Chapter XXI: Deception

Since her counsels with Elrohir and Elladan, Gilraen seemed somewhat more serene. The sorrow in her eyes would never abate, but Elrond had seen no further sign that she would crack under the lodestone of grief that she bore, nor had Estel, when questioned, voiced any unusual concerns for his mother’s wellbeing. For a time, it seemed, the storm was held at bay.

A week had passed since the departure of the sons of Elrond when the Lord of the Valley decided that Estel was well enough to take meals in the great dining hall. While Gilraen for the most part preferred to dine quietly upstairs, the cheerful and gregarious child that Estel had been before his illness had always enjoyed the company of the household. Now that his merriment was tempered with melancholy, Elrond hoped that the return to old pleasures would help speed the healing of his spirit.

His hopes seemed well-founded when Estel joined the assembly that evening. He had taken great pleasure in donning bright garments perhaps a little too fine for so ordinary a day, and his mother had dressed his hair with a silver cord. Entering the hall, he tarried briefly among the lesser tables, exchanging glad greetings with those among the folk of Imladris with whom he was closely acquainted: friends and teacher and attendants. Then he came to the high table and bowed courteously to Elrond and to Glorfindel. He carried himself with careful dignity, instead of his usual gangling grace, and as he straightened and smiled he looked liked some fair princeling of old.

‘Welcome to my table, Estel,’ the Elf-lord said fondly. ‘Too long have you been absent from it.’

‘Thank you, Atarinya,’ Estel replied politely. ‘It is good to return.’

Glorfindel’s lips twitched a little at this awkward attempt at courtly manners, and Elrond shot his counsellor a brief glance. There were lessons that Estel had yet to learn, but he did not need to be teased before the assembled house. Glorfindel, of course, did not need the warning. He loved his young charge well, and would never make any move to embarrass him.

‘Sit, dear friend, and cheer us with your company,’ he said with a radiant smile.

Estel turned that he might withdraw to the place he usually occupied when there were no guests to wonder at the mortal child honoured by such a high place: midway down the table on the lower side. Had the Lady of Imladris been present he would have sat across from the person three seats to her left, near enough to speak easily with her. But through all the years of his short life – and most likely for many more, while the mountains were glutted with evil things and the passes were unsafe – that chair beneath its damasked canopy had stood empty. The youngest living descendants of Lúthien Tinúviel, it seemed, were not fated to meet.

‘Not there,’ said Glorfindel, and Estel nodded obediently. His eyes moved towards the table second in precedence, where he sat at times when there were strangers in the valley, but Glorfindel reached out his arm and drew back the chair at his right hand. ‘Here. You are our honoured guest tonight, for we must celebrate your recovery.’

Astonished, Estel looked to Elrond with querying eyes. The Peredhil nodded. Flushed with pleasure at this unlooked-for privilege, Estel took the high seat. At first he seemed rather disconcerted by his surroundings, but then he fell to talking and seemed soon as at ease here as he was when he dined with his father in the privacy of the upstairs study.

It cheered Elrond’s heart to see the child so contented, with the haunted look in his eyes banished by mirth. Estel ate heartily, and laughed at Glorfindel’s animated conversation. As the meal progressed he grew more silent, but Elrond was occupied in a deep discussion with his counsellor and did not immediately notice the change. Not until the attendant came to clear away the plates did he look at his son, whereupon he realized that the boy was nodding on the very brink of sleep.

‘Estel,’ Elrond said softly, and the child stiffened into sudden alertness. The Elf-lord smiled. ‘Perhaps you have had too much excitement for one evening. Would you like to retire to bed?’

He was expecting some show of bravado, and an emphatic denial of the boy’s obvious weariness. Instead Estel nodded his head. ‘Yes, Atarinya. Yes, I think I would, please.’

‘Then you may go. Shall I come up and see you to sleep?’ Elrond offered.

There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘No, thank you. I can manage it.’

‘I will come and look in on you regardless, once the company has dispersed,’ promised the Elf-lord.

