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Beta Reader: Dragonfly

Chapter 7: Awakenings

Erestor shot up and landed on his feet beside his bed without ever having touched its sides. What was that awful scream that had awoken him out of a pleasant dream involving the Gardener's daughter? It had come from inside the Hall, Erestor was sure of it. The tutor crept to the door, eased it open, and looked up and down the hallway. No excited servants ran by, but a faint light flickered from under the door to Elrond's chamber, which happened to be the room nearest to Erestor's. Erestor, unlike Glorfindel, did not sleep in the nude, but he was modest—some said excessively so—and he did not wish to put even so much as his legs on display. Therefore, although he did not don his day clothes, he did pause long enough to wrap himself in a cloak. It was the briefest of delays, however, and within seconds the tutor was knocking gently upon Elrond's door.

"Enter if you must," came the reply, but the Elf who uttered that phrase spoke with agitation. What had happened to rob Elrond of his equanimity? Worriedly, Erestor pushed open the door and peered within.

Illuminated by the single candle on the nightstand beside his bed, Elrond was sitting up rigidly, clutching tightly at the bedclothes with knuckles whitened from the strain. His face, too, looked very pale, but he was sweating, which Elves rarely did, and then usually only because they had been poisoned or suffered grievous wounds in battle.

"Elrond," cried Erestor, alarmed, "whatever is the matter? Shall I fetch you some herbs or simples? Shall I summon Mithrandir?"

Elrond held up his hand to stay him. "Nay, Erestor, I am not ill. I have had a nightmare, is all."

Even more perplexed than before, Erestor gaped at the Lord of Imladris. Elrond? A nightmare?

Elrond recovered a little at the tutor's expression. "Come," he said, "gesturing to a chair that stood near the bed. "Sit you down, and I shall explain."

Erestor sat down gingerly upon the edge of the seat, as if he might spring from it upon the instant, and continued to stare anxiously at Elrond.

"You needn't look at me so, Erestor," Elrond chided him. "I am not one of your elflings, still subject to illness and cold and thus in need of coddling. I am an Elf full grown and immune to such perils."

"Odd, then," retorted Erestor, "that your face should be pale and yet beaded with sweat."

"My nightmare was a dreadful one."

"Were you being chased by a dragon?"

"No."

"A balrog?"

Elrond shook his head.

"Not, not—the Dark Lord?"

"No, it was Anomen."

Now Erestor was doubly perplexed. "Anomen? You were being chased by Anomen? Really, Elrond, I know that I have complained that the lad is on occasion a rascal, but—"

"Erestor," interrupted Elrond, "you misunderstand me. I stood in no danger in this dream—unless it be the danger of a broken heart. No, it was Anomen who was in peril."

"Dragon?"

"No."

"Balrog?"

"No."

"Dark Lord?"

"No."

"Elrond!" exclaimed Erestor in frustration. "Here I sit in the middle of the night, wrapped in a cloak, my feet bare, my hair unbraided, because you had a nightmare and let out a shriek that would have frightened a Ringwraith. Pray be a little more forthcoming. I would like the tale told in time for me to regain my room before the servants arise. I would not have anyone see me in this state."

Elrond smiled a little at his oh-so-predictable friend, but he sobered as he began his story. Swiftly he told Erestor of Penidhren's curiosity about Anomen's parentage and of how Glorfindel had deflected the Greenwood Elf's questions. Then he repeated to Erestor the scenario that Glorfindel had posed.

"So you see, Erestor, Glorfindel's words set me to dreaming about what might happen if an Elf appeared and laid claim to Anomen. In my dream, Anomen tried to escape from this claimant by leaping from a window"—here Erestor rolled his eyes as one all too familiar with that maneuver—"but he missed his mark and plummeted to the ground. He was badly injured, and in my nightmare I had to set his leg. It was then that I screamed, seemingly."

"I understand now," said Erestor musingly. "Yes, that would indeed be a nightmare. If an Elf suddenly arrived and tried to take Anomen away, all of Rivendell would be thrown into an uproar. By the Valar! It would take a dozen Elves at the least to hold down Glorfindel to prevent him doing that Elf an injury!"

"I think," said Elrond wryly, "that you do Glorfindel an injustice. Only a dozen Elves?"

Erestor began to protest, but then he saw Elrond's smile. The tutor arose from his chair. "Well," he said lightly, "it was after all only a dream. A few hours still remain before dawn. I shall try to make the most of them. I hope you are not planning to visit any more fearsome screams upon the unsuspecting populace of Rivendell. If you are, may I suggest that you sleep with a pillow over your face?"

Elrond laughed but shook his head. "I succeeded in setting Anomen's leg. The worst was over, I think—at least insofar as Anomen's physical injuries were concerned."

"Let us hope so!" declared Erestor as he exited the chamber. Arriving at his own room, he carefully hung up his cloak—Glorfindel would have cast it aside, he thought smugly—and he composed himself for sleep. As he was genuinely tired, it was not long before he was fast asleep and entering into his own dream.

