Title: To See Clearly
Author: Orchyd Constyne
Contact: orchydconstyne@gmail.com
Website: http://www.hamena.org/naiteiru/
Update List: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/nairn_orchyd/
Fandom: LOTR
Archive: LoM, OEAM, AFF.net, Melethryn
Disclaimer: I do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from
the Tolkien world.  They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Rating: NC-17
Beta: Ilye, Alex_Cat
Cast: Thranduil/Lindir
Summary: Lindir returns to Mirkwood, to Thranduil's halls, and finds a
second chance waiting for him.
A/N: This offers a new theme for me, and I hope you all enjoy it. 
Yes, that is a Britney Spears song you see quoted below -- it played
through Launchcast one afternoon and WHAM!, the plotbunny was born. 
Three weeks later, and you have a bouncing new plot to read.  This has
gone through several beta changes, so I have poured a lot of work into
it, and I hope you all find it enjoyable.

---

"Notice me
Take my hand
Why are we
Strangers when
Our love is strong
Why carry on without me?"
	-- Britney Spears, 'Everytime'

---

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible
summer. -- Albert Camus

The last thing he remembered seeing was the pale, frightened face of
the minstrel, sword in hand and blood spattered across his pallid
flesh.  That was an image forever imprinted on his mind, something
that would never fade.  He was struck down, blood flooding his mouth
and sound drowned in a rushing wind.  It had been hot that day, the
smell of heated blood under the noonday sun was sharp in his nose, and
the screams of battle were lost in the quiet deafness that engulfed
him.  No, the smell of the battlefield, the sounds of war, and the
sight of his lover bathed in crimson and screaming his name were the
things that haunted his every footstep, that followed him through
dreaming, waking, and into his madness.

Sitting alone in his rooms, alone in his darkness, Thranduil pondered
yet again his odd lot in his life.  The crying of his only son went
unnoticed, and the rushing of the governess was not noted.  There was
no indication the Woodland King had heard his child or seen the
Prince's caretaker dash to the infant's side.  It was as if he were
deaf and blind to all around him, dwelling in a past time of harsh war
and tender loving.

*****

Lindir slowly unpacked his belongings, hanging robes and fine tunics
in a wardrobe while stowing leggings, trousers and standard tunics he
wore every day in a series of drawers.  He had been surprised when he
had walked into Elrond's office a fortnight ago, offering to accompany
Lord Glorfindel to Thranduil's realm.  Lindir still did not know what
possessed him to return to a past he had hoped to outrun, or why
Elrond had permitted him to come.  Whatever the reason, he was now a
guest of King Thranduil, the golden-haired lover he had abandoned so
many years ago.

The minstrel pushed the thoughts aside and finished his task.  He
glanced in the tall mirror in the corner of the room, catching a
glimpse of his tasseled midnight hair framing too-white skin, his
pewter eyes deep set and wide.  Thranduil had found him dark and
beautiful, lithe and musical, while he had found the then-Prince to be
bright like the sun, outshining everything and anything that dared to
stand next to him.  His heart clenched in his breast and Lindir saw
those large eyes fill with remembered pain.

He slammed his hand on the bureau and hung his head in a poor attempt
to escape his own sins.  With or without the looking glass, Lindir
knew the anger Thranduil still held toward him, knew the sense of loss
he himself still felt for the Elf.  He could see clearly in his mind
the laughing green eyes, but he could also see the club raised that
bashed the back of his lover's head, that changed the course of their
lives forever.

Why had he come back?

Because he loved Thranduil, a quiet voice in his mind whispered to
him.  He loved the King, and now that Thranduil had a son but had lost
a wife, Lindir had hoped to...  to what?

That voice spoke again.  'To hold him.  To hold him and tell him you
are so very sorry and you still love him.'

*****

The years had changed Thranduil little.

Physically, that is.

Lindir watched the King seat himself in his large, oak throne, his
green eyes, pale as peridot and just as lifeless, staring out over the
assembled court.  He bowed, and a tall, well-dressed Elf took
Thranduil's hand in his own and began to stroke the King's palm. 
Lindir frowned at the contact, but his attention was pulled away from
the gentle movement by Glorfindel's melodic voice.

"King Thranduil," the Elda began, stepping closer to the throne.  "I
come on behalf of Lord Elrond Half-Elven, who was unable to leave his
own realm.  He has sent gifts for your newborn son, along with many
treasures for your vast vaults for welcoming us into your realm.  Lord
Elrond also sends his condolences on the loss of your beautiful wife,
and has also asked me to offer you this," he said, gesturing to Lindir
who held out the large drape to the King.  "It is a tapestry the Lady
Celebrían and her maids have created for you, commemorating the day of
your marriage."

There were a few more moments of silence before Thranduil finally
spoke.  "I wish to extend my hospitality to you and your traveling
companion, my Lord Glorfindel."  Lindir noted the muted, slightly
thickened tone of Thranduil's voice, and cringed with memory.  "Accept
my invitation to remain in my realm until the turn of the season, at
which time I will have an adequate response for your Lord."  The Elf
beside Thranduil continued to rub the inside of the King's palm, and
this time Lindir's eyes narrowed with anger.  There was something
strange and inappropriate about the movement of the Elf's fingertips
along Thranduil's skin, and Lindir tried not to stare.  Who was this
Elf who was touching a bereaving husband in such a manner and in such
a public forum?

