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:
PG-13, for this chapter. Just to be on the safe side. This
chapter contains some… delicate material and is extremely
emotional.
Please read
Warnings before the Prologue.
Author’s
notes:
This chapter has
been re-written several times. Hopefully, this version will match
the general picture of the story. Another chapter will follow to
complete the Lórien-arc, after which there will probably be
another long break before the next update. I hope it will not
take another year, though.
Dedication:
This particular chapter is dedicated to Mirasaui, to cheer her
up.
My heartfelt
thanks go to Larian Elensar for the beta reading.
CHAPTER 16: CONFUSION OF THE HEARTS
When Lindir, still holding the hand of the Lady Nimrodel, crossed the Ninglor, it seemed to him as if he stepped into another world. Into a world that was much older than the one he had known, and yet full of life and power.
Only once had he felt the same way about a forest – way, way back, when he had visited the Fangorn with Radagast as a small elfling. He remembered little about that visit, only that he had been sitting upon the shoulders of the old wizard and that the trees had been more alive than anywhere else he had ever been.
Until now. Although this was not quite the same awareness, as the trees of the Ninglor forest did not change places, and one could more feel than actually hear their whispered conversation. Still, Lindir could feel them greeting and welcoming him, and there even was the one or other leafy touch upon his hair or face from a slowly lowered branch.
He cast Nimrodel a slightly bewildered look, and the Lady smiled.
“Yes,” she said, “the trees recognize you, Lindir of Rhosgobel. There has always been great love between them and the Brown Wizard – the only one of that order who ever truly cared for the woods – and the blessing of Palúrien that Aiwendil had brought back from beyond the Sea is clearly imprinted upon your fëa, visible for everyone who has the eyes to see. Do you believe that I would have brought you with me otherwise?”
Lindir shook his head mutely. The whispering of the trees filled his saddened heart with a joy he had not felt for a very long time. With the joy of coming home. ‘Twas the same joy he felt in Iarwain’s house when the River-daughter had sung down the rain to the green fields – or in Radagast’s wooden halls, when the beasts and birds of the wood came to visit them in Brownhay.
As much as he loved Imladris – and he did love Elrond’s valley with all his heart – he knew he would never completely fit the life there. He understood Radagast’s reasons for bringing him under Elrond’s protection; he even saw the necessity for it, and made there a home for himself as well as he could, but his heart felt more at home here, in the solemn company of the ancient trees – and the Elves who lived with them – than he ever would be among the Lords of Imladris.
“I am honoured,” he finally said. It was not the best-suited answer, nor did it truly express what he felt, but it was the only one he could think of. Fortunately, the Lady Nimrodel seemed to understand the unspoken message as well.
“You should be,” she replied teasingly, “for ‘tis a rare honour indeed, one that we had not provided anyone who is not of our blood, save Master Aiwendil and King Thranduil of the Greenwood. But the trees seem to like you, thus my choice has been a right one. Come with me now. My handmaids will clad you in the festive clothes of the Faithful and crown you with flowers as it is proper, ere we join the feasting crowd.”
She led him to one of the beech trees, a little further from the bridge. Standing under the tree, she gave a low whistle, that of the songbird very alike. Almost immediately, a ladder made of the thin but strong hithlain rope that Lothlórien was so famous for, came rolling down, and only now did Lindir detect the well-hidden talan in the protective embrace of the higher branches. The small house upon it blended so well with the tree itself that even Elven eyes had a hard time making it out.
“Follow me,” said Nimrodel, and she ran up the rope ladder lightly, apparently not hindered by her long gown. Lindir obeyed.
Up on the talan, a dour-faced guard greeted his Lady – he reminded Lindir of Alagos, King Thranduil’s master tracker, a frequent visitor in Radagast’s old home in Rhosgobel – and rolled up the rope ladder again with quick, practiced moves. He spoke the tongue of the Faithful, which, to Lindir’s mild surprise, was similar enough to the ancient Silvan dialect preferred among the people of the Greenwood for even the young minstrel to understand.
