Author’s Note:  This story picks up two years after the conclusion of my story “While Hope Lasts” and incorporates plot lines and original characters from that tale.  However, it should also stand on its own (hopefully).  The original characters and their relationships will be (gradually) explained in-text.  It is a two-shot, and the second chapter should be posted in a couple of days.

Special thanks to Cairistiona who went above and beyond the call of duty and really pushed me to make this piece better.

T.A. 2935

Estel ran to the edge of the balcony and pressed his face against the wrought iron.  There were horses and Men in the courtyard.  He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but, no, these had to be Men.  He’d never seen an Elf with that strange, scruffy sort of hair on their chins.  He grabbed the railing and strained up on tippy-toes, trying to see over the top of it, but it was too high.

He was, after all, only four years old.

Giving up on seeing over the railing, he tried to stick his head through one of the gaps to get a better look, but it was no good.  This was Mama’s balcony, after all.  He couldn’t fit his whole upper body through the gaps, like he could with the delicate bannisters found elsewhere in the Last Homely House.  No, this was the big railing—the one Mama had insisted they put in special after the last time she’d caught Estel leaning over to watch the birds in the trees below.

No matter.  They were clopping through the gate, coming more fully into view—four Men on shaggy horses.  They were dirty—both the Men and the horses—which Estel quite approved of.  Elves and his naneth bathed entirely too much.  They said Estel would be a Man someday, so Estel couldn’t wait to tell them that Men, apparently, didn’t have to take baths.  The lead-most rider shifted in his saddle, and Estel saw something that made him grin and clap his hands in delight.

They had a boy with them.  A small child with hair cropped close to his scalp sat in front of the tallest rider, petting the horse’s neck absently.  The tall rider squeezed the child’s shoulder and then swung down from the saddle.

On the other side of the courtyard, a door swung open and Estel’s ada emerged.  Ada’s face was strangely serious as he approached the men and spoke quietly to the lead rider.  The man responded in grunts and monosyllabic replies, which was just rude, but then he turned and lifted the child from the saddle.  As the Man hoisted the child down, Estel realized the other boy was far older than he.  How old?  Seven?  Eight, even?  Estel was admittedly not the best judge, but that was almost grown.  

Yet, for some reason, the Man did not set the boy down on his feet.  Instead, he settled him in his arms as the boy reached up to wrap his own arms around the Man’s neck.  Ada said something and held out his hands, but the Man did not give the boy to the Elf.  In fact, his arms seemed to tighten around the child.  Ada sighed, his face taking on that long-suffering expression, like it had when Estel had told him that he wanted to be the first person in Arda to tame a dragon.

Then Ada gestured for the Men to follow him as Elhadron and Merendor came forward to take their horses to the stables.  A moment later, they disappeared into the other side of the house, where the guest quarters were.

Estel turned and ran back along the balcony and around the house as fast as his legs could carry him.  He found his naneth at the work bench in her garden, grinding up some leaves with a mortar and whatever that little club-like thing was called.

He grabbed the edge of the table, and Mama quickly pulled a bottle of oil out of his reach.  “Nana,” he said in breathless Sindarin, “There’s a boy in the courtyard.”

His naneth didn’t look up.  “There’s a what?”

Oh, right, he was supposed to speak Westron with Mama.  Estel screwed up his face and tried again.  “There’s a boy in the courtyard.  Or, there was.  Ada took him into the house.”

Mama’s face was absent as she set the ground-up leaf-mush aside and began to shred bits of bark into tiny, even pieces.  “That’s not a boy, Estel.  It’s a girl.”

Estel blinked.  He knew, of course, that girls turned into Women like boys turned into Men, but he couldn’t recall ever actually meeting one.  He was sure Mama was wrong, though; he’d seen pictures of girls in Erestor’s library, and they hadn’t looked anything like this child.

He gave his naneth a scandalized look.  “He had hair shorter than mine!”

Mama still was not impressed.  “Then she must have cut it.”

“He was wearing breeches and a shirt.  No dress, no ribbons.”

“I wear breeches when I ride horses.  Does that mean I’m not a Woman?”

Estel cocked his head.  It was true—he’d seen her riding Rohiridan.  Occasionally, if she was in a good mood, she would even let him sit in front of her much like the . . . child sat in front of the Man.  And while the Elleths he’d known usually rode sidesaddle in their skirts, maybe girls and Women were different?

He still wasn’t quite convinced.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Her name is Laleth and she is here to get well.”

“Ada’s going to heal him?”

“He will try to heal her.”  

“Can I watch?”

Mama finally turned away from her herbs and gave him a sharp look.  “No, Estel, that girl has troubles enough.  You are not to bother her or your adar.”

Estel hung his head and nodded.

Not that he planned to obey.

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Estel tip-toed down the hall, silent as an Elf on his bare feet.  Mama would be cross if she knew he’d taken his shoes off again, but it was nearly May—which was practically summer—so what was the harm?  He’d just have to stuff his feet back in the uncomfortable things before he went back to Mama’s rooms.  And find someone to retie the laces.

And it was worth feeling cold stone under his toes to be able to slip down the corridors of the guest wing, so quiet even Ada’s sharp ears didn’t pick up his footfalls, until he lurked in the shadow of an old statue right outside the room Ada used for healing.  The oaken door stood slightly ajar, but Estel knew he’d not be spotted.  The hallway was shadowy and grave, after all, and Ada insisted that the room beyond always be filled with light.  Right now, the large bay windows stood open, with a soft breeze ruffling the gauzy curtains, making the sunlight that filtered through them ripple like water.  The light washed over the warm, plaster walls and the rich wood of the furniture and the white linens of the bed that sat by the window.

The child lay in the bed, looking utterly peaceful.  Estel could see the child’s face—could see its stillness, the closed eyes and slightly open mouth.  The child could almost have been dead, but Estel knew better.  Ada often made people sleep while he healed them; he said that was how bodies put themselves back together.  Ada himself leaned over the bed now, one long-fingered hand resting on the child’s knee.  Another tall figure stood beside him.  Estel couldn’t see that one’s face, but he guessed it was the Man from the courtyard—the one who had carried the child.

“She has been like this for two years?”  That was Ada’s voice, and he could only be talking about the child in the bed.  So, it was a girl.  Estel would have to remember to apologize to Mama.  And then he’d have to tell Erestor that his storybooks were wrong about girls.

“She is much improved,” the Man’s voice was defensive, like Estel’s had been that time when he tried to explain how it really wasn’t his fault that he’d taken those caramels, but the cook just wouldn’t listen.  “The right leg healed almost entirely within a few months.  It is only the left that remains infirm.”

“And how long has that injury gone without improvement?  Six months?  Eight?”  Estel couldn’t see Ada’s face, but he knew what it must look like:  tight and tense with his lips pressed together until they went white around the edges.  He knew, because that was the tone of voice Ada used sometimes when Estel finds him in his study poring over reports about orcs and monsters far away.  It’s what he sounds like when he tells Estel that everything is well and that he’s not angry even though it’s as clear as daylight that he is but if Estel says so, Ada will only give a strained smile and say ‘Not at you, ion-nîn.’

“A year.”  The Man’s voice was quiet.  Perhaps he suspected what Estel knew about Ada’s state of mind.

“A year.”  Ada repeated the words slowly, as if in disbelief.  “Twelve months or more she made no progress.  Twenty-five since her injury.  And with each day, her body gave up a little more on the thought of repairing itself.”

The Man stayed silent, which was probably smart.

After a moment, Ada let out a sigh that was more like a hiss.  “You should have brought her much sooner, Arandur.  It needn’t have gone this far.”

The Man—Arandur—suddenly tensed.  “It was made clear to me,” he said, nearly matching Ada’s dangerous tone, “That a Dúnedain presence in Imladris could only rouse suspicion.”