"My Seneschal will have the tapestry hung in the main dining hall
where all who knew my late wife can enjoy it.  I invite you and your
companion to dine with me this eve in my private dining room, perhaps
with the entertainment of my minstrel."

Thranduil smiled, though the expression did not reach those dull eyes,
and Lindir's face reddened slightly with the idea of having dinner
with Thranduil.  Could he truly do that so soon?  And to stay until
Autumn fell and the leaves of this forest changed?  No, he should not
have left his valley, should not have come seeking his past.

"My Lord," Glorfindel said cheerfully, "I have brought with me Lindir,
Elrond's Master Bard.  If it would please you, he could entertain us
after our evening meal.  He is a most accomplished musician," he
insisted, not noticing Lindir's stricken face.

More fondling of the King's hand, and widening of Thranduil's eyes as
the realization of who stood before him washed over him.  "Lindir?" he
all but whispered.

"Aye, my Lord," Lindir said, his voice tight with restrained emotion.

"Lindir," Thranduil repeated.  "Lord Glorfindel, did you not know that
Lindir was my father's Master Bard before he took up residence in
Elrond's fair valley?  Aye, I am well aware of Lindir's... talents."

A bright red flush crept over Lindir's cheeks, and the minstrel knew
Thranduil had intentionally filled that last word with innuendo.  He
hid his face behind his long hair when Glorfindel turned questioning
eyes to him.  He would not discuss his past with Glorfindel in front
of dozens of Elves who would spread such gossip like a plague. 
Spending the remaining season here would then be unbearable.  Instead,
he chose to remain silent, hiding his shame as much as he could.

Thranduil released his Seneschal's hand and stood, the smile still not
touching his cold eyes.  "Aye, I will be most pleased to once again
hear Lindir's lyrical voice.  It has been such a long time since I
have heard anything worthy of speaking of..."  Thranduil's words
trailed off and he shook his head.  "After the sun sets, I will send
for you."

Lindir watched Thranduil leave, that Elf close behind him, and he bit
his lower lip to keep from shouting after them.

This was going to be a very long night.

*****

It was tense.  Thranduil ate his tasteless meal, lost in a blackness
he could never escape, only now that darkness was perfumed with
Lindir's scent.  His Seneschal sat close, the comfortable presence
soothing his troubled spirit, but that scent of roses found blooming
in piles of pine needles.  It was a smell unique unto Lindir, and the
minstrel used to laugh when Thranduil would describe it to him.  But,
it was true -- potent roses and molding pine in the dead of a cold
night.

"My Lord," Glorfindel began, finally breaking the silence that had
uncomfortably permeated the room.

Badhron took the King's hand in his own, and both Imladrian Elves
looked to where their hands now lay entwined.  Glorfindel chose to
ignore the gesture, while Lindir swallowed another mouthful of sawdust
that now lay heavy in his roiling belly.

"You said that Lindir had once been your father's bard.  I did not
know this."  Glorfindel looked pointedly at Lindir who suddenly became
interested in pushing his food about on his plate.

After a moment, Thranduil nodded.  "Aye, he was.  He was a dear...
friend of mine for many years."

The Elda listened to Thranduil's voice as he had in the audience
chamber, again noticing the odd sound it had.  Because he had never
spoken with the King before, he dismissed it as an oddness Thranduil
possessed, even though the strangeness of it still tugged at him.

"We fought beside each other at Barad-dûr," Thranduil continued,
"which was a far cry from the fire-lit halls of my father's compound
where Lindir had plucked at his harp and sang like a bird for us."

Glorfindel seemed surprised.  "Lindir fought there?  I did not know
that, and I was there with Gil-galad and Elrond."

Badhron stroked the King's palm, his face unreadable to any in the
room as he listened to the conversation.

"We did not march under Gil-galad's banner, if you will remember.  We
marched under our own.  As such, you would not have known who fought
with us and who did not."  Thranduil smiled that cold smile again. 
"But, he was an accomplished warrior who defended his King, and when
that King fell, defended me."

"Why do you never pick up a blade?" Glorfindel asked Lindir, his brow
furrowed in confusion.  "You never spar or join in any of the
training."

Lindir put his fork aside.  "I have not wielded a blade since
Barad-dûr, my Lord.  I have no desire to fight," he said frankly.

"But, why?" Glorfindel repeated.  He was a warrior, after all, and
always had been.  It was his passion, his calling, and he could not
imagine anyone who had tasted the thrill of the fight, heard the blade
split the air, not wanting to feel it again and again.

"I was a poor warrior, despite what the King may lead you to believe." 
Lindir did not like where this conversation had turned and he fought
the urge to run from the room.

Thranduil's voice rang through the room.  "Oh, but you were.  He was a
tall and a fell beast of war, and he defended us well.  It was a shame
when he put his sword away, vowing to never lift it again."

Glorfindel remained confused.  He had the impression there were two
conversations occurring, but he only knew the topic of one of them. 
"If you were so accomplished, Lindir, why did you make such a vow?"

Lindir's stormy eyes flashed angrily.  "I chose to never fight again
because I was not as accomplished as I should have been.  When I
should have been at my King's back, I was not, and a terrible blow was
laid upon him.  Due to my inaction, my lack of alertness, my King lost
all that made him a great and fearful warrior."

