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1
“How?” Gilraen asked, her hand on his cold breast. It was the wrong question. How was painfully, gruesomely evident, even though they had tried to hide the wound by tying a bloody cloth around his head. She wondered if they had really thought it would help. How cold she must seem! No matter how she stared, the tears would not come. She tried, tried to see her husband in the still, grey features, but this was not Arathorn, no more than a bit of dried venison was still the stag.
One of them - she’d never been able to tell them apart - hastened to explain. “The orcs, just south of the Ettenmoors, my lady -”
“I can see how he died,” she snapped, and he quieted, glancing at his brother. Maybe she should have tried to grieve more gently. Maybe there was a way to do this that didn’t make the sons of Elrond stare at her like that. She felt like a wounded hawk, just waiting for someone to reach a gentle hand to her so that she could tear and tear and tear at it.
“Where is your son, my lady?” The other one asked.
“He is with my mother,” she said. It was a small blessing.
The sons of Elrond shared another one of those glances that seemed to hold an entire conversation. “He is well, though?”
She laughed at that, a harsh and sickening sound to her own ears. “He is! A strong lad, much like his father.”
She turned her eyes on them and was glad that she could not cry, for how else would she have seen them flinch? “Will you tell him that you are the reason his papa is not ever coming home? That you are the ones who allowed the orcs to slay my husband?”
They left her then. What was there to say after that?
It took her a long time to find her tears. She washed his body, familiar and foreign at once: callused hands that had touched her with sweet strength, the crook of his shoulder where she loved to lay her head, the cheeks that would bunch round with laughter when he held his son, all overlaid with the grey stillness of death, like it was a costume that could be pulled off. She did not weep. She dressed him in his best woolen tunic, the one he saved for winter festivals. It was summer, but maybe if he grew too uncomfortable, he would sit up, shrug it off and dance about in his linen smallclothes. She did not weep. She combed his hair and oiled his beard, trying hard not to stare at the terrible ruin of his eye. A helm she found that had once been her father’s. It did not hide the wound, but if she placed it just so, it cast enough of a shadow. She could not bear to part with his old clothes, soiled though they were with sweat and gore, so she set them aside with the rest of the washing.
When she walked to her mother’s house, she did not weep. She held her head high against the stares and the pity. Her son buried his face in her hair and clung to her with sticky fingers and did not understand.
“You’ll let us stay with you tonight, won’t you?” her mother asked.
“If you wish it,” she said, and carried her child back to her home.
It was quiet in the house where Arathorn lay still on the table. Where else should he have been?
Of course. He should have been at her side, his son lifted high in his arms to pick an apple, to point at a squirrel, to be the first to spot the little carved owl at the peak of their thatched roof, standing guard against mice.
Gilraen cuddled her son close as they looked together upon his face and as she tried to find words to tell her strong little son that his Papa wouldn’t wake up. Aragorn looked at the body of his father with wide eyes and three of his fingers in his mouth.
Her parents arrived then, Ivorwen a river of anxious talk, no spaces left for Gilraen to fill.
Dirhael came in a few steps behind, slowed by his limp. He had been with Arador when the hill trolls had slain him and had taken an arrow in the back of his knee.
“Ah, my daughter,” he said, taking her in his arms and petting her hair the way he had when she was a girl. Aragorn squirmed and he let them go with a whiskery kiss to his grandson’s head. Ivorwen had already taken over the cooking area, slicing the greens from a bundle of turnips and setting them aside. With a few efficient chops, the roots were cast into one of Gilraen’s pots.
“Mother -”
“I’m looking for your fish, dear. Don’t tell me you didn’t smoke any of that trout that your father brought you last month,” she looked at Dirhael and then away quickly.
“Over there,” she pointed to a shelf, setting Aragorn down. His chin was trembling so she passed him the straw-stuffed bunny with the button eyes. “Mother, sit down, please.”
“Onion, sage. Dirhael, will you draw some more water? Oh no, you’ve no pepper, have you? No matter, I -”
“Mother!”
Ivorwen’s hands fluttered to a stop and she pressed her knuckles to her lips, her shoulders starting to shake at last. “I - I am so sorry, my daughter.”
The tears did not come when her mother folded her into her arms and sobbed into her hair. Nor did they come when she held her face and confessed that she had known; that both of her parents had seen Arathorn’s death looming close, that they would have spared her the pain, but for their son...
They did not come when they laid Arathorn to rest, their people gathered around her, singing their songs of parting.
Perhaps, she thought, her anger burned too hot for tears. Sadness was for the quiet, for the wet and the cold. Her rage was a desert, an inferno. Sometimes the coals were banked, warm beneath a blanket of ash, and she could nurse her son, sing him to sleep without fear of burning him. Still, it never took more than a breath of air to bring her to flame.
