Healing. (Who heals the healer?)

Elrond finds healing in his own garden. A belated birthday story for Nilmandra.

Imladris, 2523, T. A.

For some years after Celebrían sailed, it seemed to Elrond that the world had turned a dull grey, even in his sheltered valley. He would find no joy in his daily chores, and Vilya’s weight on his finger was an ominous reminder of darkness pooling outside. His sons were away more often than not, busy butchering orcs with a blood thirst that frightened him, and he worried that they might lose themselves to hatred and revenge, despite Gildor and Mithrandir’s careful watch over them. 

Overwhelmed by a grief like none he had experienced in his troubled life, he avoided his friends’ company and hid from the comforts of his own house and station, allowing himself to drown in a despair that was even more numbing than what he had felt after Gil-galad’s death.  Unable to shake off despondency, he toiled with dark thoughts, and wondered whether that was how mortals felt as old age crept upon them and sickness bent them; the marring of Arda corrupting their mortal hroa and consuming them. And then he would sulk for days, until some incident or another would fish him out of the deep pools of suffering for a while.

It came to pass on those days that Arahad finally consented to be taken to Imladris to seek Elrond’s help, or rather to end his days in peace. Arahad was –had been- the seventh chieftain of the Dunedain, and a man of great strength of will. Weakened by a strange, painful illness, he had been unable to ride against the enemy for twenty years, but still had retained control of his people and ordered their comings and goings from his carved wooden chair in the Angle, until he considered the time ripe for him to surrender office and authority to his eldest son, Aragost, who had ridden far and wide in the company of the sons of Elrond, hunting orcs and exploring the long leagues of Middle-earth even beyond the Misty Mountains.

Mostly out of respect, Elrond had greeted the old chieftain, bent and hampered by swollen joints and aching limbs, and had carried out a perfunctory examination that only confirmed what he already suspected. He prescribed herbs for the pain and wine for the spirits, and then withdrew to his customary retirement, avoiding his ailing kinsman, who he had once known as a lively child. The sight of the decaying man only fed his melancholy mood. He saw the inexorable hand of the Enemy everywhere, in the marring of Arda and the old age of Men, in the orcs that multiplied out of his valley and in men who bent ever more easily towards darkness and hatred. He would curse himself then for a fool, for having thought that they might, somehow, escape that evil fate and would twist the useless ring on his finger until it bled.  

                                                                                           *~*~*~*~*

“I hope that I am not disturbing your thoughts, Master Elrond…”

Though soft and weak, the voice still retained the calm authority of one who had carried the weight of power for a long time. Since there was no way that the old, impeded man could have intruded on his peaceful stroll, Elrond acknowledged the faint rebuke with a rueful nod.

“The disturbance is welcome, Arahad,” he said with a friendly smile, coming to sit with the chieftain under a very old apple tree. “I apologize that I have been scarce lately, but I am told that you are a delight to the cooks, a nuisance to our healers and an endless source of entertainment for our children. I am very grateful for all that, my friend,” he added warmly.

“Well, there must be some way to return your gracious gift…”

“It is no gift,” Elrond interrupted in a low voice. “You are my kinsman…”

“I appreciate your kindness anyway,” the chieftain grumbled in a deep voice. “And I am sorry for your loss,” he added after a brief pause. “I did not have the chance to say so on arrival…and you have been quite elusive since then, but I can see how it still weighs on you…and my heart bleeds for you, my friend…”

“I welcome your sympathy, Arahad. And please accept my excuses for neglecting my duties as host and kinsman…”

“Sorrow is a jealous mistress, I know it myself,” Arahad acknowledged. “When Beldis died, I shunned all company except that of my bow and my sword… much as your sons have done. You are entitled to your own grief, Elrond, and I am glad that I am allowed to your cellar –well, to its contents- even if not to your company…”

“You shame me,” Elrond admitted, the chieftain’s irony bringing a tiny smile to his face. “That one in your condition can still have such strength of spirit and good mood…”

“My condition?” the chieftain rumbled amusedly. “You mean this?” he asked, pointing at his useless, swollen legs. “Or the fact that I am dying? Do not apologize again, Elrond,” he continued with a warm smile. “Had I not learnt long ago to assume both conditions as part of myself, I would not have managed to continue living…”

“It must have been hard,” Elrond acknowledged softly, studying the knotty fingers and swollen joints in the wrinkled hand that had come to rest upon his. The man must be in great pain, he surely had been for years, and yet he was unfailingly kind and cheerful towards those who looked after him, and even had sympathy and concern to share over the grief of a Firstborn. Not for the first time he wondered at the strange stuff the Edain were made of, their unshakable resilience and their strength before misfortune.