The Elda smiled, shaking his head.  "Oropher was a great warrior, aye,
but it is not your fault he has fallen."

"I was not speaking of Oropher," Lindir said quietly, his eyes fixed
on Thranduil's impassive face.  "Was I, my King?"  When Thranduil
offered no response, Lindir turned to Glorfindel.  "I was not where I
should have been that day, and Thranduil suffered a terrible wound. 
An Orc struck him with a club.  There was much blood, and we all
feared we had lost both our Kings.  But Thranduil is far more
resilient than most, and he survived the wound to his head."

"Yet you say he has been forever injured..." Glorfindel mused.

Thranduil cleared his throat.  "I am," he said raggedly, finally life
sparking in those cold, cold eyes.  "The blow stole my sight and my
hearing from me."

Lindir wiped at his cheeks.  "It is something I never forgave myself
for, and neither did Thranduil.  I swore never to be the reason
another suffered so, and I put my sword away."

"You cannot be deaf, my Lord," Glorfindel insisted.  "You converse
with us as if you can hear us."

"I most certainly am, Glorfindel," Thranduil replied.  "I can converse
with you only because Badhron is here.  He speaks for you to me.  He
forms words and common phrases in a language we have developed by
making the symbols for each in my palm.  It is the only way I could
communicate, and so it was necessary.  Not many know of my condition,
for it is a closely-guarded secret.  I know these halls so well that I
can navigate them myself, and Badhron is always at my side when I am
with other Elves."  His voice was even, reciting how he lived his life
as if he were reciting a menu to his cook, and Lindir's heart broke
anew to hear that deadness in his old lover's voice.

Lindir glanced to where the two Elves' hands met and noticed a rhythm
to the pattern of the stroking of Thranduil's palm.  "You speak to
him," Lindir whispered in amazement.

Badhron nodded.  "I am one of three in these halls who can."

"Teach me," Lindir demanded before he could think about the
implications of such an order.  He met Badhron's eyes.  "There are
things I must say to him, but I do not wish any other to be privy to
the conversation.  Teach me, please."

More movement in the lax palm, but Thranduil said nothing, his lips
set instead in a grim line.

Glorfindel just shook his head and put his napkin aside.  "I must
return to Imladris in one week's time.  I will leave Lindir with you,
my Lord, and he may return when the season changes with the gifts you
wish to bestow on my Lord Elrond."  The Elda did not miss the longing
in Lindir's eyes, and a ray of hope that shone in their grey depths
when Badhron told him that yes, one could communicate with the King.

There was more between them than a failed warrior and a wounded king,
but Glorfindel was old enough, and wise enough, not to ask.

*****

He was a diligent student.  Lindir would wake with Anor, seek out
Badhron, and they would begin a lesson.  Badhron had seen no other
student as obsessive as Lindir was, spending hours and hours learning
the hundreds of phrases and a whole new alphabet.  He would then fall
into deep reverie after Ithil reached his pinnacle, only to wake a few
hours later to begin his day all over.

Within a week, he could speak with Badhron about the weather.  Within
a month, he was able to converse as he conversed with all others in
Thranduil's court.  His frustration was channeled into perfecting the
hand signs, focused on that final goal of *speaking* with Thranduil
for the first time in over a thousand years.  Just that hope was
enough to bring tears to Lindir's exhausted eyes at the end of each
day.  It was at the end of such a day that Lindir found himself caught
in the past, into a decree he could not even argue against.

// I will not have you wait upon me as if I were nothing but a burden
to you, nothing more than a guilty conscience that haunts you.  No,
you will leave this realm, leave me, and *never* return!  I will not
have you bound to me in guilt, Lindir, in this twisted sense of duty
to me.  Go!  Leave me!  Do not return! //

The clatter of the candlesticks on the floor echoed in his memory as
he watched his painfully thin lover stumble from the bed.  Thranduil
was so angry, so afraid, and Lindir had only wanted to comfort him. 
But there was no way to offer that comfort, no way to say the words
stuck in his throat or to show him that guilt was not what held him to
Thranduil's side.  He had reached out, his hand hovered above
Thranduil's flushed cheek, but he did not touch him.

// Notice me //, he had whispered in that silent room.  Note me and
take my hand, my love. // Let me in and share your pain with me.  You
ask me to leave your side, but how can I when my heart tells me to do
so would be to abandon you?  How can you even ask this of me? //

Thranduil had not reached out, though, and no sign was given that the
new King had even heard him.  Of course he had not heard him;
Thranduil would never hear again, and the blame came to rest heavily
on Lindir's shoulders.  The minstrel had lowered his hand and his
head, tears falling from his eyes in small crystal drops.

In just a moment, one strike of a club, they had gone from inseparable
lovers to strangers, and Lindir had prayed for the strength to do what
was right.  Why would Thranduil choose to carry on in this new life
without the mate to his soul?  Why carry on without him when Lindir
had sworn to stand beside him through all trials of their lives?  Did
Thranduil expect him to take that back, to leave him frightened,
alone, and in this new, all-encompassing darkness?

// I can still smell you, minstrel.  Leave! // Thranduil had screamed
as he tripped over a chair, falling to the cold stone floor.  Lindir
had cried out, his tears coming in a new wave as Thranduil sat on the
floor, sobbing.  // Go away, Lindir.  Please. //

It was the 'please' that had made him nod, his mind in a foggy daze as
he spoke words only he would remember.

