“The Enemy has set traps for me before now.” – Aragorn; The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I, Chapter 10, “Strider”.

Chapter XXIII: The Provisional Solution

In the darkness far beneath the earth, all was silence. There was no cry of bird or beast. No wind whispered through slumbering trees. Even the song of the stars did not penetrate to the dark places carved deep under the Ered Luin. Only the scraping of flesh against stone and the slow sound of condensation falling from the dripstones above preserved the memory of hearing.

For a time the men had tried to fill the emptiness with desperate songs and half-hearted tales. But as the weeks wore on and they grew ever colder, and more ragged, and their meagre cache of food dwindled to nothing there was little strength left for such pursuits. So they huddled in the darkness, and listened to the sound of their fellows’ breathing while the terrible silence pressed in around them.

They were starving. His men were starving and he, their lord, their king, could not help them. The cruel pinching in his own belly, the ache as his muscles wasted away and his organs slowly devoured themselves; these miseries were secondary to the knowledge that his men, his faithful men, were starving in this mountain prison while he, who should have protected them, was too craven to venture forth and face the foe without.

He could hear his enemy now, as if the fell wraith were present in the darkness, whispering from within the abandoned lodes. Coward! The Witch-king hissed. Craven coward! Dastardly, baseborn mortal! Cringing caitiff, wretched recreant! You cower before me! You fear me and you fly from me, and for that they will die. They all shall die, for the cowardice of their master! Coward, flesh-monger, vile, fainthearted cur! Poor starveling wretches, to place their trust in you! You have murdered them, you have murdered them all!

And the terror came, hollow hopelessness that seemed to rend the very heart. He could feel the Witch-king’s malice, the hatred and the sanctimonious surety that he would fall, that he would fail, and his folk and his family and his ragged line with him. Failure and despair and a bitter, unspeakable cold...

A harsh inhalation shook him, and his body subsisted into violent tremors. He stared frantically into the night, where an Elven lamp stood on the table next to the bed, its blue flame turned low but bright enough to illuminate the cushion beneath his cheek. He could feel gentle fingers lighting upon his side, drawing him out of the nightmare and into the present.

‘Again?’ a soft voice mourned. ‘Oh, Estel, it was naught but a dream.’

His throat was tight and he did not think himself capable of speech, but somehow the halting syllables emerged. ‘At-tarinya...’

‘I am here, my son. You are safe.’ The murmuring lips pressed against the back of his head and Estel screwed his eyes tightly against the tears that burned in them. ‘Tell me what you saw; we shall bear it together.’

Slowly, timorously, Estel began to speak. Yet despite his father’s warm and consoling presence beside him he could still hear the hateful voice: coward, coward, baseborn, fainthearted, coward...

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It would have been difficult to judge which of them greeted the first rosy flush of dawn with more gratitude. Estel expressed his thanks with a harsh, shattered moan, before slipping almost at once into enervated slumber. Elrond rose from his place beside the child and moved to the window. He leaned out into the dewy summer sunrise, murmuring his praise of the merciful morning.

Four times through the night Estel had awakened, silent but trembling, drenched in perspiration. Each time it had been more difficult to coax him back to sleep, and after the last incursion Elrond had not had the heart to try. He had reclined against the headboard, his palm tracing reassuring circles on the child’s back while Estel, in hoarse and faltering tones, had divulged to him the horrors of the flight of Arvedui, last king of the fractured realm of Arnor. When at last the trauma-riddled words ceased to flow Elrond had offered what consolation he could. After uttering the reassurances that these things had happened long ago and far away, he had settled in to sing to the child, lending him strength in his struggle against the imperious call of slumber. In a remarkable show of will, Estel had actually won through until the dawn.

Elrond turned back to the bed, casting weary eyes upon the careworn young face. Estel had been adamant that the dreams would not come during the daylight hours, however long he slept, and that prospect dismayed his guardian. True, it might only be a childlike fear of the suddenly hostile night, but it was equally possible that Estel was correct. If the dreams came only under the cover of darkness, unable to endure the dawn, then that would all but confirm that it was some devilry of the Enemy that had brought the night-terrors, and with them the sickness that had almost claimed the boy’s life. For decades now they had known that Sauron sought the heir of Isildur, bending his will and his malice towards any descendants of the king who lingered yet in the North. It was not inconceivable that some of that malevolence had finally found its mark.

Someone was rapping softly on the bedchamber door. Elrond moved swiftly to open it, slipping into his anteroom as Erestor stepped back to allow him to pass.

‘Estel will not be joining you for any lessons this morning,’ Elrond said. ‘He is resting.’

