Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updating. Real life can be a real hamper to finding time to edit and write! But this story WILL be completed…eventually.

Chapter Three

Oh! The trouble little boys get into! Gilraen thought as she hurried to the healing ward after receiving word that Estel had been hurt. She hoped he was not crying for her. He tried so hard to be a big boy, but he was little more than a baby. When he got hurt, he cried out for her and often fought off any attempts to treat his scrapes, scratches or smashed fingers or toes until she arrived.

A feeling of satisfaction swept over her. Her son still needed her. She knew she should be more grateful to the elves of Imladris, and Master Elrond in particular, but she could not help but feel resentful that her son had to be raised here, away from his rightful place and extended family.

It still rankled that she had to call her son 'Estel' instead of his rightful name, and every time she heard him call Elrond 'Ada', something inside her screamed in denial. It should be Arathorn who heard that term! It should be Arathorn who held their son and told him stories of battles fought. Arathorn who made them a family!

But Arathorn was dead. The harsh reality of the thought caused her to stumble momentarily to a halt and brush the sudden onslaught of tears away that moistened her eyes. She closed them tightly and took a deep breath, shoving the pain away.

Aragorn — No, Estel, she reminded herself with gritted teeth — needed the safety Imladris offered. He needed the veil of anonymity, and yes, despite her bitterness,  he needed a father, even if that person was Master Elrond.

She opened her eyes and continued down the hallway.

Her son also needed the education he would receive in this place. Her people could not offer what Elrond and his household provided: safety, security, plenty of food, training in history, diplomacy, languages, use of weaponry. Much of the latter, Estel would have learned by coming to foster here, as all the Chieftains did at some point, and she could not deny there was an advantage in starting him earlier.

But there were disadvantages as well. Estel would be raised away from his people, not given a chance to develop friendships that would sustain him in his adult years. He would miss growing up with his cousins and grandparents. She longed for her people, the sounds of the village, her friends from childhood. She missed the life of a Chieftain’s wife. There, she helped lead her people. She would have been the sole teacher of her son until he reached the age of six. And she would have been the only one to wash and bandage his childhood hurts!

Here, Elrond insisted upon treating any injury Estel sustained. The Master of Imladris took no chances with Estel’s health, and Gilraen reminded herself once again that she should be grateful. She felt guilty at times that she was not, but Elrond was not the boy’s father, and this was not the life she wished to live!

Her pace quickened as her ire increased, but then she forced herself to slow and checked herself. Her resentment was silly; she knew that. It was also normal. Had not her own father warned her in his last letter to expect such emotions? What she felt was to be expected. She still grieved the loss of her husband. Arathorn had been special, and she had been his.

And Aragorn had been theirs, the product of their love for one another and the living vision of the future.

Her steps faltered once more. Now, here in this beautiful valley, she felt empty and, more often than not, useless — lost without purpose or a sense of belonging. Perhaps in time she might feel she belonged here…

Yes, it would take time for her to make a place for herself and not feel like an intruder. She knew that, as well.

In the months they had been here, Gilraen had found her hands most often empty, the hours she did not spend caring for Estel passing only by reading from the expansive library Elrond offered. She had recently begun sewing again, and making some friends among the elf maidens, but in her village, she had been responsible for so much more than sewing Estel's clothes and making sure he ate his vegetables. She had gone from the Chieftain's wife to a guest in a strange house.

Well, she may not be welcome in the kitchens or even allowed to wash away the blood from her son's scratches, but she could still kiss away Estel’s tears!

However guilty it made her feel, she found satisfaction in Estel's struggles when he was hurt, even against Elrond. For when all was said and done, she, Gilraen, was his mother and only she could calm him. It was to her he came running, and it was for her that he called.

Except, as she got closer to the healing ward, she could hear no child crying. There came no muffled voices hushing a struggling boy as he called for his Nana.

That was odd. From the look on Istnir’s face when he had come to inform her Estel was hurt, she had assumed it to be something serious enough to make him frantic for her arms. A cut or possibly a broken bone. The boy had been with playing with Glorfindel, of all people. She was not surprised to have heard he had been injured. The children of the dúnedain played hard, after all, and such injuries were a normal part of childhood. She had suffered her own fair share as a child.

But instead of the expected crying or calling for her, there was silence in the hall leading to ward.

A chill ran down her spine and her stomach knotted with sudden apprehension, and her pace quickened. Something was very wrong, and she felt a panic began to well up inside her.

