Chapter XXXVI: The Homeward Road

The nights were cold now, and in the mornings the windows of the Last Homely House were painted with frost. A day came at last when a contingent of three Rangers arrived to collect their comrade and to see him safely home. The following morning, Gilraen woke before dawn to help her cousin dress for the trail. He had been apprehensive the night before about meeting his comrades, useless as he now was to them, but they had greeted him warmly – glad, as Gilraen had been, to see him alive at all. This morning, Halion was almost eager as he let her tug on his lone boot, and smiled wryly as she shook out his heavy cloak, half-lined in fur to protect his weakened body from the cold, and draped it over his shoulders.

‘I look almost my own self again, do I not?’ he asked, hopping forward and balancing himself with care, adjusting the drab garment so that it concealed his left side. Gilraen stiffened, searching for signs of self-pity or despair, but he smirked. ‘Be a good lass, coz, and pass me my other leg.’

She reached for the crutch and held it out for him to take. He tucked it under his arm with practiced ease, and then hobbled up to her. With his free hand he gripped her shoulder. ‘It is time for us to part,’ he said. Then he curled his arm around her shoulder, hugging her close. ‘I’m so thankful that I can utter my farewells like this. I never thought to see you again.’

‘Nor I you,’ Gilraen said. Then her voice broke and she reached to clasp her hand around the back of his neck, hiding her eyes against his cloak. ‘Oh, Halion, I am so glad that you are not riding forth again to hazard your life in the Wild. I’m sorry; I know it is selfish. But it does my heart good to know that Andreth will never suffer what I have suffered... and little Halbarad. Please, if ever you despair think first of them.’

Halion smiled sadly and nodded his head. ‘I promise I shall,’ he said. Then he smiled deprecatingly. ‘Do you think that a one-legged man can learn to hobble behind a plough? Even half a man will be a great boon to the village if he could manage that.’

‘Surely you can.’ Gilraen cast about the room one last time, ensuring that all of her cousin’s scant possessions were gathered into the saddle-bag. She hoisted it with care, and together they moved from the chamber and down the corridor. In the entryway the other Rangers were waiting, well-wrapped against the cold. Erestor and Elladan stood to one side, discharging the duties of the lord of the house, and sitting in a chair by the door was Estel.

He looked pale and tired, but no longer so haunted as he had. He swore that he was afflicted no more with dark murmurings, and he had regained his appetite, but he was still suffering from dreams. He insisted that they were no longer so terrible, and when Elladan had questioned him he had admitted them to be ‘different’ from his earlier night-terrors, though he could not or would not explain how. He was very quiet these days, and seldom did he laugh or even smile. At a loss as to how to help him, the three adults tried to accommodate his needs as best they could. His daily schedule had become an erratic thing, hours of dreary study or half-hearted play broken by uneasy slumber.

Now, seeing his mother and the one-legged Dúnadan approaching, Estel got quickly to his feet and stepped hesitantly forward. Gilraen smiled her encouragement and Estel approached Halion. He moved as if to bow, but then appeared to remember how such a gesture had been received before. He stood, a little awkwardly with his hands clasped behind his back, and said; ‘It is wonderful that you are well enough to return home at last, though we are sorry to see you go. Perhaps someday you might find the opportunity to visit us again. You would be most welcome.’

Halion’s eyes were briefly veiled in mist. ‘Thank you, young master,’ he said softly. His free hand twitched forward as if he wished once more to touch the boy, but he diverted it at the last moment, gripping his crutch and adjusting its seat beneath his other arm. ‘I, too, have high hopes that we shall meet again someday.’

Suddenly shy, Estel retreated to Elladan’s side, looking up at the warrior with a question in his eyes. ‘Very prettily put,’ Elladan assured him. ‘I doubt that Atar himself could have done better.’

Estel flushed at the words of praise, and Erestor put a fond hand upon his shoulder. Halion turned once more to Gilraen. ‘Take care, my dear,’ he said lovingly. ‘Do not lose sight of hope.’

Gilraen could not speak, but she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. Halion touched her jaw briefly and then turned to hobble towards his escort. He halted at the threshold and looked back.