A flash of relief visited the child’s face. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered again as he slipped from his chair. He moved to the head of the table and planted a dutiful kiss upon his foster-father’s cheek. He bid goodnight to Glorfindel and then passed quietly from the hall, his soft-clad feet making little more noise than the toes of an Elf-child.

‘I expected him to argue,’ Glorfindel remarked, turning his attention back to his wine.

lar

Gilraen was sitting by the hearth in her small parlour when there came a knock at the door. A fire crackled at her feet, warding off the chill of the rain that had settled over the Valley. She did not look up from her knitting as she bade the visitor enter, for she knew there was but one person who would come here at this hour.

‘Good evening, lady,’ said Elrond softly, inclining his head in gracious greeting.

‘You may go in and see him,’ Gilraen said quietly. ‘I believe he is already fast asleep.’

The Elf-lord thanked her and moved into the little bedroom. Gilraen focussed on her wire-thin knitting pins and the delicate flaxen thread with which she worked. She knew what was transpiring on the other side of the wall, for she had witnessed the ritual in years past. Elrond would move silently and gracefully to the bed. He would stroke the shadowy hair where it lay in disarray upon the pillow, then bend to kiss the velvet brow. Beneath his touch, the crease of care above Estel’s left eye that Gilraen had not the power to remove would smooth away, and ageless lips would murmur a blessing in the High Tongue. Having reassured himself that the boy was well, the Peredhil would tarry for a moment before he withdrew...

And there he was, drawing the door quietly closed behind him.

‘He sleeps indeed, lady,’ he said, coming to stand near the fire. A gentle smile visited his lips. ‘He seemed quite happy to be among the company once again.’

‘He is a sociable child, and the enforced isolation was difficult for him,’ Gilraen said.

‘I know.’ There was a vacant look in Master Elrond’s grey eyes. When it passed he sighed, so softly that Gilraen knew she was not meant to have heard the exhalation. ‘Tell me, is he still suffering from nightmares?’

She looked up at last, surprised at the question. Ordinarily such an inquiry would have been made to Estel directly; yet another assumption of fraternal powers of the sort that had so infuriated her before she had vowed to make an effort to change her behaviour. ‘I do not believe so,’ she said. ‘All has been quiet for many nights.’

‘Are you certain?’ Elrond pressed. ‘I know he endeavours to be silent when they come, and in quiet movement he has considerable skill.’

‘Surely I would know if my child were stirring in the night,’ Gilraen said, frost filtering unintentionally into her voice. ‘I am but in the next room, and the wall between them is not so thick as all that. If you do not believe me, ask Estel.’

Elrond nodded, an expression of appeasement upon his ordinarily inscrutable face. ‘Thank you. I shall intrude no further upon your evening, dear lady. Good-night.’

‘Good-night,’ Gilraen echoed. The intruder withdrew, and after a few more rounds she laid aside her work. She was weary and wanted to retire, but before she did so she opened her son’s door. Estel was lying curled on his side, deep in slumber. Satisfied, Gilraen crept from his room. In the faint starlight filtering through the curtains her mortal eyes could not see that the line of care erased by Elrond’s touch had returned to his brow.

Lar

‘Estel!’

The sharp exclamation punctuated the habitual silence of the main library, and the dark head jerked up with a startled snort. Bleary eyes blinked thrice as they sought out the source of the noise. Erestor strode towards the table where the boy had been meant to be engaged with copy-work. With the Lord of the Valley occupied with preparations for his own journey it had fallen to Erestor to oversee all of Estel’s studies these last few days. In that time he had been cross, distracted, and belligerent, and now there was this. Stern eyes fixed upon the child, who squirmed uncomfortably as he realized what had happened.

‘What a fine mess you have made of your page,’ Erestor said with some irritation, picking up the spoiled piece of parchment. The dropped quill had stained it, and the writing was smudged where the child’s forehead had landed upon wet letters. The marks were mirrored on Estel’s brow. ‘Perhaps you should practice your tengwar on a wax tablet, if you are not ready for ink.’

Estel said nothing, though he did look properly disgraced. Erestor allowed his expression to soften marginally. ‘You have been warned about staying up too late listening to the singing,’ he said. ‘Mortal children require far more sleep than full-grown Elves.’