Ada’s shoulders slumped a little and his voice grew quieter.  “We could have made arrangements.  There was no need for other children to suffer.”

Other children?  Estel cocked his head and tried to edge closer for a better look into the room.  Unfortunately, his eagerness made him step right into the statue which turned out not to be a statue at all, but a suit of armor that someone had left standing in the hallway for some reason.  It clattered and rattled and Ada turned.

“Estel!”

The boy winced, but it was no use pretending it wasn’t his fault.  That was the problem with being the only child in Rivendell—loud sounds and unexpected disturbances and mysterious broken things were always his fault.  He pushed the door open timidly and stood studying his bare feet.

Ada sighed, but he didn’t seem angry.  Not really.  “Estel, if you’re going to eavesdrop, you may as well greet our guest properly.”

Estel bit his lip, trying to remember the greetings he’d been taught.  He managed a jerky approximation of a bow.  “Welcome to Imladris, Master Arandur.”  His Westron was almost perfect.  Mama would be proud.  He looked at Ada and added, “What’s ‘eavesdrop’ mean?”

“It means listening in on your elders when you are supposed to be doing something else.  Like brushing your pony, for instance?”

Estel ducked his head guiltily.

“And it’s Lord Arandur,” Ada added, his voice almost absent.

“Lord?”  Estel perked up and inspected the Man with renewed interest.  “What are you lord of?  Do you have a fortress?  Can I come see it?”

“Estel!”

He closed his mouth before he could ask a hundred other questions.  “Sorry, Ada.”  He looked at the Man.  “Sorry, Lord Arandur.”

To his surprise, Arandur was now studying Estel with at least as much interest as Estel had shown for him.  There was a strange expression on his face—one that fell somewhere between wonder and grief.  “That’s alright.”  His voice was slightly stunned, as if he’d just hit his head on something hard.  Estel shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

At that moment, Elrohir arrived at a run.  “I’m sorry, Adar!” he said, catching the doorframe to stop himself, “I swear I only let him out of my sight for a moment!”

Ada was smiling now.  “It’s quite alright, ion-nîn, your brother is quite the escape artist.  But, if you would . . . ?”

“Of course,” Elrohir reached down to scoop Estel up, “Come along, Estel, it’s time we were off to the stables.”

Estel found that he was not unhappy to go; the odd look in Arandur’s eyes made him uncomfortable.  “’Ro,” he said brightly, as he wound his arms around the Elf’s neck, “Did you know that the storybooks are wrong about girls?”

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Elrohir was more careful after that.  In fact, everybody was more careful—Mama and Elladan and Ada and Erestor and all of Estel’s occasional tutors kept him very busy.  There were letters to learn and figures, too, and once he learned how to brush his pony he got to ride him.  There were walks in the garden with Mama and imaginary dragons to slay (or tame) with ‘Ro and evenings in the Hall of Fire where he couldn’t scream or run around, but if he sat quietly and was good Glorfindel would tell a story so exciting it made Estel’s heart sing.  And Elladan and Elrohir stayed home for weeks without ever leaving Estel to go fight “real” monsters in the forest.

But, Estel never saw the girl and caught only a few glimpses of the scowling Man.  He’d watched and waved as the other three Men got back on their horses and rode off into the wild only a day after arriving.  The other Man—Lord Arandur—mostly stayed in the guest wing where the girl was and where Estel was not allowed to go.

Sometimes he would catch Mama staring wistfully out the window, but she would never tell him what was wrong.

But, he never forgot about the strange child with the close-cropped hair and he never stopped looking for an opportunity to meet her properly.  So, when a servant interrupted Estel’s writing lesson with a dusty old book that made Erestor’s face light up, Estel saw his chance.  Sure enough, the Elf turned away from Estel’s clumsily-written Tengwar and took the tome.  He was muttering excitedly—something about “hand-scripted first editions”—and took no notice as Estel quietly put his slate aside.  As Erestor pored over his newly-arrived treasure, the boy tiptoed out of the library, hardly daring to breathe.

Once he was safely out in the hallway, he broke into a run—not his fastest run, since he still had a habit of careening into walls when he ran full tilt, but a quick trot.  His luck held; the corridors between the library and the guest wing were empty and all the doors were unlocked.  Lord Arandur was nowhere to be seen.

He pushed open the door to the girl’s room.  Three weeks had wrought a great change in the room beyond.  Fresh-cut flowers sat on the windowsill, but that was the only part of the chamber that was tidy.  The bed clothes lay in a rumpled heap at the foot of the bed, as if she had thrown or kicked them off.  A few small toys sat on the bedside table—dolls and wooden animals and the like—but a larger number lay in strange heaps against the far wall along with an empty drop spindle and an untouched needlepoint.  A pair of crutches rested against the wall.  They were just like the ones Ada had made for Mama that time when she stepped in a rabbit hole, except much smaller.

The girl herself was no longer sleeping, yet for a moment, Estel wasn’t sure that she was truly awake either.  She lay flat on her back with her arms folded across her chest.  Her eyes were open and fixed on the arched beams of the ceiling.  Estel wondered whether maybe Mama was wrong and Mannish children could dream-walk with their eyes open as the Elves did.  Except, he’d never seen Elladan or Elrohir wear that sort of angry scowl while they walked in dreams.  For a moment, Estel wondered whether he should turn around, run back to the library, and try to sneak in before Erestor realized he was gone.

Instead, he bounced over to the bed with a smile and tugged on the sleeve of the girl’s nightgown.  

“Hi!  I’m Estel.  What’s your name?”

She blinked and tugged her arm away.  “Laleth.”  Her voice was dull and flat.

Estel cocked his head.  That was a pretty enough name, he supposed, but it meant “laughter,” and he couldn’t think of anyone less likely to laugh than the dead-eyed girl before him.  That didn’t seem like the sort of thing he should say though. 

His eyes lit on a book that lay beside the bed.  He snatched it up eagerly and rifled through the pages.  This was not a stuffy “hand-scripted first edition” like Erestor’s precious tome, but a proper storybook.  The pictures were fewer and further between than he was used to, but made up for that by their beauty.  There were delicate pencil sketchings of swords and bows and expansive ink drawings of mountains and armies and leering monsters.  The words were in Westron, but he knew all the letters anyway.  Well, almost all the letters.

“Will you read to me?” he asked brightly, “Mama says by the time I’m as big as you I’ll be able to read anything, but I don’t think I wanna learn because then who will read to me?  Will you?”

She snatched the book from his hands and hugged it to her chest.  “No.”  She still hadn’t looked away from the ceiling.  Estel glanced up to see if maybe there was something interesting up there.  It looked like the same old beams and plaster to him.

Estel bit his lip, but then shrugged.  Maybe Laleth didn’t like books.  He pulled a large marble out of his pocket.  “You want to play ringer with me?  I’ve got an extra shooter you can borrow.”

She looked at him for the first time.  Except it wasn’t a look but more of a glare.  “I can’t!” she snarled.  Drawing up her right leg, she kicked away the thin sheet that covered her.

Estel’s eyes went wide.  Her left leg, from hip to ankle, was bound in a bulky splint with strips of wood and stiff, white bandages.  This was much worse than when Mama had turned her ankle in the rabbit hole.  He dropped the marble onto the sheets and peered at the girl’s leg.  “Does it hurt?”

Laleth was scowling at the ceiling again, her face even more pinched than before.  Her voice, though, was rising and losing its flat tone.  “Leave me alone!”

“But I wanna help!”  Estel cried, “Maybe I can make it better!  I wanna try!”

“No!” she snapped.  Snatching up his marble, she threw it over his head, so hard it left a dent in the wall before falling into a pile of other discarded toys.  “Go away!  I don’t want you here!  You’re not my brother!!”  

