Estel sat staring into the water fountain with unseeing eyes. A few days
had passed, and he and the brothers had returned to Rivendell. They had
done their best to tend to his wounds, along with their own, which were not
so great, and they had made the journey home. Estel had recovered from the
battle, and though he still ached a bit, the blurry terror of that night
has finally passed and he felt calm and safe. Elrohir, Elladan and he had
just returned from their journey, and the tale of their battle was being
told amongst those dwelling in Rivendell. His mother had been worried when
he told her about it. But he tried to comfort her, reminding her that he
was safe and had returned. "Besides," he had said. "It wasn't much of a
battle, and no doubt there are many more much worse to come," and though
she was already aware of this, the thought did not bring her much comfort.
"Estel," said a tall, dark-haired elf approaching him by the fountain.
The boy looked up, breaking his thoughtless stare. "What is it, Thingaerion?"
"Lord Elrond wishes to speak with you. He's waiting in his throne room. He says it's very important."
Estel furrowed his brow for a moment, before nodding, thanking Thingaerion and trotting off to find Elrond.
When he entered the room, Elrond rose from his throne in greeting and walked toward Estel. "Thingaerion said you wished to speak with me?" There was a pause as they both stood, facing each other, Elrond's hands resting on the boy's shoulders, observing and analyzing the very young man he had grown into. Piercing blue eyes searched sea-gray eyes, then the Elf Lord smiled and sighed, leaning forward to embrace the boy. "Ah, my son. I am glad you're back."
"I wasn't gone very long," Estel replied, when they had parted.
"No," said Elrond, with a smile. "Not very long. But this was a most dangerous task. It was your first time fighting. It has been a little while since the last sightings of evil near the borders of Shire, and this was most unexpected… Wargs…" Elrond drew a long breath, and shook his head. "I've heard all about the battle. My sons told me what you did. I feel I must tell you how very proud, and pleased I am."
Estel bit his lip, smiling awkwardly at the praise. "Well," he said, glancing at the ground. "I did nothing really. Whatever I did was chance; I could see nothing, and knew not what exactly was going on. I'm glad Elladan and Elrohir have already told you about the incident, for if you were to ask me now, I could not tell you." He looked up, smiling.
Elrond returned the smile, then regained solemnity and turned to his throne to be seated once more. Estel hesitated, wondering if he should leave now, and if Elrond was finished speaking with him. But he decided he could not go yet, for Elrond had not yet given him leave. "Was there anything else, Sir?"
Elrond, now seated at his throne, nodded. "Estel, what do you think of when you hear the name Elendil?"
The question was unexpected, but Estel answered it obediently, taking a moment to think first. "Elendil was a hero of Numenor. He was the leader of The Faithful, who alone of the Numenoreans remained true to Eru and the Valar. When Ar-Pharazon, King of Numenor set out to find the Blessed Realm, the Valinor, only Elendil and his followers stayed behind. Numenor fell into ruin, but Elendil built a great kingdom, and was King of Arnor and Gondor." He stopped, feeling awkward, and wondering where the Elf Lord was going.
"And what of his sons?" pressed Elrond.
"To Isildur he gave the Northern Kingdom, Arnor. And to Isildur's younger brother, Anarion, he gave Gondor… Elendil and Anarion both died in the War of the Ring. And Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's finger." He knew this story in truth better than most others, for Elrond himself had told him about it, and he had been there to see it happen.
"And what of their heirs, their lines? What happened to the Kingdoms?"
Estel shrugged. "They're gone. The line of Anarion perished in a plague and the Stewards now rule Gondor. And in the North, they battled with the Witch- King of Angmar, and their Kingdom came to ruin, and they fell out of power. The Rangers are all that is left of them."
"Why do you say 'they'? You are one of them," said Elrond. Again, Estel shrugged. "Well, I am glad you know your history, Estel, though I expected no less."
"Sir," said Estel. "I… I don't understand. Of course I know these stories, and others too. You can ask me about any one of the Tales of the Eldar, the War of the Jewels; I've been told all of them since I can remember."
"Since you can remember?" asked Elrond, his eyebrow raising. "How far back does your memory reach? Can you remember a time before Rivendell? For you were not always here."
