Chapter XXIV: Farewell by Moonlight

On the night of the full moon, Estel was reading in the third-floor library when Glorfindel peered around the door.

‘What have you got there?’ he asked, eyes twinkling.

Estel held up the book with a sheepish smile. It was a volume of old poetry in the High Tongue – not at all the tomes of Westernesse with which he ought to have been occupied.

Glorfindel clicked his tongue. ‘What ever will Erestor say?’ he wondered.

‘I promised to be quiet while the household slept,’ Estel primly rejoined. ‘I did not promise to be a model pupil. Besides, I am not quite accustomed to my new routine. I am resting my mind.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ Glorfindel said, coming up behind him and bending to look at the open page. ‘The Rime of Helcaraxë. What could be more restful?’

‘It’s nice to read on a summer night,’ Estel said with a hint of defensiveness. ‘Though I wouldn’t want to think of it if I were cold. It’s a very evocative piece of verse.’

‘You should discuss it with your father sometime. It was written by his grandmother.’

Estel looked down at the page. No author was noted. ‘Was it? Which one?’

‘Which one would you suppose, given a guess?’ asked Glorfindel.

Estel felt rather foolish as he made the obvious reply. ‘Idril of Gondolin, of course... but if she wrote it why is she not credited with it?’

‘Perhaps because the scholar who copied the songs down in that book did not know that it was her creation,’ Glorfindel said. ‘It is a very old verse.’

‘Then how do you know who wrote it?’ Estel challenged.

‘My, but you can be impudent at times, saucy Man-child,’ Glorfindel laughed. ‘I came to invite you to join me: I am going to help your father dress, and as tonight is your last opportunity to see him for quite some time I thought you might want to avail yourself of the chance to be with him.’

Estel laid aside the book and slid out of his chair. Glorfindel smiled in satisfaction, and laid a companionable hand on his shoulder as he steered him from the room.

As they walked down the corridor Estel’s mind flooded with questions, but he had vowed to be considerate of others, and they were passing by doors behind which Elves lay in rest or sleep. He held his tongue, though thoughts were buzzing within him.

It seemed strange that Atar would need anyone to help him dress. Estel understood the intricacies of Elven garments, and it was only in the last year or two that he had achieved the degree of manual dexterity required to arrange his daily garb unassisted. He still required help with his finer things, and any piece of clothing that laced up the back, but he had always assumed that these skills, too, would come in time. His mother never sought assistance when dressing, and he had always supposed that that was typical of adults. What manner of garment, he wondered, was beyond the capability of a full-grown Elf to don without help?

They reached Atar’s rooms, and he came to the door dressed in joined hose and a short, close-fitting tunic of woodland green. This in itself was astonishing: seldom had Estel seen his father so sparsely clad, for he preferred the more stately garb of a Noldorin lord to the easy comfort of wood-elves – or mortal children.

Glorfindel prodded him playfully between his ribs. ‘You ought to stop staring quite so conspicuously, Estel, and find some place to sit where you will not be in the way,’ he said in an exaggerated stage whisper.

The bedchamber was brightly lit with lamps and candles, and with the moonlight pouring through the open window it was almost as if night had not touched this corner of the house. Estel moved over to the casement and perched on the windowsill with his back to the bright night without.

‘I am pleased you were able to join us, Estel,’ said his father, smiling as he closed the door and picked up a tall pair of riding boots from the floor behind it.

‘Thank you for inviting me to do so, Atarinya,’ Estel reciprocated politely. In the days – in the nights, he corrected himself with some amusement – since he had started sleeping properly again, he had found it much less taxing to exercise patience and good manners. Sleep, he reflected, was an unrivalled marvel.

‘It was Glorfindel who thought of it, not I,’ the Elf-lord said. ‘He seemed to think it might prove educational.’ He handed the footwear to his seneschal and sat down on the bed, curling one bracing arm around the post at the lower left corner.

