Innocence
by Soledad

Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

Rating: R this time, for some gory battle details. Yeah, people, tis not always about sex!

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

Extra warning for grammar pedantists: not yet beta-ed!

Author's Notes:
Time: (around 700, 3rd Age)

Now, I know that the two parts of this particular chapter do not really match seamlessly. Truth is, I wrote the second part first, for I needed to come along with the main storyline. But when I was thinking about a proper nightmare, it occured to me that this would be about the only opportunity to show Erestor in the Last Battle - so I chose it. Hope it is not too disturbing.

Just one more thing: some of my dear friends from the Silmfics group objected against the armour of Gildor's horse - and they might have been right with their objections. I'm no weapon's expert, after all. However, I decided to keep that belly armour. I found it useful against wolves, and if Celebrimbor could make the Great Rings, why shouldn't he have been able to create such an armour? After his death, of course, the secret was lost, and nobody could do it again.

There is no exact date given for this chapter. It was not necessary.

Chapter 11: Stirring of Hearts - Heartsong

He had been separated from Elrond in the heat of the battle, and now he was fighting with all the strength of his youth and his vengeful hatred towards the slaughterers of his family and his much-admired Lord, Celebrimbor, to get back to the side of his foster father. He could not miss him, for Elrond led the charge across the burning plain of Dagorlad without a helmet, so that his warriors could always recognize him from afar. His long, raven hair had freed itself from the containment of braids and was whipping around in the dry, hot winds of Mordor like the banners of Death itself.

His every slash, his every stab hit its target unerringly; his high cheekbones were smudged with ash and gore, and his once shining armour covered with the black blood of Sauron's hideous creatures. Terrifying he was in his cold wrath, swift and merciless as he cut a bloody path through the hords of Orcs and wolves and other enemies, ready to face the Dark Lord himself. For who else could challenge Sauron if not him, the last child of Lúthien?(1)

Somewhere halfwayas between them another great warrior was putting the monsters of Mordor to their well-deserved deaths: Gildor Inglorion, clad in his magnificent armour of burnished gold, wearing a striking likeness of the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin(2), his golden hair swirling around his grim face like a cloud. Unlike other Elf-Lords, he was mounted, his mighty war-horse protected by shining armour all over as well, so that the wolves of Mordor could not tear up its belly.

The great, two-handed sword of Gildor was sharp and heavy enough to split even a cave troll in two, and it required almost impossible strength to wield, even from an Elf, yet the last Prince of the House of Finrod handled it as if it were but a long throwing knife. And while Elrond fought in embittered silence, save his shouted orders to his troops, the golden Prince roared new curses and insults toward his enemies and their dark Master by every slash he made and howled in horrible triumph by each enemy he saw falling.

Erestor fought with clenched teeth. Young and unused to battle he might have been, yet the wrath kept him going, sliding over the blood soaked bodies of his slain enemies, willing back the sickness that threated to rise from his stomach from the smell of blood and death, of burnt flesh and smoke and ash. It was very much like the destruction of his old home - only that he was no frightened little Elfling any more. He was a grown Elf now - one given the chance of avenging the horrible deaths of his beloved ones. And the measure of his vengeance was far from full yet.

He cast a brutal blow with his shield, crushing the skull of an Orc, together with its helmet, with such force that it surprised even himself; but again, he was the son of a smith who not only cut jewels and wrought delicate broches but forged swords and spear-heads as well, and gifted the strength of hardened sinews upon his only surviving son.

Erestor shook his head to free his mind from the distracting memories and sought out Elrond once again, realizing with a scowl that he had not gotten any closer to him, even though he had nearly caught up with Gildor, who was raving around in his battle rage like a golden dragon. Elrond must have swept across the battle plain like a thunderstorm, indeed.

For a fleeting moment Erestor was distracted by the whirlwind of golden-shining death not far before him so he only saw from the corner of an eye how two of the taller enemy soldiers, presumably Men in the service of the Dark Lord, shifted from Mannish to wolven form - only that they were twice as large as common wolves and a lot bigger than even the biggest Wargs the Orcs used to ride, with unholy, glowing yellow eyes, fangs like ragged daggers and vicious, sicle-like claws on all four limbs.

