Chapter Text
The gathering will last for hours yet, though it will not go on quite as long as it did during Lindiel's welcome. They hardly notice her return from the House, if they notice her at all, and truly Lindiel does not believe them to notice her, beyond her maids, who've secured a spot at a less occupied table and laid out plates for the three of them. But even then, Maethyriel's attention is turned towards the blacksmiths, who have in turn taken to singing a lively song, much to the aggravation of Lindir, and Flinoen focuses, seemingly, on the plate before her.
With still-damp hands from washing, Lindiel lowers herself gracefully down to the bench, taking her place at Flinoen's side. When she is pushed a plate piled with food, she does not balk at the amount, as she once might've. This body is no longer what she was born with; it needs more food at times, and after a day of toting around children and occupying a near-teenager, she is more than ready to devour the turkey leg before her. To hell with propriety, for the moment. If she has shed her usual composure for the children's entertainment, then she is permitted an uninterrupted dinner. If anyone has a problem with the way she eats the turkey leg, she'll finish the meat from the bone before threatening them with what's left.
(She won't. This time.)
But her maids are occupied in their pursuits, and none other offer commentary for how she eats her potatoes with bread instead of a fork. The later the night goes, the more the ale will have taken to their senses, and the more Lindiel can grant herself ease. They will grow occupied in their camaraderie, and they will join in song, and they will tease one another, and they will take interest in what Men linger about the valley, if only because they are different. If only because they are a small change in pace. And the night will go on, and Lindiel will slip away, and her bed will be waiting for her. Comfort comes these nights, instead of unrest. She's been sleeping until sunrise without interruption, not a first in the valley, but certainly a rarity.
Maethyriel leaves shortly after Lindiel has finished her turkey leg, accepting the hand of a faulconer and joining her in dance. Lindiel watches the two, noting the delight upon Maethyriel's face. She's always been the more social of the three, and that she's taken so easily to the other edhil of the valley, neither Lindiel or Flinoen are surprised. It had been most difficult for her to depart from the woods, as her bonds went much deeper than either of theirs did. Flinoen, in contrast, left with ease. She'd spent her life in dedication to Galadriel before serving Lindiel, and her favor of service does not seem to wane now that she has left the Lady's sight.
"You should go dance," Lindiel says, nudging her leg beneath the table.
"It would be unwise to part from your side," Flinoen so easily dismisses the idea. Though she's had her own duties, with the guests being here, she's spent every spare minute at her lady's side, silently fussing over her as much as she is allowed. Which, at the end of the day, amounts to caring for her hair and tucking her into bed, all while Lindiel is devoured by sleep as if she were some succulent dish and sleep a starving man.
"If I wish to dance?"
"You have done enough dancing for the eve," Flinoen finally breaks into a small laugh, her attention rising from her plate to her lady. "I will hear about it for weeks."
"Ah, you are quite welcome from the entertainment." Lindiel looks past her, smiling softly at who approaches. "If someone else wishes to dance?"
"Then he will be kicked in his shins for interrupting my dinner," Flinoen threatens, not needing to turn to know who it is that her lady references, and now greets with a friendly smile.
"You have one broccoli fleurette and a scoop of potatoes," Glorfindel points out, coming to a stop at her side. "That counts as a light snack, at most. If you are being insulting."
"I can be more insulting if you wish it, my lord." Flinoen weathers a gentle elbow to her side before turning in her seat to face the golden lord. Before the guests, he has taken to more jewelry than usual, particularly a circlet which sits so lovely atop his head. Regardless of how friendly they are with one another, she would never dare offer the compliment. But for want of speaking to him alone, several edhil yet wait their turn, feigning disinterest, or offering surreptitious glances towards him. She will make no direct enemies in courts not belonging to her ladies. She will make no enemies at all. "Better not to bring the insult upon yourself by dancing with a maiden of the Galadhrim, for whom you have a notable distaste."
"Perhaps it is not the maiden of the Galadhrim that I seek, but the one whom she guards so diligently." Glorfindel's eyes flicker to Lindiel, almost a silent threat to embarrass all three of them. "Lady?"
Lindiel pauses, mouth full of bread, her cheeks pinkening at being brought into their banter. Bringing a napkin to her mouth, she quickly chews her food before responding to him, the embarrassment growing with how long she takes to finish. She really oughtn't have taken such a large bite. "Pardon, lord, but you will have to accept Flinoen in my stead, for I've… injured my ankles in caring for the children. Rather rowdy lot, if you can believe it."