The lore-master’s ordinarily composed face melted into an expression of remorse. ‘I have misjudged him, have I not?’ he said penitently. ‘He did not speak false.’

‘He did not, but neither was he entirely honest with you – or with any of us,’ remarked Elrond. ‘He has been overtired of late because he is tormented by night-terrors and cannot sleep.’

Erestor closed his eyes miserably. ‘I must beg his forgiveness. I should have kept a tighter rein on my temper.’

‘Yes. You should have,’ said Elrond frankly. ‘But I am grateful for the confrontation between Estel and yourself: had it not occurred he would still be suffering alone.’

‘Nonetheless, he is only a child, and my accusation was grievous and unjust,’ Erestor mourned.

‘You will have ample opportunity to make amends,’ Elrond promised. ‘I will be leaving him in your care in three days’ time, and I hope you will treat him with the patience and consideration that you once gave to me. He has great need of care, and I fear his mother cannot entirely meet that need in her present state.’

‘You might delay, if the boy has need of you,’ Erestor suggested, unwittingly striking upon a painful chord.

‘I cannot.’ Elrond’s voice faltered as he spoke the words. ‘Though my heart desires it and I fear to leave Estel alone, I cannot delay. Gandalf will be expecting me, Saruman would be perplexed and insulted by my absence, and the delegation from Lórien will be displeased with my inconstancy. There can be no further delay. The influence of the Necromancer is expanding: already it seems it has spilled over the mountains. Even in Imladris we are not immune to its effects.’

‘What do you mean?’ Erestor asked grimly.

Elrond glanced over his shoulder at the bedchamber door. ‘For weeks I have feared that that Estel’s torment has its roots in some foul machination of the Enemy. It is growing more and more evident that this is the case. Estel feels the malice directed towards him, and the ancestral hatred behind it, and that is manifesting itself in dreams of the long persecution of his kindred.’

Horror lanced through the lore-master’s eyes. ‘Then the Enemy has found him?’ he breathed.

‘I do not believe so,’ Elrond said sharply; ‘and have a care that no intimation of that reaches his mother. No, I am reasonably certain that this success on the part of the Necromancer is mere serendipity. He might suspect that if any heir of Isildur yet lives he is in my care, but he cannot confirm it. Now, however, the shadow of Dol Guldur has poisoned all the Wilderland, and rendered the mountains all but impassable, and soon all of Eriador will be overrun with foul things. With such evil at work in the North, it seems impossible that Estel’s torment is a mere coincidence.’

‘And you hope that if he can be driven forth from Dol Guldur the visions will cease?’

‘If once his mind is turned to more urgent matters, he will have less strength to spend in hatred of the children of Elendil,’ Elrond reasoned. ‘More to the point, if he is not cast from Mirkwood and Eriador is indeed flooded with his servants, neither Estel nor anyone who dwells in the North will have many remaining years of peace.’

‘Mithrandir fears that he intends to attack,’ said Erestor. ‘It seems you share that view.’

‘It is most logical,’ Elrond said. ‘If he might overthrow Lórien and Rivendell both, then he would have no need of his old power. None would stop him from casting down Thranduil, and with no foes at his back he might assail Gondor relentlessly until she, too, fell.’

‘That would be no easy task, even in these later days,’ Erestor said. ‘The South Kingdom is strong, and her Steward is no dotard. Gondor would long resist any assault.’

‘Perhaps. But the Enemy might wage a war measured in decades, wearing away at Gondor’s defences until nothing remained. Then westward would he sweep, across the Wild and at last to the peaceful lands in the lee of the Blue Mountains. What resistance do you thing might be mounted there? The simple folk of Arthedain would not endure a week under such duress. In the end even Círdan would fall, unless we stop the Enemy now, and drive him forth before he can make any move against us.’ Elrond sighed wearily. ‘I cannot delay, though I am needed here. I will best serve Estel’s interests by removing this threat to his safety and his sanity.’

‘What, then, would you have me do for him in your absence?’ Erestor asked. ‘He will not find the comfort in my chamber that he finds in yours, for I am not the one he calls father. If banishing the dreams is beyond your power, I can do nothing more.’

‘Treat him with deference and gentleness,’ Elrond said; ‘and I shall speak to his mother about the possibility of rearranging his daily routine. If he cannot sleep at night, he must find rest when he may. We shall confer further on this matter once I have spoken to Gilraen.’

‘Before you do, my lord, go down and see your son,’ Erestor said, as if he had abruptly remembered his purpose for coming upstairs. ‘Elrohir has returned out of the Wild with tidings.’

‘Elrohir alone?’ Elrond’s limbs felt suddenly cold. Seldom did his sons ride alone, unless direst need pressed them. What fresh calamity had befallen his family now?

