CHILD: Childe Estel to the Dark Tower Came

SUMMARY: Young Estel gets a history lesson and his family gets another kind of lesson.

WARNING: There is humor here, so be alert.

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Elrond entered his library to find that it had been invaded by orcs, Easterlings and miniature mûmakil.

"Ada! Don’t step on my army!"

Elrond looked to see young Estel, just turned five, lying on his stomach, his feet in the air, happily moving a group of orcs forward, apparently to do battle with a group of warriors that appeared to be either Elves or Men, though there were a couple of shorter figures with full beards that could only be Dwarves. The Lord of Imladris glanced around to see that most of the floor space before his desk was covered with several warrior figures, as well as toy horses, toy mûmakil... and one ceramic cat.

"Odd, I don’t recall a cat fighting in any of our wars," Elrond mused aloud and he heard a chuckle from behind. Turning, he saw Glorfindel standing there with his hands on his hips. His older sons, he noticed, were trying to peek around the massive frame of the golden-haired Captain of the Imladrin Guards, amused smiles on their identical faces.

"Apparently young Estel thinks there should have been," Glorfindel said. The former lord of the Golden Flower of Gondolin cast a critical eye across the battlefield and then in a graceful motion knelt down to move some elven warriors forward.

"No, Glorfi!" cried Estel. "You’ll ruin ev’rything!"

"And what exactly will I ruin, penneth?" Glorfindel asked, clearly intrigued by the youngster’s strategy.

For an answer, the youngest son of Elrond pointed to a lone figure to his right. The Elves all looked and Elrond heard one of the twins gasp. "Hey! Where did you get that, Estel?" Elrohir demanded. "Do you have permission..."

"Actually he does."

They all turned to see Erestor entering the room with a tray of food. From the looks of it — a plate of apple slices, another of ginger biscuits, and two glasses of milk — this was meant for little Estel. Erestor gave them all an amused look as he placed the tray on a reading table to the right of the battlefield. He nudged Glorfindel with his foot. "Move, you over-grown balrog-slayer," he said. "You’re in the way."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at Elrond’s chief councillor. "What did you call me?" he asked in a tone of voice that just bordered on the dangerous.

Erestor gave him stare for stare. "I called you an overgrown balrog-slayer," he said calmly.

"Oh," said the golden-haired ellon, seemingly mollified. "I thought you said ‘overblown balrog-slayer’."

"That too," Erestor replied with a wicked grin and Glorfindel smiled back. Elrond and the twins chuckled. Estel, apparently forgotten by them all, was unimpressed.

"Glorfi, move!" he cried with childish frustration. "Westor and I are playing."

"And what exactly are we playing?" Elrond asked, looking pointedly at Erestor.

The Chief Councillor of Imladris smiled. "We’re playing war as you can see." He pointed to the lone figure to Estel’s right. It was somewhat taller than the other figures, clearly elven. "That’s Sauron, in case you have any doubts."

"I see," Elrond said. "So this is the Last Alliance."

Erestor nodded as they all examined the layout. Of the five Elves, only Elrond and Glorfindel had actually fought in the Last Alliance. Erestor had remained behind as Elrond’s steward in Imladris, and the twins had yet to be born.

"So where are Gil-galad and Elendil?" Elladan asked, trying to identify the figures based on their general location.

"There," Estel pointed to his left to a small group of figures somewhat in the middle of the field. "An’ Ada and Glorfi and me!"

"Excuse me?" Elrond asked.

Estel nodded excitedly and reached over to pluck one of the figures from the floor. This one was just a tad larger than the others. It wore elven armor and held a sword and shield. "See? This is me and I’m gonna fight Thauron," the child lisped the fallen Maia’s name, his two front teeth missing.

"Truly?" Elrohir asked, getting down on his knees to better speak to his little brother. "Well, if you’re fighting in the Last Alliance, why can’t ’Dan and I fight as well?"

Estel gave his older brother a scathing look. "’Cause this is my army, ’Roh. Go get your own."

"Now, Estel," Elrond admonished him with a frown," what have I told you about sharing?"

"But, Ada," the little boy protested, "ev’rytime ’Roh and ’Dan play war with me, they never let me have my own army. They just make me watch."

Elrond turned his frown on the twins, who were both red with embarrassment. "Is this true, iôn nîn?" he asked, but the expressions on their faces told the story. He turned back to Estel. "I am sorry penneth. From now on whenever your brothers play war with you, they will let you have your own army. Isn’t that so, my sons?"

"Yes, Ada," the twins muttered together, clearly chastised.

"Sorry, Ada," Elladan added. "I guess ’Roh and I just got carried away."

