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Aearlinn	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 8921 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Aearlinn - Mellyn ar Melithryn

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Just Prior to Dawn Some Time Later ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Erestor skulked down the servants' stairs, creeping from shadow to shadow, sneaking amid the spectral gloom that lurked in the corners of the narrow, sparsely lit steps at the back of the Last Homely House in the pre-dawn day. He prowled, unshod, through hushed, deserted corridors, keenly aware of the faint creak and shift of tiny grains of dust and grit beneath his feet, acutely cognisant of the percussive thumping of his jittery heart, exceedingly alert to the sound of his own lungs drawing and releasing each breath. If he could hear these things, he reasoned, others could do the same. At an intersection with an adjoining hall he paused and peered cautiously around the corner, darting across the opening quickly once certain the way was clear.

He strained his senses to their limits, seeking any sign that his movement was being monitored by the visiting royal Wood Elves or their ever-vigilant elite Guard. With every second that elapsed into history, he expected Galion or Faron or Fennas to pop out of some doorway or around the next corner, demanding to know where he was slinking off to. He had the impression they thought he meant to surreptitiously leave Imladris. A preposterous notion, though admittedly he had considered it, for he would not desert his kinsman at such a difficult juncture. Step by step he advanced, hopes lifting as he crept ever closer to the kitchen and its outer door to freedom. If he could escape the house, he could relax and enjoy his morning constitutional amid the all but deserted grounds, for he had discovered, or rather Legolas had assured him, that King Thranduil loved the twilight and not the dawn. Even if Erestor should encounter any sylvan archers, they would not interfere with his activities. Several times he had spotted them trailing him as he went about his daily duties, taking note of his whereabouts and movements but nothing more.

Finally he reached the lengthy gallery spanning the backside of the Hall of Fire. At the end of this expanse was the kitchen. Erestor pressed on.

Manwë's Wind, I would swear this bloody hallway gets longer every time I traverse it. The seneschal griped, eyeing with suspicion the interminable passage that linked the pantry and scullery to the chef's domain, briefly contemplating whether it might be possible for sylvan magic to achieve just such an end so to confound him.

Yet Elrond's erstwhile cousin was nothing if not tenacious, and while he deeply dreaded any personal confrontation with any of Legolas' kin, outside of the safety of public gatherings and parties and meals where he was reasonably certain he would not be subjected to any violence, he was determined not to become a prisoner in his own home. Doggedly, or perhaps mousedly, Erestor stole across the last remaining metre of polished oak flooring to the vestibule of the generously stocked larders of the vast estate, pausing there to draw a deeper breath and exhale some of the pent anxiety.

"Aur Maur, Hîren." Cheerfully sardonic, this greeting rang out in the still and empty air, and even though the steward recognised that the voice generating it belonged to Meribel, the cook, he startled anyway. His reaction prompted a snickery giggle as Elrond's chef peered at him from around the door jam. "It is perfectly safe; you and I are the only Elves here."

"Minuial Galu an le," replied Erestor, his expression stern as he sauntered into the kitchen. "Of course it is safe; we live in the heart of the most protected of all the elven realms. Nevertheless, are we truly the only souls about?" He glanced with furtive nonchalance past Meribel's shoulders into the depths of the tremendous room.

"We are," she replied. "Do you want to break your fast now or wait until you return from your walk and dine with the household?"

"Do Elrond and Legolas plan to attend?"

"Faelon thinks not and bade me prepare a tray, yet he hasn't spoken to Elrond as yet."

"Then I will stop and take the meal with Glorfindel on my way back." Erestor made for the back door, his step lighter and more confident than before, snatching up a couple of flaky pastries on his way.

"Then would you mind carrying a basket out to Alphdal? He is busy with some sort of special project and if I know him, as I surely do, he will forego every meal until it's completed to his satisfaction." The cook held out the wicker container with a congenial smile.

Erestor peered at her in dumbfounded aggravation and stupefied affront. He was not about to go roaming through the gardens acting as a personal waiter to one of the groundskeepers, even if he was the Head Groundskeeper and a bona fide hero of the Feanorion Wars. He drew himself up stiffly; this is what came of giving in to his terror of the woodland King: he'd lost the respect of the staff. "I am certain I must have misheard you, Meribel." He poured every iota of caustic disdain his voice could produce into the words. "Surely you are not suggesting that Lord Elrond's closest kinsman and Chief Advisor traipse about the gardens in search of Alphdal the gardener?"

"No?" The cook's downcast expression mirrored the surprised disappointment in her tone.

"No." The steward's subdued sneer projected the haughty disgust warranted by this normally worthy servant's blatant insubordination.

"Ah." She heaved a sepulchre sigh and gave a circumspect shake of her head to underscore the undeniable aura of pessimism contained in the single syllable. She set the basket on the long wooden table with care and resumed her preparations of the morning repast, every aspect of face and form clearly communicating her belief that Lord Erestor's refusal was a mistake of dire proportions.

Erestor scowled. "What?"

"Why I'm sure I don't know, Hîren," said the cook with exactly the correct emphasis on courteous deference.

