Songs of the Spirit
folder
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
15
Views:
4,186
Reviews:
32
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
15
Views:
4,186
Reviews:
32
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Songs of the Spirit
Title: Songs of the Spirit
Author: Nikkiling
Rating: Uh…R?
Pairing: Erestor/Lindir
Disclaimer: Not mine. The world belongs to Tolkien.... *sigh* I make nothing for this.
Warnings: Domestic abuse
Summery: Two souls drawn to each other by the power of the music within.
A/N: This little fic came to me quite suddenly after listening to Savage Garden’s ‘Two Beds and a Coffee Machine.’ Never considered this pairing, or even using these characters before that moment. Not sure what happened in that regard…
Chapter One:
The elfling sat beneath a sturdy bush in the small garden, clutching his flute to his chest as if he could somehow draw strength and reassurance from the smooth golden wood. His parents were fighting again. He could hear his father yelling at his mother, the angry words cruel enough to leave deep wounds that sliced down to the very soul. What she had done wrong this time the elfling did not know; and probably never would. Occasionally she would shout something back, but her momentary defiance never lasted long under the weight of his brutality, and in they end she was always left a weeping, broken mess.
Elves weren’t supposed to act like this, he thought for perhaps the thousandth time, trying desperately to hold back the tears which threatened to fall. They were supposed to be kindly and genteel, with calm, patient natures. If that was so, then why did his father abuse his family as he did, first with words and then with hands or whatever was available to his volatile temper? And it wasn’t as if they could speak to any about it; none would believe him or his mother for outwardly the elf in question was a respected citizen of even temperance and friendly demeanor. No one ever saw the stygian depths lurking beneath the warm exterior but his family, and due to the relative isolation of their home, none stopped by to question the violent noises that came from within.
The elfling flinched as he heard the sharp sound of flesh striking flesh, wishing there was some way he could help his mother. Yet fear for his own safety held him back. His mother wasn’t the only one to suffer her husband’s wrath; the elfling had learned early on to speak softly around his father, for his moods tended to shift quite suddenly. Too often had the elfling ended up on the receiving end of a fist, boot, or cane for crimes so small as to be unidentifiable by most. His only recourse was to hide, and yet even that didn’t always work. When his father wanted something, sometimes it was better to come forwards and take whatever came rather than wait until his anger grew stronger. The elfling had long since given up trying to figure out what he could do to please his often enraged father.
The elfling brought his hands up to cover his ears in an attempt to stifle the sounds coming from the house, and when that didn’t work he began to softly hum. Music was his greatest pleasure, although his father would have happily taken that away from him. He wanted his son to be a warrior; nevermind that the child was still young, and had no talent or interest in weaponswork. It was just something else that could be held over the elfling’s head. “You are weak and a coward, just like your whore of a mother,” was a common phrase heard on an almost daily basis amongst other harsh verbal utterances and often accompanied by a sharp blow to the head. Such injuries were usually never so serious that they couldn’t be covered, and none suspected that beneath the clothing of mother and son lay vivid bruises in various states of healing. When something was accidentally uncovered, or in cases such as the broken arm he’d received when trying to protect his mother from being hit again only a year before, he had merely told everyone he had fallen from a tree. Plausible enough, given he liked to climb as any youngling might.
The distressing sounds finally died away, and glancing towards the back door he could see his father emerge from the dim recesses of their small home. His dark eyes peered about the garden, searching for something. The youngling pushed back further into the shadows, trying not to be seen or heard despite his father’s sharp senses. His back and arms were still mottled with fresh bruises from the last time the elder had found him while in one of his rages. His heart throbbed from the strain of pent up emotions, just as his throat ached from the strength of his withheld tears.
After several long, anxious moments, the tall figure finally walked back inside, and soon after the elfling heard the sound of a door slamming shut; a sound that meant his father had left for the evening. He breathed a sigh of relief which sounded more like a sob of fright, and crept out from beneath the bush, still clutching his flute in one hand. Now he would have to go back into the house and discover what sort of chaos his father had left behind this time.
* * *
“Liar!” The fist caught him along his cheekbone, splitting the soft flesh and sending the elfling to the floor. “Get up!”
He struggled painfully to his knees, head reeling. Yet he was too slow, and before he could rise very far a hand reached down and grasped the front of his tunic in a steely grip, jerking the elfling upwards.
“Now where is my jeweled dagger?”
“I don’t know,” the elfling whimpered past a bloody, swollen lip. It was the truth; he had no clue as to where the dagger might be, but he also knew his father would never believe him.
