Songs of the Spirit

Chapter Three:


That evening found Lindir sitting in the Hall of Fire, coaxing delightful melodies from the long tilmyr laid across his lap. This time he wasn’t alone, as many other elves gathered about the firelit hall to relax before the damp night drew them to their beds. Some spoke softly amongst themselves with the occasional bright sound of laughter offering counterpoint to the music floating around them. Others merely sat and listened with their feet bouncing slightly in time to the intricate rhythms set by the foreign instrument.

Lindir had spent much of his afternoon in the library with the studious advisor, searching the shelves for more sheaves of music and for books on history and folklore, another subject which interested the bard. Erestor turned out to be a valuable companion, providing order to the initial chaos of the enormous library. It was actually a pleasant place; the dark colors warm and comforting on such a dreary afternoon; the thick walls muffling all sound but that of the rain dripping from the loggia just beyond one of the massive windows. The darker elf had been correct in his earlier assumption, and together they had found enough treasures to keep Lindir busy for quite a long time. He had to wonder if perhaps this was the reason why Lady Galadriel had recommended him to travel here in the first place.

And he had to admit, Erestor was both not quite what he expected, and more. He had actually found himself enjoying the time spent with the highly intelligent advisor. While Erestor was by far older than the young bard, which showed in his calm maturity, it was never held as a barrier in their conversation, something that Lindir highly appreciated.

Not to mention, Lindir considered as his fingers danced across the strings, Erestor’s countenance was fair to look upon: hair blacker than midnight with fathomless eyes so dark a blue they could rival the depths of the Namo’s realm. His skin was only a few shades darker than his own, with a sharp nose and delicately pointed chin that brought to mind the visage of a cunning fox, and he moved with a feline grace that could equal that of any wild creature. When a servant came in with their tea, Lindir couldn’t help but wonder at what a pair they made. Two figures: one as dark as a raven’s wing; the other as silvery-pale as a snowdrift, heads bent together as they poured over the contents of a particularly large tome.

Yet when Erestor’s bound hair fell over his shoulder to land next to Lindir’s braced hand, he had to refrain from touching the dark silky rope, as much as he longed to do so. He could sense something within the seemingly friendly advisor, and it scared him. There was the sense of underlying firmness that said he could intentionally intimidate one if need be with the barest word or gesture. This duality was all too familiar for the bard, as his father had been a master at manipulating personalities. Such was the reason why he never let himself entirely relax around any elf, particularly if they held rank.

And yet…

As Lindir continued to play for the small gathered crowd, his mind began to compose a new melody of dark beauty, set to the rhythm of a strange, unidentifiable feeling for which as of yet he had no name for.

* * *

Erestor walked into the fire-lit hall, his gaze immediately drawn towards the pale figure sitting in the far corner. The bard’s attentions appeared to be once again fully immersed in his music, to the exclusion of all else around him. The advisor couldn’t help the brief smile that touched his lips in memory of their afternoon spent in the library together. Lindir had become so enthusiastic in his quest for knowledge it had bolstered Erestor’s own interest in music history. The younger elf had a quick mind, easily memorizing pages of material for later thought, and setting aside other books for future perusal. He reminded Erestor of a tall, white egret; initially slow and cautious in movement, yet endowed a quick agility when a purpose was gained.

The music he played now was more cheerful than that which the advisor had happened upon earlier, with the fair bard singing of the delights of the summer season. His voice was sweet and pure, with an impressive range that smoothly shifted from a high contralto to baritone many times over the course of the song. However he could sense an underlying sadness to the melody, as if the cold dark of winter might at any moment return to violently destroy summer’s blossoms before they could bear fruit. The complex emotions inherent in the song were intriguing, and as much as he would have enjoyed finding a seat and letting his mind contemplate the intricacies of the melodic tones, he had another mission to attend to first.

Casting his gaze over the crowd, he quickly spotted his quarry, seated in two large chairs near the huge stone-carved fireplace and the dancing flames contained within. Two elves, one of white, green, and gold, the other of black, burgundy, silver; conversing quietly over crystalline goblets of dark red miruvor, far enough away from the other elves to grant some sense of privacy. They appeared amicable enough, with no outward traces of earlier arguments apparent in their relaxed forms.

Erestor straightened his shoulders before calmly weaving his way towards the fireplace, resisting the urge to rub at the sudden tenseness in his neck. Lord Elrond noticed his approach first, finishing his sentence before turning his attentions towards his chief advisor, one sable eyebrow raised in question.

“Elrond. Thranduil.” Erestor began, his head nodding to each respectfully but forgoing titles. Elrond had years ago insisted upon less formality when away from the pressures of daily business, an order which had taken the advisor a long time to follow. “I am sorry to disturb you, but there is something I wish to speak with you both about.”

Elrond nodded. “It is no disturbance. Please,” He gestured with a single hand towards an empty chair nearby. “Sit and tell us what is on your mind.”

