Chapter XXX: On Fatherhood

Elrond hesitated in the corridor outside of his lodgings, bracing himself for an unpleasant encounter. At his elbow, Gandalf was waiting patiently. He too, it seemed, felt the need to discuss what had transpired in the council chamber. Steeling his resolve, Elrond opened the door and entered the anteroom.

Elrohir was sitting cross-legged on the floor, occupied with his sword and whetstone. He looked up, a faint smile tugging at his lips, and rasped the stone against the blade. ‘You’ve dispersed early,’ he said. ‘That bodes not well.’

‘Saruman has agreed,’ Elrond said, moving into the room and sinking into a chair. He still felt numb with astonishment, as though his mind could not quite grasp what had transpired. ‘We march in five days’ time.’ He looked upon his son, puzzled. ‘You seem extraordinarily calm.’

‘You were expecting to find me slavering with rage, perhaps?’ Elrohir asked. ‘While I admit I would like to fashion a new face for that insidious serpent, I promise that I am quite composed.’

‘You were not so composed an hour ago,’ said Elrond, careful to keep any hint of disapproval from his tone. If this outburst, like the last, had its roots in anxieties about Elladan, it would be cruel to upbraid his son. ‘I have not seen such wrath in your eyes in many long years.’

Elrohir’s smile broadened. ‘You appreciated my little performance, then,’ he said.

‘Performance?’

‘Do not mistake me. I hold every word of it to be a just accusation, but I hope you do not think that I would have railed so disgracefully to no purpose.’ Elrohir looked at Gandalf, who had come further into the room and was leaning upon his staff. ‘Do not take offence, my friend, but had I truly wished to throttle your colleague you would not have been able to restrain me.’

‘I know that well,’ Gandalf said; ‘but perhaps you can explain to us what you hoped to accomplish by abandoning your dignity and lending credence to that absurd supposition.’

‘Gladly,’ said Elrohir. ‘Atarinya, do you trust Saruman?’

‘Implicitly,’ Elrond answered. ‘Or rather, I did. Now I am not so certain. His aims are noble, but I do not know what to make of his behaviour today. He was attempting to put me in my place, I think: he has ever been one to seek knowledge and the power that goes with it. But to give voice to such a rumour... I do not know. That was not honourably done.’

‘You may trust him implicitly, but I do not. I suspected that some such scene was coming,’ Elrohir said. ‘Since we arrived he has been alluding to your new child, or “pet”, or “diversion” at every opportunity, and making oblique comments about your loneliness and the unfairness of those who expect you to endure it forever. You have not spent so much time in the company of Men as I have in recent years, and so perhaps you do not recognize how easily your relationship with Estel might be misconstrued by malicious tongues.’

‘It certainly did not occur to me,’ Gandalf said crossly. ‘Yet how did Saruman know of the boy’s existence in the first place?’

‘It seems almost impossible that he would not know,’ Elrond reflected. ‘He is extraordinarily far-sighted and I would have been astounded if he had no inkling of Estel’s existence. It seems he has no knowledge of his heritage, however, for what was that accusation but a device meant to draw the truth from me?’

‘Or an attempt to humiliate you before the Council,’ Elrohir muttered, his expression suddenly thunderous. ‘He has been trying to slight you since we arrived, as if by discrediting you he might raise his own worth. Yet I think you would rather have him crediting such gutter-gossip than suspecting the truth, would you not? That is why you did not deny his words. You said that you would not trust even Saruman with this.’

‘I said that to Gandalf, and you were not present,’ Elrond remarked shrewdly.

‘Ah, but I was only in the next room, and you did not trouble to lower your voices,’ Elrohir said blithely. ‘Knowing thus how you felt, I thought to lend an air of veracity to the rumour – and play the self-deluding and righteously enraged legitimate.’

The wizard chuckled softly. ‘You seem to have an unusual talent for raising up eavesdroppers,’ he said to Elrond. Then he shook his head. ‘I admit I am uncomfortable with the events of today. Perhaps Saruman was attempting to discredit you. Perhaps it was a ploy to draw out dangerous truths. Perhaps he truly does credit this reprehensible rumour. Whatever the case, it is troublesome.’

Elrond eyed his son. ‘Is this whispered among his folk as well?’ he asked, bracing himself for the worst.

‘Of that I am doubtful,’ Elrohir assured him. ‘With the class of person he seems to employ, it is scarcely possible that they could know of it, without taking every opportunity to snigger behind their hands. If he learned of it from his watchers in the North, they have been circumspect.’

‘Then little damage is done, save to my reputation in the eyes of Radagast,’ Elrond said. ‘Galdor will doubtless have a tale to tell when he returns to Lindon, but Círdan will set him straight. I would endure more trenchant slurs than that in the defence of my children.’

