Lord of Lórien could muster only a dozen willing to enter that dread place.

Under the guidance of Galadriel the remaining warriors gathered up their wounded comrades and bore them as best they could to the shelter of the trees, as far from the shadow of Dol Guldur as it was possible to bring them. There hasty efforts ensued to separate the injured from the dying and those who could be saved from those who needed only consolation in the last moments before the sundering of body and spirit. The soldiers who knew only the rudiments of battlefield medicine were put to work dressing minor wounds, bearing water to the suffering, and sitting by the hopelessly broken as they died. Those who knew enough to stitch up a raggedly scored leg, or set a broken arm had work aplenty, and through their efforts the trained healers were freed to attend to those damaged beyond the scope of a warrior’s skill. There were dreadful wounds to seal, and arrows to pluck carefully from abdomens and shoulders. There were skulls in need of trepanation, and terrible burns to clean and dress.

Those of greatest skill were drawn aside by Galadriel to the foot of a mighty fir, where lay the victims of the Nazgûl. There had been eight on the plain, surging forth to hold back the enemy while their lord made good his flight. The Witch-King himself had not appeared, and no one could say whether he had come forth in the last moment, with his lord in the hour of his flight, or whether he was far afield, prepared to harbour and succour the dispossessed Necromancer in some dark, secret place.

Elrond cared not. As he raised his head and looked about at the devastation that the wraiths had wrought even without the leadership of their dread commander, he was filled with impotent anger. He had fought for hours to recall these folk from the grip of the Black Breath, and his strength and hope were spent. While his patients slept upon the hard earth, he had returned at last to the first body he had treated: that of his son.

Elrohir was as pale as death itself, lying naked beneath Elrond’s cloak. The wound in his side had snapped his floating ribs and dug deep into his flesh. Only the resistance of his torn mail had prevented the sword from nicking his bowel. It would have been a terrible hurt if inflicted by an ordinary blade. Coming as it did from the weapon of the Ringwraith, it had taken all of Elrond’s skill to halt the bleeding and seal the wound, and all of his strength to recall Elrohir’s ravaged spirit from death. In this matter he had enlisted the help of Galadriel, whose gift was little less than his, and Gandalf, who though he had little training in the arts physic had a will of iron and the authority of the Lords of the West.

In the end, having done all that he could, Elrond had turned to the others who had fallen under the spell of the Úlairí. Though half their number had descended upon Elrohir as he drew dangerously near to the tower, one had dared to assail Saruman whilst the other three had wreaked havoc upon the foremost lines of assault. There were many Men delirious with despair, and those of the Galadhrim who had succumbed were difficult to coax back to consciousness, for they were a gentle folk unused to such foes. Moving from one to the next, calling each by name, Elrond had wandered deep into darkness, leading spirit after spirit back into the living world. His store of athelas, gathered where it grew in wild abundance in the woodlands about Isengard, was nearly depleted, and with it his last shreds of endurance.

Exhausted though he was he bent now to inspect Elrohir’s wound, lifting the thick pad of linen that would have to be strapped down before his son could be moved. The silk thread that held the ragged edges closed was crusted over with cruor, and red ridges of inflammation were spreading from the neat stitches, but the bleeding had stopped at last. Elrond replaced the dressing with care and laid a hand upon his son’s brow. The sleep that lay upon Elrohir was not natural, but it was induced by pain and near-exsanguination, not by the evils of the Nine. Elrond bowed his head almost to Elrohir’s chest and exhaled heavily. His son had recovered from more grievous hurts than this, under less attentive care. Surely he would live.

‘It will be hours, perhaps days before he wakes,’ a gentle voice reminded him. A slender hand gripped his shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he caught sight of a glimmer like the Morning Star. Galadriel. ‘You have done all that you can. Have a care now for yourself.’

‘I am unscathed,’ Elrond said heavily. ‘I will go and see if I can help those wounded with more common weapons.’

He tried to rise, but he stumbled, falling back to his knees. His vision was momentarily eclipsed with blotches of darkness, and when it cleared Galadriel was kneeling beside him. Her breastplate was sullied with the filth of the battlefield, and the tails of her delicate linen tabard were stiff with blood. Her hair was in disarray, tendrils of silver-gold clinging to her temples and her cheeks. She, too, looked weary, but she was smiling sadly upon him.

‘Not quite unscathed, I think,’ she said. ‘Neither in body nor in spirit.’ She took up his right hand and held it before his eyes. The fingers were glossy with burns, and there were blisters scored open by the thread with which he had stitched his son’s wound. He stared at the hurts in puzzlement for a moment, until he remembered how he had come by them.

‘When I caught up the brand from the embers,’ he murmured vaguely.

Galadriel had already produced a wooden basin of water, and she was washing his hand with care. ‘It is the best of fortune that your sleeve is of wool and snuffed out the sparks that caught it,’ she said, pointing one long finger at the singed fabric. ‘Else you might be burned to the shoulder.’ She produced a little pot that had once been filled with salve, and applied the last scrapings to the worst of the burns, then with strips of linen that were nearly clean she bandaged his fingers one by one, careful to keep the dressing loose enough that it would impair his dexterity but little. ‘There,’ she said when she was finished. ‘So much for your body.’

‘There is no cure for that which ails my spirit,’ Elrond said, and the words came out with unwonted bitterness. ‘We have fought a hopeless battle to buy a brief respite from darkness. My son may yet perish. Far away my land is laid bare to the machinations of the Enemy. What hope is there, lady, in which I may take comfort?’

Her eyes were sad and gentle. ‘You are under the influence of the Shadow, Peredhil; else I know you would not speak thus. You felt as much as I did the weight of the Enemy’s hatred when he hastened forth from his fortress, and now you have laboured long driving forth the Black Breath from the hearts of others. It is little wonder that you are so pained.’ She motioned with her right hand, and one of her soldiers who had been bathing the afflicted came forward with a camp-kettle filled with steaming water. Galadriel thanked him and drained her basin of its fouled fluid, filling it with fresh.

Knowing well what she was about to do, Elrond shook his head. ‘There is so little left, and it will be needed ere we reach the river. Do not squander it upon me.’

‘You, too, will be needed ere we reach the river,’ Galadriel reasoned. Taking up a leaf of athelas she crumbled it into the water, and the pungent fragrance filled the air. She produced a delicate cambric handkerchief, surprisingly unsullied by the perspiration of battle, and wetting it she proceeded to bathe Elrond’s face and brow.

‘You are valiant and bold, child of Elwing,’ she said softly as she worked; ‘but ever do you pay too much mind to the suffering of those around you whilst belittling your own hurts. Such generosity of spirit becomes you, but it is not without its dangers. If we should lose you to the shadows, then who would watch over Eriador? Who would protect the precious treasure that you guard even at the cost of your good repute? You must rest, and forget for a while your griefs and the burden of your foresight.’

Elrond submitted himself to her gentle ministrations, and it seemed that her words and the herb of Númenor each soothed his spirit. Some of the despair lifted away, and the lines of care that marred his ageless face grew less pronounced. Then Galadriel took his left hand, too, and bathed it in the athelas-water, and she reached to brush the blood-crusted hair away from his face. She smiled.

