Growing

I watch him.  In the last months his legs have grown more than the rest of him, so that he seems perched on them, and to be trying to relearn walking.  He slouches a little, and drags one foot slightly, his boots new-made to fit his growing feet.

Where is he going now? I don’t think he even sees. His attention is all inward, learning himself, listening to himself.  He has so many gifts, yet he must grow into them. He sees more, hears more and understands more than other humans of his age, but he does not yet know what to do with these gifts.  He plays with them, and that is all he can do as yet.

There, a big brother come to help him with his sword practice.  My youngest son insists on that ridiculously over-sized sword, nearly as tall as he is, and yet he wields it well.  Elrohir is a fine swordsman, better perhaps than his twin, but Estel matches him for a moment or two, just – then.  Yes.  For a ten year old, he is strong in the shoulder and the arm.  But his long legs are a bother to him, and he can’t step back quickly enough to avoid Elrohir’s parry, which almost touches him.

I settle back on the comfortable bench, watching my two sons, wondering when Estel will put down the sword and wander away to do something else.  Yet there is an intensity in him this afternoon that takes even his brother by surprise.  It seems he feels better in himself today.  Yesterday, he was tired and moping, and I found him reading, curled round in a chair in the library, and nothing I could say could tempt him outside.  He looked worn by the business of growing.

Today, though he is the bright, eager child he was at six, he is less fretful.  Elrohir tries to get him to stop, to rest, but the boy labours on, trying to get at least one step closer to his older and much taller brother.  I begin to wonder if Elrohir will relent and let him, but he does not.  He could not cheat his brother in that way.  Estel would know it and be angry.  We’ve seen enough of that not to treat him as a minute younger than his age. 

A few more moments the boy tiring rapidly now, and then Elrohir puts his own sword down and suddenly takes his brother in his arms.  I can’t see what it is that is wrong, frustration perhaps, or he could be overtired, but his face is against his brother’s chest and he is sobbing.  I stand, ready to do what I can if I am needed, but Elrohir waits, then glances at me, knowing I am watching.  He shakes his head.  This time, I am not needed.

In a little while, the brothers are talking earnestly, and Estel lays the big sword carefully on the ground.  They sit down, slightly apart, and Elrohir points up into the sky.  Estel looks up too, and then I know he is being told a story, for I taught the gestures that went with the story to Elrohir many hundreds of years ago.  It is a good story to choose, for it can be divided into short tales, and it is a story of a hero who must fight many monsters to win his prize.

It suits Estel, though he does not know it yet.  I look into his future, the faint echoes of it that I can see, and I know he will face many monsters.  He will need the fire I saw as he strove against his brother with a sword that was too big for him, and a body aching with too much growth.

He is a lovely child.  He is kind, and true, and honest with himself and with others.  He strives to be brave and strong. 

We protect him, Elrohir and Elladan and I, and in time he will grow into his strength and be whatever his destiny intends he should be. 

There – Elladan joins his brothers, and they stand, and away my children go, off on some adventure, one tall twin on either side of the boy.  Gone are the days when they could take him by the hands and swing him between them, making him laugh with the excitement of it.  Yet, in a way, that is what they do, swing him between them, giving him all the encouragement they can, though they are half-elven and do not feel as he feels. 

I hope we do him justice, and raise him well.  He is the hope of the world. 

I wait for Glorfindel to tell his story.  We do not count time as mortals count it. It is neither more nor less precious, it is just different.  My youngest son has reminded me that he and I see time from opposite sides.  I wonder, while I listen, whether Estel’s patience will hold, as he must by now be waiting for me to come and give him his lesson for today. 

Patience does not sit well with nine year old humans, even ones with Estel’s heritage. 

A movement catches my eye.  The door is being pushed open, slowly, as if the person there does not wish to enter just yet but is preparing the way.  Glorfindel pauses and follows the line of my gaze, the steady beat of his words ceasing.  Our guests look for guidance as they draw themselves out of the story, some looking at the story-teller, some now at the door. 

“Enter,” I say, loudly. 

We all wait, as the daylight falls slantways into the chamber, the silence masked by the hushed sound of a waterfall. 

A figure steps into the room and stands, head up yet abashed, body straight yet bedraggled, and water is dripping from the dark green tunic onto the stone flags.

He bows, with all the dignity he can muster, and I silence my guests with a hand.  No one will laugh at my boy, however ridiculous he looks.  His hair falls across his face so that I can hardly make out his expression.  Some part of my mind reminds me to talk to him about his braids, which he has recently taken to pulling out whenever he can. 

“I apologise, Father,” he says, pronouncing his words most carefully.  “I need your help.”

He is on his very best behaviour, and the words are stiff and stilted.  I rise, and do not call him to my side, for there is something odd about the way the he stands and I do not wish to expose him any longer to the gaze of my guests.  As it is, his appearance here will soon be threaded into a song.

“Very well.  Glorfindel, entertain our guests.  My lords, I shall return shortly.”   I could say something witty but it would be at my boy’s expense, and I guard his feelings with care.  They murmur among themselves, until Glorfindel takes up his story again and silences them.  As I reach the door, I know he has almost succeeded in pulling their attention away from us, but I hold out my arm to shield Estel from their view as I guide him outside. 

“What is it, Estel?”

“I truly am sorry, Father.  I could have asked someone else but I needed you!”

His emotion is sudden, as if being able to tell his trouble has suddenly overwhelmed the careful guard he usually keeps over his manners.

“All is well, my child.  Let us go to your room and find some dry clothes, then you may tell me what has upset you.”

He walks close to me, his eyes on the ground. I wait for him to begin to speak but he says nothing more until we are safe in his bright, warm chamber. 

“Remove your tunic, child.  You are shivering.” I turn to find him a towel and a robe to wear but his voice stops me.

“I cannot,” he says.   When I look at him to find an explanation of his words, I see that he is cradling his left arm, and that he is pale and sweating.  I go to him quickly, and lead him to the bed, but he will not sit down.

“Sit, Estel.  Tell me what is wrong with your arm.”

“I don’t want to sit down!  The bedclothes will get wet! I spoil everything!”  He is crying now, miserable beyond any misery that I have seen in him before, and I struggle to keep from questioning him too deeply.  He must settle and trust me to help him.   I pull an old blanket from the chest at the bottom of the bed, wrap it round his shoulders and steer him to sit on the chest, where the water can do no damage.  He looks at me, crying no longer, but his breath is unsteady. 

I carefully take his right hand away from his left arm, wondering what damage he has done.  The sleeve is not bloodied but it is sore, this arm, though he tried to pretend it is not until I begin to examine it.

“I think it is broken, Father.  Will you help me to mend it?” he says, his eyes wide. 

The odd turn of expression makes me look at him.  But I still watch over his tender feelings with care.  “I will, Estel.  Let me see if it is truly broken.”

He allows me to feel over the bones.  Yes, there, his forearm bone, the outer of the two, has a crack.  It will mend easily.  He has been lucky, and I tell him so as I help him to pull his wet tunic over his head.  But my simple attempt at solace provokes more tears and he gives in to his sorrow completely as I hold him close.

“Estel,” I try, after a few quiet moments.  “What has happened to upset you so?”

“Ruby,” he gasps.  “Father, I killed Ruby.” 

“Where are your brothers?”  I cannot hide the anger in my voice, a sudden surge of unreasoned annoyance at those who should have been protecting him.

He looks up, and there is fear in his eyes, and he immediately comes to their defence.  “They were there when it happened, Papa! They said – Elladan said – that he must – ease his passing, that’s what he said.”

“But Elrohir should have brought you home, not sent you to me! And he should have tended your arm first!”  I feel the rest of his arm, to make sure all else is well, and he goes back to watching my fingers on his skin.  I must remember, everything I do, he learns. 

Estel is quiet for a moment, then says quietly, “I didn’t tell him.”

“Estel!” I put my fingers under his chin and lift his face. “Why ever not?  I told you, you must say if you are hurt.  We cannot just know it.”

He squirms under my gaze and will not answer until I insist. 

“I wanted them both to make my horse better!  I thought, since they mend me sometimes, they could mend him!  My arm felt all right then.”   I let him hang his head, and his dark hair falls forward like a mask over his face.  He is still sitting in his wet leggings, and he is cold and miserable, and despite his heritage giving him strength, a broken arm still hurts. 

“Here, child, let us bind this arm, and dry and dress you, and then we shall see about this horse.  Perhaps it is not as bad as it seems.” 

He nods, and I tend to him as I have not done since he was five.  I want to settle him in his bed to rest but he is not to be moved.  He will see his horse, and his brothers, and know how everything is with his world before he will allow himself rest.

We walk to the stables hand in hand, he tugging me along, and shouting to his brothers as soon as we are close.  There is no answer.  He looks up at me, puzzled.

“We were down at the river, Papa.  Perhaps they could not bring Ruby back here just yet.”

Is he hoping his horse is alive?  Did I put that unreasonable hope in him? “Estel – they may never be able to bring your horse back to the stables.  They may let him rest there, close by the river.  He loved the river as much as you.”

“Rest!  Yes – I hadn’t thought of that!  Of course, they will let him rest!”

I curse my understatements, my evasions.  We set off again, Estel ahead of me now, bounding away down the hill for a few steps before the pain he carries stopped him.  I catch up to him and make him stop.

“You must understand, my son.  Your horse may be no more.”

He half smiles, a faint remembrance of his childish laughter.  Even now, at nine, he has become too serious.  “Do you mean he may be dead, Papa?  I know that he may.  You do not have to hide it from me.”  And he turns away, walking more carefully now but still purposefully.  We descend through the trees, whose pale green spring growth is bright in the sun.  It is a beautiful place yet I cannot stand and appreciate it. There are more urgent matters at hand.

By the river bank, we find my twin sons, standing side by side, waiting for us.  Estel races to them, and I know he can no longer wait for an answer.  Elladan catches him and lifts him up, then sets him back on his feet.  As I reach them, I can hear Elladan give him the news, without evasion. 

Suddenly, my youngest begins to beat at his brother, thumping him with his left hand, and Elladan has to step back.

“Estel!” I call, anxious for a moment.  “Your brother did not do this!”

Elladan looks at me as if I have gone mad.  “He knows, that, Father!  Let him hit out at someone! It is not fair that he could not keep his horse.  You know how they loved one another.” 

Estel has calmed a little but will not let Elladan, or Elrohir or myself near him.  He wanders away, kicking his feet through the grass, and sits himself down on a large river rock. 

Elrohir reads my thoughts.  “I think it is best we leave him.  He will talk to us soon, I know it.  He needs to learn this lesson.”

“Yes,” said Elladan, taking up his brother’s idea.  “Leave him.  We will speak to him later.  There is a great lesson for him to learn from today.” 

“How did this happen?” I ask.  “How did his horse die?”

“A bear, Father.  A great bear, fishing in the river.  I have not seen one there for many years.  We were watching him and before I knew it, Estel had jumped from his horse and begun to stalk the great animal.  He will tell you he just wanted to get closer, so that he could see the bear better, but perhaps there was also the challenge of it.  Before we could do anything, the bear came for him, running through the water.  I shot it once with an arrow but it ran too quickly and there was nothing more we could do.”

“Nothing,” said Elrohir, taking up his brother’s account seamlessly.  “His horse was closest and despite his fear of the bear, he charged him.”

“Charged him?  That horse was the steadiest, kindest animal – I chose him for those qualities.  How could he find it in his nature?” I ask, but I know the answer.  Estel inspires that loyalty in all good creatures, and in all good men. 

“He tried to catch at his horse, but he was knocked aside.  We saw him fall into the water.  What has he done to his arm?”  Elrohir looks at the boy, whose silhouette is dark against the silver ripples of the river water.

“It is broken,” I tell them, and Elladan looks me in the eye.

“Is it badly broken?” he asks, a tightening round the mouth betraying his feelings.  We try to keep the boy from harm but it is a dangerous world for a small human.

“It is bound, and he will not use it for six weeks, if I can prevent it.  But it will mend. It is his feelings I am concerned about.  He will think too much of this accident.  Look – he is tired. We must take him home.  Where is his horse?”  I think of the days to come and wonder if our care will be enough.  The boy misses his mother.  Perhaps she could have comforted him better than I.

“We took him away into the meadow and put him out of his misery there.  Later, we will take Estel to see him and wish him farewell. Perhaps we could carve a headstone for him?  It would make it easier for Estel to know that not all is lost, I think.”

My wise sons.  I can only think of my youngest son’s misery, not of his healing. We stand and watch him.  He has picked up some stones and is tossing them into the water.  Here is a hard lesson for him to learn.

The river noise fills the valley.  The sun spikes the ripples on the river.  This is a  beautiful place but now, it will always hold the memory of this death.

I must return hope to my boy, for I fear he has lost it.

 It is dark now.  We have lit all the candles in Estel’s room since he will not rest, and now we sit with him and talk, waiting till he is too tired to resist sleep any longer.  He sits cross legged on the bed in his nightshirt, and all the candles appear to me to do is throw more shadows on his face.  

I am telling him the story of the tree which leans over the west courtyard, shading the paved area now.  He asks me how long ago it was planted, and I say I might have to ask it since I have forgotten.

He looks at me curiously, as if he is unsure whether I am joking.  “Is that something I will learn to do?” he asks.  “Will they speak to me?  Could I have spoken to Ruby and prevented him from defending me?”

Elladan moves behind the boy, sitting on the bed and letting Estel lean back against his shoulder.  Candlelight now makes the sharp angles of his face even sharper.  He is in pain but he says nothing, only waits for my answer. 

“He has – he had a free will, Estel.  He chose to defend you.  You must not wear yourself out thinking over what has happened.  You must rest.”

He sighs.  I know I have not given him the answer he wants, yet I cannot say more.  I have promised myself and others that he shall not know his true heritage until he is of an age to understand what it means.  Yet I could use the lesson of his horse’s sacrifice to teach him about the way others will lay down their lives for him, unbidden, and he will have to accept that as their choice. 

“What are you thinking about, Papa?” he asks, impatient for a better reply.

“I am considering whether to give you some of your favourite headache cure and order you to bed for two days.  You are a stubborn boy, Estel.”

He rewards my attempt to distract him with a faint smile.  But I notice he has grown sleepy in the security of his brother’s embrace, and he is looking less stubborn by the moment.  I look at Elladan and he nods, moving back across the bed and drawing Estel with him.  The boy protests mildly but is soon lying on his side snoring gently. 

Elrohir begins to snuff the candles while I clear the bowls and cloths from his bedside table.  Elladan stands by his brother, making sure Estel is comfortable.  We leave him to sleep through his troubles. 

It takes two days for him to come back to something like himself.  Then I know I must talk to him about at least a few of the many matters which have disturbed me since I heard what happened.

I found him in the garden, sitting on a bench feeding some small birds which were alighting on his hand.  He can be so patient that they have learned to trust him.  He looks up suddenly as I walk over to him, and his sudden movement scatters them all.  They perch in a tree nearby and seem to talk among themselves.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask, resisting the temptation to put my hand on his forehead.  He has had no fever but better to be too careful. 

“Yes, Papa,” he replies, though doubtfully.  “That is, I feel better than I did.”

“Good,” I say, smiling at his pedantry.  “Are you willing to talk to me about something that has puzzled me?”  

He looks down and begins to scuff at the grass.  One moment he feeds my birds, the next he destroys the greensward. 

“Yes, Father,” he says, both duty and reluctance in his voice. 

I cannot talk gently about this.  It is important I discover what he meant.  “Estel.  When you first came to me after – after the accident, you said you had killed Ruby.  Yet in the story I was told, it was clear you did no such thing.  Tell me, why did you think it was so?” 

He does not answer.  He does not even seem to have heard the question.  I wait, then lay my hand on his arm.  “Do you not wish to talk about this yet, my son?  Shall I leave you?”

“No!” he says, turning to me.  “Do not leave me alone!  I cannot answer your question but – I wish you to stay.”

So I do, ignoring other matters which need my attention.  We sit in the sunshine, and talk of many things, but not of his horse, or the question he cannot yet answer.

After a while, the birds return, and we feed them together.  I teach him the names of two he has not seen before, and tell him where they nest, and of the great journey they make each year to visit us.  

He says, “Father.  Do you know everything there is to know?”

I smile.  It is growing a little chilly now.  “It is time to go inside.  You must eat something, for you slept long and have not broken your fast.  Are you truly ready to say farewell to Ruby so soon?  He has been buried in state, and his grave is not yet dressed.  Will you not wait until next week, at least?”

“No.  No – I will go there tomorrow.  I wish to know where he is.  He can give me answers, I think.  Perhaps he can.  I hope so.”

I take him by the hand and lead him indoors.   I hope, too, that he will be able to settle his mind into some answers, for he is not eating well and becoming tired too quickly.  I shall give him a sleeping draught tonight to keep away the night terrors, and in the morning we shall see if saying farewell to his horse solves the puzzles that are preoccupying him.

I want my untroubled boy to return to me, if he can find the way back.

Next morning Estel is up, dressed and begging food in the kitchens before his usual hour.  Elrohir and I have been wakeful most of the night searching for the right things to say, the right ceremony. We honour our horses but this must be special.

By the time we break our fast, the twins and I are ready with something we hope will suit the mood and the spirit of the ceremony.  I have given orders that all others will stay away from the river this morning.

It is a damp dawn, grey and misty so that you cannot see the distance, only the path we are following. The stones underfoot are a little slippery.  The birds are filling the air with their dawn chorus.  It is a happy, chaotic sound, blackbirds, thrushes, robins and many more singing to the spring dawn. 

Estel walks first.  He has his gift carefully stowed over his left shoulder.  Ruby’s bridle, which he has decided must go back to his horse.  Elladan removed it and had trouble finding it again.  But he persevered, and now my youngest boy trails the leather and metal down his back.  I believe Estel wanted to carry it on a cushion, for I found one in his room.   I recognised it as his favourite, the one on which he sat as a small boy when I allowed him in the library. But his broken arm gave him only one useful hand, and he has arrived at his own solution to the problem of carrying his gift.

I walk behind him, dressed in my best robes and wearing my crown.  Elrohir and Elladan follow, silent now that we approach the river, though they have been talking quietly to one another as we descended the hill.  It is fortunate we can all be together. The twins must leave us in the next moon quarter. 

We walk to the field and approach the mound of earth, unmarked as yet, and Estel stops close to it.  He seems utterly certain about what must be done, though none of us has taught him. 

He begins to speak.  I look to my sons and they to me.  We did not know he had remembered his own language, but he spoke it, and these are the words as I translate them in my mind. 

“This is the place of my fine horse, Ruby.  Keep away from him, evil creatures.  Guard him, elves and men.  He was a fast horse and gentle to me, and he saved me from a bear.  Let him rest.  Keep this place sacred through all the ages to come.”

His voice is strong and certain.  He holds out his funeral gift and places it on the mound, as close to its apex as he can reach. 

Beside me, I hear Elladan begin the funeral song he has chosen. Estel, as if torn from a dream turns to him and then moves to stand between his two brothers, who sing now in harmony.  It is a simple tune, with a chorus which Estel learns quickly and joins with his high, sweet treble voice. It is a brief song by our reckoning, but by the time it is finished the sun is dispersing the early mist and the birds are quiet again. 

I had thought this time would bring peace to my boy.  I go to give him my hand, for surely he will need comfort now, and he will weep.

“Estel,” I say, and I kneel so that I can speak to him face to face. “It was a fine thing you said.  This place will be honoured by us all through all the ages to come.”

I look into his face and see not tears, not sadness but a great anger.  He gathers himself and says, “Papa, no matter how much I think about it, there is no sense in his death.  I did not want him to die for me! I wanted him to live and be my horse!”

He turns from me and walks away, his head down, his feet kicking at the grass. Elladan makes to follow him but for once his brother disagrees. 

“He still needs time.  He has barely yet begun to realise what has happened, I think.  I will follow a little way behind and make sure none comes near him for a while.  If he tires, I will bring him home.”

His brother and I agree, and we walk back to the house, talking of other times, happy ones and sad ones, while we wait for a child’s grief to run its course.

As I wait now, in the last of the twilight, I wish I had brought him home myself for neither he nor Elrohir have yet returned.  Word would have been brought if anything untoward had happened to either of them, yet I am uneasy and cannot eat until they are here.  The last sounds of day slip away and still they are not come home.  Where are my sons?

The answer comes in the form of a message, brought just as I was preparing to go and search.  It comes by word of mouth, for Elrohir had nothing with him for writing, and it is hasty.  The messenger says Elrohir ran to the stable, grabbed two blankets and a knife that was lying on the harness bench and told him this:  send no word till sundown.  Estel and I are going adventuring.  We will return in two days.  I could not stop him but he has allowed me to go with him.  Bruinen.  

I hear him shout it in my mind, as the story is told to me.  Boat.   The last word he said as he ran down the hill.  Boat.   I gather my robes and run to the river but it rushes swiftly away, and on its surface are no boats.  I find a small, dead fire, and more sign, where Elrohir has sought to reassure me that all will be well, with hastily scratched letters in the earth. 

But my mind is full of questions and worries, and I watch the water slide away from me until Elladan stands beside me, then leads me home.

(Elrohir takes up the story.)

We slip down the silvery Bruinen.  I barely need to paddle, just steer to follow the best course of the river.  Father has control of these waters, to the Ford at least, so we are safe until then.   I think we may go to the confluence with Mitheithel and perhaps out to Tharbad.  There we might meet the ones Estel needs to see.

He is sitting with his back to me in the bow of our little boat.  I know I turned his chosen path as we talked on the river bank, and he is not happy with me about that.   But he could not have gone alone, with his arm broken, and no weapons, and so young still.  He has been out with us once to the wild, last year, and that on horseback and only as far as the Last Bridge.  That is not enough experience for what he had planned. 

He tells me he was going to leave word.   I am sure he would have done, too, though perhaps not in a helpful way.  So we quarrelled, after a fashion, and he told me I was treating him like a child. It did no good to remind him that he is still a child, and to ask what he was proposing to do for food and shelter since he had only his knife with him.  I believe I also questioned his ability to paddle with one hand.  Then I started to sound so like Father that I fell quiet and began to listen to what he wanted to do, and why.

So it was I found myself running for whatever I could find in the stables, leaving my own hurried messages and sign, and getting back to Estel within our set time limit.  He was waiting for me by the bank, quiet and thoughtful, and I could see in him the strength to endure.  He is a hardy boy, born of strong stock, but what he had planned was sheer foolishness.  I remembered just in time not to tell him that.

Now we float on the stream, silent and yet not peaceful, and I wonder if Elladan or Father would find some wise saying that would mend the trouble between us; or some lesson to be learned; or something I should point out to him, so that he would be better equipped for his life to come.  Father says we must teach him all we can since he will be with us for so short a time.

I can think of nothing, and we remain silent.

The high red cliffs of the gorge begin to draw apart, and the banks become flat plains as we approach the Ford.  Estel has been here many times.  He and I and Elladan used to walk here, he between us, holding my right hand and Elladan’s left – never the other way about, so that he should be sure which twin he spoke to.  He used to laugh so when we swung him between us, and shout for us to walk fast as he trotted to keep up.  Then, as he grew, he ran ahead of us, then dawdled behind, engrossed in his study of some plant or animal, often calling us to whatever he had found.  Then we would sit there, and I might tell him the healing properties of the plants, or Elladan might explain the life of the animal, until he had learned all he wanted to learn and ran off again to find something else.

I wish for that closeness now.  I know what his trouble is but we have always found the remedy for his sorrows in the past and it is painful now to watch him, back hunched, barely looking at the landscape, and know that nothing I can find to say will soothe him.

The sun climbs higher and the water is so bright and musical that it lulls me, and I begin to sing back to it.  I stop when Estel turns to look at me.

“Why have you stopped, Elrohir?  You always sing to the river and then I can almost hear it sing back to you.”

“I did not want to disturb your thought,” I say.  “You are thinking long and deep today, brother. I wish you could tell me what ails you.”

He flings himself at me so suddenly that I almost lose the paddle.  He is gasping and sobbing, and clinging to me so hard that I let the boat take its own course and settle him more comfortably next to me on the thwart.  He stills but I can feel the tension in him and fear he will move away again before I can speak to him.

He mumbles something into my side.

“What? What did you say?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again.   “I am still a baby.”

“No.  You have strong emotions inside, and they must find some way out or they will hurt you, I think.  Let me paddle us to shore.  We can talk there.”

“No.  I want my adventure first.”   He sniffs loudly but looks at me, a small smile on his face.  “You promised.”

“I did, didn’t I.  Well, let us see if the river will take us there, or if we must find it ourselves.  I think, if we go far enough down river, it might find us.”

“To the sea?” he asks, now calmer.  He reaches over the side for a handful of water and then washes his face.

“No,” I say thoughtfully.  “Not to the sea.   Father would wonder where we are and Elladan would be worried.  No, to the place where we meet another river, I think. If we are in luck, there may be sign there that we can follow.  Later today, perhaps even before dark.”

He nods, accepting my word as he always does.  All I can do is hope my word is good.  I am taking a chance.  It is three days early – they may not be there yet.  But I think Elladan will guess what it is I am doing, and he may find a way to send a message, or even go himself.  The river is slower than a horse.  He could easily get there first.

Estel returns to the front of the boat.  He begins to look around him, to point things out.  A huge bird sits in the top of a pine tree.

“Osprey!” he says quietly, pointing, and I whistle to the bird.  It whistles back and takes flight, flapping slow beats at first then cruising across the river right in front of us. Estel politely wishes him good fishing and, taking the hint, I steer us to a deep pool.  Estel leans precariously over the side, sitting very still.  I hold us there, back-paddling quietly in the easy water. 

After a while, he looks up and holds his hands apart, wide, and grins.

“That big?” I say, teasing.   “Really?  He would make a good supper for us.”

“Pull to shore, then.   You have line and tackle in your belt, I know you have.”

So, despite my promise of continuing down river we stay for an hour while Estel tries to outfox the old trout.  He catches two smaller, less wary fish but the old one knows better.  I explain that is how he became a large, old fish, and Estel asks if that’s how Father became old.

“By being wary?”  I ask, trying not to grin too widely.

“Yes,” he says, pulling in the line slowly, awkwardly. 

“I think it may be,” I say, seeing the large fish below the water nuzzling at the bait.  Estel cannot see it for reflections in the water, but I can and realise the danger too late.

“Estel!  Let go the line! He will drag you in!”   I had not thought the old fish would even sniff the bait, so I had not anticipated the difficulty.

Asking Estel to let go a fish is not something I had ever done before, and he is so surprised that he hangs on tighter rather than lets go, and pulls, hard.  He ends up sitting in the cold water, laughing and laughing, with the old fish wriggling in his lap.  By the time I sort matters out, and have his three fish and him back in the boat, I am soaked through too.

He is wet but it is a warm day, and he sits in the hot sun and spreads out his legs to dry his leggings.  I remove my cloak and wring out my tunic as best I can, and we drift further down river, the snow-capped mountains running almost parallel, filling the distant view, and the river reeds full of little birds.

The silence between us is easy now and when I begin again my river song, Estel beats time gently on the thwart.

(A/N I have been doing some research.  I hope I haven’t strayed too far from book canon.  If anyone knows any reference which contradicts the age I have given one of the characters, please let me know.  I am assuming all of Aragorn’s people age at more or less the same rate, even if they cannot expect to live as long as he does.)

We draw closer to the confluence with the Mitheithel just as the light is beginning to fade.  I am paddling now, steering the boat down the current.  The air cools and I pass a blanket to Estel, who puts it over his knees. 

“Is your arm aching?” I ask, and he nods.  I will gather comfrey for him tonight and he can have a new poultice.  I should have checked his arm earlier.  I did not have time to gather up my herb bag, so I hope he will be well.  He sits straight-backed on the front thwart, turning his head now and then as a bird or a tree catches his attention.  His eyesight is keen, by the standards of his kind, and the fading light is no bar to his interest. 

We will be at the meeting place in two more turns of the river now. I remind him to keep quiet and he crouches down a little.  I begin to take more care to keep the boat from the shallows as the Bruinen widens and slows.

There, ahead, the landing place, and no sign of anyone, though I am uneasy, and warn Estel to be on his guard.  He nods and steps warily out of the boat, then helps me drag it out of the river. We hide it with branches and I take our fish, the blankets and some rope out.

“Go on,” I encourage him. He keeps close by now that it is darker but he sets off at my word, up the bank and over into the scrubland beyond.  “To the right.  There. By the three trees.”

That has been our meeting place for years without number.  But we are a day early at least, and the chances are we will wait out the night and meet them tomorrow morning.  I begin to doubt the wisdom of my plan to re-unite Estel with his own people for a few days.  I weighed risk and gain and perhaps have made the wrong choice.

Yet as we draw nearer the trees I catch the distinctive smell of a campfire and then see the tiny glow, close by the tree.  Two forms sit by the fire, one taller than the other.

I call out our greeting.  The taller figure rises but does not return my call.  He stands, and the smaller figure, a boy, stands close by. 

“Are the Dúnedain become so distrustful they do not recognise two of the House of Elrond?” I say, keeping Estel a little behind me, and my hand on my knife.  There is about this place an atmosphere I have not felt before.  I listen, hear noises which need my full attention for a moment, and then Estel steps forward.

“Are you really one of my people?” he says, a quiet awe in his voice.

I put an arm round his shoulders and pull him to me.  He knows only that he is of the Dúnedain and that is all his words meant, though in time it will come to mean more.  His people know his identity must be kept secret but will this child know that? 

“What is your name?”  The other child speaks and steps forward.  He is taller than Estel and seems to my eye older, though guessing the age of mortals is not an easy task. 

“Estel,” my brother answers, glancing up at me for permission.  I push him forward gently.  “What is yours?” he asked, falling easily into trusting the other boy.

“Halbarad,” he says.  “I’m twelve.  I’m taking my Test.”

“I’m nine,” my brother says.  He is a month past his birthday.  “What test?  An archery test?  I’m learning to pull the bigger bow now.”

“The Test to join a Company, of course.  Where do you live?”

“Before we exchange more greetings, let us go to the fire,” I suggest, liking less and less the sounds which come to my ears.  The man looks round as well, and his hand is on the hilt of his sword.

We shepherd the two boys back to the fire and I hear their talk, Estel friendly and open, the older boy less so, yet I can hear already the warmth in his voice as they talk, swapping little tales of things they can do.  Does this Dúnedain boy know that he is speaking to his Chieftain?  From the ease and freedom of their communication I am inclined to think not.

The noise grows louder and the stench hits me.  Orcs, more than a few, and they are travelling fast.  Abruptly, we decide the fire must be put out.

“We must hide.  We are not strong enough to resist.  They may be about some other business.”    The man, who has not given his name, voices my thoughts as he stamps out the fire and gathers up his pack and cloak.  Halbarad does the same.  We have little to take and I catch hold of Estel’s hand, whether to reassure him or myself, I do not know.

“To the river,” I say.  “They hate the clean waters from the mountains.  We may be able to hide there.”

And so we move, fast and low, both boys running hard to keep up and we arrive at the dark and silver waters as the orcs do. We leave grasses which close behind us.  They will leave a trail which will not heal for weeks. 

Have they seen us?  The boys are afraid.  The orcs will smell that.  I wonder desperately, as I push Estel ahead of me, if we can fit four in the boat but I know it is impossible.  We cannot ford the river here, either, although we might swim it.  It is cold, and deep in the centre, but we could swim.  Perhaps with the boat to help.  My mind turns over all the possibilities but there is no time to communicate a decision.