‘Still,’ Elrohir reflected; ‘I do half wish that I had had the opportunity to strike him before you seized me, Gandalf.’

The wizard snorted, but his face was troubled. ‘What do you make of his acquiescence?’ he asked pensively.

‘I do not think we swayed him with our rhetoric,’ said Elrond blandly. ‘Indeed, I doubt that he intended to oppose us at all. Something has changed his mind, but I think it had little to do with you or I. Perhaps he has finally realized that complacency is no longer acceptable.’

‘Perhaps.’ Gandalf shook his head: his mind was elsewhere. Before he could say more, there came a low, rapid knocking.

The door opened before anyone could respond, and Galadriel slipped swiftly into the room. Nodding courteously at the Istar, she moved to place her hand upon Elrond’s cheek.

‘Forgive me, my noble heart,’ she said earnestly, kneeling so that she was looking up into his eyes. ‘I would have sprung to your defence had the choice been mine to make.’

‘I thank you,’ he answered, placing his fingers over hers and drawing her hand respectfully away. ‘But you read my heart aright. I was unwilling to protest: it would have done more harm than good. Your support in that artifice is greatly appreciated.’

‘We are a fine group of conspirators,’ Galadriel said, smiling as she rose to offer Elrohir her hand. He took it, and sprung to his feet, sheathing his sword with care. ‘The guilty adulterer, smitten with astonishment; the grieving mother of the departed wife, dignified even in her disapproval; and the indignant son, offering desperate denials to hide his shame. Well played, dear knight.’

‘Fond thanks, my Queen,’ said Elrohir with an elaborate bow. He grinned and kissed his grandmother’s hand, earning an indulgent smile in return. Elrond noted that his ploy was no surprise to her. Sometimes, he thought, it seemed that the Lady of Lórien understood his son as he never would. Of all his children, Elrohir was most like Galadriel. And strangely, Estel was the most like himself.

Galadriel turned to Gandalf. ‘And what do you think, Mithrandir, of the Leader of the Council? Has he merely abandoned his good manners in an attempt to prove his dominance at the table, or was there some darker motive for such accusations?’

‘I do not know, nor can I imagine what use such information would be to him,’ said Gandalf. ‘Saruman has ever thirsted for knowledge; it galls him to think that there are things in this world of which he knows little. I had thought he was attempting to distract Elrond in an attempt to weaken my part in the debate, but his over-quick consent to action now makes me doubt it.’

‘I, too, wondered at that,’ the lady said. ‘I lingered to ask what had swayed him, but he would say only what he had already remarked: that your preparation was so complete that he felt powerless before it. When I pressed him he admitted, reluctantly, that Radagast’s reports concerned him more than he wished to say. That is something, at least, upon which Curunír and I agree without question. If the Enemy is breeding orcs in Mirkwood, we have passed beyond the tipping-point of peril. Let us not question Saruman’s show of support, but rather be thankful for it.’

‘Wise words, indeed,’ Gandalf acceded. ‘Then there is nothing to do but wait until he has mustered his folk, and remove to Lothlórien.’

‘There is one thing to do,’ Elrond contradicted. He raised his hand, fixing his index finger upon his son. ‘If you are to play the part of the scandalized legitimate, then now that doubt has been cast upon your heart you must remove yourself from my hated presence. I want you to ride for Lórien at once, and if Glorfindel’s forces have not yet arrived, assemble a party from among the Galadhrim and seek him out in the mountains. Ensure that my folk understand that they are to say nothing of Estel or the Lady Gilraen or anything else that has transpired in the Valley over these last ten years. Remind them all of the importance of secrecy. Do not argue with me,’ he said austerely, when Elrohir moved as if to speak. ‘You have chosen this role for yourself: now play it properly.’

For a moment Elrohir looked as if he was about to argue, but his shoulders slumped as the truth of his father’s words struck home. ‘I will keep up the charade,’ he pledged. ‘I’ll send Andras to serve as your personal guard: he is the most reliable in a tight place. Have Calmiel ride behind you when you depart: she has sharp eyes and a quick arm.’

‘I shall do that,’ Elrond promised. ‘My heart will not cease to beat merely because you are not on hand to supervise its rhythms.’

‘All the same,’ Elrohir said; ‘I do not like leaving such things to chance.’

lar

Days stretched into weeks, and Gilraen waited tirelessly upon her cousin. Now that Halion had regained consciousness, there was much to be done to ease his discomfort and speed his recovery. There were compresses to apply to soothe and heal his bruises. The bandages on his leg needed to be changed every day. He was as helpless as a small child, unable to attend to his body’s most basic needs without assistance, and with care and patience to rival any Elven nurse, Gilraen attended him. She cleaned the blood from his mouth and his hair and the contours of his ears, and she brought him savoury broths and sweet concoctions of milk and honey and spices to tempt his uneasy stomach and strengthen his battered body. She sang to him and comforted him in his pain, and she read to him. She even shaved his face, thought it was difficult to say which of them was more nervous at such a prospect.

