Some of you may have already read this story - it is a repost after it disappeared from the site in January 2025. If you had previously left a review that is now gone, know that I was so grateful for it. If you do read this story again, or if you are reading it for the first time, I hope you enjoy!

"I know he's here, I know you're keeping him from me!"

The accusation burst from behind the door of his father's study as Estel's first knock landed, and he pulled back quickly, dropping his hand to his side. He hadn't expected that Elrond would be otherwise engaged—whenever possible, his father reserved these afternoon hours for private meditation and study. Estel hesitated, uncertain whether to wait or to go back to his room and finish packing before trying again. Elrond's voice drifted out as well, his words too low for Estel to hear but his soothing tone unmistakable. Estel began to back away but the first voice came again, halting him in his tracks.

"I won't forget this, Elf." Estel tensed, feeling the hostility directed toward his father even through the wall and door. "I see now the skills and hospitality of the Lord of Rivendell for what they really are, and I'll not be silent about it. I—"

Elrond's voice rose, not agitated—his father rarely became agitated with patients, and Estel had finally realized who it was in the study with the Master of Imladris—but loud enough that Estel could now hear his words. "Sir, I wish you to understand that I and all of Rivendell grieve for your loss. It is always a tragedy when one such as your son loses his life at an early—"

"What would you know about it?" A thump and a crash followed this cry, and Estel jumped. He wasn't permitted to interact with strangers who came to the valley, but he was unwilling to abandon his father to a possibly violent situation. He might be only twelve summers, but he knew enough to be of use if Elrond needed him. "Elves don't die! No one dies here! My son—"

"I assure you, you are mistaken." Elrond's voice was tight but controlled. Long accustomed to his father's tones, Estel pictured the expression that would accompany these words as he pressed against the door, gripping the ornate handle. "Elves do not die of natural causes, but we do fall to accident and injury. We too know the pain of—"

"Why would you keep my son from me?"

Another crash, and Estel could no longer be still. He jerked at the handle and pushed against the heavy door. "Ada?"

Elrond stood back beneath the open arch of the window, eyes following the distraught Man who strode the length of his study. Two vases lay shattered against the front of the desk, quills scattered the desk and the floor, and ink pooled across the smooth wood. Both heads snapped toward the door as Estel entered, and Elrond held up a quick hand.

"Estel, go. Now."

Estel hesitated, eyeing the broken vases. If this Man was throwing things at his father …

"Estel." Elrond's voice snapped out. "Go. I—"

"Are you all right, Ada?"

Understanding sparked in Elrond's eyes. "I am well, and the situation is in hand. Go now. I will—"

"No need, I've had enough of your hospitality." The word twisted in the Man's mouth, as his face twisted with a wrath Estel had seldom seen. Dark eyes speared him, sweeping from his head to his boots, and after a moment Estel dropped his gaze, uncomfortable with being the focus of such intensity from a stranger. Elrond moved forward, but the Man shook his head and turned away. "I'll not stay here another night. I—"

"Jerold Ferrier." The Man halted, but did not turn back. Elrond approached slowly, leaving several arm's lengths between himself and his guest. "You are ill yet, injured and in need of care. I ask you to reconsider this—"

"I'll not stay here." Ferrin swept his dark gaze onto the Elf. "And this isn't the end. I'll have my son back, no matter how you try to hide him. You won't have him, not my boy." His eyes snapped again to Estel, and then the Man turned abruptly and stalked into the hall, leaving an open door and a heavy silence in his wake.

Estel shuddered and edged toward Elrond. "Ada, I'm sorry. I only—"

"I understand, Estel, and I thank you." Elrond crossed to Estel and squeezed his shoulder. "Know, however, that even if you believe me to be in danger, you must not enter this room without my permission. If you truly feel I am in need, fetch Glorfindel or one of your brothers."

"Yes, Ada." Estel sighed, torn between chagrin and irritation. What if there hadn't been time? What if the stranger had grown violent before—

"You needn't worry, my son." A weary half-smile played upon his father's lips. "I am well able to defend myself until aid arrives."

Estel flushed. Of course Elrond could defend himself. He had heard all the stories … "I am sorry," he mumbled again, and Elrond pressed his shoulder once more before releasing him.

"Enough. I appreciate your intentions." Elrond sighed deeply, eyes turning once more toward the open door. Estel eyed the empty hallway as well, and the Man's accusations rang in his ears again.

"Ada, why did he think you were hiding his son?" Estel skirted around his father and bent to gather pieces of broken pottery. "Elladan said he was dead, drowned in the accident. He told me they couldn't find his body and he never even came here." He stopped his task and looked back up to the Elf, eyes narrowing as another thought struck him. "And why would he even think you would do something like that?" Forgetting the mess, he rose swiftly. "You helped him, how could he—"

"Peace, Estel." Elrond shook his head and moved slowly to the nearest chair, settling himself with a weary sigh. "Grief may do terrible things to the mind and heart, and I fear that Jerold Ferrier has had more than his share in the past months." Estel drifted closer, forgoing for the moment his cleaning efforts. "From what we are able to understand, his wife and young daughter died of illness some months past, and he himself had not fully recovered from the same infirmity when a chance lightning strike burned a good deal of his farm holding. He chose to relocate rather than rebuild, given the memories associated with his current home, yet tragedy struck again in the form of the rains which have been long upon us this spring." Elrond motioned absently to the window and the grey, wet day beyond. "Their path crumbled beneath them, pulling wagon and horses into the nearby stream, and his son was swept away before your brothers came across the scene." Estel's father rubbed at his brow. "I fear that he has gone mad with injury, illness, and grief. As we cannot produce his son's remains, he now believes that we have hidden the child from him, for reasons known only within his own mind."

Estel stared, horrified to hear of all that this unfortunate Man had endured. "But Ada, you won't let him leave, will you? Not if he is still ill."

Elrond smiled faintly. "Rivendell offers hospitality and peace, Estel, not a prison sentence. I may advise him against this course, but given his current feelings toward us, I do not know if it would be best to force him to remain. Perhaps more harm than good may come of it. In any event, it may be that removal from this place to more familiar surroundings will help him to reorient his thoughts." He stood then, and crossed to gather the fallen quills. "I will send herbs and instructions, and perhaps one of the twins or some other to ensure him safely onto his road."

He fell silent then, eyes far distant, and together they cleaned the broken pottery and spilled ink, leaving the refuse in a pot by the door for later disposal. Estel's own mind was busy with all that he had learned, weighing sympathy for their guest's plight against the still ringing accusations leveled at his father. Elrond was forced to nudge him and repeat his name to gain his attention.

"Estel." Estel looked quickly around, and his father smiled. "This is not for you to worry over. Come. You will be leaving soon for your next hide and seek, will you not?"

Estel straightened, excitement pushing away all thoughts of grief and illness. "Aye, Ada. It is why I came, to wish you farewell. I will be going within the hour."

"You have taken leave of your mother as well?"

White teeth flashed. "Of course." Estel's grin widened. "She said to have fun, and that Glorfindel told her he thinks I may remain uncaptured for up to two days this time."

Elrond's eyebrow rose. "Two days?"

"Aye."

"Who will be your pursuer?"

"Elrohir." Estel couldn't quite hide his anxious bounce. Elrond nodded slowly, studying again the wetness beyond his study window.

"Well. Glorfindel expects much from you." His father tilted his head toward the sodden out-of-doors. "I think that I will not extend an opinion in your hearing, and I suspect Glorfindel did not intend for you to hear his, either. I will only say this—the rains will be both a blessing and a hindrance in this endeavor. Take care you do not become overconfident."

"I won't, Ada."

"And be cautious, my son." Elrond's hand rested briefly upon his head. "I do not wish to lose you to a crumbled creek bed or a chance lightning strike."

It was a sobering reminder. Estel nodded. "I will. Mother already made me promise, as well. I'll not take any chances."

His father's lips tipped into a smile. "Well. Not too many chances."

Estel grinned again. "Yes, Ada." He circled Elrond and all but skipped for the door, his mind already on the path he would take away from the House in order to lure his brother onto a false trail. When he reached the doorway he turned back for a moment, tossing a careless wave toward his father. Elrond nodded and raised a hand in return, settling again behind his desk. Estel slipped through the doorway and disappeared from sight.

His head hurt, and his arms were … heavy, and his mouth was dry.

So dry. As if he'd been chewing on wool, or powder.