Glorfindel gave them his own hard stare. "You are not teaching your brother anything if you simply take over his games."

"Westor let’s me play all the time," Estel said with childish smugness, "even if I’m not very good at... at stwatgy."

"Strategy," Erestor corrected gently as he handed the youngster one of the glasses of milk, along with some ginger biscuits. "And you’re better than your brothers were when they were your age."

Estel gave his tutor a surprised look. "Really?"

Erestor nodded, casting an amused smile at the identical affronted looks on the twins’ faces. Glorfindel, meanwhile, went back to examining the battlefield. It was surprisingly accurate in layout and no doubt that was Erestor’s doing. Although the ellon had not participated in the war, he had studied it, questioning all those who had been there, examining and re-examining every point of strategy, and sometimes even recreating it much as he was doing with Estel at the moment. Still Glorfindel was unsure about one detail of this particular recreation of the battle.

"Why are you fighting Sauron, Estel?" he asked. "I thought Gil-galad and Elendil fought him."

"Not this time!" Estel exclaimed, the gleam of battle brightening his young eyes as he finished his milk, giving Erestor back the glass.

The Elves exchanged amused smiles, but before anyone could comment, Estel looked up at Elrond, his eyes now dark with confusion and worry.

"Ada, were you hurt in the war?"

Elrond gazed at his youngest child with grave sympathy, understanding what was behind the question. He reached down and lifted his son into his arms and settled him on his lap as he sat in the chair before his desk.

"Yes, iôn nîn," he answered gently. "I suffered many wounds during the long siege. That is the price every warrior pays for lifting a sword."

"Even you?" the child asked.

"Even I," his Ada replied. "Even Glorfindel, and your brothers."

The youngster cast wide eyes at the others, who all nodded gravely. Glorfindel was saddened at the small loss of innocence that he could see in Estel’s eyes, knowing that all too soon the child would become a man and he would suffer his own wounds.

Estel climbed down from Elrond’s lap and went to the warrior figure he had designated as himself. Picking it up and stepping carefully around the battlefield so as not to upset any of the figures, he reached for the ‘Sauron’ figure and brought the two together in a mock battle.

"Take that, Thauron!" he cried. "That’s for hurting my Ada and Glorfi." There were actual tears of anger in his eyes and Glorfindel, being the closest to the child, reached over and lifted him, settling him in his lap, rocking him gently.

"Hush now, Little One," he said softly. "Your Ada is well and safe, as am I. There’s no need for tears."

Estel, however, was not easily consoled and it took the combined efforts of all of them to give the youngest member of the household assurances — though the ginger biscuits and apple slices that Erestor gave him probably helped. The child was calmly drinking from the other glass of milk, Erestor having assured the youngster that he really wasn't thirsty, seated cross-legged between Glorfindel’s knees, when the door to the library opened and Lady Gilraen stepped in. Immediately, all the Elves stood and offered the young widow their bows, which she accepted with shy grace. She noticed the toy warriors strewn about the floor and raised a delicate eyebrow, but said nothing except to hold out her hand to her son.

"Estel, it’s time for your nap."

"Aw, Nana," the child protested, "We were just getting to the good part."

"Your Nana is correct, iôn nîn," Elrond said with a sympathetic smile. "Finish your milk. You and Erestor can fight the Last Alliance another day."

Estel dutifully did as he was told, but as Gilraen began to lead him out, he stopped before Elrond, his expression wistful. "Ada? Do you think I will be a good warrior when I grow up?"

Elrond glanced at Gilraen, noticing the haunted look in her eyes, before giving his youngest son an answer. "I think you will be good at whatever you put your mind to, child." He bent down and gently kissed the boy on his brow, brushing back the unruly tangles and smiling. "Now, off you go with your Nana."

Estel nodded and gave Gilraen a winning smile. His Nana smiled back as she led him to the door while the Elves gave her another bow. Just as they reached the door though, Estel stopped one more time and turned back to his brothers, giving them a stern look, or as stern a look as a five-year-old can muster. "’Roh, ’Dan, don’t play with Thauron. He’s mine."

Gilraen rolled her eyes and shooed her son out of the room, giving the Elves an apologetic smile as she closed the door. For a moment there was only silence in the library and then Glorfindel snickered and soon they were all laughing, each of them claiming one of the figures for themselves as they started a mock battle of their own.

But they wisely left ‘Sauron’ alone.

****

All words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Childe: (Archaic English) A youth of gentle birth, an untested knight. The title is a play on Robert Browning’s poem, ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came’.

Ada: Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Penneth: Young one.

Iôn nîn: My son(s). This can be plural from context.

Nana: Hypocoristic form of Naneth: Mother.