3434, Second Age - Aftermath of the Battle of Dagorlad

Not every elf was cut from the proverbial warrior cloth.

Elrond had seen more of his kin entirely unsuited for battle than he cared to count during the campaign against Sauron, but thus far none had stood out as much as the ellon standing about 30 feet away did now. The dark-haired, dark-eyed fellow looked about the carnage all around him with wide eyes and a pale face, and appeared completely and utterly…lost. Shock would quickly take over his mind if no one intervened, and then he'd be of no use to them.

Not to mention he'd be a danger to himself and to others.

Taking a deep breath, Elrond aimed toward the elf. "Why don't you come and sit down a while?" he said in as soothing a voice as he could.

The ellon, whom he sensed to be only around 1,100 years or so of age, blinked as though just noticing him. "I…" was all the response he managed.

"Come," Elrond insisted gently, taking a light but firm grip of the fellow's arm. "I was just about to take a rest and could do with some company."

The ellon went along without protest. Elrond guided him to the commissary tent and pushed him into a seat. He then fetched them both a goblet of water before taking the seat across from him, and took a drink from his glass before he spoke again.

"What is your name, young one?"

It was a moment before his companion answered. "Lindir."

"Hello, Lindir. I am Elrond."

Lindir blinked again. "You are the herald of the king," he said.

Elrond raised his brows a fraction in surprise. "You have me at a disadvantage, my friend—you know who I am but the reverse is not true. How came you to Gil-Galad's service?"

A shaking hand reached for the goblet before him and Lindir took a sip before he replied. "I was drafted, I suppose you could say. A messenger of the High King came to us in Harlond, saying that the king was in need of those loyal to him who were possessed of a heart willing to face the Dark Lord's forces in battle. I thought, perhaps foolishly, that I was such a person."

Loyalty and a willing heart were all well and good, Elrond mused, but more than that was required of a soldier. A strong constitution was a great necessity, for not every elf was capable of handling the atrocities of war.

"This was your first battle," he said. It was a statement rather than a question, based on a sudden intuition.

Lindir nodded, then took a longer pull of the water. "As I said, it was a foolish thought. I'm no soldier, my Lord. I am a musician—or I was. I do not know that I shall ever have desire to take up my lute again."

The thought that this young elf might cast aside his gift saddened Elrond. He looked around them at the forlorn company inside the tent—they were all feeling rather downhearted, he knew, for a great many of their kin had been lost a few days before.

He was then startled—though he made no outward sign of it—when suddenly a vision of Lindir bathed in moonlight, his instrument across his knees, passed across his consciousness. Elrond knew it would be some time in coming, but it gave him hope, and he resolved to do his best to give some of that hope to the elf across from him.

"This war cannot go on forever, Lindir," he said slowly. "The dark days will surely come to an end, and when they do the sun will shine all the brighter. Do not let your heart be so troubled after one battle that you lose all hope and desire for the pleasures of your old life."

Seeing that color was returning to the younger ellon's face and the shaking of his hands had subsided, Elrond stood. "When all this is over—and it will be over one day—I bid you come to me in Imladris. Stay there a while. I've no doubt you will find the beauty of the hidden valley inspiring."

The expression in Lindir's eyes clearly showed he did not believe in the confidence of his words, but he nodded. Elrond chose to take that as a positive sign and departed to see where else—or to whom—he could be of service.

1, Third Age - Valley of Imladris

Lindir took a deep breath and held it for a moment, before releasing the air through pursed lips. He did not know why he was so nervous—it wasn't as though he'd never held the instrument before.

It had, however, been nearly nine years.

The devastation of war had leeched from him all desire to make music. All he could focus on was getting through it. Surviving to see another day. So many lives had been lost—thousands of elves, men, and dwarves had fallen in the Last Alliance. He often wondered if their ultimate victory against Sauron was worth the price that had been paid.

Ereinion Gil-Galad—the High King of the Ñoldor—had fallen. His people were now scattered and leaderless.

Mostly, Lindir amended silently. There were still settlements largely populated by elves of Ñoldor and Sindar descent across Eriador. Imladris was one of them, and Elrond had proven himself a wise and noble ruler. Many of his kin had been drawn to this place after the War of the Ring seeking peace for their battle-weary fëar; some, like himself, had been personally invited by the valley's lord.

Ever would he be glad of it, for the serenity and beauty of the hidden valley were indeed inspiring. Still, he had been here nearly two years, and this was the first time he had felt a stirring to take his lute in hand.

Carrying the wooden string instrument his father had made for him under one arm, he closed the door to his rooms and walked away. Lindir moved almost silently through the halls of Elrond's house, not wanting to disturb his lord or any of the other residents. He left the house and headed to his favorite place to be alone—a small outcropping of rock by one of the valley's many waterfalls. It was backed by trees and overlooked a pool in which his fellow residents liked to swim on warm days. Tonight Ithil was high and bathed the whole of the land in a soft glow.

Sitting down and crossing his legs, the ellon made a few cursory plucks of the strings—his lute was badly in need of tuning. Lindir made the necessary adjustments and then suddenly found himself still. He didn't know what to play.

Then an idea came to him: He had started a new life here, so why not make new music? Nearly a decade he had fought what seemed a losing war and he had survived—that was reason enough to celebrate with song. His heart had not been in it, however, until now. Lindir suspected that the Valar knew he had needed time to heal before rekindling his desire to create new music.

He glanced up for a brief moment and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens that his love of music had not been lost to him forever, as he was just beginning to realize how very much he had missed playing.

It was with a slowly growing smile that he began to strum the lute, the tune coming to him easily. Yes, this would make for a nice song indeed, he thought, in his mind conjuring words to go along with the music.

Some distance away, Elrond watched the young minstrel and smiled. His vision of a happier time for Lindir had finally come to pass.