"Yes you do. What is so important about Alphdal and this secret project of his?" Erestor loomed over her with all the weight of his noble lineage and customary arrogance.

"Well, I just chanced to hear, accidentally you understand," Meribel relented quite readily to his authority, leaning closer and lowering her voice, though they were quite alone.

"Of course, of course. Go on."

"The Royal Couple brought over seeds and sprouts and saplings from their woods, so to let Legolas grow a small replica of the world he's left behind. Planting all these specimens is a daunting task and yet none may aid Alphdal, for it is to be a surprise for Our Sylvan. Legolas would notice if many Elves began suddenly working with the gardener, so Alphdal has decided to do it all himself."

The seneschal stared at her, uncertain what this had to do with him, as surely it must for there was no mistaking the prophesy of doom contained in her abbreviated 'Ah'. She stared back silently, a benignly inscrutable smile adorning her features. "Meribel, why is it important for me to know this?" he demanded.

"Lord Erestor, it would surely please Legolas if you were to assist Alphdal. I can just imagine the joy on his face when he learns of the gift! Of course, if he is grateful and happy then his parents will be elated. Naturally, they would be most eager to express their gratitude to everyone who helped bring Gladgalen Dithen to life."

"Ah." Erestor's brows shot up; this was an unexpected turn of fortune. He gazed at the smiling chef with a mixture of appreciation and suspicion; there was no reason for Meribel to do him a good turn, and offering this means of earning the Royal Family's approbation definitely qualified as a favour of the highest order. Not that it mattered; whatever she wanted he would have to grant, for now he knew about the gift and to refuse to help must surely be viewed as another insult to Legolas, should his advanced knowledge ever come to light. His eyes narrowed; the cook had him well and truly cornered. In silence they struck their bargain and Erestor snatched the loaded basket from the table with a grim snarl. "The estate is huge; where exactly is the gardener."

"In the foothills near the northern bend," she answered sweetly, patting his arm. "I've included a bite or two for you also."

Now Erestor was beyond furious; she was sending him perilously close to the Wood Elves' secret enclave amid the wilds of Imladris where the cliff walls reared up steeply towards Hithaeglir. It was a long trek out and while he did not mind being gone from the estate most of the day, thus avoiding Thranduil, he was now in danger of encountering the rest of Legolas' extended family. I'll be captured and held prisoner. They have probably already unearthed some dismal pit of a gaol or discovered some foetid cave, there to keep me until Thranduil deigns to pass judgement. That fear he kept to himself.

"So be it. When I return, we shall have a conversation, you and I, about your future standing within the House of Eärendil."

"As you say, Hîren," she lilted, never losing her smile.

In fact it grew brighter and Erestor wondered exactly what she hoped to achieve. Peering right and left as he leaned through the open door, he stepped outside and strode with a sense of urgency through the kitchen gardens, hastening lest he be seen from one of the many balconies. Swiftly he angled through the barracks and training fields, nodding to the assembling warriors, traversing the grounds so that he would reach the untamed heights through the lush, rolling meadows where Elrond's horses were pastured. At least here in the wide open plains he would encounter no sylvan archers or Sindarin Elders and the seneschal relaxed, slowing his pace. He gazed about in appreciative wonder for he hadn't visited this section of the estate in quite a while, not being an avid advocate of the selective breeding of equine livestock, as his cousin was.

The bucolic setting was peaceful and soothing. The sky was brightening and the birds were beginning to tune their voices for the morning chorus; a soft breeze fanned the distant trees and the tips of the green blades billowing about his knees. A walk was a walk and he was just as pleased to stretch his legs through the rolling sea of emerald grass as among the formal beds and borders. Erestor inhaled a deep lungful of the sweetly scented air and cast his gaze upon the scene, noting the absence of horses and wondering where they might be. It wasn't a concern of great moment, though, and he dug into the little basket, drawing forth a ripe apple to crunch along the way.

"Lord Erestor!"

The shouted call made him startle again and he dropped the apple. Erestor chided himself for being so jumpy; it was inevitable that he would be intercepted before he could get beyond the paddocks. There was always something going on that simply could not be resolved without his intervention. Sometimes Erestor felt like ignoring all the internal intrigues and complaints and problems brewing in Elrond's household. He liked being the Chief Advisor to his cousin, yet there was no denying that most of the situations were petty and trifling, a waste of his time and talent. Yet, if the staff could not come to him with their concerns they would hunt down Elrond and place these burdens at his feet instead. With Legolas' health at risk, the Lord of Imladris did not need to be bothered with these aggravating details. Now, here came the stable-master striding purposefully over the fields, emerging from a little dip in the land like a rabbit popping out of its burrow. The elf did not look happy and did not wait for an invitation to begin his story.

"Lord Erestor, this simply cannot go on. I have spoken to you about it before and nothing has changed."

"Maur-aur to you as well, Forgam," offered Erestor drily. "Remind me of your unbearable dilemma." He paused for the ellon to reach his side and blew a disgruntled sigh through his nostrils. The sun had not yet arisen and difficulties were already sprouting.