Of course, Lindir had the gift to learn languages almost instinctively – a gift somehow connected to his unique musical talent – but the two tongues were doubtlessly related. Closely related. So closely indeed that Lindir began to wonder just how many of the Avari must have blended in with Thranduil’s subjects during the Second Age.
“Are my ladies still here, Blodrin?” Nimrodel asked.
“Only Mistress Nelennas and her change,” answered the guard. “The others have already left to make preparations for tonight’s celebrations.”
Nimrodel nodded. “They will do. I need our guest to be clad properly.”
Blodrin shot Lindir a curious look. “So, this is the Brown Wizard’s little songbird? And he came with you at once, Lady? It seems that even living with the Golodhrim could not make him forget what he had been taught.”
Lindir turned to the guard, hard lines appearing on his gentle face and making his expression eerily alike to that of Gildor in one of his worse moods.
“What do you hope from speaking badly of those who were good to me?” he demanded angrily. “You have no love for the Noldor? Fine; you are entitled to that. But I have never had experienced aught but kindness from Lord Elrond, his family and his household, and I shall not have you speak of them thusly in my presence.”
No-one of the Faithful would ever dare to lecture Blodrin in this manner; for one of their own, it would have... unfortunate consequences. Yet the ancient Elf, who had been born before Ithil or Anor illuminated the dark skies of Ennor, only reacted with a grim smile.
“Fierce, is he not, the young one?” he said to Nimrodel. The Lady smiled back at him.
“But he is also right, Blodrin,” she replied. “Twas not very courteous of you, to speak of his Lord in this manner, was it? Our grievances with the Golodhrim are not his; we should not drag him into such an Ages-old enmity.”
Blodrin inclined his head towards Lindir. “My Lady is right. Forgive me, young one, for speaking too harshly.”
“And I was rude, as I often am,” Lindir blushed, realizing that he had spoken before thinking again. “I, too, ask for your forgiveness. It seems that I am always insulting people, without even meaning it.”
“You are just being honest; there is nothing wrong with that,” another woman, with a plain, ageless face but with eyes that spoke of millennia upon millennia witnessed by them, stepped out of the house. “Blodrin should know better than embarrassing the Lady’s guests. He is old enough to behave… or, at least one would think so.”
At this point Lindir was truly so embarrassed that all he wished was to run and to hide. The grim Elf, however, just raised a sarcastic eyebrow and bowed in mock respect.
“I shall try and better my manners, Mistress.”
“And not a yén too early,” the woman prompted; then she turned to Lindir and greeted him. “Welcome to Forfain(1), young Lindir. I am Mistress Nelennas, the Lady’s housekeeper and the one responsible for her handmaids. We have been waiting for you, as the trees had told us about your arrival. Come; let us clad you in proper clothes. We must hurry up, as the festival is just about to begin.”
She led Lindir inside the Lady’s house, which was just as neat and simple as those of the common Silvan folk. If the Avari had truly kept the old way since the rising of Ithil and Anor, apparently the Wood-Elves had not strayed far from them either.
Nelennas and a very young maiden with the name of Mithrellas now clad Lindir in a tunic and leggings of pale forest green, wound his hair in a low bun on the nape of his neck, as it was custom among the Faithful, and crowned them with a wreath of fresh spring flowers. When they were done, they eyed their handiwork critically from all sides (Lindir blushed furiously, upset with himself about his own reaction) and exchanged satisfied looks.
“Very comely indeed,” decided Nelennas. “Even the Lady Palúrien would not mind to let you dance alongside the Nandini and the Nenmir(2), young one. ‘Tis rare that we have such beauty adorning our feasts.”
“Perhaps you should invite guests more often,” said Lindir innocently. “I assure you, Mistress, that I am not such a rare sight among our people.”
