Author's Note: If this story looks a bit familiar, it is because I started it several years ago under the name From The Jaws Of Death. But I never managed to get past the first couple of chapters, so I pulled it down as I dislike unfinished stories left lingering online. Well, it's now mostly complete and the first few chapters have been heavily edited from the original version and the story has a new name, more fitting with the direction the story is going. I hope you enjoy it. :)

WARNING: This story contains descriptions of an animal attack, injury and medical treatment of a small child, which is why I rated it PG-13. While not overly graphic, reader discretion is advised.

Healing Hope

By Nieriel Raina

"Thus it befell that when Aragorn was only two years of age Arathorn went riding with the sons of Elrond and fought with Orcs that had made an inroad into Eriador, and he was slain, for an orc-arrow pierced his eye; and so he proved indeed short-lived for one of his race, being no more than sixty winters when he fell.

But the child Aragorn became thus untimely Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and he was nurtured in the House of Elrond, and there he was loved by all, and Elrond was a father to him."

—    JRR Tolkien, The Making of Appendix A,  The Peoples of Middle-earth

Chapter One

2934 3^rd Age, Imladris

Summer

"So I may take him?"

"Pees, ada?"

Elrond looked from his three year old foster son to the Captain of Imladris and back again.

"We are simply going to picnic in a meadow, perhaps swim in the pond, watch bugs, do little boy things." Glorfindel's confident voice stated.

But there was a lingering doubt in his mind, some nagging feeling that trouble brewed on the horizon, and yet, Elrond could not say it was truly foresight he sensed. Rather, a father's hesitance.

Estel had been a part of their household for such a short time, but in the months since Arathorn's death, the child had managed to wrap the majority of the household around those small fingers. For Elrond, it had been the day Estel had first called him ada.

Gilraen had been horrified at the use of the word, but Elrond had seen something significant in that moment. He had seen a child reaching out for what he had lost, and finding it again. It had shown Elrond that Estel trusted him, and needed him, and so Elrond had convinced Gilraen to allow the child to call him father.

And a father was what he had become to the child. His heart had taken the boy as his own and he cared for Estel as much as he did his own flesh and blood.

He gazed down into those pleading blue-grey eyes. How could he tell the little boy no?

Elrond sighed, nodded, and forced a small smile, even as he forced his hesitations down. He was only being over protective of the boy, given the death of Arathorn and the inroads the orcs had made into Eriador. But it was not as if Glorfindel would be taking the child from his borders or out into the wilds.

"Very well, you may go." He glanced back to Glorfindel. "I trust you to keep him safe, my friend."

"But of course, Elrond!"

Glorfindel looked almost insulted at even the hint of suggestion that something might go wrong. "It is not as if we are crossing the Hithaeglir. We are simply going to picnic in my meadow." Glorfindel flashed him an impish grin at the possessive term, and Elrond could not help but chuckle.

"Very well, enjoy your day. I wish I could accompany you."

He had not thought to go until the words left his mouth, but he had too much to accomplish today. He had been putting many duties aside of late so he might spend the early summer days with Estel in order to cultivate a greater bond between them. As a result, his herb garden was full of weeds, his assistant healers complained of a lack of certain tinctures in the storeroom, his correspondence was piled so high on his desk that Erestor would stare at the piles as if they were orcs to be battled—

Elrond looked down at the three year old bouncing happily, a small hand encased in Glorfindel’s much larger one.

"Estel." Elrond knelt down before the boy, feeling a surge of love for the child.

Has it truly been less than a year since he and Gilraen came to us?

Of all the children of the Dúnedain he had fostered over the years, none had captured his heart like this one. Perhaps it was because he could see the mark of destiny upon the child. More likely it was because he saw this one as his son, not just a fosterling.

He lifted the small chin with his finger, reminding Estel that he needed to listen.

Estel obediently gazed back, though he continued to bounce.

"Yes, Ada, I lis’n."

Elrond smiled at the childish lisp, his heart warming once again at hearing Estel call him 'Ada'. For all he had bemoaned rearing his twin sons, he missed their childish days and the simple trust and love that only a child could give. And he cherished every day he was gifted with the love of this child. Far too soon did the sons of Men leave behind childhood, and once Estel reclaimed his destiny, Elrond knew everything would change.

But even as he gave his blessing to the outing, he felt the nagging feeling that something was wrong and he should not allow the child to go. He pushed the feeling aside, and fixed Estel with a stern gaze.  

"Estel, it is very important that you do exactly as Glorfindel tells you. You must obey him in all things. Do you understand?"

The small head bobbed up and down. "Do what G’orfin’el tell me or I get twubble."

Biting back a grin, Elrond nodded. "Yes, you must do as Glorfindel tells you, or you will be in trouble. I will have to discipline you if you cannot obey, and you will not be allowed to go again for a very long time."

Bright slate-grey eyes widened and the bouncing ceased. "Not go ‘gain?"

"If you do not obey Glorfindel, no, you will not be allowed to go again for a long time." Long, at least, to the mind of a three year old boy. "Do you understand?"

Excitement brightened Estel’s eyes once more. "I ‘bey! I be ver’ good!"

"That is well." Elrond drew his foster son into his arms.

Oh how good it felt to hold a child again and to feel tiny arms around his neck. If only Celebrían were here to help him—

He put a stop to those thoughts as soon as they arose within him. Estel had a mother — a very good mother — and wishing for something impossible would not relieve Elrond's lingering pain. No matter how many years passed, the longing for his wife never waned.

Releasing his young son, Elrond stood and watched as the boy toddled off next to Glorfindel towards the stables. He took note of the captain's long sword strapped to his side and the hunting knife poking out of the top of a boot.  

Estel will be safe.

He had to believe that. Everything he had foreseen of Estel's future depended upon it.

Elrond continued to watch as Glorfindel picked up a pack bulging with who knew what — best to hope it was healthy food for the growing child — and only turned away when the two entered the stable to collect ‘the horse’.

Elrond paused and closed his eyes for a moment. He would not think about that ‘horse’, nor what the beast had done.

Only then did he realize that he had begun to self-consciously rub his backside. He jerked his hand away and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. To his relief, none were about to see his remembered pain.

Absently, he wondered if the scar was still there.

No, better not to think about it…or look for the teeth marks.  

'The horse', for all his foul disposition towards those he disliked — mainly Elrond and Erestor — loved Glorfindel and showed a special fondness for Estel. The boy would be safe with the creature — spawn of Morgoth, though he was!

With determined steps, Elrond retreated to his study to work on the mound of papers, hoping such work would take his mind off the niggling suspicion that something was justs not right.

Why can I not take this as Gilraen has? Is it not the mother who is supposed to struggle with letting a child stretch their wings?

But no, Gilraen had smiled and agreed to the idea with no concern whatsoever. A huge leap for her, for she had hardly let the child from her sight the first few months after they arrived in Imladris.

Having lost her husband so tragically, she had clung to Estel to the point of secluding herself from the household. It had taken gentle persuasion and, he admitted to himself, a bit of subtle manipulation, to convince her to let them enfold her and Estel in their family and make him one of their own.

Now, things were different. Gilraen had been befriended by several of the women in his house. She had begun to find enjoyment in once again seeing her growing child clothed in garments she made with her own hands, a big task considering the child seemed to outgrow his breeches nearly every month!

Gilraen would use her free time wisely, meeting with her friends to get some much needed mending and sewing finished. She might even relish the break from having the busy boy underfoot for a few hours. Estel was a delight, but he was also inquisitive and constantly busy.

No, Gilraen showed no sign of being worried, and why should she? She had been assured of the safety of the valley by his sons, himself and Glorfindel. It was why she and her son had been brought here — to keep them safe!

And while it was true that Imladris was the safest place for the boy, it was not without its dangers. Evil did not venture here, at least not undetected and not without being met with great force, but many natural dangers abounded from rock slides, wild animals, or even a fall from a horse.

He stiffened at that thought, his hand moving again towards his nether region when a voice caused him to jump.

"Master Elrond, if I may have a few minutes?"

Ah, just the distraction needed!

"Yes, of course, Istnir."

With only a single glance back, he allowed Erestor’s assistant to lead him away to discuss a matter of the household.

—    o —

"Nor’ lim, B’an’lir! Nor’ lim!"

Glorfindel smirked as one charcoal ear rotated backwards and then pricked back forward as Brandlir continued his slow walk along the forest path. The horse ignored the boy’s heels in his withers and flicked his long silvery tail across his rump to brush off a fly. He even tolerated the tight grip on his long mane, though Glorfindel sensed his mount's patience nearing its end and prepared himself for a show of temper, though he knew Brandlir would never put the child at risk.

When a small palm smacked down hard on his neck, Brandlir balked, freezing in his tracks. The horse arched his neck and glared back over his shoulder at them.

Glorfindel grinned cheekily back at him, enjoying his horse's irritation. Brandlir snorted and stamped a foot, rolling his eyes so the whites showed.

"All right, all right, Glir!" Glorfindel said with a laugh, shifting the boy in front of him so that he could look into Estel’s eyes. It was time to intervene.

"Estel, Brandlir does not appreciate your attempts to make him go faster. It is a nice day, and he is enjoying his walk through the woods."

Brandlir shook his head, sending his long mane flying, and gave a soft whicker. In truth, the horse would like to run, but had more sense than to do so with such a small charge in tow. Consequently, Brandlir got back at them both as best he could — he resumed the plodding pace of a plow horse.

Glorfindel sighed. "Truthfully, Glir, this is overdoing it a bit, do you not think? We will never reach the meadow in time to enjoy the day if you do not pick up your pace at least a little." He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "All that tall, sweet grass, running water and rabbits to chase?"

His words seemed to improve the horse’s spirits, for with another swish of his tail, Brandlir picked up his walk to a pleasant, springy pace.

"Nor’ lim, B’an’li!"   

Chest rumbling with another nicker, Brandlir moved into a slow, comfortable trot, the sound growing louder as the boy laughed. Glorfindel chuckled and tightened his grip on Estel.

Ah, summer days were his favorite time of the year.  

— o —     

"Cat' me!"

Estel launched himself from the rock into Glorfindel's arms, showing no sign of fear. Glorfindel caught him and let them both fall back into the coolness of the lake, laughing when they came up, eyelashes shining with drops of water that ran down their faces.

His favorite meadow* of old had changed over the past millennium. The pond from the dammed stream was now a small lake that filled more than half of what once had been a peaceful glade. But the meadow had grown as well.

Over the years, the beavers and their descendants had kept busy by taking trees down. The forest had receded in some places, grown up in others. On most sides, the trees came right down to the shoreline. Willows trailed their branches into the water in some places, but one side opened up to the large, flat meadow.

Time had made the field even more beautiful, Glorfindel thought, as he looked around at the grasses, wildflowers and the occasional rock dotting the landscape.

Estel giggled as Brandlir galloped by, chasing a rabbit. The horse was quite adept at getting close enough to nip the fuzzy little tail, keeping up with the hare's darting ways by sliding on his haunches and spinning as fast as a deer. The rabbit soon had enough, however, and darted down into a dark burrow. Brandlir whinnied plaintively causing Glorfindel and Estel to laugh at him.

With a snort, Brandlir spun around, looking sulkily at them through his long, silver forelock. Then the horse charged, splashing by them through the shallows and sending a shower of water raining down on them. Glorfindel ducked as the stallion hurtled past, water spraying from the churning hooves.

" ‘Gain, ‘gain!" Estel cried out, and Brandlir whirled and ran past them once more, sending another spray of water over them from his pummeling hooves. When Brandlir tired of that game, he buried his nose into the tall grasses, his tail never still as it swished back and forth.

"Good idea, Glir," Glorfindel called.

Eating seemed a good plan for them as well. The sun was now high in the sky and Estel was getting a bit grumpy. Nothing a good meal and then a nap in the sun would not fix. Dressing in their sun warmed leggings, they left their tunics by the shore.  Brandlir had soaked them when he had shaken the water from his coat, so Glorfindel and Estel ate shirtless, enjoying the warm rays on their skin.

As expected, Estel’s mood improved with the bread, sliced meats, cheeses and especially the apple pastries Glorfindel pulled from his sack. They ate and chatted, which mostly consisted of Glorfindel responding to Estel's constant, "Wha' dat?" 

Glorfindel turned the question game into a lesson by giving the boy the answers in Westron and Edhellen as well as Adûnaic and asking Estel to repeat them back.

After their meal, it took him some doing to convince Estel that he needed to lie down and rest on the spread out blanket. Glorfindel spent several minutes of trying to reason with the child, but when Estel scrunched his face up and declared "No s'eep!" Glorfindel employed another tactic.

"Have you forgotten what your adar told you?" Glorfindel reminded the boy with a stern look.

Estel's expression changed to one of confusion, then his eyes widened. "'Bey, o' not come 'gain."

Glorfindel inclined his head and pointed to the blanket, amused when Estel immediately dropped down onto it and flopped back in a sulk, his arms crossed on his chest and his lower lip poking out. Glorfindel sat as well, humming a lullaby and dutifully ignoring the childish pouting. Once he had slept, Estel's more cheerful temperament would return; until then, so long as the boy was lying down, Glorfindel would not comment on Estel's determined attempts to avoid a nap.

As he expected, it did not take long for the sun, his full belly and Glorfindel's song to overcome Estel’s attempts to stay awake. The boy yawned, his eyes fluttering shut and within moments he was sound asleep. Glorfindel curled an arm around his charge with a smile, his other hand on his sword as he rested. All in all, it had been a most pleasant day.  

