Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and I make no money from writing about them.
For this section, we return to Elrond.
All the guests are seated, talking to one another and eating and drinking their fill. How many such meals have I presided over? Countless numbers of them, stretching away into the past. Yet they are always a delight to me and especially tonight. The conference has gone well, my sons are in the house and out of danger, and so many old friends are here, too.
The candle flames dance in a slight draught. The door opens and there, standing as tall as he can, dressed in green and with the silver circlet about his dark hair, stands my youngest child. He is nervous. He has been to only two feasts, and then only to speak with the guests for a few minutes. This time, he will eat with us. It is fitting. Though he does not know it, and though many of my guests do not know it, this feast is for him.
He is flanked by Elladan, whose hand now guides Estel forward. Elladan leaves him, for he has other business to attend to but as Estel looks anxiously behind him, Legolas takes Elladan's place and follows Estel closely as my boy makes his way towards me. The guests have fallen quiet. As they do, Estel becomes more hesitant, the bright glow of enthusiasm fading a little in his eyes. This will be a trial for him but he must learn to behave himself well on such occasions.
"Come and sit beside me," I say. "Everyone – this is my youngest son, Estel."
He pauses, glances at me, then bows to the guests. "I am humbly pleased to meet you," he says.
I nod my approval and he comes to stand by me, looking dubiously at the chair that has been set for him.
"Pa – Father," he says, looking anxious.
Legolas divines the problem more quickly than I and, as I give leave for everyone to return to eating, he fetches a cushion for Estel. Without it, my son would be too small to sit comfortably at the table. But he grows – last time, he needed two cushions.
Legolas sits by him and they are soon deep in conversation, heads together, Legolas piling food onto Estel's plate until my son is protesting and laughing. I look at him and he stills, immediately concerned. We have spent long hours discussing correct manners for every occasion but this time, it is Legolas who is to blame.
"My Lord," Legolas whispers. "I apologise. I forgot where I was." He moves the overfilled plate into the centre of the table and pushes a smaller plate in front of Estel. Satisfied, I turn to talk to my neighbour about the likelihood of a good growing season this year. When I glance back, Estel is looking, well, I think mortified is not too strong a word. Legolas has indeed put food on his plate and has gone to fetch him something. A glass of water, I think. But he has left Estel with a practical difficulty. My son has one usable arm and one weakened hand. Everything on his plate seems to require a knife and a fork. While he has been ill, all his food has been brought to him already cut into small pieces. He does not know what to do now.
"Estel. Allow me to help you," I offer, and several people turn to him.
He musters all his considerable presence and answers, politely but firmly, "Thank you, Father, but I can manage." He takes his fork and stabs at a piece of meat.
I do not wish to force my help on him but he is not going to manage in this way. The meat slides from his plate to the tablecloth and I notice people deliberately looking away, to spare his feelings, I suppose. He looks at me, intensely occupied with this challenge, and helps the meat back onto the plate with his fingers.
"I can do it," he whispers and I nod my encouragement, but cutting with the edge of a fork is not an easy matter. Nevertheless, he manages to take a bite with no further mishap.
Legolas returns, putting the glass of water within easy reach and, seeing the difficulty, pulls the plate towards himself, preparing to help in a way I would not.
"Legolas," I warn, though I know he is only being kind to the boy. "My son has told me he can manage."
Estel looks from one to the other of us, unwilling I am sure to be the centre of attention in this way.
Then a number of things happen in quick succession – so quick, I am not sure which comes first. Perhaps Estel makes a grab for his plate. Perhaps the plate slips from his grasp, knocking over the glass of water and spilling its contents into the lap of the man sitting opposite. When the man stands suddenly, perhaps his movement distracts Estel as he lunges for the glass. He does not notice that his sleeve is in the candle flame. I am almost sure that is how it happens. The final result is a flurry of movement, Estel's yelp, then an overset candle on the table, instantly catching the table decoration alight.
It is over in moments, the flames extinguished, and Estel stands in the smoking ruin white-faced, his eyes wide, his tunic damp with the water Legolas had thrown over him to put out the fire in his sleeve.
I hold my breath. How will my son behave now? I expect him to run out crying. I hope he will not. He stands, and we all wait in silence.
"Father," he says, his voice trembling. "May I," and he coughs once, before continuing, "may I go and change my tunic?"
I suppose my face mirrors my astonishment. This was hardly the response I am expecting.
"Of course, Estel. Everyone – please, take your seats. It was a small mishap."
Estel is already on his feet, making his way to the door. He is doing well, too, until someone unfortunately laughs – not at him, I think, though he may have felt it was so. His pace quickens and he leaves the room without looking back.
"Shall I go after him?" Legolas enquires.
I consider his offer but thank him, and rise myself to go after him. I wish to praise him for his self-control and I know he will need help to dress. I take my leave of my guests, making some comment to lighten the atmosphere, and there is laughter in the air as I leave.
I find Estel in his room, carefully taking off his sling so that he can remove his tunic. His face is wet and I go to the wash basin to dampen a cloth to bring back with me. I put my hand under his chin, raise his face and wipe it quickly. He takes a breath.
"You did well, Estel," I say.
"They were laughing at me," he says, his eyes filling with tears again.
I wipe them then wait for him to look at me. "They were laughing with me, my son. They were not laughing at your accident."
"I didn't mean to set light to the table," he begins, tugging at his tunic as if he hates it.
"Of course you didn't mean it. Now, why are you crying? You left the room to change your tunic and return. Are you going back with red eyes, so that they will all know you cried?"
He furrows his brow. I can sense what he is about to say, so I try to forestall him. "We will go back down, you and I, and say goodnight to the guests, and then Legolas will come and talk to you for a while. He has some news that he has been saving for you. I believe it might concern a birthday present he has been saving for you."
Even this news does not immediately penetrate his gloomy mood. I dress him hastily, checking his arm to make sure he isn't burnt. There is no sign of reddened skin and I bless Legolas' speed.
"Will the table be spoiled, Papa?" he asks quietly. "It is a beautiful table. Papa, I don't want to go back and see the table all spoiled, and have all those people know I was the one to do it. Stupid arm. Why can't it just get better? Do I have to go back?"
He is dressed again now and I adjust the circlet. "This did not fit last time," I say. "Has your head become smaller?"
There is the ghost of a smile on his face. "Legolas pulled it and twisted it somehow and it fits again now. He said it was made that way."
"Ah yes," I say. I stand and check the boy over. I wash his face again, dry it, and brush his hair away from his face.
"Now, Estel, let us go together and see what we can do to prove to everyone just how brave you are."
There is a moment of hesitation but he is suddenly determined, the tears gone, though he looks tired and worn. There will be many times in his life, I think, when this look will be his, worn and sad, yet still willing to do and face what he must.
"Come on, Papa," he says. "Can I stay up a little longer? I only ate one mouthful before – before the disaster."
The Disaster. Now I know that the incident, when it is retold to his brothers and friends over the years, will be called The Disaster.
When we return, everything possible has been done to restore the table to its former state. Estel has been moved so that he sits now between Gandalf and Legolas and it is not long before food that he can manage is set before him. He looks at me and his tired face glows with happiness.
The lesson is learned. Facing one's fears, kills those fears. He will remember that now. One more lesson. One more memory to guide him. The lessons do not come cheaply. He was scared, just before we walked into the room. I stood with him, and waited for him to make the decision. He made the true one and my heart begins to hope that in him, in this nine-year-old son of mine, is the strength to tread where his ancestors could not.
My hope. My Estel.