Title: The Gift
Type: Slash (FPS)
Characters: Lindir/Glorfindel, Haldir/Erestor, Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, others
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: Third Age, year 165
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.
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 with 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 pace. Why did a decision that came so easily to others cause him such anguish? Four days remained and he was no nearer a solution to his dilemma than he had been on day one. "Think, Lindir, think," he whispered to himself, 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 out tomorrow and ask for his advice. With that decision, he finally crawled into bed to claim what sleep remained of the night.
The morning brought it all back again. A hot bath helped, but as he walked back down the hall toward his room, the nagging question began to torment once again. Entering the chamber and closing the door, he turned and rested his forehead on one of the smooth-grained mahogany panels. He felt so tired...
He crossed the room to his wardrobe and began a half-hearted search for something to wear. Pulling out a pair of light, grey leggings, a darker grey tunic and a pale blue blouse, he laid them on the bed, removed his robe and started to dress. The silk shirt felt cool on his skin and he paused for a moment to reflect on silky things: delicate woven fabrics, rich brocades, bolts of sheer, pale pastels and dark, heavy velvets. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had been down that road to no avail. Elbereth, what was he going to do?
Sighing, he stepped into his leggings, picked up the tunic and pulled it over his head, tying the laces at his shoulders. Worn-out leather boots completed the ensemble. At his dresser, he sat and looked into the mirror. A pair of tired blue eyes traced with dark circles stared back at him from the silvered glass. With another sigh, he 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 off 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 two elflings. He loved them with all his heart. But their latest scheme had recently turned Lindir's peaceful world upside down. It all 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 fruits and berries, tonight's repast had been heavenly. Buttery, fresh salmon, steamed garden vegetables, an absolutely delicious cold soup, ah... His stomach was pleasantly full, and the alcohol from the tasty white wine that had been served with the meal had soothed his body and soul. Relaxed and in a somewhat sleepy 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 fine-sculpted face with large hazel eyes. Expressive dark brows 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 Lórien uniform, one would think he was 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 a special glow for Lothlórien was a magical place. But in Haldir the glow 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 the woods. They would follow him anywhere, fiercely defending their home and their captain.
Upon first impression, Haldir could be cold, aloof and condescending. There were many that could not see past his habitual smirk. But those who chose to look behind the mask saw a gentle, honest, caring soul and those who called him friend were never sorry. But 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. None would believe it at the moment, for a tear was caught on the tip of his golden lashes and another slowly rolled down his cheek. One of his tightly-muscled arms was braced across his abdomen, and his whole body was hunched over in his chair as if he were in dreadful pain. In fact, he was in pain, but not from injury. Haldir had just espoused a particular witty remark, and Glorfindel, the renowned Balrog Slayer, upon whom Lindir's thoughts had turned, could barely contain his mirth. He was trying so hard to control his laughter, that he was doubled over, struggling to catch his breath.
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 celebrated warrior remained the center of attention.
Once Glorfindel managed to bring himself under control, he immediately launched into an amusing story of his own. It being near the end of dinner and Glorfindel being in his cups, the tale soon revealed itself to be of bawdy nature and Elrond, the Lord of Imladris, was forced to put a stop to it, as it was not quite fit for mixed company.
Grinning sheepishly, Glorfindel winked at Haldir, causing the latter to throw back his head and laugh. The two made quite a pair, 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 silver-haired warden glanced at Elrond before replying. "One more," Elrond nodded, chuckling, "but make it a chaste one." Haldir thought for a moment, deciding on a particular story he thought the young elflings would enjoy.
To be continued…