Sin to Stir the Soul

TITLE: Sin To Stir The Soul
AUTHOR: Ezra’s Persian Kitty
PAIRING: Erestor/?
RATING: R
DISCLAIMER: I lay no claim to character or place. The creative ideas, however, are mine. Unfortunately.
SUMMARY: Erestor is so cold. Elrond wonders why.
WARNING: Pedophilia. This story addresses the issue of children in a sexual context. There is no sexual interaction of any kind, but this subject is discussed. In depth.
NOTES: Ever notice how when you’re sick sometimes, or when you sleep in a foreign place, how odd thoughts emerge from your mind and incomprehensible images fill your dreams? No explanation can rationalize these midnight concoctions. And they might trouble us and fill us with doubt. And we might write them down. And we might make a story of them.
DATE WRITTEN: June 19?-July 1, 2003


= = = = =

SIN TO STIR THE SOUL


He was at his desk. As usual.

It wasn’t in an office or stateroom, but tucked away in a lost corner of the library where shadows fell at odd angles throughout the day.

But now it was night, and the only illumination was provided by a single beeswax candle nearing the end of its life in an ancient clay holder on the left hand side of the old, mahogany desk. Its light was bland and yellowish; it flickered ominously off the dark bindings on the shelves, sometimes catching the gilt of a carefully lettered title or the shine of empty brass torch-holders hiding on the far wall. Its light was enough for the parchment directly before it, crisp new vellum a pale cream being steadily colored by the black ink in careful, spidery handwriting that appeared small and delicate on such a large page.

Running into the stream of black ink was a stream of black hair, falling carelessly across the page but not daring to mar the slow-drying black ink.

The braids had come loose during the day. Just after suppertime. They always did, with such fine, heavy hair. He never bothered to redo them though. Figured it didn’t really matter, since he kept himself to himself after dark. There weren’t any more meals or meetings, so he didn’t have to look particularly presentable.

No, he just sat in the empty library as usual, doing work that could have waited until the next day. Or the next week.

He was hunched over, right hand quickly darting the quill across the paper, dark eyes darting from the page to the open book beside him to the neatly ordered notes spread about the wide desk. He always hunched.

The quill came to an abrupt halt. The hunched figure froze. Black eyes pierced the outlying darkness of aisles and shelves. “Who’s there?”

A shuffling noise sounded directly across from the desk, inching its way forward until two figures finally entered the farthest reaches of the candle. Pale faces, fearful but hopeful, were identical. So was the flawless raven hair, unbound and slightly curling at the very ends. Two pairs of cloudy grey eyes were wide, reflecting the candle’s light in four pinprick sparkles. The twin sons of Elrond presented tall, stately forms, even in their dreary riding clothes stained with mud and worse as they cowered before their father’s Chief Counselor.

“It is only we two, Counselor Eres --”

“Shut up.” Erestor’s voice was something worse than a growl. Perhaps more a hissing accusation.

Elrohir ceased his words abruptly and moved as if to retreat, but Elladan held him still, refusing to let him escape.

The ancient Elf did not move; his head was still tilted at the awkward angle he always wrote with, shoulders hunched protectively over his work, right hand elegantly clutching the quill, left hand splayed over the half-completed page. “What do you mean by this?” That cultured voice, always so composed, was now bereft of self-possession or any sort of kindness. It was cold, his voice -- cold and cruel.

Cold, too, were the black eyes and sour turn of thin lips.

“What do you mean, interrupting the sacred silence of the archives at this time of night.” It really wasn’t a question. “You know I work here. You know I do not tolerate foolish disruptions from spoiled boys pretending to be soldiers on their father’s land.”

Hope abandoned the previously bright eyes, rendering them a dull grey, now full only of fear.

“Get out.”

The twins shuffled back half a step.

“NOW!”

They fled.

Black eyes followed their progress and did not turn away until the sound of footsteps faded completely.

With a disgusted grimace, Erestor settled firmly into his hunch and his work.

***

The fire was small and pathetic. It gave off little light and less warmth on the chill Autumn eve. Erestor paced the gray stone hearth, dusty robes trailing behind him, swishing out as he turned. The hunched figure and bowed head allowed the heavy black tresses to fall around his face, drawn and pale. Not that anyone was there to see him. A half-drained glass of clear wine was clutched in an angry hand as he wished for something stronger.

