Title: Shadows on the Wall
Summary: King Elessar tells Eldarion a story of his childhood in Rivendell.
Rating: K (G)
Disclaimer: I love them, but I don't own them.
Minas Tirith, Year 5, Fourth Age
The boy shifted in his bed, turning his head so that his grey eyes could see the door. He had heard his father's approach, and although the man had long ago acquired the ability to walk in near silence, his advance now issued subtle noises: the rhythmic, dull clomp of booted feet, the gentle swish of arms against tunic. Only one with elvish blood flowing through his veins could hear the man from this distance, blood that the boy had received from his mother.
Twenty seconds passed, maybe thirty, before the door creaked open, revealing the broad form of his father. The boy smiled as he looked up into the familiar silver eyes, somewhat crinkled around the edges—both from age and now from merriment—of the King of the Reunited Kingdom.
"Are you ready for a story, young one?"
The boy's smile spread as gave a vigorous nod of his head. He sat up now, scooting away from the bed's edge so that his father could sit next to him.
The King breathed deeply, allowing both his sense of smell and his aching joints to register the dampness in the air. Rain will come this night. Good. We need a respite from this heat, he thought. Then, focusing once again on his son, he continued: "Very well, but it is late. We must have only a short story tonight. What sort of tale would you like to hear?"
"Tell me of the Elves."
"Are you a king issuing commands already, Eldarion?"
Realizing that he was being chided for his lack of respect and manners, the Prince dropped his eyes to his lap before modifying both his request and his tone. "Father, would you please tell me a story about the Elves?"'
The King smiled. Elves again. His son was fascinated by his elvish heritage.
"Very well. Shall I tell you of Finrod?"
The boy shook his head. "I know that story already!"
"Then what of LúthienTinúviel? She was said to be the fairest of all Elves. Until your mother came along, that is." King Elessar grinned. He declined to tell his boy that like Lúthien, his mother had also given up immortality to follow her beloved. That discussion would come soon enough. Too soon.
Eldarion rolled his eyes. "Mother has told me many times of Lúthien, and even if she had not, I do not wish to hear of a girl Elf!"
"Of course not," the King chuckled. "Let me think for a moment then."
The elder royal placed his hand to his chin, running his forefinger across his beard. The faint scrape of calloused skin rubbing stiff bristle prompted the boy to giggle. The King glanced down at his boy, allowing his grin to break into a soft chuckle.
The King called story after story to his mind, summarily considering and dismissing each: Fingon and Gothmog? Certainly not; too violent. Arwen would have his head if their boy woke them during the night because of nightmares. Círdan with his long beard? No, for that would require an explanation of Valinor, and Eldarion might want to know why his mother chose not to sail.
As the possibilities dwindled, thunder rumbled in the background. A violent bolt of lightening broke Elessar's train of thought, and he pretended not to notice when his son jumped in fear, remembering all too well the shame he had felt as a child over his own trepidation on those rare occasions when a storm rolled through Rivendell. Sudden flashes of lightening caused otherwise mundane objects to cast the most gruesome of shadows on the wall: tree limbs became orcs, candlesticks became arrows, curtains became pools of blood pouring forth from a newly pierced eye.
And it was that memory of childhood fear and shame that spawned a thought in the King: perhaps he could tell his son a story of his own childhood among the Elves. Surely Eldarion would not identify the characters as his own father and grandfather, for he had told the boy next to nothing of his childhood or of the Rivendell Elves, and though Queen Arwen liked to surround herself with reminders of her former life—an elvish banner, volumes of elvish lore—she could as yet neither bear to speak of Rivendell nor utter the name of her adored father. The King gave a firm nod. Tonight seemed as good as any for the boy to learn of Elrond, even if it he would not yet discover his relation to the wise and ancient Peredhil.
"I shall tell you a story, my son, of a boy about your age—perhaps he was a bit younger—and a very kind, very wise Peredhil. You know what a Peredhil is, do you not, Eldarion?"
"Yes!" the boy fairly shouted. "He had both elvish and human blood—like me!"
"That is correct." Elessar neglected to explain that although Eldarion had both human and elvish blood, he was a Man, not a Peredhil, for that conversation would be both difficult and painful to explain. Why did seemingly every story lead back to Arwen's sacrifice? Pushing aside his ever-present self-condemnation, he asked, "Would you like to hear this story, my son?"
A vigorous bob of Eldarion's dark, disheveled head was his reply.