Caerdil hurled the elfling to the side, where he stuck the corner of a side table and collapsed to the floor, clutching at his bruised stomach.
“I saw you looking at it the morning,” the elfling’s father growled, stepping closer to where his son lay, gasping in pain. “And now it is gone.”
“I promise, ada,” the elfling moaned, trying to rise to his feet once again despite his aching body. “I did not touch it.”
Caerdil made to say something, but stopped and turned at the hurried sound of footsteps approaching. His thin lips twisted in a scowl as he watched his wife draw near. “Here it is,” Lanea spoke softly, but urgently, holding out a beautiful jewel-encrusted blade. “It was under the table. It must have slipped off…”
Caerdil merely grunted, snatching it from her hand and buckling it to his belt. “I am late for my meeting. We will discuss this when I return.”
Lanea quickly stepped aside as her husband left, and then rushed over to where her son remained crouched on the floor. The elfling flinched away as she made to touch his cut cheek.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said, her soft voice filled with sorrow and remorse as she pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress. Yet it was a common expression for her, and he turned his head away in denial of her words. That she meant it he was certain, but he also knew she had really done nothing to protect him. She never did.
He closed his eyes as the kerchief dabbed at his cheek. “Please, nana. I want to leave. Why can’t we just leave?” He opened his pleading, tear-filled eyes to look at her. Again it was a familiar litany, and as always she bowed her head, cheeks flushing with something akin to shame. She had loved her husband once, and still did. Caerdil hadn’t always been so violent or cruel. He still loved her, of that she felt certain, so how could she possibly leave him?
Lanea looked up at her son, taking in the blood trickling down his cut cheek, the lower lip swollen and bruised, the hand clutching his abdomen as if to hold in his pain. His expressive eyes no longer sparkled with life as they did when he was merely a babe; instead appearing lackluster and despondent. They looked nearly as dead as her own.
“I love him,” she murmured, but the words sounded as dull as her child’s eyes. Reaching out once more she brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, realizing with a heavy heart that if they remained her child might never see adulthood. “But I love you too. I should have done this long ago…” She shook her head, making a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a sob. Her son reached out and touched his mother’s shoulder, an incredulous look on his face. Were they really going to escape?
She rose to her feet. “I will pack a bag. We will be gone before your father gets home.”
The youngling smiled for what felt like the first time in a long time. He didn’t care where they went, as long as it was away from here.
TBC…
Author: Nikkiling
Rating: Uh…R?
Pairing: Erestor/Lindir
Disclaimer: Not mine. The world belongs to Tolkien.... *sigh* I make nothing for this.
Warnings: Domestic abuse
Summery: Two souls drawn to each other by the power of the music within.
A/N: This little fic came to me quite suddenly after listening to Savage Garden’s ‘Two Beds and a Coffee Machine.’ Never considered this pairing, or even using these characters before that moment. Not sure what happened in that regard…
Chapter One:
The elfling sat beneath a sturdy bush in the small garden, clutching his flute to his chest as if he could somehow draw strength and reassurance from the smooth golden wood. His parents were fighting again. He could hear his father yelling at his mother, the angry words cruel enough to leave deep wounds that sliced down to the very soul. What she had done wrong this time the elfling did not know; and probably never would. Occasionally she would shout something back, but her momentary defiance never lasted long under the weight of his brutality, and in they end she was always left a weeping, broken mess.
Elves weren’t supposed to act like this, he thought for perhaps the thousandth time, trying desperately to hold back the tears which threatened to fall. They were supposed to be kindly and genteel, with calm, patient natures. If that was so, then why did his father abuse his family as he did, first with words and then with hands or whatever was available to his volatile temper? And it wasn’t as if they could speak to any about it; none would believe him or his mother for outwardly the elf in question was a respected citizen of even temperance and friendly demeanor. No one ever saw the stygian depths lurking beneath the warm exterior but his family, and due to the relative isolation of their home, none stopped by to question the violent noises that came from within.
The elfling flinched as he heard the sharp sound of flesh striking flesh, wishing there was some way he could help his mother. Yet fear for his own safety held him back. His mother wasn’t the only one to suffer her husband’s wrath; the elfling had learned early on to speak softly around his father, for his moods tended to shift quite suddenly. Too often had the elfling ended up on the receiving end of a fist, boot, or cane for crimes so small as to be unidentifiable by most. His only recourse was to hide, and yet even that didn’t always work. When his father wanted something, sometimes it was better to come forwards and take whatever came rather than wait until his anger grew stronger. The elfling had long since given up trying to figure out what he could do to please his often enraged father.