Through it all, Halion was remarkably patient and uncomplaining. As the inflammation receded and he regained normal use of his mouth and tongue, he questioned her about her flight to Rivendell and her life therein. Most of all he desired reports of Estel’s accomplishments – how swiftly could he run, how many tongues could he speak, was he learning the secrets of lore that only Master Elrond could teach? Gilraen answered as best she could, but she struggled to keep her answers pleasant and benign. She did not wish to burden her dear friend with any intimation of unhappiness: however bravely he bore the pain of his injuries and the realization that he would never again roam the Wild, she could read his anguish in his eyes, and she could not bear to add to it.

On the sixteenth day since his awakening, Halion at last voiced some of the misery that haunted him.

She had laid out fresh dressings, and was removing those wound about his abbreviated thigh. As the last layers of linen came away and she moved to place the new pads, he reached out to stay her hand.

‘Leave that for a moment,’ he said, staring down at the arcing line of angry crimson, where until a few days ago neat stitches had held a flap of skin and muscle over the denuded bone. The resection was healing beautifully, Elladan said with grief in his eyes, but to Gilraen the wound looked hideous, the rounded stump an affront to the senses. She reflected bitterly that it must look still more ghastly to Halion, for it was his doom, sentencing him to the life of a cripple – useless to his folk in their bitter labours, superannuated before even reaching the prime of his life.

‘It is not a pretty sight, is it, coz?’ Halion murmured. ‘Tell me, what is a one-legged Ranger to do with himself?’

‘Return home,’ Gilraen said, the words catching in her throat. How she longed to do the same... but she could not burden him with that. ‘Go back to the village, to your mother’s house.’ She tried to affect a merry tone. ‘You shall be the most eligible catch there is: a husband who will not go riding away.’

His face crumpled wretchedly, and she knew that she had misspoken. ‘Oh, Gilraen, I forgot you did not know,’ he said mournfully. He reached out to take her hand and a sad smile touched his lips. ‘I am wed now three years. Had I known that you lived, I would have sent word. Had I thought for a moment, I would have told you sooner than this.’

‘But that is glad news indeed!’ Gilraen protested. Tears prickled in her eyes, joy and loneliness intermingled. She should have been present, to dance at his wedding, to plait flowers into the hair of his bride. Instead she lived in exile, forgotten by her kin. ‘Whom did you marry?’

Halion chuckled ruefully. ‘Andreth,’ he said.

A caw of amusement spilled from Gilraen’s lips. ‘How she hounded you!’ she chuckled, remembering the bright-eyed girl of nineteen who had so relentlessly pursued the gallant young man Halion had been.

‘Her persistence was rewarded,’ the Ranger said, curling his lip. The good humour ebbed suddenly away. ‘And now it seems, grievously punished. She wedded a man, and now she will be left with a cripple.’

Halion was staring down at his hands, at the broken fingers still splinted against their neighbours and the fading bile-coloured bruises on his palms, covering sword-calluses that would soon be nothing more than a memory. Gilraen did not trust herself to speak, but she did so anyway.

‘She will be grateful not to have been left a widow,’ she said, her voice cracking painfully. ‘That it something the men do not understand: we care not how you return to us, so long as there is breath in your bodies and love in your hearts.’

He looked up, his eyes filled with torment. ‘She begged me to delay, to tarry until autumn. With the child still so young, none would have begrudged it. I told her...’ He let fall a bitter sigh. ‘I told her I was needed. It was true; it is true yet. They need every man, but now I am useless to them. Had I but heeded her plea...’

‘Had you heeded her plea you would still have two legs,’ Gilraen said quietly; ‘and you could roam out again to watch and to fight, and one day you would be slain, and she would have no husband and your child no father.’

‘Better a dead father to remember in honour than a beggar on a crutch, unable to wield blade or serve his people,’ Halion said bitterly. ‘It would have been kinder to my family if I had perished in the mountains.’

‘Do not say that!’ Gilraen cried. ‘Never say that! You do not understand – you cannot know...’ She could not stem the tide, but buried her face in her hands, ashamed to have him witness her tears. ‘I would rather have Arathorn legless, armless, utterly unmanned, to lie beside me in the night and to whisper my name with love and to watch our son grow to noble manhood; I would rather have that than all the glory and riches of Arda. It is sinful to wish that you had perished! How can you wish such a doom on those you love?’

