Chapter VIII: Healing Draughts and History

Gilraen stood in the anteroom of Master Elrond’s chambers, her back to the wall beside the open bedroom door. Inside, the Lord of Imladris was examining Estel. He had not asked her to leave, but she had withdrawn nonetheless, for when he was about the business of a healer she always felt profoundly out of place. Unwilling to go far, she remained where she was, out of sight, and listened as the Lord of the Valley spoke with her son. 

‘Your lips look much improved today,’ Elrond was saying. He was speaking in the language of the Elves and his voice was light and pleasant. From its sound no one would have guessed that the child before him had been on the very brink of death two days before. ‘Do they feel any better?’

‘Much,’ said Estel, answering in the same tongue. He spoke Sindarin beautifully; far better than Gilraen could ever aspire to. Today, however, his words were hoarse and raspy, for he was still very weak. This morning he had managed to sit up for half an hour while he took some milk and porridge, but the effort had exhausted him and he had slept for two hours after that. It was not surprising: last night he had awakened twice in the throes of some terrible nightmare, and only Master Elrond had been able to soothe him. ‘I do not understand, Atarinya. What is wrong with me?’

‘Now very little,’ the Elf-lord assured him. ‘Once you regain your strength you will be quite as good as new.’

‘But what ailed me? I remember you said I had caught measles from the Dúnedain.’

He spoke of them as the Elves did, Gilraen thought with a pang of sorrow. They were his own people, and he was destined to be their lord, yet their ways were strange and even amusing to him. At least, she supposed, she should be thankful that he was able to have even occasional contact with them – thankful that Master Elrond allowed it despite the risks it bore.

‘It was not the measles,’ answered Elrond. ‘Nor was it scarlet fever. I do not know precisely what the illness might be called. It is sufficient to know that it brought with it a deadly fever and dark dreams, and that it is a wonder that you were not carried off by it. You are very fortunate, Estel.’

‘I do not feel fortunate,’ Estel said, a little crossly. ‘I am weary and I ache. When can I return to my own room?’

Gilraen had been wondering the same thing. Though it was a grand gesture on Elrond’s part to put the boy in his own bed – she supposed it was also a practical measure: the room was larger and more central, and the intense care her child had required had doubtless been easier here – she longed for life to return to normal. She wanted Estel back in his own bed, once more under her care.

‘Not yet,’ Elrond said sagely, and Gilraen gritted her teeth in frustration. What right had he to keep Estel from her? What had he to make such decisions without consulting her? What right—

Her promise resounded in her mind. She had vowed, in her moment of utter despair, that if the Master of Rivendell contrived to heal her son she would never again question him. True, a promise made in desperation and witnessed by no one was hardly a binding contract, but she felt honour-bound to uphold it nonetheless. Had she been more honest with herself she might have realized that there was a part of her, too, that was terrified to break it, as if she had made a pact with death and if she failed to uphold her end of the bargain Estel would be claimed by the darkness after all.

Elrond was still speaking, but the timbre of his voice had changed as if he had moved away from the bed. ‘I want your mother to sleep in her bed tonight, and I fear that if you awoke you would disturb her. She has been through a great trial these last days, and she must rest lest she, too, take ill. It will be better if you remain here a few days more.’

‘Oh,’ Estel said meekly, sounding rather ashamed. ‘I had not thought of that.’

It was apparent from Elrond’s voice when he answered that he was smiling his serene, gentle smile. At times, Gilraen found that particular expression infuriating: his quietude even in moments of crisis seemed a criticism upon those around him possessing less control. ‘It is only natural to think first of oneself,’ he said; ‘but we must strive always to overcome that impulse. The needs of those around us must come before our own desires. A noble man considers others first.’

‘I-I am sorry,’ whispered Estel. He sounded on the verge of tears, and it was all that Gilraen could do to keep from bursting into the room to berate the Elf-lord for making her child cry. ‘I love my mother, I promise that I do.’

‘I know that well,’ said Elrond, and his voice was kind; ‘and I know you want what is best for her. It is simply that you have not yet learned how to see it. This time, I have pointed it out for you. Next time you will see it for yourself. And at last you will not even have to consider the question: the answer will come to you of its own accord. It is a part of growing up.’

There was a small sniffle, and Estel cleared his throat. ‘I’ll see it next time,’ he pledged.

‘It will be easier, too, when you are not so weak and weary.’ These words did much to mollify Gilraen: at least the half-Elf was not placing blame. ‘Here, drink this.’

‘What is it?’ Estel asked immediately.

‘Taste it and tell me,’ instructed Elrond.

Estel was silent for a moment, during which Gilraen supposed he took the draught. ‘Spring wine,’ he said at last; ‘and honey. Cinnamon and a distillation of willow bark washed with oil of vitriol – that is for the aches, is it not?’

