Chapter XIV: The Valley in June

Estel sat disconsolately at the window of his mother’s sitting-room, leaning on the sill so that the sunshine fell full upon his face. It was a glorious day: spring was drawing to a close in splendid form. Even from a second-floor window he could smell the primroses and the apple-blossoms and the sweet tang of fresh fruit on the cherry trees. The river glittered like a girdle of diamonds and the sky was so clear that the very pinnacles of the mountains could be seen in exquisite detail. Far away, a falcon was circling with its broad winds spread to catch the eddies of warm air high above the earth.

It was the very best time of year, this last week mounting towards the apex of summer, and here Estel sat, imprisoned indoors and unable to enjoy any of it. He supposed that he would not be allowed to participate in the midsummer revels in three nights’ time, either.

‘Ai! Estel!’ A call from below roused him from his reverie. Glorfindel stood beneath his window. Ashamed of his self-pitying thoughts, the boy waved at his friend.

‘How do you feel today?’ asked the Elf-lord, sweeping his golden hair away from his brow with a nimble hand.

‘Much better, thank you,’ Estel replied. It was his own fault that he was recovering so slowly: he had spent the last two days regaining the strength expended in his midnight wanderings. Despite his father’s assurances to the contrary, Estel suspected that these were the fruits of cowardice: had he borne his fears alone he would not have squandered the resources of his ravaged body. Atar had sat with him the last two nights, but Estel was resolved that when he ceased to do so he would cope with the dreams himself.

‘I am delighted to hear it!’ Glorfindel said, his merry smile banishing the black thoughts. ‘Why do you not trade in those bedtime weeds for some proper clothing? I shall be up to see you directly, and I grow weary of seeing you dressed like an invalid.’

‘I am an invalid,’ Estel said bitterly, looking down at his rumpled nightshirt.

‘Indeed you are not!’ said Glorfindel, feigning indignation. ‘You are a convalescent, and that is a different matter entirely.’

‘I do not see how,’ Estel told him frankly.

‘Put on your clothes, and when I come up I will show you,’ Glorfindel instructed. ‘Be quick: the household will be gathering for the noon meal soon.’

‘I cannot go down for the noon meal: Atarinya says I am too sickly to be seen by the guests,’ Estel argued.

‘Do as I say and be quick about it,’ said Glorfindel, his bright eyes twinkling with a teasing light. ‘You need not question everything you are told to do.’

‘If I do not question, then I shall never learn to think critically,’ Estel retorted, parroting one of Erestor’s favourite axioms. His spirits were lifting considerably: the Elf-lord obviously had some plan to occupy him, and he was in sore need of a distraction.

Glorfindel made a broad gesture of defeat and vanished beneath the eaves. Estel pushed himself away from the window and got to his feet. He did so somewhat too swiftly, for his head swam and he was obliged to catch himself against the casement mouldings.

After a moment his vision cleared, and he was able to cross the room to the door of his own chamber. He moved more slowly than he had before his illness, but his legs no longer shook and he reached his bedroom without incident. He rummaged in his clothes-press and gathered up one of the new shirts Mother had been making for him, a cote of linen dyed with woad, fresh braies and a pair of sensibly green hose. His shoes were tucked neatly under the bed, and his supple leather belt was hanging on a peg behind the door. He made quick work of dressing, though he had to pause halfway through pointing the hose to let his heartbeat settle from the exertion. He did so impatiently but resolutely: he was determined not to overtax himself again.

No sooner had he finished than there came a knock at the anteroom door. He stumbled as he took his first step towards it, and snorted softly. He had grown used to walking about without shoes, and he had let the tapered leather toe catch on the braided rug by his bed.

‘That is a glad sight!’ Glorfindel said as Estel drew open the door. ‘Do you not feel better, now that you are no longer moping around in your nightclothes?’

Estel nodded vehemently. ‘Now tell me: what is the difference between an invalid and a convalescent?’ he demanded.

‘An invalid must rest quietly in bed or at the fireside, husbanding his strength to combat his illness,’ Glorfindel said. ‘A convalescent, having won that battle and driven forth the foe, is regaining his energy for his own benefit. Such a one is free to move about his chambers, and to visit the library, and even to go out in the company of a friend to sit in the sunshine and enjoy the last days of spring.’

‘Then it seems I am an invalid,’ Estel said sourly; ‘for though I may move about my chambers I cannot stray far from bed or hearth, and when I went to the library three nights ago I was…’ He stopped as the realization dawned. ‘You are going to take me outdoors?’ he asked, at once awe-filled and eager.

Glorfindel smiled playfully. ‘Unless you would rather sit here and bemoan your unlucky lot,’ he said with an indolent shrug of his shoulders.

