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Aearlinn	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 9032 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Aearlinn - Nîth Chall

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The Following Day, Sunrise ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lindir was incensed, positively livid with a rage more vicious and fiery than anything he had felt in…well, he didn't like to think about the last time he'd felt so angry. Of course, as is the way with such painful recollections, the memory surfaced with all its horrific details intact. The images overwhelmed his thoughts with speed and force equal to the energy the minstrel usually employed to keep the ugly truth imprisoned in the abyssal depths of oblivion where it belonged. The harder he tried not to relive the terrifying event the more fully was the trauma realised.

After so many centuries gone by, he was seldom forced to confront this phantom of the past yet he knew that once awakened he must let it play out. He couldn't permit that here in the Last Homely House, though; not even behind the closed door of his private apartment. No, In Elrond's house there were too many ears always eagerly listening for any hint of gossip or intrigue. He had a reputation to uphold, and that reputation was one he had carefully developed and nurtured over the lengthy course of his affiliation to the House of Eärendil. Lindir the minstrel was care-free, jovial, ever ready with a song or a poem, a joke or a humorous anecdote. No one saw the truth; no one knew that gallant Lindir was a survivor of the second kinslaying and that was as he wished it.

The fair singer needed solitude and privacy to see the ordeal through and so he did what he had been doing for all the centuries since the fall of Doriath: he shucked off his robes, belted a tunic over his shirt and leggings, grabbed up his bow and quiver, and slipped out to spend his rage in the physically draining work of archery practice. He peered carefully about from his second story balcony before lightly springing over the rail, golden tresses streaming behind him, landing on the grassy lawn in a low crouch. He hastened down the path, not toward the practice field where the targets were set up but away from the estate, out into the surrounding woods. Once beneath the sheltering branches, he broke into a run as the terror of the phantasm broke through his defences.

He wept openly, nay, he sobbed like an elfling in great noisy gulping hiccups, nose snotty and vision blurred with tears. He raced for his very life, fleeing the destruction of Doriath, racing before the charging forces of the Noldorin soldiers, warriors cruel and vicious, trained by none other than Caranthir the Dark. How they laughed and jeered, purposefully holding back, steering him this way and that through the woods of Region as he tried so desperately to get away, to survive. But he was just an elfling of forty summers and he couldn't outrun them, out-think them, or outmanoeuvre them. He had spent all his arrows, not that they had done any good for he hadn't been able to bring himself to aim where they would do any harm. He hadn't believed it, the stories that were whispered about the Noldorin Elves and kinslaying. Even when the bloodshed and brutality spread from Nargothrond to the wild forest, even when he saw it with his own eyes, even when his sister was cut down right at his very feet, even then Lindir couldn't take another's life.

They caught him at last and carried him off to their camp. Two weeks of torment he endured at their hands and these elves treated him as less than an animal. He was made their slave and forced to wait upon them and do whatever they bid. The Noldorin warriors stripped him of innocence and took away his name, calling him hecilo and nârion. They played cruel games, setting him loose in the woods and promising him freedom if he could outwit them and evade them in the hunt. He never did, for they were false and always had hounds to track his scent and horses to bear them with speed to cut off every avenue he tried to use. In that short span of days Lindir learned to hate them, but most of all to hate himself, for now he would gladly kill, now when it could aid no one. He couldn't forget that his sister died defending him when he could not lift his hand against these elves, and Lindir despised both his weakness then and his new-found craving to spill their blood now.

He was on the very brink of madness when Maedhros came upon the rogue troop of warriors, remnant of his brother's guard, and took the elfling from them. This was not whom he'd been seeking in the tangled trees, but his search for the twin sons of Dior had been thwarted. Close to despair himself and heartsick over the unknown fate of the lost princes of Doriath, the eldest Prince of the Noldor took the battered Green Elf away with him to his home in the forests of Ossiriand, where the last of his people lived. There the elfling slowly healed and grew under the guidance of Maedhros and his brothers, Maglor, Amros, and Amrod. It was Maglor who discovered his gift for singing and trained him to become a minstrel. It was thus Lindir was given a name, for he never again used the one his mother had bestowed upon him, feeling unworthy to claim kinship to his people after failing to defend his sister. Though he wondered, he never learned the fate of his parents and assumed they had both died in the slaughter.

