Elladan’s Trials, For Estel,

Chapter Eight

The Long Watches of the Night

Accept that all of us can be hurt, that all of us can--and surely will at times--fail. I think we should follow a simple rule: if we can take the worst, take the risk.--Joyce Brothers

…find my son.

Glorfindel met the gaze of his friend and his Lord.  “I will find him or die trying, my Lord.” 

“I could ask no more, my friend, though I pray the Valar it does not come to that.”

Elrond walked his friend to the door, pausing there to watch as the warrior hurried down the hall.  Turning to go back into the bedroom, he gave a slight frown as he caught sight of Curúfin standing watch in the hallway off to the side of the door.  It had been many centuries since he had seen an armed guard within his home and it was disconcerting.

 He knew that Glorfindel would have his warriors arrayed to face any threat, just as he instinctively knew that no evil had breeched the defenses of the valley.  No, this malevolence had come from inside, had invaded his home and he burned with a fury that evil had touched those under his protection, those he loved.  Why was it so often the innocents who were targeted?  Erestor was an advisor; he had not picked up a sword for centuries.  And Estel…Estel was just a baby; young even in human years, he was an infant to the immortals.  Here, of all places…in the Last Homely House they should have been safe.   Agitated, he began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, deep in thought.  Frustration added a staccato to his steps echoing on the stone floor as he prowled the room, suddenly suffocated by its confines.  He itched to be outside searching for his son rather than here waiting helplessly, and with a guard at the door no less.  The warrior in him rebelled at the very thought.

Making up his mind, he strode resolutely to the door.  “Curúfin, watch Lord Erestor while I go for a healer,” he snapped as he stalked from the room and started down the hall

“No, my Lord,” the warrior immediately responded.  “I cannot.”

Lord Elrond Peredhil was so surprised by the response that he stopped and turned to look at the warrior in astonishment.  Momentarily dumbfounded, he stared mutely at the Elf as though he had grown horns.  Never had he heard any Elf refuse one of his requests.

Curúfin’s eyes widened and he colored slightly at the look on his Lord’s face, but the guard would not relent.  “I’m sorry, my Lord, I mean no disrespect,” he hastened to add, “but I am ordered to remain with you.”   He swallowed nervously as he watched the play of emotions quickly cross Lord Elrond’s face.  If he lived through the next few moments he would remember to ask Lord Glorfindel to just put him out of his misery himself next time rather than assign him to guard the most powerful Elf in all Arda!

To his credit, Elrond managed to mask much of what he was feeling before his warrior.  It was not Curúfin’s fault, certainly, but that did little to pacify the Lord of Imladris.  In the end, a raised eyebrow was the only response he gave as he turned on his heel and marched down the hall, chagrined to know that his shadow was behind him.

He entered the healing wing and stopped, searching for the one he sought.  The main healing room of Imladris was long and narrow, lined with beds on each side.  At intervals there were pantries and store rooms opening from the main area.  At the far end of the span was a separate space which served as the surgery.  Rarely used these days, except for the odd training accident, the room was built when the Last Homely House was erected in the first age, when the valley under siege.  There were a great many injuries in those days and this room had been a hive of activity as the many healers worked to repair the wounds of the defenders of Rivendell.  Now the room appeared shadowed and empty.  However there was light coming from one of the pantries and the Elrond started in that direction.  As it was, he heard her before he saw her. 

Walking over to the medical pantry he paused in the doorway to watch as Sariboril muttered to herself while she rummaged through a jumbled mass of healing supplies and herbs. Glancing around the u-shaped shelves lining three wall of the pantry, the Elf Lord shook his head wondering how it was that she could ever find anything. The sight brought a slight frown to the Elrond’s face, for he would never had allowed such disarray in his own apothecary on the third floor near the family bedrooms. It was kept immaculate at all times, as was everything else in his purview, with the exception of Estel’s room.  The boy had a streak of messiness in him that seemed to work itself out in the most unusual ways.  A pang touched his heart as he thought of his youngest, and he forced his thoughts back to his purpose in being here.

