Scenes from Rivendell
Being an early history of Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, called Estel, Thorongil, 'Strider,' et cetera.

Inspired by abundantlyqueer's Lineage.

Scene 1: Rivendell. Third Age 2943. Aragorn is twelve.


He has always lived in Rivendell, so he has no words for it. He cannot say that is strange, or enchanting, or devastating. It is all he has ever known; but he does know he will never be used to it.

He will never be ready to round a corner, hear a fragment of song, and then suddenly come to himself again with night fallen full dark around him and his cheeks wet with tears, remembering nothing of what he heard, other than it was beautiful.

He will never be ready for their anger.

He will never be ready for their pity, for they show it to him at the oddest moments. When he is disarmed in a sword-lesson Elrohir will not spare him the flat of the blade; and if he misses a step in the dances, or a bowshot on a hunting trip, the others will laugh merrily at him; but just when he thinks he has finally mastered a difficult song, and stands to chant it at the feast-table, then he will see the sad disdain shining in their eyes.

It is harder on his mother. He does see that much. She rarely leaves her chambers now; she sits on the balcony and stares out over the distant falls, humming to herself. Her tunes are almost always discordant with whatever distant music may drift up from the woods below.

The soft light of Rivendell makes all things beautiful, but it cannot ease the stern lines of Gilraen's face, the naked sorrow that is etched there.

He is deeply embarrassed by her. He thinks perhaps if he works harder, if he could somehow best Elrohir, and learn the intricate steps of the dances, and sing the Lay of Lúthien as Glorfindel does, then she would look away from the northern horizon, and laugh, and be fair and young as other mothers are.


Scene 2: Third Age 2944.


The hounds of Imladris are sleek and pale in color, with narrow hips and legs that seem fragile; but they are swifter than storm winds when loosed. Their faces are long, slender and delicate, and against their white coats their eyes are huge and dark, soft and starry as a summer's night. They wear silver collars set with opals. They do not bay when giving chase, but run fell and silent; but when lounging about the House they will a whine a little in friendly greeting. Their delicate skin trembles with happiness when they are touched.

The horses of Imladris are agile and elegant, with light smooth paces and a great capacity for speed. Their withers are well-defined, their quarters broad and strong. Their manes and tails flow thick and abundant. Their eyes are alive with kindness in their lean rectangular heads. When the elf-lords ride out in force, the horses are set with saddles, and plumed headstalls, with the straps of the gear studded with green beryls and (if silence is not required) small bells. When ridden for pleasure, they bear no saddle or tack at all.

The hounds and horses have a lineage as noble as that of any in Rivendell. The dogs are descended from the great wolfhound Huan, protector of Lúthien, who once fought Sauron and forced him to yield. The horses are of a line that comes from Valinor; they were brought over in white swan ships to bear the sons of Fingolfin into battle.

It is a secret pride to Estel that the dogs show him marked favor, and will come to his whistle no matter whose heels they may be trotting at. Only Elrond and his sons have more authority with them. When Estel is thirteen, Elrond gives him a pup to be his own; he names her Celebcarch, "Silverfang," and she follows him like a white shadow wherever he goes.

His luck with the horses is much worse. Elladan has only to whisper to a steed, and call it by its name, and it will do whatever he asks. Estel is sure the horses understand him too, and they seem to mean well enough; they suffer him to leap up on their backs, but he cannot cling to them as easily as the elves do, and a surge of speed or sudden turn is often enough to send him tumbling to the grass. Elladan is a patient riding-master, but after an endless series of these falls, Estel finds that the grey horse Cirdae is always saddled for him during their lessons.

For a while it is enough. If he asks politely, Cirdae will bear him to any place he names. But when he and Elladan begin to practice mounted combat, and quick maneuvering is required, his hurried and intricate commands seem only to confuse the steed. Again and again Elladan says: "You cannot tell him what to do, not with words alone; you must be so attuned to him that your thoughts are his, and you share one instinct."

He tries. He tries over and over. And each time it ends the same way; they ride in slow and clumsy arcs, and his swings are wildly far from their intended mark, while Elladan gallops swiftly by and lands what would be killing blows. And both Estel and Cirdae grow frustrated and angry, and Elladan says one more time, "You cannot tell him what to do."