— o —     

Something was wrong.

Elrond stood before the large window looking down into the courtyard of the Last Homely House. For a long time he just stood there, watching for what he did not know. Inside him, the agitation and feeling of unrest that had plagued him all day had turned into something greater – an inner knowledge that one of his children was hurt.

He began pacing to give himself something to do, stopping to glance out the window every few minutes then resuming his walking back and forth. His fists clenched at his sides, and his head was beginning to pound from his persistent frowning. He hated this feeling, this knowing that something was wrong and yet being unable to do anything about it.

The strong bond between he and his family allowed Elrond to sense his children and get an accurate grasp of their emotions. Arwen, on another long visit with her grandparents in Lothlórien, was perfectly safe. Her spirit felt content and somewhat distracted, which meant she was probably toiling over some needlework or talking with friends.

Elladan and Elrohir were due home any day after being gone for over a fortnight with the border wardens. Much to Elrond's relief, ever since they had brought Estel and Gilraen to the valley, his sons had obeyed his order — if grudgingly — to cease their long patrols with the dúnedain, as well as the more disturbing long months or even years in which they disappeared into the mountains to hunt orcs.

Instead, they had taken up posts under Glorfindel, acting as his liaisons to the patrols on the outer fences, which only required them to make occasional forays into the wilds. When it came to Estel, they were polite but distant, making little effort to spend time with the boy, which was not typical of their interactions with previous fosterlings. But then the circumstances were not the norm for fostering.

Typically, Chieftains were sent to learn under elven tutors only after they had achieved the age of twelve summers. Estel was only three. But Elrond also suspected it was not just the difference in age that kept his sons back from truly befriending the child. He suspected the twins' closeness with Arathorn, and their guilt at being unable to prevent their friend's untimely demise, played a part in their holding the boy at a distance.

And so, even now, Elladan and Elrohir were not at home, but traveling between the border wardens and the Last Homely House. They were strong and safe. He could sense them on the outskirts of the valley and their excitement was that of amusement rather than alarm. If he had to guess, he would say they were absorbed in hunting game, and probably engaged in some contest between them judging by Elrohir's sudden glee and Elladan's flash of indignation.

The feeling of unease did not leave him, but only grew stronger by the moment, and no matter how he searched for the reason, it eluded him. Elrond closed his eyes, berating himself. It had to be Estel, no matter how much he tried to assure himself the child was safe with Glorfindel and ‘the horse’, deep down he knew his young son was the cause of his foreboding.

The distant blood relation to the Dúnedain through Elros allowed Elrond to sense some things with those children he had fostered over the years. With Estel, he had found that the close bond between them caused those senses to be even stronger. Even so, it was not the same as the connection he shared with Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen. He could not feel Estel's emotions; rather, it was a nagging, persistent, uncertain feeling rather than a surety of knowing.

He should have kept the boy at home! He had sensed from the start that something was amiss in the valley, even if he could not clearly identify it. But knowing what he should have done did not help him now that he sensed the danger had played out. There was little he could do until… 

The sound of a horse’s hooves ringing off of the paving stones in the courtyard had Elrond moving before the clatter came to a sliding stop. Alarmed voices hastened his steps into a run and he flung open the door and descended the steps two at a time, his eyes fixed on Brandlir.

The horse's sides heaved for air and his head hung in exhaustion. He had run long and far, but the sight of the white foam mixed with blood covering the animal's sides and legs drew Elrond up short. He swiftly judged that the blood belonged to not just his captain’s mount, for the wounds Elrond could see on the stallion appeared superficial. No, the amount of blood was too great. It had come from some thing or some oneelse.

His eyes darted to Glorfindel and alighted on the burden in the captain's arms as he slid from the horse’s back. Elrond’s breathing momentarily stopped as he just stared in disbelief.

No! It could not be! 

His father’s heart wrenched with grief, but the healer in him took over. "Bring him!" he ordered, turning on his heel. 

It was a long, hard walk, striding down the corridors, knowing that behind him Glorfindel followed with a weight Elrond would rather be bearing himself — the still and bloody body of his three year old son.

To Be Continued....

Brandlir – ‘lofty song’ – Glorfindel’s current stallion. He is a dappled grey with charcoal points. The word is formed from the Sindarin words brand (lofty) + glir (song). Glorfindel shortens it to simply Glir

Nor'lim - Estel's attempts at Noro lim, 'run fast', Sindarin

B’an’li– Estel’s attempt at Brandlir’s name.

Edhellen – 'Elvish'. Sindarin is a Quenya term. I'm using the more accurate term Edhellen, which is what the elves of Middle-earth called the Sindarin tongue.

*Glorfindel's meadow was first introduced in Let It Snow!

Thanks for reading!

WARNING: Severe injury of a small child, description of attack, inflicted wounds and medical treatment.

Chapter Two

Glorfindel’s Meadow

Glorfindel did not doze long beside his small charge. He roused after a short time, but lay enjoying the warmth of the summer sun, the munching sound of Brandlir grazing and the buzzing of the bees in the heather mixed with the occasional splash of water as a fish jumped in the lake. It was such a perfect summer day.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he finally rose to his feet. He glanced back down at the flushed and somewhat sticky face of Estel. The boy slept on, oblivious to all around him, and Glorfindel smiled. Such a peaceful thing— a sleeping child; so different from what children were like when awake!

A loud snort alerted him, and his eyes went to Brandlir even as his hand went to his sword. His horse was staring into the trees, the charcoal ears twitching this way and that as if trying to capture a sound that eluded him. The flaring nostrils told Glorfindel that the horse had caught a scent, and now Brandlir did his best to locate the source of it.

The fact that Brandlir did not react more revealed much. It could not be a wolf, bear or wildcat—the stallion would be whinnying, stamping and baring his teeth! It was something familiar, yet something of which to be wary.

Relaxing his grip on his sword when he failed to sense any hint of evil, Glorfindel wondered if the horse sensed nothing more than an overly aggressive squirrel. The small creatures did enjoy pestering the easily agitated horse.

He jumped when a large stag bounded into the meadow not fifteen feet from where he stood. The deer froze upon seeing him, shifting its eyes nervously around the meadow, breathing hard. Brandlir snorted and stamped a foot, laying his ears back at the deer and baring his teeth in annoyance.

“Peace, Glir. You must learn to share.”

But Brandlir was having none of it today. Already cross, the horse charged the deer, chasing it into another section of the wood, where the buck disappeared, though for a time, Glorfindel still heard the deer moving through the brush by the occasional snap of a branch.

Finally, all was quiet once more, except for the stamping of hooves and snorts coming from Brandlir.

Glorfindel gave his horse a dry look. “You are far too moody, my friend. One would almost think you a mare, rather than a stallion.” He grinned when the horse’s head whipped around in his direction. “Do not look at me like that! I speak the truth.”

Turning his back on Brandlir—something only Glorfindel would dare do as all others would have found teeth in their rear—he checked again on Estel and found the boy still slept. Leaving the child to his rest, Glorfindel hummed as he walked the hundred or so yards down to the lakeshore to retrieve their tunics from the large rock where they had been spread out to dry in the sun.

A waterfowl splashed down in the lake, calling to its mate, and he paused to watch the birds. The female answered from her hiding spot in the tall grasses on the far side of the shore, emerging with a small brood of hatchlings following behind. Glorfindel smiled as they paddled around, greeting the newly arrived father. Children were all alike, it seemed to Glorfindel.

A sudden hint of danger crept up the back of his neck, setting the hairs there on end. He spun around and felt his heart leap into his throat. “Estel! Do not move!”

“G’orfin’el!” 

— o —

“Glorfindel!”

Elrond would have shaken his captain, but his hands were currently busy unwrapping makeshift bandages covered in blood. His fear grew as he began to understand just how grave the injuries lying beneath the cloth must be.

Glorfindel's head jerked up at Elrond’s call and troubled blue eyes met his from across the room. The captain shook his head as if clearing it of grim thoughts and shifted his eyes away. Guilt hung heavy on him, Elrond could see, but he needed answers, and he needed them now.

“Glorfindel, I need to know what did this! Is there orc filth? Was there poison? What did this?” Elrond feared the answer, and his fear caused his voice to be sharper than usual in such a crisis, though his hands remained gentle but purposeful.

The disheveled captain straightened, his face becoming devoid of any emotion as he began to report.

“There were no orcs or poison, my lord. It was simply…” 

— o — 

As Glorfindel spun around in the mud on the lakeshore, he noticed Estel had awakened while his back had been turned. His warrior’s instincts took over, and he assessed the situation.

“Estel! Do not move!”

Estel stood with a bright smile on his face, his eyes captivated by something the boy would not understand as a source of danger—a large dog.

Whether a farmer's pet turned feral or perhaps born wild, it had slipped stealthily into the meadow.

Estel ignored the command given him, causing Glorfindel's heart to leap into his throat as the boy ran forward.

“Doggie!” the boy squealed. “Here doggie!”   

Glorfindel felt frozen as he watched the boy dart forward, but made his feet move. The brindle-striped mongrel outweighed Estel by many pounds, and Glorfindel knew the short, wide muzzle — distinct among dogs bred for war — hid teeth capable of inflicting serious harm or even killing a child as small as Estel. He cried out again for the boy to stop, even as he rushed after the child.

The dog lunged, but in that very instant, Estel tripped and fell. Teeth that would have grasped the boy's throat sank instead into the tumbling child’s arm, causing Estel to scream in pain.

Glorfindel ran to the aid of his charge. This could not be happening! The distance from the lake to where Estel lay seemed so much greater now that he needed to be there. He watched helplessly as he ran, praying he could close the distance in time.

Then Estel began to fight.

“Estel! Be still! Keep your face down! Be still, child!” he called to the boy.

But Estel fought against the pain. He twisted and turned, crying and shrieking as he tried to get away from the beast. The dog held his arm tight in its jaws, then released only to clamp down on the other flailing limb as the child thrashed. Estel’s attempts to free himself only made the wounds worse.

Even as Glorfindel pushed himself to cover the remaining fifty yards separating him from the boy, he could see the punctured flesh and the blood streaking down the small arms. As it was in battle, everything seemed to move in slow motion as he ran.

“Estel!” he called again, as the boy fought for his life.

— o —   

“It was just a dog," Glorfindel choked out. "A wild dog came out of nowhere.” His voice turned hoarse. “Damn it, Elrond! I should have sensed it sooner!"

But Elrond had no time for his captain’s distress. He could not allow himself to worry about such things, so he pushed them down with the detachment of a healer, focusing instead on the situation at hand. There would be time later for blame, time to feel. There was always time later, he knew.

For now, he needed more information, even as his fingers flew to deal with what he found under the wrappings of one arm: puncture wounds, so deep that fatty yellow tissue puckered outwards.

“Was the dog drooling? Staggering? Showing signs of the falling sickness?”

Elrond glanced up to see Glorfindel’s eyes slip closed. The captain was remembering, going over every detail of the attack.

Elrond grimaced. He could imagine how ferocious it must have been from the wounds he tended, and he had yet to look at the other arm. How had this happened to his child? To endure such brutality! Elrond's heart ached at the thought.

Glorfindel cleared his throat and continued his report in an emotion choked voice. 

— o — 

The feral bitch glanced up at the man running towards her. She growled and raised the hackles on the back of her neck. Using her body language, she  screamed for him to leave her alone. The light shining from his eyes meant little to her, though she eyed the shimmering stick he held with alarm. A man had once beaten her with a stick, long ago, and it made her wary.

But this was her kill. The deer may have eluded her, but this prey would feed her, and she would not give it up! She needed this food. Even now in the distance, she could hear her pups' whimpers.

With her eyes, she challenged the one approaching as she held the small limb firmly in her jaws. Instinct took over, and she gave a vicious shake of her head, feeling the tender flesh shred under the power of her fangs. She felt and heard a snap, and her prey gave a strangled scream before going limp. Now it would be easy to slip away before the man came to beat her and steal her meal.

Tugging at the limb she still held in her teeth, she backed up, but the broken member was too flimsy to move the limp form. Releasing her grip, she grabbed one of the thicker legs and began to drag her meal towards the brush marking the edge of the forest. She could hear the approaching feet running faster, hear its barks of warning, but she would not so easily give up her prey.

An eerie scream rent the air, and her head lifted in alarm as hoof beats sounded on the meadow. A glimmer of dappled grey brushed past the other creature and bore down upon her. Teeth flashing and snapping in the sun, squealing and snorting, the horse charged her.

Now here was an enemy of which to be even more wary. She had dealt with horses before, and from his smell, she identified a stallion — a most fierce foe. The bitch dropped her hold and darted away from the fierce rush.

Many other dogs would have turned tail and run from such a sight, but she was wild and held her ground. She had not eaten in several days and her nursing pups had taken much out of her. She was driven to eat and would let nothing, not even a stallion on the rampage, take a meal from her jaws.

Twisting and jumping, she avoided the snapping teeth and hooves. She lunged and sank her fangs into the horse’s hock. A quick kick outwards sent her reeling. She leapt back up, barking, snarling and lunging in again. Heavy hooves churned grooves into the ground as she darted between them, nipping and biting to drive off the threat to herself and her meal.

Movement to her right caught her eye, and she caught a glimpse of the man kneeling beside her prey. Spinning around to run off this new threat, she turned her back on the horse.