-----
Rivendell, Year 2936, Third Age
"Yes, yes, I agree Erestor, but surely you do not think that—" Elrond Half-Elven paused, feeling a tug at his formal, azure robe. He looked down to find a small, human boy staring up at him, silver eyes widened in expectation.
"Lord Elrond?"
"Yes, Estel?" The Ruler of Rivendell's voice was not unkind, but it was tinged by the seriousness of the conversation he had been having with his advisor.
"Will you please tuck me into bed?"
"I . . . please, Estel, I have urgent matters to discuss with my advisors. Can your mother not tuck you in this night?"
The boy's lower lip jutted out as he lowered his nodding head. His mother tucked him in every night. He had hoped that just this once the important leader of the Rivendell Elves might do it.
Guilt tugged at Elrond's heart. He knew the boy must miss having his father about, for he himself remembered what it felt like to lose a father, remembered all too well the sudden insecurity that he and his brother had felt.
"I am quite busy now, Estel. But once I am finished here, I shall come up to your chambers, and should I find you yet awake, I shall tell you a story. Would that be to your liking?"
The child's face was radiant as his tousled curls bounced in time with his nodding head.
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, I promise." The Lord smiled. "Now, off to bed. I shall be up shortly."
-----
Tears prickled Estel's silver eyes. Lord Elrond had promised! At first, he had tried to be patient, knowing that the Lord was busy. Then, he had grown frustrated—surely no one had to talk this long! But now it was quite clear; Lord Elrond had simply forgotten. It was as he had feared: he was too unimportant for the Lord to bother with. Of course he was, being both young and—worse yet—human!
Estel narrowed his eyes and set his jaw with firm resolve as he thought a brave warrior might. Throwing back his bedcovers, he rose, crossed the room, and retrieved his clothing. If Lord Elrond did not wish him to be here, he would simply leave and find a new human father who did want him. Once he was all settled in his new home, he would send word to his mother so that she could join them. The boy dressed in a frenzy, failing to tie the laces on his boots—that skill was one he had yet to master—and strode to the door, glancing back just once to survey the room he would never again see. He crept in near silence down the hallway, pausing as he passed his mother's chambers. Crinkling his nose and biting his lip with worry, it occurred to him that he should leave a note for her, explaining that he would be fine and would contact her once he had found them a new home. If only he knew how to write.
-----
"Elrond!" the dark-haired woman shrieked as she flew into his study. She had thrown a dressing gown over her nightgown, and her hair—usually pulled back at the sides—hung in disarray about her face. She tucked curly strands behind her ears as she rushed at the Lord where he stood surrounded by his advisors. These elvish folk! Did they never have a disheveled moment?
"Gilraen? Is something wrong?" The young woman clamped her fists about wads of her dressing gown, partly to hide the trembling of her hands and partly to resist the urge to slap Elrond for his infuriating calm.
"My son is missing! I went to check on him—it has begun to storm and the boy is afraid of lightening—and he was not in his bed! What do you intend to do?"
She didn't know why she was blaming Elrond other than she had to blame someone, and the Man she truly wished to blame wasn't here. How dare he leave her alone with their son? How dare he get himself killed?
"I am quite certain that all is well, Gilraen. He is probably exploring; we have so many rooms, and you know how the boy likes to—"
"I am no fool, Elrond," Gilraen spat. "I have enough sense to make a thorough search of the grounds before disturbing someone as important as you, my Lord." The last two words she spoke through gritted teeth.
Elrond's advisors exchanged furtive looks of surprise, astounded that the young widow would dare speak to their Lord with such brashness.
Elrond, too, was nonplussed by the young woman's outburst and found himself in the unusual position of having to work to maintain his composure. "Have you any idea how long he has been missing?" the Lord asked.
Gilraen felt the tiniest spark of satisfaction at the worry in Elrond's voice.
"I know not. When I passed his chambers nigh on two hours ago, he was yet there. I asked why he was still awake, and he replied that he was waiting for you to tell him a story. How long ago did you tell him his bedtime tale?"
It was not often that Elrond found himself speechless. On the contrary, it would have been characteristic of the Ruler of Rivendell to offer words of supreme wisdom at such a time as this. In fact, that is just what he opened his mouth to do before realizing with growing horror that all he could give Gilraen was a confession that he had, most unfortunately, forgotten all about his promise to her son.
