Chapter III: Cries in the Night

The last notes of the lay of Dagorlad rang into the night and died away. There was a lonely sound of two hands applauding, but only three claps rang out before the hobbit realized that no one else was expressing their appreciation in this way. He flushed a little, awkwardly, as numerous eyes riveted upon him. Elrond smiled at him.

‘It is an inspiring tale, is it not, little master,’ he said pleasantly.

‘Oh, yes!’ Mister Baggins said enthusiastically. His after-dinner sleepiness seemed to have abated, and his eyes were shining with wonder. ‘I’ve never heard a song like it. But what happened afterwards? When the siege was ended and the Black Gate was opened.’

‘That is another long tale,’ Elrond replied, and though his gracious expression remained unaltered his heart sank. If they were going to sing The Fall of Gil-galad, it would be two hours or more before he could slip away even for a few minutes. As one of the supporting players in that tale, he could not do diservice to the fallen by abandoning the assembly in the midst of its recitation.

Erestor appeared to understand his feelings on the matter. ‘It is not a joyous one, either,’ he said diplomatically. ‘Perhaps we might have something more merry now.’

Elladan nodded to one of the minstrels, who struck up a major chord upon her lute and rolled into a bouncing, rollicking ballad about a fox and a hare. Relieved, Elrond sat still until the second chorus, by which time many of the assembly were singing along. It was the perfect opportunity for a circumspect escape. Quietly he rose from his chair and moved to where Elladan stood leaning on one of the pillars.

‘I am going up—’ he began, but his son nodded almost instantly.

‘Go,’ he said. ‘No one will notice.’

Elrond knew that would not be true: already he could feel Gandalf’s eyes boring into his back, but at least the guests could hardly fault him for a brief absence in the midst of the merriment. It took enormous self-control, but he moved slowly and sedately back towards the doors that led into the house. He passed gracefully through them and maintained his pace for a few yards, until he was a good distance from the windows. He quickened his pace to a swift stride and gained the back stairs. Abandoning dignity and lifting his robes he flew up the steps and down the long corridor towards his rooms.

Once in his antechamber he did not tarry to knock, but opened the door at once and slipped into the sick-room.

Gilraen was seated on the edge of the bed, bent over Estel as she bathed his face with the athelas-water. The sheet was once again tangled about the child, and one leg was kicking petulantly against the mattress. His mother’s efforts did not appear to be soothing him, for he was mumbling incoherently, eyes screwed tightly shut. Elrohir stood by the foot of the bed. He had been watching helplessly and picking at the curtain with one hand. When he heard to door opened he turned.

‘Atarinya! At last...’

‘I was told he is taking no water,’ Elrond said, moving around to the side of the bed opposite the human woman so that Estel lay between them. He placed his hand upon the child’s head, and turned sharply to glare at his second son. ‘I told you to fetch me if his fever grew worse!’ he said, more sharply than was his wont.

‘I wanted to,’ Elrohir responded simply.

The Lady Gilraen raised her eyes from her son, who had fallen silent at the Elf-lord’s touch. Further proof, thought Elrond, of some foul power at work. ‘He grows so hot,’ she said, the desperation in her voice but thinly veiled behind a façade of candour.

‘Give me that mug,’ Elrond ordered, nodding at the sideboard. Elrohir hastened to hand over the vessel, which was half-full of cool water. ‘And the spoon.’

Taking the cup and the utensil, he sat down next to Estel. Gilraen pulled back and rose: she did not look happy to do so, but she was a woman of good sense and she knew that, whatever her personal feelings about the master of the house, he had her son’s best interests at heart.

Elrond eased the cushion out from beneath the child’s head, and curled his left hand around the far side of Estel’s neck. Balancing the cup against his leg, he drew out a spoonful of water. With care he dribbled the life-giving fluid between the cracked lips. All three adults froze, waiting breathlessly for the child to swallow. After a moment there was a soft choking sound, and Estel’s swollen tongue oozed forward against his teeth, pushing out the water. It seeped from the corner of his mouth onto the mattress. Gilraen covered her face with a despairing hand, and Elrohir sighed softly.

‘He has been doing that since you left us,’ he murmured regretfully. ‘I fear—’ His eyes flitted to Gilraen’s bowed form, and he did not finish his sentence.

Wordlessly Elrond handed Elrohir the mug. He attempted to lift Estel up, but his mantle was hampering him. With a disgusted exhalation he removed it, casting the garment and its heavy emerald brooches carelessly into a corner of the room. Freed of its encumbering weight, he drew the boy towards himself, slipping his knee behind the small of Estel’s back and cradling the child’s head and shoulders in the crook of his right arm. Elrohir rounded the bed, touching Gilraen’s elbow consolingly as he passed her. When Elrond reached out with his left hand, Elrohir was ready with the spoon. Tilting his little son’s head back, he once again slipped water into his mouth. Swiftly, before the boy’s reflexes could expel the fluid, he dropped the spoon and stroked the back of his index finger down the length of Estel’s throat. The larynx tightened, and Estel swallowed. There was a tiny, wet cough, but the water was down.