Erestor moved to comply, sitting upon the edge of the plush, red seat with his hands folded calmly in his lap. He was nervous, for the topic he wished to discuss was potentially a sensitive one, although it didn’t show though his usual cool countenance. For a moment he sat quietly, deciding which words would be best suited as Elrond and Thranduil waited expectantly for him to start.

Finally he decided to get straight to the point. “It has been remarked that the private quarrels between the two of you have become quite loud, and has disturbed more than a few residing here. I would ask if you might consider being a bit more discreet.” His dark eyes shifted to look pointedly at Thranduil, the chief instigator and louder of the two elves.

The Mirkwood King smirked a little, despite the slight flush that came over his cheeks, and took a demure sip of his wine. Elrond had the grace to looked abashed, and immediately spoke up. “My apologies, Erestor. I had not realized we had been so loud, or made others so uncomfortable. We shall strive to be more careful in the future.” He turned his grey eyes meaningfully towards Thranduil, who lowered his goblet to his leather clad knee.

“My apologies as well,” he said, his surprisingly deep voice sincere yet with traces of good humor still evident. “I should have been – oh.” He stopped abruptly, his expression one of dawning realization, and his cerulean eyes shifted away towards the far corner. The other two elves followed his gaze, seeing only the bard still fully immersed in his playing. “I had forgotten…”

Both Elrond and Erestor turned back to look at the golden king curiously, patiently waiting for him to explain himself. Thranduil finally complied, turning back towards the others, his face now holding traces of sadness. “It had slipped my mind that Master Lindir was your guest. As I recall he does not care for such quarrels of any sort. I should speak to him and apologize.”

“I spoke with him earlier today,” Erestor told him, his curiosity growing. “And he did seem quite uncomfortable with the noise. I took him to the library. Along the way he told me he comes from some place east of Mirkwood. I assume since you know him he spent some time at the palace?” Lindir had shied away from revealing much personal information. It was a puzzle, and something that bothered him.

“Yes,” Thranduil replied, “he did, although he did not stay long. I will admit to having a temper of sorts.” Elrond smiled at this, reaching out to where Thranduil’s free hand rested on the arm of the chair, squeezing it gently. “I believe I frightened him away.”

“You became angry with him?” Erestor asked, trying to keep the disapproval from his voice while thinking back at the fear he had seen in the younger elf’s face at the sound of Thranduil’s shouting.

“Certainly not,” the king shook his head indignantly. “He overheard me shouting at one of my sons. That seemed to be the breaking point.”

Elrond’s face held a thoughtful look, familiar to Erestor as that which he wore when contemplating some new ailment or disease in his healing quarters. Such things held high interest for the Imladrin Lord, and Erestor watched him carefully, hoping if he had any ideas, he would share them. “Do you know why he may have acted thus?”

“I know little about his past,” Thranduil responded, “but what I have heard is tragic. His parents were both killed when he was no more than an elfling, and himself nearly so. He won’t speak of what happened, although it is believed some accident killed his mother, almost did the same to Lindir, and when his father discovered it the elf turned his blade upon himself in his grief over the loss. Little else is known besides the fact that there were obvious signs of struggle.”

Erestor’s eyes widened at that, and he quickly glanced over towards the bard. As if sensing the dark elf’s gaze upon him, Lindir’s silvery-blue eyes lifted to stare back. His fingers never faltered from their strings, but the pale brow furrowed slightly in consideration. It was obvious he knew that they spoke of him, although he couldn’t hear what was being said, and Erestor hoped pity didn’t show on any of their faces.

Erestor attempted a reassuring smile, but Lindir looked away, his attention returning to his music once more. Yet the now stiff set to his shoulders spoke of his own discomfort. He knew they had spoken of him, and was clearly uneasy.

Erestor turned away as well, suddenly feeling the need to leave the hall and the abrupt oppressiveness of everyone within. The heat from the fire now seemed too warm, the voices to loud, and the music too personal. The stiffness that had started in the back of his neck was growing into a slow ache. He needed some time to himself, to think, to relax; and he had a sinking suspicion in the pit of his stomach that he knew what had happened to Lindir. He needed to decide what he would do about it, if anything was to be done.

So he rose, excused himself politely, and left the hall, returning to his rooms without so much as a glance in the bard’s direction. Elrond watched him go, the considering look on his face deepening. His eyes moved back towards Lindir, and although the bard continued to play, the silvery blue eyes were now fixed upon the doorway Erestor had just exited.

Review Responses:

Anon: Thank you for your wonderful comment. I agree; we definitely need more Lindir stories. I think my favorites are the ones in which he is a dominate personality. Not sure what happened here… *grin*

Ertia: Yay! I’ve caught Ertia! Now if I can just keep on reeling her in without letting her slip off the line… *giggles* I am so glad you are enjoying this little fic. Thank you!