Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money from this writing.
(My apologies for the fitful nature of posting at the moment. It's due to work commitments. I shall be continuing to write this and hope to resume once weekly posting in the near future).
Estel wakes again in the late afternoon, groggy and disorientated from sleep. He is not very communicative but his expression speaks of drowsy irritation.
"Do you want something to eat?" I ask, rising from the chair where I have been sitting, reading. I have felt the need to watch over him today.
"Yes, Papa." His voice is still hoarse and he coughs to clear his throat. "Can I get up?"
"If you wish."
He settles in the window seat, still dressed in his morning clothes, and rests his chin on his hand as he looks out onto the gardens. He seems far away still, thinking, dreaming – which is it?
"Estel?" I ask, stepping up behind him.
He does not turn. "Yes?"
I do not know how to frame my question. I am not even sure I know what it is I want to ask him. "Did you wish to go with Halbarad and Legolas?" Is that truly what I wanted to know? The question does at least provoke a response.
Estel swivels round and looks at me, his eyes dark. "I don't think so," he says. "I never thought about it. I didn't mean what I said." He looks down at his hands. "About Legolas taking him away."
"I know, child. They will both return. We will pass the time quickly, you and I. There is so much for us to do!"
"Yes, Papa." He looks a little more hopeful, but his eyes are still sad. "My stomach's rumbling," he adds unnecessarily, and with a slight grin at last.
"Then we must endeavour to answer its summons!" I say. "How would you like to hear a story when I get back?"
"Can I choose it?" he says, turning to stare out of the window again.
"Of course. Which one would you like?"
"Something sad," he says. "Something with a lady in it. Something – something which doesn't have a completely happy ending."
I am surprised by his choice but I know what he is asking for. He has heard the tale before, Luthien, yes, he is asking for the tale of Luthien. I shall bring the special book I have not shown him before, the ancient copy I have treasured through the years. He will love the illustrations and he is old enough now to respect its age and fragility.
I touch him on the shoulder. "I shall find Elrohir and Elladan. We shall have a family supper here – would you like that?"
Estel nods, his gaze still on the fading light in the garden. I leave him to look and hope that the melancholy which hangs about him can be dispersed. Perhaps Luthien's tale is too sad. Perhaps I will choose another.
It takes a little longer than I had anticipated for me to order his meal. I take great care to choose something he likes and can easily digest. To prepare the soup correctly will take a little time, so I go to my study to choose a story for tonight. Elrohir joins me and we talk as I search, discussing the most suitable story, finding the shortest version of it, planning to take the different roles. My heart lifts as I imagine Estel between us, following the story in the book, admiring the pictures – it will be an evening for us all to treasure.
I remember five years ago, a four year old sitting between myself and Gandalf as we told him about the peoples of the world. He did not believe Gandalf when the wizard told him of halflings. He stood up and was measured, so that he could imagine their height. He was tall for his age even then and was fascinated by the halflings, demanding to know all he could about them – the size of their animals, their homes, their lives, until Gandalf was laughing with him over the number of questions his fertile, inquisitive, four-year-old mind could conjure.
He was a marvel, then. He was sweet and funny and happy, running everywhere, trying everything. I sometimes wonder how he survived that year. But there was little of the graveness about him that he has developed in the last three months. Looking back, contrasting the happy boy with the nine year old Estel waiting for me upstairs, I see the change. It is not a change for the better; it is not a change I want for him, nor feel he must undergo.
We must work harder to ensure he is well-governed but less burdened by – yet I cannot say what is his burden.
"He has grown sad, Elrohir," I say, settling the book under my arm and preparing to return to the kitchen.
"He is a little quieter than he was," Elrohir agrees, following me down the corridor, where candles now light the gloom. "But he has had much to unsettle him. I do not believe he has reconciled himself to Ruby's death even yet, and he has lost the company of two close friends. He will recover his spirits soon. Do you remember when we made him that swing in the tree?"
"We repaired Arwen's swing, as I remember. The boy loved it – I remember the afternoon he yelled at Elladan to push him higher and higher, until my heart was in my mouth. But he held tight and shouted his joy and I knew he would be safe."