The elfling brought his hands up to cover his ears in an attempt to stifle the sounds coming from the house, and when that didn’t work he began to softly hum. Music was his greatest pleasure, although his father would have happily taken that away from him. He wanted his son to be a warrior; nevermind that the child was still young, and had no talent or interest in weaponswork. It was just something else that could be held over the elfling’s head. “You are weak and a coward, just like your whore of a mother,” was a common phrase heard on an almost daily basis amongst other harsh verbal utterances and often accompanied by a sharp blow to the head. Such injuries were usually never so serious that they couldn’t be covered, and none suspected that beneath the clothing of mother and son lay vivid bruises in various states of healing. When something was accidentally uncovered, or in cases such as the broken arm he’d received when trying to protect his mother from being hit again only a year before, he had merely told everyone he had fallen from a tree. Plausible enough, given he liked to climb as any youngling might.
The distressing sounds finally died away, and glancing towards the back door he could see his father emerge from the dim recesses of their small home. His dark eyes peered about the garden, searching for something. The youngling pushed back further into the shadows, trying not to be seen or heard despite his father’s sharp senses. His back and arms were still mottled with fresh bruises from the last time the elder had found him while in one of his rages. His heart throbbed from the strain of pent up emotions, just as his throat ached from the strength of his withheld tears.
After several long, anxious moments, the tall figure finally walked back inside, and soon after the elfling heard the sound of a door slamming shut; a sound that meant his father had left for the evening. He breathed a sigh of relief which sounded more like a sob of fright, and crept out from beneath the bush, still clutching his flute in one hand. Now he would have to go back into the house and discover what sort of chaos his father had left behind this time.
* * *
“Liar!” The fist caught him along his cheekbone, splitting the soft flesh and sending the elfling to the floor. “Get up!”
He struggled painfully to his knees, head reeling. Yet he was too slow, and before he could rise very far a hand reached down and grasped the front of his tunic in a steely grip, jerking the elfling upwards.
“Now where is my jeweled dagger?”
“I don’t know,” the elfling whimpered past a bloody, swollen lip. It was the truth; he had no clue as to where the dagger might be, but he also knew his father would never believe him.
Caerdil hurled the elfling to the side, where he stuck the corner of a side table and collapsed to the floor, clutching at his bruised stomach.
“I saw you looking at it the morning,” the elfling’s father growled, stepping closer to where his son lay, gasping in pain. “And now it is gone.”
“I promise, ada,” the elfling moaned, trying to rise to his feet once again despite his aching body. “I did not touch it.”
Caerdil made to say something, but stopped and turned at the hurried sound of footsteps approaching. His thin lips twisted in a scowl as he watched his wife draw near. “Here it is,” Lanea spoke softly, but urgently, holding out a beautiful jewel-encrusted blade. “It was under the table. It must have slipped off…”
Caerdil merely grunted, snatching it from her hand and buckling it to his belt. “I am late for my meeting. We will discuss this when I return.”
Lanea quickly stepped aside as her husband left, and then rushed over to where her son remained crouched on the floor. The elfling flinched away as she made to touch his cut cheek.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said, her soft voice filled with sorrow and remorse as she pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress. Yet it was a common expression for her, and he turned his head away in denial of her words. That she meant it he was certain, but he also knew she had really done nothing to protect him. She never did.
He closed his eyes as the kerchief dabbed at his cheek. “Please, nana. I want to leave. Why can’t we just leave?” He opened his pleading, tear-filled eyes to look at her. Again it was a familiar litany, and as always she bowed her head, cheeks flushing with something akin to shame. She had loved her husband once, and still did. Caerdil hadn’t always been so violent or cruel. He still loved her, of that she felt certain, so how could she possibly leave him?
Lanea looked up at her son, taking in the blood trickling down his cut cheek, the lower lip swollen and bruised, the hand clutching his abdomen as if to hold in his pain. His expressive eyes no longer sparkled with life as they did when he was merely a babe; instead appearing lackluster and despondent. They looked nearly as dead as her own.
“I love him,” she murmured, but the words sounded as dull as her child’s eyes. Reaching out once more she brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, realizing with a heavy heart that if they remained her child might never see adulthood. “But I love you too. I should have done this long ago…” She shook her head, making a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a sob. Her son reached out and touched his mother’s shoulder, an incredulous look on his face. Were they really going to escape?
She rose to her feet. “I will pack a bag. We will be gone before your father gets home.”
The youngling smiled for what felt like the first time in a long time. He didn’t care where they went, as long as it was away from here.
TBC…