Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money from this writing.
(A/N – I am grasping a nettle here. I am hoping my idea won't offend anyone – gulp! And if anyone has been following Viggo's stories of his childhood in Argentina, there is a little reference to one of them here, just for fun!)
Estel is set on his feet before he enters the camp, and strides down the path, trying to keep up with the two tall men who flank him. As I follow them down the steep path, the Rangers' camp comes into view. It is well sheltered from the north winds by a hill and trees, and a clear stream runs close by. There are a dozen roundhouses, made of hides, roofed and walled and comfortable-looking. Smoke rises through holes in the roofs, and people are gathered in doorways, talking.
I am known to some of them, and we nod and greet one another. One takes my horse from me and another guides me to the central house, which is somewhat larger than the rest. Estel has gone somewhere else, but he is among his own people and I trust them to care for him. I enter the roundhouse as directed.
"Welcome, Master Elrond, to my humble home." A woman stands before me in the warm shadows of the house. She holds out her hand in welcome. "You and your foster-son are more than welcome here. Please, allow me to offer you some refreshment." She is tall, like many of the people, and slender, and she wears a dark green dress, decorated with an elaborate brooch. She smiles gently.
"I thank you," I say, shaking her hand then seating myself on the brightly-coloured mat on the floor. The house at first seemed dark and simple, yet as I look around, I see much that is rich and well-wrought, in the wall hangings, the drinking vessels – even the cooking pots are elegantly shaped and decorated.
"My husband is away tonight, or he would have greeted you himself. You do our people a great service by caring for Estel. He is growing up quickly," my hostess says, ladling soup into a bowl.
"He is," I reply. I take the bowl, and a plate with some fine bread on it. The soup tastes well-made, with a pleasing depth to the flavours. I nod my thanks and she smiles again. She has a strong-featured face and greying hair, and seems every inch mistress of the place.
"I hope we are not imposing," I say, though I know what her answer will be. "I did not intend to bring Estel here but – well, he insisted. He even ran away to be here."
"Did he indeed! He is an adventurous one. It is a long way here."
"He had to escape a band of men by crossing a waterfall but he reached a point where he could not move. I do not think he would have survived had he been there much longer. He had to jump into my arms to escape."
"He must trust you absolutely," she says quietly, then looks up as someone comes to the doorway and waits for her permission to speak.
"Master Elrond." Estel's escort says. "May I offer your foster son a bath and some clean clothes? It seems he has been standing in a waterfall and sleeping in the wild, and he is none too clean. I hope you do not take offence."
I laugh, to the surprise of my hosts. "Estel believes that all Rangers must be muddy to be true to their heritage," I offer by way of explanation. "He will not understand being made to bathe here. I think he believes that the bearing of mud is a badge of honour."
We are all three laughing now, and I imagine Estel's face when he is told he must wash to be a Ranger. I saw the expression earlier, as he cleaned his boots in the stream. Now he will have to suffer even more.
"If you need my permission, you certainly have it," I tell them. "But with the warning that his manners in accepting such hospitality may not be as good as I would wish them to be."
"We have promised him that he can stay in Halbarad's house tonight – but only if he is clean. I think that will be enough of an incentive to stand the indignity."
I laugh again. These are wise people, strong and stern on the outside, but they hide a rich community and a sound way of life and I am glad to see this at first hand after so long. I should have visited them before.
"Will you share my house?" my hostess says. "You will have a curtained space, and my brother sleeps here too, with his wife, so all shall be well. We may not have grand homes like yours, but we are an honourable people still."
I bow my acceptance. They are an honourable people indeed.
Once I have finished my meal, we begin to talk about the reasons for my visit, though my hostess does not press me for information. I tell her all I have observed in the boy since his ninth birthday, and she nods and occasionally asks for more details. It is oddly reassuring to be discussing the boy in this way, as if we are healers in consultation, and as I tell her I begin to see the pattern that has developed.
"So – he has slipped in and out of illness, one day well, the next unwell, with the symptoms you have described. He has had visions and they have scared him. He has even lost consciousness. And he has taken to running away. As curious a set of symptoms as a doctor could wish, should they like a puzzle to solve."
"That is not all," I say, thinking through what she has said. "He broke his arm, and has received a minor wound from an orc's arrow."
"Either injury might be significant," she says. "Is there more? Why has he run away this time?"
I reach out for the beautiful silver drinking vessel and drink the mead she has so kindly poured for me. It is a little more difficult to tell even this kindly woman the errors of judgement I have made, but it must be told. I begin to know that she will be able to help my boy.
"He has always enjoyed drawing what he has seen, and I have a pile of his pictures of the birds, the leaves and the flowers he has seen. He once spent a whole month drawing ants, trying to articulate their bodies correctly." There, I am procrastinating. It must be said. "All his pictures to this time have been of things he has observed in the world around him."
"Has he now begun to draw pictures from his imagination?" the woman asks. It does not surprise me that she knows. It becomes clear she knows what to expect.
"Yes. He did. And what he drew, because I did not understand it, though I felt it was in some way evil, I – I burned it."
She looks at me steadily. There is no judgment in her eyes, only a steady understanding. Then she nods. "It is enough. Tomorrow, I shall talk to Estel myself. Now, shall we see if he is fit to be taken into Halbarad's house for the night?"