// I will do as my King commands//, he had said to those unhearing
ears.  // I will always do as my King commands. //  And he had left.

From that day forth, Lindir's dreams had been haunted by the feline
green eyes and the rumbling laughter of a lover who had died on the
field of battle.  He had never taken another lover, never trusted his
heart to any other.  His love for Thranduil had not diminished, even
when the news of his marriage had reached Lindir's ears.  Lindir had
mourned for Thranduil when his young wife was lost in childbirth,
something so rare that none had heard of it before.  Elrond had
pondered for weeks over the correspondences from the healers in
Mirkwood, wondering how a healthy, vibrant Elf could die from bringing
a new babe into the world.

In the end, there was no answer, there was no reason other than... it
simply was.

Lindir rolled over on the mattress restlessly.  It was hard to sleep
when he could sense Thranduil near him.  He could almost remember
those calloused hands wandering the planes of his body, teasing him
hard, and pulling sighs and moans from him as no other had.  With the
Wood Elf, Lindir had felt strong, as if he could conquer any obstacle
that was presented to him.

And yet, the one obstacle he wished he could have overcome had
actually been his undoing.  He could not make Thranduil understand his
love, or his acceptance, and so he had walked away from the broken
King.  The wings he had once flown on had been torn from him, and he
had fallen long before reaching the ground.  He still needed
Thranduil, was still in love with him, and wondered why the Valar had
set him on this path again.  Thranduil was so very different, was no
longer the Elf he had known and loved, but...

There was something in those peridot eyes that called to him, reminded
him of what had been and made promises of what could once again be.

That was why he woke each morning and learned a new way to speak.

He would tell Thranduil all that was locked in his heart, all he had
wanted to say all those years ago when there had been no way to speak
to the Elf.  And, for once, Thranduil would *have* to listen to him,
would have to face that he was needed... and that, maybe, he still
needed Lindir.

*****

Thranduil shook his head.  "No, I will not speak with him!  I did not
give you permission to teach him the language, Badhron."

Badhron shook his head, signing into Thranduil's cupped palm. ** He
was most insistent.  What was the harm in teaching him how to speak to
you? **

"Badhron," Thranduil said, his voice dark with anger, "no good can
come of speaking with him."

** And no harm can, either **, Badhron said, snatching his hand away.

"You cannot walk away, Badhron!  Not in the middle of a conversation."

Badhron reached out. ** Lindir will be in with you in a moment.  You
can carry on this conversation with him. **  The Seneschal exited
Thranduil's office and entered the antechamber where Lindir stood
nervously.  "You may enter," he informed the dark-haired Elf.  "The
King awaits."

He knew the moment Lindir joined him in the office.  The scent of
roses and pine reached his nose and spoke to him of cool nights spent
rolling around together on the forest floor.  Thranduil sat on the low
divan that occupied one corner of the room, his palm resting up,
waiting for Lindir's touch.  He was not prepared for the jolt he felt
when those slender fingers brushed his skin and formed the simple
phrase my King.

"Lindir," Thranduil replied stiffly.

** You are angry. **

"Of course I am.  I did not give Badhron permission to teach this to
you.  If I desired to speak with you, I would have commanded your
presence while Badhron spoke for you."

** I did not want Badhron to speak for me, Thranduil.  I am more than
capable of doing that for myself.  There are also things we need to
discuss that I would not like for your Seneschal to hear. **

Thranduil turned in Lindir's direction.  He may have been unable to
see the Elf, to know what emotion shone in his face, but he was able
to give him a vicious, furious look.  "We have nothing to discuss."

** We have much to discuss. **

"Say what you have to, and then leave."

Thranduil felt a minute tremor in the fingers that touched his hand;
he wanted to reach out and touch Lindir, to tell the singer that there
was no need to feel fear.  Instead, he clenched his jaw and waited for
Lindir's words, words that would be hundreds of years too late.

** I wanted to first say how much it pained me to hear of your wife's
death.  Such a young Elf, and such unusual circumstances. **

"They were not unusual.  She was given too much of a sedative and did
not wake from it," Thranduil said dispassionately.  "It was an
accident, but it was necessary in order for Legolas to be birthed."

Thranduil assumed Lindir's sudden silence was due to shock.  The
reasons behind his wife's untimely death had not gone beyond the
birthing room, and Thranduil could not understand why he had just told
Lindir.  "Lindir?" he asked after an even longer pause.

** I am **, another pause.  ** I am sorry, Thranduil.  I did not know.
**

"How could you?"

** Your son is strong; he will be a great goat. **

Thranduil furrowed his brow in puzzlement.  "A great goat?  Why would
Legolas be a goat, Lindir?"

** Forgive me.  I meant to say he would be a great warrior.  This is
all still very new to me. **

"Obviously."  Thranduil felt very weary and only wanted to sleep. 
"Lindir, could we continue this conversation at another time?  I am
very fatigued, and I wish to rest before the evening meal."

** Of course. **

Thranduil withdrew his hand, standing as he sighed.  "Come to my
chambers tonight after the meal and we can speak."  He did not wait
for Lindir to confirm the invitation; he simply left the bard and
slowly walked to his rooms.

If a simple, mundane conversation exhausted him so, what would a
conversation about their past do to him?