‘I know that,’ the boy said, still rather dazed.

‘Then why do you not exercise a little self-control and tear yourself away from the gathering?’ asked the lore-master.

‘I did,’ Estel protested, trying to hide a yawn behind his sleeve.

‘Not soon enough, it seems,’ Erestor chided. ‘You must remember that the Sun sets late at night this time of year: you should not tarry more than an hour after dusk.’

‘I was in bed before sundown.’

There was a defiant note to his voice that displeased Erestor. ‘Then perhaps you should not sit up so late reading,’ he suggested.

‘I did not: I went to sleep straight away,’ said Estel. There was something curious in his eyes now; something Erestor had never beheld in his pupil’s honest young face. There was a shadow of deception. He was hiding something.

The lore-master’s expression darkened. ‘It will not do to utter falsehoods,’ he said austerely. ‘I am not angry with you for your folly: you have only to own up to your error and promise to endeavour to do better in future. Yet I shall be wroth indeed if you lie to me.’

‘I am not lying,’ Estel said doggedly. ‘I did not stay out late, nor did I sit up reading.’

‘Then perhaps you can explain to me why you are so drowsy today?’

Only silence. Now the boy could not meet his eyes at all. ‘Estel, tell me the truth.’

‘It is the truth,’ the child muttered, staring down at the table.

‘Estel, do not lie to me. I can tolerate much from you, but this I shall not excuse. The first duty of any honourable person, Man or Elf, is to the truth. There is no greater shame than to perjure yourself with blatant falsehoods. Do not lie to me.’

He waited breathless. Surely the child would not persist: he had seen perfidious Second-born before, but Estel was a noble youth, nourished by the love and teachings of Elrond Peredhil himself. Surely he would recant and ask forgiveness.

‘I’m not lying!’ Estel cried, springing defiantly to his feet. ‘I’m not!’

The anger that those words ignited in his breast startled Erestor. For the boy to betray his upbringing and to shame himself and those who had instructed him in the finer points of morality over such a trivial thing... it was not to be borne. Disappointment and the nagging fear that his own teachings had somehow been lacking warred within the lore-master, but the reactionary emotion was stronger than both of these. Something of his thoughts must have shown in his eyes, for Estel stumbled backwards away from the table.

‘I am not lying,’ he repeated, but now his voice shook. ‘I would not do such a thing!’

‘Then tell me why you are so tired,’ Erestor demanded, keeping his voice carefully calm and level although his infinite patience was shattered and he wanted very much to shout at the child.

Estel said nothing. He stood there, trembling with the force of some emotion that in his own state of discomfiture the Elda could not read. His fists were balled at his sides, and his obdurate grey eyes were hard and desperate, and in them there was an unspoken plea for... something.

Erestor drew himself up to his full height. ‘Get out of my sight,’ he said tersely. ‘If you will not be honest with me, then you can seek your tutelage elsewhere. Go and see if they have work for you in the garden or the stables: I do not want deceitful children here.’

Estel’s mouth opened as if he wished to speak, but his lips quivered and no sound issued forth. The lore-master turned his back on the boy, his face a careful mask of disdain. Behind him he heard a hitch of breath, and then the sound of young feet pelting for the door and away down the corridor.

Erestor bowed his head and stood motionless for a moment, overcome with dismay. Then a wretched realization dawned on him. For any other transgression, his schooled disapproval would have been sufficient punishment, but this was a matter that fell outside his scope as a teacher and a counsellor. The boy’s dishonesty had to be addressed, for there was too great a danger of such wickedness becoming habit. With a sinking heart Erestor realized that he would have to tell Elrond that his beloved fosterling had cast aside his integrity over a little scolding. With what self-control he could Erestor gathered up the spoiled paper and set it aside so that he could cut away the unmarked pieces for future use. Then he slipped from the library in search of his lord. The deception that he had seen in Estel’s eyes seemed to bore into his heart as he walked, and bewilderment tormented him. Why had the child done it?

lar

Estel ran, hot tears of indignation and humiliation coursing down his cheeks. He pelted through the corridors, ignoring the startled cry as he almost collided with an elf-maiden carrying a basket full of candles, and ducked into the kitchens where preparations for the evening meal were already underway. Some of the neri called out to him in greeting or concern, but they too he disregarded. Through the scullery, into the cold-storage, and at last down the flight of steps that led to the vast wine-cellars of Imladris.