"No need to be prickly, Hîren. I'll gladly wish you a good morning if you can convince me that it is one," complained the Head Groom. "He's taken the entire herd out of the east paddock again and Eru alone knows where they are. It took days to find them last time and the mares refused to follow me back."

"Ah yes, now I recall the incident. That was years ago when he was still learning our ways. If your charges are missing, he is not the culprit this time," corrected Erestor, fighting to subdue a smile as the memory played out. Four years after his arrival, his wounds healed but his heart burdened, Legolas had befriended the beasts of the estate far more readily than the Elves. He led Elrond's horses on a little excursion to a spot where there was a particularly delectable variety of clover in great abundance. Once the herd knew the way, they'd happily taken themselves there for an extended jaunt, vanishing like mist in the sun from their usual haunts. The Wood Elf could not grasp why Forgam became so incensed and eventually, at Elrond's request, had to go and ask the horses nicely to return to their normal confines.

"Of course it was him; who else would be able to speak to the horses?" argued Forgam. "He's no business interfering with my authority like this. The care and breeding of Lord Elrond's herds are my responsibility and That Sylvan warlock refuses to acknowledge it. He shouldn't be anywhere near them. He's turned all the mares wild and wilful and they refuse to heed my words now. I'll not stand for it, I tell you! He's undermined me to the point that my grooms are getting cheeky and making jokes at my expense. He's…"

"Enough," Erestor interrupted, his voice cold and his demeanour transformed from amused forbearance to rigid remonstrance. "Have you been drinking down at the Tavern on the East Road?" he demanded. "Legolas has been confined to his rooms by the sylvan healer. It is quite impossible for him to have coerced the mares into desertion."

The Stable Master's eyes grew large and he paused, carefully evaluating the stern Elf before him. It was unwise to go against Erestor, even in trivial matters, and the hapless horse-tender realised a few seconds too late that this was not a trifling issue. "I have not left the grounds, Hîren," he said with a dip of his head. "I didn't know The Sylvan was ill. I naturally assumed he…"

"He has a name," barked the seneschal, irked to hear this lowly servant slighting Legolas and being so forward about it.

"Hîren?"

"Legolas. That is his name, Forgam. You may wish to address him as Legolas Thranduilion, Ernil Edwen o Gladgalen. You are aware that Elrond's mate is royalty and shares, though distantly, in the exalted bloodlines that gave rise to my forebears as well?"

"I…"

"Furthermore, Legolas is neither a warlock, a sorcerer, a wizard, nor an enchanter of any kind. He does not work spells; Mithrandir confirmed this over a month ago and that evaluation was supported by none other than Lord Celeborn the Wise. I must ask again; have you been over indulging in home-brew?"

"Nay, Hîren! I swear to you, that weakness has been corrected. I no longer even partake of wine except on special occasions." This time Forgam bowed, distinctly aware that he had misjudged the seneschal. He'd believed Erestor's public show of support for the marriage was only that, a means to salvage his position of favour within Elrond's household.

"Then your unjust accusations and demeaning slurs are even more deplorable, for drunkenness might at least explain your poor judgement if not your lack of respect," continued Erestor, glaring in a most unpleasant manner at the now squirming Horse Master.

"Nay, Hîren, nay! I meant no disrespect to Lord Elrond or to Tha…to Legolas."

"That is clearly a lie," said Erestor in calm contempt. "If there is one thing that disgusts me it is someone who seeks to cover over errors by denying fault. You and I both know that you meant exactly what you said, both in word and in tone. Indeed, I have used the same expressions, or worse, when discussing Legolas and his place in Imladris. Pretending I never meant to cause harm does not make the harm done less dire or remove the just blame my past actions warrant. If you want to remedy your mistake and diminish the consequences to yourself, Forgam, I suggest you…"

Erestor stopped mid-sentence, suddenly hearing exactly what he was saying. How could he stand here chastising the Head Groom for seeking to escape blame when he himself was doing all in his power to avoid the vengeance of Legolas' kin? His cheeks coloured up and he compressed his lips, disappointed in himself for such cowardice. He eyed the confused and worried servant before him, comprehending full well that Forgam would never have adopted such a hostile attitude toward Legolas but for his deliberate and continuous efforts to discredit the sylvan archer. In that instant, Erestor realised what he had to do; his example had encouraged the staff to belittle Legolas and his example must now teach them how to correct their behaviour and admit their guilt.

"Forgam, this must stop here and now. I will not tolerate any more disdainful conduct or speech around or regarding Legolas. In as much as I condoned it in the past I now denounce it utterly. I accept responsibility for permitting this deplorable atmosphere of enmity to flourish and will do my best to make amends to Legolas and his family. That is what we must all do."

"Aye, Hîren, henceforth I will remember that he is of exalted lineage and pay him the respect that is his due." Forgam bowed again.