Nelennas laughed and kissed him on the cheek, and young Mithrellas did the same, and Lindir was now as red with embarrassment as ripe cherries in the summer season. And so they finally had mercy with him and ceased teasing him. The Lady Nimrodel peered in, a little impatiently now, and soon they all left the tree again and walked towards the waterfall.
“Where are we going?” asked Lindir from the Lady. “Do your people not feast under the skies during high feasts like other Elves?”
“Depends on the feast,” replied Nimrodel. “The Awakening Festival celebrates the return of natural life from the dark womb of Arda, therefore we return to the earth to help free it from the icy embrace of hrív. After that, we will build bonfires and dance around them under the stars, yes.”
“Return to the earth?” repeated Lindir. “As in under the earth?”
Seeing his anxiety, Nimrodel smiled. “Worry not, we do not intend to bury you – or anyone else – alive. See? Here we are already.”
‘Here’ was at the foot of the nearby waterfall, the melodic splashing of which had so enchanted Lindir earlier. It came down in a sharp angle from a rocky hill and glittered in the sunshine like a jewelled silver curtain, but…
“I cannot see any caves,” said Lindir uncertainly. Nimrodel laughed.
“Of course not. They are not hidden if you can see them, are they? Just come with me and have no fear; I shall show you the way.”
She took Lindir’s hand and led him on a narrow path, hidden behind the curtain of water, so close to it that when Lindir stretched out his other hand, he could wet his fingertips. Still, the rocky path was dry, save from a few stray droplets of water, and there was no peril to slip and fall into the water bed. After a hundred steps or so, the path ended before a low, arched entrance. Nimrodel ducked and went through, and Lindir followed suit.
They came into a surprisingly large, airy cavern that was lit and aired sufficiently though narrow slots cut high into the rocky ceiling. If they were natural openings or made by skilled Elven hands, Lindir could not tell by sight alone. He counted twelve of them, placed in an irregular circle – most likely so that after sunset certain stars could be seen through them. This would have meant an artificial structure, though.
The floor of the cave was not rock but living soil, and many green-clad, flower-crowned Elves sat on the naked earth, waiting for the beginning of the celebration. Some of them had the simple lutes or wooden flutes of the woodland folk with them and were already playing on those. The music reminded Lindir of that which he had heard during his sparse visits in Thranduil’s realm. It was sweet, but wild and fiery at the same time, throbbing with the strength and passion of the living earth itself, with the power of growing things and running water, with the wildness of untamed beasts and the lightness of the birds’ flight, not burdened with the sorrows of earth-bound creatures.
The Elves greeted Lindir in a kind manner, which was uncustomary for the secretive Avari. But as they seemed not surprised by his presence at all, Lindir presumed that the Lady Nimrodel had already announced his coming. He was seated between two youthful-looking elves named Tavros and Ormain and offered some mead in a large, earthenware mug. It tasted very good, and though Lindir usually did not drink much, this time it made him feel good.
Soon, he felt the heat rising to his cheeks, but that felt good, too, and he knew not whether he was blushing from the mead or from the sweet words his companions – two brothers, as it turned out, and members of the border guard – were whispering into his ears, words of desire and admiration. After the almost cold distance Erestor had kept ever since the Choosing Ceremony, it was so good to feel wanted again; he laughed at the compliments in a carefree manner and did not protest when his mug was refilled.
After a while, someone asked him to sing, and he happily obeyed, performing an old song from the Greenwood, sung in some ancient Silvan dialect. This made his hosts very happy, and they praised both his choice and his talent, which made him feel even better. The Lady Nimrodel came over and joined them for a while, and they talked and laughed and shared the modest festive meal and even more mead, and for the first time in a long while, Lindir felt the weight of loneliness lift off his young heart and he forgot all his sorrows.
Sometime after sunset – Lindir had forgotten to take count of the time here in the warm, protective womb of living earth – joyous cries arose among the feasting Elves, greeting the arrival of Lady Lálisin, Queen of the Greenwood, and her companion, Alagos. Lindir, too, sprang to his feet in delight, for he had known the Queen since his childhood and loved and respected her greatly. And the Lady Lálisin kissed him on the brow, calling him Lindó, which meant “singing bird” in the Old Speech, as he had been called when he was little.