With a soft grunt of discomfort as his muscles moved against his healing ribs, Halion sat up, leaning forward to place his hand upon the crown of her head. ‘Forgive me, love,’ he said softly, stroking her hair. ‘Oh, Gilraen, forgive me. I am weary and I have not yet made peace with my fate. I did not think what I was saying. I do not wish for death. I am grateful that I shall see my son again. Oh, Gilraen, please forgive my thoughtlessness.’

‘You said there was hope...’ she sobbed softly. ‘You said it... you said...’

‘There is,’ Halion promised. ‘There is hope for all of us, woman, Ranger, cripple alike. Our people will survive. They will endure. Fifteen years – it is not such a long time. Then the Heir of Isildur can return to his folk. I shall raise my son to serve him, and to fight at his side. There is little left for we who have lost so much, but we still have hope, and the promise of a brighter future. Our fates are hard, our lives are bitter; but you have given hope to all of us.’

Gilraen drew in a sundering breath and raised her head. She looked into the earnest eyes of her childhood friend, and she gathered her strength. She straightened her back and composed her features. ‘Yes,’ she said with quiet resolve. ‘I have done that, at least.’

Halion looked down at his severed leg. ‘I suppose you ought to wrap it again,’ he ventured. ‘I would not want infection to set in.’

Nodding, she obeyed. The practical activity soothed her and allowed her to master herself. ‘A son,’ she said, smiling with tear-streaked cheeks. ‘How old is he?’

‘He was six weeks of age when I departed. He’ll be nearly three months old by now,’ Halion answered, a little hoarsely. ‘He’s a beautiful baby, coz. I wish you could see him. He has a truly absurd head of dark hair.’

Gilraen managed an appreciative smile. ‘If only I could,’ she said.

‘Why can’t you? I know there is need for secrecy, but our folk can be trusted. A visit home would do you no end of good: I can see how lonely you are among the Elves,’ Halion said. 'Else why would you endure my tedious company?'

‘I could not risk it,’ Gilraen told him regretfully. ‘The Enemy is hunting for the Heir of Isildur. Master Elrond holds that utter secrecy is necessary.’

Something in her tone must have betrayed her feelings, for Halion frowned. ‘You do not speak fondly of the Lord of the Valley,’ he said. ‘He is spoken of as a gracious and a generous host. Has he treated you discourteously?’ The grim gleam in his eyes clearly declared that if such were the case neither gratitude for his life, nor any missing limb would prevent him from avenging her.

‘No. Never,’ Gilraen said. She sighed. Here at last was someone to whom she could express the hurt that had festered in her breast since her earliest days in Imladris. ‘It is Estel. Elrond has taken the place of his father in all things. He oversees his education, he tends him when he is ill, and he instructs him in matters of morality.’

Halion seemed bewildered. ‘These all seem like laudable acts,’ he said.

‘He looks upon Estel as his son, and Estel loves him as a father,’ Gilraen said. ‘He runs to him with his accomplishments, he seeks him when he has questions. When he wakes in the night, trembling in the throes of night terrors, it is Elrond’s comfort that he seeks – not mine. It is as if he does not even belong to me.’

‘You envy the Elf-lord,’ Halion said. ‘You feel that he has taken from you that which is yours by right.’

‘And Arathorn’s by right! Estel should love his natural father, not a stranger, however wise and merciful! Yet he must be kept from all knowledge of his sire, and he is pressed to seek affection from one who is hardly to be considered kin!’ Gilraen hung her head. ‘I know it is wicked to feel such jealously. I understand that Master Elrond cares deeply for my son, and I know how Estel loves and reveres him. I am selfish and ungrateful. I am trying to overcome those feelings, but I find that all I am able to do is control my behaviour; and even that I cannot always manage.’

‘That is a beginning,’ Halion said soberly. ‘Mayhap in time the feelings will pass. In the meanwhile, when you can spare a moment think on this. Aragor—Estel is fortunate: being robbed of a father he has found another whom you say loves him deeply. What is better: that he should grow up dispossessed and fatherless, or that he should find love and consolation in the bosom of one who can scarcely be counted kin? Is it not enough to see him nurtured and cared for? Does it matter who does it? Three months past I held my new-born son, and I tell you that if I had died in the mountains, my last desire would have been that Halbarad might grow to manhood in the care of one who loved him and cared for him as I no longer could. If Arathorn could speak to you now, he would say this: be thankful for the blessing of Master Elrond’s love, for it is of greater value to your son than all the riches in the world. It is a lonely road that you must walk, dearest cousin, but be happy at least that Estel need not share it.’

Gilraen could not speak, but she nodded tremulously. She could hear the wisdom in his words, and she thought, perhaps, that she understood. She would try again, she vowed silently. She would strive to school her stubborn heart.