A firm knock sounded on the far oak door.

Erestor froze, turning to stare with incomprehensible offense at the disruption. Who would dare?

He threw the wine glass into the fire in a sudden fury. A temporary flare of light illuminated the shattered crystal.

He stalked across the imported Mirkwood rugs to harshly jerk open the dark-paneled door. “What? Oh, forgive me, my Lord,” he gave a small bow at the sight of Elrond standing there in formal evening robes, a dark glass bottle cradled in his healer’s hands.

“Counselor Erestor,” Elrond greeted him, not yet daring to smile. “I thought I might bring a gift to help you relax, but it seems you are well on the way to such relaxation.”

Erestor sighed. “You mean inebriation. Come in, Elrond.”

The half-Elven did so, deep blue robes whispering across the threshold. “Here you are, my friend.” He presented the bottle to Erestor after he closed the door. The dark Elf warily accepted the gift, watching as Elrond crossed the ornately decorated room to the opulent marble fireplace within which the miserly fire barely burned. “We do have wood enough to properly heat these rooms, you know,” Elrond lightly teased as he added several logs to the tiny fire from the iron brackets beside the hearth.

Erestor rolled his eyes, coming round to plop down onto one of the two overstuffed armchairs situated before the fireplace. “I wouldn’t have to ‘properly heat’ these rooms if they weren’t mine to begin with,” he grumbled.

Now, Elrond smiled. “An Elf of your position is worthy of such rooms.”

“A simple tower room would h--”

“Would have sufficed,” Elrond finished. “Yes, I know. And you’d hole up there with your work and we’d never see you again. So,” he said with a pointed glance to the shimmering glass fragments on the hearth, “Rough day?”

Erestor grunted.

Elrond only grinned, turning to retrieve a pair of crystal glasses from the finely appointed cabinet adorned with careful scrollwork and etched glass windows and shining brass knobs. “You are short on glasses again, I see,” Elrond observed with a wry twist of handsome lips. When he turned to approach Erestor, he was greeted with an unamused glare.

Elrond gracefully set himself down in the other chair, laying out the glasses on the empty chess table between them. When Erestor made no motion, Elrond leaned forward to take the bottle from him and swiftly uncork it. He poured a tiny amount of deep amber liquid into each glass. He took up one glass, expectantly awaiting Erestor to do the same.

The Counselor eyed the black bottle, the curling brown label now faded. “Gondorian whiskey. Turn of the Age. That can’t have come cheap.”

“It never does,” Elrond agreed, taking a small sip. He didn’t bother to hide the grimace.

Erestor calmly took the other glass, draining it easily.

Elrond set down his own goblet, barely touched, but poured Erestor another shot.

Again, the dark Elf drank the whole of it without ado. This time, when the empty glass came down, it banged harshly onto the table with an unsteady hand. Erestor let Elrond pour again, but this time, did not drink. He eyed his Lord suspiciously. “What?”

Elrond looked up, grey eyes wide and innocent. “What ‘what?’”

Erestor drank, no longer tasting the strong alcohol that swiftly swept through Elven senses. “You never just show up in the middle of the night with Gondorian whiskey. Unless you want to know something.” He burped. “So what do you want to know?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Elrond said lightly, refusing to meet the black-as-pitch gaze that would have burned into him, if he’d let it. “Drink your dinner,” he added, pouring more of the rare, dark whiskey.

Erestor ceased his complaints, downing the soothing sting of the harsh Man’s drink. “I always talk too much when I’m drunk,” he mused quietly, words beginning to slur together. “You know that.”

Elrond made no answer. But he again tipped bottle to glass.

A sigh escaped thin lips as Erestor dully watched the movement, heat from the liquor adding a little color to the pale face. “I’m gonna regret this tomorrow.”

“You always do,” Elrond agreed.

“You are encouraging a terr’bly bad habit,” Erestor pointed out, attempting to carefully enunciate the words. “No’ a very healerly thing ta do.”

“I don’t think ‘healerly’ is a word,” Elrond grinned.

Erestor glowered. And drank. He finally pulled his eyes away from his Lord, looking instead to the steadily growing fire.