Werewolves, Erestor realized with numbing fear, knowing all too well from old tales what such fell creatures were able to. Survival instinct alone led his shield-arm to take a defensive position, protecting his abdomen from the razor-sharp claws of the first one, while he made hopeless attempts fo fight off the other one with his sword.

But werewolves are not the same mindless beasts as their other wolfish kindred, combining the blood-thirst of Wargs with the wretched slyness of evil, thinking creatures, and one young Elf, still rather untried in battle, was no challenge for them. Not even for a single one; and most surely not for two.

Thusly, it took them only a moment to tear the shield from Erestor's blood-slickened arm with their long, curved claws, breaking the limb along with the leather fastenings in the process, while an incredibly strong jaw closed on the wrist of his sword-arm, ragged fangs piercing his flesh, til he let his weapon fall from the searing pain. Then he felt something sharp and horribly strong thing puncture his armour - a savage, burning pain in his abdomen, as the vicious claws and diamond-hard teeth of the creatures tore him open to eat the inner organs right from his still-jerking body.

He screamed in horror and agony, a screem so high and piercing that it nearly deafened himself, hitting his own ears like a poisoned arrow - and waited for the darkness to come.

Instead, he heard a loud thud and the heavy carcass of a beheaded beast fell upon him, shifting back to its Man-shape in ist death. Fierce curses in several languages followed its fall, then the carcass was tugged off him, and the gleaming form of Gildor Inglorion bent over him, his armor now, too, stained with black splashes of Orc blood and even more gory substances; Erestor would rather not guess what, even if he had no more urgent matters at hand.

''You still alive?'', the Prince asked hoarsely, and Erestor felt the insane need to laugh out loud, having been rescued by the very Elf who had always hated and despised him from the hearts of his heart. But he only had the strength to whisper:
''Barely...''

Gildor's eyes flicked briefly forwards, where Elrond and the High King and the Kings of Westernesse were engaging in battle with the suddenly-appeared Dark Lord himself, clearly anxious to race there and quench his blood lust by drawing the dark essence of their chief enemy - but then the responsibility for a fellow warrior won over. With a sigh he tore his eyes from the final struggle that was to decide the outcome of this whole dreadful war, gathered the profoundly bleeding form of Erestor up in his powerful arms, leapt on the back of his steed and rode swiftly back to the back lines where the healers tried to save those who were not yet beyond any help.

Just as he was taken from Gildor and laid upon a rough field blanket for Fíriel's skilled hands to clean up his grave wounds, a loud, piercing vail rolled over the battlefield, followed by a scorching wave of nearly unbearable heat and the deep rumbling of shaking Earth that threw Fíriel off her feet and across his battered body. And he passed out from the blood loss and the searing pain, not knowing that this, truly, was the end of their long struggle: the death-cry of the Dark Lord ant the dissolution of his fana(3).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Peace. Cool air kissing his heated skin, cool air and something else, something warmer, yet equally soft - lips? Warm, soft lips brushing his cheeks, gentle fingers caressing lightly his sweat-soaked hair, and a voice, sweet and low and lovely beyond anything he had ever heard, humming a slow, wordless song of love and reassurance...

He opened his burning eyes, red and swollen from the hot tears shed during this latest nightmare and grabbed the slender wists of Lindir.

''What are you doing here, little one?'', he demanded hoarsely. Lindir shrugged.

''You had a nightmare. I heard you screaming and came to chase your ghosts away.''

''You have not to do that for me, I already told you many times'', Erestor said, deeply moved. ''Nightmares come and leave as they have done all my life. No need to let yourself be bothered by them.''

Lindir, still sitting on the rand of his bed, looked down at him with those wide, sea-hued eyes of him, a shy smile on his beautiful face.

''But I owe you so much'', he murmured softly. ''You healed me from my loneliness and filled my empty heart - and you made this city of stone to a home for me. And you offered me your friendship - you never treated me as if I were just a silly child... like the others do. How shall I ever be able to give you some of all that care back?''

Erestor laughed and patted the pale, moonshine-blonde hair of his young charge.
''There is no need for that, little one.''