The feeling intensified when she saw Erestor waiting just outside the door. His typical stoic face awash with unusual emotion. He said nothing, only opened the door for her to pass through.

His silence was not uncommon. Erestor only spoke if he had something to say. No, it was the ashen color of his face and the haunted look in Erestor's eyes that terrified her.

How badly had Estel been hurt? Was he unconscious? Had he fallen from Brandlir?

The stallion was very large, and she had had her doubts about letting her son ride him, especially considering his reputation. But she had seen with her own eyes how gentle the horse was with Estel. How he plodded along with the child riding before Glorfindel.

But accidents while riding did happen! And such falls to a boy Estel's size could prove serious or even fatal.

She rushed past Erestor and through the door. A whimper drew her attention to one side of the rooms. She could see Elrond’s back beside a special raised bed that allowed him to stand and easily reach the injured person. A bright lamp on a high stand was pulled close to his bent head, and lying on the bed—

She stumbled to a stunned halt and choked back a sob of absolute panic when her eyes landed on Estel’s white face, flecked with blood. Her son lay moaning and crying softly; but his eyes were closed, and he was not fighting.

A deep voice whispered comforting words, and Estel quieted. It had been Elrond who had spoken.

Gilraen forced her feet to move forward again, almost afraid to see what had befallen her baby.  

Deep in concentration, Elrond worked, his hands deftly tying something over Estel's arm. As she stepped closer and her eyes landed on just what Elrond was treating, she gasped and staggered back, covering her mouth with one hand.

Such wounds! Estel's arm was swollen and battered, some gashes going deep and she thought she caught a glimpse of bone.

Elrond worked to close them with silk stitches, his hands moving methodically, his eyes never leaving his work, though his voice still murmured assurances to the boy who whimpered from time to time.

"He will be all right, Gilraen." Elrond said, catching her by surprise.

She had not realized the lord had heard her enter. Then she realized what he had said: Estel would be ‘all right'.

All right? But—

She looked hard at her son's arms, biting her lower lip and moving to the other side of the table to brush her fingers over her son's matted hair. Gilraen was no fool. She was of the dúnedain. Her whole life had been lived among her wandering kin. She had seen many wounds among the Rangers when they returned from a patrol. She had treated many! There were some Rangers who never recovered entirely. Some lost the use of a hand or arm or walked with a permanent limp.

She knew what such wounds could mean!

"He will never hold a sword," she whispered in horror. He would never write, throw rocks, do any of the things a little boy was supposed to do. He would never be able to ride a horse, learn to fight!

He was the future of her people! No, this was not happening. Her baby could not bear such scars, or endure such loss!

Looking up, she met Elrond's concerned eyes, and she lifted her chin. "You will make him well," she declared, refusing to accept less. After all, they had come here to keep her son safe! To give him the best!

Elrond sighed and gazed back down at his work. "I am doing my best, child. But some of the wounds are deep and jagged. I fear there may be some irreparable damage in his right arm."

She shook her head, refusing to accept such a statement.

But he ignored her reaction and continued. "I will not know for certain until it has begun to heal. In time, we will know how serious the damage is. He has moved his fingers, so he has some use of them. It is a good sign." He paused, not looking up. "He is alive, Gilraen. It is enough."

His words did little to comfort her.

As she looked at her baby lying so pale on the bed, helplessness rose up inside her, threatening to choke her with its power. She stroked Estel's hair, whispering what comfort she could to him, bending down to press a kiss to his small forehead. He was so small, so fragile.

This should not have happened to him! He should have been protected from such devastating harm!

A slight sound, as of rustling cloth, alerted her that they were not alone. She glanced up and saw Glorfindel, sitting in a chair against the wall and staring at Elrond as he worked.

Yet it seemed the golden warrior saw nothing of what was truly there. Did he not see Estel? Did he not see how her baby whimpered and cried? Did he not understand what pain her son would endure? What limitations such injuries could cause?

All of the emotion Gilraen had been fighting against since arriving roiled up within her in that moment, coming to the surface as anger at the sight of him staring sightlessly at her injured son. So intense was her ire, that she felt she might be ill of it. Her stomach twisted.

Was this why Estel had been hurt? Because the warrior who had been given charge of her son had been distracted with his own thoughts? Her fear and anger gave rise to suspicions and doubts that she would never have harbored in other circumstances.

Then he dared to speak to her. "I am sorry, Gilraen. It happened so fast."

She flinched at his words.

Sorry? He is sorry?