Years passed, too many to recall, and then Maedhros learned of Elwing and the Silmaril, sheltered among the Exiles in the small colony at Sirion. Lindir rode with the force that descended upon the refugees and in that bloody battle turned against the Noldor who had fostered him. Lost in the recollection of the sack of Doriath, he joined the Exiles as they fought to repel the vile kinslayers, ready now to die for what was left of his people, convinced he was the last of his lineage. Imagine, then, his shock to turn a corner and come face to face with his father. There wasn't even time for a greeting; Lindir took his place beside his Adar, each having thought the other dead in the carnage of Doriath, each discovering the other in the bedlam of the current conflict, a blinding moment of delirious joy and horror combined, and together they gave in to their vengeance.

Lindir's position of trust within the Noldorin camp permitted them to draw close to the sons of Feanor and strike them a crushing blow. The pair killed Amros and Amrod in their frenzy of blood-lust and hatred. They killed Maglor's son. They killed elves that had fed and cared for and loved Lindir. They were pitiless and merciless.

Their reunion was short-lived, for Lindir's father perished during the fight. Not before granting his son the forgiveness so longed for, though, and this set Lindir's heart at ease, even in the depths of his grief.

The Noldor were much the stronger force and soon overwhelmed the elves of Sirion, though they did not capture their prize. Once Maedhros understood the jewel was beyond his reach, he withdrew his forces.

Lindir was captured again but the remaining Noldorin Princes said nothing about his treachery, for how could they? Instead, Lindir was embraced amid his tears and shouted curses, laying upon his benefactors the burden of all who were killed, even Amrod and Amros though their blood soaked his garments. Morose and bitter, the singer fell to grieving and began to fade. Why the sons of Feänor cared he didn't understand, but neither brother wanted him to die. Hoping to divert him from sorrow, Maglor gave into his care two young elves, hostages taken against the return of the Silmaril, the children of Elwing and Eärendil, and these of course were Elrond and Elros. It worked, for Lindir could not forget his own salvation under similar circumstances. He befriended the twins and the elflings came to love their foster-family, even as Lindir had done.

He had seen too much, that was all. He made himself pretend that it happened to someone else in some other life-time, part of an epic history of which he could sing but had no personal knowledge. That is what everyone in Imladris believed. Only Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor, and Círdan knew his real story, and of these only Círdan had seen him ravenous for blood and death. No one ever guessed that fair Lindir was a Green-Elf descended from Denethor son of Lenwë, not Sindarin, not born in Mithlond in the middling years of the Second Age, long after the massacre at Sirion. For out of love for his friend and mentor, Elrond had kept Lindir's secret and convinced the others to do likewise. It wasn't hard; they had all seen too much and if one of them could shed the weight of those horrors the rest were happy to aid him.

In this way Lindir dealt with the pain and guilt as best he could, travelling between the elven realms as the most celebrated minstrel since Maglor. Over time it became ever easier to suppress the memories and sometimes Lindir forgot the truth. Why, then, was the cheerful singer overcome with this woe so suddenly? Indeed, the dire tale was resurrected from its dormant sleep by the story Arwen had told, the story of Legolas and how he came to be in Imladris. The Wood Elf's recent history seemed to contain similar elements of violence and deception.

Truly, Lindir was more comfortable feeling the anger than defining it, for he couldn't bear naming the source of his wrath. This was something even Elrond didn't know. All those Ages ago when he was but forty summers old and fostered in the home of Maglor, under the impetuous and powerful urges of youth, he had fallen in love with the Noldorin prince and bound himself to the singer. Maglor had taken him as a lover but nothing more, for he was wed and had a family. After the kinslaying at Sirion, he touched Lindir never again, for the minstrel's apprentice had confessed his deeds, filled with grief and shame and bitter spite and self-pity. Now, here was Elrond keeping a sylvan lover to ease his wounded soul and sate his pleasure, returning nothing of his heart. Lindir could not stop thinking on Arwen's words when first he had stumbled on the story, for it was the very synthesis of his personal tragedy: 'He's very young, and a young heart is prone to love.'