''Oh, but there is'', Lindir insisted. ''I never knew how lonely my life had been before I met you. Master Aiwendil was wonderful to me, but he could never understand me, no matter how hard he tried. He is not one of us. But you... you gave me so much, and I...''

''You give my very being a purpose'', Erestor interrupted, laying a gentle hand upon the knee of his charge. ''When you came here, I have already grown tired of the life in the valley. I was lonely, hurting and lost. Ever since the Lord Elrond had married the Lady and they became children of their own, I felt like... like a fifth wheel in a carriage. I would have faded away without you. It's you who made me feel... useful again - even needed. And'', he added with a sly grin, ''you also gave me something truly beautiful to look at.''

Lindir blushed slightly and capturing Erestor's hand with his own brought it to his chest, laying it flat upon his rapidly beating heart.

''If someone is beautiful here, that is you'', he replied shyly. ''It surprises me that someone so fair of face and so noble has to lead a lonely life. Are then all the fair maidens in the valley cursed with blindness?''

A great sadness clouded Erestor's handsome face. He shook his head.

''I would have plenty of chance to consort merrily and adventurously'', he answered slowly, ''but I have no desire to do so. I would wait for the one whom I could devote myself completely, with body and heart and soul - and still, should I met such a maiden, I would never take the oath of bonding with her.''

''Why?'', Lindir asked, completely bewildered. Erestor sighed.

''I vowed never to have a family... never to father any children. I wish them not to suffer the same loss I have suffered.''

He never spoke to any one about this, and already regretted having loaded his own burden onto the gentle heart of his charge. But to his surprise Lindir nodded his understanding.

''What about a male spouse?'', he asked.

Erestor knitted his brow. ''I never thought of that, truth to be told. Surely, it would make sense. What about you?''

Lindir blushed again. ''What about me?''

Erestor rached out with his free hand, lightly brushing his thumb along the soft lips of his young charge.

''You lead a lonely life, too'', he murmured. ''How can such beauty still be untouched? Has there never been any one who would touch your heart, little one? Sure, you still have to hold back til your Choosing Ceremony, but is there no-one you would consider choosing?''

''There are many who desire me'', Lindir answered, shivering lightly under his touch, ''yet only one that I want. But he chooses to shut his eyes to not see my love for him, and I know not how to make him see.''

''Who is it?'', Erestor asked gently. No matter whom Lindir desired, he would do anything to help him to find happiness. Even if it would break his own heart.

Lindir let his head hung; mayhap he wanted to hide his face behind the silky curtain of his long hair.

''You are'', he whispered, barely audible. ''If only you would have me...''

Erestor sat up with a sudden jerk. The confession of his young charge has shaken him to the bone. ''What... what did you say?''

Lindir blushed again, beautifully.

''I... I am offering you the comfort of my body'', he murmured. ''I see how you are lonely and hurt, and I... I have seen you watching me with longing...''

''O Elbereth!'', Erestor closed his eyes in despair. That should never have happened. ''Little one, I am so very sorry...''

''Be not!'', the slender hand of his charge touched his face, warm and comforting. ''Look at me, indolírë!(4)''

Erestor obeyed, and to his shocked surprise Lindir cast away his tunic in one fluid motion. His lithe upper body, exposed and ph so vulnerable, gleamed softly in the twilight.

''I might not be able to give you what you truly need'', he said quietly, ''but what ever I have to offer, is your for the taking - if you want it.''

Erestor was touched, almost to tears. He reached out a trembling hand to caress the beautiful face of his young charge.

''You know I cannot do this, little one'', he said gently. ''You are still under age - and you are my charge. We must not have this kind of relationship. 'Tis not allowed.''

''But this is what I want'', said Lindir stubbornly. ''I want to give you joy. Mayhap I shall be clumsy, but at least I am unspoiled'', he slid his fine-boned hands down his own body. ''This has not been touched by any one yet... all yours if that is what you desire.''

Erestor's hands followed Lindir's as if they had their own will, touching the soft flesh and smooth skin of his young charge almost fearfully.

''Ai, how much I wish I could accept your gift'', he murmured softly. ''Indeed, I have longed for you almost from the moment you first set foot in this house. But we cannot do this, little one, not yet. You still have to come of age. Would I give in to the sweet temptation of your willingness and beauty, we would be separated and never allowed to be together.''