‘There, my son,’ she said softly. ‘That is better, I think. Now why do you not lie down and sleep a little? At dawn we shall begin our withdrawal, and there will be much work for you.’

‘I am not yet ready for sleep,’ Elrond said. ‘And when Saruman comes forth I may be needed to tend to the captives he has freed.’

‘That you will not,’ a grim voice said. The two Elven monarchs turned to see Gandalf, leaning heavily upon his staff, come striding towards them across the bloodied grass. ‘I have just come from the hill. There are no captives left to tend. They were slain at the last by the orcs: the dungeons are a bone-yard of broken corpses. Not lightly does Sauron yield up what he has won.’

‘Then your claim to be the only one to escape his prisons remains unchallenged,’ Elrond said heavily. ‘Save long ago by Beren Erchamion. The torments of the Enemy are terrible. Mayhap the poor wretches were glad of the release.’

‘Mayhap,’ sighed Gandalf. ‘I did not come to speak of that. My lady,’ he said; ‘I must beg of thee a boon.’

‘It is granted, whatever it may be,’ Galadriel said. ‘How could I deny the one who has led us to this bitter victory? What does Mithrandir desire?’

‘The use of the horse that bore me hither,’ Gandalf told her. ‘I have many leagues to cover, and I fear I shall be hard-pressed to reach my destination in time to be of any use. While our struggle here is over, there are powers perhaps less terrible but little less dangerous on the move in the North. The birds have brought rumour to Radagast of strange deeds beside the Long Lake.’

‘Your dragon-slayers,’ Elrond murmured, comprehension dawning slowly through the shroud of fatigue. ‘So from driving forth the Enemy you must turn your thoughts to the destruction of Smaug. How do you hope to achieve it?’

‘I do not,’ Gandalf said; ‘but I have no hope of doing anything at all if I cannot reach the Lonely Mountain swiftly.’

‘Take the horse, then, and with my blessing,’ Galadriel acceded. ‘May it bear you safely to whatever great deeds await you.’

Gandalf reached down to grip Elrond’s shoulder. ‘May you come safely home again,’ he said. ‘If all goes well I shall be passing your way in the spring, and if I do not find you once more secure in your haven I shall be most displeased.’

For the first time in many days, Elrond smiled. ‘And if I learn that you have been toasted alive by dragon-fire, you shall be hard-pressed to endure my wrath,’ he promised. ‘I shall expect a full accounting of your triumphs when next we meet.’

Gandalf snorted appreciatively. Then he bowed low to Galadriel. ‘My thanks, good Queen,’ he said. Then he looked down at Elrohir’s grey-hued form. ‘Sleep long and deep, valiant son of kings,’ he murmured. ‘But in the end you must awake. There are great deeds that yet await you.’

Then, with a last long look at Elrond, he turned and was gone.

lar

Estel awoke abruptly. He had not meant to fall asleep! The morning sun was bright behind the curtains, and as the drowsiness cleared from his eyes he realized that he was lying on Elladan’s bed, and that nearby grave and gentle eyes were watching him. He turned towards their gaze, and was startled to see Erestor sitting by the bed, his long hands folded serenely in his lap.

‘Why are you here?’ the child asked, perhaps too abruptly. He flushed a little, ashamed of taking such a disrespectful tone with his teacher. ‘I ask your pardon,’ he said. ‘I merely meant...’

‘Where are your mother and the son of Elrond,’ Erestor said sagely. ‘Your mother, I think, has arisen at last and is tending to the crippled Dúnadan, whose tenacity is only matched by his good humour. As for Elladan, it is my fond hope that he is resting, for he has sorely taxed his strength, and he is much troubled. As for why I am here,’ he added with a hint of amusement; ‘whether you remember it or no, it was I upon whom Master Elrond laid the charge of your care, and I intend to keep an eye upon you.’

Estel sat up, looking down at his rumpled garments. No one had troubled to undress him, which meant that they had been afraid to wake him. He remembered huddling in his mother’s arms while the afternoon sunlight reflected off of the distant mountains, but after that... He looked sharply at the window, confirming his suspicions. ‘Did I sleep the whole night?’ he asked, hardly daring to hope.

Erestor nodded gravely. ‘It seems that exhaustion conquers even such evil as that which haunts you,’ he said. ‘Be thankful. You had sore need of rest.’

Estel hung his head. ‘I dreamed. Even in daylight I dreamed. And I cried out,’ he confessed miserably. ‘I did not mean to, but when I awoke and saw Elladan beside me, when moments before he was in my mind as men were slaughtered around him... I did not mean to.’ It seemed so inadequate: this paltry justification of his cowardice. ‘I have brought nothing but pain to Elladan and to my mother.’

Erestor regarded him silently for a moment, then got up from his chair and sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up Estel’s hands, clasping them in his own. ‘Son of Elrond, listen to me,’ he said soberly. ‘You have done nothing to earn the suffering you have endured in recent months, nor should you feel guilt for your natural and justifiable fear. You cannot heal all the hurts of this world, nor can you be blamed for them. It is naught but vanity to pretend otherwise.’

Estel considered these words, and they seemed very wise. They sounded, indeed, very much like something that his father would say. ‘Erestor,’ he said softly; ‘what will become of me if Atarinya does not return?’

‘You need have no fear of that, little one,’ said the lore-master, smiling a little and shaking his head. ‘Elrond will return. He knows it would be too cruel to abandon me here to face your impossible questions alone for all eternity.’

Estel ventured a small smile at the familiar jibe. It had been a long while since any of the adults had felt jovial enough to poke fun at his insatiable curiosity. It was oddly comforting.

His expression was not lost on Erestor, who released his hands and clapped him fondly on the shoulder. ‘What say we find you some fresh clothing and go out into the gardens?’ he proposed. ‘Too long has it been since you last walked in the sunlight, and winter is upon us. Soon there will be snow in the Valley: you should enjoy the last golden days while you may.’

Eager assent sprung to Estel’s lips, but he hesitated. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘No, I would like to go and sit with Elladan. He is much troubled, and I should not want him to wake up alone.’

Astonishment flickered faintly across the lore-master’s face, but he schooled his features swiftly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You have a generous spirit, and that should not be discouraged. He lies next door in his brother’s chamber, but I would still like to see you in clean garments first. You are beginning to smell like a Ranger.’

Estel sniffed experimentally. ‘That is unfair!’ he protested with a laugh. To his delight, Erestor smiled. The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps I do need to wash,’ he admitted.

Twenty minutes later, cleaned and freshly clad, he slipped into Elrohir’s room. Elladan was lying in his brother’s bed, leaden eyes closed. His face was taut as if with pain, but his chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythms of sleep. Very quietly, Estel drew up a chair and sat down beside the bed. He studied the face that had so frightened him upon his last awakening.