“I have missed you, little songbird,” she said, “and so have Laegalas, and Mírenin, and Rhimlath, and all the others. How are you faring?”
“I am faring well, my Lady,” replied Lindir, snuggling into her embrace for a moment, as had been his wont as a little elfling. “I miss Master Aiwendil sometimes, but...” he trailed off, shrugging.
Lady Lálisin lifted his chin gently and looked into his eyes with her wise, ancient ones that could see into the most hidden depths of one’s heart.
“Your heart is full of sorrow, little songbird. It saddens me greatly to see you in pain. But maybe you shall find some hearts-ease tonight, as this is the night of awakening and rebirth.”
She kissed his brow again and turned away, to greet other people she knew and to meet those she had not known before. It was a long list, as indeed, too much time had gone by since she had been able to join her kin on such a festival. Finally, she reached the end of those waiting for her and joined Lady Nimrodel in the middle of the room, looking upwards to the stars.
“The circle is full,” she said softly, and indeed, the constellation of stars that could be seen through the slots cut into the ceiling on this single night alone, was now complete.
The Elves rose all and sang the Lay of Awakening, the most ancient song known to their kin. They sang it in the Old Speech that only the eldest of the Avari still understood, for their own tongue had changed greatly during the countless Ages in-between, Yet Lindir was familiar with it, as this was the tongue spoken in Iarwain’s house, and he had been taught it at a very young age.
The Avari seemed delighted that he knew their most sacred lay – Síriyen(3) had sung it every year at this very same night – and declared that he was indeed one of the Faithful, despite his “outlandish” looks, as they put it. Lindir laughed at that and accepted the honorary kisses of many fair maidens and his heart was light.
Someone touched his shoulder gently. Lindir turned back and saw one of his earlier companions. Tavros, who was tall for a Wood-Elf and handsome and green-eyed, which was a less-than-common treat among the woodland folk, smiled at him and said, “The night is growing old, and the feast in this hall is all but over. Yet my brother,” he nodded his head in Ormain’s direction, “and I still have a bottle of good feywine to open, and we would like to share it with you, if you are willing.’’
Lindir eyed the brothers warily. Ormain was somewhat smaller in stature and had the usual auburn hair and bright, chestnut-brown eyes of the Wood-Elves, his face young and Elven-fair… and flushed at the moment. Tavros looked calmer, but there was a fire in those green, feline eyes of his as well.
“Why would you want to share your wine with me?” asked Lindir.
“The wine is not the only thing we want to share,” Tavros gently cupped the young Elf’s face in his slender hands and caressed the young minstrel’s cheek with those long fingers, callused from hundreds of years of archery practice. “’Tis a time-honoured custom among the Faithful that those still unbound choose a partner for the Night of Awakening and celebrate the rebirth of the Earth with making love. You are very beautiful, Lindir of Rhosgobel, and we want you. We both do. Are you still unbound? For we would love to take you to one of the side chambers and share the joys of rebirth with you. Whomever you may choose, the other one would be happy for him.”
Lindir remained silent for a moment. He was still unbound, according to the customs of the Elves – at least legally. He had not spoken his vows yet, and as things looked between him and Erestor, he had begun to doubt that he ever would. Still, he hesitated to give a positive answer, feeling uneasy about lying with a stranger, even though he needed that sort of comfort badly.
Seeing the conflicting emotions plainly on the young minstrel’s face, Tavros leaned down and kissed him, gently but deeply. Lindir shivered under the older Elf’s touch and sighed into Tavros’ mouth – it was such a good feeling to be desired. He moved into the strong arms encircling his slim frame, unable to suppress a quiet moan. It had been seasons since Erestor let him share his bed the last time, and he felt so desperate for a loving touch, all of a sudden, that he could barely restrain himself. It was a festival, a sacred time of the loa, and he did not want to spend it in a cold bed, alone. Again.