''You would not take aught from me'', Lindir replied. ''I am offering. I never knew the love for an other male, but I am willing to share myself with you... Not only my flesh but my heart and soul as well.''

He leant down and kissed Erestor sweetly, lingering on his lips for long moments ere he retreated. Then he captured Erestor's hand with his long, slender fingers and said with a surprisingly deep, husky voice:

''I am willing to learn. Would you teach me?''

Not being able to resist any more, Erestor pulled Lindir to him and kissed him. It was a gentle, close-mouthed kiss at first, simply resting his lips on those of his charge, but even so it sent sparks through his whole body. His tongue sneaked out, almost on its own will and slid over Lindir's full lips, learning their taste and softness.

Lindir's whole body went rigid with anxiety at this first touch, his natural shyness almost overwhelming his bold offering, but Erestor was patiently probing and tasting, until his charge relaxed a little and opened for him.

The moment when his probing tongue finally entered Lindir's hesitantly opening mouth was overwhelming - more intimate than any complete joining he had ever experienced with the few lovers he had in his life. The realization that he was about to enter a secret place no-one else had touched before made him giddy with desire. This beautiful youngling, the last truly innocent creature in Middle-earth has saved his unspoiled self for all those centuries, only to share it with him...

True innocence...
The thought was sobering like a cold spring rain.
No, he could not do this.
Not now.
Not yet.

He gently untangled himself from the soft restraint of Lindir's arms and looked into those beautiful eyes, now dark with desire.

''We cannot do this, little one'', he said, saddened. ''Not now. Be patient. You shall come of age soon now. We shall have our chance - if you are willing to wait.''

''Nay, I am not!'', Lindir wiped his hand away. ''You love me not. You do not even want me. Fine. I should not bother you any more. Ever!''

With that, he sprang up and jumped through the window, not even caring to take his discharged tunic with him. Erestor looked after him for a moment, then sighed, shook his head and decided that he needed a very cold bath in the river.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Celebrían was shaken to find a silently crying young Elf high above one of the waterfalls, in a resting place known only to very few even in the valley. It was the favourite spot of her and Arwen, the very one Arwen brought Lindir on the evening of his arrival.

''Lindir... what happened?'', the Lady of the Valley asked gently, gathering the folds of her soft grey gown to sit beside the youngling.

The silent tears kept running down that soft, beautiful face, but Lindir made no sound, just let them flow on their own. Celebrían sighed. Her own children were a lot less complicated, despite their dual heritage, save perhaps Elladan whose esclapades made her the most worries. But this innocent youngling was so very different from her strong, independent children; even troubled Elladan kept his own agonies stubbornly to himself, refusing any possible intervention from his parents.

Lindir, on the other hand, approached every single one in the walley with the wide-hearted openness of a child and often got hurt or insulted others due to his limited experience in dealing with other people. Yet in all those - admittedly not always easy - years he had spent in Imladris, Celebbrían had never seen him cry. In fact, he showed a remarkable resilience against distress for one who was raised by a grumpy old wizard with only birds and beasts as his company.

''Come now'', she nudged the narrow shoulders gently, ''you know you can tell me everything. All people tell me their secrets, and I always keep them.''

She had learnt by know that she truly had to handle Lindir as a child, despite the fact that he was well over his physical maturity. Alas, legal maturity was still many years away, for there were some things Lindir learned very slowly - or not at all. Reasonable arguments would not work with the sensitive youngling at times of disterss, but some well-placed cajoling always did.

Just as it did now. Lindir finally opened his eyes (they were reddened but not swollen, despite having wept for hours by now - even crying became him, Celebrían thought absently and a little envious, not being a pretty crier herself), and offered what he thought an explanation (which, in Celebrían's opinion, was none):

''He hates me...''

Celebrían frowned, trying to count down all the male members of their household (for Lindir had rarely spoken to any one else in the valley at all, unless he was sent to them on some errantry) that could have led the boy to this most likely false conclusion. She found none.

''Who hates you?'', she finally asked.

Lindir have her a bewildered look as if she would have to known whom he was speaking about. ''Erestor'', he answered, more breathing the name than speaking it out loud.