Harsh voices fill the air.  They have reached the water but they are arguing, I think, though to my ears it always sounds as if they are angry with one another.  We slide down the bank, Estel holding onto me with a fierce grip, and we try to push the boys into the deeper darkness where the river has cut into the bank. 

A yell, and I know we are seen.  Now we must make sacrifices, for the boys must be kept alive.  I reach for the boat and pull it to the water’s edge, then pick up Estel and throw him into it, nearly upsetting it.  Halbarad next, and I hand him the paddle.  Then the rank stench is all round us, and the Dúnedan is fighting for his life and ours, hand to hand, sword against scimitar, grace against brutish strength.  There are too many and as soon as I know the boys are safe I turn to help him as I may. 

Two things stop me.  First, the man falters, cut over the back with a scimitar, then down upon his knees, lost in a welter of black shapes, surely dead in the next few moments.

The second?  Estel’s cry, “Elrohir!  No! Don’t leave me!” 

I turn away from the fight and push the boat fully into the river, jumping as lightly as I can, and, as arrows rattle into the water around us, I let the water carry us away. 

We must make for the shore soon.  I must check both boys and try to ensure that they can continue.  What we shall do if they cannot, I do not know.  My only plan is to travel downstream as far and as fast as we can, and hope to find a larger band of Estel’s people at one of the other meeting points on the river.  I must speak to Halbarad, who must know more than I of the other members of his company.  His company to be.  I wonder for a moment if he has passed his Test.  Initiation is an important part of their culture, and Estel must be tested in his turn.

I listen while the two boys talk quietly, urgently to one another.  Halbarad is more voluble than Estel, who becomes more and more silent as we travel.  I worry that he is not telling me what is wrong with him.  I wonder what lessons he is learning from his experience of the outside world.

I must not think too much.  I must watch for the orcs following us, for the river is not so swift and they could follow.  But all I can hear is the water and Halbarad’s voice. 

“Estel?”  I say.  “Do you need to stop?”

He looks back and nods briefly.  There is something wrong but he is not going to tell me in front of the other boy.

I steer our boat into the southern bank.  We have travelled far and it is just becoming light.  Halbarad jumps out as soon as we touch land.  I warn him not to stray far but he jumps away from us and is off up the bank without looking back.  Concerned, I turn to Estel.  His face is pale in the thin light, which barely colours the landscape.

“I think he feels ill,” Estel explains.  “He will not show any weakness in front of us.  He will stay close.”

“Then let us get out and find some food, Brother.  We have a long way to travel.”

“I cannot,” he says, and I step forward to sit by him.

“Are you afraid?” I ask, puzzled.

“Yes, but it is not that.  I am caught fast.  I thought I could free myself but I cannot pull out the arrow.”

He turns a little and raises his right arm.  I have to reach across him to see what is the trouble.

A wicked, black-feathered arrow goes right into his tunic. 

“Estel!  Why did you not say anything?  You are incorrigible!”

He looks shocked at my anger and I instantly regret my words.

“It missed me!” he says.  “I don’t know how, but it is only pinning the material here to the shell of the boat.  I cannot pull it free.”

I pull and twist, then pull again and at last the head of the arrow comes clear.  I thread it back through the material of his tunic and check it, sniffing for poison.  It is crudely made but still barbed and sharp.  And it is clean of poison.  I throw it into the river, not knowing whether to curse it for its making or bless it for its poor flight.  I make Estel pull up his tunic and find the arrowhead cut him a little but he does not even need a stitch.

He is anxious to be off the boat and I let him go.  He is safe for a few minutes at least, and both boys need moments to themselves.  I pull the boat up higher and pull out five more arrows. I check round quickly then take the line from my belt and throw it in the river, with a prayer that the fish may be biting.  My wish is granted and I have one fish by the time Estel returns, and a second is about to take the bait.  He is scratching his side and I check it again but there is no sign of anything more than a shallow cut. 

“We should stop for a fire, and cook these fish.  I shall gather comfrey for your arm and then we will continue downstream.”

He looks at me coolly, his grey eyes studying me intently.  I want to brush his dark hair away from his face and somehow know what he is thinking.  I feel he is going away from me a little and that I cannot speak to him as I used to, to tell him what to do. 

I modify my instructions.  “Do you wish to return now to Imladris?”   It broaches a sore subject, that it was his choice to leave and find his people, and only my offer of a boat and my company and protection which turned him from taking that path by himself. 

He does not hesitate.  “No.  We must take Halbarad back to his people.  He is very sad, I think.  I have been trying to think what I could say to make him feel better but I could not think of anything.  I wanted to say …” he hesitates and I reach out to him.  He takes a step closer.  “I thought to tell him that the Dúnedan died to save him and – and that at least he had not lost his father, as I did.  But I could not say such a thing.”

“No,” I agree.  “Whatever the loss, whether father, friend or horse, it cuts deeply. We all know what it is to lose someone dear to us, Estel, so we must keep together.”  He knows something of the loss of my mother but not the whole story.

He looks at me again, the wisdom born in him there in his eyes for a moment, before the child, the hungry and tired and frightened child, re-asserts itself.

“I want to eat now.  Is it safe?”

“I will light a fire and heat some water and cook these fish, then I will scout round a little.  Care for Halbarad, as best you can.  I think we are safe for a while.”

With help from both the boys – Halbarad returns to us, dry-eyed but pale and too quiet where he was too talkative before – I soon have a small, hot fire going.  I tell the boys to stay there and they nod, taking turns to feed the fire and watch the fish.  Halbarad has retrieved his bag and draws from it some waybread and a water bottle.  He pours the water away and I offer to fill it from the river. 

When I take it back, the boys are sharing a fish, eating it delicately from the bones, and they have drawn closer together.  I leave the water bottle with them and run upstream, following the twists and turns of the river for a while.  Nothing I hear, or see, or smell alarms me.  I leave sign in two places, in the hopes that Elladan may be trying to find us, but I see no one. 

I run back to camp, thinking to gather up the boys, put out the fire and head downstream immediately but my plans change as soon as I come back to the camp place.

There is Halbarad, his finger on his lips.  Leaning against him, fast asleep, sits Estel.  I go to sit next to the taller boy, put my arm round his shoulders, whisper, “One half hour, no more,” to him, and hold him as he sags against me. 

I suppose they could have slept in the boat, but there was barely room for them and it was not so comfortable there.

I try to listen for my Father’s voice, try to tell him what has happened but I am too tired and need my strength to watch over the two sleeping boys.  All I can do is to trust that we will not be found.

It is truly a scant few minutes before I wake Halbarad.  The folly of waiting at all appals me but they are both exhausted.  A few minutes’ sleep may enable them to continue for a few more hours.  They must remain alert. 

“Halbarad,” I whisper, nudging the boy.  “Where are your people?”

He comes slowly awake and, in moving his arm to rub his eyes, disturbs Estel.  “Tharbad,” Halbarad says.  “Many of my people are there.”

“Was it not destroyed in the flood?” I ask, reaching across him to reassure Estel, who is looking at me as if he no longer knows where he is.

“We have been salvaging what we can.  My father says that much that was lost will be found, though I’m not sure whether he means the city or our Chieftain.”  He looks at Estel, who is still sleepy enough to simply grunt a response.

“Well, we must go there, though it is far further than I had intended we should travel,” I say, standing, and pouring water onto the fire.  I stamp it out carefully while the boys stand and gather any other remnants of our feast.  “Go down to the boat.  Wash in the river, quickly – you will both be ill if you do not keep yourselves clean.”

They go, close together now, Halbarad very slightly ahead of my brother, and I envy them the way they have shrugged off the dangers and horrors around them.  Estel trails his good hand through the long grasses and I am reminded to go and gather comfrey.  I must check and rebind his arm before we go on – I am afraid it will not knot quickly if I do not treat it.

So we are delayed again, as I make Estel sit on a river stone and unbind the wrappings on his arm.  Halbarad watches with interest.  The arm is deeply bruised but not displaced, and the swelling is less than it was.  I should boil the leaves but that would have taken yet more time, and I do not like the way the place has become almost silent apart from the steady rush of the river.  I put the leaves straight onto the skin, hoping that at least some of their goodness will help, and I re wrap his arm carefully.  Both boys are watching me now, and I take extra care but Estel is biting his bottom lip.

“Does it hurt?” Halbarad asks. 

“Yes,” Estel says.  “But my brother always makes it better for me.”  He looks at me with such shining trust that I try even harder to be gentle.

“He’s your brother?”  Halbarad says, glancing at me dubiously.

I slip the sling back round my brother’s neck and help him to settle his arm again.   I wait for Estel to answer.

“He’s my foster-brother,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

I urge both boys into the boat and they settle themselves on the front thwart again.  I pass the spare paddle to Halbarad and he is soon contributing his strength to our journey downstream.  I am pleased that we are moving.  I feel evil was close but it is now slipping behind us again. 

Immediate danger lies not in whatever follows us but in this boy, who knows so much more than Estel about his people.  We have protected Estel for seven years now and Father judges we must do that for much longer, keeping secrets of great importance from him.  Secrets about his own family.  It suddenly seems unfair that we must do that to him, so that he will only be able to tell his new friend half-truths.  My only comfort is that he does not tell them knowingly.

“There is a girl I know.  Her parents died.  She was taken in by another family.  But I didn’t know the elves took in edain children.  I’m sorry, sir,” he says, looking round at me.  “I don’t mean you shouldn’t have taken him.”

Estel knows the truth, so there is no harm in repeating the story of the way he was brought to us, and that passes the time.  Estel grins at some of the stories I tell, especially the ones where he managed to escape us, or outwit us, which I always tell if he is unhappy. 

Halbarad begins to laugh at the story of Estel and the frog.  It is the first time I have seen the boy smile and it changes him.  He is like Estel in some ways, dark-haired, sharp-featured, but he has green eyes.  He is tall and very thin.  He seems to grow as I watch him, his clothes already a little too small on him.  Now that he smiles, I see that he has humour in him and I begin to trust him a little.  

“Do you know the story of the king?” he says abruptly.  “Our king, the one who will come one day and lead us all back to the days of glory?”

“No,” Estel says.  “Elladan told me once about the kings that were, in the old days, but I know nothing about a future king.  Tell me.”

“All I know is what I have said,” the boy admits, and I breathe again.  At what point to intervene, I had been thinking.  If too many clues are dropped I will have a long story to tell my brother, and a great deal of explaining to do when Father finds out.  “Maybe it’s you!”  Halbarad suddenly says.

Estel looks straight at him, mouth a little open.  Then he laughs, loudly.  “Me!  Elrohir, did you hear what he said!  Me, as king!”

“Don’t you want to be king?”  I say, looking around for somewhere we can beach the boat and rest for the night.  The light is already beginning to fade.

“No!” he says, suddenly losing his smile.  “No!  Think how many men would have to live or die by my word.”

We fall silent.  It is an extraordinary thought for a nine year old, but then, he is an extraordinary boy, and he has just learnt a hard lesson.  What can I say to such reasoning?  Halbarad seems somehow disappointed, his joke fallen flat, and at my command he helps steer the boat to the shore.

It is the work of a moment.  Halbarad catches his paddle in an underwater obstruction and it pulls him back suddenly.  The boat is unbalanced and I move to right it but Estel, trying to help Halbarad, forgets his injury and as he reaches out, I shout to him to beware.  We are sideways on to the flow of the water now, and further than I intended to be – soon we must reach the cold, fast-flowing waters of Mitheithel.  I do not know which boy to help first – one must surely fall in now, but if I can just manoeuvre the boat this way, I can bring them both safely to shore.

I don’t know when our luck deserted us.  Halbarad falls and is dragged under almost immediately.  Before I can reach him Estel has jumped into the freezing water, and the boat is rocked by his movement.  It quickly floods and I must take to the water too, holding onto the boat and calling, calling to the boys.  All I hear is the water and all I can see is a dark head, floating too fast away from me.

“Elladan!” my mind cries.  “Elladan!”  And in that moment, I know why the thought is in my head, for there on the bank, bright against the dark woodlands is my brother, high on his horse and shouting to me.  I drive for the bank, dragging the boat behind me and searching desperately for any sign of the boys.

“Estel!” he shouts.  “I saw him fall.  Where is he?”

“Downriver!” I answer, still looking for them.  “I think he was swept away!”

My brother needs no more instruction and urges his horse along the bank, calling for Estel and searching.  I watch him ride away, then suddenly turn his horse down the bank and right into the river.  He crashes through the water and I can only hope it is because he has seen Estel and is riding to take him from the flood.

I begin to search in earnest for Halbarad, my heart lighter now that my brother has found us.  As I drag the boat onto the shore I listen carefully and hear sharply-drawn breath and the slide of water.

“Halbarad!” I shout.

“Here!” says a small, winded voice.  “Here.”

I slither along the water’s edge and find Halbarad lying on his stomach.  I grab the back of his shirt and pull him out of the water and up onto his feet.

“Come on, lad – I’ll get a fire lit and you can dry out.”

“Estel?” he says, stumbling up the steep bank in front of me.  I steady him then climb up behind him.

“My brother will find him,” I tell him, grabbing any wood I can find as I go.  There is plenty stranded on the high water mark, where the winter floods have left it.  In a few moments I have the tinder lit and the fire is beginning to spark and catch.  My heart tells me to go after my brothers.  My head tells me they will need a fire when they get back.  When the fire is going I give its care to Halbarad and whistle up the other horse I know my brother will have brought with him, then abandoned as he went after Estel.

I go back to the fire and Halbarad leaves the circle of light to attend to himself.

Then Elladan appears out of the gathering dark, leading his horse.  In the saddle, a small, wet, miserable boy sits, gripping the saddle with one hand.  As he comes into the firelight he drops his head, hiding his face. 

Elladan lifts him down and sets him on his feet but makes no move to comfort him.  Instead, he goes to his horse and begins to unsaddle him.

Estel takes a few steps forward until he stands in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Taking my lead from my twin, I do not immediately look at him.  “Whatever for?” I say quietly.

“I … I got it all wrong,” Estel says, kneeling close by.

“You did?”  I look up at Elladan, who is setting down his saddle near the fire.  We both know this is important and that we must wait for Estel to speak his mind.

“I thought I could save him.”

“Estel.  He’s safe.  Look – he’s just here.”

Halbarad has stepped back into the circle of firelight and the sudden movement catches Estel’s attention.  His jaw drops.

“You didn’t die!” he says.

“No,” says Halbarad.  “I didn’t.  Why did you jump in?  I can swim like a fish.”  Halbarad sneezes and shivers.  His temper is frayed by the cold.  When I told him to take off his wet clothes he refused, but Elladan throws him a blanket which he has untied from behind his saddle.  He stands and begins to peel off his sodden shirt and leggings.  He stand in his small clothes then wraps the blanket around him.  He ignores Estel.

“But…”  Estel manages, his teeth chattering.  Then he turns away suddenly and expels the river water in his stomach.  I want to go to him but Elladan glares at me.  Our brother must learn his lesson well.

He is gasping, but he turns back to us.

“I thought I could save him,” he says.

“By yourself?” Elladan says.  “With a broken arm?  Estel, you can barely swim even when you have two good arms.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“Do you think Ruby considered his own safety as he went to protect you?”  Elladan asks, his voice harsh and insistent.

I was setting my shirt to dry as I heard Elladan’s question and wondered at its wisdom.  If Estel runs away again he might be less than easy to find at night, in the wild.

Estel looks up at my brother, who stands head and shoulders taller than him.  “I didn’t want him to try to save me!  But I didn’t want Halbarad to die if I could prevent it!  How am I to know the right course of action?  Everything I do is just wrong!”

Elladan goes down on one knee and catches hold of Estel by the shoulders.  “No, brother, no, it is not.  You did what your heart told you to do.  I am only sorry I arrived too late to prevent the need for your action.”

“But you came back just in time,” he says, his shoulders sagging.  “You saved me.”

“I came too late,” Elladan insists.  “If I had been able to slip away before, I would have put you on a horse and taken you straight back to Imladris where you belong.”

I suddenly sense the strength of feeling which has been building in my brother, in the hours he has spent trying to follow us.  He must have found the orc tracks, and the marks of battle, and the Dúnadan, whose name I do not even know.

Estel is flinching from his tone, which Elladan immediately softens.  “Father misses you,” he adds quietly.  His tone is a strange mixture of love and frustration.

Elladan begins to undo the ties on Estel’s jacket.  He could push Estel to say more but the boy is clearly tired out.  Elladan says nothing but it seems Estel has more to say himself.

“Must I let others do what they want to do, then?  Can I do nothing to prevent them?”  he asks, his head cocked to one side.

“You may help others all you can,” Elladan tells him.  “You may offer them everything you have, even your life.  In turn, you must allow others to do good if they wish.”

“And stop them from doing bad things?”  Estel asks, his face thoughtful.

“Yes.  If you can, you should stop them from doing bad things.”

“But not good things?”

Elladan asks.  “No, Estel.  You cannot prevent them from doing good things, even if in doing them they end up looking like a drowned rat.”

Estel grins, a wide, cheerful grin, completely transforming his face.  Then a thought grabs him.  “So – so I shouldn’t be sad about Ruby because he was doing good?”

At last Elladan hugs his brother.  “Be sad, Estel, but do not be angry with him.  Try not to be angry.”

Estel nods and begins to co-operate as Elladan removes his jacket and his tunic.  He is already strong, his muscles beginning to develop, but he is thin. 

I know Elladan is right, that Estel must try not to be angry.  Yet I know also that if Elladan had failed to pull him from the water I would be angry, with both of them, and with whatever had ordained he should die too young.  And I know that anger is what we both harbour in us since our mother left us.   It is expecting a lot of a little boy to understand that.

“Elladan,” he says, as a blanket is pulled round his shoulders.  “If we go home now, can Halbarad come too?”

I know Elladan’s answer before he gives it in a nod.  He holds Estel close and waits, and after a few minutes, grasps him and picks him up bodily.

The boy - my small, knowing brother - is asleep. 

We guard them all night.  In the morning, we head home, Estel riding with Elladan, Halbarad with me.  We hope to avoid the river, and the orcs, and all else that has marred our adventure. 

I think we have all had enough of adventures for a while.

(This section returns to Elrond’s point of view).

“Estel.”

He peers round the door to my study then enters, standing as far away from me as possible without actually being outside the room.

This is not going to be easy.

“Are you warm now?”  I ask.

“Yes, Papa.  And I had some soup.  And Halbarad had some too and now Elladan’s showing him his room and he’s going to wait for me and then I’ll show him the river and the waterfalls and everything.”  He looks at the floor, then out of the window.  Everywhere except at me. 

“And you’re well?”

“Yes, Papa.  My arm is all right and my side, I think, and I only knocked my knee a bit on the rocks.”  He is back looking at the floor.  He looks cleaner than when he arrived about an hour ago.  I watched my sons arrive, learned who the older boy was then asked Elrohir to see to Estel’s bath.  

I wanted to hug the boy when he returned to me.  I still want to.  But I must talk to him first.  Then I will speak to the twins.  Then I will decide what to do with my errant son.

“Come and sit here,” I tell him.  When I work, he often sits by me on a tall stool.  When he was little, paper and pencil were enough to occupy him quietly.  He would pretend to organise the papers just as I organised mine.

He drags his feet but comes to sit on his stool. 

“Now, Estel.  You must tell me all about your adventure.  Then, I shall talk to Elladan, and Elrohir, and to Halbarad.  Then I shall judge whether you need to be punished.”

He looks at me curiously.  “You’re not going to make me stay in my room?”

He is expecting to be punished, then.  I want this to be a serious talk but I hope he will see that I shall be fair with him.  I do not altogether understand why he feels punishment is due.  

“No, I am not.  If you need to be punished it will be different this time.  Now, tell me what happened.”

He tells me, clearly and factually, all the events of his river journey with Elrohir.  He does not play up his own part, nor does he exaggerate the dangers.  He gives praise where it is due and his admiration for his new-found friend shines through.  I must tell him immediately something which will surprise him.

I wait until he comes to a natural pause in the story then put my hand on his arm.  “Estel.  You have chanced upon a great friend indeed.  I know of Halbarad.  He is kin to you.”

He looks at me, his grey eyes big.  “Really, Papa?”

“Yes, Estel.  And he will be very welcome to stay.  I have sent a message to his people to tell them he is here.  I hope he will be able to stay a month at least.”

Estel is off his stool now and dancing around the floor, far too excited to remember that he is awaiting punishment.  This is just as well, for I have already judged that he only needs a few tasks to keep him closer to home.  I know in my heart that whatever I say or do, if this child wishes to leave me, he will.  Better then for him to know he is loved and hope that is enough to hold him here. 

“A whole month!  Can I teach him – teach him something, Papa?  Will there be something I know that he doesn’t know?”

“I am sure we shall find many things to teach him, my son.  And I think he will need to teach you to swim, when your arm is healed.”

He laughs out loud.  “Elrohir has tried, and Elladan, but I just sink like a stone!  Right down to the bottom of the river!”

His good humour is sudden and catching.  I stand and watch him whirl round, his hands out, and he is laughing and singing.  As he spins past me I catch him and hold him under his arms.  I swing him round, like I used to when he was much smaller, and he laughs and laughs.

But when I set him back on his feet he is silent, and his face is concentrated .  I know that look.

“Where do you hurt, Estel?  Is it your arm?”

“My side hurts.  It’s sore.”

“Let me look, child.”   He turns to me, trusting me to set things right.  I pull up his tunic and inspect the cut there, the one made by an orc arrow.  It is a little reddened and tender to the touch, but he is not fevered.  I take him by the hand.

“Come.  Let us go and find the right ointment for you.  Then you can help me decide what your list of tasks will be.”

“Oh,” he sighs.  “I’ve already done that.”

I look down at the boy who is leading me.   He is a source of endless wonder to me.  I try not to say anything which will show he has surprised me. 

“You have?  Here is the key, Estel.  Open the door.”

We go inside and he hops up on the bed, holding his tunic up carefully and trying to look at the wound.  “I thought I could help out in the gardens and learn the names of all the plants,” he says, sticking out his thumb.  I wonder what he is doing until his forefinger is stuck out as well.  He is counting off his punishments.  “And I must find a new horse and care for it really well.  Ouch!  Papa, that’s cold!”

I warm the ointment in my hand for a moment before spreading it thickly over his cut.  “What else will you need to do?”  His self-punishing sounds a little too like the things he wants to do but I suppose he has the right idea.

His middle finger joins the rest.  “Teaching Halbarad something.”

“Ah yes.”  I wrap the wound carefully and pull down his tunic.  “Anything else?”

“I shall do my lessons without grumbling.”

I resist the temptation to say that I have never heard him grumble, or had any complaints from the various people who have tutored him.  Perhaps he keeps his grumbling to himself. 

One finger left.  He seems puzzled now.  “I can’t remember what the other thing was.”

“Perhaps,” I say, unwrapping his arm and reaching for the fresh comfrey I gathered this morning, when the messenger told me my boys were returning. I wonder if I am going too far, but it must be said.  “Perhaps you should stay at home now, as your last task.  For a while, at least.  For a month or so.”

He looks up at me as I place the paste made from the comfrey leaves on the skin over his broken bone.  “Yes, Papa.  I think that would be a very good idea.” 

When I have finished binding him up I wash my hands and go back to sit beside him.  He rests his head on my shoulder. 

“I didn’t really want to go away.  It hurt such a lot when Ruby died.”  He pauses.  “Can I go and see if Halbarad is ready to go and see the river now?  I can start my lessons when we come back.  I promise I won’t be late.”

I nod and busy myself putting away the ointments and bandages.  He jumps down from the bed.

“I’m glad I’m home,” he says and I turn to look at him.

“I am pleased you are home, too, child.  It was very quiet without you.”

He smiles.  Then he runs off in search of his new friend, his kin, and the sound of him skittering away down the corridor is a sound I hope to hear often over the coming weeks.

Estel is home.   

Getting Estel to go to bed is proving a task almost beyond the three of us.  We have him contained within his bedroom now and Elrohir is attempting to calm him down with a story.  I hold out no great hope that we will have a peaceful evening.  He is far too excited and tired, which for a human child seems to be a destroyer of sleep, or any desire for sleep.

I pause outside Estel’s room.  The corridor is dark.  It is very late.  From the room comes a soft glow and a flood of questions, which Elrohir is struggling to answer. 

“Where do horses go when they die, Elrohir?”

I can hear my twin son’s sigh even though I am still outside the room.  “Estel.  I answered that question five minutes ago.  You must go to sleep.  How are you going to be able to keep up with Halbarad tomorrow if you do not sleep?”

That is a good question, Elrohir.  It even holds Estel for a moment.

“Is he really asleep?”

“Yes.  He’s been asleep for at least two hours now.”

“Really?”

In my mind’s eye I can see Estel’s expression as he tried to gauge whether his brother is telling him the whole truth.

“Just one more story?” the boy wheedles.  “I have to learn as much as I can.  I promised Papa I would.”

Oh, now that’s unfair, Estel.  You should know better than to use one of us against another.

“No, Estel.  You are going to go to sleep.  Think how embarrassing it will be when you need a nap in the afternoon, like a baby.”

Ah – now they’re both using unfair tactics.  I wonder if Estel will be able to rise to the challenge of that comment.  As far as Estel is concerned, tomorrow has always been a long way off. 

“I suppose so.  All right.  I’ll try.”

I take that as my cue to walk away.  I would have liked to have wished him good dreams but if I go in, it will be another excuse for him to stay awake.  I will check on him later. 

I walk quietly away and join Elladan in the Hall of Fire.  He is sitting by the fire, legs stretched out, his expression serious.  He looks up as I take my place on the opposite side of the fire.

“Is he going to sleep?” he asks, eyebrows raised to reinforce the question.

“I think he may.  If not, we will be entertaining Halbarad tomorrow, I think.  He will have to sleep at some time.”  I study my son.  There is something on his mind.  He is not usually this slow to tell me what it is.

“We must go tomorrow,” he says. 

“The orcs must be dealt with,” I concede.  “They have killed one of our allies.  We need to know why they were there, what they were doing so far from their home.  That Estel should immediately run into a band of orcs may be too much of a coincidence.”

Elladan shakes his head.  “We left here telling no one but yourself.  Even if we were watched, they could not have travelled so fast to intercept us.  There would need to be spies everywhere and I do not believe that is so.”

He has a right to make that judgement.  He and his brother have worked very hard with our allies to ensure the safety of Imladris.

“Then coincidence it must be.  So, my son, must you go tomorrow?  Estel will be very sad.”

“He has his new playmate.  He will be too busy – what did you say he was going to do?  The gardening?”  He snorts with laughter but I think he has underestimated his brother’s tenacity and curiosity.

“I shall teach him to grow beans first,” I tell him, remembering a time long ago when the twins watched the bean, trapped between paper and glass, put out root and shoot.

Elladan clearly remembers too and smiles gently.  “Yes – he will enjoy that.”

“I think you are wrong, my son.  I think he needs both of you here.  But if you must go, then you must.  He was prepared for you to leave in the next few days in any case.”

Elrohir joins us.  “I don’t know if he will stay in his room or come searching for us, but he has consented to lie down and try to sleep.  He had not been so unsettled since he was a small boy.”

We all have memories of a very small boy trailing round the house, trying to remember where he is and find some security in the people he knows.  He has not been like that for three years. 

“Well, then, we must rest too,” I tell my sons.  “If you are leaving in the morning, then you must have some time to recuperate after the exertions of the last couple of days.”

We go to our separate rooms and, to my surprise, my rest is untroubled by boys who cannot sleep.   In the early hours I check him, unable to believe he is actually resting.  I replace the blanket that has slipped to the floor and smooth the hair from his face.  Even in sleep he seems poised to move, to act and to interact with his world.  In a few short years he will not be able to sleep securely.  He will wake when anyone comes near him and be ready to protect himself.  He will spend long hours awake protecting others.  I have a moment’s foresight.  He sits, staring into the night, while others sleep securely.

If that will be his future then we must make his present as safe as we can.

He stirs in his sleep but does not wake.  I leave him to his dreams.

In the morning, the house is full of the bustle of preparation for leaving.  A message has arrived to say the orcs, nearly fifty in number, are still on the northern bank of the Bruinen and seem to be waiting there for something.  Their intention is unclear but we must find out what it is and defeat them. 

Estel is still asleep when I go to break the bad news to him.  He comes awake slowly and is still rubbing his eyes when I tell him his brothers are going away. He is soon fully conscious.

“No!  Papa, make them stay.  We were going to do so many things this time.  No – I don’t want them to go!”   His shocked face is enough to shake my resolve to support my sons’ decision but he has no more right to hold them back than I do.

“Estel – you will find the strength not to stop them.  To wish them well on the journey, so that they do not worry about you.  You will have Halbarad here to keep you company this time.”  I wipe tears from his cheeks.  “You must do this.  I am sorry, I know it is difficult but it must be done.”

He nods, trying hard to master himself.  They have gone before, and they have always returned.  It is on that experience that he must now draw. 

“I will try.  I will.  But I do not want them to go.”

My heart agrees with him. 

He watches them leave, dry-eyed and standing tall.  I think only I can see the pain he is masking.

Halbarad is staring at him and I try to see through his eyes for a moment.  I see Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the man he will become.  I think, when he is roused, few will be able to stand against him.  That is there in him already and yes, Elladan has noticed it too.  He looks back over his shoulder then stares, seeing what I see.

He will be formidable, the man that Estel will become.  He has the strength to endure, to inspire others to follow him and to die for him. 

When the twins have gone and silence descends at the gate, Estel goes to Halbarad and asks him, politely, what he wants to do.  Halbarad stares at him.  If I leave them any longer I think the boy will acknowledge his leader and that cannot be allowed to happen, not under any circumstances.  

“Let us break our fasts first, Estel.  Afterwards, I have something I wish to give you.  The day will be cold until the fog clears.  Then perhaps some exercises for you to do.”

Estel’s eyes are full of tears.  The desire to be strong for his brothers, to resist the usual hugs and tears has made him pale and quiet.  But he will not give in.

“Yes, Papa.  Perhaps I could teach Halbarad to play chess?” he asks. 

“You could,” I say carefully, looking at Halbarad.  I put my arm round Estel’s shoulders and draw him closer.  “I will give the matter some thought.” 

We walk back into the house, Halbarad following quietly.  I must ask him what Estel can teach him for it is clearly something Estel wishes very much to do. 

In the kitchens, the cook provides a special meal for the boys and they eat heartily.  Estel still looks pale but he is beginning to speak again, and is trying to find the answer to a riddle Halbarad has just told him.  I leave them to their game and go to my room.

In a box hidden behind the books on the top shelf of the darkest bookshelf in my room, I keep Estel’s heritage.  The ring of Barahir, I will give him when I judge he is a man and worthy to bear it.  But the star of the Dúnedain, he may look at that.  He will have to earn it but I see no harm in him seeing it.  Halbarad has passed his test and earned his own.  Estel must be made to feel part of his people.

“Papa?”  The door is pushed open and Estel appears, followed by his new friend.  I have replaced the box and the books which hide it, and now I hold the star badge in my hand. 

“Come here, Estel.  Look.  It will be yours one day.”

He approaches cautiously, hand held out, and I place the star on his palm.  It is bigger than his hand.  He is speechless.  

Halbarad looks too.  He has seen these badges before and carefully takes it from Estel’s hand.  He holds it against Estel’s shoulder.  “You’ll wear it here.  All the Rangers wear them.  I hope mine is waiting for me when I go home.”

