*** Second Age After the Fall of Eregion ***
The sun rises,
The sun sets
And the earth turns
While love is found
And lost
And found again.
But you I will love eternally.
***
Chapter Three
“Let me look at it, Erestor,” Lindir asked again.
“It’s alright. It will be alright, if I just rest.” He hated fuss. Hated the memories of lying helpless, unable to help those around him. Nor had he been enamoured of the pain while he lay with a knife piercing his joint, twisted home by clawed hands attached to a face leering at him from only inches away. The rest of the fight, the journey that followed from the battleground to safe haven and medical care, were best not dwelt on. One of few survivors, he had hated that he had taken up so much time and attention while his healing was built step by careful step, one session after another.
He knew Lindir had disapproved of Glorfindel’s manner toward him on the training ground. What Lindir did not realize was that Elrond’s august Captain understood Erestor’s preferences in this regard, and never, ever made a fuss. They came from worlds apart, he and Glorfindel. He often sensed he shocked the Elda profoundly by his habits, dress and scrapes. At the same time, he felt more than a little overawed by Glorfindel’s birth and his history. Yet Erestor felt deeply indebted to him for his detachment in the matter and suspected it was rooted in kindness, not indifference.
But Lindir, here and now, could not be shut out. He realized that.
“I just want to lie here for a while, until it settles. Then sleep. In the morning, you can fuss all you want.” He traced the fall of rare ashen hair down Lindir’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “It’s my fault, you know. I was too fed up with the wretched binding to keep it on.”
“Erestor, let me fetch you something, at least.”
“Water, then.” He had grown to hate painkillers, and nutrient doses and relaxants. Elrond would make him take them. The morning was soon enough. He turned his face to the window, trying to remember what it had been like before pain was, if not a constant companion, at least a regular visitor. While Lindir was busy, he wiped his cheeks dry with the back of his hand. Morning and Elrond’s frustration with him would come soon enough. Even he did not usually cross his lord this often in so short a span. Idly he watched Lindir come back to the bed. Tall, imposing, eyes that saw so far, things the rest of them could only sense in the music he played. Lindir of Lindon, gifted friend of royalty, would never want a crippled elf for a lover, still less as a partner. But he did have beautiful manners.
***
Elrond swept in shortly after dawn. Lindir right behind him. It would come naturally to a noble of Lindon’s court to disturb Imladris’ own lord at dawn, at need. Erestor smiled in the face of the concern currently bearing down on him, trying to deflect it.
“Good morning, my lord. I am sorry for this trouble,” he said from Lindir’s pillows. Of course, Elrond made no joke about what they had been doing. Chamomile still scented the air. It was bound to; Erestor himself still smelled of it. There was a limit to what warm water and soap could do to remove such rich fragrance from well-massaged skin. A smile played about Erestor’s lips at the thought. It would have been - pleasant if they hadn’t been interrupted.
As Elrond moved his leg gently, held him firmly, prodded and poked, Erestor lay back, of old habit able to relax fairly well despite the pain. He let his lord handle him as he willed, while he let his thoughts drift to what would have happened next last night. He opened his eyes on Lindir.
“Not your fault,” mouthed Erestor, before closing his eyes again.
“I’m done.” Elrond slapped his other leg lightly. “And now I want to know why you won’t keep yourself out of trouble.” His light tone hid grave disapproval. He had always worried that the injury would deteriorate with Erestor’s persistent neglect of the joint’s outer aid, but for some reason Erestor hated the strapping that protected the knee from these harms.
“We were dancing,” confessed Erestor, not wanting to refuse to answer nor evade the point of the question. Even so, it was hard to finish. “I wanted…” A deprecating smile took over where the words left off.
Elrond shook his head. “Erestor, you dance well, and I know you love it. In all these things,” his gesture vaguely encompassed house, window and bed, “you would have been very well had you only kept it wrapped; I should have made it a strict order to keep it bound or let you off practice, knowing you dislike that strapping so. I thought your abilities too good to let go to waste… ” Unlike Elrond to run on.
Erestor was surprised by the comment about the practice and it showed.
“Of course Glorfindel told me! You work with me and he knew you would say nothing. Try for some sense.” He closed his lips before frustration got the better of him. More moderate in manner, his next words were harder to take. “Erestor, don’t make me have to ask you all the time if you are wearing that aid. Do you want to lose the use of your knee altogether?”
Shocked, Erestor shook his head numbly.
“I would like to go to my rooms now, please. If I may.” He spoke with dignity and Elrond agreed to send a couple of healers along with the means of conveying him.
Elrond’s departure left a hollow emptiness in his wake.
“What was he talking about?” Lindir sat on the bed and waited for Erestor to face him.
“There is damage from a while ago. Obviously I should be more careful. I’d like to rest until they come for me, if you don’t mind.” His dignity intact, despite shock over Elrond’s words, Erestor drifted back into the refuge silence afforded him.
Lose the use? Altogether? Unlike Elrond to tell such ill and personal news so indiscreetly. He must have been more rattled than he showed, which frightened Erestor. It also left him feeling angry with himself, feeling stupid, cursing himself for putting vanity and comfort above his well-being.
To be lame worse than he was already? He would make a rare sight. Of course, elves suffered injuries, how not in the prolific battles that had raged across the land, most recently in Eregion? Most healed. Many of the worst injured died of poisoning from their enemies’ blades, and in case of severed limbs, the unfortunate often died of shock. Therefore there were few marred individuals despite the tragedy of fighting that littered Arda’s history. Even now, Imladris’ attempt to scour the land and make all safe resulted in continuing skirmishes and more fighting. The disaster that had come upon Celebrimbor and its sequel of retreat and nebulous future threat made safety seem a doubtful goal. Erestor shivered, dark eyes seeing the bleak advent of more war, more death and more hurt. He did not trust the apparent quiet to last.
