Chapter XXXI: Unrelenting Torment

Four hours remained until dawn, and the Last Homely House was serene in the starlight. In the upstairs gallery, Estel was pacing frenetically from one end to the other. He had been trying to work on his lessons, but he had found himself unable to focus. He was restless and agitated, and so he had come up here, where he could walk as swiftly as he wanted and work off some of his restive energy.

The same uneasiness had struck him the night before, but then Elladan had been sitting up in the library, and Estel had been able to go to him seeking distraction. Tonight Elladan was in bed, having spent most of the day sequestered with Erestor. He had assumed the larger part of his father’s responsibilities, relieving the lore-master of the unwanted burdens. Erestor had no great love of such labour, and it was obvious even to a child that he was relieved to pass it on into the capable hands of his lord’s eldest son.

Elladan’s injuries were healing well. He had recovered most of the motion in his arm, and he had at last replaced the wooden brace on his ankle with wool wadding and a winding bandage. Though from what Estel had overheard it did not seem that he would be riding after Glorfindel’s legions, the boy was afraid that Elladan would soon be leaving the Valley again to resume his patrols. The thought quickened his hammering heart and filled him with sudden anxiety. He felt so isolated, so alone... abandoned by those whom he loved and left to the hissing whispers in his mind.

Though he would have been grateful at this moment for her company, he was thankful at least that his mother was too busy to notice his distraction. She no longer sat up through the night, for her days were spent with the Dúnadan who had lost his leg. Estel supposed that they must have been quite good friends when they were young, and not mere acquaintances as Elladan had postulated. He had never given much thought to where Rangers came from, but now that he had given it some thought he supposed that they must start life as little boys, much like himself, and where would mortal children live but in the villages of Men? When Atar returned, Estel would have to ask him for more information on this subject, for he knew so little about the race of Men in these days when the cities of the North had long crumbled to dust.

When Atar returned? If Atar returned. Estel halted in his pacing, shivering convulsively at the thought. His father had ridden away against the Necromancer. He might never come home.

His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps now, as the low, hateful voice spun visions of the death of Elrond. His fëa would fly to Mandos, where he might heal and someday take form again. Then he would be reunited with his departed wife, and dwell in peace in Aman. He would not remember the little mortal boy who was not his true son. Forgotten and alone, Estel would live his short life in misery and he too would die, and not even the hills would remember him...

‘No!’ he cried out, his young voice fragile and feeble in the echoing gallery. ‘No...’ It was a whisper now. Some part of his mind protested desperately that his atar would not forget him, never! Not even if his spirit was sundered from his body. Not even if oceans separated them. Not even if Estel perished and his soul fled the circles of the world...

But the other voice laughed. Remember him? A worthless, cowardly little mortal? Wretched, sickly, afraid of the darkness... why would a mighty Elf-lord remember him? Perhaps Atar had ridden away because he had grown tired of caring for a weak man-child. Perhaps...

Estel clapped his hands to his ears, as if by doing so he could drive out the hateful thoughts. The back of his throat prickled as he fought the urge to weep. Why was his mind turning against him? It mustn’t be true, it couldn’t be true... but the doubt and the panic were insidious, clawing viciously at his heart. He almost wished for the nightmares, because as filled with violence and terror and unspeakable evil as they were, at least they did not prey upon his secret fears and these strange new feelings of inadequacy.

He did not know where to go. There was nowhere he could hide, for the torment was in his mind. He thought briefly of creeping down to Elladan’s room to wake the kind warrior and beg him for comfort, but the hissing in his mind forbade it. If Elrond had no use for him then he was worthless to his sons as well. Elladan was fond of him, Estel protested feebly – but he was no longer certain that he believed it.

The gallery seemed vast and threatening now, as if evil things lurked in the alcoves, waiting to spring upon him. Fearfully Estel looked about, and then he ran, speeding from the long walkway and taking the stairs so quickly that he almost overbalanced. There was one place he could go, one person whose rejection even the voices could not make convincing.

He scarcely saw the doors that flew past as his feet found their way to his mother’s apartments. Once inside, he closed the anteroom door and leaned against it, chest heaving. He had to calm himself. If she heard him, she would awaken, and then she would be pained. Frantically, desperately he drew in slow and steady breaths, fighting for control. As long as he focused on his breathing, he could not hear the cruel whisperings of his heart. He closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly. Quietly.