He wondered what battle he had seen, where the Men of the North and the sons of Elrond had fought so desperately. Imprinted upon his mind was the harsh brutality of the encounter: limbs severed by orcish steel, men rammed through the breast with cruel spears, Elrohir’s cloak rent from his back by a flailing scimitar. He could see the tall, dark man cast his gaze from the enemy as he tried to shield a fallen comrade, and then the explosion of bone and blood and clear fluid as an arrow struck his eye, lodging deep in the wall of the socket. Estel shivered. He wondered who the man was. Elladan had seemed so pained when he realized what Estel had seen... the fallen man must have been a dear friend. Elrohir had said that the sons of Elrond had had many mortal friends, and that they remembered each of them, but it had never occurred to Estel that they might remember their deaths as well as their lives. How horrid, he thought, to watch a friend die in such a terrible way, and to be haunted by it forever! How terrible to be reminded of such sorrows by a thoughtless boy.

He would not make mention of it again, he promised himself. He could bear one more ugly vision. He was less certain about his ability to stand the inevitable inquisitiveness, but he pledged to do his best. He did not wish to hurt Elladan any more than the warrior had already been hurt.

Timidly he reached out his hand and stroked the dark hair upon the crown of the half-elven head. He wished that he could heal the woes of the soldier’s brave heart. He wished that he could soothe his pains as Elladan had eased his own. Was it his imagination, or had the crevices of care faded somewhat from the fair face? Estel reached with his other hand and curled it around Elladan’s fingers. He supposed that he loved the bold warrior that he had long worshiped from afar. On further reflection he decided that this was only natural. After all, if his atar was Elladan’s father, then in a way they were brothers.

lar

The withdrawal to the eaves of Lothlórien was slow and difficult. What had been a four-day journey eastward proved a nine-days’ journey west. There were wounded to be carried, and the bearers, wearied from battle, could walk neither very fast nor very far. Yet at last they reached the place where the golden canopy began, and there they found pavilions waiting for them, furnished with soft mattresses and warm blankets. The folk of Caras Galadhon had prepared for them a resting place, and beneath the mighty trees they were able to wash and to dine on fine foods and to sleep away the exhaustion of their brief but miserable campaign.

Saruman was in excellent spirits, and had been since emerging from the shadow of Dol Guldur with the news that the Enemy seemed to have fled utterly, and did not look to be planning a return. Even the grievous losses among his men seemed to perturb him but little, and he spoke already of his intentions to begin rebuilding his garrison with the choicest picks of Rohan and Gondor.

Radagast had not crossed over Anduin again, but had taken leave of the withdrawing army at the crossroads, bound north to his home in Rhosgobel. He had urgent business to take care of at Gandalf’s request, he said, and in any case he was eager to return to his friends, both winged and four-footed. He solemnly pledged to keep his agents’ eyes upon the abandoned tower, and to send word at once if there was any sign of returning evil. He, too, seemed confident that their errand had proved successful, though he was anxious to be gone from the company of the great ones with whom he had travelled so far.

Celeborn seemed grimly satisfied with the outcome, and though he had assigned a patrol to remain at Amon Lanc for a time he was convinced that Sauron would not attempt to retake the tower. Galadriel, though she kept one anxious eye upon her daughter’s husband, did not seem to share Elrond’s apprehension either. After a few days the Peredhil found himself sorely missing Gandalf’s company, for in the wizard’s well-founded scepticism he found a mirror for his own misgivings.

He had little time to brood, however, for the tending of the wounded took much of his strength. Though most were faring well enough, several did not survive the return journey, and there was Elrohir to care for also. His son passed most of the road to Lórien walking in dreams while his bloodless body lay in the back of a wain that had held water and provisions for the army. He woke seldom, and then only briefly, and such wakenings were accompanied by terrible pain. Upon reaching the encampment beneath the eaves of Lórien, he was laid in a tent apart from the rest, and there tended ceaselessly by one or another of his kindred; for not only his father and his grandparents were present, but Arwen also; for it was she, as regent, who had mobilized her folk to make ready this haven for the battered hosts of the Council.

She was sitting by her brother’s bedside while Elrond meekly took sustenance under her imperious eyes when Elrohir stirred upon his cot. It was the third day since the return of the armies, and on the previous evening the sutures in his side had been removed. Grey eyes struggled to focus, and a faint smile touched pale lips.

‘It seems I walk in legend at last,’ a hoarse voice whispered. ‘For here is Lúthien the fair to wait upon my sickbed.’

Arwen cast down her hoop and needlework, and caught his hand, her fair face bright with joy. ‘You have returned to us at last!’ she said merrily. ‘And it seems you are as impudent as ever.’

‘Be kind to me, little sister,’ Elrohir croaked, furrowing his brows into a sulk. ‘I have been through a terrible ordeal.’

Elrond rose and came swiftly towards his children. ‘How much do you recall?’ he asked, unable to wholly disguise either his anxiety or his relief.

Elrohir shuddered. ‘Too much, I think,’ he muttered. Then his eyes fixed upon Arwen’s face and he tried to smile. ‘You are a poor nurse, lady. Can you not offer water to a fallen hero?’

For a time little of import was said, for Arwen was occupied with her brother’s comfort, and Elrond took the opportunity to question him regarding his pains and the state of his mind. When the examination was ended Elrohir let himself fall back against the cushions. ‘There were four...’ he said, and though he uttered no specifics Elrond knew full well of what he spoke. ‘Why did they come for me?’

‘You drew too near to the tower,’ Elrond said sadly; ‘and the orcs could scarcely waylay you. Also, I think, they feared you less than Galadriel or Glorfindel... or even myself. You were at once a formidable threat and an easy target.’

Elrohir flushed. The sight cheered his father: it seemed he had blood to spare once more. ‘I let myself be cut off from the others,’ he said. ‘I was rapt in the act of combat. I did not pause to think.’

‘No you did not,’ said Glorfindel, who had entered the pavilion unnoticed and was leaning upon the centre post with his arms across his chest. ‘I would have expected better of you. Why did you not have someone to guard your back? You were fortunate that no stray orc-knife felled you long before the Nazgúl made their move.’

Arwen turned upon her brother, astonishment in her eyes. ‘You made no arrangements for a partner?’ she asked in alarm.

Elrohir closed his eyes. ‘I did not think of it,’ he said heavily. ‘It has been so long since I have fought alone; it did not occur to me that without Elladan I should have to make other provisions.’

His sister clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘My poor fool,’ she remarked fondly. ‘Twins are strange creatures. How unfortunate that you were not born conjoined at the hip: then at least you could not be separated.’

‘Have missives been sent to Imladris?’ Elrohir asked, suddenly anxious. ‘Elladan will be fraught with worries...’

‘Not yet,’ Elrond said. ‘I did not wish to send uncertain tidings. Now that you are plainly recovering, messengers will be sent forth.’ He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to voice the yearnings of his heart. ‘If you are well enough in the care of your grandmother, I wish to ride with them,’ he ventured at last. ‘I have been away already too long: I must return to my people.’

‘You must return to Estel, you mean,’ Elrohir said, nodding with understanding that was not mirrored upon his sister’s face. ‘I thought you said that when the Necromancer departed his torment would cease.’

‘So indeed I postulated,’ Elrond acceded; ‘but my heart will have no peace until that supposition is proved.’

