Chapter XXV: Lordless Lands

Estel appeared to be adjusting nicely to his unorthodox schedule, but Gilraen was not. She found herself unable to sleep for more than two or three hours at a stretch while the Sun shone, and the sleepless nights were wearing away at her already. She endured them resolutely, subsisting on sporadic naps throughout the day, but she was exhausted. With her discomfort came the terrible understanding of the misery that her son had endured prior to the discovery of his continued torment. That knowledge filled her with remorse and a suffering greater than that of weariness, and whenever she saw him happily bent over his ciphering or leaning out of his window singing softly in the moonlight she was seized with a desperate urge to prostrate herself before him and beg forgiveness for her blindness.

The more exhausted she grew, the stronger this urge became, but she curtailed it sternly. On the night prior to Master Elrond’s departure she had spent two hours sequestered with Elrohir, pouring out her sorrows upon his empathetic ears. She had emerged from that encounter with a fresh resolve that she would not burden Estel with the woes of her heart. Her pain must be hers alone, and if she found respite in sharing it with the younger son of Elrond she could not thrust it upon her own child. To plead for pardon would soothe her conscience, but it would distress Estel. That, she knew, she must not do.

She uttered many thankful prayers for the apparent success of Master Elrond’s almost heretical edict. Gilraen was still firmly entrenched in her belief that it was barbaric for children to sleep the day away and to roam the house free and unsupervised at night. Yet she had to admit that Estel was happier now than he had been in weeks, and the colour had returned to his cheeks once more. There had been no outbursts of rudeness, nor any complaints regarding his behaviour. He seemed quite amused by the inversion of his routine, and each night he had some keen and witty insight to share with her regarding the night life of Imladris.

So Gilraen was startled when he returned to her parlour at dawn four days after the riding of Elrond’s escort, eyes red and nose blocked from weeping. He had a rumpled handkerchief in his hand, and when he saw her he hastily wiped his nose and tried to smile.

Suppressing the desire to fly to him, crying out in consternation at his distress, Gilraen laid aside her sewing and held out her arms. ‘Estel, come here,’ she said as serenely as she could.

‘I am not distressed, Mother,’ he said, sniffling a little as he approached. ‘I promise I am not.’

Gilraen mastered herself and drew him onto her lap. Thus seated they were almost eye to eye. ‘Why are you weeping?’ she asked.

‘I am not,’ Estel said with a note of impertinence in his voice. That, more than anything, reassured Gilraen. Insolence in her child was not a defence mechanism, but a sign of good spirits.

‘Why were you weeping, then?’ she asked instead.

‘It is Erestor’s fault,’ said Estel. He busied himself in smoothing the damp square of linen in his hands and folding it neatly. ‘He insisted that we talk about...’ He stopped, dismayed realization flickering through his eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders, deciding, so it seemed, that he could continue with his explanation. ‘We had a quarrel a few days ago when I fell asleep over my copy-work. Tonight we discussed it, and made amends. Erestor can be extraordinarily kind when he sets his mind to be.’

Then they were tears of reconciliation, Gilraen thought thankfully, and not of distress at all. A weary smile touched her lips and she drew Estel close, wrapping her arms around him and finding solace in his nearness. ‘I am pleased that you and Erestor are at peace,’ she said softly. ‘Master Elrond would be displeased if you were to grieve your teacher in his absence.’

‘Atarinya asked Erestor to take care of me,’ Estel said, his grey eyes pensive. ‘Why would he do that?’

Secretly Gilraen had been wondering the same thing. Did the Lord of Imladris think her utterly incapable of caring for her son? Had he so little faith in her abilities as a mother that he felt compelled to make alternative arrangements for Estel? Of course, she could not voice these qualms. ‘It is natural to make provisions for the care of children when one must roam abroad,’ she said instead. ‘If I were ever to leave the Valley I should want to know that I had left you in good hands.’

Sudden fear lanced across Estel’s face. ‘You are not leaving, are you, Mother?’ he exclaimed warily. ‘Please do not go now, not while my father is away!’

The High Elven epithet was tolerable, but to hear her son say ‘my father’ in the language of her own people pricked Gilraen’s heart. She pressed her lips tightly together, and then kissed Estel’s cheek in an attempt to hide her pained expression. ‘Of course I am not leaving, love,’ she promised. ‘My place is at your side: I would not do such a thing.’