They admire the beauty of the star, and the way it catches the light.  Then Estel hands it back to me.

“Papa, it’s very beautiful.  I will try to earn it.”

He looks at it once more, longingly.  I know he wants it now and wonder if I have done the right thing, showing it to him. 

Halbarad comes to my rescue.  “I’ll make you one,” he offers.  “Well, we can make one together.  Then you can be my captain if you want, and I can show you some things, so you can be ready to take your test.”

Estel, still looking wistfully at the star, nods.  “Can we do that, Papa?” he asks.

“Of course.  I will find what you need.” 

It takes a short time to gather up materials they can use, then they are a full hour making the star.  Halbarad proves adept at measuring and cutting, while Estel carefully draws the pattern, his face screwed up in concentration.  I find an old brooch, we attach the shape to it and the homemade star is ready.  Estel runs to find his cloak, for it is a pin to fasten the cloak at his shoulder, just as Halbarad showed him. 

I have a moment to speak to Halbarad.  “Estel wishes to teach you something. Can you give me a clue about what that might be?”  I ask, as we clear away the space on the floor where they have been working.

He looks at me, puzzled.  “I don’t know what he knows yet, sir.”

“In two days, then.  Tell me, and then I can encourage him.  I am glad he has found you, child.  He is too often on his own.”

“I want to be his friend, sir.  But may I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“There is something very strange about him.  I don’t know what it is. I can’t explain it any better.”

I know what he means.  When you put the pair of them together, Estel seems the older of the two, though he is three years younger.  I had not noticed it till now.  He still speaks and behaves as a child but there is something that marks him as different. 

He comes back into the room before we can say more, and the star is pinned to his cloak.  He admires himself in the mirror then he’s away, Halbarad in hot pursuit, and he is full of himself, shouting down the corridor, bursting with plans and ideas for the day.  Halbarad has become his faithful sub-commander, if Estel did but know it. 

I resist the impulse to tell them both to be careful and replace the star in its box.  I go to the balcony and watch the two boys chase across the lawns, laughing and shouting to each other.  It is music to my ears.

The meeting goes on far too long, but I must get all the information I can about the movement of the orcs. At last I get away and ask for information about the boys.

All I can find out is that neither boy came in to eat at mid-day, so I have gathered bread, meat and water and warm coats for both of them. There is still a chance of snow, even in April. I go out about mid-afternoon, wondering why they have not returned. The sky is a dense grey, the clouds flying, a gale pushing in a storm from the mountains.

I stand for a moment by the door, hoping to hear them but the branches of the pines are crashing together and the great wind is soughing through the trees, drowning any trace of the boys.

I follow their footsteps across the lawns and down the path leading to the river but they have gone from there. I listen again. Still the roaring of the wind keep any trace of them from me. The waters of Bruinen are loud in my ears. Then I see something move in the meadow on the other side of the river.

They are there, running through the grass. My first thought is to tell Estel to be careful. He is quick to see me and waves but he stops too suddenly for Halbarad, who swerves but still hits him, tumbling him to the ground.

I cross the river quickly, over the stepping stones and run to Estel, who is still lying on the ground. When I reach them, they are both laughing and red-faced. Estel’s hair is wild and in his eyes in a barely controlled fire.

“Papa! Papa! We’re playing Rangers!”

“Estel,” I say, barely keeping the anger from my voice. “Your arm is broken! You cannot take risks like that!”

“I’m sorry,” Estel replies, getting to his feet. “I’m all right. I didn’t fall on it.”

“It was my fault,” Halbarad joins the argument. “I ran into him.”

“It is not your fault,” I tell Halbarad. “It is this wild man here, who gives no thought to the heart of his old father,” I say, reaching for him and tickling him until he squirms. He feels cold, and he winces away from my touch.

”Papa, I’m hungry. We forgot to eat.”

“Well, that’s a rare enough occasion,” I say, bringing out the food from my satchel. “Do you want to eat it here?” I ask, while the boys dodge each other. They both seem well but when we have eaten I must get them both home. It is colder than it was. I take Estel’s coat and prepare to help him put it on. He cannot yet dress himself easily.

“Yes! Food!” he says, tripping over himself and falling into me. I catch him and set him back on his feet, as I did when he was learning to walk. I kneel down and look him in the eye. He laughs and his great joy in life comes to me as a gift.

I help him to take off his cloak. Halbarad is given the star to keep safely. Estel feels cold yet it is a struggle to get him into his warm, wool-lined coat. He is wriggling to get away again but then, with sudden seriousness Halbarad kneels.

“You must keep warm, my lord.” He somewhat spoils the effect by grabbing the cloak I had just managed to take from Estel and throwing it over the boy's head, but the moment is important and when Estel disentangles himself from the cloth, he looks steadily at Halbarad.

A long, tense moment passes. I consider if I might need to say something but Estel, puzzled, asks, “My lord? I thought I was just a captain.”

Halbarad looks at me. I wonder again if he knows who Estel truly is. I had not considered the possibility that he might know Estel’s true heritage but clearly, as kin, he does know. Can a twelve-year-old keep the secret? Does he even know he should?

“Come, Estel – let me help you with your coat,” I say, and Estel obeys me by putting out his unhurt arm but he is still looking at Halbarad.

Silence , with Estel, always precedes the truly awkward questions.

“Will I be a real captain one day, Papa?”

I think of several wise things to say. Have some bread, Estel. Let’s put your star back on your shoulder. Look, Estel, an eagle. Foolish old man, I am.

“You will be whatever your heart desires when you grow up,” I say. “A captain, if you wish. But first, you must eat or you will disappear altogether. I think the twins might miss you if you did.” His coat is fastened now, so I put the cloak round his shoulders and pin his star back on him. Then both boys eat, sitting on the ground next to me, one on either side, and I tell them a story fit for a king and his faithful friend.

As they eat, it begins to snow. Estel puts out his hand and a flake lands there, holding its shape for a little while, then melting. He is leaning against me now, munching the last of his bread and, every now and then, asking me a question. Halbarad listens quietly. He is looking out over the landscape which is greying under the veil of snow.

I see him watching one place intently. I know he sees something and follow his gaze. Nothing to fear – a huge stag stands there, not yet catching our scent on the wind. He walks further into the field, cautious and slow-moving, lifting each leg and planting it again with delicacy. I quietly point him out to Estel.

“He’s a big one!” he whispers.

I nod. The stag comes closer still but then something startles it and it turns and lopes back into the trees.

“Next year, maybe I can hunt a stag like him,” Estel says, with hope in his face.

I nod. “Or the year after that,” I say.

“Papa, you always say that,” he scolds and then laughs at the old joke.

“Shall we go back to the house now?” I ask them. If they want to play out here they will be perfectly safe. It will be chilly and wet but they are not delicate children. The exercise is good for them.

So it somewhat surprises me when Estel says, “Yes – let’s go in now.” He leads the way, too, with Halbarad behind him. I follow them. Estel heads upstream to the bridge this time. He seems tired. His feet are dragging a little. The adventure has taken more out of him than I suspected, and the loss of sleep the night before must be adding to his weariness.

We go back to the warmth of the house and the boys shed their wet cloaks, coats and boots inside the door. They both run to the fire blazing in the hearth, and throw themselves on the bearskin on the floor.

I give instructions to have clean clothes brought, and to make sure their outer clothes will be dried, then settle in a chair nearby.

“Finish the story, Papa,” says Estel sleepily. “I forgot what happens in the end.”

The storm rages against the window, and I think of my other two boys, out chasing orcs in the cold. I falter then try to pick up the story again. The light dims and when I finish, Halbarad is the only boy awake and listening.

We are used to walking carefully around Estel. He has the habit of falling asleep in the oddest places. Here, curled in front of the fire, he looks completely at peace. I beckon to Halbarad and the boy rises. We go to the other side of the room.

“What do you know of Estel?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

He looks steadily at me. “We know, my lord, that you keep the greatest of us with you, as his mother wished. As soon as I knew we were coming here, I wondered who he might be.” He sounds older, much older than his twelve years. They come early to manhood, these people. How many of them have I known through the years? Each generation long-lived yet gone from me so quickly.

“Then you know that I keep the secret of his heritage from him?”

“Yes, my lord.” He is trying to keep the puzzlement out of his voice, but I can hear in his tone long evenings of discussion of my decision.

“He will know soon enough. I hope mine is the right to withhold this information from him,” I say.

“Do you wish me to leave?” He looks at me and his eyes are dark grey, stormy now. He does not want to leave. That is very clear in his face.

“No,” I say, with all the purpose I can find. “He needs to play with someone nearer his age. And with his kin. I know I can trust you. But do not tease him with names he does not understand.”

He looks down, admitting his embarrassment. “I will remember,” he vows. “But he makes it difficult. He is already my lord.”

I nod. I know what he means. The potential for power is in Estel. I do not yet know what use he will make of that power.

“Papa.”

Estel is sitting up and calling to me.

“Yes?”

“I’m hot!”

“You are lying close enough to the fire to curl your hair, Estel! It is no wonder you are hot.”

“Oh!” He gets up. He looks a sorry mess, hair clinging to his face and his clothes still damp. “Is it time to go to bed yet?” He walks over and stands near me. He is warm. I can feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes are a little bright, too. I reach out to put my hand on his forehead but he ducks.

“You must eat something first. And a tea, I think. Your body is fighting something. We will see what it is.” I begin to be a little concerned. The boy is feverish, not just hot from the fire. “Come, let me see what is wrong. Come on, Estel.”

But the boy is far away, looking somewhere else, deep inside himself or into the world around him, it is difficult to tell. He has had moments like this before, when it is given to him to see with more than just his eyes. It is nothing to be alarmed about, I tell myself. It does not injure him.

“Fire,” he says. “Fire and – and monsters. And something that shines and shines! Papa – make it stop! Papa!”

I catch him as he falls. I pick him up and stand, holding him safely.

“Come, Halbarad. Let us take him to his room. You may tell him a story as he recovers.” I keep the panic from my voice. I wish my sons were here. I begin to think of the right herbs to give him. He has had spells like this before but has never collapsed, only been frightened or, lately, interested in what he sees.

I take him to his room, settle him on his bed then call for help, for he is ill, and I have my own vision of the future. Fire, he saw. Something that shone.

Let him be well, I ask. Let him be well.

 (A/N  I am attempting to improve the chapters as I import them to the site.  If anyone sees any errors, or is confused by any details, I'd be very pleased to make further corrections.  Thanks.  Any other comments also very welcome.)

Estel has recovered himself and is beginning to look around him.

“What happened, Papa?” he says in a small voice.  “Where are we?”

“We are in your own room and you are going to get into bed, my son,” I say firmly.  “You have quite overtaxed your strength, running about in the cold then lying in front of a blazing fire.  You are strong, Estel, but you are not elf-kind.”

“No, Papa.  I am a bit tired.”

Since he seems to have recovered somewhat, I help him to stand then to undress.  Halbarad seems anxious about something but my attention is on my boy, who now stands before me, trembling a little.  I must examine him, but I must be quick, and while he can stand it will be easier. 

The break in his arm is mending well.  All the swelling is gone, and the bruising is beginning to fade.  He heals quickly, with the help of the comfrey and his own natural strength. 

“Papa – may I lie down now?” 

I study his face.  “In a moment, Estel – in just a moment.  Let me look.”

He nods, and I turn him so that I can see the arrow track in his side.  It is also healing well, with not the slightest sign to my fingers or my eyes that anything is amiss.  Yet my boy is too warm, his eyes a little glazed, his face pink and white with fever.  It has come on so quickly.

“Does your stomach feel well, child?”  I ask, searching his back for sign of puncture wound or cut but there is nothing

“Yes, Papa.  My head aches and I feel hot and cold,” he offers, as if trying to please me. 

“Do you hurt anywhere?”  I feel down each leg but there is nothing to detect.  He is beginning to shiver and I dress him in his nightshirt.  Halbarad is waiting by the door, fidgeting, as if he is not sure he should be there.

“I don’t think so.  My foot was itchy yesterday but I didn’t notice it today.”  He looks down and I follow his gaze, then reach to lift his foot.  He wavers, unbalanced and I hold him by his upper arm. 

“Sit, child.  Halbarad, bring me that light.  Hold it steady.”  I hold the small foot and turn it, searching the skin for any blemish, until a slight move alerts me.  Estel has flinched.

“That’s where it was, Papa.  I don’t know what happened.  My boot had a hole in it, a little one.  It’s been mended.”

There, on the top of his foot, between the bones that link to his third and fourth toes, a small puncture wound.  I feel it carefully.  There is something there, hard and sharp, and when I manipulate it, a small amount of pus escapes.  In my heart I rejoice.  This is easily mended. 

“Lie down in bed now, my son.  Keep warm.  I will be back in a few moments.”

He looks at me with sad eyes but settles into bed willingly enough, and draws the blankets up to his chin.

“Do not drown yourself in your bed coverings before I return,” I say, smiling at him.  It is an old joke between us.

“I will try not to,” he says, an uncertain smile on his lips.  He sighs and stares at the ceiling.  He does not like being ill.

I guide Halbarad to the door and outside it, then speak quietly to him.

“Stay with him, Halbarad.  I am going to fetch some instruments and medicine.  Talk with him, keep his mind from his foot.  He will wish to touch it but you must prevent him.”

“Will he recover, my lord?” he says.  So that is what has been going through his mind.

“He has something in his foot, a sharp piece of wood, I think.  It has festered.  His body is fighting off the evil in him, but all he has been through in the last days has left him weaker than normal.  I shall remove the foreign matter, treat the wound and the fever and he will be well in a day or so.  Now, I must go.  Keep by him.”

I hurry away, safe in the knowledge that the boy’s new friend will watch him most carefully. 

When I return, I hear the quiet murmur of voices.  Two boys in conversation. 

“I’ve seen the knife he uses.  It is so small and it has the thinnest, sharpest blade you have ever seen.  He will cut into my foot and there’ll be lots and lots of blood.”

Ah, Estel.  Clearly enjoying himself now.  I hate to disturb his moment of glory but it will be best to bring the matter to a swift conclusion now.  I push open the door and go in. 

We manage to arrange Estel’s foot so that if indeed there is “lots and lots” of blood, it will be caught in the towel on the bed.  I arrange lamps more conveniently and then thoroughly cleanse my hands. 

“Here, Estel – drink this.  The operation will be quick but painful.  You must not move or I will cause more damage to the inside of your foot.”

He pulls a face.  He has had this medicine before and he knows it tastes bitter.  But he holds his nose and drinks it down.  While we wait for him to become sleepy, Halbarad tells us of the time he had to have ten stitches in his scalp when he’d fallen awkwardly out of a tree.

Estel is about to begin the saga of his tree-climbing adventures when he yawns and lies back. 

“Count, Estel,” I say.

“One,” he says, settling his head on the pillow.  “Two.  Three.  Four.”  His eyes close.  “Five,” he mumbles.  “Six.”  Then he is quiet.

“Estel?”  I pinch the skin on his foot but he does not stir.

Halbarad cannot watch the operation, so I allow him to go to his own room.  I make a small incision and probe, noting carefully the damage to a vein, a nick in the sinew and then the source of the infection.  Buried deep, a sliver of wood, long and jagged, splintered so that its withdrawal will be a difficult process.  I must take out all the pieces or I will not be able to stop the infection.

I grasp the tweezers and begin to pick out the fine pieces.  I imagine him walking through the grass, a piece of wood sticking up yet hidden.  His foot moves forward and the sliver is injected into his skin.  It is probable that he hardly noticed it, perhaps only as an annoyance or a momentary change of direction. 

It takes me long minutes before I am sure the wound is clear of pieces of wood.  I wash out the hole, salve it with the same ointment I used on the cut from the orc arrow and then dry his foot.  I put in one stitch, just to reassure myself, I believe, then cover his leg with sheet and blanket.  

I sit with him for another hour, keeping his brow cool and watching for signs of his recovery.  He does not like the sedative I used, for it has made him sick in the past, but he is older now.  I am hoping the dosage was correct. 

He begins to move, sluggishly.  “Papa?” he says, his eyes opening a fraction.  “Papa.  Is it done?  I saw such strange things.  There is something in the room.  Papa, I don’t want it to be here!”  He is coming awake now, all too quickly, and he is staring at something in the room.  “Get it out of here!”

Involuntarily, I look behind me to the wall at which he stares with a fixed, terrified gaze I have not seen in his face since he was little.  He is half-waking, half-dreaming, and his nightmares invade the real world.

I take him in my arms and he allows it, struggling to come to himself.  He must not wear himself out like this.  I must calm him.  So I do what I did when he was little and frightened.  I sing to him, and rock him gently. 

His heart rate slows and he begins to breathe more gently.  I settle him against the pillow. 

“You have not sung that in a long while,” he says.  He is ghostly pale. 

“You have not been so ill in a long while, my child.  But you will soon be better now.  In a day or so, you will be running round the house chasing your new friend, and I will have to put away all my precious bowls again.”

He is sweating, the fever still in him.  His face gradually loses its pallor and his eyes half-close.

“I don’t know when I’m seeing real things or dream things, Papa.  I don’t like it.”

“In the morning, when you have rested, will we talk about these dreams and see if we can banish them for you.  Would you like that?”

He smiles a little then turns onto his side.  “Yes, Papa.  Tell Hal good night for me,” he adds, like a little princeling ordering a slave.  “Please,” he adds, looking at me with one eye open.

He is a good boy.

He sleeps fitfully.  I do not leave him long, but when I return he is watching for me, his large, grey eyes shadowed with concern.  It is just beginning to be light, to eclipse the lamp by his bed.

“How are you feeling, my son?” I ask, pouring a glass of water and going to sit on his bed.

“Better, Papa.  Can I get up?  I need …” His eyes flicker to a door partially hidden by a wall hanging.

I nod and help him out of bed.  He walks carefully across the floor and goes into his water closet.  While he is away I remake the bed and try to prepare myself to speak to him about his dreams.  They clearly troubled him again during the night.  I could have tried to read them myself but I will never violate his private thoughts in such a way.

He comes back into the room, drying his hands. 

“Papa?” he says, stopping and looking at me.

“Yes, Estel?”

“Why wasn’t I sick this time?”  He notices he still has a towel in his hands and goes to put it away.  When he returns, I can see other questions rising in him.  He is still too unwell for this, these taxing discussions it seems he is driven to have.

“Come to bed.  You mustn’t get cold.”

There is a moment’s hesitation.  He knows what I am doing.  Then he does as he’s told but sits up in bed.  Keeping him quiet, in bed, all day is going to be a challenge.  He is waiting for his answer.

“You have grown.  Your body has become more used to the herb, and I to the size of the dose I must administer.  I also added an anti-emetic – a herb which stops you being sick.”  I would normally tell him the names of the herbs and the proportions of the mixture, and any special instructions but today he is already restless, not concentrating on words so much as wanting to hear someone speak to him.

“Will I be able to get up today?” he asks, though surely his body can give him the answer.  I know it does when he asks another question without waiting for me to speak.  “When I am a Ranger, and I am not well, what will I do?”

“You will tend yourself, Estel.  If you are near, you will come back here, and I will look after you.  Now, try to sleep a little more.  It is still very early.”

He nods.  A year ago, he would have asked whether I was going to stay with him.  He is too old for that now but I miss the question.

“Do you need anything?” I ask, wondering if I can prompt the accustomed enquiry. 

He shakes his head, slipping back down under the covers.  His eyes close.  He is asleep in moments.

I leave him alone, propping the door open.  I give instructions that the house will be quiet until he wakes then go to see if Halbarad is awake.  When I knock, he replies immediately, opening the door to me.

“He is better this morning.” I reassure him.  “You must help him pass the time until this evening.  If his fever does not rise then, he should be able to get up tomorrow.  He will fight us for his freedom.”

Halbarad smiles.  “I am the same.  Perhaps it is something inborn in our people.” 

“Come.  Break your fast with me.”  

I take him downstairs to the small room next to my study, and we eat together.  Estel will be watched and I will be informed if he wakes. 

“Sir?” he says, putting down his knife and fork.

“Yes?”  I want to get to know this boy, who may become a very important friend to Estel, as a person in his own right.  He looks a little like my boy. 

“Has there been word from my people?”  There is a trace of longing in his voice, well concealed but still present.

“Not yet.  When my twin sons return, I hope they will bring word.  If they do not, I will make sure they know you are here.  I know they will be concerned for you.”

“They may, but not for a month yet.  I was not due home until then.  I don’t know if they will accept that I have passed my test.”

There is a knock at the door and a message is passed to me.  I read it and almost forget Halbarad’s need for reassurance.  But his expression reminds me.

“I will ensure that they know what you have done.  You were brave beyond your years.  I think my boy might not have come home if he had not met you when he did.”

There, I have made him blush.  He is relieved, I can see it.  Now I must go to the stables.  The twins have returned – so soon.  Surely it is too soon.

“Come with me.  There will be news – my children will bring it.”

We both hasten to the stables.  I can hear their voices and I am anxious for their news but even more anxious that they should not disturb Estel, who always knows the moment they return to Imladris.   

“Father!” Elrohir says, jumping down from his horse.  He is muddy and dishevelled but unhurt.  “We have such a story to tell you!”

Elladan is close behind him.  He has a lead rein in his hand, and I see a beautiful pony there, a odd dark grey colour with a speckling of lighter grey through its coat.  I know immediately who will be his new owner.

“We traded for him.  Saw him in a string of ponies and it was as if we both knew he was Estel’s – he’s perfect, Father.  Do you think our brother will like him?”

I pretend to be undecided and go to check the pony out, running my hands over him, searching for any weaknesses.  The horse eyes me and throws his head.  “He has spirit,” I say.  “Let me see him move.”

Elladan runs him back and forth and the animal trots obediently enough.  But he pulls a little at the lead rein.

“Is he broken to the saddle?” I ask.  The pony is young yet, but old enough to be ridden.

“Not yet.  He had not long been caught. He was running free, they said.”  Elrohir joins me, and we study the pony together, commenting on its fitness for its new owner. 

“Then you have no news of the orcs to bring?”  I say, wondering if they have been so distracted by the horse that they have forgotten their true task.  It has been known to happen.  Elladan slows the pony to a walk then brings him to join us.  He stands and lets the pony nuzzle his hand for a treat.  He seems tame enough, but I judge he is not ready to be ridden yet.

“We met three Rangers, Father.  They had all the news we need and I will tell you all later.  Now, may we go and fetch Estel and give him his present?  I want to see if we have a saddle the right size for him.  If not, I’ll make one myself.”  Elladan is already full of plans but I must stop them.  Estel needs at least a week before he tackles a pony like this, half-broken and strong-willed.  

“No,” I say firmly and I am about to explain why when a small figure, who seems dressed in some rather oddly-matched clothes dashes up, limping but still fast on his feet, shouting the twins’ names with such joy and energy that for a moment I cannot believe it is the same boy I left asleep in bed an hour ago.

“Is he for me?” he asks, looking up at Elladan.

“Estel,” I say, as sternly as I can.  “Go back to your room.”

I am not sure he even hears me.  He goes to stand by the pony’s shoulder and, with surprisingly little foresight, Elladan hands him the leading rein.  Before I can catch him, or order him, my youngest boy grabs a hank of mane and leaps onto the pony’s back.  Now my heart is truly in my mouth.

“Elladan!  Stop him!  He is ill – he is not strong enough!”

But the boy has complete control of the pony and before any of us can react he is kicking it forward, and is off down the road with a yell of delight. 

Elladan grins at me, perhaps a little sheepishly.  “I believe he likes the pony, Father,” he says quietly.

I am so taken aback I cannot immediately think what to do.  But I know what I will do when Estel returns with the horse.  This time, he must learn a serious lesson about obedience. 

“Did you not think you might be thrown from your pony’s back?” I ask, as I take Estel by the hand and lead him quickly back to the house.  Elladan accompanies us while Elrohir goes to find the pony. 

There is nothing Estel can say.  He is unhurt; at least, he is no more hurt than he was before.  But he is bedraggled and wet, his clothes muddy and the sling holding his arm steady is a variety of browns and greens.  A tree branch, he told me when he walked back to the stable.  It sort of made me lose my balance, he said.

“Did you not consider the pony might be hurt or lost?  And your brothers went to such trouble to get it for you.” 

He sniffs, and rubs his nose with his sleeve but still doesn’t say anything.  We reach the door and I begin to remove his boots and his jacket.  He certainly dressed himself, and rather quickly.  He has his nightshirt on under the coat. 

“Elladan: hot water,” I say, and he nods, grim-faced.  It is the knowledge that he has worried us all and disappointed his brothers that is making Estel sniff again but he is not going to give in to tears.  Elladan walks away without even looking at Estel, though a glance through the hair which hangs over his face tells me Estel would dearly like to receive a word or two from his brother.

When he can walk through the house without dripping water or mud everywhere, I guide him back to his room with a hand in his back.  Not that he shows signs of bolting.  It is just that he knows that when he is clean, and warm, and dry, he will have to look over his actions with me.  I have only had to do that once or twice with him before, when he was old enough to begin to see that this was worse punishment than being sent to bed, or confined to his room.  He so rarely needs punishment.  Guidance has been enough.  This time, I am afraid I have over-indulged him.  He must learn that what he did was wrong. 

It takes us more than an hour to get him clean and check him again thoroughly.  In all that time we hardly speak.  Elladan has brought him warm milk and a biscuit and he eats and drinks slowly, sitting at the table by the window.  He is wrapped in a large blanket which seems to be engulfing him, though in truth it is Estel sitting more and more hunched up. 

When he has finished, I dry his hair and comb it out.  Now we must talk, for a little while.  I take the seat opposite him while his brother sits in the armchair by the fire.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” he says.  He looks down at the plate and plays with the biscuit crumbs there.

“That is to be expected, Estel.  But it is not enough.  This time, it is not enough.”

He drops his head.   “I’ll never do it again.”  He is very quiet.  But he has not yet found the right words.  I cannot let this be enough punishment.

“Tell me about your dreams, child,” I say, and he looks up sharply, puzzlement in every feature. 

“My dreams?  Aren’t you going to send me to bed now?”

“Not yet.  Your dreams, Estel.  Your visions.  The things you see that others do not.”

He looks a little pale, paler than he did before.  I must not press him too hard, but he must go through this fire now.  This moment must be one he never forgets.

“I don’t see things as much as I used to,” he offers.  He is trying to avoid the issue but I cannot quite see why yet. 

“You are growing out of them, Estel – or your ability is becoming something else, that is all.  Tell me, child.  Then we will talk about what you did this morning.”

He sighs.  He knows I will not give up.  “I see – I see something, something big and strong and it’s got a lot of – it’s – it can do magic, I think.  It scares me.”

I do not try to interpret his vision yet, I only encourage him with a nod.  Elladan leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.  He narrows his eyes.  Perhaps he is trying to see what Estel is describing.

Estel takes a deep breath. His distress comes a little more to the surface. “I know I have to do something to this bad thing.  I feel it sometimes, that it is looking at me and I have to hide from it.  But sometimes I can’t hide.  Not anywhere.  Papa, that’s all I remember.”  Now he can look at me, for he is no longer avoiding the truth.

“That is very good, Estel.  But that is not all.”  I keep as calm as I can, knowing that we are near the heart of it.

“No,” he concedes.  “There is something else.  One other thing.  Other things happen but I don’t know what they are.  Honestly, Papa, I don’t know everything, really I don’t.”  He is looking a little desperate now but it will only be a few more moments.

“Tell us, Estel.  What is this one other thing?”

He pauses and I wonder if he will speak.  When he does, his voice is stronger than I had expected it to be.  “I am standing high up.  A long long way up.  It is cold and there is a strong wind.  I think I am the only person in the whole world who has ever been here.  Down below, there are lots and lots of people, moving around, so small.  There is – there is a strong light coming from somewhere.”  He is now more confident in his words as he becomes lost in what he can see.  “The rocks are white around me.  But something from far away can see me standing there, and I think I am grown up and I feel strong but I feel lonely, too.  Then – then I don’t see any more.”

He puts his good hand down flat on the table and examines the back of it.  He has come to a full stop.  It is entirely possible that he knows no more, or can remember no more.   I can make sense of some of what he says, if his vision comes from the past or even the future of his line.  Now I must tell him how important it is for him to be safe, without revealing his true future to him.

“And do you think it is important that you face this evil thing when you are grown up?”

I am aware that Elladan is looking at me, knowing well enough the purpose of the question.  I wonder if Estel can grasp its purpose too.  It is a lot to ask a boy of nine.

He goes very quiet and his brow furrows in thought.  We wait for him to know what to say.

“If it is true,” he says quietly, “if what I saw is true, and I have to stand on that place and fight this thing, then I must be strong as soon as I can, and be brave and I must know how to do things.”  

It is not quite the answer I had thought of myself.  He is not being sly, not seeking to excuse his actions, but in a way he is saying to me that he is grabbing at chances to be who he must be.  It is a critical moment and I must try again to get him back on the path I have chosen for him.  I must be careful to guide him, not to attempt to force him, for he will quickly move away from me if I do. 

“Yes, and you will learn and be strong, and you will know many things soon enough.  But you must stay within certain bounds.  You cannot – I cannot protect you always.  If you had fallen from your horse and broken your neck, then you would not have had the chance to become strong and brave, and to stand in a high place to see what you saw.”

“Yes, Papa,” he says, though he is still undecided. 

“Do you understand?”

“I did wrong, Papa.  I did something without thinking and I shouldn’t have.  I didn’t see that it was bad, I just saw my pony.”  He reaches back and scratches his neck as he thinks about what he did.  “But Papa – how am I to know what will happen if I do one thing and not another?  How am I to choose?”

“You will learn, Estel – you will learn.  But for a time at least, listen to others.  Let us help you learn.  We will not always be right but we can try to guide you.”

“All right.  I will listen more carefully.  I will.” He nods, as if to give a promise to himself.

It is enough.  I have at least made him see his actions from a second point of view and that will have to be all for the moment.  We have looked over his actions.  Now I must give him his punishment, for he will see it as that, though all I do is in care of him.

“Now, Estel.  I am your doctor as well as your father, and I will be obeyed.  For two days you will stay in bed.”

His jaw drops.  He has not considered I might say this.  I press on before he can protest.  Elladan is smiling now, for he knows how close Estel is to giving voice to his feelings about my decree.  “You may read, and do your studies, and you may talk to Halbarad or to me or to your brothers.  But you will stay in bed until I am sure your fever is gone.”  I reach across the table and feel his brow.  Yes, he is a little feverish still, and his jaunt will have done him no good.

“Papa!” he says.  “Two whole days?”

“On the third day, if your fever is gone, you may rise in the afternoon for a short while.  Next week, presuming Elrohir has caught your pony again, you may begin to groom him and clean out his stall and get to know him better.  The week after that …”  I can see him working on the number of days all these weeks involve, “…it is possible that I will allow you to ride him on the lunge.  Or perhaps ride him out, so long as Elladan, Elrohir or myself are with you and keep you on a lead rein.”

I almost feel sorry for him now.  If he had not earned his punishment, I would comfort his evident distress at my plan for his future.  Well, he must learn to endure, and he will value this lesson in patience. 

“Now, to bed, and if you do not feel sleepy I will read to you.”

He stands and drags the blanket with him to his bed.  His body language is revealing but I will brook no complaint, no pleading and he knows that well enough.

Elladan at last takes part in the conversation, just as Estel climbs onto the bed and settles himself down. 

