Chapter VI: The Hunted Awakens

Gilraen was huddled on the seat in the casement of her little parlour. Elrohir sat next to her, a consoling hand resting on her arm. He had long since ceased to attempt to cheer her: it was no use and in any case he had little cheer to offer. Her son was dying and soon there would be nothing left to do but mourn him.

Elrohir was weighed down with regret. His conversation with his brother was still fresh in his mind, and it filled him with sorrow that he knew so little about the child whose life they had saved. They had rescued the son of Arathorn and carried him through peril and calamity to Imladris, and then they had left his welfare to others, trusting their father and the folk of the Valley to nurture and to raise him. The Sons of Elrond had returned to their labours in the Wild, and when they had occasion to return home to rest and resupply, they had never made more than the most cursory inquiries regarding the boy’s welfare, nor spoken to him unless he sought them out. Remembering the admiration that had always lighted in Estel’s eyes on such occasions, Elrohir’s guilt redoubled. Certainly he and Elladan seldom had the luxury of tarrying, but they might have exerted some effort towards the child on their brief visits. Given a second chance...

There was a knock at the door. Gilraen’s body contracted and her head flew up like that of a hound scenting calamity on the wind. Elrohir gripped her arm as reassuringly as he could. ‘Allow me, lady,’ he said softly. He rose and with a trembling hand opened the door.

Elladan stood in the corridor, his face pale and grave. ‘There is news,’ he exhaled.

Elrohir ushered his twin into the room, and Elladan approached Gilraen. He was not so friendly with the widowed lady as his brother was, but she had always been cordial to him. He knelt before her like a soldier bringing news of the field of battle to his queen. ‘Lady,’ he said, addressing her in her favoured tongue; ‘your son lives. The efforts of Elrond Half-elven and Gandalf the Grey have borne fruit. Estel sleeps peacefully and the fever is broken. With rest and proper care, there is every hope that he will recover fully.’

A tremor tore through Gilraen’s body. Her feet slipped from the seat as her spine straightened. Her eyes grew wide and she pressed a hand to her mouth as it opened in a silent scream. She turned towards Elrohir, and a moment later she was embracing him, quivering with the strength of her emotion.

‘How is our father?’ Elrohir asked over the lady’s head, wrapping an arm about her lest she should fall.

Elladan rose from the floor, shaking his head. ‘I have not seen him. Gandalf left him with the boy, and brought forth the news. Erestor thought it best if I came here at once.’

‘Thank you,’ Gilraen wept, turning her head so that she could see the elder twin. ‘Thank you.’

‘It is not I who should receive your thanks, lady,’ Elladan told her gently. ‘It was my father and Gandalf who brought about this miracle. Thank them.’

‘I will...’ Gilraen pledged, and there was a strange resolve in her voice. ‘But first, I must go to my son. I must go to him. I must—’

Hysteria seemed to be building in her voice. Elrohir eased her away from his chest and gripped her hand bracingly. ‘We shall go at once,’ he promised. ‘Come.’

The three of them hurried down the corridors to Elrond’s bedchamber. In the anteroom they found Erestor, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. For a moment, Elrohir was afraid that the glad tidings were premature, but the lore-master looked up, and he was smiling.

‘Lady Gilraen, he sleeps!’ he said joyously. ‘Gandalf has said the fever is broken, and that Estel will recover.’

Gilraen seemed unable to find words with which to reply, or perhaps she was daunted by the lore-master’s presence. She did not know Erestor personally, except as Estel’s teacher, and they seldom spoke.

‘Where is Gandalf?’ Elladan asked, looking around the otherwise empty antechamber.

‘Glorfindel has gone to escort him to his room,’ Erestor explained. ‘He is weary from the effort exerted to save the boy.’

‘And our father?’ Elrohir asked, looking towards the bedchamber door.

‘Still within. I was reluctant to enter: it seemed meet that the child’s mother—’

And before any could stop her Gilraen pulled away from Elrohir and pushed open the heavy door, laying bare the sick-room. A rush of stale air wafted out of the room, and Gilraen hastened inside, stumbling over the hem of her gown in her haste. She stopped short at the foot of the bed as the twins entered after her.

Estel was lying in the middle of the mattress, his eyes closed and his face smooth and peaceful. Kneeling beside the bed, his head bowed over the child’s chest, was the Lord of Imladris. He had one of Estel’s hands in each of his own, and he was utterly motionless, seemingly unaware of the intruders who were watching him.