He ran, trusting his knowledge of the region and the song of the trees all around to guide him, and let his heart break anew. He wept for Maglor and his son, for all the elves he had killed that day, for his parents and his sister, but mostly he wept for that elfling of forty summers, too young to understand that love is not always a blessing. In this way he blundered into the clearing he had set out for and with an abrupt cry pulled up short, for there on the opposite side of the glen stood another elf. Lindir gawked at the comely face unmarred by tears, the lithe and slender build, the long yellow hair bound back in warrior style, the bow clenched tight in a fisted hand, the simple garb of a woodland elf. He sobbed and fell upon his knees, for it was as if he looked upon himself, that tender youth he had been so long ago. He cast down his weapon and covered his face, keening in misery and confusion, for how could this be so?

Lindir was too distraught by the traumatic memories he was reliving to register that this must be Legolas, the sylvan lover of Lord Elrond, and not a phantom of his former self come to torment him.

As for Legolas, he had heard the frantic pace of the approaching elf quite some time before Lindir's arrival. A pause in his archery practice and a quick query to the trees taught him the unexpected visitor was no threat. He'd waited, cautiously inquisitive to discover who in Imladris would seek to venture here, for this was a portion of the valley left wild for the benefit of the lesser creations of Yavanna. No hunting was permitted and thus none of the residents of Elrond's country had a reason to enter the woods. That was reason enough for the sylvan archer to adopt the area as his own. Once Lindir burst upon the secluded dell, Legolas, too, was overcome with confusion for it was like looking into a mirror with a span the length of Ages between one image and its reflection. As soon as this doppleganger went down, however, he threw aside his wary curiosity and rushed to aid this unknown kinsman, for there was no doubt this was another sylvan elf, the first he'd seen since his enforced residency began.

"Ai! Ai! What ails thee? Have you been hurt? Who has caused you this distress?" Legolas asked, reverting to his native Nandorin, and knelt beside Lindir. He enveloped the singer in his arms without hesitation and held him close, gently soothing his hand over the shaking shoulders.

Lindir shifted in order to lower his hands and raise his head, glancing almost fearfully into the face so near to his, and saw this was no ghost. This elf had worried eyes of sun-bright blue while his were green; the hair was of a paler cast, the braiding style was not a pattern he knew, and the features were more refined than his. Relieved, the minstrel returned the hug and squeezed tight, breaking into fresh wails and weeping. They remained this way for some time, for Lindir had much sorrow to spend. Gradually he calmed, listening intently to the soothing murmur of consoling words whispered in Nandorin, a language he hadn't spoken in nearly an Age. Eventually they exchanged names, though Lindir knew who his kindly comforter was, and the conversation broadened beyond the minstrel's sad predicament.

"This is a rather remote portion of the realm for most of the folk of Rivendell. Still, I haven't seen you at the Last Homely House before; where have you come from? What sorrow brought you to this place?" asked Legolas, pleased by the return of composure. He sat back and offered his new acquaintance his handkerchief.

"I am minstrel to Lord Elrond," explained Lindir, matching Legolas' fluent Nandorin with his own halting rendition of the dialect. "I have been away for a time and returned yesterday. Imladris is my home and this glade has been my sanctuary for over a thousand years." Lindir refused the proffered cloth, for he had his own and retrieved it, cleaning up the evidence of his lapse into despair.

"Ah, that explains it." Legolas shook his head glumly and then continued, seeing a bewildered look pass over the singer's features. "The trees have often told me a sylvan elf used to come here and that he was missed. I did not mean to invade your refuge. I can leave if you wish for it's clear you sought this place under great duress."

"No, don't go. In some part it's because of you I needed to get away."

"What? That can't be true for I'm certain I've done nothing to cause you such pain. I've never even seen you before." Legolas was disturbed and quickly jumped to his feet.

"That's not what I meant," Lindir said, getting up to stop the fast retreating Wood Elf. He reached out and grabbed Legolas' arm to halt him. "Arwen told me how you came to be here and there is much in your tale that is like my own. I, too, was once bound to a Noldorin prince."

Legolas frowned and stiffened under the singer's grip. "Lord Elrond is not a Noldorin prince," he huffed irritably as if he'd heard this before and considered it highly insulting. "He is descended from Thingol and Melian."

"Still, he has Noldorin blood."

"He's got every kind of blood, if you want to get particular, so I would say it all depends on what race claims the most ancestors. In that contest the Noldor lose."

"True but he and his twin were raised by Noldorin princes. Elrond served the High-king of the Noldor and in Imladris keeps Noldorin traditions and culture. The combination of Noldorin heritage and upbringing counters whatever part of him is Sindarin, Maiarin, or human."

