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

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

Thanks always to my tireless beta, Inzilbeth.

~~~

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

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

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

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

And I nearly let him die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could I have made such a grievous error?

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the Black Breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he could have a wound elsewhere...

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

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

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

I felt sick at the thought.

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

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

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

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

"Arm... hurts," he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TBC