Chapter IV: Dark Dreams

Elrond broke into a run the moment he was through the doors. As he tried to take the first step he pitched forward, and only his reflexes saved him: he caught the banister before he could fall. His right shoe had slipped from his foot. Wrathfully, he kicked off the left one as well. Cursing his lack of good sense in donning impractical velvet slippers instead of good sturdy leather, he plucked up the hems of his garments and resumed his hasty journey in stocking feet.

The sentry before his suite looked pale and wary, but Elrond paid him little heed. From within he could hear frantic sobbing now, and the ineffectual efforts of the Lady Gilraen as she strove to calm her son. He burst unceremoniously into the room, casting his cumbersome mantle pre-emptively away.

Estel was thrashing violently on the bed, his chest heaving with panicked sobs that broke forth in a hoarse, shattered staccato swiftly punctuated by another scream. Nearly as distraught as her child, Gilraen was tearfully attempting to soothe him, crying out his name and gripping his shoulders with white-knuckled hands as she struggled to keep him from harming himself.

‘Sea... the sea...’ Estel choked out, his eyelids fluttering low over madly rolling eyes.

‘Lady, ease your hold: you will bruise him,’ Elrond said, hastening into the room. As he rounded the bed he barked one shin on the large tin washtub that had been set up near the sideboard. He scarcely noticed the resulting bolt of pain or the sloshing of the water against the metal.

Gilraen looked up at him, wild-eyed and frightened. There was no coolness in her voice now as she exclaimed, ‘How did you know to come?’

‘I heard him cry out,’ Elrond said; ‘and I was not the only one. Estel, Estel, can you hear me?’

He caught one of the flailing hands and pressed it between his own. Estel’s whole body arched away from the contact and he moaned piteously. He was full in the throes of whatever panic was seizing his mind, and this time neither the Elf-lord’s voice nor his touch had the power to recall him.

At her son’s violent motion Gilraen pulled back from the bed. ‘What is wrong with him?’ she demanded frantically. ‘This is like no fever I have ever seen.’

‘Black water... black...’ cried the child. There was an acute desperation in his voice, as if he were shouting out an invocation – or a warning.

‘What is wrong with my son?’ Gilraen repeated, more forcefully. She seized Elrond’s sleeve and shook him. ‘Tell me what is wrong with my son!’

Elrond was feeling for the boy’s pulse in his wrist, which while he tensed and struggled was proving to be an impossible task. 'I do not know,' he breathed mournfully. Gilraen’s hold hand withdrew in horror. Freed of the pressure on his arm, Elrond he placed both hands upon the boy’s ribs, forcing him to lie flat while he bent over him and pressed his ear to the heaving chest. The lady made a sound of protest, but Elrohir took hold of her and drew her back from the bed.

‘You must let him work, lady,’ he said, as levelly as he could. ‘There will be time for questions when the crisis has passed.'

‘Estel?’ Elrond repeated, raising his head and taking hold of the child’s chin. ‘Estel, awake. It is not real. What you see is not real.’

‘The Sea...’

The fever was no lower, and the hallucinations had returned. There was no help for it now. Elrond had hoped to avoid this treatment, for it was crude and ugly and little better than torture, but he knew not what else he could do. The fires raging through the child’s blood had to be stopped, and there was only one method left untried.

‘Go,’ he commanded, looking over his shoulder at Elrohir. His look was that of a healer about to take grim but necessary action; when such a light ignited in his eyes his son understood that he would not be disobeyed. ‘Take the Lady Gilraen to her chamber, and send someone for a brick of ice and a mallet. Go!’

‘No!’ Gilraen cried. ‘He is my son! I will not leave him!’

She struggled against Elrohir’s hands, but he drew her into a restraining embrace. ‘Hush, lady,’ he said. ‘You can be of no help here, and you do not wish to watch what must be done. I will bring you tidings, I promise you. Come.’

Struggling wretchedly to hide her tears, she let herself be led from the room. While he waited for the necessary tools, Elrond tried vainly to calm the boy, focusing all of his powers of healing upon the thrashing body. He tried to project serenity and peace and security as he spoke again. ‘Estel, you are safe,’ he promised softly, placing his hands on the bony forearms and applying gentle pressure. ‘You are home. You are safe. No harm will come to you here.’

That, indeed, had been the hope eight years ago: that here in Imladris the boy might protected from the evil that sought him. The valley-folk had all conspired to this end, and such of the Dúnedain who knew the fate of their infant Chieftain had sworn solemn oaths to take this knowledge inviolate to their graves. There was a network of intelligence throughout Eriador alerted to rumours concerning the Heir of Isildur, and any that struck too near the mark were swiftly quashed. Yet it seemed all this care was in vain, for still Estel had fallen prey to some machination of the Enemy, and the only thing that was uncertain was whether he was the intended target or no.

