Chapter X: Curiosity

Estel stared down at the book in his lap and sighed. He was alone in his father’s bedchamber for the first time since he had awakened from the fever. He supposed it was a good sign; he was well enough now that even Mother felt able to leave him unattended. It was also very dull to sit here, however, propped up in a bed he lacked the strength to leave, with nothing to do but study in solitude.

Erestor had come by about an hour ago, bearing the book and a wax tablet and stylus. He had proposed – in his tutor’s voice that made gentle commands of suggestions – that Estel might review his language lessons.

Estel had an aptitude for tongues. He was fluent in Westron, Sindarin and Quenya, as well as the particular dialects of the Green Elves of both Lindon and Mirkwood. His reading skills were strong and he could write a passable hand in each of those languages already, and in a number of older variants of Eldarin he could hold sustained conversations without lapsing into Quenya. He even knew a little of the old dwarven tongue, for though it was secret and they taught it to none, Atar had contrived to learn something of it during his years in Hollin, and he had shared that knowledge with Estel.

His present study was the tongue of Númenor, and he was finding it uncommonly difficult. Part of the trouble was that so few still spoke it. Westron was his mother’s tongue of choice – though now she spoke Elvish as well – and he had heard if from birth. As long as he could remember, he had used and understood both Quenya and Sindarin. In learning the other dialects, he had not lacked people with whom to converse. With opportunities to ply the tongues he studied, his progress was rapid.

Adûnaic, however, was a dead language, no longer spoken in daily discourse by any of the peoples of the world. Indeed, it had never been widely spoken in Middle-earth, for the remnant of the Fiathful had swiftly adopted the languages of the mainland, and within three generations of the fall of Elenna Adûnaic had fallen out of general use. Nearly three thousand years later, there were few even among the folk of Imladris who still remembered the foreign sounds of that lost tongue. Erestor was one, and of course there was Atar, who had helped in the devising of its letters and its formal syntax in the decades following the War of Wrath and in later years been fast friends with the High King of the Dúnedain and many of his descendants. Yet neither Atar nor Erestor had unlimited leisure to lavish upon helping Estel practice, and he had sought for others with whom he might speak. Among those who tended the libraries two had a passing familiarity with the tongue, and there was one Elven lady, a fletcher, who had marched with the armies of Isildur and recalled the language of her comrades-in-arms. Yet these three, too, had other tasks to see to and little time to spend conversing in forgotten tongues, and in the last weeks before his illness Estel had made very little headway in his studies.

He was faring no better today: there were such rigid rules to the grammar, and his codex contained so limited a vocabulary that he was finding it difficult to put himself through exercises. His head ached, and he was tired. With a sigh, he pushed the book off of his lap and let his head and shoulders fall back against the cushions.

The bedroom door opened and Mother came in. She was wearing her cornflower-blue gown over a kirtle of brown summer wool, and with her plaits wrapped in a coronet around her head she looked very mortal. Estel noted with some relief that she seemed well-rested today: her eyes were not shadowed and her face was free of the furrows of worry that it had worn in recent days. She closed the door with care, and when she turned towards him he was smiling for her.

‘I thought you might be sleeping,’ Mother said, coming forward and seating herself on the side of the bed.

Estel shook his head. ‘I was trying to study,’ he said ruefully, indicating the cast-off volume beside him. ‘I wasn’t succeeding.’

Mother reached out to stroke his hair in a habitual gesture that was usually profoundly embarrassing. Just now, however, Estel did not mind it. It was good to be here in daylight, safe from the horrors that invaded his mind in the night, and it was good to know that he was loved.

‘You do not need to study if you are too tired,’ Mother told him. ‘Master Elrond has given strict instructions that you are to be allowed to rest.’ She gathered up the book and the tablet and moved both to the table by the bed. ‘I came to ask if you want me to bring you anything. It’s tiresome to lie here with nothing to do, isn’t it?’

Estel could see that her assertion was not really true: she had come up here to check on him, because she had been frightened and it comforted her to see him. Atar said it was impolite to point out what one knew about a person, especially if that person was making some pretext in an attempt to cast a different light on their actions. So Estel shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is a little dull,’ he allowed. ‘I can’t think of anything I want at the moment. Perhaps you could stay with me for a while?’