They sat in silence for long moments, Elrond not even pretending to drink. The half-Elven Lord encouraged simple talk of every-day things until dark eyes lost their common glint and the finely controlled tongue became easily slurred and heavy. Then, Elrond began his attack. “I have noticed over the years, my friend, that you have no fondness for children.”

Erestor suddenly looked to him, eyes wide. Then, he burst into a fit of unexpected laughter, doubling over in his seat, spilling a portion of the expensive whiskey onto the expensive carpet. The disturbing peal of high-pitched giggles eventually petered out into gasping sighs.

Elrond gazed upon him with open concern. “What, exactly, is so funny?” he cautiously asked.

“Oh,” Erestor sighed, waving a hand wildly as he recovered from the laughing fit, “nothing you’d wanna hear.”

Somewhat off put, Elrond continued to stare at his companion before trying again. “My children are very fond of you, you know. You’ve taught them quite a bit, and they respect that,” he spoke truthfully.

Erestor nodded, though it was unclear whether he actually heard what had been said, staring disconsolately into the fire as he was.

“I am glad that you took to Arwen so well,” Elrond decidedly informed him. “She really was a delicate child emotionally, and I feared your usual brusqueness would frighten her. I was so relieved when you did not treat her as you did Elladan and Elrohir.”

“Arwen was born a lady,” Erestor explained, his words no less profound for their poor pronunciation. “A lady of ‘igh intelligence and quick wit wi’ no need fer tomfoolery or childish tricks. Your sons, on the other ‘and, had a grea’ desire uh the latter an’ very little uh the former. They ‘ad no patience fer learning and no respec’ fer elders. They needed a firm ‘and and that’s what I gave ‘em.”

“But they have grown.”

Erestor started. He glanced to Elrond a moment, then back to the hearth. “They have indeed,” he agreed in a barely heard rumble.

“Yet you still treat them as unkindly as ever you have, with harsh words and bittern”
”

“That is because their childish ways continue to earn such treatment!” Erestor shouted, banging a fist on the table, inflamed with passion released by the whiskey. “I’ve given them nothing they did not deserve.” He waved his hand dismissively.

Elrond shook his head sadly. “I beg to differ.”

“Then do so,” Erestor challenged.

Elrond paused, nonplused for a moment. “They have come to me, my sons, in a very professional and respectful manner, requesting more time with you in the libraries,” he slowly explained in his deep baritone.

“You’re daft,” was Erestor’s response.

“And you are blind. Elladan and Elrohir shall always retain their wild side, but they have quite learned control of themselves. They have a great respect for you and your knowledge and wish to benefit from it.”

“Why no’ come to me themselves then, ‘stead uh runnin’ to daddy?” Erestor asked crossly, examining his glass intently.

“Because you have managed to frighten them all their lives. You are not kind by nature; they know that. But they also have eyes. They see that you treat none so harshly as you treat them. They do not understand your malice, Erestor. And neither do I,” Elrond confided.

“Do ya wish to? Un’erstan’ my malice?” Erestor asked, words running together as he gazed with unfocused black eyes into the brightly burning fire.

On the edge of his seat now, Elrond hopefully uttered, “I should like to, very much.”

Erestor tore his gaze from the fire to glare at his Lord, an expression suddenly full of sharp intelligence, and Elrond suddenly wondered if his ploy had worked. “Damn my tongue and your ways, Elrond,” said the Counselor. “If I was sober, I wouldn’t be telling you this.”

“I know.”

“You unruly nymph. Now I finally understand where they get it from.”

Elrond didn’t have to ask who ‘they’ were.

“Do you truly wish me to open my mind to you? Think carefully now, for I warn you, you will not like what you find. ‘Ere, in my head,” he pointed an elegant finger thusly, “is a torment of guilt and sin. Ya think you can survive a glimpse of my soul, my frien’?”

Elrond could only stare, perplexed. He did not speak, but only nodded.

“You brave warrior. You foolish lord. Wha’ do you think you will find? Wha’ do you ‘spec’ me to say?”

Licking his lips for a moment, Elrond finally found his tongue. “Only the truth.”