It was the last thing she ever did.

The blow to her head was swift, and she felt no pain. All went dark as she fell to the earth. The last thing she heard was the snorting of a horse, and in the distance, the plaintive hungry cries of her pups.

— o — 

“No. She was hunting due to hunger from nursing pups. She showed no sign of the falling sickness. Her eyes were clear and wild, but not mad.”

Elrond breathed a sigh of relief at this news. Mortals did not survive that disease, even those of Númenorean blood.

The punctures in Estel’s left arm, as well as those in his right leg were not serious. Painful, they would need to be thoroughly cleansed and flushed to prevent festering, but they were not life threatening.

Leaving those for later, Elrond turned to the right arm and began removing the thick bandage from it.

What he found caused his heart to lurch in agony for his child. He had to force the healer to the front. The father in him, would have to wait until the healer had done his work.

The flesh of Estel’s right arm was torn open, skin and muscles rent, exposing the bone, which was clearly broken. Only Glorfindel’s experience with battle wounds and knowledge of how to tend them had saved Estel from bleeding to death. The tiny body only had so much blood to offer before it would cease to function. A wave of gratitude swept over him, but it also was pushed aside as he locked his emotions away. Blood still seeped from the gaping wounds, and his fingers flew to stop it. The damage was severe, but he had hope of it being repairable.

As he worked, Elrond dimly noted his captain remained seated nearby, watching all and yet seeing nothing.

— o —

Brandlir bobbed his head, screamed one final time and then proceeded to stomp the remains of the dog into the ground with powerful hooves.

Glorfindel turned away and looked to Estel, who lay bleeding and unconscious on the ground. “Glir! Get the blanket! Hurry!” He applied pressure to a point above the bleeding.

With a final snort at the dog’s tattered innards ground into the bloodied soil, the horse darted to where the blanket lay not far from where Glorfindel knelt trying to staunch the flow of blood. The stallion snatched the material up in his teeth, holding his head to the side as he dragged it back to his master.

Glorfindel used his knee to hold pressure on the arm as he took the blanket, drew his hunting knife and turned it into strips of cloth for binding the multiple wounds. His fingers flew, working automatically, trained by battles uncounted, years beyond recall.

All while he worked, Glorfindel kept up a continuous stream of dialogue and soft singing to the unconscious child. He knew he would never forget the look on that little face when Estel looked down at the damaged arm still held in the mouth of the dog.

It reminded him too much of the expression of another boy, long ago.

He wrapped, bound, and did what he could to stop the flow of blood. And in the back of his mind, one theme rang over and over:

It is my fault! All my fault. Just as it was then…

It took him only minutes to bind the wounds well enough to see them home and to the master healer, and then he mounted and gave Brandlir his head.

Estel was finally getting to run fast — but he would never remember it.

To Be Continued....

Author's note: Just to clarify that the term 'bitch' as used in this story is NOT profanity, but the appropriate use of the word and refers to a breeding female dog.

Thanks for reading!     

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updating. Real life can be a real hamper to finding time to edit and write! But this story WILL be completed…eventually.

Chapter Three

Oh! The trouble little boys get into! Gilraen thought as she hurried to the healing ward after receiving word that Estel had been hurt. She hoped he was not crying for her. He tried so hard to be a big boy, but he was little more than a baby. When he got hurt, he cried out for her and often fought off any attempts to treat his scrapes, scratches or smashed fingers or toes until she arrived.

A feeling of satisfaction swept over her. Her son still needed her. She knew she should be more grateful to the elves of Imladris, and Master Elrond in particular, but she could not help but feel resentful that her son had to be raised here, away from his rightful place and extended family.

It still rankled that she had to call her son 'Estel' instead of his rightful name, and every time she heard him call Elrond 'Ada', something inside her screamed in denial. It should be Arathorn who heard that term! It should be Arathorn who held their son and told him stories of battles fought. Arathorn who made them a family!

But Arathorn was dead. The harsh reality of the thought caused her to stumble momentarily to a halt and brush the sudden onslaught of tears away that moistened her eyes. She closed them tightly and took a deep breath, shoving the pain away.

Aragorn — No, Estel, she reminded herself with gritted teeth — needed the safety Imladris offered. He needed the veil of anonymity, and yes, despite her bitterness,  he needed a father, even if that person was Master Elrond.

She opened her eyes and continued down the hallway.

Her son also needed the education he would receive in this place. Her people could not offer what Elrond and his household provided: safety, security, plenty of food, training in history, diplomacy, languages, use of weaponry. Much of the latter, Estel would have learned by coming to foster here, as all the Chieftains did at some point, and she could not deny there was an advantage in starting him earlier.

But there were disadvantages as well. Estel would be raised away from his people, not given a chance to develop friendships that would sustain him in his adult years. He would miss growing up with his cousins and grandparents. She longed for her people, the sounds of the village, her friends from childhood. She missed the life of a Chieftain’s wife. There, she helped lead her people. She would have been the sole teacher of her son until he reached the age of six. And she would have been the only one to wash and bandage his childhood hurts!

Here, Elrond insisted upon treating any injury Estel sustained. The Master of Imladris took no chances with Estel’s health, and Gilraen reminded herself once again that she should be grateful. She felt guilty at times that she was not, but Elrond was not the boy’s father, and this was not the life she wished to live!

Her pace quickened as her ire increased, but then she forced herself to slow and checked herself. Her resentment was silly; she knew that. It was also normal. Had not her own father warned her in his last letter to expect such emotions? What she felt was to be expected. She still grieved the loss of her husband. Arathorn had been special, and she had been his.

And Aragorn had been theirs, the product of their love for one another and the living vision of the future.

Her steps faltered once more. Now, here in this beautiful valley, she felt empty and, more often than not, useless — lost without purpose or a sense of belonging. Perhaps in time she might feel she belonged here…

Yes, it would take time for her to make a place for herself and not feel like an intruder. She knew that, as well.

In the months they had been here, Gilraen had found her hands most often empty, the hours she did not spend caring for Estel passing only by reading from the expansive library Elrond offered. She had recently begun sewing again, and making some friends among the elf maidens, but in her village, she had been responsible for so much more than sewing Estel's clothes and making sure he ate his vegetables. She had gone from the Chieftain's wife to a guest in a strange house.

Well, she may not be welcome in the kitchens or even allowed to wash away the blood from her son's scratches, but she could still kiss away Estel’s tears!

However guilty it made her feel, she found satisfaction in Estel's struggles when he was hurt, even against Elrond. For when all was said and done, she, Gilraen, was his mother and only she could calm him. It was to her he came running, and it was for her that he called.

Except, as she got closer to the healing ward, she could hear no child crying. There came no muffled voices hushing a struggling boy as he called for his Nana.

That was odd. From the look on Istnir’s face when he had come to inform her Estel was hurt, she had assumed it to be something serious enough to make him frantic for her arms. A cut or possibly a broken bone. The boy had been with playing with Glorfindel, of all people. She was not surprised to have heard he had been injured. The children of the dúnedain played hard, after all, and such injuries were a normal part of childhood. She had suffered her own fair share as a child.

But instead of the expected crying or calling for her, there was silence in the hall leading to ward.

A chill ran down her spine and her stomach knotted with sudden apprehension, and her pace quickened. Something was very wrong, and she felt a panic began to well up inside her.

The feeling intensified when she saw Erestor waiting just outside the door. His typical stoic face awash with unusual emotion. He said nothing, only opened the door for her to pass through.

His silence was not uncommon. Erestor only spoke if he had something to say. No, it was the ashen color of his face and the haunted look in Erestor's eyes that terrified her.

How badly had Estel been hurt? Was he unconscious? Had he fallen from Brandlir?

The stallion was very large, and she had had her doubts about letting her son ride him, especially considering his reputation. But she had seen with her own eyes how gentle the horse was with Estel. How he plodded along with the child riding before Glorfindel.

But accidents while riding did happen! And such falls to a boy Estel's size could prove serious or even fatal.

She rushed past Erestor and through the door. A whimper drew her attention to one side of the rooms. She could see Elrond’s back beside a special raised bed that allowed him to stand and easily reach the injured person. A bright lamp on a high stand was pulled close to his bent head, and lying on the bed—

She stumbled to a stunned halt and choked back a sob of absolute panic when her eyes landed on Estel’s white face, flecked with blood. Her son lay moaning and crying softly; but his eyes were closed, and he was not fighting.

A deep voice whispered comforting words, and Estel quieted. It had been Elrond who had spoken.

Gilraen forced her feet to move forward again, almost afraid to see what had befallen her baby.  

Deep in concentration, Elrond worked, his hands deftly tying something over Estel's arm. As she stepped closer and her eyes landed on just what Elrond was treating, she gasped and staggered back, covering her mouth with one hand.

Such wounds! Estel's arm was swollen and battered, some gashes going deep and she thought she caught a glimpse of bone.

Elrond worked to close them with silk stitches, his hands moving methodically, his eyes never leaving his work, though his voice still murmured assurances to the boy who whimpered from time to time.

"He will be all right, Gilraen." Elrond said, catching her by surprise.

She had not realized the lord had heard her enter. Then she realized what he had said: Estel would be ‘all right'.

All right? But—

She looked hard at her son's arms, biting her lower lip and moving to the other side of the table to brush her fingers over her son's matted hair. Gilraen was no fool. She was of the dúnedain. Her whole life had been lived among her wandering kin. She had seen many wounds among the Rangers when they returned from a patrol. She had treated many! There were some Rangers who never recovered entirely. Some lost the use of a hand or arm or walked with a permanent limp.

She knew what such wounds could mean!

"He will never hold a sword," she whispered in horror. He would never write, throw rocks, do any of the things a little boy was supposed to do. He would never be able to ride a horse, learn to fight!

He was the future of her people! No, this was not happening. Her baby could not bear such scars, or endure such loss!

Looking up, she met Elrond's concerned eyes, and she lifted her chin. "You will make him well," she declared, refusing to accept less. After all, they had come here to keep her son safe! To give him the best!

Elrond sighed and gazed back down at his work. "I am doing my best, child. But some of the wounds are deep and jagged. I fear there may be some irreparable damage in his right arm."

She shook her head, refusing to accept such a statement.

But he ignored her reaction and continued. "I will not know for certain until it has begun to heal. In time, we will know how serious the damage is. He has moved his fingers, so he has some use of them. It is a good sign." He paused, not looking up. "He is alive, Gilraen. It is enough."

His words did little to comfort her.

As she looked at her baby lying so pale on the bed, helplessness rose up inside her, threatening to choke her with its power. She stroked Estel's hair, whispering what comfort she could to him, bending down to press a kiss to his small forehead. He was so small, so fragile.

This should not have happened to him! He should have been protected from such devastating harm!

A slight sound, as of rustling cloth, alerted her that they were not alone. She glanced up and saw Glorfindel, sitting in a chair against the wall and staring at Elrond as he worked.

Yet it seemed the golden warrior saw nothing of what was truly there. Did he not see Estel? Did he not see how her baby whimpered and cried? Did he not understand what pain her son would endure? What limitations such injuries could cause?

All of the emotion Gilraen had been fighting against since arriving roiled up within her in that moment, coming to the surface as anger at the sight of him staring sightlessly at her injured son. So intense was her ire, that she felt she might be ill of it. Her stomach twisted.

Was this why Estel had been hurt? Because the warrior who had been given charge of her son had been distracted with his own thoughts? Her fear and anger gave rise to suspicions and doubts that she would never have harbored in other circumstances.

Then he dared to speak to her. "I am sorry, Gilraen. It happened so fast."

She flinched at his words.

Sorry? He is sorry?

He was the Captain of the Imladris Guard! The Balrog slayer of Gondolin! The dead returned to life! Nothing should have harmed her son in his presence!

"Yes, I am sure a great warrior such as yourself was unable to move fast enough to protect a small child!"

"Peace, Gilraen."

It was Elrond's voice. He did not look up at either of them, but continued to work on Estel's arm.

Peace? Not while her baby was in such pain!

The tears that had welled up in her eyes slipped down her cheeks. She pointed at the captain. "It is all your fault! Your fault he lies here in such pain!"

"Gilraen!"

She ignored Elrond's chastisement. Her eyes narrowed on the captain. He had yet to look her in the eye.

"How could you allow such a thing to happen? You were to protect him!"

Glorfindel flinched at her words. "I tried," he whispered. "I…" He dropped his head into his hands, shaking it back and forth.

But she had no pity for him, only contempt. "You failed, Captain! Failed in your duty!"

She turned her back on him, only to find that Elrond had raised his head from his work to pin her with cold, grey eyes.

Then he turned to Glorfindel, and she followed his gaze, noting the captain’s blue eyes were filled with tears. But his tears did not move her either.

"There is nothing you can do here, Glorfindel. Leave," Elrond told him.

Glorfindel surged to his feet, casting a last long look at Estel where he lay whimpering and moaning. Then he strode from the ward, and the door closed behind him.

When Gilraen looked back at Elrond, she was surprised to see the coldness in his gaze had been replaced with deep remorse.

"It was not his fault," he said, resuming his work. His hands trembled ever so slightly, then he took a shaky breath.

"It was mine."  

— o —

Glorfindel strode towards the stable, blinking back the unwanted tears that misted his vision. He knew Gilraen was speaking from her fear, allowing her anger to place blame. He had seen her struggle with her grief and her difficulties making a home here. She had lost so much at so young. No, he couldn't blame her for feeling anger.

