Disclaimer: The characters are not mine and I make no money from writing this fiction.
To those who have reviewed - thank you so much for the kind welcome to LOTR writing. It is very much appreciated.
Angel – Thank you! I am enjoying writing fluff, but I have a feeling it will become angsty before I know where I am.
Viggomaniac – yes, here I am, shortly after saying I wouldn't be. Hmmmm. I have an idea for the next part, although it's out of chronological order. Oh well. Never was the most organised person in the world.
Aramirandme – hey, I can do cute! But then, it's not difficult – Estel had to be one of the world's cutest children, right?
Shirebound – thank you so much for reviewing. I absolutely love your work and feel really honoured that you've left me a review. I have been thinking and reading for such a long time that it feels odd to be on the other side now, as it were!
Grumpy – thank you – I'm glad you enjoyed this little glimpse into his early days.
Amy Earls – thanks for following me over here! I promise, I haven't forgotten Frank. I am working hard on his story, I just haven't written it down yet! I'll try not to let Estel take over.
And a final note – I have joined the group that has abandoned Gilraen. I love stories with her and stories without her, but I felt she would clutter up the relationship I am attempting to convey so I am afraid I have left her out.
Oh – and this story is set before the last one. Don't ask me why! That's just how it is.
I wait for Glorfindel to tell his story. We do not count time as mortals count it. It is neither more nor less precious, it is just different. My youngest son has reminded me that he and I see time from opposite sides. I wonder, while I listen, whether Estel's patience will hold, as he must by now be waiting for me to come and give him his lesson for today.
Patience does not sit well with nine year old humans, even ones with Estel's heritage.
A movement catches my eye. The door is being pushed open, slowly, as if the person there does not wish to enter just yet but is preparing the way. Glorfindel pauses and follows the line of my gaze, the steady beat of his words ceasing. Our guests look for guidance as they draw themselves out of the story, some looking at the story-teller, some now at the door.
"Enter," I say, loudly.
We all wait, as the daylight falls slantways into the chamber, the silence masked by the hushed sound of a waterfall.
A figure steps into the room and stands, head up yet abashed, body straight yet bedraggled, and water is dripping from the dark green tunic onto the stone flags.
He bows, with all the dignity he can muster, and I silence my guests with a hand. No one will laugh at my boy, however ridiculous he looks. His hair falls across his face so that I can hardly make out his expression. Some part of my mind reminds me to talk to him about his braids, which he has recently taken to pulling out whenever he can.
"I apologise, Father," he says, pronouncing his words most carefully. "I need your help."
He is on his very best behaviour, and the words are stiff and stilted. I rise, and do not call him to my side, for there is something odd about the way the he stands and I do not wish to expose him any longer to the gaze of my guests. As it is, his appearance here will soon be threaded into a song.
"Very well. Glorfindel, entertain our guests. My lords, I shall return shortly." I could say something witty but it would be at my boy's expense, and I guard his feelings with care. They murmur among themselves, until Glorfindel takes up his story again and silences them. As I reach the door, I know he has almost succeeded in pulling their attention away from us, but I hold out my arm to shield Estel from their view as I guide him outside.
"What is it, Estel?"
"I truly am sorry, Father. I could have asked someone else but I needed you!"
His emotion is sudden, as if being able to tell his trouble has suddenly overwhelmed the careful guard he usually keeps over his manners.
"All is well, my child. Let us go to your room and find some dry clothes, then you may tell me what has upset you."
He walks close to me, his eyes on the ground. I wait for him to begin to speak but he says nothing more until we are safe in his bright, warm chamber.
"Remove your tunic, child. You are shivering." I turn to find him a towel and a robe to wear but his voice stops me.
"I cannot," he says. When I look at him to find an explanation of his words, I see that he is cradling his left arm, and that he is pale and sweating. I go to him quickly, and lead him to the bed, but he will not sit down.
"Sit, Estel. Tell me what is wrong with your arm."
"I don't want to sit down! The bedclothes will get wet! I spoil everything!" He is crying now, miserable beyond any misery that I have seen in him before, and I struggle to keep from questioning him too deeply. He must settle and trust me to help him. I pull an old blanket from the chest at the bottom of the bed, wrap it round his shoulders and steer him to sit on the chest, where the water can do no damage. He looks at me, crying no longer, but his breath is unsteady.
I carefully take his right hand away from his left arm, wondering what damage he has done. The sleeve is not bloodied but it is sore, this arm, though he tried to pretend it is not until I begin to examine it.
"I think it is broken, Father. Will you help me to mend it?" he says, his eyes wide.
The odd turn of expression makes me look at him. But I still watch over his tender feelings with care. "I will, Estel. Let me see if it is truly broken."
He allows me to feel over the bones. Yes, there, his forearm bone, the outer of the two, has a crack. It will mend easily. He has been lucky, and I tell him so as I help him to pull his wet tunic over his head. But my simple attempt at solace provokes more tears and he gives in to his sorrow completely as I hold him close.
"Estel," I try, after a few quiet moments. "What has happened to upset you so?"
"Ruby," he gasps. "Father, I killed Ruby."