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The Valley is Jolly  by Canafinwe

Chapter V: Perilous Measures

Some time after midnight, the two Sons of Elrond met outside their father’s chambers. Elrohir had relieved the sentry after leaving the Lady Gilraen in her rooms, and it was in the corridor that his elder brother found him, seated in the chair by the door as he rested his mind after the fashion of the Eldar.

‘It seems I drew the harsher duty tonight,’ Elladan teased wryly, leaning against the wall and cocking his head at his sibling.

Elrohir straightened in the chair and sighed wearily. ‘It was not so easy before our father left the assembly,’ he retorted. ‘I am a poor nurse.’

‘How fares the child?’ Elladan asked, his face grave.

The younger twin shook his head. ‘Not well. We ducked him in ice-water to beat back the fever, for even the healing hands of Elrond seem ineffectual against this strange ailment. If some other treatment cannot be found, the boy will die.’

‘We cannot allow that!’ Elladan hissed harshly, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the patient within. ‘We pledged to protect him. We vowed to his father that we would guard him from death.’

‘What can we do?’ demanded Elrohir. ‘Have we the power to banish disease where our sire cannot? There is no enemy to fight, no foe to overthrow. We guarded him from the orcs and the spies of the Enemy, but we cannot guard him from illness. He is mortal, and he has the weaknesses of any mortal. He has sickened, and now he will die, and there is nothing we can do to stop it.’

‘We promised,’ Elladan breathed. He understood his brother’s anger. It was a terrible thing, this powerlessness. The eldest son of Elrond felt a deep pang of remorse. Under the guise of helping his sire in this time of strife, he had taken it upon himself to play the part of auxiliary host to the throng of dwarves brought by Gandalf at a most inopportune time. It was a task of some importance, certainly, but he had spent the evening at ease downstairs, playing at ambassador and overseeing the revels, while his twin had been here, facing the ugliness of the sick-room and the looming shadow of death, and doubtless remembering another time, not so long ago in the reckoning of the Firstborn, when they had waited beyond this very door while their father plied his art to no avail within. That time it had cost them their mother, now long departed into the Twilight. Now, the son of their friend and faithful comrade-in-arms lay dying within.

‘We had no right to promise,’ Elrohir said; ‘and we were fools to do so. We spoke to ease his passing, and now we will suffer for it. But we shall not suffer half so much as our father will.’

Elladan flinched, pained by the truth of those words. ‘He loves the mortal child,’ he said. ‘The boy is as dear to him as a son. If he is lost now it will break his heart.’

‘Would that Arwen were here,’ Elrohir said bitterly. ‘Perhaps she might aid in the healing, but even if she could not do that she would ease Father’s heart.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the anteroom door. ‘He is in a torment of worry, and he has not been husbanding his strength as he ought. If a resolution is not quickly found, he will be in need of tending also.’

A vacant expression crept across Elladan’s face: he was walking in memory. ‘The night we bore the child and his mother hence... do you remember?’

‘It was more than one night,’ Elrohir said dryly. ‘Ten long and wary days as I recall: slow going for two Elven steeds over familiar terrain, even in the snow. But then I had never before travelled with a babe and a mortal maid.’

‘I meant the first night, the night we came to the cottage to collect them.’

‘I remember,’ Elrohir said. ‘We rode hard through the dark and did not halt until mid-afternoon. I bore Lady Gilraen before me on my saddle, for she was shattered by her grief and had not the strength to hold on behind. I drew my cloak over her and she wept as if all the world had turned to ash about her.’

Elladan nodded sombrely. ‘She has never forgotten your patience and kindness, I think: it is common knowledge that she looks favourably upon you.’ Again, he slipped into the mood of recollection. ‘You rode ahead with the lady, and I behind with the babe. He was bundled in blankets with a fur rug about them, and my cloak overall. At first he wept also, and I could not console him, but after a time the rhythm of the horse soothed him and he drifted off to sleep, a serene weight in my arms.

