Disclaimer: (Which should head chapter one, but apparently I briefly forgot that Tolkien is dead and I'm not his reincarnation.) So yeah, not mine.
Author's Notes: And here we have chapter two. Picks up right where chapter one left off. Thank you to goldmund, liss, and Aenigma for reviewing!
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Focusing on more important matters, the lord of Imladris gazed regally at his youngest son. And – a mere mortal or not – Estel met his foster father's eyes squarely and without shame. Elrond sighed. It was going to be hard to reprimand the boy for doing what they had all desired to do. "Estel –" he said chastisingly, before being interrupted by the twin closest to him.
"-of the elves," Elrohir stated solemnly, eyes twinkling. Elrond would have lived with the dwarves before letting his son know that had been exactly what he was going to say.
Elladan took on the dialogue with a smile, looking sternly at his foster brother. "Today you have disgraced all of Imladris in front of a stranger," the elder twin told him, in a rather good imitation of their father. Estel flushed, but delight danced in his grey eyes.
"What will the elves of Mirkwood think of us now?" questioned Elrohir in mock despair. It was Elladan who answered, his words sincere as he deviated from his father's script.
"They will think," he said to Elrond, "That we defend our friends, and are merciful to upstart envoys." Elrond bit his cheek, Legolas laughed aloud, and Estel snorted in suppressed amusement.
Elrohir – who had been pacing – stopped beside his identical brother, slinging an arm over Elladan's shoulders. "They will think that we are fools for taking in a mortal," and Elrohir rolled his eyes, "But be comforted by the knowledge that he would die for their prince." Elladan nodded agreeably, and Estel and Legolas confirmed the declaration silently with their eyes, lifting their clasped hands in oath.
"They will –" finished Elladan contently "-send a letter protesting the treatment of their messenger and the captivity of Prince Legolas."
Elrohir interjected: "Which you will not show to Estel," and Elladan wrapped an arm around his interrupting brother.
"Then you will send them a reply that vaguely promises to burn their forest to ashes if they so much as try to remove Legolas against his will." Elrond thought perhaps it was time his sons visited Lórien and analyzed their grandparents for awhile, instead of their father.
"Thranduil will apologize," the younger twin said knowingly, and Legolas blushed. Rash and foolish or not, Thranduil was his father.
"And Legolas will stay here!" chorused the twins together, dancing gleefully in a circle around Estel and Legolas.
"Gladly," the prince of Mirkwood agreed, and Estel grinned. Elrond rubbed his temples, wondering at his sons' excess of energy. Just thinking of the coming argument with Thranduil made him tired.
Estel's ever watchful eyes saw the flicker of exhaustion on his father's face, and – releasing Legolas' hand – he caught one twin by each shoulder. "Come," he commanded, steering his brothers to the door, "Lord Elrond is weary of us, and we must dress for supper." Elladan and Elrohir looked indignant at the thought that anyone could weary of them, but obediently let their younger –and taller – foster brother direct them out of the room. A chorus of, "Namarië, ada"'s followed their departure, and – linking arms – the twin elves went skipping down the hall like high spirited colts.
Bowing respectfully, Legolas and Estel also moved to leave, but Elrond beckoned his youngest child back. "I would have a word with you, Estel," he said tonelessly, bringing both lads to a halt. "Legolas will see you at the feast," Elrond told them, and the blonde elf recognized it as his dismissal. Begging his leave from Elrond, Legolas turned to Estel and the two – in a tradition so long forgotten that even Elrond could barely recall it – clasped forearms and briefly kissed. Elrond had vague memories of the custom, but since it had vanished – or so he had thought – at the end of the first age, his knowledge was unclear. He knew the symbolism: brothers in arms, friends of the heart, but was curious as to where two boys had learned such a thing.
"You wanted something, milord?" queried Estel hesitantly, breaking Elrond from his reverie and returning his attention to his son. Estel – though he was mortal – so closely resembled Elrond's two sons that visiting elves often asked the lord if there was not some close relation between the boys. Elrond replied firmly that they were brothers, and his guests knew better than to disagree.
