Chapter Text
The fragility of heart is strange. Like the strings of the harp that he is plugging. The brunette Elf shakes his head. He is thinking too much, once again. He has the attention of the whole Hall of Fire, and he smiles nervously. Lindir is used to singing to a crowd, but in this particular crowd there should be today someone, who makes his heart beat a bit faster no matter how much he tries to shush it. He can see Erestor, the calm Councilor of Imladris, and Glorfindel, the mighty Balrog-slayer next to him. They are an extraordinary pair of friends; Erestor is calm, yet owns a poisoned tongue to those he dislikes – Glorfindel is as well calm, but speaks not of evil things without having a discomfort written all over his face, and prefers to fight with a sword in his hand. Overall, Erestor as the Chief Councilor is usually drowning to work, and therefore many see him not, and in case they did, he is so tired because of his work that few friendly words comes out of his mouth. Glorfindel has less work, and therefore more leisure time, and it makes him cheerful and merry company for many. Neither of those two is the one that makes Lindir fear that his voice will falter or his cheeks redden. He likes to pair those two up in his mind –not that Lindir would ever tell it to them. He respects them too much to try to push them together.
But no, it is not the Elf-maiden listening with eyes closed, or another, or Arwen, the beautiful daughter of the Lord of the Imladris. Neither the sons of the Lord pick his interest. His eyes wander, searching for the one that holds his heart, and holds it tight. But Lindir cannot find the dark mane braided out of the way, cannot see the familiar robe holding colours of blue, brown or purple. He cannot find the gentle eyes that seem to see everything. Though Lindir has figured out that perhaps the Elf would not show up today, his heart has traitorously held to that hope, and now the disappointment makes him feel miserable. Why would an Elf of high station, an Elf with loads of work to do, an Elf who has to look after an entire realm come to see a tiny Minstrel perform? The thought is bitter and sad. What would the Lord of Imladris, the High King of Noldor, ever see in him? No, Lindir repeatedly tells himself that his hope is lost, his loved one reserved for someone else. And his loved one’s heart would stay in the hands of that someone else that sailed so long time ago away.
After his performance is over, he moves to chat for a while with his fellow musicians, before excusing himself.
“I want to finish my song,” he says. He lies. Lindir wants nothing else but drown in his selfish sorrow. And leave he does, to his cold and lonely room that he has never cared to decorate more than with filled papers. Papers full of love, devotion, promised loyalty. Songs of admiration and compassion. The moon is the only source of light this night, and nowadays he leaves his room dark. Lindir has not seen Elrond for the whole day. It is rare that such happens. Usually he manages to spy him receiving council from Erestor about a thing or two or on the breakfast table. Today, his Lord has been gone.
Tired are the movements that are necessary to undress, and desperate is his clinging to the pillow and blanket. Once more he begins the torture, like every night: Lindir closes his eyes, and holds the pillow close, and he pretends it is someone, someone who loves him. Someone he has married, someone who holds him close, two strong arms keeping him safe and warm. Even while imagining all this, he knows the harsh reality, and the result of that are once more tears. Elrond will never hold him like this. Elrond will never whisper to his ear how much he loves the little Elf. Little indeed! Lindir is small already when compared to Elves of average height, and the lord of Imladris is not of the average height. No, he is tall, and it does not good to the insecurities Lindir already has. Little Elf, small enough to be mistaken to be a child, light enough to fall when someone pats a bit strongly his back. Frustrated sobs leave his lips. Lord Elrond probably knows not even that he exists.
Oh! How horrible is that thought. Lord Elrond does know he exists: but he is the one who breaks the ancient vase, the one who breaks the plates, the Elf who always messes up everything!
Managing once more to make himself cry, Lindir muffles the sobs and tears to his pillow.
Tomorrow I will see him.