Work Text:
He’s mending his lord’s robes, torn from a wild romp in the roses, when the summons comes. He puts down his things immediately, folding the torn fabric across his bed and placing the needle in plain sight, the thread drawn across it so as not to tangle. For anyone else’s call, he would finish his task first.
For his lord Elrond’s call, there is no task more important. He leaves his rooms immediately, almost knocking the messenger over in the process, and he heads straight down the hall. He takes a quick turn before the end to cut through the gardens, his gaze fixed forward and focused, uninviting: he’s busy, on a mission.
Yet he still runs into Glorfindel around the corner, and Glorfindel steps easily into his way, greeting with a wide smile, “Lindir. I was wondering where you had gotten off to—it is rare that I return and do not find your warm smile waiting for me.”
“I apologize,” Lindir murmurs quickly, bowing his head and donning the same smile Glorfindel means. No matter how preoccupied Lindir is, he’s always respectful to his lords. Glorfindel is another of those old legends, like Elrond, so very high above Lindir’s lowly station, yet so kind to him on every meeting. Glorfindel’s own smile is like a map of stars, his long, golden hair spilling over his broad shoulders to dance in the sunlight. His armour’s been stripped away, even though he’s likely come from a ride with lord Elrond’s sons, who tend to venture farther than Lindir would ever dare. His blue robes look just as stunning on him as his armour does. But Lindir has other elves to admire, and he licks his lips, trying to think of the politest dismissal possible.
Glorfindel cuts in before he can get it out. “I am glad to see you now, at least.” Glorfindel takes a step closer, so that their feet are nearly brushing the same paving stone, the grass flush and fragrant all around them. The tall flowers silhouetting him only add to Glorfindel’s charm. “I had hoped to hear another of your lovely songs...”
“Ah,” Lindir sighs, his cheeks warming, “I am not so talented as you seem to think me...”
“I disagree. I think you are an excellent minstrel. I always look forward to hearing your voice and your most... peculiar... lyrics.”
Lindir opens his mouth again, meaning to spout gratitude and some excuse to escape; he’s now blushing furiously and is aware he’s running late. Glorfindel is a truly striking creature, but Lindir hates to leave Elrond waiting, and he begins, “I—”
He gets no more out. Glorfindel’s eyes flicker over Lindir’s shoulder, and Lindir turns to see Elrond coming down the path. He appears older than Glorfindel, with straighter, darker hair and more subdued robes in a deep maroon colour, but he seems to Lindir the most handsome man in all the world. Lindir’s breath catches in his throat the way it always still does when he’s surprised with his lord’s presence, and he has to fight the urge to bow. He only dips his head. He belatedly remembers that his face is hot and he’s standing very close to another lord. He’s done nothing wrong, and yet he feels as though he’s been caught, and he can’t help but wonder if there’s any jealousy in Elrond’s deep eyes.
Perhaps not. He’s too wise, too mature for such things. Nonetheless, he places a hand on Lindir’s back when he reaches them, forcing Lindir’s breath to hitch and his chin to lift, eyes still lowered. His face tilts towards Elrond, who always has his complete attention. Nodding once to Glorfindel in greeting, Elrond says, “I apologize for interrupting, but I am afraid I must borrow my attendant.”
It’s never borrowing. As far as Lindir’s concerned, he belongs to Elrond to keep. But Glorfindel knows none of that and only grins, nodding back in acquiescence and replying, “Of course.” He turns before they do, heading back into the nearest open chamber, perhaps to find another minstrel to play for him.
Elrond moves swiftly away, and Lindir follows, murmuring quietly, “I apologize for the delay, my lord.”
“There is no need,” Elrond responds simply, his voice as soft as it always is to Lindir but his eyes not quite glancing back. Though Lindir knows no such thing will ever happen, he can’t help but entertain the notion of Elrond dragging Lindir into his quarters in a fit of jealousy, perhaps chaining him down and thoroughly claiming him, marking him so that no other elf will dare to touch him. He adores his lord’s wisdom and gentleness, but he can’t stop the occasional fantasy of a hidden ferocity to go with all that power. He knows that his lord is a great warrior. He knows that his lord has faced many terrible foes. And those sides of his complicated lover arouse him just as much as the rest.
He’s in love with most everything about Elrond. When they reach Elrond’s quarters, Lindir is gestured inside, the large doors smoothly shut behind him. He stands at the ready, but Elrond suggests, “Takes a seat, Lindir.”
Lindir shivers at the mere sound of his name in Elrond’s deep voice. He moves to sit on the grand bed, perching atop the white sheets he changed this morning. He expects Elrond to join him, but instead, Elrond walks over to the desk against the far wall, where he picks up a small, wooden box of intricate design. The obsidian finish already marks it as special, so Lindir can only be surprised when Elrond holds it out to him.