-----
Estel huddled under a beech tree, seeking refuge from the wind and rain and fervently wishing he had thought to bring his cloak. The darkness engulfing him was a comparative respite between the flashes of light, and he was spared the humiliation of returning to the Last Homely House only by the simple fact that he was hopelessly lost. He contemplated trying to scale one of the steep ravines surrounding him; although he doubted the attempt would be successful, he might at least be found the next morning with a broken leg or gashed head as testimony to his bravery. But such bravery he did not possess—though in future years he would come to see such an act not as brave but foolhardy—so he remained firmly planted beneath the beech, hugging legs to chest, shutting eyes against the fierce storm, and trying desperately to restrain his tears. On this final point, he failed.
-----
"Estel? Glorfindel, did you hear that cry?" Elrond snapped his head about to look toward his old friend and most trusted warrior, who had come along to find the young human so dear to the Lord. When the boy had first arrived at his home, Elrond had tried not to love him. He was tired of loss, weary of grief. To love a human—the foolishness of it! But love the child he did. It was not because of Estel's destiny that the human had claimed a piece of the Lord's heart; it was because on the rare occasion that he had allowed himself to sit with Estel, engaged in childhood conversation—"Why are clouds white?", "What does Ilúvatar look like?"—that he had remembered his own days as a boy grieving the loss of his father. He had even, on these rare occasions, allowed himself the indulgence of closing his eyes and imagining himself conversing once again with his twin as the pair struggled to find a new life together. To remember the sweetness of his bond with Elros, though the loss still pained him, was a gift that allowed Elrond to carry on in this darkened world.
"Aye, Elrond. I heard something. But with all this wind howling about my ears, it is hard to discern just what."
Elrond could not deny that as a pure-blooded Elf, Glorfindel's hearing was superior to his own, yet it was not his ears that confirmed that the faint sound he had heard was no rush of wind but the whimper of a child; it was knowledge that rang true from the Peredhil's heart.
"This way, Glorifindel," the Lord motioned to the Northwest. "Quickly."
-----
The boy recoiled at the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. His eyes had been closed, and he'd not seen the approach of the small rescue party.
"Estel, are you hurt?"
The boy shook his head, not trusting his voice to remain steady and hoping that Elrond would mistake his tears for rain.
Assured that the boy was uninjured, the Ruler of Rivendell requested that Glorfindel return to the Last Homely House to signal the other search parties that Estel had been found. After Glorfindel had departed, Elrond wrapped his arms about the soggy child, clutching him tightly to his chest as he rocked him and whispered elvish words of thanks to the Valar for their return of his Hope. Although the boy's grasp of Elrond's native tongue was still too limited for him to understand the prayer, he did recognize one word: Estel.
Estel was conflicted: he was overjoyed that he had been found and that Elrond himself had cared enough to come out in the rain to find him. Yet he was frustrated. Was his humanity so despicable to the Lord that Elrond insisted on calling him not by his given name of Aragorn, but by this foreign name of Estel?
Keep quiet. Make Lord Elrond happy so that he might take you home, tuck you safely into bed, and someday come to see you as someone worthy of his attention, even if you are a mere human. Yet Estel's actions could not have been more estranged from the silent plea in his mind. The boy thrashed in Elrond's arms, and when at last he broke free, he turned on the Lord like a wild animal, shrieking "I am not Estel! I am Aragorn! Why can you not call me by my real name?"
For the second time in a matter of hours, Elrond found himself lacking the words of wisdom that usually came so easily to him, and his silence reduced Estel to a quivering lip and fresh tears. Please, please do not send me away from you. Perhaps if he thought those words hard enough, the Ruler of Rivendell would heed him. Instead, the only word the crying child could force around his tears was a broken, "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry" repeated over and over. If need be, he would say the word for hours—for days—to convince Elrond to forgive him.
Elrond's heart ached to see the boy he so loved gripped by such pain. Slowly, so as not to frighten the clearly distraught child, he moved his arms toward Estel and pulled him into a gentle embrace. Running his fingers through the sobbing boy's hair, he whispered, "Hush, Estel. All is well."
When Estel's tears had abated, Elrond asked, "Do you know what the word Estel means in your native tongue?"
When the boy shook his head against the Lord's shoulder, Elrond continued. "It means hope. I call you Estel because you are my Hope. You are what the Valar have given me to remind me that there is still good in this darkened world. Before I had you under my roof, I had forgotten what it felt like to be happy, to laugh, to have dreams." Of course, the other reason that Elrond called the boy Estel was that it was his destiny to be Hope for all of Middle Earth; it was not yet time for that conversation to take place.