He sighed. He was fortunate to be among the living and would not indulge in regret for what could not be mended.
Lindir was moving about the room, seeming ill at ease and no wonder. Such a rude ending to a pretty tryst, only to have his concern rebuffed coolly now. He had been about to kiss Erestor and Erestor could not bear the pity of it. Asking to rest had worked and he was left solitary and regretful in a bed made for better things.
***
Elrond himself came to see to Erestor in his rooms twice a day, despite Erestor’s protest. He would have been more comfortable with another, lesser healer. The pain continued, the boredom was endless, despite the chance to read. He kept the windows wide open, thanked the servants, talked to visitors, deflected Lindir’s awkwardly polite enquiries when he called and pined for his legs back under him.
“Tomorrow you can get up. And I have this for you.” Elrond laid a new casing for his knee on the bed between them. It was made of silver, and had the same design as the old one, with leather straps, and webbing. But this was lined with silk and quilted, bound and sewn over with ribbon, the leather soft in finest suede and the silver buckles and inlay were studded with tiny stars of turquoise.
“Promise me, Erestor.” Elrond broke off, cleared his throat, stood up. “Promise me you will wear it.”
Erestor picked it up, and turned it in his hands. The ribbon was velvet. He turned away to hide his face. A hand on his shoulder, and then he was alone. Elrond was telling him, as gently as he knew how, that he must never risk again such harm, for any reason – in any circumstances. His knee might not survive the strain a second time. He had been fortunate.
He spent the day alone, sitting in the window, holding the gift on his lap. After all, he was one of the lucky ones.
***
Life went on, a little more quietly while he convalesced but there was music whenever he wanted in the evening, and company when he chose. He drifted to Elrond’s doorway the first day he returned to work.
“I did not thank you. A handsome gift and kind.”
Elrond met his eyes with none of his usual detachment. He got up and came over. “I am only going to say this once. I am so very, very sorry I could do no better for you.”
Erestor nodded. “I want to know, can I still ride?”
A moment passed, then two. It was enough. He went back to his desk.
Elrond followed him to offer a crumb of hope. “Maybe in time, Erestor, if this present worsening heals and if you were careful. But there would always be the danger of a fall, or of over-exertion doing some damage that would not reliably repair afterwards.”
He nodded and sorted through what lay waiting for him as Elrond drifted out. After a time, Erestor even got some work done.
***
“I did not think them well-matched, you know,” remarked Elrond, a propos of nothing, after idly watching Erestor for a while after supper one night when they had all migrated to the fire-lit hall. “Even though they seem so drawn to each other.”
“Yes. I know.” Glorfindel made no production of the fact. Lindir was appointed by the King, his family lineage was of the highest Sindarin nobility, his father was a key member of Gil-galad’s court. Both Lindir and Erestor were in service to Elrond but with their characters so disparate…
“I am sorry for it now.”
Glorfindel glanced at him, and couldn’t help agreeing, but there was little they could do.
As colourful as before, and as friendly, Erestor never needed to sit alone in the hall unless he chose, as sometimes he did to listen to the music. He smiled as fully, and spoke as cheerfully, but even so he had changed. Lindir let his eyes follow his attempted lover. Erestor, who had once made no bones about approaching him closely, now behaved as if they were friendly in a remote way, and never had been nor ever would be more than that.
Lindir still sought him out, but Erestor no longer paid him those small courtesies that had so clearly spoken of his interest and brought them into contact. Lindir would dally with him but could draw no answering spark and, with his letter weighing on his mind, he did not insist on breaking down the new reserve between them.
***
Lindir gave forth his songs, and his instruments sang to the hall at night, but he liked best to escape by day and wander the river.
Walking the Bruinen’s banks forlornly, he played a tune of his Havens childhood, gift of the aunt who had given him his first tunes and taught him the lore of Ulmo, Lord of the Waters and Giver of Music. She had stood with her pipes in the bows of their skiff, swaying with the waves, to show him how the fish they said were not fish at all leapt to hear the strains. He had sat, entranced by the twin delights of the music and the spectacle of sleek bodies twisting above the waves, dancing in the air to the magic she created. His aunt had been all joy, utterly at home, herself and her piping merged with the boat and the waves and the wind about them in an ecstasy of celebration he had never before imagined. That day his childish heart had known without doubt what he wanted: to play as she was playing, for the sheer glory of the song and the world about them.
Ever since that day he had paid tribute to the mighty Alata, playing by the waters of Arda for Him to hear, but now he could take little comfort in the act. He had not meant to hurt Erestor. He had not meant to hurt him and yet he was both hurt and changed, withdrawn into himself. Lindir, with his father’s message hanging over him, hardly felt free to go about rectifying matters and so wandered the river brooding.
When he realized his father would never approve his calling, Lindir had learned to carry on regardless, neither arguing with him nor heeding the peremptory demands that he adopt a more significant role at court to fulfil his birthright. The strategy of avoiding argument had now failed him disastrously. When he had refused his father’s dearest wish, he had given as the reason his duties in Imladris: he would not be in Lindon to oblige him. They would have to come to him. The result – his father was on the road to Imladris together with Lindir’s fiancé and a wedding party. Gil-galad had given his blessing to the journey and its purpose, and Lindir would be married within the month.
Parmasambe
Library of Imladris
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