‘Son of Elrond,’ he said; ‘could you do me the kindness of coming out to show my fellows how to aid me in mounting? I fear I would explain it but poorly, and I should not like tumble from a horse to immure me here till spring.’

It was a pretext, Gilraen realized. Halion was very good indeed at explaining things, and in any case the Rangers were no fools. Her cousin had something that he wished to say to Elladan where she could not hear him. For a moment she was irritated at the realization, but then it occurred to her that the matter might have nothing whatsoever to do with her. The menfolk, after all, had their secrets, and the safeguarding of Eriador necessitated deeds and sacrifices from which they tried to protect their fairer kin. As the five woodsmen moved outside, Gilraen strode over to Estel and Erestor.

‘What about some breakfast, dear heart?’ she asked her son, stroking his hair.

‘Mother!’ he hissed, colouring with mortification and brushing her hand away. ‘Do not do that!’

‘Very well,’ she said, heartened a little by his response. When he had been so ill and tormented, he had not resisted such gestures of affection. Perhaps he was healing after all, in spite of the lingering dreams. ‘But I insist that you eat: if you continue to shoot up without fleshing out a little, you will wither like a bean-pole and waste away to nothing. How would I explain that to Master Elrond?’

Estel’s face crumpled wretchedly, and Gilraen instantly regretted her words. She drew him into a consoling embrace. ‘Oh, love,’ she said; ‘he’ll be home soon. Surely he’ll be home soon.’

‘But you do not know that,’ Estel whispered. There were tears in his eyes, and their grey had darkened to the colour of slate. ‘Even if he survived the battle, the mountains are dangerous...’

‘There is no use dwelling on that,’ Gilraen said, remembering words that her own mother had spoken time and again. ‘You cannot think too hard about those who have gone away, or you will never accomplish anything in their absence. Now, I am your mother and you must obey me; and now I declare that it is time for you to eat.’

‘Very well,’ Estel said complacently. He took his mother’s hand and squeezed it tightly. Despite the anxiety still carved into his face, he managed a small smile of gratitude.

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One of the Rangers held the reins of Halion’s horse while Elladan helped him to mount. It was no easy task, but in the end he was settled in the saddle, leaning to his left to compensate for the uneven distribution of weight. His crutch was strapped like a longbow across his back, and he tugged his hood low against the frost of the morning. Elladan took the edge of the Ranger's cloak and tucked it around his stump, a pang of regret assailing him as he touched the severed limb.

‘I cannot express how much I regret this,’ he murmured. ‘I should never have led you into such danger; I should have expected the assault; I should have—’

Halion shook his head. ‘You did all that you could, and your resolve saved my life,’ he said. ‘Because of you, I am free to return to my wife and my son. Thank you.’

Elladan swallowed forcefully. ‘If there is any way that I can serve you, you have only to say,’ he pledged.

‘There is,’ Halion said softly, his eyes darting back towards the house. ‘Protect him. Teach him. We will have need of him one day.’

‘Of course,’ Elladan whispered. ‘I promise that when the time comes I will bring him back as I have taken him.’

Halion closed his eyes, for a moment overcome. Then he looked down upon the Peredhil again, and leaned low so that the others could not hear. ‘A word of advice,’ he said. ‘My cousin. She is not happy here.’

‘I know,’ mourned Elladan. ‘I fear she will never find true happiness: that died one night in the mountains, when she was far away. We comfort her as we can, and her son brings her what little joy she has. I know not what more we can do.’

‘There is one thing,’ Halion said softly. ‘She is not a high-born princess, raised in idleness. She is a noble lady who laboured all through her girlhood to help her people and to ensure their survival. She cannot be retired like a useless ornament, to sit by the fire and stitch pretty pictures upon fine linen. She needs proper occupation. She needs to feel useful. Estel does not fill her days any longer: he is growing too old for that. She needs something else.’

Elladan’s eyes widened. It had never occurred to him that Gilraen might chafe against the luxury of her position, or that she might long for her old toils, but it should have. He considered how he might have felt, had not his father’s absence furnished him with ample labour during his convalescence. Inactivity was a curse to those of mortal blood. ‘I will speak to my father,’ he promised. ‘Thank you.’