He was the Captain of the Imladris Guard! The Balrog slayer of Gondolin! The dead returned to life! Nothing should have harmed her son in his presence!

"Yes, I am sure a great warrior such as yourself was unable to move fast enough to protect a small child!"

"Peace, Gilraen."

It was Elrond's voice. He did not look up at either of them, but continued to work on Estel's arm.

Peace? Not while her baby was in such pain!

The tears that had welled up in her eyes slipped down her cheeks. She pointed at the captain. "It is all your fault! Your fault he lies here in such pain!"

"Gilraen!"

She ignored Elrond's chastisement. Her eyes narrowed on the captain. He had yet to look her in the eye.

"How could you allow such a thing to happen? You were to protect him!"

Glorfindel flinched at her words. "I tried," he whispered. "I…" He dropped his head into his hands, shaking it back and forth.

But she had no pity for him, only contempt. "You failed, Captain! Failed in your duty!"

She turned her back on him, only to find that Elrond had raised his head from his work to pin her with cold, grey eyes.

Then he turned to Glorfindel, and she followed his gaze, noting the captain’s blue eyes were filled with tears. But his tears did not move her either.

"There is nothing you can do here, Glorfindel. Leave," Elrond told him.

Glorfindel surged to his feet, casting a last long look at Estel where he lay whimpering and moaning. Then he strode from the ward, and the door closed behind him.

When Gilraen looked back at Elrond, she was surprised to see the coldness in his gaze had been replaced with deep remorse.

"It was not his fault," he said, resuming his work. His hands trembled ever so slightly, then he took a shaky breath.

"It was mine."  

— o —

Glorfindel strode towards the stable, blinking back the unwanted tears that misted his vision. He knew Gilraen was speaking from her fear, allowing her anger to place blame. He had seen her struggle with her grief and her difficulties making a home here. She had lost so much at so young. No, he couldn't blame her for feeling anger.

Besides, her words were true. He had failed them all. If not for Brandlir, Estel would have been dragged off or ripped to shreds before Glorfindel could have reached him! He should have sensed, should have known…

He entered the stable and paced down the length of the aisle to Brandlir's stall. There he found a groom kneeling with a bucket of warm water, washing the blood and foam from his horse.

"I will do that," Glorfindel said, holding out a hand for the cloth.

The groom handed it over, stood and bowed. "I will get you some more hot water, my lord," he said, slipping out the stall door.

Left in peace for a moment, Glorfindel stooped and let his eyes slip closed. He leaned his temple against Brandlir's foreleg, releasing a shuddering breath.

"Thank you, my friend," he whispered.

The stallion nickered, lowering his head and nuzzling at his hair. Glorfindel reached up to scratch the sweat dried cheek while inwardly he berated himself.

If only he had not turned his back. If only he had moved faster. If only he had heeded Elrond’s hesitance to let them go and had played closer to the Last Homely House!

With a heavy heart, he returned to washing down his horse. When he had finished, he prepared Brandlir a special mash as a reward for his horse’s bravery.

Brandlir ate it as if entitled to a king’s feast.

Shaking his head, Glorfindel shut the stall door and retreated towards his quarters. How he wished his rooms were far from the healing ward. He had no wish to run into Gilraen or Elrond any time soon.

Taking little used halls, he crept to his rooms without seeing anyone. Once there, he plopped down into a chair and dropped his head into his hands.

My fault. All my fault. I put him in danger and let him get hurt.  

His mind melded the current situation with a similar one in Gondolin ages ago. He had failed to keep the boy safe.

But in his mind, it was not Estel. It was another child, in another life. One with dark hair and bright blue eyes. He shuddered.

It was Panguil all over again. *

As the sun sank and the valley darkened, Glorfindel did not move, not even to light a lantern or to change from his dirt and blood encrusted clothing. He sat in the dark and stared at the wall, reliving the past, the present, and fearing the future.

The dinner hour came and went. Voices and footsteps passed on the other side of his door.

And off and on throughout the night, he could hear the sound of a child crying out in pain.  

— o —

Elrond sat bolt upright in his chair when a cry pierced the room and threw off the blanket someone had placed over him. He stood and paced to the bed where Estel lay, but Gilraen was already there, shushing Estel, holding him as close as she could without jarring his injured arms. He cried and whimpered, not yet screaming as he had earlier.

Sighing, Elrond moved back to pick up the blanket from where it had slid to the floor. The toil of healing always left him drained, and he had no recollection of anyone putting the blanket over him while he had rested. He draped it over the back of the chair, then moved to stir up the fire and set the kettle over the renewed blaze.