“I will go and see if the new pony is found yet, brother,” he says.  “Tomorrow, we will think on a new name for him.  We will see to him well until you are ready to take on his care.”

Estel nods, saying nothing, though I catch a glimpse of a smile.  He loves to name things.  Already he will be thinking over what it might be. 

Elladan leaves and I go to stand by Estel’s bed.  “You are tired.  I will leave you to sleep.”

His eyelids flutter closed and he resettles himself on his side, his hand close to his mouth, his knees drawn up.  His breaths even out and a sigh of relief escapes me.  We have a short respite now at least.  I have given a challenge to Estel, to obey my edict against all his natural instincts to be up and about.  But somehow, I think it will be something of a challenge to us too.

It is for his own good.  The boundaries must be set closer to home.  He will test those boundaries over and over again, but at least we will be on hand to help him.

Before leaving the house I suggest to Halbarad that he goes to Estel’s room and at least sit with him and warn me if he tries to do anything foolish.  Then I walk down to the stables, where Elrohir is carefully currying a skittish pony.  Elladan helps by speaking to the pony, helping it to become accustomed to its new home. 

“He did not run far, then,” I observe.

“He knows where his master lives,” Elladan says, rubbing the pony’s nose.  “I believe he is sorry he brushed Estel from his back.  He was returning here when Elrohir caught up with him.”

“He was,” his brother confirms.  “It is my hope that they will be inseparable soon.  Now, father, we must talk about our brief time in the wild.  There is much to say.  We will need to gather in conference all those concerned.”

So, for an hour, we speak and sift information and plan, returning to the house and to my study to look at maps and papers.   Then I go to check on Estel.

He is still sleeping peacefully.  Halbarad sits in the chair by the fire, reading, and he looks up as I enter.  We smile but exchange no words.

He is in safe hands, for now, and in my heart I am glad for it.  But that it is a temporary respite, I am all too aware. And the stir that there will be in the household in the next days will do nothing to help him keep to his bed.

We are going to need all our skill to hold him where I deem he must stay, in bed, recovering, safe.  For two whole days.  I wonder at my own folly, making it so long.

(Elladan continues the story.)

"Estel. You will not move from that bed until your father tells you that you may."

We have reached a quiet moment. My twin is sitting by the fire, and only his hands gripping the armrests give away his emotions.

Estel appears, from the furrow in his brow, to be thinking. He is sitting cross-legged in a nest of sheets and blankets in the middle of his bed. He looks hot and dishevelled but far from beaten. He is made of stern stuff, this little brother of mine.

"Two days," he says at last.

"Yes," Elrohir confirms.

I make myself comfortable on the bench by the window. This is going to be interesting.

"So I was in bed all yesterday," Estel says, looking at his hands. He has laced his fingers together and is studying them as if this is the first time he has tried this particular trick.

"Most of it," Elrohir corrects. "After you stole the pony, fell off it and walked home again."

"It was still the morning."

I look at Elrohir. He is not smiling. He nods at the boy. "It was."

"And now it is the afternoon of the second day. So I am getting up. I don’t want to be in this bed any longer. I am well and I want to meet the people who are coming to the conference."

Estel has a point. But he is bending the truth a little to make it. However, he is almost out of bed now and Elrohir, I know, will have none of it. Two full days, my father said. More, perhaps, for the boy is not altogether well yet. I think it is the frustration of having to lie in bed that is making him ill. My brother disagrees with me and so does my father, who has already checked on Estel and says he still has a low fever.

So now it is a battle of wills between us. We do not use physical force on him. We would not do so. But some way must be found, some middle course. Perhaps that is what I can offer him.

"May I suggest something?" I say, not completely sure what the answer will be from either of my brothers, foster or blood.

Two pairs of eyes look at me. Since Elrohir is silent I press on.

"Estel – you have not yet had enough time to recover."

He sighs but at least he settles back into his nest. He had been ready to bolt for the door.

"But I think we could consent to you sitting out of bed for an hour. The bed could be aired and have fresh linens. Then, I think, if you sat here, you could see some of those people who are arriving."

His eyes are bright now with enthusiasm. It is a start.

"Can I get dressed?"

At least he is prepared to negotiate. I call on all my skills as an ambassador.

"You must wear a robe over your nightshirt, and you must sit with a blanket over you. If you do this, tomorrow will come more quickly and perhaps you will be able to meet one or two people then."

My brother glances at me. I am offering him what I should not, what my father may not permit, but already I have plans to invite a guest or two to his room. That should be safe enough.

My small brother sighs. It appears he has given in. Unfortunately, Elrohir does not read the sigh in the way I do.

"You will behave yourself, Estel! We have brought you up with better manners than this! You will do as your Papa says, and you will stay here."

I sigh inwardly. Perhaps my twin is tired, or perhaps he is simply tired of dealing with nine-year-old boys with minds of their own. But he could not have said anything worse.

"I do do as I’m told! I’ve been doing it for hours and hours and hours! I’ve read and done my lessons and played with Halbarad until you sent him away and now I’m not staying here any longer! I’m too hot and this bed hurts and I want to get up!" He is shouting now and hitting at the bed as if it has indeed hurt him. He is getting beyond himself, as he did when he was two and couldn’t say what it was that was frustrating him. It is a measure of his illness, I think, but again Elrohir has reached different conclusions.

"Do not shout! You will not get what you want by shouting!" Elrohir goes closer to Estel, towering over him, but the boy on the bed is undaunted.

"I’m not shouting! I’m just …" he searched for a word, "I’m just talking! Only it’s loud!"

Probably the snort of laughter which escaped me didn’t help. The boy may have been too far gone by then to notice. But he squirmed out of bed, and was past both of us before we could think of making a grab for him. Clearly some part of his brain was still working, since he made for the window rather than the door, which would have meant almost immediate confrontation with his father.

"I want to sit here, like Elladan said." He is half-sobbing, gulping in air and, now that I look at him, trying hard to master himself. In a few moments he offers something from his side of the negotiation. "I’ll be quiet." He hangs his head.

Now that the tempest has passed, for a moment at least, I take Elrohir’s arm to try to prevent him from speaking.

"That is not enough, Estel," I say. It will not be good for him to feel he has outwitted us. He treads a narrow path. He must be confident in himself yet not arrogant. Yet neither must I bully him into submission, as Elrohir appears to be trying to do.

"I’m not going back to bed," Estel says quietly. "I’m not!"

"You will come here, boy," I say, keeping my voice as calm as I can. "And you will be dressed as I have said. Elrohir will move your chair to the window and I will bring a blanket for you. Is that understood?"

The boy, still red-faced and teetering on the edge of another outburst, looks me right in the eye. It is, for a moment, an unnerving experience. He is searching for something, for a weakness in my resolve, perhaps, or forgiveness – I cannot tell. He says nothing for a long-held breath then makes his decision.

He stands up and trails back to me. Elrohir has finally seen sense and fetches Estel’s robe, handing it to me with an unreadable expression. He and I will need to talk later. He then goes to move the chair to the window, and ties back the curtain. I help Estel to put on his robe, checking that his arm is securely in its sling, then, as I tie the belt round his waist he whispers to me.

"Why is he so cross?" He looks at Elrohir.

I whisper back, to preserve the fiction that we cannot be heard. "We are both tired, Estel. Perhaps he is hungry, too. You know how you are when you are hungry."

He nods. He knows that he is, as his father put it, like a bear without his honey, when he is hungry. "I didn’t mean to shout."

"I know," I say, drawing him a little closer. "You must be calm and let us help you get well. Then you and I can work with your pony. Do you have a name for him yet?"

"Spider," he says, unhesitatingly.

I hear Elrohir’s stifled reaction behind me. He covers it with an exclamation. "Look, Estel! Come and see who is here!"

The boy goes quickly to his side and I am left to puzzle over the name. Spider. Well, it is – it is an adventurous name. I must ask him why, later.

He is standing next to my brother now, who is pointing people out to him, headmen from the local towns and settlements, and more of the tall, grey-clad folk who will one day bow to Estel as their captain. Elrohir is giving Estel their names, and the boy nods solemnly and repeats them to himself.

I go to the door and ask the servant who is passing to make up Estel’s bed. He will have something to eat, too, but he will not leave his room. We have promised that to my father. Estel must not leave his room tonight, or tomorrow morning.

For the conference is about him, about my small brother, who is now sitting in the chair and leaning on Elrohir, watching another small group of people walk up the path to our door. A few of those who come are not here to talk about the growing boldness of orcs, or the numbers of stock animals taken by wolves. A few of the most important are here to discuss how to keep Estel hidden.

And it is most important Estel does not know this, for in his ignorance lies one of our greatest strengths.

There, he is sleepier now and will barely last the hour I have allowed him. His bed is not ready yet, though, and needs to be aired for a while before he goes back to it. I wonder for a moment if we will have a battle to get him to stay up but I know he is too tired. It is right that he should try asserting his will. He must become a man in a very few years. Yet I would keep him a child for a little longer.

My father chooses this moment to enter the room. I take his arm to slow his pace and he looks at me quizzically.

"Estel is learning the names of those who will attend the meeting tomorrow," I say, trying to judge my father’s mood. "While his bed linen is being refreshed, we thought he might pass the time in a new lesson for him."

My father smiles. He knows immediately what has happened, for he reads it in the anxiety in my voice and the small traces of remaining anger in my brother’s glance. But most of all he sees that Estel has fought a small battle and has been – not defeated, exactly, but side-tracked.

"I thought perhaps we could allow him to meet someone tomorrow morning, someone who would enjoy hearing of his adventures."

Elrond’s gaze has not left Estel but I have his attention.

"Yes. Yes, I think that would be a good idea," my father says.

"Really, Papa?" Estel says seriously. "May I meet someone who knows about the outside? About places far away?"

My father smiles. It is a rare thing these days and Estel looks curiously at him.

"I haven’t been very good," the boy says. It is as if the smile fetched out the confession.

"Haven’t you? I wondered if I heard raised voices. Do you hate me for confining you to bed?" My father’s voice is deep and quiet, meant only for my little brother.

"No, Papa!"

Elrohir leaves his post at his brother’s side and Elrond goes to talk to his foster son. We leave them to their quiet conversation. Elrond will give him his food and medicine and all will be well again.

We must become the hosts in our father’s absence. As I wash my hands and reach for the circlet I shall wear on my head at the meal tonight, I see Estel, angry, shouting at us. I am suddenly afraid for him, for the future he must face. Have we made him stronger tonight, or weaker? I do not know.

Perhaps someone wiser than my brother or myself will be able to tell us tomorrow just how well we have done in raising the king that will be.

(Elladan continues the story)

“I’ve lost him!” Elrohir tells me, entering my chamber in something of a hurry. 

I had been lying down, taking a moment to gather my strength for the day, having watched over Estel most of the night to make sure he didn’t feel the need to wander off anywhere.  I sit up, feeling every one of my many years in Middle Earth.

“You had to entertain him for one hour,” I say, trying and failing to keep the accusation out of my voice.

“I know, I know,” he says, shaking his head.  “Do you think he’s gone to see his pony?”

“That’s certainly the least worst thing that could have happened,” I say, and he grins ruefully.

“I don’t understand why he’s so disobedient,” my brother says. 

“Did you actually say he had to stay in his room all morning?” I ask, trying to fathom this mystery.

“No,” he says.  “I didn’t.”

We ponder this omission.

“And before you say anything, I know that was my job.  Keep him in his room.  I said I’d help him with a picture of – what did he call that pony?  Spider?”

“Did he say anything?”

My brother thinks carefully.  He is perhaps carefully choosing what to tell me, since he has clearly made a mistake.

“He said he wanted to check something.  I was getting him a piece of paper.  As I turned, I saw the door closing and Estel had gone.  Ah.”   Light dawned in my brother’s face, and relief.  “He’s gone to look at the pony again so that he can draw it.”

Elrohir seems happier now.  I am not and I grimace.  “If he’s gone through the kitchens all will be well.  If he went by the front door, we are in serious difficulty, brother.”

He did not take much finding.  As I walked down the corridor, he was being escorted from the chamber in which the meeting concerning him was taking place.  He had unerringly chosen the one place he should not have been.

“Now, my boy,” came a familiar voice.

So that is why he went into that room.  He has sharp hearing, my brother.

“Gandalf!” Estel says, as a large hand in the boy’s back guides him into the corridor.  “I’ve got a new pony!  But Ruby died.  And I broke my arm.  And I’ve got a new friend.  And he’s called Halbarad.  We went down the Bruinen on an adventure!”

Gandalf’s glance holds me in place.  The wizard gathers his robes around him and settles on a convenient chair.

“Estel,” he says, holding up his hand.

The boy shuts his mouth.

“I have a great many questions for you.  And I know you have a great many questions for me,” Gandalf says quickly.  “But they, and you, will have to wait.”

“But Gandalf!  You haven’t been here for such a long time!”

 “I know, my boy.  I had intended to visit you two months ago but I was detained.  Now, do you think you can wait until the midday meal?  Was there something you could do to help you pass the time?”  Gandalf looks at me, his eyes bright.  I take my cue and step forward.

“Yes, Gandalf.  We were about to draw a picture of the new pony.  It’s called Spider,” I added, and those bright eyes twinkled.

“Spider, eh?  Spider,” he murmured, standing.  “Is it the colour?  Does he have eight legs?  Is he hairy?  Does he scuttle about?  Do maidens scream when he runs by?”

Estel was giggling by the third question.  “No, Gandalf!  Don’t be silly!  I’ll draw him for you, then you’ll know why!”

“You do that, my boy.  Now, tell me.  When you were standing in that room with your mouth hanging open, ready to catch flies I’ve no doubt – did you hear us say anything?”

The twinkle had gone.  Estel looks up.  He looked even smaller next to the tall, broad-shouldered wizard.

“Yes, Gandalf,” he says, unafraid.

“Tell me,” the old wizard says, all his attention on my brother.

“Papa said the secret needs to stay hidden.  I think that’s what he meant.  He used more difficult words.  Was Legolas there?  I didn’t have time to see.”

“Do you know what he meant?” Gandalf says, pushing the door a little way open with his hand.

“No, Gandalf.  I know we keep lots of things safe and secret here.  Like that sword.  Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Secret and safe?  Yes, Estel, that is exactly what we have been talking about.  Exactly.  Now, go with your brother, draw your picture and reveal for me the secret of your pony’s name.”

“I will!”  Estel is happy and free of any guilt for his error. “Come on, Elladan!  I have to check something!”

I smile at Gandalf and let Estel drag me back to the stables.

There, Elrohir is leaning over the stall, rubbing Spider’s nose. 

“Ah.  There you both are.  I see, Estel.  I see.”

Estel nods enthusiastically.  “I thought I was right!” he says.

Over an hour later he is beginning to be happier with the picture he is now carefully shading.  He is back in bed, his impromptu trip to the stable having taxed my father’s edict to the absolute limit, but he seems happy enough.  He is warm, but not overly so, and he is contented. 

Until he remembers something.

“Halbarad?” he says.  “I haven’t seen him all morning.”

“I will enquire,” I offer.  “And you will stay here.  I have sharpened the grey and the brown pencils, so you may finish the colouring.  Are you going to put him in the stable?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says.  He is leaning over the paper, looking at it intently.  “I’ll decide in a minute.  I will stay here,” he finally says.  It is a promise, and those, Estel does not break.

Downstairs, I find Halbarad talking to three people he evidently knows.  I speak with them for a few minutes, making certain all is well with the boy, then go to listen in on the meeting Estel interrupted earlier.

“You left him alone?” my father asks, with more than a little disbelief.

“He promised to stay where he was.  He is working on the drawing.  He is taking great pains over it.  Have you made progress?”

“I believe so.  Gentlemen?”

I check quickly round the room for Legolas, but he is not there.  It is a long way for him to come.  He may be here on the morrow. 

“Elladan – he has said nothing more about what he heard?”  Gandalf is standing, staring out of the window.

“He told you the absolute and complete truth, Gandalf – I am sure of that,” I say, though he already knows that is true.

“He must not suspect.  But it will become more and more difficult to keep his history and his possible future from him.  There are many evil forces at work in the world.  They will be searching for him.  I know I do not need to say this to you, Elrond, nor to your sons, but it must be said to all here.  To keep him safe, he must be kept secret.  He said those words himself.  He has great powers himself, of perception and thought, and he will soon guess if we give him any clues,” Gandalf says, and I feel he is giving one side of the issue weight, that we might all appreciate the dangers.

“Yet you allow Halbarad, a twelve-year old boy who knows at least something of Estel’s possible future, to stay here and play with him.  The temptation to tell him something will overwhelm the boy.”  The elf is voicing the concerns of one or two in the group. 

“Is he then to be isolated from the world and from boys his own age?” my father asks.  “Halbarad is his kin.  I will not send him away because he may say something that Estel may question.  Already they are captain and lieutenant and Estel finds nothing in this relationship to question.  He must learn to lead and the risk we take is small compared to the gain.”                    

“I think,” I say quietly, for I am a youngster still to some of people in the room, “I think he must be allowed to be with Halbarad.  They are already fast friends.  To separate them so soon, and while Estel is not fully recovered, would be a hard judgement on both boys’ characters.”  I mean it, too.  They surely cannot be saying Estel must be immured here, never to have contact with his own people because one of them might say something? 

Several heads nod in agreement and so it is decided.  Halbarad will stay out the month, while Estel becomes strong again, then he will go back to his people.  If anything is said then my father will explain as much as needs to be explained, and leave as much as he can unsaid. 

Elrond then tells those gathered of Estel’s visions and his case is discussed.  Most are of the opinion that he will indeed grow out of them, or that they will become some other form of gift.  It is Gandalf who ends the discussion.

“I will speak to him.  Perhaps I can interpret what he sees.  I can at least offer him more reassurance.”

My father nods.  He has been worried, I know, and to have Gandalf’s opinion on the matter will be a help and a comfort to him. 

“Let us adjourn the meeting, then.  Gandalf, Elladan – let us go and see what Estel has drawn.  I confess to some curiosity to know why he has named his new pony as he has.  I never did quite understand why his horse was called Ruby.”

We go upstairs and I push open the door.  Estel sits at his desk, where his books are piled precariously close to the edge to make space for the large piece of paper I gave him.  He is holding down the paper with the aid of his broken arm in its wrapping.  He has worn the pencil to a stub but it is to good purpose: the picture is almost finished.

“It is not quite right.  I don’t know how his legs fit on, not exactly,” he says, squinting at the paper.

“It’s a fine picture,” my father says.  “You have shaded in his coat wonderfully well.”

Estel smiles, pleased with his father’s comment, for it has cost him a good many minutes’ labour to finish the shading to his satisfaction.

“And really, now that you look at his marking,” Gandalf says, going to stand behind Estel, “could the pony be called anything other than Spider?”

Once Gandalf had traced out with his finger the pattern that Estel had so delicately suggested in his drawing, I could see the faint outline of a cobweb-shaped filigree, covering the animal’s flank.  Neither Elrohir nor I had even noticed it until Estel had shown it to us in the stable.

Estel sits in front of his picture, having it admired by some the most important figures in Middle Earth, yet he is unaware of his place amongst them.  In the years to come, perhaps one day he will be truly one of them, but even now they do not eclipse him.

He is becoming tired, though he does not say so.  My father makes him take his medicine then leaves to try to become a better host to all the guests who have arrived during the morning.

Once Estel is settled in his chair by the fire, with a blanket over his knees and his drawing pinned up on the wall beside him, Gandalf begins to question him while I hover anxiously.

“Now, my boy.  Tell me all about your visions.”

“Tell me how your visions are different from your dreams, Estel,” Gandalf instructs, settling back in his own chair.  He is sitting in a shaded corner, effacing himself, to give Estel licence to speak.

“They come in the day, Gandalf,” the boy says, looking at the wizard.  “I lose myself, and I can’t see what’s around me, and my head feels – odd.”

“Do you feel faint?  Unwell?  Frightened?”  Gandalf prompts, trying, I suppose, to find a word to give Estel so that he may describe his symptoms correctly.

“Not frightened.  Not exactly.  Puzzled,” Estel says, his face reflecting that puzzlement.  “A bit faint.  I fainted once, didn’t I, Elladan?” 

I nod, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.

“I feel silly afterwards,” he confesses.  “I don’t like it happening.”

It is Gandalf’s turn to nod.  He does not try to tell Estel he should not feel like this, though I would have done. 

“Tell me if there are any visions which you have seen more than once,” Gandalf says.  He is leaning forward now, his elbow on the arm of the chair and his hand supporting his chin.

“I don’t remember them very well, not the ones I had when I was little.  But I remember being up high, higher than I have ever been, and looking down on many thousands of beings, and they are so small.  They are like the wood ants, in their nest – you know, Gandalf, those big piles of sticks and things they make, and that noise as they move about in there?”

“Yes, my boy, I know.  Go on.”

“And I can see a very long way.  I am standing on something like a mountain or a cliff.  It’s hard beneath my feet and the wind is blowing.  It is not safe there yet I want to stay and watch – watch over all the people.”

“Do you see mountains in the distance?”

“Sometimes.  A long, long way away.  Blue and grey.  Pointed.”

“Yes.  And is there anyone standing nearby?”

“Not very often.  Sometimes, I think someone very tall is standing near me, and then sometimes lots of people, and they have swords and spears.  And then it’s very noisy, people shouting, and I don’t want to be there.  Gandalf!  I don’t like the visions then. I don’t like what I see.  I don’t want to talk about it any more.”  Estel finishes in a breathless rush, his fingers anxiously gripping the blanket on his knees.  He has become upset very quickly and I want to go and comfort him but Gandalf has not finished with him yet. 

“Do you sense evil?” he says.  Estel looks ready to spring from his seat but this is important, I know.  He must try to answer.

“Yes,” says a quiet, calm voice I do not at first recognise.  “There is evil, Gandalf.  It searches for me.  It cannot reach inside these walls but I felt it when I went down the river.  It is a great evil.”   The boy gasps, and Gandalf reaches forward, gathering him in his arms as the boy tries to breathe.

“There, there, Estel.  You have done enough.  You have done well.  Quietly now.”

My brother begins to breathe normally again and looks around him as if he has forgotten where he is. 

“Gandalf?” he says, his voice tremulous.  “I don’t know …”

“It is all right,” the old wizard says, kneeling now at the boy’s feet.  It is an extraordinary thing to see.  “These visions will fade as you grow.  You do not need to worry about their meaning.  Just experience them, and remember them.  Now,” he says, smiling.  “I think you have earned a reward.”

My brother is recovering.  For a moment, I had heard a near-grown man in the resolve and power of his words.  Yet when Gandalf stands, Estel is still a little boy, a tired one, but not frightened or exhausted.

“A reward?” he says, re-settling himself in his chair.

“Stay here, child.  I will fetch it for you.”

He nods.  As Gandalf leaves the room I go over to my brother and give him a glass of water.  He drinks thirstily. 

“You know you are safe here?” I ask.

“Yes.  Papa and you and Elrohir, you won’t let anything bad happen to me.”

“No, we won’t.  Not while you are here.”   And when you are not here, we will still try to keep you safe.  But that is in the future.

Gandalf returns, carrying a satchel.  

“We need Halbarad,” Gandalf says.  “Would you invite him here?” he asks me.  “And if you would, ask Elrond if I may speak to him later.”  I feel a moment’s disappointment – I wanted to see Estel’s reaction to whatever gift Gandalf has brought for him. But I do as I am asked.

Halbarad is still with his friends but does not take much persuading to join Estel.  I go to find my father, since it seems Gandalf does not immediately need me, and we talk for a short while before he returns to talk to the latest arrivals.  I am lost for something to do for a moment, then feel someone standing behind me and the touch of a hand on my shoulder.

“Legolas!” I say, laughing and swinging round to try to catch him.  He is not so easily taken and steps calmly backward.

“Elladan.”  He is smiling, a quirky grin.  “Are you getting slow, Elladan Half-Elven?”

“Slower than you, Legolas Greenleaf?  Ah – I admit it.  You made good time to get here this afternoon.”

“I was already on my way with news for your father.  When I saw others journeying here, I made more haste.  How is Estel?”

“He has been unwell but is improving rapidly.  He will overwhelm you with tales of his adventures.  He has a broken arm and a new pony.”

Legolas’ eyebrows gave away his surprise.  “What happened to Ruby?”

We are moving towards Estel’s room as we speak, Legolas unbuckling the harness which carried his knives. 

“It was an event which caused him much sorrow.”

“Then he shall have my full attention as he tells me all about it.”  He stops for a moment.  “I wish to put away my gear before I enter his room.”

So it is a few minutes before we walk together down the last corridor, speaking of nothing in particular. 

“No!”   A shout from his room hastens our steps.  “No!  You shall not take me!  I shall fight you to the last drop of my blood!”  It is Estel.

“My captain!”  Halbarad, as loud and as full-blooded as Estel.  “You have my sword!  I am with you!”

Legolas is a step in front of me.  He is intent.  If anyone is attacking the two boys he will be merciless.  He stops dead in his tracks by the door. 

Then he laughs.

I come to stand beside him.  There, on the floor, three figures, all cross-legged.  The two boys sit together, while Gandalf sits opposite them.

“Ah!  Greenleaf comes to my rescue,” Gandalf says, hardly glancing at Legolas.  “It is hardly fair, two warriors against one old man.  Sit here and defend me!”

“Halbarad!  We need reinforcements.  How many do we have in reserve?”  Estel says, smiling at Legolas but not breaking the flow of the game they are playing.

“There is but one, sir.  A poor, broken-down fellow he is, but he may serve.”

“Are you referring to me?” I ask, stepping forward.  “Then I am honoured, lords, and I shall serve to the best of my ability, poor though that may be.”  I bow. Estel looks at me and grins broadly, before taking up the die and shaking it in his cupped hands.  He throws the die.

“Six!” he shouts triumphantly, and begins to move beautifully carved, ancient pieces across a board which is lying flat on the floor.  I know the game, one of strategy and warfare, and I can immediately see that Estel is winning.  “We have you nearly surrounded, Gandalf!  Even Legolas cannot help you now.  Hello, Legolas,” he says suddenly, dropping back into his own character for a moment. 

“Hello, Estel,” says Legolas.  “I think you may be right.  Gandalf – do you think it might be time for a strategic retreat?”

Gandalf growled, “Nonsense,” but his pieces are falling fast.  With cheers from the two boys, which I heartily join in, though I have done nothing to help, Gandalf gathers the die into his hand and rolls a two.  He is lost.  There is no hope for him, whatever strategy he chooses.  He sighs and knocks his pieces over, the signal for defeat.

“You play well, boys,” Gandalf says, easing himself to his feet and back to his chair.  “Too well for me.”

But just as we are all congratulating Estel, my brother gets up and goes to Gandalf.  He has a very serious look on his face.

“Gandalf,” he says.  He stands with his good arm behind his back.   “I believe you allowed me to win.”

There is silence.  I have little doubt that Estel is right. 

“Yes, I allowed you to win, Estel.  For a purpose.  Can you guess what that purpose is?”

“No.  I can’t,” the boy says moodily, as if his victory means little to him now.

“Do you think you will always win battles yourself, with no help?”  Gandalf asks.  “Do you think that if you have to share a victory it is not worth having?”

“Halbarad helped me – I’ll gladly share the victory with him!” he says. 

“Sometimes, those you count as an enemy will help you to victory.  You must learn to be grateful for it, and indeed to seek to bring your enemies onto your side.  I know, boy, it is a hard lesson for you, and you have had a few of those in the last few days, but I hope you will consider what I have said.  Your visions come from the past and the future.  You will be in a high place one day, and will look down on others.  Will you see them only as friends and enemies?  What will happen to those who have opposed you and lost, Estel?  Will you put them to the sword?  Will you take away their lands and their dignity?”

Gandalf is speaking in earnest now, and the strength of his voice has grown as he speaks.  Estel seems to be standing in his shadow, uncertain, even afraid. 

“Will you be able to allow them to sacrifice themselves for you?”

“You have been speaking to Papa, haven’t you.  About me running away.”

“Yes, my boy, I have.  You should not have done so, though no one here will upbraid you for it.  You have a great deal to learn, a great many hard questions to answer, before you are ready to go out into the world.  Do you understand that?”

“Yes.  Yes.  I think I do.  Though I do not know the answers to your questions.”

“That’s all right, Estel.  I do not think I know the answers either, at present.  You and I may have to learn the answers together.  Come, we have time for a few tricks before you must rest.  You will come down to supper tonight, for a short while.  Wear your best clothes and stand next to your Papa, and be admired.  There now, don’t blush like that.  Legolas, bring that tray here.”

Legolas does as he is told and holds the metal tray firmly.  Gandalf places something on the tray and grabs a spill from beside the fire.  He lights it then touches it to the tiny pyramid.  There is a bright light, a strong smell and then the pyramid throws out tiny red and yellow and blue sparks. 

Estel gasps.  He has never seen Gandalf’s indoor fireworks.  We gather in the darkening room to watch snakes crawl from little black pellets, and a tiny, fiery butterfly climb into the air out of a brown cocoon, all created by Gandalf.

Too soon, it is over. Gandalf is gone, taking Halbarad with him.

Estel has been leaning against me.  He looks up, his face full of wonder.  “Was anything ever as wonderful as that?” he asks.

“Come.  Let us get you ready.  You can tell Legolas all about Spider if you like.”

“Yes.  I will.  But Elladan – I have so much to think about!  I want to know the answers to those questions he asked.” 

As we get him ready, Estel chatters to Legolas, making my job of helping him rather more difficult than usual.

“We buried Ruby down by the river,” he says.  “I’ll take you there tomorrow, if you want.”

“I would be honoured,” says Legolas.  “He was a noble horse.”

“I broke my arm when I fell in the water.” Estel holds out his arm for inspection.  Legolas checks the bindings for him and nods. 

“It will be well soon, Estel.  Then I will give you some more lessons with your bow.  You will need to pull carefully for a month or so yet but we can strengthen your muscles in your back, here, and in your shoulder, without disturbing the bone.”

“Come, Estel, let me slip this on,” I say, holding out his tunic.  He puts his arms in the air and disappears into the garment, emerging and shaking his hair off his face.  I begin to fasten the ties but Legolas takes over.

“He must wear his circlet,” he says.

“It doesn’t fit,” Estel grumbles.  “It’s getting too small!”

Legolas ties the last fastening then looks at the circlet, trying it on Estel’s head.  It is true that it was made for a smaller child.  Legolas takes it in his hands.

“It was made to grow with you, you know.  Watch.”  He takes it in hands that seem too delicate for any task requiring strength.  Yet under their pressure the metal moves, the pattern of wires changing subtly, and now it fits.  I had forgotten this trick of elvish smith-work.

“Now we had better braid your hair,” Legolas says, though his glance tells me he is teasing the boy.

“No!  I’m not waiting while you do that!  There are people downstairs and I want to meet lots of them!”

Neither Legolas nor I could have persuaded him except by holding him still and forcing him.  I did insist on brushing his hair until it gleamed and he was pulling such faces I thought he would scream if I continued. 

Legolas laughs gently at him, yet he is another who would die rather than see any harm come to my brother.  We shall keep him safe while he tries to find his way through to the truth of the world.  Gandalf and my father lead him and I have my own vision of them, one on either side, drawing him forward carefully into the darkness, as Elrohir and Legolas and I defend him. 

I do not know his future.  I tell myself he will be king, yet I cannot always believe it.  Yet, as he chatters to us and remembers all we tell him about people, I cannot refrain from adding, in my thoughts, the idea that these are his people. 