Besides, her words were true. He had failed them all. If not for Brandlir, Estel would have been dragged off or ripped to shreds before Glorfindel could have reached him! He should have sensed, should have known…

He entered the stable and paced down the length of the aisle to Brandlir's stall. There he found a groom kneeling with a bucket of warm water, washing the blood and foam from his horse.

"I will do that," Glorfindel said, holding out a hand for the cloth.

The groom handed it over, stood and bowed. "I will get you some more hot water, my lord," he said, slipping out the stall door.

Left in peace for a moment, Glorfindel stooped and let his eyes slip closed. He leaned his temple against Brandlir's foreleg, releasing a shuddering breath.

"Thank you, my friend," he whispered.

The stallion nickered, lowering his head and nuzzling at his hair. Glorfindel reached up to scratch the sweat dried cheek while inwardly he berated himself.

If only he had not turned his back. If only he had moved faster. If only he had heeded Elrond’s hesitance to let them go and had played closer to the Last Homely House!

With a heavy heart, he returned to washing down his horse. When he had finished, he prepared Brandlir a special mash as a reward for his horse’s bravery.

Brandlir ate it as if entitled to a king’s feast.

Shaking his head, Glorfindel shut the stall door and retreated towards his quarters. How he wished his rooms were far from the healing ward. He had no wish to run into Gilraen or Elrond any time soon.

Taking little used halls, he crept to his rooms without seeing anyone. Once there, he plopped down into a chair and dropped his head into his hands.

My fault. All my fault. I put him in danger and let him get hurt.  

His mind melded the current situation with a similar one in Gondolin ages ago. He had failed to keep the boy safe.

But in his mind, it was not Estel. It was another child, in another life. One with dark hair and bright blue eyes. He shuddered.

It was Panguil all over again. *

As the sun sank and the valley darkened, Glorfindel did not move, not even to light a lantern or to change from his dirt and blood encrusted clothing. He sat in the dark and stared at the wall, reliving the past, the present, and fearing the future.

The dinner hour came and went. Voices and footsteps passed on the other side of his door.

And off and on throughout the night, he could hear the sound of a child crying out in pain.  

— o —

Elrond sat bolt upright in his chair when a cry pierced the room and threw off the blanket someone had placed over him. He stood and paced to the bed where Estel lay, but Gilraen was already there, shushing Estel, holding him as close as she could without jarring his injured arms. He cried and whimpered, not yet screaming as he had earlier.

Sighing, Elrond moved back to pick up the blanket from where it had slid to the floor. The toil of healing always left him drained, and he had no recollection of anyone putting the blanket over him while he had rested. He draped it over the back of the chair, then moved to stir up the fire and set the kettle over the renewed blaze.

"Have you slept at all?" he asked Gilraen, casting a look over his shoulder to where the woman rocked Estel. She shook her head, not pausing in her song. "After we get some more tea into him, I will watch over him, and you will rest."

When she shook her head, he moved to place a hand on her shoulder, drawing her tear-filled eyes upwards.

"He will need you tomorrow and in the days to come. Let me watch over his sleep."

For a moment, he thought she would argue, but then her head dropped in defeat and she nodded. She looked exhausted, and it was only the first long night of many. "I will not leave him, though."

Gilraen had not spoken to him since Glorfindel had left. She had murmured reassurances to Estel, but had only nodded to his explanations of what the upcoming days would entail. They would need to stay on their guard to assure that Estel’s healing was not complicated by festering wounds.

He patted her shoulder and stepped over to a cabinet and began removing various herbs to make a tea to help relieve Estel’s pain and help him to sleep. "We can bring in a cot so you can rest close to him," he told her, understanding her need to remain in the room.

As he waited for the water to heat, Elrond mixed the herbs necessary and sifted them in a small silk bag, which he then placed into a cup to be steeped into tea.

Elrond hoped the amount of bleeding had helped to wash most of the dog’s saliva from the torn flesh, but the risk of infection remained high. He had done all he could to clean the wounds, and had left some openings in the flesh by inserting a thick boiled reed that would allow the wound to drain. He would take no chances of the flesh rotting, which would require the amputation of the limb.

By Elbereth, they would keep that wound free of festering rot if it took every ounce of his skill to accomplish it!

Once the tea had steeped and cooled, Gilraen coaxed Estel to drink it.

"No, Nana,", he balked at first. "No like it."

"It will help you, love," she told him.

But he shook his head. "Tummy hurt."

Gilraen looked sharply up at Elrond then, and he moved to the bedside.

"Hurts?" Elrond asked the boy. "Or feels icky?"

"Icky," Estel told him, turning his head into his mother's arm. She brushed the hair from his flushed face and tried again.

"You need to drink this."

But the boy pressed his face more firmly into her, refusing to even try.

"Estel," Elrond reached out and lightly touched the boy on the cheek. "The tea will make the pain less."

The head turned back towards him, and pain-filled eyes looked up at him.

"And help your tummy feel better, too," he assured. "You must drink it, and then you can sleep and get better."

Estel looked at the cup, then made a face, turning back into Gilraen when she tried to press it to his mouth.

"Estel, do you want to hurt like you did earlier?"

That seemed to get the boy's attention. He turned fearful eyes up at Elrond. "Hurt 'gain?"

Elrond nodded. "If you do not drink the tea, the hurt will get bad again, and make you scream. If you drink it now, it will not hurt so much. And," he gave the child a comforting smile, "I put some honey in it this time to make it taste better."

But Estel was already sipping from the cup.

Relieved that they would not need to resort to methods Elrond preferred to avoid with small children, he slipped from the room to arrange for a cot and blankets to be brought for Gilraen, so she might get some rest. By the time he returned, Estel was asleep once again.

Throughout that long night, as Gilraen slept in the cot beside her son's sickbed, Elrond watched over Estel, his lips moving in silent petitions. But even as he pleaded for the boy who had become like a son to him, Elrond could not shake off the feeling of dread that his efforts had not been enough.

He had meant what he had told Gilraen earlier, when she had blamed Glorfindel for this. He blamed himself. If he had only heeded the signs. If only he had not ignored his senses, this could have been prevented.

As he looked at the bandages covering Estel, he knew beyond a doubt whose fault it was this had happened.

He had failed…again. He had failed Gilraen. He had failed the dúnedain. He had failed Estel and perhaps failed all of Ennor as a result, just as he had failed to save his wife so long ago.

In the darkness, Elrond lifted his eyes to a window where he could see Gil-Estel shining bright in the night sky. The light of the star seemed to grow in intensity as he watched, and hope welled up within him.

He may have failed by allowing this to happen, but by all he held dear he would not fail in seeing Estel healed!

Determined, his eyes dropped back to where Estel slept. He lifted a hand to brush aside a dark lock of hair from the boy’s forehead.

"I will not fail you again, my son," he whispered.

 
To Be Continued…

Author's Note: Panguil is a character from a novel length story I am working on about Glorfindel's past in Gondolin. It is a friendship that began under odd circumstances and that continues to both haunt and influence Glorfindel even into the Third Age.     

Chapter Four

The sun peaked over the horizon, turning the sky first grey, then pink, and finally gold. Glorfindel still sat, his muscles protesting the long night of being forced to sit unmoving in a chair.

Despite his body's complaints, he preferred to continue sitting and staring out his window, but he had duties that needed attending. In truth, he could have put them off a little longer, but with the coming of dawn, Estel's cries could again be heard, and he could not bear to listen to them.

The cries reminded him of another time he had been careless and a child had been hurt. It was long ago, in another life, but he could hear that child's cries echoing in Estel's agony. Ilúvatar had been correct to never grant him the blessing of children of his own. He always failed in protecting them!

He jerked himself out of the chair and stomped to his wardrobe, throwing it open. Washing and dressing took him longer than usual, as each cry caused him to wince and close his eyes. He could see the blood, the pale face, the blue eyes staring up at him, begging him to make the pain stop.

He shook his head. No, Estel's eyes were grey, not blue. Those had been other eyes. That tragedy was over and done, and he could only hope this one ended as well. He would gladly take every bit of the pain from Estel if he could.

If only he had been more diligent in watching the boy! Glorfindel could not stop himself from seeing the previous day's events in his mind over and over, and each time, he could see where he had made mistakes.

Brandlir never reacted as he had to a deer. The horse had sensed the dog instead, and Glorfindel should have taken better heed. The deer itself had been a warning. Bucks did not go darting about in such a manner during the full light of day unless they were being pursued by something, and the deer had been sweating and breathing hard. He had not been nearly as observant as he should have been.

And he should never have left Estel unattended while the boy slept. The peacefulness of the valley had lured him into a false sense of security. He knew better! Never should he have turned his back on the boy.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Glorfindel tried to stop the images: Estel's arm in the dog's mouth, the look of pain and shock, the dog shaking its head, the shredded flesh...and blood. Too much blood had covered the small boy and the ground.

Swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat, Glorfindel strode from his rooms, his steps faltering as another cry rang down the hall. Guilt gnawed at him. He should go check on Estel to see how the boy fared this morn, but he could not face Elrond or Gilraen — not knowing that he had failed in his duties. Gilraen especially would not wish to see him.

So instead he turned his steps in the opposite direction from the healing ward, heading for the stable to check on Brandlir. When he reached the large barn, he found that the stallion had already been fed his grain and now stood slowly munching his hay with eyes half closed.

The small wounds the horse had sustained showed no sign of infection to Glorfindel's eyes, but he would keep a close watch on them over the next few days to make certain they did not fester.

Pushing open the stall door, he entered and was met with a soft whicker of greeting. Brandlir continued to eat as Glorfindel stooped to run his hands over the stallion's legs. The wounds had already scabbed over and looked to be on their way to healing.

With a final pat on his mount's neck, he slipped back out of the stall and hastened towards the training grounds. He had guards to assign and patrol reports to read. He doubted he would accomplish as much as he should today, but making an attempt at normal activities might help him blot out the events of the previous day from his mind, at least for a short time.    

— o —

Gilraen held her screaming son, fighting back her own tears as she wrapped her arms around the small body, preventing Estel from moving as Elrond soaked off the bandages. The stitched wounds had seeped blood and fluids during the night and they had dried to the cloth, sticking it to the wounds. The process of soaking them off was long and tedious, not to mention painful to her son. Every cry, every whimper pierced her heart with remorse.

She should never have entrusted her son to the elves! Had Elrond's sons not failed to keep her own Arathorn safe? Why then had she thought her son would be safe with elf-kind?

She gritted her teeth and held her squirming son more firmly, her bitterness growing with each passing minute. A fool! That was what she was —  an utter fool who had been too lost in the grief of losing her husband to see the risks involved with removing herself from her kin. How easily Elrond's sons had persuaded her to pack up her son and come stay in the hidden valley, assuring her that here Aragorn would be safe. And she had believed them!

The truth hit her hard. This was her fault. If she had only stayed with her people then Estel would never have come to such harm. If she had only realized then that she could not trust the elves as she had always been taught, then she might not have allowed Estel to go with Glorfindel in the first place.

Even the thought of the captain's name enraged her. He had failed them all! Then her anger chilled as she again remembered that it was her own fault that her son had been with the incompetent captain.

But how could she have known? Elrond had assured her that her child would be safe with Glorfindel, a warrior of great renown! How could the Master of Imladris allow one such as Glorfindel to be a captain if he could not even protect a small boy?

She should not have trusted Elrond. What did he have to gain from keeping them safe? Nothing! It was her people that would lose the most if their last Chieftain perished! The elves could sail West to bliss and joy while the dúnedain fought on against the Shadow.

She should have remained with her people, removed herself to her father's house where her son would have been kept from harm. Coming here had been a mistake. In her heart, Gilraen determined that as soon as Estel was made whole again, she would return with him to her kin in the north.

And nothing Elrond Halfelven said would stop her.    

— o —    

In all his long years as a healer, Elrond had found that there were not many things more difficult to stomach than treating severe wounds on a small child. The process of healing was painful, and the little ones did not understand that what was happening was for their own good or that the pain they suffered saved them from much worse agony in the future. An adult might cry out or even struggle, but the looks a child gave him were almost unbearable.

Eyes that had once been trusting now flashed with fear and betrayal. All the ground Elrond had gained in the last months had been lost in a single day —and all because he had not heeded the nagging warnings granted him.

A glance up from his work at Gilraen proved that it was not just the trust of Estel that he had lost. The woman now looked upon him with near loathing. She blamed him too, as well she should! Had he not lived long enough to know his gifts?

Working as quickly as he could — which amounted to a snail's pace — Elrond soaked the bandages to loosen the body's secretions and bit by bit he was able to unwrap the cloth and reveal what lay beneath. The stitched wounds were jagged and red, the tissues still swollen from the trauma. But to his relief, he found no pus or sign of infection, though the danger was far from past.

Moving to a bowl of steaming water mixed with various crushed herbs, he placed clean cloths in the herbal mixture. Once they had soaked a few minutes, he wrung them out and placed them over the wounds. The mix of herbs would work to draw out any poison that yet avoided his detection.

Unfortunately, the mixture stung, and Estel fought all the harder, requiring a couple of Elrond's assistants to help restrain the boy.

"Can you not give him something for the pain?" Gilraen snapped in question as she struggled to hold her son.

"I have given him all I can at the moment," Elrond replied over the loud wails. He reached over and replaced one of the cloths that had been knocked asunder by Estel's fighting. They had to be careful how much of the poppy tea was given to one so small. Too much could cause many unpleasant effects or even death.

