Chapter II: An Uneasy Meal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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