Gandalf has begun to point him towards the moral questions he must, in the long term, resolve for himself.  Yet this interest in people – that comes from a heart that is true and honest and open. 

I hope against hope that he will always be so.

When he stands for his final inspection, dressed in dark green tunic and leggings, his circlet shining against his dark hair, my vision of him sharpens.  He travels into a dark future, but he does not travel alone.

“Go on, Estel,” says Legolas.  “Best foot forward!” 

Estel looks doubtfully at his feet but it is only a hesitation.  He is soon on his way, leading us to the hall and to the next step in his journey.

For this section, we return to Elrond. 

All the guests are seated, talking to one another and eating and drinking their fill.  How many such meals have I presided over?  Countless numbers of them, stretching away into the past.  Yet they are always a delight to me and especially tonight.  The conference has gone well, my sons are in the house and out of danger, and so many old friends are here, too. 

The candle flames dance in a slight draught.  The door opens and there, standing as tall as he can, dressed in green and with the silver circlet about his dark hair, stands my youngest child.  He is nervous.  He has been to only two feasts, and then only to speak with the guests for a few minutes.  This time, he will eat with us.  It is fitting.  Though he does not know it, and though many of my guests do not know it, this feast is for him. 

He is flanked by Elladan, whose hand now guides Estel forward.  Elladan leaves him, for he has other business to attend to but as Estel looks anxiously behind him, Legolas takes Elladan’s place and follows Estel closely as my boy makes his way towards me.  The guests have fallen quiet.  As they do, Estel becomes more hesitant, the bright glow of enthusiasm fading a little in his eyes.  This will be a trial for him but he must learn to behave himself well on such occasions.

“Come and sit beside me,” I say.  “Everyone – this is my youngest son, Estel.”

He pauses, glances at me, then bows to the guests.  “I am humbly pleased to meet you all,” he says.

I nod my approval and he comes to stand by me, looking dubiously at the chair that has been set for him.

“Pa – Father,” he says, looking anxious.

Legolas divines the problem more quickly than I and, as I give leave for everyone to return to eating, he fetches a cushion for Estel.  Without it, my son would be too small to sit comfortably at the table.  But he grows – last time, he needed two cushions.

Legolas sits by him and they are soon deep in conversation, heads together, Legolas piling food onto Estel’s plate until my son is protesting and laughing.  I look at him and he stills, immediately concerned.  We have spent long hours discussing correct manners for every occasion but this time, it is Legolas who is to blame.

“My Lord,” Legolas whispers.  “I apologise.  I forgot where I was.”  He moves the overfilled plate into the centre of the table and pushes a smaller plate in front of Estel.  Satisfied, I turn to talk to my neighbour about the likelihood of a good growing season this year.  When I glance back, Estel is looking, well, I think mortified is not too strong a word.  Legolas has indeed put food on his plate and has gone to fetch him something.  A glass of water, I think.  But he has left Estel with a practical difficulty.  My son has one usable arm and one weakened hand.  Everything on his plate seems to require a knife and a fork.  While he has been ill, all his food has been brought to him already cut into small pieces.  He does not know what to do now.

“Estel.  Allow me to help you,” I offer, and several people turn to him.

He musters all his considerable presence and answers, politely but firmly, “Thank you, Father, but I can manage.”  He takes his fork and stabs at a piece of meat.

I do not wish to force my help on him but he is not going to manage in this way.  The meat slides from his plate to the tablecloth and I notice people deliberately looking away, to spare his feelings, I suppose.  He looks at me, intensely occupied with this challenge, and helps the meat back onto the plate with his fingers.

“I can do it,” he whispers and I nod my encouragement, but cutting with the edge of a fork is not an easy matter.  Nevertheless, he manages to take a bite with no further mishap.

Legolas returns, putting the glass of water within easy reach and, seeing the difficulty, pulls the plate towards himself, preparing to help in a way I would not.

“Legolas,” I warn, though I know he is only being kind to the boy.  “My son has told me he can manage.”

Estel looks from one to the other of us, unwilling I am sure to be the centre of attention in this way. 

Then a number of things happen in quick succession – so quick, I am not sure which comes first.  Perhaps Estel makes a grab for his plate.  Perhaps the plate slips from his grasp, knocking over the glass of water and spilling its contents into the lap of the man sitting opposite.  When the man stands suddenly, perhaps his movement distracts Estel as he lunges for the glass.  He does not notice that his sleeve is in the candle flame.  I am almost sure that is how it happens.  The final result is a flurry of movement, Estel’s yelp, then an overset candle on the table, instantly catching the table decoration alight.

It is over in moments, the flames extinguished, and Estel stands in the smoking ruin white-faced, his eyes wide, his tunic damp with the water Legolas had thrown over him to put out the fire in his sleeve.

I hold my breath.  How will my son behave now?  I expect him to run out crying.  I hope he will not.  He stands, and we all wait in silence.

“Father,” he says, his voice trembling.  “May I,” and he coughs once, before continuing, “may I go and change my tunic?”

I suppose my face mirrors my astonishment.  This is hardly the response I am expecting. 

“Of course, Estel.  Everyone – please, take your seats.  It was a small mishap.”

Estel is already on his feet, making his way to the door.  He is doing well, too, until someone unfortunately laughs – not at him, I think, though he may have felt it was so.  His pace quickens and he leaves the room without looking back.

“Shall I go after him?” Legolas enquires.

I consider his offer but thank him, and rise myself to go after him.  I wish to praise him for his self-control and I know he will need help to dress. I take my leave of my guests, making some comment to lighten the atmosphere, and there is laughter in the air as I leave.

I find Estel in his room, carefully taking off his sling so that he can remove his tunic.  His face is wet and I go to the wash basin to dampen a cloth to bring back with me.  I put my hand under his chin, raise his face and wipe it quickly.  He takes a breath.

“You did well, Estel,” I say.

“They were laughing at me,” he says, his eyes filling with tears again.

I wipe them away then wait for him to look at me.  “They were laughing with me, my son.  They were not laughing at your accident.”

“I didn’t mean to set light to the table,” he begins, tugging at his tunic as if he hates it.

“Of course you didn’t mean it.  Now, why are you crying?  You left the room to change your tunic and return.  Are you going back with red eyes, so that they will all know you cried?”

He furrows his brow.  I can sense what he is about to say, so I try to forestall him.  “We will go back down, you and I, and say goodnight to the guests, and then Legolas will come and talk to you for a while.  He has some news that he has been saving for you.  I believe it might concern a birthday present he has brought for you.”

Even this news does not immediately penetrate his gloomy mood.  I dress him hastily, checking his arm to make sure he isn’t burnt.  There is no sign of reddened skin and I bless Legolas’ speed.

“Will the table be spoiled, Papa?” he asks quietly.  “It is a beautiful table.  Papa, I don’t want to go back and see the table all spoiled, and have all those people know I was the one to do it.  Stupid arm.  Why can’t it just get better?  Do I have to go back?”

He is dressed again now and I adjust the circlet.  “This did not fit last time,” I say.  “Has your head become smaller?”

There is the ghost of a smile on his face.  “Legolas pulled it and twisted it somehow and it fits again now.  He said it was made that way.”

“Ah yes,” I say.  I stand and check the boy over.  I wash his face again, dry it, and brush his hair back neatly.

“Now, Estel, let us go together and see what we can do to prove to everyone just how brave you are.”

There is a moment of hesitation but he is suddenly determined, the tears gone, though he looks tired and worn.  There will be many times in his life, I think, when this look will be his, worn and sad, yet still willing to do and face what he must.

“Come on, Papa,” he says.  “Can I stay up a little longer?  I only ate one mouthful before – before the disaster.”

The Disaster.  Now I know that the incident, when it is retold to his brothers and friends over the years, will be called The Disaster.

When we return, everything possible has been done to restore the table to its former state.  Estel has been moved so that he sits now between Gandalf and Legolas and it is not long before food that he can manage is set before him.  He looks at me and his tired face glows with happiness. 

The lesson is learned.  Facing one’s fears, kills those fears.  He will remember that now.  One more lesson.  One more memory to guide him.  The lessons do not come cheaply.  He was scared, just before we walked into the room.  I stood with him, and waited for him to make the decision.  He made the true one and my heart begins to hope that in him, in this nine-year-old son of mine, is the strength to tread where his ancestors could not.

My hope.  My Estel.

Gandalf and I settle for a quiet talk by the fire, once all the guests have retired.  Legolas has gone to speak to Estel but as Gandalf lights his pipe, he returns.

“He is asleep,” he says.  “It is as well.  I must give more consideration to his gift.  It is possible he is not old enough to appreciate it.”  Legolas settles by the window, looking out on the moonlit gardens.  He seems more other-worldly than usual tonight, quieter, less engaged with the reality of our lives.  I wonder what it is he questions about his chosen present but I do not question him.  If he wishes me to know, he will tell me.

“He is growing fast,” says Gandalf, sitting back in his chair and then drawing on his pipe for a few moments. 

“He is,” I say.  “There is much of his father in him, but something more, too.  I never heard Arathorn talking about visions.”

“No.  I believe there is something more in Aragorn.  His visions are strange, a mixture of past and present – perhaps even of things to come.   I do not think it is possible to interpret them aright,” Gandalf says, half-closing his eyes.  “We must be patient, reassure him and see if he grows out of them.”

I watch Legolas.  He is gazing upwards, staring at something I cannot see.  He shines in the moonlight, the life in him lighting his face. 

“I wish,” he says, and Gandalf turns.  “I wish I understood him better.  He is an edan boy, and I know little of the edain.  He has barely been on the earth any time at all by our reckoning.”

“What is your present, Legolas?” Gandalf asks.

“A seed,” Legolas says, moving away from the window and coming to sit by the fire.  “And a piece of wood.”

Gandalf raises his eyebrows.  “That will indeed puzzle the boy.  Are you intending to explain to him the meaning of your presents?”

“Yes, Gandalf,” Legolas says, humour in his eyes and voice.  “But perhaps I should wait until next year, or the year after.”

“You will forget how the time has run on, Legolas, and only remember when he is fifteen and has not forgiven you for giving him nothing for his ninth birthday.  I think you had better give him the present tomorrow, when he has broken his fast and is ready to put his mind to a riddle.  I think he would enjoy trying to work it out himself,” I offer, disagreeing with Gandalf but true to my understanding of my foster son.  I can foresee his concentrated expression now and his pleasure should he guess aright the true meaning of the gift. 

Legolas nods.  “Then that will be done.  Where are the twins?”

“Still speaking with some scouts who have lately returned from the mountains.  Tomorrow we must have a battle plan ready.  We must stop the growth of this band of orcs before they become overly confident,” I tell both my old friends.  “We have faced such battles before.  The power of evil waxes and wanes.  We must be ever vigilant.”

“I shall go and find them, then.  My father’s scouts gave me information to bring which I should give them.  My bow is ready to aid you in defence of the boy.”  He looks at me, the light still in his eyes.   “Estel will be defended until he grows into his inheritance.”

I nod, and Gandalf puffs at his pipe, and we are agreed.

Before daybreak, sounds in the house rouse me to my duties.  In the great hall, people are already eating, their packs at their feet, talking in subdued voices.  To my surprise, Estel is there, moving among the guests, offering them bread and dishing out plates to those who are still gathering.  He is speaking to each in turn.  Some say a kind word and make him smile. Some seem to brush him aside but he takes no offence, simply moving on the next person.

When he sees me, he puts down the plate of bread he is carrying and walks swiftly over to me.

“Are they all leaving today, Papa?  Many say they are.  There is talk of a battle.”  

His eyes are gleaming, as if he truly knows what this means.  He has read often enough of battles with orcs, and he has seen his brothers return home with the wounds and the spoils of war.  It is no use to pretend that such things do not happen.

“When we have spoken together once more, yes, there will be many who go out of here prepared for battle.”

He nods and says, “When I am big enough I will fight them too, won’t I?  Will I fight alongside Legolas, do you think?”

Estel is looking at Legolas, who sits by the window again, as if he moved there when we left the room and has been there ever since.

“It may happen like that,” I say.  “But I do not know the future.  No one knows that.  You may lead a long, quiet life here, reading your books and making drawings and paintings for us all to admire.”

“Oh, Papa!  I don’t want to do that!  I want – I want to go out there, and have adventures and kill orcs and meet fair maidens and things like that!”

I give in to my instinct and reach for him, catching him up and swinging him round, not caring for the loss of dignity.  He laughs out loud and when I set him back on his feet he playfully attacks me, swinging his fist at me and shouting, “Die, you filthy orc!”

I keep him off with one hand and growl at him, making him fight and laugh harder, until others close by begin to clap and chant, “Death to the orcs!  Death to the orcs!”

Finally the game ends as I admit defeat and beg for mercy.  Legolas has joined us and he is smiling at our antics.  I look around; the tension is gone from men’s faces and the talk is all of defeating the enemy. 

“Estel,” I say, pulling him close.  “You are our good luck charm.  You know you must stay here, don’t you?”

“Yes, Papa,” he says, though the smile on his face dies.  “I will stay and I will do as much growing as I can.  Are you going too?”  Now he is biting his lip.  Sometimes I have left him, when he was very little and did not really know that I had gone.  Since he was four I have not left him to go to war.

“Yes, Estel.  I am going, as is Legolas and your brothers.  There will be many here to care for you - do not be concerned.  And I will be back before you have time to miss your lessons.”

“Yes, Papa.  May I finish that book we were reading?”  He is trying hard not to mind but it is easy to see in his face what he is truly thinking.  I want to tell him he does not have to be brave if he does not want to be but I say nothing.

“Do you want your present now?” Legolas says, almost as if he is expecting the boy to say no.

Estel looks at me. 

“We have plenty of time,” I tell him.

Legolas stretches out his hand and Estel takes it.  I follow them both to a quiet antechamber and sit at the table opposite Legolas and Estel.  Legolas has picked up the presents, which he had left on the seat of one of the chairs.

“There is more to this gift than meets the eye,” he says, putting a small, carved wooden box in front of Estel.

Estel opens it carefully, fumbling a little but managing the job well enough.  Inside there is a single seed, a large, rough-textured sphere.  I watch Estel’s face.  It is full of curiosity.  It is as I hoped – he does love mysteries and puzzles. 

“Is it a plant?” he asks.  “I mean, will it be a plant?”

“Of course,” says Legolas.  “What kind of plant, do you guess?”

Estel takes the seed on his hand and looks at it.  “I see it,” he says, unexpectedly.  “I see it, tall and green and fair, reaching up to the sky.  It is a tree, isn’t it?”

Legolas looks at me, surprise on his face.  “It is.  It will grow quickly, too.  By the time you are fifteen, it will reach thirty feet into the air.  But you must plant it and tend it carefully, for this tree is tender when it is a sapling.”

Estel nods, his nose practically on the seed, he is studying it so closely.

“Now,” said Legolas.  “What do you think this will become?”  He places a piece of wood in Estel’s hand.  The boy turns it over, as if searching it for the answer.  He seemed to solve the problem of the seed easily enough.  How will he fare with this? 

After some moments, he ventures, “Will it be a – is it big enough to be a bow?” he asks, truly hesitant.  “I cannot think of anything else that would be this size.  And it will be a small bow.”

“Well done!” Legolas says.   “When I return, I will show you how to fashion this into a serviceable bow and then you may practice with it, until you are strong enough to pull a bigger one.  You will learn how it is made, and then you will always be able to make one of your own, at need.  And you will tell me the true connection between your two gifts.”

“Wood?” he says, screwing up his face.  He knows it cannot be as easy as that.

“While I am gone, think on it,” Legolas advises.

Estel nods.  He will not forget to think about it.  “May I show Halbarad now?  He has a bow – I would like to study it so that I know what mine might be like.  Papa,” he says, the sudden flow of words halting.  “Halbarad isn’t going with you, is he?”

“No, he is not coming with us.”  I look at him, and it takes only a moment for him to remember.  “Thank you, Legolas!  When you come back, perhaps the seed will have sprouted.  I know a nice warm place to put it!  And I’ll get my knife sharpened to a really keen edge, then I’ll be ready to learn how to make a bow!  A bow!  My own bow!”  He is standing now, looking at his presents as if they are worth all the gold in Middle Earth. 

“Go and find Halbarad,” I say.  “Be back here before the hour is up.  Then we will say our farewells.”

He is gone in a moment, clutching his presents, then his face appears again at the door. “Thank you, Legolas,” he says then he is gone.

Legolas smiles.  “He has not yet guessed the connection between the two gifts, but I will teach him that when I come back here.”

“Perhaps he will have thought it out for himself by then,” I say, moving back to the main hall.

“Perhaps!” says Legolas, following me closely.

We are later starting out than I had hoped but I had to be satisfied that all knew our plan.  Now I sit on my horse, with my twin sons beside me.  Estel and I have said our farewells and I treasure his words.  “Come home safe,” he said.

As he stands by Halbarad, he smiles as bravely as he can and waves.

“No adventures, Estel,” I say.

“All right, Papa.”

“And no riding Spider till I return.  You may groom him but you may not ride him.”

That’s going to be a hard edict to follow but he says, “No, Papa,” anyway.

I can think of a dozen more instructions but Elrohir is moving off and trying to catch my eye.  I turn my horse’s head and take my place in the troop.  I have many misgivings about leaving my youngest boy alone.  But he is safe enough here and I have other obligations to fulfil apart from bringing him up.  To defeat these orcs now may make his future more secure.

As I pass through the gates, I hold to my logic.

“He will not be lonely, Father,” Elladan says.  “He has plenty of people to care for him.”

I look at my son and shake my head.  “Then you are thinking as I,” I say, knowing full well he is only trying to reassure himself.  “We must be done with this business as soon as we possibly can.”

Elladan nods.  We quicken the pace of the horses and ride westwards against our foes.

The moon was full the night before we left Imladris.  As we ride home, it is full again.  I look round as the horses move along the trackway, the trees arching overhead, and in the cold light I check again in my mind all we will need to do as soon as we reach the house.

Elladan rides with his brother, too ill to be governing a horse himself.  We travel slowly.  His head nods.  Whether he is asleep or unconscious, I do not know.  His brother supports him and Legolas rides close by.  Legolas carries his own wound but he is healing well.  He will need rest but nothing more.  Elladan will need to be tended again as soon as possible.

There were other injuries, some in need of urgent attention, but we lost none of our company.  Most have returned to their own homes, so that it is a small, weary group trailing back to Rivendell.  Gandalf took his leave two days ago, saying he had business elsewhere.  I shall miss his guidance.

I have been away far longer than I meant.  But if I had not gone to battle, my son would be dead.  Legolas might have died trying to save him.  Elrohir – who knows what he would have done to try to save his brother?  I was there and I fought with all my heart for Elladan, when he was down and almost overwhelmed.  My strength, added to the others was enough, barely.

We finished off every orc.  None escaped.  None reported back to its master.  We made a pyre of their bodies and left a blackened place as a warning.  Then we looked to our own. 

Legolas guides his horse over to me.  “Elladan is worse,” he says, confirming my fear.  “We must warn Estel.  I don’t think Elladan will be fit to keep up with him.  Will he be asleep when we arrive?”

I look at the sky and judge the time.  I nod.  “He should be.  But when he hears we have returned he will want to see him.”

“Has he ever seen his brothers ill?”

I shake my head.  “Nothing beyond a cut or a bruise.  I will go to him,” I say, though I know I wish to stay with Elladan.

“No,” says Legolas firmly.  “I will go and wake him, and tell him of our adventures.  Then, in the morning, we can take him to see Elladan.”

“Your counsel is wise,” I say, smiling grimly.  “I am too weary to make good judgements.  Make them for me, Greenleaf.”

“I will go on ahead, then.”  And he does, his horse trotting away into the darkness.  It is well that he did, for Elladan has become restless in his fever, and it takes all our ingenuity to keep him in place for the last leg of the journey. 

The house is very quiet when we carry Elladan’s litter up the stairs and settle him in his own room.  There is a hushed busyness as he is tended to.  I supervise the work then tend to the deep wound in his side myself.  The skin is reddened and his fever is higher, and I use all my power to give him relief from pain and begin to heal him.  It is intense labour, and I am worn already from battle and from the long journey home but it must be done.  Elrohir aids me and, in the end, he is left bathing his brother’s forehead with cool water while I go to seek Legolas.

I enter Estel’s room as quietly as I can, for there is no sound.  There is one candle alight and by its illumination I can see Estel, soundly asleep, lying on his side.  One hand is near his mouth, the other, flung out across the pillow.  He looks different.  His hair is wild, his face more sharply defined somehow.

Legolas has drawn a chair up to the bed.  He looks round at me, hand to his lips, and I smile.  Estel is asleep and, for the moment, that is best. 

We leave the room and talk quietly outside.

“He knows Elladan is not well,” Legolas says, “though I did not tell him the extent of his injuries.  His arm is healed and he has pined for you, I think.  He is thinner than he was and yet he is full of life,” Legolas reports.  “He wished to see you but fell asleep before you came.”

“Come, Legolas,” I say.  “Let me dress your wound.  I will speak to the boy in the morning.”  In truth, I would have awoken him and spoken to him then if I had not had other cares. 

When Legolas is settled in his own room and resting, I return to Elladan and find Elrohir keeping vigil, though my son can barely keep awake. 

“We must all rest now, Elrohir,” I say.  “We have done all we can for him.  Others will watch him until daybreak, then we will see if there is anything else we can do to help him recover.  Then we must have all our strength.”

 “Yes, Father,” Elrohir says, reluctantly putting the cloth he was using back into the basin.  “He will be well again, won’t he?” 

Elrohir holds in him a fear we do not name, a fear still too close for either of us to put aside easily.  His mother, who will never return to us, who suffered until she could suffer no more.  I must push that fear away from him.

“The wound is not poisoned.  He has some infection but he will mend.  He will mend, Elrohir,” I say, and put my hand on his shoulder.  “Now go to bed.  I will call you if there is any change.”

He stands, takes one last look at his twin, and obeys me.  I give some instructions and Elrohir’s place is taken.  I can now go to my own room, to bathe and to eat and to rest until the morning light stirs me once more.

In the morning, as I dress in clean clothes, a scream sends me to the door.

“No!” someone shouts.  “No!  You cannot go back in there!”  It is Legolas.  I have never heard him angry before – shouting in the heat of battle, yes, but never this anger with its bite of fear running through it. 

I hasten to open the door but before I can, I hear one last despairing shout from Legolas and then thuds on my door as someone knocks. 

“Elrond!  You must stop him!” Legolas says, grabbing my arm as soon as he sees me.

“Stop him?  Legolas?” I say, looking round for someone to fight, or restrain.  I see only Estel, pressed against the wall, his eyes wide, his breath short.  He seems to be ready to spring away from Legolas who is trying to keep him there without holding him.

“Papa!” comes the plea I was expecting.  “Papa!  I have to get back to Elladan!”

“Of course you can, Estel.  Come, let us go …”

“No!” says Legolas, and it seems to me he is more frightened now than angry.  “Look at him!  He has already used too much of his strength!”

I cannot make any sense of what is being said but I trust Legolas to be aware of any dangers threatening my sons.  I gather myself and look Estel in the eye.

“Estel.  Be calm.  Wait a moment.  Then we will see your brother.”   My tone is enough to make Estel pause, his mouth open, then slump against the wall. 

Legolas watches him intently.  “We must speak,” he says.  “Elrond – you and I, we must speak.” 

Estel regards us both as if we have become his enemies.  I must know quickly what is wrong. 

Fortunately, Elrohir comes out into the corridor, looking sleepy and dishevelled but clearly with some grasp of the situation.

“Estel,” he says.  “Please, come and help me find my knife.  It is in my pack somewhere and yet I cannot locate it.”

Estel looks at him warily.  “If I help you, will you take me to see Elladan?”

Legolas shakes his head but Elrohir has already agreed.  His action has given us a few moments, at least, and as Estel goes back into Elrohir’s room, Legolas leads me a few paces away.

“I could not believe my eyes,” Legolas says.  “He stood there and, as he touched Elladan, I saw – I saw him try to heal him.  I saw it, Elrond.  No one in all the long years …”

“No,” I say, though whether in disbelief or agreement even I could not say.  “I must see this myself.”

“I saw it,” Legolas affirms, trying to hold my attention.  I know that at any moment, my sons will reappear, ready to go back to Elladan’s side.

“He would have no control over that power,” I say.  “It will drain him beyond his power to recover.  It will take many years of training …”

Again, the prince interrupts me.  “Yes!  And Elladan, ill as he is, would take all Estel’s strength.”

I nod, trying to think what to do for the best.  Perhaps if I could just see this mystery for myself, it would help.  It could also be dangerous.  But I must know – and I must begin to teach him to use this strength immediately.

“I will take him in myself.  I will see what happens – just for a moment.  We must be prepared to pull him away, if we must.  I do not think that explaining the matter will hold him back at all.  If he truly has power to heal he has a great gift indeed.”

We were both silent for a moment but there was no time for more of this whispered discussion.  Estel stood at the door with Elrohir behind him.

“We found the knife.  Now I’m going to see Elladan.”

I follow closely as he leads us all, and he goes to sit in the chair by Elladan’s bed, his hand reaching out to touch his elder brother’s hand. 

The change in him is startling.  His eyes close and his skin greys as he loses himself in this ungoverned action.  Legolas and I both reach for him as quickly as we can, Legolas pulling his arm back while I grasp his shoulders, turning him away from Elladan, who wakes with a gasp.  Estel’s cry makes me loosen my grip a little but Legolas is holding his arm firmly.  I thought one of us was hurting the boy until he begins to shout.

“Let go of me!  Let go of me now!” he screams   “I can do this!  I’m not a little boy!” 

He tries to twist out of Legolas’ grasp but that is his weaker arm and he screws up his face in pain. 

“Estel!”  I say, trying to calm him.  “Estel!  You are hurting yourself!  Elladan will be well – you do not need to do this!”

“I do!  I do!  He’s very ill and I want him to be well!”

“Child – be still.  Stop shouting.  Go to your room,” I say, trying to be calm myself in the face of his fury.

“Why?” he shouts, free now of Legolas’ grip. Legolas could not hurt him even to save him.  “I haven’t done anything wrong!  I could make Elladan better, I think I could, I feel – I feel I could.  Why won’t you let me?”  The boy takes a staggering step, going deathly pale before he leans against the chair.  “I can do it!” he says, more quietly.

There is no arguing with him.  He has gone far beyond his own control.  I do the only thing I can think to resolve the situation.

“Let’s go and see your pony, Estel.  Show me how well he’s doing.  We can get you something to eat on the way, if you want.  Here, come with me.” 

I take his hand.  It is warm and damp with sweat, and the boy is shaking.  I master my concern and lead him from the room.  He cannot bring himself to look up from the floor.  He tries to face his failure but as soon as we are out of the room he turns and hides his face in my robes, as he used to when he was a small child.  I hold him until he quietens a little. 

“You should have let me try,” he says.  There is still anger in his voice, alongside the fright.  He has seen something in himself today that I suspect he did not like.  “You should have.  I could have done it.”

“Come, Estel.  You need something to eat.  Then your pony, remember?”

He stiffens.  He looks up at me, his dark eyes still wild and fierce, his temper only half reined in. 

“I can’t, Papa,” he says.  “I can’t do that.  He ran away and we can’t find him.  Halbarad and me, we looked everywhere and we can’t find him. Not anywhere.  My pony’s gone and now you won’t let me near Elladan.  I don’t see what use it is to be me.  I can’t do anything right.”

He stands there, shaking, his beliefs in a secure world stretched to their limits.  His hands are fists.  His shoulders are set.  There is no self-pity in his statement – it is pitiless, a judgement on himself which springs from a deep source.  Yet he does not know – he does not understand the failures of his ancestors, for he has not been told who he is. 

I cannot for a moment think what to say to him. 

“Papa?” he says.  He is waiting for me, his face full of questions. 

“We will go and eat together,” I say at last, taking his hand again as firmly as I can.  “Then we will form a plan of campaign.  Your pony is as headstrong as you are.  He will be somewhere you have not yet thought to look.  I shall put every member of this household on to finding him and bringing him home, even if it means there is no-one but us to cook the meal tonight!”

I hurry down the corridor, so that Estel must run a few steps to keep up. 

“We will find him, won’t we?” he says, a hint of optimism in his voice.  This is a battle I must win.

“Of course we will!  He’s grazing somewhere, wondering when you’re going to find him.  Did you think we would never come home?” I ask, wondering whether it is right to slip this question in now.  But it is a question that has come into my mind as I heard his moments of despair.

“Yes,” he says, without any qualification.  “I read all the reports you sent really carefully but it wasn’t the same.  I just wanted you to come home.”

“I am here now.  Come - food, then pony.  I just wanted to be home, too.”

The boy grasps my hand tightly as we descend the stairs.  There is much here to talk over, much to settle but he is calm again now.  The black moment has passed but I shall not forget the depth of his anger, the strength of his will.

It is not a matter to be dealt with just now, however.  Food and a lost pony.   How glad I am to have such simple matters to resolve.

 There is movement and bustle in the kitchens and Estel shrinks from it, though the glances he receives are kindly.  I draw him to a quieter space and sit him down at the large table which is laden at one end with provisions.  He perches on a stool while I take the old, worn chair.

“Milk, sweetened with honey,” I say, and the cook nods.  “And some porridge.  When did you last eat, child?”  I ask as the cook moves away.

“Last night.  I think it was last night.  We looked and looked all day and forgot to take anything with us.  Papa - why do you put finding the pony above answering my questions?”  He will not look at me, choosing instead to push some crumbs on the table into a small pile. 

I forget sometimes how he has grown, and how quickly he matures.  It took Elladan and Elrohir much longer to discover the distraction trick.  Honesty is the best policy here.

The cook brings milk in his favourite cup and Estel drinks hungrily. 

“You needed time to calm down and think of other things, Estel. You know that is so.   You need the food, too.  What you did, it draws strength from all of you.  That strength must be replenished quickly at your age.”

“I don’t understand why!” he says, the wildness still in his eyes.  He is discovering a great reserve of persistence in himself – no, it was always there but it has not been used in this way before. 

The porridge is placed before him, and a small jug of cold milk.  I see a way to try to explain what is happening to him and stay his hand, which has grasped the spoon.

“The porridge is too hot without the milk.  The milk will cool it – or you can leave it to cool in its own time.”

Estel, puzzled, takes hold of his porridge bowl with his left hand as if it has suddenly become a creature that will run away if he does not hold on to it. 

“Now, I can pour the milk like this,” and I demonstrate, pouring all the milk so fast that it spills over the edge of the bowl, taking some of the porridge with it and creating a fine mess.  Estel pulls his hands away quickly and protests with a grunt as the milk threatens to soak his sleeves.  Not so long ago, little hands would have played with the spill but now Estel is less carefree.

“What do you see?” I ask when he turns to me for guidance.

Estel is half-smiling and very thoughtful.  His brothers started training him when he was six not just to look but to think while he looked.  He successfully tracked his first snake last summer.

“The porridge – I’d have to scrape most of it off the table if I wanted to eat it.”  He watches a ribbon of milk as it runs and drips from the edge of the table.  “And lick some milk off the floor,” he says, laughing in earnest now.

“Yes?  And what else?”  I am attempting to hold to the serious lesson I am trying to teach but the image of him kneeling on the floor, lapping the milk up like a cat is making it difficult to proceed.

“The jug is empty now,” he says, damming another flow of milk before it reaches him.