Halion inclined his head, wrapping the reigns about his gloved hands. ‘My only regret is that we can no longer ride together, son of Elrond,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day my son will know the honour of fighting at your side. Farwell.’

‘Farwell,’ Elladan echoed. Then the Rangers turned their horses and set off at a canter, up the winding path that led to their homeward road.

Wearily, Elladan turned and made his way back into the house. He could not bear many more days of waiting. He wondered, not for the first time, why no missives had yet arrived telling of the Council’s endeavours. Such silence from the South was not a promising sign.

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Winter travel was not pleasant. Though the Firstborn bore the hardships of cold and snow more stoically than other races, Elrond still found the long days half-frozen in the saddle to be taxing to body and spirit. He was weary and his heart was heavy, for he feared what he would find when he reached his destination. The small party rode as swiftly as the inclement conditions allowed, for Elrond grew daily more anxious to reach the borders of his own lands. His escort was equally eager for haste, for the winter was deepening around them and twice they were waylaid by storms, forced to wait in the lee of friendly holly-groves until the horses could go on.

The day came at last, however, when they came to the familiar ridges and vales with their twisting and misleading paths. With joy Elrond spied the first carefully disguised token that marked the way home. All through that night they travelled on, the waxing moon lighting their passage through the hills. By dawn the land was shrouded in mist, but by that time they had reached paths that the horses of Imladris could walk upon the strength of memory.

The pale winter sun rose high above the clouds and the fog began to disperse as the wise steeds started to pick out a descending road. Suddenly the gloom melted away, and before the travellers’ eyes spread the Valley of Rivendell, serene beneath a blanket of snow. The fields lay fallow: wide stretches of immaculate white that shimmered in the sunlight. The Bruinen was laughing in the crisp morning air, bubbling against the first incursions of ice along its swift-flowing banks. The beeches glittered, their bare branches bejewelled with fresh frost as bright as adamant, and beyond them stood the Last Homely House, its slate roofs capped with snow like the peaks of the mountains beyond. The rime-masked windows glowed dauntlessly with the inviting warmth within.

As he looked upon the peace and beauty of his holdings, Elrond felt a great weight lifting from his heart. Was this, he reflected, some measure of the delight and gratitude that the weary wanderer felt when first he laid eyes upon this hidden haven? If it were so, then his long labours had wrought a wondrous good indeed.

Then he recalled the urgency of his return, and with no further pause to marvel at the spectacular vista before him, he egged his stallion on to a gallop, thundering down the slope towards the house. Snow flew in the wake of the warhorse’s hooves, and Elrond’s cloak came free of its careful tucking and billowed behind him.

He had not yet reached the beech-woods when he heard a joyous cry, and from between the trees a lithe young figure came running, hood flying from his head as he gathered speed. Elrond plied the reins, slowing the horse to a trot as he swept around the boy in a tightening circle.

‘Atarinya!’ Estel cried, spinning on the spot to keep sight of his foster-father. Rather than halt, Elrond leaned down and caught the child about the ribs, swinging him up before him on the saddle. Deftly, Estel swung one leg over the horse’s withers, sounds of delight tripping over his lips. As the half-forgotten sound of his son’s laughter reached his ears, Elrond released the reins and wrapped Estel in a close embrace.

The stallion did not balk at the sudden loss of guidance. He returned to the path of his own volition as Estel twisted and threw his right arm awkwardly about his father’s neck, grey eyes shining as he searched Elrond’s face.

‘You are home at last!’ he exclaimed, joy and a frantic need for assurance both evident in his voice.

‘Indeed I am,’ Elrond said, holding him close. Estel turned out of the awkward position, pressing his back against his father’s chest. Elrond bowed his head over the dark hair, drinking in his child’s subtle scent. He kissed Estel’s crown. ‘You are well enough to run,’ he observed softly. ‘It does my heart good to see that—and you are abroad in daylight.’ He halted. Was it too much to hope that his son was free of the influence of the Necromancer? He had been so certain before, but after the long homeward journey in doubt and worry he was no longer so sure of himself. ‘Have the dreams ceased?’

Estel shook his head and Elrond’s heart sank. ‘But they are different,’ he said softly, the delight in his voice faltering a little.

‘How?’