“When will you go?” her mother asked.
“Go?” Gilraen parroted, as if she did not know the foolishness that her mother spoke of.
“To Rivendell.”
“I will not go,” said Gilraen. She did not look at the letter that the twins had delivered, still sealed with the arc of stars.
“You’ll not send him alone, surely.”
Gilraen set down the basket of washing with a thump. Aragorn stared at her with wide eyes. “He shall not go, either.”
“You must, daughter. The line of Isildur has always -”
“That is always what it is, of course. The line of Isildur ,” she mocked. “ That is why you wed me to Arathorn when you knew he was as good as dead. He may as well have been a prize bull for all his life mattered to anyone else. He sired a son, the line of Isildur continues and now you want me to send my son away. Why?” she demanded. “Why must our chieftains be sent away, fostered by strangers? How are they to know their people if they are not among them? How long will we be the toys of the house of Elrond, play-acting in a kingdom that has been dead for centuries?”
“Lord Elrond has always been a friend to his brother’s heirs.”
“Yes, of course, and they have surely been blessed with safety and long life!”
She seized the basket of washing.
“Can you watch him?”
In the end, she wept, of course. At the riverside, her hands full of a bloodstained tunic, she spat great choking sobs into the flowing water until she was dry and wrung out, hung on the line for the wind to blow through.
And in the end, she went.
2
The journey to Rivendell was long and lonely. That was Gilraen’s own doing, of course.
Elrond had sent an escort, beautiful elf lords as bright and sharp as eagles.
She rode wrapped in Arathorn’s grey wool cloak, like a sparrow puffed up against the cold and could not think what she could possibly have to say to them.
Aragorn thought it frightening at first, and sat before her on their quiet mare, watching the strangers, his pudgy little fingers tight in the horse’s mane, and his wide eyes staring at all around him. The horse before them was so white that he almost glowed, tuned bells jingling with every step.
Gilraen had not quite dared to look at the rider, for he fairly shone. Instead she had murmured her answers, held Aragorn tight, and looked only at his hands when he had helped her onto her horse.
Aragorn seemed unable to look away from him, eyes locked on the horse’s swaying tail. He craned his neck to look back at her, and then pointed at the horse. “Pretty!” he pronounced.
“Yes, Lord Glorfindel has a very pretty horse,” she said, smoothing down his hair and kissing the top of his head.
Overhearing, no doubt, the lord dropped back, his great white charger falling easily in step beside her. He pulled a face at Aragorn, crossing his eyes and puffing out his cheeks. It did little to temper the golden sheen that was almost enough to hurt her eyes.
“My Lady,” he said, “do you see where the land rises yonder?” He pointed to where she could just see the shadows of hills. At her nod, he went on, “There are sheltered places where we may camp, and clear streams.”
“Do I seem so weary already?” she asked.
“No, my lady,” he said, with a smile that even her mood could not easily banish, “but little feet may get weary of riding all day, and be eager to run before they must sleep.” He scrunched his nose and pursed his lips at Aragorn until he giggled. Then, with a half bow for Gilraen, he rose in his stirrups and the white horse ran ahead, light-footed and jingling.
There was singing around their fires at night. Of course there was. Aragorn loved it, listening, rapt and wide eyed, standing in front of her, one hand on her knee, the other in his mouth while he bounced in time with the song. She forced a smile and clapped along.
They left Gilraen to her thoughts, and she could not blame them. She did not reach out either.
Aragorn, though, was the center of all of them. They spoke softly to him, sometimes in the common tongue, sometimes in wispy Sindarin, and Aragorn would reply with whatever wonder had caught his eye, sometimes laughing, sometimes mirroring their gravity. When he was serious, they laughed the most, and he looked at his mother in confusion. He grew brave, though, and when they danced, he would stand beside them and twirl in a circle, proud when they applauded and lifted him to spin him in their arms.
Aragorn was an easy child; he slept well, he was curious and quiet, happy to be cuddled tight in his mother’s arms, but brave enough to sit tall astride Asfaloth when Glorfindel led the white stallion slowly down the road, but he was still a child of two.
Sometimes his little tunic rubbed at his neck, sometimes he was tired, sometimes the journey wore on him, despite his merry new friends, and he would shriek, his little face red and twisted with his tiny agonies.
The elves would flutter about, cooing like a flock of worried doves.
Sometimes Gilraen wished she might have the birds instead. They eventually learned to leave her to it when he was like this, and it finally occurred to her that for all their extravagant love for her child, they had little idea of what to do with him.