‘He woke before the dawn. He had worked one small hand loose of his wrappings, and he plucked at the front of my garments.’ Elladan’s slender hand touched his robe just below his heart, as if he could still feel a child’s hand resting there. ‘I pulled back my cloak to uncover his face, and he stared at me in astonishment: clearly he had not expected to wake in a stranger’s arms. I smiled for him as best I could – for my heart was heavy and my mind borne down by worry – and to my wonder, he smiled also. “Man,” he said in the Common Tongue, and I recall how surprised I was that a mortal babe so young had the power of speech.

‘ “Nay,” said I; “I am an Elf.” I told him my name, and he repeated it. Then he told me his. “Where is Mama?” he asked, and I explained that she was riding with you, pointing ahead into the grey gloom. My answer satisfied him and for a while we rode in silence. Then presently he began to speak again, eulogizing happily about the horse and the trees and the rosy glow of sunrise behind the distant mountains. His father was slain, and his mother by necessity dispossessed, and he himself left a hunted orphan at the mercy of strangers, cantering across the Wild on a perilous journey towards an uncertain fate, and yet the joy of life was overpowering within him. While we three were wracked with grief and despair, he was able to take pleasure in the beauty of dawn.’

‘He was an infant,’ Elrohir said flatly. ‘He did not understand the peril, nor could he comprehend that his father was dead. Who is to say he even remembered his sire? He was happy because he knew no better.’

‘Perhaps,’ murmured Elladan; ‘perhaps not. Regardless, his merriment eased my heart and gave me fresh courage. For that I shall always be thankful. In these last years I have had no opportunity to grow to know him, but if he dies now my grief shall not be for our father alone.’

‘I did not say I would grieve only for our father,’ Elrohir rebutted. ‘I am fond of the child and I pity him... but as you say, we have had no opportunity to know him. It is unfair to expect abiding love where there is little interaction.’

Elladan frowned, scrutinizing his twin’s face. ‘Has someone else touched upon this topic tonight?’ he asked. ‘The master of the house, perhaps?’

‘The Lady Gilraen,’ muttered Elrohir. ‘She wanted to know if I loved him.’

‘And you replied?’

‘As I have just replied,’ the second twin said. ‘Saved that I told her that I do love him, after a fashion – and that is true. I love him for the sake of his sire, who was my dear friend and comrade; and I love him for the joy he brings to Atarinya. Had we spent more time in the Valley these last years I do not doubt that we would love him as our father does, or at least as Erestor and Glorfindel do, but how can we love him when we scarcely know him?’

Elladan nodded in understanding. ‘And now it seems we will never have that chance,’ he said regretfully. ‘I had hoped that he would grow to be a man like his sire: noble and fearless and valiant.’

‘Yours, then, is but the least of the ambitions expressed on Estel’s behalf,’ a sonorous voice observed. The brothers turned towards the end of the corridor to see Erestor approaching. The lore-master had removed the more unwieldy elements of his garb, and was wearing a long saffron cote cinched with a cord of blue. Somehow the absence of the heavy robe and mantle gave him more authority in the eyes of the brothers: Erestor had been their teacher when they were little elf-children, and though over the centuries he had become a friend and colleague, they still held him in a certain private awe because of that early relationship.

The elder Elf reached the brothers and looked from one to another. ‘There are those who feel that this child is destined to surpass the deeds of any of his progenitors since the days of the Last Alliance. It is whispered that his deeds will rival those of the great mortal heroes of old. Do not pretend that you have never heard your father speak of what his heart foretells for the boy who lies within.’

‘My father has also foretold that either he will do these things, or he will slip into darkness,’ Elrohir said heavily. ‘I have in some measure the foresight of my kin, and I can see no other outcome to this accursed night.’

‘Ah, but your foresight may be tainted by your weariness and by the pains exacted from you in Estel’s care,’ Erestor said. ‘To say nothing of your memories of your mother’s suffering and the efforts that your father exerted upon her to no avail. Take heart. The little one will not die if there is power in Arda to prevent it. I was speaking with Mithrandir before I came to you, and he has promised that he will do what he can to help. Together he and the Master of Rivendell have powers beyond the sum of their abilities. There is yet hope.’

‘For Hope,’ whispered Elladan.

The lore-master smiled. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Well-named is the child, and I believe he will yet live. Now away to your beds, both of you: I will watch the door. You have each in your own way suffered a long and difficult evening.’