He tried to move, and suddenly hands were there, and a voice.

"Shh, son. It's not safe yet. Shh."

A hand held his head, and a waterskin pressed to his lips. He gulped the wet, bitter liquid, and the pain and heaviness and awareness faded.

His stomach lurched and he rolled over, heaving. The world spun and the nausea rose, sharp and overwhelming. He curled around himself, confused and sick. His gut cramped again and he moaned—or whimpered. Hands gripped him, brushing sweaty hair gently back from his face.

"Ah, I'm sorry son, I'm sorry. My fault, I think I gave you too much that last time." Another spasm overtook him, and the hands braced him, held him. "That's right. Get it out, get it out."

He was … sick. He must be sick. But why? What had happened?

"That's right, son. Your da's got you. Just breathe. In and out, just breathe."

The voice wasn't right. He swallowed against another cramp and tried to open his eyes, but the light blinded him and pain lanced through his head. The voice wasn't right, and the words weren't right, and the … the hands weren't right—short, calloused fingers instead of long, cool, slender hands.

"That's right. You'll be all right, I've got you. Nice and slow, just breathe."

His head spun again, like that time he'd snuck into the wine cellar and spent all day testing the various bottles. Blackness painted his awareness, hazy spots swam before him even with his eyes closed, and he sank gratefully back into sleep.

Estel opened his eyes, and for a moment wished he hadn't. His head throbbed and his stomach rolled slowly, gently, and he could barely lift his arms. His mouth tasted as though a mouse had died in it. He blinked up at the pale sky, squinting even against the overcast day. He fingered the coarse material beneath his fingers, felt the grain of cheap wood planking beneath, and wondered vaguely just what had happened.

His brain didn't seem to be working properly—it took him far too long to focus. When he finally managed, confusion and fear nibbled at him through the heavy sluggishness. Hide and seek. He was supposed to be on a hide and seek.

Wasn't he?

This didn't … Estel tried to raise his head, but the attempt cost far too much effort. He relaxed again, feeling only thin layers of rough cloth between his head and the wood, and drew in a long breath. What did he remember? He searched back through the muddy layers for something solid.

He had been delayed getting out of the House. He had finished packing quickly after leaving Elrond's study, but as he gathered his final gear he had stumbled across several history tomes stacked toward the rear of his desk and remembered with something like panic that he was to have finished his essay on the rise and fall of Annúminas before he set out. Erestor would not be best pleased that he had forgotten. Still, he was half-finished, and Elrohir wasn't due to set out until nightfall. He had decided the bit of delay would be worth it. It ended up taking nearly three hours, and by the time he finished Estel was beginning to wish that he had simply left the essay until his return, regardless of the displeasure his carelessness would inspire. Erestor hadn't been at his desk, but Estel had left the completed essay for him and scurried toward the rear stable exit. The stables were usually not terribly busy in the early afternoon—at least, not like they were in the mornings and approaching dinner—and with luck no one would take notice of him. There was no need for Elrohir to know that Estel didn't have quite the head start he'd been planning.

In fact, the only person he saw as he slipped out the door was the unfortunate Man, Jerold Ferrier, marching with a large pack toward the stables. As Estel watched the Man stumbled and his pack went flying, scattering its contents. Estel hesitated, for he was not to interact with the strangers who came to Imladris. Remembering his father's words about all that the Man had suffered, though, he could not simply watch him stagger about gathering his things. He approached on soft feet, scooping up a packet of wound powder and a bundle of bandages.

"Are you certain you should be going? Master Elrond is the best healer there is—he can make you well much faster than if you leave and try to tend yourself along the way."

Ferrier jumped and swung around on him, and Estel danced quickly back, hoping that he hadn't made the Man angry. The intense dark gaze softened as it beheld him, though, and Ferrier reached out to him, gripping his shoulder tightly.

"No, no. Can't stay here." The Man's face was flushed, and Estel wondered if it was from activity or fever. Perhaps both. He was certain that his father would include an analgesic with whatever herbs he sent with Ferrier—if the Man chose to even take them, once away from Imladris—but wondered if he shouldn't have a dose even now. Whatever the case, Estel didn't much care for the hand on him, and sank down away from it to gather a simple tunic from the grass. Ferrier nodded. "Yes, that's good. Bring it to the stables, will you? They've given us … given me a wagon. Bring it." He turned and moved away, leaving Estel to stare in disbelief after him. He'd meant only to help, not do it all himself. Shaking his head, he scrambled around collecting the rest of Ferrier's supplies, stuffed them without order into the pack, and ran the rest of the way to the stables.

Elrond had apparently authorized a small, light wagon for Ferrier, as the Man had lost his own in the accident which had taken his son's life. Estel found it and the Man on the far side of the building, and hurried over to toss the pack into the open bed. Then …

Then what?

He thought hard, but couldn't remember anything after that, and his heart jumped with dread.

Then what?

Fear lent him the strength that he'd been lacking. Estel forced himself up, clawing at the low upright boards that formed a corner just behind his head, and stared over them at a broad, overgrown, empty plain. Dread blossomed into full-blown panic.

Where was he? This was surely nowhere in Rivendell …

A creak and a scrape sounded behind him, a soft "Whoa," and he whipped around, coming face to face with Jerold Ferrier. All thought left him.

Estel dove over the near sideboard, landing hard from the back of a wagon that hadn't even stopped moving. If there was any pain he didn't notice it. He scrambled to his feet and weaved frantically down the shallow dirt track, back away from the direction the wagon was pointed. He heard a voice calling and heavy footsteps following, but he ignored them, scrabbling back up when he pitched forward over a hidden rock, diving off of the track into the high grass for better cover. How long he might have gone on like this Estel had no idea, but Glorfindel's voice snapped in his ear.

"Where are you going?"

He slammed to a halt, panting. Where was he going? His tutor in all things tactical had scolded and at times bodily held him back time and again during their training exercises, when Estel would have hared off into the unknown without surveillance or plan. Now, Glorfindel's voice continued.

"It is possible you may find yourself in a situation where running without any kind of a plan might the right option, but they're not as common as you seem to believe. Mostly, it will just cause more trouble than you were in at the start. Now think!"

Where was he going? He swung around hard, and Ferrier, who had been following, slowed. Estel eyed the vast open land around them and realized with a sinking dismay that he had no idea where they were. He would be able to determine east from west easily enough, but he had no idea how long he'd been asleep or what direction Ferrier had taken them.

They could be anywhere.

"Where are we?" he demanded, hating the high pitch of his voice. Ferrier held out his hands, perhaps making an attempt to be soothing, and took a cautious step forward.

"You don't need to worry, lad. They won't find us. That Elf he sent along, he never saw you. Never knew you were there. I kept you safe. They won't—"

"Where are we?"

Ferrier took another step forward, and Estel stumbled back. At this movement, the Man's hands dropped and his shoulders slumped. "Ah, Nate." Sorrow laced his words, and Ferrier shook his head sadly. His eyes glittered wetly. "I hoped you'd see, once we were away. Thought the sleep would be good for you."

Nate? Estel sucked in horrified a breath. This Man thought that he was his dead son … "I'm Estel," he snapped, and wished that his voice didn't shake. The Man shook his head and moved forward again, slowly, as if calming a spooked horse.

"Lad, I don't know what they did to you, but can't you see? They're tricking you, Nate, they're—"

"I'm not Nate."

"Surely you can see." Ferrier was close enough now that Estel could make out his flushed features, the sweat trickling from his brow. It was warm out, but not that warm … "Remember what they looked like, lad, remember what they talked like and how they dressed, then look at us. They're Elves! We're not, boy. We don't belong—"

"I'm not your son!"

Ferrier flinched as though Estel had struck him and stopped moving forward, but he also didn't back away. For the moment, it was enough. Estel wrapped his arms around himself and wished he wasn't shaking, that his head and stomach didn't hurt, that he could think …

He wished he was home.

"But you are not," Glorfindel reminded him.

Estel took a long, deep breath. He was not home, and now he had to deal with what he had, not what he wished he had. He surveyed their surroundings again, the flat country rolling endlessly away on every side. There were no structures to be seen, and very few trees. It was barren and strange to him, after the deep forests of Imladris. The ground was damp from recent rains but not overly wet, so at least the past day must have been dry. If the clouds building to the west were any indication, it might not remain that way long. Whatever tracks they had left might easily be washed away.