“It is.  And watch,” I say, taking the jug and rapping it hard against the edge of the table.  A piece of it breaks off.  I draw one or two looks from those who pass by but no one will interfere in this important lesson.  I set the jug on the table.

“Now it is no longer even a jug,” he says, reaching across and running his finger around its rim. “It could be mended but you could never really use it as a jug again.”

“Clear up the mess, Estel.  Begin again.”

He fetches a cloth and a bowl, and wipes till the table is clean.  He puts the jug in the waste bucket and asks for another bowl of porridge then comes to sit back next to me.  The wildness is subsiding in him, replaced by a keen interest in the story I am telling him with the help of his breakfast.

Another bowl is placed before him, and another jug with some milk.  He says nothing for a minute, then gently picks up the milk and pours it in a thin stream onto his porridge, just enough to cool it without spilling any.  “I couldn’t do that, not long ago.  When I tried, I poured milk everywhere and Elladan laughed because you’d only just dressed me and I was soaking wet again.”  He grins at me.  “I remember, Papa.  I think I understand.”

“Tell me, then,” I encourage him, amazed he remembers something that happened six years ago so clearly.

“Elladan is the porridge.  I shall tell him that later,” he says, on the edge of laughter.  “He burns, and he is no use to anyone because he is too hot.”  He takes a mouthful of porridge and mimes the expression and the actions of someone who has just recognised it is too hot to eat.  The imitation is exact and I begin to laugh myself.

“The milk is me.  And I tried to pour myself too fast and it made him wake and then I went everywhere.”   His hands go out across the table, fingers spread, and I see the milk again as it spilled a few minutes ago. 

“Yes, that is just how it was.  You would have done both yourself and him great harm if we had not pulled you away.”

“Empty,” he says.  “I would have been empty and useless.”  I half-expect him to lose his humour but it is still there as he takes another spoonful of the porridge and wolfs it down.  “I see, Papa, I see.”

“I will train you to pour the milk wisely, Estel but you will have to be patient.  And eat your porridge more slowly – you’ll give yourself hiccoughs.” 

Too late.  We have to pause while he holds his breath and waits for his diaphragm to stop jumping. 

“How long?” he says at last.  “Oh!  I forgot my seedling tree!” 

He is about to jump from his seat but I place a warning hand on his shoulder.  “Patience, Estel.  Food, tree, pony.  Understand?”

He settles again and nods as he begins to eat his porridge more sensibly.  But he has not finished his questions yet.

“Legolas hurt his arm.  He showed me.  Why didn’t I try to heal him?  Why Elladan?”

“Legolas is elven, child.  He will shield himself from you unless his need is very great.  The wound was minor.  And I believe it may be because the ties of family run deeper than the ties of friendship at your age.”  The truth of it is that I am not sure why Elladan should rouse in my youngest such a fury of desire to heal, nor why it should happen now, without a sign of such a gift before.  He has much to learn but I have as well.  I will have to go to my books as soon as we find the pony and see what I can find out. 

Estel raises his eyebrows and seems on the point of another flood of questions but I forbid him and insist that he eats all his food.  He is looking better by the moment, his flesh tone more natural and the sweat gone from his hands and his brow. 

In a short while he is finished and sits, waiting for me to speak.  Patiently – he is doing his best to sit patiently. 

“May I ask you something, Papa?” he asks, with a wheedling tone drawn from his repertoire of ways to influence me.

Sighing, I turn towards him.  “One question more.  You may ask one question more.”

I hold up my index finger and he sighs.  

“Is the answer to Legolas’ puzzle, that he set me before he went, you know?  Oh.” He says.  He has used up his one question and knows I will not budge just because he made a mistake.  

“You must speak to Legolas about that yourself,” I say. 

He huffs crossly but gives in.  “My tree,” he says carefully.  “I have tended it every morning and it has already put out two more leaves.  It is that high,” he tells me, measuring the height carefully between his two hands.  “It is in the glasshouse and no one is allowed to go near it except me, and the head gardener and Halbarad.   And Legolas.  And you,” he says generously, smiling at me. 

“Oh, child,” I say, reaching out for him.  “I am glad you came here.  It has been too long since someone has made me laugh with them as you do.”

He jumps up and comes for a hug before he sets off for the glasshouse.  I look at him for a moment and then exchange a few words with the cook.

“I am sorry about the jug,” I say.  “But it was necessary.  And the first bowl of porridge.”

“My lord,” says the cook.  “We have tried to keep him still long enough to feed him but he has grown too thin again.  I will make him something special for a mid-morning break and then he will have his midday meal under my own supervision.  You will not keep him away just to find his pony?” 

“No.  He will be brought here to eat at regular mealtimes from now on.  But don’t tell him or he will immediately start to try to break the routine.”

The cook nods and returns to his baking. 

I follow Estel outside.  It is cold and windy, and there is rain in the air.  Estel is running round and round the tree that stands in the middle of the greensward, waiting for me impatiently, I suppose.  When he sees me he runs off towards the glasshouse in our walled garden.  It is built against a wall and in the summer months, it catches enough sunlight to maintain a good heat.  In winter, we keep it warm with a fire, enough to keep off the frost, and in that way preserve plants that could not normally live even in our sheltered dell. 

I precede my son into the glasshouse and he carefully shuts the door.  Someone has been teaching him about this place while I have been away. 

He leads me down to a bench covered in small stones.  In pride of place, with clear air all around it stands a small clay pot.  Right in the middle is a shoot, which bears four leaves and the bud of another pair of leaves at its tip.  He takes up a small watering can and pours a little water onto the earth in the pot and onto the stones on the bench underneath.

“You have to be very careful not to touch the stem,” he says.  “It will need to be given a new pot soon, Papa.  Look!”  He gently lifts the pot and underneath, through the hole in the bottom of the pot, two small white roots show.  “The gardener will help me, and I shall be very gentle with it and make sure I only touch the leaves.  He says it is a very rare tree and that I need to make sure every day that all is well with it.” 

He is kneeling now, elbows on the bench and head in his hands, looking at the tree.  I wonder if he has been speaking to it too.  

“I shall be here when you move it to its new pot, Estel.  I would like to see how that is done.  I am too often busy with my papers and books and rarely have a chance to see such things.”

“I didn’t think it was going to grow!” he says.  It seems I am to be treated to a history of this tree of his.  “I have drawn pictures of it.  I’ll show you later.”

There is a current of cold air, then Legolas is standing next to me, interrupting Estel’s account of the seed-planting.

“It is growing strongly, Estel,” he says, and he looks up proudly.  “It will be sturdy enough to be planted out in the summer, I believe, though you will have to protect it from wild animals while it is becoming established.”

“Yes – and water it every day, and make sure no insects decide its leaves are good food!” 

“Have you thought on my puzzle?”  Legolas asks, kneeling down by the boy and gently reaching out to touch the new, pale leaves.

“I have thought but I do not know if I have the right answer.”

“Tell me,” Legolas encourages.  I hope he knows what he is doing.  Estel likes to be right.

“This is the tree from which the wood will be taken to make my bows?” he asks, watching Legolas carefully as the elf strokes one of the leaves.

“No, that is not it.  You may use many woods to make bows, and I will teach you all I can about that in the next few days, before I must return home.”

The rain rattles on the glass.  Estel, startled, asks, “Will it be all right in here?  Does the glass break?”

“No, Estel.  Your tree will be safe in here, never fear.”

He relaxes and I suddenly see another new tree, a tiny sapling, carried in the hand of someone unfamiliar to me, a tall man.  I cannot see where he is and I do not know the meaning of the picture which comes into my mind but I know that it is important.  I treasure the vision but I will keep it to myself.  Perhaps, some time in the future, it will come true.

“Estel, the tree will replace any wood you take for your bows.  Sometimes you will have to take living wood and you must cut it carefully.  If you have grown a sapling, nurtured it yourself, you will know the meaning of taking a branch from a living tree.”

“Oh,” is all he says.  But he stares at the seedling even more intently, then reaches out to touch the leaf just as Legolas has done.  “I never thought of that,” he says.  “I will always remember.”

“Now,” I say.  “You have been fed and you have tended your tree.  It is time we searched for your pony.  But you must go and find your coat, tell Halbarad what you are doing and then we will all go to the stables.  We will see if you can track your pony to his hiding place.”

“I couldn’t do it yesterday!  And it is raining – all the sign will be washed away.”

“It is not a hopeless task even yet.  Will you join us, Legolas, in this quest?”

“Orcs could not keep me away!” Legolas says, grinning.  “Though I think it will be a muddy trial.  However did you lose him in the first place?”

Estel tells the tale of a pony that would not stand still, and pushed past him as he tried to groom it – I suspect knocking him over as it went by, though he does not say so, for he rubs his hip absent-mindedly while he tells the story.  We three hurry back to the house.  I think this expedition may take longer than I anticipated, for as Estel rightly said the rain will tend to wash away marks that he could easily see.  Well, we must do our best. 

I will break the search into small tasks, and we will feed the boy and keep him as dry and warm as we can, for he has had a hard start to the day.  But he chases off again, circling a tree three times, for luck, he claims, and his energy and liveliness chases away the gloomy weather.

We will find his pony.  We must.

Once we are back in the house, the list of things that need to be done seems to grow by the moment.  I wonder where to start.

“I’ll go and see if Halbarad is feeling better!” Estel says.  “I want him to come with us too!  And I must see if Elladan is all right, and then I must find my new boots.”

“You’re going to be good at organising expeditions,” Legolas tells the boy, giving me an enigmatic smile.

“I am?” Estel says.  “When?  Is that when I’m old enough or am I beginning now?  Will we need to take provisions, Papa?  And weapons?  How far do you think we will have to go?  And when are you going to help me make my bow, Legolas, because I might need it soon.  But then we can’t stop because Spider must have gone a long way by now so I suppose we’ll have to be having this expedition for at least a couple of days.”

There is something in this explosion of ideas which troubles me but as I am also preparing my list it escapes me.  Then I have it.  “Halbarad is unwell?  Why didn’t you tell me before that Halbarad is unwell?”

Estel’s comments slide to a stop.  “I forgot,” he says.

“You forgot he was ill?”

“I forgot to tell you.”  He is actually blushing.  “What happened yesterday, it was all a bit more complicated than I told you before.”

“Ah,” I say.  “Well then.  Come into my study.  We must have a little talk about this.”

He is squirming to get away.  “But Papa!  I have to do so many things!  I can tell you after we’ve found Spider, can’t I?”

I steer him towards my study.  Legolas is smiling broadly at me now.

“I shall go and see to the preparations,” he says.  He cannot keep the laughter out of his voice and Estel looks at him.  He is not a happy boy but he manages to keep his mouth shut.

“Please, see if Halbarad is being tended,” I say and he nods.

Inside my study it is a little gloomy.  My desk has many papers on it which require my attention but there is time for them.  There is little enough time to teach this child what he needs to know.

“Be still, child,” I say.  “And be quiet until I tell you to speak.” 

He stands in front of me doing his best to follow instructions. 

“Now.  You will tell me what happened yesterday.  You will tell me in as few words as you can, without taking any side tracks, everything that happened.”

“We went to play with – to train Spider,” he starts, grimacing at his choice of words.  “In the morning, after I’d seen to my tree – in the morning.”

He really is doing his best.

“We took him to the training-ground and had him going nicely round in circles, walking and trotting.”

“I believe you said you were grooming him,” I prompt, trying to steer him gently.

“I’m coming to that!  Anyway, Halbarad rode him, because you said I wasn’t to, and then we led him back to the rails and to tie him up there for a minute, so that I could give him a quick brush down.  We were,” he screws up his face in the shame of what he must tell me next, “we were being captain and lieutenant, and I said there was a warg behind Halbarad, and he swung round like this,” he demonstrates, “and I jumped forward to help him and I think I startled Spider a bit.  The next thing I saw was him running through the gate.  It was open, somehow.”

“Does he still have his halter on?”

Estel has to stop mid-thought but I cannot allow him to give me every detail.  There simply isn’t time. 

“I think so.  No – he must have.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Down towards the river.  We tried for hours and hours but Halbarad slipped on some rocks and hurt his ankle, so we had to come back here so his ankle could be wrapped up.”

“Did you not think to get any help?”

He is silent.  I know why he did not – he was hoping to find the pony before anyone discovered the boys’ mismanagement of him.  Well, it is not entirely his fault.  I was not here to guide him and he is only nine. 

“And has Halbarad been tended to properly?”

“Of course!  A good captain always takes care of his men!”

“Well, now, go and speak quickly to Halbarad.  Fetch anything you think you might need.  We will track all day if need be and I will send riders to scour the countryside.  But there may come a time when you will have to relinquish – to give up - this pony and let this experience guide you in the future.”

He nods sadly.  It is a bitter idea but he must be prepared for the worst.  I send him on his way and gather a few necessities of my own for our journey. 

It is quite a while before we are ready.  When Estel reports back, he is wearing such an extraordinary mixture of garments that I am hard put not to stare at him.  He has a new pair of boots, which he has somewhat haphazardly cross-laced over his leggings.  He is wearing one of his finest shirts – though I will concede it is one of his warmest, too – and over that, Halbarad’s leather coat.  It must be Halbarad’s since it is clearly too long for him, though not quite long enough to trip him up.  He has belted it in to take up the slack material and has a knife pushed through the belt.  His cloak is rolled and tied around him in the manner of his people. 

“I am a Ranger now,” he says proudly.

“You’re too clean,” Legolas says, coming to stand behind him.  “But we can soon put that right.”  He ruffles his hair and makes him duck.  “Halbarad’s ankle is swollen,” he reports.  “He will need to rest today.”

Estel nods his acceptance of Legolas’ diagnosis.

“Did you say goodbye to your brothers?”  I ask.

“No, Papa.  They’re both sleeping.  I know Elladan needs his rest but Elrohir is just being lazy.  Can we go now?” 

“When you have been to the kitchens.  You need your mid-morning food.  And we will return at midday, too.  How will you grow tall and strong if you do not eat properly?”

He clamps his mouth shut and heads purposefully for the kitchens.  I did not intend my words to be an order but clearly they are taken as such and like a good soldier, he does as he is told.  When Legolas and I catch up with him, he is eating the spice cake which the cook has prepared for him, taking alternate bites of that and of an apple. 

I nod in satisfaction and he smiles.  

“Come, then.  Let us see if we can find this pony,” I say and he rises, brushing crumbs from his coat and grabbing the satchel at his feet.  “I have food here for midday, so we can stay out a bit longer. It has stopped raining.  We will stay out until we have more idea of what happened yesterday.”

At last we are outside.  It is windy but bright and clear now, with small white clouds flying by.  We start at the training-ground and all three search for some tracks.  Then I hear Legolas call Estel to him. He points to the ground.  The boy stands close and then goes on his knees, his fingers splayed, touching the earth gently.

“See, Estel.  Look carefully.  See your pony coming this way and making this mark.”

He twists his head up and looks at Legolas, puzzled.  “I can’t see anything!” he complains.  “Except this little mark here.  Is that what you mean?”

“Further on, Estel.  Look – there.”  Legolas directs his hand and then Estel sees it, the indentation slightly curved.  Most of it is obliterated under other marks but I know as soon as I see it that Legolas has judged it aright.

“How do you know it’s his?” Estel asks, his eyes bright with enthusiasm.  “Show me – show me!”

Legolas takes up a stick and draws out the rest of the print, carefully extending the curve of the mark in the ground. 

“Oh!” says Estel, tracing the shape round with his finger.  “This is just the right size!”

“Forefoot or hind?” Legolas asks. 

“How am I supposed to know?” Estel asks.

“See the pony.  See him.  Here – and here.”  Legolas sets off crabwise, pointing out the marks that begin to make a pattern, though it is lost over and over again in the mud and foot and hoof prints which crisscross this roadway.    Estel is following him, setting his hand in each print as he goes, until the pattern begins to become clearer.

“This one is on the same side as this one,” Estel says, giving us his thoughts aloud. “This one, that falls here – then that one, then this one.”  He is making progress now and Legolas stands, watching him intently.

“This is the print of his fore foot,” Estel says confidently.  “And this is his hind foot!” 

“Yes.  Now.  Follow him as far as you can.  I will guide you if you need me to.”

“I can do it!” Estel says, moving more quickly now, reaching out with his hand to find tracks which are obliterated then appear again.

“He is trotting now!” he says, moving more quickly as if to keep up with his pony.  “I can see him!  I can see him!”  He is off down the track, so absorbed in finding the tracks that he does not notice the large puddles through which he splashes, or the mud on which his feet slip.  Then he comes to a dead halt.

Legolas has stepped back and comes to walk by my side.  “He learns quickly,” he says.  “But he will be balked in a moment.  There – see.  Should I leave him to find the way or help him?”

“Help him,” I say.  “He is excited now and I would not have him lose hope so soon.”  Estel is casting about, for he has come to a crossroads where many horses have been and the recent rain has reduced the marks to a muddy wash.  He does not give up but he does not find anything, either, though he crosses and returns over all four tracks. 

“Halbarad and me just went straight on down to the river, Legolas,” he says when he comes back.  He is panting a little for he has been working hard. 

“Why?”  Legolas asks.

“I just thought it seemed the right way to go.  But there are none of his tracks anywhere that I can find.”

“Then we shall look together,” he says and the pair go back to work.  I look up at a bright sky but on the horizon, a line of darker clouds quickly approaches.  We have an hour at most before it rains again.

Suddenly there is a shout from Estel, who has been working just ahead of Legolas on the road that leads to the left at the crossroads.  I am pleased it is the boy who has found the marks, and from Legolas’ surprised glance I suspect he had found nothing himself.  I hurry over to Estel, who is pointing at the ground and there, once more, is the evidence of his pony’s escape.

“Well done!” I say.  “That required some skill to find – it is nearly hidden under the larger hoof print.  Now, go on.”

The boy runs forward, hunched over looking for sign, and Legolas and I follow his lead.  We have no more stops for a while, then Estel pauses and begins again to cast around.  We catch up and he stands, hands on hips, looking ahead then to each side.  We are standing in a field which will later yield a good hay crop.  Beyond it, the mountains climb over one another up to the sky, their peaks piercing the clouds.  A light drizzle begins to fall and the views mists over.

“I have lost his track,” he says, crossly.  “Yet I do not understand why.  It had become easier and easier to follow but now it seems as if he has jumped into the air and flown away.”

“Then let us pause here for a moment, and think,” I say, giving Estel some water to drink.  He stares all round but shakes his head.  The pony is nowhere in sight.

Estel narrows his eyes as he thinks.  “I must have missed something,” he says at last, and prepares to backtrack. 

“That is good thinking,” I approve and watch as he patiently walks back along the track.  I want to give him some advice but Legolas lays his hand on my arm.

“He will see it, I think.  The pony left the road fifty yards back.  But he will have to be sharp-eyed and must not give up.”

We watch him walking the edge of the track, pacing quickly, and Legolas calls, “You are working too quickly!  Be patient!”

Estel slows but finds nothing, and he has gone past the place Legolas pointed out to me.  Legolas watches, then calls again.  It is raining more heavily now and we need to get among the trees for some shelter. 

Estel comes back towards us, his shoulders a little slumped now, and I want Legolas to go and help him but Estel suddenly pauses, near to falling over his own feet as he stops and peers down.  Then he is off, bounding through the grass with a whoop of joy that tells me I was right to say nothing.  We follow him quickly and he runs ahead of us, following his horse’s trail down the field towards the river.

I had planned to let him find the place where his pony reached the Bruinen., then stop there, with that useful information.  Estel has other ideas.  Though it is raining hard when we reach the river, he is searching in the shallows, splashing about with his coat trailing in the water.

“Are you hoping to track him over the water?” Legolas asks, while I go after my boy and haul him out. 

“Estel!  The water is freezing!  Legolas, start a fire.  Come here, child!”

Estel suffers me to untie his cloak from round him and wrap him in it, while Legolas searches out some dry wood and starts a fire. 

“I saw his prints go right into the water,” he says, his teeth chattering with the cold.  “The bank is all muddy here.  But they do not go very far and I thought I could see whether he went upstream or down.  He couldn’t cross, could he, Papa?”

I am busy rubbing his arms to warm him and cannot think of the answer he needs.  Smoke begins to rise from the flames and I push Estel closer to the warmth.  Legolas feeds the flames with more wood and Estel soon stops shivering. 

“Could he cross here?” Estel asks again, pulling his cloak more tightly round him.  “Will we have to cross here?”

“He could,” Legolas answers.  “But would he?  He is long way from food and the comfort of his own kind now.  It would seem more likely that he would try to make his way back.”

“Let us return to the house, then, and I will send others here to track him further.  You have done well, child.”

“No!” 

There now, why didn’t I expect that?

“No!  I want to go on!  It’s dangerous for a pony out here and he’s been away days!  He won’t be able to look after himself!”  Estel is pulling away from me hard.  “We have to go on!  We have to cross the river!”

The rain eases again but the wind is greater, throwing the heads of the trees around and showering us with droplets.  Legolas is crouching by the fire, watching Estel with interest.

“Estel …” I begin, marshalling my arguments in favour of returning for more help.

But as I begin, a sound echoes down from the woods beyond the river.  It seems to quieten everything as it comes down on the wind and Estel stands frozen.  Legolas has jumped to his feet and has his hand to his brow as he peers into the distance.

“Wolf,” he says, his voice hushed. 

“Spider!” Estel shouts and leaps beyond my grasp, running straight for the water.  “Spider!”

The bed of the river slopes steeply and Estel is up to his thighs before I can catch hold of him.  I have to lift him clear of the water then clasp him to me as I wade back to the shore.  He is shouting at me, his cries becoming more and more desperate but I keep silent until I set him back on his feet.

“Estel.  You will cease this noise now.  Do you understand that the louder you yell, the more likely you are to scare …”

“But Papa!  He’s only got you and me and Legolas to defend him!”

“Estel!”  I hold him firmly by both arms.  “Stop shouting!  Now!”

He finally stops but he breathes heavily and he is still trying to pull away from my grasp. 

“Listen to me.  The river is too deep for you to cross here.  There is a bridge a hundred yards upstream.  We can cross there.”  I try to keep my rising anger from my voice.  My quieter tones begin to drag Estel’s attention away from his desire to run to aid his pony.

He stands before me, dripping river water onto the grass, shaking and desperate.  He takes a deep breath and comes back to himself.

“Now?” he says, though his voice is uncertain.

Legolas, who had been tending the fire, stands suddenly and peers into the distance.  We all hear the wolf’s cry echoed by another, and another.  They are bold, these wolves, but the land beyond the Bruinen here is wild.  They will not cross my river but they hunt in the forests close by when they are hungry enough.

“There!” Legolas says quietly.  “And there – a herd of horses.  Wait,” he says, when Estel tries again to free himself.  “Men with the horses – three, perhaps four. The horses are becoming difficult to control.  The men need fire to defend themselves, Elrond, and they do not have time to kindle it!” 

He takes four branches and ties them together with a leather strap, then makes another torch quickly, and a third.  “There is no time, Elrond!  We must help them.  Leave Estel here!  He will be safe.”

“My pony!  Legolas!  Can you see Spider with them?”

I look now and see the straggling band of horses and men, all running for the bridge.  But it is too far.  Then I see his pony, and he knows from the way my hands grip his arms more tightly that I see him.

I know immediately the time it will take to persuade him to wait here for us, or return to the house.   He will come after us, braving my anger at his disobedience, having weighed that against the chance of saving the pony he lost through his carelessness. 

I make my decision.

“Light the torch, Estel.  Stay with us, as close as you can!  We shall show them the way!”

And that is truly all I thought, that we would run to the bridge and guide the men and their horses to safety.  I heard Legolas’ grunt of surprise but his torch was already alight and he was running hard, along the bank.  He would do what he could to keep Estel safe by putting himself first into danger but his haste only encourages Estel to run after him.  With our torches blazing we run, Legolas, Estel and I, along the bank of the Bruinen and back to the track we had left but a few minutes before. 

The bridge, dark and high, crosses the river in a single span.  It is narrow, room for only one horse and one man at a time but it has no guard.  None has ever been needed beyond my own hold over all Rivendell.

Legolas is on the other side already, running full pelt for the band so desperately in need of his aid and still so far way. 

Estel runs after him and I stay close to the boy, aware that we have only knives between us.  Legolas does not have his bow, I do not have my sword yet here we are, running towards great danger with only fire to protect us.  Yet it is too late to change course now.  We are half way over the span of the bridge and I watch the prince lengthen his stride still further as he outdistances us. 

Estel runs as he has never run before, with a quiet purpose in him, a single-mindedness that gives all his energy to this race.  His brand burns bright, thanks to Legolas’ skill in preparing it, and he has his knife ready.   It will not be long now, and he will use that knife if he has to, I know.  I want to gather him in my arms and take him home but I cannot do that to him. His spirit is being given full rein, and it is a strong, true spirit giving him strength to do what he must. 

Then there is no more time for thought, for the horses are upon us, around us, stamping and snorting their terror.  They halt suddenly, one rearing.  Why do they not run straight for the bridge?  I turn to look and there, between us and the bridge, three wolves have come round behind us.  They are indeed bold, for the risk to them is great.  For the first time I wonder if they have some purpose other than taking down the weakest horse and I grasp Estel and pull him closer to me.

He is scared now, but he faces outward and does not turn to me for comfort.  The men are trying to drive the horses forward but they mill, and will not move, surrounded as they are by the pack. 

Shouts, and two of the men, aided by Legolas, drive off two wolves that have crept too close.  We must move the herd towards the bridge, for they are our only protection, as we are theirs.

“My lord!” one of the men shouts, and I recognise a local man, good and true.  “There is a sword in my pack!  And we have a bow, though we only have three arrows left.”

The weapons are distributed hastily, Legolas handing his torch on to one of the men before he begins to circle, searching for the truest aim.  Our position is changing, the horses moving parallel to the river and away from the bridge.  The world darkens under the heavy clouds but there is no rain and our torches still burn brightly.

“We must attack!” says Legolas.  “They are driving us into the trees!  Kill the three between us and the river and then we must try to cross it!”

It is a desperate plan but he is right, we cannot stay here.  “Hold your torch high, Estel,” I counsel him.  “When we come to the river I will put you on a horse.  You must stay on its back, as we have taught you.”

“Yes, Papa,” he says, holding the torch out in front of him.  He takes a step forward then my attention is pulled from him as Legolas fires one arrow and a wolf yelps and falls.  That death seems to unleash the rest of the pack and they crawl towards us, snarling and maddening the horses still more.  Their purpose no longer seems to be take a kill but to defeat us.  Never have I known wolves behave like this.  They work together to drive us, keeping just out of range and I snatch a glance at Estel, who still holds his torch.  He swings it to and fro, keeping it alight, and he is close by.

Legolas steps forward, his tall frame tense for a moment then relaxed as he sights his foe.  The arrow is loosed, finds its mark and he immediately stands aside while we drive the horses towards the river.  Another wolf is close, holding its ground, baring its teeth at us and it is my turn to deal with this animal, for Legolas must keep his third arrow as our last chance.  I take a pace forward and the wolf leaps but it is no match for me.  I kill it swiftly and then reach out for Estel’s hand as I shout to all to run for the river. 

I search round for a horse I can master and for Estel, who has not come to my call.  There is a cry behind me and I turn immediately to respond to Estel.  I can see Legolas already running to his assistance and can hear him call but Estel stands still, his torch in front of him, as the horses run past him. 

“Die, wolf!” he screams, rushing at the beast which cowers away from the flame.  He takes the torch back over his shoulder and with all his strength swings it as he runs forward.

For a second, I cannot move.  I watch as the torch hits the wolf’s head, throwing it back on its haunches.  Estel tries to stop but falls headlong, the torch knocked from his hands, and lies at the feet of the great wolf.  He takes out his knife and stabs at the beast and I grasp my sword and run to his aid.  Legolas is quicker than I and he fires, missing the boy by inches and downing the wolf.  It falls on Estel but he is on his feet again in a moment, his hands bloodied and his face full of the wild triumph of his victory.

I glance round.  The horses are moving away from us, driven by the men who have other cares apart from our safety as they try to fend off the last of the wolves.  I summon up every ounce of willpower and call to the horses.  One surely must hear me, for I am master of horses and the words I use are powerful ones.  Two turn, held in indecision and then a third trots forward boldly, coming to my summons.  It is tall and strong and its back is a safe haven for my boy.  I catch him up and throw him and he lands on the horse’s back and quickly settles himself, automatically grabbing a handful of mane.  Then we run.

The wolves are close on our heels, the horses in front of us and I keep as near as I can to the horse, trusting that Legolas is there too.  Then I see him astride another horse and I know he will make the river crossing alongside Estel, so that no harm will come to him.  Estel is shouting his triumph into the air but then he looks for me.

“Papa!  Run!  They are close behind you!”

“Hold tightly, child, there is the river!”

“Spider!  Spider!” he is shouting, looking frantically around.

Legolas reaches across and catches his attention.  “There, Estel – look!”

And his pony, surrounded by larger horses, gallops boldly forward with the rest and does not hesitate when we all rush headlong into the water.  Then there is only the strength of the water to contend with, but this is my river and, though I have not had time to command it, I am safe.  The plunge of horses, the crash of spray over me and the speed of our flight overwhelms my senses then we are standing, the horses blowing hard, the men sitting on the bank and my boy still sitting high on his horse.  Legolas jumps down and runs to him and the boy slides into his arms.

I go to him.  He is tired but he is beaming with joy.  As soon as Legolas has asked him if he is all right, and he has nodded, we let him go to Spider.

He stands in front of the pony.  “Naughty Spider!” he says firmly, shaking his finger at the pony.  “You must do what you’re told! You mustn’t run away!”

At my side, Legolas laughs breathily, the tension of the fight released.  He is watching the wolves slink away and disappear into the trees. 

Estel has given up reprimanding his pony and has his arms round the animal’s neck instead. 

“He has the stoutest heart of any boy I have encountered,” Legolas says, laughing no longer.  “He might have dispatched that wolf himself, had he been a little stronger.”

“I am grateful, Legolas.  Grateful for your skill.  Now we had better get ourselves back to the house.  This victory pleases me more than any battle against orcs.  He is a fine boy, a fine boy.”

And I walk to him to tell him just that.  His fatigue is beginning to make his shoulders slump but he is still full of chatter about what has happened. 

“Come, Estel.  Ride your pony back.  Look, he is standing waiting for you,” I say, stilling him with a hand on his shoulder.

And indeed it seems that at last Spider is going to behave himself.  Estel jumps onto his back and waits for the adults in his life to sort themselves out.

An invitation is extended and accepted, and we all move off together, driving the horses between us.  Estel ride proudly between us, looking from one to another and chattering excitedly, though he must be cold and uncomfortable.  Gradually he falls quiet as we reach the lights of the house.  Yet his back is straight, his grip on his pony is sound and his head is up.

His behaviour will be food for much discussion over the next few days.  But I will give him his victory and I watch with pride as he jumps from his pony’s back and leads him to the stable, then insists that he tends to the pony’s needs before his own.

And at the evening meal, when he is once again clean, and warm, and full of good food, he tells his story with a modesty which pleases me.  He begins to drowse while the adventure is woven into song but he is still awake at the end of the meal, looking about him with a new expression.

He encountered a wolf and the wolf died.  His pony is back in the stable.  Halbarad sits by his side and Elladan is feeling better.

All is right with his world. 

Elladan has slept quietly but he is not recovering as I would like from his wound.  It looks well enough, the stitches tight, and there is no sign of unnatural redness or swelling.  But he is weak and listless, and he does not want to eat or to speak to us. 