When he deemed that he was no longer huffing like a mountain bear, he crept forward, his soft shoes making little sound. His mother’s door stood ajar, and he slipped into her room. She was lying on her stomach, her dark plait curling over her back. In the faint light from the window, he could see that her face was peaceful. Her body rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

Estel wanted to wake her, to find comfort in her arms, but he could not. She was working so hard, tending to the wounded Man. She needed her rest. She shouldn’t worry about him as well as the Ranger. That was unfair.

Her arm was draped over the coverlet, her fingers curled around the edge of the mattress. Estel lowered himself to his knees, wary of making any sound. He crawled to the side of the bed and sat upon the floor, leaning against the shallow box in which the mattress nestled. Carefully, delicately he lifted his mother’s hand, turning it a little. He bent his back and rested his ear against the mattress, contorted into a position that he knew would soon become uncomfortable. He did not care. He lowered his mother’s hand gently, resting it upon the side of his face. With his own hand he pressed her palm to his cheek, closing his eyes.

He wanted to weep. He had not realized how much he had come to miss her touch in these last few weeks while each had slept through the waking hours of the other. He knew that his increasing independence and his love of his foster-father sometimes made her feel extraneous and useless. But he was still a young boy, in recent days assailed by doubts and starved for affection, and he needed his mother. Even now, the illusion of her comfort eased his frenetic thoughts. It was easier to suppress the wicked whisperings when he could feel the thrum of her blood in the artery that ran to her thumb. Estel reached with his free hand and laid it upon her back. Now he could feel her breathing also. It was a poor substitute for a loving embrace, but the hateful hissing voice snarled that it was more than he deserved. He was grateful.

lar

Gilraen awoke to the distant sounds of the morning. She lay still for a moment, revelling in the comfort of her warm pillow. The world was not so grim now as it had been. She had been visited by sweet dreams of home, unsullied by hurt or loss or fear. She could still feel a gentle hand against the small of her back – the touch of a friend or a loved one, perhaps.

With a soft sigh of contentment, she stirred. There was a gasp and a sudden sound of someone scrambling about. Startled out of her pleasant reverie, Gilraen flipped onto her back and sat up, eyes shooting open.

When she saw who it was who had invaded her sanctuary, she smiled.

‘Good day, my dear one!’ she said. Estel was standing with his hands behind him and his back pressed to the wall by the door. His eyes were wide and his chest was heaving: it seemed that her awakening had startled him. Gilraen held out her arms. ‘Come, darling. Did I surprise you?’

There was desperation in his eyes as he bolted forward, clamouring onto the bed and climbing into her lap. Gilraen twined her arms about him, drawing him into a fond embrace. His hands reached around her and he hugged her tightly. She laughed softly into his hair. ‘Why, Estel, what has come over you?’ she asked. A dark thought surfaced: her first of the day. ‘You did not fall into dreams, did you?’

The boy shook his head against her. ‘I seem quite used to staying awake all night,’ he said quietly. He did not sound distressed or frightened, but it had been a long time since he had held her so firmly just for the pleasure of it.

‘Is something amiss?’ Gilraen asked gently, petting his hair.

He hesitated, and then let loose a tiny, wistful sigh. ‘I have missed you,’ he confessed, sounding rather guilty at the admission.

‘Oh, dear heart, I’m sorry,’ Gilraen said, rocking a little though really he was growing too old now to be held thus. ‘I’ve been neglecting you.’

‘I understand,’ Estel said. ‘The injured Dúnadan needs your attentions more than I. It is good of you to help him: it is a work of mercy.’ He sounded like Elrond, she thought, catching herself on the cusp of annoyance as she hearkened back to Halion’s words. Better that he should have someone to love and admire than live dispossessed and fatherless...

‘All the same, Estel, I am your mother, and of late I have been forgetting it,’ she told him. ‘We shall have to do something together this evening.’

‘No. No, that is not necessary: I can amuse myself,’ Estel said. His embrace tightened, and Gilraen reciprocated. His next words were whispered: ‘I only wanted to hug you; that is all.’

Gilraen closed her eyes in quiet bliss. Her dear little boy... this was what made life worth living. This sweet child, her only beloved one. The hope for her people.