Celebrían silently counted to twelve. In Quenya. That usually calmed her down.
Not this time, though.

''Why do you not tell me how it happened?'', she asked. ''Maybe you misunderstood something.''

But the youngling just shook his head in despair.

''Nay, I did not! He... he was dreaming again, so I climbed through the window and sang to him til he awoke. And then, I offered him love - but he sent me away...''

Celebrían counted to twenty-four. Still in Quenya. Still no effect.
''You offered him love?'', she repeated as calmly as she could manage.

Lindir nodded, his eyes wide and utterly honest. ''I... I would have lain with him...'', he said forlornly.

''Why would you do such thing?'', Celebrían asked.

''For that is what he wants'', Lindir shrugged. ''I can feel the desire coming off in waves from him, even if he wants to hide it.'' His eyes became strangely mature, and Celebrían realized once again how much they all underestimated the youngling; Lindir might have been innocent but he certainly was no fool. ''He is not the only one. There are many others in this valley who want me.''

''And what do you want?''. Celebrían asked carefully.

Lindir's eyes became dreamy again. ''I only want him.''

''Erestor?'', Celebrían wanted absolute clarity in this matter. Lindir nodded, and she asked forth. ''Why him?''

The youngling looked forlorn again.
''I never wanted any one else but him. He is fair... and noble... and so very sad, always so sad. I can make him feel better... I could, would he let me.''

''You already made him feel better'', Celebrían said. ''I had never seen him so happy and merry and playful ere you came to us. And I believe that he likes you very much. Now, do tell me everything what happened.''

Lindir sighed, nestled into the arms of the Lady of the Valley and slowly, hesitantly began to tell her in all details what had happened between him and his tutor. Celebrían listened carefully, and when the youngling finished and would start sobbing again, she gently but firmly stopped him.

''Enough, Lindir. Erestor was right to send you away. Had you managed to lure him into making love to you tonight, the Lord of the Valley would not have any other choice but send you away from Rivendell and severely punish him. 'Tis against our law for a tutor to bed his charge, more so if he is underaged.''

''But I want him!'', Lindir's tears started flowing again. ''I would never have any other lovers but him! Why can I not be with the one I long for?''

''You can'', Celebrían soothed, ''just not right now. Your age of maturity will come, and with it the Choosing Ceremony.''

''My... what?''

'''Tis a custom of the Grey-Elves that we offer the young ones of our valley, should they wish to partake it. A youngling, coming of age, is allowed to choose an older, more experienced partner to instruct him - or her - in the art of lovemaking. You shall be free to chose Erestor when your day comes. You surely remember the time when Arwen had her Ceremony, do you?''

Lindir nodded thoughtfully. He did remember, even though he had been more concerned with Gildor Inglorion's attempt to take heim away from Imladris at that time. His eyes lit up with hope again - then the light was gone once more.

''But it would take more than a hundred years'', he murmured sadly.

Celebrían nodded.
''It would'', she agreed with a slight smile, ''but you do have the time. Both of you. You are Elves. For us a hundred years are no more than the wink of an eye. The question is: do you love him enough to wait for him?''

As she expected, the youngling looked at her with wide, honest eyes and answered without the slightest hesitation: ''I do. And I shall wait for him, no matter how long it takes.''

''You do that'', Celebrían agreed, ''and I can promise you that it would be worth waiting for. Now, would you not come back to the house with me? 'Tis late, and Erestor surely is worried sick by now.''

Lindir hesitated for a moment; then he rose wordlessly and followed her back to the house. The Lady was right. Hundred years were but the wink of an eye. He had waited this long; he would be able to wait just a little longer.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Lúthien did successfully defeat Sauron once - though not in battle but through enchantment. As for Elrond being her last child, well at the time of the Last Battle he was. He only married Celebrían years later.
(2) A little detail I made up for fun. In chapter 5: Roots Gildor wears a golden collar similar the Nauglamír, so I thought he might like other copies of famous First Age arifacts. Besides, Erestor did say to Lindir, remembering the Last Battle, that Gildor fought there like a golden dragon, so...
(3) Physical form of Valar or Maiar. As you surely all know, Sauron was a Maia.
(4) Heartsong in Quenya. Courtesy of Artanis.

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