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Aragorn was relieved to see his family, happier than he had been in a long while as he sat at a long table in anticipation of a feast, his foster-brothers across from him and his best friend at his side. He had been delighted and entirely surprised when Legolas had greeted him at the gates of Imladris, journeying from the far-off Greenwood to see how his favorite mortal was faring. He had arrived days ago and had been eagerly and impatiently awaiting Aragorn’s own arrival, as the elf let him know as soon as he’d finished crushing him in a hug. Legolas had even chastised him for being late, saying he’d considered leaving the safety of the valley to come looking for Aragorn himself.
In truth, he had been late only by two days, and not even two full days, at that. Hardly anything to worry about. Aragorn had merely been delayed by fierce weather, among other things, and that explanation had at last put his friend’s concerns to rest. Aragorn would take rough weather as a delay any time; the roads were becoming increasingly wild, the paths unsafe. He could just as easily run into a pack of orcs as a band of thieves and marauders these days. That he had arrived without sight or sound of either party had been nothing short of a blessing from the Valar. Well…nearly no sight or sound of either. And what encounter he did have had lasted mere minutes, much better than his normal experience when traveling. He only wished every journey to Imladris could be so uneventful.
He had quickly taken his horse to the stables and dropped his belongings off in his rooms, taking a moment to wet a cloth and wipe the dirt from his face and arms before he painstakingly changed into clothes more befitting the halls of Elrond. He had winced as the fabric brushed against a tight bandage on his thigh, gently lowering the offending limb to the floor. He should have taken a moment to change the wrapping and care for the injury beneath, but he doubted he had time enough for that. Someone would come looking for him, either his brothers, or Legolas, or someone they had sent in their stead, and he had not wished to alarm any of them.
As he suspected, soon after he had finished dressing, as though they somehow knew, Legolas and the twins, Elladan and Elrohir, ambushed him in his rooms and whisked him away to the feast. Aragorn couldn’t remember what exactly they were celebrating, and he was too weary from his travels to bother asking, but he took full advantage of the abundance of hot food and the plentiful wine, though he was careful not to overindulge himself on the latter. He didn’t want to fall asleep at the table or, worse, embarrass himself or his family. In truth, he would have gladly skipped the merriment of the evening and gone straight to bed in his overwhelming exhaustion, but the faces of his brothers had been so eager, so happy to see him home, that he could not refuse them.
As it was, he was fighting to stay awake. His journey, though easy compared to others of late, had still taken the strength from him and his eyes were refusing to stay open. The headache that had been slowly building at the nape of his neck all day and was now threatening to escalate wasn’t helping matters, either, nor was the slight chill in the air brought on by the coming of autumn. With the setting sun casting the valley into ever deeper shadow, Aragorn shivered. Not for the first time, he wished he were an elf, unbothered by the mild chill. He doubted they even felt a difference in the temperature.
“Estel? Are you listening?” Elladan stretched his arm across the table and waved a hand in front of his face, smiling mischievously and capturing his full attention.
Aragorn shook his head and blinked, chasing away sleep. “I fear not. You’ll have to repeat yourself.”
“He was asking if you were alright,” Elrohir grinned. “There was a pained look upon your features a moment ago.”
He smiled and shook his head. Trust his two brothers, some of the best healers he knew and second only to their father, to notice his discomfort. “Just tired,” he assured them, waving the question and concern in their eyes away as he leaned back in his chair, taking a small sip of his wine to ward off the chill in his bones.
“And that wrapping on your hand? What happened there?” Legolas asked next to him, a brow lifted.
Aragorn looked down at the bandage wrapped tightly around his left palm, concealing the deep cut that lay beneath. Perhaps the journey had not been quite as peaceful as he had led them to believe. It was a single orc and the warg it rode, but he had not escaped entirely unscathed. When he had made the killing stroke against the warg his sword had caught in the beast’s flesh, leaving him vulnerable to the orc’s attack. And in its dying throes, the warg had lashed out with sharp claws, carving a line across the curve of his thigh; before he had even managed to process the sudden pain, he was on the ground, fighting with all his might to keep a filthy blade from cutting into his neck. One arm raised against the strength of the orc had not been enough, and so he had reluctantly and painfully grasped the blade with his other hand, pushing back until the orc had no choice but to relinquish its grip. The fight had been over moments later, with Aragorn the victor, but it had taken a long while for the bleeding to stop and an even longer while for him to clean it. Orc blades were filthy and foul, and thus a wound made by one needed extra care. To his relief in the days that followed, no infection had formed in either wound, though his hand consistently pained him, and less so his leg. That much was to be expected, however, and he had every intention of asking Elrond to take a second look at both wounds with the first chance he could find tomorrow, especially as he had not been able to stitch them closed himself.
“Estel?” Elladan called him again, smile vanishing from his fair features.