Estel stumbled back a few steps and fell on his butt with a thud.  He stared up at Laleth, confused and hurt by her sudden outburst.  “Of course I’m not . . .”

But, she wasn’t looking at him.  She wasn’t looking at the ceiling anymore either.  Her eyes were screwed shut and her face twisted like a crying infant’s.  Though her jaw was clenched tight, she began to scream—a sound that started high like a wounded animal’s cry but quickly turned into a wail.

The hallway suddenly rang with footsteps that sounded as heavy as a troll’s.  Even as her cry grew in volume, Laleth picked up the book and pitched it after the marble.  The source of the pounding steps—not a troll, but Lord Arandur—rounded the corner just as the volume crashed into the wall.  Estel scrambled to his feet as the Man pushed past him to reach the girl.  Laleth had begun to thrash wildly, the sheets twisting around her.  Quickly, Arandur sat and pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her upper body to hold her tight.  She continued to fight and kick and make those terrible keening sounds.

Just as Estel was beginning to panic, his ada rounded the corner with no less speed than Arandur, but a far lighter tread.  “What has happened?” Ada asked, his voice quick, but low.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Arandur growled, his harsh tone standing in stark contrast to the gentle way he was stroking Laleth’s hair, “She’s having another fit.”

Without another word, Ada strode over to a cabinet in the corner, put a key in the lock, and opened it to reveal jars of herbs, oils, and salves.  Estel ran to him and tugged on the hem of his tunic.  “Ada?  What’s happening, Ada?  Is Laleth alright?  I’m sorry, Ada, I just wanted to make it better.  Can’t I help?  Ada?”

“Elrond!  This is no place for the boy.” Arandur snapped.

“Not now, Estel,” Ada said more softly, but just as tersely, “Just go.”

Estel backed away, his eyes filling with tears.  Turning, he ran from the room—ran full tilt, not even caring when he banged his shoulder against the doorjamb.  He raced down the hallway and out a side door and kept running until he reached his secret place where no adults ever found him.  The chestnut tree at the edge of the forest was ancient—as old as Elladan and Elrohir, maybe.  Estel squeezed into the hollow in the trunk and pressed himself back into the cramped, dark space.  The smell of earth was all around him—a comfort.  He breathed deep and tried to stifle his tears.

It was a long time before he succeeded.

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The afternoon was waning before Estel finally ventured out of his hiding place.  The grounds were quiet.  For once, no one seemed to be searching for him.

His nose was still running.  He wiped it on his sleeve.

Laleth scared him.  She was bigger than he was.  He’d seen the dent his marble had left in the hard plaster of the wall.  If she’d thrown it at him instead, it would have hurt.

And he still didn’t understand what was wrong.

He sniffed.  The trouble was, the Men in stories never ran away from the things that scared them—never hid in chestnut trees.  They faced the scary things.  Head on, as ‘Dan would say.

He spent the whole walk back to the guest wing wishing that someone would come along to chide him for giving Erestor the slip and haul him back to his room.  But, no one did, so he had to keep going.

He stopped in the shadow of the suit of armor.  This was far enough, surely.  The door was latched, but if he pressed his eye against the keyhole, he could make out tall shapes moving within.  Laleth lay still once more.  Ada leaned over her, doing something to her leg while Arandur paced back and forth, back and forth.

The screaming had stopped, for which Estel was immensely grateful.

If he listened closely, he could just make out Ada’s voice.

“You can take your ease, Arandur.  She will sleep for a few hours more.”

“I’ll stay.”  The words were said in the grunting tone that seemed to be Arandur’s default.

After a moment, Ada spoke again, his voice even quieter than before.  “She has not damaged the leg—only knocked the splint loose and twisted the padding.  The bone grows stronger by the day.”  He sighed.  “But the soul-sickness . . .”

“I know,” Arandur said woodenly, “Nothing you can do.”

“I didn’t say that.”  Ada sounded a little miffed.  “But, it will be a long road back, if she manages it at all.  It would be easier if Laleth had family around her.  Her mother ought to be here.”

“She has two other small children who also need her.”

“Yes, her twins are a year older than Estel, are they not?  They could all dwell here for a season.  It would be good for my foster son to have playmates.”

“Lothiriel is to wed Belegion in a few weeks’ time.”

“Her dead husband’s brother?”  Ada sounded disapproving.  “Is that proper?”

“It’s not unheard of,” Arandur’s words were defensive, though Estel was not sure what for.  “She is a free woman and may wed whomever she likes.”

“Of course, it’s merely a shame for Laleth.  It is difficult,” his words were now quite pointed, “To be isolated from one’s family for so long.”

Arandur growled something unintelligible.

“Have you spoken to your sister?” Ada prompted gently.

“Gilraen and I have said all there is to be said,” Arandur snapped.

Estel’s eyes widened.  ‘Gilraen’ was Mama’s name!

“You opposed bringing the boy here,” Ada said quietly, “You are hurt that your sister went against you.  But, will you allow that to stand forever between you?”

“I have supported her decision.”

“Yes, you have leant her your authority, as acting-chieftain,” Ada said, “But, perhaps she needs a brother’s love more than a chieftain’s support.”

“You go too far, Master Elrond,” Arandur said, his voice low and angry, “It is my family that you speak of.”

Ada was silent for a long time.

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Estel stirred as a gentle hand brushed through his curls.  He opened his eyes and blinked blearily.  Had he fallen asleep?  He slowly uncurled from where he’d lain, nestled against the wall at the base of the armor display.

Ada knelt beside him, carding his fingers through Estel’s hair.  Without a word, he scooped the boy up and stood.

“Wha’ time is it?” Estel asked as his arms came up to encircle Ada’s neck.

“Nearly suppertime,” he responded quietly.

Estel buried his head in the Elf’s shoulder.  “Ada,” he began tremulously, “I’m sorry.”

Ada shifted Estel to his hip as he began to walk towards the boy’s rooms.  “Whatever for?”

“I didn’t mean to upset her.  Laleth.  Jus’ wanted to see what she was like.”

Ada let out a soft sigh.  “It was not your fault, child.  Nor hers.  She is sick at heart.”

Estel pressed his face against a silk tunic.

He asked no more questions.  

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Mama dumped one more cup of water over his head and then held out a large towel.  As quick as a cat, but not quite as gracefully, Estel hopped out of the tub and burrowed into the soft linen.  If, in the process, he splashed a bit of water on Mama’s gown, he considered that fair turnaround.

“Mama,” he said for perhaps the dozenth time, “How come I have to take baths, but Lord Arandur doesn’t?”

“Arandur has taken many baths since he arrived,” she repeated wearily.  As she toweled off Estel’s hair, she added, “And, someday when you’ve spent weeks in the wilds far from any bathtub, as he has, you’ll appreciate bathing a bit more.”

Estel made a face.  “Nuh uh!”

But, he could tell from her face that she was unwilling to take up the debate.

There was something different about Mama—a strange weariness.  Estel had seen it growing for weeks.  Her face was tight, like she was wary and sad and tired all at once.  Her voice had nearly caught when she said the name ‘Arandur.’

“Mama,” he said, “Ada said Arandur is a lord.  What’s he lord of?  Can I go see his castle?”

“He doesn’t have a castle,” Mama said absently, “He comes from one of the Dúnedain villages across the Bruinen.”

Estel sighed.  When grown-ups said ‘across the Bruinen,’ they just meant ‘really far away.’  “But, if he’s a lord, how come he was in the wilds?”

“He had to bring Laleth here.”

“But, why?  Is she his son?”

“Girls are daughters, not sons.”

“Daughters?”

“Ieldnath.  Not ionnath.”

“Oh.  Is she his daughter?”