Tracks. At last, Estel's thoughts focused on his family. Glorfindel and his brothers would be looking for him, of course, and they would find him—there was no way that this Man could outsmart Elves, no matter how hard he tried—but how long would it take them? How long before they even started to look? They weren't expecting to see him for the next two days, at least. And how long would it take them to figure out where to look? There were other reasons he might have gone missing, most of them probably far more likely than what had actually occurred. The realization chilled him even in the warm, damp air, and he shivered, tucking his cold fingers against his sides. With a late start and all the rain, it could be weeks …

"So. What is your first priority?"

Estel was grateful when his mentor's voice once again stalled the encroaching panic. He set immediately to the question. He needed to find out where he was. That would mean finding people, or some sort of landmark at the very least. Of course, a landmark probably wouldn't help him here, since he wouldn't know what it meant anyway. And he couldn't very well just walk off onto the plains and hope that he came across a farm or a town. He could follow the track, but he had no idea where it led, or if it even led anywhere—it was possible that Ferrier had known of it and cut cross-country from some other road, or had even stumbled over it by accident. He eyed the Man, who was hovering in place watching him. Glorfindel's voice came again.

"Good, but even before that?"

Before that? Estel drew in a breath. His own safety. He needed to make himself as safe as possible.

"Good."

But, how could he do that? He wasn't safe. He was lost in the middle of nowhere, with a Man who was ill and crazy with grief, who had hidden Estel from his family because he thought that Elrond had been hiding his dead son from him …

No! Estel forced his mind back to his task. Make himself as safe as possible. Very well. What were his options? How could he do that? He was unfamiliar with this land, he didn't know where to find food or shelter, he didn't know what kind of predators might make this area home. He didn't know what direction to go, or how to find people…

His eyes fell on Ferrier again, and he sucked in a breath. The Man knew (presumably, at least) where they were. Ferrier had food, and the horse and wagon—although it seemed that at some point he had traded the Elves' light wagon for a smaller two-wheeled cart. Estel refused to think about the fact that it would make it that much harder for his family to track him. Ferrier would also have to stop for supplies at some point, and that meant people. Maybe even a town or village. Someone, at least, who might tell him where he was and what direction was home.

But, he drugged you! his mind screamed. Without conscious thought, he took another step back. Ferrier had taken him away from home, and he had drugged him for probably days on end. Estel forced those thoughts away and made himself survey the Man more closely. Ferrier, noting this, straightened, holding out a hand.

"Nate …"

Estel noted the Man's flushed face and swaying stance. He definitely wouldn't be trapped with Ferrier, then, when he finally decided that it was time to leave. The Man was ill, and even in good health he was unlikely to be anywhere near as fast as Estel. He would have to be careful that Ferrier didn't try to drug him again … but somehow, he didn't think that would happen. The brown gaze pinned on him now was nothing but gentle and regretful, and a faint touch of sympathy rose despite his fear and anger. Ferrier had been trying to save his son. Once out of danger, he surely wouldn't keep him drugged and unconscious.

Would he?

Besides, Ferrier might not even have any of the drug left. If he had been using something that Elrond had sent for his own illness and hurts—Estel didn't know all of their names, but he knew that there were analgesic herbs that acted as sedatives at higher doses—he might have run out already, using them at doses to keep Estel asleep. It also meant Ferrier wouldn't have been using it for himself, which probably explained the Man's flushing and sweating.

When it came to it, though, he didn't have any answers about what Ferrier had done or would do. He would just have to be watchful, careful to taste a tiny bit of everything before eating.

He would have to be watchful. Estel shivered again. Did that mean he was staying? He stared once more into the lands around them, then looked back at Ferrier, silent and sad and hopeful. As unlikely as it seemed, he thought maybe he really was safest for the moment with Ferrier.

At least, he could think of no better options.

Estel scrubbed at his itching cheeks and sniffed, only just realizing that his eyes and face were wet. He wiped angrily at them both then moved forward slowly, giving the stationary Man a wide berth as he approached the cart. Ferrier stayed back, patient now that Estel was joining him again, even if not full willing. Estel scrambled over the sideboard into the back, huddled in the corner, and rested his head on his tucked-in knees.

Please, come find me. Please, come find me.

Making himself remember his father's words about all that this Man had suffered, Estel forced himself not to flinch away when Ferrier ruffled his hair once before silently climbing onto the seat and setting them off down the track again.

The inn … smelled. When they had first entered, the wave of smoke and grease and (Estel reluctantly sniffed at himself) people and other unidentified scents had been overwhelming. He couldn't remember ever having gone for so long without a bath—even camping or training they would jump in the river once a day with a bar of hard soap to scrub away the dirt and sweat. He wondered if maybe Men didn't worry about such things, because no one else in the inn seemed to notice or mind. After about a half an hour, though, it didn't really bother him anymore either. Estel wasn't sure if that was a good thing, but at least it meant that he could use his mouth for eating rather than breathing. The stew was greasy, but he had only recently regained his appetite. He was so hungry that he gulped it down all at once and asked for seconds. Ferrier was quick to agree, ruffling his hair in what Estel had quickly come to recognize as the Man's preferred gesture of affection. The jerky, nuts, and bread they carried on the cart were growing quickly stale.

Not that Estel had eaten much of it. After the raw energy from his first surge of panic, the post-sedative hangover had crashed back down, leaving him drowsy, sluggish, and nauseated. He spent much of the following days dozing in the nest of blankets that Ferrier had made for him, thankful he hadn't tried to run. He would have starved or been eaten by predators in very little time. The nausea lasted the longest, lingering even after he was able to remain reliably awake for any length of time. The swaying, bumpy cart made it worse—they had left the track for a wide road several hours after Estel woke, and Ferrier was making all speed toward their destination, wherever that might be. Fear and tiny insects and a wet, rotten smell when the wind blew from the north added to it, and in the end he ate only because he knew that both Elrond and his mother would insist on it. Also, Ferrier seemed distressed by his lack of appetite. "I know you don't feel well, son, but you've got to eat!"

Ferrier himself didn't seem to be getting any better, if his continued flush and the dry rasp in his voice were any indication. Once he had recovered sufficiently, Estel rummaged through the bags in the cart, only to confirm his fear that whatever his father had sent with Ferrier at the start of his journey was either used or discarded. He did find a single small bag of chamomile tea at the bottom of a pack, accompanied by detailed instructions in Elrond's flowing script. The sight of his father's handwriting nearly brought him to tears. He wiped his eyes dry and detached the paper gently from the pouch, slipping it into a pocket before returning the tea to its home.

So, he could do nothing for the Man. Still, even if all he wanted was to flee and hopefully never see Ferrier again, Estel found himself worrying for his companion. He remembered Elrond's words—"I fear that Jerold Ferrier has had more than his share in the past months"—and was strangely reluctant to leave the grieving man alone. He had heard from his father and his mother, his brothers, Glorfindel, Erestor, Tasala the cook and Faurín the horse master and many of his friends and teachers in Imladris about the terrible loneliness and pain that came from the death of loved ones. Surely there must be some other way than to just abandon this Man to his illness and heartache.

Surely his father wouldn't approve of such a thing …

No plan presented itself, though, and Estel was quick put such thoughts aside for later. He had made another discovery during his search of the packs—a crude map that detailed (as far as he was able to tell) Ferrier's travel route. On its own, he might not have been able to make anything of it, but it was enough to verify for him what he had already guessed about their location.

"In central Eriador," Erestor's voice lectured smoothly, "the Great East Road runs between the Weather Hills and then the Midgewater Marshes to the north before entering Bree-land, and a range of hills known as the South Downs to the south." When Estel had questioned the loremaster further, Erestor had described a marsh as something of a stagnant pool on a larger scale, filled with soft, treacherous ground and, in this case, tiny biting insects.

Estel suspected that this marsh lay now to the north, given the rotten smell and the little insects that kept snacking on him. To the south lay a long line of hills that he had somehow, in his first panic, either completely missed or had possibly mistaken for cloud buildup. Either thought made him flush with embarrassment, and he was thankful that neither his brothers or Glorfindel had been witness to such an error. Their road, then, must be the Great East Road. When Estel pictured Erestor's map in his mind he was frightened and disheartened to think how far they had already traveled. He wondered how far behind them his family might be—they might have spent several days looking for him in Rivendell, fearing a fall into a stream or cave or some other sort of weather-related accident—and then forced himself to think about something else instead. He didn't want to cry again, it would only make his dry, gritty eyes even worse.