He was speaking again, sobbing something about tall ships in the darkness, and a flame on the mountain and water, black water, black water in the darkness... Elrond could not banish the terrors of the mind any more than he could will away the fever, but he gathered up the child into his arms again. Holding him fast though the boy struggled fretfully he tried once again to step between his son and the terrible dreams. He could feel Estel’s horror and helplessness and the dreadful panic that wracked him, body and soul. He could almost hear the crashing of the waves on the distant shores, and the roaring of the storm and the wrath of Ossë, and he understood the terror: Estel was dreaming of the fall of Númenor.

Elrond was torn away from his desperate struggle with the indeterminate evil ravaging his son when the door flew open. In came Elrohir and the sentry, each carrying a block from the icehouse as large as a smith’s anvil, swathed in sackcloth. The doorwarden stared at the strange sight of his lord cradling the naked mortal child in his arms until Elrohir drove him out with a chastising stare. Without needing any instruction, he set the ice upon the floor. With three swift blows of the mallet, each carrying the full weight of his sword-arm with its fell immortal strength, he reduced the first block of ice to splinters. The second he felled with four blows, and he emptied each heap into the washtub, stirring the water within it with his hand until he was forced to yank it back, shuddering against the cold.

Elrond got to his feet, staggering momentarily as the balance of the weight in his arms shifted. He moved around the bed, steeled his resolve with a long, deep breath, and plunged Estel into the bath full of ice.

A fresh scream tore the air, but this one was thin and reedy: a cry of shock and pain, not of terror. Estel’s body sprung to life, twitching and shaking as if in the throes of some violent fit. Wet now, he was hard to grasp firmly, and he slipped away from Elrond’s hands. There was a sickening crack as his head struck the side of the washtub and sunk below the surface. For a moment his foster-father was too startled to react, but Elrohir kept his presence of mind. He reached into the tub and caught the boy by the ear, pulling his head back above the surface. Estel choked and sputtered, water streaming from his mouth and his nostrils. His eyes flew open and for a moment the glassy quicksilver orbs locked with Elrond’s own.

‘Atar—ah—’ the boy choked out. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp, falling deep into a swoon.

‘Get him out!’ Elrond exhaled, recalling his objectivity for a moment at least. ‘Help me get him out before he freezes.’

He tried to lift the boy himself, but his body seemed sapped of all its strength. Elrohir hoisted Estel out and lifted him into the Elf-lord’s lap. The wasted little body was shivering convulsively now, and his lips were a lurid shade of purple. The fever was no longer of immediate concern: for the moment at least it had been beaten back.

‘We must get him to the bed,’ said Elrond numbly, looking down at the ravaged form in his arms. He was unable to hold him too close, lest the warmth of his body should undo what had just been accomplished. ‘Go to his mother and tell her the fit has passed. Bid her find what rest she may. I will watch over him: I shall not be returning to the assembly tonight.’

Elrohir nodded, bearing Estel to the bed and returning to offer an arm to his father. Elrond gripped it tightly and with his son’s aid somehow made it to his feet. His futile attempt to deflect the attack had left him weak, and he had been weary already.

‘He seemed to recognize you,’ Elrohir observed softly as Elrond eased himself down next to Estel, where he might be close at hand if there was any change. ‘He called out to you, or tried to.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the elder Peredhil sadly; ‘or perhaps I was merely a part of his torment.’

‘Shall I bring you anything, Atarinya?’ Elrohir asked, eyeing his sire with concern. ‘Wine? Cordial? Something to restore your strength.’

Elrond closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I shall collect myself presently,’ he promised. ‘But there is one thing you can do.’

‘Yes, Father, anything.’

‘Before you seek out the Lady Gilraen, go down to the west porch and send Gandalf to me.’

Elrohir nodded his assent and made his quiet exit. Elrond sat for many minutes, leaning wearily against the headboard with his eyes fixed upon the shivering body beside him. Presently he began to sing softly, stroking the sodden black hair. He sang a lamenting riddle-song that he remembered from his own childhood, long ago in the First Age of the world when the shadow of Morgoth had hung heavy in the North. It had soothed Estel as a babe, and he hoped it might do so once again.

He had not progressed very far when he heard the anteroom door open. A moment later the door to the bed-chamber was swept aside and the wizard strode wrathfully into the room. ‘High time you made some attempt to speak to me!’ he snapped, his eyes lancing wrathfully. ‘I am not used to being treated like a common—’

He assessed the scene before him, and all trace of anger melted from his face. He pushed the door closed and took two sharp steps forward. ‘The human child?’ he asked. ‘What did you call him...’

‘Estel,’ Elrond said, nodding. ‘My ward, as it were.’

Gandalf stepped around the bed and lowered a wizened hand to the boy’s clammy forehead. ‘He is not warm,’ he noted. ‘No fever?’ Elrond nodded at the tub full of melting ice. ‘I see,’ said the wizard grimly. ‘What ails the boy?’