Aragorn blinked and the past was no longer before his eyes, only two concerned brothers and an equally concerned friend. “It was nothing,” he explained, for in his long history of skirmishes it truly hadn’t been. “A brief encounter with a warg and its rider two days past.”
“You said you ran into no trouble on the road,” Elrohir shook his head, frowning. “We cannot let you out of our sight, can we? Ill fate and injury finds you far too quickly outside of this valley.” Aragorn chuckled, wholeheartedly agreeing with his brother. Trouble always managed to find him, no matter where he was. Imladris was one of the only places he felt wholly safe. “I’ll take a look at that after the feast comes to its end.”
“There is no need for that,” he assured Elrohir, and looked pointedly at Elladan as well, for he saw the protest forming on his lips. “You have both taught me well, as has ada. I had skill enough to heal it on my own.”
“Mmm,” Elladan made a skeptical noise. “Perhaps.”
Aragorn could only smile. He had missed this, had missed his family and his friends. Still, he could not shake the pull of sleep from his body, and he had a feeling that his glasses of wine, though few, had not helped matters at all, even if they had served to warm him. He decided now was a good time to take his leave of his brothers and Legolas and retire for the evening. There would be time enough in the coming weeks to catch up with all of them and find some mischief when he was not exhausted and cold.
“I had already planned to ask ada to look over my work tomorrow, and I am sure he will agree I’ve done an excellent job all my own. But with that insult to my abilities, I bid you all good night, for I have had my fill and am falling asleep even now,” he said, pushing back from the table as Elladan and Elrohir immediately began protesting, Legolas joining in a moment later. He smiled and laughed at their pitiful expressions, even as his leg violently rebelled against his full weight as he stood. He gave no sign of the hurt, not wishing to cause them further concern, as one would have thought he was denying them the world for the look on their faces. They begged him to stay for just a few moments more, as the sweet breads and desserts were about to be brought from the kitchens, and indeed he could see them being carried in through the other end of the open-air pavilion even now. But he shook his head, still smiling. “I will see you all tomorrow, you have my promise. But I am weary, and if I do not leave for my rooms this instant, I daresay one of you would eventually have to carry me there like a child.”
“Ah, very well, mellon-nin,” Legolas waved him away, smiling now as well. “May rest find you quickly.”
“Hannon le, and good night, once again,” he clasped his friend on the shoulder with his good hand, inclining his head briefly, though sincerely, toward his foster-father Elrond at the head of the table, who returned the gesture with a smile and a fond look, giving him his quiet blessing to steal away from the feast a little early. If Aragorn had been paying closer attention, he would have seen the slightly furrowed brow and the worry that stole into his father’s eyes after taking a longer look at his son, who seemed to his keen eyes paler than normal in the waxing moonlight. With a last wink at Elladan and Elrohir, he departed quietly from the merriment, glad at last to be headed toward a soft bed and a warm fire. He had thought of little else since his departure from the Dúnedain camp over a fortnight ago. Many nights he had gone without a fire, the better to stay hidden from the piercing and greedy eyes that watched the roads.
His steps were heavy as he made his way to his rooms, his leg protesting every movement, and the world began to tilt and spin strangely around him. He attributed it to the wine, pausing for a moment to gather his bearings as he leaned his uninjured palm against the nearest pillar. A moment later and the halls stopped tilting quite as dangerously as before, so he resumed his short journey, drawing ever closer to his bed and his fire. His rooms seemed further from the feast than ever this night, and what strength he’d managed to save for this last walk toward rest seemed to be slipping away at an alarming rate. His headache had spread and now seemed to bury its painful claws everywhere, making his vision blurry.
Aragorn could at last see the door to his rooms as a pain suddenly raced through his leg. His steps faltered at the abrupt feeling and he found himself stumbling, falling to the ground beneath him. On instinct, he reached out with both hands to catch himself, crying out as his palm, and therefore his injury, met the cool stone of the corridor, his arm buckling. With overwhelming pain dulling his senses, he had not the will enough to keep his body upright and his head from bouncing painfully against the floor. He grimaced as his headache increased tenfold, for a moment paralyzed by the shock of the cold stone and the fiery tendrils of pain shooting throughout his hand and upwards into his arm. The pain in his leg was eclipsed and all but forgotten by the sensation now curling within his palm. When he finally opened his eyes, it was to find a steadily growing circle of blood forming beneath his hand, the cloth wrapped tightly about it now doing little to stem the flow; already, a substantial amount lay across the gray stones.
He groaned, and not entirely because of the pain he was now in. It was mostly his frustration at having reopened the wound, as it had taken the better part of several hours to get it to stop bleeding entirely in the first place, and an absurd amount of watchful protectiveness since in order to get it to remain that way. It had only just started to scab at the edges this morning when he’d unwrapped the bandage and replaced it with a fresh one. Now he would have to redress and clean it again. For half a moment, he was tempted to fetch his brothers and let them see to it while he rested his eyes, but he pushed that thought away almost as soon as it had formed in his mind. They deserved their merriment at the feast, for the days were turning dark and Aragorn would have them enjoy as many fair moments as they could while the shadow of evil was still far from Imladris.
