Songs of the Spirit

Chapter Thirteen

Erestor had watched as Lindir rode through the gates behind Thranduil, appearing much more at ease then when he had last seen the pale elf. It was a heartening sign, or so Erestor hoped. He had wanted to go down and see him then, but was instead called to his study to deal with some problems which had cropped up in his brief absence.

One disadvantage to injuring one’s hand, Erestor mused as he walked down the corridor, particularly the writing hand, was that it made it quite difficult to get work done. He was immensely thankful for elvish healing and that the splint would be removed in several days. He would also have to speak to someone about fixing his wall. He almost considered leaving it as a reminder to himself of the results of unchecked anger, but knew that should he be able to repair his relationship with Lindir, the bard would probably not be appreciative of the gesture.

When he finally reached Lindir’s rooms he noticed the door was slightly ajar. A promising sign that the bard was inside, but he still wasn’t about to walk in without permission. Straightening his shoulders he knocked upon the doorframe and waited. When no answer was forthcoming he tried again, hesitantly pushing the door open a bit farther to glance within. It seemed strange that the door should be left open but with no one inside. Deep shadows filled the room, but no movement could be seen, so he made to leave. As he did so a flicker of light caught his eye and he paused. It was coming from the direction of the bedroom and bathing chambers.

“Lindir?” he called softly, but was met with more silence. Perhaps the elf had no wish to speak with him, and his calm appearance earlier only reflected the conclusion to leave. His heart lurched as his mind considered the worst; that perhaps things were indeed now over between them. No chance to ask for forgiveness or make restitution; no chance to reassure the skittish elf that there was nothing to fear from him.

Shoulders falling slightly he turned to leave once more. Yet he paused before he could shut the door. Maybe he was overreacting. Lindir may not even be in there. He could have easily have left the room in a hurry, accidentally leaving a candle burning and the door ajar. He looked back. There was only one way to tell. And besides, leaving a flame burning unattended could be dangerous.

He walked inside the room, shutting the door behind him. He felt a bit uneasy entering Lindir’s rooms uninvited, something which he would have never given a second thought to that morning. It was such a delicate balance that at one time was so certain, yet now seemed a precarious venture.

As he stepped into the bathing chamber he felt his breath catch in his throat. The flickering light from a single candle caressed the form of an elf in careless repose. Lindir lay sleeping in the sunken tub, head laid reverently against one arm and pale eyes lost in reverie. His long white hair floated around him like a milky cloud in the darkness of the water, with only a single knee raised upwards, offering a tantalizing glimpse of his pale flesh. His lips were slightly parted, and as he breathed a few small tendrils of his hair which fell over his face wavered. He looked so beautiful resting there; so unassuming and relaxed. The firelight was kind to his form, yet Erestor also knew it was the moonlight which truly worshiped the pale elf, and the darker elf suddenly longed to see him bathed in its silvery glow instead.

The elf must have been so exhausted from his own emotional turmoil and the shared ride with Thranduil that he had fallen asleep while bathing. It seemed a shame to wake him, but common sense prevailed. Falling asleep while soaking was not the safest of practices. The swiftness of elven healing was indeed a blessing, but it would not save one if they were already dead from an accidental drowning.

So refraining from his first impulse, which was to move forwards and gently brush aside the quivering locks which caressed the bard’s face before awakening the elf with a kiss, he instead called out softly from the doorway.

Lindir responded slowly at first to the sound of his name, a half-smile playing across his lips as he shifted he head and body slightly. Then as the sensation of the suddenly moving water registered into his unconsciousness he frowned, eyes blinking open in confusion.

He was still in the bath… He recalled returning to his rooms after his ride with Thranduil smelling distinctly of horse. After their discussion they had turned around and headed back towards home, but by a different route than before. A winding path had taken them through more forested canyons and over several twisting streamlets. Neither had spoken, for much had already been said, and both merely sat back and enjoyed the beauty around them. Lindir had also marked the path in his mind as they went thinking that should things be mended between him and Erestor, he should like to visit again.

Lindir’s head jerked upwards and he twisted his head around to find the source of the voice which had seemed to beckon him from repose. His sleepy eyes met Erestor’s amused ones, and his mouth started to automatically stretch into a slow smile before the past day’s events caught up with him, and the smile faltered. Although Thranduil’s words had reassured him, and he did feel worried over the state of Erestor’s hand, he was still a bit nervous about meeting with the elf. He couldn’t help it; long time habits were hard to break.

