Chapter XXII: Lessons in Trust

The cold roused Estel long before he was ready to wake. He picked himself up, leaning against the nearest cask until the wave of giddiness passed. His garments were damp and he was shivering, and therefore although his mind was still clouded with weariness and he dreaded the thought of abandoning his hiding place he was forced to ascend the stairs. Unwilling to face the friendly, worried throng in the kitchens, he crept as soundlessly as he could out of the scullery and into the narrow service corridor that brought him to the door that opened onto the back garden.

Steady mountain rain had fallen all through the morning, and though the downpour had petered away the silver clouds still hung low. They wrapped the Valley in a blanket of heavy heat. Already wet, Estel scarcely noticed the humidity, but he was grateful for the change in ambient temperature as he stepped outside. The chill in his bones dispersed rapidly and by the time he reached the garden wall he was quite warm again.

He climbed upon the stone palisade and perched with his back to the house. His long legs swung so that his shoes whispered in the cornflowers. He sat thus, watching the water fall from the blossoms, too numb with exhaustion and dread even to think. An indeterminate length of time passed.

‘Ai, at last!’ A familiar voice rang out like a song in the balmy air. ‘I have found the runaway.’

Estel raised his head as Glorfindel came striding towards him. He was clad in bright elven mail, and his golden hair was gathered back into a thick plait. His sword was buckled at his side, and with his lofty helm under one arm he looked like one who had stepped out of legend into the living world. Beside his lordly splendour, Estel was all the more ashamed of his grubby hands and his tear-streaked face and his wet clothes.

‘Erestor claims that he told you to seek occupation in the stables or the gardens. Somehow I do not think this is what he intended,’ Glorfindel said, a gently teasing lilt to his voice. When Estel hung his head the Elf-lord’s expression changed. He came nearer, carefully avoiding the flowers as he hopped onto the wall and sat next to the boy. When next he spoke his voice was quiet and sincere. ‘We have been looking for you for more than an hour,’ he remarked softly. ‘You must go at once and see your father.’

A cold wave of despair inundated Estel’s heart. ‘I did not tell a falsehood,’ he protested in a tiny, broken voice.

‘I did not say that you had,’ Glorfindel offered.

‘Erestor did,’ Estel whispered. ‘He thought – he mistook me.’

Glorfindel’s lip twitched into a sad half-smile. ‘So many years have passed since Erestor was a child that he forgets at times what a trial it is to be young.’

‘You do not forget,’ Estel protested.

‘Ah, but I was given a most unorthodox reminder,’ said Glorfindel, and a strange gleam appeared in his eyes. He reached out and laid a hand upon Estel’s knee. ‘You cannot tarry here: your atar awaits you.’

‘Is he wroth with me?’

‘He is concerned.’ Glorfindel caught Estel’s eyes at last and held them with his own. ‘Go to him and be truthful and you need not fear. Whatever transpired between Erestor and yourself today, be truthful.’

‘I did not lie!’ Estel protested. He felt as if he was pinned in a corner with no means of escape. Why would no one believe him?

‘I did not say that you had,’ Glorfindel assured him. ‘I know you would not perjure yourself, but perhaps you were not entirely forthright.’

This was incontrovertible. Estel looked away and sighed. ‘May I go and put on clean things first?’ he asked.

Glorfindel shook his head. ‘I do not think you should keep him waiting any longer. At least you look sufficiently pitiable,’ he added wryly. Drawing out his handkerchief he wetted it in crystalline rainwater that had pooled into a crevice in one of the stones and used it to wipe the dusty tear-tracks from Estel’s cheeks.

‘Will you come with me?’ the child pleaded. For the first time in his young life he feared to face his father, and that was a feeling more dreadful than any prompted by Erestor’s accusations or the nightmares or the cruel, hissing voice in his heart.

‘Only as far as the door,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Two such bedraggled vagrants as we would make a fine mess of Elrond’s study.’

Estel noticed abruptly that the Elda’s boots and hose were spattered with mud, and there was a bloody strip of linen wrapped around his off-hand where someone had nicked him in an attempt at derobement. He must have been sparring by the river. Now he did not look so majestic and daunting; he was merely Glorfindel, kind, understanding and wise. Estel tried to smile but managed only an unsteady swallow.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured.

lar

Elrond heard their approach, but Glorfindel did not knock immediately. On the other side of the door Elrond heard him as he said, ‘Do not be afraid. He will not be angry so long as you are honest. Your atar understands children well.’

Estel made no reply, but there was a moment’s silence before Glorfindel rapped on the door.