‘Alone,’ Erestor confirmed. ‘He is waiting in the Hall of Fire.’

‘Stay here,’ Elrond said tersely. ‘If Estel awakes, do your best to console him. I will return when I may.’

Erestor offered some pledge to exert his best efforts, but Elrond was already hastening away.

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As promised, Elrohir was in the Hall of Fire, sitting by the heart with a goblet of wine in his hand and a plate of food balanced on his knee. He was mud-spattered and weather-beaten, but appeared to be unscathed. When Elrond entered, haste in his feet and fear in his eyes, the younger Peredhil smiled.

‘Gracious, Atarinya, is a warg snapping at your heels?’ he laughed. ‘You look like you’ve seen your own death.’

‘Where is your brother?’ Elrond demanded. ‘What cause had you to separate? What—’

Elrohir was still smiling. Elrond drew in a deep, cleansing breath, schooled his features and repeated with more dignity, ‘Where is your brother?’

‘It is touching that you still care so much for our safety, even after so many years,’ Elrohir said. ‘Elladan is well, or was when I left him. We were riding back through the Trollshaws when rumour reached us of some kind of disturbance in the High Pass. It could only be that Gandalf and his dwarves ran into some manner of difficulty, and both of us would have ridden to investigate, save that we had promised to be here to see you safely on your way to Isengard. We mustered three of the Dúnedain instead, and they have gone into the mountains with Elladan. You will have to make do with one son to escort you south.’

Elrond closed his eyes. ‘Then you are both well,’ he exhaled in relief.

‘We are both well,’ Elrohir assured him, his expression softening out of its teasing lines. ‘Though it would seem that Thorin and company have found trouble for themselves. Gandalf should have listened and allowed us to cleanse the Pass first.’

‘Listening is not always Gandalf’s first priority,’ Elrond said. ‘Fear not: he has ventured into many greater perils than this, and emerged triumphant. I pity the foolish orcs who attempt to waylay him long.’

Elrohir nodded appreciatively and took several mouthfuls of his breakfast. ‘How is Glorfindel faring with the amassment of his forces?’ he asked.

‘Well, I think,’ Elrond said, taking a seat near his son and letting the tension ebb from his shoulders. ‘I confess I have been occupied with my own arrangements and have made little effort to supervise his. What is the purpose of having counsellors if one cannot trust them to discharge their duties?’

‘And Gilraen?’ Elrohir asked hesitantly.

Elrond shook his head. ‘She has fared the better for your counsel, whatever it was. If you can spare the time to speak to her again before we depart I would be grateful.’

‘Gladly. At least with Estel removed from danger she can look to her own healing.’ Elrohir looked to his father for confirmation, and his smile vanished as he realized that such reassurances were not forthcoming. ‘What is amiss with the child?’ he asked, blanching a little.

As succinctly as he could, Elrond explained.

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‘Study at night?’ Estel echoed, laughing a little at the absurdity of that notion. He had slept uninterrupted all through the day, well into the evening meal, and his head felt clearer than it had in a fortnight.

‘Study, aye; and read, and play, and roam in the gardens. If you cannot sleep after sunset, you can at least keep yourself occupied,’ Atar said. ‘Then when the sun has risen you can go to your bed, and I hope find peace. It is not a perfect remedy, but at least while I am absent you will not suffer needlessly.’

Estel cast a furtive glance at Mother, where she sat by her casement watching the exchange with a disconsolate shadow in her eyes. He wished bitterly that his father had not felt the need to tell her of his continuing struggle with the dreams, but there had been no other way to explain why he had spent last night and all of today in the Elf-lord’s chamber. At least Atar was now keeping his voice light and pleasant, though Estel could see the gravity and grim determination in the silvery orbs fixed upon him.

‘It seems a sensible plan,’ Estel said soberly. ‘I slept well today.’

‘There are of course conditions,’ Atar went on. ‘Most of the household will be gone to their rest while you are roaming free. You must be considerate of others, and refrain from making excessive noise in the house. Erestor will ensure that there is always someone on hand to oversee your lessons, and to assist you if you have need of anything, and to prepare for you a midnight meal.’

Estel giggled. ‘A midnight meal,’ he parroted, enjoying the strange construct of otherwise common words. ‘So I shall break my fast while others sup, and sup while they break their fast, and take a midnight meal to sustain me in my nocturnal studies.’

Mother almost smiled, and Estel wondered why. Atar’s eyes grew somewhat lighter. ‘That is the crux of it,’ he said. ‘Though if upon my return I find that you have abused the good graces of those around you then you shall taste the wrath of the Children of Lúthien.’