We go outside, where the trees are dark outlines against the pink-grey sky, and the camp is quieter than it was. Most people have withdrawn into their family houses, pulling blankets closed over the entrances, but there is still a quiet murmur of voices. I listen carefully, then turn to the south, for I know well the happy song that I can hear.
The headwoman leads me between two roundhouses to a third on the edge of the village. Heat comes from the house, steam rising into the still evening air, and from within comes the sound of water being splashed, as well as Estel's voice, singing a song he has not sung for two or three years now. It is a nonsense song I taught him to make bathing fun, all about the creatures who might share his bath – a water vole, I believe I remember, and a swan and a duck. He loved the verse about the duck above all the others, though I am unsure why – perhaps because it was the last before we allowed him out of the water.
"I shall leave you with the boy, Master Elrond. I am sure I do not need to warn you to take care not to get wet." She smiled again. "We are all very happy to welcome you and Estel to the camp, my lord. We shall guard him as a priceless treasure and we shall keep his secret safe."
She withdraws, her step silent, and she is gone quickly. I push aside the blanket over the entrance and go into the bathhouse.
Estel is out of the tub, is wrapped in a large towel, and is drying himself busily.
"Papa! Look!" he says as soon as he sees me, and I will admit the sound of his greeting was a pleasure to me. He grabs a leather coat and holds it up for me to see.
"Halbarad found me a leather coat all of my own!" Estel says.
I look into the shadows and see Halbarad standing quietly, waiting to greet me. He bows and says, "My lord," in the manner of his people.
"Halbarad. It is good to see you. You are well?"
"Yes, my lord," he says.
Estel has put the towel aside and is pulling on clean clothes. When he is dressed in his undergarments, Halbarad helps him pull on a somewhat oversized shirt, then a jacket, then the leather coat. Boots with ties to secure them to his legs come next, and finally a belt. He stands for my inspection, and I instruct him to turn as if he is using a sword.
"You look very – very Rangerish, Estel," I say, and he beams.
"I've been trying but it's not the same, mixing my clothes and Halbarad's. Now I can be a proper Ranger whenever I want." He looks at me. "Is that all right, Papa?"
"You are Edain, Estel. You will walk in my world for a while, and with your own people for a while, until you grow to be a man." Just as your father did, and your grandfather, I thought, but did not say out loud. There will be time for that information in the future.
"All right," he says, nodding, and sweeping his arm back and forth in an imitation of his brothers' swordplay.
"We must empty the bath, Captain," says Halbarad, stepping over to take one handle of the tub. Estel continues to play with his imaginary sword and my mind leaps ahead to the inevitable, but unfortunately too slowly. Estel turns, swinging his arm, and the small table with soap, pitcher and bowl on it topples to the ground, smashing the pretty pitcher.
"No!" Estel cries, putting his hand over his mouth. He looks at me, all eyes. "Oh no!"
"Who is that, breaking my precious crockery?"
The blanket over the door is swept aside and someone comes in, a woman, whose feet I see as I help Estel to pick up the shards.
"Could we stick it back together?" Estel asks anxiously, trying to match two pieces. "It's only in four or five or six pieces. And this little bit," he says, holding up one with a sharp edge. He is sucking one finger already and I take the small one from him before he cuts another. He catches sight of the woman who has entered and blushes, then stands slowly. He drops his head. "Is it yours, my lady?" he says quietly.
"It was," she says.
I recall that voice and stand. "I apologise for my son," I say. "Estel, you may apologise."
He steps forward and bows. "I am truly sorry," he says. "I was trying out my new coat and practising my sword swing and I forgot the table was there. I will try to find you a new pitcher as soon as I can."
The woman smiles at him. She is noticeably older than any of the people in the village, her hair almost white, her face lined by the cares of the years, and she supports herself on a walking stick. But she is still imposing, her eye imperious, and Estel looks to me for guidance.
"I will help you to earn a new one, my son," I say. "And we will talk about places where it is suitable to practise your swordplay, and places where it is not. Now go, help Halbarad take out the tub."
He bows again and goes to grab the handle, with one finger still in his mouth. He has to use both hands, hurt of not, to carry the heavy tub and together they stagger out of the roundhouse, the tub swinging dangerously between them.
When he is gone, I turn to the woman. "It has been a long time since you have stayed here, my lady," I say, for I know her well.
"Come, Elrond – we know one another better than that. So that is Estel. He is taller than I thought he would be, but he is looking pale. I hope he is well."
"Your grandson is here to be made well, Lady Ivorwen."
"Indeed?" says Estel's grandmother. "Then all that may be done shall be done to help him." And Ivorwen, widow of Arador, draws herself up and smiles at me. "We have much to speak about, old friend. We shall speak of his mother, Gilraen, and we shall speak of Estel and of your sons. And, if you wish, we shall speak of your dear wife."
I nod. We have much to discuss but it will not be until the morrow, for Estel has returned. He looks at Ivorwen, his eyes narrowed.
"Do you know me?" he asks, ever direct. "I feel as if you do."
She goes to him, and takes his hand. "You are my grandson, child. Now come, you must be hungry."
And so, two strong wills meet, and I wonder what sparks will fly, as Estel opens his mouth to ask the dozens of questions which must have flooded his mind immediately, and his grandmother silences him with a single look. I am suddenly anticipating the morrow with great interest.