Elrohir’s concern about his brother’s illness is difficult to alleviate, for I feel it myself.  I try a different combination of herbs in his tea but he is no better at midday. 

During the afternoon I sit with Elladan and try to engage him in pleasant conversation but he is barely following what I say.  Towards evening, his fever begins to rise again, not dangerously so but enough to worry all of us.

All day, Estel has been coming to the room to check his brother’s progress.  I have not given the boy enough of my attention after his adventure yesterday.  I know there is much we should discuss but I cannot leave Elladan.  The boy tells me he has tended his tree and that he helped Halbarad to take some quiet exercise, under Legolas’ supervision.  Then he groomed Spider and led him out to the training ground, keeping careful hold of him, exercising him and then returning him to his stable. 

Legolas comes to sit with me later in the evening.  Elrohir is bathing his brother’s forehead.

“Estel has kept himself busy,” Legolas reports, speaking quietly.  “He is writing his own account of the past day.  We have talked over the wolf’s death and he understands it was not his victory alone.”

“Thank you, Legolas,” I say, relieved that one duty is now off my shoulders.  I could not allow Estel to believe he killed the wolf himself.  “I shall speak to him as soon as I can about running away from me into the river.  I am concerned that he will put himself into further danger if I cannot make him obey me.”

Elrohir looks up at me sharply.  “I have felt that he is disobeying us too often, Father.  I could not get him to stay here when he wanted to run away after Ruby’s death.  I could have restrained him physically but that is all I could do.”

“His spirit outgrows his body.  He is too small, too immature to do what his heart demands.  If he does not learn this soon, I fear for him.”  It is a relief to voice this thought, which has been troubling me for too long.

Elladan tries to turn in his sleep and we help him move to a more comfortable position.  Though the fire burns warm, I feel it is cold in the room and go to fetch another blanket from the linen press. 

The door is pushed open a little way and a small face appears.

“I am ready for bed, Papa,” Estel says.  “Legolas told me I might come and say goodnight.  How is Elladan?”

Legolas stands and goes to him.  “I said you might wait in your room, Estel.  I did not say you should come here.”

“I did wait!  But no-one came!”  He is standing in the room now but is hanging on to the door handle as if to try to follow instructions.  He looks forlorn, and I know immediately what he will say next.  “May I say goodnight to Elladan?”

“Come here, Estel,” I say, holding out my hand to him.  He runs on bare feet to me and I let him stand next to my chair, in the circle of my arms.  “He is asleep.  He will not hear you, but you may say goodnight to him, if you wish.  Do not try to touch him.”

He leans forward a little but does as he is told.  “Goodnight, Elladan,” he says quietly.  “I hope you feel better in the morning.” 

We are all silent for a while, watching the one whose sleep is restless, and it seems our collective will for him to recover helps him to relax into a deeper repose.

Estel turn round to face me.  I cannot resist pushing his hair from his face.  His eyes are solemn and large in the half-dark.  “Is there is something inside him?” he says.

“What do you mean?”  I say, looking at him with all my concentration.  He does not flinch.

“Is there is something in him, something that is stopping him from getting well?  ”

Elrohir breaks into our conversation.  “He has an infection, Estel.  Is that what you mean?”

“No.”  Estel shakes his head.  He is becoming more insistent and tries to pull back on my hold.  “Something in him.  Like my splinter, in my foot.  Something you need to take out, Papa.”

“I checked the wound myself, Estel.  I could neither see nor feel anything that remained in it.”

Estel looks disappointed.  He wants to help but I cannot even let the child touch his brother.

“It is a good idea, though.  I will change the herbal compound again tomorrow.  I am sure he will be well soon, with all his family here to help him.  Now, it is late.  You must sleep.”

He nods, then leans back against me.  “Legolas and me, we killed the wolf together,” he says.  “I thought it was just me.”  He is confiding something important to him, and he looks at Legolas to see if he is listening.  I pick him up bodily and settle him on my knees.  

“You did a great deed, Estel.  You helped kill a great wolf and that is a deed you can be proud of, for he was fierce and strong.  You stunned him with the torch and hurt him with your knife.  Legolas tells me you are writing your own account of the story.  Shall I tell you something?”

“Yes please, Papa!  What is it?”

“Come, let us go to your room and I shall tell you something I have been thinking.”

I set him back on his feet and lead him away, shielding him from the bed where Elladan is beginning to stir.  He goes willingly and I do not want him to have to witness anything other than his brother, asleep, recovering his strength.

When he has climbed back into bed, I pull his blankets up around him.

“Now, child.  When you have written your account, I shall read it through and if it is truthful, and as well-written as you can make it, I shall allow you to copy it into the Great Book of Imladris, where all the noble deeds are recorded.  I have been writing of you since you were a little boy.  Now it is your chance to make your own record of this, your first great deed.”

“Oh, Papa,” he breathes.  “The book with the gold lettering on the front?  And the pictures inside that Elrohir draws?”

“There are many such books, Estel.  But yes, the last volume of that book shall hold a page which you shall write, though it may take you many hours to complete it.  I shall only allow you to work on it for a few minutes each day, so that you do not tire and make an error.  Is that a bargain?”

He nods, his eyes bright with wonder.  “May I draw my tree there, on the page?”

“Of course.  And your pony, and the knife that hurt the wolf, and anything else you wish.  It will be your page.”

“Papa.  I’m sorry I ran away.  I’m sorry I ran into the river when you told me not to.  It was a foolish thing to do.  I only got wet.  I couldn’t have helped Spider.”

I smile at him and he looks back, puzzled. 

“Did I say something silly again?” he asks.

“I was wondering how I would explain to you that what you did was wrong.  I was just smiling because if you were foolish to run into the river, I was foolish to think you would need prompting to say you were sorry.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he says, settling himself back.

“We will talk again tomorrow.  Now, sleep, child, and I will go and see if your brother has settled for the night.   In the morning, perhaps Legolas will help you begin to make your bow.  Though it is not the strength or size of the bow that is important, but the skill put into the making of the arrows.  And that is a skill you will need to learn too.”

I stop speaking and listen, for I can hear Elladan.  I must return to him.  Fortunately, Estel’s hearing is less acute than mine.  He slides down until I can only see him from the nose upwards.  His eyes are already half-closed.

“Sleep well, Estel.  Tomorrow, your day will be full, helping Halbarad, learning bow-making from Legolas, tending your tree, writing your story …”

“Looking after Spider.  I will be able to ride him soon, won’t I?”

“Next week.  Elladan will help you.  He and Elrohir together will make sure Spider does as he is told.  Now, good night.”

“Good night, Papa.”

I kiss his brow, blow out the candle near his bed and leave him there, closing the door behind me.

For Elladan is becoming worse and it is my belief that tonight we will know.  We will know if he intends to stay with us or if he will leave.  For something has disturbed his spirit, I know it now, and it will cost me dear to bring him back to himself.

xxx                   xxx                   xxx                   xxx                   xxx                   xxx

I rest, with my eyes closed, in the corner of the room where Elrohir sent me.  The source of Elladan’s illness has been expelled from him.  I did not know that he had gone up against a creature capable of infecting him as it did.  It had planted in him the seeds of despair and he had given up, despite all that we did to help him.  In the end, I had to lead him to the light myself.

It is not something I do lightly.  If one of our kind decides they wish to leave this life it is not an easy matter to bring them back.  It is something I could not do for my beloved wife.  But Elladan held on, followed me back, and now he lies in his brother’s arms.  Elrohir is sitting behind him, leaning against the wall, his eyes closed.  I rest here, spent, and wonder if I shall be called upon ever again to go through such a trial.

Dawn is coming, a grey light stealing into the room just as I close my eyes.  Today will be a bright day, for my son has returned to us.

After a few minutes of rest I open my eyes.  There, on the chair by the bed sits my youngest son.  He is leaning forward and holding Elladan’s hand, and they are talking so quietly I can barely hear the words.  Elrohir is watching them, so I feel safe to leave them be for a while. 

I listen carefully and the words begin to make sense.

“You mean, you nearly went away,” says Estel.  “You nearly had to go?”

“Aye, Estel.  But Father told me it was not yet time.  I have to teach you how to keep your pony at home.  You must learn to use a sword and which prey to kill and which to leave.”

“And you have to help me with choosing the words for my page of the book.  Elrohir’s going to help with the pictures.”

“I am, Brother.  We have much to do.”  Elrohir lets his head fall back against the wall.  He is as exhausted and relieved as I.

They are silent for a moment, and I gaze through half-closed eyes at the triptych of my sons.  

“Elladan,” Estel says, hesitantly.  “Did I hurt you – you know, when I touched you, yesterday.  I thought perhaps I hurt you.”

“No, you did not hurt me.  You gave me strength and I needed every ounce of strength last night.  I did not hurt you, did I?”

“Papa dragged me away, and Legolas.  I was tired and I knew something inside me had been – was - less – I don’t know how to describe it.  Papa helped me, told me what I tried to do but I don’t think I understand what happened, not really.  Are you tired?  Are you going to sleep again?”

Estel holds his brother’s hand tight.  There is such strength in him.

“No, Estel.  I shall not sleep again today.  I think I am hungry.” 

And with that announcement, I know my son will be well and it will happen without endangering Estel.  Now that he is safe we can begin to harness such power to heal as he may have.  Who knows when he may need that skill to call people back into the world?

“Papa, Elladan is hungry!” Estel runs to me and grabs my arm, shaking it as if to wake me.  I remember the first time he did that and I made him laugh by pretending to yawn and come awake very slowly, as if I were human.  

“I heard, Estel.  Run to the kitchens and tell them he is ready to eat.  They will know what to prepare.  Then go and get dressed.  I will read what you have written soon.”

“Yes, Papa!”

Then he is gone.  It could have been so different this morning.  Perhaps his touch was enough to tip the balance in Elladan’s favour – or in favour of hope.  A part of me believes that is what happened. 

Hope was given to Elladan and so he is still here.  It is enough.

I spend the morning with Elladan, leaving Estel once more in Legolas’ care. Elladan is improving by the hour, though it will be a day or two yet before I allow him out of his room.

Legolas, Estel and I meet at lunchtime in the dining room, where the two tell me what they have been doing. They speak alternately. It reminds me of the twins when they were young.

After the meal, Estel seems to me to be tired, though he denies it, and I send him to the library to read for an hour.

“Does he seem well to you?” I ask. I am concerned. My youngest has been unwell too often recently.

“He made no complaint. The labels he has written for his drawing of the tree are wonderfully neat. We have measured it most carefully. Tomorrow I shall teach him to estimate the height to which it will grow in a year’s time. The hour we spent with Spider was more trying. The pony has a mind of his own. He is slow to give his obedience to either of us.”

We smile at one another. Did the twins know this when they chose the pony for Estel?

“I am grateful to you for looking after him, Legolas.”

“It is a most interesting task. We are fast friends, your youngest son and I. He is constantly – surprising.”

“And what of Halbarad? How is his ankle?”

“I believe he will be able to join us tomorrow. He has been reading in the library, I believe. He is a patient boy for his age.”

“They are well suited. I shall be sorry to see him go back to his own people. I received a note this morning telling me he must return to them within the week. We must be prepared for Estel’s disappointment. I know it will be hard on the boy, when we were expecting Halbarad to stay much longer, but a close relative of his has died and he is required by his people to be there for the funeral.”

“Then I shall accompany him. I too must leave. My father sent me to attend the conference and to give what help I could in defeating the enemy but I am required at home soon. The boy will need protection on his journey.”

“Estel will be very sorry to see you leave, my friend. Perhaps, when he is older, he will be able to visit you?” I ask. It is too long between one visit and the next. Perhaps Legolas does not realise that each time he becomes a better friend to Estel it is harder for the boy when he leaves. We account time differently. To my boy, a year is a vast expanse of time, stretching away into the distance, incomprehensibly long. Legolas does not yet understand this.

“I hope to see him again before he is much older. Before I leave, though, I will teach him a little about the making of bows, as I promised to do,” Legolas says. “Now, I shall go and entertain Elladan with stories of his little brother. He found a tiny creature eating one of the leaves of his tree this morning. He would not kill it – he moved it to another plant and told it to stay there. I hope your gardener will not mind.” Legolas’ eyes are twinkling.

“I will see to Estel this afternoon. I will find him something quiet to do.”

And with that intention firmly in my mind, I go first to speak to the cook about the evening meal, then to the housekeeper, who has been worried about the store of fuel. It takes me a full hour after that to make my way to the library.

As I push open the door, I see Halbarad in the chair by the fire, reading from a large book. Estel sits at the table, pencil in hand, sketching something on a large piece of paper.

“Papa! Come and see if I have drawn Spider correctly this time. I keep drawing his back too long.”

I walk over to the table, nodding to Halbarad as I do. Estel has drawn his pony five times, all from different directions. Two, perhaps the first to be drawn, are not very successful. Another two are more so, though each has its faults. The one he is currently working upon is quite simply beautiful.

I reach out to it and touch it. It is full of a power of its own, a likeness that goes beyond verisimilitude. It is a true portrait, with no hint of sentiment, yet the boy’s love and understanding is there in it. Though his first portrait was good, this is far beyond it in skill.

He looks up at me, for I have not said a word to him. “Do you like it, Papa?”

“It will grace the book, Estel. You shall have two pages bound into this month’s record, one for your writing and one for your drawing. It is well done, Estel.”

He is beaming. “Thank you, Papa!” he says. “Can I show my drawing to Legolas?”

“Legolas is with Elladan still. You may show him this evening. Now, I have something I must tell you and Halbarad.”

Halbarad looks up from his book.

“Halbarad, I must tell you some sad news. Your grandfather.” I stop, wondering which word or phrase to use.

“My grandfather has died,” Halbarad says, his eyes already filling with tears. “My people said he was feeling unwell, and he has been tired for a long time.”

I leave Estel and go to comfort the strong, gentle boy who has become a part of our household. Estel, after a moment, comes too, though he does not seem to know what to do or to say.

“You will travel home in two days,” I say. “Your ankle needs more rest. Legolas will go with you.”

“No!” says Estel, then immediately puts his hand to his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “But Hal is going and now Legolas is going too!”

He stands, his hands now at his sides, and tries not to cry. Halbarad is weeping and it is to Estel’s credit that he puts his own feelings aside, as far as he can, so that I can tend to his friend. As I kneel and hold Halbarad’s hands in mine, I feel Estel leaning against my back. Halbarad tells us about the old man who means so much to him, and Estel and I listen. Gradually, the boy’s tears dry, and he begins to talk of returning to his own people. As he does, Estel goes away to the window and turns his back to us.

I sit with Halbarad, talking and comforting him, telling him that we shall wait for some of his family to come to collect him, then Legolas will escort them to the settlement. I keep an eye on Estel, who seems to find the view of the waterfall very interesting but my attention is on Halbarad. He is bearing his loss bravely but the next two days will be difficult.

“Papa.” A quiet voice interrupts us.

“Yes, child?”

“I don’t feel very well.”

“Come here,” I say, wondering at this sudden onset of illness. He does so and Halbarad falls silent.

I feel my boy’s forehead, ask him where he hurts and diagnose sadness and concern. I send him to the kitchens for some food and drink for himself and Halbarad.

“And ask Elrohir to join us in the library, please,” I say, as Estel nods his acknowledgement of my instructions. “And you may go and speak to Legolas and Elladan if you wish.”

He smiles a little at that but he has been deeply affected by this news. I shall have to take care that he has some comfort, too.

Elrohir and I spend most of the rest of the day with Halbarad. I determined that he should not be alone until his people come for him, and begin to organise my time around this plan. We have enough adults here to keep him occupied and to watch over him, and he is an easy boy to entertain.

Mid-evening I go to see Elladan, who is sitting up and looks rested and in much better heart than he was last night. He is alone and I enquire after Legolas and Estel.

“Legolas took him to his room. He said his throat was hurting but he seems well. He is very sad to be losing two friends at once,” Elladan tells me. He is not free of pain, as I discover when I check his wound, but he is certainly recovering.

“They would both have been gone soon,” I say, helping my son to settle again. “But not both together. I will check him before long but I believe it is his sadness which is making him feel unwell. He tried to keep quiet about it. It might have been better to let him express his feelings.”

“He was very quiet. He sat in that chair and listened to us speak of our last battle. I wished to discuss our tactics with Legolas. I hope we did not frighten him.”

I frown. Perhaps it was not the best thing for him to hear, a description of that battle, in which we were all hard-pressed to defeat the enemy. Yet the boy must learn, for that is the world he will inhabit before too long.

“I am well, Father. Go and see him now. He needs your guidance. Legolas will do what he can but he is not you.”

Elladan is right. I must go to talk to Estel, so I give Elladan his medicine and then make my way to my youngest son’s bedroom.

There is a quietness about the house which is not soothing but expectant, not calm but tense. I can only think it is the bad news and illness which is here, disturbing the ancient peace of my house.

As I enter the room I see Legolas standing by the fire, staring into its depths. I go to the bed where, to my surprise, Estel already lies. He is asleep, his eyes tight shut. I straighten his bedding, test once again that he has no fever then go to speak to Legolas.

“It is early for him to be asleep,” I say quietly.

“He was very tired. He wished to speak to you but did not want to interrupt you and said he would wait. He fell asleep some minutes ago.”

“Then let us leave him, my friend, and go and eat, and listen while songs are sung to quiet the house. There has been much disturbance today. I will check on him later.”

So we leave the boy asleep, and I keep Halbarad near me as we eat and hear the quiet music which makes the hours slide one into the other and brings peace to my heart. Elrohir ensures that Halbarad is content to take himself to bed then goes to see Estel. He brings news that the child is still asleep, a little restless but not in need of my attention.

So the night goes and as morning greys the sky, I begin to plan the day. Legolas will again look after Estel, for he will be gone soon, and I shall keep Halbarad with me. As I move to his room I feel the atmosphere in the house is restored. That will aid Elladan’s recovery and soothe the boys’ troubles.

I go into Estel’s room. Most of his bedding seems to be on the floor. He is huddled in some strange way on the bed – there – his head is where his feet should be. I go to him and lay my hand on his shoulder to wake him.

He shifts, yawns, and rubs at his eyes. “Papa?” he says, and his voice is a croak.

“Legolas wants to give you your lesson on making bows this morning, my son. You must get up and eat so that you can tend your tree and your horse early.”

He struggles to sit up. “I still don’t feel very well,” he says. It is unusual for him to complain so I examine him but neither he nor I can say exactly what is wrong with him.

“I believe if you get up and attend to your tasks you will soon feel better. You had a shock yesterday. You do not wish to waste time you could be spending with Legolas, do you?”

At that, he pushes himself off the edge of the bed. “I think a monster came and pulled off all my blankets last night,” he says, gathering them up and dumping them back on the bed.

“I believe you may be right. You may eat in the kitchen. I will tell Legolas to meet you there.”

“Yes, Papa,” he says as he trails off to his water-closet.

Another night has passed. My family is all safe, my house is quiet and my guests well cared for. It is time for me to rest.

But it seems I am not to be given such a chance. There is a quiet knock at my door only a few minutes after I enter my chamber.

“Come,” I say, setting down the tea I was about to drink.

The door is pushed open. Estel is standing there, in his usual odd selection of clothes. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“What do you want, Estel?” I do not mean to be anything but welcoming but he is clearly unsettled.

“I just wondered – if I could see Elladan.” It is plain that is not what he came to ask but I am too wearied to consider the matter further.

“Of course you may,” I tell him. “You do not need to ask now. Is all well with you?” I take a sip of the tea and wait, then another.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, all is well. By the end of the day, perhaps I will have a bow to show you.” He still sounds hoarse but he is looking bright enough now, and any momentary worry I had about his health slips from my mind. I must rest.

“I shall look forward to that. Now go, Estel, and have a good breakfast.”

“Yes, Papa!” he says, and leaves the room.

“Estel!” I shout. “The door!”

“Sorry, Papa!” he says, and the door is finally closed.

At last I can rest.

In this chapter, Legolas takes over the account for the first time.  Wish him luck!

 The house is very quiet this morning.  Elrond is resting at last and the household tasks are undertaken with special care to avoid disturbing him.

He has denied himself rest for too long.  His care for others outweighs care for himself.  I tried to tell him this but he would not listen.  His sons needed him and that was enough.  But all seems well with them and he must recoup his strength today to be ready for the trial of the days to come.

I had not understood how quickly Estel and I would become friends.  Worse, I did not realise how much my leave-taking might upset the boy.  Had I known, I might have stayed longer but now I have given my promise and Halbarad will have his escort.  I had not thought to return for three or four years but by that time, Estel will be as old as Halbarad, almost a man grown. 

I believe our lives may be twisted together in some way.  I do not have the gift of foresight as do some of my kin, yet I can sometimes glimpse those things that may be.  When first I saw Estel, a child of four years, I felt some tie between us that I have felt with no other.  Yet then, and now, I misjudged him, laughed at him too easily as he tried to learn everything too quickly and often failed.  This time, I have spent many happy hours in his company, watching him find his way in the world, and I marvel at the speed at which he comes to mastery of the tasks he is set, and that he sets himself.

The daylight grows, and I come to fuller consciousness of the world.  I am to care for Estel today, keep him out of Elrond’s way and occupy him, and Halbarad is to accompany us until his ankle pains him, when he should rest.  These are the instructions I was given most carefully before Elrond went to his chamber.  Sometimes, I believe he sees me as a child also.

I left Estel to finish his breakfast and came to Elrond’s study to read his report of the battle.  I had not quite understood how close we came to defeat, for I was too much occupied to see the scene clearly.  We must work on our strategy against this foe.

There is a knock at the door.

“Come,” I say, taking up the piece of wood for Estel’s bow, for I know from the weight of the knock who is outside the room.

The door swings open and Estel steps in.  He has been pronounced well but in need of being watched by Elrond.  I tried to say that I was unsure what to look for but Elrond was too fatigued to listen.  I shall have to rely on Halbarad’s judgement. To me, he looks as he did yesterday, though his expression is certainly sad.  His first question confirms Elrond’s diagnosis.

“Do you have to go so soon?” he asks, in a hoarse voice.  I know that his voice will change but I thought that would happen when he is older.  I wish I understood edain illness a little more.  He is trying to reorganise the fastenings on his jacket, which seem to have become tangled in some way.  “You were going to show me the best wood for making bows and I wanted to show you so many things in the gardens and Halbarad’s leaving too, and as soon as Elladan is better they’ll be going too.”

“Come, Estel.  Come here.  Let us not look so far into the future.  I can show you the way to pick the right wood this morning, then this afternoon we will make this wood into a bow.  There is plenty of time yet.”  I kneel in front of him then move his hands from his ties and begin to unknot them but he bats me away with a grimace.

“I can do it!”

I hold my hands away and wait while he struggles but all he does is tighten the knots.

“I shall have to cut them if you do not let me help you,” I say.

He drops his arms.  “All right,” he says, biting his lip.

It takes all my dexterity to tease out the leather ties but it is done with no further comment from him.

“Why are you wearing this jacket in the house?”  I ask idly.  I must learn never to ask Estel idle questions. 

 “Papa used to get someone to put out my clothes for me but I told him that was babyish so ever since then he’s let me choose my own stuff only it’s not very interesting so I often think about things when I’m dressing and I don’t always know what I’ve put on.”

Thinking he has finished, I stand, but the flow of the explanation continues.

“I want to look like a ranger now, so I am practising wearing this coat which really belongs to Halbarad and I’m going to ask someone to make me a copy of it in my size so that I can wear it all the time.”

Rather than interrupt, I steer the boy toward the front door.

“It has these slits up the side, I think they’re for when you’re riding a horse but they let in the cold air and I think when you’re swinging a sword you’d have to be careful so they don’t get wound round your sword arm.  It would be annoying to have that happen, wouldn’t it!  Has that ever happened to you?”

“No, Estel, I don’t believe it has.”

“Legolas?  Can I tell you something?”

“Yes,” I say, wondering why he needs my permission.

“I don’t feel very well.”

“Do you wish to stay indoors?  It is quite windy outside.”

“No.  I just thought I’d better tell you.  Papa always says to tell people if I don’t feel well.  He says elves don’t understand about the ways we become ill.”

“Make sure you are wrapped warmly, then.  Is Halbarad joining us?”

Estel open his mouth to speak but a cheerful voice answers before the boy can say anything.

“Wait for me!”  Halbarad comes down the stairs, walking carefully but not limping badly.  “I wouldn’t miss this lesson for anything!  Why are you wearing my coat, Captain?” he says.  It seems Halbarad has taken to using this as Estel’s name.

Estel immediately starts to take it off but Halbarad stops him.  “I shall be warm enough.  Keep it.”

Estel nods and looks at me, his eyes wide in anticipation of the adventure to come.

So we all three go outside.  First we go to see the tree, which is not being eaten today and has grown a little more.   Estel records the details in the book he keeps in the glasshouse.

“I’ll see to Spider this afternoon,” he says, clearing his throat again.  “Can we start the lesson now?”

“Are you well?”  I hear Halbarad quietly asking his friend.

“I’m all right.  If I don’t get this lesson today I won’t get it for years!”  Estel snuffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. 

That may well be so.  I must give this lesson now.  I am sure they are both well enough to be out for an hour at least.

We wander into the woodland and I begin to tell them some of the facts they must know. 

“You may use wood from any tree,” I say, standing by a dark yew.  “But some make better bows than others.  This tree is older than you can understand, Estel.  It is a sacred tree, in its own way, and you must be sure that the wood is used well.  We shall not start here, for you will make errors as you practise.”

Estel puts his hand against the trunk of the tree and looks up into its canopy.

“How could I cut a piece from such a tree, Legolas?” he says. 

Halbarad comes to stand by him.  “We have ceremonies for the cutting of live trees,” he says.  “We take what we need, no more, and we have found ways to cut that do little harm.  We coppice some trees, which throw up new trunks each year and so are not killed by our needs.”

“Your people are wise,” I say.  “The tree whose limb you rob thoughtlessly will be your enemy always.  The wood will not make a good bow.  Now,” I say, leading the boys further into the wood.  We travel slowly to accommodate Halbarad, who is still limping.  Estel is trailing a little behind, looking carefully at all the trees we pass.  I know he will have been taught their names.  Now I must show him how to find a limb he may cut.

“Do you have two knives with you?” I ask.

“I have one,” Estel says.  “I keep it in my belt.  I sharpen it every day.”

“You will need two.  We must find a way for you to carry two easily and safely.  It would not do for you to fall on one of your own knives.  When you begin to carry a sword, perhaps there will be a way for you to carry a small knife within the sheath.”  I begin to plan how this might be done.  “Do you carry a small knife in this way?”  I ask Halbarad.”

“We carry a small knife in the belt,” he says.  “And a larger one at our backs.”

“Then I shall make a sheath for Estel that will have a new design,” I say.  “Now, here is a good tree for you to study.  See if you can pick out the branch that has the best shape for bow-making.”

Estel sneezes and wipes his hand on his sleeve.  I manage to refrain from comment.  He moves slowly round the tree, testing each limb.  “Is it better to have a living branch or a dead one?” he asks, pushing against one limb and making it bend back.

“We could use green wood but it will be heavy to draw.  We will use dead wood but it must not have been dead too long, or it will be too brittle.  See, you have four choices.  Tell me about each one.”

“This one,” says Estel, pausing to sneeze again, “is very thin, no more than the thickness of my little finger.  The one next to it is thicker.”  He reaches up as high as he can then runs his hands down the branch.  “But it has lumps and breaks and has not grown straight.   This is better,” he says as he moves round the tree.  “I would ask the tree for this one, I think.”  He nods, testing the branch again.

“That is a good choice,” I approve.  “But the last one is better.  The one you are holding has a knot in a critical place.  All bows break eventually, Estel, even those of Elven make, but that would break sooner rather than later.”

Estel sneezes a third time.  He sniffs loudly but continues to compare the limb he chose with the one I chose.  At last he nods.  “Yes, I see.  I think I do.”

“Your eye will tell you, in time.  You will simply know which is the right branch to take.”

Halbarad moves closer to Estel.  “When I visit again, I’ll teach you the ceremony we use.  Then if you have words from Legolas and words from me, surely no tree will ever refuse you a limb for a bow.”

“Oh – yes!” he says, as he moves on to the next tree.  “Let me try and see if I get it right this time.”

We spend the next few minutes considering a number of trees.  I begin to show him that it is a good idea to bend smaller branches from the tree, to test its resilience, and to see which side of the limb will become the back and which the belly of the bow.  Finally, I take the wood I have brought and we settle on the ground in a circle.  Both boys have lengths of wood of their own, chosen carefully from trees.  I asked the trees properly and they gave willingly to my apprentices. 

I show them the long, even cuts to make down the belly of the bow.  Strips of wood begin to fall to the ground as we shave off the extra wood to find the shape of the stave.  I make sure both boys hold the branches the right way up.  The tree’s spirit will work with the bow then, not against it.

Estel works hard, holding his knife in the way I have shown him and cutting with great care away from himself.  It is a hard task, requiring some strength in the fingers and forearms especially, and his concentration seems a little uncertain.  But by midday we all three have staves, the boys’ moderately workable, and we have tested the way they bend.

I cut nocks in each stave for them, while they sit and watch intently, eagerly asking questions as the work proceeds. I brought bowstrings with me and before long, the boys are twanging the strings, listening to the fine noise they make then running round the trees, pretending to sight prey and kill it.  They are laughing and carefree, and I remember feeling as they did when, a long while gone, my father taught me to make my first bow.  It is like no other moment, when you realise you have the power to make an instrument which may kill another creature.  For the boys it is still a game.  When I teach them about making arrows, I will try to help them to understand that it is not a game.  But for the moment, they play. 

The wind begins to blow a little stronger.  It is time for us to go in.  Estel has come to stand by me.  He is breathing hard and still smiling.  His sneezing fit seems to have passed but he still sounds harsh-voiced.

“How do you feel?”  I ask.  “Are you still unwell?”

“I don’t think so,” he says.  “I hadn’t thought about it.  I’m hungry though.”

“Then let us go and eat.  Unstring the bows if you can.”

Halbarad manages his.  Estel only needs a little help.

We march back to the house in single file, the boys making enough noise to frighten every possible target for their bows for miles around.  Estel leads us, Halbarad follows him and I form the rearguard.  It has been a good morning.  I wish we could have many such mornings, the two boys and I, for there is much woodcraft they need to learn.  But it is enough for one morning.

As we go into the house and are met by the warmth and light of Elrond’s home, Estel sneezes three times in quick succession. 

A figure stands on the stairs.  The master of the house waits for us.

“Tell me, Estel,” he says gravely.  “What have I said about telling people you are unwell?”

The boy looks up in confusion.  “Papa, I did as you said.  I told Legolas.”  He coughs, and the sound concerns me.  Why did I not understand what he told me?  I have never had a sickness which makes you cough and sneeze, and turns your voice into a shadow of itself.

“You must go to your room.  We must keep you warm.”

Estel struggles out of his coat.  “I don’t have to go to bed, do I?” he says, grimacing.  “I am so tired of being in bed.  It’s not my fault.  I did tell Legolas.”

Elrond moves to stand by his son.  He takes him by the hand.  “Come.  We’ll have a game of strategy, you and I.  And please, Estel, do not use your sleeve to wipe your nose.  How often have I told you that?”

So they go up the stairs, hand in hand, foster-father with foster-son, and Halbarad and I are left to our own devices.  I hope I have not harmed Estel by not realising that his illness needed treatment.   I do what I can to ensure Halbarad is warm, well-fed and happy before I venture to check on Estel.