At length the day comes that Estel arrives at the practice field to find Elladan holding an unfamiliar thing, and whispering to Cirdae. His face seems tense and sad. "I have brought something new," he says as Estel draws near, and holds it up: a handful of leather straps and jingling metal.

"What is it?" Estel asks.

"A bridle with a bit," says Elladan, lapsing into the Westron speech to say the word: and it seems ugly and harsh, even more so with the inflection he puts onto it. "It is a cruel thing, but you must learn to use it." He turns again to Cirdae, stroking his broad forehead and whispering to him. And though the noble horse resists the bit at first, shaking his powerful head as Elladan straps on the bridle, under the elf's coaxing and tutelage he agrees to suffer it.

It helps. Estel is able to turn the horse suddenly, and to stop him. Elladan lands fewer blows; and Estel strikes one of his own. It helps.

But afterwards, as he leads Cirdae back to stable and frees him of his harness, the grey steed only stares at him with dark reproachful eyes. And Elladan comes in to lay his head against the horse's neck and whisper "Díheno anim, goheno anim,"--forgive me, forgive me. And Estel feels hot tears of shame prickling in his eyes.

He rides Cirdae with the bit when he must. But whenever the choice is his, Estel walks.


Scene 3: Third Age 2946.


In his fifteenth year Estel gains six inches of height, and coarse hair begins to grow on his face and elsewhere on his body. He finds it somewhat alarming, and more so when Gilraen grasps his arm and pulls him down close to her, scanning his face with naked fear in hers. She tells him to procure, in secret, a mirror and a bowl and a small sharp blade. She tells him to shave his entire skin every morning and every night, and to let none see him doing it. There is real panic in her voice.

He follows the regimen for several months, though the furtiveness of it sits ill with him. Then the tedium and the inconvenience become stronger considerations. He grows careless and nicks himself regularly with the blade.

Elrond looks at him coolly as he passes in a hallway. "I can make you a salve," he says, "to soothe those cuts."

Estel flushes, and says nothing. The next day he does not shave.


Scene 4: Third Age 2947.


Estel clings to a carven archway as the room fills with power. Celebcarch cringes against his leg. The tension is nearly unbreathable; he thinks he can actually see tiny pinpoints of angry light swimming in the air. Elrond Half-Elven is furious.

Estel would very much like to be somewhere else; but Elrond is in his mother's chambers, and he will not abandon her. Gilraen has risen from her chair, left her place on the balcony and come to stand chin to chin with Elrond. Estel has never quite realized what a tall woman she is, nor what lean strength lies in her frame. Her ice-blue eyes are also filled with a kind of power, one unfamilar to him.

She is queenly! he thinks, amazed: and then the lord of Rivendell scowls, and against that sternness Gilraen even in her haughter seems small and shameful, like a child caught stealing berries.

"I have thirty Men at my door," Elrond says: the word Men is etched with repugnance. "You know what they want."

Gilraen's eyes slide to her son. Estel holds his gaze steady, keeps his face smooth and watchful, but he is acutely aware of a slight tremble in his skin. It is not easy to stand beneath the gaze of Elrond in his anger.

"This was not to happen," Elrond says crisply, and Gilraen's eyes snap back to the elf-lord. "Not yet. But they say he is a man, and they need their Chieftain."

"Yes, he is a man now," breathes Gilraen. "But you above all should know: he must be more than that!" And then, cornered, stripped of her dignity, she hisses like a feral cat: "You will not send my son to be butchered in some useless fight!"

And Elrond blinks. Estel would think he imagined it, for in the next moment the elf-lord is calm and chill as ever; but his bones can feel the abatement of danger. "Of course not," Elrond says, every word sharp. "Must we ever speak at cross-purposes? Go to them then, if they are not here by your will. They will not heed my counsel."

And with no glance at Estel, he sweeps from the chamber, leaving the mortals to catch their breath in air that is suddenly mundane.

Gilraen gathers herself. "Please, stay here," she says to Estel; but her tone is one of command. She follows Elrond, and he is left alone in her chambers, an awkward useless boy, confused as always by the discourse of his elders. A sudden surge of fury shakes him, and he kicks out swiftly against the doorframe, but even in his blind frustration he pulls the blow a little; he could easily break his toes, but he'd never knock a splinter from the wood of Rivendell.