As he curled atop his mattress, his pillows cradling his head and his
arms hugging himself tightly, Thranduil allowed his mind to wander. 
He made believe that long, lithe arms were wrapped around him, that
the scent of roses blanketed the room and that Lindir's soft voice
spoke to him as he drifted into reverie.

It was one of a thousand memories Thranduil unconsciously clung to,
and it, just like all the others, brought only sorrow and tears.  This
time, though, it also brought a sense of fear that Thranduil had not
felt in many years.

As sleep came closer, Thranduil did as he had done every night since
Lindir had left him.  He prayed.

Valar, please, I beg of you.  Make his voice die, his image fade, the
memory of him disappear.  Please, mend my heart.

But, the prayer always seemed to fall on deaf ears, and it was an
irony not lost upon the Elvenking.

*****

Lindir paced his small room, wringing his hands nervously.  He had not
gone to the evening meal, his stomach too tense to tolerate food.  His
mind was constantly replaying the short conversation he had had with
the King.  Lindir was now terrified of any further conversation,
afraid that he would make an even larger mistake in his choice of
words.  A goat, of all things!

But, he also knew he could not put the meeting aside.  They needed to
put the past behind them, perhaps view the future with new eyes and
new hope.  Now that his past was once again so near, Lindir felt he
saw his present and future so much more clearly.  In fact, it seemed
that the only way he could see clearly was with the sharpness of the
heartbreak he felt.  Lindir reached out and grasped the latch of his
door, taking a deep breath before he opened it, and stepped out in the
deserted corridor.  The evening meal was past, but most of Thranduil's
subjects remained in the main dining hall.  He quickly navigated the
rough-hewn halls, finding his way slowly to Thranduil's private
quarters. 

Thranduil's rooms were situated far from the main settlement of his
people, deep in the recesses of the cavernous halls.  Badhron had told
Lindir how to find the King's quarters, and how to alert the Sinda to
his presence.  Thranduil kept a large dog in his quarters that would
nuzzle his hand when the bell over the door was rung.  An ornate
braided cord was attached to the bell and hung outside in the hallway. 
It was this cord that Lindir tugged gently upon.  After a few moments,
Thranduil's face with its crystalline eyes peered out the door.  He
held out his hand, palm up, and waited.

** Lindir **, the minstrel signed into that cupped hand.

"Come in," Thranduil said, stepping back to allow Lindir entrance.  As
he entered, Lindir noted the enormous black hound watching him warily
with bright blue eyes.  Once the dog was convinced that his master was
welcoming of the newcomer, he padded over to the fireplace and curled
up on the floor.

The main room, which was a moderate sized sitting area, was decorated
in ruby and topaz, the jewel-toned colors rich and warm.  Tapestries
covered the cold stone walls and thick furs were scattered over the
bare floor.  In a room that could have been uninviting and frigid due
to its occupant's lack of sight, Lindir was surprised to find such
color and texture in each item chosen for the space.

Thranduil sat on a chair, the creak of the soft, well-worn leather
comforting to Lindir's ears.  "I do not mean to sound commanding or as
if I see myself above your station, Lindir, but this is a seat I find
most comfortable.  You could drag over the small footstool by the
fireplace, or you could seat yourself on the furred floor at my feet
so that we may speak."

The position was not lost on Lindir, though he was not certain
Thranduil remembered as well as he did.  So many nights he had sat on
the floor, his head resting against Thranduil's thigh as the
then-Prince stroked his hair and listened to his songbird sing. 
Lindir shoved the memory aside and gracefully fell to floor at
Thranduil's feet, hesitantly taking Thranduil's hand in his own.  He
cradled the warm flesh, closed his eyes as he ran his fingers over the
creases and calluses of his old lover's hand, and fought tears that
threatened to choke him.  He could feel the stiffness of Thranduil's
limb, and through blurry eyes, he could see the grim set of
Thranduil's lips.  The King was uncomfortable, but he would not voice
that discomfort.  Lindir let out a long breath and began to sign.

** You sent me away when I could not argue with you. **

Thranduil continued to look straight ahead with vacant, pale eyes. 
"No one could argue with me for almost two decades, Lindir.  It took
Badhron that long to figure out a method for us to communicate and an
equal number of years for us to work all the symbols into a language
we could use.  Did you plan to remain the lover of an invalid for all
those years, unable to speak to me at all, bound to me by your own
guilt and sense of honor?"

Lindir wished he could express his anger toward Thranduil, but the
most he could do was sign quickly.  And to sign quickly risked him
calling Thranduil a she-cow or some other silliness.  ** It is only
your own pettiness that drove me away, Thranduil.  I wanted to stay
with you, to be by your side as I had since our childhood.  It was you
who refused to accept that I wanted you unconditionally. **

"Unconditionally?  No one wants a lover who they cannot even *speak*
to, Lindir."  Thranduil's voice was tinged with bitterness, and Lindir
wished silently that he could remove all the anger Thranduil still
felt.

** I wanted you.  Yes, I felt so much guilt at not protecting you, but
I did not wish to remain with you to atone for that.  I could never
atone for it, but I could be by your side.  I could-- ** Lindir
stopped in mid-sentence.  Badhron had not taught him to sign the word
'love'!

"You could what?" Thranduil sneered.

Lindir did the only thing he could think of.  He bent his head and
pressed his lips to Thranduil's palm and whispered, "Have loved you."