‘The hosts cannot be mobilized yet,’ Glorfindel said gravely. ‘Too many of our folk are weakened with their wounds, and soon there will be snow in the northern lands. I would be reluctant to depart from Lórien before the spring.’

‘Yet messengers must be sent,’ Elrond said; ‘and if our valiant invalid will give me leave, I shall depart with them tomorrow.’

‘You do not need my leave, Atarinya,’ Elrohir said gravely; ‘but you do have my blessing. I would have you give Elladan comfort also, and do try to keep him from riding too swiftly to berate me.’

Arwen rose and laid her hand upon her father’s arm. ‘Our gallant knight will be well cared-for,’ she pledged; ‘but can you not tarry until spring with Glorfindel? Too long have we been separated, and I fear that it will be some years yet before my faithful champions will suffer me to cross the mountains.’ She cast a tender, reproving look at her prostrate brother.

‘Alas, I cannot,’ Elrond said, raising his hand to stroke her twilight tresses. ‘I have another child who has greater need of his father than you, my dearest one. I must needs ride with what haste I may.’

Arwen nodded sombrely and turned her back, gliding to the far side of the pavilion. She stood for a moment, staring into the corner where the canvas was butted together with fine stitches of green. Then she spoke. ‘Father,’ she asked; ‘how old is this mortal who is so dear to your heart?’

‘He is ten years of age,’ Elrond said. ‘Not yet half-grown.’

She inclined her head. After a soft inhalation she turned, and she was smiling. ‘I shall be sure to return to Imladris before he comes to manhood, so that I may endeavour to understand why you love him so,’ she promised. Then she shifted her gaze to Elrohir and said teasingly, ‘Surely fifteen years will be long enough for you to purge the passes, now that the Necromancer is gone from the Wilderland.’

Elrohir made a cheeky rebuttal, but Elrond did not stop to hear it. There were preparations to be made, and he had need of conference with Galadriel and Celeborn before he departed. He could linger no longer: his heart yearned for home.

Chapter XXXVI: The Homeward Road

The nights were cold now, and in the mornings the windows of the Last Homely House were painted with frost. A day came at last when a contingent of three Rangers arrived to collect their comrade and to see him safely home. The following morning, Gilraen woke before dawn to help her cousin dress for the trail. He had been apprehensive the night before about meeting his comrades, useless as he now was to them, but they had greeted him warmly – glad, as Gilraen had been, to see him alive at all. This morning, Halion was almost eager as he let her tug on his lone boot, and smiled wryly as she shook out his heavy cloak, half-lined in fur to protect his weakened body from the cold, and draped it over his shoulders.

‘I look almost my own self again, do I not?’ he asked, hopping forward and balancing himself with care, adjusting the drab garment so that it concealed his left side. Gilraen stiffened, searching for signs of self-pity or despair, but he smirked. ‘Be a good lass, coz, and pass me my other leg.’

She reached for the crutch and held it out for him to take. He tucked it under his arm with practiced ease, and then hobbled up to her. With his free hand he gripped her shoulder. ‘It is time for us to part,’ he said. Then he curled his arm around her shoulder, hugging her close. ‘I’m so thankful that I can utter my farewells like this. I never thought to see you again.’

‘Nor I you,’ Gilraen said. Then her voice broke and she reached to clasp her hand around the back of his neck, hiding her eyes against his cloak. ‘Oh, Halion, I am so glad that you are not riding forth again to hazard your life in the Wild. I’m sorry; I know it is selfish. But it does my heart good to know that Andreth will never suffer what I have suffered... and little Halbarad. Please, if ever you despair think first of them.’

Halion smiled sadly and nodded his head. ‘I promise I shall,’ he said. Then he smiled deprecatingly. ‘Do you think that a one-legged man can learn to hobble behind a plough? Even half a man will be a great boon to the village if he could manage that.’

‘Surely you can.’ Gilraen cast about the room one last time, ensuring that all of her cousin’s scant possessions were gathered into the saddle-bag. She hoisted it with care, and together they moved from the chamber and down the corridor. In the entryway the other Rangers were waiting, well-wrapped against the cold. Erestor and Elladan stood to one side, discharging the duties of the lord of the house, and sitting in a chair by the door was Estel.

He looked pale and tired, but no longer so haunted as he had. He swore that he was afflicted no more with dark murmurings, and he had regained his appetite, but he was still suffering from dreams. He insisted that they were no longer so terrible, and when Elladan had questioned him he had admitted them to be ‘different’ from his earlier night-terrors, though he could not or would not explain how. He was very quiet these days, and seldom did he laugh or even smile. At a loss as to how to help him, the three adults tried to accommodate his needs as best they could. His daily schedule had become an erratic thing, hours of dreary study or half-hearted play broken by uneasy slumber.

Now, seeing his mother and the one-legged Dúnadan approaching, Estel got quickly to his feet and stepped hesitantly forward. Gilraen smiled her encouragement and Estel approached Halion. He moved as if to bow, but then appeared to remember how such a gesture had been received before. He stood, a little awkwardly with his hands clasped behind his back, and said; ‘It is wonderful that you are well enough to return home at last, though we are sorry to see you go. Perhaps someday you might find the opportunity to visit us again. You would be most welcome.’

Halion’s eyes were briefly veiled in mist. ‘Thank you, young master,’ he said softly. His free hand twitched forward as if he wished once more to touch the boy, but he diverted it at the last moment, gripping his crutch and adjusting its seat beneath his other arm. ‘I, too, have high hopes that we shall meet again someday.’

Suddenly shy, Estel retreated to Elladan’s side, looking up at the warrior with a question in his eyes. ‘Very prettily put,’ Elladan assured him. ‘I doubt that Atar himself could have done better.’

Estel flushed at the words of praise, and Erestor put a fond hand upon his shoulder. Halion turned once more to Gilraen. ‘Take care, my dear,’ he said lovingly. ‘Do not lose sight of hope.’

Gilraen could not speak, but she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. Halion touched her jaw briefly and then turned to hobble towards his escort. He halted at the threshold and looked back.

‘Son of Elrond,’ he said; ‘could you do me the kindness of coming out to show my fellows how to aid me in mounting? I fear I would explain it but poorly, and I should not like tumble from a horse to immure me here till spring.’

It was a pretext, Gilraen realized. Halion was very good indeed at explaining things, and in any case the Rangers were no fools. Her cousin had something that he wished to say to Elladan where she could not hear him. For a moment she was irritated at the realization, but then it occurred to her that the matter might have nothing whatsoever to do with her. The menfolk, after all, had their secrets, and the safeguarding of Eriador necessitated deeds and sacrifices from which they tried to protect their fairer kin. As the five woodsmen moved outside, Gilraen strode over to Estel and Erestor.

‘What about some breakfast, dear heart?’ she asked her son, stroking his hair.

‘Mother!’ he hissed, colouring with mortification and brushing her hand away. ‘Do not do that!’

