Songs of the Spirit

Chapter Four:


Two days later Lindir walked down the quiet corridors, his wood and leather instrument case slung over one shoulder. After a pleasant evening playing in the hall, he was tired, but not sleepy. He did not care to retire to his rooms just yet, so he let his feet guide him as he had on many a dusty road, trusting them to take him wherever he should be. Most of the other elves had already retreated for the night, with not a few hinting that he was welcome to join them. He had politely declined them all, for spending the night in a stranger’s keeping held no interest for him.

The past few days had been relatively peaceful, and the muscles that had been unknowingly tense were starting to relax. Lord Elrond and King Thranduil had ceased to fight, or at least were resolved to keep their complaints out of echoing rooms with too thin walls. Thranduil had actually come to him personally, apologizing for his insensitivity, and leaving Lindir feeling almost more uncomfortable than before. Although he had been assured they would never truly hurt each other, and knew they would never hurt him, it didn’t stop the queasiness from forming each time they started to yell. He had even begun to wonder about the wisdom of remaining. Galadriel had bid him to come here; she had never said how long he was to stay.

He was disgusted at himself for the way such things affected him, for starting every time he heard raised voices or flinching at sounds similar to that of flesh striking flesh. He hated the way his past wouldn’t leave him in peace. He hated the fear, and the guilt; how a single night would now haunt him for his entire life. He hated the fact that although the elf was dead, his father still seemed to haunt him from beyond the grave, mocking and tormenting him. He hated the way his trust had been shattered long before he’d even been fully aware of the meaning of the word.

His feet took him to the gardens where the bright moon and shimmering stars illuminated the stone paths winding their way though thick summer foliage. Silver gilt caressed the verdant leaves, and night flowers bloomed in opalescent beauty that played with the eye. Tiny flashes of green dotted the sultry air; fireflies dancing to some hidden chanson only they could hear. The shadows, thick and strangely alive, provided a counterpoint to the glow, like two congruent melodies vying for control, and in turn creating a song beyond measure.

Such contrast of light and dark, such unassuming beauty, couldn’t help but turn his mind towards a certain elf of similar distinction and loveliness. Erestor was like poetry to his mind; a living, breathing descant that begged to be captured and played by experienced hands. It was a thought that caused a faint blush to ease along his cheeks and color the tips of his ears. He had met many elves during his travels, yet none had affected him as much as the dark haired councilor.

He hadn’t seen said elf in two days, not since his glimpse of him in the Hall speaking to Lord Elrond and King Thranduil. Thranduil knew something of his past; rumor tended to spread quickly even when silence was most wished for. He had spoken of whatever he knew to Elrond and Erestor; that much he had guessed from the looks upon their faces. But not even the King of Mirkwood knew the whole story. It was something few elves, in their belief of their own superiority concerning such base tendencies, even dared to imagine. The thought that an elf would dare abuse another, even in light of The Kinslaying, was ill-received. That one would intentionally harm a child; it was inconceivable.

That was what had hurt the most. He couldn’t speak to any over what had happened, for none would believe him. He had tried, once or twice, but his words had been attributed to grief, delirium, and the ramblings of a youngling no doubt given to exaggerate. His parent’s death had been an accident, a terrible accident. When the father found the mother dead, and thought the son dead as well, he had given in to despair and taken his own life. Such a terrible tragedy.

They would never believe the truth of it. As such any sorrow felt, any remorse or pity, were nothing to him. How could they possibly understand? He would rather the whole incident remained secret than suffer the consolations of others, even though he knew his own pain was expressed in ways he couldn’t stop. In his music he articulated his grief, where it could be attributed to the emotions inherent in the song.

He came to a stone bench halfway hidden within the embrace of a small twisting maple and sat upon it, placing his instrument at his feet. He had spent the last two afternoons in the library, researching. Part of him had hoped Erestor would have made an appearance, but he knew as chief advisor the dark elf was often kept busy. He only hoped it was an influx of paperwork that kept him away, not whatever had been said by the Mirkwood King.

Not that it matters, Lindir thought bleakly. That single day was a blessing; I have that at least. Besides which, I can always dream.

A stray cloud passed over the moon, and the world drifted into darkness. In a moment sudden inspiration Lindir pulled out his tilmyr and began tuning the strings.

* * *

Erestor walked down the dark garden path, his thoughts turned so far inwards that he noticed nothing of his surroundings. It had been a long and exhausting day with numerous meetings to attend and mounds of paperwork which had suddenly appeared upon his desk as if from thin air. It had left him little time for breaks or meals. Some days were like this, and when it came time to finally relax, he found it near impossible. Even his stomach seemed to have little desire for food, although he had made a quick stop at the kitchens for a light repast, knowing the nourishment was needed. Then his feet took him here to the gardens where he could walk off the lingering energy of the day and let his mind slow down.

Usually his mind traveled down simple paths, slowly turning from work completed to thoughts of serenity and peace that flowed from the seemingly chaotic geometry of the gardens in which he walked. Yet tonight his mind strayed down the darker roads of his past, and of his own childhood. He knew it was Lindir’s presence that evoked such reminiscences which he had long since struggled to keep locked away in the deep recesses of his memory; Lindir’s presence, Thranduil’s words, and the sudden certainty that the bard and himself shared a horror that few others could understand.

He looked at Lindir, and saw himself in younger years, struggling to face what the world threw at him with a steady heart while the memories of his past kept beating at his back. He had fought long and hard to overcome, and had thought it all left far behind him. Yet now, looking at the bard trapped by his own painful memories, he knew it wasn’t so. Secrets were still held, and out of shame they remained as such.