"Nay," Erestor shook his head, remembering Legolas' despair when Elrond admitted he would have been treated better had his station been known. "We are wrong in that also. Whether he is a prince or a humble warrior, Legolas is an Elf and our kin-in-kind. From the beginning, he should have been afforded every courtesy we extend to our friends and neighbours here. Think how it would be had one of our own endured at the hands of strangers the ordeal Legolas has weathered? I would be so angry I would consider imprisonment too kind for the perpetrators of such abuses."
For a moment neither Elf spoke but their eyes met and in them each saw that the same name had come to mind: Arwen. Had she been subjected to like ill-use on the part of the folk of the Woodland Realm, there would be no bounds to the outrage and resentment every citizen in the Valley would experience on her behalf. In light of this understanding, the restraint displayed by Legolas' people proved staggering and their withdrawal from Imladrian society to the wilds a valid and justifiable reaction. Why would they wish to associate with such cold-hearted Elves?

"Nienna's tears, Hîren. What is to be done?" asked Forgam. He grimaced and winced all at the same time, twisting his hands together and dropping his eyes to the ground. "And him with child, too. Ai!"

"We must pour equal effort into righting this wrong as we contributed in its creation. Hear me, I have learned of a secret gift on which Alphdal is working. I want you to see to it his efforts are supported without Legolas learning of it. Then there is the question of what he will need for the child; we can start gathering these together and the whole of the valley's population must contribute."

"Aye, and for himself, too. Legolas will require new garments as time progresses, more comfortable furniture, softer shoes," Forgam looked up with a smile.

"True, but we mustn't forget he's a Wood Elf. What he may want is not necessarily the same as what one of our own would desire. I will seek to learn these things and you shall become my intermediary to the rest of the citizenry," Erestor was smiling too, feeling better about himself now that he had accepted his guilt and determined a means for alleviating at least in a small way some of the pain he'd caused.

"That is a commendable goal," said a voice practically right at his ear and this time both Erestor and Forgam jumped in surprise.

"Lindir!" cried the seneschal, for it was the lissome singer, harp slung upon his back and the new sun dancing in his golden hair. He was dressed in sylvan style, but not the provocatively brief attire he'd worn for Ened Ethuil. His clothes were similar to that which Legolas favoured, meant for easy movement through the close-knit branches and brambles of the forest. It was a far cry from the elegant and sumptuous fabrics and fashions he generally donned, but the effect was pleasing to Erestor's eyes nonetheless. "From where did you spring?" Erestor stared behind the minstrel but saw only the broad expanse of undulating grass flowing across the hills right to the bounds of the stables and barns. There was absolutely no cover of any kind through which the sylvan Elf could have crept.

Lindir's melodic laughter rang out. "I did not appear here magically, if that's what you're implying. I've been following you the whole time, meldir, right from the kitchen door."

Erestor stared incredulously, torn between happiness to hear Lindir refer to him with such a sweet endearment, and in such kindly tone, and disbelief that he would have been able to remain undetected for the entire trip across the meadows.

"We sylvans do not require trees to disappear. If we do not want to be seen, we will never be noticed," the minstrel said proudly. In truth, he was wearing garments made of the singular cloth the Galadhrim were so adept in crafting. He blended entirely into the surroundings, whatever they might be, and utilising the newly acquired stalking skills Galion had taught him took care of the rest.

"Most impressive," said Erestor, smiling to encourage the pleasant mood. He shoved the basket into Forgam's arms and shooed him off to locate the Head Gardener and in mere moments was alone with the fair singer. "Had you plans for the day, other than startling me silly?"

"I was on the way to the settlement when I saw you leave the house," replied Lindir. "I've been meaning to speak with you, Erestor, but to be honest have dreaded doing so."

The seneschal's brows rose in surprise. "How so? I assure you there is no cause for such worry. I, too, have hoped to repair the friendship my callous words damaged."

"I am pleased to hear you say it," Lindir's face indeed expressed relief. "I should not have reacted to your words so severely, Erestor, and it is my hope that you will forgive me."

"Of course!" Erestor was stunned, not having expected any concession from the minstrel. "Nay, I mean that I am the one who should beg pardon of you," he amended quickly.

Lindir laughed and pulled his harp into his hands, tuning it as was his wont when things were on his mind. "You have it as long as I have yours," he said.

"Done!" agreed Erestor with genuine enthusiasm. He hadn't dreamed it would be this easy to bridge the rift between them and his smile was jubilant. Then he recalled a pertinent point and lost some of his ebullience. "What of Galion?"

"What of him?" Lindir asked sharply. "Are we to have this same disagreement? I am not yours to ask such things of me. With whom I spend my time is my own…"

"Saes! Daro, Lindir, saes!" interrupted Erestor. "That is not how I meant it. I just hoped you would say he means nothing to you. If you wish to be with him, I cannot stop you, but I stand by what I said on the dawn after Ened Ethuil, though the sentiments were expressed in such derogatory terms it's no wonder you can't recall anything else. I was trying to tell you that I hoped we could enjoy many such nights together, for time uncounted."

Lindir stared at him a long time then, trying to read the Noldorin Lord. Erestor was usually so flippant and glib, so sarcastic and snide that it was difficult to accept this unaffected and candid speech. "Time uncounted?"