‘No, indeed!’ exclaimed Estel. Then he frowned and said sadly; ‘But mayhap I am not strong enough yet.’

‘Nonsense,’ Glorfindel said dismissively. ‘You are much recovered, and we shall be careful not to overburden you. I think you are well enough for such an outing and your father agrees. He has given me leave to take you out for an hour or two.’

‘What if the dwarves see me? Mother says we cannot have them gossiping from the Ered Luin to the Sea of Rhûn about a sickly mortal child in the House of Elrond.’ Estel did not understand why it was of any import who gossiped about him or where, but the question seemed very significant to the adults.

‘Were you not listening when I told you that the noon meal is about to begin? The dwarves love food well nigh as much as they love gold: they shall all be in the dining hall for an hour at least, and when they are sated it seems they like to nap. None of their number shall be wandering the gardens until mid-afternoon at the earliest.’ Glorfindel raised an amused eyebrow. ‘We shall have you back before they are astir.’

‘Where are we going? I cannot walk far,’ Estel said.

‘Take my hand and I will lend you the strength to reach the kitchen doors,’ Glorfindel said. ‘There is someone waiting there to carry you to our destination.’

Estel was growing weary of the indignity of being carried about like a cripple, but he wanted so desperately to sit in the fresh air and sunlight that it seemed a small price to pay. He slipped his hand into the Elf-lord’s and felt the vestiges of weariness fall away. Together they walked down the corridor and descended the back stairs to the doors that led into the kitchen gardens. With a little surge of triumph, Estel stepped out of the house for the first time in almost a fortnight.

When he saw who was waiting to carry him, his pride was mollified. By the stone wall that prevented inattentive wanderers from treading on the neat squares of carefully tended herbs stood a tall white stallion with mane and tail of gold.

‘Palarran!’ Estel exclaimed happily. The horse snorted in recognition, pawing the ground expectantly. ‘I am sorry: I have nothing to give you,’ the boy told him with regret.

‘Here,’ Glorfindel said, bending to pluck up one a sprig of parsley from a row near his foot. Estel laughed a little at the Elf-lord’s audacity: if the folk who tended the garden caught him he would receive a vicious scolding. He took the fresh herb and held it out to the beast, keeping his palm flat and his fingers bent well back. He did not think that Glorfindel’s horse would nip him in haste, but it paid to be cautious.

Palarran finished with the parsley and nuzzled Estel’s shoulder affectionately. The boy reached up to stroke the side of his head. ‘Will you carry me?’ he asked softly, murmuring into animal’s ear as was the Elven fashion. Palarran raised his head and tossed his mane, making a sound of assent.

‘Let me give you a leg up,’ Glorfindel said, bending to take hold of his left calf. ‘It did not seem necessary to saddle him: he is gentle enough with those who have leave to ride him, and you have ridden bare-backed before.’

‘It’s perfect,’ Estel said blissfully. He took a firm hold on the base of the mane with his left hand. Then with a burst of energy that he had not imagined he possessed he launched himself up. Glorfindel gave the slightest of boosts to his leg, and Estel planted his free palm on Palarran’s withers. He swung his right leg over the beast’s broad back and settled gently into place. Releasing the golden mane he stroked the side of Palarran’s neck in thanks.

‘Well done,’ Glorfindel applauded, dusting off his hands. ‘You have not lost your fine seat. Come now, fair one: away.’

The horse turned and broke into a lazy trot, and Glorfindel ran lithely alongside. Estel rose and fell with care in time to the beast’s movements: he was a good rider, for he had been well-taught. His hair flew behind him in the breeze of their passage, and he laughed aloud. It felt so marvellous to be free at last of the confines of the house. He thought of the falcon he had seen circling the sky, and he thought that he could understand what such liberty might feel like.

The ride was over all too soon: they had not gone more than half a mile from the house when Palarran slowed to a walk, and Glorfindel with him. They were on the far side of the apple orchard, where the trees were frosted with fragrant blossoms. The horse moved into the clearing between the copse and the river, and halted.

‘Shall I help you down?’ Glorfindel asked merrily. In answer, Estel slid off the stallion’s back, rubbing his flank affectionately. ‘Apparently not,’ said the Elf-lord, amusement in his eyes.

‘What are we doing here?’ Estel asked. ‘There are other places to sit in the sun.’

‘Ah, but I shall not be sitting long,’ Glorfindel said mischievously. ‘The most important thing is that though near the house, we cannot be readily seen from it. It seems that our companion has not yet arrived. Perhaps you would like to wander a little before he does?’

‘I think not,’ Estel answered gravely. The truth was that the ride had taken more energy than he had expected. ‘I would like to sit in the grass instead.’

Glorfindel nodded, and held some brief discourse with his horse. Palarran moved off and began to graze contentedly. Estel looked around for a good place to rest, and his eyes fell upon a large stone near the riverbank. He sat down with his back to the warm, sun-kissed side, and exhaled contentedly.

