Lindir's Adventurers 16
Part Sixteen
Lindir dreamed in his reverie, of being saddle-sore and of elves and arguments and hands on him. Erestor was shouting at Gildor and then kissing his very own self. He woke with a start, heart racing, body alive with desire.
He groaned.
Hitherto, the journey had never been boring but once Gildor and his people arrived the atmosphere had changed again. It was a far different progress than his previous travels to attain Imladris under his brother’s eye. Tallath had a kind of suppressing effect on people around him, he entered so little into their wit or their pleasures. He seemed to brew disapproval much like some elves brewed wine: often and out of anything to hand. Unlike wine, neither he nor others enjoyed it.
Gildor’s elves on the other hand took any small opportunity to tease their lord and each other and at times Lindir suspected he deliberately gave them openings to do so. Gildor did the same to Erestor in his piercing, witty fashion, which elf undaunted could always summon a ready rejoinder.
Strange how Erestor could ride silent for hours with equal facility as he talked. In fact he kept Lindir company thus quietly more often now, both on the trail and in camp.
“Have we far to go?”
“To Lórien? We are nearly to her outlying skirts. Three days, maybe. And thereafter more than a day’s walk to achieve the heart of her. We will leave the horses in good care.”
Lindir smiled, and went back to the wood of his pipes, fingers running along the round lengths again and again, taking up the beeswax stick and stroking it down the fine-grained hornbeam, before rubbing it in again. Soon, he could play again setting free the too-long imprisoned notes. His hair fell forward, and he ignored it, absorbed in his task. For this time he was free of concerns.
He forgot the answer Erestor was making him await on tenterhooks, forgot the crying needs of his body, stirred daily in this company by long-legged warriors and Gildor’s close-clad companions. He even forgot his hot anxiety that if Erestor indulged him, he would fail to hold his interest, fail to give satisfaction. He refused to think of it. He was not afraid to try for what he wanted.
Soon he would be able to play again, to his heart’s content presuming his hosts would not mind. Diffidently he considered that thought and then shrugged. He could always seek some distant solitude where he would disturb no-one. Lovingly he smoothed wax in small amounts into each curved join, working it into the clever meeting of one pipe fixed to the next, and his smile spread, as he pretended it was Erestor whose body he was stroking. He grinned.
Just so would he tease, and touch. There, and there… And with his fingers, around and up. He laughed and wondered when Erestor would give him answer and what it would be. He doubted it was any revulsion that caused his hesitation. The custom was long established and he was not uncomely. What had Erestor said? Their ages were discrepant, the road side no place for his first tryst and there were far more suitable partners to choose between.
“Wait until the Golden Wood charms your senses, and woos you; there are many there to delight the eye and tempt desire. Only wait, Lindir and let us see what comes.”
He had hinted too at some other reason of which he said much less.
Lindir sighed. He *knew* what he wanted. His imagination furnished him with details… Hand sliding up Erestor’s skin, under his shirt, Erestor’s eyes widening as his other hand, too, explored. Shirt spread open, all that hard body to lay against and invite to himself, seeking closeness, asking for what Erestor could give him, offering pleasure as best he knew how, willing to be taught.
His hands slowed their caress of the pipes and then gave up. He sighed again, more in acceptance than longing now, and got up to help in the camp and check his mare.
***
As the days passed, new ideas flowed apace through Lindir, watching Gildor disappear to take a turn on point, or Erestor settle his sword at his side. Tales of fearsome foes and fights, wild romance and rescues ran through his mind unchecked. He hummed under his breath as he rode, the mare’s ears twitching.
As Lindir’s imagination conspired with lively elves and camaraderie, some of his ideas in Erestor’s company grew ridiculous enough for him to blush. His body’s clamour grew, though more privacy, not to say a certain elf’s consent, would be required for its requiting.
Thus he arrived in Lórien, anticipation for his twin obsessions riding high in his heart.
Lindir dreamed in his reverie, of being saddle-sore and of elves and arguments and hands on him. Erestor was shouting at Gildor and then kissing his very own self. He woke with a start, heart racing, body alive with desire.
He groaned.
Hitherto, the journey had never been boring but once Gildor and his people arrived the atmosphere had changed again. It was a far different progress than his previous travels to attain Imladris under his brother’s eye. Tallath had a kind of suppressing effect on people around him, he entered so little into their wit or their pleasures. He seemed to brew disapproval much like some elves brewed wine: often and out of anything to hand. Unlike wine, neither he nor others enjoyed it.
Gildor’s elves on the other hand took any small opportunity to tease their lord and each other and at times Lindir suspected he deliberately gave them openings to do so. Gildor did the same to Erestor in his piercing, witty fashion, which elf undaunted could always summon a ready rejoinder.
Strange how Erestor could ride silent for hours with equal facility as he talked. In fact he kept Lindir company thus quietly more often now, both on the trail and in camp.
“Have we far to go?”
“To Lórien? We are nearly to her outlying skirts. Three days, maybe. And thereafter more than a day’s walk to achieve the heart of her. We will leave the horses in good care.”
Lindir smiled, and went back to the wood of his pipes, fingers running along the round lengths again and again, taking up the beeswax stick and stroking it down the fine-grained hornbeam, before rubbing it in again. Soon, he could play again setting free the too-long imprisoned notes. His hair fell forward, and he ignored it, absorbed in his task. For this time he was free of concerns.
He forgot the answer Erestor was making him await on tenterhooks, forgot the crying needs of his body, stirred daily in this company by long-legged warriors and Gildor’s close-clad companions. He even forgot his hot anxiety that if Erestor indulged him, he would fail to hold his interest, fail to give satisfaction. He refused to think of it. He was not afraid to try for what he wanted.
Soon he would be able to play again, to his heart’s content presuming his hosts would not mind. Diffidently he considered that thought and then shrugged. He could always seek some distant solitude where he would disturb no-one. Lovingly he smoothed wax in small amounts into each curved join, working it into the clever meeting of one pipe fixed to the next, and his smile spread, as he pretended it was Erestor whose body he was stroking. He grinned.
Just so would he tease, and touch. There, and there… And with his fingers, around and up. He laughed and wondered when Erestor would give him answer and what it would be. He doubted it was any revulsion that caused his hesitation. The custom was long established and he was not uncomely. What had Erestor said? Their ages were discrepant, the road side no place for his first tryst and there were far more suitable partners to choose between.
“Wait until the Golden Wood charms your senses, and woos you; there are many there to delight the eye and tempt desire. Only wait, Lindir and let us see what comes.”
He had hinted too at some other reason of which he said much less.
Lindir sighed. He *knew* what he wanted. His imagination furnished him with details… Hand sliding up Erestor’s skin, under his shirt, Erestor’s eyes widening as his other hand, too, explored. Shirt spread open, all that hard body to lay against and invite to himself, seeking closeness, asking for what Erestor could give him, offering pleasure as best he knew how, willing to be taught.
His hands slowed their caress of the pipes and then gave up. He sighed again, more in acceptance than longing now, and got up to help in the camp and check his mare.
***
As the days passed, new ideas flowed apace through Lindir, watching Gildor disappear to take a turn on point, or Erestor settle his sword at his side. Tales of fearsome foes and fights, wild romance and rescues ran through his mind unchecked. He hummed under his breath as he rode, the mare’s ears twitching.
As Lindir’s imagination conspired with lively elves and camaraderie, some of his ideas in Erestor’s company grew ridiculous enough for him to blush. His body’s clamour grew, though more privacy, not to say a certain elf’s consent, would be required for its requiting.
Thus he arrived in Lórien, anticipation for his twin obsessions riding high in his heart.