‘Verily,’ Elrond said. ‘What else?’

‘I can taste... rosemary. Why rosemary?’

‘It, too, is helpful for the aches, and it will settle your stomach,’ Elrond answered. He had returned to his position on the edge of the bed: his voice was clear once again.

‘I had not complained about my stomach,’ Estel said, sounding a little affronted. ‘How did you know?’

‘I would be a poor healer if I treated only the symptoms severe enough to garner a complaint,’ Elrond answered. ‘I saw how you were pressing your fingers to your wrist as I had taught you. You felt nauseated.’ There was a sound as he plumped up the cushions. ‘Tell me what else you taste.’

‘Something sweet...’

‘The honey, perhaps?’ teased the Elf-lord.

‘No, no,’ said Estel. ‘It’s... it’s...’ He made a soft smacking sound with his lips. ‘It’s dragon’s wort!’ he exclaimed, laughing a little.

‘Well done!’ Elrond applauded. ‘Do you know why I added that?’

‘It will help...’ Estel paused, wracking his brain. ‘It will ease my weariness, I think...’ he ventured.

‘Very good! I am pleased to see that our lessons in herb-lore have not been wasted. Since you have divined the secrets of my draught I suppose I shall have to—’

‘Ah-ah!’ Estel said. Gilraen imagined him expending the energy necessary to wag a finger at his guardian. ‘There’s something else in it. It tastes bitter... but it’s very faint. Not much was used.’

Elrond laughed softly. ‘You are not so easily fooled,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it is, then.’

‘I do not know,’ Estel said. ‘I haven’t tasted it before, I think.’

‘I should think not,’ the Elf-lord told him. ‘It’s nightshade.’

‘But nightshade is poisonous!’ the child exclaimed delightedly even as Gilraen’s pulse quickened. Was the Master mad, feeding toxic herbs to her son?

‘That is true,’ said Elrond; ‘but in small quantities it may ease pain and soothe the stomach. More importantly, it will ward against any return of the fever.’

‘You fear the fever might return?’ asked Estel.

‘I do not think so, but it pays to be cautious. You frightened us all: we could not bear to lose you.’

‘I am not dead yet,’ Estel said stoutly. ‘I intend to stay that way.’

‘Perhaps that is why you are mending so well,’ said Elrond. ‘You are too stubborn to sicken.’

Gilraen could hear him moving about the room, but when he spoke again his voice still came from the area near the bed. ‘Now let me listen to your heart, and then we can recall your mother.’

‘Atarinya, were you truly frightened?’ Estel asked after a moment.

‘I cannot listen while you talk, Estel. Be silent for a moment.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘Yes,’ said Elrond at last, gravely. ‘I was very frightened. I was filled with terror. I love you and I do not wish to lose you.’

‘I have never known you to be afraid,’ Estel said in a small voice. ‘I must have been very ill indeed.’

‘You were,’ his guardian said soberly. ‘But now you are well and you are healing. You will be strong again, and next time you will not fall prey to sickness so easily.’

‘You healed me,’ Estel said.

‘I and Gandalf the Grey, yes,’ said Elrond. ‘When you are stronger perhaps you can thank him.’

‘How did you do it?’

‘There are other skills than herb-lore,’ the Elf-lord said, nicely skirting around the question. ‘In a year or two, perhaps, you will be ready to learn them, if you show aptitude for the healing arts.’

‘Then Second-born can learn them, too?’ asked Estel.

‘A good number of the skills I use can be learned by you,’ promised Elrond. ‘If you have the gift, you can do many wondrous things.’ He sighed a little. ‘For now, however, I need you to rest. If you do not wish to sleep, perhaps your mother might read to you.’

‘Could you read to me?’ asked the child.

‘Not now,’ Elrond said regretfully. ‘I have other business to attend to.’

‘B-but...’ Suddenly Estel sounded frail and frightened.

‘I shall return shortly,’ the Elf-lord pledged. ‘If you need me, have your mother send the sentry. I will come at once if you have need.’

‘Thank you, Atarinya,’ Estel said softly.

‘There is no need of thanks, my child. Now promise me you will rest. You must recover your strength.’

‘I promise,’ Estel said.

‘Very well.’ A moment later Elrond stepped into the antechamber. ‘Lady, if you would...’ he said.

Gilraen flushed, ashamed to be caught eavesdropping. ‘You knew...’

‘I did not hear the outer door open or close, and your breathing is clearly audible to my ears. I knew. I hope you did not hear anything that was to your disliking.’

She looked for mockery in his grey eyes but saw none. Her desire to be curt and cold was thwarted by the memory of her desperate oath. ‘No, my lord,’ she said. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

He made no reply, but nodded sombrely and was gone. Gilraen smoothed her kirtle and entered the bedroom, where Estel lay propped up amid the cushions.