‘Sometimes I think you are half elven yourself,’ Glorfindel said, watching the child’s expression with pleasure. ‘You wilt if left too long out of the sun.’

‘Mayhap I am half tree,’ Estel countered.

‘Ah, but your skin is not rough enough.’ Glorfindel raised his head, ear cocked to the wind. He grinned. ‘He approaches.’

‘Who?’ laughed Estel. His question was answered a moment later when Elrohir came out of the apple-grove, a basket over one elbow and two sheathed arming swords tucked under the other. The Men who sometimes visited the Valley often remarked that the Sons of Elrond looked so much alike that it was difficult to differentiate one from the other, but Estel never had any trouble doing so. He supposed it was because he had learned to be more observant than other mortals, living as he did among the Firstborn.

‘Greetings!’ Elrohir said, setting the basket at Estel’s feet and bowing courteously. ‘It is a pleasure to see you abroad once more.’

Such an affable salutation from one he admired so greatly suffused Estel with pleasure and pride. The twin brothers had always been courteous, but in these last days they had gone out of their way to make signs of friendship. Perhaps, he thought, he had at last grown enough that they no longer considered him unworthy of more than the most cursory notice.

‘Speechless?’ Glorfindel asked. ‘Elrohir, you are a worker of wonders. I have never before seen him stricken silent.’

Estel flushed a little. ‘I am not speechless,’ he said pertly, trying to win back his dignity. ‘I was simply wondering what you are going to do with those swords: if you have brought me out of sight of the house so that you may slay me, I shall have to decide if I have the strength to swim the river, or whether I would be wiser to try to hide in the orchard.’

Elrohir laughed. ‘I hope he is not in earnest, Glorfindel. Though I always thought you capable of anything.’ He laid the weapons carefully in the grass and then sat, crossing his legs under him. ‘We shall eat first, I think.’ He obscured his mouth with one hand and whispered to Estel, ‘He is slower on his feet when his belly is full.’

‘Are you going to spar, then?’ Estel asked curiously, eying the swords.

‘Dinner first,’ Elrohir said firmly. He began to divest the basket of its contents, and for a few minutes there was very little to be said. Estel found himself unexpectedly ravenous, and the picnic meal was very tempting. There was cold venison and new bread, a small wheel of cheese, a dish of early blackberries, fresh peas and little carrots that had been thinned from the rows so that others might grow. There was a skin of water with ice in it, and a small flagon of sweet white wine, from which Estel was allowed to take a mouthful. Elrohir ate with almost as much abandon as the mortal child, though Glorfindel did not seem especially hungry.

When the meal was finished and the remains swept away into the basket, Elrohir stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles and leaning back against his left arm. Glorfindel grinned at him. ‘You look half ready for a nap, Peredhil,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should have left you inside with the dwarves.’

‘Spare me from such trials!’ Elrohir said. ‘It is my brother who is fond of the Children of Mahal, not I. I much prefer the company of Men: they are as clever and as brave as any dwarf, and they are less likely to sing.’

‘Estel has a fine singing voice,’ commented Glorfindel.

‘Ah, but Estel has been properly trained. Haven’t you, my boy?’ Elrohir seemed genuinely interested.

‘Atarinya taught me,’ said Estel, a little shyly.

‘There you are, then,’ the warrior said. ‘You will not warble like a Man or squawk like a dwarf.’ He sprung to his feet. ‘Come, now, Glorfindel: I am ready!’

The other Elf rose and picked up one of the blades, drawing it from its sheath and discarding the scabbard in the grass. ‘You grow taller with each passing day,’ he said to Estel. ‘In another year’s time you will be large enough to begin learning the art of swordplay, but before that day comes you must spend many hours studying the art and theory of the blade, and many hours more observing others while they ply it. Today we shall give you your first lesson. Be alert and watch carefully: victory is in a large part the ability to observe and anticipate your opponent’s motions.’

Estel leaned forward eagerly. Sometimes the folk of the valley had contests of skill in which they sparred together, and he delighted to watch such displays. It was extraordinary to have one staged privately for him.

‘This is not for your benefit alone,’ Glorfindel said, reading the drift of his thoughts. ‘Elrohir needs to start using his sword-arm again so that it does not stiffen in the healing. He thought you might enjoy watching him, and I thought you might enjoy watching me defeat him.’

Estel had almost forgotten that the younger Peredhil twin had sustained an injury while scouting in the mountains. ‘Is it healing so soon?’ he asked avidly. ‘May I see the wound?’

‘A healer first and then a warrior, I see,’ Elrohir remarked. He pulled up his right sleeves and bared his forearm, where a long, ragged wound had been neatly stitched closed. It was knitting well, and soon the sutures would be ready to be removed.