“It was. There were some who would see it as a sign of evil, the marring of Arda and the corruption of our line, the mighty house of Elendil finally succumbing to the darkness that seeps even into our limbs,” he said thoughtfully. “And many wondered what point there was in leading a life like this…”

“And still you held on, despite the pain… I wish there had been more that I could do for you, Arahad…”

The man shrugged noncommittally. “You did enough; and so did your sons, sending herbs and healing potions, and showing care and respect for the old chieftain…And there was something good in all this, after all,” he added, shaking his head thoughtfully and casting a sidelong glance at his host. Curious, in spite of himself, Elrond indulged the old man.

“Would you care to share?”

The Dunadan winked merrily and nodded, obviously pleased. “As you wish, my friend. See, when this sickness struck, I felt dispossessed of all that I was: strength, prowess with weapons, ability to defend my people…Unable to go to war, forced to sit and think while my only son battled away from home, I listened to my people and attended to their needs…and learnt to love what they love: the tilled land and the spring that brings new fruit and new foals; the laughter of children and the wisdom of old warriors, passing the same old tales down to a new generation…the peace of a home when the rangers are back, and the anguish of the parting; the joy of a safe return….or the quiet strength before misfortune… Those are the things that matter, Elrond, the soul of my people and what makes them strong, and I had forgotten while I was away, engrossed in battling evil day after day and losing sight of what it was that we defended…”

“But surely your fight is worth the price in itself...”

“It can be wearisome and hopeless too…Too much loss and despair and nothing in return but an early grave under the stars… And yet, as I sat there, feeling useless and tainted by  marring of Arda, I understood that my people are made of hope, hope that one day, no matter how long after our days, a new king shall arise from the ancient line and will set things to right, if only for a time. Towards that hope we Dunedain strive and toil all along our brief lives, hoping that each noble deed, each honest life will somehow add up to that greater good towards which we are always struggling…We are like trees, Elrond, always struggling upwards and beyond what is within our reach…and it is in our very nature not to despair, even if our efforts seem in vain… I would have not learned this had I not been tied to a chair for twenty sun-rounds….”

Elrond was well aware that in the short span of their mortal lives men reached a deep level of wisdom and understanding that grew sharper in their old age, perhaps because of the proximity of death, but Arahad’s words hit him deeper than he was used to expect from an old man, and left him speechless for a while.

“Like trees? King Thranduil would love to hear that,” he only managed to joke faintly.

“I know that he is not very fond of the Secondborn,” the old man shrugged. “Look at this tree, Elrond,” he said suddenly, pointing at the apple tree that sheltered them. “What do you see?”

Elrond followed the old man’s curled finger. The tree was still in blossom, and the white flowers stood out like snow drops against the bright blue sky. He smiled and nodded, remembering.

“The guiding branch was broken,” Arahad continued softly. “I know, for I broke it, while playing a foolish game. I barely recall Erestor’s scolding, but the Lady Celebrían taught me a lesson that sustained me along my life. She told me that everything happened for a reason, and that perhaps the tree would die because of my carelessness, or perhaps other, unexpected thing might happen…as it did. I remember that I watched this tree for long months, until I was sure that a new side branch was taking up and leading the tree along a new, unforeseen path, but always upwards, as trees are supposed to do…She taught me not to despair, Elrond; to stand up to my decisions and assume my responsibilities, and always hope that something good might in the end turn out of evil…”

“She had a way to find hope everywhere,” Elrond admitted sadly, “but it failed her when she most needed it …”

