Chapter Text
Gilraen
-o0o-
She should have expected that she would find her son here, Gilraen thought with a hint of exasperation. Here, at the edges of the training field, watching the warriors of Rivendell spar. Estel was getting better at evading her, at evading his chores and pre-dinner baths.
And it wasn’t just the training itself that had Estel so enraptured, she realized as she followed her son’s gaze. It was who was sparring in the centre of the large field: the sons of Elrond themselves, Elladan and Elrohir.
She saw the unrestrained excitement in her son’s eyes, that pure exuberant adoration, and something inside her hardened. So much like his father.
Arathorn had all but worshipped Elrond’s sons, had sought every opportunity to join them on their hunts, join them on their quest for revenge. And what had it availed him? What had it brought her but pain and despair? Her stomach twisted around old pain, so stark even still, especially today.
She did not blame Elornd’s sons for the death of her husband. Only the orc who had shot the fateful arrow carried that blame and Gilraen knew, with frightening certainty, that that orc no longer lived, that her husband had been avenged manifold. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat that the memory brought. The memory of the look in Elladan’s and Elrohir’s eyes when they had returned with her husband’s lifeless body, three years ago - to the day.
She prayed Estel would never see that look. Prayed that he would never cause it.
And that, she realized, was the problem. Already Estel showed the same enthusiasm, the same devotion to their fight against the dark forces. Already he was set on the same path as his father had been. Arathorn had meant to protect his people, but he had also, oh so desperately, wanted to impress them.
But that would not be her son’s fate, could not be his destiny. She would not allow it. He would not throw his life away in a meaningless quest to scour the Misty Mountains, to hunt goblins and orcs rather than pursue happiness. He was meant to find love, to live a long and happy life, a life that had been denied her husband, had been denied her.
And yet, Estel adored the elven twins. He followed them like a puppy, loved them like a brother. Gilraen scoffed at the word. For really, what was he to them? She had seen him train with Elladan, ride with Elrohir. And though his face was filled with joy, her own heart felt only sorrow.
Gilraen knew what her son could not yet understand. The House of Elrond had fostered his father before him, and his father’s father, and all his ancestors for generations. Elrohir and Elladan had long ago learned to protect their hearts against attachment to mortals. Her son would be no different, a passing acquaintance, a comrade in arms for a few brief moments, a fading memory in a hundred years’ time. Estel was only setting himself up for bitter rejection, for a life of pointless pursuit of their approval.
Gilraen would have none of it. Not today. Not ever. That would not be Estel’s path.
She stormed forward. "Estel", she called using the voice every frustrated mother perfected, a demand and a sigh all at once. Even that brought her a small pang of sorrow today. How much more emphasis would she have been able to put into 'Aragorn, son of Arathorn!'? He would certainly know he'd misstepped if she called him that.
But he withered even at the use of his elvish name, having the good sense to look contrite as he turned to face her.
"Ammë," he began, but she snatched his hand and turned to go, not caring for his excuse. He fell in beside her, still subdued and a part of her anger melted away.
"I just wanted to watch Dan and Ro," he murmured.
Her irritation returned. "Elladan and Elrohir," she corrected him. Again.
"They don't mind if I call them that!" he protested.
"Just because they do not mind, does not mean it isn't disrespectful. They are lords of Rivendell."
"They are my brothers!"
Her thinly stretched patience snapped. Would that he had brothers. How often had she wished for another child, another chance to hold a piece of her late husband? Her anguish made her answer sharper than she intended.
"They are not," she hissed, not looking at him, "your brothers."
Estel stopped as if struck, snatching his hand from her grasp. His eyes were large when she turned to look at him, filled with betrayal and hurt. Her stomach knotted. Despite knowing that her words were the truth, she wanted to apologize. Her young son was a poor target for her heartache.
"Estel, I -"
Gilraen lurched as someone collided with her. An elf, dressed in the grey color and armor of a Rivendell guard, rushed past her, apologizing hurriedly and making for the training field. A pang of unease flitted through her as she followed his steps with her eyes. Old instincts flared to life, remnants of her time being the chieftain's wife. A warrior in haste never brought good news.
