(Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money from this writing.)
Elrond
In all the long time I have been in the world, I have never yet had cause to doubt my friendship with Mithrandir.
Yet, as I look at my little boy, who has not yet woken and cannot tell me what has happened, I am filled with anger for the old wizard, who is sitting back on his heels looking at me, smiling as if nothing of great importance has happened.
"Was he paddling in the stream and slipped?" I ask. I am aware of the note of sarcasm. I am not going to curb it. "Did it seem as though he needed another bath? Is he asleep now? May I take him home?"
"Old friend," Mithrandir begins but he falters soon enough. What can he say that can make a difference now?
"You have sweated him and chilled him to the bone. You think this will cure him?"
I can feel both my sons coming to stand by me, but they know better than to say anything. I feel weak still, my strength returning so slowly, and my arm shakes as I try to feel for my boy's spirit in this white, still body.
"Estel! Come home!" Mithrandir calls again. "Your father wants you to come back now."
"Estel!" I call, hope fading in me, for I cannot hear him in my mind. "I wish to take you home now. You must return to us."
But he does not hear either of us, or if he does, does not choose to return.
"Let us take him indoors. It is becoming chilly here," Mithrandir says. I cannot understand his calm. I want to rail against it but I do not have the strength. "And should you not return to bed also? Elladan, bring Estel's bedroll and put it by your father's bed. We can care for him there. He is only asleep and a little stubborn."
Elladan moves away. Mithrandir picks up my boy as if he weighs nothing, settling the child's head against his shoulder then setting off across the camp. I can hardly rise. Elrohir comes to lend me his assistance but I am too overwrought to take his offer.
He whispers, "Father. They are all watching," in my ear, and I pull myself up, then take his arm.
"We hope he will get well soon!" says a child. "He's a good captain!"
"He is indeed," I say. "I am sure he will take up his post again soon." But in my heart, I do not see a hopeful future.
It is a relief to be helped back to bed. Elladan washes my feet – I even neglected to pull on boots before I went to Estel's aid. But he makes no comment, just pats my feet dry with a warmed cloth, then holds the sheet back for me as I shuffle back to my sick bed. Yes, indeed, I am heartily sick of it, I say to myself, and my snort of derision at my own joke makes Elladan look hard at me. He moves away when I am settled, though. Fancy forgetting my boots! I must have looked a fool, shouting in my nightshirt at the wizard.
Just who is the foolish old man now? I smile gently, perhaps even sheepishly, as Mithrandir hands me some potion of his own concoction.
"Is he sleeping?" I ask, looking down at Estel. His face is just visible among the furs which have been heaped around him.
"I believe so," Mithrandir says, kneeling back at the boy's side. He puts his hand on the boy's brow. "I'll wake him soon. I think a little broth will pull him away from whatever is holding his attention."
"What was done to him? I have never seen a sweat lodge used in that way, on a child so young. Did you not consider how dangerous it might be?" I am beginning to sound querulous and over-anxious again. Mithrandir looks at me steadily.
"Drink your tea, Elrond. You do not know how ill you have been. There was poison in your wound and it has taken some skill to draw it from you. You will still need to rest."
"Yes," I say. "I thought as much. Now – will he not be …"
"Hush," Mithrandir says, but he looks at Estel. "Let the boy sleep. You will not lose him. You have not failed him."
I lie back on the comfortable pillows, and listen to the old man, who has been my friend through all the long years, gently calling Estel, tempting him back to us with stories and even a song.
"It is many years since I heard you sing that," I say, as I lie half awake in the quiet hut. The twins have gone and there is little noise from outside.
"When the twins would not sleep, that song was the only one which would settle them. It is one of my own devising, and I believe I might have woven a spell into it at some time. Now, Master Elrond, before you fall asleep also, perhaps I can explain a little of what I believe the old man did."