Elrohir smiled softly, and Gilraen choked back a sob of relief. She was hugging herself now with one arm, the opposite fingertips pressed to her mouth as she watched. ‘Good boy,’ Elrond murmured, recovering the spoon and taking another dram of water from the cup that Elrohir held. ‘That’s my brave child.’ He repeated the procedure with care, and again Estel swallowed.

In this way he induced the child to take two ounces of liquid. When no amount of stroking would coax him to swallow, Elrond desisted. He did not want to release his hold and lie the child back down, but he had no choice. He had done what he had come to do, and now he had to return to the gathering below. ‘Lady, help me with the sheet,’ he instructed gently. Gilraen carefully unwound the tangled cloth with quavering hands. Once more, Elrond settled the child in the bed, and his mother covered him.

‘Continue to bathe him as you have been,’ the Elf-lord said to her. ‘We must contrive to lower his fever somehow. If it is no better when I return, we shall have to try something else.’

Gilraen swallowed hard, and spoke hesitantly. ‘When children at home suffered from scarlet fever the old women would shave away their hair...’

'That is a mortal misconception,' Elrond said as diplomatically as he could. 'The fire is in his blood: there would be little purpose to shearing his head. There are surer ways to lower a fever, though I have yet hope that we will not be forced to resort to them.’ He looked at Elrohir. ‘I shall have someone bring up a washtub and water lest we have need.’

Elrohir grimaced. ‘I pray we will not,’ he said. ‘How soon should I try to make him drink again?’

‘Unless he cries out for more, wait twenty minutes,’ Elrond instructed. ‘If he takes as much then as he did just now there is no cause for worry. If he will not drink at all you will have to fetch me, but tell whomever you send to be judicious about the way in which they approach me. We cannot have dwarves asking awkward questions.’

‘Touching upon awkward questions, has Gandalf said anything yet?’ asked Elrohir.

Elrond shook his head. ‘He will. His curiosity has been aroused. My co-conspirators have so far kept him at bay. I must remember to thank Glorfindel for his aid.’ He started for the door but Elrohir called him back.

‘Atarinya...’ He crossed to the far corner of the room and picked up the fallen mantle, shaking it out. Elrond stood still while the heavy, impractical garment was eased over his shoulder. He fastened one side, and Elrohir the other.

‘I will return when I can,’ Elrond said softly. Then he slipped from the room and made his way back towards the stairs. It was a simple matter to find someone to see to his request that a washtub be brought up to his chambers, and with that necessity discharged he made his way back towards the assembled merrymakers.

He reached the porch to find Erestor in the midst of the tale of Telchar, the dwarven smith who had befriended the Noldor when first they came in Exile to Middle-earth. He was telling of the making of Angrist, the fell knife made as a gift for Celegorm, third son of Fëanor, that later came into the hands of Beren son of Barahir who used it to prise a Silmaril from the very crown of Morgoth. The dwarves were listening appreciatively with the exception of the largest one, who appeared to have drifted off to sleep on his bench.

Only three pairs of eyes turned to Elrond as he returned to his seat. Erestor paused for only a fraction of a second in his recitation as he eyed his lord appraisingly. Gandalf turned his head and stared sharply. And Mister Baggins looked at the Elf-lord and dared a smile. Elrond returned it as warmly as he could. As he did so he folded his hands and made a show of settling comfortably into his chair, though indeed he was beyond taking comfort in anything.

Gandalf rose and edged nearer to the Lord of the Valley. ‘Perhaps we might have a word in private,’ he said wryly. ‘Once you feel you can be spared from the revels.’

‘I would be glad of that,’ Elrond said softly, mindful that he did not disturb Erestor’s adept storytelling. ‘We have much to discuss.’

‘Indeed. It seems that all is not well in the Last Homely House,’ hissed the wizard through his beard. ‘I have noted that you yourself are grievously troubled, and your closest advisors seem frightened for your welfare. It is plain that your son has assumed the larger part of your duties this night, while his twin is nowhere to be found, and twice now you have vanished without apology and explanation. And that absurd guess about the wine at dinner – it was a mistake I doubt even Mister Baggins would have made. What is—’

‘In private,’ Elrond said firmly, raising his hand in a subtle gesture for silence. ‘Once I feel I can be spared from the revels.’

Gandalf snorted disapprovingly, but he returned to his place and sat down, plucking thoughtfully at his beard and eyeing his host suspiciously.

When Erestor’s tale came to an end, Thorin rose from his chair. ‘Thank you, good sir, for the illuminating story,’ he said. ‘But now it is my turn.’ He stepped forward in to the centre of the company and surveyed his audience appraisingly. He raised his hands in a very grandiose gesture indeed, and announced, ‘I will tell you the tale of the coming of Smaug and the downfall of Dale.’