Her smile confirmed his judgement, and Estel was gratified: he had been proved right in his observations, and at the same time he had made Mother happy. She was so seldom happy. He supposed that was because his sire was dead, and she still loved him greatly.

Sometimes Estel wondered about his blood-sire. He knew that he had died eight years ago, but neither Mother nor Atar would ever explain how he had perished, or where. Beyond that, there was little that Estel knew. He supposed his sire must have been tall, for he was himself tall, but even the colour of his hair was a mystery: Mother had dark hair, and so did Estel. On several occasions he had tried to question Atar, but to no avail: his guardian had gently but firmly explained that Estel’s father could not be spoken about, and eventually the boy accepted this answer. As he grew older and wiser, Estel had come to realize that his foster-father acted out of wisdom, and that just because he could not understand the Elf-lord’s reasoning did not mean it was not sound.

As for Mother, Estel had not tried to broach the subject of his parentage with her since the day when, at the age of five, he had first truly understood that Atar was not his real father. On that day she had scolded him for his curiosity and fled from his room to weep behind the locked door of her own chamber. Her sorrow was less raw now, but it gave her an aura of unsettled mournfulness that was not unlike Atar’s more pensive moods. Perhaps, Estel thought, that explained why he loved them both so well when they did not particularly like one another.

Mother was fussing with the bedclothes, and Estel watched her, half amused. She had difficult sitting still. It seemed to be a mortal proclivity, this need to be in perpetual motion when one was uncomfortable. He had observed it in the Dúnedain who visited Rivendell, too. Though mortal himself, Estel had adopted many of the behaviours and attitudes of his Elven caretakers. Stillness was peaceful, and more soothing to an agitated spirit than anxious fidgeting. So he sat unmoving as his mother spent her nervous energy, and when she was finished and her restless hands returned to their roost in her lap, he spoke.

‘What is amiss?’ he asked. ‘You are troubled: what is wrong?’

She looked at him furtively, as if he had caught her in the midst of some secret act. Then suddenly tears stood forth in her eyes and she pressed the tips of her fingers to her mouth. Her other hand reached out and halted just short of his face. ‘You’re alive,’ she choked out.

Estel said nothing. Stillness was more soothing to an agitated spirit...

‘Y-you’re alive, he saved your life...’ A fat tear rolled down Mother’s cheek. ‘I thought...’

She seemed unable to express what she was trying to say, but Estel understood. He loosed his legs from the bedclothes and pulled himself across the mattress towards her. ‘I did not die,’ he said quietly. ‘I will heal. Do not be afraid, Mama.’

There was a soft, tremulous sob, and suddenly she was embracing him, hugging his body to hers with such force that Estel wondered if his ribs could bear the pressure. When at last her hold eased a little, he turned in her arms to find a more comfortable position. She was kissing the crown of his head, and murmuring something incoherent. At last she sniffed and drew her handkerchief from her sleeve while her other arm still held Estel close.

‘You sound like him,’ she said softly. Estel did not have to ask to whom she was referring: she had told him before that he sounded like Atar, and in the past she had not said so kindly. Now, however, there was some other subtext to her voice. She sounded resigned, sombrely acquiescent, almost defeated – as if this was a truth now, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

Mother took him by his forearms, holding him from her so that she could see him properly. The tears were spent, but the deep pain in her eyes still remained perilously near the surface. She sighed and caressed Estel’s jaw with her fingertips. ‘My poor baby,’ she whispered. ‘It has been so difficult for you. I promised... I promise I will try harder from now on. He has been so good to you; it is only natural that you should care for him. I understand that now, an-and I understand how much he loves you, too. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why?’ Estel asked, puzzled. He was not yet so skilled at the reading hearts of others that he could divine from her words how she wanted him to respond.

‘I have never made it easy for you: I tried to keep you to myself, and I tried to divide your love and your loyalty. I was wrong to do so. A child needs a father as much as a mother, and I see now that Master Elrond is your father in all but blood. I had thought... I had felt that he was usurping a place to which he had no right, but I was mistaken. He loves you dearly, and when you lay sick...’ She stopped, unable to continue. ‘I was wrong to speak ill of him in your presence. I was wrong to treat him like a rival for your affection. Can you forgive me?’