‘Enter,’ Elrond said, trying to prepare himself for the encounter. Despite his high spirits and his mischievous streak Estel had always been generally well-behaved. Never in eight years had they had to face such a situation as this. If what Erestor alleged proved to be true, he was not sure how he would cope. He closed his eyes and offered a swift prayer that this was all, somehow, nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding.

Estel was standing in the threshold while Glorfindel held the door for him. The child stole a furtive glance at Elrond, before staring at his feet once again. Gently Glorfindel prodded him between the shoulder blades, and Estel took three halting steps forward, glancing anxiously backward. The golden Elf-lord smiled his reassurances, and then closed the door, withdrawing quietly.

Elrond waited, but the boy said nothing.

‘Is there something you wish to discuss?’ Elrond prompted patiently.

A tremor ran through Estel’s body, but he did not speak. His clothes were wet and smeared with dust. Elrond wondered where he had been hiding, that even Glorfindel had been unable to find him for more than an hour.

‘I have had complaints about your behaviour from several members of the household,’ said Elrond, his voice grave but carefully free from any accusation or demand. ‘It seems you have been irritable and impatient of late. Inattentive. Impolite.’

He could see Estel’s eyes flitting from side to side under hooded lids as he attached each of these adjectives to a recent incident and recognized each of his accusers by name. A flush of shame appeared across his cheekbones.

‘Erestor came to speak with me,’ Elrond added softly.

‘I did not lie to him,’ Estel muttered, so quietly that he could scarcely be heard.

Elrond leaned forward onto his elbows, watching his son across the desk. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘If Erestor came to see you, then you already know what happened,’ Estel snapped, eyes flashing with sudden belligerence. ‘Unless you also think that he would lie, in which case you will never be satisfied that you know the truth, being so surrounded by deceivers.’

‘Estel, for shame!’ The harsh, horrified exclamation startled them both. Never before had Elrond raised his voice to the boy in such a tone. Estel’s whole body stiffened and his eyes shot wide. Elrond’s pulse quickened and he drew in a levelling breath. ‘Estel,’ he said with more constraint. ‘I am giving you an opportunity to explain what occurred this afternoon. You would be wise to avail yourself of that chance.’

The child’s lower lip trembled. ‘I did not tell a falsehood,’ he quavered, tears shining in his red-rimmed eyes. ‘I didn’t...’

Elrond rose and rounded the desk. He could read the pain in his child’s heart. This was more than a simple quarrel over semantics. Something was tormenting his son, and he had to root out the cause. Estel’s head was bowed now, eyes fixed on the floor. Elrond laid a hand on each thin shoulder and knelt before him so that he was looking up into the boy’s face, now a twisted mask of misery.

‘Estel,’ he said; ‘tell me what is wrong. I beg you, tell me.’

Estel did not answer. He tried to pull away, but Elrond held him fast.

‘I know you did not lie to Erestor. Tell me what it is that pains you so.’

Estel tried to speak, but some shadow appeared in his eyes and his mouth closed wretchedly. He was trembling beneath Elrond’s fingers. The Lord of Imladris tried to think critically, as he had often coached the child to do. Short-tempered, distracted, rude... these were not words usually used to describe his son. Even during his difficult convalescence he had made an effort to be patient and polite; only exhaustion had ever made him cross and mulish. Ah, and the argument with Erestor had treated upon the boy’s reasons for falling asleep over his lessons...

Quietly, gently, understanding at last, Elrond asked, ‘Estel, are you still suffering from the dreams?’

A soft keening sound issued from the boy’s throat. That was all the confirmation the Elf-lord needed. He sighed heavily, bowing his head. ‘Why did you not tell me, child? I told you not to endure them alone. I promised to help you. I explained that they are not the marks of a coward, but the—’

Estel choked on a ragged sob, his chest heaving as he tried to bite it back.

‘Oh, my poor foolish boy,’ Elrond exhaled. ‘What have you done to yourself?’ He wrapped his arms around Estel’s back and held him close. As another sob shook his frame the child bent to hide his face against Elrond’s shoulder. Elrond could smell oak and pomace in his damp hair. The wine cellars, then. Making a swift note to check there first when next the boy went missing, Elrond refocused his attention on the tortured child in his arms.

‘Estel, why did you not tell me?’ he asked again, his own throat growing tight with impending tears.