However, when he made to stand, he quickly came to the realization that he no longer possessed the strength to do so. Even lifting his head made the hall spin around him, and he felt as though the very earth beneath him were moving. He shut his eyes against the feeling, hoping it would go away momentarily, as the last thing he wanted to do this evening was lie helpless on the floor within reach of his rooms. He needed to move, needed to see to his still-bleeding palm, to the pool of blood that now lay on the floor beside him. If someone were to come across it before he had a chance to clean it up, he would no doubt be woken in the middle of the night to his brothers or Legolas or even Elrond himself madly searching him for injury.
Aragorn shivered, the cold of the stones seeping through his tunic and adding to the chill that already lingered within him. He grunted, opening his eyes to find that the world around him was a bit more stable than before, though not by much. Determined to reach the warmth of his fire, he slowly and haltingly got his feet beneath him, his breath now coming in labored gasps as though he had run miles instead of simply standing. He managed a few steps, dragging himself within his rooms as his legs started to shake, the injured limb threatening to buckle beneath him if he did not relieve the pressure of his weight from it immediately. He knew he had only moments to make a decision before his strength would leave him for good, and so he looked first to the bag still resting on his bed that contained the healing herbs and fresh bandages he needed for his wound, and second to the fire blazing in the hearth. Whether or not he made the right decision, his shaky steps turned to the warmth of the crackling flames and he had just enough wits left about him to keep himself out of the fire as his knees buckled and he fell for a second time to the gray stones in a tangled mess of limbs.
The cold was not so intense here, the stones having been warmed by the heat of the nearby fire, and Aragorn soon felt his eyes closing of their own accord. The pain in his hand and his leg still lingered, and the blood dripping from his wound now began to pool beside him again, albeit more slowly, but he had little strength left to divert to worrying over it. In fact, he must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew there was a warm hand on his cheek and a voice nearby, and he had never heard the bearer of either come into his rooms.
“Estel?” The voice was louder now and full of worry, though whether it was louder because the speaker had raised the volume of their tone or because Aragorn was slowly coming out of sleep he did not know. A light tapping on his cheek made him frown in confusion. “Come, Estel, open your eyes. Wake!”
The person belonging to the voice sounded so concerned, Aragorn forced his eyes open to see what was so worrisome. The room slowly came into focus and, with it, long golden hair, a fair face, and eyes full of warmth and of fear. Squinting at the elf in front of him, Aragorn managed to croak out a name, voice hoarse even to his own ears. “Glorfindel?”
“Yes, Estel, it is me,” the elf nodded, a little of that fear in his eyes dissipating, though not by much. He brought a gentle hand under Aragorn’s arm and wrapped it around his back, moving him carefully upward until he was brought close to Glorfindel’s chest. A moment later and Aragorn shut his eyes against the spinning of the world around him as the elf slipped an arm beneath his legs and lifted him from the hearth of the fire. “Let us get you into bed, and then I will fetch your father, penneth.”
Little one…Aragorn had not been called that in many years, and the familiar usage of the phrase from one so dear to him set his mind at ease, his body relaxing once more in Glorfindel’s arms, though he shivered as the elf laid him down in his bed, the coolness of the sheets a sharp contrast to the warm stones he had lain upon only moments ago. A warm hand cupped his face again, and Aragorn leaned into the touch without realizing. “Only a moment, and I will return. Stay awake if you can.” And then the warm touch was gone and, with it, the hurried, receding footsteps of the elf. He opened his eyes and tried his best to stay awake, not wanting to disappoint Glorfindel when he returned, but the longer he stared into the flickering flames in his hearth the faster they began to shut again. Within minutes of the elf’s departure, Aragorn slipped back into a restless sleep with little resistance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Legolas and the twins had just left the feast, laughing at something one of them had said and making plans for the next day, when they were sure Estel would be well-rested and agreeable to adventure. It had been far too long since the four of them had been in the same place with time to spare for leisure, and they had every intention of making the most of it while they could.
His good mood soon soured, though, when he spied Glorfindel rushing toward them and the direction of the festivities they had left only minutes ago. With a frown, Legolas called out to him. “Glorfindel! Why do you run? And what is that sorrowful look upon your face?”
The elder elf stopped in front of them, his features grim. “It is Estel.” At that, the twins sobered as well, their smiles vanishing. “He is fevered, and a wound upon his hand will not stop bleeding. I found him collapsed at the hearth of his fire, shivering,” he glanced back in the direction from which he’d come. “I ask that you go to him while I bring this news to Elrond. Someone needs to be watching him.”