Estel bit his lip, and squinted at the ground, racking his mind for a memory of something before Rivendell. After a long moment, he finally said uneasily, "I… I remember a rocking chair. My mother was sitting in a rocking chair. And then another one; there were some horses, gray and white- spotted. One was black. We were in the woods. And… there was a man walking with my mother. I think he must have been my father."
Elrond sat silently, regarding the young man. Finally he sighed. "That's impressive. You were very young. Especially for a Dunadan. You couldn't even talk." He sighed, and looked at the boy. "Estel," he paused, trying to find the best way to explain. "Well, I suppose that's it right there," he muttered to himself, then raising his eyes to Estel's again. "Estel."
"Yes," answered Estel, confused.
"Estel I call you, but that can't be your name. What kind of name is Estel? Not a proper name for a Dunadan at all." The boy's brow furrowed but he did not move, and made no reply. "Have you never wondered at that, my son?" asked Elrond, leaning forward. "Have you never wondered, who your father was?"
"He was a Ranger," said Estel weakly. "He died fighting for the Dunedaine, and all the free folk of Eriador."
"Who told you that?"
"My mother," he said. "Please don't tell me it's not true."
"It is indeed true. But why should you not know your father's name?" Estel waited. "Why should you have been brought here, to live under my care? Have you never questioned these things."
"Often," said Estel quietly. "But I have come to no conclusion."
"None?"
"Well… I've always supposed, though I wasn't very proud of the idea, that maybe nobody even knew who my father was. And that I was… an accident. And that you or your elves came upon my mother with me homeless and defenseless, wandering and needy. And that you have taken me on out of kindness."
"Do you really think that's true?"
"…It doesn't seem unlike you."
"Perhaps. But that's the only part that fits. I knew your father well, Estel. He loved you very much. He would have been proud to see you today. I wish he could be here to see what a splendid young man you've grown into."
"You knew him?" asked Estel.
"Yes. He was an honorable, brave man. He was killed by orc arrows, not far from here. His death was a great blow to the Dunedain, indeed to all of Middle-Earth, though they knew it not. But fortunately, there was you." Estel's eyes widened. "Your father's friend, and kinsmen, Drinian, led your mother here to Rivendell, so that you could be raised secretly and safely."
"I… I don't understand," said Estel in disbelief.
"Do you truly not understand? Or are you just afraid to?" Elrond asked, his eyes boring into Estel's. "I know how clever you are, my son, and yet you cannot see this? Don't be afraid to let yourself hope. Why do you refuse to let yourself see the obvious?"
"For fear that I may be wrong."
"You did not fear being wrong when you told me you first theory."
Estel took a breath. "I am afraid to let myself think… that I might be more than .. I am… because… What if I'm not? It's better to accept what I am and never expect the best, and I will never be disappointed, or seem an arrogant fool."
Elrond's eyebrow shot up. "An arrogant fool? The last two words I'd ever use to describe you, Estel. Put aside your silly worries and thoughts of humility. Estel, I call you, and truthfully so, for you are the hope of us all. But that is not your true name. You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn."
Estel's eyes widened and he let out a breath he had been holding without realizing. A name! He knew his father's name, and his own! Arathorn… He knew the names of the Dunedain, and started to pick apart the meaning and fixture of the name. The prefix of Ar normally signified nobility. He had not long to ponder this, for Elrond continued.
"You told me just now, that the kingdom of Arnor was lost years ago to Angmar, and that is so. But the line of Isildur continued, from father to son, among the Chieftains of the Dunedain. Your father was the last Cheiftain. When he died, you were still a baby, and Drinian has taken the role of Cheiftain to keep until you have reached an age suitable of leadership. I have watched you with great interest these years, as you have grown into a young man. And I am greatly pleased with all I have observed. After the news of your battle with the wargs, I knew that it was time for your true heritage to be revealed to you. You are Elendil's heir."