It was cool here, and quiet. In one of the vaulted stone rooms there was an alcove behind the large casks of new wine where Estel sometimes liked to sit when he needed time to himself. He went there now, drawing his legs to his chest and burying his head against his knees. The cold of the stone seeped through his garments and took away the heat of his exertion, but it could do nothing for the fires of shame that were consuming him.

The nightmares were getting worse. Before he had suffered only one in a day, and had even passed a night or two without any such apparition. Now once begun the dreams could not be stopped: each time his weary eyes drifted closed in the darkness there was some fresh horror to assail him. Images of death, sounds of torment, the smell of blood and suffering. The black waters that had swallowed Númenor, and the slaughter of the helpless men of Arnor. There were children run through with black blades as they slept in their beds, and captives who cried in torment in dungeons beneath the earth. He saw kinsmen cut each other down with the bright swords of Westernesse, and the bodies of the dead piled high in desolate marshes. Worst of all were the dreams of the creatures of terror and death that swept overland like swift-moving fog, and delved into his mind, freezing with horror all that was good and brave in his heart. And the dreams came, one after another, flooding the darkness whenever his weary eyes drifted closed. There was only one remedy once the cycle began, and that was to stave off sleep as best he could until the eastern sky grew rosy with the coming dawn. Then he might snatch one or two merciful hours’ rest before Mother came to wake him for the day.

So he walked in a haze of exhaustion through his daily routine, stealing slumber where he could. It was mortifying to appear so weak before the tireless residents of Rivendell: he had nearly fallen asleep at board three times since his first night back in the hall, and several times during a recounting of The Fall of Gil-galad in the Hall of Fire two evenings past. Yesterday Glorfindel had caught him in the stables, curled up like a field-mouse in the fresh straw, and though he had not been angry his jovial needling had made Estel’s innards squirm with shame. Twice, too, had Mother found him in bed in the middle of the day, trying to seize a meagre hour of sleep when he had thought she was walking in the gardens. But he was tired, so tired, and after the Sun set he could find little rest: there was only blood and darkness and despair.

He remembered how Atar had comforted him in the early days after his illness, and the thought brought a painful lump into his throat. How he longed in those bitter midnight hours to creep from his bed and seek out his father’s consolation. How his heart ached for the strong, reassuring arms and the gentle voice with the power to keep the terrors at bay! But there was another voice, now, that came out of the shadows whenever that desire seized him. It was a hissing voice, cruel and unlike any previous construct of his mind, that derided him for his weakness and filled him with shame. It whispered that he was weak, and craven, and that if he sought out his father then Atar would think him a coward and a worthless knave undeserving of pity or comfort. Estel was afraid now: he could not go to his mother, for she would weep to know the visions that tormented him, and he could not go to his father, for he could not bear the rejection that the hateful voice threatened.

He had wanted desperately to explain to Master Erestor, too, but the whisperings in his heart had given him pause, and in that hesitation the lore-master had leapt to a conclusion that shocked Estel and humiliated him almost more than the confession of his weakness would have done. That Erestor thought him capable of lying filled Estel with shame and horror. Helpless in his aghast astonishment, he had been unable to defend himself or to gather his resolve and confess his misery. So he had fled. It seemed he was a coward after all.

The tears ran dry, leaving a worn-out shell where once there had been a happy child. The enervation was overpowering and somewhere above the stone ceiling the Sun was still high in the sky. He was safe from the dreams, at least for a time. Quaking a little with exhaustion and misery, Estel eased himself into a prone position, curling his long limbs in towards his body. It took only a few minutes for oblivion to claim him, and he slept, one cheek pressed against the cold, damp stone floor.