Before Glorfindel had even finished his request, the twins and Legolas were already moving. “Ada is still at the feast,” Elladan called back to the elf, who nodded his thanks for the information and rushed off again.
The three quickly made their way through the halls, their eyes widening as they came across the stain of blood that marred the corridor outside Estel’s rooms. They followed the trail that lead past the doorway and to the hearth, where a fire was still merrily blazing. “Estel,” Legolas breathed, concern for his friend urging him to the bed where he lay. The man’s features were pale, his brow knotted in obvious pain, even in sleep.
The twins were at his side in an instant, Elladan with a hand upon his brow, checking for the fever Glorfindel had mentioned, Elrohir kneeling and taking the wounded hand that lay over the side of the bed gently into his own. Legolas did not dare move any closer for fear of interrupting them, though he wanted nothing more than to sit on the edge of the bed and pull his friend close, safeguarding him.
“Ai, Estel, what happened on the road?” Elrohir asked softly as he cradled his brother’s hand, staring at the blood-soaked wrapping that covered it.
“He is fevered, as Glorfindel said,” Elladan sighed, shaking his head. “He was flushed at the feast, but I ascribed it to the wine only….” His words trailed away as he reached for the pack that lay on the bed beside the shivering man. Rummaging through it, he brought out fresh bandages and a leather herb pouch a few moments later with a tight smile, laying them across the bed nearest to his twin. “Use these until ada gets here.”
Elrohir nodded his thanks, eyes brightening somewhat at the supplies. That brightness quickly dimmed, however, as he began to unwrap the soiled cloth from Estel’s palm, his own hands quickly becoming stained with blood. As the last of the linen fell to the floor, all three elves gasped at what was revealed.
A deep cut—presumably made by the orc Estel had encountered, for only orcs rode wargs—lay across his palm. Blood seeped continually from the wound, but that was not what worried Legolas. He was no healer, possessing only a rudimentary knowledge of the art, but even he knew that infection was likely the cause of Estel’s discomfort, especially if an orc’s weapon was involved. The wound did not appear infected, however, and even Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a confused glance between themselves at the lack of inflamed skin or sickly smell. This did not explain why Estel had collapsed, nor why he was even now unresponsive.
Elrohir stared at the wound a moment longer, the look on his face thoughtful, before blinking and shaking the stupor from himself. “He at least did not lie to us. He has done well caring for this.” He immediately sought the fresh bandages on the bed and began wrapping Estel’s palm tightly, trying to get the bleeding under control.
Elladan bent nearer to the man and gently brushed stray strands of hair from his sweat-soaked features. “Estel, gwador-nin,” he said softly, “why did you not tell us it was serious?”
The three kept a silent watch over him after that, waiting until Glorfindel could manage to find Elrond and bring him to Estel’s side.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Elrond was meant to be giving a final toast any minute now, setting an official end to the feast, though he had no doubt it would continue well after that. His people were a merry folk, and feasts often lasted far into the morning of the next day, though he did not usually partake in them for that long himself. He preferred to retire at a relatively normal hour, reading or otherwise engaging in a quiet activity before the hours turned dark and the night closed in upon the valley.
However, it was not of a closing toast or even reading that his thought was bent toward now; rather, his mind dwelt ever upon the look of his son in the moonlight as he had departed earlier, skin pale and leg refusing to bear his full weight, seemingly catching on empty air with every other step. The only thing keeping him in his chair was the knowledge that, if it were truly dire, Estel would come to him. He was proud and stubborn but he was seldom foolish, and never with his health. Elrond had mended his many wounds and patiently cured several illnesses over the years, and not once in all that time had Estel ever concealed any harm from him. He tried his best to put it from his mind, resolving to check on him first thing in the morning, for his own peace, after his son had managed a bit of rest and recovery from his long journey.
No sooner had he gotten his mind to quiet, however, than Elrond heard rushed footsteps that seemed set on a path that would lead straight to him. The only thing that consistently rushed in Imladris was the water of the falls that lent their beauty to the valley, the rest of his house usually content to adopt a more sedate pace. He turned at once toward the irregularity to find Glorfindel sweeping across the pavilion, a stricken look upon his features. Elrond would have been out of his seat in moments to hear what ill news he brought had his friend not been at his side in less time than the movement would have taken. Glorfindel bent and leaned toward him, voice little more than a whisper at his ear as he said, “Estel needs your attentions at once.”
Elrond did not need to know more. He placed his glass back upon the table and quietly instructed Erestor, who was sitting next to him, to handle the remaining moments of the feast. The elf’s eyes were quick to concern but he asked no question, simply nodded his acceptance. Elrond took his leave immediately, keeping his steps graceful and even, though more quick than usual, ignoring the curious looks thrown his way as more elves began to notice his sudden and hasty departure. It was not until they were well away from the possibility of prying ears that he asked, “What has happened?”