She chose the quiet, impatient one for her questions.
“You’ve seen through us, my lady,” he said, setting aside the little leather-bound journal that he always carried. “We are a waning people. We have always been slow to bear children and now, in these shadowed years, we dare not. It has been, oh, decades since the last child was born in Imladris. Your son is a wonder to us, but you are right. We have little idea of what a human child needs.”
“And yet you have undertaken to raise the heirs of Isildur?”
He chuckled. “I know. Fools, aren’t we?” He watched Aragorn as he helped Glorfindel to gather kindling, his fists full of sticks and pine needles, and turned back to her. “You wonder what gives us the right. I wonder that myself, sometimes. I am not as optimistic as my Lord, and I do not think that Imladris will stand to see the line of Elros reclaim the throne of Gondor. You did not speak to me seeking comfort, though, did you?”
“I thought that you would be honest.”
“Good. I will offer you a small bit of cheer, though. My Lord is good and kind. Your son will want for nothing in Imladris.”
“Nothing except the companionship of his own people,” she replied.
“Ah, but my lady,” the elf said, “I think that you may be resourceful enough to remedy that.”
“Erestor, Lady Gilraen! Come see the fire our young master has built!”
So the journey continued, stopping when the mortals needed rest, or when the elves needed to greet a flower or to slowly circle an old tree, singing, their hands soft upon its bark.
Aragorn became talkative now that he was accustomed to his new companions and little crumbs of Sindarin started to sprinkle his discourses. She held him very close at night.
They reached Rivendell after a day of soft mists and rain. Their companions had thought it a very fine distraction, tipping the perfection of their faces to the sky while Gilraen sat her mare in silence, damp and miserable.
A few days ago the land had changed beneath their feet as they climbed to the pines and then descended among the running waters into the hidden valley of Rivendell.
They followed a white stone path beside a rain-swollen brook and the elves greeted their home with yet another song, quickly returned as their fellows streamed forth from the warm doors of the house of Elrond Halfelven, bearing golden lanterns. Gilraen was helped from her horse by hands soft and certain and, wrapped, dreamlike in warm blankets and golden light, she found herself before the Lord of the Valley, her sleeping son held tight in her arms.
Had she expected grand halls, soaring chambers? Perhaps. What she found instead was a simple chamber, walls painted a pale green, dark wood beams at the star-painted ceiling, at the frame of the window, their carved surfaces alive in the flickery lamp that hung above Elrond’s desk. The walls were hidden by a wealth of books and scrolls shoved haphazardly into the shelves and the desk had been hastily cleared of inkpot and parchment. Her gaze landed upon a sketch of a plant and beside it, the weed itself, dirt still clinging to its swollen root, the one large leaf beginning to wilt.
“Ah,” the lord said, following her gaze, “Bloodroot. See?” He picked it up and snapped the root between his fingers, bright red juice smearing on his fingers. “The Men of Rohan make a drawing salve from it. A tincture of the juice is a strong emetic. Like most things, too much is a poison.” He wiped his fingers on his sleeve. “Forgive me. You have not traveled all this way for a lecture. Please, sit. Wine?”
She shook her head and settled herself on a narrow bench.
Aragorn stirred against her shoulder, rousing to peer sleepily around the room, his little fist tightening in her blanket as he looked at Elrond.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, as if she’d ever had a true choice in the matter.
“I am grateful that you decided to come.” Gilraen was not certain what she had expected of Elrond Halfelven, but it was not this: tired eyes, ink at his fingertips, and a worn blue robe. “May I meet the little one?”
She looked at Aragorn, already watching Elrond curiously. She tugged his fingers from his mouth and smoothed down his tunic. “Say hello, Aragorn.”
He mumbled something and buried his face in her neck, suddenly shy.
“I’m sorry, my lord, he is usually -”
Elrond interrupted her with a chuckle. “Don’t fear. I have three children of my own. I know better than to demand deference from a toddler.” He studied Aragorn for a moment, “He has the look of his forefathers,” he said.
Of course. That would always be his interest. Aragorn’s lineage would always be the reason that they were welcomed in the valley, the reason that they had the protection of its lord. “I only know that he has his father’s eyes,” she said.
“You are right, of course,” said Elrond. “I am over-late in offering my condolences for your husband’s loss. Arathorn was very dear to my sons.”
Gilraen could say nothing that would not betray her anger, so she stayed silent, wiping Aragorn’s fingers (somehow always sticky) with her skirts.
“I am sorry, I will let you rest. We will have many more days to become acquainted. There is only one thing that I had hoped to settle tonight, and I fear it will be hard for you.”
