Broken? Well, he supposed it was. Pieces lay on his desk: the body, part of a leg, the head in two bits. He had carried it around on his travels since – since he had left Nargothrond really, carefully wrapped in whatever odd bits of cloth he could find. It had been meant as a gift for their young prince, but long before he and his companions could reach the coast they had seen the smoke against the sky, too much to mean anything other than grief. Too late to offer aid, too few in number in any case against Orcs, wolves, the great dragon…

He had still taken the horse to Sirion and later to Balar. It had sat out in the bay with him while the world changed and everyone huddled for days, weeks, in the small fleet of boats, weeping softly in fear and loss. He should have given it to the boy, of course, but it was all he had left of home.

Lindon then, the boy now grown to adult strength, a king to invoke pride and love – too old for toy horses. So he had kept it, and kept his memories. And added to them.

His king was gone now, gone in fire-seared courage, but Erestor still remained. In time Imladris, called Karningul in the common tongue, became his home. And the horse came with him, knew pride of place on its little side table. Until today. Two young elves, rushing in as boys will, filled with news of visiting traders, the excitement carrying them beyond natural caution.

He had said little to the stammered apologies. They had no idea of its history, just that he had owned it as long as they had known him, which was most of their lives. After they left he found he needed to keep rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes over and over while he turned the pieces around, trying to decide if they could be fitted back together again. The wood was so ancient, so fragile…

The figure taking in the scene from the open doorway remained unnoticed. He never heard her light footfalls cross the bright, woven rug and was startled by her presence at his side.

“Thank you for not being angry with my sons, they truly meant no harm.” Celebrían’s voice was soft, the wisdom of her mother in her eyes as she rested her hand on his shoulder and joined him in looking down at the wreck. “Give him to me,” she said gently. “I will ask Gurmaeron to look at him, and you will have him back as new.”

“Not as new, lady,” Erestor said, trying to explain but unsure of his words. Much as he liked her, the lady of the valley was someone in whose company he had spent little time until now.

She shook her head. “No, not as new, I spoke without thinking. I will see you have him back as he was.”

~*~*~*~*~