Songs of the Spirit

Chapter Five:


The next day Lindir walked into the library to find Erestor had arrived there before him. The dark elf was settled at one of the tables surrounded by a great mound of books, and looked to be engrossed in a rather small manuscript lying open before him. He was so absorbed he didn’t even look up as the bard entered.

Lindir paused in the doorway to watch as Erestor’s lips moved silently while he read, his brow alternately furrowed in concentration and lifted in amusement. His dark hair was once again bound away from his face, away from distraction without even a wisp to mar its smooth perfection. Lindir couldn’t help but imagine what it might look like loose; all that black, silky hair falling about his face like a curtain of midnight; accentuating the dark depths of his eyes and the paleness of his skin. The thought caused a private smile to touch his lips.

Erestor wore unadorned robes so dark a blue they looked to be black upon first glance. The dark colors suited him, causing those large eyes to appear darker while emphasizing the fairness of his skin. The bard suddenly felt the urge to speak; to inform the dark elf of how lovely he looked, but resisted the urge lest his lips betray him by speaking of comparisons between him and a combination of the dappling sunlight and deep shadows under a forest canopy.

As he watched, silent and unnoticed, one of Erestor’s hands moved upwards towards the back of his neck. It looked to be an unconscious gesture, and he wondered if the darker elf even realized he did it.

“Is your neck stiff?” Lindir finally commented from the doorway.

“Hmm?” Erestor looked up, blinking owlishly as his dark eyes adjusted focus.

“Your neck,” Lindir pointed. “You were rubbing at it.”

“Oh.” Erestor sat up straighter, slowly stretching the muscles of his back as he did so. His head he twisted slightly and was rewarded by a soft popping of his spine; a sensation which caused him to wince. “Yes. I suppose so.”

“May I?” Lindir moved forwards, holding his long hands out.

“If you would like.” The bard moved behind Erestor and swept the dark braid forwards. He couldn’t help but smile when he realized it felt just as silky as he imagined, like touching a cat’s fur just after it had been brushed. Lindir then rested his fingers on the spine near where the neck met shoulder, not missing the tiny flinch the touch produced, as well as the slight tensing of muscles under his hands. Yet when no other response was given, Lindir began to slowly work his sensitive hands over the skin, feeling for any knots or points of soreness beneath as the muscles relaxed.

“Did something happen here?” Lindir asked, his thumbs tracing upwards along the spine. It was a guess, but from the sudden return from relaxed to tense, it was an astute one.

“I fractured my spine a long time ago.” Erestor murmured, his eyes now blinking shut. A deep breath, and Lindir felt as though something important was about to be revealed. “Well, not I, but my father. Just before he was caught and exiled.”

Lindir’s hands slowed to a stop at this revelation. “Your father could have killed you.”

“It was a near thing. I was rendered immobile for several weeks afterwards.” Erestor tuned his dark eyes towards the bard. “Yet another thing we share.” And Lindir could tell that despite his usual confident and self-assured demeanor, and his past words of healing and time, the past still somehow retained a firm grip upon him.

“I am sorry.” Lindir murmured, yet knowing how useless the words were.

Erestor shrugged. “It is no matter.”

“But you still feel the pain.” He moved his hands once more over the tight neck muscles.

“Not when your hands do that,” the dark elf groaned jokingly, and Lindir couldn’t help but smile.

“So. What were you reading?” The bard leaned forward to look.

Erestor chuckled. “Sonnets of Doriathian Blacksmiths.”

“What?” He looked momentarily confused. Blacksmith sonnets?

“Yes, I know.” Erestor grinned. “I discovered in the back, hidden between two books on Gondorian warfare. These blacksmiths certainly seemed to have lusty minds.”

Lindir leaned forward a bit more to read one of the passages. Indeed, the poetry was quite…arousing. The blacksmiths had a definite way with words and innuendo. Red hot swords, pounding iron, steamy caverns of heat… With a self-conscious smile he turned his head to glance at Erestor, and it was then he realized how close he had come to the dark haired advisor; their cheeks nearly touching, his face close enough to kiss those delicately sculpted lips.

Suddenly those images caused by the not-so-innocent sonnets flashed though his head at full force. Such thoughts caused his cheeks to turn as bright red as the molten iron described in the accursed book, and his head immediately shot up, away from such close proximity. He had daydreamed once or twice in the past few days of doing something more than reading books together, but in reality he barely knew the studious elf; especially not enough to do what his body pressed at him for. And he knew it wasn’t as though he were simply aroused; the feelings pulsing through his heart and soul were of a much more complicated rhythm than that; with arousal only a small piece of the melody that wound its way though the confusing descant.

Lindir removed his hands from Erestor’s shoulders to smooth down his robes in a nervous gesture. He then moved casually away to sit in a chair on the opposite side of the table. Erestor’s curious eyes followed him. If he knew what Lindir had been thinking, he didn’t seem to give any outward indication.

Erestor closed the book and rose. “I think I may inquire if Lord Celeborn has a copy of this. After all, he is from Doriath, and might enjoy reminiscing with his wife over the intricacies of blacksmith poetry.” He moved off into the stacks, setting the book aside for later retrieval. Inwardly he was amused. He could sense Lindir’s growing attraction, and could feel the same happening within his own heart. There was no denying that the tall white elf was an attractive creature, and not merely in a physical sense. His gentle manner spoke of a kind soul, while his music spoke to him; the euphonious melodies tugging at the very depths of his heart. And Lindir’s voice was music in its own right, soft and pure, strong and lilting. When he spoke Erestor found himself searching for the natural harmonies lying just beneath the tone of his words. He knew of no other that held such a beautiful gift of innate song.