“I am unbound,” he murmured, the weight of this very fact crashing down upon him again, and it seemed to him that his heart would break with the sorrow of his loneliness.
Tavros let go of him. He felt the loss of that warm touch keenly, and almost cried out in despair. But only a moment later another pair of strong arms pulled him into a firm embrace, another pair of warm lips sealed his mouth, drinking from his sweetness deeply. Ormain kissed lighter, more playfully than his brother, and Lindir began to enjoy himself greatly. Seasons worth of suppressed need broke to the surface without warning. The kisses stole his breath, and he answered them with equal passion rubbing the whole length of his body against Ormain’s.
“I do believe that our honoured guest is willing to share the feywine with us… and more,” Tavros laughed, separating them with a gentle but firm hand. “Hold on, you two. Restrain yourselves ‘til I find us an empty chamber.”
Lindir blushed furiously and stepped away from Ormain, but the Avari laughed and swatted his brother playfully. As soon as Tavros left, however, Lindir was in Ormain’s embrace again, trying to soak up the warmth of the other Elf, as if it could help against the coldness in his heart. Ormain did not seem to mind and kept him pleasantly distracted until Tavros’ return.
It seemed to him that the older brother had only been away from a few heartbeats’ time. When he returned, there was a bottle in his hand and a smile upon his face.
“I have found just the right place,” he said. “It is being prepared as I speak. We can go in a moment.”
“Do you think this is wise?” a quiet voice asked from behind them, and turning, Tavros looked into the worried eyes of young Mithrellas. “He might be unbound by the laws and customs of the Golodhrim, but his eyes reveal that his heart and soul are given to someone already.”
Tavros nodded. “I have seen it, too. But whomever it is, they left him alone during a festival like this, and he is desperate. Look at him – can you not see that he is grieving already? What he needs is love and comfort, and we can give him that, at the very least.”
“Maybe you can give him what he needs,” answered Mithrellas gravely, “but neither of you is the one whom he needs. In the end, his heart will remain as empty as it is now.”
“True,” Tavros admitted, watching the young minstrel burrowing himself deeper into Ormain’s arms. “But he is in need, and we can help with that. No-one should lie alone in the night of the Awakening.”
“That is why I have invited him to join our feast,” the Lady Nimrodel said, stepping closer to them, apparently having overheard every word. “There is so much pain and sorrow in him... too much for a heart so young and pure as his. Be gentle with him,” she added, shooting Tavros a warning look. The archer bowed respectfully.
“We will, my Lady,” then, catching a slight nod from Mistress Nelennas, he touched his brother’s shoulder. “The chamber is prepared, Ormain. Let us go.”
Ormain released Lindir and smiled. The brothers took Lindir by the hand and led him to one of the many doors hidden behind the heavy, woollen tapestries that covered the rocky walls of the huge main cave.
Mithrellas looked after them for a moment, shaking her head.
“I am still afraid this is a mistake,” she said.
But the Lady Nimrodel smiled and said simply. “This is something that Lindir has to do, if he ever wants to conquer the one he loves.”
Yet no matter how much they begged, she never explained her words for the others.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On the next morn, Erestor left Caras Galadhon shortly after sunrise and walked across the Golden Wood to Cerin Amroth. The guards recognized him from his earlier visit by their Lord and allowed him entrance without any questions. After some hesitant wandering under the trees he finally ran into Ammalas and asked the young Elf about Lindir’s whereabouts.
“He has just come back from beyond the river,” answered Haldir’s second-born readily enough. “You will find him in one of the guest chambers in my father’s house.” And he pointed towards the royal mallorn, not that Erestor truly needed the help to find it, just out of custom.