Elrohir chuckled ruefully as he got to his feet. ‘How did you fare with our guests?’ he asked his twin. ‘I do not envy you that duty.’

A soft laugh brightened his brother’s face. ‘Dwarves require a particular kind of care,’ he said. ‘I do not mind the work, though their lust for gold is perplexing. Indeed, it might have been an entirely pleasant evening save that their leader insisted that in payment for our music he and his co-conspirators sing for us!’

Elrohir clapped his twin on the back and they started down the hall towards their own rooms. Erestor watched them go with sombre eyes, and then settled before the door. From within he could hear the soft sound of Estel’s laboured breathing, and now and then a murmured word of consolation or entreaty from the Lord of Imladris as he sat a bitter vigil with his son.

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While in the great dining-hall of the Last Homely House Mister Baggins sat down to his second breakfast under the merry eyes of obliging Elves, a grim struggle was taking place beneath the same roof.

Trusted sentinels had sealed off the entire corridor, and Elladan stood with his back to the anteroom door. Within that room sat Erestor and Glorfindel, on hand in case something went amiss. There had been some debate as to whether one of the Elven healers ought to be present, but in the end it was decided that secrecy was of paramount importance and that if another healer was needed one could be fetched swiftly enough.

Inside the master’s bedchamber, Estel lay like a corpse upon the bed. His head was lolling to one side, and his body was as still as death. He had stirred only twice in the night, too weak even to cry out. This morning’s enterprise was the last resort: even if it were not foolhardy to use such power twice in a short span of time, it was doubtful whether the child would have the strength to survive a second attempt.

Gandalf the Grey surveyed the patient soberly. He had left his usual wizard-trappings in the chamber he always occupied when he came to Imladris, and with his weatherworn garb traded for simple garments of Elven make, he looked like a king of old standing before a council of war: hale and venerable and filled with grim determination.

Elrond stood with his back to the bed, looking away from Estel for the first time in many hours as he washed his hands. The long and bitter night had done little to restore his spirit, but his body at least had recovered some of its strength. All of it would be needed for the task at hand. He regretted the necessity that had brought them to this pass, but he did not resent it. He would have opened his breast with a dinner knife and plucked his heart from his ribs if by so doing he might save his child. What he was about to do was no more perilous than that, and considerably less messy.

‘Are you ready?’ asked the wizard softly. It was he who had proposed this course of action, Elrond reminded himself. If Gandalf thought it necessary, without any prompting or suggestion, then it must be so. The Elf-lord knew that he was not an impartial party in this situation, so deep was his emotional investment, but Gandalf could judge what was appropriate without that impediment to his judgement. If the life of this last descendant of kings was worth such a risk in the wizard’s eyes, then the matter was settled.

‘I am,’ he said, turning from the basin and approaching the bed. The windows were closed and barred, banishing the sunlight and fresh air known to be so beneficial to the sick and the dying but guarding the clandestine activities within from curious observers and maliciously prying eyes. Elrond’s heart still foreboded that the Necromancer might have some means of penetrating the secret haven of his valley, and he was wary.

Each took up his post on a side of the bed: Gandalf upon Estel’s left and Elrond upon his right. The boy’s arm twitched a little as he felt their presence. In a moment of paternal weakness, Elrond bent forward and stroked the child’s face. The wizard watched impassively as the Elf-lord stooped and brushed his lips across Estel’s brow.

‘Be strong, my little one,’ he whispered softly. ‘For good or ill, it shall be over soon.’

Then he straightened his back and hardened his features, once again the sophisticated Master of Rivendell, doughty veteran of the ancient wars, son of Eärendil the Mariner, heir of Thingol, prince of the Noldor and child of the house of Lúthien Tinúviel. He turned to Gandalf and extended his right hand across the bed.

‘Now,’ he said.

Gandalf took Elrond’s right hand with his left, and a jolt of energy seemed to lance between them. It crackled in the air like flames egged on by a mighty wind, gaining ever more momentum. Then each with his free hand reached down towards the dying child and gripped one bony shoulder.