Estel nodded. He had long known that his mother disapproved of Atar, and that it displeased her when Estel went to the Elf-lord with his triumphs and his struggles, instead of choosing her. ‘I love you also, Mother,’ he said softly. ‘Because I love Atar does not mean I do not love you.’

‘I know that now,’ said Mother softly, her eyes haunted with sorrow and remorse. ‘I understand that now.’

Weariness descended suddenly upon Estel. His limbs felt weighted down with fatigue, and the aching in his body had returned. He was still weak, and he wanted to lie down, but he was not certain that he could crawl back to the head of the bed. ‘Mother?’ he said quietly.

‘Yes, my love?’ she said. There was a peculiar peace in her grieving eyes now: the cause of her distress had been laid bare, and her heart had been soothed.

‘I can’t...’ Estel looked longingly at the cushions. ‘I don’t think I could... can you help me lie down?’

A sound almost like a laugh issued from Mother’s lips. ‘Of course, dear heart,’ she acceded, sounding glad of the chance to tend to him. She got to her feet and rearranged the cushions, then held out her hands to help Estel back to his place in the bed. She eased his head down onto the pillow, and smoothed his nightshirt before drawing up the bedclothes and tucking them snugly around him. She gathered his long hair together, twisting it a little so that it would not fly in his face if he chanced to turn in his sleep. Her hands were capable and gentle, and Estel remembered why he loved to be put to bed by his mother. When she was finished, she went to the window and drew the diaphanous curtains so that the room grew dimmer. Then she took up a seat in the chair by the bed. Without needing to be asked she seemed to understand what he wanted, for she began to sing to him, her sweet, imperfect voice picking out the melody of a human lullaby. At length the room grew indistinct and vanished into darkness, and Estel slept.

lar

He awoke of his own accord, and not in the throes of some terror of the mind, when the afternoon sun was filtering through the silken drapes. Estel rolled onto his side and opened his mouth in a sundering yawn. His mouth was dry, and his eyes were sticky with sleep, but his head did not pain him and the soreness in his body had ebbed somewhat. When he felt ready to attempt movement, he turned to the other side to survey the rest of the room. He was alone again.

It took considerable effort and some careful manoeuvring, but he managed to get himself into a sitting position, with the cushions once more bolstered up behind him. The arrangement was perhaps not quite as tidy as it would have been had an adult contrived it, but it was comfortable enough.

His eyes fell upon the tome of Adûnaic by the bed, and with a resigned sigh he hauled it into his lap. If he did not make some effort, he would disappoint Erestor. Estel was very fond of his teacher, and he admired him greatly. He did not want to dissatisfy him.

He had not read more than four words when there was a soft knock at the door. Estel stiffened a little in surprise. His mother would not knock, and this was Atar’s own room, so he did not have to. Perhaps it was Erestor, come to check on his progress; if that were the case the written lesson might be turned into a spoken one, which the boy much preferred. ‘Come in!’ he said eagerly.

The door opened slowly, and a golden-haired Elf bearing a laden silver tray edged into the room, pushing the door with his shoulder. When he was safely through the entryway he looked up from his load and smiled enormously. His presence seemed to illuminate the entire room with grace and good cheer.

‘Glorfindel!’ Estel exclaimed merrily.

‘Good afternoon, young master!’ the Elf-lord said in kind. He moved around the bed, plucked the wax tablet and stylus off of the little table, and set down the tray. ‘You look much improved from the last occasion I had to see you.’

‘I think I am growing stronger,’ agreed Estel. ‘Perhaps tomorrow I may get out of bed for a little while.’ He frowned a little disconsolately. ‘I do not know if I am able to walk yet.’

‘That will come,’ Glorfindel promised. ‘And then I’ll have you running again in no time.’