“No.  He simply feels responsible for her.”

Estel bit his lip.  ‘Responsible’ was one of those tricky Westron words.  Sometimes it meant one thing, sometimes the opposite.  Mama didn’t think Estel was responsible enough to not break her favorite vase, but if he did break it, then he would be responsible for that.  It was very confusing.  But, as far as he could remember, responsible was something you were, not something you felt.  “How come?”

“Never you mind.”  Mama tried to usher him out into the bedroom, but Estel twisted away.

“How come you get that look when you talk about Arandur?  Does he make you sad?”

“Never you mind.”  Her voice was now distant, but the pinched look was more distinct than ever.  Estel hated seeing that look on Mama’s face.  He turned away and darted into the bedchamber.

Some of Mama’s supplies were strewn across the counter under the window—the oils and salves she made, the bandages she wove for Ada.  Estel ran to the counter, grabbed a short length of bandage material, and twisted it into a ring.  Draping the towel around himself like fine robes, he climbed up onto Mama’s bed and placed the linen on top of his damp curls.  Giggling, he turned to her as water dripped down onto her bedclothes.  “Look, Mama, I’m a king!”

She laughed as she swept him up in her arms and held him close.  “Yes.  Yes you are.”

But, even her laughter sounded sad.

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The next morning found him sitting outside Laleth’s room once more, trying to spin a small top.  When the door creaked open, he quickly forgot the toy.  Arandur stepped out, his face drawn.

“Are you her ada?”

Estel’s question seemed to take the Man by surprise.  His face flashed with that strange, pained yet awed expression he’d worn when he first seen Estel.  “Of course not,” he said after a moment, “Her father is dead.”

Estel looked back down at the top in his hands.  “Yeah,” he said, “So’s my papa.”

“I am sorry.”

There was a hitch to Arandur’s voice.  Estel looked up at him inquisitively.  “Maybe you are her ada,” he suggested, “Adas take care of you.  Even if you haven’t got a papa anymore.”

Arandur swallowed hard.  He knelt before Estel and met his eyes.  “And does your ada take care of you, child?”

Estel flashed a smile.  “Of course.  He’s Ada.”

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That night, Estel was allowed to stay in the Hall of Fire until far past his bedtime.  He sat on the hearth and played with his wooden knights while the Elves sang songs and told story after story.  Unusually, Ada contributed by regaling Estel with tales of dragons and their misdeeds.

He seemed determined to impress upon Estel that dragons were not to be tamed.  

For hours, Mama did not appear to spirit Estel away.

When, at last, she came, her eyes were red, but the tension was gone from her face.  She picked Estel up and squeezed him tight—almost too tight.  Estel wiggled for a moment, then stilled and patted her shoulder.  “What’s wrong, Mama?”

She sniffed and swallowed hard.  Estel felt her smile.  She’d been crying, but for the first time in weeks, she didn’t seem sad.

“Nothing, my baby,” she murmured, “Nothing at all.”

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Estel bounded through the garden, his arms outstretched, the hem of his traveling cloak clutched in sweaty hands.  He was flying!  Flying like Eärendil through the sky!  The leafy branch tucked in the back of his collar was actually Vingilot’s mast, and the flapping wool in his hands made its shining sails.  The bits of mulch and gravel that flew before his feet were all the hosts of Morgoth.  

A flash of color caught his eye.  He skidded to a stop so fast he almost fell over.  Vingilot’s sails fluttered to the ground to land among the hosts of Morgoth, all of them forgotten for the moment.

In a neat flowerbed beneath the cherry trees, there grew a stand of irises almost as tall as Estel.  The green stems stood straight and proud, like soldiers at attention, capped with purple blossoms like intricate helmets.  All but one.

At the very edge of the bed drooped a flower with a bent and broken stem.  Careless feet—most likely Estel’s—had trod on it before its petals had ever had a chance to open.  Somehow it bloomed, nonetheless, though the stem had healed crookedly such that the delicate satin petals lay limp on the ground.  Insects had nibbled at the blossom until it lost its furled scrollwork.

Estel plucked the flower gently from the base, taking only the blossom so that the leaves could live again.  He held it up in front of his face, letting it swing slowly back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.  The bugs had chewed tiny tears into the petals.  They fluttered and drooped like rags.

Or, depending on how you looked at it, like ribbons.

It was beautiful, to Estel’s eyes.

When Laleth finally awoke, she found a ragged flower on her bedside table.

TBC

Author’s Note:  Hope you enjoyed!  There will be one more chapter to this tale, which will incorporate several time jumps and will focus more on Laleth and her recovery.  Reviews of all kinds are deeply appreciated.    

A/N:  Big thanks to Cairistiona, without whom this chapter would be a mess.

T.A. 2937

Estel padded down the corridor.  He’d not yet managed to convince Ada and Mama that six was plenty old enough to go wherever he liked.  But, Ada’s people hadn’t gotten any better at locking their doors.

And it wasn’t like he wanted to bother anyone; it was just that Laleth was back for a month after almost a year away.  He wanted to see her.  Maybe this time if she wouldn’t read to him, he could read to her.

He pushed open the door to her room and found her sitting propped against her headboard.  There was something small and silver in her hand.  Her hair was longer, reaching almost to the point of her shoulder.  As he watched, though, she took a lock of hair, brought the small, silver thing to it, and—snip—the lock fell to the floor.

“Hello!” he said brightly, stepping forward.  She merely glanced at him and grunted, but that was better than yelling, so Estel would take it.  As he neared her bed, he realized that the little silver thing was actually a very small knife.  With it, she was cutting away bits of hair.

Estel wasn’t allowed to touch knives.  They were sharp and could cut you.  They were only for grownups, but Laleth wasn’t a grownup, for all that she was much bigger than him.

“What’cha doing?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him.  “Cutting my hair.”

“Why?”

She rolled her eyes.  “It’s too long.”

This seemed like the kind of thing Mama would disapprove of—after all, she hadn’t been happy that time when Estel cut a hole in his shirt with Ada’s scissors.  He ought to tell a grownup that Laleth was playing with knives.

Instead, he said “Can I try?”

She looked at him, surprised, but after a moment, she wordlessly held out the knife.  He took it by the handle, being careful not to cut himself.  Experimentally, he pulled one of his curls straight and lifted the knife, but Laleth grabbed his wrist.  “Not yours, stupid!  You’ll get in trouble!”  She held out her own hair instead, and Estel tentatively nicked a piece off.  It fluttered to the ground and he laughed.  When she didn’t take the knife back, he cut another piece—a little longer this time.

“Did Lord Arandur come with you?”

She shook her head, and Estel hastily pulled the blade away, afraid of cutting her.  “He couldn’t.  His wife just had a baby.”

Estel stared.  “Lord Arandur has a wife?”

“Of course he does!”

“But he’s so . . . grumpy.  Married people are happy, right?”

Laleth didn’t respond except to shrug.  After a moment, she said, “They named him Halbarad.  The baby.”

“Pretty name,” Estel said, taking another lock of hair.

“Yes,” Laleth said, her voice a little sad, “It sounds like . . .”

But, Estel never learned what ‘Halbarad’ sounded like, because at that moment, his mama rounded the doorway and saw him with a knife in his hand.

“Estel!”

He sprang back and dropped the blade to the floor.  “It’s not my fault!” he yelled, “She made me!”

“I did not!” Laleth yelled back at twice the volume, “You little . . .”

“Enough!”  The girl fell silent at Mama’s voice, and the Woman quickly snatched up the knife and placed herself between the two children.  “Estel?” she said calmly, “Would you like to tell me something?”