"What does it matter? I don't care about his lineage." Legolas tugged his arm irritably, wishing now he hadn't succoured the argumentative minstrel.

"Really?" Lindir tightened his grasp and yanked back, refusing to let go. "Is that why you haven't told any of your kinfolk in Mirkwood that you're here?" He reached for the archer's other arm and before Legolas could react had both hands securely clasped in his. "You're not wearing a ring, Legolas," he said quietly.

All the air left Legolas' body in a harsh gasp of shock. He jerked his fingers free, staring at the minstrel, shame and anger equally present in his eyes. It was true, though, and so the next second shame won out and he turned his back to hide his face. "I have made such a terrible mistake," Legolas' voice trembled as his resolve threatened to give way. The weight or Lindir's arm across his shoulders at first made him tense but it had been so long since he'd had any of his kin around him that he didn't shrug it off. He discovered the contact lent him strength and he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. "I thought he would come to love me. It seemed that he did; otherwise I wouldn't have allowed it to happen."

"Nae, it's just as I feared," Lindir growled, half in anger half in resignation. "You hardly had any control over this, according to Arwen, so it certainly isn't your fault."

"Arwen?" Legolas cringed. "How can she possibly know? I haven't even told Elrond yet!"

"You haven't told him you love him?" Lindir turned Legolas around to look at him, somewhat confused.

Legolas realised Lindir had no idea what he was talking about and decided to say no more. What was he thinking? He didn't even know this person and he was about to pour out all his hidden fears and woes. He shook his head, trying to come up with a means to divert the conversation to a safer topic. He gave Lindir a more thorough examination and lifted his brows in surprise. "You are not Sindarin, but those are certainly Sindarin style braids."

"Aye, they are. Everyone here thinks I'm a Grey Elf, except Elrond and one or two others. Noldorin folk can't tell one variety of Telerin elf from another, it seems. That's how I want it and I hope you won't say anything." He watched Legolas make a carelessly dismissive shrug as he turned and retrieved his bow from the ground where he'd let it fall. Lindir was no fool. There was more going on than he'd first discerned and he was now more determined than ever to learn the meaning of the Wood Elf's broken admission.

"They would not believe me even if I did," Legolas snorted. He could understand why Lindir wished his true heritage to remain hidden, given the disrespect the Imladris elves had shown him. He moved to the furthest limit of the glen and readied himself for target practice, checking the bowstring's tension and drawing an arrow from the quiver. "I will keep your secret." He aimed and fired and in the distance the distinct thump of an arrow embedding in wood met their sensitive ears.

"Thank you," Lindir nodded approvingly as he followed Legolas, sighting the shaft where it protruded from a small knot in a tall pine tree several metres away. "Excellent shot. Do you mind if I join you? I find it eases my mind and improves concentration to practice this way. Besides, I travel widely and must keep my skills sharp."

"I welcome the company of another sylvan archer. The warriors of Imladris do not favour the bow over much. You were right; we have much in common."

They took turns firing at the targets, which were no more than variously chosen knots and branches on the surrounding trees, studying each other's techniques and offering supportive critique, though Lindir soon realised there was no advice he could give Legolas when it came to this skill. Only among the Galadhrim of Lorien had he seen archers of this calibre, though he never visited Mirkwood and couldn't say if this level of expertise was common there or not. Slowly the morning lengthened and the lazy hours passed, each elf growing more at ease with the other, and in unspoken accord realised they were friends. The singer decided to attempt to draw the archer out, taking a breath before he started, but Legolas surprised him by asking a question of his own.

"Your lover, the Noldorin prince you spoke of, what happened to him?"

"We parted ways at the time of the War of Wrath. I know not his fate though many claim it must be evil for so were his deeds. Yet I hope that he has found peace after all this time; he suffered greatly before the end and lost everyone he ever loved. Surely that is punishment enough?"

"I cannot speak to that; it is beyond my wisdom. Did you love him?" Legolas glanced uneasily at Lindir and swallowed. "Did he give you a ring?"

"I loved him dearly but he was already wed. No, I was given nothing but his company. I still don't know if I meant anything more to him than a diversion, a sort of exciting comfort to distract him from his cares. He never spoke of love and neither did I." Lindir sighed, amazed that he was able to speak of this, astonished that it felt so easy to talk about it with Legolas. He smiled faintly at the sylvan archer, thinking again how much he reminded him of his youthful years before the tragedy began. He watched sadly as the shadow of hopelessness dulled Legolas bright eyes. "Arwen is right; you have given over your heart."