But Gilraen tore her gaze away. She was no longer the wife of the chieftain. Instead she was here, protected and useless in Rivendell, a mere human amongst elves. Let them deal with whatever was amiss. She had more important concerns.
She turned back to her son - and froze. "Estel!" she shouted after his retreating form. He had used her inattention to race away from her and was halfway across the meadow. "Estel, come back!" But at her voice, he only seemed to speed up. Desperate to escape her. Cold dread filled her stomach. What had she done? For a moment her feet felt frozen to the ground, her mind ringing with self-deprecation, but then she raced after him.
"Estel!" she shouted again, desperation mixing with anger now. At least he was running towards his favourite tree, the lone oak at the edge of the forest. Perhaps he merely wished to find safety in the higher branches, would merely need a moment to calm down until she could speak to him, could apologize. True or not, she had never meant for her words to hurt him.
"No," she whispered, her feet forcing her body into a sprint, when Estel rushed past the lone tree and disappeared into the forest beyond. His little body was swallowed between the boughs instantly, his dark curls fading into the darkness between the trees.
She crossed into the forest a good twenty paces behind him, a lifetime later. There was no sign of him. No sound of breaking twigs, no path her frenzied eyes could find. She ran deeper into the forest regardless. Her fear twisting the shadows into living things, sweat stinging her eyes and mixing with tears she could not let fall.
No! This could not be. She could not have lost her son!
-o0o-
Elrohir
-o0o-
"They are not your brothers!"
Elrohir winced as he heard the words, heard both the anger and the anguish in them. He exchanged a look with Elladan, who had come over, their training session interrupted with the eventful exit of their favorite audience.
Elladan's hand landed on his shoulder, steady, supportive, giving a reassuring squeeze. "You know what day it is," he said. And Elrohir did. How could he forget the pain of their hunt three years past? The failure to protect their dearest friend, the leader of his people? He remembered the weight of Arathorn's body in his arms as he brought him back to the ranger camp, remembered the warmth leaving it during the ride back as he held the empty husk of his friend on the horse before him.
And he understood Gilraen’s pain, even though she was wrong. Despite the tragedy that had brought him here, Estel had returned life to a valley too long content with living outside the reaches of time's grasp. He had brought sunshine to a vale of eternal twilight. An unchanging haven without decay, surrounded by a withering world. The dichotomy had been painful. But Estel had shaken this undisturbed realm of Vilya - and he had brought joy back to the valley. Had brought it back into his own heart.
They had fostered the kin of Elros before, but never had one of the Dunedain left its mark on Imladris instead. Left his mark on its inhabitants. The space Estel inhabited in his heart was indelible, undeniable. The space of a brother.
Elladan's hand on his shoulder tensed, alerting Elrohir to the approaching form of Nelledir. His brow creased as he followed the old warrior's path. And the foreboding rush of the warrior prevented him from seeing Estel looking in his and Elladan's direction, from marking the hurt and pain on his small brother’s face. Neither he nor Elladan noticed Estel spin away and dart off across the meadow. For Nelledir was all but running towards them and whatever the news he brought; they would not bode well.
"Glorfindel requires all patrols assembled. Wolves have breached the border."
That was worse than he had feared.
"Feriel has returned?" Elladan demanded, but Nelledir shook his head. She had been tasked with tracking the roaming pack of wolves last seen near the Ford of the Bruinen. Half-starved, desperate beasts that had barely survived the last winter. She had been aiming to make sure they would not cross the river and venture deeper into the valley.
"No. Mundil's patrol ran into a second pack near the forest’s edge. These wolves were much better fed - and violent. They attacked the patrol on sight. There have been injuries."
The heavy pronunciation of that statement, along with the wolves’ behaviour themselves made clear what conclusion Glorfindel had drawn. Why he was asking for all patrols to assemble.
"They were scouting on behalf of the orcs," Elrohir said, his voice hard. It was not a question. He was all too familiar with the hunting pattern of orcs and wargs.
He sheathed his training sword in one fluent move, effortlessly mirrored by Elladan and headed back towards the main house. If orcs had come to the Hidden Valley, Elladan and he would make them rue their audacity.
