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The party returns as swiftly as it left, galloping back over the bridge into Imladris while the day’s still young. Their horses rear to a halt, the guards smoothly dismounting, parting on either side of Elrond in a steady stream, some down to the stables and others straight to their rooms. Elrond himself doesn’t share that luxury. There’s someone waiting for him, who he greets with a deep bow as soon as he’s dismounted, and Lindir hurriedly bows far deeper. He always blushes the prettiest shade of pink when Elrond does that to him, and sometimes, when something small has tickled Elrond’s fancy and made him feel cheerfully youthful again, he can’t resist teasing his young assistant. His horse waits patiently behind him while he murmurs, “Lindir. It is good to see you.”
“And you, my lord,” Lindir counters, though that doesn’t appear to be the case at all. Lindir’s a truly innocent, pure soul, one Elrond would’ve thought quite incapable of falsehood, and yet, it clearly isn’t good for Lindir. His eyes rove over Elrond, seemingly unable to stay in one place, perhaps because there’s so very much dirt and grime in oh so many places. Elrond took an unfortunately tumble when a falling wolf forced his horse off its feet, and though Elrond’s made certain that his companion wasn’t harmed, he himself was sullied to an almost comical extent. More than that, he truly threw himself into the fight—it’s been far too long since he donned his armour and guarded his own home. He’s actually broken a sweat, more from the exhilaration than physical exertion, and he can feel how matted his hair’s become. He’s sure he must look a complete and utter mess.
If there’s one thing Lindir can’t abide, it’s a mess.
It’s strangely adorable how Lindir frets over him—and that’s exactly what happens; Lindir reaches out, quickly snatches his hand away, then tentatively touches another spot, only to reel back as though the dirt’s gravely wounded him. And he looks at Elrond with wide, watery eyes, full of sympathy that Elrond doesn’t need. Lindir practically whimpers, “My lord, I... I do not know where to start... you have... what have you been... you must let me clean this... and this... all of it... at once!”
It really has been a thrilling day, because Elrond is still feeling that mischievous flair that he passed down to his sons but had long since stopped exhibiting himself. He finds himself chuckling, “My darling Lindir, this is nothing. I once went mining, and then the heat of the mountain had my clothes glued to my frame with sweat and there was ash all in my shorn hair.”
Lindir’s eyes find a way to blow even wider. His plush lips fall open, gaping like a fish thrown to land. He can’t seem to process the idea of his beloved lord in a mine. And it was a Dwarven one, at that. He whispers, obviously horrified, “You tease me, my lord.”
“No,” Elrond truthfully insists. “I have mined with Durin the Fourth himself, with a hammer in the earth, with no greenery to see but only stone and dust.”
Lindir’s hands abruptly fly to his pretty face, and he hides behind them, bursting, “My lord, please, stop, I cannot think of that!”
Elrond resists chuckling again, though a fond smile does tug at his lips. He ends his story there, though he has many more gritty details of the olden days before he’d settled so long in peace. He gently collects Lindir’s hand in one of his—the least dirty one, and lowers it so that he can have access to Lindir’s forehead, which he kisses just beneath the circlet. Lindir doesn’t shy away from him, but blushes darker; he must deem the grime worth the show of affection.
Elrond tells him, “My apologizes for frightening you, my dear song bird. I should not take for granted what sweet hands I am in now.” Lindir’s other hand lowers, and he sheepishly smiles, looking quite appeased. Kisses tend to do that to him. Elrond goes a step farther anyway, requesting, “Will you help me become presentable again?”
Lindir ardently nods. “Of course, my lord! I will have a bath drawn for you, and I shall see that your clothes are washed, and I shall scrub you down myself. Ah... if I may.”
“You may,” Elrond agrees. Lindir’s smile is so precious, so lovely. Elrond is perpetually glad that he never witnessed the pain of the past.
He sharply inhales, seems to conquer his fear, and clasps Elrond’s hand, only to turn and hurriedly guide Elrond up the steps. Another elf passes to care for Elrond’s horse, while he himself undergoes Lindir’s tender, loving care.