Erestor watched the smile start then disappear with a sinking heart. “I had been looking for you, and discovered your door had been left ajar. I hope you do not mind me disturbing you…”

“Not at all,” Lindir replied, noting the advisors cool, calm voice with sadness. The warmth he had become so accustomed to over the past several days was subdued, nearly nonexistent. This bothered him more than he let on, for now he knew of Erestor’s masks, and he had no way of knowing what emotions lay buried under this one. “I should have left the bath long before now.” He moved to rise from the tub, noting the wrinkles that had formed along his pale skin from the overexposure to the water. For some reason he couldn’t help but find the slight deformation amusing.

He looked back over at Erestor, who remained in the doorway, eyes focused upon the floor as though struggling not to watch the nude elf rise. Biting his lip as he tried not to smile, Lindir lifted one hand towards the wooden rack that hung beside the door. “Can you hand me a towel?”

That caused Erestor to look up. “Yes, of course.” He reached for the thick white cloth and moved to hand it to the bard as he stood, ribbons of water sluicing down his lithe body. Stunning, he couldn’t help but think, now unable to draw his eyes away from the dripping form. Lindir’s hip-length hair clung to his body much in the same way that Erestor suddenly longed to do. At that moment he knew he would do anything it took to keep the bard in his life, and understood it was a feeling birthed by more than just the physical beauty before him. He was reminded of their first night spent together, and of the truths revealed that pivotal evening. Not to mention all the time spent together afterwards.

“How is your hand?” Lindir asked as he took the towel and began to remove the clinging droplets. He did not try to hide himself from Erestor’s eye; they knew each other too intimately for that despite the circumstances that had arisen, but neither did he flaunt himself before the advisor.

He lifted his bandaged hand. “Elrond says I have broken two fingers. I told him what happened, and he suggested next time I try a pillow instead.” Erestor smiled wryly, and Lindir returned it with a hesitant smile of his own.

“I am sorry-” They both started, and then stopped, staring at each other for a moment before Erestor motioned for Lindir to continue.

He ducked his head slightly, but his eyes remained focused on Erestor’s as he wrapped the towel about his slim waist. “I only wanted to say I was sorry. I overreacted. I do not believe you would ever actually hurt me; but when I saw you hit the wall, I couldn’t help the fear I felt, and I ran on instinct. I am sorry.”

Erestor blinked at the unexpected words. “There is no need for an apology, but I will gladly accept it still if it makes you feel at ease. It is I who should apologize to you for reacting the way I did. I should not have frightened you like that.” He turned his head, finding himself unable to meet Lindir’s eye as his cool mask slipped. “I knew better, and should have kept a better rein on my emotions.”

There was a long pause, and finally Erestor looked up. His eyes met Lindir’s silvery ones, and within them he could see his forgiveness was granted. He hesitantly smiled, and was rewarded by a timid smile in return. Yet there was still a tension that stretched between them which both could feel. Apologies had been made, words had been exchanged, but words were easy. It was the emotions that had to be spoken to; the mind and the heart which had to be convinced that all was truly well again. They were close, yet a hesitancy still remained that only time would cure.

Erestor watched as Lindir walked past him and into the bedroom proper, picking up a towel to use on his wet hair along the way. Their eyes met again as the bard passed by, tentativeness similar to when they first met still evident in face and form. As Erestor turned to follow his eye caught sight of a silver hairbrush lying upon a side table and he picked it up.

Lindir moved to the bed and pulled on the light robe which lay waiting, dropping the wet towel to the floor. Then he sat upon the bed’s edge to dry his hair. He cocked his head slightly as the darker elf approached with the silver brush in hand.

“May I?” Erestor asked, and received a nod in affirmative. So he moved to sit behind the pale elf, setting the brush momentarily to the side before gently grasping the heavy silver locks in his uninjured hand. Slowly he began to remove the tangles created by the wind during the bard’s afternoon excursion. He loved the feel of Lindir’s hair, just as he knew Lindir loved to have his hair played with. It was calming for them both, the only sound that of first his fingers then the brush sweeping through the thick, silky tresses. And if Erestor overtaxed his injured hand, he made no indication.

But the peaceful quietude couldn’t last, and before long, as the brushing slowed, Lindir spoke.

“Why did you hit the wall?”

