Chapter Two: Confession

Lindir takes a breath, and holds it. For a moment, as he stares at the doors leading into the house of healing, he considers running away. Only the knowledge that Elrond will likely send Erestor or Glorfindel to physically drag him there – kicking and biting if need be – keeps him from leaving. He silently prays to the Valar for strength as he pushes the door open and steps inside. Embarrassing as it is, he doesn't really know where to go. The previous night was the first time he had ever been there, other than to deliver supplies or paperwork to the healer who handles the administrative aspects of the place. Usually, he can find her working at the reception desk – where she is now. Mentally he curses himself for not even remembering her name.

"I need to speak with – "

"Lord Elrond is expecting you; you can find him in his office," The blond-haired elleth replies without even looking up.

Lindir decides he has too much pride to admit that he does not know where that is, and bites his tongue as he takes the hall to his right. The night before, Elrohir left him in one of the rooms in that corridor, so it stands to reason that must be the correct direction. Somehow, all these years, he has managed to avoid the interior of the house of healing like a plague. Lindir does not exactly make a habit of being ill or injured. How he has managed it, though – considering that his Lord spends more time there than anywhere else in the valley – is beyond him. Always, has Elrond thought of himself as a healer before any other mantle he may wear.

"Left," The healer at the desk says, mirth twinkling in her eyes as she points at the opposite hall with the tip of the quill pen in her hand.

"Many thanks," Lindir mumbles, hoping his face is not as red as it feels.

He finds Elrond's office easily enough. It's hard to miss, at the end of the hall with one of its enormous wooden doors propped open. He steels himself and steps inside, to see Elrond bent over a parchment spread across a handsome mahogany desk that is a perfect match to the one he uses in his other office in the council building. This office is homier, however. The walls are covered with bookshelves that seem to be crammed full of what appears to be hand written journals, and the back corner looks like a comfy spot to sit and read near the window.

"My Lord," Lindir says quietly, forcing himself not to think of how well the healer's unform he is wearing flatters his slender build. "You asked me to return this afternoon."

"Ah, Lindir. I was just about to send Elladan to collect you," Elrond replies as he rolls up the parchment on his desk. "Come with me, please."

Lindir silently follows Elrond as he leads him into a treatment room similar to where Elrohir left him the night before. It's not so bad, he thinks and sits on the edge of the bed in the center of the room. The whole building reeks of Athelas, but he likes that scent. It's a light, clean fragrance. It reminds him of… No, do not think about that. He picks at the bandaging on his arm as he watches Elrond search a cabinet nearby for whatever supplies he needs. He really does look striking in the pale green healer's robes that are far more form-fitting than his usual attire. It's not like it's the first time Lindir has seen him wear them, so why now does he –

"Did you rest at all?" Elrond asks him, in an almost accusatory tone.

"Not really, no," Lindir admits, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"You work too hard," Elrond says disapprovingly. "Is there no hope you might tell me what troubles you? I like to think of myself as a decent listener."

Lindir mutely shakes his head, unable to stop himself from imagining a furious Erestor glaring daggers at him with his hands on his hips. 'You promised!', he can hear his friend complaining in his subconscious, even though he made no such agreement. Lindir squeezes his eyes shut, but all he sees is the memory of the moment he met Elrond – in one of the many houses of healing in Lindon. It had taken him half the day to even find the elusive Herald of Gil-Galad. The first thing Lindir noticed was the scent of Athelas; Elrond had accidentally dumped a jar of salve made from it all over himself, while trying to treat a wounded warrior who would not hold still. The second thing he noticed was Elrond's warm smile, as he apologized for the mess and asked if he was injured. The third thing was…

"Lindir?"

The sound of his voice, and how it has always captivated him. He doesn't think he has ever heard his lord sing, but surely even the Valar would weep to witness it.

"Lindir?" Elrond repeats.

"Forgive me, my lord. I was lost in thought," He finally replies, shrugging off his cloak and offering Elrond his injured arm.

Elrond takes his hand in his and sighs. "When will you stop calling me by title? There is no need for such formality between us," He says, and Lindir thinks he can hear a hint of sadness in his tone.

"It would be improper not to," Lindir counters without any real conviction.

"I wish you would trust me," Elrond replies, pushing up the sleeves of his robes.

"I do," Lindir mumbles, looking away as Elrond gently removes the bandages. It isn't that he thinks Elrond will hurt him, he has simply never had much tolerance for the sight of blood. It won't do for him to pass out on Elrond's shoulder now. It was a miracle he didn't last night.