"It does not please me to have the Lady of Imladris discussing me so plainly with people I don't know," growled Legolas and stalked off to retrieve his arrows. "Though her words are at least cordial rather than coarse," he added bitterly. Lindir joined him and they gathered their missiles in silence, each lost in thought, until suddenly Legolas grew still and turned his head back toward the heart of the valley. He touched his hand to a tree and sighed, a momentary grimace of irritation passing over his features. "Elrond approaches; I must go." With that he vaulted into the tree and vanished into the branches just as a muffled thump and a muted curse reached the minstrel's hearing.

Lindir took up the remainder of his arrows and returned to the clearing in time to see Elrond break through a thicket of wild rose, snapping several dry stems and snagging his velvet robes on the thorny vine. He stumbled over an unseen obstacle and cursed again, snatching the spiny growth to steady his balance, which elicited yet another oath as he careened into the glade, plucking a thorn from his palm. The singer smirked at Elrond's obvious shock to find him there, pleased to see the mighty Lord at less than his best, garments torn and askew, tangled hair sporting the unbecoming adornment of stray leaves and stems.

"Lindir? What are you doing here?" he asked, looking around him and up in the branches as he advanced into the glen. "I'm looking for someone and I would swear this wood purposely deters my goal. Have you seen another elf, a sylvan elf?"

"He's not here," said the singer coldly, arming his weapon and firing an arrow that came precariously close to Elrond's foot.

"Did you seen him? Where did he go, Lindir?"

"I have no idea where he went. We spoke at length as we practised together but he left just a short time ago." Lindir sent a second arrow in Elrond's direction, grazing the flowing hem of his formal robes.

"Stop that! What is wrong with you?" shouted Elrond uneasily, backing away.

"Do not move a muscle, Elrond, or I will put the next one right through your left ankle," the singer threatened, his bow trained upon his target. "And you know I will; I have no compunction about skewering Noldorin elves, particularly those that take advantage of their power to abuse others."

"What are you talking about? Lindir, this is unacceptable; lower your weapon at once!" the ruler barked, face going red with rage.

"How old is Legolas?" Lindir demanded. "What right do you have to use him? Do you know you are breaking his heart? How can you be so cold and cruel after what he has endured? Answer!" He pulled the bowstring back tighter and the wood gave out a truly menacing creak as the tension increased.

"Lindir, calm yourself," Elrond entreated, trying to steady his own nerves. He held up supplicating hands. "I am not using him, I swear it. This is not like your history, believe me!"

"But I do not believe you; convince me! Explain why that elfling is bound to you yet wears no ring."

"Legolas isn't an elfling, first of all, and second there was no other means to save his life except to bind him to me. He's a sylvan elf; I saw the same thing happen at Dagorlad. A warrior severely wounded was saved from death by binding his soul to another. This is the way for his kind and you need not blame me for it; I was compelled. If you had been there, if you had seen it…"

"I have seen it." Lindir sighed and lowered his bow, shaking his head. "That is not the point. What happened was instinct; the result is something you control. Why haven't you acknowledged him? Ten years have passed and I think if you were going to you would have. Thus, you are using him and deserve to be punished!" Lindir raised the bow again and had the satisfaction of watching Elrond hop around excitedly trying to find cover. He let loose the arrow and grinned as the noble Lord yelped and sat hard on the ground, his balance stolen by the grazing gash across his calf. He drew another arrow and nocked it, laughing at the look of horror that spread over his victim's features.

"Daro!" The command came from above and Lindir stilled at once, all the hairs on his neck uplifting as he met the threatening gaze of the Wood Elf, bow drawn and aimed upon him. "Put aside your weapon, mellon."

"Legolas! Thank the Valar I found you," Elrond said, hands supplying pressure to the wound, smiling gratefully up at the young elf. "I'm sorry about this morning but I'm free until the banquet. I've been searching for hours but you didn't call. Please, let me make it up to you."