He was reviewing the map again—absently tracing the cross-cuts drawn in places where the Road took a particularly wide turn, attempting to read the undecipherable scribbles that lined the margins and underscored a few of the longer detours, wondering if this had been Ferrier's planned route even before the accident that had taken his son's life—when the inn appeared. Early evening was upon them, and Ferrier called back, "Think we'll stop here and get supper. I want to talk to the stable master too." Estel nodded silently. He tucked the map away into Ferrier's pack and eyed their destination, nervous to be meeting others for the first time since … Well. He wasn't sure what to do. Ferrier had stolen him, but had not harmed him—he had been kind and affectionate, in fact, and Estel thought the Man had probably been a good father. Also, Ferrier was still sick. Anyone in this inn, however, would be a complete stranger. Estel couldn't be certain that telling his story would make things better. His father had always kept him sheltered from the eyes of outsiders, and although he didn't know why, he did know that it was better not to be seen by some people.

How could he know who to trust?

The question sat uneasily as they entered, and remained as Ferrier ordered food and drink and Estel sat down to his first meal since babyhood in a structure built by Men. It was lower than anything in Imladris, darker and smokier and more cramped. The ceiling was stained, and the tables and chairs were sturdy but battered. It held nothing of the airy grace of Rivendell, but the talk and laughter, the shouted orders and insults, the ease between the innkeeper and the entering customers were welcoming. He had expected … he wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he had gotten the sense from many Elves—though not his family or teachers—that Men were an angry, violent lot. Estel knew a moment of relief that this sample, at least, did not seem to fit that description. Then, his attention was distracted by a completely different sight.

Men he had seen. His mother's cousins and some others of her people came regularly to Imladris—though he had met only a few—and even if Estel was not allowed near the infirmaries when strangers were present, he had nevertheless at times been exposed to his father's patients. Other than his mother, however, Estel had never (to his memory) seen any girl of his own race. He watched the young waitress cross the room, delivering bowls of stew to one table, gathering empty mugs at another, laughing with a third. He had little to compare, but thought that she was possibly only a few years older than him. Her hair was straight, an odd light-brown color that lacked the brilliant sheen of Elvish locks. Her face was rounded, her figure full with soft curves that he had never seen on any Elf maiden. Her manner was easy and friendly, not formal. Both the innkeeper and the customers spoke to her with far less deference than would be shown in Rivendell to even the humblest of maidens. She did not seem offended, however, and Estel supposed that this must be usual behavior. He wondered if all girls were treated this way. He could not imagine his mother, always gracious and friendly, responding well to some of the things that made this girl laugh, even if none of it was quite improper.

The waitress noticed him looking and flashed a grin as she passed. Estel blushed and pretended to be fascinated with his stew.

"I'm going to go out back and find the stable master." Ferrier pushed back his chair and stood. "You stay here and finish up if you want."

Estel nodded, his stomach tightening. This was his chance, then—but his chance for what? What should he do? Ferrier patted his shoulder and walking away. Estel watched him as he approached the innkeeper and spoke briefly. The other Man nodded and motioned toward a low door at the rear. Ferrier ducked out the door, and then Estel was alone. He took another bite and chewed slowly, trying to work up the courage for … well, anything. Would anyone believe him if he told them? And what would happen to Ferrier if they did? The Man was sick, not bad … He was startled and nearly choked when Ferrier's chair abruptly scraped back beside him. The young waitress dropped into it, and her face was serious, a startling change from the laughter of only a few minutes before.

She just looked at him for a long moment, and Estel fidgeted uncomfortably, wondering what she wanted. Before he had made up his mind to ask, she spoke. "Is your da all right? He seems … don't know, but he seems not well."

Estel was surprised. She had been busy with her duties. He saw, but then, he already knew. He had almost decided that maybe it wasn't so obvious as he thought, since neither the innkeeper nor their own server had commented. Estel shrugged. "No, he's been … sick."

She frowned. "So, he's getting better?"

He hesitated. "No." Her eyebrows rose, and Estel had a sudden urge to confide in her, if only about Ferrier's condition. "He has a fever. I don't know how bad it is, but we don't have any medicine, it's … gone. And he doesn't … think he's sick, anyway."

Her lips pursed. "How far are you going yet?"

Estel shrugged again, making a guess based on the scrawls on Ferrier's map. "To someplace called Archet, I think, or around there."

"A couple of days on the road still. But you'll be going through Bree, no doubt. They'll have a healer there, and you can get some fever powders."

"I don't think he wants them." Estel sighed and pulled his feet up onto the chair, tucking his chin onto his knees. That was the problem, really—or, one of many. It would be different if Ferrier knew he was sick, but as it was he was likely to just keep going until he collapsed.

The thought was not comforting, either for his sake or for Ferrier's.

The waitress frowned for a moment, but then suddenly grinned. "Don't you go anywhere." She stood quickly, gathered Ferrier's empty stew bowl, and whisked away, leaving Estel feeling a little stunned by the abruptness of it all. Across the room, the innkeeper back out of the kitchen door laden with plates, then turned and delivered them onto the bar for the servers. Estel watched the scene for a moment, gathering his courage once more. Surely he had to try … something.

He slid off of his chair before he quite knew what he was doing and approached the bar. The innkeeper was filling mugs, and looked up as he approached. "More? Where's your bowl?"

Estel shook his head. "No, I … my da's sick." The word felt bitter and strange in his mouth, but there was no time to think about it. The innkeeper nodded.

"I saw he didn't look quite right. Marsh fever? It's been bad this year."

He had seen. Estel suddenly felt entirely lost, and frightened, and alone. If he had seen, why hadn't he said or done anything? In Rivendell, illness was treated with speed and skill. Did they not care about such things in the world of Men? The innkeeper filled another mug.

"Lad, this is an inn, not an infirmary, and there's no healer this side of Bree. Unless your da wants to rent a room and rest up, there's nothing I can do for him here."

Suddenly, the homesickness overwhelmed him. "Can you send a message?"

Another full mug hit the bar. "If you keep on, you'll hit Bree about the same time a messenger would. Maybe before, as I've no one to send until tomorrow. Anyway, the cost for—"

"To Rivendell," he blurted desperately.

The innkeeper actually paused in his work to stare over the bar. "Is this a joke?" Estel shook his head, and the Man snorted. "Lad, I don't know what's in that mind of yours, but the Elves are not going to come and heal your da. You'd best just go along to Bree and—"

"Please!"

Now, the innkeeper was becoming annoyed. "I've not got time for this. Go back to your da and—"

"Can you at least keep a message from me, in case they come?" He was beginning to panic again, despite his attempts to stay calm. Estel tugged frantically at his hair, pulling out the fine silver-tipped tie that had once belonged to his brother Elladan. "If they ask, can you give them this and—"

A call came from beyond the kitchen door. "Sorry, lad. Don't think the Elves are coming. Go on now." The Man shook his head and turned, disappearing into the next room. Estel watched him go, then gulped back tears and scurried back to his table, flinging himself into the sturdy chair. He had been stupid, and he'd messed it up. He shouldn't have talked about Rivendell. He should have—

A hand appeared before him. Estel looked up into the waitress's face then quickly away again, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his arm. She shook her hand impatiently.

"I'll take it."

Estel sniffed. "What?"

"I'll take it." She gently extracted the hair tie from his grip. "Uncle Darl's a good man, but it's suppertime and he's busy. Got no time for anything else." She sank into Ferrier's chair, examining the fine silverwork with wide eyes. "Why would Elves be looking for you?"

It had sounded ridiculous in Darl the innkeeper's mouth, and Estel didn't want to see the same laughter behind her eyes. Anyway, he didn't want to talk about it anymore. He shook his head and hugged his knees to his chest, avoiding her gaze. Her voice was soft.

"Are you all right?"

He had never been less all right in his life. Estel buried his face on his knees and tried not to think about Ferrier or home or his mother or father or …

"Kerra! Up, girl! There's plates to take!"

Her chair scraped quickly back. "I've got to go." She touched his shoulder, and the simple gesture sent a shiver through him. When Estel looked up, she was holding out a powder packet. "Here. I use this for my …" The girl—Kerra—blushed suddenly. "Well, you never mind what I use it for, but it helps a bit for fever too. Not very strong, but it might help some, and it don't taste like anything."