“I was returning to my own rooms when I spied blood in the hall before Estel’s,” Glorfindel said beside him, matching Elrond step for step. “When I entered, I found him unconscious before his fire, more blood upon the stones there. I managed to wake him and carry him to bed but I doubt he will still be so, as he was not easily roused. There is a wound upon his palm that refuses to stop bleeding, and he is fevered.”
“I see,” Elrond mused, mind already contemplating ways to stem the flow of blood and compiling a list of herbs he would need.
“I crossed paths with the twins and Legolas on my way to find you and bade them go to him,” Glorfindel added.
“Hannon le,” his heart beat a steadier pace knowing Estel was not alone. “I am glad you passed his rooms when you did.” The two lapsed into concerned silence after that, steps drawing ever nearer to his son. At first sight of the blood that marred the corridor, Elrond winced. To bleed this much, it must be a deep wound indeed. He nimbly avoided the spot and passed beneath the archway that marked Estel’s chambers. “My sons,” he said softly as he came to stand behind Elrohir, heart sinking as he looked over his shoulder and found Estel’s hand newly rebound, spent linen discarded across the floor. “What have you found?”
“It seems Estel ran into more trouble on the road than he divulged,” Elladan shook his head across the bed, eyes never leaving his brother’s face. “From what little he told us, we believe his wound was made by an orc’s blade.”
Elrond’s brow furrowed, both in sympathy and in remembered pain of his own experience with injuries caused by orc blades. “Then make haste to our store of herbs and bring back everything we will need,” he instructed, removing his robes and draping them over a nearby chair. “I will take over from here, though I would welcome your assistance upon your return.”
Both twins nodded and were quick to obey, though Elrohir waited to follow his brother until after Elrond had gently lifted Estel’s wounded hand from him. Fresh blood could already be seen upon the wrapping, but he calmly pulled the chair over so he could sit, the better to care for his son. Glorfindel watched from a spot by the fire, ready and waiting to help, should he be needed. Legolas remained out of the way in a similar manner and came to stand next to the elder golden-haired elf, likely willing to do his part also.
“Every time I let you leave this valley you return to me in such a state, ion-nin,” Elrond said the words softly, meant more for Estel’s ears than anyone else in the room. He carefully unwrapped the work of Elrohir’s hands, allowing the wound to show itself once more. After a few moments of silent observation and gentle prodding, he frowned at his son’s hand.
“Will he be alright?” Legolas asked softly.
Elrond glanced up at him, a small smile on his lips, though his attention quickly returned to the injury in front of him. “That remains to be seen, though I would venture to say yes.” He inwardly winced as he took a portion of the cloth dangling from Estel’s hand and pressed it back against the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. He glanced up, noticing Legolas’ confused and worried expression, and patiently clarified. “There is no infection here, which is a good sign, but that does not explain why he is ill in this manner. A long journey and exhaustion alone could not have caused this, though I have no doubt they are contributing factors.” He swept a thoughtful gaze along the man’s body, brow furrowing as he thought again of the way Estel’s leg had not held his full weight. “Did he give any indication that he was injured elsewhere, or say anything more that might reveal the full nature of his encounter with the orc?”
Legolas shook his head. “He mentioned no other injury, and I doubt he would have divulged the one to his palm if I had not inquired after it upon noticing. As to the orc, there was a warg, also.”
At that, Elrond’s features smoothed, an idea of what might have happened quickly forming. “I wonder….” He was lost in thought for a moment, a practiced eye once more searching Estel and coming to rest upon his leg, where a closer look revealed the slight, nearly invisible bulge of a bandage beneath the loose fabric of his trousers. A warg bite or scratch left unattended might explain this, but his son knew better than to leave such a thing untreated. And by the excellent state his palm was in, Elrond doubted he would have let a second injury fester unnoticed. Though, if they were my own injuries, he mused, and I was alone in the wild, I would likely neglect the one I deemed lesser in favor of attending ardently to the one that seemed the greater threat. Feeling as though he had at last come to the truth, Elrond nodded toward Estel’s leg. “Legolas, gently lift the right hem of his trousers above his knee.”
Though plainly confused at the request, the younger elf was quick to do as he asked, springing from his place beside the fire and deftly removing the man’s boot. A few moments later, Elrond was rewarded for his guess as a second set of wrappings was revealed just above Estel’s knee. “Ai, mellon-nin,” Legolas said softly, and as his hands pulled away Elrond could see why he had reacted in such a way. The cloth looked as though it had not been changed with the same frequency as that of his palm, and there was dark blood staining the fabric in several places, bright spots of fresh red standing out all the clearer for it.