Politely appreciative murmurs rippled through the crowd, though a good number of those assembled had heard the tale in various snippets at dinner, and some of them knew the story better than Thorin himself. For once Dale had been a beautiful town, and a destination of pleasure visits for the folk of Imladris. The close friendship between the people of Dale and the King of Mirkwood had made possible all manner of commerce between Men and Elves. Elrond had visited the community in its infancy, and again with Celebrían scarcely three hundred years before her capture on Caradhras. He remembered the fair houses and the glittering River Running, and the kind and generous folk who had made him most welcome.

He remembered, too, the desolation of the dragon and the wanton destruction of the fair lands about the Lonely Mountain. When news had come of the disaster, a convoy had been assembled to travel from Rivendell to the aid of the men of Dale. Bearing clothing and provisions and all manner of necessary goods, it had also brought skilled folk to help heal and rebuild the shattered community. Elrond had accompanied his emissaries, and had done what little he could to help the people of Dale. In those days the foundations of the new community of Lake-town had been laid.

The doom of that pretty town was a bitter reminder of the helplessness of the Children of Ilúvatar before the evil that dwelt in the world. Such reminders were never welcome, and now, thinking again of the dying child upstairs, Elrond felt sick at heart. He could not save Celebrían, he could not save the town of Dale… what hope did he have to save Estel, whose affliction was neither a random misfortune nor an accident, but most likely a targeted strike on the part of the Enemy?

Thorin was speaking now, and Elrond had to admit that the dwarf-lord possessed a very fine voice. It was of deep timbre, and it rose and fell in an elaborate rhetorical style that, though by Elven standards was rather pompous and silly, imbued the listener with enthusiasm and the sense of being profoundly inspired. Despite his rather colourful vocabulary and his penchant for lofty and slightly inept metaphors, Thorin was infusing the whole bitter tale with a solemnity usually accorded to high mythology. Elrond supposed, upon reflection, that to his mortal guests this tale had indeed become a mythology of sorts: a legend that at once defined who they were and motivated them towards what they would become. Ashamed of himself for allowing his mind to wander while his guest spoke, he focused intently upon Thorin’s words.

‘Then came the dragon, a fiery beast from the nethermost north. I imagine he must have been eager to establish a hoard of his own, and my grandfather’s seemed an easy target. I was away from the Mountain at the time, and lucky it was, too. I could see the dragon coming, and he settled atop the Lonely Mountain like a bird on a weathervane. Then he snaked down the hill towards the woods, and the forest caught fire before him. By then Dale was alerted, and the bells were ringing. The Men—’

Far away in the night there was a scream. It was coming around from the far side of the house, so hoarse and weak that it was almost inaudible even to the ears of the Eldar. To the ears of a father, however, it was as loud as the trumpets of war. Elrond stiffened, gripping the arm of his chair.

Thorin continued with his tale: clearly he had not heard the cry. Likewise the other dwarves remained unaffected. Many of the Elven-folk seemed equally unaware: either they had not heard it or they chose to disregard it. Some of those members of the household not intimately familiar with the crisis at hand exchanged briefly puzzled looks, and then turned their eyes back to the storyteller. 

The sound was not discoutned by all. A number of the maidens, who as a rule were very fond of Estel, looked about, whispering sorrowfully amongst themselves. Glorfindel stood suddenly erect, staring off into the night with eagle’s eyes. Erestor turned to look at Elrond, pain and pity writ upon his face. Elladan abandoned his indolent posture and was already stepping forward to cover his father’s retreat. Gandalf looked almost ready to erupt with a barrage of inappropriate questions.

Thorin was still speaking, but as a second shriek echoed distantly in the darkness, Elrond could no longer stand on ceremony. He sprung to his feet and swept off of the porch, nearly catching the edge of his mantle in the door as it swung closed behind him.

The dwarf-lord paused in his tale, looking affrontedly at the empty seat. Elladan smiled graciously and assumed the chair his father had so swiftly abandoned. ‘You will have to excuse my sire, mighty Oakenshield,’ he said. ‘It is not a reflection upon your tale, but he has other duties to attend to, and he must see to the proper running of the household. The master cannot always sit in leisure with his folk, as I am sure such a lord as yourself well understands.’

‘Indeed I do, venerable master,’ said Thorin, mollified. ‘I hope he will return in time for our song.’

Not all of the Elves looked pleased at the prospect of Dwarven music, but Elladan smiled a politician’s gracious smile. ‘He would be a fool to forgo it, I am sure,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Pray, continue your tale.’

Dwalin leaned forward towards Bilbo Baggins. ‘Other duties, pah!’ he said as Durin resumed his speaking. ‘Did you see him run? Anyone would think he had left the house on fire.’

Bilbo said nothing, for in the course of Thorin’s tale he had drifted off to sleep.