"Aye," Erestor cleared his throat nervously. "I believe we make a good match, Lindir, and I intend to prove it to you. With your permission, of course." He offered a hesitant smile.

"You wish to court me?"

"Oh is that the word for it?" the seneschal offered this cheeky reply with a wide eyed grin but quickly grew serious again as the singer rolled his eyes and made to turn away. A light touch upon the arm stopped him instantly, Erestor was pleased to discover. "I want to understand you better, Lindir. I want you to understand me better. I want us to share our thoughts and be happy together. I want to drift into Ôlpathu with you at my side. If that is courting then so be it."

The minstrel was speechless for a moment or two, for this was beyond anything he'd hoped. To think the cynical steward is a poet at heart! "In that case, Galion means nothing to me," smiled Lindir.

"Praise Varda!" exclaimed Erestor. "When I saw you go off with him I was just sick with jealousy. I could not bear the thought of you two together as we were together."

"It never went that far," admitted Lindir, blushing both from pleasure and embarrassment. "I must tell you honestly that I was deliberately trying to incite exactly that response and teased the poor steward from Greenwood most shamelessly. He may forgive me someday, but it could be a rather long while before that dawn arrives."

Erestor gaped. "Lindir!"

"Aye, that was rather bad of me," he shrugged. "Yet there is more I would to say to you. I want to explain why the suggestion you made that night met such a violent response."

"Nay, you owe me no explanations, meldir, truly," insisted Erestor, eager to relegate the unpleasant incident to oblivion.

"You must let me speak; it's important," countered Lindir and waited until the seneschal gave a swift nod of agreement. He took a deep breath. "I have been trying to put the past behind me, as you know, and that night I described the reality of my sad life in Beleriand. All the memories were fresh and the wounds raw. The truth is you remind me keenly of Maglor." There, I said it. The singer heaved a deep sigh and studied the seneschal's concerned face. "That is the first time I have spoken his name in a very long time." A faint and rueful smile adorned his features as he waited for Erestor's reply.

"Ai! Mellonen, I didn't realise," Erestor reached out and settled the comforting weight of his hands on Lindir's shoulders, squeezing lightly as he observed the unexpected vulnerability collecting in the singer's pale green eyes. "I am neither musician nor crooner, after all, and the resemblance is superficial."

"Actually, you have a fine voice, when you choose to use it, which is too seldom." Lindir grew much pinker as he spoke. "And it is your demeanour that reminds me of him. You are bold and intelligent, arrogant and yet wise, aloof but passionate, learned and a powerful warrior. These are traits that defined Maglor also."

Erestor, who had always considered himself more like Maedhros in personality, was uncertain how to respond. There was no doubt that he certainly looked more like Maglor, with his dark hair and eyes, than like Feanor's eldest, who had such vibrant red tresses and emerald irises. The seneschal was convinced the physical similarities must have subconsciously attracted Lindir to him and the rest was a bonus. He sighed, not sure if he was flattered or insulted, yet speak he must for Lindir was waiting. The seneschal realised full well that a wrong choice of words now might ruin his chances with the minstrel forever. And I want that chance, very much. Well, he'd succeeded in befriending Legolas and he'd certainly insulted the Wood Elf in far more devastating terms.

"Lindir, you honour me for those are worthy attributes of which anyone would be proud," he started, trying desperately to recall how he'd corrected things with Legolas. Ah yes, I used a simple, direct expression of remorse and a vow to serve him as I would Elrond and his children. Yet Lindir was not Legolas, for all they were similar in physical form, down to their flaxen manes, sharing a deceptive aspect of fragility which cloaked a ferocity and strength few would credit. Who would guess that this slender, willowy ellon, so youthful in appearance, so vulnerable in mien, was a First Age Elder who'd survived the Feanorion Wars by inflicting savage brutality upon other Elves? This comparison triggered a startling realisation within the seneschal's mind and he gripped the singer tightly. "Ai Elbereth," he mumbled.

"What is it?" demanded Lindir, confused and mildly alarmed.

"Lindir, we are guilty of the same thing," Erestor stuttered, giving a little shake to the rigid frame within his hands. "I have been lusting after Legolas since he arrived in Imladris and only now do I understand it." The seneschal grinned and laughed, though it was clear Lindir was not enlightened. "He looks like you!"

Lindir's brows crowded together in a dismayed frown. If Erestor had any romantic thoughts about him he'd hidden them well over the passing centuries. Then again, he'd never considered the advisor as a potential mate either. Still, he was not inclined to accept the role of substitute, though he had as much as admitted this was Erestor's part to play. "Perhaps it isn't me you desire but Legolas. It is just as likely that I remind you of him. In all the time we've known one another, you've never expressed interest in me, Erestor."

"Nay, it isn't him," Erestor insisted. "I fixated on him in your absence because it seemed possible I might be able to have him. You, on the other hand, have been unapproachable up to now. And lest we forget, you haven't indicated any attraction to me. Yet I believe it must have been there all along, buried in both our souls, repressed by the fear of breaking with convention."