“I believe we have found what we sought,” he said quietly. Elrond did not need to unwrap the wound to know this was the mystery behind Estel’s sudden illness, though he would wait until his sons returned before he did anything more. Estel’s palm would need to be stitched, but Elrohir could see to that while he and Elladan tended to the man’s leg. That was where Elrond’s attention was most needed, if the lighter yellow stains upon the fabric were any indication. He let the pressure on his son’s palm ease slowly as he removed his own, appraising the wound anew and delighted to find the bleeding had slowed. He wiped his bloodied fingers against the remaining fabric until they were clean, then put the back of his hand against the man’s brow, alarmed but not surprised at the heat he found there. Estel’s eyelids fluttered at the contact, prompting Elrond to draw closer. “Estel? Can you hear me?” he asked.
Slowly, too slowly for his liking, his son’s eyes opened, struggling to focus. Elrond saw the moment recognition lit his gaze, his lips thinning in a slight frown. “Ada? What…?” His question quickly dwindled to nothing as he swept heavy eyes across his chamber, landing at last upon Glorfindel and Legolas, the latter of which quickly brought a hand to his friend’s shoulder, giving him an encouraging smile.
Elrond smiled softly. “It seems your adventures upon the road have caught up with you, ion-nin.” He ran a hand through dark hair damp with sweat, and Estel leaned into the touch, body trembling. “It is good that you arrived today. I fear by tomorrow, you would not have been able to travel.” Here, his son happened to look toward his palm, which lay still in Elrond’s own, blood now seeping slowly further into the linen. He let out a deep, shaky sigh, and Elrond struggled to contain his small grin at the forlorn and annoyed sound. “I take it you have managed to undo several days of hard work,” he guessed.
Estel nodded morosely. “My leg…there was a sudden pain, and when I fell I did not think before bracing myself with both hands.”
“That would explain how the trail of blood leading into your rooms and upon the stones before your hearth came to be, then.”
He grimaced. “I had every intention of cleaning it before anyone could notice after—” Estel’s voice abruptly cut off and his fever-glazed eyes widened in alarm as he turned to look once more at Elrond. “Forgive me, ada.”
Elrond frowned. “Whatever for?”
“The feast…I’ve taken you away from it.” And he looked so ashamed and troubled over so small a thing that Elrond could not help but to laugh softly, prompting the man to look him in the eye.
“Even if it had not been all but over, Estel, I would have gladly left,” he shook his head, running his hand through his son’s hair once more. “You are far more important to me than a feast.” He leaned forward and placed a kiss upon Estel’s brow, still warm with fever though it was. When Elrond pulled back, it was to find a small smile creeping across the man’s face. “Now, tell me how you managed to obtain such wounds, ion-nin.”
Estel began to tell of his unhappy meeting with the orc and its warg, wincing as Elrond applied pressure once more to his palm, for which he quickly apologized. A moment passed before he regained his bearings and told of how they had surprised him with little warning of their approach, uncommon for either creature. By his account, it had been a quick and desperate fight, all but over in a matter of minutes. He’d left the area as quickly as he could manage in case there were others roaming about, tending to his injuries as best he could on horseback until he found a safer place to camp for the evening.
“It is no small blessing the orc’s blade was not poisoned, as they so often are,” Elrond interrupted, and Estel nodded in agreement, continuing his tale to describe how he had cleansed the wound thoroughly as soon as he was able, and how he had kept close watch on it after. “You have done excellent work,” he praised, earning him a smug grin from Estel.
“You must tell Elladan and Elrohir. They did not believe my skills were up to the task.”
“Tell us what?” Elrohir said with a smile as he and his brother returned with herbs, rolls of linen, and other supplies tucked beneath their arms.
“That I have done fine work caring for my injury,” Estel smirked, pride at his father’s words showing clearly in his smile.
The twins let out exasperated sighs and rolled their eyes as they set their burdens on a nearby table. “Good job, ada,” Elladan feigned irritation, a small smile already threatening to break his ruse. “Now we will never hear the end of it.”
Elrond let Estel bask in the praise for a moment longer before raising a brow. “The injury to your palm, yes, I will grant you that. But in doing so, you have neglected the second harm,” he gently chided.
At that, his son’s face fell and he glanced hastily at the bandage circling his leg, wincing as he looked at it for the first time. “That explains much,” he murmured to himself.
“Ai, Estel!” Elladan shook his head as he looked at the stained wrappings.
“Fine work, indeed,” Elrohir teased, which caused Estel to glare at him for a moment before his eyes crinkled and they both laughed softly.
“I deserved that,” he said with a smile. “In my haste to reach Imladris, I did not bother to unwrap the dressing on my leg this morning or last night, thinking it the lesser of the wounds,” he sighed heavily, his eyes betraying how exhausted he truly was. He swallowed thickly as he closed his eyes, murmuring, “I should have.”
“Even if you had cared for it as was needed, the result may still have been the same,” Elrond comforted. “The wounds inflicted by orcs and wargs are not easily forgotten by men. That you are not worse than you are is a testament to your skill, and that of your tutor,” he grinned, knowing Estel would take it for the compliment it was. He was rewarded with a bright, albeit subdued, laugh from his son, pride once more entering his eyes as he opened them and fixed his father with a conspiratorial grin.