"Is there not something you can give him to calm him?" Gilraen asked in clear exasperation, having relinquished her hold to Elrond's assistants grudgingly. Her arms still shook from her efforts to restrain Estel and the sight of her struggling child surely grieved her mother's heart.

There was another herb they could give the boy that might calm him, but would do nothing for the pain. Elrond was disinclined to use it. The side effects almost always included an upset stomach and loose bowels. He would prefer not to cause Estel any further discomfort. It would soon be time again to administer more of the poppy tea, but until then, they would just have to do their best with Estel's struggles.

A small foot broke loose of the hold of one of the assistants and caught Elrond in the groin. He groaned and bent at the waist, fighting for breath. A clatter and then the sound of pottery breaking reached his ears. The bowl of herbs had been knocked to the floor.

"Enough!"

Elrond's raised voice caused everyone in the room to freeze for several moments. Even Estel went still, his eyes huge and focused on Elrond as he pulled himself upright and forced himself to move and place a hand on the child's head. It moments, the child was asleep.

"Why did you not do that before?" Gilraen asked, accusation in her voice.

"Because it is never wise to enter the mind of another, especially one so young. Your people may have elven blood, but it is diluted enough that your minds do not welcome the touch of another, even to help. " He sighed, looking away. "It can be felt as a violation. Estel does not understand, does not welcome the touch of another's mind as an elfling would. Sending him to sleep in such a manner can sever bonds of trust."

"I would say that is already accomplished," she retorted coldly.

Elrond sighed, but did not even attempt to change her mind on the matter. Trust had been broken. He had failed, and he could not change that. What he could do was see Estel healed and whole and make the best attempt he could to win at least Gilraen's trust back.

Estel had to remain in Imladris. Elrond had seen that in a clear vision. If the boy was returned to his people before he became a man, he would die, and all hope would be lost.

While one of the assistants moved to clean the mess made by the broken bowl and another began making a new mixture with which to soak the wounds, Elrond walked stiffly to a window and looked out over the valley, wishing his sons were home to help.

Elladan and Elrohir had not forged a bond with the boy since he had been brought to Imladris, preferring to keep their distance. But Estel had known them since he was a babe. The boy held them in awe and spoke of them with wistful longing. Elrond had not pushed his sons when it came to Estel, but the time may have come when he must do so.

Elladan and Elrohir might be able to calm Estel more than Gilraen if given the chance. The woman was too upset herself to manage it, her grief still too near to her fragile heart. She might never recover from the loss of Arathorn. Elrond understood that. In time, she would heal enough to be the mother Estel needed, but for now, she was shattering, and she needed help.

He would recall his sons, he decided, and insist they remain home and help with the boy. He could not insist they open their hearts to the child, but he could insist they help with his care.

"Send for Erestor, Caragaer," he told one of his assistants. Caragaer left, leaving Lagorthel to finish steeping the herbs.

"It is ready, my lord," she told him a few minutes later.

Releasing a sigh, Elrond went back to work dressing the wounds on Estel's arms and legs, but his mind refused to stop swirling with blame.  

If only he had heeded that nagging sense of foreboding. He knew better! It was not the first time he had felt such a thing. Had he not felt a similar warning when Celebrían—

Elrond had to close his eyes and force back the emotions that rose within him at the thought of his wife. He had to focus on the here and now. Yes, if he had heeded the warning in his heart, they might have avoided this. But pondering 'if only' would not change the current circumstances. He knew better than doing so.

With determination, Elrond pushed his guilt aside and focused instead on what he could do now.

There was always time later to wallow in the guilt of his failure.

"You sent for me, Elrond?" Erestor's voice interrupted his thoughts and work.

Elrond peered up, ignoring the curious and somewhat shocked expression on Gilraen's face. He had also not missed Erestor's use of his name without the honorific his chief counsellor usually bestowed on him. But unlike Gilraen, Elrond had heard Erestor do so before. Erestor was here as his friend, not just his counsellor, and Elrond appreciated the subtle reminder.

"Yes. Please recall my sons from the borders. I need them."

Erestor nodded and turned to do as bidden as Elrond continued applying the bandages to Estel's small limbs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gilraen wrestle with her curiosity. She had always been curious, and noticed small details, such as the use of his name from Erestor, who always called him lord, or at least that was what most people thought. Few knew their history, or how long they had known one another. The absence of his title had spoke volumes to Elrond, offering comfort where he needed it.

But Gilraen did not know that. She opened her mouth, as if to ask a question, her brow furled with puzzlement. Then she closed it firmly, turning away. She never asked, but the fact that she had almost done so gave Elrond hope he might regain her trust and keep mother and son where they belonged.  

— o — 

Silent as a shadow, a talent that had served him well when he had been primarily a scout, Erestor moved about the Last Homely House, doing what he did best, which was not organizing the library, or managing the pantry, as most thought. Instead, he observed the members of the household and what transpired. His brow furrowed at what he discovered.

In less than a day, the peace of the House had been shattered by an accident, and three of the most important residents were now blaming themselves for a situation that could not have been foreseen or forestalled.

Estel's getting hurt in some manner had been inevitable. Indeed, Erestor had been waiting for it! A child as inquisitive and active as Estel was bound to be injured. It was what children did. They seemed to be eager to walk into hazard. Erestor was often surprised so many lived to become adults.

The current situation was tragic, Estel's wounds horrific. But with Elrond tending to Estel, the child had the best chance of recovering. Erestor had been there from the time Elrond was nothing but a child, had encouraged his interest in healing, even as he trained him with a sword. But while he was a skilled warrior, Elrond's heart was gentle, kind. He had the heart of a healer, and with the learned skill and practice of more than an age, there was none better suited to seeing Estel cured.

Of bigger concern were the emotional scars of all involved that were being ripped open. Pain from those wounds, even those long healed, had been remembered, relived and now affected those whom Estel needed most.

With purposeful strides, his black robe billowing out behind him, Erestor walked to his office, taking little note of the servants and members of the household who avoided him. He closed the door behind him and dropped into his chair, picking up a quill from his desk. He toyed with the pen, turning it over and over in his fingers as he pondered what he could do to get those he cared for to see the truth of the situation and work together to bring healing to a small boy who was going to need all the help he could get.

Opening a pot of ink, Erestor dipped the quill inside and began to scratch notes down on a scrap of parchment. If he were to help those he cared for, he needed to be able to see the complete picture, to see what motivated each to act in the manner they did. He did this in the mode he did all things: he took notes, analyzed them, added to them and as he thought over what he knew, he could usually find a solution.

Elrond was the most crucial at the moment in that his skills were needed to restore Estel to physical health. But Erestor was uncertain as to whether he should speak to Elrond first. The Master of the House had long suffered from guilt whenever he perceived he had failed in preventing someone from getting hurt or could not restore them to perfect health, which was not always possible. Erestor supposed much of it came from being a healer, but in Elrond's case, it was far more complicated. Much of it lay in the Lady Celebrían's departure for the Blessed Realm and Elrond's taking the blame upon himself for being unable to heal her soul.

And yet, Elrond might be the easiest to reach. A simple reminder to his lord of a certain wooden box in his chambers and the contents within it* might do the trick of turning Elrond from his grief and despair, but the timing would be everything. At the moment, Estel needed constant care, and Gilraen would not be pried from her son's side. Such a discussion would have to wait until Erestor could speak to Elrond alone.

Or maybe—

Erestor smiled and made a few more notes before moving onto the next issue: Gilraen.

Leaving a space, he began to make more notations a bit below his notes about Elrond.

Gilraen still suffered much grief from the loss of her husband. She had begun to heal, but the wound was newer and thus the scars still raised and tender. As a result, any new pain could quickly be associated with the circumstances of Arathorn's death. The move to Imladris had been made in haste, and at the time, she had been so lost in her grief that she had been persuaded to do what was best for her son without putting much thought into it. She had just accepted Elladan's and Elrohir's word on the matter.

Gilraen needed to come to this realization on her own, or Erestor feared a situation such as they were in might shatter her trust and send her fleeing back to her people. Somehow, Gilraen would need to be convinced that this accident was just that – an accident. No one had failed her, and no one could assure her that her son would never come to harm.

Right now she held him close, but the time would come when she would have to let him go out into the world and experience the dangers that awaited one with a fate such as his.

But how to approach her and help her to see this, Erestor was uncertain. His brow drew together as he pondered it for a time, but he came up with no easy answers. He had not spoken much to the lady since her arrival beyond brief encounters. His duties to Elrond did not bring him into much contact with the woman, Estel not yet being of an age to begin studying with him.

The lack of a relationship with her would make matters more difficult, for she would not wish to listen to anything a stranger had to say. He would have to think more on that later, for now, he left another space and moved on to Estel.

As a child, Estel was resilient, as all children are, but the boy had faced so many unsettling changes over the past year. He had lost the father he adored, and for a time, he had lost his mother to her grief. He had been uprooted from his home with his dúnedain kin and had to adjust to a new home and a new family.

And now he had suffered a grave injury, and in treating that injury, Estel's trust in his new family was being shaken. Then there was the accident itself, which could instill a fear of anything from picnics to dogs — a child's mind could associate trauma into deep fears that could last a lifetime. Any such fears would have to be overcome and the sooner the better. Childhood fears could grow to a magnitude that could hinder an adult, and a boy with Estel's fate could not be allowed to harbor any such fears.

This, Erestor felt, would not be overly difficult to manage, but it would take time and resources that would need to be researched. He jotted another few notes and moved onto his last problem to solve: Glorfindel.

The biggest burden of guilt lay upon the captain, who had taken the blame upon himself. It was what Glorfindel did. Erestor knew that well. When feeling guilty, Glorfindel would avoid those he felt he had wronged, and bottle up his emotions deep within him. Erestor had learned long ago that when his friend felt responsible for the hurt to another, he would retreat into himself and let his guilt fester, sometimes slipping into a depression that could last for weeks.

The current circumstances had the makings of just such an episode, especially considering what he knew of Glorfindel's past. But Imladris needed Glorfindel, and until the captain could forgive himself and see the truth of what had happened, he would not be fit to do his duties. Oh, Glorfindel would make the effort, but he would be distracted by his guilt and that distraction could lead to oversight and more guilt…  

No, Erestor could not let that happen.

And if there was one person he didknow how to handle, it was Glorfindel.

With a sigh, he wiped the quill and set it aside. He placed the top back on his pot of ink and read over his notes, nodding to himself from time to time. There was still much that he was unsure of how to repair, but first things first.

He pushed back from his desk and stood, pausing only a minute to consider where he might find his first victim. A grim smile tilted his lips, and with long strides, he left the room, his black robe billowing out behind him.

To Be Continued…

*Author's Note: The box and contents Erestor thinks of can be read about in my story Silver Bells — another story featuring a meddling Erestor and the House of Elrond.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you are enjoying the story so far. If so, can you leave me a review and tell me what you think? In the meantime, I will be trying to update more frequently. Thanks for your patience!

NiRi

Chapter Five

The path twisted through the trees, leading Elladan and his brother back home to the Last Homely House. He shifted on his mare's back, stretching his neck, and tried not to think about why their father had recalled them. He stared at the back of his brother's head, then shifted his gaze skyward to the blue peaking through the trees above them and sighed.

The quiet ride back was annoying him. As was the slow pace Elrohir was setting. Was it necessary that Tulus plod so slowly? Was his brother's gelding actually dragging his feet?

He stared at the rangy grey gelding, but detected no misstep. No dragging of hooves. Just a slow, measured pace.

As if Elrohir is putting off speaking to Father as long as possible.

Typical for his brother, and completely opposite to himself. Elladan would rather get there, find out what their father wanted, do it, and get back out in the wilds. What point was there dragging one's feet? It only made you dread what was coming for a longer time. No, Elladan preferred to get unpleasant confrontation over with as soon as possible.

Not that they had been recalled for unpleasant confrontation. The scout sent to find them had not told them more than Lord Elrond needed them home. Not wished, not demanded, but needed. And that worried him a little bit.

Judging by the droop of Elrohir's usually straight shoulders, that need for them worried Elrohir a lot more.  

But Elladan had heard of no more orc attacks upon the dúnedain, or surrounding areas. Not since Arathorn had been killed. He sucked in a breath at that remembered pain. One more reason to eliminate those vile beasts that preyed upon the innocent!

And that was done by being out of the safety of Imladris and actively hunting the orc packs! And he did not care that his father took exception to his and his brother's hunts. He understood Elrond had responsibilities in the valley, but he did not understand why their father did not condone their need to eradicate the creatures. It was because of them their mother—

He stopped that thought before it sent him into a fit of rage. No, he would not think of what he and his brother had found in that vile cave in the mountains after their mother's caravan had been attacked on their way to Lothlorien. He saved those images to fuel his rage in battle against the creatures who had done the harm to her.

Instead, he reached down and rubbed Acharn's shoulder and went back to musing about why their father had need of them. Elrond had wanted them to be home more after bringing Gilraen and Aragorn — no, Estel, Elladan reminded himself with a wince. Their father had named the child Estel, claiming his true identity needed to be hidden for now. But what good could hardened warriors do for a toddler and a widow? In time, perhaps, he and Elrohir would teach Estel how to fight, but the boy was only three years of age!

He shook his head. No, they were of little use to the child and Gilraen. They were of better use out on patrol or, more to his liking, out hunting orcs.