Lindir did as he was told, setting his bow against the tree trunk immediately. He stepped away and watched as Legolas leaped down and hastened to kneel beside Elrond. It made his heart contract to see how tenderly Legolas pried away the healer's fingers, uncovering the gash, carefully ripping away the fabric of the leggings to see the extent of the injury. He used his handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood and tie off the cut, uttering not a single sound. All the while Elrond babbled on, apologising and rationalising for something until Legolas was done and silenced him with a very soft kiss, filled with sadness and desire, and rose to his feet. He sent Lindir a pointed look of warning, returned to the trees, and was gone.

"Legolas?" Elrond scrambled awkwardly to his feet and stared overhead in vain. "Aearen, please come back. I am sorry, so sorry." His pleas went unanswered and the Lord of the valley sighed dejectedly.

"What is this about?" demanded Lindir, not as angry as before now that he had seen them together. Never had he seen Elrond so ingratiating, so genuinely contrite. Whatever he had done, he really regretted causing Legolas pain and it was clear he had wounded his own soul in the process. It wasn't the same as Lindir's situation after all. Perhaps there was still a chance. "For what were you apologising?"

Elrond, who had nearly forgotten Lindir was there, hastily turned to make sure he wasn't being held under threat again. He hobbled next to the tree and sat back down with a grunt, massaging the bandaged gash. "He asked me to go walk with him in the woods this morning. I couldn't because the delegates from Dol Amroth were crossing the ford and I had to be there to greet them. He said Erestor could do it and I tried to explain that wouldn't have been appropriate but he doesn't understand that sort of thing and…"

"Explain it to me for I don't understand either. Erestor could certainly have greeted those pompous idiots," retorted Lindir, arms crossed before his chest as he stared down at his former charge. He'd had Elrond over his knee more than once and was less than impressed by his exalted status.

"Lindir, we are speaking of the Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, a Man who shares kinship with elf-kind. I am shocked for you to denigrate him so as he carries sylvan blood."

"That is open to debate. What became of Nimrodel and Mithrellas is more likely a tragic death at the hands of mortals. If she had been well and beloved, why did none of her people ever hear from her again? I shall tell you, because she was treated even as you treat Legolas and in her shame she hid herself from her kin until she wasted unto death!" Lindir was nearly beside himself again and Elrond flinched from his looming form and flailing arms.

"You go to far! There is no indication the Lady Mithrellas was mistreated in any way."

"It doesn't matter. Erestor is much higher in station than any of them and could have managed them without your aid."

"I am the Lord of this realm, not Erestor. It is imperative that I am present to greet these humans so that they understand who will be mediating their negotiations. If Erestor met the emissaries, the mortals might assume Imladris thinks little of the countries beset by the growing shadow of Sauron. I am trying to dispel the distrust that has blossomed between Men and Elves since Dagorlad and Isildur's folly. We need allies not enemies."

"That is a pitiful excuse. No wonder he didn't bother to acknowledge it. I don't think Legolas appreciates lies, Elrond. Do you think him stupid? Tell me, did you invite him to be at your side when you received these august visitors?" Elrond's guilty expression was all the answer he needed and Lindir had to fight the urge to kick the Peredhel's teeth in. "You are ashamed of him."

"Nay, not so, Lindir. It's just not what I expected to happen to me. I've…I've fallen in love with him."

Now all Lindir's high emotion cooled and his lips curled into a kinder smile to hear this as he sat once more beside his former ward. "That is good news! What is the problem, then? Wed him, Elrond, for clearly he adores you."

"It's not so simple, Lindir, you must see that. I am the leader of the free people left on Arda. I have a reputation to consider, my children's feelings to think of, and Celebrian's honour to protect. I can't just abandon everything I've worked so hard to achieve."

"Ai Valar! You are despicable!" Lindir shouted and leaped to his feet, pressing his palm against the tree trunk, fearful that Legolas was still near enough to have heard that. The woods reassured him that the sylvan archer was no longer in the vicinity and the minstrel exhaled a deep breath as he glared down at Elrond in scorn. "You should have sent for someone from his country to come for him immediately if this is how you truly feel. You don't deserve to be loved the way he loves you."

"I never intended to harm him! I was trying to help and I wasn't entirely in control of things either. Elrohir sent a messenger to Mirkwood as soon as we brought him here but no answer was returned. It seems the brother he lost was his only family."

"It seems? Don't you even know? Have you even asked him about his family?"

"Please Lindir, all this yelling is not helping. You must understand that for some time we could barely communicate. Legolas does not speak Sindarin well and I spoke no Nandorin at all." Elrond was quite taken aback when Lindir erupted into derisive laughter.