Erestor nodded, thanked him, and began the long climb up to Haldir’s home. Amroth’s people did not use the spiral stairways that were so characteristic for Caras Galadhon; here the only way to get onto the trees was to climb the ladders, made of white wood, and Erestor cursed the long robes he had had to put on due to his position. Now he understood why all Wood-elves wore short tunics, save on special occasions. The Silvan fashion most definitely made the travel on the treetops a lot easier.
Finally, he reached the talan on which Haldir’s house stood, and Rodwen, who had grown to a younger, mellower version of her mother, led him to the guest chambers. Erestor took a deep breath, steadying himself for the confrontation he knew would follow. He dreaded it already, fearing that whatever he was about to say might deepen the rift between him and Lindir.
He was not prepared for the sight that was waiting for him, though.
Lindir had returned to Cerin Amroth right after sunrise – empty and miserable, despite his well-loved body. Young Mithrellas had been right: as skilled as Tavros and Ormain had been in their loving, they could not give him what he truly needed. Neither was the one whom he needed. And considering how little fruit his long and dedicated pursuit had brought, he began to consider giving up. He had frown very tired of courting Erestor in vain.
Seeing Erestor enter his room, Lindir’s eyes lit up in hope once again. But Erestor only shot a bitter look at him – his swollen and bruised lips, the dark rings under his eyes and the extreme care he needed to sit down gave the nature of his nightly activities away – and turned away to leave again.
“Dare you not!” Lindir hissed angrily, years upon years worth of fruitless hope turning into gall in his heart.
Erestor stopped short in the door. “What say you?”
“I say, dare you not to walk away from me!” answered Lindir in a dangerously low voice. His gentle eyes burned with a cold fire that could have put Gildor to shame. Erestor frowned.
“What reason do I still have to say?” he asked reasonably; at least he thought that he was being reasonable. “’Tis obvious that you have found others to fill my place already.”
“You of all people must know best why I had to share myself with strangers tonight,” Lindir snapped, all the sorrow and bitterness over Erestor’s rejection breaking free at once. “Never have I yearned for any other touch but yours, yet you let me in your bed once in a season at best. You would not give me love; you even left me alone on the night of Awakening, when no Elf should be lying alone. So dare you not to judge me when I, at least, take pleasure from another lover!”
“From one other lover?” repeated Erestor with emphasis. “Nay you threw yourself to all those who lusted after you. Or did you not leave that cave with two partners?”
Lindir frowned, folding his arms across his chest. “You were watching? How…?”
“Through the Mirror of Galadriel,” Erestor rubbed his face, defeated. “I went to the oracle to find out if we truly were meant to be together…. And then, the Mirror showed me... showed me the three of you, leaving the feasting chamber together…”
“So I am not good enough for you any more?” asked Lindir slowly. His voice was strangely cold. “You would not give me what I have longed for in all those yéni since I was brought to Imladris, but now that I have sought comfort from others, I am a whore in your eyes? Did you expect me to spend my whole life in solitude, hoping that one day you might finally make up your mind, or at least remember the joys we had shared?”
Erestor was truly shaken by these accusations, for there was a lot of truth in Lindir’s bitter words. He had kept the youngling at arm’s length, not being able to decide if it would be the right thing to bond with him, for he had felt unworthy of such a gift and thought that Lindir deserved better. He had hesitated too long, ‘til his beloved grew tired of waiting and gave his flawless body to others to pleasure, even if his heart remained unmoved. And it was his own fault that Lindir began sleeping around with people he had hardly known.
He could have tasted the sweet draught of love every night since Lindir had reached his maturity. Instead he kept the young Elf away from his bed most of the time, touching him only when Lindir became truly restless and miserable and needed comfort desperately.
What a fool he had been! He had taken Lindir for granted, knowing about the young minstrel’s love towards him, believing that he had all the time on Arda. Yet it seemed that even the greatest, purest love could turn bitter when not nurtured and cherished properly, and perhaps sweet, beautiful Lindir was lost to him, forever.
“Lindir,” he began miserably, not quite sure what he was about to say, but the young minstrel turned away from him.
