Chapter XV: Sacrifices of Motherhood

It pleased Gilraen that Estel was passing so much of his time in the company of Elladan and Elrohir. Her gladness sprung not only from her pleasure in seeing the tedium of recovery eased by their attentions, but also from her deep abiding affection for the twin Elf-lords. She had always been fond of the sons of Elrond, for they had been dear friends to Arathorn and had often travelled with him. They had even come out of the Wild to dance at their comrade’s wedding. They were good men – good Elves – and they had always treated her with deference and courtesy. To them mortals were more than an academic curiosity or an object of pity: they had ridden with the Dúnedain through many generations and they understood Gilraen’s people as few in the Valley could. Isolated as she was now from all that she had known, they were her only tie to her old life.

Elladan was the more formal and politic of the two, but his was the gracious charisma of a charming statesman: he was neither so lofty nor so remote as his sire. At times he could be extraordinarily witty. There was a melancholy cast to his spirit that surfaced at strange times, for his long life was not without its sorrows. For the most part, however, he made a pleasant companion.

Elrohir was kind and affable, with an easy humour not accompanied by the frivolous abandon of the wood-elves. He was quicker to anger than his brother, though Elladan was held to be no less fearsome when roused to rage and Arathorn had often said that the wrath of the sons of Elrond was fey and terrible to behold. Though she had heard many accounts of their fierceness in battle Gilraen had never seen this side of the brothers; in her presence both were always gentle and considerate, and Elrohir most of all. She considered him a very dear friend – perhaps her dearest now, in this place of exile far from her girlhood companions and the wise women who had coached her through the trials of her life, maid, bride and mother alike.

It soothed her heart to see these two interact with her son. Estel worshiped them, and had done so since that night when they had descended upon the cottage to bear him away to safety, but in the past they had taken little notice of him during their brief sojourns in the Valley. Days ago, when Estel had been teetering on the threshold of death, Gilraen dimly remembered asking Elrohir if he loved her son. The Peredhil had seemed shocked by his inability to answer in a strong affirmative. She wondered if this sudden interest in Estel’s recovery had been prompted to some degree by this encounter.

Whatever the cause she was glad of the result. Estel’s face lit up in a radiant smile whenever the sons of Elrond drew near, and under their watchful eyes he was becoming more active again, rebuilding his shattered stamina. At this rate it would not be long before he was well again. He was sleeping now, curled on his side with one hand on the pillow beside his thin face. In the flickering light that filtered through the door from the anteroom fire, Gilraen watched him silently for a moment, drinking in his peaceful expression and the soft sound of his restful breathing. A smile visited her lips – a rare occurrence except when she did it for Estel’s benefit. Short days ago she had thought that she would never again stand this way, watching over her sleeping son.

Fearful she would wake him if she lingered longer, Gilraen turned from the bed and moved quietly into the other room. She banked the fire with care and drew the curtains over the open windows. A huff of breath snuffed the lone candle by which she had been reading, and she was about to retire to her own bedchamber when she heard a sharp intake of breath. She paused, but when no further sound came she opened her door, for surely she had imagined the noise.

She unlaced her kirtle and removed it with care, draping it over the back of her chair. She doffed her slippers and her stockings, and then loosed her plaits from their coronet and began to unbraid them. She shook out her wavy hair and picked up her soft-bristled brush. When she was finished smoothing her tresses she bound them in a single thick, loose plait. Her bed was cool and smelled of sunshine and lavender... but it was empty. Empty as it would always remain: a widow’s tomb disguised in fine linen and covered with a coverlet of Elven workmanship.

Restless now she rose, and went to the narrow casement that looked out over the Valley. Beyond those hills, where the mountains shrank to rolling plains, dwelt still the remnant of her people. It was nearly summer, and the fields would be gravid with wheat. The women tended the farmland, for the men had labours of their own, safeguarding ignorant strangers from the dangers of the world. In the heat of the day her one-time fellows would walk the rows of produce, hoeing away the weeds and laughing together. In the cool evenings there would be singing and dancing on the village green. The little children would fall asleep in the fragrant grass, and the older ones would beg to be allowed to stay out just a little longer. She thought of the dear little babies, and the happy young striplings – distant cousins that Estel would never know, until he and they together went into the bitter labours of their people. Her son had been robbed of his birthright. A childhood that might have been was lost, and in its place there was this vast house of lore, and a father that was not his own, and a people who could never understand him.

With a wistful sigh Gilraen turned her back on the starlit vista and slipped into the sitting-room. She would go into Estel’s room and sit awhile, taking solace in his peaceful slumber. She could find none of her own.