"What do you mean?"

"How could I admit an interest in you? You're so much older. You've been my mentor and my teacher, my surrogate father and my brother, all at once. How could I allow myself to imagine you in any other way? And you were heart-broken; hardly able to get through life much less acknowledge that your heart could find love elsewhere. Besides, you are too honourable to ever engage in a romantic liaison with a minor. I was but an elfling when we met, subject to your authority more than Círdan's or Maedhros'."

"I see," Lindir nodded, for it was indeed forbidden for a guardian and mentor to exploit such power over their charges. He smiled hopefully. "I am not your teacher or your minder anymore, Erestor."

"No you are not," Erestor was still smiling as his eyes fastened on the minstrel's ruby lips, yet as much as he wished to taste them he held back. He would not seek to lay claim to Lindir; thus had he erred before and thus did Elrond continue to rile his sylvan mate. Instead, he would court Lindir carefully, slowly, deliberately; working to gain his trust and win his wounded heart. He lifted his gaze to the singer's. "I would very much like to kiss you now," he said, unable to conceal the thrill saying it gave to his loins.

Lindir didn't trouble to answer with words, moving into Erestor's arms easily, slipping his around the broad shoulders, inviting the embrace with a coy tilt of his head and a flutter of golden lashes. The press of the seneschal's mouth against his was light and tentative at first, just a swift caress of lips, but then they returned with greater fervour and the singer parted his, welcoming the warm invasion of mobile flesh. They shared a lingering kiss that was filled with both promise and restraint, parting to exhale contented breaths and meet shining eyes bright with hope. They remained close, arms in languid lambency at hips and waists, and discussed the next step.

"I wish we could spend the morning together," Lindir began, "but I've promised to meet with Thranduil's minstrels and help plan for the wedding feast."

"The King expects to participate in organising Elrond's wedding?" Erestor was not enthusiastic about this idea.

"Aye, for it is his son's wedding, too, is it not?"

"True," Erestor nodded contritely but his joyous mood dissolved instantly. He would be put in charge of developing the ceremony for the Imladrian side and that meant he would be forced to consult with the King. "I don't suppose you could find a way to convince King Thranduil not to injure me too severely?"

"Nay, you have misjudged him and Legolas, both," retorted Lindir. "Legolas has already had a long talk with his parents and explained that all is forgiven between the two of you. Besides, sylvans do not resort to violence to solve such disputes, Erestor."

"I must accept your word on the subject," groaned Erestor. "What will happen? Has Legolas mentioned anything at all?"

"You forget, melethen, that the young prince is not pleased with me one bit. He considers my part in revealing his status a real betrayal. I have a feeling that were I a citizen of Greenwood and a subject of King Thranduil, I would be in just as much trouble as you."

"Then you concede that I am in trouble."

"Yes, but you will not be injured physically. Beyond that, I've no idea what Thranduil plans. The best advice I can give is to throw yourself on the mercy of Queen Rhûn'waew, for she is kin to you, no matter how distant the connection. If anyone can influence the King's decisions, it is she."

"I am not encouraged," mourned Erestor, at last stepping out of the singers arms, for the harp was pressing against his stomach uncomfortably.

"Do not be so pessimistic," urged Lindir. "Your plan to help Alphdal with the garden gift and your desire to gather together the things Legolas will need to see him through the pregnancy are inspired ideas. Involving all of Imladris demonstrates your intent to undo the harm you've done to her son."

"I'm glad you think so," said Erestor. "If you can assist me in learning what sort of items he might want, that would be a tremendous favour, melethen."

"It will be my pleasure," Lindir leaned in for a quick kiss, "both to gather this information and to share it with you later this evening. I'll expect you around Ithil Eriad." With that tantalising command he gathered his harp into the crook of his arm and sauntered away through the grass, strumming a new tune he was working out. Just before the dip in the land hid him from view, he glanced back with a brilliant smile for his new beaux.

Erestor stood there staring into the empty air, a silly grin on his face, until he could no longer hear the soft chords of the harp. Then he turned with a sigh and continued on his tour of the grounds.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By mid-morning Erestor had completed his stroll through the gardens and was back at his favourite spot: the ridge overlooking the valley just above Lanthir Fân. He had to admit his thoughts were not focused after his encounter with Lindir. Normally, his morning walk enabled him to prioritise the day, mentally listing and evaluating all the tasks he needed to accomplish during the sunlit hours, internally determining what could be put off, what should have been done yesterday, and to whom these tasks needed to be delegated to see that everything proceeded as he deemed appropriate. He could not run the entire realm by himself, after all, nor oversee the smooth operation of the Last Homely House unaided. Save for matters of security, which Glorfindel handled, just about everything else fell under the Chief Advisor's authority.

Especially now, with Elrond requiring more time away from his duties to tend to Legolas.