"I felt much the same when he started to climb the trees. I wanted him to be safe – I wanted to climb the tree with him and test each branch before he stepped on it. But the more I told him to be careful, the higher he climbed. He never fell, not once. He came close. Once, I caught him as he slipped, but he was not far from the ground. He would not have hurt himself."
We move together into the glow and warmth of the kitchen. The meal is ready but I still check everything, anxious to make this evening as pleasant as I can. It is all to my liking. As I pick up one tray, I recall the first danger Estel encountered. When he was very small he escaped everyone's notice. We found him in the kitchen, running round and round by the fire and singing to himself. I moved to catch him but I startled him by mistake and he stepped back, falling against a hot piece of metal. He marked his backside, not badly burnt, but he howled as if he was. We all comforted him as best we could but he would not be stilled. We passed him between us like a parcel, one to another. He would settle for a while with one then begin to mourn his hurt again.
I see him still, running and running, singing, in a world of his own making until the adults stepped in and caused him harm. It was not intentional but it was too easily done.
Elladan came into the kitchen at that moment.
"Trays, father? Are we eating somewhere special tonight?"
"Estel's bedroom. I wish to make it an enchanted place for him, as we used to do so often. He needs comfort, my son, for his losses and his hurts, and he needs to be set once again on a happier path."
"That is a good idea. We shall be a family again tonight."
Elrohir and I carry the trays and Elladan comes behind with a fresh supply of sweetly-fragranced candles.
"Do you remember when we tried the spiced candles and it set Estel sneezing?" Elladan says. "He couldn't stop even when we'd taken him outside to get some fresh air."
"He couldn't stop giggling either. I don't know why he found it funny."
As we go upstairs, we recall other moments, other happy moments.
Estel isn't in his room when we enter, but the door to his water closet is closed, so we set up the candles, put the food on the table and Elrohir began to start a new fire.
"What is this?" he asks, pulling a half-burned paper from the hearth. "And here – on the floor – there's another piece."
I glance down. I remember the picture and the writing I had thrown on the fire on an impulse. "Just some paper Estel used for a rough drawing."
"You burned it? Why did you do that, father? We have treasured all his drawings and writings since he came to live with us."
"There was something wrong with them – I do not know what. I felt – disturbed by them. We must be more careful to keep all evil away from him."
Both my elder sons look at me. My words sound foolish as I spoke them, though they accurately reflect my thoughts. But I say nothing more. I notice Elrohir put the half-burned papers on one side before he lights the fire.
After a few minutes' wait, I go to knock on Estel's water closet door.
"Estel? Are you well? Do you need any assistance?"
There was no reply. I push on the door and it swings open. The room is empty.
We search for him, we search with frantic haste, for it is rapidly darkening and has turned colder. Elladan finally finds his note, tacked onto the wall of the stable. The boy has taken Spider and is gone.
As we prepare to go after him, I read the note again by the light of a torch which streams in the wind.
"You burned my picture. You wanted me to go with Halbarad and I didn't know you did. I am going to find him and stay with him forever. Look after my tree, please, Papa. I love you. Estel."
Such a mixture of passions. Such a heart, tested tonight and found insecure in my love. I can hardly see to read, yet I read it over again, trying to tease out every meaning. Does he know which way to go? Why did he have to leave tonight, when he must make camp almost immediately? Does he know everything he must to keep safe?
"Father – we are ready. We will find him shortly. That little pony cannot match us for speed. Had it been Ruby, we would not find him till dawn." Elladan should be resting, not chasing through the night after a runaway boy.
"Then let us find him. And if I have done an evil thing in trying to protect him, then I will make all well again."
And I think for a moment of the room we have left, with soup cold in the bowls, candles and fire burning in a room that was changed from the place of refuge I had been trying to create. The picture book lies on the floor but no child is there to hear the story.
As we ride off into the dark, I see my boy, saddling his pony, striking off into the dark, alone, still unwell, thinking himself unwanted, unloved. I urge my horse forward and my sons follow me.
We shall find him. We must. Then we will set this evil right, once and for all.