Gilraen plucked at her throat, torn between shock at this spectacle and her obvious desire to fling herself upon her son. Elrohir could only stare at the shattered aspect of his sire. It was Elladan, ever the hard-headed statesman, who recovered himself first.

‘Atarinya,’ he said, coming forward and placing a hand on Elrond’s bowed back. ‘The Lady Gilraen is here to see her child.’

For a moment there was no response, and Elrohir wondered whether his father had swooned, overcome with the effort that must have been exacted in banishing the fever. Then Elrond raised his head and released his hold on Estel. He used his hands to push himself up and back onto his heels. They fell limply into his lap and he stared down at the curled fingers, his hair falling forward to cover his face.

‘He has been spared, lady,’ he said hoarsely, his voice flat and weary. ‘He will not die this day.’

Gilraen’s arrested flight resumed itself. She climbed onto the bed and leaned forward over her child, caressing his face and weeping as she breathed his name. Estel stirred a little as her voice touched him in the realm of slumber, and a tearful laugh broke forth from her lips. Her pledge to thank her son’s healers seemed forgotten, but her desperate joy brightened the whole room.

Elladan crouched by his father, trying to meet his eyes. ‘Atarinya?’ he said, reaching out and sweeping back the curtain of black hair.

Elrond looked at his son, eyes shining with tears and gratitude. ‘He will live,’ he sighed.

A band of pain tightened about Elrohir’s heart. Centuries had passed since he had last seen his sire so careworn. The fair Elven face was taut with weariness, grey-hued with exhaustion. His lips were pale and quavered as he spoke. Tear-tracks stained his cheeks and his eyes were red from weeping. Yet on his face there was joy instead of sorrow, and thankfulness instead of bitter despair. The triumph was hard-won, but it was a triumph nonetheless.

Elrond tried to rise, but his legs would not hold him. Elladan bent swiftly and caught his shoulders before he could fall. Elrohir stepped forward and between the two of them the warriors raised their father to his feet.

‘Let us go,’ Elrond murmured, leaning heavily upon the arms of his sons. ‘Leave the lady for a while with her child.’

There was a tiny cry from the bed, and Gilraen rose in haste. She came around the bed and flung herself at the Elf-lord’s feet. ‘You saved him!’ she cried. ‘You have saved my son; again you have saved my son. Forgive me! Forgive my selfishness and my wicked ingratitude! Forgive me, my lord! You have saved my child...’ She wrested Elrond’s hand from Elrohir and kissed it, first the back and then the palm, apparently oblivious to the way that the object of her gratitude had to shift his full weight against Elladan in order to remain upright.

Elrond slipped his fingers away from hers and raised her bowed head. As if at his will, Gilraen rose to her feet, eyes fixed upon his. ‘Lady, do not prostrate yourself before me,’ he entreated as graciously as his unsteady voice would allow. ‘I love your son dearly, and what was done here today was a small price for his life. Stay with him awhile. When he wakes send someone to fetch me, but for now I must rest.’

Then he leaned forward and kissed her gently, just to the left of her nose upon her proud Númenorean cheekbone, and he nodded to Elladan, who helped him around the astounded woman towards the door.

Elrohir took Gilraen’s arm and led her back to the bed, where she sat and rested her hand upon Estel’s abdomen where the beating of his heart thrummed through the thick artery towards legs that would once more run in the hills. ‘Stay with him,’ he said. ‘Erestor will be outside, and I will return as soon as I may.’

Gilraen nodded, but she was once more transfixed by the sight of her sleeping son and she did not reply.

Elrohir left her, hurrying to the doorway where his brother was just helping their sire into the anteroom. At the sight of his lord's haggard countenance, Erestor rose with a soft cry of pain, but Elrond attempted to assuage him with a weary waving of his hand. ‘I am but weary,’ he said. ‘I must rest...’

Elrohir resumed his place at his father’s side and they moved out into the corridor. The Elf-lord’s whole body now shook with enervation, and without needing to confer with one another the twins turned towards the nearest suite of rooms: that which belonged to their absent sister.

They moved with excruciating slowness through her anteroom, and past the door that led to her solar where her books and her harp and her little loom stood idle, awaiting a mistress stranded on the far side of the Hithaiglir. The rooms were kept fresh and tended against the day when the passage of the mountains might once again be deemed safe, and the Lady of Imladris might return.

Elrond did not seem to understand his surroundings, for his head was heavy now, and he leaned with more desperation upon the supporting arms that held him. They reached the bedchamber at last, and the twins eased their father onto his daughter’s vacant bed, where he sat as docile as a child while they loosened his outer garments and removed his shoes. When at last he was clad only in his smock, Elrohir pulled back the bedclothes and Elladan eased the exhausted Peredhil back onto the cushions. They drew the covers over him, and Elladan once again brushed his hair away from his face.