"You were rash, today," he told the young man bluntly, watching Estel's hands clench at his sides, shame and anger warring on his face.
He spoke only after he had reined in his emotions, and though his words were defiant they were uttered calmly. "He insulted Legolas," said Elrond's son softly, still looking as though he wished to throttle the messenger elf.
Elrond's reply was sharp. "There are better ways to defend your friends that to attack an unarmed opponent," the lord of Imladris chastised, his voice cutting. Estel bowed his head in humiliation, and Elrond had to quell the urge to comfort his young son. Shoulders slumped, Estel mumbled an apology for his misbehavior, and promised to write King Thranduil a letter stating the same. Ignoring the regretful words, Elrond studied his son avidly, pale hair falling across his face as he tilted his head to one side. When he received no answer, Estel lifted his head to find himself staring directly at his foster father. "I wonder," the regal elf murmured thoughtfully, "What it is you truly feel for Legolas, that makes you care so much." Estel's face grew flushed, and he looked away in what Elrond strongly feared was shame. "Estel?" he questioned gently, probing the young man staring sadly past the balcony.
Upon hearing his father's voice, his grey eyes flickered closed. "Please don't tell him," Estel begged desperately, ruddy face tense with grief. And Elrond was momentarily relieved that this lad was no elf, for grief such as that would surely kill him.
"Why do you say nothing?" Elrond queried, his heart aching for his youngest child.
Estel's response was fierce and full of self-loathing. "He is Legolas: kind and wise and beautiful, and I – I am no more than myself. I will not give him the dishonor of a love such as mine." And so it all came back to the six-year-old boy, Elrond thought sorrowfully, the one who was told he deserved none of the affection given him. It was the young child who heard his beloved older brother mutter, "I give up. Men are hopeless," after a particularly bad sword practice. This was the boy who had fallen in love with his best friend, and – though Legolas had never made a single gesture of contempt toward Estel – there was no doubt in the young man's mind of his unworthiness.
Cursing every elf that had convinced his son of this, Elrond drew the lad against him and let the boy's bitter tears stain his robes. "Ai, Estel," he said tenderly, embracing his foster son. Estel wept with all the passion of youth, but they were true tears and broke Elrond's heart. If only the boy could see himself as they saw him – but Estel would no sooner believe such things about himself than believe that Legolas loved him.
Before the lord could pursue that thought Estel pulled away, wiping his damp cheeks with his sleeves. "I am sorry, Father," the boy whispered, sounding as if he were sorry for more than simply bursting into tears.
Elrond's ears were sharp, and his reply almost a rebuke. "Never be sorry for loving someone, Estel. There is no shame in that." Estel nodded obediently, but would not meet his father's pale eyes. Elrond caught his son's chin with one cool hand, tilting the young face up to meet his, blue eyes boring gently into stormy grey. "Has Legolas not proven his loyalty to you?" he questioned fiercely, "Have not we all?" Estel was a man, and Elrond knew that his was a race skilled in deceiving, but the boy had been raised with elves and knew how to answer with nothing but the truth.
"Legolas has been teacher and friend since our first meeting," Estel admitted sincerely, "And I could ask for no greater devotion than that he has given me." Son gazed unyieldingly at father, and Elrond saw steadfastness, sorrow, and love in his child's shadowed eyes. "I will ask for no more," Estel swore, and Elrond knew that no argument would sway the boy before him. The youth would take his secret to the grave, if he thought that by doing so he spared Legolas even the smallest increment of pain or embarrassment. It was a noble, unselfish act, and it tore at Elrond's heart.
He brushed immortal fingers over Estel's rough cheek, and the boy stood silent and unflinching beneath his father's touch. Elrond found it ironic that it was this child – this mortal, fleeting man – who was most like him. Elladan and Elrohir were laughter and gaiety, as their mother had been, and all three had often reminded him of the playful summer breezes. Arwen, his only daughter, had been raised in Lothlórien, and was the image of her grandmother Galadriel in all but face. And Estel – who was truly not Elrond's son at all, but the son of Arathorn II and of the Dúnedain, and of all Gondor – stood apart, commanding but kind, respectful but aloof. Elrond could see himself reflected in the boy's dignified bearing, the graceful way he stood as both king and servant. It was this that made him feel the weight of the lad's silence on his shoulders, for if Estel had taken after his brothers Legolas would have already been told, and if he were as his foster sister the emotion would have been dismissed as frivolous. But he was as his father, and so guarded the love he knew was precious, and said nothing to spare the one he cared for.