Acharn suddenly shied, her ears twitching nervously as her hooves skittered over the dirt path. Elladan moved with her, then brought her to a stop. His gaze swept over his surroundings for any sign of danger, but the forest was quiet, outside the usual squirrels hunting for nuts, and birds singing in the treetops. There was no wind. The leaves hung still on their branches. He could sense nothing out of place.

Elrohir called back to him, to ask why he had stopped, but he raised his hand to silence his brother in a long practiced gesture from years of hunting orcs. From the corner of his eye, he saw Elrohir stiffen and still his mount's feet.

His eyes continued to search for whatever had caused his mare to react. But there should be nothing evil here. This close to the valley and the Last Homely House, the forest was protected by his father. However, years of training, as well as trial and error, had taught him never to take anything for granted. Safety only came in caution.

His burly mare suddenly neighed, shifting her stance. Acharn held her head high, her nostrils flaring as she sucked in deep breaths of air. Her small ears were pricked so sharply that they nearly touched at the tips. Then a tremor ran through her whole body. She neighed again and rolled her eyes, looking back over her shoulder at him plaintively.

"What is it, dear friend? What do you sense?"

The mare responded with a soft whuffling sound, and she stretched out her neck, nostrils quivering. Elladan urged her on, letting her take him to whatever had caught her interest. He had long learned to rely on his mount's instincts.

Elrohir brought Tulus up beside him, matching Acharn's pace. They rode side by side for only a couple of minutes before Elladan heard a soft wimper.  He halted his mount and slid from her back with a soft word for her to wait. With Elrohir following, he slipped into a dense thicket.

What he found pricked his heart. In a den made in the hollow of a fallen tree trunk, was a litter of puppies no more than two weeks of age. Fate must have prevented the bitch from returning, for of the seven small bodies, only one still retained life in it, and that only barely. Starving and cold, the pup looked at them with newly opened eyes and made a small yelping noise.

"The poor thing," Elrohir said, reaching out and lifting the dehydrated puppy, then turned on his heel and slipped out of the thicket. Elladan followed him back to the horses. Time was of the essence! They needed to get liquids into the pup right away as well as warm it or it would perish as had its littermates.

While Elrohir held the pup close to his chest, Elladan retrieved his water skin and dribbled a bit onto his fingers so the pup could suck the life-giving liquid off.   

"I wonder what happened to his mother?" Elladan asked, looking around for any sign of her. "Dogs do not abandon their young like this." Acharn nudged him, her large eyes blinking at the puppy nestled against Elrohir's chest as it hungrily took the drops of water offered.

"Perhaps she met with some foe larger than herself?" Elrohir mused, using one hand to hold the pup and the other to unfasten his outer tunic, so he might slip the pup inside to help warm him. Even though the day was not cool, the whelp could use the additional body heat.

Once assured the pup had consumed enough liquid to prevent its immediate demise, Elladan helped Elrohir do up the ties to hold the pup inside the tunic for the ride back, then steadied Tulus while his brother carefully mounted.

"He shall make a nice addition to the kennel," Elladan commented, eyeing the intelligent set of the puppy's head as it peaked out of Elrohir's outer tunic between two ties.

Elrohir just smiled, and Elladan snorted. It was more likely the poor pup would end up in Elrohir's rooms over the kennel.

Elladan took the lead, setting a much quicker pace than they had previously ridden. They would soon be home where the pup could receive proper care from the kennel master. At least until Elrohir talked the master into letting him do it.

— o —

Glorfindel fled from the house. He had tried to return, after spending much of the morning accomplishing nothing but feeling guilty: guilt for letting Estel get hurt, for not staying and helping Elrond and Gilraen, for not finding some way to take the pain upon himself and spare the innocent child—

So he had returned to offer his services wherever they were needed. He needed to be of use, to in some way make amends for his allowing Estel to get hurt.

But Estel's cries had pierced his heart, as had the tears streaming down the boy's face. The child not understand the pain.

Gilraen's gaze had skewered him as soon as he had walked in the door, as sharp as any blade. And the blame in them laid upon him like a heavy cloak. Elrond had only sighed and shook his head. The Master of the House appeared as weary as Glorfindel could ever remember seeing him, but he had not accepted Glorfindel's offers to help.

Unwelcome in the healing rooms, unable to bear listening to the cries echo in the halls, Glorfindel had fled back outdoors. He wandered for a time in  the gardens, but it did not take long until his feet led him to the stable.

There he sought solace in Brandlir's stall. The grey stallion whickered and lowered his head onto Glorfindel's shoulder. He stood there for some time, stroking his horse's face and ears.

After many minutes, he found his voice and gave utterance to his guilt. "You tried to warn me, did you not?" A soft whicker rumbled in the stallion's throat. "But I did not heed you."

Dark eyes regarded him unblinking as the head sank lower.

"Of course you did not."

The unexpected words had Glorfindel blinking at his horse, as if Brandlir had spoken. Then the familiar tones of that voice registered in his mind and he looked up at the stall door where Erestor stood, those icy-blue eyes watching thoughtfully.

"Tell me, did this silly beast of yours truly warn you, or was he only being his ridiculous self?"

The stallion's head jerked upright, his ears flattened back.

But Erestor just shook his head, not intimidated. "Oh? You would have him blame himself then?" he asked the horse.

The stallion's head dropped, the ears pricking slightly.

"No, I did not think so." Erestor turned his attention back to Glorfindel. "Stop blaming yourself. It is not your fault."

"You were not there—"

"No, I was not. But I heard everything you told Elrond. And I heard everything Gilraen said to you — and he to her."

The last part was spoken softly, peaking Glorfindel's curiosity. His brows raised as he gazed at his friend. "And what did Elrond say?"

Erestor gazed back, unblinking. "He blames himself."

The shock of that statement held him speechless for a full minute. Elrond? Taking the guilt upon himself, when the fault so clearly lay at Glorfindel's feet?

"Why would he blame himself?" he asked. "He was not there either."

Erestor sighed, a frown creasing his brow. "He sensed the danger and yet agreed to let Estel go."

"He believed I could protect him…and I failed him!"

The truth of saying it aloud only made his heart ache the more. A chill ran down his spine. He leaned his head against Brandlir's neck, seeking some warmth, some comfort from his horse. "I failed him," he whispered again.

The stall door creaked open and a warm hand clasped his shoulder. "You could not have known. You are notperfect, no matter what you think! It was a dog, Glorfindel! A dog! How were you to sense that? Orcs? Wargs? Yes! But a dog?"

Glorfindel glanced up to see Erestor shaking his head, his eyes sympathetic. "A terrible thing to be sure, but it is no one's fault. These things happen…as well you know."

Glorfindel stared at him a moment, knowing exactly to what Erestor referenced, but refusing to acknowledge it. "I should have protected him!" Glorfindel growled, declining to let himself so easily out of the blame.

Erestor shook his shoulder. "You did!"

Glorfindel blinked. "But—"

"No, listen to me," Erestor interrupted, turning him around with gentle pressure on his shoulder so they were face to face.

Glorfindel leaned back against Brandlir. A great weariness descended on him, as typical after a battle. He nodded, too drained to argue.

Erestor took a deep breath, taking on the demeanor he was so known for in the council chamber when he was determined to be heard and to have his view accepted.

Stubborn as a mule, Glorfindel thought. Elrond's Chief Councilor never took no for an answer — not if he believed he was right. He sparred with words as well as he did with a sword.

"These things happen," Erestor began. "Life is full of the unanticipated. None of us can be expected to sense every possible source of danger. We do our best. It could just as easily have been a poisonous snake. Or Estel could have slipped and hit his head on a rock while running. Or climbed up a tree and fallen. Would you have blamed yourself for any of those things?"

Before Glorfindel could answer, Erestor shook his head. "You would not. Life is full of danger, even without the press of evil. Would you instead lock Estel in a room to keep him safe? Even here, he would not be! In his curiosity, he could climb up a bookshelf and it could fall over on him—"

Erestor paused abruptly, a look of sudden contemplation crossing his features. “Which reminds me, I need to have Istnir bolt them to the walls,” he muttered, his fingers twitching as if they ached for a quill to write his note to himself.

Glorfindel's lips twitched. This was why Erestor was Elrond's Chief Councilor. His arguments were so persistent, so steeped in logic. Most found it difficult to get a word in, let alone argue. And then he threw in these absentminded monologues to himself that lightened the mood, often changing the subject.

He could see the truth in what Erestor said, though his heart yet ached. If only he had moved faster—

"You protected him," Erestor said quietly, shaking his shoulder again to get his attention. "You saved his life."

Glorfindel shook his head, turning and throwing an arm over Brandlir's neck, refusing to accept such a statement. "Glir saved him. He killed the dog."

"And who bred and trained such a beast to be his mount? You! You two communicate as if he had a voice of his own."

Erestor reached out to pat the horse's rump, getting a disdainful snort from Brandlir in return, as well as a cocked hip in his direction. Glorfindel patted his horse, hoping to appease the stallion as Erestor continued.

"And you were the one with the skill and knowledge to bandage that little boy up so his life's blood did not spill itself out. And the two of you," he patted the grey dappled rump again, earning another snort and pinned ears, "brought him home."

Erestor searched Glorfindel's eyes, pinning him in place. "This is not Gondolin — and Estel is not Panguil."

Glorfindel paled at the reference. There were some things the two of them simply did not discuss, and Panguil was one of them.

Erestor ran a hand over his hair, and turned away a moment. Glorfindel watched him, wondering what he would say next. He did not wish to relive those horrid days in Gondolin, when his young squire had come so close to death.

Then Erestor, cunning old goat that he was, changed the subject and hit him with the one thing he could not refute.

"If it were Elladan or Elrohir standing here in your shoes, what would you be telling them?"

Unfair!

Erestor played unfair, and hit even below the belt when needed. Erestor played by his own rules, as he always had, and with that one sentence, his friend struck the winning blow.

Glorfindel dropped his eyes with a slight shake of his head, his lips twitching up in a rueful smile. "Exactly what you are telling me."

"Well, there you have it."

When he glanced up, Erestor's eyes were twinkling.

With a final pat on the grey rump, Erestor turned to leave. "You were the easy one. Elrond and Gilraen will be much harder to convince—"

In his ruminations, Erestor had turned his back on Brandlir. He should know better than doing that by now.

"Erestor—"

The warning came too late.

Brandlir's teeth sank into the fancy, embroidered black robes, eliciting a most undignified yelp and jump.

Erestor spun around, his face flushing as his icy-blue eyes flashed with ire. "The feeling is mutual," he snapped before backing the rest of the way out of the stall.

Erestor strode down the aisle in a huff, muttering about horsemeat being added to the menu as his robes swished about him and one hand rubbed at his backside.

Glorfindel smiled as he watched him go.

Erestor’s words had lightened his load, though he still felt the guilt eating away at him. He knew Erestor was right, but freeing himself of the guilt when that sweet little boy lay in the healing rooms with his arms so badly damaged was a very difficult thing. No matter if it were an accident, it had happened under his watch, and that made him responsible.

But his friend's speech had succeeded in opening his eyes to the whole situation. He could see where he had been overconfident, even a little bit careless in the peacefulness of the day. But he also now could admit that even had he been on the highest level of alert, the dog might still have slipped past him and attacked Estel.

And Erestor was right about Estel not being Panguil. This was not Gondolin. This was Imladris, and Erestor's insight had been just what he needed for him to see that what had happened had been an accident. He smiled.

It was not his fault, and that assurance gave him the peace he needed to do what had to be done. Elrond would need assistance, no matter if he wished it or not, and even if Gilraen threatened to have him thrown out, Glorfindel would march back to that healing room and—

He reconsidered.  Maybe he would walk slowly and put some more thought into how he could most help Estel. A story or two perhaps? There were some illustrated books in the library that might entertain the three year old.

With a much lightened heart, and the image of Erestor rubbing his backside in his head, Glorfindel meandered back towards the house determined to help do all he could to see Estel healed.

To Be Continued…

Author's Note: Panguil is a character from a story I am currently writing that is set in Gondolin. Despite their somewhat contentious relationship, Glorfindel and Erestor have a close friendship, and Erestor is the only one who knows many of Glorfindel's secrets. And visa versa…

Thank you so much to all who have taken the time to read and review! The feedback is most welcome and appreciated! ~NiRi 

Chapter Six

Elrohir eased Tulus to a stop, and his horse waited motionless while Elrohir dismounted, as if aware of the burden he carried. Elrohir placed a hand to her neck, praising her for her compassion. "Well done, my friend," he murmured.

He heard Elladan call to one of the grooms to take Tulus and Acharn, usually a chore they handled themselves, but in this instance, more pressing matters were at hand. "See they are both rubbed down and fed," Elladan finished, and Elrohir smirked. Elladan was so much like their father in a perceived crisis, taking charge, issuing orders, but still concerned about the well being of those under his care.

Elrohir motioned to one of the gardeners tending a flower bed nearby. "Find the kennel master and send him to the kitchens quickly, please."

The woman was off like a doe fleeing from the hounds as he and Elladan made for the house and the heat and supplies they would need.

"Get some goat's milk in him, and I bet he will be just fine," Elladan commented.

Elrohir glanced down at the small burden still resting against his chest. "Does that mean you are volunteering to do the nursing?" Elrohir asked with a wicked smile. "You found him, after all."