“Forgive me my lord, if I say that none of this is easy.”
Elrond smiled at that, ever the patient father. “Of course. I speak of the small but thorny matter of names. After your husband’s death, you do not need me to tell you how relentlessly the servants of the Enemy hunt the heirs of Isildur. It will not be safe for your son to bear his own name, not even here. We welcome all travelers in this valley, and should word get out that Aragorn son of Arathorn resides here? Well.” He spread his hands helplessly.
“You want me to change my son’s name? To take from him the only thing he has left of his father?” Aragorn looked up, worried by her tone, and she petted his hair, shushing.
“Not forever,” said Elrond. “Only until he is old enough, strong enough, to know what it will mean for him.”
There was wisdom in that, Gilraen could see it, even as it chafed her. She wondered if Arathorn had grown up under another name as well. She wondered how long it had taken him to learn his own again.
“Very well,” she said. “Give him a name, then. Make him yours.”
Elrond blinked. She had surprised him at last.
“That is not my intent, Gilraen. I have not brought you here to take your son away.”
“Maybe not. But I fear that it will happen whether you intend it or not.”
She kissed Aragorn on the forehead and set him beside her to stand on the bench. He held out his arms to her, wanting to return to the shelter of the blanket and her arms, but she shook her head.
“Very well. What is ‘hope’ in the tongue of the elves?”
“Estel,” said Elrond.
Gilraen sat up straight and put her hands on Aragorn, no, Estel’s little shoulders. “Were you listening?” He just stared, and rubbed at his eyes. She gently caught hold of his hands and waited until he was looking at her. “You have a new name, my son.”
“Why?”
She glanced at Elrond, but suspected that his explanation would take too long. “Sometimes, when you move to a new home, you get a new name. Isn’t that right, Lord Elrond?”
He came from around his desk to stand beside her. “It is.”
“Your name is Estel now. It’s nice, don’t you think? It means ‘hope.’”
It was a weight too heavy for any child.
“Estel?” He lisped a little over the word, and then pointed at her with great gravity. “Mama, do you get a new name, too?”
3
“Mama! Elladan says there are frogs in the pool by the orchard. Can I go see?”
The small voice outside his window made him look up, distracted, and when Elrond returned to his annotations, they had acquired a nice blot of ink. It looked a bit like a swallow, he thought, turning the page and squinting.
It had been three years already since Gilraen and her son arrived in Imladris, three years in which Elrond should have grown accustomed again to the ways of human children, to their sudden noises and sticky fingers and eternal messes. In three years he should have forgiven himself for not saving this child’s father.
“Frog eggs, Estel.” Elrond’s son laughed, and Elrond hadn’t realized the sound had been missing until he heard it again.
There was nothing special about the child, not in and of himself. He was just a child, and that was magic enough. Elrond could see him now, rounding the corner of the porch, tugging at Gilraen's hand.
It had taken some time, but the young widow seemed no longer to blame Elrond’s sons for her husband’s death; a good thing, since the boy had become quite taken with his cousins, trailing behind them whenever they were in the valley, following them to visit Narandir in the stables, to Amdiravorn in his workshop, sitting sitting stiff but sturdy on his pony as they trotted gently along the length of the orchard, Gilraen keeping a watchful eye from beneath a tree.
"Please, Mama! Come see. Elladan says if I keep them in a jar, maybe I can see them hatch!"
Elladan looked apologetically at Gilraen and protested, "I only said that is what we used to do, my lady."
Gilraen smiled a bit at that and looked at the sky, her gaze sweeping past Elrond where he stood at his window. He lifted a hand to the little group and her smile faded.
"No, Estel," she said, "No frogs in our rooms."
Ah. It would seem that all her discomfort, all her grief and condemnation had found a more worthy target in Elrond himself. He glanced at the casing of the window, teeming with frogs and hummingbirds, all carved with love in the glowing wood.
This one wasn’t finished, and never would be. There were still rough spots near the top, where shapes were only roughed out, gouge marks hinting at a dragonfly or a moth.
At the top of the frame he could still see a hint of the ochre chalk that had sketched out the design.
He rubbed his fingertips over the bumpy back of his favorite fat bullfrog. How many more centuries before he finally wore the wood smooth with his touch?
"Your mother is right, Estel," he said, a trifle sad at the way his little face fell. "Frogs like ponds better than jars, but you can visit them every day, if you wish."
That must have been satisfactory, because Gilraen nodded up at him and Estel led the little party off down the pathway.
Elrond returned to his work. The boy was old enough for lessons. Elrond would have to arrange for a tutor.