They thought at first that he was already insensate, but his keen eyes focused for a moment and seized upon Elrohir. ‘You are to wake me at once,’ he said, imperious even through the veil of fatigue; ‘when Estel regains consciousness. He is in need of much care still. It will be a long and miserable convalescence.’

‘I promise,’ Elrohir said, nodding firmly.

‘Good,’ breathed Elrond. ‘Now I must sleep...’ And as his sons watched he slipped at once into the heavy slumber of mortals, such as the Halfelven at times required. Exchanging a communicative glance, the twin brothers withdrew from the room.

Lar

Estel did not regain consciousness while his foster-father slept. The child slumbered until the shadows were long in the garden and the light of the setting Sun was red in the Valley. Elrond had arisen of his own accord, and bathed, and taken a little food in his anteroom in the interim, and when the child stirred his guardian was seated by the bedchamber window, once more thrown open, watching the boy and his mother as they slept in his bed.

A soft cooing sound alerted the watcher that his charge was awake, and he was at the bedside in an instant. Estel’s eyes opened slowly, for they were crusted closed with the salt of sweat, and he blinked in the warm evening light. His gaze fell upon his mother’s head where it rested against his shoulder and he tried to lift his left hand to touch her, but he was too weak: the arm fell back against the mattress.

‘Ah... an...’ he exhaled, his dry lips and ravaged vocal cords refusing to obey him as they ought. Elrond stroked the side of the child’s face tenderly while with his other hand he reached for the vessel of water that stood at the ready on the little table by the bed.

‘Do not try to speak, Estel,’ he said gently, smiling sadly as the boy turned his eyes towards him. ‘You have been perilously ill, and you have a lengthy recovery before you. Are you thirsty?’

The child nodded mutely, staring once more at his mother’s sleeping form. Elrond shifted his position so that he was parallel to the child instead of facing him. With one arm he drew Estel out from beneath his mother and held him in a semi-prone position, supporting the dark head against his arm. With the other hand, he held the cup to his son’s mouth. The water lapped against the cracked lips, and Estel sucked greedily at the cool fluid. After a moment Elrond took the cup away.

‘Slowly,’ he coached. ‘You do not wish to make yourself ill.’ Presently he offered the cup again, and this time Estel drank with greater moderation. When the vessel was withdrawn again, the child’s muscles released and he fell limp in Elrond’s arms. He licked his lips and let out a tiny cough.

‘A-arinya,’ he croaked. ‘Atarinya... why...’

He could not finish his sentence, but his finger twitched towards his mother. Elrond smiled as he adjusted his hold on the boy.

‘I might have known the first words from your mouth would be a question,’ he said fondly. ‘Your mother sleeps because she is weary. You have lain ill for many days – do you remember?’

‘Spots,’ Estel said, raising one arm a little to point at a fading red blemish on the other. ‘And m-my throat...’

‘That is correct,’ said Elrond. ‘On the day after your throat began to pain you, your fever grew terrible. In the night you sunk into a delirium. Today is the seventh day since you first fell ill.’

Estel made a soft sound of assent but did not reply. Elrond offered him the water again, and he swallowed a little. Carefully the Elf-lord drew the child into his lap and embraced him. ‘I am glad that you have returned to us, Estel,’ he said. ‘I was sorely afraid that you would not.’

He rested his cheek on the crown of the boy’s head and rocked gently to and fro. Had he been restored to his full vigour, the child might have thought this an indignity too great for his ten venerable years. Now he was weak, his body and his spirit ravaged by the wicked illness, and he ached for the comfort as much as his foster-father. He raised one hand to caress Elrond’s arm.

Neither noticed the Lady Gilraen rise from her slumber until she spoke. ‘Estel!’ she exclaimed in an anxious whisper. ‘You have wakened at last!’

The boy turned his head and held out his hand. ‘Mama,’ he said, reverting to the name of his babyhood. Gilraen clasped his hand in both her own, tears shining in her eyes.

‘Here, lady, move to the chair,’ Elrond instructed, plucking up the comforter and wrapping it around Estel. ‘He can sit with you while I make arrangements for a warm bath and fresh linens. You would like both, I think, Estel.’