“Well, my tutor is the best in all Arda. Though, it would seem I still have a few lessons to learn, ada,” he said, his words soft along with his lingering smile.
“Perhaps. In the meantime, we will speak no more of how these wounds came to be and will endeavor instead to heal them.” Elrond gave his son a sympathetic look. “Stitching your palm and cleaning your leg will not be without pain. It may be wise if you were asleep for both.”
Estel thought about it for several long moments, and Elrond could tell he bristled at the thought of not being able to withstand any pain that might be caused. But, after a few moments more, he slumped back into his pillows with a soft sigh, body shivering even with the heat of the fire filling the room, and nodded once. “I think that would be best,” he turned toward Elrond. “I am weary enough as it is; if you offer me an escape from further discomfort, I will take it.” Elrond’s heart clenched at the fatigue and hurt that lay within his son’s fevered gaze. But there lay also a deep trust and he wondered, not for the first time, how he had been fortunate enough to raise such a man and call him kin.
“Elladan,” Elrond called to his son, who appeared at his side only a moment later, holding a steaming cup of tea. From the smell wafting from the surface and the color of the liquid, he easily identified it as the very same tea he had been about to ask Elladan to prepare. He looked at his son in wonder and confusion.
At this, Elladan grinned. “You are very predictable, ada,” he said in response.
“Am I, indeed?” he mused, shaking his head. “Make sure Estel drinks all of that.” Elladan was already maneuvering his way past Legolas to sit on the edge of the bed, and a moment later he helped his brother to sit up, letting him lean against him as he pressed the cup to his lips.
For the first time in the man’s life, Estel drank it without protest, which showed the true depth of how poorly he was feeling and was cause for no small amount of worry. Always he at least wrinkled his nose and remarked upon the foul taste, but not so this time. Elrond put the back of his hand against his son’s brow, gauging how hot the fever was burning and alarmed to find it had risen. With the tea now gone, Estel’s eyes were getting heavier with each passing moment, and when Elladan gently lowered him back amongst the pillows he all but sank into them, a sigh escaping his lips. “Rest, ion-nin,” Elrond soothed, pitching his voice low, and a moment later his eyes closed, his breathing slowly becoming deep and even.
He looked to his sons, but before he could give them instruction, Elrohir took a step forward and gestured toward Estel’s injured palm. “I will handle the stitching, ada.”
Elrond breathed a soft laugh. “Predictable, indeed,” he smiled, rising so that his son could take his place.
Elrohir carefully took his brother’s hand in his own and sat, glancing up at him as he did so with a smirk. “I am better at stitching than Elladan, and he is better at healing infections. But yes, you are quite predictable.”
Glorfindel did not bother to suppress his bright laugh, nor did Legolas conceal the smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he moved to stand near the hearth once more, giving Elrond and Elladan ample space as they began to unwrap Estel’s leg. When the last of the soiled cloth came free of the jagged gash upon the man’s thigh, Elrond could not help the wince that stole across his features. It was not the worst infection he had seen in his many years of healing, and for that he was grateful, but it was no minor thing, either. Estel would be abed for several days, not only to keep his weight off the injury but also to help his body fight the infection and regain his strength. Elrond did not need the gift of foresight to tell him the man would complain endlessly about the confinement, no matter that he would make one of his own men do the same if their circumstances were reversed.
“Well,” Elladan broke the silence, gazing at the wound with open disgust. “Estel never does anything by half, I’ll give him that. Still, it isn’t the worst he’s had.”
“Not the worst by far,” Legolas agreed grimly, a touch of anger clouding his words, no doubt remembering one of the many occasions he had seen his friend hurt.
Elrond simply hummed, too focused on the task before him to bother adding his own thoughts. The infection did not appear to be advanced, which would make his work far more easy than he had anticipated. He and Elladan quickly fell into a learned rhythm, preparing athelas and cleansing the wound, checking behind each other to ensure all trace of the infection had been eradicated before Elrond pulled a second chair to the bedside, took up needle and thread of his own, and began to close the tear. Elrohir had long finished his task, the injured palm stitched and bound expertly, though he had not left the chair at Estel’s side and was even now pressing a cool cloth against the man’s burning forehead to ease his sleep.
Looking up from his work for a moment, Elrond noted the tension that still lingered in the room, concern for Estel an almost tangible thing that suffused the very air. He smiled softly at his sons. “You have both done well,” he assured them, “and I thank you for aiding me in this. I believe time away from these chambers would serve you well, now that your tasks are complete.”
“Ada, you cannot expect us to leave,” Elrohir was quick to object.
“We would not abandon him,” Elladan agreed, frowning.
“I am not asking you to abandon him,” he shook his head. “I am asking you to take a brief respite. Estel will not wake for many hours yet, and standing idly within his chambers while worry weighs your heart will do him no good, nor will it help you. Go, and rest. If anything should change, I will send for you.”