“The truth. Yes, the ugliest truth you will ever encounter, I expec’. Ugly, terrifying. Cruel and unusual are the thoughts an’ desires warring in the head of yer steward.” He no longer looked to the fire and the empty crystal goblet stood beside him as the black gaze never wavered from grey eyes now confused and fearful.

“Since you yearn so deeply and plot so artlessly, I fear I shall ‘ave to give in. Why grant yer sons bitterness? Why hatred? Why doubt? Why harshness an’ spite? Why anger and why pain?” he asked, black eyes alight with the drink and an unchecked passion. “Why treat all boys with such ugly irreverence? Why only boys? Why not girls or men or dwarves or anyone else? Why them? Why your sons?”

“Yes, why?” Elrond asked breathlessly of the dark Elf.

“To keep ‘em at a distance of course. I wouldn’t want them to get too close.”

“Too close?”

“Too close to an animal. Too close to sin. Too close to me.”

“To sin? I don’t understand.”

“Do you not? Have you ever seen me with a lover? Have you ever seen me pursue romance of any kind?”

“Nay…”

“Nay,” Erestor agreed. “My desires do not run so straight a course as I might wish, as might be considered normal. Or sane.”

“Desires?” Elrond asked, leaning forward in unavoidable anticipation.

Dark eyes suddenly turned to mischievous cruelty as Erestor leant in to meet him, daring the other to look away as he spoke in a low, seductive timbre. “What passions infuse you with lust, my Lord? Pretty young maids with long, flowing hair? Soft curves and shapely form? Heaving bosoms? What unique combination of thrills coaxes your member to stiffen, your heart to pound, your essence to surge with need? What rousing song stirs your body to action? What desperate desire pulls forth release of ecstasy in dizzying spirals of lust?”

Speechless, Elrond could make no response.

“Well?” Erestor demanded, surveying the half-Elf with such intensity that there was no reing ing sign of the bottle he had drunk, though the liquor still flowed in his veins. “No answers from the inquisitor?” he teased mercilessly. “I understand completely. This is my inquisition. So. You must then ask the same of me. What spurs my fantasies? What images fill my body with longing? What desires stir MY soul? What thoughts constantly mar the surface of this exceptional mind?” He halted, but received neither questions nor answers from his questioner. “Shall I tell you then? And lead you on the road to the discovery of gruesome truth?”

Elrond moved his head. It was almost a nod.

“Maidens?” Erestor mused. “No. Certainly not. No pretty young maid has ever turned my head in the slightest, nor stirred my body, nor tempted my heart. No, nor warriors either. There are those among us who prefer the same, you know,” Erestor told him, as if Elrond did not know of Glorfindel’s exploits. “There are men among us who find as little appeal in woman as I do. They are of a rather different… persuasion. They seek a body of sleek and strong muscle, tall forms of masculine physique. They should rather prefer warrior to wench, and seek release only in their own kind. But that is not my way either.”

“Then what is your way?” Elrond managed in a halting whisper.

Erestor sneered hatefully. “Desire is a funny thing,” he told his Lord. “I don’t understand my sickness any more than a child understands the nature of war. My desires are foreign, but my fantasies are the only things that arouse me. Do you know what these fantasies are? Have a clue where my secret desires lay?”

Elrond mutely shook his head.

“In children.”

Elrond made no move nor voiced any protest, sitting still and silent on that chair.

“In the innocent shape of boys not yet ripe. I long only for the half-grown colts among us, innocent and awkward and more beautiful than any other sight I have ever seen. No muscle here, nor soft curves. But softness they have in abundance, in their wide-open eyes and girlish figures. Softness. Innocence. Inelegant and graceless and perfectly marvelous. This is what awakens my blood. This is what calls to me. This is what stirs my soul.”

Elrond only stared emotionlessly, not speaking, not moving -- perhaps incapable of doing either.