Somehow, Elrond let the next few weeks slip past without addressing that simple task. He was hurrying through the hall, on his way to deal with some catastrophe or other in the supply houses, when he was stopped by Gilraen herself. It was not often that she sought him out directly. She much preferred to pass requests through Erestor, with whom she seemed to have an understanding, or simply to speak directly to the relevant household staff, if there was something that Estel needed. Elrond remained uncertain whether this preference was a sign of her discomfort in his company, or whether she thought that she was honoring his wishes. Regardless, the situation had maintained for nigh on three years, more than long enough to gather its own self-perpetuating inertia.
“Lady Gilraen,” he tucked his hands into his sleeves and inclined his head, feeling stiff and somehow off-balance. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Only a question, my lord.” She gave him a look somehow perceptive and dismissive all at once. “I see that I’ve interrupted an errand?”
“Only a minor crisis. Will you walk with me and tell me what is troubling you?”
She fell into step beside him, “I would not say that I was troubled, my lord,” she replied, “but Erestor mentioned that you were seeking a tutor for Estel. I wanted to make sure that my son will be ready to begin his lessons. He knows his letters already, both the Common Tongue and yours, my lord. He reads tolerably well, I dare say.”
Gilraen had always reminded Elrond of a dove, one of the grey ones that roosted beneath the eaves at the tall north corner of the house. Now, though, she was puffed up, peacock proud of her son. “Have you taught him this, my lady?”
“He’s growing so fast, his mind as quick as his body. He’s changing and I stay the same. ” She smiled at that, inward facing, not watching her words as much as she often did. “There was little enough teaching, but yes, in the evenings we like to look at a book together.”
“You needn’t have gone to the trouble. His tutor will teach the lad everything he will need to know.” Elrond frowned, the words so easily dismissive.
“They will not.” There was more than a little bite in her words. “I assume you will find an Elf for his tutor, and you will think to somehow teach him how to be a leader of Men in Elf-fashion? Maybe your tutor could have taught him to read, but I will make sure he knows his people.”
Elrond stopped and looked at her for a long time.
“Estel’s lessons will begin next week,” he said at last, impulsive, and he lifted a hand to quiet her, though she had not spoken. “I shall not forget what you have said. I had not considered it, and the omission shames me.”
He glanced over his shoulder to the brewer’s hut where elves were scurrying about like ants on a peach pit. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
“Ah, yes,” Gilraen stepped back, seemingly satisfied for the moment. “I understand there was quite a mishap in the larders. Go - take care of your spilt beer, but don’t think this conversation is over.”
"You, my lord?" Erestor’s voice was flat and cautious.
"Yes, Erestor, I. Why is that a surprise?" Elrond did not particularly care for the glance that passed between his councilor and Glorfindel. “If you’ll recall, I do have three children.”
“Oh course,” said Glorfindel, “three children, all of whom were born at the beginning of this age. Is there a chance that you might, perhaps, be somewhat out of practice?”
“He’s a child , Glorfindel. How difficult can it be?”
He wondered how long before someone would gently remind him that he had also had a wife then.
“I’m not proposing that I adopt the child. His mother is here, and formidable. I’m merely suggesting that I might begin his lessons.”
Glorfindel snorted into his wine. “Forgive me, Elrond. I’m certain that you will acquit yourself admirably.”
Erestor did not seem as confident, looking at something across the dining hall. Elrond followed his gaze to Gilraen, who was listening as Estel, clearly excited about the tale he was spinning, bounced in his seat, his dinner quite forgotten. She nodded, indulgent, and when he paused for breath, directed his attention back to his bit of fish. They sat with Narandir, who had taught several generations of Estel’s ancestors to ride, and warned Elrond that this child would always be more comfortable on his feet, but not to worry, for Narandir would make a rider of him anyway.
Gilraen had caught them watching and wiped at Estel’s mouth. He wrenched his little face from her napkin and continued with the story that he was telling to Narandir.
“Why the interest in this child?” Erestor nodded to the little family and turned his attention to buttering a bit of bread.
“I am always interested in my brother’s kin.”
“Are you?” Before Elrond could respond to that bit of impertinence, Erestor went on, “Don’t raise your hackles at me, Elrond. I’m only asking. How much time did you spend with his father when he was here?”
“Arathorn was older when he came to us.” And his father still lived, Elrond carefully did not add.
“It’s the mother, isn’t it?”
“Her name is Gilraen, you oaf,” said Erestor.
Glorfindel chuckled. “You’re right, of course. I apologize. Did she say something to you?”
“Perhaps. She made the rather salient point that the child will be a leader of Men, not of Elves.”
“And you decided that you were close enough? I have news for you, in that case, my lord -”
Sometimes Elrond wished he had a more daunting face. Perhaps just a scar or two would save him some rather awkward conversations.