The look in Estel’s eyes was but to say that he had not thought that Elrond would do such a thing, either, but he said nothing and leaned more fully upon his mother’s shoulder. The sweet smell of his hair was a balm for her spirit. It was a wonderful thing, to be needed by her child. Too often he turned elsewhere for comfort, but now he sought it in her arms. The knowledge that he only did so because he could not go to the Peredhil troubled Gilraen little tonight. Second-best though she was, he had still come to her. She was still of some use to him. Her life still had purpose.

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Elrond had forgotten the simple pleasures of travel.

There was a peculiar satisfaction to spending long days mounted on a steed that moved with the speed and grace of the fresh north wind, watching as the miles passed by. Each evening a new camp was made, and there were songs and tales and camaraderie in the twilight. Meals were prepared over the open fire, and there was laughter and pleasant company. At first some of his escort had been uneasy in his presence, for though he was beloved of all his people he was less well-known by some, and the Silvan folk especially found him daunting at times. After a few days on the trail, however, inhibitions were allayed and Elrond was coming to know his soldiers better.

It was pleasant, too, to watch Elrohir in his native element. His son had always been a formidable huntsman and a skilled pathfinder, and it was a delight for Elrond to witness the joy with which he approached his daily duties. He uncovered hidden ways through which their horses might pass with ease, and always it seemed he was able to locate an amenable place to halt each night. He knew these lands well, for he had ridden in them through many centuries. Free of the burdens of the relentless defence of Eriador, he seemed younger than his wont, and he was merry.

On their ninth day of travel the little party halted to make camp shortly after noon. The elven horses had stamina equalled by few other beasts, and with their fair burdens they travelled swift and sure. But the crossing of Dunland was dangerous, for the wild men of that region were not over-fond of strangers, and Elves in particular they disliked. While the travellers had kept a moderate pace since leaving Rivendell, they would ride more swiftly after crossing the Glanduin. So it was decided that they should halt here, and take a half-day to rest their beasts and themselves.

Elrond was glad of the chance to stop, for it meant that he could remove his mail for a time. He had grown unused to armour in his long years of peace, and he found it to be rather hot and cumbersome. Thinking of Estel’s innocent wonderment he half-wished that his corselet was of mithril after all. It would have been lighter.

Mail, like a well-worn boot, was difficult to remove with dignity. Fortunately Elrohir was on hand to help, and the task was accomplished with a minimum of discomfiture. Pleased to be rid of the muggy weight of the steel, Elrond stretched and rubbed his shoulders. The discomfort quickly faded, and he went to rub down his horse.

‘I for one am weary of camp-fare,’ announced Andras, one of the younger members of the company. ‘If we are to halt for the day, may we not take time to hunt?’

‘You may,’ said Elrohir, who despite his father’s presence was generally understood to be the leader of the expedition; ‘but you will go on foot. The horses have need of rest.’

‘I would welcome a little rambling,’ said the eager soldier. ‘My legs are forgetting what it is to bear me.’

There was a murmur of agreement from several of his companions. A shuffling of gear followed as those who were interested in participating gathered the tools they would need. One of the archers withdrew and approached Elrond with only a shadow of her earlier timidity.

‘Will you join us, my lord?’ she asked. ‘It is a fine day for shooting, and Hollin is rich with game. It may prove a merry afternoon.’

Elrond shook his head. ‘Thank you, Calmiel, but I do not hunt,’ he said. He turned from his horse and held out his hands, palms upturned. ‘It is generally accepted that a healer’s gift is diminished by the spilling of blood. I do not quest for game, and I fight only at greatest need.’

The lady looked abashed. ‘Of course... I know that. My own sister plies the healing arts. I meant no disrespect, my lord...’

Elrond smiled. ‘Quite the opposite,’ he said. ‘I am honoured that you would wish to include me in your expedition. Go in peace, and may your arrows find their mark. Then perhaps, if you are of a mind, I might taste the fruits of your labours.’

A radiant smile touched Calmiel’s face, and she dipped into a curtsy – a curious sight, given her practical state of dress. She, too, was young, and had not known Imladris under the hand of Celebrían. ‘I would esteem it a great honour, my lord,’ she said.

As the hunting party moved off, Elrohir approached his sire. ‘You are a trickster and a cheat, Atarinya,’ he teased. ‘In the wild those who do not hunt do not deserve to eat!’

‘Do they not, indeed?’ Elrond rejoined. ‘Then you shall go hungry tonight, for I do not see you marching forth with snare in hand.’

‘Ah, but I shall be occupied with other labours,’ Elrohir said, eyes glinting merrily. ‘Someone must walk the river and find the best place to cross.’ He clapped his hand on Elrond’s shoulder. ‘Fear not,’ he declaimed in an overly dramatic voice. ‘The lady spoke aright: Hollin is indeed rich with game, and we shall all eat well this evening.