This prospect was a pleasant one. Glorfindel had taken it upon himself to take charge of Estel’s physical education, and he was the nearest thing to a playmate that the boy had. It was Glorfindel who had taught him how to climb a tree properly – after a botched attempt without any instruction had led to a broken arm – and it was Glorfindel who took him rambling in the high places of the Valley and climbing by the falls. He was also coaching Estel in the art of running in the Elven fashion: fleet and tireless as wind on the plains. It was a difficult skill to learn, for as a Mortal Estel was at a significant disadvantage. He lacked the stamina of the Eldar, and his body was not built to trip tracklessly over the earth, but Glorfindel was adamant that even if he would never pass for an Elf, either in his running or in the faint trail he would leave, he might at least surpass the skills of Men. It was a lofty goal, but attainable, and they had been engaged in its attainment for the better part of a year.

‘I would like that,’ Estel said earnestly. ‘I am weary of this bed.’

‘Ah, but be wary!’ warned Glorfindel, drawing up the chair and settling in it. ‘If you press yourself too quickly, you will only squander the strength you have been gathering and add days, perhaps weeks, to your sojourn within it.’

‘I know,’ Estel sighed. ‘Atar and I discussed that at length this morning.’

‘And what are you engaged with this afternoon?’ asked the Elf, indicating the text in the boy’s hands.

‘Adûnaic.’

Glorfindel laughed. ‘Your tone tells me this is not a cherished study,’ he said. ‘You do not like the tongue of Númenor?’

‘No, I do not,’ Estel confirmed candidly. ‘It is an ugly tongue, and I have no use for it. Furthermore, there is no one with time to speak it with me, and that makes study difficult.’

‘I cannot help you in that respect,’ Glorfindel said. ‘I did not come to this place until long after the Last Alliance was broken and the Kingdom of the North had adopted a different dialect.’

Estel frowned. Glorfindel always spoke strangely of his birth. He had been born here, in Imladris – Erestor had said so once – and yet he always spoke of an arrival, rather than a birth. There was some mystery in his teacher and friend that Estel could not unravel. He would not do so now, either, he decided pragmatically.

‘How can I learn a language if I cannot use it?’ Estel asked. ‘And why does Atarinya wish me to learn it at all? It is a disused tongue, and even the men of the South Kingdom no longer speak it, or so says Erestor.’

‘If Erestor says it, it must be true. And surely you understand that your atar would never ask you to do anything if he did not believe that it was important.’ Glorfindel turned in his seat, and began to uncover the dishes on the tray. ‘While we debate this, your supper is growing cold.’

‘Where is Atarinya?’ Estel asked as the Elf-lord handed him a plate bearing a little loaf of fresh bread, roasted summer vegetables and a small piece of game hen. There was even a tiny dish of butter, which was a further sign that they thought he was recovering his appetite. ‘I have not seen him since this morning.’

‘Missives have come from Lindon, and he and Erestor have been in counsel with the bearers all day,’ Glorfindel said. ‘They shall most likely halt for the night in time for the evening meal, and I am certain that Elrond will look in on you once he has seen to the comfort of his guests. He has neglected them in your favour since the night the first party arrived.’

He had a flagon of cold milk on the tray, and from it he filled a mug. Estel balanced the plate on his lap while he took a mouthful of the nourishing fluid. Glorfindel took the mug and held it so that Estel might use both of his hands while he ate.

‘Have Elladan and Elrohir gone back into the wild?’ he asked between cautious bites. The healing draughts did much to settle his shrunken stomach, but their power was not infinite and he knew that he must not overeat.

‘No,’ said Glorfindel. ‘Or perhaps, “not precisely” would be nearer the truth. Elrohir is outside the Valley at the moment, but he is only on a brief expedition to reconnoiter the Pass. He is expected back tomorrow. Elladan has not left at all.’

‘Oh.’ Estel was at once pleased and disappointed. He admired the sons of Elrond enormously and worshiped them from afar, for they were doughty warriors, and the tales of their deeds inspired him with a desire to ride forth on quests of valour and might. They returned home so seldom, and their visits were a delight to him. He was pleased, because if they had not yet departed then he had not wasted their time of tarrying in fever and delirium. He was disappointed because they had not come up to see him. He knew they had little interest in him – a small mortal child who despite his value to their father surely seemed a nuisance to them – but in the past they had always been kind, and he had selfishly hoped they would at least care that he had been ill.