“I will not listen to this,” he said coldly. “Leave me alone. That is what you do best, is it not? Then do it now.”
He waited with a stone-hard face until Erestor left. Then he lay down on his bed, turned to the wall and remained there for the rest of the day, crying silently into his pillow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Erestor did not return to Caras Galadhon on that day. He felt he could not face anyone he knew, least of all Elrond and his family. He had been given responsibility for Lindir’s well-being, many yéni ago, and he failed. He had had the best intentions, certainly – but those same intentions turned out to be his worst mistakes. He knew not what to do. He needed to be alone.
Unconsciously, he walked down to the Ninglor, where Lindir had been sitting a day earlier, sat down and listened to the music of the waterfall. He had never felt so helpless in his life. He wanted to make things better, to atone for his mistakes, but he had no idea how to begin – or whom to ask.
Thus he sat on the riverbank and wept all morning – for the first time since Elrond had rescued him from the burning ruins of Ost-in-Edhil. He never knew he still had so many tears to shed. When his eyes finally ran dry, he just sat there, resting his forehead on his knees, wishing he could do something – anything – to redeem himself in Lindir’s eyes. Had he not been so desperate, he would find it amusing that he only realized how much he loved the young minstrel when it was already too late.
“There is nothing so sad as the regret over a lost chance,” a soft, unfamiliar voice said, and looking up he saw a slender Silvan maid sitting nearby. She wore green and brown clothes and a thin silver circle upon her brow and looked at him with sympathy.
“I am Nimrodel,” she added, “and if I am not mistaken, you must be Erestor.”
Erestor nodded, unable to speak. He was angry with the Lady of the Falls who had invited Lindir to their feast, where…
Nimrodel shook her head in gentle disapproval. “You are a fool, Erestor. That youngling loves you beyond measure; he would never have come to us if you had not left him alone. Why would you let the greatest gift of our life slip through your fingers? Do not tarry here, go to him!”
“Why do you care?” asked Erestor, the hostility in his voice unmistakable. “When he turns away from me, perhaps one of your people can get lucky and have him.”
“No-one can ever truly have him but you,” replied Nimrodel with a patient smile. “’Twas his sorrow alone that led him to us. – now he has learnt that no-one can fill that secret place in his heart, aside from you. He tried to find love somewhere else – it did not work. The question is now: are you willing to accept what he can offer? ‘Tis not an easy thing – a love, so strong and unconditioned as his, can be a burden sometimes; and yet it is the greatest gift an Elf can give another one. Do you love him?”
Erestor nodded. “I do. It took me long to understand that I cannot live without him… I felt unworthy.”
“No-one is worthy of such love,” Nimrodel shrugged. “That is why it will always remain a gift, given freely and accepted freely. But this is your last chance to prove to him your love – or you shall lose him. Not to one of our people – they mean naught to him, neither of them – to Mandos’ Halls. For he is heartbroken, and has just learned that sleeping around randomly will not heal him.”
She waited for a moment, but Erestor had no answer to that. Thus she rose, giving him one last warning. “I hope you can still heal him, for I have grown fond of him in the short time he spent among us. You are a very fortunate Elf, Master Erestor; being loved this much is a rare thing, even among our people. Even if it feels like a burden at times.”
With that, she left him, walking over the narrow bridge to the other side of the Ninglor. Erestor had not blinked but once, and she had already vanished among the trees. But that was no wonder. She was a wise woman of the Faithful, after all. Every tree in the forest was her friend and ally.
It took Erestor a long time to gather his wits and follow her advice. His earnest words remained like daggers in his heart, and if possible, he was even more scared than before. Only the overwhelming fear that Lindir might have left already, seeking out other distractions or looking for a place to hide and grieve, got him finally moving.
As before, no-one tried to stop him when he climbed back up the royal mallorn. It seemed that the whole forest was keeping its breath in anticipation and quiet anxiety. Even the birds remained silent, and Erestor was growing nervous as he climbed, fearing that he might be too late already.