‘Very well,’ she said, heartened a little by his response. When he had been so ill and tormented, he had not resisted such gestures of affection. Perhaps he was healing after all, in spite of the lingering dreams. ‘But I insist that you eat: if you continue to shoot up without fleshing out a little, you will wither like a bean-pole and waste away to nothing. How would I explain that to Master Elrond?’

Estel’s face crumpled wretchedly, and Gilraen instantly regretted her words. She drew him into a consoling embrace. ‘Oh, love,’ she said; ‘he’ll be home soon. Surely he’ll be home soon.’

‘But you do not know that,’ Estel whispered. There were tears in his eyes, and their grey had darkened to the colour of slate. ‘Even if he survived the battle, the mountains are dangerous...’

‘There is no use dwelling on that,’ Gilraen said, remembering words that her own mother had spoken time and again. ‘You cannot think too hard about those who have gone away, or you will never accomplish anything in their absence. Now, I am your mother and you must obey me; and now I declare that it is time for you to eat.’

‘Very well,’ Estel said complacently. He took his mother’s hand and squeezed it tightly. Despite the anxiety still carved into his face, he managed a small smile of gratitude.

lar

One of the Rangers held the reins of Halion’s horse while Elladan helped him to mount. It was no easy task, but in the end he was settled in the saddle, leaning to his left to compensate for the uneven distribution of weight. His crutch was strapped like a longbow across his back, and he tugged his hood low against the frost of the morning. Elladan took the edge of the Ranger's cloak and tucked it around his stump, a pang of regret assailing him as he touched the severed limb.

‘I cannot express how much I regret this,’ he murmured. ‘I should never have led you into such danger; I should have expected the assault; I should have—’

Halion shook his head. ‘You did all that you could, and your resolve saved my life,’ he said. ‘Because of you, I am free to return to my wife and my son. Thank you.’

Elladan swallowed forcefully. ‘If there is any way that I can serve you, you have only to say,’ he pledged.

‘There is,’ Halion said softly, his eyes darting back towards the house. ‘Protect him. Teach him. We will have need of him one day.’

‘Of course,’ Elladan whispered. ‘I promise that when the time comes I will bring him back as I have taken him.’

Halion closed his eyes, for a moment overcome. Then he looked down upon the Peredhil again, and leaned low so that the others could not hear. ‘A word of advice,’ he said. ‘My cousin. She is not happy here.’

‘I know,’ mourned Elladan. ‘I fear she will never find true happiness: that died one night in the mountains, when she was far away. We comfort her as we can, and her son brings her what little joy she has. I know not what more we can do.’

‘There is one thing,’ Halion said softly. ‘She is not a high-born princess, raised in idleness. She is a noble lady who laboured all through her girlhood to help her people and to ensure their survival. She cannot be retired like a useless ornament, to sit by the fire and stitch pretty pictures upon fine linen. She needs proper occupation. She needs to feel useful. Estel does not fill her days any longer: he is growing too old for that. She needs something else.’

Elladan’s eyes widened. It had never occurred to him that Gilraen might chafe against the luxury of her position, or that she might long for her old toils, but it should have. He considered how he might have felt, had not his father’s absence furnished him with ample labour during his convalescence. Inactivity was a curse to those of mortal blood. ‘I will speak to my father,’ he promised. ‘Thank you.’

Halion inclined his head, wrapping the reigns about his gloved hands. ‘My only regret is that we can no longer ride together, son of Elrond,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day my son will know the honour of fighting at your side. Farwell.’

‘Farwell,’ Elladan echoed. Then the Rangers turned their horses and set off at a canter, up the winding path that led to their homeward road.

Wearily, Elladan turned and made his way back into the house. He could not bear many more days of waiting. He wondered, not for the first time, why no missives had yet arrived telling of the Council’s endeavours. Such silence from the South was not a promising sign.

lar

Winter travel was not pleasant. Though the Firstborn bore the hardships of cold and snow more stoically than other races, Elrond still found the long days half-frozen in the saddle to be taxing to body and spirit. He was weary and his heart was heavy, for he feared what he would find when he reached his destination. The small party rode as swiftly as the inclement conditions allowed, for Elrond grew daily more anxious to reach the borders of his own lands. His escort was equally eager for haste, for the winter was deepening around them and twice they were waylaid by storms, forced to wait in the lee of friendly holly-groves until the horses could go on.

The day came at last, however, when they came to the familiar ridges and vales with their twisting and misleading paths. With joy Elrond spied the first carefully disguised token that marked the way home. All through that night they travelled on, the waxing moon lighting their passage through the hills. By dawn the land was shrouded in mist, but by that time they had reached paths that the horses of Imladris could walk upon the strength of memory.

The pale winter sun rose high above the clouds and the fog began to disperse as the wise steeds started to pick out a descending road. Suddenly the gloom melted away, and before the travellers’ eyes spread the Valley of Rivendell, serene beneath a blanket of snow. The fields lay fallow: wide stretches of immaculate white that shimmered in the sunlight. The Bruinen was laughing in the crisp morning air, bubbling against the first incursions of ice along its swift-flowing banks. The beeches glittered, their bare branches bejewelled with fresh frost as bright as adamant, and beyond them stood the Last Homely House, its slate roofs capped with snow like the peaks of the mountains beyond. The rime-masked windows glowed dauntlessly with the inviting warmth within.

As he looked upon the peace and beauty of his holdings, Elrond felt a great weight lifting from his heart. Was this, he reflected, some measure of the delight and gratitude that the weary wanderer felt when first he laid eyes upon this hidden haven? If it were so, then his long labours had wrought a wondrous good indeed.

Then he recalled the urgency of his return, and with no further pause to marvel at the spectacular vista before him, he egged his stallion on to a gallop, thundering down the slope towards the house. Snow flew in the wake of the warhorse’s hooves, and Elrond’s cloak came free of its careful tucking and billowed behind him.

He had not yet reached the beech-woods when he heard a joyous cry, and from between the trees a lithe young figure came running, hood flying from his head as he gathered speed. Elrond plied the reins, slowing the horse to a trot as he swept around the boy in a tightening circle.

‘Atarinya!’ Estel cried, spinning on the spot to keep sight of his foster-father. Rather than halt, Elrond leaned down and caught the child about the ribs, swinging him up before him on the saddle. Deftly, Estel swung one leg over the horse’s withers, sounds of delight tripping over his lips. As the half-forgotten sound of his son’s laughter reached his ears, Elrond released the reins and wrapped Estel in a close embrace.

The stallion did not balk at the sudden loss of guidance. He returned to the path of his own volition as Estel twisted and threw his right arm awkwardly about his father’s neck, grey eyes shining as he searched Elrond’s face.

‘You are home at last!’ he exclaimed, joy and a frantic need for assurance both evident in his voice.

‘Indeed I am,’ Elrond said, holding him close. Estel turned out of the awkward position, pressing his back against his father’s chest. Elrond bowed his head over the dark hair, drinking in his child’s subtle scent. He kissed Estel’s crown. ‘You are well enough to run,’ he observed softly. ‘It does my heart good to see that—and you are abroad in daylight.’ He halted. Was it too much to hope that his son was free of the influence of the Necromancer? He had been so certain before, but after the long homeward journey in doubt and worry he was no longer so sure of himself. ‘Have the dreams ceased?’