"Ai," Elrond sighed, feeling suddenly very tired, cradling his son's head with one hand, "my son. I would that you did not bear this burden."
Estel's smile was faint and fleeting, dancing lightly over his lips and fading into the depths of his faze. "Do not wish for such a thing, Father," he said, facing the older elf without regret, "For I would not for all of Middle Earth forsake my love for Legolas. If it be my burden, then I bear it willingly and with joy. It is my gift to him," Estel told his father, his young face open and unguarded. He spoke the truth, and Elrond moved his hand to rest on the man's sturdy shoulder, knowing that it was indeed strong enough to carry such a weight.
"A gift ungiven," he chastised gently, trying futilely to change Estel's mind. His son only smiled, forgiving his father's rebuke with wise eyes.
"Can not a light drive away the darkness, even if its flame is unseen?" he responded, and Elrond saw that he was defeated.
Pressing lightly on Estel's shoulder, the boy quickly kneeled in front of his father, gazing up into the smooth, elven face. "My son," Elrond murmured softly, regarding the boy through half-closed eyes. "You are almost grown, and still know so little of your true heritage." If the abrupt change of subject startled him, Estel did not show it.
"I will hear of it when you see fit to tell me, milord," the young mortal replied demurely, and there was no resentment in his tone over secrets kept.
"So patient," mused the elf lord thoughtfully, "Do you not wish to know of your past?" The comment was said half in jest, but Estel's tightened jaw showed that it had struck close to the mark. It took the boy a moment longer to answer, but he spoke frankly.
"I am happy here," he told the elf above him, "Where I may sit at your table and live beneath your roof. I wish for nothing more." The unspoken words hung heavy in the silence, for Estel was quick enough to know that if his heritage were not of enough import to remove him from Imladris than it would have already been revealed to him. And it was worse for Elrond, who knew already how far away destiny would steal this boy he called his son. It was a separation they accepted without words, imminent but not permanent, for Estel's true home was the palace he knelt in.
"Your father was a good man," offered Elrond consolingly, images of Arathorn II flooding his ageless mind. Estel's contradiction was full of loyalty, and love.
"My father is indeed good," he agreed coyly, "But he is no man. He is Lord Elrond Peredhil of Imladris, and I am proud to be a servant in his household." Elrond shook his head, but did not attempt to hide the upward curve of his lips as he drew Estel to his feet.
"Not a servant," he corrected, "But a son." The boy's smile surpassed his own, and the two embraced. Gripping the youth's shoulders, Elrond looked steadily into his eyes and promised solemnly, "No matter where your fate may take you, Estel of the elves, remember that you will always have a seat at my table, and a place to rest your head." He kissed his youngest son briefly on the forehead, saw the gratitude in the boy's grey eyes before he turned and strode away, leaving his father to his thoughts. The study door thudded softly closed, and Elrond tried to ignore the sharp ache in his heart. It was a cruel trick, he thought bitterly, that it would be his youngest child lost to him. A brutal twist of fate, to give him a boy whom he'd never intended to love, and to make them so similar that he no longer needed a mirror to see his own reflection. Twenty short years as father to a mortal child, and the rest of eternity as a parent grieving the loss of his smallest son. Three children – beautiful, elven children that so resembled their mother – were his by blood, and one tall, dark man who was not really his at all, but who he had claimed as son. Who he loved. In punishment, it seemed, for loving a mortal fate was taking him away. Elrond feared that one day he would stand before a marble tomb and look upon the still features of his youngest son. He feared it because he knew it to be truth, and the grief of it would surely kill him. And, alone in his study, Elrond wept.
To be continued in chapter three, The Feast . . .