‘I th-thought...’ Estel began, but he could not voice his misgivings. His knees were trembling now, and Elrond sat back, drawing Estel down into his lap. He rocked gently to and fro, stroking the dark hair and waiting patiently for the inundation of tears, the uncontrollable weeping, the frantic timpani of sobs that made no allowance even for breath. Instead Estel clung to him, two sharp hiccoughing noises breaking from his lips. He was fighting for self-control. No further sobs spilled forth, but for many minutes the two remained thus, all but motionless on the floor until the silent tears ceased to flow and Estel regained sufficient mastery over himself to speak coherently.

‘I did not lie to Erestor,’ he said.

‘I know. But neither did you tell him the truth,’ Elrond said tenderly. ‘You might have saved yourself much suffering had you come to someone with that truth, anyone at all.’

‘I could not. Mother... she would weep. A noble man places the needs of others before his own,’ Estel recited resolutely.

‘Surely you knew that I would not weep,’ pressed Elrond. ‘Why did you not come to me, as I told you to?’

‘I did...’

‘Once, weeks ago when you were almost too weak to walk. Why did you let me believe the visions had left you?’ Elrond stopped himself. He was badgering the boy, plaguing him with impossible questions. He negotiated his nose around Estel’s head and kissed his son’s brow. ‘Never mind, dear heart. You have told me now and we must decide what to do about it.’

‘I m-must apologize to Erestor,’ Estel said, shivering a little.

‘That can wait,’ Elrond told him. ‘There is a matter more pressing that we must address. Estel, in a few days’ time I ride for Orthanc; I am needed at a meeting of the White Council and I shall not return for some months.’

Estel inhaled sharply, pulling back from his guardian and looking up at him with horror etched upon his face. ‘Months?’ he yelped.

‘I regret the necessity but I cannot refute it,’ Elrond said gravely. ‘Yet neither can I depart if I know you will remain here in anguish and secret misery. I am grieved that you still suffer from these dreadful dreams, but what pains me more is the lengths to which you have gone to conceal them from those who love you. I understand your desire to shelter your mother, and though it is unjust that such a burden be thrust upon your young shoulders I fear there can be little help for that. But gladly would I have offered you comfort, and Glorfindel waits always with a sympathetic ear, and Erestor despite his austerity loves you dearly and would never deny you the benefit of his counsel. You have other friends in the house to whom you might have gone, and not one of them would have denied you.’

Estel hung his head. ‘I know,’ he whispered.

‘Can you then answer my question?’ Elrond asked.

‘There was a...’ Estel halted, evidently dismayed by whatever he had been about to say. He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I feared you would think me craven.’

‘This, too, we have discussed before,’ Elrond said in bewilderment. ‘Fear does not make you a coward. A brave man knows his fear and faces it, as plainly you have continued to do. Yet it is a wise man who seeks the aid of others when he is floundering, and this you did not do. You could face the dreams, night after night, and yet you could not face me and ask for my help. That concerns me greatly, Estel. I am frightened for your safety if you cannot admit when you are being persecuted, and I am frightened for your sanity if you cannot unburden your heart.’

‘I am not being persecuted; they are only visions of things that have been,’ protested the child.

Elrond hesitated, unsure whether to voice his suspicions as to the source of these terrors. To do so, he realized bleakly, would be to open the door to too many questions that could not be answered. In any case it was only an unfounded notion, and without proof there was no reason to further distress his child.

‘I disagree,’ he said. ‘You are being hounded and tormented in secret, in the midst of the night, by something beyond your power to control. It is no different to me than if some wicked person were stealing you away to some abandoned corner of the Valley to beat you. If such a thing happened, would you keep it from me?’

‘No!’ Estel exclaimed. ‘But Atarinya, such a thing would never happen...’

‘And yet night after night the flagellation of your spirit continues, and you did not confide in me. You do not trust me, and I must understand why. If there is something that I have done or something that I have said that has led you to believe that I would be ashamed of your confessions or revile you for them, tell me, that I may beg your forgiveness.’ Elrond fixed his earnest gaze on the child’s mournful eyes, half-expecting Estel turn away in unwarranted shame.

Instead he maintained steady contact. ‘There was nothing,’ he said gravely. ‘It was the murmuring of my heart, that is all. This is no fault of yours.’

‘I disagree,’ Elrond said. ‘I have taken for granted your childlike trust, and never have we discussed a more adult need for faith in and reliance upon those around us. Do you understand why you must trust others?’

Estel had no ready answer. His brows furrowed in thought, and he seemed to be debating among several possibilities. In the end, however, his shoulders slumped and he uttered a single syllable of defeat. ‘No.’