He looked up at her, ready to explain how it wasn’t his fault because she was doing it first, and he only wanted to cut his own hair . . . but, no, Mama was wearing that expression.  Eyebrows slightly lifted, face expectant.  He stared at the floor.  “I just wanted to play with it,” he said sullenly, “So, she let me cut some of her hair.”

“So, when you said she made you, that was a lie?”

It wasn’t really a question.  “Yes, Mama.”

“Then, do you have something to say?”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Uh, uh, not to me, young man,” she chided, “I wasn’t the one you tried to get in trouble.”

Estel pulled a face, but looked up at the other child.  “I’m sorry, Laleth.”

But, the girl wasn’t wearing the patient expression that Mama and Ada and his brothers always wore when he apologized.  She was still glaring at Estel, her expression murderous.

Estel was suddenly very glad that the knife was in Mama’s hands rather than Laleth’s.  He moved to hide, just a little, behind his mother.

But, Mama never let him stay afraid.  After a moment, she drew him out from behind her and took his hand.  Approaching the bed, she sat beside the girl and made Estel sit on her other side.  With one arm over her son, she ran her other hand through the girl’s hair.  “Quite a mess you two have made of it.”

Laleth merely scowled at her.

Mama sighed.  “Well, let’s trim the ends so they’re even and pretty.  Would that be alright, Laleth?”

The girl considered.  Reluctantly, she nodded.

So, Mama pulled a small pair of scissors out of the sash at her waist.  While Estel burrowed into her other side, she pulled Laleth against her and began to slowly, delicately, trim the girl’s hair until it just brushed her chin.  When it was done, she ran a gentle hand over the child’s head.  “There.  Now, don’t you look beautiful.”

Estel was nearly asleep, but he roused a little as a small tremor ran through Mama’s body, as if a small child had suddenly thrown herself into her arms.  A moment later, he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke an hour later, Mama was still sitting there, still as a statue, with two children in her arms.

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T.A. 2940

A bay mare arched her neck and snorted as she cantered around the training ring.  Estel sank deeper into his stirrups and resisted the urge to grab the pommel of the saddle.  Begilaith was a proper horse, not a pony, and Estel still wasn’t used to her strides—they felt so much bigger than he was used to.

He wasn’t about to let Elladan know that, though.

“Flying lead change at the serpentine,” ‘Dan called out, his voice entirely too cheerful.  Estel tried not to grit his teeth as he guided Begilaith through a figure-eight using only his legs.  Mounted warriors in battle did not always have the luxury of steering with hands on the reins.  Or, so Elladan was always reminding Estel whenever he complained about equitation training.

Bend her around the inside leg . . . stride . . . stride . . . switch.  He brought his right leg forward and his left leg back and gave her side a little squeeze.  Begilaith stretched through her neck and back and changed her lead.  Estel breathed again.

This wasn’t so bad.  The little mare was sensitive, but trusting.  She would respond easily if Estel would just relax and stop reaching for a bridle that wasn’t there.

“Heels down,” Elladan ordered, “If you’re going to use that saddle, at least sit it properly.”  Estel stretched his calves.  He didn’t fancy trying to do these intricate maneuvers bereft of saddle and bridle both.

Out beyond the training ring, he glimpsed a mounted party rounding the side of the house.  As his mount rounded another corner with ease, he spared a moment to squint out at the newcomers.  The sun was in his eyes, but from the stocky build of the horses, he could tell that these were no Elven mounts.  They walked in a loose but recognizable formation, bearing four tall figures and a fifth rider, more slight than the others.  Rangers escorting a child.

Laleth was back.

Estel sighed as he guided Begilaith around another corner.  Laleth was far from the only outsider to seek healing in Rivendell, but she was the most frequent.  The strange girl had been in and out of the Last Homely House once or twice a year for as long as he could remember.  Sometimes she stayed for but a week, sometimes for months on end.  Sometimes Ada performed an operation on her twisted leg, other times he treated her with oils and salves and splints of all shapes and sizes.  Her legs had been injured somehow when she was small, and now they were growing unevenly, leaving her with a stiff, awkward gait.    She was what Ada called “a difficult case.”

Estel found her difficult for other reasons.  He’d tried his hardest to be friendly with her, those first few times she visited, and she had soundly punished him for it.  The girl seemed to vacillate endlessly between openly hostile and merely sullen.

But, it had been years since she’d thrown anything at him, so their relationship was going rather well.

Begilaith snorted suddenly, and only then did Estel realize he’d let his mind wander at cost to his mount.  His eyes widened.  He hastened to correct his mistake, but the attempt only threw him further off balance.  Begilaith turned sharply to avoid a fence that was suddenly only a few feet away and Estel tumbled gracelessly to the dirt.

For a moment, he simply laid there, his eyes squeezed shut.  The thud of Begilaith’s retreating hooves slowed.  After a moment, she turned, trotted back to him, and lowered her head to lip at his jacket as if to say “what did you do that for?”

Fair question, Estel decided as he reluctantly opened his eyes and checked that all his limbs were still in the right places.  Apparently, it hadn’t been enough that he’d nearly ridden the mare into a fence through negligence.  No, just to put the finishing touch on his perfect day, he’d had to overcorrect and go careening to the ground like a five-year-old attempting his first canter. 

He sensed, more than heard, Elladan’s approach.  “That was quite the display of horsemanship.  Are you all in one piece, little brother?”

Estel scowled.  Grabbing a handful of dirt, he threw it in his brother’s general direction.  Unfortunately, he misjudged his aim, and a handful of pebbles caught Begilaith in the hocks.  The mare shied, snorted, and trotted away to seek more pleasant company on the other side of the ring.

“Now, now,” Elladan chided, sounding amused and perhaps a touch relieved, “It’s hardly her fault that you were taking a little break up there.”  Estel glared at ‘Dan, but accepted the offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.  He much regretted this display of magnanimity, though, when Elladan added, “Go make up.  Clearly, we’ve some work yet to do.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Estel saw his worse fears realized.  The Ranger company had drawn closer—close enough to make out not only what had happened, but who it had happened to.  Several of the Men were laughing or shaking their heads.  The slight figure he’d glimpsed before was, indeed, Laleth.  Naturally, she was still ahorse, and Estel noted with no small amount of jealousy that no one had taken her reins away.  She was watching and—dear Valar—smirking.

Estel hadn’t thought he could flush any redder.  He was wrong.

But, as he turned away, it occurred to him that in five years, this was the first time he’d seen her smile.  And he wondered if he could get her to do so again.

Brushing the dirt off his breeches, he went to apologize to a horse.

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That evening, when he went out to the stables with an apple in his pocket, he found Laleth in Begilaith’s stall.  She was standing by the horse’s side, quietly stroking her neck.  Estel cleared his throat, but the girl barely glanced at him.  A single crutch, cut to just her size, leaned against the stable wall.

“Do you like her?”  He stepped into the stall and offered the mare his hand to sniff.  “She’s mine.”  He could not quite keep a small note of pride out of his voice.  It had only been a few weeks since he’d finally convinced his mother and his adar that, having outgrown his pony, he was responsible enough for a real horse.  When Mama had announced that her spare mount was now Estel’s to ride and to care for, he’d had to resist the urge to squeal like a toddler at Mettarё. 

Laleth didn’t respond except to press her face into the horse’s shoulder.  Her hands stroked down the mare’s side and lingered for a moment on a long scar that ran across her gleaming flank.  “Swordswoman,” the girl murmured.

Estel frowned quizzically as he offered the horse the apple.  “Yes, that’s her name.  Begilaith.  How’d you know?”

For a few long moments, the only sounds were the whickers of the other horses and the chomp of Begilaith’s teeth as she munched on the treat.  Laleth kept stroking the horse’s side, slowly and rhythmically.  “I saw a little foal in a field,” she said at last, her voice soft and distant, “I was only a little girl.  I asked my mama if I could have her.  ‘Don’t be silly, Laleth,’ she said, ‘She belongs to the Rangers.’  And she did.  She grew up and a Ranger trained her.  And one day they rode away together and I never saw her again.  I thought she’d died.”