"Yes – yes, do that, my old friend. Before I sleep, I wish to know." In truth, I had closed my eyes for a moment but I want to understand. What if Estel wishes to know what has happened, and I am unable to tell him?
"He was sent away, into another place," Mithrandir says. "It is a place that is important to him, though he does not know it. He was sent back first, I believe, to the place where he began to go wrong. I do not know when that was, and I do not know if Estel himself will be able to tell you. Something terrible happened to him – was it his horse dying, would that be it?"
"Ruby? Ruby gave his life to save the boy, and Estel would not be reconciled to that sacrifice. I think he gained an insight into what it might mean to be responsible, in some way, for the death of another." I considered the days after the death of the horse and saw in them, for the first time, an Estel who travelled a different path, a troubled path. Yet I had not known how to comfort him or even travel that path with him.
"I think the blow went deeper still. I believe he tried to save his horse, and I think it took too much from him. Imagine a pool in him, a cistern ready for the water of his skill as a healer. He is young – it is barely beginning to fill, and he empties every bit of his power into that moment. Yet the horse dies. He cannot save him. He has barely enough resources to keep himself from harm."
"He did not keep himself from harm. His visions – and he was ill, one illness after another, fevers – and he was losing weight." I catalogued his ills and saw with clarity how they might have sprung from that one source.
"Yet, there is more. These people, these special people, have among them healers of great power, power they must learn how to guard and use for others. If they do not learn, the power turns on them. The boy in the healer's tent – Elrond, he is dying because his power has turned against him."
Mithrandir stops speaking. He has his hand on Estel's forehead again, and then he draws back some of the furs and removes a blanket. "He must not get too hot again," he says. "He is warm and at peace. Estel – hurry up! Supper!"
And at last, there is movement, Estel shuffling a little, then falling back into sleep.
"And this is their treatment, to send him away?"
"The only ones who can truly teach him are those who have gone before. I do not know how, but I was told he would meet those who were healers before him. He must find the right way. And he must be allowed to fill the pool of healing power inside him, and he must not draw from it again until he is old enough to do so safely."
"I knew that, old friend. He has tried in turn to cure his brother and to help me. I could see that was hurting him and we kept him from doing it."
"Gandalf?" There is a small voice, more than a little croaky, from the nest of bedclothes on the floor.
"Yes, my boy?" Mithrandir is very quiet. I keep my mouth closed.
"Can we have some fireworks soon? I've been somewhere very dark and I want to see some fireworks."
"Of course," Mithrandir says, with joy in his voice. "I hope it wasn't too scary, wherever you were."
"Oh no – not really. There were a lot of very serious old men, and they had beards and bright eyes and swords. They had armour on, some of them. They looked – they looked a bit like what I imagined all those brave people who fought in battles long ago looked like."
Estel eased himself up on one elbow, then drank the water Mithrandir held out to him. He had his back to me. I listened with the greatest peace and joy in my heart, for here was my boy, handed back to us, safe and well. His voice was clear and there was wonder and laughter in it, such as I had not heard for too long.
"They told me lots of things about being a healer. I watched one of them do it, Gandalf – well, pretended to, sort of. It's hard to explain. Then another one, he said I had a very special gift, and I had to keep it safe and not – not play with it. Not take it and use it just for myself, I think he meant. Not – use it for bad, though I am not sure how I would do that. But – Gandalf!"
Suddenly there is some distress in his voice. "I wanted to stay and be with them for longer, but they made me go away. And they said – they said something – but it is fading from my mind. I can't remember it! Oh, Gandalf – what if it was important?"
Estel crawls over to Mithrandir and turns, seeing me for the first time. His eyes are awash with tears and there is such sadness, such loss in his voice.
"Hush, child. If they had wanted you to remember it, do you not think you would? Perhaps it will come to you again, when you are older."
"Papa," he says, very serious in his tone and demeanour. "Will I know, when I am older, what it was they said?"