If it didn't taste like anything, then Elrond couldn't have heard of it—which also probably meant that it wouldn't do much. Estel was so grateful for her kindness that he didn't care. He snatched the packet from her and nodded, tucking it into his pocket.

"Kerra!"

She squeezed his shoulder again and hurried away, slipping the hair tie into a pocket of her apron. Ferrier's voice called out behind him. "Nate! Let's go, boy! We've got time yet before dark!"

Estel located the Man in the rear doorway, gesturing for him. He sighed and hugged his knees tightly to himself once more, then unfolded and went to join Ferrier. Kerra hurried past bearing three full plates, and she gave him a sad, sympathetic smile and a friendly little wink. He stopped for a moment to watch her go, her laughter rising and full hips swaying as she plunged back into the growing crowd, then slipped out the rear door into the inn yard.

Estel finished the Lay—the carefully shortened child's version which overlooked dungeons and werewolves and lost hands—and moved on to one of his mother's stories, this one about a prince of Men who had been cursed to become a frog by the evil Witch King and the Elvish maiden who was reluctant to offer the kiss that would return him to his rightful form. The children were giggling with abandon, Sander clutching his stomach and Cora rolling on the floor at Estel's feet, when Marks reappeared out of the back room. The farmer carried two bags, and he motioned the little ones to follow as he crossed to the outer door.

"Come. You're going to your grandmother's."

"Nooo!" Both children howled a noisy denial. Cora, to Estel's dismay, flung her arms around his ankles and burst into a spate of noisy tears. "Nate is telling us a story!" she wailed. Their father was unimpressed by the drama.

"Now then." He shoved one bag at a pouting Sander then bent, hooked an arm beneath Cora, and pulled her bodily away. "Enough of that. We've got no time for this, miss—I'm to bring Healer Camellias to help Nate's da once you're settled. You'll not want to hold that up, right?"

This objection was clearly not something for which the girl was prepared. She hung limply in Marks's grasp, sniffling but otherwise quiet. Sander, however, rose quickly and took the second bag from his father. "I hope your da's all right, Nate," he murmured. The child's brown eyes were warm and sincere, and Estel nodded. "Thank you for telling us about Lúthien and all the rest."

The Woman appeared in the rear doorway. "Cora!" she snapped. "Get you going now, child!"

Cora huffed, but scrabbled to find her footing. Marks took her hand, nodded Sander toward the outer door, and looked around at his wife. "I'll be back as soon as may be."

"Sooner, if you can." She pressed her lips together, and Marks nodded, grim-faced, before following his young son into the yard. The Woman watched them go, eyes softening, then turned her gaze on Estel. He straightened and did his best to meet her eyes. Fetching a healer only made sense, given the severity of Ferrier's illness, but still he wondered what it might mean. "Come, lad." Estel scrambled up and joined her before the door of the sickroom. "Now." She placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "I am Luanna, and you are … Nate?"

He hesitated.

"It's not fair! Why can't I see the Halfling? I never get to see anyone!"

"Estel." Gilraen pulled him close, drawing him up onto her lap despite his lanky frame. "You know your ada loves you." Estel nodded reluctantly, relaxing into her embrace. He was too old for such things anymore, but out of the public eye he still craved the comfort of his mother's arms. "Then you must also understand that he does not make these decisions to be unfair or because he does not know how difficult they are for you. He thinks only of our safety."

"Safety from what? I know he doesn't like Dwarves, but the Halfling isn't bad, is he?"

"Of course not!" His mother stroked his hair. "The Halfling is not bad, and neither are the Dwarves. For that matter, most people are not." She frowned. "And, it is untrue to say that your ada dislikes the Dwarves." Estel lifted an eyebrow, and Gilraen laughed softly. "Mostly untrue."

"Then why can I not—"

"Oh, child." Gilraen sighed. "It is the nature of people to talk, and the nature of Rivendell to be remembered and discussed. That's not wrong, of course not—but one word to the wrong person about the child of Men that Master Elrond loves, and people may begin to wonder …"

His mother had never actually explained why this might be dangerous. Estel had pondered the question for himself over the next several days, though, and had decided that perhaps Elrond was afraid an enemy might try to use Estel to hurt him somehow. His father was powerful and wise, and surely had enemies. Estel still didn't like having to miss out on the Halfling and other visitors, but having a reason made it easier to obey.

Somewhat.

This situation, though, was completely different. How was he to ask for help without explaining to this Woman who he was?

"Lad?" Luanna placed her hands on her hips, brows rising. Estel looked away and nodded. For now, until he'd had some time to think, it was probably better to just agree. Luanna frowned, studied him for a brief moment, then moved on. "And your da's name?"

Estel couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Jerold. Jerold Ferrier."

She nodded. "All right, then. Can you tell me what happened here?"

What had happened? Estel thought back to Elladan's words. "The … the track washed out near a stream, and pulled the wagon down in. Da … Da went with it."

The Woman glanced toward the yard. "That wagon?"

"No. We got a different one." That was true several times over, in fact.

"When was this?"

"Two … weeks ago?" It sounded about right.

"And there was no place to have his wound treated properly?"

"It was treated properly!" Estel protested. This wasn't Elrond's fault … Luanna held up one hand.

"Lad, I'm not saying that—"

"It was, but he didn't think he was sick and didn't want to stay. And he didn't ever look at it or change the dressing." Estel hunched his shoulders. "He wouldn't let me either."

"Hmm." Luanna looked back toward the sick room. "What did he tear it on?"

"I don't know."

She studied him again, then sighed. "Have you eaten today?" He shook his head—the jerky from that morning surely didn't count—and Luanna motioned him toward the door. "You can go in and sit with your da for a bit if you like, and I'll make you up a bit of something. Supper will be mostly catch as catch can tonight, I think."

Estel shied away from that thought. He wanted Ferrier to get better—he did—but that didn't mean he wanted to spend the day in the Man's sickroom. Luanna pressed his shoulder.

"The arm's covered, lad. You'll not have to see it."

She didn't know, and if he was really Nate he surely wouldn't refuse. Estel took a deep breath and slipped into the back room.

It was small, with a single bed pushed into one corner and a long high window. The air was close and still, and smelled strongly of blood mixed with the sharper tang of some disinfectant. Ferrier lay upon the bed, bare-chested, with his injured arm stretched out alongside him. As promised, it was draped with a light cloth, though already a red stain was starting to seep through. The Halfling, Arti, was bundling a pile of soiled cloths into a tub set on the floor, and looked up as Estel entered. His gaze was compassionate, and Estel looked away. It felt … almost like stealing, somehow, to accept sympathy meant for the real Nate Ferrier.

"And how are you, lad?"

"Fine, thank you." Estel eyed Ferrier for a moment more, then retreated to the opposite corner and slid down to the floor, tucking his knees to his chin. Arti looked from Estel to the sick man and back again, brow furrowed, before gathering up the tub of cloths.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

"No, thank you."

The Halfling hesitated. "Well, I'll be back, or Luanna. And if you need anything, just poke your head out the door. We'll not be far away." Estel nodded, and Arti moved past him. Estel leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, wishing for a familiar voice to rise suddenly in the outer room.

None did, of course.

He was dozing when Luanna reappeared, frightening him out of half-formed dreams filled with rivers and wagons and strange Men. "I'm sorry, lad, I didn't mean to startle you." She lowered her voice and pressed one long finger to her lips. "Let's not wake your da, yes?" Estel nodded and stood, rubbing at his eyes. Luanna turned him toward the door. "There's food waiting on the table for you. You can eat and come back after."

"Thank you."

He had no intention of returning, not if he could help it. Estel ducked through the door and started across the outer room, but as the latch clicked behind him he suddenly started to shake. He stood still for a long moment, unsure what was wrong with him, hugging himself tightly and fighting back unexpected tears. Finally, the shudders stilled and the tears dried. Estel took a long, shaky breath, straightened, and crossed to the table. Gathering the bread, meat, and cheese, he decided that he would rather be outside—even the large room felt as if it was closing in on him—and stepped out into the yard. Ferrier's wagon had been pulled to the side yard, against the barn. The horse, he suspected, was either stabled within or pastured somewhere. Somehow, Estel didn't really care. He crossed to the wagon and climbed in, comforted by the solidity of the stone structure at his back. He nestled into his corner, nibbled at the cheese, and turned absent eyes toward the darkening sky.

