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It becomes increasingly apparent that he won’t finish reading this particular scroll before dinnertime, and while Elrond wouldn’t mind being a few minutes late, it would scandalize poor Lindir. So he rolls it up shortly before, instead leaning back in his chair to untwist the braids from his hair. It’s been two days, and Lindir will likely wish to brush and refasten new ones. It’s a tidy routine, and a relaxing one. Elrond’s so accustomed to the sound of his opening door and Lindir’s quiet footsteps that he doesn’t turn around to see them.
Finishing the second braid that trails over his shoulder, Elrond glances at the mirror on the corner of his desk, expecting to have Lindir sweeping towards him. Instead, he sees nothing and hears a stifled sob.
Surprised, Elrond turns in his chair, only to find Lindir kneeling on the floor. A bundle of cloth rests beside his knees, his head lowered. He murmurs a soft, “My lord...” but breaks off in what might be a hiccup. He bends abruptly in two, his elbows and wrists pressed together against the floor and his forehead lowered to them. In a shuddering gasp, he pleas, “My lord, I am so sorry. Please, I beg your forgiveness.”
If Elrond had any idea what was going so wrong, he would’ve stepped in long before this point. He rises immediately, crossing the space between them and coming to kneel down before his bowing steward, who trembles under his touch. Elrond places his hand on Lindir’s shoulder, only to find the tremors more violent than he feared. He asks, “Lindir, what is wrong?”
Lindir makes a choked noise and can’t seem to answer, only babble again, “I am so sorry.” It’s irksome in more ways than one. Tears are very rare in Imladris, and Elrond’s never heard this in Lindir’s voice before. He has to run his fingers along Lindir’s neck to gently cup Lindir’s chin, lifting it, to finally glimpse Lindir’s face. His cheeks are water-stained. Lindir shuts his eyes tightly as though unable to look at Elrond, which is a first; Lindir has been known to stare at him, ever doting. It takes some effort to guide Lindir up, until Elrond’s half-holding Lindir off the floor. It reminds him of when Arwen was young, and he would have to comfort her over a stubbed knee. He shifts his arm around Lindir’s frail shoulders, soothingly stroking Lindir’s cheek.
Lindir clings to him suddenly, crying and shaking against his chest. In between great gulps, Lindir begs, “Please, my lord, do not send me away. I will pay penance, I will... I...” but he trails off, and Elrond makes a hushing noise, holding Lindir back. It’s certainly aroused his attention, though no one else in Imladris seems fearful of Lindir’s burden. He can still hear the soothing trill of the minstrels outside his balcony, and the birds sound as free as ever.
He asks gently, but firm enough for an order, “Tell me what has happened.” He doesn’t ask what Lindir has done, because he’s sure it’s nothing. There’s no one in his kingdom so loyal as his attendant, none so devoted and adoring. Lindir lifts a hand to his mouth, eyes closing again.
Then he takes a deep breath. He’s never once denied his lord, and he doesn’t now. He obeys, albeit slowly, reaching down to carefully unwrap the cloth. Sniffling, he explains, “I... I was cleaning the storehouse, and I strayed to dust and thought to sort my lord’s treasures, and I... I tripped—I am sorry, I have never been so clumsy, I am ashamed—and in my haste, my hand closed around the corner of this wrapping, and I knocked... I knocked this down and...” He seems unable to finish, but he doesn’t need to. It’s clear what’s happened. Inside the old blanket are the broken shards of a very old sword.
Elrond almost laughs. He smiles, unable to stop it, and sighs, “Lindir.” It’s a relief, though he’s sorry for his poor Lindir to be troubled by such nonsense. Shaking his head, he says, “You have only discovered Narsil, the sword that was broken.”
Looking up at him with wide, watery eyes, Lindir sniffles, “What?”
Elrond removes a fallen strand of dark hair from Lindir’s face, sweeping it behind his ear and leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to his forehead. Lindir shudders, but it’s the last of his trembling. Elrond calmly explains, “You are young, but even you must have heard of the blade that slew the Dark Lord Sauron. This is that blade, or the remnants thereof, and it was shattered far before your time. Indeed, it is much stronger than a simple fall could do any harm to, however old it may be.” With a thoughtful pause, Elrond muses, “Perhaps it is time for it to be displayed again in a proper resting place. It seems our youth are otherwise apt to forget.”
Lindir’s cheeks flush, but his embarrassment is an improvement on his terror. Timidly, he asks, “I... I will not be relieved of duty, then?”
“No,” Elrond insists, “You will not.” Lindir bites his lip, and it’s obvious that he does so to stifle a smile.
For a moment, it seems as though he’ll lunge at Elrond again, cling tight for another embrace. Instead, he bows his head, blushing deeply and murmuring, “I apologize for my foolish display.”
Elrond simply answers, a hint of a chuckle in his voice, “You forget that I am a father of three, and I am hardly burdened by such misunderstandings.” Lindir’s nose wrinkles almost imperceptibly—he tends to dislike being compared to Elrond’s children, and he is, indeed, older than them, but Elrond only meant that it gives him some understanding of mishaps. Elladan alone gave him far more trouble than Lindir ever has. In an effort to calm the storm, Elrond asks, “Would you like to brush my hair before returning the shards of Narsil to their perch until we have chosen a better place for it?”
The answer is immediate. Lindir’s head jerks up, and he insists, “Yes, my lord,” bowing suddenly. Then he scrambles to his feet, bundling up the shards to place carefully on the nearest table.
Elrond rises slower to his own feet, and he wanders back to his chair, where the brush is waiting for Lindir’s loving hands. Lindir’s there a moment later. In the mirror, he looks so beautifully relieved that Elrond can’t help sharing in his smile.