Estel shook his head and Elrond’s heart sank. ‘But they are different,’ he said softly, the delight in his voice faltering a little.

‘How?’

‘Everything is muddled,’ Estel esplained slowly, as if he found it difficult to express what the difference might be. ‘Perhaps it is fire that consumes Númenor instead of the Sea, or there are flood-waters in the northern wastes where there ought to be snow, or I am the one who falls with a black knife in my back. Sometimes the faces I see are faces that I know: you, my mother, Erestor and Lindir. The dreams are no longer so… logical.’ He sighed. ‘They come no more often by night than by day, now. They are not so terrible as before... and the hissing in my heart no longer torments me.’

The fear and hesitation in those last words wrung at Elrond’s heart. Hissing? What had his son suffered in his absence? He felt an urgent need to take counsel with Erestor and the Lady Gilraen. To Estel he said; ‘Can it be, perhaps, that your own mind is shaping these dreams from the terrible visions? Can you guide the dreams with your will, or wake yourself from them?’

‘If I try very hard,’ Estel acknowledged. He burrowed further into his father’s embrace. ‘Now that you are home, mayhap you can help me.’

‘I hope that I may,’ said Elrond. That at least was glad news. He loosed one hand to take up the reins again, and gently urged the horse to quicken his pace.

‘I am stronger now,’ Estel said abruptly, as if he were anxious to utter some sort of glad tidings. ‘Mother has been very careful to ensure that I am eating well again, and Elladan has been very kind.’

‘It does my heart good to hear that,’ Elrond told him earnestly.

Estel curled his arm around Elrond’s, gripping it with his mitten-clad hand. ‘Atarinya,’ he whispered; ‘how long will you tarry at home?’

Elrond closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to fall. ‘I have no further plans to leave the Valley,’ he said softly. ‘Certainly not until you are grown.’

‘Oh.’ Estel fell silent for a moment. ‘I am glad,’ he confessed.

‘As am I,’ Elrond assured him.

By this time, they were fast approaching the greensward before the house – now a broad yard dusted with snow. The household was out in force, singing and laughing and calling out greetings to their lord. And there was Elladan, a smile upon his face and joy in his weary eyes; and beside him stood Erestor, grave but glad. Then Elrond’s eyes fell upon Gilraen where she stood leaning against a pillar, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She took in the sight of Elrond on his tall warhorse, and then studied her son, who was wrapped in the Peredhil’s loving embrace. Elrond steeled himself for the derision in her gaze; for the caustic glint of envy in her eyes. Instead he saw her face soften with relief, lines of worry melting away.

He dismounted and lifted Estel from the saddle. The boy hugged him about the waist, pressing his cheek against his chest despite the chill of the mail that radiated through the surcote. Elrond curled his arm around the youth and together they approached the mortal lady.

She cast down her eyes and curtsied deeply. ‘Welcome home, my lord,’ she said with measured formality. Then she looked upon him, and the release of pain that flooded her eyes was followed with a look of abject gratitude. ‘I am so glad,’ she whispered.

Elrond held out his hand, and she took it. Gently he brushed his lips upon her brow in a gesture of respect and affection that she did not resist. ‘Aye, lady, as am I,’ he said. ‘There is much that you must tell me, I think.’

Gilraen nodded, withdrawing from his grasp and shrugging her shawl higher upon her shoulders. ‘When shall I attend you?’ she asked with grave obedience.

Elrond looked down at Estel’s upturned face. The child was clinging to him as if he might fade away at any moment, as insubstantial as the morning mists. Abruptly Elrond could not bear the thought of sending the boy away so that his caretakers could discuss him. He seemed well enough at the moment: such conversations could wait.

‘I must wash first, and then I think we would all be glad of a meal,’ Elrond said, glancing back at his arriving entourage. ‘If Estel will consent to help me divest, then he and I can speak of his recent experiences first. With your leave, of course, my lady.’

Gilraen nodded, and Estel was smiling again, though his fierce grip did not relax. Elrond turned his eyes upon Elladan. ‘We two must also speak.’

‘Elrohir?’ the warrior asked hoarsely. ‘He is healing...’

Elrond nodded. ‘He is healing, safe in the care of the Ladies of Lothlórien, but it was a near thing.’

A thunderous look appeared in Elladan’s eyes, but he restrained himself as his twin would not. ‘When you have dined,’ he swore tersely; ‘we shall discuss it.’

They moved inside, Gilraen quicker than the rest, for she was ill-clad for the chill of the day. Elrond looked about at the happy faces of his folk, and then held Estel more tightly. Together, father and son ascended the great stairs while Erestor began to give orders for hot baths for the riders and thorough rub-downs for the horses, and a great communal breakfast in honour of the return of the Lord of the Valley.

lar

That evening the household – still much reduced with so many of the folk of Imladris wintering in Lothlórien – gathered in the Hall of Fire. Elrond sat in his customary place; the high seat of honour close by the dancing flames. Early in the evening Elladan had slipped off, doubtless bound for his bed. The last months had been hard on the eldest of Elrond’s children, and as he intended to ride with all haste for Lórien, heedless of the winter dangers, he had need of rest.

Gilraen was settled in a corner, five slender bone needles flying through her hands as she worked upon a knitted mitt for her son. As she listened to the joyous singing her eyes were sad, but much of their wonted bitterness had faded. Elladan had told Elrond of her diligent nursing of her cousin, and of the Ranger’s parting remarks regarding his wounded kinswoman. As Elrond watched her, unable to sit idle even in the presence of such beauteous song, he knew that the Dúnadan had spoken aright and he berated himself for his blindness. For the Eldar it was nothing to spend months or years in idle contemplation, passing their days in deep thoughts or distant memories. It was thus that he had slowly staunched the bleeding of his own heart in those first awful years after Celebrían’s sailing. He had forgotten the mortal need for industry. He would see to it, he pledged silently, that this oversight was remedied. There were many things to which she might turn her hand: they had only to settle upon those tasks she most favoured.

As for Estel, he had scarcely strayed from Elrond’s side all day, remaining with him as he bathed and replaced his travel-worn garb with clean, sedate garments better suited to his disposition. At board, Elrond had allowed him to take up Glorfindel’s empty seat, and Estel had dined one-handed, his fingers wrapped around Elrond’s forearm. Then for two hours he had been obliged to wait in the library while Elrond cloistered himself first with Elladan, then with Erestor and last of all with Gilraen, but the moment he was informed that his foster-father was free once more, Estel had come running. He had shadowed Elrond’s every step as the Master moved through his house, greeting his folk and reacquainting himself with the state of the household. At the evening meal he had once again seated himself in Glorfindel’s chair, though this time he was obliged on occasion to loose his hold on Elrond in order to use his knife.

Estel had started the night’s revels in a seat of honour near Elladan, but he had swiftly abandoned the chair for a cushion at Elrond’s feet. He was sitting there now, his long legs folded under him and his dark head resting against Elrond’s knee. One hand was curled over the Elf-lord’s velvet shoe, and from the gentle rise and fall of the child’s chest Elrond knew that his son was sleeping. He laid one long hand upon the dark head and sent forth thoughts of peace and comfort.