“No, Erestor. I simply -” he spread his hands. “I wished to know them both better."
He caught Gilraen’s eye again and lifted his glass in salute. She blinked at him for a second, and nodded in reply.
4
Elrond had decided that his first lesson would take place out of doors. It was a fine, warm summer day, the very air of the valley rich and golden. He’d had a bit of canvas strung between two trees to shield them from the sun and a carpet laid upon the grass for them to sit on. When Elrond found his way to it, toting a small wooden chest that had not seemed heavy when he had first loaded it with parchment and sticks of ochre in his study, there was nothing to do but to knock aside the leaves that had drifted into his makeshift study and await his pupil.
He heard Estel before he saw him, for the boy was singing, his high, childish voice chirping over a simple old tune. It was one that Lindir favored, composing hundreds of variations upon the ancient theme.
Elrond had decided not to mention that he was almost certain that Maglor Feanorian had written it, for he was fairly certain that Lindir would not play it again if he knew, and that would be a shame, for it was a pretty piece.
It turned out to be the minstrel himself who led Estel to their little classroom, the boy perched on his shoulders as he trotted down the path, one hand holding him steady while he conducted Estel’s singing with the other. From his higher vantage point, Estel spotted Elrond first, falling silent. Lindir paused for the lad to disembark, then offered a hand. Estel shook his head at the minstrel, who smiled down at him and made a big show of squaring his shoulders and pushing out his jaw. With a serious expression, Estel followed suit, taking large determined steps down the hillside toward Elrond.
“Lord Elrond,” declared Lindir, bowing deeply. “May I present young master Estel, son of the Lady Gilraen?” Watching closely, Estel mimicked the bow.
“Rise, my good sirs. Thank you, Lindir.”
At his nod, the minstrel trotted off, ruffling Estel’s hair.
As it turns out, Gilraen had done a fine job of teaching his letters and, from what Elrond could see, the boy’s natural curiosity had done the rest. He loved stories, which made history easy enough, he loved puzzles which Elrond hoped would make figures a challenge, rather than a chore, and he loved the world around him.
The thing he did not love was sitting still.
Perhaps introducing a world of distractions had been poor planning on Elrond’s part. After two hours, the day had grown hot, the lesson had degenerated into a battle of wills about what, exactly, constituted ‘sitting down,’ Elrond’s patience was truly frayed, and Estel looked like he wanted to cry.
Elrond huffed. It would be a blow, to have to report his failure to his friends over dinner. Knowing Erestor and Glorfindel, there was a wager at stake. He wondered idly who had bet against him as a dark shadow swept across their shelter, alighting in the pond. Estel’s eyes widened as he watched the heron pick its careful way across the pond, the long neck poised, watchful.
The boy breathed a soft ‘oh’ and the heron lifted away with a great beat of wings and a sparkling fall of water. Elrond and Estel stared at where the great bird had been as if a spell had been cast on them.
“Take off your shoes, Estel.” Elrond had already slipped off his own. He helped Estel to roll up his breeches, tucked his own robes up around his thighs, and led the way down to the pool.
They spent the rest of the day that way, with their toes in the clear water, watching the tiny fish that darted about the sandy bottom while Elrond told Estel about the plants nearby, the ways of the fish and the frogs. They built little models in the mud at the shore, and Elrond showed the boy how the water flowed, and they built channels for it to pass through, watering the short rushes beside the pond.
At the end of the day, Elrond walked barefoot back to his study, eyes still a little dazzled from the sunlight on the water, and tossed all of his planned lessons on the fire, starting over from scratch. Next time, he thought, they should go fishing.
They did not spend all their time out of doors, of course, and Elrond did not abandon the histories and the figures, even if he did quite give up on insisting that Estel needed to be seated. Their lessons would sometimes find them sprawled upon the carpet in Elrond’s study, staring at the painted stars upon his ceiling, while Elrond pointed out the constellations and did his best to explain how they might be used for navigation, how their paths across the sky changed with the seasons, telling the stories of those who had given their names to the lights.
They would catch fish, and Elrond would show the boy the heart, the stomach. They would open it up and talk about what the fish ate, and when they were done, they would bring the fish down to the kitchens and enjoy a nice lunch beside the hearth.
On one such day, Gilraen sought them out at their meal, watching them as Estel stuffed a piece of fish into his mouth, fried crisp and golden.
“You’ll burn your tongue, lad,” Faemheren clucked, tossing another handful of floured fish into the oil.
“Mama!” Estel exclaimed.
“Finish chewing your food,” she admonished, coming to stand beside Elrond.