‘Was it painful?’ asked Estel hypnotically.

‘Not so painful as the blow to my pride, to be wounded by a saucy mountain goblin in front of Gandalf the Grey,’ Elrohir assured him. He covered the wound again and picked up the other sword. ‘Defend yourself, golden one!’ he cried, launching himself at Glorfindel.

The two blades clashed, and Glorfindel threw off his assailant. They circled one another, left arms thrust back for balance.

‘Ordinarily in such a contest we wait until both combatants are ready,’ Glorfindel called out to Estel as he advanced and the swords met again. ‘In practice an assailant rarely waits. In a contest of life and death, it is imperative to overcome your initial shock—’ He swung his weapon in a graceful arc, and Elrohir danced out of the way. ‘—and regain swift control of the situation.’

There was a ringing of steel as Elrohir engaged. Glorfindel tried to throw him off, but the blades screeched and the golden-haired Elf was thrown off. He stumbled but managed to right himself smoothly and assumed a defensive stance. ‘Never counter force with force,’ Elrohir sang out. ‘You will lose every time.’ Glorfindel’s blade came down and Elrohir turned his wrist. The advancing sword glanced off of his. ‘Use your opponent’s momentum against him!’

‘Have a care not to remain still for more than a heartbeat,’ instructed Glorfindel, circling around for a fresh engagement. He sprung forward in a smooth balestra and thrust forward onto his lead knee. Elrohir narrowly evaded him. ‘Swordplay is a dance: stagnate and you will falter.’

He struck again, and Elrohir parried the blow with ease. ‘Distract your opponent, but never yourself,’ he said, pivoting on one foot and then feinting to the left. Glorfindel anticipated the motion and lunged to meet him as he shifted to the right. ‘Obviously orcs are more easily distracted than Elves,’ Elrohir added ruefully as he redoubled with his blade and made contact once more.

‘A keen eye will serve you better than the mightiest arm,’ said Glorfindel. ‘Strategy is more valuable than might.’ He took a smooth step forward, and Elrohir danced back. Estel clapped a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing aloud as he saw what his teacher was intending to do.

‘Still, might is not unhelpful,’ Elrohir countered, arcing forward. The blades met and he thrust his weight onto his sword-arm, sweeping Glorfindel’s weapon in a broad circle. A flash of pain crossed Elrohir’s face: the exertion had put pressure on his sutures. In the moment of distraction Glorfindel flicked his blade forward and Elrohir sprung instinctively back. His back hit the bole of the apple tree toward which his opponent had been driving him, and with a twitch of his wrist Glorfindel whacked the tip of his sword against the crossguard of Elrohir’s. The weapon flew from the half-Elf’s hand and Glorfindel stepped forward, his bare blade levelled before Elrohir’s throat.

‘Strategy,’ he repeated with relish, panting a little; ‘is more valuable than might.’

Elrohir chuckled ruefully, rubbing his sore forearm with his left hand. ‘You took advantage of my infirmity,’ he teased.

‘So I did,’ Glorfindel agreed, moving to recover his sheath and to cover the blade. He turned to Estel. ‘Advance intelligence is invaluable. Know your enemy, and you may see how best to conquer him.’

‘Well, what did you think?’ Elrohir asked the boy, casting himself and his naked sword down on the greensward and picking up the water-skin. He took a long draught of the cooling fluid and daubed his mouth with the back of his hand in a strikingly human gesture.

‘Marvellous,’ Estel said enthusiastically. ‘You both fought very well... I think.’

‘You are quite right: we did,’ Glorfindel said.

‘Humility is not one of his defining traits,’ Elrohir said in a loud stage whisper. He added affably, ‘Tell me: would you have fallen for the apple tree trick?’

‘I would have been disarmed on the first thrust,’ Estel said honestly; ‘but it seems to me that knowledge of your terrain can be every bit as useful as knowledge of your opponent.’

‘Well spoken!’ Glorfindel said. ‘Common sense is most important of all, and that you have in abundance.’ He cuffed Estel lightly on the shoulder. ‘I shall look forward to the day when you and I may spar thus.’

Estel smiled in genuine pleasure. Neither life nor convalescence seemed so difficult as it had two hours before. ‘We should return to the house,’ he said, with only a little regret. ‘The guests will surely be stirring soon, and I must be safely inside before they do.’

‘Such an obedient youth,’ Elrohir commented.

‘And yet so obstinate,’ said Glorfindel fondly.

They made their way back inside, and Glorfindel escorted Estel back to his room. Mother was there, drowsing in her rocking chair by the window. A bluebird was singing in the garden below. Estel smiled as he quietly closed the anteroom door. June was the merriest time of the year.