(Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money from this writing.)

Gandalf

If I had a choice in this matter, I would tell Elrond to take his little foster son home and let him grow a little more before attempting this treatment.

But I do not have a choice. I have tried to explain to Estel that he will take this journey alone, but I do not think he understands how I can be close and yet not with him. I look at the world, as I understand it, its capacity for beauty and strength, its nearness to disaster. I cannot move it one way or another at my own whim. My influence must be limited or it will never grow straight.

And here I am, proposing to allow this old man, this man of such power within his own world, to put Estel to the test. Estel is so keen but I do not believe he is ready. Still, it must be faced and done, and it will be done in the next hours.

We lit the fire correctly, scattered the right herbs and Estel has peacefully slept away the time in my company. He is holding my hand now as we stand together, and I can feel the excitement and the fear coursing through him. He can barely keep still. There is a hushed audience, his young friends, the mothers and fathers in the camp, and Elrond's twin boys all watching us. Elrond still rests, lost in his own dreams. He will be well again soon. But this boy – will what we do to him cure him or leave him wounded for life?

"Come forward, child," the old man says, holding out his hand. Estel looks up and I move my hand, launching him forward. The old man reaches for him, then removes the child's cloak. He wears a loincloth but nothing more, and he looks spidery and shivery. He is drawn into the lodge that has been constructed and for a moment I lose sight of him. Then the old man nods, the crowd fades away and I throw off my own robes and go down on hand and knee and crawl into the dark, wet heat of the place.

Estel is sitting cross-legged. He has a mug of water in his hand and a pitcher by his side. The stones radiate heat so strongly that we must sit back from them. The old man sings an ancient song, into whose language are threaded old memories of places and people. I hear names I had almost forgotten, places long lost under ancient trees and people, old friends, who are now but faint echoes in time. It is a great sadness, to lose so many friends, and a great joy to make new ones. Like this child.

"Drink, Estel. It is very hot in here. Drink up," the old man tells him.

He drinks, and pulls a face, for it is water laced with bitter herbs but he must take them, for they will help him through this ordeal. He must be kept with us, with the bitterness of the world, or we will lose him. The herbs do not send him from us. His mind will wander of its own accord. He is too young for this. He will be lost and terrified and we will not be able to draw him back.

I turn to the old man, who reads the panic in my expression and smiles at me.

"You have known me for nearly two hundred years, Gandalf the Grey. Do you not trust me yet? Now, Estel – take the first step. Do not be afraid. You will not fall. Go, child, see where the path takes you. Come back to us when you have found what you need, and we will be here. Our open arms will welcome you on your return. Go on, off you go." I have a picture of the old man as a child. I remember the moment he walked for the first time, arms out, reaching for his father, and we laughed and celebrated that night, for another child firm on his feet. They come into the world, these men, they learn to walk, to think, to act, and then they pass away from us again. So many – so many, gone into the dark.

"I can see the path!" Estel says, then takes another drink. He begins to look far away, as the old man throws water on the stones and the steam surrounds us. "I'll be back soon!"

"Yes, child. Hurry! You do not have long!"

In my mind's eye, I see Estel running away from us, though I do not see his path. I recall when he was five, and Elrond and I were sitting in the garden, speaking of nothing of great consequence. It was spring and the birds were busy calling to one another, preparing themselves to raise the next generation. The birds come and go so quickly, yet they are always with us, the same bright colours and cheerful songs through all the long years.

Estel was playing on his own, running and jumping and skipping around an ancient tree. He was singing and shouting, then he lost his balance and fell onto the grass. Elrond started up but Estel struggled to his feet and came trotting over.

"I'm all right, Papa!" he said, cheerful and muddy. Elrond picked him up anyway, and held him close. I knew then the love my old friend had for this child and I know it now, with another pang of concern, for we have not told him what we are doing. Yet it is the only way.

After that hug, Elrond had set him on his feet again and pushed him away. "Go on, Estel, run to that tree over there! See if you can catch the squirrel that is flicking his tail at you! Look! He wants you to play with him! Go on!"

And away the child ran, laughing and jumping up, and then standing still to watch the squirrel, which seemed to have no fear of him.

"He is a wonder," I remember Elrond saying. He stood as still as the boy, watching him. "He has become the heart of this place. He is full of light."

The boy was standing in a shaft of sunlight, his hair, lighter then than it is now, flowing and shining in the gold poured from the sun – agh! I cannot find the words but I remember Elrond's expression. He does not shine like an elf-child, yet he is was full of light that day.

And now the boy wanders from us. I could go with him but if I distracted him it could cause him to take a false step. He must find his own way but it is a sore trial.

"Not long now," the old man says. "He will be back to us soon now."

I watch Estel's face. Tears pour from his eyes but he makes no sound. He is reaching out with one hand towards the heat and I almost catch his arm to prevent him but I wait another moment. There – he pulls his hand back sharply and begins to come to himself.

"Gandalf?" he says, moving towards me. Then he loses all his colour and collapses forward, a dead weight in my arms.

"Take him out!" the old man says. "He is too hot! Take him out and put him in the stream!"

I pull him into my arms and push the heavy hangings aside. This will be too much of a shock to him, yet it must be done. I knew all along this would be the next step yet now it is here, so quickly, I can barely think what to do. So I step into the stream with him and go down on my knees, lowering him gently into the fast running water.

"Get me blankets!" I shout. "Blankets! Now!"

There is a flurry of movement in the camp, and two women appear almost immediately. They must have known what to expect. They bring not blankets but fleeces.

I hold Estel for a moment more, hoping to feel life flow back through him but he is still limp and pale.

"That is enough!" one of the women shouts. "Enough!"

Still I wait, then I see Elrond coming towards us, running, his hand to his side, dressed only in his nightclothes.

"Gandalf!" he says. "What have you done to him?"

There is the smallest stir of movement from the child in my arms, so I lift him out of the water and take him to the bank, where the women have laid the fleeces. I wrap him up tightly but can do no more, for Elrond is there, kneeling by the boy's side.

"Estel! Estel! My son!" he calls.

The boy does not stir. His face is white, his lips bluish.

"Elrond – old friend. Check his breathing," I say.

"You did this!" Elrond says, his fury and terror overwhelming him. "If he dies, I will leave Middle Earth to its fate! It does not deserve to continue if it cannot cure its ills except by killing the innocent!"

I do not grasp his meaning at all, but I urge him to check Estel's breathing. Elrond leans over the child in his cocoon of wool and signals for quiet. Then he pulls aside the fleece and lays his hand on Estel's chest.

"He breathes," he says quietly. "His heart beats. But I do not know if he is here any more." There is despair in his voice, and great hurt.

But I am watching Estel's face, for sign of movement and life. Then I call him.

"Estel! You may come back again now. It is time to go home. Stop playing, and come back! Your Papa needs you."

I watch, and I wait, and the whole camp waits with me. Elrond puts his hand on his son's brow and listens.

Birdsong fills the valley. I can hear the worms in the ground, the trees drawing moisture up into the new buds, the clouds flying across the sky. I can feel all that there is to feel in this world.

I search for him, for the little boy set on a difficult path. He came back to me for a moment, so he cannot be far. Just round that bend, perhaps, playing with a squirrel, or chasing down some idea of his own.

"Estel!" I say quietly. "Time to come home now."