Estel did not understand, but he stepped back and looked at his horse with new eyes.  He supposed she looked a bit like the Ranger’s shaggy-haired horses.  Unlike the sleek, long-limbed Elven mounts that filled the stable, Begilaith was long-haired and stout, standing only fifteen hands high with a sturdy, muscular build.  If Laleth was from one of the hidden Ranger villages, perhaps Begilaith reminded her of a horse she’d once known.

But, he didn’t understand why that would cause her to hide her face in the horse’s coat or why her shoulders began to tremble silently.

She didn’t seem to mind his presence, though, so he stepped to the other side of the mare and ran a hand down her neck.

They stayed like that—stroking the horse in silence—for a long time.

A week later, she was gone.  Years passed before she returned.

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T.A. 2944

The last time Laleth visited Rivendell, she looked more of a woman than a girl.  In four years, she had grown tall and willowy—though not as tall as Estel’s mother.  She no longer used a crutch, though her gait remained a bit slow and a bit uneven.  Estel, for his part, had just hit a growth spurt of his own, but instead of making him feel tall and elegant, it left him with what seemed like a jumble of mismatched parts.  Big feet and knobby knees.  Long arms that felt as thin as twigs.  Hair sprouting in places that didn’t bear thinking about.  When she first met his gaze across the Hall of Fire, he flushed beet red without even knowing why.

But, he sought her out the next afternoon.  Her usual room stood empty, but he found her sitting on a covered balcony, watching as the first snowstorm of the season blanketed the valley in white.

Estel slung a leg over the bench and sat beside her, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them.  “Aren’t you cold?”

She shook her head, though her hands were clasped tightly together over her skirts.  “It’s beautiful, here,” she said.  Snow, like puffs of wool, had covered the flagstone pathways and smooth lawns.  Laleth’s face twisted slightly.  “You’d never know that Men could die from snowstorms.”

Estel nodded.  “You wouldn’t.  When Mother first came to the valley, she had to argue with the groundskeepers to get some of the snow removed from our doorstep.  The Elves barely seem to notice it.  They can run through a blizzard like it’s nothing.”

Laleth shook her head slowly.  “Nothing seems to touch them.”

Estel watched her out of the corner of his eye.  “Some things do.”

After a moment, she stood and stepped forward to place her hands on the rail.  A few flakes of snow landed on the back of her hands and melted slowly. 

“Your leg looks good.”  Estel spoke without thinking, and then flushed a little.  “You’re walking better, I mean.  You don’t need that crutch anymore.”

Laleth snorted, with just a touch of her old derision.  “Master Elrond says it might never get any better than this.”  Estel had nothing to say to that.  After a moment, the girl sighed.  “I don’t need to run across the snow,” she said, her voice soft, “But it’s useless for dancing.  And a girl my age should know how to dance.”

Estel cocked his head.  “Have you tried?  Maybe you can learn.”

Laleth let out another sigh, but this one was more angry than regretful.  Turning to face Estel, she hiked her skirts up to her knees.  Estel could see a series of scars across both legs—could see how the left was still a bit short and a bit warped compared to the right.  Laleth stared at the ground, her expression intense.  After a moment, her feet began to move, stepping and kicking in some sort of furious jig.  With each step, though, her left foot dragged a little further behind.  After a moment, she stumbled, but caught herself on the railing before Estel could move to help her.  Her feet stilled, and she glared at Estel with a bit of the heat that had so frightened him as a child.

Estel stood.  “What are you dancing like that for?”

She rolled her eyes.  “How else would you dance?”

He held out his hand.  “Like this.”

Slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was doing, she put her hand in his.  It was cold, from the snow.  Estel hummed under his breath.  The song was simple—an Elven ode to spring.  It was rather out of place in their current surroundings, but he knew both the tune and the steps well.

He took a slow step back, and Laleth mirrored it.  Next came an equally slow step forward, bringing them close together.  Then step . . . step . . . turn.  The Elves had many dances that were so swift and intricate that even Estel, who’d grown up learning the steps, could never keep up.  This one, though, was slow and stately and easy for Laleth to follow. 

He hummed a little louder, moving effortlessly through the steps and turns, his body, for once, not feeling like an ill-strung marionette.  Dance, after all, was just one of a thousand things that his adar and his mother agreed an “educated young Man” ought to know.  He’d learned the steps to all the common dances of Elven praise and celebration along with a few frenetic folk dances, like the one Laleth had attempted.  Adar had even insisted that he learn Gondorian court dances, for some inexplicable reason.

He stretched his arms out to the side, until his shoulder was pressed against Laleth’s and they turned in a slow circle.  For the first time, he was glad of his lifetime of tedious lessons.

He finished the dance by twirling Laleth.  As she spun away, he saw that her face was lit with a smile—only the second he’d managed to coax out of her.

He stopped humming, and all the artificial grace of the dance fell away in an instant.  He was intensely, uncomfortably aware of the gangliness of his limbs.  The awkwardness of his steps.  The rapid fluttering of his heart, the weird lurching in his stomach . . . what in Arda was happening to him?  Blinking, he stepped back.  “That was . . . I mean . . .”

And Laleth was actually laughing, without a trace of mockery in her voice.  “Thank you, Estel.  I didn’t know you could dance like that.”

“Um, yeah . . . I . . .”

And Estel fled.

Unknown to him, several eyes watched, with expressions that ranged from amusement to alarm.

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That night, he lay in bed listening to the howl of the wind as the storm intensified.

He could not sleep.

He could not get Laleth out of his head.

He scowled at the ceiling.  This was ridiculous.  It wasn’t like he loved the girl.  She was barely a girl even—she might as well be a woman grown.  And he . . . well, he didn’t know what he was.  Some awkward in-between creature, full of half-formed desires and thoughts that made no sense.  And even if they were of an age and he cared about such things, he certainly wouldn’t fall for Laleth, the sulky, bitter girl who had terrified him as a child.  That girl lived in her still.  One ill-advised dance did not change that.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of her hands in his—how they’d been cold and wet from the snow, but somehow burning hot at the same time.  And he couldn’t stop wondering if . . .

No.

This was not appropriate.

He rolled over and punched his pillow repeatedly.

But, he still could not sleep.

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The morning saw him groggy and poorly-rested.  This was unfortunate, given the trial that was ahead.

Elladan intercepted him shortly after he finished his breakfast.  The Elf’s face was uncharacteristically awkward.  “Ah, Estel.  Good morning.  I was wondering if we might . . . uh . . . discuss something.  Man to man, you might say.  Or, Elf to Man, I suppose, but, oh, you know what I mean.”

Estel rubbed his forehead and resisted the urge to scowl.  “I don’t, actually.”

Elladan actually blushed, and that was the moment when Estel should have realized he was in trouble.  “It’s nothing, little brother, it’s just that we were thinking . . . that is, Elrohir and Adar and I were thinking . . . Ah, it’s just that you’re growing up so quickly, and it struck us that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Laleth and . . .”

Estel flushed red for what felt like the thousandth time in the past day.  Then, he realized what Elladan was getting at, and blanched pale just as quickly.

His brother forged boldly ahead, as if this were a particularly terrifying cavalry charge that he was anxious to be done with.  “As I was saying, now that you’re . . . maturing, so quickly, I thought . . . that is, Adar and Elrohir thought . . . that you and I should have a quick talk.  In . . . um . . . private.”

Before Estel could gather his wits and flee, Elladan put an arm around his shoulders and steered him into Adar’s private library.

What followed was easily the most uncomfortable thirty-six minutes Estel would ever experience.