Estel remained silent, allowing himself to be rocked by Elrond while his mind absorbed this startling, new information. At last, he whispered, "You mean I am that important?"
Elrond chuckled. "Yes, Estel. You are that important."
-----
When Estel and Elrond arrived back at the Last Homely House, the sun's first rays shone through the departing rain clouds. The young human survived the suffocating hug of his relieved mother before climbing the stairs leading to his bedchambers. Gilraen started after him, wanting to help him change into his bedclothes and to tuck him into bed. A touch on her arm stopped her.
"Allow me, Gilraen. After all, I did promise the boy a story."
Gilraen nodded. "Very well, my Lord." Her tone was no longer venomous. In fact, Elrond detected a note of undeserved gratitude.
Estel waited at the top of the stairs smiling down at Elrond. "Really? You will tell me a story now?"
"Yes, Estel," the Lord replied as he reached the top of the stairs and took the boy's tiny hand in his own, "I think you deserve a story. It is long overdue."
The pair entered Estel's bed chambers, where Elrond lit several candles before pouring lavender-scented water into a basin, dampening a clean cloth, and wiping the caked mud from the child's face and hands. The boy needs a thorough bath, the Lord mused, but he needs sleep even more. Once he was clean and changed, Estel crept into bed, scooting over so the Lord could sit next to him.
They remained in silence for several moments, enjoying the soothing scent of lavender and the gentle flicker of candlelight before Elrond murmured, "Now, Estel, what sort of story would you like to hear?"
The boy thought only for a moment before saying, "Would you tell me again why I am called Estel? I . . . forgot."
Elrond was far too old and far too wise to think for one moment that the reason that Estel wanted to hear once again the reason for his name was that it had simply slipped his mind, yet he did not object to indulging the boy and gladly told him why he was Hope.
When he finished, Elrond did something he hadn't done in years, something he and Elros had done when they were children: he entwined his thumbs and spread his fingers, allowing the shadow of his hands to form the image of an eagle on the wall.
"Can I do it?" Estel asked, and Elrond helped the boy arrange his hands, showing him how to make it look as if the eagle's wings were moving.
"My brother and I used to make these shadows on the wall, Estel."
"Your brother? I did not know you had a brother. Have I ever met him?"
"No," Elrond hesitated before deciding that Estel was old enough to know that Elros was dead. The boy was no stranger to death, though Elrond wished it were otherwise. "My brother died many years ago, Estel."
"Oh. Like my father."
"Yes, that is right. Like your father."
"Do you miss him?"
"Yes, I do. But those we love are never really gone, Estel. They are not unlike these shadows on the wall: though we cannot reach out and touch them, we can call their memories to our minds whenever we choose. In this way, they still live. Do you understand, Estel?"
Though Estel's mind was too young to make sense of Elrond's words, his heart understood, and he nodded his head with such seriousness that for a moment, Elrond felt as if he were the child and Estel the wise, old man.
"Will you make me a promise, young one?"
"Yes, my Lord. What is it?"
"Promise me two things: that you will never forget that you are Estel and that some day when you have a son, you will not forget to tell him a bedtime story. Let me hear you! Say, 'I will not forget.'"
"I will not forget," the boy giggled.
-----
Minas Tirith, Year 5, Fourth Age
"Did you like that story, Eldarion?"
"Yes, very much . . . but Father?"
The King raised his eyebrows, indicating that he wished the boy to continue.
"Did Estel ever learn not to be afraid of lightening?"
The King chuckled. "Yes, Eldarion, he did. Eventually."
"Good."
King Elessar then did something that Eldarion had never seen him do before: he entwined his thumbs, spread his fingers, and made the shadow of an eagle appear on the wall. Eldarion mimicked his father's hands, creating a smaller eagle to fly alongside the larger one.
The King stayed by Eldarion's side until he had drifted off to sleep. As he watched his son, he realized—not for the first time—that it was not until he'd had a child of his own that he'd appreciated how large a sacrifice Elrond had made in leaving Middle Earth without his daughter. How could he ever repay him? Not only for Arwen, but for the love, the support, the kindness Elrond had bestowed upon him. He couldn't. All he could do was love his family and rule Middle Earth in fairness and wisdom.
As the King left his son's bedchambers, he glanced back at the peacefully slumbering boy. Then, hoping that his words would carry on the wind across the sea to reach the ears of an ancient, wise Peredhil living on distant shores, the King whispered. His words, part promise, part prayer, were simple: "I will not forget."