‘Then it is time for another lesson,’ Elrond said. Words had availed him nothing: some more tangible demonstration was needed. Briefly he thought of allowing the child to sleep a little first, since he was weighed down with weariness and had been through a considerable ordeal today. He decided against it. Want of sleep would sharpen the experience and fix the lesson permanently in the young mind. He lifted Estel from his lap and rose, taking the boy by the hand.

‘Where are we going?’ Estel asked, confused and overwrought.

‘Upstairs,’ answered Elrond simply. The corridor outside his study was empty: Glorfindel it seemed did not share his young friend’s insatiable curiosity. He led the way towards the stairs.

lar

Estel’s long legs kept easy pace with his father’s measured strides. He clung to the Elf-lord’s hand, his hungry soul devouring the comfort of the contact. It seemed so easy, now that it was done, to confide in Atar and allow him to drive away some of the darkness. The hateful voice, it seemed, could not endure in the presence of the Peredhil, for Estel had not heard its murmurings since entering his father’s study. Still his heart was heavy, for the dreams awaited him in the impending night, and now it seemed that Atar was leaving the Valley. It was inconceivable that such a thing should happen, and at the best of times he would have been grieved by the news. Now... now, he was terrified.

And perplexed, he reflected as they turned a corner and Atar opened a door that Estel had never before passed through. It led to a little closet-like space, where a graceful ladder ascended towards a trap door.

‘Where are we?’ he asked in sudden surprise.

‘Follow me and you shall see,’ his father said, smiling a little. He gathered his garments so that they would not hamper his legs and moved deftly up the ladder. When the porthole was raised, a shower of raindrops fell upon Estel’s upturned face, and as the lithe Elven figure climbed through the opening the silvery sky appeared. ‘Estel, come up,’ the kind voice urged unseen.

Estel ascended and hoisted himself out. Scrambling to his feet he looked around in amazement.

They were on top of the house, standing on a flat stone walkway bordered on three sides by sloping shingled peaks. From the fourth side stretched a narrow catwalk that ran like a ridgepole along a lower piece of roof. It stretched forward perhaps fifteen feet before it met another aisle running perpendicular to it.

‘Take off your shoes and hose,’ Atar instructed, leaning against the shingles to his left so that he might do the same. ‘Bare feet will grip the stone more surely.’

Estel obeyed with only a little awkward fumbling. His weariness was gone now, dispersed by exhilaration and apprehension. There were access paths like this all over the roofs, for they allowed for easy maintenance, but he had never had occasion to walk on one.

‘Go ahead of me, and when we reach the intersection halt one yard from the edge,’ his father instructed. ‘Do not walk too swiftly, for it would be most inadvisable to slip.’

Estel drew in a deep breath and set out across the catwalk, carefully placing one foot before the other. The stone path was less than eighteen inches across, and there were places where it was still wet from the rain. He was surefooted and he had never feared heights, but a thrill of anxiety gripped him as he reached the place where he had been instructed to stop. He could feel his father’s reassuring presence behind him and he wanted to draw back against the Elf-lord’s body, but he restrained himself.

‘Step forward carefully and look down,’ the melodious instructed. Two steady hands settled on Estel’s waist, gripping him firmly as he obeyed.

Awe and wonder warred with sudden apprehension as Estel beheld the vista before him. He was standing with the whole valley laid out before his feet. He could see the tops of the beech-trees like a carpet of silver-green beneath him, and the winding ribbon of the river. In the meadows beyond the stables, warriors in bright mail were engaging one another, but they were so far away that they looked like strange, animated dolls. Further afield Estel could see the dainty stone bridge and the oceans of wheat with the maidens wandering the rows like ants. And above, on the stepes, the white mass of a herd of sheep, and little specks that could only be wood-elves, wandering over the dewy grasses.

Then he lowered his gaze and saw his own bare feet, inches from the edge beneath which a steep slope of slate ended abruptly in open air. If he took one more step forward, if he slipped or lost his footing or his nerve, he would fall. He straightened sharply, fixing his eyes resolutely on place where the mountains faded into the nebulous mists.

‘Now step backward,’ Atar’s voice instructed gently. ‘Do not fear: I will not suffer you to fall.’

Estel obeyed; one, two, three paces he retreated. Then his father stopped and Estel could withdraw no further. The hands relinquished their hold, and then appeared on either side of Estel’s shoulders. One held a handkerchief.

‘I am going to bind your eyes,’ his father said serenely. ‘Whatever happens next, you may not remove the blindfold until I instruct you to do so.’