Estel stared, his mouth open. "What?" he whispered. He stared downward in utter amazement, his eyebrows furrowing, while a smile tugged at his lips as he began to fully realize what this meant, and he felt a thrill run through him. He had a father. And not just any father. He was directly discended from Elendil, who in turn was discended from The Children of Luthien, daughter of a Maia! Much elf blood ran through his veins, the blood of heroes. A grin spread slowly across his face, and he closed his eyes. He was not a nobody. He was Isildur's Heir. He was part of the story to come… Part of the legends he had grown up with.
"Estel," said a tall, dark-haired elf approaching him by the fountain.
The boy looked up, breaking his thoughtless stare. "What is it, Thingaerion?"
"Lord Elrond wishes to speak with you. He's waiting in his throne room. He says it's very important."
Estel furrowed his brow for a moment, before nodding, thanking Thingaerion and trotting off to find Elrond.
When he entered the room, Elrond rose from his throne in greeting and walked toward Estel. "Thingaerion said you wished to speak with me?" There was a pause as they both stood, facing each other, Elrond's hands resting on the boy's shoulders, observing and analyzing the very young man he had grown into. Piercing blue eyes searched sea-gray eyes, then the Elf Lord smiled and sighed, leaning forward to embrace the boy. "Ah, my son. I am glad you're back."
"I wasn't gone very long," Estel replied, when they had parted.
"No," said Elrond, with a smile. "Not very long. But this was a most dangerous task. It was your first time fighting. It has been a little while since the last sightings of evil near the borders of Shire, and this was most unexpected… Wargs…" Elrond drew a long breath, and shook his head. "I've heard all about the battle. My sons told me what you did. I feel I must tell you how very proud, and pleased I am."
Estel bit his lip, smiling awkwardly at the praise. "Well," he said, glancing at the ground. "I did nothing really. Whatever I did was chance; I could see nothing, and knew not what exactly was going on. I'm glad Elladan and Elrohir have already told you about the incident, for if you were to ask me now, I could not tell you." He looked up, smiling.
Elrond returned the smile, then regained solemnity and turned to his throne to be seated once more. Estel hesitated, wondering if he should leave now, and if Elrond was finished speaking with him. But he decided he could not go yet, for Elrond had not yet given him leave. "Was there anything else, Sir?"
Elrond, now seated at his throne, nodded. "Estel, what do you think of when you hear the name Elendil?"
The question was unexpected, but Estel answered it obediently, taking a moment to think first. "Elendil was a hero of Numenor. He was the leader of The Faithful, who alone of the Numenoreans remained true to Eru and the Valar. When Ar-Pharazon, King of Numenor set out to find the Blessed Realm, the Valinor, only Elendil and his followers stayed behind. Numenor fell into ruin, but Elendil built a great kingdom, and was King of Arnor and Gondor." He stopped, feeling awkward, and wondering where the Elf Lord was going.
"And what of his sons?" pressed Elrond.
"To Isildur he gave the Northern Kingdom, Arnor. And to Isildur's younger brother, Anarion, he gave Gondor… Elendil and Anarion both died in the War of the Ring. And Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's finger." He knew this story in truth better than most others, for Elrond himself had told him about it, and he had been there to see it happen.
"And what of their heirs, their lines? What happened to the Kingdoms?"
Estel shrugged. "They're gone. The line of Anarion perished in a plague and the Stewards now rule Gondor. And in the North, they battled with the Witch- King of Angmar, and their Kingdom came to ruin, and they fell out of power. The Rangers are all that is left of them."
"Why do you say 'they'? You are one of them," said Elrond. Again, Estel shrugged. "Well, I am glad you know your history, Estel, though I expected no less."
"Sir," said Estel. "I… I don't understand. Of course I know these stories, and others too. You can ask me about any one of the Tales of the Eldar, the War of the Jewels; I've been told all of them since I can remember."
"Since you can remember?" asked Elrond, his eyebrow raising. "How far back does your memory reach? Can you remember a time before Rivendell? For you were not always here."
Estel bit his lip, and squinted at the ground, racking his mind for a memory of something before Rivendell. After a long moment, he finally said uneasily, "I… I remember a rocking chair. My mother was sitting in a rocking chair. And then another one; there were some horses, gray and white- spotted. One was black. We were in the woods. And… there was a man walking with my mother. I think he must have been my father."