"I would be most delighted to take Miss Flinoen in your stead." Glorfindel offers a hand to the maid in question, biting back his delighted laughter at her displeasure for being volunteered. It is all in good humor, they know, and he would not force her into a dance if she truly did not wish it. But after a moment's hesitation, and a sideways glance cast at Lindiel, Flinoen places her hand in the lord's, who then beams as if he is the sun itself. "Ever I shall remain pleasant, for you are doing me a service in keeping me freed of less pleasant company."
"We shall see if you consider me good company after I step on your toes," Flinoen mutters as they walk away.
Lindiel smiles to herself and makes a mental note to thank Glorfindel for offering distraction. She had thought, upon their arrival, that Flinoen had a distaste for the lord—for anyone in the valley, truly. She had believed there to be animosity until Erestor had made an offhanded comment upon the lord's quest for strawberries, and later she'd returned to her chambers to find Flinoen with berry-stained fingertips. At the time, Lindiel had held her commentary, unwilling to discourage whatever friendship had been slowly blossoming between the two. And even now she does not speak often of where Flinoen goes when she is not beside her.
It simply is not her business.
She carries on eating the food that remains on her plate, a delectable helping, one she will not shun. She rather thinks that Bilbo and Frodo, both, would be quite pleased with all that she eats, even if they yet avoid revelry. The trick, she has realized, is to eat the berries and meats first, and to save the breads and potatoes for last. In a way, it makes her think of celebrations that came in a life before this one. She tries not to dwell on the thought too often.
And now comes a prickling of her spine, the sort that happens when one knows they are being watched. It is a delicious feeling in as much as it is a terrifying feeling, for Lindiel does not favor attention being turned upon her. But this attention does not present as a threat. If anything, it is a curiosity, a gentle amusement, coursing through her veins. She looks up.
There at the furthest end of the Hall, Elrond. He does not wear such old fashions this eve, but much like his advisors, he dons more jewelry than is typical for himself. The circlet is usual, but the twisting, vine-like rings around his fingers are too lovely to be ignored, and he would not let them be; every movement of his fingers give them the illusion of the conjuration of flames, for the gemstones reflect the lights, and glitter incessantly. The same craft that has made the rings has made the clips like butterflies in his hair, for their wings seem to move with every turn of his head, the very reason Lindiel has avoided glancing at him all night; he is, simply put, too lovely.
Too lovely to look at. Too lovely to listen to, when he shares in laughter with the other lords. Too lovely of a man, who will never share his loveliness with her, all because she has the misfortune of daring to be bound to him.
But tonight is not a night that grants her room for self-pity. She shoves it aside and extends her thoughts to him, returning her amusement. Yes, Lord?
Have you any clue how many times I have been asked if you are having an episode this evening? His voice is strong within her mind, perhaps less inhibited with the wine he has already consumed, the wine he now drinks as he peers at her, waiting for her response.
Lindiel cannot help but laugh, covering her mouth as she does so, like it is a shame to have him see her smile by cause of his words. In a way, it its. It is a dance of my people.
Your people dance atrociously, he teases, the smile nearly making itself known on his lips. That was an affront to all of our eyes.
Lindiel turns fully away, fighting against the desperate wave of delight that washes over her. The delight that she knows he can sense, even across the room. With no maids left to stop her, there is no one she might excuse herself to. She rises and leaves the table, determined not to make any more of a fool of herself. Already she has earned too much attention with the children, but anyone with half a mind can excuse that as entertainment. None would be able to excuse this sudden, erroneous bout of laughter.
Elrond has a more difficult time excusing himself, for already he has burnt through his most polite excuses over the course of the week, and with Glorfindel's needling, he's lacking much of his patience. But an excuse is not so much required if one quietly eases out of a conversation, leaving it to the other Eldar of the valley to entertain the Men they host. He finds Lindiel standing on the porch, and thinks of summer prior.
He'd hated her, then. Sometimes he still does. But for the moment, he finds it difficult to summon anything more than the amusement he's drawn at the sight of her clear padamair habits. He comes to lean on the rail beside her, much the same as he did last summer. He'd been drinking then, too. The reasons behind his sudden alcoholism haven't changed.