Estel’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Was his father mad? Or was this another nightmare? Without his eyes, how could he find his way back to the safety of the ladder? He would surely fall!

Yet he did not move while gentle fingers knotted the fine cambric about his head. Firm hands took his shoulders and spun him slowly in a clockwise circle, first once and then twice, and perhaps a little farther but he could not be certain. They lingered a moment or two, waiting lest he should be taken with a spell of dizziness, but though disoriented Estel was not giddy, save perhaps with terror. He stood fast.

He did not hear Atar move off, but presently his voice came from some distance away.

‘Now come back to me,’ it said.

‘I cannot!’ Estel cried, and a cold hand of panic closed on his heart. ‘I do not know which way I am facing, and if I misstep then I will fall!’ His hands moved up towards the cloth that bound his eyes, but he remembered his instructions before any reprimand could come, and returned his arms to his sides.

‘Think carefully,’ Atar told him. ‘You have with you all that you need to return in safety.’

Estel had an excellent sense of direction – Glorfindel had often said so – but at this moment he was sure of nothing but the downward pull of the earth upon his feet, and the empty void of air pressing in on every side. He would fall. He would slip and he would fall. He did not know which way he was turned, and if he misjudged he would tumble to his death.

‘I cannot do it,’ he protested, and he felt the inexorable urge to weep. Was this his punishment, he wondered, for his equivocation and his stubbornness and his cowardice?

‘Estel, listen to me. You have only to use what I have given you, and you will succeed,’ Atar was saying. ‘Trust me.’

Trust him? When he had brought him up here to this dangerous place, and left him disoriented and blind where he might fall to his death?

‘Atarinya, help me!’ Estel pleaded. Then realization dawned. All that they had been talking about in this last hour was trust, and the need to seek aid when one was overcome. ‘Atarinya,’ Estel said, his frantic heartbeat levelling off and his breathing easing to a more manageable pace; ‘please help me. Tell me where to step.’

There was a smile in his father’s voice when he spoke, and Estel knew that he had made the right entreaty. ‘Turn to your left, about sixty degrees. Be careful not to shift the position of your feet too far: at the moment you are right in the centre of the walkway.’

Estel turned slowly, trying to gauge the distance. He must have gone too far, for Atar said, ‘Now a hair’s-bredth to your right. There. Now carefully forward. Keep a true course and do not move too swiftly.’

He shuffled forward, arms outstretched to the sides as if they could provide him with ballast as he moved. ‘Halt,’ said his father. ‘You are drifting to your right. Turn a little to your left and take another pace.’ Estel complied. ‘There. That is better. Come forward. You are nearly there. Seven feet now. Six. Slowly forward.’

Suddenly Estel’s knees began to quake, and he froze , once more terrified. The calming voice penetrated his rising panic. ‘You are nearly there. So near that you could jump the distance. Forward, Estel. Come forward.’

A quaking step, a terrified shuffle, three sharp, mincing paces, and suddenly his hand was curled in warm, comforting fingers and the bandage was plucked from his eyes. Atar was smiling at him, pride and praise writ upon his brow.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Do you see now what can be accomplished when you dare to trust another?’

Estel was shaking with tension and relief. ‘I trusted you to guide me, aye!’ he cried, angry and indignant. ‘But what if I had slipped? What if a bird had cried out and startled me, or some gust of wind tugged my garments and plucked me from the rooftop? I would have been dashed to death below!’

‘Ah, but that is the second part of my lesson,’ Atar said, and he pointed down to the space between the intersecting stretches of roof. For the first time Estel saw the nets, made of fine Elven rope, that were strung below on either side of the catwalk. He would have slipped down two yards, or perhaps three, before they caught him in their cushioned embrace. He looked up in astonishment.

‘Our folk have been replacing slates on this section of roof all week,’ Atar explained. ‘You were never in any danger of falling far, except when you looked out over the edge.’

‘And then you held me,’ Estel said softly, understanding now. ‘I extended my trust in a matter of immediate need, but your faithfulness encompassed even what I could not see.’ He looked down once more, at the webs that would have protected him from any exigency. ‘My trust is rewarded to a degree I could not have foreseen.’

The Elf-lord drew him into a gentle embrace. ‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘Choose well those in whom you place your trust, and you will be rewarded.’

Estel did not speak. He pressed himself further into the encircling arms, suddenly overcome with a great weight of weariness. ‘Atarinya,’ he whispered; ‘may I sleep in your room tonight?’

The answer came, but he did not need to hear it: there had never been any true cause for doubt.