-o0o-
Estel
-o0o-
Branches were grabbing for him as Estel ran through the underbrush, thin claws that ripped into his clothes and scratched his hands. The trees themselves were intent on holding him back, on stopping his flight. But he had had enough of anyone telling him what to do, how to act, and what to feel for one day. He snarled at the trees.
Pain still raged in his heart. Raw and sharp-edged. His mother's words repeating over and over, telling him that Dan and Ro were not his brothers. Did not care for him. Tears sprang to his eyes again and he wiped them away angrily, torn between rage and despair. How could she say that? How did she know?
He crashed to a halt, gasping deep breaths into his heaving lungs, trying to keep it in around the hiccups that threatened to escape as he sobbed.
He trusted his ammë, loved her. She was kind, and wise and she knew everything. But she had to be wrong about this. She had to be! because, because... he sobbed again, thinking of all the times that Dan and Ro had invited him to spend time with them, never once getting tired of his questions. They had let him join them on the training field. Elrohir had made him a saddle and shown him how to ride a pony. Elladan had taught him how to hold a training sword. He had called them gwedyr and they had not corrected him.
Overwhelmed, heartbroken, angry and, above all, confused, Estel clung to those memories. Knowing instinctively that he was not wrong. Could not be wrong. He remembered Elladan's patient guidance on how to hold a sword, and his eyes fell on a stick that was just the right size to practice. He picked it up, swinging it like a sword, trying to conjure his brother’s voice as he instructed him in how to hold it, how to put his weight behind each stroke, how to set his feet. Estel stumbled - and grimaced. He was not very good at setting his feet correctly.
Elladan had lectured him on that repeatedly, but he could not stand still right now. Just like he hadn't been able to stand still back when his oldest brother had tutored him for the first time. Then he had been too excited. Delighted by the prospect of wielding an actual sword - even a wooden one, of getting to be on the training field instead of just watching from the side lines. He had practically been a warrior of Rivendell already!
Now though, now he wished he’d be able to conjure the joy of that day, but found it was mostly anger and frustration that surged within him, traveling down his arm and into his swings. His stick zipped through the air, crashing through the foliage, tearing parts of leaves off branches. A broken, green shower fell behind him as he continued aimlessly through the forest.
He struck out with an overhead swing, 'snap!' What did his mother know anyway? A backhand 'thwack'. It's not like she ever came out to watch the warriors train, or muck out the stables, or help in the Halls of Healing. She only did mom stuff - boring things like mending his clothes, and washing his clothes and sewing him new clothes. Not the kind of things that Elladan and Elrohir did. So how would she know whether they thought themselves his brothers?
And really, if she didn't think they were his brothers, then why did she send him off to 'pester them' so often? He struck the next branch in his path, causing another shower of green and let out a frustrated groan. His ammë didn't make any sense!
He watched the leaves flutter to the ground, pondering which direction to turn next when something caught his attention. A large imprint in the soft soil. Intrigued, Estel dropped his stick and bent closer. Everything else was instantly forgotten as he examined the print of four pads, with clear claw marks. Too round to be rabbit paws - and too large besides. Unless, of course, it was a very, very big rabbit. For a moment he imagined a rabbit the size of the little pony that Elrohir was training for him, bouncing on too long hindlegs, a grey saddle on its brown fur. Could he use the ears to hold on?
Estel shook his head, smiling at the image but discarding it as unlikely. And anyway, the print looked vaguely familiar. Not like bunnies, but like something he had seen before. He racked his brain trying to remember, and then it hit him. A dog! His mother had gotten visitors from the ranger camp once and they had brought their hunting dogs along. Lovely floppy-eared, long-furred companions that never strayed far from their owners' sides. And they'd left prints just like these - Estel knew because he made a point of checking every animal's prints, even making drawings to put into the little book by his bedside.
Well, alright, maybe not quite like these. These ones were a lot bigger. But if he remembered correctly the dogs of the rangers had been puppies. He had desperately wanted to keep one, but his ammë had resolutely refused. His expression soured at this new reminder of his mother. She was wrong about Dan and Ro, just as she had been wrong about the dogs. He could absolutely care for a puppy - and he would prove as much to her.
Without questioning the wisdom of his decision he set out to follow the dog's trail into the forest.
tbc...