#EstelWouldHaveFoughtTheMOONIfItChallengedHim

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Hey Lindir, what was Aragorn like as a kid?

Ah, Aragorn as a child. Where do I even begin?

You see, one must first understand that young Estel—before he knew himself to be Aragorn, Heir of Isildur, Hope of Men, etcetera—was a scrappy, determined, utterly exhausting little whirlwind of a child. He had this unshakable need to prove himself to everyone. It was as though he had been born with an inherent sense that he had some great destiny ahead of him, even before he knew the truth of his lineage.

I have lost count of the number of times he came barreling through Rivendell, sticks in hand, declaring that he would protect the valley from imaginary threats—which usually meant he was about to duel a very unimpressed Elrondian scholar who had been minding their business.

And then there was the sparring.

It started with Elrohir and Elladan, of course. He would follow them like a particularly stubborn duckling, insisting that they teach him how to fight. And they did. To their credit, they were patient with him (at least in the way older brothers are patient—meaning they also tripped him into the mud when he got too arrogant).

But did Estel stop there? Oh no.

He challenged Glorfindel.

I must emphasize this. A small mortal child with twigs for arms and a stubborn streak the size of a Balrog decided that he was going to best Glorfindel in single combat.

The Golden-haired Menace.

And to his credit, Glorfindel, ever the gracious warrior, did not immediately crush the boy's spirit. He humored him. He let Estel land a hit or two (on the shins, mostly, because that was as high as he could reach). He offered tips. He corrected his stance.

And then, once he deemed the lesson complete, he effortlessly disarmed him, sent his wooden sword flying across the courtyard, and knocked him on his rear.

Estel was delighted.

Because, you see, the loss didn’t discourage him. No, it ignited him. He dusted himself off, picked up his stick, and asked to go again.

That was the day we all realized: this one was going to be trouble.

Ah, but let it not be said that young Estel was only an unstoppable force of scrappy determination and wild ambitions. No, he was also—Maker help me—sweet.

For all his endless energy, for all the times he nearly bowled me over while rushing through the halls in pursuit of some new grand adventure, he was also deeply earnest. He did not only want to learn the sword. He wanted to learn everything. And so, more often than not, he would wander into the archives, eyes bright with curiosity, and ask me to teach him poetry.

“I want to speak Elvish like you do,” he once told me, utterly serious. “Not just to talk, but to make things sound beautiful.”

I must confess, I was taken aback. A mortal child, wishing to master not just our words, but our art? I was intrigued. Amused. A little endeared.

And so, I humored him. I told him we would start with the basics—but if he could find a specific plant I named, then we would move on to something more advanced. It was a joke. A passing remark. I hardly expected him to actually find it.

And yet.

Days later, he returned—with the plant in hand.

He had scoured the valley, dragged Elrohir and Elladan into his search, and he had found it. The very one I had named. And the proud little smile he wore as he presented it to me was so unbearably triumphant that I had no choice but to honor my word.

Thus began my reluctant role as Estel’s poetry instructor. And though he was no natural scholar (his handwriting, to this day, remains a crime against script), he poured himself into every lesson with that same stubborn enthusiasm.

And when he finally managed to compose his first proper verse in Quenya? Oh, the smugness. The sheer, unbearable satisfaction on his face. He recited it to anyone who would listen—Elrond, the twins, Glorfindel, the unfortunate stable hands who had done absolutely nothing to deserve being subjected to the poetic ramblings of a mortal child.

And yet. And yet. I was proud.