Credit to Nelyafinwefeanorion for one of the ideas in this chapter which came about during a back and forth brainstorming session about these guys.

Eldarion

We spend the night beside the river. Now he is certain our fathers do not follow in our footsteps Estel is in no mood to move on it seems.

He sits crossed legged, morning light glinting off his hair and polishes his fighting knives, humming as he does so. He is happy.

"You fight like Legolas, then?" I ask him as I watch. "With knives not the sword?"

"I fight like no-one." The humming stops abruptly. "I do not fight at all. I have never seen a battle. Father did not deem me worthy of the Dagor Dagorath."

I am glad he was not there, in the bloody chaos that was. Still his answer is somewhat bitter.

"You think he was wrong, then?"

"No," he sighs deeply. "He was right. It was not the place for a novice and many of my friends whose parents did not heed my fathers words are gone, but it still hurts I was not good enough."

He lifts his head from his work to look over to me.

"I was a fool then," he says. "I was so angry at not being allowed to go I let my father walk off into battle without a farewell from me because I was sulking. You have seen the injury he came back with. I am lucky it did not end up being the last time I saw him."

That would have been a tragedy. My breath catches imagining how close he came to a lifetime of insurmountable regret.

"I have learnt my lesson." He says solemnly. "I will never do that again."

"Well I should hope there will be no battle for him to leave to now." I say, and he drops his head down to concentrate once again on his knives.

"Hmm," his reply tells me he is not, perhaps, as relieved as I battle and war might now be permanently behind us.

"I have something to ask you," he continues, not lifting his eyes and there is the faintest hint of a tension floating within his voice. "I hope you do not mind the asking of it."

"Anything."

I cannot imagine, at this minute anything I would be bothered about. My life is not that exciting. He knows of Aderthron now, what could be worse than that?

"Who is Rhíwiel?"

Anything but that.

He wrong-foots me so I stumble over my words when I answer.

"Why . . . Why do you ask that?"

"It was a name your father mentioned when he was angry. I should like to know that story." He makes it seem a casual enquiry indeed but I think it is not.

"Rhíwiel was a girl I knew in Minas Tirith in my youth, a healer. Her father was a cobbler on the third circle."

"Just a girl?" He continues his circular polishing of his blades and does not lift his eyes to me.

"Just a girl."

"Hmm, I think not. Aragorn-the-King said you were courting her."

Does he have to be so inquisitive? Does he have to remember every little thing?

"Yes I was courting her for awhile. It is long ago and in the past, Estel."

And it is something I do not want to discuss with anyone.

But he will not give up.

"Did your father not mind you courting a cobblers daughter then?" he asks, "I mean my people would not mind. My mother's father was a woodsman, but from what Father has told me I would think yours might."

"My father did not mind. My people would have but he promised me he would have my back in that." I give up. I may as well tell him all of it. He is never going to let it go otherwise.

Rhíwiel is a jewel I hold close to my heart, even now. There was a time I thought she alone understood me. The only one who looked past the Prince to the Eldarion beneath and actually liked what she saw.

"Where is she then?" Estel has dropped his knives and leans forward with intensity. "Where is she now?"

"I do not know. We have not yet located many of our people. She moved out of Minas Tirith with her father and they, and the rest of their village, have not arrived here with us."

He tilts his head to the side and eyes me curiously.

"So things did not go well between you then."

I take a deep breath before I tell him the whole story. At least this one does not involve damage to his Father, only damage to me.

"Things went well enough." I tell him. "I loved her. She loved me. We were good together. But I was a Prince and she was the daughter of a cobbler. At first we kept our courtship quiet. My parents helped shield us from the city. But eventually as things became serious, word began to get out. Those that worked in the palace all knew. It got too real for Rhíwiel. She was not raised to be a Princess and it was not what she wanted, even for my sake. It frightened her.

"I would eventually be King and she, Queen, and she did not think she could do that. She went away with her father to a village where she would not be "the girl who courted the prince" and could just be Rhíwiel. I kept an eye on them all my life but I never saw her again. I stayed away, and sent my men periodically to ensure their village was safe and well supplied."

"Did you not fight for her?" Estel asks me. "Did you not try and get her to stay?"

"I loved her, and I did not want to be King myself but I had no choice. Why would I inflict that upon someone I loved?"

"And do you love her still?"

I knew that question was coming and I do not know how to answer it.

"It has been a long time, Estel, and things have changed."

"Have you not thought of searching her out? You are King no longer. She would not have to be a queen now, to be with you."

He is insistent and it begins to irritate me. I do not need him to explain Rhíwiel to me!

"I am not going to seek her out! I am going to leave her be. She is a part of my past, Estel, and that is all. There is too much she does not know, my Elven fëa for starters."

"Then tell her about it."

"Leave it, Estel. I am happy the way things are. Rhíwiel is none of your business."