Erestor blinked at the question, setting the brush on his lap. “I was angry.”

“Yes, I know,” Lindir said, his melodic voice soft. “But why did you hit the wall in your anger?”

He frowned, unable to place the tone of the bard’s voice. “I suppose the anger and frustration built until I had to express it in some fashion. I did not even think about it much at the time.”

“Ah. So you didn’t intentionally hurt yourself?”

Erestor’s eyes widened at that. “How…Did Thranduil tell you…?”

Lindir finally turned so he faced the darker elf, and could read the surprise and fleeting glimpse of shame. “Only that sometimes one will hurt themselves in anger in an attempt to lessen other pain.”

Erestor slowly nodded, understanding what the bard was getting at. “As I said, it wasn’t a conscious choice, but I did on some level want the pain.” He lifted his hand to his chest, his eyes turning inwards momentarily, as though considering something. Lindir waited quietly until Erestor finally seemed to reach some inner conclusion and spoke.

“In my youth, after my father was exiled, I did not know how to express anger. The only way I knew was my father’s way, which was so hurtful… I was so afraid of the emotion that I would hold it all inside, never allowing it expression. But such things can only be contained for so long.” He looked deep into Lindir’s eyes, unconsciously echoing the words spoken to him only a few hours earlier. “So I began to hurt myself instead. I was so afraid of hurting others, and I discovered the physical pain helped cover some of the emotional that I was feeling. I had wounded myself many times before I was discovered, and by Lady Celebrian no less.”

“You had mentioned something before about Celebrain,” Lindir said, recalling something of the sort spoken of during their first conversations. He had wondered about that then, and now he found his interest sparked anew.

“Yes,” Erestor nodded. “You see, I was in a relationship with another elf for a brief time. He was a guard, and although I don’t think I ever really loved him, we were quite close. However, there were problems. He never knew of my past, and I never felt right bringing it up. He also had a temper that was very volatile. He would never physically do anything to me, but emotionally… and when I would bring up the fact that it made me uncomfortable, he only waved my feelings away. Eventually my own fears and anger became too great, for I felt once more trapped and I did not know how to safely leave the situation. I was still fairly new to Imladris, uncertain and reticent, and felt that I had no one to turn to. So I began to take my small knife and cut nicks in my arm, or hold my arm over a burning candle to release the building emotional pressure.

“One day Celebrian found me in the gardens directly after one of my… moments, and discovered what I had done. We spoke for a long time. She helped me get out of that unhealthy relationship, and taught me that there were other ways to deal with anger and fear.” Erestor’s dark eyes turned reminiscent. “She was a very wise elf, much like her mother. It was she who gave me the black stone butterfly you saw in my rooms.”

“The one upon the bookshelf of the butterfly emerging from its cocoon,” Lindir commented. “I noticed that. A beautiful gift, and symbolic too.”

“Yes; she seemed to think it fit. I valued her guidance and willing ear greatly. She became as close a friend as I ever had. When she had to leave…” His voice drifted off and sadness weighed his heart. Her departure had left many bereft, but all knew she had no choice else she slowly sicken and die.

Lindir carefully took Erestor’s injured hand in his own. “Celebrian may be gone, but I am here,” he whispered. “And my ear is always open to you. I would much rather you speak with me, or even become angry and yell at me, than ever hurt yourself again.”

Erestor felt tears prickling his eyes at Lindir’s words for he truly understood how much they meant. He lifted his free hand and placed it together with the bard’s and his injured one. “I promise I will come to you first, and if you are unavailable, then to Elrond before ever trying to hurt myself in anger or fear. I cannot promise I will never raise my voice to you, but I do promise that I will try to never do so. I have come to cherish you too much to hurt you again.”

Lindir smiled, and it was clear and genuine, the expression lightening his eyes and unburdening Erestor’s heart. He leaned forward to brush his lips across the Erestor’s; a fleeting kiss, but so full of affection that it could have been the most passionate of embraces and still have held the same meaning. He then pulled back, his eyes roving over the darker elf’s face as though searching out each minute detail of expression; the dark, shining eyes watching his with heartfelt affection, the slightly parted lips lifted in a small hopeful smile, the relaxed set to his tapered jaw… he couldn’t help but raise his hand to pass over the features that appeared so beautiful to his eyes. All his former fears indeed seemed foolish when looked back upon now.