"Yes, but look who carried him home," Elladan retorted, but he was also smiling.

Elrohir grinned back, knowing full well who would be tending the pup, and it would not be the kennel master or Elladan. At least, not if they were home for a time.

As they neared the house, Elrohir heard of sounds of grumbling following them. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Erestor not far behind, his eyes downcast, and a hand rubbing his…backside? Elrohir snorted and nudged his brother. "Looks like Erestor had a run in with 'the horse'."

Elladan snuck a peek then also snorted. "I thought he learned last time not to turn his back on that beast. It is not like him to be taken by surprise by anything." He paused and they strained to hear the councilor's words as he stormed closer.

"…just doing your duty, keep him smiling and the depression will stay at bay. But curse it all, I hate that horse!"

"Forget to watch your back, Councilor?" Elladan called over his shoulder, causing Elrohir to nearly choke with laughter. Oh, his brother always did like to court death!

"No," Erestor snapped coming up and glaring at them both. "I did not forget."

It was then Elrohir realized what his long ago tutor had been saying. He frowned. "What was that you were saying about doing your duty? Keep who smiling? And depression…" His eyes widened as he realized the implications. "Tell me no one died."

"No one died."

It was said deadpan, in Erestor's typical dry voice, but the usual expressionless face actual held a touch of an emotion Elrohir could not name. And that was not a good thing, since it was not just annoyance he was seeing.

Elrohir stared at Erestor as the councilor looked back, then glanced away. Also, untypical. Something was wrong.

"Why is Glorfindel depressed?" he asked, when it became clear Erestor would not explain. A tinge of worry had started creeping up his spine. He had already considered worst case scenarios at their being called home, but to see Erestor like this, going so far as to allow Brandlir to bite him? Yes, something was very wrong here.

"Because that…that twice-lived fool wallows in guilt even if something is an accident! He could not have known! He saved that boy's life! And yet he would waste away blaming himself for an attack he could not prevent!"

The explosion of anger from the usually stoic Councilor was both baffling and disconcerting. Elrohir blinked and glanced at his brother who was starting to get a look of dread upon his face.

"Erestor?" Elladan interrupted the livid lecture, his voice sharp and commanding. "Saved whoselife? What attack? What are you talking about?"

That seemed to get Erestor's attention for he blinked, then glanced from one to the other as if only just realizing who they were. "Thank Elbereth you two are here!" he suddenly exclaimed, his eyes lightening in a way that caused another curl of fear in Elrohir's belly. "Perhaps you can help talk some sense into everyone!"

"Erestor," Elrohir kept his voice softer, lower, using the tone that he knew would urge the councilor to actually listen. For some reason, speaking slowly and distinctly had that effect on the old elf. "We have been away, so we have no idea what has happened here." He drew the last word out and waited but still nothing. "Care to enlighten us?"

At that moment the pup chose to whimper, letting out a pathetic cry. Erestor's eyes dropped to the small creature harbored in Elrohir's tunic, then widened as he realized what it was. "A puppy?"

"Yes, a puppy," Elrohir confirmed in that same slow talk. "Four legs, cold nose, tail that wags…"

Erestor's gaze snapped back to Elrohir's face. "I know what a puppy is! I am just surprised to see one. None of our dogs has litters on the ground. Where did you find it?" And the look of anticipation, almost excitement on Erestor's face unnerved Elrohir.

"In the woods," Elladan answered, "to the north, not far from that meadow Glorfindel favors. He was the only one living. Something must have happened to the bitch. Why?"

Erestor stared at the pup as if it were a treasure, a smile even tilting up his lips. Elrohir glanced at his brother, receiving a shrug in return.

Perhaps Glorfindel has finally driven him crazy? Elladan bespoke his brother.

No, Elrohir answered. Something has happened.

 Erestor was nodding. "Marvelous," he murmured, then glanced over his shoulder as the kennel master ran up to them. Erestor motioned to the pup. "Helethion, see to that poor creature, but keep it away from the house."

"I will need warm milk from the kitchens, Master Erestor," Helethion stated, looking into the pup's mouth and eyes. "I keep some supplies there for this sort of situation."

Erestor nodded. "So long as you keep it out of sight of Elrond or Gilraen for now." Then he motioned to Elrohir and Elladan. "Come with me. We need to talk."

"But why does the puppy need to be kept out of sight?" Elrohir inquired as he transferred his burden to Helethion, who murmured softly to it.

Erestor was already walking away. "Because I think its mother attacked Estel and nearly killed him."

Those words shot a stab of freezing cold down Elrohir's spine. He exchanged one more look with his brother, then hurried after Erestor, finally understanding the councilor's rattled state of being.  

And if Glorfindel had been charged with Estel's safety, Elrohir thought, then it is no wonder Erestor let that horse take a bite out of his arse!

— o —

Elladan felt only shock as he and Elrohir listened to Erestor's grisly tale. They had not had much contact with Arathorn's son since escorting him and his mother to Imladris, but to hear that the child had been so severely injured was disturbing.

And Erestor's suspicions about Gilraen and what she might do caused fear to stir within Elladan's chest. Elrond was not the only one to have the gift of foresight. Elladan had inherited the gift — the knowledge of which he had shared with none but his brother — and while he did not see vivid visions as did his father, he had also perceived the fate of the boy should Estel not be kept in Imladris. They could not allow Gilraen to take the boy back to the dúnedain! He was the last hope of Men, and had to be hidden to protect him.

He winced. Failure to protect Estel was most likely the excuse Gilraen would use to remove the boy from their care. They could not prevent her from doing so if she insisted. Not without causing great strife between the elves and the Men of the North, especially Dírhael, who currently led the dúnedain in the absence of a Chieftain. The Man had not easily relented to Aragorn's being hidden away from his own people. And if his daughter wished to return to them, Dírhael would move the cliffs around them if need be to accomplish just that, so fierce was his love of his daughter and her son.

So what could they do?

On top of Gilraen's loss of trust, Erestor thought their father was blaming himself, which affected his ability to heal. Elladan could see that happening. Had not Elrond done just that when their mother had sailed? It had taken Celebrían's planning before she left, and Erestor's implementation of that plan, to bring Elrond out of that deep grief of self hatred and blame. (1) It had also been the catalyst to bringing Elladan and Elrohir back from certain self destruction, though they often still teetered on that edge. And who could blame them when orcs still roamed the mountains, murdering innocents…or worse, leaving them alive.

He shook off his rising anger, and focused on the problem at hand. Elrond's strength would be depleted from his healing endeavors. A lack of rest and the blame of guilt would make him unable to see the situation clearly and less likely to reason with an irate and upset mother. And they would need all the clear heads they could get if indeed Gilraen was contemplating leaving them with her son. They could not allow that to happen, and so they had to convince her that Imladris was still the safest place for Estel.

But first they had to convince Elrond that the situation was not his fault and to rest and reserve his strength for dealing with a difficult patient. And that would explain their being recalled, he realized. He and Elrohir could help with the boy's treatment, overseeing the healing and allowing their father to have a break from the tediousness of such wound care.  

"When I last visited the healing rooms, they were having a hard time getting Estel to eat anything. If he is to heal, he needs to eat," Erestor was saying. "Not even Elrond or Gilraen have been able to force food into that child."

"Perhaps forcing is the wrong way to go," Elrohir joined in, glancing at Elladan. "We should tempt his appetite with something more appealing than that bland goop Adar is apt to offer in the healing ward."

Elladan grinned. "Cherry tarts?"

Elrohir nodded, a mischievous smile replacing his somber expression of the past half hour. "And if they are for Estel, who is hurt, then Cook might not chase us from the kitchens with his broom."

"A good plan," Erestor murmured, pushing back from his desk and standing. "Let us fetch a plate of them for Estel, Elrond and Gilraen. They all need sustenance, and a pot of tea, I think," he added as an afterthought.

"And milk for Estel," Elladan added as they conspiratorially made their way to the kitchens.

— o —

Glorfindel's trip to the healing ward was made by way of the kitchens, hoping the cook might have something that would tempt the appetite of a small boy in pain. He was surprised to find the kennel master there, urging a pup to drink from a cleverly designed bottle.  Glorfindel's eyes narrowed on the tiny pup Helethion held. None of the bitches had given birth recently, so where had this whelp come from?

He feared he knew. Word had reached him that the twin sons of Elrond had returned, called home from their orc hunting by their father. And returning from the north would have led them by Glorfindel's very own meadow…the meadow where that vile beast had attacked Estel.

A dog that looked far too much like the pup held in the arms of the kennel master.

"Where did that whelp come from?" Glorfindel demanded.

Helethion's head jerked up at the command. "My lords Elladan and Elrohir asked me to tend to it, Lord Glorfindel. They found it upon their return from the wilds, abandoned by its mother and near starved to death."

A growl left him as he advanced on the small dog held possessively by Helethion. The closer he got, the more he saw the resemblance between the bitch and the pup. Deep down he knew his anger with the dog was ridiculous; the bitch had only been trying to feed her young, doing what she needed to do to survive, and yet, he could not get rid of the image of Estel's small arm, ripped and bleeding, in her jaws.

"That thing should be destroyed!"

"NO!"

Glorfindel spun at the call, finding Erestor and the twins standing in the doorway, eyes wide. "No," Erestor repeated, softer, his eyes pleading in a manner Glorfindel rarely saw. "Hear me out."

Glorfindel shook his head, not wanting to hear anything. He turned his gaze back to the pup and again saw only the bitch, blood on her face, death in her eyes. "You do not know what that thing's mother did. He will have the same disposition."

"That is not true," Elladan barked.

Glorfindel glanced over at him, startled at the sharp tone, and found the eldest twin's piercing grey eyes narrowed upon him.

"And you know it," Elladan continued in a softer tone. "It is in how you raise the pup that matters. Youtaught us that!"

Glorfindel sighed and glanced away, running a hand through his hair. He had indeed taught the twins that, and he had believed it at the time.

"The bitch had war dog in her. Is that the kind of animal you want here? What if Estel sees him? It will frighten him! He very likely will be afraid of dogs as it is without having to see one that looks just like the one who attacked him. That pup is even the same brindle color."

"And that," Erestor insisted, "is precisely why we must not destroy him but keep him alive. If Estel does indeed have a fear, he must overcome it, and we need to start as soon as possible helping him do so." He inclined his head at the pup. "That whelp is the answer. We have none in the kennels at this time."

Erestor walked over and ran a finger over the wide head of the pup. "This little fellow must be nursed back to health. And in time introduced to Estel. No little boy can resist a cute puppy for long." He smiled and began to speak to the pup in a soft, cooing voice.

Glorfindel gaped as Erestor dropped his stoicism to smile and at the pup. Then he stared hard at the whimpering puppy that was pawing at the bottle and Helethion's hands, mimicking the movements it would make nursing. He did not wish to admit it, but it was a good plan. Then of course, it would be, coming from Erestor's mind.

He smiled wryly. "Very well, but for now, his existence needs to be kept secret, and I think Gilraen should never know where that pup came from."

"Agreed." The voices of Erestor, Elladan and Elrohir spoke in unison.

To Be Continued…

(1) From the story Silver Bells, posted here! How Celebrían helped Elrond heal, even from Valinor.     

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! I am working on this as I have time and will never abandon it! As always, your reviews are greatly motivating and appreciated! - NiRi

Seven

Gilraen felt drained. She could not remember ever feeling this exhausted, frustrated, angry, defeated and confused. Deep down she knew her anger was irrational, but she clung to it, for it gave it her the strength she needed to cope with the current difficulties with her son.

The most recent battle was getting Estel to eat. Nothing Elrond ordered for her son tempted his appetite. The pain, and the draughts Elrond gave him, did not make Estel wish to eat. He complained of feeling sick in his tummy. Gilraen had managed to get him to nibble on a piece of toasted bread spread with some preserved berries and to drink some tea — she had promised there was only honey in it, as Estel detested the pain easing draughts Elrond made him.

It was not enough sustenance for a grouse, let alone a growing, healing little boy! But Estel turned up his nose at the bland broth over boiled grains. Having tasted it, Gilraen could not blame him. There was no seasoning in it that might react with the herbs Elrond used to treat Estel's pain.

She had given up half an hour ago trying to coax, force and order her son to eat it anyway. Now she slumped in her chair beside his bedside, watching him toss and turn and moan. She felt defeated and as a failure as a mother.

The door swung open.

"Well, there he is!" a chipper voice boomed into the room.

Gilraen sat up sharply, turning to chastise whoever dared to come into her son's sickroom and disturb him, then paused as she saw just who had entered.

Elladan and Elrohir walked into the room, each bearing a tray of what appeared to be tarts and tea and possibly a mug of milk. Behind them came Elrond's Councilor, Erestor, a meddling, most annoying elf in her estimation, not that she had come into much contact with him during her time in Imaldris.

Gilraen glanced at her son, and noticed his whimpers had ceased at the sound of Elladan's — or was it Elrohir's? — voice. The boy now lay propped up on several pillows, his eyes wide as he stared at the sons of Elrond.

Nearly a year ago, Estel had loved those two as if they were beloved uncles. He had always had a knack of telling them apart, something Gilraen herself could not do with much accuracy. But the sons of Elrond had not remained long in Imladris after bringing her and her son to the haven, and they had not made any attempt to see or interact with herself or Estel.

She guessed they thought she blamed them for Arathorn's death, but she did not. In all the time she had known them, she had seen both twins had the same devotion to Arathorn as her husband had for them. They would have died to save their friend if they could have done so.