Estel swallowed. “Do you want some fish, mama? I caught it by myself.”
She lifted an eyebrow at Elrond, who burned his tongue in his haste to reply. “‘Tis true, Lady Gilraen.”
“As are the rumors that Lord Elrond himself is my son’s new tutor, I see.” She seated herself on the bench beside him and accepted a bit of fish from her son. “I’ll admit, this was not quite how I expected you to solve the problem, my Lord.”
Elrond thought back to the previous tutors, a series of severe old fellows who had seemed to think that their highest goal was to raise Men who were indistinguishable from Elves, and who saw the differences between the peoples as unfortunate flaws (on the part of Men) and signs of the Power’s favor (on the part of the Elves). He thought of his brother, and of his choice to share the brief life of Men and to trust those to come after enough to leave the world to them. He thought of the long line of nephews who had come to Imladris for teaching, and thought that perhaps he had done them all a great disservice.
Above the hearth there was another carving, a stag crowned with spring flowers, the delicate work stained with years of smoke from the cooking. Elrond had always thought it had very gentle eyes, but this was the first time he’d ever thought that it seemed, perhaps, slightly disappointed as well.
“I will confess that it was not my original plan.” He turned toward her, “here, try some with the relish. It’s very good,” he slid the jar over to her, “and please, call me Elrond.”
She spooned a bit of the pickle onto her fish. “Very well, if you will also drop the ‘lady’ from my name.”
“Mama! Did you know that Uncle’s brother was a Man ?”
“Uncle?” Gilraen lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Ah - I’m afraid I didn’t have a better idea. It’s a bit uncomfortable to be addressed as lord anything when one is gutting a walleye.”
“Mama?”
“I heard, Estel.” She stood and wiped Estel’s mouth with her skirts. “Be good for Elrond this afternoon?”
Gilraen found him in his chambers that evening, feigning interest in a letter from Radagast.
“Am I disturbing you, L-” she paused and corrected herself with a wry smile, “Elrond. That will take some getting used to.”
“Not at all. I understand, please, sit, and not on that awful thing,” he said, when she moved to perch on the wooden bench near the door. “Here -” he pulled over one of the cushioned armchairs.
“Thank you.”
“Wine?” He filled a glass for himself. “Tea, perhaps?”
“Yes, please. Tea, I mean.”
Elrond was relieved to find that he did have a few sachets of herbs in his desk. “I have rosehip and -” he sniffed, “lemon balm? Would you like honey?”
“Please.”
He pulled his sleeve down over his hand to lift the kettle from its hook, the fire shifting and casting up a spray of sparks as he did so. “Should I assume that something more than my well-stocked herbarium has brought you to me this evening?”
Gilraen accepted the mug with a small smile. “You should. I wanted to ask you a question. It concerns my son.”
“By all means.” He shifted some papers aside and settled himself on the edge of his desk.
“My father has the sight. My father - he warned me against marrying Arathorn. He said that I would lose him too soon if I did.” She spread her hands, as if to encompass the whole tale. “My mother has the sight, too. Or so she says.”
“What does she see?”
“She said that my child would - well. I don’t think the visions that come to Men are so clear. She said the child, our child, would be needed.”
The hairs on Elrond’s forearms rose. It was a chill evening. Perhaps he should have put more wood on the fire.
“They say that Elrond Halfelven has great foresight.”
“Do they, now?” He had not intended to sound so bitter.
Gilraen gave him a sharp glance.
He explained. “If I seem to know things, it is only because I have had long years in which to study the ways of the world. I have no special gift in that way. My brother did, and my daughter does. I see, at most, flashes, hints to recommend one course over another, but who can tell whether that is true foresight or simple intuition?” He shrugged.
“So you know nothing,” she says, relief and disappointment warring in her face.
“Do you think that if I had foreseen my king’s death, or your husband’s, that I would not have stopped them? Do you think that I would not have prevented my wife -” He bit the end of the sentence to silence.
“How did your wife die?” Gilraen asked then, apologetic somehow, but as if she was desperate to hear his answer. “No one here speaks of her. Sometimes I am afraid that I will forget Arathorn.”
“You will not.” Elrond took a sip of his wine, a short distraction. “Celebrian did not die.”
Or so you tell yourself, whispered the traitorous voice that always said such things.
He schooled his voice back into something like calm. “She was attacked, yes, grievously wounded, by the orcs of the Misty Mountains, and she departed over the sea.”
“She left you?” Gilraen was incredulous, betrayed in some way that Elrond could not see. “Or - no. You sent her away. Why?”
“I could not heal her.”