"You were not meant to find my insults amusing," he jests.
"If you wished to insult me, you would need to do so on better grounds than Habemair dancing, which I too find poorly and uncoordinated." The words are spoken with the lingering laughter in her voice, and her eyes still sparkle with the joy he so desperately numbs within the boundaries of his own body. "You know, I have have seen you dance, and you are hardly better than me lest Lindir leads."
Elrond draws his hand to his heart, feigning indignity. "My dancing is fair, and the last person to lead me has long since departed this valley. I have no memory of what horrible lies leap from your tongue."
At this, Lindiel loses the fight against her laughter. Both of her hands cover her mouth, and the wretched sound beats helplessly against her fingers. A pair of Eldar step from the entryway of the hall, and she turns away, as if she does not wish to be seen with the lord, laughing. As if they would not know her by how brightly her hair burns with the little lanterns on the porch. As if any of their kind would be so willing to lay bare their delight in such a violent sounding manner.
Elrond takes another sip of his wine, quelling the smile that rises to his lips, reminding himself that he needs to avoid the invocation of her delight. Like the fire her hair mimics, it will consume him. Already it crackles in his chest, burning at his lungs. A separation of their souls cannot come soon enough. The thought, on his behalf, even if not shared between their minds, is enough to stunt her laughter, and to leave her leaning once more on the railing. It is no longer laughter she fights, but melancholy, thick as the tide. He almost feels guilty for it.
"Erestor tells me you volunteered for your duties this week," he says, the words softer now than they were moments ago. "You've taken an immense pressure from his shoulders."
Lindiel shrugs, her humor stunted for the moment, and she offers no clever quip. "He had warned me against Lindir's obsessiveness over his showcasings."
Elrond hums in agreement; they are all well aware of the minstrel's penchant for perfection during such important hosting events. Any other time of the year and no such care is offered. He sings his way quite happily through a freestyled piece, crafted on the spot, or he jovially strums a new tune—Lindir is not frightened by uncertainty.
It is something Elrond has often found himself admiring in the younger ellon, after so many years spent in his company. He cares not for other's opinions, and only plays for his own enjoyment. If a mistake is made, it is not to be fretted over by fingers focused on more important notes, the notes that come after. And for the discrepancies between their experiences in their lifetimes, Lindir has taught Elrond more than he will ever be able to put into words.
He hesitates only for a moment, the words catching on his tongue before falling over one another to make themselves known, a last attempt to bring some offer of humor to Lindiel in a silent apology for stealing it in the first place. "Does it make up for your having to don my colors?"
One of her hands stretches out before them, and she looks disdainfully at the way the blue sleeve remains tightly fastened on her wrist. "Well I was unaware that one could claim colors. But… it isn't such a terrible one to bear, I suppose."
Her feigned reluctance forces a smile to dance across his lips, though when she looks up at him, the smile is quickly drawn into something unbothered.
"Of course, it clashes with my hair and gives me the complexion of a rice grain." She ignores his nonchalance, far outdoing him with another casual shrug and a toss of her braid over her shoulder. "When your guests leave, I shall return to my browns and golds. But I will resist no longer, when the time comes for hosting guests again—if I am here, that is."
The stark reminder of her departure sends a shock of ice down his spine, and whatever lingers of her joy in his body is sacrificed to keep him standing. All at once he feels every ounce of the suppressants he's taken this day, the tinctures and the wine, coalescing in his veins until he feels, suddenly, very heavy, and very weary. He needs to sit down.
"Of course." He swallows, willing the tightness of his throat away. What care should he have for her intentions to depart? She is a bothersome pest in his valley, and in his body. More than that, she had mentioned she wished to carry on with her travels, to carry on with her lessons. She will go, then, and he will be left in his peace, and they will never burden one another with their presences again. And one day, yet unknown to them, she will return to her world. It's what she's decided is best for herself. "You might return to the hall now, Lady, before your food grows any colder."
Lindiel's brows furrow, the silver hairs catching the light in a way that casts moon's glow upon her eyes. He looks away, unable to weather her curiosity, the searching hand he feels against the walls of his mind. They do not like one another, that is no secret. And still she knows she has brought him further displeasure with such commentary. But she offers no questioning, and dips her head, leaving the lord in peace.
And when she is gone, Elrond empties the rest of his wine into the bushes before the Hall of Fire, and drinks no more that eve.