The image of Elrohir, broken and bleeding, still haunted him; and now Elladan was proposing to ride into peril for the pleasure of scolding his twin most roundly for his carelessness. In a few short years, Estel too would take up arms and go to his bitter labours as the untried Chieftain of a oppressed and demoralized people. Perhaps he, too, would one day be cut down by a Morgul-blade, or felled by an arrow from an orcish bow, or devoured by trolls or crushed in a landslide like the one that had almost carried off his kinsman. But such thoughts were unbearable, and Elrond reminded himself that tonight Estel was safe and warm, the only threat to him the natural dreams that would, with time, allow his mind to heal from the hurts that it had sustained in recent months. Tonight he slumbered peacefully, for a time at least. Tonight, Elrond could protect him.

As he sat there, fingers gently caressing the head of his sleeping son, Elrond closed his eyes and felt warm contentment washing over him. Temporary though he knew this hard-won peace to be, he was grateful for it. The smile that now touched his lips was not tainted with sorrow or worry. He loosed his mind from the fetters of composure and rigid control, and allowed the sweet chords of the Lay of Leithian to wash over him, caressing . In a way, he thought, he too was released from bondage tonight, as his sorrows and his worries fell briefly away. Even Vilya felt lighter upon his finger, and Estel’s gentle breath stirred the smooth wool of his robe. For a time at least, he was at peace. For a time at least, he was free.

Note: “Come Back to the Valley” and selected excerpts from “The Last Stage”, The Hobbit; J.R.R. Tolkien.

Epilogue: Here Down in the Valley

Spring had come to the Last Homely House. The shadows were lengthening and evening was falling as Elrond sat in his study, composing a letter to his daughter. Life in Imladris had at last returned to its wonted rhythms. Glorfindel and his host had come home, and Elladan and Elrohir were once again riding in the North, dispatching the lingering orc-hordes that had survived the battle at the Lonely Mountain. Only scant rumours had reached the Valley thus far regarding the events surrounding the downfall of Smaug, but already the folk of Rivendell were spinning songs to honour the victory of Gandalf’s rag-tag band of adventurers. Even now, high in the forest, the wood-elves were singing:

The dragon is withered,
His bones are now crumbled;
His armour is shivered,
His splendour is humbled!

There was a soft knock at the door. Elrond set down his pen and sat back, smiling expectantly. ‘Come,’ he said.

The door opened and Estel peered around it. His breathing was laboured and his eyes were shining. ‘Atarinya!’ he exclaimed. ‘Can you hear them?’

‘Yes, Estel, I can hear them,’ Elrond said, affecting a long-suffering expression. Inwardly he was laughing, revelling in the sight of his son. Over the winter Estel had recovered his full strength and vigour. The pallor was gone from his cheeks, and the shadows had faded from around his eyes. He would have regained his lost weight, save that he had spent it as swiftly as he had earned it as he achieved another inch and a half in height.

Though sword shall be rusted,
And throne and crown perish

‘A scout just arrived downstairs,’ Estel said breathlessly. Though is body was entirely healed there was a new look in his eyes; a new maturity. It was the wisdom that came with suffering. He was still a boy, but he was no longer a child. He now seldom suffered from nightmares, but when they came he would never complain. He was already developing calluses upon his heart, shielding himself from hurts and horrors that one so young should never have to bear. As much as it pained Elrond to think of such things, he knew that in the end such strength would serve him well. When the time came and he was again faced with the malice of the Enemy, he would be far better equipped to cope. It was a dreadful thought, but at the same time heartening. Not for naught had been the long months of misery.

With strength that men trusted
And wealth that they cherish,

‘A scout? Indeed?’

Estel nodded eagerly. ‘She said that Mithrandir has returned with the little one! The hobbit, I mean. They will reach the house soon!’

Elrond nodded. So Gandalf had returned at last. He had certainly taken his time about it: in the reckoning of the Shire it was the first of May. There were blossoms on the cherry trees, and the gardens were sprouting. Gilraen had been passing much of her time among the vegetables, tending them with care. As her kinsman had told Elladan, she needed occupation, and she seemed more contented now than she had in the nine years that Elrond had known her. At times he still spied a trace of jealousy in her eyes when Estel came to him with news of some accomplishment or other, but these incidents were increasingly rare.

‘They shall have such stories,’ Estel said wistfully. ‘Atarinya, might I... may I... Glorfindel said that there was no harm in asking...’

Here grass is still growing,
And leaves are yet swinging,
The white water flowing,
And elves are yet singing

That, at least, remained unchanged. Estel’s indomitable curiosity was as unconquerable as his courageous spirit. His thirst for learning had been rekindled with the return of uninterrupted sleep. He had started his first lessons in healing and the arts physic, and showed a marked aptitude for the subject. Furthermore, though he was still three years short of the age at which his father had first learned to hold a blade, it had been decided that the time was ripe for Estel to begin to study the art of swordplay. Glorfindel had been the chief proponent of this advancement of his education, and to Elrond’s astonishment Gilraen had agreed. Estel had not progressed much beyond learning how to hold a blade, but he was taking to these new lessons as naturally as he took to a new tongue. Soon his slender arms would grow hard with lean muscle. His shoulders would become strong and sure, and his gentle hands would learn how to mete out death with relentless efficiency.

‘Atarinya?’

Come! Tra-la-la-lally!
Come back to the Valley!

‘You wish to know if you may join the rest of the household tonight,’ Elrond said indulgently.

Estel nodded frenetically. ‘I am quite healthy; I would not draw attention to myself. I would sit very quietly in the shadows. Even Erestor would not know that I was present!’

Elrond turned his face towards the window, looking pensively out into the clement twilight.

The stars are far brighter
Than gems without measure,
The moon is far whiter
Than silver in treasure:

The household would gather tonight to hear the wizard’s tale. There were a great many unanswered questions, and Elrond realized for the first time that he had not asked Gandalf about his mishap in the mountains. In the haste and strain of the Council’s move against the Necromancer there had been no time to talk of such things. Nor had they had any opportunity to debrief one another – and it was likely that Gandalf had news of the situation in Mirkwood now that Sauron was banished. Yes, there was much to discuss.

‘Atarinya? Please?’ Estel persisted, but his voice was more hesitant now. He no longer believed that consent would be forthcoming.

The fire is more shining
On hearth in the gloaming
Than gold won by mining,
So why go a-roaming?
O! Tra-la-la-lally
Come back to the Valley!

It was a comfort to know that Estel still delighted in such simple things: a glimpse of a peculiar visitor, an evening in the Hall of Fire. He was growing up, but he was still young and merry. Elrond looked at his earnest expression as the hope began to waver in his eyes, and he smiled.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You may join us tonight, and you need not trouble yourself to stay out of sight. I imagine both of our guests will have considerations beyond studying you.’

Joy illuminated Estel’s face and he ran around the desk to embrace his father. ‘Atarinya, thank you! I shall be sublimely well-behaved, I promise!’