“And - she was changed? She was displeasing to you? Is that why there is nothing of her in this place? Did you command your people to forget her, too?”
Elrond was not certain when he had stood, only that he would say something regrettable if he stayed in this room, whether it was his own study, or not.
“I think I will take my leave, Lady Gilraen. I know nothing of your son’s future.”
“Wait -”
He stopped in the doorway, his hand clenched tight upon the frame, carved with a thick, grape laden vine. The wood blurred before his eyes and he blinked the tears away.
“Please -” The sharpness had leached from Gilraen’s voice, leaving only a hopeless sort of pleading. “Please tell me what happened.”
“She was dying,” Elrond said. “She was dying here, and I could not prevent it. They say that I am a great healer, do they not?”
She nodded.
“Not great enough, I suppose.”
“I have been angry,” Gilraen said. “Ever since his death.” She scrubbed at her eyes with a fierce, impatient gesture. “But I am more than that anger. I think that perhaps you can understand that.”
With a breath, Elrond turned back to face her.
“We are, both of us, more than our grief, Gilraen. Will you tell me of the man that Arathorn became?”
She smiled, then. “If you will pour me a glass of that wine and tell me about Celebrian.”
“Are you sure?” he said, “I will talk until the morning, if you permit me.”
He and Gilraen had talked, perhaps not until dawn, but near enough. After dinner, they put Estel to bed, and walked the halls, Gilraen telling stories of Arathorn, while Elrond let Celebrian tell their story, walking the halls and pointing out the carvings that covered nearly every pillar and post in Imladris.
Here: the skylark that was the first bird she had carved in the receiving hall, quite without his permission.
There: the doe and fawns that she had carved upon the door to their chamber while the twins grew within her.
Finally, he had fallen asleep on the couch in Gilraen’s sitting room, where he woke with a crick in his neck, sunlight coming from entirely the wrong direction, and a small child breathing on his face.
“Good morning, Estel.”
“Good morning,” the boy whispered.
Elrond whispered in reply, not entirely certain why he was doing so. “What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
“What for?”
“Mama says that Elves sleep with their eyes open.” Estel licked his lips and went on. “Are you asleep?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Elrond extricated the lump that was digging into his kidney and sat up with a groan and a stretch. “I believe this is yours.”
Estel took the ratty cloth bunny and kissed its button nose, and looked at Elrond.
“I’m a poor candidate for your study, in any case, since I’m only half an elf.”
“Mama says I should ask you which half.”
“Your mama is very funny. Tell her I said the left half. Now, shall we see if we can find you a full elf to observe? Master Lindir’s rooms are close.”
Epilogue
Time in Rivendell flows strangely, passing like a river through the valley, leaving much of the place and most of the inhabitants unchanged.
Gilraen watches her son grow, his changes quick, like the shoreline, his childishness slowly whittled away by the man he will one day become. She grieves for it sometimes, when she recalls the little boy who traveled here in her arms. She worries, of course. What parent does not?
When she watches Elladan steady his smaller hands on an arrow, when Elrohir cheers the shot, she recalls why he must learn these things, and her heart feels cold.
She has changed, as well, walking the paths of the valley as if they are her own lands, together with friends new and old. At Elrond’s invitation, her kin visit sometimes, and they walk the halls, arm in arm, and Gilraen tells them the tales that she has learned here, as her fingers trail across the shapes in the wood.
Estel lights up with joy when his cousins come, and he leads them on adventures through the valley, riding borrowed ponies or just running full-tilt up the trails, followed closely by Elladan and Elrohir, who both laugh more than they used to. Elrond claims that he has now perfected the art of healing scuffed knees and elbows when he sends another child back to their adventures with a sweet hidden in his pocket.
Her mother has come this time, a slew of small cousins in tow. Through pure force of will, she has corralled the children into a circle, teaching them a song, while Lindir watches, his skepticism plain. She finds Elrond beneath one of the impromptu tents that he is so fond of, a sketchbook ignored at his side, a tray nearby with a pitcher of her favorite barley tea beside his wine.
“I found a frog in my chambers this morning,” he remarks, as she sits beside him.
The children have grown impatient. One of the cousins, a towheaded little girl, tugs at the back of Estel’s tunic and runs off. Estel looks after her, wistful, while Ivorwen sighs and motions him off. With a grin, he is up and running after her. Before long, the twins have set up targets, and archery lessons begin again.
“Oh?” says Gilraen. “What kind of frog?”
“One of the little grey ones. The ones that sing at night.”
“I like those,” Gilraen says.
Elrond watches the children and smiles. “It seems a hopeful thing, to sing against the darkness.”
Gilraen watches Estel and thinks that he may be right.