Night was upon them when Marks returned, but the sky was clear and moonlight washed the yard in a silvery glow. Estel saw two more Halflings, a male and a female, climb down from the wagon and approach the house while the farmer urged the horse on toward the barn. The door swung open before they could knock, Luanna silhouetted in the doorway. All three disappeared inside, and within minutes Marks joined them. Estel slouched back into his shadowy nest. He wondered what was happening—how Ferrier was doing and what the healer could do for him that the farmer's wife and the Halfling hadn't already—but he was not yet ready to go back inside.

He wasn't sure if he would ever be.

Perhaps a quarter hour later, Luanna, Marks, and Arti reappeared. They stood together on the porch for a time, speaking in low voices and occasionally glancing in his direction. Estel knew they must be discussing him, and was not surprised when Arti finally crossed the yard toward his hideout while the farmer and his wife went back into the house. The Halfling stopped before the wagon, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers.

"Come on, lad. Get your things and come with me."

Reluctantly, Estel crawled out of the wagon. He wondered what new questions the healer would have, or if she would just ask the same ones over again. He was prepared this time, both to talk about Ferrier's illness and with a slightly altered version of his own story, but he was also nervous, and tired, and still hungry. He wished it could all wait until morning. The thought of facing the farmer and his wife and the healer and the other Halflings all at the same time left him queasy.

Arti lifted an eyebrow. "No bag?" Estel shook his head. The Halfling nodded, almost to himself, then patted Estel's arm gently. "Well then, come along then."

He didn't take them toward the house. Instead, they walked around the barn to the foot of a shallow hill which rose sharply and then gentled out again before the cleared land faded once more into forest. As they approached, Estel was surprised to see what looked like a round wooden door nestled right into the hillside. Arti walked up to it, pulled it open with a grunt, and motioned Estel inside.

For a moment, Estel hesitated. Was this … was it a cellar? Why were they taking him to a cellar? Would they let him out again, or …

"Get you in, lad. This is my home, you're to stay with me for the night."

Arti lived in a cellar? Estel glanced uncertainly at the Halfling, who nodded, then he cautiously approached the opening. Once at its edge, he saw well-cut stairs leading down into the hole, a faint orange glow outlining the steps and softening the darkness beyond. Behind him, Arti sighed and the door hinges creaked.

"Never seen a Hobbit hole before? We live underground, lad, at least when we're able. I'll be right behind you. Nothing to be frightened of, I promise."

Underground? He didn't know that about Halflings. Then again, he didn't know much of anything about Halflings—they had not, as a people, been included to any great extent in his studies. Slightly reassured, Estel crept forward and carefully navigated the stairs. He heard Arti behind him, heard the door thump shut, and then light flared as the Halfling lit a lamp set into the stairway wall. Estel stopped, blinking against the sudden brightness, and Arti moved past him, lighting two more lamps at the base of the stairs and then crossing the room to stir up the fire.

The fire. There was a fireplace underground! Estel looked around him, and forgot his fear in a rush of delighted awe.

It was a whole little set of rooms, all under the hill. The sitting room was cozy but not cramped, with a couch along the rear wall and two armchairs set near the fireplace. A colorful braided rug covered most of the stone floor. The warmth from the newly stirred fire reached him even across the room, and Estel shivered suddenly. He had not realized how chilled he'd become, sitting for so long in the early spring evening. Doorways, each rounded, were set on either side of the fireplace, and an open rounded arch led into another room—though it was dark and Estel was not able to see what lay beyond. The ceiling was low, barely higher than Estel's head, and planked with well-polished wooden beams of a warm honey coloring. The whole hole was simple and inviting.

Estel took a long, deep breath, and for the first time in over a week felt himself relax a little. Perhaps things would be all right after all.

"Well, lad? Not as frightening as all that, is it?"

Estel offered the Halfling a shy grin. "It's wonderful."

Arti snorted. "Don't know about that, but it'll do." He beckoned Estel and moved toward one of the low side doors. Estel followed, trying to see what might be past the darkened arch.

"What is a Hobbit?"

"What?" Arti frowned back at him.

"You said a Hobbit hole. What is a Hobbit?"

"Why, it's me! It's us, I mean. It's what we call ourselves." Arti lifted an eyebrow. "You come from folk who call us Halflings, I suppose?" Estel nodded, and the Halfling—Hobbit—snorted. "Half of just what, I'd like to ask."

Put that way, it did seem … wrong. Estel bit his lip. "Sorry."

Arti patted his elbow. "Don't be, it's neither here nor there." He opened the door and lit a lamp just inside, and Estel found that they had entered a small bedroom. A bed sat against one wall, covered with a warm quilt and with a low trunk at its foot. A stand stood against the opposite wall, holding two pitchers, a large bowl, a cut of soap, and several thick hand towels. Arti motioned to it. "You get yourself cleaned up a bit, and I'll see about finding you something to wear overnight." He eyed Estel. "You're a tall youngling, aren't you?" Without waiting for a response the Hobbit hurried away, leaving Estel alone.

So great was the comfort and safety of this simple room that Estel might have cried, had the thought of the waiting water not driven all else from his mind. He scrambled across to the washstand and found both pitchers full, one with cold water and one … He actually groaned out loud as he stripped off his soiled shirt, then seized the pitcher of warm water—not too hot but not tepid either, and it didn't occur to him to wonder how there happened to be water of just the right temperature waiting for him—and poured some into the bowl. He grabbed one of the towels and the block of soap and thrust them both into the water.

Halfway through his wash, Arti knocked. "You decent, lad?" Estel called an affirmative, and the Hobbit entered with a folded garment. "I think this'll do it. Let me know when you're done." He disappeared again into the sitting room, and Estel returned to his scrubbing.

It was not as good as a bath or a dunk in the river, of course, but when Estel was finished he felt better than he had since waking a week ago in the back of Ferrier's cart. He unfolded the garment that Arti had provided and found it to be a nightshirt. It would likely have reached the floor on a Hobbit, although it fell barely past his own knees. His exposed legs and feet were a bit chilled, and he tugged the quilt off of the bed, hoping that Arti wouldn't mind. Wrapping it around himself, he opened the door and slipped back out into the sitting room.

The second room was lit now, and he heard Arti moving about there. He crossed to look inside. It was a kitchen, and the Hobbit looked up from stirring a steaming pan. "There you are! Shirt fit all right?" Estel nodded. "Good! Why don't you go sit by the fire, and I'll be out in a bit?"

He obeyed, settling on the rug as near to the fire's warmth as he could manage. Arti appeared a few minutes later. The Hobbit raised an eyebrow to find him on the ground rather than in a chair, but said nothing. Instead, he held out a large mug.

"Careful with that now, it's hot."

Estel took the mug and sniffed at it, smelling the tang of cinnamon. He took a cautious sip. The flavors of warm milk and honey and cinnamon filled him, warming a path down to his stomach. He sighed and closed his eyes, taking another sip. Arti moved away, and Estel realized suddenly how rude he had been. His mother would be horrified.

"Thank you," he called into the kitchen. The Hobbit reappeared, bearing a tray.

"You are most welcome, lad." He crossed to Estel and sat the tray onto the rug before him. Estel stared. It held two meat pies, several thick slices of bread, a hunk of white cheese, and several glazed scones. "I know there wasn't much for supper, with all that was happening. Thought you might want a little snack."

This was what the Hobbit considered a snack? Estel didn't stop to ask questions. He nodded, mumbled another 'thank you', then dove into the food. Arti watched him for a moment, chuckling softly, then disappeared into Estel's room. For a few minutes all was silent as Estel ate and the Hobbit cleared up the remains of Estel's wash. That finished, Arti took Estel's mug and refilled it, then settled into one of the armchairs. He took out a pipe—from the windows and balconies of Imladris Estel had seen visiting Men with these, and had pestered his brothers until Elrohir had finally explained—filled the bowl, and set a match to it. Smoke rose up, a spicy and—despite his brothers' opinions—not altogether unpleasant scent. Estel finished the second meat pie and the cheese, then sat back with one of the scones, nibbling as he gazed into the flames. His stomach was full to bursting, and drowsiness was settling hard upon him.

