Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and I make no money from writing about them.

Estel this morning is, how shall I describe him? A heap of miserable boy.

It is the morning of departure, and Halbarad is as sad about the leaving-taking as Estel, who is clinging to my side as he used to when he was four and he had to meet new visitors. His eyes are red and rheumy, his nose is sore and he is having to breathe through his mouth, which is making him irritable.

I hand Halbarad his coat, which has been carefully cleaned, and he mounts his horse.

"I'll be back soon!" he says, trying to cheer Estel. I look down at my boy and see him nod.

"Go to him, Estel," I urge him. "Say goodbye properly."

The boy leaves my side and goes to stand by Halbarad's stirrup.

"We can do some hunting when I come back," Halbarad says. "It'll be warmer."

"Yes," says Estel. "We can go to the meadows and be soldiers fighting orcs."

Legolas is waiting patiently, watching the two boys intently. He has apologised again for not understanding Estel's illness, which in truth is nothing serious, though his cough sounds tight in his chest. I cannot allow the boy to stand outside much longer.

"Say goodbye to Legolas, too," I call. "Then we shall go in and finish the page for the book."

Estel steps over to Legolas. "You will come back again, won't you?" he says. "I want to know about making arrows, like you said."

Legolas leans from the saddle and touches Estel's shoulder with his hand, as if trying to impart trust. "I will return before the year turns," he says. "Sooner, if I can. You look after your tree now."

"I will! I shall look for you when the leaves begin to fall!"

Estel steps back, there is a flurry of movement then we are alone. Early sunlight drops through the trees on this most beautiful of spring mornings, when all trace of rain and wind has gone and the world feels sharply alive. My son returns to me and we walk back to the house hand in hand. He does not speak but his expression says what he cannot.

"You shall begin a new adventure today, Estel," I say, hoping this time to distract him from his sorrow.

"Yes, Papa?" he says, trying to muster some interest.

"Yes. You shall finish your pages for the records as I promised. Then we are going to begin a journal for you, your own place to record what you have done. When Halbarad and Legolas return you will be able to read it to them, or use it to help you recall what you have done."

"May I put pictures in it?" he asks, taking off his coat as we step back into the warm house.

"You may put anything into it that you think will tell your story. You do not have to record each day – just those matters which are important to you. It must not become a task – you must tell me if it does. I hope you will love to write in your book."

"Oh – yes, Papa – I shall!" His face is changing as the idea takes hold. "I can put bits of songs in that I like, and I could put in it what I want to do when I grow up. And all the pages about the tree. And about the bow and about Spider, too. Oh, Papa. My bow. I so wanted to be able to practise with it before Legolas left, but I wasn't well enough to go out."

I am steering him gently towards to my study, where a warm fire and some salves to ease his aches and pains are waiting.

"You will miss Legolas, my son, as much as you will miss Halbarad. Legolas will miss you, too. He has great respect for you. Your first bow was well made. Your brothers can teach you to pull it and look after it."

"Yes. But it will not quite be the same," he says, with all the innate conservatism of the child, who longs for things to remain as they have known them.

"What will not quite be the same?"

Estel, busy with his thoughts had not seen Elladan, who sat waiting for us in my study.

"Elladan!" Estel shouted, running to him. "You are well again!" The boy came to stand in front of his brother. "Are you well?" he said more quietly, when his brother did not hug him, which was the usual outcome of a morning greeting.

"I am much better, little brother," Elladan said. "Now, what's the matter with you? You look all red and you sound horrible, like a troll sniffing for its breakfast."

"Legolas took Halbarad away!" Estel said. "I didn't want either them to go and they both went!"

"They will return," Elladan says reasonably, though I am not sure it is reason that Estel needs. "The time will pass quickly."

"And I have a cold," Estel adds, turning away suddenly as a fit of sneezing grasps him. He has screwed up his eyes and seems prepared to use his sleeve again until I intervene.

"Legolas went with Halbarad to keep him safe. You know he did not take him away."

"I know," Estel says. "But I just didn't want it to happen."

This is all we can get him to say. We give him things to do, and praise his workmanship, feed him good things and treat the symptoms of his cold, but he keeps stubbornly to the idea that somehow Legolas is to blame for his loss. I cannot see the logic in what he says, nor does it seem like him to be so unreasonable. Perhaps it is simply his illness.

By early evening he is tired. I let him go, more than a little concerned that he actually put himself to bed, which is unusual. He is asleep when I go to visit him later. He is a little flushed and still snuffling but I put a few drops of eucalyptus oil on his nightshirt and leave his door open. I will check on him later.

In the early hours, I am sitting in my study when I hear a strange noise. I cannot place it at first, then as I become aware of what it is I close the book I was reading and hasten to the door.

Estel is crying. I know that sound, though I have not heard it at night for a long while, that miserable, half-stifled sound as he pulls his blankets around him and tries not to make a fuss.

Elrohir and I reach his door at the same time. I motion my elder son away and go to investigate. All is dark in the room, and the boy is quiet now, but I can feel his emotion. I light the candle by his bed and sit down on the mattress. I cannot see him – there is a lump in the bedclothes and that is Estel.

"Child," I say, trying to draw back the blankets as gently as I can. "Come, child. I'm here now. Tell me, what is the matter?"

There is a movement in the bed, then he is there, his face mottled with crying, his damp eyelashes sticking to his flesh. He tries to speak but seems to be fighting himself, his face screwed up, his eyes bright.

It is only then that I realise that he is struggling to breathe. Each breath is a heave of his chest, each expiration a sigh. How long has he been in this state?

"Sit up, child!" I say, pulling him against me and making him lean forward a little as he sits. "Is it your throat? Your chest? What is it? Tell me!"