“Have you never imagined it, my Lord? The soft sweetness of youth, with rounded bellies and gangling legs, the curve of a tiny leaf ear, the dimple in a smooth-silk cheek? So innocent and unsuspecting of a cruder impulse behind a gentle stroke. How would the youth react to a more daring touch? More intimate? Such naïve confusion. Such hopeful fear. You’ve never thought of it, have you? Of luring a boy to your rooms under whatever pretext, of leaning over so close to the heat of him to point out the detail in a book, of resting a trembling hand on a trembling shoulder. Such a gentle touch; it would become firm and comforting, a subtle caress. You’ve never imagined brushing against his back -- such intimate contact -- or letting your hand accidentally tangle in a fall of raven hair. How you would apologize, brushing through to straighten tousled locks. You would never dream of bending down for a serious talk just to be close to cloudy grey eyes or pouting pink lips. Of whispering into a velvety curving ear just to more vividly imagine brushing your lips against it. You can’t fathom the very idea,” Erestor told him, leaning in with drunken intensity, though his words were sharp and clear.

Elrond mutely shook his head.

“But I do,” Erestor told him. “I dream these things, crave, hope for, desire beyond all else these imaginings to be real. And do you know what I would do then?”

Again, Elrond shook his head. He did not want to know. It w ple plea to stop, not to go on. But Erestor ignored it.

“My fantasies continue, oh yes. I would fondly cup a blushing cheek and chase away strange fears and doubts. Whisper reassurance and place the chastest of kisses on that most smooth brow. I would sooth him to stillness and coax him toward the bed. Sit him down. Let him grow comfortable. Perha wou would stroke his back and encourage him to lay down, to rest, to sleep where I would look after him. How would he respond when I touch the skin of his back, sneaking a hand between the folds of his garments? What would he say as I slip the fabric away, telling him to relax, to be calm, to rest? What would he do as I lay him down and touch the precious, perfect skin, white and creamy and blushing with uncertain fear?”

Elrond’s face, previously white with horror, became heated with blood flushing away the paleness of his cheeks as he listened, frozen, to his Chief Counselor.

“Tell me, my Lord, how would this child re Wo Would he fight as I turn him to his knees, peeling away the simple clothes? Or would he tremble in helpless fear as I wrap my limbs around him, preparing for the ultimate possession? I can only imagine the whimpers of terror, the screams of pain, for that is how it would be for a child. But I don’t want to. Here,” Erestor pointed again to his own head, “In my head, I always imagine the charming blush of naiveté becoming a blush of heated passion. Any whimpers are from pleasure, and shouts are those of ecstasy.” A bitter smile. “Can you see it, my Lord? In YOUR head? Your Chief Counselor and a little Elf-child in an embrace of lust… small fingers curling in my dark hair, perfect bowed lips parted in delight as I thrust into the fragile body--”

“Stop!” Elrond finally shouted, standing and covering his pointed ears as if to hide from the words.

“Ah, stop?” Erestor asked, knowing Elrond could still hear him. “That’s precisely what I tell myself. But I can’t, you see. I can no more deny my evil nature than can the Dark Lord. There is no bar on the thoughts that traipse through my head without the slightest consideration for morals or ethics.”

As Erestor continued speaking, Elrond opened grey eyes to gaze at the fire, and slowly lowered his hands from his ears.

“And for years now it has been the same face I see beneath me, the same body. Or bodies, if you take my meaning. I’ve imagined them both at once, you know. Your twin sons writhing beneath me…”

“Erestor,” Elrond warned in a trembling, troubled voice.

Erestor nodded, a look of ashamed self-loathing firmly in place. Finally, he leant back into his seat, glass clutched tightly in a white-knuckled hand. He stared lazily into the fire and spoke so softly that the words were nearly lost in the crackling of the blaze. “This is why I treat them as I do.” He poured the last drops of the bottle into the glass and drank. “You think I could be always civil, always polite; endure those endearing smiles, hear daily that joyous laughter. And not be tempted?”

Again, Elrond said nothing.

“I am always tempted.” The soft words became a mere whisper, sad and lonely. “Even now, though they are grown, their childlike spirits and youthful faces call to me. They always have.” He closed his eyes. “They always will.” Spent and tired and no less hateful, Erestor sighed. “And now you have your answers. And now you can leave me to my sort of peace.”

Elrond stood a moment in silent contemplation, not daring to look upon his Chief Counselor. Eventually, he nodded absently to himself and turned to leave.

“Oh, and my Lord?”

Elrond halted.

“When the nightmares come, I recommend a midnight stroll in the gardens. And a glass of heated milk.”