"I can't believe you are considered wise," he sneered. "I'd bet my mithril harp he speaks more languages than you do, including Westron, Sindarin, Old Quenya, High Dwarven, Nandorin, Old Anûnaic, and probably several obscure Avarin dialects only common near Rhûn of which you have never even heard. You haven't any idea what you're dealing with, have you?"

"What do you know of him, Lindir? Tell me!" Elrond got up on his knees and clutched at his old mentor's tunic, tugging it as would a small child.

"No. If you want to know these things you must take it upon yourself to discover them. Don't you ever talk to him or is it all just hot sex with a young and vigourous lover?"

"Nay, please, it's more than that. Please, Lindir, help me understand him. I don't want to hurt him. I don't want to lose him. I don't know what to do!"

At the desperate quality contained in Elrond's voice and manner, Lindir found his heart and took pity on his old friend. He crouched down to meet Elrond eye to eye.

"Do you truly love him?"

"Yes."

"Do you want him for your mate for all time?"

"Yes, yes, just tell me what to do."

"You must court him formally and proclaim him your spouse. You must exchange rings and vows before the One, as is the custom of the Noldorin people."

"I can't do that! Weren't you listening? What am I to do about my family, my people? They already hold me up to ridicule for this and Elrohir refuses to come home unless I send Legolas away. But I can't send him away, I just can't be without him!" Elrond was nearly sobbing as he shook Lindir roughly by the arms. He gasped as a stinging slap bruised his cheek and sent him over sideways into the dirt.

"You are a hypocrite, Elrond Peredhil." Lindir glowered down at him in fury. "I am ashamed of you; you dishonour me and all your Telerin ancestors. I can't believe you turned out so badly when I had the raising of you. Where did you learn these haughty ways?" He rose and turned to leave but the Elf Lord's cutting reply halted him.

"I learned from you! Look at you; pretending to be Sindarin so that you won't be scorned or shunned! You are worse than I for you are a sylvan elf and hide it from everyone, even yourself! You are filled with false pride." Elrond was on his feet, red-faced and seething, hands curled into fists, ready to advance the confrontation if need be. His respect for Lindir went back to his childhood, his compassion for the singer meant he would forgive anything, but Elrond was at his limit and would stand no more.

"That is not pride, Elrond, but shame. I have given up my ancestry because I am unworthy to claim it, not the other way around. I am a kinslayer, doomed forever. I will not have my sins used against my race. Do you believe your motives for disdaining Legolas are the same?" With that Lindir ended the conversation, wheeling about and snatching up his bow as he left the glade.

TBC

Nîth Chall: Shadowed Youth
nârion: son of a rat

hecilo: outcast (Quenya)

Ened Ethuil: Mid-Spring

Aegas Mírdan: Mountain Peak the Jewel Smith, an Elf of Rivendell

Muindoradar: brother-father, Uncle

Minya'mmë: first mother, grandmother

Aearen: my ocean

Nín'ódhel: my Deep Elf

Thenin: True. (Yes.)

Man le presta, Aearen?: What troubles you, My Ocean?

Alnad, alnad, Nín'ódhel: Nothing, nothing, My Deep Elf.

Advae?: Better? (Well again?)

Pan vae: All right

Ringe: cold

NOTE: Well, if you hadn't noticed it before it should be very obvious this is a very AU story. What Mpreg isn't? Hopefully no one is too put out about this extreme Lindir characterisation and his heavy-handed emotional hold over Elrond. My Lindir is a deeply troubled soul but in general controls his emotions well. This situation between his Lord and the Wood Elf has him reverting into a bleak, violent mindset. He will settle down now, having fought his demons and refrained from killing anyone else, and will apologise to his Lord. Legolas needs someone to talk to, Elrond needs direction and correction, and Lindir is going to be the go-between. Also, those who like that sort of thing will recognise the time-frame Adrahil of Dol Amroth and Echthelion II of Gondor, the humans arriving for the negotiations, place this story in: just before the Ring War. This means we get to have Thorongil (Aragorn incognito) come along with Echthelion and his creepy son, Denethor II, encountering our strange Legolas. Sorry about the lack of steaminess in this update. Disturbing naked Wood Elf action soon.
© 05/04/2007 Ellen Robey

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Aearlinn

Aearlinn - Nîth Chall

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The Following Day, Sunrise ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~