He was teasing. Estel nodded obediently. ‘I shall be careful of my behaviour, Atarinya, I promise,’ he said.

His father smiled and reached out to brush the backs of his fingers against Estel’s jaw. ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ he said fondly. ‘Now, let us see about finding you some supper.’

‘Breakfast,’ Estel corrected.

‘Breakfast, verily,’ Atar agreed. ‘Go down and see what you can charm from the cooks. I shall be along presently to share your spoils.’

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Gilraen watched as her son slipped from the room. She braced herself as the Peredhil turned and his keen eyes fixed upon her.

‘You do not approve, lady,’ he remarked softly. When Gilraen made no answer he tilted his head. ‘I understand and appreciate the efforts you have exerted in these last weeks to present a united front for Estel’s benefit, but he is no longer present. I pray you, voice your concerns that I may either address or assuage them.’

‘Children should not stay up through the night!’ The words came forth more harshly than she intended, but it was said now and she could not rescind it. ‘It is unnatural.’

‘Aye, it is unnatural,’ said Elrond; ‘but so too are these visions that torment him. Does it not distress you that he has suffered in silence while he exhausted his body and struggled for courage, unable to find peace even in his mind?’

Tears stung in Gilraen’s eyes. Of course it distressed her! She felt crippled with guilt, knowing how she had blinded herself to the signs of her son’s suffering. She had so desperately wanted, so desperately needed to believe that he was well that she ignored his mounting weariness, his reluctance to lie down for the night, and the skittish, frightened look in his eyes. The gorge rose in her throat as she remembered how she had come upon him, more than once, curled on his bed in the middle of the afternoon, and how she had actually scolded her poor child for laziness.

‘What would you have me do, lady?’ Elrond asked softly, and there was a weariness in his eyes such as Gilraen had seldom seen. ‘I am powerless to stop the dreams. I cannot remain here to comfort him, and even if I could it seems that my efforts are insufficient. What would you have me do, if not this?’

‘I do not know,’ Gilraen confessed. ‘It seems this strange arrangement will have to serve.’

‘So also it seems to me. It will be difficult for you, for I fear you will see little of him in these next weeks, but upon mine honour, I know not what more can be done.’

‘What do you mean, I will see little of him?’ Gilraen demanded, her spine stiffening and her neck snapping up. Though she did not know it, the fire that glinted within her gave her for a moment the appearance of one of the great queens of old. ‘Do you think I will slumber while my son roams the Valley in the night? If he is to live like an owl-chick shall I not live as a watchful she-owl? He is my son, Half-elven, though often it has pleased you to forget it. I shall help him bear his trials as best I may.’

For a moment the Elf-lord’s face changed, its ageless contours shrinking into lines of care and grief. He seemed suddenly old, worn down by long labours and an endless litany of sorrows. Then he shook his head and he was once again fair and timeless and remote. ‘Never have I forgotten that he is your son, dear lady,’ Elrond murmured. ‘If my love for Estel has pained you I must beg your gracious forgiveness, but I cannot wish that he had never come hither, nor that I had never learned to cherish him. He is the dearest treasure of your heart, but in earnest I say that he is little less dear to me.’

He drew a hand across his face, and his fingers left behind a small, sardonic smile. ‘Yet I hope this latest enterprise at least shall not prove a trial to him. It is a novel thing for a boy, to wander the house while others sleep. And it is a useful skill to learn. Often in the Wild one does not have the luxury of travelling in daylight. The ability to adapt to changing routines will serve him well in later life.’

‘Does it not also teach him to hide from adversity?’ Gilraen asked sadly. ‘By inviting him to solve his predicament by avoiding sleep during the hours of darkness, are we not teaching him to fly from his problems rather than face them?’

‘It is better to fly and so live to fight another day than to pour forth one’s strength in a fruitless struggle,’ Elrond said. ‘For the time being he must fly. When I return I hope some more permanent resolution may be found.’

He bade her good-night then, and took his leave, but Gilraen sat in the gathering gloom for a long while, thinking bitter thoughts. For if Arathorn had flown, and abandoned the fruitless struggle instead of pouring forth his strength and fighting on, then she would still have a husband, and Estel a true father. Yes, she thought with acrimony, it was better sometimes to hide.

After a time Estel returned to the little parlour, his volume of Adûnaic under his arm and a little tea-tray in his free hand. Gilraen donned her most pleasant expression as she praised him for his thoughtfulness and they sat down together: he to his studies and she to her knitting as the hours of darkness slipped by. Thus her transition into the new nocturnal habits prescribed for her son began with a sleepless vigil.