‘Shall we dine together?’ she asked. ‘You must be ready to sup, and I need to break my fast.’

Estel nodded against her shoulder. ‘Mother?’ he asked after a moment. ‘Might I then meet the wounded Ranger?’

Gilraen thought of Halion, lying helpless in bed and fighting for hope. ‘Nothing, I think, would give him more pleasure than to see you,’ she said.

lar

Estel watched with sombre eyes as his mother opened the door to the room in which the injured man lay. As he had hoped, she seemed pleased by his desire to visit the Dúnadan. Furthermore Estel was curious, now that the sun had risen and the hateful voice had remitted. He had never before met someone whose limb had been amputated, and furthermore he wondered what sort of a man might so engage his mother.

‘Ai, you are awake,’ Mother said, entering the room and setting down the breakfast tray that she bore. ‘Let me help you.’

Estel lingered in the doorway, watching as his mother bent so that the man could wrap an arm around her neck. She helped him to pull himself into an upright position, arranging the cushions to support him. She took a bolster and placed it under his remaining knee, supporting him so that he would not slip forward in the bed. Estel could not help looking at the stump where his other leg had been. It was neatly dressed and free of any sign of bleeding or infection beneath the bandage, and yet it had an ugly, unnatural appearance. The sight made him feel uneasy.

Mother arranged the man’s smock neatly and covered him to the waist with the bedclothes. Then she picked up a comb and brushed back his hair, teasing out the knots with her fingers.

‘There,’ she said fondly. ‘Now you are fit to be seen – though you really do need to be shaved again.’

‘Alack!’ the man said, a strained smile visiting his lips. ‘We were both fortunate enough to survive the first attempt... dare we hope to endure another? But who is this?’ His voice was suddenly hoarse and his shadowed eyes grew wide as he espied Estel.

Mother smiled and gestured that the boy should come forward. ‘This is my son,’ she said softly, her voice infused with such love and pride that Estel felt suddenly self-conscious. But he had been raised to be polite, whatever his feelings, and he stepped up to the foot of the bed.

Executing a precise, graceful bow, he said, ‘I am Estel son of Gilraen and ward of the Lord Elrond. It is an honour to meet you: Elladan son of Elrond speaks highly of your valour.’

The Dúnadan stared at him, and for a moment his mouth worked soundlessly as he slowly shook his head. ‘He should not bow to me,’ he said, his voice coarsened with shock and dismay. ‘Child, do not bow to me!’

Estel glanced warily at his mother, wondering how he had erred. She smiled. ‘Pay it no mind, Halion: he has learned courtesy from the Master of Rivendell himself. You ought to introduce yourself.’

The young man nodded numbly. ‘I am Halion son of Hallach, a-at your service.’ His eyes were fixed on Estel, and suddenly the boy felt uncomfortable, as if this man knew something about him that he did not know himself.

His mother seemed to sense his discomfort, for she moved to place a comforting hand upon his shoulder. ‘Halion and I are dear friends,’ she said. ‘We were children together in the little village where I was born.’

The Dúnadan’s expression grew less intense and he smiled. ‘Your mother had a talent for climbing trees,’ he said; ‘if once one could coax her to lay by her dignity and get off of the ground.’

Estel laughed softly, looking up at her. ‘Truly, Mother?’ he asked. It was difficult to imagine her hitching up her kirtle and shimmying up into the spreading branches of an oak.

She nodded, flushing a little. ‘I am afraid so,’ she said. ‘I drove your grandmother to distraction, I fear.’

Halion was eyeing Estel in wonder again. ‘Come nearer, Estel,’ he said softly. ‘Let me touch your hand.’

The boy obeyed, reaching out for the Ranger’s bandaged fingers. The man studied his palm in wonder, and gripped it as best he could. He met Estel’s eyes. ‘I never hoped to see you again,’ he marvelled softly. ‘I...’ He stopped and looked at Mother. ‘I held you when you were a small baby,’ he finished weakly, but Estel could tell that that was not what he had been about to say.

A question sprang to the tip of his tongue, but he glanced at his mother and repressed it sternly. He had long ago pledged never to speak of his father in her presence, for it brought her nothing but pain. As much as he wanted to learn if this man had known his sire, he restrained himself.