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A few days later, Estel knocked on the door to Master Elrond’s study.  His foster father looked up from the ledger he was poring over and smiled warmly.  “Come in, my son.”  He waved him to a high-backed chair.

“Thank you, Adar.”  Estel sat, but then hesitated, unsure of how to continue.

“Was there something you wished to ask me?” Elrond prompted gently.

Estel bit his lip and decided to just get it over with.  “Yes, I wanted to . . . um . . . to talk about Laleth.”

For just a moment, panic flashed through Elrond’s ancient eyes.  His voice was carefully controlled.  “Are you sure, ion-nîn?  I thought that Elladan was going to,” he coughed lightly, “To speak with you.”

Estel turned red.  At this rate, crimson would be his permanent color pretty soon.  “Oh, no!  It’s not that!  I mean yes, yes he did.  Quite, um, thoroughly.  So there’s no need to talk about that.  Ever.  And definitely no need to talk about . . .” his tongue froze over the word ‘urges,’ so he substituted “Feelings.”  For the thousandth time, Estel did his best to block that conversation out of his mind.  For mercy’s sake, there had been anatomy books involved!

Adar seemed more than a little relieved.  “Then, what was it you wished to talk about, Estel?”

The boy swallowed hard as he forced his mind away from The Conversation.  “It’s just . . . she’s been here almost a week, now.  You said I was old enough to start learning about healing, so . . . I mean, I wanted to know how you planned to treat her.  She doesn’t talk about it much.  Her leg, I mean.”

Ada sighed and rubbed his chin.  “I can do no more for her leg.  Now that she is grown, it is as healed and stable as it ever will be.”

That was what Laleth had told him, though he’d hoped for better news.  Estel looked at his folded hands where they rested in his lap.  “Why is she here, then?  If you can’t help her—“

“I didn’t say that.  I intend to help her.”

Estel frowned and looked at Ada, waiting for him to explain.  After a moment, Elrond looked down and traced his fingertip in slow circles over the oaken whorls of his desk.  “Something . . . monstrous happened to Laleth when she was but a child.  I cannot tell you what—to do so would be to betray her confidence.  Suffice it to say that she was wounded in both body and spirit.  I have done as much as I can to heal her leg, but that is not her worst wound.”  He met Estel’s gaze.  “Sometimes, when terrible things happen, it leaves a shadow on a person.  We’ve spoken, have we not, about how we are two-part beings?”

Estel nodded.  “Fёar and hrӧar.”

“Yes, fёar and hrӧar.  Spirit and flesh.  Great trials may leave a shadow on the fёa.  In time, that shadow can cause them to lose the joy of life.”

Estel swallowed hard.  “Like what happened to Lady Celebrían?”

For a moment, naked grief flashed across Elrond’s face.  Then he mastered himself.  “Yes,” he said quietly, “Much like what happened to my wife.”  He blinked twice and looked away.  After a moment, he cleared his throat.  “Laleth has dealt with such a shadow for much of her life.  It made her childhood . . . difficult.  It is my hope that as she grows to maturity, it will become easier to bear.  She will spend the winter with us, and perhaps the shadow can be wiped away once and for all.”

“But, how?”  Estel could not quite keep a touch of fear out of his voice.  “She can’t Sail and she can’t Fade.  Is she going to die?”

“Someday, Estel, as will all the children of Men,” Ada said gently, “But not, I hope, from this.  Already, she shows some signs of recovery.”  He smiled.  “Perhaps she has you to thank for that.”

Estel stared at his lap.  “I didn’t do anything,” he mumbled.

“You tried to befriend her when you had no reason to.  You did not give up on her.  That is something.”  He laid his long-fingered hands flat on the desk.  “Do not despair for Laleth.  Elves may be stronger than Men in hrӧar, but I have long suspected that Men have the stronger fёar.  She will be alright.”

And when Ada said something in that calm, assured tone, it was difficult not to believe him.

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Two pairs of boots left deep prints in the ankle-deep snow.  Estel pulled his cloak a little closer and stole a glance at Laleth.  She walked beside him with her head bent, apparently focusing on nothing but the crunch of snow under her feet.  Behind them, the windows of the Last Homely House spilled warm pools of light across the grounds, chopped and diced in places by the stark shadows of leafless trees.  Though they were quickly leaving the house behind, music and voices wafted out after them, all the way from the Hall of Fire.  A particularly bright laugh—Glorfindel’s, from the sound of it—cut through the otherwise still night air.

They walked on until the sounds were only a faint rumble in the distance.  Less and less light reached through the trees, but as their eyes adjusted, the half-moon glinting off the snow provided illumination enough.  At last, the tree-lined path opened onto a small clearing with a convenient log at its center.  Estel brushed a bit of snow off the log and sat.  After a moment, Laleth sat on the other side, so that they were shoulder to shoulder, though they faced in opposite direction.  “Thank you,” she said, so quietly that for a moment Estel wondered if he’d imagined it, “I needed to get out of that place.”

He smiled faintly.  The Elves of Elrond’s household had chosen this night for a grand celebration, complete with singing, laughter, and one of their dizzying, acrobatic dances of praise.  “They can take some getting used to.”

Laleth tugged at her cloak until it settled gracefully across her shoulders.  “It’s hard to believe that the youngest is centuries old.  They laugh like children.  Everything is so . . . uncomplicated for them.”

Estel stole another glance at her face.  Just looking at her could still make his stomach lurch in a way that was not altogether unpleasant.  He’d discovered, though, that this particular sensation needn’t dictate all his actions.  “It’s in their nature,” he suggested, his voice half-apologetic, “They’re bound to this world forever, so they have to find all their joy here.  It’s . . . purer than what Men feel.  At least, that’s what Master Elrond says.”

“Wonderful,” she said bitterly, “They get to live forever and they get to be happy about it.  What do we get, I wonder?”

Estel stared off into the darkness, thinking of many conversations with his adar about fёar and hrӧar and the Gift of Men and the Doom of Men.  “The promise of more,” he murmured at last.

She glanced at him sharply, but said nothing.  A long moment passed.  Estel gazed up at the stars to distract himself from wondering how warm her hand was.  When she broke the silence, he started slightly.  “Won’t they be angry that we’ve snuck out?”

Estel waved a hand in the direction of the Last Homely House just as a loud flourish of brass announced the climax of the dance.  “You think they’re even capable of feeling anger right now?”  He leaned back and looked upward once more.  “Besides, we’re stargazing.  It’s an Elf-approved activity.”  He didn’t glance at her to see if she smiled at that.  He’d been doing fairly well at keeping his voice steady, but he didn’t want to test his will against the funny lurching sensation.  Instead, he stared straight up at the clear, twinkling sky and asked, “Have you ever seen a star fall?”

He sensed her shake her head.  “It must be lovely,” she said, her voice acerbic, “To have so much time to spare that you can simply stare at the stars until they fall from the sky.”

Estel smiled, refusing to let himself be bothered by her cutting tone.  “You just have to know when to look.  According to Adar’s charts, there will be a shower of them tonight.”

“And how does Elrond know?”

“He’s been in Arda since the First Age.  I suppose he’s had plenty of time to stare at the stars.”

They sat in silence for long minutes.  “I don’t see anything,” Laleth said at last, “Where is this shower of yours?”

“It will come.  Give it time.”

The air was crisp and pure.  As they watched the stars, the twinkling host seemed to multiply before their very eyes.

“This was foolish.  I should go back.”

“Not yet,” Estel said, breathing in the smells of pine and snow and peace, “Wait for it.”

He watched the stars and breathed in the stillness.  Beside him, he sensed Laleth doing the same.