‘Hello, Mother,’ he said, his worn little face lighting up with a sudden smile. For her benefit, he reverted to Westron. ‘Atar said you might read to me.’ He caught himself and said politely, ‘If you wish to.’

Gilraen smiled in return. It seemed the Elf-lord’s gentle lecture in selflessness had made an impression upon Estel. However she might privately resent Elrond Halfelven, he cared genuinely for her son's emotional growth as well as his physical health, and for that surely he deserved at least her respect. ‘I would love to,’ she said.

lar

A cursory search of the private library failed to produce any signs of Gandalf. He was not in his chamber, either, and Elrond descended to the main floor of the house. He met Erestor at the foot of the stairs.

His counsellor greeted him with a faint smile. ‘Is Estel well?’ he asked.

‘He is recovering,’ replied Elrond. ‘He is awake now, answering questions and providing commentaries on my medicines. In as much as I can judge, his faculties have not been impaired by his illness. I was concerned: high fevers in mortals are dangerous to the mind. Fortunately, those fears seem unfounded.’

‘That is glad news. He has a fine mind, ever eager for knowledge.’ Erestor’s face relaxed out of its lines of concern. ‘If you seek Mithrandir you will not find him today. He has ridden forth with your son to scout the paths leading up to the High Pass.’

‘Which son?’ asked Elrond.

‘Elrohir, of course. Elladan is much occupied entertaining the dwarf-lord. He seems to possess boundless patience for tales of treasure-vaults and boasts of sure victory.’ Erestor wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. ‘Dwarves and their gold,’ he said in disdain.

‘We shall see,’ Elrond said, tempering his answer as befitted a gracious host. ‘Gandalf has high hopes for them.’

‘My hopes are not so lofty,’ Erestor said. ‘One of their number asked to be shown our library. When I obliged him I was shocked to note that he had seen fit to bring his pipe with him. He seemed quite astonished when I intimated that smoking among the books is not permitted.’

‘Is he still there?’ Elrond asked. Erestor nodded. ‘I will go and have a word with the errant dwarf. We must find some way to make his stay a pleasant one.’ Before the lore-master could speak, Elrond held up his hand and said reassuringly; ‘Fear not. I will not permit him to smoke in your library.’

The main library stood in the southern corner of the house. Broad windows overlooked a vast pleasure-garden, into which the readers might wander at their leisure. Unlike the private one upstairs, this library was never locked, and all were welcome within. It held a vast selection of books, both common and unique, in the languages of Men and Elves in present and in ancient times. It was a great source of pride for Erestor, who with his assistants kept it orderly and well-preserved. There were tables for study and comfortable chairs and couches for reading. In one corner there was a rug and cushions, a memory of a time when the Last Homely House had been overrun with children.

Elrond found the guest near the wall of windows, sitting in an armchair with his furry feet propped up on a stool. A cursory glance revealed that it was no dwarf, but the hobbit, Mr Baggins. He had found a volume of history written in Westron, and seemed deeply absorbed in his reading. The offending pipe lay with its pouch of pipe-weed upon the little round table at his elbow, next to a cup of tea long gone cold.

Elrond approached quietly and sat down upon the edge of a low sofa nearby, watching the hobbit with interest. He had a round face that looked as if it had been a good deal rounder a few short weeks before. The hair on his head and on his feet was luxuriant and curling, and his curious clothes were clean and neatly mended by skilled Elven fingers. His tongue was poking between his lips and his brow was furrowed in concentration as he read, eyes skimming swiftly across the paper over and over again. When he paused to turn the page, he noticed his watcher and sat up with a startled, ‘Oh!’

The Elf-lord smiled. ‘Forgive me,’ he said; ‘I did not mean to interrupt.’

‘Think nothing of it!’ the hobbit squeaked. He pulled his feet off of the stool as if he felt they did not belong there, and they dangled several inches above the floor. ‘How long have you been sitting there?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t hear you come in: you Elves certainly do seem to have a way of moving quietly about. You’re even quieter than hobbit-folk, and that’s saying something. Though I suppose after spending all this time with the dwarves I’m used to more noise: they make such a racket tramping about, you know.’ He halted, and his eyes widened as he recognized his host. ‘You’re the Lord of the Valley, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Elrond. I suppose you’ve come to lecture me about smoking,’ he added sheepishly. ‘That other Elf didn’t seem to approve at all. I suppose Elves think it’s a silly habit.’

‘I fear Erestor certainly does,’ Elrond admitted. ‘I, however, came to see if there was some way you might enjoy your book and your pipe at the same time. You are my guest, after all, and I want your stay to be a pleasant one.’

