Lindir's Adventurers 27
An elf playing a a long necked stringed instrument smiled welcome at Lindir and with a sway to the beat a nod to the instruments he carried, bade him to join in.
Erestor sat watching next to a blonde vision, all legs and leather, comfortable and chatting quietly at times, catching up on news. They were old friends, he and Venastir, and he lay back comfortably, imagining it was Glorfindel’s arms around him and laughing brightly at the next joke. They would kiss later, and perhaps do more.
He sighed softly, refusing to wish to be sitting with Glorfindel before their last interview when at least he could pretend to hope.
The strings of the second instrument were joined by a third and a fourth, and then an elf with an armful of percussion settled in the grass. Finally, Lindir seemed to relax.
When Amroth arrived, he drew nods of respect, but at a gesture to remain seated, none rose to disturb the music with pomp. Lindir was oblivious to it all except that when he looked around the elves gathered in the glade, he caught Erestor’s eye and smiled blindingly, more in joy for the music shared than for other motives, so Erestor judged. He smiled back with a nod of agreement for the twin pleasures of good company and good music.
As Erestor lay slit-eyed in Venastir’s arms, he watched Lindir and watched Tallath.
He gradually grew more silent as the evening wore on. Lindir was happy in his playing. No, he was transported; so much was abundantly clear. The musicians were plied with wine and food but partook of little, tirelessly involved in the harmonies they wove in and out of each others’ improvisations. Lindir’s pipes were weaving a flawless descant to a tune new to Erestor and, he suspected, to Lindir.
That brother of his was another story. Uncomfortable, annoyed, tense: that he took no pleasure at all in his sibling’s skill was one thing, but sadder and more worrisome by far, that he took none in Lindir’s joy.
If all Tallath was inclined to do was keep Lindir tied to his skirts, it seemed he could not be relied on to show Lindir around as Erestor had counted on. He must resolve his quandary over Lindir’s request soon, for ordinary courtesy, for sheer kindness, and if those were not enough, out of profound fellow-feeling.
Erestor might not be short of experience, confidence and company - he patted Venastir gently in absent gratitude - but he knew all too acutely what it was to be eating his heart out for someone unattained.
He might not judge Lindir’s case as one of heart-struck love, but he fully respected the weight of feeling that went with the sort of longings Lindir had expressed. Lindir deserved his requiting, his experiments, a tender lover he could relish and enjoy…
Erestor closed his eyes briefly, his own heart-hurt rising unbidden, a face both kindly and august appearing in his mind’s eye, a figure of bearing lordly, hair of a lustrous gold unprecedented on these shores. He could hear the slow roll of vowels that fashioned deep-voiced Sindarin into something ceremonial, remnant of old Quenya escaping quiet, competent acclimatization to strange shores and customs of a new age.
His heart did not feel like it was breaking to recall those accents thanking him, declining the honour of a charming offer. Erestor reflected detachedly that love felt more like being stabbed with a sharp blade, long and thin, a fiery hurt that did not quite hurt until the blade was withdrawn. Loving Glorfindel - seeing him for the first time - living in his company - was itself a kind of pain even when he still had hopes of winning him.
Loving Glorfindel was worth any cost. Gently, Erestor made himself relax, open his eyes and put a smile on his lips.
Glorfindel’s refusal was not the end of the world. He had seen the end of the world.
This was not it: the oceans rocked secure in their bed, contained even through the worst of storms, the shores faithfully kept their new station. The mountains of the age stood unlevelled; lakes of fire remained where they belonged in the bowels of the earth.
No, it was not the end of the world. It only felt like it. He could not, he absolutely could not, bed Lindir feeling as he did.
He started running suitable candidates through his mind. Young, personable, kind, experienced, intelligent, understanding, gentle, yet exciting and heady. Oh, and discreet, given Lindir’s family.
Rumil? Perhaps he was a little too experienced… Maybe Dirthan could help him hit on a good candidate.
Venastir was perhaps not so good an advisor, his irreverence rivalling Gildor’s and his taste for sumptuous pleasures inordinate and rather less innocent than Orophin’s simple excesses. He made a very good friend, however. Erestor curled a loose arm around the warm body beside him and part-decorous part-decadent lay back a little more to emulate Lindir in enjoying the moment to the full.