Yet no matter how diligently he tried to concentrate on these copious responsibilities, the seneschal found his mind wandering into contemplation of the many qualities possessed by the fair minstrel that made him so desirable as a potential mate. The colour of the grass reminded him of Lindir's eyes; the song of the birds mimicked the singer's incomparable voice; the touch of the breeze recalled to mind sweet shivers when Lindir whispered sinful suggestions in his ear. If Erestor tried to plan the night's meal he invariably found himself imagining what it would be like to offer delectable bites of confections to those supple, red lips. If he attempted to reason out the possible arguments to be posed by the Weaver's Guild regarding the use of Elven hair in creating cloth, a hotly contested issue of late, he wound up visualising the long, wheat coloured strands of the minstrel's mane, pondering the delight of its scent, its texture, its very weight as it lay strewn across his naked skin.

"Ai Valar," Erestor groaned out Legolas' favourite blasphemy and shook himself. This would never do. He could not be alone with Lindir for hours and must find a way to counter this erotic day dreaming. He propped his elbows on his knees and clutched at his head, perhaps hoping to get a grip on his run amok thoughts.

"You seem distressed, Lord Erestor," said an imperious voice right beside him.

For the fourth time that day Elrond's cousin jumped. There, seated on the rocky promontory next to him, was Thranduil, King of the Wood Elves. Erestor was completely dumbstruck as one thought after another raced through his brain. Should he stand up so he could bow low? Where in bloody Mordor had he come from? Should he offer his apology first or give the formal greeting. Seconds rushed by. If he leapt from the ledge, would the inevitable broken legs satisfy the angry Ada's desire for revenge? What finally came out of his mouth was scarcely intelligible.

"Lord…er… King Thranduil, I'm surprised. No no, I mean you're most welcome here and Legolas is lovely. Nay! He has lovely manners, yes, a credit to his parents and people." Erestor could feel sweat breaking out under his arms and his fine robes were suddenly quite itchy and uncomfortable.

"Thank you, Lord Erestor," Thranduil smiled in a peculiarly crisp and yet highly amused attitude. "Actually, Legolas is quite lovely, both physically and spiritually. Not something you would know, of course, but even as a young child he expressed the most profound compassion and sympathy for those in sorrow."

"Yes, yes, I didn't mean to imply that Legolas is unattractive in any way," Erestor stumbled through this response, his mind distracted by the increasing skin irritation developing due to the perspiration. He simply must not scratch. He tugged at the sleeves of the garment, hoping to draw the cloying cloth away from his body.

"No, of course you didn't," snorted Thranduil. "I am well aware of how fascinated you have been with my son's outward form. That is why I'm here talking to you now. I thought you might appreciate having this conversation in private, away from eavesdropping ears and gossiping lips." The seneschal was staring at him with open dread, yanking and pulling at his clothing as if a nest of ants inhabited them. Which, in fact, was exactly the case. The King offered a mild frown of mock concern. "Is something wrong with your robes, Lord Erestor?"

"Wrong? Nay, nothing is wrong with my clothes. I just seem to feel, there appears to be some agent mixing with the…my… Ai!" The seneschal leaped to his feet, twitching and wriggling and clawing at the robes, for something had definitely just bitten his flesh in a highly sensitive area. In seconds he was cursing in the most vile manner as he danced upon the precipice, shedding clothes with inordinate speed and slapping at whatever section of the body was thus exposed. In short order he was completely nude, desperately trying to dislodge the handful of insects crawling around in his crotch. "Eru's Arse! Where did they come from? Why are they attacking me?"

"Tut, tut," admonished Thranduil, stifling a chuckle, though just barely, as he watched the Noldorin Lord's frenetic gyrations. "Such language! Must you kill the creatures, Lord Erestor? They serve a most useful purpose on Arda."

"Language? Purpose? Ulmo's Balls, they're eating me alive and you speak of sparing them?"

"Would you like them to stop?"

"Yes, I would like them to stop!" Erestor was reduced to scooping up handfuls of the gritty dirt and rubbing it thoroughly through his pubic hair in hopes the ants would cling to the particles and be removed as he brushed it away. No sooner had he uttered the exclamation than the stinging bites ceased. As if by command, every single one of the minute foes formed a file and skittered away down his legs and into the ground. He stood there naked, coated with dusty grey patches, covered with tiny wounds that burned far out of proportion to their size, and gazed down at the Sindarin monarch. Imladris' Chief Advisor was suddenly convinced that the insects had indeed acted on orders. The reason why was also clear. "I had nothing to do with the poisoning. The guilty parties were apprehended and punished."

"You had everything to do with the poisoning," snapped Thranduil, jumping to his feet, his modest amusement at Erestor's expense replaced by fury. "You oversee the entire household staff. You interact with them on a daily basis. You shared with these Elves everything private about Legolas' relationship with Elrond. Do you deny it?"

Erestor flinched for the charge was valid. "Nay."

"Nay. Lord Elrond has publicly announced his own guilt in the attack, citing his lax regard for Legolas' feelings and his failure to give him the respect that was and is his due as a primary, if silent, motivation to those who chose to denigrate and defame my son. That is in the written record of the trial and was the cause for mitigating the sentences decreed. Yet you, Lord Erestor, gave no testimony at all." The enraged father bellowed.

