Disclaimer: I own nothing, nor am I making any sort of profit from this work.

Notes: This was meant to be a quick little one-shot, but it really got away from me! I was worried about how I would do writing a character with so little back-story, but I had a lot of fun with Lindir. I tried to stay as loyal to the original lore as I could in regard to things like how elven marriages work, etc. Obviously, I took a few small liberties. It's a fanfic, after all. This story is canon compliant and adheres to the timeline, up until it takes place – during the third age, shortly after the destruction of the One Ring.

This story is mostly complete, and will be updated every Sunday.

Thanks for reading, please let me know how I'm doing if you have the time; I really appreciate feedback on my writing!

Chapter One: Promise

Lindir holds his breath, and tries fruitlessly to clear the traitorous thoughts from his mind. Elrond's touch is warm and light as he examines the deep gash in Lindir's left forearm. Were his hands always so soft? He does not know, he can't seem to recall if Elrond has ever actually touched him before. Probably not; for the most part Lindir tries to keep a respectable distance. Usually, he can ignore his feelings, or at least distract himself. At the moment, however, the only coherent thought in the minstrel's mind is that Elrond smells of old parchment and Athelas – and he would very much like to bury his face in his lord's silken hair. …Or throw himself into the Bruinen to drown as punishment for the unforgiveable crime of bleeding on the sleeve of Elrond's fine brocade robes.

"Lindir. You have to breathe," Elrond scolds him gently. "Be still. There will not be any pain."

"Apologies, my lord," Lindir mumbles and stares at the floor instead, grimacing when he sees that he managed to drip blood on the pristine white marble tiles as well.

"There is nothing to apologize for, well, aside from your lack of caution. You should know better than to travel outside of the valley alone at night, with so many orcs still about," Elrond replies, shaking his head as he carefully cleans dirt from the wound. "I know that you are more than capable of defending yourself, but you are no warrior by any stretch of imagination. It is luck alone that Elrohir's hunting party stumbled upon you, and spared you being injured any worse than this."

It was foolish of him, to be fair. But, how could he have asked for a contingent of guards to accompany him, simply because he wanted to gaze upon stars that he could not see within Imladris? It would have been selfish, at best. Perhaps it was selfish anyway. Did he really need to compose a song about a random constellation only visible on the night of a lunar eclipse? Lindir sighs, thinking that it was far from the stupidest thing he has ever done in pursuit of musical inspiration, albeit still inexcusable. It's even worse, because somehow he had gotten the wrong night. Tomorrow is the lunar eclipse, he reminds himself with disgust.

"Something has been on your mind of late," Elrond says, and Lindir looks away apprehensively as he picks up a small kit of surgical tools. "You seem distracted – distant. I can feel it in your fëa (spirit), as though your very soul cries out in despair."

"I can think of nothing in particular," Lindir lies, squeezing his eyes shut as Elrond sews the wound closed. True to his word, of course, there is no pain.

"Is that so?" Elrond chuckles under his breath. "You are a poor liar, friend."

"Forgive me, my lord, my troubles are my own and not worth your time," Lindir tells him sheepishly.

"Allow me to decide what is, or is not, worthy of my attention," Elrond chastises him, wrapping a clean linen bandage snugly around his arm. "This should heal fully within a week. Please get some rest. Come to me in the afternoon; It will need a new dressing."

Lindir all but runs away from him, and nearly trips on the old cobblestone path outside of the house of healing in his haste to escape. Thankfully, no one is around to witness his undignified retreat. He should rest, he knows, but he doubts that sleep will come to him. Instead, he finds his way to the gardens and curls up on a stone bench hidden beneath the branches of an enormous willow. He comes here often, when he needs to be alone – needs to sort out his thoughts. Now, though, it doesn't help much.

Lady Celebrían loved the gardens, and spent countless hours wandering the winding paths as she admired the flowers in bloom. Even now, Lindir can almost see her standing before him, reaching out to touch the delicate petals of one of the many white roses nearby. She was especially fond of roses, he remembers, and smiles sadly. Thinking of her only makes him feel more guilty for his ill-placed affections for his lord. Their love was – is – the stuff of legend and song, beautiful and tragic beyond compare. The worst thing about it all, is that Lindir knows Elrond would never love another as he loved her. Which, he supposes, is as it should be. They were happy, and knowing that was enough for Lindir. After all, Elrond will sail and be with her once again someday. Probably someday soon, as the ring has been destroyed and Arwen wed to Aragorn. That too, Lindir knows weighs heavily upon Elrond's heart. Losing his beloved daughter is not the same as his wife. Celebrían, he will meet on the shores of Aman, but Arwen will be forever beyond his reach when she passes.

"I believe you were told to rest, not sulk in the gardens."

Lindir cries out like a frightened elfling as he nearly falls off the bench. How long had Erestor been standing beside him, with his arms folded across his chest, wearing his all too familiar disapproving scowl? Lindir quickly rights himself, and trains his gaze on the mossy ground in front of him – rather than his fellow counselor.

"I worry for you," Erestor says when Lindir does not answer. "Why remain here? Why not sail? Most of our kin have already left. Our work in this land is finally well and truly done. Most of the remaining orc hordes are thinned as well; soon they will be gone from this world."

"There is nothing for me in the west," Lindir answers tartly. "I would rather remain here and fade, if that is to be my fate."

"What is here that you value so much?"

Lindir only shakes his head. Elrond, he thinks and hates himself for it. He stays for his lord, who he loves so deeply yet can never touch. He will follow when he leaves, but what then? Even on that day, what his heart yearns for so desperately can never be. Valinor itself means nothing to Lindir; he has no memory of the undying lands like Galadriel and the older ones. To him, it is little more than a myth – barely even an interesting one compared the stories he has found in Middle Earth. Lindon, and later Rivendell, have been the only places he has ever called home. …And the friends he has made along the way, his only family.

Erestor sighs and sits down beside him. "I see the way you look at him, when you think no one is watching."

"Pardon?" Lindir asks, hoping his tone is convincing. How could he tell? Erestor must be bluffing. Lindir is not that careless. …Is he?

"You truly are an awful liar," Erestor comments. "You always have been."

"That is the second time I have been told that tonight," Lindir counters dryly. "I know not of what you speak, however."

"How long?" Erestor presses. "How long have you felt this way?"

Lindir hides his face in his hands. How? How did he figure it out? Erestor knows his heart as well as his own, obviously. They are more like brothers than mere colleagues. He can trust him, of that Lindir is certain. Maybe it might help to talk about it.

"Lindir."

"As long as I have known him, I think," Lindir relents. "…All those ages ago when I was appointed to be attendant to the King's herald in Lindon. I never considered myself worthy of him and was afraid to jeopardize my position, so I held my peace when he courted and married Celebrían. I never had the courage to tell him, after all."

"Oh, Elbereth… That is centuries longer than I have even been alive, and yet you have never left his side since. Tell him! You must!"

Lindir stares at him in disbelief. "Why? To what end? He will sail soon enough and be reunited with – "

"All the more reason not to waste any more time than you already have." Erestor rests his hand on Lindir's shoulder. "Go home and rest. Tomorrow, tell him – promise me that you will. Trust me.

"I cannot promise that."

"You can, and you will do it."