Arti stirred. "Now then, lad. Let's talk a bit." The pleasant sluggishness evaporated. Estel looked around quickly, and the Hobbit held up a hand. "Don't be getting upset, now. We need to know what's happened, though. I think you'll agree with that, aye?" It was true. Estel nodded and pulled his knees to his chest, huddling inside the quilt. Arti eyed him for a moment, then sighed. "Well then." The Hobbit leaned forward. "Now. We'll want to know details of the accident, of course, if you can give them. They'll make no difference tonight, though, so that can wait until morning." Estel nodded again, and Arti continued slowly. "There's something else I need to know from you, though, and you must not be angry with me for asking, if it turns out that all is as it should be."

"What do you mean?" Estel frowned, uneasy.

The Hobbit held his eyes with a firm, gentle gaze. "We—Luanna and Marks and meself—would like to know how the two of you came to be together." Estel blinked, startled, and Arti smiled softly at his surprise. "You're no more a born son of that Man in there than I am, lad, that's for all to see, and while that's well and good on the surface, something doesn't seem … quite right, if you understand me. So." The Hobbit nodded, encouraging. "You tell me if it is."

They knew. He didn't know how, but they knew, and Estel felt the first surges of panic. He had to make them understand …

"He's not bad, he's just sick."

Arti's expression stilled. He eyed Estel and nodded slowly. "All right. I believe you."

Estel stared down at the cheerful rug, twisting the quilt in his hands, and suddenly it was all pouring out of him. "He was sick, and his wife and his little girl died from it, and then his farm burned. And he was going with his son to someplace new, and then there was an accident and his son died. My brothers found him and brought him home, because Ada is a healer, but he was hurt and sick and so sad about his family that he thought his son didn't really die but that Ada and my brothers were hiding him, which doesn't make any sense, but Ada told me that you never know what grief and sickness will make someone think or do. Since he was angry with Ada he wouldn't stay to get better, and I saw him on his way out and stopped to help him when he dropped his bags, and …" Tears swam at the edge of his vision, and he swiped at them angrily.

"Ada?"

Estel sniffed, refusing to meet the Hobbit's gaze. "My father."

Arti sat back, and his eyes were bleak. "Lad, do your folks have any idea where you are?" Estel shook his head and rubbed at his eyes again, though it was fast becoming a losing battle. The Hobbit closed his eyes briefly, then took a long breath and stood. "All right, then." He approached, and laid a comforting hand on Estel's head. "It'll be all right, lad."

"He's not bad," Estel insisted. Somehow, it was important to make them understand. Arti stroked his hair back, the gesture awkward but comforting.

"I know, lad. I know. We'll get this all figured out." The Hobbit gently ruffled the hair he had just smoothed, then patted Estel's shoulder again. "It'll be all right, it will."

Estel nodded, but even with Arti's reassurance, he still wasn't certain. He hunched beneath the warm quilt, blinked back tears, and stared into the crackling flames, grateful that someone knew but wondering how these people, nice as they were, could help him get home when he couldn't even tell them where home really was.

It was dark when Estel woke, which meant nothing in an underground room. He pushed himself up from the feather-stuffed pillow and mattress, squinting in the faint light that filtered from the partially open door. He still wasn't able to see much, so he climbed off the bed (which had not quite held the whole length of him but had been deeply comfortable all the same) and crossed to the doorway. He expected the light to come from a torch or maybe the fire, but when he stepped into the sitting room he saw that it was daylight, shining from a small, round window high up on the wall that he had not seen the night before. The light was bright yellow, not the softer light of morning, and he wondered how long he had slept. A quick search of the sitting room and kitchen and a tap on the second door brought him no closer to an answer. He was alone.

In the absence of direction from Arti or anyone else, he returned to the bedroom to dress for the day and discovered that his clothes were missing. On the stand beside a full pitcher of water, clean basin, and new towel was a folded shirt, trousers, and undergarments. On top of the pile was an odd bit of leather that he didn't understand—it looked a bit like two belts crossed and sewn together at one point, though instead of buckle and holes a large button was sewn at each end. Estel studied it for a moment, then laid it aside to pull on the new clothes. They were too large, though not by much, and he wondered whose they were. He had not seen anyone the day before who might fit them. Holding up the pants with one hand, he returned to the leather piece. It took several minutes before he discovered corresponding holes in the trousers themselves. He tried a couple of different configurations before he managed to attach all of the buttons so that they lay smoothly, then pulled the long loops over his shoulders. He stood there for a moment, feeling ridiculous with the overlarge pants hanging from his shoulders on this … not-belt. There was nothing else for it, though, and finally he went in search of his boots. Those at least were where he had left them. He put them on and slipped out of the room, wondering what he should do next.

His stomach rumbled, and Estel decided not to stay in the Hobbit hole alone. For all he knew, he might be waiting for hours. He crossed the sitting room, climbed the steps, and let himself out into the farm yard, shading his eyes against the blinding daylight. A quick glance at the sky told him that it was past noon, and he blushed, embarrassed. He hadn't intended to sleep for so long.

The yard, too, was empty as he crossed toward the house, but he saw his clothes hanging out with other wash on a line and their—Ferrier's—horse grazing behind the barn. He stepped onto the porch and the door swung open. Luanna stood with her hands on her hips, studying him.

"Estel, is it?" Arti had told them, then. He had said he would. Estel wondered if the Hobbit had even waited until morning, or if he had returned to the house with all he had learned as soon as Estel had fallen asleep. He nodded, and Luanna motioned him inside. "You've slept through breakfast and lunch, but I put some back for you."

Estel ducked his head, stepping past her. "Thank you." Luanna steered him to the table, then went to retrieve a covered plate from an open cupboard. She plunked the plate down before him and rubbed his back briefly before moving off to pour a cup of water from a clay pitcher. "Estel." He looked up, but she was merely repeating. "What manner of name is that? It sounds …" She paused, frowning. "It sounds like something Elvish, almost."

He wondered what people knew of Elves here, so far from Rivendell. It mattered not. Estel nodded, looking away. He generally preferred the truth, and disliked lying even when it seemed his only choice. "It is. My … my family lives very near the borders of Rivendell. We … we are neighbors and friends." Indeed, his brothers spoke fondly of the few nearby villages of Men, and Estel knew that some of the children in those villages had been named for Elvish scouts who were particular friends or who had aided the family in some way. "Some of us are named for them."

Luanna's eyebrows rose. "I see." She sighed, sitting across from him. "You are truly far from home and family then, child."

He hunched his shoulders, understanding what a nuisance he and Ferrier must be for these people. "I'm sorry."

"No." The farmer's wife stood quickly, shaking her head. "Lad, you've got nothing to be sorry for." She came to him and squeezed his shoulders gently. "And from what I hear, you deserve a good apology yourself."

"I don't care about that," Estel whispered, and was embarrassed anew when more tears swam into his eyes. He had cried enough over the past days, and he forced them back, angry. "He's sick, he didn't know. I just want to …" He couldn't finish, couldn't say it out loud without the risk of sobbing like a little child. Luanna seemed to understand. She squeezed his shoulders again, then dropped a light kiss on his head before moving away. He was thankful, but he wished that she was Gilraen instead.

"You finish your food."

Estel sat still for a moment, then took a deep breath and obediently returned to the pile of bread and ham and fried potatoes. It was different from what he was used to—the bread was coarser, the ham slices thicker, the potatoes greasier—but simple as it was, it tasted wonderful and filled his stomach with a warm, heavy fullness. He might have gone immediately back to sleep in the nearest corner or chair, regardless of his late rising, had Luanna not sat down again across from him, watching him expectantly.

"Now, you tell me what's happened."

He hesitated. "Arti …"

"Arti told us what you said last night, but I'd like to hear the tale from your own mouth." It occurred to Estel suddenly to wonder where the Hobbit was. He looked around, but they were alone in the room. Luanna smiled faintly. "Arti and my husband are back in the fields, lad. It's planting time, and that pipeweed'll not be putting itself in the ground."

"Oh. Of course." Estel flushed, but before he could feel embarrassed the rear door swung open and another Hobbit entered from the sick room. The Hobbit executed a brief, shallow bow when he saw Estel at the table.

"Ah. Your other guest is awake, then." The Hobbit crossed to the table and climbed onto one of the high stools that had been pushed up between the chairs. "I'm Creston Sandheaver, at your service. My wife Camellias is the healer for these areas south of Staddle, and we've been here through the night with …" he hesitated, then finished diplomatically, "with your companion." Creston accepted a cup of water from Luanna, nodding his thanks. "It's good to see you up and about, lad. It was quite the tale old Arti had to tell us."