I take a deep breath, and give him an answer he has not heard from me before. "I do not know, Estel."
He looks at me curiously. Then, as suddenly as a streak of lightning brightening the sky, he smiles. "I'm hungry!" he announces. "I feel completely empty, every bit of me! I think I'd be blown away if you put me out in a strong wind!" Then he is laughing, and rolling around on the floor, trying to avoid Mithrandir's hands, and the wizard tries to catch him and tickle him.
"Old wizard," I say firmly. "Stop trying to tickle my boy to death! Get him some food!"
"Yes, Master Elrond," says Mithrandir, climbing to his feet and bowing elaborately. "And shall I draw the young master a bath?"
"No more baths!" says Estel. "Ever!" he says firmly, coming to stand by my bed.
"No bath, no fireworks tomorrow," says Gandalf, returning with a cup of broth and a chunk of bread. "Anyway, your men will need drilling tomorrow, and I am sure that will be a muddy business. And Spider is waiting for you. And your puppy."
"Oh, Papa – I feel – I feel better inside. I think something was broken, and it's been mended. But I forget how – I feel as though it was a dream, and it's all slipping away from me now. Does it matter – should I try to remember?"
He takes the cup carefully from Gandalf and then comes to sit on a small stool by my side. There is such energy in him now he can barely sit still.
"Eat up, child. We will travel to Rivendell soon and you can see what you can remember when we get home. There is your journal to write, and your tree to tend. And so much still to learn!"
"There is one thing I remember, Papa. I was sitting by the side of a road. I was watching a troop of men pass by, and they were singing, though they were tired and some were having to help each other to walk. It was a bright, hot day. At the front of the troop walked a tall man, taller than all the rest, and he was dark-haired and he wore a long cloak and travelling clothes, not really like a soldier. I couldn't see his face, because he was walking away from me. But I knew him, Papa. I knew him. He was from a long, long time ago, and his story is not a good one, but he was happy on that day, leading his troop and somehow I knew he was going back to his father, and he was happy to be doing that, for he loved his father. I could smell the pines in the air and feel the dust in my eyes. Papa, he was a very important man. I think – I think it was – Isildur." Estel falls suddenly silent, his eyes bright with that memory.
"I met Isildur," I admit, and the pain of that moment, when I urged him to destroy the ring – when I could not interfere with his decision, only try to persuade him – came back to me, the thick stench and burning heat around me, the wind whipping my words back into my mouth. And this man, lost to his own greed and weakness in that moment, had been my friend too, so long ago. So long ago.
"Papa?" Estel says, his cup halfway to his mouth. "Did I say something wrong?"
I draw a deep breath and smile at him. This boy has returned a memory long lost, of days spent travelling with young Isildur, before thoughts of battles and great enemies troubled him too much. The occasions were rare, and did not last, but there were such times. And this boy is his direct heir.
"No. No, Estel. Now, eat up. You'll have to go back to bed soon!"
"Papa!" he says, smiling broadly. "I'm not sleepy any more."
"Good," I say decisively. "It is time we started your lessons again. Mathematics, I think. I'm sure we can find you a writing instrument and a piece of paper here somewhere."
He looks at me suspiciously for a moment, trying to work out if I am teasing him. For a moment, I do not know either.
"Come, little one, let's hear your seven times table," says Gandalf. "Start counting – but don't choke on your bread!"
The day closes around us. Someone brings in light and makes up the fire, but we three are in our own world. Once Estel is through his tables and his supper, we entertain him with old stories. Gandalf sits on the floor and Estel leans on him, pulling on his beard absent-mindedly, as he did when he was a baby. But there is nothing babyish about him. He has grown. He has a knowledge and a surety in him now which was missing before.
How has it happened? I am not sure what I shall write in my account, later. I shall ask more people, of course, learn what I can. But in the end, I am not sure if it matters whether I know how he has been made well.
Estel knows he is well, and that is all, in the end, that really counts.