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If Elrond were a smidgen younger, able to burn fiercer in his fury than his concern for his people, he’d go to war with the Woodland Realm. It gals him to storm the mountain with only his small brigade—there’s no time to wait for reinforcements from home. He’d call in the cavalry from Lindon and even past the sea if there were any time. There isn’t. And King Thranduil refused him aid. The Men of Laketown are too weak and fearful to do anything—the right heir has yet to reclaim Dale’s glory. It’s a paltry show of force—him and his tiny retinue, with no allies of any sort, marching on Erebor. He regrets visiting Thranduil with so few soldiers to his name. He regrets, even more, checking on the woodland’s western boundaries, where the Men have poisoned their lake, and the ugly wasteland offers nothing but despair. If he’d kept to Thranduil’s keep, perhaps the dragon wouldn’t have reached him.
It seems impossible, after so long asleep, that the beast woke only then, during the few hours of Elrond’s rare visit, and swept past all the many other options in between to feast on Elrond’s party. He drew his sword immediately, his guards the same, all but his fair assistant, too innocent to carry weaponry. Of all the warriors it could’ve faced, the dragon chose the single unarmed target. Elrond drove his sword right into the beast’s side and had his sword crack in two.
He’s retrieved a new one from woodland kindred and not enough else. His horse, for all its many faithful years of service and trust in him, grows skittish on the stone steps. The mountain is quiet, looking for all the world like the dragon never woke. The hillside isn’t burning, no obvious signs of destruction. The hubris almost makes it worse—that the foul creature came only to steal Elrond’s beloved Lindir and did nothing else. His horse refuses to ride into the mountain’s maw, puttering and whining between towering white pillars. Elrond smoothly dismounts and calls, “We continue on foot.”
Erestor, more of a scholar forced into arms, lands next to him. Not for the first time, Erestor softly chides, “My lord... there is little chance that a rescue is even... feasible.” He’s dancing around the words: Lindir is likely dead. Dragons don’t take prisoners but lives. Elrond can’t face that truth and refuses to relent until he knows for certain. Returning to Imladris without Lindir at his side simply isn’t an option. To their credit, his whole party comes with him. None hesitate. They must think the same as Erestor, but like Erestor, they follow him nonetheless. Elrond’s always been blessed with exceptional people. Lindir is the most exceptional of all, and Elrond’s sure that all his party knows that. He forges ahead into the shadows, and they follow.
The mountain’s dark. High cracks in the ceiling, old and crumbling windows, let in stray slivers of light, bouncing off marble slabs and caught in gold finishing, but most of the way is black. Elrond has little trouble navigating—there’s a crackling warmth in the air, the hot glow of fire, and he’s tugged forward both by loathing for the fire drake and longing for Lindir. He leads a single-file procession through narrow corridors, massive halls, jagged ruins, and endless stairs. Every step is stuffier, the air thin and stifling. It only feeds Elrond’s determination. His fists twists tight around his hilt, always listening for the faintest whisper. Then he sees it—a shimmering array of gold in the distance. It glints and flickers in what must be firelight. The hall they march through is lined in lit sconces. Elrond can feel the tension in his party and warns them in a hushed command, “Be ready.” He can hear the clink of armour and drawn weapons.
Then he’s at the end of the corridor, halting in the blunt line of the ceiling’s shadow—the other side empties into an enormous chamber full of the dragon’s hoard. The far walls are too far back to see through the dim light, so it feels bottomless. A solid wall of coins and jewels stands before them. Elrond cares nothing for it. He can hear the dragon breathing, a deep rumble, and smell the smoke. It’s sickening. He sucks in a breath of his own and creeps forward to face the battle of a lifetime.
“There, you see?”
A rich, inhuman voice chuckles. It echoes about the cavern, bellowing louder. Elrond’s guards take formation around him. The beast is in plain sight, high atop its mountain of stolen treasure. It lounges on all fours, sprawled out and half submerged in gold, its wings folded at its back and head towering above them. A mere mortal would surely cower, perhaps even run in terror, only to be roasted alive. Elrond lifts his chin. He expected a battle but knew the intelligence of dragons and possibility of negotiations.
Smaug turns its ugly head, addressing another. “I told you. Such a precious creature must be well-loved, so of course they have come to rob me of you.”
Elrond follows the dragon’s gaze. His eyes widen, heart pounding. Relief washes through him. Lindir sits not far from him, delicately perched on the edge of the hoard, a rag in one hand and an old crown in the other. A sconce on a pillar at his back is lit, and he’s gorgeous in its warm rays, all the prettier for how well he looks—blessedly unharmed. The only signs of disarray are a few stray hairs in his usually pristine brown mane, but to be fair, he was flown across a great distance. He looks surprised to see Elrond and starts, “M-my lord! You came!”
“Of course,” Elrond returns, warily glancing between his darling Lindir and the beast. He wants to hold out his arm and usher Lindir to him but doesn’t dare make any sudden movements, lest Smaug’s good cheer end. Lindir, however, sets down his crown and rag and rushes over—as soon as he’s close enough, Elrond grabs his wrist and pulls him in. Lindir gasps at the contact. Elrond clutches the slender minstrel tight at his side and faces Smaug with his sword, unsure of what comes next; he has what he came for but knows better than to turn his back on a dragon.