And I have the blazing light and beauty of Estel now, which obliterates all else. But I do not tell him that because he has told me he is uncomfortable with it.

"I think she is indeed my business" he counters, "and I think you need to see her, if only to put her behind you, if indeed that is where she should be."

"No!" My temper begins to fray at his refusal to leave well enough alone.

"Eldarion," he sighs quietly, "This does not bother me, if you see her and love her. I am silvan."

I know what he means by that. He is his fathers son. Legolas' complicated web of loves is second nature for Estel. But it is not that way for me.

"It is not a case of either her or me," he says.

"You have this all wrong. I do not want to find her."

"Because you are afraid but you should not be. I will support you in this. Listen," he leans back, reaches out and plucks a blade of grass to spin rapidly between his fingers. "I need you to know, if what you want, what you expect is the kind of love your parents have, an all-consuming, eyes only for each other, kind of love I cannot give you that. That is not me. It will never be me. I will love you deeply and with passion, I will give you all of my heart, but you will not be the only one I give it to. I cannot do that, even for you. You need to know that."

"I—"

But he cuts me off, holding up a hand to stop me speaking.

"I will not listen to anything you have to say right now," he says firmly. "You must think on this. I want a considered answer from you."

"If you see Rhíwiel as a solution to this problem, you are wrong." I tell him in the end. "She is less likely to tolerate the way Silvan's conduct their relationships than I am. It would hurt her. If you seek to make things easier for you by having me flip between the two of you that will not happen. I will not hurt Rhíwiel, not for anyone's sake."

There is a long and silent pause before he answers.

"That is fair enough," he says in the end. "We both have things to think on."

And with that he turns back towards his knives leaving me standing there in turmoil.

Rather than returning to his polishing Estel instead picks up my sword which lies next to him on the grass. He turns it carefully in his hands inspecting it from every angle, testing the blade with a cautious finger.

"A fine sword," he declares. "Did you use this in the Dagor Dagorath?"

"Yes."

Then instantly he is on his feet, holding it out to me, leaving me struggling to keep up with his thought processes.

"Spar with me?"

"Spar? What?" I am unsure how Rhíwiel leads us to this.

"I am in the mood for some exercise," he smiles. "Show me how you can use it."

I take it from him, it's familiar weight in my hand feeling almost comforting, and he bends to collect his knives, tossing them from hand to hand with a grin.

"Go easy on me. Remember I am a novice, not battle trained as you are."

Of course I will go easy on him. I will push him far enough but not too far.

It takes me about ten seconds only to realise if anyone will be going easy it will be him.

He is a whirlwind. He fights like no-one I have ever seen and it is glorious. He takes me to my limits and then beyond them. His knives dance as if they have a mind of their own and it is all I can do to parry them.

I can see traces of all those who love him in his style, all those who have so obviously honed this skill of his. He has Legolas' agility and unpredictability, Elrohir's focused intensity, Elladans calm logic, a magnificence about him that could only come from Thranduil, and something else, a fierce sharp brilliance I can not pinpoint.

He is astonishing.

And he beats to me my knees, panting in the dust, my sword flicked out of my hand casually as if it was no particular feat at all.

"It seems the novice silvan still has something to offer," he laughs down on me, barely breathless at all.

"You are no novice. You are good Estel, more than good! I have seen nothing like you."

He shrugs a shoulder in dismissal.

"If you want to see good you need to spar with my father, or Elrohir, or Elladan."

"I have sparred with them, often. You are better."

"Then they must have been gentle with you."

Does he truly not know how good he actually is?

"They were not! Elrohir especially always pushed me until we were both exhausted. Besides were you being gentle with me?"

"Yes," he admits it reluctantly, "For I have the advantage of being used to my elven fea, our blades are not practice ones and I did not want to harm you."

"So you hold yourself back and yet you still seem brilliant. When was the last time any of them bested you Estel?"

He stops to think, brow furrowed in concentration.

"A while, but that is because they let me win. I am younger."

"They let you win? Really? You are grown now and long have been so. They have no need to let you win, and I know all three of them have egos that would not let them do that! You best them because you are better than them. I can not believe they have not pointed that out to you."

"Do you think so?" He is incredulous. "You really think me to be genuinely good at this?"

"Talented beyond belief. I can understand why Legolas would not want someone who has grown sheltered in the perfection of Valinor to go and fight in the chaos of the Dagor Dagorath but believe me, it was nothing to do with your swordsmanship. Had you lived in my time, with your talent, you would have been legendary, Estel, even among elves."

His eyes shine with the praise.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Better than my Father?"

"Better than any of them."

He stands taller, straighter, prouder.

"You should spar against my father," I tell him. "You would give him the fright of his life! He would not expect it and he trained with Glorfindel himself."

Perhaps it is my imagination but when we leave Estels footsteps seem lighter, it is as if he shines more brightly, the tune he hums is sweeter.

And it feels good to be the one who did that.