"No, but not because I hoped to deny culpability. Rather, I thought…"

"You thought what? That owning your guilt would deflect attention from the seriousness of the action? Perhaps you thought acknowledging how you abetted this crime would enable the loathsome Elves who did the deed to be excused?"

"Yes, something like that. Really, I never meant to exonerate myself. I assure you I hold myself fully accountable and am resolved to do whatever I must to make amends and reverse the negative affects my spiteful behaviour produced. I am thoroughly ashamed and disgusted by my actions over the last ten years, Your Majesty, and am now dedicated to protecting Legolas and his child from any and all harm. I humbly beg your mercy and pardon and willingly accept any punishment you deem proper." Erestor bowed low and then kept his face turned down, unwilling to meet the mighty King's eyes. All was silent, even the sound of the falls seemed absent and he could no longer discern the chiming of the bells.

"So be it," said Thranduil quietly and smiled grimly as the Noldorin Lord's face finally rose and the black eyes joined with his. "I consider this small humiliation sufficient. Even as angry as I am I would never want anyone to endure the kind of opprobrium my son experienced, especially not for ten years. I believe you will never forget the discomfort you feel right now and will forever recall that Legolas had to suffer such misery, or worse, for hours."

"You are most generous," Erestor bowed low again, shocked at the sudden turn of events. He had begun to truly fear he might be cast from the heights, so irate was the Sindarin King.

"Get dressed," commanded Thranduil. "You and I have much to discuss. There are specific sylvan traditions regarding formal bonding. You will aid me in guiding Elrond to a complete experience of these customs, including the practice of Charivari."

"Charivari? I've never heard this term before," Erestor said. He might not have recognised the word, but there was no misunderstanding the malignant gleam in the King's eyes. Whatever this practice involved, Elrond was unlikely to enjoy it.

"I don't think there is a Sindarin translation," said Thranduil, decidedly more relaxed as he waited for Erestor to don his clothes, noting with satisfaction that the ants' venom was causing a suitably obnoxious itching sensation that the Noldorin Lord could not ignore. Erestor was scratching and rubbing in a most undignified manner. "A lotion of camomile might ease the discomfort and lessen the spread of the rash," he remarked helpfully, smiling in pleased satisfaction at Erestor's corresponding glare. "As for the Chiavari, you could liken it to a type of hunt."

TBC

~ ~ Glossary ~ ~

Mellyn ar Melithryn: Friends and Lovers

Minuial Galu an le: Dawn Blessing to you

Ithil Eriad: Moon Rise

Gladgalen Dithen: Little Greenwood

Siniath Edlothiad: Blossoming News

Glân Garaf: White Wolf

Miny'adar: Grandfather

inuanu: female-male, an elf of dual gender

Gladhadithen: Little Laugh, aka Giggle

Úan Mîn: Our Monster

Sui adar, sui ion: Like father, like son

Arahen: royal child

talan chall: hidden talan

Iest Mín: Our Wish - pet name for Legolas used by his parents.

Ernil neth: young prince

Ernil Edwen

Ernil Vain: First Prince - heir

Rhûn'waew: East Wind

Aras: deer, stag

Tarlanc: stiff-necked, stubborn

Lechenn: Sindarin word for Noldor elves.

Fennas: Doorway

Tinu Mín: our little star

Sorry for the semi-cliff-hanger! I will not be able to write for a few days while I drive the new (old) VW Vanagon across country to my new position as a campground host! This is the first of many, I hope. Think good thoughts to get me there; it's about 2700 miles. I'll check in as I go from town to town. If the van holds up, I should be there by Thursday 7/3/08.

If you have never seen this illustration of a harper by April Lee, I hope you like it. If anyone knows her and how to reach her let me know. I don't like to post without permission but I could not resist sharing with you the picture that inspired my idea of Lindir as presented in Aearlinn. I have no idea how or where the illustration came to me; perhaps someone shared it with me long ago.
Hope you enjoyed this little Erestor-centred chapter. I shocked myself by deciding he would be perfect for Lindir after all, and with his obvious appreciation of Legolas' type, the singer is perfect for him. Besides, Lindir can really put Erestor in his place. As for the interaction with the 'staff' of the Last Homely House, I wanted to give him the chance to undo some of the harm he's caused. The little trick Thranduil played was well deserved, I think. Those ant bites are murderous! I speak from experience. I was once bitten to the point that I am now allergic to the venom of certain ants. Erestor's going to have a very unpleasant few hours. And does everyone catch that despite the insistence of 'no magic', we are seeing several mentions and examples of magic after all. Well, it just isn't the sort the Noldorin folk feared. The Wood Elves do not control other Elves' minds and actions, as was the complaint by the Twins and by Erestor. Well, I like my Wood Elves magical.

Don't forget to vote for the babe's name, too:)

Finally, thanks to one and all still reading and enjoying the story!

© 06/28/2008 Ellen Robey
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Aearlinn

Aearlinn - Mellyn ar Melithryn

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Just Prior to Dawn Some Time Later ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ Glossary ~ ~