The room became deathly still: Thranduil with his back ramrod straight
and his eyes wide with Lindir's lips still pressed to his skin.  He
had not heard the words, but Lindir knew the King had understood what
words his lips had formed.

Lindir lifted his head and gazed up at Thranduil only to have his
voice stolen from him.  Tears trickled down Thranduil's sharp
features, his transparent green eyes swimming in shimmering saltwater. 
The Wood Elf turned his sightless eyes to Lindir as another set of
tears made their way down his white cheeks.  "Loved me?" he whispered
raggedly.  And then he took Lindir's hand and in the palm signed,
Love, loved, loving, lover, beloved.

The minstrel smiled as Thranduil showed him the word he had not known,
and he knew he could not say all he had wanted to.  ** I have loved
you from the moment you spoke my name, Lindir said into Thranduil's
cupped palm.  I have called you beloved in my heart since that day,
and I will forever love you.  I would not presume I still have your
love after you have wed and had a son, but know that you will always
have my love, my King. **

Lindir was not prepared for the gentle touch of Thranduil's other hand
on his face, softly tracing his features.  There was a look of
wonderment on Thranduil's own face as he rediscovered the beauty of
his old lover.  Lindir watched him with a mixture of fear and hope,
which soon gave way to nervous anticipation when Thranduil's fingers
brushed his lips and the King's head bent to meet his partially open
mouth.

The kiss was tender, with slightly parted lips and tentative tongues
touched.  With one shared breath, Thranduil cupped Lindir's face and
tilted the Noldo's head, deepening the kiss.  Lindir moaned into
Thranduil's mouth as their tongues danced, the remembered taste of the
fair Elf flooding all his senses.  He bunched his fists into the loose
fabric of Thranduil's shirt and pulled him closer -- he needed
Thranduil closer.

As if hearing his thoughts, Thranduil grasped Lindir's arms and lifted
him up, settling him in his lap.  Lindir straddled Thranduil's thighs
and sighed softly into the kiss they still shared.  The King's hands
were all over his body, a frenzy of motion, and Lindir was soon drunk
on the kisses and frantic touches.  The warm, dry hands slipped under
his tunic at the same time Thranduil's lips traveled down his throat,
and Lindir felt the firm press of his lover's mouth to his neck as his
nipples were teased and pinched.

"I wish I could hear you," Thranduil murmured against Lindir's flesh. 
"I can remember your moans, but the memories are poor substitutes for
the reality."

His tunic was yanked over his head and Thranduil's mouth was on his
chest.  With the Elvenking's hand spread wide over his lower back,
Lindir was able to bend backward, to bow his chest for more contact. 
He shivered and shook in Thranduil's embrace, his skin hot and
flushed, and his arousal thick and needy between his legs.

"Please," he whispered to those deaf ear as he squirmed under the
teeth that nipped at his sore nipple.  "Please, Thranduil."

"I know you speak, I can feel it in your chest..." Thranduil softly
reminded him, forcing Lindir to sit up straight in his lap.

Lindir rested his head in the crook of Thranduil's neck, his eyes
hooded and glazed as he signed lazily into his lover's cupped palm.  I
need you.  Please.

Thranduil pushed Lindir off of his lap gently and nodded toward the
sideboard.  "There is a small bottle of oil there that I use for my
hair; we can use that."

A smile tugged at Lindir's lips and he walked to the large cupboard. 
He located the bottle and brought it back to the chair, not surprised
that Thranduil had taken the opportunity to strip himself.  The scars
of battle were faded, but Lindir could easily remember where each had
come from.  Thranduil stood tall and hard in the firelight, and Lindir
could not help but kneel before him.  His lips traced the pattern of
life on Thranduil's body, his tongue sliding easily over the puckered
flesh and lower still.  Thranduil's sharp intake of breath when Lindir
lapped at the tip of his sex was almost musical to Lindir's ears, and
he wanted to hear more.

He slid his mouth slowly over the taut flesh, filling his mouth and
throat with Thranduil.  The deep, long groan was his reward for his
efforts, and he swallowed around the length, moving it further into
the fluttering tightness of his throat.  He felt Thranduil's knees
buckle and withdrew quickly as the King sank back into the chair.

"By the Valar," Thranduil said harshly.  "I had forgotten that
particular talent of yours."  He closed his clear green eyes, hid
those blank depths briefly, and when they were revealed to Lindir
again, the minstrel was certain they were darker, cloudy with lust. 
"Undress, singer," Thranduil ordered lowly.

He never took his eyes off the golden Elf as stood up, discarded his
boots, unlaced his leggings and bared himself to the King's unseeing
eyes.  Those knowing hands found his nude body instantly, mapping the
contours of muscle and bone, of fine hair and stiff need.  A gentle
cupping of his tight sac, a slight pull there, and Lindir was again in
Thranduil's lap, again straddling those toned thighs.  Their shafts
rubbed and bobbed together briefly, drawing shuddering breaths from
them, before Lindir cupped his hand and poured the oil into it,
forming a shimmering pool in his palm.  He carefully dropped the glass
bottle to the plush rug and led Thranduil's fingers to the pooled
liquid.

Thranduil dipped two fingers into the oil, and Lindir's breath caught
with expectation.  He watched the finger slowly disappear between his
legs, felt the tentative touch to his backside, and then sureness of
Thranduil as the King moved beyond his insecurity.  Lindir wanted him,
wanted this, and the minstrel tried to convey that need with every
movement, every vibration of his body.