‘A good thing, too,’ he added, the bravado giving way to pragmatic gravity. ‘Once we cross the river we will have little time to satisfy the appetites of the body.’

He moved off, and Elrond was left alone. Two of the company were walking among the horses, conferring softly with one another. The others had dispersed. After taking a minute to murmur soft words to his mount, Elrond turned away from the clearing and strode into the underbrush.

He had walked these lands long ago, when the silence of the wood had been broken by the voices of the Noldor, and the fair houses of Celebrimbor’s folk had stood like stony blossoms among the holly-trees. Now all that was gone, swept away by the tides of war, and only the Peredhil remained, remembering.

It seemed that he could hear the desperate cries of the watchers in the mountains. The clash of steel. The cruel orc-whips. He could smell the fire in the holly, and he could taste the bitterness of retreat...

But that flight had saved the lives of many who would have otherwise been sundered from their bodies and sent houseless to the Halls of Mandos. That withdrawal, then so galling, had made possible all that he had accomplished in the intervening millennia. Imladris was built upon the ruin of fair Eregion; and now the land ravaged by Sauron in his vengeance was healed, and only the distant echo of the ruin wrought there remained.

It was strange to think that in this quiet place, among the trees that never faded from green, the doom in which the world seemed so inexorably caught had first taken root. Had it not been for the curiosity of the Noldor, their desire for ever more intricate and beautiful possessions, their delight in smithcraft and the works of the hands, Elrond would not be standing here now, riding to desperate action against Sauron.

He could feel the weight of Vilya on his hand, though of course the Ring was shrouded from sight. By it he was wound into the fate of the Enemy, and in the sorrows of the world he held a third part. Elrond spared a bitter thought for the one who had entrusted him with this grievous charge, but the flicker of resentment was swift to pass. It was well, in the end, that Gil-galad had chosen as he had. The Ring had been used to great good, though always with care and always in secret. It had safeguarded Rivendell and sheltered the Line of Elendil, and it had saved Estel’s life.

Estel. Not for the first time, Elrond wondered anxiously how his son was faring, left behind in Imladris with the nightmares still looming in the darkness. He had faith that the boy would adequately adapt to the change to his daily habits, but it hardly seemed possible that such a solution was sustainable. The Enemy’s malice knew no bounds, and if he was determined to hurt the Heir of Isildur he would find a way.

It was useless to dwell on such fears. There was nothing that Elrond could do now, save to press on and to pray for success. In little more than a week he would be in Isengard, and there a monumental task awaited him. The need could not be disputed, but it was no easy thing to sway Saruman’s mind. Wise was the leader of the Council, but stubborn also, unyielding as the black stone of his lately-won fortress. It would be a feat worthy of song if they could win him to their cause after almost a century of firm resistance.

With a heavy sigh that he would not have uttered had there been any to hear, Elrond picked his way back to the encampment, leaving behind the memories of Eregion amid the whispering trees.

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Glorfindel was amassing an army. For many days Estel had not noticed this, for most of the preparations occurred during the day while he slept. Tonight, however, in the grey twilight after the child had broken his fast, a large contingent of forest-folk had come out of the wild, talking of armaments and a journey over the mountains. They were the folk of Gildor Inglorion, or such among them as bore arms at need. There was singing by the river, but in the Hall of Fire Glorfindel and Erestor sat with the wandering Elf-lord and the captains of the border-watch in a council of war.

Estel knew he would not be welcome within, but he could not wander far from the door. Anxiety filled him. What disaster loomed upon the horizon, that the peaceable folk of Imladris were making ready to march into battle? He had heard the folk talk of goblin incursions in the mountains, and Elrohir had brought rumours of some misfortune that had befallen Gandalf the Grey and his dwarves in the High Pass – but an army would be of little use on the stony heights, and surely a small band of scouts would fare just as well.

Mother was upstairs, and Estel suspected that she was sleeping. She did not seem quite so fond as he was of sitting up all night and taking her rest in the day, but neither were her nights of slumber torn asunder by ancient horrors.

Estel shivered, though the corridor he paced was warm. Before, he had been little troubled by his visions once he was awake and the fit of terror had passed. Lately, however, the memory of the dreams haunted his waking thoughts. He could not read from his books of history without thinking of what he had seen, and smelled, and felt in the throes of those nightmares. When he ate it seemed that he could feel the ache of starvation in his bones. When he bathed the water was as cold as the merciless seas that surged within his mind, swallowing again and again the peaceful farmland and the gracious havens and the fair cities with their streets paved in marble... He was haunted by horror, pursued by memories of torment and death. He could never tell when another was going to arise.