The boy nodded placidly and allowed himself to be settled in his mother’s lap. He was quickly growing too tall to be held thus, but after the ravages of his illness he was lighter to bear than he had been, and Gilraen in her joy would have carried him across Eriador. Elrond cast about for a low stool, and he knelt, lifting the lady’s feet and slipping the support beneath them. When he rose, Gilraen was watching him, a curious expression in her eyes.

‘You are very kind,’ she whispered, as if this had never struck her before. ‘You are very kind to both of us.’

Elrond smiled sadly. ‘I have always tried to be, lady,’ he answered.

For a moment she seemed to struggle. Then she found her voice and forced her lips to move. ‘I have behaved poorly,’ she said. ‘I have never expressed my gratitude, nor made any effort to show it. Your sons rescued us from death, and you have given us shelter and peace. You have given my son love and affection, and you have seen to his education. Now, you have once again saved his life. Thank you.’

‘There is no need to thank me. I have done what I must, and my rewards are manifold. He is a fine child, and he will grow to be a great man. That is repayment enough for my labours on his behalf.’

Gilraen did not speak, but bowed her head to look at Estel, who was dozing against her shoulder. Elrond stepped back and moved towards the door, wondering from whence this new humility had come, and what it meant. As ever he did not understand Dirhael’s daughter, but he hoped that this might mean an end to the hostility she had previously shown: Estel was growing old enough to be fully aware of such things, and it pained him to see those two people he loved best at odds with one another.

Elrohir was waiting without, while Elladan was downstairs presiding over supper and seeing to the guests. Elrond gave swift instructions, and his son hastened off to fetch the needed articles.

In the space of an hour, the bed linen was changed and Estel was bathed and clad in clean nightclothes. A salve of beeswax and mountain mint was applied to his sore lips, and the blemishes on his skin were rubbed with sweet oil to aid in their healing. He took more water, and even half a cup of dilute milk, and he spoke a little with his mother and his guardian. Then Gilraen left to wash herself and change into fresh things, and Elrond remained with the invalid, singing until Estel sank once more into peaceful slumber.

When Gilraen returned with a loose robe over her shift, Elrond rose from the bed. ‘You will sleep here with him tonight, I trust?’ he asked.

Once again she seemed to want to make some cold retort, but she curbed her tongue. ‘If I may,’ she said.

‘I think it would be best. I do not want him left alone so soon,’ Elrond said. ‘I will be just beyond the door if you have need of me. Sleep well, lady.’

He slipped from the room, while behind him the Lady Gilraen removed her robe and climbed into the bed next to her son. She murmured softly to him, though he was too deep in sleep to hear her, as the door closed gently.

By this time weariness was once again snapping at the Elf-lord’s heels. He plucked up a cushion that had fallen from an armchair at some time during the evening’s activities, and set it on one end of the low chaise by the bookshelves. He eased himself down upon the piece of furniture, stretching out his long legs and exhaling wearily. Once again, mortal slumber sang her siren song, and he was just about to slip away when there came a soft rapping on the outside door.

A concerted effort brought Elrond back to his feet and he peered out into the corridor. Gandalf was standing there, his eyebrows casting strange shadows in the light of the wall sconces. ‘We must speak,’ he said.

‘I know,’ said Elrond; ‘but not tonight.’

‘The visions that plagued the boy – we must discuss their ramifications.’

‘I know,’ Elrond repeated, more firmly. ‘But not tonight. You and your treasure-hunters will tarry here for a few days more, surely?’

‘I think I would have a rebellion on my hands if I tried to lead them into the mountains so soon,’ Gandalf chuckled. ‘They seem quite taken with the luxuries of your house.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Elrond assured him. ‘That will give us time, then, to discuss what happened this morning at some time that is not the present.’

‘There are other matters to address,’ Gandalf warned. ‘And the sooner we come to a consensus regarding them, the sooner word may be sent to Lórien and Isengard.’

Elrond’s mouth tightened. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, abruptly pragmatic. Sleep beckoned, but there were more important labours at hand -- labours he had neglected in favour of Estel. ‘I had forgotten. We can use the private library: there are maps there, and we will not be disturbed. Give me but a few minutes to speak to the child’s mother and to fetch someone else to wait here...’

Gandalf raised his hand. ‘Peace, Peredhil,’ he said. ‘One more day will scarcely mean the difference between victory and defeat. Rest and attend to your patient. You have not recovered your accustomed vigour, and I would prefer a well-rested counsellor.’

Elrond chuckled softly. ‘I am not crippled,’ he said ruefully.

‘No, you are weary. Rest tonight. Tomorrow I will work you like a dray-horse.’ The wizard’s eyes sparked with amusement as he turned to stride away down the corridor.