Smaug sounds, of all things, amused. “You may as well set down your sword, little elf; it can do nothing against my scales. I’m quite inclined to swallow both it and you together.”
“Smaug!” Lindir scolds, startling Elrond—Lindir has been too shy to meet the eyes of visiting nobles, so to hear him directly address a dragon is thoroughly unexpected. Yet he clicks his tongue and implores, “Your promise me that if he did come, you would not harm my lord.”
Elrond lifts a brow, sure he’s misheard. In his peripherals, he catches his guards looking at one another, equally surprised. Smaug snorts, the steam billowing from his nostrils scattering coins in all directions. He huffs a displeased, “Yes, I suppose I did... and I will keep my word, as you kept yours, and did such a splendid job attending my splendor... but I admit, I’m quite cross about parting with you now, so you had best depart before I change my mind on such benevolence.”
Elrond looks at his assistant, truly at a lot for words. Lindir offers a shy smile and bows low, seemingly to Smaug, who hardly deserves such reverence. Lindir has always been far too polite. He answers, “Thank you, great dragon. It was a pleasure to clean your hoard.” And Elrond almost laughs, because it occurs to him just how Lindir attended the monster. He’s always done an excellent job overseeing the smooth running of Imladris and is perilously neat, the sort of talented soul who could make a tidily organized collection of the worst mess imaginable. When Elrond takes a second look at the mountain of coins, he can appreciate that they do look polished, bright and shining, for what must be an ancient collection. In fact, there are clearly defined piles of different gems and artifacts in many places. Higher up the hoard, things grow messy again, but Lindir is only one set of hands and was only captured for a few days, but clearly he made the most of those. And Smaug, evidently, appreciated it.
Smaug rolls his eyes, a feat Elrond wouldn’t have thought a dragon capable of, and waves one scaly paw. “Yes, yes, I know... but I mean what I say about adding you to my treasure, little one, so do not tempt me further.”
Lindir, still bowing, says, “Yes, thank you.” And then gently tugs Elrond’s arm. Elrond allows himself to be pulled a step back. The entire party steps back with him. And slowly, bit by bit, they back away, keeping their eyes on the beast for as long as possible, but it makes no move against them. As soon as they reach the end of the hall and safely turn a corner, Elrond sets a swift pace. He tightens his grip on Lindir and pulls him along just as fast—Lindir clings to him and struggles to keep up but manages. It’s difficult to process what just happened, to believe it, but if it’s a dream, Elrond doesn’t dare wake.
Finally, they burst into the open, the sky darkened since they left, the air cool and crisp and clear. The lot of them stand there, the horses whimpering happily to see them. Lindir slumps against Elrond’s side, cheek leaning on Elrond’s breast plate. He sounds relieved too lets out a long sigh.
He finger-combs a few tangled locks of hair down his shoulder and seems to be hiding his pretty face, though Elrond can still make out his blush. He murmurs, “My lord... thank you. I... did not dare to think you would rescue me...”
“I had no choice,” Elrond answers. “That beast stole my greatest treasure.” He lightly squeezes Lindir’s waist, not wanting to risk any further shows of affection in front of their audience. His own relief and joy would be enough to overcome propriety, but Lindir’s too shy for it, and Elrond respects that. Instead, he plans a healthy cuddle in their tent when they set up for the night—it will take several days to safely reach their home. They’ll take the fastest route. He plans to keep his eyes on Lindir every second of that journey.
Lindir tilts his chin, his big, beautiful eyes reflecting the starlight. His smile is devastating, greater than any of Smaug’s jewels. He says, “That beast was, surprisingly, not so bad once he realized how I would spend my capture. In fact, he was quite appreciative. It is a large task, to sort and clean such an enormous collection, but, I... actually found it quite... satisfying.”
“Shall I return you, then?”
Lindir squeaks, quickly shaking his head, which is just as well; Elrond’s only teasing. He can’t help himself. Lindir is just so very adorable. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he even managed to charm a dragon. Elrond tells him truthfully, “I am very pleased to have you back.”
Lindir promises, “I am pleased to be back... even if tidying Imladris may feel a tad small in comparison now.” Elrond chuckles and pulls Lindir closer—he can’t help himself and bestows a chaste kiss to Lindir’s forehead. Lindir hums joyously, and most of his guard politely pretend to look elsewhere.
Erestor clears his throat. “I am sorry to interrupt, my lord. I am also delighted to have Lindir returned safely to us. But... perhaps it would be best we celebrate that safe return further from Erebor.”
Lindir adds, “Oh, I believe Smaug did say he would like to return to sleep again, once he knew his hoard was in fair condition...” And he’s just sweet enough that he might actually believe the word of a dragon and think it fine.
It isn’t. Elrond has no intention of ever letting any creature, much less a fire-breathing dragon, steal his beloved Lindir away again. So he helps Lindir onto his horse to ride with him and guides the party home, whilst whispering in his lovely assistant’s ear just how much he appreciates those skills and will reward them better than any dragon could.