I push open the door to the boy’s bedroom.  The fire burns brightly.  The room is warm and full of light from a sun that shone only fitfully this morning.  Estel is sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring at the board and the pieces Gandalf gave him.  The boy looks flushed but plays with concentration.  Gradually, however, he begins to droop, settling himself deeper into his chair.  He is soon asleep.

“He is not well,” Elrond says, a note of irritation in his voice.  “Yet you took him outside all morning into the cold.”

I do not know what to say.  I cared for him, gave him useful knowledge and kept him from danger.   The boy seemed well enough to me and did not complain once.  How am I to know if he is ill?

“Then you must teach me and must learn,” I say, feeling a little downcast at my failure.  “And I shall tend him while he is ill.”

Elrond looks at me, the trouble in his mind lending his face the stern expression I see there all too often.  He seems about to speak but hesitates, some thought working in his mind.  Suddenly he sighs.

“I apologise, Legolas.  I am blaming you for a fault I find in myself.  I ignored him yesterday when he told me he was unwell.  I do not think it will be much.  He says his throat is sore and you have heard him sneezing.  With some rest I am sure he will be well again soon.  Come, sit with him while I make him something to soothe him. Then I will see if there is some underlying problem that is undermining his health.”

I nod.  I understand his care for the boy, who has curled himself up in his chair and sleeps, snuffling, with his mouth open and his hand to his forehead.  I shall learn about him, learn all I can.  This morning’s mistake will not be made again.

(A/N  I should like to thank a wonderful gentleman called Longbow, whose page I consulted on the making of bows.  He very kindly gave me his permission to use whatever I wanted from his beautiful description of making bows in the wild.  Some of what he said was so strikingly like what I imagined Legolas might have said that I was unsure what to do with the information.  Perhaps I should have directed everyone to the site and just left you to read it!  But I have done my best to weave the information and the clear, direct style of its original writer into the text of this chapter.  Thank you, Longbow, aka Alton L.Safford, sincerely.)

Estel this morning is, how shall I describe him?  A heap of miserable boy.

It is the morning of departure, and Halbarad is as sad about the leaving-taking as Estel, who is clinging to my side as he used to when he was four and he had to meet new visitors.  His eyes are red and rheumy, his nose is sore and he is having to breathe through his mouth, which is making him irritable. 

I hand Halbarad his coat, which has been carefully cleaned, and he mounts his horse. 

“I’ll be back soon!” he says, trying to cheer Estel.  I look down at my boy and see him nod.

“Go to him, Estel,” I urge him.  “Say goodbye properly.”

The boy leaves my side and goes to stand by Halbarad’s stirrup. 

“We can do some hunting when I come back,” Halbarad says.  “It’ll be warmer.”

“Yes,” says Estel.  “We can go to the meadows and be soldiers fighting orcs.”

Legolas is waiting patiently, watching the two boys intently.  He has apologised again for not understanding Estel’s illness, which in truth is nothing serious, though his cough sounds tight in his chest.  I cannot allow the boy to stand outside much longer.

“Say goodbye to Legolas, too,” I call.  “Then we shall go in and finish the page for the book.”

Estel steps over to Legolas.  “You will come back again, won’t you?” he says.  “I want to know about making arrows, like you said.”

Legolas leans from the saddle and touches Estel’s shoulder with his hand, as if trying to impart trust.  “I will return before the year turns,” he says.  “Sooner, if I can.  You look after your tree now.”

“I will!  I shall look for you when the leaves begin to fall!”  

Estel steps back, there is a flurry of movement then we are alone.  Early sunlight drops through the trees on this most beautiful of spring mornings, when all trace of rain and wind has gone and the world feels sharply alive.  My son returns to me and we walk back to the house hand in hand.  He does not speak but his expression says what he cannot.  

“You shall begin a new adventure today, Estel,” I say, hoping this time to distract him from his sorrow. 

“Yes, Papa?” he says, trying to muster some interest.

“Yes.  You shall finish your pages for the records as I promised.  Then we are going to begin a journal for you, your own place to record what you have done.   When Halbarad and Legolas return you will be able to read it to them, or use it to help you recall what you have done.”

“May I put pictures in it?” he asks, taking off his coat as we step back into the warm house. 

“You may put anything into it that you think will tell your story.  You do not have to record each day – just those matters which are important to you.  It must not become a task – you must tell me if it does.  I hope you will love to write in your book.” 

“Oh – yes, Papa – I shall!”  His face is changing as the idea takes hold.  “I can put bits of songs in that I like, and I could put in it what I want to do when I grow up. And all the pages about the tree.  And about the bow and about Spider, too.  Oh, Papa.  My bow.  I so wanted to be able to practise with it before Legolas left, but I wasn’t well enough to go out.”

I am steering him gently towards to my study, where a warm fire and some salves to ease his aches and pains are waiting. 

“You will miss Legolas, my son, as much as you will miss Halbarad.  Legolas will miss you, too.  He has great respect for you.  Your first bow was well made.  Your brothers can teach you to pull it and look after it.”

“Yes.  But it will not quite be the same,” he says, with all the innate conservatism of the child, who longs for things to remain as they have known them. 

“What will not quite be the same?” 

Estel, busy with his thoughts had not seen Elladan, who sat waiting for us in my study. 

“Elladan!” Estel shouted, running to him.  “You are well again!”  The boy came to stand in front of his brother.  “Are you well?” he said more quietly, when his brother did not hug him, which was the usual outcome of a morning greeting. 

“I am much better, little brother,” Elladan said.  “Now, what’s the matter with you?  You look all red and you sound horrible, like a troll sniffing for its breakfast.”

“Legolas took Halbarad away!”  Estel said.  “I didn’t want either of them to go and they both went!”

“They will return,” Elladan says reasonably, though I am not sure it is reason that Estel needs.  “The time will pass quickly.” 

“And I have a cold,” Estel adds, turning away suddenly as a fit of sneezing grasps him.  He has screwed up his eyes and seems prepared to use his sleeve again until I intervene.

“Legolas went with Halbarad to keep him safe.  You know he did not take him away.”

“I know,” Estel says.  “But I just didn’t want it to happen.”

This is all we can get him to say.  We give him things to do, and praise his workmanship, feed him good things and treat the symptoms of his cold, but he keeps stubbornly to the idea that somehow Legolas is to blame for his loss.  I cannot see the logic in what he says, nor does it seem like him to be so unreasonable.  Perhaps it is simply his illness.

By early evening he is tired.  I let him go, more than a little concerned that he actually put himself to bed, which is unusual.  He is asleep when I go to visit him later.  He is a little flushed and still snuffling but I put a few drops of eucalyptus oil on his nightshirt and leave his door open.  I will check on him later.

In the early hours, I am sitting in my study when I hear a strange noise.  I cannot place it at first, then as I become aware of what it is I close the book I was reading and hasten to the door. 

Estel is crying.  I know that sound, though I have not heard it at night for a long while, that miserable, half-stifled sound as he pulls his blankets around him and tries not to make a fuss. 

Elrohir and I reach his door at the same time.  I motion my elder son away and go to investigate.  All is dark in the room, and the boy is quiet now, but I can feel his emotion.  I light the candle by his bed and sit down on the mattress.  I cannot see him – there is a lump in the bedclothes and that is Estel.

“Child,” I say, trying to draw back the blankets as gently as I can.  “Come, child.  I’m here now.  Tell me, what is the matter?”

There is a movement in the bed, then he is there, his face mottled with crying, his damp eyelashes sticking to his flesh.   He tries to speak but seems to be fighting himself, his face screwed up, his eyes bright.

It is only then that I realise that he is struggling to breathe.  Each breath is a heave of his chest, each expiration a sigh.  How long has he been in this state?

“Sit up, child!” I say, pulling him against me and making him lean forward a little as he sits.  “Is it your throat?  Your chest?  What is it?  Tell me!”

Elrohir has heard the urgency in my voice and comes into the room. 

“Throat.  Papa, my throat,” Estel manages between gasps.  “I’m scared!”

I give Elrohir urgent instructions, then hold Estel up until his breathing eases a little.  He is exhausted but he holds hard to my arm, each breath hard to draw.  If it is his throat, we can get him through this.  If it is his chest, he is in grave danger. 

I have never known a longer night with Estel.  In the end, I feel as if I am taking every breath with him.  We have done all we can to ease his throat, to reduce the swelling which is making it so difficult for him to breathe.  Time is the only healer now.  Once we are past this, I know he will recover quickly.  But he is still terrified, holding me and looking to me for my strength, and does not know that at last his symptoms are easing.

Elrohir waits by the fire.  He looks drawn and grey in the early morning light.  It seems he too is breathing with, or for, Estel, for his breaths match his brother’s. 

Finally, with a great sigh, Estel falls asleep.  He leans into my arms and I hold him gently, stroking his damp hair from his forehead.  His breathing eases further as he slips into sleep.  When I am sure he is settled, I pull the bedclothes away from him, pick him up and carry him to the fire.

Elrohir changes the bed linen without calling for any help. He hums gently to himself, making all well again.  We do not speak, for Estel sleeps quietly, sprawled across me, his legs dangling, body and arms contained within my arms.  His breath is easy.  It is as if he has not been ill at all.  His brow is a little warm, he is heavy in his relaxation but he is not the scared little boy he was a few hours ago.

When he wakes, he grips my robe with one hand then looks up at me.  It is broad daylight and I should have put him back in bed before now, but I could not bear to wake him.   He sighs again, and his head lolls against my chest.

“How are you feeling, child?” I say. 

“I feel all right,” he says, his voice a whisper.  “You’re really comfortable.”

I smile at him and he smiles back.  He truly does seem much better, if very tired still.

“Do you want to go to back to bed now?”

He shakes his head.  “It’s morning, Papa.  I have to go and see to my tree and make sure Spider is all right.  I won’t run about or anything.  I’ll come straight back when I’ve finished.”

I know my surprise shows in my expression.  Estel looks at me, with a clear, steady gaze.  His grey-blue eyes shine.  “I’m all right now.  Really I am.  Look.”

He slips from my lap and stands in front of me.  He grins suddenly. 

“You need more sleep, Estel.  You have been very ill.  You must regain your strength.”

His face falls.  “No, I am all right.  I promise I am.  Papa, just let me go and see my tree.  Please.”

I buy myself a few precious minutes’ time for thought.  “Go and wash, then.  Come back here and I will see.  Perhaps if Elrohir goes with you.  It is a fine morning, and much warmer.  Then if you come back here and rest, perhaps I can allow it.”

He runs for his water closet, with a quick, “Thank you, Papa!”

“Do you think this is wise?” Elrohir asks.  “Not four hours ago he was more ill than I have ever seen him.”

“No – he has been more ill than that, when you were away once.  His throat was swollen – now it is not.  It was a passing illness.  I will not stop him from going out this time.  The fresh air will do him good.  But he will come back here, he will not go anywhere near his pony, and he will stay in bed the rest of the day.  Go with him, Elrohir.  If he shows the slightest sign of illness, bring him straight back here.”

And that is the compromise we reach.  By the time he has dressed, Estel has realised that his strength, gathered in his short sleep, is little enough, but he gamely goes out for a while, sees that all was well with his tree and then, as Elrohir reports it to me, says he wants to go back and record his findings.  When he does come in, he throws himself on the bed and goes straight to sleep. 

“Do you now think my actions wise?” I ask.  “Estel is where he should be, but he made his own choice.  If I had tried to insist, he would have been as fractious as he was last time.  Now, I can let him rest and all will be well again in a few days.”

Elrohir still seems unsure.  “I hope that is so, Father.”   He goes to look at Estel, then starts to pull off his brother’s coat, easing it off his shoulders without waking the boy.

I hope so too.  It has been an odd time, and I feel as though I am standing on ground that shifts under my feet.  I do not like this feeling that he is well one moment then, when I turn my back, he can barely breathe.  Then again, the next morning, he says he is well, only to return to his room and fall asleep.  It is a most trying time.

While Elrohir settles his brother, leaving him clothed but covering him with a blanket, I go to see what Estel was drawing yesterday.  He was reluctant to show me, but now, as I sit at his desk, I pull the papers to me.

One is an image of a woman.  She wears a long dress, which he has carefully coloured green.  Her hair is long, undressed and blows back from her face.  He has not finished the drawing.  There is no background.  I wonder if he is drawing his mother but she seems too young.  He talked of drawing his future.  Does he see this woman as part of his future?

The second is little more than a sketch.  It is a dark scene, perhaps a cave, though the darkness is suggested by only a few lines scored into the paper.  It could be a room but there are no windows.  It could be many things.  There is a chair in the room, or the cave, or wherever it might be.  Its high back is turned so that, if anyone sits in the chair, they cannot be seen.  That is all there is.  But there is anger in the lines on the page, and fear in the dark spaces.  I turn the picture face down, for it somehow calls to some memory in me, something I have wished to forget for a long time.

The third is a piece of paper, on which Estel has been doodling, apparently trying out different styles of writing, ready for the page he will write when he is fully recovered.  The same words, over and over, across the page, sideways, crossing and re-crossing.

“Estel,” it says.   “Estel!  Jump, Estel!” 

Over and over and over.  I look at the boy on the bed.  He is sound asleep again.  Elrohir has propped him up a little, to continue to ease his breathing but he seems well enough, considering the night he has had.  What was in his mind when he wrote this? Is it important, or a simple idea a nine-year-old might scrawl across a page?

My feeling of unease intensifies.  In the morning sun, shining fully into the room and onto the bed, I can sense something, a shadow, I know not what.

I take the picture and the writing and throw them on the fire. 

Estel wakes again in the late afternoon, groggy and disorientated from sleep.  He is not very communicative but his expression speaks of drowsy irritation. 

“Do you want something to eat?” I ask, rising from the chair where I have been sitting, reading.  I have felt the need to watch over him today.

“Yes, Papa.”  His voice is still hoarse and he coughs to clear his throat.  “Can I get up?”

“If you wish.”

He settles in the window seat, still dressed in the clothes he wore this morning, and rests his chin on his hand as he looks out onto the gardens.  He seems far away still, thinking, dreaming – which is it? 

“Estel?”  I ask, stepping up behind him. 

He does not turn.  “Yes?”

I do not know how to frame my question.  I am not even sure I know what it is I want to ask him.  “Did you wish to go with Halbarad and Legolas?”  Is that truly what I wanted to know?  The question does at least provoke a response.

Estel swivels round and looks at me, his eyes dark.  “I don’t think so,” he says.  “I never thought about it.  I didn’t mean what I said.”  He looks down at his hands.  “About Legolas taking him away.”

“I know, child.  They will both return.  We will pass the time quickly, you and I.  There is so much for us to do!”

“Yes, Papa.”  He looks a little more hopeful, but his eyes are still sad.  “My stomach’s rumbling,” he adds unnecessarily, and with a slight grin at last. 

“Then we must endeavour to answer its summons!” I say.  “How would you like to hear a story when I get back?”

“Can I choose it?” he says, turning to stare out of the window again.

“Of course.  Which one would you like?”

“Something sad,” he says.  “Something with a lady in it.  Something – something which doesn’t have a completely happy ending.”

I am surprised by his choice but I know what he is asking for.  He has heard the tale before, Luthien, yes, he is asking for the tale of Luthien.  I shall bring the special book I have not shown him before, the ancient copy I have treasured through the years.  He will love the illustrations and he is old enough now to respect its age and fragility. 

I touch him on the shoulder.  “I shall find Elrohir and Elladan.  We shall have a family supper here – would you like that?”

Estel nods, his gaze still on the fading light in the garden.  I leave him to look and hope that the melancholy which hangs about him can be dispersed.  Perhaps Luthien’s tale is too sad.  Perhaps I will choose another.

It takes a little longer than I had anticipated for me to order his meal.  I take great care to choose something he likes and can easily digest.  To prepare the soup correctly will take a little time, so I go to my study to choose a story for tonight.  Elrohir joins me and we talk as I search, discussing the most suitable story, finding the shortest version of it, planning to take the different roles.  My heart lifts as I imagine Estel between us, following the story in the book, admiring the pictures – it will be an evening for us all to treasure.

I remember five years ago, a four year old sitting between myself and Gandalf as we told him about the peoples of the world.  He did not believe Gandalf when the wizard told him of halflings.  He stood up and was measured, so that he could imagine their height.  He was tall for his age even then and was fascinated by the halflings, demanding to know all he could about them – the size of their animals, their homes, their lives, until Gandalf was laughing with him over the number of questions his fertile, inquisitive, four-year-old mind could conjure.

He was a marvel, then.  He was sweet and funny and happy, running everywhere, trying everything.  I sometimes wonder how he survived that year.  But there was little of the graveness about him that he has developed in the last three months.  Looking back, contrasting the happy boy with the nine year old Estel waiting for me upstairs, I see the change.  It is not a change for the better; it is not a change I want for him, nor feel he must undergo. 

We must work harder to ensure he is well-governed but less burdened by – yet I cannot say what is his burden.

“He has grown sad, Elrohir,” I say, settling the book under my arm and preparing to return to the kitchen. 

“He is a little quieter than he was,” Elrohir agrees, following me down the corridor, where candles now light the gloom.  “But he has had much to unsettle him.  I do not believe he has reconciled himself to Ruby’s death even yet, and he has lost the company of two close friends.  He will recover his spirits soon.  Do you remember when we made him that swing in the tree?”

“We repaired Arwen’s swing, as I remember.  The boy loved it – I remember the afternoon he yelled at Elladan to push him higher and higher, until my heart was in my mouth.  But he held tight and shouted his joy and I knew he would be safe.”

“I felt much the same when he started to climb the trees.  I wanted him to be safe – I wanted to climb the tree with him and test each branch before he stepped on it.  But the more I told him to be careful, the higher he climbed.  He never fell, not once.  He came close.  Once, I caught him as he slipped, but he was not far from the ground.  He would not have hurt himself.”

We move together into the glow and warmth of the kitchen.  The meal is ready but I still check everything, anxious to make this evening as pleasant as I can.  It is all to my liking.  As I pick up one tray, I recall the first danger Estel encountered.  When he was very small he escaped everyone’s notice.  We found him in the kitchen, running round and round by the fire and singing to himself.  I moved to catch him but I startled him by mistake and he stepped back, falling against a hot piece of metal.  He marked his backside, not badly burnt, but he howled as if he was.  We all comforted him as best we could but he would not be stilled. We passed him between us like a parcel, one to another.  He would settle for a while with one then begin to mourn his hurt again. 

I see him still, running and running, singing, in a world of his own making until the adults stepped in and caused him harm.  It was not intentional but it was too easily done. 

Elladan came into the kitchen at that moment.

“Trays, father?  Are we eating somewhere special tonight?”

“Estel’s bedroom.  I wish to make it an enchanted place for him, as we used to do.  He needs comfort, my son, for his losses and his hurts, and he needs to be set once again on a happier path.”

“That is a good idea.  We shall be a family again tonight.”

Elrohir and I carry the trays and Elladan comes behind with a fresh supply of sweetly-fragranced candles. 

“Do you remember when we tried the spiced candles and it set Estel sneezing?”  Elladan says.  “He couldn’t stop even when we’d taken him outside to get some fresh air.”

“He couldn’t stop giggling either.  I don’t know why he found it funny.”

As we go upstairs, we recall other moments, other happy moments. 

Estel isn’t in his room when we enter, but the door to his water closet is closed, so we set up the candles, put the food on the table and Elrohir begins to start a new fire.

“What is this?” he asks, pulling a half-burned paper from the hearth.  “And here – on the floor – there’s another piece.”

I glance down.  I remember the picture and the writing I had thrown on the fire on an impulse.   “Just some paper Estel used for a rough drawing.”

“You burned it?  Why did you do that, father?  We have treasured all his drawings and writings since he came to live with us.”

“There was something wrong with them – I do not know what.  I felt – disturbed by them.  We must be more careful to keep all evil away from him.”

Both my elder sons look at me.  My words sound foolish as I speak them, though they accurately reflect my thoughts.   But I say nothing more.  I notice Elrohir put the half-burned papers on one side before he lights the fire.

After a few minutes’ wait, I go to knock on Estel’s water closet door. 

“Estel?  Are you well?  Do you need any assistance?”

There is no reply.  I push on the door and it swings open.  The room is empty.

We search for him, we search with frantic haste, for it is rapidly darkening and has turned colder.  Elladan finally finds his note, tacked onto the wall of the stable.  The boy has taken Spider and is gone. 

As we prepare to go after him, I read the note again by the light of a torch which streams in the wind. 

“You burned my picture.  You wanted me to go with Halbarad and I didn’t know you did.  I am going to find him and stay with him forever.  Look after my tree, please, Papa.  I love you.  Estel.”

Such a mixture of passions.  Such a heart, tested tonight and found insecure in my love.  I can hardly see to read, yet I read it over again, trying to tease out every meaning.  Does he know which way to go?  Why did he have to leave tonight, when he must make camp almost immediately?  Does he know everything he must to keep safe?

“Father – we are ready.  We will find him shortly.  That little pony cannot match us for speed.  Had it been Ruby, we would not find him till dawn.”  Elladan should be resting, not chasing through the night after a runaway boy.

“Then let us find him.  And if I have done an evil thing in trying to protect him, then I will make all well again.”

And I think for a moment of the room we have left, with soup cold in the bowls, candles and fire burning in a room that was changed from the place of refuge I had been trying to create.  The picture book lies on the floor but no child is there to hear the story.

As we ride off into the dark, I see my boy, saddling his pony, striking off into the dark, alone, still unwell, thinking himself unwanted, unloved.  I urge my horse forward and my sons follow me. 

We shall find him.  We must.  Then we will set this evil right, once and for all.

(Elrohir takes up the story.)

“Father!  Father!”  I shout to him but he seems not to hear me, riding ahead and searching into the dark as if he can see Estel’s track in the air.  But I will make him listen.   Anger drives me, anger with Estel for his foolishness, with myself for not knowing he would run, with my father for burning the picture. 

There is only one way to stop him.  I pull my horse across his, both animals shying away until we can barely manage them.  The darkness narrows the world to this place, where I must be the one to call Elrond back to his senses.  The horses complain, snorting and dancing the ground into muddy holes. 

“Father!  How do you know we are going the right way?”  I ask, as Elladan reins in by me and reaches out to take my arm.

“Elrohir!  What are you doing?” he asks, shouting over the disturbance I have caused. 

My father says nothing, but his face is dark with anger, shadowy in the torchlight. He holds the last torch, its flame guttering and threatening to die.  

“You cannot know where he has gone!” I say, trying to muster my argument.  “We must wait until dawn and then search properly for his tracks!”

Elrond gathers the reins as if to urge his horse forward despite me, but I hold my place, barring him.  My heart is pounding.  I must somehow stop my own father in his chosen course, something I have never attempted to do before. 

“Father – Father!  What we are doing is senseless – this is not like you.”  The words are failing me.  I have never questioned, never crossed my father.  I do not know what to say.

Perhaps it is my face, perhaps it is something in the tone of my voice rather than the words, but he seems at last to be listening to me.  Now he is ready for my strongest argument.

“Why are we going this way?” I ask him, as preparation.

“This is the way Legolas and Halbarad came.  Estel is seeking them.  He – he will…”  He falters.  He knows where the flaw in his thinking lies, that great hole in the logic of his conclusion which had escaped him in the rush to find our younger brother. 

He calms his horse, patting its neck and leaning forward.  He had hope.  In stopping him, I have taken away some of that hope. 

“He will not know which way they have gone,” he says, quiet now.    “He will follow his heart blindly, and I do not understand where his heart will lead him.  I did not understand his heart when I destroyed his picture and now I cannot know where he has gone.”

“Father!  No!”  Elladan says, jumping down from his horse and going to stand by his stirrup.  He looks up at him, pleading his case.  “We must go on!”

“Which way, Elladan?” Father says, looking down the trail.  The pathway disappears into thick-growing trees here, the land beginning to rise more steeply.  Soon we will be beyond the tree line and into the high hills, the rough, rocky land where the paths are narrow and treacherous.  I begin to hope he did not come this way.

Estel is only nine.  It is a thought which echoes through my mind.  He is only nine. 

“We must wait,” I say.  “We may be moving further from him.  The moment it is light, we search here for tracks then …” but in truth, I do not know what we will do next. 

Elrond nods.  It is the only solution.  Estel will have to spend a dark night on his own. 

We sit round the fire, silent, until Father begins to speak.  He talks of many matters – but he returns again and again to our childhood.  The minutes flood past as we three dream of a time long ago, a time when we behaved as Estel is behaving, until we know a little more of what he is thinking. 

In the middle of a story of tree-climbing, Father stands and calls to the dawn, the very first greying of the sky.  He calls to it, urging it to give us enough light to see, summoning the sun to warm Estel and to let us see the path the boy took.  Then he stills as we stand beside him.  He is searching, his mind intent on finding his son. 

“Did he come this way, Father?” I ask, when the time stretches out and the sky lightens enough for us to see any tracks he might have left.

Father breaks from his concentrated gaze.  He is tired, burdened, and his expression is ambiguous.

“I believe – I think he did.  I think I followed my instinct last night and that instinct led me nearly aright.  We shall search, a widening circle, and see if can cut Spider’s tracks.”

We do, splitting up and looking for trace of Spider but find nothing in the immediate area.  Still, my father feels confident enough for us to continue on the way we had chosen.  The day dawns clear and bright.  There is warmth in the sunshine, and though we find nothing in the next hour, still we are led by my father’s hope, restored now.  My own misgivings I now keep to myself. 

As the sun rises, we encounter a band of men in a clearing.  Rough, unruly men, in clothes that stink, carrying fresh kills of deer and bear.  They try to avoid us, taking a different path into the thinning woodland but my father is intent on speaking to them.  They stand side by side, wanting to appear greater in number and in courage but my father greets them kindly enough, with no show of strength to unsettle them.

“We are searching for one of my household,” he says carefully.  “A young man, who should have returned last night.  Have you seen anyone out this way?  Someone on a grey pony?”

One man steps forward.  “We do not interfere in others’ business,” he says.  “Not the business of people of your sort. We keep to ourselves.”  He turns as if to lead the others away but Elrond walks over to him, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“A wise policy,” he says.  “But surely you can tell us if you saw someone.  We do not hold you responsible for him.”

Into my head comes an image of Estel meeting these men.  Would they have left him alone?  Would they have frightened him, or chased him away?  I glance at their pack horses, wondering for a moment if Spider would be there among them; but he is not, and the image flees.

Elrond is bending his will to this matter of extracting the truth from this man.  I can see it in the tension in their bodies, in the man’s expression – guarded, then surprised.  He lifts his arm and points the way they have come.

“Back there, my lord,” he says, the title coming reluctantly from his lips.  “Two miles, less maybe, by the waterfall.”

Elrond nods, letting the man go his way.  They walk swiftly, glancing back at us and muttering among themselves.

Elladan has been scouting ahead.  He stands suddenly in the saddle and shouts, pointing to the ground.

“Here!  He came out of the woods here!”

We both mount and join him, trotting forward as fast as we can along the uneven, broken way.  The path is straight and true, upwards now, steeper and steeper, and my father looks back at us, worried. 

“Surely he cannot have come this way in the dark!”

Yet the small hoof prints continue upwards and we follow, the sound of a waterfall now thick in our ears.  The rocks are jagged on one side of the path but smoother on the other, and I recognise the marking of water over stone.  This is a waterfall which overflows its bounds from time to time. 

My father is riding first.  Suddenly he calls us to halt and jumps from his horse’s back, then runs forward, casting his long coat aside as he does.  Until I come up with his horse I cannot see what he sees.  I can only see that the hoof prints continue on up the path but my father has struck off to the side, toward the falls.  When I do see what has caught my father’s attention, I glance at Elladan, who has grasped the situation even more quickly than I and is already dismounting.  We tie up the horses and then follow Father through the thick undergrowth to the water’s edge.

We are a hundred feet up.  The waterfall drops in a series of steps and pools, wider in places, the water lacy, thin as it drops to the next rock bowl, then narrower, the water coming together in a heavy spill of white droplets, which thunder down into a further pool.  Above us, another hundred feet of waterfall. 

And there, in the middle of the fall, Estel, hunched, miserable, his feet on a stone which must rock when he moves, his hands bracing him as he leans into the waterfall.  He shifts as we look, Father calling to him, urging him not to move and we see him nod, and then shake the water from his face.

How long has he stood like this?  How did he get out so far – and why did he come this way? 

“Rope!” I say to my brother, who nods and runs back to the horse. 

Yet Father, hearing me, shakes his head.  “Do not distract him!  He will slip!  We must find another way!”

I can see no other way.  He stands at the edge of the fall, a drop of twenty feet between him and the shallow pool into which the water flows, cold and relentless.  We must get to him, use the rope to secure him and bring him back. 

Behind me, I hear something crashing through the undergrowth.  An animal, intent on its own purpose, breaks through and stands, shivering, near my brother.  It is Spider, wild-eyed, dirty and scratched, eager to stand with our horses now.  Elladan catches him and tethers him to a tree.

My father has been inching his way out across the way Estel must have taken but the water has risen a little even in the time we have been here, as it must have been rising all night.  Any false move will be enough to disturb Estel’s fragile hold.  Already he is shuffling sideways towards his father, and I can see in his face the distress, the terror he feels. 

Father steps back, calling as soothingly as he can to his youngest son. 

“Stay where you are, child!  I have a better plan.  Can you wait a few more moments?”

There is a pause.  I can feel for Estel, for the decision he has to make.  The call to run to his father, whatever the danger, must be strong in him.   But he nods, and resettles himself, steadying his balance once more, tossing his head to get his hair out of his eyes.  He is brave, that one, foolish, disobedient, unthinking, but brave.  He is my brother and I yearn to run to him, to snatch him out of the situation he has put himself into. 

Father is back at the edge of the water with us now.  He is soaked, and pushes his hair out of his face.  He takes a moment to tell us his plan.

We both argue against him but his decision is made and he quietens us.

“I cannot spend time arguing this, Elladan – Elrohir.  You must help me.  Make a fire here, get blankets, get a hot drink ready for him.  Elladan – do it!

My brother does not argue and goes immediately to do as he is told.

“Elrohir – come – you must stand beside me, help me if my strength fails.  It is the only way.”

“Yes, Father,” I say, hastening to catch up with him.  He is climbing down the slope now, keeping his feet despite slippery rocks, holding on to branches as he descends.  As I follow, I weigh up the chances of success but keep my judgement to myself.  Father will not let his son down and if he thinks this is the only way, that is because it is.

We wade out together into the icy waters of the pool.  It is deeper than that in the step above because it is one pool, not several.  It reaches my tall father’s knees.  It is not deep enough to cushion a fall from Estel’s place of refuge. 

We stand underneath him, and Father calls to him, gently, with confidence.  Estel glances round, searching us out, then sees what we have planned.  His eyes widen and he shakes his head, looking away from us but Father calls him again.

“Come, Estel – it is but a little way.  Trust me now, Estel – look at me.  I am sorry about your picture – I want to tell you how sorry I am.  It was wrong of me, very wrong.  Now come, Estel.  Just stand up.  There, that’s it.”

And, miraculously, there my brother stands, his arms outstretched for balance, his gaze locked onto his father’s face.  The water pounds down around us but all I can see, all I can hear, is this moment between my father and my brother.  His arms outstretched, my father shouts with authority and hope in his voice.

“Jump, Estel!” he calls.  “Jump!”