‘Will you remain in Imladris now?’ he asked. ‘When Atarinya returns he will make you most welcome.’ He was astonished to discover that now, standing in a sunlit room, he was less doubtful that his foster-father would return alive and well.

Halion looked questioningly at Mother. ‘Master Elrond,’ she explained, her voice straining only a little. ‘In the high Elven tongue it means...’

‘Ai, I know. The Peredhil brethren use the same epithet,’ the man said, pity and comprehension in his eyes. He turned again to the boy. ‘No, Estel, I shall not remain here forever. Once my ribs have healed and I have regained sufficient strength I must return to my home. My family awaits me.’

‘I am glad you have a family,’ Estel said gravely. ‘You are very dear to my mother, and I would not wish you to be alone.’

‘Thank you,’ said Halion. ‘Those are kind words indeed. I hope my own son may grow to be half so well-spoken.’

‘But now, my well-spoken one, to bed,’ Mother said, stroking Estel’s hair. Ordinarily he would have been affronted by such an undignified caress, particularly in front of the Dúnadan, but Estel was tired and it felt good to be loved. He nodded complacently.

Halion reached out to touch his arm. ‘I must thank you for coming to visit a sorry invalid,’ he said. ‘It has eased my heart greatly to see you and speak to you – Estel.’

‘I am glad indeed to have spoken with you,’ Estel said honestly. ‘Perhaps we may find an opportunity to do so again some evening.’

‘I would like that,’ the Ranger murmured.

‘Run along, love,’ Mother said. ‘I’ll come by in a little while to tuck you in.’

Estel slipped from the room, and as he went he could hear his mother cajoling the man about his breakfast. She seemed so happy to have someone to care for. It was so hard for her to have a growing son who did not need her so often as once he did.

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Autumn was upon them. Every day the Sun rose a little later, set a little earlier. Each night was longer than the last. Estel found the darkness oppressive. He was burdened by dread and indistinct anxieties, and as the days drew on they seemed to worsen. The feelings took longer to fade, too, once the daylight came, and he found himself slow to settle into sleep. He was uneasy and skittish when left to his own devices, and in the presence of others he found himself growing wary, cagey lest he should voice some of the uncertainties that troubled him.

But Atar had taught him that it was a courageous thing to trust others, and that if he chose well those in whom he placed his trust he would be rewarded. So one night, when the whisperings of his heart were at their most hateful, he defied them with all of his strength of will and went to his father’s study, where Elladan sat working.

The Peredhil looked up as he entered. ‘Why, good evening,’ he said, smiling warmly. ‘Do come in. Have you finished your lessons for the night?’

Estel shook his head and closed the door carefully, though before it had stood ajar. He turned to the adult, who was watching him in quiet concern. ‘Please... I need to tell you something,’ he whispered.

Elladan nodded gravely. He set down his quill and rose, moving towards the chairs by the hearth, and held out his hand. Estel moved to take it, and let himself be settled into a seat.

‘Now, tell me,’ Elladan said. ‘Whatever it is that troubles you, I will do all that is in my power to help.’

His words were so fair and gentle that for a moment Estel could not even hear the taunting, goading hiss that told him the warrior was only being polite, that the problems of one self-centred little boy meant nothing to him. But the voice surfaced at last and Estel, worn down with fighting it, clutched his temples and whimpered a little. ‘I think I am going mad,’ he breathed, the words coming out in a single swift exhalation.

For a moment Elladan stared at him, utterly bereft of speech. ‘What would cause you to think such a thing?’ he asked at last, almost serenely.

Tears sprung to Estel’s eyes. ‘There is a voice in my mind,’ he confessed miserably. Was there any surer sign of madness?

‘We all have many voices within us,’ Elladan said. ‘Our minds are in constant debate with themselves. That does not mean that you are mad.’

‘It is not like other voices,’ Estel protested, weeping despite his best efforts to master himself. ‘It is not reasonable. It is not driven by passions or emotions. It is not my conscience, or my intellect, or the part of my mind that translates things into other tongues. It is as if every fear and every doubt within me has been given a mouth, and they cry out more loudly than ever before, and I cannot stop them and I cannot run from them and I am afraid of what I will do if they do not stop!’

