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Celebrations are always a strain, but in the wake of the dwarves, this one is easy. Through all of his duties, Lindir even finds a moment away to sing, though the forlorn melody does little to lift him up. He imagines the festivities, once they actually occur, will do more to melt away his stress. Elladan and Elrohir have returned from a long stint away, and Lindir always prefers to have them in Imladris—Lord Elrond is happiest when all his children are home.
Lord Elrond’s happiness is everything to Lindir. When he’s finished his tune, he returns to the kitchens and oversees the food preparations, taking a few samples here and there and altering the contents of the salad. Then he stops by the gardens to fuss over the bouquets being picked for centerpieces. Just before the dinner is set to start, Lindir hurries to the patio where they’ll eat, intent on checking the place settings.
He’s nearly there when he hears his name, and he stops abruptly—he would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Elrond at the end of the corridor, walking swiftly towards him. Lit on one side with the fading sun through the pillars around them, Elrond looks especially gorgeous. He always does. He wears the crimson robes that Lindir laid out for him this morning, cinched in the back where Lindir himself tied the corset lacing. He prepared his lord meticulously and shamefully savoured every second. Now he stands in waiting, until Elrond reaches him, and then he ducks his head with a reverent, “My lord.”
“I wish to speak with you,” Elrond says, and it seems faster than his usual style of calm speech—but then, the dinner’s starting shortly. Lindir nods, and Elrond glances sideways, then gestures Lindir out through the pillars. Elrond guides Lindir around the bend of the balcony until they’re tucked around the side of the building, hidden from sight with a sweeping view of the waterfall. Moments like this, intimate and private, are the stuff of Lindir’s dreams. He tries not to show it on his face and instead waits patiently for what his lord might have to say.
But Elrond’s quiet. He wears a light frown that gives Lindir worry; he wants to rush and ask what he can do—he’ll do anything—to end whatever worries Elrond. Instead, he’s respectfully silent. After a moment of eyeing Lindir carefully, Elrond says, “Lindir... I hope you know that I would hold you back from nothing.” Lindir tilts his head, unsure of what that means, but Elrond clarifies slowly, “I would not have you be lonely for fear of my disapproval.”
That’s plain enough. Lindir can feel his cheeks abruptly heating under Elrond’s gaze, and he fights to keep that in check but is sure he’s failing. All he can think is that he’s been caught, he hasn’t been careful enough, he’s been brazen and foolish and now Elrond’s displeased with all of his lies. Elrond looks displeased enough, though he’s clearly trying to look as neutral as possible. It isn’t working. Lindir can’t say anything. He’s frozen still in sheer turmoil.
In that silence, Elrond sighs, glances away and back, then admits softly, “I overheard your song this morning.”
Inside, Lindir screams. He feels dizzy.
But then Elrond proceeds, “It was clearly a tale of longing for one of my sons.”
A mountain of relief slithers out of Lindir’s body. At the same time, his heart urges him to tell his beloved lord the truth, and he finds himself traitorously mumbling, “No...”
“You spoke of brown hair and deep eyes,” Elrond recites, brow lifting as though to challenge Lindir’s denial. “You mentioned great skill in battle and the armour of my line, yet charm and ease and healing skill, and of high status. Yet you seemed under the woeful impression that your lord would not approve.”
Lindir spoke of many, many things, because there’s no shortage of the traits he loves in Lord Elrond. Most are true for Elladan and Elrohir, but they could never be as close to Lindir’s heart as Elrond. Yet Lindir can’t seem to make a sound and isn’t sure he wants to. Elrond’s clearly misinterpreted Lindir’s final verse. It isn’t that he thought Elrond would disapprove, it’s that Lindir isn’t worthy, and he wouldn’t dare confess to someone who couldn’t possibly love him in return. And if he were sent away, or even allowed to remain in Imladris but not at Elrond’s side, it would break him.
When it becomes clear that Lindir won’t say a word, Elrond reaches out to slip his long fingers around Lindir’s hand. Lindir’s pulse jumps, his breath coming rapidly. His skin burns where Elrond touches him. And then Elrond lifts that hand and clasps it in both, giving Lindir a little squeeze, and Lindir’s kneels feel weak.