When she reached Estel’s room, she discovered to her horror that his bed was empty.

The starlight filtering between the curtains revealed little to her human eyes, but she could see the empty pillow and the indentation where his head had been resting only a little while before. She took two long steps forward and felt out in the gloom, hoping that her hands would find him elsewhere in the bedclothes, but her efforts were fruitless. He was gone.

‘Estel?’ she called softly. She had not heard him moving about, nor had he left the room or she would have seen him from her chamber.

There was a soft sound behind her: a ragged exhalation. She turned, squinting in an attempt to see her son. There was a glint of something in the corner behind the door, and Gilraen knelt down. Estel was pressed against the wall, huddled in the darkness with his knees drawn up to his chest. When she put out her hand to caress his arm, he buried his head against his legs.

‘What is it, my darling? What’s wrong?’ Gilraen asked softly, plucking at a sweat-dampened tendril of hair.

‘Nothing, Mama,’ Estel whispered, but his voice was unsteady and he was trembling beneath her hands. ‘I’m sorry: I did not mean to wake you.’

‘I’ve not gone to bed yet,’ she said. His use of the name he had called her when only a baby brought tears to her eyes. He only called her mama when he was hurt or frightened or vulnerable. ‘Tell me what is wrong. You’re shaking.’

‘It is nothing,’ he repeated. ‘Just a dream. A foolish dream. I can bear it by myself.’ He sounded as if he was trying to convince someone that his words were true, and Gilraen did not think she was the object of his effort.

‘Another dream?’ she asked unhappily. She did not understand why her son was plagued thus. He had never before suffered from nightmares – at least no more than any other small child. These recent apparitions were different from his childhood dreams of imagined perils: there was something far more vivid, far more ghastly about them. Master Elrond seemed to think that it was a consequence of his illness, but he had not seen fit to discuss the matter with her, nor had she worked up the audacity to ask him. Seeing her brave and spirited child brought low by some torment of the mind was a terrible thing.

‘I can bear it,’ mumbled Estel, hugging himself more tightly and rocking a little against his bare feet. ‘I can bear it. I can bear it.’

‘I know you can,’ Gilraen said soothingly; ‘but you must come back to bed. You might so easily catch a chill.’

Estel said nothing, but he did not resist when she drew him to his feet and led him to the bed. Gilraen sat down on the edge of the mattress, and eased Estel down beside her. She curled an arm around him and pressed his head against her shoulder.

‘Do you want to tell me what you were dreaming of?’ she asked. ‘Sometimes it helps to talk about such things.’

‘I do not think it will help,’ Estel said, his voice low and tremulous. Gilraen stroked his cheek, expecting to find tear-tracks, but his face was dry. He had wakened in terror, and left his bed for the shelter of the door, but he had not wept. ‘It would only trouble your heart then as well as mine. I must learn how to control my fear. It is only a vision, a night terror.’

Gilraen sighed softly. ‘That is so,’ said she; ‘it is only a dream. But it is natural to be frightened. Dreams can be terrifying. I have often had nightmares that woke me in the darkness. No one will think any less of you for being afraid.’

‘I shall think less of me,’ Estel muttered. ‘I must learn how to cope by myself: I cannot always have you or Atarinya running to comfort me. I am not a little child any longer: I should not behave like one.’

There was a steely edge to his voice, and his jaw was set. Gilraen withdrew her arm and used it to stroke his tense hand. He could be so wilful when he wished to be; so stubborn. She wondered fleetingly how this characteristic would mount in future years.

‘I do not think you are behaving like a little child,’ she said. ‘I am proud of you: you have been working so hard to regain your strength and stamina, and you have shown great restraint over these last few days. You seem to be learning patience at last.’

Estel made a strange snorting sound; almost but not quite a laugh. ‘Must you tease me also, Mother?’ he asked.

‘It seems to please you when Glorfindel does it,’ Gilraen remarked.

‘Glorfindel is my friend,’ said Estel.

‘O, my love...’ Gilraen said softly. His words touched upon her own unhappy musings. She pressed her lips to the crown of his head and he leaned a little into her touch, accepting her comfort and perhaps sensing the ache in her heart. He had uncanny insight into the workings of her mind. ‘Tell me. Do you never wish you had companions your own age? Boys to play with and study with?’

Estel cocked his head up to look at her. He had very keen eyes and saw more in the dark than Gilraen ever could. ‘Boys?’ he echoed. ‘Mortal children? Like me?’