On impulse Lindir shifted so that he lay cradled within Erestor’s arms, needing to feel the comforting presence of his love surrounding him. He sighed happily as Erestor leaned back against the headboard, arms locked around the bard’s chest. It was as though he were back under the old oak, letting all his fears and troubles pass away. He knew that things were far from over, that there were still discussions to be had and the problem of Erestor’s father to deal with, but for the moment he could allow himself to forget.

Finally though, Lindir looked down at Erestor’s injured hand, cautiously tracing his own fingers along the bandaging. “You must have gone to the healing wing to get this fixed,” he commented, his voice sounding nonchalant.

“Yes,” Erestor replied, watching the long fingers move about his own.

“Did you see your father there?”

Erestor shook his head. “He had been moved elsewhere.”

“Ah.” Lindir said nothing more, but his silence asked a question of its own.

“I spoke with another elf while there,” the darker elf finally said after the silence had stretched on for a time. “It turns out that one of the others injured was a friend of Caerdil.”

Lindir tilted his head up to look at his companion, at the shadowy eyes which now held traces of confusion and anger. “What did he say?”

“He recognized me as being Caerdil’s son. He said Caerdil had known where I was for years working for Lord Elrond.”

Lindir moved his hand upwards to gently stroke Erestor’s arm in a comforting manner. His heart went out to the elf, for if the situation had been reversed, he knew he would be in a state of utter panic. As it was he could feel the tenseness return to his lover’s body, and he bit at his lower lip, waiting for Erestor to continue.

“He gave me reasons for my father’s actions all those years ago. According to Duralmir, he beat my mother and I because he was unsatisfied with his marriage; that he married my mother to hide his love for males, and felt trapped in his bond. In his demand for perfection, in his fear, anger, and frustration at himself, he became violent. Elrond explained it, but I still don’t see the justification.”

Lindir’s hand stilled, his brow furrowing. “Did you just hear what you said?”

“What?”

“You said he felt trapped, and thus was driven to hurt your mother and you in his anger and frustration. Did you not tell me earlier that you felt the same way with that guard, yet instead of turning the anger out, as your father did, you turned it inwards, upon yourself? Certainly there is no justification, but the reasoning is there.” He spoke with hesitation; unsure of whether it was wise to bring up similarities between father and son, but still felt that it should be said. It seemed obvious to him, although he knew that an outsider often saw things with more clarity then one deeply immersed in the problem.

There was a long moment of silence and stillness where Lindir held his breath, waiting for his companion to react to his words. He could feel Erestor’s body tense further with emotion, but didn’t dare turn his head and look.

Erestor had immediately opened his mouth to deny the words, but had stopped as full realization hit. While he would much rather deny that fact that he had any similarities with the hated elf, Lindir’s words held a ring of truth, and he was intelligent enough to realize it. The initial motivation may have been different, and the outcomes taken in different directions, the emotions and the destructive ends were the same.

The thought send a bolt of uncertainty and anger straight to his heart. He did not wish to feel any sort of empathy for that monster, yet he could feel its tiny threads creeping into his mind despite his resistance. And following that: if he could be healed through kindness of his own self-destructive affliction, then why not Caerdil? It made him feel sick. The monster of his childhood was slowly becoming a thinking, feeling elf that could be understood and empathized with.

Erestor closed his eyes tightly. “And with this understanding, am I expected to forgive him?” he murmured.

“No.” Lindir pulled out of Erestor’s arms, turning to face him fully. “Of course not.” He lifted his hands to either side of Erestor’s face, watching as the dark eyes lifted to look upon him once more. “Such forgiveness is your choice, and your choice alone. I would never force you…”

“I know.” Erestor lifted his hands to place them atop the bards’. Then he turned his head to place a soft kiss in the palm of one of Lindir’s immobile hands. “You have given me much to think on, my wise bard.”

Lindir blushed at that, but was happy that Erestor didn’t seem angry at his comments.

“Perhaps,” Erestor continued, his eyes suddenly dancing, “in your wisdom you can give me something else to think on? Something of a more pleasant nature?”

Lindir’s eyes widened briefly as he caught the implication, and then narrowed as a sly smile passed across his lips. “There IS a new composition I would like to practice; a piece that requires two to perform…”

Review Responses:

Thalionwen: Oh! Well, You’re welcome and thank you! That must be very interesting work!
Sorry again that’s it’s taken so long to get this chapter out… Another difficult one. I hope you enjoy!