*

When Gilraen returns, much later, her son is still there, his white hound curled at his feet. He rises smoothly and holds a chair out for her; his young face is calm, his green eyes veiled. His sparse beard is neatly trimmed and his wayward hair pulled back in a fine-wrought clasp. He is dressed like an elf, in velvety silver; and he is learning to hide his passions as they do. He apes them in every way. She thinks--as she always thinks, with a cold lurch of despair--that it will not be enough.

She thinks of the rangers she left at the gate, dirty and gaunt, marred with many scars. She thinks of their grim and steely faces. She thinks of Arador, pale and slack with death, and the tortures that had been worked upon his body. She thinks of Arathorn.

Her son lays a hand on her arm. She manages a smile. "They are gone," she says as she sinks into the chair. "Don't worry. Elrond will not send you away."

Aragorn kneels down beside her, his hand still resting on her arm. His clear gaze is hard for her to hold. "Do they want something with me?" he asks carefully. "Why do they keep coming? What is it that you tell them?"

Gilraen lays her hand over his. "I tell them," she says wearily, "that we are no longer a part of their war. This House is one of peace."

But Aragorn's brows draw together, and the tense, mobile line of his mouth sets in a dangerous arc. "They are our kin!" he argues. "Mother, why can't I meet them? Erestor says that they battle the Enemy, sometimes even alongside the elves--why did you tell Elrond that their fight is useless?"

"Everything is useless," says Gilraen bitterly; "everything." And then she closes her eyes, for even in his elven finery Aragorn sometimes has the wolfish look of his father, and it is more than she can bear.


Scene 5: Third Age 2949.


Estel and the twins play a game where they are each hunters in the forest, and their prey is each other. Estel usually loses this game, but not always; for he has Celebcarch with him, and her nose is keen. And it's always pleasant to walk softly through the light-dappled beeches and oaks, with little ferns brushing his boots, and the river singing in the distance.

The game ranges further afield now than it used to. They used not to cross the bridge, but now the whole dell is fair game; in fact it is usual to find a sniper lying in wait in the grasses beyond the bridge.

Estel moves quitely beneath the southeastern bluff. He likes to go a little bit up the hidden, zig-zag path that leads out of the valley; there are points along its way where he can get a good view of all the terrain. But this time he has the feeling there is someone on the cliff above him, so he moves swiftly from underhang to underhang as he makes his way to the foot of the path.

He takes the ascent quickly, scanning the pine-stands on the upper heights. Celebcarch is stiff and wary, confirming his suspicion. He notches one of the play-arrows to his bow and keeps close to the rising face of the cliff as he goes.

They take the path to its full distance this time, up where the winds blow cooler and are full of the sharp smell of evergreens. The valley is laid out below in all its golden beauty. He finds the thickest trees and moves from one to the next, pausing often to scan the shadowy woods for any sign of his quarry. His heart is drumming, his stomach tight. There is something wrong--

--and Celebcarch growls, low and feral, a thing he has never heard her do, and then she is a white flash making for a group of pines, from where a dark hulking thing is emerging, its bestial features contorted in a terrible grin, and it raises its spear as Celebcarch leaps for its throat, and Estel shouts "Dad!"--down!--and fires his arrow.

Celebcarch obeys and twists away, and he hits the thing square between its eyes--but of course it was only a blunted arrow, and deals no hurt. The orc makes a grinding gutteral laugh. Estel drops his bow and fumbles for his hunting knife, but the thing is rushing at him with the spear, and his back is to the cliff. And then Celebcarch comes circling from the side, and leaps again; and this time her teeth close deep in its arm. The orc gives a harsh wail of pain and flings her with savage force, so that the slender hound goes flying into the air, and crashes into the trunk of a tall pine, and slides unmoving to the ground.

In that instant Estel lunges foward, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his knife, and plunges it with all his strength through the thick hides that the creature wears and into its heart. Blood wells from the wound and gurgles from its mouth even as it raises its arm and locks its hand about Estel's throat. Only for a moment does he feel the terrible strength of those fingers, before its brutal face goes slack, and it slumps and falls to the ground.

Estel goes to Celebcarch. She is a small pale huddle on the roots of the pine, her graceful neck bent in a wrong way; but she breathes shallowly and rapidly, and her dark liquid eyes fix on his face. "Good girl, good girl," he breathes, gathering her tenderly into his arms.

Elladan and Elrohir were far away, and come running up to him only as he makes it to the bottom of the winding path. They look at each other, stricken, and with a few quick words one dashes away to the cliff, and the other comes back with him to the House.