"It looks good," Elrond says approvingly. "It is already beginning to heal."

Lindir does not reply, thinking traitorously that getting hurt more often might not be a bad thing, if it means Elrond will touch him so softly. Or, he could stop being a coward and… No. He can never tell him. No matter how much it hurts, he can never come between him and his love for Celebrían. He would not be able to live with himself for doing such a thing.

"Once, many centuries ago when Arwen was a newborn, I received a vision that I had all but forgotten about – until last night when Elrohir brought you to me," Elrond tells Lindir, getting his attention. "I saw myself in the future, gazing at the stars from the top of a cliff near the old watchtower at the headwaters of the Bruinen. It was the night of a lunar eclipse, I believe."

Lindir tries not to squirm in his grip. …Did Elrond see something? Does he know? His heart feels like it will tear itself out of his chest.

"However, I was not there alone. Nor was it my wife laying in the grass at my side," Elrond continues, sounding amused. "I thought nothing of it, as I did not assume there was anything significant about a vision of two friends watching the stars together. Those cliffs are where Elrohir's hunting party found you fighting off those orcs last night. Did you miscalculate the date of the eclipse?"

"…Yes." Lindir whispers shamefully. He is Rivendell's esteemed Loremaster, and he can't even manage that. Pathetic. He really is losing his grip, and the others are starting to see it as well. He blinks, and looks at his hands in his lap. When did Elrond finish bandaging him? "Was that your only vision of me?" Lindir asks, curious in spite of himself.

"Yes, though I cannot shake the feeling that there is more to it," Elrond replies. "A deeper meaning, perhaps – a detail I must have overlooked, but my memory of that vision is hazy at best."

Run, Lindir thinks. Get up and run. Maybe he will take passage on the next ship to Aman. He can't. For the first time in his very long life, Lindir is frozen in panic. Elrond's expression softens and he takes Lindir's shaking hands in his.

"Do you know something about this?" Elrond inquires. "Why are you afraid?"

"I am not afraid, only aching for that which I can never possess."

"Whatever do you mean?" Elrond presses.

He tries to stop himself, truly he does, but the words escape as if they have a will of their own. "I love you!" Lindir cries unable to hold it in any longer. "I have always loved you. Only you. I could never… I was… Forgive me, and forget that I spoke of it. I should not have – I know that your wife is waiting for you in the west, and I have no desire to come between you. I am… I can't…"

"Hush, take a breath."

"Ah, but – !"

"I have no plans of leaving Middle Earth," Elrond tells him. "My fate lies here. As I have seen in many visions. As far as my wife is concerned… When I parted ways with Celebrían at the Havens she knew that I could not follow her, and that I will never abandon Imladris. Though, that is not truly the reason I am bound to Middle Earth."

"I did not know," Lindir replies, fighting back tears.

"I have never spoken of that day, though Erestor and the twins know as they were with me at the docks when we said our goodbyes," Elrond tells him. "It took me many years to comprehend that her choice to part ways with me forever was made out of love – not malice, or disappointment in my inability to save her from the horrors that still haunted her. She understood what I did not, that our future would hold naught but pain. And so, she set me free."

Lindir says nothing. His own despair seems wildly insignificant, compared to what Celebrían must have felt. He can imagine no greater misery than what she endured – both at the hands of the orcs that captured her, and in letting go of the love of her life for the sake of their mutual well-being. Of course, her strength should not come as a surprise, considering that she is the daughter of Galadriel.

"How long have you held your silence and suffered for it? I should not have been so blind. You have always been with me, since we met so long ago, and I never noticed. Words cannot express my shame," Elrond says when Lindir does not answer.

"No, do not be ashamed. I have always been good at hiding it, until recently. Simply being in your employ and able to call you a friend has always been enough, but… What happens now?" He asks uncertainly. "I know nothing of… If you even want…" If you would even want me. Lindir inwardly curses himself.

"Now, You will rest. Later, we will ride out together to watch the stars." He touches Lindir's cheek lightly and wipes away a tear with the pad of his thumb. "I need to think on this."

Lindir tries to protest, insisting that he has work to do, but all it earns him is a hot cup of herbal tea and a cozy spot curled up on the sofa in the corner of Elrond's office – under a heavy quilt that Elrond tucked snugly around him. He doubts Elrond would have allowed him to escape if he had tried. It does not take him long to fall asleep, listening to the rhythmic scratching of Elrond's quill as he writes the Valar only know what in one of his journals.