O! Where are you going,
So late in returning?
The river is flowing,
The stars are all burning!

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ Elrond said, holding back the laughter that sparkled in his eyes. There was nothing that brought more delight into the world than the merriment of one’s children. The dark portents of Estel’s uncertain future faded from conscious thought as Elrond reached to straighten the boy’s mantle. ‘Please do not badger Mr Baggins tonight. He will be weary after his long journey over the mountains, and there will be time enough for your questions in the days to come.’

‘Questions?’ Estel echoed.

‘If you do not believe that you will have questions, I cannot be so hopeful,’ Elrond said with amusement. There was little harm in allowing Estel to speak with the hobbit. He could always ask Gandalf to intercede upon the matter of secrecy... ‘All that I ask is that you refrain for a single night from interrogating our guest.’

‘I mean: shall I be allowed to ask him questions? Shall I be allowed to speak to him?’ pressed Estel.

Elrond nodded. ‘I can see no harm in it. It would be cruel to deprive you, I think. You may never have another opportunity to converse so closely with one of his race.’ The Little Folk distrusted Men in general. Rangers they would utterly revile.

O! Whither so laden,
So sad and so dreary?
Here elf and elf-maiden
Now welcome the weary

‘Thank you!’ Estel said eagerly. ‘I promise I shall not make a nuisance of myself. I promise that I will not overburden him with questions. I promise—’

‘Do not be so swift to make promises that you may not be able to keep,’ Elrond laughed. ‘At least when you were not sleeping through the night your tongue was curbed a little.’

Estel chuckled softly, shaking his head at the jibe. ‘I have all of my life to be sedate and silent,’ he teased. ‘I am only young for a short while!’

‘Yes,’ Elrond said softly, and upon the backs of his eyelids there appeared an image of a tall, grim-faced man clad in weatherworn rags, a broken sword at his side and a look of dogged determination in his keen grey eyes. ‘For a short while.’

‘Then let us go!’ Estel exclaimed gleefully, untroubled by such visions. He tugged at his father’s hand. ‘They will reach the house soon! We must hurry: it would never do for the master of the house to be late in greeting his guests!’

With Tra-la-la-lally
Come back to the Valley,
Tra-la-la-lally
Fa-la!

Elrond rose and followed his son. Together they descended the stairs and stepped out into the warm, fragrant evening, where the household was gathering to greet the two mounted figures drawing near beneath the beeches. Estel obediently stepped into the throng where he would not be so easily noticed, and Elrond strode forward as his guests reined in their mounts.

‘Welcome!’ he cried gladly, extending his arms in a gesture of greeting. ‘Welcome once more to Rivendell! Welcome once more to the Last Homely House.’

Bilbo Baggins snorted and straightened a little: he had been half dozing in the saddle. ‘Why thank you, certainly!’ he blustered. ‘Thank you, thank you! Though I must confess there were times when I never thought I’d pass this way again!’

‘Come now, Mr Baggins,’ Gandalf said as he dismounted; ‘that’s no way for a returning hero to talk. You must show the proper self-confidence!’

‘Returning hero?’ Glorfindel laughed. ‘Tell us your tale, Mithrandir, and let us be the judge of who is a hero and who is not!’

There was general laughter, and Elrond held up his hand for peace. ‘There will be plenty of time for tales,’ he said. ‘First let us sup: I daresay you could use a break from camp-fare.’

‘Oh, yes please!’ Bilbo said eagerly, rousing considerably at the prospect. ‘I’ve dreamed of your tables many a time since we left!’

This elicited more noises of mirth, and the assembly migrated into the house. Elrond sought out Estel with his eyes, enjoying the avid look upon the boy’s face as he studied the smaller of the guests. It occurred to him that tonight represented the end of a long and bitter year, and the dawn of a new and prosperous one. The dragon was slain and the treasure regained. The Necromancer was gone from the Greenwood, and soon the mountains would be safe again for a time. Estel was healed, wiser and stronger for his ordeal, and the Valley was jolly once more.

lar

Bilbo was eager to return home, and not even the hospitality of the Elves could induce him to tarry long. After only a week, it was decided that he and Gandalf should set out on the last leg of their journey. The household gathered to see them off with song and laughter, and their mounts picked their way up the steep slopes. It was a blustery day, and the clouds hung low. As they left Rivendell behind the rain began to fall.

‘Merry is May-time!’ said Bilbo, squinting against the driving shower. ‘But our back is to legends and we are coming home. I suppose this is the first taste of it.’

‘There is a long road yet,’ said Gandalf.

‘But it is the last road,’ said Bilbo.

They rode in silence for a while as the path wound down the hillside. Presently Gandalf slowed his horse, and fell into step beside the hobbit’s plump pony.

‘Speaking of legends,’ he said; ‘I imagine you will have quite the tale to tell when you return to the Shire.’

‘Dragon-treasure, wood-elves, mighty warriors – I daresay that I will!’ Bilbo said happily. He could already envision sitting by his fire and relating his adventures to his friends and relations. ‘Why, I shall be telling this story for years to come!’

‘Well, then, there is something we need to discuss, and I think it would be best to do it now, while we are still under the watchful eyes of Elrond’s folk,’ the wizard said gravely.

‘Oh. All right,’ said Bilbo, suddenly uneasy. He wondered what on earth could be so important in this late stage of their adventure that it had to be said while there were Elves about to guard them.

‘I noticed you were growing quite friendly with Master Elrond’s son.’

‘Young Estel? Oh, yes: he’s a delightful lad!’ Bilbo remarked happily. If that was all that Gandalf wanted to say, he was quite content. Certainly the Elf-lord had not seemed to mind his association with the youth. ‘It never occurred to me that Elves might have children, but I suppose they must come from somewhere: they don’t just spring up out of the grass like tulips, do they?’

‘Indeed they do not,’ Gandalf said coolly. ‘Now listen to me, and listen carefully, Mr Baggins. Elrond will not take kindly to having his family made the subject of gossip from Brandy Hall to Michel Delving. When you tell your tale, keep the boy out of it. Entirely out of it, do you understand me?’ Gandalf fixed Bilbo with a very stern gaze indeed. ‘If I hear tell of any rumour of your encounter with the young son of Elrond, you will find me most disagreeable to deal with. I am terrible in my wrath, and you do not want to test me on this.’

Bilbo was startled by the commanding light in the wizard’s eyes. ‘I—I understand,’ he squeaked. ‘Of course I understand. I would never want to insult Master Elrond. I won’t say anything about the child: I promise.’

Gandalf’s expression softened considerably. ‘See that you don’t,’ he said. Then he clicked his tongue and his horse picked up its pace.

After a moment, Bilbo went on, talking more to himself than to his travelling companion. ‘Of course dwarves, and dragons, and trolls, and goblins, and daring escapes from underground dungeons are one thing: they come into all sorts of stories. But a handsome young boy, eleven years old and already a head taller than me, who speaks Elvish like a prince, as pretty as you please, and who beat me at quoits?’ He chuckled to himself, shaking his head ruefully. ‘Why, no one would ever believe me!’

metta

(Or, as the Shire-folk have it)

The End