Songs of the Spirit

Chapter Nine:


Lindir walked alone through the brightly sunlit gardens several days after their initial interlude. Small birds flitted from branch to branch as he wandered in their midst, seeking inspiration for the song he was to compose for the Lord and Lady of Lorien. Galadriel’s gardens nestled amidst the great mallorn trees were her pride and joy, and although these more rugged tendings differed from those in the great wood in both rhythm and tone, the spirit was quite similar.

Lindir was just about the sit upon one of the many scattered benches when he heard the call for healers ring out. He paused, turning his ear towards some commotion coming from the front courtyard. Curiosity piqued, he found his footsteps wandering off away from the gardens and towards the direction of the noise.

As he rounded a corner he noticed that one of the patrols had come in, looking rather weary and worse for the wear. The riders and their horses milled about while the injured were taken care of. From the various shoutings he gathered that the latest patrol had ousted a particularly nasty tribe of orcs on the borders of the Misty Mountains. They had returned triumphant, with few injuries amongst the actual patrol. Yet it also seemed the orcs had recently raided a small village, utterly decimating it before they were in turn slaughtered. Found within the orcs possessions were several prisoners, mostly human, all in various states of harm.

Lindir caught sight of Erestor standing motionless at the edge of the courtyard and headed towards him. The shoulders were tense, and although Lindir couldn’t see the darker elf’s face, he could somehow sense a deep distress with Erestor’s body. As he walked closer he watched as several of the injured passed him by, two of whom were carried unconscious upon stretchers towards the healing house. Their bodies were mutilated, various appendages already fed to the dead orcs’ obscene appetites, and Lindir doubted they would survive despite the Imladrin lord’s reputation for his healing arts.

Lindir walked up behind his dark lover, worried over his distressed appearance. “What is wrong?”

Erestor remained silent, his expression unreadable and his steady gaze fixed elsewhere. Lindir followed the look towards whatever had caught Erestor’s eye, and suddenly blinked in confusion. Upon one of the stretchers lay an elf, and strangely familiar looking at that. The hair was cut in an uncommonly short, human fashion, and colored a deep midnight hue. Even through the various injuries marring the elf’s face he could tell it was heart-shaped, nearly vulpine in countenance, and although the chin was slightly rounder and the nose a bit broader, the elf bore a striking resemblance to the one standing motionless beside him.

“Is that…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but didn’t have to. Erestor nodded in reply.

“I thought you said he was dead,” Lindir asked, bewildered.

“He was,” Erestor finally answered, his voice quiet and almost completely devoid of emotion. Together they watched as the litter was borne away with the others towards the healing quarters.

“They told me they had found a body.” Erestor’s fists began to clench in anger, the first obvious sign of emotion he had yet to show. Lindir lifted a single hand to rest upon the tense shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He could feel the rage coursing through the darker elf, flowing down his sensitive fingers. It was a struggle not to pull away, to retreat before the sudden anger in his lover’s body as a tiny trickle of fear ran down his spine. Although they had been together for just over a week’s time, this was the first he had ever been confronted with Erestor’s anger. He didn’t know what to expect. Was this elf the sort that would lash inwards or out? And if it was out, what would happen then? Yet despite his doubts Lindir held firm, drawing in a calming breath and adjusting his features so as not to show his growing uneasiness.

“Let us go inside,” he suggested evenly, attempting to draw Erestor back indoors where they might be able to talk. The incensed elf complied for several steps before halting abruptly and shaking off Lindir’s hand.

“No. I must speak with Elrond.” For a moment Lindir could see Erestor’s eyes and the anger rolling in their dark depths. Yet he could also read confusion and fear; emotions he was all too familiar with.

As Erestor stormed away, Lindir followed behind at a distance. He didn’t know what he could do to help, but was determined to be there for him. He only hoped he was strong enough.

* * *

Erestor made his way to the healing quarters, emotions so conflicted he could hardly think straight. In truth the house of healing was the last place he wanted to be for it was where the elf who was once his father lay. However he also knew that this was where Elrond would be. What he would tell the Imladrin Lord he didn’t know; only that he must become aware of the identity of the injured elf, and the situation must be somehow dealt with.

Panic was welling up within him, slowing down all rational thought. The biggest question was how could his father possibly be alive? He briefly wondered if perhaps he had been mistaken, that somehow the similarities were just a coincidence. Yet even Lindir had seen the similarities between the two and reached the same conclusion. There could be no question.

Granted he had never seen the deceased body himself, and only been told of its discovery by one of the healers. It had been so completely ravaged that the only recognizable things was the fabric of the tunic he had been wearing and several lengths of dark hair. The rest of the body had been a brutalized mess. Or so he had been told. He remembered lying in that bed in the healer’s quarters, paralyzed from the neck down, unable to move even a single finger. He had felt utterly helpless and vulnerable while his body attempted to slowly knit itself back together again. So terrified had he been that his father would come back that he couldn’t even stand to be alone. Several of the healers had taken it upon themselves to sit with him when his mother was unable that he would not completely shut down in terror. Many during that time thought it would have been best for him to travel over the sea for they doubted he would survive with his spirit intact.

Yet after they told him his father had died it had brought a measure of relief, and his mind had finally begun to heal. Could it be that they had lied to him? Would they be so cruel in their well-meaning kindness?

Now he didn’t know what to do, or how to react. He was no longer a child to be dependant upon his father’s whim. This was his home and he wasn’t about to run away from it. Yet the small elfling who lurked deep within him cowered in fear. Be quiet; be unobtrusive; and it shall pass, it whispered.

