Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and I make no money from writing about them.
I gather him up in my arms and take him straight to his own room, Halbarad following at my heels. By the time I push open his door, Estel has recovered himself and is beginning to look around him.
"What happened, Papa?" he says in a small voice. "Where are we going?"
"You are going to bed, my son," I say firmly. "You have quite overtaxed your strength, running about in the cold then lying in front of a blazing fire. You are strong, Estel, but you are not elf-kind."
"No, Papa. I am a bit tired."
I sit him on the bed and help him undress. Halbarad seems anxious about something but my attention is on my boy, who now stands before me, trembling a little. I must examine him, but I must be quick, and while he can stand it will be easier.
The break in his arm is mending well. All the swelling is gone, and the bruising is beginning to fade. He heals quickly, with the help of the comfrey and his own natural strength.
"Papa – may I lie down now?"
I study his face. "In a moment, Estel – in just a moment. Let me look."
He nods, and I turn him so that I can see the arrow track in his side. It is also healing well, with not the slightest sign to my fingers or my eyes that anything is amiss. Yet my boy is too warm, his eyes a little glazed, his face pink and white with fever. It has come on so quickly.
"Does your stomach feel well, child?" I ask, searching his back for sign of puncture wound or cut but there is nothing
"Yes, Papa. My head aches and I feel hot and cold," he offers, as if trying to please me.
"Do you hurt anywhere?" I feel down each leg but there is nothing to detect. He is beginning to shiver and I dress him in his nightshirt. Halbarad is waiting by the door, fidgeting, as if he is not sure he should be there.
"I don't think so. My foot was itchy yesterday but I didn't notice it today." He looks down and I follow his gaze, then reach to lift his foot. He wavers, unbalanced and I hold him by his upper arm.
"Sit, child. Halbarad, bring me that light. Hold it steady." I hold the small foot and turn it, searching the skin for any blemish, until a slight move alerts me. Estel has flinched.
"That's where it was, Papa. I don't know what happened. My boot had a hole in it, a little one. It's been mended."
There, on the top of his foot, between the bones that link to his third and fourth toes, a small puncture wound. I feel it carefully. There is something there, hard and sharp, and when I manipulate it, a small amount of pus escapes. In my heart I rejoice. This is easily mended.
"Lie down in bed now, my son. Keep warm. I will be back in a few moments."
He looks at me with sad eyes but settles into bed willingly enough, and draws the blankets up to his chin.
"Do not drown yourself in your bed coverings before I return," I say, smiling at him. It is an old joke between us.
"I will try not to," he says, an uncertain smile on his lips. He sighs and stares at the ceiling. He does not like being ill.
I guide Halbarad to the door and outside it, then speak quietly to him.
"Stay with him, Halbarad. I am going to fetch some instruments and medicine. Talk with him, keep his mind from his foot. He will wish to touch it but you must prevent him."
"Will he recover, my lord?" he says. So that is what has been going through his mind.
"He has something in his foot, a sharp piece of wood, I think. It has festered. His body is fighting off the evil in him, but all he has been through in the last days has left him weaker than normal. I shall remove the foreign matter, treat the wound and the fever and he will be well in a day or so. Now, I must go. Keep by him."
I hurry away, safe in the knowledge that the boy's new friend will watch him most carefully.
When I return, I hear the quiet murmur of voices. Two boys in conversation.
"I've seen the knife he uses. It is so small and it has the thinnest, sharpest blade you have ever seen. He will cut into my foot and there'll be lots and lots of blood."
Ah, Estel. Clearly enjoying himself now. I hate to disturb his moment of glory but it will be best to bring the matter to a swift conclusion now. I push open the door and go in.
We manage to arrange Estel's foot so that if indeed there is "lots and lots" of blood, it will be caught in the towel on the bed. I arrange lamps more conveniently and then thoroughly cleanse my hands.
"Here, Estel – drink this. The operation will be quick but painful. You must not move or I will cause more damage to the inside of your foot."
He pulls a face. He has had this medicine before and he knows it tastes bitter. But he holds his nose and drinks it down. While we wait for him to become sleepy, Halbarad tells us of the time he had to have ten stitches in his scalp when he'd fallen awkwardly out of a tree.
Estel is about to begin the saga of his tree-climbing adventures when he yawns and lies back.
"Count, Estel," I say.
"One," he says, settling his head on the pillow. "Two. Three. Four." His eyes close. "Five," he mumbles. "Six." Then he is quiet.
"Estel?" I pinch the skin on his foot but he does not stir.
Halbarad cannot watch the operation, so I allow him to go to his own room. I make a small incision and probe, noting carefully the damage to a vein, a nick in the sinew and then the source of the infection. Buried deep, a sliver of wood, long and jagged, splintered so that its withdrawal will be a difficult process. I must take out all the pieces or I will not be able to stop the infection.
I grasp the tweezers and begin to pick out the fine pieces. I imagine him walking through the grass, a piece of wood sticking up yet hidden. His foot moves forward and the sliver is injected into his skin. It is probable that he hardly noticed it, perhaps only as an annoyance or a momentary change of direction.
It takes me long minutes before I am sure the wound is clear of pieces of wood. I wash out the hole, salve it with the same ointment I used on the cut from the orc arrow and then dry his foot. I put in one stitch, just to reassure myself, I believe, then cover his leg with sheet and blanket.
I sit with him for another hour, keeping his brow cool and watching for signs of his recovery. He does not like the sedative I used, for it has made him sick in the past, but he is older now. I am hoping the dosage was correct.
He begins to move, sluggishly. "Papa?" he says, his eyes opening a fraction. "Papa. Is it done? I saw such strange things. There is something in the room. Papa, I don't want it to be here!" He is coming awake now, all too quickly, and he is staring at something in the room. "Get it out of here!"
Involuntarily, I look behind me to the wall at which he stares with a fixed, terrified gaze I have not seen in his face since he was little. He is half-waking, half-dreaming, and his nightmares invade the real world.
I take him in my arms and he allows it, struggling to come to himself. He must not wear himself out like this. I must calm him. So I do what I did when he was little and frightened. I sing to him, and rock him gently.
His heart rate slows and he begins to breathe more gently. I settle him against the pillow.
"You have not sung that in a long while," he says. He is ghostly pale.
"You have not been so ill in a long while, my child. But you will soon be better now. In a day or so, you will be running round the house chasing your new friend, and I will have to put away all my precious bowls again."
He is sweating again, the fever still in him. His face loses its pallor and his eyes half-close.
"I don't know when I'm seeing real things or dream things, Papa. I don't like it."
"In the morning, when you have rested, will we talk about these dreams and see if we can banish them for you. Would you like that?"
He smiles a little then turns onto his side. "Yes, Papa. Tell Hal good night for me," he adds, like a little princeling ordering a slave. "Please," he adds, looking at me with one eye open.
He is a good boy.