Glorfindel was watching him thoughtfully, and seemed read what was in his heart, because he said, 'When we feared you were dying, Elladan saw to the running of the household so that your atar could be freed to tend you. Elrohir spent many hours in this room; he guarded the door and brought whatever his father required. He was a great comfort to your mother, as well.'

'I am pleased to hear it,' Estel said with studied politeness. 'I shall have to thank them when I am well. And Gandalf the Grey, also: Atar said that he aided in my healing.'

'I understand he did. He is with Elrohir at the moment, for it is his party who will be taking the High Pass into the Lands Beyond. Perhaps there will be an opportunity for you to express your gratitude before he and his dwarves depart.'

'Dwarves?' Estel parroted, nearly losing the piece of fowl he had been chewing. He swallowed hurriedly and made haste to clarify. 'There are dwarves in the Valley?'

'Thirteen,' Glorfindel confirmed, launching into an animated account of the guests before Estel had a chance to demand one. 'They have been keeping the household very busy indeed, for each has a different notion of what makes a pleasant rest. Some like to smoke, some to sleep, and some to sing. They eat and they drink like hill trolls; if they stay more than a few weeks, the wine cellars will run dry! The smithies have been overrun, I am told, and there are dwarves in the kitchens and dwarves in the library. I found one the other day in the space under the backstairs, investigating what method our architects had used to keep them standing.'

Estel laughed at the thought of anyone questioning the skill of the Noldor who had ensured that this house had endured for more than four thousand years with only the most routine of maintenance. 'Do they think so little of Elven craftsmen?' he asked.

'I think, rather, that they're too curious for their own good. Not unlike a little man-child I know,' Glorfindel said playfully, cuffing Estel's arm lightly with his knuckles.

'I have an inquiring mind,' Estel said primly. 'That is how I learn.'

'Indeed it is, and someday I fancy you will find that you have learned rather more than you want to know,' warned the Elf-lord. The words sounded not unlike a portent, and Estel shifted uncomfortably against the cushions. He knew that Atar had had some vision concerning him last night, when they had been speaking about fear and the struggle against evil. It made him uncomfortable to think that his future was something into which others might look, like a shadow box, while he remained ignorant.

'Tell me more about the dwarves,' he said, trying to sound merry despite the chill that had settled on his heart. It did not occur to him that this, too, might be a premonition, for it had never crossed his mind that mortals might possess some measure of Elven-sight.

'Well,' said Glorfindel thoughtfully, though his smile was now strained at the left corner, where he carried his cares; 'their leader is Thorin, called Oakenshield. It seems he won the name in battle in Moria. He is a venerable dwarf, and he wears a large gold chain. He is very self-assured, perhaps a little arrogant. He has no doubt that he and his followers will succeed in their quest.'

'What is their quest?' Estel asked, his spirits recovering swiftly as the shadow on his soul dispersed.

'They intend to overthrow the dragon Smaug, and to retake Erebor.'

'Thirteen dwarves?' said Estel skeptically.

'And a hobbit,' Glorfindel confirmed. 'You have studied the fall of Dale: can it be done?'

Estel's brow furrowed as he considered the question. Strategy and tactics was another subject in which Glorfindel was tutoring him, though Atar did not entirely approve of such subjects for so young a pupil. They had considered the destruction of Dale several months ago, shortly after the last of Gandalf the Grey's visits, and many of the details now eluded him, but Estel remembered the diagrams of the dwarven halls for maps, like tongues, came easily to him. 'I do not think that it can,' he said. 'If they assailed the gate, the dragon would see them approaching, and pick them off as they came. If they drew it out onto the plain, they would likewise have no chance of survival. Dragons are not easy creatures to slay.'

Glorfindel laughed. 'You sound like your father,' he said.

Estel's expression darkened. His friend's words had touched upon the issue that had plauged him earlier in the day. 'My real father?' he asked guardedly.

'Your father who loves you and who has just spent many days and nights at your bedside, nursing you through your illness,' Glorfindel translated without pause.

'Oh,' Estel whispered, and he felt suddenly serene. As always, Glorfindel had found a way to make an impossible question seem exquisitely simple. 'My real father.'