Luanna nodded. "Estel was just about to—"

"How is he?" Estel blurted. Luanna's were not the only raised eyebrows, and Estel shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "He … so much bad has happened to him, I just … Will he get better?" He focused on Creston, just come from Ferrier's room. The Hobbit exchanged a glance with Luanna, and after a moment's hesitation, she nodded. Creston turned back to Estel and sighed deeply, clasping his hands atop the scrubbed surface of the table.

"That arm was the worst of it. He had a few other bumps and bruises, but most of those were half healed … might have even been full-healed in some cases, if his body didn't have the fever and that arm wound to fight." Creston exchanged another glance with Luanna, and Estel's stomach tightened.

"Will he get better?" Estel demanded, his voice rising. Something like panic was beginning to set in, and he didn't know why … Luanna crossed to Estel again, pulling him tight against her.

"Cres …"

The Hobbit nodded. "He'll be well." Cres offered a wry smile. "The arm, though …"

"What about his arm?" Estel tried to rise, but Luanna held him in place. The Hobbit's voice was gentle.

"We had to take his arm, lad."

Estel stared, then shook his head. Surely he had heard the Hobbit wrong. So many awful things had already happened to Ferrier, surely this couldn't ... "You were supposed to help him," he whispered, and Luanna's arms tightened around him. "No!" He tried to pull away. "Nothing else bad was supposed to happen! Why did—"

"Estel, shh." Luanna knelt and turned him into her, holding him tight. A little voice in Estel's mind reminded him that it was stupid to be upset—this was only the way things worked, and even Elrond himself had been forced to take a limb at times—but he was sobbing into Luanna's shoulder and trying to push away from her at the same time, and then another, smaller pair of hands turned his head and he found himself staring into the eyes of a Hobbit female. She gave him a little shake.

"Enough, lad." Camellias, for this must be the healer, held Estel's gaze. Her voice was soothing. "Calm down. Deep breaths." She drew in a long breath, and unconsciously Estel echoed her. Camellias nodded, encouraging, and repeated the process. Slowly, Estel felt the panic drain away, replaced by a deep weariness. Finally, he relaxed against Luanna. Camellias nodded and gently released him. "Good, lad. Very good." She smiled and squeezed his arm. "Now, I am Cam, and I am the healer. I understand your da is a healer as well." Estel nodded. Luanna's hand stroked his hair. "So. You're a good lad to want the best for Master Ferrier. Since your da's a healer, you must know that this sometimes happens, yes?" Estel nodded again, reluctantly. "Master Ferrier will be well, though, do not doubt it. With the infection in his arm gone, the rest is not so severe, I think, that he won't recover. He will need to relearn how to live, with only one arm, but it can be done, and he will have help."

Estel looked to Luanna, who nodded her agreement. The farmer's wife glanced toward the two Hobbits, who seemed to acknowledge some unspoken request and both withdrew across the room.

"Estel." Luanna gently reclaimed his attention, drawing away in order to face him. "These clothes you're wearing?" Puzzled by the shift in topic, Estel looked down at the too-big shirt and pants. Luanna smiled faintly. "They belonged to my son." Estel frowned, picturing little Sander crouched on the hearth. Luanna shook her head, guessing the direction of his thoughts. "Not Sander, of course. I had a son with my first husband. He was a good boy, and not much older than you are now when he and his da were killed in an accident at a neighboring farm." Estel sucked in his breath, and she nodded. "Marks and his wife lived nearby—she passed away in childbirth only a few weeks after mine were taken from me." The farmer's wife took Estel's hand and squeezed it. "If not for each other, who knows where either of us would be now … but we learned to lean on each other, and we survived. So you see, we here understand Master Ferrier—not his particulars, perhaps, but we know what it is to lose so much and be all that's left. He'll find all the help he needs with us, never fear." Estel stared into her eyes for a long moment, horrified and yet also strangely relieved. It was, somehow, as if a giant weight had been lifted from the center of his chest. He still felt bruised, but he could at least breath again. Finally he nodded, calm enough now to feel a stirring of regret for his earlier behavior.

"I'm sorry." He looked around to Cres and Cam, who were standing together across the room. "I'm sorry," he offered. "I didn't mean to—"

"Of course not, lad." The Hobbits took his words as their cue, returning to the table once more. Cres patted Estel's shoulder as he passed, and Cam squeezed his hand. Luanna, too, returned to her own chair, delivering Estel's empty plate to a wash tub along the way.

"So." She smiled at Estel, and her gaze was reassuring. "Let's look to helping you as well, now. Go on, lad, and tell us all you can. We'll get you home, never fear—even if it does take some doing."

In the end, it was decided that Estel would leave with Cres the next morning for Staddle.

"But … I told Kerra that we were going to Archet. If she tells my brothers that, they won't go to Staddle," Estel protested. "It's not on the Road at all. They won't know to—"

"But if they don't, if they haven't managed to track you that far—and I have to say I think it unlikely, even if they're as skilled as you say—what then?" Marks, who had returned with the onset of twilight and was eating supper at the table with Arti, shook his head. "Darl's not got anyone he can spare for a long trek, he keeps only one runner and that for short messages to Bree or Staddle. If it turns out no one's come looking for you, we'll be needing to start with you back east, and we won't be finding anyone at Darl's inn for that kind of journey."

Estel wanted to protest that Elladan and Elrohir were that skilled, that Marks didn't understand the abilities or the determination of Elves—but he couldn't, and suddenly he was tired and lonely, even in a roomful of people. Perhaps Marks was right. Surely even his brothers or Glorfindel had not been able to track him so far in a week's time, especially along the Road. It wasn't highly travelled—in fact, he had seen no other travelers during their whole journey—but between the partially-paved Road and their several detours, it was difficult to believe that anyone from Imladris could be so close behind. Estel sighed, hugged his knees to his chest, and nodded.

Cres smiled sympathetically. "My cousin has an inn in Staddle. He'll know how to find someone trustworthy who can take you all the way back, if need be. The Road will be the easiest way toward the east in any case, whether you come down this way again or go over the hill and start from Bree. That means passing Darl's inn from wherever you start. If anyone's been there looking for you, you'll either meet them on the Road or hear about it when you reach the inn."

It seemed the their best choice—their only choice—and so Estel ate an early breakfast with Cres, Luanna, Marks, and Arti the next morning before the sun even rose. Only Cam was absent, keeping her watch over Ferrier. Estel wondered briefly if he should ask to see Ferrier before they went. It felt like it would be the right thing to do, given all that they had been through. He didn't really want to see the Man, though. He wanted Ferrier to get well, but he truly didn't care if he never saw the Man again. No one else suggested it either, so in the end Estel kept silent. This seemed vaguely cowardly, but he pushed that thought away, accepted a lunch pack and a kiss from Luanna, then trailed out the door behind Cres without looking back. Ferrier was in good hands now. There was no reason that Estel should feel responsible for him anymore.

The Hobbit, with Estel close behind, turned north along the main track as the sun made its appearance over the eastern trees. The morning was pleasantly cool, with a hint of heat to come, and the air was ripe with the scents of grass and heavy spring flowers and rich plowed soil. Birds chattered around them, and small animals rustled through the trees. Slowly, the tight knot in Estel's chest began to ease. He was free of Ferrier, and even if he was still lost and without his family, he had found people to help him—both him and Ferrier. Surely he would be on his way home soon.

The Hobbit, striding steadily along with one hand clutching a stick and his own lunch pack swung over his shoulder, lifted his voice in a walking song.

To Bree I go,

It's on the Road

twixt East and West

is their abode.

Once there, I'll sup and

ale will flow,

but until then

to Bree I go.

To Staddle I hie,

It's on the Hill

Behind which Bree

is standing still.

Once there, I'll prop me

feet up high,

but until then

to Staddle I hie.

To Combe I trek,

it's in-between

the southern towns

and forest green.

Once there, I'll light

my pipe and rest,

but until then

to Combe I trek.

To Archet I hike,

It's in the woods

off to the North

for years it's stood.

Once there, I'll sleep me

snug inside,

but until then

to Archet I hike.

It was nothing like the music of the Elves, which was always lyrical and stately even at its lightest, but it was very like the silly songs that his mother had always spun as she straightened their rooms or worked her embroidery or planted in one of the gardens ringing the Last Homely House. Despite a pang of longing, Estel's spirits sluggishly rose. Cres's gravelly voice was cheerful and spry, and the tune was easy to follow. Before they had traveled too many miles, Estel found himself humming along.