“I would not keep you from love,” Elrond insists, and though his mouth still frowns, his eyes are sincere. Sad, perhaps, but sincere. It isn’t that Lindir doubted that.
Lindir blurts, “But I... I am only a lowly servant...”
Elrond’s grip tightens, and he replies firmly, “You are a wondrous being. You are very beautiful, my Lindir, both in face and voice.” Lindir’s cheeks are broiling; he feels dizzy; he can’t believe those words have come from Elrond and Lindir knows he’ll savour this memory for as long as he lives. Yet Elrond goes on, “You are wise for your years and equally as kind. Your talented is both limitless and ever in bloom. You have been faithful to me, loyal and sure, and not a day goes by that I am not grateful for your presence in my home. You are more valuable than you could ever know.”
Lindir can barely breathe. He tries to and licks his lips, throat dry. It takes him a moment to manage, “Do you... my lord, do you really think that...?” He’ll treasure this always.
Elrond lowers his hands, but Lindir selfishly grabs onto the one below his and won’t let go. Their intertwining fingers stay suspended between them. Elrond says, “I do.” And then, while Lindir struggles not to faint, he continues, “Anyone would be lucky to have you. I wish you all the happiness you deserve, and thus I believe you should confess your feelings.”
Lindir murmurs dazedly, “I should?”
“Yes.” Here, the trouble increases in Elrond’s brow, but he still offers, “After the feast, I will draw one of my sons aside, if you wish, leaving you the other—who was your song about?”
Lindir never could lie to his lord. He’s neglected the truth, but he can’t mislead this bluntly, not with their hands connected and Elrond’s eyes on his, and Lindir is still basking in the glow of so many compliments from one he’s loved for so long, and he finds himself admitting, “You.”
Elrond’s eyes go wide. His lips part, the shock all over his handsome face, while Lindir stands there and trembles, fearful but heart too swollen to care. Elladan and Elrohir are both magnificent creatures, but their father has always been everything Lindir could ever want or love. All Lindir can do is look at his lord Elrond and radiate his adoration.
Elrond isn’t given the chance to respond. Before he can, someone steps into Lindir’s peripherals, and he turns to see Arwen emerging from around the corner. She’s as stunning as ever, her hair done up with jewels for the occasion, and her harried expression softens when she sees them. “Father,” she sighs, then, “Lindir. I have been looking everywhere for you! The feast is starting.”
Lindir can’t think of anything to do but duck his head in a respectful bow. It gives him a chance to stare at the stone floor of the balcony and nothing else. She’s broken the spell. The mood is gone, and suddenly Lindir realizes how foolish he’s been. Over his head, Elrond gently reports, “Thank you, Arwen. We will be along in only a moment.”
Lindir more hears than sees Arwen leave; he can’t bring himself to look up again. He can’t face the repercussions. Elrond releases a heavy sigh and announces, “We must discuss this later.” Lindir nods without lifting his gaze. Elrond’s hand slips out of his, and it breaks Lindir’s heart.
Only a second later, that same hand appears below Lindir’s chin, forefinger curling to gently nudge Lindir’s face upwards. Lindir’s never been able to resist a command from his lord, even one only implied. He begrudgingly lifts his head but keeps his eyes lowered.
Then Elrond is right against him, and suddenly, soft lips are brushing over Lindir’s. Lindir lets out a startled gasp, but the kiss stays firm, gentle and serene but secure. Lindir’s eyes flutter closed, heart racing. He can barely believe this is happening.
Elrond pulls away a moment later, though Lindir’s eyes stay closed for several seconds, drinking in the moment. When he finally allows them open, he finds Elrond smiling for the first time that night. It’s as though all the weight has melted from Elrond’s shoulders. He murmurs quietly, “Later?”
Lindir opens his mouth. He wants to lunge forward and kiss Elrond with everything he has. He wants to push Elrond back and ravish him. Lindir’s arms are shaking at his sides.
But he nods and allows Elrond to sweep forward and scoop him up with an arm around his waist. He’s lead back towards the celebration, though no festivities could be greater than his own merriment. On the way to the feast, he whispers under his breath to his lord the verse he’d always hoped to add.