TITLE: Nothing Special, Chapter Five
PROMPT: #172: Foreign (498 Words)
AUTHOR: Marethiel
RATING: PG-13 overall (for potentially disturbing images)
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, drat it. I just take ‘em out to play. Many thanks to Professor Tolkien for creating these wonderful souls to populate my imagination.
NOTES: Sequel to O.A.A. Prompts #168: Special, #169: Careful, #170: Letter; #171: Question.
What is it in him that allows him not to lose heart? When there is no hope, no possibility of escape? Is it some form of madness? Or is just that Elves and Men truly are that foreign from one another?
I recall angrily asking Elrohir, as we sat under a tree fashioning arrows, what Elrond could have been thinking, to try to raise a child of Men in Imladris, where, at every turn, this child could do naught but trail behind the others, never as strong, as agile, as fast…
“Perhaps not. But he possesses other gifts to help him meet the challenges ahead,” Elrohir had answered, glancing up from his work to watch the young one in question, just five summers. Estel had wandered out to the clearing by the Healing Halls. It was here Elrond allowed his ambulatory patients to take fresh air and sun.
“What good are other gifts when strength and agility are needed to keep him alive?” I demanded, irritably.
Elrohir stopped his work and studied the child, then smiled broadly. “Watch,” he directed softly.
Estel had met a challenge. Apparently the injured elf, Brithlach, was thirsty, as Estel went to the table, raised himself up on tiptoe and eyed the heavy pitcher. He hesitated, knowing he wasn’t strong enough to lift it and pour. Brithlach had badly burned both hands in a forge accident, and could offer no help himself. Estel wrinkled his brow in thought, looked around him, then smiled reassuringly at Brithlach. The child slipped a book against the heavy pitcher’s base, providing a fulcrum against which to tip and half-fill the glass. With patience beyond his years, Estel had solved one problem. Glass in hand, Estel then turned to Brithlach, advanced slowly and, smiling encouragement, carefully held the glass to Brithlach’s lips.
“Cunning and compassion,” Elrohir said softly as we watched. He glanced at me, sidelong. “And… he never gives up.”
Elrohir was correct. Even now, captured, Estel ponders escape scenarios, some wildly improbable, others calculated but requiring more in weaponry and numbers than we have, but always with one, inexorable outcome: that we will live. My injuries are already healing, despite little water and barely enough food to keep upright. His are not. He physically grows weaker with each hour, but his spirit quails not. I do not understand…
“Mellon… your eyes betray rather deep thoughts,” croaked Estel as he leaned back against the wall of the cave.
“Aye.” I slowly ease myself to my feet and turn to look at this mortal. That day in the gardens seem only yesterday, yet this child is now a man. “Estel… will you never allow despair to stop you?” I asked gently, my question startling him.
After dropping his head for a moment, he sighed, then shook his head wearily. “Nay, mellon nin,” he replied, smiling sadly. “I may know not the name of my true father… but I can at least live up to the one given me.”
** to be continued **