Suddenly Elladan was gripping his hands, leaning forward and staring intently into his eyes. ‘Estel, what do you mean—’ When the boy tried to look away, the warrior seized his chin in finger and thumb and turned his face so that he could not. ‘Estel, what do you mean, you are afraid of what you will do?’ he demanded, his voice low and anxious and deathly serious. ‘What is it that the voice is trying to urge you to do?’

‘Nothing; anything,’ Estel said. It was crying out to him now, scolding him for his tears, upbraiding him for his foolishness, spinning elaborate and horrific scenarios of revilement and rejection. ‘It makes me want to run away, into the mountains. It makes me want to hide where no one can find me. It does not like me to eat, it does not want me to sleep. It... it says I am not wanted. It says I am cowardly. It says I am doomed to falter and to fall.’

There was fear in Elladan’s eyes now, and Estel felt his own terror mounting. The Peredhil saw it, and he attempted to compose his features, releasing his hold on Estel’s face and placing his hand on the child’s shoulder instead. ‘Do you hear this voice all the time?’

Estel shook his head. ‘It is worst at night. By noon it can no longer touch me – not until dusk.’

Elladan closed his eyes as if he had been struck by a sharply slapping hand. ‘How long have you endured it?’ he asked.

‘Two months and more,’ Estel whispered. ‘At first it was only a murmur, a hiss in my heart. It has been growing steadily worse since Atarinya departed. W-what can I do?’

‘I do not know,’ admitted Elladan. He sounded as if his heart would break. ‘This is a matter beyond my power to address. If our father were here, perhaps he could find some way to drive forth the voices and give you peace, but he is far away and you and I are left alone.’ He turned his head away, staring into the candles on the mantelpiece. He appeared to be debating in his heart, for at last his face hardened with resolve. ‘There is one thing only that I can do,’ he said. ‘I can promise you that I will not allow you to act upon the goading in your mind.’

‘How can you make such a promise?’ Estel asked. He could hear the hissing: it was impossible. No one could help him. No one could save him. No one would want to. He was alone, all alone in a hostile world, and he would be found. They would find him and they would destroy him and no one would care...

‘I will be your guard, your watcher,’ Elladan said. ‘You will remain with me at all times: when you sup, when you read, when you walk in the gardens. We will sleep in one bed, and I will set myself to wake of you should chance to stir. You will never be more than three strides from my side, and I will watch over you. If you try to run, I will follow you. If you try to hide, I shall be at your side. If you try to harm yourself in any way, or to do something foolish that might imperil your life, I will stop you. It is hard,’ he added sadly; ‘when you cannot rule yourself with reason. Let me protect you in the only way I know.’

‘What will become of me when you leave?’ the child asked. His head was filled with cruel laughter. Of course the Peredhil would leave! He had duties to discharge and great deeds to do! He had no time for a whinging mortal!

‘I will not leave,’ Elladan promised. ‘Until the Master returns to the Valley, I will stay and watch over you. The orcs can wait: Eriador will endure for a time with one less sword to her defence. I am not indispensable, but you are. You must survive, whatever the cost.’

Why? The voice taunted. What was the life of one craven boy? These great folk did not care, could not care. ‘He does care!’ Estel cried, the words startled from his lips as his rational mind tried to fight off the phantoms. He realized that he had spoken aloud, and he looked at Elladan in dismay. Instead of rejection he saw only grief and empathy in the grey eyes.

‘Say that you agree,’ he urged. ‘Say it now, before your mind can sow its doubts.’

‘I—I agree,’ Estel said haltingly. ‘Please... please, I do not want to listen to it, but I do not know how my strength can last. Help me.’

Elladan nodded fervently. ‘I promise, I will help you.’

‘But we must not tell my mother!’ Estel exclaimed anxiously. ‘I do not want to frighten her.’

‘We cannot keep this from her,’ Elladan said. ‘I will explain as gently as I may, but this is too grave a matter to keep from her. She must understand that evil is whispering in your heart, and that you and I will attempt to fight it.’

‘She will weep,’ Estel protested. It seemed as if he would drown in his misery.

‘I do not know,’ Elladan said. ‘The Lady Gilraen is a doughty lady. Beneath her pain and vulnerability there lies a core of steel, as supple as the blades of Westernesse. She will not break so easily as you might think.’

The hissing voice disagreed.