"Have you slept at all?" he asked Gilraen, casting a look over his shoulder to where the woman rocked Estel. She shook her head, not pausing in her song. "After we get some more tea into him, I will watch over him, and you will rest."

When she shook her head, he moved to place a hand on her shoulder, drawing her tear-filled eyes upwards.

"He will need you tomorrow and in the days to come. Let me watch over his sleep."

For a moment, he thought she would argue, but then her head dropped in defeat and she nodded. She looked exhausted, and it was only the first long night of many. "I will not leave him, though."

Gilraen had not spoken to him since Glorfindel had left. She had murmured reassurances to Estel, but had only nodded to his explanations of what the upcoming days would entail. They would need to stay on their guard to assure that Estel’s healing was not complicated by festering wounds.

He patted her shoulder and stepped over to a cabinet and began removing various herbs to make a tea to help relieve Estel’s pain and help him to sleep. "We can bring in a cot so you can rest close to him," he told her, understanding her need to remain in the room.

As he waited for the water to heat, Elrond mixed the herbs necessary and sifted them in a small silk bag, which he then placed into a cup to be steeped into tea.

Elrond hoped the amount of bleeding had helped to wash most of the dog’s saliva from the torn flesh, but the risk of infection remained high. He had done all he could to clean the wounds, and had left some openings in the flesh by inserting a thick boiled reed that would allow the wound to drain. He would take no chances of the flesh rotting, which would require the amputation of the limb.

By Elbereth, they would keep that wound free of festering rot if it took every ounce of his skill to accomplish it!

Once the tea had steeped and cooled, Gilraen coaxed Estel to drink it.

"No, Nana,", he balked at first. "No like it."

"It will help you, love," she told him.

But he shook his head. "Tummy hurt."

Gilraen looked sharply up at Elrond then, and he moved to the bedside.

"Hurts?" Elrond asked the boy. "Or feels icky?"

"Icky," Estel told him, turning his head into his mother's arm. She brushed the hair from his flushed face and tried again.

"You need to drink this."

But the boy pressed his face more firmly into her, refusing to even try.

"Estel," Elrond reached out and lightly touched the boy on the cheek. "The tea will make the pain less."

The head turned back towards him, and pain-filled eyes looked up at him.

"And help your tummy feel better, too," he assured. "You must drink it, and then you can sleep and get better."

Estel looked at the cup, then made a face, turning back into Gilraen when she tried to press it to his mouth.

"Estel, do you want to hurt like you did earlier?"

That seemed to get the boy's attention. He turned fearful eyes up at Elrond. "Hurt 'gain?"

Elrond nodded. "If you do not drink the tea, the hurt will get bad again, and make you scream. If you drink it now, it will not hurt so much. And," he gave the child a comforting smile, "I put some honey in it this time to make it taste better."

But Estel was already sipping from the cup.

Relieved that they would not need to resort to methods Elrond preferred to avoid with small children, he slipped from the room to arrange for a cot and blankets to be brought for Gilraen, so she might get some rest. By the time he returned, Estel was asleep once again.

Throughout that long night, as Gilraen slept in the cot beside her son's sickbed, Elrond watched over Estel, his lips moving in silent petitions. But even as he pleaded for the boy who had become like a son to him, Elrond could not shake off the feeling of dread that his efforts had not been enough.

He had meant what he had told Gilraen earlier, when she had blamed Glorfindel for this. He blamed himself. If he had only heeded the signs. If only he had not ignored his senses, this could have been prevented.

As he looked at the bandages covering Estel, he knew beyond a doubt whose fault it was this had happened.

He had failed…again. He had failed Gilraen. He had failed the dúnedain. He had failed Estel and perhaps failed all of Ennor as a result, just as he had failed to save his wife so long ago.

In the darkness, Elrond lifted his eyes to a window where he could see Gil-Estel shining bright in the night sky. The light of the star seemed to grow in intensity as he watched, and hope welled up within him.

He may have failed by allowing this to happen, but by all he held dear he would not fail in seeing Estel healed!

Determined, his eyes dropped back to where Estel slept. He lifted a hand to brush aside a dark lock of hair from the boy’s forehead.

"I will not fail you again, my son," he whispered.

 
To Be Continued…

Author's Note: Panguil is a character from a novel length story I am working on about Glorfindel's past in Gondolin. It is a friendship that began under odd circumstances and that continues to both haunt and influence Glorfindel even into the Third Age.