Power unequalled by any healer’s skill enveloped the three. In that instant, had any been present to witness it, they would have been met with a sight at once terrible and wondrous. Elrond Peredil, revealed in his might as a great lord of the Eldar, his eyes flashing fell and silver with the light of his will, with Vilya the Ring of Air blue as lightning upon his hand. And with him Gandalf, called Mithrandir by the Elves, his guise cast away to reveal power and glory unlooked-for and unequalled. Upon his finger shone Narya, the Ring of Fire, as it poured forth its power at its master’s will.

Only a moment did they stand thus, but to the two Ringbearers that moment seemed an eternity of wonder and terror and darkness. Whatever the bonds that gripped the ailing child, they were cast open, and the boy’s torment was laid bare. They saw the waves crashing upon the rocky shore: towering waves that laid low the palaces of the Men of the West and washed their children into the sea; and they saw the fires burning in the night while the ragged remnant of the Faithful limped Eastward in their battered barks. They felt the hellish heat of the Fiery Mountain, where Gil-galad was consumed by the fires of Sauron and Elendil fell and Narsil broke beneath him. They smelled the blood and the stench of death on the ruins of the Gladden Fields, where thousands of the Edain lay dead and the river Anduin ran red with their blood. They heard the cries of the fell beasts of the Nazgûl sweeping across the northern wastes from Angmar, slaughtering the folk of Arvedui and driving the last king to his death. They tasted the bitter draught of despair as prisoners languished in the cavernous dungeons beneath Dol Guldur, crushed under the heel of the Enemy as he was rising once more power and belching forth his evil into the shadows of Mirkwood. And amid the chaos it seemed that together they held a tiny, faltering flame, sheltering it from the darkness around it and striving desperately to save it, lest the terrors that assailed it should extinguish it forever. There was a cacophony of horror and awe, triumph and desperation...

And there was silence.

They stood as they had before: hands tightly clasped, each gripping one of the child’s bare shoulders. Neither had moved or spoken or made any sign, but the moment of dour glory was passed. The Rings were once more hidden from sight. The room no longer pulsed with power and influence, but stood still and stagnant with its shutters closed.

At last, Gandalf withdrew his hand from the child and used it to prise loose Elrond’s fingers where they gripped his other arm. ‘It is done,’ he breathed. He was once more a wizened old man, his face careworn and weary in the wake of the struggle.

Elrond’s body jerked to life like a clockwork toy whose spring had been suddenly released. Freed of its hold upon Gandalf, his right arm flew down towards the child’s neck, seeking the cardinal sign of life: the thick, steady strumming of blood pushed away by a beating heart. But his fingertips were cold and he could not find it.

He withdrew his hands, for a moment horrified. They had failed. They had called forth power to be used only in moments of greatest need, and they had failed.

Then Estel stirred. His head turned to the left, and his eyelids fluttered open. Grey orbs struggled to focus, and at last they fixed upon Gandalf’s grave face. Puzzlement furrowed the child’s brows, and at this sign of intelligible thought Elrond bit back a choking noise. Estel turned towards the sound. Their eyes locked, and the child tried to smile. His cracked lips stopped him, dark blood oozing fresh from the fissures, but the love in his now-clear eyes was plain to see. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. Then a gentle, contented sigh issued forth from his throat and his head sagged back against the mattress. His chest began to rise and fall with gentle regularity, and Gandalf leaned forward to confirm what Elrond already knew.

‘The fever has broken,’ the wizard said softly, a hand upon the boy’s brow. ‘He is sleeping peacefully now.’

The despair of recent days and the outpouring of strength in this last, desperate effort swooped down at once to claim their victim. Elrond’s legs trembled and gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees. His head came down to rest upon Estel’s breast, and he clutched the boy’s slender hands as if afraid that the child would slip away beneath him. A shattered sob of gratitude broke forth from his lips, and he began to weep.

Gandalf withdrew from the bed and slipped from the room, bearing tidings for those who waited in anxiety without. Elrond did not notice his passing. He had attention only for the strong beating of the mortal heart beneath his head, and for the hands now cool and still within his own. He poured out his worry and his pain and his thankfulness in a libation of tears. His son was alive.





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