‘I do not know,’ Elrond said bitterly. ‘Some contrivance of the Enemy; I have little doubt about that. But whether it is some forgotten evil of fallen Angmar, or a fresh device created in the hope of ferreting out our pretext, I do not know. Whatever it may be, it is beyond my art to cast it out, though I have tried.’

‘I can see that,’ Gandalf remarked, studying the careworn face of his host. He placed one hand firmly on the boy’s brow, and pressed the other over his heart. ‘There is some dark power at work here; that much is certain. Have you sought for aid in your endeavours?’

The Elf-lord nodded. ‘The healers of the Last Homely House know not what more can be done. Glorfindel has tried to aid me, to no avail. My sons can do nothing, and were I to send to Lórien or Lindon I fear help would come too late. If there is anything you can do I would welcome your assistance, but I do not know if even you have the skill.’

‘Skill to surpass yours? I doubt it,’ Gandalf said. ‘Perhaps together we might achieve what we cannot alone.’

He raised his hand from Estel’s breast, and upon his finger a red stone shone like fire. Elrond knit his brows wearily. ‘It is dangerous,’ he said. ‘The Enemy is moving and though Imladris has always been a hidden haven, safe from his sights, with his growing presence in Mirkwood I fear his eye has penetrated our borders.’

‘Then you do not believe that this affliction he suffers is some trap of the Witch-king, left behind to plague the remnant of Arnor,’ Gandalf observed.

‘I do not know,’ Elrond admitted heavily. ‘But the timing seems so well-contrived. Perhaps the Necromancer has learned of our designs and this is his attempt to waylay me. Or perhaps he has at last succeeded in finding the one he sought with such vengeance.’

‘Or perhaps this is only an unhappy coincidence. In any case we are in agreement that the boy must live?’

‘He must,’ Elrond said, more desperately than he had meant to. ‘A great doom is on him, and either he will rise to heights beyond any of his kindred since the dawn of this Age, or he will slip into darkness with the remnant of his people.’ Even as he repeated his now-familiar prophesy, a terrible realization settled like a pall upon his heart.

Gandalf read the despair in his eyes. ‘It is not his time to slip into darkness yet,’ he argued. ‘You and I shall see to that.’ A pensive frown followed a long, appraising stare. ‘But we shall do so on the morrow: you are in no condition to ply such power tonight. Your latest attempt has taxed your spirit, and you need to rest.’

‘I cannot rest,’ Elrond protested. ‘While Estel lies dying, I cannot rest.’

‘Then do not, if it does not please you,’ Gandalf said with an indifferent shrug. ‘In any case I must. My present adventure may not be one of the high deeds of Elven song, but it is in its own way exhausting.’

Elrond chuckled ruefully. ‘Thirteen dwarves,’ he said wonderingly.

‘And Mister Bilbo Baggins,’ added the wizard sagely.

‘You shall have to tell me how you hope to accomplish anything with such a company of misfits,’ said Elrond.

‘I shall,’ Gandalf pledged; ‘when the present calamity is past.’ He laid his hand upon the door. ‘I shall return after breakfast. Such work is best done in the full sunlight anyhow. If you fear watchers, we might even wait until noon.’

‘I do not wish to wait,’ Elrond said, shaking his head heavily. ‘My own peril is less immediate than his. Return after breakfast, and we will attempt it then.’

‘Agreed,’ said Gandalf. He opened the door and leaned against it, affecting exasperation. ‘You might have said all this when first I arrived, and saved me a great deal of annoyance,’ he said. A faint smile upon his lips showed that his comment was not meant in earnest: now that he knew the cause of the disruption he understood the need for secrecy and discretion in front of the strangers.

‘You need to learn to curb your curiosity,’ Elrond countered with almost equal levity, a twinkle of mischief lighting in his weary eye. ‘Who better to teach you that lesson than I?’

lar

After being so unceremoniously removed from the chamber where her son languished in torment, Gilraen had extricated herself from Elrohir’s well-meaning hold and made her way back to her own suite of rooms overlooking the back garden. She barred the door of her sitting room, and leaned heavily against it, fighting the hysterics and despair that threatened to drown her.

It could not be so. Estel could not be dying. He was her beloved babe, her only son, all that remained of the brief, blissful years of her marriage. He was the last of his line. He was destined to do great deeds and win renown and live a full life and a happy one. He could not die now, felled by some wicked sickness. It was impossible that he should die while she stood here, alone and powerless to save him.

It was a terrible thing to be so helpless. It was torture to watch her child suffering and to be able to do nothing. She could not even quiet him when he cried out: only Master Elrond could accomplish that. Though she knew the sentiment was unworthy she could not help feeling envious of the Elf-lord’s gift. Before, when Estel had fallen silent at the barest touch from the Lord of the Valley, she had wanted to scream in jealous frustration.