“That I know not,” Arahad said. “I was not here, so I cannot judge. But I’ll tell you something. While I sat there in my hut in the Angle, and despair threatened to overcome me, I would close my eyes and remember this apple tree, and your lady wife’s words, and I would wonder how tall the side branch had reached, and what the stunted former leading branch had been doing meanwhile… It is amazing, Elrond, how body and soul struggled to accommodate this new state of things…and how, slowly but steadily, I managed to find a new way to be useful to my people, and to support the new guiding branch even in my “condition”… What are trees but a mix of light and soil turned into an unstoppable force always driving upwards towards the sky? I know not what you Elves are, but we men are such forces as well, and marring and evil and misfortune only teach us to keep struggling with more strength and more hope…” He cast a brief look at his host’s dumbfounded expression and smiled bashfully. “You will surely forgive an old man who gets carried away and pretends to lecture an elven loremaster…”

“On the contrary, I will bow to your wisdom, Arahad, and thank you for your words. Again you shame me; that an Edain must teach a Firstborn about hope…”

“We necessarily grow more familiar with hope as our brief lives approach the end…although there are many who turn their backs on it. I know not how it is for elves…”

“We call it estel,” Elrond spoke softly, slowly, as if surprised of finding inside himself a truth he did not expect to be there. “It lies within the very substance of Arda, of which we Elves are made of…It is embedded in stone and light and water, in all the things that we love…a promise and a certainty, it is everywhere and yet at times it is hidden…”

“It is easy to lose sight of things that are so plain before your eyes; I know that myself…It took me long sun-rounds of sitting and thinking to get my answer. And you Elves are too used to sitting and thinking, so perhaps the effect is somehow spoiled…”

For the first time in fifteen years, Elrond chuckled openly. “Fortunately, we have our wise kin always ready to teach us Elves a quick lesson in hope,” he said, looking up at the stunted guiding branch and picturing his wife’s serene face and caring smile as she taught the young edain a lesson that, years later, would heal her own husband. “I was a fool to deprive myself of your company all this time…”

“Well, each wound takes its own time to heal,” the old man observed. “But you are welcome to make up for it. See, it is time for storytelling!” he observed, pointing at the children that were approaching them from different sides of the garden.

Elrond sat there as the late spring sun went down lazily; barely listening at the old chieftain’s droning and the children’s laughter, concentrated in feeling his wounds begin to heal. It was true, even in the marring of Arda there was a place for hope and healing, and he was ashamed that he had forgotten that, or that he had failed to see hope in Celebrían’s stubborn resistance and brave departure. She was alive, after all, waiting for them beyond the Sea, and it was his choice to remain there, holding decay and darkness at bay, hoping, together with the Dunedain, that one day a new king would arise from that line and would bring back light and hope to Middle-earth for a while. By the time Eärendil set on his nightly cruise, his son had already regained his strength of will and had remembered what force drove the elves in their hopeless struggle for a land they were bound to lose.

Arahad died while the autumn was still young, and was buried under his apple-tree. That secluded corner soon became a place for those who felt sad and burdened by grief to come and sit, and such was the grace of the place that no sorrow would last long there.

Imladris, 2933, T.A.

“…you will be safe here, my lady, and I will raise him as my own…Come take a seat...” Carefully, Elrond led the grief-stricken woman towards a bench in the apple orchard. She sniffed weakly and patted the child’s grubby hand with an encouraging smile, unclenching it from her skirts.

“Go my heart, go and play… see those apples on the ground? Pile them together…He is so young,” she sighed, watching the toddler stumbling over the fallen apples and picking them up carefully. “What will he remember of his Adar, of his people?”

“All memories are preserved in Imladris, Lady Gilraen, and he will be taught about them in time,” he reassured the distraught woman. “But it would be better if he grew up free of that burden…”

But she was not listening.

“Watch out, Aragorn!”  She had half got up in alarm as the child stumbled and fell down, but soon he was up on his feet, waving merrily to his naneth.

“And we should change his name…”

A strangled sob was all the answer he got. The woman was strong and brave and she knew what was necessary, but it still tore at his heart to watch her grief still so raw. The child had sat –rather fallen back- by the dead apple-tree with the broken guiding branch, the one that had been left standing in memory of the brave chieftain, and was now busy pushing the wrinkled apples into his pockets and gurgling in merriment as they rolled out. Elrond looked around, raking his brains for a name that would give comfort to the distraught mother while effectively hiding the child’s true heritage, and all of a sudden he smiled. “Estel,” he said, filled with a sense of joy that almost overwhelmed him. “He will be Estel.”