The fingers penetrated him, prepared the way while Lindir used the
remaining oil to coat Thranduil's shaft.  Their moans were soft;
Thranduil's lips again pressed to Lindir's throat to feel the sounds
his lover made.  Thranduil placed his hands on Lindir's hips, laving
the small bulge in Lindir's throat with his tongue.  Lindir kept one
hand on Thranduil's shoulder as he reached behind his body, guiding
Thranduil into his body.

Thranduil hissed as Lindir sat, his lips still against the lifeline of
sound in Lindir.  As his body was filled, spread, plundered, Lindir
shouted out and clung to Thranduil.  Tears spilled over his lashes,
wet Thranduil's face, a silent show of new pain and long-forgotten
pleasures.  He sobbed as they moved, as he felt that slick, hard heat
slide in and out of his passage.  Lindir had never known a feeling
more exquisite than Thranduil claiming him, of his body opening for
the King to master and own.  Captured tightly between their grinding
bodies was Lindir's sex, damp with sweat and his own clear juice. 
There was not enough friction, though, to bring him to his peak and he
whimpered pleadingly.

Their coupling seemed too swift as Thranduil brought his hand between
them, squeezed and manipulated Lindir's arousal with expert fingers. 
Lindir sat down hard on Thranduil's lap, took the King as deeply as he
could, his seed spattering against Thranduil's belly.  "Thranduil!"
Lindir cried hoarsely, as his own muscles pulled and coaxed
Thranduil's climax from him.  His passage was flooded with the
scalding flow of the King's essence, and Lindir slumped into
Thranduil's arms.  Exhaustion quickly set into his limbs, but neither
Elf moved, savoring the last moments of connection.

"I love you," Lindir whispered against Thranduil's neck, not noticing
the stiffness in Thranduil's posture or the tears in the King's eyes.

*****

At some point during the night, Thranduil carried Lindir into the
inner chamber, laying him on the mattress.  When Thranduil crawled in
beside him, Lindir instinctively moved closer to the welcoming warmth
of Thranduil's arms.  Sleep overcame him again, a deep, sated rest he
had only ever felt in the King's arms.

In the deep cavern of Thranduil's halls, day and night were not so
clear.  Fresh air teased Lindir's nose, told him that the sun kissed
the morning dew of the grass outside the magical gates.  He stretched
his sore limbs, his thighs protesting such use, but Lindir enjoyed
that protest.  It was a physical sign of the loving he had received,
as was the slow throb of his backside.  He turned in the loose embrace
Thranduil had held him in through the night and gazed down at the smug
smile still on the King's face.

"You look like the cat in your kitchens when she manages to sneak into
the creamery while the attendant is out."  He kissed Thranduil's cheek
tenderly before sliding from the bed.

"And you snore as loud as a Balrog shrieks."

Lindir spun around and stared in amazement at Thranduil who was now on
his elbow, smiling while his eyes gazed blankly ahead.  "You can hear
me?" Lindir sputtered as he sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"Still faintly, but clearer than last night," Thranduil confessed.  "I
have been awake all this time, just... listening."

"How?"

Thranduil's brow furrowed.  "You will need to speak a bit louder,
melethen, and perhaps slower.  While I can hear you, some of your
words sound as if they are being spoken into the wind."

"Of course," Lindir agreed.  He took a visible breath, and then smiled
widely.  "How can this be?"

Thranduil returned the smile.  "I do not know.  All I know is I can
hear your sweet, lyrical voice again, and I do not think I will ever
tire of it!"

The shock melted away and Lindir pounced on Thranduil playfully. 
"Thank the Valar!  Oh, I am so happy, Thranduil!"

"You are happy?" Thranduil laughed as he kissed Lindir.  "I can hear! 
You cannot imagine my joy!" 

"Oh, I think I can imagine it, for it would mirror my own joy!" Lindir
said carefully, his voice louder than usual so that Thranduil could
hear him more easily.

Thranduil smirked as he cupped Lindir's jaw with his hands.  "I can
tell that you have been in Imladris; you do not speak as I remember. 
You sound more like Elrond than my minstrel."  Thranduil drew Lindir
close for another deep kiss, and a plaintive moan from Lindir made
Thranduil pull back.  "And I want to hear more of that," he whispered
hotly.  "Now."

He pushed Lindir onto his back and bit at Lindir's side.  He worked
his way lower, teasing and tasting every piece of flesh he found. 
Lindir's moans and cries, sobs and pleas all drove him onward.  When
he reached the proof of Lindir's need, he smiled wickedly.

"Thranduil," Lindir panted, "please..."

"What is it you want?" Thranduil prompted, swiping at the bead of
fluid on the tip of Lindir's sex.

"Take me!" Lindir barked desperately at the Elvenking.

Thranduil shook his head.  "Oh, no.  I want to hear your beautiful
voice; I want to concentrate solely on those cries."  He opened his
mouth wide and took Lindir as deep as he could, though he did not
possess the same talents Lindir did.  He stroked the remaining column
with his hand, the moisture from his mouth slicking the skin.

With each stroke, each suck, Lindir writhed wantonly, moaned with
abandon.  Thranduil reached between his own legs, stroked his shaft in
time with his movements over Lindir's length.