“Is… is Lindir still here?” he asked Rodwen, and the raven-haired maiden nodded wordlessly, giving him a look full of accusations. Erestor ducked, knowing that he deserved it… and more.
When he entered the guest chamber, Lindir was still lying atop his bed, face buried in his wet pillow, slim shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Erestor felt a pang of fresh guilt piercing his heart. Regardless of his sensibility, Lindir had only given himself over to grief twice during the last three yéni: when Aiwendil let him behind in Imladris and when Erestor refused to take him to his bed before reaching his maturity. It pained the seneschal now that in two out of three times he was the reason for Lindir’s grief.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to rub that narrow back soothingly – something that had never before failed to calm Lindir down when he was upset.
“Lindir,” he murmured, “dear heart, I am so ashamed that I caused you so much sorrow. I beg you, little one; do not give yourself over to grief. Do not go from me… I could not bear losing you.”
“You have no need of me,” came the muffled answer. “You love me not, you never have. So go away!”
“Oh, but I do,” Erestor sighed. “I love you more than life itself, sweet one. Alas, that I almost had to lose you to understand my own heart. Can you ever forgive me for having denied you the desire of your heart this long?”
Lindir rolled over onto his back and glared up to him suspiciously. “Do you speak the truth? Or is this just some twisted way to make me feel better and to unburden your heart from the guilt?”
“Nay, beloved,” Erestor gently wiped away Lindir’s tears. “I understand why you doubt the sincerity of my words, but… By the memory of my lost home and family, I swear to you that I have spoken the truth.”
“Then prove it!” demanded Lindir. “Claim me as yours when your love for me is true! Make the smell of the others go away, so that I would wear the scent of you alone!”
But Erestor shook his head slowly. “Nay, my love. This time it should be you who makes that claim. I want you to make me yours.”
Lindir’s eyes grew impossibly wide, understanding the ramifications of this request. Then he rose from his ruined bed, his soft face still wet from the tears that had been washing over his cheeks for hours, took Erestor’s hand and led him over to the other room, the empty guest chamber, with the untouched bed.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Some ten miles into the northeast, in secrecy of her garden, the Lady Galadriel stepped back from her Mirror and allowed the enchanted water to turn silvery grey again.
“And so it begins,” she whispered softly. “They will walk on a shared path from now on. But who can tell where it will lead the last scion of Finarfin’s House? When we discovered his existence, both Gildor and I thought that he would be chosen for something great; for something that might change the fate of Arda. Not for this… not for being bound to the son of a common smith.”
But the Lord Celeborn, standing in the deep shadows of the surrounding trees, shook his head gravely.
“My Lady,” he said, love and tolerance mixing in his deep voice in equal measure, “you cannot know what fate Ilúvatar still has waiting for this youngling. Your farsight and carefully-forged plans may not always be the only way to guard the secrets and treasures of Arda. Perhaps the youngling is chosen for something great – for something not even your Mirror can show yet. Be patient, queen of my heart – and try to trust the Valar a little more.”
“I do trust them,” replied Galadriel with a sigh, “but I also feel responsible for these lands… and for the rest of my family.”
“You are responsible,” said Celeborn with a small smile, “but you do not bear that responsibility alone. We are still here, too: Círdan and Elrond and Gildor and Thranduil. And I shall remain on your side ‘till the end of Arda… and beyond. So, come back to the Tree City with me now. You have preparations to make. At least one of your plans is about to come to fruition in a few days’ time.”
TBC
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) Earlier,
rejected name of Calenbel, the area below Amon Hen. I borrowed it
from HoME 7: The Treachery of Saruman, for the Avari part
of Lórien.
(2) Fays of the
valleys and the meads in “The Lost Tales 1”. I assumed that
they were either Maiar of Yavanna or merely characters of Avari
legends.
(3) Common
Eldarin for “River-daughter”. Courtesy of Erunyauve.