This was the main healing center of the valley and here Sariboril reigned supreme.  Older even than Lord Elrond, she was the most skillful and compassionate healer he’d ever known, her skills very nearly rivaling his own.  He was grateful to have her here, so he said nothing about the, to his way of thinking, appalling lack of organization she maintained. 

Unaware that she was under observation, though the truth be known it would have made no difference to her, Sariboril continued her rummaging as well as her muttering. “Of all the stubborn, obstinate, willful, inflexible, Elf Lords there ever was, he is the most, most…”

“Persistent?” supplied Lord Elrond from the doorway.

“Mulish,” I was going to say, replied Sariboril without missing a beat.  “Ah, there it is!”  She held up a sachet of herbs tied with a white cord and turned to face the Elf Lord in question.  “Now don’t go arching that eyebrow at me, Lord Elrond, you know very well I’m speaking of you and you deserve every description I could think of.  You’ve been up for over four days now and I was coming to give you a sleeping draught whether you liked it or not.  Even mighty Lords must have rest at some point!”

“Well, if I am to wait until you find a sleeping draught in here then I am safe for at least four more days,” teased Lord Elrond.  “However, I have come now because I have need of you to sit with Erestor.”

The frown on her aged but still beautiful face deepened.  “And just where would you be going that you would need me to sit with the good Lord?  It is not safe for you to leave the premises, and judging by that bull of an Elf standing behind you Lord Glorfindel would agree with me.”

Elrond had had just about enough of this over-protectiveness and impatience crept into his voice.  “I am not here to debate with you Sariboril.  Will you sit with Lord Erestor?”

Sariboril stared at the elf with narrowed eyes before heaving a dramatic sigh.  “Aye, my Lord, if it will get you out of that room for a while, I will, of course, sit with Lord Erestor.”

Her condition raised an eyebrow, but still Elrond nodded his head in acknowledgement before turning to leave.  “I will be conferring with Glorfindel if you need me.”

“And then?” questioned the healer dramatically.

With a sigh, Elrond turned back to face the crotchety healer. “And then,” he answered, “should the situation allow, I shall take some rest.”

“That will make an old healer very happy, my Lord,” smiled Sariboril.

It would have been inelegant for an esteemed Elf Lord to snort, but he was sorely tempted; he was sorely tempted indeed.

O-o-O-o-O

Elrohir, Legolas, and Falathar were searching near the pond where only days before Estel had been so delighted by the sight of the goldfish swimming.  Terror had seized Elrohir’s heart when he had thought about it for fear that his little brother might even now be lying at bottom, drowned by the one who had taken him.

Elrohir had dived into the pond when they had reached the spot earlier.  Time and time again he dived, swimming along the bottom feeling every inch that he could reach.  Finally he had emerged, exhausted, but relieved at not finding Estel’s body snarled in the rushes at the bottom.

Legolas and Falathar greeted him as he emerged from the water.   Legolas pulled off his outer tunic to wrap around the twin’s shoulders.  “Elrohir, you must rest a moment.  Let us return to the house so that you can get some dry clothes.”

“No,” Elrohir insisted, shaking his head tiredly, “you don’t understand.”

The pleading in his friend’s voice tugged at the Prince’s heart and he wished that he could take some of the burden from him.  “Then tell me, Elrohir, explain to me.  Who is Estel? Glorfindel said that Lord Elrond had taken him in as an adopted son.”

Elrohir sat down on a log and took a deep, shuddering breath, considering how best to explain to Legolas what his brother meant to him…to all of them.  He decided to begin with a question.  “Legolas, why did you come here?”

Legolas and Falathar shared a glance.  Falathar nodded to his prince.  “My Lord, I will return with some dry clothes for Elrohir.”