She was weary, she knew, and that was why she was so unreasonable. She ought rather to have been grateful that anyone could calm Estel at all, not angry because she had not been the one to do it.

Gratitude, always gratitude. She owed a debt to these people that could never be repaid. They had saved her child from death once already. If Master Elrond contrived to do so again...

If he contrived to do so again, she pledged, she would never question his judgement. She would defer to his wisdom when it came to matters of parenting. She would accept his counsel. Never again would she snub him or rebuff his attempts at courtesy. Never again would she frown when he walked into a room, or watch with displeasure when Estel ran to him with some tale of childhood triumph, instead of to her. If only he could save her son, she promised, he would have her loyalty, and her devotion, and her obedience...

Her limbs were shaking, and she knew that she had to lie down. She would not be allowed back into the sick-room tonight. Not unless Estel reached the very brink of death. Surely then they would call her. Surely then she would be permitted to go to him and cradle him in her arms one last time. One last time.

She sobbed brokenly, crumpling to the floor where she stood. The skirts of her kirtle pooled about her legs and her head drooped low over her lap. She did not know how long she wept, but when at last the paroxysmal tears passed she was left shattered and spent on the threshold of her room.

Someone had lit a fire in the sitting-room hearth, and by its light she struggled to her feet. She stumbled along the wall to the door beyond which lay the little chamber where her son had always slept. Once littered with marvellous toys of dwarven make, it was now filled with books and drawings and a young boy’s treasures. She could not bear to enter that room, for it seemed that she was already within, packing away his clothes and his possessions and choosing garments in which to bury him.

Her own room was next to Estel’s: a bare, virginal place devoid of any personal trappings. The keepsakes of her youth had been abandoned in the midnight flight from the nameless northern hamlet where she had grown to womanhood. The works of her hands all went to clothe her son and to adorn his chamber instead of her own. On the dressing table there was a single individual touch, visible as a silhouette against the starlit window: a silver flagon in which sat a bundle of primroses. Estel had picked them for her on the same day that the blemishes had appeared. They were dead now, hanging limply over the sides of the vessel, and where before there had been the soft fragrance of summer, there was only the spice, oversweet reek of death and decay. Her son had outlived his flowers at least.

There was a soft rapping at the antechamber door, and Gilraen stiffened. Somehow she managed to cross back to unbar the entrance, and she dragged open the heavy door.

‘My lady,’ said the caller. It was Elrohir. The front of his tunic was soaked with water and his hair was in disarray. Seeing her appraising glance he ran a hand through his unruly tresses and smiled ruefully. ‘I am not a pretty sight, I fear.’

‘Tidings,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘You promised to bring me tidings.’

‘Yes. The treatment we mentioned has had the desired effect: the fever is much reduced, at least for the time being. The hallucinations have abated and when I left him your son was resting peacefully.’ He placed a comforting hand upon her forearm where it held the door. ‘Do not despair, lady. My father will do all that he can, and mayhap Gandalf can help him.’

‘Gandalf...’ The name meant little to her. Arathorn had spoken of a wizard, a wise old man schooled in ancient incantations, and lately there had been much talk of such a one who was arranging an expedition for dragon treasure. But could a wizard and an adventurer help in the healing of a little boy? Surely not.

‘A friend,’ Elrohir promised. ‘If any can aid Elrond Halfelven it is he.’

‘And if he cannot then Estel will die.’

‘It may not come to that,’ Elrohir said gently. ‘My counsel to you is to rest, lady. There is nothing more that anyone can do tonight.’

He was about to withdraw, but Gilraen caught his sleeve and held him fast. ‘Tell me,’ she said, her eyes brimming with pain. ‘You saved Estel once from those who would murder him. Over the years you have been very kind to him and a dear friend to me. Do you love my son?’

‘I am very fond of him, lady: he is a bright lad and full of promise. I would grieve to lose him.’ Elrohir paused, considering his words. ‘In a way I do love him, yes,’ he acceded.

‘Master Elrond loves him very much,’ Gilraen said softly.

‘Yes. Of that there can be no question. My father loves Estel very much indeed.’

‘Then he will not let him die,’ she declared brokenly, as if by saying it she could make it so.

Elrohir looked upon her with deep sorrow in his gentle eyes. ‘He would lay down his life in Estel’s stead if he could,’ he said softly. ‘But I do not think that would avail him any in the current crisis.’

Gilraen nodded, and her lips uttered a polite goodnight. Elrohir promised to bring her fresh tidings as soon as there was any change, and then she shut her anteroom door and stumbled back into her bare bedchamber. Enervated and heartsick, she collapsed upon her bed and buried her face in the silken pillow. It was not long before exhausted slumber overtook her and bore her away into the land of dark dreams.