Glorfindel knelt, a broad smile shining upon his face. ‘Perhaps I meant only to undermine your dignity in front of your ward,’ he said as he lifted one of Atar’s feet. ‘Of all the pieces of gear a traveller wears into the Wild, Estel, the boots are at once the most valuable and the most aggravating. They are difficult to don alone, and all but impossible to remove unassisted if properly worn. Doffing one’s own boots is not a task to be lightly undertaken.’

There commenced a great deal of pushing and tugging, and once Glorfindel laughed aloud at his lord’s protestations, but in the end the boots were firmly in place, and Atar turned down the cuffs over his knees.

‘In the absence of a loyal servant, a shoehorn and some privacy will suffice,’ he said dryly, arching an eyebrow at Estel. ‘Though we shall not be wasting leather on boots for you until your feet slow their growth a little.’

He rose, rocking a little to test the supple soles. Satisfied, he moved around the foot of the bed to don a pair of deerskin chausses while Glorfindel retrieved a leather tabard from the chair nearby. Estel watched as his father rolled his shoulders in anticipation and then stood, arms outstretched to either side, while his helper slung the heavy garment over his head. Glorfindel bent his knees to lower himself, and swiftly ran a pair of braided leather points through the lacing holes beneath each arm, drawing the garment snugly over the cote so that it seemed almost a second skin. The Elf-lord might have done all that himself, but Estel had to admit that even the most agile person would not have accomplished it so quickly while wearing the garment.

Glorfindel looked questioningly at his lord, and Atar nodded towards the sideboard, where a shallow casket sat with a small silver key in its lock. Glorfindel opened it with care, and there was a strange shimmering sound as he drew out its contents. A shining coat of Elven mail appeared from within the box, swinging gently from Glorfindel’s fingers. The fine, closely-wrought rings sang softly with the motion, and the candlelight glinted off of them.

Estel’s eyes grew enormously wide. ‘Is it... mithril?’ he asked in awe.

Atar laughed softly. ‘No, indeed,’ he said. ‘Such treasures are not for the likes of me. It is merely silvered steel, though cunningly wrought as only the Noldor of old could make it. It was fashioned for me by Celebrimbor himself, at the behest of the High King when I dwelt as his pensioner in Lindon. A kind gift,’ he said, and his eyes were sad. ‘I valued it dearly.’

Estel wondered what melancholy memory was touching his father’s heart. He glanced at Glorfindel, hoping for some sign that the golden warrior understood, but he, too, looked perplexed and uneasy.

After a moment Atar’s lips moved into a faint, nostalgic smile. ‘I have not had occasion to wear it in many years,’ he said. ‘Let us see if it still fits.’

Of course it did fit, and Estel marvelled at the sight of his father, thus arrayed in brilliant mail like a king riding to war. ‘Atarinya, why do you need mail in Isengard?’ he asked as Glorfindel girded the Peredhil’s waist with a sturdy belt that would bear some of the weight of the steel.

‘I doubt very much that I do,’ Atar said. ‘But I am travelling a great distance through debatable territory, and it is probable that my road will not end in Isengard. I need mail so that I may be assured that I will return safely to you.’

Glorfindel finished his ministrations and stepped back. Atar moved to the box that had held the mail and reverently lifted out a parcel wrapped in velvet. ‘Here,’ he said, moving to the window and placing it in Estel’s hands. ‘The mail is not mithril, but these are.’

Estel balanced the bundle on his lap and carefully drew back the layers of cloth to reveal a pair of slender vambraces, remarkably light and unspeakably beautiful. At once he could see the difference. Where the mail shirt reflected the candlelight, these seemed to shine with a light of their own. They were almost painful to look upon, so fair were they, but as his eyes grew used to the splendour Estel was able to marvel at the intricate metalwork, and the raised filigree of vines and blossoms that twined about the baseplates. There was a device emblazoned above each wrist, but it was not the badge of his father’s house. An eight-rayed star surmounted by leaping flames adorned the bracers. Estel cocked his head, puzzled. He knew most of the heraldic insignia still in use among the Eldar, and several, like those of Gil-galad and Lúthien, that were revered and remembered in tapestries and illuminations throughout the house, but he did not recognize this.