He strode briskly into the hall, ignoring the other elves who scattered in the wake of his intensely dark look. When he reached the arched doorway where injured elves were held he paused, taking a deep breath before entering. He spotted his quarry right away, bent over one of the injured humans.

“Elrond, I must speak with you.”

The healer looked up, wiping his hands upon a clean towel. He had just finished cleaning and suturing a long gash on the man’s thigh. It would leave a nasty scar, but at least the human would eventually walk on two of his own feet.

The expression on Erestor’s face spoke of panic and desperation, emotions rarely seen upon his advisor. Behind him, unnoticed in the doorway, stood Lindir, looking agitated himself. “What is it? What has happened?”

“I must speak to you about one of those injured, immediately.” As soon as the words left his mouth he realized how panicked he sounded, and immediately took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself.

Elrond looked confused. “I do not understand.” His gaze shifted to the newly come being attended by various other healers. As his eyes passed over them he was drawn to one in particular, one of the two elves found, now lying upon the white beds. His eyes widened at the striking resemblance the elf bore to his now impassioned advisor. He hadn’t noticed it before when he had taken a more clinical look at the elf’s injuries, but now he beheld such an uncanny similitude… could this actually be the infamous father?

Erestor turned, following his lord’s suddenly widening eyes and then froze when he realized his father’s body was lying only a few feet away. Caerdil’s dark eyes were open and staring at him with a curious expression mixed with the obvious pain from his physical injuries. Erestor swallowed heavily, feeling very much like a young elfling again. He couldn’t move, and the back of his neck began to ache with remembered hurts. It was the hand on his elbow which turned his attention back, and Elrond’s voice telling him to come as he was drawn away.

Elrond motioned for one of the other healers, informing him to take over, and then pulled the panic-stricken elf into an empty room. Lindir followed discretely behind. The bard had no idea what he should do, or even whether his presence could actually be any help. He only knew that he couldn’t leave Erestor yet.

It wasn’t until after he had left the room that Erestor realized his hands had started shaking uncontrollably. Pull yourself together, he scolded himself, fighting the urge to rub at the back of his neck. You are no longer an elfling. He drew himself up straighter and tugged free of Elrond’s guiding hand. Yet the child’s voice in the back of his mind would not stop relaying its fear, and he clasped his hands behind him to still their obvious trembling.

Elrond leaned back against one of the tables, his dark eyes staring intently at Erestor. “Tell me.”

Erestor closed his eyes, momentarily trying to organize his thoughts. Then he spoke in words as brief as possible of his father’s exile and subsequent death. Elrond merely listened, nodding occasionally as the elf confirmed what his former wife had told him.

“So you see, he cannot stay here,” Erestor finished, clearly agitated by the pleading tone of his voice. “He should not even be here.”

“And what would you have me do?” Elrond asked. “Caerdil is severely wounded. His leg is shattered, one hand is gone as well as half of one foot, his head injury is uncertain. I cannot cast him out in such a state no matter what he may have done. Besides, it would behoove us to discover why he is alive in the first place.”

Erestor arms crossed over his chest, eyes closing as his head ducked slightly. Reason told him that Elrond was correct, but reason had little to do with his feelings on the matter.

“As soon as he is healed enough to walk, he leaves Imladris,” Erestor told him, a sudden dark edge to his voice that Lindir did not like. “I do not want him anywhere near me.”

“You need not worry – ”

“But I will worry!” he nearly shouted. “Do *not* try to placate me in this matter! Every moment he remains, I will worry! Now that I know he is alive…”

“You are no longer an elfling,” Elrond told him softly, stepping forward. “He cannot hurt you.”

They were the words Erestor had been trying to convince himself of ever since he first realized who the injured elf was. Yet even spoken aloud, the words did not placate him. If his father couldn’t hurt him any longer, then why was he still in pain?

“Would you at least try to speak with him?” Elrond asked.

“No, I would NOT!” Erestor’s voice rose in pitch. “He has been dead to me this long; as far as I am concerned, he should remain so!”

He stormed from the room, shoving past Lindir and leaving the two remaining elves to stare at each other. Elrond could easily read the fear and apprehension within Lindir’s eyes, as well as the strength it took to stand strong and not run away.

“What will you do now?” Lindir asked, hand coming up to rub at his shoulder. He knew his lover had every right to be angry, only he didn’t know how to deal with it. In the past when confronted with such emotions he had only one recourse: to run. Only now, running didn’t seem the right answer.

Elrond sighed heavily. “Confine Caerdil to the healing wing. As soon as he is able and we find out what he is about, I will send him on his way. Although his wounds are quite serious and it is possible he may not survive. What of you?”

“Me?” Lindir looked momentarily confused.

“Yes, you. You wish to flee, I can see it in your eyes, but you must remain to help Erestor though this. I realize how hard his anger is on you. I cannot say it will get better quickly, but you must believe he would never hurt you. If you need someone else to speak with, I will always be here.”

Lindir nodded graciously, although inside he was taken aback by the astuteness of the elven Lord. “Thank you. I will try my best.”

“Let him take some time to calm himself.” Elrond advised. “Then go and see him.”

“That…would probably be best.” Lindir clutched his hands together, wishing that there was something in them to grip as he turned and walked out the door.



Review Responses:

Jayn: Well, here ya go! Not exactly the happiest of chapters I’m afraid, but of course I can’t just leave things be! What fun is that? *grin* Thank you so much for your encouragement!

Jya: Thanks a bunch! I’m really glad you’re enjoying this.
Yeah, I hate it when the pages don’t send properly myself. But hey, I got three reviews out of it instead of just two! *laughs* I’m a sucker for reviews, although my muses have strictly forbidden me to beg… (Annoying muses…)
Mmmm… hot chocolate… have any extra? :-)