Smiling his thanks to his friend, Legolas moved over to sit beside Elrohir.  The log rocked slightly as he sat down, stretching his long legs out and placing his hands on each side of his thighs.  He thought for a moment about his answer.  “I have missed your friendship for many years, Elrohir.  I kept up with you through the tales of your exploits against the orcs, but when all the stories stopped, I feared that I had lost you for good.  The only thing I knew to do was to come here and find out one way or the other.”

Elrohir mulled over what Legolas had told him, and sighed deeply.  “I missed your friendship as well, Legolas, we both did, but you would not have liked who Elladan and I had become.  We lived only to kill orcs, consumed by hatred and as dead inside as this log we are sitting on.  In truth, we did not want you to see us as we were.”

“I had feared as much,” Legolas said softly.  “I wish I could have helped you both, my friend.  I would have done anything to share your burden.”

Elrohir smiled sadly at Legolas.  “Many tried…Ada…” His voice broke and he was unable to continue for a moment.

Legolas put his hand on Elrohir’s shoulder in unspoken support.  “If this is too difficult for you, I do not need to know more.”

Elrohir shook his head. “No, I want to explain to you what it is Estel means to us.  Legolas, his name is hope and that is what he is.  Ada said that he named him Estel because he is the last of Elendil’s line, the heir to the throne of Gondor and the hope of men, but I believe it is because his foresight showed him what Estel would be to us.  He is our hope as well, Legolas.  It was our love for Estel that overcame the hatred that had eaten away at us for so many years…that put beating hearts back into our chests.  And even that does not fully explain what he means to us.  He has a way of looking at you with such absolute faith and trust that you know you would do anything in your power to earn that faith.”

Legolas considered the words his friend had spoken, slowly nodding his head. “It is no secret to you that my dealings with humans have not been good ones, but this I avow to you, were he nothing else, I would treasure this human for the healing he has brought to you and Elladan.”  He smiled at Elrohir.  “Now, will you go back and get some dry clothes and allow me to continue the search until you return?”

Elrohir stood up, considering the Prince’s words, a pained look on his face.  “He’s afraid of the dark, Legolas.  That is the thought which has punished me every moment since he has been taken.  How can I worry about being wet or uncomfortable?”

Legolas looked up at his friend for a moment before hopping lightly to his feet.  “Then let’s get on with it.  We have a little brother to find.  It will be the dawn soon; that should aid our search.”

O-o-O-o-O

Quenthar soothingly rubbed down Asfaloth, admiring the way his coat gleamed in the lantern light.  He loved all the beautiful horses that resided in the main stable, but this one was special. Well, he amended ruefully to himself; he loved all the horses but Celos, who could be as mellow as a new born kitten one moment and turn around and bite you the next. That temperamental brute frustrated him, frustrated everyone but Elladan.   Quenthar began brushing harder at the thought of the twin, and the ever sensitive Asfaloth nickered and tensed at the harsher treatment.  “Sorry, my beauty,” he crooned to the stallion moving to stand by the great white’s head and scratching him between the eyes just where he loved it.  Asfaloth closed his eyes as though relishing the touch lavished on him by Quenthar. “Here, my love, have some of your favorite treat.”  Quenthar held up some of the special mixture of hay mixed with molasses that was a particular favorite of the great white.

In the stall next to Asfaloth’s, Celos eyed the hay and molasses mixture now being consumed with great relish by the other horse.  Snorting and trying to stick his head over towards Quenthar, the horse neighed and whinnied to get the elf’s attention.  “Oh,” the elf responded, “so now you want to be friends, huh?”  He held out a bit of the mixture to Celos, who strained to reach the treat.  At the last moment, however, the horse jerked away and began to buck in his stall. 

Celos was confused by the scents which had assailed his nose when he got close to Quenthar.   He was drawn by the sent of the molasses, but then bewildered by the lingering scent of wintergreen on the elf’s hands.  For some reason the scent was mixed with that of the little one he had allowed Elladan to ride on him.   Celos, like any good elven horse, could sense the intent in humans.  He had sensed only good in the child and had been on his best behavior, for which he had been highly praised by his master.  Something raised an alarm in the horse and he now bucked and reared in an effort to reach his master.  Put off by the display, Quenthar jerked back his hand and shook his head.  He’d never understand this horse. 