‘It’s been very pleasant indeed, thank you!’ Master Baggins said enthusiastically. ‘You set a first-rate table: truly marvellous! All the music and the merriment, too... and the tales! I do believe that Elves like stories every bit as much as hobbits do. Your folk tell them so well, I was afraid I might not find any of them written down, but I did.’ He held up the book indicatively.

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Which portion are you reading?’ Elrond asked. The hobbit’s good cheer was infectious. It was a shame he could not be brought upstairs to bring some of it into the sick-room: Estel’s mood was not a glad one, however he might try to seem contented.

‘I’m reading about that battle that they sang about the night we arrived,’ the hobbit said. ‘Dagorlad. All these great heroes – Gil-galad and Elendil, and the Elven queen... oh, what’s her name...’ He looked back at the book, flipping the pages in search of the answer.

‘Galadriel,’ Elrond supplied.

‘Yes, that’s it. Galadriel. What happened to them all? I shouldn’t ask, I suppose, for I don’t want to spoil the ending, but tell me anyhow! I can’t bear the suspense.’

He was talking about the Last Alliance as if it were a simple story: a tale to while away a winter’s night. For a moment Elrond was affronted, but then he smiled. ‘If you insist,’ he said. ‘The Lady Galadriel yet lives: she reigns still in her forest of Lothlórien and—’

‘Oh, good! Don’t tell me any more!’ said Bilbo. ‘It’s nice to hear that someone lived through the war. It seems like such a dreadful thing.’

‘It was,’ said Elrond gravely; ‘but it brought about great good. It has given us many hundreds of years of peace.’ Peace, he thought bitterly, that appeared to be coming to an end. ‘Those of us who fought are not sorry that we did so.’

‘Those of us...’ Mister Baggins echoed. ‘Then you were there, too?’

Elrond nodded. ‘I was the herald of Gil-galad,’ he said simply. The whole truth was too grim and complex to pour out to a stranger at a chance-meeting in the library.

‘But I thought... that is, the way Gandalf spoke... he made it sound as if you weren’t an Elf at all.’

A smile played upon Elrond’s lips. ‘Do I look like an Elf?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes... but he called you an Elf-friend.’ Bilbo’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.

‘It is true I am an Elf-friend, but I am also an Elf. I am of mixed parentage, as Gandalf may have mentioned. I have both mortal and immortal blood in my veins, but my life is the life of the Eldar, and the span of my days is not bound by the limits of Men. I am called the Halfelven.’ There was no point complicating matters by discussing the divine blood that mingled with that of Elves and Men: it was likely that the hobbit knew nothing of Thingol and Melian or their wondrous offspring.

‘That’s marvellous!’ Bilbo exclaimed. ‘Gandalf did say something about heroes and Elf-lords of old. I wondered if maybe King Elendil was your ancestor, but I suppose if you marched with him he mustn’t have been.’

‘He was not,’ Elrond confirmed; ‘but we were distant kin. Not all the Half-elven chose the life of the Elves. My brother was a king of Men, and Elendil was descended from him.’

‘Fascinating!’ the hobbit said. ‘You must tell me all about it. I’m very interested in genealogy, you know. Hobbits are as a rule, but I like to think my study of the subject goes beyond the average.’

‘I would like very much to do that some day,’ Elrond said earnestly. ‘For now, I fear, I will have to delay that pleasure. But at least we can settle the question of your pipe.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Mister Baggins said, glancing down at the implement. ‘I don’t really need it, you know. It’s just that a pleasant read and a pleasant smoke go so well together.’

‘If you were to take both out into the garden, you could certainly enjoy them together,’ Elrond suggested.

‘But what about this book?’ Bilbo asked, indicating the volume he had been reading. ‘Won’t my smoke spoil it, too?’

‘In the open air, I think not,’ said Elrond. Erestor would doubtless disagree, but as Elrond had been reminded time and again in recent days, courtesy sometimes had its price. ‘There are no armchairs out there, but you might sit beneath a tree: I find them to be lovely company while reading.’

‘That’s a very pleasant suggestion,’ Bilbo told him. ‘I’m in your debt, sir.’

‘You may call me Elrond,’ said the Elf-lord; ‘and my reward is knowing that my guest is content.’

‘I think Elves make hosts quite as well as hobbits do,’ Bilbo said thoughtfully, and from his tone Elrond could tell this was the highest praise he could think of. ‘Good day to you, Elrond.’

‘And good day to you, Master Baggins,’ he said.

Bilbo gathered up his pipe and his pouch, and hopped off of the chair. Elrond moved to hold open the door that led to the garden. The hobbit did not have to travel far before he found a tree to his liking, and he sat down with his back to it. Elrond watched from the window as he packed and lit his pipe, then picked up the book and resumed his reading, absent-mindedly blowing puffs of smoke from his mouth. Satisfied that his guest had an enjoyable afternoon ahead of him, the Lord of Imladris turned and made his way back into the main body of the house.