‘Everything is muddled,’ Estel esplained slowly, as if he found it difficult to express what the difference might be. ‘Perhaps it is fire that consumes Númenor instead of the Sea, or there are flood-waters in the northern wastes where there ought to be snow, or I am the one who falls with a black knife in my back. Sometimes the faces I see are faces that I know: you, my mother, Erestor and Lindir. The dreams are no longer so… logical.’ He sighed. ‘They come no more often by night than by day, now. They are not so terrible as before... and the hissing in my heart no longer torments me.’

The fear and hesitation in those last words wrung at Elrond’s heart. Hissing? What had his son suffered in his absence? He felt an urgent need to take counsel with Erestor and the Lady Gilraen. To Estel he said; ‘Can it be, perhaps, that your own mind is shaping these dreams from the terrible visions? Can you guide the dreams with your will, or wake yourself from them?’

‘If I try very hard,’ Estel acknowledged. He burrowed further into his father’s embrace. ‘Now that you are home, mayhap you can help me.’

‘I hope that I may,’ said Elrond. That at least was glad news. He loosed one hand to take up the reins again, and gently urged the horse to quicken his pace.

‘I am stronger now,’ Estel said abruptly, as if he were anxious to utter some sort of glad tidings. ‘Mother has been very careful to ensure that I am eating well again, and Elladan has been very kind.’

‘It does my heart good to hear that,’ Elrond told him earnestly.

Estel curled his arm around Elrond’s, gripping it with his mitten-clad hand. ‘Atarinya,’ he whispered; ‘how long will you tarry at home?’

Elrond closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to fall. ‘I have no further plans to leave the Valley,’ he said softly. ‘Certainly not until you are grown.’

‘Oh.’ Estel fell silent for a moment. ‘I am glad,’ he confessed.

‘As am I,’ Elrond assured him.

By this time, they were fast approaching the greensward before the house – now a broad yard dusted with snow. The household was out in force, singing and laughing and calling out greetings to their lord. And there was Elladan, a smile upon his face and joy in his weary eyes; and beside him stood Erestor, grave but glad. Then Elrond’s eyes fell upon Gilraen where she stood leaning against a pillar, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She took in the sight of Elrond on his tall warhorse, and then studied her son, who was wrapped in the Peredhil’s loving embrace. Elrond steeled himself for the derision in her gaze; for the caustic glint of envy in her eyes. Instead he saw her face soften with relief, lines of worry melting away.

He dismounted and lifted Estel from the saddle. The boy hugged him about the waist, pressing his cheek against his chest despite the chill of the mail that radiated through the surcote. Elrond curled his arm around the youth and together they approached the mortal lady.

She cast down her eyes and curtsied deeply. ‘Welcome home, my lord,’ she said with measured formality. Then she looked upon him, and the release of pain that flooded her eyes was followed with a look of abject gratitude. ‘I am so glad,’ she whispered.

Elrond held out his hand, and she took it. Gently he brushed his lips upon her brow in a gesture of respect and affection that she did not resist. ‘Aye, lady, as am I,’ he said. ‘There is much that you must tell me, I think.’

Gilraen nodded, withdrawing from his grasp and shrugging her shawl higher upon her shoulders. ‘When shall I attend you?’ she asked with grave obedience.

Elrond looked down at Estel’s upturned face. The child was clinging to him as if he might fade away at any moment, as insubstantial as the morning mists. Abruptly Elrond could not bear the thought of sending the boy away so that his caretakers could discuss him. He seemed well enough at the moment: such conversations could wait.

‘I must wash first, and then I think we would all be glad of a meal,’ Elrond said, glancing back at his arriving entourage. ‘If Estel will consent to help me divest, then he and I can speak of his recent experiences first. With your leave, of course, my lady.’

Gilraen nodded, and Estel was smiling again, though his fierce grip did not relax. Elrond turned his eyes upon Elladan. ‘We two must also speak.’

‘Elrohir?’ the warrior asked hoarsely. ‘He is healing...’

Elrond nodded. ‘He is healing, safe in the care of the Ladies of Lothlórien, but it was a near thing.’

A thunderous look appeared in Elladan’s eyes, but he restrained himself as his twin would not. ‘When you have dined,’ he swore tersely; ‘we shall discuss it.’