"My son!" cried a fearful Thranduil as he heard Anomen cry out in pain. "What has happened to my son?" He made for the door of the library, but dream-Erestor, who had returned from his errand, seized hold of his tunic.

"Thranduil, I swear that Elrond would send for you if Anomen were in any danger."

"His name is not Anomen," said Thranduil angrily, "and whether he is in danger or no, I would comfort him."

"You cannot comfort him upon the instant," Erestor said reasonably. "Elrond would never have set his leg if he were conscious."

"Then why did he cry out?" demanded Thranduil.

"Undoubtedly the pain was so great that it pierced even his unconsciousness. But now that the leg is set, he will fall back into a deep sleep. Even if he should begin to rouse, Elrond would only give him something to make him sleep anew. It is best that he should sleep rather than have his strength sapped by pain."

Thranduil subsided, slumping into a chair. "Can I do nothing for my son?" he said miserably.

"You are doing something for your son, Thranduil. You are leaving him in the hands of two of the finest healers in Middle-earth. The ability to recognize when one's child should be entrusted to another is the mark of a wise and loving parent."

"Is it?" said Thranduil softly, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Thranduil did not have to wait much longer before he was summoned to Anomen's bedside. No runner came for him, however; Elrond himself entered the library to tell Thranduil that he had finished treating Anomen and that the lad could receive visitors. "I must warn you, however," said the Lord of Elrond, "that he is sound asleep and will not speak no matter how urgently you address him. You should not be alarmed by his stillness, however. It is not indicative of anything bad, only that he is in a healing sleep."

"So I have been told," Thranduil said curtly.

Side by side, Thranduil and Elrond returned to Anomen's room, where Thranduil gazed eagerly upon his son, who was tucked under layers of quilts, only his face visible.

"As you can see," Elrond said, gesturing at that face, "Anomen's color is good."

"His name is Laiqualässe," Thranduil insisted.

"Laiqualässe? Rather a formal name for one so young," said Mithrandir, who stood by the foot of the bed.

"I believe," said Thranduil, hesitating, "I believe the servants may have called him Legolas."

"Ah, Legolas," said Mithrandir approvingly. "Now, Legolas is a proper name for a lively young Elf such as this one. I can envision him as Legolas, archer of renown, one who strikes fear into the hearts of Orcs—well, he would, anyway, if Orcs had hearts."

"He is Prince Legolas," said Thranduil coldly. "He won't be fighting Orcs."

"You have been known to fight Orcs in your day, Thranduil," rejoined the wizard. "I don't see why your son shouldn't. I should think you would be proud if your son took after you."

Thranduil winced. No, he was not certain that he wanted Legolas to take after him, at least not when it came to—certain matters. But for now he did not wish to think of that. He had other, more immediate concerns, such as returning his son to Greenwood. He had better broach the subject at once.

"I suppose," the King said dourly, "that Lai, um, Legolas will be unable to ride until his leg has fully healed."

"I would not recommend it," replied Elrond. "Not only must the bone knit, but he must recover his strength. He has suffered a severe shock and will not be himself for several weeks."

"Could he be moved upon a litter?"

Elrond shook his head. "The continual swaying, not to mention the jostling, would weary him. Better to wait until he is capable of keeping to his horse."

Thranduil grimaced. That meant an extended stay in Rivendell, for he was resolved not to quit the place without his son. He feared that if he departed, the lad would be spirited away before his return.

"As Legolas may be remaining here for several more months," said Thranduil with careful politeness, "then I wonder if I might trouble you to arrange our sleeping accommodations so that we might share the same chamber."

"Of course," said Elrond, equally polite. "I shall see that new rooms are prepared for you during the night so that upon the morrow the change may be made." Mithrandir could hear what Elrond was thinking: I must perforce accede to this request; I can proffer no excuse not to. Mithrandir sent his thoughts to the elf-lord: Elrond, it is for the best; father and son must come to understand one another.

The next morning, a still-sleeping Legolas was conveyed to the rooms that he was to share with his father. As soon as the elfling was settled, Thranduil wanted to order all the Rivendell folk from the chamber, but in spite of his resentment of those who had kept his son from him, he feared that Legolas would be distressed if he woke up to a room completely empty of those who had most recently cared for him. Reluctantly, Thranduil settled upon Mithrandir as his son's sickroom companion. "If you wouldn't mind," he said to the wizard, "I should like you to stay here and attend upon my son—for a little while. If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he added, almost hoping that the wizard would refuse. That was not likely. Mithrandir well knew that Thranduil made the request only grudgingly, but the wizard understood even better than the King that Legolas would want someone from his Rivendell family to be there when he awoke. "I shall be glad to serve in any fashion that I may," he declaimed. In reply Thranduil stiffly gestured his 'guest' toward a chair. The wizard seated himself, and Thranduil escorted the others to the door.

After the others had departed, Thranduil took a seat facing the wizard. After several minutes of awkward silence, the King posed a blunt question.

"How long have you known that he was here?"

"I have not known. Indeed, I have been very careful not to know."