Elrond sat silently, regarding the young man. Finally he sighed. "That's impressive. You were very young. Especially for a Dunadan. You couldn't even talk." He sighed, and looked at the boy. "Estel," he paused, trying to find the best way to explain. "Well, I suppose that's it right there," he muttered to himself, then raising his eyes to Estel's again. "Estel."
"Yes," answered Estel, confused.
"Estel I call you, but that can't be your name. What kind of name is Estel? Not a proper name for a Dunadan at all." The boy's brow furrowed but he did not move, and made no reply. "Have you never wondered at that, my son?" asked Elrond, leaning forward. "Have you never wondered, who your father was?"
"He was a Ranger," said Estel weakly. "He died fighting for the Dunedaine, and all the free folk of Eriador."
"Who told you that?"
"My mother," he said. "Please don't tell me it's not true."
"It is indeed true. But why should you not know your father's name?" Estel waited. "Why should you have been brought here, to live under my care? Have you never questioned these things."
"Often," said Estel quietly. "But I have come to no conclusion."
"None?"
"Well… I've always supposed, though I wasn't very proud of the idea, that maybe nobody even knew who my father was. And that I was… an accident. And that you or your elves came upon my mother with me homeless and defenseless, wandering and needy. And that you have taken me on out of kindness."
"Do you really think that's true?"
"…It doesn't seem unlike you."
"Perhaps. But that's the only part that fits. I knew your father well, Estel. He loved you very much. He would have been proud to see you today. I wish he could be here to see what a splendid young man you've grown into."
"You knew him?" asked Estel.
"Yes. He was an honorable, brave man. He was killed by orc arrows, not far from here. His death was a great blow to the Dunedain, indeed to all of Middle-Earth, though they knew it not. But fortunately, there was you." Estel's eyes widened. "Your father's friend, and kinsmen, Drinian, led your mother here to Rivendell, so that you could be raised secretly and safely."
"I… I don't understand," said Estel in disbelief.
"Do you truly not understand? Or are you just afraid to?" Elrond asked, his eyes boring into Estel's. "I know how clever you are, my son, and yet you cannot see this? Don't be afraid to let yourself hope. Why do you refuse to let yourself see the obvious?"
"For fear that I may be wrong."
"You did not fear being wrong when you told me you first theory."
Estel took a breath. "I am afraid to let myself think… that I might be more than .. I am… because… What if I'm not? It's better to accept what I am and never expect the best, and I will never be disappointed, or seem an arrogant fool."
Elrond's eyebrow shot up. "An arrogant fool? The last two words I'd ever use to describe you, Estel. Put aside your silly worries and thoughts of humility. Estel, I call you, and truthfully so, for you are the hope of us all. But that is not your true name. You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn."
Estel's eyes widened and he let out a breath he had been holding without realizing. A name! He knew his father's name, and his own! Arathorn… He knew the names of the Dunedain, and started to pick apart the meaning and fixture of the name. The prefix of Ar normally signified nobility. He had not long to ponder this, for Elrond continued.
"You told me just now, that the kingdom of Arnor was lost years ago to Angmar, and that is so. But the line of Isildur continued, from father to son, among the Chieftains of the Dunedain. Your father was the last Cheiftain. When he died, you were still a baby, and Drinian has taken the role of Cheiftain to keep until you have reached an age suitable of leadership. I have watched you with great interest these years, as you have grown into a young man. And I am greatly pleased with all I have observed. After the news of your battle with the wargs, I knew that it was time for your true heritage to be revealed to you. You are Elendil's heir."
Estel stared, his mouth open. "What?" he whispered. He stared downward in utter amazement, his eyebrows furrowing, while a smile tugged at his lips as he began to fully realize what this meant, and he felt a thrill run through him. He had a father. And not just any father. He was directly discended from Elendil, who in turn was discended from The Children of Luthien, daughter of a Maia! Much elf blood ran through his veins, the blood of heroes. A grin spread slowly across his face, and he closed his eyes. He was not a nobody. He was Isildur's Heir. He was part of the story to come… Part of the legends he had grown up with.