They moved inside, Gilraen quicker than the rest, for she was ill-clad for the chill of the day. Elrond looked about at the happy faces of his folk, and then held Estel more tightly. Together, father and son ascended the great stairs while Erestor began to give orders for hot baths for the riders and thorough rub-downs for the horses, and a great communal breakfast in honour of the return of the Lord of the Valley.

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That evening the household – still much reduced with so many of the folk of Imladris wintering in Lothlórien – gathered in the Hall of Fire. Elrond sat in his customary place; the high seat of honour close by the dancing flames. Early in the evening Elladan had slipped off, doubtless bound for his bed. The last months had been hard on the eldest of Elrond’s children, and as he intended to ride with all haste for Lórien, heedless of the winter dangers, he had need of rest.

Gilraen was settled in a corner, five slender bone needles flying through her hands as she worked upon a knitted mitt for her son. As she listened to the joyous singing her eyes were sad, but much of their wonted bitterness had faded. Elladan had told Elrond of her diligent nursing of her cousin, and of the Ranger’s parting remarks regarding his wounded kinswoman. As Elrond watched her, unable to sit idle even in the presence of such beauteous song, he knew that the Dúnadan had spoken aright and he berated himself for his blindness. For the Eldar it was nothing to spend months or years in idle contemplation, passing their days in deep thoughts or distant memories. It was thus that he had slowly staunched the bleeding of his own heart in those first awful years after Celebrían’s sailing. He had forgotten the mortal need for industry. He would see to it, he pledged silently, that this oversight was remedied. There were many things to which she might turn her hand: they had only to settle upon those tasks she most favoured.

As for Estel, he had scarcely strayed from Elrond’s side all day, remaining with him as he bathed and replaced his travel-worn garb with clean, sedate garments better suited to his disposition. At board, Elrond had allowed him to take up Glorfindel’s empty seat, and Estel had dined one-handed, his fingers wrapped around Elrond’s forearm. Then for two hours he had been obliged to wait in the library while Elrond cloistered himself first with Elladan, then with Erestor and last of all with Gilraen, but the moment he was informed that his foster-father was free once more, Estel had come running. He had shadowed Elrond’s every step as the Master moved through his house, greeting his folk and reacquainting himself with the state of the household. At the evening meal he had once again seated himself in Glorfindel’s chair, though this time he was obliged on occasion to loose his hold on Elrond in order to use his knife.

Estel had started the night’s revels in a seat of honour near Elladan, but he had swiftly abandoned the chair for a cushion at Elrond’s feet. He was sitting there now, his long legs folded under him and his dark head resting against Elrond’s knee. One hand was curled over the Elf-lord’s velvet shoe, and from the gentle rise and fall of the child’s chest Elrond knew that his son was sleeping. He laid one long hand upon the dark head and sent forth thoughts of peace and comfort.

The image of Elrohir, broken and bleeding, still haunted him; and now Elladan was proposing to ride into peril for the pleasure of scolding his twin most roundly for his carelessness. In a few short years, Estel too would take up arms and go to his bitter labours as the untried Chieftain of a oppressed and demoralized people. Perhaps he, too, would one day be cut down by a Morgul-blade, or felled by an arrow from an orcish bow, or devoured by trolls or crushed in a landslide like the one that had almost carried off his kinsman. But such thoughts were unbearable, and Elrond reminded himself that tonight Estel was safe and warm, the only threat to him the natural dreams that would, with time, allow his mind to heal from the hurts that it had sustained in recent months. Tonight he slumbered peacefully, for a time at least. Tonight, Elrond could protect him.

As he sat there, fingers gently caressing the head of his sleeping son, Elrond closed his eyes and felt warm contentment washing over him. Temporary though he knew this hard-won peace to be, he was grateful for it. The smile that now touched his lips was not tainted with sorrow or worry. He loosed his mind from the fetters of composure and rigid control, and allowed the sweet chords of the Lay of Leithian to wash over him, caressing . In a way, he thought, he too was released from bondage tonight, as his sorrows and his worries fell briefly away. Even Vilya felt lighter upon his finger, and Estel’s gentle breath stirred the smooth wool of his robe. For a time at least, he was at peace. For a time at least, he was free.