Erestor bowed his head, glancing down at his ink-stained hands but not really seeing them. He had once thought his situation unique, and now knew that it may not be so. An odd mix of both sadness and relief washed over him; sadness over the thought that another elfling had suffered, and yet relief that he wasn’t alone.

His head lifted as music reached his ears, and he easily recognized it as originating from the object of his thoughts. No other in Imladris played such an instrument, and so sweetly as well. The melodic sounds seemed to compliment the night, providing a rich counterpoint to the dark flowering garden in which he walked. His footsteps never faltered as he once more followed the music to its source: a pale, ghostly elf sitting alone beneath the boughs of a twisting maple.

At loathe to interrupt, and yet not wishing to leave, he found a similar stone bench to sit upon. Closing his eyes, he felt the music wrap around him, the lyrics once more both hopeful and melancholy. It was a song about darkness, warm and embracing like a lover’s touch, yet always retreating from that which forever seeks it: the weeping light.

As the song died away, Erestor opened his eyes to find Lindir staring at him, surprise on his pale face.

“Once more I heard your music, and was somehow bound to follow and listen,” Erestor said with an apologetic smile. “Again, I hope you do not mind.”

Lindir shook his head, his expression turning from surprise to bemusement, and he was glad of the dark to hide the heat rising to his cheeks. If all he needed to have the dark haired advisor come was to play, he ought to play more often. “No. Not at all.”

Erestor nodded once, his vulpine face taking on a considering look. Finally he leaned forwards, his dark gaze fixed upon the bard. “Lindir? I do have a question for you, and I hope you do not mind me asking. Why is your music always so melancholy? Even your more cheerful songs hint at some waiting despair. Why is this?” He felt he already knew the answer, but needed Lindir to speak it himself.

The bard briefly turned his head away, and when he spoke, his voice was solemn. “I play what is in my heart, and my heart is most always in sorrow. Please, do not ask me to explain.”

Erestor thought a moment, watching Lindir place the instrument back in its case before speaking again in a gentle tone that told of a quest for some specific detail. “I am sorry, but I feel compelled to ask. Do you grieve?”

The hint of a smile crossed Lindir’s pale lips, and even in the dim moonlight Erestor’s mind couldn’t help but compare them to the palest pink apple blossoms that bloomed in the early spring, just after the last of the snows melted away. He mentally shook his head at that. He was no poet, and such thoughts were irrelevant.

“I suppose I do,” Lindir answered, “but not of the deathly sort. How can one grieve for something one has never had?” He stood, swung his instrument case over his slim shoulder and turned to walk away.

“Please,” Erestor called, but made no move to rise. “For what do you grieve?”

Lindir paused to look back, and a slow shiver seemed to pass through his slim body. He crossed his arms over his chest as if to hold the fine tremor inside before opening his mouth to whisper a single word. It was hardly more than a murmur on the wind, but Erestor heard it plainly, and understood his meaning far more than Lindir realized.

“Trust.”

Erestor bowed his head and breathed in heavily. The back of his neck was starting to ache again, but he resisted the urge to rub at it. “I understand your pain,” He said, his voice soft with hesitancy. “Perhaps more than any other here. Please, let me help you.”

“How can you possibly understand what it is that plagues me?” His melodic voice held a tone of disbelief tinged with anger and long-suffering patience.

“Did your father harm you?”

Lindir turned to look at him in surprise, but said not a word. How did he know? What had Thranduil said?

“I understand because my father was cruel as well,” Erestor answered the unspoken question, not trying to hide the pain leaking though his words. “He would beat my mother and I unmercifully, and there was naught we could do.”

Lindir shifted his gaze away, staring off into the dark depths of the gardens. “My father did the same,” he whispered, the confession hard despite the promise of understanding.

Erestor finally stood and slowly walked closer to the distraught bard. “I know. I could see it in your eyes. Will you speak to me of it?”

“No one ever believed me before.” Lindir looked down, his silvery eyes now bright with unshed tears. “I tried to say something before, but they didn’t wish to see.”

“I believe you.”

Lindir nodded, swallowing heavily at the ache rising in his throat. The darker elf seemed sincere, and would have no reason to lie. Looking into his dark eyes, he could see the honesty and the strain of revealing something so personal. But after keeping the past inside for so long, Lindir did not feel he could speak of it just yet.

Erestor seemed to see his hesitation, reading it for what it was, and again understood. “If you ever feel you need to talk to someone, my ears will always be open.”

Lindir looked down, a heavy breath of air escaping his lips. “How does it not bother you?” he whispered.

“What? The fighting?” Lindir nodded in reply. “It does. Truthfully, listening to them causes my insides to clench in anger, and even a bit of fear. Yet I have watched them at it, and know that it would never turn physical.” Erestor smiled. “Or at least in the dangerous sense. I take some comfort in that.”

Lindir slowly shook his head. “You seem so easy with it all.”

Erestor placed a single hand upon the bard’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Sometimes all it takes is time.” He dropped his hand. “Shall I see you tomorrow then?”

“Are you coming to the library?” Lindir asked quietly.

Erestor nodded. “I believe I can manage the time.”

“Then until tomorrow.” Lindir walked off into the darkness, while Erestor remained standing where he was. After a time with only the usual sounds of the night to keep him company he eventually moved, settling back onto the stone bench he’d vacated earlier with a pensive look.


Tbc…

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