The door to the Hall of Fire opened, and Glorfindel came out. He was speaking to Erestor in low, anxious tones.

‘I do not know what delays him, but I cannot abide much longer. It will take three weeks or more for our folk to reach Lothlórien, and if we tarry too long Caradhras will grow perilous. Short is the summer in the high places.’

‘He will be furious if you depart without him,’ Erestor warned.

‘I would sooner face Elladan’s wrath than fail his father,’ Glorfindel said. ‘If Lord Elrond—’ He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on the boy. ‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘Skulking in the halls like an unexpected emissary hoping to catch his host unawares?’

‘Why are you going to Lothlórien?’ Estel demanded. ‘Why does my father need an army? What is happening?’

The two adults exchanged a communicative glance, and Erestor nodded to indicate that these questions sprung from Glorfindel’s indiscretion and Glorfindel’s failure to clear the corridor before speaking. It was Glorfindel who had to cope with the consequences.

For a moment, Glorfindel looked entirely overcome. ‘Estel...’ he began helplessly. Then he sighed. ‘Come, let us not speak of these things here.’

He herded Estel down the corridor and into the empty dining hall. Erestor followed, and for a moment the three stood in darkness until Glorfindel struck a spark with his tinderbox and lit the candles in one of the sconces near the door. He sat down at the nearest table, indicating that Estel should take the chair opposite. Erestor remained standing, leaning against the doorpost with his arms across his chest and a stern, serious expression upon his face.

‘Has your father discussed these matters with you?’ Glorfindel asked.

Estel shook his head. ‘He said he was going to Isengard to a meeting of the Council,’ he said, rather plaintively. ‘Why would he need an army there?’ And why, he added to himself, had Glorfindel let him ride off with eleven warriors instead?

The Elf-lord sighed. ‘He does not,’ he said. ‘Elrond will be safe enough in Orthanc. Saruman is a assiduous host, if a little frugal, and he will suffer no harm to come to those under his roof. I am taking a host across the Redhorn Pass to Lothlórien, there to muster with the forces of Celeborn and whatever aid Saruman can send us. When all are assembled we will march on Mirkwood.’

‘Mirkwood?’ Estel repeated, not comprehending. ‘Why would you march on Mirkwood? The King of the Wood-Elves is an ancient friend of Imladris, and there are no other...’ He felt the colour drain from his face. ‘The Necromancer,’ he whispered, speaking the name murmured by adults under the din of other conversations at board, or whispered while some strong voice sang songs of errantry and triumph, or hissed behind raised hands when they thought the mortal child could not hear. Estel knew nothing about the Necromancer save that he had a fortress somewhere in the south of Mirkwood, and that he was so feared that no one dared to discuss him aloud. Even Atar never spoke of him in Estel’s presence.

Glorfindel seemed to read his dread clearly, and a thunderous shadow appeared in the bright eyes. ‘Estel, do not be afraid,’ he said sternly. ‘His chief weapon is terror, and if we submit to it there is no hope left. The Necromancer is not so strong as you may be given to think. He is fallen and he is crippled, like a beggar trying to pull himself up onto a wooden crutch. We are going to kick the crutch from under him, that is all, and to drive him away where he cannot threaten us further. Do you understand me, Estel? We must not bow to our fear.’

It was easy for Glorfindel to speak of such things. He was a mighty Elf-lord and he feared nothing. But Estel was a child, and he was haunted with memories of the horrors of war and the machinations of the Enemy. His father was far away, going into battle against some terrible force in a distant wood.

‘B-but Atarinya will be hurt,’ he protested. ‘Mayhap he will be slain.’ Tears swam in his eyes. He had already lost one father, when he had been too young to understand. What would become of him if he should lose another?

‘I do not think he will be slain,’ Glorfindel said gently, reaching across the table to grip Estel’s hands. ‘Look at me. Your father is – Estel, look at me.’ Lip trembling, the boy obeyed. The light in Glorfindel’s eyes seemed to pierce his heart, and he felt it infusing him with strength and courage and an unlooked-for calm. ‘Your father is mighty among the folk of Middle-earth. He has survived many campaigns and come through many battles unscathed, while all around him fell the great princes of the Eldar and the Edain. It is not his fate to perish in Mirkwood, casting down a cruel pretender. He will not be alone: Mithrandir will stand with him, and Celeborn and bold Galadriel his wife. Saruman will be there, and I with my host of three hundred strong. Lórien is mustering her people, and surely Saruman will have soldiers as well. It is most unlikely that Elrond will even need to draw his sword.’