Erestor sat watching next to a blonde vision, all legs and leather, comfortable and chatting quietly at times, catching up on news. They were old friends, he and Venastir, and he lay back comfortably, imagining it was Glorfindel’s arms around him and laughing brightly at the next joke. They would kiss later, and perhaps do more.
He sighed softly, refusing to wish to be sitting with Glorfindel before their last interview when at least he could pretend to hope.
The strings of the second instrument were joined by a third and a fourth, and then an elf with an armful of percussion settled in the grass. Finally, Lindir seemed to relax.
When Amroth arrived, he drew nods of respect, but at a gesture to remain seated, none rose to disturb the music with pomp. Lindir was oblivious to it all except that when he looked around the elves gathered in the glade, he caught Erestor’s eye and smiled blindingly, more in joy for the music shared than for other motives, so Erestor judged. He smiled back with a nod of agreement for the twin pleasures of good company and good music.
As Erestor lay slit-eyed in Venastir’s arms, he watched Lindir and watched Tallath.
He gradually grew more silent as the evening wore on. Lindir was happy in his playing. No, he was transported; so much was abundantly clear. The musicians were plied with wine and food but partook of little, tirelessly involved in the harmonies they wove in and out of each others’ improvisations. Lindir’s pipes were weaving a flawless descant to a tune new to Erestor and, he suspected, to Lindir.
That brother of his was another story. Uncomfortable, annoyed, tense: that he took no pleasure at all in his sibling’s skill was one thing, but sadder and more worrisome by far, that he took none in Lindir’s joy.
If all Tallath was inclined to do was keep Lindir tied to his skirts, it seemed he could not be relied on to show Lindir around as Erestor had counted on. He must resolve his quandary over Lindir’s request soon, for ordinary courtesy, for sheer kindness, and if those were not enough, out of profound fellow-feeling.
Erestor might not be short of experience, confidence and company - he patted Venastir gently in absent gratitude - but he knew all too acutely what it was to be eating his heart out for someone unattained.
He might not judge Lindir’s case as one of heart-struck love, but he fully respected the weight of feeling that went with the sort of longings Lindir had expressed. Lindir deserved his requiting, his experiments, a tender lover he could relish and enjoy…
Erestor closed his eyes briefly, his own heart-hurt rising unbidden, a face both kindly and august appearing in his mind’s eye, a figure of bearing lordly, hair of a lustrous gold unprecedented on these shores. He could hear the slow roll of vowels that fashioned deep-voiced Sindarin into something ceremonial, remnant of old Quenya escaping quiet, competent acclimatization to strange shores and customs of a new age.
His heart did not feel like it was breaking to recall those accents thanking him, declining the honour of a charming offer. Erestor reflected detachedly that love felt more like being stabbed with a sharp blade, long and thin, a fiery hurt that did not quite hurt until the blade was withdrawn. Loving Glorfindel - seeing him for the first time - living in his company - was itself a kind of pain even when he still had hopes of winning him.
Loving Glorfindel was worth any cost. Gently, Erestor made himself relax, open his eyes and put a smile on his lips.
Glorfindel’s refusal was not the end of the world. He had seen the end of the world.
This was not it: the oceans rocked secure in their bed, contained even through the worst of storms, the shores faithfully kept their new station. The mountains of the age stood unlevelled; lakes of fire remained where they belonged in the bowels of the earth.
No, it was not the end of the world. It only felt like it. He could not, he absolutely could not, bed Lindir feeling as he did.
He started running suitable candidates through his mind. Young, personable, kind, experienced, intelligent, understanding, gentle, yet exciting and heady. Oh, and discreet, given Lindir’s family.
Rumil? Perhaps he was a little too experienced… Maybe Dirthan could help him hit on a good candidate.
Venastir was perhaps not so good an advisor, his irreverence rivalling Gildor’s and his taste for sumptuous pleasures inordinate and rather less innocent than Orophin’s simple excesses. He made a very good friend, however. Erestor curled a loose arm around the warm body beside him and part-decorous part-decadent lay back a little more to emulate Lindir in enjoying the moment to the full.