“Lord Elrond is right,” Legolas said softly, coming to stand behind Elrohir and resting his hand gently upon his friend’s shoulder. “The same advice soothed my spirit many years ago,” he looked toward Elrond with a haunted smile. He did not need further explanation, for immediately a past image came to mind, of an elvish princeling whose elegant shirt was stained dark with blood from shoulder to hip as he carried Estel to a different hall, where all had feared the worst would come to pass.
From the looks that passed across his son’s faces, it seemed as though they were looking into the past upon the same image. Elladan sighed heavily. “And the situation is not so dire as it was then, thank the Valar,” he said. “Very well, ada, we will do as you ask.”
“How long would you have us remain sundered from him?” Elrohir asked, clearly not happy with the request but not outright defying it, either.
“Until the sun crests the horizon and its rays grace the peaks of the Hithaeglir.”
Elrohir frowned. “Ada—”
“Arien’s approach is not as far off as you may think,” Elrond soothed. “We have labored long into the night.” He watched as his son glanced toward the window, the tension that had been building in his shoulders slowly dissipating.
At length, he looked to his brother and, after a few moments of silent conversation, nodded along with him. “It will be as you ask,” Elrohir agreed, standing quietly. “We will bring breakfast for you when we return.”
At this, Elrond smiled, accepting it as the peace offering it was. “It would be much appreciated. Hannon le.”
“I will accompany you,” Legolas said, following the twins as they gathered what they could and left the room. “Fresh air would do me good as well, I think.” Elrond could hear them speaking quietly among themselves as their footsteps receded down the hall, until the only remaining noise came from the crackling fire in the hearth.
“It cost them much to leave,” Glorfindel said softly as he slipped into the seat Elrohir had vacated, taking up the cloth that lay across Estel’s brow and dipping it in the bowl of athelas-infused water at his side.
“Not as much as it would have cost them to stay,” Elrond bent over his work once more, deftly weaving flesh back together. “Healing takes as much from the caregiver as the ill. They needed to step away for a moment, gather their thoughts. Their worry was all but a seventh presence in these chambers.”
Glorfindel wrung the cloth before placing it back across the man’s forehead, smiling wryly as he looked toward Elrond. “And yours is not?”
He breathed out a quick laugh, shaking his head. “I do not deny my worry, but mine is tempered with the knowledge that Estel will be well soon enough.” He looked toward his friend, returning his wry grin. “And yours?”
“Quickly allayed as soon as I pulled you away from the feast,” Glorfindel shrugged at Elrond’s sudden, confused look. “You are the best healer of three ages, mellon-nin. You have pulled Estel back from the brink many times; this is nothing as compared to them.”
Moved beyond words, Elrond simply inclined his head in the elder elf’s direction. They passed the next few minutes in companionable silence as he finished his task, gently but tightly rebinding the wound across Estel’s thigh before sitting back in his own chair with a sigh. He glanced toward the wavering fire and winced at the blood that still stained the hearth.
“Remain where you are,” Glorfindel stood on the other side of the bed. “I will see to it.” Elrond looked to him to ask him how he could have known what his thoughts were when his friend shook his head and laughed quietly. “It is as your sons said: you are predictable.”
“So everyone keeps saying. At least allow me to help,” he insisted.
“No. You have done much this night. This is a task I can complete alone, and much faster if I am left to do so in peace, without elven lords thinking they must take care of everything all the time in their own power.” He said it with a grin, but Elrond understood and accepted the quiet admonishment all the same, even if Glorfindel was himself an elven lord.
He nodded, adopting a serious expression in jest. “Very well. You have my word, I will not assist you.” He smiled to himself as he watched the elf leave the room, ever grateful for such a friend. He stayed seated for a moment longer, gazing at his son and monitoring his breathing before rising and going to the washbasin in front of the window. Elrond dutifully cleansed his hands of his work, grieved that it had been needed at all but glad now that it was done. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he looked through the window and into the clear night sky, eyes passing over familiar constellations until they at last rested upon the brightest star in the heavens. Gil-Estel it was aptly named, for renewed hope surged within him. The star that was not a star had not always inspired such a feeling in him but, over the many centuries, Elrond had eventually come to see it as the hope that it represented for countless others.
He took one last look before lowering his head and retreating to the chair at his son’s bedside, taking the now-warm cloth from his brow and replacing it afresh a moment later. The fever was not entirely vanished, but he was pleased to find that it had lowered considerably. And when Glorfindel had cleansed the stones of Estel’s blood and returned to his own place of vigil, it was all but gone. By the time the twins and Legolas appeared the next morning with lighter hearts and hot food from the kitchens, it was to find a tired but grinning Estel sitting up in bed, free of fever and already talking of what mischief he might get into with his brothers once he was allowed to leave his bed.