"Thranduil!" Lindir shouted shrilly just before he bucked with
release.  Thick, viscous seed filled his mouth, and Thranduil
carefully pulled away from his lover, capturing all the white fluid in
his mouth.  He discreetly wiped his mouth on a section of the sheet,
spitting the bitterness into the fabric, and then cleaned his hand and
groin of his own fluids before lying down beside Lindir.

Lindir kissed Thranduil's burning lips, licking at the stray smear of
seed.  "I love you."

Thranduil all but purred his satisfaction.  "I love you, too."

After several moments of silence, the shrieking of an infant could be
heard.  Thranduil sat up suddenly at the sound, new tears forming in
his eyes.  He turned toward the sound of Lindir exiting the bed.

"Your son calls for you, Thranduil," Lindir said softly.

The silken feel of fabric brushed his arm and he took the robe Lindir
offered him.  "My son," he breathed in awe as he dressed, the reality
of his own child striking him dumb.

*****

The season passed quickly and Thranduil found himself in the midst of
many changes.  Despite Badhron's insistence that they celebrate the
return of Thranduil's hearing, the King and his minstrel declined. 
Thranduil explained that, despite the occasional rumor, his people had
never truly known of his hearing loss, and the healers they had since
spoken with were not certain *how* Thranduil had regained his hearing.   
Or if he would retain it.  In either case, there was little sense in
announcing it.

Instead, life continued as it once did.  A governess alone no longer
tended to Legolas' needs; Thranduil adored the hours he spent with his
son, connecting with the child as he had never had the opportunity to. 
Lindir sank further into his love and adoration for both father and
son, and time ceased to have any meaning.  Days were long and drowsy,
spent in courtyards, by crystalline pools of spring water, or among
the trees and hollows of Thranduil's wood.  Lindir would sing for the
King in the evenings, his voice echoing through the halls and soothing
all who heard him.

The nights were filled with passion and intense heat.  They met in a
tangle of limbs and hair, midnight and sunlight, breathless and
wanting.  After their bodies were sated and the lamplight was low,
Thranduil would tell Lindir of his love, and Lindir would kiss him,
whispering of his own love.  It was a ritual they heeded no matter
what the circumstances of the day -- Lindir's last words of the day
were *always* 'I love you'.  Thranduil had only once given Lindir an
explanation of this odd request, but when he had shared his fears,
Lindir had willingly agreed.

Thranduil feared to awake one morning with his hearing snatched away
from him again.  He had told Lindir, with fear twisting his voice,
that if that was to be so, then the last thing he wanted to hear
before silence consumed him again was the sweet words of his minstrel.

Each night, Lindir kissed him and whispered 'I love you' before
drawing up the quilts and resting his ear against Thranduil's heart.

As spring deepened, Thranduil noticed something changing.  He could
see shadow and light, knew when Lindir walked before him or his son
fell to the floor.  It was another small marvel that awed both Lindir
and Badhron, and Thranduil delighted in their excitement.  Neither
spoke of the coming day they both knew loomed on the horizon, and
chose only to live in the moments they had.  They were Elves, after
all, and they had all the time of Arda.

Glorfindel arrived one late spring day with a small entourage; he had
come to collect his Lord's Master Bard.

"Glorfindel," Lindir argued, his tone dark and dangerous.  All those
gathered in the room were shocked by such a sound issuing from the
stormy-eyed minstrel.  "I will not be taken from these halls as if
they were not my home."

"That is just it, Lindir, these halls are *not* your home," Glorfindel
reminded him.  "Your home and obligations lie with Master Elrond, not
King Thranduil, regardless of personal ties newly forged."

Lindir's eyes flashed as he took a step closer to the Elda.  "They are
not 'newly forged'.  They existed long before Imladris herself was
founded!"

Glorfindel straightened his back and looked toward Thranduil's still
and silent form.  "We agreed, King Thranduil, that at the end of the
season Lindir would return to his own realm.  The season has ended. 
It is time for him to return to his home and to his duties."

"And he will," Thranduil said stiffly.  "Would you please excuse us?"
he asked of those gathered around the couple before Lindir could
object.

"Of course," Glorfindel said as he bowed low to the King.  "I shall be
in my chambers."  The golden Elf exited the room, followed by his men
and the King's advisors, leaving the King and the minstrel alone.

Once the door closed, Lindir turned on Thranduil.  "You cannot make me
leave you again, Thranduil.  You cannot -- I will not allow you to!"

Thranduil crossed the room and cupped Lindir's face.  "You have
commitments, Lindir, duties that cannot be set aside.  Elrond would
not force you to remain upon your return; you are an adult Elf with a
free will, after all.  But, you should, at the very least, train one
of your more advanced students to fulfill your function in his
household -- or choose an equally fair outcome."

Lindir's eyes filled with tears and he was grateful Thranduil could
not see them.  He blinked twice, and the tears spilled out onto his
cheeks, wetting Thranduil's fingers.

"Do not cry, little singer," Thranduil said softly as he kissed the
salty streaks.  "You have healed my heart, my hearing has returned,
and my eyes may yet repair as well.  What room have you for sadness? 
Go home to your valley; simply promise to return to me before the
winter snow covers the pass."

"I promise," Lindir swore, sealing his oath with a kiss.  "I will
always return to you."

Thranduil smiled, the clear peridot of his eyes sparkling with
happiness.  What he had gained was more than his hearing, more than
love, but something far more valuable.

Hope.

The End