As he walked amongst the shelves he wondered what it would take to bring the aloof bard closer, that he might open up more and confide in him. He knew Lindir was still hesitant about speaking of his past. It was difficult to break through so many years of forced silence. Yet he wished to be able to talk to the elf on a deeper level; to feel the warmth of understanding; to share their experiences and in turn together cleanse away those years of childhood hurt and pain. The evening before he had held himself open for such a conversation and in doing so opened his own heart and mind to memories he had fought long and hard to repress. That night he had spent uncomfortably tossing in nightmares he had thought long since banished. He only hoped Lindir would respond soon, for he didn’t know how much longer he could manage such sleepless nights and tension-wrought days alone.

Sighing quietly, he shook his head away from such thoughts and began to search for more books of interest. If it came down to it, there was always Elrond he could speak with.

Lindir pulled one of the many books from the pile nearby, opened it, and attempted to read. Yet after several moments he found his eyes had left the page and were now watching as Erestor moved through the shelves. A single finger traced over the spines, lips once more moving in silent cadence as he read the titles to himself. The bard’s mind swept back to Erestor’s startling confession the evening before. He would never have believed that the dark-haired advisor had suffered as he did, for he appeared so strong and self-assured. However looking into Erestor’s eyes he had seen a vulnerability that was at odds with his usual composed appearance. Lindir was once again reminded of the duel nature he had previously sensed within this elf, and wondered whether it was an underlying sadness he had perceived. After he left the gardens he had retreated to his rooms where sleep had eluded him, held back by thoughts of a certain dark-haired elf.

Feeling eyes upon him, Erestor turned his head to capture Lindir’s gaze with his own. His eyebrows lifted in silent question, to which the bard merely shook his head with a bashful smile before turning his attentions back towards the book before him. Yet after several long minutes he finally closed the tome and gave up all pretense of reading. With a frown he leaned back in his chair. Erestor heard him and turned once more to give the bard a curious look.

“Does anyone else know about your father?” Lindir blurted out, for some reason needing to know the answer. “About what he did?”

Erestor nodded, as though expecting a question of the sort. “Some do. It is not something widely known. The healers who attended me…afterwards. The council who decided the only recourse was to exile my father. Most involved have passed on to brighter shores. Of those here, I believe Lord Elrond suspects something, but has never said. I believe he waits from me to initiate such a conversation.” He walked back to the table, arms crossed over his chest thoughtfully. “I am certain he would believe me should I decide to inform him, only I have never before felt the need to. If you wish to speak with him…?”

“No,” Lindir quickly replied. “Not at this time.”

Erestor had moved to stand behind his vacated chair and now placed his hands on its wooden back. He said nothing, but that strange openness was suddenly in his dark eyes. Lindir hadn’t realized how closed off the elf had looked before, how reserved in his expression until that moment. It was the same expression as the evening before. He said nothing, but those eyes held a promise of understanding, and of trust. Looking deeper, he could also see pain and fear. It was an invitation to speak, and to reciprocate by telling of things long held secret. This was the second time such an invitation had been granted, and Lindir had a feeling that were he to reject this one as well, there might not be a third.

He did long to speak with someone, but still felt overwhelmed by nervousness and uncertainty of his own. He silently cursed himself; as a bard he was supposed to be good with words, and yet the proper phrases and expressions now somehow eluded him. Feeling as though it might be easier to speak of his own past were the other elf to start, he hesitantly asked his own question instead. “You said your father was exiled. Can you…will you tell me what happened?”

“My father was a busy elf.” Erestor replied, arms coming up to cross over his chest once more. It could have been seen as an intimidating gesture, but Lindir could see it for what it was: a sign of nervousness and self protection. “The times when he was working were times my mother and I could relax. When he came home…” He shrugged. “I am certain you are fully aware of what would happen then.”

Lindir nodded, but remained quiet. He knew, and his own memories were still close enough that he could feel the edginess and the anticipatory fear, the urge to find a place to hide or to walk ever more softly if a suitable hiding place couldn’t be found.

“He broke my arm once as well,” Erestor continued with a humorless smile. “He became angry over something, I cannot recall what. He spun around with a cane in hand and brought it down upon my forearm with such force it snapped both bones in two. We told everyone I had merely fallen out of a tree. The healers actually believed it.”

“He broke several of my ribs,” Lindir responded softly, looking down towards his lap at his clasped hands. “I had to tell everyone I had fallen as well.” He took a deep breath. “I had been playing in one of the trees, and accidentally broken a limb. My father saw it happen. It was only a small branch, and would he had used that, most likely I would have only been bruised. But instead he picked up the one next to it, which had fallen during a windstorm days before. It was much larger.” He looked up at the darker elf, who said nothing but the compassionate eyes urged him on. “When he finished, I could barely stand. My mother found me, but my father would not allow her to take me to a healer.”

“Sometimes elven healing is both a blessing and a curse,” Erestor murmured. It was true. Most physical signs of continuous abuse healed before any tell-tale sign could be found, leaving only the psychological scars behind.

Suddenly the sounds of three elves conversing in the corridor outside the library reached their ears. Erestor frowned, while Lindir looked towards the door nervously. The two remained quiet; listening as the merry sounds grew louder. Then the sounds began to fade as the roaming elves moved away.

“Let us go someplace else,” Erestor finally spoke as silence returned. “I have a bottle of wine waiting in my chambers. If you would like to join me, we can retire to a more private setting.”

“I think I would like that,” Lindir replied, rising to his feet. He was finding with each confession, the next was easier to tell. It was like a difficult piece of music newly found. The first attempt at playing was a struggle, but with each subsequent attempt the song came easier and easier. And when guided by a tune of complimenting melody, who knew what harmonies would be unleashed.

Tbc…