“Does that keep the nightmares at bay?” he asked without turning.

“No,” Erestor said, a bleak smile lacing his voice. “But it makes me feel better. For a short while.”

The heavy door opened and closed almost soundlessly.

Erestor stared into the fire.

***

He was at his desk. As usual.

The candle was nearly gone now, but the sun would be up soon. The meager light might last long enough.

Hunched over his work, Erestor’s quill moved ferociously across a new sheet of vellum, copying or translating or just-anything so long as it kept him busy.

Stooped over the paper, face bent close to the desktop, black hair spilling onto the parchment-- he labored arduously without pause.

There was a moment between the pitch black of night and the breaking of false dawn when the candle finally sputtered its last, and the flame extinguished in its own puddle of hot wax with a soft hiss like the last exhalation of a dying man.

He was caught in this ethereal moment of darkness, when the faint scent of smoky candle tingled his senses and the shadows enveloped him like a shroud, before a grey light tinted the eastern horizon, a light indistinguishable from night to mortal eyes. The earliest rays of the sun diffused the atmosphere, reflecting into the library just enough for the Elf to make out the objects nearest him.

In no time at all, there was enough faint light for Erestor to again hunch over the desk and resume his work.

The only sounds in this vacant corner of shadowed library were the *scritch scritch* of quill on parchment and the occasional turning of a page as Erestor continued his ceaseless toil, ignorant to the slow rise of the sun and occasional Autumn breeze from the open doors that sent chill air whirling about to play at the hems of his robes.

But a sudden change of atmosphere grabbed his attention and Erestor stopped his quill, tilting his head to the draft of air.

A rumor of movement echoed down the aisle from the main doors. It sounded like fabric rasping over stone in a slow, tripping rhythm.

Erestor waited patiently until the trespassers became visible in the weak, morning light. “You again.”

“Good morning, Counselor Erestor,” Elrohir said with a slight bow. Elladan just stood there, glaring.

When they did nothing more, Erestor put on a well-crafted glare of his own. “Well?”

Elrohir, holding his head high, took a deep breath and stepped out from the shelves he stood level with, as if he were daring to enter foreign territory by crossing the invisible threshold. “Counselor,” he repeated, attempting to force some strength into the quivering voice, “We were hoping our father might have approached you regarding--”

“He did,” Erestor interrupted, voice cold and cruel.

Elrohir tried to smile. “Oh good! We thought--”

“There will be no tutoring for you,” Erestor told them, slowing rising from his seat. “If you had paid closer attention to your lessons, perhaps you would not be feeling so lacking now. You expect me to take time from my already demanding schedule to accommodate your every whim? I have no time for--”

“How dare you?” Elladan accused, marching forward past Elrohir right up to Erestor’s desk. “How dare you dismiss us like some troublesome children? We have earned our place here and work as hard as any other! Coming to the Chief Counselor for aid is something no one else here would think twice about, but when you show us little respect and less kindness, we found ourselves having second thoughts.”

Elrohir glided forward on silent feet to lay a hand on his twin’s shoulder. “Elladan.”

The angry Elf ceased his tirade, stepping back.

“Peace,” Elrohir said, concerned grey eyes regarding both Elladan and Erestor in turn, finally settling on the Chief Counselor. “What we ask is not so great. You fill your days with needless work that we could help you with, if you would but take some hours from your week to teach us. I have no doubt our focus has increased and our antics diminished since our last lesson with you, Counselor.” He smiled softly. “Please.”

Elladan bowed his head. “Please.”

“Your words are calm, Elrohir. Your tongue is not, Elladan.” They looked up at him hopefully. Erestor spoke calmly as he resumed his seat. “But I have no time for lessons. Do not come here again.”

Elladan’s fist assaulted the desktop. “Erestor! You--”

But whatever insults would have followed were not known, as Elrohir bodily removed his brother from the library amidst struggles, whines, and loud whispers. “Put me down!”

“Stop it, Elladan.”

Their voices echoed through the library long after the twins had departed it.

The dark Elf, alone now amid the dusty rows of forgotten books, tightly closed his eyes against some unseen enemy.

With a disgusted grimace, Erestor settled firmly into his hunch and his work.


= = = = =

The End.