Title: The Gift
Type: Slash (FPS)
Author: Mirasaui
Contact: mirasaui(at)aol(dot)com
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Lindir/Glorfindel
Warning: Implied Rape
Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's creations, not mine. This is all just for fun.
Beta: Lalaith Nienóri
Archive: Library of Moria, Of Elves and Men - Others please ask.
Timeline: Early Third Age

Notes: Elven names other than Tolkien's are either my creation or are taken from Samantha's list on her website, "Elves".

Summary: Tutored by some of the most renowned Elves of Middle-earth, a young elf with a tragic past doubts his self-worth.

The Gift

Chapter 1: Sleepless Nights

A bedchamber at the Last Homely House, Imladris:

The elf rose from the chair to resume treading the path he had been wearing into the floor most of the night. Back and forth, back and forth, the knot in his stomach growing tighter as he tried unsuccessfully to quell his anxious thoughts. Long strands of moon-kissed, white hair flowed down his back past his waist, the ends swaying in time with his restless steps. Slender fingers played worriedly with the fine linen nightshirt that graced his lithe body, which had yet to find repose under the cool sheets of the carved, wooden bed.

Back and forth, back and forth, unaware of the cold stones under his bare feet or the frown upon his pale brow. Blue eyes tearing in frustration, he raised his hands to his face and pulled his hair from his forehead, grasping handfuls of the thick mass into his fists and pressing them close to the sides of his head. He paused to look at the hourglass in the corner, cursed softly, then resumed his maddening ritual.

Why did a problem so easily solved by others, cause him such anguish? Four days remained and he was no closer to a solution than he had been on day one. "Think, Lindir, think," he whispered, but every thought that came to mind was quickly rejected. He needed ideas, he needed help. Reluctant as he was to ask for it, he would seek Lord Erestor on the 'morrow and ask for his advice. With that decision, he crawled into bed to claim what sleep remained of the night.

The morning brought it all back. A hot bath helped, but as he walked back down the hall toward his room, his anxiety returned. Entering the chamber and closing the door, he turned around and rested his forehead on one of the smooth-grained mahogany panels. He was so tired...

He crossed the room to his wardrobe and began a half-hearted search for something to wear. Taking what caught his eye first, a dark grey tunic, leggings in a lighter shade of grey and a pale blue blouse, he laid them on the bed, removed his robe and began to dress. The silk of his blouse felt cool upon his skin, and he paused for a moment to think of silky things: lustrous satins, rich brocades, the plush drape of a heavy velvet, the delicacy of sheer organdy or the finest linen. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had already been down that road to no avail. Elbereth, what was he to do?

He sighed as he pulled his leggings over his hips then put on his tunic, tying the laces at the shoulder. A pair of worn-out leather boots completed the ensemble. Moving to his dresser, he sat and looked into the mirror. A pair of tired blue eyes traced underneath with dark circles stared back at him from the silvered glass. He shook his head then picked up his comb and began to groom and braid his tangled hair, rooting in a box in a side drawer to find ribbons to bind the ends.

What should have been a relaxing week away from border patrol had since become an agonizing blend of days and nights of unrest and anxiety, all because of Elrohir and Elladan, Lord Elrond's twin sons. Not that Lindir held anything against the elflings, he loved them with all his heart. But their latest scheme had turned Lindir's peaceful world upside down. It had started at dinner three nights ago.

Three Days Prior - Dining Hall - The Last Homely House - Imladris

Lindir could not eat another bite. After a month of dining on lembas, dried fruit and berries, tonight's repast was a gift from heaven. Buttery, fresh salmon, steamed garden vegetables, an absolutely delicious cold soup served with a vintage wine from Lord Elrond's cellar, ah... perfection. Relaxed and in a somewhat drowsy state, he was content just to sit back and listen to the amusing exploits of the visitor from the Golden Woods -- Haldir, the Marchwarden of Lóthlorien.

Haldir was an enigma. Sensuous, full lips graced a finely-sculptured face with a broad brow and somewhat pudgy cheeks. His warm hazel eyes and expressive dark brows only added to the mystery and charisma he exuded. His manners were impeccable and he moved with a refined grace that belied his broad shoulders and warrior's physique. If it were not for his Lothlórien uniform, one could mistake him for a visiting noble from another realm. He was a great conversationalist and a good listener. There was an air about him that drew people to him and held them spellbound.

Like all Lórien Elves, he had an aura about him for Lothlórien was a magical place, but in Haldir the light seemed to shine stronger and brighter. Only those who knew him well, realized how close his bond was to the Golden Woods, for he had dedicated himself to their protection and would gladly give his life toward that end. Perhaps, that was why he was chosen at such a young age to be High Warden of the Lórien Guard. Such was his personality that his men felt for him as he felt for his woods. They would follow him anywhere and were fierce in the defense of their home and their captain.

Upon first impression, Haldir could seem cold and aloof for in his duty he was stalwart. But those who chose to look behind his mask, found a treasure and those who called him friend were never sorry.

However, as much as Lindir admired and respected Haldir, there was for him another at the table who inspired even greater awe and reverence. He also was a renowned warrior, perhaps the greatest alive this day on Middle-earth. Although currently his actions belied his reputation for tears were rolling down his cheeks and he was laughing so he could hardly draw breath. Haldir, who when not on duty was quite a personable fellow, had just espoused a particularly witty joke and Glorfindel, the famous Balrog Slayer, upon whom Lindir's thoughts had turned, could not contain his mirth.

Lindir, who had been so lost in thought as to miss the punch line, simply sat and stared at the golden-haired elf with undisguised admiration. Luckily, no one else in the room looked his way or noticed as the two captains held the centre of attention.

Once Glorfindel could speak, he immediately launched into an amusing story of his own. But soon the tale revealed itself to be of bawdy nature and Elrond, the Lord of Imladris, was forced to put an end it before it could go any further.

Grinning sheepishly, Glorfindel winked at Haldir, who was soon in the same condition Glorfindel had been in a moment before. The two were captivating even in their cups, just being near them made Lindir feel euphoric.

Lindir, however, was not the only one who stared at the two in rapture. Elladan and Elrohir, Lord Elrond's twin sons had their eyes glued to the pair, both mouths opened in a wide 'O'. They were enjoying every minute of the playful banter. Elladan pressed Haldir for one more story and the Marchwarden glanced at Elrond before replying. "One more," Elrond nodded, chuckling, "but make it a polite one." Haldir thought for a moment, deciding on a particular story he thought young elflings would enjoy.

To be continued…