The only bright spot left in Quenthar’s life was his horses.  The elf had slowly become so consumed by alienation and desolation that his existence was defined by only two things: hated for Elrond and love for his horses.  Nothing else existed for him.  It was for precisely this reason that no other elves could see the madness overtaking him in the course of years, for he was content whenever he was near the stables or around his beauties.   The darkness only evidenced itself when he was alone, in his solitary existence inside his ivy covered house.  There the evil had grown; there he had plotted his revenge.

As he finished bedding down the horses which had been used earlier in the search he glanced out at the coming dawn and realized that he would need to sedate the human again soon.  He frowned as he thought about how his perfect plan had been ruined when the little urchin was not in his own room and he had been forced to improvise at the very beginning.  Now his schedule would be off and he didn’t like that…did not like any deviation.  He stood that way for some moments, focused inward to a place that only he knew existed.  Glancing down he was surprised to see blood dripping from his hands.  He had been gripping and pulling the ropes so frenetically as he daydreamed that he had not even noticed the gashes he had worn into his palms.  He watched, fascinated, as the blood oozed down the elven ropes.  “So beautiful,” he cooed to himself as he imagined the blood to be that of Elrond, draining into the ground from the wound made by the sword that he himself would thrust into the elf’s heart.

O-o-O-o-O

Pain was the first sensation of which he was aware…pain, followed closely by the cold.  As wakefulness slowly crept into the consciousness of the child, he was confused by the multitude of sensations sweeping through him, and by the fact that he had no idea of where he was.

“Ada?” the small voice spoke into the darkness, followed by a hacking cough that further strained his parched throat.  He finally managed to pry open his eyes only to be further confused by the fact that even after blinking several times, there was no light to be found. Pain became fear, which quickly gave way to horror as the child struggled to understand the circumstances in which he now found himself.  “Ada?” he cried again as terror gripped him. 

His mind told him that he must be in his room, that he must be having a bad dream from which we would waken to find himself safely in the arms of his Ada or his Gwadors.  Reaching out with his hand he was further confused and terrified when he met the resistance of the rough wooden walls.  Panicked, he felt all around him fighting the unknown restraints when he realized that he was encased in the darkness.  Something crawled across his arm, further frightening the petrified child.  “Ada! Dan! Ro!” he screamed into the darkness.  “Glorby!  Restor!”  Silence was the only answer he received. 

Slowly the memory began to replay itself in his mind.  He was in his Ada’s bed when he woke up and saw the bad elf put the knife in Restor’s back.  “Restor!” he cried at the memory of the elf trying to reach him…telling him to run.  Then the bad elf had grabbed him from the bed, hurting his mouth.  It had hurt even more when they jumped from the ledge and landed on the flagstones below.  He remembered now!   The elf had dropped him and he had rolled slightly away from him, tearing the bandage off of his lip and making the cut bleed once again.  He had wanted to cry out but the force of the fall had knocked the breath from him, and then the bad elf had grabbed him up again and covered his mouth.  They had run and run through the darkness…run away from home and safety. Estel whimpered as he felt the stinging scratches on his arms where they had been torn by the bushes during the flight.  His eyes opened wide as the final, horrible memory made itself known to him.  The hole! The elf had cleared away the brush and uncovered a hole.  That was the last thing he remembered.

A horrible, primal scream gave way to silence as the child curled into a fetal ball, shock beginning to numb his senses from the horror in which he found himself.  “Ada,” came the quiet plea over and over as the boy lost consciousness once more.

Outside the trees quivered in distress at the sounds they had heard.

O-o-O-o-O

Asfaloth:  Lord Glorfindel’s legendary horse