There.  A sudden twinkling—a bright flash almost directly overhead.  It glinted in his eyes for less than half a heartbeat and then it was gone.  At the same instant, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

“There,” he breathed, almost afraid to break the gentle silence, “Did you see it?”

He saw her nod, her face little more than an outline against the sky.  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, “Was beautiful.”  Her voice was strangely open.  In the face of such splendor, all her usual shields of anger and bitterness lay abandoned.  “It was gone so fast,” she murmured, “I didn’t think it would disappear so quickly.”

“We’ll see more,” Estel assured her.  He could see the moonlight reflected in her eyes.  He saw that, at last, she believed him.  He leaned back, propping his hands against the log as he watched the sky.  “Give it time.”

And she did, and he did, and the heavens shone down on them while they waited.

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T.A. 2945

Outside, the first green shoots were peeking up out of the frost-hard ground.  The snows were almost gone, and the road back to the Bruinen had been declared safe enough for travel.  A company of Rangers had arrived the day before, and departed that morning with one additional rider.

Estel sat in Laleth’s empty room with a child’s storybook in his hands.  The bed that he sat on had been stripped of its linens, the floor swept and all personal items removed.  But, somehow, the maids had missed a slim book tucked beneath the mattress.

He let the book fall open on his knees.  A tattered iris, dried and pressed, stared up at him from atop an illustration of leering orcs.

He looked up at a slight noise.  His mother stood in the doorway with a gentle smile on her face.  Without a word, she came to sit beside him and squeezed his shoulder fondly.

Estel stared down at the flower as he broke the silence.  “She’s not really healed.  Ada said she is much better, but . . .”  He shrugged helplessly.

His mother covered his hand with her own.  “Perhaps she’ll come back, then,” she offered.

But, with the burgeoning instinct that Estel was just beginning to recognize as foresight, he shook his head.  “No, I don’t think so.”  His lips pressed together.  “I didn’t do enough to help her.”

“You were a good friend to Laleth,” Gilraen countered, “You did all that you could.”

“But the shadow—”

“Is beyond your power to dispel,” she interjected firmly, “Beyond the power of anyone, except perhaps Laleth herself.”  She put her arm around him and pressed a kiss into his hair.  He was, strictly speaking, too old for such a display, but he did not pull away.  “Do not torture yourself, my son.  Your friend is stronger than you think.”

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T.A. 2951

The night air was warm in the Dúnedain village—almost too warm.  The great bonfire at the center of the square wasn’t helping; the people had burned what seemed like half a forest to celebrate their Chieftain’s return.  Estel—no, Aragorn, he reminded himself, he was Aragorn to these people—sank gratefully into a chair next to his grandmother at the High Table.  He had danced with what seemed like every young woman in the village, fearful of offending any.  They hadn’t seemed to mind that he tripped and stumbled through half the steps, but his feet certainly minded.

Firelight flickered across his face and across the extravagant spread of game, breads, and early summer vegetables.  Ivorwen offered him a cup of chilled wine, which he accepted with a relieved smile.  A few places down, Lord Arandur—it was still difficult to think of him as Uncle Arandur—gave him a short nod, then turned to bark something at his teenage son.  The sound of lutes and pipes washed over him, quick and merry and so different from the soothing wind instruments he was used to.  Men and Women and even small children ran and danced around the fire, their revelry not diminished by their Chieftain’s need for a brief moment of peace.

Through the night haze and the smoke of the fire, he suddenly spotted a Woman he had not yet danced with.  Or, perhaps he had.  As he blinked away the smoke, he thought he thought he could make out a familiar face—a young woman with dark hair cut to her chin.  She was sitting propped against a wall, with a little girl in her lap, as the child clapped along to the music.

“Grandmother,” he said softly, “Who is that?”

Ivorwen looked where he nodded and smiled slightly.  “Laleth, daughter of Balarion?  I thought you might have made her acquaintance before now.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I did.”

“I’m sure.  Sad story, that one.  She was always in and out of Rivendell.  Always needed more help than I could provide.”

Aragorn remembered belatedly that Ivorwen was the chief of this village’s healers.  He pursed his lips.  “That child cannot be hers, surely?”  The girl on her lap looked about six years old.

“The child?  Of course not!  Laleth’s barely of marriageable age!  That’s her half-sister, Leithawen, daughter of Belegion.”  The little girl got up and ran away, trailing ribbons and long, dark hair.

Ivorwen was watching her eldest grandson, her expression expectant, and perhaps a little hopeful.  Aragorn merely smiled and looked away.  He knew what she was hoping.  He’d had more than one awkward conversation with Arandur about how he was not just the Heir, but the last Heir.  His uncle had persisted, even after he had admitted what had transpired between him and Elrond and . . . and Arwen.

Ivorwen and Arandur would have to learn to live with their disappointment.  It wasn’t that he’d forgotten his adolescent fumblings around Laleth; he remembered those burgeoning feelings well and with some fondness, as he remembered a thousand other childhood deeds and misdeeds.  It simply didn’t seem to matter anymore.  His feelings for Laleth, if you could call them that, were like a sputtering candle.  His love for Arwen put even the Dúnedain’s bonfire to shame.

What he felt for Laleth now was chiefly a sort of embarrassment, as if he’d been caught in some great lie.  To the other Dúnedain, he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur’s Heir and their Chieftain.  To them, he might as well have sprung up out of the ground, fully grown at twenty years of age.  But, Laleth knew that he was only Estel—only the awkward boy who plucked garden flowers and fell off horses and danced without music.

But, when he looked at her, he was relieved to see a smile on her face—a lightness in her eyes.  She wasn’t dancing with the other maidens, but she wasn’t scorning their celebrations either.  And, since this celebration was in his honor, this was at least the third time he’d made her smile.

“She still cuts her hair,” he said softly, “But, she’s gotten somewhat better at it.”

His tone was playful, but Ivorwen suddenly sobered.  “Yes, she always cuts her hair, and we’ve given up trying to stop her.”  She stared off into space, her face suddenly seeming years older.  “She was only six, when it happened, you know.  The age little Leithawen is now.  The orcs held her for more than two weeks.  We’d given up hope of ever getting her back.  And when we did, she was . . . broken.  Wounded.  Covered in filth.  Her hair was so matted that your uncle had to cut it away.  And, ever since, whenever it grows longer than her chin, she hacks it off again.”

Though the air was just as warm, Estel felt as if a block of ice had settled in his gut.  A conversation from seven years before came rushing back.  “Like Lady Celebrían?” “Yes . . . much like my wife . . .”  He hadn’t realized just how much.

Ivorwen looked at him suddenly.  “You didn’t know?”  He shook his head and she clasped his arm gently.  “Those were dark days.”

Aragorn placed his hand over hers, but after a moment, he stood and stepped away.  With long, even strides, he rounded the fire, dodging revelers until he stood before Laleth.  He bowed deeply, in the Elven fashion, and held out his hand.  “May I have this dance?”

She smiled and put her hand in his.  “The pleasure is mine.”

And if he could still glimpse a hint of the old shadow in her eyes, what was the harm?  That darkness held no terror, for either of them.  There was life in her eyes and for now, that was enough.

He pulled her to her feet and hummed quietly, setting a stately counterpoint to the quick beat around them.  The steps were simple enough.

Step . . . step . . . back.

Step . . . step . . . forward.

Step . . . turn . . . twirl.

He was not like her, and yet he was.  He did not love her, and yet he did.

He loved all of them.

All around them, his people danced and clapped and sang for joy.

And there in their midst twirled Estel and Laleth—two lost children who had somehow turned themselves into something more—dancing to music no one else could hear.

Fin

A/N:  Hope you enjoyed!  Yes, I wrote Aragorn/OFC.  Grab your pitchforks.  ;-)  Reviews are much appreciated, whether they contain praise, concrit, or rants.