Elrond is in his chamber when Estel comes bearing Celebcarch in his arms. He asks no questions, but swiftly clears a space upon his table, and they lay the hound upon it. Elrond puts his hands tenderly upon the her flank, which shudders with her labored breathing, and upon her neck where the ugly curve is. Estel strokes her velvety forehead and murmurs words of love and encouragement. Her eyes are dim with pain.

Elrond lifts his head. "Estel," he says gently, "this is a mortal hurt."

He stares back at the elf-lord, uncomprehending. "No," he says flatly. "You can heal her."

"It is not given to me to bind a spirit to its casing, if it seeks the realms beyond. She only lingers here because of the love she bears you, Estel. She waits for your permission to depart."

"Stay," he tells her fiercely. "Stay."

Elrond scowls. "She is in pain, child. You must let her go. It is a hard thing, I know. I know it well. But you cannot be so selfish as to let her suffering stretch on. You must be strong, you must be loving, and you must let her go."

Quick tears drop down his cheeks, burning as they go. "No," he says.

And there is more than disappointment in Elrond's face; there is a deep smouldering resentment, a long-held grudge. "You Men," he breathes, every word clear and distinct. "You take the world for your use, and you wreck it, and you cling to your treasures, even if those you claim to love must suffer thereby. The greed is in you, Estel, the weakness and the greed. I cannot heal her and I cannot heal you." And he removes his hands from Celebcarch's pale hide, and stalks from the room. When the soft whisper of his robes has faded, the only sound is Celebcarch's rough panting, and Estel's small choked sobs.

He stays with her in Elrond's chambers as the day darkens into night. No one comes to disturb them. Celebcarch does not move from where she lies upon the table; her soft eyes stay fixed on Estel, loving, trusting. When full night has fallen she is only a glimmer of brightness amid the shadows of the room.

"Good girl," he chokes out. "Queen of hounds! It's all right. You can go. It's all right. Good girl."

And she moves her head a little, and licks his hand, and then she does not move at all.


Scene 6: Third Age 2950.


When Estel reaches his nineteenth year, Elrond tells him he has finally achieved his full height. He's relieved to hear it. Rivendell is so ancient and unfading that it unnerves him to see rooms he once thought vast shrink about him.

Gilraen has also shrunk with the years, fading back into her chair as if she was carved from it: a statue of some blade-faced queen of ancient times, seated on her graven throne. Everything about her is narrow and wan.

She, and he, are the only things in Rivendell that change.

He understands there is some awful secret in her past, and that it touches him; and for this reason none will speak of it when he is near. He understands that they alone among mortals are allowed the refuge of Imladris, and that outside the world is dark and brutal, and that Gilraen's terrible, ever-present fear is that the elves will force them to leave. But she hates Rivendell.

He loves it. He loves the slow, soft grandeur of the House; loves the scented winds that blow through it, the soft sussurus of leaves that is everywhere. The House is always kind to him. When he needs to be alone it shows him shadowed nooks; when he needs to be challenged it leads him to the fencing-places, or to the great libraries.

And he loves the people of Rivendell, the hosts of Imladris gathered under the stars, and particularly the fair folk who helped to raise him: wise Erestor, and Lindir the sweet singer, Elladan and Elrohir who are his friends, and Glorfindel whose name and deeds are written in the old books. He could not imagine soft-spoken Glorfindel facing down a Balrog with its whip of flame: but then he once made a jest of it, and Glorfindel rebuked him sharply, and for an instant the elf-lord's face was as bright and terrible as the burning sun.

He loves Elrond Half-Elven; his speech is stern but his hands are gentle, and if Elrond seems to demand perfection, Estel finds that much preferable to the tolerant pity of the others.

He loves Gilraen with a desperate and unreasoning love. He wants to fight for her, to save her from the invisible enemy that devours her within. But she will not mingle with the elves, will not open herself to the House, will not be subject to Elrond's healing arts.

He brings her food in the evenings; she refuses most of it. She warns him to be careful and courteous with the elves, and he listens gravely to her advice. She speaks to him in the Westron language, telling him old stories of Arnor that was, and he memorizes them, because that is all he can do for her.

Sometimes when she looks at him her face is filled with mute and endless grief, and he thinks of Celebcarch. But he cannot let her go.