Thranduil snorted. "I can believe that! Very well, then. How long have you suspected?"

"From the very start," Mithrandir replied coolly.

Thranduil hand went to his hip, but then he remembered that his sword rested against the wall in its scabbard. He dropped his hand. Mithrandir smiled knowingly. His staff lay across his lap, but now he set it aside.

"My dear, Thranduil, let us not quarrel. We have something in common. We both of us care for your son."

"My son," growled Thranduil. "Yes, my son."

"I never said he wasn't," the wizard said mildly. "We needn't argue over that. In fact, we need argue over nothing at all."

Thranduil paused, nonplussed. Somehow he had lost the advantage of being the aggrieved party. He would have been happier if the wizard had disputed his claim, as it would have given him the excuse to continue angry. Now what was he to say? He sat silent for a while, brooding and feeling a trifle indignant over not being entitled to, well, feel indignant. Mithrandir finally broke the silence.

"You want to return with Legolas to Greenwood."

"Of course," Thranduil quickly replied.

"Then if we talk about anything, it ought to be about how you are to go about accomplishing your goal."

"On horseback," said Thranduil dryly.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mithrandir. "How witty you have become!"

"I was being sarcastic."

"So was I."

Another silence ensued. This time it was broken by Legolas. The lad muttered and raised a hand to his head, rubbing his brow and looking about confusedly. Both adults leaped to his bed and leaned in to speak to him, banging their own heads together in the process. "Ow!" they cried in unison, and each glared at the other. In another moment they were smiling, however, for Legolas, sick as he was, giggled at the sight of Wizard and King colliding. His giggles vanished, though, as soon as Thranduil addressed him.

"Legolas," the King enthused, "praise the Valar that you have regained consciousness, and so quickly, too!"

"That is not my name," Legolas replied sullenly.

"Don't you remember being called by that name in Greenwood?"

"Yes, but never by you. The servants would call me 'Legolas', and before that my Edwen Nana called me Laiqua. You never called me anything at all. You gave me 'no name', and that is the name I go by now," the elfling concluded bitterly.

"But from whence came the names 'Laiqua' and 'Legolas'?" persisted Thranduil.

Legolas shrugged.

"They are nicknames, Legolas. They come from a name I chose for you—your mother and I chose for you—even before you were born: Laiqualässe. Your mother was Laurelässe—Golden Leaf—and your name, 'Green Leaf', was patterned after hers."

Thranduil looked hopefully at Legolas, but the elfling stared back uncertainly. Should he believe Thranduil's tale? No one had ever spoken to him of his mother. He had never heard her name. Perhaps Thranduil was making up this story in order to win him over. He looked at Mithrandir. The wizard nodded.

Thranduil caught the look exchanged between elfling and wizard. He was relieved that Mithrandir had backed him up, but troubled by the fact that Legolas turned to the wizard for reassurance. Mithrandir caught his glance. Just then the bell rang for the noon meal. The wizard seized his opportunity.

"Well," he harrumphed, "it is time for me to go. Legolas, a tray shall be brought to you, as well as to your father, but as for me, if I do not bestir myself, I shall get nothing to eat this day."

"Don't go, Mithrandir," cried Legolas. "I am not at all hungry. You may have my tray."

Mithrandir shook his head. "You need to recover your strength. I would not accept even one biscuit at your hand."

With that he strode to the door, paused a moment to bow almost imperceptibly, and disappeared, leaving behind a grateful King but a frightened elfling.

In his bed, Erestor heard the sound of a bell. He sat up and looked about. His room was filled with afternoon sunshine. He had slept through the morning. Hastily the tutor leaped from his bed and pulled on his clothes. Then he hurried to the Dining Hall. "Why did no one summon me to breakfast," he grumbled to Elrond as he took his seat at the elf-lord's table.

"When you did not appear at breakfast," Elrond replied, "I judged that you were in need of rest and ought not to be disturbed. After all, your sleep was interrupted last night."

"And whose fault was that?" muttered Erestor. "Ai!" he cried, remembering his duties. "Now Nenmaethor, Anomen, and the twins have missed a day at lessons."

"They have many days ahead of them," Elrond replied serenely. "No doubt you will find some way to cover the missed material."

'Yes', thought Erestor, suddenly happy. 'Yes, they do have many days ahead of them. All of them. Not just the twins and Nenmaethor but Anomen, too. Praise the Valar, it was a dream. Naught but a dream'.

With that, Erestor dug into the food before him with an enthusiasm that raised more eyebrows than Elrond's.

"'Restor, you are eating like a Twoll," lisped Arwen.

"Arwen," Elrond began, "a young lady does not—"

"No, no," interrupted Erestor. "Do not chide her. She is only a little one." Elrond's eyebrows had begun to subside, but at Erestor's latest words, they shot up again. As for the tutor, he smiled beneficently upon Arwen and then upon each elfling in turn. His gaze rested at the last upon Anomen.

"Naught but a dream," Erestor repeated to himself contentedly. "Naught but a dream."