She had heard the tale, from several who had been there. There had been nothing anyone could have done to have prevented Arathorn's death. They had been ambushed by orcs, and among the foul creatures had been archers. No one could have stopped that arrow.

A small part of her recognized the same could be said of a dog attacking her son, but she refused to acknowledge such a fleeting thought and held onto her anger at Glorfindel.

It is different, she told herself.

She needed to believe that. She needed her anger. It gave her strength and a purpose she had not felt since before Arathorn's death.

Forcing a smile, she stood and held out a hand to the twins.

"What is this?" she asked, finding herself grateful for their presence. She felt comfortable with them in a way she did not with anyone else in the valley.

"We convinced cook all of you needed nourishment. We even managed to get a couple cherry tarts for Estel," one of the twins told her, with a glance at the boy.

Gilraen caught the look on her son's face and wanted to weep. There was definite desire in his expression, the small face rapt upon the plate of tarts on the tray. She glanced to Elrond, who had just come from the other room, mixing more herbs.

Elrond stared at his sons a moment, glanced to the trays, then turned and took in Estel's expression. Then to her surprise, he gave a small smile.

"That is a good idea," was all he said, moving to take one of the trays. "I am glad you got my message so quickly," he continued, giving a meaningful look at his sons.

"We were already on our way home."

She thought the authoritative tone came from Elladan.

"Erestor told us what has happened," the other twin remarked. He looked at the bed and its occupant. "How are you, Estel?"

The boy looked from the plate on the tray to the faces of the twins, then his eyes filled with tears and he reached up his less injured arm to reach towards them. "Doggie bite me!"

Gilraen's own eyes filled with tears as she saw the longing in her son's face. She had thought he had adjusted well to the loss of his father and the changes that leaving their kindred had brought about, but in that single gesture, she saw him reaching for the security, love and comfort he had once known.

Both twins moved to hand off the trays and then strode to either side of the bed, offering the comfort they had not when the boy's father had died. She wondered at that, then considered the twins had also lost their mother due to tragedy and perhaps had shied from the pain of her child losing his father.

But it seemed a physical attack with injuries was something they could relate to far easier. At least that is how it appeared, as both of Elrond's sons looked at each of Estel's wounds and murmured sympathies.

And in that moment, seeing her son reforming a bond with two of his father's closest friends, Gilraen felt hope stir in her breast. At least for the moment, she did not feel so very alone. Here was help she trusted.

Going to the trays, she began to hand out the food and drinks.

- o -

Elrond sank to his chair in his study, running a hand over his face. He needed to rest, just for a few minutes. He was exhausted as he had not been in many a year, not since the last time one of his boys had returned home seriously injured. Treating Estel sapped his strength in many ways, for he had to endure the boys screams and tears, and to endure the look of fear Estel gave him whenever he entered the room.

There also was the dilemma with each bandage change, as Gilraen's demeanor grew colder, and he feared what would happen once Estel was well again. With a sigh, Elrond lowered his elbows to his desk and dropped his forehead into the heels of his hands.

Estel now cowered whenever Elrond made any move towards the boy, even to comfort him. Had it only been a couple days since the little one had called him Ada and come willingly to him?

Elladan and Elrohir would be able to distract Estel for a short time, but once they began to help with the bandage changes, Estel's trust of them could be compromised as well. Elrond feared his sons' reactions to such lost of trust when it came — and it would come.

Elladan and Elrohir had not maintained any relationship with Estel in the months since the boy's and Gilraen's arrival, in part, Elrond thought, because they resented his instructions to remain within the valley instead of hunting orcs.

He had hoped keeping them home would allow them to come to see Estel as more than just the son of a friend. Elrond desired his sons to see the boy as family and play with him as they once had Arwen, so long ago.

But they had kept their distance, not necessarily being rude to the child when they encountered him and his mother, but not going out of their way to spend time with them either. Elrond supposed part of their responses to both mother and child was due to their being in that last fight where Arathorn was lost. The twins had been friends with the Chieftain, had spent time with Gilraen and Estel whenever they rode with the Dúnedain. They probably bore some guilt in the loss of the Man, though Elrond was certain they had done all they could to prevent such a loss.

Elladan and Elrohir had not abided by his wishes for long. Soon they had gone back out of the valley, riding again with the Rangers.

Elrond worried about his sons' drive for vengeance, which had driven them since their mother's capture and torture. It was not as strong as it once had been, but it still cast a taint upon their souls. Could that drive be what prevented them from reaching out to the boy? Or could it simply be their aversion to Gilraen, and a belief the woman blamed them for her husband's death, though Elrond had never heard her speak with anything but respect for his sons.

Regardless, Elrond would require their assistance in treating Estel, whether they wished to help or not, and then the scene he had just witnessed would change, and that change could upset a precarious balance in his family that he was ill prepared to cope with at the moment.

Forcing his worries aside, Elrond just sat and breathed, trying not to focus on the guilt that continued to assuage him. He could not allow himself to feel it while treating Estel, but in free minutes such as these, it ate at him, reminding him that Estel's being hurt was his fault. He had lapsed in his duties to Estel and Gilraen and to the Dúnedain people. His failure could cause ripples that would affect all the lands.

Though he fought to hide his worry from Gilraen, and despite his determination to see otherwise, he feared the damage to Estel's arm might be permanent. The boy was having trouble making a fist and there were also signs of festering along one end of the largest wound. If the wound turned poisonous, Elrond would have to do one of the hardest things he had ever done — remove the boy's arm to save the child's life.

Elrond knew the boy could adapt to having only one arm. Had he not been raised by Maedhros and Maglor? He had seen Maedhros fight with one hand missing.

But it was not what he wished for Estel, and if it came to that, he could hardly fault Gilraen's rage. It was his fault after all that the boy had come to harm in the first place.

Yet despite his failure, and Gilraen's ire, Elrond would have to find some way to keep the lady and her son in the valley. Imladris was still the safest place for the boy.

Elrond caught himself again thinking when he should be taking the opportunity to rest. He pushed all thought aside and instead thought of his wife and what it would be like to see her happy and carefree on white shores. They would dance again under the stars. He had to hold to that hope.

He had no idea of how long he had lost himself in elven dreams when the draft of the opening door jolted him to full wakefulness. He sat back in his chair, blinking up at Erestor.

Elrond blinked again, then groaned at his councilor's expression. That was Erestor's lecture face. And he was no doubt the recipient.

"Whatever you have come to say, I do not wish to hear it."

Not that such a statement would stop the lecture from happening. If there was one thing he had learned from a lifetime of living with Erestor, it was that when Erestor had something to say, he said it, if he had to tie you to a chair and gag you to accomplish the feat. Elrond grimaced at that recollection.

"When have your wishes ever stopped me from saying what I have to say, Elrond?" Erestor raised a brow and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

Elrond released a long breath and shook his head. "Never."

Erestor nodded. "I believe that speaking my mind was what caused you to name me your chief councilor, was it not?"

Elrond snorted. "I was not bestowing a title on you when I called you that, you know."

Erestor's lips twitched upwards. "Ah, but you had spoken it, and before witnesses. And I have held that title for over an age, now. It is too late to admit you had not intended it as a lofty position within your household."

The words were true, but they also annoyed Elrond, who decided he would rather hear what his "chief councilor" had come to say than continue an age long argument.

He motioned with one hand. "Just say what you have come to say."

Erestor, instead of standing before him in his characteristic lecture pose, stepped forward and pulled over another chair, sitting across from Elrond and looking him in the eye. He said nothing for a long moment, then bluntly said, "It is not your fault."

Elrond leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "I am not having this discussion with you."

"That is well, for it is not up for discussion. I am telling you, as an outsider who can see the situation from all sides clearly, that this situation is not your fault, anymore than it is Glorfindel's fault, or Gilraen's fault."

That paused Elrond, and he lifted his head and frowned at Erestor. "How would this be Gilraen's fault?"

"I just said it was not, but I can guarantee you she is blaming herself and thinking that it is her fault for coming here in the first place. I would also not be surprised if she is planning to return to her kin as soon as Estel is capable of travel."

"I have already surmised as much. Her trust has been broken."

"No, it has not. She just perceives it so, but she is wrong. And I will tell her so, for she cannot take Estel from Imladris. To do so would be a death sentence for that boy."

"We cannot keep them here against her will, Erestor. I will not have Dírhael storm my gates over such a matter. It would cause permanent animosity between us and the Dúnadain!"

Erestor sighed. "I am not suggesting any such thing. As I said, I will speak to her and make her see the truth of the situation, but first…" He leaned forward. "First, you must realize this is not your fault either, or you will not be able to do what needs to be done."

"Erestor, I felt it!" Elrond snapped, one hand descending to smack firmly against his writing desk. "I felt the premonition that danger lurked and I pushed it aside and agreed to their outing! That makes me responsible."

"No, it does not. You could not have known what danger lurked there. Did you have a vision? See clearly what the danger was or where?"

Elrond shook his head. "No, but—"

"How do you know the danger was not here in the valley? Estel could have tripped over a loose stone and broke a limb. Or fell from a tree. Or any number of dangers that young children face on a daily basis."

Elrond stared at him in consternation. "This is different and well you know it."

"Yes, because in this case you sensed something, were convinced to ignore it in favor of trusting another to protect the one in your care and then that loved one was hurt—possibly beyond your ability to heal. Elrond," Erestor's voice lowered. "Estel is not Celebrían, and that was not your fault either. You know that."

Elrond stared, a cold chill running down his spine. He still blamed himself for his wife's hurt, no matter she had not blamed him and even though his mind understood the logic, his heart would not relinquish the blame.

But was this the same? He could not deny the circumstances were similar.

"I would also remind you of the number of times you have sensed danger where the twins were concerned and that danger while proven real, resulted in your sons' growth. Estel's care is not limited to protecting him, Elrond. You are responsible for his full development. You cannot lock him in a room until his time comes! He would not be prepared for his fate. He must face danger. He must explore and learn. This situation, while unfortunate, can promote great growth, but not if everyone here is blaming themselves for not preventing it, instead of seeing it as the opportunity that it is."

Elrond frowned. He did not like that line of reasoning, but neither could he argue against the philosophy of using everything life threw at a person as a stepping stone to growth.

Erestor was correct. He could not protect Estel by keeping him close at hand in an attempt to prevent harm. He and Celebrían had had that discussion when their sons were small. She had wanted to protect them, keep them from harm at all costs, but he had needed to point out that attempting such a thing, and keeping the boys from exploring their world, was in itself harmful.

And yet, he had been attempting the same with Estel. By Elbereth, he hated it when Erestor was right!

He glanced up at his friend and saw the amusement in those icy blue eyes.

Erestor stood. "I can see you understand now. Can I trust you will stop this internal torture and get on with using this for good? We have many challenges ahead."

Elrond nodded, dropping his eyes to his desk. "Yes, I know. Already the boy fears me because of the pain involved with treating the wounds. And he will likely have a fear of dogs—"

"Ah, but I am already ahead of you on both of those issues."

Elrond lifted a brow. "Oh?"

"Elladan and Elrohir have returned home…with a puppy."

Elrond blinked. "A puppy? Where did they find a puppy?"

Erestor glanced away, not looking him in the eye. "Near Glorfindel's meadow."

"Elbereth… You do not mean to imply it was the bitch's welp?"

"Very likely, and according to Glorfindel looks just like her."

Elrond nodded. "Gilraen will not like that."

Erestor snorted. "Gilraen does not need to know where that dog came from! Only that the twins have brought a gift for Estel and it will help cheer him up while he heals."

"Agreed."

"And the twins can help take over Estel's care. It will be good for them as well as the boy. Then you can go back to being that boy's adar instead of just his healer."

"Is that what I have done?"

"It's what you always do, Elrond. You separate yourself from the relationship you have with the injured until you are certain they will recover. No!" Erestor held up a hand as Elrond opened his mouth to defend himself. "I know you have to do such to treat them effectively, but the danger to Estel's life is past, is it not?"

Elrond nodded. "He is not completely out of danger of losing his arm, but his life is no longer in jeopardy."

"Then return to being his adar, let the twins help with his care and leave Gilraen to me."

"Now that, I will gladly do. She stands no chance against you, my friend."

"Indeed."

And with a slight bow, Erestor was gone, and Elrond was left feeling lighter, thinking more clearly and wondering how Erestor always managed to know just what to say.

He smiled. "And that is why I officially named him Chief Councilor."

—

Elrond sat a few more minutes, considering what Erestor had said, and could not find a single argument within him. He really did hate when Erestor was right. But in this case, Erestor's insight could very well make the difference in the healing of the boy in his care.

First things first. Elrond had to examine the pain inside himself, and once again, push it down. Celebrían would not want him to continue to blame himself. She had not blamed him. Not once. But it was difficult not to blame himself. He had experienced the same premonition before his wife had been attacked on the road to Lothlórien. But he had not had an actual vision, and could not say for certainty what it was he sensed, and she had convinced him to add extra guards, saying she would be fine.

If only Glorfindel had not been away at that time. If only he had denied her — as if he could deny her anything she set her heart on! If only he had insisted on going with her, or sending their sons along…

But he could not go back and do any of those things. He could only accept that she was alive, and one day he would see her again.

To Be Continued...

The more I write Erestor, the more I like him and his idiosyncrasies. What do you think? Thanks for reading!