‘Then why must he go?’ Estel demanded.

A curious smile touched Glorfindel’s mouth, and Estel realized that he, too, had asked this question. ‘He may be needed for other things,’ he said. ‘Do not forget that he is a healer of skill and power unrivalled in these later days. Besides, I do not think he likes the idea that the rest of the Council take action while he lies idle. He feels a responsibility in that respect as well.’

‘Then I wish they would disband the Council,’ Estel said caustically; ‘that he might be free of that responsibility and remain where he is safe.’

Glorfindel sat back, chuckling softly to himself. ‘You and I are of like mind,’ he said; ‘but I promise I will take care of him. If for no other reason than to ensure that he is available to heal my hurts when Elladan calls me to task for leaving him behind.’

He was speaking as if Atar was a child, and again Estel was perplexed. ‘Glorfindel,’ he said hesitantly. ‘You often seem older than you are.’

‘Older than I appear, you mean?’ the Elf-lord asked, amused. ‘That is the fate of the Firstborn.’

Estel shook his head. ‘You were born in Imladris in this Age of the world; you were born after Elladan and Elrohir.’

‘How did you come to here this?’ Glorfindel asked, looking over his shoulder at Erestor, who was suddenly less stern and greatly occupied with studying the ceiling.

‘Yet you speak as if you walked the world in the First Age. You behave as if Atar is a young one you have sworn to guard. You know things, like the fact that Idril Celebrindal wrote that poem, that only a very old person would know.’ Estel’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you explain it?’

‘I do not,’ Glorfindel said. ‘At least, not tonight. All that you say is true, in part, but this is a discussion of great complexity and length, and I fear that I have not the time to spare for it now. We are riding tomorrow, and there is much that must be done ere I can depart.’

‘But—’

‘I am sorry, Estel. I cannot spare the time. When I return, if you still desire it, we may speak then.’ Glorfindel’s voice was firm, but his regret was genuine. He rose. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Do not harry Gildor’s folk: they are sacrificing much to ride with us and deserve what peace we can give them tonight.’

He left the room, and Estel turned his eyes on Erestor.

‘You have been neglecting your mathematics of late,’ the lore-master said. ‘Come with me. Glorfindel may have much work to do, but my labours for the evening are done. Perhaps now would be a good time to introduce you to the rudiments of algebra.’

Estel blinked mutely at him. It seemed absurd to talk of mathematics at such a time as this. But often Atar had said that the simple duties of each day must be carried out regardless, even if all the world appeared to be overturned. Obediently, he went with his teacher.

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With the departure of Glorfindel and his host an eerie silence seemed to descend upon the Valley. The house seemed empty, and the evening meal – which Estel usually took with the rest of the household despite his night-time wakefulness – was a subdued affair. Whole tables stood abandoned, and the empty chairs on the dais seemed to howl with loneliness. Estel could not help the encroaching fear that some of them would never be filled again, especially when the shadows in his mind plagued him.

Three days after the riding forth of the host of Imladris, Estel was preparing for bed when he heard a great commotion from outside of his window. He rushed to lean out, looking down over the green. Folk were pouring out of the house, and Erestor was shouting orders. One of the elf-maidens who practiced the healing arts appeared to be directing him, while half a dozen people were clustered around three great northern horses. The tall, hardy beasts were spattered with mud and gore, and their proud heads were stooped wearily. On the two nearest the house sat a pair of haggard-looking Dúnedain. One had a blood-soaked strip of linen wound many times around his head, and his sword-arm hung in a makeshift sling. His face was grey with pain. The other seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, slumped over his horse’s neck. He was bound to his saddle with Elven rope.

Estel’s heart sprung into his mouth as this second man’s bonds were cut and he was lowered to the ground, revealing to the boy’s sight a greater part of the third beast. Lying like a sack across the saddle was a half-naked figure. The head could not be seen, for it was hanging with the arms over the beast’s right flank, but the bare torso was black with bruises and one leg had been thickly wrapped in what looked to be an Elven cloak, liberally painted with blood. Several of the people of Imladris seemed to be debating as to the best way to move the rider, who was obviously lost to the world. The healer came striding into the fray, gesturing imperiously, but Estel did not linger to see how they contrived to lift the wounded one down. He flew from the window and bolted into the anteroom, shouting for his mother. She came out of her bedchamber, still fully clothed though her dark hair was loose about her shoulders. When Estel told her what he had seen her face grew very white, and she seized his arm. Together they hastened down to join the rest of the household, dreading what they would discover.

Estel had recognized the third horse: it belonged to Elladan.