‘Whose are they?’ he asked, then corrected himself. Obviously they were Atar’s now, or he would not keep them locked away with the coat of mail the High King had commissioned for him. ‘Whose were they?’

‘They belonged to my first lord before they came to me,’ Atar said softly. His eyes were once more clouded with memories. ‘I wore them on the day that I witnessed the muster of the hosts of Beleriand before the fall of Morgoth. I must have looked a fine fool indeed, with my gangling young limbs and my ragged clothes and spoils of the House of Fëanor upon my arms.’

Estel picked up one of the vambraces. The leather sleeve beneath the mithril plate was old and brittle, cracking a little even beneath his touch. ‘They are not fit to wear like this,’ he said. ‘Have you time to have them mended before you depart?’

‘I shall not wear them again,’ said the adult, shaking his head and turning away. ‘Let them sleep as they have slept since the dawn of this Age.’ He nodded to Glorfindel, who seemed to understand what was wanted: he came forward with the next garment.

Carefully, Estel wrapped the pieces of armour in their cloth again. He hopped from the window-frame and moved to the sideboard. He set the bundle carefully into the box, once again burning with fresh questions.

Atar’s motions were hampered now by the unaccustomed weight of his mail, and though he still moved with grace he was not so nimble. Glorfindel helped him into a long surcote, its skirts slashed before and behind to allow for ease in riding. It was green, and looked newly made, for seldom had the Lord of the Valley any need for travel-garb. It covered the mail completely, and obscured the chausses also, for the hem was past his knees. With a second, more slender belt cinched about his waist, Atar looked very much like any other traveller, if a trifle cleaner than most. Estel was glad to know that he was well-protected beneath the light summer wool.

‘Estel, would you bring me my cloak?’ his father asked, nodding at a soft grey bundle lying on the bed. Estel picked it up and brought it, shaking out the folds of Elven wool. Atar bent, and Estel was able to cast the garment about his shoulders. With a smile of thanks, his father drew it into place, fastening it with a silver brooch in the shape of a curling leaf. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I am ready.’

He took Estel by the hand and together they walked from the room, Glorfindel lingering behind to snuff the candles. They descended the stairs and moved past the door to the great hall, past the Hall of Fire with it perpetual, welcoming flames, and out into the moonlight.

There were many folk gathered on the green before the house – many more, as Estel could now attest with authority, than ordinarily stirred at this hour. Twelve horses stood patient in the moonlight, most of them bearing figures in shadowy cloaks. Longbows were slung across slender backs, and swords glinted beneath the stars. Here was the escort who would see their lord safely to the meeting of the White Council in Isengard.

Elrohir was standing with a horse at either shoulder, their reigns in his hands. He had traded in his doughty northern steed for a spirited Elven mare who tossed her head and nickered impatiently. The other was a proud bay stallion, its saddle-blanket embroidered with the marks of the house of Ëarendil.

Suddenly Estel felt a lump rising in his throat. That horse was for Atar. His father was leaving. Never, in all his life, could he remember a time when Atar was not there. Never had there been a moment when he had had to face his daily life without the knowledge that, if he needed him, he might run and find his father at any time. Atar was leaving Rivendell, riding forth on some mission of such secrecy and importance that he had given Estel only the barest of answers to his myriad questions. The ghastly fear of the unknown assailed Estel, and his knees trembled. What if calamity came to the Valley while Atar was far away? What if the nightmares returned and there was no one to help him? What if Atar was captured by orcs, as his wife had been, or eaten by wargs in the Wild, or captured by wild Men in the Gap of Rohan? What if—

Sternly he upbraided himself. He was behaving like a spoiled child. Atar had other duties, more important than him. The business of the Council, the affairs of Middle-earth were of greater weight than the insecurities of one small boy. He must not be selfish. It was difficult enough for Atar to leave him without any shameful performances before the household. He squared his shoulders and held his head high. He would not beg his father to stay. He would not bemoan his passing from the Valley. He would not weep.