Before he takes it, he asks curiously, “My lord?” But Elrond simply lifts his arched brows, and Lindir carefully removes the box from Elrond’s long fingers, resting it in his lap instead.
Elrond murmurs, “Open it,” and comes to take a seat next to Lindir on the bed. Lindir unfastens the tiny metal latch on the front of the box and lifts the lid, his eyes lighting up as soon as he sees the contents.
An elaborate silver circlet lies on a black cushion. It’s a thin, delicate piece of jewelry, carved in smooth curves and quick turns, reminding Lindir of Elrond’s own crown, and when he turns to look at the one Elrond wears, it isn’t so very different. Lindir’s cheeks are staining pink again; he never expected such a gift. He tries to spill his gratitude, but he doesn’t have the words.
Elrond lifts a hand to run his fingertips through the brown locks that spill over Lindir’s shoulder, and he sweeps them away, idly stroking the back of Lindir’s neck and shoulder. He explains, “You are very attractive, my Lindir. It is only understandable that so many would wish to be with you. And I would not wish you burdened with that constant deflection. This, perhaps, will make it easier. When you wear it, it may serve as my mark, and tell others that you are taken and, hopefully, content with such.”
Elrond’s mark. The single word rings in Lindir’s ears, his mouth falling open to spill, “I am much more than content.” His voice is already reedy, the want rising in him as it so easily does with even the smallest gesture from his lord. This is a very grand gesture, and Lindir can scarcely believe it. He adds, “I am honoured,” and then, looking up to his lord’s forehead, “But I am not worthy of such a crown...”
A gentle smile crosses Elrond’s lips, and he plucks the circlet out of the box. Lindir’s eyes nearly flutter closed as Elrond places the circlet down atop his head, the diamond-shaped dip squarely in the middle. He can feel the sleekness of it through his hair, the slight weight and pull. It’ll remind not only others, but himself, exactly whom he belongs to. And he can only hope that Elrond enjoys seeing that as well. He can’t help but sigh, nearly moan, “I adore it.”
“You are too beautiful,” Elrond answers, his tone on the edge of a fond chuckle. He spends a moment rearranging Lindir’s long hair, then curls his forefinger under Lindir’s chin, drawing it up so he can place a chaste kiss to Lindir’s temple. Lindir is nearly glowing with happiness and pride. He’ll wear his circlet every day, like a pet with a labeled collar from its beloved master.
Before he can control himself, he’s shifted closer, so that his leg is flush against Elrond’s, and he leans his face forward. Elrond meets him halfway. Their kisses are often slow, sweet and soft and pretty, but this time Elrond presses his tongue against Lindir’s lips, and Lindir instantly opens, just like he always does, surrendering his mouth to his lord. Elrond instantly fills him, surges back against him and feeds him that ferocity he so rarely feels. It’s all Lindir can do to keep his breath. Elrond’s hands slip into his hair, all ten fingers cupping him to hold him in, draw him near, his own hands lifting tentatively to Elrond’s chest. He’s kissed and kissed, his lips chewed on and his tongue sucked, his cavern explored and filled right to his throat. He can barely keep up. He mewls into it, whimpering pitifully but shuddering with delight. It feels, again, like jealousy, like Elrond is carving his mark on every part of Lindir’s body, starting with the inside, so that no other elf will be able to wash it away, and Lindir will always crave this.
Lindir already does. He thinks of Elrond nearly every moment of every day; his life is consumed with his master, his lover. He’s never had any wish for anyone else. By the time Elrond lets him go, Lindir is breathless, face flushed and eyes hazy. He feels dizzy, and maybe that’s why he murmurs, “Glorfindel means nothing to me, truly.”
Elrond’s smile grows until it touches his eyes. He says softly, “I have never questioned your devotion.” One hand slips down to cup Lindir’s jaw, thumb petting his cheek. “I can only hope that I am worthy of it, despite my possessiveness.”
Lindir has to bite his lip to stop a moan. He was right, then, though his lord was very demure and hid it well. He insists, “I am yours to possess.” He means it more completely than he could ever say.
He’s rewarded with another kiss, quicker but just as vigorous, and this time when they part, Lindir is almost sure that they’re going to make love. He wants to feel his lord inside him wearing only this circlet, but then Elrond rises off the bed. He offers a hand to Lindir, who takes it without question, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Elrond asks, “Would you take a walk with me?”
Lindir replies, “Of course, my lord,” and very much hopes that they’re going to a garden to please on another. They’ll have to be more careful of thorns this time. A wriggling feeling in the back of his mind suggests that perhaps Elrond wants to show him off, and he desperately hopes so. He wants to be paraded in front of Glorfindel, in front of every elf he knows, fixed to Elrond’s arm and wearing Elrond’s gift. He feels so incredibly lucky.
He wraps his arms around Elrond’s and leans his head on Elrond’s shoulder as they leave, already discussing what exotic place they can next enjoy.