Elrohir has heard the urgency in my voice and comes into the room.

"Throat. Papa, my throat," Estel manages between gasps. "I'm scared!"

I give Elrohir urgent instructions, then hold Estel up until his breathing eases a little. He is exhausted but he holds hard to my arm, each breath hard to draw. If it is his throat, we can get him through this. If it is his chest, he is in grave danger.

I have never known a longer night with Estel. In the end, I feel as if I am taking every breath with him. We have done all we can to ease his throat, to reduce the swelling which is making it so difficult for him to breathe. Time is the only healer now. Once we are past this, I know he will recover quickly. But he is still terrified, holding me and looking to me for my strength, and does not know that at last his symptoms are easing.

Elrohir waits by the fire. He looks drawn and grey in the early morning light. It seems he too is breathing with, or for, Estel, for his breaths match his brother's.

Finally, with a great sigh, Estel falls asleep. He leans into my arms and I hold him gently, stroking his damp hair from his forehead. His breathing eases further as he slips into sleep. When I am sure he is settled, I pull the bedclothes away from him, pick him up and carry him to the fire.

Elrohir changes the bed linen without calling for any help. He hums gently to himself, making all well again. We do not speak, for Estel sleeps quietly, sprawled across me, his legs dangling, body and arms contained within my arms. His breath is easy. It is as if he has not been ill at all. His brow is a little warm, he is heavy in his relaxation but he is not the scared little boy he was a few hours ago.

When he wakes, he grips my robe with one hand then looks up at me. It is broad daylight and I should have put him back in bed before now, but I could not bear to wake him. He sighs again, and his head lolls against my chest.

"How are you feeling, child?" I say.

"I feel all right," he says, his voice a whisper. "You're really comfortable."

I smile at him and he smiles back. He truly does seem much better, if very tired still.

"Do you want to go to back to bed now?"

He shakes his head. "It's morning, Papa. I have to go and see to my tree and make sure Spider is all right. I won't run about or anything. I'll come straight back when I've finished."

I know my surprise shows in my expression. Estel looks at me, with a clear, steady gaze. His grey-blue eyes shine. "I'm all right now. Really I am. Look."

He slips from my lap and stands in front of me. He grins suddenly.

"You need more sleep, Estel. You have been very ill. You must regain your strength."

His face falls. "No, I am all right. I promise I am. Papa, just let me go and see my tree. Please."

I buy myself a few precious minutes' time for thought. "Go and wash, then. Come back here and I will see. Perhaps if Elrohir goes with you. It is a fine morning, and much warmer. Then if you come back here and rest, perhaps I can allow it."

He runs for his water closet, with a quick, "Thank you, Papa!"

"Do you think this is wise?" Elrohir asks. "Not four hours ago he was more ill than I have ever seen him."

"No – he has been more ill than that, when you were away once. His throat was swollen – now it is not. It was a passing illness. I will not stop him from going out this time. The fresh air will do him good. But he will come back here, he will not go anywhere near his pony, and he will stay in bed the rest of the day. Go with him, Elrohir. If he shows the slightest sign of illness, bring him straight back here."

And that is the compromise we reach. By the time he had dressed, Estel had realised that his strength, gathered in his short sleep, was little enough, but he gamely went out for a while, saw that all was well with his tree and then, as Elrohir reported it to me, said he wanted to go back and record his findings. When he did come in, he threw himself on the bed and went straight to sleep.

"Do you now think my actions wise?" I ask. "Estel is where he should be, but he made his own choice. If I had tried to insist, he would have been as fractious as he was last time. Now, I can let him rest and all will be well again in a few days."

Elrohir still seems unsure. "I hope that is so, Father." He goes to look at Estel, then starts to pull off his brother's coat, easing it off his shoulders without waking the boy.

I hope so too. It has been an odd time, and I feel as though I am standing on ground that shifts under my feet. I do not like this feeling that he is well one moment then, when I turn my back, he can barely breathe. Then again, the next morning, he says he is well, only to return to his room and fall asleep. It is a most trying time.

While Elrohir settles his brother, leaving him clothed but covering him with a blanket, I go to see what Estel was drawing yesterday. He was reluctant to show it to me, but now, as I sit at his desk, I pull the papers to me.

One is an image of a woman. She wears a long dress, which he has carefully coloured green. Her hair is long, undressed and blows back from her face. He has not finished the drawing. There is no background. I wonder if he is drawing his mother but she seems too young. He talked of drawing his future. Does he see this woman as part of his future?

The second is little more than a sketch. It is a dark scene, perhaps a cave, though the darkness is suggested by only a few lines scored into the paper. It could be a room but there are no windows. It could be many things. There is a chair in the room, or the cave, or wherever it might be. Its high back is turned so that, if anyone sits in the chair, they cannot be seen. That is all there is. But there is anger in the lines on the page, and fear in the dark spaces. I turn the picture face down, for it somehow calls to some memory in me, something I have wished to forget for a long time.

The third is a piece of paper, on which Estel has been doodling, apparently trying out different styles of writing, ready for the page he will write when he is fully recovered. The same words, over and over, across the page, sideways, crossing and re-crossing.

"Estel," it says. "Estel! Jump, Estel!"

Over and over and over. I look at the boy on the bed. He is sound asleep again. Elrohir has propped him up a little, to continue to ease his breathing but he seems well enough, considering the night he has had. What was in his mind when he wrote this? Is it important, or a simple idea a nine-year-old might scrawl across a page?

My feeling of unease intensifies. In the morning sun, shining fully into the room and onto the bed, I can sense something, a shadow, I know not what.

I take the picture and the writing and throw them on the fire.