Loving hands gripped his shoulders. A familiar smile was turned upon him. ‘The time will pass more swiftly than you think,’ his father said. ‘I shall return as quickly as I may.’

‘Promise you will ride safely,’ Estel said stoutly. ‘I saw them teaching that horse: he has a fiery spirit and you do not often go mounted.’

There was soft laughter from those near at hand, and Atar made a soft huffing sound. ‘Someday I shall have to curb your biting tongue,’ he remarked fondly, touching Estel’s hair. He knelt then, looking up at the boy. ‘Do not shrink from the darkness,’ he whispered so that only Estel could hear. ‘Though you must fear it, do not let it break you. Please, do not let it break you.’

‘I will not,’ Estel murmured. He looked around at the moonlit beeches. ‘The waking night is not so terrible as the night of dreams.’

Atar swallowed with a great effort and drew Estel’s face down towards him. He kissed the child’s brow. ‘I have won you back once,’ he said. ‘I will not lose you again.’

Estel wanted to ask what he meant by those last words, but he schooled his tongue. ‘I will not be easily lost,’ he promised. ‘I have a superior sense of direction.’

This time Atar did laugh, but Estel saw the single tear that slipped from the corner of his left eye. The Elf-lord rose, briefly embracing his young son. ‘Do not terrorize Erestor too much in my absence,’ he said. ‘Farewell for a time, my son.’

‘Farewell, Atarinya. Take good care.’ The words came out more steadily than Estel could have hoped.

The Lord of the Valley turned to Glorfindel. ‘I will see you in Lórien,’ he said.

The golden Elf-lord nodded. ‘I shall bring you three hundred and more,’ he promised. Though ordinarily Estel’s innate spark of curiosity would have been fanned to a raging wildfire by such oblique words, he was now too far gone in his struggle with his emotions to care what Glorfindel had said.

Erestor stood nearby, and Atar moved towards him, removing the signet ring from his smallest finger. He pressed it into the counsellor’s hand. ‘Imladris is yours, my friend. Guard her well.’ His voice dropped into a soft supplication. ‘Take care of my son.’

‘As if he were my own, my lord,’ Erestor vowed sombrely. Then he embraced the Peredhil. ‘Have a care that you come home to us with all your limbs intact,’ he said, and though his voice was light there was little jest in the words.

The Master of Imladris moved towards his steed, exchanging thanks for well-wishes from his folk as he passed them. He sprung into the saddle with a lightness that belied the weight of his mail beneath his travel-garb. His escort moved into formation around him. Elrohir mounted deftly and took up his position at the head of the company. The bay stallion shifted restively, and Atar twined the reigns about his left hand, leaning forward to pat the horse’s neck with his right while he murmured in its ear. The beast fell still, waiting patiently.

Atar straightened in the saddle, and his eyes sought Estel’s. No words passed between them, but a silent understanding was forged. Atar vowed to come back to the Valley alive and well, and Estel pledged in his turn to be whole and sound and undaunted upon his return.

Then the stallion turned and the riders moved off, swift and silent in the moonlight. Around him the household was dispersing, returning to their beds or their singing or the bake-house with its great stone ovens, but Estel stood fast, staring into the bright silver night as the cantering shapes shrank away out of sight.

When at last they were gone, he turned to trudge back inside where his studies awaited him. His shoulders quivered and then bowed under the weight of the desolation he had struggled so valiantly to hide. He halted, immobilized with sudden shame when he realized that he was not alone.

Gentle hands took hold of him and abruptly he found himself lifted into strong, slender arms. With a soft and shuddering sigh he submitted to the one who offered him succour in his moment of abandonment, resting his head on the broad muscular shoulder.

‘There now, my brave young soldier,’ Glorfindel said softly. ‘It is permitted for those who must wait behind to weep a little.’

As his friend and teacher carried him back into the house, Estel found that he needed no further invitation.