‘Yes,’ Gilraen whispered. She wished now that she had not spoken. She had never made a secret of her discontentment with Imladris, though she realized now that she should have. Bad enough that he should know she was not satisfied with her new life and her new home. To deliberately sow seeds of that unhappiness in her child was unforgivable.

‘Sometimes I wonder what other children are like,’ Estel reflected softly. ‘Whether they like to sit and read old annals, or if they sit by the river and watch the sunlight dance on the water. I wonder how well they can ride, and how fast they can run, and what sorts of songs they most enjoy. Did you know many children when you were young, Mother?’

‘A few,’ Gilraen told him. She smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid they were not much like you.’

‘How so?’ Estel asked, sounding suddenly anxious. Gilraen was startled by the note of insecurity in his voice. It had never occurred to her that her son, isolated as he was from his own kind, might be susceptible to the same insecurities as any other child. She considered her reply carefully before she spoke.

‘When I was a child I lived in a remote farming village. Do you remember the little cottage?’

‘I remember the chickens,’ Estel said pensively. ‘A black one and a brown one with a small white head.’

Gilraen smiled at the memory of her toddling baby chasing after the plump hens on his short, sturdy legs. ‘That’s right. There was always more than enough work to be done, and too few folk to do it. Children had to help tend the gardens and to chase crows out of the fields. The boys took the cows to pasture every day, and watched over them while they grazed. Though we learned how to read and write and cipher, there was never time for the sort of lore you are able to study. There were no ancient books to read, and there was little opportunity to watch the river or learn new tongues or do many of the things that you love to do. There was no Erestor to teach us, and no Master Elrond to order our lives or see to our education. I fear you would not have much in common with the children I knew: you are more thoughtful than them, and more learned. They were noisier than you, and more impulsive and less wise. You get into fewer scrapes than the boys I knew, too, and for that I’m thankful.’

‘I would not want to give up my books...’ Estel said softly.

‘I would not want you to,’ Gilraen told him. ‘I am glad that you have been given the opportunity to explore the fullness of your potential, instead of growing up labouring all day just to lay by food enough for the winter. You have had a better life here than you would have had in the place I was raised.’

‘Yet you wish we lived there still.’ She could see only a glimmer of Estel’s eyes, but it seemed as if they pierced her very heart. ‘You wish we lived with your old friends, and the other children, in that farming village somewhere in the Wild.’

‘I do not. Not truly. There are times when I miss my old home, and the people I knew and loved, but I am glad that we are here. In Rivendell you are safe, and happy, and free to grow up as you ought to. You have people who love you, even if they are not of your blood, and you have a fath...’ She could not say it. She knew it to be true, but to say it seemed like to denouncing Arathorn, and that she could not do. ‘And Master Elrond cares deeply for you,’ Gilraen said instead. She twisted a little to embrace Estel. ‘I count my old life cheap, for it has bought your future. You are more important to me than a hundred friends or a whole village full of other children.’

There was an interminable silence. ‘Mother?’ Estel said at last, his voice so low that he could scarcely be heard. ‘If I had died, would you have left Rivendell and gone back to your people?’

Her people. That was what they were, Gilraen realized. Not their people: hers alone. Though some day he might learn to love and understand the Dúnedain, and to lead them, he would always be a son of Elrond, a child of Rivendell. Estel’s folk were here: the Half-elven and the Noldor and the frolicsome wood-elves. Imladris was his world, the only home he knew. He belonged here. That was the price of his survival. That was the fate of the last Heir of Isildur. He was a mortal content in an immortal realm, and he would never be like Arathorn. He was destined for something higher and more strange... something far removed even from his mother. Even now she could see it, in his sombre eyes and in the tongue that could already speak of his own death with a philosophical detachment that wrenched her heart.

Estel was waiting for an answer. ‘My child, if you had died I should never wish to do anything more ever again,’ Gilraen said, her voice low and unsteady as she voiced the most fundamental truth of her being. ‘You are everything to me, Estel. You are all that I love and all that I treasure. You are all.’

Estel said nothing, but he got up on his knees and he embraced her, one hand clutching the back of her head as she had so often done to him.

‘I love you, Mother,’ he said. ‘I love you deeply.’ Then he kissed her gently to the right of her nose. ‘It is time to sleep now,’ he told her quietly. ‘I do not think I will dream again tonight.’

Gilraen remained by his side until slumber reclaimed him. She returned then to her own cold, empty bed, but she lay awake for hours, until the lark was singing in the beech trees and the rosy dawn was staining the sky. When at last she fell into an uneasy sleep her dreams were filled with darkness and loneliness, and the soft whispers of her long-dead husband.